University of Virginia Library

17. CHAP. XVII.

Harley.

What a terrible night of hopeless sorrow did
Agnes Norwood spend in her lonely chamber!
She was in utter solitude, left a prey to her own
despairing thoughts without a counsellor or a
companion. Her tyrant had forbidden Miss
Watson to be again admitted to her, for he truly
conjectured that, disregarding all selfish considerations,
she had strengthened, by her influence
and arguments, the opposition of Agnes to his
wishes. He had, therefore, ordered her to be
elsewhere closely confined, and to prepare for
death the next day. Miss Watson heard her sentence
with the calmest resignation. She felt herself
a martyr in a just cause, and she determined
that her fortitude should not be overcome by
any consequence, however terrific, that should
arise from having done her duty. She had, indeed,
been always of a resigned and enduring

temper; and death had of late too frequently
appeared to her and threatened her in his most
hideous forms, for her to be now surprised if he
should overtake her at last. She had witnessed
the destruction of hundreds of beloved friends
and respected neighbours. It was by a miracle
that astonished herself, that she had hitherto
survived. She could not always expect such
a special interference of Providence. What
greater claim had she upon life than those who
had already fallen? She could not conceive of
any. To the dispensation, therefore, now
awarded her, she was resolved to submit as her
duty dictated, without repining and without
complaint.

The character of Agnes was not so stoical.
Her disposition was much more sensitive, yet
she was equally firm in her adherence to duty.
She had besides, causes of inquietude from which
her friend was exempt. The worst that could
happen to Miss Watson was death. She had
not, like Agnes, the fate of others in her hands.
No one could charge his suffering to her obstinacy.
But Agnes!—dreadful consideration!—
the life of even thy own father depends on thy
will! And wilt thou not save him?—And thy
three other friends—are they to die too, because
thou wilt not yield to the solicitations of
a man who would wed thee? Alas! it must be

so. Thou canst not break vows already made.
Thou art the betrothed of another, thy fidelity
to whom no accumulation of earthly calamities
can ever shake. To be unfaithful to him would
be to be unfaithful to Heaven and thy own
soul—to be a traitor to thy own heart. It cannot
be. Love, triumphant love assists thee
now in the terrible task that duty requires thee
to perform. The trial is severe, but thou art
firm. Thy sufferings are great, but thou wilt
endure without yielding to crime—thy heart
may break, but it will not be false.

Towards the morning, as the sleepless sufferer
lay meditating on the horrors of her destiny, the
door, to which her eyes were directed, slowly
opened, and a soldier cautiously entered. Perceiving
her awake, he approached, put a letter
into her hand, and whispered, “when you read
this, destroy it, or it may destroy me. Your
father has paid me for delivering it. This will
be an awful day! I am sorry I can do no more
for either you or him.”

He departed without giving her time to reply.
She opened the letter. There was sufficient
day-light to enable her to read as follows.

“My daughter, I tremble lest you should be
frightened into submission to the tyrant. Remember
your vows of betrothment. They
are as sacred and binding as the vows of marriage

itself. Let no peril nor calamity shake
your fidelity to them. Care nothing for me.
Let not my fate have the weight of a feather in
opposition to the obligation of your solemn
oath. I am resigned, my daughter, to the
death which awaits me. Why should I wish to
live, since I have witnessed the destruction of
my beloved friends and neighbours—the zealous
hearers of the word of life which I experienced
so much delight in delivering to them—
the pious communicants of the cup of salvation
which I felt it so glorious a privilege to distribute
among them. They are gone; I have nothing
to do but to follow. To separate from thee,
my child, I confess, is a heavy affliction, but
it is not so heavy as would be the knowledge,
that thou wert degraded and criminal. Perseverance
in virtue, on this awful occasion, is
the earnest and last injunction—and that the
Almighty may bless and protect thee for ever,
is the anxious prayer—of thy father.”

At ten o'clock, Butler, according to his
threat, visited her. “A chance still remains
for thy friends,” said he. “Although I have
promised them to the Indians, and the exulting
Brandt has all things prepared for their
execution, thou canst yet save them. Say only
that thou wilt be mine. I shall recall my promise
to the Mohawks. I will relinquish their

confederacy, and fulfil every item of the proposal
I have made to thee.”

“Thou dost tempt me in vain,” she replied.
“I will not be criminal; I will not break the
oath of my betrothment to Henry Austin,
though all the wicked and cruel powers of men
and fiends should conspire to accumulate horrors
upon me for the refusal!”

“Thou hast named my rival—my detested
rival!” cried he. “From thee his name comes
with a torturing—a malignant influence. It
has sealed the doom of thy friends, and converted
my wish to persuade, into a resolution
to compel thee.”

At this moment, the music of the “Dead
March,” was heard. He knew its meaning.
He led her to the window. A melancholy
procession was approaching. She beheld it;
her heart sunk—the light left her eyes—she
became dizzy, and had she not hasted to a
seat, she would have fallen upon the floor.
She had seen the prisoners—those friends so
dear to her heart, bound and seated in a cart—
her father and Miss Watson on the one side,
and Dr. Watson and Colonel Dennison on the
other, moving towards the place of execution.

“Thou seest that I have made no empty
threats!” said the tyrant, exultingly. “I perceive
thou dost pity the plight of those poor

victims of thy obstinacy. Wilt thou save them?
Shall I stop the death-going procession, and
restore those beloved ones, free and in safety,
to thy arms? Say only thou wilt be mine, and
this shall be done.”

“I cannot—O! God forgive me!” She exclaimed,
“if I am wrongly obstinate—obstinate
even to the destruction of my revered parent!”

“Save thy father!” cried the tyrant. “I
had resolved no more to entreat, but to command
thee—to force thee to yield. But
once more, for the sake of those victims, I resort
to entreaty.”

“I am firm. Heaven has strengthened me,”
she said with a tone and air of determination,
which aroused the wrath of the tyrant.

He exclaimed, “be it so then, perverse girl!
They shall die, whilst thou shalt profit nothing.
Thou shalt even behold them sacrificed, that
thou mayst witness the firmness of my resolves.
Thy charms shall then be mine without
more parley. Look upon that couch. Thou
shalt be brought back from the scene of death,
and there—there, while the cries of the sufferers
are still ringing in thy ears, shall thy charms
become mine. Thy consent I will ask not. I
have strength sufficient to seize upon happiness.—I
shall riot on thy loveliness, until my
longing soul shall be satiated with beauty!”

He ordered her sentinel to assist him in conducting
her to a light wagon which was in
waiting. He placed her on a chair in this vehicle,
and seating himself beside her, they followed,
at a slow space, the melancholy procession
already noticed, to the place appointed for
the dreadful sacrifice. They reached it in about
half an hour. It was a large field adjoining
a farm-house, the owners of which had been
slaughtered at the capture of the fort. The
house stood southward from the field, and between
them was a small garden, overlooked by
a balcony. With a sternness of purpose and a
refinement of cruelty characteristic of his infernal
mind, Butler conducted the trembling
Agnes to this balcony, that she might, in pursuance
of his threats, witness the horrible sacrifice,
for the completion of which every thing
was now ready. He seated himself beside her,
and, with barbarous officiousness, pointed out
the arrangements of the scene.

The field rose in a gentle ascent towards the
north, on which side and on the east, it was
bounded by a wood of considerable thickness.
A small rivulet which flowed into the stream
of the Sharon, formed its border on the west.
Upon or near the bank of this rivulet, the tories
had taken their station, as spectators, leaving
to the Indians, the office of being the performers

in the dreadful drama. The latter
were ranged near the centre of the field. Immediately
in their front, between them and the
house, were placed, in a line, four large piles
of wood, about eight or ten yards asunder. To
a stake erected in the centre of each of these
piles, and projecting five or six feet above
them, was bound one of the victims. The piles
were intermixed with a quantity of dried leaves
and straw, plentifully besprinkled with tar,
in order to facilitate the kindling of the mass. A
burning pile which had been kindled somewhat
nearer the house, sent up to the air its mingling
volumes of flames and smoke, which occasionally
bent their red and dusky streams towards the
prisoners, as if to familiarize them with their
fierceness ere they should envelope them in
their fatal folds. Round this burning pile stood
four Indians, of peculiarly fierce aspects, who
were appointed as executioners. They were
kindling the brands with which they were to
fire the combustible piles, upon which the prisoners
were bound. This last act of preparation
was, at length, completed, and these ferocious
figures only awaited the signal which
Brandt, who stood near the balcony, was to
give, at the intimation of Butler, to perform
their horrid office.

A solemn silence pervaded the whole field

Every eye was fixed, with intense interest,
upon the innocent victims of barbarous customs
and lawless and revengeful passions. A
heavy horror hung over the scene which seemed
to paralyze motion and to diffuse melancholy
through all surrounding nature. At length the
demon of the mournful drama arose, and with a
smile of malignant triumph, looked first towards
the prisoners, then upon the horror-struck fair-one
beside him. She was pale as sackcloth, her
lips quivered, her eyes were swollen, her
heart was faint; but her soul looked towards
Heaven, was fixed upon truth, and resolved on
an adherence to duty.

“Fair-one,” said the demon, “look on thy
friends. The balance of their fate is suspended.
Life and death are in the scales. One word
from thee will make either preponderate. I
ask, for the last time, wilt thou be mine?”

She raised her eyes towards Heaven, and
grasping with her whole soul at the unfailing
support of conscious rectitude, she committed
the issue of all to the protection of her Maker,
and firmly answered—“No!”

The tyrant turned from her with fury
streaming from his eyes. He gave a signal to
Brandt, who instantly raised the death shout;
and the executioners, flourishing their flaming
brands in the air, were hastening to fire the

fatal piles, when a man, in the garb of a prophet,
bearing the consecrated wand of Manetto,
rushed impetuously from the woods, and commanded
them to forbear.

“Stand back!” said he, “Mohawks! In
the name of the Great Spirit, I charge you to
cast away your brands, and harm not the innocent
at these stakes, on peril of the vengeance
of the Almighty!”

The prophetic symbol which he displayed,
together with the boldness and energy of his
manner, and the awfulness of his words, were
successful. The executioners, and indeed all
the Indians who beheld him, except the untameable
Brandt, respected the words of the
prophet, and feared the denunciation delivered
so impressively in the name of the Great
Spirit. Even Brandt felt tremulous at the
first appearance of the prophet. But he soon
recovered, for he recognised him to be the
object of his late resentment, the Hermit
of the Woods. His rage kindled, and when
he perceived the executioners to throw down
their brands and relinquish their office, he
rushed forward to the Hermit.

“How darest thou, dotard,” said he, “intrude
thyself and thy madness between us and
the sacrifice of our captives? The spirits of our
slain warriors call upon us for the vengeance

which we must inflict upon these victims. I
have my own wrongs to avenge upon thee, Rodolph.
Retire, and disturb us not in this feast
of vengeance, or I will cut thee down where
thou standest.”

“I defy thee, vain man!” returned the Hermit,
camly. “Thou darest not—I am here in
defence of innocence, and in the service of the
Great Spirit. In his name, I command thee to
set these prisoners free. If thou refusest, his
hand is out-stretched, and immediate destruction
shall fall upon thee!”

“Destruction shall fall upon thee first,”
shouted the infuriate Mohawk, and he plunged
his tomahawk into the breast of the prophet.
All the spectators shuddered, but stood still as
if horror had rooted them to the ground.

“Brandt! Brandt!” said the Hermit, as he
fell to the earth, “thou knowest not what thou
hast done. This deed has filled the measure
of thy wickedness. There is no more peace
for thy spirit. Thou hast slain thy father!”

Brandt uttered a yell of horror which made
the air quiver and astonished the Indians who
were now moving irregularly and timidly towards
him. He caught his father's breast, and
held it with an endeavour to stem the issuing
of the blood that flowed from it.”

“It is in vain,” said Rodolph. “But thank

Heaven thou seemest penitent, and I forgive thee.
—I deserved this. In my youth I was wicked
as thou. My father's liberal bounty I exhausted
in dissipation. At length he refused to
supply me with more. I longed for his riches.
I slew him. Oh God! then, then, frenzy
seized my brain! I fled from civilization.
Your mother nursed me in my delirium. I
recovered—I married her. You were born.—
I fled from your presence. He who has injured
a father ought never to have a son. A
presentiment I could not banish, told me that
you were to be the avenger of my father's blood
—I slew my father—my son has slain me! Eternal
justice, thou art satisfied!” he said and died.

Butler, on perceiving from his station on
the balcony, this interruption to the execution
of his victims, hastened forward to ascertain
distinctly the cause. By the time he approached,
the Hermit had ceased to speak. He saw
Brandt powerfully affected. He was surprised,
for he knew not the cause.

“What! is this the hero of the Mohawks!”
said he, upbraiding his confederate in iniquity.
“I thought thou hadst the soul of a warrior;
but thy heart is grown feeble like a woman's.
The spirits of thy fathers will be ashamed of
thy weakness.”

Brandt cast upon him a look of indignation.

“The spirits of my fathers ashamed of me!”
he exclaimed. “Ay; they will curse me. But
thou—thou hast nothing to do with my fathers.
Hie hence, lest, if thou frettest me, in my
madness I slay thee!”

“What! art thou, indeed, mad?” cried Butler,
in astonishment. “Does it grieve thee
that thou hast slain a peevish grey-beard who
was thy enemy?”

“Ha!” cried Brandt, seizing his tomahawk,
which was still reeking with the blood of his
father, “if thou wilt scoff again, I have a weapon
accustomed to pierce hearts. By the blood that is
now upon it,I swear I am thy friend no longer!”

“Nonsense!” returned Butler, perceiving
the impolicy of irritating the savage farther.
“I wish not to offend thee. I cannot comprehend
the cause of thy agitation.—But enough
of it. Let us now proceed with the sacrifice
of the prisoners.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the savage, his habitual
taste for destruction returning. “Our customs
require it.—He was but a white man,” he
said to the executioners, who now stood near
him, “and could not be a prophet of Manetto.
Haste, fire the piles, and let the sacrifice be offered!”

Being no longer in awe of Rodolph, whom
they now considered a deceiver, and who lay

dead before them, the executioners hastened to
re-kindle their brands, which they soon accomplished,
and waving them, as they blazed and
crackled in the air, they proceeded towards the
piles. But before they could apply the flaming
instruments to their destructive purpose, a sudden
shout of warlike voices issued from the
woods, and a number of musket balls pierced
each of them, together with the ferocious
Brandt, and stretched them on the ground.
This was instantaneously followed by a more
abundant visitation of the same deadly missiles,
upon the thickest groups of the Indians, more
than a hundred of whom fell, and the rest fled
in terror from the scene. Butler, with the
whole force of the tories, was now advancing
to check the flight of the Indians and give battle
to the assailants, when Henry Austin, at the
head of the Wyoming Volunteers, and about
five hundred Continental troops, rushed out of
the wood and charged the traitorous destroyers
with the bayonet. They made but a short resistance.
They were unable to withstand even
the first shock of their disciplined adversaries.
They broke, and imitating their Indian allies,
fled into the depths of the forest, leaving two
hundred of their party dead on the field.

Butler, even in this extremity, resolved to
make an effort to retain possession of Agnes.

He hurried from the scene of battle, as soon as he
saw that the day was lost, to the balcony where
he had left her in charge of a sentinel. By this
time, however, the prisoners were unbound,
and Dr. Watson, whose anxious eye followed
the career of Butler over the field, perceived
this movement, the intention of which he at
once conjectured, just as Henry Austin approached
towards him.

“Fly, Henry!” said he, “fly to yonder balcony,
and save your Betrothed from the destroyer!”

With the speed of an arrow Henry obeyed,
and just as Butler had seized Agnes to carry her
off, he with one spring mounted the balcony,
and one powerful thrust of his sword, annihilated
the opposition which the sentinel imprudently
offered to his advance upon Butler.

“Ah! infamous miscreant!” cried he to the
latter, “thank Heaven, I have thee!”

“I know that this is my death-scene,” said
the courageous ruffian, “for thy soldiers surround
me. But I shall die with the satisfaction
of knowing that thou, my detested rival, shalt
not survive to enjoy Agnes.”

So saying he made a desperate pass at Henry,
aiming, not to save himself, but to destroy his
antagonist. That antagonist, however, was too
expert a swords-man to be endangered by such

maniac rashness. He struck the coming weapon
aside with such force that it almost flew from
its owner's grasp, while his own sword, in its
backward sweep, nearly dissevered Butler's
head from his body.

“By that Heaven-directed blow,” said
Colonel Dennison, who at that moment entered
the balcony, “thou hast avenged the desolation
of a whole people.”

“Thou hast also,” said Dr. Watson, who
entered immediately after the Colonel, “avenged
thy father and thy sister, and rescued thy
Betrothed from unspeakable misery—from the
hands of a villain!”

“Oh Agnes!” exclaimed Henry, straining
her to his palpitating breast—“my beloved, my
faithful one, thou art yet my own. I am happy
—Heaven hath preserved thee for me!”

“I see thee again!” said she. “Oh Henry,
thanks to the Eternal! this is indeed happiness!”
The tears rushed to her eyes; she hid
her burning blushes in his bosom, and sobbed
aloud the grateful agitations of her heart.

“Bless thee, my son!” said Mr. Norwood,
who now, with Miss Watson, advanced towards
the victor. “The hand of Heaven is manifest
in this day's deliverance. May the Almighty
Power that sent thee at the critical
moment, when all seemed to be lost, still befriend

thee and that maiden, thy own betrothed,
who has been true to thee and to her vows,
amidst the severest trials that could beset human
nature.”

But we haste to close our narrative; and
must, therefore, decline entering into a detail
of the congratulations and outpourings of gratitude
of which Henry Austin was now the object.
The party retired from the eventful balcony
to the residence of Mr. Norwood, which
was so lately the prison of its venerable master
and his friends.

Henry now informed them that it was owing
to information received from Rodolph the Hermit,
that he had been enabled to come to their
rescue at so critical a juncture. After the capture
of Fort Wintermoot, Rodolph anticipating
what would happen elsewhere, hasted on
horseback, towards the Lehigh, where he understood
that a party of Continentals was advancing
to Wyoming. Here, fortunately meeting them,
he stimulated their speed by the intelligence he
imparted, and conducted them, by the shortest
route, to their destination.

“Yesterday,” said Henry, “Joseph Jennings
joined us with a small party of his bush-rangers.
He informed us where the Indians
were encamped, but he knew nothing about
the intended sacrifice. Rodolph, who had often,

in the character of a prophet, by working on
their superstition, restrained the ferocity of the
savages in their wars, conceiving that he might
possibly do some good by visiting them now in
that capacity, hastened on before us, to their
encampment. We followed as fast as our numbers
and equipments would permit. With the
result of his arrival, as well as of ours, ye are
acquainted. Would to Heaven we had arrived
but one week sooner! What an amount of unparalleled
misery and desolation would have
been prevented!”

“The ways of Providence are, indeed, mysterious,”
observed Mr. Norwood. “Often do
the wicked triumph, while the virtuous are
subjected to the most terrible calamities. But
God is just; hence there must be a time and a
place where the inequalities of this world shall
be corrected, and the value of virtue and the
principles of eternal justice vindicated to the
satisfaction of both angels and men.”