University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

The sentinel at the door heard the cry, and though
a strong muscular man, capable of resisting, singly, a
legion of devils, in the narrow landing where he was
placed, yet was he so possessed with the notion that
whatever was unaccountable, was some Indian plot,
some Indian stratagem, which no wisdom or foresight
could baffle or resist, (and this terror he had in common
with all the whites at the time,) that he had neither
the strength, nor the presence of mind to give the
alarm by firing off his musquet; but echoing, with a preternatural
loudness, like a wounded man, the cry of the
governour, he staggered forward, cleared the platform
at one bound; jumped at once from the very top, to the
very bottom of the council stairs, and ran towards the
nearest block house, yelling all the way, in a voice rendered
doubly thrilling and piercing from terror, `murder!—murder!—To
arms!—Indians!—Indians! to arms!'

All the town was in an uproar. The drums beat—
straggling shots were fired, and lights were seen streaming
quickly past the windows of every house, far and
near, as the terrified, half naked women, with their
babes in their arms, were hurrying to and fro, and
shrieking in consternation.

The governour had been constantly expecting, and,

as far as human sagacity would permit, providing for
a surprise.

His vigilance had been especially quickened, during
the few last days, from observing a number of Indian
chiefs and warriors, whose fidelity he had some reason
to distrust, or rather of whose fidelity he had no reason
to be certain, that had been accumulating about
him, under pretence of negotiation for certain lands.
The preparations of the governour could not be carried
on in secrecy, and the personal superintendence that
he had given of late to the military defence of the
town, had aggravated, instead of allaying the terrors of
the poor people, till the sound of a single shot, or the
cry of a single dog, was ready to be mistaken for the
innumerable rifles, and denouncing war whoop of the
savage.

At this moment therefore, the deepest midnight,
when all hearts, apparently exhausted by excess of
watchfulness and anxiety, had sunk into a profound repose,
it is not wonderful that the sound of straggling
shot, and the cry of `to arms! to arms!' should ring in
their ears like the blast of a trumpet announcing the
day of judgment. Lights were kindled, beacons—and
women and children were seen flying from one house
to another, as to successive assylums, while their husbands
were assembling and fortifying the strongest for
their reception.

On the soldiers, however, no dependence could be
placed. They had no leader—no rallying point. The
only man for whose military abilities they felt any respect,
was the governour, and he was not to be found.
Their mode of fighting had always been, to choose, each
man a tree for himself, and to fire as fast as he could, at
any thing he chose. But that mode would not do here.
They were to act in concert, and successively, so as to
relieve each other, if the enemy attempted, as he undoubtedly
would, to storm and set fire to the works.

In the mean time, the women and children, to whom
the block houses were appointed places of refuge, in
every alarm, were approaching from all quarters; every
house they gained bringing them nearer, and sheltering

them for a awhile, in their approach to their place of
final security. And this they did, without injury or
molestation, for some time, in the face of a continual
squibbing from the loop holes of the log fort, by the
terrified and hasty soldiery.

Luckily for the poor creatures, running hither and
thither with hair and clothes flying, and their youngest
babes huddled to their hearts, as if the scalping
knife were already at their foreheads, it was soon found
on inspection, that not a few of the musquets had been
fired with blank cartridges; and the very little waste of
ammunition, with a good deal of loose trodden powder
upon the floor, and the frequent brief whistle of the
pieces when discharged, led some to the natural conclusion,
that many of the musquets had not even been
charged with powder, but only primed, and let off in
their trepidation.

The panick increased, and the fugitives were actually
fired upon, at last, with a deliberate intent. The soldiers
having forgotten, it would seem, that the block
houses were constructed for no other purpose than the
protection of the women and children, all at once took
it into their heads, that this was only a new stratagem
of the enemy, and that the terrified creatures who were
coming in under the rain and fire of their riflemen, desperate
from excess of terror, were savages in disguise.
Thus believed, and thus acted the garrison for a time,
while the poor sufferers themselves, denied admittance
and fired upon by their husbands and brothers, believed,
in their turn, that the Indians had got possession of the
block house. They turned and fled!—fled, wringing
their hands and shrieking, distractedly, towards the
wood. The garrison were confirmed in their first belief
by this movement, and thinking that they had repulsed
the enemy, set up a shout of triumph, and prepared
to follow them, but were deterred by the timely
suggestion, that even this might be but a more capital
trick to decoy them from their entrenchments. Their
shouts, however, had the effect of accelerating the flight
of their wives and little ones.

Thus the terror of a midnight alarm, came nigh depopulating

a beautiful little village, making fathers and
husbands the murderers of all that they loved on earth.
Heaven only knows what might have been the consequence,
had the Indians that were really about, been
prepared to take advantage of their panick. The women
and children would probably have been butchered
between friend and foe, like our troops on Long Island,
in the late war of the revolution.

Wonderful as it may seem, to the inexperienced in
matters of this sort, yet it is nevertheless a fact, to be
paralleled I dare say, in the recollection of every soldier
who has seen actual service, that during the heat
and hurry of this alarm, a whole platoon of good marksmen
took deliberate aim, and fired point blank at their
comrade, (him that was the cause of the whole uproar)
as he approached, shouting to them that the Indians
were upon them! and missed him. This, to their
blind and deafened faculties, was another stratagem!

And really, there was enough to justify this ludicrous
apprehension at the most simple affair. The
whites, in their first warlike expeditions against the
natives, had become so cruelly entrapped by the simplest
expedients, that they doubted and distrusted every
thing. Even in battle, if they were victorious, and the
enemy fled, they dared not pursue; and if he cried
quarter, they were often puzzled to determine whether
it were safest to take his life or give it to him, and this
too, in the fear of some deep laid and inscrutable
trick. It was a warfare of duplicity and resource between
the two. Every thing was a stratagem—every
thing. If succour came, they watched its approach
with dismay, and felt hardly secure, until they had felt
the faces and hands of them that came, and assured
themselves that they were not red men disguised; and
so too, if capitulation was proposed and accepted, they
dared not profit by it.

The messenger of terror finding this unexpected reception
from his comrades, had still enough of natural
instinct left, to turn aside for the woods, and conceal
himself awhile.

At last the panick began to subside. No Indians appeared.

Could this be a new trick? A long silence followed;
light after light, left burning in the windows of
the deserted cottages, went out—and all was breathless,
patient expectation. A few low whispers were
first heard—they grew louder and more frequent—until,
at last, the whole garrison fell a talking, in the full
possession of their senses.

`What was it?' said one, who first broke the silence,
in a timid voice, to his companion. `Did you see plain?
was it really an Indian?'

`What! did'nt you see him!'

`Not I faith!' said the first.

`Nor I!'—was the answer—`I saw no Indian.'

Nor I! nor I! nor I! resounded at once on all sides,
and `damme,' cried one in a loud voice, as if just catching
his breath, `damme! if I believe it was an Indian
at all.'

`I thought,'—said one, doubtfully—and as if half
afraid to say what he thought—`I thought that—it
looked—like—Fred—'

`Like Fred!—Fred who?'—

`Why corporal Fred to be sure!'—

The answer thrilled through the whole garrison like
electricity—they all hung their heads in silence.

`Poor fellow!' cried one, at last, with a sigh that was
almost a sob, `thank God! I had no hand in his death!'

`You!' said his comrade, `why, you fired at him.'

`No, but I did'nt though!' answered the other, turning
away sullenly, and comforting himself, by driving
his rammer home, and showing that his piece was yet
loaded.

`Yes!' cried another, `yes, comrades, it was poor
Fred—and we have done the job for him—it must have
been him.'

`It was! it was!' said another, who had not yet spoken.
`I knew his voice.'—

`You knew his voice, and be damned to you!—you
did! Then what the devil did you shoot him for? You
fired the first shot—Did'nt he comrades?'

The speaker was silent. His example was successively
followed by all the garrison. Each felt that he

had blood upon his hands—the blood of a comrade,
and while each was ignorant of the danger that beset
him, he dared not leave his concealment, to ascertain
whether the object of all their anxiety was really a
dead man or not. It became profoundly still abroad.
The rippling of the water that ran a long way off,
against the margin of woven willow tresses could be
heard; and an occasional glimmer could be seen, of
some torch carried along the verge of the distant wood,
or revealed by the undulations of the ground, over
which some of the weaker and older of the fugitives
were tottering; for all took especial care, as most people
do in a time of terror, to do exactly that which was
least beneficial and most perilous, and most inexplicable
by the common laws of our nature in a time of
tranquillity. They were all afraid of darkness! more
afraid of Indians, and yet each took a torch and fled
screaming, and scampering about the woods, a perpetual
mark for the rifles and tomahawks that they believed
were in ambush for their destruction.

`But the governor!'—`gracious heaven, where is he?'
—`who knows? who can tell?'—these were now the reiterated
and anxious inquiries of the garrison. All loved
the old man, and every one of them had sworn a thousand
times, that he would die a thousand deaths for the
governor. Butthen—would it be prudent just at this time?
soldiers were scarce. The block house must be defended:
and then, `those lights yonder'—they were no
laughing matter, of a dark night:—`very suspicious,'
and for his soul, not one of the garrison could bring
himself to like them, as they shifted about, here and
there, in the scattered foliage of the nearest wood.—
Besides, the block house was the post of danger;—
that had been generally admitted;—and they, as gallant
men, were bound to stay there, particularly as the
alarm might possibly arise again before morning.

The better and more manly feelings of their nature,
at length began to prevail over these dastardly suggestions,
of what they, being in danger and darkness, called
prudence, and a party of the most desperate were finally
fitted out, and despatched, to bring in the governor

dead or alive. But first, it was stipulated, with a becoming
caution, that they should not be mistaken for Indians,
nor fired upon, under any pretence whatever, though they
should see fit to return in some confusion; and the better
to secure the faithful performance of this provision
in the treaty, the forlorn hope (as they considered themselves)
were seriously inclined to take with them all
the ball cartridges of the garrison. From this scheme,
however, they were finally dissuaded by the ingenious
suggestion of a veteran, who proposed that all the soldiers
within the block house, should give their word of
honour to load, if they loaded at all, and fire, if they
should see fit to fire at all, without ball, during the absence
of their comrades. This momentous affair, thus
happily brought to a conclusion, hands and blessings
were interchanged with appalling emphasis, and the
detachment took up their line of march in close order
for the council chamber. It was very dark, and not a
little difficulty occurred in settling questions of precedence
for rear and van; as all, even the bravest of the
band, seemed especially desirous of being in the middle.
They arrived successively, at the court yard—the broad
entrance—the landing, `no challenge!'—what could
this mean? where was the sentry? They came to a narrow
and difficult passage, the only access from this
quarter to the council chamber; as the main door
caught within by a spring lock, and had been flung
back with such force, by the terrified soldier who had
given the alarm, as to catch.

`Holloa!—who's this?' cried one of the party, `here,'
while he stumbled over a body---a cold shudder ran
along the arteries of the whole detachment at the sound
of his voice, and the dead heavy tumble that accompanied
it. They crowded together tumultuously, and
found the cause of the exclamation. It was the
body of a man. They raised it. It was cold and stiff,
and the clothing was drenched and adhesive to the
touch with something that shook those whose naked
hands had encountered it, with unutterable horror.
It was their comrade! He was dead—stabbed to the
heart, weltering in his own thick blood!---his features

livid and ghastly, and his blood-shot eyes staring with
that terrible expression which shows you that the muscles,
and flesh, and features of the murdered man grew
solid at the very instant that he felt the broad dagger
slowly pushing through and through his heart:—the
retreating chest—the gasping mouth—the swollen
tongue—the naked teeth, and the convulsed lip---Oh
God! oh, God! who can ever forget the countenance of
one that has been murdered, stabbed to death with a
knife, and left to stiffen in the horrible convulsions of
his last agony!---helpless!---voiceless!---his eyes bursting---his
muscles and sinews curling and knotting together
like crushed serpents!

There was a long, long, inward and silent shuddering
of the whole band, as the lifeless body dropped
down again upon the floor, the moment that the light
flashed upon it, and he who had borne it thus far,
reeled and staggered away pale and trembling, and sick
with instinctive terrour and loathing.

But their errand—the governor! Instantly, and as with
one voice, they all uttered a cry of `forward! forward!'
and rushed towards the council chamber. The Indians
were forgotten! their dead comrade forgotten! timidity,
danger, death, cowardice, were forgotten! And they
pressed up the stair-case with the vehement onset of
children to the rescue of their father—careless of life,
prodigal and reckless of all that they had habitually
cherished, treasured, or feared.

They burst through the door: no time for parley
now, none for ceremony. One universal crash and cry
accompanied them. It was awfully dark within the
great chamber; silent too, silent as the grave. A moment's
intermission would have been fatal to their
fierce and overwrought excitement, and they would
have stood shaking in every joint like victims huddled
to the slaughter.

`Lights! lights!—' were now thought of, and called
for. They had been forgotten, and the only lamp that
now burnt within this large edifice was that to which
they had pulled the dead body a few minutes before,
and that was chained to the ceiling. The end only

had been in view; the means were overlooked. Some
ran away for lights, glad of an excuse to be in the cool
air again, even at the risk of passing the dead body
alone, and all utterly forgetful, or regardless of the probability
that the same hand, which had made one of
their number lifeless, might be near, and even then at
that moment, uplifted in darkness and silence, and ready
to repeat the blow upon whomsoever should approach
sufficiently near. Others began feeling about the floor
with naked hands, in the fear of touching blood, or some
other mortal evidence that the assassin had been there
also. Happily there was no such testimonial of his
presence. While they were thus occupied, some at the
windows waiting for the distant and approaching lights,
others keeping down their terror, by huddling in a corner,
and holding strongly by each other's hands—a
groan was heard!—a deep drawn, half stifled groan, as
of one who had reasons for his concealment, and could
hold his breath no longer. It was near them, but
where? above or below? To the right hand or to the
left? who could say?

The effect was, as if an articulate summons had called
each man, by name, to the chambers of death. The
room was instantly cleared. The tide of adventure
was in its ebb now: The star waned; and the pendulum
which had just swung to the extremity of daring, had
recoiled, and was rapidly approaching the line of cowardice.
At a single moan, more than half of those who
had burst into the room in a gush of surpassing heroism,
were now tumbling over each other, from the top
to the bottom of the stairs.

A rapid, strong step now approached, and a fierce
voice sounded, growing louder and louder at every
word, as it came nearer and nearer, contending with,
and driving back the fugitives.

`Back, back!—Shame on ye! ye sneaking, damnable
cowards! Back with ye, back!'—cried the new comer,
leaping forward at the same moment, with a naked
sword in his hand and several torches blazing behind
him, and streaming along the blade from hilt to point,
as it shook and quivered in his agitated hand—`Back,

back!' he repeated, his voice ringing like a trumpet
upon the ear, striking this way, and that, and thrusting
and kicking the scoundrel crew, and driving them
all before him—`Were all the Indians in Hell
here, we are men enough for them, if we stick together!
Back, back, I say!---no skulking---lug out your
bayonets, and forward, like men; what!---afraid!—bring
that fellow along here—there!—down with him, throw
him over the railing—over with him! That's right—
never mind his kicking!—over with him!'—It was done---
Their comrade was tumbled over the stair-case in the
twinkling of an eye, and the stranger continued—`Now
look ye, my boys, Indians, or no Indians, you must on:
on with you! no faltering, or by the living God, if I catch
another of you creeping or skulking, I'll drive this----
this! (shaking his sword in the red flare of the torches)
this up to the hilt in his heart.'

Disobedience here was out of the question. There
was more peril behind than before, and the poor wretches
were speedily prepared for storming the unknown
enemy again, in spite of their mortal terror. They obeyed,
blinded and deafened and shuddering at the terrible
voice.

The lights now reddened and streaked the walls, and,
as they fell successively along the faces of the crowded
and frightened party, in the deep thick shadow of the
passage, each started, shuddered, and threw a hasty
glance upon the countenance nearest him, as dreading
to encounter something less welcome than the familiar
visage of a comrade, and anxious to know what kind of
acquaintances he has been making in silence and darkness:—But
all at once, they united in one overpowering
shout! as they recognised the stranger, who had so suddenly
and imperiously taken command.—Again and
again, they shouted! as they gathered round him, delighted,
and wondering that they had not known his
voice at first.—But that voice was unknown to them,
well as they knew him—it was the voice of the thunder
in its rebuke—the voice of blasphemy that is sometimes
heard in the tempest, at midnight—it was a more
than mortal voice, and reserved by the stranger for

hours of spoil and carnage, when the trumpet rang not,
and thrilled not through every heart and bone, like this,
his own single, individual, and rending cry of encouragement
and denunciation.

`Hurra! for Harold,' they cried; `Hurra! Hurra!—'
The stranger was young---aspect swarthy---very black
hair, and countenance full of settled intensity. He
snatched one of the torches and traversed the wide and
silent apartment in every direction, looking to see the
body of the murdered governor in every shadow, or the
murderer himself emerge from every deep niche, or
massy fold of the crimson drapery that partially canopied
and festooned the hall.

A sudden change of the wind blew the light in a
contrary direction, and showed the object of their
search, the old man upon his face, beneath the council
board.

A cry of horror, convulsive and tremulous, instantly
broke from the pale lips of all who were near enough
to see the body—But Harold---he was upon his knees
beside it, with the celerity of thought---; a sound as of
muttered curses was dropping sullenly and continually
from his quivering lips, while his cheek flashed with
the fiercest red, and then grew livid and death-like at
every breath; with one blow of his foot, he overthrew
the great table, and all its accumulated rubbish; raised
the body in his arms, examined with a hasty and trembling
hand the clothes, uttering continually the same
unintelligible sound, with a frightful earnestness of
manner. Then he tore open the shirt, pressed his shaking
hand again and again upon the heart, knelt down
and laid his ear to it, while the cold sweat fell from
his forehead upon the naked bosom of the old man, as
he appeared to weep and listen for some assurance of
vitality.

`No blood!---none, thank God!'---`no, no, no blood,'
he articulated, at intervals, as he pursued the inquiry
with hurried hands, and as it ended, straining the body
to him, and hiding his face in the bosom, while his
chest heaved, and his limbs shook, in the mortal silence
that followed.

After a few moments, and no earthly frame could
have endured such agitation for more than a few moments,
he arose, with a countenance settled and deathstruck,
tottering and feeble as if from a paroxsym of
horror and grief. His lips moved, and he strove again
and again, as he raised his hand with the action of one
about to issue a command, and let it fall again, as forgetting
his purpose, to address some words to his men.
In vain! He could not speak! And while all pressed forward
with the deepest expression of sympathy and obedience,
he was only able to wave them back, while he
passed one hand slowly over his eyes, and stood for a
few moments as if striving to recollect some painful
thou ht that had been before him in his agony.

His countenance changed. It grew stern and high.
The thought came back to him, and the blood coloured
his forehead again, as he gradually recovered his
strength, and took his firm station by the side of the
body, with the high bearing of one about to sit in judgment
upon his fellow men, for life and death.

He turned slowly around, surveying the whole detachment,
and measuring them, man by man, with his
penetrating black eye, from head to foot.

`Whose turn was it to mount guard to-night?' said
he. `At the platform? sir,' said some one with a faint
voice.

`No! at the landing.'

`Fred, Sir, Corporal Fred, Sir,' answered another
voice. `Where is he? I do not see him among you.
`Is he here?'

A dead silence followed. Nobody was willing to
confess that he had fired, in a panick, upon his comrade.

`What am I to understand by this silence? If any
man among you know where he is, or what has become
of him, let him speak.—what! no answer;—on your
lives, I charge you—(his tones grew deeper, in the
struggle that followed, and he spoke once more, in the
voice of battle, as if all the blood of his body till
that moment curdling about his heart, had suddenly
shot through all his arteries with the velocity of light)
`on your lives!' and his sword glittered before their

eyes, as they quailed and retreated in terror—`on your
lives, speak!—who manned the passage?'

`Robert, Sir, Robert, Robert!—We passed over him!
That was he. The dead body, Sir,' answered several
voices at once.

`Sergeant,' said Harold, with a solemn and determined
countenance, that portended naught of kindness
or forgiveness—`take a file of men with you. Go to
the garrison—search every house—ransack it from garret
to cellar—send out the rangers—scour the woods,
and bring me in the body of Frederick Brown, dead or
alive.'

Several of the nearest soldiers here started from
their ranks, either from eagerness to obey, or from a
very natural wish to escape a further examination.

`Stop, my lads,' said Harold, arresting them with a
voice that was not to be disputed. `Stop! I have not
done with you yet. Corporal, form your men. Serjeant,
lead out your file upon the landing, and wait the
order. Are your pieces loaded?'

A stammering, faltering `yes,' uttered in a low whisper,
betrayed the working of this preparation upon
some of the men.

Harold came directly in front of one that had answered
in the affirmative, his brows knit, and his lips
firmly pressed together. It was evident that his suspicions
were aroused, and that he was determined to
make an example of some one.

`Order your piece, Sir,' said he, to the trembling
soldier. `Down with your rammer.'

The man obeyed—The rammer sounded—the musket
rang, and Harold's face grew black with the wrath
of his unsparing nature.

`Lay down your arms, sir; serjeant, take him away!'
The order was instantly obeyed. Some murmuring was
heard, however, which Harold disdained to notice, until
he saw the serjeant himself faltering in his duty,
and the men working themselves into the shadow.
That was enough!

`Take your post there, sir, said Harold. Try
your pieces! Load! Now sir! form your ranks!'---They

obeyed. `And now, look ye, sir, if you see a
man move from the line, put a ball through his
head. Bring him down. No whimpering, no flinching,'
he added, drawing a pistol from his belt, and
cocking it—`no muttering, sir, comrade or no comrade,
when I give you the signal, if you don't do it,
I'll put a ball through your own.'

He was proceeding in this way, man by man, finding
about one piece out of five loaded, when a figure
was seen stealing cautiously along one of the distant
walls.

`Who goes there,' cried Harold. No answer was
returned, and the figure appeared to quicken his tread,
with especial earnestness, at the sound of the voice.

`Gracious Heaven!' cried one, in a half audible whisper,
`it looks like poor Fred.' A cold shudder followed.

Harold turned, and the speaker actually withered
and shrunk.

`Come hither, sir!' said Harold, again—at the same
moment giving a signal to the serjeant, who instantly
levelled his piece, and was followed by four others.

The person, whoever it was, stopped and hesitated
for a moment, but hearing the impatient whistle of Harold's
blade, as he plucked it anew from its scabbard,
he turned towards the broad stair-case, and leaped over
the railing.

`Fire!' cried Harold.

The muskets rang; the house was filled with smoke
and noise, and the balls rattled about the stone arches
and stair-case, like hail, during the reverberations that
followed.

Harold instantly leaped forward, and threw himself
upon a powerful fellow, whom he found escaping. The
moment that he felt the impetuous onset of Harold, his
spirit and design both seemed to forsake him, and he
fell upon his kness.

Harold held him by the throat, with the strength of
a lion, till the torches were gleaming again upon the
bright barrels of the musquetry, and blazing upon the
countenance of the stranger—who looked, as if doubting

whether he were alive or dead, and wondering what was
next to happen.

`Hell and the Devil, man, is it you?' cried Harold,
as the light showed him the face of his ignoble prisoner—and
he hurled him from him, to the furthest extremity
of the vaulted entrance. `Take him, serjeant,
take him with you.'

`Nay, stop, stop!' he added, with the look of sudden
recollection, and collaring the slave—`Come with me,
come! and he dragged him into the council chamber,
and led him, shaking in every limb, with his knees
knocking together, to the body of the good old man.

`Look there, sir—there! nay, don't turn away your
eyes. That is your work!—and yours! and yours! and
yours!' he added—tears, hot, scalding tears, starting
from his eyes—`Your work! ye cowardly rascals—you
soldiers! you! By the great God of heaven and earth
ye are cowards! women! the vilest and most execrable
of cowards!'

`Begone,' he added, at length, with a violent effort,
wiping the sweat from his forehead, and hurling from
him, with the strength of an exasperated giant, the
miserable wretch that was quaking in his grasp. `Begone!'
said he, `and find your musket, and mark me;
you were on duty. If there be a ball in it now, you
are a dead man. Go with him Henderson, and you
Roberts, and see that it is brought to me as it is found.'

They departed; and Harold turned once more, in
the grief and consternation of his heart, to the cold and
lifeless body of the veteran before him, sacrificed by
the cowardly misconduct of his own guard perhaps,
and yet, how slain? that was a mystery. There was
no blood, no wound visible. Harold threw himself
again by the body, examined it again—a passionate
burst of tears followed—he fell upon it, and sobbed
aloud.

`Oh, my father! my father! where was I in this thine
extremity? Where was Harold!'

Who would not have wept with him? They did
weep, they wept aloud; even, they who hated and feared
him, they wept. A sound, the lamentation, of strong

hearts, the grief and wailing of men—it is not often
heard, but when it is, there is no sound of sorrow like
it; so moving, so subduing, so irresistible.

`Help me,' he cried, `help me!—away to the garrison—stop—there
may be an enemy lurking on your
way: load your pieces: fix your bayonets—balls! balls.'
They obeyed: they attempted again to lift the body, and
bear it off, with the melancholy determination of doing
to it the speediest and most honourable rites of sepulture.

It swung, and heaved so lifelessly, as they raised it,
that Harold, Harold! the fierce young soldier, the unsparing
and bloody, was overcome anew. `Oh, my
God! my God!' he repeated, over and over again; `his
wife, his wife, his poor dear wife! Oh, what will become
of her!'—and then, reeling to the wall, and burying
his face in the curtains, he added, convulsively, as
he raised his locked hands to heaven. `Oh, it will kill
her! it will kill her! Father! Father! it will kill her.'

`Wretches!' he added, rushing forward and striking
one to the earth, with ungovernable fury, as they all at
once abandoned their burden, suffering it to roll from
their palsied arms; standing with outstretched hands,
and staring eyes, as if petrified by something too horrible
to name.

They gasped for breath, heedless of their prostrate
comrade, nor once taking off their eyes from the body,
which began to move—could it be! Harold stood in a
transport of bewildering and distracting hope, and terror.

The chest heaved. A deep sigh was drawn.
`Enough! Enough!' cried Harold—`he lives! O God,
I thank thee!'

The governor had only swooned, but it was nearly
the swoon of death to him. Thrice had he partially
recovered, and relapsed, in the darkness, and noise, and
terror that had beset him, and would, in all human
probability, never have opened his aged eyes again, if
the movement of his chest had not been accidentally observed,
by the frightened soldiers, as they uplifted him,
to bear him away to the garrison.

Harold was still upon his knees. `Fly! fly!—some
wine, some wine,' he said. `Merciful father I do
thank thee!—Begone!—quick, quick!'

The party that was sent away soon returned, and the
joy of Harold, as the old man opened his eyes upon
his bosom, while they chafed his temples and poured
cordials down his throat, with the officious tenderness
of children, was so transporting and beneficent, that
the comrades of Frederick Brown began to look for a
gleam of mercy, even from the fierce and implacable
Harold.

Nay, one of them had the hardihood to intercede for
him, and to ask if he had not better be sent to the garrison
for security; knowing that when once there, his escape
would be certain, if not his pardon.

`Yes, yes—poor Brown,' answered Harold—`to the
garrison, with all my heart—away with him.'

The soldiers were ready to kneel to him: that he,
Harold, whom nothing could intimidate; he, who was
clothed with the power of life and death in the army,
from whose decree there was no appeal; he, who was
so strict and terrible in his retribution; that he should
relent so readily, was most unaccountable. Oh, they
little knew the heart of that wayward and melancholy
being: they little knew that the sternest nature is artificial:
that the iron bound and immoveable are tenderest
at their core. Little knew they of this truth, told
in later days by a bard whose `veins ran lightning,'—
that there is a lava in the heart of man—a spirit of flame
and blood, which quickens in power as it diminishes in
quantity—that

Byron.

—that this is a spirit, thus distilled and rectified by
God himself, from the purest element of man's nature
—undiluted by weakness and tears, unsullied by earthiness;
kept in the reservoir of a clear heart, which
though its surface be adamantine, when smitten by
His power, will give out, with every throb and contraction,
its gushing chrystal and pearl, while there is
one drop of blood to feed the fountain and be converted
into immortal aliment for the unpolluted and
unprofaned. These are they, whose mercy is felt!
These are they, whose friendship may be depended
upon. These are they, whose love is perpetual and
unchanging! and these, the stern and unforgiving of
heart, are never, never! like those of a kinder nature,
festering with impure thought. Their vengeance is
justice. Their wrath is that of the Divinity. Their
mercy like the dews of heaven: to be won only after
the duties of the day are past, and the solemn loveliness
of night and repose cometh out, filling all creation,
animate and inanimate, the dispositions and the purposes
of men, with a relenting tenderness. Bind ye their
pulses up with adamant; sheathe them in tenfold steel,
the living drop that is hidden within, will burst and
scatter all its cells, all its cearments, all its panoply, at
the touch of kindness, or love, or innocence! Find ye
this power in hearts of a softer mould? this truth and
divinity; in those who melt at the first breathing of solicitation
or entreaty? Oh no, while the willing and
merciful of mankind are agitated and tremulous with
every sigh that passes over them, and every tear that
drops upon them, the hearts of these—like the deep
Ocean, cloudy and unfathomable, to all but the courageous
and exploring, sheltering the treasuries of many
an empire, the gold and spoil of many a kingdom, covering
the mysteries and the glories that encumber the
foundations of our world—the deep Ocean! which cannot
be agitated without upheaving to the light its pearls
and diadems, and ivory and coral—These, the hearts of
these, reveal no riches but in their commotion. They are
like the great sea in tranquillity and calm, which shows
nought of the glittering dust that made its waters turbid,
and defined its boundaries with undulating ridgy
lustre, like drifted gold; nought of the beautiful and
nameless, countless, productions of its depth, subsiding
and descending again through the transparent waters,
after the tumult hath passed, to their dim places of
hallowed and mysterious concealment, and staining
the water with traces of coloured fire, in their descent
—like broken and shattered stars sinking and quivering
in a deep blue element.

Such were the disposition and heart of Harold—
their riches were only to be seen in convulsion. Here
—the man, whom in his mind, he had doomed to death,
was already forgiven, in gratitude to heaven, for its
merciful interposition. Harold had the constitution of
a hero; young as he was, it could be seen. He was
great only on great occasions. Touch his heart, and it
quaked aloud; but then, it was not easily touched.

After a time, the good old man became partially restored;
sufficiently so, indeed, to signify, by the motion
of his hand, that he could not speak. Harold had already
sent a messenger to the government-house to
apprise its mistress of the situation, and to account for
the absence of her husband.

At last a litter was prepared, and accompanied by
a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets, conducted by
Harold himself, with a drawn sword, amid the blaze
of many torches; the veteran was borne towards his
home, to be committed to the care of his young and
lovely wife. If aught could soothe him in this world,
Harold was sure that it would be her affectionate, innocent
attentions. Several times on the way, the governour
partially arose, and looked about upon the armed men
around him, with a troubled and dissatisfied air; and
once, it was evident from the horror that set itself for
a moment in every feature, as his eye wandered over
the litter and guards, that he took it for some funeral
procession—perhaps his own!—as he lay extended upon
the crimson velvet litter, made of lances, interwoven,
and covered with tattered ensigns.

His recollections were exceedingly discomposed, but
enough could be gleaned from his incoherent ejaculations,
on the way, to show that he was fearfully beset
by some Indian phantom; once, and once only, as they
approached his house, he seemed to recover his faculties
for a moment, for he seized Harold's arm, looked

earnestly in his face, and demanded in a low whisper,
if he had seen it? Harold shook his head.

`No! well, I pray God that you never may, my
dear boy—may—he—he—' continued he, his voice
growing fainter and fainter at every word.

They arrived at the door. The house had been barricadoed
a few hours before, and was now completely
equipped and manned for a siege, under the direction
of its high spirited mistress. She came to the door.
She was very youthful—and there was—I know not
what—a something that it is impossible to describe—
something of deep and tender melancholy, and loftiness
and pride, and loveliness, that, altogether, caused him
who first saw her, to hold his breath while she spoke,
and moved. `So young,' a stranger would say, `so
young, and yet so haughty! so very young, and beautiful,
with the immortal beauty of intellect, and yet, the
wife of a decrepid old man! It is very strange.' She
approached with a firm step,—and gave immediate directions
to the party, betraying no childish emotion,
reserving all expressions of grief or tenderness for solitude,
and then returning, with an undismayed look, to
the completion of her defences.

This done—the door closed—and the governor gently
laid upon a sofa in the hall, and the servants and
soldiers withdrawn, the door opened, and the lady
Elvira (such was her name) entered in silence and
loneliness, to her duty, like a ministering angel. There
was no idle display of suffering, no ostentation of woe
or kindness; but her delicate hand was upon his forehead,
and that was enough!

`Wounded,' said she, to the old family surgeon who
was supporting his head.

`No, my lady, I believe not,' answered he—raising
his eyes and dwelling with the rapturous delight of a
parent upon the beautiful proportions of her neck, and
the swell of her bosom, through the thin muslin that
covered it, both rendered visible just then by the action
of her arm, as she extended it, and let fall the gathered
drapery that had, till then protected her—She saw the
look; but she neither blushed nor trembled—he had

been her family physician, and she loved him like a
daughter—Ha!—why that flush!—that trepidation!—
that frown!—and the terrible beauty of those clear blue
eyes, streaming their intermittent flashes of wrath?

The secret is not to be told. A darker eye is upon
her; an eye rivetted and blazing with intemperate ardour—Harold
is there, unseen till this moment—he is
now advancing with his proud, impatient look subdued,
and countenance pale, very pale, with the profound humility
of his heart. He comes, half conscious of his
offence—will she forgive him.

Her brow contracts. Her countenance assumes an
expression—a strange, bewildering expression—It is
not to be translated. It cannot be. Her trembling hands
are vainly employed in adjusting her night dress, so as
to conceal the tumult of her heart. But it cannot be—
not only is the beautiful, delirious undulation to be seen,
but the burning crimson of her neck and bosom, that
rose at the sight of Harold, and deepened at every step
of his approach, hath tinged the very muslin with an
airy and delicate blush.

She cannot speak. Harold advances. She turns
toward him in all her surpassing loveliness, rebuking
him with her majestick silence, till his forehead almost
touches the earth, in his awe and timidity, blinded and
overpowered by her presence.

This done—with the flash of sudden determination
so common with him, as he grows older, he raises his
fine forehead to the sky, with a look, as haughty as her
own, a look, that hath retrieved him, in the moment
of his extremest peril—bows with a stately movement,
and slowly withdraws.