 | CHAPTER XII. Logan |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
With the dew of the morning, his feltocks were wet;
And the foam frothed his limbs in the journey of noon;
Nor stayed he, till, over the westerly heaven,
The shadows of evening had set.
`—Let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight;
A portion of the tempest!—and of thee!
`And now 'twas done! in the lone wood were plighted
Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed
Beauty upon the beautiful, they lighted, —
Their priest was solitude—and they were wed—
And they were happy!'—
A horse stood foaming and pawing the earth, by the
precipitous and broken approach to the encampment.
Over his smoking flanks, trailed the reeking skin of a
new slain panther. He snorted and stamped impatiently,
and the blood arose in a hot steam from his chest.
A horse was an uncommon spectacle in these solitudes.
Many and many a prize, however, had been wrenched
from the white settlers of the north: and multitudes
were to be had, in their native, untamed, unbroken
fierceness and glory, in the further savannahs of the
south and west. But this creature was a phenomenon.
He stood instinct with spirit. Through his thin, glossy
coat, the ridgy veins ran and intertwined in his action,
with the movement of life—from head to foot, the animal
was pulse, all pulse! Who does not feel his heart
grow big at the sight of these warlike creatures? Who
can see the free carriage of a young stallion, flinging
his iron bound hoofs on the air, swaying his wide mane,
hither and thither, with the arch of his neck—his broad
chest rattling with his loud breath, all the while, and
not feel as if he could vault into the saddle, upon the
spot, and tilt against the whole world; and yet, how
little you know of fine horses in civilized life. Go to
the wilderness—the broad river—the boundless, immeasurable
savannah, and desert, when the ceiling of
heaven shines like dark blue chrystal above you—a
molten gold!
Look at them, then—war horses going continually, in
a whirlwind of smoke and dust, about the whole circumference
of their dominions. Whole troops—thousands
and tens of thousands, thundering round, from
horizon to horizon, as with the incessant charging of
continual battle. They who have never seen these
things, will never believe them. To see an army of
young horses coming down from a distant elevation,
like a dark cloud; or emerging from the extremest
bound of the earth, for so it seems to the traveller
upon one of these unbroken plains, like an army with
banners; and sweeping onward, with the noise and effect
of a tornado—the earth quaking under them,
neighing, and leaping; their eyes flashing fire, and their
manes and tails streaming like banners in the blast—to
see this, is worth travelling, as I have travelled, from
the east unto the west, and from the north, even unto
the ends of the earth.
So stood this horse, hot and smoking with fatigue, the
foam rolled up over his chest, and spotting his beautiful
limbs, as if he had swum against a mill race; so, he stood,
lashing his sides ever and anon, with his sweeping tail,
like a young lion. The blood was dropping yet from the
raw skin, and the fiery animal snuffed it, with an expression
of ferocious and vivid delight—uncovering
his white teeth, and displaying his transparent red nostrils,
as he drew in the vapour, with the loud wind, and
sent it forth again like steam, as if the whole world
were a level, and all his own! Is there a creature beneath
the sky, man only excepted, so lofty, so terrible, so
truly august and beautiful, as him, whose neck is
flaked with thunder—the young war horse!
Never shall I forget a spectacle to which I was a
witness, once, in South America. I was encompassed
by four Guerillas, each having two led horses, one unincumbered,
and one loaded with provisions. We had
been often apprised of the danger to be apprehended
from encountering a herd of wild horses; and were
continually on the look-out, particularly, as but a few
total extinction of a small cavalcade, small, but larger
than ours, nevertheless, which was literally trampled
to dust, by a charge from one of these irresistible
hordes. Never shall I forget the day. Our advanced
guide arose, for a moment, in his stirrups, or rather
upon his feet, for he leaped upon the saddle; then, instantly
threw off the rein, with which he led the spare
horse, sprang upon his back, abandoning his spent and
goaded creature, and set off at full gallop. The other
guerillas followed without speaking a word, in the deepest
silence and consternation; and, I, without knowing
the reason, followed them with similar feelings of dismay,
leaving our laden, and helpless horses behind.
They were four in number. The mystery was soon revealed.
My blood went `a rippling to my finger-ends.'
I felt my heart dissolving, as if some impure thing had
touched and tainted it: never before had I felt such a
mortal terrour, and there was, through all my vitals, after
the first sudden electrick chill, a feeling of general thaw
and dissolution. I had tried, in vain, to overtake my
flying companions, and learn the cause of their terrour;
and was checking my horse in despair, when I saw
a black cloud hovering low upon the horizon; it concentrated,
it appeared upon the earth; it took a yet
closer shape, and approached, with the noise of a hurricane,
and the appearance of broken and trampled
grass, swept up by a strong wind, and whirled about
in the air. The truth broke upon me at once, and I
determined to await the event with fortitude, losing
all sense of personal danger, in my astonishment and
delight, at the awful reverberation of their trampling
hoofs. They came, like a whole army of cavalry, battalion
after battalion, shod in iron, and dashing over
a solid pavement, laden with armour, the bullets rained
upon their mailed breasts, as they rained the other
day upon the French cuirassiers at Waterloo, when all
England shook with terrour. My god! my god! I
shouted! for, in an instant, three of our laden horses,
that were yet in sight, were trodden upon by the whole
army, till they were not to be distinguished from the
compounded. One only escaped. They wheeled. They
came round altogether, in array; two or three stragglers
only appearing to diverge for a moment, as if
undetermined whether to thunder me down, in the same
manner, or to pursue my companions, who were scouring
away before me, with a celerity that made me smile,
even in my terrour. They determined, after a moment's
irresolution, upon the latter; and all wheeled together,
with one universal neigh, and set off after
them. I heard a noise at my left. It was the remaining
horse; he put himself in a gallop towards me, relaxed,
stopped, faltered, shook, and fell within pistol
shot, actually overcome by his fright. I rode to the poor
creature: he was trembling and convulsed, and covered
with sweat. You would have thought that he had just
broke away, with his torn mane, from the paws of a
lion. I had seen such things in Asia. But what s situation
was mine! Alone, in a boundless savannah, my
guides trampled to death—no path—no compass—no
chart—no experience—and left to find my way, for a
thousand miles, perhaps, with one horse, and the few provisions
that he could carry. Their fate I considered
inevitable. Every moment, this frightful cavalcade was
audibly gaining upon them; and their wild, delirious
neighing was like the noise of ten thousand trumpets.
Suddenly, they appeared to be motionless—to concentrate—the
sound of their charge was suspended—the
body grew darker, and larger. `Gracious heaven!' I
cried, rising in my stirrups, they are returning! My
heart died within me. My horse shook under me. My
love of life became desperately strong. I threw myself
from the saddle, willing to try one experiment,
by diverting their attention from me to my horse. I
struck him a smart blow, and instantly concealed myself
in the thick grass. He set off at his utmost speed,
in the very direction that I wished. What a spectacle!
This most beautiful and spirited animal, flying, with
his mane all loose, every sinew strained to cracking,
over his native plain, before a horde of his early companions,
reason, than instinct.
The herd were motionless. Were they deliberating?
It began to thunder. In this situation, I stood,
trembling with awe and sublimity, and yet, thrilling
to my very heart, with inconceivably wild and hurrying
sensations of delight. For whole hours, I had
heard it thundering, from one dark spot in the skies,
while all the rest was serene as a summer lake. It was
so now. All was so pure, so spiritually pure above,
that the sky seemed further from earth than ever. And
far below it, as if suspended in the air, revolved a heavy
mass of cloud, black as death in the centre, the
edges of undulating and fiery crimson. Above and below,
and on every side, shot out incessant flashes of
pale, silvery light, with intermittant blue vapour, like
hair combed thin, and blowing about in a high wind;
and ever and anon bright sparkles were emitted, and
steely coloured darts, hurled, whistling, into the blue
vacuity—lances encountered, and shivering. All about,
was the most soft and delicious blue, that mortal eye
ever beheld. Through this, with a quivering, and incessant
vivacity, a pale, streaming, threaded lustre, as
if the shuttles of heaven, were at work, shot hither and
thither, leaving lines of bright crimson, and rough
gold, like net work, for a moment, over the blue. The
colours were perpetually changing. Now, there ran
along the sides and bottom of the cloud, a border of
flame-coloured tasselling, and broad fringe. Anon, a
narrow rippling of scarlet and white fire, like blood
and lava, so intensely bright, that for hours afterward,
the same ribband-like lustre was quivering before me,
let me look where I would. It thundered:—from the
bosom of the black rolling cloud, there came a tremendous
uproar, as of the onset and shock of successive
armies. This sound diminished: but an uninterrupted
noise, as of thunder and musick, battle, and martial
minstrelsy, continued, without a moment's intermission,
until midnight, accompanied at times, with a general
discharge, as of coloured fire-works, from the whole circumference
of the cloud—hail and rain of crimson and
it. I was not aware of the terrour and distress, and
rapture that I had felt, till I found myself, with my
knees knocking together, quivering in all my limbs, and
my clothing literally drenched with sweat. But to this
circumstance, alone, the thundering in the sky, I found
afterwards, that I had to attribute not only my own
safety, but that of my companions.
Never shall I forget it! never! Often have I been in
battle; full often have I seen a charger `burst his
bloody girth,' and sweep the slippery ground with his
broad mane, as he lifted his neck, and staggered upon
his knees, for the last time, so that the blood came in
a shower, like rain, upon the rank behind him, while
the living fire streamed from his swollen eye-balls,
his hair bristled all over with spirit and vitality, and
his long fetlocks were matted and stiffened with hot
gore. And once I remember; nay, I never can forget
it—seeing a great white horse, in the thick of battle,
the smoke of a whole park of artillery was rolling about
him; a standard rattled before him in the sky; twenty
bayonets were in his side at once, yet he leaped on and
on, and through and through, the squadron before him;
and was literally lifted from the earth, by the planted
pikes upon which he finally leaped; pitching his gallant
rider upon the bayonets beyond, which hedged in
the blazing standard—the rent and smoking spoil, at
which he drove, when he too was impaled in the air! and
unhorsing, with the shock of thunder, an opposing captain,
and then, lo! I can see him yet! staggering to the
earth, and dragging down, horse and horseman, banner
and shield; his whole body red with his own wounds;
his magnificent harness trailing in blood; his saddle
turned—his trappings torn and tangled; his great heart
rattling in his chest; a reddish vapour rising from his
encrusted, and fractured limbs, like a hot steam. Yes!
yes! I do see him at this moment—His sinews writhing
and knotting, his mane flashing, his nostrils dilating,
and running crimson, and the blood starting with
his last neigh, through every pore of his skin, as from
some animal, in a suddenly exhausted receiver.
Yes, this have I seen! and that, the spectacle just described,
an army of young stallions thundering down
from the sky, with the noise and the smoke of the hurricane,
all in ranks—their eyes, even at the distance of
a mile, visible, like the glancing of armour points in the
sun, by a continual and angry glitter: yet never have I
seen a creature that agitated me like the description
which I have heard from an Indian, who remembered
this horse, which now stood, with loose rein, floating,
before the tent.
Harold paused, with a feeling of breathless astonishment,
to gaze upon the noble animal—Surely! could it
be possible?
His own colt!—`Hurra!'—he leaped upon his back;
the animal reared and neighed, as if instantly recognizing
the accomplished horseman, by his firm seat;
who could have resisted the temptation? Harold never
stopped to consider whose property the creature now
was; enough for him that it had been his, and that he
had been wrongfully despoiled of it. One rein was knotted
to a sapling. Harold had not, it was impossible
that he could have, the patience to untie it. He drew
his hanger, and severed it with a blow; turned his
proud head up the mountain; and the next moment, was
leaping upon its very summit, panting, and breathless.
So steep was the ascent, that his chin rested upon the
head of his horse. He stood up in his stirrups,
and looked about him. The world lay all below
him. There was the cabin, there! He could almost
spring upon its roof. There too, was she whom he had
loved; he raised his hand to his eyes, and sunk into the
saddle. Had he seen her? could it be—for the last
time? How strange the sensation! Once he had believed
that his passionate heart could not find a home away
from hers—that, alone, it would shiver itself to death
in his bosom. Now! his lip quivered, and he wondered
what withheld him, from leaping, horse and rider, down
upon the tent that enshrined her.
`Did she love him? did she!' he asked himself, over
and over again. His vestment parted with the vehement
pulsation of his heart. It grew audible. He was
He blushed, as he looked upon his own magnificent
shadow—upon a broad, flat rock, opposite, his horse
pawing and reaching, under him, tossing his head continually,
and waving his shadowy mane—`his bits
wrangling,' and he, with his head uncovered—half-naked—his
panther skin floating away from his shoulders—`O,
if she were near me now,' thought Harold.
The thought had not passed his lips, when he heard a
shout, a call, away below him. It was instantly answered
on all sides. He heard his name—menaces, curses,
and exclamations, followed. What could it mean? If
ill, he was too conspicuous. He turned to depart, but he
was too late, the noise of his trampling charger upon
the solid rock, betrayed him. He was seen. The shout
was renewed. It was not like the cheering of friendship
or encouragement, but rather like that which precedes
the immolation of some victim.
`Surely, I might have expected this,' thought Harold.
I have wronged their mistress, their princess,
their priestess. Who of them all, much as I know they
have loved me, will spare me? Harold wondered at
his own blindness and infatuation. A new sense of
life had returned to him, and he shuddered at the danger
that he had escaped. Weak, and wounded as he was,
his weakness and wounds were all forgotten, now. In
the hour of trial, many are the hearts that fail not; but
who can look upon the battle, or the shipwreck, or the
combat of wild beasts, from which he has escaped, and
not feel his blood run cold? Every shot, every cry
rings through his heart, and every shattered plank
strikes him, as it drives to the shore, with a sense of his
own worthlessness and insensibility. I have known men
faint at the recollection of what they have faced, without
trembling. And I, myself, at this moment, dare not
trust my cowardly spirit, in looking back upon what I
have often hazarded in mere wantonness. It throws my
very heart into a sweat. I can feel the blood hiding
in my vitals, my brain shivering; and yet, place me
again, again, where no mortal help can aid me: toe to
toe with the same peril, and no change, other than a
should not shrink. I should not shut my eyes. I should
do the same deeds again, with firmness, with a steady
voice, a steady eye; and mayhap, go home, and hide my
face in my bed, and weep, with gratitude for my escape.
Such is man!
So with Harold. The present danger was nothing.
The past, all. Now, he remembered, and he wondered
that he had not before suspected their evil purposes;
that the Indians below, had greeted him, after his interview
with Loena, in sullenness. Now, he remembered,
and his blood boiled at the thought, how roughly
they had dragged him, upon his knees, from her presence.
Why did he not smite them to the earth? why?
He had half a mind to ride down upon them, now,
from the very top of the mountain, and avenge the indignity,
on horseback, and in her very presence! Was
his countenance troubled? Yea. When the deep places
of Harold's heart were troubled, he showed it. Disturb
the bottom of the deepest ocean, itself, and bubbles
will arise—a somewhat, more fearful and appalling,
will pass over its great face, and tell the tale, and
perchance rebuke you into forbearance. His features,
always articulate with expression, now grew rigid in
his wrath. What did they not deserve? They, for whom
he had fought;—spilt his blood—with whom he had
passed many wintry campaigns, in heroick adventure;
what did they not deserve? `Death?'—Death! no, death
was too good for them, when, at the bare instigation
of their evil nature, their fealty to a capricious girl,
they were ready to bind their chosen young warriour,
hand and foot, and broil him upon live coals, under
her nostrils. In the exasperation of the moment, Harold
uplifted his hand, and prayed with a loud voice,
for the power of overturning the very mountain upon
them, and her, and himself, and perishing, like Sampson,
in the ruin and dust of his own strength.
But better thoughts soon followed. Was he guiltless?
Had he not wronged Loena? And were these
faithful creatures wrong in their blind loyalty?
A shaggy dog sprang before him!—another! His horse
stood at bay, with his nose to the ground, and his back
turned to the precipice, over which, at every attack of
the dogs, he was in danger of stepping, as he retreated.
The loud cry of the curs prevented Harold from seeing
his danger, until the hinder foot of his charger slid,
and he was almost unhorsed, upon the brow of the
tremendous cliff, ere the creature answered to his reiterated
soothings, by leaping forward at once, upon the
foremost dog, and breaking him down with his hoofs,
as he stood eyeing the precipice, and shivering.
The loud cry of the dog was instantly answered.
Heads and feathers began to be seen in the low blasted
verdure of the mountain, and the quick gleaming of
steel, that flashed from rock to rock. There was not
a moment to lose. Harold drew up the reins—wheeled—gave
his sure footed horse full scope, and dashed
down a ravine—the dust, the rattling of stones, the
baying of dogs, and the continual splash of falling earth
and gravel, into the water below, announcing his course.
His head became giddy—he reeled in the saddle—the
water is passed—the descent is over. But hark! more
battle for his arm. Another rider was before him.
Brief salutation was given Harold knew him; and
the whirled tomahawk and the levelled rifle left him no
time to doubt that he came as a mortal foe. The tomahawk
passed him, widely. The ball whistled by his
face. Harold threw himself upon his feet, in the
smoke of the shot, plucked the tomahawk from the
earth, and hurled it, with a swiftness and precision that
was fatal to the horse of his antagonist. It cleft his
head, as he reared at its approach, or his master would
have met with the same fate.
`Thou devil!' cried the stranger, and he vaulted
from the saddle of his falling horse, and stood gallantly
upon his feet, with his cymeter in his hand.
`Englishman!' was Harold's reply: at the same moment
loosening the reins of his horse from his arm, and
drawing his sabre, with a whistle from the scabbard.
The horse reared, and then stood stock still, a patient
spectator of the strife, as if conscious that he was to be
the trophy of the surviver.
Their blades met. Harold was the more wary, the
more lightning-like, but the stranger was bolder, and
stronger. Both were resolute as death. Several
wounds were given, and received. Harold's sword
broke to the hilt. He threw himself upon the stranger
and bore him to the earth, wrenched his sword from
him, and twice, in his blindness and wrath attempted,
in vain, to pass it through and through his heart, as
they grappled together. But twice the Englishman
caught the sharp blade in his hands, and twice Harold
drew, it by main force, through his clenched fingers,
slowly severing sinew, and tendon, and flesh, and grating
on the bones, as it passed. Harold gasped—the
Englishman held him by the throat—the blood gushed
from his ears and nostrils—once more!—he has succeeded!
The blood has started through the pores of the
brave fellow below him! His arteries are burst—He
is dead—dead!—nailed to the earth, and Harold is sitting
by him, blinded, and sick.
A half hour has passed. The horse stamps, impatiently,
by the corse. Why stands Harold thus, gazing
upon the red ruin before him, with such a deadly
hatred?
Look! his countenance relaxes. He speaks, murmurs.
Surely he relents. His face is covered with
his reeking hands. He kneels; Almighty God! the
murderer kneels by the murdered! The young savage
is kissing the forehead of the dead man! O, human nature,
how terrible thou art in thy perplexities! Here,
here, a child of the wilderness, red with the blood of
his brother, agitated to death, but now, with the excess
of his own passionate desire of vengeance—behold
him, weeping, trembliug, and bowing down, over the
slaughter that he has perpetrated. O, heaven! what is
the nature of man?
It was too late. The youthful stranger was, indeed,
dead. The sword was plunged up to the very
hilt, through his heart, into the green earth. Harold
would fain have plucked it out. But he had not the
heart to do it, not even the strength. He attempted it;
but the sound of the torn flesh, as the rough and battered
edge returned through the cleft vitals, was too horrible.
`There let it stay, forever!' he cried. `I cannot
pluck thee forth, my good blade; and thou, my horse,
thou, the prize and issue of the fight, I shall never love
thee more!' The horse stood by, rolling his red eyes,
not with the calm, haughty contemplation of a proud
beast, when murder is going on in his presence, but
agitated, like an accomplice, shivering and dismayed.
He will not let Harold back him!—why? is it the gleam
of the plucked sword, for Harold has, at last, torn it
forth, with shut eyes, and a desperate hand?—The
brightness is dimmed, discoloured; and upon its ragged
edge, gouts of palpitating bloody flesh, are yet adhering—Can
it be that? It is! The noble brute shakes
with the smell, and the spirit of rebellion is aroused
within him. He had snuffed, and tasted the blood of a
man, and he could almost tear his own master, in the
raging madness that followed.
Harold bounded into the saddle. The creature
stood trembling in all his joints, as if some wild beast
had leaped upon him;—and then reared. For the first
time in his life, Harold was unhorsed. He had scarcely
touched the saddle, when the animal sprang from
under him—toward heaven, too, as if to bear witness
against him! Harold arose, in the first transport of his
fury; and was only withheld from cleaving the skull of
noble creature upon the spot, by perceiving him stop, at
the moment, fling down his head, brace his fore feet,
and stare, with rivetted and flaming eyes, through the
long tresses, which he shook over them, at the dead body;
as if he saw a spectre rising from the earth; and
then, gradually leaning back, he sat upon his haunches,
without stirring his hinder hoofs, as if something very
terrible, unseen by aught but himself, were menacing,
him. Harold's blood curdled. He attempted to sooth
the animal, but for a long time, in vain—the creature's
flesh quivered beneath his touch, as if it were raw, and
a burning hand were struck upon it.
At last, Harold succeeded in mounting him. He
was completely subdued. His unnatural wildness had
departed, and he was gentle, even to timidity. If a
the hot vapour of blood; or if he could see a spectre
at noon-day, Harold felt persuaded that his horse
had been so, and had seen one.
He left his foe—the companion of his boyhood—
his rival, his insulter; him who had spoiled him, he
knew not how, of his gallant horse; and scorned and
baited him, whenever they had encountered, presuming
on their earlier friendship—he left him, shuddering, and
suffocated in his own black blood. Yea, Harold left
him on the green earth—in a holy solitude—to the Demon
of the place, the beasts of the field, and the fowls
of the air. He left him, forgetting all their former affection,
in his hatred; all their former trials of skill, in
this, the last deadly trial; all their former wrestling and
combat, in this, their last mortal struggle. And yet,
some tears fell upon the loose mane before him, as he
combed it with his fingers, and thought how he had
once loved the man, with whose blood it was now stiffened
and tangled; how they had hunted together, swum
together, fought together, and—and loved together!'
`Heaven blast him, for his treachery,' cried Harold,
grinding his teeth, and tearing away a handful of matted
hair from the neck of his horse, flinging it to the
earth, and riding over it; while his horse, as if full of
his master's wrath, struck, and spurned at it, with his
sounding hoof.
Harold wheeled about, and was almost mad enough
to return to the spot, yea, though all his foes were beleaguering
the body, and wreak his consummate wrath
anew upon the dead man, by hacking, and hewing, and
trampling his beautiful limbs to jelly, with the heels of
his charger.
`Away! away! I have nothing left to love now! My
hengeance is exhausted. My mistress abandons me.
My tribe disown me. They turn their knives against
Harold, now. Whither shall I go? Across the wide
water? Yea, let it be so—across the wide water, will I
journey, and I care not how soon, be it to the land of
souls. I will go out and interrogate the skies, and the
ocean!'
A cloud came up. Why does he tremble? It hangs
before his path. Why shrinks he from encountering
it? A peculiarity of shape hath made it familiar to him.
Once, in his boyhood, he had seen it there, exactly
there! and exactly in that shape too, hanging in the
bright sunshine, like a spectre, attached to the rock by
the skirts of his robe—a shadow, suspended in the air, by
incantation. Harold cast his eyes upward, `And just
at this hour! too!' he exclaimed. Could it be, that the
mists of evening were of a shape so like humanity?
Heaven! just so had he seen it, sixteen years before—
he trembled at the thought. What new misfortune
was at hand? The form and presence of a man had
stood before him. A clap of thunder broke over them,
and he was gone!—and now—
Hark! a sharp light! a loud voice! `The same thunder,'
thought Harold. But he was mistaken. He fell
from his horse. He was wounded. A loud yell followed.
The next moment, he was surrounded, lashed
hand and foot, and borne away. They approached the
encampment. Numbers more had arrived. It was
almost a village. Every living thing came out to meet
him, and curse him. The faggots were prepared before
his eyes. All the alarming paraphernalia of death
were exhibited to him. It was soon midnight. Harold
never stirred a finger, nor uttered a moan. He expected
and desired the death, but his heart felt sore, very
sore, at the thought of Loena. An Indian lay near
him. He watched the countenance of Harold. The
unconquerable determination and majesty of his look,
awed him. He removed farther off, as if to testify his
homage. Others approached. They remembered their
allegiance. They remembered of what a kingly aspect
had been his boyhood, and they, yes, they, the children
of the forest, trembled, and were afraid.
But why prolong the detail? Harold soon knew that
the hour of his appointed death was at hand. In the
deep midnight, his soul was to be required of him, in
torture—go up to heaven, in fire and smoke, amid the
howling and derision of infernal savages. Might he
lift his hand against his own life? Was it permitted
he who is beset with evil, and would escape, perhaps
by an easy, though surely, by a perilous way. Why
shrink we so from the self-murderer? Harold had not
forgotten all the sweet lessons of his childhood—His
mother, that majestick woman, her royal nature softened
and imbued with the rich, warm loveliness, of the
loveliest and warmest religion that ever flowed upon
the earth, she had often, a brave Indian as she was,
wept over her babe, and blessed him with the prayer
of the true Christian. He could not forget her. His
father had taught him to slay:—she, to spare. He had
nursed him for the battle, she, for the heart. He had
strung his sinews for fierce, unintermitted action, filled
all his arteries with the lava of ambition, rivetted his
joints, and taught his muscles to quiver for the untiring
conflict. She had taught him to pray, and weep,
and love, and be beloved. Hence these eternal contradictions
in his movement. There was a perpetual
warring of the elements in his head and heart. It was
now his hour of trial. He was appointed to die. To
die, were a trifle—he had long accustomed himself to
think of death with cheerfulness, not only with composure,
but with cheerfulness—but to die now, now! when
the bright world was just opening to him over the waters—yet
even that he could bear—but then, to die so
deplorably, in torture—why, even that he could endure.
They might broil the very marrow out of his
bones, his brain out of his skull, his soul out of his body—he
could endure all that—but, O, God, there was
no sympathy, no encouragement, no admiration for
him. Who could endure it? dying so helplessly, alone
—in silence!
The dagger was in his hand. He paused—he put
forth his arms—the cold sweat started out upon his lips!
could it be that the shadow of his mother had uprisen!
what was that—that! upon the bright moonlit wall.
The form was that of a woman. It came off from the
wall, and approached!—Ah, it was no shadow. It was
Loena herself! the Indian princess, his own, his beloved
one!
She fell upon his bosom, and sobbed aloud. The dagger
dropped from his hand.
`Harold! O, Harold, and wouldst thou leave me?
leave me, forever!' Her trembling lips told how passionately
she sought the consolation of his presence.
Again and again, he embraced her, soothed her, pressed
her head upon his bosom, his lips to her cheek, her
eyelids, her forehead, her neck—his very heart dissolving
in lofty and innocent rapture—`oh, mine own beloved
one!'
He uplifted the dagger for a moment, gazed upon
the blade, upon the dear countenance, that, with lashes
cast down, lips quivering and burning, leant over him
—saw it illuminated with an expression, that could not
be mistaken, and he flung the weapon from him, with
all his strength.
She started at the sound—turned, and saw it quivering
in the wall—pressed her locked hands convulsively
together, and shut her eyes.
`What! afraid Loena! afraid, when I am with thee!
Know love, that thou hast saved my life. Another murder
had been done—another instant, perhaps, and that
accursed knife had been buried in my heart.'
Loena uttered a cry of horrour. She could not believe
her senses. It was not merely the Christian, it
was the Indian, whose soul revolted at this crime, this,
of all others.
`A murderer! a self-murderer, Harold! Thou, after
all that thy mother said—at our last meeting—the very
last—thou hast not forgotten it. (Harold shuddered,
and pressed her more closely to his heart)—thou, a
self murderer! O, Harold!'
Harold could not reply. His heart was swelling,
heaving with gigantick and horrible thought. The
mystery of his fate became visible before him. It arrayed
itself, all, in all its darkness, with the gleamy
flames coursing it about, like fiery serpents; and all its
cabalistick characters burning, in legible denunciation
upon his eye-balls. Some awful abiding-place seemed
opening before his tranced spirit. He remembered the
prediction of his great mother—She sat, and the death
against his forehead. He felt the wet fingers now!—
the very shape, and motionless, chilling weight of the
hand, at this moment! A low groan came from beside
him. He shuddered, and hid his face.
`A self-murderer, Harold! thou! after all that we
have read together, all that thy mother, thy blessed mother
taught us, so immediately before her terrible
death.
`Loena,' said Harold, choking. `My mother is
avenged. Her murderers are hewed, and trampled on.'
`O, Harold! thou, that wouldst not, in thy childhood,
have dipped thy innocent hand in the blood of the vilest
animal. O, how art thou changed! Now, do I re-remember—hast
thou forgotten it?—when thou didst
so strive with my two brothers, to rescue the young
animal that they were torturing. It nearly cost thee
thy life. But for me, the spirited hunters had murdered
thee in thy sleep for it. No—no; thou needst
not kiss me, Harold—no, thy lips are changed—thy
nature!—thou art not the Harold whom I loved—' (and
then, she kissed him with her own lips.) Such is woman!
Intoxicated by her own tenderness, subdued by
her own resolution, and so is man!—kissing and parting,
rebuking and weeping, at the same moment.
`What!' said the good old Sachem, who had been on
an embassy to the whites—`The white men murder,
we never murder. They murder themselves! How we
shuddered!'
`But dear, surely we do murder. We kill, sleeping.
We do not, it is true, call it murder. It is our warfare.
But, oh, it is murder, I feel that it is.'
`Yet who, of all the tribes of North America,' said
Loena, `who ever slew himself? none, none. It is a
crime unheard of among us, cowardly, and impious!'
`I have thought a great deal,' answered Harold, `on
this subject; read a great deal; but I am not yet satisfied.'
`Not satisfied! what! not satisfied of what—that it is
wrong to murder?'
`To murder! dear, oh no, I do not doubt that. But
sick man, to bleed himself to death.'
`Harold! I am chilled, chilled, to the heart by thy
dreadful calmness. I cannot pretend to reason with thee.
Thou art so cold! I can only feel; and I do feel that the
everlasting God hath forbidden murder; and that, of all
murderers, the self-murderer, is the most unpardonable.'
`But—'
`Nay, Harold, I will not listen to thee. I hate these
buts, and ifs. Even in thy boyhood, thou couldst move
my reason at thy will; yea, my very religion and conviction.
I fear thy power. I own it. I fear my own
weakness. I know that, as Father Paul told thee, years
and years ago, that the sure way of making men believe
as you would have them, is to give them reasoning
that they cannot answer. Their self-love comes in
against them, and they yield. If they cannot reply, refute,
they are foolish enough to say that their enemy is
right. And, yet Harold, there seems to me no subject
upon which unanswerable objections may not be started
on both sides.'
`I do not believe this, Loena—I—'
`Nay, Harold, I cannot, will not, reason with thee.
I am afraid of thee.'
`Afraid of reason, dear!—why, what is our reason
given us for? Must we not hearken to it? Nay, Loena,
I must do away this errour—I must so, my own passionate,
strange girl, I must.'
`Harold, I tremble for thee. This infirmity is growing
upon thee, night and day. It is not reason. It is
sophistry. Wouldst thou use thy noble faculties aright,
my friend, my, dear friend; array all that comes to thee,
on either side, I should not fear thee. But in thy impetuosity,
that which makes against thee is rejected;
and that which makes for thee, put forward, with such
plausible earnestness, such sincerity of look, and tone;
and such energy, such inspiring vehemence, that, at
times—why need I conceal it? I feel that thou art irresistible:
not because thou art right, but because thou
hast the faculty of appearing so.'
`O,' cried Harold, in amazement, `who has taught
thee, girl, to speak thus? Who ever looked for such
timely wisdom, with such youth, and loveliness?'
`Hush, Harold. This is another of thy witcheries.
She who listens to thee, is flattered in spite of herself.'
`How thou hast gained and expanded,' continued he,
putting away her hand from his lips, `under the instruction
of my dear, dear, mother (his eyes overflowed)
and the holy man!' verily, verily, thou art nothing, nothing
of the Indian.'
`Harold!' cried Loena, tearing herself from his arms,
and standing before him, like something suddenly impregnate
with divinity, her dark eyes streaming fire, and
her pale lips quivering—`Harold! never, never repeat
that! I shall curse thee to thy face, if thou durst. Am
I so fallen?—Harold—(her voice thrilled through and
through him; and her solemn and wild gesture, the
awful brightness of her uplifted eyes were before him
like something ready, if disincumbered of earth, to ascend
by its own immateriality)—`Harold! I would sooner
abjure all, all, that I have learnt—forget it, denounce
it, curse it! life, name, love, religion—all! all! than forget
that I am an Indian girl. Oh, how my blood mounts
to assert its birth-right! I feel that I am the daughter
of kings. Now, then, tempt me, if thou canst! Triumph
if thou canst, I will not yield. My unassisted
reason shall wrestle with thine. Thou shalt be overcome,
Harold, if this feeling abide with me. But
come, be brief. I will no longer tremble to hear thee.
If I am right, shall I not convince thee? Is not the self-murderer
more criminal than he who murders another?
`No, indeed, love, he is not. I may cut off my own
hand with less guilt than that of my neighbour. I have
a sort of property in my own life, have I not? But what
property have I in the life of another; what right, I
mean, to dispose of it?'
The same Harold—the very same! I feel the spirit
of thy mother near me. Thou hast precisely the same
right over thine own, as over thy neighbour's life, and
no other, nor greater. What is murder? Is it not taking
the life of a human creature, deliberately, without
it be your own life, or that of another?'
`But do you not perceive, my dear girl, that if you
be right, this would prove that both are alike, and not
that the self-murderer is the most guilty.'
`Nay, hear me through. The crime is the same.
Both are equally guilty, the murderer, and the self-murderer.
But the great question is for the criminal.
He who murders another, may live to repent. But he,
who murders himself, cannot. He dies in the very perpetration,
the very consummation of his guilt. What,
too, is the situation of the murdered man? If one murder
another, it is possible that his victim may be one,
already anointed for happiness: and it is certain that
the murdered one is not dying in the commission of
a crime. But the self-murderer is:—the criminal and
victim are ever one.
`Excellent! This is the reasoning of my own mother.
It is worthy of her. But suppose two persons to
be upon a plank in the water. Only one can be saved by
it. If this doctrine be right, it would be less criminal
for one to thrust his fellow off, tear the plank from his
clinging hand, and see him drown, than to abandon his
own share, and give up the whole, to his fellow creature.'
Loena was silent.
`But how many have become immortal from self-sacrifice?
martyrdom to their religion, and their country.
Multitudes lose their lives, and limbs; and many multitudes
risk both, at their pleasure, and are applauded
by the wisest and best; nay, eulogised as heroes, and
gods, and demi-gods.'
`Yes, for their country, children, wives, husbands,
humanity, Harold.'
`But look at me, dear, steadily; Have they a right,
so to expose themselves?'
`Assuredly. It is a part of religion, providence, wisdom,
to give up a part, for the whole. We lop a diseased
limb.'
`But have we a right to lop off a diseased limb?'
`Surely, yes, if it be necessary.'
`But who shall be the judge? ourselves?'
`Nay, Harold, this is not fair. I see thy purpose. But
nevertheless, I answer yes!—we are the judges, we,
ourselves, and we, alone. But if we wantonly, and with
an evil intention, maim ourselves, we despoil, and disfigure
the image of God himself; and sin in the face of
heaven.'
`Now, Loena, now, I have thee! This is where I
would lead thee. It is conceded that we may, at our
own good discretion, lop off a limb to save our lives,
May we not lop off all, for the same purpose; or, to save
our family? May we not give up our lives in martyrdom,
in battle, in immolation, to save a people from
thraldom, a religion from the scoffer? We are taught to
risk our limbs and life in the cause of humanity; to
plunge into the flames, the flood, the den of wild beasts;
to leap the precipice, tread the waters, and wrestle with
death in every horrible shape, to rescue the suffering,
or relieve the sorrowful. Whence have we the right to
do thus?'
`God hath given it to us, Harold.'
`What! hath God given us the right to dispose of
our limbs and life, as we please?'
`No, Harold, no!—not as we please. He hath not.'
`Then pursue the consequences, Loena. If he have
not, then we may not risk a hair of our heads, because we
please, to save the life of a human creature. We have
no right, if this be true, to pluck a naked infant from
the merciless wolf, or the midnight altar; we may not
risk, still less abandon a finger, or a limb, (for the loss
of either may eventuate in the loss of life,)—unless we
have a right to lay down our lives at pleasure.'
`Harold! you wrong me. If I am unintelligible, it is
my fault, not that of the subject. What I mean, is this;
we cannot expose ourselves, sacrifice ourselves, at pleasure,
from whim or caprice, but only when we conscientiously
believe that we are right; only when our
promptings are pure. And we can all judge of their purity,
by looking to their consequences.'
`A greed! Such is the triumph of unassisted reason.
I glory in thee, woman! Then we have the right of disposing
`Yes. I cannot deny it.'
`No, dear, thou canst not indeed, for if thou didst,
it would be a denial and proscription of every virtue;
humanity, courage, magnanimity, heroism, all. But if
man have this right, where is it to stop? Hath he not
of course, the right, whenever he thinks it is right, to
lay down his own life, for any reason, no matter what?'
`Yes. But a man in his senses cannot believe it to
be right to lay it down from mere weariness and discontent.'
`I don't know that. Men have different ways of arriving
at what we call right. One demands much evidence,
another is convinced with little.'
`But then, it is cowardly, rash, selfish, to destroy
one's self, Harold, for any such reason. How can one
know, when he is about killing himself, in the extremest
misery, but that God himself, is just at that moment
busied in extricating him?'
`True, dearest—And how can the martyr, the patriot
know, but that God, in his own good time, will set
all things right, without requiring his death? How can
he tell but that God is only trying him?'
`I cannot answer thee, Harold. I wonder at my presumption.
I feel anew the evil of disputation. Time
and again have I had all my convictions shaken to the
earth by thy terrible eloquence—by thy consummate
mischief. O, Harold!'—(She was speechless now, with
emotion.)
`Loena! can it be. Am I so deceived? Wantest thou
the courage to pursue, firmly, wheresoever it may lead
thee, the light of thine own reason? If not, woe to
thee! God, himself will judge thee, with severity.
What is thy reason? A light to be followed. And dost
thou retreat, and shut thine eyes, when it but flashes
for a moment, on some frightful shadow?'
`And now, dearest, let me set thee right. The case
can never happen, where a man, in the full possession
of all his faculties, deliberately goes about the work of
self-destruction. He, like the parricide, or the murderer,
infatuation. If he believe it to be right, he is a madman.
If he do it, believing it to be wrong, he will be
punished in proportion to his own estimate of his own
guilt, at the time of his sinning. The world will see no
heroism in self-slaughter, perpetrated in loathing and abhorrence
of life. It is a disease. But if it find that the
deed was done to save others, wife, children, or dear one,
a country, or in honour to God, the world will celebrate
his memory, with tears and thanksgiving. The right of
self-sacrifice must exist, or all business, risk, and humanity,
are at an end. But then, that right must be deliberately,
thoughtfully, and religiously exercised: a
thing that cannot be, where a man flies from the world,
despondingly, to avert its evils, however great, in the
selfishness and cowardice of his heart. Yet, if he think
that he is right in so doing, then, is he right, and God
himself, will so judge him, having compassion on his
infirmities. We may judge him, but it will be in ignorance,
knowing not whether he sinned in his heart, or
not, whether his motives were sublime or grovelling,
selfish, dastardly, or heroick. But He, who can read all
hearts, will judge him with certainty and knowledge.
And if he meant rightly, will hold him guiltless, as he
would the maniack who should dip his hands in the
blood of his own mother!
`O, Harold, I tremble for the consequences of this
doctrine.'
`Why so? If it be sound, leave the consequences to
themselves. It matters not, what we think or say.
Truth is not changed by controversy. If unsound, controversy
will overthrow it, and its consequences will
follow.'
The moonlight shone upon their faces—they embraced,
and slept: slept, like two children, innocent and
lovely, and helpless; without one impure thought, one
throb of sensuality, to disturb their beloved dreaming—`
Their priest was solitude.'
| CHAPTER XII. Logan | |