University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH.
MAGIC IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

A tall, broad-shouldered form, advanced to
the circle of light, as these words pronounced
in a gruff bass, penetrated Fanny's ears.
Fanny supported by the Preacher's arms, her
face upon his bosom, cast a sidelong glance
upon the intruder.

She beheld a huge, almost gigantic form, attired
in a singular costume, composed of a cap
of course grey fur, a scarlet great coat ornamented
with buttons the size of a dollar, and
corduroy pantaloons inserted in the tops of
ox-hide boots.

Above a plaid neckerchief, appeared a hardy
face, tanned by wind and sun, with whiskers
white as snow, and eyes brilliant as lighted
coals.

“I'm sixty years old,” said the Giant:
“Heap of rascals I've known in my time.
Pour 'em all into a mould and run 'em out
into one com-plete scoundrel and yit that
scoundrel won't hold a candle to you!”

From one pocket the Giant Peter — for it
was our old friend — drew forth something very
much like a pistol, and from the other, he produced
another something, which might have
been a gag and which might have been a gridiron.

“I've heer'd you. I know you. I say —”
his voice growing deeper and hoarser, quivered
as with rising rage — “I know'd Ellen!”

The Preacher appeared to be much surprised
by this intrusion. Scarce conscious that
he held the trembling girl in his arms, he
looked towards the huge Peter, but did not
seem to see him, nor to be conscious of his
presence.

“Come g-a-l. Come 'long with me,” said
Peter, dropping the something which looked
like a gag, into his pocket, and extending his
brawny hand.

“It's a robber,” whispered the Preacher.

“No, no, I will not go with you,” cried
Fanny, scarce knowing what she said, as she
clung to the Preacher's neck.

“You won't?” Peter burst into a roar of
laughter — “Good that. Tell you he's a
scoundrel. Druv Ellen to her grave. Killed
her Father. Killed her brother. A devil in a
white cravat. Come 'long. I 'spose your
Doctor Baldwin's da'ter — Charley told me
sutthin' and I heer'd the rest.”

“No, no, I will not go with you,” faltered
Fanny, clinging yet closer to the Preacher.

“You must go with me?” cried Peter, “tell
you gal he's been lyin' too. It's his way.

Told you Dr. Baldwin was alive. A lie gal.
Dr. Baldwin's dead. Been dead this year.”

Fanny heard these words, and turning her
head over her shoulder, looked into Peter's
face, with an expression of vague terror.

“My father dead? It cannot be!” She
turned to the Preacher, looking into his eyes,
her breath fanning his face: “He is not dead!
Speak! O, you would not deceive me!”

“Your father lives, my child,” whispered
the Preacher: “This person knows nothing
of you or your family.”

Peter seized his pistol by the barrel, as
though it were a mace or club.

“I give you two minnits to let go the gal
and come along with me,” his voice was
hoarse with anger, and his eyes shone with a
significant expression: “Jist refuse, and I'll
tip you over as I would a mad dog.”

He drew nearer, and clenched the pistol
with a determined grasp. Jervis began to recover
from the overwhelming surprise and dismay,
occasiond by the sudden intrusion of the
giant Peter. A thought flashed through his
brain. Could he but carry this thought into
action, all his plans might be accomplished
without difficulty.

“Whar's Lester?” asked Peter; “What
have you done with the boy?”

“Be seated, my child,” whispered Jervis
forcing Fanny into a chair; “Now Sir, I am
prepared to listen to you.” Thus speaking,
he confronted the giant, gazing steadily into his
face, as he inserted his thumbs into the armpits
of his white vest.

Fanny shuddered as she remarked the contrast
between the two.

Peter, strong and rugged, his huge form
clad in a red overcoat, which displayed the
magnitude of his burly chest. The Preacher,
slender and diminutive — at least in comparison
— his graceful form, enveloped in the folds
of a loose dressing gown. One armed not
only with a giant's strength, but with a deadly
weapon; the other, altogether inferior in
strength, and without pistol or weapon of any
kind.

“W-a-l?” said Peter, with a burst of laughter:
“You aint a-goin' to fight, air you?”

“You are armed, I am defenceless,” said
the Preacher: “You can crush me with superior
strength, yes, you can kill me with a sin
gle blow of your brawny fist. But that would
n't be a coward's deed — would it, my friend?”

Peter dropped the pistol into his pocket.

“Never use fire-arms to reptyles,” he exclaimed,
extending his open hand: “Thar!
D'ye see that?”

While Fanny, clasping her hands, surveyed
the twain, with a look of terror and suspense,
the Preacher, still calm, although very pale,
devoted every faculty of his soul to the accomplishment
of his Thought.

“You are a strong man,” he whispered,
“and yet you are afraid to let me grasp your
hand.”

Peter laughed all over his sunburnt face.

“I am rather afeerd,” he chuckled, “Thar!
Don't hurt me! Please don't, that's a good
man.”

He extended his brawny hand, which the
Preacher clutched in a peculiar manner.

“Now is the moment for my thought,” he
muttered: “If it fails I am lost.”

For a moment, he grasped the brawny hand,
without speaking a word, while his eyes,
flashing with steady light, were fixed upon the
eyes of the giant. Peter regarded him with a
grimace of pretended terror —

“Don't hurt me if you please!” he said.

Fanny, half starting from the chair, watched
the issue of the scene, with quivering suspense.

“Now, Sir, you are afraid to extend your
right arm,” whispered the Preacher, still
grasping the left hand of the giant: “Afraid I
say!”

“Thar it is,” — and Peter quite jocularly,
extended his right arm, clenching his fist in
the action. “It don't look like gallopin' Consumption
— hey?”

The Preacher gave a sudden and peculiar
pressure to Peter's left hand, and then whispered:

“Now if you dare, stretch forth your other
arm!” he released the hand, and made a rapid
pass, from the giant's temples to his brawny
chest.

Peter stretched forth his left arm, and
clenched his left hand. Thus, with both arms
extended, throwing his brawny chest into light,
he resembled the figure of a colossal cross.

The Preacher stooped and touched him on
the knees. Then rising again, he rapidly

passed his hands over the arms, breast, and
mouth of our good friend Peter.

“Now, Sir,” he cried in a voice which
swelled deep and bold through the stillness:
“You cannot close your arms! You cannot
move a foot — You cannot open your mouth!
I defy you! You are in my power! Aye,
struggle, if you will — it is out of your power
to move or speak!”

Was this Magic? Starting to her feet in
wonder, Fanny beheld the huge form of the
giant, standing in the centre of the room, motionless
as a figure of stone, save that a slight
movement, agitated his closed lips and outstretched
arms.

“You are in my power! You cannot
speak — You cannot move! I defy you to do
either! Fanny, my child, look upon this palsied
wretch, and behold the power of Heaven!”

The Preacher solemnly raised his right hand
above his head.

“You would steal this child from my care?
Speak, if you can! Dr. Baldwin is dead —
is he, indeed?”

Stiffened in every nerve, palsied in every
fibre of his giant frame, Peter stood with outstretched
arms, closed lips and clutched hands
— stood like a frozen man — without the power
of speech or motion.

The Preacher, flushed and triumphant, still
raised his hand to heaven, and defied the palsied
man to speak or move.

“It is the hand of Heaven!” gasped Fanny,
as she surveyed the strange scene with a feeling
of irrepressible terror. “He came hither
with a lie on his lips, and the lie has choked
his utterance.”

The Preacher hastily took his frock-coat
from a chair, and in a moment it replaced the
dressing-gown. Then placing his hat upon
his brown hair, he passed Fanny's arm through
his own.

“Come, my child,” he whispered, “Heaven
has placed this man in our power; let us leave
him to the contemplation of his sins!”

Alas for Peter!

He saw the Preacher and the girl pass before
him, but had not the power to move or
speak. Turning his head over his shoulder,
he gazed into the shadows, and beheld the
Preacher in the act of taking the key from the
lock, while Fanny was gliding through the
opened door-way. And yet Peter stood with
arms outstretched and lips sealed, his sinews
writhing, his face distorted by his struggles.

He saw the Preacher pass through the door-way,
saw the door close after him, and the
next instant heard the sound of the key turning
in the lock.

And ere that sound had died upon his ears,
the power of speech and motion returned to
him, like the gift of a new life. At the same
moment, he closed his arms violently upon his
chest, started forward as if to test his power
over his lower limbs, and opened his mouth to
its utmost capacity.

“It's the Devil hisself!” shouted Peter,
brandishing his arms, and lifting his feet one
after the other — “The rale Devil, and no
mistake.'

He hurried to the door; it was locked; the
panels were one solid piece of time-hardened
oak, and apparently impenetrable.

Peter was a prisoner in the Preacher's
study.

At the same moment, separated from him by
thick walls, and panels of rivetted metal,
Charles was dying in the Iron Room, while
Caleb and Lemuel stood by its narrow door.