University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

A day more had elapsed, and the bustle in the
little village was increased by the arrival of other
travellers. A new light came to the dungeon of
Ralph Colleton, in the persons of his uncle and
sweet cousin, whom his letters, at his first arrest,
had apprized of his situation. They knew that
situation only in part, however; and the first intimation
of his doom was that which he himself
gave them. The meeting was full of a painful
pleasure. The youth himself was firm—muscle
and mind all over; but deeply did his uncle reproach
himself for his precipitation and sternness, and the
grief of Edith, like all deep grief, was dumb, and
had no expression. There was but the sign of
wo—of wo inexpressible in the ashy lip, the glazed,
the tearless and half wandering eye, and the convulsive
shiver, that at intervals racked her whole
frame, like strong and sudden gusts down among
the foliage. The youth, if he had any at such an
hour, spared his reproaches. He narrated in plain
and unexaggerated language, as if engaged in the
merest narration of commonplace, all the circumstances
of his trial. He pointed out the difficulties,
to his mind insuperable, and strove to prepare
the minds of those who heard, for the final and
saddest trial of all, as his own mind had prepared
him. In that fearful work of preparation,
the spirit of love could have no restraining influence,

and never was embrace more fond than that
of Ralph and the maiden. Much of his uncle's
consolation was found in the better disposition
which he now entertained, though at too late a day,
in favour of their passion. He would now willingly
consent to all.

“Had you not been so precipitate, Ralph—” he
said—“had you not been so proud—had you
thought at all, or given me time for thought, all
this trial had been spared us. Was I not irritated
by other things when I spoke to you unkindly?
You knew not how much I had been chafed—you
should not have been so hasty.”

“No more of this, uncle, I pray you. I was
wrong and rash, and I blame you not. I have
nobody but myself to reproach. Speak not of the
matter; but, as the best preparation for all that is
to come, let your thought banish me rather from
contemplation. Why should the memory of so
fair a creature as this be haunted by a story such
as mine. Why should she behold, in her mind's eye,
for ever, the picture of my dying agonies—the accursed
scaffold—the—” and the emotion of his
soul, at the subject of his own contemplation, choked
him in his utterance, while Edith, half-fainting in
his arms, prayed his forbearance.

“Speak not thus—not of this, Ralph, if you
would not have me perish. I am fearfully sick
now—my head swims, and all is commotion at my
heart. Not water—not water—give me words of
hope—of consolation. Tell me that there is still
some chance—some little prospect. That somebody
is gone in search of evidence—in search of
hope. Is there not a circumstance which may
avail? Said you not something of—did you not
tell me of a person who could say for you that
which would have done much towards your escape?

A woman, was it not—speak, who is she—let me
go to her—she will not refuse to tell me all, if she
be a woman.”

Ralph assured her in the gentlest manner of
the hopelessness of any such application; and the
momentary dream which her own energies had
conjured into a promise, as suddenly subsided,
leaving her to a full consciousness of her desolation.
Her father at length found it necessary to
abridge the interview. Every moment of its protraction
seemed still more to unsettle the understanding
of his daughter. She spoke wildly and
confusedly, and in that thought of separation which
his doom perpetually forced upon her, she contemplated
in all its fearful extremities, her own. She
was borne away but half alive—the feeling of wo
something blunted, however, by the mental unconsciousness
following its realization. Private apartments
were readily found them in the village, and
having provided good attendance for his daughter,
Col. Colleton set out, though almost entirely hopeless,
to ascertain still farther the particulars of the
case, and to see what might be done in behalf of
one of whose innocence he felt perfectly assured.
He knew Ralph too well to suspect him of falsehood;
and the clear narrative which he had given
—and the manly and unhesitating account of all
particulars having any bearing on the case which
had fallen from his lips, he knew, from all his previous
highmindedness of character, might safely be
relied on—assured of this himself, he deemed it
not improbable that something might undergo development,
in a course of active inquiry, which
might tend to the creation of a like conviction in
the minds of those in whom rested the control of
life and judgment. His first visit was to the lawyer,
from whom, however, he could procure nothing,

besides being compelled, without possibility
of escape, to listen to a long string of reproaches
against his nephew.

“I could, and would have saved him, Col. Colleton,
if the power were in mortal,” was the self-sufficient
speech of the little man; “but he would
not—he broke in upon me when the very threshold
was to be passed, and just as I was upon it.
Things were in a fair train, and all might have gone
well but for his boyish interruption. I would have
come over the jury with a settler. I would have
made out a case, sir, for their consideration, which
every man of them would have believed he himself
saw. I would have shown your nephew, sir,
riding down the narrow trace, like a peaceable
gentleman—anon, sir, you should have seen Forrester
coming along full tilt after him. Forrester
should have cried out with a whoop and a right
royal oath—then Mr. Colleton would have heard
him, and turned round to receive him. But Forrester
was drunk, you know, and would not understand
the young man's civilities. He blunders out
a volley of curses right and left, and bullies Master
Colleton for a fight, which he declines. But Forrester
is too drunk to mind all that—without more
ado, he mounts the young gentleman, and is about
to pluck out his eyes, when he feels the dirk in his
ribs, and then they cut loose. He gets the dirk
from Master Colleton and makes at him—but he
picks up a hatchet that happens to be lying about,
and drives at his head, and down drops Forrester,
as he ought to, dead as a door nail.”

“Good Heavens! and why did you not bring these
facts forward. They surely could not have condemned
him under these circumstances.”

“Bring them forward! To be sure I would
have done so, but, as I tell you, just when on the

threshold, at the very entrance into the transaction,
up pops this hasty young fellow—I'm sorry
to call your nephew so, Col. Colleton—but the fact
is, he owes his situation entirely to himself. I
would have saved him, but he was obstinately bent
on not being saved; and just as I commenced the
affair, up he pops and tells me, before all the
people, that I know nothing about it. A pretty
joke, indeed. I know nothing about it—and it my
business to know all about it. Sir, it ruined him
—I saw, from that moment, how the cat would
jump. I pitied the poor fellow, but what more
could I do?”

“But it is not too late—we can memorialize the
governor, we can put these facts in form, and by
duly showing them with the accompanying proofs,
we can obtain a new trial—a respite.”

“Can't be done now—it's too late. Had I been
let alone—had not the youth come between me and
my duty, I would have saved him, sir, as, under
God, I have saved hundreds before. But it's too
late now.”

“Oh, surely not too late—with the facts that
you mention, if you will give me the names of the
witnesses furnishing them, so that I can obtain
their affidavits—”

“Witnesses!—what witnesses?”

“Why, did you not tell me of the manner in
which Forrester assaulted my nephew, and forced
upon him what he did as matter of self defence.
Where is the proof of this?”

“Oh, proof. Why, you did not think that was
the true state of the case—that was only the case
I was to present to the jury.”

“And there is then no evidence for what you
have said?”

“Not a tittle, sir. Evidence is scarcely necessary

in a case like this, sir, where the State proves
more than you can possibly disprove. Your only
hope, sir, is to present a plausible conjecture to the
jury. Just set their fancies to work, and they have
a taste most perfectly dramatic. What you leave
undone, they will do. Where you exhibit a blank,
they will supply the words wanting. Only set
them on trail, and they'll tree the 'possum. They
are noble hands at it, and, as I now live and talk to
you, sir, not one of them who heard the plausible
story which I would have made out, but would have
discovered more common sense and reason in it than
in all the evidence you could possibly have given
them. Because, you see, I'd have given them a reason
for every thing. Look, how I should have made
out the story. Mr. Colleton and Forrester are
excellent friends, and both agree to travel together.
Well, they're to meet at the forks by midnight. In
the mean time, Forrester goes to see his sweetheart,
Kate Walton—a smart girl, by-the-way, colonel,
and well to look on. Parting's a very uncomfortable
thing, now, and they don't altogether like it.
Kate cries, and Forrester storms. Well, must
come, comes at last. They kiss and are off—different
ways. Well, Grief's but a dry companion,
and, to get rid of him, Forrester takes a drink—
still Grief holds on, and then he takes another and
another, until Grief gets off at last, but not before
taking with him full half, and not the worst half
either, of the poor fellow's senses. What then?
Why then he swaggers and swears at every thing,
and particularly at your nephew, who, you see, not
knowing his condition, swears at him for keeping
him waiting—”

“Ralph Colleton never swears, Mr. Pippin,” said
the colonel, grimly.

“Well—well, if he didn't swear then, he might

very well have sworn, and I'll be sworn but he did
on that occasion; and it was very pardonable too.
Well, he swears at the drunken man, not knowing
his condition, and the drunken man rolls and reels
like a rowdy, and gives it to him back, and then
they get at it. Your nephew, who is a stout colt,
buffets him well for a time, but Forrester, who is a
mighty powerful built fellow, he gets the better in the
long run, and both come down together in the road.
Then Forrester, being uppermost, sticks his thumb
into Master Colleton's eye—the left eye, I think it
was—yes, the left eye it was—and the next moment
it would have been out, when your nephew,
not liking it, whipped out his dirk, and, 'fore Forrester
could say Jack Robinson, it was playing
about in his ribs; and then comes the hatchet part,
just as I told it you before.”

“And is none of this truth?”

“God bless your soul, no. Do you suppose,
if it was the truth, it would have taken so long
a time in telling. I wouldn't have wasted the
breath in telling it. The witnesses would have
done that, if it were true; but in this was the
beauty of my art, and had I been permitted to say
to the jury what I've said to you, the young man
would have been clear. It wouldn't have been
gospel, but where's the merit of a lawyer if he
can't go through a bog. This is one of the sweetest
and most delightful features of the profession.
Sir, it is putting the wings of fiction to the lifeless
and otherwise immoveable body of the fact.”

Colonel Colleton was absolutely stunned by the
fertility and volubility of the speaker, and after
listening for some time longer, as long as it was
possible to procure from him any thing which
might be of service, he took his departure, bending
his way next to the wigwam, in which, for the

time being, the pedler had taken up his abode. It
will not be necessary that we should go with him
there, as it is not probable that any thing materially
serving his purpose or ours will be adduced from
the narrative of Bunce. In the mean time, we will
turn our attention to a personage, whose progress
must correspond in all respects with that of our
narrative.

Guy Rivers had not been unapprized of the presence
of the late comers at the village. He had
his agents at work, who marked the progress of
things, and conveyed their intelligence to him with
no qualified fidelity. The arrival of Colonel Colleton
and his daughter had been made known to
him within a few hours after its occurrence, and the
feelings of the outlaw were of a nature the most
complex and contradictory. Secure within his
den, the intricacies of which were scarcely known
to any but himself, he did not study to restrain
those emotions which had prompted him to so
much unjustifiable outrage. With no eye to mark
his actions or to note his speech, the guardian
watchfulness which had secreted so much, in his
association with others, was taken off, and we see
much of that heart and those wild principles of its
government, the mysteries of which were painful
to behold. Slowly, and for a long time after the
receipt of the above mentioned intelligence, he
strode up and down the narrow cell of his retreat;
all passions at sway and contending for the mastery—sudden
action and incoherent utterance
occasionally diversifying the otherwise monotonous
movements of his form. At one moment, he
would clench his hands with violence together,
while an angry malediction would escape through
his knitted teeth—at another, a demoniac smile of
triumph, and a fierce laugh of gratified malignity

would ring through the apartment, coming back
upon him in an echo, which would again restore
him to consciousness, and bring back the silence
so momentarily banished.

“They are here—they have come to witness his
degradation—to grace my triumph—to feel it, and
understand my revenge. We will see if the proud
beauty knows me now—if she yet continues to
discard and to disdain me. I have her now upon
my own terms—she will not refuse—I am sure of
her—I shall conquer her proud heart—I will lead
her in chains—the heaviest chains of all—the
chains of a dreadful necessity. He must die else.
I will howl it in her ears with the voice of the wolf
—I will paint it before her eyes with a finger dipt
in blood and in darkness. She shall see him carried
to the gallows—I shall make her note the
halter about his neck—that neck, which, in her
young thought, her arms were to have encircled
only—nor shall she shut her eyes upon the last
scene—nor close her ears to the last groan of my
victim. She shall see and hear all, or comply
with all that I demand. It must be done—but
how? How shall I see her—how obtain her presence—how
command her attention. Pshaw! shall
a few beardless soldiers keep me back, and baffle
me in this? Shall I dread the shadow now, and
shrink back when the sun shines out that makes it?
I will not fear. I will see her—I will bid defiance
to them all. She shall know my power, and upon
one condition only will I use it to save him. She
will not dare to refuse the condition—she will consent—she
will at last be mine—and for this I will
do so much—go so far—ay, save him whom I
would yet be so delighted to destroy.”

Night came, and in a small apartment of one of
the lowliest dwellings of Chestatee, Edith and her

father sat in the deepest melancholy, conjuring up
perpetually, in their minds, those images of sorrow
so necessarily the concomitants of their present
situation. It was somewhat late, and they had just
returned from an evening visit to the dungeon of
Ralph Colleton. The mind of the youth was in
far better condition than theirs, and his chief employ
had been in preparing them for a similar feeling
of resignation with himself. He had succeeded
but indifferently. They strove to appear
firm, that he should not be less so than they found
him; but the effort was very perceptible, and the
recoil of their dammed-up emotions was only
so much more fearful and overpowering. The
strength of Edith had been severely tried, and her
head now rested upon the bosom of her father,
whose arms were required for her support, in a
state of feebleness and exhaustion, leaving it doubtful,
at moments, whether the vital principle had not
itself utterly departed. At this period the door
opened, and a stranger stood abruptly before them.
His manner was sufficiently imposing, though his
dress was that of the wandering countryman—
savouring of the jockey, and not much unlike that
frequently worn by such wayfarers as the stage-driver
and carrier of the mails. He had on an
overcoat, made of buckskin—an article of the Indian
habit—a deep fringe of the same material
hung suspended from two heavy capes that depended
from the shoulder. His pantaloons were
formed of the same material—a fox-skin cap rested
slightly upon his head, rather more upon one side
than the other; while a whip of huge dimensions
occupied one of his hands. Whiskers, of a bushy
form and most luxuriant growth, half-obscured his
cheek, and the moustaches were sufficiently small
to lead to the inference that the wearer had only
recently determined upon the benefit of their association.
A black silk handkerchief, wrapped
loosely about his neck, completed the general outline;
and the tout ensemble indicated one of those
dashing blades, so frequently to be encountered in
the southern country, who, despising the humdrum
monotony of regular life, are ready for adventure
—lads of the turf—the muster-ground—the general
affray—the men who can whip their weight in wild-cats—whose
general rule it is to knock down and
drag out. Though startling at first to both father
and daughter, the manner of the intruder was such
as to forbid any further alarm than was incidental to
his first abrupt appearance. His conduct was respectful
and distant—closely observant in the proprieties
of his address, and so studiously guarded, as
to satisfy them, at the very outset, that nothing improper
was intended. Still, his entrance without
any intimation was sufficiently objectionable to occasion
a hasty demand from Colonel Colleton, as to
the meaning of his intrusion.

“None, sir, is intended, which may not be atoned
for,” was the reply. “I had reason to believe,
Colonel Colleton, that the present melancholy circumstances
of your family were such as might operate
to the excuse of an intrusion, which may have
the effect of making them less so—which, indeed,
may go far towards the prevention of that painful
event which you now contemplate as certain.”

The words were electrical in their effect upon
both father and daughter. The former rose from
his chair, and motioned the stranger to be seated,
while the daughter, rapidly rising, with an emotion
which gave new life to her form, inquired,
breathlessly—

“Speak, sir, say—how!”—and she lingered and
listened with figure bent sensibly forward, and

hand uplifted and motionless, for reply. The person
addressed smiled with visible effort, while
slight shades of gloom, like the thin clouds fleeting
over the sky at noonday, obscured at intervals the
otherwise subdued and even expression of his
countenance. He looked at the maiden while
speaking, but his words were addressed to her
father.

“I need not tell you, sir, that the hopes of your
nephew are gone—there is no single chance upon
which he can rest a doubt whereby his safety may
be secured. The doom is pronounced—the day is
assigned—and the executioner is ready.”

“Is your purpose insult, sir, that you tell us this?”
was the rather fierce inquiry of the colonel.

“Calmly, sir,”—was the response, in a manner
corresponding well with the nature of his words—
“my purpose, I have already said, is to bring, or at
least to offer, relief—to indicate a course which
may eventuate in the safety of the young man
whose life is now at hazard; and to contribute myself
to the object which I propose.”

“Go on—go on, sir, if you please—but spare all
unnecessary reference to his situation,” said the
colonel, as a significant pressure of his arm by his
daughter motioned him to patience. The stranger
proceeded:—

“My object in dwelling upon the youth's situation
was, if possible, by showing its utter hopelessness
in every other respect, to induce you the more
willingly to hear what I had to offer, and to comply
with certain conditions which must be preparatory
to any development upon my part.”

“There is something strangely mysterious in
this. I am willing to do any thing and every thing,
in reason and without dishonour, for the safety of
my nephew—the more particularly as I believe

him altogether innocent of the crime laid to his
charge. More than this I dare not; and I shall not
be willing to yield to unknown conditions, prescribed
by a stranger, whatever be the object; but
speak out at once, sir, and keep us no longer in
suspense. In the mean time, retire, Edith, my
child—we shall best transact this business in your
absence. You will feel too acutely the consideration
of this subject to listen to it in discussion. Go,
my daughter.”

But the stranger interposed, with a manner not
to be questioned:—

“Let her remain, Colonel Colleton—it is, indeed,
only to her that I can reveal the mode and the
conditions of the assistance which I am to offer.
This was the preliminary condition of which I
spoke. To her alone can my secret be revealed—
and my conference must be entirely with her.”

“But, sir—this is so strange—so unusual—so
improper.”

“True, Colonel Colleton—in the ordinary concerns,
the every-day offices of society, it would be
strange, unusual, and improper; but these are not
times, and this is not a region of the world, in which
the common forms are to be insisted upon. You forget,
sir, that you are in the wild abiding-place of men
scarcely less wild—with natures as stubborn as the
rocks, and with manners as uncouth and rugged as
the woodland growth which surrounds us. I know
as well as yourself, that my demand is unusual, but
such is my situation—such, indeed, the necessities
of the whole case, that there is no alternative. I
am persuaded that your nephew can be saved—I
am willing to make an effort for that purpose, and
my conditions are to be complied with—one of them
you have heard—it is for your daughter to hear the
rest.”

The colonel still hesitated. He was very tenacious
of those forms of society, and of intercourse
between the sexes, which are rigidly insisted upon
in the south, and his reluctance was manifest—
while he yet hesitated, the stranger again spoke.

“The condition which I have proposed, sir, is
unavoidable, but I ask you not to remove from
hearing—the adjoining room is not so remote, but
that you can hear any application which your
daughter may be pleased to make. My own security
depends, not less than that of your nephew,
upon your compliance, if I undertake to save him.”

These suggestions prevailed. Suspecting the
stranger to be one whose evidence would point to
the true criminal, himself an offender, he at length
assented to the arrangement, and after a few
minutes further dialogue he left the room. As he
retired, the stranger carefully locked the door, a
movement which somewhat alarmed the maiden,
but the respectful manner with which he approached
her, and her own curiosity, not less than interest in
the progress of the event, kept her from the exhibition
of any apprehensions. The stranger now
approached her. His glances, though still respectful,
were long and searching upon her face. He
seemed to study all its features, comparing them,
as it would seem, with his own memories upon the
subject. At length, as with a sense of maidenly
propriety she turned sternly away, he addressed
her—

“Miss Colleton has forgotten me, it appears,
though I have some claim to be an old acquaintance.
I, at least, have a better memory for my
friends—I have not forgotten her.”

Edith looked upon him in astonishment, but there
was no recognition in her glance. A feeling of
mortified pride might have been detected in the

expression of his countenance, as with a tone of
calm unconsciousness, she replied—

“You are certainly unremembered, if ever
known, by me, sir. I am truly sorry to have forgotten
one who styles himself my friend.”

“Who was—who is—or rather, who is now willing
again to be your friend, Miss Colleton”—was
the immediate reply.

“Yes, and so I will gladly call you, sir, if you
succeed in what you have promised.”

“I have yet promised nothing, Miss Colleton.”

“True, true! but you say you have the power,
and surely would not withhold it in such a time.
Oh, speak, sir—tell me how you can serve us all—
and receive my blessings and my thanks for ever.”

“The reward is great—very great—but not
greater—perhaps not as great, as I may demand
for my services. But we should not be ignorant
of one another in such an affair—at such a time as
this. Is it true, then, that Miss Colleton has no
memory which, at this moment, may spare me from
the utterance of a name, which perhaps she herself
would not be altogether willing to hear, and which
it is not my policy to have uttered by any lips, and
far less by my own. Think—remember—lady,
and let me be silent still on that one subject. Let
no feeling of pride influence the rejection of a remembrance
which perhaps carries with it but few
pleasant reflections.”

Again were the maiden's eyes fixed searchingly
upon the speaker, and again, conflicting with the
searching character of his own glance, were they
withdrawn, under the direction of a high sense of
modest dignity. She had made the effort at recognition—that
was evident—even to him, and had
made it in vain.

“Entirely forgotten—well! better that than to

have been remembered as the thing I was. Would
it were possible to be equally forgotten by the rest
—but this too is in vain and childish. She must
be taught to remember me.”

Thus muttered the stranger to himself; assuming,
however, an increased decision of manner at
the conclusion, he approached her, and tearing
from his cheeks the huge whiskers that had half-obscured
them, he spoke in hurried accents:—

“Look on me now, Miss Colleton—look on me
now, and while you gaze upon features once sufficiently
well known to your glance, let your memory
but retrace the few years when it was your
fortune, and my fate, to spend a few months in
Gwinnett county. Do you remember the time—
do you remember that bold, ambitious man, who
at that time was the claimant for a public honour
—who was distinguished by you in a dance, at the
ball given on that occasion—who, maddened by
wine, and a fierce passion which preyed upon him
then, like a consuming fire, addressed you, though a
mere child, and sought you for his bride, who—but
I see you remember all!”

“And are you then Creighton—Mr. Edward
Creighton—and so changed?” And she looked
upon him with an expression of simple wonder.

“Ay, that was the name once—but I have another
now. Would you know me better—I am
Guy Rivers, where the name of Creighton must
not again be spoken. It is the name of a felon—
of one under doom of outlawry, whom all men are
privileged to slay. I have been hunted from society—I
can no longer herd with my fellows—I
am without kindred, and am almost without kind.
Yet, base and black with crime—doomed by mankind—banished
all human abodes—the slave of
fierce passions—the leagued with foul associates, I

dared, in your girlhood, to love you; and, more
daring still, I dare to love you now. Fear not,
lady—you are Edith Colleton to me; and worthless,
and vile, and reckless though I have become,
for you I can hold no thought which would behold
you other than you are—a creature for worship
rather than for love. As such I would have you
still; and for this purpose do I seek you now. I
know your feeling for this young man—I saw it
then, when you repulsed me. I saw that you loved
each other, though neither of you were conscious
of the truth. You love him now—you would not
have him perish—I know well how you regard
him, and I come, knowing this, to make hard conditions
with you for his life.”

“Keep me no longer in suspense—speak out, Mr.
Creighton”—she cried, gaspingly.

“Rivers—Rivers—I would not hear the other
—it was by that name I was driven from my
fellows.”

“Mr. Rivers—say what can be done—what am
I to do—money—thanks, all that we can give shall
be yours, so that you save him from this fate.”

“And who would speak thus for me? What
fair pleader, fearless of man's opinion—that blights
or blesses, without reference to right or merit—
would so far speak for me!”

“Many—many, Mr. Rivers,—I hope there are
many. Heaven knows, though I may have slighted,
in my younger days, your attentions, I know not
many for whom I would more willingly plead and
pray than yourself. I do remember now your
talents and high reputation, and deeply do I regret
the unhappy fortune which has denied them their
fulfilment.”

“Ah, Edith Colleton—these words would have
saved me once—now they are nothing, in recompense

for the hopes which are for ever gone. Your
thoughts are gentle, and may sooth all spirits but
my own. But sounds that lull others, lull me no
longer. It is not the music of a rich dream, or of
a pleasant fancy, which may beguile me into pleasure.
I am dead—dead as the cold rock—to their
influence. The storm which blighted me had
seared, and ate into the very core. I am like the
tree through which the worm has travelled—it still
stands, and there is foliage upon it, but the heart is
eaten out and gone. Your words touch me no
longer as they did—I need something more than
words and mere flatteries—flatteries so sweet even
as those which come from your lips—are no longer
powerful to bind me to your service. I can save
the youth—I will save him, though I hate him; but
the conditions are fatal to your love for him.”

“I can listen—I can hear all that you may say
having reference to him. You have said truly my
feelings on the subject; and, sir, your own passion,
if without offence I may refer to it now, will truly
account for my anxiety to do him service. I know
not what you may intend; I know not what you
may demand for your service. All in honour—all
that a maiden may grant and be true to herself,
all—all, for his life and safety.”

“Still, I fear me, Miss Colleton—your love for
him is not sufficiently lavish to enable your liberality
to keep pace with the extravagance of my
demand—”

“Hold, sir—on this particular there is no need
of further speech. Whatever may be the extent of
my regard for Ralph, it is enough that I am willing
to do much, to sacrifice—to give much—in return
for his rescue from this dreadful fate. Speak, therefore,
your demand—spare no word—delay me, I
pray, no longer.”

“Hear me then: As Creighton, I loved you

years ago—as Guy Rivers I love you still. The
life of Ralph Colleton is forfeit—for ever forfeit—
and a few days only interpose between him and
eternity. I alone can save him—I can give him
freedom; and, in doing so, I shall risk much, and
sacrifice not a little. I am ready for this risk—I
am prepared for every sacrifice—I will save him
at all hazards from his doom, upon one condition!”

“Speak! speak!”

“That you be mine—that you fly with me—that
in the wild regions of the west, where I will build
you a cottage, and worship you as my own forest
divinity, you take up your abode with me, and be
my wife. My wife—all forms shall be complied
with, and every ceremony which society may call
for. Nay, shrink not back thus—” seeing her recoil
in horror not less than reproach at his suggestion—“beware
how you defy me—think, that
I have his life in my hands—think, that I can speak
his doom or his safety—think, before you reply!”

“There is no time necessary for thought, sir—
none—none. It cannot be. I cannot comply with
the conditions which you propose. I would die
first.”

“And he will die too—Be not hasty, Miss Colleton—remember—it
is not merely your death but
his—his death upon the gallows—”

“Spare me! spare me!”

“The halter—the crowd—the distorted limb—
the racked frame—”

“Horrible—horrible!”

“Would you see this—know this, and reflect
upon the shame, the mental agony, far greater
than all, of such a death to him?”

With a strong effort, she recovered her composure,
though but an instant before almost convulsed—

“Have you no other terms, Mr. Rivers?”

“None—none. Accept them, and he lives—I
will free him, as I promise. Refuse them—deny
me, and he must die, and nothing may save him
then.”

“Then he must die—we must both die—before
we choose such terms. Sir, let me call my father.
Our conference must end here. You have chosen
a cruel office, but I can bear your infliction. You
have tantalized a weak heart with hope, only to
make it despair the more. But I am now strong,
sir—stronger than ever—and we speak no more on
this subject.”

“Yet pause—to relent even to-morrow may be
too late. To-night you must determine or never.”

“I have already determined—I cannot change
in this.”

“There is one, lady—one young form—scarcely
less beautiful than yourself, who would make the
same—ay, and a far greater—sacrifice than this,
for the safety of Ralph Colleton. One far less
happy in his love than you, who would willingly die
for him this hour. Would you be less ready than
her for such a sacrifice?”

“No, not less ready for death—as I live—not
less willing to free him with the loss of my own
life. But not ready for a sacrifice like this—not
ready for this.”

“You have doomed him!”

“Be it so, sir. Be it so. Let me now call my
father.”

“Yet think, ere it be too late—once gone, not
even your words shall call me back.”

“Believe me, I shall not desire it.”

The firmness of the maiden was finely contrasted
with the disappointment of the outlaw. He
was not less mortified with his own defeat than

with the calm and immoveable bearing, the sweet,
even dignity, which the discussion of a subject so
trying to her heart, and the overthrow of all hope
which her own decision must have occasioned, had
failed utterly to affect. He would have renewed
his suggestions, but while repeating them, a sudden
commotion in the village—the trampling of feet—
the buzz of many voices, and sounds of wide-spread
confusion, contributed to abridge an interview
already quite too long. The outlaw rushed
out of the apartment, barely recognising, at his
departure, the presence of Colonel Colleton, whom
his daughter had now called in. The cause of the
uproar we reserve for another chapter.