University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Catherine was now so far recovered as to be
able to comprehend her situation in full; and although
Hyland Gilbert rode at her side, thus assuring
her of protection from all further rudeness,
her terrors increased, and were mingled with the
most insupportable anguish of spirit. It was in
vain that he conjured her to be composed, and
vainer yet when he sought to pacify her by expressions
indicative of affection and tenderness.

“Take me to my father, Herman,” she cried,
clasping her hands, and even endeavouring to
grasp his own. “Oh, take me but back, and I
will forgive you—I will forgive all!”

“Be composed, Catherine, I entreat you”—
But her only answer was, “My father! my poor
father!”

“You shall see him, Catherine. I take you not
from him, but from Henry Falconer.”

“I will never marry him,” cried the unhappy
girl: “take me but back and I will tell them all,
and it shall go no further. Take me but back,

and I will forget all,—I will forgive all. Take me
but back, and let me die.”

In this manner, her mind overcome by but one
thought and one feeling, she murmured prayer
after prayer, and adjuration after adjuration, until
her entreaties became almost frenzied, and Hyland,
alarmed and shocked, half repented the act which
had brought her to such a pass. Her agitation
was not diminished, when Oran, who rode at the
other side, and had for a long time maintained a
stern silence, and apparent disregard of what passed
between them, at last uttered an interjection of
impatience, and bade Hyland ride away, and leave
her to him.

“The folly but grows upon her in your presence,”
he said: “it must be checked.”

“Leave me not, Herman!” she cried, starting
so wildly from the rude Oran, that, had he not arrested
the effort, she would have leaped from the
horse, in the effort to reach him whom she felt to
be her truest protector: “leave me not, Herman,
for the sake of the mother who bore you!—leave
me not in the hands of any of these rude men!”

“Fear not,” said Hyland, and he conjured Oran
himself to depart. “Let the girl come to her,”
he added; “perhaps Phœbe's appearance may relieve
her.”

But even the presence of Phœbe, now quite content
with captivity, (so successful had been the
arguments of her wooer,) failed to banish her agitation;
and at last, bewildered and in despair, incapable
of devising any other means to give her
comfort, Hyland checked his horse and hers, and
assisted her to dismount.

“Do with me what you will, Catherine Loring,”
he said:—“I am a fool, a wretch, perhaps a villain.”

“Oh no, no!” said the maiden; “only take me

back, and all will again be well—all will be forgotten.”

“Nothing again will be well with me,” said the
young man, “and nothing, I fear me, with you.
Catherine, there is but a moment to decide. In
snatching you from the altar, I did the only thing
in my power to secure happiness to both,—or at
least, to secure us from the misery that was falling
on us like a mountain. You hated Henry Falconer”—

“I did—No, no! not hate; it was not hate,”
murmured the Captain's daughter.

“You hated him, Catherine, and—why should
I fear to speak it?—you loved another—you loved
me, Catherine—By heaven, it is true! I felt it, and
I knew it; else how could I have done this thing?
It is true—and hide it not from yourself, since your
own weal, as well as mine, depends upon your
resolution this moment.”

“Speak not to me so, oh, for heaven's sake do
not,” cried Catherine, weeping—“I never gave
you cause. Take me only to my father.”

“To wed with Henry Falconer, and pronounce
a vow your heart forswears?”

“I will never marry him—never, never!” said
Catherine, with vehemence: “I would have told
him so, only that my father stood by, and I knew
it would kill him.”

“Catherine, hear me—I am neither traitor nor
outlaw, and though associated with such for a
moment, it is for your sake only.—I have wealth,
Catherine,—substance enough and a fair name.
Share these with me.”—

“No, no! oh speak not so,” said Catherine;
“speak to me only of my father, and take me to
him. He loved you well, Mr. Hunter, and you
have not well repaid him.”

“Choose, Catherine,” said Hyland, gloomily;
“if you will return to him, it shall be so:—I am not
the ruffian to force you a step further against your
will.”

“Heaven for ever bless you!” cried the maiden.
“Oh be quick, lest it be too late—Take me back,
take me back!”

“Yes, take us back, take us back!” cried
Phœbe, whose weak mind, yielding with facility to
the contagion of Catherine's example, was now as
full of terror as before.

“Think once more, Catherine,” said the young
Gilbert, with a faltering voice—“Of myself I
speak not—I will not think what your return may
cause me; but think of what wretchedness it must
inevitably bring to you.—Catherine, there is sunshine
for us in the island.—Say but the word—you
will fly with me!”

“Never!--Oh my father! take me, Herman, to
my father!”

“It is well,” said the youth, sullenly; but motioning
as if to assist her to the saddle, “you shall
return to him.”

“What fool's play is this? and why do you loiter?”
cried Oran Gilbert, riding back to the group,
who had been left by their sudden pause far behind:
“To horse and to the river!”

“It cannot be,” said Hyland: “we have erred,
—we have done a great wrong, and must repair
it. Brother, this maiden must be returned to her
friends.”

“Madman! what do you say? Have her silly,
girlish whimsies to frightened you? Away with
you to the front, and I will fetch her!”

“I have said it, Oran,” rejoined Hyland, in a
firm, though deeply dejected voice. “I have
agreed to take her back, and I will do so. If you
will allow me a guard, I will not delay the band a

moment; and will answer for the lives of those
entrusted to me.”

“Fool and madman!” exclaimed the brother, in
a fury, “must I force you to your senses? What
ho, there, Hawks! two of you return; and Dancy
Parkins, lift that girl to the saddle, and bear her
off.”

“Fear not,” said Hyland to Catherine, who,
with woman's inconsistency, threw herself into
his arms, the moment she heard the dreaded order.
—“You but frighten her, brother!—Make me not
more wretched than I am, by forcing me to shed the
blood of any of your people.—I will shoot any one
who touches her.”—

“Myself, boy?” cried his savage brother, leaping
from his horse. Then pausing, for at his approach,
Hyland lowered the weapon he had raised
to make good his words, he said sternly,

“Choose for yourself.—Bear her along, and be
rewarded by smiles in the morning; take her back
and die, like a mad wolf, in the trap that has before
maimed you. Mount horse, Dancy Parkins,
and begone; and you, Hyland Gilbert, mount and
follow, or stay where you are and perish.—Will
you on?” he added, with inexpressible fierceness.

“When I have put this lady in safety, but not
before,” replied Hyland.

“Die then for a fool, or help yourself as you
may,” said the elder brother; and mounting his
horse, he instantly galloped out of sight.

None now remained with Hyland save the two
maidens; for even Dancy, awed by the voice of
the refugee, had deserted the once-willing Phœbe.
He turned his eyes towards the retreating figures,
as if doubting whether they could wholly desert
him; but he heard the tramp of the steeds ring
farther and fainter each moment, and it was
plain that the incensed Oran had abandoned him

to his fate. He assisted Catherine to mount, and
Phœbe likewise; then taking Catherine's bridle in
his hand, he turned the horse's head, and began to
retrace his steps without uttering a word. A
moody silence possessed him, and even Catherine's
voice, now sobbing out her broken gratitude, failed
to draw from him more than a few sullen monosyllables.

“It shall be as you will,” he said; “but let us
speak no more.—What matters it now to utter
vain words?”

The dejection, nay the despair, of spirit conveyed
by every tone, smote Catherine to the heart; and
had he possessed the art, or the will, to take advantage
of the feeling which his evident desolation
produced in her bosom, he might yet have won her
to his purpose, and borne her afar from parent and
friend. But he had neither; he heard her trembling
attempts at kindly utterance, (for it was now
her part to play the soother,) with apparent indifference;
and even when she turned her weeping
face towards him, and, in the impulse of real
affection, laid her hand upon his, he drew away as
with scorn or anger.

Their flight had carried them almost to the base
of the mountain; and, obscure as was the night, it
was plainly distinguishable at that spot where the
convulsions of chaotic ages have riven it from the
summit to the base, thus hollowing a pathway for
a broad river under the shade of its majestic crags.
As they turned from it, a pale light glistened among
the pines and oaks of the eastern hill, but so faint
and dim that one could scarce pronounce it the
peep of day-spring. Such, however, it was; fast as
had been the flight, it had been over a road where
absolute rapidity is, even at this day, rather to be
desired than expected; and, had she continued
with the wild band, Catherine would have seen

the sun steal into the sky, ere they had buried her
in the savage recesses where they found their own
cities of refuge.

As the day dawned, however, and long before
the sun was yet seen, wreaths of mist began to
curl along the mountain top, and even to creep
over the river; and before they had ridden much
more than a mile, it was seen rolling along these
lesser uplands that give such beauty to the whole
district, and settling upon the moist woodlands.

This was a circumstance which one in Hyland's
situation might have deemed providential, if desirous
of avoiding observation. But it is questionable
whether, while brooding over his melancholy
thoughts, he gave much reflection to the peril that
might attend his return to the haunts of men.
Peril should, at least, have been anticipated; for
whatever had been the check given by the band of
outlaws to the first pursuers, it was not a moment
to be doubted, from the audacity of the pursuit, as
well as the greatness of the outrage, that the chase
would be resumed the moment the pursuers could
add to their numbers. But dejected as was his spirit,
he was not yet reduced to such a state of stupor as
to be wholly unmindful of his safety; and of this he
gave proof by suddenly halting upon a naked hill,
strown over with rocks, and wholly desolate,
though breathing into the mist a world of rich
odour. It was, in fact, covered with a growth
of sweet-fern,—a shrub around which the early
thoughts of affection had shed an interest not to
be attached even to the rose or violet, though
henceforth that interest was to be of a melancholy
and painful character. It was the hill on whose
summit he had, scarce an hour before, preserved
her from the grasp of a villain; though this she
knew not, for the mists concealed objects from the
eye, and it was not yet sunrise.

As he paused, he bent forward to listen, and drew
a pistol from his saddle-bow, but instantly returned
it, muttering, “It is no matter—if they take me,
let it be without bloodshed.”

“Herman,—Mr. Hunter, what is it?” cried Catherine.
“You will not pause now?”

“Now I must, or never,” he said. “You are
safe,—your friends are at the bottom of the hill;
and unless you would have them murder me in
your sight, I must begone. Farewell, Catherine
Loring: if you can be happy, God grant that you
may be so. I have done you a great wrong; but
I bear that in my bosom which will avenge you.
Farewell, Catherine,—farewell, and for ever.”

“Herman, Herman!” murmured the maiden,
turning upon him a countenance of death, and
gasping for utterance.

“Farewell, Catherine,” he said, wringing her
hand; “they are upon us. God bless you—farewell.”

He rode away—it was but a step: the trample
of a body of horse was now plainly heard—he
looked back upon her—his countenance was bathed
in tears. She stretched forth her arms, and
murmuring, in a broken voice, “I will go with
you—take me, Herman, take me!”—was in a moment
locked in his own embrace. He snatched her
from the saddle, and, as she clung to his neck,
dashed the spurs into his good roan steed. Had
the words been pronounced a moment earlier,
nay, but an instant, he might have made his escape,
and borne her off in safety. But the decision
was as late as it proved to be fatal. Phœbe had
already heard the trampling of the approaching
horsemen, and Hyland had called them friends.
She could scarce repress a cry of delight; but
when, catching Catherine's last words, she looked
round and beheld her, as she thought, in the act of

being again snatched away, she raised her voice
in a scream that was heard by the most distant of
the approaching party, and was echoed by a shout
coming from fifty voices.

Again Hyland struck the spurs into his horse,
and the fire sparkled from his hoofs as he dashed
down the hill; but fire flashed immediately after
from the hoofs of twenty others, fresher and perhaps
fleeter.

“Shoot not, or you will kill the lady!” roared
a voice in his ear.

“Surrender, dog, or die!” shouted another, who
was indeed no other than Henry Falconer; and
almost in the same instant, as three or four closed
upon the unfortunate fugitive, a strong arm snatched
the fainting Catherine from his grasp, and a
pistol, held by Falconer, was thrust into his face.

The young Gilbert was weak with wounds and
sickness, and worn out with toil, watching, and
grief; his native spirit was thus in a manner crushed
and prostrated; and he would perhaps have
yielded himself passively up, if not too bitterly
goaded by the taunts and violence of his captors.
Such was the opinion of two of them, who, supposing
he had already yielded, withdrew their
hands, that they might give assistance to the fainting
Catherine, whom captain Caliver had so fortunately
redeemed from the midst of the fray. But
Gilbert had not yet rendered himself. The sight
of his rival, exulting in his capture, and menacing
him with voice and weapon, inflamed his dying
passions. He turned with sudden fierceness, checked
and spurred his steed at the same time, and thus
caused him to vault into the air with a violence
which would have speedily released him from Falconer's
grasp, had not his purpose been rather to
attack than fly. As he executed this feat, he presented
his own pistol, and drew the trigger. The

explosion of two pistols at once was followed by
the rush of a dozen men to separate the combatants;
and the next moment both were seen rolling
upon the ground, Falconer lying clear of the melée,
and Hyland in the hands of the vengeful Sterling,
whose horse, White Surrey, had overthrown the
youth, together with his roan steed.

“ `Sessa! let the world slide!' ” cried the renegade,
with a voice of thunder, but a countenance
ashy pale. “Here's work for the hangman—I
have him fast enough. Victoria!”—

But at this moment, a sudden alarm was sounded,
and all who could starting up, they heard a
wild yell sound from the base of the hill to the
north, and the words, pronounced by a voice
strong and clear as a trumpet, “Royal Refugees!
charge! and bear them to the ground!”

“Huzza!” shouted the captain of cavalry, “here's
the rat running at the lion! Now open your mouths
and swallow 'em! By the eternal Jupiter, we are
five to their one; and more fools they for not knowing
it. Sweep them from the earth! charge them!
on!”

The refugee had relented; the sound of the pistols
had quickened his steps; but he dreamed not
of the force now arrayed betwixt him and his
abandoned brother. A sheet of fire from twenty
pistols blazed through the mist, as twice as many
enemies rushed against his little band. They
broke at the first fire, and the sounds of pursuit,
both hot and fierce, were soon lost in the distance.
—It was not until many hours had elapsed that the
result of the contest, although it could be easily
imagined, was fully known. Two of the refugees
had been killed, and one was taken prisoner; while
the others, abandoning their horses, which were
worn out, and hence easily captured, succeeded in
making their escape to the woods.

In the meanwhile, those who remained upon the
hill busied themselves in securing the unfortunate
Hyland, who was unhurt save by the fall of his
horse, aiding the maidens, and raising young Falconer
from the earth. This unlucky youth muttered
a few words as they lifted him, but, to their
horror, almost instantly expired. A pistol bullet
had penetrated his throat, dividing the great jugular,
and even shattering the spine. His battles
were fought, and his dream of folly over.

In the recovery of Catherine and the serving-maid,
the company of pursuers had effected the
chief object of the expedition; but it was still felt
to be a matter of great importance to destroy the
relics of the refugee band which had haunted the
county so long. The greater number of the pursuers,
accordingly, devoted themselves to this object,
while enough remained on the hill to take
charge of the rescued females, the prisoners, and
the dead.

The life of Hyland Gilbert, whom his captors,
exasperated by the murder, as they called it, of
Falconer, were at one time on the point of tearing
to pieces, was saved through the firmness of lieutenant
Brooks; but he was treated with much indignity,
and even cruelty, being straightway bound
both hand and foot to his horse, and thus carried
away like the meanest and most desperate of
felons. A pair of rude litters were hastily constructed,
in one of which was carried the Captain's
daughter, while the other supported the clayey
corpse of the bridegroom.

These things effected, and the honest Mr. Sterling
assuming the station assigned him in the centre
of the party, where, although enjoying all appearance
of liberty, he was yet esteemed a kind of
honourable—or, as the phrase should be, dishonourable—prisoner,
the melancholy cavalcade pursued

its way back to Hawk-Hollow, within a few miles
of which, its leaders stumbled upon Captain Loring
and a party of footmen, over whom he had assumed
the command. It consisted of no less, indeed, than
that identical company of volunteers who had won
such immortal distinction on the fourth of July, by
their valiant attack, with empty muskets, upon the
flying Oran. The reappearance of their enemy
was enough to recall them to the field of battle,
though they came somewhat of the latest; and
uniting themselves with a party of countrymen
and domestics whom Captain Loring had previously
assembled, and whom he was now gallantly
leading to the field of honour, they yielded to his
energy the obedience he seemed to consider a
matter of right, and thus constituted him commander-in-chief,
without much regard to the claims
of their own elected officers.

The morning was still misty, so that lieutenant
Brooks and his party stumbled upon this formidable
detachment without seeing it, or suspecting
its existence; and had it not been for the sharpness
of his ears in detecting the tones of Captain
Loring's voice upon a hill he was just ascending,
it is highly probable the magnanimous volunteers
would have wiped out the disgrace of their flight
before a single enemy, by pouring a warm and
well-directed fire into a superior body of friends.

He paused a little,—for he rode at some distance
in front of his party,—and distinctly heard Captain
Loring's voice giving the following orders to
his volunteers:—

“Hark!” said the veteran; “adzooks, you may
hear their horse now as plain as the cocking of a
sentinel's musket at midnight. Halt, ye vagabonds,
and prepare for action. When I say prepare, I
mean, adzooks, be ready to swinge 'em. You,
Dan Potts, John Small, and Peter Dobbs, detach

yourselves to the right, six rods from the road,
and lay by to flank 'em: Dick Sturgem, Sam King,
and Absalom Short, wheel to the left, and do the
same thing—and mind you, you scoundrels, don't
any of you be frightened; for, adzooks, I despise
a coward above all created things. And harkee,
you scoundrels, no gabbling; hold your tongues
like soldiers, and talk with your muskets: that's
what old general Spitfire used to tell us—`Sons,'
said he, `a soldier should always keep his tongue
in his musket.' So be off, and stand fast, flanks;
and bang away as soon as you see any thing to
bang at. Centre, attend: as soon as you hear the
flanks at it, you are to crack away, and give no
quarter—no quarter, you scoundrels, do you
hear!”

At any other moment, the young lieutenant
would have been amused at the enthusiasm and
tactics of the veteran of the Indian wars; but this
was not a moment for jest. He rode forward,
hailing the Captain by name; and the old soldier
soon forgot his rage and his followers together, to
weep in the arms of his recovered child.