 | CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
THE COMING OF THE DELIVERER. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon |  |
15. CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
THE COMING OF THE DELIVERER.
“He will come!” muttered the Priest of Wissahikon—“At the third
hour after midnight the Deliverer will come!”
The old man sat in the oaken chair, his hands laid on his knees, as he
swayed to and fro with a restless motion.
It was in the circular chamber, panelled with oaken wainscot, and
rendered almost cheerful by the wood-fire which blazed upon the hearth.
In the centre stands the white altar, on which the candles are placed,
their light, struggling through the gloom, shining upon the high forehead
of the solitary watcher, as, with his hands laid on his knees, he sways
slowly to and fro, the silver cross on his heart, glittering like a star.
Thus, alone, for hours he has watched, his eyes of an azure so deep
and serene, fixed upon the cross of Iron which rises in the gloom beyond
the altar. And all the while, as the old man kept his watch, the fire
crackled merrily upon the hearth, and the same light which revealed his
pale enthusiastic face, also shone upon the flagon of silver, the wreath of
laurel, the Bible with antique clasps, resting between the candles, on the
surface of the altar.
Without, all is drear and cold. The Block-house rises darkly amid
the pines, with the moonbeams shining over the frozen snow. Its gates
are flung wide open—the old man awaits his long-expected guest.
“He will come; at the third hour after midnight, the Deliverer will
come!”
These words acquire a singular interest from the tone and look which
accompany their utterance.
Hark—the door opens—the young man with the bronzed face and deep
dark eyes appears—advances to his father's side.
It is Paul, with the kiss of the Wizard's child yet warm upon his lip,
her words of delirious passion yet echoing in his ears.
Scarce an hour has passed since he left his Father's side—a momentous
hour to him — an hour that in future years shall come, clad in impressive
memories, to the Dreamer's soul.
As Paul beheld the pale face of his father, with the high forehead and
dreamy eyes, all memory of the Wizard's daughter rushed suddenly
from him.
Shall that enticing memory ever return to him again?
“Father—” whispers the young man—“May it not be a vain fancy,
after all—this Hope that the Deliverer will come ere the rising of
the sun?”
You can see the old man turn suddenly round—his eye blazes as he
grasps his son by the wrist.
“Seventeen years ago, I left my father-land, and became an exile and
an outcast. Seventeen years ago, I forsook the towers of my race, that
even now darken over the bosom of the Rhine. I, whose name was ennobled
by the ancestral glories of thirteen centuries, turned my back at
once on pomp, power,—all that is worshipped by the herd of mankind.
In my native land, they have believed me dead for many years—the
castle, the broad domains that, by the world's law, are yours, my son,
now own another's rule—and here we are, side by side, in this rude
temple of the Wissahikon. Why is this, my son?—Speak, Paul, and
answer me, why do we dwell together, the father and his children, in this
wild forest of a strange land?”
The son veiled his eyes with his clasped hands: the emotion of his
father's look thrilled him to the soul.
“I will tell you why! Seventeen years ago, as I bent over the body
of my dead wife, even in the death-vault of our castle, on the Rhine, the
Voice of God spake to my soul—bade me resign all the world and its
toys—bade me take my children, and go forth to a strange land!”
“And there await the Fulfilment of Prophecy!” whispered Paul,
raising his head from his clasped hands.
“For seventeen years I have buried my soul in the pages of that
book—”
“I have shared your studies, father! Reared afar from the toil and the
vanity of worldly life, I have made my home with you in this hermitage.
Together we have wept—prayed — watched over the pages of Revelation!”
“You have become part of my soul,” said the Priest of Wissahikon,
in a softened voice, as he laid his withered hand upon the white forehead
of his son: “you might have been noble in your native land; yes, your
sword might have carved for you a gory renown from the corses of dead
men, butchered in battle: or the triumphs of poetry and art might have
with me, devoted life and soul to the perusal of God's solemn book!”
The dark eye of the son began to burn with the same wild light that
blazed over his father's face.
“And our studies, our long and painful search into the awful world,
which the Bible opens to our view, has ended in a knowledge of these
great truths—The Old World is sunk in all manner of crime, as was the
Ante-Diluvian World;—the New World is given to man as a refuge,
even as the Ark was given to Noah and his children.
“The New World is the last altar of human freedom left on the surface
of the Globe. Never shall the footsteps of Kings pollute its soil. It is the
last hope of man. God has spoken, and it is so—Amen!”
The old man's voice rung, in deep, solemn tones, through the lonely
room, while his eye seemed to burn as with the fire of Prophecy.
“The voice of God has spoken to me, in my thoughts by day, in my
dreams by night—I will send a Deliverer to this land of the New World,
who shall save my people from physical bondage, even as my Son saved
them from the bondage of spiritual death!
“And to-night he will come; at the third hour after midnight, he will
come through yonder door, and take upon himself his great Mission, to
free the New World from the yoke of the Tyrant!
“Yes, my son, six months ago, on that calm summer evening, as, with
Catherine leaning on one arm, you on the other, I strolled forth along the
woods, that voice whispered a message to my soul! To-night the
Deliverer will come!”
“All is ready for his coming!” exclaimed Paul, advancing to the altar.
“Behold the Crown, the Flagon of Anointing Oil, the Bible, and the
Cross!”
The old man arose, lifting his withered hands above his head, while
the light streamed over his silver hairs.
“Even as the Prophets of old anointed the brows of men, chosen by
God to do great deeds in His name, so will I,—purified by the toil, and
prayer, and self-denial of seventeen long years,—anoint the forehead of the
Deliverer!”
Hark! As the voice of the aged enthusiast, tremulous with emotion,
quivers on the air, the clock in the hall without, tolls the hour of One.
An hour of the New Year has been gathered to the great ocean of Eternity.
Only an hour ago, as the tones of that bell rung through the lonely
Block-House, like a voice from the other world—deep, sad, and echoing
—the last minute of 1774 sank in the glass of Time, and 1775 was born.
As the echo died away, they knelt silently beside the altar, the old man
and his son. The white hairs of the Priest mingled with the brown locks
of Paul; their hands, clasped together, rested upon the Bible, which was
opened at the Book of Revelations
Their separate prayers, breathing in low whispers from each lip, mingled
together, and went up to Heaven in ONE.
An hour passed. Hark! Do you hear the old clock again? How
those sullen sounds, One—Two—swell through the silent halls.
Still they kneel together there—still the voice of the prayer quivers
from each tongue.
After a pause of silent prayer, the old man rises and paces the floor.
“Place your hand upon my heart, my son! Can you feel its throbbings?
Upon my brow—ah! it burns like living fire! The hour draws
nigh—he comes! Yes, my heart throbs, my brain fires, but my faith in
God is firm—the Deliverer will come!”
Vain were the attempt to picture the silent agony of that old man's face!
Call him dreamer—call him fanatic—what you will, you must still admit
that a great soul throbbed within his brain—still you must reverence the
strong heart which beats within his shrunken chest.
Still must you remember that this old man was once a renowned lord;
that he forsook all that the world holds dear, buried himself for seventeen
years in the wilds of this forest, his days and nights spent amid the dark
pages of the Revelations of Saint John.
Up and down the oaken floor, now by the altar, where the light shone
over his brow, now in the darkness, where the writhings of his countenance
were lost in shadows, the old man hurried along, his eye blazing
with a wilder light, his withered cheek with a warmer glow.
Meanwhile the son remained kneeling in prayer. The lights burned
dimly—the room was covered with a twilight gloom. Still the Iron Cross
was seen—the white altar still broke through the darkness, with its silver
Flagon and Laurel Crown.
Hark! That sound—the clock is on the hour of three! The old man
starts, quivers, listens!
One! rings through the desolate mansion.
“I hear no sound!” mutters the enthusiast. But the words had not
passed on his lips, when Two—swells on the air.
“He comes not!” cries Paul, darting to his feet, his features quivering
with suspense. They clasp their hands together—they listen with frenzied
intensity.
“Still no footstep! Not a sound!” gasped Paul.
“But he will come!” and the old man, sublime in the energy of fanaticism,
towered erect, one hand to his heart, while the other quivered in
the air.
Three! The last stroke of the bell swelled—echoed—and died
away.
“He comes not!” gasped the son, in agony—“But yes! Is there not
a footstep on the frozen snow? Hark! Father, father! do you hear that
footstep? It is on the threshold now—it advances—”
“He comes!” whispered the old man, while the sweat stood out in
beads from his withered brow.
—“It advances, father! Yes, along the hall—hark! There is a hand
on the door—hah! All is silent again? It is but a delusion—no! He is
come at last!”
“At last he is come!” gasped the old man, and with one impulse they
sank on their knees. Hark! You hear the old door creak on its hinges,
as it swings slowly open—a strange voice breaks the silence.
“Friends, I have lost my way in the forest,” said the voice, speaking
in a calm, manly tone. “Can you direct me to the right way?”
The old man looked up; a cry of wonder trembled from his lips. As
for the son, he gazed in silence on the Stranger, while his features were
stamped with inexpressible surprise.
The Stranger stood on the threshold, his face to the light, his form
thrown boldly forward, by the darkness at his back.
He stood there, not as a Conqueror on the battle field, with the spoils
of many nations trampled under his feet.
Towering above the stature of common men, his form was clad in the
dress of a plain gentleman of that time, fashioned of black velvet, with
ruffles on the bosom and around the wrist, diamond buckles gleaming
from his shoes.
Broad in the shoulders, beautiful in the sinewy proportions of each
limb, he stood there, extending his hat in one hand, while the other
gathered his heavy cloak around the arm.
His white forehead overarched large eyes, which gleamed even through
the darkness of the room with a calm, clear light; his lips were firm; his
chin round and full; the general contour of his face stamped with the settled
beauty of mature manhood, mingled with the fire of chivalry.
In one word, he was a man whom you would single out among a crowd
of ten thousand, for his grandeur of bearing, his calm, collected dignity
of expression and manner.
“Friends,” he again began, as he started back, surprised at the sight
of the kneeling enthusiasts, “I have lost my way—”
“Thou hast not lost thy way,” spoke the voice of the old man, as he
arose and confronted the stranger; “thou hast found thy way to usefulness
and immortal renown!”
The Stranger advanced a footstep, while a warm glow overspread his
commanding face. Paul stood as if spell-bound by the calm gaze of his
clear, deep eyes.
“Nay—do not start, nor gaze upon me in such wonder! I tell thee the
voice that speaks from my lips, is the voice of Revelation. Thou art called
to a great work; kneel before the altar and receive thy mission!”
Nearer to the altar drew the Stranger.
“This is but folly—you mean to mock me!” he began; but the wild
and stood silent and wondering.
“Nay, doubt me not! To-night, filled with strange thoughts in regard
to your country's Future, you laid yourself down to sleep within your
habitation in yonder city. But sleep fled from your eyes—a feeling of
restlessness drove you forth into the cold air of night—”
“This is true!” muttered the Stranger in a musing tone, while his face
expressed surprise.
“As you dashed along, mounted on the steed which soon will bear
your form in the ranks of battle, the cold air of night fanned your hot
brow, but could not drive from your soul the Thought of your Country!”
“How know you this?” and the Stranger started forward, grasping the
old man suddenly by the wrist.
Deeper and bolder thrilled the tones of the old Enthusiast.
“The rein fell loosely on your horse's neck—you let him wander, you
cared not whither! Still the thought that oppressed your soul was the
future of your country. Still great hopes—dim visions of what is to come
—floating panoramas of battle and armed legions—darted one by one over
your soul. Even as you stood on the threshold of yonder door, asking,
in calm tones, the way through the forest, another and a deeper question
rose to your lips—”
“I confess it!” said the Stranger, his tone catching the deep emotion
of the old man's voice. “As I stood upon the threshold, the question that
rose to my lips was—”
“Is it lawful for a SUBJECT to draw sword against his King?”
“Man! You read the heart!” and this strange man, of commanding
form and thoughtful brow, gazed fixedly in the eyes of the Enthusiast,
while his face expressed every conflicting emotion of doubt, suspicion,
surprise, and awe.
“Nay, do not gaze upon me in such wonder? I tell thee a great work
has been allotted unto thee, by the Father of all souls! Kneel by this
altar—and here, in the silence of night, amid the depths of these wild
woods—will I anoint thee Deliverer of this great land, even as the men
of Judah, in the far-gone time, anointed the brows of the chosen David!”
It may have been a sudden impulse, or, perchance, some conviction of
the future flashed over the Stranger's soul, but, as the gloom of that
chamber gathered round him, as the voice of the old man thrilled in his
ear, he felt those knees, which never yielded to man, sink beneath him;
he bowed before the altar, his brow bared, and his hands laid upon the
Book of God.
The light flashed over his bold features, glowing with the beauty of
manhood in its prime, over his proud form, dilating with a feeling of inexpressible
agitation.
On one side of the altar stood the old man—the Priest of the Wissahikon—his
his son, bronzed in face, but thoughtful in the steady gaze of his large
full eyes.
Around this strange group all was gloom: the cold wintry air poured
through the open door, but they heeded it not.
“Thou art called to the great work of a Champion and Deliverer!
Soon thou wilt ride to battle at the head of legions—soon thou wilt lead a
people on to freedom—soon thy sword will gleam like a meteor over the
ranks of war!”
As the voice of the old man in the dark robe, with the silver cross flashing
on his heart, thrills through the chamber—as the Stranger bows his
head, as if in reverence, while the dark-browed son looks silently on—
look yonder, in the dark shadows of the doorway!
A young form, with a dark mantle floating round her white robes, stands
trembling there. As you look, her blue eye dilates with fear, her hair
streams in a golden shower, down to the uncovered shoulders. Her finger
is pressed against her lip; she stands doubting, fearing, trembling on the
threshold.
Unseen by all, she fears that her father may work harm to the kneeling
Stranger. What knows she of his wild dreams of enthusiasm? The
picture which she beholds terrifies her. This small and gloomy chamber,
lighted by the white candles—the altar rising in the gloom—the Iron Cross
confronting the kneeling man, like a thing of evil omen—her brother, mute
and wondering—her father, with white hairs floating aside from his
flushed forehead. The picture was singular and impressive: the winter
wind, moaning sullenly without, imparted a sad and organ-like music to
the scene.
“Dost thou promise, that when the appointed time arrives, thou wilt be
found ready, sword in hand, to fight for thy country and thy God?”
It was in tones broken by emotion, that the Stranger simply answered—
“I do!”
“Dost thou promise, in the hour of thy glory—when a nation shall
bow before thee—as in the fierce moment of adversity,—when thou shalt
behold thy soldiers starving for want of bread—to remember the great
truth, written in these words—`I am but the Minister of God in the great
work of a nation's freedom?”'
“Then, in His name, who gave the New World to the millions of the
human race, as the last altar of their rights, I do consecrate thee its—
Deliverer!”
With the finger of his extended hand, touched with the anointing oil,
he described the figure of a Cross on the white forehead of the Stranger,
who raised his eyes, while his lips murmured as if in prayer.
Never was nobler King anointed beneath the shadow of Cathedral arch
—never did holier Priest administer the solemn vow! A poor Cathedral,
kneeling Stranger—a wild Enthusiast, the old man! I grant it all. And
yet, had you seen the Enthusiasm of the white-haired Minister, reflected
in the Stranger's brow, and cheek, and eyes; had you marked the contrast
between the shrunken form of the “Priest,” and the proud figure of
the Anointed,—both quivering with the same agitation,—you would confess
with me, that this Consecration was full as holy, in the sight of
Heaven, as that of “Good King George.”
And all the while that young man stood gazing on the stranger in
silent awe, while a warm glow lightens up the face of the girl trembling
on the threshold, as she beholds the scene.
“When the time comes, go forth to victory! On thy brow, no conqueror's
blood-red wreath, but this crown of fadeless laurel!”
He extends his hand, as if to wreathe the Stranger's brow with the
leafy crown—yet look! A young form steals up to his side, seizes the
crown from his hand, and, ere you can look again, it falls upon the bared
brow of the kneeling man.
He looks up and beholds that young girl, with the dark mantle gathered
over her white robes, stand blushing and trembling before the altar, as
though frightened at the boldness of the deed.
“It is well!” said the aged man, regarding his daughter with a kindly
smile. “From whom should the Deliverer of a Nation receive his crown
of laurel, but from the hands of a stainless woman!”
“Rise! The Champion and Leader of a People!” spoke the deep
voice of the son, as he stood before the altar, surveying, with one glance,
the face of his father, the countenance of the blushing girl, and the bowed
head of the Stranger. “Rise, sir, and take this hand, which was never
yet given to man! I know not thy name, yet, on this Book, I swear to
be faithful to thee, even to the death!”
The Stranger rose; proudly he stood there, as with the consciousness
of his commanding look and form. The laurel-wreath encircled his white
forehead; the cross, formed by the anointing oil, glistened in the light.
Paul, the son, buckled a sword to his side; the old man extended his
hands as if in blessing, while the young girl looked up silently into his face.
They all beheld the form of this strange man shake with emotion;
while that face, whose calm beauty had won their hearts, now quivered
in every fibre.
The wind moaned sadly over the frozen snow, yet these words,
uttered by the stranger, were heard distinctly by all—
“From you, old man, I take the vow! From you, fair girl, the laurel!
From you, brave friend, the sword! On this Book I swear to be faithful
unto all!”
And as the light flashed over his quivering features, he laid his hand
upon the Book and kissed the hilt of the sword.
| CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
THE COMING OF THE DELIVERER. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon | |