University of Virginia Library

1. PART I.

1. CHAPTER I.

A few years since, most of the western States
and Territories—particularly those bordering upon
the great Mississippi—were infested with bands
of lawless desperadoes, collected from all parts
of the globe, who, having become criminals in
their native land, here sought an asylum, either
beyond the pale of the law entirely, or where
stern Justice being weak, was relaxed from that
severity which she exercised in the more populous
sections of the country. Here, in many
cases, they formed themselves into bands, choosing
some one of the more bold and daring of their
party for leader—their purpose, doubtless, being
the greater facility of proceeding in their depredations,
as well as firmer security against apprehension.

But, although, as we have remarked, they formed
themselves into bands or parties, yet rarely, in
fact we believe only in extreme cases, did they
openly act in concert; their policy being to conceal
from their more honest neighbors the fact
that there was such a regular organized combination
of men for outlawry purposes in the vicinity.
It was their policy, also, to disperse themselves
throughout the country; to meet only at
certain intervals, and then in secret, under cover
of night; by which means they would appear as
honest citizens; live, many of them, unsuspected,
and in all cases be among the first to learn of whatever
movement might chance to be in progress
detrimental to their interests as a body, or to any
member individually, and thus be enabled to take
measures to prevent, or lay secret plans to counteract
it. This will, we think, sufficiently account
for their, in many cases, long and sometimes
undisturbed career of dissipation and crime.

Our story opens a few years subsequent to the
close of the last war with England, and at a period
when the interior of Missouri—the theatre of
the scenes, incidents and characters which are
about to follow—was, comparatively, but little
known; in fact, we believe we may with propriety
say, there were portions within its territorial
boundaries at this time unseen and untrod by the
eye and foot of the white man. But notwithstanding
there were sections of it uninhabited,
there was already a tide of emigration setting in
from the eastward, which rendered it probable
that in the course of a few years, at the farthest,
it would not only be fully explored, but settled,
by some of the more enterprising and industrious
inhabitants of the States lying east of the
great Mississippi. Even now the eastern portion
of it was beginning to exhibit signs of settlement
and civilization, and already the blue smoke arose
from many a cot which here and there dotted the
long line of forest bordering on the Mississippi.
This forest followed the windings of the river
and extended back some fifteen or twenty miles,
opening, in some places, upon the large and beautiful
prairie, where the tall grass waved to and fro
in the breeze, containing its legions of wild animals,
and where the eye could range uninterruptedly
for miles on miles, as over some vast sea,
until finally shut in by the far distant horizon.
In some parts of this forest the ground for miles
was nearly level, and only required the removal
of the underbrush to make it a beautiful grove,
while other parts were wild, rocky and mountainous,
presenting to the eye of the beholder
many grand and romantic scenes, as though Nature
had designed to soothe, awe and display her
power by strong and varying contrasts.

As before remarked, that region of country
known as Missouri, was fast emerging from savage
to civilized life—from a gloomy wilderness to
the abodes of civilization. The axe might now
be heard in the forests where, but a few years
before, echoed the wild war-whoop of the Indian.
On the banks of that rapid and mighty stream,
from which Missouri takes her name, a few regular
settlements had sprung up—among the most
prominent of which we will mention the old town
of Franklin, a place that has long since disappeared,
having been literally swept away by the
eternal knawings of this river whose bed is continually
changing.

The inhabitants of Missouri at the time of

which we write, as must naturally be the case in
every new settlement, were composed of all classes,
from the refined, educated and intellectual, to
the coarse, ignorant, demi-savage race, which are
ever found to exist as a kind of medium between
refinement and utter barbarity.

Having made these few preliminary remarks,
so that the reader may form an idea of the then
existing state of the country, we will now at
once proceed with our story.

It was near the close of a hot sultry day, in
the summer of 18—, that two travelers were slowly
wending their way over a wild and somewhat
mountainous tract of land, some thirty miles distant
and in a south-westerly direction from St.
Louis. The elder of the two was a man about
thirty-five years of age, whose height rather exceeded
six feet, and although not what might be
termed of handsome proportions, yet of that close
knit and sinewy build which gives evidence of
great muscular strength and a capability of enduring
much hardship and fatigue. His forehead,
which was visible from his hat being partly
removed, was of medium proportions, on one side
of which was carelessly parted his long raven
colored hair. His face was long, thin and rather
strongly marked. His mouth was large, around
which played a peculiar smile which, to convey
an idea of, we shall term a philosophical one.
His lips were thick—cheeks somewhat hollow—
nose long and pointed—eyes small and grey, with
a peculiar twinkle in the latter, when speaking,
which led one to fancy there was more meant
than said—and altogether the whole expression
of his features was a combination of cunning,
shrewdness and candor, mingled with a quiet,
thoughtful and humorous turn of mind. In
speech he was very deliberate, and no matter by
what circumstances surrounded, would never fail
to give each word its proper bearing. His dress
was a plain home-spun suit of sheep's grey—an
article much worn by the yeomen of that day—
and his dialect partook strongly of that peculiarity
which distinguishes the people of New England—particularly
those who have little access to
society—from almost every other; and was, besides,
of that uncouth form of speech, which is
engendered from habit, when not polished by the
refinement of education.

His companion was a very different personage;
in fact, of an entirely opposite cast. In years he
was some five the other's junior—some three inches
less in stature—of a form full of grace and
elasticity—a face almost round—a complexion
ruddy—large, restless grey eyes—with much hauteur
in his bearing, and of an active and rather
irritable temperament. His articulation corresponded
with his temperament, being quick and
impetuous, and his language gave evidence of his
superiority over the other in point of education.
His dress was a plain suit of black, a little the
worse for wear perhaps, but of an excellent fit,
which, together with the fine texture of the cloth,
the graceful ease with which it was worn, had
been proof sufficient the wearer was no laborer,
even were not the soft white hand, holding a light
fancy cane, to be taken as evidence.

To some, perhaps, it may appear singular
that two individuals, so directly opposite in personal
appearance, manners, dress and temperament,
should be companions, and what is more,
friends; yet such was the case. Notwithstanding
the old adage that “like clings to like,” it must
be admitted we have a great many exceptions,
and that like clings to unlike may be said with
propriety of the social relations and connections
of mankind in general. It is by this process the
great strings of Nature are made to blend their
sounds in harmony.

It was, as we have said, near the close of the
day, and the last rays of the setting sun had been
intercepted by a thick, black thunder cloud, which,
approaching rapidly, threatened our travelers with
a heavy shower. For some minutes neither spoke,
but silently glancing toward the west, both immediately
advanced from a slow to a rapid pace.

The younger was the first to break silence with
the exclamation “Ha!” as a flash of lightning,
more vivid than any previous, flung its red lurid
glare over them, and for a moment seemed to put
the forest in a blaze, followed almost instantaneously
by a heavy crash of thunder. “By heavens!
Bernard, there is no mistaking that! How
far are we now from Webber's?”

“Wal, I should guess about five miles,” replied
Bernard.

“Five miles!” echoed the other quickly, with a
touch of sarcasm. “Why, Harvey, what are you
thinking about? It was only ten miles when we
last enquired, nearly two hours since, and now
you think we have only reached half way!—
Pshaw!”

“Wal,” remarked Bernard, coolly and quietly,
“this ere's a free country, and every body's got a
right to their own opinion any how; and so, as the
feller said, if you don't like the distance at five
miles, you can have it for any distance you're a
mind to.”

For a moment a half angry smile played around
the mouth of the younger, as though he would
have laughed, but was checked by some opposite
feeling, while he bit his nether lip and tapped his
cane in the palm of his left hand with a quick,
nervous motion.

“Well, well,” rejoined he, quickly, “if we have
yet five miles to travel, our pace must be still increased,
for the night gathers fast!”

“I calculate we'd about as well be seeking for
a shelter,” remarked Bernard, quietly.

“A shelter!” exclaimed the other in surprise;
“surely you do not dream of spending the night
in this lonely place?”

“Wal, as to the matter o' that,” answered Bernard,
“I reckon I don't dream no how, 'cause I'm
awake and its a sartin thing; and when a body's
awake and sartin, ye see he ain't a dreaming;
but”—and he looked coolly at the other, speaking
slowly and impressively—“if you want to tell
your friends of your adventures, and put this 'ere
night in as one of 'em, you haint got a minute to
lose 'tween this and the time your head's under
something more powerful to protect it than that
are beaver.”

“Why, what mean you?” cried the other,
turning somewhat pale.

“D'ye see that are cloud?” said Bernard, elevating
his finger to an angle of some forty-five degrees;
“now mark all the twists in't, and keep
tally for about a minute all them are streaks o'
lightning dancing up and down, and I reckon
you'll come to the conclusion that the safest place
for Marcus Tyrone don't lay in the open air by
any means.”

“Ay! true, true!” returned Tyrone, with a
start. “You are right, Bernard, right; for there
is something awful in yonder cloud. But what is
to be done? We can reach no habitation, and to
remain here is, I fear, but to expose ourselves to

certain death! Can we not find shelter under
some of these rocks?”

“Why, ye see, Mark, I'll jest tell ye how 'tis,”
answered Bernard. “If we don't find some place
to git our heads under soon, its my opinion they
wont be no further use to us; for that are storm
aint a going to be no common one, or else I aint
no judge. Now right away here to the left o' us
is a cave; for a feller pointed it out to me when I
traveled this way afore, and said folks kind o'
reckened as how it were a ren—ren—something,
for robbers.”

“Rendezvous, doubtless,” remarked Tyrone.

“O yes, that's it! I don't see what makes
folks use such tarnal hard names now-a-days;
they didn't use to when I got edicated. 'Spect
they're gitting a great deal smarter, oh! Mark?”

“Doubtless,” replied the other, with a smile.
“But of the cave, Harvey?”

“O yes; wal, I calculate we'd about as well be
putting our heads inside on't, for we wont no
more'n git killed if its got robbers in it, and if we
stay out here, I swow we'll git blown clean into
a jiffy, for that are harrycane yonder aint a going
to be over nice about what it does, that's a fact.”

“But where is this cave, Harvey?”

“D'ye see that are rough pile o' stones, right
away there, that look jest as if they'd been playing
stone wall all their lives?”

“Ay, ay.”

“Wal, that's the place, and I swow we can't
git there too soon, for that are last streak o' lightning
fairly felt hot. Come on, Mark, don't go to
getting skeered now.”

“Pshaw!” returned Tyrone, his features becoming
a shade more pale; and following Bernard,
he proceeded directly towards the spot designated;
though, perhaps, with feelings less at ease than
he would have his companion imagine.

The cave alluded to, was situated near the
brow of a steep, rocky hill or bluff, some several
rods distant to the left of the road, which our
travelers had just quitted, and appeared to have
been formed by some great convulsion of nature,
in the rending and upheaving of rocks, which
had fallen together so as to leave a cavity sufficiently
large to contain several persons. The
mouth of this cave fronted the south, and overlooked
the beautiful Maramee, which rolled sparkling
along some fifty yards below, and was surrounded
by scenery romantic in the extreme.
The hill on which it stood was a portion of a
ridge which extended in an irregular line far
away to the southwest and northeast. Immediately
above and below this cave were large projecting
rocks, which, to all appearance, were so
slightly bedded in the earth, that but little force
was necessary to send them thundering to the
bottom. A dwarfish growth of shrub-oaks had
struggled up between them, and presented their
rough, shaggy tops above, as though to give the
scene an air of wildness and desolation. But
notwithstanding this, there was a fine redeeming
trait in the surrounding scenery—viewed from
the brow of the hill—whose beauty was heightened
by contrasts the most pleasing. At its base
on the western side, was a finely timbered forest,
stretching far away northward, and finally opening
upon a beautiful strip of meadow or prairie
land, over which the eye might wander for miles,
to rest at last upon a blue hazy ridge of mountains
in the distance.

The view towards the east and south was not
so extensive, but this likewise had its attractions.
A distant perspective was cut off by another
ridge, running almost parallel to the one just described;
but the loss was amply compensated, by
the wild picturesque scenery presented, and the
gentle murmur which stole sweetly upon the ear,
as the Maramee sent its waters foaming and dashing
over its rocky bed between, anon to glance
off into a still silvery belt and for a time mirror
surrounding objects ere forever lost in the bosom
of the mighty Mississippi.

The road of which mention has already been
made—though it would, perhaps, poorly compare
with some of the present day—was, for this period
and section of country, uncommonly good—
being mostly clear of stones, stumps, brush and
the like—so that a skilful horseman might dash
rapidly over it with little danger of life or limb.
To the eastward it followed the windings of the
Maramee, for some considerable distance, through
a thick, dark ravine, and then branched off
through a level and extensive forest.

As light one horse vehicles were not in use at
this period, and more especially in this part of
the country, the horse was ridden instead by
those who prefered an easier and more speedy
locomotion than walking, and in consequence
every settler of note was supplied with a number
of these noble animals, for the use of himself and
family.

But we fear the reader will think us digressing,
and so let us return to our travelers.

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.

3. CHAPTER III.

We must now go back in our narrative, to a
short time previous to its opening in the first
chapter. On the same road already mentioned as
leading on through the ravine, about ten miles to
the northeast of the place described in the foregoing
chapter, and on the same day the events
just recorded took place, were two personages,
well mounted on a couple of beautiful horses,
riding along at a leisure pace. Of the two, one was
a young man, apparently about twenty years of
age, of a fine form and manly bearing. His countenance
was well shaped, open, frank and noble,
and of a high intellectual cast; while his bright,
hazel eye sparkled with a true poetic expression.
His forehead was smooth, broad and high, surmounted
by dark brown hair, which hung in
graceful curls far down his neck, giving to him
a somewhat feminine, though not unpleasing, appearance.
He was well dressed—uncommonly so
for this section of the country—in a fine suit of
black; the lower extremity of his pantaloons being
encased in fine buckskin leggins, while his
head was covered by a beautiful cap of dark silk
velvet, on either side of which a couple of gold
mounted buttons shone conspicuously. He rode
his high mettled steed in that easy, graceful, dignified
manner, which sets forth the rider to so
much advantage, and which is only acquired by
constant practice, together with a knowledge of
the rules of horsemanship.

His companion was a female, elegantly attired
in a riding suit, and likewise rode very gracefully.
Of years she had seen some eighteen, was medium
in stature, and beautifully formed. Her countenance,
strictly speaking, could scarce be account
ed handsome, for her features were not entirely
regular; yet there was something so noble, so intelligent
in the expression, her dark blue eyes
were so lit up with the fires of an earnest soul,
that ten to one you would pronounce her beautiful,
ere the form of her features was distinctly
recognised; thus unconsciously awarding another
proof of the mind's immortal triumph over matter.
Her hair was a glossy auburn, the front of
which was neatly braided, brought down with a
graceful curve below her ears, and fastened behind.
Her checks were slightly dimpled, and
around her mouth lingered one of those pleasing
expressions—a sort of half smile—which, combined
with a bright flashing eye, invariably wins
upon the beholder in spite of himself, and leads
us to fancy there is an influence of a Mesmeric
nature connected therewith.

The country through which the two were
traveling, was mostly level, and heavily shaded
by thick, dark woods, stretching far away on
either hand, occasionally broken a little in places
by the clearing up of some settler, whereby the
beams of the sun poured gently in, refreshing to
the eyes of civilization, as the cool springs of water
to the thirsty traveler of the Arabian Desert.

It was an exceedingly warm day, and the travelers
would have suffered much, had they not
been so well protected from the rays of the sun,
which already far advanced toward the western
horizon, threw the shade of the lofty trees directly
across their path. Still the air was hot and
sultry, unaccompanied by any cooling breeze, and
although jogging along at a very moderate pace,
both horse and rider perspired freely.

“Ah! how refreshing!” exclaimed the lady, as
a cool breeze fanned for an instant her heated
brow, rustling the leaves with that pleasing sound
so delightful in a forest. “See, even my noble
Fanny pricks up her ears, and seems greatly
rejoiced.”

“Ay, and so does Sir Harry,” returned her
companion. “It is delightful truly, after this intense
and almost suffocating heat. Ah! it dies
away again; I would it were to continue.”

“Well, Edward, let us be thankful for a little,
you know that is my motto.”

“True, Emily, and I agree with all my heart.”

“All?” enquired Emily with emphasis, casting
her head a little one side, and throwing on him
one of her peculiar, fascinating glances; “with all
your heart, Edward?”

“That is, all there is left me,” replied Edward,
with a meaning smile, gracefully bowing to the
lady.

“Ay, that indeed! well put in, Sir Knight! but
a little late withal. However, better late than
never, says the adage, and I trust you will be a
little more circumspect of speech hereafter.”

“I will do any thing you require, Emily,” returned
Edward gallantly; “you have only to command
to be obeyed.”

“Indeed, Sir Knight! you are very proficient in
promises; you have yielded to a hard task-master,
and I fear me if put to the test, your actions
would much belie your words.”

“Nay, indeed, Emily, you are in error; only
give me the trial, and see if I do not produce the
proof.”

“Well, sir, since you require it, please ride forward
and announce to the good inhabitants—if
you should chance to meet any—that a lady is approaching,
in the person of Emily Novance, whose
gallant by her orders goes before as a herall.—

What? you hesitate! is this the way I am to be
obeyed? Go, sir! it is my command!”

“Nay, but Emily, this is unfair.”

“So, then, you question my orders, do you?
Ah! I fear you are like all the rest of your sex—
full of promises, which doubtless you all fulfil,
when the fulfilment proves agreeable to yourselves;
but when otherwise, ah me! for our sex;”
and the speaker shook her head with an arch
look.

“Now, now, Emily; but I see you are determined
to carry the point your own way, so I
will fain give in, lest I get worsted by argument.”

“Ay, do if you please, Sir Knight! and you
will oblige me much, very much.”

For some minutes after this both rode along in
silence, when the conversation was again opened
by Edward.

“I say, Emily,” began he, at length, “to one of
your refined taste, does not this country life, so
tone, so solitary, in the woods as it were, seem
very irksome? Methinks to one of your light
turn of mind, that had been used to the gay crowds
which throng the city, it must be very tiresome,
full of sameness, causing ennvi and discontent.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the lady, a slight flush
singing her fair noble features, while her eyes
sparkled with more than wonted brilliancy. “Indeed!
think you so? then have I given you more
credit for discernment than you really possess, if
thus you judge the heart of Emily Nevance!
What are the gay crowds of the city, of which
you speak? Of what are they composed, but
of fops and fools—apes of fashion—walking
advertisements for tailors and milliners—whose
mirrors are their prophets, and themselves the
only God they worship!—whose very souls are
confined within the trappings of dress, and know
as little of what human beings should be, as the
insects that crawl beneath our feet! And do you
think I sigh for their society? No! give me Nature
in her wildest, grandest, seul-inspiring moods!
—away from the haunts of men, let me contemplate
her in silence, and in awe! 'Tis then, far
from loncliness, I feel I hold communion with the
All Pervading Spirit! I look around me, and behold
the works of One, compared with whom, I
sink into utter insignificance. Ay! away with
dusty cities! Give me the hills, the dales, the
rocky steeps, the level plains, the tall, majestic,
sighing forests, with the music of their creating—
the laughing, rippling, sunay streams, that dance
along in childish glee—and with a soul pure, sinless
in the sight of God, I will rest content to
spend my days in holy contemplation.”

“Spoken like yourself, Emily!—my sentiments,
for the world!” exclaimed Edward, with a bright,
enthusiastic animation of countenance that told
the feelings within more eloquently far than words
“I was but jesting, dear Emily.”

“Well, I am glad to hear you say that, at all
events. I should be sorry to have you form such
an opinion of me as you first expressed.” This
was said in a sad, almost mournful tone of voice,
while the speaker bent her head forward, and appeared
to be examining some of the trappings of
the saddle.

“Nay, never fear, dear Emily, that I will think
aught of you but what is most worthy,” replied
Edward, in that deep, earnest tone of voice which
invariably carries conviction with it the speaker is
sincere. “But why,” continued he, after a pause
of some moments, during which each seemed
buried in some deep study, “why, dearest Emily,
when every thing concurs to prove us so fitly
adapted to each other, why will you withhold
your consent to be mine? O, if you did but
know the deep, ardent passion I possess for you,
methinks you would not turn so deaf an ear to
all my pleadings!”

“There, Edward, you do me wrong,” replied
Emily; “I am not deaf to your pleadings, far from
it; nor do I in the least doubt the passion of which
you speak; but Edward, as I told you before, we
are both as yet young, and I would rather, ere you
bind yourself by a solemn promise, that you look
more about you, lest by too hasty nuptials you do
an act which you may repent the remainder of
your days. Besides, you know you are wealthy;
I am not; and your parents will, perchance, object
to your wedding one so far beneath you.”

“Ah! Emily,” sighed Edward, “that is the unkindest
word of all. Beneath me,” cried he suddenly,
“by heavens! it were not well for any to
utter that in my presence, save Emily Nevance!
Beneath me, indeed! and in what am I your superior?
In gold! And did not you yourself despise
it but now, and all its idle votaries?”

“But then, Edward, you know the world—”

“Pshaw! what care I for the world? The world
—nonsense! I am a man, and I stand on my own
opinions, in matters of my own concern! Surely
I would be mad, or worse than mad, to sacrifice
my own happiness to please the world!”

“But then, Edward, you know your parents
may think differently in regard to the opinions of
the world.”

For some minutes Edward, mused thoughtfully,
before making a reply. He knew that Emily was
correct in her surmises, for his parents were both
rich and proud—his father more especially—and
he knew too that the latter, in his own mind, had
already disposed of his hand, to one he had never
seem, simply because she was a personage of
wealth; and consequently, that it would be a difficult
matter, even if done at all, to gain their
consent to his union with another, and furthermore
too, when that other was poor; but still he
loved Emily sincerely, deeply, and was fully determined
not to sacrifice his own happiness to gratify
the caprices of others, even were those others
his parents.

“Well, Emily,” he at length replied, “depend
upon it, whatever my parents may think, my
views and sentiments shall, at least, ever remain
unaltered; and since you will not now sacredly
promise to become mine, I will live on the
joyful hope of some day winning your consent—
some day calling you so, with the sanction of the
laws of both God and man.”

“And I,” rejoined Emily, in a low sweet tone,
with her eyes cast down, “I will live on in the
sincere hope, that should that day ever come, I
may be worthy of you.”

“Ah, then you admit—”

“No! for the present I admit nothing. But see!
the sun is already nearing the western horizon,
where black clouds are looming up in sullen majesty,
and we have a goocly distance yet to ride.
Let us put our horses to the spur.”

“Ay, you are right,” returned Edward; “time
flies so rapidly when with those we love we scarcely
head it. But we must make amends for our delay
in this instance, as I like not the looks of yonder
claud, and methought but now I heard the
distant sound of thunder.”

Accordingly putting spurs to the noble animals,
they rode forward at a fast gallop. Half an hour

of good riding brought them to an humble cottage,
where, finding the storm was likely to prove detrimental
if they continued their journey, they
concluded to await its termination. Alighting,
Edward secured the horses under a sort of shed,
and then led the way into the hovel, which was a
rough, homely fabric, composed of logs, put together
in the rude, half-civilized manner common to the
first settlers of the West. At the door, or entrance,
they were met by a female—the hostess—a woman
somewhat past the middle age, of rather an unprepossessing
appearance, who gave them a cold salutation,
and learning the object of their visit, civilly
bade them enter. She was dressed in the
simplest, coarsest garb of the day, and wore a stern,
haughty, or rather an angry look, which made her
person appear to her guests anything but agreeable.
The room which they entered waslow, dark,
and dirty; the ground—for it could not boast of a
floor—being strewed with damp, filthy straw. In
one corner was some of a fresher, cleanlier
appearance; used, undoubtedly, as a place of rest
for the occupants. Several rough benches promiscuously
standing about, together with a plain
deal table, a few pots and kettles, apparently completed
the stock of furniture.

“You're jest in time,” remarked the hostess, retreating
within, and pointing our travelers to
one of the benches; “you haint bin a minnet
too quick; for sich a guster as we're goin' to
have, arn't seen in these diggins often.”

“Do you think, madam, we shall have a severe
shower?” enquired Edward, casually.

“Think!” cried she contemptuously, drawing
herself up, her small black eyes flashing angrily,
“I arn't one to think, sir! I knows! Thar's goin'
to happen one of the greatest gusters as ever was
knowd on, sir! The tall big trees ar' going to
snap like pipe stems! Listen! The thunder growls
like a savarageous lion! The lightning dances
like mad! Think, indeed! Hetty Brogan what
tells fortunes, arn't one as thinks much, I reckon
Thar! d'ye hear that?” screamed she, as a tremendous
crash of thunder broke over their heads.
“That ar's the speret o' the storm, cheering it on!
Hist! d'ye hear that ar' roarin? I tell ye its comin'.
Young folks, bewar'! thar's danger in your
way! I see it—the storm—the woods!” and she
strode to and fro the apartment, her eyes turned
upward, apparently fixed on some distant object,
gesticulating, the while, in that wild manner,
which led our travelers to believe her touched with
insanity. Suddenly stretching out her long bony
arm, pausing, and pointing with her finger in the
direction she was gazing, while with the other she
seemed to brush a mist from before her eyes, she
exclaimed with vehemence, “I see it again! the
woods!—the ambush—all—all! Young folks bewar'!
thar's danger in your way!—be—” a vivid
flash of lightning, followed instantaneously by
another crash of thunder, that made the old cabin
tremble, here cut her speech short. “Well,
enough,” muttered she to herself, “if Jack and
Bill only manage to play their parts, I'll git more
credit for witcheraft.”

The storm now howled in all its fury, making
the rough old timbers of the cabin creak and
tremble, as though about to be demolished, while
a thick, heavy darkness shut in every object, save
when relieved by the lurid glare of lightaing.
Edward and Emily sat mute, gazing upon the
scene with that sense of awe, which intelligent
and sensitive minds ever experience, when brought
by the fierce combat of the elements into the
presence of the Almighty Spirit of the Universe.

Something less than two hours served to clear
away the storm, when our travelers prepared to
leave. The horses were found safe, though the saddles
were rendered disagreeable from being saturated
with the rain. This, however, being of minor
importance, they mounted, thanked the hostess
for her accommodation, and rode away—she the
while repeating: “Bewar', thar's danger on yer
way!” so long as they were within hearing.

“What think you of that old woman?” enquired
Emily, as they rode along, carefully picleing
their way, it still being dark, while here and
there a tree felled directly across their path, warned
them to move cautiously.

“Why, I scarcely gave her a thought, except
to think her a little deranged,” answered Edward.

“But if what she vaguely hinted should prove
true—”

“Poh! Emily,” interrupted Edward, “do not
give it a thought. Surely, you are not frightened
at the idle outpourings of such an illiterate old
woman as that?”

“I scarcely know, Edward, whether I am or
not. But something weighs heavily on my spirits,
and I feel a strange foreboding of some coming
ill.”

“O, the effect of the storm no doubt; it will
soon pass away; come, come, do not be down-hearted,
the moon will be up presently, and then
we can move forward with greater facility.”

They now rode on for some time in silence, occasionally
venturing their horses into a trot, whenever
the road appeared a little more open, until they
entered the ravine, where the trees being of much
smaller growth, of a swampy nature, had made
little or no obstruction to their progress, when
giving their steeds the reins, they moved forward
at a much faster pace. The Maramee, running
along to their left, being much swolen by the late
rains, now rolled on with that sullen, gloomy, monotonous
sound, which the turbulent waters of a
flood will invariably produce.

“Oh, how gloomy!” began Emily, breaking the
silence they had for some time maintained; “I
shall feel much relieved when we pass this lonely
place, for here every sound seems to send a chill
to my heart.”

“And my spirits,” returned Edward, “from
some cause, are less buoyant than is common with
me. I wonder if that old woman could have any
secret meaning in what she said? But no! pshaw!
what a foolish idea;” and he tried to laugh, as if to
shake off his thoughts, but the attempt ended in
a hollow tone, that sounded strange and unnatural.

“I fear, Edward, there was more in her words
than you are willing to eredence. But here we
are, thank Heaven! at the foot of the hill: now
then, we shall leave this—” what more she would
have added was interrupted by a scream, as two
figures, springing from either side of the path,
grasped the bridles of both Edward's horse and
her own. The next moment Emily felt herself
seized by one of the raffians, who instantly mounted
behind her—saw her companion felled to the
ground—saw two more figures rush forward—
heard the report of a pistol—a groan, and uttering
another wild scream of fear and despair, she
was rapidly borne away into the dark ravine.

In the execution of this nefarious design, Curdish
was less successful than Riley; for having

struck Edward from his horse, and just as his foot
was placed in the stirrup to mount, a shot from
the pistol of Bernard disabled him, and he was
immediately taken prisoner. At this juncture
Edward, recovering from the stunning effects of
the blow, sprang to his feet, and learning from
Tyrone how matters were, in an agitated voice of
deep emotion, said:

“Gentlemen, you are both strangers to me, but
you have acted like men, and from my heart I
thank you. Some five miles from here, on this
road, you will find a cottage occupied by one
Webber, where you can confine this villain, and
take such measures as you may think proper.
Inform Webber of the circumstances, and say
that Edward Merton has gone in pursuit of his
ward.”

“His ward!” echoed Bernard and Tyrone in a
breath.

“Even so; adieu!” and mounting his horse,
which stood by him, while speaking, he drove the
spurs into his sides, and dashed on in pursuit of
the kidnapper, with that wild, reckless daring,
that uncertainty of purpose, which hot-brained
youth ever exhibits, ere subdued by the stern,
calm teachings of experience.

“Heavens!” exclaimed Tyrone, as Merton rode
away, ere he was fully aware of his purpose; “his
rashness may spoil all. But come, Bernard, let us
take this cut-throat along, and forward to Webber's
as soon as possible.”

“Wal, that's to my notion exactly,” returned
Bernard. “So, Mr. Jack Curdish, you didn't
quite come it this ere time, I guess, did ye? Pre'aps
you'll have better luck agin you git another
such a chance. If I's you, I wouldn't holler and
laugh quite so loud next time; I'd du it all a great
deal more stiller like; I would, I swow, that's a
fact.”

“Curses on ye!” growled Curdish between his
clenched teeth. “I'll pay ye some day, hang me
if I don't!”

“O, you needn't cuss and squirm, 'cause 't wont
be o' no use, not a darned bit. I guess I've seen
chaps afore to-day git cured, when they got a little
obstropulous, mighty tarnal quick too; so come
along with ye;” and taking hold of one arm,
while Tyrone walked on the other side, the arm
of which was broken by the shot of Bernard, they
proceeded in the direction of Webber's, where
they arrived in about an hour and a half, and
where for the present we shall leave them.

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.

5. CHAPTER V.

On the margin of the Mississippi, some eight
or ten miles below St. Louis, stood, at the time
of which we write, an old, somewhat dilapidated,
and apparently untenanted log hut. Although
standing on the bank of the river, it was well
screened from observation by thick branching
trees and a dense shrubbery, which completely
surrounded it. The ground in the rear of it was
mostly level; but in front, it abruptly descended
to the river, which came sweeping along some
thirty yards below. The hut itself, on close inspection,
presented both externally and internally
a very disagreeable appearance. It contained
but one apartment, if we except a place partitioned
off at one end, for what purpose may,
perhaps, be seen hereafter. However ugly and
disagreeable the matter may prove, dear reader, it
now becomes necessary for us to introduce you
within the precints of this old dwelling—for dwelling
indeed it was—at an hour not the most agreeable,
were you obliged to enter corporeally.

Seated upon an old stool, beside a small table,
on which his elbow rested, his head in turn resting
upon his hand, was a man over whom some
sixty years had made their circling rounds. One
hand held a paper, on which he was intently gazing,
while some few others were scattered carelessly
over the table. It was near the “witching
time of night,” and a dim, flickering candle served
to show the outline of his form, and bring his
features into a more bold relief. His countenance
was strongly marked by several lines which depicted
cunning and avarice to a remarkable degree.
His eyes were small, dark and piercing,
and were surmounted by heavy beetling brows.
His forehead was low, and deeply wrinkled; and
his head, though a little bald, was generally
covered with long hair, besprinkled with the silver
touches of time. The most striking feature of his
face, was his nose; being long, pointed and aquiine—denoting
him to be one of that often despised
race, the Jew. His beard was suffered to grow,
unmolested by the civilizing touches of a razor;
was rough, of a dirty brown color; and came below
his chin sufficiently, with his head bent forward,
to rest on his bosom. His skin was dark
and filthy, deeply wrinkled, and begrimed with
dirt. Altogether his whole appearance betokeued
a man full of treachery and deceit; of
dark sinister motives; and one who, to a person of
the least refined taste, would prove repugnant in
the extreme.

He was seated as before said, intently gazing on
a paper held in his hand, which trembling in the
light, threw over his swarthy, hideous features a
flitting shade; making them, if possible, even more
hideous in expression. Gradually his small, while a
sinister smile hovered around the corners of his
mouth, as he uttered a low, chuckling laugh.—
Suddenly starting, a paleness overspread his countenance,
the paper dropped from his hand, and he
looked hurriedly around the room, vainly endeavoring
to peer into the darkness, his limbs trembling
with cowardly fear, exclaiming:

“Ha! mine Gott! vot wash dat? O! poh, poh!
twas noshings; vot fors should I pees afraids?—
noshings vill hurtish me;” and turning to the
table, he again took up the paper, muttering—
“Dis ish von good documents, as shall makes mine
fortunes. De old Jew vill von days pe a very
great mans, mid a young handsome wifes;” and
again he chuckled, with a fiendish glee.

Scanning the papers for a few minutes, he commenced
rolling them carefully together, and ended
by securing them with a string. When done,
he laid the roll upon the table before him, and
gazed upon it long and wistfully:—then rising
from his seat, he shuffled slowly across the apartment,
to the place already mentioned as being
partitioned off, where disappearing for a few minutes,
he reappeared, returned, reseated himself
on his stool, crossed his arms an the table, bent
his head forward, and, judging from his vacant
stare, was soon engaged in some deep study.

“Ha! mine Gott! but dey mush succeeds!” exclaimed
he, at length, as though speaking from a
train of thought:—“yet I fears dat infernal showers
will make it too mush bad. Ah! vot wash dat!”
cried he suddenly, starting up and bending forward
in alistening attitude. “Blessed pe Fader Abram!
dat ish de signals,” continued he, rubbing his
hands, chuckling, and advancing towards the
door, as a clear, shrill whistle rang through the
hovel. “Ah, mine Gott! mine Gott! von day nows
I shall haves plenty of monish;” and he attempted

a feeble imitation at dancing, which, with his
stooped figure and trembling limbs, presented a
spectacle disgusting as it was ridiculous.

Advancing to the door, the opened it, gave an
answering signal from a piece of ivory which he
applied to his mouth, and then leaned against the
door post, as if in expectation of some visitor.—
For some minutes all was silent, and then came
the sound of approaching footsteps, with which
was occasionally mingled a grunt and a deep muttered
curse, as though the comer was toiling with
some heavy burthen. Directly the figure of a
man was seen struggling through the bushes,
bearing a human body in his arms, and a moment
after, entering the hovel, he deposited it on the
ground.

“Thar,' Mister Jew David, when you want another
gal cotched, I reckons as how you'll have
to cotch her yerself—for Bill Riley aint found
on such an errand agin, not afore this scrape's
forgot, anyhow.”

“Vare ish Mistoor Jacks?” enquired the Jew.

“Why ye see, old feller, that ar's much easier
axed, than answered. Most likely he's in a
straight jacket by this time, if he arn't already
bored through the body. I did'nt wait to see how
it come out, for I thought one was about as many
as I could tend on, conveniently.”

“Vy, vot dosh you means?” cried the Jew, in
alarm.

“O, nothing much, only somebody happened to
hear what was a goin' on, and come up in a hurry,
pistol in hand, which probably went off accidentally,
and ye see Jack arn't here; that's all I know
about it.”

“Oh, mine Gott! mine Gott! do you thinks
Jacks vosh kilt?” enquired the Jew, his dark eyes
gleaming strangely.

“Can't say—most likely he's dead by this
time.”

A low, half-smothered chuckle escaped the
Jew, which Bill overheard, and turning fiercely
to him, exclaimed:

“Look ye here, old rough-head! I believe you're
a most outrageous, old villainous cut-throat! I
do upon my honor.”

“Vot fors you shays dat?” asked the Jew, with
a savage grin.

“Cause I jest think so, and I al'ays like to
speak my mind. Here you are now, laughing to
yerself, for ye darn't to laugh out like a man,
thinking Jack, poor feller's, dead. Well, it's
lucky for you if he is: that's my opinion about
it.”

“Vot for you shays dat?” repeated the Jew,
turning a little pale.

“Come, come, old feller, not so fast. Bill Riley
don't peach; if he did”—and he looked keenly
at the Jew, drawing his right hand obliquely
across his throat, making a gurgling sound—
“somebody might get that ar' you know. But
come,” he added, “I've done the job, and now I'll
trouble you for the chinkers—a cool hundred, you
remember.”

“Oh, mine Gott! it vosh but fifty!” cried the
Jew, starting back.

“Fifty apiece, old covey, and thar's two on us,
which jest makes it a hundred. As Jack's not
here, I'll jest take his for him, and in case I cum
across him, its easily paid over, ye see.”

“Oh, mine Gott! I vill not not do so,” whimpered
the Jew, who in Jack's absence thought he
might cheat him of his share.

“You won't, eh?” exclaimed Bill, advancing to
the table and returning with the light, which he
held close to the features of Emily, who lay extended
on the ground, pale and motionless, yet
even lovely withal: “Look thar,' Jew! d'ye see
that ar' innocent young lady, whom God forgive
me, for bringing into harm's way! D'ye see her?
Now look at me;” and he drew himself up to his
full height, bringing the light full in front of his
face, while the Jew stood wondering:—“Look
well! d'ye see me? do I look like a feller that can
be trifled with?” Then drawing a pistol, he raised
it to a level with the head of David, who turned
pale, trembled, and threw up his hands in an imploring
attitude as he continued: “Now mark
me, Jew David, if them ar' chinkers arn't forthcoming
in about two minutes, I'll send a bullet
through your head, by—!” and he concluded
with an oath.

“Oh, Fader Abram!” exclaimed the Jew,
trembling like an aspen leaf; “poot down de pishtools,
Mistoor Rileys, and you shall haves de
monish.”

For a moment the other stood gazing on him
with a look of ineffable scorn, and as he did so,
the trio formed a scene worthy the pencil of an
artist.

Near the centre of the room was Riley, his tall
straight form drawn proudly up, one foot thrown
a little back, his right hand grasping a pistol, his
left the light, which throwing its gleams upon
his countenance, exhibited it in strong relief. His
features were not handsome—strictly speaking—
and yet they were well formed; the outlines bold
and rather prepossessing. Their expression was
stern, rather than villainous, and his clear, bold,
grey eyes, which were now fastened with intensity
upon the Jew, spoke more the courage of a
man, than the braggadocio of a scoundrel. There
was something in his look which told you he
would do what he said; and one that to trifle with
under circumstances like the present, would prove
a dangerous individual. His lips thin, and generally
close drawn over his teeth, were now parted
and slightly drawn up with a sneer, wherein was
concentrated all the scorn which a truly brave
man feels at the sight of a whimpering, cowardly
ruffian. Some two or three feet in front of Riley,
stood the Jew; his withered form, blanched cheeks,
quivering lips and trembling limbs, presenting a
striking contrast. Ay, he, the dastardly cutthroat,
who would not flinch from burying the
murderer's dagger in the heart of some poor, unsuspecting
victim, now quaked and trembled at
only the bare thought of death overtaking his
shriveled, worthless carcase! A little to the left
of Riley, lay the apparently lifeless form of Emily
Nevance; her pale features looking even more
pale and death-like, as the dim light of the lamp
fell faintly upon her lovely, upturned countenance;
while night formed the back-ground, and
compietely encircling them, threw a dark veil over
surrounding objects.

After gazing a moment on the Jew, Riley advanced
to the table, replaced the light, seated
himself on the stool, and then bade the Israelite
“make haste with the chinkers.”

Old David tottered slowly across the apartment,
to the closet before spoken of, groaning at the very
idea of parting with so much money; but presently
he returned, bringing with him a leathern
purse, which he emptied on the table, exclaiming;

“Dare, Mistoor Rileys, ish all my monish.—
Oh! mine Gott! I shall always more pe one ruined
mans.”

Riley deigned no reply, but cooly commenced
counting the money and transferring it to his
pockets. Then turning to the Jew, he enquired
what he intended to do with the lady.

The Jew looked at him steadily for a moment,
and then as if satisfied there was nothing to fear,
replied, with a grin, his small black eyes twinkling
with savage humor:

“Vy, Mistoor Rileys, I tinks I shall makes her
my vife.”

“Your what?” cried Bill, half starting up.

“My vife,” repeated the Jew, scarcely knowing
whether to be alarmed or not.

“Your wife, eh? ha, ha, ha!—that's capital; a
mighty good joke that, old boy—ha, ha, ha!—
You're such a good looking, soft eyed, clean faced
old beauty, that if the lady don't fall in love with
ye at first sight, you'll have the perticular satisfaction
o' knowing the fault warn't yours, anyhow—
ha, ha, ha!”

“He, he, he!” laughed the Jew, grinning hideously.

“But I say, Jew, what's yer object in throwin'
yerself away at such a tender age?”

“Vot fors mine objects?” repeated the Jew, enquiringly.

“Yes! what'll ye get by marryin' this ere lady?
for in course ye'll gain somethin' or yer wouldn't
do it.”

“O, mine Gott! I shall marrys for loves,
Mistoor Rileys;” replied the Jew, with stoical
gravity.

“For love, eh?—ha, ha, ha!—ho, ho, ho!”
roared Bill, holding his sides:—“For love, eh?”
and again he went into convulsive fits of laughter.
“Why you confounded, stupid old heathen! do
you think as how you can make an ass o' Bill
Riley? Do you really think thar's anything
perticularly verdant about him? Love—paugh!
your shrivelled old carcase never fell in love with
anything yet, unless thar' was “monish” attached
to't. Now jest mark me!” continued he, looking
steadily at the Jew, raising the forefinger of his
right hand, and assuming a serious tone of voice:
“Thar's a mystery connected with this ere business,
and per'aps you thinks as how you can blind
me, and per'aps you may; but I tell you one
thing, bewar' what you do! for if this ere gal
comes to harm, through your doings, I, Bill Riley,
swear by the honor of a gentleman, to send a
bullet through yer loathsome carcase! I do, by
heavens! And Jew, I know more consarnin' this,
than you're a thinkin' on. Thar's some secret
connected with this gal's birth, and you intend
crossin' the big waters.”

The Jew started back, exclaiming: “Vy, how
you finds dat outs?”

“Ha! then I'm right there,” thought Bill.—
“No matter how I found it out,” he replied; “but
ye see I know a little what's a goin' on, so have a
care friend David. But enough! I'll have to begin
to travel; so good bye, old boy, and jest keep
yer eye skinned for squalls;” and rising as he
spoke, he moved for the door.

At this juncture, Emily, whom they supposed
lay in a swoon, but who in reality bad feigned it,
in order to learn as much as possible regarding
the wherefore of her capture; and who, thinking
from the foregoing conversation there might be
something gained by appealing to the feelings of
Riley; uttered a scream, and sprang into a sitting
posture, exclaiming:

“Save me, save me!” But her plan did not
succeed. Riley, either fearful of being discovered,
or that she might work upon his feelings, pushed
quickly forward and disappeared.

As the door closed behind the kidnapper, the
Jew looked hurriedly around, gave a low chuckle,
rubbed his hands together, and advanced towards
Emily, who instantly sprang to her feet. Recoiling
a step or two, he gazed upon her with undisguised
admiration, as well he might. Her beauful
figure drawn gracefully up, the flush of excitement
mounting her face and neck with a ruddy
glow, her proud lip curling with a look of
scorn, again reflected from her brilliant, dark
blue eyes, as she crossed her arms on her breast
and stood regarding him; formed a picture which
might win the admiration of even a miserly cutthroat.

“O, mine Gott! she does looks so mush pooty!”
cried the Jew—“Vot a fine wifes!”

“Jew,” began Emily, in a dignified tone,
“what means this? why have I been brought
hither?”

For a moment the Jew looked at her steadily,
and as he did so, his ugly features contracted into
a grin, followed by a low chuckle.

“You ish very mush pootish, gal,” he replied,
“and Ben David vill makes you his wifes.”

“Never!” cried Emily, in a voice so loud, bold
and firm, that the Jew involuntarily started back
“Never, sir! I become your wife? No! sooner
would I die a thousand deaths!”

“O, mine Gott! she does looks so mush pootish!”
exclaimed old David, recovering from his surprise
as Emily ceased, and gazing upon her with a doting
look of exultation. “Come, young ladish,
we vill takes a walk,” continued he, approaching
and taking hold of her arm, which she threw off
with a contemptuous look,—at the same time
drawing a dagger from the folds of her dress, while
the Jew again started suddenly back, she exclaimed:

Beware, Jew, beware! It were better for you to
beard a lion in his den, than a woman armed, in
my situation. Do not attempt to touch me with
your foul, polluted hands, or your much fouler
soul, thrice damned with sin, with all its hideous
weight of guilt, shall wing its flight and stand arraigned
before the bar of the eternal God! And
Jew,” continued she solemnly, “there is a God!
and one of justice.”

So sudden the action, so bold the movement, so
solemn the tone of Emily, all combined, took the
Jew completely by surprise; and he stood for a
moment, gazing upon her dark blue, soul-speaking
eyes, with alook wherein was blended all the
awe, admiration and respect, which one like him
was capable of expressing. It was but for a moment
however. A dark shade suddenly flitted
across his forehead; his eyes shot forth strange,
savage gleams; his lips quivered, as he attempted
to compress them over his almost toothless gums,
and he bent on Emily a look so full of the expression
of a fiend, that she felt her eye quail, while
the blood receded to her heart and a tremor of secret
terror ran throughout her system.

Applying the ivory to his lips, the Jew gave a
peculiar whistle, which was immediately answered
from without. A minute later, two figures entered
the doorway; and ere Emily had fairly comprehended
what was going forward, she found
herself pinioned in the grasp of two ruffians.

“Oh!” exclaimed she, “all is lost!” and she uttered
a heart-piercing scream.

The Jew chuckled merrily, and advancing toward

her, until she felt his very breath on her
face, said:

“You looks very mush more pootish;” and he
attempted to press his loathsome lips against her
face. Recoiling as much as lay in her power—
each wrist being grasped by the strong arm of a
man—Emily managed to evade what she would
have suffered death sooner than permitted, a
kiss from the Jew. At this moment she thought
of Edward, and scarcely knowing why, she called
upon his name for help.

“Vot fors you calls?” chuckled the Jew. “Mistoor
Edwards vill not comes!”

“'Tis a lie!” uttered a deep, manly voice, that
made Emily scream for joy, as the figure of a
man sprang quickly forward, a pistol in either
hand, still exclaiming:—“Back, fiends of hell!
back! ere I send a bullet through your brains!” and
the next instant Emily was clasped in the arms
of Edward Merton, who pressed her to his bosom
with all the wild foundness of a first passionate love.

After leaving Merton in the previous chapter,
he had ridden quickly forward, but had been somewhat
delayed, as the exact location of the old hut
was unknown to him. He had secured his horse
at a short distance, and was searching along the
bank of the river, assisted by the light of the moon,
which pouring down her silvery flood of light,
gave to each thing a calm and pleasing effect—
when the scream of Emily arresting his attention,
effectually enabled him to find the house; which
being completely surrounded by trees and bushes,
had thus far eluded his observation. Instantly
springing forward, he reached the entrance just
in time to hear the voice of her he loved, in tones
that went to his very soul, calling on him for
help, and the taunting reply of the Jew. Mad,
almost, with hope, rage and fear combined, he
entered as described; but so suddenly, and unexpectedly,
that the ruffians relaxed their hold and
retreated to the farther side of the apartment;
while the Jew, not knowing what he had to fear,
stood trembling with very fright. Seeing there
was but one, however, he somewhat recovered, exclaiming:

“Vy you don't sheize him? vot fors you ish
afraids?”

“Off, ruffians, off! or by heavens you journey to
another world!” cried Merton, springing in front
of Emily. “And as for you, old dastardly cutthroat!”
continued he, turning to David, as the
ruffians paused—“I have a word to say, which
you will do well to heed! This girl I demand by
virtue of this ring!” and as he spoke, he presented
the one given him by Barton.

Whether Merton expected this to have any effect
on the Jew or not, certain it is that he was
very much surprised at the singular change it did
effect; for the Jew instantly advanced in a fawning
manner, while the ruffians slunk quietly
away. Content that his purpose was gained,
without seeking the mysterious cause, Merton,
accompanied by Emily, quitted the hovel as soon
as possible. The Jew followed them to the door,
whispering them a good night, pleasant journey
and so forth, and even went so far as to offer his
service as a guide, which of course was declined.
As Merton entered the bushes, he looked back
and saw the Jew standing in the doorway, his
face upturned as though gazing at the stars. At
this moment a cloud which had obseured the rays
of the moon passed, and the light streaming full
upon his countenance, exhibited features so
wrought up in expression with all that was dark,
treacherous and devilish, that in Merton's estimation
the owner was well worthy to become the
master fiend of hell itself.

A short walk of a few minutes brought them
to the spot where Merton had left his horse, when
to the surprise of both, they found the one Emily
had ridden standing along side. Merton accounted
for this by supposing that the kidnapper,
either forgetting, or not having any further
use, had left her at liberty, when attracted
by the neighing of Sir Harry she had sought him
out. Assisting Emily to mount, he was soon
once more astride his own fine steed; and moving
away with lightened hearts, they were shortly
traversing a path which led on toward Webber's,
engaged in mutual explanations of what had occurred
to each in the others absence; and if in doing
so, Merton did ride a little closer to the side of
Emily than was actually necessary—and if when
the moon shone full on her fair countenance, he
did bend forward and gaze thereon with a look of
fondness that told of holy love, drinking in the
glances of her dark blue eyes—and if in attempting
to lay hold of her bridle-rein, to guide her horse
in the better path, he sometimes touched her
hand, pressing it within his own, and whispered
words so soft and low the very zephyrs could not
catch their import, causing her head to droop,
while a rosy tint sprang brightly o'er her face,—
is it anything that the reader should stop to wonder
at? We think not. Very few but would
have done the same under like circumstances.

6. CHAPTER VI.

About five miles from the place where our tale
first opens and in a southwesterly direction, stood
a neat cottage, in size and appearance greatly the
superior of the generality of these buildings,
erected in this part of the country. It was composed
of logs it is true, but then parts of them
were hewn and put together with compactness
and regularity, while the crevices were neatly
filled with a clay-like substance. The roof was
pierced by a chimney built of stone, and was well
thatched with straw. A stranger, after traveling
through much of the surrounding country, would
have been struck with the air of taste and elegant
neatness
belonging to it, compared with the more
slovenly appearance of many of its neighbors.
The ground round about, was generally level, of
a fertile order, and exhibited marks of fruitful
tillage. In the immediate vicinity of the cottage,
grass had sprung up, forming a thick green sward,
a sure indicative of civilization. A few fences,
rough it is true, but still answering the purpose
for which they were designed, marked out the
fields of tillage, and secured the crops from the
invasion of cattle. In the rear of the cottage,
was formed a garden; back of which, in orchard
regularity, were set out various kinds of domestic
trees—such as the apple, pear, peach, and so forth.
Opposite the house, some hundred yards distant,
was a barn, built of logs, where the cattle could
find shelter from the rough storms of winter.
In front of the house ran the road before mentioned,
which wound over a hill a short distance

to the right. Altogether, the whole betokened
the owner a farmer of the first class, bred in some
of the Eastern States, who had come to the “Far
West” with the intention of here passing the
remainder of his days. Such was the fact; and
although in speaking of him and his family, we
may digress a little from the main story, we trust
the reader will deem such digression pardonable.

William Webber was a man in size far above
the ordinary—standing six feet one inch, with
limbs and body well proportioned. In years he
numbered some forty-five, with a robust, healthy
look about his face that would have set him
five years younger. There was nothing remarkable
in his countenance, which was open and frank
in expression, wherein was likewise written a look
of honest hospitality. His complexion was light,
with light-brown hair, cut close and combed up
above a high, intellectual forehead. His eyes were
grey, full, and very expressive, as were his features
generally. Around his mouth were a few
lines that denoted firmness, when roused, with
courage to act; while his features exhibited a
calm self-possession that would be of very material
service to one in the hour of peril.

He had been born and bred in the good old State
of Massachusetts, where he lived in comfortable
circumstances, until about five years previous to
the opening of our story; when following up a
desire he had for sometime entertained, he came to
the West, purchased the land where he now resided,
built the cottage, returned, and soon removed
his family hither; which consisted of a
wife and two sons—one now aged twenty, the
other some three years his elder.

His wife was a robust, healthy looking woman,
some five years his junior, of the medium height,
very fleshy, with a full, round, good-natured-looking
countenance, such as we behold almost daily,
and one to whom the adage, “fat, fair and forty,”
would be truly applicable.

The eldest son, John, in some respects resembled
his father—tall, well-built, with features of
a similar shape, though in expression far different.
In saying there was a resemblance between him
and his father, we wish the reader to distinctly understand
it was only in the formation of the features—all
else being totally different. His complexion
was dark, with jet black hair, and eyes
somewhat shaded by dark, heavy, overhanging
brows. Around his mouth were lines similar to
those of his father, yet taking more of a sinister
turn. His look generally, was that of a man
dark, deep, and treacherous, and one little likely
to inspire confidence. But it was when he
smiled, which he did but seldom, that you would
have been the most struck by an expression from
which you would involuntarily recoil, as from
the gaze of a deadly serpent.

From youth up, John had been a being isolated
as it were from the world, wrapped up in his own
dark thoughts, communing but seldom with any,
and then with those of a disposition like to his
own. Already had he caused his father much
anxiety and trouble; and was, in fact, one cause
of his removing to the West, where he thought
he would be free from the snares and temptations
likely to be thrown around him in the East, and
where as he supposed he would be free at least
from companions in vice, and where, to sum up,
he would in all probability spend his days in honest
pursuits. Could the first design of his father
have been strictly carried out, viz: that of removing
him from temptation, bad company, and
so forth, the latter might perchance have followed.
But alas! in selecting the West, and more especially
this part of it, he undesignedly opened a
field for the cultivation of his son's natural disposition,
by throwing him among the most depraved
villains of which society could boast.
That he was an apt scholar, the sequel of our
story will probably show.

His brother Rufus, younger by three years, was
of a make and disposition in every respect totally
different. In stature he was of the medium size,
straight and slim, with light hair, and a fair, sunny
countenance. His features were regular, approaching
perhaps a little too much the feminine,
with such an open, expressive frankness of look,
that your confidence was immediately won. His
disposition was mild and affable, his voice rich and
musical in tone, while his full blue eyes not unfrequently
flashed forth gleams of a lofty intellect.
Around his mouth also, were lines similar
to those of his father, expressive of firmness and
a determination of character.

There is one other of whom we must speak to
complete the family, in order to do which it will
be necessary for us to go back somewhat in our
narrative. About fifteen years prior to the date
of our story, a stranger, accompanied by a little
girl some three years of age, cailed late one evening
at the residence of Webber, and requested
permission to tarry through the night, which request
was granted. He was a dark, stern looking
man, some thirty-five years of age, and of a
moody, taciturn disposition. But little was gleaned
from his conversation, as to who he was or
whence he came. In the morning he asked permission
for the child to remain a few days, stating
as a reason that business of importance called him
away. The permission was granted and he took
his leave, since when he had never been heard
from. Enquiries were instituted by Webber, but
nothing authentic had ever been heard concerning
him. A man answering his description was
seen a short time after in the western part of
New York, apparently bound for the West; and
Webber came to the conclusion the child had
been voluntarily deserted; the more so, as on
questioning her, the account she gave was of
harsh treatment, and sometimes severe chastisement,
for asking of home. The child was too
young to give even a succinct detail of her adventures,
remembering only some of the more
glaring, such as the dark man carrying her away
from home, putting her in a house that floated on
the water, and the like—from all of which Webber
drew his conclusions that she had been brought
from another country, perhaps across the Atlantic,
by an intrigueing design he was unable to
fathom.

It was a riddle too deep for the gossips infesting
the neighborhood of Webber (as what place
do they not) to solve, concerning who was the
child, who were her parents, where she came
from, and so forth; and after various conjectures,
probable and improbable, they finally agreed that
her parents were no better than they should be,
and that being of that doubtful cast, it were better
to shun the company of the child, lest by intercourse
their prudish decorum should be vielated,
and their over-wise virtuous principles become
contaminated.

So much for ye, moth-eaters of reputation
colleagues of idleness and breeders of scandal!—
who “strain at a knat and swallow a camel”—
blasting all with your polluted breath whom the

world hath not acknowledged above your reach—
preying upon society as the worm will sooner or
later prey upon your corrupted flesh!—God send
that the innocent and harmless wanderer be not
caught within your damning toils!

If the child was shunned by some, she was not
by all; for Webber, to whom she soon became
an object of affection, determined to rear her as
though she were his own; and as she grew older,
he had no cause to regret it; for naturally of a
sweet, affectionate disposition, she won friends
among those who were at first disposed to treat
her uncivilly, while to Webber she clung with all
the fondness of a child to a parent.

Time in the meanwhile rolled on, and what at
first created a great commotion among the gossips,
gradually wore away, settled down into a
shake of the head whenever the object of calumny
approached, until at length, won over in
spite of themselves by her angel disposition, even
the retailers of scandal ceased their persecutions
and the unknown wanderer became an object of
general regard.

About this period an event took place, which
created another mighty sensation, although gossip
this time ran in a very different channel from
the previous one. It was a calm summer evening
in the month of August. The sun had just retired
behind the Western hill, and was yet tipping
the mountain tops with a rich golden tint;
the songsters were singing their farewell songs
for the night; the breeze came with that gentle,
soothing effect, so delightful on such an eve, making
one feel that placid, yet saddened happiness,
which wins our thoughts from the darker things
of life, and directs them into a higher, nobler,
holier vein. Around the porch of Webber's
dwelling were seated himself, wife, and two children—one
a fair-haired boy of winning appearance,
the other a girl of bright eyes and golden
tresses, whose age might be thirteen. In the
countenance of the latter there was something
so noble, so fascinating, combined with such a
quiet, thoughtful, almost melancholy air, that ten
to one a stranger would have paused to wonder
why one so young should bear the look of maturer
years. As Webber gazed upon her, and
mused on her sad, singular fate—torn from home
and friends at so early an age—thrown upon the
world for protection, and thought what if such
had been the case with one of his own children,
he involuntarily hove a sigh, and vowed to watch
over her with more than a parent's care.

Suddenly the attention of the group, which had
been occupied in various ways, was arrested by
the rapid approach of a horseman. A minute
later he was standing among them, his horse
foaming and panting from hard riding, while with
his own head uncovered he wiped the perspiration
from his heated brow.

“Is your name Webber?” demanded he of that
individual.

“It is.”

“William Webber?”

“The same.”

“Ten years ago a stranger left with you a little
girl: am I right?”

“You are,” answered Webber, wondering what
was to be revealed. “This is the child;” and he
pointed towards her.

The stranger turned an enquiring glance, examined
her attentively from head to foot, apparently
much struck by her appearance, and then
said abruptly: “Enough! I am commanded to
deliver you this packet;” saying which he placed
a sealed package in Webber's hand—turned—
mounted his horse—dashed the spurs into his sides,
and ere the astonished group had recovered from
their surprise, he was fast speeding out of sight.

“Strange,” remarked Webber, breaking the
seal; “what new mystery is this?” As he spoke,
he opened the parcel, and was surprised to find ten
one hundred dollar notes, accompanied with the
following singular epistle:

“To William Webber, greeting:—Ten years
since was placed in your charge a child, who bears
or bore the name of Emily Nevance. In the
name of God! treat her well! Educate her for
any station in society, and accept the notes enclosed,
with the thanks of the

6. CHAPTER VI.

Great was the wonderment among the gossips,
when the news went forth of Emily's great fortune,—for
rumor soon swelled it into a fortune—
and the following six months were employed by
all the unmarriageable spinsters and old ladies
with spectacles, in conjectures and discussions as
to the strange singularity of such an event; and
she who had in her earlier years been considered
in birth far beneath them, was now, by this incident,
placed far above. Oh! the inconsistency of
human beings!

A new epoch was now opened to Emily; for
Webber, punctual to what he considered a duty,
took immediate steps to place her in one of the
best institutions in the city of New York, in
charge of a distant relative, who, moving in the
best circles of society, gave her not only the advantages
of intellectual education, but also that of
acquiring the ease, grace and dignity belonging to
the true etiquette of fashion. Soon after this
disposition of Emily, Webber made a tour to the
West, purchased a farm as already shown, and
removed thither with his family.

Four years passed, and Emily saw nothing of
the Webbers. During this period she had grown
to womanhood, and what had promised so well
when young, was amply fulfilled in maturer years.
She became attractive in person, graceful in accomplishments,
while her intellectual faculties far
exceeded ordinary minds. Her temperament was
truly poetic, with nothing of affectation or coquetry
(which spoils so many) in her manner.—
She was a warm patriot and enthusiast; and when
conversing on some noble theme, dull must be
the eye that would not flash, or the mind that
would not fire, with the inspiration thrown from
her speaking eyes and glowing flowery language.

It was in New York that Edward Merton, then
a student in the University, first became acquainted
with Emily; and struck, we might add fascinated,
with manners and appearance so far above
the gay flirting things with which she was surrounded,
he sought, gained an introduction, and
almost immediately commenced paying her his
addresses. The result of those addresses, thus far,
the reader has already seen.

Although it was generally believed that Emily
was rich, yet she knew to the contrary; and possessed
of a pride too noble to take advantage of
such a reputation, she, through a sensitive delicacy,
repulsed the advancements often made by
those whom she considered her superiors in point
of wealth. Wealth was certainly a great bar to
the progress of Merton; a bar, in fact, which he
found far more difficult to pass than he at first
supposed; and although his nobleness of heart,

his sincere, ardent passion, inspired within her
own breast feelings of affection—of love—yet
pride prevailed; and Merton, to whom she revealed
her scruples, saw with painful regret that unless
there were some counteracting power, Emily
might love, but would never consent to be his.

Tired of city life, and the gay frivolties of the
day, Emily longed for the quiet retreat of her
guardian; and having made preparations to that
effect, about six months prior to the opening of
our story, she, accompanied by Merton, whose
father resided in St. Louis, set out for the West.

Happy, most happy, was the meeting between
Emily and her friends, who had been to her as parents
and brothers. Webber, when he came fairly
to recognise the “long lost one,” as he termed
her, could scarcely restrain himself for joy.—
Even John, as he extended the hand of welcome,
seemed to smile with less of deceit and more of
earnestness than was his wont; while Rufus approached
her with that bashful timidity, almost
amounting to awe, which persons of sensitive
minds often exhibit when they fancy themselves
in the presence of their superiors.

A great change had been wrought in the personal
appearance of Emily. She had left them
as it were a child, and as such they remembered
her; consequently there was surprise mingled
with their joy, to behold such a fine, graceful,
lady-like form, combined with such ease and dignity
of manner, returned in place of the image on
which memory still dwelt. But as it is not our
purpose to enter into details here, therefore let it
suffice, that up to the time of the commencement
of our story, things had run on smoothly.

Merton, whose collegiate course was finished,
was now preparing to practice law in St. Louis;
but sometimes finding bright eyes a much more
pleasing study, not unfrequently wandered off in
the direction of Webber's; and almost as frequently,
through a singular coincidence, he and Emily
might be seen mounted on their fine steeds, scouring
the country in various directions:—in fact, it
was on one of these excursions, in which they
were first introduced to the reader. As their proceedings
since then have been made known, we
trust sufficient has been said to justify us in proceeding
with our tale.

7. CHAPTER VII.

At the time of which we write, the unsettled
state of the country required every settler to be as
much as possible on his guard, and for this purpose
Webber had provided his house with a heavy
oaken door, strengthened still more by cross bars
of iron, through which passed bolts of the same
solid material. The windows were protected by
shutters similar to the door, and when closed,
which could be done almost at a moment's notice,
the house, manned by a few within, seemed of
sufficient strength to withstand a regular seige.
A few loop-holes, cut here and there, would enable
those within to fire on an attacking party,
with but little danger to themselves. The main,
in fact the only entrance to the house, was by the
door already mentioned, which opened into a hall
running through the centre of the building, on
either side of which was a door, opening in turn
into other apartments. To the right of the entrance
was a room of good dimensions, comfortably
furnished, containing an old fashioned fire-place,
where the meals were cooked and served,
and where the family generally assembled. From
this apartment was a stair-case leading to a floor
above, which ran along under the roof, forming a
place of deposit for old rubbish, and which, if necessary,
could be used as a sleeping room. The
cottage was well furnished throughout, better
than could reasonably have been expected in this
part of the country—Webber having brought
much of the furniture with him from the East.

In the apartment to the right, just spoken of,
on the evening of the day which opens our tale,
were assembled Webber, his wife and younger
son. In the middle of the floor stood a table,
covered with a clean white cloth, on which were
ranged various dishes, some evidently used, while
others remained untouched in their places, indicating
that a part of the family, and a part only, had
partaken of the evening's repast. A candle placed
on the table, served to light the apartment and
exhibit the features of the occupants, all of whom
seemed to wear an air of gloomy apprehension.—
The doors and windows being thrown open, admitted
the breeze, which came with a cool and
invigorating effect. For some minutes the silence
remained unbroken, while Webber arose
from his seat, and paced with anxious strides the
floor of the apartment.

“I wonder they do not arrive!” at length he
exclaimed; “they surely have had time enough
since the shower!” and as he spoke he strode to
the door.

The moon had sufficiently risen to throw light
upon a scene, where the work of devastation had
been carried on to a remarkable degree. As Webber
gazed around him, he beheld in every direction
tall, lofty trees torn from their foundations—
limbs torn from the trunks of others—fences leveled
to the ground, and the crops, the toil of a
season, beat to the earth as though trampled by
a caravan. But with this it was evident his mind
was but little occupied; for after casting a hasty
glance over the scene, he turned in another direction,
and his eye followed the road, which at some
little distance to the east wound over the brow of
a hill. Here he gazed intently for a few moments,
while the gloom which had been settling over his
features, gradually deepened. As he stood gazing
thus, a sigh, which seemed to come from the
heart, caused him to turn his head, when he beheld
Rufus—who had noiselessly followed him to
the door—with his eyes fixed in the same direction,
his features pale, almost ghastly—while the
workings of his countenance, and the quivering
of his lips, denoted a strange nervous excitability.

“Rufus! Rufus!” cried Webber, taking hold of
his arm; “what means this, my son?—why are
you so agitated?”

The young man started, passed his hand across
his eyes, looked hurriedly around, as one suddenly
awakened from a dream; and then, while a
slight flush tinged his handsome features, quietly
withdrew without deigning a reply.

At another time such singularity of conduct
on the part of his son, would have attracted the
attention of Webber to know the cause; but under
the present circumstances, his own mind was

too much occupied to give it heed. For a moment
longer, he stood, his eyes fixed in the direction
mentioned, and then, as if sadly disappointed, with
slow and musing pace returned to the apartment.

“Strange!” said he, “that they do not return.
I fear they have met with some serious accident;
for this storm has been most alarming in its consequences.”

“Had we not better go in search?” enquired
Rufus, his voice trembling with emotion.

“True, my son, we must!” replied Webber,
with decision. “Can the horses be found conveniently?”

“I observed two, but a few paces distant,” rejoined
Rufus.

“But you will not both leave?” said Mrs. Webber,
enquiringly.

“Why, no,” answered Webber, thoughtfully;
“one I think will be sufficient.”

“Then I will go,” said Rufus, with energy.

“Why so, my son?”

“Ask me not, father; I have reasons,” replied
he, confusedly.

“Well, be it so; but be speedy.” As he spoke,
he started, for he fancied he heard voices in conversation;
and moving quickly to the door, both
father and son listened attentively.

“Ha! they come!” exclaimed Webber, as some
figures were descried descending the hill.

“She is not there!” cried Rufus, quickly.

“How know you that?” enquired Webber!
“With my eyes I cannot distinguish individuals
at that distance. How know you Emily is not
there, Rufus?”

But Rufus was gone; and his father discerned
his figure, at some little distance, gliding swiftly
on in the direction of the horses. A moment or
two later, he heard the clattering of hoofs, and
his son rode quickly past. He called to him, but
in vain. He heard not, heeded not, but urged his
horse to his utmost speed.

“Why the youth is insane!” remarked Webber,
to himself. “Ha! he stops!—he has met
them returning. But no! on he goes again!—
now he dashes over the hill!—surely, something
has happened, or he would have returned;” and
with an agitated step, he moved on in the same
direction.

The voices of the approaching party were, in
the meanwhile, growing louder as they neared
him, and Webber was soon enabled to hear their
conversation. He paused to listen, for he fancied
he heard a voice with which he was not unfamiliar.

“Now jest keep right on, Mr. Jack; you haint
got a great ways furder to go, no how; and I
kind o' guess you'll git rested by the time you'll
be wanted to travel agin. Now ye needn't look
so tarnal cross about it;—I don't much like the idea
o' bragging over a chap that's hampered, but I'll
jest tell ye what 'tis, Mr. Jack Curdish, I jest think
I could lick you in a fair rough and tumble fight
in about two minutes; I do, I swow!”

“Hush!” said another voice. “Be not too over-bearing—remember
the man is your prisoner.”

“Wal so I do, Mark; but the feller won't say
nothing. He's as stuffey as a mule, and I's jest
trying to see if I could'nt brag something out o'
him.”

“Why, Harvey Bernard!” cried Webber, springing
forward, as he fully recognised the speaker,
and grasping his hand,—“welcome, most welcome,
friend Harvey.”

“Jest the same old Webber yit,” returned Bernard,
giving his hand a hearty shake. “Why you
look jest as naternal as life. This ere's Marcus
Tyrone, a friend o' mine.”

“Welcome, Tyrone,” said Webber, cordially
extending his hand.

“This other chap's name's Jack Curdish. You
needn't shake hands with him; for he's jest as
big a rascal as ever run.”

“Why, what mean you?” enquired Webber, in
surprise.

“Tell him, Mark; you can git at it a great
deal quicker than I can.”

Tyrone accordingly explained, in as few words
as possible, how matters stood.

“Gods!” exclaimed Webber, as he heard of
Emily's capture, his features working with the
most powerful emotion; and for a moment he
buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame
shook convulsively. Again resuming his outward
calmness, he walked close to the side of
Curdish, who glanced uneasily about him, and in
a voice of suppressed passion, between his clenched
teeth, said: “Curdish, by the living God above
us! if that girl come to harm, I will make such
an example of you, that it shall find a place on
history's page for its atrocity! Tell me, where
is the girl? and if I succeed in finding her, unharmed,
it shall go much better with you.”

“I'll tell you nothing to-night,” growled Curdish;
who fearful of consequences, if they went
in pursuit, thought he would gain time by delaying
the search.

“Why not to-night?”

“'Cause I won't—that's why!—hang me, if
I'm goin' to give ye any more explanations.”

“Then your blood be on your own head!” rejoined
Webber, sternly. “To the house with
him, as fast as possible! I will hurry forward
and prepare a place for his reception.”

In a few minutes Curdish was placed in the
room on the left of the hall, the door and windows
made fast, and there left to pass the remainder
of the night, in communion with his own
dark thoughts. And dark and dreadful are the
thoughts of the guilty!—for their conscience is
a hell, from which there is no escape.

After a brief consultation, Webber and his
friends concluded it were better to wait till morning,
ere they set out in search of Emily; the
more so, as both Edward and Rufus had already
gone in pursuit, and perchance, by awaiting,
tidings might be gained of her. But little was
said, for all felt a heaviness of heart; and wearied
by traveling, Bernard and Tyrone partook of the
food set before them, in gloomy silence.

“This is a sad meeting!” began Webber, after
a long pause, in a voice so changed that both
Bernard and Tyrone involuntarily started. “A
sad meeting! If this girl comes to harm, I fear
my reason will desert me.”

“Why, William!” cried his wife; “are your
thoughts more bound up in the child of a stranger,
than in your own flesh and blood?”

“Yes, Sarah, I confess it is even so. I have
struggled hard against it—I have sought to share
my affection alike with each member of my family;
but why, I know not—perhaps by her angel
disposition—the gentle forsaken has been the
idol of my secret thoughts. But enough of this,
Sarah; the subject is painful to me;” and he
pressed his hands against his heated temples, as
though to still their throbbing.

“What course do you intend to pursue with

your prisoner?” enquired Tyrone, anxious to
draw his thoughts into another channel.

“Death!” exclaimed Webber, quickly and fiercely,
while his teeth clenched, and his brow contracted
into a frown of unshaken resolve.

“Death!” cried all at once.

“Ay, death! there must be an example made!”
said Webber, in a deep, stern tone.

“William!” cried his wife, rushing to him:—
“You are not yourself,—do not talk thus!”

“Sarah,” returned Webber, gently pushing her
from him, while the frown grew darker on his
brow, “seek not to alter it; I have said.”

“But why not appeal to the law for redress?”
asked Tyrone.

“You overlook, Tyrone, that our laws here
are almost ineffective, and force us, in a measure,
to make our own.”

“True! I did not think of that.”

“Now, Bill Webber, I'll jest tell you what 'tis,”
began Bernard: “I know my opinion aint o' no
great account, any how; but I've known you
ever since I was a leetle boy, and somehow I kind
o' feel I have a right to say something; and I'm
jest agoing to say, if you could manage to punish
this ere infernal scoundrel some way, without
taking his life, you'll feel a great deal better when
you come to die yourself. I haint the least doubt
but the feller oughter die, to get his deserts; but
ye see, the Almighty made him, and has kept him
alive, so far, and will undoubtedly punish him,
some day or other; and now the question is,
whether you hadn't better let the Almighty take
his own way about it, instead of taking all o' the
responsibility yourself?”

“I know your honest heart, Bernard,” said
Webber, approaching and grasping his hand; “I
know in all you say, you aim for my own good;
but in this I am resolved, and must have my own
way, therefore seek not to alter me.”

“Wal, if your mind's made up,” rejoined Bernard,
“I aint the chap to say anything furder;
only if you want any help, Harvey Bernard's right
here, and he haint never been known to refuse a
friend assistance yit. I jest spoke, 'cause I kind
o' considered it a duty to do it, and bein' as how
I've eased my mind, I haint nothing furder to
say about the matter.”

Just at this instant was heard the clatter of a
horse's hoofs, and all sprang eagerly to the door.
“What news, my son?” cried Webber, as Rufus,
pale and breathless, leaped from his panting steed.

“She—they are safe and coming!” replied he,
almost wildly.

“Thank God, and you!” exclaimed Webber,
clasping him in his arms, as though he were a
child. “You have relieved my brain of a weight
of anguish. But what is the matter, my son?”—
added he in alarm, as he became aware of an increasing
languor on the part of Rufus.

“Father, I am ill!” sighed Rufus, faintly.

“You are indeed, my son!” and he bore him
into the house.

Cordials, such as they had, were administered,
but to no effect. He grew wild, delirious, and
was finally placed in bed, in a high state of fever.
His mother, whose whole soul seemed bound up
in him, paced the room, wringing her hands in an
agony of grief, and crying: “Oh, my God! my
God! spare me this!”

There are some people so constituted by nature,
that they possess no feelings in common with the
rest of mankind. With those around them they
have no kindred ties, no sympathetic chord that
vibrates at the slightest touch, linking soul with
soul in the holy bond of friendship. They live
in, yet separate as it were, from the world; and
are thought by the rest of mankind to be cold, unsocial,
unfeeling. Perhaps in a great measure
they are so; yet notwithstanding, they have their
objects of affection, for the heart must cling to
something, and in proportion as they isolate
themselves from the many, so does their soul embrace
the few, or the one, with a violence of passion
others deem not they possess. Such was, in
part, the case with Mrs. Webber. 'Tis true she
liked her husband, she liked her family, her
friends, but Rufus was the idol, the only idol of
her soul. In him were her hopes, fears and joys
centered. A woman that said very little, she
was not one to make an outward show of affection,
by a thousand little demonstrations that
count so much in the eyes of the world, and a
stranger might have thought she felt alike toward
all. She would steal away unseen, and hour by
hour watch, concentrating her very soul on him,
with all the deep, holy devotion of a mother's love.
And well was he worthy—for within his breast
beat a pure, a high-minded, noble heart. What
then were her feelings when she saw him stretched
on a bed of sickness—pain—with reason, the
immortal endowment of God, tottering upon its
throne? Who shall tell—who describe a mother's
anguish in a scene like this? when she beholds
the beloved of her soul in the jaws of earth's mightiest
foe, Death! Words fail, the pen droops, and
we veil the feelings from the eyes of all but imagination.

An hour or two later Merton and Emily arrived.
They were warmly greeted, but there
was no rejoicing. Over all hung the cold icy
gloom which pervades the house of mourning.—
Words were said in whispers, and each glided
stealthily about, with that mysterious air which
reminds one of the fabled spectres of tradition.—
Emily, like a ministering spirit, immediately took
her place at the bedside of the sufferer. She felt
grieved to the heart, for she loved him with a
sister's love. Both herself and Merton were surprised
to learn he had been in pursuit of them.—
They had never seen him. Once they had fancied
they heard the sound of a horse somewhat
distant, but nothing further. This annunciation
surprised all, for it was evident that he had seen
them, as he had told of their coming. Webber
mused on the singular conduct of Rufus, prior to
his departure, which now struck him with force,
shook his head gravely, but said nothing. As
soon as Merton had partaken of some refreshment,
he mounted another horse and rode swiftly to St.
Louis for a physician, who arrived toward night
of the following day. He felt of the sufferer's
pulse—looked grave—felt of his pulse again—shook
his head, and pronounced it a severe case of intermittent
fever.

On opening the door of the apartment where
Curdish had been confined, to the astonishment of
all it was found empty, which was the more unaccountable,
as everything was fast just as it had
been left the evening before. Webber was both
vexed and perplexed that the villain had thus escaped;
but after reasoning awhile with himself,
he came to the conclusion that under the present
circumstances it was all for the best; and his
thoughts of vengeance gradually emerged into
fears for the life of his youngest born.

We must now leave all for the present, and turn
to another scene.