University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
KNIGHT ERRANTRY.

The next morning Hazard appeared a little perplexed.
Notwithstanding the apparent recklessness
of his character, it belongs to him, as it does to the
greater number of those persons who put on an irresponsible
face in the world, to feel acutely any supposed
diminution of the esteem of his friends induced
by his own indiscretion. In the present instance he
was particularly obnoxious to this sentiment. Bel's
good opinion of him was the very breath of his nostrils,
and her rigid estimate of the proprieties of life
the greatest of his terrors. His perplexity arose from
this, that he had given way the day before at the
dinner table to the natural impulses of his character,
and in spite of the admonitory presence of the lady
of his soul, nay, perhaps elevated into a more dangerous
gaiety by that very circumstance, he had possibly
(for such a temper as his is least of all others
able to know the true state of things), in her very
sight and hearing, committed a thousand trespasses
upon her notions of decorum. Whether he had or
not, he was in doubt, and afraid to inquire. All that
he knew of the matter was, that, like a man in a
dream, he had passed through a succession of agreeable
changes; had begun the day with a certain

calm pleasure, rose from that into a copious flow of
spirits, thence to an exuberant merriment, and
thence into—what he could not precisely tell: heaven
knows if it were riot or moderate revelry, outrageous
foolery or lawful mirth!—the prospect from that
point was a misty, dreamy, undefined mass of pleasant
images. Of this he was conscious, that after
drinking much wine, and while reeking with the
fumes of tobacco, (a thing utterly abhorrent to Bel,)
he had certainly ventured into her presence, and had
said a great many things to her in very hyperbolical
language, and, if he was not mistaken, in somewhat
of a loud voice. Perhaps, too, he might have
been rather thick of speech! The recurrence of the
scene to his thoughts this morning rather disturbed
him.

There was one consolation in the matter. Bel's
father, the very personation, in her view, of all that
was decorous and proper—the Nestor of the day—
the paragon of precision—had, it was admitted on all
hands, left Swallow Barn very decidedly exhilarated
with wine. If Bel believed this, (and how could she
fail to see it?) the fact would go a great way towards
Ned's extenuation. And then the occasion too!—a
special compliment to Mr. Tracy. Tut! It was as
pardonable a case as could be made out!

Amidst the retrospects of the morning Hazard
had not forgotten the promise he had made Bel the
night before, to attempt the recovery of her hawk.
Harvey Riggs before dinner had informed him of
Bel's loss, and of his, Harvey's, engagement that
Ned should bring back her bird. Hazard was not

aware that I had heard him pledge himself to this
task as he assisted Bel to the carriage; nor did he
mention it to me to-day, when he announced after
breakfast that he had ordered our horses to the door
for a ride. Without questioning his purpose, I readily
agreed to accompany him; and, therefore, at an
early hour we were both mounted, and, followed by
Wilful, we took the road leading from Swallow
Barn immediately up the river.

“Now,” said I, after we had ridden some distance,
“pray tell me what is the object of this early and secret
enterprise, and what makes you so abstracted
this morning?”

“I wish to heaven, Mark,” replied Ned, half peevishly,
“that this business were settled one way or
another!”—Ned always spoke to me of his courtship
as “this business;” he had a boyish repugnance to
call it by its right name. “Here am I,” he continued,
“a man grown, in a girl's leading-strings,
`turned forehorse to a smock,' as Shakspeare calls
it. Saint Devil speed us, and put me out of misery!
Now, what do you think, Mark, of all the adventures
in the world, I am bound upon at this moment?”

“Why, sir,” I answered, “upon the most reasonable
wild goose chase that ever a man in love pursued.
I never knew you before to do so wise a thing;
for I take it that you and I are already in search of
Bel's hawk. There are not more than a million
birds about; and I'll be bound Fairbourne is one of
them! He is certainly within a hundred miles, and I
have no doubt anxiously expecting us.”

“Conjurer that thou art!” said Ned, “how did
thy foolish brain find that out?”

“Didn't I hear you last night, when you were so
tipsy that you could hardly stand, bleat into Bel's ear
that you would neither take rest nor food until you
restored her renegade favourite to her fist?”

“Did I say that?” exclaimed Ned. “Was I not
supremely ridiculous?”

“I can't pretend to do justice to your language on
the occasion. It would require higher poetical powers
than I boast of to imitate, even in a small degree,
the euphuism of your speech. The common superlatives
of the dictionary would make but poor positives
for my use, if I attempted it.”

“Look you, now!” said Hazard, “Is not this deplorable,
that a man should have a mistress who
hates a fool above all worldly plagues, and yet be so
bestridden by his evil genius that he may never appear
any thing else to her! I am not such a miserable
merry-andrew by nature, and yet, by circumstances,
wherever Bel is concerned I am ever the very crownpiece
of folly!”

“And do you think,” said I, “that this little girl,
so instinct, as she is, with the liveliest animal impulses,—a
laughing nymph,—is such a Cato in petticoats
as to be noting down your nonsense in her tablets
for rebuke? Why, sir, that is the very point upon
which you must hope to win her!”

“I am afraid I wasn't respectful,” said Ned.

“I assure you,” I replied, “that, so far from not
being respectful, you were the most ridiculously observant,

reverential, and obsequious ass,—considering
that you were in your cups,—I ever saw.”

“Was I so?” exclaimed Ned. “Then I am content;
for, on that score, Bel is as great a fool as I am
on any other. Now, if I can only bring her back her
bird,” he said exultingly,—“and I have some presentiment
that I shall get tidings of him,—I shall rise to
the very top of her favour.”

Saying this, Ned spurred forward to a gallop, and
flourished his whip in the air as he called to me to
follow at the same speed.

“Mark, watch every thing that flies,” he cried
out; “you may see the harness about his legs; and
listen for the bells, for the truant can't move without
jangling,—`I live in my lady's grace,'—remember
the motto!”

“Now, by our lady!—I mean our lady Bel,” said
I, “for henceforth I will swear by none but her,—I
am as keen upon this quest as yourself. I vow not
to sleep until I hear something of this ungrateful
bird.”

My reader would perhaps deem it a hopeless venture
to attempt the recovery of a bird under the circumstances
of this case; but it will occur to him, if
he be read in romance, that it was not so unusual an
exploit to regain a stray hawk as he might at first
imagine. A domesticated bird will seldon wander
far from his accustomed haunt; and, being alien to
the wild habits of his species, will, almost invariably,
resort to the dwellings of man. Fairbourne having
been known to direct his flight up the river, we

had good reason to hope that the inhabitants of
this quarter might put our search upon a successful
track.

For a good half mile, therefore, we rode at speed
along the highway leading to the ferry. The velocity
of our motion, combining with the extravagant
nature of the enterprise, and the agreeable temperature
of the morning, cloudless and cool, had raised
our spirits to a high pitch. In this mood we soon
arrived at Sandy Walker's little inn upon the river.
All that we could learn here was, that the hawk
had been seen in the neighbourhood the day before,
and had probably continued his flight further up the
river.

With this intimation we proceeded rapidly upon
our pursuit. It was near noon when, through many
devious paths, visiting every habitation that fell in
our way, we had gained a point about five miles distant
from Swallow Barn. Some doubtful tidings of
Fairbourne were obtained at one or two houses on
the road; but for the last hour our journey had been
without encouragement, and we began to feel oppressed
with the mid-day fervours of the season. It
was, therefore, somewhat despairingly that we halted
to hold a consultation whether or not we should
push our expedition farther.

Not far distant, from the road we could perceive
the ridge-pole of a log cabin showing itself above a
patch of luxuriant Indian corn. This little dwelling
stood upon the bank of the river; and, as a last essay,
we resolved to visit it, and interest its inmates in
the object of our enterprise. It was with some difficulty

that we made our way through a breach in
the high worm-fence that bounded the road; and, after
struggling along a path beset with blackberries
and briars, we at length found ourselves encompassed
by the corn immediately around the hut. At
this moment Wilful sprang from the path, and ran
eagerly towards the yard in the rear of the dwelling.
He did not halt until he arrived at an apple-tree,
where hung a rude cage; under this he continued to
bark with quick and redoubled earnestness, until
Ned called him back with a peremptory threat, that
brough him crouching beneath the feet of our horses,
where he remained, restless and whining, every now
and then making a short bound in the direction
of the tree, and looking up wistfully in Hazard's
face.

In the mean time an old negro woman had come
to the door; and, as Ned engaged her in conversation,
Wilful stole off unobserved a second time to
the tree, where he fell to jumping up against the
trunk, uttering, at the same time, a short, half-subdued
howl.

“There is something in the branches above the
cage,” I exclaimed, as I followed the movements of
the dog with my eye. “It is Fairbourne himself! I
see the silver rings upon his legs glittering through
the leaves!”

“For heaven's sake, Mark, keep quiet!” cried
Ned, springing from his horse. “If it be Fairbourne
in truth, we may get him by persuasion, but never by
alarming him. Dismount quickly. Wilful—back,
sir.”

I got down from my saddle, and the horses were
delivered into the charge of the old woman. Wilful
crept back to the door of the hut. Ned and myself
cautiously advanced to reconnoitre.

As soon as all was still, to our infinite joy, Fairbourne
in proper identity descended from his leafy
bower and perched upon the top of the cage. Some
association of this abode of the mocking-bird with his
own prison in the mulberry-tree at the Brakes, had,
possibly, attracted and bound him to this spot; and
there he sat, seemingly quiet and melancholy, and
struck with contrition for the folly that had tempted
him to desert his mistress and his mew. I thought
he recognized an acquaintance in Wilful; for as
the dog moved about, Fairbourne's quick eye followed
him from place to place; and, so far from
showing perturbation at Wilful's presence, he composedly
mantled his wing and stretched his neck, as
if pleased with the discovery.

Assured by these manifestations, Ned addressed
the bird in the words of endearment to which he
had been accustomed, and slowly stepped forward
towards the tree. Fairbourne, however, was distrustful,
and retreated to the boughs. After much
solicitation on the part of Hazard, and a great deal
of prudery on that of the hawk, we had recourse to
some morsels of meat obtained from the hut. These
Ned threw upon the earth, and Fairbourne, pinched
by hunger and unable to resist, pounced upon them
with an unguarded voracity. Still, as Ned advanced
upon him he retreated along the ground,
without flying. A piece of the cord which Bel had

used as her creance, some three or four feet in length,
was attached to his jesses, and served in some degree
to embarrass his progress, as it was dragged
through the grass. Hazard endeavoured to place
his foot upon the end of this line, but as yet had
been baffled in every effort. Wilful seemed to
comprehend the purpose, and with admirable sagacity
stole a circuit round the bird, drawing nearer to
him at every step, and then, with a sudden and skilful
leap, sprang upon him, in such a manner as effectually
to secure his captive, scarcely ruffling a feather.
Hazard rushed forward at the same instant,
and made good his prize, by seizing his wing and
bearing him off to the hut.

The good fortune of this discovery and the singular
success that attended it, threw us into transports.
Ned shouted and huzzaed, and tossed up his hat in
the air, until the old negro woman began to look in
his face to see if he were in his senses. The hawk,
the unconscious cause of all this extravagance,
looked like a discomfited prisoner of war, bedraggled,
travel-worn and soiled,—a tawdry image of a
coxcomb. His straps and bells hanging about his
legs had the appearance of shabby finery; and his
whole aspect was that of a forlorn, silly and way-ward
minion, wearing the badge of slavery instead
of that of the wild and gallant freebooter of the
air so conspicuously expressed in the character of
his tribe.

Congratulating ourselves on our good luck, we
began to prepare for our homeward journey. The
negro received an ample bounty for the assistance

afforded in the capture; the jesses were repaired
and secured to Fairbourne's legs, and the bird himself
made fast to Hazard's hand. In a few moments
we were remounted and cantering in the direction
of Swallow Barn, with a lightness of spirits
in Hazard that contrasted amusingly with his absolute
despondence half an hour before.