University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

About half an hour after the sun had set on a clear, starry evening
in September, 182—, a small boat, pulled by a single oarsman,
shot out from a deep cove, just above the Highlands, and rowed
along the shore in the direction of a gray stone villa, situated on the
river's bank, half a mile above. The oarsman was a young man of
fair complexion and slight in person; but there was an expression
in his clear blue eye of mingled pride and resolution. He was
dressed in a plain dark frock, without pretension to style; and
beside him, for he rowed bareheaded, was laid a sort of foraging
cap, rudely made of the skins of squirrels, trophies of his own skill
at the rifle. The expression of his countenance was cheerful and
animated; and, as he pulled the light skiff over the glassy surface,
he bummed the air of `Bonny Boat' in a low and musical voice,
to the measure of which the regular `clack' and dip of his slender
oars, chimed in not unmusical accompaniment.

As he pulled along, the heavens overhead were yet warm with
the lingering hues of the glowing west; and the broad river, reflecting
its roseate dyes, its stars, and its pearly clouds, looked like another
firmament beneath. The Highlands rose in dark and towering
majesty around him, laying in sharp, bold relief against the sky, and
casting their black, unillumined shadows half across the lake-like
bosom of the Hudson. Far below, the lights of the military post
sparkled like planets resting on the horizon's verge, or fitfully
gleamed in long, rippling lines over the water. Numerous small
vessels, their sails now gray in the thickening gloom of night, glided
along like flitting shades; ever and anon the dull sound of a block
falling upon the hollow deck, the sharp creaking of a tiller, or the
clattering of a rope being borne shoreward and echoed from the
cliffs. From a sloop becalmed, near an overhanging headland, floated
at intervals the deep-toned song of the mariner as he lounged on
the forecastle, mingled with the hoarse cry of a far-off skipper, giving
an order to his crew; while leagues below could be seen, relieved
against the shadows of the mountain's base, the sparkling
train of some steamboat, rounding a distant headland of the winding
river. Lights grouped on a hill-side, on the opposite bank, showed
where stood the pleasant town of Newberg, while a small hamlet,
faintly seen in the twilight, on the shore whence the skiff was unmoored,
marked the site of the picturesque village of Cold Spring.

The cove from which the oarsman emerged, was a deep romantic
inlet, scooped out by nature at the base of a majestic wall of cliff,
that, dark with pine and larch, towered several hundred feet in
height, above it. At its foot, where it met the ripple of the waves,
there wound along the beach of the cove a smooth post-road, leading
between Cold Spring and the town of Peekskill. From this
road, two thirds of a mile above the cove, a gate led into a private
carriage-way, which conducted through well-wooded grounds badly
kept, to an old mansion-house of the last century, sitting on a verdant
spur of the cliff, and commanding a view of the Hudson for
many a league. This seat was known as `Kirkwood,' and its former
proprietor had once the honor of entertaining beneath its roof
Washington and his suite. But it had passed out of its original
possessor's hands, and was now owned by Mr. Beasely Powell, who,
having been of the commissariat during the late war, had amassed a
fortune; and from low birth and associations, had got himself into
a degree of consideration and influence, which he had neither the
talents, nor the education, nor the personal character otherwise to
have obtained. He was now a widower, with one son in his eighteenth
year, Duncan Powell, whom he destined for the army, if the
efforts he was now making to get him into West Point should
turn out successful.

Not far from Kirkwood, stood the less pretending dwelling of the
widow of an American captain of horse, who fell at Plattsburg.
The house was a plain two-story structure, painted straw color,
and was separated from the highway only by a narrow yard, half
vegetable, half-flower garden. Before it slept the cove, from which
we have seen the boat issue, and opposite, obliquely across the river,
towered the majestic head of old Cro'nest, the monarch of the Highlands.
The widow's only support was a small pension, and her life,
though humble and one of poverty, was yet peaceful. She had an
only son, about the age of Duncan Powell, of whom she was proud,
and whom she indulged in all his whims, with a fond and doting
mother's weakness. The two young men, though so opposite in
fortune, had managed to get very intimate; for Duncan found Paul
Tatnall a fearless and willing companion in all the hardy sports of
hill and water, they were both partial to. The heir was a handsome,
high-spirited youth, fearless and imperative in his character,
with the dark eye and raven locks of a Castilian. He was ambitious
of distinction in fashionable life; and, unfortunately, he had
already early manifested the elements of dissipation in his character,
in a love of gambling and of convivial pleasures. His father
was close and avaricious. Kirkwood had fallen into his hands not
by purchase, but by a mortage which he was obliged to foreclose;
and not being able to sell it, he removed into it from an old house
in the opposite suburbs of Newberg. Too parsimonious to repair
the ravages of time and neglect, he suffered its grounds to run to
underbrush, its lawn to be disfigured with weeds and look desolate,
with tumble-down fences, and half of the shutters to hang dilapidated
from the windows; content, so he had the name of owning Kirkwood,
with his son and housekeeper to inhabit one wing of the once noble
mansion-house. The education of Duncan was partly obtained at
the neighboring academies, from one to the other of which, his
saving father changed him till he could find which was the cheapest;
it was therefore miscellaneous, crude, and superficial; while his
morals were by no means improved by his varied opportunities.
He had now been at home several months, spending his time hunting,
fishing, boating, and riding, waiting for admission to West
Point; not that he particularly aspired to military eminence, but he
desired, in addition to the great wealth he would inherit, the eclat
of a military designation; his intention being to resign from the
army when he should have obtained his lieutenancy, and then live
the gay life of pleasure he often loved to picture to himself.

Paul Tatnall was a pale young man, slight in make and undersized
in height, but of great personal activity and muscular power.
His keen blue eye and firm mouth—the lips, delicate to effeminancy
— betrayed the possession of a quick, fiery spirit, that would
do and dare! He was intelligent and better educated than Powell —
for his mother had been his instructor. The retirement in which he
lived with his mother, to whom he was devoted, as well as his scantiness
on account of his extreme poverty, had kept him from making
acquaintances in the neighboring village. He was the companion
of Duncan Powell only, therefore; who, from the accident of his
being his nearest neighbor, rather than from any congeniality of
temper between the two, daily associated with him in fishing, gunning,
and other hardy sports of a country life. They had first met
four years before, a few days after Mr. Powell had removed to Kirkwood,
when Duncan had taken his gun and ascended the cliff in
pursuit of a hawk that had carried off a pet rabbit from the yard,
and which he had seen alight upon its nest, in the crotch of an old
tree, halfway up the mountain. He had gained the foot of the pine,
and was standing at a dizzy height, on a narrow ledge of the cliff,
with his aim covering the bird, and was just drawing the trigger,
when he saw a lad spring from a spur of the rock, forty feet above
his head, boldly into the nest, and seize the hawk by the neck.
The distance so daringly leaped was full ten feet, and the huge tree
trembled to its iron-bound roots with the shock, while the gun,
which he had instantly depressed in his surprise, went off, discharging
its contents into the dimpled river below him.

The stranger lad was scarcely fourteen, and slight and delicate;

and he soon found that his strength was not equal to his fearless
courage. For a few moments Dunean beheld them engage in a
fierce struggle, when, obeying the natural gallantry of his spirit, he
threw down his gun, and shouting to him to `hold out,' he began to
climb the tree to his assistance. Before, however, he had got half
way up, he heard the hawk descending, rushing and fluttering downward
past his head; and the next moment, dashing from rock to
rock, he saw him plunge into the gulf beneath, while the heroic
victor, shouting aloud, held up the rescued rabbit in triumph. In
another moment, Duncan was by the hold boy's side.

`Is Tom hurt?' he first inquired, in boyish anxiety, for his favorite.

`He has a deep gash in the neck, and another in his flank, but his
eye looks lively,' answered the other, promptly.

`Poor Tom!' said Duncan, caressing the trembling animal. `But
you did for the blasted bird! How did you master him? I thought
one time you would both go tumbling down the cliff!'

`I thrust my knife into his brain,' answered the boy, resolutely,
and exhibiting a small penknife smeared with blood.

Duncan gazed upon the slight form of the boy with admiration,
and instantly took his hand.

`Let us be friends. Who are you?'

`My name is Paul Tatnall,' said he, hesitatingly, and receiving
the grasp rather than giving his hand.

`Did you see the hawk bearing off Tom?'

`I was in the defile there when I discovered him making for his
nest. I knew the way to it by the back of the cliff, and I got here
soon after he alighted.'

`It was a daring leap,' said Duncan, measuring the distance between
them and the rock, and then fathoming with his dizzy eye
the depth below.

`Not for a firm foot and steady eye,' he replied quietly, smiling.

`One moment later, and you would have got the charge of my
gun. Poor Tom! how he whines! Let us go down. You must
go with me to Kirkwood. We are to be friends.'

`Are you the son of the rich Mr. Powell?'

`Yes.'

`Then we can never be friends. I am poor.'

`What has it to do with boys what our parents are? I am going
after plover tomorrow. Do you know where I can find plenty of
game?'

`Yes, I will go with you,' answered Paul, with animation.

This matter being settled, the two lads descended the pine, and
were soon at the foot of the cliff on their way to Kirkwood. From
this day they were much together; but Paul rather endured than
encouraged Duncan's friendship: for he was poor, and, like most
poor boys of education, proud, sensitive, and reserved in associating
with the rich. He was always fearing some occasion would
transpire, when Duncan would make him feel his inferiority of
fortune; and was jealously on the watch for it. Duncan at length
favored him; for, with all his boyish independence, he could not
help assuming a little upon his higher position. So one day, having
killed a brace of pigeons, flying, which fell into the water, he called
rather peremptorily to Paul to wade in and bring them out.

Paul, who was walking before him, with his gun upon his arm,
and his game-bag slung across his shoulders well filled with birds,
instantly turned round and answered fiercely — fiercely for one with
his mild, blue-eyed, and hale countenance,—

`Fetch your own birds, Duncan Powell.'

`What is the matter now, Paul?' asked Duncan, with a flashing
eye.

`That I am not to be your water-dog. You would not have bade
me bring out those birds if I had been a rich man's son.'

`Folly! I asked you because you were nearer to them.'

`It was because I was poor — and you thought you could lord it
over me.'

`Then, to tell the truth, I did, Paul!' said Duncan, speaking
slowly and determinedly. `And now, as you are so quick to comprehend,
you shall obey.'

`I obey, Duncan Powell?' repeated Paul, springing towards him,
with a cheek as colorless as marble.

`Yes. You shall bring out those birds and lay them at my feet,'
answered the other, in the same determined tone.

`We will see who is the best able to enforce his commands,' muttered
Paul, laying down his gun, and unbuckling his game-bag.
`Now, if you can whip me I will bring the birds ashore; but, if I
whip you, you shall go into the water and get them, and give them
to me.'

`Done,' said Duncan, smiling proudly, as he laid his gun and bag
upon a rock beside him.

In a few seconds both were stripped to the encounter. Duncan
was four inches taller than his antagonist, broader and fuller across
the chest, and much heavier in weight, Paul being slight built, but
remarkable for nervous activity. Duncan struck the first blow, and,
confident of victory, incautiously laid himself open. The accuracy
and rapidity of Paul's blows, however, taught him greater caution.
He had been accounted a notable boxer, at school; but he soon found
he was inferior to his antagonist, who, the fifth round, laid him
senseless upon the sward.

`He has got a lesson now — and henceforth I am willing to take
his friendship, and be quits with him,' said Paul, as he hastened to
the river-side to fill his hunting flask with water, for the purpose of
restoring him. Kneeling beside him, he bathed his temples till he
revived, and then assisted him to his feet.

`You have fairly beat, Paul,' said Duncan, smiling as well as he
could for a half-closed eye and a thick upper lip, `and the birds are
yours.'

The tide, by this time, had driven them in within reach of his
ramrod, with which he drew them to land; and taking them up he
gave them to Paul.

`Now, Paul, we understand one another better than before,' he
said, cheerfully. `Here's my hand.'

They grasped each other's hands, so lately dealing, in the shape
of squared fists, terrible blows upon one another's marred visages,
and then resuming their jackets and hunting appurtenances, walked
homeward, better and more confidential friends, than they had ever
yet been, though eighteen months had now elapsed, since their first
meeting at the hawk's nest.

From this time, up to the evening of the opening of our story,
nothing occurred to mar the harmony of their companionship. The
widow occasionally had cautioned her son, against too close intimacy
with one, about whose character rumor had certain stories
circulating; such, for instance, as nocturnal visits to an old deserted
house, at Buttermilk Falls, on the opposite side of the river, to
revel with dissipated cadets. Paul, however, defended his friend
with a blush, for he himself was not innocent of participation in
the nocturnœ, at the old ruin at the Falls. Alas! having weakly
yielded once, to Powell's solicitations to accompany him on one
occasion, he had afterwards engaged in these orgies voluntarily, to
the peril of that simplicity, integrity, and moral rectitude of character,
which his mother had inculcated in all her lessons, both of the
heart and of the book. In a word, Paul's intimacy with Duncan
Powell, had early initiated him into the first steps of dissipation;
and, by bringing him into the social circle of young men, whom his
humble condition would prevent him from afterwards associating
with, inspired him with ideas above himself and his circumstances,
which would prevent him from engaging, with proper feelings, in
the pursuit for which his mother designed him. This was that of
a printer! She had in New York a brother, who was an extensive
job printer, with whom she had long intended to place him, his uncle
having signified, in reply to a letter which she had written to him
three years before upon the subject, his willingness to take him.
But spring followed winter, and autumn summer, and year after
year went by, and yet the lone widow could not make up her mind
to spare her only stay; and so she put off the evil day of separation,
till he had now reached his eighteenth year. The danger he incurred,
from his intimacy with the rich, dissolute heir of Kirkwood,
and the necessity of his acquiring some trade, now rendered it
imperative upon her, to see that, without further delay, he was sent
to his uncle. She had signified her wish to him, the day on which
our tale opens; and, as her wish to him had the authority of a law, he
cheerfully expressed his willingness to obey her; for he had long
been looking forward to the period when this would be his destiny.
Like many weak-minded young men, he had no silly and erroneous
notions about `respectability,' thinking it would be any more genteel
and reputable for him, to enter life behind a counter, than at
the `form,' in a printing office. His mother was a pious, sensible,
and highly intellectual woman, and had carefully educated him to
the condition in which she felt he must live. So there was no sense
of shame felt by him, at the idea of being placed with a printer,
instead of being put in a store. It is true, if he could have had his
wish, he would have been glad to have entered college; for study, to
his inquiring and intellectual mind, was a pleasure which he felt to
be superior to every other earthly gratification.

Next to the sad idea of separation from his beloved mother, was
the thought of another and tenderer parting! On the banks of the
Hudson, a mile above his own dwelling, stood, upon a romantic
headland, a stone cottage, with a lawn sweeping down to the water,
and studded with beach and oak trees; while pinnacles of rocks, in
the background, rose high above the grove, in striking and picturesque
grandeur. The occupant of this water-bound villa, was a
Mr. Miles Ogilvie; but, save that his name indicated Scotland as
his native country, no one knew whence he came, nor any chapter of
his life's history. The gothic cottage had been constructed a year
or two before, by a rich young man of eccentric habits, belonging
to New York, who no sooner completed it than he tired of it, and
parted with it to pursue some other hobby. It was in the shape of
a quadrangle, with a fantastic turret at three of the angles, and a
high circular tower at the fourth, the ruins of which, now existing,
are all that indicate the position of this once massive gothic villa.
It had been sold at auction in New York, about four months before
the commencement of our story, and Mr. Ogilvie became the purchaser,
paying for it in ready money. In a few days he took possession
of it, having furnished it in a rich style, with a good deal of old
fashioned family furniture. He went little abroad and few knew him;
those who did, described him as a tall, grave-visaged man, gentlemanly
in his address, but taciturn.' He had an only daughter, who,
with an elderly aunt, constituted his household. Those who had

seen the daughter, represented her as a very lovely, Italian-looking
maiden, of sixteen, who could ride well, could fish with great skill,
and delighted to row herself about an embayed segment of the river,
before the house, in a light, green-painted boat, which bore the name
of `Gazelle,' in gilt letters, on each bow. They had been the occupants
of Rock Hall about a month, when Paul Tatnall, returning
from a gunning expedition, on the opposite shore, in a small skiff,
seeing a female rowing a light boat quite out in the mid-river, suspected
it to be the daughter of Mr. Ogilvie, and prompted by curiosity
to get a view of her, he pulled higher up, so as to pass near her.
At intervals she would cease rowing, to gaze upon the grand scene
around her. The sun was just setting behind the curtain of a summer's
thunder-cloud, which it dyed to purple, and the mountains
wore helmets of gold; while the river, reflecting the glory of the
skies, and the green hillsides, looked like an element of fused and
mingled gold, emerald, and amethyst. The shadows of the mountains
were so startingly defined, in the gulf beneath, that the eye
seemed to penetrate the earth's foundations. Barks of every size,
and in every position, were suspended amid the scene, appearing
rather in air, than in water. All was still, and gorgeous, and sublime!
Suddenly the evening gun, from the Post, far below, in the
bosom of the Highlands, awoke the echoes of the mountains, and
came onward, rolling and thundering, and reverberating, as cliff
answered to cliff, till the whole heavens were rattling with artillery.
Paul instinctively ceased rowing, to listen to the sublime echoes of
the hills, till, lessening in the distance, the sounds died away in the
defiles, far to the north.

He saw the young girl clap her hands together in wild admiration,
and heard her voice as she exclaimed,

`How grand and beautiful!'

Scarcely had she-spoken when a loud peal of thunder, from a
dark cloud rising above Cro'nest, shook the skies, and instantly a
shadow passed over the water chasing its golden dyes before an
advancing hue of steel. The young girl caught her oars and pulled
rapidly for the land; and like a gazelle, fleeing from the hunter over
its native fields, the little bark bounded landward over the dancing
waves. In a few moments, with that suddenness with which
storms come down upon the Hudson from the Highlands, a strong
wind swept through the gorges and whitened the water with foam.
The fleet of vessels, which a moment before were laying so idly,

now bent low beneath lessening sails to the blast, and ploughed
madly through the water like a herd of snowy steeds, surprised on
their native plains and flying from danger.

Paul was, as it were, cradled upon the Hudson, a child of the
Highlands, and was familiar with the squalls that characterized its
waters. He had been out in them at their fiercest height, and knew
that his boat would ride in safety over their wildest waves. But
his anxiety was instantly aroused for the safety of the `gazelle' and
its fair oarswoman; for he had seen, though distant from her, that
she was very beautiful, and his ears had drunk in the sweetness of
one of the most mellow voices, he thought, woman had ever modulated.
He cast his eyes through the gathering gloom of night and of
the storm in the direction of her boat, and saw that it was already
tossed like a feather upon the lashing waves, while with a stout
heart she bent her light form to the slender oars and sent it landward
on its fearful course.

The cloud unrolled like a black scroll above their heads, till it
stretched from mountain top to mountain top, hanging like a pall
above the river. As yet no rain had fallen; but the lightning
flashed at intervals across the scene and the deep-mouthed thunder
found a voice louder than the mockery of man's artillery, appalling
the soul with the terrible power and majesty of its sound.

The maiden's bark was yet full a third of a mile from the headland
of Rock Hall, which was the nearest shore.

`She is a noble and fearless girl,' said Paul, `but she can never
reach the shore alone, nor will her frail skiff ontride this storm,
which has not yet given us half its force. I will at least be near
her to offer her my assistance!'

Thus speaking he stooped strongly to his oars and sent his boat
forward over the snow-crested waves, which at every bound dashed
their spray high above his head. He was full three hundred yards
distant, and as she was swiftly receding he found it was a race.
Gradually he gained upon her and at length came so near that he
could see the expression of her face, calm and determined, yet pale
as death! She saw him as he turned in rowing to look, smiled,
waved her hand in challenge, and then bounded onward, her dark
locks streaming in the hurricane.

`The fearless girl! She is not a bit frightened!' said Paul, half
vexed, and he almost wished the storm would increase, that he
might give her his assistance. As it was he could only pull along
about twenty yards astern of her and do his best to keep his distance
good. While he was indulging in a little freak of moodiness at not
being able to offer his services to her, and was pulling along, gaining
nearer, for she now seemed to slacken her exertions, as if not unwilling
in such an hour to have company, he was startled by a
shriek, mingled with the hoarse warning of a seaman's voice, and the
loud cry of `Hard—hard a port!'

Looking quickly round, for his back in rowing had been towards
the course he was going, he saw a large schooner rushing past and
bearing down close upon the boat before him. The young girl had
dropped both of her oars in her terror, and was standing up in the
wildly tossing boat, stretching her arms imploringly towards the
vessel, from the fatal course of which she was too much paralyzed
to escape. When Paul discovered the schooner, her bows were
within ten feet, of the `gazelle,' and she was going with such rapidity
through the water, that the order `to port' could not be obeyed.

`Catch at, the martingale for your life!' shouted the Skipper,
leaning over the head-boards.

She made an effort to catch the rope, touched it with one hand,
and, the next instant, the stern of the schooner struck, and capsized
the boat and plunged it underneath her keel, throwing her into the
foaming water. She had scarcely touched the surface, ere Paul
caught her by the hand and drew her into his boat, while the vessel
coming up to the wind lay to, and the skipper prepared to lower
a boat.

`Hold on to your tackle! my boat is quite safe,' called out Paul,
amid the whistling of the storm, too proud of his privilege of saving
his fair charge, to share it, even at the risk of both of their lives,
with others.

`It was her own fault,' muttered the mariner,' and girls have no
business to be out in a boat among the Highlands. Stand in shore
soon, my lad, for the rain that's coming will swamp you.'

`Never fear,' answered Paul, as the schooner tacked, and stood
towards the opposite shore. `Were you hurt, Miss?'

`No — but terribly frightened,' she said, shaking the water from
her cloud of dark tresses, and smiling, though still with a pale
cheek. `You have saved my life — for I should have drowned before
they could have got a boat down to my rescue.'

Paul expressed his happiness, at being instrumental in saving her
from such imminent peril, and then seating her in the, stern, and
throwing his jacket over her shoulders, he bent heartily to his oars,
and after half an hour's dangerous pull, amid a driving rain, dashing
billows, and darkness illumined only by flashes of lightning, he
reached the shelter of the headland, where lanterns guided him to
the landing-place. During the row, neither spake; the young
girl being still too much under the impression of her recent escape
from death to break the silence, and Paul too solicitous for gaining
the shore to think of conversation.

`My daughter!' cried, in accents of thrilling emotion, a voice from
the land, as the lights fell upon the boat, and her figure, relieved
against the darkness, stood conspicuous in the boat.

She sprang on shore, and was clasped in her father's arms, who
chided while he folded her to his heart.

`This is your last boating, Kate,' he said, severely, yet not unkindly.

`I fear it is, for poor `gazelle' has swamped,' she replied. `But
for this young gentleman, I should have been lost.'

Mr Ogilvie bent his eyes upon Paul, who was engaged in securing
his boat, intending to walk round by road homeward, and after
a moment's scruting said,

`Young man, accept my warmest thanks for the service done me
and mine; but your reward will lie in your own breast! To save a
human life is, in my opinion, the greatest privilege heaven can confer
upon a man!'

This was spoken in such a peculiar depth of voice and earnestness
of tone, that Paul started, while his daughter said, in a voice
which he overheard,

`Nay, dear father — beware, or you will betray what you would
most conceal.'

`You are right, my daughter,' he replied, in a sad voice. `Come,
sir; for this night you must share our hospitality.'

But Paul modestly declined. saying his mother lived nearly a
mile below, and would be anxious for his safety; and bidding them
`good night,' he was leaving them, when the young girl left her
father's side, and laid her hand upon his shoulder.

`You will come and see me tomorrow.'

The words though few, and low-spoken, had a strange effect upon
him. With a blushing brow he answered with embarrassment,
that he should come in the morning for his boat.

`I will then see you — for we must not part thus. Good night!'
And she pressed his hand within her own.

His pulse bounded wildly, at the touch; and that sweet `good
night,' echoed in his heart as he went on his way homeward, like
the lingering cadences of music, heard in dreams, and which on
awaking we would fain recall. The ensuing morning Paul returned
for his boat, and was met in the path to the river side by Catharine
Ogilvie! — But we will not linger, to describe the gradual progress
of their intimacy. Day after day passed swiftly, and the twilight
of each found Paul at Rock Hall, enjoying stolen interviews with
its fascinating young mistress, — stolen, because her father, noticing
his visits, and fearning be was the widow's son, forbade her to see
him again. But such an injunction is only incentive to disobedience
in the minds of some girls, and if certainly did not fail, in its usual
results, in this instance. Kate did not love — but liked his society;
and the novelty of having a lover, was zest to her wild character,
for Paul did not disguise his ardent attachment to her. Hitherto his
mother, nor Duncan, knew of his acquaintance with her; for, with
the shrinking sensitiveness of a first attachment, he had withheld
from them his acquaintance with the lovely dark-eyed daughter of
Rock Hall. But it is now time to turn from these reminiscences of
our heroes and heroine, to follow the little boat, with its single oarsman,
the departure of which from the cove, opened both our story,
and this chapter.