University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

The singular discovery of Hyland's innocence
was long before morning bruited over the village,
and besides exciting a double interest in his fate,
produced no little curiosity in regard to the movements
of the jury, who were still deliberating over
the charge, as well as to the course to be pursued
by the court, in such a strange conjuncture of circumstances.

Expectation was not, however, kept long at
stretch. An early and formal representation of
the discovery being made by the prisoner's counsel
to the presiding judge, the court was straightway
convened, and the jury ordered to be recalled,
for the purpose of receiving the new testimony.
This, consisting of Sterling's deposition and the
evidence of witnesses as to its authenticity, it may
he supposed, was sufficient to terminate their deliberations
in a moment. Had the confession been
made at a later period, it would undoubtedly have
saved the prisoner's life; but it occurred at a time
to save his good name,—to save it, at least, from
the reproach, which, however undeserved, must
ever follow upon even unjust conviction. His true
story and character, and, in fact, his real parentage,

were now becoming generally known; new
friends, as well as many an old one, were labouring
in his service, and all were desirous to see the
end of a prosecution, that had caused him so much
unmerited suffering. The trial was therefore
despatched without difficulty; the evidence was
given; a few brief and impressive words, indicative
of their gratification at the defendant's
happy escape from his difficulties, and their own
from a share in wrong-doing, were pronounced
by the bench; after which the whole matter was
submitted to the jury, who, without leaving their
seats, immediately returned a verdict of acquittal.
The defendant was then discharged, in the ordinary
way, by proclamation, and shed tears of
genuine transport to find himself released from
the ignominy that had before, as strongly almost
as his remorse, crushed him to the earth. He
had scarce stepped from the bar before he found
himself in the arms of Captain Loring, who
hugged and blubbered, and swore `adzooks, he
always thought him an honest fellow, for all of
their talking; and adzooks, it was no wonder he
loved him, since he was of his own blood and bone,
though he didn't like his having so much Gilbert
blood in him; and if he had only told him as much
before, it would have been much better for him,
and, adzooks, for his poor Kate, and, adzooks, for
the picture!'

At the bed-side of the dying Falconer he found
his father's daughter. His sister!—With what
strange and contradictory emotions he received
the hand of the being, to whose unhappy hostility
he owed the long series of sufferings and indignities
that had brought him almost to the grave.
And she,—with what feelings she must have herself
seen in the object of her greatest hate, one to

whom nature had given the strongest claims on
her love. But the place in which they met called
for other than selfish emotions: it was at the deathbed
of their common parent.

It is not our design to pursue further in detail
the history of this unfortunate man. The bullet of
Oran Gilbert (for it was now known that the shot
could have been fired by no other, all the members
of his band having been either killed or captured,)
had been well aimed, though he who fired it deemed
it was speeded against the breast of his own brother.
The better victim lingered but a few days, and
then expired; so that the same grave which received
his unlucky son closed over the guilt and
sorrow of the parent. He lived long enough to
remove the veil of shame from the sepulchre of
the betrayed wife, and to do her reparation in the
person of her son; but it was, as he had before
declared, at the expense of his daughter. She
never more lifted up her head. A sense of her
parent's baseness, and the disgrace now attached
to her own origin, with perhaps the bitter consciousness
that her cruel design upon the happiness
of her friend had caused the ruin that surrounded
her, weighed her to the earth; and two years
after her father's death, she was herself borne to
the grave, the last victim of the retribution which
so often visits the sins of the father upon the heads
of his children.

It remains but to reveal the fate of two other
prominent persons in the story, before exchanging
the gloom pervading the last act of the tragedy,
for the sunshine that should mark the close.

The prisoner Sterling, notwithstanding his own
expectations of a speedy dissolution, lingered a full
month before he expired; and in all that time displayed
the workings of the hallucination which had

been the consequence of his crime. He saw before
him continually—for day and night were now alike
to him—the ghastly figure of young Falconer,frowning
at his bed-side; and frequently the phantom of
the elder brother was added, in imagination, to the
terrors of the other. He died in this fearful frame
of mind; and thus carried to the after-tribunal the
guilt which escaped the punishment of man.

The fate of Oran Gilbert remained for many
months wrapped in obscurity. He must have fired
the shot that struck a bosom he had so often coveted
to pierce, from the open square behind the prison;
yet he effected his escape from the village
without pursuit and almost without observation,
the discharge of the rifle having excited but little
notice at a moment when all the crowded throngs
in the streets were rushing towards the court. The
alarm, however, being soon given, many men
armed themselves and started in pursuit, though
without any knowledge of the direction in which
he had fled, and, indeed, without at first being
aware whom they followed. The first traces of
him were discovered in the Hollow, at Elsie Bell's
cottage, which it seems he had entered before day,
and there rested for awhile, to the great terror of
the little negro girl Margery, who was at that time
the only inmate of the hovel, and to whom he appeared
little short of a demon, his countenance
being wild and dreadful, and his words and actions,
at least in her opinion, distracted. It was
from the circumstances developed here, that the
pursuers found they were upon the track of Oran
Gilbert himself, now deprived of all followers, and
flying with the dreadful persuasion at his spirit,
that his hand had slain the last of his father's children.

It appeared from little Margery's account, that,

after wildly searching the house over, he asked for
Elsie, and being told she was in the village, sat
down upon a chair, whence the girl soon saw
blood fall upon the floor; and, in fact, upon examination,
it was found that a considerable quantity
of gore still lay by the chair on which he had
rested. He then called for water, and a napkin,
the latter of which he put upon his right side, securing
it under a leathern belt; after which he
drank freely of the water, and going into Elsie's
private apartment, he took from the wall a little
sampler, a relic, as it appeared, of his deceased
sister, tore it to pieces, and scattered it over the
floor. He then proceeded to the chamber so long
inhabited by Hyland, where finding many little
sketches, and other neglected scraps, he destroyed
them in like manner. After this, he descended to
the room below, took up his gun, which he charged
with great care, and hunted about until he had
found a strong and sharp-pointed knife, which he
stuck in his belt; and then, drinking again from
the pitcher, he left the hovel, without uttering a
single word, and Margery heard him ride away,
apparently towards the mountain.

This was enough for the pursuers, whose numbers
had been increased by volunteers along the
way; and they instantly resumed the road, though
with no great hope of coming up with the fugitive,
who had foiled them so many times already. They
knew, however, that the land was full of parties
still in search of him, none of which had perhaps
been so close upon his track as themselves. They
were also inspired by a discovery that was made
when they came to examine the marks of his
horse's feet in the moist earth bordering the runlet
in the oak-yard, and this was, that the animal had
cast a shoe; for which reason, they supposed, the

rider would be soon compelled to abandon him,
and seek shelter in some fast place among the
woods, where he might be surrounded, and perhaps
taken alive. They rode on therefore with
new spirit, and coming at an early hour in the
morning upon the river bank, led by the tracks of
his horse, which did not seem once to have left
the road, they descried him, or at least a horseman
they supposed to be him, riding along the bluff, at
a slow gait, indicative of the daring or recklessness
of his character.

He rode a black horse, apparently of great native
strength and spirit; but, it was now obvious,
the animal had been of late taxed severely, and
beyond his powers; for which reason, it was not
doubted, the fugitive could be overtaken, before he
reached the mountain, which was still distant three
or four miles. The party proclaimed their discovery
and their hopes, by setting up a great shout.
At this, to their surprise, the refugee checked his
wearied steed, and turned round, as if for the purpose
of making battle,—a display of andacity and
resolution that went far to cool the ardour of many
who had been, a moment before, the bravest of the
whole party. They saw him fling the rifle he carried
into the hollow of his left arm, and then, with
his right hand, remove from his visage the long
locks of black hair that had, a moment before,
swung wildly in the wind; and they fancied they
beheld, even at the distance which separated them
from him, a smile writhing over his pallid features,
like that of the panther at bay.

“Well done, old Oran the 'Awk!” cried one of
the party, taking a long rifle from his shoulder,
and advancing to the head of the others, who had
come to an universal halt. He was a man of middle
age, with a face as bleak and weather-worn as

the rocks at the river's edge, tall and gaunt of
frame, but sinewy, and of a certain bully-like look
about the fists and eyes, that showed him to be no
inconsiderable man in his degree. “Well done,
old Oran the 'Awk!” he cried; “I up'old you to
be game, chock-full; and so, if you're for a pull
ag'in' current, why, I'm clear for showing fair play.
So men, just 'old by, like honest fellers; and, my
logs 'gin' his, I'll show him what long shots is; for
he and me was good friends of old.”

“Go it, Dan Potts, the raftsman!” cried several
of his companions, handling their own arms, as if
to try their virtues at a distance, while others cried
out, to advance in a body without further delay,
but set no example themselves, the appearance of
the outlaw being uninviting to all save the bold
raftsman, who continued to move onwards, though
slowly and cautiously, as if well aware of the danger
of a personal contest with one who had been,
as he said, his good friend in old times. But the
refugee, without regarding the challenge of the
raftsman, took advantage of the hesitation of his
companions to change his own plans, and by suddenly
turning his horse and spurring off with unexpected
speed, he gained a considerable space
before they could recover from their surprise and
follow. They darted after him, however, with
what activity they could; and cheering one another
with their voices, they rode on at such a
pace that, in a few moments, the whole party was
sweeping betwixt the yawning jaws of the Gap, up
the course of which he directed his flight.

The mountain is here perhaps two thousand feet
or more, in elevation. Its course is oblique to the
river, which itself is bent and twisted out of its
path by the irregular protrusion and retrogression
of cliffs and promontories. The right bank of the

river, looking to the east, is fenced by a dizzy and
inaccessible wall of crags; while the mountain on
the other side, presenting a similar wall to the
south, dips down, westward, to the water in an
angle more practicable to human daring, though
the whole declivity is covered over with loose
rocks, the remnants of some stony avalanche,
tumbled from pinnacles above by the same convulsion
that thrust the mountain from the bowels
of the earth, or shivered it, already uprisen,
asunder. A few withered hemlocks are here
and there seen springing from between these disjointed
fragments, which are, in other places, veiled
by patches of flowering-raspberry, alder, and
other shrubs; though, in general, the eye reposes
on rocks entirely bald and naked, or, at best, tufted
with mosses, lichens, and ferns. It presents a
scene of dreary sterility and gloom; but its savage
wildness can be only appreciated by those who
clamber up to its summit over those loose and
ever-precarious rocks, which afford the only footing.

Into the gorge bounded by these frowning limits
the refugee was seen to urge his steed; when suddenly,
to the amazement of the pursuers, he turned
from the road, dashed through a wall of rosebays
that hedged it in, and the next moment plunged
into the river, swimming his horse right towards
the opposite mountain. The cause of this extraordinary
step was soon perceived; for the next instant
a troop of horse in the continental uniform, came
dashing down the Gap, uttering a wild hurrah, that
made the rocks ring. It was one of the many parties
of military by whom all the passes of the
county were guarded; and it seemed the fugitive
had rushed almost amongst them, before he discovered
their presence. Nothing remained for

him, thus checked in front, and retreat cut off behind,
but to fling himself into the river, and seek
refuge among the dens of the eastern mountain;
and this he attempted, though the chances were
ten to one that he should be shot from his horse,
before he reached the opposite bank. In fact,
he had scarce swum beyond the middle of the
stream, before the two parties rushed to the water's
edge and let fly a volley, which, had it not
been fired almost altogether from pistols, must
have brought his flight to a bloody close. The
water was seen bubbling around him, as the bullets
pattered like rain-drops over its surface; but
he still swam on, as if unhurt, and some dozen or
more of the boldest riders present spurred their
horses into the river to follow.

“Well done, old Oran the 'Awk!” cried Dan
Potts, waving over his head the long rifle he had
not thought fit yet to discharge; “it's agin my
conscience to shoot an old friend in the back, 'specially
when there's no tree to cover him.”

“Bang away, Dan Potts,” cried others; “shoot,
for the honour of the county.”

“The county be d—d,” said Dan Potts; “I
shoots from my own raft.” And with that, he raised
his weapon, and taking deadly aim right betwixt
the refugee's shoulders, drew the trigger. But at
that moment, the horse, which had until now
breasted his way gallantly through the deep water,
flung himself aloft in terror or in agony, and rolling
backwards, plunged his rider into the water, so that
he escaped the shot entirely, as perhaps the animal
did also, though that could never be known
with certainty.

“I swog! and may I wreck my next raft on the
Foul Rift, if I didn't!” said Dan Potts, “but I hit
the' oss on the 'ead, and cuss the bit of his master!

Neversomever, I'll try for a spell ag'in, and the
next'll be a right-down rusty!”

With these words he spurred his horse into the
river, with which his employment as a raftsman
had doubtless made him familiar; for, whether it
proceeded from this circumstance, or some other
advantage he possessed over the others, he was
soon at the head of the swimmers, and leading the
pursuit.

In the meanwhile, Oran Gilbert was seen to
spring erect on his horse's back; but the animal
never raised his head again from the water, and
Oran, abandoning him entirely, trusted to his own
courage and strength of arm to reach the rocks
that were now close at hand. In this attempt he
succeeded. He was seen to issue from the water,
and aim his rifle, which he still retained, at the
advancing Potts.

“Try it ag'in, old 'Awk!” roared Dan, as he
saw the imperfect flash expire, without being followed
by any explosion; “try it ag'in, old boy; or
out knife and be ready!”

The only answer the tory deigned the bravado
was, to fling his now unserviceable and burdensome
piece into the river, and then rush up the
mountain with all his speed. He was soon lost
sight of among the rocks and bushes; a piece of
good fortune which he owed to a simple expedient.
As he clambered up, he took care to spurn from
its lodgment every stone that shook under his foot,
which rolling down the declivity, became a source
of extreme confusion and peril to the pursuers, (as
such are indeed yet to the laggards in a mere
party of pleasure,) who were thus forced to loiter
in the ascent, after having previously lost some
time in securing their horses at the bottom of the
hill, until there remained little hopes of overtaking

him. The raftsman was the only individual who,
in this conjuncture, was able to proceed with any
spirit. He pressed upward, dodging the descending
rocks with infinite address and agility, and was
soon lost sight of; until, finally, even his voice, with
which he continued to cheer the others, was no
longer heard.

The mountain was, however, climbed at last; but
the refugee had vanished. The only practicable
path conducts you to the summit of the hill along
the edge of the southern precipices; and the last
step is from a shelf that overhangs the wooded
abyss below, whence, peeping over the brink of
the cliffs at their most tremendous height, the eye
looks over many a league of blue hill and misty
hollow, of living wood and winding river,—a scene
whose loveliness is made more impressive by contrast
with the savage desolation that reigns around
the point of view. A broad table of stone, shelving
downwards, and in part overhanging the abyss, lies
like a parapet upon the extreme brink of the precipice;
and it is from this, lying upon his breast,
clinging with foot and hand to its crevices and the
stunted bushes that grow upon its surface, and advancing
his head beyond the naked verge, that the
adventurous spectator looks down into the dizzy
gulf below,—if he have indeed the courage to
look.

Upon this platform the raftsman was found reposing,
his elbows resting upon the parapet stone,
and his countenance betraying wonder mingled
with perplexity. Upon being asked what had become
of the fugitive, he pointed to certain marks
of fresh blood that lay on the stones where he
stood, hard-by the parapet, which was itself dabbled
with blood; and, in addition, the black lichens
with which it was overgrown, were torn up, as by

the struggles of some human being sliding down
its inclined surface towards the horrible abyss
beneath; and a shrub springing from the verge,
was snapped off, as if broken by a human hand.

“I once,” said the raftsman, “chased a two-year
buck off this here very rock; and I reckon,
you may see some of his bones among the bushes
below. I was hunting with Oran Gilbert; we
were boys together; and, I remember, he said, `It
was a brave jump for a hard-pushed beast, and a
wise one, too.' Now let any man run his nose over
the rock's edge, and tell me what he sees swinging
to a bush some fifty or sixty fathoms below; for, to
my eyes, it has much the look of a green hunting-shirt,
or a big rag of it. There's a stream of blood
running up along the rocks, and here's the ending
of it. There was some old wound bursting out
on him afresh, and, to my thought, the man was not
able to run further; and so he remembered the
deer, and took a jump;—and I must say, it was a
brave fancy of his, and a wise one too.”

To this conjecture confirmation was given, when
one of the party, having peered over the rock,
declared that he saw the flutter of some garment,
hanging on a bush many a weary foot below. The
stones were hunted over again; a track of blood
was plainly distinguished, and had been remarked
before, staining the rocks for some distance below;
and on this platform it ended. The closest search
could not detect any mark to show that the fugitive
had proceeded a step further; it was believed
at once, that, having reached this spot, and found
himself incapable of proceeding further, the pursuers,
headed by Potts, pressing him close, he had
thrown himself from the rocks, preferring a death
in keeping with his savage career, to falling alive
into the hands of his foes. There was no other

way to account for his disappearance, the presence
of blood on the parapet, and the wave of the
garment below; and, indeed, a second, and then
a third person, looking down, they swore they
could see, among the bushes at the bottom of
the cliffs, something that looked like a human
form, as they doubted not it was. It was accordingly
resolved to descend the mountain
without delay, which, after uttering a loud shout
of triumph they did, with the single exception of
the raftsman; who, declaring himself overcome
with fatigue, sat down upon a stone on the platform
to rest, and was soon lost sight of by the
others. As the last man left the shelf, he beckoned
to him with his hand, nodded his head, and took
other means to arrest his attention; but these
being disregarded, or perhaps unperceived, he
ceased his signals, and muttered half to himself,
half aloud,—

“Well done, Tom Wolf; you're no fox, and a
man must ha' said, `Fifty guineas!' aloud, to fetch
you. But I was a fool to think on't; no 'alves
and no quarters, is my cry; and a man mought
as well take the money and the credit into his own
hands, without sharing; for, I reckon, the creatur's
clean done up, and can make no more fight
than a 'possum. Neversomever, there's no varmint
of the woods or water can stand by him for
a trick; and so we'll look sharp, Dan Potts, and
see what'll come out of it. I reckon I shall make
them 'ere fellers stare! They say, the governor
has offered five hundred dollars for him, hard money,
dead or alive. Five hundred dollars isn't to
be made, every day, a-rafting. There's a big hole
under that stone; and, I remember, he boasted he
had been down in it afore; which was like enough,
for he was always a ventur'ing devil.”

It may be gathered from these expressions what
cause had prevented the raftsman leaving the
shelf with his companions. Immediately beneath
the projecting portion of the table-rock, so often
mentioned, there is a cavity or niche in the face of
the cliff, visible, on a clear day, even from the foot
of the mountain, and inaccessible from the top only
because there are few men in the world of sufficient
nerve to attempt reaching it, by climbing over
the face of the cliff,—an exploit the very thought
of which is appalling. It occurred to the ancient
comrade of the refugee, that the latter, persuaded
he must be captured, unless he could throw his
pursuers off the scent, or delay the chase for a
time, might have bethought him of the stratagem
of causing them to believe he had thrown himself
from the rocks, while, all the time, he was lying
snugly and safely in the cavity beneath the shelving
rock, from which he might be expected to
sally out, the moment the pursuers had descended.
This was rather a conceit in the raftsman's mind
than a positive suspicion; but it was sufficient to
impel him upon a new course of action, a main
incentive to which was the prospect it seemed to
open to him of securing the rewards that had been
offered for the apprehension of the noted outlaw.

He sat down therefore upon a stone opposite to
the parapet, and scarce twenty feet from it, holding
his rifle ready cocked upon his knee, his knife
loosened in the sheath, and his little hunting-axe
lying at his feet; and he sat thus without fear,
knowing that, even if the refugee were armed and
in the pride of his strength and daring, he could
not ascend to the shelf, without being entirely at
his mercy. He sat in silence, expecting each
moment to see the fierce eyes of the outcast peering
over the rock, or to hear the rattling of stones

along the face of the cliff, denoting that he had left
his hiding-place, and was beginning to ascend. He
sat watching, however, a long time in vain;—and
was beginning to believe that his suspicion was
groundless, and that the desperate Oran had in truth
leaped from the cliff, when suddenly there rose
beyond the verge of the rock the apparition of a
human head, but so spectral, so pale, so ghastly
with blood, and so wildly unnatural of expression,
that he was seized with a sudden fear, and beheld
the whole body succeed it, and the refugee himself
(for it was he) stand erect upon the parapet, before
he could raise his piece, and charge him to
surrender.

“I have you, Oran, old friend!” he said, at last;
“so down knife, and take quarter. If you move
foot or hand, I'll fire upon you.”

The outlaw heard his voice, and beheld the
threatening weapon, without any manifestation of
surprise. He bent his eyes upon him with a stare
that curdled the raftsman's blood. “Fire!” he
said, and laughed; and then suddenly drawing the
knife he had taken from Elsie's cottage, he made
a fierce spring from the rock right against the
uplifted rifle. The attack was so unexpected and
energetic that Potts had scarce time to pull the
trigger, before the tory lighted on the shelf at his
feet. He drew it, however, with the certainty that
the next moment the assailant would be lying
dead at his foot—he drew it, and not even a flash
burst from the treacherous powder; it snapped in
his hands; and before he could exchange it for
another weapon, nay, before he could even draw
his knife, he found the blade of his opponent glimmering
at his breast. He caught at his wrist, the
only expedient that saved him from a mortal thrust:
and being of great nerve, he strove, at the same

time, to hurl the tory upon the rock. But great as
was his strength, and feeble as he had supposed
the powers of Oran to be, the attempt was foiled,
and he began in his heart to curse the covetousness,
that had deprived him of a helper, in such a
time of need. As he caught the wrist of Oran in
his left hand, he sought, with the other, to snatch
his own knife from the sheath; but the motion was
anticipated, and his own right hand grasped in
Oran's left; so that the two stood for an instant
facing one another, entangled, as it might be said,
like two wild bucks, that have, at the first blow,
interlocked their antlers together, and thus remain
glaring at each other, waging battle only with
their eyes. In that instant, the raftsman beheld
enough to make him repent the temerity with
which he had sought to bring the refugee to bay.
Instead of being weakened by loss of blood, or exhausted
by the toil of ascending the mountain, it
seemed as if he was suddenly imbued with new
strength, as well as additional fury, by the mere
presence of a foe; and there was that in his countenance,
which expressed, along with a native love
of conflict, the malignant ferocity of a maniac.
Indeed, his appearance was so fearful, and his
ability to resist to the uttermost so manifest, that
the raftsman felt strongly moved to call for a
parley and propose a mutual release; but the desire
came too late. The tory perceived the fainting
of his heart, and laughed:

“I never did harm to you or yours, Dan Potts,”
he said; “but you shall never say so more. You
would sell the blood of a dying man—you must
first win it.”

With that, he relaxed his grasp on the raftsman's
right hand, as if for the purpose of seizing
him by the throat; and Potts took instant advantage

of the motion, to snatch his knife from its
sheath. The motion was a trick of juggling, such
as the outlaw had learned among the red associates
of his boyhood, and perhaps practised in
similar encounters before. The next instant, he
had thrown the whole weight of his body upon the
raftsman's breast, and directing the half-drawn
blade at the same time with his hand, Potts fell
upon the rock, his own weapon buried to the handle
in his side.

“Go!” shouted the victor, leaping up, and dragging
his victim towards a corner of the shelf,
where no parapet intervened betwixt them and
the abyss,—“to your fellow bloodhounds below!—
Something in memory of Hyland Gilbert!”

He struck the body with his foot,—it rolled
crashing over the slender twigs and decaying
flakes of stone on the brink of the precipice, and
then disappeared, with not a sound to indicate its
fall upon the shivered rocks below. The next moment,
the victor ran from the platform, and was
buried among the forests that darken the long and
desolate summit of the ridge.

It was perhaps two hours, or more, before the
party of pursuers, descending the mountain to the
river, and making their way along the lesser elevation
of rocks, heaped at the foot of the great
southern precipice, from which they have fallen,
reached the spot where they expected to find the
mangled corse of the outlaw. Their astonishment
and horror may be conceived, when, instead of
that, they lighted upon the body of the raftsman,
known by his garments, for scarce a vestige of
humanity remained, and sought to penetrate the
mysterious cause of his fall. The true reason was
rather supposed than inferred; but their suspicions
were confirmed when the mountain was re-ascended,

and his axe and cap found lying on the
shelf, as well as a new track of blood, leading
along the ridge. This was followed, until it led
them to a spot, where, it was evident, the fugitive
had rested awhile and bound up his wounds. But
here the trace entirely failed, and was never again
recovered. The mountains were hunted over and
over for weeks, but not the slightest vestige of the
refugee rewarded the search.

In the course of the ensuing winter, a party of
hunters, following a wolf, were led to the banks of
one of those little lakes, that lie, like dots of sapphire
and crystal, along the broken ridges of the mountain.
In this remote nook, in a hollow, surrounded
by jagged rocks and hemlock-trees, were found
several rude huts, or wigwams, of boughs, now in
ruins, such as the hunters make, when they `camp
out' in the wilderness, with the remains of fires in
front of each. This place was supposed to have
been one of the chief retreats of the refugees. At
some distance from the huts, on the edge of the
lake, they fell upon the bones of a human being,
scattered about among the stones and bushes, as if
rent asunder by wild beasts; and near them was
discovered a rusted rifle, which, being taken to the
valley, was recognised as the weapon of Potts,
the raftsman, which had not been found either
upon the platform where the party of pursuers had
left him, or near his body. This circumstance
induced a suspicion that the bones were those of
Oran Gilbert, who had armed himself with the
raftsman's piece, before leaving the platform.
There remained no other memorial of his fate,
and no other circumstance was found to identify
the skeleton with the man once so much dreaded
and detested; but it was not doubted that hither,

into the savage wilderness, he had dragged his
mangled frame, and perished miserably.

The close of Hyland's story may be readily imagined.
His sufferings he might have considered
as being retributive in their nature,—since his return
to the land of his birth had no worthier cause
than a desire to take part in the conflict against her
liberties. This desire had been indeed cooled by
personal observation of the feelings and principles
which supported his countrymen through a long
period of disaster and suffering; and the last blow
was given to the unworthy ambition by the love
for one of his country's daughters that soon entangled
his spirit. The giving way to wrath and
the lust of blood, though but for a moment, had
been followed by the last and heaviest of his griefs,
not the lightest of which was his temporary belief
in his own guilt, and his consequent remorse. But
the shadow had now departed from him, and for
ever; and it was soon perceived by all who chose
to ponder over his history, that his greatest crime
had been his affection, and the ill-judged deed of
violence into which it had led him.

His meeting with the Captain's daughter, after his
liberation, was one of mingled joy and grief; but it
was the last one marked with tears. The bloom returned
again to Catherine's cheek, and, in course of
time, the gay and merry spirit, native to her bosom,
revisited its former cell; and if a shadow ever again
darkened her countenance, it was only when, sometimes
wandering along the brook and by the
waterfall, (whence the bones of Jessie had been
long since removed, to be deposited near those of
her step-mother in the village church-yard,) she remembered
the trials of sorrow, and the scenes of
blood, through which she had been conducted to
final happiness. She wept, indeed, when Harriet

died, for she had forgiven her; but that was the
only grief that clouded a long period of peace and
sunshine.

Our inquiries after the fate of the less important
personages of our tradition have never been very
satisfactory in results. Americans are a race of
Utilitarians, all busied in the acquisition of profitable
knowledge, and just as ready, if not as
anxious, to forget all lore of an useless character.
The little anecdotes of a district last but
for a generation; the fathers tell then to the children,
but the children find something better to
think about, and so forget them. We know nothing
of the latter years of Elsie Bell, but can
readily believe they passed in comfort and peace.
Her little cottage has long since vanished from the
earth, the running of newer and better roads in
other places having long since diverted all travel
from the precincts of Hawk-Hollow.

Dancy Parkins, we suppose, under the auspicious
patronage of the new master of the valley,
pursued his claims to the love of the fair Phœbe;
but as that was a matter of much more consequence
to him than the reader, we never cared
much to inquire his fate.

Our curiosity in relation to the career of the unworthy
limb of the law, Theophilus Affidavy, Esq.,
has been somewhat stronger; yet we could never
find that a single act of his life, or even his name,
has been retained by those who dwell near the
scene of his exploits. His adventure in the brook,
with his ride on the back of the buttonwood tree,
has, by some strange accident, travelled into an
adjacent county, where it is told as a very good
story, though the honour is supposed to attach to
an individual of another name and profession.

But it is with a strange story as with an old pun;
it finds fathers, as it travels.

As for Captain Loring, all we have to say of
him is, that he lived long enough to rejoice over
the union of his daughter with Hyland Falconer
as much as he would perhaps have mourned over
her early grave, had her destiny wedded her to the
unlucky younger brother. He lived also to see,
with a rapture that lasted to his dying day, the
painter resume the brush, and put the last finish to
`the grand picture of the Battle of Brandywine,
and Tom Loring, dying.'