University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Byron.

God of heaven! Father! Lo, thy visitations are upon
the creatures of thy hand. The being of thine appointment,
he whom thou hast fashioned for great deeds;
he, who had slumbered away his youth, his whole youth,
unknowing either his power, their magnitude or variety,
he!—now starts out from the troubled darkness of
night, with ten thousand heroick aspirations battling
within his heart.

`Where am I?' cries Harold, the young Logan of
the wilderness. `Oh, God of the great sky! to what hast
thou commissioned me? Lo, I am here! ready to do
thy bidding. I bow myself down before thee, wondering
at the tremendous revolution of the past night. I
tremble at the contemplation of mine own change.
Thou hast revealed the ocean of immeasurable thought
to me.

I cannot meditate; I dare not. Do Thou sustain me.
Do Thou administer to my spirit. I cannot approach
thee. I cannot understand mine own nature. Do Thou
exhibit it. What spirit is this, beseting me so vehemently?
Be it evil or good, I am yielding to it. Father!
I have been taught to approach thee in the dark wilderness;
in the immeasurable, stern, oppressive solitude,
with the broken and dislocated foundations of a
world heaped up about me, like entrenchments, up, up
to the very sky. I have been taught that Thou art great
and terrible. My spirit has lain prostrate and gasping
on the earth, before the tremendous denunciations of
thy power. I have quaked to my innermost soul; dust
and sweat have covered me from head to foot, as I
have pursued thee through the eternal silence of thy
habitation. Yet, Oh God! that thou art not to be feared,
not dreaded; but that thou art a God of benevolence,
and as the christians say, of long suffering, I have forever
believed, even in the agony of my supplication.
Father! Father! Thou who art alike, the father of the
red man and the white. Thou who hast given the inheritance
of the Indian to fire and sword. Thou who
hast permitted the innumerable nations, and kindreds
and tongues of this, the new world, to be scourged, and
thinned, and scattered, and swept from the earth, by
pestilence, and famine, and white men. Oh, do Thou
teach me to direct the fierce passion that agitates me.
Do thou, Great Spirit, unfold to me the meaning of
these mysterious and terrible anticipations. Why am I
thus shaken? Why this throbbing of my temples?
Whence all these feelings—so vast, so boundless, so new!
What is my destiny? What, Oh our God! What the
destiny of the Red men? Am I to restore their—I—
Is their dominion to return?—youchsafe—'

Harold leaped upon his feet. The thunder rolled
about the heavens, with a suddenness and loudness that
made the hair rise upon his head. All the mountains
thundered in reply. The foundations of the very earth
appeared loosened; and Harold stood blinded, shivering,
and bowing as if he had seen some palace or pyramid,
tumbled headlong, in the concussion of the air; and

the fire and smoke of an angry god rolling and flaming
amid the dust of its ruins—even while he was gazing
upon it. Harold shouted as the reverberations died
away. He shouted, with the shout of a warrior to embattled
legions, when the first banner of the enemy is
shattered in the blast of his onset. He stood, in the
hurricane of his spirit, and brandished his arms, and
shouted, again and again.

A sublime and incomprehensible feeling took instant
possession of him. He regarded the sudden roll of the
thunder, and the sheet of blue flame that rushed by
him, as a manifestation from heaven, that his prayer
was heard, and that he was appointed to rebuild the
habitation of the Indian.

The night had been a night of many wonders. He
had found his father—found him, after struggling so
long with the doubtful and mysterious associations of
his memory, in the hope of finding some one who
would love him, pray for him, weep for him, die for
him: some one, before whom he could fall down upon
his knees, as he would before his Maker, and cry father!
I am thy son, thine own, thine only son. Do with
me, as it shall seem to thee best. And now that he had
found him, what was he? Who was he? Was he not
stained, horribly stained, with the thick pollution of his
nature? `And yet,' whispered Harold, while an instinctive
shudder of admiration thrilled through and
through him, `and yet, he was great, in his awful vindictiveness;
his immoveable steadiness; his unapproachable,
unassailable seclusion of spirit; impervious,
indiscrutable; compounded of the fiercest elements, impelled
and agitated by the most unearthly ambition.
But who was he? A white—`Why knew I not, Oh my
father, that thou wast of mine enemies, before we met?
Thou shouldst have wrought my conversion, or I thine.
Why didst thou forsake me? Why leave me so young?
Why make me swear, as thou didst, to pursue forever
and ever the men who have since fallen, one by one,
successively, in obedience to my vow? Why meet me
too, as thou didst, thrice, thrice, in the battle, and
stand, in thy gigantick self possession, as courting death,

and provoking it, from a parricide? Forgive me, Oh
forgive me! my hands were well nigh red with the
blood of thy great heart! well nigh, wounded and desolate
as I found thee, well nigh was the hand of thy
child to the red fountain of his being, ready to break
and rend and scatter!—Ha, governour—'

The governour slowly advanced. He grasped the
boy's hands, and stood gazing upon him, with his heart
too full to utter a single word. He tried to speak, but
he could not. He could only press the young Indian
to his heart, and weep upon his shoulder.

He recovered himself, and then, as if never weary of
studying his countenance, repeatedly thrust him off,
then drew him back and passed a trembling hand over
his intrepid forehead. He was struck with amazement!
Whence that newborn sublimity of aspect? The old
man's lip quivered, and his delighted face shone with
emotion. The eagle-eyed Harold shrunk not, quailed
not, moved not, from the inquisitive and searching
look of the old man.

They went together to the apartment of the governour.
Harold told all, every thing; the death of Logan,
the Indians, the discovery of his birth.

The governour's countenance fell. It became troubled.
He renewed his examination of the lofty and ample
forehead before him, but with no satisfactory result.

`Has he told all?' thought the governour: He had,
but it was long before the governour was entirely satisfied
that he had.

The funeral ceremonies were in preparation immediately.
There was an uncommon earnestness, and
solemnity, and attention to pomp and magnificence in
the arrangements, that had never been seen before upon
the continent. All the troops were under arms. Military
honours were decreed. All was ready, and the
scouting parties, that had been detached, to scour the
woods and bring the bodies, were every moment expected.

They returned. But they brought with them only
two bodies—where was the third? The third! The

pressure of the turf beneath the tree, where Harold had
just left the body of Logan, was yet visible; nay, almost
warm, and the life blood had settled thickly in its
centre, but so recently, that it had scarcely coagulated,
or blackened in the sun and wind. Near—too near for
such mortal foes, even in death, still lay the slain warrior,
his hand reached out convulsively—his fingers
wide apart, and stiffened, and bent, as if every sinew
had cracked, and every blood vessel burst, in the last
mortal reaching of his soul, in his delirious agony, for
aid.

But where was Logan? No track was in the dew—
none in the frost; none upon the leaves. The dry moss
and the withered herbage told no tale. His spirit had
departed from him; and hours, whole hours had passed,
while young Harold had set, beleaguered by dead men,
under the violent and dreadful oppression of thought
growing cold again, like lava, after an eruption, and
stagnating and glowing under a boundless and comfortless,
dark and silent sky.

But whither, and by what hath it been borne away?'
was the inquiry of all. `To the river?' the thought was
electricity. The river was dragged, forded, searched,
from shore to shore. In vain. No trace was discovered.
And yet, there was said to be, though Harold had no
opportunity of examining for himself, there was said to
be, an appearance, as if the prow of a canoe had run
ashore near the spot—and, at an incredible distance,
the print of joined feet, and the proportions of a body,
as if some one, of preternatural strength, had leaped,
and fallen. But whence the boat? and who the boat-man?

Harold's blood ran cold. There was a superstitious
belief among the descendants of Logan, which made
the stoutest of the family quake. It was their hereditary
creed that they, who laughed to scorn the promptings
of the good spirit, were sometimes caught upward
even in the chase, or the battle, and never more seen
upon the earth; and that others, many generations before,
had fallen asleep, and been heard of no more; had
been plucked out by hands that were visible, like

shadows in the air, from the very centre of their armed
brethren, while they were watching about them, as
sentinels about their chiefs. Sometimes, it was said, that
they would be talking together in the caverns of their
dominion. They would be looking in each others faces.
Their dark countenances would be lowering intensely
between their fixed, supporting hands. They
would hear no sound, see nothing, feel nothing—but
one of their number would be gone! their chief!—they
would know not how, and know not when! Was this
another of these visitations? Were the adopted children
of this family alike the objects of solicitude and
vengeance, to the guardian spirit of the Logans? Who
may answer such questions? Enough for Harold that
Logan was not found. He was troubled. A fixed and
cold disquietude took possession of his heart from that
moment; a vital terrour, thrilling him with superstition.
He had lost his father, and such a father!—so terribly;
almost by his own hand. He had beheld him weltering,
gasping, suffocating, in his own bood, at his feet;
had seen him die, heard his last blessing, felt his last
breath, and left him, why? wherefore? to the visitations
of some unearthly thing, who had, perhaps, in the wantonness
of her unknown power, stung him, the dead
man, again to life, but to riot again over the horrible
agonies of his dissolution.

A heavy roll of drums roused Harold from his
meditations. A quick discharge of musquetry drew
him to the windows of the apartment. Trumpets rang,
and the melancholy cry of a blown bugle died away in
the wind, with a mournful, desolate voice. The troops
were collected in the great square. The populace, with
horrour and consternation in their faces, were gathered
around and breathless; cleaving to each other. The
two bodies were exposed, just as they were found,
gashed, disfigured, stiff and stark, side by side. Many
Indians were around, lowering dimly upon the scene,
and demanding, by their deep and impervious silence, a
quick explanation of its meaning. There was none to
answer.

The governour soon appeared. He was in full uniform,
and sat his horse like a king. All the military
parade, that the colony could furnish, was before the
eyes. The shattered ensigns were unfurled. One
solitary piece of light artillery was harnessed and disposed
in the centre, and a troop of disorderly cavalry
were pivoting and wheeling, and rearing incessantly.

The Indians were huddled together; but there was
that in their looks, which, even at the distance that
Harold was, served, to his experienced eye, to demand
explanation. He continued to watch them. Their
sullenness was boding. The governour was proceeding
to explain these appearances to them, when it occurred
to him, that by burying the two slain Indians with some
appearance of parade, he would do more towards conciliating
them, than by any explanation whatever. Orders
were instantly given for a detachment to file off,
and prepare for the ceremonies of sepulture. The
trumpet was blown. And poor Harold, who could endure
the preparation no longer, galloped in among them
on horseback. His eyes flashed fire. His lips were
ashy and quivering; his voice was hoarse with suffocation
and wrath. The flanks of his young horse were
streaming with blood, and the rowels were driven in,
again and again, ere he could bring the furious animal
sufficiently near to be heard. There was a rising shout
—`Silence,' he cried, `silence.' His sword lightened in
their eyes. The governour was astonished. The Indians
gathered about him.

`Silence,' cried Harold again. All was silent as death.
`Governour, do you bury murderers, murderers! with
the honours of war!

The governour coloured. An Indian was seen to
advance his foot, and bring his short rifle half way up
to his shoulder. Instantly a whole platoon levelled at
his heart. The cavalry prepared to charge. The horses
were wheeled aside from the piece of artillery, and
the match was swung over the vent, and ready to be
applied at the slightest signal.

Harold saw it all. He observed another Indian, who
had been the nearest to him, and the foremost all the

while, withdraw, and stand aloof, with an aspect of
command. Others did the like at a distance, and their
eyes were upon him. Was he to be the first victim?
Harold looked to the priming of his pistols: secured
his sword knot to his wrist; thrust his feet home in his
stirrups, reined up his horse, and prepared himself for
the worst.

All eyes were upon him. A war whoop!—Behold
him now! dashing like a thunderbolt from right to left!
He waves his hand See! A bugle rings out his
charge; and the troop of horse, in a whirlwind of dust,
are at his heels. His voice rises above the cry of a
multitude. His horse is seen every where. His voice
is heard every where. The onset is in smoke and flame.
The Indians throw themselves upon him, man after
man, as by a preconcerted arrangement. He is wounded—his
horse falls—he is upon his knee!—entangled in
his harness. Hark! his pistols ring—he is partially
liberated—staggering, and many are upon him. God
be praised! a bright apparition moves through the thick
of the fight to his rescue! unarmed and half naked, it
comes! Can it be! Can his eyes deceive him! His arms
are outstretched—he is helpless—his sword drops from
his hand. A blindness follows—`Harold, Harold!' it
cries.

He recovers. Now, now, for vengeance. He thunders
and lightens in his wrath. Can he be deceived.
Can mortal force keep down his mounting spirit, at
such a moment. No, no, all the Indians in hell could
not hold him to the earth, though the breath had left
his body, and they were heaped upon him by tribes.
He breaks from them; he rends himself away! They
fall to the right and left; his blows rain upon them with
flashes, like the northern light. Quicker than the
thought of man could believe it possible, Harold hath
cut his way through his foes—alone, alone. Rifle after
rifle ringing after him—onward he bounds, amid the
renewed whooping and yelling of the foe, who are recovering
from the panick that seized them at the first
sight of the lovely vision that broke upon the cloud of
battle. They gather, and thicken, and crowd and wrestle,

with a more diabolical obstinacy than ever, about
him. The governour is down and wounded. His gray
hair is in the dust. His lovely wife—her dishevelled
tresses flying in the wind; her bosom naked; her garments
of lilied whiteness, rent and stained with blood
—is rushing towards him. A contest, as of devils, is
raging about her steps. Harold is leaping forwards,
she sees him, she extends her arms, she utters a thrilling
cry; the cavalry hear it, they wheel, and down they
come, thundering, to the rescue. The infantry rally
again. They form—peal after peal is ringing from
their heavy muskets. Harold fights on, covered with
wounds, the blood falling from him like rain. He
marshalls his chosen ones about the precious spot—a
circle of foot and horse, of fire and smoke, now encompass
the old man and the woman of beauty. They are
untouched, unprofaned now, by even the look of an
enemy. He is on foot. A horse springs by him, his
bridle loose, and his stirrups swinging as he goes. His
last rider hath fallen, mortally wounded, in the charge.
Harold leaps into the saddle; bare headed, and red
with the tribute of battle. He flies, shouting and waving
his sword, again to his cavalry, while the deadly fire
of the Indian rifles is raining in upon them, from every
stump and tree; and every shot tells.

`Charge, charge,' cries Harold. It is done. Each
man singles out his enemy, and gallops over him. They
wheel in a stream of fire, and many a scalp is whirling
and scaling to the earth, and many a head is rolling
upon the ground. They charge and press, and hew the
red men down, limb from limb, with their rifles at their
cheeks. Thus hemmed in by the mounted swordsmen,
and running hither and thither, yelling and battling as
long as they can stand, or sit, or lie, the Indians are
literally cut to pieces, in the presence of women and
children. Hear them! they are shrieking and wringing
their hands at the windows, and on the house tops, that
overlook the square! What an impulse for brothers
and husbands and fathers!

Still the affair is not determined. The Indians fight
with their accustomed desperation; giving no quarter,

taking none; renewing again and again, their onset upon
Harold. He is still upon the field, racing from one
end to the other, panting and worn out with the
hunt. At this moment he stops— gives a sudden order
—points with his sword to a spot, where the enemy
are rallying again. All appear eager to charge anew. He
refuses—what means he? Would he be so rash, with
that little band to gallop upon them? He will! he does.
Shield him heaven! He places himself at their head—
God of mercy!—he blazes upon them in a tempest of
fire and smoke! He dashes through and through them:
they are reeling and tumbling about as from a clap of
thunder. Behold! there are many more heads rolling
upon the ground; and many a trunk is giving out its
blood, like a rattling fountain.

The fight is over. The Indians are flying. The
whites withdraw, and form upon the high space in the
rear of the governour, and overlook the field. A few
straggling horsemen are scouring hither and thither; an
occasional shot, a wounded steed breaking from the
forest, and now and then a shriek, coming from the
woods, with a preternatural distinctness, show that the
enemy is hotly pressed in his flight.

A moment before, at the onset, Harold had cursed
himself for his precipitation, in applying the spark as
he did, to the conspiracy; but now, he was glad that he
had done so, while the troops were under arms. The
council assembled; the dead Indians were stripped, and
the quantity of ball, and powder, concealed about them,
together with the state of their arms, furnished conclusive
proof of their preparation, for a deliberate and
formidable assault.

From this moment, Harold became a universal favourite.
All eyes and all hearts were upon him. Till
then, the whites had generally regarded him with
jealousy and distrust. His swarthy Indian aspect; his
haughty calm manner; they had made no friends, many
enemies. For other reasons, he had been regarded by
the Indians with a lowering and inquisitive eye. He
was an Indian. That they knew. Then why herded he
there? An Indian sleeping out of his lair, holding council

and communion with the white man. Shame on
him. Was he an apostate, a traitor, a renegade, leagued
against his red brethren? Better, said they, for
then they could have forgiven him; better that he were
leagued with red men against red men. Now, now, he
was indeed their foe.

After this bloody affair, the whites appeared wholly
to forget that he had one drop of Indian blood in his
veins. The very women and children shouted and
echoed his name as the watchword of safety. All that
they had hitherto doubted and hated him for, his loftiness,
melancholy sternness, all these things were now
looked upon as the magnificent indications of greatness
—preternatural greatness. He was their chosen one—
their saviour. Their old governour, himself, was forgotten.
`Saul had slain his thousands, but David his
ten thousands:' and the very soldiers who had formerly
writhed under the lightning of Harold's rebuke,
were now bearing their voiciferous tribute to his bed
side. He was wounded, gashed and pierced from head
to foot. Where should he go? There was no question
that he was entitled to the kindness of all—that his bed
of dry leaves and fur, with the wind blowing about him,
was no place for such a creature, at such a time—that
he was the preserver of all and each—and therefore,
all and each insisted upon the exclusive right of washing
his wounds, and healing his broken spirit. But who
had the best right?

Ask the governour. His life had been saved again,
again by the same dear hand. Yea, the life of her
whom he loved, with a love passing the love of women
—with all the doating, distracting, desolate fondness of
parent, lover, friend, husband, all in one! She was the
creature of his idolatry: a being, whose element was
prayer and tears and tenderness. She too had stood
over him, wounded, bleeding and naked to the gaze of
ruffian violence, and the rude hands of men smoking
with gore—and yet, she was saved! How could he
be thankful enough for her safety! He knelt and she
knelt. They knelt and wept together—wounded and
torn as they were. Nor was Harold forgotten—a chamber

and attendants were allotted to him. All that tenderness
and veneration could do, was done for him.
The holy enthusiasm of his character, fiery and desperate
as it was, had become contagious. The very
servants felt it, and they blessed him, fervently and repeatedly;
and woke and prayed for him, and wept for
him, in the silence of midnight. They would creep
softly, one by one, to the door of his apartment, and
listen there for hours, to discover if any sound betrayed
his suffering; and sure was every one, go when he
would, by night or by day, that he would meet some
companion there, upon the same errand. Their duties
were forgotten, (and who could reproach them? Not
even their mistress)—in their visits of love and watchfulness.

The truth is, that there was, in the mysterious history,
and yet more mysterious adventures and deportment
of Harold, a something like fascination, that spell-bound
the interest and affections of all that came within
the glance of his eye, or the sound of his voice: and,
young as he was, the very aged themselves would
stop, and lean upon their canes, and gaze upon him,
affectionately and mournfully, as he walked by them, in
the intense abstraction of his thought, with the step and
tread of early manhood, yet buoyant and elastick with
youth—firm and confident, as with the composure of
assured superiority. Not a gesture, not a glance, not
a tone, not a movement, but was instinct with peculiarity,
unaffected peculiarity.

The delirium of the governour returned. His wife,
poor creature, was unable to attend him, and Harold,
alas for him! he was powerless in aid or council—he
was unable to pursue the rapid and wide developments
of his own character. He gazed upon the adventures
of the week with terrour and delight. A thousand
fearful and brilliant evolutions passed before him. He
trembled and was afraid at times, and at times an unspeakable
thrilling, a kind of delirium ran through his
arteries, and his heart danced in his bosom, amid the
strange and indefinable feelings that had sprung up—
at once—at once! in the compass of a single night,

within the solitudes of his thought. This would pass
away—a sense of desolation, enclosing him round about
with a cold, dark atmosphere, and shutting out all communication
with aught that was sunshiny or beautiful,
would follow; and he would throw himself upon his
bed, confounded and dismayed.

Toward the evening of the fourth day, he sat at
the window of his chamber, supported by pillows,
quite faint and exhausted, with the bewildering action
of his own mind, which quickened its activity, exactly
in proportion to the torpor and quiet of his body. But
is this peculiar to him? Can intellectual and physical
exertion operate intensely at the same moment, in the
same person? Can he who is wearied by metaphysical
speculation, intoxicated with the liquor of heaven,
which is poured out in golden cups to the inspired,
can he hunt or swim, or leap with his accustomed
spirit? Or can he who has just left the field of athletick
competition, go to his books, with a mind sufficiently
tranquil for successful inquiry? Enough then,
this was no peculiarity in Harold's constitution.

Well then, he was at the window. His eyes rested
upon the crimson and flame coloured sky. A strange
melancholy, mingled with an unaccountably pleasant
thinking of death, had given way to a new belief. His
was to be a name among the men of this earth. An
impatient, hurried throbbing of the arteries—a scorching
heat in the temples followed. He was weary of
inaction. The sky was before him—supremely beautiful.
Before him, reddening to its extremest verge, went
the blue river, rippling in the light of the setting sun.

The south western horizon was one waving and
transparent undulation, as of heavy, illuminated drapery,
like great curtains borne upward by the wind, and
floating above the air of high places, or hovering over
waters in commotion. A pile of profusely garnished
and magnificent clouds of every shining colour and hue
—rough gold—tremulous crimson, purple and violet
and deep blue, with a luminous vapour of insufferable
whiteness, evolving from its summit, like the smoke of
a furnace, arose behind. From every side, there went

fitful and incessant irradiations, streaming and flashing
with all the colours of the rainbow, as if some beleagured
garrison were showering forth their coloured darts,
and flaming spears, from every cranny and crevice of
their beautiful citadel. It was perpetually changing in
hue and shape, and the whole circumference of heaven
was agitated and trembling, like leaf gold in the wind.

The mind of Harold caught the reflection, and was
heated to intensity. Anon, there shot away up the meridian,
quick, vivid, and subtle flashes of light; and
then there followed a moving effulgence athwart the
deep blue, like irradiations of discoloured armour issuing
from file after file of glittering shapes, dashing
hastily and incessantly through the profound of heaven.

He raised his eyes. In the very centre of the firmament
there was a gathering of the blackest clouds—congregated
heap over heap. About its extremest verge,
an unwearied and perpetual lightning; and from the
centre, the very centre and key stone of heaven, there
rolled a distant uninterrupted sound, as of continual
battle. There was no cessation—none. The thundering
and lightning were incessant, and very beautiful.
Harold was inconceivably affected. And yet, such
spectacles were common enough to his experience.
Time and again, had he seen the sky, all changeable with
the shifting hues of an arched and glittering furnace,
encompassed by chrystalizations and spar of every
beautiful colour—their lustres shedding all over the
earth and water their innumerable and indistinguishable
tinting. Many a time too, had he seen a cloud in
a serene sky, settled, immoveable; its edges crimsoned
and fiery like the bloody curtains of a brazen chariot;
from its very centre, as of innumerable rockets—the
quick meteors whistling and darting ceaselessly, in every
direction, like the spokes of a wheel, to the extremities—and
often, often too, had he heard the same uninterrupted
reverberations; but never before had he
been so immeasurably affected by their beauty and terrour.
And why? Because never before had his thought

moved in so capacious and sublime an elevation; never
before, had he walked so fearlessly over the dominions
of his God: never before, had the towering energies of
his nature been so all awake, while the ferocious passions
were so slumbering—and, never, never! had he
felt such a melancholy and awful solitude of the spirit.
It was as if he had suddenly been enthroned, and
sceptred, within the illimitable dominions of space, and
there, left alone in his sovereignty.

He was in a trance of astonishment and delight. He
was awakened from it by a sudden brightness, that blazed
athwart the ceiling and walls of his apartment. He
started—arose, as well as he could, and endeavoured
to assure himself that what he saw was no illusion.
The blaze grew brighter. His heart stopped. The superstition
of his nature usurped her terrifick influence
anew over his senses. He scarcely dared to lift his
eyes. He felt as if the sky itself were descending, and
the elements dissolving. He heard the shout of a multitude.
He lifted up his eyes and beheld, afar off, a
throng of women and children, or the appearance
thereof, bearing faggots, and trailing branches of trees;
and piling them up on the top of a high hill that over-topped
the water; and ever and anon, he could see the
gleaming of some weapon, flourished or unsheathed in
the fire light, among the crowd. He gazed upon the
spectacle quietly, and wondering at the cause, and still
doubting if it were not a creation of his fancy. In a
few moments, while the sky grew darker, and the objects
at a distance, water and wood and hill, were all
melting away into massive, shapeless, indistinctness, he
saw a small body of men, strangely habited, and walking
heavily along, with the attitude and expression of
them that carry a burden. A second body followed
with the same appearances! What could this mean? Harold
leaned backward and covered his face with his
hands. His hair rose. His flesh crept. In the early
history of his family, just such a scene had taken place,
with one of the earliest Logans. The summer before
his death—at midnight—upon the extremest elevation
of a rocky precipice, inaccessible to mortal footstep—

men, as in procession, had been seen, passing and repassing,
before a great red fire, with a body between
them, all busily engaged as if preparing for a funeral
sacrifice. After a while, they had disappeared. So had
these. God of heaven—

At this instant, a broad fire flashed and rolled upward
to the very sky, bearing with it, like a hurricane,
cinders and smoke and sparks innumerable! A
dark and gigantick shape could be seen, apparently in
the very centre of the flame, moving his long arms,
and flowing drapery, continually about, with great wildness
and solemnity, while a multitude of smaller
figures, like women and men, were shouting and dancing
round about the fire.

`The same! the very same,' whispered Harold, shudderingly
to himself. `But not for me! Be these terrible
apparitions for the weak and humble. I scorn them.
Oh, let me live, Thou, the unknown God, let me live
yet a little while, till I have done something, no matter
what, worthy of my life, and worthy of thee! Something
that may be remembered, and then, Oh, I care
not how soon after, I am gathered to my fathers. Just
so,' he continued, `was that other sacrifice of perdition
accomplished. The flames rose—spread—swept into
the heavens; and there went up, in the midst thereof, a
black shadow, with great wings outspread, toiling heavily
upward, as against the pressure of some invisible
hand that held him down, in spite of his resistance—
but it mounted—and mounted, notwithstanding, till the
flames were extinguished.'

Harold bowed his head upon the pillow, and actually
wept with the unaccountable melancholy that oppressed
him.

The shout was renewed. The flame rolled upward
again with the noise of a great wind. It flashed,
trembled, intermitted suddenly, and then revived. A
few pale stars looked quietly through the white vapour
that rolled thinly and widely upon the wind. The sky
had become a jetty black. And beneath the evolving
smoke, a multitude came trooping downward—could
it be possible—toward the window where Harold sat

in his helplessness. `They do not touch the earth,'
said Harold, as he shut his eyes, and closed his ears in
terrour.

Voices were heard.

`Surely—surely—it cannot be.' Harold listened,
`where am I? Oh, where am I?' cried he, clasping his
brain. `That voice!' he arose—trembled—grew heart-sick
with pleasure. It came from a neighbouring window—there
was no mistaking the voice—and Harold
felt, as his hands dropped lifelessly over the arms of
his chair, that he was near to her, the sound of whose
lips so affected him. It was some gentle creature rebuking—in
tones like the melody that, flowing nightly
from the moon, fetters the disorderly tides, and spell-binds
the tumultuous waters in their descent—the riotous
merriment of the approaching multitude.

He blushes. His eye kindles. His form shakes with
self indignation. His blood, suspended and chilled by
the superstitious and strange terrours that have just left
him, now rushes with distressing velocity through every
channel and artery, all at once, from his heart to his
brain—from his brain to his heart. The veins swell
upon his forehead—his wounds open anew—he gasps
for breath—the blood flows—and he faints, faints with
the excess of his self reproach.

When he came to his senses, he found a fair creature
stooping reluctantly over him—bloody too—her tresses
bloody—her drapery torn—a mist was over his eyes,
and he lay, holding his breath, and fearing to move, lest
the beautiful apparition should depart. At last, he
could support the delicious swimming of his heart no
longer, he sighed, drew his palms faintly over his eyes,
and caught a soft hand, almost unconsciously, to his lips
and eyelids. The tears gushed forth at the touch. He
drew her to his heart—but she struggled—repulsed
him, with a tremulous dignity—a kind of haughty tenderness—reeled
and sank upon the bed. His arm was
over her waist, and their cheeks touched—and thrilled.
She was faint—very faint, and tried again and again to
speak. It was all in vain. She could only turn her
blue eyes upon him (as he leant upon his elbow, and

held her pale hand to his heart) dissolving in mournfulness
and reproach. Oh, what were his sensations!
Guilt had no place among them. He would have shuddered
and recoiled at the touch of impurity. He would
have died—died upon her bosom, without one feeling,
but of love, love the holiest and tenderest.

He knew not—she knew not, the peril that beset
them.

`Lady,' he whispered, `Lady! in mercy speak to me.
Where am I? Who art thou? Can I be near thee—thee
—in thy loveliness! Oh, speak to me.' Her lips moved,
and a name, the name of Oswald, or Oscar, was
faintly articulated. She gradually recovered. Her lip
trembled—she arose—her forehead was damp; and she
shivered all over, as she put away the fond arm that encircled
her. A full sense of her situation flashed upon
her. `Gracious God,' she cried—her lip curled, and
her neck and bosom turned of the deepest crimson, as
she buried her face in the curtain.

Voices were heard approaching. The door opened.
The lady Elvira there! She, the wounded lady, by the
couch of the young Indian boy!

Her husband heard of it. He asked no questions; he
dared not ask any. To speak of such a matter, he
thought would be to give it importance; besides,
although he had the fullest experience of his wife's
discretion, now, for the first time, there was a strange
uneasiness in his heart, when he reflected on this circumstance—not
that he doubted her—no! His heart
would have burst, if he had. But—why was she there?
Why, without apprising him?

`I will tell him,' said the innocent creature, as she
thought of the good old man, `I will tell him immediately,
as I have always told him, every thought of my
heart, just as it happened.' This she determined, and
re-determined to do, sure that he would only smile
upon her and kiss her forehead, and play with her hair.
But the more she thought of it, the more difficult it appeared
to do. Was it necessary? Did not her own conscience
acquit her? Then why trouble him with it?
Thus was she allured, in the first approach of a guilty
passion, to omit the ceremonies of love and allegiance,

under the pretence of their having grown useless.
Woman, beware! This is the first stratagem of thy
enemy. When thou hast done that which thou fearest
to acknowledge in thy prayers—and forbearest to communicate
to him, who dearly loves thee, thou hast consummated
thy first failure of duty.

Nevertheless, the lady Elvira did, as she had resolved;
but she had so long meditated on the manner and
the words of the communication, that her manner and
words were unnatural and constrained, and her affected
carelessness was particularly visible, as she endeavoured
to relate the incident in her most natural manner.
She had lost her own peculiar air of free, innocent
unconcern—and she was but too conscious of it.
She coloured as she told her tale, and then, angry with
herself for betraying such unseasonable emotion, she
coloured still deeper, down to her very finger ends. She
made a desperate attempt to account for it, by an allusion
to the heat of the room. The remark was particularly
unlucky, and her trepidation increased. It was autumn
—there was no fire—the window was open, and the
evening air blowing directly upon her pale forehead.

The governour took her hand; but she felt that it was
taken, not in his usual manner; not with the same cordial,
eager and delighted movement, as if there was a
pulse in every joint—no, but with an expression of habitual
civility, as one takes the accustomed privilege,
lest, if he do not take it, it may be thought unkind—
no pressure, no fervent clasping followed—no intertwining
of the fingers—no touching of the pulses—nothing
of that strange, dreaming sensation, which appears half
spiritual, as the tips of the fingers pursue their delicate,
trembling acquaintance and inquiry along the blue veins
of some dear one's hand, when man is near, very near
to what he most loves on earth.

It would not do. The interview became painful and
embarrassing. A thousand mournful and sweet recollections
came hurriedly athwart the mind of the husband;
and a thousand vague, haunting, terrible yet
faint apprehensions followed. A slight convulsion passed

over his great forehead; and his lids swelled with
tears—but none fell.

Lady Elvira saw it all—knew the cause of all—and
was inconceivably affected. But she felt her own innocence—felt
the necessity of justification—and, for her
soul, she could neither look nor speak as she was wont.
What then was she to do? She affected insensibility.
There was only one way, she believed, to conceal her
hesitating timidity—and the strange embarrassment,
which had so soon succeeded to her natural, frank, intrepid
manner. And did she not conceal these, would
she not give ground to worse suspicions? Could he believe
that she was so agitated, so altered, by the trifle
which had really occurred? Thus reasoned she—true
woman—parleying with her own heart, at the moment
of death, and concealing her thought, even from her
God, to the extent of her power.

At first she had been reserved and silent, because
she could not trust herself to speak; as gentle and obedient
spirits, are submissive under unkindness, lest, if
they open their lips, their tears will follow. Who has
not seen the time when he could not speak without
sobbing? Who has not laughed to avoid crying? Who
has not smiled, and talked wildly and incoherently,
while his very heart was breaking, merely to avoid the
impertinent sympathy of fools? Thus had she begun.
But she ended with being haughty and hypocritical—
nay, what she most scorned—deceitful. Oh, how mistaken
was her pride! Had she fallen upon the bosom
of her husband, and told him all, all! even to the most
unfaithful of her thoughts, he had loved her but the
better for it. He might have wept over her—but he
must have forgiven her. Nay, there were circumstances,
in her early history, of a nature to render her tenderness
to poor Harold, less extraordinary to him, than
it was to herself. But these circumstances were a mystery
to all but him. For his soul, he would not have
communicated them to her—her—who was the partner
of every other secret of his life.

She continued her explanation nevertheless. `She
had been sitting at her window: the bodies of the two

slain Indians had been burnt, in a paroxysm of rage, by
the women and children, upon a neighbouring hill, out
of especial kindness to Harold: they were returning—
she feared their cries would disturb her—husband!—
and—and therefore had she spoken to them. Just then,
she heard a low groan from a near apartment—and a
heavy fall. She called and rang. There was no answer.
It was in Harold's room. Poor Harold! Weak as she
was, she ran thither. Did she not owe her life to him?
Nay, more, did she not owe the life of—' her husband,
she would have said—but the cold, doubting look of
his face, fell like a rebuke upon her proud spirit. Just
at that moment too—it was too bad—her heart was
flowing out at his feet. She was just beginning to recover
her natural manner, and speak exactly as she
felt. Her blood froze. A silence followed. `I found
Harold,' she continued, with a manner more stately
than her husband had ever seen her wear when addressing
him, `I found Harold, our preserver, lifeless,
weltering in his blood. The bandages were off, and the
thick fluid was throbbing out with every convulsion of
his heart. I rang the bell. What could I do? I tore off
a part of my own dress and staunched the wound and
bound it up anew, before he opened his eyes.'

This was true—the truth, but not the whole truth.
Her heart smote her, as she ended. But it was too late;
and every moment made it more impossible for her to
tell what followed. She continued however—`The exertion
was too much. I fainted.'

She turned her full blue eyes upon his countenance.
It was unaltered: no emotion disturbed its strange serenity.
There was a wild, mournful absence in it, which
distressed her, and yet, there was a something of insensibility
too, which prevented her from avowing that
distress.

`I must leave you now,' she added, `I feel weak,
very weak; a sense of melancholy, dullness, heaviness
here, that I cannot account for.' Her voice trembled—
her eyes filled. `I shall endeavour to sleep, my lord,'
she continued, `and when we are both of us more composed,

I shall then have time to learn if I have done
wrong.'

There was a thrilling emphasis in her words; and, at
any other time, her husband must have put forth his
hand and detained her—but now, there was a calm abstraction
of spirit that prevented it—a long, long forgetfulness,
as if his soul were retreading the scenery,
long since forgotten, and lamented, of some far distant
country. His brow contracted—something vindictive
and stern passed, for a moment, over his features; but
it was soon succeeded by the usual expression of benignity
and wisdom, that were charactered there.

Lady Elvira arose, as she concluded, and attempted
to depart. Her husband—Oh, that was the death blow
to him!—that!—she never forgave it. She was still duteous—still
innocent—still she loved him. But that—
that! sundered them forever! He never moved a finger
to detain her. He suffered her to go—to go unheeded
even after her reluctance, so to depart, was visible to
him; and what was inconceivably more humiliating to
her, even after he appeared to understand the motive
of her lingering. Yes,—that was the death blow to her
love. Her countenance instantly became irradiate with
her spirit. It flashed from her eyes. Her whole form
dilated. She leant for a single moment against the hangings
as she arose, faltered for a single breath, like one
about taking an eternal adieu of many tender and touching
recollections—like one, yielding for the last time,
to the weakness of her heart; bent her pale, dark, affectionate
eyes, now glittering with light, and streaming
with tears, upon the countenance of her husband, and
left his apartment—forever!—She tottered to her own
room, and unable longer to support the ungovernable
tumult of her bosom, sank lifeless into the arms of her
attendant.

An interval of some hours elapsed, before she was
sufficiently composed to give any directions for the future.
She succeeded at length, however—her timidity
had gone—that look of forlornness and gentleness, which
she had hitherto worn in solitude; yea, even the pride
and stateliness of her accustomed publick carriage had

passed away. In their stead there arose an awful steadiness
and tranquillity. It was very fearful—very, in
one so young and beautiful. It boded ill, let it light
where it would, the desperate calmness of so smooth a
brow:—Oh no, it is no light matter to check, so suddenly,
and turn to stone forever, the gushing sensiblity
of so true a heart, so trembling and so pure. Woe
to the man that sees a forehead, that has ten thousand
times been agitated and flushed with his breathing, and
lips that have been tremulous and dimpling, for hours,
as his cheek lay near them, grow, all at once, motionless,
solid, and pale! Woe, to him. There is no more
hope for him.

`Martha—Martha,' were the first words she spoke—
`you are henceforth my only attendant. You will sleep
in my chamber for the future. Let nobody enter my
apartment. I shall be sick, very sick. I feel it here,
here,' she added, with alarming energy, her beautiful
bosom swelling, as if it would burst, beneath the convulsive
pressure of her hand. `I may become delirious,
and God only knows what I may say. I would not be
overheard. May I depend upon thee, Martha?'

Martha fell upon her knees and sobbed in her lap.

`Go, Martha,' continued this extraordinary woman,
`place some servant, that you can trust, in the next
apartment, and take care that nobody passes near my
door.'

Her voice failed her. Her countenance grew dark
and terrible, with the strife of her immortal spirit. A
thousand high thoughts arose, and paused, for a moment,
and then passed over her uplifted countenance.
She was upon her knees, or pacing her apartment, with
her hot temples locked in her hands, the live-long
night. Did she pray? No—she could not pray. Did
she weep—Oh no!—tears would have been a comfort
indeed—too great a comfort, to one so helpless, and so
desolate. She could not weep—she would have given
the whole world but to shed a few, few tears, such
as she had wept heretofore, in the fulness of her
heart. But no—no!—her sorrow now, was of an untold
character. Her forlornness was—nay, it is easier to tell

what it was not—it was not like any forlornness that
she had ever felt before—ever! although she had left,
all, every living thing that loved her, or that she loved,
more than once, in her brief pilgrimage.

`Too late, Oh, too late!' she articulated, wildly, just as
the cold day light was breaking in upon her, and falling,
like a chilly illumination, upon her disordered bosom—
`too late hath my destiny broken upon me. Oh why
have I lived! Why not gone blindfolded to my grave!'
—A long, dreary pause followed—her face flushed, and
the fire streamed from her uplifted eyes—`No—never!
never!—I will arise. I will manifest myself. I will not
submit. I will not be the wronged and suppliant woman!
Woe to him that expects it!'