University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER FIRST.
OLD MICHAEL, THE HUNTER.

A hale old man, leaning on his rifle, with an iron frame,
a bronzed visage, and snow-white hair!

It was in the midst of the forest, where a huge oak tree,
torn up by the roots, lay prostrate on the sward, the brown
earth yet fresh about its trunk, its leaves still blooming in
summer green.

He stands before us, that old man, an effective picture of
a bold backwoodsman; his broad chest and muscular arms
displayed in their firm outlines by the folds of his blue hunting
shirt, his limbs encased in buckskin leggings, moccasins
on his feet, and a fur cap, green with a solitary oaken sprig,
resting on his brow.

The rifle on which he leans, long and dark and marked
with scars, betrays the indications of thirty years' toil in the
woods, and danger on the mountain path.

Strung over his broad chest, a belt of dark leather sustains
his shot pouch and powder horn. In the broad girdle,—a
wampum belt, inscribed with the language of the red man—
which encircles his waist, gathering in its confines the loose
folds of his hunting shirt, a knife is placed, its handle of bone
contrasting with the long and glittering blade. His face impresses
you at once with a picture of green old age.

Bronzed by the winter wind and the summer sun, marked
with the traces of many a deadly conflict, the hair blanched
into snow by the touch of seventy years, it displays a prominent
nose, a broad chin, high cheek bones, and a firm
mouth, encircled by heavy wrinkles. Indeed, the whole
visage is traversed by wrinkles that resemble threads of
iron, in their strongly marked outlines.

From the shadow of his thick grey eyebrows, the gleam
of two clear eyes, undimmed by the frost of age, now blue,

now grey in their liquid breaks gently on you. Gently, and
yet there are times when the light of those eyes remind
you of a panther at bay, his blazing orbs glaring from the
darkness of a cavern.

And the old man, this hermit of the woods, who speaks a
plainer speech with his rifles than with his tongue, stands
before us, on the sward; the leaves spreading a waving roof
above him, the evening solitude of the woods extending on
every side.

He lifts his cap—fashioned of the wild beasts' hide—and
that solitary ray of sunlight wandering through the foliage,
streams upon his white hair.

By his side, reclining on the trunk of the prostrate oak,
you behold a form whose every outline is strongly contrasted
with the figure of the old backwoodsman.

It is a young man in the vigor of early manhood. His
form, well-knit and muscular, yet delicate almost to womanly
beauty, in its graceful outline, is attired in a costume of dark
velvet—a coat reaching half-way to the knee, and girded to
the waist by a belt of leather—boots of the same hue encase
his limbs, and a white collar thrown open at the neck, displays
the chiselled outline of his throat.

Yet it is not upon the dark attire enveloping his agile
form that you gaze, nor upon his beautiful rifle, whose dark
tube is relieved by the mahogany stock, mounted in silver,
nor does the powder horn, inlaid with golden flowers, nor the
hunting knife, with its carved ivory handle attract your eye.

It is that face, with the black hair falling back from its
brow along the neck, from under the wide shadow of a
slouching hat; it is that eye that seems to burn with light,
as it rests upon you; it is that olive cheek now reddening
with emotion, now pale as marble; it is that mouth, which
wreathes in a smile, or curves in scorn, which now speaks
in low tones, where music wins you, and again, utters its
deep voice, that indicates a soul conscious of power!

It is upon that face, moulded, not with the regularity of
an ancient statue, but with firm and characteristic outlines;
the face framed in the shadow of the hat of dark felt, with
low crown and drooping brim, that you gaze, in the quiet
evening hour.

One limb crossed over the other, the right arm resting on
the trunk of the fallen tree, the head downcast, and the dark
eyes fixed upon the sward, the young man seemed absorbed
in thought, while the old hunter stood erect by his side.

After a pause that lasted some five minutes, the old man
turned and gazed upon his young comrade.

“It's queer—reg'lar queer!” he said, with a slight laugh,
and then paused as if waiting for an answer.

The young man was silent.

“I say it's queer—it's particular strange—I mought say
ridiculous! To think that you and I have been out in the
woods, time off and on, for six months back, and yet neither
of us knows where the tother lives, nor even his name!”

“What need of a name?” said the young man, without
raising his eyes from the ground—“we met last winter,
among the wilds of the Susquehanna. We hunted together,
shared the same rude meal, after our day's toil, and at night
slept side by side, on a bed of withered leaves. You called
me Walter—I called you Michael. What need of other
names? We met and were friends!”

Walter played listlessly with the handle of his knife, as
he spoke. Still his eyes were fixed upon the sod

“But Walter, don't you know yer voice betrays you?—
Yer speech is not the speech of the backwoodsman, but the
talk of the city and the village. Yer rifle and knife, aye yer
dress itself, don't speak much for yer poverty. Yer hands
are too white, yer skin too fair, to fancy for a minute that
you've lived long in the woods. But, howsomever it is, I
can't tell, but I like you, and have liked ye, since the day—”

“When, away yonder on the Susquehanna, my rifle
missed fire, and the panther sprang at my throat. Your aim
was good, your eye true, or I should have been a dead man.
Michael, you saved my life, and there's my hand!”

The old hunter extended his horny palm, and grasped the
delicate fingers of his young comrade, with an iron clutch.

“A month ago we parted at least an hundred miles from
this—to-day we meet again, here in the woods of Wissahikon—”

Walter raised his full dark eyes. A strange smile passed
over his face.

“It would be interesting for us to compare our history
for the past month,” he said. “This is a quiet hour. The
evening air is cool, delicious. These old woods make a
man feel on better terms with himself and the world. And
the sound of the waters, lulling gently on the ear, seem
like the voices of other days, telling of the joys, the sorrows,
that are past and gone. Come, Michael, begin—tell
us the history of your life for the past thirty days.”

The young man started, as he witnessed the strange effect
of his words. Michael stood before him trembling, as
with an ague chill, his sunburnt face, writhing in every
chord, while his eyes blazed with that panther glare, which
made the heart beat quicker to behold.

“Tell you the history of the past month?” he said, in a
voice and with a manner entirely different from his usual
rough, backwoodsman way. “There are some things,
young man, that draw the knife from the belt, and raise the
rifle to the shoulder. Things that it wont do to talk about,
not even in a whisper! Deeds, aye, I say it, deeds that
make the blood run cold. But,” and he advanced a step,
while that light blazed more fiercely from his eye, “what
do you know of my history for the past month?”

The young man started to his feet. He extended his hands—

“Nothing, Michael—not a word, not even a whisper,”
he said, examining the face of the old man with a searching
glance. “I meant not to rouse one bitter memory in your
heart. Come, sit down by me; I will,” and that strange
smile passed over his face—“I will tell you the story of
my life for the past thirty days.”

The old man did not reply, but, taking the young man's
hand within his own, he led him for some few paces along
the woods.

“Look thar!” he said, in his usual rough voice, “thar
is my home!”

Far down the woods, through a vista that extended among
the trunks of massive trees, the young man looked and saw
a quiet cottage with a garden, blooming from its door to the
verge of a calm, unruffled glimpse of water.

The woods, through which he gazed, were wrapt in thick
shadow; but the roof of that cottage, resting between two
rocks, gleamed brightly in the setting sun. Above it
swelled the sea of forest leaves, below sparkled the still
Wissahikon—it was like a picture framed in waving leaves
and glancing waters.

“Thar 's my home!”

“Your home!” echoed Walter, hiding his face in his
hands, and turning away from the old man, while he shook
with emotion.

Michael gazed upon him with unfeigned surprise.

“And ain't it a purty home? Did you ever see a nicer
bit of happiness hid away in the woods than that? O, if
you could but see the angel that dwells thar with me, and

keeps house when I am out among the woods, and puts her
soft hands on my forehead, when the—aye, I must speak it,
—when the dark hour comes on me; if you could but see
her and know her, you would worship her!”

Walter raised his face. All traces of emotion had
vanished, but he was very pale and his eyes shone with
peculiar lustre.

“That's your home!” he calmly said, “what a beautiful
home it!”

“Perhaps he has his memories, too!” the old hunter muttered,
“God knows!”

The young man took his hand, and whispered, “Michael,
look yonder!”

Michael gazed far down that vista, among the huge
forest trees, and with hushed breath beheld a sight as strange
as it was beautiful.

From the door of that cottage home came forth a young
girl clad in a peasant garb—a light boddice, fitting close to
her bosom, a dark skirt, flowing to her feet—with her brown
hair, blowing lightly about her face in the evening breeze.

She tripped along the garden, and stood by the water's edge.

Her eyes were cast down the stream, her bending form
assumed an attitude of anxious expectation.

Presently, gliding from the trees, a light canoe broke into
view, and in it stood erect the form of a woman, attired in
a dark robe, with her face glowing in the warm light of the
fading day.

She leapt lightly on the shore—the young girl seemed to
start with surprise, but this woman in the dark attire seized
her hands and urged her gently into the cottage.

They disappeared together, and the closing doors concealed
them from the view.

Had Michael and his young comrade beheld the scene,
which then transpired within the cottage home, they would
have felt their hearts beat quicker, their blood bound, like
liquid fire, through their veins!

But they did not witness that scene; they only saw the
young girl, and the dark-robed woman, go in the cottage
door together.

For a moment Michael and his comrade stood in silence,
gazing in each other's faces, as though spell-bound by that
sight.

“That's strange!” at last the old man said,—“Who the
lady in the dark dress can be is more than I can tell! I

never knew before that the child was acquainted with anybody
in the world, save me! Ah, now I think of it, that
visiter is the rich widow who resides in the large mansion
on t'other side of Wissahikon! But how came she to know
my child?”

“She is your child?” cried Walter in a hurried tone—
“your daughter?”

“My Daughter? Hah! What do you mean? My
Daughter?”

You can see the old man's cheek assume the hue of ashes,
his lip is livid and his eyes are fixed upon the ground.

“Young man, you've touched the bitter chord agin!
Don't you know it's better to cut one's heart with your
knife, than to do it with a word?”

“Pardon, Michael, pardon! I have known you hitherto
but as a rough child of the forest. Now, that I behold in
you the owner of this beautiful home, the father of this—”

“Father?” hurriedly interrupted old Michael. “Who told
you I was father to that angel girl? Sixteen years ago I
brought her to that place, an innocent and smiling babe!
Sixteen years ago I built that home! For sixteen years she
has grown up in solitude, and every hour of those years
grown deeper into my heart! Yes, it is sixteen years and
one month, since that night.”

Again the old man paused, his countenance betraying the
traces of mental agony. While Walter, leaning his noble
form against yonder tree, with his head downcast, gazed
fixedly in the face of his comrade, you see that aged comrade
clutch his rifle with quivering fingers, dash the stock into
the earth, and then pace wildly to and fro.

Again he spoke in that tone so different from his rough
backwoodsman voice. He spoke not as much to Walter as
to his own soul, not so much with the consciousness of a
human eye, gazing upon his face, as the Eye of God reading
his soul.

“What—what have I not done to wash out the memory
of that night! O, it was pitiful,—it was horrible! Satan
himself could not have painted so dark a picture, nor
planned so accursed a deed! A home in flames—two dead
bodies thrown beside the hearth, a husband and his wife!
Both young—one noble in his manly vigor, the other beautiful
in her womanly purity! And beside the body of the
dead husband a little boy stood weeping; over the cold
bosom of the dead wife a baby crept, pressing its lips to

that font which was dried forever! And the wretch who
led on the midnight assassins, who leagued with red savages
and white robbers, came, at dead of night, to lay this home
in ashes, came with his face blackened, the torch in one
hand, the knife in the other. Who was he? A fiend? No,
a Brother!”

He stood, with his outstretched hands, quivering in every
finger, his eyes glaring in the sod. The white foam frothed
about his livid lips.

Walter stood appalled by the violence of the old man's
emotion.

You may behold him, leaning against yonder tree, his face
manifesting in every outline surprise mingled with horror.

“That house, blackened and in ruins, lies two hundred
miles away in a green valley of the Alleghanies. It stands
there as it has stood for years, a black witness of unnatural
guilt. On its hearthstone the blood has never faded; from
the walls the ghosts of the dead have never gone—no, not
for an hour! And to that ruined house, once every year—
in June, when the trees are in blossom, in June, when the
murder was done—there comes the form of the murderer
to gaze upon the traces of his crimes. For one month, day
and night, he crouches down upon the hearthstone, gazing
upon that mark of blood, that hideous blotch of red that
glares in his face, as though it had a thousand eyes, all fired
by the same curse!

“For sixteen years, on the return of June, the murderer
has been dragged by invisible bands over mountain and
flood to that blasted house! For sixteen years he has been
forced by voices that speak from the air, and speak to his
heart, like the anathema of the archangel, to write a confession
of his crime, and place it in the dead woman's grave!
Sixteen confessions are there; sixteen records of that bloody
deed!”

His look was terrible, as towering erect, he shook his
clenched hands in the air, while his eyes rolled and his
mouth frothed around the writhing lips with scattered drops
of foam and blood.

“Who says that repentance can wash out crime? You
may forsake the world, bury yourself from human eyes,
throw wealth and rank to the winds, put on humble attire
and pray all day in the woods, and groan all night in the
desert where no eye but the eye of God can hear, and still
the faces of the murdered will never cease to glare at you,

and move their lips as though they would speak but could
not! You may take the child from the breast of the mother,
bear it away from the scene of crime, rear it up to womanhood
in purity and virtue, and yet the child will one day
learn your crime—that child will live to curse the man
whom it has called father, and hiss in his ears the words:
`Thou didst it on a dark night! Thou didst it when all was
still! Thou didst it when husband and wife lay wrapt in
each other's arms! Then thou didst murder my Mother!”'

That frenzied voice sank into an accent of overwhelming
agony.

“To be cursed by her—to be cursed by—Rose!”

You may have seen a huge rock, suddenly precipitated
from an immense height upon the void below. Descending
in a straight line, it strikes a lofty tree, and ere you can
draw another breath, crushed it, from the top to the roots,
into one mass of ruins.

As though he had been that tree, as though the falling
rock had, in its dread career, taken life and plunged upon
his skull, the old man, Michael, rushed to the earth; so sudden
was his fall, so stiffened and lifeless upon the sod he
lay.

Walter knelt beside him. He gazed upon the pale features
and glassy eyeballs, in silence. The emotion which
had but a moment ago shaken the old man's frame, seemed
now to have passed into the veins of his comrade, for every
feature of his face was in motion; with his hand pressed
nervously against his forehead, he gazed into the countenance
of the insensible man.

The sun had gone down, and the shadows, cast by the
trees, in long columns of darkness, began to grow wider and
deeper. The forest was still as a deserted cathedral. Not
the sound of distant water, nor the rustling of the wind
among the trees, disturbed the brooding silence of the Wissahikon
woods.

And let me tell you, to be among those woods, when that
silence so awfully spiritual pervades the air, while the foliage,
spreading around, makes noonday seem like twilight, is to
feel your soul grow nearer to the other world. Then, your
heart feels sad, you know not why. Then, the memories of
your past life, rush upon you. Then, through the long arcades
and bowery glades, half-closing your eyes, you seem
to behold the forms of beloved ones, long since dead, gliding
slowly to and fro.

Walter—this young man, whom we know by that name—
with an eye, always gleaming brighter in the presence of
danger; a heart, that throbbed tumultuously with passion,
or fired with a love of the beautiful and holy; a soul, ever
swayed by impulse, capable at once of the highest heroism
and the purest self-denial, felt the influence of this evening
hour.

His thoughts were dark to agony!

We dare not picture their nature; but, as he bent over the
insensible man, he seemed to behold two faces, gliding along
a twilight sky, with wreaths of mists about their clearly
defined outlines.

One, the face of a sinless girl, whose young face and tranquil
eyes seemed to woo him from the world and its cares
and fears, into these dear solitudes of Wissahikon. The
love of that maiden face was stainless; the passion of those
clear deep eyes undimned by the mists of sensual feeling.

The other, the face of matured loveliness, with ambition
gleaming from the dark eyes, the love of the world and the
world's feverish joys burning in the vermillion glow of each
olive cheek. That high brow, that dark hair, floating in
showers of glossy blackness over the half-bared bosom, that
red lip, curling with scorn, or parting with passion, completed
the picture of this strange, yes—the terrible face.

“One woos me to the shadows of the quiet woods, and
asks of me a love as virgin as these solitudes! The other
plunges me into the tumults of the world, bids me grapple
with the weapons of ambition, and share the throbbings of
a love that beats with the madness of fever and wine! His
daughter! She, so proud, so distant, whom I have only seen
afar off, and by glimpses; she seeks the presence of the peasant
maid! What can it portend?”

As he kneels there, absorbed in his thoughts, a singular
incident occurs.

Do you see that strange form, with long and matted hair
descending to the broad shoulders, and folds of crape veiling
the face, move noiselessly from tree to tree?

As you look, it crouches on the ground—and crawls,
snake-like, along the sod;—it reaches the fallen trunk,
against which the silver-mounted rifle leans. Beware,
Walter, for there is treachery in the soundless movements
of that uncouth shape! But he does not see it; no, he does
not behold his rifle grasped by those brawny hands, the pan
unclosed, and the priming blown from beneath the flint.

In a moment the rifle is replaced, and the form of this
unknown enemy moves noiselessly away.

Still Walter knelt beside the insensible man; still the
vision of those two faces occupied his soul.

As his thoughts thus rose in singular confusion to his lips,
he was roused from his reverie by a distant sound, resembling
the cry of fear or agony. It rose, it swelled, it came
through the silence of the woods like the voice of a spirit.
Walter felt a shudder pervade his frame. There was something
almost supernatural in this sudden cry, breaking so
abruptly on the death-like silence of the woods.

He started to his feet, and grasped his rifle! Again that cry!

With a bound he hurried up the ascent of the steep, covered
by those huge old forest trees. That cry seemed ringing
like a knell of death in his ears. The trees, the rocks, a
long slope of level sward, flew behind him; and his course
was presently interrupted by the boughs of a beechen tree,
which, descending to the very sod, formed a wall of green
leaves across his path.

Again that cry! Not ten feet distant it was heard. Walter
plunged through the foliage of the beechen tree, and
started back, with a sudden bound, as he beheld a spectacle
that made his heart beat as with pulsations of flame.

A beautiful woman, kneeling on the sod, her bosom
bared, her long hair falling to her shoulders, with hands and
eyes upraised, in a trembling gesture of prayer!

Above her—standing with his back to the sun—you see
the figure of a thick-set and muscular man, who lifts a rifle
above the head of the kneeling woman. As he turns toward
the light, you see his face, covered with folds of crape,
while from beneath his rough cap of fur long locks of draggled
hair wave in the light. Altogether, as he stands there,
he looks the bravo and outcast, fitted by a dark experience
for any deed of crime.

“Your gold;—come, no delay! Them ear-rings, and
that jewel on yer bosom! Come, I say!”

The rifle, grasped by the barrel, like a huge club, rose
above the kneeling woman's head.

At this moment, Walter sprang from the foliage, and confronted
the ruffian.

“Back!” he cried, and levelled his rifle.

The Outcast only rested the stock of his rifle on the sod,
and a low laugh came from the folds of crape which enveloped
his face.

“Fire!” he said, with that low, growling sound of
laughter.

From yon aperture among the trees, the last glow of the
western sky gives a purple light to the scene. You see
that craped face, framed in its bushy locks of hair, that
thick-set form, with the right arm wound around the barrel
of the rifle. Walter starting forward, his rifle raised to his
eye, his manly form disclosed in all its delicacy of outline
by the dress of dark velvet, relieved by the green of the
trees. Between these figures, the form of the kneeling
woman, her beautiful countenance pale with suspense, her
bared bosom throbbing with quivering emotion. In the
tranquil light of this still hour, her dark hair, showering so
freely over the white shoulders, assumed the purple tint of
the twilight.

“Fire!” cried the Outcast; and again that laugh broke on
the air.

Walter applied his finger to the trigger—there was a
harsh, jarring sound, but no flash in the pan—no report from
the tube.

“Ha, ha, ha! That for your rifle!” And, with the
celerity of a lightning flash, he seized the jewelled chain
from the neck of the lady, and stood erect, calmly leaning
on his rifle.

Walter, at a moment's glance, saw that he must prepare
for a desperate conflict. Dashing his rifle on the sod, he
drew his hunting-knife, and advanced upon the bravo.

“Come,” he growled, “I'll tame your blood!” and, without
moving an inch from his position, seemed about to spring
on his antagonist, like a rattlesnake on the unsuspecting
victim.

He raised his arm to strike that unknown man, but the
kneeling woman bounded from the sod, flung her arms about
his neck. “Save me!” she cried, and lay fainting on his
breast. Her long hair streaming over his face, for a moment
blinded his vision; with a sudden movement, he swept aside
those silken tresses.

The bravo, the Outcast was gone!

But there, in the arms of Walter, the hunter, in this deep
evening hour, lay the form of a beautiful woman, whose
matured loveliness was enveloped in a close-fitting habit;
whose bosom, lately heaving with emotion, now lay white
and pulseless beneath his gaze; whose arms, round and full,

were wound about his neck, while her dark hair streamed in
glossy masses over his shoulders.

A wildly beautiful woman; a voluptuous organization; a
face, rich olive in hue, with the lids closed and the lashes
resting on the cheek, displaying in its calm forehead, marked
brows, and firm lips, the traces of a bold and ambitious
nature!

“It is the vision which for a month past has, day after
day, flitted across my gaze, from the far distance!” he said,
and felt his temple burn, his veins swell as with liquid
flame.

Wishing to gaze yet more clearly on that beautiful face,
he turned toward the western sky.

As he turns—but no! it is a fancy, a dream!—the fainting
woman uncloses her eyes, while a smile of triumph wreaths
her proud lips. It is for a moment only. When Walter
looks again, the lips are smileless, the eyes closed as if in
death.

Walter gazed, for a few moments, upon that face motionless
as marble, while his very soul seemed lost in the vortex
of a whirlpool. His eyes swam, his temples throbbed, he
could feel his heart beat against his bosom.

At last a soft flush pervaded her olive cheek; her lids
were slowly raised, the full blaze of her dark eyes rested
upon Walter's face.

With a bound, she sprang from his arms; even in the dim
shadowy light of that hour, Walter beheld the rich blushes
ripen over her face and bosom.

`Thanks, good sir,—you have saved, perchance, my
life,” she said, in her musical voice, yet with a manner of
calm dignity.

Walter beheld her standing in the centre of that forest
bower, and as the light of her eyes, the expression of her
commanding face, dawned upon him, through the gathering
gloom, he started with surprise. For a month or more, this
strange woman, seen through the vistas of the forest from
afar, had filled him with a bewildering interest. Now
he beheld her face he felt the light of those eyes which
flashed with all the consciousness of intellectual and voluptuous
power.

“Lady Marion!” he exclaimed. “We have met before!
In the Court of St. James, surrounded by a circle of admirers,
glittering with stars and coronets, I last beheld you.
Now, in this lone forest—”

“Ah! I remember well your face, though I never knew
you to converse with you. Your name was whispered
among the courtiers—indeed, the King himself stated that
wealth and chivalry had not often found a nobler representative
than Reginald—”

“No names, lady!” And Walter bowed low as he spoke.
“In the forest, ha, ha! we are but plain men and woman,
you will be pleased to remember!”

“Did you not first set the example? `Lady Marion,'
indeed! Doubtless you wonder to find me here, in this
wild place. I frankly confess that you are the last person
I should have expected to behold—shall I say hoped?—here
in the woods of the Wissahikon!”

She advanced, and, with that smile playing over her face
—oh! you should have seen its strange, mysterious fascination!—she
lightly laid her hand upon his arm. Walter
started, for her touch penetrated his veins like electric
fire.

“Would you know my mission, in these dark, wild
woods? Would you solve the mysteries, not only of a poor,
weak woman's life, but of government and war—would you
achieve the freedom of your native land—the deliverance of
the soil from the clouds which overshadow it? Come, then,
to-night, at the hour of ten, to yonder house, on the opposite
shore of Wissahikon!”

“I will!” said Walter, scarce knowing what he spoke.

There was the sound of a heavy footstep, and Michael—
whom we left insensible upon the sod—advanced from the
shelter of the leaves.

“Brave soldier, I have sought for you, through the woods,
and your home!” cried Lady Marion, confronting the aged
hunter, who stood surprised at her address, and yet impressed,
he scarce knew why, by the sound of that low musical
voice.

“You fought in Braddock's war, under Washington?

“I did!”

“You would serve Washington? Rescue him from the
perils that beset him; from the plots of his enemies?”

“With my life!”

And the old hunter brought his rifle down on the sod, by
way of emphasis.

“Come with me, then, to my mansion on yonder hill!—
These are strange times, when a woman must forget the
modesty of her sex, in the service of her country; when the

old man must feel his withered arm grow strong again, to
defend that country! Come!”

Even the old hunter, whom we have lately seen writhing
in convulsions—the fierce struggle of bodily or mental disease—felt
the magic of that woman's look and voice.

“I'm with you!” he said; “Washington! Is he in danger?
I saw the bullets rattle against the blade of his sword,
on the day of Braddock's defeat—I'll try to keep them from
his heart, now that his enemies encompass him! But first,
young man”—he turned to Walter, and whispered in his ear
—“You saw me in that fit,—just now? Eh, comrade? Notice
anything particular? I'm apt to say queer things—you
overheard, we—”

He paused, while his eyes flashed deadly light; he paused,
hesitated, as though he wished Walter to complete the sentence.

“Pardon me, Michael, if I left you for an instant!” the
young man answered, in an even voice, and with a composed
manner—“This lady was in danger, or I would not have
forsaken you, in such a moment.”

“So you overheard nothing, eh? But come, Walter, I
like you, and have liked you, ever since the day when I
saved your life. I have a daughter—you understand an old
man's feelings. I may die suddenly, some day; be picked
off by a bullet, or fall from a cliff. This child must not be
left to the mercy of a heartless world! Join hands with
me, and swear before the God who sees and will judge—
swear to protect my child!”

Walter turned his face away from the faint glow of light
which shone from the western sky, and extended his hand.

“Your hand trembles!” whispered the old hunter.

“Still, I swear!”

“You swear to protect my child, even Rose, not only from
the touch of harm, but from the wiles of the seducer, the
arts of the libertine! Ah! why does your hand shrink from
my grasp? Why do you turn away? Can it be, that I
have been mistaken in you? Are you afraid to act the part
of a brother to the young and helpless girl?”

Walter stood in the shadows, his face buried in his hands.
Well for him that it was so dark, that forest bower! Well
for him that the keen eye of the old man could not read the
agony of his face!

But the woman who stands in the background, her bosom

swelling beneath her robe, her finger to her lip, her eyes
glancing triumphant fire—what means her agitation?

“I have been mistaken—you are not a man of courage!”
said the old man, turning away.

Walter sprang forward and grasped his hand.

“Pardon me! It was but a bitter memory of a sad story
I once heard, that caused this apparent reluctance! Your
hand! I swear to protect your daughter—even Rose—from
the touch of harm, from the wiles of the seducer, the arts of
the libertine!”

And while the old man grasped the hand of this unknown
comrade, whom we have heard addressed by the names of
Walter and Reginald, there, half buried in the shadows,
stood the Lady Marion, her face overspread with smiles, the
light of a strange passion flashing from her eyes!