University of Virginia Library

LEGEND TWELFTH.
WASHINGTON'S CHRISTMAS.
A LEGEND OF VALLEY FORGE.

An ancient pistol, grim with the dents of
battle, black with the rust of years, its stock of
dark mahogany inlaid with brass, its barrel at
least fourteen inches long, its tarnished lock
bearing the dim inscription, “G. R.—1718,”
traced beside the figure of a Royal Crown.

An ancient clock, looking out from its coffin-like
case, with its dusky countenance sculptured
into dead flowers, the words “Augustin
Neiser, Germant'n, 1732,” engraven in distinct
round hand, beneath the hands — an
ancient clock, whose bell rings out through the
silence of the night, with a clear, deep, silver
sound, like the knell of a dead century; the
last word of the last of an hundred years.

An ancient arm chair, framed of solid oak,
the paint worn long ago from its brown arms,
the rude carvings which surmount its high
back, worn long ago, as smooth as polished
marble, with the letters “J. K., 1740,” cut in
rough old German text, well nigh blotted out
by the touch of an hundred years.

An ancient Bible, massive in its heavy
covers, and clasped with pieces of carved silver,
its pages, embronzed by age, stained with the
traces of many a bitter tear, comprising that
“Family Relics” — in itself the history of
a race.

An ancient round table, fashioned of walnut,
that was planted on the Wissahikon hills,
three hundred years ago, when there were
Red Men in the land, who rudely worshipped
God in the rocks and trees and sky, and made
Religion of their Revenge — an ancient round
table, once strong and firm, but now creaking
and groaning as with the anguish of its
memories, that reach far back into the shadows
of an hundred years.

— They are all in my room, at this dead
hour of midnight and silence, as I write these
words, all glaring in the light of the wood-fire
which crumbles on the hearth.

The clock stands in the corner, pointing to
twelve, the arm-chair is near it, spreading forth
its arms, as if to catch the full warmth of the
fire. The Pistol with its voiceless tube, rests
upon the Round Table, on which I write, and
outspread before me, is the venerable Book with
its clasps of silver.

I might tell you the story of these Relics of
the Past, and believe me, the story which they
bring home to me — or rather the hundred different

Legends — would make the tears stand
in your eyes, the blood pulsate tumultuously
about your hearts.

For in that arm-chair, more than a hundred
years ago, an old man sate, bearing the name
which now is mine, and lifted his withered
hands and blessed his five sons, five manly
boys, reared in the woods of Wissahikon, which
I am so foolish as to love and cherish, even at
this hour, when it is blasphemous to love any
God, but the Lord of the Silver Dollar.

That old man — whose bronzed face and
hair as white as drifted snow, presented a true
Image of that French-German race, who left
their native land, and brought their Spiritual
Faith, which taught that God might be worshipped
without Church or Priest, or Creed,
here, to the hills of Wissahikon, here to the
rolling vallies, called Germantown — that aged
Father, laid his withered hands upon the brown
locks of his sons, and blessed them as he died.

Of the Fate of those sons, a volume might
be written. Not a volume for those to read,
who love big names, and pretty uniforms, and
smooth sentences, soft and tasteless as the pulp
which fills your Critic's skull, and passes for
brains — no! But a volume for those ignorant
souls, to read and love, who like to see the
Providence of God, shining out, even from the
records of the humblest Home.

One son, went forth from that old man's
roof and in the Dream-Land of Wyoming,
reared himself a Home, and worshipped God,
even as his father, without Priest — save the
voice of his own soul — or Temple, save that
which was sheltered by his fireside rafters, or
that glorious church which had the Mountains
for its pillars, the green vallies for its floor,
and for its dome, the blue canopy of God's
own sky. That son fell in the Massacre of
Wyoming; at this hour the white monument,
erected on the banks of the Susquehanna,
bears his name, enrolled among the Martyrs.

Another son, died in battte, in the cause of
Washington. Of the Third and his race, all
traces were lost, until two years ago, when I
pressed the hand of his grand-son, who came
from the hills of Carolina. The Fourth went
forth into the western wilds and left no trace
or record of his fate.

The Fifth and last son, dwelt all his life in
the home of his fathers, and saw many children
blossom into the bloom of womanhood, or the
prime of manhood. Death has reaped every
man of them all, and gathered them into the
full sheaf of the graveyard: and at the present
hour, the author of these lines is the only man
that bears the name of the white-haired Patriarch
who one hundred years ago sat in the
arm-chair and blessed his children as he died.

You will therefore know what I mean,
when I say that these relics of the Past, have
a voice for me, as sad, as tender, as a sound
from the lips of the dying.

The old clock that rings so deeply now, its
silver voice pealed as clearly in the bloodiest
hour of the Battle of Germantown. The
Round Table on which I write, once bore the
paper on which Lord Cornwallis traced the
hurried and deadly details of the fight. But it
is not of these historic memories that I speak:
No! There are other and more tender memories.
That old clock pealed at the birth
hour of all my people, and rung their knell
as one by one they died.

Around the Table, how many faces have
been gathered in a Circle of Home, faces that
now are lost in graveyard dust!

In that old chair, many a form has reposed
— how many, how revered, how dear —that
now find rest, within the narrow panels of the
coffin!

And the old clock, like a spirit whom no
anguish can one moment sway from his calm
watch over the dying men and dying years,
rings out now, clear and deep, as it will ring
when I too, am gathered to the graveyard
sheaf.

The Pistol too, so grim in its battered tube
and stock, has a story — sad, touching —
linked with the tradition of the Round Table,
the arm chair, the clasped Bible and centuried
Clock. The pistol alone, never belonged to
my people, but there was a time, in the dark
hour of the Revolution, when Clock and
Chair, Bible and Table, passed into the hands
of a collateral branch of my race, and became
connected with the grim thing of death, in a
Legend of harrowing yet tender details.

Let me tell you that Legend now, while the
old cloak, with its silver voice, rings out the
Hour of Twelve!

There was snow upon the hills; a mass of
leaden cloud, with broken edges, was hung
across the sky; through the deep gorges, down
to the river, roared the winter wind, howling
the funeral song of the dying year; and yet,
within the stone farm-house of Valley Forge,
the Christmas fire burned with a warm and
cheerful glow.

A spacious room, with white walls and
sanded floor, huge rafters overhead, and a
broad hearth, heaped with massive hickory
logs.

On that hearth, in the oaken chair, sat a man
of some sixty years; his athletic form, clad in
coarse garments of reddish brown, his hands,
cramped by toil, laid on his knees, while his
face glowed with its long beard and hair turning
grey, and hues darkened by the summer
sun, in the cheerful light of the Christmas fire.

True, the garments of the old man were of
coarse home-spun — true, his floor was covered
by no gay carpeting — the huge rafters overhead
concealed by no paint or plaster, and yet,
as he sate there, the room had a joyous look,
full of the word home, and his dark brown
cheek, with its hair and beard, silvering from
brown to grey, spoke something of a heart at
peace with God and man.

Crouching on the hearth, her head laid on
the old man's knee, a girl of sixteen years —
her young form blossoming fast into the shape
and ripeness of woman — turned her clear
hazel eyes towards the light, and twined her
small hands among the cramped fingers of the
old man.

Her form was attired in plain home-spun —
boddice and skirt of dark brown — and yet it
was one of those forms, which, in the warm
bosom just trembling into virgin ripeness, the
lithe waist, and the rounded outlines of the
shape, remind you very much of a flower that
quivers on the stem, the red bloom just peeping
from the green leaves, and quivers more
gently in the moment when it is about to burst
the leaves, and blush into perfect loveliness.

A very loveable girl, with a soft, innocent
face — almost soft as infancy, and innocent as
the prayer of a child — was this maiden,
crouching by her father's knee on the hearth of
stone. Her brown hair, parted in two rich
masses, flowed over his knees, and half concealed
their hands.

“Katrine,” said the old man — he bore the
plain German name of Israel Kuch, and spoke
with a German accent — “it is now twenty
years and more, since I left my native land,
with the brethren of my faith. They would
not let us worship God in our own way; so
we followed Him into the wilderness, and made
our homes where no man dare murder his
brother on account of his creed. You know
our custom, Katrine?”

The young girl looked up, and in a voice
soft and whispering, answered:

“Every Christmas night, at the hour of
twelve, when the Lord Christ was born in the
manger of Bethlehem, we sing the Christmas
hymn, and read a chapter from the Book of
God.”

You see this old pioneer of the wilderness,
dwelling in the woods of Valley Forge, has
planted in the heart of his child the name of
Jesus!

Silently she rose, and gazed upon the old
clock — it stands there, in the corner, with
its broad face to the fire, pointing to the hour
of twelve — and then taking the old Bible with
silver clasps from the table, she laid it on her
father's knees.

A Christmas Picture!

The old man, seated in the arm-chair, the
young girl, in her virgin bloom, bending before
him, the same fireside glow, warming his
withered face, her velvet cheek, and revealing
the opened Bible, whose silver clasps shone
like stars in the ruddy light.

Israel's face was suddenly mantled with
deep sadness:

“There was a time, Katrine, when your
mother was here to sing the Christmas hymn.
She sleeps in the grave-yard now —”

There was another absent, whose memory
comes freshly to their hearts, though his name
is not upon their lips.

“He, too, is absent from home. He journeys
with the men of war: he has forgotten that
religion of peace which he learned by this
hearth, when he sang with us the Christmas
hymn!”

The brave and fearless Konradt! Even
now, turning her eyes — they were wet with
tears — from the light, Katrine remembered
him, her brother. A man of twenty years,
with a form like the forest poplar, a ruddy

brown face, brilliant with large grey eyes and
shadowed by masses of chestnut-colored hair.
Katrine saw him as he looked on the day —
nearly a year gone by — when, with his true
rifle in his grasp, he passed the threshold of
home, bound for the Camp of Washington.

The old man knelt, and laid the Bible on
the chair. Without, the storm howled, and the
snow fell — within, the Christmas fire flung
its merry blaze, and the voice of prayer arose.
By her father's side, knelt the young girl,
placing her clasped hands on her bosom, while
the fringes of her closed eyelids swept her
cheek.

And as the storm howled, the old man read
hose words which are at once poetry and religion.
Beautiful it was to hear, in that lonely
home of Valley Forge, swelling from an old
man's lips, the very words which the Christians
of Rome, hunted to death, like wild beasts,
read in the catacombs — those cities of the
dead, hidden beneath the city of the living —
eighteen hundred years ago!

And there were in the same country, shepherds
abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by
night.

And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and
the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and
they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, fear not: for behold
I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be
to all people.

For unto you is born this day, in the city of David,
a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

The clock rung forth the hour of twelve, as
the last word died on the old man's lips.

Clasping their hands over the Bible, they
bent their heads in silent prayer, her brown
curls mingling with the grey hairs of her
father. And the fireside light shone over them,
as they knelt, and baptized them with its glow.

But suddenly, breaking like a thunder crash
upon that house of prayer, a sound was heard,
mingling with the howling of the storm, and
yet heard distinctly from that howling, as the
musket shot is heard through the cannon's roar.

A footstep — it is in the yard without the
farm-house — it is upon the stone steps leading
to the porch — it is upon the porch, and the
door springs with a crash, wide open.

At once, with the same impulse, Israel and
his child rise from their knees: with dilating
eyes they behold the sight, which we may be
hold with them.

Upon the threshold stands a wild figure,
gazing round the room, with a glassy — a
horror-stricken stare. It is a man of some
twenty-five years, whose hair and beard increase
the deathly paleness of his face, with
their raven-black hues, and give a wilder glare
to his eyes — so dark, so bright, so full of
horror.

“John!” — the solitary word shrieked from
the maiden's lips, for in the wild form she recognized
her lover — her betrothed husband.

“John!” the old man echoed — “you are
a man of peace reared by my dearest friend,
your father, in the lessons of the Gospel, and
yet I behold you standing here, on Christmas
night, a bloody weapon in your hand — that
hand itself stained with blood!”

Not a word from the lips of the intruder!

Staggering forward, he dashed the pistol on
the floor — it is there, dripping blood, even
where the flame glows brightest — and sank,
like a lifeless mass, at the old man's feet.

“Save me, Israel, save me!” — he shrieked
— “for I have done murder, and the avenger
of blood is on my track!”

“You!” — the voices of the old man and
his virgin child joined in chorus.

“Yea — I — I! — the child of prayer;—I
so far forgot the lessons which I learned from
my father, as to become one of a secret band of
Loyalists, who have taken an oath to uphold
the cause of the King. They swore to have
the life of the Rebel leader — cast lots, who
should do the deed — the lot fell on me.”

In the excess of his remorse, he suffered his
head to droop, until his dark locks touched the
floor. The old man stood as though a thunderstroke
had blasted him, while Katrine, raising
her hands to her forchead, gazed upon her
lover with an expression of bewildered pity
and horror.

“I swore to do the deed! To-night, I saw
Washington leave his quarters, near the
Schuylkill — tracked him toward this farm-house
— a solitary dragoon rode some few feet
behind him. You see, I was wound up to
madness by the horrible oath — I nerved my
soul for the deed — I fired!”

“You killed Washington?”

“No — no! The night was dark — my

aim unsteady — I fired — the pistol exploded
in my grasp — I saw the dragoon, the innocent
man, fall from his steed! I am a murderer —
the curse of Cain — I feel it fasten on my
forehead Hark! The Rebels pursue me —
I am lost!”

The sound of hoofs, the clattering of swords,
resounded outside the farm-house. In a moment
the Americans will enter, and secure the
assassin. The strong man, who grovels on
the floor — blasted all at once into an image of
despair, more from remorse than fear — raised
his head and moaned in a tone of agony —

“Israel — I am lost!”

“You have done a terrible thing in the
sight of the Lord, John — but I will save
you.”

Hark! The soldiers have dismounted,
they are on the porch — the old man drags
the murderer from his knees, and points toward
the eastern door.

“Enter! It is the bed-chamber of my absent
son. A secret passage — built in the time of
the Indians — leads into the cellar, and from
thence into the fields, a hundred yards from
the house. You will find the door on one
side of the fire-place — I, myself, will hurry
to the fields, and open the spring-house door
— for into the spring-house this passage
leads!”

With these muttered words, he thrust the
murderer into the bed-chamber of his son —
closed the door — and turned in time, and only
in time, to confront a band of American dragoons,
who rushed from the porch into the room.

“The murderer?” shouted the foremost
dragoon — a man stalwart in form, with a steel
helmet, surmounted by a bucktail plume, on
his brow, a sword gleaming in his hand.
“The murderer? — where is he? He went
this way — entered this house — we must have
him —”

The old man with his beard imparting a
venerable appearance to his face, stood erect,
in the presence of those armed men, and surveyed
their drawn swords without a fear.

And Katrine — where is she?

Upon her knees, before the Bible, spread
open in the old arm-chair, her brown tresses
flowing over her shoulders, her eyes closed —
the blood-stained pistol touching the folds of
her dress.

It was a moment of fearful trial to the aged
Christian. He would not lie — he could not
give up to certain death any man, even a
murderer, who had claimed sanctuary in his
home. And yet, he must either utter a lie —
or surrender up to death the son of his old-time
friend.

“Why do you enter my home, with your
drawn swords, at this still hour of Christmas
night?” he slowly said, anxious to gain time.
Hark! There is a creaking sound in the next
room: the murderer has discovered the secret
door.

The only reply which Israel received was a
sword levelled at his heart.

“Come! no words! We know the Tory
is in your house; and the Tory we will have,
by —”

The brawny soldier clutched the hilt of his
sword, while the point was directed at the old
man's heart. Meanwhile, in stern silence, his
comrades gathered round, grasping their pistols
and swords, with a death-like stillness. The
Christmas light flashed over the kneeling and
unconscious girl — over that solitary old man,
and along the group of maddened soldiers.

“Friend Thompson, you would not stab an
unarmed man” — began Israel, in a voice that
trembled with contending emotions.

A sudden — a decided reply! The captain
made one deadly thrust with his sword, and a
half-uttered cry of horror, gasped in chorus by
his brother soldiers, echoed round the place.
For even to them, maddened by revenge, there
was something horrible in this murder of an
unarmed old man.

The sword flashed home, to its aim. Does
the old man fall a mangled thing, staining his
own hearth with his blood?

“Come, Captain, this is somewhat too British
for an American soldier!” spoke a strange
voice; and a murmur of surprise rose from
every lip, as the Captain's sword fell clattering
on the floor.

Why that murmur of surprise? Why this
sudden silence? Wherefore does even old Israel
stand silent — wondering — dumb

That stranger, with the commanding form,
and noble face — stern, determined in its very
mildness — rivets every eye.

“Washington!”

As the cry rose once more, the stranger advanced,

and laid the bundle which he bore —
a wounded man, his forehead marked by a
hideous gash — upon the hearth, in the strong
glare of the fire. The stiffened arms of the
insensible man touched the dress of the unconscious
girl.

“Quick — my friends — some water for this
wounded man!” said the stranger; “I fear me
he is dying! I would not have him die thus,
for our cause knows no braver man than Cornet
Kuch!”

The last word froze the old man's blood.
So much had his gaze been rivetted by the
solemn presence — the warrior form of that
stranger — that he had not time to gaze upon
the burden which he bore, half concealed in his
cloak.

But the last word cut him to the heart. He
wheeled on his heel, and by the light of the
Christmas fire beheld the wounded man extended
on the hearthstone.

His own son dying, with a hideous wound
upon his forehead; lips, eyelids and cheek
clotted with blood.

For a moment he reeled backward from the
sight, and turned his face away.

The troopers stood as if spell-bound. Washington's
face writhed with an expression of involuntary
anguish.

He turned his face to the group again. It
was changed — horribly changed. That face,
on which peace seemed to have set its seal forever,
was now livid, ghastly, compressed in the
lips, and wild as madness in the eyes.

“My son!” he incoherently gasped. “Lord,
Lord my God, this cup is too bitter! Let it
pass from me! My son — Konradt! No!
no! It cannot be!”

There seemed to be a red light — a sea of
blood bathed in the glare of flames — rolling
before his eyes; his senses swam, his eye
shone with horrible lustre.

He strode forward and grasped the pistol
from the belt of Captain Thompson.

“He hath slain my son — the bone of my
bone — the blood of my blood — the prop of
my old age! Stand back and let me pass!
The murderer is in the spring-house in the
field. He shall die by my hands!”

He rushed from the room into the night and
the darkness.

“Follow him,” cried Washington. “He
will do harm to himself —and mark ye, let no
one, on peril of life, do harm to the murderer
of Cornet Kuch!”

It was at this moment that Katrine awoke
from her swoon. At this moment, when her
father rushed forth, pistol in hand, to do a deed
of murder — when the soldiers, stricken dumb
by his agony, retreated from his path — when
the voice of Washington was heard enjoining
that no harm should be done to the murderer
of her brother.

She rose — swept back the brown hair from
her brow — gazed upon her brother's form,
with the fatal wound on his forehead.

At a glance, by that divine instinct which
God hath given to women, as he bestows glory
upon his angels, poor Katrine read the whole
dark mystery.

“I will save my father from this deed of
murder!” she cried, and darted into her brother's
bed-chamber.

Washington was alone with the wounded
man. His cloak thrown aside, you see his tall
form clad in the uniform of blue, relieved by
buff, his good sword depending from the buckskin
belt. His face, glowing with the mature
manhood of forty-seven years, now bears upon
every firm lineament the traces of deep mental
anguish.

He silently places the Bible on the round
table, beside the arm-chair, lifts the bloody pistol
from the floor, and then raises the dying
man from his resting place on the hearth.

Gently — like a dear mother nursing her
child—he places the wounded soldier in the
arm-chair, and bathes his brow with cold water.

Then bending over the insensible man, surveying
that frank countenance, now pale as
death, he washes the blood away, while a deep
ejaculation rises from his lips.

It is a scene for us to remember — Christmas
Night — the lonely farm-house — Washington,
the Liberator of a People, revealed by
the Christmas fire, as he bathes the brow of a
wounded, a dying man.

Katrine, with her heart throbbing as though
it would burst, entered the door of the bed-chamber,
and saw the wretched murderer, seated
in one corner, the light revealing his livid face.

“John, you must fly —” she exclaimed, in
a calm voice, that sounded to him like the tone

of a dying woman — “It is my brother who
fell by your hand — but, I, the sister, will
save you!”

She opened the secret door within the fire-place,
and turned upon him the light of her
hazel eyes.

— What words can picture the horror which
broke from his countenance, then?

“Your brother?” he gasped — “Konradt,
the friend of my soul? Oh, this is some horrible
dream! You know that I love you,
Katrine — yes, with a love too deep to be offered
to a creature — a love that is mad, idolatrous!
Think you, I would harm Konradt?
No — no! It is a trick of Satan to peril my
soul!”

He cowered upon the floor, and clutching
her hands, looked with fearful intensity into
her face.

“Take your hands from mine, John — they
are stained with my brother's blood. The
door is open, the secret passage before you —
fly! I bid you — I, the sister! But my father
will not spare you — even now he hurries to
the spring-house, to strike you as you seek to
gain the woods! Fly!”

“I will fly, but it is to meet my death at his
hands!” He darted into the secret passage.

— The memory of that livid face, was
stamped in terrible distinctness upon the soul
of the sister, as she gazed wildly around the
room.

Now was the moment for the child-like innocence
of her character to spring, all at once,
into the full bloom of a woman's heroism.

A shade crossed her face — her red lip grew
white — she tore the fastenings from her dress,
for her heart throbbed and grew cold, until she
gasped for breath — and in an instant, her disordered
hair, could not altogether veil the transparent
loveliness of that bared bosom.

For a moment she tottered as though she
would fall lifeless on the floor — the shroud on
the form of death is not more pale than her
face.

In that brief moment, the image of her happy
home, of the last Christmas, when John and
Konradt and her father, sat grouped by the
same fire — rushed vividly through her brain.

“Now, one is dead — the other, will die by
my father's — But no! God will help me
— I will save them yet!”

Light in hand, she darted into the shadows
of the narrow passage.

Down in the hollow yonder, near the
Schuylkill, whose hoarse murmur swells
through the night, rises a small structure of
dark grey stone, with a solitary door, formed
of heavy oaken panels, a steep roof, overarched
by the leafless branches, and a small stream,
winding from beneath that archway toward the
river.

In the summer time, this spring-house of
Farmer Kuch is a very loveable thing to see.
Then, the chesnut trees around it, are glorious
with broad green leaves; there is a carpet of
grass and flowers before the dark old door; the
very brook, singing its way to the Schuylkill,
is draperied with vines and blossoms.

But now it is winter. The trees leafless,
the brook shrouded in ice, the green prospect
of hill and valley, transformed into a wilderness
of snow.

From that waste, the spring-house rises like
a tomb, so black, so desolate, and alone.

Beside the door, stands the farmer, Israel
Kuch, cold damps like the death-sweat starting
from his brow, as the pistol trembles in the
grasp of his right hand. His livid face you
cannot see — for the night is dark, but the flash
of his dilating eyes breaks upon you, even in
this midnight gloom. All his peace of soul is
gone: in its place, nothing but madness and
revenge.

“Mine only son — the blood of my own
heart murdered — no! Lord, I will not falter.
Even as the Avenger of Blood, in the ancient
days of Israel, followed the murderer, and put
him to death, so Lord will I follow and put to
death the murderer of my son!”

Listen! There is a sound in the spring-house,
a rattling as of bolts unfastening, within
the door. Yonder glooms the farm-house, not
one hundred yards distant, and over the waste
of snow, the troopers come hurrying on. The
old man, in his madness, has outstripped them.
In a moment they will be here, but a moment
will be too late.

Listen! The bolt flies back within, but the
lock without holds the door firm. With one
blow the old man breaks the padlock, and with
his finger on the trigger, clutches the pistol.
and prepares to shoot the murderer as he
comes.

That was a moment of intense and sickening
suspense.

The door receded, and the ray of a lamp
streaming through the doorway, revealed the
old man's livid face, and flung his shadow far
along the snow.

It was the murderer, lamp in hand, seeking
to escape!

— Katrine stood there, her bosom bared to
the cold, and defended only by her brown flowing
hair. She did not see her father. How
the heart of Israel throbbed in that terrible
moment! But shading her eyes with her left
hand, she called —

“Father!”

“I am here!” and transformed by his revenge
into an image of unnatural emotion, his
face from the beard to the brow, hideously
distorted, he clutched the pistol and confronted
his child.

“O, father! can this be you? A pistol in
your hand —”

“The murderer of my son — where is he?”

“But your lessons of peace, father, the
Bible, which says, `Love your enemies' —
your own heart, father —”

“The Lord hath called me, Katrine, and I
am here to do his bidding!” cried the wretched
man, as the hollow glare of his eyes rested
upon the pale face of the maiden: “Hark!
the men of war come — they would cheat me
of my victim. “Ah!” he groaned — “Mine
only son, mine only son, — Konradt mine
own boy!”

There was something awful in the depth of
his agony.

Scarce had his accents died, when a form
wilder than his own appeared in the doorway
— a face streaked with a livid blue glowed in
the light, and John the Murderer confronted
the father of his victim.

“Israel,” he said in a husky voice, “It is
past! kill me! but forgive me, for verily, before
God and the angels, I am a miserable man,
a sinner who hath lost his soul forever!”

With hands involuntarily joined, he stood
on the snow, and awaited his fate.

The old man shrank back at first, but as if
gathering strength for the deed, he presented
the pistol and fired.

At the same moment the lights went out, and
all was darkness.

But did you see that young form bounding
in the air, those white arms outspread? The
aim of the pistol was turned aside, and Katrine,
crouching on the snow, clutched her
father by the knees.

“O, father — you cannot do it — God will
be angry with you — you cannot murder —
nay! nay! do not shake me from your grasp
— you taught me to love the Lord Christ,
who says, `love your enemies,' and I will not
see you do this deed!”

“Ah! the murderer has escaped,” groaned
Israel, struggling to free his knees from the
grasp of that heroic girl.

“No!” said a hollow voice, “He is here!”

Through the gloom, Israel beheld the outlines
of the murderer's form, as he stood with
drooped head and folded arms.

At the same moment the troopers, like
shadowy forms, came hurrying round the corner
of the spring-house, their arms gleaming
indistinctly in the midnight darkness.

But the old man saw them not. Reared
from infancy to love the Bible, to love above
all the gentleness, the forgiveness of the Gospels,
at this moment of madness, the dark
scenes of the Old Testament, the terrible judgments
of the Mosaic dispensation, alone possessed
his soul.

“John, kneel on this sod, and pray forgiveness
of your God, for at this hour I am about
to put you to death!”

“No — Israel — this won't do,” cried Captain
Thompson, forgetting his own anger at
the murderer, in overwhelming pity for the
despair of the old man — “We will arrest the
young man, but he must not be harmed; it's
Washington's orders!”

Fiercely the old man scowled upon the
group — one desperate effort he made to shake
off the clutch of his daughter, and at the same
instant he seized a hunter's knife and sprang
upon his victim!

Every man in that crowd held his breath,
but the brave girl did not unloose her grasp.
Up to his heart she sprung, around his neck
she wound her arms, and even as he struck,
she baffled his deadly aim.

His madness now swept over all bounds.
There, unharmed, stood the murderer — there
grouped the awed soldiers — there. hung to
her father's neck, quivered the daughter.

With one irresistible movement, he flung
Katrine from his neck, and knife in hand,
sprang forward. The strong man, with health
in his veins, and youth on his brow, knelt
calmly for the blow.

“John, the Lord hath spoken, and I obey!”
and the knife flashed in his hand.

But hark! That cry heard over the waste
of snow — it reaches the old man's heart, for
it says “Father!”

Every man in the group heard that cry, and
felt his heart grow like ice, with an unknown
fear — it was the voice of the dead man Cornet
Kuch.

“Joy — thank God — it is my brother's
voice!” — You behold Katrine sink swooning
on the snow.

The old man stood with his knife in mid-air
— stood bewildered — listening — dumb.

“Father!” the voice was nearer.

“Oh, can the demons mock me? Am I
indeed given over to the Prince of the Power
of the air?” Israel pressed his left hand to
his burning brain.

The troopers turned, gazed into the darkness,
but they saw nothing save the indistinct
outline of the farm-house, the cold dead sky.

“This puzzles me, I'll be confounded if it
don't!” muttered the stalwart Thompson, as
even he, an image of robust health, felt his
heart chill with superstitious fear.

“Tell me — do I dream — that voice —”
the old man staggered wildly over the frozen
snow.

“Father!” the voice spoke at his shoulder,
this time.

The old farmer turned, beheld a shadowy
figure, laid his hand upon a gashed forehead.

“Father! It is I — your son, Konradt — not
killed, scarcely wounded—only a little stunned!
Ha, ha! A mere scratch after all the outcry
— come father, we will go home!”

Israel fell like a weight of lead — so heavy,
so suddenly — and lay on the snow beside his
unconscious daughter.

Another form advanced from the gloom, and
a voice was heard —

“Captain, secure your prisoner!”

It was the voice of Washington.

In the old farm-house and by the Christmas
fire again. The broad face of the clock, points
with its small hand to the hour of One. On
the round table, rests the blood-stained pistol
and the opened Bible. Before the fire, extended
in the arm-chair, his form completely
broken down by the horrible emotions of the
past hour, Israel Kuch gazes in the faces of
his kneeling children. Here, Konradt with
the gash upon his brow concealed in a white
cloth, there loveable Katrine, smiling as the
tears course down her cheeks.

The troopers wait in the yard, without,
ready for the march.

Up and down along the floor in front of the
fire, paces Washington, his hands behind his
back, his eyes cast downward. That face is
stern as death. Now he pauses — steals a
glance toward the group, and then — while a
scarcely perceptible emotion quivers over his
face — resumes his measured pace again.

Where is the murderer in thought, the man
who levelled his pistol at the head of Washington?

Come with me through the eastern door,
into this small bed-chamber, where a solitary
lamp lights up the fire-place, the bed with unruffled
coverlet, the old-fashioned chairs, and
walls as white as unstained paper.

Crouching on a chair, his knees supporting
his elbows, with his cheeks pressed in his cold
and trembling hands, behold the murderer. His
pale face is framed in dark hair and beard —
his throat is bare — his eyes, sunken in the
sockets, shine with an anguish too big for utterance.

Wrapt in his own fiery whirlpool of remorse,
he does not hear the opening door, nor heed
the advancing form. A hand is laid upon his
shoulder; he looks up and beholds the stern
face of Washington. As though a bolt had
stricken him, he shrinks away from that hand,
for well he knows, that taken in the act of a
base assassination, he has but one Future —
the gibbet and the felon's grave.

“My friend, did I ever harm you?” said
that deep-toned voice.

John buried his face in his hands.

“They speak of you as a quiet, a religious
young man, descended from that class of the
German people, who hold war and all that belongs
to war, in decided abhorrence. I am
anxious to know in what manner have I incurred
your hatred — why arm yourself against
my life?”

There was a light in Washington's eye, a
glow upon his face. John looked up and felt
encouraged to speak. In broken tones, he
poured forth the whole story — grew wild,
painfully eloquent, in that frank confession of
his last hour. Entangled in a secret association
of loyalists, he had been led on from step
to step, until a horrible and blasphemous OATH,
taken amid scenes of darkness and mystery,
hurried him to a purpose, which his soul beheld
with shuddering. “I cannot tell their
names — my feelings of love to God, loyalty
to the king were horribly trifled with it is true
— but I cannot reveal their names! That
OATH maddened me — you behold me now,
willing to pay the forfeit of my crime, eager to
die and be forgotten!”

With clasped hands and gasping utterance,
he looked up into the face of Washington.

The American Chieftain turned his face
away, and leaned his arm upon the mantel.
By his averted face and downcast head, you
may guess the nature of his thoughts.

Was he thinking of his own life, which began
with a nature wild and passionate as the
flowers and sun of the southern clime, and
grew into ripeness with a calm, cold, stern exterior,
hiding the fires that glowed within the
heart? Was he thinking of his hardy boyhood,
passed among the rocks and mountains
of the western wilderness, and nourished into
manhood through many a bitter trial?

Did he, that man whose warm heart was
veiled with an icy shroud — who afterwards
signed with an unfaltering pen and tearful eyes
the death-warrant of John Andre — did he behold
amid the wrecks of a mad fanaticism
which covered the murderer's soul, the tokens
of a better nature, the buds of a noble manhood?

For a long time he pondered there, by the
hearth, while the miserable John ****, with
his face growing yet more livid, awaited the
words of fate.

“You will be tried, sir, according to the
forms of law in cases like yours provided”—
such were his cold words as he turned his
calm face to the murderer again — “In a
moment the soldiers of my Life Guard will
bear you to the camp at Valley Forge.”

He left the bed-chamber with his usual
measured pace.

John fell upon his knees, buried his face in
his hands, which rested on the chair, and tried
to pray. Tried! But above him a sky of
black marble seemed to spread, and as the
words faltered from his lips they fell back
upon his heart again like balls of living fire.

“Come, sir, the guard await you,” said the
voice of Washington.

John started to his feet, confronted his doom,
and felt — that warm, loveable Katrine quivering
on his heart, her arms around his neck,
her loosened hair about his face.

“There, sir, before you shoot at me again,
learn to be more careful in your aim.” There
was a smile upon that magnificent face —
something like a tear in that brilliant eye of
deep rich gray.

It was a painful thing to see the freed blood
pouring in one impetuous torrent from John's
heart to his face — to see the wonder, doubt,
tremulous joy, painted there — to see the
head pillowed on his shoulders, while over
his uplifted arms fell the maiden's luxuriant
hair.

But a glorious thing it was to see that commanding
form, one hand resting on the hilt of
his sword, while the other shaded his eyes
from the light, yet did not hide the nervous
movement of his lips. It would have stirred
your blood to behold that great man on his
war-horse, riding forth to battle, but now it
would have forced the tears in torrents from
your eyes to view him, in that half-lighted
chamber, shaken almost into womanish feeling,
as he saw the result of his own — For
giveness.

The old farmer reposed in the arm-chair,
his son bending over him — the pistol and the
Bible were laid upon the round table — the
clock tolled one — and the Christmas Fire
lighted up the faces of the lovers as they knelt
and took upon their heads, the blossing and
The Revenge of Washington.