The attorney's sleep was long and sound; and, by and by, notwithstanding the exciting nature of the midnight events, sleep visited the eyes of all others in the prison, even those of the hapless Hyland. The misery of his situation was complete. His hopes of escape, confirmed almost to certainty by Affidavy in his last visit, in which the whole plan was explained to him by this honest gentleman, threw him into a frenzy of joy; and it was with unspeakable agitation that he listened to the subdued murmurs below, which told him the first and most critical scene of the conspiracy had already begun. How the attempt of Affidavy upon the head of the jailer terminated has been already seen; how the scheme might have eventuated, had this rapacious wretch followed out the plan he had proposed to the others, which was to bribe the jailer into connivance, it is not so easy to say, Lingo being perhaps too much of a philosopher in his way, to refuse a good price for his honesty. But Affidavy, while he held the bone in his mouth, hungered exceedingly for the shadow, or, to speak more strictly, for that smaller morsel destined for the jaws of his friend; and, in consequence, adopted the foolish device of the 'hocussed' cup, in which he encountered so signal a failure. While Hyland sat in his cell, devoured by expectation, the door was opened, and the jailer's assistant entered, bearing a heavy set of fetters, which he forthwith proceeded to fasten upon his limbs. This was the first moment they were ever thus dishonoured; but the unhappy youth thought not of the disgrace; he saw at once that the scheme of flight was defeated, and that his hopes had been encouraged, only to be blasted. The agitation of his spirits threw him into a swoon; rousing from which, he gave himself up to despair, until his thoughts were diverted into a new channel by an unexpected commotion below, which was indeed caused by nothing less than the entrance into the prison of the five men whom Hanschen had secretly summoned to his assistance. He heard them pass into the yard, and inferred at once that the scheme for his escape was intended to be turned against his unsuspecting friends. For this reason, he gave the alarm, the instant he heard the gate swinging on its hinges, and would have done so sooner, had he been able to approach the window, so as to look out upon the proceedings of the jailer. Let his sufferings be imagined, when he heard the sudden din of pistols and voices, followed by execrations and groans, without knowing aught of the result of the rencounter, except that it had been fatal to his own hopes. He saw the jailer look into the apartment, his visage stained with blood, and then depart without satisfying his painful curiosity; and then followed a long period of silence, equally oppressive and distracting. Great as was his distress, however, it contributed in the end to stupify his mind; and towards morning, he fell into an uneasy slumber, to add the tortures of the ideal to those of the material world. From this he was aroused by a noise, as it seemed, at his window; and starting up, he distinctly heard a voice pronounce his name. It was but a whisper, and that fainter than the lowest chirping of the insects; but he recognized at once the tones of Oran; and, scarce repressing a cry of joy, he rushed towards the window. The chain was still upon his body, and its clash, with the rattling of the ring by which it was attached to the floor, told to Oran, as well as to his own spirit, how vain was the effort. The cell which he inhabited was in a corner of the building, and the wall of the yard was perhaps within six or seven feet of the window, which was more elevated, and therefore overlooked it. It was possible for a man, standing on the top of the wall, and of sufficient strength of body to support himself, lizard-like, while leaning towards the window, almost to reach it with his arms; and Hyland, who had noted these circumstances before, easily understood the situation of his visiter, which besides being extremely dangerous, was also exposed to observation.
"I cannot approach, Oran," he cried in the same whispering tones; "I am chained to the floor."
"Hold forth your hand," muttered the refugee, "and cast me the end of your neckcloth. You shall have files and aquafortis; and to-morrow night you shall be free. Cast out the neckcloth."
"I cannot," replied the prisoner, with a voice of despair; "I cannot reach the bars, even if I had files to cut them. What shall I do? Oh, brother, brother! why did you leave me? Speak, brother, for Heaven's sake, speak! Can you help me?"
The refugee remained silent, apparently struck dumb, either by the reproach of his brother, or by the discovery of his inability to help himself; and Hyland, imagining that his silence was owing to some sudden alarm, held his own peace, awaiting the event. In a short time, however, the refugee spoke again: the whisper was as low as before, but it was broken by some strong tumult of feeling.
"I cannothelp you, Hyland," he said,—"unless, unless——But hold; I will fling a file through the bars, and you can saw yourself free. Throw your bed on the floor under the window, that it may make no noise. Are you ready?"
"I am," said Hyland; and the next instant he heard the steel instrument strike upon the bars of the grating, whence it fell ringing among the stones in the yard. A second was cast with better effect, and entering the window, fell upon the couch. But as if fate now designed to tantalize the unhappy youth into distraction, he no sooner sought to obtain it by dragging the bed towards him, than he heard it fall off upon the floor, where it remained beyond his reach, and must remain until discovered by the jailer. This mishap being communicated to Oran, drew from him an exclamation, in which Hyland was made aware of his hopeless situation:
"God help you!" he cried, "I can do no more."
"Yes, Oran, yes!" exclaimed the prisoner, "you can help me yet. Throw me a knife"——
"Hah!" said Oran, "and you will use it on the jailer? ay! as he bears you to the court house, in the morning! Strike him in the throat—I will be by, and, perhaps—Well, well, you will at least die like a man, not like a dog. Will you kill him?"
"No!" said the youth; "God pardon me the blood I have shed already: I will never more harm a human being—no, not even to save my wretched body from shame. Yet throw it to me, throw it to me!"
"And for what?" muttered Oran, in tones scarce audible.
"For what?" replied the prisoner. "Oh God, do you ask me, brother?"
"For your own bosom then? Ay, can we do no more? And the lawyers, then, can give you no hope, not even for money?"
"None, none: I am condemned already—The knife, the knife!"
"The dream's out!" said Oran, with what seemed a laugh. "When I was a little boy, and the rest were but babes about me, I dreamed, one night, that there were seven of us together, though there were but four of them born, and that I killed them. And so they sayI haveindeed! Well, boy, I have killed you, as well as the rest, and now I am alone. You shall have the knife—yet be not in a hurry. Something may turn up: Sir Guy may demand a military trial—But no, I am lying to my own heart: you must die, Hyland, you must die! for even I cannot help you."
"The knife will help me."
"Take it!" said the refugee, with a voice so loud as to show his feelings had got the better of his caution,—and indeed his accents betrayed the most vehement agitation; "take it!" he cried, flinging it against the window with a motion so reckless or perturbed, that it did not even strike the bars, but coming in contact with the stone framework, it rebounded and fell, like the file, to the ground below. "Ha ha! you see, brother! there is no hope for you,—no, not even in the knife!"
"Brother!" cried Hyland, "you can help me yet."
"It is false!" said the other: "my band is broken, my body bleeding, and now, if they would send a boy against me, why a boy might take me."
"Listen, brother—it is my dying prayer," said Hyland, "and nothing else can be done. Before midnight of the coming day—perhaps earlier—I shall be a doomed man—doomed to death—doomed to the gallows? Brother, don't let me die on the gallows! Where is Staples? He can send a bullet through the eye of a leaping buck; I have seen him kill a night-hawk on the wing. Brother, you will be my heir—give him what you will, give himall, and let him come to-morrow night on the square, and when he sees a candle held at this window, let him fire at it,—let him aim well,—at the candle, brother, at the candle! Oh heaven! do you not hear me?"
"I hear," said Oran. "A wild freak that, but good! ay, boy, good, good, good! But Staples—ha, ha! Choose another: take the whole band; one will be as ready to serve you as another."
Had not the prisoner been prevented by his own feelings from giving note to any thing save the mere words of the refugee, he might have detected the traces of some extraordinary emotion in the unusual abruptness of his expressions. He even failed to observe the incongruity between Oran's invitation to choose an executioner from his whole band, and the late declaration he had made, that the band was broken up. He repeated the name of Staples, adding, "Let it be Staples, brother, for he is the boldest and truest: he fears nothing, and he misses nothing."
"Call him out of the yard then," said Oran; "he lies there cold as a stone."
"Ashburn then, Tom Ashburn!" cried Hyland, after an exclamation of dismay at the intelligence; "he is the next boldest, and a true shot."
"Another, another! They fished him out of the river at the Foul Rift, yoked fast to the carcass of his horse."
"Bettson, then!"
"He lies, with Staples, dead in the yard here."
"Good God! is there none left then to save me from this horror. Oh brother, send any one. Is there not one?"
"There isone," said Oran, and his teeth chattered as he spoke; "there is one, and only one; but he shoots well too, and is as bold as any. Farewell, young brother—the streaks are in the sky: we will never see one another more. Reach forth your hand, brother, and let me touch it."
"Alas, Oran, I am chained to the floor."
"Ay,—I forget: 'tis all one. Say that you beg God to forgive me, and that you forgive me yourself—let me hear you say it."
"Wherefore, Oran? Alas, wherefore?"
"For what I have done to you; for what—But it is nothing. But say it, though; say it, or hope for no friend in the thing you speak of."
"God forgive you then, Oran," muttered the brother, almost mechanically; "I forgive you myself."
"It is enough," said Oran—"Farewell." And these were the last words Hyland ever heard him utter. He descended from the wall—howthe prisoner knew no more than how he had climbed it,—and that so suddenly, that although Hyland called to him again, the moment the farewell had past his lips, he was already beyond hearing. Finding that he was really gone, the prisoner fell upon his knees, and strove to invoke forgiveness of the act he meditated: for he rightly felt that it must be but a form of self-murder.
He then threw himself on his couch, looked back upon the events that had marked his existence in the valley, and wept over the misery they had entailed upon one whom his love had wrapped in the same destruction with himself.
The Master of Fiction has compared the course of a supposititious history to the career of a stone, rolled down the side of a mountain; which, at first, labouring and stumbling along, in a slow and hesitating manner, as if on the point of being arrested by every petty obstruction, gathers force as it descends, and at last pitches onwards with impetuous leaps, which soon conduct it to the bottom. To give the figure the completeness of an allegory, it may be added, that when the moving body has once acquired a little superfluous momentum of its own, it communicates it to other stones, and these again to others, which, increasing in number as they grow in velocity, are at last seen rattling down to the vale below, in a perfect avalanche, as confounding to the senses as it is hurrying to the spirits. In this manner, a single incident begins its weary course along the declivity of story, stirring up others as it rolls onward; until, in the end, there is such a mass in motion, that, if all were to be described as fully as at the starting, it would require a Briareus himself to do them justice. It is, then, difficult to keep pace even with the original event, the course of which is as violent as the others; and this can be done only by imitating the hurry of the moving body, and marching, in great leaps, to the end.
We must pass by, with a word, the confusion caused throughout the whole village by the rencounter in the prison-yard; the steps that were taken in consequence to follow the refugee who had escaped; the proceedings that were had in relation to the bodies, (for the wounded Staples expired within a few hours after his surrender;) and, finally, those that paved the way for the trial of the unfortunate Hyland.
The morning broke; the hour of trial approached; the village was thronged with the idle and the curious; the court was opened, the grand jury empannelled and charged, and in a short time returned into court a formal bill of indictment against Hyland Gilbert, with some two or threealiases, for the wilful murder of Henry Falconer.
The details of the trial it is not our purpose to narrate. There were the usual preliminary flourishes, thrusts, and counter-thrusts, on the part of the counsel, with those applications for postponement and arguments against it, that weary the patience of the good citizens who come to a tribunal of life and death as to a raree-show, and perhaps with some such feelings as conducted the ancient Romans to the amphitheatre. There was even an attempt made by the prisoner's counsel (of whom the unlucky Affidavy wasnotone—at least, he did not make his appearance,) to oppose the jurisdiction of the court, precisely as Affidavy had boasted he would do, but with so little zeal and energy, that it was soon seen the prisoner was to derive no benefit from such a plea. In fact, from the beginning to the end, the counsel for the prisoner conducted the case in so spiritless and desponding a manner, as to convey the most melancholy prognostic to those who judge of the goodness or badness of a cause by the colour of a counsellor's complexion. It seemed as if they were themselves too well satisfied of his guilt to think of contending for his innocence; and it was soon seen that they had good cause to despair; for the prisoner, upon being formally arraigned at the bar, rose up, and despite the opposition of his counsel, insisted upon pleadingGuiltyto the indictment.
From the consequences of this rashness—a result of mingled remorse and despair—the unhappy young man was saved by the humanity of his judges, who directed the plea of Not Guilty to be entered, as, we believe, is usual, or at least frequent, in such cases.
Upon being asked 'How he would be tried?' he answered, with the same readiness, "By God and my country;" and the elder of his counsel making some trivial remark on the latter word, coupled with the hint that hisdomicilwas strictly within a foreign territory, he repeated the word with great vehemence, insisting 'that he was born upon the soil on which he stood, and whether he lived or died, and whether it owned the sway of the royal government, or assumed the state of a free Republic, it was still as muchhiscountry as before, since still the land of his birth.'
He was directed to resume his seat; but the readiness with which he seemed to abandon all the little hopes remaining to him softened the hearts of his judges, and brought tears into the eyes of many who came to see, in a Gilbert and refugee, some dread-looking monster, and beheld only an emaciated youth, evidently nurtured on the lap of gentleness. Indeed, there was no little confusion produced on several occasions, by the compassion his appearance excited; one instance of which happened, when Captain Loring, summoned entirely without the knowledge of Hyland, along with two or three others, for no imaginable purpose, but to testify to the mildness of his disposition and the excellence of his previous character, entered the witness's box, and laid eyes on the youth for the first time since his arrest. He no sooner beheld his wretched plight, than forgetting half his own wrongs, he began to blubber and stretch out his arms, and declare, 'after all, adzooks, he didn't believe his young Herman had committed the murder, for all they said of him.' Then being reproved, and something in the rebuke reminding him of his daughter, he burst into a rage, reproaching the young man for his deceit and base outrage, from which he was only diverted by a second rebuke, to begin to blubber and defend as before. In short, it was soon found that his testimony was not to be obtained, and as his wits were pretty generally thought to be infirm, he was directed to be removed. This was, however, at a later stage of the trial, and after the more important witnesses had been examined. These comprehended those individuals who were present at the scene of blood, the chief of whom were captain Caliver, lieutenant Brooks, and the adventurer Sterling. The evidence of the two former might have been esteemed sufficient of itself to convict the prisoner, and there seemed a degree of cruelty in bringing into the court, merely to confirm their testimony, a man enduring so much bodily suffering as this wretched Sterling. It seemed, that he had received some serious injury, when hurled so roughly by Oran Gilbert among the rocks; for it was remarked, soon after the cavalcade was formed that conducted the body of young Falconer to Hawk-Hollow, that he became wan and troubled, and occasionally a little wandering in his behaviour. He had grown worse during the three days he was confined in prison, and had caused no little trouble by his groans at night. In addition to all this, he had bled freely from the cut he received from the jailer, while attempting to escape; that attempt, as he averred on a previous occasion, having been made in his sleep, he being occasionally afflicted with the infirmity of somnambulism. When he appeared in court, all were struck with his haggard appearance; the light of cunning had departed from his eyes and mouth, being superseded in the one by a certain wild, yet torpid and smouldering ray, such as might be looked for in the organs of an expiring maniac, while the other was distorted with pain, of which it was hard to say whether it existed most in mind or body. Upon being called upon to declare what he knew in relation to the prisoner and the deceased, he swore, to the surprise of every one, 'that he knew nothing to prove the prisoner's guilt, but much that spoke in favour of his innocence.'
Even Hyland, who had leaned his head down in passive despair, was startled at a declaration so unexpected; his counsel became a little animated, and the Deputy Attorney General reminded the witness, 'that he was now in a court of justice, speaking to truth upon oath, and not upon the boards of a theatre, delivering the tricksy paradoxes of a play-wright.'
"Very true," said Sterling, with a ghastly smile; "but that day is over."
Upon being asked what he meant by the last expression, he replied, 'that he alluded to his original profession of the stage, on which he once had his day, like others.' He then proceeded to state, that while pursuing his vocation, some years before, in the island of Jamaica, he had several times seen the prisoner, then a young man of eighteen or twenty, the heir of a rich widow, his kinswoman, and occupying a highly favourable situation in society, and being, as far as he knew, of estimable character. He next encountered him in the month of May, at the tavern of Elsie Bell; although he did not immediately recognise him. The third time he saw him was at the Terrapin Hole, among, or near to, the refugees, among whom, as he caused it to appear, he had himself stumbled by accident; the consequence of which was that he was induced to join the band, to protect himself from a peculiar peril in which he was placed. On the evening of that day, he accompanied the leader of the band to the park of Gilbert's Folly, where the prisoner was found struggling in mortal combat with the deceased. A conflict ensuing, of which he could say but little, having spent several hours previously in drinking, he did himself attack the deceased with a pistol, scarce knowing, in his intoxication, what he did, and would have killed him, had he not been restrained by the prisoner, who took the pistol from his hand, and assisted the deceased to make his escape; "and this the prisoner did," added the witness, with a firm voice, "although, at that moment, he was bleeding from a pistol-shot, received but a moment before from the deceased, with whom he had fought a duel, and by whom he had been treated with some unfairness and much barbarity."
He then continued to state, that the design having been communicated to him of carrying off Miss Loring, he himself, esteeming it rather a wild frolic than a serious outrage, had obtained permission to co-operate in an assumed character; and that what confirmed him in the belief that no wrong was meditated to any one, was his overhearing a conversation betwixt the prisoner and Oran Gilbert, in which the former insisted that no one should be injured, particularly naming the deceased and his father, Colonel Falconer. At the time the band broke into the house, he, being again overcome by wine and in a mischievous mood, knocked down the deceased with a fiddle; and had the prisoner been moved by any malicious impulse, he could have easily killed him at that time. As for the murder itself, all that he could say was, that at the moment the pistols were discharged, he was himself nearer to the prisoner than was any other person on the ground; and yet he could neither swear upon his knowledge nor to the best of his belief, that the prisoner had fired the pistol that terminated the deceased's career. There were several pistols fired, he knew not by whom, nor did he believe any man could say by whom, for the morning was still dark, and all were in confusion. It was as likely that the deceased had been killed by his own (the deceased's) pistol, as by the prisoner's; for being notoriously an expert shot, nothing but accident could have caused him to miss the prisoner, at whom he aimed, and who was so nigh at hand; and the accident that diverted the pistol from the prisoner, might have turned it against the neck of the deceased himself. Finally, he was convinced, that, be the matter as it might, there could have been no malice aforethought on the prisoner's part, or he would have taken advantage of those moments to execute his purpose when he could have done so without risk or discovery.
This testimony, which was justly esteemed extraordinary, coming as it did from one who had been admitted as evidence against the prisoner, produced a remarkable effect throughout the whole court and jury, as well as the spectators; and was indeed more like a harangue designed for the prisoner's benefit than any thing else. It was delivered with pain, but still firmly, and at the close, the witness appearing to be exhausted, he was allowed to retire, while the Deputy, saying, 'he was gratified to hear such mitigating circumstances advanced in the prisoner's favour,' added that he would summon two witnesses to prove the murder from the prisoner's own voluntary confession, and would then produce two pistols, the only ones discharged, one of which he would prove had been fired by the deceased, the other by the prisoner.
The jailer and his assistant were called, and both swore, that the prisoner had repeatedly called himself a murderer.
Honest Schlachtenschlager, who had officiated as coroner, was then summoned, and appeared in court, bearing five pistols, being those delivered to him by Brooks, while sitting on the inquest. These being handed to the latter gentleman, he immediately identified one as the weapon discharged by the deceased; the second, he averred, he had taken from the ground at the prisoner's side, and the other, its fellow, from his holsters: the remaining pair belonged to Sterling, and had been taken from him before or after the murder, he knew not which, and had been by the witness given into the possession of Schlachtenschlager.
"Yes," said Schlachtenschlager, "that fas fat the young man said. T'at pistol mit the colden star on the preech, and the plue parrel, fas the ploodty feapon."
Here the worthy magistrate was directed to hold his tongue, his evidence not having been required, and his commentaries being wholly superfluous. But he had said enough to give a new and unexpected turn to the whole proceedings; for the prisoner, who had been staring from the pistols to the witness, with a sort of passive recklessness, no sooner heard the words 'golden star,' and 'blue barrel,' uttered than he started up as if seized with a fit of madness, his eyes staring out of his head, his arms outstretched, and his whole figure displaying the influence of some extraordinary conception.
"The golden star! the blue barrel!" he cried, in a voice that thrilled every bosom. "Oh heaven! have I been mad up to this moment? Ha, ha, ha! what a fool! what a dolt! Give me the pistol!"
"Sit down," said one of the judges; and even his own counsel endeavoured to force him back on his seat.
"I won't sit down," he cried in the same tones. "The pistol! the pistol! my life depends upon it! Oh, heaven be thanked! I am an innocent man. The pistol! look at the pistol: there is a shot in the vent, and it will not fire! I remember now, it flashed when aimed at Sterling. Call Dancy Parkins—examine it, look at it, prick it with a needle,—blow in it, pour water in it—it could not harm him! No! heaven be thanked! no, no, no!" And so great became his agitation, that he fell to the floor in a fit of convulsions.
This singular announcement produced unspeakable agitation. The court was ordered to be cleared, and the prisoner to be withdrawn a moment, until restored to his senses. Dancy Parkins was then called, and upon being shown the pistol, swore positively to the effect, that one of them (he knew not which,) had become useless in consequence of a leaden shot, or some other substance, getting into the vent; that the day before the attempt upon Gilbert's Folly, he had been directed by the prisoner, upon whom he attended, to remove the obstruction; that he had received it for that purpose, but finding the removal more difficult than he anticipated, and being hurried by other circumstances, he returned it to the prisoner's holsters, intending to resume the task at another time; and then being separated from him, for the purpose of intercepting the clergyman, had forgotten it entirely. He knew not which of the two pistols it was; but if, as he supposed, the prisoner had not attempted to fire both, one would be found charged: the other, that is to say, the one out of order, he had himself taken care to empty of its contents before attempting to remove the shot from the vent.
The pistols were immediately examined, and one found well charged. The other was empty; and, as had been said, and as was hoped by almost every man present, it was discovered that there was some foreign body in the vent, which rendered it wholly unserviceable.
"This is indeed extraordinary!" said a judge on the bench.
"With your honour's permission," said the Deputy, who had been whispering to one of the under functionaries of justice, and now looked up in some perplexity, "I will recall the witness Sterling to the stand; though I humbly submit, I know no more than your honour what he has to say more. Yet he desires to be recalled."
"Ay, let him come," said Hyland, clasping his hands with joy. "He remembers the circumstance; for I showed him the pistol, and he told me the shot could be only taken out by a drill."
At this moment, the current of feeling was strongly in the prisoner's favour, and the condition of his weapon rendering it impossible thatitcould have discharged the fatal bullet, there was scarce a man present who did not believe him innocent, and believe so with pleasure, notwithstanding his unhappy connexion with the outlaws. But it was destined to be seen upon what a reed they had based their commiseration and belief, when Sterling, appearing again, craved to mention a circumstance which was now recalled to his memory by the turn of proceedings, and of which his previous forgetfulness should be rightly attributed to illness and disorder of mind. He remembered well the conversation of which the prisoner spoke; hehadsaid, that nothing but a drill would remove the obstruction;but—and here he spoke with a degree of agitation that showed his reluctance to advance any thing against the prisoner—it happened that the conversation terminated in himself offering to remove the difficulty, by taking the pistol with him to Elsie Bell's, where some instrument might be found to serve the purpose; that hehad, accordingly, taken it, leaving one of his own pistols with the prisoner, but had found neither leisure nor opportunity to repair it; that the circumstances of flight had prevented a re-exchange; and finally, that the incident had not been again thought of by him until the present moment. He was not himself disarmed until after Falconer's death; he had a pistol in his hand at the moment, which he dropped, while seizing upon the prisoner; and taking it up again (as he supposed) afterwards, it was probable he had then, without observing it, regained his own; andthismight perhaps be the weapon with which the unfortunate shot had been fired. He was disarmed a few moments afterwards, and was then seized with indisposition, which prevented his examining into the matter, or indeed thinking of it.
This testimony was as decisive as it was wholly unexpected. It struck the prisoner dumb, and his looks of horror were esteemed the best proofs of guilt. It was in vain that he afterwards exclaimed that the witness had sworn falsely; he had no testimony to disprove the story, and it was one that all others found apt and true, especially when Sterling's pistols having been examined, one of them was discovered to be empty. No one had dreamed of doubting the prisoner's guilt, until the moment when his sudden burst of animation at the sight of the weapons, threw all into confusion; and such was the change of feeling produced by Sterling's testimony, that it soon became the general impression that the prisoner had been playing a part in first acknowledging himself guilty, and then affecting to be surprised into a belief of his own innocence. Such an opinion as this could not, indeed, long prevail; for it was manifest, upon considering the circumstances, that the prisoner must have been as ignorant as others of the true condition of the pistols, unless he had previously, as if in anticipation of arrest, founded his whole scheme of bloodshed upon the accident of the obstruction; in which case he must have fired the other pistol, which was still loaded, or used some third one, which he had cast out of sight, although instantly surrounded by many different persons. The testimony of Sterling afforded the only and the best solution of the riddle, as far as it related to the crime; while in regard to the prisoner himself, all that could be imagined to account for his change of deportment, was to suppose that evenhehad forgotten the original exchange of weapons,—that he was inspired with the hope of escape, upon the presentation of his own as that by which the murder had been committed,—and that that hope, thus accidentally excited, still nerved him to assert his innocence.
The contest was however over, the hour of grace was past, and the jury, after being charged in a manner highly unfavourable to him, were sent out to form a verdict, the character of which no one thought of doubting. It was even supposed that a few moments would suffice to terminate their deliberations, and that they would shortly return, to pronounce the word of doom. In this, however, the spectators were disappointed: some merciful, or doubting member of the panel had thrown a difficulty in the way of others; and, the prisoner being remanded, the court was adjourned until such time as they should be found to have agreed upon a verdict.
In the meanwhile, expectation was still on the stretch; the spectators from a distance still lingered in the village, the villagers themselves wandered up and down, or collected together at their doors in groups, all awaiting the tap of the bell that should call the court together to receive the verdict, and all agitated by the thousand rumours that were supposed to have made their way from the jury-room. It was twenty times, at least, in the course of the night, reported that the jury had already agreed, and twenty times there was a rush of people towards the court-doors, anxious and eager to behold the bearing of the prisoner, while listening to the word that should consign him to the death of a felon; but twenty times curiosity was disappointed; and the morning came without bringing the jury from their place of deliberation.
But long before the night had passed away, a new feature was added to the story of Hyland's fate, and new characters mingled in the drama, bringing with them new revelations.
The appearance of the refugees, with the fierce though unavailing contest they had attempted with the pursuers on the night of the outrage, had spread the alarm far and wide; and this was not diminished by the daring assault on the prison, as it was called, the real character of that enterprise not having yet generally transpired. One consequence of the alarm was, to draw to the scene of commotion the governor, or President as he was then called, of the commonwealth, who happened in the neighbourhood upon some tour of duty, and arrived after nightfall, so that his person was not generally known before day. One of the first persons upon whom he laid his eyes, after entering the hotel, was his old and distinguished acquaintance Colonel Falconer, with whose unhappy loss he was already acquainted, as well as with many incidents of the trial. Upon saluting him by name, the Colonel became greatly agitated, and besought him not to repeat the word, if he would not have him murdered before his eyes; with other expressions indicative of a disordered mind, which the dignitary attributed at once to his melancholy bereavement. He then accompanied him to a private apartment, where he attempted to soothe him by condoling with him on his loss, but found him incapable of listening to argument or entreaty. The death of his son did not seem to affect him so deeply as the malice of the murderer, of whom he spoke with a bitterness and vindictiveness of feeling that shocked his hearer. It has been seen how his heart softened over this unhappy youth, when he met him at the water-fall, and deemed that he owed a life to his virtue. The death of his son had, however, converted his feelings into a new channel; and he saw in the humanity that drove him from the Hollow, only the evidence of a cold-blooded design to withdraw him from the scene, that his son might perish unaided; and this design he contrasted with his own friendly resolutions. In short, the demon of revenge had entered his spirit, along with that of fear; for, it seemed, the repeated discoveries of Oran Gilbert penetrating even to the haunts of his foes, had infected him with terror on his own account. The sight of the governor, in whose hands lay the power of life and death, seemed to throw him into alarm, lest he had come with the design of pardoning the murderer; and he lanched at once into a strain of vehement complaint, in which he mingled denunciations against the prisoner with personal calls upon the governor for justice.
In the midst of this scene, which the magistrate strove in vain to bring to an end, the door of the chamber was thrown open, and the figure of Elsie Bell entered the apartment. She had risen from a bed of sickness,—it might have been supposed from a bed of death, for her appearance was more like that of a moving corse than a living being: and as she tottered up to Colonel Falconer, who stood aghast at the spectacle, her bloodless cheeks, livid lips, and eyes shining, almost without speculation, through the gray locks that had escaped from her head-dress, filled even the governor with awe.
"Where is Richard Falconer?" she cried, "I heard his voice but now; and it called for justice!"
Her looks wandered from the governor, upon whom they were first fixed, to the object of her inquiry; and it is impossible to describe the expression of mingled triumph and horror with which she surveyed him. She raised her shrivelled hands, and shaking them with a fierce but palsied motion, cried,—
"Yes, Richard Falconer, you called for justice, and now you have it. It has come, at last, in blood, and in blood richer than that of your own bosom. The death-bed curse of a ruined woman will not be forgotten,—it curses forever!"
"For God's sake, governor," cried Falconer, trembling from head to foot, "leave me, or take the wretched creature away."
"Yes, leave us," said the widow: "let no one look upon him more, let no one look upon him now. Away, if you have pity for him who has none for himself."
The governor looked at Falconer, and perceiving that, although incapable of utterance, he made earnest gestures to him to depart, he left the chamber without speaking a word, but with a look indicating amazement and suspicion. He was no sooner gone than Elsie, stepping up to Falconer, laid her hand on his arm, now seemingly as palsied as her own, and said, with accents that sounded in his ear like the cry of a raven,—
"You asked for justice—ay, I heard the words with my own ears! you asked for blood,—the blood of him who has shed that of your son! You called for justice—it was for justice on your own head! Richard Falconer," she continued, "well may you tremble; the curse of Jessie Gilbert is now upon your soul, and it will be on it for ever."
"Woman," said Falconer, endeavouring to shake her off, but in vain, "you will drive me distracted."
"I will do you no such mercy," said Elsie: "Hearken—the last words of Jessie Gilbert were a curse,—the curse of a broken-hearted woman upon her betrayer: she died cursing you, and now the curse you feel, without knowing half its dreadfulness. Richard Falconer, you ask for the blood of Henry Falconer's murderer. Miserable man!" she added, relaxing her grasp, and clasping her hands with horror, "it is the blood of your own son,—the blood of the child of Jessie Gilbert!"
"Hah!" said Falconer,—but said no more. He gazed in the face of the speaker, and read a dreadful confirmation of her words, while she continued to utter, as in a kind of insane exultation,
"Is not this revenge for Jessie Gilbert? The brother kills the brother, and the father kills the son!—ay, as he before killed the mother! Now, Richard Falconer, repent and die—the victim is avenged! It is true!"
"It is false! false as hell!" said Falconer, recovering speech; "or what, oh God of heaven! what am I!"
"The avenger of your own black and heartless villany," said the woman. "Hearken, Richard Falconer, and you shall know all. When Oran Gilbert knew the shame of his sister, he swore its miserable fruit should never see the light; and I knew he would slay it, even out of hatred of the father. That night! that night! it was a night of horror. Jessie Gilbert lay dead, with a babe wailing on her bosom; and the mother, the broken-hearted step-mother gave to my hands her own untimely and still-born offspring—the brothers raved at the door, calling for the child of shame. I had mercy—mercy on your child,—not because it was yours, but because it was the babe of Jessie. I laid it in the arms of the step-mother, and it lived. She kept the secret, and the father of her you betrayed kept it also, though he sent it afar from his sight. Thus was it saved—thus was the child of sorrow preserved, that he might imbrue his hands in the blood of his brother, and then perish at the call of his father!"
"Wretch!" said Falconer, sinking on a seat, "and this dreadful secret you kept, thatImight be made the most miserable of men? And you incited on the unhappy Hyland to the murder of his brother?"
"I did what I could to save him,—not for your sake, though, Richard Falconer, but for the love of Jessie. I warned the boy of his danger—nay, I would have told him of his birth, but that I knew it would kill him; and I loved him for his goodness. Why should I have filled him with shame, staining him who was innocent of his father's crimes, with the disgrace of his birth?"
"Elsie Bell," said Falconer rising and advancing towards her, "I am a villain.—My poor Harriet! my poor Harriet!" he added, and as the widow looked into his face, she was amazed to see it streaming with tears. "But for her, but forher," he added, "but for her and my wretched Henry—but for my children, Elsie, I might, Iwouldhave done justice to Jessie's memory. Oh God! had I but known of this thing before! But why,now, should it be known? You revenge the murdered Jessie not on me, Elsie, but on my poor Harriet. The stain you feared to cast on the name of Hyland, you fling on the forehead of my daughter. Elsie Bell, Elsie Bell," he exclaimed, in unspeakable agitation, while drops of sweat rolled from his temples and mingled with his tears, "if I tell you what you know not, though it show me to have done worse by Jessie Gilbert than you dream, it will destroy my remaining child. And why should I destroy her? Why fling her before the world as a creature to be scorned, for the sake of a wretched fratricide? I will not do it,—I will say no more—whathaveI said? When they are dead,—when all are dead, then let me lay bare my baseness, and think of the memory of Jessie. But this child,—this wretched, this blood-stained Hyland,—I will save his life,—the governor shall grant me his pardon; it cannot be that he will refuse me—But I will never see him, no, never—Hah! hear! what is this? They are bringing him forth! Hark! they are shouting aloud for his condemnation!—Oh heaven support me! To this I—I have brought him!"
But we have not the courage to pursue further the agonies of the wretched father, whom a sudden commotion in the street, with loud cries of "To the court! to the court! the jury have made a verdict!" one of twenty false rumours to which expectation gave birth,—threw into new transports of anguish. At last, moved by an irresistible impulse, he started up and ran into the streets, through which he made his way to the prison.
In the meanwhile, Hyland strode (for though securely fettered, he was no longer chained to the floor,) to and fro in his cell, a changed, we might almost say, a happy, man. The sight of his pistols in the court had introduced a new set of associations, from which he perceived clearly, that, although he had so long esteemed himself the author of Falconer's death, that young man had, in truth, fallen by some other hand. The story told by Sterling of the exchange of pistols between him and the prisoner, was, as Hyland had pronounced it, a sheer fabrication; although he was unable to devise any reason Sterling could have for swearing falsely; his original testimony having made it clear, that he was not actuated by motives of malice. He remembered that he had raised a weapon against his rival, which, as others were discharged at the same moment, he did not dream had failed to go off; although he now recalled to mind that the same one—he had taken it from the same side of the saddle—had flashed in his hands, when aimed at the head of Sterling. Remembering these circumstances in connexion with Dancy's declaration that he had restored the pistol, entirely empty, to the holsters, he saw at once, however others failed to see it, that Providence had interposed to save him from the crime of bloodshed, and that he was therefore, save in intent, wholly innocent. This persuasion was enough to banish his despair, which was founded chiefly on remorse; and perhaps, in great measure, also, his apprehensions; although in a cooler moment, he would have perceived upon how weak a foundation he built his hope of escape, so long as the falsehood of Sterling was not exposed.
Twenty times he endeavoured to throw himself upon his knees, to thank Heaven for its signal interposition in his favour; but his devotions were checked by the tumult of his mind, which increased at last into such distraction, that although he received a visit from his jailer, whose errand had no unimportant bearing upon his interests, he failed to take any advantage of Lingo's good will, or even to understand the purport of his communications. The fact was, the note of hand which he had drawn from Affidavy's pocket, besides affording confirmatory evidence of that worthy individual's connexion with the attempted rescue, had made a strong impression upon Lingo's cupidity; and his object in the visit was nothing less than to intimatehiswillingness to serve the prisoner in the same way, and on much more reasonable terms. But he found the prisoner in no condition to treat with him on such a delicate subject; and after unmasking his battery, and uttering several broad hints in regard to his friendly intentions, he was forced to give over in despair, resolving, however, to open negotiations at a more favourable moment.
In the meanwhile, Hyland still paced to and fro through his dungeon, till his feeble limbs refused to support him longer. He then threw himself upon his couch, and becoming more collected, pondered bitterly over his situation. He heard the rush of the people towards the court-house, which was at no great distance, as well as their shouts 'that the jury had descended!' and he felt at once, with a thrill of fear, that he still lay hovering on the brink of a precipice. He started up in an agony of mind not to be controlled, and throwing himself upon his knees, began to invoke heaven with wild exclamations; when the door of his cell was thrown open, a bright lamp flashed in his face, and looking up, his eye fell upon that of Colonel Falconer, who entered the room, followed by the tottering Elsie. The door was closed behind them, and Falconer stood rooted to the floor, surveying his wretched offspring, who seemed petrified at his appearance, while Elsie stepping up to him, held the lamp to his face, and bade the father look upon the features of his son.
"It is Jessie's face over again," she muttered, "and as pale, as ghastly, and as distracted as when she cursed her betrayer. She cursed him, but do notyou, Hyland—the curse has fallen upon all. Now, Richard Falconer, behold your son, and remember Jessie Gilbert!"
"His son!" cried Hyland, starting to his feet; "hisson! Are you mad? Oh, Elsie, I am half distracted myself. Why do you bring that man to me?"
"Because," said Elsie; "he claims to see his offspring."
"His offspring! Vain old woman!"
"Would that you were not," said Colonel Falconer, with clasped hands. "I am now punished enough. Alas, wretched boy, you have killed your father's son. Hearken to this woman, and then add to the crime that already stains you, a malediction upon your parent."
"It is true, Hyland, it is true," said Elsie. "As there is a heaven above you, you look upon your own father, and you have killed your half-brother."
"I have killed nobody," said the youth, impetuously; "and if you would have me still innocent, drive that man away. His son! sooner make me the way-side beggar's—nay, make me believe myself a murderer rather. His son!"
"Ay," said Colonel Falconer, with deep emotion, "the sinful son of a sinful parent."
"Stand away! approach me not!" said Hyland, for Falconer was approaching. "Your misfortune has turned your brain. Touch me not, for I remember my sister!"
"Your mother, boy, your mother!" said Elsie.
"Be it my mother, if you will: what then have I but more cause to curse the author of her shame?"
"The author of her death, not shame," said Falconer, with a smothered voice. "Murderer of your brother, even for your sake I will take that veil of disgrace from your mother's memory that must be hung round the brows of my daughter. Do not curse me, my son—Elsie Bell, I deceived you all, and it was the deceit that killed my poor Jessie. This boy was born in wedlock,—the child of the abandoned and broken-hearted, yet wedded, wife of her destroyer."
"Your wife! gracious heaven, your wife!" said Elsie, on whom these words produced as strong an effect as upon the bewildered Hyland. "Now, Richard Falconer, if you have spoken the truth, you are indeed a blacker villain than ever men believed you."
"I am," said Falconer; "for with the lie I killed my wife and laid her in a grave of dishonour. You were made to believe it was but a mock ceremony that united us: it was a legal and honourable tie, and broken only by the death of Jessie. And for what purpose? You know, Elsie Bell, you know very well, yes, surely you know," he added, with much agitation, and as if afraid to speak further. But Elsie sternly affirming her ignorance of any cause he had for destroying the peace and good name of her whom he acknowledged his lawful wife, and Hyland now regarding him with a look of mingled fear and entreaty, he essayed to speak; and again the sweat-drops, oozing from his temples, betrayed the anguish and shame of mind with which he exposed an act of unexampled duplicity and baseness. His confession was indeed one which no light remorse could have wrung from his spirit; but it was made, and made without concealment or attempted extenuation, although it undoubtedly revealed a strong if not just reason for his failure to rescue from shame the memory of his betrayed wife. He had begun the world as a needy adventurer; but was early patronized by a gentleman of great wealth, with whose daughter, an only child, he soon presumed to fall deeply in love; the consequence of which was the withdrawal of his patron's favour, and immediate expulsion from his house. It appeared, that he had not failed to make some impression upon the lady's heart; but she was a spoiled child and coquette, and he left her with but little hope of ever deriving any advantage from her tenderness. He betook himself to the army, was transferred, in course of time, to the frontiers, and in less than two years after his departure, found himself recovering from the wounds he had received at the Moravian town, under the roof of Gilbert's Folly. The youth and beauty of Jessie, his gratitude for her kindness, and still more, perhaps, for her affection, which the simple-hearted maiden gave him almost at first sight, and had not the power to conceal, touched his imagination, if not his feelings; and in a moment of excitement, and folly, he proffered her his hand, and was married. The marriage was secret—it might be added, accidental; for the freedom of manners, at that day, and in that country, allowing such license, he often, as he recovered, found himself galloping with the merry maiden on visits among the settlements a dozen or more miles distant; and it was upon one of these occasions that he gave his love and faith together to the thoughtless maiden. The knot was, however, no sooner tied, than he was seized with fears and regrets: he had already received overtures towards a reconciliation by his old patron, and without well conceiving in what manner he could profit by a return of friendship in such quarter, he persuaded himself, and his bride also, that his interest demanded some temporary concealment of their union. To this Jessie was easily induced to accede; for having no distrust in her lover, she saw in such concealment only an additional frolic, such as she esteemed her marriage to be. She feared no censure from her parent, who had indeed long since signified the pleasure with which he would receive so gallant a gentleman for his son-in-law; and she looked forward with merry anticipation to the hour when she should present herself to him as a bride of a month's standing. She consented therefore, not merely with readiness, but alacrity, to preserve the wedding a strict secret; and in that fatal consent paved the way for her own ruin and untimely end. We will speak the remainder of the mournful story in a word. The overtures from the patron were renewed, and were accompanied by the smiles of his daughter. Falconer looked upon Jessie with anger, perhaps with abhorrence,—she stood in the way of his fortune. The old love smiled again, and forgetting that now the smile came too late, he yielded to the intoxication of his original passion, threw himself at her feet, and became, even with her father's consent, an accepted lover. The state of his mind can be now better imagined than described; love, avarice, and ambition together, as well as a consciousness that he had involved himself beyond all retreat, urged him to persevere in a suit both dishonourable and criminal; and Jessie was now thought of only to be hated. Months passed by, and the jest of the frolic was over; yet the marriage was not divulged; the young bride begged to disclose the secret, and every entreaty filled him with new alarm and anger; until the accidental death of the regimental chaplain by whom they had been united, and the previous decease of the only witnesses to the ceremony, put him upon a scheme for relieving himself from his bonds worthy rather of a fiend than a human being. His witnesses were two soldiers of his company, whom he had bribed to silence so liberally, that they quarrelled together in their cups, and fought, and that with such fury, that one was killed on the spot, and the other died before he could be brought to a trial. The chaplain was drowned five months after in attempting to cross a flooded river. There remained therefore no witness of the union, and the only testimony remaining, to wit, the certificate signed by the unfortunate chaplain, was already in Falconer's hands. Opportunity—the devil that seduces beyond all other fiends—destroyed every vestige of honour and humanity in his bosom; he fled from his betrayed wife, leaving her to believe that the ceremony of marriage between them had been only a brutal mockery, contrived by a villain for her ruin. He left her to believe this, to madden, and to die; and before she had drawn her last sigh,—nay, upon the morning of that dreadful midnight that saw her expire,—he had yielded to the fate he had encouraged, and taken a second wife to his bosom.
"I lived, I prospered," he cried, when he had brought his dark confession to a close; "and two fair infants sat upon my knee; but their looks were curses to me—their birth wasinfamous;and I myself, though men knew it not, was in the eye of God and the law, afelon!—Now, Hyland, son of the wronged Jessie, I have defended your mother's memory; but I am not less a villain. Expose me to the world, curse me, for I deserve it—yes!" he added, with wildness, and even falling upon his knees before the horror-struck son,—"expose me and curse me, but have pity upon my child,—have mercy upon your sister,—the sister of the brother you slew,—my poor, wretched, dishonoured Harriet."
"God forgive you, sir," said Hyland, with tears. "Leave me—I cannot call youfather:but I will not disgrace your daughter. No, I will not—but my mother——And shewasmy mother then?—my mother's name must rest no longer in infamy. Go, sir; I forgive you—that is, I will not upbraid you; but I cannot, I cannot call you father. I am innocent of Henry's—of my brother's death——Yes, I will call him brother, for surelyhenever wronged my poor mother. Take this much comfort—myhand never fired the pistol that killed him; and, whether I live or die, it will soon be seen that I am innocent of his blood."
"God grant it," said Colonel Falconer, but with an accent showing how vaguely the thought of Henry now sat on his bosom. "God grant it—but—hark! what is that? They cry again! It is the descent of the jury! Oh Heaven, I am punished indeed for that act of baseness! Farewell, my son: I do not ask you for forgiveness—but touch my hand, grasp my hand but once"——
"I cannot," said Hyland, recoiling with such horror, that the unhappy father bowed his head with shame. He then snatched up the light, unconscious of what he did, and moved towards the door, as if to depart; but a louder cry from the street striking his ear, he again turned round, and looked Hyland in the face.
"They are calling for your blood," he said, "but they do not know you killed your brother!—What! not touch my hand? Well, it is but justice.—I will not trouble you more."
With these words, he turned to depart, still holding the lamp; but had scarce moved his foot, before there was heard, at a little distance without, the sound, as it seemed, of a rifle, or other small arms.
"Oh Heaven! my father!" cried Hyland, starting up, with a voice that thrilled Elsie to the brain,—"I have killed my father!"
The lamp fell from Colonel Falconer's hands, and all was in darkness. As Hyland rushed to where he had stood, his foot struck against a prostrate body; and reaching down, he found his hand slipping in a puddle of warm blood.
"Elsie! Elsie!" cried the distracted youth, "a light for God's sake! It was meant forme, but it has struck my father! Why did I forget? Oh, I thought not of my folly.—Help me, Elsie—he groans."
"Enough,—let me lie where I am," said Falconer, with a voice almost inaudible. "There is retribution for all."
"Call the jailer!—Quick, jailer, quick!" cried Hyland, as the door opened, disclosing the broad and wondering visage of Hanschen: "help me to place him upon the bed; and then, oh for God's sake, quick for a surgeon!"
But Hanschen answered only by slapping to the door, without uttering a word; and making his way as fast as he could towards the cell of Sterling, in which was, at that moment, presented a scene of not less fearful character than that which had passed before Hyland's eyes.