University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE RECLUSE OF THE ROCK.

The three foresters had thrown themselves
down to sleep, close to a path which led obliquely
across the summit, towards a romantic
pile of rocks, that seemed to have fallen
upon the top of the ridge, or else heaved
above its surface by some subterranean force.
There was one in particular, which rose to
the height of eighty feet above the summit
level, and being visible for miles around, was
called from its appearance, `the Beacon'
This singular elevation was about a hundred
yards broad at its base, was darkened here
and there with pines that grew out of its
crevices, and upon its summit was a clump
of birch trees. About the base of the Beacon
grew a forest of fir trees, intermingled
with huge boulders, or loose fragments of
rock, some of them many tons in weight.
They lay about in the wildest confusion,
some standing upon a sharp corner, and only
prevented from falling by the support of another
that inclined against it: while one of
them could be moved with the hand, it was
so nicely balanced. The manner in which
these rocks were thrown together, formed
numerous crevices or caverns, of considerable
size, which from time immemorial, had
been the well known haunt of the wolf and
the bear, the wild cat and American lynx.
There was one cave in particular, formed by
the falling of a large flat rock, against the
perpendicular wall of `the Beacon,' against
which it inclined like a roof, completely enclosing
a habitation within, full twenty feet
square. Its entrance was protected by larch
and other trees, which grew before it, and
nearly overshadowed it.

The day was just breaking, a few minutes
after Red Beard and his companions had
laid down upon the moss-beds beneath the
fir trees, to get an hour's sleep, after their
fatiguing climb up the mountain, when the
ever-green boughs of a stout larch, which
grew at the entrance of the natural cavern,
we have described, were put aside by a human
hand from within. The next moment,
an old and venerable, but haggered looking
man stepped forth, and looked carefully about
him, with a restless scorching gaze.

His age was not less than seventy. His
form was bent with years, and perhaps more
with grief and care, for the lines of suffering
were graven deep and strong in the stern liniaments
of his countenance. The fore part
of his head, which was finely shaped, was
bald, but from the back part flowed down
upon his shoulders, a mass of silvery locks,
wild and uncared for. A heard of shining
grey descended as low as his breast. His
eye was dark and rigidly embedded beneath
a brow which suspicion and fear, as well as
grief had contracted. He had been a man

of noble stature, tall and no doubt in his
youth handsome; but as we have said, although
his eye had lost none of its fire, he
bent down as he stood, and looked like a
man who had in his life warred with misery,
and been overthrown and conquered. No
one could gaze upon him without sympathy,
without pity and respect.

He was clad in a very old and much worn
cloak of brown cloth, which doubtless had
once been black, and perhaps a garment that
had wrapped his form in better days. It
was fastened at his waist by a thong of leather,
and seemed scarcely sufficient protection
from the cold mountain air of the morning.
His feet were bare, and thrust into a pair of
old Indian moccasins; while his head was
covered by an ancient looking beaver hat, the
flaps about his face, evidently the remains of
what had once been a courtly chapeau. He
leaned upon a staff, which was the branch of
a tree, with the bark still upon it, and one of
its extremities being fire-hardened, and
sharpened like a spear, he probably used as
well to protect himself against wild beasts,
as to support his noble yet bent form.

`I certainly heard human voices!' he said
as he stood in a listening attitude, a step
or two in advance of the entrance, while his
eagle eye, which was habitually almost wild,
and fierce in its expression, glanced piercingly
around. `They were not sounds of
the brutes that prowl about at night, and
men would hardly be here at this hour. Yet
I could not be mistaken. Already my retreat
has been thrice invaded by the hunter,
and I shall have to escape from the world
itself, to escape from man. I will see if any
one has passed near.'

He walked onward until he came to an
open space, where no trees grew, and upon
which the snow lay three or four inches in
depth He had scarcely glanced his eyes
upon the white carpet of the mountain top,
when he started at beholding the tracks of
feet across it, leading in the direction of the
larch wood, twenty yards beyond.

`It is as I suspected. Men have been
here. Is not the world wide enough below,
that they should intrude upon the mountain
tops, where the miserable fly to get nearer
heaven. There is more than one man!' he
added as he advanced and examined the
tracks. `Three men have passed here, and
the shape of the prints shows me that they
are dwellers in towns—not Indians. I will
follow, and see if they have continued on
down the mountain, as I trust they have.'

Thus he murmured with himself, as he
again closely examined, by the grey light of
dawn, the imprints of the feet of the intruders
upon his solitude, and slowly pursued
their course. He had no sooner entered the
copse of larch trees, than he beheld on the
soft moss, which the matted ever-green foliage
guarded from the snow, the forms of
the three men.

He saw that they were asleep, or seemed
to be so, for in truth Griffitt was awake, for
his mind after he lay down, was too busily
dwelling upon the singular history of Red
Beard, to enable him to sleep. He had
therefore seen the hermit, as he entered the
copse, and at once supposing him to be the
recluse of whom he, as well as all dwellers in
the valley had heard, he lay quietly observing
him, and not a little awed by the commingling
of the venerable, with the wild in his
air and appearance.

For two or three moments, the recluse
stood gazing upon them, leaning upon his
staff. The looks of stern surprise with which
he made the discovery of their presence,
were slowly changed into one of curiosity
and observation.

`They are men, and therefore I should
hate them. But let them sleep on in peace.
It will be but to wake by and by again, to
the toils, sins, treacheries, and woes of the
world. Life is but a battle, and a sleep at
the best. They look like the raftsmen of the
river; woodsmen doubtless, returning from
their winter's camp. There is one youthful,
and noble looking enough to be of better degree.

How quietly he reposes, heedless of
ambition, of love, of rival or of friend. The
next one lays carelessly, and sleeps as if he
dreamed not. The third is of more age;
and a man who has seen hardships, for his
brow is rugged, and his face marked with
strong lines. His red beard looks as if it
had not seen the razor for years. Let me
look closer at that face!' added the hermit
quickly, as a light like that of recognition,
sparkled in his eye, and he drew silently,
yet eagerly nigher. He bent down, and for
a moment steadily regarded the features of
Red Beard, who slept unconscious. Griffitt
regarded him from his half-shut eyes, and
saw him turn his head now this way, and
now that, with the earnest manner of one
trying to make out a likeness.

`He has doubtless seen Red Beard before,
and knows the far-famed raftsman of the
Susquehannah,' said Griffitt. `But who can
he be? He has an extraordinary appearance.
It is plain that he is the hermit of the Blue
Mountain, who has dwelt here so many
years, even from my boy-hood; but he has
not always been a hermit certainly. He
must at some former period have lived in the
world among men. Doubtless he has either
been a great criminal, or a great sufferer by
others crimes, that he thus flies from civilization,
and the haunts of men, to bury himself
in this mountain solitude. But see! He
gazes upon Red Beard with intense scrutiny.
Perhaps he has seen him in the valley;
though I do not know that the hermit was
ever in the valley. No one has seen him
off the mountain, and but few here. They
say he lives upon herbs, and cultivates a
garden.'

While Griffitt was thus communing with
himself upon the hermit's appearance and
conduct, the latter after having attentively regarded
the face of Robert Burnside, in every
possible light, slowly shook his venerable
head, and sighed heavily.

`If I were forty years younger!' he murmured;
`but it is a delusion. Yet so he
looked then! Wonderful that I should see
those features on another man!'

At this moment Burnside opened his eyes,
as sleeping persons will do, when long and
steadily regarded, and looked up in the face
of the hermit with surprise, at seeing such a
figure bending over him. Instantly he
sprung to his feet, and regarding him fixedly,
he said not without involuntary respect,

`Art thou not the hermit men speak of?'

Instead of replying, the old recluse bent
his eyes more intensely and eagerly than
ever, upon his countenance, and seemed to
be trembling with strange emotion. He put
back his white hair from his forehead, and
seemed to be reading the very soul of the
raftsman; who uncovering his head stood
reverently before him; while Griffitt rising
to his feet unobserved, stood silently, and
gazed upon the pair with strange and almost
overwhelming thoughts, passing like lightning
through his mind, for he saw the form,
height, and features of the hermit repeated,
with only the difference age would naturally
make, in those of the raftsman. Almost
trembling with expectation, he gazed from
one to the other, and waited the result of the
hermit's keen and painful scrutiny, of the
lineaments of Red Beard's face.

`Why dost thou not speak, father! Hast thou seen me before, that you watch me so
closely?'

The hermit passed his hand twice or thrice
across his stately, but care-worn forehead, as
if recalling some recollection.

`No, no! I cannot have seen thee before.
Thou art too young—too young!
Yet it is strange! Wilt thou tell me who
thou art?'

`A poor raftsman, father. I and my companions
you see here, are on our way from
the head of the river to the valley. The ice
obstructed our passage by boat, and we have
taken to the mountain. I am glad to have
seen you, for I have heard men talk of you;
for I doubt not you are the recluse of the
beacon rock.'

`The voice too! The air and looks, and
voice the same!' murmured the old man as if
he were thinking of something besides the
words that fell on his ear; as if the tone of
the voice revived another day.

`What is it you see in me that causes your
surprise, father?' asked Red Beard, who
could not but take notice of his extraordinary
manner.

`I don't know: I cannot tell you: It is my
poor delusion. Yet I think I see in you a
man whom I stood face to face forty two
years ago, and asked him for his daughter.
But he would have been ninety now! No,
no! It is only a mocking likeness sent by
the tempter, to recall the past in my soul,
that he makes me mad, and gnash my teeth,
and cut myself with the sharp rocks. But I
will forget it.'

`Griffitt, what means this?' asked Red
Beard of the young man. `His words give
me pain, and there is something about me
that troubles him. I fear his brain is
crazed; see how he looks upon me.'

`Master Burnside,' cried Griffitt with agitation,
`do you suspect nothing? do you
guess nothing? I have already, I believe,
divined the whole truth. Look at him and
see if —. But I forget! You can never
have seen him! But does not your heart
tell you who he is, as his resemblance to
you, white as his head and beard are, tell me
who he is.'

`Who then is he? you speak enigmas,
Master Ringold. `The poor man's mind is
unthroned, and you are moved to believe you
see in him something supernatural. The
day of prophets has passed.'

`You do not understand me. Yet I am
convinced!' said Ringold with singular
warmth and energy.

`Convinced of what?' asked Red Beard,
regarding him with a perplexed look; for
Griffitt was singularly agitated, his face
flushed, and his whole person trembling like
a leaf.

`I will not be too precipitate. Listen to
me while I address him a word or two.
Venerable recluse, I believe I can understand
the meaning of your intent scrutiny, of
the face of this person. It resembles, does
it not, the face of the Scottish Earl, of whom
you asked the lovely and innocent Lady Al-ice
in marriage?'

`Who has spoken that name? Who art
thou?' almost shrieked the recluse, as he
grasped Ringold by the arm with both hands,
while his features lighted up with strange excitement
and supernatural fear. `Dost thou
know me then? Thou must be from Heaven,
not of earth.'

`Art thou not the Marquis of * * * * *?'
asked Ringold with as much firmness as he
could command, at such a terrible moment,
to Robert Burnside, who was fearfully overcome
at this extraordinary crisis.