University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Hour after hour rolled on, night was approaching,
and yet no aid came. What could this mean?
What had become of my friend? Had he grown
indifferent to my fate—did he fear to encounter a
second time with the wretches who had pursued
him for his life? I dismissed this doubt as soon
as it was suggested to my mind; but I conceived
any but the true occasion for his delay. I knew
William too well to fear that he would desert me.
I knew that he had no pusillanimous fears to deter
him from a proper risk. He had probably not been
able to get assistance readily, and to come without
an adequate force, was to commit a rashness and incur
a danger, without any corresponding advantage.
I tried to solace myself with the conviction that he
would not be much longer absent, but how cheerless
did I feel the while. The very inability under

which I laboured to do any thing for myself, was,
to a mind and body like mine—accustomed to do for
themselves always—enough to discourage the hope
of being effectually relieved by others. The approach
of night did not diminish my apprehensions.
The sun had now set, and there was a brief interval
of dusk and silence between its disappearance and
the rising of the moon, which was particularly
gloomy. How dreadfully active my imagination
grew in that interval, and what effect it had upon
my nerves, I almost shame to say; but I felt a degree
of fear in that brief space of time, which I had
never suffered before, and trust, that, in no situation,
I shall ever be compelled to endure again. A state of
conscious helplessness suggests a thousand fears and
fancies that could not be forced upon the mind under
other circumstances. Forms of danger that
would seem impossible even in our dreams, become,
at such a period, unquestionable foes; and the mind
losing its balance, after a brief contest, foregoes all
examination of the danger and yields up the contest
in utter imbecility. But now the moon rose to
cheer me. Light is always cheerful. I could not
see her orb where I lay, but her smiles, like those
of some benign and blessed spirit, streamed through
the thousand cracks and openings of the log hovel
which was now a prison as secure to keep me as
the donjon of the feudal baron. Her beams fell
around me in little spots that dimpled the whole
apartment with shining and bright glances. Yet
even this cheering spectacle impressed me with
added disquiet when I found myself so securely
fastened to the floor, as not to be able with all my
writhings to avoid the occasional rays that fell upon
my face and eyes. How bitterly did this make me
feel my incapacity—and when, at moments, I heard
the faint but protracted bay of the wolf in his leafy
den not far off, which I did as soon as the night set
in, I could not doubt that he would soon make his
appearance in the deserted hovel; and I, who could
not shelter my face from the light of the moon, had
still fewer hopes of being able to protect myself
from him. With every sound in the neighbouring
thickets I imagined him approaching, under the instinct
of a scent as keen as that of the vulture, to his
bloody feast; and I vainly asked myself what I
should do in my defence, when his gaunt and shaggy
body was stretched out upon my own, and his slobbering
snout was thrust into my face. I strove, but
could not lift an arm—I could only shout in the
hope to scare him from his prey, and, such was my
conscious impotence, that it struck me as not impossible
but that I might have lost the use of my voice
also. Such was the vivid force of this childish apprehension
in my mind that I actually shouted aloud
to convince myself that it was groundless—I shouted
aloud, and, to my great joy—without any such hope
or expectation—I heard my shouts returned. Another
and another! Never were there sweeter echoes
to the cry for relief. In a few minutes more I was
surrounded by a troop—a half dozen at least—all
friends—yet where was William Carrington—the
dearest friend of all! Where? Where? My demand
was quickly answered. Colonel Grafton, who
led the company, told his story which was painfully
unsatisfactory. My horse, freed from his rider,
had brought the only intelligence which Colonel
Grafton had received. He had seen nothing of my
friend. He was not at home when the horse came
to his gate, and the animal was taken in by a servant.
When he did return, he immediately proceeded
to my assistance; though not before calling
up a patrol of such of his neighbours as he could
rely upon, to assist him in an inquiry in which he
not only feared foul play, but apprehended an issue
with more than the one villain into whose clutches
we had fallen. I was soon freed from my bonds,
but how much more unhappy than I was before.
How puerile had been my selfish apprehensions to
those which now filled my heart when I thought of
Carrington. What had been his fate?—where was
he? How icy cold in my bosom did my blood
run, as I mediated these doubts and dreaded the
increase of knowledge which I was yet compelled
to seek.

Let me pass over this dreadful interval of doubt,
and hurry on to the palsying conviction of the truth
which followed. Our search that night was unavailing,
but the next morning the woods were scoured,
and it was my fortune to be the first to fall upon
traces which led me to the body of my friend. I
saw where he had fallen—where the horse had evidently
shyed as the shot was given and the rider fell.
The earth was still smooth where he had lain, for
Webber was too much hurried or too indifferent, to
endeavour to remove the marks of the event. It
was not now difficult to find the body. They had
not carried it far; and I removed a clump of bushes
which grew over the hollow in which they had
thrown it, and started with a convulsion of horror to
find it lying at my feet. Cold, silent, stiff—there
he lay—the friend of my heart; battered and bruised
—his noble face covered with blood and dust—one of
his eyes protruding from its socket, and the limbs,
once so symmetrical and straight, now contracted
and fixed in deformity by the sudden spasms of death.

All my strength left me as this dreadful spectacle
met my eyes. I sunk down beside it incapable of
speech or action. My knees were weakened—my
very soul dead within me. I could only sob and
moan, and my choking utterance might well have

moved the wonder and pity of those about me, to
behold one who seemed otherwise so strong and
bold, now sunk into such a state of woman-like infirmity.
Colonel Grafton condoled with me like a
father, but what could he, or any one say to me in
the way of consolation. Who could declare the
amount of my own loss—and yet, what was my
loss to hers—the poor girl who waited for his return?
From me she was to hear that he never could return?
—that he lay cold in his gore—his voice silent—his
body mangled—his noble figure stiffened into deformity.
I shivered as with an ague fit when I remembered
that it was from my lips she was to hear
all this.

An examination of the body proved two things
which struck me with surprise. It was found that
the fatal wound had been received in front, and that
it had been inflicted by a rifle bullet. How to account
for this I knew not. I had seen no rifle
among the weapons carried by any of the outlaws;
and even if there had been, how should the shot
have taken effect in front, he flying from them—
evidently in rapid flight when shot, and they some
distance behind him. There was only one way at
that moment to account for this, and that was to
suppose that some associate of the pursuers had
either been stationed in front, or had, opportunely
for them, appeared there as he approached the point

where he had fallen. Though still unsatisfactory to
me, and perhaps to all, we were yet compelled, in
the absence of all better knowledge, to content ourselves
with a conjecture, which, though plausible
enough, did not content us. I felt that there was some
mystery still in the transaction, and that William
had not been slain willingly by the pursuers. Webber
had headed them, and why should he have been
so prompt to murder one, and spare another—ay,
even protect him from harm—who was so completely
in his power. There was as little personal
hostility towards William in the mind of Webber
as towards me—and yet, the blood, warmed by pursuit,
might have grown too rash for the deliberate
resolve even of one so habitually cool as the master
villain on this occasion.

Doubts thickened in my mind with every added
moment of conjecture, and at length I strove to
think no more upon it. I resolved to do so, though
I soon found my resolution idle. How could I forbear
the thought, when I found it had made my
hair gray in that single night. Either that or my
fears had done so, and I fain would believe it was
not the latter. I could think now of nothing else.
That mangled body lay before me whichever way I
turned. I saw the ghastly glaze upon the starting eye
that bulged half way from its socket. I saw that
mouth whose smile it had been a pleasure to see,

distorted from its natural shape and smeared with
dust and mire. There too was the narrow orifice
through which life had rushed, prayerless perhaps,
and oh! with such terrific abruptness. I thought
then of all his ways—his frank, hearty laugh, his
generous spirit, his free bold character, his love of
truth, his friendship, and the sweet heart-ties which
had bound him to life and earth, and warmed him
with promising hopes, never to be fulfilled. That
last thought was the pang above all. Poor William
—Poor Catharine! Little, in the gushing fulness
of their united hopes, did their hearts dream of a
destiny like this.