University of Virginia Library

1. BOOK THE FIRST.
THE WISSAHIKON.

1. CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE QUAKER AND HIS DAME.

“These be troublous times, dame—these be troublous
times,” said the Quaker as he took his pipe
from his mouth, and drew his chair nearer to the
cheerful flame that blazed upon the hearth. “The
October night is cool—and verily the fire is comfortable.
I mind me not of a season, when the
month opened with such a nipping frost—and yet
the woods of the quiet Wissahikon are scarce faded
by it. These are troublous times—does thee not
think so, Hannah?”

“Yes, Joab,” replied the Quaker dame, smoothing
a crease out of her apron with her hand: “I
do think that the times are full of trouble. What
with the men of war, with their flaunting red
dresses, with their war horses and their shouting,
their cymbals and their drums, their cannons and
their weapons of war; our quiet home on the Wissahikon,
is a quiet home no longer. But as the
Lord wills it, so let it be!”

The Quaker farmer took his pipe from his mouth,
sent a volume of tobacco-smoke rolling to the rafters

of the apartment, and then with a distinct “hem”
resumed his meditative luxury again.

“Verily, Joab, there is not a window of our habitation,
from which we may look, without seeing
the tents of these men of strife. Well do I remember
the time when first thee took me to be thy
wedded wife; then thee was used to go peacefully
to the field, to thy labor in the morning, and I could
bake my bread, and scour my pewter in quietness,
without a great big, idle fellow of a soldier, popping
into our tenement, and taking what he pleased for
his own, and looking at our daughter Marjorie as
though he meant no good. Well do I mind me of
the time—but was thee not over to Germantown
this afternoon, Joab?” The Quaker nodded assent.
“Did thee hear any thing new of the man Cornwallis,
or aught of George Washington?”

“I found the village people much affrighted.
Some were removing their worldly goods, some
were talking loudly and calling their neighbors
`Whig' and `Tory,' and all were running to and
fro, in great confusion and bustle. I asked what
all this meant—and verily the village people answered,
that the man Cornwallis, who has posted
his scarlet men, across the village, near the mansion
of friend Chew, to the Delaware on one side, and
through our quiet woods along to the Wissahikon
on the other, did purpose some mischief to the men
of friend Washington. But I couldn't get head nor

tail of the story. But of a certainty shall we have
trouble shortly, Hannah.”

“I fear thee speakest that which shall come to
pass, Joab,” replied the dame, and then both farmer
and his wife appeared to give themselves up to the
melancholy contemplation of the evils predicted.
The whole scene was one of Pennsylvania's olden
time. The blazing light of the hickory fire, flickering
round the apartment, showing the substantial
forms of the Quaker and his dame, in bold relief,
and mingling with the beams of the setting sun,
which streamed through the deep silled window;
the massive rafters which formed the ceiling of the
spacious room; the snow-white walls and neatly
sanded floor; the oaken table in one corner; the
shelves heavy with masses of burnished pewter,—
all were characteristic of that quiet, domestic life,
so rarely discovered in any place, save under the
green trees and pleasant shade of the country.

The farmer was in the prime of vigorous manhood,
with features of massive solidity, a broad and
low forehead, a short, square nose, a wide mouth
with thin lips, prominent chin, high cheek bones
and a dark grey sparkling eye; and with a frame
of great muscular power, and physical strength,
long and sinewy arms, and prominent chest whose
ample development his Quaker garb, with all its
volume, and want of shape, could not altogether
conceal. You would have picked him out in a

crowd, as the man to head a charge of dragoons,
rather than suppose him the quiet Friend, whose
theory and practice alike shunned the noise and
bustle of war.

His dame was full and portly in figure, with a
calm, placid face, and light blue eyes, expressive
of a mild and domestic disposition. Her hair was
half concealed, by the plain cap of the Quaker sect,
and her gown was modelled with the invariable
simplicity of hue and shape, peculiar to the sisters
of the peace-loving and form-shunning society.

“In truth, Hannah,” exclaimed Joab after a
pause, as he laid down his pipe and extending his
hands to receive the cheerful warmth of the flame,
he gazed with a complacent glance around the
spacious arch of the fire-place. “In truth, Hannah,
we have fallen upon evil times. The sword
of war hangs over the land, the dust of the highways
is laid with the blood of our neighbors and
worldly friends, and the quiet streams run crimson,
with the butchery of the men of strife. This war
parts father and son, husband and wife, mother
and child.”

“Yes,” responded Hannah, from the other side
of the fire-place. “There is the rich Englishman
Tracy, whose mansion is pitched on the rock that
looks down into the vale of the Wissahikon, beyond
the bend 'tother side of Rittenhouse's Mill—did he
not cast his son from him as though he were unworthy

of all fatherly love and affection, because
he favored the men of George Washington?
Marry, Joab, I often wonder what has become of
the poor youth, who hath his father's curse upon
him?”

“I learned 'tother day, from some friends of
Washington, that Herbert Tracy, that delicately
reared youth, joined the Continentals last winter,
with a number of his father's tenants; and I likewise
learned that he endured the biting cold as
bravely, and slept on the bare earth as cheerfully,
as the humblest of Washington's people. The son
of our neighbor—Henry Heft, commonly called
Harry Heft, was with the young man Tracy.”

The last sentence was uttered by the Quaker,
with a covert glance at the countenance of his
dame, as though he expected the name of the young
farmer to excite some interest in her mind. He
was not disappointed, for the Quakeress gave a
quick, nervous start, and exclaimed, with the rapid
and hurried manner, peculiar to the keenest anxiety
—“Joab, what didst thee hear of the young man
Heft? Surely he has met with no harm? He was
a good youth, albeit somewhat wild. Why did
thee not tell me of this sooner? I should be sorry
where harm to come to him, for, for—”

“For he hath made offers of marriage to our
daughter Marjorie, thee would say? Nay, nay,
dame, were he alive and well, standing at this moment

before me, he might not unite his lot with
our child. There was a time when I had hope of
the boy, when I thought he would be one of us,
and assume the peaceful garb of the Friends—but
no sooner did young Tracy go to the wars, than
Harry must be off also, and fight, and cut and
thrust, I warrant thee, with the worst of them.
Nay, nay, Hannah—”

“Well, if it must be so, it must. I fear thee
speakest truth. But in verity it is painful to think
how much trouble and strife among kindred and
friends, this dreadful war hath caused. There was
the daughter of old Waltham, whose country seat
is on the Ridge Road near the Falls of Schuylkill;
he is rich, and full of worldly goods, thee knowest
Joab: she, the maiden his daughter, was to be married
to young Tracy, when the quarrel occurred
between father and son, and the match was broken
off. Ah, me! 'tis a troublous time, for the sons of
men, Joab.”

But at this moment, as if some unexpected
thought had ruffled the usual serenity of his mind,
the Quaker rose from his seat, and walked hurriedly
to the deep silled window of the apartment
looking to the west, and gazing upon landscape of
hill, valley and stream, for a moment he seemed
lost in thought, or wrapt in the mild quietude, that
attends the contemplation of a lovely sunset, to a
mind sobered by age and experience.

2. CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE MAIDEN.

The view was full of natural beauty. Immediately
in front of the window extended a small
flower garden, surrounded by a wicket fence, made
lovely to the eye by groups of wild flowers of
every tint and hue, green arbors, overshadowed by
luxuriant vines, transplanted by a fair hand from
the glades of the forest, and pleasant walks, and
winding paths, separated from the flower beds by
delicate lines of greenest grass, while a fair form
flitting from arbor to arbor, might well have seemed
the divinity of the rural paradise. Beyond the garden,
a sloping pasturage some hundred yards in
extent, bounded on either side by forest trees, sank
down in a gentle descent until its verdant turf was
laved by the ripples of the quiet Wissahikon;
which flowed silently on, from a mass of greenwood,
along the shores of the meadow, under the
shade of the trees on the opposite bank, until it
was lost in the forest of verdure which terminated
the view to the south. The opposite bank of the
stream arose in a swelling hill, covered with lofty
forest trees, the giant-turnked oak, the leafy chestnut,
and branching beech, whose luxuriant foliage,

but faintly tinged by the bright red, and glaring
yellow of autumn, was basking in the mellowing
light of the setting sun, as he sank with half concealed
disc behind the woodlands. The sky was
clear and serene, with light masses of clouds floating
in the pathway of the sun. The whole western
horizon was bathed in light of mellowed gold,
while the zenith expanded with its intensity of autumnal
azure—like the dome of this fair temple of
nature—far,far above, and there was a holy quietude,
a twilight solemnity resting upon that world-hidden
vale, that appealed to the highest and kindliest
feelings of our nature.

The view was lovely, the foliage luxuriant, the
sky serene, the meadow verdant as with the first
kiss of spring, but neither view, foliage, sky nor
pasturage, seemed to attract the attention of the farmer
by reason of their mere natural beauties, but
rather from some association of memory, which
fixed the valley of the Wissahikon as the scene
of some well remembered incident of other days.

Joab gazed for an instant upon this scene, and
then turning away with a hurried step, sought the
other window of the apartment, which opened a
view to the north. There were undulating hills
and green woodlands and brown fields of upturned
earth and white patches of ripe buckwheat, but
upon hill top, and gleaming from the foliage of the
forest, and dotting the russet of the cultivated fields

with strips of white, extended the tents of the British
camp, traversing as far as the eye could reach,
the tract of country between the village of Germantown
and the river Schuylkill, while at short
intervals waved the Cross of St. George, stained
with the best blood of the children of the soil; and
the hirelings of power, in their gaudy trappings,
with their well burnished arms, were observed
moving hither and thither along the line of the encampment.
The view did not by any means seem
to soothe the mind of the Quaker, into its usual
quietude.

“I tell thee, wife, it is in vain—in vain!” he
exclaimed again turning to the window looking out
upon the Wissahikon. “I cannot stifle the remembrance.
I stood here—here at this window,
and saw him die—and yet I had a hand, a strong
hand and a stout arm, but I might not strike. I
beheld him die—”

“Of whom does thee speak, Joab?” asked dame
Hannah, amazed at the excited demeanor of the
staid Quaker. “Methinks thee is wondrously flurried,
Joab!”

“Here I beheld him die. The son of the poor
widow over the creek—that poor trumpeter boy in
the American camp,” he continued, his manner
becoming more excited as he proceeded. “It was
just such an evening as this, save that it happened
in the bloom of spring. He had won his way

through the hosts of the enemy—he had heard his
mother was sick unto death—and he wished if she
was indeed dying to close her eyes. He had won
his way through the hosts of the enemy, he had
gained this meadow, when thundering at his back
came the scarlet men of war on their stout horses,
with their flashing swords. He shrieked for mercy
and I heard his shriek, but might not, could not
save him. He shrieked for mercy, and their swords
were bathed in the warm blood of his heart. He
was a fair youth, but 'twas a ghastly sight—that
ruddy cheek crusted in the cold blood; those
golden locks dyed in crimson red. Ah, 'twas a
fearful sight—and—I—could not save him—”

“In verity 'twas a most pitiful sight! The Lord
have mercy on his murderers!”

“I could not—could not save him”—continued
the Quaker. “But still I beheld him die!” He
raised his eyes and hands to Heaven. “Father of
mercy”—he exclaimed—“if blood crying from the
earth to thee for recompense, is ever in thy wisdom
avenged, surely the account of these scarlet
men is deeply dyed, and cries for ten fold vengeance!
He was but a boy and yet they killed
him!”

“'Twas a dreadful sight—a doleful sight,” sobbed
dame Hannah. “In truth a doleful sight! The
Lord be good to us, what is that?” she exclaimed,
with an outburst of surprise, as a loud and piercing

shriek arose from the garden without, and
rang through the farm house. The Quaker started
quickly at the sound, but ere he had time to move
a step or whisper a word, the sound of hurried footsteps
was heard, the door of the apartment was flung
hurriedly open, and a girl in the full summer of
youth, rushed into the room, her dark hair floating
in masses of jet, down over her neck and shoulders,
and streaming in unconfined luxuriance over her
virgin bosom, bared by the hand of violence. As
she rushed into the room, she was followed by a
coarse, ruffian-like man in the dress of a British
dragoon, who with a drunken shout, and look of
imbecile intoxication, had seized on the 'kerchief
which veiled her bosom, and while she fled to her
father's arms, pursued her footsteps.

“Save me!—Father—save me!” cried the maiden
clinging to the farmer's neck.

“Come my pretty lassie—don't be afraid”—exclaimed
the drunken soldier, as he sprang across the
floor with unsteady steps. “Don't be afraid, lassie
—don't—”

“Come, feller, this is going a little too far”—exclaimed
a strange voice, and a blow from behind
felled the soldier to the oaken planks of the floor.
It was a good stout blow, and it laid the crimson-hued
dragoon, as quietly down, as a new born babe.
The Quaker who had not time to raise a hand in defence
of the maiden, glanced at the stranger and beheld

the form of a young man in the prime of early
manhood, of a strong, muscular and well proportioned
frame, with a face full of honest intelligence
of expression, lighted by the gleam of a dare
devil eye, and a look beaming with ingenuous frankness
and manly courage.

“That's a nice specimen of the terror of turkey
cocks!” exclaimed the stranger, eyeing the prostrated
soldier, with a gaze of quiet admiration. “A
nice pattern of a scare crow to keep turkey gobblers
out of the corn! Haint it, uncle Joab? What d'ye
say, aunt Hannah?—did ever you see sich a beast?”

“Harry Heft!” exclaimed the maiden in surprise,
while her cheek was pale with her recent affright.
“Harry Heft!”

“Henry Heft! And in this warlike guise!” exclaimed
the farmer, participating in the astonishment
of his daughter.

“Why, Henry Heft! Where did thee come
from?” said the dame, in a tone of quiet amazement,
as her lips parted and her eyes distended
with surprise.

The scene would have made a picture. The
staid Joab, with his daughter resting on his right
arm, while the other was raised in involuntary astonishment;
the fair girl with her arms round her
father's neck, her dark hair falling in disordered
tresses over her shoulders and down her back, her
face, with beaming eyes as dark as night, and dimmed

by tears, turned toward the young soldier,
while her bared bosom of virgin whiteness, and
youthful outline, heaved upward in the light, and
glowed with the warm flush that brightened over
her face and neck; the dame slightly in the background
with hands raised and eyes distended; and
the young soldier in the foreground, unheeding the
exclamations of surprise, but gazing downward,
with his sparkling brown eyes, fixed in an expression
of quiet humor, upon the form of the insensible
dragoon, laid along the floor, in the careless attitude
of helpless intoxication; all formed a quiet
picture for the pencil of John Smith, or any other
artist of similar celebrity.

“Reely, jist to think of the feller's impudence!”
exclaimed Harry Heft—“a'ter I'd travelled fifteen
miles, over hill and holler, and through the red-coat
lines, not at all mentionin' my creepin' down
the Wissahikon to get cleer of the picquets—a'ter all
this trouble to get a look at Majorie there, and then
when I reach the garden gate, to find that feller
a-chaseing her about the flower beds jist as if he'd
a right to catch butterflies where he liked!”

“But where did thee come from, Henry? How
did thee git here? Is'nt thee in danger? What
does thee want?” were the hurried questions asked
by the Quaker, who evidently knew not what to
think of young Heft's sudden appearance.

“That's what I call unrollin' the whole catechism

at once. Now uncle—I call you uncle, not
because you're my fa'ther's brother, but because it
sounds sociable, (the same to you, aunt,) jist set down
there while I shut the door. There—it's bolted, now
let me roll this sleepin' scarecrow under the table.
Majorie, dear, let me put your 'kerchief round your
neck. There now—what's the use of blushing so—
did'nt I pay the scoundrel for his impu'dence?—
Now all of you sit down 'round the fire-place, jist
as we used to do in old times—Majorie, you sit by
me—uncle, you sit there, and aunt, you sit there.—
Now then I'll tell you all about it!”

“Henry, wherefore is thee in this warlike guise?”
interrupted the Quaker.

“That's what I was jist a-going to tell you. But
howsomever as I've precious little time to spare,
I'll jist cut a long story short, and let you know,
that I'm fresh from George Washington's army—
which is not much farther off than the Skippack
Creek, some sixteen miles distance from this farm
house. (The Continentals may be a little nearer for
all you know.) I'm on a scouting party—but
p'raps you don't know what that is? You do uncle!
very well.”

“Where did thee go when thee left the Wissahikon
last winter with young Herbert Tracy?”

“Why you must know that young Tracy raised
a company of mounted riflemen, from round about
the country here with whom he joined the Continentals.

He mustered some fifty good, bold-handed,
stout-hearted fellows. This is our uniform—black
frock coat, or rather dark grey—neat
little rifle with a ball that never fails—short sword
—powder horn,—light boots—cap with the feather
of a night-hawk in the way of a plume, and that's
the reason why they calls us the night-hawks,
though our regular name is Captain Tracy's Rifles,
or the Black Rangers. We fight sometimes one by
one dropped about in spots, and most ginerally we
slam into the Britishers all in a bunch, with our
rifles cracking away, our plump black horses at the
top of their speed, and our jolly war-hurrah splitting
the air over our heads. We've seen hard
fighting too—plenty of it. Twenty-six of our
good band left their bones at Brandywine. By the
Lord above us—”

“Henry, Henry! What saith the scripture?—
Take not the name of—”

“I'm wrong, I know it. But these haint no times
for men to be pertikler about what they say. But
to the pint. I came as far as Chestnut Hill on a
scouting party, and then I came on here, through
the British lines, partly to see you folks here—
partly to see my people over the creek, but more
'specially to reconnoitre round the mansion of our
captain's father, jist below the paper mill run. Captain
Tracy thinks there's some mischief a-brewing,
and so I'll jist take a bit of something to eat if you

please, and be off. What's that red-coat grumbling
there about? He is the drunkenest—”

“If I mistake not,” interrupted Joab, “he is the
servant of a young British officer, who with Colonel
Musgrave is at present staying at Mr. Tracy's down
the Wissahikon.”

“Hey, uncle! You don't say so! Then there's
mischief brewin' indeed,—Colonel Musgrave and
old Tracy have always been as thick as thieves.—
It's my opinion that the captain's father is going to
marry that Britisher's nephew of his to young Miss
Waltham, who was betrothed to our captain before
he joined the Continentals.”

“Who is his nephew? I never heard him
spoken of before, Henry.”

“Why, his name is Wellwood Tracy—he's a
Britisher born, and he's a leftenant among the red-coats.
Old Tracy says that he shall inherit his
estate when he dies. There's a father for you, to
cast off his natural born son—but what's that fellow
grumbling about?”

“This way, this way,” muttered the intoxicated
dragoon, raising himself from his resting place
under the table and gazing around with a vacant
stare, which showed that his thoughts were not at
all connected with the scene before him. “This
way—parson—it isn't far. Two miles only along
the Wissahikon. You know where old Tracy
lives? They're to be married at eight o'clock—

fine fun—plenty of drink—the leftenant's a glorious
fellow. Hurrah—at 'em.” And then the
drunken soldier performed various imaginary feats,
rode over imaginary regiments of Continentals,
emptied imaginary bottles, and sang very peculiar
poetical selections.

“Very well, my feller—very well,” exclaimed
Harry Heft, looking complacently at the muttering
soldier. “Very well—that's jist what I
wanted to know. See here, Marjorie.”

Drawing the blushing girl apart, Harry whispered
in her ear, in a low voice, words which gave
a brighter sparkle to her dark black eyes, and
brought a livelier blush upon her budding cheek.

“What d'ye think o' the plan, Marjorie?”

“Verily,” replied the damsel, “verily, Harry, I
think,” she continued hesitatingly. “That is I
like it very well, but—but,” the rest of her reply
was lost in a whisper.

“Henry, what did thee say to our daughter?”
exclaimed the sedate Quaker. “Really, it seemeth
to me—”

“Never mind, uncle—nothing wrong—nothing
wrong. Hist! there is the signal of my comrade
down in the hollow. I must be off, but I'll not
say good bye, for dead or alive you'll hear from
me soon. Now for old Tracy and old Waltham!”

As he said this the young Ranger seized his
rifle from the fire-place and rushed out of the room,

as a clear shrill whistle was heard without, leaving
the black eyed Marjorie to explain the purport of
those whispered words as best she might.

The plan of my story makes it necessary to picture
to the reader two distinct scenes or incidents
which occurred on the same evening of the commencement
of the tale, at the hour of sunset in the
country around the village of Germantown. Now
for the first incident.

3. CHAPTER THE THIRD.
THE BLACK RANGERS.

As the last gleam of sunset glanced through the
foliage of a long line of towering elm and chestnut
trees, whose luxuriant verdure marked the course of
a winding bye road, some three miles north of Chestnut
Hill, a party of soldiers were pursuing their
way, under the interlacing boughs, that made a pastoral
arcade of the serpentine lane, and shielded
their path and persons from any intrusive observer.
The soldiers, numbering some twenty-five in all,
were mounted each on a stout and well limbed
steed, black in hue, with flowing mane and tail.
Their tall and sinewy forms were clad in a costume
which, peculiar to their body, would have marked
them out for observation amid the gaudy trappings
of a numerous army. They wore black coats, reaching
to the knee, and fitting closely over their prominent
and muscular chests, and varied in appearance
by a border of black fur around the skirt of
the garment, with a plain line of braiding running
up in front, until it was terminated by the simple
upright collar, buttoning closely round the neck.
A belt of dark leather, from which depended a

powder horn, was slung across the breast; another
belt of similar material girdled the waist, supporting
the scabbard of a short straight sword; while
a glittering hunting knife, with handle of the wild
deer's antlers, depended from the right side; and
a small rifle, with barrel of elegant finish and
stock of mahogany, varied by ornaments of silver,
hung at the saddle-bow of each soldier. On the
head, each rifleman wore a small circular fur cap,
with a feather of the night-hawk, drooped to the
left side, to supply the place of a plume. Their
legs were encased as far as the knees, in well fiting
black boots, displaying the manly proportions of
each muscular leg, the bend below the knee, the
prominent calf and sloping ankle, to every advantage.

Each man of the party was tall, broad chested,
and well proportioned, and each bore upon his
scarred and rugged features, the marks of the spear
thrust, the sword cut, and the bullet wound. They
were such men as would have delighted the heart
of a crusading knight of the thirteenth century,
with all the wild love of adventure—all the daring
courage, and all the frank, hardy qualities which
mark the soldier, who—as the old writer phrases
it—“fight for his own hand” independent of the
great body of an army. And then they sat on
their steeds so well, so gallantly; each ranger
riding firm and erect, adapting his limbs to the

movement of the horse, and guiding him without
having any recourse to the bridle.

It would have been no easy matter to have
picked men of such form, strength and stature from
a regiment of common soldiers, yet the leader of
the Black Rangers, who rode at their head, was to
all appearances, as much superior in all these, as
well as many other qualities to his own gallant
band, as they were superior to the promiscuous
gatherings of an army.

Tall in stature, with a form moulded with the
outline of physical power softened by the gentler
proportions of manly grace, an air and beauty that
marked him out from the mass of common men, a
face warmed with the glow of youth, yet impressed
with the indelible lines of thought, Herbert Arnheim
Tracy was in every point of view worthy of
his reputation (won in the short compass of a year)
of being one of the bravest among the brave, the
first in the storm, the foremost in the charge, the
most untiring in the pursuit, and as obnoxious to
the enemy in the retreat as in the chase.

His face impressed the observer with a high idea
of the intellect expressed in each lineament. His
forehead, high and pale, and bearing the wrinkles
of thought, was relieved by his raven black hair
which fell in luxuriant locks almost to his shoulders.
His eyes, of that deep and thoughtful blackness
which is ever accompanied by strong mental

powers, shone like coals of the living flame from
under his strongly marked and arching eyebrows,
with a clear, steady glance, that told of old memories
stirring up within him, and prospects of the
dim future agitating the depths of his mind. His
nose was small and Grecian, his mouth a thought
too wide, with thin, expressive lips; his chin was
small prominent square and decided in its outline,
while the general contour of his face was in harmony
with the regular lines of manly beauty.

As to his dress, he wore the uniform of his band,
the black frock coat, edged with fur; the boots of
a similar hue; the small sword was suspended from
his left side; the hunting knife was inserted in his
belt, and a small chain of burnished steel passed
over his left shoulder, supported a light hunting
horn of silver, rimmed with gold, which ever hung
ready for immediate use under his right arm. In
place of the feather of the night-hawk worn by his
men, his cap wore in front a long drooping plume
of eagles' feathers, which fell to one side, and
mingled with the luxuriant locks of his raven
hair.

Had you seen Captain Herbert Tracy's mind as
he then rode along the sequestered lane, at the
head of his gallant band, you would have discovered
many a bitter thought sweeping athwart the surface
of his soul, mingling with many a memory of olden
time, many a dreary imagining of future doom,

and many a thought of those he loved, who loved
him not, and many a musing of one who returned
his affection with a deep and burning passion.

A dream, a bright reverie of his early days was
now present with his fancy, and the sunny glades
and the shady recesses of the Wissahikon were
again around him, and again he wandered through
the forests that overlooked the world-hidden stream,
arm in arm with that father, from whose heart and
home he was now a stranger and an outcast.

And then came the memory of the bitter day,
when that father's curse rang in his ears. There
was the small library-room in which the dreamings
of his boyhood had been fed with the additional
fancies from the perusal of the tomes of romance.
The dull light of a November day came through
the solitary window of the apartment, and again,
with words of eloquent persuasion, his father, by
birth an Englishman, and a Loyalist from principle,
endeavored to convince his son of the rectitude of
the cause of Royalty and its intimate connection
with his future pursuits and expectations. For
after a life of voluntary exile from his native land,
after burying his mind and talents for years amid
the shades of the Wissahikon, while his heart was
eating itself away with deep broodings of one of
the last descendants of an honored line, condemned
to comparative penury, Major Herbert Wallingford
Tracy found himself suddenly placed by the death

of various intermediate heirs, but one remove from
the Earldom of Wallingford, whose domains were
located in one of the fairest counties of England,
where his ancestors, a long and honored line, had
lived and flourished since the Conquest. On the
death of the present aged and childless Earl, Major
Tracy would become Earl of Wallingford, and his
son, whose strong innate powers he had often noted
with all a parent's love, would, after his decease,
succeed to the title and estates of the ancient house,
to add, as the father hoped, renewed glory and increased
honor to the records of the venerable line.

But all his hopes, the hopes of a bold, a strong
minded, and worldly ambitious man, soured by the
disappointments of youth into a misanthrope, were
met at the very outset, by the plain, candid, and
fearless declaration of his son, that he could not
draw his sword against the land that gave him
birth.

And then, wound up to a pitch of madness, by
this utter prostration of all his ambitious dreams,—
for Major Tracy had thought to win royal favor for
his son, by the devotion of his influence and his
sword to the cause of royalty,—the father raised
his hand to heaven, and with unquivering lip and
steady eye, cursed that son of all his hopes, and
then thrust him, like an unclean thing, from the
home of his infancy and the side of his betrothed.
Her father, Mr. Waltham, had refused to consummate

the marriage of his daughter with an outcast,
and pour his well filled coffers at the feet of one,
who was a rebel in his opinion—not to his royal
majesty George the Third—but, what was a matter
of much greater consequence, “to the rich Squire
Waltham,” a rebel to all that was high and holy in
religion or nature; or, in other words, that Herbert
Arnheim Tracy was a poor man.

When Herbert departed from the mansion of his
infancy, it was with the determination to join the
banner of Washington. A small fortune bequeathed
to him by a distant relative in Philadelphia, which
he was now enabled to claim, having just attained
his majority, afforded him the means of fitting out
a band of brave farmers' sons, who had known him
from his infancy, and other gallant spirits, and embodying
them in a band which soon became widely
known as Captain Tracy's Mounted Rifles, the
Night Hawks or the Black Rangers.

In less than a year he had gained honor and renown,
and now, after an absence from the home of
his childhood of that duration, he found himself
returning toward the wilds of the Wissahikon, with
the thought of his father's curse hanging heavy over
his soul, and dismal forebodings of the future fate
of his betrothed, giving a melancholy tinge to all
his feelings and fancies.

His meditations were interrupted by the voice of
a war worn veteran at his side. He was a soldier

of a quarter of a century's growth, and had served
under Braddock in the old French wars.

“We shall have warm work of it to-morrow—
Cap'in.”

“Aye, Sergeant, we shall have warm work, most
certainly.”

“Trust our band will remember our trumpeter
boy, Capt'in.”

“He who was murdered some months since, you
mean? Our band of gallant fellows will never forget
the massacre of the young trumpeter, Sergeant
Brown. How far do you think we are from the
British camp, Sergeant?”

“'Bout five miles, Capt'in; three miles to Chestnut
Hill, and two from thence to Chew's House,
which I larn is the location of the Britishers' campment.”

“It must be about five miles then, to the Paper
Mill Run on the Wissahikon?”

“Jist the same, Capt'in.”

“Do you think it will be possible, Sergeant, to
pass the British lines, and reach the Run within an
hour's time?”

“Possible and impossible, Capt'in, jist as you
take it. If you take the bed of the Wissahikon,
and pass the Britishers under cover of the brushwood,
'long side of it—that's what I call possible,
and you'll succeed. If you try any other ways—
that's what I call impossible, and you'll not succeed,

but you will get shot. But what is that thing
bowin' and scrapin' yonder?”

Herbert looked in the direction pointed out by
the Sergeant, and discovered a singular figure, bowing
and posturing after a most curious fashion, at
the distance of some twenty paces; directly in the
centre of the lane, in front of the Rangers' pathway.
On approaching nearer to this singular
figure, it resolved itself into a short, broad-shouldered
negro, with an exceedingly large black face,
flat nose, thick lips and prominent chin, large eyes
with very small pupils, and very large “whites;”
hips and shin-bones of tremendous prominence, feet
of colossal size, and general figure as grotesque in
outline, and as ludicrous in proportion, as though
Nature had turned caricaturist, and manufactured a
walking libel upon the whole monkey tribe.

“Massa Herbert, Massa Herbert—” exclaimed
the negro, making a profound bow as the Rangers
approached—“If dar ar be you jest say so, for
gorra-mighty, Lord bless us, dis nigger am tired—
dat am a fac. I'b been hunting you, eber since
yesterday mornin', way up to de Skippack creek,
sixteen miles from here, as true as my name am
Charles de Fust, and I hab'ent found you till dis
berry instant. De berry debbil's to pay at home,
and no pitch hot.”

“Why, Charley! is that you!” cried Captain
Tracy, as he recognized one of his father's domestics

in the negro, “what message have you got for
me? Who sent you?”

“Dar's de message I hab for you, and Miss Marian
Waltham sent me. True as my name's Charles
de Fust.”

Herbert took the carefully folded note from the
hands of the negro, and, with a beating heart, recognized
the handwriting of his betrothed in the
simple direction—“To Captain Herbert Arnheim
Tracy.” With a nervous hand he broke open the
seal, and read—

“God of Heaven!” exclaimed Tracy, as his
cheek grew for a moment lividly pale—“the letter
is dated yesterday, and yet, Charles, you have
failed to deliver it until this moment. Tell me,
sirrah,” he continued, raising himself in his stirrups,
as his eye flashed with anger—“Wherefore this
neglect? Answer me truly, or by the God that
lives, the next tree and a strong cord shall be
yours!”

“Gorra-mighty, Lord bless us, sure as my name's
Charles de Fust,” stammered the negro, half frightened

out of his wits as he stood bowing in front of
Herbert's horse. “Massa Herbert, what's de use
ob workin' yusef in a passhun? Dese am de facts
ob de case. Two days ago, Massa Waltham, who
libs on de Ridge Road, came ober to Major Tracy's
on a visit. Brought Miss Marian wid him—and de
old fellow was seized by paralytic stroke while at
the Major's—t'ought he was going to die—den him
and your fader make up match between his darter
and dat red coat scamp, Leftenant Wellwood Tracy.
Under dem circumstances Miss Marian dispatch me
off, wid dis note for you. Went up to deSkippack
—could n't find you dar. Dey sed you was gone
out a scouting. Been a follering you up eber
since—and here I be, and dere you are, and Miss
Marian's goin' to be married to dat renegate dis
ebenin'. So if you gwain to do anyting, you better
do it mighty dam quick. Sure's my name's Charles
de Fust.”

“Sergeant,” cried Herbert, turning hurriedly
to the veteran Brown, who rode at his elbow.—
“You know the place of rendezvous? The deserted
mansion among the copse of horse chestnut
trees, about a quarter of a mile hence?”

“The place called the Haunted House?”

“The same. Let the Rangers disperse in every
direction in search of intelligence as regards the
force, numbers, and position of the enemy. We
meet again at twelve to-night at the Haunted

House. It is now dark—disperse the Rangers, Sergeant!”

The Sergeant touched his hat, and presently the
Rangers were seen disappearing in various directions.
“Charles de Fust” was left standing alone
with the Captain.

“They have a desperate game to play,” Herbert
muttered in a whisper, that came through his
clenched teeth. “She is mine—mine by all that
is sacred. Wo be to him who shall say me nay!—
By the God that lives—”

The oath was scattered to the air, and the astonished
negro beheld Herbert plunging the spurs into
the sides of his ebon steed, who swept through field
and meadow with the speed of wind, and in an instant
was lost in the shades of a neighboring forest.

“Dat am berry perlite! Berry! To leave me all
alone here in de middle ob de road! Berry perlite;
—Gorra-mighty, Lord bless us—sure's my name's
Charles de Fust!”

4. CHAPTER THE FOURTH
THE BETROTHED.

She gazed upon that gorgeous sunset, the beautiful
girl! She gazed from the arching window of her
chamber, at the setting sun, with her beaming face
flushed into brighter radiance with the last glimpse
of daylight—her soft blue eyes dimmed with bursting
tears—her pouting lips of most delicious voluptuousness
of shape, parted by the rising sigh—and
her golden hued hair, floating in glossy richness
down each budding cheek, and along her arching
neck, and finally resting in beautiful disorder upon
that virgin bosom, with its veins of azure and its
outline of youth and bloom.

The beauty of Marian Waltham was of that fascinating
character which so finely and delicately
blends the spiritual with the material, and charms
the beholder with a glance, a look, or a tone;—
which enchains the fancy with every motion and
attracts the imagination in every attitude, throwing
the golden light of romance around the fair form—
giving a brighter glance to the eye, a lovelier hue
to the velvet cheek, and a winning sweetness to the
tone, which seems to convey every idea of the hidden

soul that words of human speech may fail to
utter.

Lovely as Marian was at all times, she certainly
never seemed more beautiful than on this eventful
evening, when gazing at the last beams of sunset,
from the spacious window of her chamber, situated
in the western wing of Major Tracy's mansion,
among the heights of the Wissahikon.

Her face, raised gently upward, received on each
glowing cheek, the soft flush of sunset; her eyes,
her large blue, lustrous orbs, half closed in dreaming
thought, were impearled in a starting tear; her
mouth, with its small lips curving with a fascinating
fulness, was slightly opened with the listlessness
of reverie: her full rounded chin, sank with
all the richness of flowing outline into the arching
neck with its clear transparent hue, and around the
Grecian head, along each budding cheek, and over
her neck and shoulder streamed the luxuriant locks
of her waving hair, whose bright and silky gold,
glistening in the sunbeams, completed the fascination
that hovered round her beauty like a veil of
light.

Her bust was ample, well proportioned, and
swelling in its outline, yet delicately formed and
full of virgin beauty; her waist small and tapering,
yet without any appearance of unnatural confinement
or artificial restraint; while from her waist
downward the proportions of her fignre fell in a

voluptuous sweep, which gave indefinable fascination
to every motion of those small and softly chiselled
feet, whose fairy tracery of form peeped
from beneath the snow-white folds of the bridal
robe.

And those arms, full, fair, and rounded with the
floating line of grace, bared from the shoulder with
their beauty gleaming through the bewitching
sleeves of air-like lace, and the delicate hands with
miniature fingers half clasped in front supporting
the golden bracelet, which the maiden was about to
entwine around that wrist which needed no such
garish ornament; all these charms—the face, the
floating hair, the half thoughtful, half dreaming attitude,
the air of winning innocence, the innocence
that implies ignorance of the world's customs, which
encircled the maiden's features—all combined, made
her seem to the fascinated eye, pure as she was, a
being to be loved with all the depth of the passion
that springs from a high intellect, a being whose
entire soul, with all its gentle and modest affections
would dissolve in deep and lasting love, for the object
of her choice.

Marian turned from the bright sunset and gazed
around her chamber. Ever since the intimate
friendship of Major Tracy and Squire Waltham had
given rise to frequent visits to the mansion of the
former, this chamber had been set apart for Marian
and furnished to her taste. The furniture was attractive

without being gorgeous. The chamber
looked precisely the same as on the day when the
fair Marian first retired within its precincts to muse
on the gallant youth, who had saved her life, endangered
by a wild and untamed horse, who rushed
with herself and father over a precipice, and plunged
them into the waters of the Wissahikon. She
even now imagined the noble form of Herbert, confronting
the maddened horse, and when his efforts
to stay the speed of the animal were in vain, again
the picture was colored by her fancy, how gallantly
he sprang into the depths of the rivulet and
drew her fainting form and that of her dying father
to the shore. All this, and the subsequent scenes
of the confession of his love, her acknowledgment
of a mutual passion, and the betrothal, arose to her
vivid fancy, and the maiden dashed her father's
marriage present, the gaudy bracelet, to the floor,
and covering her face with her fair white hands,
she sought relief from the pressure of thought in a
flood of tears.

Her attention was attracted by the sound of a
footstep, and a low voice whispered her name.
She looked up and beheld her father. His frame
was thin and attenuated with disease, his shoulders
bent forward with premature extreme old age, and
the slight masses of grey hair, which fell from under
his invalid's cap, strayed along each sunken
cheek, affording a fearful relief to the pale hue of

that face, with the features, distorted by pain, the
glassy eye, the shrunken lip and contracted brow.

“Daughter, you are in tears,” said Mr. Waltham,
laying a thin and withered hand upon Marian's
shoulder. “It were better not to weep thus bitterly.
What must be, must. I have planned this
marriage, Marian, with an eye single to thy happiness—”
he paused, for a violent fit of coughing
choked his utterance. “When I am no more,
Marian, you will need a protector. Lieutenant
Wellwood Tracy—”

Marian turned her head away, and concealed her
face in her hands, at the name. “Nay, Marian,
wherefore start you thus? Is not the Lieutenant
nobly born, and gallantly bred? Has he not wealth;
is not his name enrolled among the honored and respected
of the world?”

“Father! My troth is plighted to another?”
exclaimed Marian in that decided voice which
betokens the firmness of despair—“My troth is
plighted to another!”

“An outcast and a beggar!” exclaimed a strange
voice, and the tall form of Major Tracy stood between
the father and daughter—“An outcast and a
beggar!” he continued, as a smile of mingled contempt
and scorn curved his lips. “Thy troth is
pledged to another forsooth? Why, Marian, I had
thought better of thee than this? What! would
you stoop to marry an outcast from his home, a

rebel from his king, a man who has drawn his
sword in most foul disloyalty, and by the unsheathing
of that sword, blasphemed his God? Would
you marry a beggar, fair maiden?”

As he said this Major Tracy's brow became contracted
with a dark frown, and then his lip trembled
momently with an expression of contempt.
His appearance was full of majesty, with his tall
form and erect bearing; and his high pallid brow,
seared by the wrinkles of worldly care and ambitious
thought, was shown in bold relief, as the last
glow of sunset fell on its bold outline, with the dark
hair, sprinkled with the frost of age, thrown back
in careless disorder.

But the fair maiden quailed not before his glance.
Stung by his taunts into a reply, she raised her fair
form to its full stature, and with her blue eye,
flashing with a steady, unvarying glance, and with
her fair arm outstretched, she exclaimed in a quiet
tone—

“Can a father speak thus of his son?” she exclaimed,
“can a father so far forget all feelings of
natural affection, as to curse, with bitter words and
sneering manner, the child, whom he is bound, by
every law of God and man, to love and protect?
Not thus does a maiden speak of her betrothed husband!
No! Though Herbert were a beggar, clad
in rags and banned by the unjust opinion of the
world, though he labored under the bitterest curse

that ever rose to the lips of an unjust, a passionate
parent, still would I wed him, banned and cursed,
though he were, aye, cheerfully and joyfully would
I wed him, and as Truth lives in heaven, I will
wed none—”

“Hold, Marian, hold, for my sake!” shrieked her
father, raising his attenuated hands, with a voice
that seemed prophetic of his anticipated home—the
grave—“Marian, pause for your father's sake!”

The words died on the maiden's lip, the flush of
momentary excitement passed from her beaming
features, her eye lost its flashing glance, her form
its erect stature, her arm fell listlessly by her side,
and Marian forgot the vow of eternal constancy to
her lover, when she beheld, standing before her,
the weak and attenuated form of her father, trembling
on the verge of the grave, with his eyes,
dimmed by disease, warmed into the momentary
glance that appealed with such silent eloquence to
the holiest feelings of a daughter's heart.

She sank weeping at his feet, and clasped his
withered hands, as she wept.

“You will consent, my daughter?” he whispered,
“You will gratify your poor, fond father.”

Marian murmured assent, and Major Tracy stood
regarding the father and daughter with a glance of
bitter mocking triumph as he muttered, “Now this
brave son of mine shall know the man he has defied!
Wellwood shall have the bride and the lands,

and when the rebel has met his deserts, Wellwood
succeeds to the Earldom! Miss Waltham,” he
continued aloud, “I had well nigh forgot the object
of my errand hither. Lieutenant Wellwood Tracy
has just arrived, and with as little delay as may be,
after the fatigue of travel, will hasten to pay his respects
to his fair bride!”

5. CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE BRIDEGROOM.

A STATELY array of silver candelabra, placed on
the mantel, and containing tall formal wax candles,
threw a glaring light around the antiquated parlor,
with its massive mirrors, its Turkish carpeting, its
wainscoted walls, adorned with paintings, its old
fashioned sofa, and high backed mahogany chairs.

A young man of some twenty-three years, attired
in the uniform of an officer in the British dragoons,
lay extended on the sofa in an attitude of the most
elegant disorder; with his legs enveloped in Hessian
boots, shining with spurs and spattered with
mud, very easily crossed one over the other; his
head with its powdered locks resting upon one arm,
while with his face to the ceiling he seemed intently
engaged in examining the merits of his chapeau,
with its mass of feathers, which his other hand
held poised directly over his face. He was not an
unhandsome man, but there was an air of effeminacy
about his small, delicate features, and the jaunty
air of every position assumed by his slender and
well proportioned figure, that gave you an idea you
stood in the presence of the fashionable fop, the

man of the world of idlers, the “dawdler” at ladies'
elbows, the talker of small sayings, the coiner of
compliments, and smatterer of little pieces of all
kinds of knowledge, which combined together form
what the mass calls a gentleman, always provided
the combination of so many rare qualities is well
dressed.

And Wellwood Tracy was no dull fellow either.
A few summers at Oxford had given him some
idea of the existence of Greek and Latin, and he
was sufficiently acquainted with them to know that
these words meant languages, not celebrated philosophers;
a winter in London, passed amid the
excitement of balls, routes, soirees, and the thousand
other assemblages of the gay world, had given
him some idea of life, and instilled into his mind
that fashionable code of morals, which places the
winning of a game at cards, and the destruction of
a woman's virtue, on a scale of perfect equality in
the list of innocent pleasures and venial sins; what
with all these acquirements, and a genteel way of
saying large oaths and dainty imprecations, Lieutenant
Wellwood Tracy was voted by the world in
general, and his messmates in particular, to be a
deuced clever fellow, a finished gentleman, in every
way worthy of succeeding to the Earldom of Wallingford,
in case the intermediate heirs should happen
to vacate this scene of trial and care.

The Lieutenant had just counted each feather in

his chapeau for the twelfth time, when the door
opened, and a servant informed him that his chamber
was ready for his use, where he might remove
from his person the dust, disorder and dishabille of
travel.

“Now for my bridal robes”—lisped the gallant
dragoon, as he tumbled from the sofa into an erect
position. “I wonder where that cursed valet of
mine is staying all the time? What detains the
village priest? Well—well (looking at his watch)
it's near the hour, and I've just time to dress. A
fellow can be married but once—it's best to submit
with a good grace, so here goes for the mysteries of
the toilet—and then she's handsome and rich, and
I may one day be Earl of Wallingford!”

Disappointment is the great misery of life—success
the great blessing. Which of the twain shal
be the lot of the gallant Lieutenant Wellwood Tracy
of His Majesty's dragoons?

6. CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE VALLEY OF THE WISSAHIKON.

When Harry Heft left the farm-house of the
Quaker, in obedience to the invisible signal, the new
moon, with its delicate crescent of silver, poised in
the clear azure of the western horizon, was shedding
around over the woods and stream of the Wissahikon,
a shower of softened light, which danced
on the prominent points of the foliage, sparkled
along the rivulet, and waved in threads of radiance
through the open glades and shadowed recesses of
the forest.

Having passed through the small garden, around
the farm-house, the young soldier brushed aside
the grass of the meadow heavy with dew, and pursued
his way toward the Wissahikon, which rolled
along the vale, with the soft musical murmur of
water, sweeping along a pebbled bottom, and gave
its thousand tiny ripples, and delicate wavelets to
the brightening kiss of the moonbeams.

“Well, may I die the death of a spy”—exclaimed
Harry as he reached the banks of the stream,
and gazed around—“May I die the death of a riglar
built renegate, if this aint purty. I never did see
my native stream look so nice afore—and now that

I think of it, I'd like to visit my old folks; but I
haint got time. I must git that purty gal out of
the clutches o' them Britishers at Major Tracy's,
and then I kin sit down and play if I like, but not
afore. But where in the name of the Continental
Congress is that feller Dennis? Dennis O'Dougherty,
McDermott, McDonough, McDaniel, Mac
—”

“Mac Divil!” answered a voice from a clump of
elder bushes, within arm's-reach of Heft. “And is
it callin' a man, dacent and civil, out o' his name,
at this solemn hour of the night, ye are, ye spalpayn?
Is this yer pe'liteness, Harry Heft”—continued
the voice, as the bushes rustled, and a small
round face, with a very small, and very bright pair
of gray eyes, long upper lip and short nose,
emerged from the foliage. Is this yer pe'liteness I
say? I'm ashamed of ye, Harry Heft.”

The face gradually rose from among the bushes,
and presently a tall, stout figure, clad in the uniform
of the Black Rangers, leaped out on the turf, and
in an instant was at the side of Harry Heft.

“I'm ashamed of ye, Harry Heft”—said the Irishman,
with a grave look, and with a merry sparkle
in his eye. “By the ghost of Fin-ma-coul, of St.
Patrick, St. Pater, and a half dozen more of the
rispictible old jontlemen, who raised petaties in ould
Erin afore the curse of Cromwell and King George
was put upon her sod, I'm ashamed of ye, Harry

Heft—there now ye pesky critter,” he continued,
for long residence among the people of the northern
Provinces had spiced the brogue of Dennis McDermott,
with a little dash of the Yankee dialect.
“There now ye pesky critter ye, are ye satisfied?”

Harry burst into a peal of laughter, and exclaimed
between the bursts of merriment—

“Look here, Irish, somebody must a-been drying
your primin' before a hickory fire—you go off at
sich very short notice. Why you explode at about
the eighth fraction of half-cock. Why, Irish,
you're gitting quite animated—if you'd only take
a'ter me something might be made out of you. You
are a reg'lar old boy!”

“Jest call me by me christen name, Dennis, will
ye? Or pr'aps ye'd like yer picter spilt?”

“No, thank'ee, not jist now,” replied Harry,
catching the quiet twinkle of the warm-hearted
Irishman's eye. “But come along, Dennis. Let's
ford the creek and pass on; we've got about a mile
to go, and the sooner we're movin' the better.”

The Rangers waded the stream, which was not
more than breast high, at this point, and taking a
beaten track on the western side, proceeded southward
at as rapid a pace as might be. After about
five minutes walking under the shade of the wood,
the path emerged into an open field, covered with
blackberry bushes, brambles, and wild vines, trailing
along the ground, with heaps of newly cut

timber, scattered along the surface of the uncultivated
earth. The field was passed and the Rangers
arrived at a spot of singular beauty.

The Wissahikon entered a deep ravine or glen, if
either of these names are appropriate, where the
banks arose by an ascent in some places gradual, in
other points abrupt, into high and massive hills,
clothed from the sparkle of the ripple, to the deep
blue of the sky, with most luxuriant trees, with
foliage faintly dyed by autumn, of every gradation
of fantastic outline of form, every variety of light
and shade. Here swelling into pyramids of leaves,
silvered by the moonbeams; there sloping away
into shady nooks: at one point sweeping down to
one brooklet by a gentle descent of chestnut trees,
in all the towering height of a century's growth,
succeeded by tender saplings, whose leaves were
interwoven with those of many a green shrub and
verdant bush growing by the water side, and dashing
their verdure in the waves of the deep, clear,
mirror-like flood; at another point, circuling around
some perpendicular mass of rock, whose clefts were
green with many a wild vine, the foliage sank suddenly
down, with a leaf here and there touched by
the moonlight, while all the rest was dark and indistinct.

The stream, winding through the glen, with its
deep and rippleless waters of glassy clearness, reflected
the ascending steeps on either side, and the

small space of the clear blue sky which these
heights, viewed from the vale below, permitted to
be seen, with so faithful an outline, and such a delicate
mass of hues and tints, lights and shades, that
it seemed as though the landscape beneath the waters
was an ideal and spiritual copy of the real and
living landscape above.

The path which our Rangers pursued, led along
the water's edge, and wound among the colossal
trunks of wide-branching oaks, whose roots had
been striking deep, and whose limbs had been
growing stronger for hundreds of years. As they
wended along with the silver murmur of the stream
filling the air, and the soft moonlight floating amid
the waving foliage, the Rangers for a time, under
the influence of the holy silence of the hour,
ceased all conversation, and with their footfalls
echoing along the wood, and the occasional rustling
of leaves as they brushed through a mass of
shrubbery opposing their path, they pursued their
way, until the murmuring of a waterfall told them
of their vicinity to Rittenhouse's mill, a massive
stone building, which rose in strong relief with its
grey walls, standing boldly out against the background
of verdure, while a number of cottages
barns and outhouses were scattered around it on the
eastern side of the artificial cascade.

The Rangers paused for a moment upon a shelving
rock, and looked back into the lovely glen,
which they were about to leave.

“Och, comrid, Harry Heft,” said the Irishman,
breaking the silence which had lasted for a quarter
of an hour. “Sure this beautiful spot, with its
feathery trees, and soft moonlight, and its quietness
and sulemnity, brings to mind the place ov me
birth, wid the little hut, and its green turf on the
bank of the Lake Killarney! The curse o' God be
on the tyrant who driv me frum me home! Is it
blubberin' ye are, Harry Heft?”

The young American Ranger certainly showed
no signs of weeping, but Dennis merely meant the
insinuation as an excuse for the tear which stole
from his own eyelid, and washed his scarred and
sunburnt cheek.

“What did the British drive you from your
home for?” exclaimed Harry, participating in the
Irishman's outburst of long-hidden sympathies.

“Ye've seen a tear in my eye, Harry Heft, and
you may as well make a note ov it; for none 'ill
you iver see there agin. The why and wharefore
I left me native country is a long story, Harry Heft;
but ye must know Harry, that meself and me mother,
and the wife and the childer, (not forgetting
the pig, be jabers,) lived in the nate little shealing
on the banks of the Killarney, and not a care did
we know, mair be token we had plenty of petaties,
until the red coated Britishers came and meddled
wid a little still of me own—”

“Still? Whiskey still?” inquired Henry.

“The same. A little bit ov a hand machine to
manyfactur' the poteen, ye know. The sodjers
came, and we hade a taste ov a ruction, and I giv
one of the rascals the `unlucky blow,' not maneing
it at all, at all; but flattened out he was, and it was
I that did it.”

“You sarved him right! Confound the Britishers,
I say!”

“Amen to that. And then they gave me the
choice of the gallows or the dragoon's saddle, for
they saw I was a stout, tall felley (fellow) of me
inches, and I chosed the gallows. But the wife
clung to my bosom, and the childer clung to me
knees, and pursuaded wid their tears that sed so
much more than words, to 'list, sooner than be
hanged, and 'list I did, sorrow to me soul! And I've
never seen wife or childer since.”

The Irishman brushed a tear from his eye, and
Harry was seized with a sudden fit of whistling.

“Aye! Whistle, Harry, whistle! It's better to
whistle nor to weep, and if I didn't laugh sometimes
my heart 'ud break for the grief that's tugging at it.
Ochone, Erin Mavourneen—I'm making a judy of
meself.”

“How long is it since ye listed, Dennis!”

“Ten years or thereabouts. We came to Montreal,
and seen some service among the French and
Injins, and on one occashun, a party of us dragoons
were dispatched all the way to Detroit, and the

whole kit ov us, barrin' two others besides meself,
were riddled by the red skinned Injins. We three
survivors picked up our bones and walked off about
our business, each on his own pertikler way, for
we didn't see any necessity of our returning to Montreal
and the barracks, or pushing on to Detroit
with its wild cats and Injins.”

“And then you pushed eastward and settled
down about Germantown here?”

“And here I've lived and wrought for near five
years, until Captain Tracy, and a likely boy he is
too, tipped me the wink, and then I followed him
to the wars, and maybe I haven't been a bad thorn
in the side of the Britishers?”

“A regular splinter in their sore-foot, as one
might say. But should any of your former comrades
see you agin, think they'd know you?”

“It's difficult for meself to tell. But 'sposin'
they did see me and knew me, and had me in their
clutches at the same identical time; it's my candid
opinion they'd give me a pine coffin, and a dozen
bullets. The more shame to 'em and their king,
and the whole posse of 'em, by the blessed St.
Pathrick.”

“Well, now look here `Irish'—I call you that
'cause it sounds more sociable than Dennis—I owe
you a life for a savin' mine at the rumpus of Brandywine.
And now by the Lord above us, if the
Britishers ever catch hold of you, and I don't rescue

you, or if they harm you, and I don't avenge
you, then may I never know what it is to die a soldier's
death, but die the pitiful death of a spy!
That's swor' to, Irish—” continued the good-hearted
soldier as he grasped the Irishman's hand and
gave it a hearty shake. “And now let's be off;
You know our Captain told us to pay a visit to his
father's house, and recon'itre, and then bring him
word, but I've a notion of puttin' an end to this
marriage somehow or other, and bringin' him word
of that too, before he heard it was in progress.”

“Sure, Harry Heft, ye didn't tell me of any marriage.
Be jabers I'm all in the dark—”

“But come along. Let's ford the creek at the
falls, here, and travel down toward the Paper Mill,
and I'll tell you on the way!”

Fording the stream, they passed along a road on
the eastern side of the Wissahikon for about a quarter
of a mile, until the waters of the Paper Mill
Run came plunging into its bosom, from a height
covered with the buildings and out-houses pertaining
to a large mill. Pursuing the course of the
rivulet, which at this point takes a sudden bend to
the west on its way to the Schuylkill, after fifteen
minutes had elapsed, they arrived at a spot, where
a perpendicular wall of rocks arises from the opposite
and northern shore of the stream, clothed in
every cleft and spacious crevice with giant pines,
some growing out from the rock in a horizontal direction,

others slanting upward, others bending
crosswise, and with every giant pine, however fantastical
in form, flinging its branches out into the
moonlight, from the straight and steep ascent of the
cliff.

“Do you see that barricade of rocks, Irish?”

“Be jabers, a nateral fortriss!”

“Upon the top of that mass of rock, is concealed
as pretty a mansion as ever your eye rested upon.
That's Major Tracy's house, and we ascend to it by
a winding road. We cross over the stream on these
steppin' stones. The entrance to this road is concealed
among the bushes yonder. It begins somewhere
below this tremendous wall. I have it.”

They entered the bushes, and presently were
journeying along a road, worn by horses' feet, that
wound round the precipice, affording an easy,
though somewhat sudden ascent to the platform of
earth at the summit. Presently they emerged from
under the shade of the pine trees, and stood upon
the turf of a green lawn, fenced round the edge of
the precipice with the interlacing trunks of the
pines, forming a natural protection, against the dangers
of the steep, with their branches entwined
through each other, crossed and re-crossed, and
woven together, so thickly and densely, as to give
an observer the idea, that what he beheld was the
work of man's art, rather than a feat of nature.

7. CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE BRIDAL PARTY.

In the centre of the lawn arose the substantial
stone mansion of Major Tracy, a building of some
magnitude, overshadowed by a towering sycamore
that grew in the garden behind the house, and rising
in all the strength and grandeur of ages, threw
its leaning trunk over the gabled roof, while its far
reaching branches, bursting out on every side, clad
with a thick and luxuriant foliage, afforded a pleasant
and agreeable defence from the rigor of the sun
in the heat of summer, and now, as the moon sank
below the horizon, enveloped the edifice and the
lawn in its vicinity in deepest shadows. The darkness
was broken by long lines of light streaming
from the half-closed shutters of the chamber looking
out upon the portico which fronted the verdant
grass, and extended along the entire front of the
mansion.

“Now keep your eyes about you, Irish,” exclaimed
Harry, as he glanced hurriedly round at
the spacious mansion and the range of out-buildings.
“By the Continental Congress, if I aint very much
mistaken, them lights, flashing from the windows,

out upon the porch, have a tale of their own to tell.
Let's reccini'tre, Irish.”

“Be St. Pathrick! what's that?” muttered Dennis
in a tone of suppressed wonder, as they approached
the porch. “Do ye see anything there,
my darlint crittur?”

Harry Heft followed the finger of the Irishman
with his eye, and discovered, fastened by their bridle
reins to a pillar of the portico, two gallant
steeds, whose trappings, the ornamented saddle
cloth and the holsters, all showed that their riders
were at least military men, if not officers of rank
and authority.

With hushed breath and cautious step, Harry
Heft stole along the floor of the portico toward the
window shutters from whence emerged the light,
and which reached from the roof of the portico to
the floor. Each window served the purposes of a
door, as well as a medium for the admittance of
daylight. Gazing through the crevice of the shutters—the
sashes opened after the fashion of folding
doors, being thrown back—Harry Heft beheld a
scene which he regarded with evident wonder and
astonishment, although he had anticipated something
of the kind.

The apartment within was spacious, large, and
furnished after the fashion of some sixty years
since. It was lighted by a chandelier, filled with
stately candles of wax, and suspended from the

stuccoed ceiling. In the centre of the apartment
with his back turned to the window, stood a portly
man, with a very red, round face, a very brilliant
nose, and a very small mouth, and his ample figure
arrayed in the gown and surplice of a clergyman,
while his little fat hands, with short gouty fingers,
grasped a gilt edged book, from which he was reading.
It was the book of Common Prayer, and he
read the marriage ceremony. In front of him
were the bridegroom and bride; on one side stood
Major Tracy, with a settled frown on his brow: a
spacious arm-chair on the opposite side contained
the form of the invalid Squire Waltham, who gazed
with a half vacant, half imbecile stare upon the
company around. At his elbow stood a gentleman
of some fifty winters, attired in the undress of a
colonel in the British army, and with an impressive
countenance, marked by the lines of care and
thought. He was named Colonel Musgrave, and
he held the baton of command over the fortieth
regiment. The arrival of this gentleman had been
somewhat late and hurried, for his boots were bespattered
with mud, and his entire costume was
marked by the unfinished and disarranged air that
attends a journey undertaken and executed in haste.
Opposite to this gentleman, and forming the right
wing of the circle, was a young gentleman, attired
as a cornet in the dragoon service of his Majesty's
—th regiment, and with a face and air expressive
of nothing in especial, except a very apparent desire
to play as critical a part in his capacity of
right wing of the picture, as his disordered dress
and soiled boots would possibly admit.

The bridegroom, arrayed in a lustrous coat of
snow white silk, with small clothes and stockings
to match, buckles of shining silver, and square toed
shoes, seemed disposed to do particular justice to
his situation as a prominent point of the picture.
Halting on his left leg, with the right advanced, he
extended one delicate white hand, sparkling with
rings, to the bride, displaying all the beauty and
finish of the ruffle at his wrist in the action, while
his other hand was disposed very gracefully, with
the little finger deposited in a fold of his snow white
and gaudily embroidered vest, as with his head
erect, and his powdered hair flowing in graceful
folds over his shoulder, Lieutenant Wellwood Tracy
looked straight forward over the head of the clerical
gentleman, and a complacent expression mantled
over his face, which seemed to intimate that he
considered himself a very fine point of the picture
indeed, and worthy of the pencil of a Vandyke, or
a Godfrey Kneller.

The whole scene was a mockery of a solemn
sacrifice, but the victim destined to be offered up
at the altar, appeared in all the splendor of her
queenly beauty even at that dread hour, when the
utterance of a few simple words, and the transposition

of a ring, would place her destiny in the hands
of one, for whom she cared little, and of whom she
knew less, and sever her fate from the silken cord
that entwined it with the destiny of him, whom
she loved with all the purity and self devotion of a
maiden passion.

The golden hair, unconfined by band or cincture,
fell in a shower of waving tresses over her robes
of white, down to her very waist; while with
head drooped low, and eyes downcast, the maiden,
scarce knowing what she did, tendered her hand—
cold as the marble of a statue—to her gallant bridegroom,
and muttered the responses of the ceremony
with a vacant manner and absent air, as though her
mind wandered amid the shadowy creations of a
dream.

Harry Heft beheld the scene at a glance, and as
he gazed, he became instinctly aware of the relative
positions of the parties.

He had scarce time to think of some means of
delivering the fair maiden, when the marriage
ceremony reached the point, near its accomplishment,
where the least binding words are said, and
the ring is placed upon the finger of the bride. At
this moment Harry felt some one pressing against
his shoulder, and a face touching his own, while
his quick ear caught the sound of suppressed breathing.
He turned his head aside, whispering—“Hist!
Dennis!” when a hand, placed over his mouth,

hushed the exclamation of sudden surprise that was
bursting from his lips, and he beheld the face of
Herbert Tracy gazing over his shoulder with his lip
compressed and his eye flashing, as he regarded the
marriage scene within the apartment.

Every lineament of his countenance was impressed
with an expression so strange, so dread, so
unreal and fearful in its character, that the Ranger
scarce might recognize the face of his Leader in
that high forehead all seamed by deep wrinkles,
and relieved by the hair, thrown wildly aside from
the countenance; the full, black eye, glaring from
beneath the eyebrows; the lips compressed as fixedly
and firmly as those of a chiselled statue; and the
lines of each cheek so clearly marked with the settled
appearance that betokens powerful yet suppressed
emotion, and the entire visage, with every
outline, shown in the boldest relief, by the glaring
light which streamed from the chandelier within
the apartment, seemed so much changed and altered,
that Harry Heft only knew his captain from the
simple reason, that it were impossible to forget one
lineament of the face and features that he had
known and looked upon from earliest childhood.

Harry felt his hand grasped by that of his
leader, with a quick, hurried, but expressive movement—

“As God lives, stand by me!” whispered the
captain.

“As God lives, I will, to the death!” returned
the soldier in as deep a whisper.

“With this ring thee I wed”—exclaimed the
bridegroom within the apartment, as, bending aside
with a most graceful bow, he took the fair hand of
Marian in his own, and with a delicate movement
of the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, proceeded
to place the marriage ring on the ivory
finger of the maiden. The gold had touched the
finger of Marian, and every eye was fixed upon the
twain; Major Tracy smiled grimly as he viewed
the accomplishments of his scheme; the invalid
father looked up into the face of his daughter; the
eyes of the clerical gentleman wandered from his
book; and even the face of the colonel, as well as
the cornet, betrayed some interest in the matter; the
ring, I say, had touched, but not encircled the finger,
when a rushing sound was heard, a hurried footstep,
and the tall form of Herbert Tracy stood between
the bridegroom and bride, the ring was
dashed on the floor, and Wellwood Tracy was
hurled aside by a blow from the scabbard of the
captain's sword.

“She is mine! Mine before God and Heaven!”
exclaimed Herbert, as Marian fell in his arms, with
a shriek and a glance of wild rapture, that told of
recognition. “Mine before God and Heaven!
This for the man that shall say me nay!”

Unsheathing his sword with his good right hand,

he gathered the fainting maiden to his bosom with
his other hand, and glanced around upon the bridal
party, like a noble stag at bay, as he retired one step
toward the window.

Had some sudden and fearful spell fallen upon
the stern Major Tracy, the invalid Waltham, the
round faced parson, the sedate colonel, the smooth
faced cornet, or the silken bridegroom, they could
not, each and all of them, have formed more finished
and perfect statues of surprise than they did for a
single instant after Herbert had burst into the room.
Had a column of fire shot upwards from the floor;
had a thunder bolt severed the ceiling, and scattered
its rays of death at their feet; had the mansion
been rocked by the heavings of an earthquake, the
bridal party, it is very probable, would have been
somewhat surprised, if not thunderstricken; but
here was column of fire, thunder bolt, and earthquake
all combined in one form, and that form the
figure of the gallant Ranger. I trow the bridal
party were more than surprised.

Herbert Tracy took advantage of this first instant
of speechless astonishment, and pressing his betrothed
closer to his bosom, strode with a hurried,
yet even step toward the window—“Mine she is
before God and Heaven!” he cried—“mine by all
that is good and hallowed! Mine by her plighted
troth—mine by her vows of love!” he continued,
reaching the window, and extending his sword,

while, with a bitter sneer on his lip, he glanced
around the room—“And think ye I will surrender
my claim to any man that lives? Curses may be
heaped upon my head by him, whom I am bound
to name my father, and death and ruin may stand
in my path, but still—by the Lord that lives—
Herbert Tracy will not show himself unworthy of
his name! A merry even to you, gentlefolks!”

Emerging from the window, he rushed across
the porch, and stood beside the steeds that had so
lately borne the colonel and the cornet to the bridal
party, but which were now held ready for mounting,
by Dennis at one bridle rein, and Harry at the
other.

“Mount, capt'in, mount”—cried Harry—“They
're comin'—they're comin'! Mount, and away
down the Paper Mill Run road! Push for the
Quaker's farm house! Mount, by the Continental
Congress, mount!”

Ere Harry had finished his favorite expletive,
Herbert had sprang upon the stoutest of the steeds,
and with the fainting Marian in his arms, struck
for the road that led around the rock down to the
Wissahikon.

“Now's your time, Dennis? If you've any
sperrit in your lazy bones, mount that horse by the
stable yonder—I'll mount this! Hurray, boy, for
your neck's in danger! Now then—” cried the
gallant trooper as he sprang upon the cornet's

horse, and enveloped his form in the blanket that
hung at the saddle bow—“now then, `Irish,' strike
for Rittenhouse's Mill, right across the fields—
they'll mistake the fluttering of this blanket for the
young lady's dress. Take the fields for it, and
lead 'em on a wrong scent. By the Continental
Congress—”

“Yes, be jabers!” shouted Dennis. “Will it
plase your leddyshep to rid the laste bit closer to
me! Och, darlin'! Whoop!”

And off they went, like mad devils as they were,
the sound of their horses' hoofs echoing far around,
and the white blanket of Harry Heft fluttering in
the moonlight, like the robe of an uneasy spirit,
amusing itself with a midnight ride.

The sounds of the horses' hoofs roused the astonished
bridal party from the spell of surprise, and
with one assent, they rushed out on the portico,
leaving the invalid in her arm-chair.

“Call the servants”—shouted the Colonel—
“Wilson, I say—where's that lazy trooper!”

“There he goes!” muttered the enraged Lieutenant
Tracy with an oath, as he ran from one end
of the porch to the other; “there he goes down
the Wissahikon—by the G—s!”

“I ra-yther think they've taken a cut across
the fe-eld, Lev'tenant,” lisped the cornet, smiling
at the idea of telling the whole story at the mess
table. “There they go! How her dwess does

fluttaw,” he continued, as the white blanket met his
eye.

Without a word, without an exclamation of surprise,
did Major Tracy assemble the domestics, and
rouse the trooper, who was sleeping on a wheelbarrow
near the stable door, under the influence of
plentiful potations. A short and hurried council
was held; men were despached to the stables at a
hundred yards distance, to saddle other horses;
some started on foot in pursuit of the fugitives; but
amid all their conversation, their imprecations, and
their vows of vengeance, the ears of the bridal party
were saluted with the sound of the retreating
hoofs, echoing from the grounds north of the mansion,
to the road on the east, and from the road,
through the woods to the grounds again.

Full ten minutes elapsed ere horses could be saddled
for the major, the colonel, the cornet, and
the lieutenant; and the oaths and imprecations
of the three latter did not by any means tend to
increase the speed of the domestics in their employment.

“Scour the country in every direction!” shouted
the colonel, as he beheld his companions mounted,
together with the half sober trooper and three of
the domestics. “The fugitives cannot pass the
British lines without alarming the picquets! This
side of the lines they're in our power! Cornet,
you will join me, with that drunken lout yonder, in

pursuing the rebel captain across the field. Major,
perhaps it would be best for you and the lieutenant
to take the Wissahikon road. We can traverse the
country in different directions, and meet at Rittenhouse's
mill.”

Major Tracy nodded assent.

“Look ye, sirs,” he exclaimed to the three stout
fellows, who, with pistols in their hands, were
mounted on strong fleet horses by his side. “Look
'ye, sirs—should ye come across the fugitives, be
careful that you do not harm the lady in white,
Miss Waltham. You are all good marksmen—I'll
make the man of you comfortable for life who
shall pick the rebel officer in black from his horse!
Mark 'ye—he is a traitor, and deserves no quarter!
Away!”

And as they galloped away in various directions,
one of the frightened female domestics, a weak and
aged woman, entered the scene of the late bridal
ceremony, and beheld the clerical gentleman, on
his knees, before Mr. Waltham, who was still
seated in his armed-chair, with his head fallen to
one side, his eyes closed, and his lips parted. The
clergyman was engaged in chafing the hands of the
invalid, and the servant drew nearer, and looked
over his shoulder into the face of the sick man, and
started back with a cry of horror, as she discovered
the ghastly paleness of his cheeks, the blue livid
circles around his eyes, and the sunken eye-sockets.

His spirit had gone from the scenes of marrying
and giving in marriage, from the scenes of man's
passions, and man's wrong to his fellow, from his
daughter, his lands and his gold, up to that Tribunal
that knows no earthly passion or prejudice,
there—in the solemn words of the Sacred Book—
“To give account of the deeds done in the body.”

8. CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE PURSUIT.

When Herbert Tracy flung himself upon the
steed of the British Colonel, and planting his spurs
into the sides of the plunging animal, forced him
to take the steep and winding road that led around
the precipice, a thousand feelings rushed through
his mind, and a wild tumult of opposing thoughts
agitated his brain, but amid all the contending
feelings and opposing thoughts, one idea was
uppermost in his mind, a steady, firm and unalterable
resolve to bear his betrothed away to some
scene of safety, and a desperate purpose to part
with his life, ere the beautiful being, whose head
now lay pillowed on his breast, should be torn
from his embrace, by the rude hands of those who
had, so mockingly, toyed with her plighted vows.

Winding his arm yet closer around the waist of
Marian, he dashed down the narrow path, plunged
into the Wissahikon, and ascending the opposite
bank, gained the rocky road, which pursued its
irregular course along the banks of the stream. As
he flew along the road with the speed of wind,
the fresh and breezy night air, fanning the pallid

cheek of the maiden, awoke her to consciousness,
and Herbert felt the warm beating of her heart,
throbbing against the hand which held her to his
side.

She opened her beaming blue eyes, and as the
warm flush of youth and love again glowed on her
swelling cheek, she cast a hurried glance around,
as though she essayed to recall her wandering
thoughts, and then while the whole truth flashed
upon her, she wound her arms with a quick, convulsive
movement, around the neck of her lover, her
bosom rose and fell in the moonlight, and sinking
her head upon his manly breast, she found relief
from the tumult of opposing thoughts, in a flood of
tears.

Herbert gazed upon her fair face with its beauty
half upturned to the sky, and if ever, during his
wild and dreamy life, he felt his soul swell with
the feeling of intense happiness, and every nerve
thrill with delight, it was at that moment, when
her full and lustrous orbs were cast upward, with a
glance so full of high and hallowed love, so full
of all the trustfulness of woman's passion, and
beaming with that winning confidence, unmodified
by mistrust or doubt, which the vilest of mankind
would hesitate to wrong or betray.

The sounds of pursuit broke upon the air. Herbert
had attained the point, where the Paper Mills
cast a lengthened shadow over the stream, and a

quarter of a mile lay before him ere he could
reach Rittenhouse's Mill. It was his purpose to
avoid his pursuers, to seek the farm house of the
Quaker, Joab Smiley, place his betrothed in safety
till the morrow, then repass the British lines by the
bed of the Wissahikon, and reach the Haunted
House by midnight. Marian—thought Herbert—
might remain concealed in the farm house, with
entire safety, until the coming day, when the fate
of battle would enable him to place her in a situation
of greater security.

The sounds of pursuit, the echoing of the horses'
hoofs and the shouts of the pursuers broke louder
and nearer upon the stillness of night, and sinking
the rowels into the flanks of his steed, Herbert gave
him free rein, and in an instant the noble barb
dashed along the road, with the monotonous beat of
the hoof upon the sod, betokening the utmost
stretch of his speed put to the test.

A hundred yards lay between Herbert and Rittenhouse's
Mill, and a hundred yards behind his
pursuers came thundering along the road. The
report of a pistol broke upon the air, and a bullet
whistled by Herbert's ear, at the same moment that
the voice of his father, urging the pursuit, rose
high above all other sounds.

“On—on—let him not escape with life! Let
your aim be sure, and the bullet certain of its
mark! Onward, my brave men, onward!

“I will foil them yet!” Herbert muttered between
his teeth, as he recognized the tones of his
father's voice. “Here is Rittenhouse's Mill—the
moon has gone down, and the night is dark,—now
God help me!”

As the exclamation rose upon his lips, the
sound of horses' hoofs which rose in his rear, were
echoed by similar sounds on the opposite bank of
the stream, and the crashing of brushwood and the
rustling of branches, gave Herbert warning, that his
escape was cut off beyond the Mill.

The crisis came. The Mill was reached, the
party on the opposite side came thundering through
the woods, and the voice of Major Tracy was heard,
nearer and yet more near; when, reining his steed
up against a small and perpendicular rock which
peeped out from among a mass of brushwood, Herbert
loosened his feet from the stirrups, and gathering
his arm around the waist of Marian, with a
firmer embrace, sprang from the horse, on to the
rock, amid the shelter of the environing shrubbery,
and as he sprang, the affrighted horse bounded forward,
dashed through the stream, swept up the
road that traversed the opposite hill, and with the
speed of a bolt, driven from the bow, disappeared
in the shade of the wood.

As he disappeared, the party of Col. Musgrave
emerged from the woods on the opposite bank into
the stream. Almost at the very same instant

Major Tracy with his men; rushed along with the
speed of lightning, within an arm's reach of the
spot upon which Herbert stood, and passing between
the rock and the Mill, dashed into the Wissahikon,
and ere he was aware he confronted the colonel
and his company in mid-stream.

“Which way went the fugitives?” shouted Col.
Musgrave.

“Do you not hear the horses' hoofs upon the
hill?” replied the stern and commanding voice of
Major Tracy—“away! away! We trifle—we
lose time! away!

“We'll have them now, by —” exclaimed
the voice of Lieutenant Wellwood. “They cannot
be more than fifty yards ahead! Now for't
my men!”

And with one assent the pursuers joined their
forces, and galloping up the opposite bank of the
stream in the direction taken by the steed which
Herbert had just abandoned, their forms were lost
in the shades of the forest, and the echoing of
their horses' hoofs, began to grow fainter on the
air.

Herbert had well calculated his address and
dexterity, combined with an intimate acquaintance
with the spot, when he took the sudden leap from
the saddle on to the rock, among the surrounding
brushwood. In his youthful ramblings near the
Mill, he had discovered a path, perhaps worn by

the feet of Indians, an age before, winding along
the nooks, the heights and recesses of the hills
forming the eastern bank of the stream. The
entrance to this path, within a few feet of the Mill,
was hidden by the branches of the trees mingling
with the light shrubbery, that grew upon the perpendicular
rocks, separating the road from the
forest. In the moment of peril, the memory of
the rock and the secret path flashed upon his mind,
and in an instant, he availed himself of the remembrance,
and eluded pursuit in the very crisis of the
chase.

As the sounds of the pursuing party came softened
and almost hushed by distance to the ears of
the lovers, Herbert gave Marian the support of his
arm, and they threaded their way along the winding
path through the woods, until they emerged
upon the meadow sloping from farmer Smiley's
house, down to the Wissahikon. Approaching
the farm house, they found they had been preceded
by Harry Heft and his friend Dennis, who
it seems had succeeded in persuading the Quaker
to receive the betrothed of Herbert, under the
shelter of his roof, for a few days until the fortune
of war might enable the lovers to unite their fates
beyond danger of separation. After he had seen
Marian safe under the peaceful roof, and attended
by the care of the young Quakeress, Herbert departed
from the farm house, with a promise to

return at the earliest moment that might afford an
opportunity. Dennis and Harry proceeded to take
their way to the Wissahikon on their return to the
American lines, in another direction from that
taken by Herbert, who paused an instant on the
banks of the stream, ere he plunged into the recesses
of the woods, and as he looked back upon
the quiet home of the Quaker farmer sleeping in
the starlight, a fearful presentiment crossed his
mind, that he should never gaze upon his betrothed
again—that some dire and hidden calamity was
hovering over their path—that some dread and
overwhelming evil, was even now gathering blackness
upon the horizon of their sky, and would
suddenly burst over their heads, and crush every
fair prospect of their life, every bright hope of
their existence under its blightning influences.

“Come what will”—said Herbert, in a voice
that was uttered not to the air, but to his own
heart, “come what will, my resolve is taken.
My hand and sword shall be raised, first in defence
of the hills and vales of this fair land of my birth;
and then in defence of the maiden, bound to me
by the solemn vows of our plighted troth. Death
may come, and ruin may threaten—but their approaches
shall be met with honor!”

9. CHAPTER THE NINTH.
THE COUNCIL.

The hills and vales of the Wissahikon slept in
the silence of midnight, when a solitary horseman
issued from the mass of forest trees, near the
Haunted House, and taking his way across an
intervening field, presently reined in his steed along
the front of the mansion.

It was a small, one storied building, marked by
a style of architecture which mingled the steep,
gable-ended roof of a cottage, with the high and
pointed windows of the Gothic order; while the
eves of the mansion were heavy with carved work,
the window frames were decorated with quaint
devices in wood, the numerous chimneys by which
it was surmounted seemed as much contrived for
ornament as use, and the general air and appearance
of the place, indicated that it might have
been the abode of some wealthy admirer of the
country, who had here fixed himself a home amid
the solitude and shade of the woods. It was situated
on a gentle eminence approached by steps of
stone, built in the grassy bank, and the limited lawn
which sloped from three sides of the picturesque

edifice, was terminated by a pleasant grove of
horse-chestnut trees, giving an air of seclusion to
the spot, while the ground in the rear was occupied
by a garden, once agreeably diversified with flowers,
but now overgrown and choked by weeds. The
edifice had, in fact, been the summer abode of a
wealthy English merchant of Philadelphia, who
was scared from its precincts by the noise and confusion
of war. Deserted by its proprietor, the
mansion had fallen into partial decay, and was
alternately occupied by marauding parties of the
American and British armies, who not unfrequently
awoke the echoes of its quiet walls, with sounds of
mirth and revelry, which, perchance, was the occasion
of its name—the Haunted House—the songs
and yells of the drunken troopers being mistaken
by the surrounding farmers for the cries and shrieks
of spirits of the unreal world.

As the horseman halted in front of the Haunted
House, a figure, attired in the uniform of the Black
Rangers, advanced from the shade of the horse-chestnut
trees, exclaiming—

“Well, Capt'in, is that you? Dennis and Leftenant
Heft has just come in—I was afeared something
mought a-happened to you.”

“Aye, Sergeant, I am back again without harm
or injury. But tell me—has the commander-in-chief
arrived? If my eyes do not deceive me,
those dusky masses, scattered across the fields yonder,

are the American troops, and the glimmer of
their arms in the starlight shows that they are
ready for action at a moment's warning.”

“Gineral Washington has arrived”—replied the
Sergeant—“and the Black Rangers are honored
with the post of `Guard around the Haunted
House.' But with regard to the information,
gathered to-night by the Rangers—”

Having been put in possession of this information,
Herbert sprung from his horse, and was
admitted by a sentinel into the front chamber of
the mansion, where a glaring light, burning upon
a large oaken table, discovered the figures of a
number of officers, of various ranks and grades,
attired in the blue and buff uniform of the Continental
service.

“It will be advisable to begin the attack before
sunrise to-morrow morning”—exclaimed the officer
who sat at the head of the table, as Captain Tracy
entered. “This is the plan of battle agreed upon,”
he continued, laying his hand upon an unrolled
chart which was spread open upon the table—“the
divisions of Generals Sullivan and Wayne, flanked
by the brigade of General Conway, will enter
the village of Germantown, and commence the
attack, with the light infantry of the enemy who
are posted at Allen's House, at some three miles
distance from this place.—Ah! Captain Tracy, I

am glad to welcome you back; how have you succeeded
in your mission?”

Herbert proceeded as briefly as possible to relate
to the Commander-in-chief, the various facts in his
possession relative to the force, numbers, and position
of the enemy.

“The British line of encampment crosses the
village of Germantown at right angles,” said Herbert,
“near the centre. The left wing extends
from the main road, across the irregular and inclosed
grounds of the various farmers, over the
Wissahikon along to the river Schuylkill. It is
covered in front, by mounted and dismounted
chasseurs, and the right which extends eastward
toward the Delaware, is defended in front by the
Queen's American Rangers and a battalion of
light infantry. The 40th regiment, under the
command of Lieutenant Col. Musgrave, is posted
nearly a mile in advance of the main line, between
Chew's House and Chestnut Hill, and a battalion
of light infantry, occupies the summit of the hill,
three miles in advance of this spot.”

“Your information, Captain Tracy,” said the
Commander-in-chief, “agrees, in every essential
point, with the data already in my possession. So,
gentlemen, our original plan of battle holds good.
While the divisions of Generals Wayne and Sullivan
enter the village by way of Chestnut Hill, the divisions
of Greene and Stephens, flanked by McDougall's

brigade, will take a circuit along the Limekiln
Road, some two miles eastward from Chew's
House, and attack the enemy's right wing. The
militia of Maryland and New Jersey, under command
of Generals Smallwood and Forman, will
march down the Old York Road, which lies three
miles to the east of the Limekiln Road, and engage
with the rear of the right. General Armstrong's
Pennsylvania brigade will attack the enemy's left
at Vanduring's Mill, at the junction of the Wissahikon
with the Schuylkill. Think you, Captain
Tracy, that we shall be able to surprise the
enemy?”

“I think the movement might be effected with
care and celerity, your Excellency.”

A shade of thought came over the noble brow of
the Commander-in-chief, and he leaned his head
musingly upon his hand for an instant.

“Gentlemen,” he exclaimed, after the pause of a
moment, “I need not tell you that every thing depends
upon the suddenness and secresy of our movements.
If we surprise the enemy, we shall terminate
this disastrous war, and win the best of all
boons, our country's Independence; if the enemy
are on the alert, and ready to receive us, it is more
than probable that the superior discipline of his
troops will triumph over the irregular bravery and
undisciplined courage of a great portion of the
army which I have the honor to command. What
think ye, gentlemen?”

And as each hardy veteran or brave aspirant
gave his opinion, the scene assumed an appearance
of interest, which told the deep and fixed determination
of the American commanders, never to lay
down the swords which they had so gallantly unsheathed,
until the independence of their common
country was achieved.

The glaring light of the lamps, placed in the
centre of the oaken table, cast a ruddy glow upon
the faces and forms that clustered round the Commander-in-chief.
His face so calm, so mild, and
yet so full of that native dignity of expression,
which tells of a mind formed to rule, was shown
in the boldest light and strongest shade, as he
turned from one brave man to another, to receive
their opinions and suggestions on the coming contest.
There was the towering form, and bold and
open countenance of Wayne, whose sword-thrust
never failed, and whose charge mowed the enemy's
ranks, like the scathings of an earth-riven thunderbolt;
there was the gallant Knox, with his bluff,
honest visage, every line beaming good humor, and
dignified by an expression of determined courage;
there was the sagacious Greene, whose counsels
were as full of wisdom as his sword was sure, and
his mind clear and self-possessed in the hour of
mortal conflict; and there gathered around the man
upon whose shoulders heaven had placed the destiny
of his country, were the brave men, who

flocked from every hill and vale of the continent,
from foreign lands, from the misrule of despotism
in every part of oppressed Europe, from the hearth
sides of their infancy, and the homes of their manhood,
and thronged in one gallant band around the
banner of freedom,—there they stood with their
good swords that had tasted blood in many a battle
girded to their sides, with their noble visages marked
by scars, and darkened by the toil and exposure
of battle, and with hearts as true and bold as ever
beat in the bosom of the most chivalric knight or
daring warrior of the age of gallant deeds and generous
warfare.

And standing by the side of Washington, was a
young soldier, whose form was moulded with all
the symmetry of manly beauty, whose cheek was
yet warm with the bloom of early youth, and
whose piercing eye and high forehead, with its bold
outline, indicative of the highest order of mind,
gave rich promise of the mature man, whose words
of burning eloquence, were, in future years, to fall
like the revealings of a seer on the ears of his countrymen.

Washington, ever and anon, would incline his
head to Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, and listen to
the suggestions he offered, with an interest of
which older men might have been proud, or invite
his opinion with an eagerness that showed how
strong a hold the young soldier had attained in the

heart of his commander. Little did the father of
his country think of the future fate of the aspiring
soldier! Little did he imagine that the youthful
form by his side, would survive the perils of war,
to die after the quietude of peace had succeeded to
the strife of battle, in an inglorious combat, the
fruit of a participation in the scenes of political
conflict!

The council lasted until an hour after midnight,
when the plan of operations for the succeeding day
being resolved upon, the various officers retired to
their different commands, to snatch such hasty
repose as the lateness of the hour might allow, and
to make such arrangements for the coming conflict
as might tend to ensure success to the American
arms.

And under the broad canopy of Heaven, unsheltered
from the dews and damps of the night air by
covering or tent, slept the brave soldiers of the
American host, as soundly, as securely, as though
the coming morn was to bring scenes of peace
and quietness, instead of the turmoil and bloodshed
of battle.

As Herbert Tracy stood gazing upon the scene
around, from the elevation of the Haunted House;
as his eye wandered from the vast dome of the heavens
above, hung with a million stars, to the landscape,
with its hills covered with forests, its cultivated
valleys, and its level fields, along which were

scattered the masses of the Continental army, the
thought of the coming contest, and the fearful effects
it might produce, flashed like a meteor-light
across his mind.

“How many a brave heart that now beats warmly,
will to-morrow night be cold and torpid under
the freezing touch of death! Many a noble form
will measure out the hasty grave of the battle field
—many an eye will be dimmed—many a hand
stiffened, and many an arm unnerved—but come
success or come defeat, for me will remain the
same forbidding destiny, over my head will lower
the same dark cloud, heavy with the lightnings of
a father's curse!”