University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Thus Logan, the formidable Logan, departed. But
his steps were watched. Familiar with peril, strong to
a miracle, and subtle as the wariest, he was about to
encounter now, what even to him would be a terrible
adventure:—he was about to wrestle, for life and death,
with fully his match in courage, more than his equals
in cunning, and more than his peers in force.

There was at this time, at Jamestown, on an embassy
from a distant tribe, three blood relations, chiefs
of high name and rank, and warriours, alike remarkable
for their youthful impetuosity, their resolute intrepidity,
and their lofty bearing on all occasions. There was
wisdom on their forehead, and experience in their eyes.
They had been companions in every terrifick inroad
upon the whites, from their very boyhood: they had
fought and bled—been wounded and captured, side by
side; and side by side, had they burst asunder the frail
ligatures, that were wreathed and knotted about them,
at the same moment. At the same moment too, had

they wiped away the reproach of captivity, dipping
their rent bands in the hearts' blood of their enemies.
Had the lightning itself, blazed down upon them, and
had those bands been made of the untwisted flax, their
liberation could not have been more sudden and terrifick.
They arose in their strength; and lo! the blood
fell like rain upon the earth; and their foes—were a
heap of ashes!

They returned with the scalps of their white conquerors;
and their countrymen were willing to believe
that their very captivity was only a new and terrible
stratagem! These young men belonged to the Five Nations,
a confederacy just at this time at the height of
its power, from the admission of a sixth, and an unsparing
triumph over the Mohawks. They had, like
the Romans, driven their chariot wheels over all that
impeded their course to dominion, and like the Romans
too, had successively incorporated their ememies, people
after people, with themselves.

These young men, the Horatii of the wilderness, were
not only related by blood, but educated together in the
most trying habits of association and rivalry, each having
a property in the reputation of his two brothers,
for so they were called and known, and so they were!
Brothers indeed they were, and the band that bound
them had been, thrice and again, swathed about them in
blood. Side by side, so often, and in such vicissitude
had they striven and wrestled, that each had aided and
been aided, in some mortal extremity, by the others;
either when the paw of the wild beast was upon him,
or the hot breath of a panting enemy. Yes, the Horatii
of the western world were they! not brothers by
birth, but brothers more nearly and dearly allied—brothers
by blood and in blood.

One of them was at the council when Logan appeared.
His carria e was too abrupt, and it excited some
suspicion. His countenance was not Indian. His tone
and look were not Indian. Yama saw that. But, if not
Indian, what was he? Who was he? Whence was he?
He watched him, every motion and look, with a deadly
eagerness; his hand half hiding his face, and his eyes

glittering through his smooth brown fingers. He was
breathless; but no sign of impatienace did he betray.
Twice did he feel secretly for his knife, and twice he
relented, and his fingers relaxed in doubt. Once the
tomahawk trembled in his grasp, but nobody saw it,
even the Indians about him saw it not, so deep and awful
were the silence and attention, caused by the unshaken,
stern composure of Logan.

Long and fixedly did Yama regard him; long and
anxiously, but in vain. Was the stranger so consummately
guarded? That Yama had seen him, somewhere,
in the chase, or council, or battle, or embassy; and that
he had been with him, somewhere, side by side, or with
one like him, not many winters before, he felt assured.
But when? where? He could not answer that. His
mind was troubled. An Indian never forgets; and yet,
Yama could not remember this. Forever and ever,
would the time and place escape the tenacity of his
grasp; and yet—indistinct, and unsatisfactory as was the
impression, still it had been made with a humour so acrid
that his heart bore it yet. He felt that the stranger, be
he who he might, was his mortal foe. But, was he
a white man? His hair was black, glossy, not straight
like the Indians of the north, but waving and thick and
short, and gathered about his neck, like some of the
Southern Creeks. His naked throat, and strong muscular
chest were of the deepest brown. Was it by the
sun and wind? He kept his eye upon him, dissatisfied,
anxious, baffled. The signal of departure was given by
the governour. It was fatal to the concealment of Logan!
In turning and stopping, the position of his feet
was forgotten. He was betrayed! The dark countenance
of the Indian lightened outright! A glance of electricity
shot from eye to eye, and the whole embassy departed.

Logan saw it all! Did his heart sink? No, no! His
heart never sank. Did his eye quail? No, never! his
was not the eye to quail, even to the fiercest light of the
sky. He was Indian—Indian! body and soul! heart and
spirit! blood and thought. There was no gesture: but
his whole constitution was up in arms. `I am betrayed,'
thought Logan, and a mortal coldness pressed upon his

bosom for a moment, as he half drew a pistol from his
side, with the purpose of avenging himself on the governour.
His next impulse was to fly—to fly! Remember
that the Indian bolds it folly to be slain, madness
and imbecility to be taken, and disgrace to be wounded.
A single Indian practises, in the simplicity of his nature,
what the highest refinement of military art teaches,
that it is the perfection of a warlike nature to do to its
enemy the greatest possible harm, with the least possible
injury to itself. Hence discipline, entrenchments,
stratagems; hence the law of war—the taking of prisoners—and
the science of defence: nay, all the accomplishments
of the soldier, or the general.

Logan fled. Anon was heard the quick bending and
shaking of the distant boughs, that stretched over the
narrow and solitary path by the river's brink, the place
for slaughter and assassination, and, therefore, chosen
by Logan, who thought that his enemy would probably
look for him, or be in wait for him, in some safer
route. With a strong arm, and a vigorous movement,
Logan tore away all obstructions from his unfrequented
path, disentangling and rending the locked branches,
like one who sports among twisted garlands, or bounds
through a flower-woven lattice.

He had already matured his plan of escape. His life
was inexpressively dear to him just now, and a wild
horse, without saddle or bridle, which he had left tied
to a tree at a little distance, was already in sight.
`Some may pursue me even here,' thought Logan.
`Their rifle balls may be too swift for me.' He cleft
the rope that bound the young horse, and struck him a
blow that sent him headlong, tearing, and plunging
through the forest.

Logan was right. The sudden crash and crackle of
the underwood was speedily followed by a shot!—another!--a
third!—In vain--`away went the bridleless steed!'
and anon, under the blue lustre of a cold summer sky,
where the river turned aside in the moonlight, at a
great distance, something leaped downward, as from a
precipice—a shadow—as of a horse—and thundered into
the dim water! It was a black spot for a moment—

another shot!—and two figures emerged from the wood,
and stood erect, at the extreme turn of the river, while
a third was visible from a high rock, that overlooked
the very spot where Logan stood. Quick gestures
were interchanged, and one of the distant figures ran
down and leaped into the water, swam the bend, and
emerged at a place much nearer Logan, as if to intercept
the horse, that was heard, coursing along the
high bank opposite. Nothing could be seen in the deep
blackness, caused by the overhanging branches, but an
uninterrupted sound was heard, as of a young animal
spent with fatigue, snorting, and plunging, in the darkness.

But whither have fled the other two shadows? Could
they have guessed the plan of Logan? That were hardly
possible. But, when the horse swam the stream,
was any one of them near enough to see that there was
no rider upon his back? If so, were they not looking
for him in the wood—hoping to find him beaten off by the
blow of some intercepting branch, in his headlong course?

His anxiety became intolerable. They might double
upon his track like hell-hounds. They might be already
at his side! At this instant, the rifle might be levelled at
him from some of the near bushes! He shuddered at
the thought—and bent his body involuntarily—he turned—an
uplifted weapon glittered in its motion!—he
started—a hatchet whirled past his head. His foe was
there!.... Logan was upon him! An instant, a silent
single instant, and a human trunk rolled downward from
the rock, to the edge of the water—its head in the calm
moonlight—the blood gushing out of its throat, and
ears, and nostrils—the eyes starting from their sockets!
what had smitten him?—the hand of Logan!—It was
a corpse. Not a sound escaped it. Again and again
he had driven his dagger into the side of the giant that
grappled his throat, but Logan moved not, relaxed not,
relented not, till he saw the swollen eye balls bursting
with blood, and the rattling of suffocation was heard in
his chest.

Logan rose, with the knee that he had planted upon
the dead man's bosom, yet bent, and senseless with the

excess of his effort. He grew faint—as the body tumbled
heavily down the green slope, with its long black
hair winding round and round its throat, as it rolled.
God of heaven! can death be so terrible! Hitherto Logan
had derided it. Now, he quaked at the thought.
Often had he sought Death, but the capricious tyrant
always fled from him. He had pursued him. He had
ransacked his habitation, the sepulchre, like a misanthrope,
dwelling alone amid the abominations of that
hateful, horrible place. He had plunged into pestilence
and fire. He had sought the spectre throughout all the
vicissitudes of battle after battle, rout and storm, hunted
him in darkness and in daylight, breast to breast,
lip against lip, the distended nostril reddening with the
vitality of an exploded and bursting heart—when his
very hair was tangled and matted with the hair and
blood of successive foes, and yet, Death had always
laughed his presence to scorn, keeping forever near
him, to appal and distress him with his fell visage, and
the skeleton rattling of his joints, and forever beyond
his reach. And now, now! when he no longer sought
him, but shunned him; when his life had ceased to be
hateful to him, and something innocent and beautiful,
with weeping eyes, and gentle lips, was constantly
swimming round and round him; now! when his misanthropy
had departed from him; when humanity had
stolen back to his heart, `like a naked, new born babe,'
and was playing with the stern panoply of his bosom
—the terrible harness of his spirit—while the sunshine
was upon it, for the first time, and the rain of heaven
was washing off the blood, and his great heart was
swelling, for the first time too, with the awakened godliness
of its nature—Oh it was dreadful, dreadful, to
be smitten so horribly! to be so tempted and beset. It
was death, death! in all its horrour and bitterness!

`I am very faint,' said Logan, leaning against a tree,
and averting his face from the blackened and convulsed
features before him. The lips appeared to move—
the chest heaved! He covered his face with his hands.
Again he looked. All was deathlike, silent, motionless.
`It was the shadow of some moving branch of the

flexible high tree, upon the rock above, or some leaves
detached in the wind,' said he.

Logan sank down upon the spot. He had not the
power to tear himself away; or even to change his position.
The ghastly lineaments could not be shut out.
They were forever before him. Turn which way he
would, with his shut eyes; quivering swollen lips, naked
teeth, and clotted blood were pressing against his
face: a hateful, detestable vapour rose, like a hot steam,
about him. He felt pressed down and weighed upon by
a contracting solidity, as of massy walls, like a prison,
shutting him in on all sides, and compressing his huge
frame as into a mould. Why should he abide there?
He put out his hands, with a feeling of desperation; the
time seemed an eternity that had already passed, he
continued groping, but there was all about the smoke
of wrath and blood—was some one breathing upon his
forehead? No—his hair was moved by the wind—
was the very atmosphere, which his extended fingers
encountered, in his blindness and horrour, was it stagnant
and sticky with murder? He shuddered and drew
them back:—they were unwiped, and the clammy moisture
of death was upon them. He groaned aloud. He
would have given the world, in this unparalleled self-abandonment,
to hear the sound of a human voice, the
voice even of his mortal foes.

Such were his feelings for a while. Gradually he
became more composed. His strength returned. He
uncovered his eyes. The deadly sickness of his heart
had passed off. But still—still!—there were the ghastly
and distorted features before him—`Almighty God!
they are approaching!' he cried.

Logan leaped from his seat—reeled and fell. It was
a delusion. His enemy was dead—dead beyond the
reach of mercy or hope.

Logan grew more and more master of himself in the
interval that followed. He wondered at the deadly
fascination that had held him, in such tremendous
thraldom too, so long. `Oh,' he cried, his damp forehead
leaning against a tree, `Oh, where art thou, love!
Already, already my faint spirit is abroad for thee! I

am dying. Oh, where art thou? Let me adjure thee in
the language that thou lovest. Yo me muero!... A Dios!
A Dios, amado... Yo me muero!....' His head
sank down upon his bosom. His deep voice died away
in tones of the most heart felt, and thrilling tenderness.
What a season! The awful solemnity of the hour; the
unbounded blue of the firmament; the utter stillness
and lifelessness of every thing in heaven and earth—a
dying man and a dead one—the murdered and the
murderer—one, in his mortal agony, and the other already
arraigned before the Eternal!—at this moment
—this! receiving his sentence, and beckoning to his
murderer.

`Oh, where art thou, my beloved! Hast thou forgotten
thy promise? Art thou near me?' continued Logan
in tones of unparalleled solemnity and sweetness.
Where had all this musick slumbered during his life?
So thrilling! So mournful! It were hard to resist—
though the green turf lay upon her bosom, and the
ocean rolled between his beloved and him. The incantation
of a broken heart hath a forlorn and unearthly
witchery in it, when its strings are damp with the dews
of death. `Hast thou too, abandoned me! Art thou,
too, gone, gone, forever gone?'

He raised his head wildly, `where am I?—Speak—
what art thou! Comest thou'—his voice faltered—he
strove to arise. The heavens grew darker for a moment;
and he went on. `My country! Oh, who but me
could have wrought thy deliverance? By whom shall it
now be wrought? Dying, dying!—no creature that hath
life and motion near me. No living creature! nothing
to wreak my vengeance upon, nothing.'

He ground his teeth in fury and wrath, and fell upon
his face, and rolled, in his utter helplessness, and insensibility,
till his face almost touched that of the dead
man. At this instant he opened his eyes—he shrieked,
and his shriek was re-echoed, on all sides, above and
below, with stunning and horrible loudness—he had not
the strength to rise, but he crawled away, bleeding all
the while, upon his hands and knees. `Ha! where am
I,' said he again, as a rustling passed near him, and he

awoke, all at once, as from a blinding trance. The sound
died away gradually in the wind. Another shot rang in
the air above him, and some dry leaves fell wheeling and
eddying from the rock over his head, and settled upon
his face, as he was looking upward. A plunge followed.
The chase still continued. The colt was wounded. He
had been hunted up and down the river bank, during
the temporary delirium of Logan. `It grows dark,'
thought he, `they will forbear.' At this moment, the
spent and exhausted animal appeared directly in front
of Logan, near the middle of the stream, aiming at the
very spot where he lay, helpless and bleeding. It was
the nearest, and shelving. Logan's shriek had betrayed
him—But, at the same moment, the echoes that followed
had roused in him a preternatural spirit of resistance.
He was prepared; come what, come would, he
was prepared.

`They pursue thee, my steed,' cried Logan, staunching
his wounds with green herbage and moss, and leaning
against a rock; his mighty heart swelling with ungovernable
agony and wrath. `If they pursue thee here,
woe to thee! woe to me! woe to them! God grant they
may, while I have life enough left to requite their
visitation. Daughter of Castile, I shall yet perish worthy
of thee! Home of my fathers! I curse thee again
and again! accursed by thy name and history! Home
of my adoption! Oh, may heaven bless thee! Thou
art blessed; for the last breath of a dying man hath
blessed thee. I fled, I fled, my beloved, from the deadly
combat. I fled—canst thou forgive me? wilt thou?
But for thee, as thou art revealed anew in Loena, I had
not been a coward—my manhood had not departed
from me. A woman, a child, hath done, what many
men have failed to do. My soul trembled, and was
faint before thy resemblance, and I fled, because I saw
the spirit of my beloved passing before mine eyes. I
saw—and the loftiness of Logan's nature fell down
upon its face, and worshipped in the dust. Let me
redeem myself—'

A crash in the air over him followed:—a damp sullen
echo succeeded, with the wrenching of boughs, as

of some one swinging and descending by the branches,
from the top of the precipice. A leap—whatever it was,
it had landed.

Logan turned his eve toward the place—he could
see nothing—but his rifle was raised to his cheek; and
his body concealed behind the rock.

Something, or somebody had certainly alighted from
the beetling cliff above. Was it an animal? A creature
of prey would not have missed him. An Indian? A foe?
were there more than three? It was not dark. A
cloud was over the moon; and the star light shining, in
scattered and tremulous spots, upon the near water,
filled all the atmosphere with a dim, fluctuating, faint
radiance, giving to all material things a visionary,
moving and dreary aspect. Yet Logan, whose well
trained eye and ear could hear, and see, what might
escape many others at such a season, held his breath,
and brought the breech of his rifle closer to his cheek.
Something was certainly near him. Life and death
were on the moment. He fired!—Was that a reverberation?
Impossible! so clear, sudden and distinct.
Were there two shots? Whence came the other?
There was no ringing in the interval between them?
Were there two? He listened. There was a suppressed
breathing very near him. He could hardly support
himself. The instant that he had fired, he had attempted
to leap aside, knowing that the flash and sound of
his piece would direct the aim of his enemy, if his shot
had not brought him down. He had attempted this,
but in vain—he was too powerless—he fell upon his
hands. Many and deep were the wounds in his side;
and if his enemies were not speedily upon him, the
bleeding man felt that he should go, unaccompanied,
to the world of spirits. He grasped a pistol and a dagger
yet. The moonlight shone out again, coldly and
damply—another shot—at his very elbow—and a man
threw himself upon him! Now then for the retribution.
The struggle of death was renewed. Whoever was
his enemy, he was wounded: for the blood trickled
down upon Logan as he wrestled, with his face upward,
against his incumbent and unknown visitor. In his hornour

and convulsion, Logan, in his turn, strove again and
again to, but he could not, it was impossible, though his
heart burst in the spasm, he could not drive the dagger
home. It went wide of its mark, and the spouting blood
blinded and strangled him with its loathsome heat and
foam, as it rattled upon his forehead and lips like a
thick heavy rain. They struggled, and rolled and
wrestled, and blasphemed together: their strong limbs
were locked and rivetted; and the hands of each were
in the thick hair of the other—their very faces were
pressed furiously together at times. This new enemy
was strong, very strong—but what mortal force could
resist Logan, in his desperation? Bound as he was;
bleeding and sick at heart as he was—delirious, and
weary with slaughter—choaking with horrour and hate
—and prone upon his back, with an unseen, unknown
enemy planted upon his breast—even thus, Logan was
never so formidable! His heart heaved—his chest dilated—his
arteries were ruptured with the breath that
he drew in—he was upon his knees—his feet—and lo!—
his antagonist, prostrate and senseless—dashed and broken—a
mass of bones and quivering flesh—lies heaped
upon the rock below! The laugh of a demon broke
from Logan, as he staggered toward the body. The
triumph strung him anew. Once more the thought of
life came over him. A preternatural vitality thrilled
anew in his cold arteries. He rose, walked, nay almost
ran, but unsteadily, and reeling from faintness, through
the underwood of the river path, now knee deep in the
river on his left, and now running against the sharp
rocks upon his right, with one hand upon his side, covering
his wound, and the other feebly extended to
grapple at every encountering branch. A shadow
moved before him as he emerged to the open sky. Was
it his own? It was no time for combat. His rifle was
gone; his tomahawk; he had only a knife, hot and
smoking. He shuddered. A cold damp gathered upon
his heart. `Must I die now?' said Logan. `I cannot,
I cannot! thrice have I escaped,' It was not his own
shadow. It approached. He threw himself into the
river. His dress was heavy. He was weary indeed,
and the current strong. It drove him back, after a few
struggles, back as he felt to the place of sacrifice!
Gradually, slowly, he felt himself borne onward to the
feet of the Avenger. There he stood, dark and stately,
ready to greet him, and awaiting his approach. Was
he superstitious? Whence the mortal coldness that
ran through his shivering arteries? He was utterly
subdued—utterly, for the first time in his life. He
touched the shore—he fell upon one knee, and covered
his face with his discoloured hands, as awaiting the
thunder. How his stout heart battled against his ribs!
A strong upward rushing was heard, as of some unearthly
thing in its ascent.

A voice addressed him! He raises his head. The
shadow hath vanished. He lifts it yet higher. Why
leaps he upon his feet? Why stands he with outstretched
arms, gazing upward with his bloody and gashed
forehead, wild and melancholy eyes—naked bosom,
and clotted hair—motionless, in the beautiful moonlight!
Why!—look ye upon that cliff!—there! there!
It scarcely touches the earth! Logan is prostrate in
the dust—borne down with perturbation and horrour.

The voice sounded again, and a footstep approached.
With unspeakable apprehension Logan turned aside his
worn and ghastly countenance. Why was it so pale?
Whence that hue of a drowned man? Hath the water
purified it?

`Red man, or white?' said the voice.

`Red—red,' cried Logan, starting upon his feet,
shouting and staggering wildly, towards the sound. It
was a Shawanese that spoke! and tears—yes tears
gushed from the eyes of Logan, as he answered, gasping
for breath—`Red, red, red.'

`Logan!—can it be!' answered the voice, and at the
same moment, a shadow dashed out of the thick underwood,
threw aside a rifle, and leaped down at the
very side of Logan—face to face.

Logan had well nigh driven his knife through another
human heart, in the first shock of his surprise, but
something withheld him. The youthful aspect and
graceful, fearless carriage of his new visitor disarmed

him of all but caution. Nevertheless, he brandished
the knife, planted the foot, and awaited the result.

`Another,' whispered Logan faintly, as he pointed
to the cliff. A tall shadow stood there waving its
arms. Logan bowed thrice, and folded his upon his
breast. A sudden light flashed about the brow of the
cliff, and trembled for a moment on the blood shot eyes,
and throbbing temples of Logan. He looked up again,
dazzled and apalled. The spectre had vanished.

`Who art thou, boy?'

`I am Harold,' was the reply, `there's my hand.'

`Boy! boy!' said Logan—there was a thrilling earnestness
and solemnity, in the continued adjuration—of
`boy! boy! boy!—Oh, God, I thank thee! Comest thou
as friend or foe?

`Friend for to-night. Whence art thou? Whither?'

Logan threw himself upon his bosom. `I am wounded,
dying; my path is beset—I—'

The words had hardly passed his lips, when his
hold relaxed, and he was sinking to the earth. A voice,
as of lamentation, was heard at a distance. It approached.
It became fierce and more angry, and continually
changed, as if some Fury wandering after her victim,
were baffled at every step.

Logan convulsively grasped the hand of Harold, articulated
with a choking emphasis, some low words and
Harold gently detached his arms, left him leaning
against a tree, and went in search of the approaching
sound. It constantly eluded him. He shouted. The
shout was echoed. Nearer and more near it came. A
furious cry—a delirious laugh succeeded! He was
filled with an indefinable apprehension of some unearthly
thing; and recoiled upon his steps—most fortunately
too! for he came just in time to cut the sinews
of an uplifted arm—uplifted to inflict a mortal wound
upon the prostrate and dying Logan. The body fell
with the tremendous visitation of Harold's tomahawk,
and Logan smiled! It was the last time. Harold sat
beside him. The giant's head he took upon his knees,

and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. `Let us
begone,' said Harold.

The dying man feebly shook his head, `no, no!' said
he at last with a deep sob—`no! I am dying. Feel
here! here!' he added as Harold attempted to comply.
He shuddered—he withdrew his hand—It was covered
with clotted blood, and the warm tide gushed after
it.

Logan moved and endeavoured to raise himself, and
stand for a time unsupported. He lifted his head from
the shoulder of Harold, stood erect for a single moment,
gazed upon his pale countenance, put back the
hair from his noble forehead, with an emotion that
shook his whole frame like an earthquake—smiled
proudly, and fell upon his bosom, as if he would cleave
and grow to him forever, and sobbed aloud. Yes! yes,
this implacable, this fierce and unsparing man, locked
his arms about his preserver, and strained him to his
bosom, again and again, while his heart quaked, and
his sobs were audible.

`I am beset,' said Logan, `on all sides, no place to
turn to, no refuge, no friend, alone, alone, all, all alone,
bleeding, dying. Lo, I am beset. My enemies are
upon me. I am helpless, unarmed.'

`Who are they?'

`The three Mohawks.'

`The three Mohawks!—stars of heaven, warriour!
Logan, thou art right. The Mohawks are upon thee!
The avenger of blood is commissioned!'

`Boy—boy! know you what you say?—to whom you
speak? Boy—I am murdered!

`Know I what I say? Yes! To whom I speak? Yes!
Would that I might not taunt thee, thou brave, thou
most wretched man. But thou, thou art a murderer, and
thou deservest to die like a murderer.'

A deep groan was the only reply. Harold turned
his eyes downward—(they had been upon the throne of
heaven, glittering above his locked hands,) the head of
the Indian was buried in his panther skin. He had
covered his face and fainted.

`Curse on my cruelty,' cried Harold. `At such a
moment too! Logan! Logan! forgive me, I knew not
what I said.'

But Logan heard him not. The heaving of his chest;
the convulsive breathing, and agitated movement of his
whole body had given place to a hushed lifelessness.

Harold threw himself by his side, lifted his head
upon his lap, and besought him, wildly, again and again,
to look up once more, and forgive him. A strange,
dreadful interest took possession of his heart, and he,
too, in his turn could have fallen upon the murderer
and wept, in bitterness and humiliation. His efforts
and agony prevailed. Logan opened his eyes, his lips
moved—a long, long respiration followed, and he dwelt
for a moment upon the face that almost touched his
own, with a look of such majesty! such awful steadiness
and reproach! that even Harold could not abide
it—no, no! he could not.

`You have called me a murderer—me—(a pause)
Young man! Harold! beware!'

`Nay, Logan, do not threaten me. Do not look so
upon me. Thou canst not—thou couldst not intimidate
me, even in thy strength. We meet as friends
now; but a threat, a single threat, of look or lip, or gesture,
or word—a single threat—and here as we are,
with no help near—thou bleeding and dying at my feet,
the cold sky above us, and solitude and dead men about
—even here, here! will we join hands in battle. Here!
will I, if thou art unable to stand and wrestle—here
will I place a dagger in thy hand, and throw myself
down by thy side, and take blow for blow from thee!
A single threat, and I will do this. In thy strength
thou wast stronger than I—mightier than I; but even
then I did not fear thee. I shrank not, as thou knowest,
before thee; but now, if thou art not yet appeased,
I will waive all advantages—I, myself, will place my
knife in thy hand—set thee upon thy feet, and throw
myself upon thee, face to face, naked as thou art, and
thou shalt search my heart, as I will thine—fight together,
die together—I care not! But don't threaten
me Logan, I will not be threatened.'

`Boy, boy—thou art indeed of a magnanimous nature—not
to be threatened, not intimidated by a—dying
man!

Harold bit his lip, and half rose from his recumbent
posture. His hands were clenched.

`Thou art mad, mad, Harold.'

`Mad, mad!' shouted Harold, `Oh would that I
were mad!' bounding upon his feet, and tossing his
arms deliriously to the skies, `where is Loena!'

`Hell and furies!' cried Logan, with a yell that rang
far and near. `Boy! speak but that word again, that
name, and I'll rend thee piece meal, drink thy hot
blood, aye, every drop in thy veins—upon the spot—'

As he uttered these words, he stood upon his feet,
strong and terrible as ever, for a moment, and a weapon
was suddenly brandished in the star light. Harold
lifted his arm, but the weapon was dropped.

Harold stood calmly before him. `Look you, Logan,'
said he, `I am here. I am now more than your equal.
Even now, you tremble; how could you sustain the
grapple of death with me now? (Logan leaned against
the rock.) Time was, when you were more than mine.
I am now able to put a-sleep, forever, you and yours.
Yes, Logan, I am able to slay thee on the spot. I feel
this, I am sure of it, a blow would do it, one blow, and
no mortal hand could help thee; and do I not owe thee
that blow? Have I not a right to avenge myself, and
my friends? I have. And yet I forbear. I cannot
slay thee. I cannot lift my hand against thee. Why is
this? Is there something sacred about thee? No. Aught
that is indestructable? No. Thy blood and weakness
show that. And yet, thou hast now, as ever, no equal,
no antagonist. I dread to encounter thee. I, in my
strength, thou, in thy helplessness. Nay more, I feel
a growing kindness for thee. I know not why. Is it
compassion? No. It is sterner and loftier. My terrour
abates, I dare not pity thee, cannot love thee: But I
feel my spirit bowed down with veneration and awe.
Nay, do not avert thine eyes, I love to gaze upon them
—there are strange yearnings in me, and I feel a sickness
and longing that are unaccountable, while their look is

upon me. It is not loathing. No. Nor detestation, nor
hate, nor abhorrence. No, no, it is a proud, great
swelling of the heart, holier, and mightier than I have
ever experienced before. But for this, Logan—nay, do
not approach, I dread to touch thee—I should have
slain thee at first. Why that groan? Come, if thou
wilt, to my heart. I cannot refuse thee, red and terrible
as thou art. Let us be friends. Shall we be friends?
What sayest thou? Speak Logan, alive or dead—foes or
friends?

Logan was again overcome. He tottered towards
Harold, covered his face with his hands, and fell at his
feet, clasping his knees. `Oh my son! my son!' said
he.

Harold was stupified with amazement. A flash, like
the lightning of heaven, blazed through his brain—the
sweat rolled down his forehead and lips—all was explained
all!—his birth! his awe!—He knelt down and
embraced his father.

`Thy son!' he articulated, as their cheeks touched,
`thy son! Oh God! my father! my father.'

For minutes they were locked to each other, soul and
body. `Hear me,' said Logan, as soon as he could
speak, `hear me, Harold. I am dying. The hand of
death is upon me; my brain whirls. I was never mad
but for a moment; but if I live now, I shall live a madman.
Let me die; pray with me, my son, that I may
rather die. What—sobbing! shame on thee, Harold.
Hear me. There are but a few breathings more for me.
I am murdered, murdered by Indians. I forgive them.
Do thou forgive them. Nay, I insist upon it; give me
thy promise. New feelings have taken possession of
me. In a few moments I shall be at the bar of Him that
made me. I do not despair; bloody, bloody as I am, I
do not despair. He knows me; he hath created me; he
knows my infirmities; but hush, I cannot talk on this
subject; I command thee to forgive them. Nay, ask
me not, I—thou shalt never know who I am, or what I
am, till thou art good and great. Choose thou thy

course. Avoid blood shed. Wilt thou forgive them?
Speak, speak quickly, my son.'

`I will, I do.'

`Well then. Now swear that thou wilt pursue the
whites to extermination, day and night, forever and
ever—'

`Father!'

`I understand thee. This thou art commanded to do
—appointed to do. In doing this, thou but fulfillest the
command of the avenging God. It was he that commissioned
me. Beware of murder; but give them battle
in their churches, at their fire sides, funerals—'

`I will, I will,' cried Harold, in a loud voice, firing
and trembling, at the awful solemnity of his manner.
`I will, so help me heaven, in my utmost need.'

`Be thou the Indian leader,' continued Logan, his
voice waxing fainter and fainter at every respiration.
`Unite them; head them; perfect their confederacy.
Drive the whites back to the banditti of Europe—back
to—(his voice faltered) to—back to England! (His articulation
was convulsive and passionate.) Rescue thy
inheritance; avenge thy mother—Oh, God! Oh, God!
where art thou, dearest! Lo, I am coming! I am coming—
Yo me muero.' A long pause succeeded; Logan's lips
moved as in prayer, and his eyes rolled over the whole
circumference of heaven. `Harold, remember England.
Thou hast great claims, great pretensions there. Go
there. Learn all that white men know. Return and
emancipate the Indians. Do this! and thy father's
blessing shall be upon thee, through fire and water.
Nay, his spirit shall be upon thee—that shudder!
Harold, my son, do not execrate me. The malediction
of my child, I cannot endure. I may deserve it, but I
cannot, will not endure it. I am thy father, Harold—
steeped to the throat, in blood and guilt; going, going,
Oh God! to mine account—but curse me not, my child.
It would avail thee nothing, and it would send me before
the judgment seat, blaspheming all the world, and
thee, and Him. I am not all guilty as I seem. Thou
shalt one day learn what hath driven me hither, hated
and abhorred; making me a bye word among men. Yes,

thou shalt one day learn all. The means are open to
thee. If appointed, I will be with thee, with thee, my
child, forever and ever, sleeping and waking, in battle,
and fire and smoke, upon the water, or in the wind—
`in the hour of death and in the day of judgment.'
Oh Harold, my son, my son, pray with me that this
may be permitted to us. — — —
— — — I am going, Harold. Thy
hand, thy hand, my son. How cold and small it feels.
It grows dark too. Nearer, Harold, nearer; there, lay
thy hand upon my forehead. Tell me that thou forgivest
and blessest me. Canst thou?'

Harold pressed his lips upon the awful front of his
father, and blessed him.

`One moment, my son: raise my head, a little, a
very little. Let me look upon the sky. It is midnight,
is it not Harold? How beautiful the stars. What blue
magnificence! What prodigality of power and loveliness!
Can He, Harold, tell me, my child, there is comfort
in the sound of thy voice, can He be unmindful of
a dying man?—Ah! what is that? Look up, my son. Is
there not a shadow descending? The sky too, does it
not approach us? Ah, it grows colder and darker.
That water! go my son, scoop some of it up in thy
hand, and touch my temples. A moment longer, one
moment, place thy hand upon my heart, Harold. There!
keep it there, while I speak. These are my last words.
Go to Loena. Nay, my son, keep it there. Tell her
that her name was upon my lips, with my last breath.
Aye, groan Harold, groan! weep, weep away! I have
groaned—I!—and I have wept too. Tell her how, and
when, and where I died. And tell her that thou art
purchased for her in blood. Now, farewell! my son! my
son. The hand of Logan is reaching to me. I see it!
Welcome to the halls of the great. I come, Icome!
Once more, farewell, farewell. Harold, Harold, everlasting
hatred to the whites! War, waste and extermination
to them!—fidelity—Oh! fidelity to thy brethren—Father!—father!—Loena!—Loe—'

The spirit hath departed. How chilly it grows.
Look there! Beneath our feet is Harold, lying upon

his face, the blood stagnating about him, his hair blowing
over the rock, and his extended hands motionless
as death, beneath him, and encircling his neck, his own
father, the terrible, the tremendous Logan. `Can it
be—Oh merciful father! can it be! I, I his son! True,
true, it must be so. I see it all. A stupification is upon
me.'

Harold disengaged the naked arms of his father, and
arose, and seated himself upon a rock under the tree.
There was an insupportable stillness about him. It was
deep midnight—an awful, boundless transparency of
shadow: a firmament as of dark chrystal, sprinkled with
fire, above him; a moon shedding a faint and beautiful
light on the verge of the horizon, like a lamp of pearl,
fed by an inward flame.

The religious and mysterious horrour of his feelings
increased at every breath that he drew. The ferment of
his blood had subsided. His emotions had died away.
He locked his hands; he knelt; he wept.

The great, the terrible Logan, him, the white man,
whom he had so hated and feared so steadily—the
body before him, that! that was his own father, But
whence was he? who?

These revolutions of thought grew intolerable, visions
of distant empire, ambitious and tumultuous, came
surging in upon his understanding, like an ocean thundering
against the battlements of a continent: worlds
rolled about him. His silence became that of death.
He lifted his front to the heavens. They never were
so beautiful. The stars were literally dropping in pale
streams of light, and rippling upon the dark water at
his feet. The whole dominions of heaven were bounded
by piled up and broken ramparts of the blackest midnight;
while, from horizon to horizon, sprang an arch of
dazzling vapour, like a bridge, wavering and shining as
if mid way between earth and immensity. Away beyond
him flowed the river, in transparent blackness; and yet
further, were measureless and undulating shores, darkly
wooded: beneath him a sky, yet blacker and more
brightly begemmed. A sound—

Harold started and listened. Some wild beast was
dashing through the distant wood, as if pursued. He
shuddered. The chill of an unearthly presence was approaching
him. He dared not raise his head. A long
silence followed. He composed the limbs of his mighty
father, threw himself once more upon the body, and
while endeavouring to find the sheathe of his knife,
discovered a small ivory tablet, glued with blood, within
the bosom of his inner jacket. He took it, polluted
as it was, and placed it next to his own heart.

`I will return now,' said Harold. `Farewell, farewell,
forever, thou mighty in heart! I go to thy enemy.
He shall come and do the honours of sepulture for him
whose countenance he trembled to look upon; for him,
at the sound of whose tread, his knees smote together.'

Onward he toiled, sadly and doubtfully, frequently
disturbed by some crackling above him, as the young
panthers, snuffing his approach, leaped along from tree
to tree, and rock to rock: and starting ever and anon,
as if some creature of the upward element were at his
elbow. Harold was superstitious. His boyhood had
been spent with the Indians, with the Logans particularly,
to whom the preternatural visitations of their
bold ancestry were common; so common indeed, that
the stranger, nay the passing traveller, sometimes felt,
in his proximity to the haunted places of the tribe, a
shivering in his very bones, of which he knew not the
cause, until he was told by the experienced, and made
to participate in the unwilling and awful communications
of them, that muttered and wrought there. Wo
to him that trespassed at midnight, upon their council,
as they assembled in seasons of calamity—all the living
and dead generations of the Logan! Wo to him! for
go where he would, in sunshine or in moonlight, in
silence, darkness and solitude; or amid the thronged and
clamorous habitations of men; go where he would, he
would see shapes and faces passing before him, and
hear voices above and below, in the air and the earth
and the water; upon the mountain top, in the deepest
midnight, with shut eyes, he would see gigantick shadows,
gesticulating fiercely against the sky, and walking

all over the tents and waters, and through the hunting
grounds of Logan. Go where he would, a shadow
would precede him; stalking onward from height to
height, looking at him from the tangled thicket, with a
dim and terrible face; or gazing upward from the depth
of the water, over which his canoe was flying.

Stranger, beware. Intrude not upon the dominions of
Logan, if thou lovest sleep. Touch not their confines,
if thou wouldst not be haunted forever and ever.