THE RESCUED KNIGHT.

She leaves the port with swelling sails,And gaudy streamer flaunting free,She woos the gentle western gales,And takes her pathway o’er the sea.The vales go down where roses bloom—The hill tops follow green and fair;The lofty beacon sinks in gloom,And purpled mountains hang in air.Along she speeds with snowy wings,Around her breaks the foaming deep;The tempest thro’ her rigging sings,And weary eyes their vigils keep.Loud thunders rattle on the ear;Saint Elmo’s fire her yard-arms grace,The boldest bosom sinks in fear,While death stands watching face to face.Months roll, and anxious friends awaitSome tidings of the home-bound bark,But ah! above her hapless fateMysterious shadows slumber dark.No tidings come from Albion’s shoreTo wild New England’s rocky lee;Hope sickens, dies, and all is o’er,The pilgrim’s bark is lost at sea.But see around yon woody isleA gallant vessel sweeps in pride,Her presence bids the mourners smile,And hope reviving marks the tide.But ah! her topsails fade away,Her gaudy streamer floats no more,A shadow flits across the bay,The pilgrim’s dying hope is o’er.

She leaves the port with swelling sails,And gaudy streamer flaunting free,She woos the gentle western gales,And takes her pathway o’er the sea.The vales go down where roses bloom—The hill tops follow green and fair;The lofty beacon sinks in gloom,And purpled mountains hang in air.Along she speeds with snowy wings,Around her breaks the foaming deep;The tempest thro’ her rigging sings,And weary eyes their vigils keep.Loud thunders rattle on the ear;Saint Elmo’s fire her yard-arms grace,The boldest bosom sinks in fear,While death stands watching face to face.Months roll, and anxious friends awaitSome tidings of the home-bound bark,But ah! above her hapless fateMysterious shadows slumber dark.No tidings come from Albion’s shoreTo wild New England’s rocky lee;Hope sickens, dies, and all is o’er,The pilgrim’s bark is lost at sea.But see around yon woody isleA gallant vessel sweeps in pride,Her presence bids the mourners smile,And hope reviving marks the tide.But ah! her topsails fade away,Her gaudy streamer floats no more,A shadow flits across the bay,The pilgrim’s dying hope is o’er.

She leaves the port with swelling sails,And gaudy streamer flaunting free,She woos the gentle western gales,And takes her pathway o’er the sea.The vales go down where roses bloom—The hill tops follow green and fair;The lofty beacon sinks in gloom,And purpled mountains hang in air.

She leaves the port with swelling sails,

And gaudy streamer flaunting free,

She woos the gentle western gales,

And takes her pathway o’er the sea.

The vales go down where roses bloom—

The hill tops follow green and fair;

The lofty beacon sinks in gloom,

And purpled mountains hang in air.

Along she speeds with snowy wings,Around her breaks the foaming deep;The tempest thro’ her rigging sings,And weary eyes their vigils keep.Loud thunders rattle on the ear;Saint Elmo’s fire her yard-arms grace,The boldest bosom sinks in fear,While death stands watching face to face.

Along she speeds with snowy wings,

Around her breaks the foaming deep;

The tempest thro’ her rigging sings,

And weary eyes their vigils keep.

Loud thunders rattle on the ear;

Saint Elmo’s fire her yard-arms grace,

The boldest bosom sinks in fear,

While death stands watching face to face.

Months roll, and anxious friends awaitSome tidings of the home-bound bark,But ah! above her hapless fateMysterious shadows slumber dark.No tidings come from Albion’s shoreTo wild New England’s rocky lee;Hope sickens, dies, and all is o’er,The pilgrim’s bark is lost at sea.

Months roll, and anxious friends await

Some tidings of the home-bound bark,

But ah! above her hapless fate

Mysterious shadows slumber dark.

No tidings come from Albion’s shore

To wild New England’s rocky lee;

Hope sickens, dies, and all is o’er,

The pilgrim’s bark is lost at sea.

But see around yon woody isleA gallant vessel sweeps in pride,Her presence bids the mourners smile,And hope reviving marks the tide.But ah! her topsails fade away,Her gaudy streamer floats no more,A shadow flits across the bay,The pilgrim’s dying hope is o’er.

But see around yon woody isle

A gallant vessel sweeps in pride,

Her presence bids the mourners smile,

And hope reviving marks the tide.

But ah! her topsails fade away,

Her gaudy streamer floats no more,

A shadow flits across the bay,

The pilgrim’s dying hope is o’er.

Upona couch, in a little parlor in Quinapiack, surrounded by a number of the worthy settlers of both sexes, rested, at the close of that Sabbath day, Grace Gilman. Her cup of sorrow was full, and she prayed for the approach of the angel of death. Beside her stood the silver tankard, and her dim eye endeavored in vain to read the inscription. “Aunt Tabitha,” said the sufferer to my great great grandmother, “read the inscription for me.” The good aunt bent over the vessel, and read aloud:—

“SirJOHN FOSTER,OFLONDON,MASTER OF THE ROLLS.”

“SirJOHN FOSTER,OFLONDON,MASTER OF THE ROLLS.”

“SirJOHN FOSTER,OFLONDON,MASTER OF THE ROLLS.”

“SirJOHN FOSTER,OFLONDON,MASTER OF THE ROLLS.”

“SirJOHN FOSTER,OFLONDON,

MASTER OF THE ROLLS.”

And underneath, in small capitals, she read:—

“Eugene Foster, to Grace Gilman, as an earnest of his love.“An empty cup to hold our tears,A flowing bowl to drown our fears,In life or death, this cup shall beA poor remembrancer of me.”

“Eugene Foster, to Grace Gilman, as an earnest of his love.

“An empty cup to hold our tears,A flowing bowl to drown our fears,In life or death, this cup shall beA poor remembrancer of me.”

“An empty cup to hold our tears,A flowing bowl to drown our fears,In life or death, this cup shall beA poor remembrancer of me.”

“An empty cup to hold our tears,A flowing bowl to drown our fears,In life or death, this cup shall beA poor remembrancer of me.”

“An empty cup to hold our tears,

A flowing bowl to drown our fears,

In life or death, this cup shall be

A poor remembrancer of me.”

“Brother,” said Mr. Davenport, as he slowly entered the room, “why weepest thou? Daughter of the church, why sittest thou in sadness? Children of God, why shed these useless tears? Arise, and let us bless the Lord, for he is good, and his mercy endureth forever.”

The broken-hearted girl folded her hands. The aged father bent over her pillow. The friends leaned upon their staves, and the minister poured forth his soul in unstudied prayer.

A sweet strain of thrilling music now broke upon the ear,—a sound of gentle voices echoed in the hall,—a rustling of wings was heard overhead,—a faint whisper of “Eugene! Eugene! I—come—” died away on the sufferer’s pillow: and when the prayer was ended, the little company found themselves alone, watchers with the dead.

Grace Gilman had breathed her last, and the betrothed of the pilgrim joined her lover in heaven.

Thepoor girl was buried agreeably to her wishes, upon the mountain side. The tankard became the property of her aunt Tabitha, and finally came to a rest in my grandmother’s cupboard. And now when the Sabbath evening commences, the rustic swain, as he passes the foot of the mountain, fancies that he sees a white figure beckoning to him from the cliff, and hears, amid the sighing of the woods, a low, but fearfully distinct whisper, saying—“Eugene! Eugene! I come!” And oft since, through the dim twilight of a summer’s Sabbath evening, has been seen the spirit-ship of the long-lost Pilgrims, ploughing her unruffled course through the calm waters of Quinapiack, and, when hailed, instantly disappearing.

Washington, January, 1841.

Washington, January, 1841.

THE RESCUED KNIGHT.

A TALE OF THE CRUSADES.

Itwas starlight on Galilee. The placid lake lay at the feet, slumbering as calmly as an infant, with the wooded shores, and the tall cliffs around, reflected darkly in its surface. Scarcely a breath disturbed the quiet air. Occasionally a ripple would break on the shore with a low, measured harmony, and anon a tiny wave would glisten in the starlight, as a slight breeze ruffled the surface of the lake. The song of the fisherman was hushed; the voice of the vine-dresser had ceased on the shore; the cry of the eagle had died away amongst his far-off hills, and the silence of midnight, deep, hushed, and awe-inspiring, hung over Galilee.

A thousand years before, and what scenes had that sea beheld! There, had lived Peter and his brethren; there, had our Saviour taught; upon those shores had his miracles been wrought; and on the broad bosom of Gennesserat he had walked a God. What holy memories were linked in with that little sea! How calm and changeless seemed its quiet depths! A thousand years had passed since then, and the apostles and their children had mouldered into dust, yet the stars still looked down on that placid lake unchanged, shining the same as they had done for fifty centuries before.

On the shore of the lake, embowered in the thick woods, stood a large old, rambling fortified building, bearing traces of the Roman architecture, upon which had been engrafted a Saracenic style. It enclosed a garden, upon one side of which was a range of low buildings, dark, massy, frowning, and partly in ruins, but which bore every evidence of being still almost impregnable.

Within this range of buildings, in a dark and noisome cell, reclined, upon a scanty bed of straw, a Christian knight. His face was pale and attenuated, but it had lost, amid all his sufferings, none of his high resolve. It was now the seventh day since he had lain in that loathsome dungeon, and the morrow’s sun was to see him die a martyr, for not abjuring his religion.

“Yes!” he muttered to himself, “the agony will soon be over: it is but an hour at the most, and shall a Christian knight fear fire or torture? No: come when it may, death should ever be welcome to a de Guiscan; and how much more welcome when it brings the glories of martyrdom. But yet it is a fearful trial. I could fall in battle, for there a thousand eyes behold us, but to die alone, unheard of, with only foes around, and where none shall ever hear of my fate.—Oh! that indeed is bitter. Yet I fear not even it. Thank God!” he said, fervently kissing a cross he drew from his bosom, “there is a strength given to us in the hour of need, which bears us up against every danger.”

The speaker suddenly started, ceased, and looked around. The bolt of his door was being withdrawn from the outside. Could it be that his jailor was about to visit him at this hour? Slowly the massy door swung on its hinges, and a burst of light, streaming into the cell, for a moment dazzled the eyes of the captive; but when he grew accustomed gradually to the glare, he started, with even greater surprise, to behold, not his jailor, but a maiden, richly attired in the Oriental dress. For an instant the young knight looked amazed, as if he beheld a being of another world.

“Christian!” said the apparition, using the mongrel tongue, then adopted by both Saracens and Franks in their communications, but speaking in a low, sweet voice, which, melting from the maiden’s tongue, made every word seem musical, “do you die to-morrow?”

“If God wills it,” said the young knight firmly, “but what mean you?—why are you here?”

“I am here to save you,” said the maiden, fixing her eye upon his, “that is,” and she paused and blushed in embarrassment, “if you will comply with my conditions.”

The young knight, who had eagerly started forward at the first part of her sentence, now recoiled, and with a firm voice, though one gentler than he would have used to aught less fair, exclaimed,—

“And have you too been sent to tempt me? But go to those from whom you came, and tell them that Brian de Guiscan, will meet the stake rejoicing, sooner than purchase life by abjuring his God—”

“You wrong—you wrong me,” hastily interposed the maiden, “I come not to ask you to desert your God, but to tell you that I also would be a Christian. Listen,—for my story must be short—my nurse was a Christian captive, and from her I learned to love your Saviour. I have long sought to learn more of your religion, and I am come now,” and again she blushed in embarrassment, “to free you, sir knight, if you will conduct me to your own land. I am the daughter of the Emir; I have stolen his signet, and thus obtained the keys to your cell—”

“It is enough, fair princess, my more than deliverer,” said the knight eagerly, “gladly will I sell my life in your defence.”

“Hist!” said the maiden in a whisper, placing her finger on her lips, “if we speak above a murmur we shall, perhaps be overhead—follow me,” and turning around, she passed swiftly through the door, and extinguishing her light, looked around to see if she was followed, and flitted into a dark alley of overhanging trees.

Who can describe the emotions of de Guiscan’s bosom, as he traversed the garden after his guide? His release had been so sudden that it seemed like a dream, and he placed his hand upon his brow as if to assure himself of the reality of the passing scene. Nor were the sensations, which he experienced, less mixed than tumultuous. But over every other feeling, one was predominant—the determination to perish rather than to be re-taken, or, least of all, to suffer a hair of his fair rescuer’s head to be injured.

Their noiseless, but rapid flight toward the lower end of the garden, and thence through a postern gate into the fields beyond, was soon completed,—and it was only when, arriving at a clump of palms, beneath which three steeds, and a male attendant, could be seen, as if awaiting them, that the maid broke silence.

“Mount, Christian,” she said in her sweet voice, now trembling with excitement; and then turning toward her father’s towers, she looked mournfully at them a moment, and de Guiscan saw, by the starlight, that she wept.

In a few minutes, however, they were mounted; and so complete had been the maiden’s preparations, that de Guiscan’s own horse, lance, and buckler, had been provided for him. But on whom would suspicion be less likely to rest than on the Emir’s daughter?

They galloped long and swiftly through that night, and just as morning began to break across the hills of Syria, they turned aside into a thick grove, and, dismounting, sought rest. The attendant tied the foaming steeds a short distance apart, and, for the first time, the princess and de Guiscan were alone since his escape.

“Fair princess,” said the young knight, “how shall I ever show my gratitude to you? By what name may I call my deliverer?”

“Zelma!” said the maiden modestly, dropping her eyes before those of the knight, and speaking with a certain tremulousness of tone that was more eloquent than words.

“Zelma!” said de Guiscan astonished, “and do I indeed behold the far-famed daughter of the Emir, Abel-dek, she for whom the Saracenic chivalry have broken so many lances? Thou art indeed beautiful, far more beautiful than I had dreamed. The blessed saints may be praised, that thou wishest to be a Christian.”

“Such is my wish,” said the maiden meekly, as if desiring to change the conversation from her late act, “and I pray that, as soon as may be, we may reach some Christian outpost, where you will place me in charge of one of those holy women, of whom I have heard my nurse so often speak; and after that, the only favor I ask of you, sir knight, is, that, should you ever meet my father, Abel-dek, in battle, you will avoid him, for his daughter’s sake.”

“It is granted, sweet Zelma,” said de Guiscan enthusiastically. But the attendant now returning, their conversation was closed for the present.

Why was it that de Guiscan, instead of retiring to rest, when, having formed a rude couch for Zelma, he persuaded her to take a short repose, kept guard for hours, busy with his own thoughts, but without uttering a word? Was it solely gratitude to the fair Saracen which forbid him to trust her safety even for a moment to her attendant, or had another and deeper feeling, arising partly from gratitude, and partly from a tenderer source, taken possession of his soul? Certain it is, that though the young knight had gazed on the bright eyes of his own Gascony, and seen even the fair-haired maidens of England, yet never had he experienced toward any of them, such feelings as that which he now experienced toward Zelma. Hour after hour passed away, and still he stood watching over her slumbers.

It was late in the afternoon when the little party again set forth on their flight. De Guiscan, when the road permitted it, was ever at the bridle reins of Zelma, and though his keen eye often swept anxiously around the landscape, their conversation soon grew deeply interesting, if we may judge by the stolen glances and heightened color of Zelma, and the eager attention with which the young knight listened to the few words which dropped from her lips. How had their demeanor changed since the night before! Then the princess was all energy, now she was the startled girl again. Then de Guiscan followed powerless as she led, now he it was upon whom the little party leaned for guidance.

“Pursuit, the saints be praised, must long since have ceased,” said de Guiscan, “for yonder is the last hill hiding us from the Christian camp. When we gain that we shall be able to see, though still distant, the tents of my race.”

The eyes of the maiden sparkled, and giving the reins to their steeds, they soon gained the ascent. The scene that burst upon them was so grand and imposing that, involuntarily, for a moment, they drew in and paused.

Before them stretched out an extensive plain, bounded on three sides by chains of hills, while on the fourth, and western border, glistened far away the waters of the Mediterranean. Rich fields of waving green; sparkling rivers, now lost and now emerging to sight; rolling uplands, crowned with cedar forests; and, dimly seen in the distance, a long line of glittering light, reflected from the armor of the Crusaders, and telling where lay the Christian camp, opened out before the eyes of the fugitives.

“The camp—the camp,” said de Guiscan joyously, pointing to the far-off line of tents.

The maiden turned her eyes to behold the glittering sight, gazed at it a moment in silence, and then casting a look backward, in the direction of her father’s house, she heaved a deep sigh, and said calmly:

“Had we not better proceed?”

“By my halidome, yes!” said de Guiscan with sudden energy, “see yon troop of Saracens pricking up the mountain side in our rear—here—in a line with that cedar—”

“I see them,” said Zelma, breathlessly, “they are part of the Emir’s guard—they are in pursuit.”

“On—on,” was the only answer of the young knight, as he struck the Arabian on which the maiden rode, and plunged his spurs deep into his horse’s flanks.

They had not been in motion long before they beheld their pursuers, approaching, better mounted than themselves, sweeping over the brow of the hill above, in a close, dense column.

“Swifter—swifter, dear lady,” said the knight, looking back.

“Oh! we are beset,” suddenly said Zelma, in a voice trembling with agitation, “see—a troop of our pursuers are winding up the path below.”

The knight’s eyes following the guidance of the maiden’s trembling finger, beheld, a mile beneath him, a large company of infidel horse, closing up the egress of the fugitives. He paused an instant, almost bewildered. But not a second was to be lost.

“Where does this horse path lead?” he said, turning to the attendant, and pointing to a narrow way, winding amongst precipitous rocks, toward the left.

“It joins the greater road, some distance below.”

“Then, in God’s name let us enter it, trusting to heaven for escape. If it comes to the worst I can defend it against all comers, provided there is any part of it too narrow for two to attack me abreast.”

“There are many such spots!”

“Then the saints be praised. In, in, dear lady—in all.”

Their pace was now equally rapid until they reached a narrow gorge, overhung by high and inaccessible rocks, and opening behind into a wide highway, bordering upon a plain below.

“Here will I take my position, and await their attack,” said de Guiscan. “How far is the nearest Christian outpost?”

“A league beneath.”

“Hie, then, away to it, and tell them de Guiscan escaped from a Saracen prison, awaits succor in this pass. We cannot all go, else we may be overtaken. Besides, you may be intercepted below. If you live to reach the crusaders, I will make you rich for life. By sundown I may expect succor if you succeed. Till then I can hold this post.”

The man made an Oriental obeisance, and vanished, like lightning, down the acclivity.

“Here they come,” said de Guiscan, “they have found us out, and are swooping like falcons from the heights.”

The maiden looked, and beheld the troop of Saracens defiling down the mountain, one by one; the narrowness of the path forbidding even two to ride abreast.

“Allah il Allah!” shouted the foremost infidel, perceiving the knight, and galloping furiously upon him as he spoke.

Not a word was returned from the crusader. He stood like a statue of steel, awaiting the onset of the fiery Saracen. As the infidel swept on his career, he gradually increased his distance from his friends, until a considerable space intervened between him and the troop of Moslems. This was the moment for which the young knight had so anxiously waited.

“Allah il Allah!” shouted the infidel, waving his scimitar around his head, as he came sweeping down upon the motionless crusader.

“A de Guiscan! a de Guiscan!” thundered the knight, raising the war-cry of his fathers, as he couched his lance, and shot like an arrow from the pass. There was a tramp—a wild shout—a fleeting as of a meteor—and then the two combatants met in mid-career. Too late the infidel beheld his error, and sought to evade that earthquake charge. It was in vain. Horse and rider went down before the lance of the crusader, and the last life-blood of the Saracen had ebbed forth before de Guiscan had even regained his position.

The savage cry of revenge which the companions of the fallen man set up, would have apalled any heart but that of de Guiscan. But he knew no fear. The presence of Zelma, too, gave new strength to his arm, and new energy to his soul. For more than an hour, aided by his strong position, he kept the whole Saracen force at bay. Every man who attacked him went down before his lance, or fell beneath his sword. At length, as sunset approached, the Saracens hemming him in closer and closer, succeeded in driving him back behind a projecting rock, which, though it protected his person, prevented him from doing any injury to his assailants, who, meanwhile, were endeavoring, by climbing up the face of the rock, to attack him from overhead. He found that it was impossible to hold out many moments longer. He turned to look at the maiden: she was firm and resolved, though pale.

“We will die together,” said she, drawing closer to his side, as if there was greater protection there than where she had been standing.

“Yes! dear Zelma, for that is, I fear me, all that is left for us to do.”

“Hark!” suddenly said the maiden, “hear you not the clattering of horses’ feet—here—in the rear?”

“Can it be your attendant returned?”

“Yes—yes! it is—praised be the Christian’s God.”

“I vow a gold candlestick to the Holy shrine at Jerusalem!”

On, like a whirlwind, came the host of the Christians, over the plain beneath, and through the broad highway, until, perceiving their rescued countryman still alive with his charge, they raised such a cry of rejoicing that it struck terror into every Moslem’s heart. In a few moments all danger to the fugitives was over.

The infidels, now in turn retreating, were pursued and cut off almost to a man, by a detachment of the Christian force; while another party of the succorers bore the rescued fugitives in triumph to the Christian outpost.

In the parlor of the —— convent, at Jerusalem, a few months later De Guiscan awaited the appearance of Zelma. Since the day when they had together reached the Christian outpost, he had not beheld that beautiful Saracen, for she had seized the first opportunity to place herself under the instruction of the holy abbess of the —— convent at Jerusalem. During that separation, however, de Guiscan had thought long and ardently of his rescuer. In the bivouac; amid the noise of a camp; in the whirl of battle; surrounded by the beautiful and gay; wherever, in short, he went, the young knight had carried with him the memory of the fair being who, at the peril of her life, had saved him from the stake. Their hurried conversation in the palm grove was constantly recurring to his memory. Oh! how he wished that he might once more behold Zelma, if only to thank her anew for his life. But constantly occupied in the field, he had not been at leisure to visit Jerusalem, until a summons come from France, informing him of his father’s death, and the necessity that he should immediately proceed homeward, to preserve the succession to his barony. He determined to see Zelma once more, if only to bid her farewell forever.

As he was swayed thus by his emotions, he heard a light step, and looking up, he beheld the Saracen princess.

“Zelma!” he ejaculated.

“De Guiscan!” said the maiden, eagerly advancing, but checking herself as instantly, she stood, in beautiful embarrassment, before the knight.

Both felt the difficulty of their relative positions, and both would have spoken, but could not. At length de Guiscan said,—

“Lady! I have come to thank you again for my life, before I leave this land forever.”

“Leave Jerusalem—Palestine forever!” ejaculated Zelma.

A bright, but long-forbidden hope lighted up the countenance of the young knight, and perceiving the renewed embarrassment with which the speaker paused, he said:

“Dearlady! I am going to my own sunny land far away; but I cannot depart without telling you how deeply I love you, and that I have thought of you, only of your sex, ever since we parted. Oh! if not presumptious, might I hope?”

The still more embarrassed maiden blushed, but she did not withdraw the hand which the young knight had grasped. He raised and kissed it. The next moment the trembling, but glad girl, fell weeping on his bosom. She, too, had thought only of him.

The proudest family in the south of France, to this day, trace their origin to the union of Zelma and de Guiscan.    *   *   *

LITTLE CHILDREN.

———

BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.

———

I lovethose little happy things, they seem to me but given,To mirror on this lower earth, the far-off smiling heaven,Their blue eyes shining ever bright like violets steep’d in dew.Their looks of angel innocence—who’d not believe them true?The echo of the merry laugh, so full of heartfelt glee,The very revelry of joy, untameable, and free;The little feet that almost seem to scorn our mother earth,But ever, ever lisping on in frolic, and in mirth.Oh! how we look on them, and think of all our childhood’s hours,When we were sunny-hearted too, and wander’d among flowers,When like to theirs, our floating locks, were left to woo the breeze,Oh! Time, in all thy calendar, thou’st no such times as these.I do forget how many years have sadly passed me by,Since my young sun of rising morn, shone gayly in the sky;When I behold these happy things in all their joyous play,Pouring the sunshine of their hearts, upon my cloudy way.Would I could watch their gentle growth, and guard them from the blight,That ever tracks the steps of Time, like darken’d clouds of night,Would I could see their laughing eyes still innocently wearThe looks of guileless purity, unmixed with woe, or care.Dear little children, ye have been to me, a source of joy,The sweet drop in the bitter cup of life’s too sad alloy,In ye, mine early days return, the rainbow days of youth,Of single-hearted blessedness, of tenderness, and truth.

I lovethose little happy things, they seem to me but given,To mirror on this lower earth, the far-off smiling heaven,Their blue eyes shining ever bright like violets steep’d in dew.Their looks of angel innocence—who’d not believe them true?The echo of the merry laugh, so full of heartfelt glee,The very revelry of joy, untameable, and free;The little feet that almost seem to scorn our mother earth,But ever, ever lisping on in frolic, and in mirth.Oh! how we look on them, and think of all our childhood’s hours,When we were sunny-hearted too, and wander’d among flowers,When like to theirs, our floating locks, were left to woo the breeze,Oh! Time, in all thy calendar, thou’st no such times as these.I do forget how many years have sadly passed me by,Since my young sun of rising morn, shone gayly in the sky;When I behold these happy things in all their joyous play,Pouring the sunshine of their hearts, upon my cloudy way.Would I could watch their gentle growth, and guard them from the blight,That ever tracks the steps of Time, like darken’d clouds of night,Would I could see their laughing eyes still innocently wearThe looks of guileless purity, unmixed with woe, or care.Dear little children, ye have been to me, a source of joy,The sweet drop in the bitter cup of life’s too sad alloy,In ye, mine early days return, the rainbow days of youth,Of single-hearted blessedness, of tenderness, and truth.

I lovethose little happy things, they seem to me but given,To mirror on this lower earth, the far-off smiling heaven,Their blue eyes shining ever bright like violets steep’d in dew.Their looks of angel innocence—who’d not believe them true?

I lovethose little happy things, they seem to me but given,

To mirror on this lower earth, the far-off smiling heaven,

Their blue eyes shining ever bright like violets steep’d in dew.

Their looks of angel innocence—who’d not believe them true?

The echo of the merry laugh, so full of heartfelt glee,The very revelry of joy, untameable, and free;The little feet that almost seem to scorn our mother earth,But ever, ever lisping on in frolic, and in mirth.

The echo of the merry laugh, so full of heartfelt glee,

The very revelry of joy, untameable, and free;

The little feet that almost seem to scorn our mother earth,

But ever, ever lisping on in frolic, and in mirth.

Oh! how we look on them, and think of all our childhood’s hours,When we were sunny-hearted too, and wander’d among flowers,When like to theirs, our floating locks, were left to woo the breeze,Oh! Time, in all thy calendar, thou’st no such times as these.

Oh! how we look on them, and think of all our childhood’s hours,

When we were sunny-hearted too, and wander’d among flowers,

When like to theirs, our floating locks, were left to woo the breeze,

Oh! Time, in all thy calendar, thou’st no such times as these.

I do forget how many years have sadly passed me by,Since my young sun of rising morn, shone gayly in the sky;When I behold these happy things in all their joyous play,Pouring the sunshine of their hearts, upon my cloudy way.

I do forget how many years have sadly passed me by,

Since my young sun of rising morn, shone gayly in the sky;

When I behold these happy things in all their joyous play,

Pouring the sunshine of their hearts, upon my cloudy way.

Would I could watch their gentle growth, and guard them from the blight,That ever tracks the steps of Time, like darken’d clouds of night,Would I could see their laughing eyes still innocently wearThe looks of guileless purity, unmixed with woe, or care.

Would I could watch their gentle growth, and guard them from the blight,

That ever tracks the steps of Time, like darken’d clouds of night,

Would I could see their laughing eyes still innocently wear

The looks of guileless purity, unmixed with woe, or care.

Dear little children, ye have been to me, a source of joy,The sweet drop in the bitter cup of life’s too sad alloy,In ye, mine early days return, the rainbow days of youth,Of single-hearted blessedness, of tenderness, and truth.

Dear little children, ye have been to me, a source of joy,

The sweet drop in the bitter cup of life’s too sad alloy,

In ye, mine early days return, the rainbow days of youth,

Of single-hearted blessedness, of tenderness, and truth.

Philadelphia, January, 1841.

Philadelphia, January, 1841.

THE SILVER DIGGER.

———

BY J. TOPHAM EVANS.

———

“Ha!ha! ha!” shouted Piet Albrecht, “and so old Chriss Mienckel is going to be married at last, and to pretty Barbara Mullerhorn, the violet of the forest! Your gold and silver are the best suitors after all! Give me a purse of yellow pieces before all the rifles of the mountain. What sayest thou, comrade,” continued he, clapping upon the back a young man, who sat next to him, “dost thou not think that old Mullerhorn, the gold-lover, would have fancied thee much better, if thou hadst carried more metal in thy pouch than upon thy shoulder?”

“I pray thee, Piet,” responded the young man, “keep thy scurvy jests to thyself. My soul is far too heavy for mirth.”

“Holy Saint Nicholas!” said Piet, “he thinks of little Barbara! Well, courage, comrade, and drink somewhat of this flask. Right Schiedam, and full old, I warrant thee. What, not a drop? Well, here’s to thee, then.”

“Aye,” said a tall, dark visaged man, attired in a hunter’s garb, “aye! these love sick spirits are hardly worth the trouble of enlivening. Once was Adolf the gayest hunter in the hills; but of late, his courage is as dull as a hare’s, and all for a green girl, whose old schelm of a father loves his own broad pieces too well, to bestow her upon a ranger of the free woods.”

“Peace, Franz Rudenfranck,” said the youth; “I will hear such words, not even from thee. If old Mullerhorn continues to refuse me, I will leave these, my native mountains, and wander in some far distant land, hopeless and broken hearted.”

“Pshaw,” rejoined Rudenfranck, “thou art far too young for despair as yet. Throw thine ill-humor to the fiend, whence it came. There are other lasses as fair as Barbara Mullerhorn, and, by my faith, not so difficult to obtain. Therefore, fill comrades, let us pass a health to the recovery of Adolf’s heart, and a more favorable issue to his passion.”

And the cup went gaily round, amid the shouts of the revellers.

Adolf Westerbok had been the gayest huntsman of the F——g district, and the truest and merriest lad in the mountain, until an accidental meeting with Barbara Mullerhorn at a dance, had entirely changed the current of his feelings. It is an old story, and a much hackneyed one, that of love. Let us spare the description. Suffice it to say that Adolf and Barbara met often, and that a mutual affection subsisted between them.

Adolf proposed himself to old Mullerhorn, and demanded Barbara in marriage. But old Philip Mullerhorn, a rude, churlish, and avaricious farmer, scornfully rejected the proffer of Adolf, and forbade him any farther interview with Barbara, alleging, as the grounds of his disinclination, the poverty of the hunter. Barbara was no less afflicted than Adolf. Still, meetings between them were contrived. At last, on the very evening, upon which the conversation, narrated above, took place, Barbara informed her distracted lover, that her father had announced to her his intention of bestowing her in marriage upon Chriss Mienckel, an elderly widower, whose share of this world’s goods was ample enough to attract the covetous regards of old Philip Mullerhorn.

Burning with rage, and filled with tumultuous thoughts, Adolf quitted Barbara, after bestowing upon her a long embrace, and repaired to the inn of the hamlet, in hopes of finding Franz Rudenfranck, a huntsman, who had professed a singular attachment for him, and who had signalised this attachment by many personal proofs of friendship.

The news of old Mienckel’s success had reached the hamlet before him, and he had not been seated many minutes, before Piet Albrecht, the professed joker of the village, began to rally him upon the subject. Piet had already irritated Adolf in no small measure; but the lover had thus far concealed his feelings.

“Ha! ha!” exclaimed Piet, gaily, “to think that the old, shrivelled widower of threescore should outcharm the youth of twenty! If I had been Adolf Westerbok, I don’t think that Chriss would have carried matters so, and I should have worn the wedding ribbon in spite of his ducats. But there’s no accounting for tastes, eh? What say you, comrades?”

The hunters laughed; and Adolf, annoyed at length beyond endurance, rejoined in somewhat of a surly tone; to which Piet answered more jestingly than before.

“Silence, fool!” said Rudenfranck, now interfering, “thou hast neither wit nor manners, and I should but serve thee rightly, did I lay my ramrod soundly over thy shoulders.”

Piet shrank back abashed, for there was that expression upon the brow of Rudenfranck that few cared to see, and fewer to withstand. The hunters were silent for a moment, but one of them, at last, answered Rudenfranck.

“That would I fain see, Franz Rudenfranck. Keep thy ramrod for thy hound; for, by the holy apostles, if thou layest the weight of thy finger upon Piet, I will try whether my bullet or thy skin proves the harder, albeit some say no lead can harm thee.”

“Peace, Hans Veltenmayer,” rejoined Rudenfranck. “If thou wert wise, which any fool may plainly perceive thou art not, thou wouldest chain that unruly tongue within thine ugly mouth, or keep those threats for thy wife, who, if some say aright, would receive them so kindly, as to repay thee, not in words, but in heavier coin. Tush man, never lift thy rifle at me.”

He turned sharply upon the hunter, who had seized his rifle and was levelling it toward him; wrested it from his hand, and by a slight motion, cast him rudely upon the ground. Veltenmayer rose, and slunk among his laughing companions, muttering.

“Come, Adolf,” said Rudenfranck, “I know what thou wouldst have. Leave we this merry company, and go thou with me to my hut.”

They left the inn, and plunged deep into the forest.

TheF——g district, as it is called, where the scene of this legend is laid, is one of the highest points in the great range of the Alleghany mountains. High, broken peaks, capped with towering pines, rise upon every side in billowy confusion; while the loftier and more regular chains of mountains stretch far away in every direction, fading and sinking upon the eye, until from a rich, dark green, they seem to meet and unite with the azure of the sky. Rough, rocky precipices; a red and stony soil, where the green mosses crawl and intertwist, in confused, yet beautiful arrangement, over the sward; thick low underwood, and forests almost impenetrable from their density; deep ravines, and craggy watercourses, some entirely destitute of water, and others, gushing precipitately along, flushed by unfailing springs, are the characteristics of this mountain district. The rude log cabins of the few inhabitants of this country, lie distant and scantily scattered through the almost pathless woods, and the entire appearance of the scenery has a sublime, though a savage and uncultivated air. The original settlers of this tract were Germans and Swiss, whose descendants, even at the present day, are almost the sole tenantry of these hills. Their nature seems congenial to the surrounding mountains; and the national exercise of the rifle, the merry dance and song, and those yet more venerable Dionysia, the apple-butter boilings, quilting parties, and log liftings, still constitute the favorite amusements of this primitive people. Even their religion, a strange compound of German mysticism, engrafted upon a plentiful stock of superstition, seems peculiarly appropriate to their mode of living, and their wild country. Nay, the very dress of a century back, still holds its fashion among these hills; and the peasant or hunter, loosely attired in his homespun suit of brown or blue adorned with fringe, or decked out with large, antique, silver or pewter buttons, occasionally garnished with the effigies of some popular saint; his large, broad brimmed wool hat, flapped over his face; his leather leggings; and dark, curly beard, presents a lively image of his fathers, the original settlers of the district. Add to this, the bright, keen wood-knife, sheathed in its leather case, and stuck in a broad girdle, with the powder horn and pouch; and the unfailing rifle strapped across the shoulder, and you have a perfect description of the general appearance of that people, who inhabit the F——g settlement, and the back-woods of Pennsylvania, at the present day.

Rudenfranck and his companion strode onward through the woods for some time without speaking. The elder hunter eyeing his friend keenly, at last broke the unsocial silence.

“I need not ask of thee, Adolf, why thy brow is clouded, and thine eye so heavy. I, myself, although thou mayest smile at such confession from me, have suffered long, and deeply, from a like cause. But my tale shall not now interrupt thy grief, and I have often thought that the very leaves of the forest would find tongues to repeat a story, which might move nature herself. I would afford thee aid; not gall thy wounds by the recital of my own. Speak; is it not thus? Thou hast met Barbara Mullerhorn, even after her churlish father had forbidden thy suit. I know too well, Adolf, that the more we are opposed the brighter burns our love. But in pursuing thus thy suit, thou hast not done wisely. Yet I may still aid thee, and I will do so.”

“Alas, good Franz,” replied the youth, “this complaint is far beyond thy remedy. Gold alone can sway the determination of Philip Mullerhorn, and well dost thou know that Chriss Mienckel is the richest man in the settlement. How then canst thou, a poor hunter like myself, afford that aid, which wealth alone can give? No! no! I see nought save disappointment—save despair!”

“Thou knowest but little of me, Adolf,” said Rudenfranck, solemnly, “but thou art destined to learn more. See, the moon is already rising through the pines, and on this evening, the annual recurrence of which, is fraught with dread and woe to me; and each succeeding anniversary of which, brings me nearer to my stern destiny, shalt thou learn of me a secret, which, if thou hast the fearlessness of soul to fathom, all may be well, at least with thee. But thou canst only learn it of me.”

“Rudenfranck,” said Adolf, “the hunters speak much evil of thee, and strange tales are current concerning thee in the settlement. Unholy things, it is said, flit round thy hut in the hushed hour of midnight. Unholy sounds are heard resounding through the deep glen where thou abidest. Old men speak warily of thee, and cross themselves as thou passest by, and the village maidens shrink from thy hand in the dance. These may be idle tales; but, Rudenfranck, thy words to-night are suspicious. Nevertheless, be thou wizard or enchanter; be thy knowledge that of the good saints, or of a darker world, to thee and to that knowledge I commit myself. Thou hast proved thy friendship, and, for weal or woe, I will trust thee.”

“Men speak not all aright,” rejoined the hunter, while a dark shadow obscured his visage, and his words fell as though he spake them unwillingly, “nor say they altogether wrong.” The young huntsman looked at Rudenfranck for a moment; then, grasping his hand, he cried—

“Then thou canst aid me, Rudenfranck?”

“That will I, as I have the power,” said the hunter; “but we are at the hut. Thy hand upon it, that what I shall tell thee will find a grave in thy breast. Else I will not, I cannot assist thee.”

“My hand upon it,” replied Adolf.

“Enter then,” said the hunter, “let fear be a stranger to thy breast, and all shall yet be well.”

As they entered the cottage, a shadowy form flitted past the door, and the wind sighed mournfully through the forest.

Thehut of Rudenfranck differed but little in appearance from the ordinary dwellings of the settlers of the district. Large pine logs, piled rudely together, and cemented with mud, in order to exclude the wind from the chinks, composed the cabin. Two or three common chairs, a pine table, and a camp bed, with a few culinary utensils, constituted the entire furniture of the hunter’s hut. A torch of resinous wood, which flared from an iron bracket, gave light to the room, and a large fire soon occupied the wide hearth. A few articles of sylvan warfare hung round the cabin; and on a shelf, some pewter mugs and earthen dishes, a pair of stag’s antlers, and two or three old folios, their ponderous covers clasped together with silver clenches, lay exposed. A large, rawboned dog, rough of coat, and muscular of form, whose fine muzzle and bright eye, spoke of rare blood, was extended before the hearth. Roused by the noise made by Rudenfranck and his companion in entering, he sprang up, erected his bristles, and uttered a low growl.

“Down, Fritz, be quiet,” said Rudenfranck, as the dog, recognising his master, fawned upon him; “welcome to my poor hut, Adolf. I can give thee no better cheer than our coarse mountain fare will afford, although I may assist thee in some other important matters. Come, draw thy chair to the fire, man. The wind is somewhat sharp to-night, and I will endeavor to make out some refreshment for thee.”

He retired for a moment, and entered again, bearing a noble supply of fat venison, which he immediately set about preparing for their supper. The rich steam of the savory steaks soon attracted the attention of Fritz, who, stretched out before the fire with lion-like gravity, inhaled their genial flavor with manifest symptoms of approbation. Rudenfranck’s preparations were soon completed, and, producing a curious green flask, and two tall silver cups from a recess, he invited Adolf, by precept and example, to partake of the viands set before him.

But the spirit of Adolf was too heavy for feasting, and the morsel lay untasted on the trencher before him. Rudenfranck himself, although he pressed Adolf to eat, neglected his meal, and the table was speedily cleared, Fritz being accommodated with the relics of the repast.

“Taste this wine,” said Rudenfranck, “although myself no great lover of the grape, I am somewhat curious in my choice of wines, and may indulge my little vanity so far as to quaff the juice I drink, out of a more costly metal than falls to the lot of most gay hunters.”

“Truly, Rudenfranck,” replied Adolf, “thy promised plans for the relief of my unfortunate condition seem to have escaped thy memory. For rather would I hearken to them, than drink thy wine, even from a silver cup.”

“Not so, Adolf,” said the hunter, “I will now fulfil my promise to thee. But first, the secret of my power to aid thee, and the means by which this assistance may be rendered, must be explained to thee. Listen, then, and regard not my countenance but my words.”

“You have heard the elders of the hamlet speak of Count Theodore Falkenhelm, a renowned noble of Alsace, in Germany. This Falkenhelm was known to have sailed from Germany, with many other settlers for America. Few knew his reasons for quitting his native country, for he was a dark, unsocial man, and some have said that he had dealings with the Spirit of Evil. He had not been resident here for a long time, before it was observed that he became averse to society, cautious of remark, and jealous of scrutiny. The spot in which he had fixed his abode, was visited by few footsteps, for his mood was fierce, and his society, at times, was dangerous. It was concluded that he was insane. But it was not so. Mark me.

“A youth, some five years after the count had taken his dwelling in these mountains, arrived here from Germany. He had not long ranged these woods, before the fame of the count inspired him with a boyish curiosity to see and to know him. An opportunity was soon afforded; for returning one evening, wearied with the chase, a thunder storm and night overtook him near the cottage of the count. He demanded hospitality, and was admitted, though reluctantly. What he saw that night, when all was hushed in the death of sleep, he never told to mortal; but he raved wildly of fiends and phantoms, and died, soon after, a maniac.

“Shortly after this event, the count disappeared, nor has since been heard of here. But many succeeding years brought news of a dismal tragedy in Germany, and from the account of him who brought the report, it was supposed by those who remembered the count, that he was the principal actor in the scene of blood.

“The hut which the recluse had deserted, was the source of continual dread to the superstitious peasants, whose fears had magnified the ruinous cabin into a palace, where the revels of the great fiend were held. But one, whose heart was bolder, and who had lately arrived in the settlement, took possession of the hut, repaired it, and there fixed his abode. That man, Adolf Westerbok, stands before you.

“I have not always been what I now appear. I was well born, although poor, and had served in my country’s battles, not without reputation. I loved the daughter of a baron, of high family and large estates, whose castle, on the Aar, stood near the dwelling of my father. Thy tale of love is mine, thus far. Although loved in return, and loving—O! spirit of my injured Thekla!—deeper, far deeper than mortal, whose blood burned not like mine, could love; she was torn from me—me, who would have died for her; whose only aim in life was to approve myself worthy of her—and whose love was mine alone—torn from me, and dragged, an unwilling, wretched sacrifice, to the castle of a rich nobleman of our country. Here, her tears and visible decay, instead of moving compassion in the heart of her husband, rendered him jealous and morose. On one occasion, he struck her to the earth in furious rage—struck her, do you mark me?—aye, inflicted a blow on that fair breast which I would have braved hell to defend! It caused her death, for she was pregnant—she died that day. I—yon insulted heaven knows how deeply!—I avenged her, and the steel which struck the life blow to his heart, never has been, and never shall be cleansed. Look at it—I keep it as a memorial of most holy revenge!”

Rudenfranck drew from his vest a broad, sharp dagger, and threw it on the table before Adolf, who saw with horror that the blade and hilt were encrusted with the stains of long-spilled blood.

“I was forced to quit Germany, and wandered through Spain an aimless, hopeless man. Here I became acquainted with Count Falkenhelm. He was in danger from the Inquisition, and I aided his escape from their toils. A hater of mankind, naught, save the knowledge of how bitter an enmity Falkenhelm bore to it, prompted me to rescue him from the snare. A murder was committed in Alsace. Letters came to me from Falkenhelm, desiring me to hasten to him, and ere he met the inevitable doom of his crime, to receive a last legacy which he wished to bequeath me.

“I hastened to him, and on the night ere he was executed, he imparted to me this secret: that, deep within these forests, the mighty treasures of a long buried sage and necromancer, whose power could control the elements, and the spirits of fire, lay hidden. These were the treasures of Bructorix, borne from Germany by magic spells. They were guarded by potent spirits of hell. To me did he commit this knowledge, together with those books, at which you have often wondered, and this spell, which commands the world of demons.”

As he spoke, he again went to the recess, drew forth a small gold box, and opening it with reverence, displayed a fair linen cloth, folded in such a manner as to present five angles, at equal distances, in the centre of which was fixed an opal, of immense value, upon which certain mysterious letters were engraved. The letters which formed the spell, glistened and flashed as though with internal fires, as the light fell upon the polished jewel.

“This,” said Rudenfranck, closing the box, “is the magic pentagon, the key to the treasures of King Bructorix.”

“Heavens!” cried Adolf, “you received, then, this most fatal gift?”

“I did; and took upon myself an awful penalty. I said, ‘Ambition! thou shalt be my God, for love is lost to me!’ I came on to this country immediately after the execution of the count, and have discovered the treasure. Reasons, unimportant for you to know, have detained me here some years, disguised as the hunter Rudenfranck. This is the point, then. You cannot obtain Barbara Mullerhorn without gold; nor dare I, if I could, bestow this treasure upon you. You must follow my example, and call upon the spirit of Bructorix yourself. I will instruct you in the manner, but you must undertake the adventure.”

“And the penalty you spoke of,” said Adolf, trembling, as the hot eyes of Rudenfranck glared upon him.

“I cannot tell you. The spirit proposes different sacrifices. Mine is—”

A loud gust of wind interrupted the speaker, and Adolf shuddered, as he fancied he could distinguish the flapping of pinions through the blast.

“Ha!” said Rudenfranck, breathing hard, and speaking low,—“I had forgot!—I had forgot!”

“Is this thy plan?” said Adolf, “I fear me it is unhallowed. I will begone and pray to be delivered from the evil one. Rudenfranck, I will not accept of such assistance.”

“Thy life upon it,” said the hunter, “if thou betrayest me.”

“I have given my hand to secresy, and yet—”

“Choose well and warily, Adolf.”

“That will I, Rudenfranck. There can be no sin, I trust, in hearing so unholy a tale. Is this the only plan—?”

“It is the only one. But, away, if thou canst not accept this aid. I can give thee no other.”

“Then,” said Adolf, as he turned slowly to leave the hut, “I am ruined and desperate!”

“Aye, go,” said Rudenfranck bitterly, looking after the retreating form of Adolf, with a fiendish sneer, “go, fool! Thus is it ever with that microcosm of folly, man. Aye, I can plainly see that the treasure of King Bructorix will soon acquire a new guardian. Another victim, and I leave these fatal shores, and forever.”

AsAdolf returned homeward, many and various were the contending reflections which embittered his mind. At one time he thought of the misery which he must endure in beholding the object of his dearest affections, united to Mienckel, her profound aversion; now, vague dreams of the wealth and happiness which the possession of the hidden treasure would confer upon him, flitted across his mind; but a chill damp struck through his soul as he remembered the intimated penalty; and wild imaginations of spectral forms, demoniac faces, and the awful legendary tales, so current among the peasantry, filled his breast with horror. He reached his cottage, and threw himself upon his humble couch, agonised by conflicting emotions. No sleep visited his pillow, and early the next morning he arose and went forth, hoping to subdue the fever of his blood by exercise in the cold air. He wandered about for some time, listless in which direction he took his way, until he found himself near the farm house of old Mullerhorn.

It was a jolly day at the house of that ancient. Turkeys, geese, pigs, and the promiscuous tenantry of the barn yard, bled beneath the knives of the rosy Dutch damsels. The smoke curled in copious volumes from the ample chimneys, and the hissing of culinary utensils, employed at the genial occupation of preparing divers dainties, together with the savory odors from the purlieus of the kitchen, gave indisputable tokens that something highly important was taking place in the house. Adolf viewed this busy scene with melancholy feelings enough, for he well presaged what it meaned. He paused, and leaned sadly on his rifle; but his heart felt still heavier, when, from a window of the farm house a fair white hand was extended, waving a handkerchief toward him. A tear stole down his cheek, as he acknowledged the signal, and, raising his rifle, was about to depart, when a slight tap on the shoulder arrested him, and a plump little maiden, whose rosy cheeks, and smiling face, were the very emblems of good humor, in fact, a perfect Dutch Hebe, accosted him.

“Why, how now, master Adolf? Have you not a word for an old acquaintance?”

“Ah, Agatha, is it thou? How dost thou, my good lass?”

“Better, Adolf, than either yourself or Barbara, if there is any judgment in your looks. Why, you look as if you had seen a spectre, and if you will keep company with that black-looking wretch, that Franz Rudenfranck, I wouldn’t insure that you will not see one, some of these dark nights. Bless me, how you change color. Are you sick?”

“No, no, Agatha. Not so sick in body as in heart. How fares Barbara?”

“Why, indeed, Dolf, for I will call you Dolf again, and it’s a shame for father Philip to make us all call you master Adolf; master indeed! she has done nothing but cry all night. But she is to be married to old Chriss this morning—the odious fool! I’m sure she hates him—and I’ve a thousand things to do; so good bye to you Dolf.”

The lively little girl ran off, and Adolf again was about to pursue his path, when old Mullerhorn, accompanied by the intended bridegroom, and some of his neighbors, arrived at the farm.

“What, Adolf,” said the old man, while a cynical smile played over his thin features, “Adolf here. Thou hast been a stranger of late, lad. But, come, wilt thou not in with us and witness this merry marriage? In faith, it will gladden my little Barbara to see thee there. Come, thou must aid in this gay ceremony.”

Adolf was, for a moment, undecided what answer to make old Mullerhorn; but curbing his indignation, and repressing an angry reply—he thought it most prudent to accept the invitation.

“I thank you, neighbor Philip,” said he, “and willingly will go with you.”

“Why, that is well spoken, boy,” replied the old man, unusually elated by the occasion. “I always liked thee, Adolf; but no ducats, lad, no ducats.”

“They are not so very difficult to procure,” whispered a voice in Adolf’s ear; he turned, and beheld Rudenfranck.

“Well, in, Adolf; and eh? Franz Rudenfranck too? But, in—in with ye both,” said old Mullerhorn, and the party entered the farm-house.

The room into which they were ushered, was an ample, commodious apartment, constructed in the true Dutch fashion, with a polished oak floor, and noble rafters of the same wood. It was hung around with some few gay colored prints, illustrating Scripture subjects, and some bright tin sconces; and the furniture was substantial, although homely. A large mahogany press, whose bright surface and polished brass knobs, might have compared in brilliancy with the mirror, stood in one corner; an old fashioned Indian chest, ponderous and highly japanned, ornamented the opposite niche. Some heavy chairs with long, high backs, and formal arms and legs; the never failing spinning wheel and Dutch clock; and a pair of tall, ill-shaped, brass fire-dogs, completed the garniture of the apartment. The walls were decorated with festoons of evergreen, tastefully arranged by the fair hands of Barbara herself. Two ill-looking, dingy paintings, also occupied a couple of recesses; and a neatly polished cherry table, near a window, displayed an inviting array of apple brandy, cherry wine, cider, and such refreshments as were indigenous to the country. The good dame, after welcoming kindly her guests, bustled off to resume the superintendence of the kitchen; and the unfortunate Barbara herself, arrayed in bridal trim, and looking through her tears, as lovely as the violet, freshly bathed in dew, remained, seated in one of the large chairs, and vainly endeavoring to conceal her emotion. As Adolf entered, her heart palpitated violently, and she could with difficulty so far command herself, as to bid him welcome. Nor did the sight of Barbara in such distress, fail equally to afflict her lover; a grief which Rudenfranck artfully increased, by hinting strongly to Adolf, the possibility of changing the entire face of the scene.

The magistrate having arrived, and matters being so arranged as to bring the affiance to a conclusion, Rudenfranck took the opportunity to lead Adolf apart from the rest.

“Thou thrice sodden ass,” said he, “can’st thou call thyself a lover, and yet allow so much innocence and beauty to be sacrificed to age and avarice? Say thou the word; promise to obey me, and thou shalt yet possess her. See, they are about to sign. Hesitate a moment longer—and look, Barbara implores thee—she is lost. Farewell.”

“Stay,” rejoined Adolf, hurriedly, “this must not—shall not be. Rudenfranck, I promise.”

“Then, demand of old Mullerhorn that the ceremony be delayed, and leave the rest to me.”

“Father Philip,” said Adolf, addressing Mullerhorn, who was just about to affix his name to the deed, “you are aware how long and how truly I have loved Barbara. To see her thus sacrificed, is more than I can bear, and I entreat you to consider farther upon this matter, and to defer this marriage.”

The guests looked utterly confounded. Chriss Mienckel opened wide his large, gray eyes, and stared upon the bold hunter in profound amazement. Barbara turned red and pale by turns; and old Mullerhorn crimsoned with rage.

“Have I not told ye, Adolf Westerbok, that I would never bestow Barbara upon a beggarly hunter? What devil then, prompts thee to interrupt a match which thou hast no power to prevent?”

“Dearest father,” said Barbara, clasping the hard hand of the old man, “hearken to Adolf.”

“Away, idle girl! Adolf, tempt me not to do thee an injury.”

“Nay,” said the hunter, “is it even so? Well, then; gold for gold—ducat for ducat—nay, double each ducat that old Mienckel can bestow, will I lay before you, Philip Mullerhorn.”

“Thy morning draught has been somewhat of the strongest, Adolf. Where should’st thou have met with these sums?” Chriss Mienckel chuckled portentously, and thrusting each hand into his capacious pockets, a melodious harmony of jingling coins soon resounded from their precincts.

“Look in thy pouch,” whispered Rudenfranck. Adolf did so, and drew forth two purses, richly furnished with gold. Astonishment fairly stupified the guests; and the covetous eyes of old Mullerhorn glistened at the sight of money. But the recollection of Mienckel’s broad lands and fair cattle crossed his mind.

“Gold for gold,” said he, musingly. “Well, well, it may be so; and Adolf, when thou canst certify me concerning these riches, thou shalt, perhaps, find me not altogether opposed to thee. This ceremony, for the present, with the consent of Mienckel, shall be postponed.”

Mienckel nodded his assent; for he was a man of but few words. But Adolf, holding the hand of Barbara, demanded an immediate trial.

“Be it so, then,” replied Mullerhorn. “My neighbor’s property is well known. Let it be thy task to prove thy fortune equal to his.”

“Yes,” said Mienckel, “house and farm—cattle and gear—broad lands—rich farming ground—bright ducats——”

“To balance which, I throw, as earnest, these purses,” said Adolf. “Rudenfranck, can’st thou not aid me now?” whispered he, turning to the hunter.

“Not now,” rejoined Rudenfranck, “you have the last of my gold. To-night——”

“To-night!” said Adolf, impatiently, “an age! Father Philip, I pledge myself that on the morrow I will prove myself worthy your regard in purse as well as in love.”

“Agreed,” said Mullerhorn, “until to-morrow let the espousal be deferred. If thou can’st then satisfy my doubts, Barbara shall be thine. If not, this marriage shall no longer be prevented.”

“Thanks, father, and farewell. Come thou with me, Rudenfranck. Ere to-morrow night, sweet Barbara, all shall be accomplished.”

Rudenfranck and Adolf left the house, and walked through the forest in the direction of the hut of Rudenfranck. Few words were exchanged between them, until, being arrived at the hut, they closed the door carefully, and Adolf broke silence.

“Now, Rudenfranck,” said he, “I must know the means by which this treasure may be discovered. Speak then, and quickly. I promise obedience in all matters, faithfully and truly.”

“Then,” replied Rudenfranck, “it is thus. Meet me to-night, as the moon casts a straight shadow over the range of the Wolf Hills. You know the dark cavern by the run, where, it is said, that old Schwearenheim was carried off bodily, by the Evil One——”

“It is a fearful place, and a fearful hour,” said Adolf.

“Fool, thou hast gone too far to recede. Only hint at doing so, and, by all the fiends of hell, I withdraw every hope of my assistance from thee. Wilt thou excite the expectations of Barbara, only to dash them again to the earth? Wilt thou thus vacillate, until it becomes too late to save her from Mienckel? If thou dost so, thou art the veriest driveller that wears man’s attire. Mark me, and answer not. Meet me there, at the cave, when the midnight hour arrives; and hark thee, thou must procure a wafer of the consecrated host. Bring thy rifle with thee, and leave the rest to my care.”

“Be it so,” said Adolf, “it is too late to recede.”

“See that thou fail not,” said Rudenfranck, “and now promise to Mullerhorn what thou wilt. Keep thou but faith with me, and thou shalt enjoy all that thou hast ever hoped for. Be not seen with me to-day. Go to the village. Look cheerily; procure that which I have directed thee, and fail not at midnight.”

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