University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Montgomery.

So sudden and unexpected had been the passage of Robert
Willoughby through the court, and among the men on post
without the inner gates, that no one recognised his person.
A few saw that a stranger was in their midst; but, under
his disguise, no one was quick enough of eye and thought
to ascertain who that stranger was. The little white flag
that they displayed, denoted the errand of the messengers;
the rest was left to conjecture.

As soon as captain Willoughby ascertained that the alarm
of the morning was not likely to lead to any immediate results,
he had dismissed all the men, with the exception of a
small guard, that was stationed near the outer gate, under
the immediate orders of serjeant Joyce. The latter was one
of those soldiers who view the details of the profession as
forming its great essentials; and when he saw his commander
about to direct a sortie, it formed his pride not to
ask questions, and to seem to know nothing about it. To
this, Jamie Allen, who composed one of the guard, quietly
assented; but it was a great privation to the three or four
New England-men to be commanded not to inquire into the
why and wherefore.

“Wait for orders, men, wait for orders,” observed the
serjeant, by way of quieting an impatience that was very
apparent. “If his honour, the captain, wished us to be acquainted
with his movements, he would direct a general
parade, and lay the matter before us, as you know he always

does, on proper occasions. 'Tis a flag going out, as you
can see, and should a truce follow, we'll lay aside our
muskets, and seize the plough-shares; should it be a capitulation
— I know our brave old commander too well to
suppose it possible—but should it be even that, we'll ground
arms like men, and make the best of it.”

“And should Joel, and the other man, who is a stranger
to me, be scalped?” demanded one of the party.

“Then we'll avenge their scalps. That was the way
with us, when my Lord Howe fell—`avenge his death!'
cried our colonel; and on we pushed, until near two thousand
of us fell before the Frenchmen's trenches. Oh! that
was a sight worth seeing, and a day to talk of!”

“Yes, but you were threshed soundly, serjeant, as I've
heard from many that were there.”

“What of that, sir! we obeyed orders. `Avenge his
death!' was the cry; and on we pushed, in obedience, until
there were not men enough left in our battalion to carry the
wounded to the rear.”

“And what did you do with them?” asked a youth, who
regarded the serjeant as another Cæsar — Napoleon not
having come into notice in 1776.

“We let them lie where they fell. Young man, war
teaches us all the wholesome lesson that impossibilities are
impossible to be done. War is the great schoolmaster of the
human race; and a learned man is he who has made nineteen
or twenty campaigns.”

“If he live to turn his lessons to account”—remarked the
first speaker, with a sneer.

“If a man is to die in battle, sir, he had better die with
his mind stored with knowledge, than be shot like a dog
that has outlived his usefulness. Every pitched battle carries
out of the world learning upon learning that has been
got in the field. Here comes his honour, who will confirm
all I tell you, men. I was letting these men, sir, understand
that the army and the field are the best schools on earth.
Every old soldier will stick to that, your honour.”

“We are apt to think so, Joyce—have the arms been inspected
this morning?”

“As soon as it was light, I did that myself, sir.”

“Flints, cartridge-boxes and bayonets, I hope?”

“Each and all, sir. Does your honour remember the
morning we had the affair near Fort du Quesne?”

“You mean Braddock's defeat, I suppose, Joyce?”

“I call nothing a defeat, captain Willoughby. We were
roughly handled that day, sir; but I am not satisfied it was
a defeat. It is true, we fell back, and lost some arms and
stores; but, in the main, we stuck to our colours, considering
it was in the woods. No, sir; I do not call that a defeat,
by any means.”

“You will at least own we were hard pressed, and might
have fared worse than we did, had it not been for a certain
colonial corps, that manfully withstood the savages?”

“Yes, sir; that I allow. I remember the corps, and its
commander, a colonel Washington, with your honour's permission.”

“It was, indeed, Joyce. And do you happen to know
what has became of this same colonel Washington?”

“It never crossed my mind to inquire, sir, as he was a
provincial. I dare say he may have a regiment — or even
a brigade by this time; and good use would he make of
either.”

“You have fallen far behind his fortunes, Joyce. The
man is a commander-in-chief—a captain-general.”

“Your honour is jesting—since many of his seniors are
still living.”

“This is the man who leads the American armies, in the
war with England.”

“Well, sir, in that way, he may indeed get a quick step,
or two. I make no doubt, sir, so good a soldier will know
how to obey orders.”

“From which I infer you think him right, in the cause
he has espoused?”

“Bless your honour, sir, I think nothing about it, and
care nothing about it. If the gentleman has taken service
with congress, as they call the new head-quarters, why he
ought to obey congress; and if he serve the king, His Majesty's
orders should be attended to.”

“And, in this crisis, serjeant, may I ask in what particular
service you conceive yourself to be, just at the present
moment?”

“Captain Willoughby's, late of His Majesty's —th
Regiment of Foot, at your honour's command.”

“If all act in the same spirit, Joyce, we shall do well
enough at the Knoll, though twice as many savages brave
us as are to be seen on you rocks,” returned the captain,
smiling.

“And why should they no?” demanded Jamie Allen,
earnestly. “Ye're laird here, and we've no the time, nor
the grace, to study and understand the orthodoxy and heterodoxy
of the quarrel atween the House of Hanover and
the houses of these Americans; so, while we a' stand up
for the house and household of our old maister, the Lord
will smile on our efforts, and lead us to victory.”

“Divil bur-r-n me, now, Jamie,” said Mike, who having
seen the major to the gate, now followed his father, in
readiness to do him any good turn that might offer—“Divil
bur-r-n me, now, Jamie, if ye could have said it better had
ye just aised yer conscience to a proper praist, and were
talking on a clane breast! Stick up for the captain, says I,
and the Lord will be of our side!”

The serjeant nodded approbation of this sentiment, and
the younger Pliny, who happened also to be within hearing,
uttered the sententious word “gosh,” and clenched his fist,
which was taken as proof of assent also, on his part. But,
the Americans of the guard, all of whom were the tools of
Joel's and the miller's arts, manifested a coldness that even
exceeded the usual cold manner of their class. These men
meant right; but they had been deluded by the falsehoods,
machinations, and frauds of a demagogue, and were no
longer masters of their own opinions or acts. It struck the
captain that something was wrong; but, a foreigner by birth
himself, he had early observed, and long known, the peculiar
exterior and phlegm of the people of the country, which
so nearly resemble the stoicism of the aborigines, as to induce
many writers to attribute both alike to a cause connected
with climate. The present was not a moment however,
nor was the impression strong enough to induce the
master of the place to enter into any inquiries. Turning
his eyes in the direction of the two bearers of the flag, he
there beheld matter for new interest, completely diverting
his thoughts from what had just passed.

“I see they have sent two men to meet our messengers,
serjeant,” he said—“This looks as if they understood the
laws of war.”

“Quite true, your honour. They should now blindfold
our party, and lead them within their own works, before
they suffer them to see at all; though there would be no
great advantage in it, as Strides is as well acquainted with
every inch of that rock as I am with the manual exercise.”

“Which would seem to supersede the necessity of the
ceremony you have mentioned?”

“One never knows, your honour. Blindfolding is according
to the rules, and I should blindfold a flag before I let
him approach, though the hostile ranks stood drawn up, one
on each side of a parade ground. Much is gained, while
nothing is ever lost, by sticking to the rules of a trade.”

The captain smiled, as did all the Americans of the guard;
the last having too much sagacity not to perceive that a
thing might be overdone, as well as too little attended to.
As for Jamie and Mike, they both received the serjeant's
opinions as law; the one from having tried the troops of the
line at Culloden, and the other on account of divers experiences
through which he had gone, at sundry fairs, in his
own green island. By this time, however, all were too
curious in watching the result of the meeting, to continue
the discourse.

Robert Willoughby and Joel had moved along the lane,
towards the rocks, without hesitating, keeping their little
flag flying. It did not appear that their approach produced
any change among the savages, who were now preparing
their breakfasts, until they had got within two hundred yards
of the encampment, when two of the red-men, having first
laid aside their arms, advanced to meet their visiters. This
was the interview which attracted the attention of those at
the Hut, and its progress was noted with the deepest interest.

The meeting appeared to be friendly. After a short conference,
in which signs seemed to be a material agent in the
communications, the four moved on in company, walking
deliberately towards the rocks. Captain Willoughby had
sent for his field-glass, and could easily perceive much that
occurred in the camp, on the arrival of his son. The major's

movements were calm and steady, and a feeling of pride
passed over the father's heart, as he noted this, amid a
scene that was well adapted to disturbing the equilibrium
of the firmest mind. Joel certainly betrayed nervousness,
though he kept close at his companion's side, and together
they proceeded into the very centre of the party of strangers.

The captain observed, also, that this arrival caused no
visible sensation among the red-men. Even those the major
almost touched in passing did not look up to note his appearance,
while no one seemed to speak, or in any manner
to heed him. The cooking and other preparations for the
breakfast proceeded precisely as if no one had entered the
camp. The two who had gone forth to meet the flag alone
attended its bearers, whom they led through the centre of
the entire party; stopping only on the side opposite to the
Hut, where there was an open space of flat rock, which it
had not suited the savages to occupy.

Here the four halted, the major turning and looking back
like a soldier who was examining his ground. Nor did any
one appear disposed to interrupt him in an employment
that serjeant Joyce pronounced to be both bold and against
the usages of war to permit. The captain thought the
stoicism of the savages amounted to exaggeration, and it
renewed his distrust of the real characters of his visiters.
In a minute or two, however, some three or four of the red-men
were seen consulting together apart, after which they
approached the bearers of the flag, and some communications
passed between the two sides. The nature of these
communications could not be known, of course, though the
conference appeared to be amicable. After two or three
minutes of conversation, Robert Willoughby, Strides, the
two men who had advanced to meet them, and the four
chiefs who had joined the group, left the summit of the
rock in company, taking a foot-path that descended in the
direction of the mills. In a short time they all disappeared
in a body.

The distance was not so great but these movements could
easily be seen by the naked eye, though the glass was necessary
to discover some of the details. Captain Willoughby
had planted the instrument among the palisades, and he kept
his gaze riveted on the retiring group as long as it was visible;

then, indeed, he looked at his companions, as if to read
their opinions in their countenances. Joyce understood the
expression of his face; and, saluting in the usual military
manner, he presumed to speak, in the way of reply.

“It seems all right, your honour, the bandage excepted,”
said the serjeant. “The flag has been met at the outposts,
and led into the camp; there the officer of the day, or some
savage who does the duty, has heard his errand; and, no
doubt, they have all now gone to head-quarters, to report.”

“I desired my son, Joyce—”

“Whom, your honour—?”

The general movement told the captain how completely
his auditors were taken by surprise, at this unlooked-for
announcement of the presence of the major at the Knoll. It
was too late to recall the words, however, and there was so
little prospect of Robert's escaping the penetration of Joel,
the father saw no use in attempting further concealment.

“I say I desired my son, major Willoughby, who is the
bearer of that flag,” the captain steadily resumed, “to raise
his hat in a particular manner, if all seemed right; or to
make a certain gesture with his left arm, did he see anything
that required us to be more than usually on our
guard.”

“And which notice has he given to the garrison, if it be
your honour's pleasure to let us know?”

“Neither. I thought he manifested an intention to make
the signal with the hat, when the chiefs first joined him; but
he hesitated, and lowered his hand without doing as I had
expected. Then, again, just as he disappeared behind the
rocks, the left arm was in motion, though not in a way to
complete the signal.”

“Did he seem hurried, your honour, as if prevented from
communicating by the enemy?”

“Not at all, Joyce. Irresolution appeared to be at the
bottom of it, so far as I could judge.”

“Pardon me, your honour; uncertainty would be a better
word, as applied to so good a soldier. Has major Willoughby
quitted the king's service, that he is among us, sir, just at
this moment?”

“I will tell you his errand another time, serjeant. At
present, I can think only of the risk he runs. These Indians

are lawless wretches; one is never sure of their
faith.”

“They are bad enough, sir; but no man can well be so
bad as to disregard the rights of a flag,” answered the serjeant,
in a grave and slightly important manner. “Even
the French, your honour, have always respected our flags.”

“That is true; and, yet, I wish we could overlook that
position at the mill. It's a great advantage to them, Joyce,
that they can place themselves behind such a cover, when
they choose!”

The serjeant looked at the encampment a moment; then
his eye followed the woods, and the mountain sides, that
skirted the little plain, until his back was fairly turned upon
the supposed enemy, and he faced the forest in the rear of
the Hut.

“If it be agreeable to your honour, a detachment can be
detailed to make a demonstration”—Joyce did not exactly
understand this word, but it sounded military—“in the following
manner: I can lead out the party, by the rear of
the house, using the brook as a covered-way. Once in the
woods, it will be easy enough to make a flank movement
upon the enemy's position; after which, the detachment can
be guided by circumstances.”

This was very martial in sound, and the captain felt well
assured that Joyce was the man to attempt carrying out his
own plan; but he made no answer, sighing and shaking his
head, as he walked away towards the house. The chaplain
followed, leaving the rest to observe the savages.

“Ye're proposition, serjeant, no seems to give his honour
much saitisfaction,” said the mason, as soon as his superior
was out of hearing. “Still, it was military, as I know by
what I saw mysal' in the Forty-five. Flainking, and surprising,
and obsairving, and demonstrating, and such devices,
are the soul of war, and are a' on the great highway
to victory. Had Chairlie's men obsairved, and particularised
mair, there might have been a different family on the throne,
an' the prince wad ha' got his ain ag'in. I like your idea
much, serjaint, and gin' ye gang oot to practise it, I trust
ye'll no forget that ye've an auld fri'nd here, willing to be
of the pairty.”

“I didn't think the captain much relished the notion of
being questioned about his son's feelin's, and visit up here,
at a time like this,” put in one of the Americans.

“There's bowels in the man's body!” cried Mike, “and
it isn't the likes of him that has no falin'. Ye don't know
what it is to be a father, or ye'd groan in spirit to see a
child of yer own in the grip of fiery divils like them same.
Isn't he a pratty man, and wouldn't I be sorrowful to hear
that he had come to har-r-m? Ye've niver asked, serjeant,
how the majjor got into the house, and ye a military sentry
in the bargain!”

“I suppose he came by command, Michael, and it is not
the duty of the non-commissioned officers to question their
superiors about anything that has happened out of the common
way. I take things as I find them, and obey orders.
I only hope that the son, as a field-officer, will not out-rank
the father, which would be unbecoming; though date of
commissions, and superiority, must be respected.”

“I rather think if a major in the king's service was to
undertake to use authority here,” said the spokesman of the
Americans, a little stiffly, “he wouldn't find many disposed
to follow at his heels.”

“Mutiny would not fare well, did it dare to lift its head
in this garrison”—answered the serjeant, with a dignity that
might better have suited the mess-room of a regular regiment,
than the situation in which he was actually placed. “Both
captain Willoughby and myself have seen mutiny attempted,
but neither has ever seen it succeed.”

“Do you look on us as lawful, enlisted soldiers?” demanded
one of the labourers, who had a sufficient smattering
of the law, to understand the difference between a mercenary
and a volunteer. “If I'm regimented, I should at least like
to know in whose service it is?”

“Ye're over-quick at yer objections and sentiments,”
said Jamie Allen, coolly, “like most youths, who see only
their ain experience in the airth, and the providence o' the
Lord. Enlisted we are, a' of us, even to Michael here, and
it's in the sairvice of our good master, his honour captain
Willoughby; whom, with his kith and kin, may the Lord
presairve from this and all other dangers.”

The word master would, of itself, be very likely to create

a revolt to-day, in such a corps as it was the fortune of our
captain to command, though to that of “boss” there would
not be raised the slightest objection. But the English language
had not undergone half of its present mutations in
the year 1776; and no one winced in admitting that he
served a “master,” though the gorges of several rose at the
idea of being engaged in the service of any one, considered
in a military point of view. It is likely the suggestion of
the mason would have led to a hot discussion, had not a stir
among the savages, just at that instant, called off the attention
of all present, to matters of more importance than even
an angry argument.

The movement seemed to be general, and Joyce ordered
his men to stand to their arms; still he hesitated about
giving the alarm. Instead of advancing towards the Hut,
however, the Indians raised a general yell, and went over
the cliffs, disappearing in the direction of the mill, like a
flock of birds taking wing together. After waiting half an
hour, in vain, to ascertain if any signs of the return of the
Indians were to be seen, the serjeant went himself to report
the state of things to his commander.

Captain Willoughby had withdrawn to make his toilet for
the day, when he saw the last of his son and the overseer.
While thus employed he had communicated to his wife all
that had occurred; and Mrs. Willoughby, in her turn, had
told the same to her daughters. Maud was much the most
distressed, her suspicions of Joel being by far the most active
and the most serious. From the instant she learned what
had passed, she began to anticipate grave consequences to
Robert Willoughby, though she had sufficient fortitude, and
sufficient consideration for others, to keep most of her apprehensions
to herself.

When Joyce demanded his audience, the family was at
breakfast, though little was eaten, and less was said. The
serjeant was admitted, and he told his story with military
precision.

“This has a suspicious air, Joyce,” observed the captain,
after musing a little; “to me it seems like an attempt to induce
us to follow, and to draw us into an ambuscade.”

“It may be that, your honour; or, it may be a good honest
retreat. Two prisoners is a considerable exploit for

savages to achieve. I have known them count one a victory.”

“Be not uneasy, Wilhelmina; Bob's rank will secure
him good treatment, his exchange being far more important
to his captors, if captors they be, than his death. It is too
soon to decide on such a point, serjeant. After all, the Indians
may be at the mills, in council. On a war-path, all
the young men are usually consulted, before any important
step is taken. Then, it may be the wish of the chiefs to
impress our flag-bearers with an idea of their force.”

“All that is military, your honour, and quite possible.
Still, to me the movement seems as if a retreat was intended,
in fact, or that the appearance of one was in view.”

“I will soon know the truth,” cried the chaplain. “I, a
man of peace, can surely go forth, and ascertain who these
people are, and what is their object.”

“You, Woods! My dear fellow, do you imagine a tribe
of blood-thirsty savages will respect you, or your sacred
office? You have a sufficient task with the king's forces,
letting his enemies alone. You are no missionary to still a
war-cry.”

“I beg pardon, sir”—put in the serjeant—“his reverence
is more than half right”—here the chaplain rose, and quitted
the room in haste, unobserved by the two colloquists—
“There is scarce a tribe in the colony, your honour, that
has not some knowledge of our priesthood; and I know of
no instance in which the savages have ever ill-treated a
divine.”

“Poh, poh, Joyce; this is much too sentimental for your
Mohawks, and Oneidas, and Onondagas, and Tuscaroras.
They will care no more for little Woods than they care for
the great woods through which they journey on their infernal
errands.”

“One cannot know, Hugh”—observed the anxious mother—“Our
dear Robert is in their hands; and, should Mr.
Woods be really disposed to go on this mission of mercy,
does it comport with our duty as parents to oppose it?”

“A mother is all mother”—murmured the captain, who
rose from table, kissed his wife's cheek affectionately, and
left the room, beckoning to the serjeant to follow.

Captain Willoughby had not been gone many minutes,

when the chaplain made his appearance, attired in his surplice,
and wearing his best wig; an applicance that all elderly
gentlemen in that day fancied necessary to the dignity and
gravity of their appearance. Mrs. Willoughby, to own the
truth, was delighted. If this excellent woman was ever
unjust, it was in behalf of her children; solicitude for whom
sometimes induced her to overlook the rigid construction of
the laws of equality.

“We will see which best understands the influence of the
sacred office, captain Willoughby, or myself;” observed the
chaplain, with a little more importance of manner than it
was usual for one so simple to assume. “I do not believe
the ministry was instituted to be brow-beaten by tribes of
savages, any more than it is to be silenced by the unbeliever,
or schismatic.”

It was very evident that the Rev. Mr. Woods was considerably
excited; and this was a condition of mind so unusual
with him, as to create a species of awe in the observers. As
for the two young women, deeply as they were interested
in the result, and keenly as Maud, in particular, felt everything
which touched the fortunes of Robert Willoughby,
neither would presume to interfere, when they saw one
whom they had been taught to reverence from childhood,
acting in a way that so little conformed to his ordinary
manner. As for Mrs. Willoughby, her own feelings were
so much awakened, that never had Mr. Woods seemed so
evangelical and like a saint, as at that very moment; and
it would not have been difficult to persuade her that he was
acting under something very like righteous superhuman impulses.

Such, however, was far from being the case. The worthy
priest had an exalted idea of his office; and, to fancy it
might favorably impress even savages, was little more than
carrying out his every-day notions of its authority. He conscientiously
believed that he, himself, a regularly ordained
presbyter, would be more likely to succeed in the undertaking
before him, than a mere deacon; were a bishop present,
he would cheerfully have submitted to his superior
claims to sanctity and success. As for arch-bishops, archdeacons,
deans, rural deans, and all the other worldly machinery
which has been superadded to the church, the truth

compels us to add, that our divine felt no especial reverence,
since he considered them as so much clerical surplusage,
of very questionable authority, and of doubtful use. He
adhered strictly to the orders of divine institution; to these
he attached so much weight, as to be entirely willing, in
his own person, to demonstrate how little was to be apprehended,
when their power was put forth, even against Indians,
in humility and faith.

“I shall take this sprig of laurel in my hand, in lieu of
the olive-branch,” said the excited chaplain, “as the symbol
of peace. It is not probable that savages can tell one plant
from the other; and if they could, it will be easy to explain
that olives do not grow in America. It is an eastern tree,
ladies, and furnishes the pleasant oil we use on our salads.
I carry with me, notwithstanding, the oil which proves a
balm to many sorrows; that will be sufficient.”

“You will bid them let Robert return to us, without delay?”
said Mrs. Willoughby, earnestly.

“I shall bid them respect God and their consciences. I
cannot now stop to rehearse to you the mode of proceeding
I shall adopt; but it is all arranged in my own mind. It
will be necessary to call the Deity the `Great Spirit' or
`Manitou'—and to use many poetical images; but this can
I do, on an emergency. Extempore preaching is far from
agreeable to me, in general; nor do I look upon it, in this
age of the world, as exactly canonical; nevertheless, it shall
be seen I know how to submit even to that, when there is a
suitable necessity.”

It was so seldom Mr. Woods used such magnificent ideas,
or assumed a manner in the least distinguishable from one
of the utmost simplicity, that his listeners now felt really
awed; and when he turned to bless them, as he did with
solemnity and affection, the two daughters knelt to receive
his benedictions. These delivered, he walked out of the
room, crossed the court, and proceeded straightway to the
outer gate.

It was, perhaps, fortunate to the design of the Rev. Mr.
Woods, that neither the captain nor the serjeant was in the
way, to arrest it. This the former would certainly have
done, out of regard to his friend, and the last out of regard
to “orders.” But these military personages were in the

library, in deep consultation concerning the next step necessary
to take. This left the coast clear, no one belonging to
the guard conceiving himself of sufficient authority to stop
the chaplain, more especially when he appeared in his wig
and surplice. Jamie Allen was a corporal, by courtesy;
and, at the first summons, he caused the outer gate to be
unlocked and unbarred, permitting the chaplain to make
his egress, attended by his own respectful bows. This Jamie
did, out of reverence to religion, generally; though the surplice
ever excited his disgust; and, as for the Liturgy, he
deemed it to be a species of solemn mockery of worship.

The captain did not reappear outside of the court, until
the chaplain, who had made the best of his way towards the
rocks, was actually stalking like a ghost among ruins,
through the deserted shantees of the late encampment.

“What in the name of Indian artifice is the white animal
that I see moving about on the rocks?” demanded the captain,
whose look was first turned in the direction of the
camp.

“It seems an Indian wrapped up in a shirt, your honour
—as I live, sir, it has a cocked hat on its head!”

“Na — na” — interrupted Jamie, “ye'll no be guessing
the truth this time, without the aid of a little profane revelation.
The chiel ye see yan, yer honour, is just chaplain
Woods.”

“Woods—the devil!”

“Na — na — yer honour, it's the reverend gentleman,
hissel', and no the de'il, at a'. He's in his white frock —
though why he didn't wear his black gairment is more than
I can tell ye—but there he is, walking about amang the Indian
dwellings, all the same as if they were so many pews
in his ain kirk.”

“And, how came you to let him pass the gate, against
orders?”

“Well, and it is aboot the orders of the priesthood, that
he so often preaches, and seeing him in the white gairment,
and knowing ye've so many fast-days, and Christmas', in
the kirk o' England, I fancied it might be a bit matter o'
prayer he wished to offer up, yan, in the house on the flat;
and so I e'en thought church prayers better than no prayers
at all, in such a strait.”

As it was useless to complain, the captain was fain to
submit, even beginning to hope some good might come of
the adventure, when he saw Mr. Woods walking unmolested
through the deserted camp. The glass was levelled, and
the result was watched in intense interest.

The chaplain first explored every shantee, fearlessly and
with diligence. Then he descended the rocks, and was lost
to view, like those who had preceded him. A feverish hour
passed, without any symptom of human life appearing in
the direction of the mills. Sometimes those who watched,
fancied they beheld a smoke beginning to steal up over the
brow of the rocks, the precursor of the expected conflagration;
but a few moments dispersed the apprehension and
the fancied smoke together. The day advanced, and yet
the genius of solitude reigned over the mysterious glen.
Not a sound emerged from it, not a human form was seen
near it, not a sign of a hostile assault or of a friendly return
could be detected. All in that direction lay buried in silence,
as if the ravine had swallowed its tenants, in imitation of
the grave.