While the events which we have just recorded had
been going on in one quarter, others not less imposing,
though perhaps less important to the partisans, had
taken place in the swamp. There, as we remember,
Humphries, after the escape of Goggle, had bestowed
his men in safety. Deeply mortified by that occurrence,
the lieutenant had been more than usually careful
of his remaining prisoners, as well as of his appointments
of the camp. The fires had been well
lighted, the several watches duly set, and all preparations
were in even progress for the quiet passage of
the night. To John Davis much of these matters had
been given in charge, and, in their proper execution,
he approved himself the same trusty soldier that we
have elsewhere found him. The prisoners were put
entirely and particularly under his direction; and having
placed them separately, each securely tied, in the
little bark huts which were scattered about the island,
through the co-operation and continued presence of the
sentries closely set around them, their custody was

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

quite as complete as, under existing circumstances, it
could possibly have been made. Such, among others,
was the condition of the luckless Hastings. His hut
was isolated from the rest, and stood, on the very edge
of the island, upon a slight elevation. Tied, hand and
foot, with cords too stout for his strength, he lay upon
a pile of rushes in the corner of his cabin, musing,
doubtless, like most of his fellows who have experienced
a sudden reverse, upon the vexatious instability
of fortune. Nor did his musings prompt him at all
times to that due resignation which a proper course of
reflection, in such a case, would be most usually apt
to occasion. He suffered himself to be too much disquieted
by his thinking; and, at such moments, seeking
to elevate himself from his prostrate condition, he
would lose his balance, and roll away from his place,
like a ball under some foreign compulsion. A few
feeble efforts at release, resulting always in the same
way, taught him at last to remain in quiet, though, had
he known the fate of Sergeant Clough, upon whose
bed of death he now lay at length, his reflections, most
probably, would have been far less satisfactory than he
now found them.

Even now they were far from agreeable. The sergeant
chewed but the cud of bitter fancy; the sweet
was all denied him in his dungeon of bark. He could
not misunderstand or mistake the dangers of his position.
He was the prisoner of the man he had striven
to wrong in the tenderest part; he beheld the authority
which that man exercised over those around him; he
well knew the summary character of the times, which
sanctioned so frequently the short shrift and certain
cord; and, considering himself reserved for some such
fearful mode of exit, as the meditative vengeance of
Humphries might best determine, he bitterly denounced
his own evil fortune, which had thus suffered him to
be entrapped. He writhed about among his rushes, as
these thoughts came more vividly to his mind; and
despair of escape at length brought him a certain degree
of composure, if not of resignation. He drew up

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

his knees, turned his face to the dark wall, and strove
to forget his predicament in the kindly arms of sleep.

Yet there was hope for him at hand—hope of a
change of condition; and any change was full of
promise to Hastings. The hope which had been partially
held out to him by Davis, before conducting him
to the swamp, was now about to be realized. The
watches had all been set, Humphries himself had retired;
and, apart from the sentries, but a single trooper
was visible upon the island, in the centre of which, by
a blazing fire, he stood, with one foot of his horse over
his knee, from the quick of which he was striving hard,
with hook and hammer, to extract a pebble. From his
couch of pine brush, under the dark shadow of a tree,
Davis looked forth, momently and anxious, upon the
horseman. At length he proved successful. The horse
was led away to the end of the island, and, after a
little while, the trooper himself had disappeared.
With the exception of the sentries, all of his own
placing, the partisans had each taken the shelter of his
greenwood tree. Some were pillowed here, some
there, in little clusters of two or three, their heads
upon their saddles, their hands clutching fast rifle or
broadsword, and the bridle hanging above, ready for
sudden employment. Sometimes, a solitary trooper
stretched himself, unaccompanied, under a remoter
shelter, and enjoyed to himself those solacing slumbers
which it is always so pleasant to share.

With the perfect quiet of all things around him,
Davis rose from his own place of repose. He cautiously
surveyed the course he proposed to take, and
stealing carefully from the inclining shadow of one
tree to that of another, he approached unobserved the
hut of Sergeant Hastings. The sentinel was prompt.

“Ho!—stand—the word!”

“Continental Congress! It's a big word, Ralph
Mason, and hard to come at, the more so when it's a
quick sentry like you, that doesn't give a body time to
look it up. But that aint much of a fault, any how, in
a soldier. Better too quick than too slow, and the

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

good sentry is more to the troop than the good horse,
though the one may carry him off when the tories are
too thick to be troubled. You can go now, Ralph;
go to my straw, and you can lie down till I come to
wake you up. I'm to ax the prisoner here some questions.”

Glad of this relief, the sentinel made his acknowledgments
to his superior, and did not hesitate to avail
himself of the proposed luxury. Taking his place for
a moment, to and fro before the door of the hut, the
Goose Creeker employed the time between the departure
of the sentinel, and his probable attainment of the
bed of rushes to which he had assigned him, in the
meditation of that plan which his mind had partially
conceived, while escorting his prisoners to the swamp,
and of which he had given a brief hint to Hastings
himself,—a plan which promised him that satisfaction
for his previous injuries at the hands of Hastings,
which his excited feelings, if not a high sense of honour,
had long insisted upon as necessary to his comfort.
The present time seemed a fitting one for his
purpose; and the opportunity which it offered, as it
might not occur again, was quite too good to be lost.
Having properly deliberated, he put aside the bush
which hung partially across the entrance, and at once
passed into the hut of the prisoner. Hastings was not
asleep, and started hastily at the intrusion. His worst
fears grew active, as he saw the figure of one before
him, whom, in the dimness of the place, he could not
distinguish. He could only think of Humphries, and
his breathing was thick and rapid, as he anticipated,
each moment, some fearful doom at the hands of the
avenger. His tones were hurried, as he demanded—

“Who's there?—speak!—what would you?”

“Don't be scared, Sargeant Hastings; its me, John
Davis—him they call Prickly Ash, of Goose Creek.
Mayhap you remember sich a person. I'm that man.”

Hastings rather freely avowed his recollection.

“Well, I'm mighty glad you're not asleep, as I

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

didn't want to put hands on you for any business but
one, and that's the one I come to see you about now.
You're sure, now, Sargeant Hastings, you're wide
awake, and able to talk about business.”

The reply was in the gentlest and most conciliatory
language. The tones were singularly musical indeed,
for a throat so harsh as that which Davis formerly
knew in possession of the same person; and the sighlike
utterance which told the partisan that he was all
attention, contrasted oddly, in the thoughts of Davis,
with those notes which he had been taught hitherto to
hear from the same quarter.

“Well, if you're wide awake, Sargeant Hastings,
I've some talk for you, you'll maybe be glad enough
to hear, for it consarns both you and me a little.”

“Any thing, Mister Davis—any thing you have to
say, I shall be happy, very happy, to listen to.”

“Very good,” said the other; “that's very good,
and I'm mighty glad to see you've got your mind made
up to what's to come; and so, since you're ready to
hear, I'm cocked and primed to speak, and the sooner
I begin the better. Now, Sargeant Hastings, mind
what I say, and dont let any of my words go into one ear
and out of another. They're all words that cost something,
and something's to be paid for them in the end.
I give you this warning, as it aint fair to take a man
unawares.”

Hastings promised due heedfulness, and the other
proceeded as follows:—

“You see, then, Sargeant Hastings, you're not in
garrison now; you're not at the Royal George, nor in
any of them places where I used to see you, with the
red-coats, and them lickspittles the tories, all about
you, ready to back you agin their own countryman,
whether you're right or wrong. You're turned now,
as I may say, on the flat of your back, like a yellow-belly
cooter, and nobody here to set you right but me,
and me your enemy.”

Hastings sullenly and sadly assented to the truth of
this picture, in a groan which he accompanied by a

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

twisting motion that turned his face completely away
from the speaker.

“You needn't turn your back, Sargeant Hastings;
it's no part of a gentleman to do so: but jist listen
a bit to the God's truth, and you'll larn a little civility,
if so be its in your skin to larn any thing that's good.
You see, now, the game goes agin you—the cards is
shuffled, and trumps is changed hands. You're in as
bad a fix, now, as if you was at old sledge, and all
seven up was scored down agin you. You're not cock
of the walk any longer; you aint where you can draw
sword agin a man that's got none, and have a gang of
chaps to look on, and not ax for fair play. There's
some chance now for a small man, and I reckon you
feel the difference.”

A sullen response from Hastings, who, though irritated
greatly, thought it the wiser policy not to appear
so, acknowledged the correctness of what his companion
had said.

“But don't think,” the other proceeded—“don't
think, Sargeant Hastings, that I come to crow over you
in your misfortunes. No! dang it, I'm not the lad to
take advantage of any man in his troubles, even though
I despise him as I despise you. I'm for fair play all
the world over, and that's the reason why I come to
you now.”

“What would you have, Mister Davis?” inquired
the sergeant, with something of his old dignity of
manner.

“Well, that's a civil question enough, and desarves
a civil answer. You ax me what I will have; I'll tell
you after a bit; but there's something, you see, that's
like a sort of history, and, if you'll listen, I'll take
leave to put that afore it.”

“Go on, Mister Davis, I shall be glad to hear you.”

“Well, I don't know that for certain; but we'll see
how glad you are as we git on in the business. What
I've got to say won't take long, though I must begin at
the beginning, or you mightn't so well understand it.
It's now going on nine or ten years since old Dick

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

Humphries—that's the father of Bella—first came into
our parts, and made 'quaintance with our people.
Bella was a little girl at that time; but from that time
I took to her, and she sort-a took to me. The more
we know'd, the more we liked one another. I can say
for myself, I never liked anybody half so well as I
liked her. Well, everybody said it was a match, and
Bella seemed willing enough till the war broke out,
and you came into our parts, with your red coats, and
flashy buttons, and topknots; and then everything was
at odds and ends, and there was no living with the gal
at all. Her head got turned with your flummery, and
a plain lad like myself stood no chance.”

“Well, but, Mister Davis, that was no fault of mine,
if the girl was foolish.”

“Look you,—no ill words about the gal; 'cause,
dang it, if I stand it. She may be foolish, but you
haven't any right yet, that I can see, to call her so; and
it's the more shame if you do, seeing that it's all on
your account that she is so.”

“I mean no harm—no offence, Mister Davis.”

“Well, well, I aint taking any harm and any offence
at that. I only want to 'mind you to keep a civil tongue
in your head when you talk of Bella; for, though she
shies me off, and I stand no chance with her, and the
game's all clear done a-tween us, I won't hear anything
said to her disparagement; and it will be mighty ridiculous
for you if you say it. I'm trying to speak to
you civilly, and without getting in a passion—and its
not so easy—for you're my prisoner, you see; and it's
not the part of a gentleman to say ugly things to a
man that can't help himself; but it's in the way of
what I've got to tell you, and you'll be good-natured
and excuse it, if I sometimes hit upon a part of you
that sounds like a rascal, and don't stop to pick what
words I shall say it in. But that's neither here nor
there; and I may as well go on with what I was saying.
Bella took a liking to you, and to your coat and
buttons—monstrous little else, Sargeant Hastings, now,
I tell you, for the gal has sense enough to see that

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

you're not the properest looking chap, nor the finest, nor
the best-natured, that comes into these parts. But it was
the showy buttons and the red clothes—the big feather,
and—I don't want to say it, Sargeant Hastings, 'cause,
as I said before, you're my prisoner, and it's not genteel
to say ugly things to one's prisoner; but my mother
always trained me to have an ambition for truth,
and a man's not a gentleman if he doesn't speak it;
so that's the reason, you see, that makes me tell you
that it was partly because you were so flashy, and so
impudent, and had such a big way about you, that took
in the poor gal at first, and that takes in so many that
ought to know better. It was your impudence, you
see, sargeant—that was it; and, as sure as there's
snakes, she'll get tired of you, you can't reckon how
fast, if she once gets you for a husband.”

“But that she'll never do, Mister Davis;—oh, no,
leave me alone for that. I'm no fool, I can tell you;
I've seen too much of the world to be caught blindfold.”

“Why, what! won't you marry her—and the gal
that loves you too?” The astonishment of Davis was
conspicuous in his emphasis.

“Marry her, indeed! No, I thank ye! I never
thought of that,” was the contemptuous reply of the
prisoner.

“Now, dang it, Sargeant Hastings, but I do despise
you more than a polecat. You're a poor, mean skunk,
and a dirty varmint, that's only fit for killing; and I've
the heart to do it now, on the spot, I tell you; but I
won't, for you're my prisoner.”

The indignation of Davis was kept down with difficulty;
and Hastings, lacking entirely that delicacy
which should have taught him that the considerations
of his rival in what he had said had been singularly
unselfish, only made the matter worse by undertaking
to assure him that his determination had been made,
the better to open the way for himself in the renewal
of his addresses. This assurance neither deceived
nor satisfied the lieutenant; and his words, though cool,
were bitter, and solemnly urged.

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

“You're a shoat, a mean shoat, Sargeant Hastings;
and if I had nothing else to hate you for, I should hate you
mighty long and heartily for that. But it's no use talking;
and the sooner we stop the better. Now, can you
guess what I came to you for to-night?”

“I cannot—no—what?”

“To set you free; cut your ropes; put you on a
clear track, and mount you on a nag that'll take you
into Dorchester in a short hour and a half, free riding.
I told you I would do it. I will keep my word.”

“Indeed! Do I hear you, Mister Davis? my dear
friend—”

“No friend, I thank you—no friend, but a bitter
enemy, that won't do nothing for you without the pay.
I will do all this for you, as I have said, but there's
something I ax in return.”

“What! speak! ay! What price? name your reward,
sir, and—”

“I will—only be quiet and keep a civil tongue in
your head while I tell you. You've put the flat of
your sword to my shoulder, Sargeant Hastings, when I
had none to lift up agin you; that's to be paid for.
You've come between me and the gal I had a liking
for, ever since I was a boy; that's to be paid for. You
tried to git her to like you, and then you laugh at her
liking; and that's to be paid for too. Now, can you
reckon up what'll best pay for these matters?”

The sergeant was silent; the other continued—

“I'll tell you. A fair fight, as you promised me—a
fair fight with broadswords, in a clear track, and no
witnesses but them there bright stars, and the round
moon that'll soon be rising up to give us enough light
to do our business.”

“I'm willing, Mister Davis; but I've no sword, and
I'm tied here, as you see.”

“Never be a bit afraid. I'll come in an hour, and
I'll cut your cords. I'll carry you out to the skirts of
the swamp, where the clear moon will look down upon
us. I'll hitch a stout horse to the hanging bough; and
it shall stand in sight waiting for you, the moment you

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

get clear from me. I'll give you a pick of a pair of
swords, which shall lie flat upon the earth before you;
and you shall then give me satisfaction for all them there
matters that I tell ye of. You're a bigger man than
me; you're used to the broadsword: I can handle it
too, though I does it rough and tumble, and had no
schooling in the weapon; and you shall have as fair
play as ever you had in all your born days before.
And that's the offer I make you. Only say the word,
and I'll go to the spot—carry out the horse—carry out
the swords, and send the sentries off from the track I
shall take you.”

The proposition took Hastings by surprise. He
was no coward; but under existing circumstances, he
would rather have avoided the encounter in the novel
shape which it now put on. Yet, as he reflected, he
grew more and more satisfied with the plan. He had
manifestly all the advantages of strength, and personal
knowledge and practice of the weapon; and his apprehensions
of Humphries were too great not to desire
to escape at all hazards from his clutches. Guilt
made a coward of him, as he thought of Bella's brother,
and as he remembered how completely he had
been unmasked before him. In a few moments he had
determined upon his answer, and the Goose Creeker
rejoiced to find it in the affirmative.

“It's a bargain, then,” said Davis—“you swear to
it?”

“I do: I will go with you. Get all things ready,
as you have said, and I will fight you whenever you
please.”

“Well, now, that's what I like; and I'm glad to find
you're so much a man, after all. Keep quiet while
I'm gone, and when the horse is clear upon the skirt,
I'll come to you and set you loose; all you have to do
is to follow—nobody will see us; but you must be shy
how you speak. Only follow, that's all.”

Saying these words, Davis departed from the hut.
As he emerged from its entrance, he heard the wild
laugh of the maniac Frampton, as he bounded away

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

from the immediate neighbourhood. He was too much
absorbed, however, in the affair before him, to give
much heed to an interruption so slight, and hurrying
away, without farther hinderance, proceeded to the execution
of the devised plan. This plan had all been
heard by the watchful ears of the maniac. Crawling
to the hut of Hastings, as once before he had done,
when differently occupied, he was about to lift the
birch cover from the rear, probably with the same murderous
intent which he had before put into execution,
when the approach and entrance of Davis had compelled
him to be quiet. Concealed in the edges of the
hut, and well covered by its shadow, he had lain close
and heard every syllable of the preceding dialogue.
A strange purpose took possession of his unsettled
mind while he listened; and when Davis left the hovel,
he ran off howling and laughing with the fancied accomplishment
before his eyes, of that new scheme,
which, with all that instability which marks the diseased
intellect, had now so suddenly superseded the
original object which he had in view. Hastings, meanwhile,
with as much philosophy as he was master of,
strove to season his thoughts for the events which
were at hand.