University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Harley.

Butler did not interrupt the sorrowful meditations
of Agnes for that night. He wished
to render himself as little odious to her as possible.
By treating her and her friends with
kindness and delicacy, he hoped to remove her
unfavourable impressions of him, and in some
degree, at least, ingratiate himself into her esteem.
The vehemence of his passion, however,
would not permit him long to defer his
attempts to gain her to his purpose. He visited
her the next day.

“Miss Norwood,” said he, “I truly rejoice
that you and your father were yesterday rescued
from the unsparing hands of the savages. This
is twice I have had the happiness of rendering
you such service. May I claim some portion
of gratitude for my efforts?”

“If your general conduct were such,” said
she, “as to warrant my yielding you any esteem,
I would freely acknowledge gratitude.
For the particular services of which you speak,

however, receive my thanks. But beware lest
you conceive them to be thanks accompanied
by any other feeling than horror at the numberless
deeds of cruelty of which you have
been guilty.”

“My fair reprehender,” he replied, “thou
only utterest such sentiments as I expected.
Thy reproach, therefore, does not offend me.
But dost thou not consider the circumstances
that have influenced my conduct, and, in spite
of myself, compelled me to act as I have done.
My conscience is hostile to the rebel cause. My
father was murdered by the whigs. I was denounced
by them. I fought them often. I have
triumphed over them, and been triumphed over
by them. They have put me into prison; they
have doomed me to death. How I was rescued
thou hast heard.”

“Ha! ungenerous man!” said she, interrupting
him, “the faithful maid to whom thou
didst owe thy rescue, has been killed by thy
cruelty. Thou didst desert her; she pined in
secret, but reproached thee not. At length,
her reason gave way before the pressure of calamity
and grief inflicted by thee, for thou didst
slay her father.—”

“Fair Agnes!” said he, “thou art wrong. I
did not. Another slew him in the scuffle!”

“But thy treachery ensnared him to destruction.

Poor Isabella! she is no more. She
died awfully insane, the victim of thy ingratitude
and thy crimes!”

“I grieve for her death, for she loved me.
But if I could not love her, am I to blame? For
a time I tried to love her, and thought I had
succeeded. But I saw you, and found I was
mistaken. The soft regard—perhaps I should
rather call it, the petty fondness—I felt for
her, bore no comparison, in intensity, to the
all-absorbing passion I feel for you. Had I
never seen you, perhaps, I might not have been
ungrateful to her. To your charms alone has
my ingratitude been owing. Can you blame
me for this?”

“Thy love for me!” she exclaimed. “Oh,
thou deceitful and barbarous man, I am truly
unfortunate in being the object of thy love.
Alas! if thou wouldst acquire any portion of my
regard, talk not to me of love. I cannot hear
thee without loathing.”

“Fair Agnes,” he replied, “dost thou not
know love to be an involuntary impulse? If I
could have compelled myself to love Isabella, I
might then have been justly charged with ingratitude.
If I could now refrain from loving
thee, thou mightest properly reproach me for
cherishing a feeling thou wilt not, perhaps canst
not, return—thou mightest rightly reprimand

me for troubling thee with a subject which thou
loathest. Oh! Agnes, if thou wert mine, thy
virtues would chase away my vices. I would
become what thou shouldst choose to make me.
But without thee, I feel I can never be virtuous—I
can never be happy.”

“This is rhapsody—it is delusion,” she replied.
“Thou dost not want strength of mind.
Struggle to win the victory over thy bad passions.
It will be the most glorious thou hast
ever gained, and will afford thee more satisfaction
than any triumph whether of successful
war or prosperous ambition.”

“Thou dost throw away thy counsel, my
lovely adviser,” said he, looking fondly on her
countenance, which animated by her subject,
had brightened, during her observations, into a
most beautiful glow. “By heaven, I would
not resign my love for thee for an empire! It
is the sweetest sensation that ever animated my
frame. At this moment it sweeps through my
veins with a thrill of delight, which I would not
forfeit for the riches of the Indies.—Thou must
be mine, I tell thee, ere long, or perdition shall
seize us both!—Till to-morrow think of the
fervour of my passion. I must leave thee till
then.”

He had heard the sound of a bugle which
was the signal for a joint-muster of the Indians

and tories, in order to perform some military
manœuvres previous to a carousal they were to
hold in the afternoon, in celebrating their late
decisive victories. On such celebrations, it was
the practice of the Mohawks to sacrifice some
prisoners to the manes of their slain warriors.
But so complete had been the previous day's
slaughter in the fort, that no prisoners had been
made, except those who fell, as we have seen,
into the hands of Butler. This barbarous part
of their ceremonies, therefore, the Indians had
no means of performing unless Butler should
give up some of his prisoners for the purpose.
Brandt made an application to this effect. But
Butler's design of conciliating Agnes prevented
him from complying. He reminded Brandt
that the glory of obtaining so large a number of
scalps as he now possessed, more than compensated
for the want of prisoners; and that, as to
the few he had himself taken, he considered
he was well entitled to the entire disposal of
them, especially as he had not interfered with
the operations of Brandt in securing as many
scalps as he had thought proper. He also observed
that had the Mohawks been less eager
to seize upon these trophies of victory, they
would not have destroyed all their enemies
upon the spot, and might now have been in
possession of many prisoners. Brandt acquiesced
in the propriety of these remarks, and
the captives of Butler were permitted to remain
solely at his own disposal.

During the carousal, or, as the Indians termed
it, the Feast of Victory, on this occasion,
every species of riot and debauchery was indulged
in to excess. To describe a scene of such
frantic folly and disgusting dissipation, would
be to give a representation of human depravity
and degradation, neither agreeable to write
nor desirable to read. While in a state of intoxication,
an altercation, as was to have been
expected, took place between some of the Indians
and the tories, which the interference of
their chiefs alone prevented from becoming serious
and bloody. In consequence of this, it
was agreed by Butler and Brandt, that, while
the Indians remained in the Valley, they should
encamp at a distance from the tories, but not
so far off as to prevent the maintenance of
friendly intercourse, or a speedy junction in
case of either being attacked by an enemy.

On visiting Agnes the next day, Butler approached
her with the self-satisfied air of a
wooer who thinks he can plead the merit of
having performed an action of a nature very
pleasing to his mistress.

“My sweet Agnes,” said he, “you will not
consider me destitute of all claim upon your

esteem, when I inform you, that, but for my
exertions your fellow captives would have been
yesterday sacrificed by the savages in conformity
with their ferocious customs. Do I merit
no portion of gratitude for saving them?”

“I do, indeed,” she replied, “and they too
must feel grateful to you for this.—And oh!
if you were to conduct us to a place of safety
and restore us to liberty; abandon the wicked
schemes in which you are engaged; repent of
the crimes and the cruelties you have committed
upon your own kindred and people; and
by your future conduct make some atonement
for them—then might you yet require respect
upon earth and forgiveness from Heaven.”

“Agnes,” said he, “I know that you think
me a villain, but I did not suppose that you
thought me a fool. Were I to do what you
say, and throw myself upon the mercy of the
whigs, in all the contrition of a sincere penitent,
would not the halter be my fate? My
father's death admonishes me not to trust my
enemies. I have avenged him amply, and,
therefore, my spirit rejoices in my career. But
I have no desire to become the victim of that
career, by trusting to the mercy of those to
whose friends I have shown none. No; I can
form no connexion with the rebels—I can
make no peace with them. But for thy sake,

fair charmer, I can, in future, be less virulent
in my resentment—less destructive in my revenge.
Nay, hear me further; if thou wilt
comply with my wishes, if thou wilt be mine,
I will set thy friends at liberty, I will withdraw
from all scenes of strife—I will retire
to Canada or Europe, and though I will not
make peace with the rebels, I will no more lift
my hand against them. Say, fair Agnes, wilt
thou sign the treaty?

“Sign a treaty to become thine!” she exclaimed,
“no; never! My reason forbids it,
my heart shrinks from it, and my vows render
it impossible. Expect it not, I entreat thee;
and if thou wouldst not make me utterly abhor
thee, persecute me no more with thy applications.”

“By Heaven,” he ejaculated, “I have been
patient long enough with this girl's obstinacy.—
Maiden, I shall not be so easily baffled in my
wishes, as thou thinkest. Mine thou must be. I
find that the mild means of persuasion will not
prevail with thee. But thou art in my power—
thy father—thy friends are in my power. I can
bring force—terror—torture to my aid. I have
but to say the word, and they are borne to the
stake. By six this evening thou shalt consent
to be mine or they shall—die!”

She heard the dreadful threat pronounced

with the tone, and accompanied by the looks
of a demon, and she knew he had daringness
and cruelty enough to perform it. Her terrified
imagination overcame her fortitude. She
caught him as he was hastily retiring, and, although
she felt as if even the touch of his garment
were pollution, she clung to his arm in
an imploring attitude, and with a voice and
look of sorrow that would have softened a
fiend, “Oh! if thy heart be human,” she said,
“have pity, pity on my wretchedness!”

“Have pity on thyself,” he replied, “have
pity on me—on thy father—on thy friends!—
Reflect till six!” So saying he left the room,
and under the impression that the persuasions
of Miss Watson, whose life depended on her
decision, might prevail on her to comply, he
ordered that young lady into her apartment.
He himself hastened to that of Mr. Norwood.

“I come,” said he, “my reverend friend, on
an errand of much consequence to yourself, to
your daughter, and to all your fellow prisoners.
You know the violence of my love for
Agnes. You also know her obstinate antipathy
to me. She is in my power. I might seize
upon her charms by force. But my wishes are
for an honourable union with her. No persuasions
of mine can induce her to consent.
Exert your authority. Should you succeed,

you and your friends shall be set at liberty. I
shall retire from the contest against the whigs,
and reside in tranquillity either in Canada or
England.”

“When I was formerly your prisoner” replied
Mr. Norwood, “you obtained my answer
to a similar proposal. My answer now
shall be the same that it was then; for my
mind is unchanged on the subject. I will not
comply with your wishes.”

“Then hear thy doom, foolish, obstinate
man,” said Butler, in a tone of fierce determination—“and
the doom of thy captive friends
—ye shall, should she not consent to save you,
be delivered up by the dawn to-morrow, to the
Mohawks, who, at noon, shall bind you to the
stake, and sacrifice you upon the flaming faggots,
according to the customs of their tribe!”

“When thou shalt have done that, cruel
man!” said Mr. Norwood, “thou shalt have
done thy worst. I pray to the gracious Power
who can disconcert all the designs of the wicked,
and into whose hands I commit my fate
and that of my friends, that, be our destiny
and that of my daughter what they may, he
will avert from her what I would deem the
most direful of all misfortunes, a union with
thee!”

“Rash man,” replied Butler, foaming with

rage, “it ill becomes thy prudence when under
the paw of the lion, to goad him to wrath; and
it is but a poor display of clerical sanctity to
convey reproof in the words of insolence. I
swear to thee, thou shalt soon be taught thy
own pulpit doctrine of repentance. Either that
doom, which seems to thee the most direful of
misfortunes, shall overtake thee—thy daughter
shall be mine—or thou shalt die!”

He pronounced the last word with a terrible
emphasis; and casting on Mr. Norwood the
scowl of a fiend, he hurried furiously from the
apartment.

At the threatened hour of six, the enamoured
tyrant waited on Agnes to ascertain her decision.
He dismissed Miss Watson sternly, for he perceived
from the mixture of detestation and defiance
with which she regarded him on his entrance,
that she had not been a very zealous
advocate for either his interest or her own.

“And now, my fair one,” said he, as he
closed the door after Miss Watson's departure,
“I want to know whether thou hast decided
on peace or war, and art resolved that thy father
and his friends shall live or die?”

“Alas! to what straits does thy cruelty drive
me!” said she. “If my own death will satisfy
thy barbarous wishes, Oh! I intreat thee to inflict

it, and spare my unoffending parent and
thy other intended victims?”

“Thy death!—Nonsense!” he exclaimed—
“Thou dost trifle with me. I am serious. Thou
knowest that it is thy love—or thy person, if I
cannot have thy love—and not thy death that I
desire. Thy death! No; I would be miserable
if thou shouldst die before I possessed thee!—
But now for thy decision? Wilt thou be mine,
or shall the victims die?”

“Hear me,” she said, assuming a sudden
energy inspired by the utter hopelessness of her
situation—“Unhappy and inhuman tyrant, thou
mayest sacrifice those victims; but their death
shall avail thee nothing. Thine I never will
be. If they die, I shall die also. Their destruction
and mine, shall only aggravate thy
crimes in the sight of God and men. It will
sink thy soul more deeply into perdition, and
render thy memory more accurst.”

“Ha! sorceress!” he cried, “dost thou too
speak the language of defiance? Well may a sinner
like me be pardoned some rudeness when
holy men and gentle ladies can assume the tone
of violence and the language of menace. But,
fair one, I am made of materials too stern and
unyielding to be frightened by the denunciations
of a maiden's wrath, or even the curses of a
priest. I am master of thy destiny, and of the

fate of thy friends, and they shall be wielded
to suit my purpose. Since thy resolution is taken,
so is mine. I shall see you to-morrow at
ten!”

He withdrew; his countenance expressing
the settled sternness of determined malignancy,
rather than the violence of irresolute rage.