University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

When Sir William Berkley embarked on board
the ships, he left a company of picked soldiers,
commanded by an officer of tried fidelity, together
with the smallest of the vessels and her crew, with
orders to bring the fugitive to Jamestown, dead or
alive. In a short time that portion of the eastern
shore, lately so full of bustle and activity, was
wrapped in profound repose, unbroken save by the
monotonous tramp of the sentinel, pacing before
the door of the mansion, now the solitary quarters
of the sole remaining officer.

Bacon had perceived from his hiding-place, that
some unusual commotion was in progress between
the quarters of the Governor and the ships lying
in the offing, and he was seized with the most
eager desire to know what it foreboded. For the
first half hour, he lay in momentary expectation
of the commencement of a naval action; at length
he saw the glaring lights of the pine torches, skimming
along the margin of the water, and dark
shadows of moving crowds, as the boats floated to
their destination. These movements he could not
comprehend except by supposing that the crafty
old knight had set on foot some secret expedition,

for the capture of the newly arrived ships,
the increased numbers of which he could easily
perceive. But when the whole fleet set sail, with
the exception of the small craft already mentioned,
he was completely at fault. He was revolving
these strange movements in his mind,
when his kind preserver came again to his assistance.
She was moving like an unearthly spirit
along the garden palings, cautiously examining
every bush, when he presented himself before
her. She led him by a circuitous route, and one
the farthest removed from the sentinel, to a lone
cabin that stood some distance from the main building,
and that had lately been occupied by the inferior
officers attached to Sir William's cause; it
had formerly been used as a negro cabin. After
she had ushered him into the single room which
it afforded, she pointed to a seat, and began stirring
up the coals which had been left from the
culinary operations of the late occupants. She
was about sitting down to hear Bacon's account
of himself, and doubtless of communicating her
share of information for filling out the history, but
recollecting that he had left his food untouched,
she hastily covered the light, and went out, carefully
securing the door on the outside, but soon
returned with a remnant of Tim Jones' chicken
supper, which she had no doubt preserved for her
own use. This was speedily placed upon a rude
table, and the fugitive urged to help himself in
the midst of a torrent of questions.—Now she desired
to know the fate of the Irishman—where
they had landed after the shipwreck—who had
so kindly nurtured and educated him—whether
he knew any thing of his relations in England—
if he remembered any thing of her features, or
her home in the old country. What was his occupation.
Why Sir William Berkley disliked
him, in what position he stood with regard to the
beautiful invalid, who had shown so much grief
at the prospect of his immediate execution,—
how he had managed to preserve the locket so
faithfully—and a hundred other queries of like
import, with the solution to which the reader is
already acquainted, but which our hero answered
with great impatience, interposing one of his own
between every two of hers, and meanwhile doing
ample justice to the provision she had set before
him. The substance of the old woman's narrative
was as follows:

“When Mrs. Fairfax, then Mrs. Whalley—”

“Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Bacon, dropping
his knife and fork—“was General Whalley
her first husband? Then indeed he and the
Recluse are the same person.” The nurse stared
at him a moment, but presently proceeded with
her narrative.

“When Mrs. Fairfax, then Mrs. Whalley, left
her infant son in my care, for the purpose of
joining her husband, then an officer in the army
of the commonwealth, I was entirely unacquainted
with the opposition of her family to her marriage

with General Whalley, and ignorant of the
clandestine manner in which that ceremony had
been performed, as well as the subsequent privacy
of their movements, which they thought
necessary for their safety.

“It was a long time after her departure from
my house, and after the time of her promised return,
before I received the least account of her, or
the cause of her prolonged absence from her child.
But when I did at length receive a letter from
the unfortunate lady, the whole mystery was cleared
up. In that letter she stated `that while she
was on her way to join her husband, she was
overtaken in the highway, by a party of loyalist
soldiers, commanded by her own brother. She
was immediately recognised by him, and sent under
a military escort to her father's house, not,
however, before she had time to learn from one of
the prisoners under the charge of the party, the
death of her husband, who, he stated, had fallen
by his side.' She made the promised remittances
for the support of her infant, and every thing went
on in the usual train, until the time arrived for the
next promised letter, which indeed arrived, by the
hands of a very different messenger from the one
before employed. It was brought by the very
brother who had arrested her in the road, and sent
her a prisoner to her father's house. He presented
the letter unopened, but stated that he was fully
apprised of its contents, as well as of the existence
of his sister's child, which she still supposed unknown
to her family. He told me that his father

was almost broken-hearted, on account of the disgraceful
marriage which his sister had contracted,
and that the sight of her infant in the house, or
even the knowledge of its existence, would drive
him to phrenzy; that his brothers and himself had
therefore determined to take effectual means, not
only to remove the child from within the reach
and knowledge of their father, but of its mother
also. That they were determined to take it by
force, a sufficient proof of which he showed me in
a party of armed followers, (for they were all military
men,) unless I would consent to a plan for the
removal of the offensive little stranger, which
would secure all their views, and be, at the same
time, more satisfactory to himself and, he doubted
not, to me. His proposition was, that I should
remove with the child to a distant residence, the
means for which he would amply provide; and
that I should then wait on Mrs. Whalley, his sister,
and inform her that her child was dead. As
an inducement for me to be guilty of this deception,
he informed me that there was a young Cavalier,
of good birth and connexions, who was enamoured
of his sister, but if the child was permitted
to absorb her affections, and remind her of her lost
husband, they despaired of ever seeing her married
to Mr. Fairfax, and consequently of wiping out
the stigma upon their good name created by her
first marriage. I was really attached to the little
boy, and fearful that they would take him by
force if I did not quietly yield, and being assured
that I should watch over him wherever he went,
I consented to the plan. I waited on the mother,
and with well dissembled sorrow, told her of the
death of her darling boy. I thought at first that
she would have gone distracted, but the necessity
of keeping her secret from her father and brothers,
roused her to the needful exertion. It was
well that it was so, for I could not have endured
her heart-rending distress five minutes longer.
The next information I had of the unfortunate
lady, was from the same young gentleman, her
brother, who came to inform me of the success
of their plans and thus relieve my conscience. His
sister after a tedious delay had married Mr. Fairfax,
and sailed for the Capes of Virginia. He assured
me that the child should always be provided for, but
that I must change his name from Charles Whalley
to some other, which I might choose myself, so that
he could never be able to trace his parentage. I
was firmly resolved, however, that the innocent
babe should some day know his real history. In
the meantime I consented to all that the young
gentleman desired, and he left the usual supply
and departed. I never saw him again. The remittances
for the support of the child were indeed
kept up for some time, but they at length became
irregular, and less frequent. My mind began to
grow uneasy concerning the charge which I had
thus by a crime brought upon myself, and which
I considered but a just retribution for my evil
deeds. Nor were my fears less anxious concerning
the future prospects of my innocent nursling.
My health had well nigh sunk under the accumulating
load of poverty and unavailing regrets for
my wickedness, and I trust that I sincerely repented
of the evil deed. Providence at length
directed to my humble dwelling one who appeared
indeed as one risen from the dead.

“It was none other than General Whalley himself;
he had really been shot in the battle, but had
recovered. Great God! what were my sensations,
when the gigantic warrior, pale and worn with
mental and bodily suffering, threw aside his disguise,
and avowed himself to me. Notwithstanding
the embarrassing position into which his being
still alive was calculated to throw all parties, I fell
upon my knees before him, and my Maker, and
fully acknowledged my participation in the transactions
which I have related. He had heard of
the marriage of his wife to Mr. Fairfax, before he
sought me out, but even at this comparatively
remote period of time from her marriage, his huge
frame shook, and he became like an effeminate being
while he listened to my narrative. He told
me that he was likewise about to sail for America;
not that he desired or intended to make himself
known to his wife, but because it was becoming
unsafe for him to remain longer in the kingdom.
I have no doubt in my own mind, that he was unconsciously
indulging his desire to be near his still
adored Emily, in his choice of a place of refuge,
which he now informed me, was the same to which
she had gone with her husband. He told me that

it was his intention to live in the greatest seclusion,
and that his very name should be unknown
in his new abode. He proposed that I should follow
him, after he should have established himself,
and made arrangements for my comfortable reception,
the time for which was specified. I felt myself
impelled by an imperious sense of duty to repair,
as far as lay within my power, the injury
which I had helped to inflict upon him, and
therefore consented to leave country and home
with my little charge, now become so dear to
me.

“After furnishing me with the necessary supplies
for the long and dreaded voyage, together with
particular directions as to the place of embarkation,
and the course I was to pursue after arriving
in Jamestown, General Whalley left me, and I
have never seen or heard of him to the present
hour. I did not consider that surprising, however,
because he informed me that he would never
more be known by the name of Whalley, and that
I must school myself carefully before my departure
for America, never to drop a hint that he had ever
been more than he seemed to be in his new abode.
But to proceed with my story. He had directed
that I should sail with the boy after the lapse of
one year from the time of his own departure. The
most of this interval was employed in making my
own little preparations for so long a voyage, and my
final separation in this life, from all my kindred
and friends. I had promised to keep my design
as secret as possible, and every precaution was indeed

taken to keep my intended departure a secret
from all but my own immediate relations. But
by some means unknown to me, my design became
known to others, as I was apprised one day,
by a visit from a gentleman named Bacon!”

The fugitive instantly dropped his knife and
fork, which he had been occasionally using as the
story of the nurse ran upon those events already
known to him, but now a new name was introduced,
and one which, it may be readily imagined,
did not fail to command his undivided and
breathless attention.

“Mr. Bacon informed me that he had heard of
my intended expedition, and that I was to take
out with me the tender boy then on my lap, and
said he could readily surmise that the late unfortunate
civil wars were in some way or other the
cause of my undertaking so long and dangerous a
voyage. As he saw my embarrassment from not
knowing how to answer him, he hastened to assure
me that he did not desire to pry into my
secret. That he was placed in somewhat similar
circumstances himself, to those which, as he supposed,
operated on the parents of the boy. He
informed me that his brother and himself had both
been unfortunately in the army of the commonwealth,
in which his brother had fallen, and that
he had left an only son to his care, the mother of
whom had died in giving him birth. `Now my
object in coming to you, my good woman,' said
he, `is to procure your assistance in conveying my
ward to Virginia.'

“I readily undertook the task, and all necessary
arrangements were made for the boy's comfortable
passage. Some months before the time of embarkation,
little master Bacon, or I may as well say
yourself, was brought to me, in order that you
might learn to know and love me before we set
sail for this distant land. When I was on board
the vessel, and had paid for my own passage as
well as for those of my little charges, the money
for which had been provided by the friends of
each, I was startled to perceive that Mr. Bacon
did not join me as had been agreed upon. My
anxiety became more and more intense as the time
approached for weighing anchor, for although I
was amply provided with all necessary funds, my
mind misgave me that some accident had befallen
the unfortunate gentleman. He was indeed in
disguise when he came to see me, and I doubt not,
was a fugitive from the powers that then ruled our
native land. My worst apprehensions were realized—Mr.
Bacon was either made a prisoner, prevented
from joining me by apprehension, or chose
to deceive me in the whole business, but I have
always religiously believed, since I have had time
to reflect dispassionately on the subject, that his
absence was not a matter of choice.

“We had a pleasant and prosperous voyage, until
the first night after we came in sight of land, when
such a storm arose, as it seemed to me that the
whole world was coming to an end. Daylight
found us a miserable company of forlorn wretches,

hanging upon the wreck. The boats were already
loaded to the water's edge. I prayed and entreated
some of the good gentlemen to save my two
precious boys, if they left me, but alas! every
one was taking measures for his own safety. There
was one poor, ignorant, but tender-hearted Irishman,
who had been a soldier, that seemed to commiserate
my helpless little charges, his name was
Brian O'Reily—a talking, blundering, merry youth
he was then. At length seeing some prospect of
effecting a landing, he made a raft of parts of the
wreck, and trusted himself and you to the mercy of
the treacherous waves. That was the last I ever
saw of the warm hearted Irishman, and of you, until
I accidentally discovered, while you were asleep
in the cellar, the identical locket containing your
mother's likeness, which I had placed round your
neck with my own hands. I saw the resemblance,
too, which you bore to my lost boy, and was immediately
satisfied that God had preserved you, in
his own way and for his own wise purposes, and
I determined also to save you, if I could, from the
cruel punishment which I learned more fully from
the sentinel, the Governor intended to inflict upon
you in the morning. Thank God, I have succeeded.
Now do tell me, what I have asked you so often,
what became of the Irishman, and where you were
landed and how preserved.”

“First tell me, good nurse, how you escaped
the wreck, and what became of your other ward.
It is of immense importance for me to know. The

liberty which you have given me is worth nothing,
without a clear explanation of these points.”

“That I can soon inform you of—the Captain,
kind and generous man that he was, seeing the
probable success of the Irishman's plan, adopted
it himself, and after making a raft, with the help
of some of his crew, placed all the females on it
who chose to venture in preference to waiting
for the return of the boats. Myself with my little
remaining boy, and several other females who
were steerage passengers, suffered ourselves to be
lashed to the frail machine. For four dreadful
hours we were tossed about at the mercy of the
waves, the water for at least half the time dashing
over us, and, as it seemed, carrying us half way to
the bottom. At length, however, we landed upon
the eastern side of this very neck of land, where
I have remained ever since. I have never set my
foot on board of any kind of water craft from that
time to this. Together with another of the females
mentioned and my little boy, the son of General
Whalley, I wandered through swamps, and
marshes, and sea-weeds, until we had entirely
crossed the neck—never having eaten one mouthful
until we arrived at this plantation. Here we
were most kindly received by the widowed mother
of the present proprietor, Mr. Philip Ludwell;
but alas, my little boy had suffered too long
and too severely from the combined effects of the
night upon the wreck, the succeeding sufferings
upon the raft, and the hunger endured before we

came to this place. He sunk rapidly, notwithstanding
the humane exertions of the good lady
who had extended her kindness toward us. He
died and was buried on this plantation—I have
preserved his little clothes and trinkets to this day.
Little did I think at that time that you had outlived
him.”

Bacon then performed his promise, and related
all that he knew of his own and O'Reily's escape
from the wreck—and likewise informed her that
the latter had been on the “eastern shore” within
the last two hours, but, he supposed had been
taken as a prisoner to Jamestown by Sir William
Berkley. “But tell me,” he continued, “have
you never seen or heard any thing of General
Whalley, or Mrs. Fairfax, since you parted from
them in England?”

“I have never heard a word of the General
from that time to the present, though I have questioned
every body that came from Jamestown. I
knew that he intended to assume another name,
and other habits, and I therefore described his
person and manners, but no one had ever seen such
a personage!”

The hasp flew from the pine log into which it
had been inserted, and the door was driven back
against the opposite wall. “Thou beholdest him
now, woman! look at me!” and he pointed to his
now haggard features, “and say whether I am that
man!”

But his gigantic figure, never to be mistaken,

had scarcely darkened the doorway, before the
person he addressed began to gasp for breath, and
seized the arm of Bacon for protection—calling
upon him for God's sake to save her—her eyes
meantime immoveably fixed upon the intruder's
countenance.

“Quail not, woman; there is no one here to
harm thee, if thy own conscience condemns thee
not. I have heard part of thy story, as I listened
at the door, in order to find out how many of
the Governor's minions I should have to slay
before freeing the boy. Lay thy hand upon the
Holy Evangelists, woman,” and he drew his
clasped Bible from his pouch and extended it
across the table to her, “and swear that this boy
is not my son, whom I entrusted to thy care.”

With a trembling hand she touched the holy
book, and said as distinctly as her fears would permit,
“Before God and upon his word, I testify
it as my firm and unwavering belief, that this
young man who sits before me, is Nathaniel Bacon,
and not your son.”

“It was indeed my boy, then, whom thou buried
upon this lone shore?” And without waiting
for an answer he threw himself into one of the rude
seats, leaned his head down upon the table, and
gave himself up to uncontrolled emotion.

Bacon was moved to tears as he saw the stern
Recluse thus overwhelmed with grief at the
breaking up of the last tie that linked him to
earth. He remembered, as he looked upon his

agitated frame, how uncompromising had been the
frowns of fortune upon this now solitary being.
Once he was flushed with the joy of youth, and
love, and hope, and fired with a military ardour
like himself. But now (as he supposed) he was
an outlaw, and an exile from his country—unconsciously
abandoned by a doting wife—his only
heir, and the sole stay and hope of his declining
years dead and buried upon the very spot where
he at last found the nurse to whom the child had
been committed. He remembered also his unwavering
kindness to himself, and his general
benevolence and kindness of feeling toward his
fellow men, and he unconsciously let fall the
words which rose embodied to his tongue, as with
swimming eyes he looked upon him, “'Tis a
hard and cruel fate!”

“Rather say that retributive justice pursues and
overtakes the guilty to the ends of the earth.” answered
the Recluse, raising his head erect from the
table. “Oh God, how just and appropriate are thy
punishments! How true and discriminating is
thy retribution. Behold here a wretch who has
fled three thousand miles from the scene of his
crimes in the vain delusion that he could flee from
himself and the mysterious all seeing eye above!
Young man, there is a mysterious system of ethics
which the world understands not—the reputed
wise, subtleize it, and the vainly wicked contemn
and despise it. It is comprised in the simple words
justice—probity—and benevolence! There is a

power of bringing about its own ends in the first
which none but the wickedly wise know. Yea, and
bringing it about by the very weapons used against
its dictates, and if not upon the very scene of the
crime, at least in a place peculiarly appropriate.
Behold here before you this worn down remnant
of humanity, summoned, as he supposed, to rescue
the last of his race from the power of the oppressor;
but in truth, only to weep over the grave of his
real son, buried on this spot years ago. This
hand once aided in severing the links between
father and son,—a man as innocent and unoffending
as his offspring was helpless. A royal line
they were. Just heaven, how that crime has been
avenged! How strangely and how justly! Probity
and benevolence are mysteriously bringing
about their own righteous purposes, as does justice
her avenging decrees. The worldly wise look with
contempt upon simple honesty, but the highest
ultimatum of earthly wisdom and experience is to
have the power and the knowledge of the wicked
with the simple guide, that justice, probity and
benevolence unerringly work out their own reward.

“The wickedly wise cunningly suppose that they
are cheating their God and their fellow men; the
last they may temporarily deceive, but the Great
Political Economist of the universe so overrules
their cunning, that their own hands are forging
the chains of their future captivity, at the very
moment when they suppose themselves constructing

daggers for their neighbour's throats, and keys
for their strong boxes. The mysterious power of
which I speak is felt always in the latter end of
human life, but can never be described to those
just entering upon the scene. Thrice blessed is
he, my son, who can fall before his Maker and say
that justice, probity and benevolence have been his
ruling motives of action—whether from the dictates
of the heart or of the head. That thou art
one of those I have long believed, and if thou art
not the son of my loins, thou art of my affections.
Come, my boat waits for thee; thy presence is even
now needed in Jamestown. Thy troops are encamped
but a few miles from the town, and are
wondering at thy absence. The Governor has embarked
for the city to perpetrate more wrong and
oppression. By the will of Heaven this rusty
weapon shall once more do battle in a holy cause.”

As they were leaving the cabin. Bacon turned
to the nurse and embracing her said, “I go hence,
good Margaret, to battle in the cause of my country,
and that right speedily. If I am successful,
you will soon hear from me, and if not, you will
have the consolation of knowing that your foster
son died as became the son of a soldier. Before
you rising moon has twice performed her circuit,
I will be either the conqueror of Jamestown or
buried in its ruins.”

With hasty strides he followed the Recluse, who
was already half way to the little secluded inlet
from which he had landed. As they approached

the water, Bacon could perceive two slender masts
dancing in the moonbeams, as the dark hull of a
fishing smack pitched and tossed with the swelling
billows. Stepping into a log canoe, (such as surround
all water bound plantations in slave countries,)
they were speedily on board the diminutive
craft, where two lounging fishermen waited their
approach. The wind was blowing fresh from off
the sea across the neck of land they had just left,
and they scudded before it at a rate, if not quite
equal to the impatience of the more youthful
voyager, at least with as much rapidity as could
reasonably have been expected. The Recluse
seemed as usual inclined for thoughtful silence,
and as his companion leaned against the mast of
the rocking vessel, he saw the workings of a
mighty mind—wrecked, as he supposed, upon some
unseen obstacle, as it was impetuously borne along
by the resistless tide of youthful hopes and aspirations.
He could not believe that the Recluse had
ever been deliberately base or cruel, as he himself
had more than hinted. “At least,” said he,
as he communed with himself, “he has paid tenfold
penance for a single error.”

The Recluse at length perceived that his companion
was observing him, and arose from his half
recumbent position, and stood beside him, his
arms folded for an instant, and his attenuated
countenance, as it reflected back the sickly rays of
a hazy moon, settled in profound melancholy. He
took the hand of the youth, and shook it some

time in agitation before he could give utterance to
his thoughts, but at length he said in a voice which
betrayed the violence of his feelings,

“Nathaniel, canst thou forgive me for that cruel
mistake at the chapel? Oh, couldst thou know
what I suffered then, and since, both on thy account
and my own, thou wouldst accept it as ample
atonement for the unintended wrong. I saw,
on that dreadful night, her who was the queen of
my manhood's fondest dreams—who had basked
with me in the sunshine of youth and hope—who
had given me her young affections in return for
my own, when life was in its bud, and who afterward
blossomed into the rich fruition of maternal
love and beauty in these arms—her who was torn
from me by a base deception of her kindred, and
married to another. I saw her face to face, for
the first time in more than twenty years, when
she was about to give the offspring of her second
marriage as a wife to the offspring of her first, as
I supposed. Oh, what human conception can
realize the torrent that broke over my soul at that
fearful moment? The shadowy remembrances
which had been softening and fading in the lapse
of years burst at once into life and being Time
and place were forgotten—the passions of youth
rushed into the contest, and I stood as the frail
mortal body shall stand at the final day, when its
own spirit knocks for entrance. The buried
ghosts of my own passions rose from their grave,
the frail cloak of stoicism which had been woven

round me, was blasted into shreds and patches,
and I stood and quailed before a woman's eye like
Belshazzar at his feast. Thou hast felt thy heart
swelling and/plunging against its bony prison, but
thou hast never had it gorged and choked with
the dammed up waters of bitterness, gathered
through long and dreary years. Thou hast felt
the words stick in thy throat, and refuse to leap
into life, but thou wert never struck dumb with a
judgment from Heaven, like a thunderbolt scorching
and searing into the very citadel of thought
and vitality! Thou hast writhed when stung by
the scorpion tongue of calumny, but thou hast
never been outlawed and abandoned of all human
kind—condemned by thy own conscience—and
given up of God!”

His eye shot forth vivid fires, and his arms, as
they were flung abroad in violent gesticulation,
cast giant shadows upon the moonlit waves of the
Chesapeake.

“You do both yourself and your friends grievous
wrong,” said Bacon, after a painful pause.

“I have indeed wronged myself—most wretchedly
wronged myself, but not now; the wrong
which I did to others has recoiled ten-fold upon
my own head. I know full well thy meaning—
thou wouldst say that kindly feelings are not
wholly dead within this seared heart! But thou
hast made but little progress in analyzing our
moral structure, if thou dost not know that crime
committed by one whose nature would lead to

good, is the true source of that misery which
surpasseth speech.

“An intuitive villain, if there be such, or one
become wholly corrupt, plunges from transgression
to transgression, until his final ruin, without enduring
any of that wretchedness which comes of a
stain upon a tenderer conscience. Such a man has
no conscience; it is seared or obliterated; but he of
benevolent heart and virtuous impulses, wounds his
guardian angel by the deed. The taint corrupts
and sours the sweets of life into gall and bitterness.
If that stain be but a single deed, and
that, dark, damning and indelible, the perpetrator
becomes as an angel of light in the companionship
of hell. He may be likened to one who loses the
power of sight, with all the other senses perfect.
He hears what others see, but to him the grand
medium of perception is dark and dismal, and the
rhapsodies of others are his own damnation. There
is but one hue to his atmosphere; it is the fearful
red which only the blood of man can dye. In his
case the language of scripture is fulfilled before
its time. The moon is turned to blood, and the
morning beam dispelleth not the horrid hue.”

Bacon thought any direction of his companion's
thoughts preferable to his present mood, and therefore
said “But she whom you supposed my mother—”

“I know it all, my son, interrupted the Recluse;
I saw the marble features upon their last journey.
For twenty years I have not envied mortal being,

but I confess to thee, that there was something in
the cessation from thought, suffering and action—
and the sleep-like serenity of death for which I
longed. Nevertheless, there is an awful mystery
in that which seemeth so simple in itself. Mere
lifeless clay, moulded by the hands of man into the
same stamp, speaks not to man in the same language;
it may indeed refresh the memory, but it
stirreth not up the divinity within us. Who is
he that looketh upon the features of the dead and
looketh not up to the giver and recipient of life?
I saw her mortal remains laid out in the midst of
a camp, and the busy world faded away into indistinctness,
while the God of the universe spoke
in the person of the beautiful corse before me and
said “Thus far shalt thou go and no farther.”

As they steered their course uninterruptedly
towards the source of the Powhatan, which they
had entered as the sunbeams broke through the
morning mists, Bacon threw himself down, and
slept soundly, until he was aroused by the Recluse
to inquire what direction their agents should give
the vessel when they arrived within sight of the
city.

He was roused to immediate thought and action
by the question. He knew the danger of entering
the capital, now that it was in the possession of
Sir William Berkley, and therefore directed the
boatmen to land him some miles above.

The Recluse, at his own request, was put on
shore somewhat nearer the capital, but entirely out

of reach of any precautions which the vigilance
of the Governor might have instituted.

Bacon inquired eagerly, why he left him, after
his promise to draw his sword in the cause of the
people and the country, assuring him at the same
time that he intended bringing the matter to immediate
issue.

“I leave thee now, my son, to set my house in
order. Trust in one who has never failed thee in
need. I will be with thee in this last struggle—
for there is something whispers me that it will be
the last. Leave the event, therefore, with him
who rules the destinies of battles.” And with these
words he sprang upon the shore and disappeared in
the forest.

In a few hours more, Bacon was again at the
head of his devoted troops, who were entirely
ignorant of the cause of his protracted absence,
but now that they knew its cause, were bursting
with ardour to avenge his own and his country's
wrongs.