University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

—T. D. English.

—Cibber.

At an early hour on the morning
succeeding the night of events just
detailed, Ichabod Longtree, who
being in his way something of a
gossip, was stirring betimes, that
he might be first with his wonderful
news among the villagers. With
a mysterious air, and sundry additions
and embellishments, where
he thought them necessary, he told
his tale to a gaping crowd, who,
with feelings of indignation too
deep for words, at once proceeeded
to the residence of Moody, with the
intention of punishing him according
to his deserts. Had they found
him, under the excitement they
were then laboring, it is more than
propable the affair would have had
a tragical termination; but he was
gone, and no one knew whither, so
that pursuit was out of the question.
The whole affair created a great
sensation, and was a common topic
for several days. As a story
looses nothing by being repeated,
particularly when it borders on the
marvelous, so the tale in question,
as it went from one to another, became
distorted to a wonderful degree—until
at last an old lady, in
telling it for the twentieth time, ac
tually vouched for the truth of the
assertion, that Moody had placed
the knife against the heart of Kate,
and was pressing with all his
strength upon the handle, without
making the least impression, when
a dark cloud suddenly enveloped
him, and Luther appeared in a
flame of fire, and seized and bore
him off, amid terrible thunderings,
and the most awful shrieks of woe
that mortal ear ever heard.

As for Kate herself, her gay spirits
seemed suddenly to have left her.
She grew reserved and silent, and
withal, not a little melancholy. In
vain her friends—who after the
events we have detailed, flocked to
see her in numbers—tried to enliven
her by their conversation, and
frequent sallies of wit. She said
little to any, and if she smiled at
all, it was one of those wan smiles,
which, contrasting as it did so forcibly
with her former ringing laugh,
was really painful to observe. From
a laughing, frolicsome, light-hearted
girl, she seemed changed to a serious,
thoughtful woman; and all
so suddenly, as to make it rather
marvelous. It was evident that
something preyed upon her mind,

and depressed her spirits, and many
were the conjectures concerning
it. Some hinted that she loved
Moody, and that his base actions
had destroyed her confidence in
him; and though she had torn him
forever from her heart, yet there
had been left an aching void, from
which time alone could relieve her.
Others said it was owing to the
fright she had received, and that
in a few days she would be herself
again. But these were conjectures
only, for Kate kept her secret close
locked in her own breast; and when
questioned on the matter, she ever
managed to answer in such a
way that none were made the
wiser for it.

Thus matters ran along for several
weeks, and flowery spring was
just taking leave of the year, to
give bright summer her accustomed
place and reign over the advancing
golden harvest. Since that
eventful night, Rashton Moody had
never been seen nor heard of by
any of the villagers; and the circumstances
connected with his disappearance,
having been discussed
time and again, were now becoming
worn out topics, of but little
interest to any. Luther, too, had
not since made his appearance, and
it was doubted by some that he ever
would. Danvers and Danbury
had both called upon Kate, separately,
some two or three times;
but finding their reception very
cold, had at last given up their visits,
in despair of ever being able to
win her affections.

It was about this time, say some
six weeks from the night of the ball,
that Kate Clarendon and her mother
were seated a little apart, in their
own dwelling, engaged upon some
coarse sewing. The night—for it
was an early hour in the evening—
was very dark, and now and then a
flash of lightning, followed by the
rumbling sound of distant thunder,
together with a cool damp breeze,
which blew steadily from the west,
announced that a shower was fast
approaching. For some time mother
and daughter kept silence—both
intently occupied with the work in
their hands—when a vivid flash of
lightning, that seemed to crinkle
and play upon their needles, made
them involuntarily start together
and utter exclamations of surprise.

“How near, and how loud!” cried
Mrs. Clarendon, alluding to the
lighting, and the thunder which
followed with a crashing report immediately
after. “I was not aware
that the shower was so near us.”

“O, I wish father would come,”
said Kate; “I always feel so
gloomy in a thunder-storm, and so
frightened, too.”

“You have no cause for being
frightened now, Kate,” replied Mrs.
Clarendon, “more than at any
other time. We are all in the hands
of God, at all times, and are just as
safe, if he so wills it, when the elements
are in dire commotion, as
when every thing is clear and tranquil.”

“I know it, mother; but at the
same time, I cannot avoid feeling
more timid, when I behold dark
clouds lowering around me, darting
forth their angry lightnings, and
hear the mighty thunders that seem
to shake the earth beneath them,
than when all is bright and clear.”

“It is natural, my child, that we
should feel our danger more sensibly,
when we can see it; but, nevertheless,
it is no nearer us at such
times than at others.”

“But I wish father would come!”
rejoined Kate, rising, and advancing
to the door. “How dark!” she
continued, as she gazed forth; “and
see yon cloud! how angry it looks!

and how full it is of electricity!
Hark! mother, do you not hear a
roaring sound?”

“I do,” answered Mrs. Clarendon,
approaching the door herself
and listening. “It is the wind and
rain coming through the forest.

“How mournfully it wails,” sighed
Kate, shuddering. “Oh, my
blood feels chilly in my veins. It
seems as if somebody were dying,
and this were the funeral dirge.
Ha! the lightning again!—how
fearful!” exclaimed she, starting
back, as at the moment a bright
flash almost blinded her, and a
crash of thunder, following close,
made the cabin tremble to its center.

“Better stand away from the door,
Kate,” said the dame, anxiously,
retreating herself.

“I thought,” replied Kate, “you
just now implied that all times and
places were alike as to danger?”

“I said we should not fear, child,
at one time more than another; that
we were all in the hands of a just
God, who watches over us; but I
did not say it would be right to
needlessly expose ourselves; and
it is dangerous standing in a door,
during a severe thunder-storm, from
the tendency of the lightning to
follow a current of air. But see—
yonder!” added Mrs. Clarendon,
pointing toward the forest; “methought
I just now saw the figure
of a man; perhaps we had better
shut and bolt the door.”

“O, it is Icha ' exclaimed Kate,
joyfully, as at the moment another
flash revealed to her the tall, ungainly
form of the gardener, hurrying
forward with immensely long
strides. “Poor Icha is afraid of a
drenching, judging by his movements;
but is it not singular that I
did not see father with him!”

“He must be near, though, I
think,” returned the mother of
Kate, rather uneasily, moving toward
the door again herself.

A few large drops of rain now
began to patter on the leaves of
the trees, and on the roof of the
cabin, while a loud roaring, like
that of a near water-fall, announced
the body of the shower to be near
at hand. The next moment Ichabod
Longtree came bounding into
the room, nearly out of breath,
bearing a rifle on his shoulder.

“Well, Icha,” exclaimed Kate,
hurriedly, “where is father?”

“Why, isn't he here?” asked
Ichabod, in reply, looking round the
apartment, as if he expected to behold
the object of inquiry.

“Did he not go with you?” inquired
Mrs. Clarendon, quickly,
slightly turning pale.

“Why, yes,” replied the gardener,
“we went together, and kept together
till near dark, when he said
as how he'd take a deer I'd just
then shot, and start for home. I
'spected to find him here when I
come.”

“Strange,” said Mrs. Clarendon,
“that he has not made his appearance.
How long since you parted
with him?”

“It's more'n two hours.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the dame,
in alarm; “so long ago, and he not
here yet! How far off was he
then?”

“Not more'n half a mile—jest
on t'other side of the Miami.”

“I fear something has happened
him,” said Kate.

“Maybe he gin chase arter another
deer, like I did,” replied Ichabod,
consolingly.” “'Tisn't best to
be alarmed, I reckon.”

“He would not be likely to do
that, I think, so near night,” observed
Mrs. Clarendon, in some
trepidation. “I fear, with Kate,

that something has happened of a
serious nature. Perhaps he has
been killed, or captured by the savages;
for I understand one or two
have lately been seen prowling
about the vicinity.”

“God forbid!” cried Kate, covering
her face with her hands; and
at the moment the words of the
Necromancer seemed ringing in her
ears.

“But where have you been,
Ichabod, since you separated
from him?” inquired Mrs. Clarendon.

“Why, ye see, we both on us
started out for to hunt some deer,”
answered the gardener, “and a
long, dry chase we had on't; for
some how the pesky critters seemed
to know we were arter 'em, and so
kept out o' the way. I reckon we
went much as five miles up the
Miami, and didn't see one—though
we seed some fresh tracks occasionally—and
so we concluded we'd
give in and come home. When
we got most home, say half a mile
off, we somehow stumbled on to
one that hadn't kept quite so good
look-out as the rest, and him I shot
straightway. This started up another,
that looked liked he might be
shot, if a body could get near
enough; and so I told Mr. Clarendon,
that if he'd see that home, I'd
try my legs and ammunition for
another. He said he would, and
off I sot, and a confounded long
chase I had, and didn't catch it at
last—the scamp of a critter that it
was! and when I got started coming
home, I found it gitting right
dark. I 'spected he'd be here, and
have some on't cooked when I got
here sartin.”

By this time the rain was pouring
down in torrents, the wind blew
a hurricane, the lightning flashed
almost incessantly, and the thunder
came peal upon peal, with terrific
and deafening sound.

“Merciful Heaven! he could not
live in such a storm as this!” exclaimed
Kate. “Hark! that crash!
it was like a falling tree.”

“Possibly his burthen may have
delayed him, and finding the shower
upon him, he has taken shelter
in the hollow of some old sycamore,”
suggested Mrs. Clarendon.

“But you forget, mother,” rejoined
Kate, “that two long hours have
elapsed since Icha left him; and
surely he would have reached home
before this, unless something had
happened of a serious nature.”

“Soon's this storm's over, I'll
start off in sarch,” said Ichabod.

“Where is Bowler?” asked Kate,
quickly.

“He went with him,” replied the
gardener.

“Ha! a happy thought strikes
me!” exclaimed Kate, with animation.
“The noble brute will obey
me above all others; and if he hears
my voice, he will come hither immediately.”

Saying this, she stepped to the
door and opened it; but the storm
was raging so fiercely, that it was
found impossible to make the proposed
trial. For half an hour the
wind and rain continued unabated,
when the former gradually began
to die away, and the latter to
slacken, while the lightning less
vivid, and the thunder more distant,
told that the main force of the
shower had passed. It was now
that Kate made the trial, by elevating
her voice, and uttering a clear,
musical call, that could be heard
echoing far away through the forest.
All listened, but heard no answer.
Again she called, but still
deep silence followed. The third
and last trial was made, when, to
the gratification of each, the well

known yelp of Bowler was heard
far away.

“He comes! he comes!” cried
Kate and her mother joyfully, in
the same breath.

Another call, and another yelp
succeeded—but much nearer, showing
that the brute was making rapid
progress toward them. Presently
a rattling was heard among the
bushes near by, and the next moment
the noble animal came bounding
forward, shaking the wet from
his shaggy hair, and uttering a
mournful howl.

“Where is your master, Bowler?”
asked Kate, stooping down
to pat his head.

The dog looked up in her face, as
if conscious of what she said, and
then gave vent to a low, mournful
whine, that ended at last in a loud,
dismal howl, which made the hearts
of each tremble with a strange, undefinable
fear; then springing away,
he took the backward track
and disappeared, in spite of the
calls of Kate to the contrary.

“Oh, God! I fear the worst,” she
exclaimed, bursting into tears.

“Don't cry, my little pet—don't!”
began Ichabod, consolingly. “It
al'ays makes me feel age rish to hear
you. I'll go straightway and hunt up
your father, for he can't be far off.”

“And I will accompany you,”
cried Kate, seizing her hood and
placing it on her head. “Come,
quick, get the lantern, Icha, and let
us be moving!”

“Don't go, Kate,” said her mother,
uneasily; for it is certainly imprudent
to venture forth in such a
night, and after so severe a storm.
Don't go, for it can do no good, and
will only delay Ichabod.”

“O yes, Katy, pet, don't go now!”
added Ichabod, coaxingly, “and as
your mother says, 'tisn't prudent.”

Kate, however, was used to hav
ing her own way, whenever she insisted
on it; and as, in the present
instance, she had resolved on going,
so all that was said to the contrary
was said in vain.

“Come, Icha, quick now, and get
ready!” was her only reply; and
in a few minutes she was gliding
through the wood, close upon the
heels of her serving man, who bore
in one hand a rifle, and in the other
a lighted lantern.

The course of our friends from
the cottage was nearly due east;
and after continuing for some time
without speaking, through thick
tangles of brush, that saturated
them as they passed, and over large
fallen trees, that had been uprooted,
or broken and cast down by the
storm—they reached the Miami,
whose now dark, swollen and turbulent
waters came rushing past
with a cheerless, gloomy sound,
which struck upon the ear like the
hollow rattling of earth upon a coffin.
Luckily a small canoe, kept
here for fording the stream when
the water was high, was found hid
among the bushes on the western
bank. Placing this upon the stream,
Ichabod, after vainly trying to persuade
Kate to remain or return, as
sisted her into it, and shoved across—not,
however, without some
risk, as the current, being strong,
rapidly bore them down several
yards, before they were able to effect
a landing. Reaching the other
bank at length in safety, Kate
gave another call to Bowler, which,
to her gratification, was almost immediately
answered. A minute after,
the dog came bounding up to
her, whining piteously, and then
immediately darted away, and up
the hill, which here rose somewhat
steep above her.

“Oh, God!” exclaimed Kate,
clasping her hands in an agony of

mind almost unbearable, “I know
the worst has happened! God give
me strength to go through with it!”

“Let us forward,” returned her
companion, in a voice slightly faltering;
and taking Kate by the
hand, he began to ascend the hill
at a fast gait.

They had proceeded about a hundred
yards further, when they heard
a deep groan, which made the blood
of both run coldly through their
veins; and Kate placing her hands
upon her heart, to still its wild
throbbings, felt a sickening dizziness
come over her, that almost
took away the power of motion.

“I can go no further,” she gasped,
faintly; “I can scarcely stand.”

“Courage, darling,” whispered
Ichabod.

“Help!” cried a voice just above
them; “for the love of mercy, if
you are friends, hurry forward!”

“Who be you, and what's the
matter?” exclaimed Ichabod, springing
up the steep, and dragging Kate
after him, more dead than alive.

“Who I am, matters not, save
that I am friendly to the right,” answered
the strange voice; and the
next moment, the light carried by
Ichabod flashed upon the comely
form and face of a young man of
twenty-three, who was standing
alone, rifle in hand, upon a huge
rock, not ten feet above their heads,
his handsome figure clearly set off
against the dark background beyond.
“There has been foul play
here,” he added, solemnly.

“Where? where?” cried Ichabod.

“Just above me,” answered the
stranger, springing into a thicket
of bushes close behind him.

Ichabod quickly gained the thicket,
entered it with Kate, and the
next moment he stood beside a tall,
old oak, and saw the stranger upon
his knees, bending over some dark
object on the ground, and the dog
running to and fro, and whining
mournfully. Approaching with the
light, Ichabod placed it in a position
to reveal a horrid spectacle.
As he did so, Kate uttered a loud
shriek, and sank down insensible.

“A woman!” exclaimed the
stranger, springing to his feet, with
a look of surprise; for Kate had
kept so much in the shade, that, until
now, he had not been aware of
the presence of one of the opposite
sex. “God of Heaven! what a
shock for a woman!” he added,
stooping down and raising her in
his arms—for under the excitement
of the moment, Ichabod thought of
nothing, saw nothing, but the object
before him.

A sight for a woman indeed!
and more, a sight for an affectionate
daughter! Upon the ground, his
back partly supported by the tree
before mentioned, lay the father of
Kate, his features pale and ghastly,
save where they were rendered
more frightful by being spotted with
blood. In his breast was a deep
wound, and another in his abdomen,
from both of which the red
current of life was flowing freely,
and his vestments were already
stained to a frightful extent. Either
wound was mortal, and yet Clarendon
still survived; though a few
gasps, a groan now and then, and
a rattling, choking sound in his
throat, betokened the rapid approach
of death.

“May perdition seize the fiend
that's done this!” cried Ichabod,
bending over the prostrate form of
Clarendon, and bursting into tears.
“Speak to me, Mr. Clarendon, my
good old friend—speak to me, and
tell me who did it!”

A groan was the only answer.

“It might ha' been you, sir,” for
all I know, cried Ichabod, abruptly,

starting up and turning to the
stranger, who was now engaged
in restoring Kate to consciousness.

“Had I done it, think you I would
be here now?” returned the other,
sharply, an angry flush mantling
his fine, noble countenance.

“How comes ye here at all,
then?” asked Ichabod, not well
pleased with the other's answer.

“That I will explain to your satisfaction
some other time,” was the
reply. “Look you, now, and see if
it be possible to save the wounded
man!”

There was a certain lofty superiority
in the tone and manner of
the speaker, a something which
spoke one accustomed to command
and be obeyed, that completely
over-awed Ichabod, and dispelled
his doubts regarding him; and he
turned at once to Clarendon, to see
if it were possible to save him.
As he bent down to examine his
wounds and staunch the blood, his
eye fell upon a piece of white paper,
pinned upon his body, on which
was writing in a legible hand; at
the same moment the wounded man
gave a groan, a gasp, and all
was over. Tearing the paper
from his body, Ichabod, unable to
read, handed it to the stranger,
saying:

“Here's something, that maybe
you can tell what it means.”

“By heavens! it is a clue to the
mystery!” exclaimed the other, as
his eye fell upon the letters; and
he read:

Rashton Moody.' ”

“The damnable villain!” ejaculated
Ichabod, catching up his rifle,
which was leaning against the oak.
“I'm his sowrn foe, straightway, to
death; and if we ever do meet,
which Heaven grant, by all my
hopes of justice, I'll kill him if I
can!”

“Rightly spoken, sir, for a bold
man. Henceforth I am your friend.
Give me your hand!” and the next
moment the hand of Ichabod was
clasped in that of the stranger.

During this time, the stranger
hadbeen supporting Kate with his
left arm, and chafing her temples
with his right hand; and he now
had the satisfaction of seeing her
gradually revive. At length she
opened her eyes, gazed around her
with a bewildered air, and exclaimed:

“Where am I? and who are you,
sir?”

“You are safe, fair lady,” answered
the stranger, in a mild, soothing
tone, very different from the
one in which he had addressed Ichabod.
“You are safe, maiden, and
in the hands of one who would
suffer death sooner than see harm
befall you.”

“I do believe he says true, darling,”
observed the gardener.

“Ha! Icha!” cried Kate, wildly,
her conciousness fairly regained;
“I remember now—my father—
where—what—oh, God!” and she
buried her face in her hands, and
her form shook convulsively.

“Be calm, fair maiden,” said the
stranger, tenderly; “be tranquil I
pray you.”

Kate made a sudden bound,
sprang from his arms, and, ere she
could be prevented, threw herself
upon the corpse of her father.

“Oh, father,” she exclaimed, in
tones of anguish, “father—speak
to your Kate!—speak to me!—
What! no answer!—he never refused
to answer me before. Great
God! I have it now!—he is dead!
Yes, dead! dead! dead!” she shrieked,
wildly. Then she burst into
tears and lamentations, while Ichabod

stood and gazed upon her
like one stultified, and the stranger,
placing his hands to his eyes,
brushed away a tear.

“I have seen some hard scenes,”
he said, “but none that moved me
like this. She must be removed,”
he added, touching Ichabod on the
shoulder. “Gently, my worthy
friend, let us remove her.”

Ichabod drew a long sigh, that
seemed like a gasp, and signified
his assent to the stranger's proposition
by simply nodding his head.

“Come, Kate, my darling pet,”
he said, stooping down to her, “let's
return, and I'll see to having your
father taken care on.”

“Yes, lady, do!” urged the stranger;
“and I pledge you my honor,
as a gentleman, that whatever can
be done, shall be done, to your satisfaction,
in all that pertains to this
unfortunate affair.”

“You are very kind, sir,” answered
Kate, rising slowly to her feet,
and, by a master effort, commanding
her feelings so as to speak
somewhat calmly; “and I feel confident,
from your look and voice,
that you can be trusted fully. You
will pardon me, I trust, for my wild
manner. The loss of a father, and
one so affectionate (here the voice
of Kate died away to a whisper,
and she placed her hand to her
throat as if to prevent strangulation),
and—and—by foul means
too—is no light affair.”

“It is terrible!” rejoined the stranger,
with emotion; “and God, who
sees the hearts of all, knows that
I sympathize with you and yours
most deeply; and could I, by any
sacrifice, ease you, fair lady, of a
single pang, that sacrifice should
be freely made.”

“Tell—me—truly;—he—he—is
dead—is he—he not?” gasped Kate.

The stranger bent over, felt of
the corpse in several places, and
answered sadly:

“I fear he is.”

For a moment Kate stood with
her hands to her eyes, while her
whole form shook fearfully; then
withdrawing them, she said:

“I will endeavor to be more calm.
If you will bear the body of my father
to the cottage, I will go before
with the light.”

A look of surprise and admiration
lighted up the countenance of
the stranger, and he said, as if to
himself:

“She who can so command herself
on an occasion like this—show so
much nerve—can be no ordinary
being. Lady,” he added to Kate,
respectfully, “your request shall be
obeyed. Come, my friend,” he continued,
touching Ichabod, who was
now standing with his hands locked
behind him, his chin dropped upon
his bosom, his eyes fastened upon
the dead, and apparently heeding
nothing that had been spoken since
his own remarks to Kate: “Come,
my friend, let us tarry here no longer.
I will assist you in carrying
the corpse down to the dwelling of
this fair lady.”

In a few minutes a rough kind of
litter was prepared, on which having
laid the mortal remains of
George Clarendon, Ichabod and the
stranger, preceded by Kate, bore it
slowly forward down the descent.
Reaching the Miami, the party entered
the canoe, and paddled across
in safety. As they were about raising
the litter to proceed again, the
dog, which had kept them company,
uttered a low growl, and, at the
same moment, a deep voice was
heard chanting:

“Who speaks thus?” inquired the
stranger, drawing a pistol, and preparing
to rush into the thicket.

“One who knows both thee and
the future,” answered Blind Luther
the Necromancer, stepping forth
from his covert.

“I know not you,” returned the
other, haughtily, “nor why you appear
here at such a time, chanting
such mystic words. A foul murder
has just been done, and I feel myself
called upon to arrest all suspicious
persons found in the vicinity.
Pardon me, sir, if I now arrest
you, in the name of the general
commonwealth of these United
States.” As he spoke, the stranger
threw off an oil-skin coat, and displayed
the uniform of a military
officer. Then drawing a sword
from his side, he laid the blade upon
the shoulder of Luther, and added:
“You are my prisoner.”

So sudden and singular was this
last proceeding, that Kate and Ichabod
remained for a moment silent,
when the former found her voice
and exclaimed:

“Harm him not, sir, I pray you!
We know him, and that he is as innocent
as ourselves. Luther,” she
added to him, “I fear thou art a
bird of evil omen. Behold!” and
she pointed to the dead.

“I am a messenger of truth,” replied
Luther; “and yet I deeply
sympathize with you, and regret
the decrees of fate. I saved your
life, and might his, had it been so
ordained.” Then turning to the
young officer, who, meantime, had
sheathed his sword, he continued,
in a tone of superiority: “Boy, you
might as well arrest the wind!
Think you I would go with you
against my will? No, Ernest Clifton,
you have mistaken him who
addresses you.”

“Ha!” ejaculated the officer
“you know me then?”

“You! ay—and your parents before
you.”

“My parents? heavens! Who
are you, pray?”

“Ask your friends.”

Clifton turned inquiringly to
Kate.

“We know him as Blind Luther,
the Necromancer,” she answered.

“I know no such person,” rejoined
Ernest.

“Do you know yourself?” asked
Luther.

A flush mantled the cheeks of
the young officer as he replied:

“You ask a strange question,
sir.”

“Which I will answer for you in
the negative,” said Luther. “You
know neither yourself nor your parents.”

“Do you wish to insult me?”
cried the other, reddening and somewhat
confused.

“I wish to insult no man. But
enough! you shall know more in
time.” Then turning to Kate, he
continued: “As I told thee before,
fair damsel,

[Here he touched the band
around his head.]

“Again I told thee,” continued
the Necromancer,

[Here he pointed to the corpse.]

[Here he smote his breast.]

“Behold so much of my prophesy,
and await the revealings of the
great future. We shall all meet
again,

“Farewell!” and as he concluded
speaking, Luther sprang into
the thicket and disappeared.

“A strange, eccentric being,” observed
young Clifton, as if to himself.
Then motioning Ichabod to
assist him, he bent down to raise
the corpse. The rest of the way
to the cottage of the deceased was
passed in silence.