III —THE BIBLE LEGEND OF THE WISSAHIKON.
It was here in these wilds of the Wissahikon, on the day of the battle,
as the noonday sun came shining through the thickly clustered leaves, that
two men met in deadly combat. They grappled in deadly conflict near a
rock, that rose—like the huge wreck of some primeval world—at least one
hundred feet above the dark waters of the Wissahikon.
That man with the dark brow, and the darker grey eye, flashing, with
deadly light, with the muscular form, clad in the blue hunting frock of the
Revolution, is a Continental named Warner. His brother was murdered
the other night at the Massacre of Paoli. That other man, with long black
hair, drooping along his cadaverous face, is clad in the half-military costume
of a Tory refugee. That is the murderer of Paoli, named Dabney.
They had met there in the woods by accident, and now they fought, not
with sword or rifle, but with long and deadly hunting knives, that flash in
the light, as they go turning and twining and twisting over the green sward.
At last the Tory was down! Down on the green sward with the knee
of the Continental upon his breast—that upraised knife quivering in the
light, that dark grey eye flashing death into his face!
“Quarter—I yield!” gasped the Tory, as the knee was pressed upon
his breast—“Spare me—I yield!”
“My brother!” said the Patriot soldier, in that low deep tone of deadly
hate—“My brother cried for `quarter' on the night of Paoli, and, even as
he clung to your knees, you struck that knife into his heart! Oh! I will
give you the quarter of Paoli!”
And his hand was raised for the blow, and his teeth were clenched in
deadly hate. He paused for a moment, and then pinioned the Tory's arms,
and with one rapid stride dragged him to the verge of the rock, and held
him quivering over the abyss.
“Mercy!” gasped the Tory, turning black and ashy by turns, as that
awful gulf yawned below. “Mercy! I have a wife—a child—spare me!”
Then the Continental, with his muscular strength gathered for the effort,
shook the murderer once more over the abyss, and then hissed this bitter
sneer between his teeth:
“My brother had a wife and two children!—The morning after the night
of Paoli, that wife was a widow, those children were orphans!—Wouldn't
you like to go and beg your life of that widow and her children?”
This proposal, made by the Continental in the mere mockery of hate,
was taken in serious earnest by the horror-stricken Tory. He begged to
be taken to the widow and her children, to have the pitiful privilege of begging
his life. After a moment's serious thought, the patriot soldier consented;
he bound the Tory's arms yet tighter; placed him on the rock
again—led him up to the woods.—A quiet cottage, embosomed among trees,
broke on their eyes.
They entered that cottage. There, beside the desolate hearth-stone, sat
the widow and her children. She sat there a matronly woman of thirty
years, with a face faded by care, a deep dark eye, and long black hair hanging
in dishevelled flakes about her shoulders.
On one side was a dark-haired boy, of some six years—on the other a
little girl, one year younger, with light hair and blue eyes. The Bible—an
old and venerable volume—lay open on that mother's knee.
And then that pale-faced Tory flung himself upon his knees, confessed
that he had butchered her husband on the night of Paoli, but begged his life
at her hands!
“Spare me, for the sake of my wife, my child!”
He had expected that his pitiful moan would touch the widow's heart—
but not one relenting gleam softened her pale face.
“The Lord shall judge between us!” she said in a cold icy tone, that
froze the murderer's heart.—“Look! The Bible lays open upon my knee. I
will close that volume, and then this boy shall open it, and place his finger
at random upon a line, and by that line you shall live or die!”
This was a strange proposal, made in full faith of a wild and dark superstition
of the olden time.
For a moment the Tory kneeling there, livid as ashes, was wrapt in
thought. Then in a faltering voice, he signified his consent.
Raising her dark eyes to Heaven, the mother prayed the Great Father
to direct the finger of her son—she closed the Bible—she handed it to that
boy, whose young cheek reddened with loathing as he gazed upon his
father's murderer!
He took the Bible—opened its holy pages at random—placed his finger
on a verse.
Then there was silence!
Then that Continental soldier, who had sworn to avenge his brother's
death, stood there with dilating eyes and parted lips.
Then the culprit kneeling on the floor, with a face like discolored clay,
felt his heart leap to his throat.
Then in a clear, bold voice, the widow read this line from the Old Testament;—it
was short, yet terrible:
“That man shall die!”
Look! The brother springs forward to plunge a knife into the murderer's
heart, but the Tory, pinioned as he is, clings to the widow's knees!
He begs that one more trial may be made by the little girl, that child of five
years, with golden hair and laughing eyes.
The widow consents; there is an awful pause.
With a smile in her eye, without knowing what she does, that little girl
opens the Bible as it lays on her mother's knee—she turns her laughing face
away—she places her finger upon a line.
That awful silence grows deeper!
The deep-drawn breath of the brother, the broken gasps of the murderer,
alone disturb the silence.—The widow and dark-eyed boy are breathless.
That little girl, unconscious as she was, caught a feeling of awe from the
horror of the countenances around her, and stood breathless, her face turned
aside, her tiny fingers resting on that line of life or death.
At last gathering courage, the widow bent her eyes to the page, and read.
It was a line from the New Testament.
“Love your enemies.”
Ah! that moment was sublime!
Oh! awful Book of God, in whose dread pages we see Job talking face
to face with Jehovah, or Jesus waiting by Samaria's well, or wandering by
the waves of dark Galilee. Oh! awful Book, shining to-night, as I speak,
the light of that widow's home, the glory of that mechanic's shop, shining
where the world comes not, to look on the last night of the convict in his
cell, lightening the way to God, even over that dread gibbet. Oh! book
of terrible majesty and child-like love, of sublimity that crushes the soul into
awe, of beauty that melts the heart with rapture:—you never shone more
strangely beautiful than there, in the lonely cot of the Wissahikon, when
you saved that murderer's life!
For—need I tell you—that murderer's life was saved! That widow recognised
the finger of God—even the stern brother was awed into silence.
The murderer went his way.
Now look ye, how wonderful are the ways of Heaven!
That very night, as the widow sate by her lonely hearth—her orphans
by her side—sate there with crushed heart and hot eye-balls, thinking of
her husband, who now lay mouldering on the blood-drenched sod of Paoli
—there was a tap at the door.
She opened the door, and—that husband living, though covered with
many wounds, was in her arms!
He had fallen at Paoli—but not in death. He was alive; his wife lay
panting on his breast.
That night there was prayer in that wood-embowered Cot of the Wissahikon!
