University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

When Catherine recovered her consciousness,
or rather woke from utter insensibility, (for it was
long before her mind regained its full tone,) she
was mounted upon a horse on which she was supported
by two men, one riding on each side, who
sustained her on the saddle, and directed the steps
of her palfrey. She began to speak, but her words
were wails, low and faint, and half lost amid the
sough of the breeze, and the crash of pebbles under
the horses' feet; and, indeed, it was soon apparent
that she had exchanged a state of dreamless lethargy
only for one of partial delirium. To this condition
she had been fast verging for several days, during
all which time, both asleep and awake, her mind
had been in a state of constant tension, enduring jar
after jar, and blow after blow, until its fraying
fibres were one by one giving way, and a few
narrow threads alone were all that kept it from
the snap that ends in madness. Sleeplessness is a
disease, which sometimes is prolonged, until insanity
or death puts a close to the scene. The mind
does not always slumber with the body: and in
such instances, the spirit consumes amid the visions

and dreams of night, as fast as amid the torments
of day, until it lapses into the oblivion of
dissolution or mental derangement. Such had been
the case with the Captain's daughter: even slumber
had brought no release to her spirit; and the
last shock, combining in effect with a long train of
benumbing influences, had reduced it to a condition
in which it hovered between imbecility and
distraction.

Though retaining an impression of the scene in
which she had lately played so chief a part, it was
faint, vague, and broken by other recollections of
other scenes; and though some of her accents betrayed
a childish joy at feeling herself in motion
through the open air, she was apparently incapable
of forming any but the most imperfect and bewildered
conception of where she was, whither
going, and for what purpose. Occasionally, she
murmured words that seemed those of grief and
entreaty; and, at such times, her father's name
was on her lips, as if she implored those riding at
her side to carry her to him. By and by, however,
her words became fainter and fewer; then
she uttered sobs, and those only at intervals; and
at last, these ceasing also, she sank again into unconsciousness,
and was maintained on her seat
only with the greatest difficulty.

In consequence of this unexpected impediment,
the speed of the fugitives became gradually less
and less; but as they were already at a considerable
distance from the valley, and had no reason
to apprehend immediate pursuit, this circumstance
created no alarm, and was, in fact, a cause of no
little private satisfaction to many, the road being
exceedingly rugged, and the night waxing darker
and darker as the moon sunk lower in the west.
Suddenly, however, as the headmost of the party
toiled slowly over the crest of a hill, the wind

swept from the rear a sound of voices, followed
almost instantly by the explosion of fire-arms, and
these again by loud shouts.

“ `Sessa! let the world slide!' ” cried the voice
of Sterling, “whose cow's dead now? So much
for not killing the men, and carrying off the women!”

“Peace, parrot!” said Oran Gilbert, lifting Catherine
from her horse, (for he was one of those
who supported her,) and flinging her into the volunteer's
arms. “Bear her to the top of the hill,—
nay, gallop on till you strike the river, and”—

“Figs and furies!” cried Sterling, with drunken
astonishment; “do you make me a chamber-maid?”

“Away, fool! follow the other,—follow Dancy.”

And with that, the refugee, turning his horse,
galloped down the hill towards the scene of conflict,
leaving Sterling, not yet completely sobered,
to make his way after Dancy Parkins and
Phœbe, who were in full flight, as well as he could,
cumbered by the weight of Catherine, and perplexed
by certain indications which White Surrey gave
of misliking the additional burthen imposed upon
him.

“ `Sessa, let the world slide!' ” he exclaimed,
“here's a coil with a wench, dead or half-witted!
Ha! she stirs!

Shame on thee, White Surrey! hast thou no more
respect for the ladies? Now were not this the
lieutenant's white-faced Rosalind—Oons! they
are at it! Well, the better part of valour shall
prevail; and so, fair soul, we'll be jogging. But
where's that bottle of brown Sherry I clapped into
Tiqueraque's pocket? Paucas palabras! I will
have mercy upon thee—'thou shall taste of my
bottle; if thou hast never drunk wine afore, it
will go near to remove thy fit.' 'Slife, I will be
merciful, and medicinate thy lips a little. Marry,
I am `a brave god, and bear celestial liquor.' Now,
White Surrey, my brother, handle thy legs peaceably,
or I will knock thee over the mazzard.—
Fight, Hawks! and sing, Leonidas!”

The worthy volunteer, with these words, after
having taken a bountiful draught from a flagon
which was the first thing he laid hands on in the
moment of assault, and sprinkling, doubtless with
a humane and generous motive, some of its contents
upon the face and lips of the maiden, gave
spurs to his horse, and was soon beyond the reach
of bullets and the sound of shouts.

The commotion, such as it was, was soon over.
The party of Caliver and Falconer, urging their
horses to the utmost, had suddenly, and unexpectedly
to themselves, found themselves in contact
with the stragglers of the tory band; and as these
fled the moment they observed the pursuers, the
gallant officers fired their pistols and rushed forward
with renewed ardour, until checked by the
opposition of the main body. They were met with
fury, and, being overpowered, were almost instantly
put to flight; after which the retreat of the outlaws
was resumed.

In the meanwhile, the shots and yells with which
the contest began, the change of position, or perhaps
the wine which had been sprinkled on her
lips, woke Catherine from her torpor; and slowly
collecting her senses, she became at last sensible
of her situation. Her recollection of the events of
the evening was still confused; but she remembered
enough of the bridal, and its violent termination,
to know that she was afar from her father's
roof, and that each moment saw her carried still

further. She felt, too, that she was grasped in the
arms of some powerful horseman, whose character
might be imagined from the heartless, or drunken,
nonchalance with which, while supporting a fainting
and almost lifeless female, and hearing the
uproar of mortal conflict just behind him, he yet
trolled to the night-air some further stanzas of that
quaint, joyous, and uproarious old ballad, of which
he had given a specimen before in the paddock.

he sang,—

“Oh my father, my father!” cried Catherine, in
sudden terror, “for what dreadful fate have I given
up thy love and protection?”

Her accents, feeble as they were, reached the
ears of Sterling; and ceasing his song, he looked

down upon her face, saying, with a ludicrous assumption
of gravity,

“How now, fair Titania, queen of moonshine,
do you speak? `Oh, speak again, bright angel!'
So much for twenty drops of brown Sherry! these
asses did nothing but talk about cold water.”

“What are you, sir? and why—why do you,
thus hold me?”

“Egad, for no very good reason I know, seeing
that I could not hold my own prisoner, and am but
a milk-livered loon to hold the game of young
Sparrow-Hawk. Thousand devils! knew I but
where to turn White Surrey's snout, I should exit
by side door, and so vanish, wench and all, were
it only to give him a Roland for his Oliver.”

“I know not what you mean,” said Catherine,
her terror restoring her to full consciousness—“I
know not what you mean,” she repeated, with increasing
alarm, as the moon, peeping side-long
through a rent in the clouds, threw a level and
ghastly ray on the countenance of her supporter,
revealing features which her fears converted into
those of an evil being;--“but, oh sir! I conjure
you to free me. Do me no harm,—suffer me to
escape,—let me dismount, though it should be but
to die on the way-side.”

Unfortunately,—not for her prayer, for no idea
of granting that could have ever entered the volunteer's
brain,—but unfortunately for the maiden
herself, the same ray which revealed his visage to
her gaze fell brightly upon her own, which, although
pallid as death, yet displayed a pair of eyes to
which the excitement of terror gave unusual lustre,
and which instantly converted the drunken indifference
of Sterling into admiration. He stared at
her for a moment, and then burst out, in the words
of Romeo, and with an emphasis that preserved,
along with his usual dramatic extravagance of

fervour, some little touch of natural approbation,—

Oho, Master Brook, sweet young Hawk! never
trust me if I do not take thy minion in fair exchange
for my own:—
Sweet and beautiful, and thrice beautiful and as
many times angelical, fair soul!” he added, addressing
himself to Catherine, “that I have so long
remained insensible to thy charms, trust me, it was
in part owing to the stupidity which I find growing
upon me among the `ruthless, vast and gloomy
woods,' and in part also to the great grief of mind
with which I have been mourning the loss of another
very tenderly beloved damsel; but chiefly
because thine eyes refused their light, and yonder
moon in like manner. But now, `by yonder blessed
moon I swear,' I perceive you are ten times
handsomer than the other, ass that I was to suppose
the contrary; but, however, I was then thinking
of the lieutenant and sour grapes.—Sweet,
angelical soul, you said something about escaping,
and doing you harm, and so on? Now, as to the
harm, rest easy; but look as frightened as you
please,—for what's so pretty in a maid as pretty
fear? But as to escaping,—you would escape,
then? go free from these villanous, green-coated,
axe-handed, ox-headed, timber-tongued Hawks of
the Hollow, eh? You would give them the slip,
eh?”

“Assist me but to escape,—nay, only permit me
to fly; heaven will bless you for ever, and my father—oh,

my father!—he will never think he has
sufficiently rewarded you.”

Such were Catherine's eager expressions,—for
although frighted at the strange, and, to her, inexplicable
apologies and commendations of the man,
she caught at his closing words as at those of a
friend. What, therefore, was her terror, when the
drunken ruffian, exclaiming, “Why then, `Sessa,
let the world slide!' we will give Monsieur the
Hawk Junior the go-by, and roam the world together,”
added other words to make yet more
plain the sudden design he had formed of carrying
her off for his own exclusive benefit, and concluded
by attempting to draw his arms more
closely around her.

“Yes, thou adorable, delectable creature!” he
cried, overflowing with affection, “I am tired of
these rude vagabonds, who give one nothing to
drink but brook-water, with which trout, eels, sunfish,
terrapins, and other vermin, have been making
free the lord knows how long; and beds of leaves
on a rock, where one may feel snakes creeping
under him all night long. Wherefore I will decamp,
and thou shalt decamp with me, and be my
love; and I will love thee to thy heart's content;
and we shall lead the merriest, drollest moonlight
life of it under a bush, that was ever dreamed of
in romance or enacted in tragedy. We will laugh
and play, and drink and dance—

and will be the most loving turtles that ever cooed
in a greenwood.”

As he spoke, he again attempted (for White
Surrey, charmed with the melody of his master's
tongue, and knowing well, when it was running,
he might take such a liberty, had changed a jogtrot

into a contemplative walk,) to cast his arms
round the maid, who, now awake to the wretchedness
of her situation, uttered a shriek, and making
a sudden effort, succeeded in throwing herself to
the ground; after which, she fled away with all
her speed. The object of her terror was not slow
to follow; he uttered an oath and a laugh, and leaping
down, pursued her with such vigour that he
was soon at her side; for the ground was rough
with rocks and bushes, and her strength almost
immediately failed her.

It is not certain that the wretch mediatated any
purpose beyond the mere recovery of his prize;
for, however rude and familiar his new-born admiration,
he had hitherto betrayed no inclination
to carry it to the point of absolute rudeness. On
the contrary, he seemed rather to be enacting a
part, according to his constant custom, only that
the wine he had drunk rendered him in all things
more extravagant than usual.

But harmless or not as his intentions might have
been, it is certain that the fear of them drove the
unhappy Catherine to desperation, and filled another,
now fast approaching, with the most dreadful
alarm. This was Hyland Gilbert, who, hearing
her cries from afar, came rushing up in time
to see her, in the dull light of the moon, drop on
her knees before the volunteer, beseeching him, in
tones that might have melted a heart of stone, to
have pity on her.

“Villain! you die!” cried Hyland; and leaping
from his horse, and rushing forward, he clapped
a pistol to his ear, and drew the trigger. It flashed
in the pan; but before Sterling could take advantage
of the failure, the young man dashed it in his
face, and drew another.

“Hell and darkness!” cried Sterling, furiously,
“young malapert, I will twist your neck.” And

seizing him by the throat, he cast him violently to
the earth. Of a joyous, and even good-humoured
temperament, there was yet a spice of devilish
vindictiveness in the man's breast; and while boiling
under the indignity of the blow, and smarting
with rage at such high-handed interference in his
humours by a pragmatic boy, he did not fail to
remember that this was not the first time he had
been baffled by him during the night. Besides, he
was inflamed with liquor, which was enough of
itself to goad him into any act of vengeance.

But he was not destined, that night, to shed the
blood of Hyland Gilbert. The shrieks of Catherine
had been heard by others as well as her unhappy
lover, and the flash of the pistol hastened
them to the spot, where he lay struggling in the
grasp of Sterling. A hand more mighty than his
own was soon laid upon Sterling's neck, and as he
was lifted aloft, and then tossed among the flints,
like some mean but vicious breast, which the hunter
disdains to kill with a weapon, he heard the
voice of the tory captain exclaim,

“What, you dog! touch your officer, and a sick
man!—What means all this, Hyland? What!
has he harmed the girl? If he have but touched
her with a finger—Paugh!—Away with you,
men! why stand you here gaping? On, and
quickly.”

The party rode on, leaving, however, besides
the group already in front, one man who led the
horse on which Catherine had been mounted before.
The refugee cast a look to the maiden,—
she was sobbing in the arms of his brother. He
strode to Sterling and assisted him to rise, not
however without saying, with the sternest accents
of a voice always savage,

“But that heaven, or some other power, has

made me to-night cold to blood, I should strike
you, villain, where you stand!”

“You may do it,” said the other, with great
tranquillity. “Take your fill to-night; we will run
up the reckoning at another time.”

“How, drunken fool! do you threaten me!”

“Faith, not I. Henceforth, I am a man of peace
—that is, when we have played the play out.
You're a hard manager—but, now I remember,
we are not on the boards! We will forget and
forgive.”

“Forgive, rogue! you struck him that was feebler
than a child; and you—By heaven! if you
have touched that girl but rudely, you were better
fling you into the river; than await the thanks
in store for you.”

“A pest upon girls, and the devil take the whole
sex!” said Sterling, devoutly.

“Peace! and get you to your horse.”

“Ay, presently,” replied Sterling; and as Oran
leaped on his own black steed, Catherine having
been already lifted to the saddle, he pulled a pistol
from his bosom, and aimed it at the unsuspecting
outlaw. Oran Gilbert bounded forward, and Sterling
lowered his hand.

“A miss were certain death,” he muttered,
“and the shadow was on the moon. `Sessa, let
the world slide'—to-morrow comes after to-day,
and the longer we fast the richer the feast.

Good ale? good devils!—
Now were White Surrey but visible, I should
know what to do: but the beast lifted up his heels,
and was gone a-larking the moment I dismounted.
—And these dogs have left me to shift for myself,
without even a horse to help me! Wisdom
is at as low an ebb among them as gratitude.
Necessity and vengeance harp on the same string.
Fare thee well, Oran the Hawk; but fly as high
and as wildly as thou wilt, I see the little bee-bird
that shall bring thee to the ground, bleeding.”

With these words, he sat down upon a stone,
and there remained until the tramp of the retreating
horsemen was no longer brought to his ear.