University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
The tragical occurrences that followed.

While I stood thus observing the horrors I had
been instrumental in provoking, as incapable of
putting a stop to as of assisting in them, I saw two

of the children, little Tommy and his youngest
sister, Lucy, a girl of seven or eight years, running
wildly over the lawn, several of my ruffian companions
pursuing them. The girl was snatched
up by old aunt Phæbe, who, with other women,
had come among us, wringing her hands, and beseeching
us not to kill their young misses, and was
thus saved. As for the boy, he caught sight of me,
and sprang into my arms, entreating me “not to let
them kill him, and he would never hurt me again
in all his life, and would give me all his money.”

Poor child! I would have defended him at that
moment with my life, for my heart bled for what
had already been done; but he was snatched out
of my hands, and I saw no more of him. I heard
afterward, however, that he was not hurt, having
been saved by the women, who had protected in
like manner his two little sisters, Jane and Lucy.
As for the others, that is, Isabella and Edith, I witnessed
their fate with my own eyes; and it was
the suddenness and horror of it that, by unmanning
me entirely, prevented my giving aid to the boy
when he was torn from my arms.

The fire had by this time spread from the timber
to an adjacent cabin, and a light equal to that of
noon, though red as blood itself, was shed over the
whole mansion, on the roof of which was a little
cupola, or observatory, open to the weather, where
was room for five or six persons to sit together, and
enjoy the prospect of the river and surrounding
hills; and on either side of this cupola was a platform,

though without a balustrade, on which was
space for as many more.

The observatory being strongly illuminated by
the flames, and my eyes being turned thitherward
by a furious yell which was suddenly set up around
me, I beheld my master's daughter Isabella rush
into it,—that is, into the observatory,—from the
staircase below, hotly pursued, as was evident from
what followed. She bore in her arms, or rather
dragged after her, for the child was in a swoon, her
sister Edith, who was but small of stature and
light; and as she reached this forlorn place of refuge,
she threw down the trapdoor that covered its
entrance, and endeavoured to keep it down with
her foot. There was something inexpressibly fearful
in her appearance, independent of the dreadfulness
of her situation, separated only by a narrow
plank from ruffians maddened by rage and carnage,
from whom death itself was a boon too merciful to
be expected, and from whom she was to guard not
only herself, but the feeble, unconscious being
hanging on her neck. Her hair was all dishevelled,
her dress torn and disordered, and her face as
white as snow; yet there was a wild energy and
fierceness breathing from every feature, and she
looked like a lioness defending to the last her
young from the hunters, from whom she yet knows
there is no escape.

The trapdoor shook under her foot, and was at
last thrown violently up; and up, with screams of
triumph, darted the infuriated Governor, followed

by Jim and others, to grasp their prey. Their
prey had fled: without uttering a word or scream,
she sprang from the cupola to the platform at its
side, and then, with a fearlessness only derived from
desperation, and still bearing her insensible sister,
she stepped upon the roof, which was high and
steep, and ran along it to its extremity.

Even the ferocious Governor was for a moment
daunted at the boldness of the act, and afraid to
follow; until the parson—well worthy he of the
name!—set him the example by leaping on the
shingles, and pursuing the unhappy girl to her last
refuge. He approached—he stretched forth his
arm to seize her; but he was not destined to lay
an impure touch on the devoted and heroic creature.
I saw her lay her lips once on those of the
poor Edith—the next instant the frail figure of the
little sister was hurled from her arms, to be dashed
to pieces on the stones below. In another, the
hapless Isabella herself had followed her, having
thrown herself headlong from the height, to escape
by death a fate otherwise inevitable.

Of what followed I have but a faint and disordered
recollection. I remember that the fall of the
two maidens caused loud cries of horror from the
men, and of lamentation from the women; and I
remember, also, that these were renewed almost
immediately after, but mingled with the sound of
fire-arms discharged by a party of foes, and the
voices of white men (among which I distinguished
that of my master's son, the major) calling upon

one another to “give no quarter to the miscreants.”
A party of armed horsemen had in fact ridden
among us, and were now dealing death on all hands
from pistols and sabres. From one of the latter
weapons I myself received a severe cut, and was
at the same time struck down by the hoofs of a horse,
and left insensible.