University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

The hut, or huts of Chainbearer, had far more comfort
in and around them, than I was prepared to find. They
were three in number, one having been erected as a kitchen,
and a place to contain the male slaves; another for the special
accommodation of Ursula and the female black; and
the third to receive men. The eating-room was attached to
the kitchen; and all these buildings, which had now stood
an entire year, were constructed of logs, and were covered
with bark. They were roughly made, as usual; but that
appropriated to Dus was so much superior to the others in
its arrangements, internal and external, as at once to denote
the presence and the influence of woman. It may have
some interest with the reader briefly to describe the place.

Quite as a matter of course, a spring had been found, as
the first consideration in “locating,” as it is called by that
portion of our people who get upon their conversational
stilts. The spring burst out of the side of a declivity, the
land stretching away, for more than a mile from its foot, in
an inclined plane that was densely covered with some of the
noblest elms, beeches, maples and black birches, I have
ever seen. This spot, the Chainbearer early assured me,
was the most valuable of all the lands of Mooseridge. He
had selected it because it was central, and particularly clear
from underbrush; besides having no stagnant water near it.
In other respects, it was like any other point in that vast

forest; being dark, shaded, and surrounded by the magnificence
of a bountiful vegetation.

Here Chainbearer had erected his hut, a low, solid structure
of pine logs, that were picturesque in appearance, and
not without their rude comforts, in their several ways. These
buildings were irregularly placed, though the spring was in
their control. The kitchen and eating-room was nearest the
water; at no great distance from these was the habitation
of the men; while the smaller structure, which Frank Malbone
laughingly termed the “harem,” stood a little apart,
on a slight spur of land, but within fifty yards of Andries'
own lodgings. Boards had been cut by hand, for the floors
and doors of these huts, though no building but the “harem”
had any window that was glazed. This last had two such
windows, and Frank had even taken care to provide for his
sister's dwelling, rude but strong window-shutters.

As for defences against an enemy, they were no longer
thought of within the limits of New York. Block-houses,
and otherwise fortified dwellings, had been necessary, so
long as the French possessed Canada; but, after the capture
of that colony, few had deemed any such precautions called
for, until the war of the revolution brought a savage foe
once more among the frontier settlements; frontier, as to
civilization, if not as to territory. With the termination of
that war had ceased this, the latest demand for provisions
of that nature; and the Chainbearer had not thought of
using any care to meet the emergencies of violence, in
“making his pitch.”

Nevertheless, each hut would have been a reasonably
strong post, on an emergency; the logs being bullet-proof,
and still remaining undecayed and compact. Palisades were
not thought of now, nor was there any covered means of
communicating between one hut and another. In a word,
whatever there might be in the way of security in these
structures, was the result of the solidity of their material,
and of the fashion of building that was then, and is still
customary everywhere in the forest. As against wild beasts
there was entire protection, and other enemies were no
longer dreaded. Around the huts there were no enclosures
of any sort, nor any other cleared land, than a spot of about
half an acre in extent, off of which had been cut the small

pines that furnished the logs of which they were built. A
few vegetables had been put into the ground at the most
open point; but a fence being unnecessary, none had been
built. As for the huts, they stood completely shaded by the
forest, the pines having been cut on an eminence a hundred
yards distant. This spot, however, small as it was, brought
enough of the commoner sort of plants to furnish a frugal
table.

Such was the spot that was then known in all that region
by the name of the “Chainbearer's Huts.” This name has
been retained, and the huts are still standing, circumstances
having rendered them memorable in my personal history,
and caused me to direct their preservation, at least as long
as I shall live. As the place had been inhabited a considerable
time that spring and summer, it bore some of the other
signs of the presence of man; but, on the whole, its character
as a residence was that of deep forest seclusion. In
point of fact, it stood buried in the woods, distant fully fifteen
miles from the nearest known habitation, and in so much
removed from the comfort, succour and outward communications
of civilized life. These isolated abodes, however,
are by no means uncommon in the State, even at the present
hour; and it is probable that some of them will be to
be found during the whole of this century. It is true, that
the western, middle, southern, south-western, north-western
and north-eastern counties of New York, all of which were
wild, or nearly so, at the time of which I am writing, are
already well settled, or are fast filling up; but, there is a
high, mountainous region, in middle-northern New York,
which will remain virtually a wilderness, I should think,
for quite a century, if not longer. I have travelled through
this district of wilderness very lately, and have found it
picturesque and well suited for the sportsman, abounding in
deer, fish and forest-birds, but not so much suited to the
commoner wants of man, as to bring it very soon into demand
for the ordinary purposes of the husbandman. If this
quarter of the country do not fall into the hands of lawless
squatters and plunderers of one sort and another, of which
there is always some danger in a country of so great extent,
it will become a very pleasant resort of the sportsman, who

is likely to soon lose his haunts in the other quarters of the
State.

Jaap had brought over some horses of mine from the
Nest as sumpter-beasts, and these being sent back for want
of provender, the negro himself remained at the “Huts” as
a general assistant, and as a sort of hunter. A Westchester
negro is pretty certain to be a shot, especially if he happen
to belong to the proprietor of a Neck; for there is no jealousy
of trusting arms in the hands of our New York slaves.
But, Jaap having served, in a manner, was entitled to burn
as much gunpowder as he pleased. By means of one of his
warlike exploits, the old fellow had become possessed of a
very capital fowling-piece, plunder obtained from some slain
English officer, I always supposed; and this arm he invariably
kept near his person, as a trophy of his own success.
The shooting of Westchester, however, and that of the forest,
were very different branches of the same art. Jaap belonged
to the school of the former, in which the pointer and setter
were used. The game was “put up” and “marked down,”
and the bird was invariably shot on the wing. My attention
was early called to this distinction, by overhearing a conversation
between the negro and the Indian, that took place
within a few minutes after our arrival, and a portion of
which I shall now proceed to relate.

Jaap and Sureflint were, in point of fact, very old acquaintances,
and fast friends. They had been actors in
certain memorable scenes, on those very lands of Mooseridge,
some time before my birth, and had often met and
served as comrades during the last war. The known antipathy
between the races of the red and black man did not
exist as between them, though the negro regarded the Indian
with some of that self-sufficiency which the domestic
servant would be apt to entertain for a savage roamer of the
forest; while the Onondago could not but look on my fellow
as one of the freest of the free would naturally feel disposed
to look on one who was content to live in bondage. These
feelings were rather mitigated than extinguished by their
friendship, and often made themselves manifest in the course
of their daily communions with each other.

A bag filled with squabs had been brought from the roost,
and Jaap had emptied it of its contents on the ground near

the kitchen, to commence the necessary operations of picking
and cleaning, preparatory to handing the birds over to
the cook. As for the Onondago, he took his seat near by
on a log very coolly, a spectator of his companion's labours,
but disdaining to enter in person on such woman's work,
now that he was neither on a message nor on a war-path.
Necessity alone could induce him to submit to any menial
labour, nor do I believe he would have offered to assist, had
he seen the fair hands of Dus herself plucking these pigeons.
To him it would have appeared perfectly suitable that a
“squaw” should do the work of a “squaw,” while a warrior
maintained his dignified idleness. Systematic and intelligent
industry are the attendants of civilization, the wants created
by which can only be supplied by the unremitted care of
those who live by their existence.

“Dere, ole Sus,” exclaimed the negro, shaking the last
of the dead birds from the bag—“dere, now, Injin; I s'pose
you t'inks 'em ere's game!”

“What you call him, eh?” demanded the Onondago,
eyeing the negro sharply.

“I doesn't call 'em game a bit, red-skin. Dem's not
varmint, n'oder; but den, dem isn't game. Game's game,
I s'pose you does know, Sus?”

“Game, game—good. T'at true—who say no?”

“Yes, it's easy enough to say a t'ing, but it not so berry
easy to understan'. Can any Injin in York State, now, tell
me why pigeon isn't game?”

“Pigeon game—good game, too. Eat sweet—many time
want more.”

“Now, I do s'pose, Trackless”—Jaap loved to run through
the whole vocabulary of the Onondago's names—“Now, I
do s'pose, Trackless, you t'ink tame pigeon just as good as
wild?”

“Don't know—nebber eat tame—s'pose him good, too.”

“Well, den, you s'poses berry wrong. Tame pigeon poor
stuff; but no pigeon be game. Nuttin' game, Sureflint, dat
a dog won't p'int, or set. Masser Mordaunt h'an't got no
dog at de Bush or de Toe, and he keeps dogs enough at bot',
dat would p'int a pigeon.”

“P'int deer, eh?”

“Well, I doesn't know. P'raps he will, p'raps he wont.

Dere isn't no deer in Westchester for us to try de dogs on,
so a body can't tell. You remem'er 'e day, Sus, when we
fit your red-skins out here, 'long time ago, wit' Masser
Corny and Masser Ten Eyck, and ole Masser Herman
Mordaunt, and Miss Anneke, and Miss Mary, an' your
frien' Jumper?—You remem'er dat, ha! Onondago?”

“Sartain—no forget—Injin nebber forget. Don't forget
friend—don't forget enemy.”

Here Jaap raised one of his shouting negro laughs, in
which all the joyousness of his nature seemed to enter with
as much zest as if he were subjected to a sort of mental
tickling; then he let the character of his merriment be seen
by his answer.

“Sartain 'nough—you remem'er dat feller, Muss, Trackless?
He get heself in a muss by habbing too much mem'ry.
Good to hab mem'ry when you told to do work; but sometime
mem'ry bad 'nough. Berry bad to hab so much mem'ry
dat he can't forget small floggin.”

“No true,” answered the Onondago, a little sternly,
though a very little; for, while he and Jaap disputed daily,
they never quarrelled—“No true, so. Flog bad for back.”

“Well, dat because you red-skin — a colour' man don't
mind him as much as dis squab. Get use to him in little
while; den he nuttin' to speak of.”

Sureflint made no answer, but he looked as if he pitied
the ignorance, humility and condition of his friend.

“What you t'ink of dis worl', Susquesus?” suddenly demanded
the negro, tossing a squab that he had cleaned into
a pail, and taking another. “How you t'ink white man
come? — how you t'ink red man come? — how you t'ink
colour' gentl'em come, eh?”

“Great Spirit say so — t'en all come. Fill Injin full of
blood — t'at make him red—fill nigger wit' ink — t'at make
him black — pale-face pale 'cause he live in sun, and colour
dry out.”

Here Jaap laughed so loud, that he drew all three of
Chainbearer's blacks to the door, who joined in the fun out
of pure sympathy, though they could not have known its
cause. Those blacks! They may be very miserable as
slaves; but it is certain no other class in America laugh so
often, or so easily, or one-half as heartily.

“Harkee, Injin” — resumed Jaap, as soon as he had laughed
as much as he wished to do at that particular moment—
“Harkee, Injin—you t'ink 'arth round, or 'arth flat?”

“How you mean? — 'arth up and down — no round — no
flat.”

“Dat not what I mean. Bot' up and down in one sens',
but no up and down in 'noder. Masser Mordaunt, now, and
Masser Corny too, bot' say 'arth round like an apple, and
dat he 'd stand one way in day-time, an' 'noder way in nighttime.
Now, what you t'ink of dat, Injin?”

The Trackless listened gravely, but he expressed neither
assent nor dissent. I knew he had a respect for both my
father and myself; but it was asking a great deal of him to
credit that the world was round; nor did he understand how
one could be turned over in the manner Jaap pretended.

“S'pose it so,” he remarked, after a pause of reflection—“S'pose it so, den man stand upside down? Man stand
on foot; no stand on head.”

“Worl' turn round, Injin; dat a reason why you stand
on he head one time; on he foot 'noder.”

“Who tell t'at tradition, Jaap? Nebber heard him afore.”

“Masser Corny tell me dat, long time ago; when I war'
little boy. Ask Masser Mordaunt one day, and he tell you
a same story. Ebberybody say dat but Masser Dirck Follock;
and he say to me, one time, `it true, Jaap, t'e book
do say so—and your Masser Corny believe him; but I want
to see t'e worl' turn round, afore I b'lieve it.' Dat what
colonel Follock say, Trackless; you know he berry honest.”

“Good — honest man, colonel — brave warrior — true
friend — b'lieve all he tell, when he know; but don't know
ebbery t'ing. Gen'ral know more—major young, but know
more.”

Perhaps my modesty ought to cause me to hesitate about
recording that which the partiality of so good a friend as
Susquesus might induce him to say; but it is my wish to
be particular, and to relate all that passed on this occasion.
Jaap could not object to the Indian's proposition, for he had
too much love and attachment for his two masters not to
admit at once that they knew more than colonel Follock;
no very extravagant assumption, by the way.

“Yes, he good 'nough,” answered the black, “but he
don't know half as much as Masser Corny, or Masser Mordaunt.
He say worl' isn't round; now, I t'ink he look
round.”

“What Chainbearer say?” asked the Indian, suddenly,
as if he had determined that his own opinion should be governed
by that of a man whom he so well loved. “Chainbearer
nebber lie.”

“Nor do Masser Corny, nor Masser Mordaunt!” exclaimed
Jaap, a little indignantly. “You t'ink, Trackless,
'eder of my massers lie!”

That was an accusation that Susquesus never intended to
make; though his greater intimacy with, and greater reliance
on old Andries had, naturally enough, induced him to
ask the question he had put.

“No say eeder lie,” answered the Onondago; “but many
forked tongue about, and maybe hear so, and t'ink so.
Chainbearer stop ear; nebber listen to crooked tongue.”

“Well, here come Chainbearer heself, Sus; so, jist for
graterfercashun, you shall hear what 'e ole man say. It
berry true, Chainbearer honest man, and I like to know he
opinion myself, sin' it isn't easy, Trackless, to understan'
how a mortal being can stan' up, head down!”

“What `mortal being' mean, eh?”

“Why, it mean mortality, Injin—you, mortality—I, mortality
— Masser Corny, mortality — Masser Mordaunt, mortality
— Miss Anneke, mortality — ebberybody, mortality;
but ebberybody not 'e same sort of mortality! — Understan'
now, Sus?”

The Indian shook his head, and looked perplexed; but
the Chainbearer coming up at that moment, that branch of
the matter in discussion was pursued no farther. After exchanging
a few remarks about the pigeons, Jaap did not
scruple to redeem the pledge he had given his red friend,
by plunging at once into the main subject with the Chainbearer.

“You know how it be wid Injin, Masser Chainbearer,”
said Jaap — “'Ey is always poor missedercated creatur's,
and knows nuttin' but what come by chance — now here be
Sureflint; he can no way t'ink dis worl' round; and dat it

turn round, too; and so he want me to ask what you got to
say about dat matter?”

Chainbearer was no scholar. Whatever may be said of
Leyden, and of the many, very many learned Dutchmen it
had sent forth into the world, few of them ever reached
America. Our brethren of the eastern colonies, now States,
had long been remarkable, as a whole, for that “dangerous
thing,” a “little learning;” but I cannot say that the Dutch
of New York, also viewed as a whole, incurred any of those
risks. To own the truth, it was not a very easy matter to
be more profoundly ignorant, on all things connected with
science, than were the mass of the uneducated Dutch of New
York, in the year of our Lord, one thousand seven hundred
and eighty-four. It made little difference as to condition in
life, unless one rose as high as the old colonial aristocracy
of that stock, and an occasional exception in favour of a
family that intended to rear, or had reared in its bosom a
minister of the gospel. Such was the strength of the prejudice
among these people, that they distrusted the English
schools, and few permitted their children to enter them;
while those they possessed of their own were ordinarily of a
very low character. These feelings were giving way before
the influence of time, it is true, but it was very slowly; and
it was pretty safe to infer that every man of low Dutch extraction
in the colony was virtually uneducated, with the
exception of here and there an individual of the higher social
castes, or one that had been especially favoured by association
and circumstances. As for that flippant knowledge, of
which our eastern neighbours possessed so large an amount,
the New York Dutch appeared to view it with peculiar dislike,
disdaining to know anything, if it were not of the very
best quality. Still, there were a few to whom this quality
was by no means a stranger. In these isolated cases, the
unwearied application, pains-taking industry, cautious appreciation
of facts, and solid judgment of the parties, had
produced a few men, who only required a theatre for its
exhibition, in order to cause their information to command
the profound respect of the learned, let them live where they
might. What they did acquire was thoroughly got, though
seldom paraded for the purposes of mere show.

Old Andries, however, was not of the class just named.

He belonged to the rule, and not to its exception. Beyond
a question, he had heard all the more familiar truths of
science alluded to in discourse, or had seen them in the
pages of books; but they entered into no part of his real
opinions; for he was not sufficiently familiar with the different
subjects to feel their truths in a way to incorporate
them with his mind.

“You know 'tis sait, Jaap,” Chainbearer answered, “t'at
bot' are true. Efery poty wilt tell you so; ant all t'e folks
I haf seen holt t'e same opinions.”

“T'ink him true, Chainbearer?” the Onondago somewhat
abruptly demanded.

“I s'pose I must, Sureflint, since all say it. T'e pale-faces,
you know, reat a great many pooks, ant get to pe
much wiser t'an ret-men.”

“How you make man stan' on head, eh?”

Chainbearer now looked over one shoulder, then over the
other; and fancying no one was near but the two in his
front, he was probably a little more communicative than
might otherwise have been the case. Drawing a little nearer,
like one who is about to deal with a secret, the honest old
man made his reply.

“To pe frank wit' you, Sureflint,” he answered, “t'at ist
a question not easily answeret. Eferypoty says 'tis so, ant,
t'erefore, I s'pose it must pe so; put I haf often asket myself,
if t'is worlt pe truly turnet upsite town at night, how is
it, olt Chainpearer, t'at you ton't roll out of pet? T'ere's
t'ings in natur' t'at are incomprehensiple, Trackless; quite
incomprehensiple!”

The Indian listened gravely, and it seemed to satisfy his
longings on the subject, to know that they were things in
nature that are incomprehensible. As for the Chainbearer,
I thought that he changed the discourse a little suddenly on
account of these very incomprehensible things in nature;
for it is certain he broke off on another theme, in a way to
alter all the ideas of his companions, let them be on their
heads or their heels.

“Is it not true, Jaap, t'at you ant t'e Onondago, here,
wast pot' present at t'e Injin massacre t'at took place in
t'ese parts, pefore t'e revolution, in t'e olt French war? I
mean t'e time when one Traverse, a surveyor, ant a fery

goot surveyor he was, was kil't, wit' all his chainpearers
ant axe-men?”

“True as gospel, Masser Andries,” returned the negro,
looking up seriously, and shaking his head — “I was here,
and so was Sus. Dat wast de fuss time we smell gunpowder
togedder. De French Injins was out in droves, and dey cut
off Masser Traverse and all his party, no leaving half a
scalp on a single head. Yes, sah; I remembers dat, as if
t'was last night.”

“Ant what was tone wit' t'e poties? You puriet t'e poties,
surely?”

“Sartain — Pete, Masser Ten Eyck's man, was put into
a hole, near Masser Corny's hut, which must be out here,
four or five mile off; while Masser surveyor and his men
were buried by a spring, somewhere off yonder. Am I
right, Injin?”

The Onondago shook his head; then he pointed to the true
direction to each spot that had been mentioned, showing that
Jaap was very much out of the way. I had heard of certain
adventures in which my father had been concerned when a
young man, and in which, indeed, my mother had been in a
degree an actor, but I did not know enough of the events
fully to comprehend the discourse which succeeded. It
seemed that the Chainbearer knew the occurrences by report
only, not having been present at the scenes connected
with them; but he felt a strong desire to visit the graves of
the sufferers. As yet, he had not even visited the hut of
Mr. Traverse, the surveyor who had been killed; for, the
work on which he had been employed, being one of detail,
or that of subdividing the great lots laid down before the
revolution, into smaller lots, for present sale, it had not
taken him as yet from the central point where it had commenced.
His new assistant chainbearer was not expected
to join us for a day or two; and, after talking the matter
over with his two companions for a few minutes, he announced
a determination to go in quest of all the graves the
succeeding morning, with the intention of having suitable
memorials of their existence placed over them.

The evening of that day was calm and delightful. As
the sun was setting I paid Dus a visit, and found her alone in
what she playfully called the drawing-room of her “harem.”

Luckily there were no mutes to prevent my entrance, the
usual black guardian, of whom there was one, being still in
her kitchen at work. I was received without embarrassment,
and taking a seat on the threshold of the door, I sat
conversing, while the mistress of the place plied her needle
on a low chair within. For a time we talked of the pigeons
and of our little journey in the woods; after which the conversation
insensibly took a direction towards our present
situation, the past, and the future. I had adverted to the
Chainbearer's resolution to scarch for the graves; and, at
this point, I shall begin to record what was said, as it was
said.

“I have heard allusions to those melancholy events,
rather than their history,” I added. “For some cause,
neither of my parents likes to speak of them; though I know
not the reason.”

“Their history is well known at Ravensnest,” answered
Dus; “and it is often related there; at least, as marvels
are usually related in country settlements. I suppose there
is a grain of truth mixed up with a pound of error.”

“I see no reason for misrepresenting in an affair of that
sort.”

“There is no other than the universal love of the marvellous,
which causes most people to insist on having it introduced
into a story, if it do not happen to come in legitimately.
Your true country gossip is never satisfied with
fact. He (or she would be the better word) insists on exercising
a dull imagination at invention. In this case, however,
from all I can learn, more fact and less invention has
been used than common.”

We then spoke of the outlines of the story each had
heard, and we found that, in the main, our tales agreed. In
making the comparison, however, I found that I was disposed
to dwell most on the horrible features of the incidents,
while Dus, gently and almost insensibly, yet infallibly, inclined
to those that were gentler, and which had more connection
with the affections.

“Your account is much as mine, and both must be true
in the main, as you got your's from the principal actors,”
she said; “but our gossips relate certain points connected
with love and marriage, about which you have been silent.

“Let me hear them, then,” I cried; “for I never was
in a better mood to converse of love and marriage,” laying
a strong emphasis on the last word, “than at this moment!”

The girl started, blushed, compressed her lips, and continued
silent for half a minute. I could see that her hand
trembled, but she was too much accustomed to extraordinary
situations easily to lose her self-command. It was nearly
dusk, too, and the obscurity in which she sat within the
hut, which was itself beneath the shade of tall trees, most
probably aided her efforts to seem unconscious. Yet, I had
spoken warmly, and, as I soon saw, in a manner that demanded
explanation, though at the moment quite without
plan; and scarcely with the consciousness of what I was
doing. I decided not to retreat, but to go on, in doing which
I should merely obey an impulse that was getting to be too
strong for much further restraint; that was not the precise
moment, nevertheless, in which I was resolved to speak, but
I waited rather for the natural course of things. In the
mean time, after the short silence mentioned, the discourse
continued.

“All I meant,” resumed Dus, “was the tradition which
is related among your tenants, that your parents were
united in consequence of the manner in which your father
defended Herman Mordaunt's dwelling, his daughter included
— though Herman Mordaunt himself preferred some
English lord for his son-in-law, and — but I ought to repeat
no more of this silly tale.”

“Let me hear it all, though it be the loves of my own
parents.”

“I dare say it is not true; for what vulgar report of private
feelings and private acts ever is so? My tradition
added, that Miss Mordaunt was, at first, captivated by the
brilliant qualities of the young lord, though she much preferred
general Littlepage in the end; and that her marriage
has been most happy.”

“Your tradition, then, has not done my mother justice,
but is faulty in many things. Your young lord was merely
a baronet's heir; and I know from my dear grandmother
that my mother's attachment to my father commenced when
she was a mere child, and was the consequence of his resenting

an insult she received at the time from some other
boy.”

“I am glad of that!” exclaimed Dus, with an emphasis
so marked, that I was surprised at the earnestness of her
manner. “Second attachments in women to me always
seem misplaced. There was another vein to my tradition,
which tells of a lady who lost her betrothed the night the
Nest was assailed, and who has ever since lived unmarried,
true to his memory. That is a part of the story I have ever
loved!”

“Was her name Wallace?” I asked, eagerly.

“It was; Mary Wallace—and I have honoured the name
ever since I heard the circumstances. In my eyes, Mr.
Littlepage, there can be no picture more respectable than
that of a female remaining true to her first attachments,
under all circumstances; in death, as well as in life.”

“Or in mine, beloved Ursula!” I cried — but, I will not
make a fool of myself, by attempting to record what I said
next. The fact was, that Dus had been winding herself
round my heart for the last few weeks in a way that would
have defied any attempts of mine to extricate it from the
net into which it had fallen, had I the wish to do so. But,
I had considered the matter, and saw no reason to desire
freedom from the dominion of Ursula Malbone. To me,
she appeared all that man could wish, and I saw no impediment
to a union in the circumstance of her poverty. Her
family and education were quite equal to my own; and
these very important considerations admitted, I had fortune
enough for both. It was material that we should have the
habits, opinions, prejudices if you will, of the same social
caste; but beyond this, worldly considerations, in my view
of the matter, ought to have no influence.

Under such notions, therefore, and guided by the strong
impulse of a generous and manly passion, I poured out my
whole soul to Dus. I dare say I spoke a quarter of an
hour without once being interrupted. I did not wish to hear
my companion's voice; for I had the humility which is said
to be the inseparable attendant of a true love, and was fearful
that the answer might not be such as I could wish to
hear. I could perceive, spite of the increasing obscurity,
that Dus was strongly agitated; and will confess a lively

hope was created within me by this circumstance. Thus
encouraged, it was natural to lose my fears in the wish to
be more assured; and I now pressed for a reply. After a
brief pause, I obtained it in the following words, which were
uttered with a tremor and sensibility that gave them tenfold
weight.

“For this unexpected, and I believe sincere declaration,
Mr. Littlepage, I thank you from the bottom of my heart,”
the precious creature commenced. “There are a frankness,
an honourable sincerity and a noble generosity in such a
declaration, coming from you to me, that can never be forgotten.
But, I am not my own mistress — my faith is
plighted to another—my affections are with my faith; and
I cannot accept offers which, so truly generous, so truly
noble, demand the most explicit reply—”

I heard no more; for, springing from the floor, and an
attitude that was very nearly that of being on my knees, I
rushed from the hut and plunged into the forest.