 | Tales of the puritans |  |
CASTINE
1. CASTINE.
CHAPTER I.
“Saturday night and Lucy not yet returned,”
exclaimed the minister of H—, in a severe and
impatient tone, as he lingered at the open door
of his dwelling. The sun was down, but a few
clouds still glowed in the red and beautiful light,
and the little valley beneath, the sweet village of
H—with its fields and gardens, was still beautiful
in the last flush of brightness. Yet to the
dwellers in that quiet vale, the weekly season of
care and toil was already past, the sacredness of
the sabbath had come upon them, amid the gathering
shadows of the early twilight.
The minister still leaned in the door, looking
anxiously down the silent streets, while the dusk
of evening was advancing, and the lights began
to gleam through the village. “Methinks our
daughter is becoming wayward and careless of
late,” he continued as he closed the door, with a
displeased countenance, and turned again into
the parlor.
Mrs. Everett was at that moment placing a
lamp upon the stand, beside the bible and hymn
of her husband, she raised her mild blue eye to
his countenance, with an expression of some surprise.
“Our daughter went to tarry a few hours
with her friend Jane, so at least she told me, and
I have not been wont to doubt her word.”
“But why does she linger so long?” interrupted
Mr. Everett. “The sun went down an hour ago,
and what will the congregation say, when the
minister's daughter profanes holy time? And
Sarah,” he added, lowering his voice and bending
his eye with a mysterious expression on the countenance
of Mrs. Everett, “I bode no good for the
child herself at this hour.”
“True, true,” exclaimed the mother, rising up
hastily, while her countenance kindled with an
indescribable expression of maternal anxiety.
“I had for once forgotten the Indians”—
“No—no, Sarah, it is not the Indians I fear,
but a more deadly enemy. Have you not noticed
how, from the time the young stranger from the
north first came among us, our Lucy's heart hath
been going after other things than her parents on
earth, and her Father in heaven? It hath pressed
upon me long, that there is one whom she
loves better than these. Nay, Sarah,” he continued,
“why look at me thus, have you yourself
seen nothing of this?”
“Never,” replied the mother. “Lucy has
never breathed to me aught of the young Canadian,
and even when every one else is inquiring
into the cause of his mysterious appearance and
his protracted visit, I have noticed that she has
been silent. But if she has given you her confidence,
surely you ought not to have withheld it
from her mother.”
“Lucy has told me nothing,” replied the clergyman,
“but I have watched her closely; and
when day after day, as she sits with us, and her
eye is on her needle, I have read her countenance,
I have seen that her soul was full of visions—not
the calm visions of the better land, but warm, unhallowed
dreams of earth. I have seen her eye
kindle, and her lip tremble with smiles and even
unconscious whispers; and if I did but ask her of
her thoughts, such a deep and sudden blush would
come over her face, as a pious and free hearted
maiden need never wear. And I have seen it too,
Sarah, even in the house of God; her eye has a fixed
and vacant gaze, which shows that her heart
is not there, and when the Canadian comes up the
aisle her face grows flushed, even though she sees
him not.”
“Mr. Everett,” exclaimed the mother with unwonted
animation, “you do indeed wrong our beloved
Lucy. Little as I know of the schemes and
devices of the great world without, I can at least
read that one gentle spirit, whose every motive
and feeling I have so long studied. I know that
my Lucy's heart is a shrine of pure and elevated
affections”—
“Then so much the more carefully should we
guard them, Sarah; she has a wild and romantic
fancy, that may lead these affections astray.
There is something too, in the mien and look of
the elegant stranger, singularly attractive even to
me.”
“And is it strange, that one who has been reared
amid the simple retirement of this little village,
should not regard with feelings of perfect
indifference the accomplished stranger whom you
yourself admire?”
“No, Sarah—it is not strange—but wrong.
Would it not be wrong for the daughter of a Puritan
minister, to give away her heart's best affections
to a stranger, and a Papist? I know the
slightest breath will kindle the enthusiasm of a
young heart like hers; and do you trust to the
strength of her love for us, and for the pure religion
in which she has been educated? Sarah,
Sarah, you have too soon forgotten Lucy McGregor.”
Mrs. Everett started as though some sudden
light had flashed on her mind, and the clergyman
continued to pace the floor in evident agitation.
“I do not say,” he continued, after a
few moments silence, “that, even were she put
to the trial, our beloved child would ever forsake
us, to become the wife of a superstitious
and bigoted Catholic. I cannot believe she
would thus break our hearts; but, Sarah, years
of grief taught me that it was a bitter thing,
to throw away, on some hopeless object, the
strong ties of early love. I know you think
me suspicious; but I have had cruel lessons,
and he of whom we speak, doth strangely remind
me of one whom once we both too well
knew.”
At that moment the little latch of the gate
without was heard to fall. “Good evening,
sir,” said a low, subdued voice, and presently
after the door of the parlor opened, and the
minister's daughter stood before her parents.
There was something in her appearance well
fitted to strengthen those apprehensions, which
had just agitated the heart of the father; something,
aside from that extreme beauty, which
in a world like this, must ever excite anxiety
stood for a moment leaning against it, like one
overcome with some painful exertion. A flush
appeared on her countenance, brighter than the
mere tint of health and beauty, and though her
eye was downcast, there was visible some deeply
excited feeling, seeking to conceal itself beneath
an air of indifference.
“Is this well, Lucy Everett?—Is it well?” said
the clergyman, seating himself at the table, and
assuming an expression of sternness, as he gazed
on the countenance of his beautiful child. There
was no reply.
“Come hither my child,” said Mrs. Everett,
“where have you been, and why have you tarried
so long?” Lucy approached the table, the flush
deepened on her countenance, and she raised her
hand before her large, dark eyes, apparently for
the purpose of shading them from the sudden
light. “You know, mother, I have been with
Jane this afternoon,” she said in a tone of affected
carelessness, “and I was not aware that it was
so late.” She still stood by the table.
“But, Lucy, you are surely not going out again,”
continued Mrs. Everett. “Take off your bonnet,
and come and sit down with us. We have waited
for you already.”
The young lady hastened to obey her mother;
and then drawing her chair to the table near her,
she leaned her head upon her hand, so that her
features were entirely concealed from Mr. Everett
by the dark ringlets that fell over them, and at
the same time taking up the little hymn book,
she opened it and began to read in silence.
“Lucy, my dear, you may close the book,”
said Mr. Everett, after a few moments silence.
The book was closed, but the countenance of
the young lady was still inclined towards the
table.
“Lucy, with whom have you spent your whole
time since you left our dwelling?”
“I have spent the afternoon with Jane Grant,
sir, as I have before assured you,”—replied the
maiden.
“And was it Jane Grant who accompanied you
to the gate?” said her father, bending his face
towards hers. There was no reply. “Lucy,”
he continued, raising his voice and speaking with
much earnestness, “they who walk with you at
this late hour, must be no strangers to me. I
must know why you have lingered so long abroad,
profaning the sacredness of holy time in unhallowed
ramblings.”
“The sun was far above the hill, sir, when I
left the village, but I came by the forest path;
and it was later than I had imagined it would be
when I left the valley.”
“Ah, Lucy, but you came not alone. Would
you deceive me?” The anguish evinced by the
father as he uttered these words, seemed only to
increase the agitation of the daughter; for a few
moments she covered her face with her hands,
while tear after tear moistened her cheek.
“My father,” she at length said, raising her eye,
and assuming an appearance of calmness, “he
who came with me through the forest path this
evening, was the young Catholic stranger.” Her
voice trembled, and she paused.
“And how long,” said Mr. Everett, with a forced
calmness, “since this Papist youth has been
the chosen companion of your walks?”
An expression of unwonted pride curled the lip
of Lucy Everett. “By accident, sir, I found
myself this evening intrusted with the life of
this stranger—and Papist though he is, I rejoice
that no pride, or foolish delicacy prevented
me from fulfilling my duty. My father, I have
not been wont to deceive you, but more I cannot
and must not tell you, for I promised, as I myself
hope for kindness, that I would not.”
Mr. Everett gazed on her countenance with unfeigned
astonishment. He could not for a moment
doubt her sincerity, and though every word
of her explanation had only deepened the mystery,
there was that in her countenance which
at once convinced him that further inquiries were
useless.
The next morning was the sabbath, and a more
beautiful one never dawned on the earth. The
dwelling of the minister was considerably remote
from the village, and just at the foot of a little
hill, covered with evergreen woods. In front,
the ground was gradually descending, and the
green slope was occasionally diversified with
neat houses and gardens. A distinct view could
also be had from the front window, of the church
spire in the valley below, and the small cluster of
houses surrounding it, which had received the
appellation of “the village.” It was May, the
air was exceedingly soft and fragrant, and Lucy
Everett had thrown open the window of the little
parlor, and stood leaning over the sash, gathering
a bunch of roses from the bush beneath. She
had just spread the damask treasure on the window
seat, and was endeavoring to arrange them
in a graceful bouquet, when the sound of the “first
bell” came swelling in clear and solemn notes,
Everett entered the room. Lucy perceived at
once that there was something unusual in the
manner of her mother. A deep shade of sadness
hung over her usually placid brow, and her eye
was moist with tears; but the daughter dared not
ask the cause of her disquietude, lest it should
lead to a recurrence of embarrassing inquiries.
Lucy was sitting in the window, and Mrs. Everett,
after taking from a locker near the door a
small and closely wrapped case of ivory, approached
and seated herself beside her. Covering
after covering was removed, she slowly unclasped
the case, and at length Lucy perceived
that her mother was gazing with looks of intense
emotion, upon a small miniature picture. It was
set in gold and brilliants, and she felt her curiosity
strongly excited concerning the object which
had power to awaken such agitating interest, in so
placid a spirit.
“God forgive me,” murmured the mother, with
a strong effort, at last subduing her feelings.
“These idle tears do ill become the sacredness
of an hour like this. It was not to mourn for the
long perished flower of Glenville that I made this
effort but for the living—God be praised, my own
Lucy Everett is yet among the living. My
daughter, you are opening again in our hearts,
wounds which long years have scarce had power
to heal, and much I fear, beginning to cast away
from your confidence, the counsellors whom God
hath given you. Child, child, you are standing
strong in the might of your own frail spirit, but
look you here, if one like this should fall, why
should Lucy Everett, standing on the same brink,
be fearless of evil?”
As she spoke, she placed the miniature before
the eye of her daughter, and every other feeling
was at once forgotten in admiration of its beauty.
It was the picture of a young maiden, apparently
not more than sixteen; and such a look of sweetness
and innocence, Lucy felt she had never before
beheld. The beautiful lips were parted with
smiles; and she met and returned the speaking
glance of that soft blue eye, till a living spirit
seemed before her, one that had known no sorrow
and no sin, yet meek, and mild, and rich in
all the depths of human tenderness.
“And so young and beautiful,” exclaimed Lucy,
as with feelings of intense admiration she still continued
to gaze upon it. “Blessed spirit! Who
would dream that sorrow and death were your
destiny?” and the warm tears of pity fell unheeded
over the smiling features of the picture.
“And why mourn, daughter,” replied Mrs.
Everett, “for the vain and fleeting beauty that
hath long since perished from the earth? Think
of the gem within—the living imperishable spirit
that was dimmed and broken within”—Her
voice faultered. It was only for a moment and
then in her usual calm, impressive tones, she
commenced her narrative.
“Lucy Mc Gregor was the companion of my
early youth, and alas, the idol too, to which I offered
up those affections of the soul that belong
alone to the Almighty. She was your father's
cousin, and but a child when I first saw and loved
her. At that period she came to her uncle's house
in England, an unprotected orphan, from the
Scottish hills. He received and cherished her
as his own child, and to your father she was ever
more. They were both bred together in the doctrines
of the Puritans. Lucy McGregor had
been taught all those pure and sacred precepts,
which we have sought to instil into your mind—
she was gentle and docile, and seemed to return
in full measure the love that was so freely lavished
upon her; but, Lucy, hear me—she whom we had
deemed so affectionate and pious, at last died an
alien from the church, and from those who had
loved her as their own souls.”
An involuntary exclamation burst from the lip
of her auditress, but Mrs. Everett continued her
narrative.
“Even from the period when she first came
among us, with the blue eye and golden hair of
her clime, Lucy was ever one that the world called
beautiful. God had endowed her too with a
mind of noble powers, and with a rich and rare
gift of winning to herself the hearts of her fellow
creatures. Ah! `How did the gold become dim,
and the most fine gold changed!' Ere Lucy had
attained her nineteenth year, the noble family of
C—first took up their residence in our vicinity.
And from this period did we date the beginning
of that misery which afterwards overwhelmed our
hearts; for, daughter, mark me—from this period
did our Lucy first delight in the company of the
unholy, the vain and proud ones of the world,
more than in the lowly and despised whom God
hath chosen out of the world; from this period
did she begin to contemn the restraints of her
pious home, the hedge with which God in mercy
had guarded the way of her youth. I cannot tell
you now how step by step this change was
wrought; indeed it had proceeded far, ere those
were at all aware of its existence. The
family of the castle had seen and admired her for
her beauty, and they were not long in learning,
that notwithstanding her present lowly lot, Lucy
McGregor was the daughter of an ancient Scottish
clan, and that the name of many a renowned
chieftain graced her lineage.
“Among the persons of distinction who visited
the castle, there came one—a youth from a foreign
land, whom Lucy regarded with deep interest;
mayhap such as Lucy Everett cherishes
for this unknown Catholic. To enter into any
particulars concerning him, would surely lead to
details and feelings unbefitting this holy day;
some hour less sacred I may tell you all. Suffice
it then, my daughter, that though of the blood
which men call noble, he of whom I speak was
of a light and profane spirit, and withal a proud
contemner of `the faith once delivered unto the
saints.'
“Meanwhile we all saw, and mourned in secret,
that the orphan's heart was becoming estranged
from her early home, and the friends of her childhood.
Solitude was preferred to the company
she once held so dear; her joyful laugh was no
more heard among us; she seemed looking forth
to some brighter destiny than our love could give
her. The stranger at length sought her hand of
her uncle and guardian, and was refused; for,
Lucy, how think you could a minister of the true
faith, thus give up the child of his affections and
prayers, to a stranger and a Papist, high-born
though he was, and gifted in all worldly graces?
“At length it was rumored through our dwellings,
that the castle was soon to be deserted of
Lucy. The day after their departure, I set out
once more for my wonted visit to the inhabitants
of a few poor hamlets, that lay at no great distance
from our village. It was nearly sunset ere my
return, and my path lay through an unfrequented
and solitary lane, it was therefore with surprise
that when arrived within a mile of our dwelling,
I perceived a lady in a rich traveling dress, rapidly
approaching me. She was closely veiled, and
yet there was something in her form and movements
strangely familiar. `Lucy McGregor,' I
exclaimed, recognizing her with astonishment, as
trusting to her disguise she endeavored to pass
me unnoticed. I threw my arm around her and an
undefined foreboding of evil almost overpowered
me. My apprehensions indeed were not without
reason. Upon the plea of illness, Lucy had
for some days past excused herself from the
company of her friends, and the excessive paleness
of her face, as I drew the veil from it,
convinced me that her indisposition was not
feigned. But this only rendered the circumstance
of her present appearance yet more suspicious.
I intreated her to return with me.
`No—no, Sarah,' she replied, with a strange
smile, `I cannot go back—it is too late now.'
Unable to understand her, with a painful oppression
at my heart, I walked by her side in
silence. At length, in some measure suppressing
my feelings, I endeavored to speak of
the pleasure we should experience in resuming
our excursions to the hamlet I had just
visited, for the vicinity of the many gay youth
at the castle, had for some time past interrupted
them; but suddenly a long and agonizing
against the stile, her face pale as the snow-wreath
of her native hills, and there beamed
from it such an expression of indescribable agony,
as I trust these eyes may never again witness.
`It is too late now—too late,' she repeated
in the same despairing tones. `I am no longer
Lucy McGregor.” There was a pause,
and then came the fearful truth. She whom I
saw before me was the wife, yes the true and
plighted wife of the Catholic stranger. `But
I have loved you and my cousin, and my more
than father,' she continued, without regarding
my amazement, `how fervently I may not now
tell you, but I have been dazzled—blinded and
deceived—there is no more happiness for me.”
“And now on looking up, we perceived a
stately equipage coming down the hill before
us. Then did I intreat, and pray—aye, on my
bended knees I besought her, by the love I had
borne her from our childhood, by her duty to the
friends that still lived, and by the tears and prayers
of those who were already in heaven, not for
the sake of a few fleeting honors, thus to cast
away the blessing of God—but it was in vain,”
continued Mrs. Everett, wiping away the dew
which even the remembrance of that long past
agony had gathered on her brow. “It was in
vain. One long, bitter farewell she wept upon
my neck, and I saw her no more. Three years
after this, Lucy Mc Gregor died among strangers
in a strange land, and the prayers of the corrupted
priests were murmured over the departed
spirit of one, who from her infancy had been
years we mourned for her in bitterness of spirit,
and he who had been to her as a second father
died, and for her his grey hairs went down in
sorrow to the grave.”
Mrs. Everett paused, and now the bell sounding
again from the distant valley, announced the
hour of morning service.
2. CHAPTER II.
The duties of the sabbath were over, and the
shades of twilight were softening the beauty of
the landscape, when Mrs. Everett and her daughter
went forth, as they were wont to do of a sabbath
evening, to walk a few moments among the
large old elms that shaded the path to the village.
They were both silent. Mrs. Everett's usually
gentle spirit had been deeply agitated both by
the task she had that morning imposed upon herself,
and by the mysterious conduct of her daughter;
and it was evident she had not yet recovered
her composure. Lucy herself was apparently
the subject of some stronger excitement than the
tale of Lucy McGregor alone could have aroused;
she had several times essayed to speak, but the
words died on her lips.
“This is a lonely path at evening,” she at
length remarked, as if seeking to draw the conversation
to the subject of her late mysterious
conduct, but the observation failed of its effect.
The silence still continued. “Mother,” said
Lucy, with a sudden effort, “I fear I have appeared
to you an undutiful child. You would
not have told me the sorrowful story of Lucy
McGregor, had you not believed me in danger
of some strange offence. But you are mistaken.
than was Lucy McGregor,” she hesitated and
blushed deeply, “but I have no temptation placed
before me, I mean none like those which led her
astray.”
“And yet,” said Mrs. Everett, gazing full upon
her countenance, “can you say that your feelings
are not at all interested in the stranger, who was
as you yourself acknowledge, the companion of
your walk last evening?”
There was a short silence. “No, mother, I
will not say it, I am deeply interested in this
youth, not merely because of the mystery that
hangs over his name and character.” She added
with much earnestness, “No, mother, it is because
his safety, nay, his life, has been placed by accident
in my own hand.”
Mrs. Everett paused in astonishment. “Do
you speak only to tantalize my curiosity, Lucy,
or am I to look for some explanation of your
words?”
“To you, my dear mother,” replied the young
lady, “I can confide this secret. To my father
I have promised that I would not, even as I
valued the life of the stranger. You will not
betray it, mother, even to him?”
“Not if you have promised, Lucy, but methinks
you were exceedingly imprudent to make such
engagements. Do not, however, delay any longer
the explanation of this mystery.”
“You know then, mother,” continued Lucy,
with a slight embarrassment in her manner,
“Jane's home is situated so far out of the village,
that the path through the woods is almost as direct
as this. I have always chosen it because it
till—of late.”
“And why have you abandoned it of late?” said
her mother.
“Because I had reason to believe it was a favorite
place of resort to the gentleman we were
speaking of. I had twice met him there, as I
supposed by accident, but Jane Grant soon after
found in our little bower a copy of French verses
which I knew he must have dropped, and I cannot
think it was entirely accidental, for my own
name was upon them.”
“And what were they?” said Mrs. Everett hastily.
“Could you read them, Lucy?”
“I could, and I rejoiced for once that Jane
knew nothing of the language in which they were
written. The words were beautiful, but they
were not true, for they spoke of a being as sinless
and lovely as the angels of heaven, and gave to it
the name of a frail and erring mortal. Until last
evening, I have never since walked through the
woods.”
“And why did you then?”
“Jane was to accompany me part of the way,
and she insisted upon taking the forest path. I
dared not tell her my scruples, neither did I think
it at all probable that at this hour I should again
meet the stranger. Jane parted with me on the
chestnut knoll, and just as she was quite hidden
from sight among the trees, on turning my head
to the little arbor we had fitted up for our own
accommodation, I beheld the stranger himself—
he was standing just in the edge of it. It was
the third time we had met precisely in the same
place. I would have turned, but I saw that his
eye was upon me, and knew myself to be just in
quickened pace, without once averting my eye
from the path, until I had nearly reached the edge
of the thicket. Being exceedingly fatigued, I now
began to move slower, and it was well that I did.
For some time I had perceived before me a singular
object lying a little on one side of the path.
As I drew near, my curiosity increased; and I
was turning aside a moment to satisfy it, when a
slight movement in the adjoining bushes arrested
my steps. Do you wonder, dear mother, that my
blood ran cold with horror, when I found myself
standing within a few feet of a sleeping Indian,
a warrior too, and armed with tomahawk and
arrows!”
Mrs. Everett threw her arm around her child,
as if seeking to protect her from the threatened
danger. “Why did you not tell me this before?
We must go home, Lucy,” she coutinued, “it is
no time to be walking now,” and she drew her
daughter's arm in her's, as they moved hastily towards
the gate of the cottage.
It was quite dark when they had reached the
porch, and it was not until Mrs. Everett had closely
locked and barred the outer door, that Lucy
found opportunity to renew her narrative.
“I was just hesitating what to do,” she continued,
in reply to her mother's inquiries, “when
the sound of distant voices met my ear. They
seemed rapidly approaching—retreat was impossible;
if they were foes, my only security lay in
concealment. Mother, have you ever noticed the
hollow oak that stands to the right of the path,
just as you enter the valley of wild flowers?”
“Yes—yes, go on,” said Mrs. Everett with impatience.
“It was only a few rods behind me,” continued
Lucy, “and I was soon concealed within it. The
voices had all the time been approaching, and
were now so near that I could distinctly distinguish
their words; I was surprised too to perceive
that they spoke in French.”
“And who were they, Lucy, and what did they
say?” inquired Mrs. Everett, whose interest in
the narrative had every moment increased.
“Who they were, mother, I do not know,” replied
Lucy, “but as to their words, I remember
them as distinctly as though I had but this moment
heard them.”
“Hertel de Rouville,” said the first voice, “he
is a noble and gallant youth; we should be well
convinced that he is a traitor, ere we come to
such desperate measures.”
“And what do you call noble and gallant?”
exclaimed the other and rougher tone. “If to
betray to the enemy the counsels of his party, is
noble, I grant you that he is so; if to fold up his
arms, and sit down in the camp of the foe, is gallant,
I grant you, he is a gallant youth.”
“But, De Rouville,” continued the first voice,
“what proof have you that he has betrayed our
counsels? I thought that Vandreuil himself despatched
him to the enemy.”
“As a spy, not as a traitor,” replied the other.
“His orders were to go from one end of New-England
to the other, to seek its weak and defenceless
points of attack, to reconnoitre its strong
places, and see where the ambushed foe might
best hide themselves; and Vandreuil is informed
that he lingers here to obtain an opportunity of
opening our plans to the governor. At all events,”
he continued in a lower tone, “Vandreuil assures
contribute materially to the betterment of our
cause, that is, if secretly drawn; and Hertel de
Rouville is not the man who hesitates at his bidding.
But if you have any scruples, Beaumont,”
he added, with a tone of half suppressed laughter,
“we will call on the old Penobscot priests for
absolution.”
“The other voice now became so low that I
could scarcely distinguish the words, but I soon
perceived that they were speaking of the sleeping
Indian.”
“No, Beaumont, do not arouse him yet,” said
the rougher voice. “Wait till the victim is in
sight, he will only trouble us. I know that he is
in the forest; and, I believe, in this vicinity. Unless
he is previously alarmed, he will undoubtedly
pass this spot.”
“I heard no more for several moments, and
ventured carefully to peep from my concealment.
By the twilight, I saw two military figures reposing
on the ground, near the Indian. Happily their
faces were from me, and unless my tread aroused
them, I yet hoped to escape. At length I found
myself at such a distance, that the shadowing
branches hid me from their sight. I paused a
moment, and considered what to do. One single,
foolish moment, I remembered that the youth
was a Catholic and a stranger, and I a Puritan
maiden; but soon came better feelings, and I
shuddered when I thought of the blood of one so
young and unoffending, poured out by the merciless
Indian. I resolved to warn him of his danger.
Mother, was it wrong?”
“No, my child. It was such a deed as became
youth?”
“Near the spot where I had left him. He was
stretched on the bank by the arbor, in a kind of
careless repose; and was gazing on the sky with
such intensity, that he took no notice of me until
I was near enough to speak to him in a low voice.
He started up, and looked extremely surprised.
At any other moment pride would have withheld
me, but the dreadful conviction of his danger
rested on my mind. I scarcely recollect my
words, but I remember I spoke of life and its
sweetness, for I felt that this strange intrusion
needed an apology. He heard me with respectful
silence, but I saw he could scarce conceal his
astonishment. Just then there was a slight rustling
in the leaves; but it was only the evening
wind.
“Stranger,” said I, “have you any deadly enemies,
any who seek your life?”
“Doubtless I have,” he replied with some agitation,
“for I have found that deadly enemies are
easily and quickly made. Fair lady,” he said, approaching
me, “I see you have come on an errand
of mercy. There is danger then!” He
paused, and without waiting for further inquires,
I hastened to relate to him every particular of the
scene I had just witnessed. Meanwhile we were
hastening rapidly towards that part of the forest,
from which I had first entered; and just as I had
finished my recital, we were opposite the dwelling
of my friend Jane. I would have hastened
in thither for security; but the stranger forbade
me, even as I valued the life I sought to save.
The light from the window gleamed upon his
face, and I saw that he was deeply agitated.
“my life is a weary one, and I have long deemed
it a light thing to die; but I would rather find
my death in fair and honorable fight, than fall
unknown and unwept into the secret grave that
Vandreuil has prepared for me. A temporary
concealment is now my only security. When
the enemy find their search here fruitless, they
will pursue me in some other place of my resort,
and were I to fly, I might probably fall into their
hands.”
“Then come to my father's house,” said I, “he
is kind and noble hearted, and would sooner die
than betray you.
“He looked at me a moment, then mournfully
shaking his head, “No—no. It will not be safe,”
he said. “Your father must never know of my
concealment,—promise me that he shall not.”
The safety of my mysterious companion was now
my only object, and solemnly and unhesitatingly
I promised it. “But you must not linger here,”
I added, “you need concealment until the pursuit
is over; and I will seek it for you, even at
the risk of my father's displeasure.” We were
now walking through the village, and I quickly
revolved in my mind the various places of concealment
with which I was familiar. I knew
there was one on the pine hill behind us, singularly
well calculated for our purpose, for in
our childish games it had often afforded me
a secure hiding place. I described it to the
stranger, so that he could not mistake it, and we
parted at the gate. Mother, have I not accounted
to you for all that seemed wrong in my conduct?”
“But, my child, think of the engagements you
have made, to conceal the whole from your father!
meaning, and ought not to be withheld from him.
And, Lucy, who can this stranger be, who seems
a person of so much importance to the Canadian
Governor, and why should he fear so benevolent
a man as your father? If he were innocent, sure
he need not fear him. Who knows but this very
stranger whom you are secreting without his
knowledge, may be plotting our ruin?”
“Oh, no,” exclaimed the young lady, repressing
a cold thrill of suspicion, “it cannot be—he is too
frank and generous for treachery. Mother, do not
betray him. I know I have involved myself in a
strange task, and yet if I had refused it, the tomahawk
of the Indian would even now have been
stained with his blood.”
“But did you make no engagements of further
assistance?” said Mrs. Everett.
“Only that I would obtain all possible intelligence
of his foe, and convey the first news to the
place of his retreat.” But at that moment Mr.
Everett's voice was heard in an adjoining room,
and presently after his entrance put a period to
their conversation.
3. CHAPTER III.
The ensuing day was spent by Lucy Everett
in efforts to obtain further intelligence of the
Canadian officer and his associates. For this
purpose, she had extended her walk to the village,
calling upon those persons of her acquaintance
whose situation or character rendered them most
familiar with the floating news of the day. She
could not believe that the conspirators would
abandon their object, without first instituting a
search among the inhabitants, and thus afford her
an opportunity of ascertaining something concerning
their future plans.
It was about noon, and Lucy was returning perplexed
and disappointed, when her eye was arrested
by the appearance of a genteel looking stranger,
sitting in the half opened door of a small
dwelling, which she was that moment passing.
The circumstance was enough to awaken her
curiosity, and she determined not to pass until
she had learned whether the appearance of Mrs.
Marsden's guest, did not in some way affect the
object of her solicitude. The face of the stranger
was turned from the door, and she heard the
voice of the good woman loud within. Unwilling
to intrude without some precaution, she paused a
moment before the bars, at the same time calling
within the enclosure. He had thrown down his
kite and with a delighted air was approaching the
young lady when Mrs. Marsden herself appeared
in the door.
“Come in, come in, Miss Everett,” she repeated
in a tone of good natured intreaty. And the
little boy threw down the bars which guarded the
entrance.
Lucy needed no further invitation. Upon her
entrance the stranger had risen and seated himself
in a remote corner of the apartment and
seemed studiously to avoid notice. But Mrs.
Marsden allowed no time for conjectures, and
notwithstanding the variety of her cares and employments
continued to pour forth such a strain
of inquiries that the only alternative was silence.
At length she paused a moment, and Lucy was
proceeding as concisely as possible to satisfy her
curiosity.
“But do you know, Miss Lucy,” exclaimed
Mrs. Marsden quickly interrupting her, “that the
stranger gentleman across the way has left his
lodgings and gone nobody knows where, just as
his friend here, has come in search of him.”
“Indeed!” said Lucy in a low voice, while the
color mounted high in her cheek, and she directed
a sidelong glance to the gentlemen in the corner.
He was leaning his chair against the wall, his
arms folded and his eye fixed intensely on the
floor; but notwithstanding the smile which played
on his features, Lucy discovered at once such
an expression of covert ferocity, that she turned
away shuddering, and prepared to doubt the authenticity
of any thing she might have heard in
his favor.
“Since Saturday evening,” continued Mrs.
Marsden, “the young gentleman has been absent,
and his friend here is sadly concerned for him.”
“He left no word then, where he was going,”
said Lucy with a painful effort.
“None at all, ma'am. He did not even mention
that he was going, and his trunk and papers
are all there. I am sure he will return soon,”
she continued turning to the stranger, “for he
has several times gone off suddenly, before this,
and never stayed but a few days.”
“And do you know whither he went?” said the
stranger lifting up his large, grey eyes with an
expression of eager curiosity.
Lucy Everett could scarcely conceal the sudden
shock that at that moment agitated her frame
—the voice was that of Hertel de Rouville.
“Ah to be sure I do,” replied Mrs. Marsden,
“when my husband was the very one that met
him in Boston with the big hat slouched over his
face. And now I think of it,” she continued, “if
you are in such a hurry to see him, you had better
go to Boston. You will undoubtedly find
him there. Would not you advise him too, Miss
Lucy?”
“Good woman,” continued the officer in the
same harsh tone and foreign accent, “you say he
had no friends no acquaintance among you.”
“It was his own fault that he had not,” replied
Mrs. Marsden, “but he had a very reserved sort of
a way with him, and never spoke a word to any
one, not even to answer a civil question. But you
had better not go to-day, sir,” she added as the
stranger rose and approached the door. “It is a
long way to Boston.”
“Then the sooner I am off, the better,” replied
French coin, and bidding a hasty good morning,
he quitted the dwelling. Lucy saw that he directed
his steps to the forest. That the search
in this vicinity was now over she could no longer
doubt, and ere she left the house of Mrs. Marsden
the officer and his companion, mounted on horseback,
were seen swiftly pursuing their way to the
south.
It was four in the afternoon, when Lucy Everett,
overcome with agitating emotions, prepared
for her excursion to the hiding place of the stranger.
She had rested herself awhile in her mother's
parlor, and related to her the particulars of
her interview with De Rouville; and she had not
departed without giving her promise that she
would ascertain if possible the import of the mysterious
conversation in the forest. Many embarrassing
thoughts passed through her mind, as she
slowly parted away the thick brushwood from the
winding path that led to the summit of the hill.
The beautiful stillness of the lone wood, interrupted
only by the voice of singing birds, and the cool
murmur of a distant waterfall, came over her feelings
with a soothing influence until her reflections
had gradually assumed a softer character.
That the youth whose life had recently been
redeemed from destruction by her own exertions,
could ever have acted in that plan of deliberate
treachery which the words of De Rouville had revealed,
was an idea too painful to be indulged.
Neither were her emotions unmingled with fearful
apprehensions. The conversation in the
woods had referred to a systematic plan of offensive
operations, in contemplation against the New-England
colonies, at a time when perfect peace
Canadian neighbors. Were then the horrid atrocities
to which the “Treaty of Ryswick” had at
length put a period, again to be renewed; and if
so, was not her silence with regard to it culpable?
Surely the welfare of a single stranger was
not dearer to her than that of her father and
country. Her cheek was yet warm with the embarrassment
which this inquiry excited, when she
found herself suddenly in his presence. He had
wandered from the place of his concealment, and
stood leaning in the shadow of an old hemlock,
just on the summit of the hill.
His brow was uncovered, and the hunting cap
he had worn lay at his feet, his eye was fixed on
the ground, and such a shade of sadness darkened
his youthful features, as the fear of death alone
could never have imparted. The rustling of
the tangled evergreens which lay in the path,
at length aroused him from his reverie; and with
a flush of unfeigned delight he hastened to meet
his beautiful deliverer.
The courtesies of the puritan life were few and
simple; those fine, benevolent feelings which are
the essence of all true politeness, indeed were not
wanting, but the devotion of the pilgrims had
stamped upon the manners of the growing nation
its own rigid character; and though in every
movement of the minister's daughter there shone
a simple and chastened elegance which no art
can purchase, it formed a striking contrast to the
polished bearing of her mysterious companion.
“I have seen Hertel de Rouville,” said the
maiden interrupting his graceful compliments.
“He seeks you at Boston, and if the Indian does
escape in safety.”
Again the eye of the stranger sunk, with that
look of melancholy, which the appearance of Lucy
had for a few moments interrupted. “I have
then a short reprieve. Heaven bless you, gentle
maiden, for your kindness to a stranger. We
shall perhaps meet no more. And yet,” he continued,
“I cannot leave my name loaded with
crime, to one whose approbation would be dearer
to me than that of the world beside.” Lucy felt
that this was no light compliment; for the words
were uttered in the deep tones of feeling, and the
stranger's brow was flushed as he spoke. “Sweet
Lucy Everett, do not remember me as a spy and
a traitor; think of me as one whose early education
has taught me to love the puritans, but whom
the ties of kindred and the love of life itself are
urging to join against them in schemes of treachery
and cruelty. I cannot yet throw off the restraint.
The time has not come, for were I
convicted of the offence of which Vaudruil
suspects me, it would only hasten on the scene
of bloodshed.”
“But why does he seek to murder you in secret?”
said the young lady with surprise.
“He has no proof of my guilt; and he dare
not do it openly. He would as soon draw upon
himself the vengeance of the king himself as my
father's wrath. “Here,” he continued without
regarding the astonishment expressed in the countenance
of his auditor, “here is the bitterness
of my lot. It is hard to throw aside the ties of
parental duty.”
“But I must not linger here,” he added, after
a little pause, “it is necessary that I should hasten
by refuting his suspicions, defer his plans a little
longer, until some slight preparation for resistance
can be made; for the moment that Dudley
is supposed to be in possession of our secret, the
French forces would rush instantly upon the defenceless
frontier.”
“But your words are parables to me,” said Lucy,
“you speak of bloodshed and plans of attack;
are we not at peace with our enemies?”
“Pardon me,” replied the youth, “I should have
told you that war is in anticipation, and probably
already declared in England, against France and
Spain. The Canadian governor has long been in
preparation for this event; and his forces are prepared
for an immediate attack. The moment
that the declaration of war arrives, the whole
country from Casco to Wells, will be devastated.
All that I have told you of the war, communicate
without delay to your father, all that I have told
you of myself, I pray you conceal.”
The cheek of the young maiden had gradually
grown pale during this recital; and at its conclusion,
she had no power to speak. The line of
attack comprehended her own beloved village.
Horrid pictures of blood and conflagration floated
through her mind; and the awful certainty of the
impending evil, left no avenue for hope.
“Heaven be praised,” she at length exclaimed,
as if her mind had at length fastened on some
slight alleviation. “The Indians are now our
friends, we have none but gallant soldiers for
our foes. Heaven be praised we have not again
to fear the tomahawk and scalping knife.”
Something like a groan of agony burst from
the youth. “Fear every thing here, dear Miss
for utter destruction. The savages will not regard
their treaty. Every effort has been made
to induce them to slight it; and the machinations
of those cruel and fiendish priests have at
last prevailed.”
“Talk not of the priests,” said Lucy, her eye
kindling with sudden indignation. “Cruel and
fiendish as they may be, they are but tools to that
one master spirit of iniquity who excites and governs
them all. The Baron Castine hath surely
learned wickedness from no mortal teacher, and if
the spirit of darkness doth indeed come to our world
in human form”—she paused—“It is plain, I see
it, sir, Castine hath again lighted up their wrath,
and there is no more peace for us.” Her voice
was choked with agony and the cold perspiration
stood on her brow. “It is time that we part,
sir,” she added, after a few moment's silence,
“you must fly from danger, and I must go home
and prepare to meet it.”
The stranger had become meanwhile deeply agitated.”
Now that you are warned of the coming
evil, surely you will not remain to meet it. Dear
Miss Everett I pray you hasten from the scene of
danger.”
“My father is a pastor, replied Lucy looking
sorrowfully up, “he will not forsake his flock and
I cannot forsake him. Farewell.” She turned
hastily and drawing the veil over her tearful
countenance, returned by the path which led directly
to the garden behind her father's dwelling.
Jane Grant waited at the gate to welcome her
approach, and they entered the parlor together.
The clergyman and his wife were at their evening
repast, and a single glance was sufficient
painful reflections already occupied her father's
mind.
“Jane,” said Mrs. Everett, “hath your father
returned from the south?”
The reply was in the affirmative.
“Brought he then the tidings from England?”
“I heard none, sir. He was talking principally
of two singular looking strangers who overtook
him a little before he reached the village, and
who seemed to be coming on a matter of life and
death.”
“Which way were they travelling?” inquired
Lucy.
“They tarried a moment at the inn, and then
went off again at full speed on the northern road.
They seemed to be foreigners and persons of
distinction.”
“And what news from England dear father?”
continued Lucy with breathless interest, while
the warnings of the stranger flashed painfully
over her mind.
“You may as well know it now,” exclaimed
the clergyman with a hasty effort. “Great Britain
has declared war against France and Spain;
and it is more than probable that the French
colonies will commence hostilities immediately.
We must prepare for war again in all its
horrors.” The persons who listened to this communication,
seemed variously affected by it. Jane
Grant manifested only unmingled surprise and
apprehension; but when Mrs. Everett had uttered
her first exclamation of distress, she cast on
Lucy a glance which seemed to say, “the mysterious
conversation is explained. The main
enemy.”
Mr. Everett continued. “It cannot be expected
that the fury of the war will fall upon
this portion of the country; for the eastern Indians
who have recently become our friends will
furnish us with the best safeguard. Yet ought
we not the less to mourn for our brethren, whom
God hath so grievously afflicted. The ways of
heaven are dark,” he added, rising and pacing
the floor. “Our wretched country hath not yet
recovered from the wounds and bruises of the
late war,” and he groaned bitterly. “But our
Heavenly Father knoweth what we need, and he
will not surely blot out his people's name from
among the nations.”
“Father,” said Lucy “are you sure that the savages
will remain true to us? The French are a
subtle people, and—remember the Baron Castine.”
Mr. Everett looked upon his daughter with
some surprise. “You speak reasonably, my
child, strange that I myself had not remembered
these things, but my mind was overcome with the
greatness of our calamity. True, true,” he continued,
“were our Indian friends to become traitors,
we must expect incursions from the foe, and
that immediately.”
“My father” said Lucy “I have received sure
intelligence, that the treacherous Castine and his
priests have indeed won over the Indians, notwithstanding
their treaty, and they are at this
moment prepared to assist in laying waste our
villages. We lie upon the very frontier. Within
a short distance is an armed force who wait only
for the news you have just communicated as the signal
of destruction. Without doubt they will be
to believe that the strangers who were hastening
with such rapidity to the north, are the
bearers of this intelligence.” Every eye was
fixed upon Lucy in amazement.
“And how know you this, Lucy?” said Mr.
Everett, endeavoring by the sternness of his look
to conceal his emotion.
“How, I cannot tell you, pardon me father,
my intelligence is true, there is no time for
words. Dear father is it indeed too late for resistance?”
Mr. Everett gazed a moment on his
daughter in silence, and a sudden light seemed to
flash upon his mind.
“The young Canadian—Ah! I see it now.
Jane Grant,” he continued turning to the young
lady who pale and trembling was leaning in the
window seat. “Go home as quickly as possible
and tell your father, I desire he would hasten
forthwith to Boston and inform the court of the
ruin that is prepared for us. An armed force
must be raised without delay. Ah! I comprehend
it all now, this comes not suddenly upon
Vaudreuil. Hasten my child,” he continued addressing
Jane, “give the message to your father,
and pray him not to sleep until he sees that help
is prepared for us, and Lucy, my daughter,” he
continued as Jane departed swiftly on her errand,
“you must run with all speed to the village and
give the alarm. Let the bell be rung to assemble
the people, and when they ask wherefore, tell
them that the Indians are coming we know not
how soon, perhaps this night, to murder us on
our hearth stones. I have letters to write to the
frontier towns and will be with them presently.”
Lucy waited not for a second bidding, and
from the time of her departure, the sound of
the bell rose from the village; and Mrs. Everett
who was gazing from the window, perceived by
the dim twilight the appearance of hastily gathering
crowds.
When the clergyman at length entered the
church which had been appointed as the place of
assembling, he found it occupied by such an assembly
as such an alarm always gathers together.
Young maidens and matrons, and wailing infants,
youth and grey headed magistrates, were mingled
in one crowd; and the partial illumination of
the candles which some in their haste had
brought with them, served to increase the singular
effect, revealing here and there the pale
countenances of the assembly. There was a
confused noise of questions without answer, and
the bell was still pealing through the valley.
That there was some dreadful cause of alarm,
every one comprehended; but beyond this, all
was horrid uncertainty.
In the midst of this scene of confusion, Mr.
Everett caught a view of his daughter. She was
reclining pale and motionless against one of the
pillars that supported the pulpit, amid a group
of eager listeners, her bonnet was off; and the
comb had fallen from her dark and waving curls.
At the sight of the clergyman, the confusion
which prevailed throughout the assembly in some
degree subsided; at the same moment the bell
ceased, and having ascended the pulpit the better
to command attention, he began calmly and concisely
to state to them their real danger and the
cause of their assembling. They listened with
eager and deathlike stillness. The clergyman
to Boston for immediate aid. “But even this,”
he continued, “may arrive too late. We are not
ignorant of savage warfare. We know they
sound no trumpet before them. Perhaps this
night the war whoop may echo through our dwellings.”
A simultaneous groan burst from the
crowd. “At all events, let them not find us unprepared.
We can all fight, and fight willingly
that cruel and treacherous race, the enemy of
God and man. Brethren we have arms, and we
will not be scalped unresistingly. As for the
women and children,” he continued glancing
around on their pale faces, “they have nothing to
do, but go home and pray the Almighty for his
strong defence. We can all rest “beneath the
shadow of his wing.”
One by one, the females and children now retired.
Of those who remained, a guard was formed
for the defence of the town. The better to
accomplish their scheme, it was agreed that the
houses without the valley should be abandoned,
and that one third of the guard should be constantly
upon duty. These resolutions having
been entered into, they departed with all speed
to carry them into effect.
Lucy had left the church just at the time
when nothing had been resolved upon; and an
hour of more agitating suspense she had never
passed than that which intervened between her
own return and her father's. During this period
she related to her mother the particulars of the
stranger's conversation; and she was still standing
at the window, watching with eagerness the
hastily moving lights in the village, when the
sound of near voices met her ear. A group of
seen approaching the cottage; and a moment
after, Lucy met her father at the gate.
“We must abandon our home my child,” he
said, “it is too far from the center to lie within
the line of defence.” Mrs. Everett approached
the door. “Hasten Sarah,” said the clergyman,
“and seek for yourself all that is most dear to
you. There are some without, waiting to convey
our most valuable goods.”
There was no time for remonstrance or reply,
and the mother and daughter silently prepared to
obey the injunction. All was now confusion in
the cottage. Where every object was so endeared
by ancient ties of association, it was hard to
resolve which should be abandoned to the vengeance
of the savage. The domestic who had
been speedily summoned from her now useless
department in the kitchen, was soon engaged in
tearing up and packing the various articles which
accident first threw in her way. The clergyman
had gone to his study to select from thence the
most valuable papers; and Mrs. Everett was
laying away in a basket, the contents of an old
fashioned cupboard, consisting of a few precious
relies of family plate, together with a more modern
and less costly set of China. The little
yard before the door was soon filled with promiscuous
heaps of boxes, chairs, and tables. At
length the arrangements were hastily completed,
and the men departed with their burthen. Lucy
and her mother, followed by Amy, were slowly
descending the hill, and Mr. Everett, after turning
the key upon his solitary dwelling hastened to
accompany them.
We need not stop to describe the sensations of
the path to the village; those who have ever felt
the sudden dissolution of the strong attachments
which bind to a beloved home, may easily imagine
them. They had nearly half completed
their walk, and Mr. Everett perceived with pleasure
that the houses which composed the village
were already under the protection of an armed
and efficient guard, when Mrs. Everett suddenly
paused and turned to her husband.
“The picture, Mr. Everett! The picture, I have
surely forgotten it.” There was a momentary embarrassment.
“Mother, I will return for you,” exclaimed
Lucy, “and Amy will go with me; where shall
we find the picture?” Mr. Everett hesitated.
“It is a dangerous time to walk alone, Lucy.”
“But, my father, you are fatigued, and you look
ill. You cannot walk to the cottage again to
night. Do not fear for us. Amy and myself are
young and active, and we will join you by the
time you reach the guard,”—and after obtaining
her mother's directions, without further delay
they turned to retrace their steps to the cottage.
The moon was rising, and there was something
mournful in the appearance of the deserted cottage,
with its dark back grounds of evergreens.
The windows which had been wont, at this hour,
to send forth a pleasant light, now looked dark
and cheerless. Lucy lifted the latch of the little
gate. There was no sound of glad, kind voices
within; the stillness of the grave hung over the
dwelling. The heroism of poor Amy was so entirely
overcome by the air of gloom which pervaded
the whole scene, that when Lucy had at
to enter; and sat down trembling upon the
bench of the little honey-suckled porch. With a
painful effort, Lucy hastened through the dark
and lonely apartments. The faint light of the
moon was just struggling through the windows,
and tears involuntarily rushed to her eyes, as it
revealed to her the dismantled appearance of the
little parlor. Familiar as she was with the objects
of this apartment, it was impossible for her
to discover the key of the locker, without first obtaining
a light. Her hand had already fastened
upon a little lamp, that stood on the mantel-piece,
and she now made her way into the kitchen. A
few embers still remained on the hearth, and by
means of these, she soon succeeded in relighting
the lamp, and in a few moments more found herself
in possession of the object of her search.
A sudden and violent scream from Amy, at
that moment arrested her attention. In an instant
she was at the door, just in time to witness
the broad illumination which for a moment lit up
the valley, ere a sound like the peal of distant
thunder at once revealed its cause. A more
fearful and wretched situation than that in which
they now found themselves, can scarcely be conceived.
The foe had indeed come, for blaze after
blaze, and fresh vollies of musquetry, now rapidly
succeeded each other, nay, in the distant and
momentary glare, she saw, or fancied she saw, the
well known uniform of the French soldiery, interspersed
with the tall figures of the Indian warriors.
Her exertions had not then been in vain. A
guard had indeed been raised, one strong in
heavenly faith, and in the might of human affections.
harm could come to those within the enclosure;
but here was she, far from them all, in this dreadful
moment, alone and unprotected. Horrid and
sickening emotions filled her mind. Death was
already in the valley, for even at this distance,
the voice of strong agony was distinctly heard;
and such cries and groans as those that now
mingled faintly in the din of battle, she felt that
death alone could inspire. The exclamations of
Amy wild with terror, served only to increase her
distress.
She still stood in the porch, gazing in passive
silence upon the valley. Horror had frozen every
faculty, and she now waited in calm expectation
for the moment when the conflagration of the village
should complete the horrors of the scene.
But a new idea of her situation suddenly filled
her mind, and bringing with it the hope of safety
at once aroused her from this torpor. The house
was at some distance from any other, and quite
out of the path of the enemy; the moon was obscured
with clouds, and the possibility, nay, the
probability, that it might escape their notice,
was sufficient to banish despair.
She now regretted extremely that she had allowed
the lamp to remain burning in the parlor,
as she had thus considerably increased the chances
of discovery; and followed by Amy, to whom
a portion of her hopes were already communicated,
she hastened to extinguish it. The door was
quickly locked and barred; and with a sudden
animation, they began to devise all possible
means for their security. Even in case of an attack,
Lucy trusted that the lonely and deserted
air ofthe house, together with the appearance of
them to believe it uninhabited, might still
secure its safety. Amy had just succeeded in
closing the shutters of the kitchen, and was engaged
in heaping upon the embers a few light
splinters when the sound of a measured tread
broke upon the stillness. “They are coming,”
she shrieked, in an agony of fear.
“Hush—hush”—whispered Lucy, “as you love
life be quiet.” Meanwhile the heavy, monotonous
sound which had excited their dread, drew
each moment nearer; and Lucy motioning Amy
again to be quiet, ventured carefully to enter the
opened door of the parlor. She dared not approach
the window, but she could distinctly perceive
that a small party of soldiers had that moment
reached the summit of the acclivity, and
were now within a stone's throw of the house.
There was a short and dreadful silence, interrupted
only by the voice of the officer. Though his
orders were given in Freneh, Lucy understood
them sufficiently to comprehend that they were
to remain in their present situation, while a few
of them moved forward for a careful reconnoitre
of the house and grounds. They were soon hastily
scrambling over the pickets, and Lucy retired
again to the kitchen.
“What did he mean,” said a low voice under
the window,” to send us puffing up the hill for the
sake of burning this old deserted house. Not a
cat stirring! Upon my word, I do not believe it
has been inhabited since the flood.”
“But you know,” replied the other, “we must
make a division of that saucy guard. We may
fire upon them all night, at this rate, without
effecting any thing.”
“And is De Rouville so witless as to think that
they will come running forth to save these rotten
shingles? See,” continued the same voice, “they
have left us nothing for booty, but that old fashioned
locker. I will burn the house in very spite to
these cunning puritans.”
“Ah! They are more cunning than you dream
of,” exclaimed the second voice. “When we
left the village a bright light shone through these
windows, and if I am not mistaken, it still contains
human beings notwithstanding its deserted
look. Some too, whose lives are of importance.
I believe De Rouville learned as much before he
sent us.”
“At any rate we can soon settle the matter,”
said the first voice, in a tone which made Lucy
shudder, though she could not understand the
meaning of his threat.
There was another silence of considerable duration,
and then light streamed up from under the
windows with so sudden a blaze, that an involuntary
scream of horror burst from her lips. “They
have fired the house, Amy,” she exclaimed in the
anguish of despair, and was hastening to unfasten
the door. But Amy caught her arm.
“Do not go out, dear Miss Lucy, the Indians
are waiting there for us; and it is better to die
here than fall into their hands.” At that moment
a column of smoke and flame burst from the
door of the parlor; and almost suffocated and
dead with horror, Amy herself threw open the
door which led to the garden. To escape to the
forest on the hill, was now the only alternative.
They had already crossed the garden and Lucy
leaned a moment over the gate to undo the fastening,
when the loud and fearful war-whoop
from the moon, and she saw that they were surrounded
with a fierce circle of waving tomahawks.
All that they could do for life was done, and Lucy
leaned against the pickets, to watch the coming
up of her foe. At that moment a fainting, like
death, came over her, the forms of the savage
warriors faded from her eye, and insensibility succeeded
to the long excitement of agonized feeling.
4. CHAPTER IV.
When consciousness again dawned upon the
soul of Lucy Everett, the objects around her were
entirely changed. It was still night, the moon
was in its meridian, and she was reclining on the
ground, in the midst of an evergreen forest. At
first she supposed that this was none other than
that which adorned the hill behind her father's
dwelling; and fancied that by some unknown
means she had escaped from the power of her
enemy, in time to obtain its concealment. But
a second glance convinced her that she was now
far away from her beloved home, and a captive of
the enemy.
The forest extended in every direction as far
as the eye could penetrate; every where one unmingled
and solemn mass of waving foliage met
her eye, save when she turned it to the pale blue
skies above. Near her, and stretched upon the
ground in a deep and listless slumber, she now
perceived the companion of her misfortunes.
The countenance of Amy was excessively pale,
and had it not been for her low and heavy breathing
she would have deemed it the sleep of death.
But that which excited her deepest horror was the
appearance of several Indian warriors, reposing
at short distances around them. They had chosen
so that she had not at first been aware of
their presence. The long knife and tomahawk
still lay beside them, and in many instances were
yet strongly clenched. All seemed buried in
deep slumber, and her first thought was to arouse
her sleeping companion, that they might together
effect their escape. She was slowly rising for
this purpose when from beneath the branch of a
large tree before her, the eye of an Indian met
her own with a fierce and steady glance. The
savages had not left their captives unguarded,—
all resistance was in vain, so pillowing her head
upon the grassy hillock she at length sunk into
the slumber, which fear had induced her to
feign.
Ere Lucy again woke to the remembrance of
her captivity, a strong sunlight was piercing the
sombre shades of the forest, and the loud guttural
tones of her Indian guides were mingling
harshly on her ear. She arose and gazed earnestly
around her. Amy was no where in sight; and
the dreadful suspicion of her probable fate, pressed
heavily on the heart of her young mistress.
The noise of rustling foliage now drew the Indians
about her, while they still continued their
singular and animated debate. Meanwhile that
strength and decision of thought, which had long
been nursed in secret within the bosom of Lucy
Everett, was seeking to reveal itself in appropriate
action. The character of the Indians as a
people had long been known to her; and though
that instinctive horror with which the early settlers
of New-England naturally regarded this
savage race, prevented her in some measure from
appreciating those nobler traits of character,
admire, she still knew that they were human beings,
and that there are in every human heart,
some tender chords to vibrate at the touch of a
skilful hand; that however true to them as a race
those stern features of cruelty, there were still individual
exceptions. She therefore determined
to analyze the various expressions of character in
her savage companions, and to endeavor if possible
to excite in her own behalf, the glow of benevolent
feeling; for without doubt a long and
painful journey was before her, unless indeed
some sudden kindling of wrath should sacrifice
her at once to their fury.
While these thoughts were revolving in her
mind, the Indians continued their debate around
her, with many wild and fierce gestures. They
gazed frequently upon their beautiful captive;
and Lucy fancied that, every time, their glances
returned upon her with a calmer and less ferocious
aspect. There was indeed much in her
appearance to soften the resentment of her savage
guards; for while her youth and the tenderness
of her sex claimed their pity, the beauty of
her person, and the high and graceful demeanor,
seemed well fitted to call forth the more powerful
principle of admiration. Beauty has its influence
even with the savage, and Lucy Everett's
was precisely of that style of which an Indian
would be most likely to acknowledge the power.
There was no obsequious and fawning servility,
no meek intreaty for life—the maiden knew too
well the character of her foe; a haughty smile
was on her lip, her step was free and proud, as
she moved through the windings of the forest,
and the glance of the Indian frequently sunk
from the dark eye of the captive maiden. There
was also manifested on all occasions a kind of
fearless confidence in their generosity, exactly
suited to win the hearts of her proud companions.
Whenever danger approached, she drew nearer
to them, as if claiming their protection, and the
sweet and gentle smile with which their acts of
kindness were rewarded, was rendered more acceptable
by the usual reserve of her manner.
These exertions were not in vain. A spirit of
kindness was gradually diffusing itself through
the hearts of some of her companions, and now
only waited for a meet occasion, or some slight
increase of excitement, to reveal itself in her
favor.
The savage travelers seemed to know no weariness;
from the first break of morning, till the
last glimmerings of day, with untiring steps, they
pursued their route through the wilderness, pausing
only to partake of their light refreshments.
It was the evening of the third day since their
departure from H—, and the moon was shining
bright through the openings of the forest, ere
they had selected their halting place. This was
at length chosen on the banks of a tributary
stream; whose murmurs as it dashed over the
stones in its channel, were all that interrupted the
quiet of nature. To the lovers of the picturesque,
if any had been there to look on, the group, the
hour, the place, would have presented a scene of
peculiar interest. The beautiful and dejected
young captive, the forms of her Indian guards
scattered in strange contrast on the turf and hillocks
around her, the vivid touches of moonlight
on the ragged wave below, the flickering and fitful
kindled as well for safety, as for the preparation
of their evening repast, together with the gloomy
mass of forest which no ray might pierce, extending
vast and dim around them, were the most obvious
features of the picture.
With the exception of Lucy, by far the most
interesting and prominent figure was that of a tall
and well formed youth, reclining against a fragment
of rock in the center of the group below,
and at that moment an object of fixed and earnest
attention to every individual which composed it.
At another moment, in an hour of security, Lucy
Everett could scarce have regarded without fear
and horror the ferocious aspect of the young savage,
his long hair waving in the night breeze, and
every feature kindled with a glow of unnatural
excitement. But the heart of the captive had
become strangely inured to sights like these;
and amid all the terror and anguish of her long
march, when looks of cunning, and cruelty, and
savage hate, glanced upon her from the eyes of
her fierce conductors, and angry voices rung
around her, there had ever been a tone of kindness
on the lip of the young Alaska, and a look
of pity and compassion, softening the sternness of
his glance. Alaska was the favorite of the whole
party, and the son of the venerable chief who
conducted them. Lucy had from the first regarded
him with a feeling of secret confidence; and
by degrees and almost insensibly, had begun to
hope that he would become her deliverer from
captivity.
But the low tones of the youth had gradually
increased in fierceness like the rush of the coming
storm, and now rung high and wild through
Some ancient legend, some tale of high and daring
deeds evidently claimed their attention; the
dark faces around her every moment assuming
some new expression of savage triumph, and every
lip trembling with exclamations of wild excitement.
Then came a burst of song—supported at
first only by the mellow tones of Alaska, but
gradually swelling and deepening until every
voice had mingled with his, and the wild inspiring
melody thrown back on her ear in the loud echoes
of the forest, became overpowering. Lucy turned
shuddering away, and no longer wondered at their
deeds of inhuman daring. But these at last died
away; and on raising her eye amid the silence
that succeeded, she perceived with surprise and
fear, that the attention of the whole party had
become suddenly transferred to herself. Her
apprehensions, however, were soon relieved by
the gestures of the chief, who, after repeated attempts,
at length succeeded in intimating to her
the desire of her companions that she should
furnish them with a specimen of the songs of her
country. Requests in this instance were but commands;
and Lucy, after revolving in her mind the
various simple airs with which she was familiar,
selected one, which, for its exquisite tenderness
and depth of melody, was well worthy of the occasion.
It was one of the beautiful and holy
hymns of the pilgrims; and as it rose amid that
savage throng, now melting on the air in soft and
solemn cadences, and now in loud sweet tones
ringing through the arches whose echoes were
yet dying with the war song of the Indian,—the
effect was thrilling. Even the stern spirits of the
warriors seemed bowed with its influence. The
that seemed like approbation, succeeded them.
The young Alaska hid his face; and the fierce
eye of the chief, softened with an expression of
kindly feeling.
“Ecoutez, ecoutez,” exclaimed a low and distinct
voice near her. She turned in amazement.
Hitherto her only communications had been
made by means of gestures; and the idea that
there were any there, who comprehended a language
with which she was familiar, was new
and pleasing. The voice was that of Alaska;
he had approached her unobserved, and perceiving
himself understood now proceeded to
address her in French with ease and fluency.
“Listen, listen, English maiden. Thou art like
my dead sister, and my father loves thee. Elsingah
was tall, and straight, and beautiful as the
morning; her voice was the voice of birds, and
her step like the fleet gliding of the deer. But,
maiden, the dead leaf hath fallen on her grave;
and the voice of Elsingah hath long been silent
in her father's dwelling. She hath built her
bower, where the roses and violets never die, far
away in the land of bright shadows, among the
spirits of the brave and beautiful. But, maiden,
she hath left us desolate. The old chief still
mourns for her, and there is none to call me brother.
And thou art like Elsingah. Thy voice, thy
smile, are like hers; and my father loves thee.
English maiden wilt thou be his daughter.”
The young lady seemed in doubt, how to answer
this singular proposal, but Alaska waited for
her reply.
“And who will soothe my own father,” she
at length exclaimed, vainly endeavoring to repress,
home, “and my mother, my own beloved mother,”
she added in broken tones. “Oh Alaska, if you
have mourned for Elsingah, even in the beautiful
and happy homes of blessed spirits, think of those
who mourn for me a captive, a wretched captive
in the power of enemies.”
The youth seemed considerably affected with
this appeal; but the remainder of the party, who
had sometime waited in silence, now interrupted
the conversation, commanding Alaska to interpret
to them the words of the English captive. A
cry of displeasure was heard among them as the
youth obeyed; and a long debate succeeded, to
the captive fearfully incomprehensible, though
conscious that she was herself the subject of it.
The old chief joined in it with expression of
strong interest repeating frequently the name of
Elsingah, and pointing to her whom he would
fain have adopted in her stead. The remainder
of the party, however, manifested signs of strong
disapprobation, and replied to the proposals of
Alaska and their chief with such an air of fierceness
and resolution, that the prisoner could no
longer doubt concerning her doom; and cold and
darkly fell the fearful truths on her heart—the
death of an Indian captive was before her.
Whatever the decision might be, it was evident
that the old chief felt himself compelled to acquiesce
in it; and after casting on Lucy a lingering
look of regret, he quickly stretched himself
on the earth for his evening repose. His example
was soon followed by all except those appointed
guard for the night; and Lucy herself, to
avoid suspicion, reclined her cheek on the cold
and dreary turf.
It was an hour of bitter suffering; and the
young maiden now sought earnestly to recal to
her recollection those lessons of holy truth, which
in moments of gladness had fallen so lightly on
her heart. Earth for her was now no more, its
pleasant toils, its gay hopes and affections, were
all over, and the grave—the lonely and unknown
grave was henceforth to be her resting place.
The last effort had been made for her, and made
in vain; and the elasticity of youthful hope,
which had hitherto borne her with incredible
strength and cheerfulness through the perils of
her long march, now seemed broken and crushed
forever. And after all, she was to die just in the
spring-time of her being, far away from all who
would have soothed the bitterness of death, and
among cruel strangers. The weary night passed
away in tears and agony.
On the first appearance of day, the Indians renewed
their march. Lucy still walked by the side
of the Chief, but though her eye glanced frequently
over the band, she could no where discover
the youthful favorite; and indeed the Indians
themselves seemed uneasy at his absence,
frequently pausing and searching the openings
around them, as if expecting his appearance. At
length, about half an hour after sunrise, Alaska
suddenly presented himself, springing from the
thicket on one side of their path. There were
slight symptoms of agitation on his brow; and his
companions at first, regarded him with suspicious
glances. But a certain air of ease and indifference
which the youth soon assumed, together
with some slight apology, ere long apparently
removed their displeasure.
The whole party now endeavored to quicken
the slightest noise, manifesting signs of alarm,
and drawing more closely around their prisoner.
But the depressed spirits and wearied frame of the
young captive, could no longer endure the unwonted
hardships of her journey. The hope of
safety which had hitherto given energy to her
steps was gone, and with the recklessness of despair
she now paused suddenly in her path, and
supporting herself against the tree that shaded it,
declared firmly that she could and would go no
further. She had expected death for her temerity,
but the Indians manifested only surprise and
concern; the most savage of them entreating her
to accompany them a little further, and assuring
her that she should then find rest and plenty.
Scarcely able to comprehend their conduct, with
a faint glimmering of hope, she at length yielded;
and her guides now in some measure accommodated
their pace to her exhausted strength.
Meanwhile the prisoner perceived, with deep
regret, that he who had ever manifested the
strongest interest in her welfare, seemed, on the
present occasion, to regard her with indifference,
and even aversion. Alaska was as usual the
amusement of the party. He laughed and sung,
and recited to them tales of ancient valor; but
he seemed now perseveringly to avoid her presence,
and there was a kind of heartless gaiety
in his whole manner which she had never before
discovered.
But in the midst of those bursts of merriment,
the eye of the young Indian suddenly rested on
hers with a glance of deep and secret meaning.
There was an expression of mingled pity, apprehension
and hope; and repressing the exclamation
became at once convinced that this apparent unconcern
in her fate, was only assumed for some
mysterious purpose of kindness. Unwilling however
to attract the suspicions of her companions, by
too close a scrutiny of his conduct, with a strong
effort she confined her glances to the path beneath
and the dense thicket before her.
“Move slower, maiden—as you love life, move
slower,” exclaimed a low voice near her as with
a painful effort she was seeking to quicken her
movement. She looked up in astonishment.
The young warrior was standing on an elevated
stone at a little distance before her; his bow was
drawn, and he seemed deeply intent upon some
distant aim. She almost doubted the evidence
of her senses; for though the voice was that of
Alaska, there was nothing in his countenance
which intimated the slightest consciousness of
her presence, and at that moment darting suddenly
from the rock with a yell of savage delight,
he disappeared in the thicket.
After ascertaining that this mysterious communication
had been listened to by none but herself,
she began at once to comply with the injunction,
being now again fully aware that in
advancing she was only hastening on to a more
cruel and aggravated doom. But the faces of
her conductors, exhibited symptoms of high impatience,
as she again relaxed her efforts, sometimes
almost pausing on her way. They again
renewed their promises of speedy rest; and these
being now ineffectual, threatenings were resorted
to. But the energy of despair was in her heart,
she gazed calmly and resolutely on the glistening
more languid.
Meanwhile Alaska and several of his young
companions had moved on with a rapid step, and
now the sounds of a wild and savage song came
ringing through the woods. It was supported by
several voices; but as they drew near, the prisoner
could plainly distinguish amid the pauses, at
the conclusion of every stanza, the single tone of
Alaska chanting on in low and almost inaudible
strains. The inherent love of life had quickened
every sense and she was not long in perceiving
that words of secret intelligence lingered in the
seemingly unmeaning sound.
“Listen, listen, English maiden,” at length
caught her ear; and with downcast eye and
quickened breathing, she waited for his mysterious
communication. It came at length in low
and fitful strains. “Fear not. Wait here. They
will not harm you.” And the voice of the musician
again burst forth in the wild accents of his
native tongue. Irresolute, and almost overcome
with emotion, she awaited the conclusion of the
succeeding stanza. “Another hour, but one
hour more, wait here, or in yonder valley, and you
shall not die. The white conquerors will not
murder you.”
A cry of joy almost escaped the lips of the
young captive; but with a quick effort she concealed
her emotion, still moving on silently and
languidly as before. They were now descending
a hill into a little sheltered nook, overhung with
birch and maple. It was about noon, the sun had
become exceedingly oppressive, and it was the
time which the Indians had usually selected for
refreshment. Lucy ventured therefore, to demand
by signs, that the strength thus acquired would
more than compensate for the loss of time. After
a short debate, the Indians, with much dissatisfaction,
complied with the request.
With an air of as much composure as she could
assume, Lucy now reclined herself in the shadow
of the clustering maples, and leaning her head
on her hand, feigned that repose, the need of
which, she had urged as an excuse for their present
delay.
Meanwhile a profound stillness prevailed among
the savages. They spoke occasionally in low
whispers; and whenever Lucy ventured to lift
her eye, she perceived that they were gazing
anxiously around them, as if in constant expection
of an alarm. The time rolled slowly on;—
to the agitated heart of the captive, minutes seemed
hours, and still no signs of the promised deliverance.
The prescribed period had indeed nearly
elapsed, and Lucy was already shuddering at
the gathering signs of impatience on the countenances
of her conductors when her eye became
suddenly fixed on the opposite thicket. A
human face, fiercely painted, was peeping out
from among the foliage, and quietly and unobservedly
surveying the scene before him. Not
the slightest noise announced his presence, and he
continued for several moments cautiously directing
his glances upon the unconscious objects of
his scrutiny. At length, perceiving that the
prisoner had discovered his presence, he moved
slowly down the bank followed by a close but
single file of Indian warriors.
The surprised guards started hastily on their
feet; but it was too late for flight, and the high
was such as to preclude the idea of open combat.
The fierce words which immediately ensued, were
to Lucy totally unintelligible; but it was evident
that on the part of her guides an expression of
servility mingled with angry looks, while the
countenance of the stranger chief exhibited only
haughty reproach. The altercation was at last
concluded, and the victor approached the tree
beneath which his prisoner reclined. There was
nothing in the appearance of the stranger at all
calculated to soothe her fears, and yet after
glancing a moment upon her Indian friend, she
was convinced that this was the anticipated succor.
The chief hastened to inform her that she
was to accompany him; and, with a fresh impulse
of strength and hope, she prepared to obey the
intimation.
When the little summit was once more gained,
Lucy Everett turned for a farewell glance at those
whom, a few minutes before, she had regarded as
her murderers. They were still standing in the
same posture in which she had left them, gazing
after her with looks of deadly hate, and even now
scarcely restraining the expressions of their savage
resentment. Alaska had separated himself
from the group; and, as long as Lucy could discern
the sheltered nook, he was still standing with
folded arms, and gazing after her with looks of
mingled joy and sadness. The captive waved
her hand in token of gratitude, and the nodding
foliage soon hid the whole company from her
view.
5. CHAPTER V.
Nothing interrupted the profound silence with
which the whole party now moved forward, save
the breaking of the long grass beneath their feet,
and the sound of rustling boughts, as their strong
clusters parted before them. They had retraced
for some time, the path which Lucy had so recently
trodden, when the leader of the band
plunged into the midst of a dark thicket to the
left, commanding the rest to follow him. The
way had now become more intricate than ever,
and notwithstanding the utmost exertions of the
impatient travelers, the progress made was but
in considerable, the foremost in the march frequently
pausing to hew away the tangled bushes
which obstructed their steps.
These interruptions, however, occasioned no
inconvenience to the young captive; and indeed
the intervals of rest thus afforded, together with
the slow pace thus necessarily adopted, were all
which prevented her light frame from sinking
under her fatigues.
The beams of a descending sun threw a faint
and obstructed radiance on their way, as they at
length silently emerged into a wide and well trodden
path, which intersected the one they had
previously trodden. They all gazed eagerly
was now plainly discoverable the appearance of
distant water. Then followed a brief interchange
of signals and expressive glances among the
guides, and again they moved silently on. The
darkness was now every moment increasing; and
the eye of the captive, weary of gazing on the
endless and unvarying succession of forest and
sky, sunk heavily downward. Her grieved spirit
wandered sorrowfully away to the distant friends
and home, that she doubted not were lost to her
forever, until the strong and beautiful pictures of
memory seemed living realities; and the thickening
gloom of the forest, and the forms of her
stern and silent companions, only as the moving
pageant of some troubled dream.
A sudden halt in the movement of the advanced
guard, now attracted her attention, and she beheld
herself at once standing on the margin of a
wide river. With the exception of two, her guard
had suddenly deserted her, leaving her to examine
at her leisure, the picturesque beauty of the
opposite shore, now softened with the shades of
the deepening twilight.
After a short interval the Indians reappeared,
dragging from the concealment of the thicket
several small and rude canoes. These were speedily
launched, and the chief again approached
the prisoner. Lucy turned for a moment, shuddering
from the cold dark wave, but there was no
alternative. With a glance of fervent but unmurmured
supplication to heaven, she now followed
her guide to the margin of the stream, and
was soon seated beside him in the rude canoe.
The sound of the plashing wave echoed mournfully
in the stillnes,—the shore seemed receeding
were sailing quietly down the current of the
stream.
The broad river was now gradually widening
into a bold and majestic bay; and Lucy
soon found herself, in that frail bark, and with
that savage companion, alone on an inlet of
the wide sea. Meanwhile one by one the stars
of heaven shone out from the soft twilight,
while the outline of the opposite shore seemed
every moment to grow more wild and strange,
amid the gathering shadows. But the eyes of
all were now directed to a bold and woody
promontory, jutting forth from the eastern shore
at no great distance below them.
A shape like that of a fortress now appeared
on its summit, but often ere this had the fantastic
skill of nature mocked the weary eye with
views of distant towns and cities. The illusion,
however, if such it was, seemed only to grow
more strong and distinct upon a nearer survey.
Indeed as they gradually neared the shore the
dark building with its strong outworks and barriers
of defence, might no longer be mistaken,
though the deep obscurity which enveloped the
objects of the shore, prevented minute observations.
Her companion now muttering a few unintelligible
phrases, made rapidly towards the object of
her curiosity, the other canoes following closely
in their rear. A loud quick challenge was now
heard from the shore, while brilliant streams of
light issuing from the buildings above, seemed to
render the darkness without more gloomy by its
contrast. The watchword had been given by
her guides, and in a few moments more, they
the fortress.
The idea of her wild and singular situation,
rushed painfully to the mind of the captive, as,
following the steps of her guide, she now perceived
that they were approaching the haunts of
civilized men. There was a confused mingling
of human tones, the song, the whistle, and the
boisterous laugh, the sounds of heavy steps echoing
on the pavement within, the stirring tones of
the fife and drum, and amid their brief interludes
the notes of a softer and more distant music.
They had already passed the entrenchments, and
half fainting with terror and embarrassment, Lucy
soon found herself standing amid a sudden glare
of light at the entrance of the building, every
sense dazzled and bewildered with this unexpected
transition from the gloom and silence of the
forest.
The apartment into which the whole party
were now slowly entering was a high and extremely
spacious hall illuminated by means of
lamps suspended from the ceiling. Many and
various were the forms which now presented
themselves, issuing from the numerous rooms with
which the hall communicated. Servants were
hurrying to and fro, soldiers in the gay French
uniform, gathered in little groups talking and
singing in their foreign tongue, while others
whose rich dress and haughty step denoted them
officers of rank, were slowly moving through the
apartment. Neither was the prospect bounded
by the bewildering succession of objects which
the hall itself presented. The doors on either
side were constantly opening, revealing at every
moment a glimpse of the objects within. Light
spot where the savages and their captive were
stationed; there was a sound of quick steps moving
within to its melody, and now there appeared
the form of an elegant female gliding for a
moment before the opening door. It would not
be expected that in a situation like this so singular
a groupe could long remain unnoticed. Curious
glances began one by one to fasten upon it,
until Lucy Everett would have welcomed joyfully
even the gloom and shadow of the wilderness.
The various objects around her had however
exerted so absorbing an influence upon her attention,
that the absence of the Indian chief had
not been noticed, until she now perceived him
approaching from a distant part of the hall. He
had no sooner rejoined the party, than commanding
the remainder of his followers to await his return
at the gate of the palace, he selected two of
their number, and immediately sallied forth again
in the same direction, accompanied by them and
the English prisoner. The sight of one so young
and fair, a stranger and a captive, seemed to
create a strong excitement among the various
inmates of the apartment, and a murmur of admiration
and pity followed the group as they
now slowly mounted the staircase.
But the noise and confusion below seemed
gradually to subside, as having at length completed
the ascent, they now traversed several spacious
apartments. Weary of conjecture, faint
and sick with fatigue, at length she paused; and
the chief murmuring a hasty caution to the
guards immediately disappeared.
Voices within the next room were now distinctly
heard. They spoke indeed in a foreign language,
measure familiar; and her conceptions of its
meaning were now quickened by an overpowering
curiosity which the singularity of her situation
excited. The deep full toned voice which
now met her ear, was evidently addressing the
savage chief.
“Welcome, welcome, brave Anamanta, we
have awaited you since morning; but surely a
single prisoner is not all your booty.”
“No, brother, the English captives are still in
the wilderness. The Sieur Hertel bade me lead
them to Quebec; but the maiden I have brought
you is young and tender, and I turned aside with
her, that she might not die unredeemed in the
forest.”
“And did not the Sieur pay the ransom of your
prisoners?” exclaimed another and sharper tone.
“For all but her,” rejoined the chief.
“The Saco warriors were treacherous, and
sought to carry her away in secret to grace their
triumph. But the brave Alaska came to me last
night, and warned me of their treachery, and to
day I overtook them in the forest.”
“It is well, Anamanta,” replied the first voice.
“Leave the prisoner here, and I will give you
the gold for her ransom.” A long drawn sigh interrupted
the silence which succeeded.
“There was a time,” exclaimed the Indian sorrowfully,
as the clinking of the precious metal was
heard within—“there was a time, when the
chiefs of my nation would have scorned such an
offering. They went forth gloriously to the fight,
and came back loaded only with the scalps of
their enemies.”
“And that time shall surely come again,” rejoined
spoken. “Grieve not, noble Anamant, that time
shall surely come again. But not until the glorious
race of the Mohicans stand once more on
the green soil of their fathers, not until those unholy
heretics have been torn up, root and branch,
from the land which they have polluted, and the
forests of your tribe wave high and free again on
its blood-nourished valleys. So long as a single
vestige of this unholy people stains your ancient
inheritance, ask not for the help of God, nor
of the blessed virgin, nor of the pure church
they have defiled.”
A new and fearful thought darted across the
mind of the captive as those words of denunciation
met her ear. Impious and inexpressibly
dreadful as they had seemed, there was indeed
one to whose character as it had long been revealed
to the colonists, they seemed but too appropriate.
The voice within so rich in its tones, so
musical in its cadence, was surely none other
than that of the Baron de Castine.
The conversation still continued; but Lucy
Everett heard no more. Every other feeling was
at once forgotten in the terror of this discovery.
She looked tremblingly around the apartment.
The mystery was then explained. It was the
palace Castine, that strong hold of superstition
and cruelty whose very name had once chilled
her heart; and she was here, a lone and unprotected
prisoner, within the very walls where all
those fearful plans of ruin for her people had
been maturing, the very scene where the treacherous
peace had been plotted, the ambuscade,
the war-cry, the cold blooded murder.
But these reflections were now interrupted.
Everett found herself summoned to the presence
of the object of her terror. Perhaps it was
the consciousness that she had nothing to hope
from his mercy, that now banished the lingerings
of timidity, imparting to the face and graceful
carriage of the maiden, that expression of calm
fearlessness, with which she slowly entered the
apartment of the Baron Castine. It was not until
she had reached its center, that summoning all her
resolution for the effort she slowly raised her eye.
The first object which arrested it was a lofty
and dignified form reclining against the table before
her. His dress was plain and simply elegant,
his features were decidedly handsome, nay
there was an expression irresistibly attractive, in
the large, mild, bright eye that seemed calmly
reading her features. But the unsatisfied glance
of Lucy still wandered on in search of that one
dreaded object which filled her thoughts; and
she immediately discovered at the remote end of
the table, a person who seemed to answer to the
fearful picture, and indeed his whole appearance
formed a striking contrast to that of his companion;
but her glance sunk quietly down, beneath
the searching cunning of his sunken eye.
“And a fair companion for such an one as
thee,” said the same musical voice which a few
minutes since had uttered those fearful threatenings.
Lucy started with surprise, for that voice
fell from the lips of the mild and pleasant looking
stranger, who had first attracted her eye.
“Father Ralle,” he added, turning with a smile
to his companion, “thou shalt shrive the gentle
maiden, and having absolved her from the
guilt of her past heresy, we will seek to initiate
too beautiful to waste her loveliness among the
puritans.
“Holy Virgin,” exclaimed the other in a tone
of affected horror, “how is it possible, that one
who hath wandered even from her infancy in the
wild regions of heresy and sin, should thus be
brought into the fold of the blessed shepherd.
Noble Baron, I doubt not but that puritan girl is
a thousand times more ignorant of the true religion,
than the wildest savage of these forests.”
“That were a shame indeed,” exclaimed the
maiden suddenly and involuntarily, the proud
current of her English blood mounting high in
her young cheek, “it were a sin and a shame for
the daughter of one of its holiest ministers.”
An involuntary start announced the astonishment
of her auditors. They had evidently supposed
their conversation unintelligible to the
subject of it.
“By the rood, Father Ralle,” exclaimed the Baron,
turning with a smile to the surprised and incensed
priest, “the fair heretic is not so ignorant
as you would imagine. Nevertheless you
must be her father confessor, if it were only to
absolve her from the pride and sin of that single
sentence.”
But the high flush of indignant spirit which for
a moment had given energy to her exhausted
frame, was now again vanished. There was yet
however another effort to be made, suppressing
for a moment the sensations of deadly weariness
that oppressed her, she drew nearer to the table
on which they leaned.
“Noble Baron, I pray your pity,” she exclaimed
in a low and faultering voice, “I am my father's
joyfully.”
“Father Ralle, you will summon the guard,”
exclaimed the Baron shuffling the papers before
him with an air of seeming indifference. “It is
time that these arrangements were completed.
The prisoner may retire to her apartment. Let
it be in the south wing and you may bid Antionette
attend her, until she hears my further
pleasure.”
“Will gold redeem me?” continued the captive,
heedless of his orders, and unfastening from
her neck, as she spoke, a richly set miniature.
“Ah! beautiful Lucy Mc Gregor,” she continued,
gazing for a moment earnestly upon it,
“my mother will grieve bitterly to part with thee,
but surely, thou art not more precious to her than
her own living Lucy. Baron Castine, will this redeem
me?”
The gentlemen seemed alike startled by the
earnestness of her manner and a heavy frown for
a moment knit the smooth brows of the Baron, as
she laid the jewelled miniature on the table before
him.
“A beautiful picture!” exclaimed the priest in
a tone of seeming carelessness. “The diamonds
are of the first water my Lord,” he continued approaching
for a nearer survey, but the Baron had
now drawn it towards him, and shading his face
with his hands was evidently surveying it with
much earnestness.
“Know you aught of the original?” continued
the priest gazing curiously upon the prisoner.
“Methinks she was no heretic.”
“She was—she was,” replied Lucy, with bitterness.
“When the bigots of the Romish church
her from her friends and home, then indeed she
became a heretic. My Lord,” she continued
turning to the nobleman who still gazed upon the
miniature, “she was my father's cousin, and this
is the last memorial which is left him of one who
was dearer to him than life. And now that too
is gone—it is yours. The gold is pure, and the
jewels are true and costly—only take not away
his only child. I pray you break not altogether
my poor father's heart.”
The Baron de Castine raised his eye, a new expression
seemed to have gathered on his pale
and haughty features, and Lucy Everett read at
once in that stern, cold, and angry glance, that
her prayer was rejected. Her nature could endure
no more. The objects of the apartment
seemed swimming in sudden darkness before her,
there was a sensation like death, a dim perception
of strange and stern faces bent around her,
and all was vanished. The wild visions of delirium
now succeeded that long train of bewildering
realities; but these were comparatively happy,
for now came the soft and beautiful illusions
of home, a father's arm protected her amid every
danger, and even in the moments of her wildest
suffering, the sweet melody of her mother's voice
lulled and soothed her spirit.
6. CHAPTER VI.
The illusions of a disordered fancy at length
floated quietly away. Lucy Everett awoke from
a long and refreshing slumber to recollection and
reason.
She was lying on a couch of elegant workmanship
beneath a light and fanciful covering.
The room though small, was lofty and tastefully
arranged. A few fragrant and fresh gathered
flowers lay scattered on the fair covering; and
a vase containing a still more beautiful variety,
stood on the low toilette beside her.
It was a bright still summer afternoon, and the
lofty window open before her, commanded a
prospect of extreme and varied beauty. A soft
haze hung over the quiet landscape below—the
broad bay, and clustering islands, and the woody
outline of its far off shores leaning against the
cloudless azure. A faint breeze was just creeping
along the sleepy wave, slightly stirring the
folds of the muslin curtain, and freshening the
pale brow and cheek of the invalid.
“Ah, Holy Mary, thou hast heard my orison,”
exclaimed a low whispering tone; and the next
moment a tall young female was bending over
her couch, her dark features glowing with pleasure,
and her lip yet trembling with the aspirations
hast heard thy suppliant. The English maiden
shall not die among strangers.”
There was much that, to Lucy at least, seemed
singular in the person and manner of the young
devotee. Notwithstanding the unusual richness
of her whole dress, and the air of hauteur which
seemed to proclaim the lady of rank, too deep a
shade was mingled over her fine and well formed
features for a daughter of the European race,
while the soft glow that suffused her countenance
seemed too clear and vivid for the cheek of an
Indian maiden. She wore on her bosom a small
diamond cross, a golden rosary adorned her neck,
and her long dark hair was wound in braided
tresses around her head. But the invalid felt
that it was the face of a stranger; and pained
and wearied, she turned away murmuring in
grieved tones the name of her parents, until a
sudden and violent flood of weeping relieved her
anguish. The stranger, meanwhile, still bent over
her, unconscious of the meaning of those impassioned
words, and uttering in her foreign language,
every expression of condolence, which sympathy
or affection could suggest.
“If you do indeed pity me,” exclaimed Lucy,
at length adopting the language of her companion,
“let me go home and die in my mother's
arms.”
“Ah, no, heaven forbid,” replied the young
lady with a smile. “You will not die now.
Your hand is as soft and as cold as my own, and
the deep flush is all faded out. No, English
maiden, I have not thus vainly told my beads.
The Holy Saints and the Blessed Virgin, will not
I have offered them.”
“Oh, talk no more to me of the Virgin Mary,
nor of the Saints,” interrupted the invalid. “Dear
lady, if you do indeed love me, pray no more for
me in those unworthy names. Oh, it is a bitter
thing to die,”—she added, in murmuring
tones,—“but to die among the despisers of the
true faith, far away from all who love me, and
in the dwelling of this proud and wicked Baron—”
Three successive times the lady had crossed
herself during this burst of feeling, and at the
conclusion of it, her keen dark eye flashed with a
sudden expression of wounded pride.
“The Baron de Castine is my father,” she exclaimed,
drawing herself proudly up from the
couch, “and though you are a prisoner of war,
and the daughter of his enemy, he hath kindly
and honorably treated you, as though you were
of his own nation. It was he that bade me watch
by your couch, and soothe you in your sickness,
and do all for you that I would have done for
the sister of my love, and now—” The remainder
of the sentence was only told in the
proud glance, with which she turned away from
her, and walked slowly to the window. There
was now a short silence, interrupted only by frequent
and heavy sighs from the couch of the invalid.
The eye of the stranger occasionally returned,
and with every glance at that pale and
lovely countenance, her resentment seemed gradually
to grow less powerful, until at length entirely
forgetting it, amid the glow of generous
emotions, she again approached her couch.
“English maiden, I know that you have suffered
Say no more,” she whispered, as an expression of
gratitude trembled on the lip of her young charge,
“I know how hard it is to be parted from those
we love—and a mother too—my own is far away
in heaven, and though the daughter of the wild
Mohican race, I mourned for her none the less
bitterly.”
“Ah, my sweet young nurse, my dear Lady
Antoinette,” exclaimed a shrill quick voice,
at the door, “how fares your invalid, this afternoon.”
“Better, a thousand times better,” was the
reply. “Come in, Madame La Framboise,
and see if she be not changed, since yesterday.”
A small and delicate female now opened the
door, and gently approached the couch. “Ah,
yes, my dear young lady,” she exclaimed, after
examining, for a few moments, the pulse of the
patient, which though yet languid, was now
calm and regular. “The maiden needs only
your kind and gentle nursing, and she is well.
And now,” she added in a livelier tone, “I may
do you my message from Lieutenant Beaumont;
he says, if you do not join the dance this evening—”
“Hush, hush, Madame La Framboise,” exclaimed
the other, interrupting her, “how can
you thus disturb my patient?” and leading her
to the door, she added in a whisper, “If the
prisoner continues better, I will join you again
at vespers.”
A profound stillness now reigned in the apartment,
or if any sounds came upon the breeze
from below, they were softened and blended in
ere the vesper bell had chimed through the palace,
the English captive had sunk into a gentle
slumber.
Madame La Framboise had not vainly calculated
upon the effect of the unwearied attentions of the
Lady Antoinette, and in a few days more, her unfortunate
charge was so far recovered as to walk from
her couch to the window, while the faint pink of
returning health, hourly deepened on her countenance.
The subjects of reflection, however,
which now constantly engaged her attention,
were such as might naturally be supposed to retard
her recovery. The extreme hopelessness of
her situation,—for a long and bloody war was
just opening upon the colonists,—her anxiety for
the fate of her parents, and the idea of wasting,
within her prison walls, the bloom of that existence
which she would joyfully have devoted to
their happiness, all contributed to lower that pitch
of elastic feeling, with which we are wont to
arise from the couch of languishing. She was
not indeed insensible to the many alleviations of
her fate. The kind Antoinette had frequently
assured her of the utmost exertions of her influence;
but the idea of escape from that well
guarded fortress, was too hopeless even for the
longing fancy of the captive,—and might this be
effected, the impossibility of finding her way
through the forest, effectually checked every
project which friendship or hope could suggest.
It was in one of these dispirited frames, that
the captive one evening sat by her window,
watching the last lingerings of day upon the distant
hills, and warbling a few catches of her father's
far away, over the expanse of wave and forest,
to the lovely and beloved home of her childhood.
The noise in the court beneath had meanwhile
gradually diminished; and on casting her eye
downward, she perceived that the group of Indians
and soldiers, who a short time before had
crowded the pavement, was now gradually diminishing,
until only a single Indian remained in
sight. He was apparently engaged in mending a
broken bow; but Lucy noticed that as he persevered
in his employment, his eyes were occasionally
directed, as if by stealth, to the windows of her
apartment.
There was nothing in his appearance or employment,
at all peculiar, save that he hummed
as he worked, occasional snatches of that well
remembered song, which Alaska had formerly
used as the vehicle of his communications to her
in the forest; and at times too, she fancied that
the voice itself seemed familiar. But the object
of her curiosity soon arose from the pavement;
and after gazing cautiously about him, he turned
suddenly and directed his aim against the palace
walls. Lucy now watched his seemingly unimportant
manœuvres with intense interest, for the
light was still sufficient to reveal the form and
features of the noble hearted Alaska.
Several times he had shot carelessly against
the wall, as if to test the mended string; but
Lucy had noticed that each successive time the
aim was higher, and she was seeking to ascertain
whether this circumstance was indeed accidental,
when she perceived with surprise that he had
again fixed his aim, and was evidently about to
let fly his arrow, precisely at the spot where she
the window, and the next, the arrow whizzed past
her.
It was several moments ere she had sufficiently
recovered from her surprise to venture from her
retreat, and she then timidly approached to examine
the arrow. A dark coil was wound around
one of its extremities. It yielded to her touch,
and the next moment a bracelet dropped to the
floor. It was her own, and braided of one of
those auburn locks that had waved on her mother's
head in the day of her youth and beauty;
and, with a sudden cry of joy, the captive at
once realized that she beheld a token from her
distant home. She leaned again from the window.
“They who send you this token, maiden,” said
Alaska, in low and distinct tones, glancing cautiously
around him, “bade me bring you this message
also. When one sun more has set, a guide
will wait for you on yonder shore. English maiden,
there is one within who can help you. The
daughter of the white chief is good and gentle,
she hath the heart of a Mohican, and she is
mighty. All night the guides will wait for
you, at the white rock beyond the hut of Wassaic.”
At that moment, the deep toned bell announced
that the hour of vespers was past; and
Alaska speedily retreated to a distant part of
the court. While yet trembling with the amazement
which this communication had excited, a
rapid step was heard along the corridor, and Antoinette
presented herself at the door. That she
was the person to whom Alaska alluded, Lucy
and uniform kindness with which she had from
the first regarded her, together with the repeated
assurance of her sympathy and assistance, all
designated her as a proper object for confidence.
The Lady Antoinette listened in silence to the
brief detail. She trod swiftly up and down the
apartment, and there seemed a conflict of overwhelming
feelings.
“Forgive me, Lady Antoinette,” exclaimed
Lucy, at length interrupting the painful silence,
“if I have presumed too much on your friendship.
I had thought—but I was wrong. Do not
agitate yourself, Lady Antoinette, you are freed
from any engagements you may in your careless
moments have made me.”
“Speak lower, Mademoiselle,” replied her
companion, pointing to the door of the apartment,
“the guards were at this end of the corridor
as I passed, and if they overhear us we are
ruined. I know, my dear girl, that suspicions
are awakened; for when I kneeled at my confessions
this morning, the holy Father bade me remember
a sin of far more deadly hue than aught
that I had owned, and warned me of the guilt of
loving those whom the church regards only with
holy horror. But, Lucy, I do indeed love you,”
she added, pausing before her, and her dark eyes
filling with tears. “Stranger and heretic though
you are, I love you, may the Blessed Virgin forgive
me;—and for myself, I would joyfully incur
all the anger and reproach, if so I could effect
your escape. But, Lucy, I cannot do this alone.
I must exert my influence over those that love
names,—secretly and treacherously to release the
prisoners whom the blood of their soldiers hath
purchased. Ah, that any should do this for the
love of Antoinette de Castine! I could do all but
this for you, Lucy Everett.”
“I believe it, dear lady. I believe that you
would do all for me, that is kind and honorable;
and I desire no more. Forgive me, if the idea of
liberty and happiness, hath made me selfish. Dear
Antoinette, I have had fearful thoughts to-day, I
know that the priests of your religion have ever
deemed the blood of such an one as I, a grateful
offering to heaven. Antoinette, I am a daughter
of the Puritans, and who knows what dark trials
are now in store for me. No—look not incredulous.
I have read too well the history of your
church and mine. Far better had it been for me
to have died in the forest.”
“Lucy Everett,” replied Antoinette, after some
minutes of thoughtful silence, “we must make
Madame La Framboise our confidant. Aye,—do
not fear her; she is a Catholic indeed, but so are
we all, and she is full of invention and skill, and
knows well how to conduct such stratagems as
we shall have need of. I know too that she pities
your misfortunes.”
Antoinette now drew towards the door.
“Do not be surprised,” she added, in a whisper,
“if I see you no more to-night. If suspicions
are once excited, my efforts are all in
vain. But I promise you, by the Mass, and
by this image of our Blessed Mary, that I will
not fail to exert my whole soul, for your deliverance.”
Lucy Everett could not for a moment doubt
the sincerity of this earnest appeal; but her
heart died within her, as the sound of retreating
steps grew faint in the distance, and she found
herself once more alone, in the solitude of her
prison.
7. CHAPTER VII.
It was a sleepless night for more than one in
the palace of Castine; and ere the pale beam of
morning had looked through her curtains, Lucy
had arisen from her weary couch, to await with
renewed fearfulness the crisis of her doom. It
was not until the hour of noon, that Antoinette
again presented herself. Her finger was on her
lip as she entered; and for some minutes only a
few trivial remarks were uttered, evidently intended
for the ears of those without.
“I have confided our secret to Madame La
Framboise,” she at last whispered, drawing her
to a remote corner of the room,—“and she hath
promised her aid to the uttermost.”
“And is there any hope, dear Antoinette?”
exclaimed Lucy, breathing quick and gaspingly.
“Be calm—be calm, my friend,”—whispered
the other. “It is to your own composure and
presence of mind, that you must now trust for
deliverance. My brother hath this morning unexpectedly
returned from Quebec. Fear him
not, Lucy. I know he hath the name of a proud
and haughty youth. He hath been much in the
high palaces of the earth until his mien hath indeed
caught something of their loftiness, but
“And is it him that you would persuade to
assist us?”
“No, Lucy. For the world, I would not have
it said that he connived at this project. The
shame—the disgrace, must all be mine. But no
—to relieve a sister in distress, be she catholic
or heretic, friend or enemy, will never degrade
the high purity of a woman's honor;—and even if
it would, for you I could bear it joyfully. But,
Lucy, hear me. The Wassaic is of my mother's
kindred, and Louis and I love well a moonlight
sail along those waters. They are counted safe
at present, and when the dews begin to fall, I will
ask him to row me to the dwelling of the Wassaic,
the chief of my mother's tribe.”
“And how is it possible, dear Antoinette, even
could I escape from these guards, to accompany
you unseen by him?”
“You cannot, Lucy,” replied the other, in a still
lower tone, “you cannot accompany me, you must
go in my stead.”
Lucy felt at once that the project was not
hopeless. The French maiden was tall and
slender like herself; and though her complexion
and whole countenance, presented a striking
contrast to her own, now pale and delicate,
from recent illness, the plan was yet worth
attempting. A careful disguise would do much
towards concealing it; and the darkness of evening,
more.
“And if the discovery should take place too
soon,” exclaimed Lucy, as these thoughts passed
hastily through her mind.
“Tell him the whole, dear Lucy. He has a
my sake, he will not betray you. And as for the
idea of his assisting your escape, if he alarms the
palace on his return with the news of it, it will
be enough. Dear Lucy, do not tremble thus.
Keep your soul calm and quiet for this emergency.
No, I cannot stay,” she added, as the captive
would fain have detained her longer. “Madame
La Framboise is at this moment waiting for
me. Fear nothing, Lucy, only be cool and collected.”
Notwithstanding this latter injunction, the remainder
of the afternoon was passed by the captive
in a state of excitement, bordering on distraction.
One moment, home with its thousand soothing
endearments, friends, and kindred, all seemed her
own; the agony of fear was over and she lay
a free and happy being weeping on her mother's
bosom. The next, an imprisonment far more
gloomy and hopeless, arose to her fancy; she
remembered the ferocity of the Roman priesthood,
and cruelties untried and unknown, nay,
death itself, seemed the fearful alternative.
Overcome with these agitating reflections, she
had hardly noticed the flight of time, until the
broad disk of the sun just lingered above the forest,
throwing a last flood of radiance over the
objects of her apartment. The captive now
ceased her wearied step; and with flushed cheek
and throbbing heart she threw herself on her
couch, seeking with a strong effort to recover
something of that calmness which she knew her
exigencies so much required. Several minutes
more elapsed, ere any sound broke the stillness.
Gay voices were then heard in conversation without;—the
lock turned, and the next moment,
stood within.
“Hasten, Mademoiselle,” exclaimed Madame
La Framboise, as with rapid movements she now
unfastened the veil. “Fifteen minutes more,
and the vesper bell will toll;—we must lose no
moments.”
The exchange of dresses was quickly made;
but it was in vain that Antoinette strove to assume
an appearance of composure. Her hand
trembled violently, as she clasped the rosary
about the neck of her friend; and her efforts at
firmness only rendered her tones more faultering,
as she repeatedly murmured that there was no
cause for fear. Madame La Framboise alone
seemed calm and collected. With surprising
composure she arranged and re-arranged the
beautiful apparel, until each slight dissimilarity
of figure had vanished, and the metamorphosis
seemed complete.
“And now fear nothing, Lucy Everett,” exclaimed
Antionette, “the boat is ready and Louis
hath promised to go the moment that Vespers are
over. You must attend the Mass—nay, I would
have saved you the trial if I could, but you
will not be detected. A few moments since
I left the drawing room in that very dress;
and if you are silent no one will suspect the
change. Draw the veil closely around your face
in the chapel; Louis de Castine will meet you at
the door, for the rest, trust Heaven.”
The arrangements were now completed, but
Lucy Everett still lingered. Amid the confusion,
the hurry and agony of suspense, the idea of a
separation from her generous benefactress, had
scarcely occupied a moment's attention, and until
the feelings which that unwearied kindness had
kindled. The ties of human love are various as
the tints of autumn leaves; but there are none
more tender and beautiful, than those which
spring up between the lonely and the sorrowing,
and those who have lightened their sorrows or
gladdened their loneliness. The catholic and
puritan wept like sisters in the parting embrace.
“Hasten, hasten,” interrupted Madam la Framboise,
“the minutes are precious and—hark—
there is the vesper bell.”
“Fare thee well, sweet English maiden,” said
Antionette, at length withdrawing her embrace.
“We shall see each others' faces no more here,
but by the cross and rosary on your neck, remember
the catholic girl that loved you.”
“Come, come, Lady Antoinette,” said Madame
La Framboise, drawing Lucy's arm in hers as she
threw open the door. “If you linger longer here,
the mass will be over ere we reach the chapel,”
and so saying she sallied forth into the corridor,
with her trembling companion. The bell still
tolled as they hurried on.
“Ah me, Lady Antoinette,” exclaimed Madam
La Framboise as they drew near the soldiers who
guarded the entrance of the hall, “how I pity
these solitary prisoners. I am sure if I were yonder
English captive, I should have died long ago
of very loneliness.”
Lucy clasped her arm convulsively in hers, for
at that moment they were passing the door.
The soldiers bowed reverently, and they moved
on unquestioned and unsuspected. They still
pressed on through several lofty and dimly lighted
apartments.
“We are almost at the chapel,” said her companion
in a whisper, as they descended a narrow
staircase. “The saints be praised—we have encountered
no one as yet, and the danger is almost
over. Imitate me, my dear young lady, when we
enter and fear nothing. The Holy Virgin will
protect you.”
Lucy had now need of some higher encouragement
than aught which the benediction of the
catholic could impart, for at that moment the
bell ceased, the door opened, and amid a stream
of pure and beautiful light they moved slowly
through the aisles of the chapel. Oh the tumult
and agony of that moment! To the agitated heart
of the prisoner, every eye in this throng of worshippers,
seemed at once to have detected beneath
her light disguise, the form and features
of the English Heretic. But this was soon past.
In a moment after, she was bowing beside her
companion, silent and unnoticed.
A quick succession of overpowering ideas
crowded to the mind of the young puritan, as
those rites and ceremonies which from her earliest
recollection she had regarded only with unmingled
horror, now burst upon her in all their
imposing splendor. She raised her eye, loosening
for a moment the crowded folds that veiled her
features. The lights, the pictures, the wreathing
music, the low, rich mournful melody from the
chanting choir, all came over her bewildered fancy
like the dim shadows of that land where the
faint perceptions of faith vanish amid the light
of glorious realities.
Surprised and indignant at this powerful effect
on her feelings, she now strove altogether to divert
her attention, and in wandering over the
door, standing alone and erect amid the kneeling
throng. The rich military habit denoted an elevated
rank, and a look of calm and conscious superiority
lingered on every feature. There were
traces of deep thought and feeling on his countenance,
almost contradicting the extreme youth
otherwise indicated. His eye wandered carelessly
over the kneeling assembly, and now and then
a shade of contempt deepened the cold smile
with which he surveyed them. Lucy gazed for a
moment in suspense, but it was only for a moment;
and with a thrill of delight and astonishment
she now recognized the lonely and disguised
stranger who had once so deeply claimed her
sympathy.
“Are you mad young maiden?” said a low
whisper beside her, at once recalling the recollection
of her fearful situation. “Have the catholics
no eyes? For heaven's sake draw your veil,
or we are ruined.” Madam La Framboise might
well utter these astonished and terrified exclamations;
for in the joy of that unexpected recognition,
her young companion had for a moment
forgotten the perilous circumstances that
surrounded her. Quickly and tremblingly the
injunction was obeyed; the worshippers were
rising, and in the ceremonies which now ensued
every nerve was indeed in fearful requisition.
At length the last benediction was said, the assembly
began quickly to disperse; and Lucy
Everett, leaning on the arm of her companion,
moved slowly through the crowded aisle.
Notwithstanding the drapery which now so
thickly veiled her features, Lucy could still dimly
perceive the form of the young officer standing
the spot where he stood, and a single
word or look might make him aware of her
presence. But at that moment, a quick pressure
of her arm again warned her of the perils
around her.
“Look, Antoinette,” said her companion in her
usual careless tone, “see here is your brother
waiting to accompany you.”
“Where, where,” whispered Lucy, returning
the grasp convulsively, and in vain seeking to
discover among the crowd the person to whom
she alluded.
“Hush, dear child, there is no danger,” whispered
the other, and then aloud, “we will wait
here for him, Antoinette. It cannot be long ere
he joins us.”
But at that moment another glimpse at the
mysterious stranger, again absorbed her whole attention.
His eye was earnestly fixed upon her.
Had he then detected her earnest glances? Her
heart throbbed convulsively, for he was now advancing
to meet them.
“Come Antoinette, are you ready?” said the
stranger in that well remembered voice, which
had last rung on her ear amid the forest of H—.
“The boat is waiting for us. Are you ready for
the excursion?”
“Ready—aye that she is,” answered Madame
La Framboise, disregarding the sudden emotion
evinced by her companion. “You had better
take your brother's arm, Antoinette,” she continued
with a slight and meaning pressure, and at
the same time disengaging herself from her clinging
grasp. “You will hardly return before midnight,
and so I bid you good evening,” continued
row,” and smiling and bowing she disappeared.
Surprised, bewildered, and embarrassed beyond
measure, with her arm in that of her companion,
Lucy now moved rapidly through the palace.
He—the brother of Antoinette de Castine—and
she could scarce restrain the expressions of her
doubt and amazement, as with rapid and almost
unconscious steps she now trod the pavement
without. To reveal herself at once, and claim
his protection, was her first hasty resolution; but
the next moment the conversation of her benefactress
returned to her recollection. It was
Louis de Castine as well as the stranger whose
life her own exertions had once redeemed; and
though the idea of personal danger had now vanished,
every other reason for maintaining her disguise
as long as practicable, was still as urgent
as before. At length they stood on the shore,
just above the point where Lucy and her savage
companions had first landed. It was a clear
and beautiful night, the dewy breeze blew cool
and gently over her, as she landed in the shadow
of the rock while her companion slowly loosened
the boat from its moorings. The sweet waters of
the Penobscot lay before them, smooth and beautiful,
now and then softly leaving the pebbled
shore; and the sounds of life came in low and
mingled murmurs from the height above.
The soul of the young maiden grew calm amid
these soothing influences. And now as the light
oars rose and fell, slowly and gracefully, the boat
moved forth from the shadows of the shore, scarcely
leaving a trace of her light path amid the liquid
moonbeams. Lucy Everett gazed on the
now slowly receding in the distance, and for
the first time amid the agitating events of the
evening, the consciousness of her freedom rushed
upon her mind. Those fearful barriers were at
length past—the guarded hall, the court, the battlements,
all were safely past, she was no longer
a captive; and her whole soul rose, like a freed
bird rejoicing.
“Antoinette,” exclaimed her companion, now
for the first time interrupting the stillness, “you
have grown strangely silent since vespers.”
“Aye.”
“Aye, indeed, but it is not your usual fault, and
I acknowledge it requires some vanity to interrupt
this beautiful stillness. I can forgive you,
Antoinette, and the more especially as I am determined
for this evening to engross a due share
of the conversation myself.”
“Indeed,” replied his companion, hardly daring
to exceed the monosyllable.
“Yes, a new resolution you think. But a
truce to your railing now, Antoinette. It will do
well enough for yonder gay drawing room, but
even my sad words and feelings better become
an hour like this. Indeed, Antoinette,” he added
in a different tone, “I have more causes for sadness
than you dream of.”
Lucy felt painfully that her part was now indeed
but ill performed. She well knew what
rich tones of kindness such an annunciation
would have drawn from the affectionate Antoinette,
but she dared not to trust her voice and
she was silent.
“To commence then, with my important communication,”
continued the youth, “I am about
France.” He paused and seemed waiting for
her comments, but only a sudden start announced
the emotion of his auditress. “You are doubtless
surprised at a resolution like this, at such a
crisis. I know that the war which is but just
opening upon these colonies, seems to you only a
field of glory, where I might reap the laurels for
which I have so long panted. But, Antoinette,
it is that very crisis which occasions my departure.
In such a war there is—there can be, no
honorable part for me.”
“And why?” exclaimed Lucy, who felt that silence
now would not be overlooked.
“Do not mistake me, Antoinette. To the war
in general, my remark has no application. As a
war between France and England, I would yield
my last life-drop freely in its battles. But as
waged in these distant portions of the kingdom,
a mere tool of selfish and fiendish purposes—as a
war between the catholics and colonists—as a
war of bloody and unprovoked extermination between
a few ambitious and powerful individuals,
and a simple, high minded people, I cannot—I
will not engage in it. Antoinette, you are my father's
child and have ever been to me a true
and noble hearted sister. I will withhold nothing
from you.”
He paused a moment, and the impropriety, the
indelicacy of thus intruding upon his confidence,
became now so extremely embarrassing to his companion,
that only a constant recurrence to the instructions
of her benefactress, prevented her from
revealing her character. But surely it would ill
become her, to cast a blot upon the name of one
whom Antoinette called brother; and determining
of her promised guides, should relieve her companion
from all wilful share in her escape, she
still maintained a painful silence.
“Antoinette,” continued the youth, “among
the individuals of whom I speak, you know that
the Baron Castine is pre-eminent. He is your
father, and mine, and as such I would fain speak
of him with reverence; but as to this unnatural
and deadly policy which he is now adopting, I
must say of it, and will say it fearlessly—my
whole soul abhors it. Think for a moment, Antoinette,
if you can, of that fearful system of means
in operation around us. Think of the high and
holy influences of religion, so awfully perverted
as to arouse, and keep forever alive in the minds
of these savages, those deadly passions which are
to be satisfied only with the extermination of
these puritan colonies. And, Antoinette, you
know too the fearful circumstances of their warfare.
Think, if you can, without shuddering, of
these beautiful settlements laid waste, and hundreds
and hundreds of helpless beings captured
or murdered in cold blood, without the shadow of
a crime, and all for the aggrandizement of a
single ambitious individual. I say, Antoinette,
I will never soil my spirit with any agency, however
remote, in crimes like these. I have made
one effort, and it shall be my last. Our estate in
France requires my presence; and there I shall
await the termination of this struggle.”
“Antoinette,” continued the young officer after
a few moment's pause, interpreting the silence
of his companion into an expression of displeasure,
“I have spoken warmly, but I would that
you at least should know the secret springs of
whose authority you reverence, the religion you
love, with all its allurements, its splendid and imposing
forms of devotion, I have learned to look
upon as only a mighty fabric of human pride and
error. Nay more, the doctrines of those whom,
from your earliest recollection, you have been
taught to despise as heretics, are to me the pure
and sublime revelations of Heaven. Antoinette,
my mother was a protestant.”
“A protestant?” replied his companion involuntarily.
“Aye, I had thought you aware of this circumstance.
She died indeed in my early infancy
but not until she had stamped her own sweet picture
on my memory, the image of all things holy
and beautiful. My childhood too was past among
the cottages of the Waldenses, in the dwelling of
my nurse, a simple and pious woman, to whose
care my mother's dying lips had consigned my
earliest years. It was there, where “the bones of
slaughtered saints lay bleaching on the Alpine
mountains cold,” in those valleys where the blood
of the true and holy had in all ages been poured
forth like water, that I learned to love those persecuted
exiles, and surely it would ill become
such an one to stain his hand in their blood. But,
Antoinette, I will say no more on this subject,”
continued the youth, after again pausing in vain
for a reply. “It must ever be a painful one,
while we differ thus widely; but I have still another
secret to confide to you. Listen patiently.
It is a trust, a sacred obligation which I am about
to confer upon.”
There was now an evident embarrassment in
the tones of the speaker. “Antoinette,” he at
in foreign climes. I have seen many of the high
and the rich and the lovely, unfascinated; but
Antoinette, I have at last found a flower that I
could love. A rose has sprung up on my lonely
path, wild indeed, and uncultured, but one that
I could win and wear forever. My sister, I must
leave these shores, but I leave behind me one
whose love could make the lone wilderness bright
and beautiful as Eden.”
A cold dew gathered on Lucy's brow; she
breathed slow, and heavily.
“During my late secret expedition,” continued
her companion, “I met with a beautiful high-minded
and gentle creature, all unlearned in the
knowledge of a cold and heartless world, but just
such an one as the bright ideal around which my
affections have ever clustered. She was a puritan
girl, and her name, Lucy Everett.”
A half murmured exclamation burst from the
lips of his auditress.
“Nay, hear me through, my sister, I know your
prejudices are all arrayed, but hear me through.
To your energy and decision of character, I am
about to confide a sacred trust. Lucy Everett
is now a prisoner of the Indians, perhaps,”—and
his voice sunk, “perhaps already their victim.
The very night I left her native village, it was
burned and plundered, and many of its inhabitants
made captive. Among these were Lucy Everett
and her servant. The latter I found among
the prisoners at Quebec, but of the former I can
learn nothing, save that she was separated from
the rest on the first night of her captivity. Antoinette,
you have influence with our father, you
have powerful friends among these tribes. Let
her fate, and to spare no pains or toils for
her deliverance. You hesitate. Now my sister,
you have an opportunity of proving the truth of
your affection. As the preserver of my life,
Lucy Everett claims your kindness. During my
residence at H—, Vandreuil, fully aware of my
sentiments with regard to some of his proceedings,
dispatched messengers with instructions to
murder me in secret, and but for the exertions,
of this same Lucy Everett, I might now be
sleeping in a distant and unknown grave. Oh
had I time to tell you all, you would not wonder
that I had loved this puritan stranger. And, Antoinette,
she was like my mother—my beautiful
and sainted mother, just such an one as I have
heard her described, when she first came to our
castle from her lowly and sequestered dwelling.
Her character, her religion, her nation were the
same, and her name too, my fair mother's name
was Lucy—Lucy Mc Gregor.
“Lucy McGregor!” repeated his auditress, in
amazement, completely thrown off her guard by
this unexpected disclosure. “Can it be?—Lucy
McGregor the Baroness de Castine?” But she
suddenly ceased her hurried exclamations; her
companion was now gazing at her with looks of
fixed astonishment.
“Antoinette! Antoinette!” he exclaimed doubtingly.
“Prythee speak again—you have been
sparing of your words this evening; and sure the
light is not so dazzling, that you need sit with
that impenetrable veil around you. Antoinette,”
he exclaimed, with increased surprise, as his companion
still remained silent and immoveable
“surely this is no occasion for trifling.”
It was impossible longer to elude discovery.
The young maiden slowly drew aside her veil, a
shower of moonbeams fell upon her countenance,
revealing at once to the eye of her astonished
companion, the fair, rose-dyed features of Lucy
Everett.
The oar dropped from his hand. There was
something almost ludicrous, in the expression of
that sudden and bewildered astonishment, with
which he now silently surveyed her.
Briefly and simply, Lucy Everett told her tale.
Meanwhile, they were slowly veering towards the
appointed place of rendezvous, and the small white
rock was now clearly visible, breaking the green
outline of the shore.
“And do you think then,” exclaimed the youth
in reply to her last remark, “that I would thus
idly throw away my recovered treasure? What
proof have you of the good faith of the savage
Alaska? And how know we, that the whole may
not be some treacherous scheme of these Indians,
to recover again their victim?”
“But the token, sir. It was my own bracelet.
I cannot be mistaken, and look yonder is their
signal.” At that moment, a red and brilliant
stream of light burst from the shore near the
foot of the rock.
Louis de Castine looked earnestly thither.
He leaned for a moment silently upon his oar.
“Return! Did I hear you aright, Lucy Everett?
Return to the palace and spread the alarm! Are
these the lessons of gratitude you would teach
me. No, dear Lucy,” he added again plying the
oar, “I leave you no more until I see you safe
under your father's protection.”
They had now approached so near the shore,
and a single figure at that moment became visible,
standing in the shadow of the rock.
“It is Alaska,” whispered Lucy, as her companion
looked sternly and suspiciously towards
him. “Believe me, sir, you wrong him. There
is no room for treachery in his noble heart.”
“Well then, my sweet sister,” murmured the
youth suddenly assuming an air of playfulness,
which became his handsome features; “I have
one word more for your private ear. Do not
forget that I have this evening made you my confident,
that I have laid open to you my whole
heart, the very sanctum sanctorum of my affections.
But you have not as yet, by word or look,
intimated your approval. My sweet sister, may I
construe this silence in my favor? When I am far
away in a foreign clime, toiling wearily for the
vain distinctions and honors of this earth, may I
not have the assurance, that this consecration of
my affections is at least not regarded with displeasure?
Oh when my thoughts wander to those
distant shores, and that one being for whom alone
the laurels of earth are worth reaping, let me feel
that my devotion is not regarded as wholly unworthy
of its object.”
“My brother,” replied the maiden with a smile
brushing away the dew that had gathered on her
cheek, “she of whom you speak is a lowly being,
and all unworthy of the love of one so noble.
It is a destiny too exalted for such an one as Lucy
Everett.” As she spoke, the light gleamed full
upon her countenance; she drew the veil once
more around her, but not until Louis de Castine
had read upon her bright and blushing features,
the full approval of his love.
They were now landed in silence, among the
clustering foliage at a short distance below the
rock; and leaning upon the arm of her conductor,
Lucy Everett moved tremblingly along the
shore. Ere long, Alaska presented himself from
the thicket. A gleam of joy kindled his dark
features as he recognized the English captive,
but this was immediately exchanged for something
of sadness, of deep and melancholy curiosity,
as he glanced upon the form of her conductor.
After gazing a moment in silence, he pointed to
the thicket before them; and winding around a
narrow and hidden path, they now followed his
steps.
In a few moments, they found themselves standing
upon the edge of a wide area, in the center
of which rose the blaze which had served as their
signal. Several Indians were scattered on the
grass around it, and two or three figures like
those of armed soldiers, slowly pacing before it.
For a few moments, Lucy Everett and her companion
stood the silent and surprised spectators
of the scene; but the eye of the former soon
rested on a single figure, apart from the rest, and
reclining in the attitude of devotion. His face
was turned from them, but the light gleamed full
upon his venerable form, and on the gray hair as
it stirred with the evening breeze.
The next moment, with a wild and joyful cry,
Lucy Everett had sprung from her retreat. “My
father! Now heaven be praised, I have found my
father.”
Bewildered at that unexpected greeting, the
old man raised his eye to the fair creature that
was bending over him. She flung back the mantling
drapery, and there, in the light apparel of
wept, his own long lost and beautiful daughter.
* * * * * * *
Years rolled on, and the war-cloud still brooded
over the colonies of New-England, when the
young Baron de Castine once more set foot on its
shores. Oh the fearful traces that a few short
years can write on the cherished treasures of
earth! Castine was desolate—its frowning walls
were levelled, and he who had reared them was
buried amid the wilderness. Antoinette too was
gone, his noble and true hearted sister; and she
now moved in a distant circle of rank and fashion,
the wife of the accomplished Beaumont.
And the young beautiful puritan? She too was
changed. Four years had not passed so idly,
that the warm dreams of sixteen summers still
lingered on her brow. Four years of filial devotion,
of patient, unwearying, unmurmuring care
had not left their own fair traces in the heart, and
on the face of the gentle and lovely.
Lucy Everett was an orphan. They to whom
she had been as the green clustering ivy on the
ruins, had gone, one by one, to heaven, and had
left her on the earth a lonely orphan.
So she bade a last farewell to the green graves
of her parents, and her native land, and ere long
the ancient castle of Castine rung with shouts of
welcome to the youthful Baroness, no less kind
and beautiful, but more blessed of heaven than
her unfortunate predecessor.
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