University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

—Fitz-Green Halleok.

—The Buria

It is needless for us to describe,
or even attempt to describe, the
scene which followed the awful announcement
to Mrs. Clarendon, that
her well-beloved partner for life
was no more—or when, too, nearly
frantic with the news, she rushed
to him and beheld him all gory
with the generous blood that had
so lately warmed his veins. And
even did we describe it, what benefit
would accrue to the reader?
Who could realize the heart-rending
agony, but such as have been
placed in similar circumstances;
and for such, no description is needed;
for all potent and poignant
memory will too forcibly recall the
eventful past. Suffice, that she
was nigh distracted with grief, and,
for several hours, manifested strong
symptoms of confirmed insanity.

The day following, nearly all the
villagers, who received the news at
an early hour in the morning, flocked
to the house of mourning, to behold
the deceased, and condole with
the living.

As Clarendon came to his death
in a manner so singular, it was
judged expedient to hold an inquest
over the body. For this purpose,
a jury was speedily collected, consisting
of twelve persons, among
whom were two physicians, who at
once proceeded to examine the
body minutely, and who gave it as
their opinion, that the deceased
came to his death by reason of
gashes made by a knife upon his
breast and abdomen. Ernest Clifton,
the young officer, who had remained
over night at the cottage,
was next called upon to state what
he knew in regard to the affair, and
how he came to be found with the
deceased, so far from any habitation,
alone, at such a time of night,
and under circumstances so calculated
to render him an object of
suspicion.

The jury had now formed a circle
around the deceased, in the adjoining
apartment or cabin, and as
the spokesman concluded, each
turned his face toward Ernest, who,
with some five or six other spectators,
was standing just without the
ring. On hearing the question put,
he started, a deep flush mantled
his features, and without ado, he
stepped boldly within the circle,
and with one hand gently touched
the dead. He was a noble-looking
young man, nearly six feet in
height, with handsome proportions,
that lost nothing of their beauty in
being set off by his close-fitting
uniform. His features were comely
and very expressive; and there
was a nobility in his high, broad
forehead, surmounted by dark
brown curls, and in his full black
eyes, which forbade the idea that

he could be guilty of a mean or
base action.

“Gentlemen,” he said, calmly,
and with dignity, moving his eyes
slowly around the circle, and resting
them for a moment on each
member: “Gentlemen, you have
heard me called upon to state what
I know in regard to this unfortunate
affair, in a manner calculated
to leave upon your minds the impression
that my knowledge was
not honestly and honorably gained.
What object the speaker had in addressing
me in the way he did, I
know not, but shall call upon him
to explain hereafter; and I trust
his answer will be satisfactory:
otherwise (here he gracefully and
lightly touched the hilt of his sword
with his right hand, and fixed his
eyes steadily upon the one alluded
to, who quailed before his glance),
there is, thank fortune! an honorable
way of settling all matters of
a similar nature.

“I shall now proceed,” he continued,
“to state the facts, briefly
as possible. In the first place, as
you will perceive by my uniform,
I am in the service of the Government.
I hold a lieutenant's commission,
and am quartered at Cincinnati.
Some few nights since,
word was brought to my commanding
officer, that a body of Indians
was prowling about the vicinity,
and that, unless they were seen to
in time, serious results would be
likely to follow. Upon this, I was
immediately ordered to head a detachment
of ten picked men, and
scour the surrounding country, and
if I found no Indians, to divide and
send my men out separately as
scouts. To make a long story
short, my men were sent out in every
direction, one after another, until
I was left entirely alone. Yesterday,
while scouting myself, I
reached and crossed the Little Miami,
and was on my return last
evening to the garrison, when, finding
myself belated, and that a severe
storm was approaching, I ascended
a tree to await the appearance
of a clear sky. While in the
tree, I several times fancied I heard
a groan, but thought I had most
probably mistaken the wailings of
the storm, which was then raging
with fury, for a human voice. When
the storm began to die away, I descended
to the ground, for the purpose
of resuming my journey.
Scarcely had I done so, when I heard
the mournful howl of a dog near
by. Thinking there must be something
wrong, I hastened in the direction
whence the noise proceeded.
I had not gone far, when I heard
a distant call. Immediately after,
the dog, with a yelp, bounded away.
At the same moment, a deep groan
sounded in my ear; and pressing
forward, I was not long in finding
the cause in the person of the deceased,
who was lying upon his
side, under a large tree, and bleeding
profusely from a couple of
wounds, located as you perceive.
I questioned him as to what had occurred,
but he was too far gone to
answer. I endeavored to staunch
the blood, but did not succeed in
doing much good. In a few minutes
the dog returned; and shortly
after, I saw a light in the distance,
apparently moving toward me.
Steadily the light approached, and
at length I espied a couple of figures
with it. From my position, I was
afterward enabled to keep them in
view, until near enough to make
them hear my voice, when I urged
them to hasten forward, while I at
once sprang back to the deceased.
While bending over the wounded
man, I heard a shriek, and looking
around, was surprised to find a

beautiful female near me, on the
ground, in a swooning state. I hastened
to raise her in my arms, and
while engaged in restoring her to
consciousness, the unfortunate man
breathed his last. On his breast
was found this paper, which having
perused, and taken the testimony
of Miss Clarendon and her serving-man,
I trust, gentlemen, you
will fully exonerate me from even
a suspicion of being in any manner
concerned in the death of him now
lying before you.”

As Clifton concluded, he presented
to the foreman of the jury the
paper alluded to, which the reader
will recollect as the one bearing
the signature of Rashton Moody.
No little excitement was created on
reading this, for all knew Moody
well, and also the cause of quarrel
between him and Clarendon. Kate
and Ichabod were called and examined
separately; but as their
testimony only corroborated Clifton's,
the matter was soon decided,
and the verdict rendered—That
George Clarendon came to his
death by means of a knife, or some
other sharp instrument, in the
hands of Rashton Moody, whom
the jury in consequence considers
guilty of murder in the first degree.

The funeral of Clarendon took
place on the following day, and
was attended by a large concourse
of citizens, of both sexes, all of
whom appeared to sympathize
deeply with the afflicted family.
The funeral service was uncommonly
solemn and impressive, and when
the speaker concluded, scarcely a
dry eye could be found in the whole
assemblage. A long procession
attended the corpse to its last earthly
resting place, which was the quiet
little graveyard covering the knoll,
where stood the sanctuary, of which
mention was made in the opening
chapter of this history.

As the soft earth fell with a hollow,
rattling sound upon the coffin,
assuring the living that the last
parting between them and the dead
had really taken place, not a dry
eye could be found among the group
that now stood around the open
grave. As for Kate and her mother,
their sobs and lamentations
were truly heart-rending; and it almost
required force to remove them
from the “narrow house appointed
for all living.”

Ernest Clifton, from one cause or
another, had not yet taken his departure;
and a stranger to have
seen him at the funeral, and at the
grave of Clarendon, would have
pronounced him one of the chief
mourners—so pale were his features,
and so sad in expression.
As Kate and her mother quitted the
grave, he held their horses, assisted
them to mount, and then, with Ichabod,
kept them company on foot,
as they slowly took their way to
their now desolate home. Here,
after partaking some refreshment,
he said:

“Friends—for I claim the privilege
of calling you by that endearing
term—our first meeting and
acquaintance has been made under
strange and heart-rending circumstances—such
as I trust it may never
be our lot to witness again.
To say that I deeply, from my heart,
sympathize with you in your affliction,
would be to repeat in words
what my actions have already
spoken. Duty now calls me away;
and I fear I have intruded too long
already; for whatever might have
been my feelings, I should have remembered
that I was a stranger,
and therefore had no right to press
my sympathies upon your notice.
And if in doing so I have, in your

view of the matter, overstepped
the bounds of propriety, I trust you
will fully acquit me, on the ground
that all was meant for the best.”

“I am sorry you think it necessary
to make apologies, Mr. Clifton,”
answered Mrs. Clarendon, while
Kate looked up at the young officer
with tearful eyes; “for I assure you,
we feel deeply our obligations to
you, for the kindness manifested in
this awful, soul-rending calamity,
and sincerely regret that the time
has come for you to leave us. It is
true we have known you only a
short period; but there are times
when the friendship of an hour
bears with it the weight of a lifetime;
and such, I assure you, is
yours. That you are a stranger,
comparatively speaking, I know;
and yet, somehow, it seems as if I
had known you for years; and I
hope, sincerely, that though duty
now calls you away, you will not
altogether neglect the house of the
widow and orphan.”

“I shall be too happy in the privilege
of calling upon you whenever
circumstances will permit,” answered
Ernest, glancing toward Kate,
whose eyes modestly sought the
ground.

“Any thing that a poor body like
me can do to sarve ye, Mr. Clifton,”
rejoined Ichabod, “shall ever be
done straightway, if you'll only
mention it.”

“Thank you,” returned Clifton.
“And now, Miss Kate,” he continued,
advancing and taking her
hand, which, in spite of her efforts
to the contrary, trembled not a little,
“I must say farewell—may I
hope it is not forever?”

“Certainly not forever,” said
Kate, looking up with a start; and
then, as she saw the dark eyes of
the other beaming tenderly upon
her, she became embarrassed, and
stammered; “That is, I—I—trust
you will call again to see us—for—
for—friendship sake, Mr. Clifton.”

“I shall call again,” returned
Clifton, pointedly; and shaking the
hand of each, he quitted the cottage
and set out upon his return to the
garrison.