University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
HOW BUNYAN SAVES HELL-FIRE DICK.

With the dawn of the next day, Dick of Tophet rode off for
Griffiths', and did not return till night; but, scarcely had he
supped, when, book in pocket, he proceeded to the dungeon of
Henry Travis, whom he easily persuaded to resume his readings;
and the practice was continued, off and on, nightly, with
occasional intervals, for a week; by which time, both parties
were pretty well informed as to the purpose and progress of
Poor Pilgrim. And both were interested, though in different
degree, and perhaps to different results. Of course, the reading
was by no means an uninterrupted one. Dick was critical,
quite, upon the strategics of the story, as shown in the performances
of the various warring characters; and he frequently
interposed a doubt or an objection, usually of a military nature,
as Henry read. To give these doubts and objections, though
sometimes queer and amusing enough, would too greatly trench
upon our limits, and delay our own progress. We must leave
it to the reader who has read Bunyan, and who has conceived
our character of Dick of Tophet, to apprehend them for himself.
Nor shall we stop to ask in what degree this noble allegory
of Good and Evil wrought upon the moral of our ruffian.
Enough, if we suppose that there is an insensible progress.
Humanity rarely relaxes all hold upon the mortal, while the
warmer passions live and work in his bosom; nay, so long as
they do live, no matter what their excesses, the heart is still
susceptible of purification. It is only when they are dead, or
prurient, that the process of cure, through their agency, is entirely
cut off. And thus, perhaps, in his dungeon, our poor boy,

Henry Travis, himself suffering — a mere boy — thoughtless of
his own uses — was an instrument in the hand of Providence
for working upon a nature which no more direct authority could
reach. For the self-esteem of such a ruffian as Dick of Tophet
forbids that he shall come auspiciously in contact with any of
the recognised apostles of truth.

Ostensibly, there was no change for the better in the moods
and practice of the ruffian. We find him, one morning, at Griffiths'
— in a secluded cabin which the latter keeps in the woods,
a mile in the rear of his hostel — drunk and blasphemous! He
has a little circle of half-a-dozen reprobates around him, with
whom he drinks, games, jests, swears, and whom, by these processes,
he evidently seems desirous to conciliate! He has succeeded
in making them nearly as drunk as himself; but they
look up to him, nevertheless, with a certain maudlin reverence.
Dick of Tophet is proverbially a fellow to be feared.

Among these conscripts, we discover no less a person than
Mat Floyd, brother of our Nelly, with two out of the three
comrades who escaped with him from the hot chase of Rawdon's
escort. These two are Clem Wilson and Jack Friday;
Barney Gibbes, the third, on his flight, received a bullet somewhere
about the midriff, of which he died in the swamp, having
succeeded in escaping the pursuit only to perish in the mixed
agonies of a deadly wound, exposure, neglect, and the absence
of all succor — scarcely heeded, in his prayers for help, by his
starving associates, whose own necessities and terrors made
them selfishly indifferent to his sufferings. They buried him
from sight, however, but did not forget to empty his pockets.

The survivors, creeping out under their necessities, have got
down to Griffiths'. He has warmed them with whiskey, and
strengthened them with meat. Dick of Tophet has interposed,
at the right moment, and the sight of the “king's picter” on “a
gould guinea” has been sufficient to persuade them to incorporation
into the ranks of Inglehardt. It was while this treaty was
in progress, and when these runagates were preparing to hunt
the deer in the swamp — where, as fugitives, they had found
“sign” enough of game — that the little body of recruits so painfully
got together by our Dick of Tophet was dispersed by the
unexpected onslaught of Willie Sinclair. He swept forward,

leaving the survivors — whom it would have been useless to
pursue into the swamp-fastnesses where they found temporary
refuge — to come forth at leisure. Two nights' reading were
lost to Dick of Tophet in consequence of this affair. The third
found him at Griffiths', with the remnant of his squad. Among
these were Mat Floyd, Jack Friday, and Clem Wilson. Supper,
rum, cards, and good-fellowship, restored their spirits; and
the tastes of Dick of Tophet, as well as their own, counselled
them, after their hard usage and late ill run, to “make a night
of it.” Their orgies were continued to a late hour, until, one
by one, they sank out of sight around the table where they had
been revelling, and soon lost all consciousness upon the floor of
the hovel in which their revels had been carried on.

The lights by which they had gamed and drunk were torches
of pine, kept up in the fireplace so long as they could feel a
want of light; and, when this was no longer the case, the blaze
naturally expired. In less than half an hour after they were
all oblivious, the room lay in utter darkness. No sentinels were
on duty anywhere. The party had their arms about them, but
they were too drunk to use them in any emergency. They had
relied for security on the secrecy of their situation and the fidelity
of Griffith, whose interests too greatly depended on this class
of customers to render it probable that he would betray them
to any chance passers of an enemy's forces — who could have
no reason for supposing any such harborage to be in the neighborhood.

It might have been half an hour after the lights had been
entirely extinguished in the hovel, and when all the inmates,
without exception, were fast folded in the embrace of sleep —
that sleep of drunkenness which is an absolute lethargy, more
benumbing than any sleep but that produced by opium — when
a slight figure might be seen, in the faint starlight, to steal up
to the door of their hovel, and feel carefully its fastenings.
These consisted of a wooden latch, lifted by a string on the
outside, and within of a thong of leather tying the door by a
hole to a staple in one of the logs beside it. There were staples
for a bar, a wooden bar also for crossing and securing the
door within; but our runagates, in their deep sense of security,
arising from deeper potations, had contented themselves with

merely using the thong of leather for the fastening, and leaving
the bar unemployed in a corner — the necessity of sending or
going occasionally to Griffiths', for supplies of rum and sugar,
making them reluctant to lift and replace the huge oaken log
on each occasion. Doubtless they would finally have laid it
securely within its sockets, on retiring for the night, had this
event been one of purpose and deliberation. On the present
occasion, however, Sleep relieved them from all cares, as if assuring
them that she would be the fortress, would set the watch,
and make their securities fast.

The figure, whom we have seen trying at the door, was that
of Nelly Floyd. How came she hither? How had she tracked
her brother, the worthless Mat, from wood to wood, from swamp
to swamp, from one hiding-place to another, till now she finds
him, passing from the service of one desperate ruffian into that
of another of proverbially worse reputation?

Nelly has satisfied herself in respect to the fastenings. She
takes a knife from her girdle, smites the thong, through the
crevice of the door, lifts the latch, and boldly enters the apartment.
She is now in utter darkness, not knowing where to
turn; but Nelly's resources are ample for her purposes. In her
pocket is a box of tinder, flint, and steel. Here, too, she carries
some fine splinters of the fattest lightwood, which takes fire at
a touch, like gunpowder. She strikes a light, kindles a blaze
in the chimney, and surveys the apartment.

What a spectacle of bestiality! Nelly looked about among
the sleepers with a countenance of very natural disgust. The
faces of two of them were turned upward. One of these was
that of Hell-fire Dick. The begrimed, scarred, bearded, and
utterly savage aspect, of this man, seemed to fill her with horror.
She shuddered visibly as she gazed upon it, but a fearful
sort of fascination seemed to fetter her to the survey for several
minutes. An expression of pain appeared in her countenance.
She turned away hastily from the spectacle, then again
resumed her examination of the revolting features, and with still
shuddering attention, such as one engaged in a scientific examination
would bestow upon the object which is yet offensive to
all his sensibilities.

It is certain that Nelly Floyd exhibited a singular and painful

interest in the study of the brutal features of our monster
par excellence. She turned away, at length, and, from among
the other sleeping drunkards, soon distinguished the person of
her wretched brother. He lay almost beneath the table, his
head upon his crossed arms — his face downward. She stooped
to him, pushed him, turned him over, whispered in his ear. She
might as well have sought for intelligence, and human consciousness,
in the rock! She strove for his awakening in vain.

There was a motion on the part of one of the sleepers. He
turned uneasily, and groaned aloud. Nelly was instantly on
her feet, and preparing to gain the door. But the sleeper was
quiet in the next moment, and she renewed her efforts to rouse
up her insensible brother. But with no better effect than before.
Then she wrung her hands, despairingly, and murmured
a prayer.

We have a privilege which those around do not enjoy, of
hearing her soliloquy.

“If I get him not hence, and from these people, he can not
be saved! I see the danger approaching. And he will not
see it! Oh! Mat, Mat! that you will not hear to the only one
that loves you — will not heed the only one that prays for you.
Will rush on, with these bad people — headlong — to where the
doom waits for you — more and more near every day!”

As if stimulated to new efforts by this reflection, the girl again
strove to awaken the sleeper — again pulled his arm — even from
beneath his head; but the head fell heavily upon the floor, and
the sleeper snored aloud, as if declaring his resolute purpose
not to be awakened. And she failed finally, and had to abandon
the attempt as hopeless. Yet, to her horror and surprise,
even while she strove for his awakening, she saw the head of
Hell-fire Dick suddenly rise up, with his shoulders from the
floor. The eyes were wide open. They glared around the
room. They were met by those of Nelly; and, as if bound by
a spell, she could not turn her glance away from the painful
stare of those sleep-glazed eyes of the ruffian, which seemed
that of a frozen life — a blank meaningless gaze — full of a dazing
intensity, but no aim. She was crouching over Mat Floyd, with
her hand upon his shoulder, when first alarmed by the lifting of
the head of Dick of Tophet; and she maintained this position,

incapable to move, while the gaze of his eyes was upon her.
At length, the head of the ruffian sank back upon the floor;
and a few hoarse, broken syllables escaped his lips. He had
evidently not ceased to sleep a moment, during all his staring.
He was dreaming all the while.

Nelly Floyd rose — now thoroughly conscious that, in his
present condition, there was no hope to arouse her brother.
She went to the fireplace, threw another brand of lightwood
upon the blaze, and then, with more deliberation than before,
surveyed the features of Dick of Tophet.

“Somehow,” she said to herself, “I fear this man! I never
felt fear of any person before; but this man I fear! The voice
tells me, `Avoid him — beware of him!' Oh! if I could only
get poor Mat away, would I not do so? How horrid he looks.”

And she loathed and trembled even as she gazed, and with
feelings and thoughts of an indefinite terror that kept her shuddering
to the soul all the while she remained thus spelled by
the fearful fascination.

She starts, even while she looks and muses. Her keen ears
have caught approaching sounds. She hastily steps to the fireplace,
smothers the lighted brand in the ashes, and all is again
in darkness. She glides, then, heedfully among the sleepers;
gains the door, and listens; steps out rapidly; and, slipping off
among the bushes, is soon hidden out of sight. She now hears
distinctly the voice of one approaching the door of the hovel.
It was Griffith himself, who limped with a crutch. [A large
proportion of the tavern-keepers in that day and region were
lame people. Their crippled condition gave them a degree of
immunity from both parties, which able-bodied persons could
not well have obtained.]

“I sartinly seed a light!” said Griffith —“They wants more
liquor.”

And he pushed open the door. All was darkness. All still
slept; and, after kindling the blaze afresh, and looking around
him, Griffith satisfied himself that no more liquor was necessary,
and that the light which he had seen was that of some
brand, which had been thrown upon the fire before, but had
kindled very slowly, and only after the runagates were asleep.

“A pretty crew, I hev,” said Griffith — “but they pays!”

The philosophy, in brief, which reconciles the whole world to
rascality!

And, satisfied with his scrutiny, he pulled to, and latched the
door, and hobbled off to his own slumbers. Poor Nelly prowled
about till morning — snatching a brief sleep under a tree in a
close thicket, where Aggy busily browsed about for her supper.
Poor Nelly! she had again left a home of luxury, for the cheerless
life of the forests. How she procured food is something of
a problem. But she contrived to do it. She would enter a
house and say, “I am hungry — will you give me some bread?”
And when the inmates looked in her face, they gave it. At
other times, she had biscuits in her pocket, of corn-flour; and,
sometimes, she had a little mealed grain and sugar. She had
gathered up some of the lessons and resources of forest life from
her intercourse with Jeff Rhodes and his party.

Drunk as he had been, during the night, the military habits
of Dick of Tophet were inflexible; and, with the first peep of
day, he was stirring himself, and rousing up the stupid wretches
around him. They had an early breakfast of hominy and raccoon
meat, with rum and water in place of coffee. The breakfast
discussed, the party was soon in saddle, and on the road —
nay, not the road exactly, but along a blind trail through the
forests. They little dreamed, any of them, that Nelly Floyd
was following, at a convenient distance, along the same route.

But Dick of Tophet did not lead his recruits to the secret recesses
of Muddicoat Castle. He stopped short of this point, and
made his bivouack about a mile distant, on a bit of high ground
on which stood an old loghouse — where, in fact, Inglehardt
had previously encamped his company, while he visited the
swamp fastnesses alone. When Dick had safely planted his
cohort, and laid down his decrees with sufficient emphasis and
distinctness to his lieutenant, he disappeared from the party,
taking a circuitous course, and finally, worming his way to the
dark avenues of the swamp. He was safe against his own followers,
and never suspected the strange scout that haunted all
his footsteps with the lightness of the deer, and the stealthiness
of the serpent. Nelly Floyd was on the route to new mysteries.

That night she was back again to the camping-ground where

her brother was stationed. At midnight he was wakened up
to keep watch; and, watching him, she stole upon him when
she supposed all the rest to be well asleep, and was beside the
drowsy sentinel, without his suspecting any human proximity.
Her murmured accents first apprized him of her presence, as
she said, “Mat, my brother, it is Nelly, your own sister Nelly.”
But, so surprised was he, that he started, leaped, and seemed
about to run. He was armed with knife and pistols only.
Fortunately, these were in belt or bosom. Had there been a
weapon in his hand, such was his agitation, at the first, that he
would most probably have tried to use it.

“Don't be afraid, Mat — it's Nelly!”

“Afeard! who's afeard? What do you want, Nelly?”

“I want you, Mat! I have come in pursuit of you. I wish
to carry you off from these wretched people. Oh! Mat, will
you not take warning in season, from the fate of Jeff Rhodes,
and Nat, and the rest?”

“What's become of Jeff?”

“Hung!”

“Hung!” and the fellow shivered with the most unpleasant
associations.

“Hung by the British, and Nat had his brains dashed out
against a tree!”

“He always was a half-blind fellow, and couldn't manage a
horse easy in the woods.”

“You see, Mat, one after the other perishes in blood and
shame! Rhodes was a monster, and you have taken service
with another monster like him. He will lead you to Rhodes's
fate, as sure as day and night come together.”

“Look you, Nelly; don't be talking any more of my hanging.
I tell you, so long as I kin carry a knife, and hev the
strength to use it, no rope shall siffocate me.”

“Hear me, Mat: Jeff Rhodes made the same boast; yes,
even when he lay wounded on the sward; and the enemy heard
him, and hung him in all his wounds, and he died in the rope.”

How did Nelly Floyd pick up this anecdote?

The curious feature of the fact, struck the dull faculties of
Mat Floyd painfully; but he was of a stiff-necked generation,
and his heart was hardened against his sister. The Fates were

resolute on not losing their victim, and no one is more surely
such than the man whose self-esteem makes himself the blind
instrument of their designs. Mat Floyd had a shade of philosophy
in his answer, based upon the doctrines of probabilities,
which he delivered as soon as he recovered from the shock.

“Well, 'tain't reasonable that two men of the same party is
guine to suffer jest in the same way. The truth is, Nelly,
you've been a dreaming at me, with that gallows wision of
your'n, till I'm almost sick of seein' and hearin' you! You
wants me to go off with you, and git a hoeing the tater patch
of Mother Ford; and what ef the sodgers, one side or t'other,
sees me at that? Will they let me stay at it? No! Won't
they take away my hoss and all I've got, and been a-gitting?”

“Where's what you've got, and been a getting, Mat? In
these rags?” demanded the girl abruptly and sternly.

“Ha! Nelly,” answered the other with a chuckle, “rags is a
disguising and a sarcumvention. Rags hides more than they
shows. Look a' that, gal — gould all, and silver a few,” and he
drew up from amidst his rags, a handful of gold and silver pieces
— no great deal, perhaps, but something unusual with him, and
with persons in his condition. But Mat was beginning to be an
accumulator. He had emptied the pockets of Barney Gibbes,
who died in the swamp; and his skill as a gambler, aided by a
temporary run of luck, had enabled him to make the present
exhibition.

“Don't talk to me, Nelly, of leaving a business which brings
sich good pay, to go hoeing Mother Ford's turnips and taters!
I'd be jest as crazy as you'self, Nelly, ef I was to do so.”

The girl recoiled from him, with a sort of horror, at this rude
speech. She said sadly:—

“My craziness, Mat, does not prevent my loving you, and
feeling for you, and thinking of your danger, night after night,
when you are drinking and sleeping, and not thinking or caring
for yourself.”

And she told him of her efforts to rouse him up from his sleep
and stupor the night before, in the hovel of Griffith. She
described vividly the wretched spectacle which she witnessed.

“Suppose,” she added, “that, instead of me, it had been an
enemy, who found you in that condition, when you could neither

lift an arm, nor open an eye, how would your knife, then,
have saved you from the gallows?”

The fellow was a little confounded with the story; but he was
fast losing all sense of shame; and he answered brutally:—

“D—n the gallows! Ef you're afraid of it, I ain't. Don't
bother me any more about it. Ef I'm to hang, I kaint drown.
That's enough. Git off now, 'fore the fellows wake up and
find you hyar. It's no use to argyfy. You're a gal — a woman
— and don't understand the business of men-folk. We must
hev money, Nelly. Thar's no getting on without it, and so
long as I kin git it, in this business, jest so long I must take the
risk of the siffication. Thar you hev it! Hurrah for the gallows!
Who's afeard?”

“Oh, Mat! This is awful! My poor, poor brother, do you
hurrah for shame, and infamy, and death! Oh! beware, lest
God takes you at your word, and sends them all! Oh, brother!
do not suppose me foolish — crazy — as you call it! I am not
crazy! I have a fearful gift of vision which enables me to
see what is to happen. And I tell you, dear Mat, my poor
misguided brother, that you are destined to the horrid death I
have painted to you, unless you fly with me. You are doomed!”

“Well, ef I'm doomed — sartain — what's the use of your
argyfying? What's the use of my trying at all? Even ef I
was to give up business hyar, and to turn to hoeing taters and
turnips for Mother Ford, 'twouldn't do no good. The rope, you
say — the gallows — must have the pusson! That's the how,
ain't it?”

“Oh, no! not so! The precipice is before you, but you can
turn away from it. The danger threatens you, but you can avoid
— avert it! God warns and threatens; but repentance saves.
He does not willingly destroy! He only cuts off the offender
who will not repent. Brother, brother, you may still be saved
— only resolve in season. Go with me. Leave the camp now
— now — while all are sleeping.”

“Why, that's desartion! That's a hanging matter, right off,
soon as they catch me. I've got the king's picter, in gould, in
my pocket, and that swears me to be true man. Ef I desarts,
I'm hung, sure as a gun, soon as they lays hands on me. And

they'd like no better fun, for, you see, they gits my hoss and all
my vallyables.”

“And who is this fearful-looking man to whom you have sold
yourself for money? The very sight of him fills me with
terror!”

“And he's jist the man to make most folks feel skeary.
Why, that's Hell-fire Dick!”

“Oh, Mat! and is it possible that you are in the hands of
that monster?”

“Well he don't hear you! But he's only the recruiting sargent.
The cappin's name's Inglehardt.”

“Ah! I've heard of him. He's a bad man too. Mat, Mat,
leave these wretches! Go with me! I will work for you.
You shall never want. If we can't get money, we can get
safety. We can get bread, and clothing, and shelter, and
peace, peace, Mat — and what more do we need? What more
can money buy?”

“Fiddlestick! I want a great many things more! And
you work! You promise mightily; but I knows you. Jest in
the midst of work you'd hev your wisions, and then start off,
crazy as a mad-cat, nobody knows whar! You're too full of
notions, Nelly; and I ain't the man to be depending on a crazy
gal like you. I don't feel like weeding taters and hoeing turnips.
I'd rather, a deuced sight, fight than dig; though I has
to fight onder the very gallows!”

It is enough that Nelly Floyd labored at her mission until it
became time to change the watch, then she disappeared; but
only out of sight; she still lingered about the precinct; hopeful
of a more auspicious season. We leave her for awhile, guarded
by innocent thoughts only, in deeper thickets of the forest!

But we leave her only to turn to a less grateful portrait. We
must follow Dick of Tophet to his den, and its murky associates.
He appeared among them as usual, perhaps a shade
more surly. He had a private talk with Brunson before joining
the rest; in which he heard the home news, and uttered
himself freely:—

“Thar's all sort of rumors, Rafe! Griffith says that the
rebels hev most sartinly gone down to take the city! And he
says, that thar's a rumor that Lord Rawdon has gone down to

defend it. The rebels are sartinly a-breezing up, and gitting
stronger. Thar's a power of 'em a-horseback now, so that our
red-coat dragoons stand no chaince. All Marion's and Sumter's
fellows are a-horseback. I reckon we'll hyar all from Cappin
Inglehardt, when he comes in to-morrow.”

“Is he coming in to-morrow?”

“He said so. But who knows? Thar's so many troops about,
that one kaint be sure of his breakfast without a skairmish.”

After their chat they went in to supper, and after supper to
cards, and along with cards, Jamaica! They sat up very late
at their revels; and, as one debauch only paves the way for
another, Dick of Tophet drank almost as freely as on the
previous night, and lost all his money besides. He rose from
play, when this result was reached, and staggered about with
curses in his mouth — to steady his movements we suppose —
until he had found the place where he had shelved his antique
copy of Bunyan. Having stuck this into his pocket, he strode
and staggered off to Pete Blodgit's, where he aroused that
amiable keeper, with his rheumatic mother, from the pleasantest
of naps. Pete gave him entrance; and he made his way at
once into the dungeon of Henry Travis.

“Make up a light hyar, Pete!” commanded the ruffian, without
looking to Henry. The blaze was soon kindled, and Dick
discovered the boy, with his eyes open, but still stretched at
length upon his straw.

“Git up, little fellow,” said he, “and let's git a little more
book-l'arning. Them harrystocrats shain't hev it all, by the
hokies! Git up, my little hop-o'-my-thumb, cocksparrow, and
let's hear you read out the l'arning. The l'arning's the thing.
Lawd, boy, ef I only had that, how I'd regilate the country.
I'd be king of the cavalries!”

“I can't read to-night,” said Henry; “it's too late. I'm too
sleepy.”

“Sleepy! you young wolf, and harrystocrat, riprobate and
sarpent! Sleepy! Ef I take a stick to your weepers, I
reckon I'll work the sleep out of 'em for the next gineration!
Git up, before I put a spur into your musquito ribs, you little
conceit of an argyment, and stop your singing for ever and the
third day a'ter.”

Poor Henry felt greatly like bidding the ruffian defiance;
but that grave counsellor, Prudence, just then interposed, and
taught him better. He was not so sleepy, indeed, as sour;
was weary, vexed, impatient, unhappy, and his ill-humor was
threatening to impair his security. But the saving policy
came in season. He got up quietly, took his seat upon the
bench, received the book from the hands of its owner, who,
quietly stretched himself out upon the straw, and prepared to
listen.

By this time, Henry discovered that Andrews was very drunk,
and could scarcely appreciate a sentence; but he commenced
reading, and continued to read aloud for awhile, though not
without frequent querulous and very stupid interruptions from
his maudlin hearer. But the boy read on patiently, satisfied,
in some degree, to read for himself. The charming fiction of
Bunyan was gradually appealing to the imagination of the boy,
winning its way to his heart, and engaging all his sympathies
in behalf of poor Pilgrim. At length, all show of attention, on
the part of Dick of Tophet relaxed — his head finally settled
down upon the straw, and Henry Travis was only apprized of his
utter insensibility, by a loud snore, which would have done honor
to the nostrils of a buffalo, from those of the auditor. The boy
only gave him a look of loathing and disgust, and resumed his
reading; though now not aloud. He was engaged in a portion
of the narrative where it was most dramatic and most exciting;
and, in his progress, he almost forgot that his custodian lay at
his feet.

Suddenly, the boy closed the book, and looked about him.
The stillness of everything around had startled him into a
sudden consciousness, and was suggestive of a new thought to
his mind. Why should he not fly? — possess himself of the
key, which he knew to be in the pocket of the sleeping man
and take advantage of his obliviousness to escape?

No sooner did he think thus, than he prepared to act upon
the suggestion. He stooped cautiously beside the sleeper, and
felt in one of his pockets, but brought up nothing but a piece
of tobacco, a handful of bullets in a leather bag, and a ploughline.
The other pocket contained the key, and Dick lay upon
that side. The boy felt cautiously all around him, but the

pocket was completely covered by the huge carcass of the
sleeper. To turn him over was scarcely possible, unless at the
peril of awakening him; but, just then, Henry discovered the
buck-handled hilt of a couteau de chasse protruding from the
bosom of the sleeper.

Here was the key to the key! Here was emancipation from
his bonds — escape — flight — the rescue of his father, and vengeance
upon the head of their petty tyrant! The thought
swept through the brain of the boy with lightning rapidity.
His eyes gleamed; his whole frame trembled with the eager
inspiration. He clutched the weapon, and drew it from the
bosom of the sleeper, leaving the leathern sheath still in the
folds of his garments. He was now armed, and a single blow
would suffice, struck manfully, and in the right place!

And the heart of the boy was strong within him. We have
seen that he does not shrink from strife — does not tremble at
the sight of blood — has no fear of death, when his passions are
excited for victory! And there is his enemy, the brutal enemy
who has not spared his blows, has threatened him with stripes,
starves him, and keeps him from liberty! He has but to slay
him, possess himself of the key, and fly! All is very still around
him; and the wretch beneath his arm has no claim for mercy
upon him. What need for scruple?

Such were the obvious suggestions. But they were not
enough, though all true — not enough to satisfy the more exacting
requisitions of that young humanity which the world's strife
may have irritated, but not yet rendered callous. The struggle
between his sense of provocation, the objects he had to gain by
the act, and his nicer sensibilities, was a painful and protracted
one. But the nobler nature triumphed. Henry Travis could
not strike the defenceless man, though his enemy — could not
stab the sleeping man, however a monster!

He drew back from the ruffian — averted his eyes, lest the
temptation should be too strong for him; and, resolutely seating
himself, as to a task, he took up old Bunyan, and resumed his
reading. But, ever and anon, he felt how wearisome now were
its pages; the fiery, passionate thoughts still recurring to him
with their suggestions of escape, and the excitement in his mind
being infinitely superior, in the circumstances in which he stood,

to any of the wild moral conflicts, as they occurred to the progress
of Poor Pilgrim. But Henry persevered in his determination
to do no murder, for such he persuaded himself would be
the stabbing of the sleeping and defenceless man. He buckled
to old Bunyan bravely; and, at length, following the allegory,
he contrived to subdue his own bosom to a partial calm, after
the warm conflict with his goading passions, through which he
had gone. It was a real and great triumph for the boy, that
he had forborne so well; for he had already enjoyed that first
taste of blood and strife which is so apt to impair for ever the
mild virtues of that sweet milk of humanity which suffers no
infusion of the bitter waters of evil without instantly undergoing
taint and corruption.

And the boy read on for several hours. His torches for light
were abundant, and he kept them alive by fresh brands whenever
they grew dim. He no longer felt the need of sleep. He
had slept till midnight, when he had been roused by his visiter;
and the disturbance which the visit and the subsequent event
had excited in his mind drove sleep effectually from his eyes.
Meanwhile, Bunyan was gradually making him forgetful of Dick
of Tophet, and an occasional snore only reminded him of the
presence of that personage. On such occasions, Henry would
involuntarily grasp the hunting-knife of the ruffian which he still
held, with the book, in a fast clutch; and, contenting himself
with a single glance at the desperado, would resume his reading.

At length, the sleeper awakened — uneasily, and with a long
growl — a sort of mixed groan and cry — which drew upon him
the sharp eye of the captive.

The ruffian was awake, and somewhat sobered.

“Well,” said he, as if he had been listening all the while,
“that's very good sort of l'arning, and full of sarcumventions, I
kin see; but they won't do for war-time in this country. None
of them fellows knows how to fight sinsibly. They kin do it,
up and down, mighty well, but they don't know nothing of
scouting. Why, Rafe Brunson, our Trailer, could run a ring
through the nose of any of 'em, and muzzle 'em up, so that they
could never show their teeth at all, 'cepting to grin. They
couldn't bite! They couldn't even bark, I reckon, ef he had
once snaked about 'em for a night.”

For a moment, Henry was silent. Then he rose, and laid his
book down on the bench, and displayed the couteau de chasse in
the eyes of the savage.

“Do you see that?” asked the boy.

“How! Yes, I see! It's a knife — it's my knife!”

And this was said with a sort of howl, as, searching his own
bosom, he drew forth the scabbard, and satisfied himself that the
blade was wanting.

“Take it,” said the boy, throwing it to his feet. “Take it!
I had you at my mercy! You slept! It needed but one blow
to make you sleep the sleep of death! With that one blow, I
could have obtained my freedom — perhaps my father's; and I
had no reason to spare you! I stood over you, prepared to
strike. But I could not! You were sleeping; you could make
no defence! It would have been murder! I spared you. Take
your knife, and leave me. Do not tempt me so again; I couldn't
stand it a second time!”

The ruffian regarded the youthful speaker with something
like consternation in his countenance. He stooped slowly, and
repossessed himself of the knife. Then, after another moment's
pause, he exclaimed:—

“Gimini! and you hed me sure — hed me dead, I may say,
thar; and you hed the knife; and 'twas jest only a single stick!
And you didn't do it! you didn't do it! — The more fool you!”

“Perhaps so! But that remains to be seen. It seemed as
if a voice within said to me, `Do not strike the sleeping man —
that would be base.' And then another voice said without, in
my ears: `Do not slay him yet. I have uses for him. He
must throw off his bundle first! He is a great sinner!'”

“Eh? what! You heard that!”

“Yes! in my very ears I heard it!”

“It's a most etarnal truth! It's a most monstratious bundle
on my back, and thar's no throwing it off. It sticks like pitch and
fire. It's no use — no use! And so, boy, you hed me at your
marcy, and didn't stick when you hed the knife and the chaince?
More fool you! more fool you! Ho! ho! ho! The devil always
helps his own. Why, boy, 'twas his voice that made that whispering
in your ears, jest to save me, when I couldn't save myself!
'Twas him that told you true: he hed more uses for me

— couldn't do without me, in fact! 'Twan't no angel that whispered
that! Ef it had a-been, he'd ha' said: `Stick quick,
stick deep, and never be done sticking, tell the breath stops —
tell the life's clean gone out of him!' Ho! ho! ho! — to
think, now, that you could ha' been so easy tricked by the old
'un!'

“I am not sorry that it is so. I should be sorry to have
your blood upon my hands, though you have been so bad an
enemy of mine and my father.”

“Don't you talk of your father, now, and all will be right
and sinsible. Look at this bloody hole that he worked in my
ear with his bullet; and the wound is green yit! Does you
think I'm guine to forgive him for that?”

“That was in fair fight. You attacked him first.”

“Well, so 'twas; and I reckon it's the conditions of the war.
And so you — you little hop-o'-my-thumb — you hed me at your
marcy! And your heart growed tender. 'Twas the book-l'arning,
boy, that made you so soft-hearted. 'Twas that same
book that whispered to you, and made you stop when you was
about to stick! Give me the book. I never thought book of
Gus Avinger would ever ha' saved my life. Well, you see, 'tis a
good book, boy; but, look you, as I'm apt to take a leetle too
much rum over night, and you mayn't always be hearing to a
sinsible whisper from the old 'un, we won't hev any more readings
a'ter book-l'arning.”

“But you'll leave me the book? — I want to finish it.”

“No! no! 'twas a gift, you see, of that old woman; and she
had no reason for loving me, I tell you; — rether, she had the
most reason, and good occasion, for hating me above all the
bad men in this big world; yit it's her giving that's saved my
life. She's gin it to me with a blessing upon it, and I'll carry
it close in my buzzom, 'longside o' my knife. It'll keep off a
bullet maybe, ef it does no better.”

As he was about to go Henry suddenly cried out to him:—

“Oh, do not ill-treat my father!”

“Well, why don't you ax for yourself? You won't, eh?
You're one of them proud harrystocrats a'ter all. Well, I'll
considerate you. I owes you a debt, I ecknowledges; but you
was bloody foolish, when you hed the chaince, and the knife,

that you didn't stick — stick deep, and sure, tell there was no
kickin' left in the carkiss.”

And with these words, though graver thoughts were behind
them, Dick of Tophet emerged abruptly from the den, safely
locking the door after him; and, in a few minutes, was heard
leaving the house. A momentary feeling of self-reproach, as
he heard the receding footsteps, troubled the heart of the boy:—

“I have let my chance escape for ever!” and he looked round
the dismal chamber with a sigh. Then he sank upon his knees,
and, with a better and more strengthening feeling, he returned
thanks to God for keeping his hands clean from unnecessary
bloodshed.

Meanwhile, Dick of Tophet had an encounter, as he turned
round the cabin of Blodgit, to go to his own; he saw a figure,
somewhat like that of a woman, flitting into the thicket just
before him.

“Ha! who's that?” he cried out; and, as there was no answer,
he pursued. One more glimpse of the receding object,
was all that he caught, ere it disappeared entirely from sight.

“It's mighty strange,” quoth he, as he stopped and wondered.
“'Twas here, jest a minute ago, and now it's gone;
jest as ef 'twas the very air itself. But I do believe it's the
rum that's a-working yit to my deception. It's hard to give up
Jimmaker — mighty hard; it's a'most my only comfort in these
wars and skrimmages. But, when it upsets a man, jest as ef
he was a baby, and puts him at the marcy of a hop-o'-my-thumb,
that ain't yit come to a beard; and makes him see
strange sights of women in the air, and in the woods, I reckon,
the sooner I break the bottle, and let out the liquor, the better
for my etarnal salvation hyar on airth!”