University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

—Anon.

—Thomson.

[Old Play.

We left the Indians, on their return
to harrass, murder, or capture
the whites, under the guidance of
Moody. As it was impossible to
know what course the latter party
would take, on leaving the cave—
though in all probability they would
forthwith seek the plain—Moody
at once led his warriors to a dense
thicket, where they might be able
to watch the movements of their
foes, and shape their proceedings
accordingly. As chance would
have it, he had selected the very
thicket where we have seen our
friends venture to search for his
body—little dreaming, at the time,
that they were entering an ambuscade.
This thicket, Moody and his
party had reached, stealthily, some
two hours before day-break, when,
in company with Unkee, a renowned
scout or runner, he had left the
main body there, and set off to reconnoiter,
and gain intelligence
that should determine his future
movements. Fearfullest his intended
victims might have already escaped,
he had, at some risk, approached
the cave, and even ventured
into it far enough to hear the
tread of the sentinel, as he paced to
to and fro on his patrol of duty. Satisfied
that all was working to his desire,
he had then noiselessly glided
away, and, with his Indian companion,
had sought out a convenient cover

to await daylight, and take advantage
of circumstances.

Unlike the Indians, who in general
have little to say, Moody knew
that the whites, feeling perfectly
secure, would naturally talk over
their plans, before proceeding to
put them in execution. Nor had
he been mistaken. From his place
of concealment, on the brow of the
upper precipice, which the reader
will remember walled the platform
on the east, he had been enabled,
by being exactly over the mouth of
the cave, not only to see every one
that came out, but also to understand
every word that had been
spoken outside. With infinite delight
he had heard the remarks of
David, and watched the party
searching for his remains in the
chasm below; and when the proposition
had been made to continue
down the stream until his body
should be found, his exultation
knew no bounds.

“They shall find my body,” he
said to himself; “but in a different
form and place from what they expect.”

Then turning to Unkee, he briefly
recounted, in a whisper; the substance
of what he had overheard,
and dispatched him to inform the
Indians, and caution them to remain
concealed where they were,
until the whites, as he foresaw
they would, should have put themselves
in their power.

Just as Unkee was on the point
of leaving, Moody heard Clifton request
Kate to enter the cave, with
only Ichabod for her companion;
and turning once more to the savage,
while his eyes gleamed like
two balls of fire at his anticipated
feast of vengeance, he gave him orders
to avoid the whites, and return
to the mouth of the cave, there
to await a signal from him, or be
guided by circumstances—but do
what he might, in no case to harm
the pale-face maiden.

Had Moody been granted the
privilege and power of arranging
every thing for his premeditated
vengeance to suit himself, he felt
confident he would have failed in
fixing matters as satisfactorily as
a simple train of circumstances had
now done for him. Not the least
important of all, was the absence
of Luther, which he had learned
from the conversation, and which
otherwise must have disconcerted
his plans materially.

As soon as Unkee was gone, and
he had seen the party of Clifton on
the point of starting, he withdrew
from his place of concealment, and
moving along the ridge of the hill
a short distance, descended on the
eastern side, some seventy-five or
a hundred yards, or until he came
to a small cluster of bushes. Here
he paused for a moment, while a
grim smile played over his features—and
then parting the bushes
with his hands, he exposed to
view a hole of some two feet in diameter,
that apparently led deep
into the earth. Without stopping
to examine this, Moody threw himself
flatwise upon the ground, and
soon disappeared into the aperture.
The descent of the hole was just
sufficient to render his movements
easy, and in less than two minutes,
he had penetrated the hill some fifty
feet. Here the aperture gradually
enlarged, and he was shortly
enabled to crawl along upon his
hands and knees. This he did, some
ten feet further, when he came to
a sort of window, that looked directly
into the cavern so lately occupied
by our friends.

Here, then, was an access to the
cave, of which Clifton and his party
knew nothing—otherwise, the

disappearance of Luther might have
been accounted for without setting
the natural laws of reason at defiance.
Luther, who took advantage
of every circumstance calculated to
heighten the superstitious feeling
which he was aware pervaded the
minds of most, had doubtless visited
this place before, and knowing
of this outlet, had taken this means,
when the attention of each was
drawn in another direction, to
leave his friends in his usually abrupt
and mysterious manner. Had
he not known of this outlet, it is
hardly probable he would have
found it so opportunely; for being
in a distant and dark corner of the
cave, ten chances to one but it had
been completely overlooked by any
one on the search for it—so nicely
did the aperture, which was some
four feet above the floor of the cave,
blend in color and appearance
with the solid rocks surrounding it.
How this became known to both
Luther and Moody, will perhaps
forever remain a mystery.

Stopping at this aperture or
window—as, from its shape, we
have perhaps more appropriately
named it—the keen eyes of Moody
roved around the dark vault, in
search of Kate and the gardener,
neither of whom had as yet made
their appearance. From his position,
Moody could now see everything
in the cave, and yet himself
remain unseen. This was owing
to the feeble light, which, coming
through the fissure of the cave, was
sufficient to illume somewhat its
immediate vicinity, but insufficient
to remove the dense vail of darkness
behind which he was concealed.

Nearly half an hour elapsed, and
Moody was becoming impatient,
when voices were heard, and presently
Kate and Ichabod appeared,
entering the cave from the larger
and more usual outlet.

“O, the torch is out,” exclaimed
Kate, as she came in view of the
interior; “and it seems so dark
and gloomy here—let us go back,
Icha.”

“Better stay here, my little pet,
until they comes back,” answered
the gardener; “'cause he said so,
and I know as how you'd like to
mind him; and besides, I reckon
't an't burnt out, and I can light it
agin in a minute.”

“Never mind, Icha; I can soon
get used to the darkness; in fact,
I can see a little now; and it is better,
perhaps, that we remain concealed,
in case anything should
happen.”

“Why, I hope you don't think
there's any danger, my little pet?”
rejoined Ichabod.

“Why, no, I hope there is none—
but then you heard what David
said.”

“True, replied Ichabod, who was
strongly inclined to believe in the
marvelous: “True, Miss Kate, I
heerd what he said, and it made
me feel queer at the time—'cause
I remembered as how, when I fired,
the smoke took the shape of Luther,
and I thought maybe he was a spirit,
and got away in that way, and
had something to do with Moody.
But since I've thought it all over, I
know it could'nt ha' been so; for
if ever I shot any body in my life,
it was that same infernal scoundrel
Moody.”

“I am not superstitious, Icha,”
answered Kate, “and consequently
do not fear the interference of
Luther in any unnatural manner;
though, I must own, he did leave
here mysteriously; but then, in all
probability, there was a way for
him to get out in a very simple
manner; and when dear Ernest returns

(Kate did not fear to apply
endearing epithets before the simple-minded
gardener), I intend he
shall search the cave for another
outlet. All I fear is, that Moody
might, somehow, have managed to
escape alone and unaided, and that
he will return with the Indians to
murder or make us prisoners.”

“I don't generally miss my mark,”
said Ichabod, in reply; “and if that
Necromancer didn't interfere, I'm
sartain I killed him—just as sartain—”

“Hark!” interrupted Kate, holding
up her plump, snowy hand, and
bending her head forward in a listening
attitude; “methought I heard
a noise.”

“It wasn't nothing, I reckons,”
returned the gardener, after a short
pause, during which he had listened
and peered cautiously about
him. “It wasn't nothing, I reckons,
but your fears. I've often got
skeered the same way, when I've
been alone, and a thinking about
danger—though I never knowed
anything to come on't. Well, as
I's a saying 'bout that villain Moody,
I know I killed him, just as sartain
as—”

“I kill you now,” said a deep
voice in his ear; and at the same
moment a tremendous blow on the
head laid the gardener senseless
on the ground.

Kate uttered a terrible scream,
and sprang back in real terror.

“Moody!” she shrieked, “can the
grave give up its dead? are you
really flesh and blood? or do you
hold a charmed life?”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Moody,
triumphantly; “and so, my pretty
bird, I have caught you again, have
I? Well, `every dog must have
his day,' you know.”

As Moody said this, he walked
forward, as if to take hold of Kate,
who retreated, screaming, “Help!
help!” in the most piteous tones
imaginable.

“Spare your lungs, my pretty
dove,” said Moody, with a coarse
laugh; “for you will need them to
plead for your friends; besides,
screaming is hard work, and can
do you no good.” Saying which,
he darted quickly forward and
grasped her by the arm.

“Villain! unhand me!” cried
Kate, terrified and indignant. “Unhand
me, and begone! or there will
soon be those here to make you
tremble.”

“Never you fear for me, my pretty
one; I am perfectly aware of
what I am doing,” replied Moody,
with another coarse laugh; “and
as for your friends—”

“Well, well—what of them?”
cried Kate, breathlessly, as the other
paused.

“They are by this time all dead,
or prisoners,” concluded Moody,
with another laugh.

“Oh, God!” exclaimed poor
Kate, burying her face in her hands,
while her whole frame shook convulsively.

Moody now released his hold,
and folding his arms upon his breast,
stood, for some moments, regarding
his terrified captive in stern silence—during
which time, many
wild, dark thoughts, concerning
the punishment of her and her lover,
passed through his mind.
These moments had nigh proved
his last; for, regaining his senses,
and perceiving how matters were,
Ichabod had drawn his knife from
its sheath, and creeping up stealthily
behind Moody, was just in the act
of plunging it into his back, when
his arms were suddenly grasped
from behind, the knife was wrenched
from his hands, and he found himself
the prisoner of a fierce savage.

Moody started, turned, and comprehending
all at a glance, said,
quietly, in Shawanoe:

“Unkee, you have saved my life,
and I shall not soon forget it.”

“Ugh!” returned the Indian.
“Unkee always thought great chief
more guarded.”

“He's only a squaw,” returned
Moody, contemptuously, pointing
to Ichabod. “I knocked him down
first and then forgot him. True,
he might have taken my life; and
so might a squaw, with the same
opportunity. I must deal with him,
nevertheless; for twice has he shot
at me before this, and wounded
me once in the shoulder. Bind
him, Unkee!”

The Indian proceeded to obey
his superior, with that sort of dogged
coolness, if we may so express
it, which one might be supposed to
exercise in fastening a rope to a
log. Once, and once only, when
Ichabod had nearly effected his escape,
the eyes of the Indian brightened
with a fierce gleam, and his
hand, involuntarily as it were,
sought his tomahawk; but the next
moment his countenance assumed
its wonted, stolid expression, and
he continued his occupation as
coolly as ever.

Since quitting Moody, Unkee
had obeyed his orders, and returned
some minutes before. On cautiously
making his appearance in
the vicinity of the cave, he had discovered
Kate and Ichabod conversing
together outside—for, as the
reader is aware, they did not immediately
enter the cave on the departure
of Clifton—and as he
knew that to be seen was to give
the alarm, he instantly concealed
himself where he could secretly
watch their movements. He had
seen them enter at last, and, after
waiting what he conceived to be a
sufficient length of time, had stealthily
approached. At the moment
when he gained the mouth of the
cave, the scream of Kate reached
his ears. The rest the reader
knows.

Having crossed the arms of Ichahod
on his back, secured them
there with strong ligatures of deerskin,
and disarmed him altogether,
Unkee turned to Moody, with a
grunt, as much as to say, “What
next?”

So at least the latter interpreted
it, and answered:

“Keep him a close prisoner, Unkee,
and we will presently join our
companions.”

Then turning to Kate, who still
stood with her face buried in her
hands, regardless of what was taking
place around her, he added, in
English, somewhat sternly:

“Come, my fair beauty, and I will
conduct you to your friends, and
then I will tell you more.”

Kate, who knew that resistance
would be of no avail, as would neither
sighs, tears nor prayers, raised
her face, and exhibited features as
calm, and apparently as rigid, as
marble. As her eye for the first
time fell upon the savage, there
was a slight start, and look of
alarm; but this quickly passed;
and she again appeared as cold
and indifferent as a bronze
statue.

Moody gazed upon her with surprise,
for he had expected to hear
her shriek in terror; and from that
moment, all his former plans of
vengeance were changed to others,
that would, perhaps, prove none the
less agreeable to the fair being before
him. Her beauty, heightened
as it was by the excitement under
which she was inwardly laboring,
and her strong mind, as shown in
her manner of concealing her feelings,

revived his old passion, and
he had already determined that she
should grace his wigwam in the capacity
of a wife or squaw. There
is something in real beauty, that
rarely fails to appeal to the passions,
if not to the heart, of those
who oppress it; and to this it is
more than probable that Kate Clarendon
owed her honor, if not her
life.

Nothing of this, however, was
told to Kate, who, in consequence,
remained in terrible suspense as to
what would be her doom. Turning
to the Indian, Moody motioned him
to follow with his prisoner; and
then taking Kate by the hand, with
something of more respect than he
had formerly displayed, he quietly
led her out of the cave—she making
not the least resistance. When
the captors and their captives had
gained the clear sunlight—which
now fell warmly over the earth,
drying up the dew, and silvering
the streams, kissing the flowers, and
making the earth appear beautiful—Moody
motioned with one
hand for Kate to ascend the rude
staircase to the platform above; and
still keeping his hold with the other,
he assisted her up the difficult acclivity.
Unkee and his prisoner followed,
and in a few minutes both
parties stood upon the point whence
they could command a view of all
below.

Gazing around him, and settling
his eye at last upon a particular
spot, Moody stood for a moment,
and then pointing forward with his
finger, as if to indicate the way, he
led Kate across the chasm, accompanied
by the other two, and all
together descended the ridge in silence.