University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

Mrs. Hemans.—The Vespers of Palermo.

More malignant than Montaigne, and equally inexorable, Count
Carlton had hoped and believed that the baron would not yield
either to emotions of pity or fear; but when he reflected upon the
conditions with which pardon had been coupled, he did not deeply
regret the turn which events had taken. Huntington was perpetually
banished, and Blanche had bound her conscience by a solemn
promise to become his bride within two days; so that, after all, as
he argued the matter to himself, everything had turned out for the
best, as it always does to the virtuous and just.

Miss Montaigne, meanwhile, counted her remaining hours of freedom,
and watched their departure with a miser's jealous care. She
had no design of retracting the dreadful pledge which she had given,
or of shrinking from a fulfilment of her contract; she had purchased
Henrich's life; and, fearful as the price must prove, she resolved
to pay it without a murmur; the solace of her act would at
least remain to her while life endured, which returning hope suggested
could not be long.

Emily proved an assiduous and zealous, if not altogether a discreet
friend, in the hour of her cousin's calamity.

“Cheer up, dear Blanche,” she said, when, on the evening of the
day in which the exciting events last related had occurred, they sat
together in the apartment of Miss Montaigne; “the worst, at least,
is escaped; and as to the rest—why, you are not the first lady who
has lost a lover—nor is it so dreadful a fate to become a countess,
after all.”

Blanche sat by an open casement, looking with fixed and vacant
gaze upon the distant forests; but her senses took little cognizance
of what was passing before them, and the words of Emily did not
wound.

“It will be all the same a hundred years hence,” Miss Roselle
continued, using one of those consolatory maxims which are ever at
the tongue's end of people who know nothing of misery by experience;
“you will forget it very soon, I assure you, particularly when
you reach Paris. I wonder, by the way, if they have any decent
stuff in Quebec for dresses: nothing fit for a bride, I'll be bound;
and as to Henrich, you need not grieve on his account; he'll be
safely home in a week, and will think no more about it; I should
not wonder, indeed, if he were married in three months to somebody
else.”

Blanche remained heedless, and Emily, becoming conscious that
her words were not heard, ceased to speak, only resuming her
efforts at long intervals, and starting a dozen different themes with
the vain hope of arousing her cousin's attention. Miss Montaigne
did not weep, nor did any external signs mark her misery, excepting
the pallid cheek, and absent air, and that still stupor of deportment
which speaks the paralysis of the heart. If she found voice, at
times, it was only to inquire, with a repetition that evinced a wandering
mind, the particulars of Henrich's departure.

“Did not some one tell me that he went away with the good
Lynx,” she asked, “and that the Indian promised to send some one
with him on his journey?”

“Yes, Blanche, they went out of the castle yard together, and

the Huron told Myrtle this evening, that he had sent four strong
men with Henrich, who were to accompany him as far as the Horicon
lake; they started an hour before sun-down, and are now, of
course, far on their way.”

“If you should ever see him again, Emily,” she said solemnly,
fixing her lustreless eyes upon Miss Roselle—“if ever—when I am
gone—tell him—what I have never told him—tell him—for it will
be no sin then—that my whole heart was his—that I died thinking
of him,—praying for him!”

“Blanche, dear Blanche, do not talk thus!” exclaimed Emily;
“you speak wildly: the scenes which you have gone through have
been too much for you.”

“You are right, cousin Emily,” replied Miss Montaigne; “they
have been too much for me,” and she relapsed again into her dreamy
and silent state, from which no efforts could rouse her, excepting for
a very moment's interval.

This continued through the whole of that and the ensuing day,
greatly to the apprehension of her female friends, who vainly sought
to alarm her father, by representing her condition, and to prevail on
him to desist, at least for a time, from his design. He would listen
to no representations; it was a ruse—a feint; he would not again
be baffled; he had her promise, from which she did not even ask to
be released. Besides, he said, delay would but make matters
worse, and when once she was married, all these whims would
quickly be dispelled; the excitement of a wedding journey would
of itself work wonders, for they were to set out at once for Quebec,
to spend a few days with the Marquis Vaudreuil, and if Blanche
chose, they would thence proceed directly to Paris; and Emily and
Myrtle were informed, by way, perhaps, of a bribe to their acquiescence,
that they should both accompany the bridal party as far as
the former place.

The preparations, indeed, went rapidly forward, and when the
morning of the second day arrived, there was no longer a dissenting

voice to the ceremony, for Emily and Myrtle had found it useless
to remonstrate, and Blanche seemed more unconscious of what was
passing around her than usual. The two days which had been
stipulated for would not expire until noon of the day which had
now set in, and it was resolved that the marriage should take place
in the evening, in the adjacent chapel, which was to be brilliantly
lighted for the purpose, and various preparations for celebrating the
event, in and about the castle, were also in progress.

Count Carlton, elated beyond expression with his prospects, was
busily engaged in superintending a part of the festive arrangements,
and at about mid-day he mounted a horse and rode forth, in search
of the Lynx and the Algonquin, who were expected respectively to
head processions of warriors of their tribes in honor of the occasion.
The Lynx was easily found, for the principal village of his people
was close at hand, but Anak's abode was more distant, being situated
several miles southward, and thither with light heart the Count
pursued his way. He found the Algonquin, like the Huron, acquiescent
with the Baron's wishes, for although neither entered with
alacrity into the proposed arrangements, they were convinced that
they could do nothing further for Henrich, and were not unwilling
either to display themselves in their gala dresses, or to participate in
the expected feastings. Having parted with the last named Indian,
with a great show of cordiality, not forgetting to bestow a few
appeasing presents upon the stately brave, Carlton set out on his
return, rejoicing that his star was at last in the ascendant and that
the hour of his triumph had arrived.

Alas! how sad the contrast between his bliss and the anguish
with which the hapless Henrich had gone forth on his lonely way!
What a night of wretchedness was that, in which, re-traversing his
recent route, he glided, in his little bark, over the now resisting
current of the Sorelle, and re-entered the broad waters of the Champlain!
What a weary day of hopeless, joyless, leaden-winged hours
again succeeded, in which, with vain regret, his eyes measured the

still widening distance which separated him from his lost friend, or
dwelt idly upon the far northern sky, which bent tranquilly above
her abode.

At the close of the day succeeding that on which he left Castle
Montaigne, he was aroused from a reverie into which he had fallen
by feeling a sudden grasp upon his arm, and as he looked up to
the Indian who had thus familiarly touched him, he became conscious
that he had already been earnestly addressed several times,
by name, and doubted not that there was some unusual cause for
accosting him. His conjecture did not prove erroneous; they had
been skirting the eastern shore of the lake, looking for a favorable
place to encamp for the night, and had just doubled a small cape or
promontory, when a sight had met the eyes of the Indians, which
seemed at once to have astounded and rendered them incapable
of action. Well might it do so, for on the shore, scarcely forty rods
distant from them, was a regular military encampment, while a fleet
of batteaux, about fifty in number, lay moored upon the beach.

Henrich's canoe had been discovered, and a dozen men were
rushing towards it on the shore, while others were leaping into boats
for the purpose of pursuit; flight would have been so utterly useless
that the Indians did not once attempt it, and in another moment
Henrich became happily conscious that for him, at least, it was not
desirable, for the force which they had encountered, whatever its
design or destination, was evidently English. He instructed the
men to row immediately to the shore in the direction of the soldiers
who were approaching, himself standing up, meanwhile, in the boat,
and signifying to the strangers, by amicable signs, his design of
submission.

Having landed, he requested to be taken to the commanding
officer, who, seated in his tent, received him with much apparent
curiosity and interest; he was a middle-aged man, seemingly of a
quick mercurial temperament, and giving evidence by his equipment
of no small rank. He at once addressed Huntington in French,

demanding his name and residence, and seemed astonished when
the latter replied politely to him in his own language, giving the
desired information. There was an air of incredulity, however, in
his manner, as he rejoined:

“What do you here, Mr. Huntington, in this wilderness, near an
enemy's border, and accompanied by hostile Indians? You are not
their prisoner; they seem rather to be your guard.”

“They are such,” replied Henrich, “and I have come, as you
perhaps surmise, from the enemy's territory; under these circumstances,
I know that you will consider it your duty to detain me,
and I therefore will not occupy your time by explanations that I
have no means of verifying; more especially as my detention will
contribute to my security, and will afford me the means of safely
regaining my home.”

Major Bain smiled as he replied to the young man, with whose
frank and ingenuous air he was not a little pleased:

“I shall at least be compelled to detain your men, Mr. Huntington,
and you could not safely proceed without them; you may also
consider yourself under arrest, until I have time to make further
inquiries; but you will be compelled to retrace your steps, and perhaps
to see, if you should not be disposed to participate in, some
military operations of moment.”

“May I inquire,” asked Henrich, with great interest, “which way
your expedition points?”

“We are going where we are very little expected,” replied the
officer, excitedly; “further I would not say at present, but every
soul in the camp knows our destination, and I shall endeavor to
make up by the celerity of our movements, for the want of their
secresy—we go, in short, to smoke out of his castle, a certain Robin
Hood knight here in the north, of whom you must have heard,
whose insolence, long extreme, has latterly grown insufferable, and
has justified the fitting out of an expedition against him, in his own
retreat.”

“Is it possible that you mean —”

“The Baron Montaigne!” replied the major, “no one else; the
governors of New York and New England have each contributed a
small force to the enterprise, and we are altogether sure of our game.
I speak freely to you, Mr. Huntington, because I may perhaps be
able to offer you service which you would be glad to accept: one of
our officers has been deserted, sick, at an Indian settlement,
and —”

“It is impossible,” replied Huntington, “that I should avail myself
of your generous offer; there are reasons which I will give you
in private, why I can take no part in your expedition, further than
to accompany it as a spectator.”

Henrich retired from this interview with emotions the most thrilling
and exciting; alarm for the safety of Blanche and his other
friends at the castle, had been his first generous feeling, but this had
been succeeded by dawning hopes, the brilliancy of which he scarcely
dared to contemplate. These, in their turn, gave way to other
thick-coming fears and fancies; the army would arrive too late to
prevent the nuptials of the count; the baron would make a
triumphant resistance, or a successful retreat; or a capitulation would
admit him to retire with his family to Quebec, and give up his castle
to his invaders.

Either of these results was, in fact, more probable than that any
favorable change would ensue to his own fortunes from the events
in progress—yet there was pleasure in the thought that he might
once more behold the object of his affection, even if it were but to
speak a last farewell. His duty, at least, was clear; he was compelled
to accompany the invaders; but his position demanded a most
perfect neutrality of conduct; neither by action nor advice might he
assist his country's enemies—nor, while so many of his personal
friends were in their midst, aid to discomfit them. Whatever, by
intercession or otherwise, he could effect for their benefit, if his
people proved victorious, that it would, of course, be his privilege

and delight to do, and with such a conclusion, he sought for a while
to dismiss the agitating theme from his mind, and to find that composure
to which he had been so long a stranger.

He strolled about the camp and found amusement in observing
the heterogeneous materials of which the little army was composed;
its numbers amounted to about five hundred, of whom full one half
were Indians of various tribes in alliance with the English, and the
remainder were regular troops. The expedition had been set on
foot by Governor Cornbury, who, conscious of his present inability
to make any formal invasion of Canada, had resolved at least to
strike a blow upon one of its strongholds, and inflict signal vengeance
for a series of aggressions which had emanated from that particular
source. The movement had long been in contemplation, and had
been hastened now by the recent capture of Lieutenant Seabury,
and by the governor's anxiety to effect his release. Cornbury, indeed,
had scarcely indulged the hope of seizing Montaigne, whose vigilance
was as proverbial as his valor—but he did not doubt that he should
be able to drive him from his castle, and to destroy, not only that
fastness, but the neighboring Indian villages.

The enterprise was not without its peril, and there were not
wanting those who predicted its failure, and asserted the utter insufficiency
of the invading force to accomplish its object. Major Bain,
however, felt confident that a prompt movement, which would not
allow Montaigne to summon aid from Montreal, or from the more
distant Indians, must be as successful, as a dilatory one would certainly
be disastrous, even if made with thrice his strength. He was
a brave man, and had long fretted under the inaction of a command
in Albany, which had afforded him no active service, and he exulted
in his present mission, to which, indeed, his own energetic counsels
had not a little contributed.

“You have a motley collection here,” said Huntington, to a
sergeant off duty, who had addressed him civilly as he passed, and

from whom he hoped to glean some farther information about the
contemplated attack.

“Yes, sir,” replied the officer, “white, red, and black—it is a
queer-looking army, indeed, but they are all brave men, even the
negroes.”

“You do not mean that you have any negro soldiers, I presume?”
enquired Henrich, “they would be rare allies indeed.”

“Not exactly soldiers,” was the reply; “but Major Bain has a
couple of servants who profess themselves quite ready for duty, and
then there is a long droll fellow, who insisted on joining us at
Albany—probably a runaway slave; he makes great fun for the
soldiers, and is the very pet of the Indians; he is as strong, too,
they say, as the giant Goliath.”

“Ki! Massa Henreek!” exclaimed a familiar voice at this moment
in Huntington's ear, while the rapid evolutions of a body turning
a somerset at his side, attracted his attention. “Oh jingo! if
dis don't beat all nater! Oh Massa Henreek, but dis is de 'markablest
luck dat ebber was.”

Amazed at the appearance of the seemingly ubiquitous African,
Huntington for some moments scarcely found voice to address him;
but he extended his hand at length, cordially, to the negro, smiling
as he spoke.

“Remarkable, indeed, Harry!” he said; “what in the world has
brought you here, and how is it that you did not return to New
York, as you intended?”

“I wuz waitin', Mass Henreek, at Albany for de opptoonity, when
I hare of dis ere 'spedition—dey stop dare—dey say dey come to
take Castle Mountain; it frighten me berry much, kaze I t'ought
of you and Missa Blanche, and Missa Emily, and I didn't know what
might happen, and I t'ought I better come along—I 'clare, Massa
Henreek, I berry glad to see you.”

“And I am very glad to see you, Harry! This is the second

time we have met most unexpectedly; I hope we shall not part
again until we return together to New York.”

“Ki! Massa Henrich, but I tickled to hare you say dat: ony let
me stay by you, and I can do any ting—but tell-a me, what you
trampoose about so much alone for? I find you, afore, all alone in
de woods.”

“Then,” replied Huntington, “I was the victim of guile and
treachery: where you found me, Carlton had deserted me, forcing
me to quit his boat, a crime which has since been followed by others,
still worse; you shall know more of it, perhaps, hereafter.”

Harry listened with marked attention to this brief exposition, but
made no other reply than might be contained in an expressive shake
of the head and a harsh grating of the teeth.