University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Wild and turbulent as the waters that rushed
along by his side, were the thoughts and feelings
crowding the breast of Edward Merton, as he
spurred his noble animal on through the ravine.
His mind was now a perfect chaos, where hope
and fear, love and revenge, were alternately struggling
for the mastery. One thought, however,
was ever uppermost: Emily Nevance must be
rescued; but as to the manner time and place, he
scarcely gave a thought; for amid the whirlwind
of ideas crowding his brain, there were none of
calm delit ration, so essential to the effecting of
his purpose. As he cleared the ravine and entered
the forest, he was very forcibly reminded of his
headlong speed, by the stumbling of his horse
against a tree that had been blown partly across
the road, by which he was nearly thrown to the
earth.

Immediately dismounting, and finding his horse
not materially injured—having only in one or two
places slightly ruptured the skin—Merton seated
himself upon the fallen tree, and for a few minutes
seemed to hold a consultation with himself.
Whatever this consultation was, it probably savored
more of reason than his former transactions;
for on remounting he proceeded at a much slower
pace, his mind evidently occupied with matters
which at first had been overlooked.

“Yes, she must be saved!” exclaimed he, at
length, vehemently. “But how is this to be done?
where can I find her? for what purpose is she thus
taken away? Doubtless for some foul end! Oh
God! if she but come to harm—but no! no! I will
not think it—it must not, shall not be!—and yet,
and yet, if it should be”—and Edward pressed
his hands to his throbbing, burning temples, in an
agony of mind almost insupportable. “Oh, the
villain! if he do but wrong her, I swear his heart's
blood shall answer for it, though I spend a life in
search for him! But why do I idle here, when
perhaps I may overtake the ruffian—may save her
from death, or what is worse, dishonor? Gods! if
he wrong her!” and as he spoke, Merton buried
the rowels in the flanks of the gallant horse which
bore him, and again he was wildly dashing forward,
seemingly forgetful of the former accident.
But he remained unharmed, and a few minutes
hard riding brought him to the cot which had protected
him from the storm, when, as if struck by
a sudden thought, he ejaculated, “Ha! I will
know,” and immediately reined in his noble beast,
already covered with foam, close to the entrance.
A loud hallo not serving to bring any one to the
door, he sprang to the ground and for some time
vigorously applied his fist to it with no better
success. As he was about to remount, however,
thinking there was no one within, the sound of
smothered voices caught his ear and determined
him to continue. His efforts were at last rewarded
by a somewhat husky voice calling out:

“Who's thar'?”

“A friend!” replied Merton.

“What d'ye want?”

“To gain an entrance.”

“We don't never admit strangers arter night;
call to-morrow.”

“I cannot delay!—my business is urgent.”

“Who d'ye want to see?”

“Hetty Brogan.”

Here the smothered conversation was again renewed,
which at length resulted in the door being
unbolted, and a man's head peeping cautiously
out.

“Ar' ye alone?” enquired the same husky voice.

“I am!” replied Merton.

“What brings ye here?”

“I wish to question Hetty Brogan.”

“Consarning fortins?”

“Yes!”

“Come in.”

Merton immediately secured his horse and entered.
Some half smothered embers on a rude
hearth cast forth a sombrous light, and served to
relieve the various objects from total darkness.
Hetty immediately came forward and enquired of
Merton his business.

“When I was here a short time since,” answered
he, “you warned me of danger lying on my path,
to which I then gave little heed—for, to tell you
the truth, I thought you deranged; but I have
since learned the sad reality. I was felled from
my horse by a ruffianly blow, while my companion
was kidnapped and borne I know not whither.
It matters not to me at present how you gained
the knowledge you imparted, but I wish to know
more. Tell me, if indeed you can tell, where she
is at the present moment, or whither her destination,
and you shall be richly rewarded.”

“To tell you whar' she is don't lay in my power.
Her destination is—”

“Where? where?—for Heaven's sake speak!”
exclaimed Merton, as the old woman paused.

“Thar', thar', don't git in a passion: you hain't
said what you'd give to know; and I reckon as
how Hetty Brogan arn't one as tells for nothing.”

“Speak, then! old woman; there is gold to unloose
the hinges of your tongue!” cried Merton,
placing in the hands of Hetty a well filled purse,
which she grasped with avidity and dropped into
a side pocket; then motioning him to a seat, she
resumed:

“Why, ye see, mister—what's yer name, sir?”

“No matter! go on with your story!” said Merton,
sternly.

“Ye see, this ere ar' rather ticklish business;
and I don't much like the idea o' gitting myself
into a scrape, which prehaps I might do by telling
a hot-headed younker like you, what you want to
know consarning the gal, without first gitting
precautions taken.”

“Do you mean to say you are going to refuse
me the information for which you are already
paid?” enquired Merton, angrily.

“Now, now, don't be gitting angry, don't. I
only wanted to make you promise you wont never
in no way use this ar' information against me;
`cause if some folks should find it out, my head
wouldn't be worth that;” and she snapped her
fingers.

“Well, well, go on! I promise all you desire, on
the honor of a gentleman,” returned Merton,
hastily.

“Well, then, d'ye ever happen to hears o' old
Ben David, the Jew, what lives on the bank of
the Mississippi?”

“Ay! heard of him for a cut-throat!”

“Hush! not so loud.”

“Well, well!—speak, speak! what of him?”

“Thar's whar' the gal's gone.”

“Gracious Heavens!” cried Merton, wildly,
springing from his seat and clasping his forehead
with his hand; “surely, surely not there! My
God! what can be done? I will fly to her instantly!—but
how gained you this information?—yet
no matter!—I will fly this instant!” and Edward
bounded to the door, where he suddenly recoiled
as though met by some repulsive obstacle, while
at the same instant the dark figure of a man filled
the entrance, and a deep voice cried, “Hold!”
The next moment the figure had advanced into
the centre of the room and the door was again
closed.

“Hetty, what means this? who have we here?”
asked the same deep, stern voice.

“A—a—gen—a stranger, sir! as was just enquiring
his way to the river, sir!” stammered
Hetty, confusedly, who on the entrance of the
last comer had retreated to the farther-side of the
apartment, where the darkness screened her from
observation.

“Ha! you seem agitated! Beware now you
deceive me! A light here!—quick—a light!”

The individual whom we first noticed as questioning
Merton previous to his entrance, and who
had since remained a silent spectator, advanced to
the fire and placed thereon a pine knot, which
immediately sent forth a ruddy gleam, lighting
the whole cabin and producing a picturesque
effect. A momentary pause ensued, during which
the gaze of Merton and the stranger met. The
latter was tall, commanding in figure, with broad
massive chest and limbs to correspond. The outline
of his form was decidedly handsome, as was
also that of his features, which although of a
dark, almost dingy hue, were very expressive, and
seemed lit up with the fires of a mighty, and but
for a certain slight sinister expression, a noble
soul. His eyes were dark and brilliant—his forehead
broad and high, surmounted by jet-black
hair, which fell down around his neck in long
glossy ringlets. His face was medium in length,
with rather prominent cheek-bones, cheeks a little
dimpled, from which ran two gently curved
lines, terminating at the corners of his mouth.
His lips were thin and generally compressed—
though when otherwise, turned up with something
of a sneer. His chin rose prominently
from a graceful curve below his mouth, on which
was a handsome imperial, and ended with an oval
turn. His dress was fashioned much like a sailor's.
He wore a roundabout of dark blue cloth, richly
embroidered with silk and tassel, tastefully set off
by two rows of gold mounted buttons. Underneath
of this he wore a fine blue shirt, with large
open collar, falling negligently back from the
neck, secured by a dark silk cravat, which was in
turn secured by running through a plain gold
ring. His nether garments were in singular contrast
with his upper. His pantaloons of coarse,
dark cloth, were fastened around the waist by a
sort of wampum helt, in which were confined a
knife and two pistols. They came a little below
his knees, where they were met by leggins from
the skin of deer, which connecting with moceasins,
formed a sort of rough boot. On his head
he wore a singular covering of untanned leather,
shaped something between a hat and cap. Altogether,
his whole appearance bespoke a man of a
wild, reckless, yet withal, fanciful disposition.

For a moment he stood gazing on Merton with
a severe expression—his dark eyes gleaming with
unusual brightness—his broad forehead gradually
contracting into a frown, as he found his bold gaze
returned by one equally bold and unquailing.

“Who are you, and what is your business here?”
demanded he, in the tone of one who deems he has
a right to know.

“Ere I answer,” replied Merton, somewhat
haughtily, without removing his gaze, “I would
know by what right you question.”

“By the right of might!” rejoined the other
quickly, his dark eyes flashing.

“Indeed!”

“Ay, sir, indeed!” and his lips parted with a
sneer. “Come, sir, do not trifle!” he resumed,
again compressing his lips. “If you are unfortunate,
speak out, and if it is in my power I will
assist you; but if you are beat on an evil errand”
—and his eyes flashed fiercely—“beware!”

“My errand is truly not one of evil, and I am
rather unfortunate,” returned Merton, struck by
a singular frankness about the other, and thinking
he might perhaps render him assistance. “But
whom have I the honor of addressing?”

“I am called Barton. But go on! go on! I
would know your story!” he added hastily.

Merton simply related some of the incidents
with which the reader is already acquainted.

“Ha!” exclaimed Barton—as Edward concluded
his account of the kidnapping of Emily—“and
you are now in pursuit?”

“I am.”

“But where can the villain have borne her?
Here, Hetty, you pretend in second sight, give
us the desired information!”

“Why rea-really sir, I—”

“Speak, woman!” interrupted Barton, fiercely.
“You know me;” he muttered in an under tone.

“I-I thinks to-to-David's, sir!” stammered Hetty,
turning pale and trembling.

“What, the Jew!” cried Barton, with a start.
“Here, young man;” and turning to Edward, he
hastily drew from his finger a curiously wrought
ring; “take this, and speed! speed! for there is not
a moment to be lost. Do you know the residence
of the Jew?”

“I know the vicinity, and can find it,” answered
Edward.

“Enough, then! away, away! for you have no
time to lose. Find the Jew, present this ring,
and demand the girl. He will not refuse your
demand. He dare not!” added Barton, with
strong emphasis, as he saw Edward look incredulous.

“But—”

“Nay, young man, no questions now. I will
see you anon and explain all. Enough, that I
have taken a fancy, and am willing to serve you.
But come, come—away, away, or you may be too
late!” and hurrying Merton from the house, Barton
assisted him to mount, and then turned away
with an abrupt “adieu!” Once more burying the
rowels in his horse, in an instant Merton was rapidly
speeding on to the great river, lost in vague
conjectures concerning this singular individual,
and how his own strange adventure might terminate.