Bennett, Emerson, 1822-1905 [1848], Kate Clarendon, or, Necromancy in the wilderness: a tale of the little Miami (Stratton & Barnard, Cincinnati) [word count] [eaf007].
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Front matter
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Preliminaries
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Title Page
KATE CLARENDON:
OR,
NECROMANCY IN THE WILDERNESS.
A TALE OF THE LITTLE MIAMI.
BY EMERSON BENNETT,
AUTHOR OF “THE BANDITS OF THE OSAGE,” “RENEGADE,” “MIKE FINK,”
“UNKNOWN COUNTESS,” &C., &C.
The Past but lives in words: & thousand ages
Were blank, if books had not evoked their ghosts,
And kept the pale, unbodied shades to warn us
From fleshless lips.—Bulwer.
Let us revive the Past, and from the graves,
Long hallowed, wake the sleepers, and make them
Tread anew the paths they tred, and act once
More their several parts upon the stage
Of life, ere they retire forever.
—Anon.
STRATTON & BARNARD,
NO. 121 MAIN STREET, CINCINNATI, OHIO,
AND
NO. 81 MAIN ST., ST. LOUIS, MO.
1848.
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Acknowledgment
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by
EMERSON BENNETT,
In the Clerk's Office of the U. S. District Court for the District of Ohio.
Printed by E. Shepard
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Main text
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CHAPTER I.
Change is written on the tide—
On the forest's leafy pride;
All, where'er the eye can rest,
Show it legibly imprest.
—Rev. J.H. Clinch.
On the banks of the beautiful
Ohio, some five or six miles above
the large and flourishing city of
Cincinnati, can be seen the small
and pleasant village of Columbia,
once laid out and designed to become
the capital of the great West.
This village stands on a beautiful
plain, which stretches away from
the Ohio in a north-easterly direction,
between two ridges, for a
goodly number of miles, and at the
base of what is termed Bald Hill—
a hill of a conical shape, from the
summit whereof you can command
every point of compass, and some
of the most delightful views in the
western country.
Standing upon this hill, with
your face toward the south, you
first behold, immediately below
you, a cluster of dwellings, mostly
white, with their green lawns in
front, and their flowery gardens in
the rear, with one or two neat, unostentatious
looking churches rising
above them, as if to give a
quiet and moral beauty, if we may
so express it, to the scene. Be
yond these buildings, which constitute
the principal village of Columbia,
the eye at once falls upon
an open, variegated and fertile
plain, over which it wanders for
something like a mile, to rest again
for a moment upon a few brick and
wood-colored houses, half hid amid
a grove of beautiful trees, then upon
the smooth, silvery Ohio, which
here comes sweeping past with a
graceful bend, and, lastly, upon the
green and romantic looking hills of
old Kentucky. Turning to the left,
or eastward, you behold, some mile
or two miles distant, a woody
ridge, which intersects the Ohio at
right angles, and, stretching away
northward, forms the eastern boundary
of the plain. At the base of
this ridge, can be seen, here and
there, a quiet farm-house, and portions
of the Little Miami, as it rolls
its silvery waters onward through
a most delightful grove, to unite
with, and be lost in, the placid bosom
of La Belle Riviere. Between
you and the Little Miami, and for
many a mile up toward its source,
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lies the plain we have mentioned,
now divided as far as you can see,
into lots of four or five acres each,
all of which, being under cultivation,
present, in the summer season,
with their different products, a
pleasing variety of colors, as if to
enchain the attention of the beholder
with an unspeakable sensation
of delight. Following the course
of the plain away to the north-east,
you behold, some few miles distant,
another pleasant village, with
its neat, white houses peeping from
among the green foliage of the surrounding
trees. Turning again to
the south and west, and following
the windings of the Ohio, you can
perceive the village of Fulton along
its banks, some two miles away,
with here and there an elegant
mansion, all standing out in bold
relief against the green background
of a neighboring ridge, and not unfrequently
finding themselves mirrored
in the river's placid bosom.
A view of the delightful city of Cincinnati
is here cut off by a bend in
the ridge and river; but notwithstanding,
the landscape, taken as a
whole, is one of the most pleasing
that can be found on the globe.
Such is an outline, only, of the
scene which is presented to the beholder
of modern days; but very
different was it sixty years ago,
when along the banks of the river
and over the plain and hills, instead
of the quiet village and its
hum of civilization, and the many
pleasant farms under cultivation,
and the farm-houses sending up in
graceful wreaths the smoke of their
peaceful fires, there was a vast,
unbroken forest, inhabited by the
barbarous, untutored savage, and
the thousand wild beasts of the
wilderness. As it is with the early
settlement of this portion of the
country we have to do, we must
leave the scene as it now exists,
and go back to the period when
the hardy pioneer left his comfortable
and well-protected home, to
venture hither, and dare all the
dangers and suffer all the privations
of frontier life.
As early as November, 1788, a
party, consisting of some twenty
persons, conducted by Major Benjamin
Stites, landed at the mouth
of the Little Miami, and began a
settlement upon the purchase of
ten thousand acres, which the Major
had previously made from Judge
Symmes. Among this party were
many whose names afterward became
noted in history, and whose
descendants still occupy prominent
positions in the community whereof
they are citizens. They were
the first adventurers into this region
of country, and were a month
in advance of the party which
landed at, and erected the first log
cabins on, the present site of Cincinnati.
On their arrival, they immediately
constructed a log fort,
built several cabins or huts, and
then proceeded to lay out the town
of Columbia into streets or lots, on
the plain we have described—believing
at the time, that it would
eventually become the great capital
of the West.
Beginning at Crawfish Creek, a
small stream which was to form
the north-western boundary of the
city, ascending the Ohio for more
than a mile, and extending back
from the river for three-quarters of
a mile, taking in a portion of what
is now called Bald Hill, they laid
out the ground in streets and
squares. The residue of the plain,
between this imaginative city and
the Little Miami, and for three miles
up this stream, was cut up into lots
of four or five acres each, intended
for the support of the town, when
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it should come to maturity. These
lots have since been divided by
trenches, and so remain at the present
day; and as you view them
from Bald Hill, one covered with
greensward, another with a crop of
wheat, a third with corn, a fourth
with oats, and so on, the whole
plain appears like a many-colored
carpet of beautiful squares.
The first pioneers of the Miami
Bottom were soon joined by others;
and, in the course of a few years,
Columbia became quite a flourishing
place, and, for a time, took the
lead of its sister towns, Cincinnati
and North Bend—the last since
noted as the residence of General
Harrison. At this period, these
three villages, with the exception
of Marietta, higher up the river,
were the only white settlements in
Ohio; and as it was more than suspected
by the inhabitants of each,
that one of them was destined to
become the great emporium of the
West, each looked upon the advancement
of its neighbor with a
jealous eye, and sought, by every
means, to push itself forward to
the grand desideratum. For a
time, Fortune seemed bent on playing
her pranks, by now favoring
this one, now that, and so alternately
raising and depressing the
spirits of each; but, at last, as the
world already knows, she yielded
the palm to Cincinnati, by establishing
there a fort and garrison,
which rendered it, with its natural
advantages, a place of greater security
than either of the others, and,
consequently, a more desirable location
for those venturing into the
Western Wilds.
About the period when rivalry
between the places named was at
its height—and when the momentous
question was pending, as to
which would be the favored spot
of fortune, the Queen City of the
West—our story opens. Columbia,
as we said before, had already
made rapid advances, and taken
the lead of her rival sisters, in point
of business and population. Over
the broad plain, between Bald Hill
and the Little Miami, were now
scattered some forty or fifty log
cabins, and at the southern base of
this hill, on a little knoll—where, at
the present day, can be seen a neat
grave-yard, with its marble and
sand-stone slabs recording the
names of many who, since then,
have gone to the shadowy realms
of death—stood a rude sanctuary,
the first building erected solely to
the worship of God by the pioneers
of the Miami Valley. Around this
humble sanctuary was a grove of
beautiful trees, in whose branches
a thousand merry songsters, of all
hues, sang blithely. Side by side
with this place of worship, on the
same knoll, amid the same delightful
grove, was erected a block-house,
for the protection of the inhabitants
in the immediate vicinity.
Hither, on a Sabbath morning,
when the toil of the week was over,
the villagers of both sexes, and all
ages, would repair, to listen to the
word of God, as it fell from the lips
of the venerable Stephen Gano
(father of the late General Gano),
whose mild, noble, benevolent
countenance, his long, white flowing
locks, and his solemn, tremulous
voice, as he raised his eyes to
Heaven in supplication, or forcibly
pointed out to his hearers the way
to eternal life, made his remarks
deep, grand and impressive. And
the more so, it may be, that each
felt himself to be in the wilderness,
surrounded by the hostile savage,
and knew not at what moment he
might be called to his last account,
a victim to the fatal rifle, or the
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bloody tomahawk and scalping-knife.
To avoid a surprise and be prepared
for any emergency, during
the hours of worship, sentinels were
stationed without the walls of the
sanctuary, who, with loaded rifles
on their shoulders, paced to and
fro with measured tread, examining
minutely every object of a suspicious
character; while those within
sat, with their weapons by their
sides, ready, at a moment's warning,
a given signal, to rush from the
house of quiet devotion, to the field
of blood and slaughter. Not only
to church, but to their places of
labor, where they repaired in companies,
and, in fact, on all occasions,
the early settlers went armed.
Besides the block-house on the
knoll, there were one or two others
nearer the river, and one some half
a mile further up the plain, close by
where now winds a broad and
beautiful turnpike, and on the site
of which now stands a private
dwelling. Bald Hill (now owned
by N. Longworth, one of the wealthiest
gentlemen in the country, and
by him devoted to the cultivation
of the grape) was, at the period referred
to, covered by a dark, dense
forest, where prowled the wild
beasts, and not unfrequently lurked
the murderous Indian, seeking his
“great revenge” on his more civilized
and less wily foe.
Such, reader, is an outline view
of the scene where our story is
laid, and the condition of the country
at the time of its opening.
Having said this much of general
facts, we shall now proceed to detail.
CHAPTER II.
A lovely being, scarcely formed or molded—
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
—Byron.
Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her shape, her features,
Seem to be drawn by Love's own hand.
—Dryden.
Strange being he,
Of whom all men did stand in awe; and none
Knew whence he came, nor how, nor whither bound,
Nor cared to question. Strange things he told,
And true—then disappeared mysteriously.
—Old Play.
It was a lovely day in spring,
and earth had donned her raiment
of many colors, and seemed smiling
to the whispering zephyr that
softly floated over her. The bright
sun had already passed the zenith
of the day, yet his oblique rays fell
warmly upon the great forest, extending
over the Miami Bottom,
and pierced through the foliage,
here and there, down to the earth,
and kissed the violet, the rose and
the lily, and danced to and fro to
the music of the swaying branches.
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A thousand songsters, of all hues—
from the bright red-bird, the black-bird,
the paroquet of green and
gold, to the white and plaintive
dove—flew hither and thither, fluttered
among the leaves, and made
the perfumed air heavy with their
melody. Here might be seen the
bear, sitting upon his haunches, or
lazily crawling off to seek his lair;
there the timid deer, daintily cropping
the green herbage, or, startled
by some rude sound, bounding
away with an unmatched grace
and the speed of the flying arrow.
Underneath the leaves, occasionally,
lay coiled the wily copper-head,
ready to strike his victim; and the
sound of the rattle-snake could ever
and anon be heard, giving the
generous, but if unheeded, perchance
fatal, warning. Here, too,
more cunning, more deadly than
all the dread beasts or serpents of
the forest, might peradventure be
found the swarthy savage, with his
murderous weapons in hand, crawling
stealthily and silently onward,
to execute his fell design upon
some innocent and unwary foe of
his race.
But for the dangers everywhere
lurking in this forest of beauty, it
might have seemed a Paradise indeed,
unsurpassed by that primitive
Eden, where man first broke
the holy command, and entailed
misery upon his descendants even
to the last generation of time.
But notwithstanding the peril
which surrounded her, which perchance
lay hid behind each bush
and beneath each leaf, there was
one, a fairy, beautiful being, who
seemed to give no thought to danger,
as if her own fair self were an
amulet of safety. She was standing
on the bank of the Little Miami,
some two hundred rods above
its junction with the Ohio, her back
braced against a tall old Sycamore,
her head bent a little forward, and
her eyes, those sparkling orbs of
the soul, resting upon the dark
waters rolling slowly onward before
her, perchance to catch a
glimpse of her own fair face, perchance
to watch the motions of the
finny tribe, or perchance to behold
the pictures of light and shade,
which the sportive sunheams,
streaming through the rustling leaflets,
made upon the glassy surface
of the quivering stream.
Beautiful creature! how shall we
describe her? how convey, by the
dull pen, to the optical sense, the
etheriality, the reality, the sunny
brightness of the being in form divine
before us? We can give the
outline of form—we can describe
the shape of her features, the color
of her hair and eyes—yet how shall
we convey the ever-varying expression
of her countenance—the buoyant,
merry, sympathetic, versatile
soul, which animated, and made to
differ from others, the clayey tenement
which it inhabited! We cannot—
we despair of doing it; and
yet we will do, to the extent of our
ability, and let the imagination of
the reader supply the deficiency.
Know then, reader, that she
whom we have introduced to your
notice, was an angel—not of heaven,
but of earth; not pale and pensive,
with wings upon her shoulders,
as we sometimes see the tenants
of paradise represented—but
full of color, life, music, soul—a
bright being, calculated to adorn
the sphere where her lot was cast,
and yet, when done, to “shuffle off
the mortal coil,” and be equally an
ornament among immortals! Her
age was sweet, glowing, imaginative
seventeen; that age of all others
in woman, the most peculiar and
full of strange sensations; when
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she stands timidly, as it were, between
two periods—girlhood and
womanhood—just pensively looking
back and bidding adieu to the
one—just brightly looking before
and greeting the other: when, if
by chance she sees through the rose
colored optics of love, the whole
pathway before her seems strewn
with bright, unfading flowers, and
every thing appears so new and
perfectly beautiful; and she dreams
not that serpents, and thorns, and
ashes, and coffin-palls, lie in her
path, to make her weep and mourn,
and sigh for the rest of the grave
to which time is bearing her.
Bright, rosy, buoyant seventeen!
how many thousands daily look
back to it with a sigh, as they think
of the hundred still unexecuted
plans laid out for coming time, and
contrast their present conditions
with those they intended to occupy!
At seventeen, all is sweet indecision,
uncertainty and inexperience;
and life is then to us only an ever-varying
kaleidescope, where every
thing we behold—no matter how
we twist and turn it by pretended
reason—is a beautiful flower; and
flower upon flower, each more
bright, lovely and fascinating than
the last; and if we dream of change
at all, it is always change for the
better.
Happy seventeen, then, was she
who stood leaning against the old
sycamore—God keep her from the
cold, stinging, unhappy experience
of many of her sex! In form she
was a beauty — light, slender,
graceful—full of youthful elasticity
and vigor—with a well developed
bust—a small, white, plump, dimpled
hand, and a foot so exquisite,
it might have rivalled that of the
divine Fanny of modern days.
Her features corresponded with
her form—were fine and comely,
and radiant with the glow of
health—but remarkable for nothing
save expression. Had they been
chisseled in marble; with the soul
absent, they would not probably
have even excited a passing remark;
but with the soul there—that ever
varying soul—they took the beholder
captive to their charms, drew him
forward as the magnet draws the
needle, held him fast as the iron
chain the prisoner. The predominant
expression of her countenance
was a bright, roguish, girlish
smile, which almost invariably hovered
around two as pretty lips as
were ever seen, and was a type of
her nature and happy heart. The
skin of her features, though somewhat
dark, was smooth and transparent,
where every thought seemed
to make a passing impression,
as the light breeze upon the still
bosom of a glassy lake. Her
cheeks were tinted with the rose,
and slightly dimpled; and her
mouth was set with a beautiful row
of pearly teeth. Her eyes were
dark and sparkling, full of vivacity
and animation, and yet so softened
by long fringy lashes, that it seemed
as if she were eternally looking
love. Her hair was a glossy, light
brown; and now, when the sunlight
fell upon it (for her hood was
held in her left hand), it gave out a
bright, golden hue. On the present
occasion, she wore a loose riding
dress, carelessly arranged,
which, together with her partially
dishevelled hair, showed that her
mind was not entirely occupied with
external appearances. In her right
hand she held the bridle rein of a
sleek, coal-black steed, from the
saddle of which she had apparently
just dismounted; and by her
side, lolling as if from hard running,
and occasionally looking up
into her sweet face, crouched a
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large, Newfoundland dog. For a
moment she stood gazing into the
limpid stream, in the position we
have described her, and then giving
her head a shake, as if to throw
back the ringlets that had fallen
somewhat forward over her eyes,
she turned to her canine companion,
and, in a clear, ringing voice,
as if addressing an individual,
said:
“So, my Bowler, you think you
have had a hard chase, eh? In
faith, I thought Marston's legs
would prove too much for you?”
Here she turned, and stepping
around the tree, patted the proudly
arched neck of her horse: while the
dog arose, and approaching her,
rubbed his head in a familiar manner
against her hand.
“Ah, Bowler, dog, you look tired,”
she continued, stooping down and
playfully caressing the brute; “you
can watch, better than keep Marston's
company—particularly when
he is in such fine running trim as
now. Come, Marston,” she added,
to the beast, “let us away again,
for I trust you are now refreshed;”
and as she adjusted her dress, preparatory
to mounting, she struck
out in a full, silvery voice, in the
following
SONG.
“Cheerily, merrily, off we go,
Over hill and plain with glee,
And the swiftly bounding roe,
Scarce can keep our company;
Swift, as arrow in its flight,
Speed we with a wild delight.
“Horse and rider, linked in one—
Instinct, reason, both cembined—
This to guide, and that to run,
How the breezes lag behind!
Cheerily, merrily, off we go,
Swifter than the bounding roe.”
“Well sung, pretty Kate Clarendon,”
said a deep, heavy voice
behind her.
Kate (for the fair being we have
described was none other than our
heroine), who was in the act of
mounting, started and wheeled around
with a look of alarmed surprise;
while the horse pricked up his
ears, and the dog, with a savage
growl, sprang in front of his mistress,
ready to defend her with his life.
“Be not alarmed, fair being,”
continued the strange voice; and
at the same instant, a thick cluster
of bushes, growing on the bank of
the stream some ten paces distant,
was parted by a large, sunburnt,
hairy hand, and a tall, athletic, singular
looking figure emerged therefrom.
Toward him the dog now
sprang furiously; but the next moment,
and ere he had gained half
way between his mistress and the
stranger, he dropped his tail between
his legs, and then wagging
it in token of recognition, trotted
up to the other as if to solicit a caress.
The new comer, as we have said,
was a singular looking being. In
stature he was tall—being full six
feet—and in person very ungainly.
His legs and arms, each very long
and sinewy, were joined to a crooked,
bony body. He had tremendous
breadth of shoulder, from
which he tapered down to his feet,
in shape not unlike a wedge. His
neck was slim, but full of large
muscles and veins, which seemed
to stand out from it like cords. His
head was rather large, even for his
body, with features very coarse,
and, to one unacquainted with
him, exceedingly repulsive. He
had a big, Roman nose, sallow,
sunken cheeks, and a prominent
chin, covered with a thick, coarse,
dirty, grizzly beard, which extended
down even to his broad, hard,
bronzed bosom, and added, to his
otherwise unpleasing exterior, an
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almost ferocious look. About his
eyes, if indeed eyes they could be
called, he had a remarkable appearance;
and a stranger, at first
sight, would have pronounced him
totally blind. The lid of one eye
was closed entirely; and that of the
other so much so, as just to leave a
dull, lead-colored rim of the lower
part of the ball visible. To add to
this disagreeable appearance, the
nearly closed lid quivered continually,
like the leaf of the aspen;
while the ball of the eye rolled
around in every direction, as if the
owner were suffering mortal agony.
Above these lids, across the
lower portion of a high, dark,
wrinkled forehead, extended light,
shaggy brows; and his hair, which
was also light, coarse and matted,
came down to his shoulders. He
wore no hat; but instead, a strip
of deerskin, painted white, on
which were some strange devices
in black, passed across his brow,
and around his head, giving to him
an air of mystery. His costume
was as simple as an Indian's. It
consisted of a frock made of deerskin,
with the hair outside, which
was worn next his body, reached
to his knees, and was tightened
around his waist by a rough belt.
To this frock were no sleeves, and,
in consequence, his brawny arms
were entirely naked; neither did it
fit close around his neck, but left a
large portion of his breast bare
also. On his feet were moccasins,
which completed his attire; and in
his belt, instead of the usual weapons
of that day, was only a long
knife. Strapped to his back was
a rude knapsack, in which he carried
jerk, a blanket, and various
implements. In one hand (the
nails of which were very long, and
the back of which was thickly covered
with hair) he held a stick of
witch-hazel, at one end of which
were prongs, not unlike the tines
of a fork. To conclude, the age of
this strange personage might have
been forty, or perhaps fifty, so difficult
was it to determine by his
rough, weather-beaten countenance.
His voice was very deep, a
little inclined to the sepulchral—
and his language, ever good, was
often metaphorical.
Such is a description of the personal
appearance of one of the
most remarkable individuals ever
known. Who he was, or whence
he came, none could tell. Among
the settlers of the early times, he
appeared mysteriously, and as
mysteriously disappeared; and as
he pretended to be gifted with second
sight, or a sight into futurity,
there were not wanting those superstitious
enough to believe him
either a supernatural being, or
leagued with the devil. This feeling
he took care to foster, by his
acts, such as incantations, strange
mutterrings to himself, occasionally
a wild manner, and eccentricities
of various kinds. In fact, it is not to
be wondered at, that, in those times,
he should excite a feeling of awe
and superstition; for often, when
thought far distant, would he make
his appearance among a group of
individuals, who had perchance
been conversing of him; and this
so suddenly, many times, as really
to alarm them; and then again,
ere any one was aware how, as
suddenly disappear. He was sometimes
on the pretended search for
mines or money, and not unfrequently
did he excite persons to dig
for treasures. He told fortunes,
occasionally, and occasionally, too,
uttered prophesies and prophetic
warnings. Among the whites he
came and went as he chose, and
also among the savages, who
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respected him as a “great medicine”
and prophet—to injure whom
would be to offend the Great Spirit.
By the latter he was called Kitchochobeka,
or Great Medicine; and by
the former, Blind Luther, the Necromancer.
As soon as Kate saw his person
in full, she said, with a gay laugh:
“ 'Pon my word, Luther, for once
you startled me, for I deemed myself
entirely alone.”
“We are never alone, Kate,” returned
the other, shaking his head
gravely; “the spirits of the dead
are always with us.”
“O, come, come,” rejoined the
fair girl, tossing her head gaily,
though not without a perceptible
shade of uneasiness in her countenance:
“Come, come, Luther, do
not seek to make me superstitious;
you can find plenty of proselytes
without me, you know. But tell
me—how long have you been concealed
in you thicket?”
“As long as it would take you to
count ten.”
“But how got you there so silently?”
“By my will, and the wings of
the wind.”
“By your will, for one thing,
most undoubtedly; but as to the
wings of the wind—why, I rather
think that a joke of yours—eh, my
conjuror?” and the gay girl closed
with a laugh.
“He to whom the future is as an
open scroll, legibly written, never
stoops to joke,” was the grave reply.
“And do you really pretend to
know the future, in sincere earnest?”
“Do you pretend to know the
voice of your own mother, girl?”
“But now,” said Kate, in a coaxing,
coquettish tone, “be honest,
Luther, for once, now do, and tell
me—have you any faith in yourself?
All in confidence, you know,
between you and I; for of course
I will never mention it. O no, I
will give you a proud example of
a woman keeping a secret;” and
the black eyes of fairy Kate sparkled
with a roguish expression.
“You jest, girl,” replied the other,
solemnly, and in an offended
tone, “with the great mysteries of
nature. Have I faith in myself?
Have you faith in what you behold?
Look yonder, and tell me
what you see!” and he pointed
with his finger toward the great
luminary of the day.
“I behold trees, and leaves, and
birds, the sky and sun,” answered
Kate, who looked in the direction
indicated by the finger of the other.
“And do you believe the things
you nave named really exist?”
“Most assuredly I do.”
“Why do you so believe?”
“Because I see them.”
“And see you nothing more?”
“Nothing of importance.”
“I do,” rejoined the Necromancer,
in a guttural voice, so changed
from the tone in which he had just
been conversing, that Kate turned
to him with an involuntary expression
of surprise and wonder; which
was not lessened, by observing him
standing with his gaze fixed on
high, in wrapt meditation, while
every feature seemed expressive of
some strange sight, and his lips
moved as if uttering words, though
no sound issued from them.
“And what do you see, strange
man?” inquired the maiden, after a
minute's pause, while a thrill of
mysterious awe made her blood
creep coldly through her veins.
“A century of futurity, and God
permitting man to seize upon the
elements and harness them to his
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task,” answered Luther, in a solemn
tone. “I behold, springing
from the earth, only a few miles
distant, a great city. I behold the
light and smoke of its fires, and
hear the voices of many thousand
inhabitants, and the clink of the
hammers of industry, and see it
it gradually spreading itself, enlarging
on every hand, as the eagle
when he raises his wings to soar
on high. I behold the dust of the
earth put into a great crucible, and
lo! it comes forth another substance.
It is seized, and wrought
upon, and shapcd like no living
thing that now exists; and yet it is
to be a thing of life and motion, with
rolling legs, and speed beyond the
speed of the deer, endurance beyond
calculation, and strength exceeding
a hundred horse. Its breath,
its vitality, its soul, is vapor; and
though it travels with tearing velocity,
through mountains, over
streams, hollows and plains, dragging
a thousand times its own
weight behind it, yet so gentle is
it, when properly handled, that a
child can guide and command it;
but once let it get the upper hand,
and the strength of ten thousand
men would be no more to it than a
thread to a ship in the gale. I behold,
too, the great timbers of the
forest transformed to leviathans,
whose vital power is also vapot,
and which, with spoutings that can
be heard afar off, glide swiftly
over the bosom of rivers, against
wind and tide, and plow foaming
channels in the mighty deep, and
carry the sons of earth in their
great bosoms. I behold the red
lightning, also, drawn from the
thunder-car of heaven, and sent
courier throughout the Christian
world. I behold the great blue
vault of heaven turned to an ocean,
over which sail ten thousand ves
sels, looking down upon, forests
and mountains, that now to us
seem almost impassable barriers.
And I behold plague, and famine,
and war, and blood, and fire, and
flood, and desolation, and woe, and
crime, stalking apace, by whose
dread calls and thunderings, thrones
totter, governments of tyrants are
overthrown, and liberty shoots upward,
like a beautiful tree, and
spreads its ever-green branches
abroad to the uttermost ends of
the earth, beneath which all nations
at last repose in security, and
smoke together the calumet of
peace. And the vision has gone
from me—and all is darkness—and
I behold no more—for the great
seal of obscurity is now set upon
my sight.”
During this speech of Blind Luther,
his countenance was lighted
up with the fires of an enthusiastic
soul, until in part it had the sublime
look we conceive the seers to
have had of old, when they uttered
those great and mystic truths,
which shall descend to all generations;
and our fair heroine gazed
upon him in wonder, not unmingled
with admiration; for there
was something lofty and elevating
in his manner and strange eloquence.
As he concluded, he
waved his hand with a majestic
gesture, and then turned suddenly
to Kate.
“You think me demented—or
perhaps an idiot; yet what I have
just uttered, is written on the great
seal of the nineteenth century.
You do not understand it—you
think me an impostor, perhaps?”
“No, Luther,” answered Kate,
“not an impostor; but I fear, at
times, you let a wild imagination
get the better of your reasoning
powers.”
“It is seldom,” returned Luther,
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“that I condescend to experiment,
in order to convince frail mortality
I am what I pretend; but in the
present instance I shall do so; as it
is necessary, for your future welfare,
that you believe in me, and
adhere to my instructions. Behold
my power!”
As he concluded, he brought the
fore-finger of his right hand in
front of his face, and strode slowly
toward Kate, who fixed her gaze
upon him in curious wonder.
When he had reached within a
pace of her, he paused, fastened his
eye upon hers for a moment, and
said:
“You are now under the influence
of my spirit. You have not
power to move a limb without my
consent.”
Kate made an effort to move, but
found, in truth, she had not the
command of a single muscle. She
was like a rock. Not even her
eyes could she turn away from
that strange being who stood before
her. For the first time in her
life she felt superstitious—for the
first time in her life she secretly
acknowledged a power in man
beyond the scope of reason. As
she thought upon it, her blood
ran cold, and cold drops of perspiration
stood upon her face and
body.
“And now you believe,” said the
Necromancer, at length, waving his
hand.
“I believe you are a wonderful
being,” answered the other, with a
shudder.
“Yet fear me not girl; I am your
friend. Open me your hand.”
Gazing for a few moments into
the soft, white palm, which Kate,
in compliance with his request,
now extended toward him, he said,
solemnly:
“Eventful destiny is thine—thou
of the sunny locks, fairy form, and
laughing eye!” And he proceeded
to chant the following mystical
lines:
“Where the parent stem is broken,
'Neath the tree that's old and oaken—
Where the night-wind cool is blowing,
O'er the life-blood warmly flowing—
By unchanging Fate's decree,
And Almighty Destiny,
One shall stand thou sawest never,
Yet shall see and love forever:
And he unto thy spirit,
Shall a legal right inherit:
Yet moons shall come and wane,
And the harvest leave the plain,
And the earth be green again,
And tribulations sore
Shall befall thee o'er and o'et—
Ere thy evil all be mated,
And thy web of joy completed.
Come, ye fates, and set the seal,
On what I of ye reveal!”
He paused, and struck the palms
of his hands three times together.
“These are strange words, Luther,”
said Kate, “and I do not understand
them.”
“Thou shalt understand all in
time,” answered the other.
“When sorrows dark do weigh thee down,
Thou shalt behold this mystic crown;
[Here he touched the band around
his head]
“And in the depths of deepest woe,
The mysteries I have told thee, know;
Whate'er thy fortune, nobly bear,
And yield thee never to despair.
“My mission first is ended, and
so I leave thee. Farewell!”
He waved his hand, and turned
to depart; but just as he did so,
Kate uttered a piercing scream,
and wheeling suddenly around,
Luther perceived her features distorted
with horror—for notwithstanding
his apparent blindnes, he
could see very distinctly. She was
looking upward, at an angle of sixty
degrees; and turning his own
gaze in that direction, he beheld,
to his amazement and alarm, the
fiery, glaring eyeballs of a large
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panther, crouched on a neighboring
tree, and just in the act of
springing. There was not a moment
to be lost; and catching Kate
by the arm, as though she were an
infant, he swung her upon the back
of her coal black steed, and shouted:
“Away! away!”
The next moment, horse and rider
were bounding over the plain,
and man and beast were closing
together for the death struggle; for
in his haste to spring, that his prey
might not escape him, the panther
had fallen a little short of Luther,
who, dodging quickly around the
tree, had thus time to draw his
knife and prepare himself for defense.
As to Kate, knowing that she
could render Blind Luther no personal
assistance, she rode swiftly
to an open field, some quarter of a
mile distant, where several laborers
were at work, to whom she
quickly made known the peril of
the Necromancer. Seizing their
rifles, which were always their
companions, some five or six hardy
fellows started immediately to the
assistance of Blind Luther (whom
all knew and respected), preceded
by Kate herself. When they arrived
at the spot, to their astonishment,
they found the panther lying
dead, but not a single trace of his
opponent.
“He's not here now,” said one.
“He's the devil,” returned another.
“Wonderful being,” observed a
third.
Uttering such, and similar remarks,
they spent some half an
hour in examining the animal, the
ground round about, and then returned
to their labors, more than
ever convinced that Blind Luther
was something superhuman.
As for Kate, she explained to the
others how Luther had suddenly
appeared to her, and the manner
of their separation; but of their
conversation she told nothing; and
her thoughts on what she had seen
and heard she kept to herself. As
she rode slowly over the plain,
however, to the dwelling of her
father, some half a mile distant, a
close observer might have seen a
sedateness on her countenance, a
sadness in her eye, that accorded
but ill with her naturally light-hearted,
merry look.
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CHAPTER III.
With all that's ours, together let us rise,
Seek brighter plains, and more indulgent skies;
Where fair Ohio rolls her amber tide,
And Nature blossoms in her virgin pride;
Where all that Bounty's hand can form to please,
Shall crown our heavy toils with rural case.
—David Homphreys.
Misfortune does not always wait on vice,
Nor is success the constant guest of virtue.
—Havard.
George Clarendon, the father of
our fair heroine, was a native of
eastern Pennsylvania, and only son
of a gentleman, who, to use the
phrase, was “well to do in the
world.” At an early age, he was
sent to school in Philadelphia,
where he received a good education,
and became acquainted with
a merchant's daughter, between
whom and himself sprang up an
intimacy, which, in course of time,
ripened into an ardent passion, and
was at last productive of a happy
marriage. Not having any set occupation,
he entered into partnership
with his father-in-law; and for
many years afterward, the firm of
Cooly & Clarendon was extensively
known and respected.
During this time, a daughter was
added to the family—the bright,
rosy, mirth-loving Kate, whom we
have just described, and on whom
both parents doated fondly, looking
upon her as an angel sent from
Heaven to minister to their happiness.
Years rolled onward, and
all went smoothly; and of course
Kate, who gave promise of making
a beautiful and intelligent woman,
was not neglected. As soon as she
became of a suitable age, she was
sent to school, and every means
possible taken to secure her a pol
ished education—which she, to her
praise be it said, was not slow to
profit by. At the age of fourteen,
she returned to her parents. At
fifteen, extensive preparations were
being set on foot for giving a
grand party, that she might make
her debut in society; but ere the
consummation of this event, the
firm of Cooly & Clarendon, to the
utter astonishment of every one,
suddenly failed. This was caused
by the failure of a large mercantile
house in England, with which our
Philadelphians had a too close
business connection.
After having honorably discharged
their debts, by other property
in their posession, Clarendon
and his partner found they had but
little left them; and the former at
once resolved to take what means
he had, and set out for the West
forthwith; there to embrace the
more sure, if not more profitable,
occupation of agriculture.
Having completed his arrangements,
he bid adieu to his friends,
and departed with his family, on a
journey of adventure to the frontiers.
His first stopping place was
Pittsburgh; but not satisfied with
the appearance of the town, he
joined a party descending the river,
and landed at Marietta Still
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dissatisfied, he joined the party of
Major Stites, and was one of the
first who landed at the mouth of
the Little Miami, on the ground we
have before described.
About half, or perhaps three-fourths
of a mile above the mouth
of the Miami, and a hundred rods
west of this stream, was the spot
selected by Clarendon for his residence.
Here, soon after his arrival,
he erected a comfortable log-cabin,
whither he soon removed his wife
and daughter, who meantime had
remained at Marietta.
As must naturally be supposed,
it was anything but agreeable to
people brought up in the refined
manner of the Clarendons, and
used all their lives to luxury, to be
changed so suddenly from their former
enjoyments, to all the rough,
rude customs of pioneer life; and
from a state of security and ease,
be transported to one of danger
and hardship. But they had counted
the cost beforehand, and prepared
themselves for the worst; so that
the change proved less severe than
it might otherwise have done.
Happiness is not to be found in externals—
it lies within, and depends
altogether upon the mind—and as
the Clarendons, instead of fretting
and complaining of what they
could not alter, strove to look upon
everything as happening for the
best, and sought to be cheerful and
to cheer each other with words
of hope and encouragement, so
they soon found themselves in possession
of enjoyments beyond what
at first thought seemed possible for
them to obtain.
As for Kate, always light-hearted
and merry, she was not slow in
finding means to make life pass
gaily and agreeably, even in the
wilds of the frontiers. She was
exceedingly fond of the art eques
train; and that she might not be
deprived of all the priviliges to
which fortune had hitherto entitled
her, her father purchased the steed,
on which the reader has already
seen her mounted, and on which it
was her delight to scour the surrounding
country, accompanied by
the playmate of her youth, the
faithful Bowler.
Kate soon grew to like her new
home, and to be the favorite of every
one who knew her. Her frank,
cheerful, merry disposition and winning
ways, won the hearts of all;
and there was not a man, woman
or child, in the village of Columbia,
but spoke of her in the highest
terms of praise; nor one whose
face did not grow brighter at her
coming. She ever had a cheerful
word and a smile for all, either
young or old. She was the belle
of the village, by general acclamation,
and yet none were envious.
Whatever Kate did was perfectly
right; and as to the young men,
the greatest poltroon of them all
would have put his life in jeopardy
to gratify her slightest wish. She
was a queen, and reigned supreme;
and though England's sovereign of
modern days may possess more
power and splendor, yet Victoria,
in the height of her popularity,
never had admirers more ardent,
nor subjects more devoted, than
had simple Kate Clarendon.
Our fair heroine had but one
fault—perhaps this was not a fault,
strictly speaking—but if so, it was
a fault of circumstances—one of
which almost every pretty woman is
guilty—and one which, if not carried
to extremes, is certainly pardonable:
she was, in a measure, a coquette.
Among the villagers she had
many admirers, of whom there were
three, genteel young men, special
suitors for her hand, at the opening,
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[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
of our story. For these three, it
was rumored, Kate held a preference
over all others; but which one
of the three was most admired by
the fair girl, none could tell—not
even themselves—for to-day it was
apparently this one, and the next
day that, so that each was alternately
buoyed up with hope, and depressed
by disappointment. All
the gossips contended she had a
choice; but the difficulty lay in
finding out the favored one. Whenever
Kate was importuned on the
subject herself, she invariably replied
with a laugh, that she liked
them all, but that her choice was
neither. This, however, was not
believed; and those who strove to
keep a record of every event transpiring
in the world of Columbia,
were daily on the look-out for the
news of a wedding—of beholding
the merry Kate caught in the noose
Hymenial.
The father of Kate, was a man
some forty years of age, large and
well-proportioned, with a noble,
manly, handsome countenance, and
manners dignified and pleasing.
Among the villagers he was very
popular; and being a man of fine
intellect and education, he was
looked up to, by most, with much
deference and esteem. His wife
was a mild, quiet lady, of a sweet,
benevolent disposition, a few years
his junior, who also stood high in
the estimation of the people; so
that, among all the villagers, there
was, probably, no family that en
joyed a greater share of genuine,
heart-felt popularity, than the
Clarendons.
The residence of the Clarendons
was a well-constructed double
cabin, with puncheon floors and
clap-board roof. Their furuiture,
of course, was of the plainest description;
for in those days, and in
this section of country, it was impossible
to have other. They had
some good clothing, and a number
of small articles of value, which
they had brought with them from
the East. The cabin itself stood
upon a very slight knoll, and fronted
the west, surrounded by a tall
grove of beech, sugar-tree, locust,
&c.—with the exception of an acre
in the rear, that had been cut
away, and the ground turned into
a handsome garden of vegetables
and flowers. There seemed but
one fault in the whole arrangement;
and that was, that the dweliing
was too much exposed—its
nearest neighbor being at the distance
of nearly half a mile. This
was remarked upon by some of
the settlers at the time of its erection;
but Clarendon himself declared
that he had no apprehension,
and the subject was never
again referred to.
Time rolled on smoothly, and
the Clarendons, at the date of our
story, found themselves once more
in rather prosperous circumstances.
But as it is with Kate we have for
the present especially to do, we
will return to her forthwith.
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CHAPTER IV.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike;
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
—Pope.
There's danger in the dazzling eye,
That wooes thee with its witching smile.
—Mrs. Osgood.
But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch—so full of mirth,
The overflowing of an innocent heart.
—Rogers.
Upon the youthful mind of Kate,
the words of the Necromancer
made a deep impression; and for
several days after their interview,
it was noticed by her friends, with
some concern, that, contrary to her
usual manner, she appeared sad,
thoughtful, and even abstracted.
But as it was known she had received
a severe fright from the panther,
the cause was attributed to
this, and every one looked to see it
gradually wear off, and behold her
again bright with her own cheerful,
happy smile. Wear off the
sadness certainly did; and a week
from the event we have chronicled,
Kate appeared the same smiling,
joyous being as before.
About this time, the young people
of Columbia decided on having
a ball—which, if it could not rival
in splendor some in the older settlements,
might, at least, in heart-felt
enjoyment. Accordingly, an appropriate
place was selected, a fiddler
engaged, and every preparation
thought necessary for the coming
event speedily set on foot. The
building chosen for the purpose,
was a new double cabin, which had
just been completed, and only waited
this kind of christening, as some
of them termed it, for the young
couple, who were to tenant it, to
take up their abode therein. Flowers
of all hues, together with sprigs
of cedar, were collected; and the
walls and ceiling were decorated
with hangings of green, and with
beautiful festoons and boquets. In
one apartment a long table was
spread, and covered with such delicacies
as the country then afforded;
and many dishes there were
(composed of deer, bear and buffalo
meat), which, among us of the
present day, would be considered
great rarities. An old banner of
stars and stripes (that had been
somewhat torn and riddled in the
long and sanguinary struggle of
the Revolution, which belonged to
one of the settlers, who had himself
carried it in the heat of battle,
and which was held in great veneration
by all) was procured and
arched over the door of entrance;
and not all the purple and crimson
robes of royalty, could have excited
one tithe of the pride in the
bosoms of those simple-minded pioneers,
than did this soiled and dirt-begrimmed
bunting of “red, white
and blue.”
The belle of the ball was, of
course, to be our youthful Kate;
and as she was to be escorted
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thither by one individual only, and
as there were three young men
who laid equal claims to the honor
of being her beau-gallant for the
occasion, there was, as a natural
consequence, some peculiar sensations
excited in the breasts of each,
in regard to which should be the
favored one.
Unwilling to take an undue advantage
of each other, they met to
decide the matter by themselves.
Among other things, one proposed
that they should draw lots for the
preference; another, that they
should run a race for it; and the
third and last, that they should all
go in a body together, and allow
her to make her own selection.
This last proposition was finally
agreed to, as the point at issue
would, in this way, be decided by
the girl herself; and, consequently,
each would know which was the
most favored suitor of the three.
Accordingly, the next morning,
which was a beautiful one indeed,
and the third preceding the gala
night, our three lovers mounted
themselves on fine horses, and together
rode over the plain toward
the residence of their fair umpire,
to have the pending question decided
by her own sweet lips and
voice—each to be made happy or
miserable, as the case might turn
out.
Kate was seated in the door of
her cot, gazing upon the lofty old
trees, that threw their deep, cool
shadows over the luxuriant earth
beneath, watching the birds that
hopped from branch to branch, and
listening to their happy, musical,
artless songs, the while humming
some tune herself, in a corresponding
strain of melody. At length
the tones of her voice swelled
out, rich and clear, in the following
SONG.
“Sing, ye warblers, sing!
Make the forest cheery—
Swell your throats,
With glorious notes,
And let not earth seem dreary.
“Sing, ye warblers, sing!
To the streams and flowers—
In your prime,
Improve your time,
And golden make the hours.
“Sing, ye warblers, sing!
God lists your voices—
Nature hears,
Through morning tears,
And in the sound rejoices.”
As Kate concluded, she leisurely
cast her eyes over the plain, and,
as she did so, an observer might
have seen them widen, brighten
and twinkle with an expression of
quiet, mischievous satisfaction.
Turning to her mother, who was
seated behind her some little distance,
within the cottage, needle-work
in hand, she said, gaily:
“I do wonder, mother, whether
you and I are going to be taken by
storm, or whether it be me alone.”
“Why so, Kate?” inquired Mrs.
Clarendon.
“Why, yonder come three gallant
gentlemen, all mounted, who individually
honor me with their addresses
and words of flattery. One
alone, or one at a time, is enough,
Heaven knows!—but, heigh-ho,
here are three together—what shall
I do?
“Well, Kate, if you would follow
my instructions, you would not be
troubled this way,” returned the
mother of our heroine, reprovingly.
“Why don't you make a selection,
and dismiss the others? It does
not look well to see a young lady
with too many beaux, I can assure
you.”
“But which shall I select, dearest
mother mine?” asked Kate, with
a roguish smile.
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
“How should I know! Select
the one you esteem the most.”
“But suppose they are all alike
in my estimation?”
“Why, then, you do not love any,
and so discharge them all.”
“Discharge them, indeed!” rejoined
Kate, laughing. “Why they
would all go mad, and hang or
drown themselves—that is, if I may
believe their assurances—and then
what awful crimes would be laid
to my charge, and what a weight
would eternally be on my conscience!”
“Go to, Kate,” replied her mother,
smiling; “there is no use in trying
to do anything with you, for
you turn everything into ridicule.
You are a spoiled child, Kate, I fear.”
“Heigh-ho! I fear so, too,” rejoined
Kate, drawing a long sigh, and
pretending to be very serious, although
she could scarcely refrain
from a burst of merriment. “But
I say, mother, would I not be worse
spoiled indeed, should I discharge
all these gay youths, and have not
a single one left to help myself with?
O, would not that be awful!” And
Kate clasped her hands together,
with a stage struck air, and rolled
her eyes upward in mock solemnity.
“Have a care, child, or that will
be your fate in earnest,” said her
mother, her own risible muscles requiring
a great effort to keep them
quiet, as she gazed upon her daughter.
“Have a care, Kate, or they
will discharge themselves.”
“Do you think so, mother? O,
wonderful youths! how I envy them
such firmness of decision.”
“Many a gay coquette has died
an old maid, despised and rejected
by those she once flirted with, and
rejected herself,” pursued Mrs. Clarendon.
“Better take warning in
time daughter mine.”
“An old maid!” exclaimed Kate,
in mock horror, shaking her head,
and throwing about her sunny curls
in wanton profusion. “O, horrible
fate—horrible! To think of living
without a lord to control all one's
actions—to hold the purse—to give
one grave advice on the most trifling
subjects—to tell one how to
dress—where one may go—when
one must stay at home;—to think of
living without a family to slave
for—to have no one to take care of
but one's self:—oh! this must be
horrible! No, no! I must not think
of such a thing; and as here come
my cavalier gallants, I will strive
to secure one, at least, in time to
save me from a destiny so awful.”
As Kate concluded, the three
young men we have alluded to, rode
up to the door, and each made his
obeisance, and spoke his morning
salutation.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said
Kate, in return. “Really, I know
not what to think of beholding you
three together. Are you on a mission
of peace or blood?”
“Peace, most decidedly,” answered
the foremost, a fine, comely
youth of twenty, with dark, bright
eyes, brown curly hair, and an intelligent
countenance. He was the
son of a respectable citizen of the
village, and was called Albert
Danvers.
“We never enter a lady's company
with any other motive,” added
the second, a square-built, robust,
jolly-faced young man of nineteen,
whose countenance indicated
health and happiness. He was
also the son of a settler, and was
called Orville Danbury.
The third member of the party
was older, more marked in his apperance
than either of the others,
and consequently will require a
more minute description. His age
was about twenty-three, and his
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[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
figure slim and tall. His features
were rather effeminate than manly,
with a pale, sallow complexion,
and were expressive of habitual
thought on gloomy subjects. He
had black, sunken, piercing eyes,
a straight, well-formed nose, a rather
pretty mouth, and a round and
prominent chin. His lips were
thin and habitually compressed;
and when he smiled, which he did
but seldom, and then as if by an
effort, there lurked around them an
expression both sensual and sinister.
He had little, very little
beard—so that his face was as
smooth almost as a lady's. His
forehead was high, but not of a
prepossessing cast, and was marred
by deep furrows, as if the mind
were continually employed on
some difficult theme. His hair was
black and curly; and what was
somewhat rare in that part of the
country at that day, was kept well
oiled and brushed. His suit of fine
broad-cloth, neatly fitted to his
person, contrasted forcibly with
the coarse, loose, home-made, woolmixed
grey of his companions.
The origin of Rashton Moody
(so he termed himself) was not
definitely known to any of the villagers.
About a year previous to
the date of our story, he made his
appearance in Columbia, bearing
a pack upon his shoulder, and with
him bringing the implements of a
surveyor. As a person of his profession
happened to be wanted at
the time, he was immediately given
employment, and had remained
in the vicinity ever since. His
dress, occupation, and finished manners,
at once made him the beau
ideal of all the young ladies of the
village, to whom his slightest expression
was an oracle of wisdom;
and in whose pale, thoughtful, half-melancholy
countenance, they saw
enough to excite their sympathies,
together with a world of romance;
and consequently, of all their imaginings,
he was the hero. But if all
fancied him, it was evident that he
did not reciprocate; for after a
time, he gradually withdrew his
company from all save Kate Clarendon;
and if there chanced to be
a gathering where she was not expected
to be present, Rashton Moody
was invariably absent. Had
Kate not been a great favorite with
all, this marked expression of regard
for her alone, from one so universally
popular, must have made her many
enemies among her own sex.
Now, as often happens in such
cases, the individual himself, and
the preference shown by him for
her company, were less agreeable
to Kate, than they would have
been to almost any other unmarried
lady in Columbia. But Kate,
as we have said, was a little inclined
to be coquettish; so that
whatever might be her real feelings,
they were concealed by a dissemblance
that completely deceived
all; and, moreover, it was perfectly
natural that one of her turn
of mind should feel flattered by the
attentions of a personage so much
sought for by others, whether she
cared for him herself or not. Had
Kate expressed the real sentiments
of her heart, she would have said
that she liked Danvers, could endure
Danbury, but that the company
of Moody was really disagreeable
to her. Notwithstanding all
this, however, there was, to her,
rare sport in having what she termed
three devoted lovers of respectability;
and so she encouraged all
collectively, but managed to evade
committing herself with any individually.
Her plan was adopted
more for her own amusement,
doubtless, than for any other
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
purpose. Her delight was in drawing
them on to a certain point, and
then, just as the conversation was
becoming somewhat serious, adroitly
turning it by some light remark
foreign to the subject. As she
cared less for Moody than either of
the others, so she feared him the
more; for there was something
about him, that, in spite of herself,
always made her gloomy, and chilled
all the warm impulses of her
joyous heart. Could she with propriety
have dismissed him, doubtless
she would have done so; but
to do this, while receiving the attentions
of others, would have
called for an explanation, and she
had none suitable to give. Neither
would it do, as she looked upon
the matter, to wound his feelings,
by treating him less civilly than his
rivals. Thus matters stood between
the various parties, at the
time we have chosen to introduce
them to the reader.
“Well, Sir Knight of the Black
Armor,” said Kate, addressing
Moody, in a tone of innocent raillery,
after having waited a sufficient
time for him to begin the
conversation, “how is it that your
lips are more sealed than your
companions in arms of the Hodden
Grey?”
“True love is ever silent,” returned
Moody, laconically, fixing
his dark, piercing eyes upon Kate,
in a manner so earnest, as to draw
a blush to her cheek.
“Nay,” said Kate, rallying, “that
is not to the point, sirrah! We
were not talking of love.”
“Only thinking,” observed Moody.
“Nay, sir, I deny that, for myself,
I was even thinking of love.”
“I cannot say as much for myself,”
sighed Moody.
“Faith, but you are becoming
sentimental,” replied Kate, forcing
out a ringing laugh, to cover the
embarrassment she felt from a remark
so pointed. “Come, my gallant
cavaliers,” she added to all,
“will you not dismount, and honor
the dwelling of a poor maiden, for a
short time?”
“Why, as to that,” replied the
first speaker, Albert Danvers, “I
can say, for myself, that nothing
would be more agreeable to me,
were it not that I think the errand
on which we came can be better
done as we sit.”
“I agree with you,” said Danbury.
“Say on, my noble seniors—I
am all attention,” replied Kate.
“As I have been appointed
spokesman,” said Danvers, “I may
as well—”
“Not make any blunders,” put
in Kate, with a laugh.
“Exactly.”
“Well?”
“Well, first you must know, fair
Miss Clarendon—”
“Stop!” interrupted Kate; “no
eulogy on the party present. No
flattery to the face, Albert.”
“Well, then, you must know,
Miss Kate, if you do not already,
that a few nights since, in solemn
conclave met, the young people of
Columbia decided on having a
ball—rude, it is true—but still a
ball—and the best we can give.”
“Hum!—indeed!—Well?”
“And at this ball, it was anxiously
hoped, and certainly expected,
would be collected all the fair faces
of the town.”
“Yes?”
“In which case, Kate Clarendon
could not be absent.”
“Hum!—flattery again.”
“Whereupon the query afterward
came up, as to which should
be the lucky man, out of a certain
three, to escort her thither.”
“Which was decided—”
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[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
“Nay, which has not been decided
at all, but left to your own
fair self to say.”
“How? I do not understand you.”
“Why, simply, Miss Kate, you
are to choose out of the three before
you, which one you will have for
your gallant on the occasion.”
“In earnest?”
“Earnest, I assure you.”
Kate looked at the three mounted
young men, for a moment, seriously,
and then burst into a wild,
merry laugh, and clapped her hands
with childish delight.
“Well, if this is not the funniest
thing I ever heard of,” she exclaimed:
“Three young men, riding off to
their lady-love together, to be piched
from as a farmer would select a
sheep from his flock for the slaughter.
Well, trot out here, and let me
consider.
“First,” continued Kate, as if
soliloquising, “there is Albert
Danvers—a good-looking fellow
enough, but then he don't know
how to sit his horse properly, keeps
his knees too stiff, and is too tall,
I think, and broad in the shoulders,
to suit my taste. Then there is
Orville Danbury—not quite so
good-looking as the first, is too
short and clumsy, has a face too
big, and laughs too much: I can't
take him. Lastly, here is Rashton
Moody—too tall, too slim, too pale
and sallow, dresses too nice, and
don't laugh enough; and when he
does laugh, makes one have the
cold chills. He won't do. Gentlemen,”
concluded Kate, her dark,
sparkling eyes twinkling with merriment,
“I have thought the matter
over, seriously, and, 'pon my word,
I really don't think I shall be able
to make a choice.”
“Then,” said Moody, quickly,
“allow me to tender my services
alone.”
“Why, really, Sir Knight of the
Black Armor, I—”
“Unfair! unfair!” cried Albert
and Orville. “Kate must make
her own selection, or we go back
as we came—those are the terms
of agreement.”
“Terms, or no terms, I shall do
as I think proper,” replied Moody,
haughtily.
“Come, come—no airs here!”
returned Danvers, his dark eyes
flashing.
“Do you pretend to dictate to
me, sir?” retorted Moody, angrily.
“Hold, comrades! you are in the
presence of a lady,” said Danbury.
“And pretend to come on a mission
of peace,” rejoined Kate. “I
thought you would be at each other's
throats soon, when I saw you
ride up. Fie! my cavaliers—for
shame!”
“Your rebuke is just, and you
shall hear no more from me of a
quarrelsome nature,” replied Danvers.
“But come—will you not
make a choice between us, for your
escort to the ball?”
“I fear to choose now, lest I revive
the quarrel,” answered Kate,
pointedly.
“I pledge you my honor, that I
will abide the decision without a
word,” said Danvers.
“And I,” said Danbury.
“I shall do as the others,” said
Moody, sullenly, compressing his
lips, and looking downward.
“I have it!” exclaimed Kategaily,
a new idea at the moment
striking her. “I have it! I will
decide it by a race. I will have my
Marston, and mount him, and have
five rods the start, and he who overtakes
me first, shall be my companion
for the ball. What say you,
my cavaliers?”
“Agreed!—agreed!”—cried Danvers
and Danbury, in a breath.
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
“I shall take my chance of
course,” said Moody, drily.
“Mother, where is Icha?” inquired
Kate, springing into the house.
“He is at work in the garden,
child; but what strange freak have
you got in your head now?”
“A race for a lover,” answered
Kate, laughing; and darting to the
door in the rear, the next moment
her clear voice was heard calling,
at the top of her lungs, the name
of Ichabod Longtree.
Presently an answer was returned;
and shortly after, the personage
bearing the poetical appellation
just mentioned, made his appearance.
He was a tall, gaunt, bony
man of thirty, with a long, thin visage,
small, grey, cunning eyes, a
large nose and mouth, with teeth
projecting, a falling off, double chin,
and, taken as a whole, anything
but a beauty. For many years,
while the Clarendons were in good
circumstances, he had served them
in the capacity of gardener; and so
attached had he become to the family,
particularly to his “little pet,”
as he was wont to term Kate that
when he was paid off and discharged,
he refused to go, and begged,
with tears in his eyes, that he might
be allowed to accompany them to
the West. For some time, Clarendon
tried to dissuade him from this;
but finding his arguments of no
avail, he at last consented, on condition
that he must expect no wages,
unless he, Clarendon, again
became prosperous. As affection,
not money, was the tie which bound
Ichabod Longtree to the Clarendons,
so he, in consequence, made one of
the party, and had remained with
them ever since—employing his
time as gardener, hostler, and an
attendantin general upon the ladies.
“Well, Icha,” said Kate, as the
personage in question made his ap
pearance, “saddle Marston, and
bring him to the door. I am off for
a race.”
“Yes, and some day you'll jest
git your neck broke in a race, my
little pet,” returned Ichabod.
“Never you mind my neck, but
do as I bid you!”
“O, don't fear me; I'll go straightway;”
and off went Ichabod for the
horse.
In a few minutes, the coal-black
pony of Kate stood before the door,
arching his proud neck, and pawing
the ground, impatient to be off.
Kate, meantime, had thrown on her
riding-dress, and in another moment
she was in the saddle.
“Now, my cavaliers,” she said,
gaily, “square your horses' heads,
and wait the word.”
Complying with her request, each
put his beast on a line with his
neighbor, while Kate rode out in
front, to a suitable distance, and
turning upon her saddle, said:
“Ready, all! Now!”
At the last word, her riding-whip
touched the flank of Marston, and
away bounded the fiery beast with
great velocity, and forward leaped
the horses of the rivals, in eager
chase.
It was a beautiful and novel
sight. Erect upon her rushing steed,
motionless as if carved there from
marble, sat Kate Clarendon, her
tightened reins held gracefully in
her snowy hands, speeding onward
fearlessly, amid the labyrinthian
forest, gradually gaining upon her
pursuers, who now, becoming separated
from each other, somewhat,
by the difference in the speed of
their horses, were spurring and
whipping forward with all their
might. On, on they dashed—startling
the tenants of the wood—causing
the birds to flutter and twitter
above them, or leave what they
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
considered a dangerous vicinity—
while ever and anon the ringing
voice and laugh of Kate, echoing
through the forest, urged on her pursuers
almost to desperation. Forward
they dashed, for half an hour,
on a circuitous route, when the
horse of Moody, being of exceedingly
good bottom, began to distance his
rivals, and gradually gain upon the
pony of Kate. This Kate perceived
with any thing but satisfaction,
and urged Marston to do his best.
In vain, however, did her noble animal
renew all his powers of velocity;
in vain fell the whip upon his
flanks; he had met with more
than his equal; and steadily the
beast of Moody came bounding
forward, every step shortening the
distance between them. At last,
Kate, who saw she must soon be
overtaken, sought, by a manœuver,
to turn, pretend to yield, and then
suddenly pass Moody, and by a
straight course, gain her home in
advance of him, and thus clear
herself; but the design was anticipated—
the effort failed—and
two minutes after, the hand of
Moody was laid upon her bridlerein.
“I have won!” he said, his
black eyes sparkling, and a rather
malicious smile of triumph
hovering around his almost white
and closely compressed lips. “I
have won, Miss Clarendon—fairly
won.”
“You have won, that is certain,
whether fairly or not,” replied Kate,
pettishly, with a vexed expression
on her usually laughing countenance.
“I have won, by your own proposal,
at all events,” he repled,
rather coolly, “and of course I shall
claim my reward.”
“Of course you will claim it,” rejoined
Kate, pointedly, “and of
course you will get it.”
“You seem displeased, Miss Clarendon.”
“Hamlet says, `I know not
seems,' ” answered Kate, drily.
“Let us return.”
“Perhaps if one of my rivals had
won, you would have been better
suited,” observed Moody, fastening
his eyes keenly upon his fair companion.
Kate made no reply; but jerking
the rein of her beast rather hastily,
started him into a gallop.
A cloud suddenly came over the
face of Moody, and he placed his
hands to his temples, as if in pain.
Then dark thoughts could he traced
in the gleam of his eyes, and a
cold, sinister smile played around
his mouth. Then muttering—“If
you tread upon a serpent, beware
of his fangs!” He tightened
his rein, and, spurring forward,
soon overtook Kate, who was riding
in advance. When he reached
her side, his countenance had
resumed its usual expression. On
their way to the residence of our
heroine, they were joined by the
others, who, after passing some few
dry congratulations on the termination
of the chase, and perceiving
all was not right, relapsed into silence.
The remainder of the way
was passed without a word from
either party. At the door of the
cottage, each took leave of Kate,
rather ceremoniously, and then departed—
Moody by himself—not one
of the four pleased with the morning's
work.
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
CHAPTER V.
The bright and youthful dancers meet,
With laughing lips and winged feet;
And golden looks come flashing by,
Like sudden sunshine through the sky.
—Mrs. C. H. W. Esling.
Do I not in plainest truth tell you,
I do not, nor I cannot love you?
—Shakspeare
Repulse upon repulse met ever—
Yet gives not o'er, though desperate of success.
—Milton.
At an early hour, on the evening
of the ball alluded to in the preeeding
chapter, Rashton Moody,
finely mounted, rode up to the door
of the Clarendons. Kate had previously
completed her preparations,
and in a few minutes she was
mounted on her beast, and bearing
him company to the place appointed.
But although she strictly complied
with her agreement, in accompanying
him to the ball, yet it
was clearly evident to Moody, by
her manner, that his company was
not so agreeable to her as he could
have wished. All his efforts to
draw her into conversation, only
resulted, on her part, in the utterance
of monosyllables; so that, in
a short time, he gave up the attempt
in despair; and the remainder
of the ride over the plain was
passed in silence—both occupied
with thoughts of their own—those
of Moody, we fear, not being of the
most harmless nature imaginable.
The ball turned out to be a fine
affair—at least for those days—
and great hilarity prevailed. Kate,
on the present occasion, however,
seemed not herself. She danced,
it is true; was lively and even gay;
but those who observed her narrowly—
and there were many who
did, among whom were Danvers
and Danbury—perceived that the
feeling of joyousness, usually so
apparent on such occasions, was
sadly wanting. Some, who noticed
it, even went so far as to question
her on the subject; but she even
replied, with a forced laugh, that
her looks must belie her, as she
never felt more cheerful in her life.
Moody, too, was more cold and
distant than usual; rarely spoke to
any, and then very briefly; seldom
smiled, and altogether seemed in
an ill-humor. But the dance, notwithstanding,
went gaily on; the
fiddler, to the best of his ability,
“discoursed his eloquent music,”
and a stranger, to have seen the
sparkling eyes, the rosy cheeks
radiant with smiles, and the bounding
forms, as they whirled over the
floor, and heard the jests, and the
laugh, and peradventure the gay
song, from such as chose not to be
occupied with the “fantastic toe,”
would have pronounced it a happy
assemblage, without one present
who did not feel what all seemed
to enjoy.
Between ten and eleven o'clock
the company was invited to partake
of refreshments, and all
crowded to the adjoining
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
apartment, where ample justice was
done to the viands before them,
and where the same hilarious feelings
continued to prevail. As soon
as this was over, Kate announced
her intention of returning immediately.
On hearing this, every one
looked surprised, and a dozen
crowded around her at once.
“Are you ill?” inquired one.
“Or displeased with the ball?”
said another.
“Or grown exceedingly sober of
late, and wish to keep good hours?”
added a third.
“None of these, I assure you,”
answered Kate.
“What is it then?” asked a
fourth.
“O, I see through it,” cried a fifth,
a young man, rubbing his hands
together, in a manner expressive of
mirth about to be enjoyed: “I see
through it. She's not been herself
the whole evening, and I can
guess the cause.”
“Out with it, then,” cried one.
“Shall I tell, Kate?” asked the
young man, with a leer, and smiling
mischievously.
“Certainly,” replied our heroine,
a little sarcastically; “if you know
anything, tell it, and put these anxious
friends out of suspense. Don't
you see they are dying for your
knowledge?”
“Yes, let us have it, Charley,
do!” put in a merry girl of sixteen.
“Why, then,” said Charley, maling
his face long and serious, “you
must know my most worthy friends,
that Miss Kate Clarendon, the beautiful
being here before you, has had
a quarred with her lover, Mr. Rashton
Moody, and is anxious to make
an escape early, in order she may
have time and opportunity to put all
to rights again before she sleeps.”
A hearty laugh followed this
speech, with cries of “Good! good!”
“That is it, for the world!” “Stupid
we did not see it before.”
The features of Kate flushed, an
angry frown came on her brow, her
eyes flashed, and she bit her lips
in sheer vexation.
“The gentleman informant,” she
said, with a touch of severity, “always
was remarkable for his penetration;
and I have no doubt he
could see completely through a
mill-stone, as we say in the East—
provided, that is, there were a hole
through it eight inches in diameter.
For once, however, allow me, who
ought to know, to say, with all deference
to his superior judgment,
that he is most decidedly mistaken.
Ladies and gentlemen, I wish you
all a happy evening!” and turning
upon her heel abruptly, Kate, with
a dignified, but graceful step, moved
away, and disappeared from the
apartment. Each of the group
looked at each other in surprise and
with a crest-fallen countenance; for
not one, by his or her innocent jest
and laugh, had dreamed of giving
offense.
Moody, who a little apart had
watched the whole proceedings, at
once took an abrupt leave, and hastened
after Kate; and presently
both were mounted, and riding over
the plain toward the house of the
latter.
The atmosphere was very clear,
and the bright moon, which had
risen an hour before their departure,
shed a soft luster over all, and
bathed the deep forest of the plain
in a flood of mellow light—which,
as it came crinkling through the
slightly rustling leaflets overhead,
and fell upon the soft earth like
quivering beads of quicksilver,
made the scene superbly enchanting.
For some distance nothing
was said; and the hollow trampling
of the horses' feet, the snapping of
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[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
some dry twig, the sighing of the
forest, and the chirp and hum of the
thousand night-watchers, were the
only sounds that broke the otherwise
death-like stillness. At length
Moody, desirous of starting a conversation,
said:
“Somehow, Miss Clarendon, you
seem low-spirited to-night, and
have left the party earlier than is
your wont. Has anything of importance
transpired to mar your
happiness?”
“I cannot say there has,” replied
Kate, briefly.
“Then why not be gay, as usual?”
“People do not feel at all times
alike, and I suppose I have a right
to be serious occasionally.”
“O, certainly, Miss Clarendon;
no one has a better right. I merely
spoke, because I take a deep interest
in your happiness.”
“Indeed, sir! O, I was not
aware of that,” answered Kate, in
a tone of provoking coolness.
Moody bit his lips, and moved
nervously on his saddle, for he felt
severely the sting of her words. “I
am sorry,” he said, at length, that
you have not ere this discovered
the motive I had in addressing you;
and that, of all others, it should surprise
you that I sought your happiness.”
Kate made no reply; and after
waiting for one a few moments,
Moody resumed:
“You must have perceived, Miss
Clarendon, or at least you should
have been aware, that my attentions
to you thus long, have not
been attentions of mere gallantry,
but have sprung from deeper and I
trust more sacred feelings.”
“To tell you the truth,” replied
Kate, in the same indifferent tone
she had hitherto used, “I have never
troubled myself enough about
the matter to perceive anything
the kind.”
“What am I to understand from
this?”
“Whatever you choose.”
Again Moody bit his lips, and
remained for a short time silent;
during which he passed an openspot
in the forest, where the moon
shone full upon his face, and exhibited
features now grown dark and
fearful with a thousand angry
thoughts, over which played a bitter,
sinister smile.
“If I conjecture rightly,” he said
at length, “my company must be
most disagreeable to you.”
“You might be more in error,”
was the consoling reply.
“Then wherefore have you silently
encouraged me so long? why
have you not made this manifest
before?”
“Perhaps there has been no occasion
for my doing so.”
“I see how it is: you have coquetted
me, and led me to make
a fool of myself.”
“You are quick-sighted.”
“Not uncommonly so, or I should
have seen through your base artifice
ere this.”
“Sir!” said Kate, angrily, “your
language is unbecoming a gentleman;
and if you cannot carry a
more civil tongue in your head, I
pray you leave me, and I will find
my way home by myself.”
“Not so fast, my lady, for I design
doing no such thing; and
moreover, my language, which you
are pleased to think uncivil, is only
in keeping with your own.”
“You wish to quarrel with me,
sir!”
“Not at all; I wish to treat you
as a lady, if you will allow me to
do so.”
“Then why not cease your conversation,
and continue silent?”
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[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
“Because I do not choose to do
so.”
“Indeed!”
“Ay, Miss Clarendon, indeed!”
“Then,” rejoined Kate, pettishly,
“I will allow you the estimable
privilege of conversing with yourself,
while I remain a listener only.”
“Nay, but you must talk also,”
returned Rashton, riding up close to
her side, and laying his hand upon
her bridle-rein.
“How, sir! what means this?”
cried Kate, indignantly, not without
some alarm, however.
“I said you must talk, also,” replied
Moody, coolly.
“Ha! you would force me to
talk, eh?”
“I simply said you must,” answered
the young man, with a
strong emphasis on the last word.
“What would you have?” asked
Kate, her heart now fluttering with
a strange, undefinable fear.
“I would hold a conversation on
what has now become, to me at
least, a grave subject.”
“And that is—”
“Love.”
“I am not in the humor to talk
now, on what I do not understand.”
“For the matter of that, it is easily
comprehended.”
“Well, sir, what would you say?”
“That I love you.”
“Umph! your actions show it.”
“Ay, I agree with you, they do
show it, in everything I do. Think
you, if I did not love you, Miss
Clarendon, I would have sought
your company, to the exclusion of
all other?”
“May be so—like things are often
done.”
“Not by one of my nature and
temperament.”
“As to that, I cannot say; but
before the matter goes any further,
allow me to observe, that if you
love me, I am sorry for it; as there
is no reciprocity of feeling, and
consequently can be no encouragement
on my part given.”
“Is this really so?” rejoined
Moody, with something like a sigh.
“Really so, I assure you.”
“It pains me to hear it, for I had
hoped it were otherwise. But tell
me candidly—do you love another?”
“That I suppose I have a right
to keep secret.”
“And that, on the same principle,
I feel I have a right to know.”
“I am not aware, sir, what constitutes
your right to any such
knowledge,” answered Kate, drily.
“That matters not; but again to
the question: Do you, or do you
not love another?”
“I decline answering, sir,” replied
Kate, haughtily; “but whether
I do or not, understand one
thing, I do not, and never can love
you.”
Again Moody bit his lips, until
the blood almost sprang through;
and could Kate have seen the
dark, devilish expression on his
features then, she would have
trembled with very fear. At length
he spoke, but in a voice so altered
and husky, that she started, thinking
it was another who addressed
her.
“Weigh well your words, girl,”
he said, “and beware of their import,
for I am one that cannot be
trifled with. If you have trifled
with me thus far—if you have led
me on to hope, without a cause,
save to make an idle jest—then
the consequences rest with yourself.”
“I do not understand you,” said
Kate, in some trepidation.
“I am fully aware of that—
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neither do you know me. I am not a
foot-ball, maiden, to take quietly
the kicks of the world, merely for
the amusement of others. I am—
but I will not say what; you may
some day learn to your sorrow.”
“This is strange speech, sir!”
“Perhaps it is to you—to me it
is simply natural.”
“But at what do you aim, Mr.
Moody? Am I to understand that
you threaten me?”
“You have said that you do not,
and never can, love me.”
“I repeat it.”
“Then wherefore did you lead
me to suppose otherwise?—wherefore
did you encourage my addresses?”
“I deny that I did. You called
upon me at different times—others
did the same—and I treated you as
I did them, civilly, and nothing
more. You never asked me for my
company, my hand, nor my love;
and if you chose to call, it was not
my place to tell you to desist, so
long as you behaved yourself as a
gentleman. I have yet to be informed,
sir, that the calls of a gentleman
upon a lady, are tacit acknowledgements,
on her part, that
she desires him above all others,
and that, as a matter of course,
she must love him, and yield him a
right to inquire into all her
thoughts and actions. You should
be aware, sir, that it is the duty of
a lady, to treat with respect those
who call upon her, provided they
move in society her equals and behave
themselves properly, whether
she secretly admires them or not.”
“And to this duty, then, as you
call it, I suppose I am indebted for
all the favors I have received at
your hands?”
“To nothing else, I assure you.”
“Had I known this in time, before
my mind was fully set upon
you—before I had received what I
considered secret encouragement
from yourself, that my passion was
returned—it might perhaps have
saved us both a world of trouble.
But it is too late now; and, as I
said before, the consequences must
rest with yourself. To be plain,
Kate Clarendon, I love you—love
you with a wild, burning, consuming
passion, that, unless I can
attain my object, will destroy
me.”
“But I do not love you, and that
should be sufficient to destroy that
passion.”
“It is not, though. You may be
as cold as marble, and yet my passion
for you will be unabated; in
sooth, if anything, methinks its fire
would burn more fiercely, or be
smothered for a time, only to burst
out in a terrible, devouring, destructive
flame. No, Kate, the die
is cast; there is no alternative—
you must be mine!”
“Never!” cried Kate, energetically.
“Nay, be not too sure of that. I
have staked my all upon it, and it
is life or death. You little know
the nature of him now by your
side, girl. Sooner than you should
escape me, and be another's, I
would bury a knife in your heart,
draw it forth, and with the blood
still warm upon the blade, plunge it
into my own, and thus perish with
you.”
“Oh God!” cried Kate, covering
her face with her hands; “you
chill my blood with horror.”
“I cannot help it. I must let
you know the consequences of a
refusal. Be mine, or die!”
“Let us talk no more of this,
now,” said Kate, shuddering.
“Ay, but now is the time; an
opportunity for such conversation
may not soon present itself again,
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and the moments must be improved
as they pass.”
While conversing thus, the two
had been riding steadily forward,
and, just at this moment, a glimpse
of Kate's residence could be seen
through the trees. Never, to her
eyes, had it looked so enchanting
as now; so eager was she to escape
from her companion, whose
strange, wild language was well
calculated to alarm her. A moving
light, flashing through a window of
the cottage, assured Kate that some
one was astir; and instantly she
felt her spirits rise, and her courage
revive.
“See!” she cried, in something
resembling her usually light, silvery
tone; “we are almost back to the
race-ground. Yonder light must
be carried by Icha. Poor soul! he
always waits up for his little pet,
as he calls me.”
“The more reason, then, that we
should not be in a hurry,” returned
Moody, taking hold of Kate's rein,
and stopping both horses.
“How, sir! what means this?”
cried Kate, angrily, and in some
alarm.
“It means, girl, that I am determined
to improve the present opportunity,
to bind you by solemn
oath, to myself.”
“Are you mad, sir, to talk thus?
Do you think that I am the person
to tamely submit to your insults in
this manner? Unhand that rein,
sir, or I will raise an alarm that
will bring to me such aid as will
chastise you for your presumption.”
“Nay, speak not so haughtily;
you are not yet out of my power,”
returned Moody, in a low, determined
tone. “If you wish to behold
your friends again, with honor,
swear you will be mine, and your
road is free—otherwise (and he
grasped her rein more tightly), you
shall know what a bold man may
dare.”
“Swear to be yours, I never
will,” answered Kate, “let the result
be what it may.”
“By heavens! then,” said Moody,
“you see not the inside of yon cottage
again.”
As he spoke, he struck both
horses with his riding-whip, and,
as the fiery beasts reared under
the smart, and attempted to rush
forward, he suddenly wheeled their
heads in a direction opposite the
cottage, and would have dashed
into the mazes of the great forest,
had not Kate suddenly uttered a
prolonged and piercing shriek, and,
with the agility of an accomplished
equestrienne, disengaged herself
from the saddle, slid to the ground,
and darted away toward the cottage.
Perceiving that she had escaped
him, Moody reined in his
horse, leaped to the ground himself,
and instantly gave chase.
Kate now uttered shriek upon
shriek, and sped forward with all
her might; but her dress soon became
entangled with the shrubbery,
and in another moment an arm of
Moody was thrown around her,
and a hand placed upon her
mouth.
“Fiends seize me!” he cried, “if
yon escape me now, though all hell
were in pursuit!” and lifting her
as though she were an infant, he
instantly sprang back to his horse,
and attempted to remount; but the
struggles of Kate, and the uneasiness
of his beast, prevented him.
By this time, lights were seen flashing
near the cottage, and distant
voices were heard, lending hope to
the one and despair to the other.
“Too late, I see,” growled Moody;
“then there is no alternative;”
and instantly a long, bright blade
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flashed in the moonlight, above the
head of our heroine.
Kate saw and shrank away from
it, with an agonizing shriek; but
this could not save her; she still saw
it gleaming—already was it on its
descent—and she shut her eyes in
horror, and tho't her fate was sealed.
Already was it near her heart—a
second more, and her spirit would
be flown—when suddenly it was
checked by some obstruction, and
the next moment Kate found herself
released, and the villain who
had sought her life stretched upon
the ground.
She looked up, and, in the dim
light which the moon made among
the trees, saw the tall, shadowy
form of the Necromancer standing
over her.
“Girl,” said the strange being,
“thy destiny is not thus to die.
Arise!”
“God bless you, sir!” cried Kate,
springing to her feet, and grasping
his rough hand with a warm pressure,
while tears of joy started to her
eyes. “God bless you, Luther.”
“I did not save thee, girl; it was
a Higher Power,” said the other,
solemnly; and he raised his bare
arm majestically in the moonlight,
and his fore-finger pointed upward.
At this moment Moody gave a
groan, and rose into a sitting posture.
“Villain!” cried Luther, seizing
him by the collar, and jerking him
to his feet: “Villain! did I not
know that thou wert sent here as a
messenger of evil, to fulfill the decrees
of fate, I would crush thee as
a worthless worm!”
“Ha!” exclaimed Moody, starting
back, and gazing upon the other,
for a moment, while his whole
frame shook with fear: “Blind
Luther! you here? I thought you
far away.”
“I told thee,” rejoined the Necromancer,
almost fiercely, “it was my
unenviable destiny to be near thy
evil deeds—to follow thee, as the
carrion-eater the wounded wolf.”
“This way,” said a voice, which
Kate instantly recognized to be her
father's; and with a cry of joy, she
sprang toward him, and the next
moment was clasped in his arms,
while Ichabod, his companion, exclaimed
in alarm:
“Why, darling pet, what's happened?”
“Ay, what means this? and who
are those I hear yonder?” inquired
her father, anxiously.
“Kate instantly proceeded to detail
what had occurred, in as few
words as possible; but ere she had
concluded, her father sprang forward,
exclaiming:
“Where is the villain?”
Moody would have fled, but for
the iron grasp which Luther laid
upon his shoulder, and the imperative
command:
“Stay! and behold your victim.”
As Clarendon caught sight of
Moody, he strode up to him like a
madman, and, seizing him by the
collar, smote him on his face several
times, with the palm of his
hand.
“Now go, disgraced and worthless
dog!” he said, releasing him,
“and tell your friends, if you have
any, that you are as far beneath
them, as Hell is beneath Heaven!”
For something like a minute,
Moody stood over-powered with
rage; his dark eyes darting forth
fiery gleams, like those of an enraged
wild beast; his hands clenched,
his teeth grinding together, and
white foam issuing from his lips.
Then he started, with a howl of
fury, and felt for his knife, which,
fortunately, was not about him.
Finding he was foiled in every way,
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[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
he turned upon his heel, and shouting
hoarsely, “I will be revenged!”
darted out of sight.
“He prophesies and speaks the
truth!” said the Necromancer, solemnly.
“Strange man, I thank you with
my whole soul!” said Clarendon,
advancing to Luther and grasping
his hand. “You have saved the
idol of my heart—my more than
life.”
“Would I could the latter, as the
former,” replied the Necromancer,
mysteriously.
“What mean you?”
“Full of life and hope thou must,
Early seek thy native dust,”
was the no less mysterious answer
of Luther.
“I pray you be more lucid in
your explanation, if, as I doubt not,
your words hold a meaning,” said
Clarendon.
“O yes, do, now,” said Ichabod,
coaxingly, approaching the fortuneteller;
“do, now, tell us what you
mean, good Mr. Luther, and I'll see
that you get good fare, as long as
you've a mind to stay with us, if
it's to next January.”
Luther drew up his form erect,
and waving his hand with dignity,
replied:
“For whom the scroll is filled and sealed,
The future may not be revealed—
Other than that which now you hear:
When the new moon shall be near,
One, whose blood now warmly flows,
Shall in death find stern repose:
When the earth drinks blood and rain,
Some shall see this form again;
Then a child can tell the tale,
Over which now hangs a vail.
“What light is that yonder?”
added Luther, pointing toward the
dwelling of Clarendon, as he concluded
his mysterious rhymes.
Each looked in the direction indicated,
but saw nothing; and turning
round, Clarendon was about to
ask the Necromancer what he
meant, when, to his astonishment,
he found the latter had disappeared.
He called his name several times,
in a loud voice, but no answer was
returned. Ichabod, determined that
the Necromancer should not escape
without his full quota of thanks, at
once darted into the surrounding
bushes, and sought him in every
direction, but in vain.
“I am half inclined to be superstitious
myself,” said Clarendon.
“But come, darling Kate, let us return
on foot by ourselves, while
Ichabod looks after Marston;” and
taking the hand of his daughter in
his own, both set off toward the
cottage, pondering upon the villainous
conduct of Moody, and the
strange appearance, disappearance,
and language of the Necromancer.
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CHAPTER VI.
The sky grew darker. Soon came booming on
The deep-voiced thunder, whilst at distance rolled
The wild winds' dirge-like, and yet tempest tone;
And lightning's evanescent sheets of gold
Burst, in their anger, from the clouds' huge fold.
—T. D. English.
Is there a crime
Beneath the roof of Heaven, that stains the soul
Of men with more infernal hue, than damn'd
Assassination?
—Cibber.
Dead! dead! ay, dead!—forever dead to those
That loved him!
At an early hour on the morning
succeeding the night of events just
detailed, Ichabod Longtree, who
being in his way something of a
gossip, was stirring betimes, that
he might be first with his wonderful
news among the villagers. With
a mysterious air, and sundry additions
and embellishments, where
he thought them necessary, he told
his tale to a gaping crowd, who,
with feelings of indignation too
deep for words, at once proceeeded
to the residence of Moody, with the
intention of punishing him according
to his deserts. Had they found
him, under the excitement they
were then laboring, it is more than
propable the affair would have had
a tragical termination; but he was
gone, and no one knew whither, so
that pursuit was out of the question.
The whole affair created a great
sensation, and was a common topic
for several days. As a story
looses nothing by being repeated,
particularly when it borders on the
marvelous, so the tale in question,
as it went from one to another, became
distorted to a wonderful degree—
until at last an old lady, in
telling it for the twentieth time, ac
tually vouched for the truth of the
assertion, that Moody had placed
the knife against the heart of Kate,
and was pressing with all his
strength upon the handle, without
making the least impression, when
a dark cloud suddenly enveloped
him, and Luther appeared in a
flame of fire, and seized and bore
him off, amid terrible thunderings,
and the most awful shrieks of woe
that mortal ear ever heard.
As for Kate herself, her gay spirits
seemed suddenly to have left her.
She grew reserved and silent, and
withal, not a little melancholy. In
vain her friends—who after the
events we have detailed, flocked to
see her in numbers—tried to enliven
her by their conversation, and
frequent sallies of wit. She said
little to any, and if she smiled at
all, it was one of those wan smiles,
which, contrasting as it did so forcibly
with her former ringing laugh,
was really painful to observe. From
a laughing, frolicsome, light-hearted
girl, she seemed changed to a serious,
thoughtful woman; and all
so suddenly, as to make it rather
marvelous. It was evident that
something preyed upon her mind,
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
and depressed her spirits, and many
were the conjectures concerning
it. Some hinted that she loved
Moody, and that his base actions
had destroyed her confidence in
him; and though she had torn him
forever from her heart, yet there
had been left an aching void, from
which time alone could relieve her.
Others said it was owing to the
fright she had received, and that
in a few days she would be herself
again. But these were conjectures
only, for Kate kept her secret close
locked in her own breast; and when
questioned on the matter, she ever
managed to answer in such a
way that none were made the
wiser for it.
Thus matters ran along for several
weeks, and flowery spring was
just taking leave of the year, to
give bright summer her accustomed
place and reign over the advancing
golden harvest. Since that
eventful night, Rashton Moody had
never been seen nor heard of by
any of the villagers; and the circumstances
connected with his disappearance,
having been discussed
time and again, were now becoming
worn out topics, of but little
interest to any. Luther, too, had
not since made his appearance, and
it was doubted by some that he ever
would. Danvers and Danbury
had both called upon Kate, separately,
some two or three times;
but finding their reception very
cold, had at last given up their visits,
in despair of ever being able to
win her affections.
It was about this time, say some
six weeks from the night of the ball,
that Kate Clarendon and her mother
were seated a little apart, in their
own dwelling, engaged upon some
coarse sewing. The night—for it
was an early hour in the evening—
was very dark, and now and then a
flash of lightning, followed by the
rumbling sound of distant thunder,
together with a cool damp breeze,
which blew steadily from the west,
announced that a shower was fast
approaching. For some time mother
and daughter kept silence—both
intently occupied with the work in
their hands—when a vivid flash of
lightning, that seemed to crinkle
and play upon their needles, made
them involuntarily start together
and utter exclamations of surprise.
“How near, and how loud!” cried
Mrs. Clarendon, alluding to the
lighting, and the thunder which
followed with a crashing report immediately
after. “I was not aware
that the shower was so near us.”
“O, I wish father would come,”
said Kate; “I always feel so
gloomy in a thunder-storm, and so
frightened, too.”
“You have no cause for being
frightened now, Kate,” replied Mrs.
Clarendon, “more than at any
other time. We are all in the hands
of God, at all times, and are just as
safe, if he so wills it, when the elements
are in dire commotion, as
when every thing is clear and tranquil.”
“I know it, mother; but at the
same time, I cannot avoid feeling
more timid, when I behold dark
clouds lowering around me, darting
forth their angry lightnings, and
hear the mighty thunders that seem
to shake the earth beneath them,
than when all is bright and clear.”
“It is natural, my child, that we
should feel our danger more sensibly,
when we can see it; but, nevertheless,
it is no nearer us at such
times than at others.”
“But I wish father would come!”
rejoined Kate, rising, and advancing
to the door. “How dark!” she
continued, as she gazed forth; “and
see yon cloud! how angry it looks!
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[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
and how full it is of electricity!
Hark! mother, do you not hear a
roaring sound?”
“I do,” answered Mrs. Clarendon,
approaching the door herself
and listening. “It is the wind and
rain coming through the forest.
“How mournfully it wails,” sighed
Kate, shuddering. “Oh, my
blood feels chilly in my veins. It
seems as if somebody were dying,
and this were the funeral dirge.
Ha! the lightning again!—how
fearful!” exclaimed she, starting
back, as at the moment a bright
flash almost blinded her, and a
crash of thunder, following close,
made the cabin tremble to its center.
“Better stand away from the door,
Kate,” said the dame, anxiously,
retreating herself.
“I thought,” replied Kate, “you
just now implied that all times and
places were alike as to danger?”
“I said we should not fear, child,
at one time more than another; that
we were all in the hands of a just
God, who watches over us; but I
did not say it would be right to
needlessly expose ourselves; and
it is dangerous standing in a door,
during a severe thunder-storm, from
the tendency of the lightning to
follow a current of air. But see—
yonder!” added Mrs. Clarendon,
pointing toward the forest; “methought
I just now saw the figure
of a man; perhaps we had better
shut and bolt the door.”
“O, it is Icha ' exclaimed Kate,
joyfully, as at the moment another
flash revealed to her the tall, ungainly
form of the gardener, hurrying
forward with immensely long
strides. “Poor Icha is afraid of a
drenching, judging by his movements;
but is it not singular that I
did not see father with him!”
“He must be near, though, I
think,” returned the mother of
Kate, rather uneasily, moving toward
the door again herself.
A few large drops of rain now
began to patter on the leaves of
the trees, and on the roof of the
cabin, while a loud roaring, like
that of a near water-fall, announced
the body of the shower to be near
at hand. The next moment Ichabod
Longtree came bounding into
the room, nearly out of breath,
bearing a rifle on his shoulder.
“Well, Icha,” exclaimed Kate,
hurriedly, “where is father?”
“Why, isn't he here?” asked
Ichabod, in reply, looking round the
apartment, as if he expected to behold
the object of inquiry.
“Did he not go with you?” inquired
Mrs. Clarendon, quickly,
slightly turning pale.
“Why, yes,” replied the gardener,
“we went together, and kept together
till near dark, when he said
as how he'd take a deer I'd just
then shot, and start for home. I
'spected to find him here when I
come.”
“Strange,” said Mrs. Clarendon,
“that he has not made his appearance.
How long since you parted
with him?”
“It's more'n two hours.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the dame,
in alarm; “so long ago, and he not
here yet! How far off was he
then?”
“Not more'n half a mile—jest
on t'other side of the Miami.”
“I fear something has happened
him,” said Kate.
“Maybe he gin chase arter another
deer, like I did,” replied Ichabod,
consolingly.” “'Tisn't best to
be alarmed, I reckon.”
“He would not be likely to do
that, I think, so near night,” observed
Mrs. Clarendon, in some
trepidation. “I fear, with Kate,
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
that something has happened of a
serious nature. Perhaps he has
been killed, or captured by the savages;
for I understand one or two
have lately been seen prowling
about the vicinity.”
“God forbid!” cried Kate, covering
her face with her hands; and
at the moment the words of the
Necromancer seemed ringing in her
ears.
“But where have you been,
Ichabod, since you separated
from him?” inquired Mrs. Clarendon.
“Why, ye see, we both on us
started out for to hunt some deer,”
answered the gardener, “and a
long, dry chase we had on't; for
some how the pesky critters seemed
to know we were arter 'em, and so
kept out o' the way. I reckon we
went much as five miles up the
Miami, and didn't see one—though
we seed some fresh tracks occasionally—
and so we concluded we'd
give in and come home. When
we got most home, say half a mile
off, we somehow stumbled on to
one that hadn't kept quite so good
look-out as the rest, and him I shot
straightway. This started up another,
that looked liked he might be
shot, if a body could get near
enough; and so I told Mr. Clarendon,
that if he'd see that home, I'd
try my legs and ammunition for
another. He said he would, and
off I sot, and a confounded long
chase I had, and didn't catch it at
last—the scamp of a critter that it
was! and when I got started coming
home, I found it gitting right
dark. I 'spected he'd be here, and
have some on't cooked when I got
here sartin.”
By this time the rain was pouring
down in torrents, the wind blew
a hurricane, the lightning flashed
almost incessantly, and the thunder
came peal upon peal, with terrific
and deafening sound.
“Merciful Heaven! he could not
live in such a storm as this!” exclaimed
Kate. “Hark! that crash!
it was like a falling tree.”
“Possibly his burthen may have
delayed him, and finding the shower
upon him, he has taken shelter
in the hollow of some old sycamore,”
suggested Mrs. Clarendon.
“But you forget, mother,” rejoined
Kate, “that two long hours have
elapsed since Icha left him; and
surely he would have reached home
before this, unless something had
happened of a serious nature.”
“Soon's this storm's over, I'll
start off in sarch,” said Ichabod.
“Where is Bowler?” asked Kate,
quickly.
“He went with him,” replied the
gardener.
“Ha! a happy thought strikes
me!” exclaimed Kate, with animation.
“The noble brute will obey
me above all others; and if he hears
my voice, he will come hither immediately.”
Saying this, she stepped to the
door and opened it; but the storm
was raging so fiercely, that it was
found impossible to make the proposed
trial. For half an hour the
wind and rain continued unabated,
when the former gradually began
to die away, and the latter to
slacken, while the lightning less
vivid, and the thunder more distant,
told that the main force of the
shower had passed. It was now
that Kate made the trial, by elevating
her voice, and uttering a clear,
musical call, that could be heard
echoing far away through the forest.
All listened, but heard no answer.
Again she called, but still
deep silence followed. The third
and last trial was made, when, to
the gratification of each, the well
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known yelp of Bowler was heard
far away.
“He comes! he comes!” cried
Kate and her mother joyfully, in
the same breath.
Another call, and another yelp
succeeded—but much nearer, showing
that the brute was making rapid
progress toward them. Presently
a rattling was heard among the
bushes near by, and the next moment
the noble animal came bounding
forward, shaking the wet from
his shaggy hair, and uttering a
mournful howl.
“Where is your master, Bowler?”
asked Kate, stooping down
to pat his head.
The dog looked up in her face, as
if conscious of what she said, and
then gave vent to a low, mournful
whine, that ended at last in a loud,
dismal howl, which made the hearts
of each tremble with a strange, undefinable
fear; then springing away,
he took the backward track
and disappeared, in spite of the
calls of Kate to the contrary.
“Oh, God! I fear the worst,” she
exclaimed, bursting into tears.
“Don't cry, my little pet—don't!”
began Ichabod, consolingly. “It
al'ays makes me feel age rish to hear
you. I'll go straightway and hunt up
your father, for he can't be far off.”
“And I will accompany you,”
cried Kate, seizing her hood and
placing it on her head. “Come,
quick, get the lantern, Icha, and let
us be moving!”
“Don't go, Kate,” said her mother,
uneasily; for it is certainly imprudent
to venture forth in such a
night, and after so severe a storm.
Don't go, for it can do no good, and
will only delay Ichabod.”
“O yes, Katy, pet, don't go now!”
added Ichabod, coaxingly, “and as
your mother says, 'tisn't prudent.”
Kate, however, was used to hav
ing her own way, whenever she insisted
on it; and as, in the present
instance, she had resolved on going,
so all that was said to the contrary
was said in vain.
“Come, Icha, quick now, and get
ready!” was her only reply; and
in a few minutes she was gliding
through the wood, close upon the
heels of her serving man, who bore
in one hand a rifle, and in the other
a lighted lantern.
The course of our friends from
the cottage was nearly due east;
and after continuing for some time
without speaking, through thick
tangles of brush, that saturated
them as they passed, and over large
fallen trees, that had been uprooted,
or broken and cast down by the
storm—they reached the Miami,
whose now dark, swollen and turbulent
waters came rushing past
with a cheerless, gloomy sound,
which struck upon the ear like the
hollow rattling of earth upon a coffin.
Luckily a small canoe, kept
here for fording the stream when
the water was high, was found hid
among the bushes on the western
bank. Placing this upon the stream,
Ichabod, after vainly trying to persuade
Kate to remain or return, as
sisted her into it, and shoved across—
not, however, without some
risk, as the current, being strong,
rapidly bore them down several
yards, before they were able to effect
a landing. Reaching the other
bank at length in safety, Kate
gave another call to Bowler, which,
to her gratification, was almost immediately
answered. A minute after,
the dog came bounding up to
her, whining piteously, and then
immediately darted away, and up
the hill, which here rose somewhat
steep above her.
“Oh, God!” exclaimed Kate,
clasping her hands in an agony of
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mind almost unbearable, “I know
the worst has happened! God give
me strength to go through with it!”
“Let us forward,” returned her
companion, in a voice slightly faltering;
and taking Kate by the
hand, he began to ascend the hill
at a fast gait.
They had proceeded about a hundred
yards further, when they heard
a deep groan, which made the blood
of both run coldly through their
veins; and Kate placing her hands
upon her heart, to still its wild
throbbings, felt a sickening dizziness
come over her, that almost
took away the power of motion.
“I can go no further,” she gasped,
faintly; “I can scarcely stand.”
“Courage, darling,” whispered
Ichabod.
“Help!” cried a voice just above
them; “for the love of mercy, if
you are friends, hurry forward!”
“Who be you, and what's the
matter?” exclaimed Ichabod, springing
up the steep, and dragging Kate
after him, more dead than alive.
“Who I am, matters not, save
that I am friendly to the right,” answered
the strange voice; and the
next moment, the light carried by
Ichabod flashed upon the comely
form and face of a young man of
twenty-three, who was standing
alone, rifle in hand, upon a huge
rock, not ten feet above their heads,
his handsome figure clearly set off
against the dark background beyond.
“There has been foul play
here,” he added, solemnly.
“Where? where?” cried Ichabod.
“Just above me,” answered the
stranger, springing into a thicket
of bushes close behind him.
Ichabod quickly gained the thicket,
entered it with Kate, and the
next moment he stood beside a tall,
old oak, and saw the stranger upon
his knees, bending over some dark
object on the ground, and the dog
running to and fro, and whining
mournfully. Approaching with the
light, Ichabod placed it in a position
to reveal a horrid spectacle.
As he did so, Kate uttered a loud
shriek, and sank down insensible.
“A woman!” exclaimed the
stranger, springing to his feet, with
a look of surprise; for Kate had
kept so much in the shade, that, until
now, he had not been aware of
the presence of one of the opposite
sex. “God of Heaven! what a
shock for a woman!” he added,
stooping down and raising her in
his arms—for under the excitement
of the moment, Ichabod thought of
nothing, saw nothing, but the object
before him.
A sight for a woman indeed!
and more, a sight for an affectionate
daughter! Upon the ground, his
back partly supported by the tree
before mentioned, lay the father of
Kate, his features pale and ghastly,
save where they were rendered
more frightful by being spotted with
blood. In his breast was a deep
wound, and another in his abdomen,
from both of which the red
current of life was flowing freely,
and his vestments were already
stained to a frightful extent. Either
wound was mortal, and yet Clarendon
still survived; though a few
gasps, a groan now and then, and
a rattling, choking sound in his
throat, betokened the rapid approach
of death.
“May perdition seize the fiend
that's done this!” cried Ichabod,
bending over the prostrate form of
Clarendon, and bursting into tears.
“Speak to me, Mr. Clarendon, my
good old friend—speak to me, and
tell me who did it!”
A groan was the only answer.
“It might ha' been you, sir,” for
all I know, cried Ichabod, abruptly,
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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
starting up and turning to the
stranger, who was now engaged
in restoring Kate to consciousness.
“Had I done it, think you I would
be here now?” returned the other,
sharply, an angry flush mantling
his fine, noble countenance.
“How comes ye here at all,
then?” asked Ichabod, not well
pleased with the other's answer.
“That I will explain to your satisfaction
some other time,” was the
reply. “Look you, now, and see if
it be possible to save the wounded
man!”
There was a certain lofty superiority
in the tone and manner of
the speaker, a something which
spoke one accustomed to command
and be obeyed, that completely
over-awed Ichabod, and dispelled
his doubts regarding him; and he
turned at once to Clarendon, to see
if it were possible to save him.
As he bent down to examine his
wounds and staunch the blood, his
eye fell upon a piece of white paper,
pinned upon his body, on which
was writing in a legible hand; at
the same moment the wounded man
gave a groan, a gasp, and all
was over. Tearing the paper
from his body, Ichabod, unable to
read, handed it to the stranger,
saying:
“Here's something, that maybe
you can tell what it means.”
“By heavens! it is a clue to the
mystery!” exclaimed the other, as
his eye fell upon the letters; and
he read:
“`So shall perish all my enemies!
Wo to them that bear the name of
the dead!
Rashton Moody.' ”
“The damnable villain!” ejaculated
Ichabod, catching up his rifle,
which was leaning against the oak.
“I'm his sowrn foe, straightway, to
death; and if we ever do meet,
which Heaven grant, by all my
hopes of justice, I'll kill him if I
can!”
“Rightly spoken, sir, for a bold
man. Henceforth I am your friend.
Give me your hand!” and the next
moment the hand of Ichabod was
clasped in that of the stranger.
During this time, the stranger
hadbeen supporting Kate with his
left arm, and chafing her temples
with his right hand; and he now
had the satisfaction of seeing her
gradually revive. At length she
opened her eyes, gazed around her
with a bewildered air, and exclaimed:
“Where am I? and who are you,
sir?”
“You are safe, fair lady,” answered
the stranger, in a mild, soothing
tone, very different from the
one in which he had addressed Ichabod.
“You are safe, maiden, and
in the hands of one who would
suffer death sooner than see harm
befall you.”
“I do believe he says true, darling,”
observed the gardener.
“Ha! Icha!” cried Kate, wildly,
her conciousness fairly regained;
“I remember now—my father—
where—what—oh, God!” and she
buried her face in her hands, and
her form shook convulsively.
“Be calm, fair maiden,” said the
stranger, tenderly; “be tranquil I
pray you.”
Kate made a sudden bound,
sprang from his arms, and, ere she
could be prevented, threw herself
upon the corpse of her father.
“Oh, father,” she exclaimed, in
tones of anguish, “father—speak
to your Kate!—speak to me!—
What! no answer!—he never refused
to answer me before. Great
God! I have it now!—he is dead!
Yes, dead! dead! dead!” she shrieked,
wildly. Then she burst into
tears and lamentations, while
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
Ichabod stood and gazed upon her
like one stultified, and the stranger,
placing his hands to his eyes,
brushed away a tear.
“I have seen some hard scenes,”
he said, “but none that moved me
like this. She must be removed,”
he added, touching Ichabod on the
shoulder. “Gently, my worthy
friend, let us remove her.”
Ichabod drew a long sigh, that
seemed like a gasp, and signified
his assent to the stranger's proposition
by simply nodding his head.
“Come, Kate, my darling pet,”
he said, stooping down to her, “let's
return, and I'll see to having your
father taken care on.”
“Yes, lady, do!” urged the stranger;
“and I pledge you my honor,
as a gentleman, that whatever can
be done, shall be done, to your satisfaction,
in all that pertains to this
unfortunate affair.”
“You are very kind, sir,” answered
Kate, rising slowly to her feet,
and, by a master effort, commanding
her feelings so as to speak
somewhat calmly; “and I feel confident,
from your look and voice,
that you can be trusted fully. You
will pardon me, I trust, for my wild
manner. The loss of a father, and
one so affectionate (here the voice
of Kate died away to a whisper,
and she placed her hand to her
throat as if to prevent strangulation),
and—and—by foul means
too—is no light affair.”
“It is terrible!” rejoined the stranger,
with emotion; “and God, who
sees the hearts of all, knows that
I sympathize with you and yours
most deeply; and could I, by any
sacrifice, ease you, fair lady, of a
single pang, that sacrifice should
be freely made.”
“Tell—me—truly;—he—he—is
dead—is he—he not?” gasped Kate.
The stranger bent over, felt of
the corpse in several places, and
answered sadly:
“I fear he is.”
For a moment Kate stood with
her hands to her eyes, while her
whole form shook fearfully; then
withdrawing them, she said:
“I will endeavor to be more calm.
If you will bear the body of my father
to the cottage, I will go before
with the light.”
A look of surprise and admiration
lighted up the countenance of
the stranger, and he said, as if to
himself:
“She who can so command herself
on an occasion like this—show so
much nerve—can be no ordinary
being. Lady,” he added to Kate,
respectfully, “your request shall be
obeyed. Come, my friend,” he continued,
touching Ichabod, who was
now standing with his hands locked
behind him, his chin dropped upon
his bosom, his eyes fastened upon
the dead, and apparently heeding
nothing that had been spoken since
his own remarks to Kate: “Come,
my friend, let us tarry here no longer.
I will assist you in carrying
the corpse down to the dwelling of
this fair lady.”
In a few minutes a rough kind of
litter was prepared, on which having
laid the mortal remains of
George Clarendon, Ichabod and the
stranger, preceded by Kate, bore it
slowly forward down the descent.
Reaching the Miami, the party entered
the canoe, and paddled across
in safety. As they were about raising
the litter to proceed again, the
dog, which had kept them company,
uttered a low growl, and, at the
same moment, a deep voice was
heard chanting:
“Where the parent stem is broken,
'Neath the tree that's old and oaken—
When the night-wind cool is blowing,
O'er the life-blood warmly flowing—
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[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
By unchanging Fate's decree,
And Almighty Destiny,
One shall stand thou sawest never,
Yet shalt see and love forever.”
“Who speaks thus?” inquired the
stranger, drawing a pistol, and preparing
to rush into the thicket.
“One who knows both thee and
the future,” answered Blind Luther
the Necromancer, stepping forth
from his covert.
“I know not you,” returned the
other, haughtily, “nor why you appear
here at such a time, chanting
such mystic words. A foul murder
has just been done, and I feel myself
called upon to arrest all suspicious
persons found in the vicinity.
Pardon me, sir, if I now arrest
you, in the name of the general
commonwealth of these United
States.” As he spoke, the stranger
threw off an oil-skin coat, and displayed
the uniform of a military
officer. Then drawing a sword
from his side, he laid the blade upon
the shoulder of Luther, and added:
“You are my prisoner.”
So sudden and singular was this
last proceeding, that Kate and Ichabod
remained for a moment silent,
when the former found her voice
and exclaimed:
“Harm him not, sir, I pray you!
We know him, and that he is as innocent
as ourselves. Luther,” she
added to him, “I fear thou art a
bird of evil omen. Behold!” and
she pointed to the dead.
“I am a messenger of truth,” replied
Luther; “and yet I deeply
sympathize with you, and regret
the decrees of fate. I saved your
life, and might his, had it been so
ordained.” Then turning to the
young officer, who, meantime, had
sheathed his sword, he continued,
in a tone of superiority: “Boy, you
might as well arrest the wind!
Think you I would go with you
against my will? No, Ernest Clifton,
you have mistaken him who
addresses you.”
“Ha!” ejaculated the officer
“you know me then?”
“You! ay—and your parents before
you.”
“My parents? heavens! Who
are you, pray?”
“Ask your friends.”
Clifton turned inquiringly to
Kate.
“We know him as Blind Luther,
the Necromancer,” she answered.
“I know no such person,” rejoined
Ernest.
“Do you know yourself?” asked
Luther.
A flush mantled the cheeks of
the young officer as he replied:
“You ask a strange question,
sir.”
“Which I will answer for you in
the negative,” said Luther. “You
know neither yourself nor your parents.”
“Do you wish to insult me?”
cried the other, reddening and somewhat
confused.
“I wish to insult no man. But
enough! you shall know more in
time.” Then turning to Kate, he
continued: “As I told thee before,
fair damsel,
“When sorrows dark do weigh thee down,
Thou shalt behold this mystic crown;
[Here he touched the band
around his head.]
“And in the depths of deepest woe,
The mysteries I have told thee, know;
Whate'er thy fortune, nobly bear,
And yield thee never to despair.
“Again I told thee,” continued
the Necromancer,
“When the new moon shall be near,
One whose blood now warmly flows,
Shall in death find stern repose—
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[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
[Here he pointed to the corpse.]
When the earth drinks blood and rain,
Some shall see this form again—
[Here he smote his breast.]
Then a child can tell the tale,
Over which now hangs a vail.
“Behold so much of my prophesy,
and await the revealings of the
great future. We shall all meet
again,
“When dark storms around us lower,
Or bright sunshine rules the hour.
“Farewell!” and as he concluded
speaking, Luther sprang into
the thicket and disappeared.
“A strange, eccentric being,” observed
young Clifton, as if to himself.
Then motioning Ichabod to
assist him, he bent down to raise
the corpse. The rest of the way
to the cottage of the deceased was
passed in silence.
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[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
CHAPTER VII.
The blight of hope and happiness
Is felt when fond ones part,
And the bitter tear that follows, is
The life-blood of the heart.
—Fitz-Green Halleok.
We thank you, friends, that you have buried our dead forever from our sight.
—The Buria
It is needless for us to describe,
or even attempt to describe, the
scene which followed the awful announcement
to Mrs. Clarendon, that
her well-beloved partner for life
was no more—or when, too, nearly
frantic with the news, she rushed
to him and beheld him all gory
with the generous blood that had
so lately warmed his veins. And
even did we describe it, what benefit
would accrue to the reader?
Who could realize the heart-rending
agony, but such as have been
placed in similar circumstances;
and for such, no description is needed;
for all potent and poignant
memory will too forcibly recall the
eventful past. Suffice, that she
was nigh distracted with grief, and,
for several hours, manifested strong
symptoms of confirmed insanity.
The day following, nearly all the
villagers, who received the news at
an early hour in the morning, flocked
to the house of mourning, to behold
the deceased, and condole with
the living.
As Clarendon came to his death
in a manner so singular, it was
judged expedient to hold an inquest
over the body. For this purpose,
a jury was speedily collected, consisting
of twelve persons, among
whom were two physicians, who at
once proceeded to examine the
body minutely, and who gave it as
their opinion, that the deceased
came to his death by reason of
gashes made by a knife upon his
breast and abdomen. Ernest Clifton,
the young officer, who had remained
over night at the cottage,
was next called upon to state what
he knew in regard to the affair, and
how he came to be found with the
deceased, so far from any habitation,
alone, at such a time of night,
and under circumstances so calculated
to render him an object of
suspicion.
The jury had now formed a circle
around the deceased, in the adjoining
apartment or cabin, and as
the spokesman concluded, each
turned his face toward Ernest, who,
with some five or six other spectators,
was standing just without the
ring. On hearing the question put,
he started, a deep flush mantled
his features, and without ado, he
stepped boldly within the circle,
and with one hand gently touched
the dead. He was a noble-looking
young man, nearly six feet in
height, with handsome proportions,
that lost nothing of their beauty in
being set off by his close-fitting
uniform. His features were comely
and very expressive; and there
was a nobility in his high, broad
forehead, surmounted by dark
brown curls, and in his full black
eyes, which forbade the idea that
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
he could be guilty of a mean or
base action.
“Gentlemen,” he said, calmly,
and with dignity, moving his eyes
slowly around the circle, and resting
them for a moment on each
member: “Gentlemen, you have
heard me called upon to state what
I know in regard to this unfortunate
affair, in a manner calculated
to leave upon your minds the impression
that my knowledge was
not honestly and honorably gained.
What object the speaker had in addressing
me in the way he did, I
know not, but shall call upon him
to explain hereafter; and I trust
his answer will be satisfactory:
otherwise (here he gracefully and
lightly touched the hilt of his sword
with his right hand, and fixed his
eyes steadily upon the one alluded
to, who quailed before his glance),
there is, thank fortune! an honorable
way of settling all matters of
a similar nature.
“I shall now proceed,” he continued,
“to state the facts, briefly
as possible. In the first place, as
you will perceive by my uniform,
I am in the service of the Government.
I hold a lieutenant's commission,
and am quartered at Cincinnati.
Some few nights since,
word was brought to my commanding
officer, that a body of Indians
was prowling about the vicinity,
and that, unless they were seen to
in time, serious results would be
likely to follow. Upon this, I was
immediately ordered to head a detachment
of ten picked men, and
scour the surrounding country, and
if I found no Indians, to divide and
send my men out separately as
scouts. To make a long story
short, my men were sent out in every
direction, one after another, until
I was left entirely alone. Yesterday,
while scouting myself, I
reached and crossed the Little Miami,
and was on my return last
evening to the garrison, when, finding
myself belated, and that a severe
storm was approaching, I ascended
a tree to await the appearance
of a clear sky. While in the
tree, I several times fancied I heard
a groan, but thought I had most
probably mistaken the wailings of
the storm, which was then raging
with fury, for a human voice. When
the storm began to die away, I descended
to the ground, for the purpose
of resuming my journey.
Scarcely had I done so, when I heard
the mournful howl of a dog near
by. Thinking there must be something
wrong, I hastened in the direction
whence the noise proceeded.
I had not gone far, when I heard
a distant call. Immediately after,
the dog, with a yelp, bounded away.
At the same moment, a deep groan
sounded in my ear; and pressing
forward, I was not long in finding
the cause in the person of the deceased,
who was lying upon his
side, under a large tree, and bleeding
profusely from a couple of
wounds, located as you perceive.
I questioned him as to what had occurred,
but he was too far gone to
answer. I endeavored to staunch
the blood, but did not succeed in
doing much good. In a few minutes
the dog returned; and shortly
after, I saw a light in the distance,
apparently moving toward me.
Steadily the light approached, and
at length I espied a couple of figures
with it. From my position, I was
afterward enabled to keep them in
view, until near enough to make
them hear my voice, when I urged
them to hasten forward, while I at
once sprang back to the deceased.
While bending over the wounded
man, I heard a shriek, and looking
around, was surprised to find a
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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
beautiful female near me, on the
ground, in a swooning state. I hastened
to raise her in my arms, and
while engaged in restoring her to
consciousness, the unfortunate man
breathed his last. On his breast
was found this paper, which having
perused, and taken the testimony
of Miss Clarendon and her serving-man,
I trust, gentlemen, you
will fully exonerate me from even
a suspicion of being in any manner
concerned in the death of him now
lying before you.”
As Clifton concluded, he presented
to the foreman of the jury the
paper alluded to, which the reader
will recollect as the one bearing
the signature of Rashton Moody.
No little excitement was created on
reading this, for all knew Moody
well, and also the cause of quarrel
between him and Clarendon. Kate
and Ichabod were called and examined
separately; but as their
testimony only corroborated Clifton's,
the matter was soon decided,
and the verdict rendered—That
George Clarendon came to his
death by means of a knife, or some
other sharp instrument, in the
hands of Rashton Moody, whom
the jury in consequence considers
guilty of murder in the first degree.
The funeral of Clarendon took
place on the following day, and
was attended by a large concourse
of citizens, of both sexes, all of
whom appeared to sympathize
deeply with the afflicted family.
The funeral service was uncommonly
solemn and impressive, and when
the speaker concluded, scarcely a
dry eye could be found in the whole
assemblage. A long procession
attended the corpse to its last earthly
resting place, which was the quiet
little graveyard covering the knoll,
where stood the sanctuary, of which
mention was made in the opening
chapter of this history.
As the soft earth fell with a hollow,
rattling sound upon the coffin,
assuring the living that the last
parting between them and the dead
had really taken place, not a dry
eye could be found among the group
that now stood around the open
grave. As for Kate and her mother,
their sobs and lamentations
were truly heart-rending; and it almost
required force to remove them
from the “narrow house appointed
for all living.”
Ernest Clifton, from one cause or
another, had not yet taken his departure;
and a stranger to have
seen him at the funeral, and at the
grave of Clarendon, would have
pronounced him one of the chief
mourners—so pale were his features,
and so sad in expression.
As Kate and her mother quitted the
grave, he held their horses, assisted
them to mount, and then, with Ichabod,
kept them company on foot,
as they slowly took their way to
their now desolate home. Here,
after partaking some refreshment,
he said:
“Friends—for I claim the privilege
of calling you by that endearing
term—our first meeting and
acquaintance has been made under
strange and heart-rending circumstances—
such as I trust it may never
be our lot to witness again.
To say that I deeply, from my heart,
sympathize with you in your affliction,
would be to repeat in words
what my actions have already
spoken. Duty now calls me away;
and I fear I have intruded too long
already; for whatever might have
been my feelings, I should have remembered
that I was a stranger,
and therefore had no right to press
my sympathies upon your notice.
And if in doing so I have, in your
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
view of the matter, overstepped
the bounds of propriety, I trust you
will fully acquit me, on the ground
that all was meant for the best.”
“I am sorry you think it necessary
to make apologies, Mr. Clifton,”
answered Mrs. Clarendon, while
Kate looked up at the young officer
with tearful eyes; “for I assure you,
we feel deeply our obligations to
you, for the kindness manifested in
this awful, soul-rending calamity,
and sincerely regret that the time
has come for you to leave us. It is
true we have known you only a
short period; but there are times
when the friendship of an hour
bears with it the weight of a lifetime;
and such, I assure you, is
yours. That you are a stranger,
comparatively speaking, I know;
and yet, somehow, it seems as if I
had known you for years; and I
hope, sincerely, that though duty
now calls you away, you will not
altogether neglect the house of the
widow and orphan.”
“I shall be too happy in the privilege
of calling upon you whenever
circumstances will permit,” answered
Ernest, glancing toward Kate,
whose eyes modestly sought the
ground.
“Any thing that a poor body like
me can do to sarve ye, Mr. Clifton,”
rejoined Ichabod, “shall ever be
done straightway, if you'll only
mention it.”
“Thank you,” returned Clifton.
“And now, Miss Kate,” he continued,
advancing and taking her
hand, which, in spite of her efforts
to the contrary, trembled not a little,
“I must say farewell—may I
hope it is not forever?”
“Certainly not forever,” said
Kate, looking up with a start; and
then, as she saw the dark eyes of
the other beaming tenderly upon
her, she became embarrassed, and
stammered; “That is, I—I—trust
you will call again to see us—for—
for—friendship sake, Mr. Clifton.”
“I shall call again,” returned
Clifton, pointedly; and shaking the
hand of each, he quitted the cottage
and set out upon his return to the
garrison.
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CHAPTER VIII.
Pale care now sits enthroned upon that cheek
Where rosy health did erst her empire hold.
—J. T. Watson.
Sickness sits cavern'd in her hollow eye.
—Byron.
Strange is the power of dreams!
—Mrs. Norton.
A prophecy he spake, yet so mysterions,
None knew in full its dire import.
—Old Play.
It is one of the blessings of Divine
Providence that the mind can
be healed as well as the body—otherwise
what wretched creatures
should we be indeed!—for who,
among the most heaven favored of
us all, hath not lost a friend—a
near and dear relative—and felt his
soul oppressed by a weight of woe,
that then seemed destined never to
be removed; but which time has
gradually lightened, until the heart
has leaped as free and joyous as
in the noon-tide of its prosperity.
It is hard to part from those we
love—even when we expect to behold
them again in life—for the
separation leaves an aching void,
that nothing for the time can fill—
and of course it must be proportionately
hard to part from those
we love, knowing that we shall behold
them no more, until we ourselves
shall have put off the mortal
and put on immortality. But,
notwithstanding this, we should
ever strive to avoid being too much
cast down; should buoy ourselves
up with the reflection, that all are
born to die; and that they who
have passed the fatal barrier have
already done with a world of trouble,
and entered upon a new, and,
we trust, more happy existence—
where we, when we have played
our parts on the stage of life, shall
join them to separate no more forever.
Let us philosophize that
death is but a sleep, and eternity
a delightful dream, and that the
sooner our spirits leave this troublesome
tenement, fitly prepared
for the change, the sooner we shall
be in Heaven.
Some minds are so constituted,
that the least trouble seems sufficient
to overthrow them, and great
troubles drive them nearly distracted;
and yet after a little, they gradually
become tranquil, sorrow passes
away, and they appear as gay
and light-hearted as before: while,
on the other hand, we find others,
who appear calm amid the lesser
ills, and amid the greater make little
or no complaint, and yet are secretly
borne down to the grave by
the afflictions they scarce seem to
lament. Something of both these
natures could be found in Kate and
her mother. As time wore on, the
former gradually became more and
more herself; while the latter appeared
to pine away in secret, as
though some inward disease were
preying upon her vitals. From the
moment she received the news of
her husband's death, Mrs. Clarendon
was never known to smile; and
though at first she made great
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lamentation over him, yet this soon
settled into a quiet, silent melancholy,
that foreboded, ere long, either
death or insanity.
Three months rolled away, and
the mother of Kate was found to
be in a decline of health. A cold
that she had caught some two
months before, had settled on her
lungs, which, together with grief
for the loss of her husband, was
now making those rapid strides
with her constitution, that always
awaken fears of the most painful
nature. She coughed a good deal—
her voice became changed—more
hoarse and hollow—and there was,
at times, a wax-like transparency
about her skin, and a hectic flush
on her cheek, that told, with unmistakable
certainty, of the silent work
of death going on within.
Kate noticed the progress of the
fell destroyer with less alarm than
might have been supposed. Doubtless
she did not realize how much
had already been done, and looked
forward to years of companionship
with her mother. But not so Mrs.
Clarendon herself. Unlike many
who have that flattering disease,
consumption, fastened upon them,
she saw and felt her danger; and,
like the wise ones of old, deemed
it expedient to have her lamps
trimmed and burning, ready for the
coming of the bridegroom. Accordingly,
one bright summer's day toward
the latter part of August, she
bade Kate seat herself by her side,
that they might converse on a subject
of no little moment to both.
“It has now,” observed Mrs.
Clarendon, laying her thin, transparent
hand on the white and
plump one of Kate, thereby displaying
a painful contrast between
sickness and health: “It has now,
daughter, been three months, since
that terrible night when your father
was brought home a corpse, and
your acquaintance began with Ernest
Clifton; and as I know I am
not long destined to remain and
watch over you, I wish you to tell
me, truly, how you stand affected
toward each other.”
“Ah! mother,” exclaimed Kate,
turning her eyes tenderly and earnestly
upon the other, “what
mean you, by using such gloomy
words?”
“Look here,” replied Mrs. Clarendon,
touching her face with her
finger, “do you not behold here the
effects of inward disease and certain
decay?”
“But death may not come for
years, yet, mother,” rejoined Kate,
anxiously.
Mrs. Clarendon shook her head
sadly.
“You mistake, daughter,” she
said. “Put weeks in place of years,
and perhaps you will have hit it.
No, Kate, my darling, I know, by
an inward monitor—by this dry,
hollow cough—that I am not long
for this world; and I am anxious to
know what will become of you,
when you find yourself alone, with
no father nor mother to turn to for
protection and advice.”
“Mother, dear mother, do'nt talk
so” cried Kate, bursting into tears,
and burying her head upon the lap
of her parent. “Oh! mother, you
will, you must live years yet. I
cannot, cannot part with you so
soon.”
“For your sake, child, I would to
God I could!—but He who sees the
sparrow fall, has ordered otherwise.”
“Oh! do not talk so, mother!
You are ill now I know—but you
may yet be well again.”
“Child,” continued Mrs. Clarendon,
bending over her daughter affectionately,
her now somewhat
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sunken eyes moist with tears:
“Child, do not delude yourself with
any false hope. The grass that
comes upward beneath the fairy-like
tread of the foot of Spring, may rise,
perchance, from the soil resting on
the body of your mother; and that,
too, ere another year has joined the
great unapproachable Past. But tell
me when last you saw Ernest Clifton,
and how matters stand between
you! I ask with no idle curiosity;
I ask only as a mother; so
tell me truly.”
“It is a week, dearest mother,
since we last met,” answered Kate,
looking up through her tears, a
slight flush giving her comely features
a beautiful glow; “but as to
the matters you allude to, I scarcely
know how to answer.”
“Has he ever offered you his
hand?”
“Not exactly,” answered Kate,
hesitatingly; “though perhaps he
would have done so, had I always
remained silent at the proper time.”
“And why did you not, my daughter?
Do you not love him?”
“I hardly know what love is,”
answered Kate, dropping her eyes
to the ground; “but I certainly admire
him more than any other I
have ever seen.”
“Do you admire him sufficiently,
to desire him for a life-companion?”
asked Mrs. Clarendon.
“I think I could be happy with
him, mother.”
“Then, daughter, understand me!
From what I have seen, I think him
a brave, noble, and generous young
man, and worthy of you; and it is
my desire to see you united before
I die.”
“Ah! mother, you are talking of
death again,” said Kate, her tears
starting afresh.
“We know not, daughter, when
we may be called away; and
should my death be sudden, it would
be a bitter pang to know I was
leaving you behind without a protector,
in this cold, calculating
world. But of course I leave the
matter with yourself, to do as you
think proper. Marriage is a solemn
undertaking, and should not be
lightly entered into. Unless you
can place your full, undivided affections
upon one individual, do not
marry at all; for there are, necessarily,
trials in married life, that
none but such as truly love can surmount
with any thing like harmony
of feeling. I say nothing would
delight me more than to see you
happily wedded; yet, understand,
I do not wish to influence you
against your choice, and your own
sober reason; for, as I said before,
marriage is a most solemn undertaking.
And now that we are on
the subject, pray tell me how it
stands with your former suitors?”
“Why, Danvers and Danbury, I
believe, have suited themselves
elsewhere; and as for that villain,
Moody—”
“Name him not, Kate—name
him not!” exclaimed Mrs. Clarendon,
covering her eyes, and shuddering
at the images of horror
which his name called up. “May
he meet his deserts, is all I ask.
Yet one question: Has he been
found?”
“He has not, although Governor
St. Clair has offered the reward of
a hundred dollars for his apprehension.
It is supposed, by some, that
he has joined the Indians.”
“Then we may fear the worst,”
rejoined the mother of our heroine,
sadly.
“Why so, mother?”
“Have you forgotten the awful
threat contained on that paper,
Kate—`Wo to them that bear the
name of the dead?' ”
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“O, that might have been done
to intimidate us, you know, mother.
Do not let it trouble you. I feel
not the least apprehension; for
Ern—a—Mr. Clifton assured me,
that scouts were continually out in
all directions, so that at present it
would be impossible for a body of
Indians to reach either this place
or Cincinnati, before alarm of their
approach would be given.”
“Yet do not rely too much upon
your safety, Kate,” pursued Mrs.
Clarendon; “for I have been informed,
that the force at Fort Washington
is not large, so that from
there not many soldiers could be
spared for scouting purposes. Now
I think of it seriously, perhaps we
had better give up our premises
here and take up our quarters nearer
some block-house!”
“But why so, mother? Has
any thing new and startling transpired
to alarin you?”
“Why, I had a very singular
dream last night, which, I confess,
troubles me not a little on your account.
I thought I was standing
in a beantiful arbor, surrounded by
flowers of all colors and varieties—
from the modest pink and violet, to
the large and luxuriant rose—and
that you and many others were
seated around, arrayed in white.
I thought it was some solemn occasion
of rejoicing—something like
a wedding, and yet not a wedding
either. In the center of the group
stood an old, grey-headed man, that
methought was our pastor; and
yet, the resemblance to him was
not perfect, but confused. Methought
he raised his trembling
hands above his venerable head, to
pronounce a benediction, when
suddenly, and while every eye was
upon him, a dark cloud enveloped
us, and forth with resounded shrieks
and groans, the most awful I ever
heard. Suddenly I felt my self growing
dizzy—indistinct objects whirled
past me—and I felt myself to
be falling—down—down—down—
into a horrible lake of blood—when
your father, pale as marble, sprang
forward, clasped me in his arms,
and, hurrying me away to some
quiet spot, whispered in my ear,
`We have met to part no more.'
With a cry of joy, tinged with the
horror of the scene I had just witnessed,
I awoke, and found myself
lying on the floor. What augur
you from the dream, my daughter?”
“Why, I do not think it best to
give ourselves any uneasiness
about it; people often dream as
strangely, without any serious results.”
“But somehow,” pursued Mrs.
Clarendon, “I cannot shake off
the impression, that this portends
evil to somebody—perhaps
myself.”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Kate,
fervently, throwing her arms around
her mother's neck, and pressing a
kiss upon her fading lips. “God
forbid that any thing should happen
you, dearest mother! But let us
hope our afflictions are over—at
least for the present.”
“It is always proper to hope,
child; and God in his goodness
has so ordained it, that there are
but few situations, in all the changes
of human life, where hope becomes
extinct. By the way, have you
seen any thing of Luther of
late?”
“No, I have not seen him since
the night of father's death, though
I have heard of his being in the vicinity.
He passed through the village
a few days since, and I believe
uttered some of his prophesies;
one of which was to the effect, that
Columbia would never be a city;
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and another, that treasures had
been concealed on the banks of the
Little Miami. Some have put faith
in his words, and been and dug for
gold; but I believe nothing unusual
has been the result.”
“Strange being he!” observed
Mrs. Clarendon, musingly. “Can
it be possible that he is gifted with
what is called second sight?”
“I know not, mother, what are
his gifts in that respect; but I do
know, that he foretold some things
which have come true; and that
over me exercised a strange kind
of power, beyond my comprehension.
Never did I put faith in him
till then. But, Heaven preserve
him! for he saved my life from a
villian.”
“And will again,” said a deep
voice.”
Kate and her mother turned
quickly round, and, to their astonishment,
beheld the tall, rough form
of Luther, standing in the doorway,
calmly leaning upon his long stick
of witch-hazel.
“Art thou mortal?” asked Mrs.
Clarendon, vainly endeavoring to
shake off a superstitions feeling
that came creeping over her, with
a chilly sensation. “Art thou mortal,
Luther?”
“I am what I am,” replied the
Necromancer, solemnly. “This
much know: I was born of woman,
and am bound to die. God
save all here! for already the second
trump of woe is being blown—
the second vial of wrath being emptied.
Maiden, listen!
“To him who holds thy heart in bond,
Freely may'st thou now respond;
Yet guard thy every word and sigh,
For trysting hour with thee is nigh.
“He whom you love will soon be
with you.”
“Whom I love,” repeated Kate,
a deep flush mantling her face
and neck. “And whom do I
love?”
“Whom the fates decreed you
should—Ernest Clifton.”
“Nay, I know not that I love
him,” responded Kate, turning
away her head.
“Tell that to the winds—peradventure
they will believe you; but
think not to deceive me, nor thyself,
fair maiden. Thou knowest, Kate
Clarendon, that Ernest Clifton holds
thy heart—else why that averted
head and tell-tale blood. And,
maiden, fear not that he is unworthy
thee. The diamond, fresh raised
from the bedded mine, is not
more pure than the blood leaping
with the impetuosity of youth
through his veins. Sometime I will
tell thee more. Adieu! and remember—
trysting time is near.”
“Stay, Luther, and partake of
some refreshment,” said Mrs. Clarendon,
as the Necromancer turned
to depart.
“Would to God,” returned Luther,
solemnly, “I could bid thee stay!
But I go now, and you go soon;
and yet you will not follow me, for
we journey different ways. Your
path lies there;” and Luther pointed
upward. “You ask me to take
refreshment. This is kind of you,
and I thank you; but I have it
here;” and he pointed over his
shoulder, with his thumb, to the
knapsack on his back. “Thank
God! it costs little to keep me; for
I live plain, as becometh one of my
calling. Jerk, roots and berries are
my food; and my drink, the silver
waters spouting from the cool, forest-shaded
earth. And now, adieu!
Pray often, and fast often—for
if the stars do not lie, you will
both soon feel the need of Divine
aid.”
As Luther said this, he turned
and disappeared. The eyes of Kate
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and her mother met, with expressions
of superstitious bewilderment.
“It can do us no harm to pray,
at all events,” said Mrs. Clarendon;
and suiting the action to the
word, she knelt upon the ground—
Kate knelt beside her—and the
hearts of both were poured out in
supplications to the God of that
Tribunal before which all nations
must be judged.
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CHAPTER IX.
Her time is nearly come—yet mourn thou not!
No! rather bear in mind that all must die,
And that the hastening of the spirit hence,
But hastens joys eternal.
—Anon.
O, there's nothing half so sweet in life,
As love's young dream.
—Moore.
He told his tale of love unto a shy
But willing ear.
—****
With thee conversing I forget all time.
—Milton.
It was a bewitching night. The
moon rode high in the heavens, and
poured her soft, silvery flood over
the luxuriant and apparently sleeping
earth. No breeze rustled a
leaflet—no sounds were heard, save
those soft, dreamy ones which are
made by the night-watehers. Not
a cloud marred the broad, blue
canopy overhead, through which
could here and there be seen the
rich, golden light, shot from some
bright star, itself away in the incomprehensible
and boundless
realms of space. The mighty forest
seemed sleeping, and one could
almost fancy nodding, too, in its
sleep. It was a night for love.
Just sufficiently calm and holy to
a waken all those fine poetic chords
of nature, whose gentle, musical
tones are drowned and lost amid
the harsher sounds of every day,
active life. A night for communing
with some bright being, who
has gone from this vale of tears to
a happier and holier sphere—or
with one who still lingers here,
pluming her wings for an immortal
and eternal flight. A night, indeed,
for lovers and love.
On the banks of the Little Miami,
stood an old sycamore, whose
white and aged arms, thrown
abroad over the murmuring stream,
seemed no bad type of a prophet
about to utter oracles for coming
ages to define, or pronounce a benediction
over the gurgling waters
that rolled beneath.
In keeping with the hour and the
scene, there glided beneath this old
sycamore, in the checkered light
which the moon made by stealing
among the leaflets, two figures—a
youth and a maiden. At the base
of the old tree they paused, and
seated themselves on a crooked
trunk of a smaller one, which, projecting
over the waters, shot upward
a growing rival to its patriarchal
neighbor. They seated
themselves upon the trunk of
this tree in silence, and looked
downward for a few moments, and
listened to the song of the streamlet,
as it mingled harmoniously
with the quiet hum of forest life.
Beautiful and sacred thoughts were
in the breasts of both; for they
thought of each other and of love;
and who will deny that true love is
a sacred theme, and has more of
Heaven in it than earth!
“This,” said the young man, in
a low, musical voice, that accorded
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well with every thing around:
“This is a night, and a scene that I
love.”
“And I,” was the response of the
gentle maiden by his side, in a tone
that lost itself in harmony with the
murmuring river at her feet.
“What,” she continued, “is more
enchanting than Nature, when displayed
in her mildest and loveliest
form, to the soul that views it in a
corresponding mood of quietude?”
“Ay! and to behold its beauties,”
answered her companion, “the soul
must be in harmony with it; and
what will so soon harmonize the
soul to a scene like this, as love?”
The maiden drooped her head,
and tapped the earth lightly with
her delicate little foot, but did not
answer. A moment the young man
paused, and then gently stealing
the hand of the maiden, and pressing
it in his own, he went on.
“What feeling is there, dear
Kate, more subdued and holy than
the yearning of a soul toward a
kindred spirit? and the intoxicating
response—the harmonious blending
together of both? Harmony is
the main spring of creation, on
which depends alike the existence
of a world, and the happiness of a
human being. He whose soul is
not in unison with nature and the
things around him, must of necessity
be unhappy. I did not come
hither, however, to philosophize,
but to speak of matters which lie
nearer my heart. Months, dearest
Kate, have intervened, since that
never-to-be-forgotten night, when
we met for the first time, under circumstances
the most painful to
both; and often since then have
we been together, walked together,
and conversed together on various
subjects—may I inquire if these
meetings have in any wise been
disagreeable to you?”
“On the contrary,” answered
Kate, “I will be frank to own, they
have proved the happiest periods
of my life.”
“On this point, then, our feelings
harmenize; for the only real pleasure
I have myself enjoyed, has been
in your sweet company. But to
change the subject, somewhat—let
me inquire regarding your mother?”
“She does not seem so well tonight,”
answered Kate, sadly.
“So I fancied, from what I saw,”
rejoined Clifton. “Have you tho't
seriously upon her illness, Kate?”
“I do not know as I understand
you.”
“I do not wish to alarm you,
Kate, but only to prepare your
mind for a grave subject. Perhaps
you are ignorant of her complaint?”
“Ha! then you think it dangerous,
Ernest?” exclaimed the fair
girl, grasping his arm, with a nervous
motion, and endeavoring to
catch the expression of his features
in the darkness.
“You must prepare yourself to
part with her ere long,” said Ernest,
solemnly.
“Oh, Heaven! you alarm me,
Ernest!—and yet you but repeat
what she told me herself to-day.
Oh, God! if she be taken from me,
I shall be alone, indeed, without a
protector, perhaps a friend!”
“Nay, Kate, dearest,” rejoined
Ernest, encircling her waist with
his arm; “it is of that I wish to
speak. There are none, I know,
that can supply the place of a
mother; and could my earnest
prayers avail aught, you should
never feel the want of one; but it
would be little less than criminal,
methinks, to disguise from you the
fact, that, as regards your mother,
the fatal work of death has already
begun.”
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“Great God!” cried Kate, wildly,
placing her hands to her temples;
“you do not mean this! Oh!
say you are jesting!—say you did
it to frighten me!—say anything!—
but, for God's sake! do not tell me
my dear mother is dying!”
“In this world,” replied the
young officer, in a tone slightly
tremulous, “we must look for nothing
hut crosses, disappointments,
and partings from those we love.
That your mother is dying, in the
literal sense of the term, I would
not imply; she may hold out for
weeks, and even months; but,
painful as is the task, I cannot conscientiously
conceal from you the
truth, that she is in deep consumption,
and that there is no hope of
seeing her restored to health.”
Kate bowed her head upon her
hands, sobbed aloud, and groaned
like one in pain.
“Yet, dearest girl, take it not so
hard! Remember, we are in a
world where death is ever parting
friends; and that, sooner or later,
we must all separate, according to
the will of Him who shapes our destinies.
You said, but now, that if
your mother were called away,
you would be without a protector,
perchance a friend. It grieved me,
dear girl, to hear you say thus. No,
Kate Clarendon, while Ernest Clifton
lives, you shall never want a
friend; and—and (his voice trembled
and sank to a whisper)—it
rests with you to say, whether the
friend and protector shall be one.”
Kate still sat with her head bowed
down, trembling and silent; and
pausing for a moment, Clifton
again proceeded in a low, earnest
voice.
“It has been but three months,
since accident first threw us together,
dear Kate; and yet to me our
acquaintance seems that of years.
From what I have seen of you, I
am perfectly confident you hold the
power to make me happy or miserable;
in other words, dearest Kate,
I must own I love you, and did from
the moment I saw displayed those
heroic qualities at the death of your
father.”
“Let us not talk of this now,”
said Kate, hurriedly.
“And why not now?” rejoined
the other, with some uneasiness;
“there may never be a better time
and place, and we know not what
may happen.”
“But somehow,” sighed Kate, “I
feel strangely—as if danger were
lurking nigh.”
“I see how it is,” returned Clifton,
in a tone of sadness; “you do
not love me, and seek to avoid, as
you have done on all previous occasions,
any mention of a subject
which I must own lies nearest my
heart. Be it so, then; you will
doubtless find another more worthy,
and more to your liking.”
“Nay,” said Kate, startled at the
turn matters had taken: “Nay,
Ernest, I meant not that.”
“And now I think of it, I know
no reason why you should love me,”
continued Clifton, pursuing his own
train of reflections. “I am only a
poor officer in the army, whose duty
is where danger lies, and know
not at what moment I may be ealled
away to another station or another
world. 'Tis better, now I
think seriously on the subject, that
you do not love me, Kate; I might
only be an instrument in the hands
of Providence, for making your sorrows
heavier.”
Kate turned her eyes toward her
companion for a moment—with a
look, which, could Ernest have seen,
his heart would have smote him—
and then burst into tears.
“Ah! why do you weep dear
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[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
Kate?” asked the other, tenderly.
“Have I mistaken your meaning?”
Kate answered not; but her
head gradually sunk against his
breast, and her tears burst forth
afresh.
“Ah! Kate,” cried the other, rapturously,
throwing both arms
around and straining her to his
heart, “what a fool have I been to
mistake you! You love me, Kate—
you love me?”
Kate replied not, save by pressing
closer to his breast.
“And you will be mine, dearest?”
A pressure of the hand was the
only answer.
“Heaven bless you, mine own
dear angel!” exclaimed Clifton,
stealing his first kiss from the trembling
lips of the lovely being reclining
in his arms.
Two hours rolled away, and still
the lovers were seated beneath that
same old sycamore, and lost to the
outer world in a sweet communion
with each other.
“And when shall it be?” asked
Clifton, at length, in reference to
something which had gone before.
“That I shall leave to you,” replied
Kate.
“Then the sooner the better,” rejoined
the other. “Yet, stay! I
have forgotten one question: Your
mother, Kate—will she give her
consent?—for I will do nothing
against her will.”
“It is already given,” replied
Kate. “It is her own desire, dear
Ernest, to see us united before she
dies.”
“Heaven bless her! When said
she this?”
“To day. She called me to her,
questioned me of you, spoke of you
in the highest terms of praise, and
said, if it accorded with the feelings
of both, nothing would please her
better than to see us duly united.”
“I shall go wild with joy. A
week from to-night, then, Kate—
will that suit you?”
“I said I should leave it to
you,” returned Kate, averting her
face.
“Then the bond is settled, and
so let us seal it,” rejoined Clifton,
gaily; and the next moment the
lips of the lovers met in a long and
rapturous kiss of love.
“There is one thing more,” said
Ernest again, after a pause of a
few moments. “I have told you
nothing of my history, Kate. Perhaps,
when you come to hear that,
you will change your mind in regard
to this matter?”
“Then keep it ever a secret, Ernest,”
answered Kate, frankly. “If
I wed you, it will be for your noble
self alone. So that your own conduct
has been upright through life,
I care for nothing more.”
“Noble, generous girl!” cried the
other, in a transport of joy, “now
I love thee more than ever, for thy
unwavering confidence in me. May
Heaven watch over us both, and allow
me to strew thy path with
flowers even to the verge of the
grave!”
“Hist!” said Kate, laying her
hand upon the arm of her companion.
“Did you not hear a noise?”
“What was it like?”
“The cracking of some dry twig
or bush.”
Both now listened attentively
for some moments; but all was silent,
save the rippling of the stream,
the chirping of the insects, and the
low sighing of the forest, as a light
breeze swept through it.
“I think you must have been
mistaken, dear Kate,” said Ernest,
“for all seems still.”
“Then fancy has made me timid,”
returned Kate, pressing closer
to the other; “and so I think we had
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better return. Ha! what was
that?”
“I hear nothing but the hooting
of an owl.”
“What a gloomy sound! Strange
it is, dear Ernest, but I feel so nervous—
so much as I did on that terrible
night when father died. My
God! I hope I am not to pass such
a night again. Come, come, let us
return, quick as possible! for I cannot
divest myself of the idea that
we are surrounded by danger.”
“O, it is nothing; you are needlessly
alarmed, dear Kate, I am
sure,” replied Ernest, consolingly.
“But we will return, at all events,
for I fear it is getting late.”
“Late!” echoed Kate, as they
commenced retracing their steps to
the cottage. “Why how long have
we been away I pray you?”
“Guess.”
“Half an hour, perhaps.”
“You are more complimentary
than correct,” returned Clifton, with
a light laugh, as, by the glimmer of
the moon through the trees, he
was enabled to make the time from
his watch. “Add two hours to the
half and you will hit it exactly.”
Kate was about to utter an exclamation
of surprise, and insist
that her lover was mistaken, when
the stirring of a bush just ahead of
her, caused her to start back with
a suppressed cry of fear. Clifton
saw the bush move also, and throwing
his left arm around the waist
of his fair companion, with his
right he drew his sword, and put
himself in an attitude of defense.
For a few moments he stood, awaiting
the appearance of his foe, if
such the unknown should prove,
while Kate clung to him with a
maidenly fear, that made his arm
feel strong, and raised within him
a desire to meet danger for her
sake.
“All is quiet there again,” he said,
at length, in a low tone. “Could our
eyes have possibly deceived us?
I will go and probe the bush with
my good sword and ascertain.”
“No, no, no!” rejoined Kate,
clasping him more tightly; “you
shall not stir a step toward it, Ernest!
Here—this way—quick—let
us hurry back!” and taking an opposite
direction to the bush, Kate
almost dragged Ernest after her.
For a few paces Clifton hung
back, as if reluctant to leave the
mysterious bush: then, as if actuated
by another thought, he suddenly
threw an arm around the maiden's
waist, and, partly raising her
from the ground, hurried her forward
at a fast run, and in a few
minutes reached the cottage in safety.
Bidding her go in and bolt the
door, Ernest was about to turn
back, when Kate prevented him, by
declaring that if he did she would
follow. After much entreaty, he
abandoned the idea, and accepted
her invitation to spend the night
under her mother's roof.
For a few minutes after Ernest
and Kate had departed, everything
remained quiet; then the bush,
whose movement had so startled
the latter, became slightly agitated
again, and at the same moment a
head was thrust through, and turned
from side to side, as if to ascertain
that the coast was clear. Then
a figure emerged from the thicket,
and, as it came into the broad light
of the moon, displayed the tall, but
slender form of a white man, metamorphosed
into an Indian. Portions
of his body were bare, after the Indian
fashion. He wore moccasins
on his feet, had paint on his face,
and his head was shaved, all but a
single tuft of hair on the crown,
which was ornamanted with feathers.
A belt around his waist
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contained a brace of pistols, a scalping-knife
and tomahawk, and in his
right hand he carried a rifle.
“'Tis well for you,” he muttered,
in English, through his close shut
teeth, shaking his fist in the direction
whence he saw the lovers
disappear: “'Tis well for you, you
did not probe the bush, as you
were about to do, young man—or
you might have found a few inches
of cold steel probing you. A week
from to night, eh! is to consummate
your desire? Ha, ha, ha! I am
glad you mentioned it; for now I
shall be there, though an uninvited
guest; and I will invite a few of
my dusky brethren to be there also.
Peradventure if I cannot give the
bride away, I can take her to myself.—
Once in my power—once
mine (and his features assumed a
hellish look of satisfaction, and his
black eyes fairly shone in the darkness)—
and if yon proud youth will
accept her then—why—ha, ha! let
him have her—a ruined, cast off toy.
Then, and not till then, will Rashton
Moody think his insult canceled by
a sweet revenge.”
As he said this, the figure turned,
plunged into the thicket and disappeared—
an evil spirit, bent on a
devilish mission.
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CHAPTER X.
The guests were ready. In sad and solemn
Silence waited each the coming
Of the bridegroom.
—Old Play.
His pure thoughts were borne
Like fumes of sacred incense o'er the clouds.
—Congreve.
O, treacherous night!
Thou lend'st thy vail to every treason,
And teeming mischiefs thrive beneath they shade.
—Aaron Hill.
Death and destruction, and the shrieks of woe,
Were seen and heard on every hand.
—The Siege.
Time, with his scythe and hourglass,
strode steadily onward, and
soon bro't about the eventful night,
which had been set apart for the
consummation of the rite indissoluble
between Ernest Clifton and
Kate Clarendon. Throughout the
week intervening, since we last beheld
the lovers, every preparation
had been made for solemnizing the
nuptials of two beings whose souls
beat in unison. Invitations had
been sent to nearly all the young
people of Columbia; and at an early
hour on the evening in question,
they might have been seen in pairs,
riding gaily up to the door of the
bride. Ichabod Longtree, arrayed
in his best, busied himself in welcoming
them to the wedding of his
pet, and taking charge of their
horses, which he led around the
house and secured to the trees in
the rear. Kate and her mother had
robed themselves in garments of
white, being relics of those days
when they were rolling in luxury.
What added additional joy to both,
the health and spirits of Mrs. Clarendon,
since the announcement to
her that Ernest Clifton was soon to
become her son-in-law, had revived
to a wonderful degree, and she now
appeared before her guests with
something of the look and manner
of former days. The excitement of
the occasion had tinged her cheek
with a flush resembling health, and
added additional luster to her eyes,
which now beamed with animation
and joy. Kate, as might be supposed,
looked paler—more sad and
thoughtful—but, at the same time,
none the less lovely. She received
the greetings of her friends with an
air of grace and cordiality, and
sometimes, though but seldom,
smiled, at their frequent sallies of
wit. To her it seemed a grave,
rather than light occasion, and one
little suited, on her part, to hilarity.
However much she might have
jested on the matter once, she now
felt in all its force the responsibility
of the step she was about to take.
She was about to give her hand, for
good or ill, to one she loved, and
that for life. She was about to
bid adieu to the romantic visions
of girlhood, and enter upon the responsible
realities of a wife and
womanhood. She was, in short,
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about to give herself away, to become
another's, to be bound to him
by solemn ties, that could not be
broken without offense against the
laws of God and man. It was a
great and grave undertaking—a
new epoch in her life—and though
she wavered not, flinched not, yet
she trembled and felt sad at the
thought.
Among the invited guests, came
two of the former suitors of Kate—
Danvers and Danbury—each accompanied
by a lass, who now had
the honor of holding a place in his
heart, which was once partially occupied
by our fair heroine. They
met her frankly, and cordially, with
no show of pique or resentment,
and as friends who took a deep interest
in her welfare.
“I once flattered myself,” said
Danvers to Kate, smiling pleasantly,
“that I should be a prominent
actor at the wedding of Kate Clarendon,
instead of a spectator; but
matters have turned out otherwise.”
“And none the worse for you,”
returned Kate, inclining her head
to the maiden who now held the
arm and heart of her former suitor.
“We will hope all has been for
the best,” was the reply of Danvers,
looking fondly toward her
whose arm he held.
“We lost the race, and should
fain be content,” put in Danbury,
with a smile, coming up at the moment,
with a pretty maiden also
hanging on his arm.
“And in losing you won,” returned
Kate, pointedly, punning upon
the word, and pointing to his fair
companion.
“Why as to winning,” rejoined
Danbury, laughing, “that will depend
much upon a certain monosyllable
from Emma here.”
“Fie! Orville,” said Emma, blush
ing, and dragging him away, in the
utmost good humor.
An hour from the setting in of
night, saw all the guests assembled
at the cottage, with the exception
of the groom and clergyman, who
were momentarily expected. As
was customary at that day, each of
the young men had brought with
him his rifle, more from the force of
habit and precaution, than from
any supposed use he would have
for it. It was also, as a matter of
form, thought advisable to station a
sentinel without, that, in case anything
unusual should happen, alarm
might be given. This last precaution
would doubtless have been
neglected, but for the report abroad,
that a small body of Indians had
been seen, not long since, within a
few miles of the village. In conse-of
this rumor, some of the more
timid had repaired to the block-house;
but the majority of the citizens
of Columbia thought lightly
of the news, and turned not aside
from their usual routine of business.
The guests had now all taken
their seats upon rude benches,
ranged around the walls of the cabin,
which had been prepared expressly
for the occasion by the gardener.
A rough chandelier, constructed
of wood, in feeble imitation
of some of a more solid material
in the older settlements, and
which also owed its existence to
the genius and labor of Ichabod,
was suspended from the ceiling by
a small iron chain, near the center
of the apartment, and supported
several candles, whose combined
gleams served to render every object
distinct to the eye and display
the youthful and healthy
looking faces of the surrounding
party, the expressions of which
had grown very grave,
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[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
preparatory to the coming solemn ceremony.
Beneath this chandelier
stood a table, on which were a Bible,
a hymn-book, a vase of flowers,
and two brass candlesticks supporting
tapers. Beside the table
was a stool, to be occupied by the
clergyman on his arrival, and during
the service he was expected to
perform. Flowers, too, of all hues,
had been liberally scattered over
the white and sanded floor, whose
fragrance was not the less sweet
and abundant, from being crushed,
occasionally, beneath the passing
foot of some bright-eyed maiden or
her gay gallant. Boquets and festoons
decorated the walls, and added
a rosy and beautiful back-ground
to the picture.
At weddings of this period, a
supper and dance generally succeeded;
but on the present occasion,
the declining health of her
mother, together with the late loss
of her father, had been a sufficient
reason to induce Kate to dispense
with the latter. The supper, however,
had not been omitted. It was
already laid on tables in the adjoining
apartment, and was, like
almost everything else about the
premises, under the careful supervision
of Ichabod Longtree—who,
in addition to the qualities of gardener
and hostler, could, when occasion
required, fulfill the duties of
chief cook and butler.
All was ready, and waited only
the coming of the groom and the
clergyman, to begin the solemn and
sacred rite. A deep and profound
silence reigned in the apartment,
where the wedding guests were
seated, in stern repose, like so many
wax figures.
As the first sensation to the
touch of fire and ice is the same—
so, as a general thing, the feelings
immediately preceding a wedding
and a funeral are strangely alike.
There steals over the spectator, on
both occasions, a secret awe, an
unaccountable solemnity, that he
finds impossible to shake off. Such
was the feeling pervading the assemblage
on the occasion here described.
From a lively and even
gay conversation, the voices of the
different speakers had gradually
died away to whispers, and finally
had ceased altogether. As minute
after minute rolled by, and no
sounds were heard indicating the
approach of the expected parties,
the guests began to look at each
other inquiringly, with faces expressive
of surprise at the delay;
and then low whispers stole around
the circle, of strange conjectures,
giving a more gloomy turn to the
whole affair.
As for Kate, her features had become
as white, and almost as rigid,
as marble; and as she sat in
full light, robed in her wedding garments,
clasping the thin, transparent
hand of her mother, and gazing
at vacancy, one could easily
have fancied her a beautiful conception,
chiseled from the cold, inanimate
stone. The flush mentioned
as surmounting the features of
Mrs. Clarendon, had rather suddenly
given place to a pallor almost
frightful; and her now deeply sunked
eyes roved around the apartment,
nervously, over the whispering
group, as if in quest of some
object not there.
“It is strange they do not come!”
she said, at last, in a grave voice.
“Hark!” exclaimed Kate, in reply,
starting to her feet, and bending
forward in a listening attitude.
“My ears deceive me, or I hear the
tramp of horses' feet;” and as she
concluded, she sprang to the door,
followed by most of the others.
It was a calm, beautiful night,
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[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
and every thing without seemed
wrapped in sweet repose. The
moon, already at her full, large and
bright, was just struggling over the
eastern hill, and pouring her gray
light down into the forest of the
plain, and giving every object a
twilight indistinctness. Wherever
her rays fell upon the Miami and
Ohio, their waters shone like burnished
silver. Along the base of the
eastern ridge, mentioned previously,
lay a deep shadow, gradually
disappearing as the moon rose on
high; while across the plain, BaldHill
could be distinctly seen, looming
up in the broad light not unlike
some beacon of warning. A
few white scuds were sailing overhead,
and a mist, gradually ascending
here and there, defined the
course of the rivers, and gave indication
of a foggy night.
As Kate and her companions
turned their faces toward the west
and listened, the tramp of horses
became more audible, until at last
the shadowy outline of two figures
could be seen gliding among the
trees, and nearing the spectators
at a fast amble. As they drew
close upon the cottage, Kate Clarendon
was observed to tremble
quite violently. She had recognised
in them two important characters—
her affianced lover, and the
venerable pastor that was to bind
her to him by ties the most strong
and holy; and the thought of this
all important, irrevocable step, was
sufficient to unstring her nerves,
and produce the effect described.
She did not wait to greet either of
the new comers, but turned abruptly
and entered the dwelling, at the
moment when Ernest Clifton and
the divine rode up to the door.
“I fear I have kept you waiting,
friends,” said the former, as he dismounted,
and gave his horse in
charge of Ichabod; “but my venerable
companion here, met with a
slight accident on the way, which
detained me not a little.”
“What happened?” asked half-a-dozen
voices at once.
“He was thrown from his horse
and his horse thrown down, by a
rope being stretched across his
path, and nearly stunned by the
fall,” answered Clifton.
“Foul! foul!” cried several voices,
angrily.
“I am poor,” said Clifton, “but
I would give fifty dollars to know
the author of this piece of villiany,
if only to chastise him for the insult
offered me and my friends.”
“Never mind, my youthful
friend,” said the divine, in a mild,
soothing tone of voice; “the accident
was only trifling, I feel quite
well again, and so let us trouble
ourselves no more about the matter.
If another wrong me, I never
retaliate, save in supplicating for
him at the throne of mercy. 'Tis
a sweet and satisfactory revenge,
and fulfills the command of Scripture,
which says, `Forgive thine
enemies, and pray for them that
despitefully use you.' Let us in,
my young friends, and return
thanks to God that the affair turned
out no worse.”
There was a sweetness, earnestness
and dignity, in the voice and
manner of the speaker, that was
not without its effect upon his youthful
hearers, not one of whom ventured
a reply, but turned, entered
the cottage, and silently resumed
their places. As the venerable pastor
took his seat at the table before
described, a deep silence reigned
around. Every lip was motionless—
every eye was fixed upon him.
“Is all ready?” he asked, in a
low, tremulous, solemn voice, speaking
to Clifton, who had taken his
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[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
place on the right of the trembling
Kate. Clifton whispered to Mrs.
Clarendon, then to Kate, and nodded
in the affirmative.
“Then let us pray,” said the pious
pastor; and forthwith he knelt
upon the ground, and poured forth
the dictates of his heart, in a strain
of eloquence seldom surpassed.
He prayed for the beings before
him, who were about to become
one flesh, by the sacred rite of marriage,
that they might always live
happily together in this world, and
meet in holy unison to part nevermore
in the world to come. He
prayed for the only parent of the
bride, whom it had pleased God to
afflict with disease and pain, that
she might be spared many years
yet, to bless and comfort those who
would otherwise mourn her with
tears of anguish. He prayed for
the youth of both sexes here present,
that they might so conduct
themselves as to be ornaments to
the age in which they lived, and
that the generations, which, in the
order of events would soon follow
them, might be strict imitators of
their noble examples. He prayed
for those absent—enemies as well
as friends—and, lastly, that God
would prosper and preserve, spotless
and pure, the liberties of the
great Commonwealth, to gain which
had cost the blood of thousands.
As he ended, he rose from his
knees, and, opening the Bible on
the stand before him, selected and
read a passage applicable to the
occasion. He then bade Ernest
and Kate stand upon their feet, and
commenced the solemn ceremony,
amid a breathless silence. Every
eye was fixed upon the youthful
pair—upon the pale, sweet features
of Kate, as she stood downcast and
trembling—upon the noble, commanding
form and face of Ernest,
as he stood erect in his close-fitting
uniform, the perfect picture of
youthful pride. Every head was
inclined forward, to catch the slightest
tones of the speaker. Never
did a pair look more noble and
lovely; never was an occasion more
solemn; never was a silence, whenever
the speaker paused, more deep.
Not a breath, even, could be heard,
and the fall of a pin would have
been audible. All felt a strange
sensation of awe and fear, as if
some calamity were about to befall
them, yet none could give a reason
for it. Even the venerable pastor
himself seemed to be uncommonly
affected; for once or twice he paused
and glanced around the apartment,
as if expecting to behold some unwelcome
object.
Already had he asked the necessary
questions, received the affirmative
answers, and raising his eyes
above, as if appealing to Heaven,
the solemn words, “I pronounce
you man and wife,” were almost
trembling on his lips, when, suddenly,
the sharp report of a rifle
without, succeeded immediately by
a shout, a groan, and then by the
most horrible yells imaginable,
caused every face to blanch with
terror. The next moment there
arose the alarming cry of “Indians!
Indians!” accompanied with appalling
shricks and the utmost confusion.
Maidens threw their frail
arms around their lovers for protection,
and the latter strove to disengage
themselves and rush to
their rifles, which, unfortunately,
had been left in the adjoining cabin.
In the midst of this alarming
state of affairs, Clifton drew his
sword, sprang upon the table, and
shouted, “Order! Silence!” just as
some half-a-dozen hideous looking
savages burst into the apartment,
uttering terrific yells of fury.
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Kate, surprised to bewilderment,
had thrown her arms around her
mother, who, completely overcome
by the excitement, had sunk to the
floor in a state of insensibility.
For a moment the foremost savage,
who appeared to be chief of
the party, looked hurriedly around
him, as if in search of some victim,
when his eyes falling upon
Kate, he shouted, in English,
“She's here,” and sprang at once
to her side.
Clifton saw the movement, and
in his haste to punish the bold intruder,
and save her he loved, he
made an attempt to leap forward,
when the table tilted, upset, and
he was thrown heavily to the
ground. Before he could recover
his feet, the hellish work of the
savage was completed. Tearing
Kate rudely from the embrace of
her mother, he drew his knife and
plunged it into the heart of the latter;
then raising the former in his
arms, he rushed to the door, with
a laugh so fiendish it made the
blood of all who heard it curdle,
and, bounding into the open air,
darted into a neighboring thicket
with his prize.
As the captor of Kate sprang
through the door, Clifton regained
his feet, in time to see her disappear.
With a cry of vengeance
and dispair, he leaped forward to
her rescue, when a blow on the
head, from one of the Indians, intercepted
his progress, and laid him
senseless on the ground.
Meantime, the onset of the savages
had been terrific. With horrible
yells, tomahawk in hand, they
rushed upon the unarmed whites,
and dealt their blows on every side
Two young men were tomahawked
immediately, and their scalps torn
reeking from their bleeding heads.
Two others had been severely
wounded, and two females made
prisoners, when Ichabod, who on
the first alarm had escaped into
the adjoining cabin, returned with
his arms loaded with rifles. With
a presence of mind and dexterity
worthy a hero, he managed to distribute
some five or six of these
weapons among his friends, ere the
Indians became aware of what was
taking place. In fact, the first intimation
they had of the matter,
was from the discharge of one
which the gardener had reserved
for himself, whereby a powerful
savage, who was darting forward
to seize upon a terrified female, was
shot through the body. With a
yell of rage and pain, he bounded
up from the ground and fell back a
corpse. This astonished the dusky
warriors pressing on his rear, and
they paused in their work of carnage.
Perceiving at a glance that
several of the whites had suddenly
become armed, and were preparing
to deal death among them, they
gave vent to yells of fury and alarm,
and simultaneously rushed out of
the cottage, bearing their dead
comrade with them, but leaving
their prisoners behind. With yells
little less frightful than their own,
those of the whites who were armed,
now sallied forth to give chase.
As they reached the door, they saw
the savages already dodging
among the trees, and speeding forward
with a velocity that destroyed
all hope of overtaking them.
Besides, should they pursue, it was
more than probable they would be
drawn into an ambuscade and all
cut off; and acting with more wisdom
and caution than is usual on
such occasions, they discharged
their pieces at random after the
foe, and retreating into the house,
instantly closed and bolted the
door.
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CHAPTER XI.
Onward! let us pursue, with feet that tire
Not, never, while we justice seek on them
That have done this. It is a deed to damn
The doers—a deed that Heaven scorns—and while
The life-blood warms our hearts, we'll falter not,
Nor pause; and peradventure Heaven will send
Us aid; if not, our lives shall perish in
A just and worthy cause. So onward! onward!
To the rescue, on!
—Brinley's Rescue.
Short but bloody had been the
work of that enemy whose heart is
ever shut to mercy in war. When
Ernest regained his senses, which
happened at the moment we have
chosen to close the preceeding chapter,
a scene was presented to his
vision, well calculated to make the
stoutest heart grow sick and faint.
On the ground, by his side, lay the
mangled remains of Danbury, and
another youth—who had come hither,
but an hour before, full of life,
and hope, and buoyant feelings—
now fast growing cold in the embrace
of death—their once handsome
features distorted and bloody,
and their scalps already dangling
at the girdle of some inhuman
monster of the forest. A little further
on, half hid in the shadow of
the dim light of the apartment, he
saw the form of her who had given
birth to the idol of his affections,
now lying at full length upon the
ground—her white dress frightfully
stained with the red current of life,
which had spouted from her breast—
her features pale, and, save a slight
contraction, caused by the deathspasm,
looking as calm and sweet as
if she had just sunk into a gentle
sleep. Above and around him, all
was noise and confusion. Several
females were huddling together in
one corner, as if striving to shrink
from the foe, still shrieking for aid,
and apparently not aware that the
enemy had vanished. Some were
groaning with pain, some were running
to and fro completely bewildered,
and some were shouting for silence;
but all was yet Babel-like
commotion.
Ernest felt a slight dizziness in
his head, and the blood trickling
over his face. Raising his hand to
the wound, he comprehended all at
once. The savage had struck him
with a tomahawk, which, instead
of splitting open his skull, as intended,
had glanced along the bone,
and made a frightful incision. The
blow had stunned and felled him,
and thus his life had been preserved.
Notwithstanding his wound,
he instantly sprang to his feet, as
though it were a mere scratch, and
in a voice of authority, whose tones
were distinctly audible above all
the tumult, commanded silence.
As if each acknowledged his right
to command, all at once became
still, and every eye was turned inquiringly
upon him. His features
were pale with excitement, down
which the blood was trickling in
long, red streaks, and dropping upon
and soiling his splendid uniform,
rendering him an object painful to
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behold—so that many gazed upon
him with awe, not unlike what
they would have felt on beholding
one rise from the dead.
“Friends,” he said, “this is a terrible
scene, and must be avenged.
She who was so late among you,
almost a bride, has been torn away,
and is now a captive to a merciless
foe—if, in fact, the thirsty tomahawk
of her captor has not already drank
of her innocent blood. Yonder, behold
the gory corpse of her mother!
Shall these inhuman monsters go
unpunished? Shall we not start
upon her trail, swearing to rescue
her if living, if dead to avenge, or
leave our bones to whiten the soil
of the red man?”
Cries of “Yes! yes!” resounded
on all sides, while those who had
weapons grasped them tightly, and
their eyes flashed, and their features
wore expressions of the most
resolute determination.
“My poor body's devoted to the
rescue of my last and only friend—
my poor, sweet mistress,” rejoined
Ichabod, with a strong burst of emotion,
that brought the tear to many
an eye.
“I knew you were men!” said Ernest,
in a tone of decision. “Let
us do, rather than say! Prepare,
those of you who are disposed to
follow me, and let us depart forthwith!”
“But the women, the wounded
and dead—what of them?” asked
one.
“Let some two or three remain
here, while one mounts the fleetest
horse and bears tidings of the dire
calamity to the village. There is
no danger here at present; for the
savages, having accomplished their
hellish work, are already on their
homeward retreat. We must strive
to overtake them on the way.”
“But how shall we follow, not
knowing whither they went?” asked
the same voice which had spoken
before, and which Clifton now became
aware proceeded from the lips
of Danvers.
“I know by their war-paint,” answered
the young officer, “that
they are a detachment of Piquas,
and, if my eyes did not deceive me,
were led by a white man.”
“By heavens! I see it all!” said
Danvers, in reply. “It is that inhuman
wretch, Moody.”
A mingled expression of horror
and loathing, with a determination
to be revenged, was now visible on
nearly every face.
“I have no doubt you are right,”
rejoined Clifton; “for the size of
his person, and the shape of his features,
as described to me, correspond
exactly to the monster I beheld.”
“He shall die a dog's death!”
shouted one.
“Hung and quartered without
judge or jury!” said another.
“Roasted over a slow fire!” responded
a third.
“He shall chew his own heart!”
added a fourth.
“Ay, but let us catch him first,”
timed in Clifton. “While we tarry,
he is fleeing. Let us act at once.”
“Ay! ay!” shouted half-a-dozen
voices.
“Before you go, my friends, upon
a journey that may be your last,
let us unite in prayer, to that God
who does all things for the best,
and for our good, even when visiting
us with sore afflictions,” said the
venerable and pious clergyman—
who, throughout the affray, had
been left unharmed, and had remained,
so far, a quiet and seemingly
unmoved spectator, with his
arms meekly folded on his breast,
the picture of humility and resignation.
“Let us call upon our Maker
for aid, in this our sorest need!”
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and kneeling upon the ground, he
extended his arms aloft, and made
a most fervent and eloquent prayer,
which was rendered doubly solemn
by the mournfulness of the occasion.
When this was over, Clifton gave
orders for those who were to accompany
him, to prepare themselves
and set forth immediately. Some
six or eight of the party, among
whom were Danvers and Ichabod,
volunteered their services at once,
and in a few minutes all were ready
for the perilous journey. The pastor,
and one or two others, remained
to take charge of the nearly distracted
females, until aid should
arrive from the village—when the
wounded would be better cared for,
and the dead consigned to dust,
with all due ceremony.
Collecting what weapons they
could, together with a good supply
of ammunition, the party in a few
minutes formed around Clifton as
their leader, who announced to the
rest, that the solemn moment of separation
had arrived.
It would be impossible to describe
the scene which ensued. Each
seemed for a time to give himself
up to his strongest feelings. Lovers
rushed to each other with a
freedom and wildness which nothing
but a similar occasion could
justify, threw themselves into
each other's arms, and clung around
each other's necks, as if they felt
the separation to be eternal; while
groans, cries and sobs of anguish
resounded on all sides. For some
moments all was great commotion;
but gradually the tumult ceased,
until nothing could be heard but a
low murmur, in a choked voice, or
a deep drawn sigh, or a half stifled
burst of grief.
“We waste time,” said Clifton, at
length.
“Go, my friends, and God be with
you,” said the preacher, solemnly;
“and Heaven send you may return
with the maiden you seek—the flower
of the forest!”
“Amen!” responded Clifton, and
two or three others; and throwing
open the door, the bereaved lover
rushed out, followed immediately by
his companions.
“I must detain you one moment
more,” he added, as he felt a sharp
pain in his head; and springing
back into the house, he called for a
bandage. This was quickly supplied
and bound around his wound;
then hastily washing the blood from
his face, he rejoined his party.
“Let us follow the Miami,” he
continued, “for I know of no better
plan, and it is possible that in the
morning we may strike upon their
trail.”
“Is there none of our party that
understand trailing the savage?”
asked one.
“I fear not,” replied Clifton. “I
know of an experienced scout, but
he is far away now, in another part
of the country. I would to Heaven
he were here!”
“And what may be his name?”
inquired a strange voice, which all
immediately became aware proceeded
from a figure, a few paces
distant, that was nearing them with
long and steady strides. “What
may be the scout's name you've just
alluded to, lieutenant?” he asked
again, as he came up, addressing
himself to Clifton.
“David Grant,” answered the
young officer, endeavoring to make
out the features of the new comer,
as he paused in the shadow cast by
the moon.
“I'm David Grant,” was the laconic
response.
“Great Heaven! David, what
sent you here so opportune?” cried
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Clifton, grasping the hard, weather-beaten
hand of the other,
with a pressure of unmistakeable
joy.
“May be Heaven did,” was the
quiet answer.
“It would seem so,” rejoined Ernest;
“for of all men, you are the
one I most desired to see, at this
momentous crisis.”
“Something's gone wrong, I reckon?”
said David, in reply.
Clifton now hurriedly narrated
the leading features of the
events we have so feebly described.
“I'spected as much,” rejoined the
scout, when he had concluded.
“He told me I'd be wanted.”
“He! whom!” cried several of
the party, in astonishment.
“Don't know who,” replied the
other, “for he was a stranger to me.
He spoke like a man, but looked
like the devil.”
“Was he tall, ill-dressed, rawboned
and ugly?” inquired Ernest,
quickly.
“Well he was all that.”
“Had a long, flowing beard?”
“Powerful long beard he
had.”
“And seemed partly blind?”
“For the matter o' that, he looked
like he might be blind altogether,”
was the reply.
“It was the Necromancer,” returned
Ernest, gravely.
“Ay! that mysterious Blind Luther,
and none other,” said Danvers,
shaking his head with a superstitious
air.
“Where did you see him, and
what did he say to you?” asked the
lieutenant.
“I was scouting in the forest,
more'n forty miles distant,” answered
Grant, “when's I passed around
a tree, my hair riz right up, on
hearing a voice say:
“`Hold, David!'
“I tried to tree, but could'nt, for
a big hand on my shoulder, that
would'nt let me go.
“`Who are you?' says I.
“`A messenger of fate,' says
he.
“`What d'ye want with me?'
“`Hie thee to Columbia,' he says,
`and inquire for Lieutenant Clifton's
wedding.'
“`I did'nt know he was going to
be married,' says I.
“`Do as I bid thee, and ask no
questions!' says he; `and be sure
you reach there at an early hour,
on such a night (this is the night),
when you'll find yourself wanted,
and orders will be given you what
to do.'
“Short on't is, gentlemen, I'm
here; though sometimes I did
quarrel with David Grant—thinking
as how I was going on a
fool's errand, or at a madman's
beck.”
“You could never have come at
a better time, unless it had been
to warn us of danger,” said Clifton,
solemnly. “Now, David, I
have told you the circumstances,
and wait your advice on the matter.”
“You say you think they're Piquas?”
“I am almost sure of it.”
“And what object had they in
doing's they did, 'spect you?”
“Their leader, I think, is a white
man disguised, whose sole object
was to get possession of the girl.
Some months ago, he was a suitor
to her hand, and she rejected him,
and he swore revenge. Shortly
after, her father was murdered
by his hand. To-night he has
butchered her mother in cold
blood, and made her captive for
some hellish end, of which I groan
to think.”
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For a moment the scout mused,
as one in deep thought, and then
said:
“I'spect you're right, lieutenant,
and that I know the party with
him. How'd they number?”
“Not more than ten or twelve,
as near as I can judge.”
“It's them for a wager. I've
been on their trail, not a week ago;
and now I comprehend the spread
moccason.”
“I do not understand you,” said
Clifton.
“Why, there was one moccason
among 'em, that toed out'ard like a
white man's; and I says to myself
then, `David Grant, that's ayther
a pris'ner or a renegade.' I'm glad
you've told me of this, for now I
reckon to find 'em. Nigh's I can
come to it, they don't belong to the
regular tribe o' Piquas, but are a
kinder o' outlawry vagabonds, that
skulk about on their own hook, and
are most powerful mean cowards.”
As David delivered himself of
this, he strode forward into the
moonlight, and displayed the lineaments
of a being well calculated
for a life in the woods. He was
about thirty-five years of age, and
above the ordinary stature. His
form was shriveled and sinewy, as
if dried and contracted by long exposure
to the weather. His features
were long, thin and bony;
and his small black eyes were continually
rolling about, with a nervous
motion, as if eternally on the
look out for danger. His long,
shaggy hair was surmounted with
a roughly formed cap, made from
the untanned skin of some wild animal.
He wore a hunting-shirt of
linsey-woolsey, to which was attached
a large cape, fringed with
red. Around his waist was a belt,
in which were a scalping-knife and
tomahawk. He wore moccasons
on his feet, and around his neck
was suspended a large powder-horn
and bullet-pouch, and in his hand
he held a long rifle.
As David stepped forth, he immediately
began a survey of the
heavens above, and the earth beneath,
with the air of one long
practiced in the art of reading the
sings of the forest, so necessary in
determining the movements of the
woodman.
“It's a going to be a foggy night,”
he said; “that a child could tell;
for already now the clouds of mist
are lifting their heads along the
trail o' the rivers, and rolling out
ayther way, while a thick haze's
beginning to darken the moon. I
see, by the ground signs, the varmints
have took up the river; and
so I reckon our best course is to
follow that, and git as far's we can
afore daylight; and it's not impossible
we'll head 'em off, or come
upon their camp.”
“Then let us go at once,” said
Clifton, impatiently.
“Don't hurry, lieutenant,” returned
David, respectfully, bending
down to examine the ground at his
feet; “there's nothing made by hurrying—
'specially when you've got
to go by signs. Here's the trail,
sure enough,” he continued, “and
a bloody one 'tis, too. Ha! there's
been a scuffle here, I know by the
ground being trod a few. Any o'
your party fight outside?”
“Heavens! it is the sentinel!”
exclaimed Danvers; “for it was
here he was stationed.”
The sentinel it proved to be; for
the next moment the poor fellow
was discovered, a few paces distant,
lying on his breast, and his
head bloody from the recent removal
of his scalp. His rifle was
found near him, discharged, and
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the breach broken, showing that
he had done his best for himself
and friends.
Examining the body, and finding
that life was extinct, our party, with
a few words of eulogy and regret,
passed on, leaving his remains to
be taken care of by those who remained
behind. In a few minutes
they were swallowed up in the
great forest; and silence, deep and
gloomy, reigned over the scene so
lately rife with tumult and blood-shed.
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CHAPTER XII.
A sounding cavern, large and dark, and full
Of terror to the shrinking, trembling captive.
—Anon.
A strong adversary, an inhuman wretch,
Incapable of pity, void and empty
From every drachm of mercy.
—Shakspeare
Thy suing to this man were as the bleating
Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry
Of seamen to the surge.
—Byron.
Some twenty-five or thirty miles
above the mouth of the Little Miami,
and forming the eastern boundary
of a plain not unlike the one
described in the opening pages of
this story, is a stony ridge, to which
we must now invite the readers attention.
In one place, this ridge
leaves the plain abruptly, by an
acelivity so steep as to make ascension
a matter of difficulty.
Huge rocks, whose fronts are neither
more nor less than precipices,
here rise one above the other, to a
height of many feet, and altogether
present a very formidable and imposing
appearance. Between these
rocks, which appear to have been
thrown together by some great
convulsions of nature, are many
deep fissures, through which has
struggled upward a growth of
small, craggy trees and shrubbery,
that, instead of beautifying, only
tend to increase the wildness and
gloominess of the scene.
By a circuitous route, and careful
footsteps, you can gain a point
on one of these rocks, which, to the
eye unaccustomed to the spot,
seems one of imminent peril. The
point alluded to, is elevated above
the plain a hundred and fifty feet,
and forms an area of not more than
fifty square yards. Immediately in
your front, as you face the west,
the rock is perpendicular for a distance
of thirty feet. Behind you
rises another perpendicular rock,
and on either side is a deep and
gloomy chasm. Through one of
these—that at your right hand—
flows a rapid streamlet, whose
waters, unseen from where you
stand, gurgling over the rocks below,
send upward a hollow, dismal
sound, that invariably causes the
spectator, who visits it for the first
time, to wish himself once more
safe on the plain below.
Gloomy as is the place in question,
it is not without its attractions.
The eye here embraces an
extensive scope of country, spread
before it like a map. A large and
well cultivated plain, of two or
three miles in breadth—through the
center of which winds the glassy
stream so often mentioned, interspersed
with here and there a tidy
farm house, or a cluster of white
dwellings, forming a village, with
the steeple of its church overlooking
it with an air of guardianship—
stretches away to the north and
south, and contrasts delightfully
with the rougher and wilder scenery
at hand.
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At the time of which we write,
however, the plain had none of the
attractions of civilization it now
presents; but a mighty, unbroken
forest, instead, lay on its bosom, in
whose dark recesses danger everywhere
lurked, and man and beast
warred with themselves and each
other continually.
It was late on the day succeeding
the capture of Kate Clarendon, that
a tall, slim figure, in the costume
of an Indian, leaped, with a light
bound, across the chasm on the left,
and paused, for a moment, upon
the platform of the rock we have
described. The sun was already
sinking in the west, and his rays
streamed softly along the tops of
the trees, tipping them with gold,
throwing the figure into bold relief,
and burnishing the huge erections
of nature, until one could, with but
little stretch of the imagination,
fancy them colossal images of
brass.
We have said the figure was
costumed like an Indian; but that
he was not of this race, was evident
from the whiteness of his skin,
wherever the removal of the paint,
by perspiration or otherwise, permitted
it to be seen. There were
other signs going to prove him not
a native warrior. His arms seemed
tender, as if not accustomed to
exposure, and were scratched in
several places, by brambles and
thorns, so as to render them swollen
and sore. The feathers, intended
as ornaments to his scalp-lock,
had also become disarranged, in a
manner that the pride of a native
Indian would never have permitted.
Around his waist he wore a wampun
belt, supporting a brace of pistols,
a tomahawk and scalping-knife.
As he paused upon the
rock, he ran his black, fiery eye
over the plain, for a moment, as if
to be certain no one was approaching.
Then he glanced cautiously
around him, and a malignant expression
of triumph lighted up and
gradually settled over his features.
“Ha, ha, ha! I have her safe
now!” he exclaimed, with an oath;
and running to the side of the rock
overhanging the stream, he began
to let himself down its jaggy sides,
and presently disappeared altogether.
There was, on this side, a rough
kind of staircase, overhanging the
foaming flood; and down this the
figure descended rapidly, taking
hold of the bushes and projections,
to prevent himself from falling, until
he came to a spot where the rock
jutted completely over the stream,
and formed a sure foundation to his
feet. Halting here for a moment,
and listening the while, he turned
to the right, and passing under the
rocky bank, entered the mouth of a
cavern, which extended back into
the hill a considerable distance.
Hurrying rapidly forward, through
a narrow passage, he at last came
to a stone, which he with difficulty
removed, and emerged into a compartment
of great breadth and size,
dimly lighted by a small opening
or fissure in the rock above,
whence trickled down, or rather
filtered through, just sufficient water
to render the rock beneath wet
and slippery.
Here the figure paused again,
and endeavored to peer into the
further recesses of the cave; but it
was evident from his manner, and
the fact that he had so recently
come from the broad light of day
into a place never at any time more
than twilight, that he could not discern
a single object. Stepping
aside somewhat, to avoid the dripping
water, he at once proceeded
to strike a light. A half-burnt
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[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
torch lay on the floor of the cavern,
which re-lighting, he proceeded
to search the place, holding this
in his hand, elevated above his
head, so as to enable him to discern
each thing distinctly.
For some time it was evident by
his lowering brow, angry visage
and keen searching eyes, that he
was unable to find the object
sought. But at length he paused,
uttered a wild yell, not unlike an
Indian, and then sprang forward to
a dark corner of the cavern, where
another figure, arrayed in white,
was crouched, and trembling with
terror.
“Ha, ha, ha! I have thee now!”
he cried, with a hoarse burst of passion,
and a laugh like a fiend; and
the next moment he stood over the
crouching object, waving his torch
from side to side, and resembling,
as the ruddy light flashed upon his
dark, malignant face, some infernal
spirit, about to seize upon an innocent
victim.
“Oh, God! to what am I destined!”
exclaimed in silvery, but
heart-touching tones, the voice of
the unhappy object at the monster's
feet. At the same moment,
the ruddy, gloomy light fell upon
the pale, sweet features of a terrified
female, as she attempted to
rise and confront her foe.
“Destined to perdition with me!”
returned the savage, with another
fiendish laugh, roughly grasping an
arm of the maiden, and raising her
to an upright posture. “Now I
have thee, Kate Clarendon, and
thou shalt this time feel the vengeance
of Rashton Moody.”
“Unhand and let me go, if thou
art a man!” screamed Kate, in terror.
Moody uttered a mocking laugh.
“Talk to the wind!” he cried, furiously,
“not to me! If I am a
man! ha, ha! I like that! If I am
a man! But I am not a man, sweet
beauty. I was a man, but you, you
made a demon of me; and now
my hour has come—my time of
vengeance is at hand!”
“But what have I done to merit
this?” said the other, in a pleading
tone.
“Done?—ha, ha, ha!—come, I
like that. Done all that a woman
could, to make him hate who once
loved her. Done, foolish girl! why
did you not coquette with me, and
lead me to believe I was loved, that
I might be a laughing stock among
my fellows?”
“As God is my judge, Rashton
Moody, I did not.”
“What then?”
“I explained the matter to you
once—have you forgotten it?”
“And are too proud or haughty,
I suppose, to do so again. Well,
well, it matters not; for now you are
in my power, indeed; and I will
teach you a lesson of humility, ere
you depart, that you will remember
to the latest moment of your
life.”
As he spoke, he grasped her arm
tightly, and peered into her sweet
countenance, with a look of diabolical
triumph, that caused Kate to
shudder and feel sick to her very
soul.
“What mean you by such language?”
she faintly asked.
“Hark you, Kate Clarendon! I
told you once I loved you, did I
not?”
“Foolish words upon a foul
tongue,” replied Kate, indignantly.
“Do you think so?” sneered
Moody. Never mind; it is of little
importance now, whether I told you
true or not. I would have wedded
you, but you refused me, did you
not?”
“Well?”
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[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
“Well, proud beauty! I'll soon
teach you well!—but to my story.
You refused me; you trifled first,
led me to hope, and then refused
me. I was wild with passion; and
in an evil moment, I sought to bear
you away. Had you left me to do
as I pleased, no wrong would have
followed; but you attempted to escape,
and then I swore you should
be mine, living or dead, I little
cared which. I caught you, and
would have executed my design
upon you then—would have sent
your soul, unpolluted, into the presence
of your Maker—had I not been
struck to the ground by the only
being on earth I fear. Who he is,
or what he is, I know not; but over
me he exercises an influence beyond
my skill to shake off or explain.
Then came your father, and
struck me—(here Moody paused
for some moments, during which
his features worked convulsively,
his hands clenched and unclenched,
his teeth grated against each other,
and his breath came hard thro' his
expanded nostrils); he struck me!—
mark that!—disgraced me—but
he—he paid for it!—ha, ha, ha!—
the blow was returned with interest,
by—!” and he closed with an
oath, while Kate covered her eyes
with her hands and groaned aloud.
“Come, look up!” resumed Moody,
forcing her hands from before
her eyes: “Look up, now, and hear
me out! That night I returned to
the village, took what things I most
valued, and fled; fled for my own
safety—fled to lay my plan of revenge.
I had been struck—a
blow!—heavens!—a blow!—by
him—your father—and I wanted
revenge. Whither should I seek
safety but among the Indians—
among the foes of my race! I knew
if I came peaceably among them,
and offered to join them, I should
be accepted. Two years before I
had been a captive among the
Shawanoes, long enough to understand
in part their language, and
got my liberty through the influence
of the Necromancer, who told
me then, unless I were careful, I
should come to some base end.
But he's a fool! What does he
know about me or my destiny?
“I fled, I say, toward an Indian
settlement; but ere I reached one,
I fell in with a scouting party of
Piquas. I showed them the open
hand, told them my story, and they
adopted me. I was taken home to
their village—went through the Indian
ceremony—was shaved, painted,
and dressed in skins—and was,
in short, made one of them.
“Then I told them I wanted one
trusty warrior, and only one, to go
with me on the war path—that I
had a chief to kill among the pale
faces, to prove my courage and fealty.
They consented that I should
go, but said I must go alone.
“But why am I detailing?
Enough! I went.—I soon reached
your dwelling, and prowled about
the vicinity for several days before
the opportunity I sought presented
itself. It came at last. I saw your
father and his serving man set out
upon a hunt. I laughed, and dogged
their footsteps. They killed a
deer, and your father thought to
bear it home, while the other set off
for another. I laughed again, for
I saw my hour of vengeance was
at hand. He put the deer on his
back, but soon grew weary with his
burthen, and paused under a tree
to rest. I crept up behind him—
and—Fool! why do you tremble
so? You have seen it all once, and
now you are only hearing of it.”
“For God's sake! do not, do not
tell me more!” cried Kate, imploringly.
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“O, hear it out, my dear; it will
do you good, and prepare you for
what is to come,” sneered Moody.
“I crept up behind him, I say—and
he was sitting so cozily, too, under
that tree, wiping the perspiration
from his face, and murmuring something
about his wife and daughter—
and plunged my knife into his breast,
and—'Pon my word, I believe
she has fainted,” added Moody,
changing suddenly from his narrative
to a soliloquy, as he perceived
Kate sink down upon the rock at
his feet.
Hastily raising her in his arms,
he now bore her to the water.
There was a slight hollow in the
rock here, and scooping the water
up in his hand, he dashed it in her
face until she revived, when, like
the inquisitors of old, he again proceeded
with the torture.
“I knew the wounds were mortal;
and so, after affixing my mark, I
left him, and, climbing a tree, stationed
myself where I could see the
result. The result of course you
know, and so I shall not detail it.”
“Well, I returned to my dusky
brethren and told my tale. They
listened gravely, and asked me for
the scalp of my white foe. This I
had forgotten; and they laughed at
me, and told me I had killed a deer,
and thought it a warrior in disguise.
I felt chagrined, and told them I
would prove myself what I pretended
to be. I went forth again alone,
and returned with two white scalps.
Then they seemed greatly pleased,
and made me a sort of chief, and
gave me command of a scouting
party.
“Now it was, I felt my design
would at last be gained, and you
be in my power. To this end all
my thoughts were bent; and this
your presence here tells I have accomplished.
“One night, while stealing round
your dwelling, I saw you and your
lover issue forth together, and I
kept you both in sight. You paused
on the river's bank, and sighed
to each other your love-sick tales.
Heavens! how my blood boiled to
crush you both together; but prudence
restrained me. I listened to
your soft words until I became tired
and disgusted.
“At last they came to an end,
and I heard the day set for your
marriage. Then my plan was laid;
I would be there with my painted
friends; and in the height of your
enjoyment, would make the scene
a scene of wailing and woe. You
I sought for my victim, and you I
found in your mother's arms. It
was your last embrace—for she is
now—”
“Where you will never be,” interrupted
Kate, impressively—“in
Heaven!” Then clasping her hands
together, she looked upward, and
bursting into tears, cried: “Alas!
my poor, dear mother! thou art indeed
gone! God rest thy soul!
But thou art in Heaven; and, oh!
that I were with thee—dear, dear,
sainted mother!”
“I seized and bore you hence,”
continued Moody, without appearing
to heed the interruption of the
other; “and as the first ray of light
streaked the eastern heavens this
morning, I placed you here, whence
you cannot depart until I will you
so to do. Nay, do not shrink away!
for now I tell you plainly, you are
in my power, and beyond the reach
of aid. Save my warriors, there is
not a living soul, besides ourselves,
that knows there is such a place in
existence; and they have yielded
you up to me, and will not betray
my secret. I have just returned
from their council fires, with their
full consent to do with you
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whatsoever I please. Now you know the
story.”
“And what do you propose to
do?” asked Kate, in trembling
tones.
“Do!—ha, ha!—why, marry you
without a priest,” rejoined Moody,
tauntingly. “I would not kill you,
for that would be but slight revenge.”
“Great God! you do not, cannot
mean this!” almost shrieked
Kate, endeavoring to rush past him
to the mouth of the cave.
“Nay,” cried Moody, seizing
hold of her roughly, “not so fast.”
“Oh! let me go!—for God's sake,
let me go! and I will forgive you
all that is past.”
“Forgive!—ha, ha, ha! What
think you I care for your forgiveness?
Let you go, indeed! after
plunging my soul into crime to get
you here! Why, girl, are you mad,
to talk thus?”
“Then kill me!” cried Kate, wildly.
“Murder me, as you have murdered
my parents! I would rather
die than be dishonored.”
“And that is the very reason
why I let you live,” returned Moody,
with a dark smile of peculiar meaning.
“No, no, Kate Clarendon,—
haughty, coquetting Kate—live to
return to your lover.”
“No! if I am disgraced, I never
will return alive!” rejoined the fair
girl solemnly and firmly.
“Settle that matter with yourself,
then,” said Moody, coldly. “Mine
you shall be, living or dead!”
As he spoke, the villain threw his
arms boldly around the other, and,
in spite of her struggles, pressed
her to his loathsome breast; while
the torch slipped from his hand, fell
to the ground, and nearly became
extinguished by the fall—casting
dark, flitting shadows over the
gloomy cavern.
For some time Kate struggled
violently, and uttered one or two
piercing screams; then she suddenly
became still, as though she
thought it were vain to longer
contend with her evident destiny.
Moody, surprised at her sudden
quietude, drew back to learn the
cause, when the click of a pistol,
with the muzzle pointed at his
heart, warned him, too late, of his
own imprudence. Kate had disengaged
it from his belt during the
souffle, and now stood before him,
erect, with flashing eyes and dishevelled
hair, which came streaming
down around her pale features,
whereon was an expression of deep
resolve, not to be mistaken.
As Moody's dark, malignant eye
met hers, it involuntarily quailed
before that sublime gaze of wronged
innocence.
“Villain, beware!” cried Kate,
in a lofty tone. “Move but a single
step toward me, and your soul
is with its God.”
“Forbear!” cried the cowardly
wretch, in a deprecating tone, fearful
that she might be tempted to
pull the trigger, on which her delicate
finger seemed to rest heavily.
“Forbear, Miss Clarendon, and you
shall go free.”
“Swear it!” said Kate, solemnly
and loftily.
“By every thing that yields me
an existence, by my hopes of salvation,
I swear it!” returned Moody.
“See that you break not your
oath!” rejoined Kate, retreating
backward, and still keeping the
pistol elevated in the same position.
“Stand where you are, Rashton
Moody! advance a single step,
and I fire.”
Whether it was that Moody was
afraid of being deprived of his
own worthless life—or whether, as
is more probable, he thought
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by remaining stationary something
might chance to his advantage in
disarming his fair foe—we do not
pretend to say; but certain it is, he
remained fixed as a pillar, while
Kate retreated, until some fifteen
yards divided them, when, unguarded
as to her course, with her eyes
fixed upon the other, she stepped
upon a spot made slippery by the
dripping water, and the next moment
fell heavily upon the ground.
As she went down, the pistol flew
from her hand several feet, struck
upon the rock, and discharged itself,
with a sound that ran bellowing to
the remotest corner of the cavern,
and seemed the death-knell of her
hopes. The sound of the pistol
was succeeded by a laugh that
seemed not earthly, and bounding
forward, Moody stood erect over
his prostrate and forlorn captive.
“So, then, I have you again, eh?”
he cried, exultingly. “This time I
will be more careful.”
“Remember your oath,” said
Kate, timidly, attempting to regain
her feet.
“Oath he d—d!” shouted Moody,
with another frightful laugh;
and again his hateful arms were
thrown around the half-raised and
trembling form of the lovely but
helpless Kate Clarendon. “Down!”
he cried, hoarsely; and at the word
he forced her with violence back
upon the rock.
“God save me!” screamed Kate,
terrified nearly out of her senses.
“He can't do it!” rejoined Moody,
blasphemously, with a hellish grin
of savage joy.
“Liar!” shouted a strange voice,
that made him start in terror, and
Kate scream with joy, as a bright
light flashed in his face and revealed
to his astonished eyes the ungainly,
and to him terrible, form of
the Necromancer, standing by his
side, torch in hand, and looking
downward upon him with an awful
scowl, his jaws working almost convulsively,
and his eyelid quivering
like the leaf of the aspen; while
several dim forms were seen hurrying
toward him from the mouth of
the cave, and voices, portending
summary punishment, came to his
frightened ears through the arches
of the great cavern in hollow and
unearthly tones, making his polluted
soul almost shrink from its frail
and much abused tenement of clay.
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CHAPTER XIII.
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;
And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist,
And he that hears makes fearful action,
With wrinkled brow, with nods, with rolling eyes.
—Shakspeare.
We left Ernest Clifton and his
companions, headed, or rather led,
by David Grant, in pursuit of the
Indians—and to them we must now
return. For some eight or ten miles,
they pursued their course up the
Miami in silence, with no event occurring
worth being recorded. By
this time the mist, which we saw
rising on their departure, had rolled
itself across the plain, and enveloped
them in a cloud so dense, that
not a single object about them was
visible. Still the scout, who had
traveled the ground frequently,
moved onward, and the others, as
best they could, followed the sound
of his footsteps.
At length Ernest, who was next
to David, struck his foot against the
half-decayed trunk of a fallen tree,
and fell over it—whereupon the
whole party came to a halt.
“It is useless to attempt further
progress to night,” said the young
officer, as he rose to his feet; “for
nothing can be seen, and danger
may be in every step we take.”
“As you like, lieutenant,” returned
the scout. “Foolisher advice
might be spoke; though I'm not
afeard to lead, if you arn't to follow.”
“But what good can come of it?”
asked Clifton. “We might come
upon the camp of the enemy before
we were aware of it.”
“Nothing truer—though I reckon
we'd stand as good a chance as
they,” rejoined David.
“What say you, Danvers?” inquired
Ernest. “Shall we go further
or not?”
“I would rather see the path I
am following,” answered the one
addressed.
“So would I. Let us camp, then,
where we are, and take daylight
for it.”
“Any body see a light?” inquired
David, suddenly.
Each looked about him, and several
answered. “No!”
“There's a sort o' dim spot away
to the right, or my eyes make it,”
said the gardener.
“Your eyes don't make it, and
that spot's fire,” returned the scout,
laconically.
“Ha! now I see it!” exclaimed
Clifton while his heart beat quickly,
with the hope that his beloved
was near him. “It must be the
camp-fire of the savages.”
“May be,” returned the scout,
“though I reckons not. But silence,
and let us diskiver.”
Saying this, he moved slowly and
softly forward, carefully feeling his
way as he went, followed by the
others in the same manner. In a
few minutes they reached the Miami,
and, as its water was now in
a moderate stage, crossed it without
difficulty. As they neared the spot
which had attracted their attention,
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the pale, faint hue, as first seen, assumed
a deeper and redder tinge,
and convinced all that the remark
of the scout was correct. Ascending
the opposite bank of the Miami,
they kept on their course some
dozen or so of yards, when they
came to a steep ascent, and saw the
light but a short distance above
them.
“Stand here, with rifles ready,
and move not hand nor foot, while
I go for'ard first to make it out,”
whispered David; and without
more ado, and not even waiting a
reply, he turned aside from the
straight line, and glided away,
noiselessly as a spirit or an Indian.
Some ten minutes of breathless
suspense elapsed, during which
each of the party behind grasped
his rifle tightly, and listened eagerly
for the slightest sound to decide
his next movement. All was fearfully
silent; for silence is fearful,
when we look for the first sound to
be one of danger, calculated to
drive the blood back to the heart—
as when two armies, facing each
other, are quietly preparing the first
terrible volley of death—and each
stood fast, motionless as marble,
and seemed to feel his hair fairly
rising with excitement.
At length each started, on hearing
the voice of David close at
hand; for not a sound of his approach
had been audible.
“Follow,” he said, in a whisper,
“and I'll show you a curious sight.”
Obeying him in silence, each set
forward up the ascent, and presently
gained the spot whence the light
proceeded. Upon a broad, flatrock,
scarcely elevated above the ground,
was a small, bright fire, made of
dry sticks, by the side of which, with
his feet partly drawn under him, a
bible in his hand, on which his eyes
were intently fixed, his long hair, unrestrained,
flowing freely down the
sides of his coarse, rough features,
and over his shoulders, and swaying
backward, and forward as one engaged
in profound study—sat Blind
Luther, the Necromancer, on whom
each of the party gazed, if not with
a feeling of superstition, at least
with something very much akin to
it. And indeed the picture, considering
the principal figure and the
mystery connected with him, was
well calculated to produce this effect.
The light of the flame, as it
flashed and crackled, formed a
bright circle in the dense fog, threw
the dark form of Luther into bold relief,
and lent a ruddy tinge to his
harsh, but benevolent features—
giving them, at the same time, an
appearance of rapid change in expression,
by its flickering shadows.
For a moment or two, Luther
sat in silence—while silently our
party gazed upon him—and then
his voice was heard reading from
the book in his hand:
“`Wo unto the wicked!—it shall
be ill with him; for the reward of
his hands shall be given him.'
“Even so,” he continued, closing
the book: “Even so shall it be:
therefore let them that are evil
doers take heed unto their ways.”
He ceased, and bowed his head
upon his hands.
“We meet strangely again,” said
Clifton, stepping forward into the
circle of light, and tapping the
shoulder of Luther with his hand.
Luther raised his head, without
any apparent surprise, and frankly
extending his large, dark hand
to the other, replied:
“I am glad to behold thee, young
man, safe where thou art; for a
narrow chance hast thou had, in
thy morning of life, of escaping
that yawning gulf which awaits us
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[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
all. I said, you remember, we
should meet again,
“When dark storms should round us lower,
Or bright sunshine puled the hour.
We meet, however, in the former—
in the stormy hour of fate—though
I trust thy sun of life may not set
behind a cloud.”
“God send it may not!” rejoined
Clifton, earnestly.
“I perceive you are wounded,”
pursued Luther, pointing to the
head of the other: “I hope not severely.”
“Nothing alarming, I think—
though it does pain me a little,”
answered Clifton.
“A narrow escape, indeed,” rejoined
Luther. “It was a moment
on which your life hung suspended
by a thread. It is over, and yet
your life is still in danger.”
“What mean you?” asked our
hero, in some surprise.
“God is great,” replied the Necromaneer,
solemnly, “and orders
all things for the best. When He
made the stupendous work of creation,
and set the great wheels in
motion, He made laws to govern
each and every part; and into
man's hand gave the power of reading
those laws to the benefit of himself
and the glorification of his
Maker. Wherefore, man telleth
the time of the seasons, and looketh
for heat and for cold, and knoweth
the motion of the planets, the moments
of their revolving, and the
years of their cycle; and the laws
which extend to them, do also unto
all created things; so that the pebble
which rolls on the beach by the
wash of the tide, and the volcano
which belcheth fire and causeth
earth to groan in her bowels, are
alike governed by the fixed and
eternal laws of the universe; therefore,
let not thy too hastily formed
prejudice condemn the truth, that
the being and deeds of man are
overruled by the same laws, which
by knowledge he may read and understand,
but not alter.”
“If I comprehend you rightly,
you are alluding to astrology?” observed
Clifton, interrogatively.
“Call it by what name you will,
it is the tongue of Heaven, whereby
is spoken the destiny of nations
and individuals. Here,” and the
Necromancer, thrusting his hand
into his knapsack, drew forth a roll
of parchment: “Here is thy past
and future course, signed and sealed;
and that of her thou lovest best,
and that of him thou hatest most.”
“Oh, speak, for God's sake! if
you know aught, and tell me what
of her!” cried Ernest vehemently.
“She is safe for the present.”
“Heaven be praised! Can you
lead me to her?”
“I can, but not to-night.”
“O, yes—to-night—delay not a
moment!”
By this time the party without,
eager to catch every look and tone,
had leaned their heads forward into
the circle of light, while their bodies
remaining concealed entirely, or
showing only a faint outline, gave
them the supernatural appearance
of specters, or spirits, peering
through a cloud, as we sometimes
see them represented on canvass.
Without making a direct reply,
Luther pointed around the circle,
and observed:
“We are not alone.”
“Do not fear,” said Ernest; “they
are all friends.”
“Fear, Ernest Clifton? Nay,”
and he raised his hand majestically
above his head, and with his
fore-finger pointed upward, while
he paused a moment, and then said,
in a voice of great and impressive
solemnity, “there is but One to
fear—fear Him always, and Him
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[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
only! But see!” he added; “I told
thee thy destiny was written here;”
and he pointed to the scroll in his
hand, which was covered with figures,
letters and characters. “This
is thy horoscope—cast many years
ago.”
“But did you know me then?”
“Ay, before your knew yourself.”
Heavens! explain!”
“Not now; another time and
place must serve me. But you
spoke of her you love.”
“I did. O, tell me where to find
her, and if she be living and safe!”
“For to-night she is safe—tomorrow
I will lead thee to her.”
“Is she a prisoner?”
“She is; but ask me no more, for
I am done. To camp! to camp,
all! and be ready for the morrow.
I will stand sentinel. Yet stay,
Ernest,” added the Necromancer,
as the latter turned away; “I must
look to your wound. You will find
a suitable spot close at hand, in
this direction,” he said to the others,
pointing with his finger; and
as they departed, he rose, and removing
the bandage from the head
of Clifton, proceeded to examine
his wound attentively. Then taking
a vial from his knapsack, he
wet the cloth with the liquid contained
therein, and rubbed the
wound with it.
“It will trouble you but very little
after this,” he said, as he carefully
replaced the bandage.” “And
now, my young friend, join your
companions and get what rest you
may.”
Ernest would fain have questioned
further, relative to her he loved;
but waving his hand peremptorily,
Blind Luther turned his back upon
him, in a manner to cut off all conversation;
and thinking it prudent
not to press the matter too much,
he moved away and joined his com
panions, who had already selected
their place of encampment, and
started a fire in its center.
Casting himself upon the earth,
in a fit of gloomy abstraction, our
hero sat some two or three hours,
watching the bright flame as it eagerly
devoured the dry fuel which
fed it. During this time, one after
another of the party gradually fell
into slumber, until he alone remained
awake. Turning his eyes toward
the fire of Luther, he could
just perceive the dim outline of that
mysterious being, seated upon the
rock, his elbows resting upon his
nether limbs, his face upon his
hands, and apparently asleep. Gazing
upon him for a while, during
which a thousand vague thoughts
and conjectures passed through his
mind, as to who or what he was,
what he knew of his own history,
how he knew, and what he knew
regarding her he loved—he at last
felt his eyes grow heavy—strange
objects, of which he was in chase,
flitted before his mind's vision—he
swayed from side to side—nodded
and partly awoke—saw the light
of the fire dimly—nodded a few
times more—and then all became
dark, indistinct and confused, and
he rolled over upon the earth and
slept.
“Up, and to thy journey!” said
a deep voice that started Clifton
from his slumbers; and springing
to his feet, he found Blind Luther
and the rest of his companions
ready to depart.
It was already broad daylight,
though the sun had not yet made
his appearance, owing to the dense
fog which still clouded the earth.
There was, however, a brighter spot
in the east than elsewhere, from
which the mist seemed hurrying
rapidly, and rolling and tumbling
from side to side, as if eager to
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[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
escape from the god of day, whose
sharp, hot rays were troubling severely
its outer borders.
“Eat!” said Luther, emphatieally,
to Ernest, proffering him some
jerk, roots and fruit, his own humble
fare.
Ernest partook lightly of the first,
but declined the others; and the
rest having eaten previously, the
party prepared to set forward under
the guidance of Luther.
“'Spect I'm no more needed?”
said David Grant, in a dissatisfied
tone; for he was anxious to make
a display of his powers as a scout
in trailing the foe.
“You may as well keep us company,
at all events,” said Clifton.
“Your services may be needed,”
observed Luther.
David made no reply, and the
party set forward.
Instead of descending to the valley,
the Necromancer shaped his
course to the top of the ridge, along
which he moved in silence with
rapid strides, followed by the others
in the same manner. Here the fog
had already begun to disappear,
and presently the sun broke through,
bright and glorious. Then, like
some mighty avalanche, the mist
was seen rolling down toward the
plain, over which it lay like a white
shroud, occasionally diversified and
rendered doubly interesting by a
beautiful rainbow set on its brow,
as it were a beacon of hope. Gradually
it began to drive and writhe
and scatter, under the influence of
the sun and the morning breeze,
and then first one tree and another
began to show its leafy top, as if
rising from a beautiful lake, until
at last the whole vapor was swept
away, and a scene resplendant in
beauty broke upon the eye.
Clifton, who had watched it intently
as he proceeded on his jour
ney, felt his spirits revive to a wonderful
degree, while something
within seemed to say:
“Behold in this a happy angury!
As the night and the morning, so
has thy soul been shrouded in a vapor
of gloom, through which no eye
could penetrate to see what lay beyond.
As the mist has vanished
before the god of day, so shall thy
troubles vanish before the bright
star of thy destiny; and thy path
shall lead down to the grave, smooth,
bright and unclouded.”
For a time Clifton was buoyed
up with this feeling, and then he
became dejected and sad; for he
remembered that she he loved was
yet a prisoner.
Throughout the day, Blind Luther
said little to any—his mind
seemingly absorbed by some gloomy
meditation. When questioned as
to his course, he ever replied that
all was right. About noon, a fine
buck was killed, and the party halted
for refreshment. After a delay
of some two hours, they resumed
their journey, much invigorated.
Now whether it was that Luther
had made a mistake in regard to
the exact location of the cave where
Kate Clarendon was confined—or
whether he desired, for somereasons
of his own, to delay their arrival to
a given time—does not appear;
but certain it is, that though the
cave did not exceed a distance of
twenty miles from where the party
set out in the morning, and though
all traveled hard throughout the
day, with the exception of the delay
spoken of—yet, from one reason
or another, they did not reach
their journey's end till the last rays
of the setting sun had disappeared
from the highest peak of the eastern
ridge.
“We are here at last,” said Luther,
leaping across the chasm to
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[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
the platform, over which, Moody
had passed but a short time before.
“Follow me,” he continued,
“and carefully descend, or you
will descend to rise no more forever.”
Saying this, he approached the
side next the stream, when two or
three prolonged screams, seemingly
issuing from the bowels of the
earth, greatly accelerated his movements,
and nearly cost some of his
followers their lives. Hurrying
down the rugged and perilous path
before him, Luther soon reached
the mouth of the cavern, where he
halted a moment to guide Clifton,
who came next, in the proper direction,
and caution him to look to
his weapons. He then set forward
again rapidly, and, just as he reached
the termination of the passage,
heard the discharge of a pistol, and
saw a dark object flit before his
eyes, and pause over something
white lying on the rock. The torch
he perceived but a few paces distant,
and aware of the value of
light in a case of such emergency
he instantly sprang to this, and
thence to the rescue of Kate Clarendon,
at a point of time so all important
to her as we have shown
in the preceding chapter.
CHAPTER XIV.
Thank God! we meet again.
What mystery is this, that makes mine eyes
Grow full and large with wonderment? In truth
Am I in deep amaze.
—Old Play.
Go! go! and be a curse!—earth needs must bring
Forth some; and none in damning deeds of villainy
Can riper get than thou. Go! go! I loathe
Thy sight, and feel a nervous itching
In my fingers' ends to bid the stay forever.
—Ibid.
“Liar!” again shouted Luther,
raising his tremendous frame to its
full height, and looking ferociously
down upon Moody, who stood trembling
like a timid culprit before his
august judge: “Liar and coward!
how durst thou so blaspheme, as to
say the Almighty could not save
yonder dove from thy buzzard
claws? Down with ye to repentance!”
and with the back of his
hand, Luther struck Moody a blow
in the face, that started forth a
stream of blood, and sent him reeling
backward upon the rock.
“Is she alive—is she safe?—great
God! is she safe?” cried the voice
of Clifton at this moment coming
up, followed closely by his companions.
“Ernest,” screamed Kate, wildly,
and she attempted to rise; but
overcome with emotions of joy, she
failed, and sank back upon the
ground.
“Ha! that voice—that voice!”
almost shrieked Clifton. “My God,
I thank thee! Kate, Kate!—my
dearest, darling Kate!” and the next
moment he was by her side, and
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his lips were glued to hers, in the
holy kiss of love. “Kate,” he continued,
raising her up to a sitting
posture “Kate, are you safe and
well?”
Kate could not speak for joy;
but she nodded in the affirmative,
and then her head sunk against his
breast, and she wept freely.
“The happiest moment of my
life,” marmured Clifton, pressing
her close to his heart—a noble and
true heart, that beat only for her,
and would do so until it ceased to
beat forever.
The balance of the party had by
this time come up and gathered
around the lovers in joyful silence,
their faces expressive of the satisfaction
they felt on seeing them
meet again so happily. Luther
stood a little apart, with folded
arms and stern countenance, apparently
engaged in deep thought of
a nature not pleasing.
“Let me thank my deliverers, as
well as you, dear Ernest,” whispered
Kate, at length.
“Ay, do, dearest; and first, here,”
and Ernest pointed to the tall, athletic
form of the Necromancer,
who—standing, as we have said,
with folded arms, from one hand of
which projected the burning torch,
its flickering light casting a ruddy
glow upon his harsh features—seemed
the personification of some
prophet of old, about to utter words
that should cause a world to tremble.
As Kate advanced toward him,
he suddenly turned in an opposite
direction, and exclaimed:
“Beware, villain—you have done
enough!”
This was addressed to Moody,
who, having been left unnoticed by
all save Luther, had regained his
feet, and drawn his knife, preparatory
to executing some diabolical
act; but the words and manner of
Luther arrested and caused him to
shrink back in dismay.
“By heavens!” cried Ernest,
springing forward, “in the excess
of my joy I had forgotten there
was a renegade villain to punish;”
and drawing his sword, he was
rushing upon his antagonist, when
Luther grasped him by the arm,
and exclaimed:
“Hold, Ernest, it is not for thee—
`Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,
and I will repay.' ”
“It's for me, then,” cried Ichabod,
who had been waiting an opportunity
to greet his pet, and who now
remembered his words to Clifton,
on the death of Clarendon: “It's
for me, for I've sworn to kill him
whenever I found him;” and before
any one could interfere, he bounded
toward Moody, who, sullen and
ferocious as a wild beast at bay,
now turned upon him a look of
scorn, as if he considered him beneath
his notice. He had, however,
mistaken the character of Ichabod
entirely, as he soon found to
his cost; for the next moment a
bright light flashed in his eyes, and
the crack of a pistol was heard
echoing through the cavern.
“Ah! I am shot,” exclaimed
Moody, gnashing his teeth in fury,
and placing his hand to his shoulder,
from which a stream of blood
could now be seen trickling down
over his garments. “But I yet live
to be revenged,” he cried; and at the
same moment he made a step forward,
and drew from his belt his
undischarged pistol. Before he
could use it, however, the hand of
Luther was upon his throat, and
the pistol wrenched from his hand
and sent bounding upon the rock
to the furthermost part of the cave.
His knife and tomahawk shared
the same fate, and Moody stood
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trembling and unarmed, while the
rest looked on in silence.
“Wretch!” cried Luther, raising
himself to his full height, and casting
upon Moody a look of scorn:
“Wretch! I am tempted to crush
thee where thou standest, for thy
villiany and blasphemy; but I
spare thee now, and now only. Remember—
remember!”
“Nay,” interposed Clifton, “why
spare him for other deeds of villiany?
Is not his base life already
forfeited!”
“Ernest Clifton, methinks I have
rendered thee and thine some service,”
answered Luther.
“You have—you have, sir—beyond
our power to repay!” returned
Clifton, vehemently.
“Then perhaps I am not wrong
in asking a boon?”
“Anything in my power to grant,
or that of my comrades, I pledge
you my honor you shall have.”
“Enough! 'tis here;” and Luther
tapped Moody on the shoulder. “I
ask his life, to do with him as I may
see proper.”
“What say you, comrades?”
asked Clifton, appealing to the
others.
There was some demurring, but
all at length consented to the request
of Luther. Then turning to
Moody, the latter said:
“Villian, beware, nor further go,
Or thine shall be a doom of woe!
From all thy former thoughts relent,
For all thy deeds how down, repent,
And show all here a contrite heart,
Or thou and I must ever part:
And should I leave thee, thou shalt feel
Death and the Fates have set their seal.
“I await thy answer,” added
Luther, in conclusion.
“Set me free, is all I ask,” growled
Moody.
“And thou wilt seek my aid no
more!” returned Luther.
“I never did seek it,” grumbled
Moody; “and once free again, I
will ask no odds of any.”
“Be it so!” rejoined Luther, musingly.
“Yet stay,” he added, laying
hold of Moody as he turned to
depart. “I am ever loth to yield
up human nature to the foul fiend—
the arch-enemy of mankind. One
trial more, and perhaps thou wilt
repent and be reclaimed—if not,
farewell forever!
Then pausing for a few moments,
as if to collect his thoughts, he resumed,
in a grave voice:
“A stream there was, which long had rolled
Its waters over sands of gold,
And in the sportive sunbeams played,
And wantoned in the pleasant shade—
As full of active life and glee,
It bent its course toward the sea.
At length the stream received a shock,
Its waters parted on a rock,
And so divided there by force,
Each arm sought out another course;
And miles they ran o'er sterile ground,
Ere either branch the other found;
At last they met, yet little knew
That from the self-same source they grew.
“The stream,” continued the
Necromancer, looking alternately
at Moody and Clifton, and addressing
himself to both, “is typical of
your ancestors; the rock is a quarrel,
by which they became estranged—
the meeting of the waters, the
meeting of the brothers, the last of
a noble line.”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed
Clifton, as some strange thoughts
flashed through his mind; “what
do these words import?”
“That Ernest Clifton and Rashton
Moody are twin brothers.”
“'Tis false!” cried Moody. “This
is some trick—some device!”
“The proof is under the left arm
of each,” returned Luther, quietly.
“Look there, and you will find my
words have not been lies.”
An examination was instantly
made, and the result verified the
words of Luther; for under the left
arm of each was found, faintly
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traced in blue lines, a coat of arms,
which being compared one with the
other, proved to be exactly alike.
A murmur of surprise and astonishment
now ran around the excited
group, while Kate elasped
her hands together in a kind of
dreamy bewilderment.
“This is very strange—very
strange!” said Clifton, fixing his
eyes steadily upon Luther. “And
pray, sir, who are you?”
“A man that is born of woman,
whose days are short and full of
trouble,” answered Luther, waving
his hand in his usually majestic
manner, and turning his eyes from
Clifton to Moody, who stood grating
his teeth, with an angry frown
upon his brow.
“And so he is my brother, then?”
pursued Clifton, musingly, turning
also toward Moody.
“Brother be d—d!” roared
Moody. “If I am, I'll live to triumph
over you yet, Mr. Clifton.”
“Nay,” interposed Luther, sternly,
approaching and laying his hand
upon Moody: “Nay, be not too fast!
I was wrong to think that he who
could so act the villian and miscreant,
had any right to the ties of
kindred and home. His sentence
rests with me, does it not?” he added,
appealing to the rest.
“It does—it does,” cried all.
“Hear me then,” rejoined Luther,
raising his hands in a menacing attitude.
“ `As ye sow, so shall ye
reap.' I banish thee, Albert Bel
lington—alias, Rashton Moody—
forever from among the race of
civilized men. I curse and send
thee forth, a murderer upon the face
of the earth—a companion for the
savage and wild beast—never to
hear the sweet voice of sympathy
more! All trace that thou wert
nobly born is hereby removed.”
As Luther spoke, he took from
his knapsack some thongs of deerskin,
and, in spite of the resistance
of Moody, bound him fast, hand
and foot. Then casting him upon
his side, he drew his knife, and deliberately
cut the tattooed skin from
under his arm.
“Now go!” he cried, releasing
him: “Go! be a murderer and mendicant
upon the face of the earth,
and let the knowledge of thy
crimes, of what thou hast lost, and
thy guilty conscience be thy punishment!
Cross never my path
again—or I will deliver thee up to
justice. Farewell! Farewell!—
Henceforth I know thee no more—
no more!” and waving his hand, he
turned away his face, as if to shut
the other from his sight.
For a moment Moody stood like
a goaded tiger, gnashing his teeth
in fury; then muttering, “I will
yet be revenged!” he darted swiftly
away.
“He will trouble us again, I
fear,” said Danvers.
“Then the consequences rest
with himself,” rejoined Luther. “I
have done, and shall not interfere
again between him and justice.”
“Who are you, mysterious being?”
exclaimed Ernest, approaching
Luther; “and whence come
you? I am all amazement.”
Luther drew his tall, ungainly
person up to its full height, and
quietly folding his arms upon his
breast, replied:
“Go and ask the stars above,
Why their hours are meet for love—
Go and ask the moon so bright,
Why she silvers o'er the night—
Go and ask the sun on high,
Why his glories fill the sky—
If they answer, so will I.
“Like vain, presumptious mortals,”
continued Luther, you seek
to know too much.
“Who I am, or whence I came,
What my purpose, or my name,
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Matters are which Fates have sealed,
Not by me to be revealed.
When the eighth moon is in wane,
And the earth is green again,
If among the living then,
Thou shalt happiest be of men—
Thou shalt clasp her by thy side,
Truly thine, thy wedded bride;
Then, I charge thee, not before,
Open this, thou shalt know more!”
As he concluded, Luther placed
in the hands of Ernest a small silver
box, on which were wrought
some strange characters.
“This is all very mysterious,”
said Clifton, gazing first at the box,
and then at the donor. “I cannot
comprehend it.”
“It is like a beautiful dream,”
whispered Kate, stealing up to the
side of Ernest, and laying her soft,
white hand on his arm, with a look
of affection. “It is—” She was
about to continue her remarks, but
stopped suddenly, uttered a frightful
scream, and threw herself in
front of Ernest, as if to shield him
from danger.
Each started, and looked for the
cause of her alarm, when crack
went a pistol just in front of Clifton,
the ball of which slightly grazed
his cheek.
“Perdition seize ye!” cried the
voice of Moody, hoarse with passion;
and at the same moment his
form was seen disappearing thro'
the narrow passage leading out of
the cave. On his former retreat,
he had found the pistol discharged
by Kate, had loaded it, and returned
to take his last revenge.
“I 'spected as much,” said Ichabod,
snatching up a rifle. “If I
failed afore, it's no sign I will this
time;” and he darted away in pursuit
of Moody, followed by most of
the others, Clifton himself remaining
by the side of Kate.
A short silence succeeded the
tramping of feet on the floor of the
cavern, and then came the report
of a rifle. Presently Danvers joined
the party in the cave.
“Well?” said Clifton, addressing
him as he entered.
“He will never trouble us again,
I think,” answered Danvers.
“Is he dead?” asked Ernest,
gravely.
“It is hard to say; but hear and
judge for yourself. He had just
reached the rock arching the stream,
and was turning to ascend the rocky
bank, when Ichabod, with a hasty
aim, fired. For a moment Moody
paused, balanced in the air, and
then, with a horrible yell, disappeared
over the verge of the abyss.
A dull, hollow sound came up from
below, and then all was still.”
A brief silence succeeded this
announcement, when Ernest said,
solemnly:
“So perish the wicked.”
“Amen!” responded a deep,
heavy voice, that seemed to descend
from the ceiling of the cave.
Clifton and his companions started,
and looked upward, but saw
nothing save the bare rock.
“Why, where is Luther?” exclaimed
Kate, at this moment, looking
round her in astonishment.
“Heavens! he has disappeared
again!” rejoined Clifton, pointing to
the burning torch, one end of which
was sticking fast in a crevice of the
rock: “I could have sworn he was
standing here when I spoke.”
“And so could I,” returned Kate,
shuddering, and pressing closer to
the side of Clifton, who threw his
arms around her slender form, and
drew her to his heart, with all the
fond affection of an ardent lover.
“Never fear, sweet one,” he
whispered, bending down and stealing
a kiss: “whatever he may be
in reality, he seems a being ordained
by Heaven to stand between
thee and harm; and for that I bless
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him now and ever will hereafter.”
Great was the wonder and excitement
of the rest of the party,
when, returning into the cave, they
were informed of the sudden and
mysterious disappearance of Luther;
for none had seen him, and
all were willing to swear he had
not passed out the way he entered.
Ichabod declared, however, that the
smoke of his rifle, when he fired at
Moody, had assumed a terrible
shape; and now he remembered it
strangely resembled the Necromancer;
though how the smoke and
that singular personage could be in
any wise alike, or connected, exceeded
his comprehension.
The mystery now became a matter
of grave discussion; some declaring
that Luther was an evil
spirit, whose term on earth expired
with the death of Moody; and others,
among whom were Clifton and
Kate, contending that both were
bona fide beings of flesh and blood,
though the former was a very
strange character, whom they could
not comprehend. One observation
brought another, and the discussion
seemed likely to be protracted all
night, when Clifton ordered a sentinel
to be stationed in the passage
before spoken of, and the rest to retire
to rest, that they might be prepared
for their return on the following
day.
What took place during the night
we shall now proceed to relate.
CHAPTER XV.
A fearful, gloomy place.
—****
The hell of waters.
—Byron.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.
—Shakspeare,
Thereat he smitten was with great affright,
And trembling terror did his heart appall,
Nor wist he what to think of that same sight,
Nor what to say, nor what to do at all.
—Spenser.
Aghast he stood,
Stiffened with fear.
—Somerville.
The account given by Danvers,
of the disappearance of Moody,
was correct; but his conjecture
that he had been wounded by the
last fire of Ichabod was not. At
the time when Moody rushed out of
the cave, followed by those who
sought his life, objects at a short
distance had become indistinct, in
the dark grey twilight which had
already settled over the earth. In
consequence of this, the gardener
missed his mark; but the report of
the rifle, and the whizzing of its
ball within an inch of his head,
caused Moody to start suddenly,
when his foot slipped, his balance
was lost, and he plunged down the
chasm, with a horrible yell, expecting
of course to be dashed to pieces
on the rocks below. A deep pool
of water, which had been hollowed
out by the fall of a cascade, saved
him. Into this he fell with a force
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that for a moment stunned and
confused him; but quickly regaining
his senses, he struck out boldly,
and succeeded in crawling upon a
rock, that formed a partial barrier
to the outlet of the pool. This,
however, was not affected without
difficulty and repeated trials; for
the spray from the cascade, that
tumbled over a precipice a short
distance behind him, had coated
the rock with a slimy substance,
and made it slippery as an iceberg.
Seating himself at last upon the
rock, with as much composure as
he could assume, after having been
so signally thwarted in his dark
schme, he instantly set his head to
plotting the best means by which
he could yet retrieve what he had
lost, and revenge himself for the
new indignities that had been heaped
upon him.
“They think me dead of course,”
he muttered to himself; “and well
they may, after pitching me into
such a dark, dungeon-like thundering
hole as this; but I'll show them
I am not thus easily put out of the
way. It is well as it is, for now
they will think themselves safe,
and thus give me the better chance
to make sure plans and take them
unawares. A curse on that old
juggler, who has thwarted my designs
so often! By —! I'll soon
have his old scalp where it will not
trouble me again—that is if he is
mortal,” he added, in an under tone,
endeavoring to peer around him into
the darkness, as if fearful that
he of whom he spoke might somehow
mysteriously make his appearance,
as he had more than once
done before.
“Who and what can he be any
how?” he continued, after a moment's
pause. “There is something
wonderful about him, I must
own; and even the savages fear,
and respect him, and call him
Great Medicine. And what does
he know of me, and how did he obtain
his knowledge? By heavens!
the more I think and see of him,
the more mysterious he seems.
Can it be that what he said was
true? I would not believe it, but that
I saw, with my own eyes, the mark
under my left arm. There can be
no denying that, at all events—unless
(and Moody paused and mused,
as one who doubts and yet is inclined
to believe)—unless he by
some strange magic power made it
to appear there for the time. At
all events,” he added, fiercely, “it is
gone now, and the flesh with it, as
I can sorely feel; and man or devil,
by—! I'll have my revenge
on him yet, or die in the attempt.
“He says I am brother to Clifton—
twin brother,” resumed the
outcast, after another short pause.
“May be I am, or was—(on the last
word he laid particular emphasis)—
or was, I say—for now that the totem
is removed, we are brothers no
longer. Besides, he has done
enough to alienate me from him
without this. A curse on him,” he
fairly shouted, “brother or no brother,
for crossing me in my love!
For this—for this I would have revenge,
though his claim to the fraternal
tie were never so well proven,
and though I had called him
brother all my life. Ah! my shoulder—
a curse too, on that gardener!—
but I'll have all settled ere long.
Now to get out of this infernal
place; for infernal it seems, and
dark as the regions of the damned.
I am wet and chilly, and my wound
feels painful. Let me once get out
of this place, and I trust my dusky
brethren may be easily found, even
if they have moved their camp.”
Saying this, he slid down from
the rock into the water, on the side
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opposite that which he had ascended
on emerging from the pool. It
was not deep—not more than five
inches at the most—but a rather
abrupt declivity gave it an impetus
that sent it foaming and roaring
over the rocks in its course to the
plain below, and rendered it highly
dangerous footing, even in daylight;
for a slip, or on unguarded step,
would in all probability plunge the
adventurer down its jagged path,
and dash him to pieces; and consequently
it was none the less perilons
now, when night and the overhanging
cliffs had shrouded it in
darkness, where nothing could be
seen save an occasional fire-like
flash from the angry, hissing, boiling,
frothy surges.
Moody at once comprehended his
danger, and his heart beat fast and
hard against his breast, and sometimes
seemed to rise in his very
throat; so much was he, who under
ordinary circumstances feared
not death, awed by the gloom and
peril of his present situation.
“I should not boast of my escape
yet,” he said to himself; “for death
assuredly stares me in the face,
and presents his most unwelcome
aspect.”
Carefully feeling his way, he now
moved to one side of the narrow
channel, and laid his hand upon the
rock, in hopes of finding some
means of ascending the cliff, or
keeping along upon its bank. None
was found. The cliff, as high as he
could reach, was perpendicular, and
slippery as glass. He crossed the
channel, and found the opposite
cliff the same. There was nothing
left for him but to go down the bed
of the stream, and accordingly he
began to do so, keeping hold of the
rock, to steady himself as best he
could over the slimy stones and
treacherous ground beneath his feet.
For some time he continued his
descent slowly, without meeting
any difficulty worthy of notice. He
had already advanced a hundred
yards, and was beginning to congratulate
himself on his second escape,
when his ears were saluted
with a faint, dull, roaring sound,
like the fall of a heavy body of water.
He paused in dismay, and listened.
He could hear it distinctly,
above the more shallow roaring,
if we may so express it, of the torrent
rushing past. He comprehended
the fearful truth, and again his
heart died within him, and he would
have sunk down in despair, had he
not feared the awful denouement
would be hastened by quitting his
hold of the rock. Ahead of him
was certainly another cascade, the
the brow of which he was nearing
at every step, and down which he
must assuredly plunge—or, what
was equally as terrifying, remain
imprisoned where he was.
For some moments he stood irresolute
what to do, during which
his extreme agony of mind caused
a cold perspiration to ooze from every
pore of his skin. For almost
the first time in his life of guilt he
tried to pray; but the words stuck
in his throat, and seemed to choke
him. Death, now that he had felt
so confident of escape, rose up before
him in all its terrors. Despair
at last took the place of hope and
foar, and he was on the point of
throwing himself flat-wise on the
current, and trusting the rest to
chance, when a new idea struck
him, and he suddenly exclaimed:
“What a fool I am to get frightened
at imaginary terrors! How
do I know there is not a way to
pass these falls without going down
with the water?”
Saying this, his courage revived,
and he again moved forward with
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renewed hope. Nearer and nearer
he drew to the falls, and louder and
louder came up the sullen roar of
the waters. At last he stood upon
the verge of the precipice, and,
with the utmost difficulty, prevented
his feet from being drawn down
into the unknown chasm, by the
force of the rapids. He carefully
felt of the rock to which he clung,
but, to his disappointment, could
find no broken or craggy places to
aid him in his descent. All, as before,
was upright, smooth and solid,
save occasionally a little crag that
made a hold for his fingers. Again
hope died, and he secretly wished
for that great change which his
guilty soul shrunk to encounter.
What was to be done? He could
not long remain where he was, for
his efforts to keep himself there had
already tired his arms, and weakened
him not a little. At last he
decided to retrace his steps, until
he should come to an easier footing,
and there, if possible, hold out
till daylight should enable him to
devise some means of escape.
Accordingly, with great caution,
and at the risk of his life, he moved
up the stream some fifty yards,
when he came to a place where the
rock slightly jutted out, so that he
could place his body against it, and
rest somewhat comfortably. Here
he determined on remaining till
morning—or, at all events, until
the moon, which was a little past
her full, had arisen sufficiently to
light up his gloomy abode.
Terrible were the thoughts that
now crowded the mind of this dark
man. Alone, as it were in the
bowels of the earth, with dangers
on every hand, he was thus forced
to think and feel as he had never
done before; and as, unless under
similar circumstances, he might
never do again. It is one thing to
face death in the heat of strife,
when all the faculties of the mind
are turned into the channel of self-defense,
ambition, glory or revenge—
when thoughts of the great hereafter
are lost in the wild, frenzied
passions of the moment—and another
to contemplate it in silence,
alone, away from aught that can
distract the mind. Men talk of heroes—
of courage on the field of
battle—where everything is calculated
to excite, intoxicate, bewilder,
and draw them forward to they
know not what, nor have time nor
power to know; but this is no more
to be compared to that moral courage
which can meet death calmly
in solitude, than is the wild blustering
of a drunken man to what
one coolly and firmly asserts in sober
reason. The one is the bravery
of the animal merely, without
the action of the mind; the other,
the courage of the mind, without
the action of the body.
In proof of this, how often do we
hear of men, who, amid the carnage
of the ensanguined field, have rushed
up reckless, fearless of all danger,
to the belching cannon's mouth,
placing their lives as if by choice
in the greatest jeopardry, and thus
winning laurels of courage to bind
their brows forever, and make them
model heroes for future ages—
shrinking back in their calm,
sober moments, like some timid boy,
from the near approach of death.
Of this last class was Moody.
Under the influence of excitement
and passion, he was brave, so far
as animal courage goes, as the
bravest; but take these away, as
in the present instance, and he became
at once the veriest coward
on earth.
There is ever something awful
in contemplating death, when all
the energies and reasoning powers
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of the mind are in full blast; when
we see and feel that we are slowly,
but surely, hastening to that dread
change which all must undergo,
but of which no one knoweth that
hath a being in the mortal state;
when we are throwing off this
earthly coil, bidding a last farewell
to scenes and friends of which we
have a knowledge, and, it may be,
“flying to other ills that we know
not of.”
Moody now had time for grave
contemplation; and, moreover, was
forced to it by surrounding circumstances.
Cold and wet, he leaned
against the rock and thought of the
past—of his life of sin and crime—
and something like remorse harrowed
up his guilty soul. How
much better, he felt, it would have
been, had his course been upright
and honest; had he lived a life of
virtue, and, with the talents he possessed,
and the advantages which
had been given him, been a shining
ornament to society, instead of a
disgrace and curse. He thought of
the awful fate which seemed to be
hanging over him, and the little
chance he had of escaping it; and
his soul fairly shrunk at the possibility
of what he might meet in the
dread Beyond. He had been
taught pious words in his youth—
he had read the Bible—and, in spite
of his reckless, awful career, he believed
there was a Heaven for the
good, and a Hell for the wicked;
and it needed no argument, he felt,
to prove to which he belonged.
Death now had terrors, that death
seemed never to have had before;
and he quaked and trembled where
he stood like the guilty thing he was.
Minute succeeded minute, and
hours had already elapsed, ere the
moon had sufficiently risen to throw
her silvery rays down the steep
rocks on to the foaming flood in
which Moody still remained. As
soon as her bright light fell upon
the waters, the outeast thought best
to make another trial for his life.
Accordingly, he changed his position,
and again descended toward
the cascade. When within ten
feet of the precipice, over which
the water tumbled, he fancied he
saw a ruggedness in the opposite
rock that might enable him to
climb to the summit, and thus avoid
the falls altogether. His heart
bounded at the thought; and, regardless
of the risk he ran, he at
once set out to ford the stream.
When about half way across, his
feet struck against a rock—he
stumbled—fell—and the next moment
the boiling surge had borne
him to the brow of the awful precipice.
There was no help now; all
hope of escape was cut off; and
throwing himself as much as possible
into an upright position, as
he passed the verge, he uttered one
prayer, “God save me!” and disappeared—
down—down—into the
hell of waters below.
That man has an appointed time
to die, might be strongly argued
from the fact, that we every day
witness, in a greater or less degree,
what men undergo and live; and
yet how little it requires, when
their time has come, to cut the brittle
thread of life, and launch them
into the incomprehensible eternity.
Had we time and space, we might
cite numerous instances that have
come to our own knowledge, where
men have undergone tenfold the agonies
of death have been given over
by skillful physicians—have been
wept as dead—who have recovered
and lived, as it were to show a
miracle to the world—and yet have
died at last, by the simplest of all
ailments, a cold, or a scratch of the
finger. That such cases are of
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common occurrence, we all know; but
wherefore, is one of those great
mysteries by which the Creator designs
to work out his own ends; and
the best lesson we can draw from
them is, that we should at all times
be ready for the uncertainty of life.
By the common phrase, that “his
time had not come,” we must account
for the wonderful preservation
of Moody in the present instance.
His chance of escape, unharmed,
was in the ratio of one to
a million—and yet he escaped. In
the exact spot where he went
down, was an immense depth of
water—a pool, not unlike the one
above, though much smaller;
which, like that, too, had been hollowed
out by the eternal wear of
the cascade. It was small, as we
have said, and on every side surrounded
by rocks. The falls were
some thirty feet in height; and
there was only one spot which
presented the possibility of escape,
and but one means of reaching it.
This spot, by means of which he
was at the time unconscious, Moody
gained. It will be recollected,
as he went over the verge of the
precipice, he managed to take an
upright position. As luck would
have it, the exertion which he made
in doing so, sent him clear of the
main body of the stream, and he
went down just outside of the falling
sheet. Standing perpendicular,
his feet struck square upon the
surface of the pool, while the force
with which he descendod instantly
buried him far below. A re-action
took place, and his head soon rose
far above the water. With great
presence of mind he grappled a
rock, and the next moment was
safe, and had an opportunity of
perceiving how near he had been
to the jaws of death.
Had he gone down in the cur
rent instead of out of it—had he
fallen flatwise—had he varied a
foot—or, in fact, had he not passed
over the falls exactly in the place
and manner he did, he must assuredly
have been dashed to pieces
upon the surrounding rocks. A direct
Providence, it seemed, alone
save him; and, for a time, something
like a feeling of gratitude to
the Guardian of his destiny, held a
place in his breast; and he gazed
around him in silent awe. But, as
generally happens with those
whose hearts are hardened past
redemption, no sooner did he realize
that he was actually safe, than
his wild, vindictive feelings gained
the ascendancy, and he was fain to
attribute to his own presence of
mind, what should have been yielded
to a Higher Power.
“Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed, at
length, rather impiously; “why
should I fear death? Do I not always
escape, even where escape
seems impossible? I have nothing
to fear—my good fortune will carry
me though all extremes.”
With this he rose, and, ascending
the bank, which was here not
difficult to climb, descended to the
plain. Pausing a moment in an
open spot, where the moon shone
full upon his dark countenance, displaying
there a grim smile, he turned,
and was quickly buried in the
surrounding forest.
Presumptuous fool! How little
did he know of what the future had
in store for him!
CHAPTER XVI.
Oh, frail inconstancy of mortal state!
One hour dejected, and the next elate!
Raised by false hopes, or by false fears depress'd;
How different passions sway the human breast.
Pattison.
To council now, and vengeance then?
—Anos.
Some five miles higher up the
Miami, and within a few yards of
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the stream itself, was encamped,
on the night of the events detailed,
a band of warriors. Their camp,
however, was very simple. A
small fire was burning on a smooth
plat, around which, with their feet
centering toward the flame, lay extended
some eight or ten dark figures,
asleep—apparently so, at
least—over which the flickering and
sombre light cast wild, fantastic
shadows. The party had not even
taken the precaution to station sentinels—
a proof that they felt themselves
perfectly secure. They were
in the Indian country, where all the
tribes were friendly to each other,
and afar, as they imagined, from
the whites, their only enemies.
'Tis, true, they had been on the
war-path against the latter, and
some of their garments were yet
stained with the blood of recent
victims; while, at the girdles of
two, hung fresh scalps. It was
natural to suppose they would
be followed, yet they seemed to
have no fears—fancying doubtless,
that they were now either too far
distant to be overtaken immediately,
or that their foes were too unskillful
on the trail to find them; and
the more so, that they had broken it
for miles by passing up the bed of
the river. Thus they slept in security—
not as soundly, perhaps, as
they would have done in their own
cabins, but sufficiently sound to answer
all the purposes of nature, in
refreshing their wearied bodies—
while the waning moon, riding high
in the heavens, poured down over
all her flood of mellow light,and partially
dimmed the glare of the fire
of their camp.
It was not far from the meridian
of night when a tall figure glided
among the trees, and stealthily approached
them. When within ten
yards, he halted, examined them at
tentively, and then, as if satisfied
all was right, advanced boldly
toward the circle. Even this last
movement seemed unheeded, tho'
one or two turned and moved their
limbs, as if troubled by some unpleasant
dream; and one actually
went through the motions of taking
the scalp.
“Warriors on the war-path,” said
the voice of the figure, speaking in
the Shawance dialect, “I am surprised
to find you sleeping without
a sentinel!”
At the first sound of the speaker's
voice, each Indian sprang to his
feet in surp rise, and laid his hand
upon the rifle by his side, ready
for defense.
“Ugh!” ejaculated most of the
warriors, as their eyes fell upon
the speaker, while the grasp upon
their weapons gradually relaxed,
and they stood still, as if waiting to
hear further.
“Brothers,” continued Moody,
for he it was, “you sleep too soundly
on the war-path, and might
have been surprised by the pale-faces.”
“Does my brother know of danger,
that he thus chides us?” asked
a tall, fierce looking savage, who
appeared to be one possessed of
authority.
“There is always danger when
foes are in pursuit,” replied Moody.
“Are the pale-faces then on our
trail?” inquired the other, a fierce
gleam of satisfaction shooting
athwart his dark visage.
“They are within five miles of
us?” answered Moody, “and have
possessed themselves of the bird
which I caught in my snare.”
The hand of each was again
placed upon a weapon, and each
turned to the other a startled look
of inquiry, but no one replied. After
a silence of perhaps a minute,
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the one who had first addressed
Moody, rejoined:
“Will my brother explain? or
does danger press?”
As Moody apprehended no danger
himself, he briefly narrated such
of the events already known to the
reader as he thought most likely
to rouse the ire of his swarthy companions,
and induce them to enter
into his plans—carefully avoiding,
however, any mention of Luther,
who was known personally, or by
report, to all present, and feared as
a Great Medicine, to contend with
whom would be useless—their
superstitious fears magnifying him
into a supernatural being, directly
under the influence and guidance
of the Great Spirit.
“You have heard,” said Moody,
in conclusion, glancing round upon
his auditors, and noting with satisfaction,
the involuntary tightening
of their hands upon their rifles, the
gleaming of their eyes, and the
dilating of their mostrils, the only
signs, indicative of their intense
interest in his recital. No one replied;
and after a silence of some
moments, Moody resumed, in a
rather impatient tone:
“I trust, my brothers, you are not
turning squaws. That you have
been brave, these eyes have seen,
and this tongue can bear witness.
Are you ready for the war-path
again?—or are your knives and
hatchets dull, and your powder wet?
Speak! for Posetha[1] would know.”
“My brother,” replied Mugwa†,
the spokesman on the part of the
Indians, “is hasty. Posetha should
remember an Indian must always
take time to consider before he
adopts a new plan. We have been
on the war-path toward the south,
and our faces are now set to the
north. Before we change our
course, we must hold council.”
“Then, by—! let it be speedily!”
growled Moody, in English,
making use of an oath. “If you
don't choose to accompany me soon,
I shall go alone; for be revenged I
will, though it cost me my life.”
As this was said in a low tone,
and in a language which the best
among them but imperfectly understood,
it of course elicited no remark.
Each, however, noted the
manner of Moody, and saw that he
was dissatisfied; but even this
failed to bring out a single comment,
so accustomed were the Indians
to silence, when any important
question was pending. Having
seated themselves around the fire,
Mugwa now slowly produced a
pipe, which he filled, and lighted,
smoked a short time in silence, and
passed to his neighbor; who, imitating
his example, smoked and passed
it to the next; and thus it went
around the circle, Moody merely
drawing a few whiffs, to comply as
briefly as possible with the Indian
council custom.
When the last smoker had done,
and a sufficient pause had succeeded,
Mugwa rose and said:
“The ears of the Piquas are now
open to the words of the pale-face
chief. Let my brother lay before
them his plans, that they may consider
if they be wise.”
“Brothers,” rejoined Moody, rising
as the other sat down, “my
words shall be few, and to the
point; for my tongue is parched and
thirsty for blood, and my limbs are
weary and stiff with long watching
in the bowels of the earth. Brothers,
I was made your chief, and we
have been upon the war-path together—
not unsuccessfully, as
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[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
yonder trophies bear witness.” Here
he pointed to the two scalps before
mentioned, one of which was dangling
from the belt of Mugwa.
“Brothers,” he continued, “on that
war-path all were brave, and fought
as became warriors, until prudence,
the gift of the wise, bade them retire.
On that war-path Posetha
caught a dove, and had her caged,
and then went and consulted
his brothers, and asked, and they
generously gave him, permission to
do with her as he might see proper.
Brothers, Posetha returned to the
cage where he had left his dove, and
there he found her, and was happy,
until the vultures of pale-faces came
and snatched her away, and set upon
him, and nearly picked out his
eyes. Brothers, Posetha would have
revenge!—he would have the bones
of the pale-faces whiten in the open
air, while their scalps dry in the cabins
of his red friends! Brothers, if
you are ambitious, now is the time
to distinguish yourselves, and carry
home trophies that shall please the
Great Spirit, and send your names
down by tradition to far posterity.
The pale-faces will be unguarded;
they think the “Cat” is dead; and
they can be taken unawares, and
conquered without a blow. Brothers,
if you are willing, Posetha will
lead you to a cover, where your
enemies will pass unguarded, and
can all be made your prisoners for
the torture, or their scalps can be
taken on the spot. Brothers, I have
only one reserve to make: the dove
must not be harmed; she is mine,
and I must have her to coo in my
wigwam. Brothers, I am done, and
wait your answers.”
Moody sat down, and a deep silence
succeeded. Each savage remained
as stern and motionless as
marble, with his eyes fixed upon the
fire, apparently in a dreamy, con
templative mood. At length Mugwa
motioned for the pipe; and on
its being handed him, he refilled it,
smoked a little, and passed it to his
neighbor; and thus it went around
the circle again, in silence, not a
single warrior having opened his
lips. After another brief pause,
whereby each seemed determined
to give his neighbor a chance, Mugwa,
chief of the Indians, arose.
We say chief, for although Moody
was nominally so, yet Mugwa had
more direct command over the savages
than the other.
For a moment or two, Mugwa ran
his eyes over the group before him,
as we sometimes see an orator,
when he desires to make an impression,
and draw exclusive attention
to himself. He was a tall, powerful
warrior, and in his paint looked
sufficiently ferocious to entitle him
to his appellation of the “Bear,” or
please the vanity of a savage. His
eyes were black and fiery, and a
look of cunning and brutality formed
the prevailing expression of his
features.
“Brothers,” he said at length,
“you have heard the words of Posetha;
to Mugwa they seem wise and
good. There seems a chance for
more trophies. A chance to take
new vengeance on this hated race,
that are fast usurping our own and
the hunting grounds of our fathers.
Soon shall we be forced toward the
setting sun, unless our hands are
continually died in their blood.
They will over-run and cover the
land we tread on as the leaves in
the autumn. If a viper creep into
our wigwam, do we not crush it,
lest it do us harm?—and yet were
the ground thick with vipers, instead
of pale-faces, we should have reason
to rejoice. Brothers, on this
war-path we have done well—shall
we not do better? Shall we not
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please our squaws and young men,
by bringing them prisoners to torture?
When we take the scalps of
our enemies, the Great Spirit is
pleased—shall we not, then, please
the Great Spirit? The voice of
Mugwa says `Yes!' Who says
`No?' Let me hear?”
Here Mugwa sat down, amid
grunts of approbation from his savage
auditors. Another profound
silence of some minutes succeeded,
when a warrior rose.
“Unkee,” he said, “has heard the
words of the great chiefs, and he
thinks them wise. In the lodge of
Unkee are a squaw and three pappooses.
When he returns, they will
ask to see his trophies. Unkee has
nothing to show. Their faces will
be sad. Unkee would have them
glad. The great chiefs have pointed
out a way. Unkee is pleased, and he
thinks the chiefs wise. He is done.”
Saying this, the last speaker quietly
resumed his seat. But enough
had been said. There was no further
need of grave deliberation.
The minds of all had become fully
settled. Their passions had been
wrought upon, and they were ready
for deeds of blood. Suddenly some
two or three warriors sprang to
their feet, and uttered the scalp
halloo. Others followed their example.
The matter was soon decided,
and the council over. Water
was now brought and thrown upon
the fire; belts were tightened;
weapons put in their proper places;
and the announcement was made
that all was ready.
“Follow!” said Moody; and taking
his way across a small open
plat, he was soon buried in a dense
thicket. One after another, to the
number of ten dark warriors, trod
in his steps, and, disappearing, left
the scene of the late council silent
and deserted.
eaf007.n1[1] Posetha, or Cat — the Indian name of
Moody — probably bestowed on account of
his stealthy movements.
eaf007.dag1† Bear.
Still in doubt, and still perplexed,
The more we search, the more we're vexed.
Brinley's Rescue.
“Daylight!” exclaimed the voice
of the sentinel, who had been stationed
to keep watch in the cave;
and the word was heard echoing
far away to the most distant recesses.
This was the signal for the party
to be astir; and Clifton, who
was encamped upon the ground
nearest the speaker, instantly
sprang to his feet, and, without
communicating with any, at once
took his way to the mouth of the
cave. It was a beautiful morning,
and, unlike the one preceding it,
the atmosphere was clear and without
mist. A few crimson streaks
in the east, and a dull, leaden gray
color that had settled over the
earth, announced that day was already
dawning. In the west, the
waning moon could still be seen;
but its light appeared pale and sickly,
as it mingled with that of the
coming day, which was soon to supersede
it altogether. All was pleasant
and serene, with no cloud to
mar the broad, blue canopy above.
A heavy dew had fallen during the
night, and was now reposing, in
silvery drops, upon the rocks, and
the leaves of a few bushes which
grew around the entrance of the
cave, and overhung the stream that
roared and foamed far below. The
air was cool and bracing, and a light
breeze hore to the ear of our hero
the songs of several warblers,
which had commenced their morning's
roundelay.
As Clifton stood and gazed around
him in the pale light, and saw the
beauties of the morning, he could
not shake off a feeling of sadness
that had taken possession of his
soul. The events of the already
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departing night, now came up before
him like a dream. His mind
instantly reverted to the strange
revelations of Luther, and he
thought how mysterious were the
ways of Providence. Could it be
that Moody was his brother?—and
if so, how wonderful that they
should meet as foes in the great
wilderness! Could it be, too, that
both were nobly born!—and if so,
how singular that he should be thus
left to grow up in ignorance of a
fact so important. It might be true,
he felt for he had never known
father nor mother. He had been
reared and educated by a New
England family, until the age of
eighteen, when he had been told it
rested with him to choose his occupation
for life. He had chosen the
army, and had been placed in a
military school; since when, by
the aid of some unknown friend,
he had been advanced to the rank
and station he now held. He had
often made inquiries concerning
his parents, but could never learn
further, than that they were supposed
to be dead, and that he was
indebted for all his favors to a
strange benefactor, whom he had
never seen, and perhaps never
would. Might not this benefactor
be Luther? He had let fall words
to such an effect, by stating that
he knew him before he knew himself.
The secret was doubtless
contained in the silver box which
that wonderful being had placed in
his hands, and he was sorely tempted
to break it open and know at
once; but the request to the contrary,
until Kate should have become
his wife, restrained him.
Who was Luther? and how did
he manage to make all fear him,
and bring about his purposes so
mysteriously? What did his last
strange words portend? And Moo
dy, too—if he was indeed his brother,
although he amply merited
death, how much rather he would
have had him live, perhaps to repent
and reform. But it was too
late now. He was gone. He had
perished by the hand of another;
and even now his mutilated remains
might, perchance, be laying
on the rocks below.
As these thoughts passed rapidly
through the mind of Clifton, he approached
the spot where Moody
was last seen by the party at the
cave, and, taking hold of some
stunted bushes that grew upon the
verge of the chasm, endeavored to
peer down into the gloomy abyss.
It was still too dark to see aught,
save here and there a fire-flash of
the water, as it dashed over the
rocks, and sent up its hollow roar;
and Clifton quickly drew back,
with a shudder. As he did so, a
soft hand was laid upon his arm.
He turned, and beheld the idol of
his heart, the lovely Kate Clarendon,
standing by his side, her features
pale and sad, and her eyes
slightly dimmed by a pearly tear.
“Ah! dearest,” exclaimed Ernest,
throwing an arm around, and
drawing her to his beating heart;
“you are troubled; I can see it in
your sweet countenance.”
“I was thinking of my dear, dear
mother,” returned Kate, simply;
and unable to control her emotion
longer, she buried her head upon
the breast of him she loved and
wept freely.
Clifton was moved, and it was
sometime ere he could command
his own feelings so as to answer
calmly.
“Do not weep, dearest,” he said,
at length; “your mother is now an
angel in Heaven.”
“I know it,” rejoined Kate, with
a fresh burst of grief. “She is
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better off now, than when in this cold
world of sorrow; but then it is so
hard to part from those we love.”
“It is, indeed,” returned Clifton,
sadly, gazing upon her with a look
of affection, and thinking of the
moment when he might be called
to part from her, or she from him,
by the same woful messenger,
death. “It is indeed hard to part
from those we love, dear Kate;
and God send the time be far distant,
ere it be the trial of either of
us again! But, dearest Kate,” he
pursued, consolingly, “even had
nature taken its course, you would
soon have been an orphan; and
you should try to be resigned, that
your mother has escaped all the
anguish of a lingering death of
pain. Though horrible, her death
was easy; and her sweet spirit
winged its flight, without knowing
the cause that separated it from its
clayey tenement.”
“I do try to be resigned,” Kate
replied; “but still, dear Ernest, I
must grieve, and weep, for I am
only a poor human being after all.”
“In that, of course, you do but
what is right,” said Ernest, tenderly;
“and tears are a great relief
to the overcharged spirit.” Then,
musing for a moment, he resumed:
“I, too, feel somewhat sad. I have
been pondering over various matters,
and at the moment when you
touched my arm, I was peering
down the chasm, expecting to behold
my brother's remains—but it
was too dark.”
“O, do not call him brother,”
said Kate, earnestly; do not, dear
Ernest! for he was everything that
is wicked and base; while you, on
the contrary, are everything that is
noble and good. I am sure you
cannot be brothers; I will not have
you so.”
“I do not know,” replied Clifton,
musingly,; “it is all very mysterious.
He was a dark man, it is
true—a terrible man—a man, in
fact, of crime and blood; but, whatever
his crimes, he is now most
probably before that Great Tribunal,
where he will have to answer
for himself, and be judged accordingly.
I ought not to forgive him,
and yet my heart rather yearns to
do so. I saw him last night in my
dreams, and methought he had repented
and called me brother. I
awoke feeling sad, and without
saying a word to any, I arose and
came hither.”
“I saw you,” replied Kate; “for
when the sentinel spoke, I had been
long awake; and I rose and followed
you.”
“You did not rest well, then, my
dearest Kate?”
“But indifferently,” replied the
other; “for, between my hard bed
and ten thousand thoughts that
came crowding one after another
upon me, I was not long in the
arms of Morpheus.”
“I fear you will not be able to
endure the journey, after such a
feverish rest.”
“O, I think I shall, for I am
strong and well.”
“By the way, dearest, tell me
how you came here, what became
of the savages, and what happened
after I saw you?”
“I was conducted here by Moody;
what became of the Indians, I
do not know; and what happened, I
will tell you some other time; for I
see our friends are coming this way.”
As she spoke, Kate pointed toward
the mouth of the cave; and
turning, Clifton perceived Danvers,
David and Ichabod issuing therefrom
“A beautiful day, for our homeward
journey,” remarked Danvers,
approaching the lovers.
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“It is indeed,” answered Clifton;
`and I trust, ere night, we shall
once more be safe among our
friends.”
“Had we not better partake of
some refreshment, and set out as
soon as possible?” asked Danvers,
in reply.
“There is a very heavy dew,” answered
the young officer, “and the
bushes are very wet; so that perhaps
we had better wait until the
sun has well risen. I think we
shall then have sufficient time; for
although Luther led us a long way,
I do not think we are more than
twenty-five, or at most thirty, miles
from the settlement, by the course
of the river.”
“Well, as you like,” rejoined
Danvers; “though, for one, I am
anxious to be moving; for we do
not know what may happen if we
stay here.”
“Have you any reason to think
the place unsafe?” inquired Kate,
rather anxiously.
“Why, I don't know,” replied
Danvers. “It is most probably
known to the Indians, and they may
come hither in search of Moody—
which result, to say the least, would
be unpleasant.”
“True,” answered Clifton, musingly:
“You are right, Danvers; I
did not think of that. Upon second
thoughts, perhaps we had better
leave at once.”
“Second thoughts is generally
the wisest,” put in David, coming
up to the party, in company with
Ichabod.
“Then you, too, think it not safe
here?” said Kate, addressing the
scout.
“Don't know, o' course,” replied
David; “but some how I can't git it
out o' my head, that Moody arn't
dead.”
Each started, and turned to
ward the speaker a look of inquiry.
“Fact!” returned David, quietly.
“What reason have you for so
thinking?” queried Clifton, in a
manner that showed he, too, might
think it possible.
“Can't give no reason,” answered
David; “unless it's cause he
seemed to have as many lives as a
cat, and that I dreampt about 'im
last night.”
“And pray what did you dream?”
“That he'd got away, and had all
the Injins arter us.”
“I do not think that can be,” rejoined
Danvers; “for if not mortally
wounded by the fire of Ichabod,
I think his fall must have done the
rest.”
“May be you forgit how he's
mixed up with the Necromancer,”
observed the scout, glancing round
him cautiously, in a way to show
that he at least was not devoid of
a feeling of superstition common
to most, particularly the uneducated,
of that day. “Blind Luther,
you know, wanted to save him;
and I 'spect, from what I seed of
him, that he could do it easy
enough.”
Clifton smiled.
“Do not give him more power
than he would claim for himself,”
he said, in a tone calculated to dispel
all fears on that point. “Luther
has said he was nothing more
than mortal, and I believe him;
though I own some of his doings
look a little mysterious; but doubtless
they could all be accounted for
very simply.”
“May be you can account for
'em, then,” rejoined David, somewhat
testily: “I can't.”
“Nor I,” said the gardener.
By this time the rest of the party
had joined the speakers, and learning
the subject of their
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conversation, most of them took sides with
the scout.
“At all events,” said Danvers,
who seemed a little staggered, and
hardly knowing which side to join,
though rather inclined to take part
with Clifton: “At all events, if we
can see his body lying on the rocks
below, we may believe our eyes.”
“Yes, if you can find 'im there,
I'll gin in,” returned David; “but
take my word for't, you won't.”
“I looked down a short time
since,” observed Clifton, “but it was
then too dark—it is lighter now.”
In fact day had been steadily advancing,
and the dull gray of morning
had already given place to a
clear, sober light, by which each
object could be distinctly seen.
The crimson of the east had gradually
changed to a more bright and
yellow hue, and there was conclusive
evidence that the great luminary
of the day would soon show
his welcome visage above the eastern
horizon. Each of the party,
Kate excepted, now approached
the verge of the abyss, and cautiously
peered down into the chasm.
The light here was dim, but still
sufficient for the purpose required.
A small pool was immediately under
them, into one part of which
fell the cascade before mentioned,
with a sort of gloomy roar. The
outlines of the rock, on which
Moody had held his soliloquy, could
also be traced—appearing in the
meagre light, to the excited imaginations
of most, as the demon or
evil genii of the place—beyond
which the water foamed, and rushed,
and roared continually. Besides
these nothing of importance could
be noted, save that the rocks on
either side were almost smooth,
perpendicular, and slimy.
“He is not there, at all events,”
said Danvers, as, after gazing
down some five minutes, he, with
most of the party, drew back.
“I told ye so,” returned David,
triumphautly. “He's gone, and
afore you know it, will have the
Injins upon us, sure as cats jump
for game.”
“I do not think so,” said Clifton.
“That we cannot see his body, is
no evidence he is not dead.”
“But 'sposing we could see his
body there, it'd be the best evidence
that he arn't no where else,” rejoined
David—who, having got the
notion in his head, and being of a
rather dogged disposition, was now
fully determined that Moody should
be alive, that he might prove himself
correct in his surmises. We see a
great many David Grants every day.
“You say true, David,” answered
Clifton, smiling, “that if the
body of my brother, as Luther called
him, was there, it would not be
elsewhere; but I am astonished,
David, that a man of your reputation
as a scout, should resort to a
logic so shallow, to conceal what
your good sense tells you is the
true state of the matter. That
Moody is not there, every one can
see; and that he could not be there,
you know as well as I; for no dead
body could long remain stationary
in that rushing current. If you follow
down the stream, you will
doubtless find his remains somewhere,
and dead enough in all conscience.”
David hung his head, a little
ashamed; for he saw at once that
his shallow reasoning was not likely
to give him any extra reputation
for wisdom; yet determined not to
yield the point too easy, or, in sooth,
until forced from it by stubborn
fact, he replied, a little sullenly:
“As I'd like to be sure he's dead,
may be it 'd be no harm in looking
along further down.”
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“Agreed,” said Clifton; who, for
two reasons, wished to find the body
of his brother. First, to destroy
that superstitious fear, which he
now, to his regret, perceived was
fast getting a hold on the minds of
all, Danvers not excepted; and
secondly, that he might, in a rude
way, give him Christian burial.
“Kate,” he continued, turning to
her, “you had better go into the
cave and take some refreshment.”
“But, dear Ernest—” began
Kate, timidly.
“Have no fears, sweet one; we
are only going a short distance, to
search for the body of Moody, and
will soon return. Besides, Ichabod,
here, will stay and keep you
company.”
“O, most sartinly,” answered the
gardener, his small eyes brightening
with delight; “nothing couldn't
suit me better; and I'll go with my
litle pet straightway.”
As no further objection was preferred
by Kate, Clifton now ascended
the difficult path, which led up
the brow of the cliff, followed
by David, Danvers, and the others,
in silence. Reaching the platform
before noticed, the party at once
leaped across the narrowchasm on
the opposite side, and kept along
the hill for some two hundred
yards, when they came to a spot
sufficiently shelving to enable them
to descend to the plain below.
This, however, was not their immediate
design—that being to approach
the stream at the foot of the
precipice, and continue, if possible,
along its margin, so as to note distinctly
every object in its bed. In
a few minutes the brink of the
stream was gained, at the point
where the second cascade was
formed, and where, it will be remembered,
Moody had such a narrow
escape. A large rock, which
here jutted in toward the opposite
bank, almost over the falls, allowed
such as chose to venture out upon
it, a complete view of the current
from the lower to the upper cascade,
and also the whole extent of
the stream below the falls to the
plain, where it again became lost
in its serpentine course toward the
Little Miami.
“Well, what do you think now?”
asked Clifton of the scout, as with
the latter he ventured upon the
rock, and made an examination
with his eyes in both directions.
“Why, I think we han't found
the body yet,” replied David, laconically.
“True; but don't you see there
was no chance for Moody to escape
with life. The rocks above here
are precipitious and slippery, so
that it is impossible he should
have ascended them, even if he escaped
with life in the first instance;
and certainly no sensible man
would contend that he could go
over this fall and not be dashed to
pieces on those frowning rocks.”
It did in truth appear, viewing
the spot from where our party
stood, as if no being could pass the
cascade and survive the fall; for the
pool, into which it will be remembered
Moody descended, was very
small—the depth they could not
know—and entirely surrounded by
black rocks, on which much of the
water fell with a force sufficient to
throw a fine spray to the distance
of several feet. We can only account
for this small, deep pool, by
supposing that, at one time, the
water fell directly into it; and the
earth just at that spot, not being
protected by rocks, as was the case
elsewhere, had gradually been hollowed
out, and so remained; while
the running water, wearing away
the precipice over which it tumbled,
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had thus caused it to recede several
inches.
“Don't know about passing the
falls,” said David, rather doggedly,
in reply to Clifton, after having gazed
upon the spot until he felt satisfied
himself that the young officer
was right: “Don't know about the
falls, one way or t'other; but all
I've got to say is, I'd just like to see
the body.”
“Do you know, David,” said
Clifton, smiling, “that I think you
would make a good preacher.”
“How so, lieutenant?”
“Because you would be bound to
stick to your text. Why, man, if
you had never shown any more
sense in the forest, than you have
in this matter, instead of being
called a great scout, you would
have been devoured by wolves.”
Several of the party laughed, at
David's expense, who merely
shrugged his shoulders, as much
as to say, “You will see in time
who is right.”
“Well,” answered Clifton, “as
the body is not hereabouts, we will
search for it below, on the plain;
and speedily, too—for I see the sun
is peeping over the hill yonder, and
we must soon be on our journey
homeward.”
The party now descended to the
plain, and in a few minutes were
deeply engaged in searching along
the banks of the stream, for the
body of one, who, even at that moment,
was plotting their own destruction.
They had entered a
swampy thicket, where the water
moved sluggishly, and each was
engaged with a pole in raking the
bottom for the body, which they
supposed must have sunk there—
when suddenly a faint scream was
heard in the distance, and, at the
same moment, ere any one had
time for thought or action, fierce
yells resounded on all sides, and
each found himself in the grasp of
a powerful savage.
CHAPTER XVIII.
There is a way, a secret one,
And I will use it.
—Anon.
With wild surprise,
As if to marble struck, devoid of sense,
A stupid moment motionless she stood.
—Thomson.
Come, go with me! I'll show the road
Which you perforce must travel. No choice
Is yours, and no alternative. You are my prisoner.
[Old Play.
We left the Indians, on their return
to harrass, murder, or capture
the whites, under the guidance of
Moody. As it was impossible to
know what course the latter party
would take, on leaving the cave—
though in all probability they would
forthwith seek the plain—Moody
at once led his warriors to a dense
thicket, where they might be able
to watch the movements of their
foes, and shape their proceedings
accordingly. As chance would
have it, he had selected the very
thicket where we have seen our
friends venture to search for his
body—little dreaming, at the time,
that they were entering an ambuscade.
This thicket, Moody and his
party had reached, stealthily, some
two hours before day-break, when,
in company with Unkee, a renowned
scout or runner, he had left the
main body there, and set off to reconnoiter,
and gain intelligence
that should determine his future
movements. Fearfullest his intended
victims might have already escaped,
he had, at some risk, approached
the cave, and even ventured
into it far enough to hear the
tread of the sentinel, as he paced to
to and fro on his patrol of duty. Satisfied
that all was working to his desire,
he had then noiselessly glided
away, and, with his Indian companion,
had sought out a convenient
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cover to await daylight, and take advantage
of circumstances.
Unlike the Indians, who in general
have little to say, Moody knew
that the whites, feeling perfectly
secure, would naturally talk over
their plans, before proceeding to
put them in execution. Nor had
he been mistaken. From his place
of concealment, on the brow of the
upper precipice, which the reader
will remember walled the platform
on the east, he had been enabled,
by being exactly over the mouth of
the cave, not only to see every one
that came out, but also to understand
every word that had been
spoken outside. With infinite delight
he had heard the remarks of
David, and watched the party
searching for his remains in the
chasm below; and when the proposition
had been made to continue
down the stream until his body
should be found, his exultation
knew no bounds.
“They shall find my body,” he
said to himself; “but in a different
form and place from what they expect.”
Then turning to Unkee, he briefly
recounted, in a whisper; the substance
of what he had overheard,
and dispatched him to inform the
Indians, and caution them to remain
concealed where they were,
until the whites, as he foresaw
they would, should have put themselves
in their power.
Just as Unkee was on the point
of leaving, Moody heard Clifton request
Kate to enter the cave, with
only Ichabod for her companion;
and turning once more to the savage,
while his eyes gleamed like
two balls of fire at his anticipated
feast of vengeance, he gave him orders
to avoid the whites, and return
to the mouth of the cave, there
to await a signal from him, or be
guided by circumstances—but do
what he might, in no case to harm
the pale-face maiden.
Had Moody been granted the
privilege and power of arranging
every thing for his premeditated
vengeance to suit himself, he felt
confident he would have failed in
fixing matters as satisfactorily as
a simple train of circumstances had
now done for him. Not the least
important of all, was the absence
of Luther, which he had learned
from the conversation, and which
otherwise must have disconcerted
his plans materially.
As soon as Unkee was gone, and
he had seen the party of Clifton on
the point of starting, he withdrew
from his place of concealment, and
moving along the ridge of the hill
a short distance, descended on the
eastern side, some seventy-five or
a hundred yards, or until he came
to a small cluster of bushes. Here
he paused for a moment, while a
grim smile played over his features—
and then parting the bushes
with his hands, he exposed to
view a hole of some two feet in diameter,
that apparently led deep
into the earth. Without stopping
to examine this, Moody threw himself
flatwise upon the ground, and
soon disappeared into the aperture.
The descent of the hole was just
sufficient to render his movements
easy, and in less than two minutes,
he had penetrated the hill some fifty
feet. Here the aperture gradually
enlarged, and he was shortly
enabled to crawl along upon his
hands and knees. This he did, some
ten feet further, when he came to
a sort of window, that looked directly
into the cavern so lately occupied
by our friends.
Here, then, was an access to the
cave, of which Clifton and his party
knew nothing—otherwise, the
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[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
disappearance of Luther might have
been accounted for without setting
the natural laws of reason at defiance.
Luther, who took advantage
of every circumstance calculated to
heighten the superstitious feeling
which he was aware pervaded the
minds of most, had doubtless visited
this place before, and knowing
of this outlet, had taken this means,
when the attention of each was
drawn in another direction, to
leave his friends in his usually abrupt
and mysterious manner. Had
he not known of this outlet, it is
hardly probable he would have
found it so opportunely; for being
in a distant and dark corner of the
cave, ten chances to one but it had
been completely overlooked by any
one on the search for it—so nicely
did the aperture, which was some
four feet above the floor of the cave,
blend in color and appearance
with the solid rocks surrounding it.
How this became known to both
Luther and Moody, will perhaps
forever remain a mystery.
Stopping at this aperture or
window—as, from its shape, we
have perhaps more appropriately
named it—the keen eyes of Moody
roved around the dark vault, in
search of Kate and the gardener,
neither of whom had as yet made
their appearance. From his position,
Moody could now see everything
in the cave, and yet himself
remain unseen. This was owing
to the feeble light, which, coming
through the fissure of the cave, was
sufficient to illume somewhat its
immediate vicinity, but insufficient
to remove the dense vail of darkness
behind which he was concealed.
Nearly half an hour elapsed, and
Moody was becoming impatient,
when voices were heard, and presently
Kate and Ichabod appeared,
entering the cave from the larger
and more usual outlet.
“O, the torch is out,” exclaimed
Kate, as she came in view of the
interior; “and it seems so dark
and gloomy here—let us go back,
Icha.”
“Better stay here, my little pet,
until they comes back,” answered
the gardener; “'cause he said so,
and I know as how you'd like to
mind him; and besides, I reckon
't an't burnt out, and I can light it
agin in a minute.”
“Never mind, Icha; I can soon
get used to the darkness; in fact,
I can see a little now; and it is better,
perhaps, that we remain concealed,
in case anything should
happen.”
“Why, I hope you don't think
there's any danger, my little pet?”
rejoined Ichabod.
“Why, no, I hope there is none—
but then you heard what David
said.”
“True, replied Ichabod, who was
strongly inclined to believe in the
marvelous: “True, Miss Kate, I
heerd what he said, and it made
me feel queer at the time—'cause
I remembered as how, when I fired,
the smoke took the shape of Luther,
and I thought maybe he was a spirit,
and got away in that way, and
had something to do with Moody.
But since I've thought it all over, I
know it could'nt ha' been so; for
if ever I shot any body in my life,
it was that same infernal scoundrel
Moody.”
“I am not superstitious, Icha,”
answered Kate, “and consequently
do not fear the interference of
Luther in any unnatural manner;
though, I must own, he did leave
here mysteriously; but then, in all
probability, there was a way for
him to get out in a very simple
manner; and when dear Ernest
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returns (Kate did not fear to apply
endearing epithets before the simple-minded
gardener), I intend he
shall search the cave for another
outlet. All I fear is, that Moody
might, somehow, have managed to
escape alone and unaided, and that
he will return with the Indians to
murder or make us prisoners.”
“I don't generally miss my mark,”
said Ichabod, in reply; “and if that
Necromancer didn't interfere, I'm
sartain I killed him—just as sartain—”
“Hark!” interrupted Kate, holding
up her plump, snowy hand, and
bending her head forward in a listening
attitude; “methought I heard
a noise.”
“It wasn't nothing, I reckons,”
returned the gardener, after a short
pause, during which he had listened
and peered cautiously about
him. “It wasn't nothing, I reckons,
but your fears. I've often got
skeered the same way, when I've
been alone, and a thinking about
danger—though I never knowed
anything to come on't. Well, as
I's a saying 'bout that villain Moody,
I know I killed him, just as sartain
as—”
“I kill you now,” said a deep
voice in his ear; and at the same
moment a tremendous blow on the
head laid the gardener senseless
on the ground.
Kate uttered a terrible scream,
and sprang back in real terror.
“Moody!” she shrieked, “can the
grave give up its dead? are you
really flesh and blood? or do you
hold a charmed life?”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Moody,
triumphantly; “and so, my pretty
bird, I have caught you again, have
I? Well, `every dog must have
his day,' you know.”
As Moody said this, he walked
forward, as if to take hold of Kate,
who retreated, screaming, “Help!
help!” in the most piteous tones
imaginable.
“Spare your lungs, my pretty
dove,” said Moody, with a coarse
laugh; “for you will need them to
plead for your friends; besides,
screaming is hard work, and can
do you no good.” Saying which,
he darted quickly forward and
grasped her by the arm.
“Villain! unhand me!” cried
Kate, terrified and indignant. “Unhand
me, and begone! or there will
soon be those here to make you
tremble.”
“Never you fear for me, my pretty
one; I am perfectly aware of
what I am doing,” replied Moody,
with another coarse laugh; “and
as for your friends—”
“Well, well—what of them?”
cried Kate, breathlessly, as the other
paused.
“They are by this time all dead,
or prisoners,” concluded Moody,
with another laugh.
“Oh, God!” exclaimed poor
Kate, burying her face in her hands,
while her whole frame shook convulsively.
Moody now released his hold,
and folding his arms upon his breast,
stood, for some moments, regarding
his terrified captive in stern silence—
during which time, many
wild, dark thoughts, concerning
the punishment of her and her lover,
passed through his mind.
These moments had nigh proved
his last; for, regaining his senses,
and perceiving how matters were,
Ichabod had drawn his knife from
its sheath, and creeping up stealthily
behind Moody, was just in the act
of plunging it into his back, when
his arms were suddenly grasped
from behind, the knife was wrenched
from his hands, and he found himself
the prisoner of a fierce savage.
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Moody started, turned, and comprehending
all at a glance, said,
quietly, in Shawanoe:
“Unkee, you have saved my life,
and I shall not soon forget it.”
“Ugh!” returned the Indian.
“Unkee always thought great chief
more guarded.”
“He's only a squaw,” returned
Moody, contemptuously, pointing
to Ichabod. “I knocked him down
first and then forgot him. True,
he might have taken my life; and
so might a squaw, with the same
opportunity. I must deal with him,
nevertheless; for twice has he shot
at me before this, and wounded
me once in the shoulder. Bind
him, Unkee!”
The Indian proceeded to obey
his superior, with that sort of dogged
coolness, if we may so express
it, which one might be supposed to
exercise in fastening a rope to a
log. Once, and once only, when
Ichabod had nearly effected his escape,
the eyes of the Indian brightened
with a fierce gleam, and his
hand, involuntarily as it were,
sought his tomahawk; but the next
moment his countenance assumed
its wonted, stolid expression, and
he continued his occupation as
coolly as ever.
Since quitting Moody, Unkee
had obeyed his orders, and returned
some minutes before. On cautiously
making his appearance in
the vicinity of the cave, he had discovered
Kate and Ichabod conversing
together outside—for, as the
reader is aware, they did not immediately
enter the cave on the departure
of Clifton—and as he
knew that to be seen was to give
the alarm, he instantly concealed
himself where he could secretly
watch their movements. He had
seen them enter at last, and, after
waiting what he conceived to be a
sufficient length of time, had stealthily
approached. At the moment
when he gained the mouth of the
cave, the scream of Kate reached
his ears. The rest the reader
knows.
Having crossed the arms of Ichahod
on his back, secured them
there with strong ligatures of deerskin,
and disarmed him altogether,
Unkee turned to Moody, with a
grunt, as much as to say, “What
next?”
So at least the latter interpreted
it, and answered:
“Keep him a close prisoner, Unkee,
and we will presently join our
companions.”
Then turning to Kate, who still
stood with her face buried in her
hands, regardless of what was taking
place around her, he added, in
English, somewhat sternly:
“Come, my fair beauty, and I will
conduct you to your friends, and
then I will tell you more.”
Kate, who knew that resistance
would be of no avail, as would neither
sighs, tears nor prayers, raised
her face, and exhibited features as
calm, and apparently as rigid, as
marble. As her eye for the first
time fell upon the savage, there
was a slight start, and look of
alarm; but this quickly passed;
and she again appeared as cold
and indifferent as a bronze
statue.
Moody gazed upon her with surprise,
for he had expected to hear
her shriek in terror; and from that
moment, all his former plans of
vengeance were changed to others,
that would, perhaps, prove none the
less agreeable to the fair being before
him. Her beauty, heightened
as it was by the excitement under
which she was inwardly laboring,
and her strong mind, as shown in
her manner of concealing her
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[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
feelings, revived his old passion, and
he had already determined that she
should grace his wigwam in the capacity
of a wife or squaw. There
is something in real beauty, that
rarely fails to appeal to the passions,
if not to the heart, of those
who oppress it; and to this it is
more than probable that Kate Clarendon
owed her honor, if not her
life.
Nothing of this, however, was
told to Kate, who, in consequence,
remained in terrible suspense as to
what would be her doom. Turning
to the Indian, Moody motioned him
to follow with his prisoner; and
then taking Kate by the hand, with
something of more respect than he
had formerly displayed, he quietly
led her out of the cave—she making
not the least resistance. When
the captors and their captives had
gained the clear sunlight—which
now fell warmly over the earth,
drying up the dew, and silvering
the streams, kissing the flowers, and
making the earth appear beautiful—
Moody motioned with one
hand for Kate to ascend the rude
staircase to the platform above; and
still keeping his hold with the other,
he assisted her up the difficult acclivity.
Unkee and his prisoner followed,
and in a few minutes both
parties stood upon the point whence
they could command a view of all
below.
Gazing around him, and settling
his eye at last upon a particular
spot, Moody stood for a moment,
and then pointing forward with his
finger, as if to indicate the way, he
led Kate across the chasm, accompanied
by the other two, and all
together descended the ridge in silence.
In struggling with misfortune lies the proof
Of Virtue.
[Shakspeare.
Thou shalt behold him stretch'd in all the agomes
Of a tormenting and a shameful death.
His bleeding bowels, and his broken limbs,
Insulted o'er by a vile, butchering villain.
[Otway.
We left Clifton and his friends in
a rather serious predicament, and
to them we must now return. The
attention of the whites, as the reader
is aware, was solely directed to
finding the body of Moody; and this
will account for their being taken
so wholly unguarded; though it
may be questioned if they would
not have been taken equally by
surprise, had they been keenly on
the look-out for savages—so effectually
had the latter secreted themselves
in the thicket. Had they
suspected an ambuscade, however,
their hands and weapons would
have been ready for the conflict, and
the result would have been widely
different from what it was in the
present case. There were nine
savages in all, Unkee being away,
and seven whites—every one of
whom was engaged with a pole in
raking the river at the moment
when he was captured. This the
Indians, from the information given
by Unkee, had anticipated, and had
laid their plans accordingly. As
the whites approached, each Indian
singled out his man, leaving two of
their party in readiness to close in,
in case any one should meet with
more than his match—or fire upon
and follow the fugitive, in case one
of the other party made his escape.
At a preconcerted signal, each
sprang forward, and throwing his
arms around his antagonist, secured
him, with but one exception, without
a single blow being struck in
defense, and at the precise moment,
too, when the scream of Kate
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announced her, as was afterward ascertained,
a prisoner also.
The exception alluded to, was
Clifton. Quick witted, and possessed
of great presence of mind,
no sooner did he hear the yells, and
feel his arms grasped from behind,
than, comprehending how matters
were, he made a feint to yield,
which threw the Indian somewhat
off his guard, and then suddenly
bounding forward, cleared himself
of his captor. In an instant the
tomahawk of the savage was
gleaming before his eyes, and the
next moment it would have been
buried in his skull, had not his great
dexterity again saved him. Drawing
his knife, bending his head forward,
and springing to the Indian
all at the same time, he avoided the
weapon of the latter, which struck
beyond him, and buried his own in
the heart of his foe. The Indian
uttered a groan, and sunk down a
corpse. Turning as quick as lightning,
our hero saw the two others
rushing toward him, weapons in
hand. The foremost was two
paces in advance of his companion;
and hastily drawing his pistol,
he shot him through the breast.
There was only one left to contend
with—for the rest were engaged in
mastering the whites, who, perceiving
his successful resistance, had
become very refractory—and taking
a hasty aim with his other pistol,
the young officer pulled the trigger.
A flash in the pan saved the life of
his adversary; and the next moment
the long war-club carried by
Mugwa laid him prostrate on the
earth.
“Ugh!” grunted the chief, as he
bent over Clifton to secure his
hands, speaking in tolerable English;
“great warrior—make good
Indian;” and instead of a cloud of
anger, the face of this savage dis
played an expression of admiration,
at the successful daring and
firmness of his captive.
For a minute or two, Clifton lay
stunned by the blow; and then regained
his senses, only to find himself
and friends disarmed and
bound, with their hideous captors
standing around, and gazing upon
them with looks of savage exultation.
At this moment he thought
of Kate, and his anguish may be
better imagined than described.
The Indians now conducted their
prisoners out of the thicket, and selecting
a spot in the woods, a few
yards distant, where there chanced
to be but little underbush, made
them fast, each to a separate tree,
and then collected together by themselves,
apparently to take council
regarding their next proceedings.
Presently four of the party repaired
to the thicket, and returned with
the two dead bodies—the Indian
shot by Clifton having just breathed
his last.
Placing the dead upon the ground,
side by side, the whole company
formed a circle round them, and
taking hold of hands, commenced
chanting words wholly unintelligible
to our friends, who gazed upon
them with a sort of painful curiosity.
In this manner some five minutes
passed, without a word being spoken
on the part of the whites, when
suddenly David called out:
“I say, Lieutenant!”
“Well?” answered Clifton.
“What d' ye think 'bout the business
now?”
“Why, what should I think?”
“Do n't know—know best yourself;
but have ye concluded that
Moody's living yet?”
“Of course not. It is impossible
he should have escaped the peril I
pointed out to you.”
“Well, then, all I've got to say
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is, that his ghost's got a powerful
flesh and blood look.”
“Good heavens! what do you
mean, David?” cried Clifton, quickly,
while every one turned his
head—the only part of his person
now at liberty—toward the scout,
anxious for an explanation of his
startling words.
David replied only by nodding
his head mysteriously, in a certain
direction; and following that direction
with their eyes, the faces of all
suddenly blanched, and each tongue
uttered an exclamation of surprise
and alarm.
Within full view appeared Moody,
approaching the Indians, leading
Kate by the hand, and followed
by Unkee and the gardener.
“Good God!” groaned Clifton,
“can it be possible that my eyes do
not deceive me—that Moody is still
living—and Kate, sweet Kate,
again in his power!”
“'Spect if you don't believe your
eyes, you'll soon have some other
sense that'll give you a powerful
inclination that way,” remarked
David, rather drily.
“I do not understand the affair,”
said Danvers. “There is something
very mysterious in his escape.”
“I jest believe it's the devil's
work,” observed another; “and
that's the reason Icha's balls
wouldn't kill. If ever I git a chance
at him, I'll put in some silver slugs,
and try the virtue of them.”
While such and similar remarks
were passing among the whites,
Moody and his party approached
the Indians. As he came up, they
made a halt in their ceremony, and
uttering grunts of approbation at his
success, opened the ring for him to
enter. As Kate, whom he still held
by the hand, came suddenly upon
the dead and bloody bodies of the
Indians, slain by the hand of her
lover, she gave an involuntary
start, and uttered a slight exclamation
of horror. Moody seemed taken
equally by surprise, for his features
slightly paled, and he turned
his face quickly toward the chief
with a look of inquiry.
With Unkee, however, it was
different. He was an Indian out
and out, and had been taught to
school his feelings and passions, so
as not to betray surprise at any
thing—a custom which is held by
the savages to be a great virtue.
As he came up to his dead companions,
therefore, he looked down upon
them calmly, without changing
a muscle, as though it were the
most common-place sight in the
world, and one he had expected to
behold.
“Who has done this?” asked
Moody, in the Indian dialect, after
waiting a sufficient time for Mugwa
to make an opening remark.
“The chief of the pale-faces,”
replied the latter.
A sudden gleam of ferocity now
shot athwart the dark features of
the questioner, and laying his hand
upon a weapon in his belt, he rejoined,
quickly:
“Then he must die.”
“Let my brother be not hasty,”
returned Mugwa; “for the fates of
all must be decided by council. If
the pale-face chief be doomed to die,
it must not be by the tomahawk.”
“True, chief,” answered Moody,
with a grim smile, “I had nigh forgotten
your pleasant Indian customs
of the stake and torture.”
“Mugwa deems him worthy of
them all,” pursued the chief; “for
he is a great brave, and no Indian
warrior could have done more. The
chief of the Piquas could almost
call him brother, too.”
This was alluding in a rather
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obscure manner to the design which
had previously entered the head of
the “Bear,” of making an Indian
of Clifton, and was thus thrown out
as a sort of feeler, to learn the impression
it would produce upon
Moody. As he heard it, the outcast
started, and exclaimed vehemently:
“No, Mugwa, he must die!” The
next moment a new idea took possession
of his brain, and he added,
immediately,in a lower tone—“That
is, perhaps; I will see; I will consider,
Mugwa. But go on with
your ceremony. I would join you,
only that I have important matters
to which I must attend; and turning
away abruptly, he led Kate out
of the circle, and some distance
apart from all.
“You have seen,” he began, addressing
himself to our heroine, and nodding
his head in the direction of the circle of
savages.
“I have,” answered Kate calmly.
“And you still see,” pursued Moody,
pointing his finger in the opposite direction,
and toward the captives.
Kate followed the motion with her eyes,
and, for the first time, became aware of
the capture of her friends—of the complete
triumph of her foes—and in a moment
her heart sunk, her features grew
deadly pale, a sudden nervous weakness
seized her, and, but for the support of Moody,
she would have fallen to the earth.
Finding the Indians by themselves,
around the dead bodies of their late comrades,
and no new scalps at their belts, Kate
had believed that a skirmish had ensued
in which her friends had been victorious,
and that she might look for a rescue at
any moment. But now the case was different;
the horrible reality had broken
upon her like a thunder-bolt; they were
all prisoners—reserved perhaps for the
torture—and all in the power of the archdemon
by her side, from whom she could
hope for no mercy. Moody watched the
painful expression of her lovely countenance
with a grim smile of satisfaction;
and after waiting till she had somewhat
recovered her composure, he resumed:
“You see I am now master of all.
Were you in the infernal regions of the
damned, you would not be more fully in
the power of the arch-fiend, than you and
your friends are now in mine.”
“I am aware of that,” replied Kate.
“and more—I think the comparison aptly
made.”
“That may or may not be, as matters
turn out,” rejoined Moody, drily. “I have
led you hither, away from the others, to
tell you something of importance, regarding
yourself and friends, and from your
replies to take my cue of conduct.”
“Say on,” returned Kate.
“You noticed those dead bodies?”
“I did.”
“They were slain by the hand of your
lover, Lieutenant Clifton, and, according
to old Luther's story, my once brother.”
Again Kate trembled, her features grew
deadly pale, and she fairly gasped for
breath.
“Well, I see you comprehend,” resumed
Moody, after another short pause;
“and I am glad you do, as it will save me
much circumlocution in my remarks.
Now mark my words. As soon as you
ceremony of the Indians is over and their
dead are buried from their sight, they will
proceed to hold council, regarding the disposal
of their prisoners. Now you know
something of Indian nature—or ought to,
at least—and are doubtless well aware
that, when they are angry, they are not
altogether the most mild and placid creatures
which the world has ever produced.
On the contrary, their customs are somewhat
rough—particularly when they decide
on putting a captive through the interesting
ceremony of being roasted alive
by a slow fire, with various little et ceteras,
in the way of amusement—such as
shooting powder into his naked body—
filling the flesh with resinous splinters
and setting fire to them—cutting off his
ears and tongue—punching out his eyes,
and—”
“For God's sake, hold!” cried Kate,
covering her face, and shuddering with
horror, at the terrible picture of torture
drawn by the outcast.
“I merely wished you to comprehend
the matter in full force,” pursued Moody;
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“and as I perceive you do—why, I will
sketch no further. Now, as your lover
has been guilty of a certain breach of etiquette
(Moody spoke in an ironical tone),
namely, killing two Indians, after being
seized as a prisoner himself, it is more
than probable that they, on trial, will sentence
him to the interesting little proceeding
I just mentioned, and at which you
thought proper to turn away your face in
holy horror.”
“In the name of that God before whom
you must soon be judged! tell me what
you ask—what you seek—that you thus
mentally torture me?” cried Kate.
“Ah! now you speak to the point,”
replied Moody, with a grim smile; “and
I will answer you. In the first place,
know that your lover will assuredly be
condemned to the torture; and that I, and
I alone can save him.”
“Well?” ejaculated Kate, breathlessly,
fixing her eyes intently upon the other.
“I say,” pursued Moody, “I can save
him, and, on one condition, I will.”
“Name it!” gasped the maiden.
“That you will swear to become my
wife. Remember, now, I make a distinction:
wife, not mistress, I ask. Remember,
too, before you decide, that not only
Clifton, but all your friends here are in
my power as well as yourself; and that
if I choose, I can have them put to the
torture before your eyes, and you dishonored
before theirs. Remember, the alternative
before you is terrible. I will say further.
If you become my wife, by your own
free consent, you shall always be treated
with respect, and shall be provided for
comfortably during my life, and at my
death shall have the privilege to go whither,
and marry whom, you please. To-day
I make you this proposal, which yesterday
I would have scorned; and the
whole secret lies in the revival of my love,
or my passion (call it which you will),
for you. Do not decide hastily. I will
give you a few minutes, alone, to think
upon it; but if you decide in my favor,
one thing you must bear in mind: You
will have to swear, by all your hopes of
salvation hereafter—by all you love and
hold sacred—by everything, in fact, that
can make your oath binding—that you
will be mine, rescue or no rescue; that,
in short, come what will, you will follow
me and my fortunes through life, and that,
in the event of your breaking this oath,
you solemnly pray the Ruler of the universe
to condemn you to eternal torments
in the world to come.”
Saying this, Moody turned abruptly
away, leaving Kate standing alone, stupified
with horror at the words she had just
heard him utter.
CHAPTER XX.
Sneer on, and show your scorn! for any fool
May sneer, that is withal a coward.
—****
By heavens! the die is east;
I will no more—but to the torture
Instantly.
—Purcell
“I give you a most hearty welcome.
my old comrades, to your new abode in
the forest of my red brethren,” said Moody,
with mock cordiality, as he approached
the captives, waving his hand in a salutary
manner, and smiling hypocritically.
“Ah, my dear brother, how fare you?”
he continued, coming up to Clifton, and
extending his hand, apparently unmindful
that the other could not return the compliment.
“I am so delighted to see you—
upon my word I am. What! won't you
shake hands with your brother?” he added,
in pretended reproach, stepping back a
pace, and sighing sorrowfully. “Well,
well, such is the way of the world—this
wicked world. Ah, me! ah, me!” and
he shook his head, and sighed again.
“Taunt on—taunt on!” replied Clifton.
“I know I am in your power, and
of course I expect no mercy at the hands
of so base a coward.”
“Now you wrong me, dear brother—
upon my word you do,” rejoined Moody,
laying his hand in mock humility upon
his heart. “I mean you well, I assure you.”
“Cut these cords, then, and let me go,”
said the other.
“Ah! now you touch a tender point.
Really, nothing would delight me more—
but, pardon me, you see I have to consult
my friends yonder (here he pointed toward
the Indians), whom I am sorry to
say you have injured—doubtless unintentionally—
to quite an alarming extent.”
“Two of them. I doubt not, have been
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slightly injured by my hand,” returned
Clifton, pointedly, with a curl of his lip.
“Ah! yes—true. Really, I am delighted
to perceive you comprehend my
meaning—indeed I am,” pursued Moody,
with the gravity of a parson.
“You're a devil in human shape, if
ever there was one,” called out David,
from a neighboring tree, where he had
overheard the taunts of Moody.
“Better keep us safe while you've got
us,” put in another: “for if ever we get
clear agin, with you in our power, I
swear to you the nearest tree shall serve
you for a gallows.”
“Really, gentleman,” replied the outcast,
turning to them, smiling maliciously,
but continuing his hypocritical cant;
“you do me too much honor—indeed you
do. All I fear is, that you will not beable
to carry your sage plans into execution.
It is true, I will assist you all I can; but
then, you know, I am only a poor, weak,
human being after all, and am liable to
fail.”
A few muttered maledictions was the
only response to these taunting gibes; and
turning again to Clifton, Moody resumed:
“Time wears, my dear brother, and I
have come to speak with you on matters of
the most grave importance, touching your
welfare.”
“Say on,” replied Clifton.
“There stands one yonder,” continued
Moody, pointing to Kate, who still remained
where he had left her, motionless
as if rooted to the spot; “whom, I doubt
not, you highly esteem. There, there,
dear brother, do n't contradict me—I may
say, I know you prize her highly. Well,
in that you are certainly right, for she is
worthy of much esteem, and I assure you
she has mine to the full. Now life, I
have been led to believe, is sweet to every
one; and I venture to say you are
not an exception to this rule. In consideration
of this, I have been making some
proposals to yonder fair maiden, which,
if she accept, I trust, by my influence, to
save yours—although, as you are well
aware, it has been forfeited by your imprudent
conduct, in killing two of my friends.”
“Ha! well, what did you propose?”
asked Clifton, quickly.
“Why, dear brother—and in consideration
that you are my brother—which I
verily believe, otherwise you could not
be so good and amiable—as I wish to
have no secrets that you cannot share
with me, I will tell you. Know then,
and therefore, that my former passion for
yonder fair maiden—which I believe is
antecedent to yours, and consequently
righteous by priority—has again revived
in a wonderful degree, and I am extremely
anxious to call her mine by marriage.
Now as an inducement for her to take
this step—to yield her consent freely, and
espouse me through life as her lawful
husband—I have promised to save your
life, and set you free.”
“Villain!” cried Clifton, his features
glowing with proud indignation; “base,
cowardly, doubly damned villain! Sooner
would I suffer death a thousand times,
than have her united, or even think of
uniting herself with such as you!”
As Clifton uttered these words, in a
fierce, loud tone—which distinctly reached
Kate, roused her from her revery, and
decided her course of action—Moody
started, a terrible expression passed over
his countenance, his eyes gleamed like
an angry serpent's, and instinctively his
hand sought a weapon in his belt. The
next moment, by a sudden and powerful
effort, he partially succeeded in suppressing
this show of passion, and resuming
his former hypocritical look and cant.
We say partially; for so much of passion
was mingled with the effort to appear
perfectly serene and unmoved, as to render
his appearance somewhat ridiculous.
“You forget, dear brother,” he said,
with something between a sneer and a
smile, “that the death you so nobly speak
of suffering, will be attended with considerable
inconvenience, not to say pain; for
the death at the stake, which I assure you
will be yours, is not the easiest imaginable,
as doubtless you are well aware.
Besides, it is a dreadful thing to die so
young, and with such brilliant prospects
before you; for I see, by your glittering
uniform, you are already on the road to
fame. If the words of Blind Luther be
true, fortune, and some great name, are
perhaps within your grasp also; and is
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it not a pity to exchange all these for the
burning stake—to have your ashes scattered
to the winds—simply for a trifling
matter of will, or because you cannot
deny yourself the charms of one simple
maiden? as though the world could not
substitute thousands more fair and
lovely.”
“What is it you aim at? what would
you have?” asked Clifton, angrily.
“Have you not the girl, as well as myself,
in your power?”
“True, but I wish your consent. I
know, by force, I can do with you both
whatsoever I please; but I do not wish
to resort to compulsion. A few words
from you can persuade Kate to become
my wife; and I swear to you the marriage
shall be solemnized by a priest.”
“I thought,” said Clifton, fastening his
eye sternly upon Moody, “I thought, at
first, that you were simply trying to taunt
me with the words you have uttered; but
I feel convinced now, that you are in
earnest. Therefore, listen! I have
weighed the matter fully, while you have
been speaking, and this is my decision:
Sooner than ask, or allow Kate Clarendon
to become your wife, I would suffer
patiently all the tortures you, or the red
heathen yonder, can inflict—so help and
support me God! Go! you are answered,
and your presence offends my
sight.”
“Ernest, dear Ernest,” now cried the
sweet voice of Kate, who had silently
approached the party, unseen by either
Moody or Clifton; and rushing forward
as she spoke, she threw her arms around
the neck of her lover, and burst into
tears.
“God bless you, dearest!” said the
young officer, with emotion, pressing his
lips to her brow, and making a bold but
vain attempt to free his arms. “God
bless you, dear Kate, for this! though I
am pained to meet you here.”
The face of Moody, who now stood
glaring upon the two, grew black with
passion. At length he spoke, in a husky
voice.
“I have yet to hear your decision,” he
said, striding up to the grief-stricken
maiden, and laying his hand somewhat
roughly upon her shoulder.
Kate started, looked around, trembled,
grew deadly pale, and then turned her
eyes inquiringly upon Clifton.
“You will not yield to his base proposal?”
said the latter, eagerly.
“It is to save your life, dear Ernest.”
“Not if I had ten thousand lives to
lay down in such a cause,” exclaimed
Clifton, vehemently. “I should hold life
as utterly worthless, gained at such a
sacrifice, dear Kate. For God's sake!
do not yield to such a monster!”
“But the torture, dear, dearest Ernest?”
“The torture—the rack—any thing—
every thing—I would bear all a thousand
times, rather than hear you answer
so base a villain in the affirmative.”
“Then my decision is made.”
“Your answer!” cried Moody, almost
fiercely.
“I refuse, sir! I never will be yours!
God shield the right, and help me
through!”
“God bless you for those cheering
words, Kate!” exclaimed Clifton, joyfully.
“Now let the monsters do their
worst; I can die content.”
The countenance of Moody now assumed
the look of a foiled demon. No
hypocritical smile was there now—no
cant upon his lips.
“Away!” he shouted, fiercely, his
eyes gleaming with rage, stamping his
foot upon the ground, and fairly foaming
at the mouth. “Away! and meet the
doom you seek!”
As he spoke, he rudely tore the arms
of Kate from around the neck of Clifton,
and half dragged her to a neighboring
tree, to which he hurriedly bound her
delicate limbs—she uttering no scream,
nor a single word of complaint. When
done, Moody turned abruptly around,
and strode directly toward the Indians,
who, their ceremony being over, were
now engaged in the solemn rite of
burying their dead forever from their
sight.
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CHAPTER XXI.
Berrango.—I tell thee, Vernardi, I am for death.
He must not live! Death and hell's tortures
Must he his doom.
Vernardi.—Then he it so! I yield reluctantly.
Old Play.
Fetch hither cords, and knives, and sulphurous flames!
He shall be bound, and gashed, his skin fleeced, burnt
alive;
He shall be hours, days years, a-dying.
—Nat Lee.
A quarter of an hour elapsed, and
still the captives, each to his tree, stood
fast bound, in awful suspense regarding
their fate, undergoing a mental torture
second only to that of the stake—when
the whole party of savages, Moody on
the lead, was seen approaching them.
As the Indians neared the prisoners,
the latter could discover—by the dark,
angry, sinister looks of all—that mercy,
that diviner attribute of the brave and
good, formed no part of their rude and
barbarous creed. When they had attained
a close vicinity to their captives,
they came to a halt, and for a moment
gazed around with savage ferocity.
Without going nearer, or saying a word
to any of the whites, who stood regarding
them in gloomy silence, they began
to collect some dry sticks, which they
threw into a pile and set on fire. Then
seating themselves around it, the pipe, the
unfailing accompaniment of an Indian
council, was produced and lighted, and
passed around the circle as on the occasion
previously described.
When this part of the ceremony was
over, Moody arose and said:
“Brothers, when last we met in council,
it was at the request of him who now
addresses you. He then told you a good
tale, which you yourselves have proved
to be true. He told you, that many
scalps or many prisoners were on the
southern path. You believed him, and
you turned back; for the rest, look
around you.”
Here he paused, and slowly pointed
to each of the prisoners, individually,
beginning with Clifton, and ending with
the gardener, who now stood bound to a
tree, some distance from the others, his
Indian captor having joined the council.
When done, Moody resumed:
“Brothers, behold your triumph!
There they stand, bound captives. In all,
Posetha counts nine heads, or nine scalps.
He looks around this circle, and, including
himself, can only count nine warriors.
There were two more when his red brothers
turned back. Where are they now?
In the Indian's Heaven. Who sent them
there before their time? Yonder pale-face
chief. Posetha thinks this enough.
He should die. He has been long enough
upon the war-path, and he should die.
The shoulder of Posetha pains him. He
has been wounded. Who did it? Yonder
miscreant (pointing to the gardener).
Three times has yonder wretch sought
Posetha's life. He still lives to boast it.
Posetha thinks he should die also. This
will make his party the strongest. Otherwise,
there will be a pale-face to every
red-man. There will still be left enough
to amuse the young men, the squaws and
papposes of the Indians. Posetha gives
his voice for the speedy torture of the two
he has named. His ears are open to hear
their cries for mercy. His heart is shut to
that mercy. It will please him. It will
please the Great Spirit. Brothers, Posetha
has spoken.”
By a ready tact, peculiar to his nature
Moody had learned to adapt himself to
the manners and mode of speaking of the
Indians. When harranguing in council
unlike his usual method in English, he
made his sentences simple and short, and
spoke directly to the point. His Indian
dialect was not spoken with ease, nor very
fluently; but, with short sentences, he always
managed to make himself distinctly
understood.
As he took his seat upon the ground
he ran his eye around the circle, and perceived,
by their looks of ferocity, their
flashing eyes, that his sentiments were
echoed in the breasts of nearly every savage.
We say nearly—we might say all
with the exception of Mugwa, the chief.
It will be recollected, that the bravery of
Clifton, even in slaying a part of his band,
had won his admiration; and a design of
saving his life, of transforming him into
an Indian, had then entered his head, and
had not yet been eradicated. With regard
to the others, he was ready to give his
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voice for death; but Clifton, from some
strange fancy, he wished spared.
Moody saw at a glance, that on this
point he would meet with decided opposition;
but he trusted to a majority in his
favor to carry the day.
Mugwa was the next to speak. Slowly,
with dignity, he rose, and gazing
round upon the circle of warriors, whom
he saw were all attention, at length began.
“Brothers,” he said, “you have heard
the words of Posetha. To Mugwa they
seem wise, and not wise. Wise, when
they tell us we must make our party the
strongest—not wise when they bid us sacrifice
the pale-face chief.”
Here Mugwa, although no one interrupted
him, saw by the change in the
countenances of his hearers, that he had
touched upon an unpopular theme; but
nothing daunted, he went on.
“True, he continued, “he has slain
two of my braves, and menaced the life
of Mugwa himself—But was not this done
in his own defense? Who can blame
him? What warrior among you does
not admire bravery? It is a great virtue.
It comes directly from the Great Spirit.
Had he turned like a coward to fly, Mugwa
would have sent a ball to bid him tarry.
Mugwa would ere this have had his
scalp drying on his belt and the wolves
should have fattened on his carcass. He
did not do this, though surrounded by enemies
he knew he could not conquer. He
acted the hero and the man. Mugwa admires
heroism. He has been a great
many moons upon the war-path. His
own hand has slain a great many pale-faces.
He is brave. He is their enemy.
The proof of both is in his lodge. Who
thinks Mugwa boasts without cause—
that his tongue is forked—can go there
and see. Mugwa loves a hero, be he redman
or pale-face. It is a great thing to
be brave. Yonder pale-face chief is brave.
Mugwa would not see him bound to the
stake, and die like a dog. There is no
squaw[2] in. There is squaw in his
follower. Take them. There are enough
and to spare. Mugwa is willing. But
why select the bravest? Why select him
who fears not death? Mugwa does not
ask to set him free. He would take him
home to his nation, and let them decide.
He would in short make him an Indian.
He is worthy to be an Indian. He would
teach our young men courage—our warriors
wisdom. Spare him, and Mugwa
sanctions all the rest. He has spoken.”
Here the chief gravely took his seat,
amid a profound silence. It was evident
to Moody, who watched the faces of all attentively,
that the arguments of the Bear
had made a deep impression upon their
minds, and that the scale would assuredly
turn against him, unless the weight of the
next speaker's argument was thrown in
his favor. With some anxiety, therefore,
he waited the rising of the next orator.
On him, doubtless, would depend the triumph
of himself or Mugwa. At length
Unkee started to his feet, and Moody at
once felt satisfied by the gleam of his eye,
that he would side with him, and thus his
triumph would be complete. Nor was he
mistaken.
“Brothers,” began Unkee, “you have
heard. The words of the great chiefs
have found your ears open. They have
entered your brains, and, not being alike,
have become confused. You do not know
which has spoken most wise. You wish
to hear the opinion of another before you
decide. Unkee will give you his. Unkee
is not an orator. He is not of many
words. He is more for action. Hear his
counsel. The pale-face is many—the
red-man is few. Unless the red-man destroy
the pale-face, he will over-run him.
All should die. The voice of Unkee
joins Posetha's. The pale-face chief
should die now. First, because he is
brave, and the more to be feared. Secondly,
because the spirits of our friends
call for his blood. They cannot rest in
peace, knowing their murderer fills their
wigwam.”
This last was an argument so forcible,
so conclusive to an Indian mind, that
nothing but the mighty force of habit, restrained
the dark warriors from interrupting
the speaker with fierce yells of coin
ciding opinions. As it was, their faces instantly
grew savagely ferocious; their
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eyes gleamed like balls of fire; their nostrils
expanded, and their hands nervously
clutched their weapons.
It was a complete triumph. A thousand
words could not add to or destroy the force
of that single, simple sentence. Even
Mugwa seemed astonished and taken
aback, as though the idea were new, and
had struck him, too, with force. Moody,
with a thrill of savage joy, now saw that
his end was gained. A direct Providence
could alone save the victims of his hate
from their impending doom. Unkee, too,
saw that the effect he sought was wrought,
and he was cunning enough to pause and
give it full sway.
Simply adding, “Unkee has spoken,”
he resumed his seat.
No sooner did the savages perceive that
he was done, than springing to their feet,
they uttered the most terrific yells imaginable—
yells which went to the hearts of
the prisoners, and told them, alas! to fear
the worst. As for Moody, he fairly shouted
with ferocious delight, and danced
around in a wild ecstasy of joy. Revenge
he felt was in his grasp.
At length the yells and rapid gesticulations
of the savages subsided, after which
several minutes were occupied in settling
the time and place where the horrid rite
should come off, and the manner in which
it should be conducted. After some discussion
in the Indian fashion, it was finally
agreed that Clifton and Ichabod should
be put to the tortures on the very ground
where the council had been held which
had decreed them to death, and in full view
of all the prisoners, who would thereby
be witnesses of what, sooner or later, they
would have to undergo themselves.
This suited the purpose of Moody exactly;
and while the Indians set about
preparing for the work of death, he repaired
to Clifton, to let him know the result,
taunt him all he could, and, in fact, enjoy
to the full his own hellish triumph.
“I have come, my dear brother,” he
said, ironically, “to inform you what my
friends propose to do for your benefit.
Perhaps, however, you can judge for
yourself, by simply watching their motions.”
“I suppose I am to be tortured,” an
swered Clifton, compressing his lips, and
slightly turning pale.
“Well, you have made a very good
guess, for the first one,” replied Moody,
with a laugh. “You are about to reap
the benefit of your obstinacy, I assure
you.”
“Do your worst,” rejoined Clifton;
“for sooner would I die, than sacrifice the
happiness of yonder maiden.”
“And what, think you, you save her by
this? Strange fancy you have got in your
head, and one which I will now remove,
for your especial benefit. In the first place,
is not the girl in my power?”
“I suppose she is.”
“Well, then, what think you it will matter
with me, or with her, whether she refuse
to be my lawful wife or not? I cannot
compel her to marry me, it is true;
but I can compel her to do worse.”
“Good God! Moody, what do you
mean?” cried Clifton, as a vague suspicion
of something terrible crossed his mind.
“I leave you to judge what I mean, for
the present, as I see a warrior coming to
prepare you for the trial that awaits you,”
answered Moody. “When you are burning
at the stake, and your flesh cracking
with the heat, I will come, and hiss my
meaning in your ear, that your spirit may
have a knowledge in the world beyond,
of what she you love is bound to suffer in
this.”
Saying this Moody turned upon his heel
and strode away toward Kate, while the
savage approached, and simply giving a
grunt, drew his knife and cut the thongs
which bound Ernest to the tree, but without
cutting those which bound his hands.
He then took hold of his arm, and pointing
in a significant manner toward the
main body of his companions, conducted
him away. All this was noted by the
friends of Clifton, with feelings peculiar
to each, but which it would be impossible
for us to describe.
Meantime Moody approached Kate,
who stood bound to the tree, her features
pale as death, and a look of alarmed inquiry
upon her sweet countenance.
“Well,” said the outcast, coming up, a
dark smile playing over his sinister features,
“you are now about to experience
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the result of your decision. Look yonder,
and yon,” and he pointed first toward
Clifton, and then toward the savages, who
were in the act of driving a large stake
deep into the earth.
“What mean these fearful signs?” asked
Kate, breathlessly.
“Their meaning, methinks, is very apparent,”
answered Moody. “Your lover
is about to pass the ordeal of fire, on
a journey from which he will never return.”
“Oh, God! Moody, you cannot be so
base—so cruel!” cried Kate, in terrible
agony, little heeding that she might as
well have attempted to move a savage to
tears, as him she addressed to mercy.—
“Oh, save him! save him!—he is your
brother!”
“Not if he were ten times my brother,
and it were in my power,” returned Moody,
fiercely. “You plead too late, Kate
Clarendon. Once I sought to save him,
on the easy condition that you became
my wife. I told you of the consequences,
if you refused, and yet refuse you did.
His doom is now past recall. He must
die. And you,” added Moody, tauntingly,
“And you, pretty Miss Kate—do not
think by this that you will escape me!
No! I swear to you your doom shall be
no better than his!”
Kate shut her eyes and groaned.
“One thing,” she cried, suddenly, “do
me one favor, and I will ask no more!
Do not let him writhe at the stake! In
mercy take your rifle, and—and—(she
paused, and shuddered, and her voice
sunk to an almost inaudible whisper)—
and—end—his—misery,” she gasped, at
last with a groan.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Moody, “you
must have a very poor opinion of me, to
think I would condescend to save him
from his red friends yonder;” and again
he pointed toward the savages.
“Farewell, dearest!” said a deep, solemn
voice at this moment, that made the
blood retreat to the heart of Kate, leaving
her pale, agonized features bloodless; and
looking round, she saw her lover being
led to his place of torture. “Farewell,
dearest!” again spoke Ernest, in solemn
tones. “On earth we may never meet
again; but in God put your trust, and
meet me soon in the land of spirits!”
Kate could hear no more, but uttered
one fearful scream of anguish, that penetrated
the hearts of all her friends, and
made the brave young officer tremble as
a child.
“You see!” said Moody, coolly, pointing
toward the already retreating form
of Clifton, as his Indian conductor hurried
him forward: “You see!”
But he was mistaken; Kate did not
see; she had fainted; and with a deep
malediction on her tender heart, Moody
turned away, and strode on after his intended
victim.
By the time that he had come up to the
Indians, the driving of the stake was
completed, and the savages were already
placing sticks around it.—These were
put end-wise to the stake, some three feet
distant, so as to form a complete circle,
and give the condemned the benefit of a
slow fire. To the stake the prisoner was to
be bound, so as to leave him a little freedom,
and then the sticks were to be fired.
Clifton, as he neared the spot, noticed
all these preparations with a shudder, and
with a sinking spirit; but nerving himself
with as much stoicism as he could assume,
he in wardly called upon his Maker
to aid him, and prepared himself to undergo
the trial before him with manly
fortitude.
And a terrible trial it was to one like
him, in the very prime of life, with every
inducement to live—just, too, on the verge
of happiness—to be thus snatched away
from all he loved and held dear, and slowly
tortured out of existence into the dread,
unknown Beyond. But most terrible of
all, was the maddening thought of the
dear one he loved, who would be left behind
in the power of the most inhuman
monster on earth. Were Kate at liberty
and safe, he felt he could die comparatively
happy. The suffering of the body
alone, he fancied, could be borne; but
the suffering of body and mind together,
was a something to sap his courage, and
make the man a child. Nor was his feeling
of despair lessened, as he turned his
gaze upward toward the glorious sun,
(that now ascending the heavens, poured
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his light and warmth upon the great earth)
then around upon the beauties of nature
everywhere displayed before him—felt
the soft, balmy breeze upon his cheek,
and remembered that he was about
to bid adieu to all these bright things forever.
It had been decided by the Indians, that
Clifton should suffer first, and therefore
only one place of torture had been prepared,
which was afterward to serve for
the gardener, who, in consequence, still
remained bound to his tree. The spot
chosen for the horrid rite, was a little open
patch of ground, near which grew a cluster
of bushes, forming part of a thicket
that stretched away to the Little Miami,
but not so as to obstruct the view of the
other prisoners—it being the policy of the
Indians to have them spectators of the awful
spectacle.
The appearance of Clifton upon the
ground, was the signal for the savages to
set up a series of horrid yells, to dance
around him in brutal triumph, and pinch,
beat and otherwise maltreat him with their
hands and fists. This lasted some ten or
fifteen minutes, and was borne by the
prisoner without a word of complaint.
In this savage custom, in justice be it said,
Moody did not join; but folding his arms
upon his breast, he stood a little apart, regarding
his brother in stern silence.
When they had amused themselves
sufficiently in this way, the Indians began
stripping their victim of his apparel,
preparatory to binding him to the stake.
First his coat, then his vest, and then
piece after piece of his other garments,
theytore rudely from him, and with some
of them decorated their own hideous persons.
As they rent the bosom of his
shirt, the silver box presented him by Luther,
which had been placed there for safe
keeping, rolled out and fell to the ground.
In an instant, Moody, who had so far
been only a spectator, sprang forward,
and seized it with avidity.
“What is this?” he asked, turning it
over and over, and noting with wonder
the strange characters upon it. “Speak,
sirrah! what is this?” he pursued, addressing
himself to Clifton. But the lat
ter deigned him no answer; and muttering,
“Take that for your silence,” Moody
struck him with his fist a violent blow upon
the side of his head, and coolly hid
the box under his vestments to be examined
at some future time.
Having at length stripped Clifton entirely,
the Indians proceeded to attach
him to the stake, by means of a rope
made of deer-skin, and in such a manner
as to leave him a little play round the
circle, but not enough to reach the fire.
They then had another dance around him,
accompanied with horrible yells, when a
warrior suddenly appeared with a burning
brand, and applied it to the combustible
pile. The sticks, many of them being
small and dry, were very ignitable, and
in a moment the red flames shot upward,
and flashed, and crackled and crept
around the circle, until the prisoner, to
those at a little distance, appeared enveloped
in fire and smoke. Gradually the
heat became more and more intense, untill
the position of Clifton, who kept
himself close to the stake, was rendered
not a little painful, and already a few
blisters began to make their appearance
on his tender skin.
“Now for the burnt powder,” cried
Moody, with a horrid laugh; and pointing
his rifle toward the naked body of
Clifton, he was already in the act of pullinh
the trigger, when suddenly the muzzle
dropped to the ground, and its owner,
turning ghastly pale, stood, with mouth
distended, and eyes half starting from
their sockets, gazing in the direction of
the thicket, and trembling with very fear.
The Indians, too, suddenly halted in their
savage rite, and uttering the single word
“Kitcho-chobeka,” shrank cowering
back, with looks expressive of surprise
and dismay.
The next moment a powerful figure
rushed through the flames, and cutting
the bonds of the prisoner, raised and bore
him to a safe distance beyond the fatal
circle. Turning with a look of unspeakable
grattitude to his deliverer, Clifton,
to his amazement and joy, beheld in him
the tall, ungainly, but commanding form
of Blind Luther, the Necromancer.
eaf007.n2[2] Signifying, there is nothing cowardly or
femionine—a word of contempt with the Indian.
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CHAPTER XXII.
They spake not a word,
But like dumb statues, or breathless stones,
Stared on each other, and looked deadly pale.
[Shakspeare.
His hand did quake,
And tremble like a leaf of aspen green,
And troubled blood through his pale face was seen
To come and go, with tidings from the heart,
As it a running messenger had been.
[Shakspeare.
O! how glorious 't is
To right the oppressed, and bring the feton vile
To just disgrace!
[Somerville.
Yes, let the traitor die,
For sparing justice feeds iniquity.
[Shakspeare.
Without waiting to receive his thanks,
and in fact scarcely noticing Clifton at
all, Luther made a single bound forward,
and seizing the trembling Moody by the
throat, bore him violently to the earth.
Then hastily disarming him, he set his
foot upon his heaving breast and shouted:
“Villain, thy hour has come!”
By this time the Indians had recovered
somewhat from their astonishment, and
seeing their victim at liberty, and one of
their own party in such imminent danger,
began to rally and collect around the Necromancer,
with menacing gestures.
“Sons of the forest,” cried Luther, addressing
them in their own dialect,
“away, and leave the misereant to his
fate!”
“Kitcho-chobeka is great,” answered
Mugwa; “but why does he interfere
here?”
“The Great Spirit is offended,” rejoined
Luther solemnly, pointing upward.
“You have aided Watchemenetoc[3] in
his hellish work,” and he pointed downward
to Moody. “Begone! ere you behold
the Great Spirit's anger!”
The Indians, judging by their looks,
were now evidently alarmed, but not satisfied,
and loth to depart without further
proof of the Great Spirit's anger, through
His instrument, as they superstitiously
believed Luther to be.
“Let us have our prisoner and our
chief,” grumbled Mugwa, “and we
will go.”
“Touch one of them,” replied Luther,
fiercely, straightening his ugly form to its
full height, and rolling his restless eye
from one to the other with an angry expression:
“Touch one of them again,
and perdition go with you! Watchemenetoc
is not your chief; he is a devil
in human form. Away! begone!” and
he waved his hand majestically.
But still the Indians lingered; and
fearful they might, in spite, of their fears,
veriture upon a rescue, Luther suddenly
thrust his hand into his bosom, and drew
forth a ball, some three inches in diameter,
which he had previously prepared
for such an emergency.
This proceeding was noted by the savages
with deep interest, and they would
instantly have crowded around him, had
not their fours restrained them. As it
was, however, they approached within a
few feet, and got between Luther and the
fire, their eyes the while fixed intently on
the ball, which the Necromancer, to puzzle
them, now commenced turning rapidly
over and over in his hands. This was
exactly what he desired; and muttering
some unintelligible words, and looking
upward, as if appealing to Heaven, he
suddenly, and by a dexterous movement,
cast it beyond them, into the flames, at
the same time shouting:
“Behold and tremble, ye sons of the
forest, and revere the tongue of the Great
Spirit!”
The Indians, all amazement, followed
the ball with their eyes, and, as it touched
the fire, beheld first a red and then a blue
flame shoot upward with a hissing sound.
The words of the Necromancer now fell
with startling effect upon their ears, and
were scarcely concluded, ere a tremend
explosion took place, which shook the
ground beneath their feet, and scattered
the burning brands in every direction,
leaving the space lately occupied by the
fire black and smoking. The brands,
too, many of them, striking against the
almost naked bodies of the Indians, increased
their terror and confusion. Mugwa
and another savage were knocked
down, and all were more or less bruised
and injured by the explosion. Springing
to his feet, the chief of the Piquas uttered
a frightful yell of terror, and darted toward
the thicket, followed closely by his
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yelling and no less terrified companions,
leaving the Necromancer master of the
ground.
Clifton, who had been an inactive spectator
of the whole, now sprang to Luther,
and grasping him by the hand, while
tears of joy filled his eyes, said, with
emotion:
“My more than friend, my kind benefactor,
how can I ever sufficiently thank
you for this timely interference and preservation
of my life?”
“Ernest Bellington,” answered Luther,
warmly pressing the hand of the
young officer, “you owe me no thanks,
nor do I need them. When I do a good
deed, I know it is registered there,” and
he slowly and impressively pointed upward;
“there—there—beyond that sky
of blue, where I humbly hope and pray
my spirit will one day wing its flight,
and find more good than evil recorded of
my doings while a tenant here below.
Here,” added Luther, pointing downward
to Moody, who as yet had made no effort
to rise; “Here is a painful task for me
to perform. I must yield him up to justice.
I have said, and I will do it, for I
always keep my word.”
“And he deserves it,” returned Clifton;
“for if ever there was a black-hearted
villain on earth, he is one. But Kate,
and my friends—I—”
Here he was interrupted by the report
of firearms; and wheeling suddenly in
the direction of his fettered comrades,
whom he expected to behold sinking under
the weapons of the savages, judge of
his astonishment, on seeing them already
in pursuit of the latter, armed to the
teeth.
“Good Heaven! what magic is this?”
he cried, turning to Luther, all amazement.
“Simply that before I liberated you, I
took all means of precaution to render my
work sure,” replied the other modestly.
Such was the fact; and an unusual
negligence on the part of the Indians,
had aided him most essentially. Feeling
perfectly secure, and not wishing uselessly
to encumber themselves, they had
placed most of the weapons taken from
the whites in a pile by themselves, near
the thicket. While they were intently
occupied in council, Luther had managed
to get possession of these, and afterward
distribute them among their owners, cautioning
them, ere he cut their cords, not
to stir, unless they were attacked, or
heard a signal from him. Then approaching
Kate in a noiseless manner,
just as she, regaining consciousness, was
looking about her in alarm, he whispered
a few words of hope and consolation in
her ear, and freed her also, with the same
injunction as to remaining stationary.
This done, he had regained the thicket,
and appeared before the savages in the
manner already shown.
Terrified at the feats of the Necromancer,
but maddened at the release of their
prisoner, no sooner had the Indians fairly
hid themselves in the thicket, than
thoughts of vengeance took possession
of their half crazy brains, and they
paused for consultation. Under the
excitement they were laboring, this
was very short, and resulted in their
decision to steal upon the bound prisoners,
tomahawk and scalp them, and return
to their homes. Led by the now
infuriated Mugwa, they made a sally for
the purpose, and were bearing kown upon
their supposed victims, when, suddenly,
to their unbounded astonishment,
dismay, and terror, each captive sprang
behind his tree, and sent the contents of
his rifle among them. This, to the Indians,
was a work of magic indeed; and
overpowered by amazement and terror,
they paused for a moment irresolute.
The next they turned and darted away,
uttering horrible yells, followed by the
whites. Three of their number had
been wounded, but not so as to prevent
their flight, and in a few seconds all had
gained the cover of the thicket. Into
this the whites were prudent enough not
to venture, but turned back, congratulating
themselves upon their fortunate
and timely escape. Their first move was
to reload their rifles, and thus be prepared
for a second attack, in case the savages
should desire to renew the contest—a
proceeding, however, which was looked
upon as highly improbable. They then
repaired to where Kate was standing, and
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all in a body proceeded toward the Necromancer.
In their flight, the Indians had thrown
away most of the garments taken from
Clifton, who hastily recovering these
meantime, was now enabled to appear before
his friends, decently clad. Seeing
Kate approaching, he made one bound
forward, caught her in his arms, and
pressed her to his heart in silence. The
emotion of both was too deep for words.
His friends now crowded around him, and
seizing his hand, one after another, they
allowed their tearful eyes to say what their
tongues had not power to utter. It was a
solemn, but joyful meeting.
“Now,” exclaimed Danvers, who was
the first to break the silence, “let us attempt
to express our gratitude to this noble
being;” and he pointed toward Luther,
who was quietly standing a few paces distant,
holding the outcast Moody by a firm
grasp upon his arm.
“Ay, a thousand times bless him!” cried
Kate, rushing forward and kneeling at
the feet of the Necromancer.
“Up, girl!” said Luther, solemnly.
“Kneel to thy God, and not to frail mortality
like me.”
“But we must bless you, nevertheless,”
returned Danvers, grasping the hand unoccupied,
“as the instrument of the Almighty,
used in the preservation of our
lives.”
“Ay, ay!” cried several voices; and
each proceeded to express his thanks in
his own peculiar way.
“God bless you!” said one.
“May you live a thousand years!” said
another.
“Forever!” put in a third.
“May flowers ever lie in your path, and
the hand of innocence and virtue, and the
blessings of all who know you, smooth
the passage of your noble spirit to the vale
of eternal Eden!” added Kate, enthusiastically.
“Enough! enough!” rejoined Luther,
waving his hand and turning away his
head:
As he did this, his eye fell upon Moody,
who, pale as a corpse, stood trembling
and abashed, although not one of the party
had as yet appeared to notice his pres
ence. “Here,” he added, quickly, “take
him, or peradventure I repent and set him
free.”
A howl of indignation escaped two or
three of the party, as they sprang forward
and seized him roughly.
“Mercy!” cried the now terrified outcast,
who, since the appearance of Luther,
seemed to have become changed entirely,
from a reckless, boasting bully, to the
veriest poltroon on earth. “Mercy! I will
repent.”
“Yes, such mercy's you gave, you'll
git,” replied one.
“And that'll be a high tree and short
prayers,” said another.
“Hist! d'ye see anything?” whispered
David, at this moment, pointing toward
Ichabod, who, from some oversight, had
been neglected, and was still bound to his
tree, patiently waiting to be set at liberty.
“Why, good heavens! there is the gardener,
quite forgotten,” rejoined Clifton,
taking a step forward to release him.
“Hist!” said David again, detaining
Clifton with his hand.
The next instant his rifle was to his
eye, and before any one could comprehend
what it meant, the piece belched forth its
deadly contents. A cry of mortal agony
now rang upon the air, proceeding from
a cluster of bushes near which Ichabod
stood bound.
“You'll find him there all right,” said
David, coolly, as some two or three of the
party set off to learn the result of his shot.
On coming up to the place, they were
astonished at seeing an Indian lying life-less
upon his face. Turning him over,
they recognised the grim features of Unkee.
More blood-thirsty and daring than
his companions, he had stealthily ventured
hither to take the scalp of his prisoner;
but the quick ears and keen eyes of David
had been too much for him, and he had
met his fate in the manner shown.
Releasing Ichabod, the party now returned,
leaving the dead Indian to be devoured
by the beasts of the wilderness.
The manner of Luther, as they came up
to the others, arrested the attention of all.
He had turned his face toward the west,
placed his hands over his eyes, and now
stood swaying to and fro like some strong
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oak shaken by the blast—or, like one
whose mind is racked by some powerful
thought. No one ventured to address
him, and all stood regarding him with
awe and silence. At length he removed
his hands slowly, and turned his face toward
the group. Each started as they
saw that countenance, over which, in so
short a time, had come a fearful change.
His dark features were pale, and seemed
bloodless; his eye rolled more rapidly
than usual in its socket; the lid quivered
more nervously, and the whole face was
uncommonly agitated, as if by some inward
struggle.
“It is over,” he said, at length, in a
deep, guttural voice, recovering himself,
and assuming his wonted composure.
“I see you are surprised, my friends, to
behold me thus. There is a cause for it—
but that cause you will never know. My
time has now come to bid you farewell.
Many of you—perhaps all—will never
behold me more.”
“Nay, nay,” cried Ernest and Kate,
both in a breath, springing forward, and
each grasping a hand of the Necromancer.
“Nay, do not leave us!—why should
you not go with us, and be provided for
the remainder of your days?”
“Ay, do accept their offer,” added
Danvers.
Luther shook his head sadly.
“My friends,” he said, “it cannot be.
I thank you none the less, however, for
your kind offer—but it cannot be. My
road lies yonder;” and he waved his hand
toward the west, as if to comprehend the
whole great forest, which then stretched
over a vast and unexplored territory.
“My task here, peradventure, is ended.
A restless something within, tells me I
must go—go—go—till I come to my last
haven of rest—the grave. Will you forget
me when I am gone?” he asked, with
some emotion.
“Never! never!” cried all together.
Luther remained mute a moment, and
then turning to Clifton, resumed:
“Remember what I told you concerning
the box! It is all important. When
she is thy wife (motioning his hand toward
Kate), then, and not before, know
its contents.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Clifton, “I had forgotten;
it is in the possession of Moody;”
and advancing at once to the outcast, who
was still held by the three young men, he
took it from him, adding, as he returned
to the side of Luther, “I shall remember.”
“Let it not pass from you again with
life,” said the Necromancer. “Now, my
friends, let me bid you a long adieu;”
and beginning with Danvers, he shook
each warmly by the hand—leaving Ernest
and Kate to the last—giving each a
warm “God bless you!” and receiving a
similar blesisng from lips that trembled,
and eyes that grew moist, in return.
When he had done, he strode up to
Moody, and said, in a deep, solemn voice:
“ `The way of the transgressor is hard.'
I had hoped this to be otherwise—but a
Higher Power has willed it so, and overruled
me. It is enough. With a sad
heart I consign thee to the fate thou deservest.
I have warned thee, and spared
thee, and given thee chances to repent—
but all in vain. Farewell! we may never
meet again—neither in this world, nor
that which lies beyond the tomb.”
“Oh! save me this time—this once,”
cried the cowardly villian, imploringly,
“and, by all I hold sacred, I swear to
you I will repent and reform.”
“Too late,” returned Luther, sternly.
“When last I saved thy life, I said I would
never interfere again. My word I never
break. Farewell, forever!” and he turned
away abruptly.
Approaching Ernest and Kate, he once
more grasped them by the hand, and said:
“ 'T is hard to leave you, but I must
do it.
“The sun of hope Is In the sky,
The angry clouds have floated by;
Whate'er the past, remember this,
The future has its store of bliss.
“Farewell, till you behold me again,
either in time, or (he paused, and concluded
impressively) eternity.”
Without looking round, or saying more,
he now strode steadily to the thicket,
paused a moment, and then parting the
bushes with his hands, disappeared, from
many there present for the last time.
For something like a minute, the silence
was unbroken. All were mute and sad,
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and stood like statues, with their eyes fixed
upon the spot where the Necromancer
was last seen.
“Come,” said Clifton, “time wears,
and we have a long journey before us.
We must, God willing, reach the settlement
to-night.”
“D'ye hear?” said one addressing
Moody. “We've got a short job with
you first.”
“What are you going to do?” asked
Clifton.
“Keep our oath,” replied one. “We've
sworn to hang this villian, if ever we
got him in our power agin. We've
got him now, and won't be apt to forget
it.”
“Had you not better take him to some
settlement—to Cincinnati—and have him
tried legally? I cannot favor the movement
of taking vengeance into our own
hands.”
“It's no use for you to trouble yourself
'bout the matter, lieutenant, axing your
pardon!” replied David. “He's got to
die, that's the short on't; and sooner nor
he 'scapes agin, I'll give him the contents
o this;” and he held up his long
rifle.
“Come, dearest,” said Clifton, who
saw it would be useless to parley louger
with men who had been so deeply wronged:
“Come, Kate, let us away; we must
leave him to his fate;” and taking her
hand, he set forward, followed by Danvers
only, the others remaining with
Moody.
As soon as the young officer and his
party were fairly out of sight, Grant turned
to Moody and said:
“Come, wretch, down and say your
prayers—if you've got any to say—and
make 'em short; for the rope's ready, and
the tree's waiting to blossom with your
carcass. We'll see you dead this time,
anyhow, whether you come to life agin
or not.”
Moody, instead of complying, began
to remonstrate and beg for his life, which
so enraged the party, that without waiting
to listen, they began to drag him for
ward to the thicket, where lay his dead
Indian companion.
“Here's company for you,” said Ichabod;
“and as you plotted together in this
world, it'll be as well for ye to jine him
straightway, and keep him company in
the next.”
It so chanced that a strong sapling was
growing exactly over the body of the
savage; and laying hold of this, three of
of the party without ceremony pulled the
top down to the ground, while the rest
employed themselves in putting one end
of a rope round the neck of the outcast,
and fastening the other to it. Then seeing
that all was fast and ready, one of the
party said to Moody, whose very teeth
were chattering with terror:
“Now you're about to reap the reward
of your crimes.”
“Mercy!” gasped the guilty one.
“Git it after death, then,” was the bitter
reply.
“Ready all! Let her go!”
At the word, the sapling sprang upward
nearly to its former place, jerking Moody
up with it by the neck, and there holding
him, choking and struggling in mid air.
For a few minutes the party remained,
watching the struggles and awful contortions
of visage of the victim to Lynch law,
until they gradually subsided, and one
long, violent spasm, succeeded by a
straightening of the limbs, and perfect
quiet—announced that the erring and
criminal Moody was still in death.
“Let's go!” said David, briefly, turning
away with a shudder of disgust.
No answer was returned; but as he
left the thicket, he found each of his companions
at his heels, eager to quit the
place of a sight so horrible.
In a short time the party overtook the
one in advance, when all pushed forward
in a body together. No questions were
asked concerning the fate of Moody, and
no remarks made—each satisfied, apparently,
to leave the outcast to his fate.
Without incident worthy of note, the
whole company reached the settlement
that night, and joined their anxious friends.
eaf007.n3[3] Bad Spirit, or Devil.
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CHAPTER XXIII.
Mount on contemplation's wings,
And mark the causes and the ends of things;
Learn what we are, and for what purpose born.
What station here 'tis given us to adorn.
—Gifford.
Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart, a specter dim,
Whose tones are like the wizzard voice of Time,
Heard from the tombs of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions that have passed away,
And left no shadow of their loveliness.
Geo. D. Prentice.
How still the morning of the hallowed day—
Mute is the voice of rural labor.
—Graham.
To love, to bliss, their blended souls were given,
And each, too happy, asked no other heaven,
Dr. Dwight.
What a mighty contrast a few years
presents, in a country just merging from
a state of barbarism to one of civilization
and refinement! What a vast change from
the old primeval forest, where the native
hunters of the wood roamed unmolested
by civilized man, to the busy city with its
thousand workshops, or the quiet hamlet
of peace and plenty, or the well cultivated,
open farm of the industrious denizen of
agriculture! What wonderful change,
by the mighty wand of the wizzard of
Oriental tales, could be more grand and
imposing than the change which here, in
this bright land of the West, has been effected
by the arch-enchanter Time, in his
steady progress of eternal revolution!
Where is now the Indian—with his terrible
war-cry, his deadly rifle, his murderous
tomahawk, and his mutilating scalping-knife—
which so troubled the peace of
our fathers, and made wailing, and wo,
and terror among the pale-faces of the
frontiers? Where are now those tenants
of the wood—the panther, the bear, the
catamount, the buffalo, the deer, the copper-head
and rattlesnake—which held
their lairs in the great forest at the opening
of our story? Where, too, are those
great forests themselves, which stretched
far away, from east to west, from north to
south? Gone—all gone; vanished as a
dream; fled from before the steps of the
white man, as mists flee from the strides
of the great luminary of day.
Who that now sits in the heart of this
great city, where thousands are passing to
and fro—hears the rumbling sound of
many wheels as they roll over the stony
pavements, the voices of the venders, the
noise of industry, and beholds the display
of fashion from all quarters of the habitable
globe—can realize that barely sixty
years ago—only sixty years—in the memory
of many now living—on this very
ground swayed the inter locking branches of
a great forest, unseen by the eye, untouched
by the hand of an Anglo Saxon? Who
that now sees the bright river winding
like a belt of silver around our pleasant
banks, mirroring hundreds of houses in
its tranquil bosom, and parting its waters
to the gliding motion of hundreds of magnificent
steamers, and a thousand smaller
craft of all descriptions—can realize that
sixty years ago, the tall old trees of the
wilderness threw their cool shadows far
over its glassy tide, then disturbed only by
the fairy-like movements of the Indian
canoe? Who, say we, living here now,
can realize all this?—and yet it is but the
letter of truth itself.
Strangely have the predictions of Blind
Luther, the Necromancer, been verified.
The fifty years opening of the nineteenth
century have been pregnant with events
that have caused a world to wonder, until
wonder has ceased altogether, and man
now looks upon things beyond his first
comprehension as things which are to be.
The city which Luther beheld in his vision,
with the eye of the mind, we behold
with the naked eye of corporeal substance.
The great beast that was to be formed from
the dust of the earth, by the mechanism of
man, with rolling legs, with speed beyond
the speed of the deer, and with strength
exceeding an hundred horse—we now
behold daily. The great leviathans that
were to plow foaming channels in the
mighty deep, rush against wind and tide,
and carry the sons of earth in their great
bosoms—are already upon our waters.
The red lightning from the thunder-car
of heaven has already been drawn and sent
courier throughout the civilized earth; and
tho' ships do not yet sail in the blue ether
above us, and though tyranny still exists,
and liberty is not every where triumphant—
yet we must remember the prediction was
made for the nineteenth century, of which
more than half is yet to appear, and we
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little know what is written in the yet unopened
book of time. Well may we of
the present day exclaim, in the language
of Scripture: “What shall be the end of
these things, and what the sign of their
coming.”
In the opening chapter of this history,
we presented a contrast between the ancient
and modern appearance of Columbia—
which, in itself, has altered less, perhaps,
than in the improvements that environ
it. In place of the rough and serpentine
horse-path, that connected it with
its sister village, Cincinnati, with here
and there a solitary traveler upon it—we
have now a broad, smooth and beautiful
turnpike, shooting away from a thronged
city, through the pleasant hamlet of Fulton—
since sprung into existence—and
winding round the base of Bald-Hill, at
a height sufficient to overlook the quiet
dwellings reposing below, as also the
broad plain so often mentioned—over
which roll teams of burden, stages and
omnibuses for travelers and citizens, and
carriages for pleasure; while along its
side can be traced the dark lines of a railway,
on which to and fro rush the “iron
horses” with great velocity, dragging
their weighty burdens over three hundred
miles of territory, and connecting
this point with the great lakes of the north
by a journey of only a few hours.
At the precise spot where the turnpike,
winding around the base of Bald-Hill,
takes a more northern course, you have a
delightful view of the little knoll so frequently
mentioned in these pages, as the
ground on which stood the first building
erected solely to the worship of God by
the pioneers of the Miami Valley.
This knoll is only a few yards from
the base of the hill on which you stand,
and is a spot well calculated to arrest the
gaze of the observant traveler. In appearance,
it much resembles an Indian
mound, being somewhat oval and smooth.
No building now adorns its summit; but
the ruins of one can there be seen, around
which, covered with green sward, are
scattered the graves of many who worshiped
within its walls in times gone by,
whose names, half obliterated from the
crumbling stones above them, speak the
vanity and decay of earthly things, and
the dirge to whose memories is now only
sung by the wailing wind, as it sighs
through the branches of the willow, the
beach and the locust, waving above and
shadowing their last remains.
To this knoll, then—not as it appears
now, but as it appeared at the time of
which we write, with its neat, but humble,
building of worship peeping through the
grove that covered it—we must once
more call the readers attention; and if
he like, he may stand and view it from
the self-same spot where but now he
viewed the tombs of many who were then
in their rosy prime of life.
It was a beautiful Sabbath morning in
the spring of 1792. All nature seemed
rejoicing and full of happiness. The icy
hand of winter had been lifted from the
seemingly desolate earth, and everything
appeared as joyous as on the departure
of a tyrannical ruler. The trees had put,
or were putting, forth their buds, their
blossoms and leaves, and checkering the
forest with that beautiful variety of color,
which renders it so enchanting; while the
earth had sent up her blade and her
flowers of all hues, until her surface
seemed a carpet too rich almost to be
pressed by the foot of man. The warblers
of the forest had already returned
from their journey to the sunny south,
and now thronged the trees, and made
“earth vocal with their melody.” Already
had the husbandman put his seed
into the teeming earth, and the result
was now visible in broad, green squares
of corn and wheat, destined, by the process
of a few short months, to be greeted
as the golden harvest of plenty.
We have said it was a beautiful Sabbath
morning. The sun, slowly ascending
to the zenith of his glory, rolled over
an ocean of ethereal blue, wherein not a
cloud floated to mar its beauty, or check
for an instant his warmth, or cast a single
shadow over the scene before us. A gentle
southern breeze swept down the hills
of old Kentucky, rippled the bosom of
the Ohio, and came up the valley, freighted
with the sweets of a thousand flowers
bearing to the ear the hum of ten thousand
insects, and the songs of a thousand
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warblers. Save these, all sounds were
hushed.
It was Sabbath—the day set apart by
Him who made the world, for rest—and
the weekly toil of the husbandman had
ceased. Toward the little sanctuary so
often mentioned, a long line of villagers,
male and female, were taking their way,
dressed in the simple costume of the time,
with no ostentatious display of fashion to
rank one superior in point of wealth to
another. No solemn bell was sending
its vibrations upon the balmy air, to call
them to the church of God. They knew
it was the hour bordering upon worship,
and they set forth from their peaceful
dwelling places accordingly. Among
them were all classes—from the youth to
the grey-beard—from the maidon of a
few summers, to the hoary matron whose
feet already pressed the verge of the grave.
Some were grave, and some were gay—
for all of course did not feel the solemnity
of the day—yet none behaved with indecorum.
In the front and rear of the church
were stationed sentinels, with their rifles
upon their shoulders, past which the male
portion of the villagers bore their own
arms, and, ascending the little knoll, disappeared
one after another, within the
rude walls consecrated to the worship of
the Most High.
Around the door of the church, however,
a small group of youths and maidens
lingered, with their eyes mostly bent
in one direction, as if expecting some person
or persons from that quarter. At
length one exclaimed, “They come;”
and the speaker pointed with his finger
to a man of venerable appearance, some
fifty rods distant, who was seen coming
up the valley, accompanied by two couple
of both sexes. As this party ascended the
knoll, the sentinels they passed, paused,
touched their hats respectfully, and resumed
their patrol, while the group at
the door disappeared within.
In a short time, the last party crossed
the threshold of the church, amid a
profound silence, and were met on all
sides by an artillery of eager eyes, from
those already there assembled. A rude
altar at the farther end of the church,
overlooked the rough benches in front, on
which the congregation was seated—and
toward this the venerable pastor and his
young companions directed their steps.
At the place mentioned, the man of God
paused, and facing the assemblage, raised
his hands aloft. Simultaneously all rose
to their feet, and, after a short silence, his
tremulous voice was heard in solemn
prayer. This ended, the assemblage,
with the exception of the pious pastor and
the group which had accompanied him to
the altar, resumed their seats. Glancing
round him for a moment, the divine said:
“Friends, it now becomes my pleasant
but solemn duty, to unite in the holy rite
of marriage, Ernest Clifton and Kate
Clarendon, Albert Danvers and Mary
Argate.”
Saying this, he addressed himsef to the
party before him, and in a few minutes
the hands which were clasped together,
clasped those of partners for life. The
ceremony over, the newly married took
seats arranged behind them, while the
pastor, ascending the pulpit, read a text
suitable to the occasion, from which he
delivered a most eloquent and able discourse.
On the return of Kate from captivity,
she, at the earnest solicitation of young
Danvers and his sister, had taken up her
abode in their father's dwelling, where for
many weeks she labored under a strong
nervous affection, caused by the many
exciting events which we have chronicled,
among the most prominent of which was
the horrible death of her mother. Grief,
violent, and some feared fatal, for a long
time rankled deeply in her affectionate
breast, and hours, and days, and weeks of
anguish had been apportioned her. But
Time, the great healer or destroyer of
hearts diseased, had gradually softened
and soothed her feelings, and taught her
the vanity of mourning so severely an
earthly loss, which a few short years, at
the most, would repay in the gain of a
never ending eternity, and a meeting with
those she loved, to part no more forever.
Moreover, all she loved were not gone
Around, on every side, she felt she had
kind, sympathizing friends, for whose
sakes it was her duty to appear somewhat
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resigned and cheerful; but, above all others,
for the sake of one, dear and beloved,
whose happiness depended upon her own,
and to whom she now felt her own,
drawn with a peculiar, sublime and almost
idolatrous affection, which she had
never before known for earthly being.
She still had something to live for; an
object to love, and feel that in turn she
was loved; and the thought of the living
gradually took the place of the dead.
Spring came, and she was happy in the
embrace of one she could call her own
forever.
Throughout the winter, Ernest had remained
in the fort at Cincinnati, though
his visits to Columbia, on one pretense or
another, had not been like angels' visits,
“few and far between;” but, on the contrary,
had been almost of daily occurrence.
The many mysterious words of
Luther had made a deep impression upon
his mind. He had thought of them by
day, and dreamed of them by night. Could
they have any meaning? were they true?
A thousand times had he been tempted to
open the mysterious box in his possession,
and know for a certainty; but as often a
moral sense of obligation to the commands
of one who had so befriended, restrained
him.
“I will not,” he said to himself, “until
the time set for the purpose has expired,
and then I will know all.”
It was late on the evening succeeding the
marriage of Clifton, and in a rude apartment
of a dwelling, in the village so often
named, sat the young officer, by the side
of a table on which stood a light, throwing
its gleams upon his noble and manly
countenance, as, with the chin resting on
his hand, he contemplated in silence several
manuscript papers lying before him.
The door opened, and a bright, fairy-like
being glided up to his side, and a soft,
white hand was laid upon his shoulder.
Ernest started, and looking up, exclaimed,
in rapture:
“Bless you, my own, dearest Kate—
my wife!—now I can make you happy;”
and as he pressed his lips to hers, a tear
of joy stood in his eye.
“Ah! dear Ernest,” answered Kate in
a silvery voice, gazing tenderly upon
him, and parting the hair from his forehead;
“why do you say now? Could
you not always make me happy? Could
I be otherwise with you?”
“But now more than ever! You remember
the words and the gift of Luther,
dearest?”
“I do: the latter a silver box.”
“Aye, and the contents of that box are
now before you. First, here,” continued
Ernest, taking up a scroll; “on this are
my horoscope and destiny written. It
looks old, and bears date 1770. In it I
am styled Ernest Bellington, son of Arthur
Lord Bellington, twin brother of Albert
Bellington, and grandson of Edgar,
Earl of Killingworth. The next, in like
manner, is the horoscope of my brother,
since my foe, in the person of Rashton
Moody. The third is your own, and your
destiny is marked to run parallel to mine.
But most important of all,” pursued Ernest,
with sparkling eyes, “is this;” and
he held aloft a parchment; “this, which
proves to my satisfaction my birthright.”
“O, read it!” exclaimed Kate, with interest,
seating herself by his side, and
looking fondly upon him.
“A kiss first, my little wife. There,
now listen!” and Ernest began the unraveling
of a tale of mystery.
The story purported to be written by
Luther Boreancy, othewise Blind Luther.
It was long, sometimes so metaphorical
as to render the sense almost obscure,
and was altogether a remarkable
document. We shall not follow it in detail,
but will give the contents in brief, in
our own language.
It stated that Arthur Lord Bellington,
son of Edgar Earl of Killingworth, being
an only son, married, contrary to his
father's desire, an accomplished lady of
small fortune and inferior birth. A quarrel
ensued, father and son became estranged,
and finally, after the birth of twin
sons, the latter determined to embark for
America. Before he quitted the country,
however, he took his infants to a magistrate,
and had tattooed in his presence,
and in the presence of many witnesses, under
the left arm of each, the armorial
bearings of his house, and the initial letters
of their names. Papers, stating the
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whole affair, were then drawn up, and
signed by all present, of which a copy
was taken and deposited in the archives
of the capital. This accomplished, he
embarked for America with his family.
On board the same vessel which carried
him out, was one who had made the tour
of the world, and learned astrology and
the occult sciences of the Egyptions. He
was consulted, and he in turn consulted
the stars, and predicted the sudden death
of the young lord and his lady. It came.
Ship fever broke out, and Lady Bellington
sickened and died. Lord Bellington
was attacked, and on his death-bed he
called the astrologer to him, and gave his
infants into his charge, with all the proofs
concerning them, together with a large
purse of money, and begged that he
would have them educated and brought
up separately, neither to know of his
birthright until the Earl of Killingworth
should be no more. The astrologer promised,
Lord Bellington died, and the former
kept his word. By a train of circumstances
useless for us to mention, all came to
the West, and the rest the reader knows.
Such, in short, was the substance of the
document which Ernest now read to his
bride; and accompanying it were all the
proofs, and a statement that the old peer
was now deceased.
“And so, I suppose, the astrologer
here mentioned is none other than our
Necromancer?” said Kate inquiringly.
“I infer, from what I have read,” answered
Ernest, “they are one and the
same; but further than that, the mystery
seems as dark as ever. God bless him,
though, whoever he is! I should like to
behold him once again, whether mortal
or spirit!”
“Behold, then! for he is mortal and
here,” said a deep voice, close at hand.
Ernest sprang to his feet, with an exclamation
of surprise, while Kate uttered
a cry of terror. Behind them stood Luther,
quietly leaning on his stick of witchhazel,
and the door, through which he
had softly entered, was partly ajar.
“Good heavens!” ejaculated Ernest,
fastening his eyes steadily upon Luther,
with an expression of awe, “are you
really flesh and blood?”
“Feel and have faith!” said Luther,
advancing and extending his dark hand
to the young officer.
Ernest touched, pressed it in his own,
and replied:
“There is no doubting that. But tell
me, mysterious being, who art thou?”
“All thou knowest is thine,” replied
Luther, gravely. “What thou knowest
not, is shut from thee forever. Question
no further. I perceive thou didst obey
my request;” and he pointed to the papers
on the table. “How like you your
destiny?”
“It is better than I ever hoped for
in my dreams,” replied Clifton rapturouslv.
“Wear well thy honors, and when
thou art rich, forget not the poor. Whatever
the past may have been, the future
promises everything. With thy new fortunes
and bride, thou must become the
envied of mortals. Farewell! I bid thee
farewell, and go forever from thy sight.
Sweet lady (turning to Kate), we shall
meet no more on earth. I need not tell
thee to be true and loyal to thy husband,
nor him to do the like by thee. I make
one prediction more. The world shall
yet praise the wealth, the bounty, the
beauty and virtue of the Earl and the
Countess of Killingworth. Farewell!”
As he spoke he turned and strode out
of the apartment.
“Stay!” cried Clifton, who had yet many
questions to ask—but Luther paused not.
Ernest and Kate sprang to the door.
The moon, already on the wane, faintly
traced the outline of a tall figure, gliding
toward the wood. One moment, and it
disappeared, and blind Luther was seen
nevermore by those who looked upon
him as a guardian angel and benefactor.
Many long years after these events,
however, a strange figure, answering his
description, was discovered in the wood
by an old hunter. He was lying on his
side, his head resting upon an old knapsack.
On examination, it was found that
he had been a long time dead. On the
spot where he ceased to breathe, a little
rise of earth, and two rough stones at his
head and feet, mark out the last earthly
resting place of a once mysterious being.
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About his person were found some old
papers, so worn and soiled by time, that
the writing thereof was mostly illegible.
From what little could be deciphered, it
was conjectured by some that he was once
a nobleman of distinction, whom one
cause or another had driven to this country,
and that, becoming partially deranged,
he had conducted himself in the manner
we have shown. Others believed him
possessed of supernatural powers, and
there were various opinions and conjectures;
but all amounted to surmises only;
for none ever knew who he was, or
whence he came.
Soon after his marriage, Ernest threw
up his commission in the army, and, with
his lovely wife, and her faithful serving
man, Ichabod Longtree, set out for Ireland,
his ancestral home. The old peer
was dead, and the young lord had but little
difficulty in proving his identity, and
taking his place among the proudest of
the realm. A long rent-roll secured him
a vast income, and he lived in lordly
splendor, the happiest of mortals. The
Countess of Killingsworth proved a dutiful
and loving wife; and the old Earl
was heard in after years to tell his grandchildren,
he blessed the hour when first
his eyes beheld the fainting form of the
lovely Kate Clarendon.
Back matter
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Bennett, Emerson, 1822-1905 [1848], Kate Clarendon, or, Necromancy in the wilderness: a tale of the little Miami (Stratton & Barnard, Cincinnati) [word count] [eaf007].
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