"Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much."
"Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much."
In the course of his communications, for he became wondrous frank and confiding, as he perceived her grow more favourable to his suit, he made her acquainted with some of the mysterious causes that led to the outrage, and the extent of his own agency in it.
When the young Gilbert fled from Hawk-Hollow, it was with a sorrowing spirit and a bleeding frame. The wound was, it is true, neither dangerous, nor, in fact, very severe; but he was left to endure it among woods and rocks, afar from assistance, except such as could be rendered by his wild associates, who were themselves reduced to extremities, so keen and fierce was the spirit with which they were hunted, though unsuccessfully, during the first week after their flight.
The sufferings of the young man were, in consequence, neither light nor few; and they were aggravated by anguish of spirit, which became a withering despair, when Dancy Parkins, the only individual with whom he could communicate in the valley, brought him intelligence that Catherine had been taken away, and, as was currently believed, for the purpose of being united to her affianced lover, afar from the reach of danger or opposition. His condition became such that it was no longer possible to remove him from the concealment where he lay, even when the abatement of all pursuit opened a path of escape to his companions, and when they looked daily for orders to proceed, or disband,—the removal of the chief object for which they were sent to the district, and the commands imposed upon them to commit no outrages, leaving no argument for remaining longer.
While he lay in this dangerous condition, the fierce Oran, whose bosom yearned over him as the youngest, and, after himself, the last of his father's children, read the secrets of his spirit; and, seeing no other means of saving his life, he formed, so soon as the sudden return of Catherine to the valley appeared to render the scheme feasible, the bold resolution of carrying her off, and thus defeating the only scruples in the way of Hyland's happiness. His own heart was a rock, and he smiled grimly as he thought of the affection of woman; but he had learned to love his brother, and knew that the passion he derided was consuming his spirit within him. "I will give him his gew-gaw puppet," he muttered, as he sat one night watching by Hyland's couch—(it was a bed of fern spread on a rock, on the naked hills, with only a thatch of hemlock boughs to shelter him from winds and dews, and a fire in the open air to light the wretched den:) "I will give him his wish.—He mutters her name in his sleep, and he sobs as he speaks it. Poor fool! he said true—he is unfit for this life of the desert, and his heart is warm to all God's creatures. Why should I seek to make it as fierce and bitter as my own? Let him to the island again, and the girl with him—it will be better: he was made to be happy."
When he first announced his scheme to Hyland, the youth, to his surprise, strongly and vehemently opposed it, as being a violence and wrong not only to Catherine, but to himself: but when the news was brought him that the wedding-day was fixed and nigh at hand, and he saw that he must act now or never, his resolution and feelings experienced a sudden change. He thought over again and again all the evidences he had traced of Catherine's aversion to the union, and he added the few and precious revealments of her regard for himself: he remembered her wild and broken expressions at that hour of parting which had made her acquainted with the depth of his love, and perhaps taught her more than she had dreamed before of the condition of her own: he pictured her in his imagination, the fair, the beautiful and the good, driven into the arms of one as incapable of appreciating her worth as he was undeserving her love: he thought of his peaceful island-home, and the paradise it would become, when she whom he adored should sit with him under its arbours of palms, or walk over its shelly beaches: he thought these things, and persuaded himself that fate called for, and heaven would sanction, the violence,—that he acted not so much for himself as for her,—and that she would forgive the friendly audacity that brought her release and happiness together.
He rose from his leafy couch, and in secret and by night crept back to the valley. The presence of Colonel Falconer filled him with affright and horror; for that had been concealed from him, and he knew by the devil of malice that glittered in Oran's eye, that his father's hall was designed to be stained with the blood of his father's foe. Accident gave him the means of preventing this dreadful catastrophe, while wandering over those scenes which reminded him of Catherine, and debating in fear and anguish of mind, whether even she was worthy to be purchased at the price of murder. This obstacle removed, there still remained another. Fear and disaffection, resulting in a measure from inactivity, had thinned his brother's band; and they refused to strike a blow so bold and dangerous by daylight, when the smallness of their number could be seen at a glance, and their retreat as easily intercepted as followed. An effort was made to delay the ceremony until night, by throwing difficulties in the path of the clergyman; and this duty had been committed to Dancy, who succeeded beyond the expectations and even the hopes of his employers; while men were stationed in different parts of the grounds, to take advantage of any accident which might carry the bride afar from her attendants. At the very moment when Catherine wandered farther than usual from her friends, and wept at being hindered and recalled, she had approached the concealment of one of the party, and would have been seized on the spot, had not the man's heart failed him. It seemed as if destiny were driving her towards a path of escape, of which she had an instinctive perception, just at the moment when it was closed against her footsteps.
These particulars,—or at least the leading outlines,—Dancy communicated to the object of his own fervent but unromantic affections; and Phoebe was astounded with the discovery of her mistress's private attachment, if such it was, and still more so when Dancy, takingthatfor granted, assured her of his belief that Catherine was privy to the whole design. However, she did not trouble herself to pursue Catherine's story much farther. She heard enough to satisfy her that Mr. Hunter Hiram Gilbert, as she called him, 'who painted such lovely fine pictures, and had a thousand niggurs to raise sugar, and molasses, and Jamaica spirits, was as good a husband as one might meet of a summer's day; and for her part, she did not know, she could not say, she would not pretend to be certain,—but she was quite sure she never meant to say, that Dancy Parkins was altogether despisable.'
When Catherine recovered her consciousness, or rather woke from utter insensibility, (for it was long before her mind regained its full tone,) she was mounted upon a horse on which she was supported by two men, one riding on each side, who sustained her on the saddle, and directed the steps of her palfrey. She began to speak, but her words were wails, low and faint, and half lost amid the sough of the breeze, and the crash of pebbles under the horses' feet; and, indeed, it was soon apparent that she had exchanged a state of dreamless lethargy only for one of partial delirium. To this condition she had been fast verging for several days, during all which time, both asleep and awake, her mind had been in a state of constant tension, enduring jar after jar, and blow after blow, until its fraying fibres were one by one giving way, and a few narrow threads alone were all that kept it from the snap that ends in madness. Sleeplessness is a disease, which sometimes is prolonged, until insanity or death puts a close to the scene. The mind does not always slumber with the body: and in such instances, the spirit consumes amid the visions and dreams of night, as fast as amid the torments of day, until it lapses into the oblivion of dissolution or mental derangement. Such had been the case with the Captain's daughter: even slumber had brought no release to her spirit; and the last shock, combining in effect with a long train of benumbing influences, had reduced it to a condition in which it hovered between imbecility and distraction.
Though retaining an impression of the scene in which she had lately played so chief a part, it was faint, vague, and broken by other recollections of other scenes; and though some of her accents betrayed a childish joy at feeling herself in motion through the open air, she was apparently incapable of forming any but the most imperfect and bewildered conception of where she was, whither going, and for what purpose. Occasionally, she murmured words that seemed those of grief and entreaty; and, at such times, her father's name was on her lips, as if she implored those riding at her side to carry her to him. By and by, however, her words became fainter and fewer; then she uttered sobs, and those only at intervals; and at last, these ceasing also, she sank again into unconsciousness, and was maintained on her seat only with the greatest difficulty.
In consequence of this unexpected impediment, the speed of the fugitives became gradually less and less; but as they were already at a considerable distance from the valley, and had no reason to apprehend immediate pursuit, this circumstance created no alarm, and was, in fact, a cause of no little private satisfaction to many, the road being exceedingly rugged, and the night waxing darker and darker as the moon sunk lower in the west. Suddenly, however, as the headmost of the party toiled slowly over the crest of a hill, the wind swept from the rear a sound of voices, followed almost instantly by the explosion of fire-arms, and these again by loud shouts.
"'Sessa! let the world slide!'" cried the voice of Sterling, "whose cow's dead now? So much for not killing the men, and carrying off the women!"
"Peace, parrot!" said Oran Gilbert, lifting Catherine from her horse, (for he was one of those who supported her,) and flinging her into the volunteer's arms. "Bear her to the top of the hill,—nay, gallop on till you strike the river, and"——
"Figs and furies!" cried Sterling, with drunken astonishment; "do you make me a chamber-maid?"
"Away, fool! follow the other,—follow Dancy."
And with that, the refugee, turning his horse, galloped down the hill towards the scene of conflict, leaving Sterling, not yet completely sobered, to make his way after Dancy Parkins and Phoebe, who were in full flight, as well as he could, cumbered by the weight of Catherine, and perplexed by certain indications which White Surrey gave of misliking the additional burthen imposed upon him.
"'Sessa, let the world slide!'" he exclaimed, "here's a coil with a wench, dead or half-witted! Ha! she stirs!
Shame on thee, White Surrey! hast thou no more respect for the ladies? Now were not this the lieutenant's white-faced Rosalind——Oons! they are at it! Well, the better part of valour shall prevail; and so, fair soul, we'll be jogging. But where's that bottle of brown Sherry I clapped into Tiqueraque's pocket?Paucas palabras!I will have mercy upon thee—'thou shall taste of my bottle; if thou hast never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove thy fit.' 'Slife, I will be merciful, and medicinate thy lips a little. Marry, I am 'a brave god, and bear celestial liquor.' Now, White Surrey, my brother, handle thy legs peaceably, or I will knock thee over the mazzard.—Fight, Hawks! and sing, Leonidas!"
The worthy volunteer, with these words, after having taken a bountiful draught from a flagon which was the first thing he laid hands on in the moment of assault, and sprinkling, doubtless with a humane and generous motive, some of its contents upon the face and lips of the maiden, gave spurs to his horse, and was soon beyond the reach of bullets and the sound of shouts.
The commotion, such as it was, was soon over. The party of Caliver and Falconer, urging their horses to the utmost, had suddenly, and unexpectedly to themselves, found themselves in contact with the stragglers of the tory band; and as these fled the moment they observed the pursuers, the gallant officers fired their pistols and rushed forward with renewed ardour, until checked by the opposition of the main body. They were met with fury, and, being overpowered, were almost instantly put to flight; after which the retreat of the outlaws was resumed.
In the meanwhile, the shots and yells with which the contest began, the change of position, or perhaps the wine which had been sprinkled on her lips, woke Catherine from her torpor; and slowly collecting her senses, she became at last sensible of her situation. Her recollection of the events of the evening was still confused; but she remembered enough of the bridal, and its violent termination, to know that she was afar from her father's roof, and that each moment saw her carried still further. She felt, too, that she was grasped in the arms of some powerful horseman, whose character might be imagined from the heartless, or drunken, nonchalance with which, while supporting a fainting and almost lifeless female, and hearing the uproar of mortal conflict just behind him, he yet trolled to the night-air some further stanzas of that quaint, joyous, and uproarious old ballad, of which he had given a specimen before in the paddock.
'Back and side go bare, go bare,'—
'Back and side go bare, go bare,'—
he sang,—
"Oh my father, my father!" cried Catherine, in sudden terror, "for what dreadful fate have I given up thy love and protection?"
Her accents, feeble as they were, reached the ears of Sterling; and ceasing his song, he looked down upon her face, saying, with a ludicrous assumption of gravity,
"How now, fair Titania, queen of moonshine, do you speak? 'Oh, speak again, bright angel!' So much for twenty drops of brown Sherry! these asses did nothing but talk about cold water."
"What are you, sir? and why—why do you thus hold me?"
"Egad, for no very good reason I know, seeing that I could not hold my own prisoner, and am but a milk-livered loon to hold the game of young Sparrow-Hawk. Thousand devils! knew I but where to turn White Surrey's snout, I shouldexitby side door, and so vanish, wench and all, were it only to give him a Roland for his Oliver."
"I know not what you mean," said Catherine, her terror restoring her to full consciousness—"I know not what you mean," she repeated, with increasing alarm, as the moon, peeping side-long through a rent in the clouds, threw a level and ghastly ray on the countenance of her supporter, revealing features which her fears converted into those of an evil being;—"but, oh sir! I conjure you to free me. Do me no harm,—suffer me to escape,—let me dismount, though it should be but to die on the way-side."
Unfortunately,—not for her prayer, for no idea of granting that could have ever entered the volunteer's brain,—but unfortunately for the maiden herself, the same ray which revealed his visage to her gaze fell brightly upon her own, which, although pallid as death, yet displayed a pair of eyes to which the excitement of terror gave unusual lustre, and which instantly converted the drunken indifference of Sterling into admiration. He stared at her for a moment, and then burst out, in the words of Romeo, and with an emphasis that preserved, along with his usual dramatic extravagance of fervour, some little touch of natural approbation,—
Oho, Master Brook, sweet young Hawk! never trust me if I do not take thy minion in fair exchange for my own:—
Sweet and beautiful, and thrice beautiful and as many times angelical, fair soul!" he added, addressing himself to Catherine, "that I have so long remained insensible to thy charms, trust me, it was in part owing to the stupidity which I find growing upon me among the 'ruthless, vast and gloomy woods,' and in part also to the great grief of mind with which I have been mourning the loss of another very tenderly beloved damsel; but chiefly because thine eyes refused their light, and yonder moon in like manner. But now, 'by yonder blessed moon I swear,' I perceive you are ten times handsomer than the other, ass that I was to suppose the contrary; but, however, I was then thinking of the lieutenant and sour grapes.—Sweet, angelical soul, you said something about escaping, and doing you harm, and so on? Now, as to the harm, rest easy; but look as frightened as you please,—for what's so pretty in a maid as pretty fear? But as to escaping,—you would escape, then? go free from these villanous, green-coated, axe-handed, ox-headed, timber-tongued Hawks of the Hollow, eh? You would give them the slip, eh?"
"Assist me but to escape,—nay, only permit me to fly; heaven will bless you for ever, and my father—oh, my father!—he will never think he has sufficiently rewarded you."
Such were Catherine's eager expressions,—for although frighted at the strange, and, to her, inexplicable apologies and commendations of the man, she caught at his closing words as at those of a friend. What, therefore, was her terror, when the drunken ruffian, exclaiming, "Why then, 'Sessa, let the world slide!' we will give Monsieur the Hawk Junior the go-by, and roam the world together," added other words to make yet more plain the sudden design he had formed of carrying her off for his own exclusive benefit, and concluded by attempting to draw his arms more closely around her.
"Yes, thou adorable, delectable creature!" he cried, overflowing with affection, "I am tired of these rude vagabonds, who give one nothing to drink but brook-water, with which trout, eels, sunfish, terrapins, and other vermin, have been making free the lord knows how long; and beds of leaves on a rock, where one may feel snakes creeping under him all night long. Wherefore I will decamp, and thou shalt decamp with me, and be my love; and I will love thee to thy heart's content; and we shall lead the merriest, drollest moonlight life of it under a bush, that was ever dreamed of in romance or enacted in tragedy. We will laugh and play, and drink and dance—
and will be the most loving turtles that ever cooed in a greenwood."
As he spoke, he again attempted (for White Surrey, charmed with the melody of his master's tongue, and knowing well, when it was running, he might take such a liberty, had changed a jog-trot into a contemplative walk,) to cast his arms round the maid, who, now awake to the wretchedness of her situation, uttered a shriek, and making a sudden effort, succeeded in throwing herself to the ground; after which, she fled away with all her speed. The object of her terror was not slow to follow; he uttered an oath and a laugh, and leaping down, pursued her with such vigour that he was soon at her side; for the ground was rough with rocks and bushes, and her strength almost immediately failed her.
It is not certain that the wretch meditated any purpose beyond the mere recovery of his prize; for, however rude and familiar his new-born admiration, he had hitherto betrayed no inclination to carry it to the point of absolute rudeness. On the contrary, he seemed rather to be enacting a part, according to his constant custom, only that the wine he had drunk rendered him in all things more extravagant than usual.
But harmless or not as his intentions might have been, it is certain that the fear of them drove the unhappy Catherine to desperation, and filled another, now fast approaching, with the most dreadful alarm. This was Hyland Gilbert, who, hearing her cries from afar, came rushing up in time to see her, in the dull light of the moon, drop on her knees before the volunteer, beseeching him, in tones that might have melted a heart of stone, to have pity on her.
"Villain! you die!" cried Hyland; and leaping from his horse, and rushing forward, he clapped a pistol to his ear, and drew the trigger. It flashed in the pan; but before Sterling could take advantage of the failure, the young man dashed it in his face, and drew another.
"Hell and darkness!" cried Sterling, furiously, "young malapert, I will twist your neck." And seizing him by the throat, he cast him violently to the earth. Of a joyous, and even good-humoured temperament, there was yet a spice of devilish vindictiveness in the man's breast; and while boiling under the indignity of the blow, and smarting with rage at such high-handed interference in his humours by a pragmatic boy, he did not fail to remember that this was not the first time he had been baffled by him during the night. Besides, he was inflamed with liquor, which was enough of itself to goad him into any act of vengeance.
But he was not destined, that night, to shed the blood of Hyland Gilbert. The shrieks of Catherine had been heard by others as well as her unhappy lover, and the flash of the pistol hastened them to the spot, where he lay struggling in the grasp of Sterling. A hand more mighty than his own was soon laid upon Sterling's neck, and as he was lifted aloft, and then tossed among the flints, like some mean but vicious beast, which the hunter disdains to kill with a weapon, he heard the voice of the tory captain exclaim,
"What, you dog! touch your officer, and a sick man!—What means all this, Hyland? What! has he harmed the girl? If he have but touched her with a finger——Paugh!—Away with you, men! why stand you here gaping? On, and quickly."
The party rode on, leaving, however, besides the group already in front, one man who led the horse on which Catherine had been mounted before. The refugee cast a look to the maiden,—she was sobbing in the arms of his brother. He strode to Sterling and assisted him to rise, not however without saying, with the sternest accents of a voice always savage,
"But that heaven, or some other power, has made me to-night cold to blood, I should strike you, villain, where you stand!"
"You may do it," said the other, with great tranquillity. "Take your fill to-night; we will run up the reckoning at another time."
"How, drunken fool! do you threaten me!"
"Faith, not I. Henceforth, I am a man of peace—that is, when we have played the play out. You're a hard manager—but, now I remember, we are not on the boards! We will forget and forgive."
"Forgive, rogue! you struck him that was feebler than a child; and you——By heaven! if you have touched that girl but rudely, you were better fling you into the river, than await the thanks in store for you."
"A pest upon girls, and the devil take the whole sex!" said Sterling, devoutly.
"Peace! and get you to your horse."
"Ay, presently," replied Sterling; and as Oran leaped on his own black steed, Catherine having been already lifted to the saddle, he pulled a pistol from his bosom, and aimed it at the unsuspecting outlaw. Oran Gilbert bounded forward, and Sterling lowered his hand.
"A miss were certain death," he muttered, "and the shadow was on the moon. 'Sessa, let the world slide'—to-morrow comes after to-day, and the longer we fast the richer the feast.
Good ale? good devils!——
Now were White Surrey but visible, I should know what to do: but the beast lifted up his heels, and was gone a-larking the moment I dismounted.——And these dogs have left me to shift for myself, without even a horse to help me! Wisdom is at as low an ebb among them as gratitude. Necessity and vengeance harp on the same string. Fare thee well, Oran the Hawk; but fly as high and as wildly as thou wilt, I see the little bee-bird that shall bring thee to the ground, bleeding."
With these words, he sat down upon a stone, and there remained until the tramp of the retreating horsemen was no longer brought to his ear.
Catherine was now so far recovered as to be able to comprehend her situation in full; and although Hyland Gilbert rode at her side, thus assuring her of protection from all further rudeness, her terrors increased, and were mingled with the most insupportable anguish of spirit. It was in vain that he conjured her to be composed, and vainer yet when he sought to pacify her by expressions indicative of affection and tenderness.
"Take me to my father, Herman," she cried, clasping her hands, and even endeavouring to grasp his own. "Oh, take me but back, and I will forgive you—I will forgive all!"
"Be composed, Catherine, I entreat you"—— But her only answer was, "My father! my poor father!"
"You shall see him, Catherine. I take you not from him, but from Henry Falconer."
"I will never marry him," cried the unhappy girl: "take me but back and I will tell them all, and it shall go no further. Take me but back, and I will forget all,—I will forgive all. Take me but back, and let me die."
In this manner, her mind overcome by but one thought and one feeling, she murmured prayer after prayer, and adjuration after adjuration, until her entreaties became almost frenzied, and Hyland, alarmed and shocked, half repented the act which had brought her to such a pass. Her agitation was not diminished, when Oran, who rode at the other side, and had for a long time maintained a stern silence, and apparent disregard of what passed between them, at last uttered an interjection of impatience, and bade Hyland ride away, and leave her to him.
"The folly but grows upon her in your presence," he said: "it must be checked."
"Leave me not, Herman!" she cried, starting so wildly from the rude Oran, that, had he not arrested the effort, she would have leaped from the horse, in the effort to reach him whom she felt to be her truest protector: "leave me not, Herman, for the sake of the mother who bore you!—leave me not in the hands of any of these rude men!"
"Fear not," said Hyland, and he conjured Oran himself to depart. "Let the girl come to her," he added; "perhaps Phoebe's appearance may relieve her."
But even the presence of Phoebe, now quite content with captivity, (so successful had been the arguments of her wooer,) failed to banish her agitation; and at last, bewildered and in despair, incapable of devising any other means to give her comfort, Hyland checked his horse and hers, and assisted her to dismount.
"Do with me what you will, Catherine Loring," he said—"I am a fool, a wretch, perhaps a villain."
"Oh no, no!" said the maiden; "only take me back, and all will again be well—all will be forgotten."
"Nothing again will be well with me," said the young man, "and nothing, I fear me, with you. Catherine, there is but a moment to decide. In snatching you from the altar, I did the only thing in my power to secure happiness to both,—or at least, to secure us from the misery that was falling on us like a mountain. You hated Henry Falconer"——
"I did—No, no! nothate;it was not hate," murmured the Captain's daughter.
"You hated him, Catherine, and—why should I fear to speak it?—you loved another—you lovedme, Catherine—By heaven, it is true! I felt it, and I knew it; else how could I have done this thing? It is true—and hide it not from yourself, since your own weal, as well as mine, depends upon your resolution this moment."
"Speak not to me so, oh, for heaven's sake do not," cried Catherine, weeping—"I never gave you cause. Take me only to my father."
"To wed with Henry Falconer, and pronounce a vow your heart forswears?"
"I will never marry him—never, never!" said Catherine, with vehemence: "I would have told him so, only that my father stood by, and I knew it would kill him."
"Catherine, hear me—I am neither traitor nor outlaw, and though associated with such for a moment, it is for your sake only.—I have wealth, Catherine,—substance enough and a fair name. Share these with me."—
"No, no! oh speak not so," said Catherine; "speak to me only of my father, and take me to him. He loved you well, Mr. Hunter, and you have not well repaid him."
"Choose, Catherine," said Hyland, gloomily; "if you will return to him, it shall be so:—I am not the ruffian to force you a step further against your will."
"Heaven for ever bless you!" cried the maiden. "Oh be quick, lest it be too late—Take me back, take me back!"
"Yes, take us back, take us back!" cried Phoebe, whose weak mind, yielding with facility to the contagion of Catherine's example, was now as full of terror as before.
"Think once more, Catherine," said the young Gilbert, with a faltering voice—"Of myself I speak not—I will not think what your return may cause me; but think of what wretchedness it must inevitably bring to you.—Catherine, there is sunshine for us in the island.—Say but the word—you will fly with me!"
"Never!—Oh my father! take me, Herman, to my father!"
"It is well," said the youth, sullenly; but motioning as if to assist her to the saddle, "you shall return to him."
"What fool's play is this? and why do you loiter?" cried Oran Gilbert, riding back to the group, who had been left by their sudden pause far behind: "To horse and to the river!"
"It cannot be," said Hyland: "we have erred,—we have done a great wrong, and must repair it. Brother, this maiden must be returned to her friends."
"Madman! what do you say? Have her silly, girlish whimsies so frightened you? Away with you to the front, and I will fetch her!"
"I have said it, Oran," rejoined Hyland, in a firm, though deeply dejected voice. "I have agreed to take her back, and I will do so. If you will allow me a guard, I will not delay the band a moment; and will answer for the lives of those entrusted to me."
"Fool and madman!" exclaimed the brother, in a fury, "must I force you to your senses? What ho, there, Hawks! two of you return; and Dancy Parkins, lift that girl to the saddle, and bear her off."
"Fear not," said Hyland to Catherine, who, with woman's inconsistency, threw herself into his arms, the moment she heard the dreaded order.—"You but frighten her, brother!—Make me not more wretched than I am, by forcing me to shed the blood of any of your people.—I will shoot any one who touches her."—
"Myself, boy?" cried his savage brother, leaping from his horse. Then pausing, for at his approach, Hyland lowered the weapon he had raised to make good his words, he said sternly,
"Choose for yourself.—Bear her along, and be rewarded by smiles in the morning; take her back and die, like a mad wolf, in the trap that has before maimed you. Mount horse, Dancy Parkins, and begone; and you, Hyland Gilbert, mount and follow, or stay where you are and perish.—Will you on?" he added, with inexpressible fierceness.
"When I have put this lady in safety, but not before," replied Hyland.
"Die then for a fool, or help yourself as you may," said the elder brother; and mounting his horse, he instantly galloped out of sight.
None now remained with Hyland save the two maidens; for even Dancy, awed by the voice of the refugee, had deserted the once-willing Phoebe. He turned his eyes towards the retreating figures, as if doubting whether they could wholly desert him; but he heard the tramp of the steeds ring farther and fainter each moment, and it was plain that the incensed Oran had abandoned him to his fate. He assisted Catherine to mount, and Phoebe likewise; then taking Catherine's bridle in his hand, he turned the horse's head, and began to retrace his steps without uttering a word. A moody silence possessed him, and even Catherine's voice, now sobbing out her broken gratitude, failed to draw from him more than a few sullen monosyllables.
"It shall be as you will," he said; "but let us speak no more.—What matters it now to utter vain words?"
The dejection, nay the despair, of spirit conveyed by every tone, smote Catherine to the heart; and had he possessed the art, or the will, to take advantage of the feeling which his evident desolation produced in her bosom, he might yet have won her to his purpose, and borne her afar from parent and friend. But he had neither; he heard her trembling attempts at kindly utterance, (for it was now her part to play the soother,) with apparent indifference; and even when she turned her weeping face towards him, and, in the impulse of real affection, laid her hand upon his, he drew away as with scorn or anger.
Their flight had carried them almost to the base of the mountain; and, obscure as was the night, it was plainly distinguishable at that spot where the convulsions of chaotic ages have riven it from the summit to the base, thus hollowing a pathway for a broad river under the shade of its majestic crags. As they turned from it, a pale light glistened among the pines and oaks of the eastern hill, but so faint and dim that one could scarce pronounce it the peep of day-spring. Such, however, it was; fast as had been the flight, it had been over a road where absolute rapidity is, even at this day, rather to be desired than expected; and, had she continued with the wild band, Catherine would have seen the sun steal into the sky, ere they had buried her in the savage recesses where they found their own cities of refuge.
As the day dawned, however, and long before the sun was yet seen, wreaths of mist began to curl along the mountain top, and even to creep over the river; and before they had ridden much more than a mile, it was seen rolling along these lesser uplands that give such beauty to the whole district, and settling upon the moist woodlands.
This was a circumstance which one in Hyland's situation might have deemed providential, if desirous of avoiding observation. But it is questionable whether, while brooding over his melancholy thoughts, he gave much reflection to the peril that might attend his return to the haunts of men. Peril should, at least, have been anticipated; for whatever had been the check given by the band of outlaws to the first pursuers, it was not a moment to be doubted, from the audacity of the pursuit, as well as the greatness of the outrage, that the chase would be resumed the moment the pursuers could add to their numbers. But dejected as was his spirit, he was not yet reduced to such a state of stupor as to be wholly unmindful of his safety; and of this he gave proof by suddenly halting upon a naked hill, strown over with rocks, and wholly desolate, though breathing into the mist a world of rich odour. It was, in fact, covered with a growth of sweet-fern,—a shrub around which the early thoughts of affection had shed an interest not to be attached even to the rose or violet, though henceforth that interest was to be of a melancholy and painful character. It was the hill on whose summit he had, scarce an hour before, preserved her from the grasp of a villain; though this she knew not, for the mists concealed objects from the eye, and it was not yet sunrise.
As he paused, he bent forward to listen, and drew a pistol from his saddle-bow, but instantly returned it, muttering, "It is no matter—if they take me, let it be without bloodshed."
"Herman,—Mr. Hunter, what is it?" cried Catherine. "You will not pause now?"
"Now I must, or never," he said. "You are safe,—your friends are at the bottom of the hill; and unless you would have them murder me in your sight, I must begone. Farewell, Catherine Loring: if you can be happy, God grant that you may be so. I have done you a great wrong; but I bear that in my bosom which will avenge you. Farewell, Catherine,—farewell, and for ever."
"Herman, Herman!" murmured the maiden, turning upon him a countenance of death, and gasping for utterance.
"Farewell, Catherine," he said, wringing her hand; "they are upon us. God bless you—farewell."
He rode away—it was but a step: the trample of a body of horse was now plainly heard—he looked back upon her—his countenance was bathed in tears. She stretched forth her arms, and murmuring, in a broken voice, "I will go with you—take me, Herman, take me!"—was in a moment locked in his own embrace. He snatched her from the saddle, and, as she clung to his neck, dashed the spurs into his good roan steed. Had the words been pronounced a moment earlier, nay, but an instant, he might have made his escape, and borne her off in safety. But the decision was as late as it proved to be fatal. Phoebe had already heard the trampling of the approaching horsemen, and Hyland had called them friends. She could scarce repress a cry of delight; but when, catching Catherine's last words, she looked round and beheld her, as she thought, in the act of being again snatched away, she raised her voice in a scream that was heard by the most distant of the approaching party, and was echoed by a shout coming from fifty voices.
Again Hyland struck the spurs into his horse, and the fire sparkled from his hoofs as he dashed down the hill; but fire flashed immediately after from the hoofs of twenty others, fresher and perhaps fleeter.
"Shoot not, or you will kill the lady!" roared a voice in his ear.
"Surrender, dog, or die!" shouted another, who was indeed no other than Henry Falconer; and almost in the same instant, as three or four closed upon the unfortunate fugitive, a strong arm snatched the fainting Catherine from his grasp, and a pistol, held by Falconer, was thrust into his face.
The young Gilbert was weak with wounds and sickness, and worn out with toil, watching, and grief; his native spirit was thus in a manner crushed and prostrated; and he would perhaps have yielded himself passively up, if not too bitterly goaded by the taunts and violence of his captors. Such was the opinion of two of them, who, supposing he had already yielded, withdrew their hands, that they might give assistance to the fainting Catherine, whom captain Caliver had so fortunately redeemed from the midst of the fray. But Gilbert had not yet rendered himself. The sight of his rival, exulting in his capture, and menacing him with voice and weapon, inflamed his dying passions. He turned with sudden fierceness, checked and spurred his steed at the same time, and thus caused him to vault into the air with a violence which would have speedily released him from Falconer's grasp, had not his purpose been rather to attack than fly. As he executed this feat, he presented his own pistol, and drew the trigger. The explosion of two pistols at once was followed by the rush of a dozen men to separate the combatants; and the next moment both were seen rolling upon the ground, Falconer lying clear of the melée, and Hyland in the hands of the vengeful Sterling, whose horse, White Surrey, had overthrown the youth, together with his roan steed.
"'Sessa! let the world slide!'" cried the renegade, with a voice of thunder, but a countenance ashy pale. "Here's work for the hangman—I have him fast enough.Victoria!"——
But at this moment, a sudden alarm was sounded, and all who could starting up, they heard a wild yell sound from the base of the hill to the north, and the words, pronounced by a voice strong and clear as a trumpet, "Royal Refugees! charge! and bear them to the ground!"
"Huzza!" shouted the captain of cavalry, "here's the rat running at the lion! Now open your mouths and swallow 'em! By the eternal Jupiter, we are five to their one; and more fools they for not knowing it. Sweep them from the earth! charge them! on!"
The refugee had relented; the sound of the pistols had quickened his steps; but he dreamed not of the force now arrayed betwixt him and his abandoned brother. A sheet of fire from twenty pistols blazed through the mist, as twice as many enemies rushed against his little band. They broke at the first fire, and the sounds of pursuit, both hot and fierce, were soon lost in the distance.—It was not until many hours had elapsed that the result of the contest, although it could be easily imagined, was fully known. Two of the refugees had been killed, and one was taken prisoner; while the others, abandoning their horses, which were worn out, and hence easily captured, succeeded in making their escape to the woods.
In the meanwhile, those who remained upon the hill busied themselves in securing the unfortunate Hyland, who was unhurt save by the fall of his horse, aiding the maidens, and raising young Falconer from the earth. This unlucky youth muttered a few words as they lifted him, but, to their horror, almost instantly expired. A pistol bullet had penetrated his throat, dividing the great jugular, and even shattering the spine. His battles were fought, and his dream of folly over.
In the recovery of Catherine and the serving-maid, the company of pursuers had effected the chief object of the expedition; but it was still felt to be a matter of great importance to destroy the relics of the refugee band which had haunted the county so long. The greater number of the pursuers, accordingly, devoted themselves to this object, while enough remained on the hill to take charge of the rescued females, the prisoners, and the dead.
The life of Hyland Gilbert, whom his captors, exasperated by the murder, as they called it, of Falconer, were at one time on the point of tearing to pieces, was saved through the firmness of lieutenant Brooks; but he was treated with much indignity, and even cruelty, being straightway bound both hand and foot to his horse, and thus carried away like the meanest and most desperate of felons. A pair of rude litters were hastily constructed, in one of which was carried the Captain's daughter, while the other supported the clayey corpse of the bridegroom.
These things effected, and the honest Mr. Sterling assuming the station assigned him in the centre of the party, where, although enjoying all appearance of liberty, he was yet esteemed a kind of honourable—or, as the phrase should be, dishonourable—prisoner, the melancholy cavalcade pursued its way back to Hawk-Hollow, within a few miles of which, its leaders stumbled upon Captain Loring and a party of footmen, over whom he had assumed the command. It consisted of no less, indeed, than that identical company of volunteers who had won such immortal distinction on the fourth of July, by their valiant attack, with empty muskets, upon the flying Oran. The reappearance of their enemy was enough to recall them to the field of battle, though they came somewhat of the latest; and uniting themselves with a party of countrymen and domestics whom Captain Loring had previously assembled, and whom he was now gallantly leading to the field of honour, they yielded to his energy the obedience he seemed to consider a matter of right, and thus constituted him commander-in-chief, without much regard to the claims of their own elected officers.
The morning was still misty, so that lieutenant Brooks and his party stumbled upon this formidable detachment without seeing it, or suspecting its existence; and had it not been for the sharpness of his ears in detecting the tones of Captain Loring's voice upon a hill he was just ascending, it is highly probable the magnanimous volunteers would have wiped out the disgrace of their flight before a single enemy, by pouring a warm and well-directed fire into a superior body of friends.
He paused a little,—for he rode at some distance in front of his party,—and distinctly heard Captain Loring's voice giving the following orders to his volunteers:—
"Hark!" said the veteran; "adzooks, you may hear their horse now as plain as the cocking of a sentinel's musket at midnight. Halt, ye vagabonds, and prepare for action. When I sayprepare, I mean, adzooks, be ready to swinge 'em. You, Dan Potts, John Small, and Peter Dobbs, detach yourselves to the right, six rods from the road, and lay by to flank 'em: Dick Sturgem, Sam King, and Absalom Short, wheel to the left, and do the same thing—and mind you, you scoundrels, don't any of you be frightened; for, adzooks, I despise a coward above all created things. And harkee, you scoundrels, no gabbling; hold your tongues like soldiers, and talk with your muskets: that's what old general Spitfire used to tell us—'Sons,' said he, 'a soldier should always keep his tongue in his musket.' So be off, and stand fast, flanks; and bang away as soon as you see any thing to bang at. Centre, attend: as soon as you hear the flanks at it, you are to crack away, and give no quarter—no quarter, you scoundrels, do you hear!"
At any other moment, the young lieutenant would have been amused at the enthusiasm and tactics of the veteran of the Indian wars; but this was not a moment for jest. He rode forward, hailing the Captain by name; and the old soldier soon forgot his rage and his followers together, to weep in the arms of his recovered child.