Neal, John, 1793-1876 [1822], Logan: a family history, volume 1 (H. C. Carey & I. Lea, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf291v1].
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CHAPTER I.
“Chi è costei'che mi parla? Una voce del cielo!...
o, un demonio dell' inferno?....
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I am better to day. Let me proceed. I have delayed
this to the last moment.
I am a wanderer, a rambler, a vagabond from my
youth. I have drunk of more rivers than Chateaubriand.
I have trodden more deserts than Bruce. I have suffered
more deaths than Parke. And yet—I am dying,
dying!—not of old age; not of disease; not among the
nations that are called barbarous.—Gracious God! no!—
but of want—of wretchedness—in the midst of abundance—
among men of the same language—and of a
broken heart.
Yes, I am going. A few moments, and my spirit will
be required of me. A few more sobs—a few more
tears; a few more convulsive, audible palpitations of
an old heart, and I am with my fathers, my brethren,
and my children!—with all my tribe, and blood, and
kindred—before the judgment seat of Almighty God.
One moment! I pray thee—Before I go, I have a
legacy for my land. That land! O! it rises, and shines,
and wavers in the dimness of the past, all green and
beautiful—O, my country!—Virginia! thou swimmest
before mine eyes like some lonely, floating islet of heaven
in the trance of a blind old man.—O, I could kneel
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to thee! All the blood of my nation, all that is left of
it, is eddying round thy picture in my heart! * *
* * * * * *
* farewell! farewell! The sickly fluid of my white
ancestors is already cold at my feet—I—I leave this
testimony to thee! Blessed be the hand which receives
it! thrice blessed that which preserves it!
A part is the work of my strength, the revelry and
riot of my boyhood—a part of my youth—a part of my
decrepitude. The spirit of the red man hath been stirred
up to voice and action. And lo! the white man
hath quailed in the rebuke. * * * *
* * * something beckons me.
Farewell!—There is—it is not fancy—it is not the
smoky dreaming of an old man—sightless and dying—
O no! it is real. There is a great hand before me—
a stern countenance behind—a loud voice approaching.
Whence is that voice? Whither wouldst thou that I
should journey? I understand thee. Ye are familiar
to our race. It is the hand, and the forehead, and the
voice of our great ancestor! They are portentous. But
why that frown? Lo, I am coming—I am coming!—— — — — — —
London.31st December, 1820.—Midnight.
CHAPTER II.
“Das Leben ist der Goetter licht;
Der Uebel grösstes aber is die should—
Evil!—Be thou my good.”
The family of Logan, “The Mingo Chief,” is now
extinct. The sun of their glory hath set in darkness.
I myself have seen the last of that valiant race, the
very last, descending majestically to the chambers of
death.
Who has not heard of Logan? Who cannot recount
the deeds of his generation?
Let us go together to the dwelling place of his spirit,
and travel over the wild-blossoming earth that the
children of Logan have trodden: bathe where they
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have bathed, in the cold blue water of the wilderness,
and go a hunting with their shadows, in the dim breathless
solitude.
In one of the lower counties of Virginia, (one of the
United States of North America,) there once lived—
no matter when—it is not material to my story —a legitimate
descendant of Logan, the great Indian Warrior.
Logan had been `the friend of white men.' Who
does not remember it? Suddenly, without provocation,
or notice, this Indian patriarch, this Indian prince, in
the very prime and vigour of his maturity, while about
him sat his children and his children's children, and
through ten thousand ruddy channels, the blood of the
brave and good was rippling from the fountain of his being—
in one moment, one little moment, he was smitten
with barrenness and death. The shot rang, and many
generations mingled their blood at his feet.
All his hopes were prostrate. He was childless!
He was no longer a father nor a husband. But a moment
before, he had been the husband of many wives,
and the father of a multitude. Now!—he was alone,
alone in the wide world. The channels of immortality
were cut asunder—its sources and fountains locked up
and hidden—and the rich fluid of many hearts was
turned aside to the unfruitful sand of the desert.
`There is not one drop of my blood,' said Logan,
`now running in the veins of a single human creature!'
What desolation!
`I would not turn on my heel,' said he, `to save my
life.' Who does not believe him?
`I took up the hatchet,' said Logan, `I was glutted
with vengeance.' Verily he was glutted, and his
son, and his son's sons have been glutted after him.
Again Logan was a father. In wrath was his child
begotten—in desperation, and in power. He was nourished
with the blood of white men. From his very infancy,
even while he was lashed to the tree-branch,
and swung by the tempestuous wind, the scalp of
many an enemy blackened and dried within his reach,
and often were his little fingers reddened by the
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trophies torn, by the hand of his father, from the dying
white man, and flung, yet fresh and reeking, into
the basket that contained the boy. Logan's was the
disposition and appetite of the parent vulture, that
perches above her young and flaps over them, while
their clotted beaks are searching into their first banquet
of blood and flesh.
He made his boy a warrior. He was born a chief.
That done, the old man called a council of his nation,
pronounced an awful malediction upon the whites, and
disappeared forever.
Such things have happened before. I know it. Lycurgus
did much the same; but Logan had never heard
of Lycurgus. The passing away of Numa too, was misterious
and terrible; but of Numa, and even of Rome,
`the commonwealth of kings.' Logan had never heard.
No!—the feeling of Logan was that of the priesthood
to his religion. He journeyed to the wilderness, to hold
communion with the Great Spirit. He abandoned
his tribe, why? Because the sinews of his youth were
rigid; and the bow of his strength, no other man might
bend.
I have seen that bow, nay, I have it; I can lay my
hand upon it this moment, by putting out my arm: but
none of this generation can draw the arrow to the head.
But Logan—he went, alone as I said, to the wilderness.
He devoted himself, with the solemnity of one
about to meet in convocation, the builders of his race;
about to hearken to their denunciations upon him and
his, in full and shadowy council assembled, for permiting
the white men to profane their quiet and boundless
heritage; and then!—to hear his pardon pronounced in
the deep solitude, as with the voice of congregated
kings, while he recounted the deeds that he had wrought
in his old age, in battle and in blood, against the white
man. He knelt—he laid down his child at the foot
of an oak, that instant shattered and riven with the
midnight thunderbolt, and prayed that the cloud might
not pass over his head, unless it were to confirm his
destiny, and render the hands of the babe that had
dabbled in blood, yet more and more familiar with it
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as they waxed older and stronger. His prayer was
heard. There was a dark commotion in the turbid
blue sky, as of a host hurrying away, appeased and
conciliated, by some tremendous rite.
In one word, Logan abandoned his dominion, that
his dominion might not abandon him. He left it—terrible
as the sway of an evil spirit, that his son might be
made to tread in his footsteps, while the fire of his
heart was newly kindled; while the blood of his being
was in its fiercest agitation; while his youthful ears were
yet ringing with the curses of his father upon the encroaching
white settler; and while his young spirit
stood shivering, and appalled, at the mysterious disappearance
of that fierce and implacable father.
Thus much for two generations of Logan. The blood
of this race was afterwards mingled with that of their
white neighbours, and produced, in their remote descendants,
a family neither Indian nor white; neither
savage nor civilized. I knew them. The last time that
I was in my country, I paid them a visit, and they all
assembled to meet me—for—and why should I conceal
it? I, myself, am of the same blood. There was in
the males, the erect port, the lofty, reserved carriage,
and the sullen, glistening, snaky black eye of the
Indian; but the swarthy and deep, in tinctured hue of
the native American had yielded to the hearty brown
of the sturdy white settler; the strong and adventurous
woodman. And in the females, there was little to betray
their high origin, except their jetty black hair, and
their exceedingly straight limbs, for their complexion
was the warm, bright, voluptuous olive, of the young
Spanish girl. In both, however, I have seen the blood
reddening in the forehead; and the underlip quivering
with emotion, in a manner that was never seen, never!
in the unadulterated, undegenerate Indian. His face is
bronze; his feelings, and the fountain thereof, undiscoverable;
his nature inaccessible—its surface like that
of frozen waters, unshaken alike by the tempestuous
visitation of outward things; and revealing nought of
the inward and perpetual agitation of their secret, and
mysterious depths—forever placid—forever motionless!
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Passion only can move the Indian—and his motion
then, is that of Death, which he breathes upon the heart
of man, and it dissolves in silence. But then, then, wo
to every living creature that crosses his path. His
muscles are cracking with tension; a preternatural
strength rushes from his heart, through all his struggling
extremities; and he becomes, while, in appearance, as
immoveable as the dark sculptured marble before you,
literally and truly, a Devil!
This family, the mother of which was the nearest
blood descendant of the great Logan; and her supremacy
was acknowledged with the deepest veneration, by
all the neighbouring tribes, lived at this time in a little
cabin, close by a clear and beautiful stream, a branch
of the Shannandoah, which many years before had been
turned out of its natural course, and dammed up by the
beavers, so as almost to enclose the few acres of bright
tufted green earth, on the very margin of which, the
little Indian habitation nestled and cowered. It was not
the English cottage, overrun with shining honeysuckle
and vivid foliage; nor the Irish cabin, with bare walls,
and floor of trodden earth; and still less was it the
fantastic thatch-covered dwelling of the novelist, where
brown bread and milk, cleanly scoured tables, and coarse
napkins, and sheets `white as the driven snow,' are
forever set out to the imagination. No! but it was far
more picturesque than either. It was humble, and at a
distance might have been taken for a green hillock,
overrun with wild, flowering luxuriance, and shadowed,
and fanned like a fountain, by the glittering birch
and the waving branches of many a young tree that
leant over it: on its walls of broken rock, through every
crevice and cranny of which, bright transparent
flowers, and tendrils, and vines were creeping, you would
discover the implements of war—the tomahawk, the
rifle, the bow and arrow—the fishing tackle, net and
white bone hooks, game drying in the sun, the antlers
of many a slain deer, the bear and panther skins, and
the light airy canoe, all leaning, or lying about, or
swinging in the wind, without order or design. In one
word it was an Indian cottage; and looked like the
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natural growth of the wilderness, or the hermitage of
some half spiritual creature, loving quiet and idleness,
and shunning all the bustle and activity of the world.
It was a green solitude, populous with life and beauty,
only at the heart:—unapproachable to every evil thing,
like some enchanted spot, surrounded by running
water.[1]
The mother of this family—how shall I describe her?
She was an Indian queen, so stately, so natural, so
magnificent! Clad in her flowing panther skin, with her
quiver ringing at her shoulder; her feet sandalled; and
resting upon her tall bow, she stood the express image
of wild sovereignty, very beautiful, and full of power
and grace. Her countenance was melancholy and serious;
there was even something tender and touching in
it, at times, as she turned her fine eyes towards her
naked children, that lay basking about in the sunshine,
and feathering their arrows, or sharpening their fish
bones, and flints. The traces of high thought were visible
upon her lofty forehead, and an occasional shadow
passing over it, attended with a slight trembling, or a
convulsive pressure of the lip, showed that her heart
was labouring with deep emotion, at times. It was
true—the spirit of the majestic woman was in perpetual
travail for her people.
The father—I feel my heart growing warm again, as
I recall the dear, dear spot to my remembrance, and if
I do not soon take my eyes from the picture that is, at
this instant, assembling itself before me, limb by limb,
and feature by feature, I shall grow sick at heart,
weary of my appointed trial, and throw aside my pen
forever, fainting in very wretchedness of spirit. But
there is a cure for this—the father!—at his name I revive;
my faculties arouse themselves. Let us talk of
the father then; of him that never forgot nor forgave.
What a sublime constancy! I will imitate him—I!—well
then `the father.' He was a savage and untractable
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man, related, I remember to have heard in my youth, to
a noble family in his native land; one, who, having run
and rioted through every excess of indulgence, had, at
last, turned his back forever upon the old world, and
embarked for America—How did he this? With what
spirit? Not, I am sure, with that of the young adventurer,
braving death and terror in their very hiding
places, the chambers of the ocean—Seeing cities under
the wave, and diamonds studding the brown cliffs that
he is approaching—no, oh no!—nothing of this: but with
the cold, deadly, unforgiving misanthrophy of one, who,
leaving all on earth that should bind him to it, turns in
mockery of them that weep and shiver, as their heartstrings
are tugged at, and shakes off the dust from his
feet in scornful testimony against them,—snapping
asunder every tie of sympathy and affection—every filament
of brotherhood or love—every chord of judgment,
habit or feeling—bruising with an iron hand, and
breaking, as in derision, with profaning levity, the
youngest and greenest tendrils of the heart, alike with
the sinuous and gnarled roots of our toughest and most
protracted habitudes—trampling on them all!—scorning
them all!—scattering them all, without shame, or remorse,
yea, without emotion!
Such was the father; a savage before he left the palaces
of white men. But he was a great savage. He
had a desperate but sublime ambition. He was full of
the fiery element, that rises in the arteries like mercury
in a thermometer, at the approach of greatness. His
whole nature was heroick—but it was the nature of him
who thundered against the battlements of heaven. He
came to the colonies in company with white men, solely
because he could not man and navigate a ship over the
broad Atlantic, with his own individual and solitary
spirit. But the first moment he landed, the first moment
that he touched the shores of the Western world, he
adjured them all; he turned upon them, convulsively,
and cursed them all in the bitterness of his heart—his
name, and family, and kindred and country, nay, his
very religion did he curse, for that he cried, even that
was a religion of blood. He disappeared. For years it
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was thought that he had perished, and he was almost
forgotten; yet men would start at the mention of his
name, and look hastily about them, before they ventured
to repeat any of the innumerable and terrifick stories
that were told of him.
I heard them once—from savages—I was a boy then—
but I never shall forget my awful admiration of the
father, or the silent yearning of my heart towards the
mother of this family. We were related—distantly, it
is true, but so related, that our proximity could be seen
in our very tread, and heard in our lowest whisper.
Yes! there was never a descendant of Logan, no matter
how his frame was distorted, his disposition perverted,
or his blood diluted by relationship to the whites, that
would not have been recognized and hailed as of that
family, by the least sagacious of the tribe, even after
many generations.
But what became of this family? What! they were
slaughtered—butchered, and profaned. Their end was
mysterious. At midnight a traveller had reposed with
them, eaten of their bread, and drunk of their cup—and
his comrades, who followed upon his track before the
next sun had risen, found the Indian cottage blazing
and crackling—the walls demolished—the trees falling
to ashes—and the skeletons of many hewed and bound
and broken human creatures—some very little—and
yet retaining the expression of agony, in their locked
and rivetted limbs, slowly consuming in the fervent heat.
Who were the murderers? It was never known—no
mortal lip hath ever named them—but there was one,
one even on this earth, whom they were never to escape;
one who pursued them, sleeping and waking, by
night and by day, with fire and sword, till his preternatural
sagacity and wrath, were satisfied. And then—
what became of him? He went mad—mad! and
roamed for whole years through the impenetrable solitude,
in quest of his beloved and her little ones.
But let us leave this picture. My heart fails me; I
cannot go on. Let me recur awhile to a manuscript of
my own, and content myself with copying the incidents
that are there related, with some of the reflections that
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grew out of them, while they were fresh and active in
my remembrance, until I am more composed. The continuity
of my narrative shall not be broken. It is a necessary
part of the same `Family History.'
`One day, while the middle colonies were agitated
to distraction by the increasing inroads and massacres
of the warlike and exasperated Indians; when every
thing (it was said) had been attempted that human wisdom
could suggest, to conciliate them; and just at the
time when the existence of a formidable and threatening
confederacy, between all the most powerful tribes
in America, was becoming, every day, more and more
probable; when every hour was bringing to light, and concentrating
the scattered proof, that something tremendous
was in contemplation—inscrutable and inevitable—
some unimaginable but overwhelming evil—maturing in
the portentous tranquillity of many nations, who, from
being hereditary and mortal foes, were now holding their
midnight councils in the deepest and most unfathomable
recesses of the country—in the lone cavern—on
the high mountain top—by the shores of a cold lake;
while all was consternation and dismay, from uncertainty
concerning the manner and time of the mysterious
calamity, that seemed thickening about them; when
council after council had been summoned and dismissed,
by the white settlers, without coming to any satisfactory
determination; while the uninterrupted and
useless expenditure of warlike stores, at all times dangerous
to the whites, had been unwisely augmented, in
the hope of buying the forbearance of the Indians, till
the blindest and weakest were shuddering at the consequences
of their pusillanimity and shortsightedness;
while the savages grew every day more familiar with
the timidity and disorder of the whites; carefully evading
all interrogations, and baffling all conjecture, by
their sullen, shrewd and obstinate silence, and nothing
seemed left to the scattered and trembling colonists,
but to muster themselves, every man of them, capable
of wielding a tomahawk, for a war of extermination;
to concentrate their power, leave their fire-sides undefended
for a time, and hunt their wily and terrible
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enemy back to his most secret hiding places——
just at this time—it was midnight—another council
board had just been dimissed—there stood, without
being announced, without preparation, before the governour
of the colony—in his very presence chamber too,
a man of gigantic stature, in the garb of an Indian.
The governour was leaning his face upon his hands—
his thin gray locks were blowing about his fingers, in
the strong night wind, from an open window that looked
towards the town. That he was in some profound
and agitating inquiry with himself, inwardly, could be
seen, by the movement of the swollen veins upon his
forehead, distended and throbbing visibly under the
pressure of his aged fingers. The whole picture was a
noble one; it would have made the heart of such a being
as Michael Angelo himself, swell, to have studied
the head of the old man:—The capacity and amplitude
of the brow—the scattered and beautiful white, thin
locks of threaded silver; the trembling hands; the occasional
movement of a troubled expression, almost articulate,
over the established serenity of the forehead—
all so venerable, placid, and awful, as in the confirmed
discipline and habit of many years, and all yielding
now, to the convulsive encroachment of emotion. Reader,
didst thou never see an old man—a good and great
one—weep? Then have thy feelings, thy heart and soul,
nay, thy very religion, escaped their severest trial.
The stranger contemplated the picture in silence.
He was greatly wrought upon by the aged presence,
and felt, perhaps, somewhat as the profaning Gaul did,
when he saw, what he took to be the Gods of Rome,
her old men, sitting immoveably in their chairs.
The governour, at length, like one who is determined,
resolved, and impatient for action, lifted his head,
smote the table heavily with his arm, and was rising
from his seat—why that pause!—He gasps for breath—
can it be—can the proportions, the mere outline of
humanity so disturb a man, an aged man too, a good
one, familiar, for half a century with danger and death?
He fell back upon his chair, and locked his hands
upon his heart, as if, for it grew audible in its hollow
palpitations—as if, to stifle its irregularity forever—if
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he could, even though he himself were suffocated in the
effort, rather than betray the unmanly infirmity—a disobedient
pulse. He gazed steadily upon the being before
him, but with an expression of doubt and horror,
like that with which the prophet dwelt upon the sheeted
Samuel, as doubting the evidence of his own eyes,
yet daring not to withdraw them, though the cold icy
sweat started from the very ends of his fingers, lest
something yet more terrible might appear.
The Indian stood before him like an apparition. His
attitude (it is worth describing—for it was very peculiar)
was not entirely natural, nor perhaps entirely unstudied.
He stood motionless and apalling; the bleak,
barren, and iron aspect of a man, from head to foot
strong and sinewed with desperation, and hardened in
the blood and sweat of calamity and trial. He stood
with somewhat of high and princely carriage—like
the fighting gladiator—but more erect and less threatening—
more prepared and collected. Indeed it was
the gladiator still—but the gladiator in defence, rather
than attack.
The governour was brave, but who would not have
quaked at such a moment? To awake, no matter how,
when the faculties, or the body and limbs are asleep,
in a dim light—alone—helpless—and to find a man at
your side—an Indian!—it would shake the nerves, ay,
and the constitution too, of the bravest man that ever
buckled a sword upon his thigh.
“Great God!' articulated the governour at last—in the
voice of one suffocating and gasping—`Great God!—
what art thou?—Speak!'
No answer was returned—no motion of head or hand.
The governour's terror increased, but it was evidently
of a different kind now, the first shock of surprise having
passed—`Speak!' he added in a tone of command—
`Speak! How were you admitted? and for what?'
A scornful writhing of the lip; a sullen, deadly and
inward smile, as in derision, when the bitterness of the
heart rises and is tasted, was the prelude to his answer—
a pause—the Indian was agitated—but the agitation
passed off like the vibration of molten iron when it
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trembles for the last time before it becomes solid forever.
Then he smiled!
That was his answer, that! The old man grew delirious
on the spot—he raved and tore his hair. In the
name of Heaven, what shook his frame so suddenly?
And the Indian—look at him! hear him!—breathing
out, at long intervals, like a hot and smoking war-horse,—
his eyes rooted, flaming and motionless—the old man
shivering from head to foot; rage, indignation, horror,
and madness in his countenance, and feebleness in his
frame—his spirit rebuking the weakness of his body,
and a preternatural voice struggling in his chest.
`Hell and furies! who are you!—what are you!—
whence are you?—what your purpose? Speak!—would
you murder me?—Murder me, if you will! but speak!—
Speak!—in mercy, speak to me!'—were the rapidly uttered
words of the governour, as he gradually relapsed.
He covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud.
Surely the fear of death, surely that could not so work
upon him—`Speak! he resumed again, raising his head,
and uttering his voice in a transport of delirious agony—
`Oh George! speak to me, I pray thee—how came
thee here?—art thou George of Salisbury or not?—
who gave thee admittance?”
The Indian slowly unwrapped his blanket, and then
as slowly, in barbarous dalliance with the terrors of the
palsied old man, extended a bayonet towards him, reeking
with blood.
The governour was silent. It was a fearful moment.
His paroxysm appeared to abate at his will now—and
by his manner it would appear that some master-thought
had suddenly risen in its dominion, and bound hand
and foot all the rebellious and warring passions of his
nature. Did he hope for succour? or did he look, by
gaining time to some indefinite advantage by negociation?
It would be difficult to tell. But however it
might be, his deportment became more worthy of him,
more lofty, collected, imposing, and determined. Such
is the office of extreme peril. In desperate emergencies,
our souls grow calm, and a power is given to them
to gaze, as dying men will sometimes, upon the
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shoreless void before them, with preternatural composure.
Here was an enemy, and one, of all enemies the most
terrible, dripping with recent slaughter, and so situated
that he could not escape, but by dipping his hands anew
in blood.
The governour dared not to call out, and dreaded, as
the signal of his own death, the sound of any approaching
footstep. To get there, where he was, the Indian
must have come, willing and prepared for, and expecting
certain death; of what avail then, the whole force of the
government household?
He attempted to prepare himself to pray; but he
could not. He but shook and trembled the more, as
he became more and more sensible of the necessity
there was, that, to prepare himself, he should be calm
and assured. The hot sweat rolled from his forehead
like rain. For a moment he would seem to give up entirely;
and then he would address his silent and awful
visitor with a feeble voice, almost of supplication—
soothingly and mildly, till the words would rattle and
die away in his chest, and then!—maddening with the
cause of his imbecility, in silence and dread, he would
lock his withered hands, raise them to heaven, and call
down curses upon the collossal Indian, with all the
violence and passion of intemperate boyhood—his voice
would grow fainter and fainter; he would become almost
inarticulate, and the sounds would die away at
last in a denouncing malediction, that seemed to freeze
his own blood as he breathed it.
Who would not have maddened? To be a governour—
a commander in chief, with the whole disposable force
of a large colony at one's bidding; and yet, to be living
and breathing only at the mercy of a single Indian! It
was indeed too much for human patience! He could
have driven a dagger through his own heart for relief.
There was a sword near the governour; he recollected
having unbuckled it, and thrown it aside, as he came
in from exercising a troop of horse, but a few hours
before the council had assembled. `It was in a chair
behind me,' thought he, and `perhaps, is there yet'—
But how should he discover whether it was or not?
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He dares not shift his eye for a single instant from the
Indian. But, might he not amuse him for a moment,
and grope for it, without being perceived? How bravely
the old man's spirit mounted in the endeavour!
He made the search: but his implacable foe, like one
that delights in toying and trifling with, and mocking
his victim, permitted the eager and trembling hand but
to touch the hilt, not to grasp it—that were not so prudent,
in the wrath of a desperate man, a soldier, and a
veteran. The moment therefore, that the searching
fingers approached the hilt, the blanket fell from the
shoulders of the Indian, and the bloody bayonet gleamed
suddenly athwart the ceiling and flashed in the governour's
eyes. The hand was withdrawn, as if smitten
with electricity, from the distant sword; all defence
and hope forgotten, and the old man locked his thin
hands upon his bosom, bowed his head to the expected
sacrifice, and fell upon his knees.
The countenance of the Indian could not be seen, but
his solid proportions, like a block of shadow, could be
distinguished in the uncertain light of the distant and
dying lamps, suspended from the ceiling—a bold, great
outline and sublime bearing, the more awful for their
indistinctness; the more appalling as they resembled
those of a colossal shadow only. Like Sampson himself,
he stood, when about to heave the temple, and
pluck down the whole power of the Philistines upon
his own head; accumulating his wrath, husbanding and
concentrating his might, and preparing his shoulders,
for their last, last burden of shame and oppression.
At this instant, a red light flashed across the court
yard, and streaming through the open window, touched
the countenance of the Indian, and passed off like
the reflection of crimson drapery, suddenly illuminated
by lightening; voices were heard in a distant building,
and iron hoofs rattled over the broad flag stones of the
far gate way. A few brief words were interchanged
and a shot was fired;—the Indian's hand was upon the
bayonet again,—but the sounds passed away with the
same ceremony; and the prostrate governour, who had
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kept an anxious eye upon the heavy doors of the hall,
inwardly expecting, yet scarcely daring to pray for an
approaching step, was beginning to yield anew to his
terrible fate—when another step was heard, and a hand
was laid upon the lock. The rattling of military accoutrements
was heard, as the guard stepped aside and
gave a countersign to some one approaching; and then,
a brief and stern echo, in the tone of unqualified authority
rang along the vaulted stair case, and the word
pass! was heard.
Yes, yes! a hand was now upon the lock! The light
in the apartment streamed fitfully up for a moment,
and flared in the breeze from the window, so as to fill
the whole room with shifting shadows.
The Indian motioned impatiently with his hand toward
the door, and the governour, while his heart sank
within him, arose on his feet and prepared to repel
the intruder, whoever he might be—but he could not
speak—his voice had gone—
The door was yielding to the hurried attempts of
some one fumbling about for the lock:—and voices,
in distant and clamorous dispute, were heard approaching.
The governour tried again—`Begone!—begone!—for
God's sake!' he cried, mingling the tone of habitual
command with that of entreaty—and then, recovering
himself, with a feeling of shame, he added, in his most
natural and assured manner, `begone, whoever you
are, begone!'
The noise ceased. The hand was withdrawn; and
step by step, with the solid and prompt tread of a strong
man, a soldier, in his youth, and accustomed to obedience,
the intruder was heard descending.
There was another long, long silence, which each
seemed unwilling to interrupt, while each numbered
the departing footfalls. The chamber grew dark. It
was impossible longer to distinguish the objects in the
room. A low conference was held between the two.
Tones of angry remonstrance, horror—threats—defiance—
suppressed anguish—and then all was silent
again as the house of death.
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The governour spoke again—in a whisper at first, and
then louder—a slight motion was heard near him—and
he raised his voice. In vain, and the mysterious and
death like silence, he found more insupportable than
all that he had yet endured. Where was his foe at
that instant?—how employed?—ready perhaps, to
strike the bayonet through and through his heart, at the
very next breath! He could not endure it—no mortal
could—he uttered a loud cry, and fell upon his face in
convulsions.
eaf291v1.n1[1] It is singular that the North American Indian, the Highlander,
and the Irish peasant, unite in the same notion, that evil spirits cannot
cross running water.
CHAPTER III.
“What art thou?—Speak!”
The sentinel at the door heard the cry, and though
a strong muscular man, capable of resisting, singly, a
legion of devils, in the narrow landing where he was
placed, yet was he so possessed with the notion that
whatever was unaccountable, was some Indian plot,
some Indian stratagem, which no wisdom or foresight
could baffle or resist, (and this terror he had in common
with all the whites at the time,) that he had neither
the strength, nor the presence of mind to give the
alarm by firing off his musquet; but echoing, with a preternatural
loudness, like a wounded man, the cry of the
governour, he staggered forward, cleared the platform
at one bound; jumped at once from the very top, to the
very bottom of the council stairs, and ran towards the
nearest block house, yelling all the way, in a voice rendered
doubly thrilling and piercing from terror, `murder!—
murder!—To arms!—Indians!—Indians! to arms!'
All the town was in an uproar. The drums beat—
straggling shots were fired, and lights were seen streaming
quickly past the windows of every house, far and
near, as the terrified, half naked women, with their
babes in their arms, were hurrying to and fro, and
shrieking in consternation.
The governour had been constantly expecting, and,
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as far as human sagacity would permit, providing for
a surprise.
His vigilance had been especially quickened, during
the few last days, from observing a number of Indian
chiefs and warriors, whose fidelity he had some reason
to distrust, or rather of whose fidelity he had no reason
to be certain, that had been accumulating about
him, under pretence of negotiation for certain lands.
The preparations of the governour could not be carried
on in secrecy, and the personal superintendence that
he had given of late to the military defence of the
town, had aggravated, instead of allaying the terrors of
the poor people, till the sound of a single shot, or the
cry of a single dog, was ready to be mistaken for the
innumerable rifles, and denouncing war whoop of the
savage.
At this moment therefore, the deepest midnight,
when all hearts, apparently exhausted by excess of
watchfulness and anxiety, had sunk into a profound repose,
it is not wonderful that the sound of straggling
shot, and the cry of `to arms! to arms!' should ring in
their ears like the blast of a trumpet announcing the
day of judgment. Lights were kindled, beacons—and
women and children were seen flying from one house
to another, as to successive assylums, while their husbands
were assembling and fortifying the strongest for
their reception.
On the soldiers, however, no dependence could be
placed. They had no leader—no rallying point. The
only man for whose military abilities they felt any respect,
was the governour, and he was not to be found.
Their mode of fighting had always been, to choose, each
man a tree for himself, and to fire as fast as he could, at
any thing he chose. But that mode would not do here.
They were to act in concert, and successively, so as to
relieve each other, if the enemy attempted, as he undoubtedly
would, to storm and set fire to the works.
In the mean time, the women and children, to whom
the block houses were appointed places of refuge, in
every alarm, were approaching from all quarters; every
house they gained bringing them nearer, and sheltering
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them for a awhile, in their approach to their place of
final security. And this they did, without injury or
molestation, for some time, in the face of a continual
squibbing from the loop holes of the log fort, by the
terrified and hasty soldiery.
Luckily for the poor creatures, running hither and
thither with hair and clothes flying, and their youngest
babes huddled to their hearts, as if the scalping
knife were already at their foreheads, it was soon found
on inspection, that not a few of the musquets had been
fired with blank cartridges; and the very little waste of
ammunition, with a good deal of loose trodden powder
upon the floor, and the frequent brief whistle of the
pieces when discharged, led some to the natural conclusion,
that many of the musquets had not even been
charged with powder, but only primed, and let off in
their trepidation.
The panick increased, and the fugitives were actually
fired upon, at last, with a deliberate intent. The soldiers
having forgotten, it would seem, that the block
houses were constructed for no other purpose than the
protection of the women and children, all at once took
it into their heads, that this was only a new stratagem
of the enemy, and that the terrified creatures who were
coming in under the rain and fire of their riflemen, desperate
from excess of terror, were savages in disguise.
Thus believed, and thus acted the garrison for a time,
while the poor sufferers themselves, denied admittance
and fired upon by their husbands and brothers, believed,
in their turn, that the Indians had got possession of the
block house. They turned and fled!—fled, wringing
their hands and shrieking, distractedly, towards the
wood. The garrison were confirmed in their first belief
by this movement, and thinking that they had repulsed
the enemy, set up a shout of triumph, and prepared
to follow them, but were deterred by the timely
suggestion, that even this might be but a more capital
trick to decoy them from their entrenchments. Their
shouts, however, had the effect of accelerating the flight
of their wives and little ones.
Thus the terror of a midnight alarm, came nigh
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
depopulating a beautiful little village, making fathers and
husbands the murderers of all that they loved on earth.
Heaven only knows what might have been the consequence,
had the Indians that were really about, been
prepared to take advantage of their panick. The women
and children would probably have been butchered
between friend and foe, like our troops on Long Island,
in the late war of the revolution.
Wonderful as it may seem, to the inexperienced in
matters of this sort, yet it is nevertheless a fact, to be
paralleled I dare say, in the recollection of every soldier
who has seen actual service, that during the heat
and hurry of this alarm, a whole platoon of good marksmen
took deliberate aim, and fired point blank at their
comrade, (him that was the cause of the whole uproar)
as he approached, shouting to them that the Indians
were upon them! and missed him. This, to their
blind and deafened faculties, was another stratagem!
And really, there was enough to justify this ludicrous
apprehension at the most simple affair. The
whites, in their first warlike expeditions against the
natives, had become so cruelly entrapped by the simplest
expedients, that they doubted and distrusted every
thing. Even in battle, if they were victorious, and the
enemy fled, they dared not pursue; and if he cried
quarter, they were often puzzled to determine whether
it were safest to take his life or give it to him, and this
too, in the fear of some deep laid and inscrutable
trick. It was a warfare of duplicity and resource between
the two. Every thing was a stratagem—every
thing. If succour came, they watched its approach
with dismay, and felt hardly secure, until they had felt
the faces and hands of them that came, and assured
themselves that they were not red men disguised; and
so too, if capitulation was proposed and accepted, they
dared not profit by it.
The messenger of terror finding this unexpected reception
from his comrades, had still enough of natural
instinct left, to turn aside for the woods, and conceal
himself awhile.
At last the panick began to subside. No Indians
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[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
appeared. Could this be a new trick? A long silence followed;
light after light, left burning in the windows of
the deserted cottages, went out—and all was breathless,
patient expectation. A few low whispers were
first heard—they grew louder and more frequent—until,
at last, the whole garrison fell a talking, in the full
possession of their senses.
`What was it?' said one, who first broke the silence,
in a timid voice, to his companion. `Did you see plain?
was it really an Indian?'
`What! did'nt you see him!'
`Not I faith!' said the first.
`Nor I!'—was the answer—`I saw no Indian.'
Nor I! nor I! nor I! resounded at once on all sides,
and `damme,' cried one in a loud voice, as if just catching
his breath, `damme! if I believe it was an Indian
at all.'
`I thought,'—said one, doubtfully—and as if half
afraid to say what he thought—`I thought that—it
looked—like—Fred—'
`Like Fred!—Fred who?'—
`Why corporal Fred to be sure!'—
The answer thrilled through the whole garrison like
electricity—they all hung their heads in silence.
`Poor fellow!' cried one, at last, with a sigh that was
almost a sob, `thank God! I had no hand in his death!'
`You!' said his comrade, `why, you fired at him.'
`No, but I did'nt though!' answered the other, turning
away sullenly, and comforting himself, by driving
his rammer home, and showing that his piece was yet
loaded.
`Yes!' cried another, `yes, comrades, it was poor
Fred—and we have done the job for him—it must have
been him.'
`It was! it was!' said another, who had not yet spoken.
`I knew his voice.'—
`You knew his voice, and be damned to you!—you
did! Then what the devil did you shoot him for? You
fired the first shot—Did'nt he comrades?'
The speaker was silent. His example was successively
followed by all the garrison. Each felt that he
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
had blood upon his hands—the blood of a comrade,
and while each was ignorant of the danger that beset
him, he dared not leave his concealment, to ascertain
whether the object of all their anxiety was really a
dead man or not. It became profoundly still abroad.
The rippling of the water that ran a long way off,
against the margin of woven willow tresses could be
heard; and an occasional glimmer could be seen, of
some torch carried along the verge of the distant wood,
or revealed by the undulations of the ground, over
which some of the weaker and older of the fugitives
were tottering; for all took especial care, as most people
do in a time of terror, to do exactly that which was
least beneficial and most perilous, and most inexplicable
by the common laws of our nature in a time of
tranquillity. They were all afraid of darkness! more
afraid of Indians, and yet each took a torch and fled
screaming, and scampering about the woods, a perpetual
mark for the rifles and tomahawks that they believed
were in ambush for their destruction.
`But the governor!'—`gracious heaven, where is he?'—
`who knows? who can tell?'—these were now the reiterated
and anxious inquiries of the garrison. All loved
the old man, and every one of them had sworn a thousand
times, that he would die a thousand deaths for the
governor. Butthen—would it be prudent just at this time?
soldiers were scarce. The block house must be defended:
and then, `those lights yonder'—they were no
laughing matter, of a dark night:—`very suspicious,'
and for his soul, not one of the garrison could bring
himself to like them, as they shifted about, here and
there, in the scattered foliage of the nearest wood.—
Besides, the block house was the post of danger;—
that had been generally admitted;—and they, as gallant
men, were bound to stay there, particularly as the
alarm might possibly arise again before morning.
The better and more manly feelings of their nature,
at length began to prevail over these dastardly suggestions,
of what they, being in danger and darkness, called
prudence, and a party of the most desperate were finally
fitted out, and despatched, to bring in the governor
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dead or alive. But first, it was stipulated, with a becoming
caution, that they should not be mistaken for Indians,
nor fired upon, under any pretence whatever, though they
should see fit to return in some confusion; and the better
to secure the faithful performance of this provision
in the treaty, the forlorn hope (as they considered themselves)
were seriously inclined to take with them all
the ball cartridges of the garrison. From this scheme,
however, they were finally dissuaded by the ingenious
suggestion of a veteran, who proposed that all the soldiers
within the block house, should give their word of
honour to load, if they loaded at all, and fire, if they
should see fit to fire at all, without ball, during the absence
of their comrades. This momentous affair, thus
happily brought to a conclusion, hands and blessings
were interchanged with appalling emphasis, and the
detachment took up their line of march in close order
for the council chamber. It was very dark, and not a
little difficulty occurred in settling questions of precedence
for rear and van; as all, even the bravest of the
band, seemed especially desirous of being in the middle.
They arrived successively, at the court yard—the broad
entrance—the landing, `no challenge!'—what could
this mean? where was the sentry? They came to a narrow
and difficult passage, the only access from this
quarter to the council chamber; as the main door
caught within by a spring lock, and had been flung
back with such force, by the terrified soldier who had
given the alarm, as to catch.
`Holloa!—who's this?' cried one of the party, `here,'
while he stumbled over a body---a cold shudder ran
along the arteries of the whole detachment at the sound
of his voice, and the dead heavy tumble that accompanied
it. They crowded together tumultuously, and
found the cause of the exclamation. It was the
body of a man. They raised it. It was cold and stiff,
and the clothing was drenched and adhesive to the
touch with something that shook those whose naked
hands had encountered it, with unutterable horror.
It was their comrade! He was dead—stabbed to the
heart, weltering in his own thick blood!---his features
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livid and ghastly, and his blood-shot eyes staring with
that terrible expression which shows you that the muscles,
and flesh, and features of the murdered man grew
solid at the very instant that he felt the broad dagger
slowly pushing through and through his heart:—the
retreating chest—the gasping mouth—the swollen
tongue—the naked teeth, and the convulsed lip---Oh
God! oh, God! who can ever forget the countenance of
one that has been murdered, stabbed to death with a
knife, and left to stiffen in the horrible convulsions of
his last agony!---helpless!---voiceless!---his eyes bursting---his
muscles and sinews curling and knotting together
like crushed serpents!
There was a long, long, inward and silent shuddering
of the whole band, as the lifeless body dropped
down again upon the floor, the moment that the light
flashed upon it, and he who had borne it thus far,
reeled and staggered away pale and trembling, and sick
with instinctive terrour and loathing.
But their errand—the governor! Instantly, and as with
one voice, they all uttered a cry of `forward! forward!'
and rushed towards the council chamber. The Indians
were forgotten! their dead comrade forgotten! timidity,
danger, death, cowardice, were forgotten! And they
pressed up the stair-case with the vehement onset of
children to the rescue of their father—careless of life,
prodigal and reckless of all that they had habitually
cherished, treasured, or feared.
They burst through the door: no time for parley
now, none for ceremony. One universal crash and cry
accompanied them. It was awfully dark within the
great chamber; silent too, silent as the grave. A moment's
intermission would have been fatal to their
fierce and overwrought excitement, and they would
have stood shaking in every joint like victims huddled
to the slaughter.
`Lights! lights!—' were now thought of, and called
for. They had been forgotten, and the only lamp that
now burnt within this large edifice was that to which
they had pulled the dead body a few minutes before,
and that was chained to the ceiling. The end only
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
had been in view; the means were overlooked. Some
ran away for lights, glad of an excuse to be in the cool
air again, even at the risk of passing the dead body
alone, and all utterly forgetful, or regardless of the probability
that the same hand, which had made one of
their number lifeless, might be near, and even then at
that moment, uplifted in darkness and silence, and ready
to repeat the blow upon whomsoever should approach
sufficiently near. Others began feeling about the floor
with naked hands, in the fear of touching blood, or some
other mortal evidence that the assassin had been there
also. Happily there was no such testimonial of his
presence. While they were thus occupied, some at the
windows waiting for the distant and approaching lights,
others keeping down their terror, by huddling in a corner,
and holding strongly by each other's hands—a
groan was heard!—a deep drawn, half stifled groan, as
of one who had reasons for his concealment, and could
hold his breath no longer. It was near them, but
where? above or below? To the right hand or to the
left? who could say?
The effect was, as if an articulate summons had called
each man, by name, to the chambers of death. The
room was instantly cleared. The tide of adventure
was in its ebb now: The star waned; and the pendulum
which had just swung to the extremity of daring, had
recoiled, and was rapidly approaching the line of cowardice.
At a single moan, more than half of those who
had burst into the room in a gush of surpassing heroism,
were now tumbling over each other, from the top
to the bottom of the stairs.
A rapid, strong step now approached, and a fierce
voice sounded, growing louder and louder at every
word, as it came nearer and nearer, contending with,
and driving back the fugitives.
`Back, back!—Shame on ye! ye sneaking, damnable
cowards! Back with ye, back!'—cried the new comer,
leaping forward at the same moment, with a naked
sword in his hand and several torches blazing behind
him, and streaming along the blade from hilt to point,
as it shook and quivered in his agitated hand—`Back,
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back!' he repeated, his voice ringing like a trumpet
upon the ear, striking this way, and that, and thrusting
and kicking the scoundrel crew, and driving them
all before him—`Were all the Indians in Hell
here, we are men enough for them, if we stick together!
Back, back, I say!---no skulking---lug out your
bayonets, and forward, like men; what!---afraid!—bring
that fellow along here—there!—down with him, throw
him over the railing—over with him! That's right—
never mind his kicking!—over with him!'—It was done---
Their comrade was tumbled over the stair-case in the
twinkling of an eye, and the stranger continued—`Now
look ye, my boys, Indians, or no Indians, you must on:
on with you! no faltering, or by the living God, if I catch
another of you creeping or skulking, I'll drive this----
this! (shaking his sword in the red flare of the torches)
this up to the hilt in his heart.'
Disobedience here was out of the question. There
was more peril behind than before, and the poor wretches
were speedily prepared for storming the unknown
enemy again, in spite of their mortal terror. They obeyed,
blinded and deafened and shuddering at the terrible
voice.
The lights now reddened and streaked the walls, and,
as they fell successively along the faces of the crowded
and frightened party, in the deep thick shadow of the
passage, each started, shuddered, and threw a hasty
glance upon the countenance nearest him, as dreading
to encounter something less welcome than the familiar
visage of a comrade, and anxious to know what kind of
acquaintances he has been making in silence and darkness:—
But all at once, they united in one overpowering
shout! as they recognised the stranger, who had so suddenly
and imperiously taken command.—Again and
again, they shouted! as they gathered round him, delighted,
and wondering that they had not known his
voice at first.—But that voice was unknown to them,
well as they knew him—it was the voice of the thunder
in its rebuke—the voice of blasphemy that is sometimes
heard in the tempest, at midnight—it was a more
than mortal voice, and reserved by the stranger for
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hours of spoil and carnage, when the trumpet rang not,
and thrilled not through every heart and bone, like this,
his own single, individual, and rending cry of encouragement
and denunciation.
`Hurra! for Harold,' they cried; `Hurra! Hurra!—'
The stranger was young---aspect swarthy---very black
hair, and countenance full of settled intensity. He
snatched one of the torches and traversed the wide and
silent apartment in every direction, looking to see the
body of the murdered governor in every shadow, or the
murderer himself emerge from every deep niche, or
massy fold of the crimson drapery that partially canopied
and festooned the hall.
A sudden change of the wind blew the light in a
contrary direction, and showed the object of their
search, the old man upon his face, beneath the council
board.
A cry of horror, convulsive and tremulous, instantly
broke from the pale lips of all who were near enough
to see the body—But Harold---he was upon his knees
beside it, with the celerity of thought---; a sound as of
muttered curses was dropping sullenly and continually
from his quivering lips, while his cheek flashed with
the fiercest red, and then grew livid and death-like at
every breath; with one blow of his foot, he overthrew
the great table, and all its accumulated rubbish; raised
the body in his arms, examined with a hasty and trembling
hand the clothes, uttering continually the same
unintelligible sound, with a frightful earnestness of
manner. Then he tore open the shirt, pressed his shaking
hand again and again upon the heart, knelt down
and laid his ear to it, while the cold sweat fell from
his forehead upon the naked bosom of the old man, as
he appeared to weep and listen for some assurance of
vitality.
`No blood!---none, thank God!'---`no, no, no blood,'
he articulated, at intervals, as he pursued the inquiry
with hurried hands, and as it ended, straining the body
to him, and hiding his face in the bosom, while his
chest heaved, and his limbs shook, in the mortal silence
that followed.
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After a few moments, and no earthly frame could
have endured such agitation for more than a few moments,
he arose, with a countenance settled and deathstruck,
tottering and feeble as if from a paroxsym of
horror and grief. His lips moved, and he strove again
and again, as he raised his hand with the action of one
about to issue a command, and let it fall again, as forgetting
his purpose, to address some words to his men.
In vain! He could not speak! And while all pressed forward
with the deepest expression of sympathy and obedience,
he was only able to wave them back, while he
passed one hand slowly over his eyes, and stood for a
few moments as if striving to recollect some painful
thou ht that had been before him in his agony.
His countenance changed. It grew stern and high.
The thought came back to him, and the blood coloured
his forehead again, as he gradually recovered his
strength, and took his firm station by the side of the
body, with the high bearing of one about to sit in judgment
upon his fellow men, for life and death.
He turned slowly around, surveying the whole detachment,
and measuring them, man by man, with his
penetrating black eye, from head to foot.
`Whose turn was it to mount guard to-night?' said
he. `At the platform? sir,' said some one with a faint
voice.
`No! at the landing.'
`Fred, Sir, Corporal Fred, Sir,' answered another
voice. `Where is he? I do not see him among you.
`Is he here?'
A dead silence followed. Nobody was willing to
confess that he had fired, in a panick, upon his comrade.
`What am I to understand by this silence? If any
man among you know where he is, or what has become
of him, let him speak.—what! no answer;—on your
lives, I charge you—(his tones grew deeper, in the
struggle that followed, and he spoke once more, in the
voice of battle, as if all the blood of his body till
that moment curdling about his heart, had suddenly
shot through all his arteries with the velocity of light)
`on your lives!' and his sword glittered before their
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eyes, as they quailed and retreated in terror—`on your
lives, speak!—who manned the passage?'
`Robert, Sir, Robert, Robert!—We passed over him!
That was he. The dead body, Sir,' answered several
voices at once.
`Sergeant,' said Harold, with a solemn and determined
countenance, that portended naught of kindness
or forgiveness—`take a file of men with you. Go to
the garrison—search every house—ransack it from garret
to cellar—send out the rangers—scour the woods,
and bring me in the body of Frederick Brown, dead or
alive.'
Several of the nearest soldiers here started from
their ranks, either from eagerness to obey, or from a
very natural wish to escape a further examination.
`Stop, my lads,' said Harold, arresting them with a
voice that was not to be disputed. `Stop! I have not
done with you yet. Corporal, form your men. Serjeant,
lead out your file upon the landing, and wait the
order. Are your pieces loaded?'
A stammering, faltering `yes,' uttered in a low whisper,
betrayed the working of this preparation upon
some of the men.
Harold came directly in front of one that had answered
in the affirmative, his brows knit, and his lips
firmly pressed together. It was evident that his suspicions
were aroused, and that he was determined to
make an example of some one.
`Order your piece, Sir,' said he, to the trembling
soldier. `Down with your rammer.'
The man obeyed—The rammer sounded—the musket
rang, and Harold's face grew black with the wrath
of his unsparing nature.
`Lay down your arms, sir; serjeant, take him away!'
The order was instantly obeyed. Some murmuring was
heard, however, which Harold disdained to notice, until
he saw the serjeant himself faltering in his duty,
and the men working themselves into the shadow.
That was enough!
`Take your post there, sir, said Harold. Try
your pieces! Load! Now sir! form your ranks!
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'---They obeyed. `And now, look ye, sir, if you see a
man move from the line, put a ball through his
head. Bring him down. No whimpering, no flinching,
' he added, drawing a pistol from his belt, and
cocking it—`no muttering, sir, comrade or no comrade,
when I give you the signal, if you don't do it,
I'll put a ball through your own.'
He was proceeding in this way, man by man, finding
about one piece out of five loaded, when a figure
was seen stealing cautiously along one of the distant
walls.
`Who goes there,' cried Harold. No answer was
returned, and the figure appeared to quicken his tread,
with especial earnestness, at the sound of the voice.
`Gracious Heaven!' cried one, in a half audible whisper,
`it looks like poor Fred.' A cold shudder followed.
Harold turned, and the speaker actually withered
and shrunk.
`Come hither, sir!' said Harold, again—at the same
moment giving a signal to the serjeant, who instantly
levelled his piece, and was followed by four others.
The person, whoever it was, stopped and hesitated
for a moment, but hearing the impatient whistle of Harold's
blade, as he plucked it anew from its scabbard,
he turned towards the broad stair-case, and leaped over
the railing.
`Fire!' cried Harold.
The muskets rang; the house was filled with smoke
and noise, and the balls rattled about the stone arches
and stair-case, like hail, during the reverberations that
followed.
Harold instantly leaped forward, and threw himself
upon a powerful fellow, whom he found escaping. The
moment that he felt the impetuous onset of Harold, his
spirit and design both seemed to forsake him, and he
fell upon his kness.
Harold held him by the throat, with the strength of
a lion, till the torches were gleaming again upon the
bright barrels of the musquetry, and blazing upon the
countenance of the stranger—who looked, as if doubting
-- 035 --
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whether he were alive or dead, and wondering what was
next to happen.
`Hell and the Devil, man, is it you?' cried Harold,
as the light showed him the face of his ignoble prisoner—
and he hurled him from him, to the furthest extremity
of the vaulted entrance. `Take him, serjeant,
take him with you.'
`Nay, stop, stop!' he added, with the look of sudden
recollection, and collaring the slave—`Come with me,
come! and he dragged him into the council chamber,
and led him, shaking in every limb, with his knees
knocking together, to the body of the good old man.
`Look there, sir—there! nay, don't turn away your
eyes. That is your work!—and yours! and yours! and
yours!' he added—tears, hot, scalding tears, starting
from his eyes—`Your work! ye cowardly rascals—you
soldiers! you! By the great God of heaven and earth
ye are cowards! women! the vilest and most execrable
of cowards!'
`Begone,' he added, at length, with a violent effort,
wiping the sweat from his forehead, and hurling from
him, with the strength of an exasperated giant, the
miserable wretch that was quaking in his grasp. `Begone!
' said he, `and find your musket, and mark me;
you were on duty. If there be a ball in it now, you
are a dead man. Go with him Henderson, and you
Roberts, and see that it is brought to me as it is found.'
They departed; and Harold turned once more, in
the grief and consternation of his heart, to the cold and
lifeless body of the veteran before him, sacrificed by
the cowardly misconduct of his own guard perhaps,
and yet, how slain? that was a mystery. There was
no blood, no wound visible. Harold threw himself
again by the body, examined it again—a passionate
burst of tears followed—he fell upon it, and sobbed
aloud.
`Oh, my father! my father! where was I in this thine
extremity? Where was Harold!'
Who would not have wept with him? They did
weep, they wept aloud; even, they who hated and feared
him, they wept. A sound, the lamentation, of strong
-- 036 --
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hearts, the grief and wailing of men—it is not often
heard, but when it is, there is no sound of sorrow like
it; so moving, so subduing, so irresistible.
`Help me,' he cried, `help me!—away to the garrison—
stop—there may be an enemy lurking on your
way: load your pieces: fix your bayonets—balls! balls.'
They obeyed: they attempted again to lift the body, and
bear it off, with the melancholy determination of doing
to it the speediest and most honourable rites of sepulture.
It swung, and heaved so lifelessly, as they raised it,
that Harold, Harold! the fierce young soldier, the unsparing
and bloody, was overcome anew. `Oh, my
God! my God!' he repeated, over and over again; `his
wife, his wife, his poor dear wife! Oh, what will become
of her!'—and then, reeling to the wall, and burying
his face in the curtains, he added, convulsively, as
he raised his locked hands to heaven. `Oh, it will kill
her! it will kill her! Father! Father! it will kill her.'
`Wretches!' he added, rushing forward and striking
one to the earth, with ungovernable fury, as they all at
once abandoned their burden, suffering it to roll from
their palsied arms; standing with outstretched hands,
and staring eyes, as if petrified by something too horrible
to name.
They gasped for breath, heedless of their prostrate
comrade, nor once taking off their eyes from the body,
which began to move—could it be! Harold stood in a
transport of bewildering and distracting hope, and terror.
The chest heaved. A deep sigh was drawn.
`Enough! Enough!' cried Harold—`he lives! O God,
I thank thee!'
The governor had only swooned, but it was nearly
the swoon of death to him. Thrice had he partially
recovered, and relapsed, in the darkness, and noise, and
terror that had beset him, and would, in all human
probability, never have opened his aged eyes again, if
the movement of his chest had not been accidentally observed,
by the frightened soldiers, as they uplifted him,
to bear him away to the garrison.
-- 037 --
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Harold was still upon his knees. `Fly! fly!—some
wine, some wine,' he said. `Merciful father I do
thank thee!—Begone!—quick, quick!'
The party that was sent away soon returned, and the
joy of Harold, as the old man opened his eyes upon
his bosom, while they chafed his temples and poured
cordials down his throat, with the officious tenderness
of children, was so transporting and beneficent, that
the comrades of Frederick Brown began to look for a
gleam of mercy, even from the fierce and implacable
Harold.
Nay, one of them had the hardihood to intercede for
him, and to ask if he had not better be sent to the garrison
for security; knowing that when once there, his escape
would be certain, if not his pardon.
`Yes, yes—poor Brown,' answered Harold—`to the
garrison, with all my heart—away with him.'
The soldiers were ready to kneel to him: that he,
Harold, whom nothing could intimidate; he, who was
clothed with the power of life and death in the army,
from whose decree there was no appeal; he, who was
so strict and terrible in his retribution; that he should
relent so readily, was most unaccountable. Oh, they
little knew the heart of that wayward and melancholy
being: they little knew that the sternest nature is artificial:
that the iron bound and immoveable are tenderest
at their core. Little knew they of this truth, told
in later days by a bard whose `veins ran lightning,'—
that there is a lava in the heart of man—a spirit of flame
and blood, which quickens in power as it diminishes in
quantity—that
The deepest ice that ever froze
Can only o'er the surface close:—
The living stream runs quick below,
And flows—and ne'er can cease to flow.
Byron.
—that this is a spirit, thus distilled and rectified by
God himself, from the purest element of man's nature—
undiluted by weakness and tears, unsullied by earthiness;
kept in the reservoir of a clear heart, which
though its surface be adamantine, when smitten by
-- 038 --
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His power, will give out, with every throb and contraction,
its gushing chrystal and pearl, while there is
one drop of blood to feed the fountain and be converted
into immortal aliment for the unpolluted and
unprofaned. These are they, whose mercy is felt!
These are they, whose friendship may be depended
upon. These are they, whose love is perpetual and
unchanging! and these, the stern and unforgiving of
heart, are never, never! like those of a kinder nature,
festering with impure thought. Their vengeance is
justice. Their wrath is that of the Divinity. Their
mercy like the dews of heaven: to be won only after
the duties of the day are past, and the solemn loveliness
of night and repose cometh out, filling all creation,
animate and inanimate, the dispositions and the purposes
of men, with a relenting tenderness. Bind ye their
pulses up with adamant; sheathe them in tenfold steel,
the living drop that is hidden within, will burst and
scatter all its cells, all its cearments, all its panoply, at
the touch of kindness, or love, or innocence! Find ye
this power in hearts of a softer mould? this truth and
divinity; in those who melt at the first breathing of solicitation
or entreaty? Oh no, while the willing and
merciful of mankind are agitated and tremulous with
every sigh that passes over them, and every tear that
drops upon them, the hearts of these—like the deep
Ocean, cloudy and unfathomable, to all but the courageous
and exploring, sheltering the treasuries of many
an empire, the gold and spoil of many a kingdom, covering
the mysteries and the glories that encumber the
foundations of our world—the deep Ocean! which cannot
be agitated without upheaving to the light its pearls
and diadems, and ivory and coral—These, the hearts of
these, reveal no riches but in their commotion. They are
like the great sea in tranquillity and calm, which shows
nought of the glittering dust that made its waters turbid,
and defined its boundaries with undulating ridgy
lustre, like drifted gold; nought of the beautiful and
nameless, countless, productions of its depth, subsiding
and descending again through the transparent waters,
after the tumult hath passed, to their dim places of
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hallowed and mysterious concealment, and staining
the water with traces of coloured fire, in their descent—
like broken and shattered stars sinking and quivering
in a deep blue element.
Such were the disposition and heart of Harold—
their riches were only to be seen in convulsion. Here—
the man, whom in his mind, he had doomed to death,
was already forgiven, in gratitude to heaven, for its
merciful interposition. Harold had the constitution of
a hero; young as he was, it could be seen. He was
great only on great occasions. Touch his heart, and it
quaked aloud; but then, it was not easily touched.
After a time, the good old man became partially restored;
sufficiently so, indeed, to signify, by the motion
of his hand, that he could not speak. Harold had already
sent a messenger to the government-house to
apprise its mistress of the situation, and to account for
the absence of her husband.
At last a litter was prepared, and accompanied by
a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets, conducted by
Harold himself, with a drawn sword, amid the blaze
of many torches; the veteran was borne towards his
home, to be committed to the care of his young and
lovely wife. If aught could soothe him in this world,
Harold was sure that it would be her affectionate, innocent
attentions. Several times on the way, the governour
partially arose, and looked about upon the armed men
around him, with a troubled and dissatisfied air; and
once, it was evident from the horror that set itself for
a moment in every feature, as his eye wandered over
the litter and guards, that he took it for some funeral
procession—perhaps his own!—as he lay extended upon
the crimson velvet litter, made of lances, interwoven,
and covered with tattered ensigns.
His recollections were exceedingly discomposed, but
enough could be gleaned from his incoherent ejaculations,
on the way, to show that he was fearfully beset
by some Indian phantom; once, and once only, as they
approached his house, he seemed to recover his faculties
for a moment, for he seized Harold's arm, looked
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[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
earnestly in his face, and demanded in a low whisper,
if he had seen it? Harold shook his head.
`No! well, I pray God that you never may, my
dear boy—may—he—he—' continued he, his voice
growing fainter and fainter at every word.
They arrived at the door. The house had been barricadoed
a few hours before, and was now completely
equipped and manned for a siege, under the direction
of its high spirited mistress. She came to the door.
She was very youthful—and there was—I know not
what—a something that it is impossible to describe—
something of deep and tender melancholy, and loftiness
and pride, and loveliness, that, altogether, caused him
who first saw her, to hold his breath while she spoke,
and moved. `So young,' a stranger would say, `so
young, and yet so haughty! so very young, and beautiful,
with the immortal beauty of intellect, and yet, the
wife of a decrepid old man! It is very strange.' She
approached with a firm step,—and gave immediate directions
to the party, betraying no childish emotion,
reserving all expressions of grief or tenderness for solitude,
and then returning, with an undismayed look, to
the completion of her defences.
This done—the door closed—and the governor gently
laid upon a sofa in the hall, and the servants and
soldiers withdrawn, the door opened, and the lady
Elvira (such was her name) entered in silence and
loneliness, to her duty, like a ministering angel. There
was no idle display of suffering, no ostentation of woe
or kindness; but her delicate hand was upon his forehead,
and that was enough!
`Wounded,' said she, to the old family surgeon who
was supporting his head.
`No, my lady, I believe not,' answered he—raising
his eyes and dwelling with the rapturous delight of a
parent upon the beautiful proportions of her neck, and
the swell of her bosom, through the thin muslin that
covered it, both rendered visible just then by the action
of her arm, as she extended it, and let fall the gathered
drapery that had, till then protected her—She saw the
look; but she neither blushed nor trembled—he had
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[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
been her family physician, and she loved him like a
daughter—Ha!—why that flush!—that trepidation!—
that frown!—and the terrible beauty of those clear blue
eyes, streaming their intermittent flashes of wrath?
The secret is not to be told. A darker eye is upon
her; an eye rivetted and blazing with intemperate ardour—
Harold is there, unseen till this moment—he is
now advancing with his proud, impatient look subdued,
and countenance pale, very pale, with the profound humility
of his heart. He comes, half conscious of his
offence—will she forgive him.
Her brow contracts. Her countenance assumes an
expression—a strange, bewildering expression—It is
not to be translated. It cannot be. Her trembling hands
are vainly employed in adjusting her night dress, so as
to conceal the tumult of her heart. But it cannot be—
not only is the beautiful, delirious undulation to be seen,
but the burning crimson of her neck and bosom, that
rose at the sight of Harold, and deepened at every step
of his approach, hath tinged the very muslin with an
airy and delicate blush.
She cannot speak. Harold advances. She turns
toward him in all her surpassing loveliness, rebuking
him with her majestick silence, till his forehead almost
touches the earth, in his awe and timidity, blinded and
overpowered by her presence.
This done—with the flash of sudden determination
so common with him, as he grows older, he raises his
fine forehead to the sky, with a look, as haughty as her
own, a look, that hath retrieved him, in the moment
of his extremest peril—bows with a stately movement,
and slowly withdraws.
-- 042 --
CHAPTER IV.
Oh, the heart that has truly loved, never forgets;
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns on her God, when he sets,
The same look that she turned when he rose!
— Moore.
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
Il vaudrait mieux cent ois ne'/da/etre—que miserable.
Rousseau.
Why have I chosen this motto? In good faith, I can
hardly tell. Perhaps it may be, however, because I
heard a dear young creature, who always reminds me
of a chief personage in this book, whenever I hear her
sweet, thrilling, melancholy voice, once sing it, while her
own heart was breaking. O, it was like the voice of
the nightingale, bereaved of her young; or innocent
lips gushing out with tenderness and melody. The dear,
dear girl! I never shall forget her. Her constancy was
like that of Elvira, and both of them loved like the
flower of the sun, worshipping on, at his rising and
setting, in cloud and in shadow, in glory and in light,
with the same expression of drooping and confiding
loveliness; the same beneficent and hallowed yielding!
Still loving! still beloved! O, is there aught else worth
coveting in heaven! No!—for God, himself, is Love
and Constancy; and they who resemble him must love,
and love forever! Is there aught else in religion? No,
for religion `the pure and undefiled religion,' of the
pure in heart, the high and holy, is Love, and Love
only; not the base, sensual passion; but the immortal,
unwithering impulse and sustenance of great hearts and
proud natures; natures, unalloyed with infirmity, and
proud, because of their origin and destiny.
In the morning, just as the dappled east began to
redden with the new daylight, after a night of feverish
and wild dreaming, the good old governour awoke, exceedingly
refreshed; and lay, with his eyes shut, revolving
the mysterious adventure of the preceding
night, in his mind. It was all in vain. He could remember
nothing distinctly. That an apparition had
been before him; that, somehow or other, he had been
engaged in mortal strife, he had a kind of dim and
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wavering, shadowy and uncertain recollection, but all
else, with whom, and where, had been held the battle—
all!—was gone, in the terrour of the interview, and the
long insensibility and agitation that succeeded, What he
had dreamed appeared reality; and the real, as he strove
in vain to recall the particular features, took the fantastick
and shifting proportions of a dream.
The effort grew painful to him. He became weary
with the intensity of his own reminiscence, and was fast
relapsing again into a disturbed and broken slumber,
half conscious that it was better for him to sleep, and
half yielding to the delicious influence of such consciousness,
and yet occasionally starting and grasping
with a sudden and convulsive hand, whatever happened
to be nearest him, like one that overcome by drowziness
upon a precipice, partially yields to it, grappling
at the weeds and grass, and starts and shrieks, as he
feels his hold relaxing, and dreams that he is falling.
While he was in this state of protracted and uncertain
delirium, some of the older and nearer members
of the council, who had heard an aggravated and terrible
account of the night's alarm, and the situation of the
governour, from the fugitives, made their appearance in
the apartment. They were cautiously announced,
but in their awkward earnestness to save trouble, were
literally treading upon the heels of the servant. It was
no morning for business, they soon found, and one as
little proper for compliments and ceremony; and after
a few faint struggles between their curiosity, and their
habitual veneration for their good old governor, they
took leave to withdraw, and were immediately succeeded
by the governour's beautiful wife.
It was the fashion of the times to wear a lofty
and unmeaning sort of head dress, whose only recommendation
was its costliness. There were few ladies
of the time who could obtain one of these ridiculous and
unnatural incumbrances, that did not wear it constantly:
and the lady Elvira was probably the only woman
above the rank of an ordinary labourer's wife, in the
colony, who had the heart to wear her own glossy and
beautiful brown hair, in all its prodigal and redundant
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richness, with no other ornament than a plain blue ribbon,
fancifully interwoven here and there over the head,
and binding her forehead aslant with the artful simplicity
of a flower girl that enwreaths her white forehead
with garlands of deep blue water lilies.
Her dress—what shall I say of it? Will the truth
be acceptable? It ought to be; and therefore, at the
risk of being laughed at, to the end of this chapter, at
least, I must delare that, I have never been satisfied
with any woman's dress since—what there was, I know
not, about the lady Elvira, but her clothes always
seemed to fit her better than those of any other ladies
fitted them, and were always worn with an air of delicate,
unstudied, unobtrusive propriety and grace, that
I never could see in another. The flowing folds of her
dress I remember, were usually tucked up, when she
was about her house, an held by her girdle, with the
free and innocent air of one who loves fashion and
follows it with the feeling of youth, but has the good
sense to prefer comfort and propriety, when they and
fashion cannot be reconciled together. In such a dress,
she now entered the sick chamber of her husband, her
loose sleeves looped up for the occasion, and exposing
her exquisitely moulded arms of unsullied whiteness;
arms, that from the unfrequency of their exposure,
would totally eclipse the most beautiful and delicate of
those that are habitually revealed to the sun and wind,
or, what is worse, to the tainting and impure gaze of
the profligate and licentious.
She entered on tip-toe, and bore, in a richly chased
goblet of antique workmanship, some cordial, such as
wives only can prepare, and the weary in spirit alone
appreciate. She came to the bed side, and stooping
affectionately over her husband, gently insinuated one
arm under his neck, placed an additional pillow under
his head, and began inviting him with her full blue eyes
to partake; who could resist such endearment? A wife
leaning upon your bosom, her arm supporting you, her
eyes swimming with dew, and her beautiful mouth
trembling with anxiety—who could resist her?
“A brow all of wisdom, and lip all of love!”
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No human being! The hardiest and the sternest; the
wickedest and the worst; the veriest ruffian that ever
walked the earth, must yield up his soul to such caressing,
and cry out, as did old Lear to Cordelia when he
awoke—from his long kingly trance, broken in heart
and bowed in spirit, and beheld her sweet eyes weeping
and dissolving above him, her soft form undulating
before his face—when he awoke thus—in the arms of
his child—his daughter; with his old cheek resting
upon her hallowed and pure bosom!—and said to her,
with uplifted hands—
`Be your tears wet?—
If you have poison for me—I will drink it.'
Who could resist it? What spirit, even of a dying man,
would not linger a little while? Whose recollection
would not return, and glimmer, for a moment, about
the earliest and tenderest of his emotions, lighting up
with a pale and melancholy lustre the mysterious and
beautiful of the past—at so beseeching a look? His
eyes dwelt tenderly upon her; he sighed, his lips moved,
and the light of returning intelligence, for a moment,
illuminated his venerable countenance, as he eagerly
caught her soft hand to his heart, and pressed her
tremblingly and doubtfully in his arms. `Elvira!—love!—
is it you?'
The words were only those of habitual kindness, as
of a father to his daughter, and Elvira saw that he was
not entirely master of himself, even yet. At the next
breath his manner changed—his countenance fell—and
the next, with a terrifying earnestness, he laid his hands
upon her forehead—parted her damp hair—and fell to
a sad and solemn persual of her lineaments: rapid
transitions of thought were then visible, passing, like
vapours, over his broad, full forehead, and she feared
that a settled delirium might have possession of him.
`Yes! yes, love—I saw him; yes, yes, I saw him'—
he said hurriedly, and in a low difficult voice, and then
looking around cautiously, added in a whisper that
chilled her blood, even in the light and air of a summer
morning,—`alone, alone! all, all, alone!' The bed
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shook under him—`not dead!—no, no, not dead! not
dead!'—he continued, closing his eyes, and muttering
to himself.
At length he began to recover. Towards the evening
of the third day he was able to sit up and maintain
a part in a patient and low conversation. Certain of
his tried friends, the associates of half a century, were
about him; and after listening to a particular account of
all that had happened at, and since, the night of the
alarm, he proceeded to give his orders for the reception
of the Indians, if they should see fit to renew their
attack, before he was able to superintend the defence in
person. He inquired with deep anxiety into the whole
of the adventure; the hour; the situation in which he,
himself, was found; the conduct of the sentinel, the
garrison, and particularly, into all that had been done
and said by Harold.
`When did he return?' said the governour, thoughtfully.
`That very night; in the midst of the uproar,' some
one answered.
`As if he had dropped from the skies!' said another,
his eyes shining with enthusiasm.
`Indeed.'— (a long pause.)—`Well, well, I am glad
of it;' and then, as if aware that his manner might lead
their thought astray, the governour added, `I am now
so accustomed to the society of Harold, that I feel in a
measure alone, dissatisfied, and unhappy, whenever he
is away.'
`And I, Sir, am not astonished that it is so,' said a
white headed, little, bright eyed old man, who had long
been the tried and trusty counsellor of our governor,
`I am not indeed—for I have long observed that the
bravest of us, however unwilling he may be to confess
it, (glancing his eye at a younger man, who turned away
his face at the moment) feel and act with a sense of
security in his presence, that seems to desert them
when he is gone.'
This was said seriously and deliberately; and the
governour catching his hands, gave them a hearty shake,
as he replied with a tone and look of peculiar
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
emphasis, `Arnold! I know thee! That stripling deserves
all that thou canst say or think of him.'
`He is a rash obstinate boy,' said a third, a very tall
harsh looking military man. `You are right, my excellent
friend, he is rash and obstinate,' said the governour
in reply, `I admit it—but it is the rashness and
obstinacy of a hero.'
`Of Charles of Sweden,' said his antagonist. `I am
no lover of such heroes.' The governor smiled.
`Major, my good friend,' said Arnold, in his conciliating
tone, all mildness, and firmness, `Remember
his age. He is yet a boy, and could I marshal his
spirit aright, I should have no fear that he would be a
great and good man.'
`A good man! never!' was the reply, and the speaker
arose from his seat with the angry expression of
deep and unconquerable, energetick and immoveable
conviction; like a zealot that pronounces his belief, under
the sanction of martyrdom, doubting not, hesitating
not; unqualifying his declaration by aught of infirmity,
either in tone, look, or action—`never, never.'
`Yes, my friend, I repeat it, a good man,' said Arnold;
`he has the elements of all goodness. That he
is headstrong I do not deny; but then he is as obstinate
in right as in wrong. `And do you not, Morgan,' laying
his hand upon the major's heart, `do you not, I ask you
as a soldier and a man, I put it home to you as one
that I reverence, do you not love Harold the better for
what you call his rashness and obstinacy? Honestly
now, dear Morgan, honestly now.'
`Why, to tell the truth, Arnold,' said Morgan, kindly
pressing his hand, and shaking his head doubtfully,
`I hardly know what to say. I do not deny that there
is something generous and noble in these very qualities;
and you know that I love Harold too, but I do not
like to see him spoilt. In one word, governour, I may
as well speak my mind at once. I shall never have a
better opportunity, I dare say. Too many affairs; too
much business, and too many men are entrusted to him
He is but a boy—'
-- 048 --
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`Sir,' said the governor, and Morgan stopped short;
`Sir, that boy has been tried; again and again has he
been tried. He has been weighed in the balance, and
he was never found wanting. Let us change the subject.
'
`But his temper,' said Arnold, who always moved
like a peace maker, with his quiet and steady countenance
among the turbulent and hasty, `his temper is
terrible. That you will not deny governour.'
The governour's countenance had changed. There
was a dead, painful silence; offended dignity on the
one part, and offended companionship on the other, for
several moments. But after a brief struggle, the natural
feeling of the old man's heart returned, and he extended
a hand to each, and continued shaking them
with the greatest energy, all the while, as he added.
`Yes, my friends, yes, that temper is terrible.
Harold is a godlike boy, but I do tremble for his vindictive,
unsparing, and deadly temper.'
`And so do I, and I too,' answered both the veterans,
returning the shake; while Arnold, wiping away a
tear with the back of his hand, added, `but who can
tell? His destiny may be, to have this evil spirit rebuked.
And surely there is comfort in our experience—
for what has he ever undertaken, in which he did not
succeed? What, in which, if he failed, it was not because
he scorned to succeed?'
`Thank you, my good friend, thank you,' said the
governour. `That is Harold's character! He never stops
half way, in aught that is worth his ambition! And
never, never, I appeal to the experience of his whole
life, never did he fail to overcome an evil passion, or
an evil habit, when once convinced that it was worth
his while. His resolution is immortal. I never saw any
man, young or old, so fixed, so immoveable. Nay, I
never saw any living creature so fitted and exercised
in heroick self denial.'
`It only remains, therefore,' said Arnold, thoughtfully,
`that we go about convincing Harold that this
passion is a weakness.'
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`Yes, yes, that is enough. Do that; get Harold's
promise to overcome it, and my salvation on the issue,
that, before a twelvemonth is passed, he shall be distinguished
for his equanimity. Nay, I can forgive you
both for smiling, but I could tell you stranger things
than that, of his resolution, and success, in subduing;
nay, in eradicating, root and branch, the most settled
habits of his disposition. Get his promise, and I will
answer for the rest.'
`He is fearless in the extreme,' said Morgan.
`Ready, prompt, and bold,' said the governour, like
one never weary of the theme, and delighted at hearing
the name of a favourite.
`But then,' added Arnold, with the continual desire
of tempering all that the others said, and thus leading
both to assimilation—`but then, what a raging lion,
when he has once snuffed blood.'
`Verily he is wolfish, actually wolfish, at times,' said
Morgan; `he delights in carnage; mere deeds of peril
are no longer sufficiently exciting to him. He must
wash his hands in the hot bubbling foam of his enemy's
heart; or he comes home, troubled in spirit, and panting
for new slaughter. Indeed, indeed, I do feel afraid
of him at times. His wrath is so unlike the fierce quick
passion of his age; his appetite for danger, so insatiate,
so unnatural.'
`Never mind, my old friend,' said Arnold, `a few
years more will tame him.'
`A few years more!' said the oldest man in the room—
he was blind and bald, and his head was shaking
with the palsy, while his countenance wore the consummate
expression of wisdom and serenity, profound observation
and undiminished faculty, suddenly wrought
upon by a divinity stirring within. His voice was low and
sweet, giving out a feeble and plaintive sound like the
strings of a harp touched by dampness; but hollow, and
authoritative, like that of one familiar with heavenly and
mysterious things, and commissioned to bear testimony
even from the grave—all eyes were upon him. His
voice had not been heard before. It was most unusual
for him to speak at all, but when he did speak, the
-- 050 --
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wildest altercation instantly died away in silence. `A
few years more!' he repeated, `he cannot live, even a
few years more. In no situation, can he live. Death is
already at work in his heart. A few years more, and
Oh, his proud spirit will be down, his hot blood chilled.
'
A dead silence followed. Was it a malediction or a
prayer, that they had heard? Be it what it might, it
fell, with a dead weight upon their ear, like a midnight
prophecy.
`O, I hope not; I hope not,' said Arnold, recovering
from the awful impression of the old man's words.
`Arnold, Arnold, thou canst not hope this more earnestly
than I do. Thou canst not,' he repeated, his voice
trembling, and the tears filling his eyes. `Inaction
would destroy him. The angry activity of his spirit has
already wasted him to a skeleton. And action, action,
that destroys him too. I never knew a boy of such
promise wear to maturity; no, never. Nay, my friends,
now that I am myself again, I cannot reconcile it to my
conscience even to pray that he may live. So terrible
as he has been—as he is—as he will be, increasing in
power, his rage and thirst and hunger, not merely for
adventure, for that were worthy of his reason, and he
is weary of adventure—but for slaughter and devastation,
battle and flame—all the—
The speaker was interrupted by the entrance of Lady
Elvira, followed by an officer.
His appearance was martial and precise; but he approached
the governour, apparently regardless of all the
forms, even of military courtesy—and stood, without
touching his sword or hat, directly before him:—rooted,
upright, and breathing hard.
`How dare you, Sir!' said the governour, rising with
all the majesty of his age and office and character, and
was proceeding, when the stranger put into his hands
a letter, which the governour hastily tore open with an
agitated hand, and read over, without observing that
the eye of the stranger was scowling upon him.
`Bring him hither, this instant!' said the governour,
and the stranger departed.
-- 051 --
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`My friends,' continued the governour, `you will excuse
me. I have some weighty affairs on hand.'
They departed, successively shaking his hand in the
good old fashion of the day, and left him alone, once
more, with his wife.
`Now!' said the governour, `He will soon be here.
I shall soon see him again, love.'
`Whom?' said the lady Elvira.
`Harold, my dear.'
`Harold!' she exclaimed, half relinquishing the hold
that she had of her husband—`Harold!'
`Ah!—what means this? lady Elvira!—so pale—art
thou ill, love?—and now again—so red! why, how thy
hand trembles: Art ill love?'
`Oh, no, no—a slight agitation. It will be soon over.
It is already; it is past, now; nay, I am entirely well
now.'
She continued, faintly, very faintly—`entirely well,
now.'
The governour looked upon her for a moment, with
visible concern, and then, with an air of affectionate gaiety,
bade her, coaxingly, not to regard such things. `You
must forget and forgive love,' said he: `Remember his
age, a mere boy, you know—he meant no harm—It
was only one of his impassioned bursts of natural feeling—
Do forgive him—' `Indeed, my husbaud, it
pains me to refuse you, but my heart would contradict
me were I to say that I forgive him. No—no! I cannot
forget, nor forgive it. No, at the risk of offending
your partiality for him, I must say that I do not like
him; that I think him a most dangerous young man.'
The governour smiled, threw his arm round her neck,
and drew her closely to him, as she continued—
`Nor can I see what you and others find in him to
admire so extravagantly, for really it does appear extravagant
to me. His courage is cruelty and ferocity.
Is it not? Has he ever shown, on any occasion, that
calm, heroick self possession, that courage of the truly
great, which buckles on its harness in silence, and
faces death with an awful and unchanging serenity?
Has he ever?'
-- 052 --
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`What, Elvira! have you forgotten this?—this!' replied
the governour, tearing open his bosom, and showing
the seam of a frightful bayonet or sabre wound:
`this! love, or the occasion?'
`Oh, no,' said Elvira, her fine eyes filling with tears,
and her voice trembling in her heart, `oh, no, and
never shall forget it. My husband, forgive me! I have
wronged Harold. I feel that I have. I am sorry for it.
But that event, determined and gallant as it was, is one
cause of my injustice to him. It excited such hope in
my mind, that I doubly feel the disappointment which
his present unhallowed and bloody indulgences have
caused. Is he not, my husband, is he not the most untractable
of human beings? Has it not been so with
him, from his very childhood? so, at least have I been
told. So fierce, so Indian-like in his temper, and then,
unlike the indian, he is so profane, that the commonest
soldier, I have heard, will shake at the uttering of his
blasphemy. Indeed, my beloved, I cannot bear to see
him, such is my terrour in his presence, such the undefinable
agitation that seizes me, whenever I hear or see
him—my very blood curdles at his voice, and I cannot
bear to see him approach any body that is dear to me.
Mine may be a prejudice; nay, I am willing to grant
that it is; (her voice grew deeper; with a sweeter solemnity
of manner, like that of some young priestess newly
initiated, some Cassandra denouncing the evil spirit
while afar off.) `But then, it is so strong, so settled, so
interwoven and intermingled with all the fibres and
blood of my being, so like a mortal antipathy, that I am
ready to believe, at times, that it is implanted by nature
to speak for my own preservation. Do we not find
it so? nay, my husband, I am very serious—what keeps
us from the loathsome and pestilential? what from the
terrible and blood-thirsty? Is there not an instinct in
our nature superiour to wisdom, outrunning all experience,
which infallibly directs us to the animals, the
dispositions, nay, to the very fruits and flowers of the
desert, if they be innocent. An instinct that fills the
heart with dread and abhorrence at the first sight of
others; irritating all the senses, and quickening them to
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
intensity for our preservation! If this be so, and who
will deny it? surely we ought never to distrust the deep
inward admonition, the involuntary sinking of the
heart, its faint, sickly shuddering, when a human creature
hath crossed our path, and given rise to them. No,
my husband, no! I must believe, I do believe that the
Almighty, our kind and indulgent Father, he who hath
made nothing in vain—I must believe, and I do, that
these emotions are given to us for our security; that they
are not to be distrusted, or derided. You smile—but
my feelings are those of religion, of settled conviction:
and not to be changed by a smile. I speak with emphasis,
because I feel every word that I utter. What
attracts the youngest infant to this person? and what
so unaccountably repels him from that? nay, the very
brute, the dog that lies at your feet? for he has his likes,
and his dislikes, his aversions and antipathies. O! it
cannot be that these natural and incessant yearnings and
shiverings of the spirit are given us in vain! Oh, no, it
cannot be. No! they are substitutes for experience.
They teach to the young and innocent at a glance, as
by intuition, precisely what is confirmed to the wise
and observing, that unholy and perilous things have
their own peculiar shape and hue; that passion and
wickedness have a transforming power upon the loftiest
and lovliest of human countenances; and that God hath
written upon the face of every son and daughter of
Adam, in a character that the simplest and weakest
may understand, at a glance, the history and life and habit
of each. Therefore, do I fear the very playfulness of
Harold. His lineaments, even when unconvulsed, unilluminated
by a rebellious spirit, in arms against all that
is holy and peaceable, even in repose, are inwrought and
articulate with bad thought, the thought of a perturbed,
ascendant, and unappeasable ambition. Yes, my husband,
I do fear his very playfulness, as I would that of
a pet tiger.'
`Elvira! Elvira!' said the governour, earnestly grasping
her hands and looking in her face—`what an enthusiast!
verily love, thou art as implacable as that
very spirit of evil, which thou hast conjured up!
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
wouldst thou rebuke, even the `pet tiger,' if it fulfilled
only the appointed office of its nature!' His tone suddenly
changed to the deepest solemnity, and he continued.—
`Where had I been, Elvira, but for that boy?
Indian-like in his disposition! True, he is Indian-like,
and I glory in him that he is so. At this very moment,
Elvira, that boy is the best general in North America;
the best soldier. Twice hath he saved my life; once, as
we both know, in the extremest peril—when I was beset
on all sides, entangled in the trappings of my horse,
drowning, and faint with loss of blood—and once, as
thou knowest too, when all the world beside had deserted
me.—Oh, no, love—I understand that pressure,
I do not mean to reproach thee. Thou didst not know
my danger—but all the world beside thee, had abandoned
me.'—(Elvira bowed upon his hands.)
`Ah, I am thankful, indeed,' said she, submissively.
`Heaven sent him, surely, and we were most unworthy,
not to be grateful.'
`No, no, my own dear girl,' said the governour, in
reply, pressing his lips to her delicate forehead, through
all the veins of which, the blood flashed like lightning,
at the touch—`No, no, you must not think so of Harold.
It pains me. It is unjust. I cannot bear that the
proud boy should be so regarded by one, so deeply his
debtor. I cannot indeed. I love him as my own child.
I would have thee love him too—what! tears—oh, do
not weep. I would not be unkind, but, poor Harold—
it would go hard with his desolate heart if we forget
him.' (A long pause.) `He may want your friendship,
Elvira, one day, when he shall have no other friend
upon this earth'—(his voice faultered, and Elvira had
hidden her face in his bosom—trembling—trembling,
even to the extremity of her locked hands)—`And I
would have you do him justice now, that you may be
his friend then. No, no, you must overcome this prejudice.
It is unworthy of you. Believe me, I know him
better than you. He is altogether better than he appears.
The natural expression of his countenance is
mild and thoughtful. Observe it when undisturbed,
when he is not listening. His worst fault is, that he
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
seems anxious to appear worse than he is. It is strange,
but it is so. I have known many examples of such extravagance.
All men strive to appear what they are
not. The kind will affect severity; the meek and lowly,
and timid, will often walk haughtily, and bluster to
conceal their nature. No, no, Elvira, this is not a mortal
antipathy implanted in your heart for wise purposes.
It is a weakness, and to me, who know nothing parallel
to it in your character, and I have studied it from
your very infancy, to me, it is unaccountable. Have charity
for him. Remember, he is an orphan; hardly used
by the world—born and nurtured in a season of wrath
and trial—baptized in blood—can you wonder at his
dreadful appetite?'—(Lady Elvira shuddered, and averted
her head, with her hand pressed strongly upon her
heart). `He is of the patricians here, you know,' continued
the old man with a smile, `from the princes of
the land, and his whole blood, even on the father's
side, is almost kingly—He is at least, as noble as ourselves.
'
Lady Elvira raised her head—the fire started from her
eyes: and her brows took upon themselves, as she moved
her stately neck, all the bearing and presence of something
regal.
`As ourselves!' continued he, gently disengaging her
arm, and drawing her kindly towards him. `Yes, Elvira,
I am willing to say it again, the blood of Harold
is nobler than our own.'
`Can it be possible!' answered the lady, with a look
of astonishment, and intense curiosity.
`Yes, my dear, it is possible. I have good reasons
for what I say. At some future day, when I shall be
permitted, I will make you acquainted with all that
concerns him. The papers are already in my possession;
the proofs—and to provide against all possible acaccident,
for, at my age, dear Elvira, the uncertainty
of life becomes every hour more distinctly acknowledged—
we stand amid the wreck of many generations, an
especial mark for accideut and peril—our companions
pining away, ourselves surviving, as by a perpetual
miracle, daily repeated, drawing the highest prizes, day
after day, from the lottery of life and death—living
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
only by incessant, and almost unnatural reprieve:—properly
impressed with these reflections, I have already
prepared the narrative, and put it, where it will be
found, when the papers that these hands have tied up,
shall be untied by the hands of another. I mention
the nobility of his descent, love, because I know that
there is a prejudice in thy heart, as in mine, for all its
foolish prerogatives. Indeed, I am willing to confess
that, some of my earlier likes and dislikes were not a
little regulated, by the pitiful gradations of birth and
blood. But, here, at least, where the oldest of our ancestors,
are but of yesterday, compared with the men of
the wilderness; them, who hold their charter of nobility
from the living God, dated on the morning of creation,
and blazoned with the sunshine of the first day—here,
ought we to be humble in our pretensions, lest some of
these old nobles of the wood should compel us to do
homage, and swear fealty anew, for the lands that we
hold of them'—He was interrupted by a tread at the
door.—It was Harold. His look was melancholy. As
he entered the room, however, he gradually assumed a
haughtier aspect, as of one preparing for the encounter
of prejudice and unkindness, and walked forward with
the aspect and bearing of him, who feels every muscle
and tendon of his frame, contributing to every motion
of his body, and every thought of his heart.
Lady Elvira instantly left the room; His eye followed
her, and a slight paleness—was it anger, or sorrow?
passed over his countenance.
The port of Harold was always lofty—and on this
occasion, coming to outface, what he scorned to soothe
or conciliate, a mortal prejudice, it had become peculiarly
so; but yet, there was an involuntary bowing and
yielding of his whole person, as his eyes followed her
retreating and stately form; and it was not till the
governour had spoken twice, that he had sufficiently recovered
from the prostrating effect of her last look, as
she lifted her blue eyes in passing away with a terrified
and timid expression, like that of one who is unwilling
to betray all her dislike, and pitying, from her
heart, the unfortunate object of it—to answer him intelligibly.
-- 057 --
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But then—then! there was a transformation quicker
than any that was ever wrought by magick. His melancholy
vanished like an apparition. His paleness fled. A
deep hectick coloured all his sallow cheek. His eyes
lighted; and his form heaved and swayed, as with the
sudden inroad of tumultuous and boundless thought.
The governour observed it, and extended his hand.
Why dwells the old man with such a subdued and
compassionate look upon the visage of Harold? and why
trembles the lip of Harold?—so strongly compressed—
why turns he away?—why that shiver?—is he speechless?
He recovers. The awful meaning of the Indian—
the fire of his spirit—lighting itself, by its own power,
amid encompassing desolation and darkness—hath been
dimmed, and dampened, if not utterly quenched, since
the good old governour pronounced, with a faltering
voice, his last farewell benediction upon his youthful
head.
`Well, well!' said the governour at last—after repeated
attempts, all of which had failed—`Poor Harold!—
what have you done? How succeeded.'
`Nothing, Sir! nothing!' was the reply. `Nothing
could be done. I have traversed the whole continent.
I have been to the western ocean. Tribe after tribe
have I visited; nation after nation, whose existence is
unknown even to the white traders—O, curse them,
curse them all!'
`Do not curse them, Harold. Did you find him?'
`Find him! Can you ask me that question! Would you
have seen me again, think you, if I had not found him?
Do you know me, governour? Find him! Aye—aye! I
did find him. I found him where I wished. His children
were about him! His wife! his little ones!—his friends!
many friends—and they were all armed, from head to
foot—and I, governour, I—I was—as I am now—unarmed—
except with this!'
Saying this, he half plucked from his belt, a blade
discoloured and rusty—
`And this—this very knife! I drove up to the hilt into
his heart!—look here! this is his blood—and this—
this is the blood of his oldest son.'
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[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
`His son?'
`Yes, governour—but his oldest:—his youngest is
unharmed—It was his own fault. He withstood me; nay
worse, the fool dared to lay his hand upon me, as I
passed away. I bade him desist. He disobeyed, and I
struck him to my feet. How I escaped, God only
knows!—I am scarred and wounded from head to foot—
see here!' (he lifted his black hair, and showed where
a ball had shorn it, and razed his temple)—`and here!'—
he tore open his bosom, and showed a gash that had
penetrated his side—`nor is this all,' said he, `they literally
shot my panther skin from my shoulders—shot it
to tatters, as I ran. But, it is over. I am avenged. I
have kept my promise. No woman, no babe, no old man
have I slain, but the murderer, the midnight murderer!
By God, I can hear the blood rattling from his heart
at this moment! And now! now, I have done with thee
forever! The avenger of blood is weary! satiated! Thou
weapon of wrath! away away! with thee forever!' he
exclaimed, brandishing the long knife with both hands,
and gazing upon the blade. `I have done with thee!—
not one is left! not one! and never again shall this hand
plight itself with thy reeking hilt. The children I forgive.
The mother, and the babe, and the old men, I
forgive. May God forgive them! Henceforth, I strike
no man in vengeance. Let me live in peace. Let me
die in peace, if so it may be. But if not—if not! why
then, war! war! to all the ends of the earth! I shrink
not. I tremble not. I have no longer any business with
revenge. But wo to him, that shall waken me in defence!
My spirit is appeased, and weary. Let me slumber.
Have I not done as I swore? Is not my bond cancelled?
Where then is my father? Let me see him. But no, no—
I will wait mine appointed time. I care not to see
him, with the feelings of a son; but I would look upon
the terrible being as he appeared to me last—once more
would I hear the voice which bade me kneel down, and
bow myself to the work of death, in the darkness of the
night, and the silence of an appaling solitude. Him!
that would not let me see his face. Him! that stood by
his only child, till he made a murderer of him! Him!
that knelt down by the side of his only son, and bound
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
him to hell by an oath!—O, I would travel the wide
world over to see him, to curse him, as he hath cursed
me, and to give up the ghost at his feet!'
The governour gazed upon him in astonishment. `Is
this the boy,' Harold, thought he, `this the stripling!'
Rather is it not some exterminating angel, dealing out
the judgment of heaven, amid fire and smoke, and
pestilence and death! invulnerable! immortal! irresistible!
How his manner hath changed! His whole deportment!—
how resolute and confirmed!—how full of manhood!
'
True, he was changed, changed in heart and soul.
His journeying had been in danger and in solitude—in
darkness and in light—over precipice and torrent—
herding with the serpent and the wolf, battling with
monsters in the silence of death, beneath a sky of interwoven
branches—shining with broad flowers, and
party coloured leaves—beset on all sides with the transparent
garniture of the wilderness, the red sun shining
through it; the melody of innumerable waters around;
the sparkling of ten thousand insects of gold and emerald,
winged with thin blue flame, girdled and spotted,
and stained with coloured light. A man of blood! sleeping
calmly in the hallowed solitude! A Cain, sojourning
in the garden, while on his errand of death, as if
insensible to the reproach of all the breathing and eloquent
tranquillity about him, and leaving it, unmindful
of its awful admonition to forbear!
Such had been the experience of Harold since they
parted: and there is no discipline so effectual. Yea, he
was changed, and the change had been wrought upon
him in night and in darkness, in the presence of Jehovah
and his angels.
Let us dwell together upon his appearance. His form
is muscular; but the strength of his limbs and chest,
becomes visible only under vehement excitement. Then,
he is all over nerve, like the young lion. The roundness
of his limbs instantaneously assume the angular and
broken outline of one heaving at a weight—toiling from
head to foot, against a contracting pressure; dilating on
all sides against a growing and crushing weight. From
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head to foot there is a visible working of sinews, knotted
and writhing like vexed serpents, uncoiling, untwining,
and detaching themselves for separate and
deadly retaliation. His form is slender, of the middle
height, and very graceful, not graceful however, with
the delicate proportions of white sculpture, but graceful
with the angry and high wrought expression of energy
and power—the grace of those god like creatures
that inhabit the southern America—the Creek Indians!
the brown and living Apollos of the earth!
There is yet an expression of melancholy in his countenance.
Mark it. The heart of him that wears such
an expression, so inward, so hopeless, so touching, be
ye assured, hath not long to pant and swell, within this
atmosphere. Many an eye will sadden in the contemplation
of another, and yet few of us are ever aware
that the young heart, pressed to our own perhaps, while
our lids are filling with tears, is already touched and
dissolving. Watch ye them with tenderness, who look
as he looks. Your trouble will be short. He is wasting
away with some slow, secret, and incurable malady,—
under the occasional visitation too, of keen, fierce and
unsparing agony. And yet there is nought to betray
the deadly working of his ailment, except the pale,
damp forehead, the uncomplaining eye, the trembling
lip, and the deep, deep melancholy of his smile. What
is it? that suffering? Whence is it? That mortal agony,
whose traces even upon the front of youth, are as the
traces of blood and sweat—intellectually wrung from
the impalpable nature of the Indian. Whence is it?
What is it? Who may tell? That he has suflered, is
suffering, cruelly, terribly, and perpetually, may be
seen; but who shall tell the sources thereof? Can it
be that this is the secret of his guilt! May not this
untiring impulse be that which drives him, in desperation,
to the battle! May it not be that, but for the aching
of his own heart, he would be kind, and affectionate,
and humble? Look at him! Is it not enough to bring
tears into the eyes of a stranger? There he stands! His
fine neck and shoulders revealed—his panther skin
wrapped with an air of martial negligence about his
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broad chest—behold him! the embodied conception of
early manhood, familiar with toil and thought—an ample
brow, a free movement of every limb—and yet,
with a countenance as if some fell and deadly poison,
were thickening in the very fountain of his heart, turning
his blood black—settling like lava, and weighing
like lead, in all his limbs and arteries.
The old governor idolises the boy. There is so much
in his nature, of that heroick self abandonment; so much
of chivalry, that immortal spirit which men love to
dream of. We may condemn it, denounce it, in the
hearing of our children, but let the deed be done, to
which this spirit hath impelled one, let the thought be
expressed, and lo! the eloquent crimson of the heart
flashes upward, like lightning, to the cheeks, to the eye,
through all the trembling and agitated extremities, in
approbation of both! Such is man! This inconceivable
property of youth, this incommunicable thought of passionate
daring, sent home, like a fire brand, successively,
through the linked hearts of a multitude, will kindle
a whole people to rebellion. God! What is it! The
electricity of the soul. One arm is waved, and lo! unnumbered
arms accompany it. One voice is lifted up;
and straightway the heavens are ringing with the cry
of a whole nation! Empires move off in the desperate
incantation of a young spirit, newly baptized in fire,
dipped for immortality, when it first ascends to the
place of sacrifice, with a face shining like his—who
came down from the mountain, with the presence of
Jehovah abiding upon his forehead, and stretching out
his arms to the air! How like are his operations to
those of that penetrating, quick illimitable fire of heaven,
which agitates the elements to instantaneous combustion,
thundering within the hollow caverns of the
earth, and trumpeting aloud in the skies! What is it?
whence is it, this godlike pre-eminence of man? This!
that exploding beneath the very throne of empire, lays
bare its mysterious foundations to the eye of the profane,
covering the earth with the glittering fragments,
of sceptres and chains, and crowns, and manacles, and
leaving the royal banditti of the world, quaking and
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astounded, like men, over whose heads the blue sky
has unexpectedly thundered, and reduced some of their
party to ashes! This! the inextinguishable divinity
within us!—the soaring of flame, kindled from everlasting
to everlasting! It brightens; and the whole circumference
of heaven is irradiated! It wanes, and the
fair face of nature itself, nay, the countenance of the
Almighty, as we behold it within the motionless,
bright solitude of the seas passes away, away! like the
shadow of another world! Know ye the name of this
spirit?—its properties? Its name is Genius! Its properties?
Oh, who may number them? None but the
Perpetual. He only, who can span infinity—the interminable
thought of Him only, can travel to the confines
of its dominion. But where are we wandering?
`But why,' continued the governour, after a long and
breathless pause, like one who has been travelling in
the high places of thought, the mountainous and precipitous,
and stops, terrified at the magnificence below
him—rolling cloud—and burnished metal—transparent
waters shining, in the hues of sunset, and glittering hastily
through the trees that outreach their innumerable
branches beneath his feet—all admonishing him of
peril, and winning him down from the drifted azure
and gold of the sky, to the qualified and temperate lustres
of the earth:—`But why this expression of sorrow,
Harold? What has happened? Thy brow is cloudy.
What has thwarted thee? Tell me.'
`That devil, Logan,' said Harold, locking his arms,
and stamping.
`Logan!' echoed the governour, clapping his hands to
his forehead, wildly—`Logan! What of him?—speak.'
`He baffled me at every turn; withstand him who
may? I cannot.' Continued Harold.
`Logan!' repeated the governour—`Logan!' And he
arose, bowing his tall and majestic frame, clasping his
forehead still, and shutting his eyes as if to exclude
some hateful spectre from the chambers of the soul.
`But I have yet some hope, some,' continued Harold,
`he loves—O, how fiercely! (his voice faltered)—
he loves Loena—the only true Logan left. He is
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adopted into the family, and he hopes to — no, no!—accursed
be the thought!'
`He cannot, shall not prevail! Better, better, ten thousand
times better, for him and her, that the panther
had feasted on his limbs! rent him! torn him! tendon
from tendon, and left his skeleton scattered about the
entrance of her unapproachable solitude! Better that
she had died ten thousand deaths—but'—(he wiped the
sweat from his forehead, and gasped a moment for
breath.) `But—but—I beg your pardon, governour,
something has happened; you are right, I cannot, cannot
tell what it is, cannot explain it—forgive me; I am
mad, mad—raving mad at times—....
O, governour, know you that Logan is not a true born
Indian?'
`What mean you, Harold?' cried the old man, in astonishment,
`not a true Indian!' `No,' added the boy,
clasping his hands while his whole form dilated, `no,
by the Great, the Blessed Spirit! he is not, I knew it!
I knew it from the first! no Indian ever wrought so
foully and bloodily! no Indian ever broke a fair treaty!
no Indian ever put his hostage to death, no never! I
knew it. He has not one drop of Indian blood in his
veins..... He is a white man—all
over—body and soul?'
The governour shuddered at the rancorous scorn and
detestation of lip and eye, in this creature of the woods,
when he spoke of the white man. `But what then?' said
he, in reply, `he is the more terrible.'
`Oh no! governour, no!' answered Harold impatiently,
`not more terrible—that were impossible. Treachery
is never terrible—if my education among them that
knew and practice it, hath taught me its true meaning.
The white man is the more deadly, plausible, faithless,
Christian like!' Harold paused, hung his head, and was
silent, while his arms dropped lifelessly at his side, as
if, having poured out at once, and for the first time, all
the accumulated bitterness of his thought for many
years, in that one word `Christian-like!' upon an object
infinitely abhorred.
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`Logan! Logan!'—still muttered the governour, in
deep and troubled abstraction.
`Oh, Loena!' continued Harold, with a convulsive
heaving of the chest, as if he were dislodging a heavy
weight—`O, Loena! shall he prevail? no, no!—(he
smote the table with his hand; the governour started
from his reverie, and he continued)—`No, no! he shall
not, and if he do not succeed,' he added, throwing his
arms about the neck of the governour, his fine head all
on fire with energy and menace—`if he do not succeed!—
why then wo to their alliance! the confederacy is
broken forever! He will fight them, curse them, make
war upon them, all, all! brethren and sisters, young and
old, women and children!—O, Loena—wilt thou?
wilt thou?'—(his voice died away in the tones of rising
suffocation.)
`Logan!' muttered the governour again and again, relapsing
into the same doubtful and dreaming tone.
Harold released his arms.
`Stay Harold, stay a moment,' said the governour,
recovering and detaining his hand; `I have a strange
suspicion—can it be? when did Logan leave his tribe?
where was he seen last?'
`Three weeks ago, he left them, and departed, nobody
knew whither.'
`Three weeks! no, no; it is impossible. And yet—
yet—there was an amazing resemblance, now that I
recall the whole; it is wonderful that it never occurred
to me before—but my illness I suppose—it may be so.'
`What, may be?' said Harold, anxiously; pray tell me?
`The murderer of the sentinel—poor Robert—the
midnight visitor.'
`By heaven and earth!' cried Harold, leaping upon
his feet, `it was he! it was he! Logan himself!—no
other man could do it; no other man dare even to think
of it; I would stake my life upon it, against all the red
men of North America—yes, Logan was the murderer;
they say too, that you were near being bayonetted,
how was it? and that—that—you have been heard talking,
strangely for you, in the language of terrour and
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supplication—again and again, in your sleep since—I
hope not, my father.'
`Give me thy hand, Harold, my son!' cried the governour,
pulling him down upon his bosom—`yes, Harold,
I will be thy father, and thou shalt be my son.
God bless thee for the thought, Harold! God forever
bless thee! my poor boy! There is none left now, none!
to dispute my title.'
Harold lifted his head; he was deathly pale; his brow
darkened for a moment; he turned away his face, and
a slight shivering ran over his limbs.
`Harold, Harold! my dear boy!' rapidly articulated
the old man, with shining eyes, like one just recovered
from delirium—`Let me tell thee all about it; now,
now, while I can tell it; I see it all now—every thing
is distinctly before me, just as it was on that night'—
(he shook, and gasped like a dying man, who fears that
he shall not have time left to tell a tale of blood;—that
he shall go mad ere he can exact the oath of vengeance.)
He succeeded, however, and detailed, with surprising
accuracy, all that had occurred; every thing, to the minutest
particular, in the Council chamber, while the
countenance of Harold grew rigid in his breathless attention.
He finished. Harold threw up his arms to
the sky. `By the blood of my fathers,' he cried, `but
that was Logan himself:—Logan, the white Logan!
Governour,' he added, in an eager low tone, close to the
old man's ear, `what is his scalp worth to thee? wouldst
thou not give thy right hand for it? Speak—say the
word—and thou shalt have it.'
The governour shuddered from head to foot—`Harold!
I conjure thee!—hear me, hear me! Let nothing
tempt thee—beware—O, promise me, promise me Harold,
(he fell upon his knees,) promise me that thou
wilt not pursue him.'
Harold stood astonished, awe-struck, rebuked—but
unabashed. `I promise!' said he, and the governour arose
and blessed him. But the fervid brightness of his eye
faded not—his cheek reddened a little, and a brief convulsion
passed over his upper lip. The discipline, the
religious discipline of the whites had taught him, that
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scalping was an atrocious crime, and though the boy
did not well understand why it was less courteous and
decent, than blowing a man limb from limb to the four
corners of the earth, or hewing him down bone and
sinew, into chips and shavings; yet, such is the force
of education over reason, that the blood burnt his cheeks,
and his ears tingled with the reproach of the governour's
supplication. Such is the effect of education! Virtue and
vice change places. Absurdity becomes orthodoxy, and
wisdom, heresy, from the lessons of the nursery, sanctioned
by the countenance of age and fashion. Communis
error facit jus.
The silence that followed was uninterrupted for
many minutes, by aught, but the suppressed difficult
breathing of Harold, who appeared occupied in some
profound study. He sat with his hands strongly pressed
upon his forehead, his eyes glittering, and motionless.
Their heads almost touched, as they leaned towards
each other; the sweat was upon their lips. The
rebellious nature of the Indian rose in disdain, and
trampled down all the formula and promises of that
beautiful religion, of whose solemnity and tenderness,
of whose merciful benignity and adaptedness to all the
wants and infirmities of man, he knew only by the professions
of them that came to him with fire and sword,
and poison, and famine, and pestilence. At length, with
a deep hollow sigh, he lifted his head. How changed!
The thick black hair was matted and drenched upon
his livid forehead—tears had fallen, but he knew it
not—the sweat had rolled like a hot rain from his visage,
but he was unconscious of it—so fearful had been
the working of his heart, as it lay sweltering in the fervid
indignation of his spirit, sending itself upward in
vapour.
`Did you miss nothing, father?' said he, as he uncovered
his face, `nothing at all?'
`Nothing.'
`Have you searched since, particularly—with your
own eyes?'
`No.'
`No!' echoed Harold, and instantly disappeared.
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The governour looked out, and discovered him bounding
off in the direction to the Council chamber.
He speedily returned. `I miss nothing,' said he, as
he entered, in a tone of peculiar disappointment; `and
indeed how should I? I know not what to miss—what
to look for, I am not familiar with the places or appearances
of things: but,' he added, with sudden vivacity—
`it was Logan, nevertheless! I am sure of that—
and I am equally sure that he came on some evil purpose;
and most of all am I sure that, whatever were
his purpose—that purpose was accomplished! He never
failed, never!—in good or evil, never! No compunction,
no pity, nor shame, nor remorse, nor danger ever turned
him aside. Go, father, go—go yourself, but no, I
forget; you cannot. Let, somebody go then, I do pray
you, somebody that is acquainted with the place of
every thing in the apartment.'
He grasped the governour's hand in his, and continued,
`O, I know Logan; and I know, what I cannot tell.
The secret is not mine now; it is another's; when it is
mine, hereafter, I will tell you. The time will come, it
shall come; meanwhile, believe me, I know better than
any other being upon this earth, what are the resources
of Logan, and of what he is capable. The red men, my
poor, simple, credulous countrymen, believe that he
hath dealings with the Evil One, and verily, I am half
persuaded to believe so too; at any rate, I'll swear to
this—that he hath a devil.
A messenger was sent, not because the governour had
any serious apprehension for the property or furniture
of the chamber, but merely to appease the impetuous
boy, and yet, some how or other, earnestness, even
when artificial, is so contagious, that the very basest
will catch something of it, and feel a kind of bastard
anxiety and enthusiasm, when master spirits are dealing
with their passions before them; and the governor,
who was not of the base, or even the poor in
spirit, but had done many a gallant deed, and been
stirred by many a glorious thought in his youth, now
felt the martial spirit of gone by days quickening within
him anew, like the dry bones that touched the
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prophet, whenever it came into contact with the fiery and
inspiring material of Harold. Just so, did he, on this
occasion, gradually work himself into a correspondent
inquietude with that of Harold.
Suddenly a thought seemed to strike him. `George,
George,' he cried to his attendant—`run, run; look for
the bag behind the curtain. By heaven, I have a
strange fear—(the messenger departed)—and yet suppose
it is gone—the treaty and all—what injury can
arise to us? what benefit to Logan?'
`It cannot be possible,' he contined, in a low soliloquy,
as if endeavouring to reassure himself, and allay
his own apprehensions, the more terrible for their very
indistinctness, `nobody would steal that—nobody could
know what was in it.'
`Nobody! be not too certain governour,' said Harold,
interrupting him, `if there be any thing in it, any thing,
that it would harm you to lose, my life on it, Logan
knew it, and has won it! Nay,' he continued, `if there
was aught in that bag—'
`Not a bag, my son, rather a knapsack of curious
workmanship.'
`It matters not—it matters not. If there be aught
within it of surpassing value, or of surpassing mischief,
that bag, with all its contents, is at this moment, not
only in the possession of Logan, but before the councils
of the Creek nation—'
Harold was interrupted by the entrance of the messenger,
who hesitated, and stammered—
`Speak, blockhead, where is it?' said the governour,
impatiently. `Gone sir—torn away—nail, arrows,
bow, wampum and all.'
A low groan issued from the labouring heart of the
governour. What had he to apprehend? Nothing. There
was nothing to be seen or heard; nothing at which his
fears pointed with any certainty, as an evil consequence
likely to follow this pillage—and yet there was
a feeling of misery, dismay, and perplexity, that was
intolerable, attending the discovery. A tear fell upon
his hand—he started—`Another civil war,' he articulated,
at last, in great perturbation, `another civil war!
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The red Indian let loose upon us again. Again the
mother and babe to feed the flame. The land of the
pilgrim again to be polluted with the blood of the innocent
and helpless. Oh, God! do thou avert the foreboding!
'
`But how could he know that these treaties were
there,' continued the old man. `They were placed
there not two weeks before, with my own hands. It was
a secret. I told nobody, and nobody saw me place them
there. That knapsack too—it has hung in that very
spot, unmolested, unopened, unobserved almost, for half
a century—'
`Nobody, are you sure that nobody saw you?'
`Yes, sure. I hid the papers, it is true, in council,
and there were some of my Indian friends about the
chamber, but they knew not what I did. The curtain
concealed me. The thought of thus securing them occurred
suddenly, during the debate, from discovering,
by accident, that the Indians regard the loss of a treaty
as its destruction.
`Indian friends—in council'—muttered Harold. How
many, pray—how many were they? Did you know them
all? Were they chiefs? warriors?'
`Why so eager? But no, I need not ask. Eagerness
is constitutional with Harold. What you do, my gallant
boy, you always do with all your heart and soul.
Your blood vessels are always distended, (smiling and
taking his hand)—But stay—'
Harold's fine arm lay naked before him. The old
man was wondering at the bone and muscle, the swelling
and throbbing of the arteries, the animated moving
outline, with the feelings of a father, nay, of a painter or
statuary.
`But stay,' continued the governour, `I cannot call to
mind just now, who were present, or how many; my impressions
are indistinct. There might be ten or twelve.
However, of this I am certain; all that were friendly
were there; all! Indeed, I recollect, particularly,
that the last of the number came in just as we were
dissolving—'
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`Was it light?' asked Harold, eagerly raising his
head from its thoughtful posture.
`No, quite dark. We had been detained to an unusually
late hour. We could only trace their shapes in
deep shadow, and when we separated, I think that I
should have found it difficult to distinguish any person
across the chamber.
`Did you get a glimpse of his face? Did he speak?'
`Whose face? Speak? Whom do you mean?'
`The last—the last, governor—the last.'
`No, I believe not—I do not recollect. But—why,
Harold, what ails you? What agitates you so? He
kept on the opposite side and stood in the shadow.
Nay, I recollect that he stood aloof; but I did not
wonder at it. The Indian habits are familiar to me.
I know their reserve and haughtiness. I remember too,
now that my attention is recalled to the subject, the
movements of this one. I remember that he was nearer
to me than any other red man—You shudder, Harold—
what means this? Who was that Indian? Do you
know? Do you suspect? Where were you?'
Harold made no answer, except by articulating in a
low, troubled, hoarse, and intense whisper—
`Look at me. Did he stand thus'—saying these words,
he wrapped his panther skin about him, simply throwing
the heavy folds over his left shoulder, leaving his
right arm free; his neck open, with his right hand thrust
into his bosom—his head was depressed at the same
moment, and he stood as if equally prepared to strike
or fly. `Did he stand thus?'
`Exactly! cried the governour in astonishment, darting
his eyes rapidly from head to foot of Harold, as if
to assure himself that Harold was not the very man.
`Who was he? speak.'
`Logan.'
`Logan! Logan!' echoed, and reechoed the governour
again, his voice rising almost into a shriek, in its tone
of horrour and dismay. That man, Logan!—and I so
near him!—Oh! Oh, curse him, curse him. Accursed be
his old age. I shall go distracted. How long has he
haunted me? What does he meditate? What?—Tell me
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Harold; my dear boy, tell me—tell thy old father; but
why do I tremble. Art thou not near me? Wilt thou
not preserve me? Thou wilt, thou wilt!'
The old man hugged him to his heart, while he panted
like one that had run a long race upon the very
brow of a precipice, and knew not his danger until he
had passed it.
A moment longer and his self possession returned.
The troubled, awful, and preternatural look of terrour in
his aged eyes, and contracted front, faded and passed
away. `No, no,' he resumed, `Logan is not so fool
hardy. He is too wily for that. Alone—alone amid a
dozen of his mortal foes—Oh, no, no.'
`Governour,' said Harold, after a long pause, with the
deepest solemnity, `governour, there is some plot at
work. I am sure of it. That was Logan. I am sure of
that too. Your life has not been spared twice for nothing.
They must have, to a certainty, you, and yours in
their power; nothing else could have saved you. There
is some secret work of extermination going on. Nay,
nay, governour, my father! be not incredulous. I am
sure as if the Great Spirit had revealed it to me, sure,
sure as if the God of the Christians had told me so, in
a dream. Give me a pass. I must be gone again. We
must play boldly. Double your watch. Take especial
care of yourself. And Oh—(he faultered)—Oh, let the
lady governess be sent to some place of safety—embarked,
if possible. Give me a pass. Give me one in
blank, pledging your word that whoever shall bear it,
he shall pass and repass uninjured, unmolested, unquestioned.
Something dreadful is at work—some fearful
intelligence. There is only one way of averting it.
Any attempt to counteract it, now, were vain. Vigilance,
courage, conduct, wisdom, are vain, if the match
be once applied.'
`For what purpose this pass?'
`Ask me no questions, governour. You have trusted
me before. You shall trust me again.'
`Trust thee! trust thee again! Yes, that I will, my
gallant, glorious boy—trust thee with my life—pshaw!
with mine honour—with the honour of Elvira herself.'
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The boy trembled from head to foot—seized the
hands of the old man, bowed his forehead upon them,
kissed them, and pressed them convulsively upon his
heart.
In fifteen minutes more the passes were signed, countersigned,
and Harold was away, away, on his midnight
journeying again.
CHAPTER V.
`Thy God shall be my God; and whither thou goest, I will go.'
It is the fashion of the age to be superficial and
showy. My acquaintance with the languages of the East,
could I furnish the printer with their characters, would
enable me to illuminate each of my chapters with
something abundantly new; but as this would be impossible,
I must content myself, in obedience to the
childish pedantry of the day, with heading my several
chapters from such of the ancient and modern languages
of Europe, as the printer can furnish type for. Is it
the rare and amazing that are sought for? Would my
readers be deluded into a belief that the writer of a
novel is profound, learned, acquainted and familiar
with the obsolete and unexplored? Let him lift up his
eyes. I have quoted from the scriptures; and this, I
have done, not in levity, no—but in a feeling of the
deepest veneration. Let him look back upon the motto
of the last chapter, so thrillingly musical—so tender
and touching. That told of constancy, the constancy
of earth, of the voluptuary, of the sensualist. This tells
of the same virtue. But listen—`Thy God shall be my
God! and whither thou goest, I will go! Now look ye
through the wide word; through all the volumes of
genius, and power, and beauty, and point out to me,
even where the most prodigal and adventurous have
dwelt upon the virtue of them that `love truly,' and
show me aught that can compare with the passionate,
sublime, and breathless devotion, the sweet and pure
tenderness, the awful yielding up of body and soul,
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
that are exhibited in that simple line. Oh, such is the
love of the pure in heart!
It is the love of the married; the hallowed and abiding
passion of them, whose embrace is forever and ever;
of them, with whom Love is Religion.
Harold had been gone a whole week. `I can bear
it no longer,' said the governour, traversing his magnificent
parlour with a hasty step, and eye constantly fixed
upon the distant road, which, for more than three
miles, wound about the hills, within sight of his dwelling—
`what has become of him?'
His anxiety had been growing more and more serious
every day, until it was now of the most distressing
nature. It was that of a parent, over his own, his only
son. He could neither sleep nor eat. `What has become
of him,' he would say, twenty times in an hour,
with his aged hands locked, and his dim eyes lifted to
heaven, `why did I suffer him to leave me?'
`I have sacrificed him,' he would continue, `sent
him, God himself only knows where, to be butchered
and rent by the damnable invention of savages. Gracious
heaven! why did I yield? What possessed me?
Surely it was infatuation. Why not demand whither
he was going, and what his object? And yet, who
could refuse him; who fathom his purpose; who dissuade
him from the deed of his thought? What a
spirit he has! From the first hour that I plucked him
reeking from the detestable evidence of slaughter, blood
and devastation, in which the poor naked creature was
rioting, as in his element, there has always appeared
something portentous and preternatural in his ardour,
something so heroick and fearless, that I am always
quaking for him, always dreading to have him out of my
sight. And yet, who may constrain him?—check him—
withhold him—and what is the consequence? Is he not
always successful? Yea, yea, to all the desperate extremities
of success. Then why check him? In sooth
I know not. I would not lose him—the fiery creature—
childless, solitary as I am—Oh, no, I could not endure
that. I could not survive it, and yet, I would
rather lose him—would I?—yes I would—than have
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him grow tamer by inaction Suppose I lose him—lose
him—after all my travail, all my labour and prayer for
him, so perfectly formed as he is for a great man,
so constituted for greatness, and adventure, and authority.
Oh, our Father! let me not lose him until I
have made him, not a savage, but a christian Hero!
If he live, thou knowest, Oh, thou knowest that he
will be great. Wilt thou aid me in moulding him
to be great and good?
The righteous old man fell, involuntarily, upon his
knees, with all the ardour of youth, and all the simplicity
of manhood; he bowed his head upon his hands, and
was praying silently and mightily, like some mother
over the son of her old age, praying as David did for
his sick child, when the door softly opened, and his
young wife entered on tip toe.
She was not astonished at what she saw. She did
not retreat. The attitude and employment of the old
man were intelligible to her, young and beautiful as she
was; and he, who had not learnt to be ashamed of
being caught at his devotions, never raised his head
from his hands, or looked about him, to discover who
might be the intruder.
She approached, and laid her soft palm upon his
forehead: he touched it, and lifted his face, eloquent
with meaning, and abundantly more tranquil than she
had seen it for days. His was the tranquillity of one
suddenly composed, but not violently, in the extremity
of his distress, by the natural and becoming expression
of his helplessness and dependance. What a picture
too for a painter! a gray haired, good old man,
upon his knees, before the majesty of Heaven!
Her eyes lighted with devotion. He raised his head,
folded his arms about the treasure of his soul, and held
her to his bosom. What could she reply? Her heart
was full. He was her husband. His God was to be her
God; and whither he went, there was she to go. She
knelt by his side. They bowed together, prayed together,
wept together. A warmer, a more intimate and
blessed communion, more ethereal, more sublimated,
more spiritualized, like sunshine, was felt in both of their
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natures at the same moment. There was no passion, no
fever in it; nothing but a chaste, quiet tenderness, with
the most delicate and hallowed emotion, like that of two
surviving creatures, purified, and clinging to each other,
amid the fiery wreck and whirling desolation of a world.
He pressed his trembling mouth to her forehead; and
their tears, of thankfulness, fell together upon their
locked hands.
`Join with me, my beloved,' said he, gently disengaging
his arms, `join with me, once more—Let us
pray for one that especially deserves our prayer.'
Again they knelt—their hands together, upon the same
book, and their foreheads bowed at the same altar, together.
`Our father who art in heaven!' said the old man, in
a tone of thrilling solemnity, `he is in thy care; in the
hollow of thy hand; and with thee are all the ends of
the earth. Oh, bless him! protect him! restore him to
us, Oh, our father! for he is very dear to us. Do thou,
Almighty God, thou, who hast endowed and sustained
him, hitherto; do thou complete him for the work of
emancipation. Strengthen and confirm, we pray thee,
the heroick qualities of his nature! Urge him forward
with thy chosen impulses, to the great work that thou
hast appointed unto him: and Oh, be thou with him,
forever and ever! Amen.'
Why rose the lady? The prayer was not yet done.
Yet her arms have fallen from the shoulders of her lord,
and she has risen—her face glowing with—what? Is
it the crimson of shame or indignation? Her husband
saw it not, nor suspected it, until, in offering some excuse
for her momentary forgetfulness, he observed that
her voice trembled.
`My love,' said he, laying his hand soothingly upon
her flushed forehead, and pressing it with the devotion
of one who does love—yea, to idolatry, some youthful,
and gentle and confiding woman, `My love, I would
not reproach thee; cannot rebuke thee—and yet, surely,
there is something of levity in this impatience. Is there
not?'
`Forgive me. I acknowledge it. Nay, I blush for it.
Often, Oh, how often, my own, my beloved, have I
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wept for it. But forgive me. I know you will. Attribute
these things to their right cause—my early education—
the misfortunes of my (she faultered, and her
voice changed)—my house, my change of religious instructors;
great constitutional vivacity and imprudence.
Many, my good husband, feel as I do, but few dare to
act so.'
`Ah, Ah! so it is! Your very acknowledgment of
errour is a defence, an irresistible defence. Who may
assail thee, woman? Nay, who may resist thee. Yes,
thou art right, my chosen one. It is thy vivacity that
endangers thee. It is thy pride that protects thee. And
may I add—that—that—it is thy peculiar spirit of—
is it not contradiction—?—that—'
`Contradiction! my lord,' she exclaimed, in a tone of
affected spirit. Her blue eyes sparkled, and her beautiful
lip was put up like that of a spoilt child. `Charge
me, a woman, with contradiction! Oh, for the days that
have gone by! I am half inclined to charge you with
apostacy. Where now is that romantick gallantry of
spirit, that old school of chevaliers and chivalry, which
captivated me?'
Who could scold such a creature, at such a moment?
Her round, white, dimpled arms were dangling
over his shoulder and breast, and she was peering
archly, upward, as he strove again and again to be
very dignified, and rebuke her manfully for her pouting.
In vain!—he was brought to capitulate, and settle
the terms, by another kiss.
Every lineament of her face grew luminous with
expression and significance. He attempted to pinion
her arms; in the struggle to avoid it, her beautiful hair,
finer and glossier than the web of the silk worm, broke
loose from the blue ribbon, fell and floated all about
her naked shoulders, and swelling bosom, which from
the nature of her position, and struggling, as she leant
backward, were visible for a moment.
The governour trembled with delight. Elvira saw
the direction of his eyes, and sprang from his embrace,
blushing all over, and agitated from head to foot. The
pearl clasp at her throat was soon fastened, and she
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returned; but her playfulness was gone. Embarrassment,
a delicate and scrupulous embarrassment had
succeeded. Was it so serious a matter? What else
could be expected in a game of romps with an old man?
`Yes, love, contradiction,' resumed the governour,
`what made thee my wife? contradiction: what made
thee abandon the religion of thy fathers? contradiction:
what made of you, a very bigotted little catholick (he
grew serious): what made you, my love, (the tears
filled his eyes) a rank infidel? contradiction.'
`True, true, husband. Thank God that I found in
you, at last, one whom I could respect and love: one
who regarded religion, all religions alike; a thing of
the heart, a question between the heart and its Maker.
The first man were you, my husband, who cared nothing
for ceremony, but every thing for reality. This
made me venerate you—love you (there was a slight
hesitation as she added the word love: perhaps it was
only natural to her as a woman; and perhaps it was
only accidental or imaginary—but she appeared to falter).
No, I do not believe that contradiction made
me an infidel. It appears to me the natural result of a
wrong education. I had been taught that many things
were serious and sacred, which I afterwards saw derided
by my teachers themselves. I joined in the derision.
I knew not where to stop. Where was I to distinguish
the material, essential religion, from its appendages?
Where!—I knew not. I had no guide. Therefore
did I scorn it all. My first religion was one of
pomp and parade; pictures, pageantry, and robing; incense
and chanting: so full of material and magnificence,
so sensual, so unspiritual, so ill calculated for
abstract and sublimated devotion. These things drove
me from the extreme of childish credulity, unthinking
and abject, to the contrary extreme of delirious doubt
and daring. How often does this happen!'
Her large blue eyes were waiting on heaven, and her
thin hands were locked and shaking with sincerity.
Her husband gazed upon her with such manifest delight
and exultation, that, as she withdrew her eyes
from above, and caught his countenance, so rapt, so
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brightening, so glorying, she coloured again with the
deepest crimson, and then—as women always do, when
detected in any thing especially graceful, she assumed
an air of uncommon seriousness; and then, shaking her
hair all about her glowing countenance, she cried, `proceed!
come, come, go on! This praying—I don't like
praying!'
`Not like praying!'
`No, no, I mean, I mean—I—I don't like petitioning.
I cannot bring myself to believe that the Omnipotent,
the Omniscient, requires any such audible expression
of our desires.'
`No!—I am astonished. Is it not appointed to us all?
Are we not commanded to pray? Is it not natural? In
distress, do we not fly to Him? How often have I seen
thee prostrate in the dust for some mercy, unexpected,
unhoped for; something that had set thy heart in a
flow?—Don't like prayer!'
`Such prayer as that! Oh, that's another matter. I do
not call that prayer. I call it thanksgiving. I never
pray. I cannot pray; that is, I cannot petition for this
thing and that, in such a way, and at such a time. I
even think that I am doing what is childish, unworthy
of my own conceptions of the Deity, as a God and a
Father.'
(She grew serious and energetick, and her countenance
was expressive of the deepest solicitude.)
`When I pray in very general terms, as for a blessing
upon the whole human family, my country, my friends,
some that are gone (a tear fell from her eye), my husband,
or for His especial protection, I reflect that all
have the same right; and the ear of God I think is not
to be won by competition; nor do I believe that his
blessings are to be monopolised by prayer. Nay, my
good husband, do not look so troubled, I speak with
all the sincerity and earnestness of my nature. He will
forgive me. I am sure of it. The prejudices of education
have their hold upon all of us; upon my husband,
I see, as upon his wife.'
`But surely I have seen thee pray, with all thy heart
and soul. Have we not often prayed together?'
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`Yes, yes! if that be prayer. When I have been blessed,
signally blessed; when something of unexpected
good fortune; some rescue from sorrow, sickness, calamity,
humiliation, hath happened to some one dear
to me, I cannot suppress my emotion. It will come. I
could lie down and cry with joy. I could run out into
the snow, the water, on the mountain, into the very
street, and kneel down and thank my blessed parent,
our Father who is in heaven, in tears and trembling,
for his goodness and forbearance. Nay, I could rise
from my bed at midnight, when the sense of what I
was and what I am comes over me, and kneel and pray
all night long to him; not for any renewal, not for any
especial repetition of his favour, but simply and unaffectedly,
in thankfulness, that he has remembered me,
and been kind to me, even while legislating for the
universe. In one word, my husband, I cannot, will
not pray. I will not worry my God with importunity
for favours; hut, when they come, I will acknowledge
them; and when, in the course of his providence, they
are withheld from me, and sorrow and dismay are
coming in their stead, I will bear them humbly, meekly.
I may cast myself at his feet, but if I do, it will be, not
to disarm his visitations of their terrour, but to avert
the displeasure of his countenance; not to escape the
wrath of an angry God, but to appease the yearnings of
a Father.'
`I will not petition for favours, because we know not
what is good for us; and all the evil passions of our
nature are perpetually vociferating about his throne,
in one form of entreaty or another, praying for what,
if granted, would often be destruction to ourselves or
others. In sorrow, in suffering, I will submit. I never
did repine, and I believe in my heart that I never shall;
and my trials have beeen none of the lightest. Nor
will I ever complain, or pray, other than to say `Our
Father! thy will be done!' Do thou with us and ours,
as it seemest to thee best! This I have said, and this I
can say again and again, in the extremity of mortal
agony.'
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The governour shuddered and—embraced her. Oh,
well did he call to mind, how resigned she had been,
and when, and where. Covered with blood and brains,
suffocating amid the slaughtered and dripping remnants
of a whole household, he had found her, lashed to a
tree, lacerated, exposed, a mark for the levelled rifle,
and the hurled tomahawk. Thus had he seen her—
and she neither fainted, nor flinched, nor wept! Upheld
by her heroick spirit, she never yielded, even in
look, until her limbs were unbound, her butchers driven
with sword and bayonet down a precipice, and she
was once more in safety. Then, and then only, did she
tremble; and then, for the first time, were her clear
blue eyes full of tears.
`To acknowledge the providence of heaven, I cannot
believe to be weak or childish, for that does not lead to
absurdity. An event having already happened, it must
be, because of His permission or appointment, the
wisest and best that could have happened; and if it be
overpowering, what then? Can we do better than submit?
Shall we pray to be set free from the pressure?
`in his own good time?' In his own good time, we
shall be set free. What is such a prayer, but mocking
at the wisdom and stability of God? Are we to divert
him from his purpose—turn aside the hand of
the Everlasting, while it is dealing out his retribution?
Is he to be coaxed or persuaded? Is he to be moved,
and can we move him? No—what folly then, what impiety
to attempt it! Suppose the occasion, one of transport,
rapture. Acknowledge it, pour out your whole
soul in thanksgiving. Not that He may be bribed or
flattered into a repetion, no; but first, because it is natural,
to the pure in heart; it is involuntary, spontaneous,
the sublimest instinct of their nature, the unpremeditated,
spontaneous gushing of the bosom, appointed by
God for our relief, under the weight of his benediction.
It is the flow of the grapes from the wine press. The
angel treads upon our rebellious nature, his garments
saturated and transparent with the immortal spirit that
gushes under his feet. This we may do, for it leads
to no contradiction, no absurdity, such as follow from
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petitioning. How often happens it that two nations, or
two armies, about to join battle, while the trumpets are
sounding for the onset, will beleaguer the throne of
heaven with prayer, for the utter wasting and extermination
of each other. I cannot endure such things;
they shock and alarm me.'
`But,' she continued in a sprightlier manner, `where
have I rambled? You speak of my spirit of contradiction.
You are right. Contradiction is my master
spring. To it, all my best and worst actions may be
justly attributed. Contradiction led me to scorn and
defy all the maxims of religion. The desire of doing
what few women could do, what fewer dared to do,
hath made me ambitious. Nay more, do you know
why I married?'
`Elvira,' cried the governour, startled and terrified
at her change of countenance, and the abruptness of the
question.
`I'll tell you. It was contradiction.'
She smiled, and that smile brought her husband, almost
sobbing, upon her bosom. She continued.
`I married, thus, a man older than myself; old
enough to be my father—nay, do not look so grave. It
is not very gallant I admit, but, after a moment's reflection,
you will be surer of me for the very courage that
I show in so speaking. It shows that I do not use any
deception with myself; that I am accustomed to thinking
the plain truth respecting my husband. My affection,
therefore, will be permanent. Not being deceived,
not deceiving myself, as most people do, when they
marry, you have nothing to apprehend from my being
undeceived. I speak plainly. It is my duty. Had I
shut my eyes to your age when I married you, they
must have been opened before now, and it would be
no slight symptom of growing disloyalty, if I should
affect to keep them shut.'
`Elvira—love, do not, you distract me.'
`Well then, I married, in contradiction. Few women
would have dared the same. I married, because
age was every thing to others, nothing to me. I chose a
counsellor, a friend, a man; one whom I could respect;
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one whom others respected; one who could make the
whole world respect him and me, wherever we might
be thrown. But most of all, I married, to deride the
common frailties of my sex, to signify my loathing and
detestation of the coxcombs that beset me, presumptuous
in their youth and beauty. I hate sensuality—I
wedded in spirit. I worship intellect. Why? In contradiction.
Were other women intellectually elevated,
and could I not outreach them, out-travel them in
speculation and purity, I do not know, my husband,
but I fear that I should become another Cleopatra—a
sensualist—the mistress of Caesars and Antonys.'
`Thou! Oh my wife! my wife!'
She blushed from head to foot; but the dazzling,
terrible light of her eyes, which actually deepened their
colour, till they resembled black in their hue and lustre,
betrayed an unconquerable earnestness and sincerity.
`What a creature art thou,' said the governour,
trembling, `verily, I do fear for thee, wife. I shake
to hear thee. That ambition, the workings of which,
at this moment, are convulsing the fair proportions of
thy delicate frame, is so fearful a spirit; so unsparing,
in its mastery, that I cannot gaze upon thee, as I do
now, without a foreboding that is very dreadful. I cannot
sit by thee, and hear thy strange eloquence, the
energy of thy tones and action, and see the unnatural
brilliancy of thine eyes, the witchery of thy beautiful
lip in its quivering excitement, without feeling my
heart hurried and accelerated in its motion, contracting
and dilating, till I am suffocated and gasping with wild
and indefinite apprehension. Would that I were younger,
much younger, for thy sake.'
`Why so, my husband? I do not wish it. Hadst
thou been much younger, I never should have wedded
thee.'
`Nay, do not reproach me. There is no wickedness,
no impurity in my thought. Wife as thou art to me,
I cannot but regard thee rather as my daughter; and
sometimes—nay, nay, do not hang thy head—what tears!
Elvira, forgive me. Thou art my wife; my own
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beloved, dear, dear girl, the only, only pride and rapture of
my aged heart. But what I meant to say was this,
(kissing her forehead) were I younger, much younger,
I would be thy help mate up some perilous steep; side
by side would we clamber the precipitous ascent!—in
armour too!—Thou shouldst be there, there! alone,
and unapproachable to all but me, thy long hair streaming
from the ramparts! God! it were worth ten thousand
banners for challenge or invitation!'
`My husband my husband! Oh, my blood thrills!
Thus it is, that I would hear thee talk! Talk to me
thus, and I could listen to thee forever. This it was
that conquered me, this! Oh, how well do I remember,
child that I was, when I saw thee unhorsed, bleeding,
covered with foam and sweat, hewing thy way amid a
multitude, a solid multitude, leaping to my first rescue.
Oh, no, I cannot forget it, Thy hair was already
changing with toil and maturity. Even then, child as
I was, I loved thee. From that moment I thought of
thee, and dreamt of thee, with passion. How they
fell around thee! I can see them now—at this moment,
all is before me. I hear thee shouting. I see thee,
thee! thy red scarf floating and shining in the wind,
and the banner over thee, evolving in thy perpetual
evolution, and the sash about thy arm, streaming outward,
at every sweep, like spouting blood; and thine
eye—the look with which thou didst approach me!
Oh, I can see it—feel it now! From that hour, until
we were united, I had no other feeling, no other passion
or wish than to be near thee, thee, whom I had
seen so awful, so undisturbed in battle.'
Her husband embraced her. Her panting grew audible,
but her glow suddenly faded to an ashy paleness,
and she covered her face with her hands, as her husband
whispered some low words in her ear, among
which could be faintly distinguished—`thou forgettest—
no interval—none! Oscar—'
She fainted.
At this moment a servant entered; and a voice at
the door pronounced the following words, hurriedly,
and departed.
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`The council desire a special meeting. They are
already assembled.'
`How dare you,' said the governour, reddening as he
fixed his eye sternly upon the intruder. It was too late.
He was gone, as abruptly as he came.
`Curse that fellow, I must have him out of the army.
He is rude to me, from his hatred to Harold.
This is the second time, and the last.'
`Begone,' said he to the servant, turning toward the
pallid countenance at his side, and wiping off the large
tears that hung upon the lashes of his beloved—`Begone,
and send your lady's woman.' Saying this, he
threw himself upon his knees beside his wife. She
opened her eyes a little; her lids quivered, and a faint
respiration followed. So intense was his watchfulness,
that he would hardly have heard a pistol, had it been
let off at his ear.
He was recalled by a movement near his shoulder.
He leaped upon his feet! His chamber—his very refuge
and hiding place, the sanctuary of his household,
was crowded with strange people! He started, frowned,
covered his face with his hands, and turned to rebuke
them. They were gone! What were they? Noonday
apparitions, with ferocious looks and strange dresses.
Had he seen them before? Yea, and his knees smote
together at the recollection.
CHAPTER VI.
A nava rotta ogni vento é contrario.
Was the mind of the governour shipwrecked? or
why was it, that, amid this pressure and whirl of calamity,
every movement was attended with a renewal
of distress? The spectres that had filled his room, and
walked round him with their arms folded—what were
they? The old man was not superstitious, but he shuddered,
as he recalled to mind that, once before, as
he stood upon a broken cliff overlooking the water,
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immediately after his arrival in America, all alone, and
in the brightness of noonday, he found, on lifting up
his head from a posture of profound meditation, he
found himself encompassed with a multitude of strange
faces. He shouted, and they vanished! A bloody war
broke out, ere the moon changed; and the portentous
visitation was followed by the ravaging of his possessions—
the pillage of his dwelling, the slaughter of his
household—the captivity of his wife—his Elvira,—
whom he rescued, amid fire and smoke, upon that very
precipice where he had been beset by shadows, just as
she had been stripped and bound, naked and helpless,
to a young sapling, and left to swing over a frightful
chasm, in the wind, while the accursed Indians levelled
their rifles, and whirled their tomahawks at her, in
mere wantonness. Yes, yes, his blood curdled—what
new calamity portended this fearful apparition? Where
was it to happen? Where was he to encounter it?
Not, Oh God! not, as it would seem, in the very spot
where they had appeared to him, in his bed-chamber,
in the very solitude and sanctity of his retirement, the
hallowed and consecrated place of his affections! Oh,
let it not be there. Look where he would, there was
no comfort for him. Should he anticipate the savages?
or should he lie still, and abide their assault? Should
he despatch messengers for Harold? or should he subdue
his inquietude and pray for his return? Indeed
he knew not. The times were of that apalling nature,
that he feared to decide. Do what he would, destruction
and fire must follow.
Harold had been gone a whole week; no tidings,
none. What could have happened? `The boy is too full
of adventure, too rash, headstrong,' thought the governour,
again and again. `Of what use are wisdom and experience
to such creatures? I forget mine, the moment
that I hear the deep, tremulous agitation of his voice,
or see the keen glancing of his eye. Heaven forgive
me! But if he return—Great God! he must return—
he shall, he shall. Father, forgive me! Bless me once
more with the sight of him, and he shall never leave me
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again, never! (in a lower voice) never, in so wild and
unknown an adventure.'
It was true that Harold had appointed a time for his
return. That time had not yet elapsed, but why no
message from him? Good or evil, we know not of
aught that hath betided him, and besides, can his return
be depended on—would he be punctual? was such a
creature, ringing his alarums, and bounding away, at
every impulse, was he to keep time, and march like
clock work? as well might ye listen for tunes from the
wild harp ringing in the wind of heaven. Ask ye the
Eolian Lyre to keep touch and time with the science
of earth, and then look to Harold for like obedience!
The council assembled. It was the eighth day of
Harold's absence. They were busy in conducting a negociation
with certain friendly chiefs, then in town;
some of whom were at the council, sitting upon matts,
with their legs across, and their stern countenances
composed to the unrelenting expression of their characters:—
immoveable, passionless. Heavens! what a picture!—
Beings of whirlwind and flame; they, in whose
bosoms the most deadly and unsparing thoughts are
forever concocting their venom, and writhing and coiling—
they!—seated around the council fire, meditating
carnage, war, peace, death and annihilation—they wear,
for ever and ever, the same brown and settled motionlessness.
Creatures of bronze, with hearts of lava! Beings,
over whose fiery and whirling material, a crust
only has been formed! who shall read them? who fathom
them? The eye, that mirror of the soul—ye may search
it with the fascination and power of the basilisk, the
beam of inquiry comes back, like an arrow shot, heedlessly,
against something of polished and glittering adamant—
blunted—pointless—shattered! The lip—there
is no curling, no writhing, no scornful lifting of that
most expressive feature; no!—but shut firmly, and fixed,
as if it were sealed; and all beneath were death or torpor.
Wo to the watchers of signs and symptoms! The
brow—who shall measure the amplitude of an Indian
thought, by the sweep and fashion of his brow? Who
shall tell, by studying him, if his nature sleep, or, like
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the whirlwind, is already on the wing? Eye, lip, and
brow! what are they to him who would gaze upon, and
read the meditation of an Indian, even in his most unguarded
moment? Nothing—nothing! a mockery, a
defiance. Alike in sorrow and in shame; in wrath, the
fiercest and fellest. Alike in the unimaginable battle—
in night and tempest—in peace and war—in bloodshed
and in hunting. Alike at all times, at all seasons, in all
ages, in all trials, and under all temptations! How, then,
shall you read the Indian? You may not. You are only
set to beware of a growing loneliness, a more inscrutable
serenity; for these increase, as the moment approaches
which is about to tear up your foundations
like a mine—prostrate and scatter your strong places,
like a hurricane. Watch him in his hour of festivity.
Does he abstain from strong drink? Beware! Does he
sit alone—avoiding with a little more than his habitual
seriousness, all communion? shunning, with an appearance
of accident, his chosen companions? Beware! He
would lull you. The plot is gathering. It will burst
in thunder.
Some of these inscrutable beings were seated about
the chamber. A stranger's voice was heard at the landing.
They turned not, spoke not, made no sign; but
the eyes of each, like those of the rattle snake, were
glittering toward the entrance. The voice was rude
and heavy, and the demand for admittance was made
with the emphasis and bearing of authority. It was refused.
Two or three loud words were heard—a blow—a
shout! and something fell heavily against the door. It
yielded, and a man, a soldier, staggered into the room,
reeling under the effect of a tremendous blow. He
was followed by a fierce, tall savage.
The hand of every Indian was instantly upon the
hilt of his ornamented knife, and his limbs were contracted,
and gathered beneath him, as preparing to leap
upon his feet.
The whole council rose from their chairs. Tomahawks
were grappled; and the working of restrained
muscular force could be distinctly seen, beneath the
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pacifick folding of some arms. The guard at the landing,
angry at the treatment of their comrade, who had
been ordered to admit nobody, but by a special order,
were following up the stranger with looks full of menace
and determination; and the governour, who never
went unarmed after the interview with Logan, placed
his hand calmly, but resolutely, upon the trigger of a
horse pistol before him.
The stranger walked forward. He stood face to face
with the governour, in the very centre of the chamber,
unmoved, unarmed, unintimidated by all this threat and
preparation.
`Who are you?' said the governour.
The stranger threw down a folded paper upon the
table. It was handed to the governour.
An exclamation broke wildly from his lips. He looked
at the stranger with terrour and admiration; measured
him from head to foot. Suddenly, why does his
countenance change? Does he recognise him? He does!
and the sweat starts out upon his forehead. His lip
quivers, and he half raises his pistol.
The stranger made a correspondent motion, and
threw his eyes with the avidity and effect of lightning,
first at the governour, then, at the council, the Indians,
the guard, and the door. What sympathy! as he moved,
they moved, and the faces about him waxed pale and
deathly, like countenances seen through a vapour—
his form seemed to contract and dilate, and the blood
and breath rattled in his chest? What did he meditate?
We know not. He was not put to the trial.
`I desire a private conference,' said he.
The governour's eyes rolled in their sockets, at the
sound of his voice, and he could hardly suppress a
deep groan. He was on the point of refusing, with
violence; but a moment's reflection, and another
glance at the immoveable features before him, convinced
him that he would be as safe alone, as with all his
council and troops about him. `Gentlemen,' said he,
turning solemnly to the board, in a firm voice, `we will
meet again this evening.' They departed. The Indian
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chiefs rose, but, looking at each other, hesitated to
follow.
The governour thanked them with his hand, and signified
that he would not profit by their protection.
Still there was a lowering, a manifest unwillingness to
depart, in their manner. They went, however: but the
governour observed, and his blood ran cold at the sight,
a secret and terrible brightning of the eye, exchanged
between two of the youngest, both of whom, at the
same moment, made a significant motion of the foot.
Quicker than lightning, the stranger made a correspondent
motion. He reddened—his bosom heaved,
and he stamped with vexation. What could this mean!
The governour was not certain, but yet it appeared to
him that there was some interchange of dreadful
thought, between the retiring chiefs; a sort of malicious
triumph, as of discovery, in their manner. He felt a
growing concern for the life of his brave, but implacable
enemy, and determined to apprise him of what he
had seen.
Another glance—the secret was his own. This stranger
was no Indian. It had been discovered by the position
of his feet. There was the mystery. He had forgotten
to turn them inward; and, therefore, had belied
his costume.
`Your business, sir. Be brief,' said the governour.
An angry and quick motion of the stranger's arm made
him recoil, as he answered—`You know me governour.
'
`Yes,—Logan'—was the reply. `Logan, among the
red men.'
`I understand you, governour. The red men are my
brothers. Very well. In ten words then—I am Logan.
I would marry a I ogan. The tribe refuse. They are
your mortal enemies. They are afraid of you. They
are able, with my assistance, to lay waste the village
of every Indian ally that you have on earth. Now!
will you be at peace with them? If yea, there are your
treaties. If no, the tomahawk.'
`Answer me, I have no time to lose. Before another
sun, your answer is enregistered. There will be no
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appeal. Peace or war? If yea, we, I, I will fight for
you, die for you. If no, mark me—another moon—
you and your whites—every man of them, are swept
from the earth Mark me. I know it. I say it. And
you know me, me! I would weep at your ruin—but
that time has gone by. I have shed my last tears. I
shall never weep again. No! not, if the heavens were
melting above me, and the earth were running with
blood. Enough; another moon, and not a white man
breathes within our ancient hunting ground; no woman;
no infant—none! within the circumference of our dominion—
the two oceans—Another moon—ye are exterminated,
extinct, forgotten! What say you?'
`I can save you, I, alone. At my intercession, you
are spared till now. Think not that I shall relent. No,
I owe no allegiance to aught but the red men. Pity to
the whites, though my veins may be infected with their
detestable blood, pity to them, were treason to the God
of the Indians.'
`Be at peace with us. I will marry a Logan. I will
be your friend, your friend! as I have been your enemy.
You understand me. And look you here, governour;
we have known each other before—our fathers too—
but that is passed. I have forgotten that—with this
very arm! ay, by this very hand, the blood of your
dearest, your best beloved on earth, shall mingle with
your own. Am I to be eluded? Did I ever threaten,
but the deed followed? Yea, governour, ere another
moon, your children, your little ones (his voice faltered)
from the north to the south, from the east to the
west, with all their white habitations, shall lie smoking
and even with the earth. What say you?'
`To-morrow, I will reply.'
`To-morrow, ha! ha! ha!' shouted the imperious
stranger.
The governour's hair rose upon his head—his chest
rattled—He stood gasping with rage and horrour.'
`Devil!—Thou fiend of hell,' he cried—`Thy voice
hath betrayed thee again! Was it indeed thou, and thy
bloodhounds, that leaped the precipice before our bayonets?
'
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Another laugh! The governour would have pistoled
him on the spot. But Logan sternly put the muzzle
aside, and answered, coldly, carelessly—
`Yes! It was I, I that sacked your dwelling. I, that
saved your wife. Why I did it, I know not. It was an
impulse. She was naked, bound, when I discovered
her. I claim no merit for what I did, but I was reeking
and weary with the blood of men, your bravest and
best; and I was sickening with that of women. Therefore,
I gave you the intelligence that I did—at the
wood—'
`You—was that you?'
`Yes. Would you know the full weight of your obligation?
I owed you a favour. You know what it is.
While you did your duty, I did mine. It was I that
ran to you amid a shower of bullets, to tell you where
we lay. it was I, too, that, at the hazard of my neck,
leaped a precipice when you approached us so rashly.
It was I, too, that prevented an ambuscade on your return,
in which you would infallibly have perished.
There! are you weary? nay, nay, release my hand. I
am satisfied. You owe me nothing. I only ask you to
behave like a man. Your answer.'
`To-morrow.'
`To-morrow again! Governour are you possessed.
(His face wrinkled with mockery and scorn.) To-morrow,
man!—there is no to-morrow for you. To-night,
this very night, nay, this instant!—now, now, here on
this spot, you must determine! What say you? Yea
or nay?'
`Logan,' said the governour, with a steady and
solemn voice. `You have prevailed!—Yea!'
Logan was affected. He stood subdued for a moment—
The awful magnanimity of a great heart, in its
extremest agony, affected him.
`Logan,' resumed the old man, `there's my hand.
I tell thee, for I do know thee, that I do not believe thee,
to the full extent of thy tremendous denunciations;
but yet I do know thee. Thou wondrous and terrible
spirit—so erring and luminous—I do not believe what
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thou sayest—but I believe that thou believest it. Will
that appease the growing menace of thy front?'
Logan turned away from the steady and great aspect
before him, borne up on an equality with his own,
by a frame as majestick as his own, even in its decay.
It was the countenance of one intent on martyrdom.
A sudden shivering ran over him, from the crown of
his head to the sole of his foot; and his heart bounded
against his Indian breast plate of ornamented silver: and
there was a gasping, for a moment, as of intellectual
suffocation, in his strong breath—his voice died away,
and his face was hidden in the lifted folds of his panther
skin.
`Governour,' said he, at last, raising his locked
hands—`Governour! (his voice was inconceivably
tremulous and broken, but solemn and deep; a voice,
that even in its whispering, sounded like the efforts of
an imprisoned tempest to escape, and rage and devastate)—
`governour, enough, enough! (he grasped the
old man's hand, and held it to his hot, throbbing temples)
you have saved your life, your own life—the life
of your adopted—even, her!—that of your wife: ay!'—
(a pause)—`and—and—though I have hitherto cared
little for the boon—you have saved my life; and it is
welcome to me now! But you assent;' (he grew more
intensely energetick and fixed in his manner, hurrying
as he proceeded, till his voice became thrilling in its
elevation and cadence beyond all enduring,) `but for
your assent, this very hand,' (he extended his arm before
him, as he continued, stretching the fingers as if
he felt them sticking together with blood, as far apart
as he could, and gazed on them, with a mingled expression
of melancholy and desperation,) `this very hand,
this very night too, had been besmeared again—again,
with the blood of old age and infancy! Yea, but for
this treaty,' he continued, stooping and whispering to
the governour—`old man, thus made with me, by a
single word I had been—nay thou, thou thyself hadst
been, the murderer of hundreds—of whom?—of thy
countrymen—our countrymen!'
`Our countrymen! gracious heaven! how? where?'
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It was too late. Logan was gone. His strong bound
rang for a moment, like the sound of one leaping in
armour and harness upon his naked feet, down the
broad stair case, and then, like the reiterated tramp of
an unshod war-horse, at his fiercest speed; and then,
with three or four clattering reverberations, it died away
in echoes. Logan hath cleared guard and guard house,
watch and watchman, steel and ball!
CHAPTER VII.
`But thou!—from thy reluctant hand,
The thunderbolt was wrung.
Byron
`Down! down to hell!—'
`A Dios, amado!.... Yo me muero... Recibid
mi postrer aliento!'
`He died—I dare not tell thee how;
But look!—tis written on my brow.
Thus Logan, the formidable Logan, departed. But
his steps were watched. Familiar with peril, strong to
a miracle, and subtle as the wariest, he was about to
encounter now, what even to him would be a terrible
adventure:—he was about to wrestle, for life and death,
with fully his match in courage, more than his equals
in cunning, and more than his peers in force.
There was at this time, at Jamestown, on an embassy
from a distant tribe, three blood relations, chiefs
of high name and rank, and warriours, alike remarkable
for their youthful impetuosity, their resolute intrepidity,
and their lofty bearing on all occasions. There was
wisdom on their forehead, and experience in their eyes.
They had been companions in every terrifick inroad
upon the whites, from their very boyhood: they had
fought and bled—been wounded and captured, side by
side; and side by side, had they burst asunder the frail
ligatures, that were wreathed and knotted about them,
at the same moment. At the same moment too, had
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they wiped away the reproach of captivity, dipping
their rent bands in the hearts' blood of their enemies.
Had the lightning itself, blazed down upon them, and
had those bands been made of the untwisted flax, their
liberation could not have been more sudden and terrifick.
They arose in their strength; and lo! the blood
fell like rain upon the earth; and their foes—were a
heap of ashes!
They returned with the scalps of their white conquerors;
and their countrymen were willing to believe
that their very captivity was only a new and terrible
stratagem! These young men belonged to the Five Nations,
a confederacy just at this time at the height of
its power, from the admission of a sixth, and an unsparing
triumph over the Mohawks. They had, like
the Romans, driven their chariot wheels over all that
impeded their course to dominion, and like the Romans
too, had successively incorporated their ememies, people
after people, with themselves.
These young men, the Horatii of the wilderness, were
not only related by blood, but educated together in the
most trying habits of association and rivalry, each having
a property in the reputation of his two brothers,
for so they were called and known, and so they were!
Brothers indeed they were, and the band that bound
them had been, thrice and again, swathed about them in
blood. Side by side, so often, and in such vicissitude
had they striven and wrestled, that each had aided and
been aided, in some mortal extremity, by the others;
either when the paw of the wild beast was upon him,
or the hot breath of a panting enemy. Yes, the Horatii
of the western world were they! not brothers by
birth, but brothers more nearly and dearly allied—brothers
by blood and in blood.
One of them was at the council when Logan appeared.
His carria e was too abrupt, and it excited some
suspicion. His countenance was not Indian. His tone
and look were not Indian. Yama saw that. But, if not
Indian, what was he? Who was he? Whence was he?
He watched him, every motion and look, with a deadly
eagerness; his hand half hiding his face, and his eyes
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glittering through his smooth brown fingers. He was
breathless; but no sign of impatienace did he betray.
Twice did he feel secretly for his knife, and twice he
relented, and his fingers relaxed in doubt. Once the
tomahawk trembled in his grasp, but nobody saw it,
even the Indians about him saw it not, so deep and awful
were the silence and attention, caused by the unshaken,
stern composure of Logan.
Long and fixedly did Yama regard him; long and
anxiously, but in vain. Was the stranger so consummately
guarded? That Yama had seen him, somewhere,
in the chase, or council, or battle, or embassy; and that
he had been with him, somewhere, side by side, or with
one like him, not many winters before, he felt assured.
But when? where? He could not answer that. His
mind was troubled. An Indian never forgets; and yet,
Yama could not remember this. Forever and ever,
would the time and place escape the tenacity of his
grasp; and yet—indistinct, and unsatisfactory as was the
impression, still it had been made with a humour so acrid
that his heart bore it yet. He felt that the stranger, be
he who he might, was his mortal foe. But, was he
a white man? His hair was black, glossy, not straight
like the Indians of the north, but waving and thick and
short, and gathered about his neck, like some of the
Southern Creeks. His naked throat, and strong muscular
chest were of the deepest brown. Was it by the
sun and wind? He kept his eye upon him, dissatisfied,
anxious, baffled. The signal of departure was given by
the governour. It was fatal to the concealment of Logan!
In turning and stopping, the position of his feet
was forgotten. He was betrayed! The dark countenance
of the Indian lightened outright! A glance of electricity
shot from eye to eye, and the whole embassy departed.
Logan saw it all! Did his heart sink? No, no! His
heart never sank. Did his eye quail? No, never! his
was not the eye to quail, even to the fiercest light of the
sky. He was Indian—Indian! body and soul! heart and
spirit! blood and thought. There was no gesture: but
his whole constitution was up in arms. `I am betrayed,'
thought Logan, and a mortal coldness pressed upon his
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bosom for a moment, as he half drew a pistol from his
side, with the purpose of avenging himself on the governour.
His next impulse was to fly—to fly! Remember
that the Indian bolds it folly to be slain, madness
and imbecility to be taken, and disgrace to be wounded.
A single Indian practises, in the simplicity of his nature,
what the highest refinement of military art teaches,
that it is the perfection of a warlike nature to do to its
enemy the greatest possible harm, with the least possible
injury to itself. Hence discipline, entrenchments,
stratagems; hence the law of war—the taking of prisoners—
and the science of defence: nay, all the accomplishments
of the soldier, or the general.
Logan fled. Anon was heard the quick bending and
shaking of the distant boughs, that stretched over the
narrow and solitary path by the river's brink, the place
for slaughter and assassination, and, therefore, chosen
by Logan, who thought that his enemy would probably
look for him, or be in wait for him, in some safer
route. With a strong arm, and a vigorous movement,
Logan tore away all obstructions from his unfrequented
path, disentangling and rending the locked branches,
like one who sports among twisted garlands, or bounds
through a flower-woven lattice.
He had already matured his plan of escape. His life
was inexpressively dear to him just now, and a wild
horse, without saddle or bridle, which he had left tied
to a tree at a little distance, was already in sight.
`Some may pursue me even here,' thought Logan.
`Their rifle balls may be too swift for me.' He cleft
the rope that bound the young horse, and struck him a
blow that sent him headlong, tearing, and plunging
through the forest.
Logan was right. The sudden crash and crackle of
the underwood was speedily followed by a shot!—another!--
a third!—In vain--`away went the bridleless steed!'
and anon, under the blue lustre of a cold summer sky,
where the river turned aside in the moonlight, at a
great distance, something leaped downward, as from a
precipice—a shadow—as of a horse—and thundered into
the dim water! It was a black spot for a moment—
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another shot!—and two figures emerged from the wood,
and stood erect, at the extreme turn of the river, while
a third was visible from a high rock, that overlooked
the very spot where Logan stood. Quick gestures
were interchanged, and one of the distant figures ran
down and leaped into the water, swam the bend, and
emerged at a place much nearer Logan, as if to intercept
the horse, that was heard, coursing along the
high bank opposite. Nothing could be seen in the deep
blackness, caused by the overhanging branches, but an
uninterrupted sound was heard, as of a young animal
spent with fatigue, snorting, and plunging, in the darkness.
But whither have fled the other two shadows? Could
they have guessed the plan of Logan? That were hardly
possible. But, when the horse swam the stream,
was any one of them near enough to see that there was
no rider upon his back? If so, were they not looking
for him in the wood—hoping to find him beaten off by the
blow of some intercepting branch, in his headlong course?
His anxiety became intolerable. They might double
upon his track like hell-hounds. They might be already
at his side! At this instant, the rifle might be levelled at
him from some of the near bushes! He shuddered at
the thought—and bent his body involuntarily—he turned—
an uplifted weapon glittered in its motion!—he
started—a hatchet whirled past his head. His foe was
there!.... Logan was upon him! An instant, a silent
single instant, and a human trunk rolled downward from
the rock, to the edge of the water—its head in the calm
moonlight—the blood gushing out of its throat, and
ears, and nostrils—the eyes starting from their sockets!
what had smitten him?—the hand of Logan!—It was
a corpse. Not a sound escaped it. Again and again
he had driven his dagger into the side of the giant that
grappled his throat, but Logan moved not, relaxed not,
relented not, till he saw the swollen eye balls bursting
with blood, and the rattling of suffocation was heard in
his chest.
Logan rose, with the knee that he had planted upon
the dead man's bosom, yet bent, and senseless with the
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excess of his effort. He grew faint—as the body tumbled
heavily down the green slope, with its long black
hair winding round and round its throat, as it rolled.
God of heaven! can death be so terrible! Hitherto Logan
had derided it. Now, he quaked at the thought.
Often had he sought Death, but the capricious tyrant
always fled from him. He had pursued him. He had
ransacked his habitation, the sepulchre, like a misanthrope,
dwelling alone amid the abominations of that
hateful, horrible place. He had plunged into pestilence
and fire. He had sought the spectre throughout all the
vicissitudes of battle after battle, rout and storm, hunted
him in darkness and in daylight, breast to breast,
lip against lip, the distended nostril reddening with the
vitality of an exploded and bursting heart—when his
very hair was tangled and matted with the hair and
blood of successive foes, and yet, Death had always
laughed his presence to scorn, keeping forever near
him, to appal and distress him with his fell visage, and
the skeleton rattling of his joints, and forever beyond
his reach. And now, now! when he no longer sought
him, but shunned him; when his life had ceased to be
hateful to him, and something innocent and beautiful,
with weeping eyes, and gentle lips, was constantly
swimming round and round him; now! when his misanthropy
had departed from him; when humanity had
stolen back to his heart, `like a naked, new born babe,'
and was playing with the stern panoply of his bosom—
the terrible harness of his spirit—while the sunshine
was upon it, for the first time, and the rain of heaven
was washing off the blood, and his great heart was
swelling, for the first time too, with the awakened godliness
of its nature—Oh it was dreadful, dreadful, to
be smitten so horribly! to be so tempted and beset. It
was death, death! in all its horrour and bitterness!
`I am very faint,' said Logan, leaning against a tree,
and averting his face from the blackened and convulsed
features before him. The lips appeared to move—
the chest heaved! He covered his face with his hands.
Again he looked. All was deathlike, silent, motionless.
`It was the shadow of some moving branch of the
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flexible high tree, upon the rock above, or some leaves
detached in the wind,' said he.
Logan sank down upon the spot. He had not the
power to tear himself away; or even to change his position.
The ghastly lineaments could not be shut out.
They were forever before him. Turn which way he
would, with his shut eyes; quivering swollen lips, naked
teeth, and clotted blood were pressing against his
face: a hateful, detestable vapour rose, like a hot steam,
about him. He felt pressed down and weighed upon by
a contracting solidity, as of massy walls, like a prison,
shutting him in on all sides, and compressing his huge
frame as into a mould. Why should he abide there?
He put out his hands, with a feeling of desperation; the
time seemed an eternity that had already passed, he
continued groping, but there was all about the smoke
of wrath and blood—was some one breathing upon his
forehead? No—his hair was moved by the wind—
was the very atmosphere, which his extended fingers
encountered, in his blindness and horrour, was it stagnant
and sticky with murder? He shuddered and drew
them back:—they were unwiped, and the clammy moisture
of death was upon them. He groaned aloud. He
would have given the world, in this unparalleled self-abandonment,
to hear the sound of a human voice, the
voice even of his mortal foes.
Such were his feelings for a while. Gradually he
became more composed. His strength returned. He
uncovered his eyes. The deadly sickness of his heart
had passed off. But still—still!—there were the ghastly
and distorted features before him—`Almighty God!
they are approaching!' he cried.
Logan leaped from his seat—reeled and fell. It was
a delusion. His enemy was dead—dead beyond the
reach of mercy or hope.
Logan grew more and more master of himself in the
interval that followed. He wondered at the deadly
fascination that had held him, in such tremendous
thraldom too, so long. `Oh,' he cried, his damp forehead
leaning against a tree, `Oh, where art thou, love!
Already, already my faint spirit is abroad for thee! I
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am dying. Oh, where art thou? Let me adjure thee in
the language that thou lovest. Yo me muero!... A Dios!
A Dios, amado... Yo me muero!....' His head
sank down upon his bosom. His deep voice died away
in tones of the most heart felt, and thrilling tenderness.
What a season! The awful solemnity of the hour; the
unbounded blue of the firmament; the utter stillness
and lifelessness of every thing in heaven and earth—a
dying man and a dead one—the murdered and the
murderer—one, in his mortal agony, and the other already
arraigned before the Eternal!—at this moment—
this! receiving his sentence, and beckoning to his
murderer.
`Oh, where art thou, my beloved! Hast thou forgotten
thy promise? Art thou near me?' continued Logan
in tones of unparalleled solemnity and sweetness.
Where had all this musick slumbered during his life?
So thrilling! So mournful! It were hard to resist—
though the green turf lay upon her bosom, and the
ocean rolled between his beloved and him. The incantation
of a broken heart hath a forlorn and unearthly
witchery in it, when its strings are damp with the dews
of death. `Hast thou too, abandoned me! Art thou,
too, gone, gone, forever gone?'
He raised his head wildly, `where am I?—Speak—
what art thou! Comest thou'—his voice faltered—he
strove to arise. The heavens grew darker for a moment;
and he went on. `My country! Oh, who but me
could have wrought thy deliverance? By whom shall it
now be wrought? Dying, dying!—no creature that hath
life and motion near me. No living creature! nothing
to wreak my vengeance upon, nothing.'
He ground his teeth in fury and wrath, and fell upon
his face, and rolled, in his utter helplessness, and insensibility,
till his face almost touched that of the dead
man. At this instant he opened his eyes—he shrieked,
and his shriek was re-echoed, on all sides, above and
below, with stunning and horrible loudness—he had not
the strength to rise, but he crawled away, bleeding all
the while, upon his hands and knees. `Ha! where am
I,' said he again, as a rustling passed near him, and he
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awoke, all at once, as from a blinding trance. The sound
died away gradually in the wind. Another shot rang in
the air above him, and some dry leaves fell wheeling and
eddying from the rock over his head, and settled upon
his face, as he was looking upward. A plunge followed.
The chase still continued. The colt was wounded. He
had been hunted up and down the river bank, during
the temporary delirium of Logan. `It grows dark,'
thought he, `they will forbear.' At this moment, the
spent and exhausted animal appeared directly in front
of Logan, near the middle of the stream, aiming at the
very spot where he lay, helpless and bleeding. It was
the nearest, and shelving. Logan's shriek had betrayed
him—But, at the same moment, the echoes that followed
had roused in him a preternatural spirit of resistance.
He was prepared; come what, come would, he
was prepared.
`They pursue thee, my steed,' cried Logan, staunching
his wounds with green herbage and moss, and leaning
against a rock; his mighty heart swelling with ungovernable
agony and wrath. `If they pursue thee here,
woe to thee! woe to me! woe to them! God grant they
may, while I have life enough left to requite their
visitation. Daughter of Castile, I shall yet perish worthy
of thee! Home of my fathers! I curse thee again
and again! accursed by thy name and history! Home
of my adoption! Oh, may heaven bless thee! Thou
art blessed; for the last breath of a dying man hath
blessed thee. I fled, I fled, my beloved, from the deadly
combat. I fled—canst thou forgive me? wilt thou?
But for thee, as thou art revealed anew in Loena, I had
not been a coward—my manhood had not departed
from me. A woman, a child, hath done, what many
men have failed to do. My soul trembled, and was
faint before thy resemblance, and I fled, because I saw
the spirit of my beloved passing before mine eyes. I
saw—and the loftiness of Logan's nature fell down
upon its face, and worshipped in the dust. Let me
redeem myself—'
A crash in the air over him followed:—a damp sullen
echo succeeded, with the wrenching of boughs, as
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of some one swinging and descending by the branches,
from the top of the precipice. A leap—whatever it was,
it had landed.
Logan turned his eve toward the place—he could
see nothing—but his rifle was raised to his cheek; and
his body concealed behind the rock.
Something, or somebody had certainly alighted from
the beetling cliff above. Was it an animal? A creature
of prey would not have missed him. An Indian? A foe?
were there more than three? It was not dark. A
cloud was over the moon; and the star light shining, in
scattered and tremulous spots, upon the near water,
filled all the atmosphere with a dim, fluctuating, faint
radiance, giving to all material things a visionary,
moving and dreary aspect. Yet Logan, whose well
trained eye and ear could hear, and see, what might
escape many others at such a season, held his breath,
and brought the breech of his rifle closer to his cheek.
Something was certainly near him. Life and death
were on the moment. He fired!—Was that a reverberation?
Impossible! so clear, sudden and distinct.
Were there two shots? Whence came the other?
There was no ringing in the interval between them?
Were there two? He listened. There was a suppressed
breathing very near him. He could hardly support
himself. The instant that he had fired, he had attempted
to leap aside, knowing that the flash and sound of
his piece would direct the aim of his enemy, if his shot
had not brought him down. He had attempted this,
but in vain—he was too powerless—he fell upon his
hands. Many and deep were the wounds in his side;
and if his enemies were not speedily upon him, the
bleeding man felt that he should go, unaccompanied,
to the world of spirits. He grasped a pistol and a dagger
yet. The moonlight shone out again, coldly and
damply—another shot—at his very elbow—and a man
threw himself upon him! Now then for the retribution.
The struggle of death was renewed. Whoever was
his enemy, he was wounded: for the blood trickled
down upon Logan as he wrestled, with his face upward,
against his incumbent and unknown visitor. In his
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hornour and convulsion, Logan, in his turn, strove again and
again to, but he could not, it was impossible, though his
heart burst in the spasm, he could not drive the dagger
home. It went wide of its mark, and the spouting blood
blinded and strangled him with its loathsome heat and
foam, as it rattled upon his forehead and lips like a
thick heavy rain. They struggled, and rolled and
wrestled, and blasphemed together: their strong limbs
were locked and rivetted; and the hands of each were
in the thick hair of the other—their very faces were
pressed furiously together at times. This new enemy
was strong, very strong—but what mortal force could
resist Logan, in his desperation? Bound as he was;
bleeding and sick at heart as he was—delirious, and
weary with slaughter—choaking with horrour and hate—
and prone upon his back, with an unseen, unknown
enemy planted upon his breast—even thus, Logan was
never so formidable! His heart heaved—his chest dilated—
his arteries were ruptured with the breath that
he drew in—he was upon his knees—his feet—and lo!—
his antagonist, prostrate and senseless—dashed and broken—
a mass of bones and quivering flesh—lies heaped
upon the rock below! The laugh of a demon broke
from Logan, as he staggered toward the body. The
triumph strung him anew. Once more the thought of
life came over him. A preternatural vitality thrilled
anew in his cold arteries. He rose, walked, nay almost
ran, but unsteadily, and reeling from faintness, through
the underwood of the river path, now knee deep in the
river on his left, and now running against the sharp
rocks upon his right, with one hand upon his side, covering
his wound, and the other feebly extended to
grapple at every encountering branch. A shadow
moved before him as he emerged to the open sky. Was
it his own? It was no time for combat. His rifle was
gone; his tomahawk; he had only a knife, hot and
smoking. He shuddered. A cold damp gathered upon
his heart. `Must I die now?' said Logan. `I cannot,
I cannot! thrice have I escaped,' It was not his own
shadow. It approached. He threw himself into the
river. His dress was heavy. He was weary indeed,
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and the current strong. It drove him back, after a few
struggles, back as he felt to the place of sacrifice!
Gradually, slowly, he felt himself borne onward to the
feet of the Avenger. There he stood, dark and stately,
ready to greet him, and awaiting his approach. Was
he superstitious? Whence the mortal coldness that
ran through his shivering arteries? He was utterly
subdued—utterly, for the first time in his life. He
touched the shore—he fell upon one knee, and covered
his face with his discoloured hands, as awaiting the
thunder. How his stout heart battled against his ribs!
A strong upward rushing was heard, as of some unearthly
thing in its ascent.
A voice addressed him! He raises his head. The
shadow hath vanished. He lifts it yet higher. Why
leaps he upon his feet? Why stands he with outstretched
arms, gazing upward with his bloody and gashed
forehead, wild and melancholy eyes—naked bosom,
and clotted hair—motionless, in the beautiful moonlight!
Why!—look ye upon that cliff!—there! there!
It scarcely touches the earth! Logan is prostrate in
the dust—borne down with perturbation and horrour.
The voice sounded again, and a footstep approached.
With unspeakable apprehension Logan turned aside his
worn and ghastly countenance. Why was it so pale?
Whence that hue of a drowned man? Hath the water
purified it?
`Red man, or white?' said the voice.
`Red—red,' cried Logan, starting upon his feet,
shouting and staggering wildly, towards the sound. It
was a Shawanese that spoke! and tears—yes tears
gushed from the eyes of Logan, as he answered, gasping
for breath—`Red, red, red.'
`Logan!—can it be!' answered the voice, and at the
same moment, a shadow dashed out of the thick underwood,
threw aside a rifle, and leaped down at the
very side of Logan—face to face.
Logan had well nigh driven his knife through another
human heart, in the first shock of his surprise, but
something withheld him. The youthful aspect and
graceful, fearless carriage of his new visitor disarmed
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him of all but caution. Nevertheless, he brandished
the knife, planted the foot, and awaited the result.
`Another,' whispered Logan faintly, as he pointed
to the cliff. A tall shadow stood there waving its
arms. Logan bowed thrice, and folded his upon his
breast. A sudden light flashed about the brow of the
cliff, and trembled for a moment on the blood shot eyes,
and throbbing temples of Logan. He looked up again,
dazzled and apalled. The spectre had vanished.
`Who art thou, boy?'
`I am Harold,' was the reply, `there's my hand.'
`Boy! boy!' said Logan—there was a thrilling earnestness
and solemnity, in the continued adjuration—of
`boy! boy! boy!—Oh, God, I thank thee! Comest thou
as friend or foe?
`Friend for to-night. Whence art thou? Whither?
'
Logan threw himself upon his bosom. `I am wounded,
dying; my path is beset—I—'
The words had hardly passed his lips, when his
hold relaxed, and he was sinking to the earth. A voice,
as of lamentation, was heard at a distance. It approached.
It became fierce and more angry, and continually
changed, as if some Fury wandering after her victim,
were baffled at every step.
Logan convulsively grasped the hand of Harold, articulated
with a choking emphasis, some low words and
Harold gently detached his arms, left him leaning
against a tree, and went in search of the approaching
sound. It constantly eluded him. He shouted. The
shout was echoed. Nearer and more near it came. A
furious cry—a delirious laugh succeeded! He was
filled with an indefinable apprehension of some unearthly
thing; and recoiled upon his steps—most fortunately
too! for he came just in time to cut the sinews
of an uplifted arm—uplifted to inflict a mortal wound
upon the prostrate and dying Logan. The body fell
with the tremendous visitation of Harold's tomahawk,
and Logan smiled! It was the last time. Harold sat
beside him. The giant's head he took upon his knees,
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and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. `Let us
begone,' said Harold.
The dying man feebly shook his head, `no, no!' said
he at last with a deep sob—`no! I am dying. Feel
here! here!' he added as Harold attempted to comply.
He shuddered—he withdrew his hand—It was covered
with clotted blood, and the warm tide gushed after
it.
Logan moved and endeavoured to raise himself, and
stand for a time unsupported. He lifted his head from
the shoulder of Harold, stood erect for a single moment,
gazed upon his pale countenance, put back the
hair from his noble forehead, with an emotion that
shook his whole frame like an earthquake—smiled
proudly, and fell upon his bosom, as if he would cleave
and grow to him forever, and sobbed aloud. Yes! yes,
this implacable, this fierce and unsparing man, locked
his arms about his preserver, and strained him to his
bosom, again and again, while his heart quaked, and
his sobs were audible.
`I am beset,' said Logan, `on all sides, no place to
turn to, no refuge, no friend, alone, alone, all, all alone,
bleeding, dying. Lo, I am beset. My enemies are
upon me. I am helpless, unarmed.'
`Who are they?'
`The three Mohawks.'
`The three Mohawks!—stars of heaven, warriour!
Logan, thou art right. The Mohawks are upon thee!
The avenger of blood is commissioned!'
`Boy—boy! know you what you say?—to whom you
speak? Boy—I am murdered!
`Know I what I say? Yes! To whom I speak? Yes!
Would that I might not taunt thee, thou brave, thou
most wretched man. But thou, thou art a murderer, and
thou deservest to die like a murderer.'
A deep groan was the only reply. Harold turned
his eyes downward—(they had been upon the throne of
heaven, glittering above his locked hands,) the head of
the Indian was buried in his panther skin. He had
covered his face and fainted.
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`Curse on my cruelty,' cried Harold. `At such a
moment too! Logan! Logan! forgive me, I knew not
what I said.'
But Logan heard him not. The heaving of his chest;
the convulsive breathing, and agitated movement of his
whole body had given place to a hushed lifelessness.
Harold threw himself by his side, lifted his head
upon his lap, and besought him, wildly, again and again,
to look up once more, and forgive him. A strange,
dreadful interest took possession of his heart, and he,
too, in his turn could have fallen upon the murderer
and wept, in bitterness and humiliation. His efforts
and agony prevailed. Logan opened his eyes, his lips
moved—a long, long respiration followed, and he dwelt
for a moment upon the face that almost touched his
own, with a look of such majesty! such awful steadiness
and reproach! that even Harold could not abide
it—no, no! he could not.
`You have called me a murderer—me—(a pause)
Young man! Harold! beware!'
`Nay, Logan, do not threaten me. Do not look so
upon me. Thou canst not—thou couldst not intimidate
me, even in thy strength. We meet as friends
now; but a threat, a single threat, of look or lip, or gesture,
or word—a single threat—and here as we are,
with no help near—thou bleeding and dying at my feet,
the cold sky above us, and solitude and dead men about—
even here, here! will we join hands in battle. Here!
will I, if thou art unable to stand and wrestle—here
will I place a dagger in thy hand, and throw myself
down by thy side, and take blow for blow from thee!
A single threat, and I will do this. In thy strength
thou wast stronger than I—mightier than I; but even
then I did not fear thee. I shrank not, as thou knowest,
before thee; but now, if thou art not yet appeased,
I will waive all advantages—I, myself, will place my
knife in thy hand—set thee upon thy feet, and throw
myself upon thee, face to face, naked as thou art, and
thou shalt search my heart, as I will thine—fight together,
die together—I care not! But don't threaten
me Logan, I will not be threatened.'
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`Boy, boy—thou art indeed of a magnanimous nature—
not to be threatened, not intimidated by a—dying
man!
Harold bit his lip, and half rose from his recumbent
posture. His hands were clenched.
`Thou art mad, mad, Harold.'
`Mad, mad!' shouted Harold, `Oh would that I
were mad!' bounding upon his feet, and tossing his
arms deliriously to the skies, `where is Loena!'
`Hell and furies!' cried Logan, with a yell that rang
far and near. `Boy! speak but that word again, that
name, and I'll rend thee piece meal, drink thy hot
blood, aye, every drop in thy veins—upon the spot—'
As he uttered these words, he stood upon his feet,
strong and terrible as ever, for a moment, and a weapon
was suddenly brandished in the star light. Harold
lifted his arm, but the weapon was dropped.
Harold stood calmly before him. `Look you, Logan,'
said he, `I am here. I am now more than your equal.
Even now, you tremble; how could you sustain the
grapple of death with me now? (Logan leaned against
the rock.) Time was, when you were more than mine.
I am now able to put a-sleep, forever, you and yours.
Yes, Logan, I am able to slay thee on the spot. I feel
this, I am sure of it, a blow would do it, one blow, and
no mortal hand could help thee; and do I not owe thee
that blow? Have I not a right to avenge myself, and
my friends? I have. And yet I forbear. I cannot
slay thee. I cannot lift my hand against thee. Why is
this? Is there something sacred about thee? No. Aught
that is indestructable? No. Thy blood and weakness
show that. And yet, thou hast now, as ever, no equal,
no antagonist. I dread to encounter thee. I, in my
strength, thou, in thy helplessness. Nay more, I feel
a growing kindness for thee. I know not why. Is it
compassion? No. It is sterner and loftier. My terrour
abates, I dare not pity thee, cannot love thee: But I
feel my spirit bowed down with veneration and awe.
Nay, do not avert thine eyes, I love to gaze upon them—
there are strange yearnings in me, and I feel a sickness
and longing that are unaccountable, while their look is
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upon me. It is not loathing. No. Nor detestation, nor
hate, nor abhorrence. No, no, it is a proud, great
swelling of the heart, holier, and mightier than I have
ever experienced before. But for this, Logan—nay, do
not approach, I dread to touch thee—I should have
slain thee at first. Why that groan? Come, if thou
wilt, to my heart. I cannot refuse thee, red and terrible
as thou art. Let us be friends. Shall we be friends?
What sayest thou? Speak Logan, alive or dead—foes or
friends?
Logan was again overcome. He tottered towards
Harold, covered his face with his hands, and fell at his
feet, clasping his knees. `Oh my son! my son!' said
he.
Harold was stupified with amazement. A flash, like
the lightning of heaven, blazed through his brain—the
sweat rolled down his forehead and lips—all was explained
all!—his birth! his awe!—He knelt down and
embraced his father.
`Thy son!' he articulated, as their cheeks touched,
`thy son! Oh God! my father! my father.'
For minutes they were locked to each other, soul and
body. `Hear me,' said Logan, as soon as he could
speak, `hear me, Harold. I am dying. The hand of
death is upon me; my brain whirls. I was never mad
but for a moment; but if I live now, I shall live a madman.
Let me die; pray with me, my son, that I may
rather die. What—sobbing! shame on thee, Harold.
Hear me. There are but a few breathings more for me.
I am murdered, murdered by Indians. I forgive them.
Do thou forgive them. Nay, I insist upon it; give me
thy promise. New feelings have taken possession of
me. In a few moments I shall be at the bar of Him that
made me. I do not despair; bloody, bloody as I am, I
do not despair. He knows me; he hath created me; he
knows my infirmities; but hush, I cannot talk on this
subject; I command thee to forgive them. Nay, ask
me not, I—thou shalt never know who I am, or what I
am, till thou art good and great. Choose thou thy
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course. Avoid blood shed. Wilt thou forgive them?
Speak, speak quickly, my son.'
`I will, I do.'
`Well then. Now swear that thou wilt pursue the
whites to extermination, day and night, forever and
ever—'
`Father!'
`I understand thee. This thou art commanded to do—
appointed to do. In doing this, thou but fulfillest the
command of the avenging God. It was he that commissioned
me. Beware of murder; but give them battle
in their churches, at their fire sides, funerals—'
`I will, I will,' cried Harold, in a loud voice, firing
and trembling, at the awful solemnity of his manner.
`I will, so help me heaven, in my utmost need.'
`Be thou the Indian leader,' continued Logan, his
voice waxing fainter and fainter at every respiration.
`Unite them; head them; perfect their confederacy.
Drive the whites back to the banditti of Europe—back
to—(his voice faltered) to—back to England! (His articulation
was convulsive and passionate.) Rescue thy
inheritance; avenge thy mother—Oh, God! Oh, God!
where art thou, dearest! Lo, I am coming! I am coming—
Yo me muero.' A long pause succeeded; Logan's lips
moved as in prayer, and his eyes rolled over the whole
circumference of heaven. `Harold, remember England.
Thou hast great claims, great pretensions there. Go
there. Learn all that white men know. Return and
emancipate the Indians. Do this! and thy father's
blessing shall be upon thee, through fire and water.
Nay, his spirit shall be upon thee—that shudder!
Harold, my son, do not execrate me. The malediction
of my child, I cannot endure. I may deserve it, but I
cannot, will not endure it. I am thy father, Harold—
steeped to the throat, in blood and guilt; going, going,
Oh God! to mine account—but curse me not, my child.
It would avail thee nothing, and it would send me before
the judgment seat, blaspheming all the world, and
thee, and Him. I am not all guilty as I seem. Thou
shalt one day learn what hath driven me hither, hated
and abhorred; making me a bye word among men. Yes,
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thou shalt one day learn all. The means are open to
thee. If appointed, I will be with thee, with thee, my
child, forever and ever, sleeping and waking, in battle,
and fire and smoke, upon the water, or in the wind—
`in the hour of death and in the day of judgment.'
Oh Harold, my son, my son, pray with me that this
may be permitted to us. — — —— — —
I am going, Harold. Thy
hand, thy hand, my son. How cold and small it feels.
It grows dark too. Nearer, Harold, nearer; there, lay
thy hand upon my forehead. Tell me that thou forgivest
and blessest me. Canst thou?'
Harold pressed his lips upon the awful front of his
father, and blessed him.
`One moment, my son: raise my head, a little, a
very little. Let me look upon the sky. It is midnight,
is it not Harold? How beautiful the stars. What blue
magnificence! What prodigality of power and loveliness!
Can He, Harold, tell me, my child, there is comfort
in the sound of thy voice, can He be unmindful of
a dying man?—Ah! what is that? Look up, my son. Is
there not a shadow descending? The sky too, does it
not approach us? Ah, it grows colder and darker.
That water! go my son, scoop some of it up in thy
hand, and touch my temples. A moment longer, one
moment, place thy hand upon my heart, Harold. There!
keep it there, while I speak. These are my last words.
Go to Loena. Nay, my son, keep it there. Tell her
that her name was upon my lips, with my last breath.
Aye, groan Harold, groan! weep, weep away! I have
groaned—I!—and I have wept too. Tell her how, and
when, and where I died. And tell her that thou art
purchased for her in blood. Now, farewell! my son! my
son. The hand of Logan is reaching to me. I see it!
Welcome to the halls of the great. I come, Icome!
Once more, farewell, farewell. Harold, Harold, everlasting
hatred to the whites! War, waste and extermination
to them!—fidelity—Oh! fidelity to thy brethren—
Father!—father!—Loena!—Loe—'
The spirit hath departed. How chilly it grows.
Look there! Beneath our feet is Harold, lying upon
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his face, the blood stagnating about him, his hair blowing
over the rock, and his extended hands motionless
as death, beneath him, and encircling his neck, his own
father, the terrible, the tremendous Logan. `Can it
be—Oh merciful father! can it be! I, I his son! True,
true, it must be so. I see it all. A stupification is upon
me.'
Harold disengaged the naked arms of his father, and
arose, and seated himself upon a rock under the tree.
There was an insupportable stillness about him. It was
deep midnight—an awful, boundless transparency of
shadow: a firmament as of dark chrystal, sprinkled with
fire, above him; a moon shedding a faint and beautiful
light on the verge of the horizon, like a lamp of pearl,
fed by an inward flame.
The religious and mysterious horrour of his feelings
increased at every breath that he drew. The ferment of
his blood had subsided. His emotions had died away.
He locked his hands; he knelt; he wept.
The great, the terrible Logan, him, the white man,
whom he had so hated and feared so steadily—the
body before him, that! that was his own father, But
whence was he? who?
These revolutions of thought grew intolerable, visions
of distant empire, ambitious and tumultuous, came
surging in upon his understanding, like an ocean thundering
against the battlements of a continent: worlds
rolled about him. His silence became that of death.
He lifted his front to the heavens. They never were
so beautiful. The stars were literally dropping in pale
streams of light, and rippling upon the dark water at
his feet. The whole dominions of heaven were bounded
by piled up and broken ramparts of the blackest midnight;
while, from horizon to horizon, sprang an arch of
dazzling vapour, like a bridge, wavering and shining as
if mid way between earth and immensity. Away beyond
him flowed the river, in transparent blackness; and yet
further, were measureless and undulating shores, darkly
wooded: beneath him a sky, yet blacker and more
brightly begemmed. A sound—
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Harold started and listened. Some wild beast was
dashing through the distant wood, as if pursued. He
shuddered. The chill of an unearthly presence was approaching
him. He dared not raise his head. A long
silence followed. He composed the limbs of his mighty
father, threw himself once more upon the body, and
while endeavouring to find the sheathe of his knife,
discovered a small ivory tablet, glued with blood, within
the bosom of his inner jacket. He took it, polluted
as it was, and placed it next to his own heart.
`I will return now,' said Harold. `Farewell, farewell,
forever, thou mighty in heart! I go to thy enemy.
He shall come and do the honours of sepulture for him
whose countenance he trembled to look upon; for him,
at the sound of whose tread, his knees smote together.'
Onward he toiled, sadly and doubtfully, frequently
disturbed by some crackling above him, as the young
panthers, snuffing his approach, leaped along from tree
to tree, and rock to rock: and starting ever and anon,
as if some creature of the upward element were at his
elbow. Harold was superstitious. His boyhood had
been spent with the Indians, with the Logans particularly,
to whom the preternatural visitations of their
bold ancestry were common; so common indeed, that
the stranger, nay the passing traveller, sometimes felt,
in his proximity to the haunted places of the tribe, a
shivering in his very bones, of which he knew not the
cause, until he was told by the experienced, and made
to participate in the unwilling and awful communications
of them, that muttered and wrought there. Wo
to him that trespassed at midnight, upon their council,
as they assembled in seasons of calamity—all the living
and dead generations of the Logan! Wo to him! for
go where he would, in sunshine or in moonlight, in
silence, darkness and solitude; or amid the thronged and
clamorous habitations of men; go where he would, he
would see shapes and faces passing before him, and
hear voices above and below, in the air and the earth
and the water; upon the mountain top, in the deepest
midnight, with shut eyes, he would see gigantick shadows,
gesticulating fiercely against the sky, and walking
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all over the tents and waters, and through the hunting
grounds of Logan. Go where he would, a shadow
would precede him; stalking onward from height to
height, looking at him from the tangled thicket, with a
dim and terrible face; or gazing upward from the depth
of the water, over which his canoe was flying.
Stranger, beware. Intrude not upon the dominions of
Logan, if thou lovest sleep. Touch not their confines,
if thou wouldst not be haunted forever and ever.
CHAPTER VIII.
`L'amour!.... Je ne saurais m'en passer.
`I know not, I ask not,
If guilt 's in thy heart;
I but know that I love thee
Whatever thou art!'
Moore.
`The heart is like the sky—a part of heaven;
And changes—night and day too, like the sky:
Now, o'er it, clouds and thunder must be driven,
And darkness and destruction, as on high.
Byron.
God of heaven! Father! Lo, thy visitations are upon
the creatures of thy hand. The being of thine appointment,
he whom thou hast fashioned for great deeds;
he, who had slumbered away his youth, his whole youth,
unknowing either his power, their magnitude or variety,
he!—now starts out from the troubled darkness of
night, with ten thousand heroick aspirations battling
within his heart.
`Where am I?' cries Harold, the young Logan of
the wilderness. `Oh, God of the great sky! to what hast
thou commissioned me? Lo, I am here! ready to do
thy bidding. I bow myself down before thee, wondering
at the tremendous revolution of the past night. I
tremble at the contemplation of mine own change.
Thou hast revealed the ocean of immeasurable thought
to me.
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I cannot meditate; I dare not. Do Thou sustain me.
Do Thou administer to my spirit. I cannot approach
thee. I cannot understand mine own nature. Do Thou
exhibit it. What spirit is this, beseting me so vehemently?
Be it evil or good, I am yielding to it. Father!
I have been taught to approach thee in the dark wilderness;
in the immeasurable, stern, oppressive solitude,
with the broken and dislocated foundations of a
world heaped up about me, like entrenchments, up, up
to the very sky. I have been taught that Thou art great
and terrible. My spirit has lain prostrate and gasping
on the earth, before the tremendous denunciations of
thy power. I have quaked to my innermost soul; dust
and sweat have covered me from head to foot, as I
have pursued thee through the eternal silence of thy
habitation. Yet, Oh God! that thou art not to be feared,
not dreaded; but that thou art a God of benevolence,
and as the christians say, of long suffering, I have forever
believed, even in the agony of my supplication.
Father! Father! Thou who art alike, the father of the
red man and the white. Thou who hast given the inheritance
of the Indian to fire and sword. Thou who
hast permitted the innumerable nations, and kindreds
and tongues of this, the new world, to be scourged, and
thinned, and scattered, and swept from the earth, by
pestilence, and famine, and white men. Oh, do Thou
teach me to direct the fierce passion that agitates me.
Do thou, Great Spirit, unfold to me the meaning of
these mysterious and terrible anticipations. Why am I
thus shaken? Why this throbbing of my temples?
Whence all these feelings—so vast, so boundless, so new!
What is my destiny? What, Oh our God! What the
destiny of the Red men? Am I to restore their—I—
Is their dominion to return?—youchsafe—'
Harold leaped upon his feet. The thunder rolled
about the heavens, with a suddenness and loudness that
made the hair rise upon his head. All the mountains
thundered in reply. The foundations of the very earth
appeared loosened; and Harold stood blinded, shivering,
and bowing as if he had seen some palace or pyramid,
tumbled headlong, in the concussion of the air; and
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the fire and smoke of an angry god rolling and flaming
amid the dust of its ruins—even while he was gazing
upon it. Harold shouted as the reverberations died
away. He shouted, with the shout of a warrior to embattled
legions, when the first banner of the enemy is
shattered in the blast of his onset. He stood, in the
hurricane of his spirit, and brandished his arms, and
shouted, again and again.
A sublime and incomprehensible feeling took instant
possession of him. He regarded the sudden roll of the
thunder, and the sheet of blue flame that rushed by
him, as a manifestation from heaven, that his prayer
was heard, and that he was appointed to rebuild the
habitation of the Indian.
The night had been a night of many wonders. He
had found his father—found him, after struggling so
long with the doubtful and mysterious associations of
his memory, in the hope of finding some one who
would love him, pray for him, weep for him, die for
him: some one, before whom he could fall down upon
his knees, as he would before his Maker, and cry father!
I am thy son, thine own, thine only son. Do with
me, as it shall seem to thee best. And now that he had
found him, what was he? Who was he? Was he not
stained, horribly stained, with the thick pollution of his
nature? `And yet,' whispered Harold, while an instinctive
shudder of admiration thrilled through and
through him, `and yet, he was great, in his awful vindictiveness;
his immoveable steadiness; his unapproachable,
unassailable seclusion of spirit; impervious,
indiscrutable; compounded of the fiercest elements, impelled
and agitated by the most unearthly ambition.
But who was he? A white—`Why knew I not, Oh my
father, that thou wast of mine enemies, before we met?
Thou shouldst have wrought my conversion, or I thine.
Why didst thou forsake me? Why leave me so young?
Why make me swear, as thou didst, to pursue forever
and ever the men who have since fallen, one by one,
successively, in obedience to my vow? Why meet me
too, as thou didst, thrice, thrice, in the battle, and
stand, in thy gigantick self possession, as courting death,
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and provoking it, from a parricide? Forgive me, Oh
forgive me! my hands were well nigh red with the
blood of thy great heart! well nigh, wounded and desolate
as I found thee, well nigh was the hand of thy
child to the red fountain of his being, ready to break
and rend and scatter!—Ha, governour—'
The governour slowly advanced. He grasped the
boy's hands, and stood gazing upon him, with his heart
too full to utter a single word. He tried to speak, but
he could not. He could only press the young Indian
to his heart, and weep upon his shoulder.
He recovered himself, and then, as if never weary of
studying his countenance, repeatedly thrust him off,
then drew him back and passed a trembling hand over
his intrepid forehead. He was struck with amazement!
Whence that newborn sublimity of aspect? The old
man's lip quivered, and his delighted face shone with
emotion. The eagle-eyed Harold shrunk not, quailed
not, moved not, from the inquisitive and searching
look of the old man.
They went together to the apartment of the governour.
Harold told all, every thing; the death of Logan,
the Indians, the discovery of his birth.
The governour's countenance fell. It became troubled.
He renewed his examination of the lofty and ample
forehead before him, but with no satisfactory result.
`Has he told all?' thought the governour: He had,
but it was long before the governour was entirely satisfied
that he had.
The funeral ceremonies were in preparation immediately.
There was an uncommon earnestness, and
solemnity, and attention to pomp and magnificence in
the arrangements, that had never been seen before upon
the continent. All the troops were under arms. Military
honours were decreed. All was ready, and the
scouting parties, that had been detached, to scour the
woods and bring the bodies, were every moment expected.
They returned. But they brought with them only
two bodies—where was the third? The third! The
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pressure of the turf beneath the tree, where Harold had
just left the body of Logan, was yet visible; nay, almost
warm, and the life blood had settled thickly in its
centre, but so recently, that it had scarcely coagulated,
or blackened in the sun and wind. Near—too near for
such mortal foes, even in death, still lay the slain warrior,
his hand reached out convulsively—his fingers
wide apart, and stiffened, and bent, as if every sinew
had cracked, and every blood vessel burst, in the last
mortal reaching of his soul, in his delirious agony, for
aid.
But where was Logan? No track was in the dew—
none in the frost; none upon the leaves. The dry moss
and the withered herbage told no tale. His spirit had
departed from him; and hours, whole hours had passed,
while young Harold had set, beleaguered by dead men,
under the violent and dreadful oppression of thought
growing cold again, like lava, after an eruption, and
stagnating and glowing under a boundless and comfortless,
dark and silent sky.
But whither, and by what hath it been borne away?'
was the inquiry of all. `To the river?' the thought was
electricity. The river was dragged, forded, searched,
from shore to shore. In vain. No trace was discovered.
And yet, there was said to be, though Harold had no
opportunity of examining for himself, there was said to
be, an appearance, as if the prow of a canoe had run
ashore near the spot—and, at an incredible distance,
the print of joined feet, and the proportions of a body,
as if some one, of preternatural strength, had leaped,
and fallen. But whence the boat? and who the boat-man?
Harold's blood ran cold. There was a superstitious
belief among the descendants of Logan, which made
the stoutest of the family quake. It was their hereditary
creed that they, who laughed to scorn the promptings
of the good spirit, were sometimes caught upward
even in the chase, or the battle, and never more seen
upon the earth; and that others, many generations before,
had fallen asleep, and been heard of no more; had
been plucked out by hands that were visible, like
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shadows in the air, from the very centre of their armed
brethren, while they were watching about them, as
sentinels about their chiefs. Sometimes, it was said, that
they would be talking together in the caverns of their
dominion. They would be looking in each others faces.
Their dark countenances would be lowering intensely
between their fixed, supporting hands. They
would hear no sound, see nothing, feel nothing—but
one of their number would be gone! their chief!—they
would know not how, and know not when! Was this
another of these visitations? Were the adopted children
of this family alike the objects of solicitude and
vengeance, to the guardian spirit of the Logans? Who
may answer such questions? Enough for Harold that
Logan was not found. He was troubled. A fixed and
cold disquietude took possession of his heart from that
moment; a vital terrour, thrilling him with superstition.
He had lost his father, and such a father!—so terribly;
almost by his own hand. He had beheld him weltering,
gasping, suffocating, in his own bood, at his feet;
had seen him die, heard his last blessing, felt his last
breath, and left him, why? wherefore? to the visitations
of some unearthly thing, who had, perhaps, in the wantonness
of her unknown power, stung him, the dead
man, again to life, but to riot again over the horrible
agonies of his dissolution.
A heavy roll of drums roused Harold from his
meditations. A quick discharge of musquetry drew
him to the windows of the apartment. Trumpets rang,
and the melancholy cry of a blown bugle died away in
the wind, with a mournful, desolate voice. The troops
were collected in the great square. The populace, with
horrour and consternation in their faces, were gathered
around and breathless; cleaving to each other. The
two bodies were exposed, just as they were found,
gashed, disfigured, stiff and stark, side by side. Many
Indians were around, lowering dimly upon the scene,
and demanding, by their deep and impervious silence, a
quick explanation of its meaning. There was none to
answer.
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The governour soon appeared. He was in full uniform,
and sat his horse like a king. All the military
parade, that the colony could furnish, was before the
eyes. The shattered ensigns were unfurled. One
solitary piece of light artillery was harnessed and disposed
in the centre, and a troop of disorderly cavalry
were pivoting and wheeling, and rearing incessantly.
The Indians were huddled together; but there was
that in their looks, which, even at the distance that
Harold was, served, to his experienced eye, to demand
explanation. He continued to watch them. Their
sullenness was boding. The governour was proceeding
to explain these appearances to them, when it occurred
to him, that by burying the two slain Indians with some
appearance of parade, he would do more towards conciliating
them, than by any explanation whatever. Orders
were instantly given for a detachment to file off,
and prepare for the ceremonies of sepulture. The
trumpet was blown. And poor Harold, who could endure
the preparation no longer, galloped in among them
on horseback. His eyes flashed fire. His lips were
ashy and quivering; his voice was hoarse with suffocation
and wrath. The flanks of his young horse were
streaming with blood, and the rowels were driven in,
again and again, ere he could bring the furious animal
sufficiently near to be heard. There was a rising shout—
`Silence,' he cried, `silence.' His sword lightened in
their eyes. The governour was astonished. The Indians
gathered about him.
`Silence,' cried Harold again. All was silent as death.
`Governour, do you bury murderers, murderers! with
the honours of war!
The governour coloured. An Indian was seen to
advance his foot, and bring his short rifle half way up
to his shoulder. Instantly a whole platoon levelled at
his heart. The cavalry prepared to charge. The horses
were wheeled aside from the piece of artillery, and
the match was swung over the vent, and ready to be
applied at the slightest signal.
Harold saw it all. He observed another Indian, who
had been the nearest to him, and the foremost all the
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while, withdraw, and stand aloof, with an aspect of
command. Others did the like at a distance, and their
eyes were upon him. Was he to be the first victim?
Harold looked to the priming of his pistols: secured
his sword knot to his wrist; thrust his feet home in his
stirrups, reined up his horse, and prepared himself for
the worst.
All eyes were upon him. A war whoop!—Behold
him now! dashing like a thunderbolt from right to left!
He waves his hand See! A bugle rings out his
charge; and the troop of horse, in a whirlwind of dust,
are at his heels. His voice rises above the cry of a
multitude. His horse is seen every where. His voice
is heard every where. The onset is in smoke and flame.
The Indians throw themselves upon him, man after
man, as by a preconcerted arrangement. He is wounded—
his horse falls—he is upon his knee!—entangled in
his harness. Hark! his pistols ring—he is partially
liberated—staggering, and many are upon him. God
be praised! a bright apparition moves through the thick
of the fight to his rescue! unarmed and half naked, it
comes! Can it be! Can his eyes deceive him! His arms
are outstretched—he is helpless—his sword drops from
his hand. A blindness follows—`Harold, Harold!' it
cries.
He recovers. Now, now, for vengeance. He thunders
and lightens in his wrath. Can he be deceived.
Can mortal force keep down his mounting spirit, at
such a moment. No, no, all the Indians in hell could
not hold him to the earth, though the breath had left
his body, and they were heaped upon him by tribes.
He breaks from them; he rends himself away! They
fall to the right and left; his blows rain upon them with
flashes, like the northern light. Quicker than the
thought of man could believe it possible, Harold hath
cut his way through his foes—alone, alone. Rifle after
rifle ringing after him—onward he bounds, amid the
renewed whooping and yelling of the foe, who are recovering
from the panick that seized them at the first
sight of the lovely vision that broke upon the cloud of
battle. They gather, and thicken, and crowd and
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wrestle, with a more diabolical obstinacy than ever, about
him. The governour is down and wounded. His gray
hair is in the dust. His lovely wife—her dishevelled
tresses flying in the wind; her bosom naked; her garments
of lilied whiteness, rent and stained with blood—
is rushing towards him. A contest, as of devils, is
raging about her steps. Harold is leaping forwards,
she sees him, she extends her arms, she utters a thrilling
cry; the cavalry hear it, they wheel, and down they
come, thundering, to the rescue. The infantry rally
again. They form—peal after peal is ringing from
their heavy muskets. Harold fights on, covered with
wounds, the blood falling from him like rain. He
marshalls his chosen ones about the precious spot—a
circle of foot and horse, of fire and smoke, now encompass
the old man and the woman of beauty. They are
untouched, unprofaned now, by even the look of an
enemy. He is on foot. A horse springs by him, his
bridle loose, and his stirrups swinging as he goes. His
last rider hath fallen, mortally wounded, in the charge.
Harold leaps into the saddle; bare headed, and red
with the tribute of battle. He flies, shouting and waving
his sword, again to his cavalry, while the deadly fire
of the Indian rifles is raining in upon them, from every
stump and tree; and every shot tells.
`Charge, charge,' cries Harold. It is done. Each
man singles out his enemy, and gallops over him. They
wheel in a stream of fire, and many a scalp is whirling
and scaling to the earth, and many a head is rolling
upon the ground. They charge and press, and hew the
red men down, limb from limb, with their rifles at their
cheeks. Thus hemmed in by the mounted swordsmen,
and running hither and thither, yelling and battling as
long as they can stand, or sit, or lie, the Indians are
literally cut to pieces, in the presence of women and
children. Hear them! they are shrieking and wringing
their hands at the windows, and on the house tops, that
overlook the square! What an impulse for brothers
and husbands and fathers!
Still the affair is not determined. The Indians fight
with their accustomed desperation; giving no quarter,
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taking none; renewing again and again, their onset upon
Harold. He is still upon the field, racing from one
end to the other, panting and worn out with the
hunt. At this moment he stops— gives a sudden order—
points with his sword to a spot, where the enemy
are rallying again. All appear eager to charge anew. He
refuses—what means he? Would he be so rash, with
that little band to gallop upon them? He will! he does.
Shield him heaven! He places himself at their head—
God of mercy!—he blazes upon them in a tempest of
fire and smoke! He dashes through and through them:
they are reeling and tumbling about as from a clap of
thunder. Behold! there are many more heads rolling
upon the ground; and many a trunk is giving out its
blood, like a rattling fountain.
The fight is over. The Indians are flying. The
whites withdraw, and form upon the high space in the
rear of the governour, and overlook the field. A few
straggling horsemen are scouring hither and thither; an
occasional shot, a wounded steed breaking from the
forest, and now and then a shriek, coming from the
woods, with a preternatural distinctness, show that the
enemy is hotly pressed in his flight.
A moment before, at the onset, Harold had cursed
himself for his precipitation, in applying the spark as
he did, to the conspiracy; but now, he was glad that he
had done so, while the troops were under arms. The
council assembled; the dead Indians were stripped, and
the quantity of ball, and powder, concealed about them,
together with the state of their arms, furnished conclusive
proof of their preparation, for a deliberate and
formidable assault.
From this moment, Harold became a universal favourite.
All eyes and all hearts were upon him. Till
then, the whites had generally regarded him with
jealousy and distrust. His swarthy Indian aspect; his
haughty calm manner; they had made no friends, many
enemies. For other reasons, he had been regarded by
the Indians with a lowering and inquisitive eye. He
was an Indian. That they knew. Then why herded he
there? An Indian sleeping out of his lair, holding
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council and communion with the white man. Shame on
him. Was he an apostate, a traitor, a renegade, leagued
against his red brethren? Better, said they, for
then they could have forgiven him; better that he were
leagued with red men against red men. Now, now, he
was indeed their foe.
After this bloody affair, the whites appeared wholly
to forget that he had one drop of Indian blood in his
veins. The very women and children shouted and
echoed his name as the watchword of safety. All that
they had hitherto doubted and hated him for, his loftiness,
melancholy sternness, all these things were now
looked upon as the magnificent indications of greatness—
preternatural greatness. He was their chosen one—
their saviour. Their old governour, himself, was forgotten.
`Saul had slain his thousands, but David his
ten thousands:' and the very soldiers who had formerly
writhed under the lightning of Harold's rebuke,
were now bearing their voiciferous tribute to his bed
side. He was wounded, gashed and pierced from head
to foot. Where should he go? There was no question
that he was entitled to the kindness of all—that his bed
of dry leaves and fur, with the wind blowing about him,
was no place for such a creature, at such a time—that
he was the preserver of all and each—and therefore,
all and each insisted upon the exclusive right of washing
his wounds, and healing his broken spirit. But who
had the best right?
Ask the governour. His life had been saved again,
again by the same dear hand. Yea, the life of her
whom he loved, with a love passing the love of women—
with all the doating, distracting, desolate fondness of
parent, lover, friend, husband, all in one! She was the
creature of his idolatry: a being, whose element was
prayer and tears and tenderness. She too had stood
over him, wounded, bleeding and naked to the gaze of
ruffian violence, and the rude hands of men smoking
with gore—and yet, she was saved! How could he
be thankful enough for her safety! He knelt and she
knelt. They knelt and wept together—wounded and
torn as they were. Nor was Harold forgotten—a
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chamber and attendants were allotted to him. All that tenderness
and veneration could do, was done for him.
The holy enthusiasm of his character, fiery and desperate
as it was, had become contagious. The very
servants felt it, and they blessed him, fervently and repeatedly;
and woke and prayed for him, and wept for
him, in the silence of midnight. They would creep
softly, one by one, to the door of his apartment, and
listen there for hours, to discover if any sound betrayed
his suffering; and sure was every one, go when he
would, by night or by day, that he would meet some
companion there, upon the same errand. Their duties
were forgotten, (and who could reproach them? Not
even their mistress)—in their visits of love and watchfulness.
The truth is, that there was, in the mysterious history,
and yet more mysterious adventures and deportment
of Harold, a something like fascination, that spell-bound
the interest and affections of all that came within
the glance of his eye, or the sound of his voice: and,
young as he was, the very aged themselves would
stop, and lean upon their canes, and gaze upon him,
affectionately and mournfully, as he walked by them, in
the intense abstraction of his thought, with the step and
tread of early manhood, yet buoyant and elastick with
youth—firm and confident, as with the composure of
assured superiority. Not a gesture, not a glance, not
a tone, not a movement, but was instinct with peculiarity,
unaffected peculiarity.
The delirium of the governour returned. His wife,
poor creature, was unable to attend him, and Harold,
alas for him! he was powerless in aid or council—he
was unable to pursue the rapid and wide developments
of his own character. He gazed upon the adventures
of the week with terrour and delight. A thousand
fearful and brilliant evolutions passed before him. He
trembled and was afraid at times, and at times an unspeakable
thrilling, a kind of delirium ran through his
arteries, and his heart danced in his bosom, amid the
strange and indefinable feelings that had sprung up—
at once—at once! in the compass of a single night,
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within the solitudes of his thought. This would pass
away—a sense of desolation, enclosing him round about
with a cold, dark atmosphere, and shutting out all communication
with aught that was sunshiny or beautiful,
would follow; and he would throw himself upon his
bed, confounded and dismayed.
Toward the evening of the fourth day, he sat at
the window of his chamber, supported by pillows,
quite faint and exhausted, with the bewildering action
of his own mind, which quickened its activity, exactly
in proportion to the torpor and quiet of his body. But
is this peculiar to him? Can intellectual and physical
exertion operate intensely at the same moment, in the
same person? Can he who is wearied by metaphysical
speculation, intoxicated with the liquor of heaven,
which is poured out in golden cups to the inspired,
can he hunt or swim, or leap with his accustomed
spirit? Or can he who has just left the field of athletick
competition, go to his books, with a mind sufficiently
tranquil for successful inquiry? Enough then,
this was no peculiarity in Harold's constitution.
Well then, he was at the window. His eyes rested
upon the crimson and flame coloured sky. A strange
melancholy, mingled with an unaccountably pleasant
thinking of death, had given way to a new belief. His
was to be a name among the men of this earth. An
impatient, hurried throbbing of the arteries—a scorching
heat in the temples followed. He was weary of
inaction. The sky was before him—supremely beautiful.
Before him, reddening to its extremest verge, went
the blue river, rippling in the light of the setting sun.
The south western horizon was one waving and
transparent undulation, as of heavy, illuminated drapery,
like great curtains borne upward by the wind, and
floating above the air of high places, or hovering over
waters in commotion. A pile of profusely garnished
and magnificent clouds of every shining colour and hue—
rough gold—tremulous crimson, purple and violet
and deep blue, with a luminous vapour of insufferable
whiteness, evolving from its summit, like the smoke of
a furnace, arose behind. From every side, there went
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fitful and incessant irradiations, streaming and flashing
with all the colours of the rainbow, as if some beleagured
garrison were showering forth their coloured darts,
and flaming spears, from every cranny and crevice of
their beautiful citadel. It was perpetually changing in
hue and shape, and the whole circumference of heaven
was agitated and trembling, like leaf gold in the wind.
The mind of Harold caught the reflection, and was
heated to intensity. Anon, there shot away up the meridian,
quick, vivid, and subtle flashes of light; and
then there followed a moving effulgence athwart the
deep blue, like irradiations of discoloured armour issuing
from file after file of glittering shapes, dashing
hastily and incessantly through the profound of heaven.
He raised his eyes. In the very centre of the firmament
there was a gathering of the blackest clouds—congregated
heap over heap. About its extremest verge,
an unwearied and perpetual lightning; and from the
centre, the very centre and key stone of heaven, there
rolled a distant uninterrupted sound, as of continual
battle. There was no cessation—none. The thundering
and lightning were incessant, and very beautiful.
Harold was inconceivably affected. And yet, such
spectacles were common enough to his experience.
Time and again, had he seen the sky, all changeable with
the shifting hues of an arched and glittering furnace,
encompassed by chrystalizations and spar of every
beautiful colour—their lustres shedding all over the
earth and water their innumerable and indistinguishable
tinting. Many a time too, had he seen a cloud in
a serene sky, settled, immoveable; its edges crimsoned
and fiery like the bloody curtains of a brazen chariot;
from its very centre, as of innumerable rockets—the
quick meteors whistling and darting ceaselessly, in every
direction, like the spokes of a wheel, to the extremities—
and often, often too, had he heard the same uninterrupted
reverberations; but never before had he
been so immeasurably affected by their beauty and terrour.
And why? Because never before had his thought
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moved in so capacious and sublime an elevation; never
before, had he walked so fearlessly over the dominions
of his God: never before, had the towering energies of
his nature been so all awake, while the ferocious passions
were so slumbering—and, never, never! had he
felt such a melancholy and awful solitude of the spirit.
It was as if he had suddenly been enthroned, and
sceptred, within the illimitable dominions of space, and
there, left alone in his sovereignty.
He was in a trance of astonishment and delight. He
was awakened from it by a sudden brightness, that blazed
athwart the ceiling and walls of his apartment. He
started—arose, as well as he could, and endeavoured
to assure himself that what he saw was no illusion.
The blaze grew brighter. His heart stopped. The superstition
of his nature usurped her terrifick influence
anew over his senses. He scarcely dared to lift his
eyes. He felt as if the sky itself were descending, and
the elements dissolving. He heard the shout of a multitude.
He lifted up his eyes and beheld, afar off, a
throng of women and children, or the appearance
thereof, bearing faggots, and trailing branches of trees;
and piling them up on the top of a high hill that over-topped
the water; and ever and anon, he could see the
gleaming of some weapon, flourished or unsheathed in
the fire light, among the crowd. He gazed upon the
spectacle quietly, and wondering at the cause, and still
doubting if it were not a creation of his fancy. In a
few moments, while the sky grew darker, and the objects
at a distance, water and wood and hill, were all
melting away into massive, shapeless, indistinctness, he
saw a small body of men, strangely habited, and walking
heavily along, with the attitude and expression of
them that carry a burden. A second body followed
with the same appearances! What could this mean? Harold
leaned backward and covered his face with his
hands. His hair rose. His flesh crept. In the early
history of his family, just such a scene had taken place,
with one of the earliest Logans. The summer before
his death—at midnight—upon the extremest elevation
of a rocky precipice, inaccessible to mortal footstep—
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men, as in procession, had been seen, passing and repassing,
before a great red fire, with a body between
them, all busily engaged as if preparing for a funeral
sacrifice. After a while, they had disappeared. So had
these. God of heaven—
At this instant, a broad fire flashed and rolled upward
to the very sky, bearing with it, like a hurricane,
cinders and smoke and sparks innumerable! A
dark and gigantick shape could be seen, apparently in
the very centre of the flame, moving his long arms,
and flowing drapery, continually about, with great wildness
and solemnity, while a multitude of smaller
figures, like women and men, were shouting and dancing
round about the fire.
`The same! the very same,' whispered Harold, shudderingly
to himself. `But not for me! Be these terrible
apparitions for the weak and humble. I scorn them.
Oh, let me live, Thou, the unknown God, let me live
yet a little while, till I have done something, no matter
what, worthy of my life, and worthy of thee! Something
that may be remembered, and then, Oh, I care
not how soon after, I am gathered to my fathers. Just
so,' he continued, `was that other sacrifice of perdition
accomplished. The flames rose—spread—swept into
the heavens; and there went up, in the midst thereof, a
black shadow, with great wings outspread, toiling heavily
upward, as against the pressure of some invisible
hand that held him down, in spite of his resistance—
but it mounted—and mounted, notwithstanding, till the
flames were extinguished.'
Harold bowed his head upon the pillow, and actually
wept with the unaccountable melancholy that oppressed
him.
The shout was renewed. The flame rolled upward
again with the noise of a great wind. It flashed,
trembled, intermitted suddenly, and then revived. A
few pale stars looked quietly through the white vapour
that rolled thinly and widely upon the wind. The sky
had become a jetty black. And beneath the evolving
smoke, a multitude came trooping downward—could
it be possible—toward the window where Harold sat
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in his helplessness. `They do not touch the earth,'
said Harold, as he shut his eyes, and closed his ears in
terrour.
Voices were heard.
`Surely—surely—it cannot be.' Harold listened,
`where am I? Oh, where am I?' cried he, clasping his
brain. `That voice!' he arose—trembled—grew heart-sick
with pleasure. It came from a neighbouring window—
there was no mistaking the voice—and Harold
felt, as his hands dropped lifelessly over the arms of
his chair, that he was near to her, the sound of whose
lips so affected him. It was some gentle creature rebuking—
in tones like the melody that, flowing nightly
from the moon, fetters the disorderly tides, and spell-binds
the tumultuous waters in their descent—the riotous
merriment of the approaching multitude.
He blushes. His eye kindles. His form shakes with
self indignation. His blood, suspended and chilled by
the superstitious and strange terrours that have just left
him, now rushes with distressing velocity through every
channel and artery, all at once, from his heart to his
brain—from his brain to his heart. The veins swell
upon his forehead—his wounds open anew—he gasps
for breath—the blood flows—and he faints, faints with
the excess of his self reproach.
When he came to his senses, he found a fair creature
stooping reluctantly over him—bloody too—her tresses
bloody—her drapery torn—a mist was over his eyes,
and he lay, holding his breath, and fearing to move, lest
the beautiful apparition should depart. At last, he
could support the delicious swimming of his heart no
longer, he sighed, drew his palms faintly over his eyes,
and caught a soft hand, almost unconsciously, to his lips
and eyelids. The tears gushed forth at the touch. He
drew her to his heart—but she struggled—repulsed
him, with a tremulous dignity—a kind of haughty tenderness—
reeled and sank upon the bed. His arm was
over her waist, and their cheeks touched—and thrilled.
She was faint—very faint, and tried again and again to
speak. It was all in vain. She could only turn her
blue eyes upon him (as he leant upon his elbow, and
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held her pale hand to his heart) dissolving in mournfulness
and reproach. Oh, what were his sensations!
Guilt had no place among them. He would have shuddered
and recoiled at the touch of impurity. He would
have died—died upon her bosom, without one feeling,
but of love, love the holiest and tenderest.
He knew not—she knew not, the peril that beset
them.
`Lady,' he whispered, `Lady! in mercy speak to me.
Where am I? Who art thou? Can I be near thee—thee—
in thy loveliness! Oh, speak to me.' Her lips moved,
and a name, the name of Oswald, or Oscar, was
faintly articulated. She gradually recovered. Her lip
trembled—she arose—her forehead was damp; and she
shivered all over, as she put away the fond arm that encircled
her. A full sense of her situation flashed upon
her. `Gracious God,' she cried—her lip curled, and
her neck and bosom turned of the deepest crimson, as
she buried her face in the curtain.
Voices were heard approaching. The door opened.
The lady Elvira there! She, the wounded lady, by the
couch of the young Indian boy!
Her husband heard of it. He asked no questions; he
dared not ask any. To speak of such a matter, he
thought would be to give it importance; besides,
although he had the fullest experience of his wife's
discretion, now, for the first time, there was a strange
uneasiness in his heart, when he reflected on this circumstance—
not that he doubted her—no! His heart
would have burst, if he had. But—why was she there?
Why, without apprising him?
`I will tell him,' said the innocent creature, as she
thought of the good old man, `I will tell him immediately,
as I have always told him, every thought of my
heart, just as it happened.' This she determined, and
re-determined to do, sure that he would only smile
upon her and kiss her forehead, and play with her hair.
But the more she thought of it, the more difficult it appeared
to do. Was it necessary? Did not her own conscience
acquit her? Then why trouble him with it?
Thus was she allured, in the first approach of a guilty
passion, to omit the ceremonies of love and
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allegiance, under the pretence of their having grown useless.
Woman, beware! This is the first stratagem of thy
enemy. When thou hast done that which thou fearest
to acknowledge in thy prayers—and forbearest to communicate
to him, who dearly loves thee, thou hast consummated
thy first failure of duty.
Nevertheless, the lady Elvira did, as she had resolved;
but she had so long meditated on the manner and
the words of the communication, that her manner and
words were unnatural and constrained, and her affected
carelessness was particularly visible, as she endeavoured
to relate the incident in her most natural manner.
She had lost her own peculiar air of free, innocent
unconcern—and she was but too conscious of it.
She coloured as she told her tale, and then, angry with
herself for betraying such unseasonable emotion, she
coloured still deeper, down to her very finger ends. She
made a desperate attempt to account for it, by an allusion
to the heat of the room. The remark was particularly
unlucky, and her trepidation increased. It was autumn—
there was no fire—the window was open, and the
evening air blowing directly upon her pale forehead.
The governour took her hand; but she felt that it was
taken, not in his usual manner; not with the same cordial,
eager and delighted movement, as if there was a
pulse in every joint—no, but with an expression of habitual
civility, as one takes the accustomed privilege,
lest, if he do not take it, it may be thought unkind—
no pressure, no fervent clasping followed—no intertwining
of the fingers—no touching of the pulses—nothing
of that strange, dreaming sensation, which appears half
spiritual, as the tips of the fingers pursue their delicate,
trembling acquaintance and inquiry along the blue veins
of some dear one's hand, when man is near, very near
to what he most loves on earth.
It would not do. The interview became painful and
embarrassing. A thousand mournful and sweet recollections
came hurriedly athwart the mind of the husband;
and a thousand vague, haunting, terrible yet
faint apprehensions followed. A slight convulsion
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passed over his great forehead; and his lids swelled with
tears—but none fell.
Lady Elvira saw it all—knew the cause of all—and
was inconceivably affected. But she felt her own innocence—
felt the necessity of justification—and, for her
soul, she could neither look nor speak as she was wont.
What then was she to do? She affected insensibility.
There was only one way, she believed, to conceal her
hesitating timidity—and the strange embarrassment,
which had so soon succeeded to her natural, frank, intrepid
manner. And did she not conceal these, would
she not give ground to worse suspicions? Could he believe
that she was so agitated, so altered, by the trifle
which had really occurred? Thus reasoned she—true
woman—parleying with her own heart, at the moment
of death, and concealing her thought, even from her
God, to the extent of her power.
At first she had been reserved and silent, because
she could not trust herself to speak; as gentle and obedient
spirits, are submissive under unkindness, lest, if
they open their lips, their tears will follow. Who has
not seen the time when he could not speak without
sobbing? Who has not laughed to avoid crying? Who
has not smiled, and talked wildly and incoherently,
while his very heart was breaking, merely to avoid the
impertinent sympathy of fools? Thus had she begun.
But she ended with being haughty and hypocritical—
nay, what she most scorned—deceitful. Oh, how mistaken
was her pride! Had she fallen upon the bosom
of her husband, and told him all, all! even to the most
unfaithful of her thoughts, he had loved her but the
better for it. He might have wept over her—but he
must have forgiven her. Nay, there were circumstances,
in her early history, of a nature to render her tenderness
to poor Harold, less extraordinary to him, than
it was to herself. But these circumstances were a mystery
to all but him. For his soul, he would not have
communicated them to her—her—who was the partner
of every other secret of his life.
She continued her explanation nevertheless. `She
had been sitting at her window: the bodies of the two
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slain Indians had been burnt, in a paroxysm of rage, by
the women and children, upon a neighbouring hill, out
of especial kindness to Harold: they were returning—
she feared their cries would disturb her—husband!—
and—and therefore had she spoken to them. Just then,
she heard a low groan from a near apartment—and a
heavy fall. She called and rang. There was no answer.
It was in Harold's room. Poor Harold! Weak as she
was, she ran thither. Did she not owe her life to him?
Nay, more, did she not owe the life of—' her husband,
she would have said—but the cold, doubting look of
his face, fell like a rebuke upon her proud spirit. Just
at that moment too—it was too bad—her heart was
flowing out at his feet. She was just beginning to recover
her natural manner, and speak exactly as she
felt. Her blood froze. A silence followed. `I found
Harold,' she continued, with a manner more stately
than her husband had ever seen her wear when addressing
him, `I found Harold, our preserver, lifeless,
weltering in his blood. The bandages were off, and the
thick fluid was throbbing out with every convulsion of
his heart. I rang the bell. What could I do? I tore off
a part of my own dress and staunched the wound and
bound it up anew, before he opened his eyes.'
This was true—the truth, but not the whole truth.
Her heart smote her, as she ended. But it was too late;
and every moment made it more impossible for her to
tell what followed. She continued however—`The exertion
was too much. I fainted.'
She turned her full blue eyes upon his countenance.
It was unaltered: no emotion disturbed its strange serenity.
There was a wild, mournful absence in it, which
distressed her, and yet, there was a something of insensibility
too, which prevented her from avowing that
distress.
`I must leave you now,' she added, `I feel weak,
very weak; a sense of melancholy, dullness, heaviness
here, that I cannot account for.' Her voice trembled—
her eyes filled. `I shall endeavour to sleep, my lord,'
she continued, `and when we are both of us more
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composed, I shall then have time to learn if I have done
wrong.'
There was a thrilling emphasis in her words; and, at
any other time, her husband must have put forth his
hand and detained her—but now, there was a calm abstraction
of spirit that prevented it—a long, long forgetfulness,
as if his soul were retreading the scenery,
long since forgotten, and lamented, of some far distant
country. His brow contracted—something vindictive
and stern passed, for a moment, over his features; but
it was soon succeeded by the usual expression of benignity
and wisdom, that were charactered there.
Lady Elvira arose, as she concluded, and attempted
to depart. Her husband—Oh, that was the death blow
to him!—that!—she never forgave it. She was still duteous—
still innocent—still she loved him. But that—
that! sundered them forever! He never moved a finger
to detain her. He suffered her to go—to go unheeded
even after her reluctance, so to depart, was visible to
him; and what was inconceivably more humiliating to
her, even after he appeared to understand the motive
of her lingering. Yes,—that was the death blow to her
love. Her countenance instantly became irradiate with
her spirit. It flashed from her eyes. Her whole form
dilated. She leant for a single moment against the hangings
as she arose, faltered for a single breath, like one
about taking an eternal adieu of many tender and touching
recollections—like one, yielding for the last time,
to the weakness of her heart; bent her pale, dark, affectionate
eyes, now glittering with light, and streaming
with tears, upon the countenance of her husband, and
left his apartment—forever!—She tottered to her own
room, and unable longer to support the ungovernable
tumult of her bosom, sank lifeless into the arms of her
attendant.
An interval of some hours elapsed, before she was
sufficiently composed to give any directions for the future.
She succeeded at length, however—her timidity
had gone—that look of forlornness and gentleness, which
she had hitherto worn in solitude; yea, even the pride
and stateliness of her accustomed publick carriage had
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passed away. In their stead there arose an awful steadiness
and tranquillity. It was very fearful—very, in
one so young and beautiful. It boded ill, let it light
where it would, the desperate calmness of so smooth a
brow:—Oh no, it is no light matter to check, so suddenly,
and turn to stone forever, the gushing sensiblity
of so true a heart, so trembling and so pure. Woe
to the man that sees a forehead, that has ten thousand
times been agitated and flushed with his breathing, and
lips that have been tremulous and dimpling, for hours,
as his cheek lay near them, grow, all at once, motionless,
solid, and pale! Woe, to him. There is no more
hope for him.
`Martha—Martha,' were the first words she spoke—
`you are henceforth my only attendant. You will sleep
in my chamber for the future. Let nobody enter my
apartment. I shall be sick, very sick. I feel it here,
here,' she added, with alarming energy, her beautiful
bosom swelling, as if it would burst, beneath the convulsive
pressure of her hand. `I may become delirious,
and God only knows what I may say. I would not be
overheard. May I depend upon thee, Martha?'
Martha fell upon her knees and sobbed in her lap.
`Go, Martha,' continued this extraordinary woman,
`place some servant, that you can trust, in the next
apartment, and take care that nobody passes near my
door.'
Her voice failed her. Her countenance grew dark
and terrible, with the strife of her immortal spirit. A
thousand high thoughts arose, and paused, for a moment,
and then passed over her uplifted countenance.
She was upon her knees, or pacing her apartment, with
her hot temples locked in her hands, the live-long
night. Did she pray? No—she could not pray. Did
she weep—Oh no!—tears would have been a comfort
indeed—too great a comfort, to one so helpless, and so
desolate. She could not weep—she would have given
the whole world but to shed a few, few tears, such
as she had wept heretofore, in the fulness of her
heart. But no—no!—her sorrow now, was of an untold
character. Her forlornness was—nay, it is easier to tell
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what it was not—it was not like any forlornness that
she had ever felt before—ever! although she had left,
all, every living thing that loved her, or that she loved,
more than once, in her brief pilgrimage.
`Too late, Oh, too late!' she articulated, wildly, just as
the cold day light was breaking in upon her, and falling,
like a chilly illumination, upon her disordered bosom—
`too late hath my destiny broken upon me. Oh why
have I lived! Why not gone blindfolded to my grave!'—
A long, dreary pause followed—her face flushed, and
the fire streamed from her uplifted eyes—`No—never!
never!—I will arise. I will manifest myself. I will not
submit. I will not be the wronged and suppliant woman!
Woe to him that expects it!'
CHAPTER IX.
`Oh what is love made for,
If 'tis not the same,
Through joy and through torment?
Through glory and shame?'
Je te suivrai partout.
Reader!—there are stories told, with elbow on the
grass, according to one of your most delicious modern
poets. Mine is no such story. Your hand should be
upon the hilt of your dagger. Your heart should rattle
against your ribs; you should breathe seldom and hard,
while you listen to me. Are you a man? Your breathing
will show it. Follow me. Are you a woman?
Can you weep for the guilty and disconsolate?—the
strongly tempted—the frail—the penitent, and broken
hearted?—if you cannot, forbear, shut the book. It
is not meant for you. There is profanation in thy touch.
If thou hast no mercy—forbear—if thou hast no tears,
forbear;—for thou canst. The moral is not for thee—
not for the strong, nor the confident. I adjure thee!—
go no further, unless thou canst pity her, who has learnt
to parley with temptation: nay, I would almost say—
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unless thou thyself, hast been tempted, strongly tempted.
Then!—then, mayest thou go on triumphantly. It
will be a lesson to thee. It will teach thee, while thou
hatest the crime, to pray for the criminal. Lay thy
hand upon thy heart, woman. Hast thou been tempted?
Canst thou forgive? If yea—proceed.
`This will never do, never—never!' thought Harold,
as he lay, with his chest heaving, in a delicious, troubled,
but guilty reverie, after Elvira had departed. `There
is intoxication, madness in the thought. How deeply,
timidly she breathed! With what a passionate, strange
tenderness, her eyes shone upon me! How faint and
pale she looked, when she repulsed me! And then—
how her beautiful mouth trembled; as her tears trickled
down upon it, and she leant over me with her shut
eyes. And then!—when her thin lids opened, and the
blue lustre beneath, waned and dimmed with the langour
of her heart—Oh God! what a rapidity of interchanging
light and crimson in her dear face! Oh, how
surpassing all that ever went by me before. What was
it? Whither went it! that illuminated, pale countenance.
Stay!—ha! that spectre—where am I?'
He leaped upright in his bed—the apartment shook
under him.
`Harold, Harold!—awake thee!'—he continued, with
his palms pressed to his sore and aching temples—
`awake thee! where is thine honour?—thy gratitude?—
thy destiny! who bids thy spirit to its prostration?—
(he shivered in an agony of indignation.) `Thou!—
canst thou—of the blood of Logan—nursed in heroick
self-denial, thrilling with the blood of many generations,
that were pure and strong,—heroes!—canst thou
so bow thyself down? Harold, Harold! awake thee!
Art thou again—again! at the feet of a woman. Oh,
shame on thee! And what a woman? Not a lone and
desolate one; not the friendless and weeping one—a
stranger among strangers—not the brown beauty of the
wilderness!—not the unblessed, and desolate, and wild.
Oh no! But thou!—Oh, wake thee, Harold. The wife
of thy benefactor—thy father!'—(the blood ran cold
about his heart, at the thought, and his hot eye balls
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throbbed in their sockets)—`Forgive me!—Oh, Righteous
and Blessed one, forgive me.'
Poor Harold was half crazy with the tumult; and he
awoke to a full sense of his situation, only to feel a
more deadly sickness at the heart, a more faint and
weary loathing and detestation, of all that had motion
and life in it. Gladly would he have slept—and slept
forever. But sleep was forbidden to him. Yea the very
air—the blessed air, that blew over his damp forehead,
seemed, for a while, purged of its vitality. There was
no balsam, no coolness, no fragrance in it. It felt to
poor Harold, as he lay, with the tears and sweat stealing
under his long lashes, like the tepid breath of a
sick child. No wonder that he suffered. His whole
heart was undergoing a purification. He had been `dazzled
and drunk with beauty,' and his God was visiting
him now, for his intemperance. He had lusted after
unlawful dominion, and the price was now to be paid
in horrour, and consternation, and self abandonment.
`I shall never be well again! never, if I stay here,'
thought the boy; and young as he was, he determined
to begin, forthwith, and in earnest, the work of reformation.
The future was opening upon him, curtain,
over curtain, and great shadows were stalking about,
with the likeness of kingly crowns upon their heads,
and their arms folded. There was a sublime obscurity
before him, a peopled empire—full of dim movement,
and vast preparation. He awoke—roused himself.
The phenomena, portentous and awful as they
were, heeded not his rebuke, nay, nor his entreaty.
They held their places. The walls of his chamber
seemed extended to an immeasurable distance. The
very curtains of his bed seemed flowing down, fold
over fold, shadow over shadow, from the heaven of
heavens. The wind blew; and bright shapes rode upon
it. A change followed. All was dark about him. He
retained his consciousness. His own heart became visible
to him, as he cast down his eyes. It was a bed
of live coals! And a spirit of godlike presence was
fanning them; upon her broad front were the characters
of an unknown language, written in blood! seethed,
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and fiery! It was Ambition. She arose, and waved her
arm; and lo! the shadow, and the darkness of the far
off void, began moving into shape, and colour, and concentration.
The heavy drapery rolled upward through
the solid walls of his chamber, as if drawn by an invisible
hand; and away to the right and to the left, a
measureless activity of light and motion appeared,
growing every moment more and more distinctly beautiful,
till the heart ached with pleasure and sublimity.
Anon, forests of green and waving trees, in all their
pomp and magnificence, slowly emerged from the far
off horizon—parted—with brighter spots of agitated
green; here, and there, between them—faded and vanished.
Anon, the blue waters appeared, and spread
themselves, hither, and thither, as though the bowels
of the great deep were giving forth again, their cold treasures
to the moon—and behold! these waters were covered
with painted spectres—great ships and sails.
And then!—the air darkened—it thundered! the horizon
lightened round about: and the noise of battle rang,
suddenly, through all the boundless circumference of
the sky. Lights passed over the water—fleets engaged;
and the apparition of many ships, shattered and blazing,
drifted by—
Harold sprang from his bed—knelt down.—`Spirit
of my father!' he cried, in his delirium, `God of the red
men! Be thou, O! be thou with me! The lands that were
our inheritance are returning to us. I saw them; I!—
moving off upon the track of our retreating nations!
Here! here! oh thou spirit of our worship! thou, who
art hunted, even as thy children are hunted, from these,
thine immeasurable solitudes—thine appointed places—
here! do thou bless them!—for here doth Harold consecrate
himself; and all that he hath, all his powers and
faculties; all his passions and hopes, and fears to thee!
Here, I—the—I—the—'
The impulse was gone—he faultered, bowed his head,
and an universal trembling seized him. His pillow was
drenched with his tears. But whither should he fly? Where
gain the maturity and experience, and means, necessary
for his purpose? Did he return to the red men? where
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were all his high-spirited and sublime notions of government?
how should he rescue his countrymen from
the thraldom, not of strength, but of cunning? where
should he look for that ennobling intercourse, which,
should fit him for command and companionship with
the captains of Europe? that discipline, which should
make his name terrible, when generation after generation
had passed away? where that high and polished
chivalry of deportment which should sustain him, as an
Indian Prince, in his future intercourse with the whites?
No—no!—he must not, could not prepare himself for a
life of perpetual trial and achievement, but by learning
of the white man all that he could teach—in war, in
policy, and in legislation. But how, if he went away,
how should he retain that overwhelming influence over
the Indians, so indispensible to his purpose? would
they resign him? would they receive him again? would
they not feel jealousy, distrust and apprehension? they
would.'
`But better, after all; ten thousand times better that
they should feel, all the evil passions of their nature,
agitated to phrenzy at his return, if he came qualified
for their redemption, than that he should risk among
them the wasting away of his faculties, ineffectually.
Harold had often been told by the governour, that it
was his intention to send him to Europe, to complete
the already singularly excellent education, which he
had obtained at an early period, from the officers of a
French garrison, where he had been a captive in his
boyhood, till he won all hearts, and despoiled all their
treasuries of science. All that the military art could
teach, theoretically, to one so young, had been taught
him. He was an admirable draughtsman—a good engineer—
a good soldier—a good horseman, and decidedly
the best swordsman in the fort, at the time of
his escape. He had read little, but what he had read
was of the choicest matter. His study had been truly
French—war and elegance—the chivalry of a young
knight, and the accomplishments of a young bridegroom.
He had a thorough knowledge of French, and having
been for a time among the Spanish possessions, had
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learned to speak that masculine language, with tolerable
readiness and purity. These things, however, were a
secret, and he disdained either to exhibit or practice,
or even to acknowledge them, after his return to the Indians;
all, except the sword and saddle, he trampled on
and derided. But in these, he became terribly conspicuous.
In time, no man strode a young war horse like
Harold, and no human being wielded such a sword.
`He played his weapon like a tongue of flame.' Now,
new feelings arose. He panted to consummate himself
alike, in all the graces, as well as the terrours of a brave
man. The hope of going to Europe, hitherto almost extinct
in his bosom, or remembered only as a pleasant
dream of his boyhood, now awoke, with prodigious energy
again. Too easily forced into vehement action, the nature
of Harold had acquired an intensity of expression
that was unintelligible to ordinary minds. He fevered
and burnt, when the thought was upon him. There was,
even in his most hidden and mysterious movements,
however, an air of reality, that convinced those who
could not understand how it would be done, that whatever
he determined upon, would be done. There was
such a stern and lofty carriage in his eye, so much of
that composure which bespeaks a spirit familiar with
its own resources—accustomed only to success, that
your heart would swell in your contemplation of him,
and you would speak and predict as rashly, and as positively
as he thought.
His manner was preternatural— portentous. It was
not graceful—no, nor welcome, in one so young—with
a heart so filled and buoyant with the electricity of boyhood.
He should not keep so firmly upon his feet—
his shut mouth should not indicate so resolute, so unsparing
a decision of character, at his age. I do not
like it. It is, as if the untrained falcon should fly straight
through the thinnest and bluest air, upward, upward,
directly in the very face of the sun. It would be wonderful
in the confirmed and disciplined, but it is rash
and headstrong, in the inexperienced.
But misfortunes, exposure, a rough world, neglect
and keenness, had exasperated the stormiest elements
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of his nature into wrath and madness. In the boiling
thereof, there had been forced up from the profoundest
depths of his heart, many precious and detestable
things; many unknown and unnatural thoughts, which,
under a gentler sky, with a less windy and tempestuous
visiting, had remained forever, undisturbed, unvisited,
unthought of.—The pearls and the sea snakes; the
red coral and the white skeleton, the treasures and the
abominations came together to the surface!
Young as he was, there was that settled and immoveable
determination in all that he thought or did.
And yet there was a time, when his volatility had been
conspicuous. That passed away, and there succeeded, a
perseverance, so unwearied, so indefatigable, so immortal,
that they who prophesied in his childhood, forbore
to prophesy, after a little while. He was like nothing
that they had ever heard or read of. Nay, there was
not an action, a word, an attitude, the most trivial, that
did not reveal to the unprejudiced, (for they persisted
long in calling his conduct affectation and insolence)
to the man that knew men, how entirely prepared was
the mind beneath, for all that could happen, in the nature
of things—all!—whether of trial or promise, humiliation,
sorrow, or death. He had no companions.
He scorned the companionship of boys, and the men
that beset him were little better than boys; and they
repelled him for a while. He was said to be unsocial.
He was not. But he could find no kindred nature; none
that would regard; `the night-mare moaning of Ambition's
breast,' as other than a childish disease. In time,
this changed. Men looked and wondered. This boy,
whom they had shut out as presumptuous and unamiable,
from their houses and hearts, was now welcomed
with outstretched arms, as the kindest of human creatures,
and the most terrible in his power. Was he a misanthrope?
no, he was too good, his heart was too pure
and consecrate for that. Compare him with those of
his age—oh, how unutterably boyish appeared the
workings of their ambition, compared to his! Years were
as weeks with him, in his plans. Experience had taught
him to depend upon himself, and he had soon learnt
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that it is the beginning only which is truly difficult, and
that most of our fellow men are wearied before they
begin. His ambition was silent, meditative, solemn.
His deep voice, his gathered brow, which, even in the
sunshine of his spirit, and no spirit had more of sunshine
in it, at times,—stood often, intensely wrought
and alarming—the fearful steadiness and lustre of his
eye, as he listened and thought; the bright, eager, broad
flashing of mind that broke out, when he was suddenly
excited, were altogether so significant of a peculiar
and high intelligence, that the most familiar of his daily
associates, those with whom he went about the commonest
affairs of earth, constantly beheld him with an
instinctive and profound veneration. This was not
shown in words, for, indeed, they hardly knew it, and
would never have acknowledged it themselves. The
few that knew him had been his enemies: and it was
remarked, (and let this be remembered as the strongest
of the features that set Harold alone among mankind—)
that just in proportion to their former hostility,
when he condescended to soothe and win them from it,
was their devoted and passionate admiration, when he
had succeeded. And he always did succeed. Harold
never attempted to make a friend, even of an enemy—
but he succeeded. He never trifled, no unhallowed levity
was about him. But, if he smiled, his smile was
rapturous—it was a smile, indeed; brief, but delightful.
And his scorn—his indignant sarcasm—O! it was the
hottest lightning of heaven! none might abide it!
Others were ambitious. I have seen many such. But
with them, ambition was a disease—an intemperate longing—
a childish yearning for the end, without regarding
the way to it;—an earthly ambition; a feeble and sickly
covetousness of notoriety, without the courage to deserve
it, or the manhood to persevere. But his—his!
it was his life, and blood, and pulse!
Look at his brow!—It was written there, as with the
impress of Divinity. It was the hand-writing on the
wall. It told to the oppressor, as beneath his dark locks
it broke out, like an inscription on the forehead of a
youthful Jove—`Thy kingdom hath departed from thee.'
Look at his eye! It was a feature of inconceivable
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meaning—so gentle in its tranquillity, that a child
would not fear to disturb it—so wasting in its
wrath, that men qualed before it, as before the hot
lightning—in tincture, dark, deep, unutterably deep,
and yet—deepening with every thought. It was the
changeable hue of the tried weapon, tempered in
lava—steely, black, and glittering—now, with the tint
of the midnight sky, and now, with the reflection of
ensanguined cymetar blades.
His countenance, common at first, grew awful in
your contemplation. It haunted you in your dreams.
Its abiding place, when once lighted up, and sanctified
with the presence of his great soul, was forever after
in the hearts of all that saw it.
His tread! but why describe his tread?—It was a
voice! His feet spoke. I would avoid the man that trod
like Harold, unless I knew him to be my friend.
But his voice! it was that, that alone!—the musick of
a great heart—the breathing of a trumpet, deep, deep,
in the chest—labouring and sounding aloud;—the innumerable
and peculiar echoes of innumerable and peculiar
passions, were all in it!—all distinctly busy in his
strong articulation. I can hear it at this moment!—
whole years have passed, and yet I hear it, ringing in
the wind—its solemnity, its energy—the brief and terrible
transparency, picturing with a startling emphasis,
absolutely picturing his words and thoughts upon the
mind. God never gave such a voice to a bad man.
Its compass was loud, and overwhelming grandeur, the
most thrilling and passionate eloquence, down, down,
to the deep, dear whispering of heart-broken tenderness.
It was musick—the musick of archangels—the
throned and beautiful authorities of Heaven.
So much for Harold. Approach him, and struck by
his collectedness of manner, rendered still more impressive,
from the youthful gracefulness of his proportions,
you would, and why, for the soul of you, you
could not tell, grow restless and dissatisfied with their
contradictions.
His age, was always the first question of them that
saw him, for the first time. But hark! he is betrayed
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into emotion—he alters his voice! heard ye ever such
tones, so energetick, peculiar, firm, passionate, earnest?
How he lifts you along with him! Do you like
him? no. Whence your interest? whence your breathless
attention? your fixed attitude? your unclosed lips?
Know ye the cause? dare ye analyze it? know ye not,
that it is the homage of your spirit to his? he treads
among you like a celestial among the creatures of
earth. `Your stars stand still before him!' Your mind,
your faculties descend from their thrones, and lay
down their sceptres at his bidding. His silence is
rebuke and faintness. His look fires you with enthusiasm.
Listen to him! observe ye how confidently, and yet,
not boastingly, he speaks, or rather meditates, aloud.
Follow the fervid action of his mind. Mark its celerity,
its inconceivable velocity. Can you bear its approach?
Does not yours tremble and shiver with the contrast?
Has he—that boy, been accustomed to dictating to gray
beards? look at him—do you not see his restless nature
perpetually poising her wings?—the unslipped falcon
brandishing her plumage for some forbidden flight!
the flame of his innermost temple constantly breaking
out into irradiations—showing all the mysterious dwelling
places, the unvisited recesses—the `holy of holies'—
where abides the treasure of his worship!—what is
she? who is she?
Lo! she is there!—her naked feet upon a brazen
chariot, a whirlwind of smoke and dust rolling about
her!—her head encumbered with stars!—her locks
streaming, like a rent banner, in the wind—her chariot
wheels rolling over, and grinding to dust, the shattered
and glittering fragments of an empire—an eagle,
with thunderbolts upon her right hand—her garments
rolled in blood! There! there! forever there! stands
she, the object of his idolatry.
Hark!—hear ye not the far-off barbarian gong!—
The isles of the ocean are in arms. The daughters of
the blue Pacific are in battle—Look! look! the temple
totters in the blue flame of its ascending altar! It dissolves—
the firmament reddens—It rains fire! and the
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smoke drifts like a hurricane by us! A shout—the
clouds are rolling away. A continent breaks upon our
view—the shores, the islands are peopled, and joyous
with the wild musick of many nations—feathers in their
hair—their idolatrous temples vanishing—their bows
unstrung—their quivers untenanted—and the green
wilderness rising behind them.
What think ye of his dreaming? and is it dreaming?
May not—are ye sure that the inheritance of the Indian
may not, even yet, be plucked from the spoiler?
May not, oh ye that blaspheme the Great Spirit, may
not the thunders of the everlasting God lay waste your
habitations, prostrate your cities, kindle all your fires
with the angry conflagration of his wrath, and re-establish
the forest upon the high places of your revelry
and abominations? This he has done to many a nation.
This he may do to yours.
Look ye for Babylon! whither is Jerusalem? ye are
but as one Babylon! and who measureth the sins of
Jerusalem against yours?
Such were the bright and desperate visions of Harold;
such the exhibitions of the dreadful spirit, that
haunted, and visited, nay, dwelt, within the encrusted
lava of his heart.
`To Europe! aye, to Europe, then, I must go!' quoth
Harold—`and—' he hesitated—`and the sooner, the
better.' Sudden in determination as he was, yet was
he more sudden in action. He resolved to begin his
preparations immediately—determined to go, the moment
that he had life enough, with the governour's consent,
and under his directions, if possible; if not, without
them.
Some weeks passed in this manner. He slept little,
and ate nothing. Nay, he loathed food—there was a
hunger and appetite perpetually gnawing his vitals,
which could not be appeased or assuaged by aught of
earthly aliment.
One evening, however, he awoke, so exceedingly refreshed,
and with all his recollections so clear, that he
felt as if he could bound into his saddle, and scour
hill and plain, as he was wont: He rang the bell,
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determined to prepare, that very hour, for his departure,
in a sloop of war, which, he had been told, was nearly
ready to sail; but he was informed that the governour
was too ill to receive any communication: and that the
lady Elvira refused to see, and had for weeks, any body
except her confidential servant. This was very mysterious.
Had he been ill so long? Had whole weeks
passed? It seemed but as a few hours, only, since, he,
himself, had seen her! What should he do? his heart
leaped hurriedly at the question. He was already sufficiently
restored, he thought, for some audible expression
of his gratitude. He should soon be away—never,
ah, never to see her again—no more, no more on earth
to hear the heavenly murmuring of her voice!—never
more to see the blue veins meandering through her
transparent forehead, and her tears falling upon his
hand! But then, he should go where another dwelt
that had been dear to him—another!—as pure, as innocent,
and as lovely, but with a loveliness unlike hers—
not snowy, but vivid and ardent, burning, and brilliant.
And then—when the fond Indian girl, his beloved,
his dear, dear, Loena, should lean upon his shoulder,
and press his cheek to hers, he should be so happy.
So happy, Harold!—beware! even now, while thou art
courting back the faint image of Loena, and renewing
thy vows of love and tenderness to her, thou art secretly
pining to see once more, the haughty loveliness
of Elvira, blushing over thee, with a guilty light in
her eyes.—Shame on thee, Harold!
A light tap at the door, disturbed him in his revery.
He started—trembled—with a thousand indefinite, but
thrilling emotions. He opened the door himself, softly.
What was his disappointment? Heaven only knows
what he had expected; but he turned pale, and shivered
from head to foot, with a convulsive, sick shivering,
as a servant reached him a brief note, scrawled
with a pencil. It was in these words, and evidently
written with extreme effort.
`Harold! you are well. The governour is no longer
your father. You must abandon this habitation. Wait
not for the order.
Farewell!
E.'
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Harold was thunderstruck. What could she mean!
just at this moment, too, when his heart was overflowing
with gratitude! just when he was going, voluntarily,
and proudly—to be turned out of doors! oh, it was too
much! He recovered himself: a few scalding tears
came to his relief. The bitterness of his heart rose to
his mouth; he could taste it. He writhed and stamped,
in the first agony of his rage and vexation. A dead silence
followed. He stood like a statue. His heart
scarcely heaved. His lips moved not. A sense of forlornness
and desolation came over him, and he would
have thrown himself down and wept, but he felt that
he could not shed a tear, if it were to save his soul
from utter perdition. A hollow whisper broke from
him, at last—`turned out—turned out—neck and heels—
wounded and bleeding—turned out of this house.
This!—oh, shame on him—why plucked he me from
my kindred? I was the young wolf. Hath he tamed
me?” His lip quivered—a deadly paleness followed—
hectick—a few more tears, and it was all over. He
was a man, again.
The girl stood before him, stupified with amazement,
and quaking in every limb, at the terrible alternations
of wrath and tenderness that she beheld—but now,
when he addressed her calmly, so calmly, that his
voice fell, syllable by syllable, like the low notes of a
near instrument, blown by a master, she was awe-struck.
The flashing of his eyes had terrified her; but
this unnatural calmness was abundantly more terrifick,
even to her simple and inexperienced observation.
`Go,' said he, `go to your mistress, Martha—tell
her—God bless her!—God in his infinite mercy, comfort
and bless her!”—the brightness of his eyes waned a
little, and there was a slight hollowness in his tone—
such were the only appearances, and yet, he was choking,
choking!—`Tell her I am going: that I shall go,
forever, and ever—this hour—this moment. No, Martha,
you are deceived—I am strong, very strong. I
thank you for your compassionate looks, my good girl,
but I am determined. The note is here, here!' he repeated—
crushing it, and thrusting it in his bosom—`I
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shall never part with it. It was unkind, abrupt—but tell
her that I bless her for it. I am going, Martha.'
As he said this, he began buckling on his sword, but
his hand shook so, that he was unable to complete it.
He saw Martha, lingering. He blushed at his weakness.
His manhood came back to him again, like a torrent.
He stood erect—tried again—strained the belt
about his attenuated form, almost to snapping, and looking
once more about the apartment, prepared to go.
She departed.
Martha preceded him but a few steps. He heard a
door open, and shut—a few hurried questions urged,
and replied to in a soft voice, full of anxiety and earnestness,
within an apartment near to which he passed.
He descended softly—it was evening—with his sword
under his arm, and his pistols in his girdle.
It was dark, perfectly dark, in the long damp hall
of the mansion. He felt something pass near him. He
shuddered, and shrunk back—recoiling quite to the
wall, before he had presence of mind to seek the cause.
He continued his way. The star-light trembled
through a high window upon the dewy and solitary
stone steps, by which he was to pass. The last time he
had passed them—when was it?—when he was brought
in upon a litter, the preserver of him who now turned
him, naked and shivering, sick and alone, upon the
world. An exclamation half burst from his lips—He
encountered something—a hand touched his—it thrilled
through and through him. It was cold, and trembled.
The dim outline of a human figure could be indistinctly
traced against the near white wall. His heart
almost leaped from his bosom!
Could he be mistaken! Oh no—no! He knelt, knelt
frantically, and pressed his lips again and again, upon
the cold hand, with the deepest veneration. It was wet
with other tears than his:—a struggle—a half articulate
sob—and a whisper of `God forever bless thee!'—
and the hand was withdrawn—the spectre gone—and
Harold upon his face.
He awoke. Where was his spirit then? Chilled,
chilled, horribly chilled. His blood felt thick—and he
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cared not if he never arose gain. His temples—his
very arteries were sore with the excess and rapidity of
his recent sensations. He arose. It was in vain. He
was weak even to helplessness—what could he do.
Return?—Return! no—never!—death were ten thousand
times better. He had been driven forth with dishonour
and contempt. He was too proud to ask why,
or wherefore. It was enough for him, that it was so,
and he would have immolated himself upon the threshold
of the habitation that he had saved—more than
once, from fire and sword—but for a new feeling—a
desire of vengeance almost, that had taken possession
of him.
Was the note kindly meant? It was. To return
then, even for an hour, was to slight the admonition,
the interposition of an angel—to be weak, very weak;
and when he went again—would that hand, that blessed
hand, again go with him, again palpipate, like a living
heart, within his delirious grasp! Oh no!'
He roused himself. The weariness and dislike to reaction,
after such intense excitement, were speedily dissipated,
by the passionate vehemence of his efforts.
He crawled first—then tottered—then, heated by the
movement, walked—and finally, as the morning air
blew freshly upon him, and the beautiful day-light
shone upon his forehead, he absolutely ran. But his
running was the peculiar race of the unwearied Indian.
`One more hour!—one little hour!' cried Harold,
towards evening, `and I am at home!'
Another hour, and he was at home, in the thick green
wood—a living fountain at his feet, the wild ash bending
over it: a hunting cabin within a few paces, where
he had slept, night after night, with white men, before
the last quarrel with the Indians. It had not been visited
of late, he supposed, as the collected fuel, food,
ammunition, skins, and utensils were all as he had seen
them last. He threw himself, worn and exhausted, upon
a bed of dry leaves, and bear skins, and slept, Oh! how
deliciously.
He dreamt of home—the home that he had left, of his
father—his murderers—Strange, wild and incoherent
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cries rang in his ear. A shot—He started upward. It
was dark—perfectly dark about him, and it was some
minutes before he could recollect himself. The smell
of powder was about him, but where was he? In his
chamber? He felt about. All was vacuity and dreariness.
Whatever he found was in the wrong place—all
relationship was confounded. A confused recollection
of the past crowded upon him. Step by step, he recovered
his senses: and, as he did, he feared to breathe.
Was he in the cabin yet? Could he have slept so long?
What means that glimmering?—Gracious heaven!
something—some detestable creature is crawling
through the fire!—the fire!—he had left none. He felt
for his pistols—They were gone—his sword. `Ah,
thank heaven!' he almost articulated aloud, as he felt
the hilt, and unsheathed it, in silence. The flame rises.
Gracious heaven!—what does he see? Why rolls young
Harold's eyes so terribly upon the roof. Why starts
out the hot sweat upon his forehead. The spirit of his
father is before him! The hair of his flesh rose. He
gasped for breath. He heard a voice. It was not his
father's. It was not Logan's! A huge shadow,
sat in its cumbrous drapery, of unearthly dimensions,
warming its great hands over the expiring smoke and
flame. How came he there? Harold shuddered. The
voice continued. It was not—Oh, no!—it was not human!
It was sepulchral. It sang, in hollow cadences, a
fearful, wild, monotonous, and almost inarticulate song:
the dread melancholy musick of an incantation. The
figure stirred the fire. It flashed briefly upward for a
moment:—the shadow arose, stood before it, a pillar
of shapeless, flowing drapery.[2]
`God of heaven!' cried Harold, horrour struck—All
was instantly dark. Harold covered his face with his
hands. He heard a loud rushing above him, as of suddenly
extended and great wings. He was fanned by
cold drapery, that swept by him. Oh, Spirit of the
terrible Logan,' he cried, `thou, who camest to
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confirm thy child, in the oath by which thou hast bound
him. Oh, spare him!'
Thus he lay—upon his face—trembling in every
joint, until a gleam of light made him look up. A bluish,
cold glimmering, played through a part of the
shattered roof, upon the wall, by his face. It was some
minutes before he could persuade himself, that this
weary and endless night, had, at length, passed away.
To him, it had threatened to be perpetual. He arose,
and went out into the cool air. It was moon-light—the
day had not yet broken; but the lustre that was showered
upon him, was so holy, and dewy, and clear, that his
heart heaved in his bosom. He thought of his pistols.
It was incomprehensible that they should have been
taken from him—it was impossible—if the spectre that
he had seen, was only a shadow—or, if his senses had
deceived him. He returned, and found them. One
had been discharged! Both were loaded when he slept.
He now remembered the smell of gunpowder, and the
shot that awoke him. Perhaps he had discharged it
himself, in his dream, or by accident: and this, he was
fain to believe, as the only rational means of accounting
for what he had heard and seen.
It was necessary to keep them loaded. Luckily there
was ammunition concealed in several places about the
cabin. A few moments search brought sufficient to
light, for all his purposes. Having loaded his pistol,
and chosen a few balls, that fitted, and secured them,
together with a few charges of powder, he had leisure
to feel the consequences of his fatigue and abstinence.
A raging hunger possessed him; doubly irksome and
distressing at this time, from his long confinement,
during which his diet had been little else than that of
the cameleon; and from the extreme irritability and
fastidiousness of his stomach. He began his search,
with a faintness and anxiety that were entirely new to
him; and soon had reason to bless himself for the providence
and charity of his earlier hours; for he fell upon
some provisions, which, in his hunger, appeared exactly
what he most coveted, and which, he, himself, had concealed,
with his own hands, many months before, in the
belief that they might be useful to some weary and
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worn hunter, who should happen to have more sagacity
than the wild animals.
Gradually, but by flashes, during his repast, as he
sat under the mountain ash, and watched the cold, bubbling
water below, shining in the moonlight, the incidents
of the past night broke upon him, till the whole
became illuminated. A dream opened upon him. He
threw down his food, and started from the seat. Now,
now, for the first time, the barrier between what he
had seen, and what he had dreamt, became, for a moment,
distinctly visible He pressed his hands upon his
forehead—his shut eyes ached with the intensity of his
efforts at reminiscence. He beheld himself, or one
habited like himself, at least, toiling in a deep valley,
with a wild beast afar off—the star-light all about, of
such a preternatural brightness, that it shone through
and through the solidest rocks—the very trees and skies
were transparent, and the mountains themselves revealed
all their treasures. He started—could it be? He
wiped the sweat from his forehead, and opened his
eyes. `Am I wounded?' he faintly said to himself, as
he began an agitated examination with his hands, of
every part of his body. He felt his blood thrill, as he
touched the handle of his knife—it was wet and adhesive
to the touch. He plucked it from its sheath; it was
bent, as with the mortal blow, of an arm that could
drive it, up to the haft, through the ribs of a man—and
was tarnished and discoloured with a black, very black
fluid. His heart sickened, and he dared not examine
further. But where had he been? What unknown perils
had he encountered? Had his delirium returned? Had
he wandered? But who led him back to the cabin?
Now he recollected, faintly, and at intervals, with a
terrible circumstantiality, that he had dreamed, as he
often had before, of being pressed to the earth with the
weight of a mortal foe; that he had stabbed him with
his knife, and that the detestable blood had spouted all
over his face and eyes. Still there was a strange and bewildering
combination of the visionary and real, in all
that he was able to recall. That he had had a terrifick
dream, became more and more probable, but that he
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had tasted blood, again, notwithstanding his abhorrence
and loathing, in a delirium, was certain. Where had he
been? Whom had he slain? His pistols too, there was
no vestige or trace of their employment, in his mind.
At this moment, by the turning of his course around
a jutting rock, overhung with superb and boundless
foliage, pendant almost from the sky, he came, all
at once, upon a wide landscape!—water, cliff and wood—
a path trodden and regular—a cascade—what disturbs
him? Why that look of amazement? Hath he
been here before? He looks anxiously about—he discovers
a track—onward he leaps—onward! onward!
The circumstances of his dream are all before him now!
Here had he had been—here! in that very spot, in his
delirium. By that shattered and blasted tree it was
done!—He pauses—shudders—leans, with a sense of
suffocation, against the rock. He dares not advance a
single step. What tremendous mystery was this? What
had he done? What deed of blood, in his insensibility?
Already was he arraigned for it. Already was the
smoking fluid—the livid and gashed body of some human
being, within a few, few paces of him!'
It was not to be endured! No! He maddened, and
sprang forward. Already the wild, withered branches
of the accursed and blighted, and blood besprinkled
tree were over him. The whole dream rushed upon
his brain like a flood of light. He dreaded to look at
the spot where the deed had been perpetrated. He
stood motionless—his blood crawling like cold serpents,
about his heart. `But one step more,' thought Harold,
`and I shall know the worst.' He made that one step—
the spot was all open to his eye—something dark,
shapeless, but wearing, nevertheless, to the fearful
apprehensions of Harold, the appearance of a murdered
human creature, lay upon the ground, just in the
shadow of the tree. `But what is that!' cried Harold,
and something that was near the body, watching by it
perhaps, crouching, reared itself up, shrieked, and
sprang into the tree. Harold was stupified for a moment.
But the next, aware of the desperate peril of
the instant, his pistol shot rang through the branches—
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a sullen, quick cry followed, and the animal, whatever
it was, leaped upon the ground, from the very topmost
branch, and fled, snapping his teeth, and occasionally
rearing, probably, with the pain of a wound, perpendicularly,
up the near precipice.
Harold was appalled, and could only attribute his
safety to the fact that this terrible creature, the American
panther, was already satiated, glutted, with some
horrible spoil. He dreaded to approach the body beneath
his feet—dreaded to turn it upon its back, lest
he should find its face without form or shape, from
the abominable appetite of the monster that had departed.
At this moment, his attention was caught by a sound,
and he saw the same animal leaping from crag to crag,
and flying before a dreadful apparition that shouted
after it, and pursued it, with a voice of terrifick loudness,
resembling that which he had heard in his sleep.
`Surely I am dreaming yet!' cried Harold. `Merciful
God! let me not dream forever! Oh, I am weary,
weary—when will another day break upon me? My
senses are useless to me. I dare not trust them. But
no, I will not be thus intimidated. I will know the
worst.' He leaped down by the body, and stood over
it. The form was of him that he had seen, in his dream.
He turned it over, impatiently; the face was horribly
rivetted, and ghastly. `Yes, yes, that was the man
whom he had encountered, and slain.' He looked again,
and shouted and clapped his hands for joy! `It is! it
is! Logan, I thank thee. Thou art avenged. Behold the
third of thy murderers. I have slain him in my madness!
I remember it now. I remember that I caught
him kindling a fire in my cabin—I awoke—leaped upon
him. He fled—he fired—I overtook him, here! here!
upon this very spot—and slew him! Behold his blood!'
As he said this, he tore off his blanket—its folds clung
together—it was saturate with blood, and pierced with
many blows. `This was my dream! Oh, no, it was no
dream. It was a drama, wrought with this very knife—
this very arm—on this very spot!'
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And yet, was it not incredible, surpassing all belief,
that he should have grappled with the deadliest of his
foes, one that had haunted his steps so long; one that
was probably lurking for him at the time, and yet escape,
mad as he was, unharmed?
Could he be satisfied with this inquiry? Was it in
the nature of man not to be disturbed?—yea, even to
the dividing asunder of soul and body, at the awful
indistinctness, the apalling mixture of reality and
dreaming, in these discoveries? What had he done
else? With whom else had he battled in his sleep?
These were questions never to be answered. And yet,
there had he been, there! out under the midnight heaven—
under that scathed tree, to whose history, and that
of the bleak and barren solitude about, were allied ten
thousand frightful stories of Indian superstition—a
place that, for ages, the beast and the bird of prey had
haunted for food—a tree that had been there—the
same, unchanged, unshattered, unbowed—with never
a branch, nor a leaf the less (so said the oldest of the
red men,) from beyond time—centuries had rolled
away—storm after storm had beaten upon it—rain after
rain—and yet was it, forever, unworn and unwet—
again and again, had it been in a blaze, from head to
foot with the lightning of heaven—again and again,
had the thunder and the earthquake shaken all the trees
around, root and branch—nay, the very fountain that
crept round it, so darkly and sluggishly, that had been
dried up again and again, by the hot storming of the
skies, and yet this tree, this old and awful, sapless and
withered tree, had withstood it all—all the elements—
all the principles of decay—had stood there, like an
indestructable shadow, undiminished, unshaken, unsubdued!
Not a blade of grass lay within its shade.
The very soil was brown, and hot, and arid, like pulverised
iron.
That his knife had struck a deadly blow—that it had
searched, fatally searched, the vitals of something alive,
within a few short hours, was abundantly evident, for
the blood was hardly yet coagulated upon the hilt; and
as the morning light broke, at last, upon his hands, he
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discovered that they were stained, and that the hot
life stream had, as he had dreamt, spouted over his
forehead and eyes. He descended to the water, and,
as he stooped over it, for the purpose of washing away
the loathsome pollution, he shrank back, and turned
deadly sick, at the sight of his reflected visage. There
was a red crust upon his lips; and the print of a bloody
hand upon his own throat. He stooped again. He was
wounded, and the action of his body as he leant forward,
tore away his shirt, which had become glued to
a wound in his side. He tore off his garments, and discovered
that it was, indeed, new and deep. This accounted
for his faintness, and for his return to reason.
The loss of blood had restored him. In his instinct, he
had probably sought the cabin, and there, as he slept,
his delirium passed away with his blood.
He felt thankful indeed for his mysterious preservation.
He had lived thus, by a continual miracle, through
the night.
The whole was so wonderful, that it seemed especially
adapted to confirm the high minded and visionary
boy, in all the devout dreaming of his nature; now,
now! could he longer doubt that the preternatural
was to be a part of his familiar destiny?—that he was
chosen for some momentous work?—appointed to some
mighty deliverance?
He returned to the cabin, and threw himself, once
more, upon the matted leaves, with his pistols loaded,
and his naked sabre at his side. While lying in this
manner, with his eyes turned up toward the interlacing
branches that composed the roof, his eye was
taught by the appearance of paper. He arose, and drew
it forth. It was a book; a beautiful miniature edition of,
what he supposed, by the terminating rhymes,
although it was written in an unknown language, to be
poetry. He continues turning over the leaves, and
dwelling on the exquisite perfection of the engraving—
it falls from his hand!—why that trepidation? He
catches it up again—runs eagerly over the leaves—
presses it, in a transport, again and again, to his heart,
and his lips. It is Italian—her favourite language—
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her favourite author—her favourite poem—Every page
is luminous with the trace of her pencil. Somewhat
drops from the fluttering leaves. He picks it up. His
astonishment appears to increase—he holds up a black
lead sketch of himself, and a little garland of withered
violets! He turns pale! He remembers them as his
own!—they are unaccountably restored; they were unaccountably
lost. He stands, with his heart hushed,
and his eyes cast down, as if he had unwittingly
opened the presence chamber of something celestial.
The sketch and wreath drop from his fingers.
He leant his face upon his hands. Warm tears
trickled through them. The sight of this little book
brought it all to mind, how and where he had first
seen the lady Elvira. He was a boy then—a mere boy—
unlikely, not only from his youth, but from his education,
which was only that of a soldier, to kindle, in
the contemplation of a high intellect, enthusiastically
brightened; and yet, he could not but remember—he
never had forgotten—he never could forget—that when
he first saw her, her of whom it was now guilt for him
to think at all—it was in summer—on a holy and quiet
evening: the long windows were open—the whole
apartment was filled with an intoxicating vapour—the
aromatick breathing of ten thousand beautiful and moist
wild flowers, that had been transplanted, and nourished
and tended by her hands, and taught to steal upward
and about, all over the walls, and ceiling, and drapery
of her favourite summer house. All the lights were
placed afar off, and glittered, along a dim piazza that
extended from the house, upon the innumerable, and
beautifully painted garlands that shadowed and festooned
all the pillars, and trailed in luxuriant embellishment
from all the windows. But just enough light
was given, to throw an aerial hue of witchery, transparency
and enchantment, upon every object of tenderness,
taste or feeling.
She was there. A loose dress, after the manner of
the Oriental, of thin muslin, was wrapped, negligently
about her, in shawl-like undulations—she was lying
upon a sofa—not like an Eastern voluptuary—but
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rather like the intellectual Cleopatra, or Aspasia, with
her soul breaking out, like twilight, from her moist
eyes. The sun went down at her feet, as in worship,
pouring in upon her, as he departed, a flood of shining
carnation and gold. The whole western sky—nay,
the very rocks and woods, seemed to arise in vapour,
as if they were exhaling in the fervid presence of their
God. A lute was by her side—untouched—unprofaned.
The sun-beam trembled upon it, but it answered not. It
was silent. The enchantment was too deep for its voice.
The statue of Memnon, itself, had been mute as death,
at such a moment. She read aloud. Harold was overcome.
Why, he knew not. She read in an unknown
tongue. But she felt, and thrilled; and therefore, he
felt, and thrilled. Nay, the very lute appeared to murmur,
now and then, in his ear, as he leant over it, as
one delicate instrument will answer to another, when
touched tenderly, and both are in unison.
Her face was vivid, insupportably vivid, with expression,
at times: at times, her eyes shot fire as she
read. At times, her frame shook, and she appeared dilating
with some stupendous conception of the author.
And then—her countenance would change—her colour
would fade, and come and go—her passionate voice
would linger and languish, in broken intonations—
her eyelids would droop, like snowdrops, surcharged
with dew.
Who could resist her? an Indian boy? Could he, of
all the beings of this earth, to whom are given the prerogatives
of intellect? What were his feelings? young
and untutored as he was—ignorant of the laws of society—
unswayed—uncultivated—untaught—never, oh,
never, had he felt at all before, in comparison with the
utter cruelty and agony of his heart, when he saw a
man approach, and throw himself by her side, and caress
her.
He shook his head—he half unsheathed a dagger,
in his concealment. At the same moment, he broke the
thraldom that held him upon the spot; put aside the
curtain that concealed him, and stood by her!—his
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black hair writhing over his agitated front, and his black
eyes streaming with fire.
The lady shrieked, and fainted. The boy fell upon
his face, as before a divinity—the man raised him—he
was deadly pale—the cold dew stood upon his forehead.
He broke from the arms that held him—threw
himself at her feet and clung to her, with such a look!
so piteous, so imploring, so full of awe!
She shrieked again distractedly—and her eyes rolled,
as if she saw a spectre; she shrunk from him, trembling
in every joint—`oh, begone! begone!' she cried. `What
art thou!—leave me! leave me!'
Harold was chilled to the heart. She had never forgiven
him—till of late; but the man, whom he saw,
had. He was her husband—the governour; and had
wearied himself with endeavouring to overcome her
mortal terrour of Harold.
He had succeeded: wo to him!—wo! wo!—His wife
was no longer his.
Such was Harold's first glimpse of the lady Elvira.
The remembrance was painfully distinct. Years had
passed away; all his character had changed; he was
now a man. He had seen her since, in his maturity,
and often had he seen that very book in her hands.
Nay, he had once listened to her, as she related to another,
the effect of his sudden, and wild apparition before
her, with such earnestness, such mysterious tenderness,
that he had held his breath to hear her. This
book was a treasure to him. He deposited it in his bosom;
and then, as an offering that could not be mistaken,
the silent oblation of the heart, he determined to study
the language in which it was written; and hence, he
would be able to commune with her spirit, even in its
most secret and innocent thinking, however widely they
were separated. Every mark of her pencil, every
scored passage, yea, every word that he should find
marked emphatically, would be a key to some peculiarity
of her heart.
He remembered the paper that had fluttered and
fallen, as he first ran over the leaves. He took it up
again. He examined it. The outline was his own—it
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was bold and spirited; but surely—yes—it was so—
the finishing was by another hand. Need he ask what
hand? on earth, there was but one, that could touch
with a confidence so suprising:—but one that could
produce such a startling effect. The more he gazed,
the more was he flattered by the exceeding accuracy and
vividness of the resemblance. It was significant of extreme
study and application. His cheeks burnt; and his
heart beat with tenfold trepidation.
He continued, hardly conscious of what he was
about, shuffling over the leaves. Another sketch struck
his eye—a single glance showed him the subject. His
confusion and dizziness increased. His heart told him
that it was like himself, at a much earlier day; nay,
more—for who shall mistake the mysterious intelligence
of young hearts, in their electrick communication?—
he was equally sure that the picture was drawn
for him years before, and that the peculiarity of his
look and manner,—the menacing and terrifick earnestness
of his attitude and lip, were all faithfully his own,
when he first broke upon Lady Elvira! There was a
motto, almost illegible, in Spanish.—`Cuidado!—aguarde
vim!'
He threw himself upon the bed again: clasped his
hands over his hot eyeballs, and endeavoured to shut
out the thought that crowded upon him.
`I will write, by heaven!' he cried, starting up, and
tearing a leaf from the book, and writing—agitated
even to death:—`Farewell! farewell, forever!'
Could he send it? of what avail would it be to him,
or to her? why wound her so cruelly? did he indeed
mean to bid her farewell forever?—to forget her? then,
he should not write. If he did not mean it, how cruel,
how unworthy of him, was such mockery!—`yes—
yes—I will write to her, reason with her,' he cried;
and the tears trickled down his face—`and then we
will part, forever and ever, indeed.' He wrote:
`Farewell, lady, farewell. I have found in the hunting
cabin—knowest thou where it stands?—near the
haunted tree, a book. Knowest thou that book? It is
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[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
mine. There are—oh, forgive me, thou who hast tempted,
and triumphed, and trampled on me—thou, oh,
woman, who hast taught me to scorn myself—to deride
my destiny, to disregard all the admonitions of manhood—
to tremble before thee, as in the anger of the
Great Spirit—to grow faint and feeble at the thought of
thee, to prostrate myself, and weep, yea, weep! and sob!
when I dream of thee!—I know not what I am saying—
there are traces of thy spirit upon its pages.
Among them, I have found a wreath of violets. It was
very dear to me once. I know not how I lost it—and
now, I care not. It has no value now, in my eyes. It
lies at my feet—I should not deign to pick it up, inestimable
as it has been to me, were it not consecrated by
thy touch—thy breath, perhaps, lady—nay, why not?
thy tears. The white man may call this vanity; he may
smile, and ask why thou shouldst weep over a wreath
of faded, withered, innocent, little violets? I should
scorn to tell him. I need not tell thee. Upon that chain,
I have wept many a tear before I lost it—but it was after
I saw thee—it was the last gift of the kindest, the
gentlest heart, that ever beat—nay, lady, even gentler
and kinder than thine own, but not so wonderful, not
so exalted. That little circlet—those delicate blue flowrets
were her last present. We parted. I loved her. I
loved her gift. I thought that I should have gone distracted,
when I lost it. I have found it again. I cannot weep
over it, now. I cannot touch it with my lips. Tell me
the reason. If I preserve it, it will not be for her sake.
For whose, then? lady, thou knowest well—nay, nay,
I will not preserve it, I cannot. I have enough to remind
me of—of thee, lady, without that. But I cannot
tear it, I cannot trample on it, I cannot scatter it profanely—
but—there! it is done—I have buried it. I will
never look upon it again. It has reproached me for the
last time.
`O, lady, I must bid thee farewell. I must stop—I
cannot bear to think of thee, now. Her image is before
me, poor, dear, Loena!—thy melancholy eyes—thy
trembling lips almost touch my face. Oh, leave me!
leave me! wouldst thou have me tell thee, dear, that I
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no longer love thee!—that I love—almighty God! that
I love the wife of another man!—ha!—I thought so!
thou art gone—vanished!—I knew that would scare
thee—oh, my brain! my brain!— * *
I am more composed. I have been laughing, laughing!
I know not why, lady. But when the poor girl left me,
I thought that my heart would break, and yet, I
laughed. The noise is ringing in my ears yet. I cannot
bear it. It is the voice of a madman. Am I mad? I
hope not.
A whole day has past. I am better, but very weak.
Thy husband—I can bear to write his name now, thou
seest:—but this is the third time that I have tried. He
has been with me. He is very angry. His countenance
was black;—lady, let me whisper it to thee—hush—he
says—no, no, I cannot. I cannot shock thee with his
blasphemies. Thou art innocent—art thou not?—am
not I? what have we done?—aught that thou and I
should tremble for? * * * *
It is his own fault; why did he tear me from my
kindred? Then I was callous—insensible—innocent.
But no!—no!—thou hast awakened me, thou!—and
I bless thee for it. It is to thy benignity and elevation,
proud lady, that I owe these devouring, but ennobling
sensations. The flame that thou hast kindled, purifies,
although it consumes me.
Lady!—what will become of me? Thou hast taught
me to abjure mine Indian gods—to become an apostate
to the religion of my fathers, with all its noble simplicity,
its uncorrupt grandeur and sublimity, and to become,
what!—a Nazarene! Yea, thou hast done this,
and thou will answer for it. * * *
But why rebuke thee! can I blame thee, thou hallowed
one? can that religion be other than the true religion,
that, which is thine: oh, no! `Thy god shall be my
god.' * * * * * *
It is midnight. I am the only mortal awake perhaps,
within the circumference of many leagues. Art thou
watching too? I will believe it—I must. It is the last
time that I shall approach thee, and I cannot but
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linger. Art thou watching, lady?—Let me go out and
look upon the sky.
`I have been abroad. I have set, with my arms folded,
upon the rock by the fountain, until the beautiful
moon had rolled away from all her stars, and stood
alone, alone! directly over thy habitation. I was sure
of it. I was sure that thy blue eyes were upon her, at
the same moment. I felt their reflection upon mine—
they dazzled me. I felt unhappy—very unhappy—
lonely—spiritualized—my tears fell upon my hand—
and I have returned. Why is this?—I never wept but
once, till I saw thee, lady—I was ashamed of it. But
now, I weep continually, and unconsciously—yet my
first tears scalded me, and I felt as if I was choking—
and now, I am no longer ashamed. I find relief in it.
The sockets of my eyes feel hot, and blistered; and nothing
sooths them now, like mine own tears.
`A new feeling besets me. * * * A new
spirit is within me. I tremble at its stirring. In what
unknown language am I speaking? what do I decree!
lo, my spirits are all about me, with fiery wings, ready
to do my bidding! what wouldst thou, lady? speak, and
it shall be done, even to the extinction of the whole human
family—the whole!—man! woman! and—no, no,
thou and I—and wilt thou let me!—poor Loena—shall
we not spare her too? we should not be alone. We
should want some human creature to caress, and she
is so innocent, so young, so helpless. But no—no!—
she shall not survive—she would not—thinkest thou
that the dear child would be thy hand-maiden?—oh,
no!—speak, Lady, what wouldst thou? they are ready!
`Lady, I am very faint. They have left me. I am
glad of it. My arteries ached with their presence. I see
clearer, now. My forehead, too, is cooler, much cooler—
now they have gone. See! those drops—they are not
from my eyes. I am broad awake, again. I feel a supernatural
striving of the spirit. Words came to me,
unincumbered—words, hitherto unknown to me!—burning—
burning and bright!—Is it eloquence? It is not
the eloquence of the Indian—no—no! There is some
new and painful inspiration within me, unknown to the
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nation of red men. I began—did I not tremble? I knew
not what to say—only farewell, perhaps—and a blessing
or two—and now!—why, I could write forever, now.
Why is this? oh, lady, teach me, what are my duties?
whither shall I go? Our religion tells me that we, oh,
forgive me!—that we are apart forever, and ever. Must
this be? Is there no escape? none? Then what have I
to live for? I dare not meet Loena. I cannot meet thee.
The spirit of my fathers—the mighty of old, go by me
now, unheeded. No longer hold I the sublime communion
of my youth, with them that have departed. Why
am I thus prostrated, abject? speak, woman, for thou
art the cause—thou!—yea, in desperation, I declare it—
here! here!—on my death bed—in the wilderness—in
the very sanctuary and presence of Jehovah, I do declare,
that, thou lovely and perilous one!—thou alone,
art my death, and my destruction.
I am very faint—very. I know not what I have
written. Leaf after leaf have I torn from thy book, till
there is not another left, upon which something of
thy own dear thought is not visible. I can write no
more. Farewell! oh, farewell!—whither shall I go?
what will become of me?—Elvira—`cuidado—aguarde---
Lœna!'
Harold.
He stopped, overcome with his emotions—then enclosed
the protrait of himself—folded the letter—
charged his pistol—thrust the book and the letter into
his pocket, and was departing; when it occurred to
him, that he might find a bow and arrow, such as were
hung upon the walls of the cabin, of use, in conveying
the letter. He took one down, therefore, and sick and
wandering as he was, returned upon his steps.
eaf291v1.n2[2] This incident is so like one in the Pirate, that we feel it our
duty to protect the author from the charge of plagariasm, by stating
the fact, that the manuscript of Logan was in our hands, long before
the Pirate appeared. Publishers.
-- 167 --
CHAPTER X.
`And art thou, dearest, changed so much?
To meet my eye—yet mock my touch!
`A long—long kiss—a kiss of youth and love,
And beauty—all concentrating, like rays,
Into one focus, kindled from above;
Such kisses as belong to early days,
Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move,
And the blood's lava!—and the pulse, a blaze!
Each kiss a heart-quake!' — * * *
`No more—no more—oh, never more on her
The freshness of the heart shall fall like dew.'
`Oime, voi mi amate?
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
Oh, who hath not felt, in the short experience of his
youth, the trembling, damp, chilly relaxation of some
hand that grasped his, in dissolution—and the sick,
sick yielding of the fingers, as they strove to cling, yet
a little longer, to something that had life and substance
in it? who hath not felt a like moisture and chilliness
upon his heart?—the sweat of death? and, who hath
not? no matter how short may have been his bright
and blessed, or weary and wasting pilgrimage, upon
this earth—who hath not leant over some dear one,
with her swimming dark eyes uplifted, meekly and patiently
to his—not in supplication—not in entreaty—
not even in hope—but knowing that no help was near—
that prayer was vain—that death was approaching,
and reluctant to depart, only because her beloved was
near her? who hath not, at some period of the shortest
life, felt these melancholy, mournful feelings?—who
hath not stood, and bowed, and wept with desolate fervour
over the face that he loved?—seen it collapse and
fall under the frightful touches of mortality?—remembering
how he leant over it, when it heaved with the
last effort of expiring life and affection—and remembering
also, oh, God! with heart breaking distinctness,
all the endearment and tenderness of the past * *
hallowed and innocent pressures * * * tones of gentleness
* * * * tremulous kisses— * * * * *
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half-shut eyes—* * * * Father of mercies, why are we so
tortured, at such seasons? why are not our senses shut
and sealed? our memories palsied? But no—no—no!
`Thy will be done!'
And who hath not, in the weeping, vital reluctance
of his heart, fallen down as the beloved face grew dimmer
and dimmer, and waned to blankness in his gaze,
in utter prostration and despair—cursing himself, and
the light, and almost blaspheming his Maker—himself,
for his impotency, and his Maker, for his unmerciful
dispensation!
Oh, how many are there?—how many, who, could
they bear to speak of the desolation that filled them,
from the crown of their head, to the sole of their feet,
would tell you that it was, as if all sense, all movement,
and all animation had left them, while the faint
kisses grew fainter, and fainter, of the mouth whereon
they dwelt in weeping and terrour? `Father, forgive
them, they know not what they do.' Thou hast endowed
them with a sensibility that destroys itself:—a nature
that, being exhausted, forgets:—the agonizing capabilities
of love are too selfish—too impious. When the object
of our idolatry is blotted, we would blot out the
world; but the very violence and desperation of our
grief are its speediest remedies. And then, the exquisite
vitality of remembrance, who would exchange it,
with all its thrilling, quivering nerves, for torpor and insensibility?
We think of her whom we have lost. We
see the hectick upon her cheek—the preternatural
temptation of her lips—the delicate transparency of
her forehead, when the blue tinctured veins grow bluer
with the changing of her thought. She is all over
pulse, from head to foot—and the unearthly brightness
of her eyes is upon us—we think of them—dwell upon
them, until we weep, and are relieved.
Such were the feelings of Harold. He had, for it was
the same to him—he had seen his loved one—dead—
dead to him—yea, worse, for she was another's. There
was, now no hope in futurity for him! He could not
reclaim her in the skies. Nay, he would not dare to
meet her there. It was guilt here, to think of her,
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[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
would it be less there, to approach her? Yea, he was
more incurably, helplessly forlorn than if he had felt
her dying breath upon his bosom. Then, there were a
tender melancholy—ten thousand fearful remembrances,
to sooth and subdue him—to win him into tears.
Now, he dared not weep. It were a sin to weep now.
Who will condemn Harold? Let him who would not
rather see his beloved in her shroud, than in the arms
of another—let him cast the first stone.
`But one way—one way on earth, is left to me,'
said he, as he meditated aloud upon his path. `I cannot
forget her. To speak of her would be death to me.
My head is strangely disordered, at the thought of her
name. `But—' and he trod more loftily with the sublime
conception—`I will emancipate myself—my
countrymen!—be a hero—a great and good man, and,
when we meet again—(he faltered—faltered in the untrodden
solitude—and blushed)—`she shall be proud
of the Indian boy.'
With thoughts like these, he pursued his way, his
godlike nature all in commotion, toward the dwelling
that he had abandoned. With the elevation of his
thought, his language and walk held correspondence.
The solitude ministered to him. He mused liked a giant,
for he felt like one. There had always been an unstudied,
natural, masculine energy in his talk, which had
never failed to produce in the hearer, a peculiar promptitude
and vigour of reply—a quick, vehement, breathing;
but had he been heard now, as he trod onward alone,
through the wilderness, communing with his own destiny,
he would have been avoided—none would have replied,
and none would have breathed in his way. The
very thought of his soul, with every transition and
change, though rapid and brief as light, could be foreseen
upon his countenance.—The movements, within
and without, were simultaneous.
He has returned. It is evening. He is watching the
light of yonder apartment. It is dim as twilight. Is it
a sick chamber? Is it hers? His heart knocked against
his ribs, and grew suddenly still. Can it be hers? The
thought was too painful for suspense. He bounded over
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the garden wall, forgetful of all precaution, in his anxiety
to obtain a view, from some one of the nearer buildings
or trees. A large mastiff set upon him immediately,
without noise or threat. Harold had no time to
soothe the terrible animal—He leaped backward, and
drew his pistol—He fired—the dog uttered a low growl,
and came limping towards him. Harold leaped upon
the wall, directly in full view of the window. A bullet
whistled by him, and a bell instantly rang an alarm.
The drums of the garrison beat. The windows were
closed, and lights were seen hurrying hither and thither,
in all directions, over the house. He heard a gate open
behind him, and voices approaching.—It was too late
to return. The guard were undoubtedly alarmed—the
whole town was in commotion, and he would not be
taken for ten thousand lives.
One desperate chance remained. He leaped from the
wall, threw aside his bow and arrows, dashed
through the summer-house, ran up stairs, and opened
the door of his own room, with the hope of escaping
pursuit for a while, there—it was empty, but he had
not time to shut it; the enraged mastiff was at his heels,
in silence, still—what should he do?—He drove his
sword through and through him, and nailed him to the
floor. It was with pain that he did it, for the poor creature
knew him at last, and actually turned about, with
the sword cutting his vitals, and licked the feet of Harold.
Harold shuddered. That dog had been his friend
more than once—more than once, in battle, and in hunting,
had saved him in imminent peril. Harold had loved
the dog, and his heart grew big as he thought of the
fatality that seemed to assail all that he loved, and all
that loved him. For a moment, all considerations of
personal safety were forgotten, and he could have said,
as a woman has since been made to say:
`I never loved a tree nor flower
But 'twas the first to fade away;
I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its full, dark eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me—it was sure to die.'
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But he was soon aroused to a painful sense of his
situation. The noise of pursuit approached. The bay
of dogs, blood hounds, upon the track of their fellow—
voices—and iron heels. What should he do? Throw
himself before the door, and battle to the last gasp
with his pursuers, while he could stand or sit—treat
them, his own soldiers, perhaps, like mortal foes? or
should he call upon the lady Elvira to save him?—
The thought scorched his brain. What! sneak to a woman's
bed-chamber!—His sword is plucked out forcibly
from the weltering animal, and he stands upon
guard. Now, wo to them that approach! they are on the
stair-case. The dogs are held back. A door opens.—
By the light, he sees—yes, gracious heaven! it is! it is!
lady Elvira, rising from a sofa.—Has the noise just
alarmed her? She is alone. Her features are agitated—
Traces of weeping are upon her cheek. She is approaching.
What! shall he stay here, and blast her fame forever?
no—what blindness and infatuation! He closes his door—
bolts it—piles the furniture against it—throws up the
sash—vaults out upon the piazza—passes her window,
throws in the paper—she shrieks, and he is gone!—
the noise of his retreat is heard, but the dogs cannot
follow him. He is safe. Occasionally a shot rings after
him, and a spent ball strikes, now and then, among the
branches over his head. But he is safe.
He pauses. Shall he pursue his way? or shall he
climb this tree? will he not be safer here, until the heat
of the chace be over? He mounts it—a nearer one in a
higher situation, will answer all his purposes of concealment
better, and enable him to watch the movement
of his pursuers. He stretches his sabre before him—
proceeds with all the wily craftiness of his Indian nature,
until he finds a tree just without the wall, far,
far, from the sound of the dogs, and firing, which are
now heard, at intervals, along the river path.
He is now among the topmost branches, completely
sheltered from observation. He sees the house all in
commotion. The alarming search continues just below
him. Whose chamber is that? it is his own;—those
dark and awe-struck faces, in consultation, are assembled
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about the poor dog. They turn him over. They observe
the wound in the floor. They huddle together,
and cast their agitated glances about. What! do they
fear that the arm which could drive a poniard through
a plank, is near them?
Another group pass, in loud and clamorous outcry,
with lights, directly under his feet. Every human being
that he sees is familiar to him, yet he dare not
speak—his life is hunted—may be taken—and yet he
must not open his lips. He is to fall, if he do fall,
self immolated. They talk of Indians—hark! an exclamation
of horrour breaks from them, all at once! What
have they found?—His bow and arrow. Their terrours
are confirmed. `The Indians!—the Indians!' they cry:
it is re-echoed wildly from the house—`the Indians!
the Indians!'—
The lady—He had heard her shriek. Might she not
have fainted? He almost leaped from the tree, at the
thought. He descended instantly, and mounted another,
from which, through the partly opened shutters,
he could see the whole interior of her room. The light
is removed—a shadow, as of one tossing her arms, is
seen upon the walls. He leans forward—further—further—
the branch yields—snaps—and he is only saved
from death by an intervening branch. A worse fate attends
him, for a moment; his remaining pistol went off
in the fall. The sound is heard, in the absence of the
younger servants, by the old butler, who comes out
with a light, and looks cautiously about. Harold is
afraid to breathe, afraid to make any exertions for his
safety, and yet, every moment may be his last, as he
hangs suspended only by a fold in his dress. The old
man at length returns, and Harold is left to reinstate
himself. Hardly has he done it, when the window
opens, and Elvira, herself, appears! His heart rises in
his throat. She leans out, and looks eagerly around,
holding somewhat in her hand—she waves her handkerchief—
her handkerchief! no, it is a letter. He is
near enough to be heard—the faintest whisper, it appeared
to him, could reach her. He whispered. How
greatly he was deceived! Such a faint tremulous sound
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would not have been heard, amid the sternest solitude,
in its most awful silence. He moves—now—now!—
her eyes are toward the tree. Does she see him? It
was impossible that she should, and yet, Harold could
hardly forbear reaching out his hands to her.
“Lady”—he articulates.—The sound would have
been audible only to love—she heard it,—coloured—
withdrew—but stood gazing upon the tree. Harold
shook the branches. She trembled and clasped her
hands—stood irresolute for a moment—snatched her
lute, and touched the only air that ever had appeared
to affect him. A pause. She waited the answer—
some answer, to convince her that it was Harold:—
he repeated the closing words of each stanza—“to
thee, love,” in the faintest intelligible sound. It was
an echo.
Enough! a paper is suddenly folded, and falls fluttering
under the tree. He descends—snatches it up—
exchanges one salutation—The window is shut—and
he is satisfied—happy.
Behold him again—once more—in his cabin. He
stopped not, rested not on the way;—except once, for
a single moment, when he thought that he heard a
footstep, and saw, for a single moment, a diminutive
shadow, apparently tracking him. It was near the town—
and he attributed the appearance to the delusion of
his terrour. He has forgotten it now.
The door is secure. A fire of dry leaves is blazing
before him—and he prepares to read. The note is already
open in his hand—why is his hand upon his
pistol?—why rises he so slowly?—is he listening? Has
he been pursued? A hand is upon the door. It shakes.
“A wild beast perhaps,' says Harold;—yet he feels
an invincible repugnance to fire, until he is assured that
it is. The whole cabin shakes—the door yields—
a colossal figure stands before him. He fires. Now,
for the first time, he discovers that his pistols are unloaded.
He draws his sabre. The spectre turns, and
stalks sullenly away. Harold has no power to follow.
Why did he not cleave it down? He could not. His
blood was chilled—his arm was paralyzed. He could
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as soon have slain his own father, as lift his hand, in
the presence of this tremendous shadow. What was
he to think? was the cabin, like the tree, haunted?
“Come what, come will,” cried he, at last, “I will
not be disturbed again. I will read this note, though
the Arch fiend himself stand before me.”
He read as follows.
“Madman!—That motto has betrayed thee. Thy
presumption shall be punished. Canst thou believe
that I—I—rash boy, I can hardly bring myself to write
the word—love thee! No—it is time that thou shouldst
know the truth. How bitterly it makes me repent of
my unguardedness. The picture is thine. The motto
may, with justice be applied to thee. It should be engraven
upon thy front. But why did I preserve it?
Why did I finish this which thou hast sent me? Because—
and let my words fall upon thee like a thunder
bolt—and consume thee to ashes, for thy presumption!—
Because they resembled one whom I have loved—
and lost; but not thee—oh no—it was not thee! He
was a man.
“Harold! what fiend possesses thee! I cannot find
words to rebuke thee, as I ought; I could even treat
thee kindly yet—for his sake,—for the love of him—
to whom thou bearest such an unaccountable resemblance—
but—I dare not. Therefore—let me never
see thee, or hear from thee more; go from me, far
as winds and waters can carry thee, and take my blessing
with thee, only on this condition—that thou never,
never utterest my name again:—my eternal malediction
else.”
E.
Harold was stupified with amazement. His hair
rose upon his head. In the first paroxysm of his wrath,
he tore his locks, and dashed himself upon the ground.
But these transports were brief. His terrible nature
arose in arms, at the cry of his soul. His countenance
blackened with indignation.
He knelt down. His sobs shook the bed. He became
composed—stern—stern as adamant. “By the
living God!' he cried—“I will be revenged!” He arose.
He rent and scattered the cabin—its arms—its
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furniture—like a whirlwind about him—with his sabre, he
hewed down the young ash trees over the fountain—
he choaked that up with huge rocks, and, having completed
the work of desolation, turned, and struck into
the midnight forest, bare headed, and silent as death.
On a high precipice at a distance, under the star light,
a tall figure stood beckoning to him. He beckoned to
it in return, and pursued it, as it walked over the cliff,
huge and portentous.
Three nights after the alarm, as the lady Elvira was
about retiring, she saw a handful of rubbish lying
near the bed. She touched it with her foot, and, at the
same moment, spoke to Martha.
Martha came, and as she was picking it up, for it
appeared to be composed of scraps of paper, she kept
protesting, that, not a living soul had been in the room
since she swept it, except her mistress and herself, and
she was—“Bless me, what a face!—why!—as I live—
it looks like Mr. Harold himself—as he used to
look,” she exclaimed! reaching a scrap to her mistress—
“Is'nt it, madam—the very image of him—mercy
on us! how pale you look!”
Elvira was pale. Here was the picture—the book—
and her own letter, torn into ten thousand pieces!—
She trembled so that she could hardly stand. Who
did this? And where was he? She shuddered as she
threw her eyes around the room. Already had her
conscience reproached her, bitterly, for her cruelty to
young Harold. Already had she begun to relent. Had
his apparition stood before her, she could not have
been more terrified—or more fully assured, that some
tremendous evil had befallen him. And now did she
reproach herself again, for the haughty spirit that had
destroyed him. She need not have answered his love—
she need not have acknowledged her own—for she
did love him—but she might have treated him generously,
and sealed his heart and lips with kindness—
not with death.
The incident of the torn papers was at last entirely
forgotten, or only referred to, by some accidental
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remark now and then; but her anxiety to learn what had
become of Harold became insupportable. About this
time Martha happened to be taken sick, and her place
was supplied by the old housekeeper, who was deaf, and
almost blind. She was a good nurse, and had prescribed
to her mistress just before she retired, a cordial,
whose exhilirating effects were instantly visible in her
lady. Her eyes sparkled, and her colour came and
went, and it was long before she was able to compose
herself sufficiently for sleep.
She dreamt. The prayer of her whole life was answered.
She held the husband of her heart to her
bosom. How she knew not—where, she knew not,
but she was satisfied. Her beloved had arisen, torn
asunder all her engagements, forgiven her, and embraced
her, in the sight of heaven and earth. The
tears streamed from her eyes. Her sobs of delight
and thankfulness were audible. She even strove to
awake—but no, no—it was no dream!—How could she
think it a dream for a single moment! She resigned
herself therefore, to the intoxication of her thought,
without reserve. She felt his warm lips upon her
cheek—his breath—his affectionate caressing—and
she was happy.
A sound awoke her. A man was standing at her
bed side—his face buried in his hands. In the first
tumult of her heart, bewildered and dreaming yet, she
reached out her arms to him—saying “my beloved!—
He moved not—answered not;—they fell lifeless upon
the covering before her. She continued gazing upon
him, however, with a fixed look—gradually becoming
more and more piteous and distracted, as a horrible
apprehension of the truth broke upon her. She put
her hands out, once, more timidly toward him,—and
articulated, faintly, a name—“husband! my own
dear husband,” His hands fell. She shrieked; and
fainted.
It was Harold!
He hesitated—he drew his dagger. He knew
not if it were not better to consummate his horrible
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guilt at once, and let out her heart's blood upon the
spot. But no—no! His own then!—the point was already
in the air. He relented. Was he not sufficiently
avenged? Would he damn her, and himself, forever
and ever? Could he cleanse her of all pollution, he
would have done it, gladly, gladly, now that his fell
purpose was accomplished. There she lay, before him—
lifeless—utterly lifeless. He threw himself by her
side—kissed her pale lips—her forehead, and called
down the curses of heaven upon his own head. She
awoke--she opened her eyes. The light of death was
in them. She shuddered, and repulsed him—and her
eylids shut slowly again. He was desperate. He rang
the bell; and it was only, when he heard an approaching
footstep, that he reflected on the consequences of
his being found in the chamber. Dead or alive, it
would be more than death, to the haughty Elvira. For
this reason alone, he determined to go. He threw
open the long blinds upon the walk, stepped out, and
was gone—
Onward he goes—behold him now! bare headed—
almost naked—unarmed—and helpless. A child might
pinion him, hand and foot. The leaves rustle as he approaches,
and he gazes upon them, with a vacant eye,
as if they were whispering at him. The wild beasts
pass him, and avoid him. He neither sits nor sleeps.
A shadow is at his side, mocking and leering at him.
He turns upon it, now and then, and shakes his head
at it, reproachfully, like a heart-broken creature; but
his countenance never changes—vacancy and distraction
are only legible there. Sometimes he pauses for a moment—
thrusts his hand into his bosom—and plays with
the ivory tablet which he has so long carried there—
attempting, with his fingers, to pull apart the glued
leaves, but without any other appearance of consciousness,
than the loathing, which his countenance expresses,
when he touches his tongue the second time with
the same finger, and leaves some of his father's blood upon
it. But tis the taste only, not the reflection, that convulses
his features. He dashes the tablet from him.
Onward he goes. Another spectre, as wild and
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haggard as himself, is tracking his footsteps. He treads in
a circle. He cannot pass beyond the scene of his guilt.
Is it that the Almighty holds him, and that each revolution
brings him nearer to punishment? He emerges
from the wood: he utters a wild cry, and dashes again
into the thickest of the wilderness. Break out where he
will, there is the accursed chamber, with the window
open before him, and the spectre of a man continually
stealing forth.
Somebody is before him. He recovers for a moment;
feels for his arms—they are gone. Where are they?
He knows not. Is he to fall a prey here, in his helplessness?
He would proceed. An awful voice commands
him to stop.
A diminutive old man is in his way, with bright,
sparkling eyes—a high, bald forehead, and the thinnest
gray hair in the world.
`What art thou?' said the crazed wanderer.
`Harold!'
Harold started at the sound of his own name. `What
hast thou done?' said the old man.
Harold felt like Cain, when he heard the voice of
the Almighty walking in the garden. His knees smote
together—He fell upon his face.
`Arise!' cried the voice. `Arise, unhappy!—henceforth,
thou art a wanderer. Go forth. Thou art accursed
forever, and ever—thou and thine—thy death shall be
a death of violence!'
The voice ceased. Harold felt something pass him.
He lifted up his face. The old man had gone.
Where had he seen him before?—somewhere, he
was sure that he had, and that he was a prophet of
evil, and had been from his cradle. He began to relapse.
Could it then be known? had he not gone secretly
about the work of peril? had he not laboured to
conceal his preparation? Had not all hell favoured
him? where was the servant? why did not the lady
awake? what infernal magick had bound her senses so
long, so fatally?—and yet, could it be that she did
not know me?—oh, heaven and earth!—let me not
blaspheme her—she thought me her husband—her
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husband! curse him! curse him! accursed be he, and
his!'
`And yet,'—he paused—the smile of Lucifer, himself,
glittered for a moment upon his agitated, dark,
front—`and yet, what did she worse than the Roman
Lucretia—worse! what did she so bad? She should be
consecrate forever! She of Rome, yielded—but she,
who has driven me mad—oh, God! she is innocent,
alike, in thought, and deed. She of Rome, chose to be
guilty, rather than be suspected.[3] But she! she!—oh,
Elvira, forgive me! forgive me!—by my soul, had I
ten thousand lives, I would give them all, to restore
thee, for one blessed moment, to thine immaculate purity.—
And then, I would slay thee, with mine own hand—
send thee to heaven, spotless, for my revenge!'
eaf291v1.n3[3] This is not the raving of a madman. It is time that the hateful
morality of that fable (of Lucretia) were trodden in the dust. What
is her virtue other than the virtue of appearances? She could have
died virtuous. She refused—and was guilty with a prince, rather
than be suspected, with a slave. Compare that modesty, with the
modesty of the Bible. Read the story of Susannah and the elders.
The cases are parallel to a wonderful extent—which would you that
your daughter—your wife, or your sister, should resemble?
CHAPTER XI.
Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted;
His warm blood, the wolf shall lap,
Ere life be parted.
`She loved, and was beloved. She adored,
And she was worshipped, after nature's fashion;
Their intense souls, into each other poured,
If souls could die—had perished in that passion.'
Aus den augen, aus den sinn.
Lontan dagli occhi—lontan dal cuore.
`Anglice—out of sight—out of mind!—
—And scarcely heaved her heart:
Her eye alone proclaimed—we will not part!'
Was this mortal agony to endure forever?—forever,
too, amid the magnificent solemnity of night, and
solitude? It could not be. Ten thousand bodies might
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have been shattered to dust; but the spirit, the immortal
spirit, fed with such aliment, abroad in such scenery,
would have survived it all, and haunted the
spot, forever, in awe and admiration.
Months and months, however, Harold wandered
among the detestable and obscure things of the desert;
his flesh was lacerated—he was sore and bleeding, from
head to foot—his hair was torn and matted, and nightly
he battled with the wolf or the bear, in his desperation,
unarmed, but with the branches of some uptorn
tree, for a morsel of its execrable food. His living was
a continual miracle. The following circumstances
gave, however, a new turn to his mind. He was sitting
upon the extreme point of a jutting cliff, of a cold wintry
morning; it was a favourite place with him. The
sun broke out all at once over his head, and the water
below rippled like fire. He was tempted to plunge
headlong: he half rose for the purpose, when his attention
was diverted from the thought, by the sound of a
rifle, shot among the near hills. The next moment, an
elk broke covert below him, in the mist and shadow, and
clattered over the precipice, at his feet. Shot after shot
rang after her. She falls. A human creature, indistinctly
seen, stands over her. He has felled her with his
club. Was he one of the huntsmen? no, for he drags
her away, as he would a rabbit, to his den. Is this the
spectre that has haunted him so long? Does it come
abroad in day light?'
With a brief return of reason, Harold determined
to pursue it, and was descending for the purpose, when
he saw the dim apparition of several hunters, with
their dogs in advance, as they turned a jutting rock at
a little distance, stop, and while one of their number
pointed at him, enter into earnest conversation. Their
purpose was soon visible. Their object was to make
a prisoner of him. They were Indians, and appeared
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to him, probably, by some optical delusion, of gigantick
dimensions. He determined to avoid them; leaped
down two successive crags, and came, suddenly, upon a
young Indian, who instantly levelled his rifle at him.
Harold caught it, struck him to the earth, and pursued
his way. The Indian arose, and hurled his tomahawk
at his head. Harold answered with a bullet, and brought
him from the cliff, headlong, into the water below. At
the sound of the shot, three other huntsmen ran toward
him. There was no escape, but down the precipice,
and down it, he was going, when his course was
arrested for a moment, by seeing the same extraordinary
being, who, he supposed, had visited him twice in
his cabin, emerge from his cave, and go toward them.
The Indians threw down their rifles in dismay—one
prostrated himself, and the others fled. Harold was intimidated—
awe-struck; for a while, he looked upon the
party—they vanished in the rolling vapour, upon which
the sun at that instant, broke, with inconceivable splendour.
Weary of adventure, and once more seriously
determined to live, and atone for the fearful transgressions
of his hand, Harold now turned his steps, resolutely,
toward the tribe of the Logans.
`I will go there. They will welcome me, wretched
and miserable as I am,' said he, `one, at least, will
weep for me, and forgive me: yet, oh, how shall I ever
be able to meet her!—that countenance of love—that
dark, melancholy eye—that look of innocence, and serenity!
'
After a toilsome journey of some weeks, he arrived
at the village of the Logan tribe. A flag floated from
the publick wigwam, a signal that they were in council;
it was a red flag too. His heart leaped in his bosom—
they were preparing for battle!
He was recognished afar off—an aged warrior, and
two younger ones approached, with their ferocious,
shaggy dogs, who, snuffing the blood of the stranger,
were only to be restrained from throttling him, by main
force. Their eyes, blood-shot, and fiery, rolled incessantly
upon him, and as often as they felt their necks
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loose for a moment, their hair rose upon their fronts,
and they gnashed and snapped their teeth at him. The
manner of the old man was cold and imposing; that of
the younger ones, irritating, and haughty. Harold felt
his blood heating, and turned proudly, and sternly away.
Violent hands were laid upon him. The council broke
up, tumultuously, and a number of young warriors,
their eyes flashing fire, rushed upon him, with uplifted
tomahawks.
Harold folded his arms, and turned upon them, undismayed—
undisturbed. They felt the rebuke, and faltered.
The hands of them had held him, relaxed. He
broke suddenly from their hold—leaped backward,
and drew his sabre.
Twenty tomahawks were raised; twenty arrows
drawn to their head. Yet stood Harold, stern and collected—
at bay—parleying only with his sword. He
waved his arm. Smitten with a sense of their cowardice,
perhaps, or by his great dignity, more awful
for his very youth, their weapons dropped, and their
countenances were uplifted upon him, less in hatred,
than in wonder.
The old men gathered about him--he leant upon his
sabre. Their eyes shone with admiration--such heroick
deportment, in one so young—a boy! so intrepid!
so prompt! so graceful! so eloquent, too!—for, knowing
the effect of eloquence, and feeling the loftiness of his
own nature, the innocence of his own heart, the character
of the Indians for hospitality, and their veneration
for his blood, Harold dealt out the thunder of his
strength to these rude barbarians of the wilderness, till
they, young and old, gathering nearer and nearer in
their devotion, threw down their weapons at his feet,
and formed a rampart of locked arms and hearts about
him, through which his eloquence thrilled and lightened,
like electricity. The old greeted him with a lofty
step, as the patriarch welcomes his boy from the triumph
of far off battle; and the young clave to him,
and clung to him, and shouted in their self-abandonment,
like brothers round a conquering brother.
Harold soon discovered the cause of their
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convocation. They were that moment meditating a war upon
a distant tribe, (one of the Six nations) for the murder
of Logan; and there having been some unaccountable
connexion between the last mysterious mission of Harold,
and the death of Logan, they had begun to think
darkly of Harold. Many light circumstances, too light
even for the observation of Indians at another time,
were now recalled, one after the other—dreams, omens,
predictions, voices, to confirm their suspicion. But
that which weighed especially with them, was the tale
of a hunter, remarkable for his serious, stern, insensibility
to all the terrours of superstition, who related,
with a continual shudder, which gave his narration
tremendous effect on those who knew the constitution
of the man, that he had lately encountered, at twilight,
in the deepest recesses of their hunting ground, near
the haunted tree, the slaughtered Logan, himself! that
he was wrapped in the habiliments of war—angry—
bleeding, and impatient! This had been the subject of
their deliberation, and they had nearly determined, on
the first sight of Harold, to sacrifice him to the terrible
manes of his own father. But Harold's bearing saved
him: and ere another moon, after several exhibitions
of his power and activity, he was chosen for the leader
of this expedition against the tribe, to which the murderers
of his father belonged: a tribe, whose bloody
depredation, had been incessant for years. But their
cup was now full.
They demanded a speech, as they stood, with an awful
solemnity, in a group, on the morning of their departure,
with all the old men, and women, and children,
encompassing them. It was a fierce, cold day, but
every human creature stood erect against the wind and
rain that drove upon them, bare-headed, and almost
naked—the fire that burned within them, glowing at
their eyes.
`Warriors!' he said, `Brethren!—(their tomahawks
were brandished simultaneously, at the sound of his
terrible voice, as if preparing for the onset.) His
tones grew deeper, and less threatening. `Brothers!
let us talk together of Logan! Ye, who have known
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him, ye aged men! bear ye testimony to the deeds of
his strength. Who was like him? Who could resist him?
Who may abide the hurricane in its volley? Who may
withstand the winds that uproot the great trees of the
mountain? Let him be the foe of Logan. Thrice, in one
day, hath he given battle. Thrice, in one day, hath he
came back, victorious. Who may bear up against the
strong man? the man of war? Let them that are young,
hear me. Let them follow the course of Logan. He
goes in clouds and whirlwind —in the fire, and in the
smoke. Let them follow him.
`Warriors; Logan was the father of Harold!'
They fell back in astonishment, but they believed
him; for Harold's word was unquestioned, undoubted
evidence, to them that knew him.
They approached! they locked hands!—they uplifted
them to the skies!—the pipe of peace was broken over
their heads, and the ashes given to the wind! The wampum
was torn, and buried, and trampled on, where they
stood! They lifted all their voices, together! They
chanted the tremendous hymn of their tribe, altogether,
at the utmost pitch of the human voice! The ceremony
was concluded. Harold stood over the fire, and the
oldest man among them pronounced his malediction,
word by word, on their foe, as the scalp of their greatest
enemy, blackened, and crisped, in the flame.
`Oh, Logan! oh, my father!' cried Harold, (as the
scalp dropped upon the live embers, and shrivelled, and
curled, in the offensive smoke that issued from it, and
the quick sparkles that it emitted, shot upwards, even
to the elevation of his hands.—The old men shook their
heads, and turned away their countenances, mournfully
from him.) `O, Logan! oh, my father! thou wast terrible
in fight! Be thou with us! Thy son—thy children,
move forward to avenge thee. Be thou with us!'
The hatchets rang. The last arrows, with scarlet
plumage, flew upon the wind, toward the habitation of
their enemy; and the circling trees around, seared by
the whirled tomahawks, gave terrifying evidence to
the kind of combat that was to follow—no quarter?—
none!
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They departed. Harold's blood thrilled. This was
what he wanted—this!—it was employment, occupation
to his spirit. Like the Spartan, battle to him was pastime:
its fierce inquietudes, and `stern alarms' musick,
and rapture.
They fell upon their enemy, at midnight. Not one,
not one! man, woman, nor child, was left to tell the
tale—not one! They swept over them like a whirlwind
of fire: and the dust of their skeletons, the cinders of
their tribe, were scattered to the four corners of the
earth. The depth of an American forest, and a sheet of
boundless water, reddened with the long, trailing—
flaky—storm of burning ashes, that went, in a high
wind, from the place of sacrifice.
Sudden cries were heard, as of wild beasts, in the
air—men started at the sound, and looked up, and saw
the heavens on fire! and thick smoke, driving like a
tempest, over them! `The day of judgment! The day
of judgment is come!' they cried. The noise of battle
and murder, went by, in the dreadful darkness—and
then, all above grew unutterably black—not a star was
to be seen—not a sound was to be heard. Men thought
that the skies had passed away, forever!
Harold returned. His march had been extermination.
Like the Lacedemonian, he never gave a second battle
to the same people. But how felt he? was his heart
quiet—his conscience? no!—no.—He loathed himself
more than ever, and flew for many months afterwards,
from shock, to shock; less from an appetite for blood,
than in the hope of drowning the cries of humanity
within him—the curse of innocence, was upon him—
of innocence deflowered, and perishing—He could have
lain down, and rolled in the dust—dug his own grave,
with his own fingers, to find one moment's repose.
But no—the hottest agonies beset him, night and
day—amid the tremendous repose of the region
where he trod, and the conflicting uproar of that, upon
which he speedily emerged—the empire of thunder,
and earthquake.
He forsook the council. He kept aloof from his companions.
He brooded alone, on the ways of providence.
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Nothing but disorder was visible to him. A whole
year did he thus wear away, in alternate battle, bloodshed,
and reflection. Nothing but disorder was visible
to him. But his steps were pursued; and one day, as he
was meditating alone, by a dark stream, an aged man
arose before him, as from the earth, and rebuked him.
`Thou art unhappy,' said he. `Is it not the work of
thine own hands? Thou thinkest that good and evil
are unequally distributed. Thou art wrong. I am older
than thou. I find that they are not. Who has not his
sorrow?—insupportable, at first, but light, and easy,
after a time? Look about thee—seest thou one human
being with whom thou wouldst exchange lots?'
`One, father!—yes—thousands!'
`What!—health, name, age, friends, talents—all—
in every particular?'—Harold hesitated.
`Young man, I am old now. For more than three-score
winters, I have asked that same question to the
children of sorrow and suffering; and never yet did I
find one that answered me, yes; no, never! and I have
asked it of the dying man, in his extremity. O, how
equally are good and evil distributed!'
`Father! Is this satisfactory? It is not to me. We
learn to bear our own evils; our constitution, physical,
and intellectual, learns to accommodate itself to whatever
ailment we may be visited with. This we know
in our own case, but we do not so plainly know how
our neighbour is able to bear this.'
`My son! thou hast answered thine own question.
Is not this satisfactory? why choose we our neighbour's
blessings? because we know not what drawback he may
have upon them? Why avoid we his curses? because
we know not what secret comfort he may have to counteract
their malignity. Hence our discontent? hence
our covetousness!'
`But father, is not evil abundantly more active and
efficient, than good? what is there worth living for?'
`Young man, this is shocking impiety. Is God good?
Is he wise? You shudder. He is wise. He is powerful.
He has the wisdom to plan, and the power to execute,
what he wills.'
`O, yes, his power and his wisdom, are obvious.'
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And so is his goodness! Did he delight to torment
us, could he not quicken all our senses, till our very
breathing, and seeing, and hearing, were agony?'
`He does, father, at times.'
`And why does he? Are not these symptoms of discase?—
warnings?—prohibitions?—`But why are they
necessary?—If God be so good, why afflict us with pain,
at all? why not make us perfectly happy, at once?'
`Because he does nothing, at once. It is not the
way of his providence—he acts by the simplest means:
our religion!—'
`Our religion!—who art thou?'
`A Christian, I hope.'
A Christian! a Nazarine!—leave me.'
`Never!—hear me. I command thee to hear me.'
Harold held his breath, in amazement. What was
this that dared to pursue him to his hiding-place?—that
commanded him, with the look, and emphasis of authority?—
His dazzling eyes reminded him of some that
he had seen before. He obeyed—awe-struck, and silent.
`Boy! hear me! Thou hast dared to question the
way of God. He has commissioned me to pronounce
thy condemnation. Let me proceed. He could change
all hearts, at once: he could have peopled all this earth,
at once; he could cover the face of it with trees at once,
without the preliminary growth, blossom, and budding.
But these things are contrary to his way. He is uniform—
and therefore, does he not make his creatures
perfectly happy, at once?'
`But what is thy notions of perfect happiness?
speak!'
`I know not,' said Harold. `I am appalled. I know
not with whom I am sitting.'
`Is it that of the missionary? He told thee that in
heaven, thou shouldst have every hope of thy heart,
gratified. Is this perfect happiness? no; it is the very
definition of perfect misery. What is perfect misery?
It is that situation where you have nothing to hope for.'
`Why is there any pain permitted here?—That sympathy,
patience, fortitude, tenderness, constancy, manhood,
affection, and every virtue of the human heart
may be made to appear. Were there no pain, there
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would be no suffering, no consolation, no sympathy, no
patience, no resignation, no virtue.'
`Why is any pain permitted?'
`Yes, tell me,' cried Harold, `why am I pained by
fire? why are my temples sore with the emotions of my
heart?'
`Because, if thou couldst not feel pain, thou couldst
not feel pleasure; and without feeling, thou wouldst be
consumed, piece-meal, by fire, and frost, and wounds,
before thy maturity. A timely pain warns thee of excess.
'
`Dost thou doubt the goodness of thy Father, yet?
were he not good, and kind, would he not, for he has
the power and the wisdom to do it, would he not make
the sun to scorch thee, like fire; the rain to fall upon
thee, like hot lead; It would be done, were he to quicken
thee all over with the same sensibility which shivers
in thy nerves.'
`Hear me!—It is my turn, now. I will speak!—Be
thou, man, or devil,' said Harold. `Didst thou ever
see a human being that was willing to live his life over
again—exactly as he had lived it?'
`No—never!'
`Is not that a conclusive proof, then, that evil is the
greater in human allotment?' Having said this, he buried
his face in his hands.'
`No—For we all hope to meet better luck hereafter,
than we have met, heretofore. Few of us are willing
to exchange all hope for any certainty. No man will
give up all chance of greater happiness, for a much smaller
sum of positive happiness. All men are gamblers.
They love adventure; intrigues keep them alive.'
Harold was troubled at the long silence that followed.
He lifted his head; the old man had gone. But his
lesson was never forgotten. Time and again did it recur
to him, with a bright and convincing energy, in
his subsequent temptations. Nay, it led him—it was
one of the first steps, to feel and to know that God is
good, and that, to be good, is to be happy.
Every hour, every moment, was now developing
some new power, or enlarging some old one, in the
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mind of Harold. That indefinite longing, which had
hitherto haunted him like the perfume of some unknown
flower—that he had dreamt of, and rifled
somewhere, in some brief delirium; that constant and
uneasy sensation—that yearning, for what, he knew not,
had now began to assume a healthier and more definite
character. It became ambition—virtuous ambition.
The towering and eagle-fledged spirit of Dominion
sat over him, in the far sky, and encouraged him.
But the laurel was in her hand—not the quenched thunderbolt,
smoking in blood.
He fell upon his face, and worshipped. He covered
his mouth with his hands, and wept; not like the Macedonian,
that there were no more worlds to spoil—not
like the Persian, with the imbecility of desire, when
the waves foamed in thunder over his chains; but he
wept, with the ungovernable anguish of an heroick nature—
shut out from its element—banished from the
bright sphere of its destiny—proscribed and prohibited
to unfurl its pinions in the sun—imprisoned, fettered,
chained by circumstances, and forbidden to expand, to
dilate, and to go forth, conquering, and to conquer.
The unappeasable appetite for distinction, which characterised
Harold in his childhood, in his youth—that
distempered longing—had now hardened and consolidated,
into a sort of religious sentiment, pervading his
whole heart and soul, with vitality. Loftier, and worthier
designs took possession of him. Brutal force, the
reputation of the warriour, he no longed courted, or coveted;
nay, he derided both; but he burnt, phrenzied,
with an unquenchable ardour for intellectual distinction.
But how to obtain it?—how? `all things are possible,
' thought Harold, to him that perseveres—to him
that hath faith in himself! Is it not so? who are the
great men of this earth? who have they always been?
Men that have made themselves: men that have arisen
from humiliation, as from the bed of death—with a
new aspect!—men that have so risen, and shaken off
all the attributes of mortality, and put forth their power
with a godlike and uninterrupted energy. Who are
the rich? not they that were born so. Who are the sceptred
ones? They, whose fathers were not born so. Is it
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not given to man, then, to fashion his own destiny. `It
is—it is!' thought Harold. `It is! and henceforth, be
mine, of my own fashioning!'
A new and strange confidence arose within him. He
was all alone, by a mighty waterfall. The everlasting
thunder of the deep, was about him. The firmament
trembled—and the earth shook, as it were, with a presence—
whose presence?
Harold felt, and the sublime consciousness of immortality
opened upon, in the darkness of this holy
place, with all its dignity, and terrour, and obligation—
he felt that his was that presence! and that all that
he heard, and saw, was in homage to it. And why? had
not God, God himself, the great and good God, fashioned
him, in his own image, and given him dominion
over all things, animate, and inanimate?'
`I will be good!' said Harold. The words burst,
like an earthquake, from his heart. He was overcome
by the genius of the place. His soul brake her silence,
and spoke aloud. He continued.
`I will bow myself down to thee. I will yield myself
to the strong impulse that agitates me. Henceforth,
all that is high in my nature shall be cherished,
and sublimated: all that is base, shall be returned to the
earth. I yield myself up to thee. I was born, yea, I feel
it, feel it in every vein, and artery, from the crown
of my head, to the sole of my foot, that I was born for
intellectual supremacy.'
Wearied with the exhausting energy of his meditation,
Harold sat, or rather leaned, against a lofty, broken,
and greenly decorated rock. Its castellated appearance,
the battlements at the summit, over which, the
waters rushed in one sheet of light, thundering all
the way, gave a sudden and fierce elevation to his
thought. He clapped his hands, and shouted in the
rapture of his heart. The rock trembled. The tears
gushed from his eyes. He could have stood upon its
summit, and wrestled with a giant!
It was too much—he yielded. Reaction came back
upon him. He staggered, and sunk, at the foot of the
rock. How like the course of Ambition!
New and calmer visions opened upon him—A more
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temperate nature, like that of the young bridegroom, not
the gladiator. He awoke from his trance, with the feeling
of consummated enjoyment—delicious, and wild, but
holy, mysterious, and subduing. He slept—but in his
sleep, he dreamed a dream, as he lay, deafened by the
tumult, and drenched by the spray of the cataract. He
heard a loud voice. He stood upon the smooth ocean.
The voice came upward. All beneath his way was
transparent, and flashing with ten thousand coloured,
and changeable irradiations. The treasures of the whole
world lay under his feet; gems, and gold, and shipwrecked
thrones, were there. But, distinctly visible as
they were, almost within his reach, such was the beautiful
and perfect clearness of the water, he could not
approach them! The ocean was like a solid diamond,
with precious things bedded in its centre.
He strove to plunge. In vain—he was beaten back,
and stunned with the violence of the shock. `What!'
he cried, in his agony—`are they all, all diadems and
sceptres!—yet all inaccessible to me! will no price buy
them?—not my body—my immortal soul! They are near,
very near to me, and yet, oh, at what an immeasurable
distance! O, that this chrystal were unlocked! that
I might break asunder the glittering adamant that encrusts
them, and, at once, at the peril of body and soul,
rifle and spoil the boundless dominions below me!'
The loud voice was uttered again. And lo! the
chrystal was shattered! Harold trod, as he had desired,
among the glittering fragments of armour, and thrones,
and jewels, and diadems, and light. What were they all?
DUST AND ASHES!—the very dust—the very dust of
which the vilest things are compounded! A flaming jewel
lay before him. He touched it. It crumbled, and
grew dark. Another!—it dissolved while he held it,
like the ice that departs in a vapour!
`It is a dream! all, all a dream,' thought Harold,
even in his sleep: and he struggled to awake.
A sudden change followed. He was among a multitude.
All eyes were upon him. All hands were extended
toward him. He was suddenly filled with inspiration
and musick. He spoke—his language was mighty—
it flowed, and flowed forever, without effort or
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diminution. The multitude were agitated, like his own
limbs. He felt himself rising from the earth! His voice
became more and more sounding. He rose, and the
multitude arose with him. The blue sky opened, and
he entered, arm and arm, with them that he had loved
upon the earth—The spirit of Elvira passed him! She
was dead—She touched his heart with her rotten finers!
He screamed! and awoke. The echo of his scream
came back to him from the skies, with such horrible
clearness—so loud—so appalling, that the very hair
of his head stood up with affright.
He fled. It was long before he had the spirit to recall
the transactions of his dream. When he did, it
was with high encouragement. It appeared to him, a
type of the intellectual dominion, which he was one day
to hold over his fellow men.
`Let me go, and be great! But where shall I go,'
cried he, mournfully, `who will take the young Indian
by the hand, and bless him, and encourage him, and
love him?—love him! oh, who will ever love him again?
him! the destroyer! A wild cry broke from his shivering,
pale lips. The thought was distraction. `I will go,
I will go,' he cried, the impetuosity of his nature
breaking out into quick, inarticulate sounds—`I will
fly, fly to the uttermost ends of the earth. Woman as
she is, great as she is, injured as she is, I will make myself
worthy of her. She shall forgive me, bless me, love
me. Love me!' he shuddered. Her love! oh, no! it was
not for him. And yet, there was that blue eye, wrapped
in its shiny, wet lashes—that trembling, red lip—the
deep, distant musick of her voice—the reluctant yielding
of her hand, and the tremulous clinging of her very
drapery to him, as he stole upon her slumbers, and felt
the loud pulsation of her heart!—all these were in his
ears, and his eyes yet, just as, upon her pillow,
`She turned, and lay,
Her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
Like skies that rain, and lighten!'
And now—what devil raised her spirit to rebuke
him, for his unholy revenge!—now, the image of Loena
awoke in his heart. He trembled like a guilty
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thing. He dared not touch her extended hand. He
had no voice. His heart felt sick.
He remembered her. There she was! there, before
him, in the shadow of that cavern; her full orbs rivetted
upon his, just as when they parted last, with that passionate
tenderness—dark eyes doating upon diamonds,
every beam and spark reflected deeply within them—
treasured and emitted only in love! yes! there they
were, with his own dark and fiery image burning in
their very centre—just where his spirit first encountered
hers!—at home—in her own melancholy and beautiful
eyes!
`I must, I will see her!' cried Harold, unable to
endure the chiding of her apparition. She was now
journeying with a tribe towards the remote Spanish
possessions, and he knew not but that he might have
to pursue her even to Mexico. But he resolved to begin
that very hour. It was midnight, the very depth
of a starry midnight, when he departed. He stood
upon the hills. The home of his childhood was now
abandoned forever. The stars, from their blue thrones,
looked pleasantly down upon him. The whole earth,
with its covering of dewy leaves, sparkled back the
effulgence of Heaven, and he trod, like a celestial, for
awhile, in a luminous atmosphere, between heaven and
earth!—all was so noiseless! so holy! so miraculous! A
far shadowing skirt of darkness went round about the
horizon. Over that he was to pass. A tumultuous piling
of the deepest blue cloud, like a range of battlements,
with stars gleaming, like watch lights through
their loop-holes, were on yonder side of the great sky.
Through them he is to penetrate. Here he begins his
pilgrimage—here! a little lower than the angels—in
the windy musick of a midnight water, flowing on,
flowing on, through all eternity, to its solitary place,
the deep ocean—by a smooth and beautiful stream—by
the side of this, is he to begin his wandering.
He turns toward the home of his childhood. He
invokes the Great Spirit of the place. He descends to
the nearest running water. He kneels, scoops up a
handful, and throws it over his head; an awful rite that,
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on a departure like this, was not to be omitted. He listens
for the expected answer. He hears, or fancies that
he hears, a shrill cry in the firmament. His blood runs
cold. He gazes all over the heavens. Not a cloud—
not a shadow—not the shadow of a shade is to be seen.
He leaps backward! Something has passed him—he is
chilled to the heart—and see! the top of yonder blasted
pine bends for a moment, as with the weight of something
that alights from heaven. And yet, nothing is to
be seen—nothing!—was it in homage to some passing
creature of the elements? or did it stoop with the
weight of some descending shadow? Whatever might
be the cause, Harold's heart felt cold and heavy, and
he could not stir from the spot. How was he to interpret
such omens? were they accidental? were they common?—
at all times—and only heard and seen now, because
his senses, under his intense expectation, have
became more tremblingly vigilant?
He recovers, and pursues his way, oppressed, in spite
of himself, with lonely and melancholy apprehensions—
the saddest sadness of a young heart, going, for the
first time, into its solitary exile; seeing, in anticipation,
all its future life shadowed and stained by vicissitude
and misfortune, and wondering if any eyes will weep
at his departure, or brighten at his return.
Are these feelings to be wondered at? Who does not
dread to be forgotten! What is all the business of life,
even of the most insignificant, but a struggle to be remembered.
Who that parts with another, even when
that other may be indifferent to him, can patiently endure
the thought of being utterly forgotten? who can
endure it? But then, when we love, and are beloved,
how dreadfully disheartening is the belief, the knowledge,
for it is knowledge, that no matter how madly
we are loved, doated on—that we, in our turn, shall be
forgotten, forever, and forever! and that the places
which now know us shall know us no more. I speak
not of death, though death, itself, with all its foolish
terrour and pomp, is but the being forgotten—but absence,
absence, alone! A short interruption to endearment
changes the heart of the faithfulest and tenderest—
yea, even the heart of woman. And he who has
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been loved to delirium—to death—in his desolation;
who has been clung to by his beloved one, as though
life, and heaven, and blood and pulse, were all within
his touch and presence—even he—he! will soon be
forgotten, or remembered only, with a sudden and brief
contraction of the heart, as we remember those whom
we have loved, and wronged—and find no justification
for no longer loving. Oh, God! what is the love of woman!
Harold, himself, yea, Harold, the young and impetuous
boy—his heart a fountain of high hopes, even
he, he had learned that the desolation of woman, the
youngest and loveliest, the most impassioned of women,
was soon to be comforted! He had left her, and
they knelt together. He had embraced her again and
again—kissed her forehead, and her eyes—pressed the
very blood from her lips, in the agony of his delight and
terrour! blessed her! wept upon her bosom! bathed her
cheeks, her lips, and her very hands with his tears!—felt
her tremble with the pulsation of unutterable love, from
head to foot, as he held her in his arms—heard her
quick, humid, and fainting respiration, while her inarticulate
murmuring betrayed her nature, in her pure,
but passionate embrace. O, the luxury of such communion!
the dear, delicious melancholy of such parting
remembrances!
And yet—Harold had been forgotten! So he believed.
Tell me, ye, who have known what it is to press for
the first time, the half-yielding and trembling lip of
your dear one; ye, who have felt the gentle, reluctant,
heaving of her beautiful bosom, as its undulations gradually
gave way to your engrossing embrace—the faint,
involuntary pressure of her hand—know ye of aught
worth living for, afterward? Recall it—dwell on it—
that thrilling affinity, the moment when it was first acknowledged!
that monopoly of the heart, when it expanded,
and enfolded all that was precious on earth.
And yet—yet!—there is a moment, one moment, more
unspeakably dear and tender—more unutterably holy
to the remembrance;—it is that moment when you tear
away your pulse from her pulse, your heart from her
heart, after they have grown together—when your
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presence breaks away from her locked arms, like the parting
of soul and body, in a mortal sweat and terrour—
when, for one moment, all reserve is forgotten!—all!—
ye know that ye may never meet again, and ye lie heart
to heart, for the first, and the last time!—against each
others bosoms:—and then—then—oh, the widowhood
that follows!—when you turn, in your dreaming, your
heart gushing out with warmth and tenderness, to pour
consolation anew into the bosom of her you love—
you turn, in your sleep—outreach your desolate arms
to embrace her, once more, and awake!—awake, with
your lifeless hands upon the untenanted pillow! And
then—the coldness—the intolerable, the bleak, unutterable
loneliness that follows! Death! death is happiness
to it—winter hath no chilliness like it.
So had Harold parted. So had he dreamed; and often,
in his boyhood, had he awoke with the cold sweat
standing upon his lips, and his forehead reeking with
fever. Thus had he parted from Loena. It was like
the dividing asunder of one heart. A little season, and
lo! there was an immeasurable separation between
them. The longing, quivering palpitation of each riven
and sore part, for reunion, had ceased. And soon,
another, a warrior, stern and inexorable, even the unconquerable
Logan, himself!—He had supplanted the
boy, Harold. Yes, he! he whom Harold had heard her
execrate, with a bitterness and sincerity, that made his
blood curdle, had trodden upon the steps of Harold,
in the heart of his dear, dark-eyed girl, and obliterated
them forever! What faith could he have in woman,
afterward? Did he love? Go look at his forehead.
Study his dim and sunken eye—watch the throbbing
of his pale, hollow temples—his pallid cheek—his wasted
form, transparent with thought—then tell me if
ever man loved woman, as Harold loved Loena. What
gave him that unquiet look? that fierce spirit? that preternatural
activity? that fearful, that appalling regardlessness
of danger? Know ye the operation of love? such
love, on a temperament like his? It is purification. It is
death. It is an untiring, destroying impulse. It is a
drug, so potent, that it exhilarates to madness. It is a
drunkenness of the heart, so enervating, so wasting,
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as to leave him, upon whom it hath wrought, in the torpor
and inebriety of death. His life issues at his pores,
with the tinge of blood, under the pressure of the atmosphere,
while the enchantment is upon him. Who that
loves in his boyhood, loves not—if he survive—in his
prime? But loves he always her that he loved first?
Whence the mysterious transfer of his affection? whence
the power with which man invests his last idol with all
the properties, of all others, that had ever haunted him
before? It is from love. Know ye the secret? The man
is often another being than the boy. But the heart, having
once learned to love, will love on—or famish and
wither. Love is its only aliment; that once tasted,
it rejects all other. Opportunity, peril, adventure, and
toil, and calamity, may fit and prepare man for a more
durable passion. But retirement, melancholy, youth
and innocence are enough to warm the natural offspring
of young hearts, into life, and beauty. The bird
will soar, spring it whence it may—but the prouder the
heart, the higher the elevation, whence it takes its departure,
the higher will be its flight, till its plumes are
quenched only in the heaven of heavens; till falcon-like,
it cleave the furthest cloud of the furthest sky. The
heart of man changes. Hence follows the sundering
of loved ones. She whom he sought for a companion in
his boyhood, becomes less and less his companion, as
he soars higher and higher: and lo, as he touches the
confines of his natural dominion, he looks about, and
she has departed. Her wings and spirit have failed.
He is alone—alone, in the blue depth of heaven. Then
he seeks one of loftier bearing, stronger pinions, one
that can hold everlasting companionship with his flight,
and everlasting equality with him.
So stood it with Harold. Behold him now upon the
hills. The morning sun pours his unchannelled light
over the highest barriers of earth. Over them, it rolls
down like a flood, upon the agitated and boundless vapour
below. The cloud beneath his feet heaves like illuminated
drapery—like an ocean of changeable silk.
The tree tops, here and there, break through, and
gleam in the red sunshine, above the ocean of shadow,
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like evergreens with golden branches, and fire-tipped
leaves: brilliant, sun-coloured, branching coral, afloat
upon water, growing through the smooth surface—look!
a wilderness of flowery gold, washed up by the ocean,
is before thee! and see! the bare rocks put up their
waving, sharp points, like so many beacon-flames, into
the sky. Further and further, rolls up the curtain of the
air. The water brightens. Glimpses of the earth,
like a floating ærial greenness, are, here and there,
caught through the thin vapour. So, and with similar
gradations, cleared away the thought of young Harold.
The early breeze came sounding in his ear, and his
heart awoke like a new strung harp, when first visited
by the loud wind, from the high places. His veins
swelled. He saw the bright sun dancing away below
him, in the deepest part of the blue water; and he was,
in the very levity of his spirit, ready to descend, and
strip, and plunge, and riot as deeply, in the beautiful
element. A great bird passed him, with a continual
shriek; perhaps the very bird that had appalled him in
the night time, by her cry. Now, he stood on tip-toe,
and lifted up his hands in astonishment, as she sailed
by, utterly regardless of the being, to whom God had
given dominion over her. Where was that dominion?
what mockery! She derided him. Away she swept!
away! like a ship of air, laden with majesty, and shining
in the prodigal light of the sun, like something
chosen and familiar with his hottest magnificence—his
most secret abiding places. On she went, on! directly
in her course, as toward some outlet of heaven. She
departed. Harold saw her, like a shining motion, to the
last moment. He knew that she had gone, and yet, for
a whole hour afterward, whenever he turned his eyes
suddenly upward, there was that bird!—there!—constantly
before him—constantly ascending; swaying her
mighty pinions all the while, and bearing away for her
anchorage among the stars, while he—he! was rooted
to the spot! What changeable creatures we are! Harold
grew discontented, melancholy, with the thought. He,
who had begun, with a feeling of rapturous enjoyment,
to thank his God, that he could travel with this majestick
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creature, almost within her own haunted dominion,
far above the evolving clouds, now saddened with
the thought that there had not been given to him;
wings with which to accompany her. He started from
his revery. The trees nodded as he passed, but it was
light, now, and he scarcely observed them. They were
the dwarfish vegetation of another world, and he was
pleased with the motion of their tops—the same motion,
that, the last night, in darkness, had chilled him with
horrour!
Such is human nature! all things in heaven and earth
are stained and dimmed with our prevailing humour;
with a light heart, man showers the light, as from a reservoir,
upon all the world: with a cloudy one he rolls,
continually out, as from an unfathomable abyss, his
shadow, and spectres, till all without is gloomy and
repulsive, as the sepulcre of his own heart.
A whole week had passed, since his journeying. But
still he pursued his route, maturing in the brisk mountain
air, all his plans of future discipline, and glory. He
was startled by a shot, and twenty or thirty quick reverberations
over his head, as if a platoon had fired a feu
de joie. The next moment, he saw a wild animal spring
down from the point of a projecting rock, with that
peculiarity of desperation, the ferocious and expiring energy
of rage, which characterises the wounded, and
often the mortally wounded, wild beast, of the cat family.
A furious dog followed—bloody and torn, but
yelling upon his prey. Another shot followed—a shriek!
`Almighty God!' cried Harold, and he leaped down
the near channel, and disappeared. Shot after shot, rang
from the precipice, above, and rattled among the trees,
and the thin smoke twined beautifully over his head.
He caught a sight of the animal, with the shaggy dog
at her heels, scrambling up the precipice. She toils—
yells—and with a desperate spring, seats herself, at
last, upon a rock, beyond the reach of the dog; her eyes
dilated, snapping, and red as blood—her back bristling—
and her hot blood rattling upon the rock. She throws
herself suddenly upon her back! The next moment,
another dog is seen breaking headlong down the
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precipice. He springs at her throat. She strikes him but
once, with her claw, and he rolls over the rock—embowelled!—
a mass of blood and intestines, upon his
companion, beneath. Harold stands, with wonder and
affright, and gazes upon the terrible creature. He raises
his rifle, reluctantly; levels, snaps—the animal
hears him—it misses fire! She rears upon her hind
legs, and gnashes her teeth. Aware of the consequences,
Harold throws aside his rifle, and leaps down
the precipice. The desperate creature follows—the
branches crackle as she falls through them, from her
blinding elevation. She reaches the earth. She shivers
with rage, and prepares to throw herself upon Harold,
who is lying almost insensible, at a few paces distance.
He shuts his eyes. Another shot!—and a dog jumps at
her throat. It is all over with the brave creature; and
her heart appears to burst, just as a young Indian girl
breaks through the tangled, and flowery underwood,
and—
`Gracious heaven!' cried the delirious Harold. The
Indian girl shrieked—ran to him, plucked away his
hands from his face, and threw herself upon him—
sobbing, and chafing his forehead.
He awoke. `O! what art thou! whence, whence, thou
blessed girl?' he cried. He caught her hands—he plucked
her down upon his bosom, in an agony of suffocation:
he pressed her again and again, to his troubled
and whirling heart. The hunters gathered round in
dismay, at the perilous escape of the stranger, and wondering
at the passionate forgetfulness of a chaste Indian
maid. She arose from his bosom, arose upon her feet,
with an air of princely authority. At this instant, the
expiring animal, recovered for a moment, and with, a giddy,
reeling motion, threw herself toward Harold. Her
paw only reached him, but his ribs were laid bare. It
remained there. It was severed from her body, and a
long knife was driven again and again through her
heart, by the hunters. The blood of Harold, and the
beast mingled and frothed together, and smoked, as
in mortal strife, yet. The Indian girl sank, with her
eyes swimming, and her mouth trembling, by his side.
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The huntsmen stood around. Harold was recognised,
and men who had never wept before, wept now, at the
spectacle of blood, and youth and beauty before them.
Here were two young Indians, fashioned in the choicest
mould of beauty, filled with fire and passion—lovers,
long, long, asunder—loving to desperation—dying insensibly
upon each others' bosoms—at the moment of
meeting, in the deep solitude, the awful wilderness.
They were deceived. Neither was dying. Harold
recovered first. He was deluged with blood, the blood
of her that he had loved—had loved! yea, loved
yet, to distraction. He clung to her, and kissed her,
and wept upon her, and staunched her deep wound,
with his own mouth; while the Indians, whose presence
of mind never deserted them, ran seeking some well-known
and powerful herb. It was found, and applied,
as a potent, and infallible styptick. A litter of green
and flowery underwood, interlaced with vine tendons,
was soon woven, and the lovers were borne side by
side in each other's arms, with a mournful and uninterrupted
silence, to the hunting encampment. A fire
was made, and some food, such as the Indian is never
without, of parched corn, and sun-dried venison, was
prepared, and they were induced, notwithstanding their
exhausted state, to partake.
Loena lay upon Harold's arm. An old Indian stood
contemplating them. His regard for Loena, was the
devout, awful veneration of a great heart swayed by superstition.
She was the last of the Logans, directly descended
from the Mingo chief, and was believed to be the
legitimate inheritor of his terrible powers. This veneration,
Loena herself, had learned to consider as her right;
and she would have been more amazed, had one of the
tribe denied her the homage that men pay, not merely
to rank and loveliness, and high birth, but to preternatural
attributes, than if he had fallen down upon his
face, and worshipped her. Her deportment and tread
were queen-like, prompt, and resolute. Her movement
was lofty, and determined, like one that knew and felt
that she was born to command.
`Loena!' said Harold, in a faint whisper, as if to
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assure himself that it was she, whose warm breath he
felt upon his heart, as her face was hidden in his bosom,
and her hurried palpitations told him that she was
not sleeping, however she might pretend to be—`Loena,
love!'
The answer was a slight, doubtful, tremulous movement
of her soft hand. His mouth sought hers;
their lips touched, and thrilled—and once more, once
more, they breathed their souls into each other, while
the tears streamed from their eyes, and the blood of
their hearts mingled.
`Dear, dear Harold!—Dear Loena!' was all that either
could articulate for minutes.
They became more composed. Harold felt something
warm trickling down his side. It was her blood.
Harold recollected the wound, the occasion, and his
heart shivered in its socket. Another thought; it lightened
through his very heart. His brain withered.
There was a choaking taste of dust and ashes, and bitterness
in his mouth.
`My God! my God!' he cried, clinging to her—`I
cannot lose thee, now! O, no, I cannot, cannot! and
yet, O, Loena!'
A soft kiss upon his eye-lids reassured him. He
arose upon his elbow, and tenderly urged the inquiry
with his hand, while she gradually yielded to it. He
felt for the wound, with trembling, and terrour. His
joy, his rapture, may be imagined, when he found her
bosom unscarred, untorn—that the wound in her neck
was slight, and that in her side, whence the blood had
fallen upon him, like rain, was rather deep, than dangerous,
and was completely staunched. The profusion of
clotted gore had terrified him beyond expression, but
now he was tranquil, happy, in a measure. New
thoughts came to him. She leaned upon his bosom: his
right arm was under her neck, and her two hands were
locked in his, and held to his heart. She felt his, slowly
relax. One of hers fell. Where now was his anxious
fondness? Why did he not seek it, and replace it with
the accustomed kiss? Woman, to the core of her heart!
Loena coldly withdrew the other, and finding no
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opposition to the movement, while she knew from his breathing
that Harold was not asleep, she raised her head,
with a feeling of resentment and surprise, which she
could not, and would not suppress, from his shoulder,
and lay, silent, breathless, and far from him.
A long silence followed. Harold's breath rattled in
his throat. The couch trembled. Was he choking?
Poor Loena, in the sudden terrour of the thought, was
on the point of returuing to his bosom, more warmly
than ever, when Harold put out his hands, and articulated,
with a convulsive, and gasping indistinctness,
`Logan!'
Had a flash of lightning struck, and burnt, and blinded
her, at her prayers, she could not have been more
amazed. To be repulsed, and so rudely, at such a moment!
O, it was as if her brain had contracted with a
sudden spasm. She felt—how it would be difficult to
tell—it was, as if one half of her own heart were dead,
struck with the palsy. She stared wildly at him, and
clasped her forehead, and Harold gazed at her, without
speech or motion.
`Logan!' she uttered, at last, with a tremulous tone,
hiding her face, while the tears gushed through her
fingers.
The voice, the action that accompanied it, was death,
nay, worse, ten thousand times worse, than any death,
to Harold. It was a confirmation of all his fears—all!
She loved Logan, and who was Logan? His own father!
He arose. `Farewell!' said he, just laying his hand
coldly upon her arm, `farewell!' No answer was returned.
A low, suppressed, breathing, and somewhat—
could it be?—like sobbing, seemed to be near him. His
heart was touched, but his temper grew more decisive,
and firm, and severe.
`Farewell!' he cried—`Loena, farewell, forever! we
never meet again.'
No answer, no emotion. Was he disappointed? Aye,
he was. But why leave her, if she cared so little for
him? It would be no punishment to her. Why be so
shaken, himself, if she retained such amazing self-command?
His spirit awoke in anger, and rebuked him.
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Her stillness continued. Was it natural? He feared
not. Should he inquire? His pride might have prevented
him, much as he loved her, (for at such a moment
pride is equal to love, exactly and love is neutralized
by the commixture) had he not heard a trickling upon
the dry leaves, which covered the cabin floor. Horrour!
Harold leaped to her side, and caught her in his arms.
She was insensible. She had fainted with the loss of
blood. The bandage—she had loosened it silently, and secretly,
and, perhaps, it was already too late! O! how he
cursed himself, and shrieked, and cursed himself again.
A word, one single unkind word had fallen from his
lips, and his beloved had answered not, moved not, but
silently prepared herself to bleed to death! How full of
womanhood!—the pure divinity of woman!—uncomplaining,
patient, meek, silent and dying!
His cries soon brought assistance, and the expiring Loena
was removed to a couch of skins. That which she
had left was drenched and dropping with her dear blood.
And poor Harold stood, like a condemned spirit, some
erring creature, under the ban of the most High,
awaiting his final judgment. He dwelt upon her mild,
full, melancholy eyes, half-shut in the languor of death,
but gleaming yet, like dark jewelry through net work;
her most beautiful hair, saturate with blood—as would
a murderer dwell upon his innocent victim, in the first
waking of his tranced spirit, when every passion but
that of pity, was extinct, and the horrour of his comsummate
guilt was ascending, slowly, like cold adders,
to his brain.
She opened her dying eyes. She fixed them sadly,
but haughtily upon Harold. He could not endure it.
Such a look from Loena was his death-warrant. He
almost leaped upward, and denounced himself as her
murderer, before God Her countenance changed not.
He fell upon his knees—he caught her hands, and watered
them with his tears. All in vain. She was inexorable.
She had been doubted: she saw that—it was for
the first time, and the last: and doubted too, at such a
moment!—what woman could forgive it—innocent, or
guilty?—none!
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She waved him off. He arose, sternly, but refused
to go. She waved her hand again, impatiently; and her
Indian attendants plucked him away by main force.
Not one look, not one motion, from her, to prevent the
indignity. Could it be? Had he not loved her? kissed
her, and she, him—held her to his heart time, and
again? Had she not answered, pulse for pulse, to his
longing and delight? Where now, was her tenderness?
Were all these things forgotten so soon? These, that
should have survived the mortal agony, the dissolution
of death—these, that should have burnt forever, a ray
of pure divinity, amid the festering corruption of the
whole body and soul!
`O, woman! woman!' cried Harold. The sweat stood
upon his forehead, in the strife of pride, and tenderness,
and humiliation—and he! what right had he to
doubt? Where was his constancy? where were his purity
and faith? He would have given the whole world, for
never, never had he so passionately desired it before;
Such is man—he would have given the whole world
just to feel her once more, the proud creature, clinging
to him, and trembling from head to foot, that he might,
if he could, cast her off, forever, and triumph in his turn.
Never had he been so humbled, so indignant. He resisted
no longer. `Brothers,' he said, to the Indians
that held him, `release me.' His tone was of authority.
It was not to be disobeyed. He stood erect, and then,
carelessly strode out into the open air. He went as
some majestick creature, moving, and sustained only, by
volition, without physical action, irresistible and silent;
and well that he did go thus, for he so rose in his turn,
in the heart of the dying girl, that, for a single moment
she raised her hands in admiration. Harold saw the
shadow thereof upon the wall, and his heart leaped
within him.
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CHAPTER XII.
`Far over the plain, away went the bridleless steed!
With the dew of the morning, his feltocks were wet;
And the foam frothed his limbs in the journey of noon;
Nor stayed he, till, over the westerly heaven,
The shadows of evening had set.
`—Let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight;
A portion of the tempest!—and of thee!
`And now 'twas done! in the lone wood were plighted
Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed
Beauty upon the beautiful, they lighted, —
Their priest was solitude—and they were wed—
And they were happy!'—
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
A horse stood foaming and pawing the earth, by the
precipitous and broken approach to the encampment.
Over his smoking flanks, trailed the reeking skin of a
new slain panther. He snorted and stamped impatiently,
and the blood arose in a hot steam from his chest.
A horse was an uncommon spectacle in these solitudes.
Many and many a prize, however, had been wrenched
from the white settlers of the north: and multitudes
were to be had, in their native, untamed, unbroken
fierceness and glory, in the further savannahs of the
south and west. But this creature was a phenomenon.
He stood instinct with spirit. Through his thin, glossy
coat, the ridgy veins ran and intertwined in his action,
with the movement of life—from head to foot, the animal
was pulse, all pulse! Who does not feel his heart
grow big at the sight of these warlike creatures? Who
can see the free carriage of a young stallion, flinging
his iron bound hoofs on the air, swaying his wide mane,
hither and thither, with the arch of his neck—his broad
chest rattling with his loud breath, all the while, and
not feel as if he could vault into the saddle, upon the
spot, and tilt against the whole world; and yet, how
little you know of fine horses in civilized life. Go to
the wilderness—the broad river—the boundless, immeasurable
savannah, and desert, when the ceiling of
heaven shines like dark blue chrystal above you—a
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transparent, moveable dome, embossed, and dropped-with
molten gold!
Look at them, then—war horses going continually, in
a whirlwind of smoke and dust, about the whole circumference
of their dominions. Whole troops—thousands
and tens of thousands, thundering round, from
horizon to horizon, as with the incessant charging of
continual battle. They who have never seen these
things, will never believe them. To see an army of
young horses coming down from a distant elevation,
like a dark cloud; or emerging from the extremest
bound of the earth, for so it seems to the traveller
upon one of these unbroken plains, like an army with
banners; and sweeping onward, with the noise and effect
of a tornado—the earth quaking under them,
neighing, and leaping; their eyes flashing fire, and their
manes and tails streaming like banners in the blast—to
see this, is worth travelling, as I have travelled, from
the east unto the west, and from the north, even unto
the ends of the earth.
So stood this horse, hot and smoking with fatigue, the
foam rolled up over his chest, and spotting his beautiful
limbs, as if he had swum against a mill race; so, he stood,
lashing his sides ever and anon, with his sweeping tail,
like a young lion. The blood was dropping yet from the
raw skin, and the fiery animal snuffed it, with an expression
of ferocious and vivid delight—uncovering
his white teeth, and displaying his transparent red nostrils,
as he drew in the vapour, with the loud wind, and
sent it forth again like steam, as if the whole world
were a level, and all his own! Is there a creature beneath
the sky, man only excepted, so lofty, so terrible, so
truly august and beautiful, as him, whose neck is
flaked with thunder—the young war horse!
Never shall I forget a spectacle to which I was a
witness, once, in South America. I was encompassed
by four Guerillas, each having two led horses, one unincumbered,
and one loaded with provisions. We had
been often apprised of the danger to be apprehended
from encountering a herd of wild horses; and were
continually on the look-out, particularly, as but a few
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weeks before, an account had come among us, of the
total extinction of a small cavalcade, small, but larger
than ours, nevertheless, which was literally trampled
to dust, by a charge from one of these irresistible
hordes. Never shall I forget the day. Our advanced
guide arose, for a moment, in his stirrups, or rather
upon his feet, for he leaped upon the saddle; then, instantly
threw off the rein, with which he led the spare
horse, sprang upon his back, abandoning his spent and
goaded creature, and set off at full gallop. The other
guerillas followed without speaking a word, in the deepest
silence and consternation; and, I, without knowing
the reason, followed them with similar feelings of dismay,
leaving our laden, and helpless horses behind.
They were four in number. The mystery was soon revealed.
My blood went `a rippling to my finger-ends.'
I felt my heart dissolving, as if some impure thing had
touched and tainted it: never before had I felt such a
mortal terrour, and there was, through all my vitals, after
the first sudden electrick chill, a feeling of general thaw
and dissolution. I had tried, in vain, to overtake my
flying companions, and learn the cause of their terrour;
and was checking my horse in despair, when I saw
a black cloud hovering low upon the horizon; it concentrated,
it appeared upon the earth; it took a yet
closer shape, and approached, with the noise of a hurricane,
and the appearance of broken and trampled
grass, swept up by a strong wind, and whirled about
in the air. The truth broke upon me at once, and I
determined to await the event with fortitude, losing
all sense of personal danger, in my astonishment and
delight, at the awful reverberation of their trampling
hoofs. They came, like a whole army of cavalry, battalion
after battalion, shod in iron, and dashing over
a solid pavement, laden with armour, the bullets rained
upon their mailed breasts, as they rained the other
day upon the French cuirassiers at Waterloo, when all
England shook with terrour. My god! my god! I
shouted! for, in an instant, three of our laden horses,
that were yet in sight, were trodden upon by the whole
army, till they were not to be distinguished from the
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black earth with which their entrails were mingled, and
compounded. One only escaped. They wheeled. They
came round altogether, in array; two or three stragglers
only appearing to diverge for a moment, as if
undetermined whether to thunder me down, in the same
manner, or to pursue my companions, who were scouring
away before me, with a celerity that made me smile,
even in my terrour. They determined, after a moment's
irresolution, upon the latter; and all wheeled together,
with one universal neigh, and set off after
them. I heard a noise at my left. It was the remaining
horse; he put himself in a gallop towards me, relaxed,
stopped, faltered, shook, and fell within pistol
shot, actually overcome by his fright. I rode to the poor
creature: he was trembling and convulsed, and covered
with sweat. You would have thought that he had just
broke away, with his torn mane, from the paws of a
lion. I had seen such things in Asia. But what s situation
was mine! Alone, in a boundless savannah, my
guides trampled to death—no path—no compass—no
chart—no experience—and left to find my way, for a
thousand miles, perhaps, with one horse, and the few provisions
that he could carry. Their fate I considered
inevitable. Every moment, this frightful cavalcade was
audibly gaining upon them; and their wild, delirious
neighing was like the noise of ten thousand trumpets.
Suddenly, they appeared to be motionless—to concentrate—
the sound of their charge was suspended—the
body grew darker, and larger. `Gracious heaven!' I
cried, rising in my stirrups, they are returning! My
heart died within me. My horse shook under me. My
love of life became desperately strong. I threw myself
from the saddle, willing to try one experiment,
by diverting their attention from me to my horse. I
struck him a smart blow, and instantly concealed myself
in the thick grass. He set off at his utmost speed,
in the very direction that I wished. What a spectacle!
This most beautiful and spirited animal, flying, with
his mane all loose, every sinew strained to cracking,
over his native plain, before a horde of his early
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companions, with a mortal fear and trepidation, more like
reason, than instinct.
The herd were motionless. Were they deliberating?
It began to thunder. In this situation, I stood,
trembling with awe and sublimity, and yet, thrilling
to my very heart, with inconceivably wild and hurrying
sensations of delight. For whole hours, I had
heard it thundering, from one dark spot in the skies,
while all the rest was serene as a summer lake. It was
so now. All was so pure, so spiritually pure above,
that the sky seemed further from earth than ever. And
far below it, as if suspended in the air, revolved a heavy
mass of cloud, black as death in the centre, the
edges of undulating and fiery crimson. Above and below,
and on every side, shot out incessant flashes of
pale, silvery light, with intermittant blue vapour, like
hair combed thin, and blowing about in a high wind;
and ever and anon bright sparkles were emitted, and
steely coloured darts, hurled, whistling, into the blue
vacuity—lances encountered, and shivering. All about,
was the most soft and delicious blue, that mortal eye
ever beheld. Through this, with a quivering, and incessant
vivacity, a pale, streaming, threaded lustre, as
if the shuttles of heaven, were at work, shot hither and
thither, leaving lines of bright crimson, and rough
gold, like net work, for a moment, over the blue. The
colours were perpetually changing. Now, there ran
along the sides and bottom of the cloud, a border of
flame-coloured tasselling, and broad fringe. Anon, a
narrow rippling of scarlet and white fire, like blood
and lava, so intensely bright, that for hours afterward,
the same ribband-like lustre was quivering before me,
let me look where I would. It thundered:—from the
bosom of the black rolling cloud, there came a tremendous
uproar, as of the onset and shock of successive
armies. This sound diminished: but an uninterrupted
noise, as of thunder and musick, battle, and martial
minstrelsy, continued, without a moment's intermission,
until midnight, accompanied at times, with a general
discharge, as of coloured fire-works, from the whole circumference
of the cloud—hail and rain of crimson and
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gold.—Where was I? How felt I? I cannot describe
it. I was not aware of the terrour and distress, and
rapture that I had felt, till I found myself, with my
knees knocking together, quivering in all my limbs, and
my clothing literally drenched with sweat. But to this
circumstance, alone, the thundering in the sky, I found
afterwards, that I had to attribute not only my own
safety, but that of my companions.
Never shall I forget it! never! Often have I been in
battle; full often have I seen a charger `burst his
bloody girth,' and sweep the slippery ground with his
broad mane, as he lifted his neck, and staggered upon
his knees, for the last time, so that the blood came in
a shower, like rain, upon the rank behind him, while
the living fire streamed from his swollen eye-balls,
his hair bristled all over with spirit and vitality, and
his long fetlocks were matted and stiffened with hot
gore. And once I remember; nay, I never can forget
it—seeing a great white horse, in the thick of battle,
the smoke of a whole park of artillery was rolling about
him; a standard rattled before him in the sky; twenty
bayonets were in his side at once, yet he leaped on and
on, and through and through, the squadron before him;
and was literally lifted from the earth, by the planted
pikes upon which he finally leaped; pitching his gallant
rider upon the bayonets beyond, which hedged in
the blazing standard—the rent and smoking spoil, at
which he drove, when he too was impaled in the air! and
unhorsing, with the shock of thunder, an opposing captain,
and then, lo! I can see him yet! staggering to the
earth, and dragging down, horse and horseman, banner
and shield; his whole body red with his own wounds;
his magnificent harness trailing in blood; his saddle
turned—his trappings torn and tangled; his great heart
rattling in his chest; a reddish vapour rising from his
encrusted, and fractured limbs, like a hot steam. Yes!
yes! I do see him at this moment—His sinews writhing
and knotting, his mane flashing, his nostrils dilating,
and running crimson, and the blood starting with
his last neigh, through every pore of his skin, as from
some animal, in a suddenly exhausted receiver.
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Yes, this have I seen! and that, the spectacle just described,
an army of young stallions thundering down
from the sky, with the noise and the smoke of the hurricane,
all in ranks—their eyes, even at the distance of
a mile, visible, like the glancing of armour points in the
sun, by a continual and angry glitter: yet never have I
seen a creature that agitated me like the description
which I have heard from an Indian, who remembered
this horse, which now stood, with loose rein, floating,
before the tent.
Harold paused, with a feeling of breathless astonishment,
to gaze upon the noble animal—Surely! could it
be possible?
His own colt!—`Hurra!'—he leaped upon his back;
the animal reared and neighed, as if instantly recognizing
the accomplished horseman, by his firm seat;
who could have resisted the temptation? Harold never
stopped to consider whose property the creature now
was; enough for him that it had been his, and that he
had been wrongfully despoiled of it. One rein was knotted
to a sapling. Harold had not, it was impossible
that he could have, the patience to untie it. He drew
his hanger, and severed it with a blow; turned his
proud head up the mountain; and the next moment, was
leaping upon its very summit, panting, and breathless.
So steep was the ascent, that his chin rested upon the
head of his horse. He stood up in his stirrups,
and looked about him. The world lay all below
him. There was the cabin, there! He could almost
spring upon its roof. There too, was she whom he had
loved; he raised his hand to his eyes, and sunk into the
saddle. Had he seen her? could it be—for the last
time? How strange the sensation! Once he had believed
that his passionate heart could not find a home away
from hers—that, alone, it would shiver itself to death
in his bosom. Now! his lip quivered, and he wondered
what withheld him, from leaping, horse and rider, down
upon the tent that enshrined her.
`Did she love him? did she!' he asked himself, over
and over again. His vestment parted with the vehement
pulsation of his heart. It grew audible. He was
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startled at the sound. The sun flamed behind him.
He blushed, as he looked upon his own magnificent
shadow—upon a broad, flat rock, opposite, his horse
pawing and reaching, under him, tossing his head continually,
and waving his shadowy mane—`his bits
wrangling,' and he, with his head uncovered—half-naked—
his panther skin floating away from his shoulders—
`O, if she were near me now,' thought Harold.
The thought had not passed his lips, when he heard a
shout, a call, away below him. It was instantly answered
on all sides. He heard his name—menaces, curses,
and exclamations, followed. What could it mean? If
ill, he was too conspicuous. He turned to depart, but he
was too late, the noise of his trampling charger upon
the solid rock, betrayed him. He was seen. The shout
was renewed. It was not like the cheering of friendship
or encouragement, but rather like that which precedes
the immolation of some victim.
`Surely, I might have expected this,' thought Harold.
I have wronged their mistress, their princess,
their priestess. Who of them all, much as I know they
have loved me, will spare me? Harold wondered at
his own blindness and infatuation. A new sense of
life had returned to him, and he shuddered at the danger
that he had escaped. Weak, and wounded as he was,
his weakness and wounds were all forgotten, now. In
the hour of trial, many are the hearts that fail not; but
who can look upon the battle, or the shipwreck, or the
combat of wild beasts, from which he has escaped, and
not feel his blood run cold? Every shot, every cry
rings through his heart, and every shattered plank
strikes him, as it drives to the shore, with a sense of his
own worthlessness and insensibility. I have known men
faint at the recollection of what they have faced, without
trembling. And I, myself, at this moment, dare not
trust my cowardly spirit, in looking back upon what I
have often hazarded in mere wantonness. It throws my
very heart into a sweat. I can feel the blood hiding
in my vitals, my brain shivering; and yet, place me
again, again, where no mortal help can aid me: toe to
toe with the same peril, and no change, other than a
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more deadly paleness, would betray my emotion. I
should not shrink. I should not shut my eyes. I should
do the same deeds again, with firmness, with a steady
voice, a steady eye; and mayhap, go home, and hide my
face in my bed, and weep, with gratitude for my escape.
Such is man!
So with Harold. The present danger was nothing.
The past, all. Now, he remembered, and he wondered
that he had not before suspected their evil purposes;
that the Indians below, had greeted him, after his interview
with Loena, in sullenness. Now, he remembered,
and his blood boiled at the thought, how roughly
they had dragged him, upon his knees, from her presence.
Why did he not smite them to the earth? why?
He had half a mind to ride down upon them, now,
from the very top of the mountain, and avenge the indignity,
on horseback, and in her very presence! Was
his countenance troubled? Yea. When the deep places
of Harold's heart were troubled, he showed it. Disturb
the bottom of the deepest ocean, itself, and bubbles
will arise—a somewhat, more fearful and appalling,
will pass over its great face, and tell the tale, and
perchance rebuke you into forbearance. His features,
always articulate with expression, now grew rigid in
his wrath. What did they not deserve? They, for whom
he had fought;—spilt his blood—with whom he had
passed many wintry campaigns, in heroick adventure;
what did they not deserve? `Death?'—Death! no, death
was too good for them, when, at the bare instigation
of their evil nature, their fealty to a capricious girl,
they were ready to bind their chosen young warriour,
hand and foot, and broil him upon live coals, under
her nostrils. In the exasperation of the moment, Harold
uplifted his hand, and prayed with a loud voice,
for the power of overturning the very mountain upon
them, and her, and himself, and perishing, like Sampson,
in the ruin and dust of his own strength.
But better thoughts soon followed. Was he guiltless?
Had he not wronged Loena? And were these
faithful creatures wrong in their blind loyalty?
A shaggy dog sprang before him!—another! His horse
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reared and plunged upon the slippery rock, and then
stood at bay, with his nose to the ground, and his back
turned to the precipice, over which, at every attack of
the dogs, he was in danger of stepping, as he retreated.
The loud cry of the curs prevented Harold from seeing
his danger, until the hinder foot of his charger slid,
and he was almost unhorsed, upon the brow of the
tremendous cliff, ere the creature answered to his reiterated
soothings, by leaping forward at once, upon the
foremost dog, and breaking him down with his hoofs,
as he stood eyeing the precipice, and shivering.
The loud cry of the dog was instantly answered.
Heads and feathers began to be seen in the low blasted
verdure of the mountain, and the quick gleaming of
steel, that flashed from rock to rock. There was not
a moment to lose. Harold drew up the reins—wheeled—
gave his sure footed horse full scope, and dashed
down a ravine—the dust, the rattling of stones, the
baying of dogs, and the continual splash of falling earth
and gravel, into the water below, announcing his course.
His head became giddy—he reeled in the saddle—the
water is passed—the descent is over. But hark! more
battle for his arm. Another rider was before him.
Brief salutation was given Harold knew him; and
the whirled tomahawk and the levelled rifle left him no
time to doubt that he came as a mortal foe. The tomahawk
passed him, widely. The ball whistled by his
face. Harold threw himself upon his feet, in the
smoke of the shot, plucked the tomahawk from the
earth, and hurled it, with a swiftness and precision that
was fatal to the horse of his antagonist. It cleft his
head, as he reared at its approach, or his master would
have met with the same fate.
`Thou devil!' cried the stranger, and he vaulted
from the saddle of his falling horse, and stood gallantly
upon his feet, with his cymeter in his hand.
`Englishman!' was Harold's reply: at the same moment
loosening the reins of his horse from his arm, and
drawing his sabre, with a whistle from the scabbard.
The horse reared, and then stood stock still, a patient
spectator of the strife, as if conscious that he was to be
the trophy of the surviver.
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Their blades met. Harold was the more wary, the
more lightning-like, but the stranger was bolder, and
stronger. Both were resolute as death. Several
wounds were given, and received. Harold's sword
broke to the hilt. He threw himself upon the stranger
and bore him to the earth, wrenched his sword from
him, and twice, in his blindness and wrath attempted,
in vain, to pass it through and through his heart, as
they grappled together. But twice the Englishman
caught the sharp blade in his hands, and twice Harold
drew, it by main force, through his clenched fingers,
slowly severing sinew, and tendon, and flesh, and grating
on the bones, as it passed. Harold gasped—the
Englishman held him by the throat—the blood gushed
from his ears and nostrils—once more!—he has succeeded!
The blood has started through the pores of the
brave fellow below him! His arteries are burst—He
is dead—dead!—nailed to the earth, and Harold is sitting
by him, blinded, and sick.
A half hour has passed. The horse stamps, impatiently,
by the corse. Why stands Harold thus, gazing
upon the red ruin before him, with such a deadly
hatred?
Look! his countenance relaxes. He speaks, murmurs.
Surely he relents. His face is covered with
his reeking hands. He kneels; Almighty God! the
murderer kneels by the murdered! The young savage
is kissing the forehead of the dead man! O, human nature,
how terrible thou art in thy perplexities! Here,
here, a child of the wilderness, red with the blood of
his brother, agitated to death, but now, with the excess
of his own passionate desire of vengeance—behold
him, weeping, trembliug, and bowing down, over the
slaughter that he has perpetrated. O, heaven! what is
the nature of man?
It was too late. The youthful stranger was, indeed,
dead. The sword was plunged up to the very
hilt, through his heart, into the green earth. Harold
would fain have plucked it out. But he had not the
heart to do it, not even the strength. He attempted it;
but the sound of the torn flesh, as the rough and battered
edge returned through the cleft vitals, was too horrible.
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He sickened, and turned away, in loathing and detestation.
`There let it stay, forever!' he cried. `I cannot
pluck thee forth, my good blade; and thou, my horse,
thou, the prize and issue of the fight, I shall never love
thee more!' The horse stood by, rolling his red eyes,
not with the calm, haughty contemplation of a proud
beast, when murder is going on in his presence, but
agitated, like an accomplice, shivering and dismayed.
He will not let Harold back him!—why? is it the gleam
of the plucked sword, for Harold has, at last, torn it
forth, with shut eyes, and a desperate hand?—The
brightness is dimmed, discoloured; and upon its ragged
edge, gouts of palpitating bloody flesh, are yet adhering—
Can it be that? It is! The noble brute shakes
with the smell, and the spirit of rebellion is aroused
within him. He had snuffed, and tasted the blood of a
man, and he could almost tear his own master, in the
raging madness that followed.
Harold bounded into the saddle. The creature
stood trembling in all his joints, as if some wild beast
had leaped upon him;—and then reared. For the first
time in his life, Harold was unhorsed. He had scarcely
touched the saddle, when the animal sprang from
under him—toward heaven, too, as if to bear witness
against him! Harold arose, in the first transport of his
fury; and was only withheld from cleaving the skull of
noble creature upon the spot, by perceiving him stop, at
the moment, fling down his head, brace his fore feet,
and stare, with rivetted and flaming eyes, through the
long tresses, which he shook over them, at the dead body;
as if he saw a spectre rising from the earth; and
then, gradually leaning back, he sat upon his haunches,
without stirring his hinder hoofs, as if something very
terrible, unseen by aught but himself, were menacing,
him. Harold's blood curdled. He attempted to sooth
the animal, but for a long time, in vain—the creature's
flesh quivered beneath his touch, as if it were raw, and
a burning hand were struck upon it.
At last, Harold succeeded in mounting him. He
was completely subdued. His unnatural wildness had
departed, and he was gentle, even to timidity. If a
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horse could be struck with sudden madness, by snuffing
the hot vapour of blood; or if he could see a spectre
at noon-day, Harold felt persuaded that his horse
had been so, and had seen one.
He left his foe—the companion of his boyhood—
his rival, his insulter; him who had spoiled him, he
knew not how, of his gallant horse; and scorned and
baited him, whenever they had encountered, presuming
on their earlier friendship—he left him, shuddering, and
suffocated in his own black blood. Yea, Harold left
him on the green earth—in a holy solitude—to the Demon
of the place, the beasts of the field, and the fowls
of the air. He left him, forgetting all their former affection,
in his hatred; all their former trials of skill, in
this, the last deadly trial; all their former wrestling and
combat, in this, their last mortal struggle. And yet,
some tears fell upon the loose mane before him, as he
combed it with his fingers, and thought how he had
once loved the man, with whose blood it was now stiffened
and tangled; how they had hunted together, swum
together, fought together, and—and loved together!'
`Heaven blast him, for his treachery,' cried Harold,
grinding his teeth, and tearing away a handful of matted
hair from the neck of his horse, flinging it to the
earth, and riding over it; while his horse, as if full of
his master's wrath, struck, and spurned at it, with his
sounding hoof.
Harold wheeled about, and was almost mad enough
to return to the spot, yea, though all his foes were beleaguering
the body, and wreak his consummate wrath
anew upon the dead man, by hacking, and hewing, and
trampling his beautiful limbs to jelly, with the heels of
his charger.
`Away! away! I have nothing left to love now! My
hengeance is exhausted. My mistress abandons me.
My tribe disown me. They turn their knives against
Harold, now. Whither shall I go? Across the wide
water? Yea, let it be so—across the wide water, will I
journey, and I care not how soon, be it to the land of
souls. I will go out and interrogate the skies, and the
ocean!'
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A cloud came up. Why does he tremble? It hangs
before his path. Why shrinks he from encountering
it? A peculiarity of shape hath made it familiar to him.
Once, in his boyhood, he had seen it there, exactly
there! and exactly in that shape too, hanging in the
bright sunshine, like a spectre, attached to the rock by
the skirts of his robe—a shadow, suspended in the air, by
incantation. Harold cast his eyes upward, `And just
at this hour! too!' he exclaimed. Could it be, that the
mists of evening were of a shape so like humanity?
Heaven! just so had he seen it, sixteen years before—
he trembled at the thought. What new misfortune
was at hand? The form and presence of a man had
stood before him. A clap of thunder broke over them,
and he was gone!—and now—
Hark! a sharp light! a loud voice! `The same thunder,
' thought Harold. But he was mistaken. He fell
from his horse. He was wounded. A loud yell followed.
The next moment, he was surrounded, lashed
hand and foot, and borne away. They approached the
encampment. Numbers more had arrived. It was
almost a village. Every living thing came out to meet
him, and curse him. The faggots were prepared before
his eyes. All the alarming paraphernalia of death
were exhibited to him. It was soon midnight. Harold
never stirred a finger, nor uttered a moan. He expected
and desired the death, but his heart felt sore, very
sore, at the thought of Loena. An Indian lay near
him. He watched the countenance of Harold. The
unconquerable determination and majesty of his look,
awed him. He removed farther off, as if to testify his
homage. Others approached. They remembered their
allegiance. They remembered of what a kingly aspect
had been his boyhood, and they, yes, they, the children
of the forest, trembled, and were afraid.
But why prolong the detail? Harold soon knew that
the hour of his appointed death was at hand. In the
deep midnight, his soul was to be required of him, in
torture—go up to heaven, in fire and smoke, amid the
howling and derision of infernal savages. Might he
lift his hand against his own life? Was it permitted
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to him? Who may answer the question? Surely not
he who is beset with evil, and would escape, perhaps
by an easy, though surely, by a perilous way. Why
shrink we so from the self-murderer? Harold had not
forgotten all the sweet lessons of his childhood—His
mother, that majestick woman, her royal nature softened
and imbued with the rich, warm loveliness, of the
loveliest and warmest religion that ever flowed upon
the earth, she had often, a brave Indian as she was,
wept over her babe, and blessed him with the prayer
of the true Christian. He could not forget her. His
father had taught him to slay:—she, to spare. He had
nursed him for the battle, she, for the heart. He had
strung his sinews for fierce, unintermitted action, filled
all his arteries with the lava of ambition, rivetted his
joints, and taught his muscles to quiver for the untiring
conflict. She had taught him to pray, and weep,
and love, and be beloved. Hence these eternal contradictions
in his movement. There was a perpetual
warring of the elements in his head and heart. It was
now his hour of trial. He was appointed to die. To
die, were a trifle—he had long accustomed himself to
think of death with cheerfulness, not only with composure,
but with cheerfulness—but to die now, now! when
the bright world was just opening to him over the waters—
yet even that he could bear—but then, to die so
deplorably, in torture—why, even that he could endure.
They might broil the very marrow out of his
bones, his brain out of his skull, his soul out of his body—
he could endure all that—but, O, God, there was
no sympathy, no encouragement, no admiration for
him. Who could endure it? dying so helplessly, alone—
in silence!
The dagger was in his hand. He paused—he put
forth his arms—the cold sweat started out upon his lips!
could it be that the shadow of his mother had uprisen!
what was that—that! upon the bright moonlit wall.
The form was that of a woman. It came off from the
wall, and approached!—Ah, it was no shadow. It was
Loena herself! the Indian princess, his own, his beloved
one!
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She fell upon his bosom, and sobbed aloud. The dagger
dropped from his hand.
`Harold! O, Harold, and wouldst thou leave me?
leave me, forever!' Her trembling lips told how passionately
she sought the consolation of his presence.
Again and again, he embraced her, soothed her, pressed
her head upon his bosom, his lips to her cheek, her
eyelids, her forehead, her neck—his very heart dissolving
in lofty and innocent rapture—`oh, mine own beloved
one!'
He uplifted the dagger for a moment, gazed upon
the blade, upon the dear countenance, that, with lashes
cast down, lips quivering and burning, leant over him—
saw it illuminated with an expression, that could not
be mistaken, and he flung the weapon from him, with
all his strength.
She started at the sound—turned, and saw it quivering
in the wall—pressed her locked hands convulsively
together, and shut her eyes.
`What! afraid Loena! afraid, when I am with thee!
Know love, that thou hast saved my life. Another murder
had been done—another instant, perhaps, and that
accursed knife had been buried in my heart.'
Loena uttered a cry of horrour. She could not believe
her senses. It was not merely the Christian, it
was the Indian, whose soul revolted at this crime, this,
of all others.
`A murderer! a self-murderer, Harold! Thou, after
all that thy mother said—at our last meeting—the very
last—thou hast not forgotten it. (Harold shuddered,
and pressed her more closely to his heart)—thou, a
self murderer! O, Harold!'
Harold could not reply. His heart was swelling,
heaving with gigantick and horrible thought. The
mystery of his fate became visible before him. It arrayed
itself, all, in all its darkness, with the gleamy
flames coursing it about, like fiery serpents; and all its
cabalistick characters burning, in legible denunciation
upon his eye-balls. Some awful abiding-place seemed
opening before his tranced spirit. He remembered the
prediction of his great mother—She sat, and the death
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sweat was upon her cold hand, while she pressed it
against his forehead. He felt the wet fingers now!—
the very shape, and motionless, chilling weight of the
hand, at this moment! A low groan came from beside
him. He shuddered, and hid his face.
`A self-murderer, Harold! thou! after all that we
have read together, all that thy mother, thy blessed mother
taught us, so immediately before her terrible
death.
`Loena,' said Harold, choking. `My mother is
avenged. Her murderers are hewed, and trampled on.'
`O, Harold! thou, that wouldst not, in thy childhood,
have dipped thy innocent hand in the blood of the vilest
animal. O, how art thou changed! Now, do I reremember—
hast thou forgotten it?—when thou didst
so strive with my two brothers, to rescue the young
animal that they were torturing. It nearly cost thee
thy life. But for me, the spirited hunters had murdered
thee in thy sleep for it. No—no; thou needst
not kiss me, Harold—no, thy lips are changed—thy
nature!—thou art not the Harold whom I loved—' (and
then, she kissed him with her own lips.) Such is woman!
Intoxicated by her own tenderness, subdued by
her own resolution, and so is man!—kissing and parting,
rebuking and weeping, at the same moment.
`What!' said the good old Sachem, who had been on
an embassy to the whites—`The white men murder,
we never murder. They murder themselves! How we
shuddered!'
`But dear, surely we do murder. We kill, sleeping.
We do not, it is true, call it murder. It is our warfare.
But, oh, it is murder, I feel that it is.'
`Yet who, of all the tribes of North America,' said
Loena, `who ever slew himself? none, none. It is a
crime unheard of among us, cowardly, and impious!'
`I have thought a great deal,' answered Harold, `on
this subject; read a great deal; but I am not yet satisfied.
'
`Not satisfied! what! not satisfied of what—that it is
wrong to murder?'
`To murder! dear, oh no, I do not doubt that. But
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surely, it is not murder—it cannot be, for a weary and
sick man, to bleed himself to death.'
`Harold! I am chilled, chilled, to the heart by thy
dreadful calmness. I cannot pretend to reason with thee.
Thou art so cold! I can only feel; and I do feel that the
everlasting God hath forbidden murder; and that, of all
murderers, the self-murderer, is the most unpardonable.
'
`But—'
`Nay, Harold, I will not listen to thee. I hate these
buts, and ifs. Even in thy boyhood, thou couldst move
my reason at thy will; yea, my very religion and conviction.
I fear thy power. I own it. I fear my own
weakness. I know that, as Father Paul told thee, years
and years ago, that the sure way of making men believe
as you would have them, is to give them reasoning
that they cannot answer. Their self-love comes in
against them, and they yield. If they cannot reply, refute,
they are foolish enough to say that their enemy is
right. And, yet Harold, there seems to me no subject
upon which unanswerable objections may not be started
on both sides.'
`I do not believe this, Loena—I—'
`Nay, Harold, I cannot, will not, reason with thee.
I am afraid of thee.'
`Afraid of reason, dear!—why, what is our reason
given us for? Must we not hearken to it? Nay, Loena,
I must do away this errour—I must so, my own passionate,
strange girl, I must.'
`Harold, I tremble for thee. This infirmity is growing
upon thee, night and day. It is not reason. It is
sophistry. Wouldst thou use thy noble faculties aright,
my friend, my, dear friend; array all that comes to thee,
on either side, I should not fear thee. But in thy impetuosity,
that which makes against thee is rejected;
and that which makes for thee, put forward, with such
plausible earnestness, such sincerity of look, and tone;
and such energy, such inspiring vehemence, that, at
times—why need I conceal it? I feel that thou art irresistible:
not because thou art right, but because thou
hast the faculty of appearing so.'
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`O,' cried Harold, in amazement, `who has taught
thee, girl, to speak thus? Who ever looked for such
timely wisdom, with such youth, and loveliness?'
`Hush, Harold. This is another of thy witcheries.
She who listens to thee, is flattered in spite of herself.'
`How thou hast gained and expanded,' continued he,
putting away her hand from his lips, `under the instruction
of my dear, dear, mother (his eyes overflowed)
and the holy man!' verily, verily, thou art nothing, nothing
of the Indian.'
`Harold!' cried Loena, tearing herself from his arms,
and standing before him, like something suddenly impregnate
with divinity, her dark eyes streaming fire, and
her pale lips quivering—`Harold! never, never repeat
that! I shall curse thee to thy face, if thou durst. Am
I so fallen?—Harold—(her voice thrilled through and
through him; and her solemn and wild gesture, the
awful brightness of her uplifted eyes were before him
like something ready, if disincumbered of earth, to ascend
by its own immateriality)—`Harold! I would sooner
abjure all, all, that I have learnt—forget it, denounce
it, curse it! life, name, love, religion—all! all! than forget
that I am an Indian girl. Oh, how my blood mounts
to assert its birth-right! I feel that I am the daughter
of kings. Now, then, tempt me, if thou canst! Triumph
if thou canst, I will not yield. My unassisted
reason shall wrestle with thine. Thou shalt be overcome,
Harold, if this feeling abide with me. But
come, be brief. I will no longer tremble to hear thee.
If I am right, shall I not convince thee? Is not the self-murderer
more criminal than he who murders another?
`No, indeed, love, he is not. I may cut off my own
hand with less guilt than that of my neighbour. I have
a sort of property in my own life, have I not? But what
property have I in the life of another; what right, I
mean, to dispose of it?'
The same Harold—the very same! I feel the spirit
of thy mother near me. Thou hast precisely the same
right over thine own, as over thy neighbour's life, and
no other, nor greater. What is murder? Is it not taking
the life of a human creature, deliberately,
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without the process of law? what matters it then, whether
it be your own life, or that of another?'
`But do you not perceive, my dear girl, that if you
be right, this would prove that both are alike, and not
that the self-murderer is the most guilty.'
`Nay, hear me through. The crime is the same.
Both are equally guilty, the murderer, and the self-murderer.
But the great question is for the criminal.
He who murders another, may live to repent. But he,
who murders himself, cannot. He dies in the very perpetration,
the very consummation of his guilt. What,
too, is the situation of the murdered man? If one murder
another, it is possible that his victim may be one,
already anointed for happiness: and it is certain that
the murdered one is not dying in the commission of
a crime. But the self-murderer is:—the criminal and
victim are ever one.
`Excellent! This is the reasoning of my own mother.
It is worthy of her. But suppose two persons to
be upon a plank in the water. Only one can be saved by
it. If this doctrine be right, it would be less criminal
for one to thrust his fellow off, tear the plank from his
clinging hand, and see him drown, than to abandon his
own share, and give up the whole, to his fellow creature.
'
Loena was silent.
`But how many have become immortal from self-sacrifice?
martyrdom to their religion, and their country.
Multitudes lose their lives, and limbs; and many multitudes
risk both, at their pleasure, and are applauded
by the wisest and best; nay, eulogised as heroes, and
gods, and demi-gods.'
`Yes, for their country, children, wives, husbands,
humanity, Harold.'
`But look at me, dear, steadily; Have they a right,
so to expose themselves?'
`Assuredly. It is a part of religion, providence, wisdom,
to give up a part, for the whole. We lop a diseased
limb.'
`But have we a right to lop off a diseased limb?'
`Surely, yes, if it be necessary.'
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`But who shall be the judge? ourselves?'
`Nay, Harold, this is not fair. I see thy purpose. But
nevertheless, I answer yes!—we are the judges, we,
ourselves, and we, alone. But if we wantonly, and with
an evil intention, maim ourselves, we despoil, and disfigure
the image of God himself; and sin in the face of
heaven.'
`Now, Loena, now, I have thee! This is where I
would lead thee. It is conceded that we may, at our
own good discretion, lop off a limb to save our lives,
May we not lop off all, for the same purpose; or, to save
our family? May we not give up our lives in martyrdom,
in battle, in immolation, to save a people from
thraldom, a religion from the scoffer? We are taught to
risk our limbs and life in the cause of humanity; to
plunge into the flames, the flood, the den of wild beasts;
to leap the precipice, tread the waters, and wrestle with
death in every horrible shape, to rescue the suffering,
or relieve the sorrowful. Whence have we the right to
do thus?'
`God hath given it to us, Harold.'
`What! hath God given us the right to dispose of
our limbs and life, as we please?'
`No, Harold, no!—not as we please. He hath not.'
`Then pursue the consequences, Loena. If he have
not, then we may not risk a hair of our heads, because we
please, to save the life of a human creature. We have
no right, if this be true, to pluck a naked infant from
the merciless wolf, or the midnight altar; we may not
risk, still less abandon a finger, or a limb, (for the loss
of either may eventuate in the loss of life,)—unless we
have a right to lay down our lives at pleasure.'
`Harold! you wrong me. If I am unintelligible, it is
my fault, not that of the subject. What I mean, is this;
we cannot expose ourselves, sacrifice ourselves, at pleasure,
from whim or caprice, but only when we conscientiously
believe that we are right; only when our
promptings are pure. And we can all judge of their purity,
by looking to their consequences.'
`A greed! Such is the triumph of unassisted reason.
I glory in thee, woman! Then we have the right of
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disposing of our own limbs and life, at our reasonable discretion.
'
`Yes. I cannot deny it.'
`No, dear, thou canst not indeed, for if thou didst,
it would be a denial and proscription of every virtue;
humanity, courage, magnanimity, heroism, all. But if
man have this right, where is it to stop? Hath he not
of course, the right, whenever he thinks it is right, to
lay down his own life, for any reason, no matter what?'
`Yes. But a man in his senses cannot believe it to
be right to lay it down from mere weariness and discontent.
'
`I don't know that. Men have different ways of arriving
at what we call right. One demands much evidence,
another is convinced with little.'
`But then, it is cowardly, rash, selfish, to destroy
one's self, Harold, for any such reason. How can one
know, when he is about killing himself, in the extremest
misery, but that God himself, is just at that moment
busied in extricating him?'
`True, dearest—And how can the martyr, the patriot
know, but that God, in his own good time, will set
all things right, without requiring his death? How can
he tell but that God is only trying him?'
`I cannot answer thee, Harold. I wonder at my presumption.
I feel anew the evil of disputation. Time
and again have I had all my convictions shaken to the
earth by thy terrible eloquence—by thy consummate
mischief. O, Harold!'—(She was speechless now, with
emotion.)
`Loena! can it be. Am I so deceived? Wantest thou
the courage to pursue, firmly, wheresoever it may lead
thee, the light of thine own reason? If not, woe to
thee! God, himself will judge thee, with severity.
What is thy reason? A light to be followed. And dost
thou retreat, and shut thine eyes, when it but flashes
for a moment, on some frightful shadow?'
`And now, dearest, let me set thee right. The case
can never happen, where a man, in the full possession
of all his faculties, deliberately goes about the work of
self-destruction. He, like the parricide, or the
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murderer, who acts so deliberately, must be under some fearful
infatuation. If he believe it to be right, he is a madman.
If he do it, believing it to be wrong, he will be
punished in proportion to his own estimate of his own
guilt, at the time of his sinning. The world will see no
heroism in self-slaughter, perpetrated in loathing and abhorrence
of life. It is a disease. But if it find that the
deed was done to save others, wife, children, or dear one,
a country, or in honour to God, the world will celebrate
his memory, with tears and thanksgiving. The right of
self-sacrifice must exist, or all business, risk, and humanity,
are at an end. But then, that right must be deliberately,
thoughtfully, and religiously exercised: a
thing that cannot be, where a man flies from the world,
despondingly, to avert its evils, however great, in the
selfishness and cowardice of his heart. Yet, if he think
that he is right in so doing, then, is he right, and God
himself, will so judge him, having compassion on his
infirmities. We may judge him, but it will be in ignorance,
knowing not whether he sinned in his heart, or
not, whether his motives were sublime or grovelling,
selfish, dastardly, or heroick. But He, who can read all
hearts, will judge him with certainty and knowledge.
And if he meant rightly, will hold him guiltless, as he
would the maniack who should dip his hands in the
blood of his own mother!
`O, Harold, I tremble for the consequences of this
doctrine.'
`Why so? If it be sound, leave the consequences to
themselves. It matters not, what we think or say.
Truth is not changed by controversy. If unsound, controversy
will overthrow it, and its consequences will
follow.'
The moonlight shone upon their faces—they embraced,
and slept: slept, like two children, innocent and
lovely, and helpless; without one impure thought, one
throb of sensuality, to disturb their beloved dreaming—
`Their priest was solitude.'
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CHAPTER XIII.
`A Boy, whose whole delight consists
In kissing, and in being kist'—
`Thrice had the moon her pearly chariot driven
Across the starry wilderness of Heaven.'
`Shame and dishonour sit
By his grave ever!
Blessing shall hallow it,
Never, oh, never!'
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`My own! my beloved Loena! I wanted but to be
with thee, near thee, thus again; to feel thine innocent
heart swelling against mine: thus to know, as thou art
leaning on my bosom, love, that I am indeed, very dear
to thee. O, thank thee! This trembling, this emotion—
surely, there is no doubting the eloquent language of
chaste endearment. But why, what ails thee, Loena?—art
thou weeping, love? It is very dark, but thy breathing
is violent, and—stay—tears!—yes, thou art weeping!
O, tell me why? I feel the drops upon my own cheek.
What troubles thee? Hast thou aught to conceal?
Aught to fear? Nay, my beloved, I cannot be answered,
even with a pressure like that—thrilling as it does,
through nerve and bone, like electricity. Tell me in
words, my beautiful and good Loena, what troubles
thee?
`Oh, Harold, I cannot speak.' (Her hand fell timidly
upon his bosom—she breathed upon his cheek—a
hurried breathing, humid and faint—) `I have been
doubted, Harold—Shame on my lips for uttering the
word!—doubted, and by thee! Shame on my tears, too!
They tell too plainly of my humiliation and sorrow.
Harold, I cannot endure it. My heart is broken. Have
I not been thine, thine alone, from my childhood? when
have I wandered, in look or word, or thought? And
now—oh, it is hard to be borne!—to have the faith,
the allegiance, the very religion of my heart doubted.
What I have done for thee Harold, has been done,
almost with the feeling of a bride. Bear witness for
me, mother of Harold! princess! daughter of Logan!
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when have I wavered? And why have I been doubted?
No, no, Harold, I cannot forget it. I love thee. I do
not deny it. I cannot deny it. Thy own mother taught
me that such an acknowledgment might be made at
times, by the most shrinking and sensitive woman—
and I—I have never breathed it before—never! though
my heart felt heavy with a load of unutterable tenderness!
and often, oh, how often have I held my breath,
in the desire of relieving it by confession, but I could
not. I never could, till now. And now, if thou couldst
see my face, I should die, I verily believe. Give me
thy hand—is there no fever in my forehead? Did thy
temples ever throb like that? O, they are sore with
thought and tenderness—aching with my devout meditation
upon thee. We seem to be met now, Harold,
as by the appointment of heaven, and now, having told
thee how dear, how very dear thou art to me—Nay,
do not interrupt me, I say all this, to prepare thee, the
more assuredly, for my resolution. I have determined,
and thou knowest too well the blood of the Logans, to
doubt that I can do all that I determine, all that I
threaten.'
`Threaten—Loena!'
`Yea, threaten, Harold! It is a threatening, not only
of thee, but of myself. I have at last determined.'
`Do not look upon me thus. I cannot see thine eyes,
it is true, but I can feel them. They are rivetted upon
me. The tone of thy voice thrills me. It is dreadfully
solemn. Nay, Loena, I adjure thee! Do not pronounce
the words. I know not what they are, but thy gasping
frights me, do not, do not—as thou lovest me. If there be
aught which thou prizest in me; aught that thou wouldst
purify and elevate, speak. I am in thy hands. Do thou
thy work, in constancy, and love, and I am thine, thine!
body and soul, forever and ever! But Loena, do not,
I cannot breathe yet—do not threaten me. Tears again!
how cold thy lips are, love—well, well—finish what thou
wouldst say—do with me as thou wouldst. A child
of Logan weeping! Who could withstand it? Come,
come—thy resolution, love.'
`To abandon thee, forever!'
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`Me!—me!—Almighty God!'
`Nay, Harold, calm thyself:—to abandon thee forever:
Let me finish—if ever thou tremblest again, for
my love.'
`O bless thee! bless thee! dearest—best of women!'
`Nay—let me proceed. If I am ever again doubted,
be thou where thou wilt—over the great water—beyond
the stars—in the bed of the ocean, with the earthquake—
shut up in the subterranean palaces of the earth,
I care not where, nor when—If I be ever again doubted
by thee, Harold, then, farewell, forever!'
She fell upon her knees, as she uttered these words,
and bowed her head in supplication, upon his hands.
Harold knelt at her side, and held her convulsively to
his heart, which was ready to burst from his side, in
the agony of his delight.
`God bless thee!' he murmured, as his trembling
lips faintly touched her soft, smooth neck—`God bless
thee! I shall never, never again doubt thee. Nay, I never
have doubted thee; but some how or other, Logan—
accursed be the recollection!—It rises like a spectre
before me, and menaces me even now. Look! look!—
Spirit of the wilderness! * * Man of blood! * * whence
art thou? * * why comest thou upon me? * * I feel
thine unhallowed approach * * * Oh, shield me, love—
his cold hand is near me:—oh, how cold!'
He fell, in his delirium, upon the ground, before
the terrified girl. She raised him, pressed her little
hand upon his hot forehead, with the devout and inexpressible
tenderness of one, who joys to show all her
love to a sleeping, or insensible dear one—`Harold,
dear Harold! look up.'
He moved and strained her with a delirious expression
of horrour and dismay, to his bosom! `Hist! hist!
Ah, no, no, no!—my wound.'—Now, for the first time,
did these two creatures discover that he was drenched
with his own blood. Loena staunched it with her hair
her lips—and held his sick and weary head upon her
lap, all the live long night. He slept, and she wept
over him. He awoke, sore, and feverish, but in the full
recollection of the past.
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`Am I to be impaled, sacrificed now!' he said, smiling
in her face, and pressing her hands to his mouth.
She could not answer. She smiled too, and a tear fell
upon his lip. `I am going across the water, love.'
`The great water, Harold?'
`Yes, dearest, the great water; not to the land of
souls; but I shall go somewhere, and consummate my
dreaming. I hate barbarism. I hate ignorance. It is abject,
ignoble, slavish. And I go, love, to prepare myself
for leading thy people, princess—forth, from barbarianism
and ignorance, to liberty and light!'
Her eyes flashed fire! `assuredly Harold?—art thou
determined? Wilt thou go? Hast thou, oh, hast thou,
the constancy for such a trial? Canst thou pursue that
object forever, through all peril, all intimidation, sickness,
death, and sorrow, and humiliation? Canst thou
leave me—me!—and remember only my people? O, if
thou canst, Harold, thou art, indeed, my chosen one.
I will fall down and worship thee! Speak, thou man of
my idolatry!'
`Yea, all, all!—even to the abandonment of thee!'
As they said this, they stood erect, their arms intertwined,
and hands outstretched to the blue sky, which
broke out upon them, with the unbreathed, unpolluted
light of a new day, all at once! and they resembled, in
their beautiful proportions, and bold, agitated drapery,
two pieces of surpassing statuary, suddenly endowed with
life, and just descended from their pedestals, arm in arm.
They embraced. They looked upward, and heaven shed a
luminous benediction upon the foreheads and eye lids of
both. They sank down again, side by side, overpowered
by the tumultuous sublimity of their feeling.
`Harold! Harold!' whispered Loena, in a tone of delighted
eagerness and intensity, that went thrilling to
his vitals. `I have determined. I too, will do worthily
for my people.'
`How child?' cried Harold, pressing his lips, doubtfully,
to her cheek.
`I will go with thee.'
`Thou! thou!—with me, over the wide water!'
`Yea, Harold, as did she of the Holy Scripture;
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saying, `thy God shall be my God; and whither thou goest,
I will go.'
`O, bless thee! bless thee, woman. This is too much.
God, I thank thee! This is religion!—this is inspiration.
'
A long, and breathless silence followed. No thought
of means occurred to these enthusiastick, heedless
creatures. Peril they could endure—death, in each
other's arms—but peril and death were less likely to
thwart them, and dishearten them, than the ten thousand
petty, contemptible vexations of real life.
A convulsive sob broke from her. Her cheek lay
against Harold's. `Sit up love,' she said, fondly, twining
her arms around him, and pressing the ligature,
that dripped redly yet, with the blood of his veins,
`Sit up love, and let me tell thee all about thy rival—
what!—breathing quicker at his name only!—and he's
dead!—O, Harold, Harold!'
`He was my father.'
`What! Logan?—he, thy father! merciful heaven!'
`Yes, Loena, he was—my own father.'
A shriek of horrour and surprise burst from her
pale lips.' Thy father! Harold—that man of blood—
the faithless, and terrible. He who slew men as he
would drink their veins dry, and doated on their agony.
He, who stove in the skull of an old man, in full council,
and spattered the brains in the faces of his children?—
He!—O, impossible! it cannot be. And yet, Harold-I
have detected some startling resemblances—the untamaeble
fierceness of thine eye—Nay, I have thought,
at times, that there was a general likeness between you
and that, had he been young, or thou older, and troubled
like him, and tempted like him, thou wouldst have
been another Logan. And yet, never did I shrink from
thy amazing energy, as from his. O, can it be?'
`It is so. Another time, and I will tell thee all. See
the eastern horizon is all a blaze!'
`What a being he was, Harold! My very blood curdles
at the recollection of him. How he stood! His dominion
was darkness. He was shrouded in impenetrability.
His collossal attributes had no fellowship with
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humanity. He was sublime, and incomprehensible—walking
the earth, like one born and trained for command.'
`Aye, woman, he was trained for command. His
adamantine heart was unsoftened, unblessed with one
touch of infirmity—so bloody, so terrible:—A magnificent
creature, in eclipse—a planet, which, in rebellion,
broke away from its orbit, whirling and thundering,
darkly, through the region of vacuity; shattering, consuming,
and extinguishing all that it encountered. A
being, alike formidable, living or dead, sleeping or
waking, at all times, and in all seasons. Logan walked
the earth with the intimidating aspect of one too awfully
secure of his power—of one, whom the earth could
not disincumber itself of. His voice was not to be disobeyed.
All acknowledged their allegiance to him,
by their fears, while they denied it with their lips. And
all paid it, reluctantly, and in hatred—it was the tribute
of blood and sweat—paid too, to the uttermost far
thing, and that satisfied him. He cared not with what
disposition it was paid. He wrenched his assessment
from the strong and mighty. He would have wrestled
with archangels for their sceptres and crowns—with
the damned, for their preternatural, and guilty ascendancy,
at the peril of ten thousand lives, with the same
indifference. All was alike to him, so it was power.
His ambition was a vulture; it gorged on offal, but it
was the offal of kings. What a being he was! I tremble
to think of him, even in his grave. My heart quakes
like jelly at his name. Nay—hist!—love—hist! hast
thou ever seen him since his death—whisper it low.
Hast seen him of late?'
`Seen him!—Harold—See a dead man!—'
`A dead man!—true, dearest, true. Dead—dead—
yea, Loena, dead, almost by the hands of his own child—
but still—still'—(his voice became inexpressibly solemn,
and he laid his hand upon her with steadiness)—
Still, he walks the earth.'
`Mercy, Harold! how cold thy hand is; let me
warm it love, in mine. And thou shakest too, like the
red leaf of Autumn, in the mountain blast—O for
shame!'
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`Speak! tell me all of him. He wooed thee, thee! my
own, my dearest one: my own father!—O, my brain—
Speak Loena, I cannot bear this, another moment: cannot,
will not, brook the trial longer.'
`Well then, it were a long story, Harold; and I cannot
tell thee all the terrifick deeds he did; deeds of terrour
and blood—achievements of a nature, so heroick
and sublime, and dreadful, that these rocks would fall
at their repetition. He faced the battle. He trampled
the breath out of the wild beast. He met, and tore asunder,
the jaws of the bear, and the catamount. He swam
torrents, forded rivers, galloped the inaccessible mountain,
played his archery above the clouds, bathed himself,
over and over again, to drunkenness and delirium,
in the blood of the white men—nay, of the red men,
too, in the unsparing bitterness of his wrath—a creature,
born and baptized in hot gore—whose baby fingers
dabbled in the reeking vitals of slain children—
all this he did—merely—oh how little he knew of woman's
nature! the nature, even of an Indian woman—
merely to win Loena!'
`He sought some creature of sublimity—some bosom,
upon which Ambition himself, might lay his throbbing
head, wearied and aching with royalty: but he sought
her in smoke and flame.'
`He spoke in council. The oldest and wisest were
mute before the authority of his presence. The great
men, the old and mighty were subdued by his bearing.
They stood before him, awe-struck. He was their
champion, their leader, ready to vindicate their wrongs,
and bear down, in thunder and lightning, upon their
foes, wherever they lay, and drive them to the four
corners of the earth. Could they resist him? He dictated
his terms of perpetual alliance—the love of their
princess! Half of the dagger handles, and one half of the
tomahawks were grappled at the word. Did he shrink?
No. He mocked and scorned, and derided, and dared
them them, all. `Go,' he said, `go! and leave your
princess unwived, unwed; yourselves, the sport and
derision of all men; the curse and bye-word of Indian
and white. Ye! ye! the children of Logan—of him,
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who went forth, in battle and in blood, like the great
sun of heaven, in one untiring course, till he was avenged.
And ye! what are ye? How have ye submitted to wrong,
and insult, and encroachment? And why? Shame on
your dastard councils! Who am I? An adopted child.
Be it so. Mate me among yourselves, if you can. Let
him come forth—here! here!—and put his life and limb
in the jeopardy that I have, ten thousand times for you.
And would ye refuse him?'
`My offer is made. I never repeat it. You have one
hour to think of it. I came in faith to you. If I depart,
remember!—it is I, I! Logan, that pronounce the malediction.
Accursed be your race! unsparing war, and
shame, and desolation, be, and abide upon you, forever,
and ever! My hand shall wage it to the last, and after
me, shall arise others, more terrible, more unappeasable.
'
`I was sent for. Logan stood erect, in the smoke of
the council fire: his huge limbs darkened and revealed,
alternately, in their barbarick nakedness, like bronze
statuary, in the shining light of the consecrated ewer,
and the rolling of the golden vapour that issued from it,
with an offensive odour. Not a nerve trembled. The
orator repeated his speech. Logan extended his hand.
I put it from me. He advanced. I planted my foot, and
menaced him with my countenance. But he was not
to be intimidated. He smiled fiercely, laid his hand
upon my shoulder, and would have embraced me. I,
maddened to desperation, at the indignity, smote him,
and he fell. My knife was buried in his side.'
`He staggered, and fell. The light became suddenly
extinct, as he rolled over the sacred vessels. We were
in darkness; and I retreated. We heard a shriek! It
was from my woman. The young men sprang from
their seats. The cry passed rapidly away through the
forest. They pursued. But it was too late. Their own
noise prevented them from distinguishing the route of
Logan. We soon discovered the truth. Wounded as
he was, Logan had borne off my attendant, with the
speed and strength of a wild beast. Was not mine a
most providential escape?'
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`Our young men continued the pursuit, with torches
and rifles. The moon suddenly shone out, and we
caught a glimpse of him, ascending that hill, by the
lake. Twenty rifles were instantly levelled at his head.
But, confident that they would not shoot at him, while
he held her in his arms, he laughed their threats to
scorn. He hugged the poor creature to his heart, and
was ascending just over the precipitous cliff of the blue
lake—when suddenly—oh God! I never shall forget
that look, and gesture!—He stopped—we held our
breath in terrour. He appeared, for the first time, to
have discovered his mistake. The moon shone directly
upon me. He dropped her, and she clung to his knees.
He stood still for a moment, gazing upon me, and her,
alternately, with his hands clenched, and advanced.
The next, he stooped down—tore her hands from her
face—she shrieked—and he caught her up, as if she
were an infant; rushed to the very brink of the crumbling
precipice, from which the earth and stones, loosened
by his heedless footstep, fell and rattled, in the
wave below. The sound appeared to revive the terrified
girl, for I could perceive her shiver all over, convulsively,
in the moonlight, and reach out her arms, as
to clasp him round the neck—She caught his garment—
but in vain—in vain!—he tore it away, and held
her out at arm's length, over the terrible abyss, for a
moment, as if enjoying her distraction—and then—
O, merciful Heaven! Harold—my heart grows sick at
the thought—my head swims—I can see her now!—
hear her now!—the monster hurled her, headlong, from
the height! We saw her clothes fluttering, and shut our
eyes, with one universal shriek of horrour and dismay.
We heard his horrible mockery above—and the next
moment, as nearer, a faint, desperate cry. Blinded and
giddy as I was, I opened my eyes involuntarily—the
body appeared suspended in the air—it wheeled, swang,
turned, and appeared to touch a projecting crag. I
thought that I should have dropped dead upon the spot,
in the agony of my hope. I saw the dear creature put
out her hands, and grasp at the shubbery, and then, at
the matted tissue of green tendons, that overhung the
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rock—But O, God! O, God! I saw it gradually yield;
and the loose earth, roots, and ivy, all falling together!
Another faint cry followed: and the next moment, a
loud splash, below us, accompanied with the rattling of
innumerable pebbles. O, that cry, Harold! So helpless!
so thrilling!—Gracious God! I have heard it every
night since, in my sleep. It is eternally ringing in my
ears. Let me lean on thee—I am giddy, and sick, Harold,
with the recollection.'
A long silence followed. `From that hour, we never
met—Logan and I. Now, Harold, canst thou doubt
me?'
`I cannot answer thee,' he replied, straining her to
his heart.
CHAPTER XIV.
`Come sit thou with me!—what a heavenly night!
The wind blowing fresh, and the beautiful light
Shedding out such a luminous dampness above!—
`O, lift up thine eyes! see the firmament spreading,
A moveable vault of the deepest of blue!
Rolling on—rolling on, through infinity, shedding,
Forever—an ocean of lustre and dew!'
`Come sit thou with me! we shall both learn to feel,
Like the men of old times, when Jehovah was near—
Come sit thou with me!—and together we'll kneel,
And pour out our hearts to the God that is here!'
`Oh, whither is your march, ye stars!—and whence?'
`Yea, my own, my beloved Loena—yea!—let us depart.
We are now sufficiently recovered.' Three weeks
had passed; three weeks of consummate happiness—
both were so young, and one so innocent. It was night.
The awful magnificence of heaven, blazing with the annals
of Jehovah, was revolving about them.
`Kneel we here, love, in the deep devotion of our
hearts; kneel we here, love, in the solemn and profound
stillness that encompasses us. Let us ask a blessing of
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the Great Spirit—a benediction upon us, while we are
wedded in his star-light. Yea, let us, my Loena, and
then, away to the wilderness!'
They knelt together: her warm cheek rested upon
his; her dark tresses hung, waving over his bosom,
and her gentle hands were clasped, with the sweet feeling
of reliance, deep, deep, unutterable tenderness, supplication,
and confidence. Heart throbbed against heart;
mouth breathed upon mouth; and their intertwining
arms, in the pure innocence of their embrace, trembled
at the same moment, with the same sensations.
The clouds rolled backward. The tips of the far forest
green gradually reddened and brightened to a
ridge of undulating fire, rippling and burning along the
horizon. Daylight poured down upon the valley. A
bright, shadowy commotion followed; and thin sparkling,
hasty flashes, and coloured illuminations, were
seen, mingling and eddying with the dim, and retiring
mist, as if the elements of air and water, vapour and
colour, electricity, sunshine, and the rainbow, were all
wandering together. What a spectacle! What amplitude
and elevation! The glorious divinity of man puts
on its crown and sceptre, at moments, and in scenes like
this, and walks out upon the hill tops, express with irresistible
power, holding communion with the shapes of
Heaven; parleying with them that encompass God's
throne; and feeling dominion over all the things of earth!
The scenery brightened. The morning came freshly
down the mountains. The blue water shone, in bright
patches, through a rent veil of scattering vapour, so
beautifully! and the little waves rippled so spiritedly
in the tincturing sunshine! Down, far down, in its
depth, the tremulous morning fire ran, in coloured and
quick streaking, like the light of assembled jewelry,
quickly revolving, and there lost and renewed, again
and again, as if the water itself were an illuminated
depth—became—a—
`Away love!' cried Harold; and along they bounded
together, by the green banks of the water, alternately
pausing, looking upward, peering for a moment, into
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each other's eyes—catching a hasty and delighted kiss,
like a mother playing with her babe.
Onward they strove, almost without aim, or preparation.
But who would wonder? They loved. The only definite
notion that they had, was, that, to reach the great
water, they must penetrate the wilderness; fight, toil,
bleed, and suffer all extremes of hunger, peril, nakedness,
and woe. Hunger, peril, nakedness and woe! What
are they to Harold and Loena? They loved, and were
beloved.
The night came. Both were weary, and they slept in
each other's arms—alone, alone, in the holiest, tranquillest
solitude. The very beast of the field, the wild animal
of the forest, the terrible reptile, the rattlesnake
that haunted these mountains, and beset their way over
the loose rocks, like them that first contemplated our
first parents, spared Harold and Loena; passed by, and
left them, unmolested, and slumbering.
Another day passed—another—wearied of plucking
wild flowers, and wreathing them round the forehead of
the blushing, and delighted girl, Harold now led her
forward, her dark eyes languidly shining with excess of
love, and her beautiful form gradually yielding to the
irresistible power of fatigue; till, on the evening of the
fourth day, he discovered, by the throbbing of her
temples, and the quick, broken respiration of the dear,
patient creature, that they had already travelled too
far, unrefreshed, unsustained, but by the thin, unsubstantial
aliment of love alone—love, almighty love!
He threw himself down, by a bubbling fountain—in
the warm sunset, half way to the bottom of a shorn and
barren hill, where, like a flood, the last sweeping of
sunshine, came rolling over the mountains, and spread
away upon the assembled and exulting woods and waters,
like a shower of drifting fire, raining at once, from
one half of the firmament.
Roots and herbs were no longer to be her nourishment.
Her stomach rejected both. On flowers and fondness,
and kisses, she had been fed to satiety. Yet she
besought him, for she saw him preparing his ammunition,
and drawing the ball from his rifle, and she knew
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that she could not accompany him. She besought him
not to leave her.
`Leave thee! Oh, never, never, love. Thou wilt go
with me?'
`I cannot, cannot.'
`Merciful Heaven!' cried Harold, his rifle dropping
from his hand. `Art thou indeed, so ill, my love?'
`Indeed, Harold, I am very, very ill. My brain aches.
My heart throbs, even to bursting. The very veins
upon my hand—look! (the extended hand crept timidly,
and tremulously to his bosom—) are distended and
sore. I feel a most painful tightness, as of a hot wiry
ligature, over my eye-balls.'
It was too true. Harold cursed himself for his criminal
thoughtlessness. Why had he led her so far
away, alone, unprepared? He knew not. He wondered
at his own infatuation, blindness, and temerity; his unworthy,
boyish selfishness, to lead such a delicate creature,
over such a thorny and precipitous way, depending
upon chance for nourishment.
`No, love, no. I will never leave thee—never! Together
we have lived, together journeyed, thus far, and
together we will die, love.' He sat down; loosened the
fur mantle from his shoulders; drew her hot forehead
to his bosom, and wrapped her about, with his arms and
dress. Her meek eyes were lifted to his, and she
smiled mournfully, but sweetly, as if the thought of dying
thus, in his arms, were no sorrow to her.
As they lay thus, their hair mingled, and Harold's
hand buried in her luxuriant tresses, as he supported
her weary head—he was startled by a sound above him.
It was a bird—the first that he had seen for days. It
was a wild pigeon. He knew it by its flight, and his
heart swelled. `It is a bird,' said he, to himself, gently
disengaging his arm from the sleepy Loena, whose
innocent lips opened and smiled upon him, in her dream,
with a delicate whispering of his name—`it is a bird
that never flies alone.' A convulsive, shivering delight
ran through him, as he rivetted his eye, in the intensity
of his hope, upon that quarter of the Heaven, whence
the bird had first approached. He was not deceived.
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Another, and another came, till he could endure it no
longer. He sprang upon his feet. He fired, and a pigeon
came fluttering, from mid-heaven, almost to his
feet. Loena started at the sound of the shot, and in the
first terrour of the moment, shrieked to find herself
alone. The next, her head was supported upon his knee,
the bosom of the bird was laid open, and applied, bleeding,
to her lips. She shut her eyes, in her loathing, but
still, with an unconquerable eagerness, that showed how
nearly famished she was, she pressed her mouth to it,
and, if her newly opened eyes told true, she drew new life
with the red moisture from its heart. Harold leant over
her with looks of unutterable fondness. He was the
happiest of human beings? Her eyes shone again—her
bosom heaved—and she was near him, with her eloquent
features newly kindled. How could he be other
than the happiest of human beings? He fell upon her
neck, and wept.
From the profound repose that followed, while Harold
lay, shielding his dear girl from the autumnal
chill, he was awakened by the sound of a human voice.
He snatched his rifle. A venerable man, with a youth
by his side, stood near him.
`I am in pursuit of thee, Harold,' said the old man.
`Of me!' said Harold, in astonishment, at hearing his
name pronounced so familiarly. `Who art thou?
Whence?'
`It matters not who I am. I am sent to thee, for
awhile.'
`Sent to me! by whom? and for what?'
`I know not by whom. I was alone in the woods. I
am a stranger to thee. I knew not that there was such
a being yet on earth. Something appeared to me—A
spirit, I should think, if such things are permitted.
What hast thou done, young man? It commanded me
to track thee.'
`Tell me,' said Harold, gasping for breath—`how
did it look? angry? menacing? terrible?—were not its
great limbs red with blood?'
`With blood! ha!—so young!—and art thou haunted
by a murdered man? Child, I pity thee.'
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This was accompanied by a look of such horrour,
such unutterable horrour, that Harold's blood froze.
`But tell me, old man, what said he? How did he
look?'
`He bade me seek thee, here, and be thy guide and
counsellor. Of his looks, I can remember nothing; it
was in twilight that I saw him, and his dazzling eyes
terrified me.'
`His dazzling eyes! Was he an aged man—very
small—speaking—oh, I know not how?'
`Like the musick of the wild reed?—the same—'
`Yes—yes—a mournful voice—a voice that will not
be disobeyed.'
Harold was silent. Who was this mysterious guardian?
Good, or evil? Good, without question, for it
rebuked him, and the evil one would not.
`Thou art going to Quebec, my son.'
`To Quebec!—oh no. We are going to—to—'(and
his face crimsoned, as he felt that he had no place to
go to—no aim, no object; a desolate creature, wandering
in the solitude.) How far is it, father?'
`The journey of nearly one moon,' quoth the old
man.
`And how far, by the nearest way,' said Harold, `to
the great water?'
`We pass the great water.'
`No—no—not the lakes. I mean the waters in the
East.'
The old man looked upon him in silence, for some
moments. `What!' said he, `the water beyond the barbarians—
the whites? Wouldst thou go there? The sun
will roll in blood, upon thy path. Thou, an Indian—a
Logan—and durst thou go among them?'
`Aye, father—aye!—I dare.'
`Go then—apostate!'
That voice was not new to Harold! It startled him.
Where had he heard it? He turned a troubled eye
upon the old man, but there were no places for memory
in his stern, venerable aspect: and yet, his
voice!
He spoke again, with a tone of more decided
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authority. Harold's blood began to boil. His brow contracted,
and his eyes shot fire.
The old man continued talking, and menacing him
with his hand, in a heavy and monotonous repetition—
appalling beyond endurance, to the impatient Harold.
`We have met,' said Harold, `where was it?'
`In council.'
`O, right!' answered Harold, leaping backward, and
levelling his rifle, with the hope of anticipating the tomahawk,
which was, in his imagination, already aimed
at him.
Harold was in the presence of one, the son of whom
he had slain! This father was sprinkled with the smoking
brains of his own child. The avenger of blood was
at hand. But why had he spoken? Why, when he had
stolen upon him in his sleep, had he not slain him at
once? Was he reserved for torture? That stripling, perhaps.
Harold looked again in the boy's face, and wondered
at himself, that he had not before observed the
resemblance between him and the son whom he had
slain. They were brothers; and Harold had spared the
child, even after his hand was twisted into his hair,
solely in mercy to the desolate voice of the aged father,
who had shrieked out—`O spare my son! my only son—
the child of my old age!'
Harold looked again. The old man's countenance relented.
`There, said he, at last, with a convulsive effort—
`there! take my hand, young man: take it—the
hand of the father!—He forgives thee—the blood of
his boy, and thus he requites thee. With the last of his
name, he pursues thee, to tell thee that thy steps are
haunted; that thou art doomed to death.'
`By whom?—for what?'
`By mine own tribe, and by thine; for slaying a man
in council, and for bearing off their queen. But here am
I—I—I—with mine only child, ready to battle for thee—
and so is he, poor babe—art thou not, my son?'
The boy's eyes sparkled. He struck his arm into his
bosom; and the long hunting knife glimmered like a
flame in his little hand.
`What were Harold's feelings? He could have
fallen upon his knees, and wept at the feet of the great
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old man, who had thus so mightily striven against his
habits and passions, and spared the murderer of his
son; not only delaying to strike, when no human help
could have saved that murderer, but now guiding him,
at the peril of his life, away from the avenger of blood.
Harold was his murderer. He had slain him, unpreparedly,
in a holy place; and his blood had spouted, hot
and smoking, upon the calumet of peace, and clotted
and polluted the sacred vessels, and the consecrated
doves. Once, Harold had felt that he did rightly. But
now, O, how cruelly! he felt that, before the father, he
had no justification, he could have none. For who can
withstand the rebuke of a bereaved old man? Who can
look steadily in the dull eyes of a gray haired father,
when they are suddenly lighted up, at the approach of his
son's conquerour! Their feeble illumination is that of an
expiring lamp, in a sepulchre, fed by corruption; shining
out from a festering corpse, upon the murderer
himself, as he passes.
Harold wept. He did weep. He told his story. The
old man listened, and forgave him again, nay, applauded
him; for it was a religious sacrifice, he found. It
was in obedience to a vow, and made to the manes of
his own mother! He told all—all—his love and destiny.
The old man kindled. He raised his dim eyes to Heaven;
uplifted his thin, trembling hands, and blessed
him.
`Thou art born, child of the forest,' said he; `verily
thou art born, to redeem and restore our race. His
blessing be upon thee!—His! Logan's!—he was our
enemy, but we reverence him. Forward! forward! to
Quebec. Forward, and accomplish thy destiny. Thence,
to the world beyond the water. I will attend thee to
Quebec. I know the governour. He will protect and
advise thee.'
`But Loena'—She awoke and listened. And onward
they journeyed, in cheerfulness and constancy; alternately
hunting, swimming, and recounting the
deeds of their fathers.
At last, thank heaven, their dangers were passed.
By their precaution, in travelling chiefly at night, using
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arrows for their game, and kindling no fires, they had
eluded their pursuers. They came, all at once, in
sight of the stupendous fortress of Quebec. It arose
in abrupt, castellated, rocky fragments, boldly out of
the horizon and water, like the strong hold of some
river divinity; a piled-up, and adamantine, immoveable
congregation, of battlements and thrones.
The point of view was from a sloping headland, that
descended gently toward the water, and then broke off
into a perpendicular precipice, so that the vessels that
approached, appeared for a time, to enter the earth below
their feet, at full sail, and disappear, and emerge,
successively. It was hard to resist the delusion.
Our wanderers stood upon the extremest height of
this elevation. It was just after daylight. The far off
spires and turrets of the city had begun to leave a determined
and accurate outline on the sky, with all their
strong features, and abrupt colouring. Here was a subdued
purple, fading away into a bluish grey, aerial and
transparent; there, a pinnacle of shining silver, to appearance,
(the steeples were covered with tin)—and at
last, along the whole sweep of the horizon, the whole
magick and magnificence of the landscape, came out
gradually, under the growing light, like a faded picture,
under the application of heat; every moment gave
restoration to some hue, some tint, some bold charactering,
or some undulating beauty. The plains of Abraham
were away to the left; the soft sward then unconsecrated
with the blood of the brave—untrodden, unprofaned
by armed heels, and iron hoofs.
Away to the right, passed off a retired range of broken
and beautiful elevations, about what are now called
Montmorenci and Beauport. The traveller who may
have visited this antiquated city since, and stood upon
the same ground, will have found nearly the same appearances
about him, that were visible to our wanderers.
Like the walled towns of Europe, a whole century
changes the appearance of Quebec, less than a dozen
years will, some of the republican cities of America.
The walls become a sort of outline, beyond which the
genii of the place dare not trespass; over which the
god Terminus hath interdicted all passing.
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The Quebec that Harold saw, with a feeling of giddy
and tumultuous delight, and a fullness of heart, inexpressibly
strange, was altogether the Quebec, that
you, in America, may now see, in all its majectick, amazing
strength, and distinctness. A broken, bare, and
heaped up precipice of solid, black rocks was the immoveable
foundation of the city. Her glittering spires,
here and there, shot up like beacon flames, spirally
waning to a point in the blue heaven. Nay, even the
citadel of the present day, (or at least, when I last saw
it, it was) is almost the counterpart of that, which then
towered over the topmast elevation of this second Gibraltar;
and even then, the splendid fragments of some
bright edifice, profusely scattered over the rocky earth,
had given to one particular spot, the name of the Diamond
cape. The Indians held a tradition that it was a
palace of chrystal, inhabited by a family of benevolent
creatures, who, at the first approach of the white man,
shattered their dwelling place into dust, and vanished.
The castle of Saint Louis too, was entirely the same,
(notwithstanding successive improvement, since,) in the
effect of its general proportions. The bold, abrupt
manner of its architecture; and the noisy intermixture
of cries, and rattling wheels, and bells, from
the upper and lower towns, gradually brightened
upon the eye, and swelled upon the ear, with the effect
of a great drama, and a constantly increasing chorus.
It was beautiful!—The laquered sky above, full of
ten thousand colours, of such a peerless lustre—almost
transparent, indeed—with the thin flinging, here and
there, of a vapoury radiance, like smoke from a censer,
glittering in the wind, and stretching before it;
the green water below; the sun rolling upward through
an illuminated firmament—a river, too, of black water,
thundering into the deep green of the St. Lawrence,
and smoking and foaming in the contact—a vast, naked
rock before you, with all its structures and population,
apparently emerging from its bowels, as they ascend
in your sight—the ships away below, passing and
repassing, in the hot sunshine—O, who can forget such
scenery?—the warming and expansion of his spirit, when
it first broke upon him!
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Such are the places of meditation among them that
heaven hath endowed with an exalted nature. At such
moments, man buoys himself up, in the loftiness of his
eagle thought, like some mighty bird, hovering over
worlds, and contemplating them, as they successively
emerge, and revolve in the light—poising herself in
mid heaven; resting, self-sustained, and abiding in the
outstretched chamber of her own plumage. Then comes
the feeling of immortality to him. The soul stands, refreshing
herself at the fountain of inspiration, with her
eyes waiting fearlessly upon the magnificent boundlessness
of God's power, as exhibited in the untenanted
space above her; and approaching, every moment, nearer
and more near to her appointed habitation with the
stars—and leaving, every moment, further and further
below her, the earthiness and sensuality, the melancholy,
and mournful things of earth.
`My own Loena!' cried Harold, pressing her deliriously
to his heart. It was the first loud word spoken,
from the commencement to the consummation of their
devout enjoyment, as they stood and wondered, on the
high hills, at the prodigal munificence of their Creator,
and their own insensibility—`How beautiful!' he added.
`Is'nt it!' with a slight, tremulous pressure of her
hand, was her reply.
Voices were now heard approaching, nearer and
nearer yet. They suddenly ceased. A turn in the road
below, had caused this beautiful effect. It was, as if a
people had gone by, in the air—invisible, and cheerful.
`Let us on,' quoth Harold, and he beckoned to the
old Indian and his boy, who, feeling no desire to clamber
so fatiguing a hill for the satisfaction of looking about
them afterward, were quietly stretched out in the grass,
and smoking below. Nothing seemed to agitate these
creatures—young or old, they were always imperturbable.
They wondered, but it was without sign or indication,
at the forbearance of Harold and Loena, so
near a great city, yet pausing to look back upon what
they had been familiar with all their lives; water and
wood, sky and hill.
They knew not how absorbing a passion was love; how
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wonderfully the capabilities of the heart, the lips, touched
with kisses as with a live coal, and thrilling thence-forth,
with no mortal eloquence, are excited and exasperated
by the intense fervour of such a passion;
how alive and sensible, the veriest dolt is, to the innumerable
and viewless things of air and thought, forever
after being so touched.
Even Harold felt its purifying and ennobling influence
more and more, every day, and almost every
hour. He wondered at himself; he never was so perfectly
happy, so benignant: and never before had he felt so
keen a relish for the triumphant exhibitions of nature;
never, no never, such a pure sense of religion in his
soul. And Loena!—O she could have lived and died
upon her knees, and wept her heart away, in the delicious
silence of her soul, as she looked about over the
wide world, the calm sky—an outcast, a wanderer, a
woman, with no arm near her but Harold's, no heart
caring for her, on earth, but his. Such is love! There
is no solitude, no desert, no silence, no helplessness,
where that is felt.
`They are not in love,' said Harold, softly, as he
observed the gentle smile of Loena's eyes, when she
looked down, and wondered at the apathy of their Indian
guides—`they are not in love; if they were, they
would not mind mountains. They would clamber over
the battlements of heaven, to hold high intercourse with
shapes resembling the beloved one.'
They now approached the city. A motley herd, apparently
of all nations, poured out from all the streets,
in one incessant stream. Their Indian guides went first,
but they attracted little or no attention. The venerable
and august, the youthful and fiery Indian were all
somewhat common in the streets of Quebec. But when
Harold and Loena approached, the change was instantly
visible in the multitude. Their eager eyes, and pauses,
first of unqualified admiration, and then, their rapid
gesture and articulation, soon brought a crowd about
our wanderers. Harold felt his cheek glow, and even
Loena, who understood not one syllable of their reiterated
exclamations of—les voila! les voila!—Oh, mon
Dieu! qu'elle est jolie!'—or their still more ridiculous,
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but respectful, and often affectionate salutations, as
they kept bowing to Harold and her, with their habitual
phrases, mixed with new emphasis however—
of—Monsieur!—ah—Je vous salue!'—or `Mamselle!
(if she smiled)—je vous mercie'—&c. &c. &c.—even she
could perceive that every look and motion of hers, were
reflected in the surrounding countenances. She trembled,
and her eyes filled. The emotion was new, indefinite,
and strangely pleasurable. It was the first time that she
had been publickly flattered: and her heart ran over.
As for Harold, he soon recovered himself, and, in the
pride of his heart, at having such a creature so near
him, walked with a freer and more martial bearing. All
that he did on this morning, was emphatick. His warlike
and firm tread was especially regarded by the
French peasantry: and the gentle, retiring diffidence of
Loena, the beautiful brown girl, as they called her, to
her face, bowing at the same time so complaisantly, soon
became the theme of rapturous delight. Could it be
otherwise? The French peasant was a soldier and a
courtier by birthright. It was constitutional then, as it
is now, for him to thrill, at the sight of manhood or
beauty.
All followed them with their eyes; and some turned
back and walked after them awhile, and others approached,
and appeared willing, but afraid to speak—
withheld perhaps, by their natural politeness.
`You tremble,' said Harold, laying his hand upon
hers. Her pulse throbbed faintly, and hurriedly.
`Bear up—courage—we shall soon find friends. We
are now at home.'
`At home!—O Harold'—Loena could not utter another
word, had it been to save her own life. A tear
dropped upon his hand, and her breathing became audible.
It was her first experience of desolation, forlornness.
So many faces, so happy, so busy, and she, a
stranger! Such thoughts are terrible to a stranger, in
a strange place. Man is never oppressed with such a
sense of his own utter insignificance, as when he finds
himself, all at once, in a large city;—and finds himself
disregarded, overlooked—creating no disturbance, no
curiosity—no matter who or what he may have been
-- 251 --
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at home, or what he may be there, when he is known.
On his first appearance, he is nothing, and the worst of
it is, that he, himself, begins to submit to the treatment,
as just. `These men,' he will say, `are not influenced
by my reputation. They see me as I am—and
they pass me, without deigning to look me in the face.
Am I not contemptible?'
Her feelings were sorrowful—painful. Self-sustained
heretofore, by her own heart, unrebuked by her own knowledge
of good and evil, she had trodden thus far, the journey
of life, almost without imagining it possible that
there could be any other way for woman to walk in, if
she loved, than that which she had fallen upon; but she
was now visited with unaccountable terrours. Her own
feeling of innocence and purity was not support enough
to her, she found, before the scrutinizing, impertinent
looks of her own sex. A distressing study was opened
to her view—Thoughts that never troubled her before,
now scorched her brain, like lightning. Sensations of
shame and terrour shot up, over her pale forehead, and
made her temples throb. And why? Solely because the
eyes of some women were upon her.
She was now among strangers—a new people, whose
manners were new, whose language was to be learnt.
She felt subdued and restrained—a new sense of propriety
came over her, and, while she almost wished herself
back in the forest again, the blood of the Logans
rushed back to her heart, and awoke her like electricity.
Her step became, instantly, more queen like, and stately. Her fond, yielding manner, that, which solitude and
an affectionate heart had taught her, gave immediate
place, with the instinctive delicacy of untutored nature,
whenever it is left to its own unassisted, artless prompting,
to a swanlike carriage, and a calm forehead, a steady
look, and a subdued tone.
She released her waist from his encircling arm, and
trod, with a beautiful superciliousness, that, like every
attempt of an ambitious woman, was successful, and
established her dominion on the spot. She blushed
at the effect; but her heart danced in her bosom, in spite
of herself, as she beheld the multitude, young and old,
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men and women, stop, as Harold passed on, and look
upon him with eyes, whose smile was a blessing.
A carriage was rolling past. A bell range; and the
blinds were instantly let down, as it stopped in the
square, through which Harold and Loena were passing.
A little blue-eyed girl, with a playful, sprightly face,
popped her head out, and began clapping her hands
with delight. The window was instantly filled with
faces. Harold passed on; but the gathering crowd prevented
him from escaping immediately, and he began
to feel disconcerted and distressed—nay angry; and had
half a mind to unsheath his hanger, and hew his way
through the thoughtless and ill-mannerly rabble. The
carriage steps were let down at this moment; and a venerable
man, tall and graceful, with the air of a constable,
or mareschal of ancient France, a courtier of
the old school, descended with a brisk action, and stood
regarding Harold. Harold felt an almost irresistible desire
to approach—that face!—`surely,' thought he, `I
have seen it before. But it was younger then—Where
was it? When?—In my childhood?'
The stranger seemed unaccountably affected for a
moment. His look was mingled of curiosity, astonishment
and perplexity, chastened and subdued by habitual
politeness and dignity.
Both advanced some steps toward each other; and
Harold, whose education had been consummated among
the English, involuntarily advanced his hand.
The governour did the same; and the little girl, who
had been watching all this tedious ceremony with increasing
impatience, could refrain no longer. `Oh, mon
père!' she cried—`parlez—mon chèr pare—parlez lui!'
The veteran advanced, and addressed Harold in English;
giving him his hand, which he received, and
could have kissed, for the benignity and kindness of
manner, with which it was tendered.
`Victorine!—ma chère—tais-toi!'—said he, to the
child, seriously, but affectionately. Her eyes filled immediately;
and her mother, who was at her side, gently
laid her hand upon her delicate forehead—`ma chere
petite—Je snis bien fache: mais—tais-toi, chere.'
`My little girl is forgetful: you will excuse her, I
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hope. She is a spoilt child,' added the stranger, at the
same time directing the carriage to proceed, while he
led Harold through the crowd, that made way, on
all sides, with symptoms of the profoundest respect,
for them to pass.
`Where have I seen you before, young man?' said
the stranger, abruptly, forgetting for a moment, his habitual
delicacy, in a kind of imperiousness, that indicated
a haughty and impatient temper, not entirely subdued
to common occasions.
Harold stood proudly before him. This questioning
was not to be brooked—and yet, what had he to resent?
His unconquerable spirit flamed out of his eyes, for a
moment, and then waned, as the second thought passed
through his mind; and he replied coldly, while Loena,
who had seen the portentous brightning of his aspect,
with terrour, clung to him with a look of such beseeching
helplessness—so soothing, so supplicating! that he
must have flung her off, or he could not have resented
a direct insult on himself, at the moment—very coldly,
`I know not, sir. At the first moment of our meeting,
I too, had a thought that we had once met, and
pleasantly too. But I believe that I was mistaken.' As
he said this, he bowed, and attempted to pass on.
`One moment more—Stay, youth. I am not satisfied,
' added the stranger, uncovering his head, and
passing his hand slowly over his high, commanding
front.
Harold appeared troubled. His eye was fixed for a
moment, upon the fine features before him, and then
wandered away, with a peculiar expression of anxiety
and restlessness, like one hunting, with inquietude,
among the forgotten things of his early life. He was
startled from his revery, by a tear—yes, a tear—it fell
upon his own hand, and from his own eye, as he held
the locked arm of Loena near his heart.
Harold was thunderstruck. A tear! without preparation,
without cause! Surely it was a rain drop. He
looked up to the sky, incredulous. No—it was too blue,
too serene. The drop had fallen from his own eyes.
The stranger too, seemed affected in the same way.
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Melancholy, departed, and forgotten recollections arose
and passed over his dark eyes and pale forehead, like
spirits. There was a tenderness, an affectionate earnestness
in his look, so opposite to his voice, when he spoke,
that it went to the heart of Loena. She pressed Harold's
arm.
`Can you not recollect me?' said the stranger, in a
tone of suppressed feeling.
`No. I cannot,' was the reply. `I have somewhere
seen such a countenance, and heard such a voice, before;
but I cannot tell when, or where.'
Several children had now gathered about our travellers,
unintimidated, unrebuked by authority; and Loena
was amusing them, by exhibiting what she saw attracted
their little hands and eyes unceasingly, the beautiful
porcupine work of her moccasin, and the magnificent,
rough gold ornaments that she wore, in profusion,
upon her beaver skin, and wreathed in her hair, and
clasped about her arms and ancles.
`Well, then. I am the governour.'
Harold's countenance expressed no surprise.
`You will come with me. We must be better acquainted.
'
Harold could not refuse. He felt like a son in the
presence of his own father—obedient, with a mixture
of awe and delight.
It was the governour; the accomplished De Vaudreuil—
a nobleman, a soldier, and a gentleman; the favourite
of his queen. He drew Harold's arm within
his, and proceeded, with such gentleness of deportment,
that the friendless Harold could not forbear pressing
the arm upon which he leaned. It was answered
by a glance that shot to his heart. `Young man,' said
the count, in a tone of evident pleasure. `I like this
ardour. By what name am I to call thee?'
`Harold.'
`Harold!—Harold?—is it possible?—it is certainly
very extraordinary,' he added, musing—`but thy other
name?'
`I have no other.'
`And whom have we here,' said he, stooping, and
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gently laying his hand upon the shoulder of Loena,
whose whole heart and soul, at the same moment, were
oocupied with the mischievous little wretches about her.
They were pulling and hauling her dress about, and
answering the caresses of her hand, by plucking at the
ornaments upon her wrist; all which she bore with her
accustomed innocent good-humour. The most of these
ornaments, and all indeed, which she could detach,
she had already distributed among the little riflers—
`whom have we here?'
Her downcast eyes were raised, for a moment, to his
face. But at the touch of his hand, (it was upon her
naked shoulder,) they were instantly rivetted upon the
earth, and she clung to Harold, trembling in all her
joints, and pale as death.
The count repeated the question. Her heart rebelled.
The colour came and went with the rapidity of light,
over her brown and intelligent countenance. He stood,
gazing upon her with unaffected delight. He took her
hand, and the very tears came into his eyes, as he felt
it tremble in his, while she timidly raised her beautiful
lids, shook back her abundant hair, which, in her romping
with the children, had been turned loose upon her
shoulders, and looked up in his face, with such an expression
of childish, confiding simplicity; and yet, with
a something of innocence, so awful, that it rebuked the
passionate ardour of his countenance, as he retreated,
almost in confusion. Yes, courtier as he was, such was
the effect of her countenance, as she slowly lifted her
head, that he went gradually to the length of all his
arm, and there stood, just retaining it, with the fullest
expression of respect and tenderness.
`What! No answer?' said he, at length, recovering—
`wife, or sister, Harold?'
`Neither,' said Harold.
`Neither!' echoed the count—and smiled.
`Harold started as if a thunderbolt had exploded at
his feet. His dark eyes flashed fire; and he sternly
withdrew his arm, and turned his back, with a haughty,
cold self-possession, whose rebuke was not to be mistaken
by any man, and least of all men, by De Vaudreuil.
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A dead silence followed. Harold stood with Loena
clinging to him, as if balancing whether to go or
stay.
De Vaudreuil smiled again; but this was not the
smile that welcomed Harold—the smile of benignity—
nor that which shot into his heart, the smile of significance.
No!—but there was a paleness in it, and a quivering
of the under lip, which Harold regarded as portentous.
His hand fell upon the hilt of his sabre.
But they were now, where matters of this sort were
not to be decided, in a way so summary, The governour
bit his lip, and added, with calmness and pleasantry—
`very well, indeed! I like your spirit, sir; come,
come, forgive me, (extending a hand to each.) You
are strangers to our customs, and I to yours. I have
my reasons for desiring to know who is your sweet
companion, for I would protect you both. Your looks
bespeak an elevation that I love to countenance; and
for once, I will trust to looks alone; but surely!—a
turn of Harold's head at the moment, caused an exclamation
of astonishment to break from the lips of the
governour—`By heaven! I have seen thee before!—
babe, or boy.—'
Harold was constrained to yield. He accepted the
proffered hand, but not, till after a severe struggle with
his proud, rebellious spirit. And now, he began to appreciate
some of the difficulties which he was about to
encounter. These were but the stepping stones; if his
heart shrank at these, what would he suffer by and by!
And now, for the first time, came home to him, this
question. `How am I to live?'
He turned thoughtfully toward the governour, and
the distressing question, fell, half articulately, from his
lips.
The governour faced him, and pressed his hand.
`Cheer up, young man,' he said. `Never despond.
Never be cast down. It matters not what happens,
while we are young, and in health.'
`Governour,' said Harold, with a seriousness that
approached to solemnity—`we are friendless. I am
poor, destitute, an adventurer. My trade is fighting.
This dear creature, (he trembled, and shivered all over,
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[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]
but continued with a most impressive earnestness)—
`This!—is—governour—this girl is a—Logan. She is
indeed, a Logan—and the last!'—(he added, with a
faltering voice) `we are alone, unfriended, among strangers—
what shall I do?'
`A Logan!' said the count—`A Logan! come with
me. My own home shall be open to you. Come, come.
But why does she hesitate? Is she afraid?'
`We must not be separated.'
The count smiled benignantly, for the dark eye of
Loena repeated the thought, and her lips murmured,
`we must not be separated.'
Harold drew her arm more closely within his own,
and with his princely head lifted up, strode along, side
by side, with the governour. Loena caught the spirit.
She did the same. Her carriage was princely!—the natural
gracefulness of her person, undulating at every
step, with a beautiful expression of intellectual power,
and physical imbecility or helplessness. It was the revelation
of spirit prevailing over matter.
`How proudly thou walkest love,' whispered Loena.
Harold was not conscious of it, but he smiled at the alteration
of her presence. Every eye was upon them,
and even the governour would, now and then, turn
round and look at them, and utter some words of gentleness
and endearment, that set them in motion, with
lighter hearts and brighter eyes, as if they had been
treading to musick.
They soon came to the palace. The last words of
Harold as they entered, were—`Loena, thou art my
wife—remember that—thou art the daughter of Logan—
remember that!'
The operation was electrical. She stood instantly upright,
her dark eyes filling with royalty; her beautiful
proportions swelling and dilating with an imperial
spirit. She was instantly, as by enchantment, at her
ease. Her aspect and voice returned to her, and she
moved and spoke, with the air of unreproved superiority.
`The wife of Harold! the child of Logan!' she repeated,
a thousand times to herself, while her arteries
thrilled with the thought.
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The servants in the hall stood still with astonishment.
All dusty and unprepared as our wanderers were, the
governour led them forward to the family parlour,
where they were all assembled at breakfast.
`Your pardon,' said he, entering first. `I must announce
you.'
He entered, leaving the door ajar:—a few brief exclamations
were heard—a general murmur, and all was
silent. He returned, and threw open the door.
The whole family were at table; and, as if overpowered
by the presence of these children of the
wood, all—all! instinctively arose, and bent, not merely
their heads, but their bodies, before they recollected
themselves: and then, with a general air of embarrassment,
discontent, and shamefacedness, the whole, successively,
sunk into their seats, as if recovering from some
beautiful illusion, during which they were conscious
of having exposed themselves. Their involuntary rising
had been the obedience of those, who prostrate
themselves, almost without looking at the object of
their veneration, in the first spontaneous impulse of
their hearts. It was the unqualified homage, that we
must pay to nature.
The little blue eyed girl, with her silken hair floating
and flying all about her head, ran skipping about the
floor, and clapping her hands, in a paroxysm of delight.
The father looked at her, but in vain; an elder sister
reproved her extreme vivacity, by a shake of the finger,
but that was disregarded; and even the mother, who
smiled as she chided her, found her chiding had no effect
at all, until she was exhausted by her own excess
of spirit. Before they could interfere, she had clambered
up a sofa, thence to a table, and had just thrown her
little arms about Loena's neck, and put up her pretty
mouth to the blushing girl, for a kiss. She was taken
down by force; but her untameable sprightliness took
a new turn—she shook her redundant hair, down, all
over her sweet face, and thence, peeping through it,
as through a veil of unwoven, raw silk, with half opened
mouth, stood watching every movement of Loena's
countenance.
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`Ah!' she sighed at last, quite audibly, as if that were
the first breath that she had drawn since Loena entered:
and the timid Loena, who had, at first, shrunk
from the little romp, trembling with apprehension, lest
some unlucky rudeness might be perpetrated, if she
had encouraged her, (for she had had some experience
with forward, and petulent, and what are the worst
plagues under heaven, smart children) and become
grave and lofty, could resist her playfulness no longer.
At the sound of this `Ah!' and seeing the arch expression
of face that accompanied it, she dropped on one
knee, and caught the victor to her bosom. The child
jumped about her neck, looked patiently in her eyes
for a moment, and then fell a kissing them, as if she
would never be done; lisping all the while, between
every breath, in French; `O! how beautiful they are—
dear eyes—dear little eyes!'
Loena blushed—and to hide her blushes, arose and
romped with her about the room, ignorant that the
elegant and graceful creatures about her, were admiring
her attitudes, as the consummation of art.
As she passed, she caught a glimpse of herself in a
large mirrour—(the largest that she had ever seen, beyond
all comparison)—with Harold watching her; his
fine eyes and high wrought countenance, reflecting
every movement of her form.
How she reddened! The blood crimsoned her forehead,
neck, shoulder, and bosom. Nay, she blushed all
over.
Harold was leaning against a group of statuary, on a
high pedestal, and he looked as if he knew that she was
the subject of all eyes and thoughts.
A low conversation began, between two young ladies,
upon a sofa on the opposite side of the room, in
French; in which the father occasionally joined. It soon
became exceedingly embarrassing, and Harold found it
necessary to apprise the governour, that he understood
the language.
`Monseigneur,' said he, in a low voice, and colouring
to the eyes—Je vous demand pardon; mais, il me
faut—'
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He was interrupted, by a cry of astonishment and
shame, from one of the young ladies; and De Vaudreuil,
himself, appeared thunderstruck. It had never occurred
to him. Harold's manners, and language, and name,
were so purely English, that it was possible he understood
French. The whole family were mute, for some
moments, as if each were endeavouring to recal what
they had been saying, in their sportiveness and admiration.
`Va tú, Julie,' said the younger of the two, coaxingly,
and aside, to her sister—`hablemos Espanol, un poco—
no entiende.'
Harold could not forbear; and the count laughed outright,
as he interrupted them, with, `no, Senora—entiendo
y hablo el Romance.'—`va tú diablo!' said the
younger, half pouting, in a whisper.'
`Encore, encore, mes filles!' said the count, to the
laughing girls—`es senor del campo; y que es mejor—
es Senor de se. Encore mes filles!—parlez en Italien. Il
n' entend pas cela, je crois;—courage!'
`Doucement, doucement—je te prie,' said the mother,
delighted with the growing acquaintanceship, and
unable to speak any but her own language.'
`Oh! signora donna Julie,' said the mischievous
creature, who seemed most to enjoy the frolick—`Siete
ottimamente accompagnata,' pointing to her father.'
`Si,' was the reply—`a che, son io ridotto!—ho la
memoria infelice; ma, ancora, io ho piacere de non restar.
'
`Fo umilisscma riverenza,' said Harold, suddenly
recollecting a phrase or two in Italian—`alla signora
donna Julie.' A peal of laughter followed, and the ladies
threw aside their work in despair, vowing that
they had exhausted all their knowledge of languages,
and must turn, `el hombre,' over to their father, for
Latin, and Greek, and German, and Portuguese, and
Dutch.
`No, my children,' said the father, `I have no hope
of success in so perilous an adventure. I never could
string a good sentence of Greek together, with any
sense of security; my Latin is rusty; I hate Portuguese
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and Dutch; and, as for my German, I am sure, if he
know any thing at all of that language, as I think he
does, by the smile that I see, I shall only expose myself
in the trial.
`O, but try pa!—try; do try,' cried Louise, springing
from the sofa, and running forward—`do try, pa.'
`Well, then, to amuse thee, child, I am willing to
make one desperate attempt, at the risk of being ridiculous,
if thou wilt promise not to laugh, minx, at the faces
that it may cause me to make.'
`Wie befinden Sie sich, mein Herr?'—said the count,
with all possible gravity.
`Ziemlich wohl!' was the answer—`ich danke ihnen—
' and both had exhausted their knowledge of German,
without being at all suspected of it.[4]
The whole family were thus, in fifteen minutes, better
acquainted, than, they would have been, by many
months of ceremonious intercourse. When men have
once laughed together, or drunk together, they are completely
acquainted. Each knows something of the
other's infirmities, and is conscious of having degraded
himself. Therefore, when they meet again, each is
unaffected, and frank.
Just at the conclusion of this ludicrous affair, an old
lady, who had then entered the room, deliberately
mounted her spectacles, and walked up to Harold, who
shrunk back at her approach.
`N'ayez pas peur, mon enfant,' said the good creature,
with the kind, affectionate manner of a mother, to
her own child; and putting her hand upon his forehead,
at the same time—`n'ayez pas peur'—Harold retreated,
covered with confusion. The laughing eyes of the
young girls grew intolerable to him, while he was undergoing
this examination. He fancied that they gleamed
spitefully their encouragement to his persecutrix,
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who followed him round the room, with vehement gesture,
and incessant exclamation.
The old lady now hobbled away; but immediately
returned, leading in an aged man, who, from his dress
and respectful carriage, appeared to be a domestick of
some importance: repeating, over and over again, as she
entered, `Oui, oui, cest lui—j'en suis certain.'
They were followed by a military-looking, middle
aged man, who walked lame, but with great dignity and
uprightness. The room was now darkened, by an approaching
storm, and he could not distinctly see Harold,
until very near him, when a flash of lightning, very
bright and lasting, shone through and through him.
The stranger uttered a sound of astonishment, and retreated.
`Almighty God!' he exclaimed, as soon as he could
speak, dropping his uplifted hands.
`O, how like the chevalier!' said another, behind—
`Did'nt I tell you so?' said the old lady, with a shrill
voice, pressing eagerly before him. `It is his very image;
is it not—Va t-en au diable!' she added, (to the servant,
who stood before her.)
`There!—there!—there it is!' cried De Vaudreuil,
slapping his forehead. `Strange that I should not remember
that. I could have sworn that I had met thee,
somewhere, before, young man. Who is thy father? Nay,
do not hesitate—I'll swear to it—there is no mistaking
thee. Thou art of a race of heroes; men that never
parleyed with dishonour. Speak! Tell me that thou art
the son of the chevalier—no, the English George of—'
`I am not,' cried Harold!' with a haughty and forbidding
seriousness. I am only Harold, the son of an
unknown man.'
`No—not Harold—Auguste. He swore that he
would name thee after his friend. My dear brother was
that friend.'
`Harold started at the sound of that name. His heart
answered it. Could it be? Was he, himself, once called
Auguste, or had he loved one, some playmate, in his
infancy, who was so named.'
`No, governour—no!' he added, after musing
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thoughtfully, with a distressed and anxious countenance,
for some minutes. `Mine is a long story. I
cannot tell it now. But my father was not—I am sure
of it—he was not, he could not have been the friend of
your brother.'
The count looked surprised and hurt, by the apparant
rudeness of this speech—`nay, do not mistake me.
My father was a bad man—a terrible man. No, governour,
the chevalier was another; or thou wouldst
dread to meet a child of his.'
`Impossible!' said the wounded veteran. At first
sight, I took thee for himself, just as I saw him
last;'—He stopped; for the melancholy, agitated face of
Harold—the mournful steadiness of his eye, forbade
all further speculation at the time.
Breakfast was served again, and the constitutional
politeness of a Frenchman was almost forgotten, in the
intense watchfulness, with which the count regarded
every emotion, and every change of Harold's face.
Breakfast over, at which Loena sat, with a kind of
trembling awkwardness, infinitely amusing to the younger
part of the family, the governour beckoned Harold,
and withdrew.
Loena, who had never taken her eyes from Harold
for a minute, immediately dropped the untasted goblet
of milk, and rose to accompany him.
De Vaudreuil smiled, and beckoning to his second
daughter, Louise, in whose playfulness and waggery,
he thought it most likely that Loena would find some
amusement, he bade her take care of, and entertain her,
as well as she could, awhile.
The ladies retired; and Loena, with manifest relucance
went with them. They wondered at her indelicacy,
in wishing to accompany men, at such an `ungenteel
hour;' and yet, there was a shrinking timidity,
with all her princely bearing, that looked too like the
tenderest modesty, to be any thing less amiable.
`Farewell!' said she, as she lingered a moment at the
door, (being the very last out, of course.) It was the first
word that she had been heard to articulate audibly.
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Her voice, they persisted, was musick, itself; and her
English, so delightful! that they were ravished with it.
Harold passed her, laying his hand for a moment,
gently, upon hers—a gesture too graceful, and too full
of tenderness, not to excite a good deal of speculation
after his departure. That touch restored her! She felt
reassured and confirmed.
They passed away: and when Harold next looked
in upon her, he found her beleagued and beset on all
sides, with half a dozen children, little and big, all
chattering together, and trying to make her comprehend
the meaning and intention of all the playthings,
bandboxes, jewelry, and dresses, with which the floor
and furniture were covered.
Louise was teaching her to jump the rope. Marie
was racing after her with a battledore—the blue eyed
Victorine was dancing round her with a great waxen
doll, nearly as big as herself; and Pierre Jacques, the
only boy in the family, and just old enough to be a
plague to every body within his reach, was for flying
a kite in her face. Here was my lady's maid, coaxing
her into a beautiful dress, with Spanish hat and
feathers; and there was my young lady's woman, making
faces at the unshorn, glossy, luxuriant tresses of
nature, and lamenting with continual emphasis, that
they should be suffered to run about so rudely, without
powder or pomatum.
The governour and Harold, and even Loena herself
laughed, at the ridiculous figure that she cut, huddled up
among such a world of trumpery, the very existence of
which she was unconscious of, until she was assured
that it was all, so indispensable, that there was no existing
without it; all which she believed, as soon as she
understood it.
Thus passed the morning. In the afternoon, while
the governour and Harold were sitting in the hall, and
enjoying the magnificent prospect below, the door suddenly
opened, and their old Indian guide, whose unceremonious
disappearance had caused Harold some
little inquietude at first, stalked in, with his son, and
two other Indians.
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The governourwas forcibly struck with the difference
between them and Harold. Their very tread was
a signal of submission: his, of defiance. He carried command
in his forehead; they, subjection. He walked like
a prince; they, like slaves. He, like the undegenerate
Indian; they, like the scorned and derided of white
men. The very children observed this difference, and
shrank from the new comers, with abhorrence, contempt,
and loathing. Their feelings were too obvious,
too inartificial, too innocently revealed, at once, to
leave the matter, for a moment, in dispute—and yet, so
lost were the reviled ones, so utterly, to all the heroick
confidence of their race, that, instead of turning upon
their scoffers, and rebuking them to dust, with the majesty
of their awakened countenances, they forbore to
express aught of their feeling; they trembled and quailed
before the merriment of babes; the very babes of
white men, with the look and carriage of helpless insignificance—
patient, and fearful. Shame on them!
Not so Harold. He stood erect—his dark locks lying
broadly on his Grecian forehead, and clustering thickly
about the back of his head, in short, strong, matted
curls—his neck and shoulders, and chest, partially exposed—
charactered with strength, and breadth, and
fullness, as well as beauty—with a golden laced military
undress, of the most brilliant scarlet, made of
European materials, but after the Indian manner, under
the ample and shining folds of the beaver mantle—
forming, altogether, a noble and spirited picture, as of a
young Scythian, clad in his own spoils—a young barbarian,
returning with the habiliments of a slain enemy.
The old Indian, alone, came forward, unintimidated,
frankly and intrepidly: and offered his aged hand to the
governour, with the expression of perfect equality.
But, perceiving, at the same time, the embarrassment
of his attendants, and their scowling awkwardness, he
reddened, and uttered a few rapid words, with an air
of authority, which they instantly obeyed, by leaving
the room.
The governour received him with unaffected
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cordiality and respect: and the old Indian told him, as well
as he could, in a mixture of broken English, French,
and his own dialect, that Harold was going to England.
`To England!' quoth the governour, shaking his
head—`No. no, not if I can help it.'
A long conversation ensued; in which Harold explained
all that he thought necessary of his purpose
and hope.
`You have great influence, I believe, with the Indians?
'
`Yes—decidedly—great,' answered Harold. `They
are willing to be led by me, now—but I am not qualified
to lead them, yet, as I would wish.'
`What is your plan?'
`To fit myself for a captain and statesman, in the
schools of Europe; to return; to establish a confederacy
among all the tribes of America—wrench back a part
of our possessions from the English—and prevent all
further encroachment.'
`Boy!' cried De Vaudreuil, his eyes sparkling with
enthusiasm—`Boy! I glory in thee. Thou art fitted for
this. None but a hero could think of such a scheme.
Give me thy hand. I pledge myself, this moment, to
assist thee, heart and soul, sword and purse. My king
shall assist thee, too. Our English neighbours are getting
too formidable—they are breaking in upon our
chain of fortifications upon the frontier. We must, we
will drive drive them back to their entrenchments.'
Harold looked this wily politician in the face, steadily,
for some moments. `Governour!' said he; `I accept
the pledge. I give myself up to you, without reserve
or qualification. But mark me—I have a natural antipathy
to the whites, and so have all my countrymen.
Beware then, how you put such power into my
hands, unless you believe your people capable of continuing,
as they have begun, fair traders, faithful allies,
and honest purchasers of our territory. At the first
symptom of treachery or oppression, I will turn my hand
against you.'
`Me!'
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`Yes—even you, governour! though I would rather
die.'
`Very well,' said the governour, smiling at his ardour,
though his blood ran cold, when he saw the settled
look of determination, with which the purpose was
so boldly announced. It was devout, deadly, and unsparing.
Harold continued to explain his views; and De Vaudreuil
listened with astonishment. His observations were
profound and rational: evincing an intimate familiarity
with all the French possessions, from Louisiana to Quebec;
and he almost dreaded to put such an engine in motion.
The thundering of its wheels and cylinders, and
chains, would not easily be stayed again, he was sure.
`You are young, brave, resolute, and of a military
turn, Harold. I am willing to believe, therefore, that
you can do incredible things. Nay, when I look upon
you, and hear you, nothing seems impossible, that
you meditate. Will you stay with me? I will take
care of you.'
`Governour, I am resolved to take care of myself.
I have lived too long in dependance.' As he said this,
he raised his arms—and the passionate nature of the
boy broke out, all at once, like flame, in his scornful
countenance—a withering and blasting flame.
The count, carried away by his feelings, embraced
him on the spot.
`Thou shalt go, my young hero!' he said; `thou shalt!
to England, France, whither thou wilt. I will be thy
friend—thy father—go where thou wilt, and when.'
Harold's eyes filled. This was unexpected kindness.
All else he could have resisted. Of late, he was so unaccustomed
to the voice of manly encouragement, that
the slightest tone went thrilling to his heart. Such was
his nature. He that could withstand, sternly and forever,
the assaults of the unkind—the wind and the rain
of heaven—encasing himself in adamant, as they beat
upon him, and wrapping the protection of his great
nature in more impenetrable folds, about and about
him, threw it off—unharnessed—uncased—abandoned
all his armour, and stood, naked, and trembling from
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head to foot, when the sunshine of affection shone out
upon him.
`Governour!' said he, at last, nearly suffocated by his
emotion—`governour—'(the governour was shocked
and alarmed at the deeply broken voice—the suppressed
breathing of Harold—they were indicative of
such tremendous inward agitation)—`governour—I
thank you!'
It was all that he could say—all that he dared to say,
without weeping. It was enough. The count saw that
he was choking; and Harold felt, at that moment, as if
every evil passion of his convulsed, disincumbered
heart, had fled forever: as if all its greenness and poison
had been neutralized by a few tears, and all its hatred
and malignity, risen and passed off, as in distillation.
Its bitterness was no longer to be tasted, as it
had been, burning and acrimonious, as the venom of
the rattlesnake, when he thought of his indignities, and
the wrongs of his people.
And the count, himself, felt, in the protracted utterance
of these few simple words, `I thank you,' a full
assurance that Harold would abide the trial, and live
to requite all that had dared to stand by him, when he
was unfriended, trampled on, belied, and alone.
`God bless thee, my boy!' was the fervent ejaculation
of De Vaudreuil, in reply, his very spirit flaming out
of his eyes.
What was this strange enthusiasm? Whence was it?
A young stranger, an Indian, swarthy and repulsive,
haughty and forbidding in his aspect, but stands up
before another stranger, an aged man, a nobleman, a
soldier, and a courtier; accustomed for a score of years
to having his passions assailed, in vain, by the mightiest
and craftiest—and, straightway, the latter is his
friend, body and soul, to the spilling of blood? Verily,
all things are possible to the young and valiant! It was
the electrick communication of proud hearts, hearts
beating with chivalry. De Vaudrueil was a soldier;
one of the tried and graceful ones of France—a nation
of young knights! And his heart leaped in his bosom,
at the trumpet toned voice of young Harold. It was the
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first neighing of a youthful steed, in his impatience for
the trial, when his voice sounds as if his arteries are
ruptured with the effort.
`But what are we to do with her?' said the governour,
pointing to a distant room, where sat the pale
girl, in a drooping, disconsolate attitude—smiling, in
her abstraction, upon the children, who were striving
to amuse her, with a sweet, desolate smile.
`Her!' answered Harold, his brow knitting, and his
lip writhing, entirely forgetful of his newly proffered
allegiance, as he observed the tone of doubtful hesitation
and distrust, in which the inquiry, to his anxious
hearing, appeared to be made. `Her!' what mean you,
governour?—the princess—'
`Aye,' said the count, laughing—aye, my hot spark,
the princess. What are we do with her, when you are
gone?'
`When I am gone!—what! Think you, I would go
alone—think you that I could? No, governour—no!
Go where I will, she goes with me. We go together, or
we stay together. Nay, not even that—go we will, and
together, and over the wide water too, if we have to
swim for it.'
`Bravo!' said De Vaudreuil, shaking his hands heartily.
But his purpose of separating them, nevertheless,
did not change. It was essential to all his plans, that
Harold should go unincumbered, and that he should
hold some check upon him during his absence; and he
determined to study the character of Loena, thoroughly,
before he revived the subject.
He soon found not only the family, but the very
servants, inconceivably interested in her. And before
another week had passed, it was determined among
them, to retain her, educate her, and hold her in the
bosom of their own family, until Harold should return.
In this determination, there were compounded all the
feelings of a man, a father, and a consummate politician.
The power which Loena had over the prejudice and
reverence of the red men, as the child of a Logan, and
the only one left, was not to be lightly disregarded.
With Harold's assistance, she might be made to effect,
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what all the missionaries and emissaries, (terms nearly
synonimous, however, at all times,) of his master had
only dared to contemplate; namely, the ultimate expulsion
of the English from their new possessions, and
their confinement to the shores of the Atlantic.
The subject was renewed. Harold had considered it,
with an aching heart, but coolly and dispassionately.
His head hung upon his bosom, and he finally consented
that Loena herself should determine whether to go
or stay. By her decision, he would abide. But another
season had passed—and another, before she was tried.
Her artlessness had captivated all hearts: her earnestness
to please, her uncorrupted purity, her docility,
her unaffected dignity and grace, under the most embarrassing
emergencies, when a delicate instinct, supplying
the part of all experience, made her very ignorance
charming: her strange, wild, troubled beauty,
continually changing from meekness to fire; from melancholy
to enthusiasm, from submission to authority—
and the unaffected corruscations of character that broke
out, continually, in collision, from their dark hiding
places, like the sudden lights of bedded diamonds, broken
and shattered in the trampling of iron hoofs. All
these things had soon become a study and a delight, nay,
an employment, for the whole of De Vaudreuil's household.
They could not have parted with her.
This reluctance increased, as they discovered her
acquaintance with the principles of their own sublime
religion, (the Catholick.) She was not told that Harold
had consented. The very thought would have shaken
her to the earth with apprehension.
But why did he consent? Did he believe it possible
that she would? No; but he flattered himself that his
manly purpose, the result of deliberate reasoning,
which had convinced him of the rash impropriety that
there would be in taking a helpless Indian girl along
with him, into such jeopardy and vicissitude as he
must necessarily encounter, would be entirely overthrown
by the first movement of Loena, without any
weakness in himself. The desire of being with him,
he knew to be a constantly active principle with her—
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nay, that was vitality to her. Thus Harold was content
to appear like a man, and a stoick, because he knew
that the Indian maid would not permit him to act like
one. Oh, no!—and this was his only hope; for he dreaded,
even when he testified his submissiveness to her
will, a separation, more than death.
How little he knew her! How widely he mistook his
own influence, and the influence of accustomed endearment
over her! Hitherto she had been among men
only. Her heroick nature had met with no rivalry.
She had been absolute; and she had walked and wandered,
whither she would, in her own dominion, unreproved,
unrebuked, unreproached. But now, she was
beset with a new and strange inquietude—a new sense;
a scrupulous, delicate wakefulness to propriety. She
had become prouder too of him, for she saw the young
Indian walking proudly, before the proudest white
men; men who had been, hitherto, so very terrible to
her nation; and she naturally thought more highly of
herself, for being beloved by one so considerable.
It was only required to set her own powerful and
beautiful mind at work, and the rich element, once in
commotion, would teem, of its own will and activity,
with proportion, and loveliness, and wisdom. This,
with the assistance of his lady, the count soon discovered,
to be the character of the princess, as the whole
family now persisted in calling her, in spite of her remonstrances,
when she found how lofty a title it was.
It hurt her innocent and unambitious heart, to rank
higher, even in phraseology, than her protectors, the
count and countess.
One morning, as the count entered the parlour, he
discovered his wife employed in trimming the hair of
Loena into a thousand fantastick undulations. Now
she would persist in giving her the picturesque and
beautiful aspect of a Greek girl—and now, she would
toss it wildly over her temples and bosom, till she resembled
some terrified Bacchante. His own daughters
sat, laughing and pouting by her side, occasionally interfering,
and squabbling about the gracefulness and
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effect of this cluster, or that waving, luxuriant mass, that
flowed, as if it were liquid silk, over her shoulders.
He laid his parental hand upon Loena's head, and
put his lips to her forehead. She coloured, but seized
his hand, and blessed him with that fervour, that innocent
and natural fervour, which is not to be counterfeited
or affected. Her emotion choked her.
The conversation, so long dreaded, was soon began;
and the countenances of all grew more and more serious,
mournful, sad, as he proceeded, until there was
not a dry eye in the room.
A frigate was to sail the same evening for Calais—
Harold was to depart in her.
`Harold!' faintly articulated the gasping girl, and
shut her eyes. `Harold!' echoed all the others. The
word died away on their lips. They all clung to poor
Loena, with hands and mouths, as she buried her face
in the lap of the countess.
A sad presentiment sat heavily upon her heart. So
much admonition—so much advice—so much gentle
insinuation—so many new feelings and thoughts about
propriety, conjured up—it could not be for slight purposes.
Yet what was she to fear? They were to go together—
together! were they?—oh yes—but then he
said Harold—Harold only.'
`I will go!' she exclaimed, starting upon her feet,
forgetful of their presence. `I will go with him, the
wide world over! Let me see who shall dare to oppose
me! Harold! come thou to my defence!'
They had been watching every movement; and DeVandreueil
now left the room, saying to his wife, significantly,
that he left Loena to her care.
`Oh!' said the countess, after a few moments of
mournful silence, while the dim eyes of the Indian girl
were searching out the mystery of this behaviour, with
a look of unutterable expostulation—`Oh'—(as if she
that moment recollected herself) oh, how long is it, my
dear—' (she stopped a moment, for she found it exceedingly
difficult to make herself intelligible to Loena, whose
early lessons in French, were but just beginning to revive—
besides, she was startled at her own abruptness,
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and inwardly awed at the calm melancholy, the beautiful
self-possession that arose gradually upon the youthful
countenance before her—as if to rebuke all particular
inquiry—(so much for her lessons in propriety)
but her lip trembled, and she pressed the hand of the
countess, and put her mouth meekly upon the blue
veins, as if conscious that this was not the time for the
princess to be seen—no! but for the woman, the tender
and impassioned woman alone.
A tear fell upon the hand. She stooped with her luxuriant
tresses, and would have wiped it away, but her
mother, (for thrice had the lady called her `daughter,'
and her heart yearned to show its sensibility to the endearing
relationship)—her mother forbad it, and dismissed
the girl and children, with her hand.
`I am abrupt, love,' she said, `I know that I am; but
thy frank nature is accustomed to that. Thou art a woman,
a young, inexperienced, and enthusiastick woman.
I tremble for thee—Here thou hast come, a stranger,
my child, an innocent, unfriended, unsupported, helpless
stranger—among strangers—(Loena's eyes overflowed)
with no brother—no father—no sister—not even one of
thy nation—(Loena attempted to speak) what sayest
thou, love?—nay, do not weep.'
Poor Loena sobbed as if her heart would break.
The countess continued—`no father—no mother. Oh,
yes thou hast. I will be thy mother, my sweet girl.
Wilt thou be my daughter?'
`I will, O, I will,' faintly whispered the fainting
girl. Bid me as thou wilt—I will do thy bidding—my
mother—my dear, dear mother!'
The countess embraced her passionately.
The contact was inconceivably affecting to both. Loena
felt as if her own mother had risen from the grave;
and the countess, as if caressing her youngest born, the
child of her old age. Behold them!—a beautiful woman—
a French woman—a Parisienne, locked to the bosom
of a young American—an Indian girl, brown, and
sparkling with barbarian ornament—locked too, as a
mother and daughter, in overwhelming and inexpressible
tenderness.
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It was the union of ministering intelligences—the
priesthood of loveliness among the oppressors and the
oppressed. Fashion and Nature; the perfection of Art,
and the simplicity of unadulterate, uncontaminate Nature!
`My daughter, compose thyself,' continued the countess,
' lean awhile on me—the bosom of thy mother—
why, how thy temples throb, child—and the sweat, I
declare, thy hair is wet, on thy forehead, with it. Verily,
verily, but thou art fearfully and wonderfully made.
We are all so—woman is, at best, but frailly, delicately
constituted, but thou art so, in an especial manner—
more a thing of intellect and nerve, and spirit, than
aught that I know, even among women. Come, come,
cheer up, and prepare thyself. Thy heart too, why it
is coming through thy side!'
`It feels, mother, as if it would, indeed,' answered
the trembling girl, as she shook back her redundant
hair, and looked up in her face, with a quivering lip,
and a pale, very pale cheek—`It feels, mother, as if it
were nothing but ashes—O, it is dry, pulverised—
there is no moisture in it—I would weep—but I cannot
weep—I cannot shed another tear. But go on, my
mother, O, how it delights me to pronounce the strange
word—ma mère! ma mère!—I am prepared.'
Saying this, she arose, and sat upright: upheld and
sustained, by her own unconquerable spirit. Now was
to be the trial. She was sure of it. She knew not what
was coming, but whatever it was, she was now ready to
face it. The countess dreaded to begin, now that the
moment had come.
`Hast thou known Harold long?' said she, at last,
with solemnity.
`From my very infancy, ma mère.'
`Constantly; with no interval?'
`None—yet stay—O, yes, ma mère, there was a dreary
interval. I remember it now—I hate to think of it.
I thought that I had forgotten it—he wandered—'
`Loved another, perhaps?'
`What!—he—he! Harold—he love another! O, no—
no—no—ha!—ha!—ha!'
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She laughed deliriously, and shuddered, as her
voice died away on her lips, and the echo came back to
her, `ha! ha! ha!'
What shook her so? Was this the first pang of jealousy,
to the brown girl of the wilderness? What shook
her so?
She had heard tales, but she did not believe them.
She had traced them to the old Indian, but inadvertently;
and she disdained to ask Harold if they were
true; nay, she almost scorned herself for thinking of
them for a moment.'
`He is going to England,' continued the countess.
`Yes, ma mère.'
`Thy mother was—'
`O, name not my mother!—O, name not that blessed
one!'
`Didst thou love her, dear?'
`Love her!—love my mother!—ask her!—call her
hither!—call her down from heaven!—Bid her tell thee!
O, my mother, my mother! did I love thee? Gracious
heaven!—did I love my own mother?'
`I do not doubt thee, Loena, dearest: But I ask thee
for especial purposes. How old wast thou when she was
taken away?'
`Fourteen springs.'
`Hadst thou learned to read?'
`A little—a very little.'
`Did thy mother ever talk to thee of the customs
abroad; of marriage, religion, delicacy, propriety?'
`Of marriage and religion, she did; of delicacy and
propriety, never. She had no occasion for it. I have
learnt their meaning only since I came here—the words,
I mean. I have been familiar with the actions, which
they denote, from my childhood. It was the religion
of my blessed mother, to be modest. She made us innocent
and sincere. Here, I have learnt, that to be modest,
innocent, and sincere, is not enough. We must
appear so, and to strangers:—and that, pardon me, lady,
but it seems to me, that here it is better to appear so,
and not be so, than to be so, and not appear so.'
`Did she love Harold?'
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`Yes, as the apple of her eye.'
`Did she ever interfere, or restrain your childish
frolicks?'
`Restrain us! no. Together we clambered the mountain—
together buckled on our quivers, and hunted the
red deer together—swam the torrent together—together
wrestled, played, and toiled together—and slept
together, in each other's arms. Restrain us! no. Why
should she? It would have made us miserable. And
her whole study was to make us happy—she was our
mother. Nay, she held us together in her arms, and
bade me love Horold—and bade him protect me,
through all peril, temptation, and vice. We have done
so. Restrain us—no, indeed.'
`These were the feelings of thy childhood. What
are they now?'
`Now, oh, I know not. I do not love Harold now, as
I did. I am afraid of him. I tremble when I hear his
step. I know not why it is; but I cannot bear to sport
with him now—not even to touch him—nay, if he come
near me, I am ready to fly from him. And yet, I am
so unhappy when he is away; and still, he is dear, very
dear to me.'
She hid her face in her mother's bosom.
`And when did these emotions first assail thee? this
change?'
`After we were separated the first time. I loved him
before. I would have laid down my life for him, before.
But then, I never trembled, never wept before him. I
could bear to speak to him, and could understand what
he said in reply: but now I cannot. He talks to me, but
I never answer, for I cannot understand him. I only
hear his voice. It thrills through and through me, and
I could fall asleep, while I am listening to it, as I would
to unknown musick. If he speak suddenly now, to me,
there is a confused ringing in my ears. Is it not very
strange? I am afraid, mother,' (she added, in a low
whisper) I am afraid that I don't love Harold now,
as I ought.'
`Loena—look at me—wouldst thou swim with him,
now?'
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`Yes, certainly—why not?'
`Wouldst thou sleep with him, as thou didst in
childhood?'
`Would I? Certainly I would. Did I not, all the way
through the wilderness?'
`Dear innocent,' said the countess, kissing her, with
full eyes, and a smiling lip.
But Loena's countenance underwent a change. She
appeared troubled, pensive, thoughtful—She raised her
head. The working of her soul began to betray itself—
`Mother,' said she—a slight tinge of red, the slightest
in the world, passing over her forehead, and her fringed
lids dropping—`Mother, I never thought of this before—
no—no—I could not swim with Harold now.
And never shall lie with him again.'
`Why not, my dear?' said the countess, willing to
prosecute the whimsical inquiry. It was so delicious to
watch the first contracting and dilating of a pure heart—
naked and transparent before her—palpitating with
its own heat.
`Indeed, I know not; except that just now, when I
said I would, ma mère looked so surprised! I was frightened.
And then, the other day, when I happened to mention
how diverted I used to be when Harold talked in
his sleep, Louise asked me a very strange question, and
when I answered—'
`What was it, my dear?'
Why, whether I was married?—only think!—and
then, when I laughed and told her no, she turned red,
and fell a whispering with her sister, and I thought she
was less cordial to me, ever afterward; and so, I am
afraid that there must be something wrong in what I
said. I ought to keep my thought a secret, ought I not,
ma mère. Now, don't be angry with me.'
The countess was irresistibly diverted with her simplicity.
But she took her throbbing hands, and said,
as she pressed them in her own—'
`My child—Harold must leave thee.'
`Leave me!—me!' screamed Loena.
The countess, herself, shrieked, at the wildness and
suddenness of her exclamation. It was a cry of
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delirium—as from some childless mother—`Leave me!—
Harold!—me!'
`Hush hush,' my dear girl, they are coming. (The
steps passed away.) Now hear me. Harold is going
away. (Loena gasped for breath.) Thou art a woman.
He is a man. He is not thy brother, nor thy husband—
nor even a kinsman—wilt thou go with him alone?'
`Aye lady, aye! all the world over. Aye, to the
abode of darkness!' she continued, without raising her
eyes, `to the green earth—to the cold northern sky!
Brother, husband, father, clansman—all, all, is Harold
to me! I abjure all the world for him. To him, and
him alone, will I forever cling, in my desperation. I
will, I will! nothing shall separate us. I am desolate
enough now, but I should be dead, dead, in my desolation,
were he away. No—I tremble to be with him,
but I cannot, will not, be separated. I cannot bear his
voice, but I should die, perish, go utterly mad, were I
where I could not hear it. I cannot touch him; but he
may be sick—sick, lady, in a strange land, and who
shall nurse him, then?—who shall hold his hot forehead—
wipe off the sweat, and spread the beaver for his cabin—
who?—O, I should die if any other touched him.
If I may not, O withered and accursed be the hand
that soothes him—I should hate her forever and ever.'
`Her! my dear—whom do you mean?'
`The woman that should go to Harold's cabin when
I was away.'
`My child! my child! this must not be. Wouldst
thou, poor innocent, thou!—go alone with a man, the
wide world over; unsanctioned, unblessed?'
`Aye, lady, the wide world over! What care I for
your Christian ceremonies? We love, and God, God,
himself, will say a blessing for us, the first time that
we are alone upon the waters! Think you, that we shall
not sleep as soundly in each other's arms, dreaming
and embracing, innocently and fervently, and devoutly,
too—yea, religiously—for we have our religion!—like
the man and woman of Paradise—as if we had been
kneeling down to the benediction of mortal man, a
poor child of infirmity and sorrow, like ourselves—No,
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no! We are wedded, wedded already, heart and soul.
He is my husband, and I am his wife.'
`My child, my child! what will become of thee?
A beggar—an outcast—helpless—suppose he should
die, Loena—Yea, shudder, my child; such a thing may
be. Wilt thou go?'
`I will.'
`Can nothing disturb thee?'
`Nothing.'
`And art thou, canst thou so forget thy blood—
thine ascendancy. Thou! daughter of Logan?'
`What!—what is that, lady!—Logan! who spake of
Logan?—O speak again—speak, I conjure thee!'
`Daughter of Logan,' said the countess, with the
most impressive solemnity, while Loena stood as if
rooted to the spot—`I knew thy mother. Nay, it is
true. Another day, and I will tell thee all. I was a
prisoner once, and she saved my life; and that of a
child of mine, who is now dead. Thy mother now
speaks to thee. Her commands are imperative. Go
thou not with Harold! Thou art a princess, an Indian
princess. Thou knowest him not. He is young, fiery,
and irresolute; wait awhile. Thou art to be the saviour
of the Indians. Be thou the companion of some hero.
Be Harold himself, that hero. He is the apostle of Ambition.
But first learn thine own value. Try his constancy.
Be not easily won, and cast aside, like that
poor creature—Ah, thou hast not forgotten her, I see—
Nay, nay, do not grasp my neck so tightly, dear; thou
wilt strangle me. Think of her, Loena. Men are always
the same.
Let Harold go alone—alone. If he be worthy of
thee, and thy heritage, he will return; and thou, my
dear child, wilt be assured of his sincerity and truth.
What is thy determination?'
`I know not. I am of the blood of Logan. I feel
that tingling in all my blood vessels. That poor girl!
No, no, I will not, cannot be like her—broken hearted,
and so pale!—O, Harold! Harold! couldst thou?—no,
no, thou couldst not. And I could curse myself for
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thinking of it. Art thou not, in truth, all purity to me?
all gentleness? terrible as thou seemest. Let me go, mother.
At what hour does the great canoe depart?'
`At sunset—his baggage is already on board.'
`At sunset!' echoed Loena, faintly. `Before that
hour I shall be prepared. I tremble now.'
She withdrew, and the countess watched her from
the window, as she saw her move, with a hurried and
agitated step, up the acclivity through the garden, to
where she could see the sails, and the water. Her step
faltered. She stood alone. She knelt. A large tree
overshadowed her, and her attitude was that of a Christian
girl at her supplication, broken down, and bowed—
She stretched out her arms to the water, and bent
her head. She arose—her beautiful drapery, newly
modelled after the antique of a bronze dancing girl,
was blowing about her. She retreats—why so fast?—
She conceals herself—She stoops, as if half willing to
be seen. What significance of motion! Thus much of coquetry
had she already learnt. While her heart bounded
to meet some loved one, she hung back timidly! O
children of the mountain, how are ye worn, and wasted,
and degenerate, upon the plain!
No—she is in earnest. How erect she stands! What
beautiful loftiness—so concentrated. A man!—a French
officer!—ah, he approaches her. What awes him so?—
No further—not one step—and yet, he advanced at first,
familiarly enough—stay, he gathers courage—he approaches
her.
`Insolence!' cried the countess, with burning cheeks,
and rang the bell, with passionate violence.
The officer had thrown his arm round the Indian
maid—what! Is she feeling for a weapon?—merciful
heaven! he is hurled to the earth! A lion is upon him!
An apparition!
`O heaven! O heaven! spare him! spare him!' shrieked
the countess, as she threw up the window, in horrour
and consternation. * * * * Great
God! It is too late—he is going—I see him—I hear
him—help! help!—there! there!'
The servants passed the window. Their exhausted
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lady could but just raise her hand, and point. They
looked up, and leaped forward, like madmen, to the
rescue.
`Ah—it is all over!' said the countess, a moment after,
letting the window fall, and sinking upon the floor—
`Ah!—Oh! his blood is spirting upon me—hot!—
hot!—and see, see,' she added, as her female attendants,
alarmed at the outcry, filled the room—holding
out her hands, and stretching her fingers apart, and
shuddering—`see! see—his torn flesh!—his brains—
reeking—reeking!'
Another moment, and Harold burst into the room,
bearing the triumphant Loena upon his bosom, which
was half-buried in her abundant, and disordered tresses;
while hers was half revealed, in its beautiful undulations,
through her torn dress.
Harold began an explanation, but was interrupted by
a clamour at the door. He anticipated the result. He
unsheathed his cymetar—it rang, and whistled, as he
drew it forth, with the accustomed flourish, as if impatient
for service; and those who stood near, shrunk
back, as it flashed by them; breathlessly looking upon
the fierce and fell, the wrathful and settled composure
of his countenance. Death was in every lineament: yet
in every lineament was a mortal and unutterable fixedness.
It was terrible.
The noise increased. There was a clamorous outcry
for `the Indian—the Indian—the murderer!'
Harold moved toward the door. The countess
forbade him: but Loena bade him go—go, and beat back
the rabble herd, and not suffer the dwelling of his benefactor
to be profaned.
He obeyed. He threw open the door; but De Vaudreuil
was already rebuking them, with a drawn sword
in his hand, and promising them justice.
In the mean time, the sails were heaved upward—
bent in the setting sun—persons and boats were seen
running hither and thither, in the bustle of departure;
and the mob were soon occupied, in their fickleness,
with the scene. The count turned his attention to his
lady, and soon heard from her, all the particulars of the
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affair. A broken sword, and a rent scarf were ample testimonials
of the fierceness of the combatants; but the
leap, to which Harold had compelled the wounded man,
from the precipice, was soon found not to have been fatal.
He had fallen upon the top of a slightly built summer
house, in a garden below, and escaped, with only a
dislocated shoulder; a wound in his side; and a few
bruises, for his presumption.
He was to have gone in the very vessel with Harold,
and had ascended the hill for a last look at the picturesque
scenery, when his impetuous and headlong folly
had well nigh cost him his life. His fate was deserved.
He was driven to the precipice, and thence, shricking,
with a strong, unsparing hand, was thrust down.
Harold and Loena remained locked in each other's
arms. This new danger had endeared them, if it were
possible, more than ever, to each other. Their tears
and kisses were mingled.
`I am going, Loena,' said Harold. `Am I to go
alone?' `I cannot, cannot answer thee,' said she; `What
shall I say? I am a woman. Ought I to go? What
wouldst thou, Harold, dear Harold, that thine own sister
should do, at such an hour? By thy soul, I conjure
thee!—declare unto me, thy true thought—and—so help
me heaven, in my utmost need!—I will abide by it—go,
or stay—be with thee, or apart, forever and ever—as
thou shalt now judge me?'
Harold sank upon his knee: held her to his heart;
heard her sobbing above him; sobbing aloud—felt her
heart beating against his cheek, as if it would burst its
cell. What did he?
Harold was a hero; but Harold was human: Godlike,
he might be, but his true nature was humanity. What
did he, in this hour of trial?
He bade her stay—aye, by heaven and earth, that
Indian boy had the courage and heart, the heroick
courage, and the greatness of heart, to speak honestly,
and bid her stay!
Again and again, they embraced, convulsively—parted
and wept—and blessed each other, over and over
again.
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`I obey,' said Loena. `But think not, countess, mother,
that it is to try his faith—oh, no! of that, I cannot
doubt—why Harold, love—how deadly pale thou art.'
She remained looking at him, a moment; and then,
coming nearer, added, `I have been provoked to try
a spell upon thee, before thou goest—nay—smile—do
smile—we shall soon meet again. Shall we not, mother?
Shall I try it, mother?'
The countess nodded in the affirmative. Harold trembled
from head to foot.
`Nay, it is only a name. Don't be so frightened.'
Her voice and countenance instantly changed—`but
it may be true—gracious god! it may be—Harold, look
at me—' (She placed her hands upon his shoulders, and
looked him intently in the eyes—his lips were bloodless—)
`Elvira!' she said; and, at the instantaneous
change of his countenance, hers fell—her hands dropped
down, and she stood, as if struck with sudden
death.
At this moment, a flash, like a wide, thin, and suddenly
diffused vapour, whitened the opposite wall. It
was the last sail! A peal of thunder followed. It was
the signal gun!
`Once more! once more, Loena,' cried Harold, approaching
her, and extending his arms to her.
She shook her head in silence. His forehead reddened.
He turned to depart. He had shaken hands with
all, and embraced the count and countess, and was going.
Loena never moved, nor spoke.
Harold could not bear it. He went to her. `Loena,'
he said, tenderly, and solemnly—`Loena. Look at me
once. I cannot part with thee—it may be—forever,
thus.'
She turned—but her countenance was fixed.
`Speak to me, once more, before we part forever—
I cannot leave thee, thus. O, speak to me! What of
Elvira?—It is nearly three years since I saw her.'
At that name, she started and shrieked—pressed her
hands distractedly to her forehead—came to him, once
more—laid her face upon his bosom—fell upon her
knees, and called upon him
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`O, Harold! Harold—thou, whom I thought so pure—
O, is it true?'
`What, love?'
`I cannot speak it?—the hateful thought. O, how I
have derided and scorned it. Is it true? O, tell me—
tell me, or I shall die at thy feet!'
`Hast thou not read my letter?'
`What letter?'
The count here interfered, taking a large pacquet
from his bosom, and saying. `No, my son, I thought
it best to defer it till you had gone. Your parting ought,
at least, not to be in sorrow: still less in bitterness—but
here it is.'
`No, no! I want no letters, no pacquets—none! I only
want him to speak! Let me hear thy voice, Harold.
Answer me—is it true?—one word! one word, dear Harold!
'
`I know not what thou wouldst ask, dearest of women.
All I know, is, that that letter, which I wrote
last night, for thee, was intended to assist thee in thy
decision about going with me. It contains the history
of my whole life; all my transgressions—all my crimes.
I should have told thee, love, but I feared that thou
mightest be influenced by my presence, to forgive me,
in spite of thyself—or, perhaps, fly from me, into the
wilderness. I have left it now—now—that thou mayest
know me, entirely, with all my infirmities, and decide
upon me, by thyself, alone, before it be too late.'
`Harold! thou hast broken my heart—one word I
ask for—only one word—and that thou deniest me—
answer me—thou knowest what I mean—whom I mean—
art thou innocent?'
Harold shuddered at her calmness. `And suppose I
tell thee that I am; wilt thou believe me, Loena? canst
thou take my simple word?' said he.
`Believe thee!—oh, God, yes—yes—though all the
angels in heaven, swore against thee—believe thee, Harold!—
O, but raise thy hands now, as I do mine—but lay
them upon mine—and say to me, Loena, I am innocent,
of that one offence—I am innocent—and I will forgive
thee, all others—all!—my own blood—ah, speak, speak
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to me, Harold—do speak—they are but three, poor,
simple words—and they will make thy wretched girl so
happy!—O, say, Loena, I am innocent—say so, dear,
and I will fall down and worship thee.'
`Loena,' said Harold, in a sepulchral voice—he shut
his eyes, and his lips were covered with froth—`Loena!'
(She stood as if her very soul were about to take wing,
forever.) `I am not innocent.”
She fell flat upon her face, without sense or motion.
Harold ran to her, lifted her up, but no sign of life appeared.
Another gun!—he turned deliriously—lifted up his
arms. A hollow groan broke from him. `Show me to
the water,' he said, sternly, with shining eyes.
The count took his arm, and they walked, nay, almost
ran to the shore. The boat was ready—the sailors
gave three cheers—Harold shook the governour's
hand, muttering continually in a low voice—`no, no,
not innocent—dead—dead—very well—to meet again—
a falsehood would have saved her—no matter. Governour,
farewell—farewell, forever!' and leaped into
the boat.
The governour stood and watched him. He sat with
his arms hanging over in the water—motionless, and
abstracted, as despair—hearing nothing—seeing nothing—
doing mechanically, what his preservation required
him to do, as the sharp boat, heeled under the
weight of the rowers, shipping water at every pull, and
splashing the cold spray into his bosom and face, unheeded.
He saw them arrive—he saw Harold ascend—his
eyes filled; and he returned with a heavy heart to his
own distracted family.
eaf291v1.n4[4] This will remind the reader of the story told by Barthelmie,
(author of Anarcharsis' Travels,) of himself. An impostor came
to him, and pronounced part of a Hebrew psalm before him. Barthelmie
happened to know the other half, and replied; each had spoken
all that he knew; and the spectators, nay, the impostor himself,
declared Barthelmie to be a prodigy of learning.
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CHAPTER XVI.
`Jam dulces lachrymæ, dolorque festus.'
`Der seble Tag, der mich der welt.
Als Pilgrim, oder Gast gegeben.'
`Ho!—Enihi! enihi—bestertha enihi!'
`Bound where thou wilt, my Barb, and glide my prow;
`But—be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou!
`Day after day—day after day,
We felt nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship,
Upon a painted ocean.'
`Alone—alone!—all, all, alone—
Alone!—on a wide, wide sea!'
[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]
Woman! couldst thou have left the dead body of
one whom thou hadst loved, as Harold left Loena?
But he left her, nor paused, nor looked behind him, till
he stood upon the deck of the vessel. His eyes were
motionless, and the busy activity of the crew, the parting
of friend after friend, over the side of the ship; the
waving of hands, handkerchiefs—the sound of sobs and
farewells, were all unheard, unseen, by Harold. There
was only one voice, to which his heart could echo.
That was mute. There was only one touch that he
could feel—and she that might have given it, in a farewell
murmur—where was she? He shuddered. He
turned toward the city. A scarlet flag was waving
from the highest window in the governour's house.
`Oh, I am not forgotten!' he cried—`not quite the
accursed, and forgotten one! even yet there is some kind
heart to remember me—God bless thee for it! whoever
and whatever thou art, gentle creature'—his eyes
filled, and the horrible tightness of his chest abated.
`God bless thee!' he continually repeated—he started—
some one was breathing over his shoulder. It was
De Vaudreuil. He gave him a bundle of letters—embraced
him, once more in silence, and descended to his
barge. The water flashed, and ere Harold could
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recover from the surprise of his appearance, the boat in
which he came, lay, a dark spot, in the red, rippling
glitter of the waves.
The third gun rang out, and the ship was under sail.
The red shawl waved again. Harold stood, bewildered,
and insensible, but watching it, as if his spirit would
take its flight, the moment that it ceased to move. A
throng of white scarfs succeeded, streaming from every
window of the house. His heart swelled—his blood flowed
again. He could have knelt and wept, in speechless,
mournful gratitude. It was so comforting—`Loena!'
O, God! he dared not think of her yet. He watched
the battlements, till his eyes ached, and his heart
ran over, all night long. O, what a night it was—so
endless—so cold and wearying. The day light broke,
and they were still in sight of the castle; and yet, Harold
did not desire to go on shore again. How strangely
are we compounded! We would not, even where we
most love, reiterate the tenderness of a farewell: mournful,
and sweet, and thrilling as it is, there is somewhat
revolting and fearful, in the idea of returning but to repeat
it. Farewell! farewell!
Another hour, and the loud breeze rang in the cordage.
Harold sat by the prow, observing the appearance
of the deep green water, not yet sufficiently recovered
from the late terrible shock, to know where he
was, or what he had lost. But this calm was not to be
forever. He gazed upon the water, from its first faint
eddying, and rippling about the prow, till it foamed up,
higher and higher, as the proud ship, impelled by the
constantly pressing wind, plunged along upon her way;
and finally ran, and roared like a mill race, all white and
shining, with commotion in the wake of their ship. Another
half hour, and the topsails creaked, the masts bent,
and the yards dipped—and forward! forward! she thundered
through the water, and the green waves washed
over her, and lightened in her chariot race. O, darkness!
`a portion of the tempest, and of thee!' Throw me upon
the ocean! By heaven! I would rather run under, under!
with every sail set, and every colour flying, to the
very bottom of the ocean, in such a wind, than to float
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along the wide, beautiful water, like a tame, lifeless
animal. No! upon the sea, give me foam, and wind,
and uproar!—quiet upon the land. If I must ride the
billows, let it be in a ship, that strains fore and aft,
like a blood horse in the race!
Harold kept his place, and ate not, drank not, slept
not, until they came to the ocean. This seemed to disturb
him. Many a sorrowing face had approached, and
wished him happier, without daring to speak to him—
many! but all had at last retired, shutting up their compassion
in their own bosoms, and leaving him to the
iron solitude of his own heart.
He raised his face, and leant upon his hands—His
forehead and locks dripping with the cold spray, and
all his garments drenched with it. He shivered—and
was still again, as death. The black horizon was all before
him—the black ocean all around him—that deep,
distinct, and oppressive image of infinity—his temples
ached, and he gasped for breath, as he looked upon it.
The moon, in its fullness and beauty, shone directly
down upon a spot, so preternaturally bright, that Harold
put out his hands, mechanically, as he felt the vessel
approach it, whether in terrour or not, it was difficult
to say. They passed through it, and Harold shut his
eyes for a moment, as if he expected the vessel to leap
down. He opened his eyes, and beheld the shadow of
the ship, black as death, with all her banners and sails,
and lattice work, reaching downward, almost to infinity!
and when the last gun was fired, as they broke
out, all at once, into the tumultuous ocean, it was difficult
for poor Harold to persuade himself, that the amazingly
near, and distinct, shattering reverberation, that
he heard, was not a second gun, fired from the spectre
ship that seemed under his. He saw the white smoke roll
out below—the fire, stream—and then followed the
crashing thunder, more loudly than from the gun fired
at his side.
He started at the sound, and shuddered—and covered
his face with his hands. A female was near him.
He shrunk back with the instinctive delicacy of a lover,
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profaning for the first time, and inadvertently, his allegiance
to his dear one.
The stranger was much disturbed; and leaned, for a
moment, against the railing. It was carelessly left, and
swung out. She would have fallen, had not Harold
heard a faint cry, and caught her, just as her drapery
passed him. `Her heart beats terribly,' thought Harold;
`poor creature!' and once he stood, petrified before her,
as he observed the sweeping outline of her form—She
breathed aloud—her head fell upon his shoulder.
Gracious heaven! he has shaken her off, and leaped
upon the unsteady railing—will he? dare he brave the
living God, so desperately? What power upholds him
there? Will he, the madman, will he plunge into the
roaring abyss?
O! there is something so horrible in the levity of a
maniac—something so awful, so appalling in the sublime
movement of a desperate man, in his frightful
insensibility to danger.
And there stood Harold—there!—unstayed by a rope
or a finger—upright, with his arms outstretched—and
the vessel reeling and plunging under him.
The lady arose to depart; but beholding him in his
perilous situation, became confirmed in the general belief
of the passengers, that he was crazed; she had the
presence of mind to speak to him in a tone of authority,
and command him to come down.
He obeyed—meekly, as a dying man.
Her movement was haughty, dignified, but compassionate;
and Harold was quieted. No matter who he
had first thought she was, when he shrieked and leaped
upon his perilous foot hold; it was evident that he now
found her to be some other being. She waved her hand,
and another female, who had been leaning in the shadow
of the foresail, silently and motionless, so entirely
motionless, indeed, as not to have been heard or seen,
till then, by even the timid and watchful Harold—she
tendered her arm; the first lady took it, as an accustomed
thing, for which no gratitude, no thanks were to be
given, and no surprise expressed.
Could she be a servant? She walked beautifully. She
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could not tread thus, in servitude. The undulation of
her satin drapery, in the moonlight, showed off her
rounded proportions, distinctly, in a line of waving
splendour; and when she set her firm foot upon the
deck, a sudden shivering of the dress, like silver foil,
or metallick cobweb—bespoke either uncommon energy,
or uncommon agitation of heart. Which was it?
Harold followed her with his eyes, and at last, although
he knew it not, with his steps, for a few paces.
Not a word was spoken—and he followed on, he knew
not why, nor wherefore. There was a rich feeling of
communion, loneliness, and sorrow at his heart, that
drew him to her, and still he followed her. She heard
his step—and turned, and rebuked him. He faltered—
bowed—and could have thrown himself flat upon his
face, and put her foot upon his neck, with his own
hands, he felt so humbled. How came he there? Had
he listened? No! but her rebuke, so calm, so unimpassioned,
so awful in its serenity, the rebuke he felt, of a
hallowed creature, whose broken-heartedness had been
intruded upon; O! it was death to him. He wanted to
weep—to fall upon her bosom, upon any body's bosom,
and sob, and tell her, over and over again, that it was
not curiosity, no! but enchantment, that had so wrought
upon him. But he could not open his lips. He fell back,
abashed and confounded.
He had heard voices: but it was as if he had heard
them in his sleep, talking unintelligible musick to comfort
him. He had seen these women pass away, and he
had followed them, as he would a retiring vision; as
wild birds will follow wild harmony; their little hearts
giddy with the hope of hearing it once more—once
more, ere it die away, forever, in the air of heaven. O,
it was an irresistible witchery that touched so sweetly,
and so gently on the strings of his heart. Poor Harold,
even in the hours of his entirest self-possession,
could not have disobeyed it. But now, it was a spell to
him, and to break it off, was to break his heart.
He could not open his lips; and the statelier step of
the elder female, the look of offended dignity, gradually
subsided; while the younger, (for she must have been
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younger, and more innocent, and more beautiful, than
the other) stood beseechingly by, and both appeared
convinced, from the manly embarrassment, the imploring,
disconsolate eyes of Harold, that if he had sinned
against courtesy, and heaven—for heaven is courtesy—
he had sinned unwittingly.
They descended to their state room alone. Why did
not Harold offer his arm? He knew not. He dared not.
He was fettered, rooted to the spot. Was it with shame,
contrition, or what? Where was Loena? Where his other
love, the abused and rifled? Away, away—and no monitory
voice near to sound the alarum in his heart—to tell
him, that he was playing treason with his fealty—sleeping,
where the bandages of his allegiance were parting,
like untwisted flax in the flame.
Here was another sleepless night, to wear upon his
broken and wearied spirit. Why is it, that, to them
who have most need of sleep, sleep cometh not? There
is no forgetfulness, no suspension of sorrow—but the
happy, they are so sweetly and benignly refreshed, that
the longest night is, to them, but one blessed moment
of interruption: fitting them anew for enjoyment—But
to the weary in heart, there is no refreshment, even in
forgetfulness. The troubled element on which they
would repose, is never entirely still—they are incessantly
agitated and terrified.
Alas, for Harold! A continual and confused ringing
was about him, all night long. Worn, and trembling,
and sick at heart, time appeared to stand still, as he
turned, again and again, and adjusted his limbs to the
rugged cordage, upon which he lay, until he was utterly
exhausted. If he slumbered for a moment, he would
feel himself sinking, and would leap, like a drowning
man from the water, with a loud, inarticulate cry, as if
his very blood vessels were bursting with horrour; yet
hardly would he shut his aching eyes again, than he would
feel that, upon which he lay, gradually yielding, like the
loose fragments of a crumbling precipice; and that by
which he held, instinctively, even in his sleep, lest in
the lurching and heaving of the ship, he might be lost,
before he could recommend his soul to God; even that
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gradually detaching itself, like a ruptured branch, until
he would shriek, like a falling man, and start broad
awake, with foam upon his lips, and the sweat standing
upon his bosom and forehead—the sweat of his own
heart. His conscience was wofully beset too; he thought
the morning had past, and that the last sun had arisen
in darkness—that the heavens above, where all was of
a preternatural blackness, had passed away, forever.
All about him was of such an inconceivable, appalling
infinitude. `O, that I could be near thee, once more,
my beloved, even in thy narrow home—how calmly
would I await the trumpet. With thy hand in mine,
sweet; thy innocent face turned toward mine, O, I
could see nought of terrour, or flame: nought but heaven
and love. I would that I were with thee, wherever
thou art, love!' His thought was still bewildered. He was
not, even yet, awake to the whole dreadful reality of his
loss; and he continued, `O, why did I ever leave thee,
love? leave thee too, without one of the innumerable blessings
with which my soul overflowed!—without expressing
a thousandth part of the endearment that I ought.
And thou, too—I have already forgotten thy last kiss.
Where was it? When was it? Surely there is something
deadly cold hanging upon my heart—I cannot
even recollect where we parted. Art thou, O Loena,
art thou forgotten so soon?—or—O, horrour! is my poor
brain darkened by some portentous calamity? God,
have mercy on me!' As these thoughts passed, like
flashing fire, through and through him, he could have
thrown himself overboard, as he lay, and swum back
to her, merely to announce, what in her presence he had
forgotten—a few, a very few, of the ten thousand things
of tenderness and weeping affection—to repeat, forever,
and ever, his protestations and caresses. And then his
conscience would awake, and put on her bloody robes,
and sit over him with a terrible countenance—and he
would feel himself pinioned, naked, hand and foot—helpless,
alone—with just enough of light to see the far off
and dim movement of innumerable feet, incessantly approaching
in the darkness, as of some cumbrous, and interminable
monster—and to feel ten thousand detestable
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and obscene creatures crawling slowly over his very lips
and eyes, which he had no power to shut—slimy,
loathsome reptiles, slipping lazily over his naked fingers;
while his very flesh crawled and quivered, and
rotted, in the poison that they left in their trail. Anon,
this would be changed. The light would break out
upon him—he would be sleeping in a delicious green
solitude—the earth flowering all about him, with fountains
flowing `in odour and gold'—and violets—`but the
trail of the serpent was over them all.' He would lie,
so happy, so purely, so perfectly happy—he would feel
an approaching face—his hair would be stirred by a
gentle breathing—he would awake, and behold two miniature
pictures of himself—a pair of the loveliest blue
eyes over him, dissolving in lustre—with an image of
himself in each—damp, luminous—transparent—like the
swimming azure of heaven—or violets exhaling colour,
and substance, and perfume, all in the red sunshine!
Something cold would touch him. He would start; and
lo! Elvira would pass before his eyes, with swollen
lips, and blood-shot eyes, pronouncing his name aloud,
with a hollow voice, like one on her death bed—`Harold,
Harold the destroyer! I summon thee before the
judgment seat! I am there! and lo! I await thy coming!'
Again the scene would shift, in the convulsion of his
heart—A sky of clouded gold would be over him, lacquered
with every brilliant hue—inlaid with all the colouring
of a Turkish cymeter—bloody pearl, and blue,
with rippling silver and crimson—all the boundless
landscape so still, in such sublime repose! Spirits would
go walking by him, arm and arm, in the heavens;
and now and then, one would pause, and lay his hand
upon his fellows' heart, which instantly broke out, like
a loud organ, with all manner of echoing harmonies.
Then, a strange obscurity would arise, like the vapour
of charnel houses, offensive and sickening—and some
other violent transition would succeed, alternately—
from heaven to hell, from hell to heaven, would he vibrate,
like a pendulum.
`It was, as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal;
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And shudder, as the reptiles creep,
And revel in their rotting sleep;
Without the power to scare away
The cold consumers of their clay;'
And then, as if the very dead were suddenly thrilling
with life, and borne away—to the tranquillest climes:
Where—`light breezes but ruffle the flowers sometimes.'
Anon, the magnificent phenomena of heaven would
be rolling over him—his own forest trees would
glimmer in the star light; the river, where he had so
often bathed, would sparkle at his feet, and the long
grass would dip and float away, and ripple beautifully
before him—and Loena, his own Loena, would
trip softly behind him—he would hear her coming,
with her little naked feet, and determine to enjoy her
surprise. She would lay her hand upon his shoulder—
he would turn; his eyes running over with heaven and
love, to press her beautiful mouth—he would turn—
and the blue face of a dead woman, with eyeless sockets,
and bare teeth, would touch his lips. `God!
God!' and yet he could not wake—no, nor sleep. It
was one everlasting delirium—a creature, he felt he
was, even then, impregnate with divinity and fire, but
helpless and motionless, rotting away in solitude. He
would shriek—he would awake—all was dark about
him; nevertheless, to his senses, he was still asleep.
He heard the roaring of the water—he felt the salt spray
washing over him, but he feared to move, lest he should
be drowned, and knew not whether he were going forward
or backward—nor indeed, whether he was living
or dead. All about him was intensely doubtful and
unreal. He put out his hands, and stretched his fingers.
The coiled cordage was there—to his diseased touch,
it was a folded serpent, of immeasurable longitude, covered
with eyes and hair. He thrust them upward;
they encountered gaping wounds—the very air was
sticky and glutinous to his lungs, as with blood—its
loathsome smell too, was all about him—the darkness
was crowded with livid faces—shuddering with swollen
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lips—eyes bursting from their sockets, and dropping
with coagulated blood. He shut his eyelids, and covered
his face with both hands, and held his breath. `It is
dark,' he muttered. `It is perfectly dark—I can see nothing—
hear nothing—and yet I am sure that there is
something near me—something walking continually
around me. Ask me not how this is—how it can be.
It is—that is enough for me. I feel it. I know it. Gracious
God —there!—do I not feel the blood spurting
in my face—there!—there!—drop after drop is trickling
from my forehead to my lips—oh—and I cannot
stir hand nor foot—I cannot even turn my head'—It was
the salt water only, dashed over him, by a sudden dip of
the vessel; and the drops came from the saturated sail
above, deadly cold, but to his fervid temples, they appeared
hot and scalding—`again! there! there!—the very
hair upon my forehead stirred by gasping breath—Ho,
there!—a dying man is upon me—I am strangled—
drowning—pinioned—ho, there! help! for mercy's sake!
help!'
His cries were so terrible, that the whole ship's company
were alarmed. They surrounded the trembling creature
with lights, on which he started, as if they were the
self illuminated torches of the sepulcre. They attempted
to soothe him. He was sullen, and recovered for a
moment, sufficiently to rebuke them. They left him, all
but one human creature, who determined to lie by him,
and protect him, in his paroxysms, even from himself;
nay, he was half inclined to lash him to the vessel, as
he lay, secretly, lest some sudden movement might be
fatal, before he could interfere. But he dared not. He
was full of mortal apprehension, when he looked upon
the awful countenance of young Harold.
He soon became more composed; and was evidently
beginning to recollect some of the incidents attending
his departure. `O, what an unappeasable longing!—I
have left thee, dear, left thee, with no human being to
protect thee—forgive me, love! I am frail. Be thou
not so frail—accursed wretch! would he have harmed
thine innocence? Where is he now? With thee—with
thee, perhaps—now, who shall protect thee? Ten
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thousand curses on my folly! Why did I ever leave thee?
dear, dear, Loena! Wilt thou love me yet? Wilt thou?
May he not—hell and furies! no, I will not think of it.
O, be true to me, love, and I will be true to thee, forever;
to blood and death!'
Here came back his love again, with jealousy, too, like
a torrent, to his heart, rushing and thundering through
all its channels, like a pent up ocean, suddenly discharged
over a broken boundary; all his arteries were sore, and
trembling with the conflict, and his temples were smitten
with sudden pain, as his bereaved and benighted intellect
started from her sleep, and kindled her lamp, anew,
and sought out her offspring. He arose, moved his benumbed
and weltering limbs. It was already the hour
of daylight, and yet the darkness weighed upon him
like something heavy. The pitching of the vessel began
to affect him, and the anxiety of his mind, as Memory
went groping through his treasures, disturbing the relicks,
and hallowed things, with a vulgar, rummaging,
unsparing, hand, became insupportable. He shrank, as
from a ruffian visitor, who invades your sanctuary, and
rifles it, in his rude attempt at consolation; letting in the
hateful daylight, upon the sores and fissures of your naked,
wounded, ulcerated, and broken heart. What dear
thing might she not touch, in her unhallowed carelessness!
Whose ashes? Whose hair?
His heart failed him. The past was all a grave yard
to him, and to explore it, was to profane it. `Accursed
be the foot of the intruder upon it! accursed the light,
other than a funeral vapour, which shines upon it,' said
Harold. `Be my retirement undisturbed—unvisited—I
hate the impertinent meddling of the compassionate:
them, that gossip with the afflicted.'
Of storms upon the water, Harold had heard; that
they were very terrible, he believed. But he panted
to hear the approach of their wings and trumpets.
Lord! how his spirit rose, and lashed itself, at the sound
of their coming. But they passed. He felt his heart
drooping; and a sickening, questionless despondency lying,
like a dead weight, upon his vitals—like the pressure
of a decayed hand, damp and cold. His bead ached
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to bursting. Streams of fire shot through his eye-balls.
The hot sweat ran down his cheeks like rain—and then,
he was so faint! so sick at heart! sick and faint, with a
death like, tremulous sensation, attended with scorching
heat, and cold shivering, in succession. `What had he
done, to deserve this, all this,' he asked. He went to the
cabin, for the first time, and crept into a spare birth,
there to die, as quietly as he might. He had no other
wish or thought. `What have I done?' he repeated to
himself, as he laid his wet forehead and hair upon the
mattrass. `What done. O, I have deserted the kindest,
truest one! and where am I to find another? not
upon earth. Then why should I live?' He started: a
ripple ran along by his elbow in the birth—he felt the
articulated movement of some sea reptile: perhaps a
shark cleaving the water; and a sort of quick splashing,
as if the creature had just gone entirely by. His blood
ran cold. Who could tell, what bloated monster,
gorged already with the festering garbage of the great
deep—what filthy and horrible shape, fattened on some
floating and swollen human body, which it had preyed
upon, in its hideous restlessness—amid the unceasing
agitation of wind, and waves, and brine, and muscles!
who could tell what abominable, slimy creature of this
dark element was now busied by the side of poor Harold,
drawn by the scent of her prey—separated from it
only by one plank!—floundering and circling at his side,
at his very elbow! gracious heaven! the measureless, bottomless
solitudes of the ocean upturned—and all their
tenantry rolling about him, and under him, and above
him, and over him—all unwieldly and ravenous monsters,
from the four corners of the sea, revelling in their
dominion, about the mighty ship, as she thundered
upon her pathway, and exulting in the certainty and
nearness of their appointed meal. Another thrill—
could he be dreaming again? He sat instantly upright;
but his right arm and shoulder to the finger-ends, were
numb and lifeless—a dreadful sensation, heavy, leaden,
and lumpish, wanting the dignity of pain, and the
activity of torment, followed. That, or either he would
have borne. His Indian nature would have scorned all
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burning, fiery agonies. He could bear to be torn with
red hot pincers, but the bravest will strike, and so
would Harold, with a gesture of impatience, the moscheto
that stung. So, too, the soldier that faces a shower
of bullets, will turn his back upon the small dust, that
is raised in a high wind—because, if he face the latter,
he would meet, instead of applause, with derision. And
is this all that makes us bear pain without flinching? It
is.
Never was Harold's proud spirit so quelled. He was
sick, and labouring under the reproof of his own heart.
A beleaguring darkness was about him, accompanied
with a fearful derangement of his faculties, confounding
the past, present, and future. He had fallen. `Would
she prove firmer than he had been?' he asked himself.
Was she more accessible? less tender? more cautious?
had she more self-command? less curiosity? and did
she love more than he, when he fell? The answer was
a ten fold agony; the riotingof his undisciplined spirit.
Was there no relief? Yes, in occupation. But how
to occupy himself? He could not endure the mysterious
trifling of cards and chess—that was too unsocial, selfish,
agitating. Such, at least, was his opinion. He had
seen lovers quarrel over the board—fathers and children
war with each other—and wives neglected, sitting
alone—company forgotten—all the civilities of life
overlooked; while the chess board, with a damnable infatuation,
was, like a battle field, literally pictured upon
the hearts of them that combatted thereon.
But Harold knew not then, what he afterwards learnt,
that all games are selfish delusions: that all games may
elicit evil passion, and that chess of all others, should
be the game of the statesman and the soldier—teaching
fortitude, patience, firmness, perseverance, foresight,
reflection, strengthening the memory, and exercising
the judgment beyond all other studies.
This was his game, nevertheless. The deep pressure
of the eye—the alternate flashes of crimson and paleness,
over the forehead, and the immovable engagedness of
the combatants, were a proof to him that there was
something warlike and entrancing in it. He was right.
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It is a game of perpetual generalship and stratagem. A
blockhead never played a good game of chess, no, nor
an impatient, a short-sighted, or capricious man. Days
had passed, and nights had followed, and Harold was
still the same. He seemed to have entirely forgotten
the situation in which he left Loena: and the two female
strangers avoided him with obvious care, as an unhappy
wretch, crazed perhaps, by remorse—who could
not be bettered by their prayers or tears. At times, they
were inclined to remonstrate with the captain for not
confining him, and even for having taken him on board;
but when they looked in his face, their eyes filled, and
they could not speak unkindly of him, even in his absence.
At last, he began to sleep soundly. He was able to
recal, upon his knees, all that had happened. `And is
she dead? poor girl!' he would say. `No, no, I will
not believe it. Desperate as is the hope, I will cling to
it. I will never believe that she is dead, until I meet
her, face to face, at the judgment seat—no, never!'
He was awakened from a delightful dream, by a loud
trampling upon deck—the bell rang—the drum beat—
the enginery suddenly moved, with its chains and
windlass, as if under the convulsive effort of all the
ship's company—Almighty God! that shock!—Harold
was thrown out of his birth—the water rushed over
him, and the knell, as of a drowning multitude, from
the very bottom of the ocean, mounted and pealed, and
rang, and thundered up the sky. Shrieks followed!
`She is going! she is going!' he heard many voices cry—
the ship keeled—stopped—wavered for a moment—
shuddered like a living creature upon the verge of a
precipice—and lo! the waves rolled over her, and came,
like breakers, down the companion way. Not a sound
nor a step, was heard upon deck. Was she going down?
whence this mortal stillness? Harold leaped upon deck.
Not a soul was to be seen. The sails were flying loose
upon the wind, and tearing loudly at every flap—the
waves rushing over her, like a cataract, and her head
all under water: the guns were broken from their
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moorings, and the steering wheel was, though of solid
iron, shivered into ten thousand pieces.
What was to be done? A man leaped upon deck,
half-naked, and gasping for breath. He had a trumpet;
he blew it, as if he would awake the dead. The deck
was covered in an instant—lights were kindled—the
rudder lashed down. The ship rounded to, and righted,
with the loss of all her top masts, and her bowsprit
sprung. But what, what in the name of horrour, had
happened? was the cry. None knew—none could conjecture.
It was very dark—the wind blew, and the sky
thundered—`Was she on fire? had she struck a rock—
an ice island?'—At this moment, the lightning blazed
down upon the water, and showed a circular wake of
white foam, behind, as far as the eye could reach. The
captain looked at the compass; they were driven entirely
out of their course—but the watch, the pilot, where
were they? The truth broke upon them, all at once.
She had run foul of something, when tilting at her fullest
speed, and shipped a sea that swept her decks.
And Harold now recollected, that, as he came up, he
saw afar off, by a blaze of lightning, that almost blinded
him, something black and shattered, suddenly disappear,
in the broad and foaming wake of the ship. Yes,
it was too true! they had run down a smaller vessel, at
midnight, and sent her under, with every living soul,
as they were sleeping, perhaps!—and the cry—that appalling
cry, as of a suffocating army—that was from
the few who saw the danger, and wrenched the windlas
in vain, to avoid it; poor fellows! they were going
down, and would be forever and ever, going down, to
the bottomless ocean!'
And the survivors were but a little behind them—
their ship was filling fast, and the mainmast soon went
by the board. By the blessing of heaven, however,
their minute guns were heard, and answered. A great
black shadow emerged from the horizon, and bore
down upon them, in the storm. Their fifth gun was
hardly fired, when, amid the thunder of heaven, the
roaring winds, and the boiling, whirling, agitated
ocean, up came a great ship, crowded with sails, and
covered with people, foaming and plunging along the
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path, like some mighty monarch, to the relief of the
disconsolate.
Another hour, and the deck of a British 84 was covered
with half-naked, shrieking, shivering wretches,
among whom were many females, and some, with babes
in their bosoms. They prayed to stay by the sinking
ship, so long as there was any thing to be seen of her;
and that they might the more easily do this, at the last
visit of the long boat, the officer hung a lantern at each
of her yards that was standing.
Harold had been completely roused by this adventure.
His first thought was of the two women who had
so marvellously interested him at first. Their images
were still upon his mind, burning and distinct: but then,
so were many images of his dreaming; might not these
women be apparitions of a troubled sleep? He was not
half satisfied with the thought. But in peril, he was the
first to find them. He broke open their door without
ceremony, and literally plucked them out by the locks.
They were distracted, locked in each other's arms, and
dying with affright. Now they forgot his phrenzy. They
permitted him to stand by them, and comfort them, not
with words, for he spake not, but with looks: looks that
were so resolute, so collected, that the poor, helpless
creatures clung to him, in consummate confidence,
young as he was, and terrible as he had been. Such is
the prerogative of true greatness. It is unseen, except
in times of trial and intimidation. Then it comes up,
bares its right arm, and stands out, the champion of the
whole human family, against all that dare to assail them—
the inundation, and the tempest.
He had saved two human creatures—he, whose
trode had been destruction, hitherto. How different
were his feelings now. Scarcely had he clasped the offered
hand of the younger lady, which he did, with a
feeling of devoutness that never before visited his
heart, of thankfulness, that set his wet locks shivering
upon his pale forehead, than he lifted his eyes to the
fiery and rolling heavens, and fainted.
He slept—his insensibility was delicious. He dreamed
of his beloved—was forgiven, restored, and blessed,
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with lips, and hands, and eyes. But oh, when life came
back—then was the trial! His lungs, sore and shrinking
as they were, seemed suddenly inflated with a whirlwind
of fire! lava ran through his veins, and scorched
his nerves; and a horrible numbness was experienced
about the region of the heart, resembling, in nature,
though ten thousand times more aggravated, the sickly,
fretful, unwilling return of life, to a benumbed limb—
when you dread to lift it, and the very muscles ache
at the simple thought of moving it. Yea, they forced
him back to life again; and many deaths had been preferable
to one such resuscitation.
CHAPTER XVII.
`Il n'est pas si diable qu'il est noir!
Ei non è cose cattive como mostra all apparenza.
`La vista de los que tiernamente se han amado,
dexa de ser un bien, luego que se pierde
la esperanza de poseerse—'
I am weary of this childish pedantry. I have done
with quotations. My obedience, to the foolish and
preposterous fashion of the day, has now been carried
far enough. If I cannot be permitted to write for myself,
and in English, I wont write at all. My own
story shall be told in my own way. I shall continue
my narrative, henceforth, so long as I find it interesting
to myself—in my own language, and no longer.
The devil may take them that delight in gabble and
patchwork—the fag ends of all languages, and all men.
I'll have nothing more to do with either.
It was sunshine again. Harold was still alone. Every
eye was upon him, and at every pause in the conversation,
some low whispers, even from the children, would
show how deeply all were interested in his happiness,
or, at least, in his appearance. His immoveable attitude,
his unaffected abstraction, the sublimity of his desolate
aspect, were all matters of exceeding curiosity and
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admiration, for a time. The children, sweet innocents!
clung to him, and, after a few circling gambols, in every
one of which, they came nearer and nearer, till they
provoked him to put out his hand, mechanically, to arrest
one of their number, all, as by one consent, began a
riotous assault upon him. His countenance brightened,
for a moment, in spite of himself, as he participated in
their rude merriment. Why was his face, so repulsive
to man, and attractive to these babes? How vivid and
distinct must be the touches of humanity in such a face,
to be visible, so instantly, to children! How soon, too,
the little creature, the nursling at the breast, nay, the
very brute, how soon it will discover, and hide itself,
from the portentous lowering of an evil eye. The
thought that curls the lip, the most secret, lurking malignity
of man's face, are detected by the sunny blue eye
of childhood, almost as readily as by the dark, penetrating
orb of experience.
To the good man, or rather, the good-hearted man,
however unhappy, haughty, and repulsive, the child
and the brute will hie for protection. From the bad
man, with all his allurement and fascination, they will
fly, with a mortal antipathy. Is not this most wise?
Ought evil to be mistaken? And when the dark passions
of our nature utter their own testimony against
us, and emblazon their evidence upon our very fronts;
who, that reflects, will lightly tamper with them? who
would not, rather, the moment that he feels the stirrings
of their rebellion, arise in his strength, and bind
them hand and foot.
The children were soon called away, and separated,
but Harold was again roused from his revery—during
the latter part of which, there was a growing fierceness
in his eyes—a more difficult breathing, and heaving of
the chest—by the touch of an infant's hand. He looked
down, and beheld the sweetest little fellow in the world,
slyly thrusting a part of his cake into his hand, as it
hung lifelessly over a gun carriage. The company had
all paired off. Those who were acquainted, and those
who were not; the passengers of the last vessel, and the
men of this, were all to be distinguished by the
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thousand indescricable somethings which mark the intercourse
of people, even when lolling together. Refined
spirits cannot be familiar at once, even where
their lives have been saved together.
Harold laid his cheek upon the head of the child.
The little creature looked up in his face, clapped his
hands aloud, and called out, `O, my pa! my pa!'—Harold
coloured to the eyes. He dared not look up, fearful
of encountering the distressed countenance of some
youthful mother.
Harold was unaccountably affected by the manner of
the child. Perhaps he was deceived, but the voice, so
thrilling passionate, and sweet, sounded half familiar
to him. Willing to conceal his embarrassment, which
increased to a fever, as the boy persisted in caressing
him, and even crying to get up in his lap, Harold began
questioning him.
`Well, my little hero: so your name is—what?'
`What, pa?'
`Dont call me pa, dear; I am not your pa—'
`O, yes, you be—you be!' reiterated the child, putting
its little hand over his mouth.
`Well, well. What is your name.'
`Leopold,' was the reply. He could hardly pronounce
it, and it was not till he had several times repeated
it, that Harold could comprehend the sound.
`Well, Leopold—how old are you. I suppose you
know?'
`What, pa?'
Harold smiled in spite of himself, at the pertinacity
of the child, but repeated his question. `How old are
you my dear?'
`Three years old, next—no—two years old, the fifth
day of last June.'
`No more!' cried Harold in astonishment, kissing
him again and again. Harold had no experience in such
matters, and would have set this boy down as five, at
least; such was the spirited intelligence of his countenance—
the celestial animation of his clear hazel eye,
as he prattled away clapping his hands, and kicking up
his heels. Indeed, the creature seemed actually
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transparent—his skin was so clear, his rosy blood so hasty
and rash, that at every pulsation, his face glowed all
over, and his eyes sparkled afresh.
The boy fell asleep in Harold's bosom, and there
slept, until a female servant, who, Harold now recollected,
had been near him during the whole of his prattle,
approached to take him away. But the child awoke,
and clung to him, and was permitted to stay. The evening
air blew sweetly over them, and all the company
were walking about, with a drowsy, contented, indolent
expression of tranquillity and listlessness. Some lay about
the deck, by the indulgence of the captain, with a beautiful
negligence of all ceremony, and in such unapprehensive
security, as it was delightful to reflect upon, after
one had so narrowly escaped foundering. The deep
stillness, that stole over them—as the night deepened,
and the great sails swelled in the wind, of which there
was just enough to keep them steadily filled was
like religion. There was a solemnity and tenderness
too, in every living creature aboard, as if they were attending
some incantation, from the priesthood of nature—
the spirits of the ocean, sceptred and mitred.
This would be broken by some sleepy observation,
uttered, in mere weariness, by some one of the company,
more as if he were thinking aloud, than with the desire
of provoking conversation. But the spell would be
broken. The holiness of the time would be forgotten.
Another would speak —another! until the whole deck
was resounding again. But this would not continue long—
one voice would drop away after another. A longer
interval would occur between questions and replies,
showing no unusual symptom in the listener, until all
would be hush again as the house of death—an uninterrupted
stillness, that it was fearful, nay, almost irreligious
to break in upon, with aught but musick or
prayer.
Harold felt a delicious melancholy, like the newly
comforted, amid this scenery. His cheek rested
against the warm cheek of the sweet boy, whose breath,
like a continual whisper, went by his ear, while his
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little fat hands were thrust, cake and all, into Harold's
bosom.
The fancy of Harold led him back, dancing and singing,
to the times of his boyhood, when he was as happy,
and as innocent, (for the innocent are always happy)
as this child. He shut his eyes. He heard his native
winds blowing among the green leaves—he saw
the blossoms flutter and fall like butterflies—he saw
the sparkling of wild birds among the high tree tops,
and heard their liquid piping all about him—one would
begin in the silence—another, another, till the whole
air would ring again—then, one would fall off—another,
and another, till a dead, breathless silence followed—
and there was the blue water too, the same—rippling at
his feet.
Harold was startled by a strange voice near him;
strange, not so much, for being the voice of a stranger,
as for being so calm, steady, and authoritative. It was
a deliberate, articulate musick, and evidently came
from one, whose opinion was not to be disputed, or had
not often been. And yet there was no arrogance, no
assumption in it. It was rather the calm thinking aloud,
of habitual greatness, and self-possession.
The voice was retiring; and the person, whoever he
was, descended to his apartment; for his voice was
heard no more, that night.
`What think you of him?' was timidly articulated
by some female, yet nearer him, as if retorting a question.
He turned. Was it addressed to him?—no—for a
quick, snappish voice replied—`think of him!—I!—
why, that he is a quack, and a fool.'
`A fool!—O, no, that is impossible! what amazing
colloquial power he has. Did you ever hear the like
before?'
`Never, Julia! and hope never to, again.'
`Indeed!'
`Yes—indeed!—cousin. But what think you of him?'
`What do I think of him?'
`Julia! look at me. You are not accustomed to
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echoing my words, in this way—are you bewitched? Come
tell me; what is your opinion of him?'
`Upon my word, I have not dared to form one yet.'
`Not dared! you are strangely scrupulous just now—
I have wondered at your forbearance. You have
not spoken a loud word since you saw him—his name
has been constantly upon your lips—your eyes have
been rivetted upon his face, and yet, for the first time
in your life, you have not dared to think for yourself.
Come—now for it.'
`Nay, then, cousin—I will not. I do not think that
either you or I, are capable of estimating that man
aright.'
`Well done, Julia! Is he not haughty beyond all endurance;
absolute and dictatorial in his manner?—and
what a wicked, devilish temper he must have. Nay,
Julia, this looks suspicious. Don't leave me, till you
have answered me in some way—yes, or no.'
`Well then—no! no! no! He is not haughty. Do you
not see how affable, how kind he is to the servants, and
the children. He is only haughty, as a great man
should be, when obtrusive impertinence is to be rebuked.
'
`Thank ye, dear.'
`No, no, cousin—you know me too well to suspect
that I have any allusion to you, now. If I am disposed
to affront another, you know too, that it is not my way
to deal in hints, or inuendoes. I leave nothing to conjecture—
nothing to explanation. But this man—he is
dictatorial to us, and why? because I am sure that he is
right, when he opens his lips, and that we are wrong—
no matter what the subject is, he is at home, every
where, and though his opinions seem hasty and spontaneous,
yet I find, on listening to him, that they have
been well considered, and prepared for use before, and
laid by for occasion—and then, his temper—'
`Do you remember the dinner table?'
`Do I?—yes—with a proud heart. He, a bad temper!
look at his forehead, when he is undisturbed—is it
not full of natural benignity? I ask ye, cousin? Did you
ever see a countenance fuller of serenity, beautiful
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serenity? sublimated, I admit, and ready to be changed
in a moment, like the blue sky above, when the thunder
assails it.
`Really, cousin; you are getting quite poetical.'
`Really, cousin, I scorn to be other than poetical, if
enthusiasm and warmth be poetry, when such a creature
is traduced.'
`But what think you of his antagonist?'
`His antagonist! pshaw! The coxcomb—he, whose
head is a toyshop, and heart, impurity—whose discourse
is a perpetual digression.'
`But the style of his conversation—is it not delightful—
entertaining, beyond expression?'
`His conversation! I never heard him converse, I
protest. I have heard him talk—and talk—and then, he
is so awkward—so sentimental—so lack-a-daisical, too.'
`And then, there is the colonel—surely you cannot
object to his colloquial powers; or his address.'
`His address!—ha! ha! ha!—do you remember his address
in getting himself out of the scrape at the table?
Yes, I thought that was very well—' says he, `sir, this,
and sir, that—and by God, this, sir—and by God, that,
swearing till my blood ran cold—and then, says my
hero, in his calm way, laying down his knife and fork;
(O, I could have hugged him, and kissed him for it, on
the spot!) and looking the terrible colonel, directly in
the eyes—`Sir, there are ladies present—' and then, oh!
the gallant colonel! `the fiery duke! the hot duke!' he had
the audacity, you know, just to strike the table with his
fist, and swear another tremendous volley—and then—
O, but stay, cousin, don't go—you know I stayed for
you, just now, when you were at my favourite, tooth
and nail. And now, tell me; do you know the result?'
`No, I do not.'
`Well, don't be snappish, and I'll tell you. You all
scampered off, you know, as if you saw blood upon the
table. But I stayed. There was a dead silence after the
ladies had gone—and O, never shall I forget the terrible
calmness of my hero—`sir,' said he, after looking
yours in the face, for more than a minute— I tell you
what it is, colonel, this bullying won't do for me. Your
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manner convinces me that you are a fool, and I have
no doubt that you are a coward. Nay, don't interrupt
me, for by the living God! if you open your lips before
I have finished, I'll throw you out of the cabin window.
I have endured a great deal of your presumption and
impertinence. It is time that they were curbed. Now,
mark me—if I see any more of these airs, while I am
on board this vessel, I will make an example of you.'
Saying this, he turned to leave the room; but the colonel
made a desperate effort to reply.'
`Well, sir; and suppose I do, sir—what will you do,
sir?'
`My hero looked at him, with such pity, for a moment,
and then, deliberately added, in a tone, that
thrilled my blood—`I!—I will chastise you upon the
spot—horsewhip you!'
Harold was delighted with this girl; and was a long
time puzzling himself to determine what had caused
her vivacity and emphasis, as she had gone on; but
without success, until he caught her eye glancing at
him; innocently, to be sure. Harold looked round. He
was the only man near enough to hear what she said;
and although she affected to be so carried away by her
own feelings, as to be insensible of his proximity, still,
Harold had experience enough of the human heart to
perceive that her vivacity was not natural, and would
not have been so extreme, had she really been alone
with her cousin.
The fact was, that the lively creature was showing
off, in the festivity of her spirit, merely because she
knew that a handsome stranger was near enough to
hear her, without rudeness.
Harold turned, and listened. The speaker was small,
and exquisitely fashioned—a pale girl, with waving,
heavy tresses, and eyes sparkling with vivacity—but
they instantly changed, and languished through their
tresses.
The voice of authority was heard again. `Hush!
hush!' she exclaimed! `I hear his tread.'
The stranger entered. He was about the middle size,
but he had an eagle eye; and his voice was as strong,
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clear, and deep-running, as before, into cadence, without
affectation or effort. He continued speaking to some
one that walked at his side, along the deck; and his
tone was so full and natural, his language so simple
and energetick—so awfully distinct at times, that, had
you not seen him pass before you, a small, thin man,
you would have looked, on hearing his voice, for the
movement and carriage of something above humanity.
`Young man!' such was the purport of his conversation,
as it was caught at intervals, in his going and
returning before Harold, with such an air of unlaboured
majesty.—`this disposition must be subdued. You
are making yourself, and every body else unhappy. It
is time that you should be made to feel. You have a
generous spirit—a brave one—and I mean to give you
a lesson, that will make you a wiser and better man;
still it is possible, for such is the way of the world,
that you may prefer taking my heart's blood, to following
my advice. Be it so. I shall put them both before
you. You shall take your choice. The other passengers
I see, are afraid of you. So they were of the colonel—
nay, be patient.'
`Sir!' cried the other, as if thunderstruck—`by what
authority, sir, do you dare—'
`By the authority of wisdom and experience,' continued
his tormentor, in the same tone—`dare!—young
man! it is long since I have dared any thing.'
`Sir!'
`And sir, I will not be interrupted—silence!—hear
me!'
`You are in a perpetual wrangle. Your aliment is
paradox and contradiction. We have yielded too often
to you. It has made you presumptuous. I respect you.'
`You!' said the other, in astonishment, but evidently
with delight.
`Yes, I do. But what we at first took for constitutional
vivacity, we have discovered now, to proceed
from an insupportable arrogance—self-sufficiency. You
have had the vanity to imagine, because we would
not take up your boyish gauntlet, every time that it was
hurled down, that we dared not, or could not withstand
you. What! must men of my age, wrestle with a child,
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whenever it shall please him; or be bound to admit
whatever he says, as true? I speak plainly, young man,
for I mean to be understood. Nay, I mean that you
shall remember every word, to your dying day.'
Fire flashed from the eyes of the younger. His lip
trembled, and he stood, measuring the other, from head
to foot, as if undetermined whether to fell him to the
deck at once, or grapple with him, as he stood, and
leap overboard.
But the elder heeded it not—took no precaution
against it. `As you have your temper,' he continued,
`we have ours. It is only yesterday, as you will remember,
that that venerable man yonder, the most placid
of human beings, was so ruffled by your rudeness
and clamour, your shocking impiety and licentiousness,
before his children, that he has been miserable, and dissatisfied
with himself, ever since. Nay, sir, you need not
smile. It is your manner, not your reasoning, that agitates
such men. Night after night, have you cleared
the cabin, or the deck, by your intemperate disputation,
many hours before the time of rest, and sent most of
us to bed, with our temples disturbed, and our heads
aching. This must be done with, I am determined;
(for I am weary of my life, and could not lose it in a
better cause, than this of reforming an uncommon
young man, and making many human creatures happy
for a little time)—I am determined to put a stop to it.
I have now done.'
The younger man stopped, overawed, amazed. He
bit his lips—his whole frame was convulsed—he shivered
from head to foot—his hands trembled, and opened,
and shut, involuntarily; he actually foamed at the
mouth. But, this was his reply.'
`Sir, I thank you. You have cut me to the heart,
but I thank you. If I deserved all that you have said,—
or—I would slay myself, or you, upon the spot. Your
manner is insulting, but I forgive you, for the sake of
your advice. I do not approve of your conduct, manly
as it is; it is ill advised. There were a thousand chances
to one, against its being of any use. It was easier for
me to kill you on the spot, than to forgive you.'
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The other started back, in unaffected astonishment.
`Young man,' said he, at last, his voice trembling with
emotion—`give me your hand. Forgive me. I did not
believe you capable of this. Forgive me. I was harsh.
Forgive me.'
The company, who had been listening, but all pretending
sleep, now arose, and gathered round the
two. Harold came up, with the boy in his arms: He
measured the stranger, inch by inch, with his antagonist.
`He is small,' quoth Harold; `but how he stands.
He is scarcely larger than I—nor much older. And
yet, look at his countenance. I do not; I never could
look like him, at such a moment. How calm, and dignified,
and thoughtful. The very trembling of his voice,
this agitation of his—it is not like that of other men.
It is inward, and sorrowful—compassionate, and lonely.
There was a dead silence. The young man, whose
name, it appeared, was Bolton, turned to depart, saying,
as he went; `your lesson has been a most unkind
one. But I could brook unkindness from my childhood.
I needed it. It was well that it came from you. Had
any other dared—'
`Dared!—dared what?' said a third person.
Bolton turned. He stood before the speaker, as if
ready, at the first parting of his lips, to leap, like a
blood hound, at his throat.
The intruder aimed a blow at Bolton, which Harold
received on his arm, and instantly returned with such
effect, as to send him reeling against the benches. Bolton
turned to rebuke Harold, for his interference.
But the stranger interposed. `Have done!' he cried!
in a voice that made their very hearts stand still with
affright—`officer! call your captain?'
The captain was called.
`Sir,' said the stranger. (The British commander of
a line of battle ship, stood, at the bidding of this extraordinary
man, before him, and obeyed him)—`Sir—
you will put the first man in irons, that presumes to
strike another on board of this ship, while I am here.
What! the quarter deck of a three decker, to be made
a bear garden of!'
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`Look ye,' says the captain—`look ye, my cocks;
if you must fight, why, damme, you shall go into limbo,
in pairs. Blast my eyes! if I hear any more of this,
on board of his majesty's ship, if I don't lash you down,
in couples, upon the sailor's chests, and there you shall
fight it out—you shall!—and the boatswain's mate shall
stand over you with a cat o' nine tails.'
So passed this day; and so, many successive days;
till the alighting of a bird, or the approach of a loose
weed, became an object of interest to a multitude, of
nearly one thousand persons.
But, about nine in the morning of a most heavenly
day, a squadron of white sails were seen, circling the
horizon. Signals were interchanged: and the ship, with
the customary precaution of British seamen, was cleared
for action. Night came on, without any satisfactory
communication. Rockets flew up the sky, then, and
were instantly answered, from all points of the compass.
Harold's heart beat high. He saw the preparations on
board, with intense anxiety. Was this an enemy? At
day-light, another squadron appeared, to windward,
bearing down, under a press of sail, in a most beautiful
style, athwart the wake of his majesty's 84. A part of
the first squadron was now discovered to be merchantmen,
and it was conjectured, under convoy, as they
were seen to make all sail, and crowd off in different
directions, while one noble ship ran up, as if to reconnoitre
and another hove to, and backed her topsails, in
defiance.
There was scarcely wind enough to move the ship.
Each appeared to manœuvre, for the purpose of cutting
off single vessels. It was a moment of breathless anxiety.
The stranger and the captain were seen consulting
together. Something was determined upon, instantly:
as the colours were hauled down; a new set run up;
fore, and aft; the matches lighted; and the ship stood
off, awhile, as if to fill, and run down, upon her antagonist—
a gun!'
At this moment, a terrible cry was heard. `The
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child! the child!'—Harold turned—the railings were
lined with passengers. `Leopold was overboard!'
The water all around, was instantly covered with
casks, spars, furniture, hencoops, &c.—but the child
was not to be seen. An instant after, however, the man
at the helm shouted that the child was astern, buoyed
up by his dress. Harold and Bolton were both overboard,
headlong, at the cry—but the vessel—O! she
was already at an immeasurable distance!
It was some minutes before she could be put about:
and when she was, Harold was discovered, battling
with the waves, the boy upon his back, and Bolton, apparently
exhausted, holding upon a cask, that was incessantly
turning. His breath was a continual sobbing—
the ship, in returning, ran aside of him. Harold, who
was an excellent swimmer, was seen to offer him his
hand, but the other rejected it, angrily, and pointed to
the boy. The deck was crowded—it was certain death
to attempt the rescue—and yet, what mortal could resist
the upbraiding of his heart?
Another plunge! The stranger, who had not been
heard or seen since the accident, now deliberately leaped
overboard, disincumbered of his outer dress, and
equipped in a singular contrivance, by which, though it
was soon evident that he could not swim, he was kept
buoyant, till, by vehement exertion, he was just within
reach of the poor fellow, who sobbed—outstretched his
hands once more, and went down!—a few bubbles
rose, and he came up again, gasping for breath, his
hair loose on the wave; his eyes shut; and the water all
in a foam round him, with the beating of his arms.
His presence of mind never seemed to desert the
stranger. Harold was near him. He took the child
from his back, and directed him, in admiration of his
strength and activity, to pursue Bolton. Harold did,
and arose, almost out of the water, as he returned from
the plunge that he made after the drowning man, as he
was sinking for the last time. The early experience of
Harold had taught him, that there is no moment so perilous
to the sufferer, as when his preserver is just
within his reach. It is then, and then, only, that the
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strength of desperation gives way, all at once. And thus
it is, that such cases so often appear miraculous—
the drowning body going down the last time, almost always,
before it is plucked forth.
Boats were run out, and rapidly approaching; for the
ship steered wide, in the fear of running some of the
poor creatures down. The foremost one approached
Harold, with his insensible burden—but the anxiety of
all, and each, had well nigh proved fatal to both; for
they all rushed to the side, and abandoned their oars,
before they were near enough; and the next swell separted
them, half a cable's length. What was to be
done? Harold himself, grew dizzy with extreme fatigue
and disappointment. He was unable to utter a
loud word—the drowning man held him so tightly
about the throat.
The boat came near again—two of the oars fortunately
drifted near him. He caught at the nearest, but
missed it, and went down—down—with a dead body in
his arms, between the calm, beautiful swell, of two enormous
waves. They thought that he never would reappear—
the sailors leant over the boat in an agony of compassion
for the brave fellow, not knowing what to do next—
but Providence was for them—a few bubbles appeared—
a darker hue in the water near them, which was
transparent to an immeasurable depth; and anon, Harold
appeared, dragging up his fellow, by his black
locks—he had disengaged himself in the depth of the
ocean, by violence, and had arisen, as from the grave.
They were soon on board—and Harold fainted. But
the stranger—where was he? Still of the same imperturbable
aspect, sitting by Harold, and chafing his temples.
The enemy—(for she was an enemy) it was now recollected,
had forborne to open her batteries, although,
at one moment, in an admirable position; and all manoeuvering
and seamanship were sacrificed for awhile, by
the Briton, for the safety of a child.'
What was the reason? It was now discovered; for
she stood toward the ship again, with every man at
quarters—glorious! she too, with her glasses, had seen
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the struggle in the water; and although the first broad,
side might send a multitude, shattered and bloody, before
the throne of heaven, yet she withheld her thunderbolts,
lest she might hurt the innocent, and inoffensive!—
glorious!
Some more hours were consumed in manœuvering.
The two squadrons had now passed entirely out of
sight. There was a mortal stillness on board. The bulwarks
were stuffed. The ladies and children ordered
midships—and there was nothing but the brief orders
of the sailing master, to interrupt the awful silence.
The enemy ran nearly by! what! was she afraid? After
all this preparation, would'nt she fight?—Some ashy
faces, and the faces too, of some brave men, looked
more cheerful, nevertheless, as she did pass—but—
What a manœuvre! She was almost upon them, from
the horizon—completely trimmed, and manned—like an
apparition! There was a general burst of astonishment,
at the beauty and celerity of the movement.
And then, the broadside opened! The waters were
all in a foam about the Hesiod, (the name of the Briton.)
Harold's heart swelled almost to bursting. He
was in an agony of delight and terrour. He was shaken
almost to dissolution. The heavens and the earth; the
sky and the water, were all thundering together. The
two ships lay yard arm, and yard arm, at last, in a whirlwind
of smoke and flame. The shrieks of the women and
children, and of the wounded, were altogether deafening.
A bugle rang! It was for the boarders. But lo!
they were anticipated. Harold had already driven his
battle axe through and through a young sailor, and was
now wrestling with an officer, upon the bowsprit—both
fell—their comrades slipped in their gore, and tumbled
over them—their hands were grappled about each
other's throats—Harold was undermost—`mercy! mercy!
' cried a female voice; and Harold was abandoned.
His foe leaped over him, and left him, bleeding, and
fainting, and suspended in the torn rigging, that lay
over the side, and dragged in the discoloured water,
unconcious of his situation, his peril, or his escape.
The thunder and the earthquake still raged above
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him—he was almost suffocated with smoke and spray—
but he was awakened by a soft hand reached down,
and stealing over his wounded head. A strange delirium,
delicious, and intoxicating, followed the touch.
He caught the hand, and pressed it madly and passionately,
to his mouth; bloody as it was—wildly imagining
that it was the hand of Loena, herself. `Yes! yes!'
said his heart—`I am dying, dying; but what of that?
Here is she, my beloved, to weep for me! He lifted his
eyes, and had just sense enough to discover a face, and
to shriek, as if his heart had been pierced by a thousand
knives at the same instant!
She was wounded the next moment, and fell by his
side—the hot blood ran through the scuppers, and
smoked upon the water about them, in red bubbles. By
a supernatural effort, Harold arose, took up the wounded
woman in his arms—regained the bend—slipped,
staggered, and fell, amid a heap of wounded and shattered
human beings—sobbing out faint and inarticulate
cries for assistance—unheard—unperceived!
END OF VOL. 1.
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