University of Virginia Library

THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN.

THE GIANT'S COFFIN,
OR THE FEUD OF HOLT AND HOUSTON.

A TALE OF REEDY RIVER.

1. CHAPTER I.

In 1766, the beautiful district of Greenville, in South Carolina,
—which is said to have had its name in consequence of the verdant
aspect which it bore in European eyes,—received its first
white settlers from Virginia and Pennsylvania. Among these
early colonists were the families of Holt and Houston,—represented
by two fearless borderers, famous in their day as Indian
hunters;—men ready with the tomahawk and rifle, but not less
distinguished, perhaps, for the great attachment which existed between
them. Long intercourse in trying periods—the habit of
referring to each other in moments of peril—constant adventures
in company—not to speak of similar tastes and sympathies in numerous
other respects, had created between them a degree of affection,
which it would be difficult, perhaps, to find among persons
of more mild and gentle habits. Each had his family—his wife
and little ones—and, traversing the mountain paths which lie between
Virginia and the Carolinas, they came in safety to the
more southern of the last-named colonies. Charmed with the appearance
of the country, they squatted down upon the borders of
Reedy River, not very far from the spot now occupied by the
pleasant town of Greenville. Family division, for the present,
there was none. Congeniality of tastes, the isolation of their

abodes, the necessity of concentration against the neighbouring
Indian nation of Cherokees, kept them together; and, continuing
the life of the hunter, rather than that of the farmer, John Holt
and Arthur Houston pursued the track of bear, deer, and turkey,
as before, with a keenness of zest which, possibly, derived its impulse
quite as much from attachment to one another, as from any
great fondness for the pursuit itself.

Meanwhile, their families, taking fast hold upon the soil, began
to flourish together after a fashion of their own. Flourish they
did, for the boys thrived, and the girls grew apace. But tradition
has preserved some qualifying circumstances in this history, by
which it would seem that their prosperity was not entirely without
alloy. The sympathies between Mesdames Holt and Houston
were not, it appears, quite so warm and active as those which
distinguished the intercourse of their respective husbands. Civil
enough to one another in the presence of the latter, they were not
unfrequently at “dagger-draw” in their absence. The husbands
were not altogether ignorant of this condition of things at home,
but they had their remedy; and there is little doubt that, like
some other famous sportsmen of my acquaintance, they became
happy hunters only when there was no longer any hope that they
could become happy husbands. Now, as quarrels most commonly
owe their spirit and excellence to the presence of spectators,
we may assume that some portion of the virulence of our two
wives underwent diminution from the absence of those before
whom it might hope to display itself with appropriate eloquence;
and the wrath of the dames, only exhibited before their respective
children, was very apt to exhale in clouds, and slight flashes, and
an under-current of distant thunder. Unhappily, however, the
evil had consequences of which the weak mothers little thought,
and the feud was entailed to the children, who, instead of assimilating,
with childish propensities, in childish sports, took up the
cudgels of their parents, and under fewer of the restraints,—
arising from prudence, and the recognition of mutual necessities,
—by which the dames were kept from extreme issues, they played
the aforesaid cudgels about their mutual heads, with a degree
of earnestness that very frequently rendered necessary the interposition
of their superiors.

The miserable evil of this family feud fell most heavily upon
the natures of the two eldest boys, one a Holt, the other a Houston,—spoiling
their childish tempers, impressing their souls with
fearful passions, and embittering their whole intercourse.

At this period young Houston has reached the age of fourteen,
and Holt of twelve years of age. The former was a tall, slender,
and very handsome youth; the latter was short, thickset,
and of rather plain, unpromising appearance. But he was modest,
gentle, and subdued in temper, and rather retiring and shy.
The former, on the contrary, was bold, vain, and violent—the
petted boy of his mother, insolent in his demands, and reckless in his
resentments—a fellow of unbending will, and of unmeasured impulses.
He had already gone forth as a hunter with his father;
he had proved his strength and courage; and he longed for an
opportunity to exercise his youthful muscle upon his young companion,
with whom, hitherto,—he himself could not say how or
why—his collisions had fallen short of the extremities of personal
violence. For such an encounter the soul of young Houston
yearned; he knew that Holt was not wanting in strength—he
had felt that in their plays together; but he did not doubt that his
own strength, regularly put forth, was greatly superior.

One day the boys had gone down together to the banks of
Reedy River to bathe. There they met a deformed boy of the
neighbourhood, whose name was Acker. In addition to his deformity,
the boy was an epileptic, and such was his nervous
sensibility, that, merely to point a finger at him in mischief, was
apt to produce in him the most painful sensations. Sometimes,
indeed, the pranks of his playmates, carried too far, had thrown
him into convulsions. This unhappy lad had but just recovered
from a sickness produced by some such practices, and this fact
was well known to the boys. Disregarding it, however, John
Houston proceeded to amuse himself with the poor boy. Holt,
however, interposed, and remonstrated with his companion, but
without effect. Houston persisted, until, fairly tired of the sport,
he left the diseased boy in a dreadful condition of mental excitement
and bodily exhaustion. This done, he proceeded to bathe.

Meanwhile, with that sort of cunning and vindictiveness which
often distinguishes the impaired intellect of persons subject to

such infirmities, the epileptic boy watched his opportunity, and
stole down, unobserved, to the river's edge, among the rocks,
where the boys had placed their clothes. There he remained in
waiting, and when John Houston appeared to dress himself, and
was stooping down for his garments, the epileptic threw himself
violently upon him, bore him to the ground, and, grasping a
heavy rock, would have beaten out the brains of the offending
lad, but for the timely assistance of Arthur Holt, who drew off
the assailant, deprived him of his weapon, and gave his comrade
a chance to recover, and place himself in a situation to defend
himself.

But Acker, the epileptic boy, was no longer in a condition to
justify the hostility of any enemy. His fit of frenzy had been
succeeded by one of weeping, and, prostrate upon the ground,
he lay convulsed under most violent nervous agitation. While
he remained in this state, John Houston, who had now partially
dressed himself, furious with rage at the indignity he had suffered,
and the danger he had escaped, prepared to revenge himself
upon him for this last offence; and, but for Arthur Holt, would,
no doubt, have subjected the miserable victim to a severe beating.
But the manly nature of Arthur resented and resisted this brutality.
He stood between the victim and his persecutor.

“You shall not beat him, John—it was your own fault. You
begun it.”

“I will beat you then,” was the reply.

“No! you shall not beat me, either.”

“Ha! Take that!”

The blow followed on the instant. A first blow, and in the
eye, too, is very apt to conclude an ordinary battle. But this
was to be no ordinary battle. Our young hero was stunned by
the blow;—the fire flashed from the injured eye;—but the unfairness
of the proceeding awakened a courage which had its best
sources in the moral nature of the boy; and, though thus taken
at advantage, he closed in with his assailant, and, in this manner,
lessened the odds at which he otherwise must have fought with
one so much taller and longer in the arms than himself. In the
fling that followed, John Houston was on his back. His conqueror
suffered him to rise.

“Let us fight no more, John,” he said, on relaxing his hold;
“I don't want to fight with you.”

The answer, on the part of the other, was a renewal of the assault.
Again was he thrown, and this time with a considerable
increase of severity. He rose with pain. He felt his hurts.
The place of battle was stony ground. Fragments of rock
were at hand. Indignant and mortified at the result of the second
struggle—aiming only at vengeance—the furious boy snatched
up one of these fragments, and once more rushed upon his
companion. But this time he was restrained by a third party—
no less than his own father—who, unobserved, had emerged from
the neighbouring thicket, and, unseen by the combatants, had witnessed
the whole proceeding. The honourable nature of the old
hunter recoiled at the conduct of his son. He suddenly took the
lad by the collar, wrested the stone from him, and laying a heavy
hickory rod some half dozen times over his shoulders, with no
moderate emphasis, sent him home, burning with shame, and
breathing nothing but revenge.

2. CHAPTER II.

In the space of five years after this event, the two fathers
yielded their scalps to the Cherokees, and upon the young men,
now stretching to manhood, devolved the task of providing for
their families. The patriarchal sway was at an end, and, with
it, all those restraining influences by which the external show of
peace had been kept up. It was to be a household in common no
longer. But a short time had elapsed, when a domestic storm of
peculiar violence determined the dames to separate for ever; and,
while the family of Holt, under the management of young Arthur,
remained at the old settlement near Reedy River, the Houstons
proceeded to Paris Mountain, some seven miles off,—in the
neighbourhood of which may be found, at this day, some traces
of their rude retreat. The settlement at Reedy River, meanwhile,
had undergone increase. New families had arrived, and
the first foundations were probably then laid of the flourishing
village which now borders the same lovely stream. The sons
grew up, but not after the fashion of their fathers. In one respect
only did John Houston resemble his parent—he was a hunter.
Arthur Holt, on the other hand, settled down into a methodical,
hard-working farmer, who, clinging to his family fireside, made it
cheerful, and diffused the happiest influences around it. He
grew up strong rather than handsome, good rather than conspicuous;
and, under his persevering industry and steady habits, his
mother's family, now his own, reached a condition of comfort before
unknown. The family of young Houston, by which we
mean his mother, sister, and a younger brother, did not flourish
in like degree. Yet Houston had already acquired great reputation
as a hunter. In the woods he seemed literally to follow in
his father's footsteps. He had his accomplishments also. He
was certainly the handsomest youth in all the settlements; of a
bold carriage, lofty port, free, open, expressive countenance, tall
of person and graceful of movement.

It was some qualification of these advantages that the morale
of John Houston was already something more than questionable
in the public opinion of the settlement. His tastes were vicious,
—his indulgences in strong drink had more than once subjected
him to humiliating exposures, but as yet they had produced caution
rather than dislike among his associates. Among the women,
however, they were not suspected to exist, or, if known or
suspected, weighed very little against the graces of a fine person,
a dashing, easy carriage, and a free “gift of the gab,” which
left him quite as unrivalled among the debaters as he was among
the dancers.

Among the families settled down upon Reedy River, was that
of Marcus Heywood, a Virginia cavalier, a fine hearty gentleman
of the old school, polished and precise, who had seen better
days, and was disposed very much to insist upon them. He
brought with him into the little colony a degree of taste and
refinement, of which, before his coming, the happy little neighbourhood
knew nothing; but, unhappily for all parties, he survived
too short a time after his arrival, to affect very favourably,
or very materially, the sentiments and manners of those about
him. He left his widow, a lady of fifty, and an only daughter
of sixteen, to lament his loss. Mrs. Heywood was a good woman,
an excellent housewife, a kind matron, and all that is exemplary
at her time of life; but Leda Heywood, her daughter, was
a paragon;—in such high terms is she described by still-worshiping
tradition, and the story that comes down to us, seems, in some
respects, to justify the warmth of its eulogium. At the period of
her father's death, Leda was only sixteen; but she was tall, well-grown,
and thoughtful beyond her years. The trying times in
which she lived—frequent travel—the necessity of vigilance—
the duties which naturally fall upon the young in new countries
—conspired to bring out her character, and to hurry to maturity
an intellect originally prompt and precocious. Necessity had
forced thought into exercise, and she had become acute, observant,
subdued in bearing, modest in reply, gentle, full of womanly
solicitude, yet so calm in her deportment that, to the superficial
observer, she wore an aspect,—quite false to the fact,—
of great coldness and insensibility. Her tastes were excellent;

she sang very sweetly—and when you add to the account of her
merits, that she was really very lovely, a fair, blue-eyed, graceful
creature,—you need not wonder that one day she became a heroine!
A heroine! poor Leda! Bitterly, indeed, must she have
wept, in after times, the evil fortune that doomed her to be a
heroine!

But Leda was a belle before she become a heroine. This was,
perhaps, the more unfortunate destiny of the two. She was the
belle of Reedy River, called by hunter, and shepherd, and farmer,
“the blue-eyed girl of Reedy River,” to whom all paid an
involuntary tribute, to whom all came as suitors, and, with the
rest, who but our two acquaintances, John Houston and Arthur
Holt. At first they themselves knew not that they were rivals,
but the secret was one of that sort which very soon contrived to
reveal itself. It was then that the ancient hate of John Houston
revived, in all its fury. If Arthur Holt was not conscious of the
same feelings exactly, he was yet conscious of an increased dislike
of his old companion. With that forbearance which, whether
the fruit of prudence or timidity, Arthur Holt had always been
careful to maintain in his intercouse with his former associate,
he now studiously kept aloof from him as much as possible. Not
that this reserve and caution manifested itself in any unmanly
weakness. On the contrary, no one could have appeared more
composed, when they met, than Arthur Holt. It is true that, in
the actual presence of Leda Heywood, he was rather more embarrassed
than his rival. The reader will not need to be reminded
that we have already described him as being naturally
shy. This bashfulness showed badly in contrast with the deportment
of John Houston. If the difference between the manner of
the two young men, in approaching their mistress, was perceptible
to herself and others, it was little likely to escape the eyes of
one who, like John Houston, was rendered equally watchful both
by hate and jealousy. But, unconscious of any bashfulness
himself, he could not conceive the influence of this weakness in
another. He committed the grievous error of ascribing the disquiet
and nervous timidity of Arthur Holt to a very different
origin; and fondly fancied that it arose from a secret dread which
the young man felt of his rival. We shall not say what degree

of influence this notion might have had, in determining his own
future conduct towards his rival.

Some months had passed away, since the death of Colonel
Heywood, in this manner, and the crowd of suitors had gradually
given way to the two to whom our own attention has been more
particularly turned. Events, meanwhile, had been verging towards
a very natural crisis; and the whisper, on all hands, determined
that Leda Heywood was certainly engaged, and to John
Houston. This whisper, as a matter of course, soon reached the
ears of the man whom it was most likely to annoy.

Arthur Holt could not be said to hope, for, in truth, Leda
Heywood had given him but little encouragement; still he was not
willing to yield in despair, for, so far as he himself had observed,
she had never given any encouragement to his rival. At all
events, there was a way of settling the matter, which the stout-hearted
fellow determined to take at the earliest moment. He
resolved to propose to Leda, a measure which he would sooner
have adopted, but for a delicate scruple arising from the fact that
he had made himself particularly useful to her mother, who, in
her widowhood, and in straitened circumstances, was very glad
to receive the help and friendly offices of the young farmer.
These scruples yielded, however, to the strength of his feelings;
and one evening he had already half finished his toilet with more
than usual care, in order to the business of a formal declaration,
when, to his own surprise and that of his family, John Houston
abruptly entered the humble homestead. It was the first visit
which he had paid since the separation of the two families, and
Arthur saw at a glance that it had its particular object. After a
few moments, in which the usual civilities were exchanged,
John Houston, rising as he spoke, said abruptly to Arthur—

“You seem about to go out, and perhaps we may be walking
in the same direction. If so, I can say what I have to say, while
we're on the road together.”

“I am about to go to see the Widow Heywood.”

“Very good! our road lies the same way.”

The tones of Houston were more than usually abrupt as he
spoke, and there was a stern contracting of the brow, and a
fierce flashing of the eye, while he looked upon the person he

addressed, which did not escape the observation of Arthur, and
excited the apprehensions of his mother. On some pretence, she
drew her son into her chamber ere he went forth, and in few, but
earnest words, insisted that John Houston meant harm.

“If you will go with him, Arthur, take this pistol of your
father's in your bosom, and keep a sharp look-out upon him.
Man never meant evil if John Houston does not mean it now.”

We pass over her farther remonstrances. They made little
impression upon Arthur, but, to quiet her, he put the weapon into
his bosom—half ashamed—as he did so—of a concession that
seemed to look like cowardice.

The two young men set out together, and the eyes of the anxious
mother followed them as long as they were in sight. They
took the common path, which led them down to the river, just
below the falls. When they had reached the opposite shore, and
before they had ascended the rocks by which it is lined, John
Houston, who had led, turned suddenly upon his companion, and
thus addressed him:

“Arthur Holt, you may wonder at my coming to see you today,
for I very well know that there is no love lost between us.
You like me as little as I like you. Nay, for that matter, I don't
care how soon you hear it from my lips,—I hate you, and I shall
always hate you! We were enemies while we were boys,—we
are enemies now that we are men; and I suppose we shall be
enemies as long as we live. Whether we are to fight upon it, is
for you to say.”

Here he paused and looked eagerly into the eyes of his companion.
The latter regarded him steadily, but returned no answer.
He evidently seemed to await some farther explanation
of the purpose of one who had opened his business with an
avowal so startling and ungracious. After a brief pause, Houston
proceeded:

“The talk is that you're a-courting Leda Heywood—that you
mean to offer yourself to her—and when I see how finely you've
rigged yourself out for it to-night, I'm half inclined to believe
you're foolish enough to be thinking of it. Arthur Holt, this
must not be! You must have nothing to do with Leda Heywood.”

He paused again—his eyes keenly searching those of his rival.

The latter still met his glance with a quiet sort of determination,
which betrayed nothing of the effect which the words of the other
might have produced upon his mind. Houston was annoyed.
Impatiently, again, he spoke, as follows:

“You hear me,—you hear what I say?”

“Yes, I hear you, John Houston.”

“Well!—”

“Well!—you want my answer, I suppose? You shall have
it! This it is. If you are a madman or a fool, that is no reason
why I should not do as I please!”

The other was about to interrupt him,—but Holt persisted:

“Let me finish, John Houston. I heard you patiently—now,
hear me! I am no fighting man, and as heaven is above us, I
have no wish to quarrel; but I am ready to fight whenever I
can't do better. As for being bullied by you, that is out of the
question. I am not afraid of you, and never was, as you should
have known before this, and as you may know whenever the
notion suits you to try. I am now, this very moment, going to
see Leda Heywood, and I mean to ask her hand.”

“That you shall never do!” exclaimed the other, whose passions
had been with difficulty kept down so long—“That, by the
Eternal! you shall never do!”—and as he spoke, drawing a
knife from his belt, he rushed upon Arthur Holt, with a promptness
and fury that left the latter in no doubt of the bloody and
desperate purposes of his foe. But the coolness of the young
farmer was his safeguard in part, and to the weapon, so thoughtfully
furnished him by his mother, he was indebted for the rest.
He had kept a wary watch upon the movements of Houston's
eye, and read in its glance the bloody purpose of his soul, the
moment ere he struck. Retreating on one side, he was ready,
when the latter turned a second time upon him, with his presented
pistol.

“It is well for both of us, perhaps,” said he, quietly, as he
cocked and held up the weapon to the face of the approaching
Houston, “that this pistol was put into my hands by one who
knew you better than I did; or you might this moment have my
blood upon your soul. Let us now part, John Houston. If you
are bent to go from this to Widow Heywood's,—the path is open

to you,—go! I will return home, and seek some other time,
when there's no chance of our meeting; for I neither wish to kill
you nor to be killed by you. Which will you do—go forward or
return? Take your choice—I yield the path to you.”

The fury of the baffled assassin may be imagined. It is not
easy to describe it. But he was in no condition of mind to visit
Leda Heywood, and, after exhausting himself in ineffectual
threatenings, he dashed once more across the foaming torrents of
Reedy River, leaving Arthur Holt free to pursue his way to the
cottage of his mistress. This he did, with a composure which
the whole exciting scene, through which he had passed, had entirely
failed to disturb. Indeed, the events of this interview
appeared to have the effect, only, of strengthening the resolve of
the young farmer, for, to confess a truth, the good fellow was
somewhat encouraged—by certain expressions which had dropped
from Houston, in his fury,—to hope for a favourable answer to
his suit. We may as well say, in this place, that the frenzy of
the latter had been provoked by similar stories reaching his ears
to those which had troubled Arthur.

When they separated, and Arthur Holt went forward to the
cottage of Widow Heywood, it was with a new and most delightful
hope awakened in his bosom.

3. CHAPTER III.

But he was doomed to disappointment. He was rejected,—
tenderly, but firmly. Leda Heywood was not for him; and
resigning himself to the denial, with the instincts of a man by
nature strong, and inured by trial to disappointments, Arthur
Holt retired from the field of Love, to cultivate more certain
fruits in those of Ceres and Pomona. Had the mind of the young
farmer been morbidly affected, his mortification would have been
heightened by subsequent events. Three days afterwards, Leda
Heywood accepted the hand of his enemy, John Houston! Philosophers
will continue to seek in vain for the cause of that
strange perversity, by which the tastes, even of the finest women,
are sometimes found to be governed. There is a mystery here
beyond all solution. The tastes and sympathies of Leda Heywood
and John Houston did not run together;—there was, in reality,
no common ground, whether of the affections or of the sentiments,
upon which they could meet. But he sought, and wooed, and
won her;—they were married; and, to all but Arthur Holt, the
wonder was at an end after the customary limits of the ninth day.
The wonder, in this case, will be lessened to the reader if two or
three things were remembered. Leda Heywood was very young,
and John Houston very handsome. Of the wild passions of the
latter she knew little or nothing. She found him popular—the
favourite of the damsels around her, and this fact, alone, will account
for the rest. But we must not digress in speculations of
this nature. The parties were married, and the honeymoon, in all
countries and climates, is proverbially rose-coloured. The only
awkward thing is, that, in all countries, it is but a monthly moon.

The wedding took place. The honeymoon rose, but set somewhat
earlier than usual. With the attainment of his object, the
passion of John Houston very soon subsided, and we shall make
a long story conveniently short by saying, in this place, that it
was not many weeks before Leda Heywood (or as we must now

call her,) Leda Houston, began to weep over the ill-judged precipitation
with which she had joined herself to a man whose violent
temper made no allowances for the feelings, the sensibilities,
and tastes of others. No longer restrained by the dread of losing
his object, his brutalities shocked her delicacy, while his fierce
passions awoke her fears. She soon found herself neglected and
abused, and learned to loathe the connection she had formed, and
to weep bitter tears in secret. To all this evil may be added the
pressure of poverty, which now began to be more seriously felt
than ever. The hunter life, always uncertain, was still more so,
in the case of one like John Houston, continually led into indulgences
which unfitted him, sometimes for days together, to go
into the woods. Carousing at the tavern with some congenial
natures, he suffered himself to be little disturbed by home cares;
and the privations to which his wife had been subjected even, before
her marriage, were now considerably increased. If will be
remembered that the Widow Heywood was indebted (perhaps
even more than she then knew) to the generous care of Arthur
Holt. Her resources from this quarter were necessarily withdrawn
on the marriage of her daughter with Houston, not so
much through any diminution of the young farmer's sympathy
for the objects of his bounty, as from a desire to withdraw from
any connexion or communion, direct or indirect, with the family
of his bitterest foe. Knowing the fierce, unreasoning nature of
Houston, he was unwilling to expose to his violence the innocent
victims of his ill habits—a consequence which he very well knew
would follow the discovery of any services secretly rendered
them by Holt. But these scruples were soon compelled to give
way to a sense of superior duty. It soon came to his knowledge
that the unhappy women—mother and daughter—were frequently
without food. John Houston, abandoned to vicious habits
and associates, had almost entirely left his family to provide for
themselves. He was sometimes absent for weeks—would return
home, as it appeared, for no purpose but to vent upon his wife and
mother-in-law the caprices of his ill-ordered moods, and then depart,
leaving them hopeless of his aid. In this condition, the
young farmer came again to their rescue. The larder was provided
regularly and bountifully. But Leda knew not at first
whence this kindly succor came. She might have suspected—nay,
did suspect—but Arthur Holt proceeded so cautiously, that his
supplies came to the house with the privity of Widow Heywood
only.

To add to Leda's sorrows, two events now occurred within a
few months of each other, and both in less than sixteen months
after her marriage, which were calculated to increase her burthen,
and to lessen, in some respect, her sources of consolation:
the birth of a son and the death of her mother. These events
drew to her the assistance of neighbours, but the most substantial
help came from Arthur Holt. It was now scarcely possible
to conceal from Leda, as he had hitherto done, his own direct
agency in the support of her family. She was compelled to
know it, and—which was still more mortifying to her spirit—
conscious as she was of the past—she was compelled to receive
it. Her husband's course was not materially improved by events
which had so greatly increased the claims and the necessities of
his wife. The child, for a time, appealed to his pride. It was
a fine boy, who was supposed and said to resemble himself.
This pleased him for a while, but did not long restrain him from
indulgences, which, grateful to him from the first, had now
acquired over him all the force of habit. He soon disappeared
from his home, and again, for long and weary periods, left the
poor Leda to all the cares and solitude, without the freedom, of
widowhood.

But a circumstance was about to occur, which suddenly drew
his attention to his home. Whether it was that some meddlesome
neighbour informed him of the assistance which his wife derived
from Arthur Holt, or that he himself had suddenly awakened to
the inquiry as to the source of her supplies, we cannot say; but
certain it is that the suspicions of his evil nature were aroused;
and he who would not abandon his low and worthless associates
for the sake of duty and love, was now prompted to do so by his
hate. He returned secretly to the neighbourhood of his home,
and put himself in a place of concealment.

The cottage of the Widow Heywood was within three quarters
of a mile of Reedy River, on the opposite side of which
stood the farm of Arthur Holt. This space the young farmer

was accustomed nightly to cross, bearing with him the commodity,
whether of flour, honey, milk, meat, or corn, which his
benevolence prompted him to place on the threshold of his sad
and suffering neighbour. There was a little grove of chestnut
and other forest trees, that stood about two hundred yards from
Leda's cottage. A part of this grove belonged to their dwelling;
the rest was unenclosed. Through this grove ran one of the lines
of fence which determined the domain of the cottage. On both
sides of the fence, in the very centre of this thicket, there were
steps, gradually rising, from within and without, to its top,—a
mode of constructing a passage frequent in the country, which,
having all the facilities of a gateway, was yet more permanent,
and without its disadvantages. To this point came Arthur Holt
nightly. On these steps he laid his tribute, whether of charity
or a still lingering love, or both, and, retiring to the thicket, he
waited, sometimes for more than an hour, until he caught a
glimpse of the figure of Leda, descending through the grove, and
possessing herself of the supply. This done, and she departed;
the young farmer, sighing deeply, would turn away unseen, unsuspected,
perhaps, and regain his own cottage.

On these occasions the two never met. The Widow Heywood,
on her deathbed, had confided to her daughter the secret of her
own interviews with Arthur, and he, to spare himself as well as
Leda, he pain of meeting, had appointed his own and her hour
of coming, differently. Whether she, at any time, suspected his
propinquity, cannot be conjectured. That she was touched to the
heart by his devotion, cannot well be questioned.

For five weary nights did the malignant and suspicious eyes
of John Houston, from a contiguous thicket, watch these proceedings
with feelings of equal hate and mortification. Filled with
the most foul and loathsome anticipations—burning to find victims—to
detect, expose, destroy—he beheld only a spectacle
which increased his mortification. He beheld innocence superior
to misfortune—love that did not take advantage of its power—a
benevolence that rebuked his own worthlessness and hardness of
heart—a purity on the part of both the objects of his jealousy,
which mocked his comprehension, as it was so entirely above any
capacity of his own, whether of mind or heart, to appreciate.

It was now the fifth night of his watch. He began to despair
of his object. He had seen nothing to give the least confirmation
to his suspicions. His wife had appeared only as she was, as
pure as an angel;—his ancient enemy not less so. He was
furious that he could find no good cause of fury, and weary of a
watch which was so much at variance with his habits. He determined
that night to end it. With the night, and at the usual
hour, came the unfailing Arthur. He placed his bowl of milk
upon the steps, his sack of meal, a small vessel of butter, and a
neat little basket of apples. For a moment he lingered by the
fence, then slipping back, adroitly ensconced himself in a neighbouring
thicket, from whence he could see every movement of
the fair sufferer by whom they were withdrawn. This last
movement of the young farmer had not been unseen by the
guilty husband. Indeed, it was this part of the proceeding
which, more than any thing beside, had forced upon him the
conviction that the parties did not meet. She came, and she, too,
lingered by the steps, before she proceeded to remove the provisions.
Deep was the sigh that escaped her—deeper than usual
were her emotions. She sank upon one of the steps—she clasped
her hands convulsively—her lips moved—she was evidently
breathing a spontaneous prayer to heaven, at the close of which
she wept bitterly, the deep sobs seeming to burst from a heart
that felt itself relieved by this mournful power of expression.

Was it the echo of her own sighs—her sobs—that came to her
from the thicket? She started, and with wild eye gazing around
her, proceeded with all haste to gather up her little stores. But
in this she was prevented. The answering sigh, the sob,—coming
from the lips of his hated rival and ancient enemy, had gone,
hissingly, as it were, into the very brain of John Houston. He
darted from his place of concealment, dashed the provisions from
the hands of his wife, and, with a single blow, smote her to the
earth, while he cried out to Holt in the opposite thicket, some incoherent
language of insults and opprobrium. The movement
of the latter was quite as prompt, though not in season to prevent
the unmanly blow. He sprang forward, and, grasping the
offender about the body, lifted him with powerful effort from the
earth, upon which he was about to hurl him again with all the

fury of indignant manhood, when Leda leapt to her feet, and
interposed. At the sound of her voice, the very tones of which
declared her wish, Arthur released his enemy, but with no easy
effort. The latter, regaining his feet, and recovering in some
degree his composure, turned to his wife and commanded her
absence.

“I cannot go—I will not—while there is a prospect of blood-shed,”
was her firm reply.

“What! you would see it, would you? Doubtless, the sight
of my blood would delight your eyes! But hope not for it!—
Arthur Holt, are you for ever to cross my path, and with impunity?
Shall there never be a settlement between us? Is the day
of reckoning never to come? Speak! Shall we fight it out here,
in the presence of this woman, or go elsewhere, where there will
be no tell-tale witnesses? Will you follow me?”

“Go not,—follow him not,—Arthur Holt. Go to your home!
I thank you, I bless you for what you have done for me and
mine;—for the mother who looks on us from heaven,—for the
child that still looks to me on earth. May God bless you for
your charity and goodness! Go now, Arthur Holt—go to your
own home—and look not again upon mine. Once more, God's
blessings be upon you! May you never want them.”

There was a warmth, an earnestness, almost a violence in the
tone and manner of this adjuration, so new to the usually meek
and calm deportment of his wife, that seemed, on a sudden, to
confound the brutal husband. He turned on her a vacant look
of astonishment. He was very far from looking for such boldness—such
audacity—in that quarter. But his forbearance was
not of long duration, and he was already beginning a fierce and
almost frenzied repetition of his blasphemies, when the subdued,
but firm answer of Arthur Holt again diverted his attention. The
good sense of the young farmer made him at once sensible of the
danger to the unhappy woman of using any language calculated
to provoke the always too prompt brutality of the husband, and,
stifling his own indignation with all his strength, he calmly promised
compliance with her requisitions.

“There are many reasons,” he added, “why there should be
no strife between John Houston and myself; we were boys together,

our fathers loved one another; we have slept in the same
bed.”

“That shall not be your excuse, Arthur Holt,” exclaimed the
other, interrupting him; “you shall not escape me by any such
pretences. My father's name shall not shelter your cowardice.”

“Cowardice!”

“Ay, cowardice! cowardice! What are you but an unmanly
coward!”

There was a deep, but quiet struggle, in the breast of Arthur,
to keep down the rising devil in his mood; but he succeeded,
and turning away, he contented himself with saying simply:

“You know that I am no coward, John Houston—nobody better
than yourself. You will take good heed how you approach
such cowardice as mine.”

“Do you dare me!”

“Yes!”

“No! no!” cried the wife, again flinging herself between
them. Away, Arthur Holt, why will you remain when you see
what I am doomed to suffer?”

“I go, Leda, but I dread to leave you in such hands. God
have you in his holy keeping!”

4. CHAPTER IV.

We pass over a period of eighteen months. In this time John
Houston had sold out the little cottage near Reedy River, and
had removed his wife to the residence of his mother near Paris
Mountain. Why he had not adopted this measure on the demise
of Widow Heywood is matter of conjecture only. His own mother
was now dead, and it was the opinion of those around, that it
was only after this latter event that he could venture upon a step
which might seem to divide the sceptre of household authority—
a point about which despotical old ladies are apt to be very
jealous. His household was as badly provided for as ever, but
some good angel, whose presence might have been suspected,
still watched over the wants of the suffering wife, and the hollow
of an ancient chestnut now received the stores which we have
formerly seen placed upon the rude blocks near the thicket fence
in Greenville. Whether John Houston still suspected the interference
of his hated playmate we cannot say. The prudent
caution of the latter availed so that they did not often meet, and
never under circumstances which could justify a quarrel. But
events were ripening which were to bring them unavoidably into
collision. We are now in the midst of the year 1776. The
strife had already begun, of Whig and Tory, in the upper part
of South Carolina. It happened some time in 1774 that the afterwards
notorious Moses Kirkland stopped one night at the dwelling
of John Houston. This man was already busy in stirring up
disaffection to the popular party of the State. He was a man of
loose, vicious habits, and irregular propensities. He and John
Houston were kindred spirits; and the hunter was soon enlisted
under his banners. He was out with Kirkland in the campaign
of 1775, when the Tories were dispersed and put down by the
decisive measures of General Williamson and William Henry
Drayton. It so happened that Arthur Holt made his appearance
in the field, also for the first time, in the army of Williamson.

The two knew that they were now opponents as they had long
been enemies. But they did not meet. The designs of Kirkland
were baffled, his troops dispersed, and the country settled down
into a condition of seeming quiet. But it was a seeming quiet
only. The old wounds festered, and when, in 1780, the metropolis
of the State fell into the hands of the British, yielding to
captivity nearly the whole of its military power, the Tories resumed
their arms and impulses with a fury which long forbearance
had heightened into perfect madness. Upon the long and
melancholy history of that savage warfare which followed, we
need not dwell. The story is already sufficiently well known.
It is enough to say that John Houston distinguished himself by his
cruelties. Arthur Holt threw by the plough, and was one of
Butler's men for a season. With the decline of British power in
the lower, the ascendancy in the upper country finally passed
over to the Whigs. Both parties were now broken up into little
squads of from ten to fifty persons;—the Tories, the better to
avoid pursuit, the Whigs, the better to compass them in all their
hiding-places.

It was a cold and cheerless evening in the month of November
that Arthur Holt, armed to the teeth, stopped for the night, with a
party of eleven men, at a cottage about fourteen miles from his
own dwelling on the banks of Reedy River.

An hour had not well elapsed, before Arthur Holt found some
one jerking at his shoulder. He opened his eyes and recognised
the epileptic of whom mention was made in the early part of our
narrative. Acker was still an epileptic, and still, to all appearance,
a boy;—he was small, decrepit, pale, and still liable to the
shocking disease, the effects of which were apparent equally in
his withered face and shrivelled person. But he was not without
intelligence, and his memory was singularly tenacious of benefits
and injuries. Eagerly challenging the attention of Arthur Holt,
he proceeded to tell him that John Houston had only two hours
before been seen with a party of seven, on his way to the farm at
Paris Mountain, where, at that very moment, he might in all
probability be found. By this time the troopers, accustomed to
sudden rousings, were awake and in possession of the intelligence.
It was greedily listened to by all but Arthur Holt. John Houston

was particularly odious in his own neighbourhood. Several of
the inhabitants had fallen victims to his brutality and hate. To
take him, living or dead,—to feed the vengeance for which they
thirsted,—was at once the passion of the party. It was with
some surprise that they found their leader apathetic and disposed
to fling doubt upon the information.

“I know not how you could have seen John Houston, Peter
Acker, with seven men, when we left him behind us, going below,
and crossing at Daniel's Ford on the Ennoree, only two days
ago.”

“ 'Twas him I seed, Captain, and no other. Don't you think I
knows John Houston? Oughtn't I to know him? Wasn't it he
that used to beat me, and duck me in the water? I knows him.
'Twas John Houston, I tell you, and no other person.”

“You are mistaken, Peter—you must be mistaken. No horse
could have brought him from the Ennoree so soon.”

“He's on his own horse, the great bay. 'Tis John Houston,
and you must catch him and hang him.”

One of the party, a spirited young man, named Fletchall, now
said:

“Whether it's Houston and his men or not, Captain Holt, we
should see who the fellows are. Acker ought to know Houston,
and though we heard of him on the Ennoree, we may have
heard wrong. It's my notion that Acker is right; and every
man of Reedy River, that claims to be a man, ought to see to it.”

There was a sting in this speech that made it tell. They did
not understand the delicacy of their Captain's situation, nor could
he explain it. He could only sigh and submit. Buckling on his
armour, he obeyed the necessity, and his eager troop was soon in
motion for the cottage of Houston at Paris Mountain. There, two
hours before, John Houston had arrived. He had separated from
his companions. It was not affection for his wife that brought
Houston to his home. On the contrary, his salutation was that
of scorn and suspicion. He seemed to have returned, brooding
on some dark imagination or project. When his wife brought
his child, and put him on his knees, saying with a mournful look
of reproach, “You do not even ask for your son!” the reply, betraying
the foulest of fancies—“How know I that he is!” showed

too plainly the character of the demon that was struggling in his
soul. The miserable woman shrunk back in horror, while his
eyes, lightened by a cold malignant smile, pursued her as if in
mockery. When she placed before him a little bread and meat,
he repulsed it, exclaiming: “Would you have me fed by your
Arthur?” And when she meekly replied by an assurance that
the food did not come from him, his answer, “Ay, but I am not
so sure of the sauce!” indicated a doubt so horrible, that the poor
woman rushed from the apartment with every feeling and fibre
of her frame convulsed. Without a purpose, except to escape
from suspicions by which she was tortured, she had turned the
corner of the enclosure, hurrying, it would seem, to a little thicket,
where her sorrows would be unseen, when she suddenly encountered
Arthur Holt, with a cocked pistol in his grasp. The troopers
had dismounted and left their horses in the woods. They
were approaching the house cautiously, on foot, and from different
quarters. The object was to effect a surprise of the Tory;—
since, armed and desperate, any other more open mode of approach
might, even if successful, endanger valuable life. The
plan had been devised by Arthur. He had taken to himself that
route which brought him first to the cottage. His object was
explained in the few first words with Leda Houston.

“Arthur Holt!—you here!” was her exclamation, as she
started at his approach.

“Ay; and your husband is here!”

“No, no!” was the prompt reply.

“Nay, deny not! I would save him—away! let him fly at
once. We shall soon be upon him!”

A mute but expressive look of gratitude rewarded him, while,
forgetting the recent indignities to which she had been subjected,
Leda hurried back to the cottage and put Houston in possession
of the facts. He started to his feet, put the child from his knee,
though still keeping his hand upon its shoulder, and glaring upon
her with eyes of equal jealousy and rage, he exclaimed—

“Woman! you have brought my enemy upon me!”

To this charge the high-souled woman made no answer, but
her form became more erect, and her cheek grew paler, while
her exquisitely chiselled lips were compressed with the effort to

keep down her stifling indignation. She approached him as if
to relieve him of the child; but he repulsed her, and grasping
the little fellow firmly in his hands, with no tenderness of hold,
he lifted him to his shoulder, exclaiming—

“No! he shares my danger! he goes with me. He is at least
your child—he shall protect me from your—”

The sentence was left unfinished as he darted through the
door! With a mother's scream she bounded after him, as he
took his way to the edge of the little coppice in which his horse
was fastened. The agony of a mother's soul lent wings to her
feet. She reached him ere he could undo the fastenings of his
horse, and, seizing him by his arm, arrested his progress.

“What!” he exclaimed; “you would seize—you would deliver
me!”

“My child! my child!” was her only answer, as she clung
to his arm, and endeavoured to tear the infant from his grasp.

“He goes with me! He shall protect me from the shot!”

“You will not, cannot risk his precious life.”

“Do I not risk mine?”

“My son—your son!”

“Were I sure of that!”

“God of heaven! help me! Save him! save him!”

But there was no time for parley. A pistol-shot was fired
from the opposite quarter of the house, whether by accident, or
for the purpose of alarm, is not known, but it prompted the
instant movement of the ruffian, who, in order to extricate himself
from the grasp of his wife, smote her to the earth, and in
the midst of the child's screams hurried forward with his prize.
To reach the coppice, to draw forth and mount his horse, was
the work of an instant only. The life of the hunter and the
partisan had made him expert enough in such performances.
Mounted on a splendid bay, of the largest size and greatest
speed, he lingered but a moment in sight, the child conspicuously
elevated in his grasp, its head raised above his left shoulder, while one
of its little arms might be seen stretching towards his motner, now
rising from the earth. At this instant Arthur Holt made his appearance.
From the wood, where he had remained as long as he
might, he had beheld the brutal action of his enemy. It was the

second time that he had witnessed such a deed, and his hand now
convulsively grasped and cocked his pistol, as he rushed forward
to revenge it. But the unhappy woman rose in time to prevent
him. Her extended arms were thrown across his path. He
raised the deadly weapon above them.

“Would you shoot! oh, my God! would you shoot! Do you
not see my child! my child!”

The action of Arthur was suspended at the mother's words;
and, lifting the child aloft with a powerful arm, as if in triumph
and defiance, the brutal father, putting spurs to his horse, went
off at full speed. A single bound enabled the noble animal to
clear the enclosure, and, appearing but a single moment upon the
hillside, the mother had one more glimpse of her child, whose
screams, in another moment, were drowned in the clatter of the
horse's feet. She sunk to the ground at the foot of Arthur, as his
comrades leapt over the surrounding fence.

5. CHAPTER V.

Pursuit under present circumstances was pretty much out of
the question—yet Arthur Holt determined upon it. John Houston
was mounted upon one of the most famous horses of the
country. He had enjoyed a rest of a couple of hours before the
troopers came upon him. The steeds of the latter, at all times
inferior, were jaded with the day's journey. Any attempt at
direct pursuit would, therefore, in all probability, only end in
driving the Tory out of the neighbourhood, thus increasing the
chances of his final escape. This was by no means the object
of the party, and when Arthur ordered the pursuit, some of his
men remonstrated by showing, or endeavouring to show, that such
must be the effect of it. Arthur Holt, however, had his own
objects. But his commands were resisted by no less a person
than Leda herself.

“Do not pursue, Arthur, for my sake, do not pursue. My
child!—he will slay my child if you press him hard. He is desperate.
You know him not. Press him not, for my sake,—for
the child's sake,—but let him go free.”

The entreaty, urged strenuously and with all those tears and
prayers which can only flow from a mother's heart, was effectual—at
least to prevent that direct pursuit which Arthur had
meditated. But, though his companions favoured the prayers of
the wife and mother, they were very far from being disposed to
let the Tory go free. On the contrary, when, a little after, they
drew aside to the copse for the purpose of farther consultation,
Arthur Holt found, to his chagrin, that his course with regard
to Houston was certainly suspected. His comrades assumed a
decision in the matter which seemed to take the business out of
his hands. Young Fletchall did not scruple to say, that he was
not satisfied with the spirit which Arthur had shown in the pursuit;
and the hints conveyed by more than one, in the course of
the discussion, were of such a nature, that the mortified Arthur

threw up his command; a proceeding which seemed to occasion
no regret or dissatisfaction. Fletchall was immediately invested
with it, and proceeded to exercise it with a degree of acuteness
and vigour which soon satisfied the party of his peculiar fitness
for its duties. His plan was simple but comprehensive. He
said: “We cannot press the pursuit, or we drive him off; but
we can so fix it as to keep him where he is. If we do not press
him, he will keep in the woods, near abouts, till he can find some
chance of getting the child to the mother again. There's no
doubt an understanding between them. She knows where to find
him in the woods, or he'll come back at night to the farm. We
must put somebody to watch over all her movements. Who will
that be?”

The question was answered by the epileptic, Acker, who, unasked,
had hung upon the skirts of the party.

“I will watch her!”

“You!”

“Yes! I'm as good a one as you can get.”

“Very well! but suppose you have one of your fits, Acker!”

“I won't have one now for two weeks. My time's over for
this month.”

“Well, in two weeks, I trust, his time will be over too. We
will get some twenty more fellows and make a ring round him.
That's my plan. Don't press, for I wouldn't have him hurt the
child; but mark him when he aims to pass the ring.”

The plan thus agreed on, with numerous details which need
not be given here, was immediately entered upon by all parties.
Arthur Holt alone took no share in the adventure. The design
was resolved upon even without his privity, though the general
object could not be concealed from his knowledge. On throwing
up his commission he had withdrawn from his comrades, under a
show of mortification, which was regarded as sufficiently natural
by those around him to justify such a course. He returned to
his farm on Reedy River, but he was no indifferent or inactive
spectator of events.

Meanwhile, John Houston had found a temporary retreat some
six miles distant from the dwelling of his wife. It was a spot
seemingly impervious, in the density of its woods, to the steps of

man. A small natural cavity in a hillside had been artificially
deepened, in all probability, by the bear, who had left it as a
heritage to the hunter to whom he had yielded up his ears.
The retreat was known to the hunter only. He had added, from
time to time, certain little improvements of his own. Cells were
opened on one side, and then the other. These were strewn with
dried leaves and rushes, and, at the remote inner extremity,
a fourth hollow had been prepared so as to admit of fire, the
smoke finding its way through a small and simple opening
at the top. All around this rude retreat the woods were dense,
the hunter being at particular pains to preserve it as a place of
secrecy and concealment. Its approach was circuitous, and the
very entrance upon it, one of those happy discoveries, by which
nature is made to accomplish the subtlest purposes of art. Two
gigantic shafts, shooting out from the same root, had run up in
diverging but parallel lines, leaving between them an opening
through which, at a moderate bound, a steed might make his
way. On each side of this mighty tree the herbage crowded
closely; the tree itself seemed to close the passage, and behind
it care was taken, by freely scattering brush and leaves, to remove
any traces of horse or human footsteps. In this place
John Houston found refuge. To this place, in the dead of night,
the unhappy Leda found her way. How she knew of the spot
may be conjectured only. But, prompted by a mother's love
and a mother's fears, she did not shrink from the task of exploring
the dreary forest alone. Here she found her miserable
husband, and was once more permitted to clasp her infant to
her bosom. The little fellow slept soundly upon the rushes, in
one of the recesses of the cave. The father sat at the entrance,
keeping watch over him. His stern eye looked upon the embrace
of mother and child with a keen and painful interest; and
when the child, awakened out of sleep, shrieking with joy, clung
to the neck of the mother, sobbing her name with a convulsive
delight, he turned from the spectacle with a single sentence,
muttered through his closed teeth, by which we may see what
his meditations had been—“Had the brat but called me father!”
The words were unheard by the mother, too full of joy to be
conscious of any thing but her child and her child's recovery.
When, however, before the dawn of day, she proposed to leave
him and take the child with her, she was confounded to meet
with denial.

“No!” said the brutal father. “He remains with me. If he
is my child, he shall remain as my security and yours. Hear
me, woman! Your ruffians have not pursued me; your Arthur
Holt knows better than to press upon me; but I know their aims.
They have covered the outlets. They would make my captivity
secure. I wish but three days; in that time, Cunningham will
give them employment, and I shall walk over them as I please.
But, during that time, I shall want food for myself and horse—
perhaps you will think there is some necessity for bringing food
to the child. I do not object to that. Bring it then yourself,
nightly, and remember, the first show of treachery seals his
fate!”

He pointed to the child as he spoke.

“Great God!” she exclaimed. “Are you a man, John
Houston! Will you keep the infant from me!”

“Ay!—you should thank heaven that I do not keep you from
him also. But away! Bring the provisions! Be faithful, and
you shall have the child. But, remember! if I am entrapped,
he dies!”

We pass over the horror of the mother. At the dawn of day,
as she was hurrying, but not unseen, along the banks of Reedy
River, she was encountered by Arthur Holt.

“I went to your house at midnight, Leda, to put you on your
guard,” was the salutation of the farmer. “I know where you
have bee, and can guess what duty is before you. I must also
tell you its danger.”

He proceeded to explain to her the watch that was put upon
her movements, and the cordon militaire by which her husband
was surrounded.

“What am I to do!” was her exclamation, as, wringing her
hands, the tears for the first time flowed freely from her eyes.

“I will tell you! Go not back to your cottage, till you can
procure the child. Go now to the stone heap on the river bank
below, which they call the `Giant's Coffin.' There, in an hour
from now, I will bring you a basket of provisions. The place

is very secret, and before it is found out that you go there, you
will have got the child. Nightly, I will fill the basket in the
same place, which, at the dawn, you can procure. Go now, before
we are seen, and God be with you!”

They separated—the young farmer for his home, and Leda
for the gloomy vault which popular tradition had dignified with
the title of the “Giant's Coffin.” This was an Indian giant, by
the way, whose exploits, in the erection of Table Mountain, for
gymnastic purposes, would put to shame the inferior feats of the
devil, under direction of Merlin or Michael Scott. But we have
no space in this chapter for such descriptions. Enough if we
give some idea of the sort of coffin and the place of burial which
the giant selected for himself, when he could play his mountain
pranks no longer. The coffin was a vaulted chamber of stone,
lying at the river's edge, and liable to be overflowed in seasons
of freshet. It took its name from its shape. Its area was an
oblong square, something more than twelve feet in length, and
something less than five in breadth. Its depth at the upper end
was about six feet, but it sloped gradually down, until, at the
bottom, the ends lay almost even with the surrounding rocks.
The inner sides were tolerably smooth and upright—the outer
presented the appearance of huge boulders, in no way differing
from the ordinary shape and externals of such detached masses.
The separate parts had evidently, at one period, been united.
Some convulsion of nature had fractured the mass, and left the
parts in a position so relative, that tradition might well be permitted
to assume the labours of art in an achievement which was
really that of nature alone. To complete the fancied resemblance
of this chamber to a coffin, it had a lid; a thin layer of
stone, detached from the rest, which, as the earth around it had
been loosened and washed away by the rains, had gradually
slid down from the heights above, and now in part rested upon
the upper end of the vault. The boys at play, uniting their
strength, had succeeded in forcing it down a foot or more, so
that it now covered, securely from the weather, some four or
five feet of the “Giant's Coffin.” It was at this natural chamber
that Arthur Holt had counselled Leda Houston to remain, until
he could bring the promised supply of provisions. This he did,

punctually, at the time appointed, and continued to do until it
ceased to be necessary; to this spot did the wretched wife and
mother repair before dawn of every morning, bearing her burden
with all the uncomplaining meekness of a broken heart. We
must suppose, in the meantime, that the cordon has been drawn
around the tract of country in which it was known that Houston
harboured. The news was spread, at the same time, that an
attack might be expected from Bloody Bill Cunningham, or
some of his men; and the consequence was, that the country
was every where in arms and vigilant. A feeling of pity for
Leda Houston, who was generally beloved, alone prevented the
more daring young men from pressing upon the fugitive, hunting
him, with dog and fire, and bringing the adventure to a fierce
and final issue. Meanwhile, the epileptic, Acker, was active
in the business which he had undertaken. He was partially
successful—but of his proceedings we must speak at another
moment.

The situation of Leda Houston was in no ways improved by
the diligence, the patience, the devotion which she displayed in
her servitude. She did not seem to make any progress in subduing
the inexorable nature of her husband. She was permitted
to be with and to feed her child; to clasp him to her bosom
when she slept, and to watch over his sleep with that mixed
feeling of hope and fear, which none but a mother knows. But
these were all her privileges. The brutal father, still insinuating
base and unworthy suspicions, declared that the child should
remain, a pledge of her fidelity, and a partial guaranty for his
own safety.

Four days had now elapsed in this manner. On the morning
of the fifth, at a somewhat later hour than usual, she re-appeared
with her basket, and, having set down her stores, proceeded to
tell her husband of the arrival of a certain squad of troopers,
“Butler's men,” known for the fierce hostility with which they
hunted the men of “Cunningham.” The tidings gave him some
concern. He saw in it the signs of a dogged determination
of the neighbourhood to secure him at all hazards; since, from
what he knew of the present condition of the war, these men
could be required in that quarter only for some such purpose.

They were wanted elsewhere. “Did you see them?” was the
question, which she answered in the negative. “Who told
you then of their arrival?” She was silent! Her countenance
underwent a change. “Woman! you have spoken with
Holt! These are his provisions!” With a blow of his foot he
struck the basket from her hand, and, in his fury, trampled
upon the scattered stores. It was with difficulty that the unhappy
woman gathered up enough to pacify the hunger of the
child. That day was passed in sullen and ferocious silence on
his part—on hers in mute caresses of her boy. His darker
suspicions were in full force, and darker thoughts came with
them. “Could I but know!” he muttered. “The child has
my mouth and nose; but the forehead, the hair, the eyes,—are
his!” Convulsed with terrible fancies, the miserable man hurried
to the entrance of the cavern, and throwing himself upon
the earth, leaned back, and looked up through the leafy openings
at the bits of sky that were suffered to appear above. In this
gloomy mood and posture, hours passed by as moments. It was
midnight. A change of weather was at hand. The stars were
hidden—the sky overcast with clouds, while the winds, seeming
to subside, were moaning through the woods as one in a deep
and painful sleep. The sound, the scene, were congenial with
the outlaw's soul. It was full of angry elements that only
waited the signal to break forth in storm. Suddenly, he was
roused from his meditations by the cessation of all sounds from
within the cave. The mother slept there, she had been playing
with the child, and he upon her bosom. Nature, in her case,
had sunk, in spite of sorrow, under fatigue. And she slept
deeply, her slumbers broken only by a plaintive moaning of
those griefs that would not sleep. With a strange curiosity
Houston seated himself quietly beside the pair, while his eyes
keenly perused the calm and innocent features of the child.
Long was the study, and productive of conflicting emotions. It
was interrupted with a start, and his eyes involuntarily turned,
with even a less satisfied expression, upon the features of his
wife.

But it was not to watch or to enjoy the beauty which he beheld,
that John Houston now bent his dark brows over the sleeping

countenance of his wife. The expression in his looks was that
of a wild and fearful curiosity suddenly aroused. She had spoken
in her sleep. She had uttered a word—a name—which, of
all others, was most likely, from any lips, to awaken his most
angry emotions,—from her lips, most terrible. The name was
that of Arthur Holt,—and she still murmured. The ears of the
suspicious husband were placed close to her lips, that none of
the whispered sounds might escape him. He heard enough to open
to him a vista, at the extremity of which his diseased imagination
saw the worst shapes of hate and jealousy. With the pressing
thought in her memory of the tasks before her, she spoke of the
little basket—the bread—the bottle of milk, the slender slices of
ham or venison—which she had been accustomed to receive and
bring. Then came the two words, “Giant's Coffin,” and the
quick fancy of the outlaw, stimulated by hate and other passions,
immediately reached, at a bound, the whole narrative of her dependence
upon Holt and her meetings with him at the “Giant's
Coffin!”

A dark smile passed over his countenance. It was the smile
of a demon, who is at length, after long being baffled, in possession
of his prey. Leda slept on—soundly slept—for nature had at
length coerced the debtor, and compelled her rights—and the
hour was approaching when it was usual for her to set out on
her nightly progress. The resolution came, quick as lightning,
to the mind of the ruffian. He rose stealthily from the rushes,
—drew his pistols from his belt, silently examined the flints, and,
looking at the knife in his bosom, stole forth from the cavern.
With a spirit exulting with the demonaic hope of assuring himself
of a secret long suspected, and of realizing a vengeance
long delayed,—and familiar, night and day, with every step in
his progress, he hurried directly across the country to the banks
of Reedy River. The night, by this time, had become tempestuous.
Big drops of rain already began to fall; but these caused
no delay to the hardy outlaw. He reached the river, and,
moving now with cautious steps from rock to rock, he approached
the “Giant's Coffin” with the manner of one who expects
to find a victim and an enemy. One hand grasped a pistol,
the other a knife!—and, stealing onward with the pace of the Indian,

he hung over the sides of the “Coffin,” and peered into its dark
chamber with his keenest eyes. It was untenanted. “I am too
soon,” he muttered. “Well! I can wait!” And where better
to await the victim—where more secure from detection—than in
the vault which lay before him!—one half covered from the
weather and shut in from all inspection,—that alone excepted, for
which he had come prepared. The keen gusts of wind which
now came across the stream laden with rain, was an additional
motive to this movement. He obeyed the suggestion, passed into
the mouth of the “Coffin;” and, crouching from sight, in a sitting
posture, in the upper or covered part of the chamber, he sat
with the anxiety of a passion which did not, however, impair its
patience, awaiting for his foe.

He had not reached this position unseen or unaccompanied.
We have already intimated that Acker, the epileptic, had made
some progress in his discoveries. With the singular cunning,
and the wonderful acuteness which distinguish some of the
faculties, where others are impaired in the same individual, he
had contrived, unseen and unsuspected, to track Leda Houston
to the place of her husband's concealment. He had discovered
the periods of her incoming and departure, and, taking his rest
at all other periods, he was always prepared to renew his surveillance
at those moments when the wife was to go forth. He had
barely resumed his watch, on the night in question, when he
was surprised to see Houston himself and not his wife emerging
from the cave. He followed cautiously his footsteps. Light of
foot, and keeping at convenient distance, his espionage was
farther assisted by the wind, which, coming in their faces,
effectually kept all sounds of pursuit from the ears of the outlaw.
His progress was not so easy when the latter emerged from the
woods, and stood upon the banks of the river. His approach
now required more caution; but, stealing on from shrub to shrub,
and rock to rock, Acker at length stood—or rather crouched—
upon the brink of the river also, and at but small distance from
the other. But of this distance he had ceased to be conscious.
He was better informed, however, when, a moment after, he
heard a dull, clattering, but low sound, which he rightly conjectured
to have been caused by some pressure upon the lower lid

of the Coffin, which, being somewhat pendulous, was apt to
vibrate slightly, in spite of its great length and weight, under
any pressure from above. This sound apprised Acker of the
exact whereabouts of the outlaw, and his keen eyes at length
detected the dim outline of the latter's form, as he stood upon
the lid of the Coffin, the moment before he disappeared within its
recesses. Encouraged to advance, by the disappearance of the
other, the Epileptic did so with extreme caution. He was
favoured by the hoarse tumbling of the water as it poured its
way among the rocks, and by the increasing discords of the
wind and rain, which now came down in heavy showers. As
he crawled from rock to rock, with the stealthy movement of a
cat along some precipitous ledge, shrinking and shivering beneath
the storm, his own desire for shelter led him suddenly to the
natural conclusion that Houston had found his within the vault.
The ideas of Acker came to him slowly; but, gradually, as he
continued to approach, he remembered the clattering of the Coffin-lid,—he
remembered how, in his more youthful days, the boys,
with joint strength, had forced it to its present place, and he
conceived the sudden purpose of making the Coffin of the Giant,
that also of the deadly enemy whose boyish persecutions he had
neither forgot nor forgiven. To effect his present object, which,
suddenly conceived, became for the time an absorbing thirst, a
positive frenzy, in his breast,—he concentrated all his faculties,
whether of mind or of body, upon his task. His pace was
deliberate, and, so stealthy, that he reached the upper end of
the Coffin, laid himself down beside it, and, applying his ear to
one of the crevices, distinctly heard the suppressed breathings of
the man within. Crawling back, he laid his hands lightly and
with the greatest care upon the upper and heavier end of the
stone. His simple touch, so nicely did it seem to be balanced,
caused its vibration; and with the first consciousness of its
movement, Houston, whom we must suppose to have been lying
down, raising his pistol with one hand, laid the other on one of
the sides of the vault, with the view, as it was thought, to lift
himself from his recumbent position. He did so just as the
huge plate of stone was set in motion, and the member was
caught and closely wedged between the mass and the side of the
Coffin upon which it rested. A slight cry broke from the outlaw.
The fingers were crushed, the hand was effectually secured. But
for this, so slow was the progress of the stone, that it would
have been very easy for Houston to have scrambled out before the
vault was entirely closed in. Slowly, but certainly, the lid went
down. Ignorant of the peculiar occasion of the outlaw's groans,
the Epileptic answered them with a chuckle, which, had the
former been conscious, would have taught him his enemy. But
he had fainted. The excruciating agony of his hurt had been
too much for his strength. Acker finished his work without
interruption; then piling upon the plate a mountain of smaller
stones, he dashed away in the direction of Holt's cottage. Here
he encountered the young farmer, busy, as was usual about that
hour, in making up his little basket of provisions. A few words
from the Epileptic sufficed to inform him that they were no longer
necessary—that Houston was gone—fled—utterly escaped, and
now, in all probability, beyond pursuit. Such was the tale he
told. He had his policy in it. The characteristic malignant
cunning which had prompted him to the fearful revenge which
he had taken upon his enemy, was studious now to keep it
from being defeated. To have told the truth, would have been
to open the “Giant's Coffin,” to undo all that had been done,
and once more let free the hated tyrant upon whose head he had
visited the meditated retribution of more than twenty years.
Acker well knew the generous nature of the young farmer, and
did not doubt that, if he declared the facts, Arthur would have
proceeded at once to the rescue of the common enemy. He
suppressed all show of exultation, made a plausible story—it
matters not of what sort—by which to account for the flight of
Houston; and, the consequence was, that, instead of proceeding
as before to the “Giant's Coffin,” Arthur Holt now prepared to
set out for the “Hunter's Cave.” But the day had broke in
tempest. A fearful storm was raging. The windows of heaven
were opened, the rain came down in torrents, and the wind went
forth with equal violence, as if from the whole four quarters of
the earth. The young farmer got out his little wagon, and
jumping in, Acker prepared to guide him to the place of retreat.

“The river is rising fast, Peter,” was the remark of Arthur

as he caught a glimpse of the swollen stream as it foamed along
its way.

“Yes!” said the other, with a sort of hiccough, by which he
suppressed emotions which he did not venture to declare: “Yes!
I reckon 'twon't be many hours afore it fills the `Coffin.' ”

“If it keeps on at this rate,” returned the other, “one hour
will be enough to do that.”

“Only one, you think?”

“Yes! one will do!”

Another hiccough of the Epileptic appropriately finished the
dialogue.

6. CHAPTER VI.

Leda awakened from her deep sleep to find herself alone with
the child. She was startled and alarmed at the absence of her
husband; but as the child was left—the great, and we may add,
the only, object for which she could have borne so much—she
was satisfied. On assuring herself of the departure of Houston
from the cave, she would unhesitatingly have taken hers also—
but the storm was now raging without, and, persuaded that her
husband had taken advantage of its violence to cross the barriers,
she gathered up the fragments of the last night's supper, and
was busy in giving her boy his little breakfast, when roused by
the voice of Arthur Holt. The story of the Epileptic was soon
told—as he had related it to Arthur. In this story, as there was
nothing improbable, both parties put implicit faith; and, cloaking
mother and child as well as he might, the young farmer bore
them through the close thicket to the place, some three hundred
yards without, where, on account of the denseness of the wood,
he had been compelled to leave the wagon. The horse of
Houston, the “Big Bay,” was next brought forth, but as Acker
could neither be persuaded to mount, or take him in charge, he
was restored to the covert until a better opportunity for removing
him. To the surprise of the young farmer, the Epileptic was
equally firm in refusing to go with him in the wagon. “I don't
mind the rain,” said he, “it can't hurt me.” “He will get his
death,” said Leda. “Not he,” replied Arthur, as Acker scampered
through the woods; “the water always helps him in his
fits.” While the wagon took one course, he took another.
Little did they suspect his route. A terrible feeling carried him
back to Reedy River—to a pitiless watch above that natural tomb
in which he had buried his living victim.

Meanwhile, what of Houston? When he recovered his consciousness,
the vault had been closed upon him; the flat mass,
once set in motion, had slid down the smooth edges of the

upright sides with uninterrupted progress, and now lay above
him, shutting out light almost equally with hope. But a faint
glimmering reached the interior of the cell, from a crevice on
one side, where, in consequence of some inequality of the edges,
the lid had not settled fairly down upon it. It was the side
opposite to that in which his fingers had been crushed, and
where the stone still maintained its hold upon the mutilated
member. He heard the whistling of the wind, the hoarse rush
of the waters, and the heavy fall of the rain without, and a shuddering
sense of his true situation rushed instantly upon his soul.
For a moment he sank back, appalled, oppressed; but the
numbing pain of his injured hand and wrist, up to his elbow,
recalled him to the necessity of effort. Houston was a man of
strong will and great energies. Though at the first moment of
consciousness oppressed and overcome, the outlaw soon recovered
himself. It was necessary that he should do something
for his extrication. The light shut out, if not entirely the air,
is one of those fearful facts to rouse a man in his situation and
of his character, to all his energies. But the very first movement
was one to awaken him still more sensibly to his dangers.
Having arisen to grasp the sides of the vault, which, in the place
where he had laid his hand was fully five feet high, his position
when fixed there, was that of a man partially supended in the
air. His right hand could barely touch the floor of the chamber.
His left was utterly useless. In this position he could not even
exert the strength which he possessed; and, after an ineffectual
effort, he sank back again in momentary consternation. The
horror of that moment, passed in thought,—the despair which it
occasioned—was the parent of new strength. He came to a
terrible decision. To avail himself of his right hand, it was
necessary that he should extricate the other. He had already
tried to do so, by a vain effort at lifting the massive lid of his
coffin. The heavy plate no longer vibrated upon a pivot. It
had sunk into a natural position, which each upright evenly
maintained. The hand was already lost to him. He resolved
that it should not render the other useless. With a firmness
which might well excite admiration, he drew the couteau de
chasse from his bosom, and deliberately smote off the mutilated
fingers at the joints; dividing the crushed parts—bone and tendon,
—from the uninjured,—falling heavily back upon the stone floor
the moment the hand was freed. But this time he had not
fainted, though the operation tended to restore the hand, which
had been deadened by the pressure and pain of its position, to
something like sensibility. But such pain was now but slightly
felt; and, wrapping the hand up in his handkerchief, he prepared
with due courage for the difficult task before him. But the very
first effort almost convinced him of its hopelessness. In vain
did he apply the strength of his muscular arm, the force of his
broad shoulders, his sinewy and well-supported frame. Forced
to crouch in his narrow limits, it was not possible for him to
apply, to advantage, the strength which he really possessed; and,
from the extreme shallowness of his cell in the lower extremity,
he was unable to address his efforts to that part where the stone
was thinnest. At the upper part, where he could labour, the
mass was greatly thicker than the rest; and it was the weight
of this mass, rather than the strength of Acker,—the momentum
once given it from above,—that carried the plate along to the foot
of the plane. His exertions were increased as his strength
diminished—the cold sweat poured from his brow,—and, toiling
against conviction—in the face of his increasing terrors,—he at
length sunk back in exhaustion. From time to time, at brief
intervals, he renewed his toils, each time with new hope, each
time with a new scheme for more successful exertion. But the
result was, on each occasion, the same; and, yielding to despair,
he threw himself upon the bottom of his cell and called death to
his relief.

While thus prostrate, with his face pressed upon the chilling
pavement, he suddenly starts, almost to his feet, and a new terror
seizes upon his soul. He is made conscious of a new and
pressing danger. Is it the billows of the river—the torrents
swollen above their bounds—that beat against the walls of his
dungeon? Is it the advancing waters that catch his eye glimmering
faint at his feet, as they penetrate the lower crevice of
the coffin? A terrible shudder shook his frame! He cannot
doubt this new danger, and he who, a moment before, called
upon death to relieve him from his terrors, now shouts, under

worse terrors, at the prospect of his near approach in an unexpected
shape. It is necessary that he should employ all his
strength—that he should make other and more desperate efforts.
He rises, almost erect. He applies both arms—the maimed as
well as the sound,—almost unconscious of the difference, to the
lid of his tomb. “Buried alive!” he cries aloud—“Buried
alive!” and at each cry, his sinewy arms shoot up—his broad
shoulders are raised:—his utmost powers, concentrated upon the
one point, in the last effort of despair, must surely be successful.
His voice shouts with his straining sinews. He feels the mass
above him yielding. Once more—and once again,—and still he
is encouraged. The lid vibrates—he could not be deceived,—
but oh! how slightly. Another trial—he moves it as before,
but as his strength fails, his efforts relax,—and it sinks down
heavily in its place. Breathless, he crouches in his cell. He
listens! Is it a footstep?—It is a movement!—the stones
fall about the roof of his narrow dwelling. A human agency
is above. “Hurrah!” he cries—“Hurrah! Throw off the
stone—crush it—crush it! There is no time to be lost!”
For a moment he fancies that the movement above is one intended
for his relief. But what mean these rolling stones? A
new apprehension possesses him in the very moment of his
greatest hope. He rises. Once more he extends his arms, he
applies his shoulders; but he labours now in vain. His strength
is not less—his efforts are not more feebler—in this than in
his former endeavours. He cannot doubt the terrible truth!
New stones have been piled above his head. He is doomed!
His utmost powers fail to move the mass from its place. His
human enemy is unrelenting. He cries to him in a voice of
equal inquiry and anguish.

“Who is there? what enemy? who? Speak to me! who is
above me? Who? Who!”

Can it be? He is answered by a chuckle—a fell, fiendish
laugh—the most terrible sort of answer. Can it be that a
mortal would so laugh at such a moment? He tries to recall
those to whom he has given most occasion for vindictiveness and
hate. He names “Arthur Holt!” He is again answered by a
chuckle, and now he knows his enemy.

“God of heaven!” he exclaims, in the bitter anguish of his
discovery, “and can it be that I am doomed to perish by this
most miserable of all my foes!”

Once more he rushes against the mass above him, but this
time with his head alone. He sinks down stunned upon the
floor, and is aroused by the water around him. Inch by inch
it rises. He knows the character of the stream. It will be
above him, unless he is relieved, in less than an hour. The proud
and reckless outlaw is humbled. He condescends to entreat
the wretched creature to whom he owes his situation. He implores
forgiveness—he promises reward. He begs—he threatens
—he execrates. He is answered by a chuckle as before; the
Epileptic sits upon his coffin-lid, and the doomed man can hear
his heels without, as they beat time with the winds and waters,
against the sides of his tomb. Meanwhile, the water presses in
upon him—he feels its advance around him—it is now about his
knees—in another moment it is every where. It has gradually
ascended the plane—it now spreads over the entire floor of his
dungeon. He grasps his pistols, which he had laid down beside
him, and applies their muzzles to his head. He is too late.
They are covered with water, and refuse fire. His knife is
no longer to be found. It had dropped from his right hand
when he smote off the fingers of the left, and had probably
rolled down the plane to the bottom, where, covered with water,
it is impossible to recover it. Hope within, and hope from
without, have failed him equally; and, except in prayer, there
is no refuge from the pang of death. But prayer is not easy to
him who has never believed in the efficacy of its virtues. How
can he pray to be forgiven, who has never been taught to forgive.
He tries to pray! The Epileptic without, as he stoops
his ear, can catch the fragmentary plea, the spasmodic adjuration,
the gasping, convulsive utterance, from a throat around
which the waters are already wreathing with close and unrelaxing
grasp. Suddenly the voice ceases—there is a hoarse
murmur—the struggle of the strong man among the waters,
which press through the crevices between the lid and the sides
of the dungeon. As the convulsion ceases, the Epileptic starts to
his feet, with a terror which he had not felt before; and, looking

wildly behind him as he ran, bounded up the sides of the neighbouring
hills.

Thus ends our legend of the “Giant's Coffin.” Tradition does
not tell us of the farther fortunes of Leda Houston. Some pages
of the chronicle have dropped. It is very certain, however, that
Arthur Holt, like Benedick, lived to be a married man, and died
the father of several children—the descendants of some of whom
still live in the same region. Of the “Coffin” itself, some fragments,
and, it is thought, one of the sides, may be shown, but it
was “blown up” by the very freshet which we have described,
and the body of Houston drifted down to the opposite shore. It
was not till long after that Acker confessed the share which he
had in the manner of his death and burial.