University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

—Shakspeare.

We left Ernest Clifton and his
companions, headed, or rather led,
by David Grant, in pursuit of the
Indians—and to them we must now
return. For some eight or ten miles,
they pursued their course up the
Miami in silence, with no event occurring
worth being recorded. By
this time the mist, which we saw
rising on their departure, had rolled
itself across the plain, and enveloped
them in a cloud so dense, that
not a single object about them was
visible. Still the scout, who had
traveled the ground frequently,
moved onward, and the others, as
best they could, followed the sound
of his footsteps.

At length Ernest, who was next
to David, struck his foot against the
half-decayed trunk of a fallen tree,
and fell over it—whereupon the
whole party came to a halt.

“It is useless to attempt further
progress to night,” said the young
officer, as he rose to his feet; “for
nothing can be seen, and danger
may be in every step we take.”

“As you like, lieutenant,” returned
the scout. “Foolisher advice
might be spoke; though I'm not
afeard to lead, if you arn't to follow.”

“But what good can come of it?”
asked Clifton. “We might come
upon the camp of the enemy before
we were aware of it.”

“Nothing truer—though I reckon
we'd stand as good a chance as
they,” rejoined David.

“What say you, Danvers?” inquired
Ernest. “Shall we go further
or not?”

“I would rather see the path I
am following,” answered the one
addressed.

“So would I. Let us camp, then,
where we are, and take daylight
for it.”

“Any body see a light?” inquired
David, suddenly.

Each looked about him, and several
answered. “No!”

“There's a sort o' dim spot away
to the right, or my eyes make it,”
said the gardener.

“Your eyes don't make it, and
that spot's fire,” returned the scout,
laconically.

“Ha! now I see it!” exclaimed
Clifton while his heart beat quickly,
with the hope that his beloved
was near him. “It must be the
camp-fire of the savages.”

“May be,” returned the scout,
“though I reckons not. But silence,
and let us diskiver.”

Saying this, he moved slowly and
softly forward, carefully feeling his
way as he went, followed by the
others in the same manner. In a
few minutes they reached the Miami,
and, as its water was now in
a moderate stage, crossed it without
difficulty. As they neared the spot
which had attracted their attention,

the pale, faint hue, as first seen, assumed
a deeper and redder tinge,
and convinced all that the remark
of the scout was correct. Ascending
the opposite bank of the Miami,
they kept on their course some
dozen or so of yards, when they
came to a steep ascent, and saw the
light but a short distance above
them.

“Stand here, with rifles ready,
and move not hand nor foot, while
I go for'ard first to make it out,”
whispered David; and without
more ado, and not even waiting a
reply, he turned aside from the
straight line, and glided away,
noiselessly as a spirit or an Indian.

Some ten minutes of breathless
suspense elapsed, during which
each of the party behind grasped
his rifle tightly, and listened eagerly
for the slightest sound to decide
his next movement. All was fearfully
silent; for silence is fearful,
when we look for the first sound to
be one of danger, calculated to
drive the blood back to the heart—
as when two armies, facing each
other, are quietly preparing the first
terrible volley of death—and each
stood fast, motionless as marble,
and seemed to feel his hair fairly
rising with excitement.

At length each started, on hearing
the voice of David close at
hand; for not a sound of his approach
had been audible.

“Follow,” he said, in a whisper,
“and I'll show you a curious sight.”

Obeying him in silence, each set
forward up the ascent, and presently
gained the spot whence the light
proceeded. Upon a broad, flatrock,
scarcely elevated above the ground,
was a small, bright fire, made of
dry sticks, by the side of which, with
his feet partly drawn under him, a
bible in his hand, on which his eyes
were intently fixed, his long hair, unrestrained,
flowing freely down the
sides of his coarse, rough features,
and over his shoulders, and swaying
backward, and forward as one engaged
in profound study—sat Blind
Luther, the Necromancer, on whom
each of the party gazed, if not with
a feeling of superstition, at least
with something very much akin to
it. And indeed the picture, considering
the principal figure and the
mystery connected with him, was
well calculated to produce this effect.
The light of the flame, as it
flashed and crackled, formed a
bright circle in the dense fog, threw
the dark form of Luther into bold relief,
and lent a ruddy tinge to his
harsh, but benevolent features—
giving them, at the same time, an
appearance of rapid change in expression,
by its flickering shadows.

For a moment or two, Luther
sat in silence—while silently our
party gazed upon him—and then
his voice was heard reading from
the book in his hand:

“`Wo unto the wicked!—it shall
be ill with him; for the reward of
his hands shall be given him.'

“Even so,” he continued, closing
the book: “Even so shall it be:
therefore let them that are evil
doers take heed unto their ways.”

He ceased, and bowed his head
upon his hands.

“We meet strangely again,” said
Clifton, stepping forward into the
circle of light, and tapping the
shoulder of Luther with his hand.

Luther raised his head, without
any apparent surprise, and frankly
extending his large, dark hand
to the other, replied:

“I am glad to behold thee, young
man, safe where thou art; for a
narrow chance hast thou had, in
thy morning of life, of escaping
that yawning gulf which awaits us

all. I said, you remember, we
should meet again,
We meet, however, in the former—
in the stormy hour of fate—though
I trust thy sun of life may not set
behind a cloud.”

“God send it may not!” rejoined
Clifton, earnestly.

“I perceive you are wounded,”
pursued Luther, pointing to the
head of the other: “I hope not severely.”

“Nothing alarming, I think—
though it does pain me a little,”
answered Clifton.

“A narrow escape, indeed,” rejoined
Luther. “It was a moment
on which your life hung suspended
by a thread. It is over, and yet
your life is still in danger.”

“What mean you?” asked our
hero, in some surprise.

“God is great,” replied the Necromaneer,
solemnly, “and orders
all things for the best. When He
made the stupendous work of creation,
and set the great wheels in
motion, He made laws to govern
each and every part; and into
man's hand gave the power of reading
those laws to the benefit of himself
and the glorification of his
Maker. Wherefore, man telleth
the time of the seasons, and looketh
for heat and for cold, and knoweth
the motion of the planets, the moments
of their revolving, and the
years of their cycle; and the laws
which extend to them, do also unto
all created things; so that the pebble
which rolls on the beach by the
wash of the tide, and the volcano
which belcheth fire and causeth
earth to groan in her bowels, are
alike governed by the fixed and
eternal laws of the universe; therefore,
let not thy too hastily formed
prejudice condemn the truth, that
the being and deeds of man are
overruled by the same laws, which
by knowledge he may read and understand,
but not alter.”

“If I comprehend you rightly,
you are alluding to astrology?” observed
Clifton, interrogatively.

“Call it by what name you will,
it is the tongue of Heaven, whereby
is spoken the destiny of nations
and individuals. Here,” and the
Necromancer, thrusting his hand
into his knapsack, drew forth a roll
of parchment: “Here is thy past
and future course, signed and sealed;
and that of her thou lovest best,
and that of him thou hatest most.”

“Oh, speak, for God's sake! if
you know aught, and tell me what
of her!” cried Ernest vehemently.

“She is safe for the present.”

“Heaven be praised! Can you
lead me to her?”

“I can, but not to-night.”

“O, yes—to-night—delay not a
moment!”

By this time the party without,
eager to catch every look and tone,
had leaned their heads forward into
the circle of light, while their bodies
remaining concealed entirely, or
showing only a faint outline, gave
them the supernatural appearance
of specters, or spirits, peering
through a cloud, as we sometimes
see them represented on canvass.
Without making a direct reply,
Luther pointed around the circle,
and observed:

“We are not alone.”

“Do not fear,” said Ernest; “they
are all friends.”

“Fear, Ernest Clifton? Nay,”
and he raised his hand majestically
above his head, and with his
fore-finger pointed upward, while
he paused a moment, and then said,
in a voice of great and impressive
solemnity, “there is but One to
fear—fear Him always, and Him

only! But see!” he added; “I told
thee thy destiny was written here;”
and he pointed to the scroll in his
hand, which was covered with figures,
letters and characters. “This
is thy horoscope—cast many years
ago.”

“But did you know me then?”

“Ay, before your knew yourself.”

Heavens! explain!”

“Not now; another time and
place must serve me. But you
spoke of her you love.”

“I did. O, tell me where to find
her, and if she be living and safe!”

“For to-night she is safe—tomorrow
I will lead thee to her.”

“Is she a prisoner?”

“She is; but ask me no more, for
I am done. To camp! to camp,
all! and be ready for the morrow.
I will stand sentinel. Yet stay,
Ernest,” added the Necromancer,
as the latter turned away; “I must
look to your wound. You will find
a suitable spot close at hand, in
this direction,” he said to the others,
pointing with his finger; and
as they departed, he rose, and removing
the bandage from the head
of Clifton, proceeded to examine
his wound attentively. Then taking
a vial from his knapsack, he
wet the cloth with the liquid contained
therein, and rubbed the
wound with it.

“It will trouble you but very little
after this,” he said, as he carefully
replaced the bandage.” “And
now, my young friend, join your
companions and get what rest you
may.”

Ernest would fain have questioned
further, relative to her he loved;
but waving his hand peremptorily,
Blind Luther turned his back upon
him, in a manner to cut off all conversation;
and thinking it prudent
not to press the matter too much,
he moved away and joined his com
panions, who had already selected
their place of encampment, and
started a fire in its center.

Casting himself upon the earth,
in a fit of gloomy abstraction, our
hero sat some two or three hours,
watching the bright flame as it eagerly
devoured the dry fuel which
fed it. During this time, one after
another of the party gradually fell
into slumber, until he alone remained
awake. Turning his eyes toward
the fire of Luther, he could
just perceive the dim outline of that
mysterious being, seated upon the
rock, his elbows resting upon his
nether limbs, his face upon his
hands, and apparently asleep. Gazing
upon him for a while, during
which a thousand vague thoughts
and conjectures passed through his
mind, as to who or what he was,
what he knew of his own history,
how he knew, and what he knew
regarding her he loved—he at last
felt his eyes grow heavy—strange
objects, of which he was in chase,
flitted before his mind's vision—he
swayed from side to side—nodded
and partly awoke—saw the light
of the fire dimly—nodded a few
times more—and then all became
dark, indistinct and confused, and
he rolled over upon the earth and
slept.

“Up, and to thy journey!” said
a deep voice that started Clifton
from his slumbers; and springing
to his feet, he found Blind Luther
and the rest of his companions
ready to depart.

It was already broad daylight,
though the sun had not yet made
his appearance, owing to the dense
fog which still clouded the earth.
There was, however, a brighter spot
in the east than elsewhere, from
which the mist seemed hurrying
rapidly, and rolling and tumbling
from side to side, as if eager to escape

from the god of day, whose
sharp, hot rays were troubling severely
its outer borders.

“Eat!” said Luther, emphatieally,
to Ernest, proffering him some
jerk, roots and fruit, his own humble
fare.

Ernest partook lightly of the first,
but declined the others; and the
rest having eaten previously, the
party prepared to set forward under
the guidance of Luther.

“'Spect I'm no more needed?”
said David Grant, in a dissatisfied
tone; for he was anxious to make
a display of his powers as a scout
in trailing the foe.

“You may as well keep us company,
at all events,” said Clifton.

“Your services may be needed,”
observed Luther.

David made no reply, and the
party set forward.

Instead of descending to the valley,
the Necromancer shaped his
course to the top of the ridge, along
which he moved in silence with
rapid strides, followed by the others
in the same manner. Here the fog
had already begun to disappear,
and presently the sun broke through,
bright and glorious. Then, like
some mighty avalanche, the mist
was seen rolling down toward the
plain, over which it lay like a white
shroud, occasionally diversified and
rendered doubly interesting by a
beautiful rainbow set on its brow,
as it were a beacon of hope. Gradually
it began to drive and writhe
and scatter, under the influence of
the sun and the morning breeze,
and then first one tree and another
began to show its leafy top, as if
rising from a beautiful lake, until
at last the whole vapor was swept
away, and a scene resplendant in
beauty broke upon the eye.

Clifton, who had watched it intently
as he proceeded on his jour
ney, felt his spirits revive to a wonderful
degree, while something
within seemed to say:

“Behold in this a happy angury!
As the night and the morning, so
has thy soul been shrouded in a vapor
of gloom, through which no eye
could penetrate to see what lay beyond.
As the mist has vanished
before the god of day, so shall thy
troubles vanish before the bright
star of thy destiny; and thy path
shall lead down to the grave, smooth,
bright and unclouded.”

For a time Clifton was buoyed
up with this feeling, and then he
became dejected and sad; for he
remembered that she he loved was
yet a prisoner.

Throughout the day, Blind Luther
said little to any—his mind
seemingly absorbed by some gloomy
meditation. When questioned as
to his course, he ever replied that
all was right. About noon, a fine
buck was killed, and the party halted
for refreshment. After a delay
of some two hours, they resumed
their journey, much invigorated.

Now whether it was that Luther
had made a mistake in regard to
the exact location of the cave where
Kate Clarendon was confined—or
whether he desired, for somereasons
of his own, to delay their arrival to
a given time—does not appear;
but certain it is, that though the
cave did not exceed a distance of
twenty miles from where the party
set out in the morning, and though
all traveled hard throughout the
day, with the exception of the delay
spoken of—yet, from one reason
or another, they did not reach
their journey's end till the last rays
of the setting sun had disappeared
from the highest peak of the eastern
ridge.

“We are here at last,” said Luther,
leaping across the chasm to

the platform, over which, Moody
had passed but a short time before.
“Follow me,” he continued,
“and carefully descend, or you
will descend to rise no more forever.”

Saying this, he approached the
side next the stream, when two or
three prolonged screams, seemingly
issuing from the bowels of the
earth, greatly accelerated his movements,
and nearly cost some of his
followers their lives. Hurrying
down the rugged and perilous path
before him, Luther soon reached
the mouth of the cavern, where he
halted a moment to guide Clifton,
who came next, in the proper direction,
and caution him to look to
his weapons. He then set forward
again rapidly, and, just as he reached
the termination of the passage,
heard the discharge of a pistol, and
saw a dark object flit before his
eyes, and pause over something
white lying on the rock. The torch
he perceived but a few paces distant,
and aware of the value of
light in a case of such emergency
he instantly sprang to this, and
thence to the rescue of Kate Clarendon,
at a point of time so all important
to her as we have shown
in the preceding chapter.