University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

The night gathered a pace, and the usual hour of
repose had come. Lucy retired to her apartment
with a trembling heart, but a courageous spirit,
full of a noble determination to persevere in her
project. Though full of fear, she never for a moment
thought of retreat from the decision which
she had made. Her character afforded an admirable
model for the not unfrequent union of shrinking
delicacy with manly and efficient firmness.
Munro and Rivers, having first been assured that
all was quiet, by a ramble which they took around
their hiding-place, returned to the little chamber
of the latter, such as we have described it in a previous
portion of our narrative, and proceeded to
the further discussion of their plans. The mind
of the landlord was very ill at ease. He had arrived
at that time of life when repose and a fixed
habitation become necessary; and when, whatever
may have been the habits of earlier manhood,
the mind ceases to crave the excitements of adventure,
and foregoes, or would fain forego, all its
roving characteristics. To this state of feeling
had he come, and the circumstances which now
denied him the fruition of that prospect of repose
which he had been promising himself so long, were
regarded with no little restlessness and impatience.

At the moment, they could make no positive arrangements
for the future. Munro was loath to
give up the property which, in one way or other,
he had acquired in the neighbourhood, and which
it was impossible for him to remove to any other
region; and, strange to say, a strong feeling of inhabitiveness—the
love of home—if home he could
be thought to have anywhere, might almost be
considered a passion with his less scrupulous companion.
Thus situated, they lingered on in the
hope that the military would soon be withdrawn
from the neighbourhood, as it could only be maintained
at great expense by the State; and then, as
the country was but nominally settled, and so
sparsely as to scarcely merit any consideration,
they felt assured that they might readily return to
their old, or any practices, and without any further
apprehension. The necessity, however, which
made them thus deliberate, had the effect, at the
same time, of impressing them with a gloomy spirit,
not common to either of them.

“Let us see, Munro—there is, after all, less to
apprehend than we first thought. In a week, and
the court will be over—in another week and the
Guard will be withdrawn, and for this period only
will it be necessary that we should keep dark. I
think we are now perfectly safe where we are.
The only persons who know of our retreat, and
might be troublesome, are safe in our possession.
They will hardly escape until we let them, and before
we do so we shall first see that they can give
us no further necessity for caution. Of our own
party, none are permitted to know the secrets of
our hiding-place, but those in whom we may trust
confidently. I have taken care to provide for the
doubtful at some distance in the adjoining woods,
exaggerating so greatly the danger of exposure,

that they will hardly venture to be seen under any
circumstances and by anybody. Once let these
two weeks go over, and I have no fears—we shall
have no difficulties then.”

“And what's to be done with the pedler and the
fool? I say, Guy, there must be no more blood—
I will not agree to it. The fact is, I feel more
and more dismal every day since that poor fellow's
death; and now that the youngster's taken, the
thought is like fire in my brain, which tells me he
may suffer for our crime.”

“Why, you are grown parson. Would you go
and save him, by giving up the true criminal? I
shall look for that after this, and consider myself no
longer in safety. If you go on in this manner, I
shall begin to meditate an off-hand journey to the
Mississippi.”

“Ay, and the sooner we all go the better—
though, to be plain, Guy—let this affair once blow
over, and I care not to go with you any longer. We
must then cut loose for ever. I am not a good
man, I know—any thing beside; but you have carried
me on, step by step, until I am what I am afraid
to name to myself. You found me a rogue—you
have made me a —”

“Why do you hesitate? Speak it out, Munro
—it is a large step gained towards reform when
we learn to name truly our offences to ourselves.”

“I dare not. The thought is sufficiently horrible
without the thing. I hear some devil whispering
it too frequently in my ears, to venture upon its
utterance myself. But you—how you can live
without feeling it, after your experience, which has
been so much more dreadful than mine, I know
not.”

“I do feel it, Munro, but have long since ceased
to fear it. The reiteration takes away the terror

which is due rather to the novelty than to the offence.
But when I began, I felt it. The first sleep
I had after the affair of Jessup was full of tortures.
The old man, I thought, lay beside me in my bed;
his blood run under me, and clotted around me, and
fastened me there, while his gashed face kept
peering into mine, and his eyes danced over me
with the fierce light of a threatening comet. The
dream nearly drove me mad, and mad I should
have been had I gone to my prayers. I knew that,
and chose a different course for relief.”

“What was that?”

“I sought for another victim as soon after as I
conveniently could. The one spectre superseded
the other, until all vanished. They never trouble
me now—though sometimes, in my waking moments,
I have met them on the road side—glaring
at me from bush or tree, until I shouted at them
fiercely, and then they were gone. These are
my terrors, and they do sometimes unman me.”

“They would do more with me; they would
destroy me on the spot. But, let us no more of
this. Let us rather see if we cannot do something
towards making our visions more agreeable.
Do you persevere in the sacrifice of this youngster.
Must he die?”

“Am I a child, Walter Munro, that you ask me
such a question? Must I again tell over the accursed
story of my defeat and of his success? Must
I speak of my thousand defeats—of my overthrown
pretensions—my blasted hopes, where I
had set my affections—upon which every feeling
of my heart had been placed? Must I go over a
story so full of pain and humiliation—must I describe
my loss, in again placing before your eyes a
portraiture like this? Look, man, look—and read
my answer in the smile, which, denying me, provides

me, in this case, with a denial as immutable
as hers.”

He placed before his companion the miniature
of Edith, which he took from his bosom, where he
seems carefully to have treasured it. He was
again the envenomed and the excited savage which
we have elsewhere seen him, and in which mood
Munro knew well that nothing could be done with
him in the shape of argument or entreaty. He
went on:—

“Ask me no questions, Munro, so idle, so perfectly
unnecessary as this. Fortune has done
handsomely here. He falls through me, yet falls
by the common hangman. What a double blow
is this to both of them. I have been striving to
imagine their feelings, and such a repast as that
effort has procured me—I would not exchange it—
no—not for worlds—for nothing less, Munro, than
my restoration back to that society—to that place
in society, from which my fierce passions, and
your cruel promptings, and the wrongs of society
itself, have for ever exiled me.”

“And would you return, if you could do so?”

“To-morrow—to-night—this instant. I am sanguinary,
Munro—revengeful—fierce—all that is
bad, because I am not permitted to be better. My
pride—my strong feelings and deeply absorbing
mood—these have no other field for exercise. The
love of home—the high ambition, which, had society
done me common justice, and had not, in enslaving
itself, dishonoured and defrauded me—
would, under other circumstances, have made me
a patriot. My pride is even now to command the
admiration of men—I never sought their love.
Their approbation would have made me fearless
and fearful in their defence and for their rights—
their injustice makes me their enemy. My passions,

unprovoked and unexaggerated by mortifying
repulses, would have only been a warm and
stimulating influence, perpetually working in their
service—but, pressed upon and irritated as they
have been, they grew into so many wild beasts,
and preyed upon the cruel or the careless keepers,
whose gentle treatment and constant attention had
tamed them into obedient servants. Yet, would I
could, even now, return to that condition in which
there might have been hope. The true spectre of
the criminal—such as I am—the criminal chiefly
from the crimes and injustice of society, not forgetting
the education of my boyhood, which grew
out of the same crimes, and whose most dreadful
lesson is selfishness—is despair! The black waters
once past, the hills rise between, and there is no
return to those regions of hope, which, once lost,
are lost for ever. This is the true punishment
—the worst punishment which man inflicts upon
his fellow—the felony of public opinion. The
curse of society is no unfit illustration of that ban
which its faith holds forth as the penal doom of the
future. There is no return!”

The dialogue, mixed up thus, throughout, with
the utterance of opinions on the part of the outlaw,
many of which were true, or founded in truth, yet
coupled with many false deductions—was devoted,
for some little while longer, to the discussion of
their various necessities and plans for the future.
The night had considerably progressed in this way,
when, of a sudden, their ears were assailed with an
eldritch screech, like that of the owl, issuing from
one of the several cells around them. The quick
sense of Rivers immediately discerned the voice
of the idiot, and without hesitation he proceeded
to that division of the rock which contained the
two prisoners. To each of these apartments had

been assigned a sentinel, or watch, whose own
place of abode, while covered completely and from
sight, and in all respects furnishing a dwelling,
though rather a confined one, for himself, enabled
him to attend to the duty assigned him without himself
being seen. The night had been fairly set in,
when Bunce, with the aid of Chub Williams, with
all due caution proceeded to his task, and with so
much success, that, in the course of a couple of
hours, they had succeeded, not only in making a
fair outlet for themselves, but for Lucy Munro too.
The watchman, in the mean time, holding his station
as merely nominal, gave himself as little trouble
as possible; and believing all things quiet, had,
after a little while, insinuated himself into the good
graces of as attractive a slumber as may usually
be won in the warm summer season in the south,
by one to whom a night-watch is a peculiarly ungracious
exercise. Before this conclusion, however,
he looked forth every now and then, and deceived
by the natural stillness of earth and sky, he
committed the further care of the hours, somewhat
in anticipation of the time, to the successor who
was to relieve him on the watch. Without being
conscious of this decision in their favour, and ignorant
entirely of the sentinel himself, the pedler fortunately
chose this period for his own departure
with the young lady whom he was to escort; and
who, with probably far less fear than her gallant,
did not scruple, for a single instant, to go forth under
his guidance. Chub took his instructions from
the lips of Lucy, and promised the most implicit
obedience. They had scarcely been well gone
when the sentinels were changed, and one something
more tenacious of discipline, or something
less drowsy than his predecessor, took his place.
After muttering at intervals, as directed, for the
space of an hour, probably, from the time at which
his companion had departed, Chub thought it only
prudent to sally forth too. Accordingly, ascending
to the break in the wall, through which his companion
had made his way, the urchin emerged from
the cavern at the unlucky moment, when, at some
ten or fifteen paces in front of him, the sentinel
came forth from his niche to inspect the order of
his watch. Chub saw his adversary first, and his
first impulse originated the scream which at once
drew the attention of Rivers, as already narrated.
The outlaw rushed quickly to the scene of difficulty,
and before the sentinel had well recovered
from the astonishment occasioned by the singularly
sudden appearance and wild screech of the
urchin.

“Why, what is this, Briggs; what see you?”
was the hasty inquiry of Rivers.

“There, sir, there,” exclaimed the watch, still
half bewildered, and pointing to the edge of the
hill, where, in a condition seemingly of equal incertitude
with himself, stood the imbecile.

“Seize upon him—take him at once—let him
not escape you!” were the hasty orders of the outlaw.
Briggs set forward, but his approach had the
effect of giving determination also to Chub; who,
just as the pursuer thought himself sure of his
captive, and was indeed directly upon him, doubled
himself up, as it were into a complete ball, and
without effort rolled headlong down the hill;
gathering upon his feet as he attained the level,
seemingly unhurt, and with all the agility of the
monkey.

“Shall I shoot, sir?” was the inquiry of Briggs,
as the urchin stood off, laughing wildly at his good
fortune.

“Now, don't”—was the cry—“Now, don't”—

was the exclamation of Chub himself, who, however,
trusting nothing to the effect of his entreaty,
ran vigorously on his way.

“Yes, shoot him down,” was the sudden exclamation
of Munro; but Rivers struck the poised
weapon upward in the hands of the sentinel, to
the astonishment, not less of the sentinel than of
the landlord.

“No—let him live, Munro. Let him live. Such
as he should be spared. Is he not alone—without
fellowship—scorned—an outcast—without sympathy—like
myself. Let him live, let him live!” and
as he concluded a direction, so strange from his
lips, his countenance indicated the most foreign abstraction
of his thoughts. Munro gave directions
to see after the other prisoners.

A few moments sufficed for this, and the panic
was universal among the inmates of the rock. The
secret was now lost, unless immediate pursuit
could avail in the recovery of the fugitives. This
pursuit was immediately undertaken, and both
Rivers and Munro, taking different directions, and
dispersing their whole force about the forest, set off
on the search.

Apprehensive of pursuit, the policy of Bunce, to
whom Lucy gave up the entire direction of their
flight, was determined upon with not a little judgment.
Assured that his pursuers would search
chiefly on the direct route between their abode and
the village, to which they would necessarily surmise
the flight was directed, he boldly determined
upon a course, picked sinuously out, obliquing
largely from the true direction, which, while it
would materially lengthen the distance, would at
least secure them, he thought, from the danger of
contact with the scouring party. By no means ignorant
of the country, in and about which he had

frequently travelled in the pursuit of trade, he contrived,
fortunately, in this way, completely to mislead
the pursuers; and the morning found them
still some distance from the village, but in a direction
affording few chances of interruption in their
contemplated approach to it. Lucy was dreadfully
fatigued, and a frequent sense of weariness
almost persuaded her to lay down life itself in utter
exhaustion; but the encouraging words of the
pedler, and the thought of his peril, for whose
safety, though herself hopeless of all beside, she
would willingly peril all, restored her, and invigorated
to renewed effort. At the dawn of day they
approached a small farm-house, some of the inmates
of which happened to know Lucy, and, though they
looked somewhat askant at her companion, and
wondered not a little at the circumstance of her
travelling at such a time of night, yet, as she was
generally well respected, their surmises and scruples
were permitted to sleep; and, after a little
difficulty, they were persuaded to lend her the
family pony and side-saddle, with the view to the
completion of her journey. Taking some slight refreshment,
she hurried on; Bunce, taking the road
on foot, alongside, with all the patient docility of a
squire of the middle ages; and to the great satisfaction
of all parties, they arrived in sight of the
village, just as Counsellor Pippin, learned in the
law, was disputing with the state attorney upon the
non-admissibility of certain points of testimony,
which it was the policy of the former to exclude.