University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Although Bernard approached the cave with a
firm step, apparently indifferent as to what might
be therein concealed, yet it must be admitted
there were feelings within his breast strangely at
variance with his calm, unmoved exterior. Twice
he seemed on the point of coming to a halt, but
then, as though actuated by some counteracting
feeling, he strode steadily onward, and was soon
standing at the entrance. It was now fast growing
dark, for the coming storm had considerably
advanced the night, and although the sun had
barely set, objects at but a little distance appeared
dim and indistinct, save when thrown into bold
relief, for a moment, by some vivid flash of lightning,
when, as if to repair the error, they apparently
sunk into a deeper gloom than ever.

Casting a hasty glance behind him, and perceiving
his companion close at hand, Bernard motioned
him to silence, and had cautiously began
his entrance, when a hurried exclamation from
the other caused him to look around, and seeing
him gazing steadily towards the west, he turned
his eyes in that direction, and soon became transfixed
as though by a spell.

We have already remarked it was growing dark,
but below the gloom had deepened into night,
which lay like a pall along the valley, into which
even the lightning, as it played along the tops of
the trees with a lurid glare, seemed unable to penetrate.
But the scene higher up was what had
caught and riveted the attention of our travelers.

Just over the summit of another hill, towards
the west, was a white misty streak, which lay
spread along the horizon, like in appearance a

bank of snow seen through a fog, above which
awful black clouds were rolling, and tumbling,
and twisting themselves into the most angry
shapes possible — belching forth their forked
tongues of lightning—seeming like some dark
and mighty spirits of the etherial, enraged, and
charging with all Heaven's artillery against this
nether world. During the intervals between each
clap of thunder, a roaring sound, like that of some
distant waterfall, was borne to the ears of the
travelers with a startling distinctness, gradually
increasing each moment, until it sounded like the
roll of an hundred drums.

During this brief space—for brief indeed it was
—not a twig was seen to move—not a leaf to stir
—but all, all was motionless, us though Nature
were holding her breath in awe of some great and
mighty convulsion. The air felt hot, thick and
oppressive, as from the breath of an evil spirit.
Suddenly the trees on the other hill became dreadfully
agitated—bowing their heads, and writhing,
and twisting themselves into all manner of shapes
possible, while a dark misty shadow crept, or
rather swept along, and buried them in terrible
night.

Thus it appeared to our travelers, who, warned
by this and a few heavy drops of rain, now
eagerly sought their shelter; Bernard, as previously,
taking the precedence. Moving cautiously
forward, after entering the mouth of the cave—
for caution was a part of his nature—he presently
gained the interior, where he was immediately
joined by his companion.

A flash of lightning at this moment discovered
to our travellers that they were the only occupants
of the cave, when something like a sigh
from Bernard, and the ejaculation of “Thank
God!” from Tyrone, attested the relief felt by
both.

“I say, Mark,” began Bernard, who was the first
to speak, “I don't believe this ere cave's a ren—
what d'ye call it?”

“Rendezvous,” answered Tyrone.

“O yes, rendezvous. I say, I don't believe this
ere cave's a rendezvous for robbers, for when that
are last streak o' lightning danced around in here,
I could'nt see no traces of its being inhabited.”

“But what led you to think inhabited, Harvey?”

“Why, when I's out here afore, I hearn a good
deal o' talk about a banditti, which had been
skeering people round here, and some feller told
me they used to meet in this ere cave.”

“Indeed? But why did not the citizens take
measures to apprehend them?” enquired the other.

“Wal, there was some such kind o' talk, but I
don't know how it come out, for jest about that
time I went back to the East, and haint never
heard nothing on't since. But I say, Mark, its
lucky we've got in here, I swow—robbers or not
—for that are harrycane's ripping every thing
afore it. Jest listen how it roars. I never—”
the remainder of the sentence, if spoken, was
drowned in a terrible crash of thunder, that shook
the ground beneath them, and caused both the
speaker and his companion to start involuntarily.

During the conversation just recorded, the
storm had been rushing on with all the wild fury
of a tornado, and now came sweeping down the
opposite hill—tearing along through the valley—
up the hill—dashing against the cave, as though
to rend it asunder—snapping lofty trees like twigs
—tearing them, in many instances, quite up by
the roots--hissing, and foaming, and roaring—on,
on it went in its mad career, seeking new victims
amid the quiet glades, and making the very earth
beneath it tremble in its fierce carousal! For
some half hour our travelers stood mute—awed
to silence by the raging of the elements—gazing
forth through the aperture, assisted by the incessant
flashes of lightning, upon the awful devastation
going on without.

“A fortunate escape, truly!” remarked Tyrone,
at length, drawing a long breath.

“Jest what I's a thinking on exactly,” returned
Bernard. “I knowed when I seed it a coming
up, that there wouldn't be no child's play about
it; but its gone clean ahead o' my calculations
altogether. How them are streaks o' lightning
did dance around us here, and cut capers 'mong
the trees. I never seed the like on't afore in all
my born days. For the matter o' that, they
haint done yet,” added he, as a bright flash for a
moment blinded him, and a peal of thunder shook
the cave.

For some minutes his companion made no reply,
and then in a complaining, petulent tone
said: “Was there ever any thing so unlucky?
Only to think of our being literally forced to pass
the night in such a place as this, and so near our
destination too! I declare it vexes me.”

“Hello! What's all this ere gammon about
now?” cried Bernard. “You're the strangest,
queerest chap I ever seed in all my life; one minute
all thankfulness and the next all grumbles.
Why don't ye larn a little patience? A body'd
think when you'd jest 'scaped with your life, you
would'nt, in all human probability, set up grumbling
for half an hour, at least.”

“Well, well, Bernard, say no more,” replied
Tyrone, in a voice of contrition. “You know
my hasty, impatient nature, and must overlook
my language. I know it was wrong in me to
complain; but I had set my heart so much on
reaching Webber's to-night, that it seemed hard
to relinquish the design.”

“Now you speak a little more sensible like,”
rejoined Bernard; “and as to gitting to Webber's,
I guess we'll be able to do it yit. The moon 'll
be up in about an hour, and I reckon this ere
storm will clear away by that time.”

And Bernard was right. In an hour the storm
had passed on to the east, leaving behind it a few
broken, scattered clouds, sailing lazily through
the air—above which Heaven's diamonds gleamed
and sparkled—now hidden from the sight, now
shining out merrily—while the far off flashes and
distant rumble betokened the storm still speeding
on in its fury. Anon the moon arose, slowly and
majestically, to pour her silvery flood of light
upon the scene,

Our travelers, now that the storm was passed
and moon risen, deeming it expedient to resume
their journey, emerged at once from the cave,
and had advanced a few paces towards the road,
when their attention and progress were arrested
by the sound of voices in conversation. At first
the sounds were indistinct, but gradually they
seemed to grow louder, denoting thereby the approach
of the speakers. At length they descried
two figures descending the hill, and instantly
crouching behind a rock, were enabled to overhear
a few sentences as they passed.

“I don't believe a word on't,” growled a gruff

voice, accompanied with an oath. “Its only one
of the old fool's freaks; and for my part, I've
served him long enough, and blast me if I don't
slit his wesand, as soon as I find out whar he
stows the shiners, and then make off and set
up for a gentleman in some foreign part; hey,
Bill? ha, ha, ha!”

“Hist!” returned his companion. “Thar's no
perticular use in telling every body else what
you're going to do, as I knows on; and besides,
if the gal and her lover should happen to hear
ye, why ye see its all up at once. Curses on that
ar' storm,” he added; “I'm feard as how they'll
bunk somewhere and take daylight for't. I
wouldn't like 'em to slip me now, for such a
chance don't come every day, you know.”

“But what can the old fool want of the gal?”
growled the other.

“Why I've told ye once, you—but hark! they're
coming, and so—” here the conversation became
so indistinct that our travelers could make
out nothing further, save the word “pistols,”
which occured shortly after; but enough had
been gleaned to denote foul play, and simultaneously
grasping their weapons, both advanced cautiously
in the direction taken by the others.

The moon as yet had not risen sufficiently to
be of any material service in distinguishing objects
even on the summit of the hill, and the ravine
below still lay in the gloomy repose of solitude
and darkness.

Gliding quickly forward, but at the same time
as stealthily as possible, our travelers soon gained
sufficient on the ruffians to enable them to see
their dusky forms, and overhear their conversation.

At length the foremost two came to a halt, at
the foot of the hill, just where you enter the ravine
already mentioned, and separating, each took
his station opposite the other—one on either side
of the road—which being at this point uncommonly
narrow, owing to some rocks having been
removed and piled up on either hand, made it a
desirable place for their attack upon the individuals
approaching, who must necessarily pass
within their reach.

Ensconsing themselves behind some bushes,
which grew by the way side, Bernard and Tyrone
awaited in anxious suspense the moment when
they would, probably—in defence of others—be
called into action of no enviable nature. For
some moments all was still, and then the silence
was broken by one of the ruffians.

“I say, Bill Riley!” began he of the gruff
voice, “blast me, but your ears is a little over-keen
to-night. Per'aps you hears 'em coming
now, but hang me if I do, and what's more, haint
heard 'em.”

“Per'aps I's mistaken,” answered the other;
“at least I thought I heard 'em. However, thar's
no perticular harm in being ready 'gin they do
come, you know.”

“You're right thar', my trump. But what d'ye
think, croney; is't best to leave the younker in
Heaven?”

“No! no! Curdish,” replied the other vehenently;
“no murder, if we can help it. Tap the
feller over, but no killing; that's a perticularly
agly business, brings ugly consequences, and a
feller's mighty apt to catch hemp fever arter it.
No, no, Jack, my boy, we musn't have no killing.
Jest knock the younker over gently—mount
his horse—I'll mount behind the gal, and then
we'll sort o' travel, you know.”

“Why hang me for a green un, but I think—
rayther think, Bill—we'll travel then, ha, ha, ha.
But 'sposin, my ace o' trumps, the younker happens
to take it into his head not to be knocked
over gently?”

“Why then, Jack, you must kind o' take it out
agin, you know,—ha, ha, ha.”

“Well, well,” growled Curdish, don't be gittin'
foolish over it.”

“No!” returned the other drily; “one fool in a
party'll do, I reckon.”

Following this last remark, was a pause of
some minutes, when the conversation was again
renewed by Curdish.

“I say, Bill, what's yer honest, disinterested,
confidential and most perticular opinion of old
Ben, any how?”

“Why that's come at without any study,” answered
Bill. “I jest think he's an arrant knave.”

“A what?”

“A bloody rascal!”

“I'll take yer fist on that, Bill, by —,” and
the speaker uttered an oath. “What a long hooked
nose he's got, haint he? If I'd such a nose,
by St. Christopher! I'd sell myself for a screech
owl—ha, ha, ha.”

“Hush, Jack! You always laugh as if you
wer' a going to split yer jaws.”

“Ye-e-s, per'aps so.”

“By-the-by, Jack, I couldn't never exactly understand
how you and old Ben come to be on
such friendly terms? You've said you didn't
like him.”

“Like him!” cried Jack. “O yes, I like him—
ha, ha, ha! Jest wait, Bill, don't be in a hurry,
and I'll show ye how I like him. Hang me for
a dog, if I don't cut his bloody old heart out o'
him 'fore I'm done!”

“Well but Jack, I say, how the dence comes it
you've seemed on such friendly terms?”

“Why ye see, Bill, I'll tell ye. The old chap
kind o' did me a favor one time, in the way of
savin' me from the hemp fever, in the case o'
that ar' young man as was suddenly missed, when
people took the perticular trouble to swear that I
—put him out o' the way, you know; and being's
I'm sort o' in his power yit, why I've rather
kept up an affectionate feeling, ye see—ha, ha,
ha! But I say, old feller, seein' as how I've answered
your question, maybe you'll have the
perticular goodness to answer mine. What is
the old cut-throat goin' to do with the gal?”

“Why's I've told ye afore, I ain't sure, but
I 'spect thar's a curious design about it. I've
bin kind o' watching round, a pickin' up a little
here and a little thar, puttin' 'em together and
guessin' on the whole, and it looks rayther mysterious,
I tell ye. You know the old feller we
stuck and fleeced a few months back, and how
old Ben, not satisfied, stuck him twice more, and
then saved his life—a thing he warn't never
known to do afore; well you know as how he got
hold o' some papers too, which he said warn't o'
no account to us, and so took 'em for his share,
which looked sort o' curious agin, and which
bein' all put together, makes me think as how
them ar' papers, this gal, and the 'tother old feller
ar' all kind o' mixed up into a secret; for ever
since he's bin mighty anxious to git hold o' the
gal, and I overhearn him say one time, when
talkin' to himself, that he'd sometime be a great
man, and as soon he could get the gal he was
goin' to mizzle and set sail on the big brine.”

“Set sail, eh!” growled Curdish. “He said as

how he'd set sail, did he? Well, blast me, if he
don't too; but it'll be an ugly voyage he'll be
goin', by—! or else Jack Curdish ain't no prophet.”

The conversation after this for something over
an hour, was carried on in a tone so low, that our
travelers were unable to distinguish what was
said, when the voice of Riley was again heard to
articulate:

“I'm afeard this ere storm's knocked our calculations
all in the head, Jack.”

“Hark!” returned the other; “don't you hear
'em?”

“Ha! yes, 'tis they at last. Now be careful,
my boy, and jest do up the thing safe and genteel,
for thar's a few shiners at stake, you know.” As
he spoke, horses were heard approaching at a quick
pace, and presently the voices of their riders in
conversation.

“Now then, Mark,” whispered Bernard, grasping
a pistol with one hand and his companion's
arm with the other, “jest let us show these ere
chaps that there's other folks about.”

“Ay!” returned Tyrone, setting his teeth hard,
“they need an honest man's lesson.”

A thrilling scream aroused them to action, and
both sprang forward at once. Immediately after
was heard the sharp report of a pistol—a groan
—another scream, and the clatter of a horse's hoofs
on through the ravine.