CHAPTER XX.

I LIKEWISE burned with im­patience to know the condition of my family, to dissipate at once their torment­ing doubts and my own, with regard to our mutual safety. The evil that I feared had befallen them was too enor­mous to allow me to repose in suspense, and my restlessness and ominous fore­bodings would be more intolerable than any hardship or toils to which I could possibly be subjected during this journey.

[Page 4] I was much refreshed and invigorated by the food that I had taken, and by the rest of an hour. With this stock of recruited force I determined to scale the hill. After receiving minute directions, and returning many thanks for my hos­pitable entertainment, I set out.

The path was indeed intricate, and deliberate attention was obliged to be exerted in order to preserve it. Hence my progress was slower than I wished. The first impulse was to fix my eye upon the summit, and to leap from crag to crag till I reached it, but this my experi­ence had taught me was impracticable. It was only by winding through gullies, and coasting precipices and bestriding chasms, that I could hope finally to gain the top, and I was assured that by one way only was it possible to accomplish even this.

[Page 5] An hour was spent in struggling with impediments, and I seemed to have gained no way. Hence a doubt was suggested whether I had not missed the true road. In this doubt I was confirmed by the difficulties which now grew up before me. The brooks, the angles and the hollows, which my hostess had des­cribed, were not to be seen. Instead of these, deeper dells, more headlong tor­rents and wider gaping rifts were inces­santly encountered.

To return was as hoples as to proceed. I consoled myself with thinking that the survey which my informant had made of the hill-side, might prove inaccurate, and that in spite of her predictions, the heights might be reached by other means than by those pointed out by her. I will not enumerate my toilsome expe­dients, my frequent disappointments and my desperate exertions. Suffice it to say [Page 6] that I gained the upper space, not till the sun had dipped beneath the horizon.

My satisfaction at accomplishing thus much was not small, and I hied, with reno­vated spirits, to the opposite brow. This proved to be a steep that could not be descended. The river flowed at its foot. The opposite bank was five hun­dred yards distant, and was equally towering and steep as that on which I stood. Appearances were adapted to persuade you that these rocks had for­merly joined, but by some mighty effort of nature, had been severed, that the stream might find way through the chasm. The channel, however, was en­cumbered with asperities over which the river fretted and foamed with thun­dering impetuosity.

I pondered for a while on these stu­pendous scenes. They ravished my at­tention from considerations that related [Page 7] to myself; but this interval was short, and I began to measure the descent, in order to ascertain the practicability of treading it. My survey terminated in bitter disap­pointment. I turned my eye successively eastward and westward. Solebury lay in the former direction, and thither I desired to go. I kept along the verge in this direction, till I reached an impas­sable rift. Beyond this I saw that the steep grew lower, but it was impossible to proceed farther. Higher up the des­cent might be practicable, and though more distant from Solebury, it was better to reach the road, even at that distance, than never to reach it.

Changing my course, therefore, I explored the spaces above. The night was rapidly advancing, the grey clouds gathered in the south-east, and a chilling blast, the usual attendent of a night in [Page 8] October, began to whistle among the pigmy cedars that scantily grew upon these heights. My progress would quick­ly be arrested by darkness, and it beho­ved me to provide some place of shelter and repose. No recess, better than an hollow in the rock, presented itself to my anxious scrutiny.

Meanwhile I would not dismiss the hope of reaching the road, which I saw some hundred feet below, winding along the edge of the river, before daylight should utterly fail. Speedily these hopes derived new vigour from meeting a ledge that irregularly declined from the brow of the hill. It was wide enough to allow of cautious footing. On a similar stratum, or ledge, projecting still further from the body of the hill, and close to the sur­face of the river, was the road. This stratum ascended from the level of the stream, while that on which I trod rapidly [Page 9] descended. I hoped that they would speedly be blended, or at least approach so near as to allow me to leap from one to the other without enormous hazard.

This fond expectation was frustrated. Presently I perceived that the ledge below began to descend, while that above began to tend upward, and was quickly terminated by the uppermost surface of the cliff. Here it was needful to pause. I looked over the brink and considered whether I might not leap from my pre­sent station, without endangering my limbs. The road into which I should fall was a rocky pavement far from being smooth. The descent could not be less than forty or fifty feet. Such an attempt was, to the last degree, hazardous, but was it not better to risque my life by leaping from this eminence, than to remain and perish on the top of this inhospitable mountain. The toils which [Page 10] I had endured, in reaching this height appeared to my panic-struck fancy, less easy to be borne again than death.

I know not but that I should have finally resolved to leap, had not different views been suggested by observing that the outer edge of the road was, in like manner, the brow of a steep which termin­ated in the river. The surface of the road, was twelve or fifteen feet above the level of the stream, which, in this spot was still and smooth. Hence I inferred that the water was not of incon­siderable depth. To fall upon rocky points was, indeed, dangerous, but to plunge into water of sufficient depth, even from an height greater than that at which I now stood, especially to one to whom habit had rendered water almost as congenial an element as air, was scarcely attended with inconvenience. This expedient was easy and safe.

[Page 11] Twenty yards from this spot, the channel was shallow, and to gain the road from the stream, was no difficult exploit.

Some disadvantages, however, at­tended this scheme. The water was smooth, but this might arise from some other cause than its depth. My gun, likewise, must be left behind me, and that was a loss to which I felt invincible repugnance. To let it fall upon the road, would put it in my power to retrieve the possession, but it was likely to be irreparably injured by the fall.

While musing upon this expedient, and weighing injuries with benefits, the night closed upon me. I now considered that should I emerge in safety from the stream, I should have many miles to travel before I could reach an house. My clothes meanwhile would be loaded with wet. I should be heart-pierced by the icy blast that now blew, and my [Page 12] wounds and bruises would be chafed into insupportable pain.

I reasoned likewise on the folly of impatience and the necessity of repose. By thus long continuance in one posture, my sinews began to stiffen, and my reluc­tance to make new exertions to encrease. My brows were heavy, and I felt an irre­sistible propensity to sleep. I concluded to seek some shelter, and resign myself, my painful recollections, and my mourn­ful presages to sweet forgetfulness. For this end, I once more ascended to the surface of the cliff. I dragged my weary feet forward, till I found somewhat that promised me the shelter that I sought.

A cluster of cedars appeared, whose branches over-arched a space that might be called a bower. It was a slight cavity, whose flooring was composed of loose stones and a few faded leaves blown from a distance, and finding a temporary [Page 13] lodgement here. On one side was a rock, forming a wall rugged and projecting above. At the bottom of the rock was a rift, some-what resembling a coffin in shape, and not much larger in dimen­sions. This rift terminated on the oppo­site side of the rock, in an opening that was too small for the body of a man to pass. The distance between each en­trance was twice the length of a man.

This bower was open to the South-east whence the gale now blew. It there­fore imperfectly afforded the shelter of which I stood in need; but it was the best that the place and the time afforded. To stop the smaller entrance of the cavity with a stone, and to heap before the other, branches lopped from the trees with my hatchet, might somewhat contribute to my comfort.

This was done, and thrusting myself into this recess, as far as I was able, I pre­pared [Page 14] for repose. It might have been rea­sonably suspected to be the den of rattle-snakes or panthers; but my late con­tention with superior dangers and more formidable enemies made me reckless of these, but another inconvenience remain­ed. In spite of my precautions, my motionless posture and slender covering exposed me so much to the cold that I could not sleep.

The air appeared to have suddenly assumed the temperature of mid-winter. In a short time, my extremeties were benumbed, and my limbs shivered and ached as if I had been seized by an ague. My bed likewise was dank and uneven, and the posture I was obliged to assume, unnatural and painful. It was evident that my purpose could not be answered by remaining here.

I, therefore, crept forth, and began to reflect upon the possibility of con­tinuing [Page 15] my journey. Motion was the only thing that could keep me from freezing, and my frame was in that state which allowed me to take no repose in the absence of warmth; since warmth were indispensible. It now occurred to me to ask whether it were not possible to kindle a fire.

Sticks and leaves were at hand. My hatchet and a pebble would enable me to extract a spark. From this, by suita­ble care and perseverance, I might finally procure sufficient fire to give me comfort and ease, and even enable me to sleep. This boon was delicious and I felt as if I were unable to support a longer deprivation of it.

I proceeded to execute this scheme. I took the dryest leaves, and endeavoured to use them as tinder, but the driest leaves were moistened by the dews. They [Page 16] were only to be found in the hollows, in some of which were pools of water and others were dank. I was not speedily discouraged, but my repeated attempts failed, and I was finally compelled to relinquish this expedient.

All that now remained was to wander forth and keep myself in motion till the morning. The night was likely to prove tempestuous and long. The gale seemed freighted with ice, and acted upon my body like the points of a thousand needles. There was no remedy, and I mustered my patience to endure it.

I returned again, to the brow of the hill. I ranged along it till I reached a place where the descent was perpendicu­lar, and, in consequence of affording no sustenance to trees or bushes, was nearly smooth and bare. There was no road to be seen, and this circumstance, added to the sounds which the ripling current [Page 17] produced, afforded me some knowledge of my situation.

The ledge, along which the road was conducted, disappeared near this spot. The opposite sides of the chasm through which flowed the river, approached near­er to each other, in the form of jutting promontories. I now stood upon the verge of that on the northern side. The water flowed at the foot, but, for the space of ten or twelve feet from the rock, was so shallow as to permit the traveller and his horse to wade through it, and thus to regain the road which the reced­ing precipice had allowed to be continued on the farther side.

I knew the nature and dimensions of this ford. I knew that, at a few yards from the rock, the channel was of great depth. To leap into it, in this place, was a less dangerous exploit, than at the spot where I had formerly been tempted to [Page 18] leap. There I was unacquainted with the depth, but here I knew it to be consi­derable. Still there was some ground of hesitation and fear. My present sta­tion was loftier, and how deeply I might sink into this gulf, how far the fall and the concussion would bereave me of my presence of mind, I could not determine. This hesitation vanished, and placing my tom-hawk and fusil upon the ground, I prepared to leap.

This purpose was suspended, in the moment of its execution, by a faint sound, heard from the quarter whence I had come. It was the warning of men, but had nothing in common with those which I had been accustomed to hear. It was not the howling of a wolf or the yelling of a panther. These had often been over­heard by night during my last year's excursion to the lakes. My fears whis­pered [Page 19] that this was the vociferation of a savage.

I was unacquainted with the number of the enemies who had adventured into this district. Whether those whom I had encountered at Deb's but were of that band whom I had met with in the cavern, was merely a topic of conjecture. There might be an half-score of troops, equally numerous, spread over the wilderness, and the signal I had just heard might betoken the approach of one of these. Yet by what means they should gain this nook, and what prey they expected to discover, were not easily conceived.

The sounds, somewhat diversified, nearer and rising from different quarters, were again heard. My doubts and appre­hensions were increased. What expedi­ent to adopt for my own safety, was a subject of rapid meditation. Whether [Page 20] to remain stretched upon the ground or to rise and go forward. Was it likely the enemy would coast along the edge of the steep? Would they ramble hither to look upon the ample scene which spread on all sides around the base of this rocky pinnacle? In that case, how should I conduct myself! My arms were ready for use. Could I not elude the necessity of shedding more blood? Could I not anticipate their assault by casting myself without delay into the stream.

The sense of danger demanded more attention to be paid to external objects than to the motives by which my future conduct should be influenced. My post was on a circular projecture, in some degree, detached from the body of the hill, the brow of which continued in a streight line, uninterrupted by this pro­jecture, which was somewhat higher than the continued summit of the ridge. This [Page 21] line ran at the distance of a few paces from my post. Objects moving along this line could merely be perceived to move, in the present obscurity.

My scrutiny was entirely directed to this quarter. Presently the treading of many feet was heard, and several figures were discovered, following each other in that streight and regular succession which is peculiar to the Indians. They kept along the brow of the hill joining the pro­montory. I distinctly marked seven figures in succession.

My resolution was formed. Should any one cast his eye hither, suspect, or discover an enemy, and rush towards me, I determined to start upon my feet, fire on my foe as he advanced, throw my piece on the ground, and then leap into the river.

Happily, they passed unobservant and in silence. I remained, in the same [Page 22] posture, for several minutes. At length, just as my alarms began to subside, the hollows, before heard, arose, and from the same quarter as before. This convinced me that my perils were not at an end. This now appeared to be merely the vanguard, and would speedily be followed by others, against whom the same caution was necessary to be taken.

My eye, anxiously bent the only way by which any one could approach, now discerned a figure, which was indubita­bly that of a man armed, none other appeared in company, but doubtless others were near. He approached, stood still, and appeared to gaze stedfastly at the spot where I lay.

The optics of a Lennilennapee I knew to be far keener than my own. A log or a couched fawn would never be mis­taken for a man, nor a man for a couched fawn or a log. Not only a human being [Page 23] would be instantly detected, but a deci­sion be unerringly made whether it were friend or foe. That my prostrate body was the object on which the attention of this vigilant and stedfast gazer was fixed, could not be doubted. Yet, since he continued an inactive gazer, there was ground for a possibility to stand upon, that I was not recognized. My fate, therefore, was still in suspense.

This interval was momentary. I marked a movement, which my fears in­stantly interpreted to be that of leveling a gun at my head. This action was suffi­ciently conformable to my prognostics. Supposing me to be detected, there was no need for him to change his post. Aim might too fatally be taken, and his prey be secured, from the distance at which he now stood.

These images glanced upon my thought, and put an end to my suspense.

[Page 24] A single effort placed me on my feet. I fired with precipitation that precluded the certainty of hitting my mark, dropped my piece upon the ground, and leaped from this tremendous height into the river. I reached the surface, and sunk in a moment to the bottom.

Plunging endlong into the water, the impetus created by my fall from such an height, would be slowly resisted by this denser element. Had the depth been less, its resistance would not perhaps have hindered me from being mortally injured against the rocky bottom. Had the depth been greater, time enough would not have been allowed me to regain the surface. Had I fallen on my side, I should have been bereaved of life or sensibility by the shock which my frame would have received. As it was, my fate was suspended on a thread. To have lost my presence of mind, to [Page 25] have forborne to counteract my sinking, for an instant, after I had reached the water, would have made all exertions to regain the air, fruitless. To so fortunate a concurrence of events, was thy friend indebted for his safety!

Yet I only emerged from the gulf to encounter new perils. Scarcely had I raised my head above the surface, and inhaled the vital breath, when twenty shots were aimed at me from the preci­pice above. A shower of bullets fell upon the water. Some of them did not fall further than two inches from my head. I had not been aware of this new danger, and now that it assailed me con­tinued gasping the air, and floundering at random. The means of eluding it did not readily occur. My case seemed desperate and all caution was dismissed.

This state of discomfiting surprise quickly disappeared. I made myself ac­quainted, [Page 26] at a glance, with the position of surrounding objects. I conceived that the opposite bank of the river would afford me most security, and thither I tended with all the expedition in my power.

Meanwhile, my safety depended on eluding the bullets that continued inces­santly to strike the water at an arm's length from my body. For this end I plunged beneath the surface, and only rose to inhale fresh air. Presently the firing ceased, the flashes that lately illu­minated the bank disappeared, and a certain bustle and murmur of confused voices gave place to solitude and silence.

CHAPTER XXI.

I REACHED without difficulty the opposite bank, but the steep was inaccessible. I swam along the edge in hopes of meeting with some projection or recess where I might, at least, rest my weary limbs, and if it were necessary to recross the river, to lay in a stock of recruited spirits and strength for that purpose. I trusted that the water would speedily become shoal, or that the steep would afford rest to my feet. In both these hopes I was disappointed.

[Page 28] There is no one to whom I would yield the superiority in swimming, but my strength, like that of other human beings, had its limits. My previous fatigues had been enormous, and my clothes, heavy with moisture, greatly incumbered and retarded my movements. I had proposed to free myself from this imprisonment, but I foresaw the incon­veniences of wandering over this scene in absolute nakedness, and was willing therefore, at whatever hazard, to retain them. I continued to struggle with the current and to search for the means of scaling the steeps. My search was fruit­less, and I began to meditate the recros­sing of the river.

Surely my fate has never been paral­leled! Where was this series of hardships and perils to end? No sooner was one calamity eluded, than I was beset by another. I had emerged from abhorred [Page 29] darkness in the heart of the earth, only to endure the extremities of famine and encounter the fangs of a wild beast. From these I was delivered only to be thrown into the midst of savages, to wage an endless and hopeless war with adepts in killing; with appetites that longed to feast upon my bowels and to quaff my heart's-blood. From these likewise was I rescued, but merely to perish in the gulfs of the river, to welter on unvisited shores or to be washed far away from curiosity or pity.

Formerly water was not only my field of sport but my sofa and my bed. I could float for hours on the surface, enjoy­ing its delicious cool, almost without the expense of the slightest motion. It was an element as fitted for repose as for exer­cise, but now the buoyant spirit seemed to have flown. My muscles were shrunk, the air and water were equally congealed, [Page 30] and my most vehement exertions were requisite to sustain me on the surface.

At first I had moved along with my wonted celerity and ease, but quickly my forces were exhausted. My pantings and efforts were agumented and I saw that to cross the river again was imprac­ticable. I must continue, therefore, to search out some accessible spot in the bank along which I was swimming.

Each moment diminished my stock of strength, and it behoved me to make good my footing before another minute should escape. I continued to swim, to survey the bank, and to make ineffectual attempts to grasp the rock. The shrubs which grew upon it would not uphold me, and the fragments which, for a moment, inspired me with hope, crumbled away as soon as they were touched.

At length, I noticed a pine, which was rooted in a crevice near the water. [Page 31] The trunk, or any part of the root, was beyond my reach, but I trusted that I could catch hold of the branch which hung lowest, and that, when caught, it would assist me in gaining the trunk, and thus deliver me from the death which could not be otherwise averted.

The attempt was arduous. Had it been made when I first reached the bank, no difficulty had attended it, but now, to throw myself some feet above the surface could scarcely be expected from one whose utmost efforts seemed to be demanded to keep him from sinking. Yet this exploit, arduous as it was, was attempted and accomplished. Happily the twigs were strong enough to sustain my weight till I caught at other branches and finally placed myself upon the trunk.

This danger was now past, but I admitted the conviction that others, no [Page 32] less formidable remained to be encoun­tered and that my ultimate destiny was death. I looked upward. New efforts might enable me to gain the summit of this steep, but, perhaps, I should thus be placed merely in the situation from which I had just been delivered. It was of little moment whether the scene of my imprisonment was a dungeon not to be broken, or a summit from which descent was impossible.

The river, indeed, severed me from a road which was level and safe, but my recent dangers were remembered only to make me shudder at the thought of in­curring them a second time, by attempt­ing to cross it. I blush at the recollection of this cowardice. It was little akin to the spirit which I had recently dis­played. It was, indeed, an alien to my bosom, and was quickly supplanted by intrepidity and perseverance.

[Page 33] I proceeded to mount the hill. From root to root, and from branch to branch, lay my journey. It was finished, and I sat down upon the highest brow to me­ditate on future trials. No road lay along this side of the river. It was rugged and sterile, and farms were spa­ringly dispersed over it. To reach one of these was now the object of my wishes. I had not lost the desire of reaching Solebury before morning, but my wet clothes and the coldness of the night seemed to have bereaved me of the pow­er.

I traversed this summit, keeping the river on my right hand. Happily, its declinations and ascents were by no means difficult, and I was cheered in the midst of my vexations, by observing that every mile brought me nearer to my uncle's dwelling. Meanwhile I anxiously looked for some tokens of an habitation. [Page 34] These at length presented themselves. A wild heath, whistled over by October blasts, meagrely adorned with the dry stalks of scented shrubs and the bald heads of the sapless mullen, was succeed­ed by a fenced field and a corn-stack. The dwelling to which these belonged was eagerly sought.

I was not surprised that all voices were still and all lights extinguished, for this was the hour of repose. Having reached a piazza before the house, I paused. Whether, at this drousy time, to knock for admission, to alarm the peaceful tenants and take from them the rest which their daily toils and their rural innocence had made so sweet, or to retire to what shelter an hay-stack or barn could afford, was the theme of my deliberations.

Meanwhile I looked up at the house. It was the model of cleanliness and com­fort. [Page 35] It was built of wood; but the materials had undergone the plane, as well as the axe and the saw. It was painted white, and the windows not only had sashes, but these sashes were supplied, contrary to custom, with glass. In most cases, the aperture where glass should be is stuffed with an old hat or a petticoat. The door had not only all its parts entire, but was embellished with mouldings and a pediment. I gathered from these tokens that this was the abode not only of rural competence and inno­cence, but of some beings, raised by education and fortune, above the intel­lectual mediocrity of clowns.

Methought I could claim consangui­nity with such beings. Not to share their charity and kindness would be inflicting as well as receiving injury. The trouble of affording shelter, and warmth, and wholesome diet to a wretch [Page 36] destitute as I was, would be eagerly sought by them.

Still I was unwilling to disturb them. I bethought myself that their kitchen might be entered, and all that my necessi­ties required be obtained without inter­rupting their slumber. I needed nothing but the warmth which their kitchen hearth would afford. Stretched upon the bricks, I might dry my clothes, and perhaps enjoy some unmolested sleep. In spite of presages of ill and the hor­rid remembrances of what I had perfor­med and endured. I believed that nature would afford a short respite to my cares.

I went to the door of what appeared to be a kitchen. The door was wide open. This circumstance portended evil. Though it be not customary to lock or to bolt, it is still less usual to have entran­ces unclosed. I entered with suspicious [Page 37] steps, and saw enough to confirm my apprehensions. Several pieces of wood half burned, lay in the midst of the floor. They appeared to have been removed hither from the chimney, doubtless with a view to set fire to the whole building.

The fire had made some progress on the floor, but had been seasonably extin­guished by pail's-full of water, thrown upon it. The floor was still deluged with wet, the pail not emptied of all its contents stood upon the hearth. The earthen vessels and plates whose proper place was the dresser, were scattered in fragments in all parts of the room. I looked around me for some one to explain this scene, but no one appeared.

The last spark of fire was put out, so that had my curiosity been idle, my purpose could not be accomplished. To retire from this scene, neither curio­sity nor benevolence would permit. That [Page 38] some mortal injury had been intended was apparent. What greater mischief had befallen, or whether greater might not, by my interposition, be averted, could only be ascertained by penetrating fur­ther into the house. I opened a door on one side which led to the main body of the building and entered to a bed­chamber. I stood at the entrance and knocked, but no one answered my sig­nals▪

The sky was not totally clouded, so that some light pervaded the room. I saw that a bed stood in the corner, but whether occupied or not, its curtains hindered me from judging. I stood in suspense a few minutes, when a motion in the bed shewed me that some one was there. I knocked again but withdrew to the outside of the door. This roused the sleeper, who, half-groaning and puffing the air through his nostrils, [Page 39] grumbled out in the hoarsest voice that I ever heard, and in a tone of surly impa­tience—Who is there?

I hesitated for an answer, but the voice instantly continued in the manner of one half-asleep and enraged at being disturbed—Is't you Peg? Damn ye, stay away, now; I tell ye stay away, or, by God I will cut your throat—I will—He continued to mutter and swear, but with­out coherence or distinctness.

These were the accents of drunken­ness, and denoted a wild and ruffian life. They were little in unison with the external appearances of the mansion, and blasted all the hopes I had formed of meeting under this roof with gentleness and hospitality. To talk with this being, to attempt to reason him into humanity and soberness, was useless. I was at a loss in what manner to address him, or [Page 40] whether it was proper to maintain any parley. Meanwhile, my silence was supplied by the suggestions of his own distempered fancy. Ay, said he, ye will, will ye? well come on, let's see who's the better at the oak-stick. If I part with ye, before I have bared your bones—I'll teach ye to be always dipping in my dish, ye devil's dam! ye!

So saying, he tumbled out of bed. At the first step, he struck his head against the bed-post, but setting himself upright, he staggered towards the spot where I stood. Some new obstacle oc­curred. He stumbled and fell at his length upon the floor.

To encounter or expostulate with a man in this state was plainly absurd. I turned and issued forth, with an aching heart, into the court before the house. The miseries which a debauched hus­band or father inflicts upon all whom [Page 41] their evil destiny allies to him were pictured by my fancy, and wrung from me tears of anguish. These images, however, quickly yielded to reflections on my own state. No expedient now remain­ed, but to seek the barn, and find a cover­ing and a bed of straw.

I had scarcely set foot within the barn-yard when I heard a sound as o the crying of an infant. It appeared to issue from the barn. I approached softly and listened at the door. The cries of the babe continued, but were accompa­nied by intreaties of a nurse or a mother to be quiet. These intreaties were mingled with heart-breaking sobs and exclamations of—Ah! me, my babe! Canst thou not sleep and afford thy unhappy mother some peace? Thou art cold, and I have not sufficient warmth to cherish thee! What will become of us? [Page 42] Thy deluded father cares not if we both perish.

A glimpse of the true nature of the scene seemed to be imparted by these words. I now likewise recollected inci­dents that afforded additional light. Some­where on this bank of the river, there formerly resided one by name Selby. He was an aged person, who united science and taste to the simple and laborious habits of an husbandman. He had a son who resided several years in Europe, but on the death of his father, returned home, accompanied by a wife. He had succeeded to the occupation of the farm, but rumour had whispered many tales to the disadvantage of his morals. His wife was affirmed to be of delicate and polished manners, and much unlike her companion.

It now occured to me that this was the dwelling of the Selby's, and I seemed to [Page 43] have gained some insight into the discord and domestic miseries by which the un­happy lady suffered. This was no time to waste my sympathy on others. I could benefit her nothing. Selby had probably returned from a carousal, with all his malignant passions raised into phrensy by intoxication. He had driven his deso­late wife from her bed and house, and to shun outrage and violence she had fled, with her helpless infant, to the barn. To appease his fury, to console her, to suggest a remedy for this distress, was not in my power. To have sought an interview would be merely to excite her terrors and alarm her delicacy, without contributing to alleviate her calamity. Here then was no asylum for me. A place of rest must be sought at some neighbouring habitation. It was proba­ble that one would be found at no great [Page 44] distance, the path that led from the spot where I stood, through a gate into a meadow, might conduct me to the nearest dwelling, and this path I immediately re­solved to explore.

I was anxious to open the gate without noise, but I could not succeed. Some creaking of its hinges, was unavoid­ably produced, which I feared would be overheard by the lady and multiply her apprehensions and perplexities. This inconvenience was irremediable. I therefore closed the gate and pursued the foot way before me with the utmost expedition. I had not gained the further end of the meadow when I lighted on something which lay across the path, and which, on being closely, inspected, appeared to be an human body. It was the corse of a girl, mangled by an hatchet. Her head gory and deprived of its looks, easily explained the kind of enemies by [Page 45] whom she had been assailed. Here was proof that this quiet and remote habita­tion had been visited, in their destructive progress by the Indians. The girl had been slain by them, and her scalp, accor­ding to their savage custom, had been torn away to be preserved as a trophy.

The fire which had been kindled on the kitchen floor was now remembered, and corroborated the inferences which were drawn from this spectacle. And yet that the mischief had been thus limited, that the besotted wretch who lay helpless on his bed, and careless of impending danger, and that the mother and her infant should escape, excited some degree of surprise. Could the savages have been interrupted in their work, and obliged to leave their vengeance unfinished?

Their visit had been recent. Many hours had not elapsed since they prowled [Page 46] about these grounds. Had they wholly disappeared and meant they not to return? To what new danger might I be exposed in remaining thus guideless and destitute of all defence?

In consequence of these reflections, I proceeded with more caution. I looked with suspicious glances, before and on either side of me. I now approached the fence which, on this side, bounded the meadow. Something was discerned or immagined, stretched close to the fence, on the ground, and filling up the path-way. My apprehensions of a lurking enemy, had been previously awakened, and my fancy instantly figured to itself an armed man, lying on the ground and waiting to assail the unsus­pecting passenger.

At first I was prompted to fly, but a second thought shewed me that I had already approached near enough to be [Page 47] endangered. Notwithstanding my pause, the form was motionless. The possibility of being misled in my conjectures was easily supposed. What I saw might be a log or it might be another victim to savage ferocity. This tract was that which my safety required me to pursue. To turn aside or go back would be merely to bewilder myself anew.

Urged by these motives, I went nearer, and at least was close enough to perceive that the figure was human. He lay upon his face, near his right hand was a musquet, unclenched. This cir­cumstance, his death-like attitude and the garb and ornaments of an Indian, made me readily suspect the nature and cause of this catastrophe. Here the invaders had been encountered and repulsed, and one at least of their num­ber had been left upon the field.

[Page 48] I was weary of contemplating these rueful objects. Custom, likewise, even in so short a period, had innured me to spectacles of horror. I was grown callous and immoveable. I staid not to ponder on the scene, but snatching the musquet, which was now without an owner, and which might be indispensable to my de­fence, I hastened into the wood. On this side the meadow was skirted by a forest, but a beaten road lead into it, and might therefore be attempted with­out danger.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE road was intricate and long. It seemed designed to pervade the forest in every possible direction. I frequently noticed cut wood, piled in heaps upon either side, and rejoiced in these tokens that the residence of men was near. At length I reached a second fence, which proved to be the boundary of a road still more frequented. I pursued this, and pre­sently beheld, before me, the river and its opposite barriers.

This object afforded me some know­ledge of my situation. There was a ford over which travellers used to pass, [Page 50] and in which the road that I was now pursuing terminated. The stream was rapid and tumultuous, but in this place it did not rise higher than the shoulders. On the opposite side was an highway, passable by horses and men, though not carriages, and which led into the midst of Solebury. Should I not rush into the stream, and still aim at reaching my uncle's house before morning▪ Why should I delay?

Thirty hours of incessant watchful­ness and toil, of enormous efforts and perils, preceded and accompanied by abstinence and wounds, were enough to annihilate the strength and courage of ordinary men. In the course of them, I had frequently believed myself to have reach­ed the verge beyond which my force would not carry me, but experience as frequently demonstrated my error. Though many miles, were yet to be [Page 51] traversed, though my clothes were once more to be drenched and loaded with moisture, though every hour seemed to add somewhat to the keenness of the blast: yet how should I know, but by trial, whether my stock of energy was not suf­ficient for this last exploit?

My resolution to proceed was nearly formed, when the figure of a man moving slowly across the road, at some distance before me, was observed. Hard by this ford lived a man by name Bisset, of whom I had slight knowledge. He tended his two hundred acres with a plodding and money-doating spirit, while his son overlooked a Grist-mill, on the river. He was a creature of gain, coarse and harmless. The man whom I saw be­fore me might be he, or some one belong­ing to his family. Being armed for defence, I less scrupled a meeting with any thing [Page 52] in the shape of man. I therefore called. The figure stopped and answered me, without surliness or anger. The voice was unlike that of Bisset, but this per­son's information I believed would be of some service.

Coming up to him, he proved to be a clown, belonging to Bisset's habitation. His panic and surprise on seeing me made him aghast. In my present garb I should not have easily been recognized by my nearest kinsman, and much less easily by one who had seldom met me.

It may be easily conceived that my thoughts, when allowed to wander from the objects before me, were tormented with forebodings and inquietudes on ac­count of the ills which I had so much reason to believe had befallen my family. I had no doubt that some evil had hap­pened, but the full extent of it was still uncertain. I desired and dreaded to [Page 53] discover the truth, and was unable to interrogate this person in a direct man­ner. I could deal only in circuities and hints. I shuddered while I waited for an answer to my inquiries.

Had not Indians, I asked, been lately seen in this neighbourhood? Were they not suspected of hostile designs? Had they not already committed some mis­chief? Some passenger, perhaps, had been attacked; or fire had been set to some house? On which side of the river had their steps been observed, or any devastation been committed? Above the ford or below it? At what distance from the river?

When his attention could be with­drawn from my person and bestowed upon my questions, he answered that some alarm had indeed been spread about Indians, and that parties from Solebury and Chetasko were out in pur­suit [Page 54] of them, that many persons had been killed by them, and that one house in Solebury had been rifled and burnt on the night before the last.

These tidings were a dreadful con­firmation of my fears. There scarcely remained a doubt: but still my expiring hope prompted me to inquire to whom did the house belong?

He answered that he had not heard the name of the owner. He was a stran­ger to the people on the other side of the river.

Were any of the inhabitants mur­dered?

Yes. All that were at home except a girl whom they carried off. Some said that the girl had been retaken?

What was the name? Was it Huntly?

Huntly? yes. No. He did not know. He had forgotten.

[Page 55] I fixed my eyes upon the ground. An interval of gloomy meditation succeeded. All was lost, all for whose sake I desired to live, had perished by the hands of these assassins. That dear home, the scene of my sportive childhood, of my studies, labours and recreations, was ravaged by fire and the sword: was reduced to a frightful ruin.

Not only all that embellished and endeared existence was destroyed, but the means of subsistence itself. Thou knowest that my sister and I were dependants on the bounty of our uncle. His death would make way for the suc­cession of his son, a man fraught with envy and malignity: who always testified a mortal hatred to us, merely because we enjoyed the protection of his father. The ground which furnished me with bread was now become the property of [Page 56] one, who, if he could have done it with security, would gladly have mingled poison with my food.

All that my imagination or my heart regarded as of value had likewise perish­ed. Whatever my chamber, my closets, my cabinets contained, my furniture, my books, the records of my own skill, the monuments of their existence whom I loved, my very cloathing, were involved in indiscriminate and irretreivable des­truction. Why should I survive this calamity?

But did not he say that one had escaped? The only females in the family were my sisters. One of these had been reserved for a fate worse than death; to gratify the innate and insatiable cruelty of savages by suffering all the torments their invention can suggest, or to linger out years of dreary bondage and unin­termitted hardship in the bosom of the [Page 57] wilderness. To restore her to liberty; to cherish this last survivor of my unfor­tunate race was a sufficient motive to life and to activity.

But soft! Had not rumour whispered that the captive was retaken? Oh! who was her angel of deliverance? Where did she now abide? Weeping over the untimely fall of her protector and her friend. Lamenting and upbraiding the absence of her brother? Why should I not haste to find her? To mingle my tears with hers, to assure her of my safety and expiate the involuntary crime of my desertion, by devoting all futurity to the task of her consolation and improvement?

The path was open and direct. My new motives, would have trampled upon every impediment and made me reckless of all dangers and all toils. I broke from my reverie, and without taking [Page 58] leave or expressing gratitude to my infor­mant, I ran with frantic expedition to­wards the river, and plunging into it gained the opposite side in a moment.

I was sufficiently acquainted with the road. Some twelve or fifteen miles remained to be traversed. I did not fear that my strength would fail in the per­formance of my journey. It was not my uncle's habitation to which I directed my steps. Inglefield was my friend. If my sister had existence, or was snatched from captivity, it was here that an asylum had been afforded to her, and here was I to seek the knowledge of my destiny. For this reason having reached a spot where the road divided into two bran­ches, one of which led to Inglefield's and the other to Huntly's, I struck into the former.

Scarcely had I passed the angle when I noticed a building, on the right [Page 59] hand, at some distance from the road. In the present state of my thoughts, it would not have attracted my attention, had not a light gleamed from an upper window, and told me that all within were not at rest.

I was acquainted with the owner of this mansion. He merited esteem and confidence, and could not fail to be ac­quainted with recent events. From him I should obtain all the information that I needed, and I should be delivered from some part of the agonies of my suspense. I should reach his door in a few minutes, and the window-light was a proof that my entrance at this hour would not dis­turb the family, some of whom were stirring.

Through a gate, I entered an avenue of tall oaks, that led to the house. I could not but reflect on the effect which my appearance would produce upon the [Page 60] family. The sleek locks, neat apparel, pacific guise, sobriety and gentleness of aspect by which I was customarily dis­tinguished, would in vain be sought in the apparition which would now present itself before them. My legs, neck and bosom were bare, and their native hue were exchanged for the livid marks of bruises and scarrifications. An horrid scar upon my cheek, and my uncombed locks; hollow eyes, made ghastly by ab­stinence and cold, and the ruthless pas­sions of which my mind had been the theatre, added to the musquet which I carried in my hand, would prepossess them with the notion of a maniac or ruffian.

Some inconveniences might hence arise, which however could not be avoi­ded. I must trust to the speed with which my voice and my words should [Page 61] disclose my true character and rectify their mistake.

I now reached the principal door of the house. It was open, and I uncere­moniously entered. In the midst of the room stood a German stove, well heated. To thaw my half frozen limbs was my first care. Meanwhile, I gazed around me, and marked the appearances of things.

Two lighted candles stood upon the table. Beside them were cyder-bottles and pipes of tobacco. The furniture and room was in that state which deno­ted it to have been lately filled with drinkers and smokers, yet neither voice, nor visage, nor motion were any where observable. I listened but neither above nor below, within or without, could any tokens of an human being be perceived.

This vacancy and silence must have been lately preceded by noise and con­course [Page 62] and bustle. The contrast was mysterious and ambiguous. No ade­quate cause of so quick and absolute a transition occured to me. Having gained some warmth and lingered some ten or twenty minutes in this uncertainty, I determined to explore the other apart­ments of the building. I knew not what might betide in my absence, or what I might encounter in my search to justify precaution, and, therefore, kept the gun in my hand. I snatched a can­dle from the table and proceeded into two other apartments on the first floor and the kitchen. Neither was inhabited, though chairs and tables were arranged in their usual order, and no traces of violence or hurry were apparent.

Having gained the foot of the stair­case, I knocked, but my knocking was wholly disregarded. A light had ap­peared in an upper chamber. It was [Page 63] not, indeed, in one of those apartments which the family permanently occupied, but in that which, according to rural custom, was reserved for guests; but it indubitably betokened the presence of some being by whom my doubts might be solved. These doubts were too tor­menting to allow of scruples and delay.—I mounted the stairs.

At each chamber door I knocked, but I knocked in vain. I tried to open, but found them to be locked. I at length reached the entrance of that in which a light had been discovered. Here, it was certain, that some one would be found; but here, as well as elsewhere, my knock­ing was unnoticed.

To enter this chamber was audacious, but no other expedient was afforded me to determine whether the house had any inhabitants. I, therefore, entered, though [Page 64] with caution and reluctance. No one was within, but there were sufficient traces of some person who had lately been here. On the table stood a travel­ling escrutoire, open, with pens and ink­stand. A chair was placed before it, and a candle on the right hand. This apparatus was rarely seen in this country. Some traveller it seemed occupied this room, though the rest of the mansion was deserted. The pilgrim, as these ap­pearances testified, was of no vulgar order, and belonged not to the class of periodical and every-day guests.

It now occurred to me that the occu­pant of this appartment could not be far off, and that some danger and embarrass­ment could not fail to accrue from being found, thus accoutred and garbed, in a place sacred to the study and repose of another. It was proper, therefore, to withdraw, and either to resume my jour­ney, [Page 65] or wait for the stranger's return, whom perhaps some temporary engage­ment had called away, in the lower and public room. The former now appeared to be the best expedient, as the return of this unknown person was uncertain, as well as his power to communicate the information which I wanted.

Had paper, as well as the implements of writing, lain upon the desk, perhaps my lawless curiosity would not have scru­pled to have pryed into it. On the first glance nothing of that kind appeared, but now, as I turned towards the door, somewhat, lying beside the desk, on the side opposite the candle, caught my atten­tion. The impulse was instantaneous and mechanical, that made me leap to the spot, and lay my hand upon it. Till I felt it between my fingers, till I brought it near my eyes and read frequently the inscriptions that appeared upon it, I was [Page 66] doubtful whether my senses had deceived me.

Few, perhaps, among mankind have undergone vicissitudes of peril and won­der equal to mine. The miracles of poetry, the transitions of enchantment, are beggarly and mean compared with those which I had experienced: Passage into new forms, overleaping the bars of time and space, reversal of the laws of inanimate and intelligent existence had been mine to perform and to witness.

No event had been more fertile of sorrow and perplexity than the loss of thy brother's letters. They went by means invisible, and disappeared at a mo­ment when foresight would have least predicted their disappearance. They now placed themselves before me, in a manner equally abrupt, in a place and by means, no less contrary to expecta­tion. The papers which I now seized [Page 67] were those letters. The parchment co­ver, the string that tied, and the wax that sealed them, appeared not to have been opened or violated.

The power that removed them from my cabinet, and dropped them in this house, a house which I rarely visited, which I had not entered during the last year, with whose inhabitants I main­tained no cordial intercourse, and to whom my occupations and amusements, my joys and my sorrows, were unknown, was no object even of conjecture. But they were not possessed by any of the family. Some stranger was here, by whom they had been stolen, or into whose possession, they had, by some incomprehensible chance, fallen.

That stranger was near. He had left this apartment for a moment. He would speedily return. To go hence, [Page 68] might possibly occasion me to miss him. Here then I would wait, till he should grant me an interview. The papers were mine, and were recovered. I would never part with them. But to know by whose force or by whose stratagems I had been bereaved of them thus long, was now the supreme passion of my soul, I seated myself near a table and anxiously awaited for an interview, on which I was irresistably persuaded to believe that much of my happiness depended.

Meanwhile, I could not but connect this incident with the destruction of my family. The loss of these papers had excited transports of grief, and yet, to have lost them thus, was perhaps the sole expedient, by which their final pre­servation could be rendered possible. Had they remained in my cabinet, they could not have escaped the destiny which overtook the house and its furniture. [Page 69] Savages are not accustomed to leave their exterminating work unfinished. The house which they have plundered, they are careful to level with the ground. This not only their revenge, but their caution prescribes. Fire may originate by accident as well as by design, and the traces of pillage and murder are totally obliterated by the flames.

These thoughts were interrupted by the shutting of a door below, and by foot-steps ascending the stairs. My heart throbbed at the sound. My seat became uneasy and I started on my feet. I even advanced half way to the entrance of the room. My eyes were intensely fixed upon the door. My impatience would have made me guess at the person of this visitant by measuring his shadow, if his shadow were first seen; but this was precluded by the position of the light. It was only when the figure entered, and [Page 70] the whole person was seen, that my curi­osity was gratified. He who stood before me was the parent and fosterer of my mind, the companion and instructor of my youth, from whom I had been parted for years; from whom I believed myself to be forever separated;— Sarsefield him­self!

CHAPTER XXIII.

MY deportment, at an interview so much desired and so wholly unfore­seen, was that of a maniac. The petri­fying influence of surprise, yielded to the impetuosities of passion. I held him in my arms: I wept upon his bosom, I sob­bed with emotion which, had it not found passage at my eyes, would have burst my heart-strings. Thus I who had escaped the deaths that had previously assailed me in so many forms, should have been reserved to solemnize a scene like this by— dying for joy!

[Page 72] The sterner passions and habitual austerities of my companion, exempted him from pouring out this testimony of his feelings. His feelings were indeed more allied to astonishment and incredu­lity than mine had been. My person was not instantly recognized. He shrunk from my embrace, as if I were an appari­tion or impostor. He quickly disengag­ed himself from my arms, and withdraw­ing a few paces, gazed upon me as on one whom he had never before seen.

These repulses were ascribed to the loss of his affection. I was not mindful of the hideous guise in which I stood before him, and by which he might just­ly be misled to imagine me a ruffian or a lunatic. My tears flowed now on a new account, and I articulated in a broken and faint voice—My master! my friend! Have you forgotten! have you ceased to love me?

[Page 73] The sound of my voice made him start and exclaim—Am I alive? am I awake? Speak again I beseech you, and convince me that I am not dreaming or delirious.

Can you need any proof, I answered, that it is Edgar Huntly, your pupil, your child that speaks to you?

He now withdrew his eyes from me and fixed them on the floor. After a pause he resumed, in emphatic accents. Well, I have lived to this age in unbe­lief. To credit or trust in miraculous agency was foreign to my nature, but now I am no longer sceptical. Call me to any bar, and exact from me an oath that you have twice been dead and twice recalled to life; that you move about invisibly, and change your place by the force, not of muscles, but of thought, and I will give it.

[Page 74] How came you hither? Did you penetrate the wall? Did you rise through the floor?

Yet surely 'tis an error. You could not be he whom twenty witnesses affirm­ed to have beheld a lifeless and mangled corpse upon the ground, whom my own eyes saw in that condition.

In seeking the spot once more to pro­vide you a grave, you had vanished. Again I met you. You plunged into a rapid stream, from an height from which it was impossible to fall and to live: yet, as if to set the limits of nature at defiance; to sport with human penetration, you rose upon the surface: You floated; you swam: Thirty bullets were aimed at your head, by marks-men celebrated for the exactness of their sight. I myself was of the number, and I never missed what I desired to hit.

[Page 75] My predictions were confirmed by the event. You ceased to struggle; you sunk to rise no more, and yet after these accumulated deaths, you light upon this floor: so far distant from the scene of your catastrophe; over spaces only to be passed, in so short a time as has since elapsed, by those who have wings.

My eyes, my ears bear testimony to your existence now, as they formerly convinced me of your death—What am I to think; What proofs am I to credit?—There he stopped.

Every accent of this speech added to the confusion of my thoughts. The allusions that my friend had made were not unintelligible. I gained a glimpse of the complicated errors by which we had been mutually deceived. I had fainted on the area before Deb's hut. I was found [Page 76] by Sarsefield in this condition, and ima­gined to be dead.

The man whom I had seen upon the promontory was not an Indian. He be­longed to a numerous band of pursuers, whom my hostile and precipitate deport­ment caused to suspect me for an enemy. They that fired from the steep were friends. The interposition that screened me from so many bullets, was indeed miraculous. No wonder that my volun­tary sinking, in order to elude their shots, was mistaken for death, and that, having accomplished the destruction of this foe, they resumed their pursuit of others. But how was Sarsefield apprized that it was I who plunged into the river? No subsequent event was possible to impart to him the incredible truth.

A pause of mutual silence ensued. At length, Sarsefield renewed his expres­sions of amazement at this interview, and [Page 77] besought me to explain why I had disap­peared by night from my Uncle's house, and by what series of unheard of events this interview was brought about. Was it indeed Huntly whom he examined and mourned over at the threshold of Deb's hut? Whom he had sought in every thicket and cave in the ample circuit of Norwalk and Chetasco? Whom he had seen perish in the current of the Dela­ware?

Instead of noticing his questions, my soul was harrowed with anxiety respect­ing the fate of my uncle and sisters. Sarsefield could communicate the tidings which would decide on my future lot, and set my portion in happiness or misery. Yet I had not breath to speak my inqui­ries. Hope tottered, and I felt as if a single word would be sufficient for its utter subversion. At length, I articu­lated the name of my Uncle.

[Page 78] The single word sufficiently imparted my fears, and these fears needed no ver­bal confirmation. At that dear name, my companion's features were overspread by sorrow—Your Uncle, said he, is dead.

Dead? Merciful Heaven! And my sisters too! Both?

Your Sisters are alive and well.

Nay, resumed I, in faultering accents, jest not with my feelings. Be not cruel in your pity. Tell me the truth.

I have said the truth. They are well, at Mr. Inglefield's.

My wishes were eager to assent to the truth of these tidings. The better part of me was then safe: but how did they escape the fate that overtook my uncle? How did they evade the destroy­ing hatchet and the midnight conflagra­tion? These doubts were imparted in a tumultuous and obscure manner to my friend. He no sooner fully compre­hended [Page 79] them, than he looked at me, with some inquietude and surprise.

Huntly, said he, are you mad—What has filled you with these hideous pre­possessions? Much havoc has indeed been committed in Chetasco and the wil­derness; and a log hut has been burnt by design or by accident in Solebury, but that is all. Your house has not been assailed by either fire-brand or tom-hawk. Every thing is safe and in its ancient order. The master indeed is gone, but the old man fell a victim to his own temer­ity and hardihood. It is thirty years since he retired with three wounds, from the field of Braddock; but time, in no degree, abated his adventurous and mili­tary spirit. On the first alarm, he sum­moned his neighbours, and led them in pursuit of the invaders. Alas! he was the first to attack them, and the only one who fell in the contest.

[Page 80] These words were uttered in a man­ner that left me no room to doubt of their truth. My uncle had already been la­mented, and the discovery of the nature of his death, so contrary to my fore­bodings, and of the safety of my girls, made the state of my mind partake more of exultation and joy, than of grief or regret.

But how was I deceived? Had not my fusil been found in the hands of an enemy? Whence could he have plunder­ed it but from my own chamber? It hung against the wall of a closet; from which no stranger could have taken it except by violence. My perplexities and doubts were not at an end, but those which con­stituted my chief torment were removed. I listened to my friend's intreaties to tell him the cause of my elopement, and the [Page 81] incidents that terminated in the present interview.

I began with relating my return to consciousness in the bottom of the pit; my efforts to free myself from this abhorred prison; the acts of horror to which I was impelled by famine, and their excruciat­ing consequences; my gaining the outlet of the cavern, the desperate expedient by which I removed the impediment to my escape, and the deliverance of the cap­tive girl; the contest I maintained before Deb's hut; my subsequent wanderings; the banquet which hospitality afforded me, my journey to the river-bank; my meditations on the means of reaching the road; my motives for hazarding my life, by plunging into the stream; and my sub­sequent perils and fears till I reached the threshold of this habitation.

Thus, continued I, I have complied with your request. I have told all that [Page 82] I, myself, know. What were the inci­dents between my sinking to rest at Inglefield's, and my awaking in the cham­bers of the hill; by which means and by whose contrivance, preternatural of hu­man, this transition was effected, I am unable to explain; I cannot even guess.

What has eluded my sagacity may not be beyond the reach of another. Your own reflections on my tale, or some facts that have fallen under your notice, may enable you to furnish a solution. But, meanwhile, how am I to account for your appearance on this spot? This meeting was unexpected and abrupt to you, but it has not been less so to me. Of all man­kind, Sarsefield was the farthest from my thoughts, when I saw these tokens of a traveller and a stranger.

You were imperfectly acquainted with my wanderings. You saw me on the ground before Deb's hut. You saw me [Page 83] plunge into the river. You endeavoured to destroy me while swimming; and you knew, before my narrative was heard, that Huntly was the object of your en­mity. What was the motive of your search in the desert, and how were you apprized of my condition? These things are not less wonderful than any of those which I have already related.

During my tale the features of Sarse­field betokened the deepest attention. His eye strayed not a moment from my face. All my perils and forebodings, were fresh in my remembrances, they had scarcely gone by; their skirts, so to speak, were still visible. No wonder that my eloquence was vivid and pathetic, that I pourtrayed the past as if it were the present scene; and that not my tongue only, but every muscle and limb, spoke.

When I had finished my relation. Sarsefield sunk into thoughtfulness. [Page 84] From this, after a time, he recovered and said: Your tale, Huntly; is true, yet, did I not see you before me, were I not acquainted with the artlessness and recti­tude of your character, and, above all, had not my own experience, during the last three days, confirmed every inci­dent, I should question its truth. You have amply gratified my curiosity, and deserve that your own, should be grati­fied as fully. Listen to me.

Much has happened since we parted, which shall not be now mentioned. I promised to inform you of my welfare by letter, and did not fail to write, but whether my letter were received, or any were written by you in return, or if written were ever transmitted, I cannot tell; none were ever received.

Some days since, I arrived, in com­pany with a lady who is my wife, in Ame­rica. [Page 85] You have never been forgotten by me. I knew your situation to be little in agreement with your wishes, and one of the benefits which fortune has lately conferred upon me, is the power of snatching you from a life of labour and obscurity; whose goods, scanty as they are, were transient and precarious; and affording you the suita­ble leisure and means of intellectual gratification and improvement.

Your silence made me entertain some doubts concerning your welfare, and even your existence. To solve these doubts, I hastened to Solebury, some delays upon the road, hindered me from accomplishing my journey by day-light. It was night before I entered the Nor­walk path, but my ancient rambles with you made me familiar with it, and I was not affraid of being obstructed or bewil­dered.

[Page 86] Just as I gained the southern outlet, I spied a passenger on foot, coming towards me with a quick pace. The incident was of no moment, and yet the time of night, the seeming expedition of the walker, recollection of the mazes and obstacles which he was going to encoun­ter, and a vague conjecture that, perhaps, he was unacquainted with the difficulties that awaited him, made me eye him with attention as he passed.

He came near, and I thought I recog­nized a friend in this traveller. The form, the gesture, the stature bore a powerful resemblance to those of Edgar Huntly. This resemblance was so strong, that I stopped, and after he had gone by, called him by your name. That no notice was taken of my call proved that the person was mistaken, but even though it were another, that he should not even hesitate or turn at a summons which he could not [Page 87] but perceive to be addressed, though erroneously, to him, was the source of some surprize. I did not repeat my call, but proceeded on my way.

All had retired to repose in your uncle's dwelling. I did not scruple to rouse them, and was received with affec­tionate and joyous greetings. That you allowed your uncle to rise before you, was a new topic of reflection. To my inquiries concerning you, answers were made that accorded with my wishes. I was told that you were in good health and were then abed. That you had not heard and risen at my knocking, was mentioned with surprise, but your uncle accounted for your indolence by saying that during the last week you had fatigu­ed yourself by rambling night and day, in search of some maniac, or visionary [Page 88] who was supposed to have retreated into Norwalk.

I insisted upon awakening you myself. I anticipated the effect of this sudden and unlooked for meeting, with some emo­tions of pride as well as of pleasure. To find, in opening your eyes, your old pre­ceptor standing by your bed-side and gazing in your face, would place you, I conceived, in an affecting situation.

Your chamber door was open, but your bed was empty. Your uncle and sisters were made acquainted with this circumstance. Their surprise gave way to conjectures that your restless and romantic spirit, had tempted you from your repose, that you had rambled abroad on some phantastic errand, and would probably return before the dawn. I wil­lingly acquiesced in this opinion, and my feelings being too thoroughly aroused to allow me to sleep, I took possession [Page 89] of your chamber, and patiently awaited your return.

The morning returned but Huntly made not his appearance. Your uncle became somewhat uneasy at this unsea­sonable absence. Much speculation and inquiry, as to the possible reasons of your flight was made. In my survey of your chamber, I noted that only part of your cloathing remained beside your bed. Coat, hat, stockings and shoes lay upon the spot where they had probably been thrown when you had disrobed yourself, but the pantaloons, which ac­cording to Mr. Huntly's report, com­pleted your dress, were no where to be found. That you should go forth on so cold a night so slenderly appareled, was almost incredible. Your reason or your senses had deserted you, before so rash an action could be meditated.

[Page 90] I now remembered the person I had met in Norwalk. His resemblance to your figure, his garb, which wanted hat, coat, stockings and shoes, and your ab­sence from your bed at that hour, were remarkable coincidences: but why did you disregard my call? Your name, uttered by a voice that could not be unknown, was surely sufficient to arrest your steps.

Each hour added to the impatience of your friends; to their recollections and conjectures, I listened with a view to extract from them some solution of this mystery. At length, a story was alluded to, of some one who, on the pre­ceding night, had been heard walking in the long room; to this was added, the tale of your anxieties and wonders occa­sioned by the loss of certain manuscripts.

While ruminating upon these inci­dents, and endeavouring to extract from [Page 91] this intelligence a clue, explanatory of your present situation, a single word, casually dropped by your uncle, instant­ly illuminated my darkness and dispelled my doubts.—After all, said the old man, ten to one, but Edgar himself was the man whom we heard walking, but the lad was asleep, and knew not what he was about.

Surely said I, this inference is just. His manuscripts could not be removed by any hands but his own, since the rest of mankind were unacquainted not only with the place of their concealment, but with their existence. None but a man, insane or asleep, would wander forth so slightly dressed, and none but a sleeper would have disregarded my calls. This conclusion was generally adopted, but it gave birth in my mind, to infinite in­quietudes. You had roved into Nor­walk, a scene of inequalities, of promi­nences [Page 92] and pits, among which, thus des­titute of the guidance of your senses, you could scarcely fail to be destroyed, or at least, irretreivably bewildered. I painted to myself the dangers to which you were subjected. Your careless feet would bear you into some whirlpool or to the edge of some precipice, some in­ternal revolution or outward shock would recall you to consciousness at some peril­ous moment. Surprise and fear would disable you from taking seasonable or suitable precautions, and your destruc­tion be made sure.

The lapse of every new hour, with­out bringing tidings of your state, en­hanced these fears. At length, the pro­priety of searching for you occurred, Mr. Huntly and I determined to set out upon this pursuit, as well as to commis­sion others. A plan was laid by which every accessible part of Norwalk, the [Page 93] wilderness beyond the flats of Solebury, and the valey of Chetasco, should be tra­versed and explored.

Scarcely had we equipped ourselves for this expedition, when a messenger arrived, who brought the disastrous news of Indians being seen within these precincts, and on the last night a farmer was shot in his fields, a dwelling in Che­tasco was burnt to the ground, and its inhabitants murdered or made captives. Rumour and inquiry had been busy, and a plausible conjecture had been formed, as to the course and number of the ene­mies. They were said to be divided into bands, and to amount in the whole to thirty or forty wariors. This mes­senger had come to warn us of danger which might impend, and to summon us to join in the pursuit and extirpation of these detestable foes.

[Page 94] Your uncle, whose alacrity and vigour age had not abated, eagerly engaged in this scheme. I was not averse to con­tribute my efforts to an end like this. The road which we had previously de­signed to take, in search of my fugitive pupil, was the same by which we must trace or intercept the retreat of the sava­ges. Thus two purposes, equally mo­mentous, would be answered by the same means.

Mr. Huntly armed himself with your fusil; Inglefield supplied me with a gun; during our absence the dwelling was closed and locked, and your sisters placed under the protections of Inglefield, whose age and pacific sentiments unfit­ted him for arduous and sanguinary enterprises. A troop of rustics was collected, half of whom remained to traverse Solebury and the other, whom Mr. Huntly and I accompanied, hasten­ed to Chetasco.

CHAPTER XXIV.

IT was noon day before we reach­ed the theatre of action. Fear and re­venge combined to make the people of Chetasco diligent and zealous in their own defence. The havock already com­mitted had been mournful. To prevent a repetition of the same calamities, they resolved to hunt out the hostile foot-steps and exact a merciless retribution.

It was likely that the enemy, on the approach of day, had withdrawn from the valley and concealed themselves in the thickets, between the parrallel ridges [Page 69] of the mountain. This space, which according to the object with which it is compared is either a vale or the top of an hill, was obscure and desolate. It was undoubtedly the avenue by which the robbers had issued forth, and by which they would escape to the Ohio. Here they might still remain, intending to immerge from their concealment on the next night, and perpetrate new hor­rors.

A certain distribution was made of our number, so as to move in all direc­tions at the same time. I will not dwell upon particulars. It will suffice to say that keep eyes and indefatigable feet, brought us at last to the presence of the largest number of those marauders. Seven of them were slain by the edge of a brook, where they sat wholly uncon­scious of the danger which hung over them. Five escaped, and one of these [Page 97] secured his retreat by wresting your fusil from your uncle, and shooting him dead. Before our companion could be rescued or revenged, the assassin, with the remnant of the troop, disappeared, and bore away with him the fusil as a trophy of his victory.

This disaster was deplored not only on account of that life which had thus been sacrificed, but because a sagacious guide and intrepid leader was lost. His acquaintance with the habits of the In­dians, and his experience in their wars made him trace their foot-steps with more certainty than any of his associates.

The pursuit was still continued, and parties were so stationed that the escape of the enemy was difficult, if not impos­sible. Our search was unremitted, but during twelve or fourteen hours, unsuc­cessful. Queen Mab did not elude all suspicion. Her hut was visited by dif­ferent [Page 98] parties, but the old woman and her dogs had disappeared.

Meanwhile your situation was not forgotten. Every one was charged to explore your foot-steps as well as those of the savages, but this search was no less unsuccessful than the former. None had heard of you or seen you.

This continued till midnight. Three of us, made a pause at a brook, and intended to repair our fatigues by a res­pite of a few hours, but scarcely had we stretched ourselves on the ground when we were alarmed by a shot which seemed to have been fired at a short distance. We started on our feet and consulted with each other on the measure to be taken. A second, a third and a fourth shot, from the same quarter, excited our attention anew. Mab's hut was known to stand at the distance and in the direc­tion [Page 99] of this sound, and hither we resolved to repair.

This was done with speed but with the utmost circumspection. We shortly gained the road that leads near this hut and at length gained a view of the build­ing. Many persons were discovered, in a sort of bustling inactivity, before the hut. They were easily distinguised to be friends, and were therefore approach­ed without scruple.

The objects that presented them­selves to a nearer view were five bodies stretched upon the ground. Three of them were savages. The fourth was a girl, who though alive seemed to have received a mortal wound. The fifth, breathless and mangled and his features almost concealed by the blood that over­spread his face, was Edgar; the fugitive [Page 100] for whom I had made such anxious search.

About the same hour on the last night I had met you hastening into Nor­walk. Now were you, lying in the midst of savages, at the distance of thirty miles from your home, and in a spot, which it was impossible for you to have reach­ed unless by an immense circuit over rocks and thickets. That you had found a rift at the basis of the hill, and thus permeated its solidities, and thus pre­cluded so tedious and circuitous a jour­ney as must otherwise have been made, was not to be imagined.

But whence arose this scene? It was obvious to conclude that my associates had surprised their enemies in this house, and exacted from them the forfeit of their crimes, but how you should have been confounded with their foes, or whence [Page 101] came the wounded girl was a subject of astonishment.

You will judge how much this sur­prise was augmented when I was infor­med that the party whom we found had been attracted hither by the same signals, by which we had been alarmed. That on reaching this spot you had been dis­covered, alive, seated on the ground and still sustaining the gun with which you had apparently completed the destruc­tion of so many adversaries. In a mo­ment after their arrival you sunk down and expired.

This scene was attended with inex­plicable circumstances. The musquet which lay beside you appeared to have belonged to one of the savages. The wound by which each had died was sin­gle. Of the four shots we had distin­guished at as distance, three of them were therefore fatal to the Indians and the [Page 102] fourth was doubtless that by which you had fallen, yet three musquets only were discoverable.

The arms were collected, and the girl carried to the nearest house in the arms of her father. Her situation was deemed capable of remedy, and the sor­row and wonder which I felt at your untimely and extraordinary fate, did not hinder me from endeavouring to restore the health of this unfortunate victim. I reflected likewise that some light might be thrown upon transactions so mysteri­ous, by the information which might be collected from her story. Numberless questions and hints were necessary to extract from her a consistent or intelli­gible tale. She had been dragged, it seems, for miles, at the heels, of her con­querors, who at length, stopped in a cavern for the sake of some repose; all slept but one, who sat and watched. [Page 103] Something called him away, and, at the same moment, you appeared at the bot­tom of the cave half naked and without arms. You instantly supplied that last deficiency, by seizing the gun and tom­hawk of him who had gone forth, and who had negligently left his weapons behind. Then stepping over the bodies of the sleepers, you rushed out of the cavern.

She then mentioned your unexpected return, her deliverance and flight, and arrival at Deb's hut. You watched upon the hearth and she fell asleep upon the blanket. From this sleep she was aroused by violent and cruel blows. She looked up:—you were gone and the bed on which she lay was surrounded by the men from whom she had so lately escaped. One dragged her out of the hut and levelled his gun at her breast. [Page 104] At the moment when he touched the trigger, a shot came from an unknown quarter, and he fell at her feet. Of sub­sequent events she had an incoherent recollection. The Indians were succes­sively slain, and you came to her, and interrogated and consoled her.

In your journey to the hut you were armed. This in some degree accounted for appearances, but where were your arms? Three musquets only were dis­covered and these undoubtedly belonged to your enemies.

I now had leisure to reflect upon your destiny. I had arrived soon enough on this shore merely to witness the catastro­phe of two beings whom I most loved. Both were overtaken by the same fate, nearly at the same hour. The same hand had possibly accomplished the des­truction of uncle and nephew.

[Page 105] Now, however, I began to entertain an hope that your state might not be irretreivable. You had walked and spo­ken after the firing had ceased, and your enemies had ceased to contend with you. A wound had, no doubt, been previously received. I had hastily inferred that the wound was mortal, and that life could not be recalled. Occu­pied with attention to the wailings of the girl, and full of sorrow and perplexity I had admitted an opinion which would have never been adopted in different circumstances. My acquaintance with wounds would have taught me to regard sunken muscles, lividness and cessation of the pulse as mere indications of a swoon, and not as tokens of death.

Perhaps my error was not irrepara­ble. By hastening to the hut, I might ascertain your condition and at least transport your remains to some dwelling [Page 106] and finally secure to you the decencies of burial.

Of twelve savages, discovered on the preceding day, ten were now killed. Two, at least remained, after whom the pursuit was still zealously maintained. Attention to the wounded girl, had with­drawn me from the party, and I had now leisure to return to the scene of these disasters. The sun had risen, and, ac­companied by two others, I repaired thither.

A sharp turn in the road, at the en­trance of the field, set before us a starting spectacle. An Indian, mangled by re­peated wounds of bayonet and bullet, was discovered. His musquet was stuck in the ground, by way of beacon attract­ing our attention to the spot. Over this space I had gone a few hours before, and nothing like this was then seen. The parties abroad, had hied away to a [Page 107] distant quarter. Some invisible power seemed to be enlisted in our defence and to preclude the necessity of our arms.

We proceeded to the hut. The sava­ges were there, but Edgar had risen and flown! Nothing now seemed to be incre­dible. You had slain three foes, and the weapon with which the victory had been achieved, had vanished. You had risen from the dead, had assailed one of the surviving enemies, had employed bullet and dagger in his destruction, with both of which you could only be supplied by supernatural means, and had disappear­ed. If any inhabitant of Chetasco had done this, we should have heard of it.

But what remained? You were still alive. Your strength was sufficient to bear you from this spot. Why were you still invisible and to what dangers might you not be exposed, before you could [Page 108] disinvolve yourself from the [...] of this wilderness?

Once more I procured indefatigable search to be made after you. It was con­tinued till the approach of evening and was fruitless. Inquiries were twice made at the house where you were supplied with food and intelligence. On the second call I was astonished and delight­ed by the tidings received from the good woman. Your person and demeanour and arms were described, and mention made of your resolution to cross the southern ridge, and traverse the Sole­bury road with the utmost expedition.

The greater part of my inquietudes were now removed. You were able to eat and to travel, and there was little doubt that a meeting would take place between us on the next morning. Mean­while, I determined to concur with those who pursued the remainder of the enemy. [Page 109] I followed you, in the path that you were said to have taken, and quickly joined a numerous party who were searching for those who, on the last night, had attacked a plantation that lies near this, and des­troyed the inhabitants.

I need not dwell upon our doublings and circuities. The enemy was traced to the house of Selby. They had enter­ed, they had put fire on the floor, but were compelled to relinquish their prey. Of what number they consisted could not be ascertained, but one, lingering behind his fellows, was shot, at the entrance of the wood, and on the spot where you chanced to light upon him.

Selby's house was empty, and before the fire had made any progress we extin­guished it. The drunken wretch whom you encountered, had probably returned from his nocturnal debauch, after we had left the spot.

[Page 110] The flying enemy was pursued with fresh diligence. They were found, by various tokens, to have crossed the river, and to have ascended the mountain. We trod closely on their heels. When we arrived at the promontory, described by you, the fatigues of the night and day rendered me unqualified to proceed, I determined that this should be the bound of my excursions. I was anxious to obtain an interview with you, and unless I paused here, should not be able to gain Inglefield's as early in the morning as I wished. Two others concurred with me in this resolution and prepared to return to this house which had been deserted by its tenants till the danger was past and which had been selected as the place of rendezvous.

At this moment, dejected and weary, I approached the ledge which severed the head-land from the mountain. I [Page 111] marked the appearance of some one stretched upon the ground where you lay. No domestic animal would wander hither and place himself upon this spot. There was something likewise in the appearance of the object that bespoke it to be man, but if it were man, it was, incontrovertibly, a savage and a foe. I determined therefore to rouse you by a bullet.

My decision was perhaps absurd. I ought to have gained more certainty before I hazarded your destruction. Be that as it will, a moments lingering on your part would have probably been fatal. You started on your feet, and fired. See the hole which your ran­dom shot made through my sleeve! This surely was a day destined to be signalized by hair-breadth escapes.

Your action seemed incontestably to confirm my prognostics. Every one hur­ried [Page 112] to the spot and was eager to destroy an enemy. No one hesitated to believe that some of the shots aimed at you, had reached their mark, and that you had sunk to rise no more.

The gun which was fired and thrown down was taken and examined. It had been my companion in many a toilsome expedition. It had rescued me and my friends from a thousand deaths. In order to recognize it, I needed only to touch and handle it. I instantly discovered that I held in my hand the fusil which I had left with you on parting, with which your uncle had equipped himself, and which had been ravished from him by a savage. What was I hence to infer respecting the person of the last possessor?

My inquiries respecting you of the woman whose milk and bread you had eaten, were minute. You entered, she said, with an hatchet and gun in your [Page 113] hand. While you ate, the gun was laid upon the table. She sat near, and the piece became the object of inquisitive attention. The stock and barrels were described by her in such terms as left no doubt that this was the Fusil.

A comparison of incidents enabled me to trace the manner in which you came into possession of this instrument. One of those whom you found in the cavern was the assassin of your uncle. According to the girl's report, on issuing from your hiding place, you seized a gun that was unoccupied, and this gun chan­ced to be your own.

Its two barrels was probably the cause of your success in that unequal contest at Mab's hut. On recovering from deliquium, you found it where it had been dropped by you, out of sight and unsuspected by the party that had afterwards arrived. In your passage to [Page 114] the river had it once more fallen into hos­tile hands, or, had you missed the way, wandered to this promontory, and mista­ken a troop of friends for a band of Indian marauders?

Either supposition was dreadful. The latter was the most plausible. No mo­tives were conceivable by which one of the fugitives could be induced to post himself here, in this conspicuous station: whereas, the road which lead you to the summit of the hill, to that spot where descent to the river road was practicable, could not be found but by those who were accustomed to traverse it. The directions which you had exacted from your hostess, proved your previous un­acquaintance with these tracts.

I acquiesced in this opinion with an heavy and desponding heart. Fate had led us into a maze, which could only terminate in the destruction of one or of [Page 115] the other. By the breadth of an hair, had I escaped death from your hand. The same fortune had not befriended you. After my tedious search, I had lighted on you, forlorn, bewildered, per­ishing with cold and hunger. Instead of recognizing and affording you relief, I compelled you to leap into the river, from a perilous height, and had desisted from my persecution only when I had bereaved you of life, and plunged you to the bottom of the gulf.

My motives in coming to America were numerous and mixed. Among these was the parental affection with which you had inspired me. I came with fortune and a better gift than for­tune in my hand. I intended to bestow both upon you, not only to give you com­petence, but one who would endear to you that competence, who would en­hance, [Page 116] by participating, every gratifica­tion.

My schemes were now at an end. You were gone, beyond the reach of my benevolence and justice. I had robbed your two sisters of a friend and guardian. It was some consolation to think that it was in my power to stand, with regard to them, in your place, that I could snatch them from the poverty, depen­dence and humiliation, to which your death and that of your uncle had reduced them.

I was now doubly weary of the enter­prise in which I was engaged, and re­turned, with speed, to this rendezvouz. My companions have gone to know the state of the family who resided under this roof and left me to beguile the tedious moments in whatever manner I pleased.

I have omitted mentioning one inci­dent that happened between the detection [Page 117] of your flight and our expedition to Che­tasco. Having formed a plausible con­jecture as to him who walked in the Long-room, it was obvious to conclude that he who purloined your manuscripts and the walker were the same personage. It was likewise easily inferred that the letters were secreted in the Cedar Chest or in some other part of the room. In­stances similar to this have heretofore occurred. Men have employed anxious months in search of that which, in a freak of Noctambulation, was hidden by their own hands.

A search was immediately commen­ced, and your letters were found, care­fully concealed between the rafters and shingles of the roof, in a spot, where, if suspicion had not been previously ex­cited, they would have remained till the vernal rains and the summer heats, had insensibly destroyed them. This pac­quet I carried with me, knowing the [Page 118] value which you set upon them, and there being no receptacle equally safe, but your own cabinet, which was locked.

Having, as I said, reached this house, and being left alone, I bethought me of the treasure I possessed. I was unac­quainted with the reasons for which these papers were so precious. They proba­bly had some momentous and intimate connection with your own history. As such they could not be of little value to me, and this moment of inoccupation and regrets, was as suitable as any other to the task of perusing them. I drew them forth, therefore, and laid them on the table in this chamber.

The rest is known to you. During a momentary absence you entered. Sure­ly no interview of ancient friends ever took place in so unexpected and abrupt a manner. You were dead. I mourned for you, as one whom I loved, and whom [Page 119] fate had snatched forever from my sight. Now, in a blissful hour, you had risen, and my happiness in thus embracing you, is tenfold greater than would have been experienced, if no uncertainties and perils had protracted our meeting.

CHAPTER XXV.

HERE ended the tale of Sarse­field. Humiliation and joy were mingled in my heart. The events that preceded my awakening in the cave were now luminous and plain. What explication was more obvious? What but this solu­tion ought to have been suggested by the conduct I had witnessed in Clithero?

Clithero! Was not this the man whom Clithero had robbed of his friend? Was not this the lover of Mrs. Lorimer, the object of the persecutions of Wiatte? Was it not now given me to investigate [Page 121] the truth of that stupendous tale? To dissipate the doubts which obstinately clung to my imagination respecting it?

But soft! Had not Sarsefield said that he was married? Was Mrs. Lorimer so speedily forgotten by him, or was the narrative of Clithero the web of impos­ture or the raving of insantiy?

These new ideas banished all per­sonal considerations from my mind. I looked eagerly into the face of my friend, and exclaimed in a dubious accent—How say you? Married? When? To whom?

Yes, Huntly, I am wedded to the most excellent of women. To her am I indebted for happiness and wealth and dignity and honour. To her do I owe the power of being the benefactor and protector of you and your sisters. She longs to embrace you as a son. To become truly her son, will depend upon your own choice and that of one, who was the companion of our voyage.

[Page 122] Heavens! cried I, in a transport of exultation and astonishment. Of whom do you speak. Of the mother of Clarice? The sister of Wiatte? The sister of the ruffian who laid snares for her life? Who pursued you and the unhappy Clithero, with the bitterest animosity?

My friend started at these sounds as if the earth had yawned at his feet. His countenance was equally significant of terror and rage. As soon as he regained the power of utterance, he spoke—Cli­thero! Curses light upon thy lips for having uttered that detested name! Thousands of miles have I flown to shun the hearing of it. Is the madman here? Have you set eyes upon him? Does he yet crawl upon the face of the earth? Unhappy? Unparalleled, unheard of, thankless miscreant! Has he told his execrable falsehoods here? Has he dared to utter names so sacred as those of Eu­phemia Lorimer and Clarice?

[Page 123] He has: He has told a tale, that had all the appearances of truth—

Out upon the villain! The truth! Truth would prove him to be unnatural; develish; a thing for which no language has yet provided a name! He has called himself unhappy? No doubt, a victim to injustice! Overtaken by unmerited cala­mity. Say! Has he fooled thee with such tales?

No. His tale was a catalogue of crimes and miseries of which he was the author and sufferer. You know not his motives, his horrors:—

His deeds were monstrous and infer­nal. His motives were sordid and flagi­tious. To display all their ugliness and infamy was not his province. No: He did not tell you that he stole at midnight to the chamber of his mistress: a woman who astonised the world by her loftiness and magnanimity; by indefatigable bene­ficence [Page 124] and unswerving equity; who had lavished on this wretch, whom she snatched from the dirt, all the goods of fortune; all the benefits of education; all the treasures of love; every provocation to gratitude; every stimulant to justice.

He did not tell you that in recom­pense for every benefit, he stole upon her sleep and aimed a dagger at her breast. There was no room for flight or ambigui­ty or prevarication. She whom he meant to murder stood near, saw the lifted wea­pon, and heard him confess and glory in his purposes.

No wonder that the shock bereft her, for a time, of life. The interval was seized by the ruffian to effect his escape. The rebukes of justice, were shunned by a wretch conscious of his inexpiable guilt. These things he has hidden from you, and has supplied their place by a tale specious as false.

[Page 125] No. Among the number of his crimes, hypocrisy is not to be numbered. These things are already known to me: he spar­ed himself too little in the narrative. The excellencies of his lady; her claims to gratitude and veneration, were urged beyond their true bounds. His attempts upon her life, were related. It is true that he desired and endeavoured to destroy her.

How? Has he told you this?

He has told me all. Alas! the crimi­nal intention has been amply expiated—

What mean you? Whence and how came he hither. Where is he now? I will not occupy the same land, the same world with him. Have this woman and her daughter lighted on the shore haunted by this infernal and implacable enemy?

Alas! It is doubtful whether he exists. If he lives, he is no longer to be [Page 126] feared; but he lives not. Famine and remorse have utterly consumed him.

Famine? Remorse? You talk in rid­dles.

He has immured himself in the desert. He has abjured the intercourse of mankind. He has shut himself in caverns where famine must inevitably expedite that death for which he longs as the only solace of his woes. To no imagination are his offences blacker and more odious than to his own. I had hopes of rescuing him from this fate, but my own infirmities and errors have afforded me sufficient occupation.

Sarsefield renewed his imprecations on the memory of that unfortunate man: and his inquiries as to the circumstances that led him into this remote district. His inquiries were not to be answered by one in my present condition—My lan­guors and fatigues had now gained a pitch that was insupportable. The wound [Page 127] in my face had been chafed, and inflamed by the cold water and the bleak air; and the pain attending it, would no longer suffer my attention to stray. I sunk upon the floor, and intreated him to afford me the respite of a few hours repose.

He was sensible of the deplorable­ness of my condition, and chid himself for the negligence of which he had al­ready been guilty. He lifted me to the bed, and deliberated on the mode he should pursue for my relief. Some moli­fying application to my wound, was im­mediately necessary; but in our present lonely condition, it was not at hand. It could only be procured from a distance. It was proper therefore to hasten to the nearest inhabited dwelling, which be­longed to one, by name Walton, and supply himself with such medicines as could be found.

[Page 128] Meanwhile there was no danger of molestation and intrusion. There was reason to expect the speedy return of those who had gone in pursuit of the savages. This was their place of ren­dezvous, and hither they appointed to re-assemble before the morrow's dawn. The distance of the neighbouring farm was small, and Sarsefield promised to be expeditious. He left me to myself and my own ruminations.

Harrassed by fatigue and pain, I had yet power to ruminate on that series of unparalleled events, that had lately hap­pened. I wept, but my tears flowed from a double source; from sorrow, on account of the untimely fate of my uncle, and from joy, that my sisters were pre­served, that Sarsefield had returned and was not unhappy.

I reflected on the untoward destiny of Clithero. Part of his calamity consist­ed in the consciousness of having killed [Page 129] his patronness; but it now appeared, though by some infatuation, I had not previously suspected, that the first im­pulse of sorrow in the lady, had been weakened by reflection and by time. That the prejudice persuading her that her life and that of her brother were to endure and to terminate together, was conquered by experience or by argu­ment. She had come, in company with Sarsefield and Clarice to America. What influence might these events have upon the gloomy meditations of Clithero. Was it possible to bring them together; to win the maniac from his solitude, wrest from him his fatal purposes, and restore him to communion with the beings whose imagined indignation is the torment of his life.

These musings were interrupted by a sound from below which were easily interpreted into tokens of the return of those with whom Sarsefield had parted [Page 130] at the promontory, voices were confused and busy but not turbulent. They entered the lower room and the motion of chairs and tables shewed that they were preparing to rest themselves after their toils.

Few of them were unacquainted with me, since they probably were residents in this district. No inconvenience, there­fore, would follow from an interview, though, on their part, wholly unex­pected. Besides, Sarsefield would spee­lily return and none of the present visitants would be likely to withdraw to this apartment.

Meanwhile I lay upon the bed, with my face turned towards the door, and anguidly gazing at the ceiling and walls. ust then a musquet was discharged in he room below. The shock affected me mechanically and the first impulse of surprise, made me almost start upon my feet.

[Page 131] The sound was followed by confu­sion and bustle. Some rushed forth and called on each other to run different ways, and the words "That is he"—

"Stop him" were spoken in a tone of eagerness, and rage. My weakness and pain were for a moment forgotten, and my whole attention was bent to discover the meaning of this hubbub. The mus­quet which I had brought with me to this chamber, lay across the bed. Un­knowing of the consequences of this affray, with regard to myself, I was prompted by a kind of self-preserving instinct, to lay hold of the gun, and pre­pare to repell any attack that might be made upon me.

A few moments elapsed when I thought I heard light footsteps in the entry leading to this room. I had no time to construe these signals, but watch­ing fearfully the entrance, I grasped my weapon with new force, and raised it so [Page 132] as to be ready at the moment of my danger. I did not watch long. A figure cautiously thrust itself forward. The first glance was sufficient to inform me that this intruder was an Indian, and, of consequence, an enemy. He was un­armed. Looking eagerly on all sides, he at last spied me as I lay. My appear­ance threw him into consternation, and after the fluctuation of an instant, he darted to the window, threw up the sash, and leaped out upon the ground.

His flight might have been easily arrested by my shot, but surprize, added to my habitual antipathy to bloodshed, unless in cases of absolute necessity, made me hesitate. He was gone, and I was left to mark the progress of the dra­ma. The silence was presently broken by firing at a distance. Three shots, in quick succession, were followed by the deepest pause.

[Page 133] That the party, recently arrived, had brought with them one or more captives, and that by some sudden effort, the pri­soners had attempted to escape, was the only supposition that I could form. By what motives either of them could be induced to seek concealment in my cham­ber, could not be imagined.

I now heard a single step on the threshold below. Some one entered the common room. He traversed the floor during a few minutes, and then, ascend­ing the stair-case, he entered my cham­ber. It was Sarsefield. Trouble and dismay were strongly written on his countenance. He seemed totally uncon­scious of my presence, his eyes were fixed upon the floor, and as he continued to move across the room, he heaved forth deep sighs.

This deportment was mournful and mysterious. It was little in unison with those appearances which he wore at our [Page 134] parting, and must have been suggested by some event that had since happened. My curiosity impelled me to recall him from his reverie. I rose and seizing him by the arm, looked at him with an air of inquisitive anxiety. It was need­less to speak.

He noticed my movement, and turn­ing towards me, spoke in a tone of some resentment—Why did you deceive me? Did you not say Clithero was dead?

I said so because it was my belief. Know you any thing to the contrary? Heaven grant that he is still alive, and that our mutual efforts may restore him to peace.

Heaven grant, replied my friend, with a vehemence that bordered upon fury. Heaven grant that he may live thousands of years, and know not, in their long course, a moments respite from remorse and from anguish; but this prayer is fruitless. He is not dead, but [Page 135] death hovers over him. Should he live, he will live only to defy justice and per­petrate new horrors. My skill might perhaps save him, but a finger shall not be moved to avert his fate.

Little did I think, that the wretch whom my friends rescued from the power of the savages, and brought wounded and expiring hither was Clithero. They sent for me in haste to afford him surgical assistance. I found him stretched upon the floor below, deserted, helpless and bleeding. The moment I beheld him, he was recognized. The last of evils was to look upon the face of this assassion, but that evil is past, and shall never be endured again.

Rise and come with me. Accommo­dation is prepared for you at Walcots. Let us leave this house, and the moment you are able to perform a journey, aban­don forever this district.

[Page 136] I could not readily consent to this proposal. Clithero had been delivered from captivity but was dying for want of that aid which Sarsefield was able to afford. Was it not inhuman to desert him in this extremity? What offence had he committed that deserved such im­placable vengeance? Nothing I had heard from Sarsefield was in contradic­tion to his own story. His deed, imper­fectly observed, would appear to be atro­cious and detestable, but the view of all its antecedent and accompanying events and motives, would surely place it in the list not of crimes, but of misfortunes.

But what is that guilt which no peni­tence can expiate? Had not Clithero's remorse been more than adequate to crimes far more deadly and enormous than this? This, however, was no time to argue with the passions of Sarsefield. Nothing but a repetition of Clithero's tale, could vanquish his prepossessions [Page 137] and mollify his rage; but this repetition was impossible to be given by me, till a moment of safety and composure.

These thoughts made me linger, but hindered me from attempting to change the determination of my friend. He renewed his importunities for me to fly with him. He dragged me by the arm, and wavering and reluctant I followed where he chose to lead. He crossed the common-room, with hurried steps and eyes averted from a figure, which instantly fastened my attention.

It was, indeed, Clithero, whom I now beheld, supine, polluted with blood, his eyes closed and apparently insensible. This object was gazed at with emotions that rooted me to the spot. Sarsefield, perceiving me determined to remain where I was, rushed out of the house, and disappeared.

CHAPTER XXVI.

I HUNG over the unhappy wretch whose emaciated form and rueful fea­tures, sufficiently bespoke that savage hands had only completed that destruc­tion which his miseries had begun. He was mangled by the tom-hawk in a shock­ing manner, and there was little hope that human skill could save his life.

I was sensible of nothing but com­passion. I acted without design, when seating myself on the floor I raised his head and placed it on my knees. This movement awakened his attention, and opening his eyes he fixed them on my [Page 139] countenance. They testified neither in­sensibility, nor horror nor distraction. A faint emotion of surprise gave way to an appearance of tranquillity—Having per­ceived these tokens of a state less hope­less than I at first imagined, I spoke to him:—My friend! How do you feel? Can any thing be done for you?

He answered me, in a tone more firm and with more coherence of ideas than previous appearances had taught me to expect. No, said he, thy kindness good youth, can avail me nothing. The end of my existence here is at hand. May my guilt be expiated by the miseries that I have suffered, and my good deeds only attend me to the presence of my divine judge.

I am waiting, not with trembling or dismay, for this close of my sorrows. I breathed but one prayer, and that prayer has been answered. I asked for an in­terview [Page 140] with thee, young man, but feel­ing as I now feel, this interview, so much desired, was beyond my hope. Now thou art come, in due season, to hear the last words that I shall need to utter.

I wanted to assure thee that thy efforts for my benefit were not useless. They have saved me from murdering myself, a guilt more inexpiable than any which it was in my power to commit.

I retired to the innermost recess of Norwalk, and gained the summit of an hill, by subterranean paths. This hill I knew to be on all sides inaccessible to human footsteps, and the subterranean passages was closed up by stones. Here I believed my solitude exempt from inter­ruption and my death, in consequence of famine, sure.

This persuasion was not taken away by your appearance on the opposite steep. The chasm which severed us I [Page 141] knew to be impassable. I withdrew from your sight.

Some time after, awakening from a long sleep, I found victuals beside me. He that brought it was invisible. For a time, I doubted whether some messenger of heaven had not interposed for my sal­vation. How other than by supernatu­ral means, my retreat should be explored, I was unable to conceive. The summit was encompassed by dizzy and profound gulfs, and the subterranean passages was still closed.

This opinion, though corrected by subsequent reflection, tended to change the course of my desperate thoughts. My hunger, thus importunately urged, would not abstain, and I ate of the food that was provided. Henceforth I deter­mined to live, to resume the path of obscurity and labour, which I had relin­quished, and wait till my God should summon me to retribution. To antici­pate [Page 142] his call, is only to redouble our guilt.

I designed not to return to Ingle­field's service, but to chuse some other and remoter district. Meanwhile, I had left in his possession, a treasure, which my determination to die, had rendered of no value, but which, my change of reso­lution, restored. Inclosed in a box at Inglefield's, were the memoirs of Euphe­mia Lorimer, by which in all my vicissi­tudes, I had been hitherto accompanied, and from which I consented to part only because I had refused to live. My ex­istence was now to be prolonged and this manuscript was once more to constitute the torment and the solace of my being.

I hastened to Inglefield's by night. There was no need to warn him of my purpose. I desired that my fate should be an eternal secret to my ancient master and his neighbours. The apartment, [Page 143] containing my box was well known, and easily accessible.

The box was found but broken and rifled of its treasure. My transports of astonishment, and indignation and grief yielded to the resumption of my fatal purpose. I hastened back to the hill, and determined anew to perish.

This mood continued to the evening of the ensuing day. Wandering over rocks and pits, I discovered the manu­script, lying under a jutting precipice. The chance that brought it hither was not less propitious and miraculous than that by which I had been supplied with food. It produced a similar effect upon my feelings, and, while in possession of this manuscript I was reconciled to the means of life. I left the mountain, and traversing the wilderness, stopped in Chetasco. That kind of employment which I sought was instantly procured; but my new vocation was scarcely as­sumed [Page 144] when a band of savages invaded our security.

Rambling in the desert, by moonlight, I encountered these foes. They rushed upon me, and after numerous wounds which, for the present, neither killed nor disabled me, they compelled me to keep pace with them in their retreat. Some hours have passed since the troop was overtaken, and my liberty redeemed. Hardships, and repeated wounds, in­flicted at the moment when the invaders were surprised and slain, have brought me to my present condition. I rejoice that my course is about to terminate.

Here the speaker was interrupted by the tumultuous entrance of the party, by whom he had been brought hither. Their astonishment at seeing me, sus­taining the head of the dying man, may be easily conceived. Their surprise was more strongly excited by the disappear­ance of the captive whom they had left [Page 145] in this apartment, bound hand and foot. It now appeared that of the savage troop who had adventured thus far in search of pillage and blood, all had been des­troyed but two, who, had been led hither as prisoners. On their entrance into this house, one of the party had been sent to Walcot's to summon Sarsefield to the aid of the wounded man, while others had gone in search of chords to secure the arms and legs of the captives, who had hitherto been manacled imperfectly.

The chords were brought and one of them was bound, but the other, before the same operation was begun upon him, broke, by a sudden effort, the feeble liga­tures by which he was at present con­strained, and seizing a musquet that lay near him, fired on his enemies, and then rushed out of doors. All eagerly en­gaged in the pursuit. The savage was fleet as a deer and finally eluded his pursuers.

[Page 146] While their attention was thus en­gaged abroad, he that remained found means to extricate his wrists and ancles from his bonds and betaking himself to the stairs, escaped, as I before described, through the window of the room which I had occupied. They pestered me with their curiosity and wonder, for I was known to all of them; but waving the discussion of my own concerns I in­treated their assistance to carry Clithero to the chamber and the bed which I had just deserted.

I now in spite of pain, fatigue and watchfulness, set out to go to Walton's. Sarsefield was ready to receive me at the door, and the kindness and compas­sion of the family were active in my behalf. I was conducted to a chamber and provided with suitable attendance and remedies.

I was not unmindful of the more deplorable condition of Clithero. I in­cessantly [Page 147] meditated on the means for his relief. His case stood in need of all the vigilance and skill of a physician, and Sarsefield was the only one of that profession whose aid could be seasonably administered. Sarsefield therefore must be persuaded to bestow this aid.

There was but one mode of con­quering his abhorrence of this man. To prepossess my friend with the belief of the innocence of Clithero, or to soothe him into pity by a picture of remorse and suffering. This could best be done, and in the manner most conformable to truth, by a simple recital of the incidents that had befallen, and by repeating the confession which had been extorted from Clithero.

I requested all but my friend to leave my chamber, and then, soliciting a patient hearing, began the narrative of Waldegrave's death! of the detection [Page 148] of Clithero beneath the shade of the elm! of the suspicions which were thence produced; and of the forest interview to which these suspicions gave birth; I then repeated, without variation or addi­tion, the tale which was then told. I like­wise mentioned my subsequent transac­tions in Norwalk so far as they illustrated the destiny of Clithero.

During this recital, I fixed my eyes upon the countenance of Sarsefield, and watched every emotion as it rose or declined. With the progress of my tale, his indignation and his fury grew less, and at length gave place to horror and compassion.

His seat became uneasy, his pulse throbbed with new vehemence. When I came to the motives which prompted the unhappy man to visit the chamber of his mistress, he started from his seat, and sometimes strode across the floor in a troubled mood, and sometimes stood [Page 149] before me, with his breath almost sus­pended in the eagerness of his attention. When I mentioned the lifted dagger, the shriek from behind, and the appari­tion that interposed, he shuddered and drew back as if a dagger had been aimed at his breast.

When the tale was done, some time elapsed in mutual and profound silence. My friend's thoughts were involved in a mournful and indefinable reverie. From this he at length recovered and spoke.

It is true. A tale like this could never be the fruit of invention or be inven­ted to deceive. He has done himself injustice. His character was spotless and fair: All his moral properties seemed to have resolved themselves into grati­tude fidelity and honour.

We parted at the door, late in the evening, as he mentioned, and he guessed truly that subsequent reflection had in­duced [Page 150] me to return and to disclose the truth to Mrs. Lorimer▪ Clarice relieved by the sudden death of her friend, and unexpectedly by all, arrived at the same hour.

These tidings, astonished, afflicted, and delighted the lady. Her brother's death had been long believed by all but herself. To find her doubts verified, and his existence ascertained was the dearest consolation that he ever could bestow. She was afflicted at the proofs that had been noted of the continuance of his depravity, but she dreaded no danger to herself from his malignity or vengeance.

The ignorance and prepossessions of this woman were remarkable. On this subject only she was perverse, headlong, obstinate. Her anxiety to benefit this arch-ruffian occupied her whole thoughts and allowed her no time to reflect upon the reasonings or remonstrances of [Page 151] others. She could not be prevailed on to deny herself to his visits and I parted from her in the utmost perplexity.

A messenger came to me at mid-night intreating my immediate presence. Some disaster had happened, but of what kind the messenger was unable to tell. My fears easily conjured up the image of Wiatte. Terror scarcely allowed me to breathe. When I entered the house of Mrs. Lorimer, I was conducted to her chamber. She lay upon the bed in a state of stupefaction, that rose from some mental cause. Clarice sat by her, wringing her hands and pouring forth her tears without intermission. Neither could explain to me the nature of the scene. I made inquiries of the servants and atten­dants. They merely said that the fami­ly as usual had retired to rest, but their lady's bell rung with great violence, and called them in haste, to her chamber, [Page 152] where they found her in a swoon upon the floor and the young lady in the ut­most affright and perturbation.

Suitable means being used Mrs. Lorimer had, at length, recovered, but was still nearly insensible. I went to Clithero's apartments but he was not to be found, and the domestics informed me that since he had gone with me, he had not returned. The doors between this chamber and the court were open; hence that some dreadful interview had taken place, perhaps with Wiatte, was an unavoidable conjecture. He had with­drawn, however, without committing any personal injury.

I need not mention my reflections upon this scene. All was tormenting doubt and suspence till the morning arrived, and tidings were received that Wiatte had been killed in the streets: This event was antecedent to that which had occasioned Mrs. Lorimer's distress [Page 153] and alarm. I now remembered that fatal prepossession by which the lady was governed, and her frantic belief that her death and that of her brother were to fall out at the same time. Could some witness of his death, have brought her tidings of it: Had he penetrated, unexpected and unlicensed to her cham­ber, and were these the effects produced by the intelligence?

Presently I knew that not only Wiatte was dead, but that Clithero had killed him. Clithero had not been known to return and was no where to be found. He then was the bearer of these tidings, for none but he could have found access or egress without disturbing the servants.

These doubts were at length at an end. In a broken and confused manner, and after the lapse of some days the monstrous and portentous truth was disclosed. After our interview, the lady and her daughter had retired to the same [Page 154] chamber; the former had withdrawn to her closet and the latter to bed. Some one's entrance alarmed the lady, and coming forth after a moment's pause, the spectacle which Clithero has too faithfully described, presented itself.

What could I think? A life of uni­form hypocrisy or a sudden loss of reason were the only suppositions to be formed. Clithero was the parent of fury and abhor­rence in my heart. In either case I started at the name. I shuddered at the image of the apostate or the maniac.

What? Kill the brother whose exis­tence was interwoven with that of his benefactress and his friend? Then hasten to her chamber, and attempt her life? Lift a dagger to destroy her who had been the author of his being and his happiness?

He that could meditate a deed like this was no longer man. An agent from Hell had mastered his faculties. He was [Page 155] become the engine of infernal malice against whom it was the duty of all man­kind to rise up in arms and never to desist till, by shattering it to atoms, its power to injure was taken away.

All inquiries to discover the place of his retreat were vain. No wonder me­thought that he wrapt himself in the folds of impenetrable secrecy. Curbed, checked, baffled in the midst of his career, no wonder that he shrunk into obscurity, that he fled from justice and revenge, that he dared not meet the re­bukes of that eye which, dissolving in tenderness or flashing with disdain, had ever been irresistable.

But how shall I describe the lady's condition? Clithero she had cherished from his infancy. He was the stay, the consolation, the pride of her life. His projected alliance with her daughter, made him still more dear. Her elo­quence was never tired of expatiating [Page 156] on his purity and rectitude. No wonder that she delighted in this theme, for he was her own work. His virtues were the creatures of her bounty.

How hard to be endured was this sad reverse? She can be tranquil, but never more will she be happy. To pro­mote her forgetfulness of him, I persua­ded her to leave her country, which contained a thousand memorials of past calamity, and which was lapsing fast into civil broils. Clarice has accompa­nied us, and time may effect the hap­piness of others, by her means, though she can never remove the melancholy of her mother.

I have listened to your tale, not without compassion. What would you have me to do? To prolong his life, would be merely to protract his misery.

He can never be regarded with com­placency by my wife. He can never be thought of without shuddering by Cla­rice. [Page 157] Common ills are not without a cure less than death, but here, all remedies are vain. Consciousness itself is the malady; the pest; of which he only is cured who ceases to think.

I could not but assent to this mournful conclusion; yet, though death was better to Clithero than life, could not some of his mistakes be rectified? Euphemia Lorimer, contrary to his belief, was still alive. He dreamed that she was dead, and a thousand evils were imagined to flow from that death. This death and its progeny of ills, haunted his fancy, and added keenness to his remorse. Was it not our duty to rectify this error?

Sarsefield reluctantly assented to the truth of my arguments on this head. He consented to return, and afford the dying man, the consolation of knowing that the being whom he adored as a bene­factor and parent, had not been deprived [Page 158] of existence, though bereft of peace by his act.

During Sarsefield's absence my mind was busy in revolving the incidents that had just occured. I ruminated the last words of Clithero. There was somewhat in his narrative that was obscure and contradictory. He had left the manu­script which he so much and so justly prized, in his cabinet. He entered the chamber in my absence, and found the cabinet unfastened and the manuscript gone. It was I by whom the cabinet was opened, but the manuscript sup­posed to be contained in it, was buried in the earth beneath the elm. How should Clithero be unacquainted with its situation, since none but Clithero could have dug for it this grave?

This mystery vanished when I re­flected on the history of my own manu­script. Clithero had buried his treasure with his own hands as mine had been [Page 159] secreted by myself, but both acts had been performed during sleep. The deed was neither prompted by the will, nor noticed by the senses of him, by whom it was done. Disastrous and humiliating is the state of man! By his own hands, is constructed the mass of misery and error in which his steps are forever involved.

Thus it was with thy friend. Hur­ried on by phantoms too indistinct to be now recalled, I wandered from my chamber to the desart. I plunged into some unvisited cavern, and easily pro­ceeded till I reached the edge of a pit. There my step was deceived, and I tum­bled headlong from the precipice. The fall bereaved me of sense, and I continued breathless and motionless during the remainder of the night and the ensu­ing day.

[Page 160] How little cognizance have men over the actions and motives of each other? How total is our blindness with regard to our own performances! Who would have sought me in the bowels of this mountain? Ages might have passed away, before my bones would be disco­vered in this tomb, by some traveller whom curiosity had prompted to explore it.

I was roused from these reflections by Sarsefield's return. Inquiring into Clithero's condition; he answered that the unhappy man was insensible, but that notwithstanding numerous and dreadful gashes, in different parts of his body, it was possible that by submit­ting to the necessary treatment, he might recover.

Encouraged by this information, I endeavoured to awaken the zeal and compassion of my friend in Clithero's behalf. He recoiled with involuntary [Page 161] shuddering from any task which would confine him to the presence of this man. Time and reflection he said, might intro­duce different sentiments and feelings, but at present he could not but regard this person as a maniac, whose disease was irremediable, and whose existence could not be protracted, but to his own misery and the misery of others.

Finding him irreconcilably averse to any scheme, connected with the welfare of Clithero, I began to think that his assistance as a surgeon was by no means necessary. He had declared that the sufferer needed nothing more than com­mon treatment, and to this the skill of a score of aged women in this district, furnished with simples culled from the forest, and pointed out, of old time, by Indian Leeches was no less adequate than that of Sarsefield. These women were ready and officious in their charity, and none of them were prepossessed [Page 162] against the sufferer by a knowledge of his genuine story.

Sarsefield, meanwhile, was impatient for my removal to Inglefield's habitation, and that venerable friend was no less impatient to receive me. My hurts were superficial, and my strength sufficiently repaired by a night's repose. Next day, I went thither, leaving Clithero to the care of his immediate neighbours.

Sarsefield's engagements compelled him to prosecute his journey into Vir­ginia, from which he had somewhat deviated, in order to visit Solebury. He proposed to return in less than a month and then to take me in his company to New-York. He has treated me with paternal tenderness, and insists upon the previlege of consulting for my interest, as if he were my real father. Mean­while, these views have been disclosed to Inglefield, and it is with him that I [Page 163] am to remain, with my sisters, until his return.

My reflections have been various and tumultuous. They have been busy in relation to you, to Weymouth, and espe­cially to Clithero. The latter polluted with gore and weakened by abstinence, fatigue and the loss of blood, appeared in my eyes, to be in a much more danger­ous condition than the event proved him to be. I was punctually informed of the progress of his cure, and proposed in a few days to visit him. The duty of explaining the truth, respecting the pre­sent condition of Mrs. Lorimer, had devolved upon me. By imparting this intelligence, I hoped to work the most auspicious revolutions in his feelings, and prepared therefore, with alacrity▪ for an interview.

In this hope I was destined to be disappointed. On the morning on which [Page 164] I intended to visit him, a messenger arrived from the house in which he was entertained, and informed us that the family on entering the sick man's apart­ment, had found it deserted. It appeared that Clithero, had, during the night, risen form his bed, and gone secretly forth. No traces of his flight have since been discovered.

But, O! my friend? The death of Waldegrave, thy brother, is at length divested of uncertainty and mystery. Hitherto, I had been able to form no conjecture respecting it, but the solution was found shortly after this time.

Queen Mab, three days after my adventure, was seized in her hut on sus­picion of having aided and counselled her countrymen, in their late depreda­tions. She was not to be awed or intimidated by the treatment she recei­ved, but readily confessed and gloried in the mischief she had done; and accoun­ted [Page 165] for it by enumerating the injuries which she had received from her neigh­bours.

These injuries consisted in contemp­tuous or neglectful treatment, and in the rejection of groundless and absurd claims. The people of Chetasco were less obsequious to her humours than those of Solebury, her ancient neighbour­hood, and her imagination brooded for a long time, over nothing but schemes of revenge. She became sullen, irascible and spent more of her time in solitude than ever.

A troop of her countrymen at length visited her hut. Their intentions being hostile, they concealed from the inhabi­tants their presence in this quarter of the country. Some motives induced them to withdraw and postpone, for the present, the violence which they medita­ted. One of them, however, more san­guinary and audacious than the rest would [Page 166] not depart, without some gratification of his vengeance. He left his associates and penetrated by night into Solebury, resolving to attack the first human being whom he should meet. It was the fate of thy unhappy brother to encounter this ruffi­an, whose sagacity made him forbear to tear away the usual trophy from the dead, least he should afford grounds for suspi­cion as to the authors of the evil.

Satisfied with this exploit he rejoined his companions, and after an interval of three weeks returned with a more numer­ous party, to execute a more extensive project of destruction. They were coun­celled and guided, in all their movements, by Queen Mab, who now explained these particulars, and boldly defied her op­pressors. Her usual obstinacy and infatuation induced her to remain in her ancient dwelling and prepare to meet the consequences.

[Page 167] This disclosure awakened anew all the regrets and anguish which flowed from that disaster. It has been produc­tive, however, of some benefit. Suspi­cions and doubts, by which my soul was harrassed, and which were injurious to the innocent are now at an end. It is likewise some imperfect consolation to reflect that the assassin has himself been killed and probably by my own hand. The shedder of blood no longer lives to pursue his vocation, and justice is satis­fied.

Thus have I fulfilled my promise to compose a minute relation of my suffer­ings. I remembered my duty to thee, and as soon as I was able to hold a pen, employed it to inform thee of my welfare. I could not at that time enter into par­ticulars, but reserved a more copious narrative till a period of more health and leisure.

[Page 168] On looking back I am surprised at the length to which my story has run. I thought that a few days would suffice to complete it, but one page has insensibly been added to another till I have con­sumed, weeks and filled volumes. Here I will draw to a close; I will send you what I have written, and discuss with you in conversation, my other immediate concerns, and my schemes for the future. As soon as I have seen Sarsefield, I will visit you.