University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

While this brief scene was in progress in the
chamber of Ralph, another, not less full of interest
to that person, was passing in the neighbourhood
of the village tavern; and, as this portion of
our narrative yields some light which must tend
greatly to our own, and the instruction of the
reader, we propose briefly to record it. It will be
remembered, that, in the chapter preceding, we
found the attention of the youth forcibly attracted
towards one Guy Rivers—an attention the result

of various influences—producing in the mind of
the youth a degree of antipathy towards that person
for which he himself could not, nor did we,
seek to account. It appears that Ralph was not
less the subject of consideration with the individual
in question. We have seen the degree and kind
of espionage which the former had felt at one time
disposed to resent; and how he was defeated in
his design by the sudden withdrawal of the obnoxious
presence. On his departure with Forrester
from the gallery, Rivers reappeared—his manner
that of doubt and excitement; and after, for a brief
interval, hurrying with uncertain steps up and
down the apartment, he passed hastily into the
adjoining hall, where sat the landlord smoking
and drinking and expatiating at large to his guests,
upon some topic which need not more particularly
be referred to here. Whispering something in his
ear, he rose, and the two proceeded from the rear
of the building into the adjoining copse, at a point
as remote as possible from hearing, when the explanation
of this mysterious course of caution was
thus begun by Rivers.

“Well, Munro, we are like to have fine work
with your accursed and blundering good-nature.
Why did you not refuse lodgings to this youngster?
Are you ignorant who he is? Do you not know
him?”

“Know him?—no, I know nothing about him.
He seems a clever, good-looking lad, and I see no
harm in him. What is it frightens you?” was the
reply and inquiry of the landlord.

“Nothing frightens me, as you know, by this
time, or should know at least. But, if you know
not the young fellow himself, you should certainly
not be at a loss to know the creature he rides; for
it is not long since your heart was greatly taken

with him. He is the youth we set upon at the
Catcheta Pass, where your backwardness and my
forwardness got me this badge—it has not yet
ceased to bleed—the marks of which promise fairly
to last me to my grave.”

As he spoke he raised the handkerchief which
bound his cheeks, and exposed to view a deep gash,
not of a serious character indeed, but which, as
the speaker asserted, would most probably result
in a mark which would last him his life. The exposure
of the face confirms the first and unfavourable
impression which we have already received
from his appearance, and all that we have any
occasion now to add in this respect will be simply,
that, though not beyond the prime of life, there
were ages of guilt, of vexed and vexatious strife,
unregulated pride, without aim or elevation, a
lurking malignity, and hopeless discontent—all embodied
in the fiendish and fierce expression which
that single glimpse developed to the spectator. He
went on—

“Had it been your lot to have been in my place,
I should not now have to tell you who he is; nor
should we have had any apprehensions of his crossing
our path again. But so it is. You are always
the last to your place—had you kept your appointment,
we should have had no difficulty, and I
should have escaped the mortification of being
foiled by a mere stripling, and almost stricken to
death by the heel of his horse.”

“And all your own fault and folly, Guy. What
business had you to advance upon the fellow, as
you did, before every thing was ready, and when
we could have brought him, without any risk
whatever, into the snare, from which nothing could
have got him out. But no! you must be at your
old tricks of the law—You must make speeches

before you cut purses, as was your practice when
I first knew you at Gwinnett County-Court; a
practice which you seem not able to get over. You
have got into such a trick of making fun of people,
that, for the life of me, I can't be sorry that the lad
has turned the tables so handsomely upon you.”

“You would no doubt have enjoyed the scene
with far more satisfaction, had the fellow's shot
taken its full effect on my scull—since, besides the
failure of our object, you have such cause of merriment
in what has been done. If I did go something
too much ahead in the matter, it is but simple
justice to say you were quite as much aback.”

“Perhaps so, Guy; but the fact is, I was right
and you wrong, and the thing's beyond dispute.
This lesson, though a rough one, will do you service;
and a few more such will perhaps cure
you of that vile trick you have of spoiling not
only your own, but the sport of others, by running
your scull into unnecessary danger; and
since this youth, who got out of the scrape so
handsomely, has beat you at your own game, it
may cure you of that cursed itch for tongue-trifling,
upon which you so much pride yourself. 'Twould
have done, and it did, very well at the County Sessions,
in getting men out of the wood; but as you
have commenced a new business entirely, it's but
well to leave off the old, particularly as it's now
your policy to get them into it.”

“I shall talk as I please, Munro, and see not
why, and care not whether, my talk offends you
or not. I parleyed with the youth only to keep
him in play until your plans could be put in operation.”

“Very good—that was all very well, Guy—
and had you kept to your intention, the thing
would have done. But he replied smartly to your
speeches, and your pride and vanity got to work.

You must answer smartly and sarcastically in
turn, and you see what's come of it. You forgot
the knave in the wit; and the mistake was incurable.
Why tell him that you wanted to pick his
pocket, and perhaps cut his throat?”

“That was a blunder, I grant; but the fact is, I
entirely mistook the man. Besides, I had a reason
for so doing, which it is not necessary to speak
about now.”

“Oh, ay—it wouldn't be lawyer-like if you hadn't
a reason for every thing, however unreasonable,”
was the retort.

“Perhaps not, Munro; but this is not the matter
now. Our present object must be to put this youth
out of the way. We must silence suspicion, for,
though we are pretty much beyond the operation
of law in this region, yet now and then a sheriff's
officer takes off some of the Club; and as I think
it is always more pleasant to be out of than in the
halter, I am clear for making the thing certain in
the only practicable way. Would you believe it,
this boy of whom we speak, as if in the way of
prediction, actually offered me a shilling to procure
a cravat from Kentucky?”

“A plague upon his impudence, say I. But,
are you sure that he is the man. I should know
his horse and shall look to him, for he's a fine
creature and I should like to secure him; which I
think will be the case if you are not dreaming as
usual.”

“I am sure—I do not mistake.”

“Well, I'm not, and I should like to hear what it
is you know him by,” returned the landlord.

A deeper and more malignant expression overspread
the face of Rivers, as with a voice in which
his thought vainly struggled for mastry with a
vexed spirit, he replied:

“What have I to know him by, you ask. I
know him by many things—and when I told you I
had my reason for talking with him as I did, I
might have added that he was known to me and
fixed in my lasting memory by wrongs and injuries
before. But there is enough in this for recollection,”
pointing again to his cheek—“This carries
with it answer sufficient. You may value a
clear face slightly, having known none other than
a blotted one since you have known your own, but
I have a different feeling in this. He has written
himself here, and the damned writing is perpetually
and legibly before my eyes. He has put a
brand, a Cain-like, accursed brand upon my face,
the language of which cannot be hidden from men;
and yet you ask me if I know the executioner.
Can I forget him? If you think so, Munro, you
know but little of Guy Rivers.”

The violence of his manner as he spoke well
accorded with the spirit of what he said. The
landlord, with much coolness and precision, replied—

“I confess I do know but little of him and have
yet much to learn. If you have so little temper in
your speech, I have chosen you badly as a confederate
in employments which require so much of that
quality. This gash, which, when healed, will be
scarcely perceptible, you speak of with all the
mortification of a young girl, to whom, indeed,
such would be an awful injury. How long is it,
Guy, since you have become so particularly solicitous
of beauty, so proud of your face and features?”

“You will spare your sarcasm for another season,
Munro, if you would not have strife. I am not
now in the mood to listen to much, even from you,
in the way of sneer or censure. Perhaps I am a

child in this, but I cannot be otherwise. Besides,
I discover in this youth the person of one to whom
I owe much in the growth of this very hell-heart,
which embitters every thing about and within me.
Of this, at another time, you shall hear more.
Enough that I know this boy—that it is more than
probable he knows me, and may bring us into difficulty—that
I hate him, and will not rest satisfied
until we are secure, and I have my revenge.”

“Well, well, be not impatient nor angry. Although
I still doubt that the youth in the house is
your late opponent, you may have suffered wrong
at his hands, and you may be right in your conjecture.”

“I am right—I do not conjecture. I do not so
readily mistake my man, and I was quite too near
him on that occasion not to have seen every feature
of that face, which, at another and an earlier
day, could come between me and my dearest joys
—but, why speak I of this. I know him: not to
remember would be to forget that I am here; and
that he was a part of that very influence which
made me league, Munro, with such as you, and
become a creature of, and a companion with, men
whom even now I despise. I shall not soon forget
his stern and haughty smile of scorn—his proud
bearing—his lofty sentiment—all that I must admire
—all that I do not possess—and when to-day he
descended to dinner, guided by that meddling
booby Forrester, I knew him at a glance. I should
know him among ten thousand.”

“It's to be hoped that he will have no such memory.
I can't see, indeed, how he should recognise
either of us. Our disguises were complete.
Your whiskers taken off, leave you as far from any
resemblance to what you were in that affair, as
any two men can well be from one another; and I

am perfectly satisfied he has little knowledge of
me.”

“How should he?” retorted the other. “The
better part of valour saved you from all risk of
danger or discovery alike; but the case is different
with me. It may be that enjoying the happiness
which I have lost, he has forgotten the now
miserable object that once dared to aspire—but no
matter—it may be that I am forgotten by him—
he can never be by me.” This speech, which had
something in it vague and purposeless to the mind
of Munro, was uttered with gloomy emphasis,
more as a soliloquy than a reply, by the speaker.
His hands were passed over his eyes as if in agony,
and his frame seemed to shudder at some remote
recollection which had still the dark influence
upon him. Munro was a dull man in all matters
that belonged to the heart, and those impulses
which characterize souls of intelligence and ambition.
He observed the manner of his companion,
but said nothing in relation to it; and the latter, unable
to conceal altogether, or to suppress even
partially his emotions, did not deign to enter into
any explanation in regard to them.

“Does he suspect any thing yet, Guy, think you?
—have you seen any thing which might sanction a
thought that he knew or conjectured more than he
should?” inquired Munro, anxiously.

“I will not say that he does, but he has the perception
of a lynx—he is an apt man, and his eyes
have been more frequently upon me to-day than
I altogether relish or admire. It is true mine were
upon him—as how, indeed, if death were in the
look, could I have kept them off! I caught his
glance frequently; turning upon me with that stern,
still expression, indifferent and insolent—as if he
cared not even while he surveyed. I remember

that glance three years ago, when he was indeed
a boy—I remembered it when, but a few
days since, he struck me to the earth, and would
have ridden me to death with the hoofs of his horse
but for your timely appearance.”

“It may be as you believe, Guy; but, as I saw
nothing in his manner or countenance affording
ground for such a belief, I cannot but conceive it to
have been because of the activity of your suspicions
that you discovered his. I did not perceive
that he looked upon you with more curiosity
than upon any other at table; though, if he had
done so, I should by no means have been disposed
to wonder; for at this time, and since your face has
been so tightly bandaged, you have a most villanously
attractive visage. It carries with it, though
you do regard it with so much favour, a full and
satisfactory reason for observance, without rendering
necessary any reference to any more serious
matter than itself. On the road, I take it, he saw
quite too little of either of us to be able well to
determine what was what, or who was who, either
then or now. The passage was dark, our disguises
good, and the long hair and monstrous whiskers
which you wore did the rest. I have no apprehensions
and see not that you need have any.”

“I would not rest in this confidence—let us
make sure that if he knows any thing he shall say
nothing,” was the significant reply of Rivers.

“Guy, you are too fierce and furious. When
there's a necessity, do you see, for using teeth, you
know me to be always ready; but I will not be for
ever at this sort of work. If I were to let you have
your way you'd bring the whole country down
upon us. There will be time enough when we
see a reason for it to tie up this young man's
tongue.”

“I see—I see!—you are ever thus—ever risking
our chance upon contingencies when you might
build strongly upon certainties. You are perpetually
trying the strength of the rope, when a like
trouble would render it a sure hold-fast. Rather
than have the possibility of this thing being blabbed,
I would—”

“Hush—hark!” said Munro, placing his hand
upon the arm of his companion, and drawing
him deeper into the copse, at the moment that Forrester,
who had just left the chamber of Ralph,
emerged from the tavern into the open air. The
outlaw had not placed himself within the shadow
of the trees in time sufficient to escape the searching
gaze of the woodman, who, seeing the movement
and only seeing one person, leaped nimbly
forward with a light footstep and speaking as he
approached:—

“Hello! there—who's that—the pedler, sure.—
Have at you, Bunce!” seizing as he spoke the
arm of the retreating figure who briefly and sternly
addressed him as follows:

“It is well, Mr. Forrester, that he you have
taken in hand is almost as quiet in temper as the
pedler you mistake him for, else your position might
prove uncomfortable. Take your fingers from my
arm, if you please.”

“Oh, it's you, Guy Rivers—and you here too,
Munro, making love to one another, I reckon, for
want of better stuff. Well, who'd have thought
to find you two squatting here in the bushes!
Would you believe it now, I took you for the Yankee—not
meaning any offence though.”

“As I am not the Yankee, however, Mr. Forrester,
you will, I suppose, withdraw your hand,”
said the other, with a manner sufficiently haughty
for the stomach of the person addressed.

“Oh, to be sure, since you wish it, and are not the
pedler,” returned the other, with a manner rather
looking, in the country phrase, to “a squaring off
for a fight”—“but you needn't be so gruff about it.
You are on business, I suppose, and so I leave you.”

“A troublesome fool, who is disposed to be insolent,”
said Rivers, after Forrester's departure.

“Damn him!” was the exclamation of that
worthy, on leaving the copse—“I feel very much
like putting my fingers on his throat; and shall do
it, too, before he gets better manners!”

The dialogue between the original parties was
resumed.

“I tell you again, Munro—it is not by any means
the wisest policy to reckon and guess and calculate
that matters will go on smoothly, when we
have it in our own power to make them certainly
go on so. We must leave nothing to guess work,
and a single blow will readily teach this youth the
proper way to be quiet.”

“Why, what do you drive at, Guy. What
would you do—what should be done?”

“Beef—beef—beef!—mere beef! How dull you
are to-night! were you in yon gloomy and thick
edifice (pointing to the prison which frowned in the
perspective before them), with irons on your
hands, and with the prospect, through its narrowly-grated
loop-holes, of the gallows tree, at every turning
before you, it might be matter of wonder even
to yourself that you should have needed any advice
by which to avoid such a risk and prospect.”

“Look you, Guy—I stand in no greater danger
than yourself of the prospect of which you speak.
The subject is, at best, an ugly one, and I do not
care to hear it spoken of by you, above all other
people. If you want me to talk civilly with you, you
must learn yourself to keep a civil tongue in your

head. I don't seek to quarrel with anybody, but
I will not submit to be threatened with the penalties
of the rogue by one who is a damned sight
greater rogue than myself.”

“You call things by their plainest names, Wat,
at least,” said the other, with a tone moderated duly
for the purpose of soothing down the bristles he
had made to rise—“But you mistake me quite. I
meant no threat; I only sought to show how much
we were at the mercy of a single word from a wanton
and headstrong youth. I will not say confidently
that he remembers me, but he had some opportunities
for seeing my face, and looked into it closely
enough. I can meet any fate with fearlessness, but
should rather avoid it, at all risks, when it's in my
power to do so.”

“You are too suspicious, quite, Guy, even for
our business. I am older than you, and have seen
something more of the world: suspicion and caution
is not the habit with young men like this. They
are free enough, and confiding enough, and in this
lies our success. It is only the old man—the experienced
in human affairs, that looks out for traps
and pitfalls. It is for the outlaw—for you and I, to
suspect all—to look with fear even upon one another,
when a common interest, and perhaps a common
fate, ought to bind us together. This being
our habit, arising as it must from our profession,
it is natural but not reasonable to refer a like
spirit to all other persons. We are wrong in this,
and you are wrong in regard to this youth—not
that I care to save him, for if he but looks or winks
awry, I shall silence him myself, without speech
or stroke from you being necessary. But I do
not think he made out your features, and do not
think he looked for them. He had no time for it,
after the onset, and you were well enough disguised

before. If he had made out any thing, he
would have shown it to-night; but, saving a little
stiffness, which belongs to all these young men from
Carolina, I saw nothing in his manner that looked
at all out of the way.”

“Well, Munro, you are bent on having the
thing as you please. You will find, when too late,
that your counsel will end in having us all in a
hobble.”

“Pshaw—you are growing old and timid since
this adventure. You begin to doubt your own
powers of defence. You find your arguments
failing; and you fear that, when the time comes,
you will not plead with your old spirit, though for
the extrication of your own instead of the neck
of your neighbour.”

“Perhaps so—but, if there be no reason for apprehension,
there is something due to me in the way
of revenge. Is the fellow to hurl me down, and
trench my cheek in this manner, and escape without
hurt.”

The eyes of the speaker glared with a deadly
fury, as he indicated in this sentence the true motive
for his persevering hostility to Colleton—an
hostility for which, as subsequent passages will
show, he had even a better stimulant than the unpleasing
wound in his face; which, nevertheless,
was in itself, strange as it may appear, a considerable
eye-sore to its proprietor. Munro evidently
understood this only in part; and, unaccustomed
to attribute a desire to shed blood to any
other than a motive of gain or safety, and without
any idea of a mortified pride or passion being
productive of a thirst unaccountable to his mind,
except in this manner—he proceeded thus, in a sentence,
the dull simplicity of which only the more
provoked the ire of his companion—

“What do you think to do, Guy—what recompense
would you seek to have—what would satisfy
you?”

The hand of Rivers grasped convulsively that
of the questioner as he spoke, his eyes were protruded
closely into his face, his voice was thick,
choking and husky, and his words tremulous, as
he replied,

“His blood—his blood!”

The landlord started back with undisguised horror
from his glance. Though familiar with scenes
of violence and crime, and callous in their performance,
there was more of the Mammon than
the Moloch in his spirit, and he shuddered at the
fiend-like look that met his own. The other proceeded:—

“The trench in my cheek is nothing to that
within my soul. I tell you, Munro, I hate the boy
—I hate him with a hatred that must have a tiger-draught
from his veins, and even then will not be
satisfied. But why talk I to you thus, when he is
almost in my grasp, and there is neither let nor
hinderance? Sleeps he not in yon room to the
north-east?”

“He does, Guy,—but it must not be. I must not
risk all for your passion, which seems to me as
weak as it is without adequate provocation. I
care nothing for the youth, and you know it; but
I will not run the thousand risks which your temper
is for ever bringing upon me. There is nothing
to be gained, and a great deal to be lost by it,
at this time. As for the scar—that, I think, is fairly
a part of the business, and is not properly a subject
of personal revenge. It belongs to the adventure,
and you should not have engaged in it, without
a due reference to its possible consequences.”

“You shall not keep me back by such obstacles

as these. Do I not know how little you care for
the risk—how little you can lose by it.”

“True, I can lose little, but I have other reasons;
and however it may surprise you, those reasons
spring from a desire for your good, rather than my
own.”

“For my good?” replied the other, with an inquiring
sneer.

“Yes, for your good, or rather for Lucy's. You
wish to marry her. She is a sweet child, and an
orphan. She merits a far better man than you;
and bound as I am to give her to you, I am deeply
bound to myself and to her, to make you as worthy
of her as possible, and to give her as many
chances for happiness as I can.”

An incredulous smile played for a second upon
the lips of the outlaw, succeeded quickly however
by the savage expression, which, from being that
most congenial to his feelings, had become that
most habitual to his face.

“I cannot be deceived by words like these,” was
his reply, as he stepped quickly from under the
boughs which had sheltered them and made towards
the house.

“Think not to pursue this matter, Guy, on your
life. I will not permit it—not now, at least, if I
have to strike for the youth myself.” Thus spoke
the landlord, as he advanced in the same direction.
Both were deeply roused, and, though not
reckless alike, Munro was a man quite as decisive
in character as his companion was ferocious and
vindictive. What might have been the result of
their present position, had it not undergone a new
interruption, might not well be foreseen. The sash
of one of the apartments in that part of the building
devoted to the family was suddenly thrown
up, and a soft and plaintive voice, accompanying

the wandering and broken strains of a guitar, rose
sweetly into song upon the ear.

“'Tis Lucy—the poor girl! Stay, Guy, and hear
her music. She does not often sing now-a-days.
She is quite melancholy, and it's a long time since
I've heard her guitar. She sings and plays sweetly
—her poor father had her taught every thing before
he failed, for he was very proud of her, as well
he might be.”

They sunk again into the covert, the outlaw
muttering sullenly at the interruption which had
come between him and his purposes. The music
touched him not, for he betrayed no consciousness;
when, after a few brief preliminary notes on the
instrument, the musician breathed forth words
like those which follow.

A broken line of the lay, murmured at intervals
for a few minutes after the entire piece was concluded,
as it were in soliloquy, indicated the sad
spirit of the minstrel. She did not remain long at
the window—in a little while the light was withdrawn
from the apartment and the sash let down.
The musician had retired.

“They say, Guy, that music can quiet the most
violent spirit, and it seems to have had its influence
upon you. Does she not sing like a mockingbird—is
she not a sweet, a true creature? Why,
man! so forward and furious but now, and now
so lifeless: bestir ye! The night wanes.”

The person addressed started from his stupor,
and, as if utterly unconscious of what had been
going on, ad interim, actually replied to the speech
of his companion made a little while prior to the
appearance and music of the young girl, whose
presence at that moment had most probably prevented
strife and possibly bloodshed. He spoke
as if the interruption had made only a momentary
break in the sentence which he now concluded:—
“He lies at the point of my knife, under my hands,
within my power, without chance of escape, and
I am to be held back—kept from striking—kept
from my revenge—and for what? There may be
little gain in the matter—it may not bring money,
and there may be some risk! If it be with you,
Munro, to have neither love nor hate, but what
you do, to do only for the profit and spoil that
comes of it, it is not so with me. I can both love
and hate; though it be, as it has been, that I
entertain the one feeling in vain, and am restrained
from the enjoyment of the other.”

“You were born in a perverse time, and are
querulous, for the sake of the noise it makes,” rejoined
his cool companion. “I do not desire to

restrain your hands from this young man, but take
your time for it. Let nothing be done to him while
in this house. I will run, if I can help it, no more
risk for your passions; and I must confess myself
anxious, if the devil will let me, of stopping right
short in the old life and beginning a new one. I
have been bad enough, and done enough to keep
me at my prayers all the rest of my days, were I
to live on to eternity.”

“This new spirit, I suppose, we owe to your
visit to the last camp-meeting. You will exhort,
doubtless, yourself, before long, if you keep this
track. Why, what a prophet you will make
among the crop-haired, Munro?—what a brand
from the burning!”

“Look you, Guy—your sarcasm pleases me
quite as little as it did the young fellow, who paid
it back so much better than I can. Be wise, if you
please, while you are wary—if your words continue
to come from the same nest, they will beget
something more than words, my good fellow.”

“True, and like enough, Munro, and why do
you provoke me to say them?” replied Rivers,
something more sedately; “you see me in a passion—you
know that I have cause—for is not this
cause enough—this vile scar on features, now hideous,
that were once surely not unpleasing.” As
he spoke he dashed his fingers into the wound,
which he still seemed pleased to refer to, though
the reference evidently brought with it bitterness
and mortification. He proceeded—his passion
again rising predominant—

“Shall I spare the wretch whose ministry defaced
them—shall I not have revenge on him who
first wrote villain there—who branded me as an
accursed thing, and among things bright and
beautiful gave me the badge, the blot, the heel-stamp

due the serpent. Shall I not have my atonement—my
sacrifice—and shall you deny me—you,
Walter Munro, who owe it to me in justice?”

“I owe it to you, Guy—how?” inquired the other,
with something like amazement in his countenance.

“You taught me first to be the villain you now
find me. You first took me to the haunts of your
own accursed and hell-educated crew. You
taught me all their arts—their contrivances—their
lawlessness and crime. You encouraged my own
deformities of soul till they became monsters, and
my own spirit such a monster that I knew it not
—I could see it not. You put the weapon into
my hand, and taught me its use. You put me on
the scent of blood and bade me lap it. I will not
pretend that I was not ready and pliable enough
to your hands. There was, I feel, little difficulty
in moulding me to your own measure. I was an
apt scholar, and soon ceased to be the subordinate
villain. I was your companion, and too valuable
to you to be lost or left. When I acquired new
views of man, and began, in another sphere, that
new life to which you would now turn your own
eyes—when I grew strong among men, and famous,
and public opinion grew enamoured with
the name which your destiny compelled me to exchange
for another, you sought me out—you
thrust your enticements upon me; and, in an hour
of gloom and defeat and despondency, you seized
upon me with those claws of temptation which
are even now upon my shoulders, and I gave up
all—I made the sacrifice—name, fame, honour,
troops of friends—for what? Answer you—You
are rich—you own slaves in abundance—secure
from your own fortunes, you have wealth hourly
increasing. What have I? This scar, this brand,

that sends me among men no longer the doubtful
villain—the words are written there in full!”

The speaker paused, exhausted. His face was
pale and livid—his form trembled with convulsion
—and his lips grew white and chalky, while quivering
like a troubled water. The landlord, after
a gloomy pause, replied:

“You have spoken but the truth, Guy, and any
thing that I can do—”

“You will not do,” responded the other, passionately,
and interrupting the speaker in his speech.
“You will do nothing. You ruin me in the love
and esteem of those whom I love and esteem—you
drive me into exile—you lead me into crime, and
put me upon a pursuit which teaches me practices
that brand me with man's hate and fear, and—if the
churchmen speak truth, which I believe not—with
heaven's eternal punishment. What have I left to
desire but hate—blood—the blood of man—who,
in driving me away from his dwelling, has made
me an unrelenting enemy—his hand against me,
and mine against him. While I had this pursuit,
I did not complain—but you now interpose to
deny me even this. The boy whom I hate, not
merely because of his species, but in addition, with
a hate incurred by himself, you protect from my
vengeance, though affecting to be utterly careless
of his fate—and all this you conclude with a profession
of willingness to do for me whatever you
can! What miserable mockery is this!”

“And have I done nothing, and am I seeking to
do nothing for you, Guy, by way of atonement.
Have I not pledged to you the person of my niece,
the sweet young innocent, who is not unworthy to
be the wife of the purest and proudest gentleman
of the southern country. Is this nothing—is it
nothing to sacrifice such a creature to such a

creature! For well I know what must be her
fate when she becomes your wife. Well I know
you! Vindictive, jealous, merciless, wicked, and
fearless in wickedness—God help me, for it will be
the very worst crime I have ever yet committed.
These are all your attributes, and I know the sweet
child will have to suffer from the perpetual exercise
of all of them.”

“Perhaps so! and as she will then be mine she
must suffer them if I so decree: but what avails
your promise so long as you—in this matter a
child yourself—suffer her to protract and put off
at her pleasure. Me she receives with scorn and
contempt, you with tears and entreaties, and you
allow their influence—in the hope, doubtless, that
some lucky chance—the pistol shot or the hangman's
collar—will rid you of my importunities. Is
it not so, Munro?” said the ruffian, with a sneer of
contemptuous bitterness.

“It would be, indeed, a lucky event for both of
us, Guy, were you safely in the arms of your mother;
though I have not delayed in this affair with
any such hope. God knows I should be glad, on
almost any terms, to be fairly free from your eternal
croakings—never at rest, never satisfied, until
at some new deviltry and ill deed. If I did give
you the first lessons in your education, Guy,
you have long since gone beyond your master;
and I'm something disposed to think, that Old Nick
himself must have taken up your tuition, where,
from want of corresponding capacity, I was compelled
to leave it off.”—And the landlord laughed
at his own humour, in despite of the hyena glare
shot forth from the eye of the savage he addressed.
He continued—

“But, Guy, I'm not for you letting the youth off—
that's as you please. You have a grudge against

him, and may settle it to your own liking and
in your own way. I have nothing to say to that.
But I am determined to do as little henceforth towards
hanging myself as possible; and, therefore,
the thing must not take place here. Nor do I like
that it should be done at all without some reason.
When he blabs, there's a necessity for the thing,
and self-preservation, you know, is the first law of
nature. The case will then be as much mine as
yours, and I'll lend a helping hand willingly.”

“My object, Munro, is scarcely the same with
yours. It goes beyond it; and whether he knows
much or little, or speaks nothing or everything, it
is still the same thing to me. I must have my revenge.
But, for your own safety—are you bent
on running the risk?”

“I am, Guy, rather than spill any more blood
unnecessarily. I have already shed too much, and
my dreams begin to trouble me as I get older,”
was the grave response of the landlord.

“And how, if he speaks out, and you have no
chance either to stop his mouth or to run for it?”

“Who'll believe him, think you?—where's the
proof? Do you mean to confess for both of us at
the first question?”

“True—” said Rivers, “there would be a difficulty
in conviction, but his oath would put us into
some trouble.”

“I think not—our people know nothing about
him, and would scarcely lend much aid to have
either of us turned upon our backs,” replied Munro,
without hesitation.

“Well, be it then as you say. There is yet
another subject, Munro, on which I have just as
little reason to be satisfied as this. How long will
you permit this girl to trifle with us both? Why
should you care for her prayers and pleadings—

her tears and entreaties? if you are determined
upon the matter, as I have your pledge, these are
childish and unavailing; and the delay can have
no good end, unless it be that you do in fact look,
as I have said and as I sometimes think, for some
chance to take me off and relieve you of my importunities
and from your pledge.”

“Look you, Guy, the child is my own twin-brother's
only one, and a sweet creature it is. I must
not be too hard with her; she begs time and I
must give it.”

“Why, how much time would she have?—heaven
knows what she considers reasonable, or what
you or I should call so; but to my mind she has had
time enough, and more by far than I was willing
for. You must bring her to her senses, or let me
do so—to my thought, she is making fools of us
both.”

“It is enough, Guy, that you have my promise.
She shall consent, and I will hasten the matter as
fast as I can; but I will not drive her, nor will I
be driven myself. Your love is not such a desperate
affair as to burn itself out for the want of
better fuel; and you can wait for the proper season.
If I thought for a moment that you did or
could have any regard for the child, and she could
be happy, or even comfortable with you, I might
push the thing something harder than I do; but as
it stands, you must be patient. The fruit drops
when it is ripe.”

“Rather when the frost is on it, and the worm
is in the core, and decay has progressed to rottenness.
Speak you in this way to the hungry boy,
whose eyes have long anticipated his appetite, and
he may listen to you and be patient—I neither can
nor will. Look to it, Munro: I will not much
longer submit to be imposed upon.”

“Nor I, Guy Rivers. You forget yourself
greatly, and entirely mistake me, when you take
these airs upon you. You are feverish now, and
I will not suffer myself to grow angry; but be prudent
in your speech. We shall see to all this to-morrow
and the next day—there is quite time
enough—when we are both cooler and calmer than
at present. The night is something too warm for
deliberation; and it is well we say no more on one
subject till we learn the course of the other. The
hour is late, and we had best retire. In the
morning I shall ride to hear old Parson Witter, in
company with the old woman and Lucy. Ride
along with us, and we shall be able better to understand
one another.”

As he spoke, Munro emerged from the cover of
the tree under which their dialogue had chiefly
been carried on, and re-approached the dwelling,
from which they had considerably receded. His
companion lingered in the recess.

“I will be there,” said Rivers, as they parted—
“though I still propose a ride of a few miles to-night.
My blood is hot, and I must quiet it with a
gallop.”

The landlord looked incredulous as he replied—
“Some more deviltry—I will take a bet that the
cross-roads see you in an hour.”

“Not impossible,” was the response, and the
parties were both lost to sight—the one in the
shelter of his dwelling, the other in the dim shadow
of the trees which girdled it round.