University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

The following day was one of unusual animation
and bustle in the Indian village, as the prisoners
could distinguish even from their several
places of confinement, without, however, being
sensible of the cause. From sunrise until after
mid-day, they heard, at intervals, volleys of fire-arms
shot off at the skirts of the town, which,
being followed by shrill halloos as from those
who fired them, were immediately re-echoed by
all the throats in the village,—men, women, children,
and dogs uniting in a clamour that was
plainly the outpouring of savage exultation and
delight. It seemed as if parties of warriors, returning
victorious from the lands of the Long-knife,
were time by time marching into, and
through the village, proclaiming the success of
their arms, and exhibiting the bloody trophies of
their triumph. The hubbub increased, the shouts
became more frequent and multitudinous, and the
village for a second time seemed given up to the
wildest and maddest revelry, to the sway of unchained
demons, or of men abandoned to all the
horrible impulses of lycanthropy.

During all this time, the young Virginian lay
bound in a wigwam, guarded by a brace of old
warriors, who occasionally varied the tedium of
watching by stalking to the door, where, like
yelping curs paying their respects to passers-by,

they uplifted their voices and vented a yell or two
in testimony of their approbation of what was
going on without. Now and then, also, they even
left the wigwam, but never for more than a few
moments at a time; when, having thus amused
themselves, they would return, squat themselves
down by the prisoner's side, and proceed to entertain
him with sundry long-winded speeches in
their own dialect, of which, of course, he understood
not a word. Wrapped in his own bitter
thoughts, baffled in his last hope, and now grown
indifferent what might befall him, he lay upon the
earthen floor during the whole day, expecting almost
every moment to behold some of the shouting
crew of the village rush into the hovel and
drag him away to the tortures, which, at that period,
were so often the doom of the prisoner.

But the solitude of his prison-house was invaded
only by his two old jailers; and it was not
until nightfall that he beheld a third human countenance.
At that period, Telie Doe stole trembling
into the hut, bringing him food, which she
set before him, but with looks of deep grief and
deeper abasement, which he might have attributed
to shame and remorse for a part played in the
scheme of captivity, had not all her actions shown
that, although acquainted with the meditated outrage,
she was sincerely desirous to avert it.

Her appearance awakened his dormant spirits,
and recalled the memory of his kinswoman, of
whom he besought her to speak, though well
aware she could speak neither hope nor comfort.
But scarce had Telie, more abashed and more sorrowful
at the question, opened her lips to reply, when
one of the old Indians interposed with a frown of displeasure,
and taking her by the arm, led her angrily
to the door, where he waved her away, with

gestures that seemed to threaten a worse reception,
should she presume to return.

Thus thwarted and driven back again upon
his own reflections, Roland gave himself up to
despondency, awaiting with sullen indifference the
fate which he had no doubt was preparing for
him. But he was doomed once more to experience
the agitations of hope, the tormentor not
less than the soother of existence,—the

Soon after nightfall, and when his mind was in
a condition resembling the hovel in which he lay,
—a cheerless ruin, lighted only by occasional
flickerings from a fire of spirit fast smouldering
into ashes,—he heard a step enter the door, and,
by and by, a jabbering debate commenced between
the new comer and his guards, which resulted
in the latter presently leaving the cabin.
The intruder then stepped up to the fire, which
he stirred into a flame; and seating himself full
in its light, revealed, somewhat to Roland's surprise,
the form and visage of the renegade, Abel
Doe, whose acts on the hill-side had sufficiently
impressed his lineaments on the soldier's memory.
He eyed the captive for awhile very earnestly,
but in deep silence, which Roland himself was the
first to break.

To the soldier, however, bent upon preserving
the sullen equanimity which was his best substitute
for resignation, there was enough in the appearance
of this man to excite the fiercest emotions
of indignation. Others might have planned
the villany which had brought ruin and misery
upon his head; but it was Doe, who, for the bravo's

price, and with the bravo's baseness, had set
the toils around him, and struck the blow. It was,
indeed, only through the agency of such an accomplice,
that Braxley could have put his schemes
into execution, or ventured even to attempt them.
The blood boiled in his veins, as he surveyed the
mercenary and unprincipled hireling, and strove,
though in vain, to rise upon his fettered arms, to
give energy to his words of denunciation:

“Villain!” he cried, “base caitiff! have you
come to boast the fruits of your rascally crime?
Mean, wretched, dastardly villain!”

“Right, captain!” replied Doe, with a consent
ing nod of the head, “you have nicked me on the
right p'int: “villain's the true word to begin on;
and, perhaps, 'twill be the one to end on: but
that's as we shall conclude about it, after we have
talked the matter over.”

“Begone, wretch,—trouble me not,” said Roland,
“I have nothing to say to you, but to curse
you.”

“Well, I reckon that's natteral enough, too, that
cussing of me,” said Doe, “seeing as how I've in
a manner desarved it. But there's an end to all
things, even to cussing; and, may be, you'll jist
take a jump the other way, when the gall's over.
A friend to-day, an enemy to-morrow, as the saying
is; and you may jist as well say it backwards;
for, as things turn up, I'm no sich blasted
enemy jist now, no-way no-how. I'm for
holding a peace-talk, as the Injuns say, d—n 'em,
burying the axe, and taking a whiff or two at the
kinnikinick of friendship. So cuss away, if it
will do you good; and I'll stand it. But as for
being off, why I don't mean it no-way. I've got a
bargain to strike with you, and it is jist a matter
to take the tiger-cat out of you,—it is, d—n it:

and when you've heard it, you'll be in no sich
hurry to get rid of me. But afore we begin, I've
jist got a matter to ax you: and that is,—how
the h— you cleared the old Piankeshaw and his
young uns?”

“If you have any thing to propose to me,” said
Roland, smothering his wrath as well as he could,
though scarcely hoping assistance or comfort of
any kind from the man who had done him such
injury, “propose it, and be brief, and trouble me
with no questions.”

“Well now,” said Doe, “a civil question might
as well have a civil answer! If you killed the
old feller and the young uns, you need 'nt be
ashamed of it; for, cuss me, I think all the better
of you for it; for it's not every feller can kill three
Injuns that has him in the tugs, by no means, no-how.
But, I reckon, the ramscallions took to the
liquor? (Injuns will be Injuns, there's no two ways
about it!) and you riz on 'em, and so payed 'em
up scot and lot, according to their desarvings?
You could 'nt have done a better thing to make
me beholden; for, you see, I had the giving of
you up to 'em, and I felt bad,—I did, d—n me,
for I knew the butchers would burn you, if they
got you to the Wabash;—I did, captain, and I
had bad thoughts about it. But it was a cussed
mad notion of you, following us, it was, there's
no denying! Howsomever, I won't talk of that.
I jist want to ax you where you picked up that
Injun-looking feller that was lugging off the gal,
and what's his natur'? The Injuns say, he's a
conjuror: now I never heerd of conjurors among
the whites, like as among the Injuns, afore I cut
loose from 'em, and I'm cur'ous on the subject!—
I jist ax you a civil question, and I don't mean no
harm in it. There's nobody can make the feller

out; and, as for Ralph Stackpole, blast him, he
says he never seed the crittur afore in his life!”

“If you would have me answer your question,”
said Roland, in whom Doe's discourse was beginning
to stir up many a former feeling, “you
must first answer mine. This person you speak
of,—what is to be his fate?”

“Why, burning, I reckon: but that's according
as he pleases the old Vulture: for, if he can find
out what never an Injun Medicine has been able
to do, it may be, the old chief will feed him up,
and make him his conjuror. They say, he's conjuring
with the crittur now.”

“And Stackpole,—what will they do with
him?”

“Burn him, sartain! They're jist waiting till the
warriors come in from the Licking, where, you
must know, they have taken a hundred scalps, or
so, at one grab: and then the feller will roast beyond
all mention.”

“And I, too,” said the Virginian, with such
calmness as he could,—“I, too, am to meet the
same fate?”

“Most ondoubtedly,” said Doe, with an ominous
nod of assent.” “There's them among us
that speak well of you, as having heart enough to
be made an Injun: but there's them that have
sworn you shall burn; and burn you must!—That
is, onless—” But he was interrupted by Roland,
exclaiming hurriedly,—

“There is but one more to speak of—my cousin?
my poor, friendless cousin?”

“There,” said Doe, “you need 'nt be afeard of
burning, by no means whatsomever. We did 'nt
catch the gal to make a roast of. She is safe
enough; there's one that will take care of her.”

“And that one is the villain Braxley! Oh,

knave that you are, could you have the heart,—
you who have a daughter of your own,—could
you have committed her into the arms of such a
villain?”

“No, by G—, I could'nt!” said Doe, with great
earnestness: “but another man's daughter is quite
another thing. Howsomever, you need'nt take
on for nothing; for he means to marry her and
take her safe back to Virginny: and, you see, I
bargained with him agin all rascality; for I had a
gal of my own, and I could'nt think of his playing
foul with the poor creatur'. No; we had an
understanding about all that, when we was waiting
for you on old Salt. All Dick wants is jist a
wife that will help him to them lands of the old
major. And that, you see, is jist the whole reason
of our making the grab on you.”

“You confess it then!” cried Roland, too much
excited by the bitterest of passions to be surprised
at the singular communicativeness of his visiter:
“you sold yourself to the villain for gold! for gold
you hesitated not to sacrifice the happiness of one
victim of his passions, the life of another! Oh,
basest of all that bear the name of man, how could
you do this villany?”

“Because,” replied Doe, with as much apparent
sincerity as emphasis,—“because I am a d—d
rascal;—there's no sort of doubt about it; and we
won't be tender, the way we talk of it. I was an
honest man once, captain, but I am a rascal now;
—warp and woof, skin-deep and heart-deep,—ay,
to the bones and marrow,—I am all the way a
rascal! But don't look as if you was astonished
already. I come to make a clean breast of all
sorts of matters,—jist, captain, for a little bit of
your advantage and my own: and there's things
coming that will make you look a leetle of a sight

wilder! And, first and foremost, to begin—Have
you any particular longing to be out of this here
Injun town, and well shut of the d—d fire-torture?”

“Have I any desire to be free! Mad question!”

“Well, captain, I'm jist the man, and the only
one, that can help you; for them that would, can't,
and them that can, won't.—And, secondly and
lastly, captain,—as the parsons say in the settlements,—have
you any hankering to be the master
of the old major your uncle's, lands and houses?”

“If you come to mock and torture me,”—said
Roland, but was interrupted by the renegade:

“It is jist to save you from the torture,” said
he, “that I'm now speaking; for, cuss me, the
more I think of it, the more I can't stand it no-how.
I'm a rascal, captain, but I'm no tiger-cat,
—especially to them that has n't misused me; and
there's the grit of a man about you, that strikes
my feelings exactly. But, you see, captain,
there's a bargain first to be struck between us,
afore I comes up to the rack—But I'll make tarms
easy.”

“Make them what you will, and—But, alas!
where shall I find means to repay you? I who am
robbed of every thing?”

“Didn't I say, I could help you to the major's
lands and houses? and a'n't they a fortun' for an
emperor?”

“You! you help me? help me to them?”

“Captain,” said the renegade, with sundry emphatic
nods of the head, “I'm a sight more of a
rascal than you ever dreamed on! and this snapping
of you up by Injun deviltry, that you think
so hard of, is but a small part of my misdoings:
I've been slaving agin you this sixteen years, more
or less,—slaving, (that's the word, for I made a
niggur of myself,) to rob you of these here very

lands that I'm now thinking of helping you to!—
You don't believe me, captain? Well,—did you
ever hear of a certain honest feller of old Augusta,
called John Atkinson?”

“Hah!” cried the soldier, looking with new
eyes upon the renegade; “you are then the fellow
upon whose perjured testimony Braxley relied to
sustain his frauds?”

“The identical same man, John Atkinson,—or
Jack, as they used to call me; but now Abel Doe,
for convenience sake,” said the refugee, with great
composure; “and so, now, you can see into the
whole matter. It was me that had the keeping of
the major's daughter that you knows of. Well;
I was an honest feller in them days,—I was, captain,
by G—!” repeated the fellow with something
that sounded like remorseful utterance, “and jist
as contented in my cabin on the mountain as the
old major himself in his big house at Fellhallow.
But Dick Braxley came, d—n him, and there was
an end of all honest doings: for Dick was high
with the old major, and the major was agin his
brothers; and says Dick, says he, `Put but this little
gal,'—meaning the major's daughter,—`out of the
way, and I'm jist as good as the major's heir; and
I'll make your fortun”'—

“Ay! and it was he then, the villain himself,”
cried Roland, “who devised this horrible iniquity,
which, by innuendo at least, he charged upon my
father!—You are a rascal indeed! And you murdered
the poor child?”

“Murdered! No, rat it, there was no murdering
in the case: it was jist hiding in a hole, as
you may call it. We burned down the wigwam,
and made on as if the gal was burned in it; and
then I stumped off to the Injun border, among
them that didn't know me, and according to Dick's

advice, helped myself to another name, and jist
passed off the gal for my own daughter.”

“Your own daughter!” cried Roland, starting
half up, but being unable to rise on account of his
bonds: “the story then is true! and Telie Doe is
my uncle's child, the lost heiress?”

“Well, supposing she is?” said Atkinson, “I
reckon, you'd not be exactly the man to help her
to her rights?”

“Ay, by Heaven, but I would though!” said
Roland, “if rights they be. If my uncle, upon
knowledge that she was still alive, thought fit to
alter his intentions with regard to Edith and myself,
he would have found none more ready to acknowledge
the poor girl's claims than ourselves,
none more ready to befriend and assist her.”

“Well! there's all the difference between being
an honest feller and a rascal!” muttered Atkinson,
casting his eyes upon the fire, which he fell to
studying for a moment with great earnestness.
Then starting up hastily, and turning to the prisoner,
he exclaimed,—

“There's not a better gal in the etarnal world!
You don't know it, captain; but that Telie, that
poor crittur that's afeard of her own shadow, did
run all risks, and play all manner of fool's tricks,
to save you from this identical same captivation;
and the night you was sleeping at Bruce's fort,
and we waiting for you at the Ford, she cried, and
begged, and prayed that I would do you no more
mischief; and, cuss her, she threatened to tell you
and Bruce, there, the whole affair of the ambush;
till I scared her with my tomahawk, like a d—d
rascal, as I am; (but there's nothing will fetch her
round but fear of murdering,) and so swore her to
keep silence. And then, captain, her running
away after you in the woods,—why it was jist to

circumvent us,—to lead you to the t'other old
road, and so save you; it was, captain, and she
owned it: and if you'd 'a' taken to her leading, as
she axed you, she'd 'a' got you out of the snarl
altogether. Howsomever, captain,” he continued,
after making those admissions, which solved all
the enigmas of Telie's conduct, “I won't lie in this
matter no-how. The gal is no gal of the major's,
but my own flesh and blood: the major's little
crittur sickened on the border, and died off in less
than a year; and so there was all our rascally
burning and lying for nothing; for, if we had
waited awhile, the poor thing would have died of
her own accord. Well, captain, I'm making a
long story about nothing: but the short of it is, I
did n't make a bit of a fortun' at all, but fell into
troubles; and the end was, I turned Injun, jist as
you see me; and a feller there, Tom Bruce, took to
my little gal out of charity; and so she was bred
up a beggar's brat, with every body a jeering of
her, because of her d—d rascally father. And,
you see, this made a wolf of me; for I couldn't
bring her among the Injuns, to marry her to a
cussed niggur of a savage,—no, captain, I couldn't;
for she's my own natteral flesh and blood, and
captain, I love her! And so, I goes back to
Virginny, to see what Braxley could do for her;
and there, d—n him, he puts me up to a new rascality;
which was nothing less than setting up my
gal for the major's daughter, and making her a
great heiress, and marrying of her. Howsomever,
this wouldn't do, this marrying; for, first, Dick
Braxley was a bigger rascal than myself, and it
was agin my conscience to give him the gal, who
was a good gal, desarving of an honest husband;
and, next, the feller was mad after young madam,
and there was no telling how soon he might p'ison
my gal, to marry the other. And so we couldn't
fix the thing then to our liking, no-way; but by
and by we did. For when the major died, he
sends for me in a way I told him of; and here's
jist the whole of our rascality. We was, in the
first place, jist to kill you off—”

“To kill me, villain!” cried Roland, whose
interest was already excited to the highest pitch
by the renegade's story.

“Not exactly with our own hands; for I bargained
agin that: but it was agreed you should be
put out of the way of ever returning agin to Virginny.
Well, captain, Dick was then to marry the
young lady; and then jist step into the major's
estate by virtue of the major's will,—the second
one, you must know, which Dick took good care
to hide away, pretending to suppose the major had
destroyed it.”

“And that will,” exclaimed Roland, “the villain,
the unparalleled villain, is still possessed of?”

“No, rat him,—the devil has turned upon him
at last, and it is in better hands!” said Atkinson;
and without more ado, he drew the instrument
from his bosom, and unfolded it before Roland's
astonished eyes. “Read it,” said Doe, with exulting
voice: “I can make nothing of the cussed pothooks
myself, having never been able to stand the
flogging of a school-house; but I know the fixings
of it—the whole estate devised equally to you
and the young woman, to be divided according as
you may agree of yourselves,—a monstrous silly
way, that; but there's no helping it.”

And holding it before the Virginian, in the light
of the fire, the latter satisfied himself at a glance
that Atkinson had truly reported its contents. It
was written with his uncle's own hand, briefly but
clearly; and while manifesting, throughout, the

greatest affection on the part of the testator towards
his orphan niece, it contained no expressions
indicative either of ill-will to his nephew, or
disapprobation of the part the young man had
chosen to play in the great drama of revolution.
And this was the more remarkable, as it was dated
at a period soon after Roland had so wilfully, or
patriotically, fled to fight the battles of his country,
and when, it might have been supposed, the stern
old loyalist's anger was at its acme. A better and
more grateful proof that the young man had neither
lost his regard nor confidence, was shown in
a final codicil, dated in the year of Roland's majority,
in which he was associated with Braxley as
executor, the latter worthy having been made to
figure in that capacity alone, in the body of the
will.

“This is indeed a discovery!” cried Roland,
with the agitation of joy and hope. “Cut my
bonds, deliver me, with my cousin and companions,—and
the best farm in the manor shall reward
you:—nay, you shall fix your own terms
for your daughter and yourself.”

“Exactly,” said Atkinson, who, although the
prisoner was carefully bound, exhibited a jealous
disinclination to let the will come near his hands,
and now restored it carefully to his own bosom;
“we must talk over that matter of tarms, jist to
avoid mistakes. And to begin, captain, I will jist
observe, as before, that if you don't take my offer,
and close with me hard and fast, you will roast at
an Injun stake jist as sartainly as you are now
snugging by an Injun fire;—you will, d—n me,
there's no two ways about it!”

“The terms, the terms?” cried Roland, eagerly:
“name them; I will not dispute them.”

But the renegade was in no such hurry.

“You see,” said he, “I'm a d—d rascal, as I
said; and in this matter, I am jist as much a rascal
as before, for I'm playing foul with Braxley,
—having bargained to work out the whole thing
in his sarvice. Howsomever, there is a kind of
fair play in cheating him, seeing it was him that
made a rascal of me. And, moresomeover, I
have my doubts of him, and there's no way I can
hold him up to a bargain. And, lastly, captain, I
don't see how he can be of any sarvice to my
gal! He can't marry her, if he would; and if he
could, he shouldn't have her; and as for leaving
her to his tender mercies, I would jist as soon
think of hunting her up quarters in a bear's den.
And as for keeping her among these d—d brutes,
the Injuns—for brutes they are, captain, there's
no denying it—”

“Why need you speak of it more? I will find
her a home and protection,—a home and protection
for both of you.”

“As for me, captain, thanking you for the favour,
you won't do me no sich thing, seeing as
how I don't look for it. There's two or three
small matters agin me in the Settlements, which
it is no notion of mine to bring up for reckoning.
The gal's the crittur to be protected; and I'll take
my pay out chiefly in the good you do to her; and
for the small matters, not meaning no offence, I
can trust best to her,—for she's my daughter, and
she won't cheat me. Now, captain, a better gal
than Telie—her true name's Matilda, but she
never heard any thing of it but Telie—a better
gal was never seen in the woods, for all she's
young and timorsome; and it's jist my notion
and my desire, that, whatever may become of
me, nothing but good shall become of her. And
now, captain, here's my tarms; I'll cut you

loose from Injun tugs and Injun fires, carry you
safe to the Settlements, and give you this here
precious sheepskin,—which is jist as much
as saying I'll make you the richest man, in
farms, flocks, and niggurs, in all Virginny; and
you shall marry the gal, and make a lady of
her.”

“Marry her!” cried Roland, in amazement and
consternation,—“marry her!”

“Ay, captain! that's the word,” said Atkinson:
“I have an idea you'll make her a good husband,
for you're an honest feller, and a brave one—I'll
say that for you; and she'll make you a good
wife, she will, by G—, or I'll give you my scalp
on it. I reckon the crittur has a liking for you
already; for I never did see any body so beg,
and plead, and take on for mortal feller. Marry
her's the tarms; and, I reckon, you'll allow, they're
easy ones?”

“My good friend, you are surely jesting!” said
the Virginian. “I will do for her whatever you
can wish, or demand. The best farm in the whole
estate shall be her's, and the protection of my
kinswoman will be cheerfully and gratefully
granted.”

“As for jesting, captain,” said the renegade,
with a lowering brow, “there's not one particle
of it about me from top to toe. I offer you a
bargain, that has all the good on your side; and
I reckoned you'd 'a' jumped at it, with a whole
hoss-load of thank'ees. I offer you a gal that's
the best gal in the whole etarnal wood; and, I
reckon, you may count all that this here sheepskin
will bring you, as jist so much dowry of my
giving. An't that making tarms easy?—for, as
for the small matters for myself, them is things I
will come upon the gal for, without troubling you

for 'em. Now you see, captain, I'll jist argue
the matter. You may reckon it strange I should
make you such an offer; and, ondoubtedly, so it
is. But here's the case. First, captain, I'm agin
burning you; it makes me oneasy to think of it,
—for you ha'n't done me no harm, and you're a
young feller of the rale Virginny grit, jist after
my own heart, and I takes to you. And, next,
captain, there's the gal,—a good gal, captain,
that's desarving of all I can do for her, and a
heap more. But, captain, what's to become of
the crittur, when I'm done for? You see, some
of these cussed Injuns,—or it may be the white
men, for they're all agin me,—will take the scalp
off me some day, sooner or later, there's no two
ways about it. Well then, what's to become of
the poor gal, that ha'n't no friend in the big world
to care for her? Now, you see, I'm thinking of
the gal, and I'm making the bargain for her; and
I made it in my own mind, jist the minute I seed
you were a captive among us, and laid my hand
on this here will. Said I to myself, `I'll save the
youngster, and I'll marry my gal to him, and
there's jist two good things I'll do for the pair
of 'em!' And so, captain, there's exactly the
end of it. If you'll take the gal, you shall have
her, and you'll make three different critturs greatly
beholden to you:—first, the gal, who's a good
gal, and a comely gal, and will love and honour
you jist as hard as the best madam in the land;
next, myself, that am her father, and longs to give
her to an honest feller that won't misuse her; and,
last, your own partickelar self;—for the taking of
her is exactly the only way you have of gitting
back the old major's lands, and, what I hold to be
jist as agreeable, dragging clear of a hot Injun
fire, that will roast you to cinders, if you remain
in this d—d village two days longer!”

“My friend,” cried Roland, driven to desperation,
for he perceived Atkinson was making his
extraordinary proposal in perfectly good faith and
simplicity, as a regular matter of business, “you
know not what you ask. Free me and my kinswoman—”

“As for young madam there,” interrupted the
renegade, “don't be at all oneasy. She's in good
hands, I tell you; and Braxley 'll fetch her straight
off to Virginny, as soon as he has brought her
to reason.”

“And your terms,” said Roland, smothering his
fury as he could, “imply an understanding that
my cousin is to be surrendered to him?”

“Ondoubtedly,” replied Doe; “There's no two
ways about it. I work on my own hook, in the
matter of the fortun'—'cause how, Dick's not to
be trusted, where the play's all in his own hands;
but as for cheating him out of the gal, there's no
manner of good can come of it, and it's clear
agin my own interest. No, captain, here's the
case: you takes my gal Telie, and Braxley takes
the t'other; and so it's all settled fair between
you.”

“Hark you, rascal!” cried Roland, giving way
to his feelings; “if you would deserve a reward,
you must win it, not by saving me, but my cousin.
My own life I would buy at the price of
half the lands which that will makes me master
of; for the rescue of Edith from the vile Braxley,
I would give all. Save her,—save her from
Braxley, and then ask me what you will.”

“Well,” said Atkinson, “and you'll marry my
gal?”

“Death and furies! are you besotted? I will

enrich her,—ay, with the best of my estate,—
with all—she shall have it all.”

“And you won't have her then?” cried the
renegade, starting up in anger: “You don't think
her good enough for you, because you're of a
great quality stock, and she's come of nothing
but me, John Atkinson, a plain back-woods feller?
Or mayhap,” he added, more temperately,
“you're agin taking her, because of my being sich
a d—d notorious rascal? Well now, I reckon,
that's a thing nobody will know of in Virginny,
unless you should tell it yourself. You can jist
call her Telie Jones, or Telie Small, or any nickname
of that natur', and nobody 'll be the wiser;
and I shall jist say nothing about it myself—I
won't, captain, d—n me; for it's the gal's good
I'm hunting after, and none of my own.”

“You are mad, I tell you,” cried the soldier.
“Fix your own terms for her: I will execute any
instrument, I will give you any bond—”

“None of your cussed bonds for me,” said
Doe, with great contempt; “I knows the worth
of 'em, and I'm jist lawyer enough to see how
you could git out of 'em, by swearing they were
written under compulsion, or whatsomever you
call it. And, besides, who's to stop your cheating
the gal that has nobody to take care of her, when
you gits her in Virginny, where I dar' n't foller
her? No, captain, there's jist but the one way to
make all safe and fair; and that's by marrying
her. So marry her, captain; and jist to be short,
captain, you must marry her or burn, there's no
two ways about it. I make you the last offer;
there's no time for another; for to-morrow you
must be help'd off, or it's too late for you. Come,
captain, jist say the word—marry the gal, and
I'll save you.”

“You are mad, I tell you again. Marry her I
neither can nor will. But—”

“There's no occasion for more,” interrupted
Doe, starting angrily up. “You've jist said
the word, and that's enough. And now, captain,
when you come to the stake, don't say I
brought you there:—no, d—n it, don't,—for I've
done jist all I could do to help you to life and fortun',—I
have, d—n me, you can't deny it.”

And with these words, uttered with sullen accents
and looks, the renegade stole from the hut,
disregarding all Roland's entreaties to him to return,
and all the offers of wealth with which the
latter, in a phrensy of despair, sought to awaken
his cupidity and compassion. The door-mats had
scarce closed upon his retreating figure, before
they were parted to give entrance to the two old
Indians, who immediately assumed their positions
at his side, preserving them with vigilant fidelity
throughout the remainder of the night.