University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Reader!—there are stories told, with elbow on the
grass, according to one of your most delicious modern
poets. Mine is no such story. Your hand should be
upon the hilt of your dagger. Your heart should rattle
against your ribs; you should breathe seldom and hard,
while you listen to me. Are you a man? Your breathing
will show it. Follow me. Are you a woman?
Can you weep for the guilty and disconsolate?—the
strongly tempted—the frail—the penitent, and broken
hearted?—if you cannot, forbear, shut the book. It
is not meant for you. There is profanation in thy touch.
If thou hast no mercy—forbear—if thou hast no tears,
forbear;—for thou canst. The moral is not for thee—
not for the strong, nor the confident. I adjure thee!—
go no further, unless thou canst pity her, who has learnt
to parley with temptation: nay, I would almost say—

unless thou thyself, hast been tempted, strongly tempted.
Then!—then, mayest thou go on triumphantly. It
will be a lesson to thee. It will teach thee, while thou
hatest the crime, to pray for the criminal. Lay thy
hand upon thy heart, woman. Hast thou been tempted?
Canst thou forgive? If yea—proceed.

`This will never do, never—never!' thought Harold,
as he lay, with his chest heaving, in a delicious, troubled,
but guilty reverie, after Elvira had departed. `There
is intoxication, madness in the thought. How deeply,
timidly she breathed! With what a passionate, strange
tenderness, her eyes shone upon me! How faint and
pale she looked, when she repulsed me! And then—
how her beautiful mouth trembled; as her tears trickled
down upon it, and she leant over me with her shut
eyes. And then!—when her thin lids opened, and the
blue lustre beneath, waned and dimmed with the langour
of her heart—Oh God! what a rapidity of interchanging
light and crimson in her dear face! Oh, how
surpassing all that ever went by me before. What was
it? Whither went it! that illuminated, pale countenance.
Stay!—ha! that spectre—where am I?'

He leaped upright in his bed—the apartment shook
under him.

`Harold, Harold!—awake thee!'—he continued, with
his palms pressed to his sore and aching temples—
`awake thee! where is thine honour?—thy gratitude?—
thy destiny! who bids thy spirit to its prostration?—
(he shivered in an agony of indignation.) `Thou!—
canst thou—of the blood of Logan—nursed in heroick
self-denial, thrilling with the blood of many generations,
that were pure and strong,—heroes!—canst thou
so bow thyself down? Harold, Harold! awake thee!
Art thou again—again! at the feet of a woman. Oh,
shame on thee! And what a woman? Not a lone and
desolate one; not the friendless and weeping one—a
stranger among strangers—not the brown beauty of the
wilderness!—not the unblessed, and desolate, and wild.
Oh no! But thou!—Oh, wake thee, Harold. The wife
of thy benefactor—thy father!'—(the blood ran cold
about his heart, at the thought, and his hot eye balls

throbbed in their sockets)—`Forgive me!—Oh, Righteous
and Blessed one, forgive me.'

Poor Harold was half crazy with the tumult; and he
awoke to a full sense of his situation, only to feel a
more deadly sickness at the heart, a more faint and
weary loathing and detestation, of all that had motion
and life in it. Gladly would he have slept—and slept
forever. But sleep was forbidden to him. Yea the very
air—the blessed air, that blew over his damp forehead,
seemed, for a while, purged of its vitality. There was
no balsam, no coolness, no fragrance in it. It felt to
poor Harold, as he lay, with the tears and sweat stealing
under his long lashes, like the tepid breath of a
sick child. No wonder that he suffered. His whole
heart was undergoing a purification. He had been `dazzled
and drunk with beauty,' and his God was visiting
him now, for his intemperance. He had lusted after
unlawful dominion, and the price was now to be paid
in horrour, and consternation, and self abandonment.

`I shall never be well again! never, if I stay here,'
thought the boy; and young as he was, he determined
to begin, forthwith, and in earnest, the work of reformation.
The future was opening upon him, curtain,
over curtain, and great shadows were stalking about,
with the likeness of kingly crowns upon their heads,
and their arms folded. There was a sublime obscurity
before him, a peopled empire—full of dim movement,
and vast preparation. He awoke—roused himself.
The phenomena, portentous and awful as they
were, heeded not his rebuke, nay, nor his entreaty.
They held their places. The walls of his chamber
seemed extended to an immeasurable distance. The
very curtains of his bed seemed flowing down, fold
over fold, shadow over shadow, from the heaven of
heavens. The wind blew; and bright shapes rode upon
it. A change followed. All was dark about him. He
retained his consciousness. His own heart became visible
to him, as he cast down his eyes. It was a bed
of live coals! And a spirit of godlike presence was
fanning them; upon her broad front were the characters
of an unknown language, written in blood! seethed,

and fiery! It was Ambition. She arose, and waved her
arm; and lo! the shadow, and the darkness of the far
off void, began moving into shape, and colour, and concentration.
The heavy drapery rolled upward through
the solid walls of his chamber, as if drawn by an invisible
hand; and away to the right and to the left, a
measureless activity of light and motion appeared,
growing every moment more and more distinctly beautiful,
till the heart ached with pleasure and sublimity.
Anon, forests of green and waving trees, in all their
pomp and magnificence, slowly emerged from the far
off horizon—parted—with brighter spots of agitated
green; here, and there, between them—faded and vanished.
Anon, the blue waters appeared, and spread
themselves, hither, and thither, as though the bowels
of the great deep were giving forth again, their cold treasures
to the moon—and behold! these waters were covered
with painted spectres—great ships and sails.
And then!—the air darkened—it thundered! the horizon
lightened round about: and the noise of battle rang,
suddenly, through all the boundless circumference of
the sky. Lights passed over the water—fleets engaged;
and the apparition of many ships, shattered and blazing,
drifted by—

Harold sprang from his bed—knelt down.—`Spirit
of my father!' he cried, in his delirium, `God of the red
men! Be thou, O! be thou with me! The lands that were
our inheritance are returning to us. I saw them; I!—
moving off upon the track of our retreating nations!
Here! here! oh thou spirit of our worship! thou, who
art hunted, even as thy children are hunted, from these,
thine immeasurable solitudes—thine appointed places—
here! do thou bless them!—for here doth Harold consecrate
himself; and all that he hath, all his powers and
faculties; all his passions and hopes, and fears to thee!
Here, I—the—I—the—'

The impulse was gone—he faultered, bowed his head,
and an universal trembling seized him. His pillow was
drenched with his tears. But whither should he fly? Where
gain the maturity and experience, and means, necessary
for his purpose? Did he return to the red men? where

were all his high-spirited and sublime notions of government?
how should he rescue his countrymen from
the thraldom, not of strength, but of cunning? where
should he look for that ennobling intercourse, which,
should fit him for command and companionship with
the captains of Europe? that discipline, which should
make his name terrible, when generation after generation
had passed away? where that high and polished
chivalry of deportment which should sustain him, as an
Indian Prince, in his future intercourse with the whites?
No—no!—he must not, could not prepare himself for a
life of perpetual trial and achievement, but by learning
of the white man all that he could teach—in war, in
policy, and in legislation. But how, if he went away,
how should he retain that overwhelming influence over
the Indians, so indispensible to his purpose? would
they resign him? would they receive him again? would
they not feel jealousy, distrust and apprehension? they
would.'

`But better, after all; ten thousand times better that
they should feel, all the evil passions of their nature,
agitated to phrenzy at his return, if he came qualified
for their redemption, than that he should risk among
them the wasting away of his faculties, ineffectually.

Harold had often been told by the governour, that it
was his intention to send him to Europe, to complete
the already singularly excellent education, which he
had obtained at an early period, from the officers of a
French garrison, where he had been a captive in his
boyhood, till he won all hearts, and despoiled all their
treasuries of science. All that the military art could
teach, theoretically, to one so young, had been taught
him. He was an admirable draughtsman—a good engineer—a
good soldier—a good horseman, and decidedly
the best swordsman in the fort, at the time of
his escape. He had read little, but what he had read
was of the choicest matter. His study had been truly
French—war and elegance—the chivalry of a young
knight, and the accomplishments of a young bridegroom.
He had a thorough knowledge of French, and having
been for a time among the Spanish possessions, had

learned to speak that masculine language, with tolerable
readiness and purity. These things, however, were a
secret, and he disdained either to exhibit or practice,
or even to acknowledge them, after his return to the Indians;
all, except the sword and saddle, he trampled on
and derided. But in these, he became terribly conspicuous.
In time, no man strode a young war horse like
Harold, and no human being wielded such a sword.
`He played his weapon like a tongue of flame.' Now,
new feelings arose. He panted to consummate himself
alike, in all the graces, as well as the terrours of a brave
man. The hope of going to Europe, hitherto almost extinct
in his bosom, or remembered only as a pleasant
dream of his boyhood, now awoke, with prodigious energy
again. Too easily forced into vehement action, the nature
of Harold had acquired an intensity of expression
that was unintelligible to ordinary minds. He fevered
and burnt, when the thought was upon him. There was,
even in his most hidden and mysterious movements,
however, an air of reality, that convinced those who
could not understand how it would be done, that whatever
he determined upon, would be done. There was
such a stern and lofty carriage in his eye, so much of
that composure which bespeaks a spirit familiar with
its own resources—accustomed only to success, that
your heart would swell in your contemplation of him,
and you would speak and predict as rashly, and as positively
as he thought.

His manner was preternatural— portentous. It was
not graceful—no, nor welcome, in one so young—with
a heart so filled and buoyant with the electricity of boyhood.
He should not keep so firmly upon his feet—
his shut mouth should not indicate so resolute, so unsparing
a decision of character, at his age. I do not
like it. It is, as if the untrained falcon should fly straight
through the thinnest and bluest air, upward, upward,
directly in the very face of the sun. It would be wonderful
in the confirmed and disciplined, but it is rash
and headstrong, in the inexperienced.

But misfortunes, exposure, a rough world, neglect
and keenness, had exasperated the stormiest elements

of his nature into wrath and madness. In the boiling
thereof, there had been forced up from the profoundest
depths of his heart, many precious and detestable
things; many unknown and unnatural thoughts, which,
under a gentler sky, with a less windy and tempestuous
visiting, had remained forever, undisturbed, unvisited,
unthought of.—The pearls and the sea snakes; the
red coral and the white skeleton, the treasures and the
abominations came together to the surface!

Young as he was, there was that settled and immoveable
determination in all that he thought or did.
And yet there was a time, when his volatility had been
conspicuous. That passed away, and there succeeded, a
perseverance, so unwearied, so indefatigable, so immortal,
that they who prophesied in his childhood, forbore
to prophesy, after a little while. He was like nothing
that they had ever heard or read of. Nay, there was
not an action, a word, an attitude, the most trivial, that
did not reveal to the unprejudiced, (for they persisted
long in calling his conduct affectation and insolence)
to the man that knew men, how entirely prepared was
the mind beneath, for all that could happen, in the nature
of things—all!—whether of trial or promise, humiliation,
sorrow, or death. He had no companions.
He scorned the companionship of boys, and the men
that beset him were little better than boys; and they
repelled him for a while. He was said to be unsocial.
He was not. But he could find no kindred nature; none
that would regard; `the night-mare moaning of Ambition's
breast,' as other than a childish disease. In time,
this changed. Men looked and wondered. This boy,
whom they had shut out as presumptuous and unamiable,
from their houses and hearts, was now welcomed
with outstretched arms, as the kindest of human creatures,
and the most terrible in his power. Was he a misanthrope?
no, he was too good, his heart was too pure
and consecrate for that. Compare him with those of
his age—oh, how unutterably boyish appeared the
workings of their ambition, compared to his! Years were
as weeks with him, in his plans. Experience had taught
him to depend upon himself, and he had soon learnt

that it is the beginning only which is truly difficult, and
that most of our fellow men are wearied before they
begin. His ambition was silent, meditative, solemn.
His deep voice, his gathered brow, which, even in the
sunshine of his spirit, and no spirit had more of sunshine
in it, at times,—stood often, intensely wrought
and alarming—the fearful steadiness and lustre of his
eye, as he listened and thought; the bright, eager, broad
flashing of mind that broke out, when he was suddenly
excited, were altogether so significant of a peculiar
and high intelligence, that the most familiar of his daily
associates, those with whom he went about the commonest
affairs of earth, constantly beheld him with an
instinctive and profound veneration. This was not
shown in words, for, indeed, they hardly knew it, and
would never have acknowledged it themselves. The
few that knew him had been his enemies: and it was
remarked, (and let this be remembered as the strongest
of the features that set Harold alone among mankind—)
that just in proportion to their former hostility,
when he condescended to soothe and win them from it,
was their devoted and passionate admiration, when he
had succeeded. And he always did succeed. Harold
never attempted to make a friend, even of an enemy—
but he succeeded. He never trifled, no unhallowed levity
was about him. But, if he smiled, his smile was
rapturous—it was a smile, indeed; brief, but delightful.
And his scorn—his indignant sarcasm—O! it was the
hottest lightning of heaven! none might abide it!

Others were ambitious. I have seen many such. But
with them, ambition was a disease—an intemperate longing—a
childish yearning for the end, without regarding
the way to it;—an earthly ambition; a feeble and sickly
covetousness of notoriety, without the courage to deserve
it, or the manhood to persevere. But his—his!
it was his life, and blood, and pulse!

Look at his brow!—It was written there, as with the
impress of Divinity. It was the hand-writing on the
wall. It told to the oppressor, as beneath his dark locks
it broke out, like an inscription on the forehead of a
youthful Jove—`Thy kingdom hath departed from thee.'

Look at his eye! It was a feature of inconceivable

meaning—so gentle in its tranquillity, that a child
would not fear to disturb it—so wasting in its
wrath, that men qualed before it, as before the hot
lightning—in tincture, dark, deep, unutterably deep,
and yet—deepening with every thought. It was the
changeable hue of the tried weapon, tempered in
lava—steely, black, and glittering—now, with the tint
of the midnight sky, and now, with the reflection of
ensanguined cymetar blades.

His countenance, common at first, grew awful in
your contemplation. It haunted you in your dreams.
Its abiding place, when once lighted up, and sanctified
with the presence of his great soul, was forever after
in the hearts of all that saw it.

His tread! but why describe his tread?—It was a
voice! His feet spoke. I would avoid the man that trod
like Harold, unless I knew him to be my friend.

But his voice! it was that, that alone!—the musick of
a great heart—the breathing of a trumpet, deep, deep,
in the chest—labouring and sounding aloud;—the innumerable
and peculiar echoes of innumerable and peculiar
passions, were all in it!—all distinctly busy in his
strong articulation. I can hear it at this moment!—
whole years have passed, and yet I hear it, ringing in
the wind—its solemnity, its energy—the brief and terrible
transparency, picturing with a startling emphasis,
absolutely picturing his words and thoughts upon the
mind. God never gave such a voice to a bad man.
Its compass was loud, and overwhelming grandeur, the
most thrilling and passionate eloquence, down, down,
to the deep, dear whispering of heart-broken tenderness.
It was musick—the musick of archangels—the
throned and beautiful authorities of Heaven.

So much for Harold. Approach him, and struck by
his collectedness of manner, rendered still more impressive,
from the youthful gracefulness of his proportions,
you would, and why, for the soul of you, you
could not tell, grow restless and dissatisfied with their
contradictions.

His age, was always the first question of them that
saw him, for the first time. But hark! he is betrayed

into emotion—he alters his voice! heard ye ever such
tones, so energetick, peculiar, firm, passionate, earnest?
How he lifts you along with him! Do you like
him? no. Whence your interest? whence your breathless
attention? your fixed attitude? your unclosed lips?
Know ye the cause? dare ye analyze it? know ye not,
that it is the homage of your spirit to his? he treads
among you like a celestial among the creatures of
earth. `Your stars stand still before him!' Your mind,
your faculties descend from their thrones, and lay
down their sceptres at his bidding. His silence is
rebuke and faintness. His look fires you with enthusiasm.

Listen to him! observe ye how confidently, and yet,
not boastingly, he speaks, or rather meditates, aloud.
Follow the fervid action of his mind. Mark its celerity,
its inconceivable velocity. Can you bear its approach?
Does not yours tremble and shiver with the contrast?
Has he—that boy, been accustomed to dictating to gray
beards? look at him—do you not see his restless nature
perpetually poising her wings?—the unslipped falcon
brandishing her plumage for some forbidden flight!
the flame of his innermost temple constantly breaking
out into irradiations—showing all the mysterious dwelling
places, the unvisited recesses—the `holy of holies'—where
abides the treasure of his worship!—what is
she? who is she?

Lo! she is there!—her naked feet upon a brazen
chariot, a whirlwind of smoke and dust rolling about
her!—her head encumbered with stars!—her locks
streaming, like a rent banner, in the wind—her chariot
wheels rolling over, and grinding to dust, the shattered
and glittering fragments of an empire—an eagle,
with thunderbolts upon her right hand—her garments
rolled in blood! There! there! forever there! stands
she, the object of his idolatry.

Hark!—hear ye not the far-off barbarian gong!—
The isles of the ocean are in arms. The daughters of
the blue Pacific are in battle—Look! look! the temple
totters in the blue flame of its ascending altar! It dissolves—the
firmament reddens—It rains fire! and the

smoke drifts like a hurricane by us! A shout—the
clouds are rolling away. A continent breaks upon our
view—the shores, the islands are peopled, and joyous
with the wild musick of many nations—feathers in their
hair—their idolatrous temples vanishing—their bows
unstrung—their quivers untenanted—and the green
wilderness rising behind them.

What think ye of his dreaming? and is it dreaming?
May not—are ye sure that the inheritance of the Indian
may not, even yet, be plucked from the spoiler?
May not, oh ye that blaspheme the Great Spirit, may
not the thunders of the everlasting God lay waste your
habitations, prostrate your cities, kindle all your fires
with the angry conflagration of his wrath, and re-establish
the forest upon the high places of your revelry
and abominations? This he has done to many a nation.
This he may do to yours.

Look ye for Babylon! whither is Jerusalem? ye are
but as one Babylon! and who measureth the sins of
Jerusalem against yours?

Such were the bright and desperate visions of Harold;
such the exhibitions of the dreadful spirit, that
haunted, and visited, nay, dwelt, within the encrusted
lava of his heart.

`To Europe! aye, to Europe, then, I must go!' quoth
Harold—`and—' he hesitated—`and the sooner, the
better.' Sudden in determination as he was, yet was
he more sudden in action. He resolved to begin his
preparations immediately—determined to go, the moment
that he had life enough, with the governour's consent,
and under his directions, if possible; if not, without
them.

Some weeks passed in this manner. He slept little,
and ate nothing. Nay, he loathed food—there was a
hunger and appetite perpetually gnawing his vitals,
which could not be appeased or assuaged by aught of
earthly aliment.

One evening, however, he awoke, so exceedingly refreshed,
and with all his recollections so clear, that he
felt as if he could bound into his saddle, and scour
hill and plain, as he was wont: He rang the bell, determined

to prepare, that very hour, for his departure,
in a sloop of war, which, he had been told, was nearly
ready to sail; but he was informed that the governour
was too ill to receive any communication: and that the
lady Elvira refused to see, and had for weeks, any body
except her confidential servant. This was very mysterious.
Had he been ill so long? Had whole weeks
passed? It seemed but as a few hours, only, since, he,
himself, had seen her! What should he do? his heart
leaped hurriedly at the question. He was already sufficiently
restored, he thought, for some audible expression
of his gratitude. He should soon be away—never,
ah, never to see her again—no more, no more on earth
to hear the heavenly murmuring of her voice!—never
more to see the blue veins meandering through her
transparent forehead, and her tears falling upon his
hand! But then, he should go where another dwelt
that had been dear to him—another!—as pure, as innocent,
and as lovely, but with a loveliness unlike hers—
not snowy, but vivid and ardent, burning, and brilliant.
And then—when the fond Indian girl, his beloved,
his dear, dear, Loena, should lean upon his shoulder,
and press his cheek to hers, he should be so happy.
So happy, Harold!—beware! even now, while thou art
courting back the faint image of Loena, and renewing
thy vows of love and tenderness to her, thou art secretly
pining to see once more, the haughty loveliness
of Elvira, blushing over thee, with a guilty light in
her eyes.—Shame on thee, Harold!

A light tap at the door, disturbed him in his revery.
He started—trembled—with a thousand indefinite, but
thrilling emotions. He opened the door himself, softly.

What was his disappointment? Heaven only knows
what he had expected; but he turned pale, and shivered
from head to foot, with a convulsive, sick shivering,
as a servant reached him a brief note, scrawled
with a pencil. It was in these words, and evidently
written with extreme effort.

`Harold! you are well. The governour is no longer
your father. You must abandon this habitation. Wait
not for the order.

Farewell!

E.'

Harold was thunderstruck. What could she mean!
just at this moment, too, when his heart was overflowing
with gratitude! just when he was going, voluntarily,
and proudly—to be turned out of doors! oh, it was too
much! He recovered himself: a few scalding tears
came to his relief. The bitterness of his heart rose to
his mouth; he could taste it. He writhed and stamped,
in the first agony of his rage and vexation. A dead silence
followed. He stood like a statue. His heart
scarcely heaved. His lips moved not. A sense of forlornness
and desolation came over him, and he would
have thrown himself down and wept, but he felt that
he could not shed a tear, if it were to save his soul
from utter perdition. A hollow whisper broke from
him, at last—`turned out—turned out—neck and heels
—wounded and bleeding—turned out of this house.
This!—oh, shame on him—why plucked he me from
my kindred? I was the young wolf. Hath he tamed
me?” His lip quivered—a deadly paleness followed—
hectick—a few more tears, and it was all over. He
was a man, again.

The girl stood before him, stupified with amazement,
and quaking in every limb, at the terrible alternations
of wrath and tenderness that she beheld—but now,
when he addressed her calmly, so calmly, that his
voice fell, syllable by syllable, like the low notes of a
near instrument, blown by a master, she was awe-struck.
The flashing of his eyes had terrified her; but
this unnatural calmness was abundantly more terrifick,
even to her simple and inexperienced observation.

`Go,' said he, `go to your mistress, Martha—tell
her—God bless her!—God in his infinite mercy, comfort
and bless her!”—the brightness of his eyes waned a
little, and there was a slight hollowness in his tone—
such were the only appearances, and yet, he was choking,
choking!—`Tell her I am going: that I shall go,
forever, and ever—this hour—this moment. No, Martha,
you are deceived—I am strong, very strong. I
thank you for your compassionate looks, my good girl,
but I am determined. The note is here, here!' he repeated—crushing
it, and thrusting it in his bosom—`I

shall never part with it. It was unkind, abrupt—but tell
her that I bless her for it. I am going, Martha.'

As he said this, he began buckling on his sword, but
his hand shook so, that he was unable to complete it.
He saw Martha, lingering. He blushed at his weakness.
His manhood came back to him again, like a torrent.
He stood erect—tried again—strained the belt
about his attenuated form, almost to snapping, and looking
once more about the apartment, prepared to go.
She departed.

Martha preceded him but a few steps. He heard a
door open, and shut—a few hurried questions urged,
and replied to in a soft voice, full of anxiety and earnestness,
within an apartment near to which he passed.
He descended softly—it was evening—with his sword
under his arm, and his pistols in his girdle.

It was dark, perfectly dark, in the long damp hall
of the mansion. He felt something pass near him. He
shuddered, and shrunk back—recoiling quite to the
wall, before he had presence of mind to seek the cause.
He continued his way. The star-light trembled
through a high window upon the dewy and solitary
stone steps, by which he was to pass. The last time he
had passed them—when was it?—when he was brought
in upon a litter, the preserver of him who now turned
him, naked and shivering, sick and alone, upon the
world. An exclamation half burst from his lips—He
encountered something—a hand touched his—it thrilled
through and through him. It was cold, and trembled.
The dim outline of a human figure could be indistinctly
traced against the near white wall. His heart
almost leaped from his bosom!

Could he be mistaken! Oh no—no! He knelt, knelt
frantically, and pressed his lips again and again, upon
the cold hand, with the deepest veneration. It was wet
with other tears than his:—a struggle—a half articulate
sob—and a whisper of `God forever bless thee!'—
and the hand was withdrawn—the spectre gone—and
Harold upon his face.

He awoke. Where was his spirit then? Chilled,
chilled, horribly chilled. His blood felt thick—and he

cared not if he never arose gain. His temples—his
very arteries were sore with the excess and rapidity of
his recent sensations. He arose. It was in vain. He
was weak even to helplessness—what could he do.
Return?—Return! no—never!—death were ten thousand
times better. He had been driven forth with dishonour
and contempt. He was too proud to ask why,
or wherefore. It was enough for him, that it was so,
and he would have immolated himself upon the threshold
of the habitation that he had saved—more than
once, from fire and sword—but for a new feeling—a
desire of vengeance almost, that had taken possession
of him.

Was the note kindly meant? It was. To return
then, even for an hour, was to slight the admonition,
the interposition of an angel—to be weak, very weak;
and when he went again—would that hand, that blessed
hand, again go with him, again palpipate, like a living
heart, within his delirious grasp! Oh no!'

He roused himself. The weariness and dislike to reaction,
after such intense excitement, were speedily dissipated,
by the passionate vehemence of his efforts.
He crawled first—then tottered—then, heated by the
movement, walked—and finally, as the morning air
blew freshly upon him, and the beautiful day-light
shone upon his forehead, he absolutely ran. But his
running was the peculiar race of the unwearied Indian.
`One more hour!—one little hour!' cried Harold,
towards evening, `and I am at home!'

Another hour, and he was at home, in the thick green
wood—a living fountain at his feet, the wild ash bending
over it: a hunting cabin within a few paces, where
he had slept, night after night, with white men, before
the last quarrel with the Indians. It had not been visited
of late, he supposed, as the collected fuel, food,
ammunition, skins, and utensils were all as he had seen
them last. He threw himself, worn and exhausted, upon
a bed of dry leaves, and bear skins, and slept, Oh! how
deliciously.

He dreamt of home—the home that he had left, of his
father—his murderers—Strange, wild and incoherent

cries rang in his ear. A shot—He started upward. It
was dark—perfectly dark about him, and it was some
minutes before he could recollect himself. The smell
of powder was about him, but where was he? In his
chamber? He felt about. All was vacuity and dreariness.
Whatever he found was in the wrong place—all
relationship was confounded. A confused recollection
of the past crowded upon him. Step by step, he recovered
his senses: and, as he did, he feared to breathe.
Was he in the cabin yet? Could he have slept so long?
What means that glimmering?—Gracious heaven!
something—some detestable creature is crawling
through the fire!—the fire!—he had left none. He felt
for his pistols—They were gone—his sword. `Ah,
thank heaven!' he almost articulated aloud, as he felt
the hilt, and unsheathed it, in silence. The flame rises.
Gracious heaven!—what does he see? Why rolls young
Harold's eyes so terribly upon the roof. Why starts
out the hot sweat upon his forehead. The spirit of his
father is before him! The hair of his flesh rose. He
gasped for breath. He heard a voice. It was not his
father's. It was not Logan's! A huge shadow,
sat in its cumbrous drapery, of unearthly dimensions,
warming its great hands over the expiring smoke and
flame. How came he there? Harold shuddered. The
voice continued. It was not—Oh, no!—it was not human!
It was sepulchral. It sang, in hollow cadences, a
fearful, wild, monotonous, and almost inarticulate song:
the dread melancholy musick of an incantation. The
figure stirred the fire. It flashed briefly upward for a
moment:—the shadow arose, stood before it, a pillar
of shapeless, flowing drapery.[1]

`God of heaven!' cried Harold, horrour struck—All
was instantly dark. Harold covered his face with his
hands. He heard a loud rushing above him, as of suddenly
extended and great wings. He was fanned by
cold drapery, that swept by him. Oh, Spirit of the
terrible Logan,' he cried, `thou, who camest to confirm

thy child, in the oath by which thou hast bound
him. Oh, spare him!'

Thus he lay—upon his face—trembling in every
joint, until a gleam of light made him look up. A bluish,
cold glimmering, played through a part of the
shattered roof, upon the wall, by his face. It was some
minutes before he could persuade himself, that this
weary and endless night, had, at length, passed away.
To him, it had threatened to be perpetual. He arose,
and went out into the cool air. It was moon-light—the
day had not yet broken; but the lustre that was showered
upon him, was so holy, and dewy, and clear, that his
heart heaved in his bosom. He thought of his pistols.
It was incomprehensible that they should have been
taken from him—it was impossible—if the spectre that
he had seen, was only a shadow—or, if his senses had
deceived him. He returned, and found them. One
had been discharged! Both were loaded when he slept.
He now remembered the smell of gunpowder, and the
shot that awoke him. Perhaps he had discharged it
himself, in his dream, or by accident: and this, he was
fain to believe, as the only rational means of accounting
for what he had heard and seen.

It was necessary to keep them loaded. Luckily there
was ammunition concealed in several places about the
cabin. A few moments search brought sufficient to
light, for all his purposes. Having loaded his pistol,
and chosen a few balls, that fitted, and secured them,
together with a few charges of powder, he had leisure
to feel the consequences of his fatigue and abstinence.
A raging hunger possessed him; doubly irksome and
distressing at this time, from his long confinement,
during which his diet had been little else than that of
the cameleon; and from the extreme irritability and
fastidiousness of his stomach. He began his search,
with a faintness and anxiety that were entirely new to
him; and soon had reason to bless himself for the providence
and charity of his earlier hours; for he fell upon
some provisions, which, in his hunger, appeared exactly
what he most coveted, and which, he, himself, had concealed,
with his own hands, many months before, in the
belief that they might be useful to some weary and

worn hunter, who should happen to have more sagacity
than the wild animals.

Gradually, but by flashes, during his repast, as he
sat under the mountain ash, and watched the cold, bubbling
water below, shining in the moonlight, the incidents
of the past night broke upon him, till the whole
became illuminated. A dream opened upon him. He
threw down his food, and started from the seat. Now,
now, for the first time, the barrier between what he
had seen, and what he had dreamt, became, for a moment,
distinctly visible He pressed his hands upon his
forehead—his shut eyes ached with the intensity of his
efforts at reminiscence. He beheld himself, or one
habited like himself, at least, toiling in a deep valley,
with a wild beast afar off—the star-light all about, of
such a preternatural brightness, that it shone through
and through the solidest rocks—the very trees and skies
were transparent, and the mountains themselves revealed
all their treasures. He started—could it be? He
wiped the sweat from his forehead, and opened his
eyes. `Am I wounded?' he faintly said to himself, as
he began an agitated examination with his hands, of
every part of his body. He felt his blood thrill, as he
touched the handle of his knife—it was wet and adhesive
to the touch. He plucked it from its sheath; it was
bent, as with the mortal blow, of an arm that could
drive it, up to the haft, through the ribs of a man—and
was tarnished and discoloured with a black, very black
fluid. His heart sickened, and he dared not examine
further. But where had he been? What unknown perils
had he encountered? Had his delirium returned? Had
he wandered? But who led him back to the cabin?
Now he recollected, faintly, and at intervals, with a
terrible circumstantiality, that he had dreamed, as he
often had before, of being pressed to the earth with the
weight of a mortal foe; that he had stabbed him with
his knife, and that the detestable blood had spouted all
over his face and eyes. Still there was a strange and bewildering
combination of the visionary and real, in all
that he was able to recall. That he had had a terrifick
dream, became more and more probable, but that he

had tasted blood, again, notwithstanding his abhorrence
and loathing, in a delirium, was certain. Where had he
been? Whom had he slain? His pistols too, there was
no vestige or trace of their employment, in his mind.
At this moment, by the turning of his course around
a jutting rock, overhung with superb and boundless
foliage, pendant almost from the sky, he came, all
at once, upon a wide landscape!—water, cliff and wood
—a path trodden and regular—a cascade—what disturbs
him? Why that look of amazement? Hath he
been here before? He looks anxiously about—he discovers
a track—onward he leaps—onward! onward!
The circumstances of his dream are all before him now!
Here had he had been—here! in that very spot, in his
delirium. By that shattered and blasted tree it was
done!—He pauses—shudders—leans, with a sense of
suffocation, against the rock. He dares not advance a
single step. What tremendous mystery was this? What
had he done? What deed of blood, in his insensibility?
Already was he arraigned for it. Already was the
smoking fluid—the livid and gashed body of some human
being, within a few, few paces of him!'

It was not to be endured! No! He maddened, and
sprang forward. Already the wild, withered branches
of the accursed and blighted, and blood besprinkled
tree were over him. The whole dream rushed upon
his brain like a flood of light. He dreaded to look at
the spot where the deed had been perpetrated. He
stood motionless—his blood crawling like cold serpents,
about his heart. `But one step more,' thought Harold,
`and I shall know the worst.' He made that one step
—the spot was all open to his eye—something dark,
shapeless, but wearing, nevertheless, to the fearful
apprehensions of Harold, the appearance of a murdered
human creature, lay upon the ground, just in the
shadow of the tree. `But what is that!' cried Harold,
and something that was near the body, watching by it
perhaps, crouching, reared itself up, shrieked, and
sprang into the tree. Harold was stupified for a moment.
But the next, aware of the desperate peril of
the instant, his pistol shot rang through the branches—

a sullen, quick cry followed, and the animal, whatever
it was, leaped upon the ground, from the very topmost
branch, and fled, snapping his teeth, and occasionally
rearing, probably, with the pain of a wound, perpendicularly,
up the near precipice.

Harold was appalled, and could only attribute his
safety to the fact that this terrible creature, the American
panther, was already satiated, glutted, with some
horrible spoil. He dreaded to approach the body beneath
his feet—dreaded to turn it upon its back, lest
he should find its face without form or shape, from
the abominable appetite of the monster that had departed.

At this moment, his attention was caught by a sound,
and he saw the same animal leaping from crag to crag,
and flying before a dreadful apparition that shouted
after it, and pursued it, with a voice of terrifick loudness,
resembling that which he had heard in his sleep.

`Surely I am dreaming yet!' cried Harold. `Merciful
God! let me not dream forever! Oh, I am weary,
weary—when will another day break upon me? My
senses are useless to me. I dare not trust them. But
no, I will not be thus intimidated. I will know the
worst.' He leaped down by the body, and stood over
it. The form was of him that he had seen, in his dream.
He turned it over, impatiently; the face was horribly
rivetted, and ghastly. `Yes, yes, that was the man
whom he had encountered, and slain.' He looked again,
and shouted and clapped his hands for joy! `It is! it
is! Logan, I thank thee. Thou art avenged. Behold the
third of thy murderers. I have slain him in my madness!
I remember it now. I remember that I caught
him kindling a fire in my cabin—I awoke—leaped upon
him. He fled—he fired—I overtook him, here! here!
upon this very spot—and slew him! Behold his blood!'
As he said this, he tore off his blanket—its folds clung
together—it was saturate with blood, and pierced with
many blows. `This was my dream! Oh, no, it was no
dream. It was a drama, wrought with this very knife
—this very arm—on this very spot!'

And yet, was it not incredible, surpassing all belief,
that he should have grappled with the deadliest of his
foes, one that had haunted his steps so long; one that
was probably lurking for him at the time, and yet escape,
mad as he was, unharmed?

Could he be satisfied with this inquiry? Was it in
the nature of man not to be disturbed?—yea, even to
the dividing asunder of soul and body, at the awful
indistinctness, the apalling mixture of reality and
dreaming, in these discoveries? What had he done
else? With whom else had he battled in his sleep?
These were questions never to be answered. And yet,
there had he been, there! out under the midnight heaven
—under that scathed tree, to whose history, and that
of the bleak and barren solitude about, were allied ten
thousand frightful stories of Indian superstition—a
place that, for ages, the beast and the bird of prey had
haunted for food—a tree that had been there—the
same, unchanged, unshattered, unbowed—with never
a branch, nor a leaf the less (so said the oldest of the
red men,) from beyond time—centuries had rolled
away—storm after storm had beaten upon it—rain after
rain—and yet was it, forever, unworn and unwet—
again and again, had it been in a blaze, from head to
foot with the lightning of heaven—again and again,
had the thunder and the earthquake shaken all the trees
around, root and branch—nay, the very fountain that
crept round it, so darkly and sluggishly, that had been
dried up again and again, by the hot storming of the
skies, and yet this tree, this old and awful, sapless and
withered tree, had withstood it all—all the elements—
all the principles of decay—had stood there, like an
indestructable shadow, undiminished, unshaken, unsubdued!
Not a blade of grass lay within its shade.
The very soil was brown, and hot, and arid, like pulverised
iron.

That his knife had struck a deadly blow—that it had
searched, fatally searched, the vitals of something alive,
within a few short hours, was abundantly evident, for
the blood was hardly yet coagulated upon the hilt; and
as the morning light broke, at last, upon his hands, he

discovered that they were stained, and that the hot
life stream had, as he had dreamt, spouted over his
forehead and eyes. He descended to the water, and,
as he stooped over it, for the purpose of washing away
the loathsome pollution, he shrank back, and turned
deadly sick, at the sight of his reflected visage. There
was a red crust upon his lips; and the print of a bloody
hand upon his own throat. He stooped again. He was
wounded, and the action of his body as he leant forward,
tore away his shirt, which had become glued to
a wound in his side. He tore off his garments, and discovered
that it was, indeed, new and deep. This accounted
for his faintness, and for his return to reason.
The loss of blood had restored him. In his instinct, he
had probably sought the cabin, and there, as he slept,
his delirium passed away with his blood.

He felt thankful indeed for his mysterious preservation.
He had lived thus, by a continual miracle, through
the night.

The whole was so wonderful, that it seemed especially
adapted to confirm the high minded and visionary
boy, in all the devout dreaming of his nature; now,
now! could he longer doubt that the preternatural
was to be a part of his familiar destiny?—that he was
chosen for some momentous work?—appointed to some
mighty deliverance?

He returned to the cabin, and threw himself, once
more, upon the matted leaves, with his pistols loaded,
and his naked sabre at his side. While lying in this
manner, with his eyes turned up toward the interlacing
branches that composed the roof, his eye was
taught by the appearance of paper. He arose, and drew
it forth. It was a book; a beautiful miniature edition of,
what he supposed, by the terminating rhymes,
although it was written in an unknown language, to be
poetry. He continues turning over the leaves, and
dwelling on the exquisite perfection of the engraving—
it falls from his hand!—why that trepidation? He
catches it up again—runs eagerly over the leaves—
presses it, in a transport, again and again, to his heart,
and his lips. It is Italian—her favourite language—

her favourite author—her favourite poem—Every page
is luminous with the trace of her pencil. Somewhat
drops from the fluttering leaves. He picks it up. His
astonishment appears to increase—he holds up a black
lead sketch of himself, and a little garland of withered
violets! He turns pale! He remembers them as his
own!—they are unaccountably restored; they were unaccountably
lost. He stands, with his heart hushed,
and his eyes cast down, as if he had unwittingly
opened the presence chamber of something celestial.
The sketch and wreath drop from his fingers.

He leant his face upon his hands. Warm tears
trickled through them. The sight of this little book
brought it all to mind, how and where he had first
seen the lady Elvira. He was a boy then—a mere boy
—unlikely, not only from his youth, but from his education,
which was only that of a soldier, to kindle, in
the contemplation of a high intellect, enthusiastically
brightened; and yet, he could not but remember—he
never had forgotten—he never could forget—that when
he first saw her, her of whom it was now guilt for him
to think at all—it was in summer—on a holy and quiet
evening: the long windows were open—the whole
apartment was filled with an intoxicating vapour—the
aromatick breathing of ten thousand beautiful and moist
wild flowers, that had been transplanted, and nourished
and tended by her hands, and taught to steal upward
and about, all over the walls, and ceiling, and drapery
of her favourite summer house. All the lights were
placed afar off, and glittered, along a dim piazza that
extended from the house, upon the innumerable, and
beautifully painted garlands that shadowed and festooned
all the pillars, and trailed in luxuriant embellishment
from all the windows. But just enough light
was given, to throw an aerial hue of witchery, transparency
and enchantment, upon every object of tenderness,
taste or feeling.

She was there. A loose dress, after the manner of
the Oriental, of thin muslin, was wrapped, negligently
about her, in shawl-like undulations—she was lying
upon a sofa—not like an Eastern voluptuary—but

rather like the intellectual Cleopatra, or Aspasia, with
her soul breaking out, like twilight, from her moist
eyes. The sun went down at her feet, as in worship,
pouring in upon her, as he departed, a flood of shining
carnation and gold. The whole western sky—nay,
the very rocks and woods, seemed to arise in vapour,
as if they were exhaling in the fervid presence of their
God. A lute was by her side—untouched—unprofaned.
The sun-beam trembled upon it, but it answered not. It
was silent. The enchantment was too deep for its voice.
The statue of Memnon, itself, had been mute as death,
at such a moment. She read aloud. Harold was overcome.
Why, he knew not. She read in an unknown
tongue. But she felt, and thrilled; and therefore, he
felt, and thrilled. Nay, the very lute appeared to murmur,
now and then, in his ear, as he leant over it, as
one delicate instrument will answer to another, when
touched tenderly, and both are in unison.

Her face was vivid, insupportably vivid, with expression,
at times: at times, her eyes shot fire as she
read. At times, her frame shook, and she appeared dilating
with some stupendous conception of the author.
And then—her countenance would change—her colour
would fade, and come and go—her passionate voice
would linger and languish, in broken intonations—
her eyelids would droop, like snowdrops, surcharged
with dew.

Who could resist her? an Indian boy? Could he, of
all the beings of this earth, to whom are given the prerogatives
of intellect? What were his feelings? young
and untutored as he was—ignorant of the laws of society—unswayed—uncultivated—untaught—never,
oh,
never, had he felt at all before, in comparison with the
utter cruelty and agony of his heart, when he saw a
man approach, and throw himself by her side, and caress
her.

He shook his head—he half unsheathed a dagger,
in his concealment. At the same moment, he broke the
thraldom that held him upon the spot; put aside the
curtain that concealed him, and stood by her!—his

black hair writhing over his agitated front, and his black
eyes streaming with fire.

The lady shrieked, and fainted. The boy fell upon
his face, as before a divinity—the man raised him—he
was deadly pale—the cold dew stood upon his forehead.
He broke from the arms that held him—threw
himself at her feet and clung to her, with such a look!
so piteous, so imploring, so full of awe!

She shrieked again distractedly—and her eyes rolled,
as if she saw a spectre; she shrunk from him, trembling
in every joint—`oh, begone! begone!' she cried. `What
art thou!—leave me! leave me!'

Harold was chilled to the heart. She had never forgiven
him—till of late; but the man, whom he saw,
had. He was her husband—the governour; and had
wearied himself with endeavouring to overcome her
mortal terrour of Harold.

He had succeeded: wo to him!—wo! wo!—His wife
was no longer his.

Such was Harold's first glimpse of the lady Elvira.
The remembrance was painfully distinct. Years had
passed away; all his character had changed; he was
now a man. He had seen her since, in his maturity,
and often had he seen that very book in her hands.
Nay, he had once listened to her, as she related to another,
the effect of his sudden, and wild apparition before
her, with such earnestness, such mysterious tenderness,
that he had held his breath to hear her. This
book was a treasure to him. He deposited it in his bosom;
and then, as an offering that could not be mistaken,
the silent oblation of the heart, he determined to study
the language in which it was written; and hence, he
would be able to commune with her spirit, even in its
most secret and innocent thinking, however widely they
were separated. Every mark of her pencil, every
scored passage, yea, every word that he should find
marked emphatically, would be a key to some peculiarity
of her heart.

He remembered the paper that had fluttered and
fallen, as he first ran over the leaves. He took it up
again. He examined it. The outline was his own—it

was bold and spirited; but surely—yes—it was so—
the finishing was by another hand. Need he ask what
hand? on earth, there was but one, that could touch
with a confidence so suprising:—but one that could
produce such a startling effect. The more he gazed,
the more was he flattered by the exceeding accuracy and
vividness of the resemblance. It was significant of extreme
study and application. His cheeks burnt; and his
heart beat with tenfold trepidation.

He continued, hardly conscious of what he was
about, shuffling over the leaves. Another sketch struck
his eye—a single glance showed him the subject. His
confusion and dizziness increased. His heart told him
that it was like himself, at a much earlier day; nay,
more—for who shall mistake the mysterious intelligence
of young hearts, in their electrick communication?—he
was equally sure that the picture was drawn
for him years before, and that the peculiarity of his
look and manner,—the menacing and terrifick earnestness
of his attitude and lip, were all faithfully his own,
when he first broke upon Lady Elvira! There was a
motto, almost illegible, in Spanish.—`Cuidado!—aguarde
vim!'

He threw himself upon the bed again: clasped his
hands over his hot eyeballs, and endeavoured to shut
out the thought that crowded upon him.

`I will write, by heaven!' he cried, starting up, and
tearing a leaf from the book, and writing—agitated
even to death:—`Farewell! farewell, forever!'

Could he send it? of what avail would it be to him,
or to her? why wound her so cruelly? did he indeed
mean to bid her farewell forever?—to forget her? then,
he should not write. If he did not mean it, how cruel,
how unworthy of him, was such mockery!—`yes—
yes—I will write to her, reason with her,' he cried;
and the tears trickled down his face—`and then we
will part, forever and ever, indeed.' He wrote:

`Farewell, lady, farewell. I have found in the hunting
cabin—knowest thou where it stands?—near the
haunted tree, a book. Knowest thou that book? It is

mine. There are—oh, forgive me, thou who hast tempted,
and triumphed, and trampled on me—thou, oh,
woman, who hast taught me to scorn myself—to deride
my destiny, to disregard all the admonitions of manhood—to
tremble before thee, as in the anger of the
Great Spirit—to grow faint and feeble at the thought of
thee, to prostrate myself, and weep, yea, weep! and sob!
when I dream of thee!—I know not what I am saying—there
are traces of thy spirit upon its pages.
Among them, I have found a wreath of violets. It was
very dear to me once. I know not how I lost it—and
now, I care not. It has no value now, in my eyes. It
lies at my feet—I should not deign to pick it up, inestimable
as it has been to me, were it not consecrated by
thy touch—thy breath, perhaps, lady—nay, why not?
thy tears. The white man may call this vanity; he may
smile, and ask why thou shouldst weep over a wreath
of faded, withered, innocent, little violets? I should
scorn to tell him. I need not tell thee. Upon that chain,
I have wept many a tear before I lost it—but it was after
I saw thee—it was the last gift of the kindest, the
gentlest heart, that ever beat—nay, lady, even gentler
and kinder than thine own, but not so wonderful, not
so exalted. That little circlet—those delicate blue flowrets
were her last present. We parted. I loved her. I
loved her gift. I thought that I should have gone distracted,
when I lost it. I have found it again. I cannot weep
over it, now. I cannot touch it with my lips. Tell me
the reason. If I preserve it, it will not be for her sake.
For whose, then? lady, thou knowest well—nay, nay,
I will not preserve it, I cannot. I have enough to remind
me of—of thee, lady, without that. But I cannot
tear it, I cannot trample on it, I cannot scatter it profanely—but—there!
it is done—I have buried it. I will
never look upon it again. It has reproached me for the
last time.

`O, lady, I must bid thee farewell. I must stop—I
cannot bear to think of thee, now. Her image is before
me, poor, dear, Loena!—thy melancholy eyes—thy
trembling lips almost touch my face. Oh, leave me!
leave me! wouldst thou have me tell thee, dear, that I

no longer love thee!—that I love—almighty God! that
I love the wife of another man!—ha!—I thought so!
thou art gone—vanished!—I knew that would scare
thee—oh, my brain! my brain!— * *
I am more composed. I have been laughing, laughing!
I know not why, lady. But when the poor girl left me,
I thought that my heart would break, and yet, I
laughed. The noise is ringing in my ears yet. I cannot
bear it. It is the voice of a madman. Am I mad? I
hope not.

A whole day has past. I am better, but very weak.
Thy husband—I can bear to write his name now, thou
seest:—but this is the third time that I have tried. He
has been with me. He is very angry. His countenance
was black;—lady, let me whisper it to thee—hush—he
says—no, no, I cannot. I cannot shock thee with his
blasphemies. Thou art innocent—art thou not?—am
not I? what have we done?—aught that thou and I
should tremble for? * * * *

It is his own fault; why did he tear me from my
kindred? Then I was callous—insensible—innocent.
But no!—no!—thou hast awakened me, thou!—and
I bless thee for it. It is to thy benignity and elevation,
proud lady, that I owe these devouring, but ennobling
sensations. The flame that thou hast kindled, purifies,
although it consumes me.

Lady!—what will become of me? Thou hast taught
me to abjure mine Indian gods—to become an apostate
to the religion of my fathers, with all its noble simplicity,
its uncorrupt grandeur and sublimity, and to become,
what!—a Nazarene! Yea, thou hast done this,
and thou will answer for it. * * *

But why rebuke thee! can I blame thee, thou hallowed
one? can that religion be other than the true religion,
that, which is thine: oh, no! `Thy god shall be my
god.' * * * * * *

It is midnight. I am the only mortal awake perhaps,
within the circumference of many leagues. Art thou
watching too? I will believe it—I must. It is the last
time that I shall approach thee, and I cannot but linger.

Art thou watching, lady?—Let me go out and
look upon the sky.

`I have been abroad. I have set, with my arms folded,
upon the rock by the fountain, until the beautiful
moon had rolled away from all her stars, and stood
alone, alone! directly over thy habitation. I was sure
of it. I was sure that thy blue eyes were upon her, at
the same moment. I felt their reflection upon mine—
they dazzled me. I felt unhappy—very unhappy—
lonely—spiritualized—my tears fell upon my hand—
and I have returned. Why is this?—I never wept but
once, till I saw thee, lady—I was ashamed of it. But
now, I weep continually, and unconsciously—yet my
first tears scalded me, and I felt as if I was choking—
and now, I am no longer ashamed. I find relief in it.
The sockets of my eyes feel hot, and blistered; and nothing
sooths them now, like mine own tears.

`A new feeling besets me. * * * A new
spirit is within me. I tremble at its stirring. In what
unknown language am I speaking? what do I decree!
lo, my spirits are all about me, with fiery wings, ready
to do my bidding! what wouldst thou, lady? speak, and
it shall be done, even to the extinction of the whole human
family—the whole!—man! woman! and—no, no,
thou and I—and wilt thou let me!—poor Loena—shall
we not spare her too? we should not be alone. We
should want some human creature to caress, and she
is so innocent, so young, so helpless. But no—no!—
she shall not survive—she would not—thinkest thou
that the dear child would be thy hand-maiden?—oh,
no!—speak, Lady, what wouldst thou? they are ready!

`Lady, I am very faint. They have left me. I am
glad of it. My arteries ached with their presence. I see
clearer, now. My forehead, too, is cooler, much cooler
—now they have gone. See! those drops—they are not
from my eyes. I am broad awake, again. I feel a supernatural
striving of the spirit. Words came to me,
unincumbered—words, hitherto unknown to me!—burning—burning
and bright!—Is it eloquence? It is not
the eloquence of the Indian—no—no! There is some
new and painful inspiration within me, unknown to the

nation of red men. I began—did I not tremble? I knew
not what to say—only farewell, perhaps—and a blessing
or two—and now!—why, I could write forever, now.
Why is this? oh, lady, teach me, what are my duties?
whither shall I go? Our religion tells me that we, oh,
forgive me!—that we are apart forever, and ever. Must
this be? Is there no escape? none? Then what have I
to live for? I dare not meet Loena. I cannot meet thee.
The spirit of my fathers—the mighty of old, go by me
now, unheeded. No longer hold I the sublime communion
of my youth, with them that have departed. Why
am I thus prostrated, abject? speak, woman, for thou
art the cause—thou!—yea, in desperation, I declare it—
here! here!—on my death bed—in the wilderness—in
the very sanctuary and presence of Jehovah, I do declare,
that, thou lovely and perilous one!—thou alone,
art my death, and my destruction.

I am very faint—very. I know not what I have
written. Leaf after leaf have I torn from thy book, till
there is not another left, upon which something of
thy own dear thought is not visible. I can write no
more. Farewell! oh, farewell!—whither shall I go?
what will become of me?—Elvira—`cuidado—aguarde
---Lœna!'

Harold.

He stopped, overcome with his emotions—then enclosed
the protrait of himself—folded the letter—
charged his pistol—thrust the book and the letter into
his pocket, and was departing; when it occurred to
him, that he might find a bow and arrow, such as were
hung upon the walls of the cabin, of use, in conveying
the letter. He took one down, therefore, and sick and
wandering as he was, returned upon his steps.