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The village of Westminster yields, perhaps, in the tranquil
and picturesque beauty of its location, to few others in New England.
In addition to the advantage of a situation along the banks
of that magnificent river, of which our earliest epic poet, Barlow,
in his liquid numbers, has sung,


“No watery glades through richer valleys shine,
Nor drinks the sea a lovelier wave than thine,”
it stands upon an elevated plain, that could scarcely have been
made more level had it been smoothed and evened, by the instruments
of art, to fit it for the arena of some vast amphitheatre,
which the place, with the aid of a little fancy, may be very easily
thought to resemble; for, from the principal street, which is
nearly a mile in extent, broad and beautiful fields sweep away in
every direction, till they meet, in the distance, that crescent-like
chain of hills, by which, with the river, the place is enclosed.

It was probably this natural beauty of the place, together with
its proximity to the old fort at Walpole, at which a military establishment
was once maintained by the government of New Hampshire
for the protection of its frontier, that led to the early settlement
and rapid growth of this charming spot, which, having
been entered by the pioneers as far back as 1741, continued so to
increase and prosper, though on the edge of a wilderness unbroken,
for many years, for hundreds of miles on the north, that,
at the opening of the American revolution, it was the most populous
and best built village in Vermont.

This place, at the period chosen for the beginning of our tale,
had been, for several years, the seat of justice for all the southern
part of this disputed territory, under the assumed jurisdiction
of New York, in which a majority of the inhabitants seemed to
have tacitly acquiesced. And the most prominent of its public
buildings, as might be expected, was the Court House, embracing

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the jail under the same roof. This was a spacious square edifice,
conspicuously located, and of very respectable architecture for
the times. The village, also, contained a meeting-house, school-house,
and the usual proportion of stores and taverns. The whole
place, indeed, had now nearly passed into the second stage of
existence, in American villages, when the pioneer log-houses have
given place to the more airy and elegant framed buildings; and,
compared with other towns, which, in this new settlement, were
then just emerging from the wilderness, it wore quite an ancient
appearance.

Among the most commodious and handsome of the many
respectable dwellings which had here been erected, was that of
Crean Brush, Esquire, colonial deputy secretary of New York,
and also an active member of the legislature of that colony for
this part of her claimed territory. This house, at the sessions
of the courts, especially, was the fashionable place of resort for
what was termed the court party gentry, and other distinguished
persons from abroad. To the interior of this well-furnished and
affectedly aristocratic establishment, we will now repair, in order
to resume the thread of our narrative.

In an upper chamber of the house, at a late hour of the same
evening on which occurred the exciting scenes described in the
preceding pages, sat the two young ladies, to whom the reader
has already been introduced, silently indulging in their different
reveries before an open fire. They had safely arrived in town,
about an hour before, with all their company, except Jones, who
had been left at Brattleborough; and having been consigned to the
family of this mansion, with whom they had formed a previous
acquaintance at Albany, where Brush, the greater part of the
year, resided, and where both of the young ladies were educated,
they had taken some refreshment, and retired to the apartment
prepared for their reception. The demeanor of these fair companions,
always widely different, was particularly so at the present
moment. Miss Haviland, with her chin gracefully resting on one
folded hand, and her calm and beautiful, but now deeply-clouded
brow, shaded by the white, taper fingers of the other, was abstractedly
gazing into the glowing coals on the hearth before her;
while the gentle, but less reflective McRea, with a countenance
disturbed only by the passing emotions of sympathy that occasionally
flitted over it, as she glanced at the downcast face of her
friend, sat quietly preparing for bed, by removing her ornaments,
and adjusting those long, golden tresses, with which, in after
times, her memory was destined to become associated, in the

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minds of tearful thousands, while reading the melancholy history
of her tragic fate.

“Come, Sabrey,” at length said the latter, soothingly, “come,
cheer up. I cannot bear to see you so dejected. I would not
brood over that frightful scene any longer, but, feeling grateful
and happy at my escape, would dismiss it as soon as possible from
my mind.”

“I am, Jane,” responded the other, partially rousing herself
from her reverie; “I am both grateful and happy at my providential
escape. But you are mistaken in supposing it is that scene
which disquiets me to-night.”

“Indeed!” replied the former, with a look of mingled surprise
and curiosity. “Why, I have been attributing your dejection and
absence of mind, this evening, to that cause alone. What else
can have occurred to disturb your thoughts to-night, let me
ask?”

“Jane, in confidence, I will tell you,” replied Miss Haviland,
looking the other in the face, and speaking in a low, serious tone.
“It is the discovery which I have made, or at least think I have,
this day, made, respecting the true character of one who should
command, in the relation I stand with him, my entire esteem.”

“Mr. Peters? Though of course it is he to whom you allude.
But what new trait have you discovered in him, to-day, that leads
you to distrust his character?”

“What I wish I had not; what I still hope I may be deceived
in; but what, nevertheless, forces itself upon my mind, in spite of
all my endeavors to resist it. You recollect Mr. Jones's account
of the lawsuit, in which Mr. Peters succeeded in obtaining the
farm of this Mr. Woodburn, whose gallant conduct we have all
this afternoon witnessed?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Well, did you think that story, when rightly viewed, was very
creditable to Mr. Peters?”

“I am not sure I understood the case sufficiently to judge; did
you?”

“Well enough, Jane, with the significant winks that passed
between Peters and the sheriff, to convince me that an unjust
advantage had been taken. But perhaps I could have been
brought to believe myself mistaken in this conclusion, had I seen
nothing else to confirm it, and lower him still more in my
esteem.”

“What else did you see?

“An exhibition of malice, Jane, which astonished as much as

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it pained me. That pretended accident, in running over Woodburn,
was designed — ay, coolly designed.”

“Why, Sabrey Haviland! how can you talk, how can you
believe, so about one whose betrothing ring is now on your finger?”

“It is indeed painful to do so; but truth compels me.”

“Might you not have been mistaken?”

“No; I saw the whole movement. I had been watching him
some time, and I noticed how he prepared those fiery horses of
his for a sudden spring, and saw the look of malicious exultation
accompanying the final act. And even now, I shudder to think what
guilt he might have incurred! Even as it resulted, only in the
destruction of property, how can I help being shocked at the discovery
of a secret disposition which could have prompted such
a deed? O, how different has been the conduct of him who has
thus been made the victim of his misusage!”

“Different! Why, what has he done? I was not aware —”

“True, I am reminded that I have not told you. That loquacious
landlady, where we stopped to dine, told me, as we were
coming away, that there had been a great excitement among the
people in the street, about the outrage; and that Peters would
certainly have been mobbed, if Woodburn had not interfered and
prevented it.”

“Indeed! I should have hardly expected so much magnanimity
in one of his class. It was truly a noble return for the injuries
he had received from Peters.”

“Ay, and by this last act of saving my life, he has still more
nobly revenged himself upon Peters, and upon us all.”

“Assisted to save you, I conclude you mean; for I heard Peters
tell your father, that it was the settler who lived in the house
near by, and Colonel Carpenter, who finally rescued you.”

“Did he tell my father that story, without mentioning Woodburn?”
asked Miss Haviland, with a look of mingled surprise
and displeasure.

“Yes, as he came back to meet us with the news, while we
were getting round with the sleigh to the spot.”

“Well, my father shall know the truth of the case; and Mr.
Woodburn, though he did not boast of his services, nor even stay
to give me an opportunity to thank him for what he had done,
shall also know that we are not insensible to his gallant conduct;
for, whatever they may say, Jane, I am indebted to him for my
life. As dreadful as was my situation among that crashing mass
of ice, with which I was borne onward down the stream, I saw

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all that was done. He led the way from the first, contrived the
plan, and with the assistance of the hesitating settler, carried it
into execution, with a promptitude that alone could have saved
me. It is true, that we both must have perished but for the timely
arrival of Colonel Carpenter; but that detracts nothing from the
merits of Mr. Woodburn, who, as we hung suspended over that
frightful abyss, I knew and felt, was throwing his life to the
winds to save mine. O, why could it not have been, as I have
often said to myself during our cheerless ride this evening, — why
could it not have been Peters, to perform all that I have this day
seen in that poor, despised, and persecuted young man?”

“Why, Mr. Peters certainly appeared much alarmed, and anxious
that something should be done to save you,” replied Miss
McRea, after a thoughtful pause, produced by the words and fervid
manner of her companion.

“Then why did he leave it to another to save me?” responded
the former, severely.

“That I do not know, certainly,” replied the other; “but he
at once bestirred himself, and I heard him offer five guineas, and
I think he doubled the price the next moment, to any one who
would go on to the ice and bring you off.”

“Five guineas!” exclaimed Miss Haviland, starting to her
feet, with a countenance eloquent with scorn and contempt; “five
guineas, and at a pinch, ten! What a singular fountain must that
be, from which such a thought, at such a time, could have flowed!
Had it been one of those favorite horses, it would have sounded
well enough, perhaps, though I think he would have offered more.
It is well, however, that I now know the price at which I am estimated,”
she added, bitterly.

“It does sound rather strangely, now you have named it,” responded
Miss McRea, abashed at the unexpected construction put
on what she had communicated, and mortified and half vexed,
that every attempt she had made to remove her friend's difficulties
only made the matter worse: “it sounds oddly, to be sure;
but I presume he did not mean any thing.”

“O, no, I dare say; nor did he do any thing, as I can learn,
through the whole affair, except attempt to deprive Woodburn of
the credit he had gained. Jane,” she continued, with softened
tone, “what would you have thought, had you been in my situation,
and your lover had acted such a part?”

“I should have thought — I don't know what I should have
thought,” replied the other, with a feeling which showed how
quickly the appeal had taken effect. “But I should have had no

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occasion to have any thought about it; for I know he would have
been the one to save me, or die with me. O, I wish Mr. Jones
had come on with us, for had he been there, so good and so brave
as he is, I am sure even you need not have become so deeply
indebted to this low young fellow.”

“Low, Jane, low?” said the former, reprovingly. “Was it low
to overlook so easily the injury and affront he had received from
Peters, and then return good for evil? And was it low to rescue
me from the raging flood, by exertions and risk of life, which
would have done credit to the first hero in the land?”

“O, no, not that; I did not mean that; for his conduct has been
generous and noble indeed; and from the first, when I heard Mr.
Jones's account of him, I was disposed to think highly of the
man, for one in his situation of life. I only meant that he did
not belong to our party, but was one of the lower classes of
society.”

“It is true he may not belong to our party, Jane; but how
much should that weigh in the argument? Perhaps at this very
hour, two thirds of the American people would count it as weight
in the other part of the balance. And even I, trained as I have
been by and among the highest toned loyalists, wish I could help
doubting that our party is the only one that has right and reason
on its side. And as to the claim of belonging to what is called
the first society, I can only say that I wish many, who are allowed
that claim among us, were as worthy of the place as I think
Woodburn is. I have always loved Justice for her beautiful self,
and hated her opposite; and I never could see how those who are
guided by her and the kindred virtues, could be accounted low,
or how, or why, those who lack these qualities could claim to be
called high. Is it any wonder then, Jane, that I should feel
troubled and distressed at discoveries which, in my mind, reverse
the situation that my friends assign to the two individuals of
whom we have been speaking?”

“O, you are too much of a philosopher for me in all that,”
replied Jane. “Come, be a woman now, Sabrey, and I will discuss
the matter with you, claiming, perhaps, a little, a very little
of the right of the confessor. I can easily understand how painful
it would be to have doubts of the character of one's lover;
and I can also understand,” she continued, looking a little archly,
“how one, who did not love a suitor very hard, could feel grateful—
yes, very grateful — to a good-looking young man who had
behaved gallantly. And I have a good mind to half suspect —”

“Hark!” interrupted the other, hurriedly, while a slight tinge

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became visible on her cheek — “hark! did you hear the striking
of the house clock below? It is telling the hour of midnight.
Let us dismiss these embarrassing thoughts, and retire to our repose.
Your prospects, Jane,” she continued, rising and speaking
in a sad and gently expostulatory tone — “your prospects are
bright with love and happiness; and it will be ungenerous and
cruel in you to say aught which will deepen the shade that I fear
is coming over mine.”

“O, I will not, Sabrey,” warmly returned the kind-hearted
Jane. “I did not intend it. Forgive me, do; and we will dismiss
the subject for something which will give us pleasanter dreams,
and then, as you say, go to rest and enjoy them.”

Leaving these fair friends to their slumbers, disquieted or
sweetened by the various visions which the incidents of the day
had been calculated to excite in the bosom of each, we will now
repair to a lower apartment of the house, to note the doings of a
select band of court dignitaries there assembled, for a purpose
concerning which a spectator, at the first glance, might, from the
appearances, be at a loss to decide whether it was one of revelry
or secret consultation, so much did it partake of the character of
both.

Around a long table, well furnished with wine and glasses, sat
a select company of gentlemen, whose dress and deportment
denoted them to be persons of the first consequence. And such,
indeed, may be said to have been the fact, till the present time;
for the party embraced the judges and officers of the court, and
such of the most stanch and influential of their supporters as
could be convened for a special consultation, which, it was considered,
the portents of the times demanded. Here was the aristocratic
and haughty Brush, the host, and leading spirit of the
party, with his florid face, cracking his jokes and ridiculing “the
boorish settlers,” in which he was sure to find a ready response
in the boisterous laugh of Peters and other young supporters of
the court and loyal party. Here, too, sat the fiery and profane
Gale, the clerk of the court, with his thin, angular features, and
forbidding brow, occasionally exploding with his short, bitter,
barking laugh, as, with many an oath, he dealt out anticipated
vengeance on all those who should dare cross the path of the
established authorities. And here also was Chandler, the chief
judge of the court, with his plausible manners, affectedly sincere
look, and deferential smile, as he exchanged the whisper and
meaning glance with his colleague, Judge Sabin, a stern, reserved,
and bigoted loyalist, or as he nodded approbation to the

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remarks, whatever they might be, of those around him. These,
with Stearns, a tory lawyer of some note, Rogers, a tory landholder,
Haviland, and a few others, all leading and trusty supporters
of the court party, constituted the company, or rather the
cabinet council, here convened, all of whom, as appeared by the
entire freedom of their remarks, were fully in each other's confidence.

There was one person in the room, however, who had no
thought or feeling in common with the rest of those present, but
who did not appear to be deemed by them of sufficient consequence
to be interrogated in relation to his opinions, or of sufficient
capacity to comprehend what was said in his presence, at
least not to any degree which might render it unsafe that he
should hear the discussion so unreservedly going forward. This
person, who was acting in the capacity of waiter to the company,
being under a temporary engagement to the master of the house,
to serve him in such work as might be wanted about the house
and stables, was a youth, of perhaps eighteen, of quite an ordinary,
and even singular appearance. His figure was low and
slight, and he was made to appear the more diminutive, perhaps,
by his dress, which consisted of short trousers, a long, coarse
jacket, and a flat woollen cap, drawn down to the eyebrows. His
hair, hanging, in lank locks, to his shoulders, was light and sandy,
and his face was deeply freckled; while a pair of long, falling
eyelashes contributed to add still further to the peculiarity of his
looks, and to give his countenance, with those who did not note
the keen, bright orbs that occasionally peeped from their usually
impenetrable coverts, a sleepy and listless appearance. He now
sat on the top of a high wood-box, placed near one corner of the
chimney, with his legs dangling over one end of the box, and his
head drooping sluggishly towards the fire, apparently as unconscious
of what was said and done in the room, as the little black
dog that lay sleeping on the floor beneath his feet.

“Here, Bart,” exclaimed Brush, as the company, having
dropped the discussion of all weighty matters, were now briskly
circulating the bottle, and beginning to give way to noisy merriment—
“here, Bart, you sleepy devil, come and snuff these candles.
Our chap here,” he continued, winking archly to those
around him — “our chap Bart, or Barty Burt, to give the whole of
his euphonious name, gentlemen, may be considered an excellent
specimen of the rebel party, who talk so wisely about self-government,
sitting under one's own vine and fig-tree, and all that
sort of thing; for, in the first place, he has a great deal of

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wisdom, handy to be got at, it all lying in his face. And then he is
so much for self-government that no one can govern him in
any thing. Then again, as to the idea of sitting under a fig-tree,
I think it is one that Bart would most naturally entertain; for had
he a tree to sit under, be it fig or bass-wood, and enough to eat,
he would sit there till he was gray, before he would think of
moving.”

“Not badly drawn, that similitude,” said Stearns, after the
burst of laughter, by which these remarks were greeted, had a
little subsided; “but methinks I see a flaw therein, friend Brush:
you said our young republican's wisdom, alias ideas, all lay in
his face; and then, in the matter of the fig-tree, you go on to
intimate he has one distinct idea in his head, thereby lessening
the force and exactness of the comparison, as I think you will
allow.”

“I crave pardon, gentlemen,” cried the secretary; “I should
have qualified; for, really, I have several times seriously suspected
Bart to have ideas, or, at least, one whole idea of his
own; and if you think that is too much to allow the individuals
of the party generally, with whom I have compared him, why,
then I must knock under, that's all.”

“You are down! you are down, then, Brush!” shouted several,
with another uproarious burst of laughter.

Bart, the chief butt of this ridicule, in the mean while, was moving
quietly about the room in performance of his bidden tasks,
without appearing to notice a word that was uttered; and but for
a certain rapid twinkling that might have been seen in his eyes,
which, as he deliberately returned to his seat in the corner, were
opened to an unusual extent, one would have supposed him utterly
insensible to all the taunts and jeering laughter of which he had
thus publicly been made the victim.

“Ah! Patterson, here you are then, at last,” exclaimed Gale,
as the former, with a disturbed and angry countenance, now
came pushing his way into the midst of the company. “We
have done nothing but drink and joke since you went out,
scarcely; at all events, we have concluded on nothing, except to
wait and learn the result of your discoveries: so now for your
report.”

“Ay, ay, Mr. Sheriff,” responded Brush. “But stay, take
breath, and a glass of this glorious old Madeira, first. There!
now tell us how the land lies abroad to-night.”

“It lies but little to my liking,” growled the sheriff, with an oath.
“The rascally dogs have altogether stolen the march of us. They

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have been swarming into town all the evening, as thick as bees;
while not more than a dozen of our flint-and-steel men have yet
got on to the ground. It beats Belzebub! —”

“Our witnesses,” quickly interposed Judge Chandler, bowing
with a significant smile and cautionary wink, while he threw a
sidelong glance towards Bart, whom the wary eye of the judge
had detected in slightly changing his position, so as to bring his
ear more directly towards the speakers — “our witnesses and
quarrelling suitors in court you mean, of course?”

“Why, yes — yes, your honor — if you think that necessary,”
replied Patterson, following the direction of the other's glance,
and then looking inquiringly at Brush, as if to ask whether there
was any danger to be apprehended from talking before the servant.

“Pooh! — nonsense!” said Brush, readily understanding the
mute appeal. “Nonsense! You could not make him comprehend
what we are talking about in six weeks, if you should do
your prettiest. Why, the fellow has not two ideas above a jackass!—
so talk out.”

“Well, then,” resumed the sheriff, in a lower tone, “I have
satisfied myself that the rebels are plotting like so many Satans,
and are in earnest about carrying their threat into execution.
Now, the question is, what shall be done — yield the point and
submit to be turned out of the Court House to-morrow, as if we
were a pack of unruly boys, or what?”

“Yield!” fiercely exclaimed Gale — “not till my pistol
bullets have drank the heart's blood of the d—d rascals, first.”

“Ay, Gale,” responded Brush, “that would be well enough,
but for one small difficulty, which is, that these demi-savages understand
quite as much of that kind of play as we do; and so long
as they outnumber us so greatly, the fun of doing what you would
propose might be less than talking about it. Let us have Chandler's
opinion. What course is it best to take, judge?”

“Temporize!” replied the latter, in a low, emphatic tone, and
with a look of peculiar significance — “temporize till —”

“Till we can help ourselves,” said Patterson, taking up the
sentence where the other left it, or rather finishing in words what
had been expressed by looks.

“That's just my notion,” remarked Stearns. “Let them see
and be assured that we are for peace, and want nothing but
what is right; all of which may be said truly. And in this manner,
if the thing is well managed, their suspicions can be allayed;
and we can get possession of the Court House as soon as our
friends get on, which will be by to-morrow noon — will it not,
Patterson?”

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