University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Coxe.

A FORTNIGHT elapsed ere Willoughby and his party could
tear themselves from a scene that had witnessed so much
domestic happiness; but on which had fallen the blight of
death. During that time, the future arrangements of the
survivors were completed. Beekman was made acquainted
with the state of feeling that existed between his brother-in-law
and Maud, and he advised an immediate union.

“Be happy while you can,” he said, with bitter emphasis.
“We live in troubled times, and heaven knows when we
shall see better. Maud has not a blood-relation in all America,
unless there may happen to be some in the British
army. Though we should all be happy to protect and
cherish the dear girl, she herself would probably prefer to
be near those whom nature has appointed her friends. To
me, she will always seem a sister, as you must ever be a
brother. By uniting yourselves at once, all appearances
of impropriety will be avoided; and in time, God averting
evil, you can introduce your wife to her English connections.”

“You forget, Beekman, that you are giving this advice
to one who is a prisoner on parole, and one who may possibly
be treated as a spy.”

“No — that is impossible. Schuyler, our noble com
mander, is both just and a gentleman. He will tolerate

nothing of the sort. Your exchange can easily be effected,
and, beyond your present difficulties, I can pledge myself
to be able to protect you.”

Willoughby was not averse to following this advice; and
he urged it upon Maud, as the safest and most prudent
course they could pursue. Our heroine, however, was so
reluctant even to assuming the appearance of happiness, so
recently after the losses she had experienced, that the lover's
task of persuasion was by no means easy. Maud was totally
free from affectation, while she possessed the keenest
sense of womanly propriety. Her intercourse with Robert
Willoughby had been of the tenderest and most confidential
nature, above every pretence of concealment, and was rendered
sacred by the scenes through which they had passed.
Her love, her passionate, engrossing attachment, she did
not scruple to avow; but she could not become a bride
while the stains of blood seemed so recent on the very
hearth around which they were sitting. She still saw the
forms of the dead, in their customary places, heard their
laughs, the tones of their affectionate voices, the maternal
whisper, the playful, paternal reproof, or Beulah's gentle call.

“Yet, Robert,” said Maud, for she could now call him by
that name, and drop the desperate familiarity of `Bob,'—
“yet, Robert, there would be a melancholy satisfaction in
making our vows at the altar of the little chapel, where we
have so often worshipped together—the loved ones who
are gone and we who alone remain.”

“True, dearest Maud; and there is another reason why
we should quit this place only as man and wife. Beekman
has owned that a question will probably be raised
among the authorities at Albany concerning the nature of
my visit here. It might relieve him from an appeal to more
influence than would be altogether pleasant, did I appear as
a bridegroom rather than as a spy.”

The word “spy” settled the matter. All ordinary considerations
were lost sight of, under the apprehensions it
created, and Maud frankly consented to become a wife that
very day. The ceremony was performed by Mr. Woods
accordingly, and the little chapel witnessed tears of bitter
recollections mingling with the smiles with which the bride
received the warm embrace of her husband, after the benediction

was pronounced. Still, all felt that, under the circumstances,
delay would have been unwise. Maud saw a
species of holy solemnity in a ceremony so closely connected
with scenes so sad.

A day or two after the marriage, all that remained of
those who had so lately crowded the Hut, left the valley
together. The valuables were packed and transported to
boats lying in the stream below the mills. All the cattle,
hogs, &c., were collected and driven towards the settlements;
and horses were prepared for Maud and the females,
who were to thread the path that led to Fort Stanwix. In a
word, the Knoll was to be abandoned, as a spot unfit to be
occupied in such a war. None but labourers, indeed, could,
or would remain, and Beekman thought it wisest to leave
the spot entirely to nature, for the few succeding years.

There had been some rumours of confiscations by the
new state, and Willoughby had come to the conclusion that
it would be safer to transfer this property to one who would
be certain to escape such an infliction, than to retain it in
his own hands. Little Evert was entitled to receive a portion
of the captain's estate by justice, if not by law. No
will had been found, and the son succeeded as heir-at-law.
A deed was accordingly drawn up by Mr. Woods, who understood
such matters, and being duly executed, the Beaver
Dam property was vested in fee in the child. His own
thirty thousand pounds, the personals he inherited from his
mother, and Maud's fortune, to say nothing of the major's
commission, formed an ample support for the new-married
pair. When all was settled, and made productive, indeed,
Willoughby found himself the master of between three and
four thousand sterling a year, exclusively of his allowances
from the British government, an ample fortune for that day.
In looking over the accounts of Maud's fortune, he had reason
to admire the rigid justice, and free-handed liberality
with which his father had managed her affairs. Every
farthing of her income had been transferred to capital, a
long minority nearly doubling the original investment. Unknown
to himself, he had married one of the largest heiresses
then to be found in the American colonies. This was
unknown to Maud, also; though it gave her great delight

on her husband's account, when she came to learn the
truth.

Albany was reached in due time, though not without encountering
the usual difficulties. Here the party separated.
The remaining Plinys and Smashes were all liberated, handsome
provisions made for their little wants, and good places
found for them, in the connection of the family to which
they had originally belonged. Mike announced his determination
to enter a corps that was intended expressly to
fight the Indians. He had a long score to settle, and having
no wife or children, he thought he might amuse himself
in this way, during a revolution, as well as in any other.

“If yer honour was going anywhere near the county
Leitrim,” he said, in answer to Willoughby's offer to keep
him near himself, “I might travel in company; seein' that
a man likes to look on ould faces, now and then. Many
thanks for this bag of gold, which will sarve to buy scalps
wid'; for divil bur-r-n me, if I don't carry on that trade, for
some time to come. T'ree cuts wid a knife, half a dozen
pokes in the side, and a bullet scraping the head, makes a
man mindful of what has happened; to say nothing of the
captain, and Madam Willoughby, and Miss Beuly—God for
ever bless and presarve 'em all t'ree—and, if there was such
a thing as a bit of a church in this counthry, wouldn't I
use this gould for masses?—dut I would, and let the scalps
go to the divil!”

This was an epitome of the views of Michael O'Hearn.
No arguments of Willoughby's could change his resolution;
but he set forth, determined to illustrate his career by
procuring as many Indian scalps, as an atonement for the
wrongs done “Madam Willoughby and Miss Beuly,” as
came within his reach.

“And you, Joyce,” said the major, in an interview he
had with the serjeant, shortly after reaching Albany; “I
trust we are not to part. Thanks to Colonel Beekman's
influence and zeal, I am already exchanged, and shall repair
to New York next week. You are a soldier; and these are
times in which a good soldier is of some account. I think I
can safely promise you a commission in one of the new
provincial regiments, about to be raised.”

“I thank your honour, but do not feel at liberty to accept

the offer. I took service with Captain Willoughby for life
had he lived, I would have followed wherever he led. But
that enlistment has expired; and I am now like a recruit
before he takes the bounty. In such cases, a man has always
a right to pick his corps. Politics I do not much understand;
but when the question comes up of pulling a trigger
for or against his country, an unengaged man has a right
to choose. Between the two, meaning no reproach to yourself,
Major Willoughby, who had regularly taken service
with the other side, before the war began—but, between the
two, I would rather fight an Englishman, than an American.”

“You may possibly be right, Joyce; though, as you say,
my service is taken. I hope you follow the dictates of conscience,
as I am certain I do myself. We shall never meet
in arms, however, if I can prevent it. There is a negotiation
for a lieutenant-colonelcy going on, which, if it succeed,
will carry me to England. I shall never serve an
hour longer against these colonies, if it be in my power to
avoid it.”

“States, with your permission, Major Willoughby,”
answered the serjeant, a little stiffly. “I am glad to hear
it, sir; for, though I wish my enemies good soldiers, I
would rather not have the son of my old captain among
them. Colonel Beekman has offered to make me serjeant-major
of his own regiment; and we both of us join next
week.”

Joyce was as good as his word. He became serjeant-major,
and, in the end, lieutenant and adjutant of the regiment
he had mentioned. He fought in most of the principal
battles of the war, and retired at the peace, with an
excellent character. Ten years later, he fell, in one of the
murderous Indian affairs, that occurred during the first
presidential term, a grey-headed captain of foot. The manner
of his death was not to be regretted, perhaps, as it was
what he had always wished might happen; but, it was a
singular fact, that Mike stood over his body, and protected
it from mutilation; the County Leitrim-man having turned
soldier by trade, re-enlisting regularly, as soon as at liberty,
and laying up scalps on all suitable occasions.

Blodget, too, had followed Joyce to the wars. The readiness

and intelligence of this young man, united to a courage
of proof, soon brought him forward, and he actually came
out of the revolution a captain. His mind, manners and
information advancing with himself, he ended his career, not
many years since, a prominent politician in one of the new
states; a general in the militia—no great preferment, by the
way, for one who had been a corporal at the Hut — and a
legislator. Worse men have often acted in all these capacities
among us; and it was said, with truth, at the funeral of
General Blodget, an accident that does not always occur on
such occasions, that “another revolutionary hero is gone.”
Beekman was never seen to smile, from the moment he first
beheld the dead body of Beulah, lying with little Evert in
her arms. He served faithfully until near the close of the
war, falling in battle only a few months previously to the
peace. His boy preceded him to the grave, leaving, as confiscations
had gone out of fashion by that time, his uncle
heir-at-law, again, to the same property that he had conferred
on himself.

As for Willoughby and Maud, they were safely conveyed
to New York, where the former rejoined his regiment. Our
heroine here met her great-uncle, General Meredith, the first
of her own blood relations whom she had seen since infancy.
Her reception was grateful to her feelings; and, there being
a resemblance in years, appearance and manners, she transferred
much of that affection which she had thought interred
for ever in the grave of her reputed father, to this revered
relative. He became much attached to his lovely niece,
himself; and, ten years later, Willoughby found his income
quite doubled, by his decease.

At the expiration of six months, the gazette that arrived
from England, announced the promotion of “Sir Robert
Willoughby, Bart., late major in the —th, to be lieutenant-colonel,
by purchase, in His Majesty's —th regiment of
foot.” This enabled Willoughby to quit America; to which
quarter of the world he had no occasion to be sent during
the remainder of the war.

Of that war, itself, there is little occasion to speak. Its
progress and termination have long been matters of history.
The independence of America was acknowledged by England
in 1783; and, immediately after, the republicans commenced

the conquest of their wide-spread domains, by means
of the arts of peace. In 1785, the first great assaults were
made on the wilderness, in that mountainous region which
has been the principal scene of our tale. The Indians had
been driven off, in a great measure, by the events of the
revolution; and the owners of estates, granted under the
crown, began to search for their lands in the untenanted
woods. Such isolated families, too, as had taken refuge in
the settlements, now began to return to their deserted possessions;
and soon the smokes of clearings were obscuring the
sun. Whitestown, Utica, on the site of old Fort Stanwix,
Cooperstown, for years the seat of justice for several thousand
square miles of territory, all sprang into existence between
the years 1785 and 1790. Such places as Oxford,
Binghamton, Norwich, Sherburne, Hamilton, and twenty
more, that now dot the region of which we have been writing,
did not then exist, even in name; for, in that day, the
appellation and maps came after the place; whereas, now,
the former precede the last.

The ten years that elapsed between 1785 and 1795, did
wonders for all this mountain district. More favourable
lands lay spread in the great west, but the want of roads,
and remoteness from the markets, prevented their occupation.
For several years, therefore, the current of emigration
which started out of the eastern states, the instant peace
was proclaimed, poured its tide into the counties mentioned
in our opening chapter— counties as they are to-day; county
ay, and fragment of a county, too, as they were then.

The New York Gazette, a journal that frequently related
facts that actually occurred, announced in its number of
June 11th, 1795, “His Majesty's Packet that has just arrived”—it
required half a century to teach the journalists
of this country the propriety of saying “His Britannic
Majesty's Packet,” instead of “His Majesty's,” a bit of good
taste, and of good sense, that many of them have yet to
learn—“has brought out,” home would have been better
“among her passengers, Lieutenant-General Sir Robert
Willoughby, and his lady, both of whom are natives of this
state. We welcome them back to their land of nativity,
where we can assure them they will be cordially received,
notwithstanding old quarrels. Major Willoughby's kindness

to American prisoners is gratefully remembered; nor
is it forgotten that he desired to exchange to another regiment
in order to avoid further service in this country.”

It will be conceded, this was a very respectable puff for
the year 1795, when something like moderation, truth, and
propriety were observed upon such occasions. The effect
was to bring the English general's name into the mouths of
the whole state; a baronet causing a greater sensation then,
in America, than a duke would produce to-day. It had the
effect, however, of bringing around General Willoughby
many of his father's, and his own old friends, and he was
as well received in New York, twelve years after the termination
of the conflict, as if he had fought on the other side.
The occurrence of the French revolution, and the spread
of doctrines that were termed jacobinical, early removed
all the dissensions between a large portion of the whigs of
America and the tories of England, on this side of the water
at least; and Providence only can tell what might have
been the consequences, had this feeling been thoroughly
understood on the other.

Passing over all political questions, however, our narrative
calls us to the relation of its closing scene. The visit
of Sir Robert and Lady Willoughby to the land of their
birth was, in part, owing to feeling; in part, to a proper
regard for the future provision of their children. The baronet
had bought the ancient paternal estate of his family
in England, and having two daughters, besides an only son,
it occurred to him that the American property, called the
Hutted Knoll, might prove a timely addition to the ready
money he had been able to lay up from his income. Then,
both he and his wife had a deep desire to revisit those scenes
where they had first learned to love each other, and which
still held the remains of so many who were dear to them.

The cabin of a suitable sloop was therefore engaged, and
the party, consisting of Sir Robert, his wife, a man and
woman servant, and a sort of American courier, engaged
for the trip, embarked on the morning of the 25th of July.
On the afternoon of the 30th, the sloop arrived in safety at
Albany, where a carriage was hired to proceed the remainder
of the way by land. The route by old Fort Stanwix,
as Utica was still generally called, was taken. Our travellers

reached it on the evening of the third day; the `Sands,'
which are now traversed in less than an hour, then occupying
more than half of the first day. When at Fort Stanwix,
a passable country road was found, by which the travellers
journeyed until they reached a tavern that united
many of the comforts of a coarse civilisation, with frontier
simplicity. Here they were given to understand they had
only a dozen miles to go, in order to reach the Knoll.

It was necessary to make the remainder of the journey
on horseback. A large, untenanted estate lay between the
highway and the valley, across which no public road had
yet been made. Foot-paths, however, abounded, and the
rivulet was found without any difficulty. It was, perhaps,
fortunate for the privacy of the Knoll, that it lay in the line
of no frequented route, and, squatters being rare in that
day, Willoughby saw, the instant he struck the path that
followed the sinuosities of the stream, that it had been seldom
trodden in the interval of the nineteen years which had
occurred since he had last seen it himself. The evidences
of this fact increased, as the stream was ascended, until the
travellers reached the mill, when it was found that the spirit
of destruction, which so widely prevails in the loose state of
society that exists in all new countries, had been at work.
Every one of the buildings at the falls had been burnt;
probably as much because it was in the power of some reckless
wanderer to work mischief, as for any other reason.
That the act was the result of some momentary impulse,
was evident in the circumstance that the mischief went no
further. Some of the machinery had been carried away,
however, to be set up in other places, on a principle that is
very widely extended through all border settlements, which
considers the temporary disuse of property as its virtual
abandonment.

It was a moment of pain and pleasure, strangely mingled,
when Willoughby and Maud reached the rocks, and got a
first view of the ancient Beaver Dam. All the buildings
remained, surprisingly little altered to the eye by the lapse
of years. The gates had been secured when they left the
place, in 1776; and the Hut, having no accessible external
windows, that dwelling remained positively intact. It is true,
quite half the palisadoes were rotted down; but the Hut,

itself, had resisted the ravages of time. A fire had been
kindled against its side, but the stone walls had opposed an
obstacle to its ravages; and an attempt, by throwing a
brand upon the roof, had failed of its object, the shingles
not igniting. On examination, the lock of the inner gate
was still secure. The key had been found, and, on its application,
an entrance was obtained into the court.

What a moment was that, when Maud, fresh from the
luxuries of an English home, entered this long and well remembered
scene of her youth! Rank grases were growing
in the court, but they soon disappeared before the scythes
that had been brought, in expectation of the circumstance.
Then, all was clear for an examination of the house. The
Hut was exactly in the condition in which it had been left,
with the exception of a little, and a very little, dust collected
by time.

Maud was still in the bloom of womanhood, feminine,
beautiful, full of feeling, and as sincere as when she left
these woods, though her feelings were tempered a little by
intercourse with the world. She went from room to room,
hanging on Willoughby's arm, forbidding any to follow.
All the common furniture had been left in the house, in
expectation it would be inhabited again, ere many years;
and this helped to preserve the identity. The library was
almost entire; the bed-rooms, the parlours, and even the
painting-room, were found very much as they would have
appeared, after an absence of a few months. Tears flowed
in streams down the cheeks of Lady Willoughby, as she
went through room after room, and recalled to the mind of
her husband the different events of which they had been
the silent witnesses. Thus passed an hour or two of unutterable
tenderness, blended with a species of holy sorrow.
At the end of that time, the attendants, of whom many had
been engaged, had taken possession of the offices, &c., and
were bringing the Hut once more into a habitable condition.
Soon, too, a report was brought that the mowers, who had
been brought in anticipation of their services being wanted,
had cut a broad swathe to the ruins of the chapel, and the
graves of the family.

It was now near the setting of the sun, and the hour was
favourable for the melancholy duty that remained. Forbidding

any to follow, Willoughby proceeded with Maud to
the graves. These had been dug within a little thicket of
shrubs, planted by poor Jamie Allen, under Maud's own
directions. She had then thought that the spot might one
day be wanted. These bushes, lilacs, and ceringos, had
grown to a vast size, in that rich soil. They completely
concealed the space within, an area of some fifty square
feet, from the observation of those without. The grass had
been cut over all, however, and an opening made by the
mowers gave access to the graves. On reaching this opening,
Willoughby started at hearing voices within the inclosure;
he was about to reprove the intruders, when Maud
pressed his arm, and whispered—

“Listen, Willoughby — those voices sound strangely to
my ears! We have heard them before.”

“I tell ye, Nick—ould Nicky, or Saucy Nick, or whatever's
yer name,” said one within in a strong Irish accent,
“that Jamie, the mason that was, is forenent ye, at this
minute, under that bit of a sod—and, it's his honour, and
Missus, and Miss Beuly, that is buried here. Och! ye 're
a cr'ature, Nick; good at takin' scalps, but ye knows nothin'
of graves; barrin' the quhantity ye 've helped to fill.”

“Good” — answered the Indian. “Cap'in here; squaw
here; darter here. Where son?—where t'other gal?”

“Here,” answered Willoughby, leading Maud within the
hedge. “I am Robert Willoughby, and this is Maud Meredith,
my wife.”

Mike fairly started; he even showed a disposition to seize
a musket which lay on the grass. As for the Indian, a tree
in the forest could not have stood less unmoved than he was
at this unexpected interruption. Then all four stood in silent
admiration, noting the changes which time had, more or
less, wrought in all.

Willoughby was in the pride of manhood. He had served
with distinction, and his countenance and frame both showed
it, though neither had suffered more than was necessary to
give him a high military air, and a look of robust vigour.
As for Maud, with her graceful form fully developed by her
riding-habit, her soft lineaments and polished expression, no
one would have thought her more than thirty, which was
ten years less than her real age. With Mike and Nick it

was very different. Both had grown old, not only in fact,
but in appearance. The Irishman was turned of sixty, and
his hard, coarse-featured face, burnt as red as the sun in a
fog, by exposure and Santa Cruz, was getting to be wrinkled
and a little emaciated. Still, his frame was robust and
powerful. His attire was none of the best, and it was to
be seen at a glance that it was more than half military. In
point of fact, the poor fellow had been refused a reinlistment
in the army, on account of his infirmities and years, and
America was not then a country to provide retreats for her
veterans. Still, Mike had an ample pension for wounds,
and could not be said to be in want. He had suffered in
the same battle with Joyce, in whose company he had actually
been corporal O'Hearn, though his gallant commander
had not risen to fight again, as had been the case with the
subordinate.

Wyandotté exhibited still greater changes. He had seen
his threescore and ten years; and was fast falling into the
“sere and yellow leaf.” His hair was getting grey, and
his frame, though still active and sinewy, would have yielded
under the extraordinary marches he had once made. In
dress, there was nothing to remark; his ordinary Indian
attire being in as good condition as was usual for the man.
Willoughby thought, however, that his eye was less wild
than when he knew him before; and every symptom of intemperance
had vanished, not only from his countenance,
but his person.

From the moment Willoughby appeared, a marked change
came over the countenance of Nick. His dark eye, which
still retained much of its brightness, turned in the direction
of the neighbouring chapel, and he seemed relieved when a
rustling in the bushes announced a footstep. There had not
been another word spoken when the lilacs were shoved aside,
and Mr. Woods, a vigorous little man, in a green old age,
entered the area. Willoughby had not seen the chaplain
since they parted at Albany, and the greetings were as warm
as they were unexpected.

“I have lived a sort of hermit's life, my dear Bob, since
the death of your blessed parents,” said the divine, clearing
his eyes of tears; “now and then cheered by a precious
letter from yourself and Maud—I call you both by the names

I gave you both in baptism—and it was, `I, Maud, take
thee, Robert,' when you stood before the altar in that little
edifice—you will pardon me if I am too familiar with a general
officer and his lady”—

“Familiar!” exclaimed both in a breath;—and Maud's
soft, white hand was extended towards the chaplain, with
reproachful earnestness—“We, who were made Christians
by you, and who have so much reason to remember and
love you always!”

“Well, well; I see you are Robert and Maud, still”—
dashing streaming tears from his eyes now. “Yes, I did
bring you both into God's visible church on earth, and you
were baptised by one who received his ordination from the
Archbishop of Canterbury himself,”—Maud smiled a little
archly—“and who has never forgotten his ordination vows,
as he humbly trusts. But you are not the only Christians
I have made—I now rank Nicholas among the number”—

“Nick!” interrupted Sir Robert—“Wyandotté!” added
his wife, with a more delicate tact.

“I call him Nicholas, now, since he was christened by
that name—there is no longer a Wyandotté, or a Saucy
Nick. Major Willoughby, I have a secret to communicate
—I beg pardon, Sir Robert—but you will excuse old habits
—if you will walk this way.”

Willoughby was apart with the chaplain a full half-hour,
during which time Maud wept over the graves, the rest standing
by in respectful silence. As for Nick, a stone could
scarcely have been more fixed than his attitude. Nevertheless,
his mien was rebuked, his eye downcast; even his
bosom was singularly convulsed. He knew that the chaplain
was communicating to Willoughby the manner in which
he had slain his father. At length, the gentlemen returned
slowly towards the graves; the general agitated, frowning,
and flushed. As for Mr. Woods, he was placid and full of
hope. Willoughby had yielded to his expostulations and
arguments a forgiveness, which came reluctantly, and perhaps
as much for the want of a suitable object for retaliation,
as from a sense of christian duty.

“Nicholas,” said the chaplain, “I have told the general
all.”

“He know him!” cried the Indian, with startling energy.

“I do, Wyandotté; and sorry have I been to learn it.
You have made my heart bitter.”

Nick was terribly agitated. His youthful and former
opinions maintained a fearful struggle with those which had
come late in life; the result being a wild admixture of his
sense of Indian justice, and submission to the tenets of his
new, and imperfectly-comprehended faith. For a moment,
the first prevailed. Advancing, with a firm step, to the
general, he put his own bright and keen tomahawk into the
other's hands, folded his arms on his bosom, bowed his head
a little, and said, firmly—

“Strike—Nick kill cap'in—Major kill Nick.”

“No, Tuscarora, no,” answered Sir Robert Willoughby,
his whole soul yielding before this act of humble submission
— “May God in heaven forgive the deed, as I now forgive
you.”

There was a wild smile gleaming on the face of the Indian;
he grasped both hands of Willoughby in his own.
He then muttered the words, “God forgive,” his eye rolled
upward at the clouds, and he fell dead on the grave of his
victim. It was thought, afterwards, that agitation had accelerated
the crisis of an incurable affection of the heart.

A few minutes of confusion followed. Then Mike, bare-headed,
his old face flushed and angry, dragged from his
pockets a string of strange-looking, hideous objects, and laid
them by the Indian's side. They were human scalps, collected
by himself, in the course of many campaigns, and brought,
as a species of hecatomb, to the graves of the fallen.

“Out upon ye, Nick!” he cried. “Had I known the like
of that, little would I have campaigned in yer company!
Och! 't was an undacent deed, and a hundred confessions
would barely wipe it from yer sowl. It's a pity, too, that
ye've died widout absolution from a praist, sich as I've
tould ye off. Barrin' the brache of good fellieship, I could
have placed yer own scalp wid the rest, as a p'ace-offering,
to his Honour, the Missus and Miss Beuly—”

“Enough,” interrupted Sir Robert Willoughby, with an
authority of manner that Mike's military habits could not
resist; “the man has repented, and is forgiven. Maud,
love, it is time to quit this melancholy scene; occasions will
offer to revisit it.”

In the end, Mr. Woods took possession of the Hut, as a
sort of hermitage, in which to spend the remainder of his
days. He had toiled hard for the conversion of Nick, in
gratitude for the manner in which he had fought in defence
of the females. He now felt as keen a desire to rescue
the Irishman from the superstitions of what he deemed an
error quite as fatal as heathenism. Mike consented to pass
the remainder of his days at the Knoll, which was to be,
and in time, was, renovated, under their joint care.

Sir Robert and Lady Willoughby passed a month in the
valley. Nick had been buried within the bushes; and even
Maud had come to look upon this strange conjunction of
graves, with the eye of a Christian, blended with the tender
regrets of a woman. The day that the general and his
wife left the valley for ever, they paid a final visit to the
graves. Here Maud wept for an hour. Then her husband,
passing an arm around her waist, drew her gently away;
saying, as they were quitting the inclosure—

“They are in Heaven, dearest — looking down in love,
quite likely, on us, the objects of so much of their earthly
affection. As for Wyandotté, he lived according to his
habits and intelligence, and happily died under the convictions
of a conscience directed by the lights of divine grace.
Little will the deeds of this life be remembered, among
those who have been the true subjects of its blessed influence.
If this man were unmerciful in his revenge, he also
remembered my mother's kindnesses, and bled for her and
her daughters. Without his care, my life would have
remained unblessed with your love, my ever-precious Maud!
He never forgot a favour, or forgave an injury.”