University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE ESCAPE.

The din of distant battle came surging
down the light wind, and he sharp
rattle of a running fire, mingled with
the yells and whoops of barbarous warfare,
announced as plainly as words
could have done, that the main force of
the Mexicans was now at issue with
the savages.

But not for that, not that they were

yet in the midst of perilous adventure,
not that their chances of escape were
still slender and uncertain, was the welcome
of the stout Partisan cold or ungracious.

Far from it—for, as he came bounding
down the broken slopes of the hillock,
Gordon hailed, in his full, clear,
manly tones, fearful no longer of being
overheard by Camanche or Mexican.

“Julia, huzza! huzza! He is here—
come forth and greet him. The Partisan
is here already.”

And just as the highly bred brown
horse bore him up the low bank from the
rivulet's bed, she came out quickly from
the little tent, with a warm flush on her
soft cheeks, and a bright light in her
clear blue eye, and a fleet step and an
outstretched hand, which showed that
the joy she manifested at his coming
was from the heart, sincere and earnest.

“Oh!” she cried, “Major Delacroix,”
and her sweet low voice faltered
as she spoke, as if she were on the
point of bursting into tears, “how glad,
how very glad, I am to see you.”

“Too glad, I am afraid, dear lady,”
answered the gallant soldier, bowing
almost to the saddle bow—“too glad, I
am afraid; for your pleasure almost
looks as if you thought I had deserted
you.”

“Oh! no, indeed—indeed!” she answered,
clapping her hands together in
the intensity of her earnestness—“I
knew that you would die a thousand
deaths, before you would desert me—
before you would desert, I mean”—she
added with some slight embarrassment
—“any woman, in distress or danger.”

“You need not have modified your
first expression, lady,” replied the Partisan
quietly—“as for dying a thousand
deaths, I cannot say for that! but certainly
so far as risking the one life I do
possess, I would do that for you, at least,
right willingly. Desert any woman,
under any circumstances, I hope I never
should—but it must not be denied
that I, old, weather-beaten, and war-worn
as I am, like the rest of us, feel the
effects of youth and grace and beauty
such as yours—to say nothing of your
high and gentle courage. I am afraid
if you were old and plain, dear lady,
though certainly we would not give
you up, without a word and a blow too,
to these savages, we should not serve
you with quite so much devotion.”

“I do not believe you,” she replied,
halflaughing, for the veteran forester
spoke so cheerfully and gaily, and
seemed so totally forgetful of the perils
which environed them, that Julia's confidence
was restored, and she felt relieved
of half her apprehensions, by the
return of the Partisan. “I do not believe
you; I am sure for the poorest
and plainest, and oldest hag that ever
wore the weeds, and pleaded the weakness
of woman, you would do or die as
devotedly, as for the brightest of the
sex. Do not deny it, if you would have
me think of you, as I am more than half
inclined to do, as a preux chevalier in
the midst of these degenerate days.”

Woman are quick, to a proverb, at
discovering the effects produced by
their charms upon the minds of men;
and that man must be a rare and extraordinary
monster, when true admiration
and real love, even if it be unreturned,
does not afford some gratification to
the object who has inspired it. No
true or generous woman, no woman, in
a word, who is deserving of the love of
an honorable man, will for a moment
trifle with a heart the sentiments of
which she perceives, yet feels herself
unable to return—none such will encourage
a passion which she knows
must be hopeless, or add to the bitter
sense of unrequited love the yet keener
sting of contempt or manifest dislike.

Still, as I have observed, even the
best and kindest hearts of the women
will derive pleasure from the sense of
their power on the minds of men; and
if the man be in any wise distinguished
for virtue, worth, wit, valor, and so
marked out above his fellows, she who
perceives herself the mistress of his
love, even if she cannot reciprocate it,
feeling herself ennobled by his homage,
and proud of the tribute to her beauty, will often, it is to be hoped—all unconsciously,
but oftener yet from half reckless
half inconsiderate coquetry, endeavor
to prolong his captivity, and to hold
him a willing slave in her soft bondage.

Julia Gordon was a high-minded, artless,
innocent woman, if ever such an
one breathed the breath of life: but
still she was the woman! She loved
her young husband, the first choice of
her virgin heart, with all the intense
power of which her sensitive, enthusiastic,
ardent soul was capable. She
would have looked upon the slightest
wandering, even of a wayward fancy
toward another, as an inexpiable act of
infidelity and shame. She would have
named it, and named it rightly, infamy
and treason, and unwomanly wickedness,
to lead an honorable man to form
false hopes, or to encourage him to love
in vain; but still she was a beauty,
conscious of her charms—a gay, light-hearted,
happy child of impulse, accustomed
to be flattered and admired, to
be addressed with homage and devotion,
on all sides: and, therefore, though she
perceived at once that she had struck
and fascinated the wild Partisan at first
sight, and though she would not for the
universe intentionally have caused him a
single pang, she did unconsciously encourage
him, and lead him on to wilder
and more wandering fancies, than he had
ever entertained before.

Her manner was such that he could
not fail to see that she had read his
heart of hearts; and there was something
in her evident appreciation of his
high qualities, her decided confidence in
his honor, and her unconcealed admiration
of his chivalrous conduct, which
led him to suspect that she was not all
indifferent to his feelings.

Still there was nothing sensual or evil
in the most liberal imagination of the
Partisan: no thought of illicit, or improper
love, much less of voluptuous indulgence
had crossed the horizon of his
mind: had such a dream suggested itself
to him, he would have spurned it
with abhorrence; and the bare consciousness
of such a thought would
have prevented the possibility of its
recurrence.

As it was, he yielded for a time to
the soft and unwonted illusion, and he
did so with the more complete abandonment,
that it was, as we have seen,
many years since he had felt the influence
of feminine attractions, or tasted
the fascination of woman's society.

“You flatter me, fair lady,” he replied,
with a smile, as he dismounted
from his good horse; “and flattery
from such lips as yours were perilous,
indeed, to a younger man than I, and
to one less alienated from the hopes, the
wishes, the delights, of civilized society.
But let us go in to your tent,” he continued,
“and you shall bestow upon me
your hospitality to-day, in requital of
the poor meal I set before you on the
other side of the Bravo. To say the
truth, I am both hungry and weary—
and that is something for me to confess
—but I have eaten nothing since I left
you: nor quitted my saddle, except for
an hour this morning. That is it, my
good fellow,” he added, addressing a
dragoon who came forward to lead away
his charger, “rub him down well, and
water him, after a while, and feed him
with that forage you have been cutting;
and you would do well to feed your
own horses too, and hold yourselves in
readiness for a start. We will march
as soon as the sun sets. Where is your
other fellow, Gordon? I left three
with you. You have not lost another,
surely.”

“No; I thank God. He is on the
hill-top, yonder, among the chapparal.
I posted him there to keep a look out,
and as it is, the Mexicans nearly surprised
him. In truth, nothing saved
us, but that the savages had ridden directly
over our trail, so that they believe
us to have been taken by them,
and doubtless massacred.”

“As we should have been, doubtless,
had they struck our trail by daylight.
As it is, they have proved our safeguard
so far; and, if we can avoid them hereafter,
all will be well. I think, as yet,
they know nothing of us.”

“The fighting is not ended between
them and the lancers,” said Gordon,
listening intently to the distant uproar.

“Not yet,” replied the Partisan instantly.
“But the Camanches are getting
the worst of it.”

Gordon gazed upon him, half doubtful
whether he heard him aright; and
then exclaimed: “But that I knew
you, I should think you were speaking
at random.”

“Oh, no!” said the other, “I am
not. Do you not hear that the noise is

more remote than it was? They are a
mile farther off, at least. The savages
are making a running fight of it. Hail
your sentinel, and he will tell you it is
so.”

“What ho! McLean,” shouted the
young dragoon. “Jump up, my man,
and tell us what you make of the fighting
yonder.”

The man rose immediately from the
bushwood, on the summit of the hill,
and saluted as he answered readily.

“I cannot make much out of it now,
sir. The Indians charged them on a
sudden, a while since, out of the great
ravine: and I thought for a moment
they would break the lancers. But
the Dons held out pretty stiffly, and
drove the savages. They all crossed
the ridge beyond, helter skelter, and
hand to hand; and I lost sight of them,
for ten minutes or so, while they were
down in the next bottom. But just before
you hailed me, they came into
sight again, as they rose over the next
swell, and the Camanches were riding
for their lives, and the troopers were
blazing at them, as fast as they could
load and fire. I can scarce hear the
carabines any longer, and there is not
a man in sight, or a horse either, except
those that will never ride or be ridden
any more.”

“You see,” said Pierre, coolly, “I
did not speak at random. But call him
down, and let them cook and dine, and
then saddle. The sooner we get under
way the better. Pardon us, dear lady,”
he added, turning to Julia, who had
been observing all that passed with singular
interest, and not without some
emotion; “these are not fitting subjects
for your ears; but your safety makes
it needful that we should speak of them.
Now, if you allow us admittance, we
will be your guests, for we must take
counsel, and it is fitting that you should
hear all, and advise with us.”

“Pray come in,” she replied unaffectedly,
“without any more words.—
We are so far indebted to you now, that
ceremony between us were worse than
idle. There,” she continued, as they
all three entered the narrow precincts
of the tent, “sit you down on that bearskin,
while I wait on you. We have
some of your own wine left, and some
cold venison. Arthur, bid one of the
men make some water hot, and we will
have coffee, in five minutes.”

The Partisan had not lived so many
years on the frontier, or associated so
long, as he had done, with the various
tribes of Indians, who still roam unconquered
over the vast wilds westward of
the Mississippi, without having contracted
something of their habits and modes
of thinking.

Among their habits, the most marked,
perhaps, was a sort of grave taciturnity,
when he was not very deeply moved,
or carried out of his usual line of conduct,
or demeanor, by any unwonted or
unnatural excitement—a reluctance to
communicate hastily anything which
had occurred, if not of immediate moment,
or in any event to dwell upon
his own actions or achievements.

And at this moment Pierre Delacroix's
conduct was singularly demonstrative
of this habit. Any other than he, or
one trained like him to peril, and the
prudence which is derived from peril,
would have entered open-mouthed, immediately
on rejoining his friends, upon
the recital of his own adventures, his
doings, and his sufferings, interlarded,
it is most probable, with no slight strains
of self glorification.

Far different from this, however, was
his course. He took the place assigned
to him by Julia, without saying a word,
and partook of the simple viands which
were set before him, in absolute silence,
except when the courtesies of the table
required him to reply to the lady.—
Once or twice, indeed, the young soldier
endeavored to draw him indirectly into
a recital of what had occurred to him
during the past night on the prairie;
but he had only elicited monosyllabic
answers, from which he derived no satisfaction.

When the repast was ended, and coffee
set before them, he produced his
pipe, and filling it with his favorite mixture
of tobacco, and bois gris, applied
himself for a few minutes to smoking
silently, Gordon following his example,
and Julia awaiting patiently the relation,
which, with the true woman's instinct,
she foresaw to be close at hand.

At length Pierre Delacroix shook out
the ashes from the bowl of his Indian

pipe, replaced the implement in his
pouch, and raising his eyes calmly,
said in a quiet tone:

“Now then, Lieutenant, since we
are about to start, it were, perhaps, as
well that we should determine whither.”

“Whither,” exclaimed Gordon starting,
and looking very anxiously in the
old soldier's face. “I thought that had
been determined long ago. I thought
we were in full route for Taylor's camp
before Monterey.”

“It is impossible,” replied the Partisan.
“I did hope at the first to effect
it, but the hope was delusive—the thing
is a sheer impossibility. We are in
the midst of out-laying parties of regulars,
and what is worse yet of guerillas;
and worst of all, of these accursed
Camanches.”

“And to return?” asked Gordon.

“Is equally impossible.”

“In God's name, then, what can we
do? Is there nothing left to us men but
to die sword in hand, knowing that we
dead, she must fall into the hands of
these savages?”

“Had there been no other reason
than that, I should not now be talking
of it.”

“What then? For the love of
heaven, speak!” cried the young husband,
actually trembling with the violence
of his anxiety and apprehension.

“It is impossible for a party, at once
too strong to avoid discovery, and too
weak to resist an enemy, to push on to
Monterey, even if we had not a lady
with us. I could myself, run the
gauntlet thither, and arrive in safety,
though even that is doubtful. You, or
she, at least, must remain in concealment,
until I can bring you such succor
as will suffice to her safety.”

“Remain in concealment, here?”

“Not here exactly, nor yet very far
distant.”

“Can it be done?”

“I think it can, with safety—else
had I not named it.”

“And whence will you seek succor?”

“Whence God and the fortunee of
war shall send it. Perhaps not nigher
than the general's camp—perhaps I
may stumble on Jack Hays, or Walker,
or McCulloch, or Gillespie's rangers.
They are on the scout almost all the
time, either in the van or rear of the
army; and now I think it likely they
will be down hereaway, with the intent
to open our communications. God send
that they may!”

“God send it so, indeed!” replied
Arthur Gordon earnestly. “But what
has led you so completely to alter your
views and intentions?”

“That which I have seen with my
own eyes, or heard with my own ears,
last night.”

“And what may that have been?”

“Listen, I was awakened last night
a little while before the Camanches
passed you, by the sound of a scuffle
and a faint groan. Before I could get
on my feet, however, I had the pleasure
of seeing that scoundrel, whose life we
spared in the morning—and a d—d stupid
thing we did in sparing it—lead
his horse out of the circle and leap
on its back. There was no use in
awakening you, so I untethered Emperor
as quickly as I could, and out in
pursuit of him. For all the speed I
could make, he had got full a half mile
away on the open prairie before I was
in the saddle; but I cared little enough
for that, seeing that in a five miles race,
I knew well enough that I could make
up such a gap as that, and overhaul him
too without much trouble. But what
did vex me, and set me to thinking, was
that instead of making the best of his
way back over the ground we had traversed
in the morning, he struck off
here to the northwest, riding as straight
as if he had been following a beaten
track, without a sign of h sitation, or so
much as looking behind him.”

“That was strange,” said Gordon,
“what the deuce could it mean?”

“It meant clearly enough that he
knew he had friends nearer at hand
than Carrera's men in the rear, and
that he had no idea at all that he was
discovered by any of our party, much
less followed.”

“Ah! was it indeed so?”

“It is so indeed. I knew that so
soon as he turned his horse's head
northwestward. But I knew not where
his friends were, nor how many, and I
wanted to be sure of that. So I struck

off still farther west than he, and kept
myself out of his sight among the timber,
and behind the chapparal. It is
true I had to go two miles to his one,
for I was riding round the circle across
which he was striking, but what of that?
Brown Emperor can take three strides
to his two, and stride twice as long as
his mustang's longest. Well, I kept
him in sight, and myself out of sight,
and well was it for me that I did so. I
soon found out whither he was bound,
and I was thinking of taking a straight
course for the rancho, at which I saw
he was aiming, when all at once, I
heard a yell in the forest, scarcely
three hundred yards ahead of me, and
before I had time to think, if thinking
would have done any good, out galloped
forty or fifty red skins from the
forest, and drove right across the open
ground right down upon our runaway.
He felt that he was lost, I think, as
soon as he saw them, for he made but
a very sorry race of it, wheeling and
turning to and fro, as if he knew not
whither to fly, and the consequence
was that they ran him down in less
than ten minutes, and that within less
than a hundred yards of the brake
which hid me. It I had just then had
ten rangers with me, armed with good
western rifles, they never would have
served him as they did, nor would one
of themselves have got off scot free.
But what could I do? I was but one
against fifty, and I knew not how soon
my own turn might come; so I had
only to stand by, and look on while
they—”

“Murdered him!” exclaimed Julia,
covering both her eyes with her fair
hands, “good god! how terrible!”

“Burnt him alive, lady,” said the
Partisan, coolly. “If they had only
killed him, I should have thought nothing
of it, for that I meant to do myself
within half an hour. But when
they tied him to the stake and heaped
the faggots round him, it did make my
blood boil, for though he was a Mexican,
a traitor, and a murderer, still he
was a white man, and after his own
fashion, I suppose, a christian. I levelled
my rifle two or three times, I believe,
and might have killed their great
war-chief, if I had dared. But to do
so could not have saved him, and would
have lost not only myself—that would
have been a matter of no consequence—
but you, beyond a doubt.”

“Burnt him alive!” exclaimed Julia,
whose hands had dropped from before
her eyes into her lap at the first
words of his reply, and who had sat
gazing him full in the face, speechless
with terror, and incapable of comprehending
what he said afterward.—
“Burnt him alive, and before your
eyes!”

“Before my eyes, lady! Not a
prayer, not a shriek, not a groan of the
wretched devil escaped my ears; and
the smell of his roasting flesh sickened
and almost choked me!” cried the Partisan,
now himself terribly affected,
and apparently fascinated by the very
horror of the scene, and unable to pass
over the shocking details. His eye
had a wild stare as he spoke, and the
big sweat drops rolled like rain from
his sunburnt brow, and his fingers
griped the hilt of his knife, as if they
would have embedded themselves in the
solid buck-horn, and his voice was
hoarse and husky. Once or twice in
his agony, he called upon my name, and
shrieked to me, for the love of the most
holy Virgin, to preserve him, although,
God help him, he knew not that I was
nigh at hand to hear him. As I hope
to live hereafter, it was all I could do
to hold myself from rushing out upon
them.”

“And why, why did you hold
back?” exclaimed Julia, wildly catching
him by the arm in the intensity of
her passion,” why did you not rush
out upon them?”

“I could but have died with him.”

“Then should you have died with
him!” she cried, scarce knowing what
she said—“Not to have done so, is not
like the man I have heard you called—
not like the man I took you for!”

“Hush, Julia, hush!” cried her
husband springing to his feet. “Be
silent, child, if you cannot speak reason—”

But Delacroix interrupted him, speaking
very slowly, and with an inexpressible
mournful intonation of voice.—

“Let her go on,” he said, “let her go
on, Arthur Gordon. I am used to it,
used to it for years, for a life—used to
be misunderstood and misrepresented.
Let her go on! It was for her sake I
did it—and most meet it is that she
should repay me for it with ingratitude.
Who ever served or loved a woman
and met other guerdon for his services?
I was a fool, I am a fool, but I did not
expect this at her hands.”

He hung down his bold head as he
spoke, and one or two big tears, the
first that he had shed in years, rolled
down his swarthy cheeks, and fell on
his hard hands; and he sat staring at
them as they fell, as if he knew not
what they were, or what ailed him.

“My God!” exclaimed Gordon, passionately,
“I believe you are bent on
driving me mad, Julia! By heaven, I
believe you are turned idiot!”

“We are all idiots together, I say!”
exclaimed the tough old soldier, dashing
away the last tear-drop from his clear
gray eye with the back of his hand, and
starting to his feet abruptly. “All
idiots together, to be telling idle tales,
and listening to them here, when we
should be up and doing. Bid your
men strike the tent, and pack just what
baggage your lady cannot spare. Pack
it on the dragoon horse, whose saddle is
left empty by that murderer's deed,
who has dearly rued it. The rest with
the tent and pontoon must be abandoned,
and the mules that bore them must be
slain. Let them hide everything in the
chapparal, the sun will have set within
an hour. Meanwhile, I will go forth
and see that the coast is clear.”

“But whither, whither are you about
to lead us?” enquired Gordon, anxiously.

“If you trust me, you will follow
me, Lieutenant, whithersoever I lead
you. If not, you will not follow me at
all; for if it be my intent to deceive
you, I can do so by words as well as
by actions. It is for you to decide. I
have no time to make many words, nor
is it my wont to do so. I swear to save
yourself and your wife from all the
dangers that beset you, if I can. If I
cannot, I intend to die with, or for you,
just which you please to call it, although
I did disappoint your lady by not dying
as she would have had me do, very sentimentally
in company with a vile murderer
and traitor, to whom my life or
death could do no earthly good.”

“Oh! Major Delacroix!” exclaimed
Julia, who had now recovered from her
bewilderment, and was sensible of the
error she had committed, “you are offended,
you are angry with me, and
justly—I have been most ungrateful.”

“Not angry, lady, not offended. A
man cannot be angry with such an one
as you, do what you will with him. I
am disappointed, perhaps hurt, but certainly
neither angry nor offended.”

“You must forgive me!” she exclaimed,
springing passionately forward,
and catching his hand in both her
own, “you must, you must forgive me!
You must remember that I am but a
weak girl, unused to hear of horrors
such as you related—horrors, God help
me! which may befall me next—horrors
which are strong enough, it seems to
me, to bewilder the mind of strong,
brave men, and which have half maddened
me. I knew not then, I know not
even now what it was I said—will you
but forgive me?”

“Surely I would, had I anything to
forgive, sweet lady,” he replied with a
grave, sad smile. “But I have nothing,
unless it be,” he added with a
low sigh, “my own folly. But a truce
to this, we have indeed no time for parleying.
Will you trust me, and follow
me? as we ride onward I will tell
you whither.”

“To the world's end!” answered the
beautiful girl, clasping her hands, and
blushing crimson with the violence of
her own emotions. “To the world's
end, if you will not forgive me.”

“And you, Lieutenant?” he added,
quickly turning a keen glance to the
face of the young dragoon. “And will
you trust and follow me?”

“I do not know why you should
press the question,” replied Arthur,
a little sharply. “No one, so far as I
know, has distrusted you; and, as for
following you, we never thought of doing
aught else. You frighten a young,
timid girl out of her senses with a tale of
terror, and then take offence at her bewildered
and romantic folly—you do
not know the nature of women, Partisan,”

he continued, becoming aware
that he was carrying it with rather too
high a hand to suit the temperament of
his auditor, and desirous of turning the
thing into a jest, “and are not aware
that they quarrel the most with those
whom they like the best.”

“I no not know their nature, as you
say,” returned the Partisan, “nor am I
sure that it were for my happiness to
learn it any farther. At all events, I
have not the time, nor am very likely to
have the opportunity of doing so—
Now, will you be so kind as to issue
your orders to your men, and you,
madam, to make your preparations for
a ride, which may extend through the
night until daybreak to-morrow.”

He spoke so decidedly that there was
no excuse for attempting to prolong the
conversation, and Gordon left the little
tent immediately, in order to give his
directions, while the Partisan litted his
rifle from the ground where he had deposited
it on entering, and turned to follow
the young officer without saying
another word.

But ere he had reached the entrance,
Julia, who had been standing with
downcast eyes, and a strange expression,
half sad, half passionate on her
beautiful features, sprang forward to intercept
him, and again caught him by
the arm.

“What have I done?” she cried,
passionately “what have I done, that
you thus spurn me, thus despise me?”

“I, lady!” and he gazed at her in
blank astonishment, “I spurn, I despise
you!”

“Yes, yes! miserable me! and I
deserve it all, aye, more than all, oh
God! oh, God! I shall go mad! what
shall I do to win your forgiveness?”

“I have said, madam,” he replied,
mastering himself, and retaining his self-composure
with a mighty effort, “that
I had nothing to forgive. But now it
is my turn to ask,” and his voice assumed
a deeper tone of feeling, and his
whole manner showed an intenser
meaning, “will you spare me? You
know what I mean, lady—all women
know their power, and, I suppose, all
abuse it. But, as I have endeavored to
serve you truly, as I intend to do to the
end, as I am resolved to die for you,
will you spare me, I say? Spare me
my self-respect, my consciousness of
right, my manhood, my repose of soul,
my honor. If you will, lady, I forgive,
I bless you. If not—if not, tremble,
I say, tremble, not at the thought
of my vengeance, but of your own remorse.
Think of this, lady, and fare
you well. We speak no more alone
together, no more, for ever.”

And he flung her hand, which he
had held tightly clasped in his own
while he spoke, away from him, half
contemptuously, half indignantly; turned
on his heel, and left her.

She gazed on him for a moment wistfully,
and then sank down upon the
bearskin, on which he had been sitting,
buried her face in the fur, and wept
bitterly, as might be seen from the convulsive
sobs which shook her whole
frame, as she lay prostrate in her desperate
sorrow.

A woman's heart is a strange thing,
and wo be to him who plays with, or
perverts it.

Meanwhile, the Partisan went forth
and reconnoitred the plain, and assured
himself that the Camanches and their
pursuers were indeed out of the range
of sound or sight, having gone off in a
direction that would carry them, he was
well assured, far from the line in which
he proposed to travel.

Within an hour, he returned to the
camp, which had been the scene of so
much mental suffering and excitement
to all the parties who had passed the last
weary long hours within its guarded
precinets. But when he did return, he
had fully mastered his composure, for
he now fully understood his own feelings,
and perceived the peril of indulging
them. And he found all his
comrades collected and self possessed,
at least, in appearance, and prepared to
set forth at a moment's notice.

The tent was no longer visible, nor
any of that superfluous baggage which
had been brought along, to diminish as
much as possible the hardships of the
lady during her hard and dangerous
journey. All had been either hidden
so closely as to avoid any casual observation,
or had been destroyed altogether.
The horse of the unhappy sergeant
had been equipped instead of his

own demipique, with the pack-saddle of
the poor predestined mule, and stood,
seemingly conscious of his degradation,
loaded with such necessary baggage as
could in no way be dispensed with.—
Gordon and his men, all fully armed
and accoutred, were at their charger's
heads, and Julia, pale as marble, and
with a melancholy and languid expression,
which rendered her if possible
more beautiful than ever, was already
seated on her high-blooded jennet.

The appearance of the Partisan, and
the first quick gesture of his hand, gave
the signal; and all the men vaulted at
once into their saddles.

“All is safe!” he exclaimed, cheer
fully. “To horse, to horse, and away!”

And with the word, he laid his hand
on the pummel of the brown charger's
demipique, and, without setting his foot
into the stirrup, sprang at one bound to
his back.

Then, after saying a few words in a
low voice to Arthur, who communicated
them in turn to one of the dragoons, he
bowed to the lady, saying, “And now,
if you are ready, we will proceed at
once,” and rode at an easy gait out of
the gorge, followed by all the party.

Gordon and Julia came immediately
behind him, and were, in their turn, followed
by a trooper leading the loaded
pack horse. The newly-appointed sergeant
remained behind with the other
dragoon and the mules, until the remainder
of the party had cleared the defile
and issued on the open plain, over which
the declining sun was pouring a flood of
crimson light, from beneath a mass of
dark leaden clouds, the lower edge of
which alone was fringed with gloomy
fire, while all above was dark and black
as night.

It was an ominous and lurid gleam
which deluged the wide plains, and
turned the groves and forests, robed as
they were in hazy mist, into masses that
vied, in hue and brilliancy, with ore
liquid from the furnace; and the shadow
projected upward, from the heavy layer
of storm cloud which skirted all the horizon
to the south-westward, over the
darkened firmament, rendered the effect
of the scene yet more threatening and
dismal.

The heart of Julia sank as she gazed
around; and she felt that the least addition
to the sense of dread and half superstitious
awe which now beset her, would
be too much for her powers of endurance.
Yet, while she thought thus,
another item was added—it was the
sharp and sudden crack of two rifles,
discharged almost simultaneously in the
small amphitheatre from which they had
just departed.

She started in her saddle as if she had
received a blow, and would have fallen
from her seat, had not her husband
thrown his powerful arm around her, and
supported her frame on the back of her
palfrey.

“It is nothing,” he whispered, “dearest
love. It is nothing, upon my honor.
I should have told you, had I imagined
that it would so alarm you.”

“But what was it, Arthur? Oh! you
are deceiving me again. I am sure you
are deceiving me. Let me know the
worst, I implore you, at once, and I will
try to bear it.”

“Nay, Julia, I have told you; it is
nothing only the poor mules which we
were compelled to shoot, as we could not
bring them with us, and dared not leave
them to follow, and by following betray
us.”

“More blood!” cried Julia, bursting
into a paroxysm of tears: “more blood!
my God! my God! when will this have
an end?”

“You should have thought of that,
Julia,” replied the young soldier, sharply
and bitterly, “before you married a
soldier. That done, such thoughts are
too late.”

“Alas! alas! they are, indeed, too
late!”

“And do you cry alas! for that, false
girl?” exclaimed Gordon, in so loud a
tone that his words reached the ears
of the Partisan, who instantly reined
back his horse, and laying his hand
kindly on the young man's arm, said in
a low voice—

“Oh! peace, peace, for shame! Consider
what she has borne, what she has
yet to bear, and all for you.”

Gordon was vexed, and raised his
head proudly, with a bitter reply on his
tongue; but ere he could utter it, the

Partisan had fallen yet farther back,
and was ordering the two dragoons who
had just galloped up from the rear.—
After directing the private to fall in beside
him who led the baggage horse,
and sending the sergeant forward two
hundred yards, to lead the party on a
course which he indicated, he rode up
on the other side of the lady, and addressed
her as lightly and cheerfully as
if nothing had happened to disturb their
feelings, and no dangers were around
them.

“And now, fair lady,” he began, “if
you have any portion of what men call
your sexes curiosity,—although, I dare
say, if the truth were known, we
men are just as curious—you must be
dying to know whither I am going to
conduct you, with all this mystery.”

“I wish it were to my grave,” she
answered, raising her mild, soft eyes to
meet his. “I never shall be happy
more, till I lie in it.”

“Nay, lady, speak not thus,” returned
the veteran, warmly. “I must
not hear you speak thus, even lightly.
Death, at the best, is a dread mystery;
and if it be true, that as the tree falls
so shall it lie, a very fearful and appalling
termination. In God's good time,
we must all come to that; to His good
wisdom, therefore, let us leave it.—
And, oh, by no levity or petulance of
ours, let us call down His anger on our
heads! But, I assure you, it is to no
gloomy place, no fearful or dark
abiding-place, that I hope to conduct
you, but to a sort of fairy bower, inhabited,”
he added, assuming a tone of
gaiety which he perhaps scarcely felt,
“by what I thought, till I met your blue
eyes, Mistress Gordon, the loveliest woman,
I e'er looked upon.”

Despite herself, Julia Gordon was
interested and amused, and yielding
womanlike to the immediate impulse,
she cried: “what! a fairy bower, and
a fair woman, in this howling wilderness!”

“Aye, lady even so! and thereby
hangs a tale, which, as you will be
thrown, I think, upon her hospitality,
and as it may beguile the tediousness of
our night-march, I will relate to you,
if you choose to hear it.”

“Oh! tell it by all means, Partisan,”
cried Gordon, eager to atone for his
late petulance, and to divert his wife's
apprehension; “I hope it is a love
tale.”

“Cato's a proper person!” answered
Delacroix, laughing. “You see I can
quote, Lieutenant. But here goes my
story.”