University of Virginia Library

1. THE
HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.

1. CHAPTER I.

It has been seen how the rejoicings at the
promontory were interrupted in their very beginning,
by the sudden discovery of the refugee, so

that his mere name had thrown all present into
confusion. The crowning climax was put to the
general panic, when some of the late pursuers were
seen returning, early in the afternoon, whipping
and spurring with all the zeal of fear, and scattering
such intelligence along the way as put to flight
the last resolution of the jubilants. The news immediately
spread, that Oran Gilbert had burst into
existence, not alone, but with a countless host of
armed men at his heels; that he had attacked and
routed the pursuers, hanging all whom he took
alive, especially the soldiers; and that he was now,
in the frenzy of triumph, marching against the
devoted Hillborough, with the resolution of burning
it to the ground. Such dreadful intelligence
was enough to complete the terror of the revellers;
they fled amain—and long before night, the flag
waved, and the little piece of ordnance frowned in
utter solitude on the top of the deserted head-land.
It is true that there came, by and by, couriers with
happier news, but too late to arrest the fugitives;
and as these riders made their way towards the
village, expressing some anxiety lest it should be
attacked, they rather confirmed than dispelled the
fears of the few inhabitants of the valley. From
one of the coolest and boldest, Captain Loring, who
fastened on him at the park-gate, learned that there
had been no action indeed, and that the fugitive
had made his escape; but, on the other hand, it
appeared that there were refugees in the land,—
that they had hanged a soldier named Parker, and
made good their retreat from the place of execution—that
the greatest doubt existed among the
pursuers in relation to the route they had taken
and the objects they had in view, some believing,
on the evidence of a certain quaker, who had been
their prisoner, that they were marching by secret
paths against the village, while others insisted that
this was a feint designed only to throw the hunters
off the scent, and to secure their escape,—that, in
consequence, the party had divided, pursuing the
search in all directions, in the hope of discovering
their route,—and, finally, that it was now certain,
the band, whose number was supposed to be very
considerable, was really commanded by the notorious
Oran Gilbert. From this man also, Captain
Loring learned a few vague particulars in relation
to the two greatest objects of his interest, namely
Henry Falconer and the young painter, who had
fallen into a quarrel in consequence of some misunderstanding
about their horses, the officer having
used harsh language not only in regard to the
unceremonious seizure by Herman of his own
steed, but in reference to a similar liberty the refugee
had previously taken with the painter's,
which, Falconer averred, was an evidence of intimacy
and intercourse betwixt Mr. Hunter and the
outlaw it behooved the former to explain, before
thrusting himself into the company of honest men
and gentlemen. This quarrel, it seemed, had been
allayed by the interference of Falconer's brother
officers; and the informant had heard something
said of a proposal to drown the feud in a bowl.
As for the man of peace, Ephraim, it appeared,
that his spirited assistance during the chase, and
especially his success in exposing the secret haunt
of the tories in the Terrapin Hole, the scene of
Parker's execution, had not only removed all suspicion
in relation to his character, but had highly
recommended him to the favour of his late
captors.

With such news, the Captain strode back to his
mansion, and awaited, with his daughter and kinswoman,
the return of the officers to the Hollow,
and their appearance at the hall, which he doubted
not, they would instantly make, after returning.
He waited, however, for a long time, in vain; and
by falling sound asleep, as he watched the sun
creeping beneath the western hills, escaped the intelligence,
which was soon after brought to the
house, that the officers had returned to the Hollow,
and instead of reporting themselves forthwith
under his hospitable roof, had made their way to
the widow's inn, where they were carousing with
a zeal commensurate with the spirit they had exhibited
during the troubles of the day.

This unexpected termination of a day of heroism—a
termination that surprised and irritated
Miss Falconer as much as it perhaps secretly

pleased the Captain's daughter—was a consequence
of the late quarrel, or rather a mode of
burying it in oblivion, devised by captain Caliver,
who had contracted an esteem for the painter, and
preferred `his ease in his inn' to all the delights
and blandishments that might be expected in the
society of Gilbert's Folly. As the superior officer,
he had taken the command into his own hands,
and besides arranging his forces so as to watch
all the approaches to the valley, and despatching
lieutenant Brooks to the village, to communicate
with the authorities there, he declared his resolution
to erect his head-quarters in the Hollow, at a
place like the Traveller's Rest, where, while still
commanding the road, he would be near enough
to protect the females and non-combatants in the
Captain's house. “And besides,” he added facetiously,
while riding up to the little inn, “as we
men of the sword are protectors of widows as well
as orphans, we will thus protect a forlorn old woman
from mischief, and put a penny into her
pocket, and drink our wine at our ease—for you
remember, Falconer, my young brother, you swore
by all the gods you would have some of the wherewithal
smuggled up to this identical old woman's
whiskey-house!”

“I swore it `by the eternal Jupiter,”' said Falconer,
with a grin; “and, by the eternal Jupiter, I
am as ready for a blow-up now as another time;
only that we must blow fast, so as to run up to
Hal, to be scolded before bed-time, as soon as
Brooks comes: and as for Mr. Hunter here, why
he and I can blow out one another's brains in the
morning.”

“If thee talks in this evil-minded, blood-thirsty
manner,” said Ephraim Patch, indignantly, “I give
thee warning, I will have nothing to do with thy
wholesome wines and thy goodly brandies, whereof

thee has spoken, and whereof much good may be
said, in regard of them that are faint and weary.
If thee will eat, drink, and be merry, all in a civil,
Christian way, without drawing any weapons more
dreadful than corks, pulling only at the bottle instead
of the pistol, and neither swearing profanely
nor drinking foolish irreligious healths, thee shall
have me in company to give thee good counsel,
whereof thee has considerable much need, as well
as thy long-nosed friend here, (not meaning any
offence,) which thee calls captain, and the youth
also, friend Hunter. Verily, I am both hungry
and thirsty, and will sooner enjoy the creature
comforts in this quiet hovel, than even the satisfaction
of bringing the breaker of laws into the hands
of justice. Verily, the thought of these goodly
wines doth make my mouth water; and I shall
rejoice, even to the bottom of my spirit, if they
have already reached the house of the widow.”

We do not design to relate the joys of the banquet
shared by the four worthies, and some two or
three young men of the county, who had shown
themselves men of spirit, and remained bravely by
the side of the officers, resolved, as they said, to
contribute their aid to the defence of the Hollow. It
is only worthy of remark, first, that the ill blood
between young Falconer and the painter gradually
wore away, and was succeeded, on the part of
the former, by a sudden friendship, which bade
fair to ripen into fondness, and on that of Hyland,
by what was at least a show of reciprocity; secondly,
that honest Ephraim, gradually displayed
as much spirit in the feast as he had before manifested
in the fray, and became, to the surprise of
all, the soul of mirth and drollery, so that young
Falconer, clapping him on the back, swore, with
the favourite oath of his friend Caliver, he `had
never seen a jollier old broad-brim;' and thirdly,

that this capricious young gentleman grew so enamoured
of his company, that he ceased to talk, as
he did at first, of the necessity he was under of
paying his sister and friends a visit at the Folly,
until he was roused to recollection by the sudden
retreat of his new friend from the cottage. The
painter was detected in the very act of stealing, or
as they chose to call it, sneaking from the apartment;
and Mr. Falconer, uttering a loud `Hillo!
halt, deserter!' volunteered to bring him back to
the punishment immediately ordered by the captain
of cavalry, of a glass of salt and water. He
rushed from the room, and plainly beheld the youth,
in the light that flashed from the window, spring
from the porch, and dive into the midnight shadows
of the oak trees—for it was now completely dark
As he retreated, he stumbled over some obstruction
in the path; but instantly recovering himself,
he leaped over the little brook, and was soon out
of sight.

“Hillo, Hunter, my boy!” cried the lieutenant.
“Why zounds! there he goes up the road like a
light-horseman! Why, gad, here the fool has
dropped his handkerchief;—no, gad's my life, 'tis
a paper. Hillo, painter! you've dropped something!
A letter, as I'm alive!—Ehem—hiccup!
—a very handsome constellation that Great Bear!
never saw the Pointers shine so brightly in my life.
—Gad's my life, and adzooks, as Captain Loring
says, 'tis the lights in the Folly, after all! and here
am I, carousing like an ass, instead of playing off
the Romeo to Catherine by starlight. Now Hal
will scold like twenty housekeepers, Catherine will
look sulky, and as for the Captain, why I suppose
he will fall into one of his patriarchal rages. Gad,
but I feel rather warmish and particular; but this
cool night air is a good thing for settling one's
nerves. I warrant me, that rascal Hunter has gone

up there before me. A very handsome, well behaved
dog, and I like him immensely!”

With such expressions as these, the young man,
whose brain, never one of the strongest, was at
present whirling in confusion, began to make his
way towards the Folly, without troubling himself
to think what amazement or affliction his absence
might cause his friends. Indeed, he was fast verging
towards that happy state in which man shows
his loftiest contempt of the world and the world's
ways, and his disregard of all those restraints and
encumbrances which society has imposed upon the
free-born lord of creation. He had left the hovel
without his hat; but what cared he for such a superfluity,
of a fine summer night, even although
beginning a walk over hill and hollow, of full a
mile in extent? Had he left it even without his
boots, it is questionable whether he would have
noticed the deficiency, until recalled to his senses
by the roughness of the road. In a word, the wine
he had already swallowed, had made serious inroads
upon a brain that was always `very poor
and unhappy for drinking;' and, as it frequently
happens in such cases, the exercise of walking
more than counteracted the effects of the cooling
air; so that, by the time he had trudged half the
distance towards the paddock, the young gentleman
was in the happiest spirits imaginable, wholly
insensible of his condition, and almost unconscious
of the purpose that had drawn him so far. He
even began to sing along the road, and by the time
he had reached the gate, was trolling a song, of a
character ludicrous enough to come from his lips,
but which, perhaps caught originally from those of
some wag or philosopher of the camp, was now
suggested by the spirit of happy indifference it
breathed to all sublunary concerns, and was therefore
in excellent harmony with his own feelings.

It was the song of Poor Joe, and was sung with
wondrous emphasis and gusto.

Apparently, he found the madrigal just one
stanza too short, at least for his present mood;
for which reason, so soon as he had finished the
last of all, he began to repeat it, with even more
expression than before, and had just reached the
second line,—

when one of his own elbows was suddenly seized
upon, and a voice, bitterly reproachful, muttered
in his ear,

“Are you mad? Are you mad, brother? are
you mad?”

“What! Hal? sister? is that you? Gad's my
life, I knew you would scold me; but if you would
only consider—But, now I think of it, egad,
what brings you out here of a dark night, singing
Poor Joe, like an old soldier? Adzooks, as the
Captain says, I am quite astonished!”

“Brother, you are—Oh, that you should be
so insensible to interest, if not to shame!” cried
Miss Falconer, with deep feeling. “Brother, brother,
you”—

“If I have, may I be shot!” cried the young
officer, hastily, as if the instinct of long habit had
taught him what his sister intended to say; “that
is, Harry, my dear, nothing to speak of; and it is
all on account of Caliver, who, betwixt you and
me, is so deuced soft-headed,—he is, egad,—one
must always sit by, to take care of him. As for
me, Hal, why I can drink a hogshead of any such
wishwashy stuff as these French wines; I can, by
the eternal Jupiter, as Caliver says; and at the
present moment I am”—

“Ruined, irretrievably ruined!” cried his sister;
“and by your own folly—by your own miserable,
infatuated dissipation. You have lost Catherine
Loring.”

“Lost Catherine Loring? my Catherine Loring?”
cried the young man, in alarm. “Have the Hawks
carried her off?”

“What if I say yes?” replied Harriet; and then
added, with a tone that brought the youth still farther
to his senses, “and I must add, that even a
base and renegade Gilbert is worthier of her than
you,—my brother,—the son of Richard Falconer!
Oh, shame upon you, brother! shame upon you!”

“Harry, you are joking with me!” cried Falconer,
with a voice somewhat quavering and querulous.
“We've driven the dogs the lord knows
whither; and as for that story of the village, why
that's all a fib: so as to carrying Catherine off, I
don't believe a word of it.”

“And yet you have lost her,—lost her, perhaps,
beyond all redemption. Oh Harry, brother Harry,
were you but enough in your senses to understand
me!”

“I am, sister, I am,” cried Falconer; and indeed
the devil, drunkenness, was fast giving place
to the devil, fear: “I have been drinking; but I
swear to heaven.”

“Swear no more: you have done so a dozen
times already.”

“I have done so, sister; but I swear again, and
I call heaven to witness, that if you have spoken
the truth, and Catherine be really lost, I will never
drink more till I have recovered or revenged her.
But for pity's sake, speak; what is the matter?—
I am sober now. What has brought you out
here in the dark? Where is Catherine? What is
the matter?”

“You shall hear,” cried Miss Falconer, hurriedly:
“perhaps it is not yet too late. You have
a rival, brother, a dangerous rival!”

“Oh, gad now, sister! lord, is that all?” exclaimed
the young man, bursting into a laugh:

“why, you don't think I shall go jealous, because
I have a rival? Gad, Harry, you're the most
absurd sister in the world.—I wonder what the
deuce has become of my hat?—A rival, Hal? One
of these village clotpolls! A dozen of 'em, if you
like: the more the merrier. I'll invite 'em all to
my wedding.”

“You are mad!” cried Harriet. “Wedding,
indeed! Perhaps you will never be married.
What think you of a rival that has her heart?”

“Her heart? Catherine's heart?” exclaimed
the gay-brained soldier; “why, it has been mine
these two years!”

“And now,” said Harriet, “it is another's.—
Brother! rouse from your dream of confidence
and security. It is as true as that the stars are
above us: Catherine Loring loves another.”

“Harriet!”—

“It is true—she confessed it with her own
lips.”

“Confessed it, sister!” said the young man; and
then added, with a spirit that surprised her, “If
that be so, why then good luck to her: she shall
have her freedom. I don't think I shall break my
heart; and, certainly, I shan't force her to marry
me. But, Hal,—look you, sister Hal,—I did not
think she would cozen me. She confessed it, did
she? Why, that's enough. I'm an honourable
man; but after being cheated and jilted, I don't
care much—But if I don't kill the scoundrel,
Hal!—I say if I don't kill him, you may have
leave to call me a fool and chicken twice over!—
Confess it!”

If this display of spirit surprised Miss Falconer,
the manifest distress with which her brother spoke,
incredible as it may seem, greatly gratified her.
His greatest fault in her eyes,—that is, aside from
his dissipated habits,—was that easy indifference

of disposition, or indolence of feeling, which
kept him reckless and passive when she would
have had him ardent and energetic. She knew
him to be insensible of the full value of that prize
it was her ambition to secure him; and had he
been any but her brother, she would have hated
him for what seemed the feebleness of his affection,
as indicated by the little pains he took to secure
that of Catherine. It was obvious, from this
homely burst, in which magnanimity, pride, indignation,
anger, and distress, were all so characteristically
jumbled together, that the young gentleman
had really feeling enough at bottom, and that, in
a great measure, of the right kind; and the discovery
brought a ray of hope into her mind.

“Brother,” said she, “if you really love Catherine,
you may yet save her.”

“What! after confessing she loves another?”
cried he, sulkily. “Now, Hal, for all your wisdom,
you don't know me—I won't have her. Confess,
indeed!”

“No—she did not confess—I will explain. Perhaps
'twas only a dream;—it was in her sleep.”

“In her sleep!” cried Falconer, and then burst
again into a roar of laughter. “In her sleep!” he
ejaculated, giving way to a second peal. “Well!
you have scared me with a vengeance!—But I
forgive you—you have brought me to. Of all the
cunning doctors in the world, give me yourself,
Harry; you are infallible. And so she confessed
in her sleep, poor soul, did she? Oh, Hal! Hal!
Hal!” And here the capricious youth gave full
swing to his merriment.

“Thus it is,” said his sister, impatiently; “one
extreme or the other, ever. Listen, brother; for
I am serious. Your wild habits have greatly
weakened Catherine's affections. Another comes,
in the meanwhile, with attractions, I will not say

superior to your own, but perhaps every way
equal, who ceases not, neither by day nor by night,
to influence her imagination and engage her heart.
Judge of his success, when you know that she has
admitted him to intimacy, nay, to confidence; judge,
when I tell you that she trembles at the sound of
his voice, turns pale at the echo of his footsteps,
blushes when he speaks, looks glad when he is by
her, and weeps when he is absent,—and, finally,
who hides the secret from her own waking
thoughts, yet babbles his name over in her dreams,
and sheds tears, and smiles with her tears, when
she murmurs it. Is not such a man,—the object
of such emotions, himself so passionately enamoured,
that his visage betrays the thought of his bosom,
even when he knows he is suspected and
watched,—is not such a man a dangerous rival?”

“Sister, you know better than myself,” said
Falconer, uneasily; “if you think so”—

“I do, brother; I believe, that, this moment,
without knowing it herself, Catherine's mind is
dwelling upon your rival; and if he be not driven
away, you will lose her.”

“Point him out to me, sister Harriet, and then,
by”—

“No fighting! no fighting, brother!” cried Harriet,
in some alarm, and speaking with eagerness.
“Not a hair of the young man's head must be
harmed; we have done him injury enough among
us, perhaps, already. We must frighten him
away: if I know him, we can legally expel him
from the valley. Arrest, imprison him, banish
him;—do any thing; but harm him not—that is, do
him no harm with your own hands. If he have
forfeited his life to the law, let the law take it.
Now, brother, know your rival—it is the youngest
brother of this dreadful Oran Gilbert.”

“Saints and devils!” cried Falconer, with vivacity,

“a Hawk of the Hollow! and dare to love
Catherine Loring?”

“I could be sworn to it,” said Harriet. “The
circumstances that pointed out the assassin of my
father, were but clews of thistle-down to the chains
of evidence that led me to the knowledge of this
skulking raven's character. The first circumstance
was as strong as the last; an idle, thoughtless,
nay, an accidental, pencil mark on a drawing
opened my eyes in an instant; and heaven's light
immediately streamed through them. But think
him not the coarse cut-throat his name would indicate;
he has had a gentleman's breeding, and such
is his bearing. I doubt not that he is a confederate
of his brother, perhaps even a spy; and, I am persuaded,
it was he who counteracted our scheme
of seizing the reprobates, and brought the poor
soldier, Parker, to the gibbet. He must be arrested
and examined. He knows he is suspected—he
knows that I suspect him; but will, in his audacity,
remain, in the assurance that no real proof can be
brought against him.—That man, that painter,
brother,—that Hunter? where did you leave him?”

“Leave him?” cried Falconer: “why, is he
not here? Sure, he led the way hither; and sure I
followed after him. A rare fellow, sister! I was
going to blow his brains out; but, egad, I know
him better, and, gad, I am coming on fast to
adore him. Adzooks, as the Captain says, I picked
up his letter, and”—

“His letter?” cried Harriet, eagerly; “where
is it?”

“Here,” said the lieutenant, drawing it from
his pocket, wherein he had safely bestowed it.

“To the light! to the light!” cried the maiden,
snatching it out of his hands, and running with the
speed of a frighted deer towards the mansion, followed
by her bewildered brother. A candle blazed

in one of the windows that opened on the porch,
and in the chamber it lighted, had she been disposed
to look, Miss Falconer might have seen the
gallant Captain Loring sitting upright in his armchair,
but fast asleep, and filling half the house
with the melody of his nostrils. To this window
ran Miss Falconer, and hither she was followed
by her brother; who, to his amazement and indignation,
found her devouring the contents of the
paper with the avidity of a malefactor poring
over his own respite from a death of ignominy.

“Gad's my life, sister Hal!” cried the incensed
soldier, “you have disgraced me for ever! What,
reading the young fellow's letter?”

“Reading my letter!” cried Harriet, turning
upon him a look inexpressibly fierce and triumphant.
“Was not this suspicion as prophetic
as the other? The dead Parker speaks to me, and
from his grave affords me proof even stronger
than I sought. Oh, villain! villain! audacious, inconceivably
audacious, villain! Their lieutenant?
His intimacy with, his designs upon Catherine Loring,
revealed even to his ribald companions? and
made their theme of speech! their jest! Oh, what
a rival have you suffered to approach your betrothed
wife, Harry Falconer! This convicts,
doubly convicts him.—What ho, uncle! Captain
Loring, awake! Where is Catherine? Uncle!
uncle!”

“Devils!” cried Falconer, “do you mean to
say that Hunter is the man? Why he's a gentleman!”—

“Adzooks, and adsbobs, what's the matter?
Send out scouts to beat the bushes: tree 'em, my
boys, tree 'em; never show an inch of Adam's
leather to an Indian.—Adzooks, is that you, Harry
my dear?” were the words of Captain Loring,
roused as suddenly from his slumbers as he had

often been in his early woodland campaigns.
“What's the matter? Have you caught that
scoundrel Oran, or any of his gang?”

The answer to this question astounded the old
soldier; and while Miss Falconer poured into his
ears the story of the transformation of his beloved
Herman the painter into Hyland Gilbert, a brother
and leader among the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow,
he seemed for a moment, like the devotee, rapt in
a holier passion, to have

In the meanwhile the unlucky author of this
commotion had brought his destinies to a crisis in
another quarter, and with another individual.