 | CHAPTER IV. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
“Be certain what you do, sir; lest your justice
Prove violence.”
Winter's Tale.
The designs of the celebrated Metacom had been
betrayed to the Colonists, by the treachery of a
subordinate warrior, named Sausaman. The punishment
of this treason led to inquiries, which terminated
in accusations against the great Sachem
of the Wampanoags. Scorning to vindicate himself
before enemies that he hated, and perhaps distrusting
their clemency, Metacom no longer endeavored
to cloak his proceedings; but, throwing aside the
emblems of peace, he openly appeared with an
armed hand.
The tragedy had commenced about a year before
the period at which the tale has now arrived.
A scene, not unlike that detailed in the foregoing
pages, took place; the brand, the knife, and the
tomahawk, doing their work of destruction, without
pity and without remorse. But, unlike the inroad
of the Wish-Ton-Wish, this expedition was immediately
followed by others, until the whole of New-England
was engaged in the celebrated war, to
which we have before referred.
The entire white population of the Colonies of
New-England had shortly before been estimated at
one hundred and twenty thousand souls. Of this
number, it was thought that sixteen thousand men
were capable of bearing arms. Had time been
given for the maturity of the plans of Metacom, he
might have readily assembled bands of warriors,
accustomed to the privations of such a warfare,
would have threatened serious danger to the growing
strength of the whites. But the ordinary and
selfish feelings of man were as active, among these
wild tribes, as they are known to be in more artificial
communities. The indefatigable Metacom, like
that Indian hero of our own times, Tecumthè, had
passed years in endeavoring to appease ancient enmities
and to lull jealousies, in order that all of red
blood might unite in crushing a foe that promised,
should he be longer undisturbed in his march to
power, soon to be too formidable for their united
efforts to subdue. The premature explosion in some
measure averted the danger. It gave the English
time to strike several severe blows against the tribe
of their great enemy, before his allies had determined
to make common cause in his design. The
summer and antumn of 1675 had been passed in
active hostilities between the English and Wampanoags,
without openly drawing any other nation
into the contest. Some of the Pequots, with their
dependent tribes, even took sides with the whites;
and we read of the Mohegans being actively employed
in harassing the Sachem, on his well-known
retreat from that neck of land, where he had been
hemmed in by the English, with the expectation
that he might be starved into submission.
The warfare of the first summer was, as might
be expected, attended by various degrees of success,
fortune quite as often favoring the red-men, in their
desultory attempts at annoyance, as their more disciplined
enemies. Instead of confining his operations
to his own circumscribed and easily environed districts,
Metacom had led his warriors to the distant
settlements on the Connecticut; and it was during
the operations of this season, that several of the
towns on that river were first assailed and laid in
between the Wampanoags and the English, with
the cold weather, most of the troops retiring to their
homes, while the Indians apparently paused to take
breath for their final effort.
It was, however, previously to this cessation of
activity, that the Commissioners of the United Colonies,
as they were called, met to devise the means
of a concerted resistance. Unlike their former dangers
from the same quarter, it was manifest, by the
manner in which a hostile feeling was spreading
around their whole frontier, that a leading spirit
had given as much of unity and design to the movements
of the foe, as could probably ever be created
among a people so separated by distance and so
divided in communities. Right or wrong, the Colonists
gravely decided that the war on their part
was just. Great preparations were therefore made
to carry it on, the ensuing summer, in a manner
more suited to their means, and to the absolute necessities
of their situation. It was in consequence
of the arrangements made for bringing a portion
of the inhabitants of the Colony of Connecticut into
the field, that we find the principal characters of
our legend in the warlike guise in which they have
just been re-introduced to the reader.
Although the Narragansetts had not at first been
openly implicated in the attacks on the Colonists,
facts soon came to the knowledge of the latter,
which left no doubt of the state of feeling in that
nation. Many of their young men were discovered
among the followers of Metacom, and arms
taken from whites, who had been slain in the different
encounters, were also seen in their villages.
One of the first measures of the Commissioners,
therefore, was to anticipate more serious opposition,
by directing an overwhelming force against this
people. The party collected on that occasion was
at that early day, had ever assembled in their
Colonies. It consisted of a thousand men, of whom
no inconsiderable number was cavalry—a species
of troops that, as all subsequent experience has
shown, is admirably adapted to operations against
so active and so subtle a foe.
The attack was made in the depth of winter,
and it proved fearfully destructive to the assailed.
The defence of Conanchet, the young Sachem of
the Narragansetts, was every way worthy of his
high character for courage and mental resources,
nor was the victory gained without serious loss to
the Colonists. The native chief had collected his
warriors, and taken post on a small area of firm
land, that was situated in the centre of a densely
wooded swamp; and the preparations for resistance
betrayed a singular familiarity with the military
expedients of a white man. There had been a palisadoed
breast-work, a species of redoubt, and a
regular block-house, to overcome, ere the Colonists
could penetrate into the fortified village itself. The
first attempts were unsuccessful, the Indians having
repulsed their enemies with loss. But better arms
and greater concert finally prevailed, though not
without a struggle that lasted for many hours, and
not until the defendants were, in truth, nearly surrounded.
The events of that memorable day made a deep
impression on the minds of men who were rarely
excited by any incidents of a great and moving
character. It was still the subject of earnest and
not unfrequently of melancholy discourse, around
the fire-sides of the Colonists; nor was the victory
achieved without accompaniments which, however
unavoidable they might have been, had a tendency
to raise doubts in the minds of conscientious religionists
concerning the lawfulness of their cause. It is
and that hundreds of dead and wounded were consumed
in the conflagration. A thousand warriors
were thought to have lost their lives in this affair,
and it was believed that the power of the nation
was broken for ever. The sufferers among the
Colonists themselves were numerous, and mourning
came into a vast many families, with the tidings of
victory.
In this expedition most of the men of the Wish-Ton-Wish
had been conspicuous actors, under the orders
of Content. They had not escaped with impunity;
but it was confidently hoped that their courage was
to meet its reward in a long continuance of peace,
which was the more desirable on account of their
remote and exposed situation.
In the mean time, the Narragansetts were far
from being subdued. Throughout the whole continuance
of the inclement season, they had caused
alarms on the frontiers; and, in one or two instances,
their renowned Sachem had taken signal vengeance
for the dire affair in which his people had so heavily
suffered. As the spring advanced, the inroads became
still more frequent, and the appearances of
danger so far increased as to require a new call on
the Colonists to arm. The messenger, introduced in
the last chapter, was charged with matter that had
a reference to the events of this war; and it was
with an especial communication of great urgency,
that he had now demanded his secret audience with
the leader of the military force of the valley.
“Thou hast affairs of moment ot deal with, Captain
Heathcote,” said the hard-riding traveller, when
he found himself alone with Content. “The orders
of his Honor are to spare neither whip nor spur,
until the chief men of the borders shall be warned
of the actual situation of the Colony.”
“Hath aught of moving interest occurred, that
watchfulness. We had hoped that the prayers of the
pious were not in vain; and that a time of quiet
was about to succeed to that violence, of which,
bounden by our social covenants, we have unhappily
been unwilling spectators. The bloody assault of
Pettyquamscott hath exercised our minds severely—
nay, it hath even raised doubts of the lawfulness of
some of our deeds.”
“Thou hast a commendable spirit of forgiveness,
Captain Heathcote, or thy memory would extend to
other scenes than those which bear relation to the
punishment of an enemy so remorseless. It is said
on the river, that the valley of Wish-Ton-Wish hath
been visited by the savage in its day, and men speak
freely of the wrongs suffered by its owners on that
pitiless occasion.”
“The truth may not be denied, even that good
should come thereof. It is certain that much suffering
was inflicted on me and on mine, by the inroad
of which you speak; nevertheless we have ever
striven to consider it as a merciful chastisement inflicted
for manifold sins, rather than as a subject
that might be remembered, in order to stimulate
passions that, in all reason as in all charity, should
slumber as much as a weak nature will allow.”
“This is well, Captain Heathcote, and in exceeding
conformity with the most received doctrines,”
returned the stranger, slightly gaping, either from
want of rest the previous night, or from disinclination
to so grave a subject; “but it hath little connexion
with present duties. My charge beareth especial
concern with the further destruction of the
Indians, rather than to any inward searchings into
the condition of our own mental misgivings, concerning
any right it may be thought proper to question,
that hath a reference to the duty of self-protection.
There is no unworthy dweller in the Connecticut
cultivate a tender conscience, than the wretched
sinner who standeth before you; for I have the exceeding
happiness to sit under the outpourings of a
spirit that hath few mortal superiors in the matter
of precious gifts. I now speak of Dr. Calvin Pope;
a most worthy and soul-quieting divine; one who
spareth not the goad when the conscience needeth
pricking, nor hesitateth to dispense consolation to him
who seeth his fallen estate; and one that never faileth
to deal with charity, and humbleness of spirit,
and forbearance with the failings of friends, and
forgiveness of enemies, as the chiefest signs of a
renovated moral existence; and, therefore, there
can be but little reason to distrust the spiritual
rightfulness of all that listen to the riches of his
discourse. But when it cometh to be question of life
or death, a matter of dominion and possession of these
fair lands, that the Lord hath given—why, sir, then
I say that, like the Israelites dealing with the sinful
occupants of Canaan, it behoveth us to be true to
each other, and to look upon the heathen with a distrustful
eye.”
“There may be reason in that thou utterest,”
observed Content, sorrowfully. “Still it is lawful to
mourn even the necessity which conduceth to all
this strife. I had hoped that they who direct the
Councils of the Colony might have resorted to less
violent means of persuasion, to lead the savage
back to reason, than that which cometh from the
armed hand. Of what nature is thy especial errand?”
“Of deep urgency, sir, as will be seen in the narration,”
returned the other, dropping his voice like
one habitually given to the dramatic part of diplomacy,
however unskilful he might have been in its
more intellectual accomplishments. “Thou wast in
the Pettyquamscott scourging, and need not be reminded
our enemies on that favor-dispensing day; but it
may not be known to one so remote from the stirring
and daily transactions of Christendom, in what
manner the savage hath taken the chastisement.
The restless and still unconquered Conanchet hath
deserted his towns and taken refuge in the open
woods; where it exceedeth the skill and usage of
our civilized men of war, to discover, at all times,
the position and force of their enemies. The consequences
may be easily conjectured. The savage
hath broken in upon, and laid waste, in whole or in
part, firstly—Lancaster, on the tenth,” counting on
his fingers, “when many were led into captivity;
secondly, Marlborough, on the twentieth; on the
thirteenth, ultimo, Groton; Warwick, on the seventeenth;
and Rehoboth, Chelmsford, Andover, Weymouth,
and divers other places, have been greatly
sufferers, between the latter period and the day
when I quitted the abode of his Honor. Pierce of
Scituate, a stout warrior, and one practised in the
wiles of this nature of warfare, hath been cut off
with a whole company of followers; and Wadsworth
and Brockleband, men known and esteemed
for courage and skill, have left their bones in the
woods, sleeping in common among their luckless followers.”
“These are truly tidings to cause us to mourn
over the abandoned condition of our nature,” said
Content, in whose meek mind there was no affectation
of regrets on such a subject. “It is not easy
to see in what manner the evil may be arrested,
without again going forth to battle.”
“Such is the opinion of his Honor, and of all who
sit with him in Council; for we have sufficient
knowledge of the proceedings of the enemy, to be
sure that the master-spirit of wickedness, in the
person of him called Philip, is raging up and down
tribes to what he calleth the necessity of resisting
further aggression, and stirring up their vengeance,
by divers subtle expedients of malicious cunning.”
“And what manner of proceeding hath been ordered,
in so urgent a strait, by the wisdom of our
rulers?”
“Firstly, there is a fast ordained, that we come
to the duty as men purified by mental struggle and
deep self-examination; secondly, it is recommended
that the congregations deal with more than wonted
severity with all backsliders and evil-doers, in order
that the towns may not fall under the divine displeasure,
as happened to them that dwelt in the
devoted cities of Canaan; thirdly, it is determined
to lend our feeble aid to the ordering of Providence,
by calling forth the allotted number of the trained
bands; and, fourthly, it is contemplated to counteract
the seeds of vengeance, by setting a labor-earning
price on the heads of our enemies.”
“I accord with the three first of these expedients,
as the known and lawful resorts of Christian men,”
said Content. “But the latter seemeth a measure
that needeth to be entertained with great wariness
of manner, and some distrust of purpose.”
“Fear not, since all suiting and economical discretion
is active in the minds of our rulers, who
have pondered sagaciously on so grave a policy. It
is not intended to offer more than half the reward
that is held forth by our more wealthy and elder
sister of the Bay; and there is some acute question
about the necessity of bidding at all for any of tender
years. And now, Captain Heathcote, with the
good leave of so respectable a subject, I will proceed
to lay before you the details of the number
and the nature of the force that it is hoped you
will lead in person in the ensuing campaign.”
As the result of that which followed will be seen
accompany the Messenger any further in his communication.
We shall therefore leave him and
Content busied with the matter of their conference,
and proceed to give some account of the other personages
connected with our subject.
When interrupted, as already related, by the arrival
of the stranger, Faith had endeavored, by a
new expedient, to elicit some evidences of a more
just remembrance from the dull mind of her brother.
Accompanied by most of the dependants of
the family, she had led him to the summit of that
hill which was now crowned with the foliage of a
young and thrifty orchard, and, placing him at the
foot of the ruin, she tried to excite a train of recollections
that should lead to deeper impressions,
and, possibly, by their aid, to a discovery of the
important circumstance that all so much longed to
have explained.
The experiment produced no happy result. The
place, and indeed the whole valley, had undergone
so great a change, that one more liberally gifted
might have hesitated to believe them those that
have been described in our earlier pages. This rapid
alteration of objects, which elsewhere know so little
change in a long course of ages, is a fact familiar
to all who reside in the newer districts of the
Union. It is caused by the rapid improvements that
are made in the first stages of a settlement. To
fell the forest alone, is to give an entirely new aspect
to the view; and it is far from easy to see in
a village and in cultivated fields, however recent
the existence of the one or imperfect the other, any
traces of a spot that a short time before was known
as the haunt of the wolf or the refuge of the deer.
The features, and more particularly the eye of
his sister, had stirred long-dormant recollections in
the mind of Whittal Ring; and though these glimpses
had sufficed to quicken that ancient confidence
which was partially exhibited in their opening conference.
But it exceeded his feeble powers to recall
objects that would appeal to no very lively
sympathies, and which had themselves undergone so
material alterations. Still, the witless youth did
not look on the ruin entirely without some stirrings
of his nature. Although the sward around its base
was lively in the brightest verdure of early summer,
and the delicious odor of the wild clover saluted
his senses, still there was that in the blackened
and ragged walls, the position of the tower, and
the view of the surrounding hills, shorn as so much
of them now were, that evidently spoke to his earliest
impressions. He looked at the spot, as a hound
gazes at a master who has been so long lost as even
to deaden his instinct; and at times, as his companions
endeavored to aid his faint images, it would
seem as if memory were likely to triumph, and all
those deceptive opinions, which habit and Indian
wiles had drawn over his dull mind, were about to
vanish before the light of reality. But the allurements
of a life in which there was so much of the
freedom of nature mingled with the fascinating
pleasures of the chase and of the woods, were not
to be dispossessed so readily. When Faith artfully
led him back to those animal enjoyments of which
he had been so fond in boyhood, the fantasy of her
brother seemed most to waver; but whenever it
became apparent that the dignity of a warrior, and
all the more recent and far more alluring delights
of his later life, were to be abandoned ere his being
could return into its former existence, his dull faculties
obstinately refused to lend themselves to a
change that, in his case, would have been little
short of that attributed to the transmigration of
souls.
After an hour of anxious, and frequently, on the
part of Faith, of angry efforts to extract some evidences
of his recollection of the condition of life to
which he had once belonged, the attempt for the
moment was abandoned. At times, it seemed as if
the woman were about to prevail. He often called
himself Whittal, but he continued to insist that he
was also Nipset, a man of the Narragansetts, who
had a mother in his wigwam, and who had reason
to believe that he should be numbered among the
warriors of his tribe, ere the fall of another snow.
In the mean time, a very different scene was
passing at the place where the first examination
had been held, and which had been immediately
deserted by most of the spectators, on the sudden
arrival of the Messenger. But a solitary individual
was seated at the spacious board, which had been
provided alike for those who owned and presided
over the estate, and for their dependants to the
very meanest. The individual who remained had
thrown himself into a seat, less with the air of him
who consults the demands of appetite, than of one
whose thoughts were so engrossing as to render him
indifferent to the situation or employment of his
more corporeal part. His head rested on his arms,
the latter effectually concealing the face, as they
were spread over the plain but exquisitely neat
table of cherry-wood, which, by being placed at the
side of one of less costly material, was intended to
form the only distinction between the guests, as, in
more ancient times and in other countries, the salt
was known to mark the difference in rank among
those who partook of the same feast.
“Mark,” said a timid voice at his elbow, “thou
art weary with this night-watching, and with the
scouting on the hills. Dost not think of taking food
before seeking thy rest?”
“I sleep not,” returned the youth, raising his
food that was offered by one whose eye looked feelingly
on his flushed features, and whose suffused
cheek perhaps betrayed there was secret consciousness
that the glance was kinder than maiden diffidence
should allow. “I sleep not, Martha, nor doth
it seem to me, that I shall ever sleep again.”
“Thou frightest me by this wild and unhappy
eye. Hast suffered aught in the march on the
mountains?”
“Dost think one of my years and strength unable
to bear the weariness of a few hours' watching in
the forest? The body is well, but the mind endureth
grievously.”
“And wilt not say what causeth this vexation?
Thou knowest, Mark, that there are none in this
dwelling—nay, I am certain, I might add in this
valley, that do not wish thee happiness.”
“ 'Tis kind to say it, good Martha—but, thou
never hadst a sister!”
“ 'Tis true, I am all of my race; and yet to me
it seemeth that no tie of blood could have been
nearer than the love I bore to her who is lost.”
“Nor mother! Thou never knew'st what 'tis to
reverence a parent.”
“And is not thy mother mine?” answered a voice
that was deeply melancholy, and yet so soft that it
caused the young man to gaze intently at his companion,
for a moment, ere he again spoke.
“True, true,” he said hurriedly. “Thou must
and dost love her who hath nursed thy infancy, and
brought thee, with care and tenderness, to so fair
and happy a womanhood.” The eye of Martha
grew brighter, and the color of her healthful cheek
deepened, as Mark unconsciously uttered this commendation
of her appearance; but as she shrunk,
with female sensitiveness, from his observation, the
change was unnoticed, and he continued: “Thou
sorrow for our little Ruth; and who can say what
may be the end of a grief that endureth so long?”
“ 'Tis true that there hath been reason to fear
much in her behalf; but, of late, hope hath gotten
the better of apprehension. Thou dost not well,
nay, I am not assured thou dost not evil, to permit
this discontent with Providence, because thy mother
yieldeth to a little more than her usual mourning,
on account of the unexpected return of one so
nearly connected with her that we have lost.”
“ 'Tis not that, girl—'tis not that!”
“If thou refusest to say what 'tis that giveth thee
this pain, I can do little more than pity.”
“Listen, and I will say. It is now many years, as
thou knowest, since the savage Mohawk, or Narragansett,
Pequot, or Wampanoag, broke in upon our
settlement, and did his vengeance. We were then
children, Martha; and 'tis as a child, that I have
thought of that merciless burning. Our little Ruth
was, like thyself, a blooming infant of some seven
or eight years; and, I know not how the folly hath
beset me, but it hath been ever as one of that innocence
and age, that I have continued to think of my
sister.”
“Surely thou knowest that time cannot stay; the
greater therefore is the reason that we should be
industrious to improve—”
“ 'Tis what our duty teacheth. I tell thee, Martha,
that at night, when dreams come over me, as they
sometimes will, and I see our Ruth wandering in the
forest, it is as a playful, laughing child, such as we
knew her; and even while waking, do I fancy my
sister at my knee, as she was wont to stand when
listening to those idle tales with which we lightened
our childhood.”
“But we had our birth in the same year and
childish age?”
“Of thee! That cannot well be. Do I not see that
thou art grown into the condition of a woman, that
thy little tresses of brown have become the jet-black
and flowing hair that becomes thy years, and
that thou hast the stature, and, I say it not in idleness
of speech, Martha, for thou knowest my tongue
is no vain flatterer, but do I not see that thou hast
grown into all the excellence of a most comely
maiden? But 'tis not thus, or rather 'twas not thus,
with her we mourn; for till this hour have I ever
pictured my sister the little innocent we sported
with, that gloomy night she was snatched from our
arms by the cruelty of the savage.”
“And what hath changed this pleasing image of
our Ruth?” asked his companion, half-covering her
face to conceal the still deeper glow of female
gratification which had been kindled by the words
just heard. “I often think of her as thou hast described,
nor do I now see why we may not still believe
her, if she yet live, all that we could desire
to see.”
“That cannot be—The delusion is gone, and in
its place a frightful truth has visited me. Here is
Whittal Ring, whom we lost a boy; thou seest he
is returned a man, and a savage! No, no; my sister
is no longer the child I loved to think her, but one
grown into the estate of womanhood.”
“Thou thinkest of her unkindly, while thou
thinkest of others far less endowed by nature with
too much indulgence; for thou rememberest, Mark,
she was ever of more pleasing aspect than any that
we knew.”
“I know not that—I say not that—I think not
that. But be she what hardships and exposure may
have made her, still must Ruth Heathcote be far
too good for an Indian wigwam. Oh! 'tis horrible
the wife of a savage!”
Martha recoiled, and an entire minute passed,
during which she made no reply. It was evident
that the revolting idea for the first time crossed her
mind, and all the natural feelings of gratified and
maiden pride vanished before the genuine and pure
sympathies of a female bosom.
“This cannot be,” she at length murmured—“it
can never be! Our Ruth must still remember the
lessons taught her in infancy. She knoweth she is
born of Christian lineage! of reputable name! of
exalted hope! of glorious promise!”
“Thou seest by the manner of Whittal, who is of
greater age, how little of that taught, can withstand
the wily savage.”
“But Whittal faileth of Nature's gifts; he hath
ever been below the rest of men in understanding.”
“And yet to what degree of Indian cunning hath
he already attained!”
“But Mark,” rejoined his companion, timidly, as
if, while she felt all its force, she only consented to
urge the argument in tenderness to the harassed
feelings of the brother, “we are of equal years;
that which hath happened to me, may well have
been the fortune of our Ruth.”
“Dost mean that being unespoused thyself, or
that having, at thy years, inclinations that are free,
my sister may have escaped the bitter curse of
being the wife of a Narragansett, or what is not
less frightful, the slave of his humors?”
“Truly, I mean little else than the former.”
“And not the latter,” continued the young man,
with a quickness that showed some sudden revolution
in his thoughts. “But though with opinions
that are decided, and with kindness awakened in
behalf of one favored, thou hesitatest, Martha, it is
not like that a girl left in the fetters of savage life
all are not difficult of judgment as thou!”
The long lashes vibrated above the dark eyes of
the maiden, and, for an instant, it seemed as if she
had no intention to reply. But looking timidly aside,
she answered in a voice so low, that her companion
scarcely gathered the meaning of that she uttered.
“I know not how I may have earned this false
character among my friends,” she said; “for to me
it ever seemeth that what I feel and think is but
too easily known.”
“Then is the smart gallant from the Hartford
town, who cometh and goeth so often between this
distant settlement and his father's house, better assured
of his success than I had thought. He will
not journey the long road much oftener, alone!”
“I have angered thee, Mark, or thou wouldst not
speak with so cold an eye, to one who hath ever
lived with thee in kindness.”
“I do not speak in anger, for 'twould be both unreasonable
and unmanly to deny all of thy sex right
of choice; but yet it doth seem right, that, when
taste is suited and judgment appeased, there should
be little motive for withholding speech.”
“And wouldst thou have a maiden, of my years,
in haste to believe that she was sought, when haply
it may be, that he of whom you speak is in quest
of thy society and friendship, rather than of my
favor?”
“Then might he spare much labor and some
bodily suffering, unless he finds great pleasure in
the saddle; for I know not a youth in the Connecticut
Colony, for whom I have smaller esteem. Others
may see matter of approval in him, but, to me, he
is of bold speech, ungainly air, and great disagreeableness
of discourse.”
“I am happy that at last we find ourselves of one
I have long considered him.”
“Thou! Thou thinkest of the gallant thus! Then
why dost listen to his suit? I had believed thee a
girl too honest, Martha, to affect such niceties of
deception. With this opinion of his character, why
not refuse his company?”
“Can a maiden speak too hastily?”
“And if here, and ready to ask thy favor, the
answer would be—”
“No!” said the girl, raising her eyes for an instant,
and bashfully meeting the eager look of her
companion, though she uttered the monosyllable
firmly.
Mark seemed bewildered. An entirely new and
a novel idea took possession of his brain. The
change was apparent by his altering countenance,
and a cheek that glowed like flame. What he
might have said, most of our readers over fifteen
may presume; but, at that moment, the voices of
those who had accompanied Whittal to the ruin
were heard on their return, and Martha glided away
so silently as to leave him for a moment ignorant
of her absence.
| CHAPTER IV. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish | |