University of Virginia Library

1. GUY RIVERS.
VOL. II.

CHAPTER I.

The night began to wane, and still did Lucy
Munro keep lonely vigil in her chamber. How
could she sleep? Threatened herself with a connexion
so dreadful as to her mind was that proposed
with Guy Rivers—deeply interested as
she now felt herself in the fortunes of the young
stranger, for whose fate and safety, knowing the
unfavourable position in which he stood with the
outlaws, she had every thing to apprehend—it can
cause no wonder when we say sleep grew a stranger
to her eyes, and without retiring to her couch,
though extinguishing her light, she sat musing by
the window of her chamber upon the thousand
conflicting and sad thoughts that were at strife in
her spirit. She had not been long in this position

when the sound of approaching horsemen reached
her ears, and after a brief interval, during which
she could perceive that they had alighted, she heard
the door of the hall gently unclosed, and footsteps,
as if set down with a nice caution, passing through
the passage. A light danced for a moment fitfully
along the chamber, as if borne from the sleeping
apartment of Munro to that adjoining the hall in
which the family were accustomed to pursue their
domestic avocations. Then came an occasional
murmur of speech to her ears, and then silence.
Perplexed with these circumstances, and wondering
at the return of Munro at an hour something
unusual—prompted too by a presentiment of something
wrong, and apprehensive on the score of
Ralph's safety—a curiosity, not surely under these
circumstances discreditable, to know what was
going on, determined her to ascertain something
more of the character of the nocturnal visitation.
She felt assured from the strangeness of the occurrence
that evil was afoot, and solicitous for its prevention,
she was persuaded to the measure solely
with the view to good. Hastily, yet cautiously, but
with trembling hands, undoing the door of her
apartment, she made her way into the long and
dark gallery, with which she was perfectly familiar,
and soon gained the apartment already referred to.
The door fortunately stood nearly closed, and she
was therefore enabled to pass it by and gain the
hall, which immediately adjoined, and lay in perfect
darkness; without herself being seen, she was
enabled, through a crevice in the partition dividing
the two rooms, to survey its inmates, and to hear
distinctly at the same time every thing that was
uttered. As she expected, there were the two conspirators,
Rivers and Munro, earnestly engaged in
discourse; to which, as it concerns materially our
progress, we may well be permitted to lend our
attention. They spoke on a variety of topics entirely
foreign to the understanding of the half-affrighted
and nervously-susceptible, but still resolute
young girl who heard them; and nothing but
her deep anxieties for one, whose own importance
in her eyes at that moment she did not conjecture,
could have sustained her while listening to a dialogue
full of atrocious intention and development,
and larded throughout with a familiar and sometimes
foul phraseology that certainly was not altogether
unseemly in such association.

“Well, Blundell's gone too, they say. He's
heartily frightened. A few more will follow, and
we must both be out of the way. The rest could
not well be identified, and whether they are or not
does not concern me, except that they may blab
of their confederates. Such as seem likely to suffer
detection must be frightened off; and this, by-the-way,
is not so difficult a matter. Pippin knows
nothing of himself. Forrester is too much involved
to be forward. It was in this way I aroused and
set him on. His hot blood took fire at some
little hints that I threw out, and the fool became a
leader in the mischief. There's no danger from
him—besides, they say, he's off too. Old Walton
has broken off the match between him and his
daughter on this very score, and the fellow's almost
mad on the strength of it. So Raymond tells me,
and, I take it, truly. There's but one left who might
trouble us, and it is now understood that a single
mode only offers for his silence. We are perfectly
agreed as to this, and no more scruples.”

The quick sense of the maiden readily taught
her who the one meant was; and her heart trembled
convulsively within her, as with a word,
Munro, replying to Rivers, gave his assent.

“Why, yes—it must be done, I suppose, though
somehow or other I would it could be got rid of in
any other way.”

“You see for yourself, Wat, there can be no
other way; for as long as he lives, there is no security.
The few surviving guard will be seen to,
and they saw too little to be dangerous. They
were like stunned and stupified men. This boy
alone was cool and collected, and is so obstinate in
what he knows and thinks, that he troubles neither
himself nor his neighbours with doubt or difficulty.
I knew him a few years ago, when something more
of a boy than now; and even then he was the
same character.”

“But why not let him start, and take the woods
for it? How easy to settle the matter on the road-side,
in a thousand different ways. The accumulation
of these occurrences in the village, as much
as any thing else, will break us up. I don't care
for myself, for I expect to be off for a time, but I
want to see the old woman and Lucy keep quiet
possession here; but—”

“You are becoming an old woman yourself,
Wat, and should be under guardianship. All these
scruples are late; and indeed, even were they not,
they would be still useless. We have determined
on the thing, and the sooner we set about it the
better. The night wanes; and I have much to see
to before daylight. To-morrow I must sleep—
sleep—” and for a moment Rivers seemed to muse
upon the word sleep, which he thrice repeated,
then suddenly proceeding, as if no pause had taken
place, he abruptly placed his hand upon the shoulder
of Munro, and asked—

“You will bear the lantern—this is all you
need perform. I am resolute for the rest.”

“What will you use—dirk?”—

“Yes—it is silent in its office, and not less sure.
Are all asleep, think you—your wife?”

“Quite so—sound when I entered the chamber.”

“Well, the sooner to business the better. Is
there water in that pitcher? I am strangely thirsty
to-night—brandy were not amiss at such a time.”

And speaking this to himself, as it were, Rivers
approached the side-table, where stood the commodities
he sought. In this approach the maiden
had a more perfect view of the malignities of his
savage face; and as he left the table, and again
commenced a brief conversation in an under-tone
with Munro, no longer doubting the dreadful object
which they had in view, she seized the opportunity
with as much speed as was consistent with
caution and her trembling nerves, to leave the
place of espionage, and seek her chamber. But to
what purpose had she heard all this, if she suffered
the fearful deed to proceed to execution. The
thought was momentary, but carried to her heart, in
that moment, the fullest conviction of her duty.
She rushed hurriedly again into the passage—and
though apprehending momentarily that her knees
would sink from under her—took her way up the
narrow flight of steps leading into the second story,
and to the youth's chamber. As she reached the
door, a feminine scruple came over her. A young
girl seeking the apartment of a man at midnight—
she shrunk back with a new feeling. But the
dread necessity drove her on, and with cautious
hand undoing the latch which secured the door by
thrusting her hand through an interstice between
the logs—wondering at the same time at the incautious
manner in which, at such a period and place,
the youth had provided for his sleeping hours—she
stood tremblingly within the chamber.

Wrapped in unconscious slumbers, Ralph Colleton

lay dreaming upon his rude couch of a thousand
strange influences and associations. His roving
fancies had gone to and fro, between his uncle and
his bewitching cousin, until his heart grew softened
and satisfied, not less with the native pleasures
which they revived in his memory, than of the
sweet oblivion which they brought of the many
painful and perilous prospects with which he had
more recently become familiar. He had no thought
of the present, and the pictures of the past were
all rich and ravishing. To his wandering sense at
that moment there came a sweet vision of beauty
and love—of an affection warmly cherished—
green as the summer leaves—fresh as its flowers—
flinging odours about his spirit, and reawakening in
its fullest extent the partially slumbering passion
—reviving many a hope, and provoking with many
a delicious anticipation. The form of the one,
lovely beyond comparison, flitted before him, while
her name, murmured with words of passion by
his parted lips, carried with its utterance a sweet
promise of a pure faith, and an unforgetting affection.
Never once, since the hour of his departure
from home, had he, in his waking moments, permitted
that name to find a place upon his lips, and
now syllabled into sound by them in his unconscious
dreams, it fell with a stunning influence upon an
auditor, whose heart grew colder in due proportion
with the unconscious but warm tenderness of
epithet with which his tongue coupled its utterance.
The now completely unhappy Lucy stood
sad and statue-like. She heard enough to teach
her the true character of her own feelings for one,
whose articulated dreams had revealed the secret
of his passion for another; and almost forgetting
for a while the office upon which she had come, she
continued to give ear to those sounds which brought
to her heart only additional misery. How long
Ralph, in his mental wanderings, would have gone
on, as we have seen, incoherently developing his
heart's history, may not be said. Gathering courage
at last, with a noble energy the maiden proceeded
to her proposed duty, and his slumbers were broken.
With a half-awakened consciousness he raised himself
partially up in his couch, and sought to listen.
He was not deceived; a whispered sentence came
to his ears, addressed to himself, and succeeded by
a pause of several moments' continuance. Again
his name was uttered. Half doubting his senses,
he passed his hand repeatedly over his eyes, and
again listened for the repetition of that voice, the
identity of which he had as yet failed utterly to
distinguish. The sounds were repeated, and the
words grew more and more distinct. He now
caught in part the tenor of the sentence, though imperfectly
heard. It seemed to convey some warning
of danger, and the person who spoke appeared,
from the tremulous accents, to labour under many
apprehensions. The voice proceeded with increased
emphasis, advising his instant departure
from the house—speaking of nameless dangers—
of murderous intrigue and conspiracy, and warning
against even the delay of a single instant.

The character of Ralph was finely marked, and
firmness of purpose and a ready decision were
among its most prominent attributes. Hastily leaping
from his couch, therefore, with a single bound
he reached the door of his chamber, which, to his
astonishment, he found entirely unfastened. The
movement was so sudden and so entirely unlooked
for, that the intruder was taken by surprise; and
beheld, while the youth closed securely the entrance,
the hope of escape entirely cut off. Ralph
advanced towards his visiter, the dim outline of

whose person was visible upon the wall. Lifting
his arm as he approached, what was his astonishment
to perceive the object of his assault sink before
him upon the floor, while the pleading voice of
a woman called upon him for mercy.

“Spare me, Mr. Colleton—spare me”—she exclaimed,
in undisguised terror.

“You here, Miss Munro, and at this hour of the
night?” was the wondering inquiry, as he lifted her
from the ground, her limbs, trembling with agitation,
scarcely able to support even her slender form.

“Forgive me, sir, forgive me. Think not ill of
me, I pray you. I come to save you,—indeed, Mr.
Colleton, I do—and nothing, believe me, would
have brought me here but the knowledge of your
immediate danger.”

She felt the delicacy of her situation, and recognising
her motive readily, we will do him the justice
to say, Ralph felt it too in the assurance of her
lips. A respectful delicacy pervaded his manner
as he inquired earnestly—

“What is this danger, Miss Munro? I believe
you fear for me, but may you not have exaggerated
the cause of alarm to yourself. What have
I to fear—from what would you save me?”

“Nay, ask me not, sir, but fly. There is but little
time for explanation, believe me. I know and do
not imagine the danger. I cannot tell you all, nor
can you with safety bestow the time to hear.
Your murderers are awake—they are in this very
house, and nothing but instant flight can save you
from their hands.”

“But from whom, Miss Munro, am I to fear all
this. What has given you this alarm, which, until
you can give me some clue to this mystery, I must
regard as unadvised and without foundation. I
feel the kindness and interest of your solicitude—

deeply feel, and greatly respect it; but, unless you
can give me some reasonable instance for your
fears, I must be stubborn in resisting a conviction
which would have me fly, like a midnight felon,
without having even seen the face of my foe.”

“Oh, heed not these false scruples. There is no
shame in such a flight, and believe me, sir, I speak
not unadvisedly. Nothing, sir, but the most urgent
and immediate danger would have prompted me,
at this hour, to come here. If you would survive
this night, take advantage of the moment and fly.
This moment you must determine—I know not,
indeed, if it be not too late even now for your
extrication. The murderers, by this time, are
upon the way to your chamber, and they will not
heed your prayers, and they will scorn any defence
which you might offer.”

“But who are they of whom you speak, Miss
Munro? If I must fly, let me at least know from
what and whom. What are my offences, and who
are they whom I have offended?”

“That is soon told, though I fear me, sir, we waste
the time in doing so. You have offended Rivers,
and you know but little of him if you think it possible
for him to forget or forgive where once injured,
however slightly. The miners generally have been
taught to regard you as one whose destruction
alone can ensure their safety from punishment for
their late aggressions. My uncle too, I grieve to
say it, is too much under the influence of Rivers,
and does indeed just what his suggestions prescribe.
They have plotted your death, and will not scruple
at its performance. They are even now below,
meditating its execution. By the merest good
fortune I overheard their design, from which I feel
persuaded nothing now can make them recede.
Rely nothing on their fear of human punishment.

They care perhaps just as little for the laws of
man as of God, both of which they violate hourly
with impunity, and from both of which they
have always hitherto contrived to secure themselves.
Let me entreat, therefore, that you will
take no heed of that manful courage which would
be honourable and proper with a fair enemy. Do
not think that I am a victim to unmeasured and
womanly fears. I have seen too much of the
doings of these men, not to feel that no fancies of
mine can do them injustice. They would murder
you in your bed, and walk from the scene of their
crime with confidence into the very courts of justice.”

“I believe you, Miss Munro, and nothing doubt
the correctness of your opinion with regard to the
character of these men. Indeed, I have reason
to know that what you say of Rivers, I have already
realized in my own person. This attempt,
if he makes it, will be the second in which he has
put my life in hazard, and I believe him, therefore,
not too good for any attempt of this evil nature.
But why may I not defend myself from the assassins?
I can make these logs tenable till daylight
from all their assaults, and then I should receive
succour from the villagers without question. You
see, too, I have arms which may prove troublesome
to an enemy.”

“Trust not these chances: let me entreat that
you rely not upon them. Were you able, as you
say, to sustain yourself for the rest of the night in
this apartment, there would be no relief in the
morning, for how would you make your situation
understood? Many of the villagers will have
flown before to-morrow into the nation, until the
pursuit is well over, which will most certainly be
commenced before long. Some of them have

already gone, having heard of the approach of
the residue of the Georgia Guard, to which the
survivors at the late affair bore the particulars.
Those who venture to remain will not come
nigh this house, dreading to be involved in the
difficulties which now threaten its occupants.
Their caution would only be the more increased on
hearing of any commotion. Wait not, therefore, I
implore you, for the dawning of the day: it could
never dawn to you. Rivers I know too well: he
would overreach you by some subtlety or other;
and how easy, even while we speak, to shoot you
down through these distorted logs. Trust not,
trust not, I entreat you; there is a sure way of
escape, and you still have time, if at once you
avail yourself of it.”

The maid spoke with earnestness and warmth,
for the terrors of her mind had given animation to
her anxiety, while she sought to persuade the somewhat
stubborn youth into the proposed and certainly
judicious flight she contemplated for him.
Her trepidation had made her part with much of
that retreating timidity which had usually distinguished
her manner; and perfectly assured herself
of the causes of her present apprehension, she did
not scruple to exhibit—indeed she did not seem
altogether conscious of—the deep interest which
she took in the fate and fortunes of him who stood
beside her. Flattered as he must have been by the
marked feeling, which she could neither disguise nor
he mistake, the youth did not, however, for a moment
seek to abuse it; but with a habit at once gentle
and respectful, combated the various arguments and
suggestions which, with a single eye to his safety,
she urged for his departure. In so doing, he obtained
from her all the particulars of her discovery,
and was at length convinced that her apprehensions

were by no means groundless. She had
accidentally come upon the conspirators at an interesting
moment in their deliberations, which at
once revealed their object and its aim; and he at
length saw that, except in flight, according to her
proposition, the chances were numerous against
his safety. While they thus deliberated, the distant
sound of a chair falling below, occurring at
an hour so unusual, gave an added force to her
suggestions, and while it prompted anew her entreaties,
greatly diminished his reluctance to the
flight.

“I will do just as you advise. I know not, Miss
Munro, why my fate and fortune should have provoked
in you such an interest, unless it be that
yours being a less selfish sex than ours, you are
not apt to enter into calculations as to the loss of
quiet or of personal risk, which, in so doing, you may
incur. Whatever be the motive, however, I am
grateful for its effects, and shall not readily forget
the gentleness of that spirit which has done so
much for the solace and the safety of one so sad
in its aspect and so much a stranger in all respects.”

The youth spoke with emphasis; and coupled
as was his language with a tone and manner the
most tender yet respectful, it necessarily relieved
from all perplexity that feeling of propriety and
maiden delicacy, which otherwise must have made
her situation an awkward one. Ralph was not so
dull, however, as not to perceive, that, to a livelier
emotion, he might in justice attribute the conduct
of his companion; but with a highly honourable
fastidiousness, he himself suggested a motive for
her proceeding, which her own delicacy rendered
improper for her utterance. Still the youth was
not marble exactly; and, as he spoke, his arm

gently encircled her waist: and her form, as if
incapable of its own support, hung for a moment,
with apathetic lifelessness, upon his bosom; while
her head, with an impulse not difficult to define,
drooped like a bending and dewy lily upon his
arm. But the passive emotion, if we may so style
it, was soon over; and, with an effort, in which
firmness and feebleness strongly encountered, she
freed herself from his hold with an erect pride of
manner, which gave a sweet finish to the momentary
display which she had made of womanly
weakness. Her voice, as she called upon him to
follow her into the passage, was again firm in a
moment, and pervaded by a cold ease which
seemed to him artificial.

“There is but little time left you now, sir, for
escape: it were criminal not to use it. Follow me
boldly, but cautiously—I will lead the way—the
house is familiar to me, in night and day, and there
must be no waste of time.”

He would have resisted this conduct, and himself
taken the lead in the advance; but placing her small
and trembling hand upon his arm, she insisted upon
the course she had prescribed, and in a manner which
he did not venture to resist. Their steps were
slow into the open space which, seeming as an introduction
to, at the same time separated the various
chambers of the dwelling, and terminated in
the large and cumbrous stairway which conducted
to the lower story, and to which their course was
now directed. The passage was of some length,
but with cautious tread they proceeded in safety
and without noise to the head of the stairway,
when the maiden, who still preserved the lead,
motioned him back, retreating herself, as she did
so, into the cover of a small recess, formed by the
stairs, which it partially overhung, and presenting

a doubtful apology for a closet. Its door hung
upon a broken and single hinge, unclosed, leaving
however so small an aperture that it might be difficult
to account for their entrance. There, amid
the dust and mystery of time-worn household trumpery,
old saddles, broken bridles, and more than
one dismembered harness, they came to a pause,
and were enabled now to perceive the realization
in part of her apprehensions. A small lantern,
the rays of light from which feebly made their way
through a single square in front, disclosed to the
sight the dim forms of the two assassins, moving
upward to the contemplated deed of blood. The
terrors of Lucy, as she surveyed their approach,
were great; but with a mind and spirit beyond
those commonly in the possession of her sex, she
was enabled to conquer and rise above them; and
though her heart beat with a thick and hurried apprehension,
her soul grew calmer the more closely
approached the danger. Her alarm to the mind
of Ralph was now sufficiently justified, as, looking
through a crevice in the narrow apartment in
which he stood, he surveyed the malignant and hell-branded
visage of Rivers, peering like a dim and
baleful light in advance of his companion; in whose
face a partial glimmer of the lamp revealed a something
of reluctance, which rendered it doubtful how
far Munro had in reality gone willingly on the task.
It was, under all the circumstances, a curious survey
for the youth. He was a man of high passions,
sudden of action, impetuous and unhesitating.
In a fair field, he would not have been at a loss for a
single moment; but here, the situation was so new,
that he was more and more undetermined in his
spirit. He saw them commissioned with his murder,
treading, one by one, the several steps below
him—approaching momently nigher and nigher—
and his heart beat audibly with conflicting emotions,
while with one hand he grasped convulsively
and desperately the handle of his dirk—the other
being fully employed in sustaining the almost fainting
form of his high-souled but delicate companion.
He felt that, if discovered, he could do little in his
defence and against assault; and though without
a thought but that of fierce struggle to the last,
his reason taught him to perceive with how little
hope of success. As they continued to advance,
he could distinctly trace every change of expression
in their several countenances. In that of
Rivers, linked with the hideousness that his wound
conferred upon it, he noted the more wicked workings
of a spirit, the fell character of whose features
received no moderate exaggeration from the
dim and flickering glare of the lamp which his
hand unsteadily carried. The whole face had in
it something awfully fearful. He seemed, in its
expression, already striking the blow at the breast
of his victim, or rioting with a fiendish revenge in
his groaned agonies. A brief dialogue between his
companion and himself more fully describes the
character of the monster.

“Stay—you hurry too much in this matter—”
said Munro, putting his hand on that of Rivers,
and restraining his steps for a moment as he
paused, seemingly to listen. He continued,—

“Your hand trembles, Rivers, and you let your
lamp dance about too much to find it useful.
Your footstep is hurried, and but now the stairs
creaked heavily beneath you. You must proceed
with more caution, or we shall be overheard.
These are sleepless times, and this youth, who appears
to trouble you more than man ever troubled
you before, may be just as much awake as ourselves.

If you are determined in this thing, be not imprudent.”

Rivers, who on reaching the head of the flight
had been about to hurry forward precipitately, now
paused, though with much reluctance; and to the
speech of his companion, with a fearful expression
of the lips, which, as they parted, disclosed the teeth
white and closely clenched beneath them, replied,
though without directly referring to its import—

“If I am determined—do you say!—But is not
that the chamber where he sleeps?”

“No; old Barton sleeps there—he sleeps at the
end of the gallery. Be calm—why do you work
your fingers in that manner?”

“See you not my knife is in them? I thought at
that moment that it was between his ribs and working
about in his heart. It was a sweet fancy,
and, though I could not hear his groans as I stooped
over him to listen, I almost thought I felt them.”

The hand of the maiden grasped that of Ralph
convulsively as these muttered words came to their
ears, and her respiration grew more difficult and
painful. He shuddered at the vindictive spirit
which the wretch exhibited, while his own, putting
on a feller and a fiercer temper, could scarcely resist
the impulse which would have prompted him
at once to rush forth and stab him where he stood.
But the counsels of prudence had their influence,
and he remained quiet and firm. The companion of
the ruffian felt no less than his other hearers the
savage nature of this mood, as thus, in his way, he
partially rebuked it:—

“These are horrid fancies, Rivers—more like
those which we should look to find in a panther than
in a man, and you delight in them quite too much.
Can you not kill your enemy without drinking his
blood?”

“And where then would be the pleasure of revenge?”—he
muttered, between his closed teeth.
“The soldier who in battle slays his opponent, hates
him not—he has no personal animosity to indulge.
The man has never crossed his path in love or in
ambition—yet he shoots him down, ruthlessly and
relentlessly. Shall he do no more who hates—
who fears—who sickens at the sight of the man
who has crossed his path in love and in ambition?
I tell you, Munro, I hate this boy—this beardless,
this overweening and insolent boy. He has overthrown,
he has mortified me, where I alone should
have stood supreme and supereminent. He has
wronged me—it may be without intention; but,
what care I for that qualification. Shall it be less
an evil because he by whom it is perpetrated has
neither the soul nor the sense to be conscious of his
error. The child who trifles with the powder
match is lessoned by the explosion which destroys
him. It must be so with him. I never yet forgave
a wrong, however slight and unimportant—I never
will. It is not in my nature to do so; and as long
as this boy can sleep at night, I cannot. I will not
seek to sleep until he is laid in the long and unbroken
slumber.”

The whole of this brief dialogue, which had
passed directly beside the recess in which the
maiden and youth had taken shelter, was distinctly
audible to them both. The blood of Ralph boiled
within him at this latter speech of the ruffian, in
which he avowed a spirit of such dire malignity,
as, in its utter disproportionateness to the supposed
offence of the youth, could only have been sanctioned
by the nature which he had declared to
have always been his prompter; and, at its close,
the arm of the youth, grasping his weapon, was
involuntarily stretched forth, and an instant more
would have found it buried in the bosom of the

wretch—but the action did not escape the quick
eye of his companion, who, though trembling with
undiminished terror, was yet mistress of all her
senses, and perceived the ill-advised nature of his
design. With a motion equally involuntary and
sudden with his own, her taper fingers grasped his
wrist, and her eyes bright with dewy lustres, were
directed upwards, sweetly and appealingly to those
which now bent themselves down upon her. In
that moment of excitement and impending terror,
a consciousness of her situation and a sense of
shame which more than ever agitated her, rushed
through her mind, and she leaned against the side
of the closet for that support for which her now
revived and awakened scruples forbade any reference
to him from whom she had so recently received
it. Still, there was nothing abrupt or unkind
in her manner, and the youth did not hesitate
again to place his arm around and in support of
the form which, in reality, needed his services. In
doing so, however, a slight noise was the consequence,
which the quick sense of Rivers readily
discerned.

“Hark!—heard you nothing, Munro—no sound?
Hear you no breathing?—It seems near at hand,—
in that closet.”

“Thou hast a quick ear to-night, Guy, as well
as a quick step. I heard, and hear nothing, save
the snorings of old Barton, whose chamber is just
beside you to the left. He has always had a reputation
for the wild music which his nose contrives,
during his sleep, to keep up in his neighbourhood.”

“It came from the opposite quarter, Munro, and
was not unlike the suppressed respiration of one
who listens.”

“Pshaw! that cannot be. There is no chamber
there. That is but the old closet in which we store

away lumber. You are quite too regardful of
your senses. They will keep us here all night, and
the fact is, I wish the business well over.”

“Where does Lucy sleep?”

“In the off shed-room below. What of her?”

“Of her—oh nothing!” and Rivers paused musingly
in the utterance of this reply, which fell
syllable by syllable from his lips. The landlord
proceeded:—

“Pass on, Rivers; pass on: or have you determined
better about this matter? Shall the
youngster live? Indeed, I see not that his evidence,
even if he gives it, which I very much doubt, can
do us much harm, seeing that a few days more
will put us out of the reach of judge and jury
alike.”

“You would have made a prime counsellor and
subtle disputant, Munro, worthy of the Philadelphia
lawyers,” returned the other, in a sneer, which
has, from what cause we know not, become a proverb
in the southern country. “You think only of
one part of this subject, and have no passions, no
emotions: you can talk all day long on matters of
feeling, without showing any. Did I not say but
now, that while that boy slept I could not?”

“Are you sure that when he ceases to sleep the
case will be any better!”

The answer to this inquiry was unheard, as the
goodly pair passed on to the tenantless chamber.
Watching their progress, and under the guidance
of the young maiden, who seemed endued with a
courage and conduct worthy of more experience
and a stronger sex, our hero emerged from his place
of precarious and uncomfortable concealment, and
descended to the lower floor. A few moments sufficed
to throw the saddle upon his steed, without
arousing the sable groom; and having brought

him under the shadow of a tree at some little distance
from the house, he found no further obstruction
in the way of his safe and sudden flight. He
had fastened the door of his chamber on leaving
it with much more caution than upon retiring for
the night; and having withdrawn the key, which
he now hurled into the woods, he felt assured that,
unless the assassins had other than the common
modes of entry, he should gain a little time from the
delay they would experience from this interruption;
and this interval, returning to the doorway, he employed
in acknowledgments which were well due
to the young and trembling woman who stood beside
him.

“Take this little token, sweet Lucy,” said he,
throwing about her neck the chain and casket
which he had unbound from his own—“take this
little token of Ralph Colleton's gratitude for this
night's good service. I shall redeem it, if I live, at
a more pleasant season, but you must keep it for
me now. I will not soon forget the devotedness
with which, on this occasion, you have perilled so
much for a stranger. Should we never again meet,
I pray you to remember me in your prayers, as I
shall always remember you in mine.”

He little knew, while thus he spoke, in a manner,
so humbly of himself, of the deep interest which
his uniform gentleness of manner and respectful
deference, so different to what she had been accustomed
in that region to encounter, had inspired in her
bosom; and so small at this period was his vanity,
that he did not trust himself for a moment to regard
the conjecture—which ever and anon thrust
itself upon him—that the fearless devotion of the
maiden in his behalf and for his safety, had in reality
a far more selfish origin than the mere general humanity
of her sex and spirit. We will not say that

she would not have done the same by any other
member of the human family in like circumstances;
but it is not uncharitable to believe that she would
have been less anxiously interested, less warm
in her interest, and less pained in the event of an
unfortunate result. Clasping the gorgeous chain
about her neck, his arm again gently encircled her
waist—her head drooped upon her bosom—she did
not speak—she appeared scarcely to feel. For a
moment, life and all its pulses seemed resolutely at a
stand; and with some apprehensions, the youth
drew her to his bosom, and spoke with words full
of tenderness. She made no answer to his immediate
speech; but her hands, as if unconsciously,
struck the spring which locked the casket which
hung upon the chain,and the miniature lay open before
her, the dim light of the moon shining down
upon it. She reclosed it suddenly, and undoing it
from the chain, placed it with a trembling hand in
his own; and with an effort of calm and quiet playfulness,
reminded him of the unintended gift. He
received it, but only to place it again in her hand,
reuniting it to the chain.

“Keep it,” said he, “Miss Munro—keep it until
I return to reclaim it. It will be as safe in your
hands—much safer indeed, than in mine. She
whose features it describes will not chide, that, at
a moment of peril, I place it in the care of one as
gentle as herself.” Her eyes were downcast, as,
again receiving it, she inquired with a girlish simplicity,
“Is her name Edith, Mr. Colleton, of
whom these features are the likeness?”

The youth, surprised by the question, met the
inquiry with another.

“How know you?—wherefore do you ask?”

She saw his astonishment, and with a calm
which had not, during the whole scene between

them, marked her voice or demeanour, she replied
instantly:—

“No matter—no matter, sir. I know not well
why I put the question—certainly with no object;
and am now more than answered.”

The youth pondered over the affair in silence
for a few moments, but desirous of satisfying the
curiosity of the maiden, though on a subject and
in relation to one of whom he had sworn himself
to silence—wondering, at the same time, not less at
the inquiry than the knowledge, in part at least,
which it conveyed, of that which he had locked up,
as he thought, in the recesses of his own bosom,—
was about to reply, when a hurried step, and a
sudden noise from the upper apartment of the
house, warned them of the dangers of further
delay. The maiden interrupted with rapid tones
the speech he was about to commence:—

“Fly, sir,—fly. There is no time to be lost.
You have lingered too long already. Do not hesitate
longer—you have heard the determination of
Rivers—this disappointment will only make him
more furious. Fly, then, and speak not. Take the
left road at the fork: it leads to the river. It is
the dullest, and if they pursue, they will be most
likely to fall into the other.”

“Farewell, then, my good, my protecting angel
—I shall not forget you—have no apprehensions
for me—I have now but few for myself. Yet, ere
I go—” and he bent down, and before she was conscious
of his design, his lips were pressed warmly
to her pale and beautiful forehead. “Be not vexed
—chide me not,” he murmured—“regard me as a
brother—if I live I shall certainly become one,
Farewell!”

Leaping with a single bound to his saddle, he
stood erect for a moment, then vigorously applying

his spurs, he had vanished in an instant from the
sight. She paused until the steps of his steed
ceased to fall upon her ears; then, with a mournful
spirit and a heavy step, she slowly re-entered the
apartment.