The dwelling of Benjamin Younker, as already mentioned, stood at the
base of a hill, on the margin of a beautiful valley, and within a hundred feet
of a lucid stream, whose waters finding their source in the neighbouring hills,
rushed down, all gleesome and sparkling, over a limestone bed, and

“From morn till night, from night till morn,”

The building itself though rough, both externally and internally, was
what at that period was termed a double cabin; and in this respect, entitled
to a superiority over most of its neighbors, which could only be defined in
the singular number. As this may serve for a representative of the houses
or cabins of the early settlers of Kentucky, we shall proceed to describe its
stucture and general appearance somewhat more minutely than might otherwise
be deemed necessary.

The sides of the cottage in question, were composed of logs—rough from
the woods where they had been felled—with the bark still clinging to them,
and without having undergone other transformation than being cut to a certain
length, and knotched at either end, so as to sink into each other, when
crossed at right angles, until their bodies met, thereby forming a structure
of compactness, strength and solidity. Some ten or twelve feet from the
ground, the two upper end logs of the cabin projected a foot or eighten inches
beyond the lower, and supported what were called butting poles—poles
which crossed these projections at right angles, and, extending along the
front and back of the building, formed the eves or basis of the roof. This
latter was constructed by gradually shortening the logs at either end, until
those which crossed them, as we said before, at right angles, came together at
an angle of forty-five degrees, and the last one formed the ridge-pole or
comb of the whole. On these logs, lapping one over the other, and the lower
tier resting against the butting poles, were laid slabs or clapboard—a species
of plank split from some stright-grained tree—about four feet long, and from
three to four wide. These were secured in their places by logs in turn
resting on them, at certain intervals, and answering the purpose of nails;
necessity requiring these latter articles of convenience to be dispensed with
in the early settlements of the West. As the cabin was double, two doors
gave enterance from without, one into either apartment. These entrances
were formed by cuting away the logs for the space of three feet by six, and
were closed by rude doors, made of rough slabs, pinned strongly to heavy
cross bars, and hung on hinges of the same material. These, like the rest
of the building, were rendered, by their thickness, bullet proof—so that when
closed and bolted, the house was capable of withstanding an ordinary attack
of the Indians. With the exception of one window, opening into the apartment
generally occupied by the family, and flanked by a heavy shutter, the
doors and chimney were the only means through which light and air were
admitted. These were all firmly secured at night—the unsettled and

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

exposed state of the country, and the dangerous proximity of the pioneers to
the ruthless savage, particularly those without the forts, rendering necessary,
on their part, the most vigilant caution.

The internal appearance of the cabin corresponded well with the external.
The apartment occupied by the family during the day, where the
meals where cooked and served, and the general household affairs attended
to, was very homely, and might, if contrasted with some of the present time,
be termed almost wretched; though considered at the period of which we
write, rather above than below the ordinary. The floor was composed of
what by the settlers were termed puncheons; which were made by splitting
in half trees of some eighten inches in diameter, and hewing the faces of
them as regular as possible with the broad-axe. These were laid, bark side
downward upon sleepers running crosswise for the purpose, and formed at
least a dry, solid and durable, if not polished, floor. At one end of the cabin
was the chimney, built of logs, outside the apartment, but connecting with
it by a space cut away for the purpose. The back, jambs, and hearth of
this chimney were of stone, and put together in a manner not likely to be
imitated by masons of the present day. A coarse kind of plaster filled up
the surrounding crevices, and served to keep out the air and give a rude
finish to the whole.

The furniture of the Younkers, if the title be not too ambiguous, would
scarcely have been coveted by any of our modern exquisities, even had they
been living in that ago of straight-forward common sense. A large rough
slab, split from some tree, and supported by round legs set in auger holes,
had the honor of standing for a table—around which, like a brood of chickens
around their mother, were promiscuously collected several three-legged
stools of similar workmanship. In one corner of the room were a few
shelves, on which were ranged some wooden trenchers, pewter plates, knives
and forks, and the like necessary articles, while a not very costly collection of
pots and kettles took a less dignified and prominent position beneath. Another
corner was occupied by a bed, the covering of which was composed of
skins of different animals, with sheetings of home-made linen. In the vicinity
of the bed, along the wall, was a row of pegs, suspending various garments
of the occupants, all of which—with the exception of a few articles,
beloging to Ella, procured for her before the death of her father—were of
the plainest and coarsest description. A churn—a clock—the latter a very
rare thing among the pioneers of Kentucky—a footwheel for spinning flax—
a small mirror—together with several minor articles of which it is needless
to speak—completed the inventory of the apartment. From this room were
two exits, beside the outer door—one by a ladder leading above to a sort of
attic chamber, where were two beds; and the other through the wall into
the adjoining cabin, whither our hero had been borne in a state of insensibility
on the night of his mishap, and where he was for the second time presented
to the reader. This latter place was graced with a bed—a loom for
weaving—a spinning-wheel—a large oaken chest, and a few rough benches.

Such, reader, as our description has set forth, was the general appearance
of Younker's dwelling, both without and within, in the year of our Lord 1781;
and, moreover, a facsimile of an hundred others of the period in question—
so arbitrary was necessity in making one imitate the other. But to resume
our story.

In the after part of a day as mild and beautiful as the one with which we
opened our narrative, but some four weeks later, Ella Barnwell, needle,
work in hand, was seated near the open door leading from the apartment
first described to the reader. Her head was bent forward, and her eyes

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

were apparently fixed upon her occupation with great intentness—though
a close observer might have detected furtive glances occasionally thrown
upon a young man, with a pale and somewhat agitated countenance, who
was pacing to fro on the ground without. With the exception of these two,
no person was within sight—though the rattling of aloom in the other apartment
or cabin, betokened the vicinity of the industrious hostess.

For some moments the young man,—a no less personage than our
hero—paced back and forth like one whose mind is harrowed by some disagreeable
thought; then suddenly halting in front of the doorway, and in a
voice which, though not intended to be so, was slightly tremulous, he addressed
himself to the young lady, in words denoting a previous conversation.

“Then I must have said some strange things Ella—I beg pardon—Miss
Barnwell.”

“Have I not requested you, Mr. Reynolds, on more than one occasion,
to callme Ella, instead of using the formality of miss, which rather belongs to
strangers in fashionable society, than to those dwelling beneath the same
roof, in the wilds of Kentucky?” responded the person addressed, in a tone
of pique, while she raised her head and let her soft, dark eyes rest reproachfully
on the other.

“Well, well, Ella,” rejoined Reynolds, “I crave pardon for my heedlessness,
and promise you, on that score at least, no more cause for offence in
future.”

“Offence!” said Ella quickly, catching at the word: “O no—no—not offence,
Mr. Reynolds! I should be sorry to take offence at what was meant in
all kindness, and with true respect; but somehow I—that is—perhaps it may
not appear so to others—but I—to me it appears studied—and—and—cold;”
and as she concluded, in a hesitating manner, she quickly bent her head forward,
while her cheek crimsoned at the thought, that she might, perhaps, have
ventured too far, and laid herself liable to misconstruction.

“And yet, Ella,” returned Reynolds, somewhat playfully, “you resemble
many others I have known, in preaching what you do not practice. You
request me to lay aside all formality, and address you by your name only;
while you, in that very request, apply to me the title you consider as studied,
formal and cold.”

“You have reference to my saying Mr. Reynolds, I presume,” answered
Ella; “but I see no analogy between the two; as in addressing you thus, I do
but what, under the circumstances, is proper; and what, doubtless, habit has
rendered familiar to your ear; while, on the other hand, no one ever thinks
of calling me any thing but Ella,—or at the extreme, Ella Barnwell—and
hence all superfluities grate harshly.”

“Even complimentary adjectives, eh?” asked Reynolds, with an arch look.

“Even those, Mr. Reynolds; and those most of all are offensive I assure
you.”

“I thought all of your sex were fond of flattery.”

“Then have you greatly erred in thinking.”

“But thus says general report.”

“Then, sir, general report is a slanderer, and should not be credited.
Those who court flattery, are weak-minded and vain; and I trust you do
not so consider all our sex.”

“God forbid,” answered Reynolds, with energy, “that I should think thus
of all, or judge any too harshly!—but there may be causes to force one into
the conviction, that the exceptions are too few to spoil the rule.”

“I trust such is not your case,” responded, Ella, quickly, while her eyes
rested on the other with a searching glance.

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

“No one is required to criminate himself in law,” replied Reynolds, evasively,
with a sigh; and then immediately added, as if anxious to change the
topic: “But I am eager for you to inform me what I said during my delirium.”

“O many things,” returned Ella, “the half of which I could not repeat;
but more particularly you spoke of troubles at home, and often repeated the
name Elvira, with great bitterness. Then you would run on incoherently,
for some time, about pistols, and swords, and end by saying that the quarrel
was just—that you were provoked to it, until it became almost self defence—
and that if he died, his blood would be on his own head.”

“Good heavens, Ella! did I indeed say this?” exclaimed Reynolds, with
a start, while his features became deadly pale. “Did I say more? did I mention
farther particulars?—speak! tell me—tell me truely!”

“Not in my hearing,” answered Ella, while her own face blanched at the
sudden vehemence of the other.

“Well, well, do not be alarmed!” said Reynolds, evidently somewhat relieved,
and softening his voice, as he noticed the change in her countenance;
“people sometimes say strange things, when reason, the great regulator of
the tongue, is absent. What construction did you put upon my words, Ella?”

“Why in sooth,” replied Ella, watching his features closely as she spoke,
“I thought nothing of them, other than to suppose you might formerly have
had some trouble; and that in the chaos of wild images crowding your brain.
after being attacked and wounded by savages, it was natural some of these
images should be of a bloody nature.”

“Then you did not look upon the words as having reference to a reality.”

“No! at the time I did not.”

“At the time?” repeated Reynolds, with a slight fall of countenance; “have
you then seen or heard any thing since to make you suspicious?”

“Nothing—until—”

“Well, well,” said Reynolds, quickly, as she hesitated, “speak out and
fear nothing!”

“Until but now, when you became so agitated, and spoke so vehemently
on my repeating your delirious language,” added Ella, concluding the sentence.

“Ha!” ejaculated Reynolds, as if to himself, “sanity has done more to
betray me than delirium. Well, Ella,” continued he, addressing her more
direct, “you have heard enough to make you doubtful of my character;
therefore you must needs hear the whole, that you may not judge me worse
than I am; but remember, withal, the tale is for your ear alone.”

“Nay, Mr. Reynolds, if it be a secret I would rather not have it in
keeping,” answered Ella.

“It is a secret,” returned Reynolds, solemnly, with his eyes cast down in
a dejected manner; “a secret, I would to God I had not myself in keeping!
but hear it you must, Ella, for various reasons, from my lips, and then we
part—(his voice slightly faltered) we part—forever!”

“Forever!” gasped Ella, quickly, with a choking sensation, while her
features grew pale, and then suddenly flushed, and her work unconsciously
dropped from her hand. Then, as if ashamed of having betrayed her feelings,
she became confused and endeavored to cover the exposure by adding
with a forced laugh: “But realy, Mr. Reynolds, I must crave pardon for
my silly behavior—but your manner of speaking, somehow, startled me—
and—and I—before I was aware—really, it was very silly—indeed it was,
and I pray you overlook it!”

“Were circumstances not as I have too much reason to fear they are,”

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

ceturned Reynolds, slowly, sadly and impressively, with his eyes fixed earnestly
and even tenderly upon the other, “I would not exchange that simple
expression of yours, Ella, for a mine of gold. By that alone you have spoken
volumes, and told me what I already feared was true, but hoped was
otherwise. Nay, turn not your head away, Ella,—dear Ella, if you will
allow me so to address you—it is better, under the circumstances, that we
speak plain and understandingly, as the time of our final separation draweth
near. I fear that my manner and language have hitherto too much expressed
my feelings, and encouraged hopes in you that can never be realized.
Oh! Ella, if such be the case, I would to God, for your dear sake, we
had never met!—and the thought hereafter, that I have caused you a pang,
will add its weight of anguish to my already bitter lot. The days that I
have spent beneath this hospitable roof, and in your sweet presence, are so
many of bright sunshine, in a life of cloud and storm; but will only serve, as
I recal them, to make the remainder, by contrast, seem more dark and
dreary. From the first I learned you were an orphan, and my sympathy
was aroused in your behalf; subsequently, I listened to your recital of grief
and trouble and cold treatment by the world,—told in an artless manner—
and in spite of me, in spite of my struggles to the contrary, I discovered
awakening in my breast a feeling of a stronger nature. Had my wound permitted,
I should have torn myself from your presence then, with the endeavor,
if such a thing were possible, to forget you; but, alas! fate ordered
otherwise, and the consequence I fear will be to add sorrow to both. But one
thing, dear Ella, before I go farther, let me ask: Can you, and will you forgive
me, for the manner in which I have conducted myself in your company?”

“I have nothing to forgive; and had I, it should be forgiven,” answered
Ella, sweetly, in a timid voice, her hands unconsciously toying with her
needle-work, and her face half averted, whereon could be traced the suppressed
workings of internal emotion.

“Thank you, Ella—thank you, for taking a weight from my heart. And
now, ere I proceed with what to both of us will prove a painful revelation,
let me make one request more—a foolish one I know—but one I trust you
will grant nevertheless.”

“Name it,” said Ella, timidly, as the other paused.

“It is, simply, that in judging me by the evidence I shall give against myself,
you will lean strongly to the side of mercy, and, when I am gone, think
of me rather as an unfortunate than criminal being.”

“You alarm me, Mr. Reynolds, with such a request!” answered Ella,
looking up to the other with a pale, anxious countenance. “I know not the
meaning of it! and, as I said before, I would rather not have your secret in
keeping—the more so as you say the revelation will be a painful one to both.”

For a moment the young man paused, as though undecided as to his reply,
while his countenance expressed a look of mortified regret really painful to
behold—so much so, that Ella, moved by this to a feeling of compassion,
said:

“I perceive my answer wounds your feelings—I meant no harm; go on
with your story—I will listen, and endeavor to concede all you desire.”

“Thank you—again thank you!”—returned the other energetically, with
emotion. “I will make my narative brief as possible.” Saying which, he
entered the apartment where the other was sitting, and seating himself
a few feet distant from her, after some little hesitation, as if to bring his resolution
to the point, thus began.

“I shall pass over all miner affairs of my life, and come at once to the
period and event which changed me from a happy youth, blessed with home

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

and friends, to a wanderer—I know not but an outlaw—on the face of the
earth. I was born in the state of Connecticut, A. D. 1759; and my father
being a man of property, determined on giving his childern (of whom there
were two, one older than myself) a liberal education, I was at an early agesent
to a neighboring school, where I remained until turned of eighteen, and
then returned to my parents.

“About this period, an old, eccentric lady—a maiden aunt of my father—
died, bequeathing to me, or rather to the second born of her nephew, Albert
Reynolds, which chaneed to be myself—the bulk of her property—in value
some fifty thousand dollars; on condition, that between the ages of eighteen
and twenty-two, I should marry a certain Elvira Longworth—a lady some
three years my junior, for whom my great aunt had formed a strong attachment.
And the will further provided. That in case the said second born of
Albert Reynolds, either through the intervention of Providence, in removing
him from off the face of the earth, (so it was worded) and from among the
living, or through a mutual dislike of the parties concerned, did not between
the specified ages, celebrate, with due rejoicing, the said nuptials with the
said Elvira Longworth, the sum of twenty thousand dollars should be paid
over to the said Elvira, if living, and the remainder of the property (or in
case she was deceased) the whole should revert to the regular heirs at law.

“Such was the will—one of the most singular perhaps on record—which,
whatever the design of its author, was destined, by a train of circumstances
no one could forsee, to result in the most terrible consequences to those it
should have benefited. On the reading thereof, no little dissatisfaction was
expressed in regard to it, by numerous relatives of the deceased, each of
whom, as a matter of course, was expecting a considerable share of the old
lady's property, and all of whom, with but few exceptions, were nearer
akin than myself, and therefore, in that respect, more properly entitled to
it. As a consequence of the will, I, though innocent of its construction—for
none could be more surprised at it than myself—became a regular target
for the ridicule, envy and hate of those who chanced to be disappointed
thereby. At the outset, I had no intention of seeking a title to the property,
by complying with the specification set forth at the instance of its late
owner, and only looked upon it as a piece of crack-brained folly, that would
serve for a nine days' comment and jest, and then be forgotten; but when I
saw, that instead of being treated with the courtesy and respect no conscious
act of mine had ever forfeited, I was ridiculed, sneered at, and looked upon
with jealousy and hate by those whose souls were too narrow to believe in
a noble action—and who, measuring and judging me by their own sordid
standards of avaricious justice, deemed I would spare no pains to legally rob
them, as they termed it,—when I saw this, I say, my blood became heated,
my fiercer passions were roused, and I inwardly swore, that if it were now
in my power to accomplish what they feared, I would do it, though the lady
in question were a fright to look upon. In this decision I was rather
encoursged by my father, who being at the time somewhat involved, thought
it a feasible plan of providing for me, and then, by my aid, recovering from
his own peeuniary embarrassment.

“As yet I had never seen Elvira—she living in an adjoining county, some
fifty miles distant, where my aunt, on a visit to a distant relative, first made
her acquaintance, and formed that singular attachment, peculiar to eccentric
temperaments, which had resulted in the manner already shown. Accordingly,
one fine spring morning, I mounted my horse, and set forth to
seek my intended, and behold what manner of person she was of. Late at
night I arrived at the village where she resided—stabled my beast—took

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

lodging at a hotel—inquired out her residence—and, betimes the morning
following, made my obeisance in her presence, with that bashful, awkward
grace—if I may be allowed so paradoxical a term—which my youth, present
purpose, and former good breeding combined, were calculated to produce.
I was more embarassed still a minute after, when having given my name,
and hinted at the singular document of the old lady deceased, I found my
fair intended, as well as her family, in total ignorance of my meaning; and
could I at the moment have been suddenly transferred to my horse, I do not
think I should have paused to make the necessary explanation. As it was,
there was no alternative; and accordingly begging a private interview with
Elvira, I disclosed the whole secret, which she listened to for a time with
unfeigned surprise, and then bursting into a wild, ringing laugh, declared
it to be `The funniest and most ridiculous thing she ever heard of.'

“She was a gay, airy, beautiful being—fresh in the bloom of some fifteen
summers—with a bright, sparkling, roguish eye—long, floating, auburn
ringlets—a musical voice—a ringing laugh—the latter frequent and long,—
so that I soon felt it needed not the stimulating desire of wealth and revenge
to urge me on to that, which, under any circnmstances, would have been
by no means disagreeable. To make a long story short, I called upon her
at stated periods, and within a year from our first acquaintance, we were
plighted to each other. About this time my father, together with some
influential friends, procured me a lieutenancy, to serve in our present
struggle for the maintainance of that glorious independence, drawn up by
the immortal Jefferson, and signed by the noble patriots, without a trembling
hand, unless caused by age, some two years before. I served a two
years' campaign, and fought in the unfortunate and bloody battle of Camden,
which resulted, as doubtless you have heard, in great loss and defeat to the
American arms. Shortly after the action commenced, our captain was
killed, and the command of the company devolved on me. I fulfilled my
duties to the best of my ability, and myself and men were in the hottest of
the fight. But from some alledged misdemeanor, whereof I can take my
oath I was guiltless, I was afterward very severely censured by one of my
superior officers, which so wounded my feelings, that I at once resigned
my commission and returned to my native state.

“On arriving at home, to my surprise and mortification, I learned that
my intended was just on the eve of marriage with a cousin of mine—a worthless
fellow—who, urged on by the relatives interested, and his own desire
of acquiring the handsome competence of twenty thousand dollars, had taken
advantage of my absence to calumniate me, (in which design he had been
aided by several worthy assistants) and supplant me in the good graces—I
will not say affections, as I think the term too strong—of Elvira Longworth.

“The lady in question I do not think I ever loved—at least as I understand
the meaning of that term—and now—that she had listened to slander
against me while absent, and without waiting to know whether it would be
refuted on my return, had engaged herself to another—I cared less for than
before;—but my pride was touched, that I should be thus tamely set aside
for one I heartily despised; and this, together with my desire to thwart the
machinations of the whole intriguing clique arrayed against me, determined
me, if feasible, to regain the favor of Elvira, and have the ceremony performed
as soon as possible. This, Ella, I know you think, and I am ready
to admit, was wrong—very wrong;—but I make no pretensions to be other
than a frail mortal, liable to all the crrors appertaining thereto; and were
this the only sin to be laid to my charge, my conscience were far less
troublesome than now.

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

“I determined, I say, to regain my former place in her favor or affection—
whichever you like—and, to be brief, I apparently succeeded. The
day was set for our marriage, which, for several reasons unnecessary to bedetailed,
was to take place at the residence of my father; and, as the will
specified it should be with all due rejoicings, great preparations were
accordingly made, and a goodly number of guests invited.

“At length the day came—the eventful day. Never shall I forget it;
nor with what feelings, at the appointed hour, I entered the crowded hall,
where the ceremony was to take place, with Elvira leaning tremblingly on
my arm, her features devoid of all color, and approached the spot where
the divine stood ready to unite us forever. All eyes were now fixed upon
us, and the marriage rite was begun amid that deep and almost awful solemnity,
which not unfrequently characterizes such proceedings on peculiar
occasions, when every spectator, as well as the actors themselves, feel a
secret awe steal over them, as though about to witness a tragic, rather than
a civil performance.

“I have mentioned that Elvira trembled violently when we entered the
hall; but this became increased after the divine commenced the ritual; so
that when I had answered in the affirmative the solemn question pertaining
to my taking the being by my side as mine till death, her trepidation had
become so great that it was with difficulty I could support her; and when
the same interrogative was put to her, a silence of some moments followed,
and then the answer came forth, low and trembling, but still sufficiently
distinct to be generally understood, and was, to the unbounded astonishment
of all, in the negative!”

“In the negative!” exclaimed Ella, suddenly, who had during the last
fow sentences been unconsciously leaning forward, as though to devour each
syllable as it was uttered, and who now resumed her former position with a
long drawn breath. “In the negative say you, Alger—a—a—Mr. Reynolds?”

“Call me Algernon, Ella, I pray you; it sounds more sweet and friendly.
Ay, she answered in the negative. Heavens! what a shock was there for
my proud nature! To be thus publicly insulted and rejected—to be thus
made the butt and ridicule of fools and knaves—a mark for the jests and
sneers of friend and foe! Gods! how my blood boiled and coursed in lava
streams through my heated veins! I saw it all. I was the dupe of some
artful design, intended to stigmatise me forever; and wild with a thousand
terrible brain-searing thoughts. I rushed from the hall to my own apartment,
seized upon my pistols, and was just in the act of putting a period to my
existence, when my arm was suddenly grasped, and my hated rival and
cousin stood before me.

“ `Fiend!' cried I in frenzy, `devil in human shape!—do you seek me in
the body? What want you here?”

“His features were pale with excitement, and his lips quivered as he
made answer: `Be calm, Algernon, be calm; it was meant but in jest!'

“ `Jest!' screamed I; `do you then own to a knowledge of it, villain?—were
you its author?—then take that, and answer it as you dare!'—and as I spoke,
with the breech of my undischarged pistol, I stretched him senseless at my
feet. Under the excitement of the moment, I was about to take more terrible
revenge, when others suddenly rushed in—seized and disarmed me—
bore my rival from my sight—and, to conclude, placed me in bed, where I
was confined for three weeks by a delirious fever, and then only recovered
as it were by a miracle.

“During my convalescence, I learned that my cousin, soon after my
return, had been privately married to Elvira; and prompted by his evil

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

genius, and some of my enemies, had induced his wife to enter into the plot,
the result of which has already been briefly narrated. I do not think she
did it through malice, and doubtless little thought of the consequences that
were destined to follow; but whether so or no, her punishment has, I think,
been fully adequate to her crime; for the last I heard of her, she was an
inmate of a mad-house,—remorse for her conduct, the abuse heaped upon
her by society, and her own severe fright at the termination of the stratagem,
naving driven her insane. Now comes the most tragic part of my
narrative.

“When so far recovered as to again be abroad, I was cautioned by my
parents against any rash act; and for their sakes, I promised to be temperate
in all my movements; but, alas! how little we know when we promise,
what we may be in sooth destined to perform. On my father's estate, about
a mile distant from his residence, was a beautiful grove—whither, for recreation,
I was in the habit of repairing at all periods of my life; and where,
so soon as my strength permitted, after my sickness, I rambled daily. About
ten days from my recovery, as I was taking my usual stroll through these
grounds, I was suddenly confronted by my cousin. His cheeks were hollow
and pale, and his whole appearance haggard in the extreme. His eyes, too,
seemed to flash, or burn, as it were, with an unearthly brightness; and his
voice, as he addressed me, was hoarse, and his manner hurried.

“ `We meet well,' he said, `well! I have watched for you long.'

“ `Away I' cried I, `tempt me no more—or something will follow I may
regret hereafter!'

“ `Ha, ha, ha!' laughed he, in derision, with that peculiar hollow sound,
which even now, as I recall it, makes my blood run cold:—`Say you so,
cousin?—I came for that;' and again he laughed as before. `See here—
see here!' and he presented, as he spoke, with the butts towards me, a brace
of pistols. `Here is what will settle all our animosities,' he continued;
`take your choice and be quick, or perchance we may be interrupted.'

“ `Are you mad,' cried I, `that you thus seek my life, after the wrongs
you have done me?'

“ `Mad!—ha, ha!—yes!—yes!—I believe I am,' he answered; `and my
wife is mad also. I did you wrong, I know—I went to apologiso for it, and
you struck me down. Whatever the offence, a blow I never did and never
will forgive;—so take your choice, and be quick, for one or both of us must
never quit this place alive!'

“ `Away!' cried I, turning aside, `I will not stain my hands with the
blood of my kin. Go! the world is large enough to hold us both.'

“ `Coward!' hissed he; `take that then, and bare what I have borne;'
and with the palm of his hand he smote me on the cheek.

“Gods! I could bear no more!—I was no longer myself—I was maddened
with passion—and snatching a pistol from his hand, which was still
extended towards me, without scarcely knowing what I did, I exclaimed,
`Your blood be on your own head!'—and—and—Oh God!—pardon me,
Ella—I—shot him through the body.”

Ella, who had partly risen from her seat, and was listening with breathless
attention, now uttered an exclamation of horror and sunk back, with
features ghastly pale; while the other, burying his face in his hands, shook
his whole frame with convulsive sobs. For some time neither spoke; and
then the young man, slowly raising his face, which was now a sad spectacle
of the workings of grief and remorse, again proceeded.

“Horror stricken—aghast at what I had done—I stood for a moment,
gazing upon him weltering in his blood, with eyes that burned and seemed

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

starting from their sockets—with feelings that are indiscribable—and then
rushing to, I endeavored to raise him, and learn the extent of his injury.

“ `Fly!' said he, faiutly, as I bent over him—`fly for your life! I have
got my due—I am mortally wounded—and if you remain, you will surely
be arrested as my murderer. Farewell, Algernon—the faull was mine—
but this you cannot prove; and so leave me—leave me, while you have
opportunity.'

His words were true,—I felt them in force,—if he died I would be
arraigned as his murderer,—I had no proof to the contrary,—circumstances
would be against me,—I should be imprisoned—condemned—perhaps executed—
a loathsome sight for gaping thousands;—I could not bear the thought—
I might escape—ay, would escape—and bidding him a hasty farewell, I
turned and fled. Not a hundred rods distant I met my father; and falling
on my knees before him, I hurriedly related what had transpired, and begged
advice for myself, and his immediate attendance upon my cousin. He turned
pale and trembled violently at my narration, and, as I concluded, drew forth
a purse of gold, which he chanced to have with him, and placing it in my
hand, exclaimed:

“ `Fly—son—child—Algernon—for God's sake, fly!'

“ `Whither, father?'

“ `To the far western wilds, beyond the reach of civilization—at least
beyond the reach of justice—and spare my old eyes the awful sight of seeing
a beloved son arraigned as a criminal!'

“ `And my mother?'

“ `You cannot see her—it might cost you your life,—farewell!' and with
the last word trembling on his lips, he embraced me fondly, and we parted—
perchance forever.

“I fled, feeling that the brand of Cain was on me; that henceforth my life
was to be one of remorse and misery; that I was to be a wanderer upon the
face of the earth—mayhap an Ishmael, with every man's hand against me.
To atone in a measure to my conscience for the awful deed I had committed,
I knelt upon the earth and swore, by all I held sacred, in time and
eternity, that if the wound inflicted upon my cousin should prove mortal, I
would live a life of celibacy, and become a wandering pilgrim in the western
wilds of America, till God should see proper to call me hence.”

“And—and did the wound prove mortal?” asked Ella, breathlessly.

“Alas! I know not, Ella, and I fear to know. Four months have passed
since then; and after many adventures, hardships, sufferings, and hair-breadth
escapes, you see me here before you, a miserable man.”

“But not one guilty of murder, Algernon,” said Ella, energetically.

“I know not that—God grant it true!”

“O then do not despair, Algernon!—trust in God, and hope for the best.
I have a presentiment that all will yet be well.”

“Amen to that, dear Ella; and a thousand, thousand thanks, for your
sweet words of hope; they are as balm to my torn and bleeding heart; but
until I know my fate, we must not meet again; and if, oh God! and if the
worst be true,—then—then farewell forever? But who comes here?”

CHAPTER IV.

THE STRANGER—THE DISGUISE—THE SUPPER—THE SECRET—THE SUSPICION—THE
DISCUSSION—THE CURSE.

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

The closing sentence of the preceeding chapter was occasioned by the
glimpse of a man's shadow, that for a moment swept along in the sunlight,
some twenty paces distant from the speaker, and then suddenly disappeared
by being swallowed up in the larger and more stationary shade thrown from
the cottage by the sinking sun. Scarcely were the words alluded to uttered.
ere the sound of a step was heard close by the door, and the next moment
the cause of the shadow and remark divided the light of the entrance.

The individual in question, was a stout built, broad-shouldered, athletic
man—some five feet nine inches in height—whose age, judging from his general
appearance, as well as his features, might range from twenty-seven to
thirty years. At the moment when he appeared before our acquaintances
of the foregoing chapter, his right arm was held in a manner so as to screen
the lower portion of his face, while a hat, not very much unlike those of
the present day, pressed down upon his forehead, left but little of his countenance,
and that mainly about the eyes, visible. With the latter he gave
a quick, searching, suspicious glance at the two before him; and then, as if
satisfied he had nothing to fear, lowered his arm and raised his hat from his
forehead, exposing a physiognomy by no means pleasing to one skilled in
reading the heart thereby. His complexion was swarthy—his skin coarse—
and the general expression of his features repulsive in the extreme; said expression
arising from the combination of three distinct parts of his countenance—
namely: the forehead which was low and receding from two darkred
shaggy eyebrows,—the eyes themselves, which were small, bloodshot
and very fiery; and the mouth, which was narrow, thin-lipped and habitually
contracted into a sneering, sinister smile. In this general expression,
was combined cunning, deceit, treachery and bloodthirsty ferocity—each one
of which passions were sufficiently powerful, when fully excited, to predominate
over the whole combination. The hair of his head was short, thick,
coarse and red, grew low upon his forehead, and, in its own peculiar way,
added a fierceness to his whole appearance. Nature had evidently designed
him for a villain of the darkest die; and on the same principle that she gives
a rattle to a certain venemous snake, that other creatures may be warned
of the deadly fang in time to avoid it—so had she stamped him with a look
wherein his passions were mirrored, that those who gazed thereon might
know with whom and what they had to do, and be prepared accordingly.
The costume too of the stranger, was rather singular, and worthy of note—
being composed, for the most part, of an extraordinary long frock or overcoat—
more like the gown of some monk than either—which reached almost
down to the moccasins covering his feet, and was laced together in front,
nearly the whole length, by thongs of deerskin. Around the waist passed a
rude belt of the same material—carelessly tied at one side—in which, contrary
to the usual custom of that period, there was not cofined a single weapon,
not even so much as a knife; and this fact, together with the general
appearance of the individual and his own suspicious movements, led Algernon,
almost at the first glance, to consider the long frock or gown an article
of disguise, beneath which the stranger was doubtless doubly armed and costumed
in a very different manner.

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

As the eyes of the new comer, after closely scanning Reynolds, rested
for the first time upon Ella, there flashed across his ugly features an expression
of admiration and surprise—while the look of suspicion which he had
previously exhibited, seemed entirely to disappear. Turning to the young
man, who on his appearance had risen from his seat, and now stood as if
waiting to know his commands, in a voice evidently much softened from its
usual tones, but still by no means pleasant and harmonious, he said:

“Will you be kind enough to inform me, sir, to whom this dwelling belongs?”

“It is owned, I believe, by one Benjamin Younker,” answered Algernon,
in a cavalier manner, still eyeing the other closely.

“May I ask his occupation?”

“He is a farmer, sir—a tiller of the soil.”

“Will you favor me with a description of his personal appearance?”

“I can do so,” replied Algernon, somewhat surprised at the question,
“provided I know the motive of inquiry to be a good one.”

“It is no other, I assure you,” returned the stranger. “It was simply
prompted by curiosity.”

“Well, then, the individual in question is a man who has seen more than
fifty years;—is tall—raw-boned—muscular—has a stoop in the shoulder—a
long thin face—small eyes, and hair slightly gray.”

“Has he any sons?” inquired the stranger.

“One, a youth of twenty, who bears a strong resemblance to his father.”

“Daughters?”

“He has no other child.”

“Then this young lady”—slightly bowing to Ella.

“Is a more distant relation—a niece,” answered Ella, rising as she spoke
and disappearing from his sight.

“A beautiful creature!” said the stranger musingly as if to himself—“a
beautiful creature! Pardon me,” added he, again addressing Algernon, “but
may I inquire concerning yourself?”

“I am a guest here, sir.”

“Aha—yes; a hunter I presume?”

“I sometimes hunt.”

“Pardon me again—but are there more indwellers here than you have
mentioned?”

“One, sir—the good dame of the cottage.”

For a moment or two the stranger mused, as if conning over in his mind
all that had been said, and then observed: “Doubtless you think me very
inquisitive; but I had a reason for all my questions, and I thank you sincerely,
sir, for your prompt replies. It is now growing late; the sun will
presently be down; and as I am a traveller—a stranger in this region—I
would rather not persue my journey farther, providing I could be entertained
here for the night.”

“As to that, I am unable to answer,” said Algernon; “but if you will step
within, I will make the necessary inquiries.”

“Thank you,” replied the stranger, with a show of cordiality, “thank
you,” and he immediately entered the cottage.

Those days, as before said, were the good old days of hospitality, and,
as far as population went, of social intercourse also, when every man's cabin
was the stranger's home, and every neighbor every neighbor's friend.
There were no distinct grades of society then as now, from which an honest
individual of moral worth must be excluded because of poverty—a good
character for upright dealing being the standard by which all were judged;

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

and whoever possessed this, could rank equally with the best, though poor
as the beggar Lazarus. Doubtless intellect and education then, as well as at
the present day, held in many things a superiority over imbecility and ignorance;
but there were no distinct lines of demarcation drawn; and in the
ordinary routine of intercourse one with another, there was no superiority
claimed and none aknowledged. And this arose, probably, from the necessity
each felt of there being a general unity—a general blending together of all
qualifications, as it were, into one body politic—by which each individual
became an individual member of the whole, perfect in his place, and capable
of supplying what another might chance to need; as the man of education
might be puny in stature and deficient of a strong arm; the man of strong
arm deficient in education; the imbeeile man might be a superior woodman—
the man of intellect an inferior one;—so that as, before remarked, each of
these qualities being essential to perfect the whole, each one of course was
called upon to exercise his peculiar talent and take his position on an
equality with his neighbor. There has been great change in society since
then; those days of simple equality have gone forever; but we question if the
present race, with all their privileges, with all their security, with all their
means of enjoyment, are as happy as those noble old pioneers, with all their
necessities, with all their dangers, with all their sufferings.

According, therefore, to the established custom of the early settlers, the
stranger for whom Algernon proceeded to make inquiries, was entitled to all
the rights of hospitality; and whether liked or disliked, could not consistently
be smiled away, nor frowned away, as doubtless he would have been, had
he lived in this civil wonder-working age of lightning and steam; and
though his appearance was any thing but agreeable to Mrs. Younker, who
surveyed him through her spectacles (being a little near sighted) from the
adjoining cabin, whither Algernon had repaired to learn her decision; and
though it would prove inconvenient to herself to grant his request, yet, as
she expressed it, “He war a stranger, as hadn't no home and didn't know
whar to go to, and prehaps war hungry, poor man, and it wouldn't be right
nor Christian-like to refuse him jest a night's lodging like;” and so the matter
was settled, and Algernon was deputed to inform him that he could stay
and would be welcome to such fare as their humble means afforded.

Some half au hour later, a loud hallowing announced the arrival of the
two Younkers, with the domestic cattle—consisting of the kine and some pet
sheep which ran with them—from their labors in an distant field, where
they had been engaged in harvesting corn. A few minutes after, the elder
Younker entered the cabin, bearing upon his shoulder a rifle, from which
depended a large fat turkey that he had shot during his absence. With a
slight but friendly nod to the stranger, he proceeded to deposit his game on
the hearth—where it was presently examined and commented on at considerable
length by the good dame—and then carefully placing his rifle on a couple
of horn hooks depending from the ceiling for the purpose, he seated himself
on a stool, his back to the wall, with the air of one who is very much fatigued,
and does not wish to mingle in conversation of any kind.

The sun by this time was already below the horizon, twilight was fast
deepening into night, and the matron having finished her eulogy on the
turkey, and “Wondered ef sech birds wouldn't git to being scaser arter a
while, when all on 'em war shot?” proceeded to the cow-yard, to assist
Isaac in milking; while Ella burried hither and thither, with almost noiseless
activity, to prepare the evening repast. A bright fire was soon kindled
in the chimney, over which was suspended a kettle for boiling water, while
in front nearly perpendicular, was placed a large corn loaf, whose savory

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

odor, as it began to cook, was far from being disagreeable to the olfactory
organs of the lookers on. The table, of which we have previously given a
description, was next drawn into the middle of the apartment and covered
with a home-made cloth of linen, on which were placed a medley of dishes
of various sizes and materials—some of wood, some of pewter, some of
earthen, and one of stone—with knives and forks to correspond. Three of
these dishes were occupied—one with clean, fresh butter, another with rich
old cheese, and the third with a quantity of cold venison steak. In the
course of another half hour, the cake was baked and on the table—Isaac
and his mother had entered with the milk—the announcement was made by
Ella that all was ready, and the whole party taking seats around the humble
board, proceeded to do justice to the fare before them.

A light placed in the center of the table, threw its gleams upon the faces
of each, and exhibited a singular variety of expressions. That of the stranger
was downeast, sinister and suspicious, combined with an evident desire
of appearing exactly the reverse. Occasionally, when he thought no eye
was on him, he would steal a glance at Ella, and some times gaze steadily—
like one who is resolved upon a certain event, without being decided as to
the exact manner of its accomplishment—until he found himself observed,
when his glance would fall to his plate, or be directed to some other object,
with the seeming embarrassment of one caught in some guilty act. This
was noticed more than once by Algernon, who, perhaps, more than either
of the others, felt from the first that strong dislike, that suspicious repugnance
to the stranger, which can only be explained as one of the mysteries
of nature, whereby we are sometimes warned of whom we should shun, as
the instinct of an animal makes known to it its inveterate foe; and though
he strove to think there was nothing of evil meant by a circumstance
apparently so trifling—that the glance of the stranger was simply one of
admiration or curiosity.—yet the thought that it might be otherwise—that
he might be planning something wicked to the fair being before him—
haunted his mind like some hideous vision, made him for the time more
distrustful more watchful than ever, and was afterward reverted to with a
painful sensation. The features of Algernon also exhibited an expression
of remorse and hopeless melancholy, the reason whereof the reader, who
has now been made acquainted with the secret, will readily underst and.
The face of Ella, too, was paler than usual—more sad and thoughtful,—so
much so, that it was remarked by Mrs. Younker, who immediately instituted
the necessary inquiries concerning her health, and explained to her
at some length the most approved method of curing a cold, in case that were
the cause. In striking contrast to the sober looks of the others—for Younker
himself was a man who seldom exhibited other than a sedate expression—
was the general appearance and manner of Isaac. He seemed exceedingly
exhilerated in spirits, yet kept his eyes down, and appeared at times very
absent minded. Whatever his thoughts were, it was evident they were
pleasing ones; for he would smile to himself, and occasionally display a
comical nervousness, as though he had some very important secret to make
known, yet was not ready to communicate it. This had been observed in
him through the day, and was so different from his usual manner, and so
much beyond any conjecture his mother could form of the cause, that at last
her curiosity became so excited, that to restrain it longer was like holding
down the safety-valve to an over-heated steam boiler; and accordingly,
taking advantage of another mysterious smile which Isaac chanced to display
while looking at a large piece of corn bread already on its way to his
capacious jaws, she exclaimed:

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

“Why, what on yarth is the matter with you, Isaac, that you keep a
grinning, and grinning, and fidgetting about all to yourself so much like a
plaguy nateral born fool for?”

So loud, sudden and unexpected was this question put—for all had been
silent some minutes previous—that Isaac started, blushed, dropped the bread
already near enough to his teeth to have felt uncomfortable, had it been
capable of feeling, endeavered to catch it, blundered, and finally upset his
plate and contents into his lap, in a manner so truly ridieulous, that Ella
and Mrs. Younker, unable to restrain their mirth, laughed heartily, while
the stranger and Algernon smiled, and the stern features of the father relaxed
into an expression of quiet humor seldom seen on his countenance.

“ 'Pon my word,” continued Mrs. Younker, so soon as she could collect
breath enough after laughing to go on; “I do raley believe as how the boy's
ayther crazy, or in love, for sartin. What does ail ye, Isaac?—do tell!”

“Perhaps he was thinking of his dear Peggy,” said Ella, archly, who was,
by the way, very fond of teasing him whenever opportunity presented, and
could not even now, despite her previous low spirits, forbear a little innocent
raillery—such being the natural and happy tone of her temperament,
that wit and humor were ever ready on the slightest provocation to take the
ascendency, as old wine when stirred ever sends its sparkling beads upward.
“I wonder, Isaac, if you looked as amiable and interesting in the eyes of
dear Peggy, and made as graeeful an appearance, when you popped the
question?”

“Why, how in the name o' all Christen nater did you find out I'd done
it?” asked Isaac, in reply, who having meantime regained his former position,
and restored the plate, minus some of its contents, now sat a perfect
picture of comical surprise, with his mouth slightly ajar, and his small eyes
strained to their utmost and fastened seriously upon the querist as he
awaited her answer.

“Murder will out, dear Isaac,” replied Ella, with a ringing laugh, in
which she was joined by most of the others, and particularly by the subject
of the joke, who perceiving too late for retreat, that he had been betrayed
into an acknowledgement of his secret, deemed this his wisest course
for defence.

“And so, Isaac, you have really proposed to darling Peggy, then? and
we are to have a wedding shortly?” continued his tormentor. “And pray
which did look the most foolish of the two?—or was it a drawn-game, as we
sometimes say of draughts?”

“Why,” rejoined Isaac, changing color as rapidly as an aurora boreallis,
and evidently much embarrassed, “I 'spect I mought as well own up, being's
I've got cotched in my own trap; and besides it won't make no great difference,
only as I war intending it for a surprise. You see I axed Peggy the
question last night; and its all settled, and we're going to be married in less
nor a week, ef nothing unforseen don't happen; and as Mr. Reynolds ar a
stranger in these diggins, I thought prehaps as how he'd like a little amusement
like, and so I've fixed on him for my groomsman.”

“I am much obliged for your kind intentions on my behalf, and the honor
you would confer on me,” answered Reynolds, sadly; “but I am sorry to
say, I shall be under the necessity of declining your invitation; as on the
morrow I design taking a farewell leave of you all, and quitting this part of
the country forever.”

Mr. Younker, his wife and son all started with looks of surprise at this
announcement, while Ella again grew deadly pale, and rising with some little
trepidation, retired from the table. The stranger was the only one unmoved.

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

“To-morrow!” ejaculated Mrs. Younker.

“Take leave o' us!” said the host.

“Quit the country forever!” repeated Isaac.

“Such, I assure you, is my determination,” rejoined Algernon.

“But your wound, Mr. Reynolds?” suggested Younker.

“Is not entirely healed,” returned Algernon, “yet I trust sufficiently so
to allow me to pursue my journey. The wound, as you are aware, was
only a flesh one—the ball having entered the right side, glanced on the
lower rib and passed out nearly in front—and though very dangerous at the
time from excessive hemorrhage, has of late been rapidly healing, and now
troubles me but little if any.”

“Well, now, Mr. Reynolds,” rejoined Mrs. Younker. “I'm a considerable
older woman nor you ar—that is, I mean to say I'm a much older individule,—
and I 'spect I've had in my time some lettle experience in matters
that you don't know nothing about; and so you musn't go to thinking hard
o' me, ef I give you a lettle advice, and tell you to stay right whar you ar,
aud not stir a single step away for three weeks;—'cause ef you do, your
wound may get rupturous agin, and in some lone place jest carry you right
straight off into the shader o' the valley of death—as our good old Rev. Mr.
Allprayer used to say, when he wanted to comfort the sick. O, dear good
man he war. Preacher Allprayer,”—continued the voluble old lady, with
a sigh, her mind now wholly occupied with his virtues—“dear good man he
war! I jest remember,—Lord bless ye, I'll never forgit it—how he come'd
to me when I war sick, with tears a running out o' his eyes like he'd been
eating raw inyuns; poor man, and told me that I war going to die right
straight away, and never need to hope to be no better; and that I'd most
likely go right straight to that orful place whar all bad folks goes to. O, the
dear man! I never could help always liking him arter that—it made me feel
so orful narvous and religious like. Why, what on yarth be you grinning
at agin, Isaac?—jest for all the world like a monkey for?”

“Nothing, mother,” answered Isaac, nearly choking with smothered
laughter, “only I war jest kind o' thinking what a kind comforter Mr. Allprayer
war, to tell you you couldn't live no longer, and that when you died
you'd jest go right straight to—to—”

“Silence! you irrelevant boy, you!” (irreverent was doubtless meant)
interrupted the dame, angrily: “How dare you to go making fun o' the pious
Rev. Mr. Allprayer?—him as used to preach all Sunday long, and pray all
Sunday night, and never did nothing wrong—though he did get turned out
o' the meeting house arterward for getting drunk and swearing; but then
the poor man cried and said it war nothing but a accident, which hadn't
happened more nor ten times to him sence he'd bin a preacher of the everlasting
gospel. Thar, thar, the crazy head's a giggling agin! I do wish,
Ben, you'd see to Isaac, and make him behave himself—for he's got so tittery
like, sence he's axed Peggy, thar's no use o' my trying to do nothing
with him.”

“Isaac! Isaac!” said his father with a reproving glance, and, as though
that voice and look possessed a spell, the features of the young man instantly
became grave, almost solemn. Then turning to Algernon, the old man
continued: “As to leaving us, Mr. Reynolds, you of course know your own
business best, and it arn't my desire to interfere; but ef you could put up
with our humble fare, say a week or ten days longer, I think as how it
would be much better for you, and would give us a deal more pleasure
besides.”

“Why, I'll jest tell you what tis,” put in Isaac; “I've fixed on you for

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

groomsman, and I arn't a going to gin in no how; so unless you want to
quarrel, you'll have to stay; and more'n that, it's spected you'll see to
taking Ella thar, for I know she don't like to go with any o' the fellers
round here, and I shall gin out she's going with you, which may be won't hurt
your feelings none,—at any rate I know it won't hers.”

At the mention of Ella, Algernon crimsoned to the eyes, and became so
exceedingly confused that he could with difficulty stammer forth, by way
of reply, the query as to the time when the important event was expected
to take place.

“Let me see,” answered Isaac, telling off the days on his fingers: “tomorrow's
Friday; then Saturday's one, Sunday's two, Monday's three, and
Tuesday's four—only four days from to-morrow morning, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Then, as you so urgently insist upon it,” rejoined Reynolds, I will postpone
my departure till after the wedding.”

Isaac thanked him cordially, and the father and mother looked gratified
at the result; Ella he could not see—she having withdrawn from the table,
as previously noted. Some further conversation ensued relative to the
manner in which weddings were conducted in that country, and the design
of proceeding with the one in question; but as we intend the reader to be
present at the wedding itself, we shall not detail it. We will remark here,
by the way, that the stranger seemed to take a singular interest in all that
was said, concerning the residence of the intended bride—the road the party
were expected to take to reach there—their probable number—manner of
travel, and the time when they would be likely to set forth and return. In
all this it was observed by Algernon, that whenever he asked a question
direct, it was put in such a careless manner as would lead one not otherwise
suspicious to suppose him perfectly indifferent as to whether it were answered
or not; but he somehow fancied, he scarce knew why, that there was a
strong under current to this outward seeming. And furthermore he observed,
that the stranger in general avoided putting a question at all—rather
seeking his information by conjecturing or supposing what would immediately
be contradicted or confirmed. This mode of interrogation, so closely
followed up to every particular, yet apparently with such indifference,
together with the stranger's treacherous look and several minor things all
bearing a suspicious cast, more than half convinced Algernon that the
other was a spy, and that some foul play was assuredly meditated; though
what, and to whom, or for what purpose, he was at a loss to determine.

From the particulars of the coming wedding, the stranger, after a little,
adroitly turned the conversation upon the wound of Reynolds, asked a number
of questions, and appeared deeply interested in the whole narration
concerning it—the attack upon him by the Indians and his providential
escape through the assistance of Boone—all of which was detailed by Isaac
in his own peculiar way. From this case in particular, the conversation
gradually spread to other cases that had happened in the vicinity; and also
to the state of the country, with regard to what it had been and now was—
its settlements—its increase of inhabitants—the many Indian invasions and
massacres that had occurred within the last five years on the borders,—and
the present supposed population of the frontiers.

“As to myself,” said Younker, in reply to some observation of the stranger,
“as to myself and family, we've been extremely fortunate in 'scaping
the red foe—though I've bin daily fearful that when I went away to my
work in the morning, I'd may be come back agin at noon or night and find
my women folks gone, or murdered, and my cot in ashes; but, thank the
Lord! I've been so far spared sech a heart rending sight.”

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

“And had you no personal fears?” asked the stranger.

“I don't know's I understand you.”

“Had you no fears for yourself individually?”

“Well, I can't say's I had,” answered the other. I'm an old man—or
at least I'm in my second half century—and I've so endeavered to live, as
not to fear to go at any moment when God sees fit, and by whatsomever means
he may choose to take me.”

“I suppose you now consider yourself in a measure safe from Indian encroachments?”
observed the other.

“No man, stranger—I beg pardon, but I'd like to know your name!”

“Certainly, sir,” answered the other, a little embarrassed. “My name is—
is—Williams.”

“Thank you! No man, Mr. Williams, ar justified in considering himself
safe from Injens, in a country like this; but to tell the truth, I don't feel so
fearful of'em, as when I first come out here with my family, two year ago;
though thar's no telling what may hap in the course o' two year more.”

“And did you venture here at once, on your arrival in this western country?”

“Not exactly; for the land laws o' Varginna, passed the year I come
out, made it rayther difficult gitting hold o' land, about which thar war
a great deal o' disputing, and which war kept up till the commissioners
came out and settled the matter; and so while this war agitating, I took
my family to Boonesborough, whar they remained, excepting Isaac, who
went along with me, until we'd got all matters fixed for moving 'em here.
But as you've axed considerable many questions, pray may I know ef you're
from the east?—And ef so, what news thar is with respect to this here war
with the Britishers?”

“Why,” replied the other hesitatingly, “though not strictly speaking from
the east, yet I've been eastward the past season, and have some news of the
war; and, as far as I am able to judge, think it will result in the total subjugation
of the colonies.”

“God forbid!” exclaimed Younker.

“Heaven forefend!” said Reynolds, with a start.

“Lord presarve us!—marsy on us!” cried Mrs. Younker, with vehemence.
“What on yarth shall we do, ef them plaguy Britishers git uppermost?
They'll take away all our lands, for sartin!—and Ben's bin and
bought four hundred acres, poor man, at forty cents a acre, under the new
laws of Varginna.[4] which comes to one hundred and sixty dollars, hard money;
and now maybe he'll have to lose it all, and not git nothing for it; and
then what in the name o' the whole univarsal creation will become on us?”

“Well, well, Dorothy—don't fret about it till it happens—thar'll be plenty
o' time theh,” said Younker, gravely; “and prehaps it won't happen at all.”

“Don't talk to me about fretting, Mr. Younker!” rejoined the now irritated
dame, a la Caudle: “I reckon I don't fret no easier nor you do, nor
half so much nother; but I'd like to know who wouldn't fret, when they
know they're going to lose all that property by them thar good for nothing red
coated. Britishers, who I do believe is jest as mean as Injens, and they're
too mean to live, that's sartin. Fret, indeed! I reckon it wouldn't do for
you to be letting Preacher Allprayer hear ye say so; for he said one time
with his own mouth—and to me too, mind that!—that I'd got the bestest

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

disposition in the whole univarsal yarth o' creation under the sun!” and
the voluble old lady paused to take breath.

“It's my opine, that ef Preacher Allprayer had lived with you as long as I
have, he wouldn't reiterate that thar sentence under oath,” returned Younker
quietly. Then perceiving that a storm was brewing, he hastened to change
the conversation, by addressing the stranger: “What cause have you, Mr.
Williams, for speaking so discourageous o' the war?”

“The failure of the American arms in battle, the weakness of their resources,
and the strength of their opponents,” replied the other. “I presume
you have heard of the battles of Guilford and Camden, in both of which
General Greene was defeated?”

“General Gates commanded at Camden, sir!” interposed Reynolds somewhat
haughtily.

“I beg pardon, sir!” retorted the other, in a sneering, sarcastic tone, “but
I was speaking of the defeat of General Greene!”

“At Camden?”

“At Camden, sir!”

“I am sorry you are no better informed,” rejoined Algernon, with flashing
eyes. “I repeat that General Gates commanded at Camden; and as, unfortunately,
I chanced to be in the fight, I claim the privilege of being positive.”

“The youth is doubtless speaking of the battle fought a year or two ago,”
rejoined Williams, turning to Younker, in a manner the most insulting to
Reynolds, who clenched his hand, and pressed his nether lip with his teeth
until the blood sprang through, but said nothing. “I have reference to the
two engagements which took place at Guilford Court House and Camden,
in March and April last; whereby, as I said before, General Greene, who
commanded at both, was twice defeated, and retreated with great loss; although
in the former action his forces outnumbered those of his opponent,
Lord Cornwallis, as two to one; and in the latter, far exceeded those of
Lord Rawdon, his opponent also.”

“This is indeed startling news,” answered Younker, “and I'm fearful o'
the result!”

“You may depend on't, them thar four-hundred acres is all gone clean to
nothing,” observed Mrs. Younker; “and its my opine, Ben, you'd better sell
right straight out immediately, afore the news gits about any further, for
fear o' accidents and them things.”

“I suppose in reality the present war with England does not trouble you
here?” said the stranger, interrogatively.

“Why not in reality,” answered Younker, “only so far as the Britishers
and thar accursed renegade agents set on the Injens agin us.”

“To what renegade agents do you allude?” inquired the other, with a
degree of interest he had not before exhibited.

“Why to the Girtys, McKee, and Elliot,—and perticularly to that thar
scoundrel, Simon Girty, the worst o' all on 'em.”

“Ha! Simon Girty,” said the other, with a slight start and change of
countenance, “what know you of him?”

“Nothing that's good, you may be sartin, and every thing that's evil.
He's leagued with the Injens, purposely to excite 'em agin his own white
brethren—to have them murder women and children, that he may feast his
eyes on thar innocent blood. I'm not given to be o' a revengeful speret,
Mr. Williams, but I never think o' that thar renegade, Simon Girty, but I
in wardly pray for the curse o' an avenging God to light upon him; and
come it will, ayther soon or late, you may depend on't!”

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

“Amen to that thar sentiment!” responded the dame; while the stranger
became very much agitated, on account, as he said, of a violent pain in his
side, to which he was subject.

Mrs. Younker was on the point of bringing down her invectives on the
head of the renegade in a speech of some considerable length, when perceiving
the distressful look of the other, the kind-hearted woman suddenly
forgot her animosity in sympathy for her suffering guest, and forthwith
proceeded, with all the eloquence of which she was master, to recommend a
certain essence that chanced to be in the house, as a never failing remedy
for all griping and other pains whereby unfortunate humanity was oftentimes
afflicted.

“It's one o' the bestest things as ever war invented,” continued the good
woman, in her eulogy of the article in question, “and has did more good in
it's time, nor all the doctors on the univarsal yarth put together could do, in
the way of curing sprains, and bruises, and stomach-pains, and them things;
and ef you don't believe it, Mr. Williams, you can see it all in print, ef
you can read, and I spect you can, on the bottle itself, jest as plain as any
thing; and besides, I've got the testament (testimony doubtless) of the good
and pious Rev. Mr. Allprayer, who tuk some on't once for the gout, and he
said as how the contracting (counteracting?) pains war so many, that he
didn't no more feel the gout for a long time to come arterwards. I've no
doubt it'll sarve you jest the same way, and I'll go and fetch it right straight off.”

But the mission of the good woman was prevented by the complainant's
insisting that he was much better, would presently be well, and wished to
retire for the night. His request was granted—but little more was said—
and all shortly after betook themselves to bed—to think, or sleep, or dream,
as the case might be with each.

When the family arose on the following morning, they found the stranger
had departed; but when or whither none could tell.

eaf008.n4

[4] It may be proper to note here, for the benefit of those unfamiliar with the early history
of Kentucky, that at the period of which we write it was claimed and held by Virginian
as a portion of her territory, for which she legislated accordingly.