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While the events recorded in the preceding chapter
were in progress, Gregory Moth had remained
ensconced in the dire donjon-keep to which he was
consigned by his master. Nor was he, in truth, at
first altogether discontented with his situation, as it
placed him entirely beyond the reach of the Indian
arrows. But there being no window on that side of
the cellar where the savages were making their
approaches, his solicitude to know what was going
forward soon became exceedingly troublesome, and in
process of time the dead silence that prevailed gave
rise to a thousand thronging apprehensions. He was
suffering the martyrdom of fear, when all of a sudden
his nostrils were grievously assailed by a strong effluvia
of smothered smoke, which threw him into an
agony, or rather an ague. He concluded at once that
the house was on fire, and gave himself up for a lost
man. The moment all hope was over, he quietly

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

resigned himself to his fate; for the desperation of
cowardice is often a substitute for manly resignation.

He was roused from this state of abject despair, by
the flashes of lightning that penetrated his dungeon,
and the loud peals of thunder that rolled over his head,
followed by the pelting shower, which occurred so
opportunely. After this, a dead silence again ensued,
and he was left to his own conjectures, which finally
ended in a profound sleep, produced by the struggles
of his mind and exhaustion of body. Here he lay
undisturbed, being forgotten by all amid the apprehensions
each one entertained for his own safety, and in
the contemplation of the desolation around.

It so happened, however, that early in the morning
of the day succeeding the raising of the seige, it
became necessary to procure some articles of comfort
or convenience from the cellar, and one of the colored
serfs, who it should have been before noted, had been
safely gathered in their master's fold, on the first alarm,
was dispatched for that purpose. Cuffee, or, as he was
usually called by Gregory, old King Cole, was a native
of Africa, with a face that glistened like a well-polished
boot, luxuriating in the splendors of patent blacking.
Descending into the cellar, which was rather darkish,
King Cole stumbled over the body of Master Gregory,
who was solacing his hunger, which now began to be
rather imperative, with another nap. Being taken by
surprise, the gentleman of color pitched head foremost
against the stone wall of the cellar, but being

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providentially provided with a competency of woolly hair,
escaped without any material damage.

“Gosh!” exclaimed King Cole, rubbing his pate—
“what dat dare yeer?”

“I am a sort of living creature,” quoth Gregory,
“very like a man, I believe, though I can't be certain,
in this dubious light.”

“Hey! Masser Gregory—you hide away from
Indian here—hey?”

“I hide from the Indians! thou discolored specimen
of the genus man—I scorn your words. My master
sent me here to forfeit daylight, and starve in a dungeon,
because I did utterly discomfit and put to flight
the copper-colored catiffs, with my single arm, and he
wanted to get all the credit of the victory to himself.
But Cuffee—good Cuffee—if thou hast the bowels of
a woodcock, I do beseech thee in thy merciful cruelty,
and pitiful hardheartedness, to petition my master to
let me out. I am, as it were, on the extreme edge of
starvation, and could make a glorious meal on pickled
grasshoppers. Go now—do, mine honest Cuffee, and
solicit earnestly for my release. I will reward thee
with the stump of my old pipe.” King Cole graciously
condescended to this pleading, and communicated it
to his master.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the Cavalier—“I had
quite forgot poor Gregory, though some how or other,
I felt as if I missed something. Poor fellow—he must
be as hungry as a wolf by this time. Send him
hither—I must beg his pardon.”

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King Cole obeyed with all the dignified solemnity
of a favorite household servant; but Master Gregory
instead of waiting to receive apologies, had made
tracks towards the kitchen, where finding breakfast
ready, he sat down without saying grace, to the great
discontent of Goody Mildred, and solaced himself with
a degree of satisfaction quite exemplary. And now,
having released friend Gregory, and placed him status
ante bellum, we feel at perfect liberty to proceed in
our narrative with a clear conscience. Some doers of
romances seem so entirely destitute of humanity, that
they will leave a man just on the point of drowning,
or with a house burning over his head, or a sword
through his body, while they lead the gentle reader a
dance no one knows where, leaving the poor victim all
the while in this imminent jeopardy. We remember
a grievous case of this kind, in which a very interesting
young lady fell overboard into the lake of Geneva,
in the first chapter of a romance, and was not rescued
till the middle of the second volume, the author being
occupied all that time in discussing a question of politics.
But, thank our stars, we were not born under
Saturn, to feel pleasure in devouring our own children,
for such we consider the personages of our story.

The destruction of the abode of Harold Habingdon
made it absolutely necessary for himself and family to
continue under the roof of Master Tyringham, until some
other refuge could be provided. Every other building
for a wide circuit around had been consumed; and
though the little capital of the colony had escaped, in

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consequence of being protected by wooden defences,
guarded by a company of soldiers, it was at a distance
of many miles. Hospitality is the virtue of the new
world, and the old Cavalier, to do him justice, not
only frankly offered his house, but insisted on the
family remaining his guests, until provided with
another residence. Harold did not relish the proposal;
it went against the grain. But there seemed no other
alternative, and after a degree of hesitation that made
the old Cavalier feel quite belligerent, rather stiffly,
and ungraciously, signified his acceptance. Thus
Langley and Miriam became inmates of the same
home in spite of the stern decision of their fathers; and
thus did what could not be foreseen, baffle all the foresight
of these calculating worms. Were it not for fear
of being stigmatized as a turbaned Turk, one might
almost be tempted to believe that what is called the
chapter of accidents is the book of fate.

The wound of Langley Tyringham, though not
dangerous was slow and lingering in its cure. But
at the expiration of a week he was able to leave his
room, and sit out on the piazza, where the refreshing
breezes from the river seemed to infuse new life and
vigor into his frame. Here he was sometimes joined
by different members of the family, in social chat; we
cannot say cheerful chat; for the deep impression of
the recent massacre, joined to the wide-spread desolation
that everywhere presented itself, depressed the
jocund, airy spirit of youth, and turned the gravity of
age to sober melancholy. When Harold announced to

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his wife and daughter the arrangement he had made,
he contented himself with gravely, almost sternly,
reminding the latter of his former conversation on the
subject of Langley, and repeating his prohibition of all
intercourse, as far as it could be avoided, without
direct offence to their host and his family. In spite of
filial duty, Miriam could not help thinking these
restrictions unreasonable, as regarded herself, and
ungrateful towards those who had opened their house
and their hearts to receive them. Still, she offered no
objection, but as usual acquiesced in his wishes with
silent resignation. She was obedient, as well from a
habit of duty, as from the dictates of conscience. The
deportment of Harold towards her, though in the main
kind and affectionate, was rigid and inflexible in all
matters involving what he termed principle. He
checked the vivacity of her youth, and was intolerant
of all those little amusements, or recreations that had
for their object merely whiling away the hour,
and dissipating that weary listlessness, always the lot
of childhood, when in the absence of all capacity to be
useful it resorts to trifles for amusements. Thus,
instead of growing up among the flowers, her early
days were passed in the shade of her father's pious
gloom. In her infancy, she was never a child, in her
youth, she was never young. Perhaps it was all for
the best, and that this stern discipline prepared her to
endure with patience the severe trials she was destined
to encounter.

Though she avoided Langley, as much as possible,

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without absolute rudeness, strange as it may appear to
some, the less she enjoyed his society, the more she
thought of him. She dwelt on his daring courage in
venturing forth to almost certain death, to save the
lives of his parents, her parents and herself. Had he
risked his life for her alone, she could not have been
more grateful. Nay, her feelings were only the more
fervent, when she remembered that those she most
cherished on earth were involved in the fate from
which he had ventured his life to rescue her. Langley
remained for weeks pale and languid, and pity
allied itself with gratitude—a most formidable confederacy
in the heart of woman.

The robustuous Cavalier, who pitched head foremost
into everything, whether a stone wall, or a feather
bed, had in like manner, in his summary mode of intimating
his wishes, signified to Langley, that though as
a Virginia gentleman, he had invited the family of the
Roundhead to his house, after losing their own, he
must distinctly understand that the edict of non-intercourse
was still in full force. The wise old gentleman
concluded by positively prohibiting his son from falling
in love with the little Crop-ear, since he would
never consent to mix his blood or his name with that
of a rebel to his king, and an apostate from his mother
church. The reader is not to presume from this reference
to mother church, that Master Tyringham was a
very religious man. The honest truth of the matter
is, that though he had fought for the thirty-nine articles,
and was ready to fight again, it would have

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puzzled him mightily to tell what they were. But
people may have a vast deal of bigotry without
much religion.

However this may be, Langley assured his father,
and that with sincerity, that he had not the least
intention of making love to Miriam; whereupon the
worthy Cavalier departed, highly satisfied with the
wisdom of his precaution. Left alone, the young gentleman
began to chafe a little on the bit. He was
now of age—witness the sturgeon's head, and the profound
nap in his chair. Without overrating himself,
he thought he was man enough to resist being treated
as a boy or tied to his father's watchchain. In short,
he waxed rebellious, and meditated an insurrection. It
was well, he thought, that he was not in love with
Miriam, else he might be tempted to woo her, if only
to assert his independence. Then by a very natural
transition, he recalled to mind the sweet and pious
composure, with which she had met the almost certain
approach of a horrible death. He dwelt on her
pale, placid brow, her deep, feeling eye, as it often
watched him in his efforts for her defence; nor did
he forget the involuntary eagerness with which she
grasped his arm, and suddenly relinquished it, as heretofore
related. There were certain looks she had
directed towards him, while the arrow was extracting
from his shoulder, which penetrated deeper than his
wound, and made a more lasting impression. Finally,
having lived much alone in his boyhood, he was accustomed
to soliloquize in thought, and the following may

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serve as a specimen of what occurred to his mind
whenever he was at leisure and alone.

“How strange it seems, that those religious and
political antipathies, which set us together by the ears
in the old world, should extend to the new. What if
her father raised his arm against his lawful sovereign?
For all their claim to divine right, kings are but men,
for they die like other men, and if people are punished
with death for rebelling against their sovereign, I don't
see why a sovereign may not be punished for rebelling
against his people. It strikes me, that kings may
conspire against the just rights of their subjects, as
well as subjects against the lawful prerogative of the
sovereign. If you punish one, why not the other? As
to high church and low church, I don't see that there
is any great difference, where there are no loaves and
fishes to scramble about. Surely it is not only absurd,
but cruel to persecute those who have themselves fled
from persecution. How can people tell whether they
are treading in the paths of truth, or wandering in the
slough of error, except as the Bible teaches them, not
as the Bible is interpreted by those who with all their
arrogance, do not pretend to inspiration? As to poor
Miriam, she is a dear little soul, as innocent as a lamb,
and as pious as a saint. She follows the faith of her
father, as I do that of mine. If we were married—not
that I have the least inclination that way—but if by
some unaccountable accident we were to marry, we
might go to the same church, for we are both Christians,
without disputing about points of faith when we

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came home. It is true, she sings rather long hymns,
but her voice is so sweet, it does my heart good to
hear her. To be sure, there might be some difficulty
about the children. Pshaw! what the deuce am I
thinking about”—and Master Langley concluded his
soliloquy in a huff, by setting forth to cool himself in
a contemplative walk.

It was verging towards sunset, and this was the
first time he had ventured to take a stroll, since he received
the arrow in his shoulder. He naturally bent
his way towards the water, for there is an irresistible
attraction in the running brooks, the silvery lake, and
the winding river. The playful child, happy in its
innocent thoughtlessness, loves to scamper along its
white, sandy shore, and ever and anon, bathe its feet
in the cold water; the lusty boy delights to hurl the
skipping stone athwart its glassy surface, and count
with exultation the number of its leaps; and the caretired
spirit, laden with tears and sorrows, is coaxed for
a while into resignation or forgetfulness, by its soothing
murmurs.

Just before the spirit moved the young philosopher
to indulge in an evening stroll, that mysterious sympathy,
which the reader must already have observed,
had unaccountably produced a concert of action,
between Langley and the little Crop-ear girl—had
impelled Miriam to put on her primitive bonnet, with
the self-same design. She had been accustomed to
walk abroad at will since the illness of Langley, feeling
no apprehension of meeting him, and Harold had

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indulged her under a like conviction. Langley had
not proceeded far, when he saw something he took for
a woman, slowly pacing along, as if in deep contemplation.
He had a presentiment who it was, and
respecting the command of his father, changed his
course, several points of the compass, by which
manœuvre he placed a thick copse of wood betwixt
him and the enemy. Miriam had also seen him coming
towards her, and moved by a similar impulse of
duty, diverged a little at first, until she placed herself
under shelter of the self-same copse, after which she
turned short about, and bent her steps towards the
house, on the opposite side of the cover. Without a
map, we despair of giving a clear idea of their juxta-position;
but certain it is, that these mutual endeavors
to avoid each other suddenly brought them together,
face to face, in turning a sharp angle of the wood.
The truth is, there is no resisting destiny, and it is
useless to argue the point.

The face of Miriam, naturally pale, and that of
Langley rendered so by his late indisposition, both
became suddenly flushed at this awkward and unsought
meeting. To pass without speaking, or to speak without
stopping, would have savored of discourtesy, and
accordingly the young gentleman addressed the young
lady, halting at the same time. It is believed—nay,
it is certain, that his first remark had reference to the
weather, that never failing and—let people say what
they will—that interesting subject, which in some
way or other, enters into almost all the concerns of

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life. Certain pert writers, aspiring to more fashionable
topics, have sneered at this common-place topic, but
after all, it is better to talk of the weather, than to
scandalize our neighbors, or play dummy, like two
John Bulls, when they meet together after a long
absence.

“What a delightful evening,” quoth Langley.

“Delightful,” echoed Miriam; and they rung the
changes on this head, reiterating the same ideas, if
not the same words, until it is believed they scarcely
knew what they were saying. Whether this unconsciousness
extended to what they were doing, is doubtful,
but certain it is, that contrary to all approved
canons of courtesy, instead of the gentleman turning
about with the lady, the lady turned back with him,
without being aware of her condescension; and in
place of returning to the house, they proceeded the
other way, still harping on the beauty of the evening.
All on a sudden, however, Miriam changed the subject,
and fixing her eyes on his face, said in a voice betokening
an interest in the subject—

“You are very pale, and must be tired with your
walk—let us return.”

“Tired, what makes you think so? Is it because
you are tired of me?” said Langley jestingly.

“Why—why—because you look so. You are so
pale and thin; I am sure you must be weak and
weary.”

“Indeed, you are mistaken, I never felt better in
health, or happier in spirit, than at this moment.”

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There was probably something in the tone, manner,
or look, which accompanied these words, that caused a
slight suffusion on the cheek of Miriam.

“Do you think there is no danger from the savages?”
said she hastily.

“None. They will not return. They have pretty
well done their bloody business. Besides, they will
soon have enough to do in defending themselves. We
are preparing an expedition to avenge their cruelties,
and if possible forever prevent their repetition.”

“And do you go with it?”

“Certainly. Every man that can carry a weapon,
or put one foot before the other will go, and do his best
to avenge the blood of his kindred and friends.”

“By shedding his own. But you are not yet fit to
go on such an errand. You are scarcely recovered
from your wound, and should stay at home to protect
us poor women.”

“I am quite able to pull a trigger, and can best
protect you, by destroying your enemies.”

“Yes!”—answered she, with a deep feeling—“yes,
by leaving them alone to their fearful apprehensions,
awakened by every falling leaf, or whisper of the air;
to feed on their miserable anxieties for your fate—to
a conflict of hopes and fears, that only ends in the
certainty of a broken heart. Do not go—I entreat
thee not to go. Do not leave us—I—I—speak in
behalf of thy mother.”

“Would you have me stay at home to be despised
as a coward?” cried Langley, deeply moved by her

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gentle solicitude—“would you have me called coward—
tell me, Miriam?”

“No,” replied she, firmly—“My father is a Christian
soldier, and has often told me that courage is the
great safeguard of the virtues of man, since without
it he may be frightened out of them all, and commit
the deepest crimes through the instigation of fear. I
would not have you be afraid of anything on earth,
but doing wrong. But I wish you could remain with
us, without incurring a name all women hate and
men despise. When do you go?”

“The day after to-morrow.”

“Indeed—so soon. And when do you return?”

“When it pleases Heaven. Perhaps never.”

“Perhaps so,” said Miriam in a low voice—“let us
return home. We have committed a fault to our
fathers. Let us go and ask forgiveness.”

Langley made no attempt to detain her, and they
turned towards the house, apparently little disposed
for further conversation.

p316-282

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