University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

As the shades of evening approached, the jurors,
witnesses, and other attendants on the court,
begun to disperse, and before nine o'clock the
village was quiet, and its streets nearly deserted.
At that hour, Judge Temple and his daughter,
followed at a short distance by Louisa Grant,
walked slowly down the avenue, under the slight
shadows of the young poplars, holding the following
discourse:—

“You can best sooth his wounded spirit, my
child,” said Marmaduke; “but it will be dangerous
to touch on the nature of his offence; the
sanctity of the laws must be respected.”

“Surely, sir,” cried the impatient Elizabeth,
“those laws that condemn a man like the Leather-stocking
to so severe a punishment, for an offence
that even I must think very venial, cannot be perfect
in themselves.”

“Thou talkest of what thou dost not understand,
Elizabeth,” returned her father. “Society
cannot exist without wholesome restraints. Those
restraints cannot be inflicted, without security and

respect to the persons of those who administer
them; and it would sound ill indeed, to report
that a judge had extended favour to a convicted
criminal, because he had saved the life of his
child.”

“I see—I see the difficulty of your situation,
dear sir,” cried the daughter; “but in appreciating
the offence of poor Natty, I cannot separate
the minister of the law from the man.”

“There thou talkest as a woman, child; it is
not for an assault on Hiram Doolittle, but for
threatening the life of a constable, who was in the
performance of”—

“It is immaterial whether it be one or the
other,” interrupted Miss Temple, with a logic that
contained more feeling than reason; “I know
Natty to be innocent, and thinking so, I must
think all wrong who oppress him.”

“His judge among the number! thy father,
Elizabeth?”

“Nay, nay—nay, do not put such questions to
me; give me my commission, father, and let me
proceed to execute it.”

The Judge paused a moment, smiling fondly on
his child, and then dropped his hand affectionately
on her shoulder, as he answered—

“Thou hast reason, Bess, and much of it too,
but thy heart lies too near thy head. But listen:
in this pocket-book are two hundred dollars. Go
to the prison—there are none in this place to harm
thee—give this note to the gaoler, and when thou
seest Bumppo, say what thou wilt to the poor old
man; give scope to the feelings of thy warm
heart; but try to remember, Elizabeth, that the
laws alone remove us from the condition of the
savages; that he has been criminal, and that his
judge was thy father.”

Miss Temple made no reply, but she pressed

the hand that held the pocket-book to her bosom,
and taking her friend by the arm, they issued together
from the enclosure into the principal street
of the village.

As they pursued their walk in silence, under
the row of houses, where the deeper gloom of
the evening effectually concealed their persons,
no sound reached them, excepting the slow
tread of a yoke of oxen, with the rattling of a
cart, that were moving along the street in the
same direction with themselves. The figure of
the teamster was just discernible by the dim light,
lounging by their side, with a listless air, as if
equally fatigued with his beasts, by the toil of
the day. At the corner, where the gaol stood,
the progress of the ladies was impeded, for a moment,
by the oxen, who were turned up to the
side of the building, and given a lock of hay, which
they had carried on their necks, as a reward for
their patient labour. The whole of this was so
natural, and so common, that Elizabeth saw nothing
to induce a second glance at the team, until
she heard the teamster speaking to his cattle in a
low voice—

“Mind yourself, Brindle; will you sir! will
you!”

The language itself was unusual to oxen, with
which all who dwell in a new country are familiar;
but there was something in the voice also,
that startled Miss Temple. On turning the corner,
she necessarily approached near to the man, and
her searching look was enabled to detect the person
of Oliver Edwards, concealed under the
coarse garb of a teamster. Their eyes met at
the same instant, and, notwithstanding the gloom,
and the enveloping cloak of Elizabeth, the recognition
was mutual.

“Miss Temple!” “Mr. Edwards!” were exclaimed

simultaneously, though a feeling that
seemed common to them both rendered their tones
nearly inaudible.

“Is it possible,” exclaimed Edwards, after the
moment of doubt had passed; “do I see you so
nigh the gaol! but you are going to the Rectory,
I beg pardon—Miss Grant, I believe; I did not
recognise you at first.”

The sigh which Louisa uttered, was so faint
that it was only heard by Elizabeth, who replied,
quickly—

“We are going not only to the gaol, Mr. Edwards,
but into it. We wish to show the Leather-stocking
that we do not forget his services,
and that, at the same time we must be just, we are
also grateful. I suppose you are on a similar errand;
but let me beg that you will give us leave
to precede you ten minutes. Good night, sir;
I—I—am quite sorry, Mr. Edwards, to see you
reduced to such labour; I am sure my father
would”—

“I shall wait your pleasure, madam,” interrupted
the youth, coldly. “May I beg that you
will not mention my being here?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Elizabeth, returning his
bow by a slight inclination of her head, and urging
the tardy Louisa forward. As they entered the
gaoler's house, however, Miss Grant found leisure
to whisper—

“Would it not be well to offer part of your money
to Oliver? half of it will pay the fine of
Bumppo; and he is so unused to hardships! I am
sure my father will subscribe much of his little
pittance, to place him in a station that is more
worthy of him.”

The involuntary smile that passed over the features
of Elizabeth was transient as a gleam of
flitting light, and was blended with an expression

of deep and heartfelt pity. She did not reply,
however, and the appearance of the gaoler soon
recalled the thoughts of both to the immediate
object of their visit.

The rescue of the ladies, and their consequent
interest in his prisoner, together with the informal
manners that prevailed in the country, all united
to prevent any surprise, on the part of the gaoler,
at their request for admission to Bumppo. The
note of Judge Temple, however, would have silenced
all objections, if he had felt them, and he
led the way without hesitation to the apartment
that held the prisoners. The instant the key was
put into the lock, the hoarse voice of Benjamin
was heard, demanding—

“Yo! hoy! who comes there?”

“Some visiters that you'll be glad to see,” returned
the gaoler. “What have you done to the
lock, that it won't turn?”

“Handsomely, handsomely, master,” cried the
steward; “I've just drove a nail into a birth
alongside of this here bolt, as a stopper, d'ye see,
so that master Doo-but-little can't be running in
and breezing up another fight atwixt us, for, to
my account, there'll be but a ban-yan with me
soon, seeing that they'll mulct me of my Spaniards,
all the same as if I'd overflogged the lubber.
Throw your ship into the wind and lay by for a
small matter, will ye? and I'll soon clear a passage.”

The sounds of hammering gave an assurance
that the steward was in earnest, and in a short
time the lock yielded, when the door was opened.

Benjamin had evidently been anticipating the
seizure of his money, for he had made frequent
demands on the favourite cask at the “Bold Dragoon,”
during the afternoon and evening, and
was now in that state which by marine imagery is

called “half-seas-over.” It was no easy thing to
destroy the balance of the old tar by the effects of
liquor, for, as he expressed it himself, “he was
too low-rigged not to carry sail in all weathers;”
but he was precisely in that condition which is so
expressively termed “muddy.” When he perceived
who the visiters were, he retreated to the
side of the room where his pallet lay, and, regardless
of the presence of his young mistress, seated
himself on it with an air of great sobriety, placing
his back firmly against the wall.

“If you undertake to spoil my locks in this
manner, Mr. Pump,” said the gaoler, “I shall put
a stopper, as you call it, on your legs, and tie you
down to your bed.”

“What for should ye, Master?” grumbled
Benjamin; “I've rode out one squall to-day, anchored
by the heels, and I wants no more of them.
Where's the harm of doing all the same as yourself?
Leave that there door free outboard, and
you'll find no locking inboard, I'll promise ye.”

“I must shut up for the night at nine,” said the
gaoler, “and it's now forty-two minutes past
eight.” He placed the little candle he carried on
a rough pine table, and withdrew.

“Leather-stocking!” said Elizabeth, when the
key of the door was turned on them again, “my
good friend Leather-stocking! I have come on a
message of gratitude to you. Had you submitted
to the search, worthy old man, the death of the
deer would have been a trifle, and all would have
been well”—

“Submit to the sarch!” interrupted Natty,
raising his face from resting on his knees, without
rising from the corner where he had seated himself;
“d'ye think, gal, I would let such a varmint
into my hut? No, no—I wouldn't have opened
the door to your own sweet countenance then. But

they are wilcome to sarch among the coals and
ashes now; they'll find only some such heap as is
to be seen at every pot-ashery in the mountains.”

The old man dropped his face again on one
hand, and seemed to be lost in a melancholy
musing.

“The hut can be rebuilt, and made better than
before,” returned Miss Temple; “and it shall be
my office to see it done, when your imprisonment
is ended.”

“Can ye raise the dead, child!” said Natty, in
a sorrowful voice; “can ye go into the place
where you've laid your fathers, and mothers, and
children, and gather together their ashes, and
make the same men and women of them as
afore! You do not know what 'tis to lay your
head for more than forty years under the cover of
the same logs, and to look on the same things for
the better part of a man's life. You are young
yet, child, but you are one of the most precious
of God's creaters. I had a hope for ye that it
might come to pass, but it's all over now; this
put to that, will drive the thing quite out of his
mind for ever.”

Miss Temple must have understood the meaning
of the old man better than the other listeners;
for, while Louisa stood innocently by her side,
commiserating the griefs of the hunter, the
heiress bent her head aside, so as to conceal her
features, from the dim light, by her dark tresses.
The action and the feeling that caused it lasted
but a moment, when she faced the party, and continued—

“Other logs, and better, though, can be had, and
shall be found for you, my old defender. Your
confinement will soon be over, and before that
time arrives I shall have a house prepared for you,

where you may spend the close of your harmless
life in ease and plenty.”

“Ease and plenty! house!” repeated Natty
slowly. “You mean well, gal, you mean well,
and I quite mourn that it cannot be; but he has
seen me a sight and a laughing-stock for”—

“Damn your stocks” said Benjamin, flourishing
his bottle with one hand, from which he had
been taking hasty and repeated draughts, while
he made gestures of disdain with the other; “who
cares for his bilboes? there's a leg that's been
stuck up an end like a gib-boom for an hour,
d'ye see, and what's it the worse for't, ha! canst
tell me, what's it the worser, ha?”

“I believe you forget, Mr. Pump, in whose
presence you sit with so much composure,” said
Elizabeth.

“Forget you, Miss 'Lizzy,” returned the steward;
“if I do dam'me; you're not to be forgot,
like Goody Pretty-bones, up at the big house
there. I say old sharp-shooter, she may have
pretty bones, but I can't say so much for her
flesh d'ye see, for she looks sum'mat like an
otomy with another man's jacket on. Now, for
the skin of her face, it's all the same as a new top-sail
with a taught bolt-rope, being snug at the
leaches, but all in a bight about the inner cloths.”

“Peace—I command you to be silent, sir,” said
Elizabeth.

“Ay, ay, ma'am,” returned the steward. “You
didn't say I shouldn't drink, though.”

“We will not speak of what is to become of
others,” said Miss Temple, turning again to the
hunter—“but of your own fortunes, Natty. It
shall be my care to see that you pass the rest of
your days in ease and plenty.”

“Ease and plenty!” again repeated the Leather-stocking;
“what ease can there be to an old

man, who must walk a mile across the open
fields, before he can find a shade to hide him
from a scorching sun! or what plenty is there
where you may hunt a day and not start a buck,
or see any thing bigger than a mink, or maybe a
stray fox! Ah! I shall have a hard time after
them very beavers, for this fine. I must go low
toward the Pennsylvany line in sarch of the creaters,
maybe a hundred mile, for they are not to be got
here-away. No, no—your betterments and clearings
have druv the knowing things out of the
country; and instead of beaver-dams, which is
the nater of the animal, and according to Providence,
you turn back the waters over the low
grounds with your mill-dams, as if 'twas in man
to stay the drops from going where He wills them
to go. Benny, unless you stop your hand from
going so often to your mouth, you won't be ready
to start when the time comes.”

“Hark'ee, Master Bump-ho,” said the steward;
“don't you fear for Ben. When the watch is
called, set me on my legs, and give me the bearings
and distance of where you want to steer, and
I'll carry sail with the best of you, I will.”

“The time has come now,” said the hunter, listening;
“I hear the horns of the oxen rubbing
ag'in the side of the gaol.”

“Well, say the word, and then heave ahead,
shipmate,” said Benjamin.

“You won't betray us, gal?” said Natty, looking
up simply into the face of Elizabeth—“you
won't betray an old man, who craves to breathe
the clear air of heaven? I mean no harm, and if
the law says that I must pay the hundred dollars,
I'll take the season through, but it shall be forthcoming;
and this good man will help me.”

“You catch them,” said Benjamin, with a

sweeping gesture of his arm, “and if they get away
again, call me a slink, that's all.”

“But what mean you!” cried the wondering
Elizabeth. “Here you must stay for thirty days;
but I have the money for your fine in this purse.
Take it; pay it in the morning, and summon patience
for your month. I will come often to see
you, with my friend; we will make up your clothes
with our own hands; indeed, indeed, you shall be
comfortable.”

“Would ye, children?” said Natty, advancing
across the floor with an air of kindness, and taking
the hand of Elizabeth; “would ye be so kearful
of an old man, and just for shooting the beast which
cost him nothing? Such things doesn't run in
the blood, I believe, for you seem not to forget a
favour. Your little fingers couldn't do much
on a buck-skin, nor be you used to such a thread
as sinews. But if he hasn't got past hearing, he
shall hear it and know it, that he may see, like me,
there is some who know how to remember a
kindness.”

“Tell him nothing,” cried Elizabeth, earnestly;
“if you love me, if you regard my feelings,
tell him nothing. It is of yourself only I would
talk, and for yourself only I act. I grieve, Leather-stocking,
that the law requires that you should
be detained here so long; but, after all, it will be
only a short month, and”—

“A month!” exclaimed Natty, opening his
mouth with his usual laugh; “not a day, nor a
night, nor an hour, gal. Judge Temple may
sintence, but he can't keep, without a better dungeon
than this. I was taken once by the French,
and they put sixty-two of us in a block-house,
nigh hand to old Frontinac; but 'twas easy to cut
through a pine log to them that was used to timber.”
The hunter paused, and looked cautiously

around the room, when, laughing again, he
shoved the steward gently from his post, and removing
the bed-clothes, discovered a hole recently
cut in the logs with a mallet and chisel. “It's only
a kick, and the outside piece is off, and then”—

“Off! ay, off!” cried Benjamin, rousing from
his stupor; “well, here's off. Ay! ay! you
catch 'em, and I'll hold on to them said beaver-hats.”

“I fear this lad will trouble me much,” said
Natty; “'twill be a hard pull for the mountain,
should they take the scent soon, and he is not in a
state of mind to run.”

“Run!” echoed the steward; “no, sheer
alongside, and let's have a fight of it.”

“Peace!” ordered Elizabeth.

“Ay, ay, ma'am.”

“You will not leave us surely, Leather-stocking,”
continued Miss Temple; “I beseech you,
reflect that you will be driven to the woods entirely,
and that you are fast getting old. Be patient
for a little time, when you can go abroad openly,
and with honour.”

“Is there beaver to be catched here, gal?”

“If not, here is money to discharge the fine, and
in a month you are free. See, here it is in gold.”

“Gold!” said Natty, with a kind of childish
curiosity; “it's long sin' I've seen a gold piece.
We used to get the broad joes, in the old war, as
plenty as the bears be now. I remember there
was a man in Dieskau's army, that was killed,
who had a dozen of the shining things sewed up
in his shirt. I didn't handle them myself, but I
seen them cut out, with my own eyes; they was
bigger and brighter than them be.”

“These are English guineas, and are yours,”
said Elizabeth; “an earnest of what shall be
done for you.”

“Me! why should you give me this treasure?”
said Natty, looking earnestly at the maiden.

“Why! have you not saved my life? did you
not rescue me from the jaws of the beast?” exclaimed
Elizabeth, veiling her eyes, as if to hide
some hideous object from her view.

The hunter took the money, and continued
turning it in his hand for some time, piece by
piece, talking aloud during the operation.

“There's a rifle, they say, out on the Cherry
Valley, that will carry a hundred rods and kill.
I've seen good guns in my day, but none quite
equal to that. A hundred rods with any sartainty
is great shooting! Well, well—I'm old, and
the gun I have will answer my time. Here, child,
take back your gold. But the hour has come;
I hear him talking to the cattle, and I must be
going. You won't tell of us, gal—you won't tell
of us, will ye?”

“Tell of you!” echoed Elizabeth,—“But take
the money, old man; take the money, even if you
go into the mountains.”

“No, no,” said Natty, shaking his head kindly;
“I wouldn't rob you so for twenty rifles. But
there's one thing you can do for me, if ye will,
that no other is at hand to do.”

“Name it—name it.”

“Why, it's only to buy a canister of powder;—
'twill cost two silver dollars. Benny Pump has
the money ready, but we daren't come into the
town to get it. Nobody has it but the Frenchman.
'Tis of the best, and just suits a rifle. Will
you get it for me, gal?—say, will you get it for
me?”

“Will I! I will bring it to you, Leather-stocking,
though I toil a day in quest of you through the
woods. But where shall I find you, and how?”

“Where!” said Natty, musing a moment—

“to-morrow, on the Vision; on the very top of
the Vision I'll meet you, child, just as the sun
gets over our heads. See that it's the fine grain;
you'll know it by the gloss, and the price.”

“I will do it,” said Elizabeth, firmly.

Natty now seated himself, and placing his feet
in the hole, with a slight effort he opened a passage
through into the street. The ladies heard
the rustling of hay, and well understood the reason
why Edwards was in the capacity of a teamster.

“Come, Benny,” said the hunter; “'twill be
no darker to-night, for the moon will rise in an
hour.”

“Stay!” exclaimed Elizabeth; “it should not
be said that you escaped in the presence of the
daughter of Judge Temple. Return, Leather-stocking,
and let us retire, before you execute your
plan.”

Natty was about to reply, when the approaching
footsteps of the gaoler announced the necessity
of his immediate return. He had barely time to
regain his feet, and to conceal the hole with the
bed-clothes, across which Benjamin very opportunely
fell, before the key was turned, and the
door of the apartment opened.

“Isn't Miss Temple ready to go?” said the
civil gaoler—“it's the usooal hour for locking
up.”

“I follow you, sir,” returned Elizabeth, “Good
hight, Leather-stocking.”

“It's a fine grain, gal, and I think 'twill carry
lead further than common. I am getting old, and
can't follow up the game with the step that I used
to could.”

Miss Temple waved her hand for silence, and
preceded Louisa and the keeper from the apartment.

The man turned the key once, and observed
that he would return and secure his prisoners,
when he had lighted the ladies to the street.
Accordingly, they parted at the door of the building,
when the gaoler retired to his dungeons, and
the ladies walked, with throbbing hearts, towards
the corner.

“Now the Leather-stocking refuses the money,”
whispered Louisa, “it can all be given to
Mr. Edwards, and that added to”—

“Listen!” said Elizabeth; “I hear the rustling
of the hay; they are escaping at this moment.
Oh! they will be detected instantly!”

By this time they were at the corner, where Edwards
and Natty were in the act of drawing the
almost helpless body of Benjamin through the
aperture. The oxen had started back from their
hay, and were standing with their heads down the
street, leaving room for the party to act in.

“Throw the hay into the cart,” said Edwards,
“or they will suspect how it has been done. Quick,
that they may not see it.”

Natty had just returned from executing this
order, when the light of the keeper's candle shone
through the hole, and instantly his voice was
heard in the gaol, exclaiming for his prisoners.

“What is to be done now?” said Edwards—
“this drunken fellow will cause our detection, and
we have not a moment to spare.”

“Who's drunk, ye lubber!” muttered the steward.

“A break-gaol! a break-gaol!” shouted five
or six voices from within.

“We must leave him,” said Edwards.

“'Twould'nt be kind, lad,” returned Natty;
“he took half the disgrace of the stocks on himself
to-day, and the creater has feeling.”

At this moment two or three men were heard

issuing from the door of the “Bold Dragoon,” and
among them the voice of Billy Kirby.

“There's no moon yet,” cried the wood-chopper;
“but it's a clear, moonshiny night. Come,
who's for home? Hark! what a rumpus they're
kicking up in the gaol—here's go and see what
it's about.”

“We shall be lost,” said Edwards, “if we don't
drop this man.”

At that instant Elizabeth moved close to him,
and said rapidly, in a low voice—

“Lay him in the cart, and start the oxen; no
one will look there.”

“By heaven, there's a woman's quickness in
the thought,” said the youth.

The proposition was no sooner made than executed.
The steward was seated on the hay, and
bid to hold his peace, and apply the goad that
was placed in his hand, while the oxen were urged
on. So soon as this arrangement was completed,
Edwards and the hunter stole along the houses
for a short distance, when they disappeared
through an opening that led into the rear of the
buildings. The oxen were in brisk motion, and
presently the cries of pursuit were heard in the
street. The ladies quickened their pace, with a
wish to escape the crowd of constables and idlers
that were approaching, some execrating, and some
laughing at the exploit of the prisoners. In the
confusion, the voice of Kirby was plainly distinguishable
above all the others, shouting and
swearing that he would have the fugitives, threatening
to bring back Natty in one pocket and Benjamin
in the other.

“Spread yourselves, men,” he cried, as he passed
the ladies, with his heavy feet sounding along
the street like the tread of a dozen; “spread
yourselves; to the mountains; they'll be in the

mountain in a quarter of an hour, and then look
out for a long rifle.”

His cries were echoed from twenty mouths, for
not only the gaol but the taverns had sent forth
their numbers, some earnest in the pursuit, and
others joining it as in sport.

As Elizabeth turned in at her father's gate, she
saw the wood-chopper stop at the cart, when she
gave Benjamin up for lost. While they were hurrying
up the walk, two figures, stealing cautiously
but quickly under the shades of the trees, met the
eyes of the ladies, and in a moment Edwards and
the hunter crossed their path.

“Miss Temple, I may never see you again,”
exclaimed the youth; “let me thank you for all
your kindness; you do not, cannot know my motives.”

“Fly! fly!” cried Elizabeth—“the village is
alarmed. Do not be found conversing with me
at such a moment, and in these grounds.”

“Nay, I must speak, though detection were
certain.”

“Your retreat to the bridge is already cut off;
before you can gain the wood your pursuers will
be there.—If”—

“If what?” cried the youth. “Your advice
has saved me once already; I will follow it to
death.”

“The street is now silent and vacant,” said
Elizabeth, after a pause; “cross it, and you will
find my father's boat in the lake. It would be
easy for you to land from it where you pleased in
the hills.”

“But Judge Temple might complain of the trespass.”

“His daughter shall be accountable, sir.”

The youth uttered something in a low voice,

that was heard only by Elizabeth, and turned to
execute what she had suggested. As they were
separating, Natty approached the heiress, and
said—

“You'll remember the canister of powder,
children. Them beavers must be had, and I and
the pups be getting old; we want the best of ammunition.”

“Come, Natty,” said Edwards, impatiently.

“Coming, lad, coming. God bless you, young
ones, both of ye, for ye mean well and kindly to
the old man.”

The ladies paused until they lost sight of the
retreating figures, when they immediately entered
the Mansion-house.

While this scene was passing in the walk, Kirby
had overtaken the cart, which was his own, and
had been driven by Edwards without asking the
owner, from the place where the patient oxen
usually stood at evening, waiting the pleasure of
their master.

“Woa—come hither, Golden,” he cried; “why
how come you off the end of the bridge, where I
left you, dummies?”

“Heave ahead,” muttered Benjamin, giving a
random blow with his lash, that alighted on the
shoulder of the other.

“Who the devil be you?” cried Billy, turning
round in surprise, but unable to distinguish, in the
dark, the hard visage that was just peering over
the cart-rails.

“Who be I! why I'm helmsman aboard of
this here craft, d'ye see, and a straight wake I'm
making of it. Ay! ay! I've got the bridge right
ahead, and the bilboes dead-aft; I calls that good
steerage, boy. Heave ahead.”

“Lay your lash in the right spot, Mr. Benny
Pump,” said the wood-chopper, “or I'll put you

in the palm of my hand, and box your ears.—
Where be you going with my team?”

“Team!”

“Ay, my cart and oxen.”

“Why, you must know, Master Kirby, that the
Leather-stocking and I—that's Benny Pump—
you knows Ben?—well, Benny and I—no, me and
Benny—dam'me if I know how 'tis; but some of
us are bound after a cargo of beaver-skins, d'ye
see, and so we've pressed the cart to ship them
'ome in. I say, Master Kirby, what a lubberly
oar you pull—you handle an oar, boy, pretty
much as a cow would a musket, or a lady would
a marling-spike.”

Billy had discovered the state of the steward's
mind, and he walked for some time alongside of the
cart, musing with himself, when he took the goad
from Benjamin, (who fell back on the hay, and
was soon asleep,) and drove his cattle down the
street, over the bridge, and up the mountain, towards
a clearing in which he was to work the next
day, without any other interruption than a few
hasty questions from parties of the constables.

Elizabeth stood for an hour at the window of
her room, and saw the torches of the pursuers
gliding along the side of the mountain, and heard
their shouts and alarms; but, at the end of that
time, the last party returned, wearied and disappointed,
and the village became again still as
when she issued from the gate, on her mission to
the gaol.