University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

These symptoms of anxiety and alarm affected
Edith's own spirits; they did more, they shook
her faith in the justice of her kinsman's conclusions.
His arguments in relation to the road were,
indeed, unanswerable, and Telie had offered none
to weaken them. Yet why should she betray
such distress, if they were upon the right one?
and why, in fact, should she not be supposed to
know both the right and the wrong, since she had,
as she said, so frepuently travelled both?

These questions Edith could not refrain asking
of Roland, who professed himself unable to answer
them, unless by supposing the girl had become
confused, as he thought was not improbable,
or had, in reality, been so long absent from the
forest as to have forgotten its paths altogether;
which was likely enough, as she seemed a very
simple-minded, inexperienced creature. “But why
need we,” he said, “trouble ourselves to find reasons
for the poor girl's opposition? Here are the
tracks of our friends, broader and deeper than
ever: here they wind down into the hollow; and
there, you may see where they have floundered
through that vile pool, that is still turbid, where
they crossed it. A horrible quagmire! But courage,
my fair cousin: it is only such difficulties as
these which the road can lead us into.”

Such were the expressions with which the young
soldier endeavoured to reassure his kinswoman's

courage, his own confidence remaining still unmoved;
although in secret he felt somewhat surprised
at the coincidence between the girl's recommendations
of the by-road and the injunctions
of his morning dream. But while pondering over
the wonder, he had arrived at the quagmire alluded
to, through which the difficulties of conducting
his cousin were sufficiently great to banish
other matters for a moment from his mind. Having
crossed it at last in safety, he paused to give
such instructions or assistance as might be needed
by his two followers; when Edith, who had halted
at his side, suddenly laid her hand on his arm, and
exclaimed, with a visage of terror,—“Hark, Roland!
do you hear? What is that?”

“Heard him, massa!” ejaculated Emperor from
the middle of the bog, with voice still more quavering
than the maiden's, and lips rapidly changing
from Spanish-brown to clayey-yellow; “heard
him, massa! Reckon it's an Injun! lorra-massy!”

“Peace, fool,” cried Forrester, bending his
looks from the alarmed countenance of his kinswoman
to the quarter whence had proceeded the
sound which had so suddenly struck terror into
her bosom.

“Hark, Roland! it rises again!” she exclaimed;
and Roland now distinctly heard a sound in the
depth of the forest to the right hand, as of the
yell of a human being, but at a great distance off.
At the place which they had reached, the canes
and undergrowth of other kinds had disappeared,
and a wide glade, stretching over hill and hollow,
swept away from both sides of the road further
than the eye could see. The trees, standing wider
apart than usual, were, if possible, of a more majestic
stature; their wide and massive tops were
so thickly interlaced, that not a single sunbeam

found its way among the gloomy arcades below.
A wilder, more solitary, and more awe-inspiring
spot Roland had not before seen; and it was peculiarly
fitted to add double effect to sights and
sounds of a melancholy or fearful character. Accordingly,
when the cry was repeated, as it soon
was, though at the same distance as before, it
came echoing among the hollow arches of the
woods with a wild and almost unearthly cadence,
the utterance, as it seemed, of mortal agony and
despair, that breathed a secret horror through the
breasts of all.

“It is the Jibbenainosay!” muttered the shivering
Telie: “these are the woods he used to range
in most; and they say he screams after his prey!
It is not too late:—let us go back!”

“An Injun, massa!” said Emperor, stuttering
with fright, and yet proceeding both to handle his
arms and to give encouragement to his young
mistress, which his age and privileged character,
as well as the urgency of the occasion, entitled
him to do: “don't be afraid, missie Edie; nebber
mind;—ole Emperor will fight and die for missie,
old massa John's daughter!”

“Hist!” said Roland, as another scream rose on
the air, louder and more thrilling than before.

“It is the cry of a human being!” said Edith,—
“of a man in distress!”

“It is, indeed,” replied the soldier,—“of a man
in great peril, or suffering. Remain here on the
road; and if any thing—Nay, if you will follow
me, it may be better; but let it be at a distance.
If any thing happens to me, set spurs to your
horses:—Telie here can at least lead you back to
the fort.”

With these words, and without waiting to hear
the remonstrances, or remove the terrors of his

companions, the young man turned his horse into
the wood, and guided by the cries, which were
almost incessant, soon found himself in the vicinity
of the place from which they proceeded. It
was a thick grove of beeches of the colossal
growth of the west, their stems as tall and straight
as the pines of the Alleghanies, and their boughs,
arched and pendulous like those of the elm, almost
sweeping the earth below, over which they
cast shadows so dark that scarce any thing was
visible beneath them, save their hoary and spectral
trunks.

As Roland, followed by his little party, approached
this spot, the cries of the unknown, and
as yet unseen, sufferer, fearful even at a distance,
grew into the wildest shrieks of fear, mingled with
groans, howls, broken prayers and execrations,
and half inarticulate expressions, now of fondling
entreaty, now of fierce and frantic command, that
seemed addressed to a second person hard by.

A thousand strange and appalling conceits had
crept into Roland's mind, when he first heard the
cries. One while he almost fancied he had stumbled
upon a gang of savages, who were torturing
a prisoner to death; another moment, he thought
the yells must proceed from some unlucky hunter,
perishing by inches in the grasp of a wild beast,
perhaps a bear or panther, with which animals it
was easy to believe the forest might abound.
With such horrible fancies oppressing his mind,
his surprise may be imagined, when, having
cocked his rifle and thrown open his holsters, to
be prepared for the worst, he rushed into the grove
and beheld a spectacle no more formidable than
was presented by a single individual,—a man in a
shaggy blanket-coat,—sitting on horseback under
one of the most venerable of the beeehes, and uttering

those diabolical outcries that had alarmed
the party, for no imaginable purpose, as Roland
was at first inclined to suspect, unless for his own
private diversion.

A second look, however, convinced the soldier
that the wretched being had sufficient cause for
his clamour, being, in truth, in a situation almost
as dreadful as any Roland had imagined. His
arms were pinioned behind his back, and his neck
secured in a halter, (taken, as it appeared, from his
steed,) by which he was fastened to a large bough
immediately above his head, with nothing betwixt
him and death, save the horse on which he sat,—
a young and terrified beast, at whose slightest
start or motion, he must have swung off and perished,
while he possessed no means of restraining
the animal whatever, except such as lay in
strength of leg and virtue of voice.

In this terrible situation, it was plain, he had
remained for a considerable period, his clothes
and hair (for his hat had fallen to the ground)
being saturated with rain; while his face purple
with blood, his eyes swollen and protruding from
their orbits with a most ghastly look of agony and
fear, showed how often the uneasiness of his horse,
round whose body his legs were wrapped with the
convulsive energy of despair, had brought him to
the very verge of strangulation.

The yells of mortal terror, for such they had
been, with which he had so long filled the forest,
were changed to shrieks of rapture, as soon as he
beheld help approach in the person of the astonished
soldier. “Praised be the Etarnal!” he
roared; “cut me loose, strannger!—Praised be the
Etarnal, and this here dumb beast!—Cut me loose,
strannger, for the love of God!”

Such was Roland's intention; for which purpose

he had already clapped his hand to his sabre, to
employ it in a service more humane than any it
had previously known; when, unfortunately, the
voice of the fellow did what his distorted countenance
had failed to do, and revealed to Roland's
indignant eyes the author of all his present difficulties,
the thief of the pinfold, the robber of
Brown Briareus,—in a word, the redoubtable
Captain Ralph Stackpole.

In a moment, Roland understood the mystery
which he had been before too excited to inquire
into. He remembered the hints of Bruce, and he
had learned enough of border customs and principles
to perceive that the justice of the woods had
at last overtaken the horse-thief. The pursuing
party had captured him,—taken him in the very
manner, while still in possession of the `two-year-old
pony,' and at once adjuged him to the penalty
prescribed by the border code,—tied his arms,
noosed him with the halter of the stolen horse,
and left him to swing, as soon as the animal should
be tired of supporting him. There was a kind of
dreadful poetical-justice in thus making the stolen
horse the thief's executioner: it gave the animal
himself an opportunity to wreak vengeance for all
wrongs received, and at the same time allowed his
captor the rare privilege of galloping on his back
into eternity.

Such was the mode of settling such offences
against the peace and dignity of the settlements;
such was the way in which Stackpole had been
reduced to his unenviable situation; and, that all
passers-by might take note that the execution had
not been done without authority, there was painted
upon the smooth white bark of the tree, in
large black letters, traced by a finger well charged
with moistened gun-powder, the ominous name—

Judge Lynch,—the Rhadamanthus of the forest,
whose decisions are yet respected in the land, and
whose authority sometimes bids fair to supersede
that of all erring human tribunals.

Thus tied up, his rifle, knife, and ammunition
laid under a tree hard by, that he might have the
satisfaction, if satisfaction it could be, of knowing
they were in safety, the executioners had left him
to his fate, and ridden away long since, to attend
to other important affairs of the colony.

The moment that Roland understood in whose
service he was drawing his sword, a change came
over the spirit of his thoughts and feelings, and he
returned it very composedly to its sheath,—much
to the satisfaction of the negro, Emperor, who,
recognising the unfortunate Ralph at the same instant,
cried aloud, “'Top, massa! 't ar Captain
Stackpole, what stole Brown Briery! Reckon I'll
touch the pony on the rib, hah? Hanging too
good for him, white niggah t'ief, hah!”

With that, the incensed negro made as if he
would have driven the pony from under the luckless
Ralph; but was prevented by his master, who,
taking a second survey of the spectacle, motioned
to the horror-struck females to retire, and prepared
himself to follow them.

“'Tarnal death to you, captain! you won't
leave me?” cried Ralph, in terror. “Honour
bright! Help him that needs help—that's the rule
for a Christian!”

“Villain!” said Roland, sternly, “I have no
help to give you. You are strung up according
to the laws of the settlements, with which I have
no desire to interfere. I am the last man you
should ask for pity.”

“I don't ax your pity, 'tarnal death to me,—I
ax your help!” roared Ralph: “Cut me loose is

the word, and then sw'ar at me atter! I stole your
hoss thar:—well, whar's the harm? Didn't he
fling me, and kick me, and bite me into the bargain,
the cursed savage? and ar'n't you got him
ag'in as good as ever? And besides, didn't that
etarnal old Bruce fob me off with a beast good
for nothing, and talk big to me besides? and warn't
that all fa'r provocation? And didn't you yourself
sw'ar ag'in shaking paws with me, and treat me
as if I war no gentleman? 'Tarnal death to me,
cut me loose, or I'll haunt you, when I'm a ghost,
I will, 'tarnal death to me!”

“Cut him down, Roland, for Heaven's sake!”
said Edith, whom the surprise and terror of the
spectacle at first rendered speechless: “you surely,—no,
Roland, you surely can't mean to leave
him to perish?”

“Upon my soul,” said the soldier, and we are
sorry to record a speech representing him in a
light so unamiable, “I don't see what right I have
to release him; and I really have not the least inclination
to do so. The rascal is the cause of all
our difficulties; and, if evil should happen us, he
will be the cause of that too. But for him, we
should be now safe with our party. And besides,
as I said before, he is hanged according to Kentucky
law;—a very good law, as far as it regards
horse-thieves, for whom hanging is too light a
punishment.”

“Nevertheless, release him,—save the poor
wretch's life,” reiterated Edith, to whom Stackpole,
perceiving in her his only friend, now addressed
the most piteous cries and supplications: “the law
is murderous, its makers and executioners barbarians.
Save him, Roland I charge you, I entreat
you!”

“He owes his life to your intercession,” said

the soldier; and drawing his sabre again, but with
no apparent good will, he divided the halter by
which Ralph was suspended, and the wretch was
free.

“Cut the tug, the buffalo-tug!” shouted the culprit,
thrusting his arms as far from his back as he
could, and displaying the thong of bison-skin, which
his struggles had almost buried in his flesh. A single
touch of the steel, rewarded by such a yell of
transport as was never before heard in those
savage retreats, sufficed to sever the bond; and
Stackpole, leaping on the earth, began to testify
his joy in modes as novel as they were frantic.
His first act was to fling his arms round the neck
of his steed, which he hugged and kissed with the
most rapturous affection, doubtless in requital of
the docility it had shown when docility was so
necessary to its rider's life; his second, to leap
half a dozen times into the air, feeling his neck all
the time, and uttering the most singular and vociferous
cries, as if to make double trial of the condition
of his windpipe; his third, to bawl aloud,
directing the important question to the soldier,
“How many days has it been since they hanged
me? War it to-day, or yesterday, or the day before?
or war it a whole year ago? for may I be
next hung to the horn of a buffalo, instead of the
limb of a beech-tree, if I did n't feel as if I had
been squeaking thar ever since the beginning of
creation! Cock-a-doodle-doo! him that ar'nt born
to be hanged, won't be hanged, no-how!” Then
running to Edith, who sat watching his proceedings
with silent amazement, he flung himself on his
knees, seized the hem of her riding-habit, which
he kissed with the fervour of an adorer, exclaiming
with a vehement sincerity, that made the
whole action still more strangely ludicrous, “Oh!

you splendiferous creatur'! you anngeliferous
anngel! here am I, Ralph Stackpole the Screamer,
that can whip all Kentucky, white, black,
mixed, and Injun; and I'm the man to go with
you to the ends of the 'arth, to fight, die, work,
beg, and steal hosses for you! I am, and you may
make a little dog of me; you may, or a niggur, or
a hoss, or a door-post, or a back-log, or a dinner,
—'tarnal death to me, but you may eat me! I'm
the man to feel a favour, partickelarly when it
comes to helping me out of a halter; and so jist
say the word who I shall lick, to begin on; for
I'm your slave jist as much as that niggur, to go
with you, as I said afore, to the ends of the 'arth,
and the length of Kentucky over!”

“Away with you, you scoundrel and jackanapes,”
said Roland, for to this ardent expression
of gratitude Edith was herself too much frightened
to reply.

“Strannger!” cried the offended horse-thief,
“you cut the tug, and you cut the halter; and so,
though you did it only on hard axing, I'd take as
many hard words of you as you can pick out of a
dictionary,—I will, 'tarnal death to me. But as for
madam thar, the anngel, she saved my life, and I
go my death in her sarvice; and now's the time
to show sarvice, for thar's danger abroad in the
forest.”

“Danger!” echoed Roland, his anxiety banishing
the disgust with which he was so much inclined
to regard the worthy horse-thief; “what
makes you say that?”

“Strannger,” replied Ralph, with a lengthened
visage and a gravity somewhat surprising for him,
“I seed the Jibbenainosay! 'tarnal death to me,
but I seed him as plain as ever I seed old Salt! I
war a-hanging thar, and squeaking and cussing,

and talking soft nonsense to the pony, to keep him
out of his tantrums, when what should I see but a
great crittur' come tramping through the forest,
right off yander by the fallen oak, with a big b'ar
before him—”

“Pish!” said the soldier, “what has this to do
with danger?”

“Beca'se and because,” said Ralph, “when you
see the Jibbenainosay, thar's always abbregynes[1]
in the cover. I never seed the crittur' before, but
I reckon it war he, for thar's nothing like him in
natur'. And so I'm for cutting out of the forest
jist on the track of a streak of lightning,—now
h'yar, now thar, but on a full run without stopping.
And so, if anngeliferous madam is willing,
thump me round the 'arth with a crab-apple, if I
don't holp her out of the bushes, and do all her
fighting into the bargain,—I will, 'tarnal death to
me!”

“You may go about your business,” said Roland,
with as much sternness as contempt. “We
will have none of your base company.”

“Whoop! whoo, whoo, whoo! don't rifle[2] me,
for I'm danngerous!” yelled the demibarbarian,
springing on his stolen horse, and riding up to
Edith: “Say the word, marm,” he cried; “for I'll
fight for you, or run for you, take scalp or cut
stick, shake fist or show leg, any thing i nreason
or out of reason. Strannger thar's as brash[3] as
a new hound in a b'ar fight, or a young hoss in a
corn-field, and no safe friend in a forest. Say the
word, marm,—or if you think it ar'nt manners to
speak to a strannger, jist shake your little finger,
and I'll follow like a dog, and do you dog's sarvice.

Or if you don't like me, say the word, or
shake t'other finger, and 'tarnal death to me, but
I'll be off like an elk of the prairies!”

“You may go,” said Edith, not at all solicitous
to retain a follower of Mr. Stackpole's character
and conversation: “we have no occasion
for your assistance.”

“Fawwell!” said Ralph; and turning, and giving
his pony a thump with his fist and a kick with
each heel, and uttering a shrill whoop, he darted
away through the forest, and was soon out of
sight.