University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Brinley's Rescue.

“Daylight!” exclaimed the voice
of the sentinel, who had been stationed
to keep watch in the cave;
and the word was heard echoing
far away to the most distant recesses.

This was the signal for the party
to be astir; and Clifton, who
was encamped upon the ground
nearest the speaker, instantly
sprang to his feet, and, without
communicating with any, at once
took his way to the mouth of the
cave. It was a beautiful morning,
and, unlike the one preceding it,
the atmosphere was clear and without
mist. A few crimson streaks
in the east, and a dull, leaden gray
color that had settled over the
earth, announced that day was already
dawning. In the west, the
waning moon could still be seen;
but its light appeared pale and sickly,
as it mingled with that of the
coming day, which was soon to supersede
it altogether. All was pleasant
and serene, with no cloud to
mar the broad, blue canopy above.
A heavy dew had fallen during the
night, and was now reposing, in
silvery drops, upon the rocks, and
the leaves of a few bushes which
grew around the entrance of the
cave, and overhung the stream that
roared and foamed far below. The
air was cool and bracing, and a light
breeze hore to the ear of our hero
the songs of several warblers,
which had commenced their morning's
roundelay.

As Clifton stood and gazed around
him in the pale light, and saw the
beauties of the morning, he could
not shake off a feeling of sadness
that had taken possession of his
soul. The events of the already

departing night, now came up before
him like a dream. His mind
instantly reverted to the strange
revelations of Luther, and he
thought how mysterious were the
ways of Providence. Could it be
that Moody was his brother?—and
if so, how wonderful that they
should meet as foes in the great
wilderness! Could it be, too, that
both were nobly born!—and if so,
how singular that he should be thus
left to grow up in ignorance of a
fact so important. It might be true,
he felt for he had never known
father nor mother. He had been
reared and educated by a New
England family, until the age of
eighteen, when he had been told it
rested with him to choose his occupation
for life. He had chosen the
army, and had been placed in a
military school; since when, by
the aid of some unknown friend,
he had been advanced to the rank
and station he now held. He had
often made inquiries concerning
his parents, but could never learn
further, than that they were supposed
to be dead, and that he was
indebted for all his favors to a
strange benefactor, whom he had
never seen, and perhaps never
would. Might not this benefactor
be Luther? He had let fall words
to such an effect, by stating that
he knew him before he knew himself.
The secret was doubtless
contained in the silver box which
that wonderful being had placed in
his hands, and he was sorely tempted
to break it open and know at
once; but the request to the contrary,
until Kate should have become
his wife, restrained him.

Who was Luther? and how did
he manage to make all fear him,
and bring about his purposes so
mysteriously? What did his last
strange words portend? And Moo
dy, too—if he was indeed his brother,
although he amply merited
death, how much rather he would
have had him live, perhaps to repent
and reform. But it was too
late now. He was gone. He had
perished by the hand of another;
and even now his mutilated remains
might, perchance, be laying
on the rocks below.

As these thoughts passed rapidly
through the mind of Clifton, he approached
the spot where Moody
was last seen by the party at the
cave, and, taking hold of some
stunted bushes that grew upon the
verge of the chasm, endeavored to
peer down into the gloomy abyss.
It was still too dark to see aught,
save here and there a fire-flash of
the water, as it dashed over the
rocks, and sent up its hollow roar;
and Clifton quickly drew back,
with a shudder. As he did so, a
soft hand was laid upon his arm.
He turned, and beheld the idol of
his heart, the lovely Kate Clarendon,
standing by his side, her features
pale and sad, and her eyes
slightly dimmed by a pearly tear.

“Ah! dearest,” exclaimed Ernest,
throwing an arm around, and
drawing her to his beating heart;
“you are troubled; I can see it in
your sweet countenance.”

“I was thinking of my dear, dear
mother,” returned Kate, simply;
and unable to control her emotion
longer, she buried her head upon
the breast of him she loved and
wept freely.

Clifton was moved, and it was
sometime ere he could command
his own feelings so as to answer
calmly.

“Do not weep, dearest,” he said,
at length; “your mother is now an
angel in Heaven.”

“I know it,” rejoined Kate, with
a fresh burst of grief. “She is better

off now, than when in this cold
world of sorrow; but then it is so
hard to part from those we love.”

“It is, indeed,” returned Clifton,
sadly, gazing upon her with a look
of affection, and thinking of the
moment when he might be called
to part from her, or she from him,
by the same woful messenger,
death. “It is indeed hard to part
from those we love, dear Kate;
and God send the time be far distant,
ere it be the trial of either of
us again! But, dearest Kate,” he
pursued, consolingly, “even had
nature taken its course, you would
soon have been an orphan; and
you should try to be resigned, that
your mother has escaped all the
anguish of a lingering death of
pain. Though horrible, her death
was easy; and her sweet spirit
winged its flight, without knowing
the cause that separated it from its
clayey tenement.”

“I do try to be resigned,” Kate
replied; “but still, dear Ernest, I
must grieve, and weep, for I am
only a poor human being after all.”

“In that, of course, you do but
what is right,” said Ernest, tenderly;
“and tears are a great relief
to the overcharged spirit.” Then,
musing for a moment, he resumed:
“I, too, feel somewhat sad. I have
been pondering over various matters,
and at the moment when you
touched my arm, I was peering
down the chasm, expecting to behold
my brother's remains—but it
was too dark.”

“O, do not call him brother,”
said Kate, earnestly; do not, dear
Ernest! for he was everything that
is wicked and base; while you, on
the contrary, are everything that is
noble and good. I am sure you
cannot be brothers; I will not have
you so.”

“I do not know,” replied Clifton,
musingly,; “it is all very mysterious.
He was a dark man, it is
true—a terrible man—a man, in
fact, of crime and blood; but, whatever
his crimes, he is now most
probably before that Great Tribunal,
where he will have to answer
for himself, and be judged accordingly.
I ought not to forgive him,
and yet my heart rather yearns to
do so. I saw him last night in my
dreams, and methought he had repented
and called me brother. I
awoke feeling sad, and without
saying a word to any, I arose and
came hither.”

“I saw you,” replied Kate; “for
when the sentinel spoke, I had been
long awake; and I rose and followed
you.”

“You did not rest well, then, my
dearest Kate?”

“But indifferently,” replied the
other; “for, between my hard bed
and ten thousand thoughts that
came crowding one after another
upon me, I was not long in the
arms of Morpheus.”

“I fear you will not be able to
endure the journey, after such a
feverish rest.”

“O, I think I shall, for I am
strong and well.”

“By the way, dearest, tell me
how you came here, what became
of the savages, and what happened
after I saw you?”

“I was conducted here by Moody;
what became of the Indians, I
do not know; and what happened, I
will tell you some other time; for I
see our friends are coming this way.”

As she spoke, Kate pointed toward
the mouth of the cave; and
turning, Clifton perceived Danvers,
David and Ichabod issuing therefrom

“A beautiful day, for our homeward
journey,” remarked Danvers,
approaching the lovers.

“It is indeed,” answered Clifton;
`and I trust, ere night, we shall
once more be safe among our
friends.”

“Had we not better partake of
some refreshment, and set out as
soon as possible?” asked Danvers,
in reply.

“There is a very heavy dew,” answered
the young officer, “and the
bushes are very wet; so that perhaps
we had better wait until the
sun has well risen. I think we
shall then have sufficient time; for
although Luther led us a long way,
I do not think we are more than
twenty-five, or at most thirty, miles
from the settlement, by the course
of the river.”

“Well, as you like,” rejoined
Danvers; “though, for one, I am
anxious to be moving; for we do
not know what may happen if we
stay here.”

“Have you any reason to think
the place unsafe?” inquired Kate,
rather anxiously.

“Why, I don't know,” replied
Danvers. “It is most probably
known to the Indians, and they may
come hither in search of Moody—
which result, to say the least, would
be unpleasant.”

“True,” answered Clifton, musingly:
“You are right, Danvers; I
did not think of that. Upon second
thoughts, perhaps we had better
leave at once.”

“Second thoughts is generally
the wisest,” put in David, coming
up to the party, in company with
Ichabod.

“Then you, too, think it not safe
here?” said Kate, addressing the
scout.

“Don't know, o' course,” replied
David; “but some how I can't git it
out o' my head, that Moody arn't
dead.”

Each started, and turned to
ward the speaker a look of inquiry.

“Fact!” returned David, quietly.

“What reason have you for so
thinking?” queried Clifton, in a
manner that showed he, too, might
think it possible.

“Can't give no reason,” answered
David; “unless it's cause he
seemed to have as many lives as a
cat, and that I dreampt about 'im
last night.”

“And pray what did you dream?”

“That he'd got away, and had all
the Injins arter us.”

“I do not think that can be,” rejoined
Danvers; “for if not mortally
wounded by the fire of Ichabod,
I think his fall must have done the
rest.”

“May be you forgit how he's
mixed up with the Necromancer,”
observed the scout, glancing round
him cautiously, in a way to show
that he at least was not devoid of
a feeling of superstition common
to most, particularly the uneducated,
of that day. “Blind Luther,
you know, wanted to save him;
and I 'spect, from what I seed of
him, that he could do it easy
enough.”

Clifton smiled.

“Do not give him more power
than he would claim for himself,”
he said, in a tone calculated to dispel
all fears on that point. “Luther
has said he was nothing more
than mortal, and I believe him;
though I own some of his doings
look a little mysterious; but doubtless
they could all be accounted for
very simply.”

“May be you can account for
'em, then,” rejoined David, somewhat
testily: “I can't.”

“Nor I,” said the gardener.

By this time the rest of the party
had joined the speakers, and learning
the subject of their conversation,

most of them took sides with
the scout.

“At all events,” said Danvers,
who seemed a little staggered, and
hardly knowing which side to join,
though rather inclined to take part
with Clifton: “At all events, if we
can see his body lying on the rocks
below, we may believe our eyes.”

“Yes, if you can find 'im there,
I'll gin in,” returned David; “but
take my word for't, you won't.”

“I looked down a short time
since,” observed Clifton, “but it was
then too dark—it is lighter now.”

In fact day had been steadily advancing,
and the dull gray of morning
had already given place to a
clear, sober light, by which each
object could be distinctly seen.
The crimson of the east had gradually
changed to a more bright and
yellow hue, and there was conclusive
evidence that the great luminary
of the day would soon show
his welcome visage above the eastern
horizon. Each of the party,
Kate excepted, now approached
the verge of the abyss, and cautiously
peered down into the chasm.
The light here was dim, but still
sufficient for the purpose required.
A small pool was immediately under
them, into one part of which
fell the cascade before mentioned,
with a sort of gloomy roar. The
outlines of the rock, on which
Moody had held his soliloquy, could
also be traced—appearing in the
meagre light, to the excited imaginations
of most, as the demon or
evil genii of the place—beyond
which the water foamed, and rushed,
and roared continually. Besides
these nothing of importance could
be noted, save that the rocks on
either side were almost smooth,
perpendicular, and slimy.

“He is not there, at all events,”
said Danvers, as, after gazing
down some five minutes, he, with
most of the party, drew back.

“I told ye so,” returned David,
triumphautly. “He's gone, and
afore you know it, will have the
Injins upon us, sure as cats jump
for game.”

“I do not think so,” said Clifton.
“That we cannot see his body, is
no evidence he is not dead.”

“But 'sposing we could see his
body there, it'd be the best evidence
that he arn't no where else,” rejoined
David—who, having got the
notion in his head, and being of a
rather dogged disposition, was now
fully determined that Moody should
be alive, that he might prove himself
correct in his surmises. We see a
great many David Grants every day.

“You say true, David,” answered
Clifton, smiling, “that if the
body of my brother, as Luther called
him, was there, it would not be
elsewhere; but I am astonished,
David, that a man of your reputation
as a scout, should resort to a
logic so shallow, to conceal what
your good sense tells you is the
true state of the matter. That
Moody is not there, every one can
see; and that he could not be there,
you know as well as I; for no dead
body could long remain stationary
in that rushing current. If you follow
down the stream, you will
doubtless find his remains somewhere,
and dead enough in all conscience.”

David hung his head, a little
ashamed; for he saw at once that
his shallow reasoning was not likely
to give him any extra reputation
for wisdom; yet determined not to
yield the point too easy, or, in sooth,
until forced from it by stubborn
fact, he replied, a little sullenly:

“As I'd like to be sure he's dead,
may be it 'd be no harm in looking
along further down.”

“Agreed,” said Clifton; who, for
two reasons, wished to find the body
of his brother. First, to destroy
that superstitious fear, which he
now, to his regret, perceived was
fast getting a hold on the minds of
all, Danvers not excepted; and
secondly, that he might, in a rude
way, give him Christian burial.

“Kate,” he continued, turning to
her, “you had better go into the
cave and take some refreshment.”

“But, dear Ernest—” began
Kate, timidly.

“Have no fears, sweet one; we
are only going a short distance, to
search for the body of Moody, and
will soon return. Besides, Ichabod,
here, will stay and keep you
company.”

“O, most sartinly,” answered the
gardener, his small eyes brightening
with delight; “nothing couldn't
suit me better; and I'll go with my
litle pet straightway.”

As no further objection was preferred
by Kate, Clifton now ascended
the difficult path, which led up
the brow of the cliff, followed
by David, Danvers, and the others,
in silence. Reaching the platform
before noticed, the party at once
leaped across the narrowchasm on
the opposite side, and kept along
the hill for some two hundred
yards, when they came to a spot
sufficiently shelving to enable them
to descend to the plain below.
This, however, was not their immediate
design—that being to approach
the stream at the foot of the
precipice, and continue, if possible,
along its margin, so as to note distinctly
every object in its bed. In
a few minutes the brink of the
stream was gained, at the point
where the second cascade was
formed, and where, it will be remembered,
Moody had such a narrow
escape. A large rock, which
here jutted in toward the opposite
bank, almost over the falls, allowed
such as chose to venture out upon
it, a complete view of the current
from the lower to the upper cascade,
and also the whole extent of
the stream below the falls to the
plain, where it again became lost
in its serpentine course toward the
Little Miami.

“Well, what do you think now?”
asked Clifton of the scout, as with
the latter he ventured upon the
rock, and made an examination
with his eyes in both directions.

“Why, I think we han't found
the body yet,” replied David, laconically.

“True; but don't you see there
was no chance for Moody to escape
with life. The rocks above here
are precipitious and slippery, so
that it is impossible he should
have ascended them, even if he escaped
with life in the first instance;
and certainly no sensible man
would contend that he could go
over this fall and not be dashed to
pieces on those frowning rocks.”

It did in truth appear, viewing
the spot from where our party
stood, as if no being could pass the
cascade and survive the fall; for the
pool, into which it will be remembered
Moody descended, was very
small—the depth they could not
know—and entirely surrounded by
black rocks, on which much of the
water fell with a force sufficient to
throw a fine spray to the distance
of several feet. We can only account
for this small, deep pool, by
supposing that, at one time, the
water fell directly into it; and the
earth just at that spot, not being
protected by rocks, as was the case
elsewhere, had gradually been hollowed
out, and so remained; while
the running water, wearing away
the precipice over which it tumbled,

had thus caused it to recede several
inches.

“Don't know about passing the
falls,” said David, rather doggedly,
in reply to Clifton, after having gazed
upon the spot until he felt satisfied
himself that the young officer
was right: “Don't know about the
falls, one way or t'other; but all
I've got to say is, I'd just like to see
the body.”

“Do you know, David,” said
Clifton, smiling, “that I think you
would make a good preacher.”

“How so, lieutenant?”

“Because you would be bound to
stick to your text. Why, man, if
you had never shown any more
sense in the forest, than you have
in this matter, instead of being
called a great scout, you would
have been devoured by wolves.”

Several of the party laughed, at
David's expense, who merely
shrugged his shoulders, as much
as to say, “You will see in time
who is right.”

“Well,” answered Clifton, “as
the body is not hereabouts, we will
search for it below, on the plain;
and speedily, too—for I see the sun
is peeping over the hill yonder, and
we must soon be on our journey
homeward.”

The party now descended to the
plain, and in a few minutes were
deeply engaged in searching along
the banks of the stream, for the
body of one, who, even at that moment,
was plotting their own destruction.
They had entered a
swampy thicket, where the water
moved sluggishly, and each was
engaged with a pole in raking the
bottom for the body, which they
supposed must have sunk there—
when suddenly a faint scream was
heard in the distance, and, at the
same moment, ere any one had
time for thought or action, fierce
yells resounded on all sides, and
each found himself in the grasp of
a powerful savage.