University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Rousseau.

Why have I chosen this motto? In good faith, I can
hardly tell. Perhaps it may be, however, because I
heard a dear young creature, who always reminds me
of a chief personage in this book, whenever I hear her
sweet, thrilling, melancholy voice, once sing it, while her
own heart was breaking. O, it was like the voice of
the nightingale, bereaved of her young; or innocent
lips gushing out with tenderness and melody. The dear,
dear girl! I never shall forget her. Her constancy was
like that of Elvira, and both of them loved like the
flower of the sun, worshipping on, at his rising and
setting, in cloud and in shadow, in glory and in light,
with the same expression of drooping and confiding
loveliness; the same beneficent and hallowed yielding!
Still loving! still beloved! O, is there aught else worth
coveting in heaven! No!—for God, himself, is Love
and Constancy; and they who resemble him must love,
and love forever! Is there aught else in religion? No,
for religion `the pure and undefiled religion,' of the
pure in heart, the high and holy, is Love, and Love
only; not the base, sensual passion; but the immortal,
unwithering impulse and sustenance of great hearts and
proud natures; natures, unalloyed with infirmity, and
proud, because of their origin and destiny.

In the morning, just as the dappled east began to
redden with the new daylight, after a night of feverish
and wild dreaming, the good old governour awoke, exceedingly
refreshed; and lay, with his eyes shut, revolving
the mysterious adventure of the preceding
night, in his mind. It was all in vain. He could remember
nothing distinctly. That an apparition had
been before him; that, somehow or other, he had been
engaged in mortal strife, he had a kind of dim and

wavering, shadowy and uncertain recollection, but all
else, with whom, and where, had been held the battle—
all!—was gone, in the terrour of the interview, and the
long insensibility and agitation that succeeded, What he
had dreamed appeared reality; and the real, as he strove
in vain to recall the particular features, took the fantastick
and shifting proportions of a dream.

The effort grew painful to him. He became weary
with the intensity of his own reminiscence, and was fast
relapsing again into a disturbed and broken slumber,
half conscious that it was better for him to sleep, and
half yielding to the delicious influence of such consciousness,
and yet occasionally starting and grasping
with a sudden and convulsive hand, whatever happened
to be nearest him, like one that overcome by drowziness
upon a precipice, partially yields to it, grappling
at the weeds and grass, and starts and shrieks, as he
feels his hold relaxing, and dreams that he is falling.

While he was in this state of protracted and uncertain
delirium, some of the older and nearer members
of the council, who had heard an aggravated and terrible
account of the night's alarm, and the situation of the
governour, from the fugitives, made their appearance in
the apartment. They were cautiously announced,
but in their awkward earnestness to save trouble, were
literally treading upon the heels of the servant. It was
no morning for business, they soon found, and one as
little proper for compliments and ceremony; and after
a few faint struggles between their curiosity, and their
habitual veneration for their good old governor, they
took leave to withdraw, and were immediately succeeded
by the governour's beautiful wife.

It was the fashion of the times to wear a lofty
and unmeaning sort of head dress, whose only recommendation
was its costliness. There were few ladies
of the time who could obtain one of these ridiculous and
unnatural incumbrances, that did not wear it constantly:
and the lady Elvira was probably the only woman
above the rank of an ordinary labourer's wife, in the
colony, who had the heart to wear her own glossy and
beautiful brown hair, in all its prodigal and redundant

richness, with no other ornament than a plain blue ribbon,
fancifully interwoven here and there over the head,
and binding her forehead aslant with the artful simplicity
of a flower girl that enwreaths her white forehead
with garlands of deep blue water lilies.

Her dress—what shall I say of it? Will the truth
be acceptable? It ought to be; and therefore, at the
risk of being laughed at, to the end of this chapter, at
least, I must delare that, I have never been satisfied
with any woman's dress since—what there was, I know
not, about the lady Elvira, but her clothes always
seemed to fit her better than those of any other ladies
fitted them, and were always worn with an air of delicate,
unstudied, unobtrusive propriety and grace, that
I never could see in another. The flowing folds of her
dress I remember, were usually tucked up, when she
was about her house, an held by her girdle, with the
free and innocent air of one who loves fashion and
follows it with the feeling of youth, but has the good
sense to prefer comfort and propriety, when they and
fashion cannot be reconciled together. In such a dress,
she now entered the sick chamber of her husband, her
loose sleeves looped up for the occasion, and exposing
her exquisitely moulded arms of unsullied whiteness;
arms, that from the unfrequency of their exposure,
would totally eclipse the most beautiful and delicate of
those that are habitually revealed to the sun and wind,
or, what is worse, to the tainting and impure gaze of
the profligate and licentious.

She entered on tip-toe, and bore, in a richly chased
goblet of antique workmanship, some cordial, such as
wives only can prepare, and the weary in spirit alone
appreciate. She came to the bed side, and stooping
affectionately over her husband, gently insinuated one
arm under his neck, placed an additional pillow under
his head, and began inviting him with her full blue eyes
to partake; who could resist such endearment? A wife
leaning upon your bosom, her arm supporting you, her
eyes swimming with dew, and her beautiful mouth
trembling with anxiety—who could resist her?

No human being! The hardiest and the sternest; the
wickedest and the worst; the veriest ruffian that ever
walked the earth, must yield up his soul to such caressing,
and cry out, as did old Lear to Cordelia when he
awoke—from his long kingly trance, broken in heart
and bowed in spirit, and beheld her sweet eyes weeping
and dissolving above him, her soft form undulating
before his face—when he awoke thus—in the arms of
his child—his daughter; with his old cheek resting
upon her hallowed and pure bosom!—and said to her,
with uplifted hands—
Who could resist it? What spirit, even of a dying man,
would not linger a little while? Whose recollection
would not return, and glimmer, for a moment, about
the earliest and tenderest of his emotions, lighting up
with a pale and melancholy lustre the mysterious and
beautiful of the past—at so beseeching a look? His
eyes dwelt tenderly upon her; he sighed, his lips moved,
and the light of returning intelligence, for a moment,
illuminated his venerable countenance, as he eagerly
caught her soft hand to his heart, and pressed her
tremblingly and doubtfully in his arms. `Elvira!—love!
—is it you?'

The words were only those of habitual kindness, as
of a father to his daughter, and Elvira saw that he was
not entirely master of himself, even yet. At the next
breath his manner changed—his countenance fell—and
the next, with a terrifying earnestness, he laid his hands
upon her forehead—parted her damp hair—and fell to
a sad and solemn persual of her lineaments: rapid
transitions of thought were then visible, passing, like
vapours, over his broad, full forehead, and she feared
that a settled delirium might have possession of him.

`Yes! yes, love—I saw him; yes, yes, I saw him'—
he said hurriedly, and in a low difficult voice, and then
looking around cautiously, added in a whisper that
chilled her blood, even in the light and air of a summer
morning,—`alone, alone! all, all, alone!' The bed

shook under him—`not dead!—no, no, not dead! not
dead!'—he continued, closing his eyes, and muttering
to himself.

At length he began to recover. Towards the evening
of the third day he was able to sit up and maintain
a part in a patient and low conversation. Certain of
his tried friends, the associates of half a century, were
about him; and after listening to a particular account of
all that had happened at, and since, the night of the
alarm, he proceeded to give his orders for the reception
of the Indians, if they should see fit to renew their
attack, before he was able to superintend the defence in
person. He inquired with deep anxiety into the whole
of the adventure; the hour; the situation in which he,
himself, was found; the conduct of the sentinel, the
garrison, and particularly, into all that had been done
and said by Harold.

`When did he return?' said the governour, thoughtfully.

`That very night; in the midst of the uproar,' some
one answered.

`As if he had dropped from the skies!' said another,
his eyes shining with enthusiasm.

`Indeed.'— (a long pause.)—`Well, well, I am glad
of it;' and then, as if aware that his manner might lead
their thought astray, the governour added, `I am now
so accustomed to the society of Harold, that I feel in a
measure alone, dissatisfied, and unhappy, whenever he
is away.'

`And I, Sir, am not astonished that it is so,' said a
white headed, little, bright eyed old man, who had long
been the tried and trusty counsellor of our governor,
`I am not indeed—for I have long observed that the
bravest of us, however unwilling he may be to confess
it, (glancing his eye at a younger man, who turned away
his face at the moment) feel and act with a sense of
security in his presence, that seems to desert them
when he is gone.'

This was said seriously and deliberately; and the
governour catching his hands, gave them a hearty shake,
as he replied with a tone and look of peculiar emphasis,

`Arnold! I know thee! That stripling deserves
all that thou canst say or think of him.'

`He is a rash obstinate boy,' said a third, a very tall
harsh looking military man. `You are right, my excellent
friend, he is rash and obstinate,' said the governour
in reply, `I admit it—but it is the rashness and
obstinacy of a hero.'

`Of Charles of Sweden,' said his antagonist. `I am
no lover of such heroes.' The governor smiled.

`Major, my good friend,' said Arnold, in his conciliating
tone, all mildness, and firmness, `Remember
his age. He is yet a boy, and could I marshal his
spirit aright, I should have no fear that he would be a
great and good man.'

`A good man! never!' was the reply, and the speaker
arose from his seat with the angry expression of
deep and unconquerable, energetick and immoveable
conviction; like a zealot that pronounces his belief, under
the sanction of martyrdom, doubting not, hesitating
not; unqualifying his declaration by aught of infirmity,
either in tone, look, or action—`never, never.'

`Yes, my friend, I repeat it, a good man,' said Arnold;
`he has the elements of all goodness. That he
is headstrong I do not deny; but then he is as obstinate
in right as in wrong. `And do you not, Morgan,' laying
his hand upon the major's heart, `do you not, I ask you
as a soldier and a man, I put it home to you as one
that I reverence, do you not love Harold the better for
what you call his rashness and obstinacy? Honestly
now, dear Morgan, honestly now.'

`Why, to tell the truth, Arnold,' said Morgan, kindly
pressing his hand, and shaking his head doubtfully,
`I hardly know what to say. I do not deny that there
is something generous and noble in these very qualities;
and you know that I love Harold too, but I do not
like to see him spoilt. In one word, governour, I may
as well speak my mind at once. I shall never have a
better opportunity, I dare say. Too many affairs; too
much business, and too many men are entrusted to him
He is but a boy—'

`Sir,' said the governor, and Morgan stopped short;
`Sir, that boy has been tried; again and again has he
been tried. He has been weighed in the balance, and
he was never found wanting. Let us change the subject.'

`But his temper,' said Arnold, who always moved
like a peace maker, with his quiet and steady countenance
among the turbulent and hasty, `his temper is
terrible. That you will not deny governour.'

The governour's countenance had changed. There
was a dead, painful silence; offended dignity on the
one part, and offended companionship on the other, for
several moments. But after a brief struggle, the natural
feeling of the old man's heart returned, and he extended
a hand to each, and continued shaking them
with the greatest energy, all the while, as he added.
`Yes, my friends, yes, that temper is terrible.
Harold is a godlike boy, but I do tremble for his vindictive,
unsparing, and deadly temper.'

`And so do I, and I too,' answered both the veterans,
returning the shake; while Arnold, wiping away a
tear with the back of his hand, added, `but who can
tell? His destiny may be, to have this evil spirit rebuked.
And surely there is comfort in our experience—
for what has he ever undertaken, in which he did not
succeed? What, in which, if he failed, it was not because
he scorned to succeed?'

`Thank you, my good friend, thank you,' said the
governour. `That is Harold's character! He never stops
half way, in aught that is worth his ambition! And
never, never, I appeal to the experience of his whole
life, never did he fail to overcome an evil passion, or
an evil habit, when once convinced that it was worth
his while. His resolution is immortal. I never saw any
man, young or old, so fixed, so immoveable. Nay, I
never saw any living creature so fitted and exercised
in heroick self denial.'

`It only remains, therefore,' said Arnold, thoughtfully,
`that we go about convincing Harold that this
passion is a weakness.'

`Yes, yes, that is enough. Do that; get Harold's
promise to overcome it, and my salvation on the issue,
that, before a twelvemonth is passed, he shall be distinguished
for his equanimity. Nay, I can forgive you
both for smiling, but I could tell you stranger things
than that, of his resolution, and success, in subduing;
nay, in eradicating, root and branch, the most settled
habits of his disposition. Get his promise, and I will
answer for the rest.'

`He is fearless in the extreme,' said Morgan.

`Ready, prompt, and bold,' said the governour, like
one never weary of the theme, and delighted at hearing
the name of a favourite.

`But then,' added Arnold, with the continual desire
of tempering all that the others said, and thus leading
both to assimilation—`but then, what a raging lion,
when he has once snuffed blood.'

`Verily he is wolfish, actually wolfish, at times,' said
Morgan; `he delights in carnage; mere deeds of peril
are no longer sufficiently exciting to him. He must
wash his hands in the hot bubbling foam of his enemy's
heart; or he comes home, troubled in spirit, and panting
for new slaughter. Indeed, indeed, I do feel afraid
of him at times. His wrath is so unlike the fierce quick
passion of his age; his appetite for danger, so insatiate,
so unnatural.'

`Never mind, my old friend,' said Arnold, `a few
years more will tame him.'

`A few years more!' said the oldest man in the room
—he was blind and bald, and his head was shaking
with the palsy, while his countenance wore the consummate
expression of wisdom and serenity, profound observation
and undiminished faculty, suddenly wrought
upon by a divinity stirring within. His voice was low and
sweet, giving out a feeble and plaintive sound like the
strings of a harp touched by dampness; but hollow, and
authoritative, like that of one familiar with heavenly and
mysterious things, and commissioned to bear testimony
even from the grave—all eyes were upon him. His
voice had not been heard before. It was most unusual
for him to speak at all, but when he did speak, the

wildest altercation instantly died away in silence. `A
few years more!' he repeated, `he cannot live, even a
few years more. In no situation, can he live. Death is
already at work in his heart. A few years more, and
Oh, his proud spirit will be down, his hot blood chilled.'

A dead silence followed. Was it a malediction or a
prayer, that they had heard? Be it what it might, it
fell, with a dead weight upon their ear, like a midnight
prophecy.

`O, I hope not; I hope not,' said Arnold, recovering
from the awful impression of the old man's words.

`Arnold, Arnold, thou canst not hope this more earnestly
than I do. Thou canst not,' he repeated, his voice
trembling, and the tears filling his eyes. `Inaction
would destroy him. The angry activity of his spirit has
already wasted him to a skeleton. And action, action,
that destroys him too. I never knew a boy of such
promise wear to maturity; no, never. Nay, my friends,
now that I am myself again, I cannot reconcile it to my
conscience even to pray that he may live. So terrible
as he has been—as he is—as he will be, increasing in
power, his rage and thirst and hunger, not merely for
adventure, for that were worthy of his reason, and he
is weary of adventure—but for slaughter and devastation,
battle and flame—all the—

The speaker was interrupted by the entrance of Lady
Elvira, followed by an officer.

His appearance was martial and precise; but he approached
the governour, apparently regardless of all the
forms, even of military courtesy—and stood, without
touching his sword or hat, directly before him:—rooted,
upright, and breathing hard.

`How dare you, Sir!' said the governour, rising with
all the majesty of his age and office and character, and
was proceeding, when the stranger put into his hands
a letter, which the governour hastily tore open with an
agitated hand, and read over, without observing that
the eye of the stranger was scowling upon him.

`Bring him hither, this instant!' said the governour,
and the stranger departed.

`My friends,' continued the governour, `you will excuse
me. I have some weighty affairs on hand.'

They departed, successively shaking his hand in the
good old fashion of the day, and left him alone, once
more, with his wife.

`Now!' said the governour, `He will soon be here.
I shall soon see him again, love.'

`Whom?' said the lady Elvira.

`Harold, my dear.'

`Harold!' she exclaimed, half relinquishing the hold
that she had of her husband—`Harold!'

`Ah!—what means this? lady Elvira!—so pale—art
thou ill, love?—and now again—so red! why, how thy
hand trembles: Art ill love?'

`Oh, no, no—a slight agitation. It will be soon over.
It is already; it is past, now; nay, I am entirely well
now.'

She continued, faintly, very faintly—`entirely well,
now.'

The governour looked upon her for a moment, with
visible concern, and then, with an air of affectionate gaiety,
bade her, coaxingly, not to regard such things. `You
must forget and forgive love,' said he: `Remember his
age, a mere boy, you know—he meant no harm—It
was only one of his impassioned bursts of natural feeling—
Do forgive him—' `Indeed, my husbaud, it
pains me to refuse you, but my heart would contradict
me were I to say that I forgive him. No—no! I cannot
forget, nor forgive it. No, at the risk of offending
your partiality for him, I must say that I do not like
him; that I think him a most dangerous young man.'

The governour smiled, threw his arm round her neck,
and drew her closely to him, as she continued—

`Nor can I see what you and others find in him to
admire so extravagantly, for really it does appear extravagant
to me. His courage is cruelty and ferocity.
Is it not? Has he ever shown, on any occasion, that
calm, heroick self possession, that courage of the truly
great, which buckles on its harness in silence, and
faces death with an awful and unchanging serenity?
Has he ever?'

`What, Elvira! have you forgotten this?—this!' replied
the governour, tearing open his bosom, and showing
the seam of a frightful bayonet or sabre wound:
`this! love, or the occasion?'

`Oh, no,' said Elvira, her fine eyes filling with tears,
and her voice trembling in her heart, `oh, no, and
never shall forget it. My husband, forgive me! I have
wronged Harold. I feel that I have. I am sorry for it.
But that event, determined and gallant as it was, is one
cause of my injustice to him. It excited such hope in
my mind, that I doubly feel the disappointment which
his present unhallowed and bloody indulgences have
caused. Is he not, my husband, is he not the most untractable
of human beings? Has it not been so with
him, from his very childhood? so, at least have I been
told. So fierce, so Indian-like in his temper, and then,
unlike the indian, he is so profane, that the commonest
soldier, I have heard, will shake at the uttering of his
blasphemy. Indeed, my beloved, I cannot bear to see
him, such is my terrour in his presence, such the undefinable
agitation that seizes me, whenever I hear or see
him—my very blood curdles at his voice, and I cannot
bear to see him approach any body that is dear to me.
Mine may be a prejudice; nay, I am willing to grant
that it is; (her voice grew deeper; with a sweeter solemnity
of manner, like that of some young priestess newly
initiated, some Cassandra denouncing the evil spirit
while afar off.) `But then, it is so strong, so settled, so
interwoven and intermingled with all the fibres and
blood of my being, so like a mortal antipathy, that I am
ready to believe, at times, that it is implanted by nature
to speak for my own preservation. Do we not find
it so? nay, my husband, I am very serious—what keeps
us from the loathsome and pestilential? what from the
terrible and blood-thirsty? Is there not an instinct in
our nature superiour to wisdom, outrunning all experience,
which infallibly directs us to the animals, the
dispositions, nay, to the very fruits and flowers of the
desert, if they be innocent. An instinct that fills the
heart with dread and abhorrence at the first sight of
others; irritating all the senses, and quickening them to

intensity for our preservation! If this be so, and who
will deny it? surely we ought never to distrust the deep
inward admonition, the involuntary sinking of the
heart, its faint, sickly shuddering, when a human creature
hath crossed our path, and given rise to them. No,
my husband, no! I must believe, I do believe that the
Almighty, our kind and indulgent Father, he who hath
made nothing in vain—I must believe, and I do, that
these emotions are given to us for our security; that they
are not to be distrusted, or derided. You smile—but
my feelings are those of religion, of settled conviction:
and not to be changed by a smile. I speak with emphasis,
because I feel every word that I utter. What
attracts the youngest infant to this person? and what
so unaccountably repels him from that? nay, the very
brute, the dog that lies at your feet? for he has his likes,
and his dislikes, his aversions and antipathies. O! it
cannot be that these natural and incessant yearnings and
shiverings of the spirit are given us in vain! Oh, no, it
cannot be. No! they are substitutes for experience.
They teach to the young and innocent at a glance, as
by intuition, precisely what is confirmed to the wise
and observing, that unholy and perilous things have
their own peculiar shape and hue; that passion and
wickedness have a transforming power upon the loftiest
and lovliest of human countenances; and that God hath
written upon the face of every son and daughter of
Adam, in a character that the simplest and weakest
may understand, at a glance, the history and life and habit
of each. Therefore, do I fear the very playfulness of
Harold. His lineaments, even when unconvulsed, unilluminated
by a rebellious spirit, in arms against all that
is holy and peaceable, even in repose, are inwrought and
articulate with bad thought, the thought of a perturbed,
ascendant, and unappeasable ambition. Yes, my husband,
I do fear his very playfulness, as I would that of
a pet tiger.'

`Elvira! Elvira!' said the governour, earnestly grasping
her hands and looking in her face—`what an enthusiast!
verily love, thou art as implacable as that
very spirit of evil, which thou hast conjured up!

wouldst thou rebuke, even the `pet tiger,' if it fulfilled
only the appointed office of its nature!' His tone suddenly
changed to the deepest solemnity, and he continued.—`Where
had I been, Elvira, but for that boy?
Indian-like in his disposition! True, he is Indian-like,
and I glory in him that he is so. At this very moment,
Elvira, that boy is the best general in North America;
the best soldier. Twice hath he saved my life; once, as
we both know, in the extremest peril—when I was beset
on all sides, entangled in the trappings of my horse,
drowning, and faint with loss of blood—and once, as
thou knowest too, when all the world beside had deserted
me.—Oh, no, love—I understand that pressure,
I do not mean to reproach thee. Thou didst not know
my danger—but all the world beside thee, had abandoned
me.'—(Elvira bowed upon his hands.)

`Ah, I am thankful, indeed,' said she, submissively.
`Heaven sent him, surely, and we were most unworthy,
not to be grateful.'

`No, no, my own dear girl,' said the governour, in
reply, pressing his lips to her delicate forehead, through
all the veins of which, the blood flashed like lightning,
at the touch—`No, no, you must not think so of Harold.
It pains me. It is unjust. I cannot bear that the
proud boy should be so regarded by one, so deeply his
debtor. I cannot indeed. I love him as my own child.
I would have thee love him too—what! tears—oh, do
not weep. I would not be unkind, but, poor Harold—
it would go hard with his desolate heart if we forget
him.' (A long pause.) `He may want your friendship,
Elvira, one day, when he shall have no other friend
upon this earth'—(his voice faultered, and Elvira had
hidden her face in his bosom—trembling—trembling,
even to the extremity of her locked hands)—`And I
would have you do him justice now, that you may be
his friend then. No, no, you must overcome this prejudice.
It is unworthy of you. Believe me, I know him
better than you. He is altogether better than he appears.
The natural expression of his countenance is
mild and thoughtful. Observe it when undisturbed,
when he is not listening. His worst fault is, that he

seems anxious to appear worse than he is. It is strange,
but it is so. I have known many examples of such extravagance.
All men strive to appear what they are
not. The kind will affect severity; the meek and lowly,
and timid, will often walk haughtily, and bluster to
conceal their nature. No, no, Elvira, this is not a mortal
antipathy implanted in your heart for wise purposes.
It is a weakness, and to me, who know nothing parallel
to it in your character, and I have studied it from
your very infancy, to me, it is unaccountable. Have charity
for him. Remember, he is an orphan; hardly used
by the world—born and nurtured in a season of wrath
and trial—baptized in blood—can you wonder at his
dreadful appetite?'—(Lady Elvira shuddered, and averted
her head, with her hand pressed strongly upon her
heart). `He is of the patricians here, you know,' continued
the old man with a smile, `from the princes of
the land, and his whole blood, even on the father's
side, is almost kingly—He is at least, as noble as ourselves.'

Lady Elvira raised her head—the fire started from her
eyes: and her brows took upon themselves, as she moved
her stately neck, all the bearing and presence of something
regal.

`As ourselves!' continued he, gently disengaging her
arm, and drawing her kindly towards him. `Yes, Elvira,
I am willing to say it again, the blood of Harold
is nobler than our own.'

`Can it be possible!' answered the lady, with a look
of astonishment, and intense curiosity.

`Yes, my dear, it is possible. I have good reasons
for what I say. At some future day, when I shall be
permitted, I will make you acquainted with all that
concerns him. The papers are already in my possession;
the proofs—and to provide against all possible acaccident,
for, at my age, dear Elvira, the uncertainty
of life becomes every hour more distinctly acknowledged—we
stand amid the wreck of many generations, an
especial mark for accideut and peril—our companions
pining away, ourselves surviving, as by a perpetual
miracle, daily repeated, drawing the highest prizes, day
after day, from the lottery of life and death—living only

by incessant, and almost unnatural reprieve:—properly
impressed with these reflections, I have already
prepared the narrative, and put it, where it will be
found, when the papers that these hands have tied up,
shall be untied by the hands of another. I mention
the nobility of his descent, love, because I know that
there is a prejudice in thy heart, as in mine, for all its
foolish prerogatives. Indeed, I am willing to confess
that, some of my earlier likes and dislikes were not a
little regulated, by the pitiful gradations of birth and
blood. But, here, at least, where the oldest of our ancestors,
are but of yesterday, compared with the men of
the wilderness; them, who hold their charter of nobility
from the living God, dated on the morning of creation,
and blazoned with the sunshine of the first day—here,
ought we to be humble in our pretensions, lest some of
these old nobles of the wood should compel us to do
homage, and swear fealty anew, for the lands that we
hold of them'—He was interrupted by a tread at the
door.—It was Harold. His look was melancholy. As
he entered the room, however, he gradually assumed a
haughtier aspect, as of one preparing for the encounter
of prejudice and unkindness, and walked forward with
the aspect and bearing of him, who feels every muscle
and tendon of his frame, contributing to every motion
of his body, and every thought of his heart.

Lady Elvira instantly left the room; His eye followed
her, and a slight paleness—was it anger, or sorrow?
passed over his countenance.

The port of Harold was always lofty—and on this
occasion, coming to outface, what he scorned to soothe
or conciliate, a mortal prejudice, it had become peculiarly
so; but yet, there was an involuntary bowing and
yielding of his whole person, as his eyes followed her
retreating and stately form; and it was not till the
governour had spoken twice, that he had sufficiently recovered
from the prostrating effect of her last look, as
she lifted her blue eyes in passing away with a terrified
and timid expression, like that of one who is unwilling
to betray all her dislike, and pitying, from her
heart, the unfortunate object of it—to answer him intelligibly.

But then—then! there was a transformation quicker
than any that was ever wrought by magick. His melancholy
vanished like an apparition. His paleness fled. A
deep hectick coloured all his sallow cheek. His eyes
lighted; and his form heaved and swayed, as with the
sudden inroad of tumultuous and boundless thought.
The governour observed it, and extended his hand.

Why dwells the old man with such a subdued and
compassionate look upon the visage of Harold? and why
trembles the lip of Harold?—so strongly compressed—
why turns he away?—why that shiver?—is he speechless?

He recovers. The awful meaning of the Indian—
the fire of his spirit—lighting itself, by its own power,
amid encompassing desolation and darkness—hath been
dimmed, and dampened, if not utterly quenched, since
the good old governour pronounced, with a faltering
voice, his last farewell benediction upon his youthful
head.

`Well, well!' said the governour at last—after repeated
attempts, all of which had failed—`Poor Harold!—
what have you done? How succeeded.'

`Nothing, Sir! nothing!' was the reply. `Nothing
could be done. I have traversed the whole continent.
I have been to the western ocean. Tribe after tribe
have I visited; nation after nation, whose existence is
unknown even to the white traders—O, curse them,
curse them all!'

`Do not curse them, Harold. Did you find him?'
`Find him! Can you ask me that question! Would you
have seen me again, think you, if I had not found him?
Do you know me, governour? Find him! Aye—aye! I
did find him. I found him where I wished. His children
were about him! His wife! his little ones!—his friends!
many friends—and they were all armed, from head to
foot—and I, governour, I—I was—as I am now—unarmed—except
with this!'

Saying this, he half plucked from his belt, a blade
discoloured and rusty—

`And this—this very knife! I drove up to the hilt into
his heart!—look here! this is his blood—and this—
this is the blood of his oldest son.'

`His son?'

`Yes, governour—but his oldest:—his youngest is
unharmed—It was his own fault. He withstood me; nay
worse, the fool dared to lay his hand upon me, as I
passed away. I bade him desist. He disobeyed, and I
struck him to my feet. How I escaped, God only
knows!—I am scarred and wounded from head to foot
—see here!' (he lifted his black hair, and showed where
a ball had shorn it, and razed his temple)—`and here!'
—he tore open his bosom, and showed a gash that had
penetrated his side—`nor is this all,' said he, `they literally
shot my panther skin from my shoulders—shot it
to tatters, as I ran. But, it is over. I am avenged. I
have kept my promise. No woman, no babe, no old man
have I slain, but the murderer, the midnight murderer!
By God, I can hear the blood rattling from his heart
at this moment! And now! now, I have done with thee
forever! The avenger of blood is weary! satiated! Thou
weapon of wrath! away away! with thee forever!' he
exclaimed, brandishing the long knife with both hands,
and gazing upon the blade. `I have done with thee!—
not one is left! not one! and never again shall this hand
plight itself with thy reeking hilt. The children I forgive.
The mother, and the babe, and the old men, I
forgive. May God forgive them! Henceforth, I strike
no man in vengeance. Let me live in peace. Let me
die in peace, if so it may be. But if not—if not! why
then, war! war! to all the ends of the earth! I shrink
not. I tremble not. I have no longer any business with
revenge. But wo to him, that shall waken me in defence!
My spirit is appeased, and weary. Let me slumber.
Have I not done as I swore? Is not my bond cancelled?
Where then is my father? Let me see him. But no, no
—I will wait mine appointed time. I care not to see
him, with the feelings of a son; but I would look upon
the terrible being as he appeared to me last—once more
would I hear the voice which bade me kneel down, and
bow myself to the work of death, in the darkness of the
night, and the silence of an appaling solitude. Him!
that would not let me see his face. Him! that stood by
his only child, till he made a murderer of him! Him!
that knelt down by the side of his only son, and bound

him to hell by an oath!—O, I would travel the wide
world over to see him, to curse him, as he hath cursed
me, and to give up the ghost at his feet!'

The governour gazed upon him in astonishment. `Is
this the boy,' Harold, thought he, `this the stripling!'
Rather is it not some exterminating angel, dealing out
the judgment of heaven, amid fire and smoke, and
pestilence and death! invulnerable! immortal! irresistible!
How his manner hath changed! His whole deportment!—how
resolute and confirmed!—how full of manhood!'

True, he was changed, changed in heart and soul.
His journeying had been in danger and in solitude—in
darkness and in light—over precipice and torrent—
herding with the serpent and the wolf, battling with
monsters in the silence of death, beneath a sky of interwoven
branches—shining with broad flowers, and
party coloured leaves—beset on all sides with the transparent
garniture of the wilderness, the red sun shining
through it; the melody of innumerable waters around;
the sparkling of ten thousand insects of gold and emerald,
winged with thin blue flame, girdled and spotted,
and stained with coloured light. A man of blood! sleeping
calmly in the hallowed solitude! A Cain, sojourning
in the garden, while on his errand of death, as if
insensible to the reproach of all the breathing and eloquent
tranquillity about him, and leaving it, unmindful
of its awful admonition to forbear!

Such had been the experience of Harold since they
parted: and there is no discipline so effectual. Yea, he
was changed, and the change had been wrought upon
him in night and in darkness, in the presence of Jehovah
and his angels.

Let us dwell together upon his appearance. His form
is muscular; but the strength of his limbs and chest,
becomes visible only under vehement excitement. Then,
he is all over nerve, like the young lion. The roundness
of his limbs instantaneously assume the angular and
broken outline of one heaving at a weight—toiling from
head to foot, against a contracting pressure; dilating on
all sides against a growing and crushing weight. From

head to foot there is a visible working of sinews, knotted
and writhing like vexed serpents, uncoiling, untwining,
and detaching themselves for separate and
deadly retaliation. His form is slender, of the middle
height, and very graceful, not graceful however, with
the delicate proportions of white sculpture, but graceful
with the angry and high wrought expression of energy
and power—the grace of those god like creatures
that inhabit the southern America—the Creek Indians!
the brown and living Apollos of the earth!

There is yet an expression of melancholy in his countenance.
Mark it. The heart of him that wears such
an expression, so inward, so hopeless, so touching, be
ye assured, hath not long to pant and swell, within this
atmosphere. Many an eye will sadden in the contemplation
of another, and yet few of us are ever aware
that the young heart, pressed to our own perhaps, while
our lids are filling with tears, is already touched and
dissolving. Watch ye them with tenderness, who look
as he looks. Your trouble will be short. He is wasting
away with some slow, secret, and incurable malady,—
under the occasional visitation too, of keen, fierce and
unsparing agony. And yet there is nought to betray
the deadly working of his ailment, except the pale,
damp forehead, the uncomplaining eye, the trembling
lip, and the deep, deep melancholy of his smile. What
is it? that suffering? Whence is it? That mortal agony,
whose traces even upon the front of youth, are as the
traces of blood and sweat—intellectually wrung from
the impalpable nature of the Indian. Whence is it?
What is it? Who may tell? That he has suflered, is
suffering, cruelly, terribly, and perpetually, may be
seen; but who shall tell the sources thereof? Can it
be that this is the secret of his guilt! May not this
untiring impulse be that which drives him, in desperation,
to the battle! May it not be that, but for the aching
of his own heart, he would be kind, and affectionate,
and humble? Look at him! Is it not enough to bring
tears into the eyes of a stranger? There he stands! His
fine neck and shoulders revealed—his panther skin
wrapped with an air of martial negligence about his

broad chest—behold him! the embodied conception of
early manhood, familiar with toil and thought—an ample
brow, a free movement of every limb—and yet,
with a countenance as if some fell and deadly poison,
were thickening in the very fountain of his heart, turning
his blood black—settling like lava, and weighing
like lead, in all his limbs and arteries.

The old governor idolises the boy. There is so much
in his nature, of that heroick self abandonment; so much
of chivalry, that immortal spirit which men love to
dream of. We may condemn it, denounce it, in the
hearing of our children, but let the deed be done, to
which this spirit hath impelled one, let the thought be
expressed, and lo! the eloquent crimson of the heart
flashes upward, like lightning, to the cheeks, to the eye,
through all the trembling and agitated extremities, in
approbation of both! Such is man! This inconceivable
property of youth, this incommunicable thought of passionate
daring, sent home, like a fire brand, successively,
through the linked hearts of a multitude, will kindle
a whole people to rebellion. God! What is it! The
electricity of the soul. One arm is waved, and lo! unnumbered
arms accompany it. One voice is lifted up;
and straightway the heavens are ringing with the cry
of a whole nation! Empires move off in the desperate
incantation of a young spirit, newly baptized in fire,
dipped for immortality, when it first ascends to the
place of sacrifice, with a face shining like his—who
came down from the mountain, with the presence of
Jehovah abiding upon his forehead, and stretching out
his arms to the air! How like are his operations to
those of that penetrating, quick illimitable fire of heaven,
which agitates the elements to instantaneous combustion,
thundering within the hollow caverns of the
earth, and trumpeting aloud in the skies! What is it?
whence is it, this godlike pre-eminence of man? This!
that exploding beneath the very throne of empire, lays
bare its mysterious foundations to the eye of the profane,
covering the earth with the glittering fragments,
of sceptres and chains, and crowns, and manacles, and
leaving the royal banditti of the world, quaking and

astounded, like men, over whose heads the blue sky
has unexpectedly thundered, and reduced some of their
party to ashes! This! the inextinguishable divinity
within us!—the soaring of flame, kindled from everlasting
to everlasting! It brightens; and the whole circumference
of heaven is irradiated! It wanes, and the
fair face of nature itself, nay, the countenance of the
Almighty, as we behold it within the motionless,
bright solitude of the seas passes away, away! like the
shadow of another world! Know ye the name of this
spirit?—its properties? Its name is Genius! Its properties?
Oh, who may number them? None but the
Perpetual. He only, who can span infinity—the interminable
thought of Him only, can travel to the confines
of its dominion. But where are we wandering?

`But why,' continued the governour, after a long and
breathless pause, like one who has been travelling in
the high places of thought, the mountainous and precipitous,
and stops, terrified at the magnificence below
him—rolling cloud—and burnished metal—transparent
waters shining, in the hues of sunset, and glittering hastily
through the trees that outreach their innumerable
branches beneath his feet—all admonishing him of
peril, and winning him down from the drifted azure
and gold of the sky, to the qualified and temperate lustres
of the earth:—`But why this expression of sorrow,
Harold? What has happened? Thy brow is cloudy.
What has thwarted thee? Tell me.'

`That devil, Logan,' said Harold, locking his arms,
and stamping.

`Logan!' echoed the governour, clapping his hands to
his forehead, wildly—`Logan! What of him?—speak.'

`He baffled me at every turn; withstand him who
may? I cannot.' Continued Harold.

`Logan!' repeated the governour—`Logan!' And he
arose, bowing his tall and majestic frame, clasping his
forehead still, and shutting his eyes as if to exclude
some hateful spectre from the chambers of the soul.

`But I have yet some hope, some,' continued Harold,
`he loves—O, how fiercely! (his voice faltered)—
he loves Loena—the only true Logan left. He is adopted

into the family, and he hopes to — no, no!—accursed
be the thought!'

`He cannot, shall not prevail! Better, better, ten thousand
times better, for him and her, that the panther
had feasted on his limbs! rent him! torn him! tendon
from tendon, and left his skeleton scattered about the
entrance of her unapproachable solitude! Better that
she had died ten thousand deaths—but'—(he wiped the
sweat from his forehead, and gasped a moment for
breath.) `But—but—I beg your pardon, governour,
something has happened; you are right, I cannot, cannot
tell what it is, cannot explain it—forgive me; I am
mad, mad—raving mad at times—....
O, governour, know you that Logan is not a true born
Indian?'

`What mean you, Harold?' cried the old man, in astonishment,
`not a true Indian!' `No,' added the boy,
clasping his hands while his whole form dilated, `no,
by the Great, the Blessed Spirit! he is not, I knew it!
I knew it from the first! no Indian ever wrought so
foully and bloodily! no Indian ever broke a fair treaty!
no Indian ever put his hostage to death, no never! I
knew it. He has not one drop of Indian blood in his
veins..... He is a white man—all
over—body and soul?'

The governour shuddered at the rancorous scorn and
detestation of lip and eye, in this creature of the woods,
when he spoke of the white man. `But what then?' said
he, in reply, `he is the more terrible.'

`Oh no! governour, no!' answered Harold impatiently,
`not more terrible—that were impossible. Treachery
is never terrible—if my education among them that
knew and practice it, hath taught me its true meaning.
The white man is the more deadly, plausible, faithless,
Christian like!' Harold paused, hung his head, and was
silent, while his arms dropped lifelessly at his side, as
if, having poured out at once, and for the first time, all
the accumulated bitterness of his thought for many
years, in that one word `Christian-like!' upon an object
infinitely abhorred.

`Logan! Logan!'—still muttered the governour, in
deep and troubled abstraction.

`Oh, Loena!' continued Harold, with a convulsive
heaving of the chest, as if he were dislodging a heavy
weight—`O, Loena! shall he prevail? no, no!—(he
smote the table with his hand; the governour started
from his reverie, and he continued)—`No, no! he shall
not, and if he do not succeed,' he added, throwing his
arms about the neck of the governour, his fine head all
on fire with energy and menace—`if he do not succeed!
—why then wo to their alliance! the confederacy is
broken forever! He will fight them, curse them, make
war upon them, all, all! brethren and sisters, young and
old, women and children!—O, Loena—wilt thou?
wilt thou?'—(his voice died away in the tones of rising
suffocation.)

`Logan!' muttered the governour again and again, relapsing
into the same doubtful and dreaming tone.

Harold released his arms.

`Stay Harold, stay a moment,' said the governour,
recovering and detaining his hand; `I have a strange
suspicion—can it be? when did Logan leave his tribe?
where was he seen last?'

`Three weeks ago, he left them, and departed, nobody
knew whither.'

`Three weeks! no, no; it is impossible. And yet—
yet—there was an amazing resemblance, now that I
recall the whole; it is wonderful that it never occurred
to me before—but my illness I suppose—it may be so.'

`What, may be?' said Harold, anxiously; pray tell me?

`The murderer of the sentinel—poor Robert—the
midnight visitor.'

`By heaven and earth!' cried Harold, leaping upon
his feet, `it was he! it was he! Logan himself!—no
other man could do it; no other man dare even to think
of it; I would stake my life upon it, against all the red
men of North America—yes, Logan was the murderer;
they say too, that you were near being bayonetted,
how was it? and that—that—you have been heard talking,
strangely for you, in the language of terrour and

supplication—again and again, in your sleep since—I
hope not, my father.'

`Give me thy hand, Harold, my son!' cried the governour,
pulling him down upon his bosom—`yes, Harold,
I will be thy father, and thou shalt be my son.
God bless thee for the thought, Harold! God forever
bless thee! my poor boy! There is none left now, none!
to dispute my title.'

Harold lifted his head; he was deathly pale; his brow
darkened for a moment; he turned away his face, and
a slight shivering ran over his limbs.

`Harold, Harold! my dear boy!' rapidly articulated
the old man, with shining eyes, like one just recovered
from delirium—`Let me tell thee all about it; now,
now, while I can tell it; I see it all now—every thing
is distinctly before me, just as it was on that night'—
(he shook, and gasped like a dying man, who fears that
he shall not have time left to tell a tale of blood;—that
he shall go mad ere he can exact the oath of vengeance.)
He succeeded, however, and detailed, with surprising
accuracy, all that had occurred; every thing, to the minutest
particular, in the Council chamber, while the
countenance of Harold grew rigid in his breathless attention.
He finished. Harold threw up his arms to
the sky. `By the blood of my fathers,' he cried, `but
that was Logan himself:—Logan, the white Logan!
Governour,' he added, in an eager low tone, close to the
old man's ear, `what is his scalp worth to thee? wouldst
thou not give thy right hand for it? Speak—say the
word—and thou shalt have it.'

The governour shuddered from head to foot—`Harold!
I conjure thee!—hear me, hear me! Let nothing
tempt thee—beware—O, promise me, promise me Harold,
(he fell upon his knees,) promise me that thou
wilt not pursue him.'

Harold stood astonished, awe-struck, rebuked—but
unabashed. `I promise!' said he, and the governour arose
and blessed him. But the fervid brightness of his eye
faded not—his cheek reddened a little, and a brief convulsion
passed over his upper lip. The discipline, the
religious discipline of the whites had taught him, that

scalping was an atrocious crime, and though the boy
did not well understand why it was less courteous and
decent, than blowing a man limb from limb to the four
corners of the earth, or hewing him down bone and
sinew, into chips and shavings; yet, such is the force
of education over reason, that the blood burnt his cheeks,
and his ears tingled with the reproach of the governour's
supplication. Such is the effect of education! Virtue and
vice change places. Absurdity becomes orthodoxy, and
wisdom, heresy, from the lessons of the nursery, sanctioned
by the countenance of age and fashion. Communis
error facit jus.

The silence that followed was uninterrupted for
many minutes, by aught, but the suppressed difficult
breathing of Harold, who appeared occupied in some
profound study. He sat with his hands strongly pressed
upon his forehead, his eyes glittering, and motionless.
Their heads almost touched, as they leaned towards
each other; the sweat was upon their lips. The
rebellious nature of the Indian rose in disdain, and
trampled down all the formula and promises of that
beautiful religion, of whose solemnity and tenderness,
of whose merciful benignity and adaptedness to all the
wants and infirmities of man, he knew only by the professions
of them that came to him with fire and sword,
and poison, and famine, and pestilence. At length, with
a deep hollow sigh, he lifted his head. How changed!
The thick black hair was matted and drenched upon
his livid forehead—tears had fallen, but he knew it
not—the sweat had rolled like a hot rain from his visage,
but he was unconscious of it—so fearful had been
the working of his heart, as it lay sweltering in the fervid
indignation of his spirit, sending itself upward in
vapour.

`Did you miss nothing, father?' said he, as he uncovered
his face, `nothing at all?'

`Nothing.'

`Have you searched since, particularly—with your
own eyes?'

`No.'

`No!' echoed Harold, and instantly disappeared.

The governour looked out, and discovered him bounding
off in the direction to the Council chamber.

He speedily returned. `I miss nothing,' said he, as
he entered, in a tone of peculiar disappointment; `and
indeed how should I? I know not what to miss—what
to look for, I am not familiar with the places or appearances
of things: but,' he added, with sudden vivacity—`it
was Logan, nevertheless! I am sure of that—
and I am equally sure that he came on some evil purpose;
and most of all am I sure that, whatever were
his purpose—that purpose was accomplished! He never
failed, never!—in good or evil, never! No compunction,
no pity, nor shame, nor remorse, nor danger ever turned
him aside. Go, father, go—go yourself, but no, I
forget; you cannot. Let, somebody go then, I do pray
you, somebody that is acquainted with the place of
every thing in the apartment.'

He grasped the governour's hand in his, and continued,
`O, I know Logan; and I know, what I cannot tell.
The secret is not mine now; it is another's; when it is
mine, hereafter, I will tell you. The time will come, it
shall come; meanwhile, believe me, I know better than
any other being upon this earth, what are the resources
of Logan, and of what he is capable. The red men, my
poor, simple, credulous countrymen, believe that he
hath dealings with the Evil One, and verily, I am half
persuaded to believe so too; at any rate, I'll swear to
this—that he hath a devil.

A messenger was sent, not because the governour had
any serious apprehension for the property or furniture
of the chamber, but merely to appease the impetuous
boy, and yet, some how or other, earnestness, even
when artificial, is so contagious, that the very basest
will catch something of it, and feel a kind of bastard
anxiety and enthusiasm, when master spirits are dealing
with their passions before them; and the governor,
who was not of the base, or even the poor in
spirit, but had done many a gallant deed, and been
stirred by many a glorious thought in his youth, now
felt the martial spirit of gone by days quickening within
him anew, like the dry bones that touched the prophet,

whenever it came into contact with the fiery and
inspiring material of Harold. Just so, did he, on this
occasion, gradually work himself into a correspondent
inquietude with that of Harold.

Suddenly a thought seemed to strike him. `George,
George,' he cried to his attendant—`run, run; look for
the bag behind the curtain. By heaven, I have a
strange fear—(the messenger departed)—and yet suppose
it is gone—the treaty and all—what injury can
arise to us? what benefit to Logan?'

`It cannot be possible,' he contined, in a low soliloquy,
as if endeavouring to reassure himself, and allay
his own apprehensions, the more terrible for their very
indistinctness, `nobody would steal that—nobody could
know what was in it.'

`Nobody! be not too certain governour,' said Harold,
interrupting him, `if there be any thing in it, any thing,
that it would harm you to lose, my life on it, Logan
knew it, and has won it! Nay,' he continued, `if there
was aught in that bag—'

`Not a bag, my son, rather a knapsack of curious
workmanship.'

`It matters not—it matters not. If there be aught
within it of surpassing value, or of surpassing mischief,
that bag, with all its contents, is at this moment, not
only in the possession of Logan, but before the councils
of the Creek nation—'

Harold was interrupted by the entrance of the messenger,
who hesitated, and stammered—

`Speak, blockhead, where is it?' said the governour,
impatiently. `Gone sir—torn away—nail, arrows,
bow, wampum and all.'

A low groan issued from the labouring heart of the
governour. What had he to apprehend? Nothing. There
was nothing to be seen or heard; nothing at which his
fears pointed with any certainty, as an evil consequence
likely to follow this pillage—and yet there was
a feeling of misery, dismay, and perplexity, that was
intolerable, attending the discovery. A tear fell upon
his hand—he started—`Another civil war,' he articulated,
at last, in great perturbation, `another civil war!

The red Indian let loose upon us again. Again the
mother and babe to feed the flame. The land of the
pilgrim again to be polluted with the blood of the innocent
and helpless. Oh, God! do thou avert the foreboding!'

`But how could he know that these treaties were
there,' continued the old man. `They were placed
there not two weeks before, with my own hands. It was
a secret. I told nobody, and nobody saw me place them
there. That knapsack too—it has hung in that very
spot, unmolested, unopened, unobserved almost, for half
a century—'

`Nobody, are you sure that nobody saw you?'

`Yes, sure. I hid the papers, it is true, in council,
and there were some of my Indian friends about the
chamber, but they knew not what I did. The curtain
concealed me. The thought of thus securing them occurred
suddenly, during the debate, from discovering,
by accident, that the Indians regard the loss of a treaty
as its destruction.

`Indian friends—in council'—muttered Harold. How
many, pray—how many were they? Did you know them
all? Were they chiefs? warriors?'

`Why so eager? But no, I need not ask. Eagerness
is constitutional with Harold. What you do, my gallant
boy, you always do with all your heart and soul.
Your blood vessels are always distended, (smiling and
taking his hand)—But stay—'

Harold's fine arm lay naked before him. The old
man was wondering at the bone and muscle, the swelling
and throbbing of the arteries, the animated moving
outline, with the feelings of a father, nay, of a painter or
statuary.

`But stay,' continued the governour, `I cannot call to
mind just now, who were present, or how many; my impressions
are indistinct. There might be ten or twelve.
However, of this I am certain; all that were friendly
were there; all! Indeed, I recollect, particularly,
that the last of the number came in just as we were
dissolving—'

`Was it light?' asked Harold, eagerly raising his
head from its thoughtful posture.

`No, quite dark. We had been detained to an unusually
late hour. We could only trace their shapes in
deep shadow, and when we separated, I think that I
should have found it difficult to distinguish any person
across the chamber.

`Did you get a glimpse of his face? Did he speak?'

`Whose face? Speak? Whom do you mean?'

`The last—the last, governor—the last.'

`No, I believe not—I do not recollect. But—why,
Harold, what ails you? What agitates you so? He
kept on the opposite side and stood in the shadow.
Nay, I recollect that he stood aloof; but I did not
wonder at it. The Indian habits are familiar to me.
I know their reserve and haughtiness. I remember too,
now that my attention is recalled to the subject, the
movements of this one. I remember that he was nearer
to me than any other red man—You shudder, Harold—what
means this? Who was that Indian? Do you
know? Do you suspect? Where were you?'

Harold made no answer, except by articulating in a
low, troubled, hoarse, and intense whisper—

`Look at me. Did he stand thus'—saying these words,
he wrapped his panther skin about him, simply throwing
the heavy folds over his left shoulder, leaving his
right arm free; his neck open, with his right hand thrust
into his bosom—his head was depressed at the same
moment, and he stood as if equally prepared to strike
or fly. `Did he stand thus?'

`Exactly! cried the governour in astonishment, darting
his eyes rapidly from head to foot of Harold, as if
to assure himself that Harold was not the very man.
`Who was he? speak.'

`Logan.'

`Logan! Logan!' echoed, and reechoed the governour
again, his voice rising almost into a shriek, in its tone
of horrour and dismay. That man, Logan!—and I so
near him!—Oh! Oh, curse him, curse him. Accursed be
his old age. I shall go distracted. How long has he
haunted me? What does he meditate? What?—Tell me

Harold; my dear boy, tell me—tell thy old father; but
why do I tremble. Art thou not near me? Wilt thou
not preserve me? Thou wilt, thou wilt!'

The old man hugged him to his heart, while he panted
like one that had run a long race upon the very
brow of a precipice, and knew not his danger until he
had passed it.

A moment longer and his self possession returned.
The troubled, awful, and preternatural look of terrour in
his aged eyes, and contracted front, faded and passed
away. `No, no,' he resumed, `Logan is not so fool
hardy. He is too wily for that. Alone—alone amid a
dozen of his mortal foes—Oh, no, no.'

`Governour,' said Harold, after a long pause, with the
deepest solemnity, `governour, there is some plot at
work. I am sure of it. That was Logan. I am sure of
that too. Your life has not been spared twice for nothing.
They must have, to a certainty, you, and yours in
their power; nothing else could have saved you. There
is some secret work of extermination going on. Nay,
nay, governour, my father! be not incredulous. I am
sure as if the Great Spirit had revealed it to me, sure,
sure as if the God of the Christians had told me so, in
a dream. Give me a pass. I must be gone again. We
must play boldly. Double your watch. Take especial
care of yourself. And Oh—(he faultered)—Oh, let the
lady governess be sent to some place of safety—embarked,
if possible. Give me a pass. Give me one in
blank, pledging your word that whoever shall bear it,
he shall pass and repass uninjured, unmolested, unquestioned.
Something dreadful is at work—some fearful
intelligence. There is only one way of averting it.
Any attempt to counteract it, now, were vain. Vigilance,
courage, conduct, wisdom, are vain, if the match
be once applied.'

`For what purpose this pass?'

`Ask me no questions, governour. You have trusted
me before. You shall trust me again.'

`Trust thee! trust thee again! Yes, that I will, my
gallant, glorious boy—trust thee with my life—pshaw!
with mine honour—with the honour of Elvira herself.'

The boy trembled from head to foot—seized the
hands of the old man, bowed his forehead upon them,
kissed them, and pressed them convulsively upon his
heart.

In fifteen minutes more the passes were signed, countersigned,
and Harold was away, away, on his midnight
journeying again.