University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Dus was then near me—in sight of the store-house, perhaps!
But, affection for her uncle, and no interest in me,
had brought her there. I could respect her attachment to
her old guardian, however, and admire the decision and spirit
she had manifested in his behalf, at the very moment the
consciousness that I had no influence on her movements was
the most profound.

“T'e gal woult come, Mortaunt,” the Chainbearer continued,
after having gone through his narrative; “ant, if you
know Dus, you know when she loves she wilt not be deniet.
Got pless me! what a wife she woult make for a man who
wast desarfin' of her! Oh! here's a pit of a note t'e dear
creature has written to one of T'ousantacre's poys, who hast
peen out among us often, t'ough I never so much as dreamet
t'at t'e squatting olt rascal of a fat'er was on our lant, here.
Well, Zepaniah, as t'e lat is callet, hast passet much time at
t'e Nest, working apount in t'e fielts, and sometimes for us;
and, to own the trut' to you, Mortaunt, I do pelieve t'e young
chap hast a hankerin' a'ter Dus, and woult pe glat enough
to get t'e gal for a wife.”

“He! Zephaniah Thousandacres—or whatever his infernal
name may be—he a hankering or an attachment for
Ursula Malbone—he think of her for a wife—he presume
to love such a perfect being!”

Hoity, toity,” cried old Andries, looking round at me in
surprise, “why shoult'n't t'e poy haf his feelin's ast well ast

anot'er, if he pe a squatter? Squatters haf feelin's, t'ough
t'ey haf n't much honesty to poast of. Ant, ast for honesty,
you see, Mortaunt, it is tifferent petween T'ousantacres and
his poys. T'e lats haf peen prought up to fancy t'ere ist
no great harm in lif'ing on anot'er man's lants, wherast t'is
olt rascal, t'eir fat'er, wast prought up, or t'inks he wast
prought up, in t'e very sanctum sanctorum of gotliness,
among t'e puritans, and t'at t'e 'art' hast not t'eir equals in
religion, I 'll warrant you. Ask olt Aaron apout his soul,
ant he 'll tell you t'at it 's a petter soul t'an a Dutch soul,
and t'at it won't purn at all, it 's so free from eart'. Yes,
yes—t'at ist t'e itee wit' 'em all in his part of t'e worlt.
T'eir gotliness ist so pure even sin wilt do it no great
harm.”

I knew the provincial prejudices of Chainbearer too well
to permit myself to fall into a discussion on theology with
him, just at that moment; though, I must do the old man
the justice to allow that his opinion of the self-righteousness
of the children of the puritans was not absolutely without
some apology. I never had any means of ascertaining the
fact, but it would have occasioned me no surprise had I discovered
that Thousandacres, and all his brood, looked down
on us New Yorkers as an especially fallen and sinful race,
which was on the high road to perdition, though encouraged
and invited to enter on a different road by the spectacle of a
chosen people so near them, following the strait and narrow
path that leads to heaven. This mingling of God and
Mammon is by no means an uncommon thing among us,
though the squatters would probably have admitted themselves
that they had fallen a little away, and were by no
means as good as their forefathers had once been. There
is nothing that sticks so close to an individual, or to a community,
perhaps, as the sense of its own worth. As “coming
events throw their shadows before,” this sentiment
leaves its shadows behind, long after the substance which
may have produced them has moved onward, or been resolved
into the gases. But I must return to Zephaniah and
the note.

“And you tell me, Chainbearer, that Ursula has actually
written a note, a letter, to this young man?” I asked, as

soon as I could muster resolution enough to put so revolting
a question?

“Sartain; here it ist, ant a very pretty lookin' letter it
is, Mortaunt. Dus does everyt'ing so hantily, ant so like a
nice young woman, t'at it ist a pleasure to carry one of her
letters. Ay—t'ere t'e lat ist now, and I 'll just call him,
and gif him his own.”

Chainbearer was as good as his word, and Zephaniah
soon stood at the side of the store-house.

“Well, you wilt own, Zeph,” continued the old man, “we
didn't cage you like a wilt peast, or a rogue t'at hast peen
mettlin' wit' what tidn't pelong to him, when you wast out
among us. T'ere ist t'at difference in t'e treatment—put no
matter! Here ist a letter for you, and much goot may it
do you! It comes from one who vilt gif goot atvice; ant
you 'll be none t'e worse if you follow it. I don't know a
wort t'at 's in it, put you 'll fint it a goot letter, I 'll answer
for it. Dus writes peautiful letters, and in a hand almost
as plain and hantsome as His Excellency's, t'ough not quite
so large. Put her own hant isn't as large as His Excellency's,
t'ough His Excellency's hant wasn't particularly
pig neit'er.”

I could scarce believe my senses! Here was Ursula
Malbone confessedly writing a letter to a son of Thousandacres
the squatter, and that son admitted to be her admirer!
Devoured by jealousy, and a thousand feelings to which I
had hitherto been a stranger, I gazed at the fortunate being
who was so strangely honoured by this communication from
Dus, with the bitterest envy. Although, to own the truth,
the young squatter was a well-grown, good-looking fellow,
to me he seemed to be the very personification of coarseness
and vulgarity. It will readily be supposed that Zephaniah
was not entirely free from some very just imputations of the
latter character; but, on the whole, most girls of his own
class in life would be quite content with him in these respects.
But Ursula Malbone was not at all of his own class
in life. However reduced in fortune, she was a lady, by
education as well as by birth; and what feelings could there
possibly be in common between her and her strange admirer?
I had heard it said that women were as often taken

by externals as men; but in this instance the externals were
coarse, and nothing extraordinary. Some females, too,
could not exist without admiration; and I had known Dus
but a few weeks, after all, and it was possible I had not penetrated
the secret of her true character. Then her original
education had been in the forest; and we often return to
our first loves, in these particulars, with a zest and devotion
for which there was no accounting. It was possible this
strange girl might have portrayed to her imagination, in the
vista of the future, more of happiness and wild enjoyment
among the woods and ravines of stolen clearings, than by
dwelling amid the haunts of men. In short, there was
scarce a conceit that did not crowd on my brain, in that
moment of intense jealousy and profound unhappiness. I
was as miserable as a dog.

As for Zephaniah, the favoured youth of Ursula Malbone,
he received his letter, as I fancied, with an awkward surprise,
and lounged round a corner of the building, to have
the pleasure, as it might be, of reading it to himself. This
brought him nearer to my position; for I had withdrawn,
in a disgust I could not conquer, from being near the scene
that had just been enacted.

Opening a letter, though it had been folded by the delicate
hands of Ursula Malbone, and reading it, were two very
different operations, as Zephaniah now discovered. The
education of the young man was very limited, and, after an
effort or two, he found it impossible to get on. With the
letter open in his hand, he found it as much a sealed book
to him as ever. Zephaniah could read writing, by dint of
a considerable deal of spelling; but it must not be a good
hand. As some persons cannot comprehend pure English,
so he found far more difficulty in spelling out the pretty,
even characters before him, than would have been the case
had he been set at work on the pot-hooks and trammels of
one of his own sisters. Glancing his eyes around in quest
of aid, they happened to fall on mine, which were watching
his movements with the vigilance of a feline animal, through
the chinks of the logs, and at the distance of only three feet
from his own face. As for the Indian, he, seemingly, took
no more note of what was passing, than lovers take of time
in a stolen interview; though I had subsequently reason to

believe that nothing had escaped his observation. Andries
was in a distant part of the prison, reconnoitring the clearing
and mills with an interest that absorbed all his attention
for the moment. Of these facts Zephaniah assured himself
by taking a look through the openings of the logs; then,
sidling along nearer to me, he said in a low voice—

“I don't know how it is, but, to tell you the truth, Major
Littlepage, York larnin' and Varmount larnin' be so different,
that I don't find it quite as easy to read this letter as I could
wish.”

On this hint I seized the epistle, and began to read it in a
low tone; for Zephaniah asked this much of me, with a
delicacy of feeling that, in so far, was to his credit. As
the reader may have some of the curiosity I felt myself, to
know what Ursula Malbone could possibly have to say in
this form to Zephaniah Thousandacres, I shall give the contents
of this strange epistle in full. It was duly directed to
“Mr. Zephaniah Timberman, Mooseridge,” and in that
respect would have passed for any common communication.
Within, it read as follows:—

What a strange girl was this Dus! I suppose it is unnecessary
to say that I felt profoundly ashamed of my late
jealousy, which now seemed just as absurd and unreasonable
as, a moment before, it seemed justified and plausible.
God protect the wretch who is the victim of that evil-eyed
passion! He who is jealous of circumstances, in the ordinary
transactions of life, usually makes a fool of himself,
by seeing a thousand facts that exist in his own brain only;
but he whose jealousy is goaded on by love, must be something
more than human, not to let the devils get a firm grasp
of his soul. I can give no better illustration of the weakness
that this last passion induces, however, than the admission
I have just made, that I believed it possible Ursula
Malbone could love Zephaniah Thousandacres, or whatever
might be his real name. I have since pulled at my own
hair, in rage at my own folly, as that moment of weakness
has recurred to my mind.

“She writes a desp'rate letter!” exclaimed the young
squatter, stretching his large frame, like one who had lost
command of his movements through excitement. “I
don't b'lieve, Major, the like of that gal is to be found in
York, taken as state or colony! I 've a dreadful likin' for
her!”

It was impossible not to smile at this outpouring of attachment;
nor, on the whole, would I have been surprised at
the ambition it inferred, had the youth been but a very little
higher in the social scale. Out of the large towns, and
with here and there an exception in favour of an isolated
family, there is not, even to this day, much distinction in
classes among our eastern brethren. The great equality
of condition and education that prevails, as a rule, throughout
all the rural population of New England, while it has
done so much for the great body of their people, has had
its inevitable consequences in lowering the standard of cultivation
among the few, both as it is applied to acquirements,
and to the peculiar notions of castes; and nothing is more
common in that part of the world, than to hear of marriages
that elsewhere would have been thought incongruous,
for the simple reason of the difference in ordinary habits
and sentiments between the parties. Thus it was, that
Zephaniah, without doing as much violence to his own, as
would be done to our notions of the fitness of things, might
aspire to the hand of Ursula Malbone; unattended, as she
certainly was, by any of the outward and more vulgar
signs of her real character. I could not but feel some
respect for the young man's taste, therefore, and this so
much the more readily, because I no longer was haunted
by the very silly phantom of his possible success.

“Having this regard for Dus,” I said, “I hope I may
count on your following her directions.”

“What way can I sarve you, Major? I do vow, I 've
every wish to do as Ursula asks of me, if I only know'd
how.”

“You can undo the fastenings of our prison, here, and
let us go at once into the woods, where we shall be safe
enough against a re-capture, depend on it. Do us that
favour, and I will give you fifty acres of land, on which
you can settle down, and become an honest man. Remember,

it will be something honourable to own fifty acres of
good land, in fee.”

Zephaniah pondered on my tempting offer, and I could
see that he wavered in opinion, but the decision was adverse
to my wishes. He shook his head, looked round wistfully
at the woods where he supposed Dus then to be, possibly
watching his very movements, but he would not yield.

“If a father can't trust his own son, who can he trust,
in natur'?” demanded the young squatter.

“No one should be aided in doing wrong, and your father
has no just right to shut up us three, in this building,
as he has done. The deed is against the law, and to the
law, sooner or later, will he be made to give an account
of it.”

“Oh! as for the law, he cares little for that. We 've
been ag'in law all our lives, and the law is ag'in us. When
a body comes to take the chance of jurors, and witnesses,
and lawyers, and poor attorney-gin'rals, and careless prosecutors,
law 's no great matter to stand out ag'in, in this
country. I s'pose there is countries in which law counts
for suthin'; but, hereabouts, and all through Varmount, we
don't kear much for the law, unless it 's a matter between
man and man, and t'other side holds out for his rights, bulldog
fashion. Then, I allow, it 's suthin' to have the law on
your side; but it 's no great matter in a trespass case.”

“This may not end in a trespass case, however. Your
father—by the way, is Thousandacres much hurt?”

“Not much to speak on,” coolly answered the son, still
gazing in the direction of the woods. “A little stunned,
but he 's gettin' over it fast, and he 's used to sich rubs.
Father 's desp'rate solid about the head, and can stand as
much sledgehammering there, as any man I ever seed.
Tobit 's tough, too, in that part; and he 's need of it, for
he 's for ever getting licks around the forehead and eyes.”

“And, as your father comes to, what seems to be his disposition
towards us?”

“Nothin' to speak on, in the way of friendship, I can tell
you! The old man 's considerable riled; and when that 's
the case, he 'll have his own way for all the governors and
judges in the land!”

“Do you suppose he meditates any serious harm to us
prisoners?”

“A man doosn't meditate a great deal, I guess, with such
a rap on the skull. He feels a plaguy sight more than he
thinks; and when the feelin's is up, it doosn't matter much
who 's right and who 's wrong. The great difficulty in your
matter is how to settle about the lumber that 's in the creek.
The water 's low; and the most that can be done with it,
afore November, will be to float it down to the next rift, over
which it can never go, with any safety, without more water.
It 's risky to keep one like you, and to keep Chainbearer,
too, three or four months, in jail like; and it wunt do to let
you go neither, sin' you 'd soon have the law a'ter us. If
we keep you, too, there 'll be a s'arch made, and a reward
offered. Now a good many of your tenants know of this
clearin', and human natur' can't hold out ag'in a reward.
The old man knows that well; and it 's what he most afeard
on. We can stand up ag'in almost anything better's than
ag'in a good, smart reward.”

I was amused as well as edified with Zephaniah's simplicity
and frankness, and would willingly have pursued the
discourse, had not Lowiny come tripping towards us, summoning
her brother away to attend a meeting of the family;
the old squatter having so far recovered as to call a council
of his sons. The brother left me on the instant, but the
girl lingered at my corner of the store-house, like one who
was reluctant to depart.

“I hope the hasty-puddin' was sweet and good,” said
Lowiny, casting a timid glance in at the chink.

“It was excellent, my good girl, and I thank you for it
with all my heart. Are you very busy now?—can, you
remain a moment while I make a request?”

“Oh! there 's nothin' for me to do just now in the house,
seein' that father has called the b'ys around him. Whenever
he doos that, even mother is apt to quit.”

“I am glad of it, as I think you are so kind-hearted and
good, that I may trust you in a matter of some importance;
may I not, my good Lowiny?”

“Squatters' da'ghters may be good, then, a'ter all, in the
eyes of grand landholders!”

“Certainly—excellent even; and I am much disposed to

believe that you are one of that class.” Lowiny looked
delighted; and I felt less reluctance at administering this
flattery than might otherwise have been the case, from the
circumstance that so much of what I said was really merited.

“Indeed, I know you are, and quite unfitted for this sort
of life. But I must tell you my wishes at once, for our time
may be very short.”

“Do,” said the girl, looking up anxiously, a slight blush
suffusing her face; the truth-telling sign of ingenuous feelings,
and the gage of virtue; “do, for I 'm dying to hear
it; as I know beforehand I shall do just what you ask me
to do. I don't know how it is, but when father or mother
ask me to do a thing, I sometimes feel as if I couldn't; but
I don't feel so now, at all.”

“My requests do not come often enough to tire you.
Promise me, in the first place, to keep my secret.”

“That I will!” answered Lowiny, promptly, and with
emphasis. “Not a mortal soul shall know anything on 't,
and I won't so much as talk of it in my sleep, as I sometimes
do, if I can any way help it.”

“Chainbearer has a niece, who is very dear to him, and
who returns all his affection. Her name is—”

“Dus Malbone,” interrupted the girl, with a faint laugh.
“Zeph has told me all about her, for Zeph and I be great
fri'nds—he tells me everything, and I tell him everything.
It 's sich a comfort, you can't think, to have somebody to
tell secrets to;—well, what of Dus?”

“She is here.”

“Here! I don't see anything on her” — looking round
hurriedly, and, as I fancied, in a little alarm — “Zeph says
she 's dreadful han'some!”

“She is thought so, I believe; though, in that respect,
she is far from being alone. There is no want of pretty
girls in America. By saying she is here, I did not mean
here, in the store-house, but here, in the woods. She accompanied
her uncle as far as the edge of the clearing —
look round, more towards the east. Do you see the black
stub, in the corn-field, behind your father's dwelling?”

“Sartain — that 's plain enough to be seen — I wish I
could see Albany as plain.”

“Now, look a little to the left of that stub, and you will

see a large chestnut, in the edge of the woods behind it —
the chestnut I mean thrusts its top out of the forest, into the
clearing, as it might be.”

“Well, I see the chestnut too, and I know it well. There 's
a spring of water cluss to its roots.”

“At the foot of that chestnut Chainbearer left his niece,
and doubtless she is somewhere near it now. Could you
venture to stroll as far, without going directly to the spot,
and deliver a message, or a letter?”

“To be sure I could! Why, we gals stroll about the
lots as much as we please, and it 's berryin' time now. I 'll
run and get a basket, and you can write your letter while
I 'm gone. La! Nobody will think anything of my goin' a
berryin'—I have a desp'rate wish to see this Dus! Do you
think she 'll have Zeph?”

“Young women's minds are so uncertain, that I should
not like to venture an opinion. If it were one of my own
sex, now, and he had declared his wishes, I think I could
tell you with some accuracy.”

The girl laughed; then she seemed a little bewildered,
and again she coloured. How the acquired — nay native
feeling of the sex, will rise up in tell-tale ingenuousness to
betray a woman!

“Well,” she cried, as she ran away in quest of the basket,
“to my notion a gal's mind is as true and as much to be
depended on as that of any mortal crittur' living!”

It was now my business to write a note to Dus. The
materials for writing my pocket-book furnished. I tore out
a leaf, and approached Chainbearer, telling him what I was
about to do, and desiring to know if he had any particular
message to send.

“Gif t'e tear gal my plessin', Mortaunt. Tell her olt
Chainpearer prays Got to pless her—t'at ist all. I leaf you
to say t'e rest.”

I did say the rest. In the first place I sent the blessing
of the uncle to the niece. Then, I explained in as few words
as possible, our situation, giving it as promising an aspect
as my conscience would permit. These explanations made,
I entreated Ursula to return to her brother, and not again
expose herself so far from his protection. Of the close of
this note, I shall not say much. It was brief, but it let Dus

understand that my feelings towards her were as lively as
ever; and I believe it was expressed with the power that
passion lends. My note was ended just as Lowiny appeared
to receive it. She brought us a pitcher of milk, as a sort
of excuse for returning to the store-house, received the note
in exchange, and hurried away towards the fields. As she
passed one of the cabins, I heard her calling out to a sister
that she was going for blackberries to give the prisoners.

I watched the movements of that active girl with intense
interest. Chainbearer, who had slept little since my disappearance,
was making up for lost time; and, as for the Indian,
eating and sleeping are very customary occupations
of his race, when not engaged in some hunt, or on the war-path,
or as a runner.

Lowiny proceeded towards a lot of which the bushes had
taken full possession. Here she soon disappeared, picking
berries as she proceeded, with nimble fingers, as if she felt
the necessity of having some of the fruit to show on her return.
I kept my eye fastened on the openings of the forest,
near the chestnut, as soon as the girl was concealed in the
bushes, anxiously waiting for the moment when I might see
her form re-appearing at that spot. My attention was renewed
by getting a glimpse of Dus. It was but a glimpse,
the fluttering of a female dress gliding among the trees; but,
as it was too soon for the arrival of Lowiny, I knew it must
be Dus. This was cheering, as it left little reason to doubt
that my messenger would find the object of her visit. In
the course of half an hour after Lowiny entered the bushes
I saw her, distinctly, near the foot of the chestnut. Pausing
a moment, as if to reconnoitre, the girl suddenly moved into
the forest, when I made no doubt she and Dus had a meeting.
An entire hour passed, and I saw no more of Lowiny.

In the meanwhile Zephaniah made his appearance again
at the side of the store-house. This time he came accompanied
by two of his brethren, holding the key in his hand.
At first I supposed the intention was to arraign me before
the high court of Thousandacres, but in this I was in error.
No sooner did the young men reach the door of our prison
than Zephaniah called out to the Onondago to approach it,
as he had something to say to him.

It must be dull work to a red-skin to be shut up like a

hog afore it 's wrung,” said the youth, drawing his images
from familiar objects; “and I s'pose you 'd be right glad to
come out here and walk about, something like a free and
rational crittur'. What do you say, Injin—is sich your
desire?”

“Sartain,” quietly answered Sureflint. “Great deal radder
be out dan be in here.”

“So I nat'rally s'posed. Well, the old man says you
can come out on promises, if you 're disposed to make 'em.
So you 're master of your own movements, you see.”

“What he want me do? What he want me say, eh?”

“No great matter, a'ter all, if a body has only a mind to
try to do it. In the first place, you 're to give your parole
not to go off; but to stay about the clearin', and to come in
and give yourself up when the conch blows three short
blasts. Will you agree to that, Sus?”

“Sartain—no go 'way; come back when he call—dat
mean stay where he can hear conch.”

“Well, that 's agreed on, and it 's a bargain. Next,
you 're to agree not to go pryin' round the mill and barn,
to see what you can find, but keep away from all the buildin's
but the store-'us' and the dwellings, and not to quit the
clearin'. Do you agree?”

“Good; no hard to do dat.”

“Well, you 're to bring no weepons into the settlement,
and to pass nothing but words and food into the other prisoners.
Will you stand to that?”

“Sartain; willin' 'nough to do dat, too.”

“Then you 're in no manner or way to make war on any
on us 'till your parole is up, and you 're your own man
ag'in. What do you say to that, Trackless?”

“All good; 'gree to do him all.”

“Wa-a-l, that 's pretty much all the old man stands out
for; but mother has a condition or two that she insists on 't
I shall ask. Should the worst come to the worst, and the
folks of this settlement get to blows with the folks out of it,
you 're to bargain to take no scalps of women or children,
and none from any man that you don't overcome in open
battle. The old woman will grant you the scalps of men
killed in battle, but thinks it ag'in reason to take 'em from
sich as be not so overcome.”

“Good; don't want to take scalp at all,” answered the
Indian, with an emotion he could not altogether suppress.
“Got no tribe—got no young men; what good scalp do?
Nobody care how many scalp Susquesus take away—how
many he leave behind. All dat forgot long time.”

“Wa-a-l, that 's your affair, not mine. But, as all the
articles is agreed to, you can come out, and go about your
business. Mind, three short, sharp blasts on the conch is
the signal to come in and give yourself up.”

On this singular cartel Susquesus was set at liberty. I
heard the whole arrangement with astonishment; though,
by the manner of the high contracting parties, it was easy
to see there was nothing novel in the arrangement, so far
as they were concerned. I had heard that the faith of an
Indian of any character, in all such cases, was considered
sacred, and could not but ask myself, as Susquesus walked
quietly out of prison, how many potentates and powers there
were in Christendom who, under circumstances similarly
involving their most important interests, could be found to
place a similar confidence in their fellows! Curious to
know how my present masters felt on this subject, the opportunity
was improved to question them.

“You give the Indian his liberty on parole,” I said to
Zephaniah—“will you refuse the same privilege to us white
men?”

“An Injin is an Injin. He has his natur', and we 've
our 'n. Suthin' was said about lettin' you out, too, major;
but the old man wouldn't hear to it. `He know'd mankind,'
he said, `and he know'd 't would never do.' If you
let a white man loose, he sets his wits at work to find a hole
to creep out on the bargain—goin' back to the creation of
the 'arth but he 'll find one. The major will say I was put
in ag'in' law, and now I 'm out, I 'll stay out ag'in' promises,
or some sich reasonin', and now we have him safe,
't will be best to keep him safe! That 's the substance of
the old man's idees, and you can see, major, just as well as
any on us, how likely he 'll be to change 'em.”

There was no contending with this logic, which in secret
I well knew to be founded in fact, and I made no further
application for my own release. It appeared, however, that
Thousandacres himself was half-disposed to make a concession

in favour of Chainbearer, similar to that he had granted
to the Indian. This struck me as singular, after the rude
collision that had already occurred between the two men—
but there are points of honour that are peculiar to each condition
of life, and which the men of each feel a pride not
only in causing to be respected, but in respecting themselves.

“Father had some thoughts of taking your parole, too,
Chainbearer,” added Zephaniah, “and he concluded he
would, hadn't it been that you 've been living out in the settlements
so much of late years, that he 's not quite easy in
trusting you. A man that passes so much of his time in
running boundaries, may think himself privileged to step
over them.”

“Your fat'er ist welcome to his opinion,” answered Andries
coolly. “He 'll get no parole of me, nor do I want any
favours of him. We are at sword's p'ints, young man, and
let him look out for himself and his lumper as pest he
can.”

“Nay,” answered Zephaniah, stretching himself, and
answering with spirit, though he well knew he was speaking
to the uncle of Dus, and thereby endangering his interests
with his mistress—“nay, Chainbearer, if it comes to
that, 't will be `hardest fend off.' We are a strong party
of stout men, and arn't to be frightened by the crier of a
court, or to be druv' off the land by sheep-skin. Catamounts
must come ag'in' us in droves, afore we 'll give an
inch.”

“Go away, go away—foolish young fellow—you 're your
fat'er's son, and t'at 's as much as neet pe said of you. I
want no favours from squatters, which ist a preed I tetest
and tespise.”

I was a little surprised at hearing this answer, and at
witnessing this manifestation of feeling in Chainbearer, who,
ordinarily, was a cool, and uniformly a courteous man. On
reflection, however, I saw he was not so wrong. An exchange
of anything like civilities between us and our captors,
might seem to give them some claim on us; whereas,
by standing on the naked right, we had every advantage of
them, in a moral sense, at least. Zephaniah and his brethren
left us, on receiving this repulse of Andries; but Susquesus

kept loitering around the store-house, apparently little
better off, now he was on its outside, than he had been when
in it. He had nothing to do, and his idleness was that of
an Indian—one of a race of such terrible energies, when
energy is required, and so frequently listless, when not
pressed upon by necessity, pleasure, war, or interest.

Things were in this state, when, some time after the interview
just related, we had another visit from a party
headed by Tobit. This man came to escort Chainbearer
and myself to the cabin of Thousandacres, where all the
men of the family were assembled; and where, as it now
appeared, we were to have something like a hearing, that
might seriously affect our fates, for good or for evil. I
consulted Chainbearer on the propriety of our lending ourselves
to such a measure; but I found Andries disposed to
meet the brood of squatters, face to face, and to tell them
his mind, let it be when and where it might. Finding my
friend in this temper, I made no farther objections myself,
but left the storehouse in his company, well guarded by four
of the young men, all of whom were armed, holding our
way to the seat of justice, in that wild and patriarchal
government.