 | CHAPTER XIV. Logan |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
The wind blowing fresh, and the beautiful light
Shedding out such a luminous dampness above!—
`O, lift up thine eyes! see the firmament spreading,
A moveable vault of the deepest of blue!
Rolling on—rolling on, through infinity, shedding,
Forever—an ocean of lustre and dew!'
`Come sit thou with me! we shall both learn to feel,
Like the men of old times, when Jehovah was near—
Come sit thou with me!—and together we'll kneel,
And pour out our hearts to the God that is here!'
`Oh, whither is your march, ye stars!—and whence?'
`Yea, my own, my beloved Loena—yea!—let us depart.
We are now sufficiently recovered.' Three weeks
had passed; three weeks of consummate happiness—
both were so young, and one so innocent. It was night.
The awful magnificence of heaven, blazing with the annals
of Jehovah, was revolving about them.
`Kneel we here, love, in the deep devotion of our
hearts; kneel we here, love, in the solemn and profound
stillness that encompasses us. Let us ask a blessing of
wedded in his star-light. Yea, let us, my Loena, and
then, away to the wilderness!'
They knelt together: her warm cheek rested upon
his; her dark tresses hung, waving over his bosom,
and her gentle hands were clasped, with the sweet feeling
of reliance, deep, deep, unutterable tenderness, supplication,
and confidence. Heart throbbed against heart;
mouth breathed upon mouth; and their intertwining
arms, in the pure innocence of their embrace, trembled
at the same moment, with the same sensations.
The clouds rolled backward. The tips of the far forest
green gradually reddened and brightened to a
ridge of undulating fire, rippling and burning along the
horizon. Daylight poured down upon the valley. A
bright, shadowy commotion followed; and thin sparkling,
hasty flashes, and coloured illuminations, were
seen, mingling and eddying with the dim, and retiring
mist, as if the elements of air and water, vapour and
colour, electricity, sunshine, and the rainbow, were all
wandering together. What a spectacle! What amplitude
and elevation! The glorious divinity of man puts
on its crown and sceptre, at moments, and in scenes like
this, and walks out upon the hill tops, express with irresistible
power, holding communion with the shapes of
Heaven; parleying with them that encompass God's
throne; and feeling dominion over all the things of earth!
The scenery brightened. The morning came freshly
down the mountains. The blue water shone, in bright
patches, through a rent veil of scattering vapour, so
beautifully! and the little waves rippled so spiritedly
in the tincturing sunshine! Down, far down, in its
depth, the tremulous morning fire ran, in coloured and
quick streaking, like the light of assembled jewelry,
quickly revolving, and there lost and renewed, again
and again, as if the water itself were an illuminated
depth—became—a—
`Away love!' cried Harold; and along they bounded
together, by the green banks of the water, alternately
pausing, looking upward, peering for a moment, into
like a mother playing with her babe.
Onward they strove, almost without aim, or preparation.
But who would wonder? They loved. The only definite
notion that they had, was, that, to reach the great
water, they must penetrate the wilderness; fight, toil,
bleed, and suffer all extremes of hunger, peril, nakedness,
and woe. Hunger, peril, nakedness and woe! What
are they to Harold and Loena? They loved, and were
beloved.
The night came. Both were weary, and they slept in
each other's arms—alone, alone, in the holiest, tranquillest
solitude. The very beast of the field, the wild animal
of the forest, the terrible reptile, the rattlesnake
that haunted these mountains, and beset their way over
the loose rocks, like them that first contemplated our
first parents, spared Harold and Loena; passed by, and
left them, unmolested, and slumbering.
Another day passed—another—wearied of plucking
wild flowers, and wreathing them round the forehead of
the blushing, and delighted girl, Harold now led her
forward, her dark eyes languidly shining with excess of
love, and her beautiful form gradually yielding to the
irresistible power of fatigue; till, on the evening of the
fourth day, he discovered, by the throbbing of her
temples, and the quick, broken respiration of the dear,
patient creature, that they had already travelled too
far, unrefreshed, unsustained, but by the thin, unsubstantial
aliment of love alone—love, almighty love!
He threw himself down, by a bubbling fountain—in
the warm sunset, half way to the bottom of a shorn and
barren hill, where, like a flood, the last sweeping of
sunshine, came rolling over the mountains, and spread
away upon the assembled and exulting woods and waters,
like a shower of drifting fire, raining at once, from
one half of the firmament.
Roots and herbs were no longer to be her nourishment.
Her stomach rejected both. On flowers and fondness,
and kisses, she had been fed to satiety. Yet she
besought him, for she saw him preparing his ammunition,
and drawing the ball from his rifle, and she knew
not to leave her.
`Leave thee! Oh, never, never, love. Thou wilt go
with me?'
`I cannot, cannot.'
`Merciful Heaven!' cried Harold, his rifle dropping
from his hand. `Art thou indeed, so ill, my love?'
`Indeed, Harold, I am very, very ill. My brain aches.
My heart throbs, even to bursting. The very veins
upon my hand—look! (the extended hand crept timidly,
and tremulously to his bosom—) are distended and
sore. I feel a most painful tightness, as of a hot wiry
ligature, over my eye-balls.'
It was too true. Harold cursed himself for his criminal
thoughtlessness. Why had he led her so far
away, alone, unprepared? He knew not. He wondered
at his own infatuation, blindness, and temerity; his unworthy,
boyish selfishness, to lead such a delicate creature,
over such a thorny and precipitous way, depending
upon chance for nourishment.
`No, love, no. I will never leave thee—never! Together
we have lived, together journeyed, thus far, and
together we will die, love.' He sat down; loosened the
fur mantle from his shoulders; drew her hot forehead
to his bosom, and wrapped her about, with his arms and
dress. Her meek eyes were lifted to his, and she
smiled mournfully, but sweetly, as if the thought of dying
thus, in his arms, were no sorrow to her.
As they lay thus, their hair mingled, and Harold's
hand buried in her luxuriant tresses, as he supported
her weary head—he was startled by a sound above him.
It was a bird—the first that he had seen for days. It
was a wild pigeon. He knew it by its flight, and his
heart swelled. `It is a bird,' said he, to himself, gently
disengaging his arm from the sleepy Loena, whose
innocent lips opened and smiled upon him, in her dream,
with a delicate whispering of his name—`it is a bird
that never flies alone.' A convulsive, shivering delight
ran through him, as he rivetted his eye, in the intensity
of his hope, upon that quarter of the Heaven, whence
the bird had first approached. He was not deceived.
longer. He sprang upon his feet. He fired, and a pigeon
came fluttering, from mid-heaven, almost to his
feet. Loena started at the sound of the shot, and in the
first terrour of the moment, shrieked to find herself
alone. The next, her head was supported upon his knee,
the bosom of the bird was laid open, and applied, bleeding,
to her lips. She shut her eyes, in her loathing, but
still, with an unconquerable eagerness, that showed how
nearly famished she was, she pressed her mouth to it,
and, if her newly opened eyes told true, she drew new life
with the red moisture from its heart. Harold leant over
her with looks of unutterable fondness. He was the
happiest of human beings? Her eyes shone again—her
bosom heaved—and she was near him, with her eloquent
features newly kindled. How could he be other
than the happiest of human beings? He fell upon her
neck, and wept.
From the profound repose that followed, while Harold
lay, shielding his dear girl from the autumnal
chill, he was awakened by the sound of a human voice.
He snatched his rifle. A venerable man, with a youth
by his side, stood near him.
`I am in pursuit of thee, Harold,' said the old man.
`Of me!' said Harold, in astonishment, at hearing his
name pronounced so familiarly. `Who art thou?
Whence?'
`It matters not who I am. I am sent to thee, for
awhile.'
`Sent to me! by whom? and for what?'
`I know not by whom. I was alone in the woods. I
am a stranger to thee. I knew not that there was such
a being yet on earth. Something appeared to me—A
spirit, I should think, if such things are permitted.
What hast thou done, young man? It commanded me
to track thee.'
`Tell me,' said Harold, gasping for breath—`how
did it look? angry? menacing? terrible?—were not its
great limbs red with blood?'
`With blood! ha!—so young!—and art thou haunted
by a murdered man? Child, I pity thee.'
This was accompanied by a look of such horrour,
such unutterable horrour, that Harold's blood froze.
`But tell me, old man, what said he? How did he
look?'
`He bade me seek thee, here, and be thy guide and
counsellor. Of his looks, I can remember nothing; it
was in twilight that I saw him, and his dazzling eyes
terrified me.'
`His dazzling eyes! Was he an aged man—very
small—speaking—oh, I know not how?'
`Like the musick of the wild reed?—the same—'
`Yes—yes—a mournful voice—a voice that will not
be disobeyed.'
Harold was silent. Who was this mysterious guardian?
Good, or evil? Good, without question, for it
rebuked him, and the evil one would not.
`Thou art going to Quebec, my son.'
`To Quebec!—oh no. We are going to—to—'(and
his face crimsoned, as he felt that he had no place to
go to—no aim, no object; a desolate creature, wandering
in the solitude.) How far is it, father?'
`The journey of nearly one moon,' quoth the old
man.
`And how far, by the nearest way,' said Harold, `to
the great water?'
`We pass the great water.'
`No—no—not the lakes. I mean the waters in the
East.'
The old man looked upon him in silence, for some
moments. `What!' said he, `the water beyond the barbarians—the
whites? Wouldst thou go there? The sun
will roll in blood, upon thy path. Thou, an Indian—a
Logan—and durst thou go among them?'
`Aye, father—aye!—I dare.'
`Go then—apostate!'
That voice was not new to Harold! It startled him.
Where had he heard it? He turned a troubled eye
upon the old man, but there were no places for memory
in his stern, venerable aspect: and yet, his
voice!
He spoke again, with a tone of more decided authority.
and his eyes shot fire.
The old man continued talking, and menacing him
with his hand, in a heavy and monotonous repetition—
appalling beyond endurance, to the impatient Harold.
`We have met,' said Harold, `where was it?'
`In council.'
`O, right!' answered Harold, leaping backward, and
levelling his rifle, with the hope of anticipating the tomahawk,
which was, in his imagination, already aimed
at him.
Harold was in the presence of one, the son of whom
he had slain! This father was sprinkled with the smoking
brains of his own child. The avenger of blood was
at hand. But why had he spoken? Why, when he had
stolen upon him in his sleep, had he not slain him at
once? Was he reserved for torture? That stripling, perhaps.
Harold looked again in the boy's face, and wondered
at himself, that he had not before observed the
resemblance between him and the son whom he had
slain. They were brothers; and Harold had spared the
child, even after his hand was twisted into his hair,
solely in mercy to the desolate voice of the aged father,
who had shrieked out—`O spare my son! my only son—
the child of my old age!'
Harold looked again. The old man's countenance relented.
`There, said he, at last, with a convulsive effort—`there!
take my hand, young man: take it—the
hand of the father!—He forgives thee—the blood of
his boy, and thus he requites thee. With the last of his
name, he pursues thee, to tell thee that thy steps are
haunted; that thou art doomed to death.'
`By whom?—for what?'
`By mine own tribe, and by thine; for slaying a man
in council, and for bearing off their queen. But here am
I—I—I—with mine only child, ready to battle for thee
—and so is he, poor babe—art thou not, my son?'
The boy's eyes sparkled. He struck his arm into his
bosom; and the long hunting knife glimmered like a
flame in his little hand.
`What were Harold's feelings? He could have
fallen upon his knees, and wept at the feet of the great
habits and passions, and spared the murderer of his
son; not only delaying to strike, when no human help
could have saved that murderer, but now guiding him,
at the peril of his life, away from the avenger of blood.
Harold was his murderer. He had slain him, unpreparedly,
in a holy place; and his blood had spouted, hot
and smoking, upon the calumet of peace, and clotted
and polluted the sacred vessels, and the consecrated
doves. Once, Harold had felt that he did rightly. But
now, O, how cruelly! he felt that, before the father, he
had no justification, he could have none. For who can
withstand the rebuke of a bereaved old man? Who can
look steadily in the dull eyes of a gray haired father,
when they are suddenly lighted up, at the approach of his
son's conquerour! Their feeble illumination is that of an
expiring lamp, in a sepulchre, fed by corruption; shining
out from a festering corpse, upon the murderer
himself, as he passes.
Harold wept. He did weep. He told his story. The
old man listened, and forgave him again, nay, applauded
him; for it was a religious sacrifice, he found. It
was in obedience to a vow, and made to the manes of
his own mother! He told all—all—his love and destiny.
The old man kindled. He raised his dim eyes to Heaven;
uplifted his thin, trembling hands, and blessed
him.
`Thou art born, child of the forest,' said he; `verily
thou art born, to redeem and restore our race. His
blessing be upon thee!—His! Logan's!—he was our
enemy, but we reverence him. Forward! forward! to
Quebec. Forward, and accomplish thy destiny. Thence,
to the world beyond the water. I will attend thee to
Quebec. I know the governour. He will protect and
advise thee.'
`But Loena'—She awoke and listened. And onward
they journeyed, in cheerfulness and constancy; alternately
hunting, swimming, and recounting the
deeds of their fathers.
At last, thank heaven, their dangers were passed.
By their precaution, in travelling chiefly at night, using
eluded their pursuers. They came, all at once, in
sight of the stupendous fortress of Quebec. It arose
in abrupt, castellated, rocky fragments, boldly out of
the horizon and water, like the strong hold of some
river divinity; a piled-up, and adamantine, immoveable
congregation, of battlements and thrones.
The point of view was from a sloping headland, that
descended gently toward the water, and then broke off
into a perpendicular precipice, so that the vessels that
approached, appeared for a time, to enter the earth below
their feet, at full sail, and disappear, and emerge,
successively. It was hard to resist the delusion.
Our wanderers stood upon the extremest height of
this elevation. It was just after daylight. The far off
spires and turrets of the city had begun to leave a determined
and accurate outline on the sky, with all their
strong features, and abrupt colouring. Here was a subdued
purple, fading away into a bluish grey, aerial and
transparent; there, a pinnacle of shining silver, to appearance,
(the steeples were covered with tin)—and at
last, along the whole sweep of the horizon, the whole
magick and magnificence of the landscape, came out
gradually, under the growing light, like a faded picture,
under the application of heat; every moment gave
restoration to some hue, some tint, some bold charactering,
or some undulating beauty. The plains of Abraham
were away to the left; the soft sward then unconsecrated
with the blood of the brave—untrodden, unprofaned
by armed heels, and iron hoofs.
Away to the right, passed off a retired range of broken
and beautiful elevations, about what are now called
Montmorenci and Beauport. The traveller who may
have visited this antiquated city since, and stood upon
the same ground, will have found nearly the same appearances
about him, that were visible to our wanderers.
Like the walled towns of Europe, a whole century
changes the appearance of Quebec, less than a dozen
years will, some of the republican cities of America.
The walls become a sort of outline, beyond which the
genii of the place dare not trespass; over which the
god Terminus hath interdicted all passing.
The Quebec that Harold saw, with a feeling of giddy
and tumultuous delight, and a fullness of heart, inexpressibly
strange, was altogether the Quebec, that
you, in America, may now see, in all its majectick, amazing
strength, and distinctness. A broken, bare, and
heaped up precipice of solid, black rocks was the immoveable
foundation of the city. Her glittering spires,
here and there, shot up like beacon flames, spirally
waning to a point in the blue heaven. Nay, even the
citadel of the present day, (or at least, when I last saw
it, it was) is almost the counterpart of that, which then
towered over the topmast elevation of this second Gibraltar;
and even then, the splendid fragments of some
bright edifice, profusely scattered over the rocky earth,
had given to one particular spot, the name of the Diamond
cape. The Indians held a tradition that it was a
palace of chrystal, inhabited by a family of benevolent
creatures, who, at the first approach of the white man,
shattered their dwelling place into dust, and vanished.
The castle of Saint Louis too, was entirely the same,
(notwithstanding successive improvement, since,) in the
effect of its general proportions. The bold, abrupt
manner of its architecture; and the noisy intermixture
of cries, and rattling wheels, and bells, from
the upper and lower towns, gradually brightened
upon the eye, and swelled upon the ear, with the effect
of a great drama, and a constantly increasing chorus.
It was beautiful!—The laquered sky above, full of
ten thousand colours, of such a peerless lustre—almost
transparent, indeed—with the thin flinging, here and
there, of a vapoury radiance, like smoke from a censer,
glittering in the wind, and stretching before it;
the green water below; the sun rolling upward through
an illuminated firmament—a river, too, of black water,
thundering into the deep green of the St. Lawrence,
and smoking and foaming in the contact—a vast, naked
rock before you, with all its structures and population,
apparently emerging from its bowels, as they ascend
in your sight—the ships away below, passing and
repassing, in the hot sunshine—O, who can forget such
scenery?—the warming and expansion of his spirit, when
it first broke upon him!
Such are the places of meditation among them that
heaven hath endowed with an exalted nature. At such
moments, man buoys himself up, in the loftiness of his
eagle thought, like some mighty bird, hovering over
worlds, and contemplating them, as they successively
emerge, and revolve in the light—poising herself in
mid heaven; resting, self-sustained, and abiding in the
outstretched chamber of her own plumage. Then comes
the feeling of immortality to him. The soul stands, refreshing
herself at the fountain of inspiration, with her
eyes waiting fearlessly upon the magnificent boundlessness
of God's power, as exhibited in the untenanted
space above her; and approaching, every moment, nearer
and more near to her appointed habitation with the
stars—and leaving, every moment, further and further
below her, the earthiness and sensuality, the melancholy,
and mournful things of earth.
`My own Loena!' cried Harold, pressing her deliriously
to his heart. It was the first loud word spoken,
from the commencement to the consummation of their
devout enjoyment, as they stood and wondered, on the
high hills, at the prodigal munificence of their Creator,
and their own insensibility—`How beautiful!' he added.
`Is'nt it!' with a slight, tremulous pressure of her
hand, was her reply.
Voices were now heard approaching, nearer and
nearer yet. They suddenly ceased. A turn in the road
below, had caused this beautiful effect. It was, as if a
people had gone by, in the air—invisible, and cheerful.
`Let us on,' quoth Harold, and he beckoned to the
old Indian and his boy, who, feeling no desire to clamber
so fatiguing a hill for the satisfaction of looking about
them afterward, were quietly stretched out in the grass,
and smoking below. Nothing seemed to agitate these
creatures—young or old, they were always imperturbable.
They wondered, but it was without sign or indication,
at the forbearance of Harold and Loena, so
near a great city, yet pausing to look back upon what
they had been familiar with all their lives; water and
wood, sky and hill.
They knew not how absorbing a passion was love; how
with kisses as with a live coal, and thrilling thence-forth,
with no mortal eloquence, are excited and exasperated
by the intense fervour of such a passion;
how alive and sensible, the veriest dolt is, to the innumerable
and viewless things of air and thought, forever
after being so touched.
Even Harold felt its purifying and ennobling influence
more and more, every day, and almost every
hour. He wondered at himself; he never was so perfectly
happy, so benignant: and never before had he felt so
keen a relish for the triumphant exhibitions of nature;
never, no never, such a pure sense of religion in his
soul. And Loena!—O she could have lived and died
upon her knees, and wept her heart away, in the delicious
silence of her soul, as she looked about over the
wide world, the calm sky—an outcast, a wanderer, a
woman, with no arm near her but Harold's, no heart
caring for her, on earth, but his. Such is love! There
is no solitude, no desert, no silence, no helplessness,
where that is felt.
`They are not in love,' said Harold, softly, as he
observed the gentle smile of Loena's eyes, when she
looked down, and wondered at the apathy of their Indian
guides—`they are not in love; if they were, they
would not mind mountains. They would clamber over
the battlements of heaven, to hold high intercourse with
shapes resembling the beloved one.'
They now approached the city. A motley herd, apparently
of all nations, poured out from all the streets,
in one incessant stream. Their Indian guides went first,
but they attracted little or no attention. The venerable
and august, the youthful and fiery Indian were all
somewhat common in the streets of Quebec. But when
Harold and Loena approached, the change was instantly
visible in the multitude. Their eager eyes, and pauses,
first of unqualified admiration, and then, their rapid
gesture and articulation, soon brought a crowd about
our wanderers. Harold felt his cheek glow, and even
Loena, who understood not one syllable of their reiterated
exclamations of—les voila! les voila!—Oh, mon
Dieu! qu'elle est jolie!'—or their still more ridiculous,
they kept bowing to Harold and her, with their habitual
phrases, mixed with new emphasis however—
of—Monsieur!—ah—Je vous salue!'—or `Mamselle!
(if she smiled)—je vous mercie'—&c. &c. &c.—even she
could perceive that every look and motion of hers, were
reflected in the surrounding countenances. She trembled,
and her eyes filled. The emotion was new, indefinite,
and strangely pleasurable. It was the first time that she
had been publickly flattered: and her heart ran over.
As for Harold, he soon recovered himself, and, in the
pride of his heart, at having such a creature so near
him, walked with a freer and more martial bearing. All
that he did on this morning, was emphatick. His warlike
and firm tread was especially regarded by the
French peasantry: and the gentle, retiring diffidence of
Loena, the beautiful brown girl, as they called her, to
her face, bowing at the same time so complaisantly, soon
became the theme of rapturous delight. Could it be
otherwise? The French peasant was a soldier and a
courtier by birthright. It was constitutional then, as it
is now, for him to thrill, at the sight of manhood or
beauty.
All followed them with their eyes; and some turned
back and walked after them awhile, and others approached,
and appeared willing, but afraid to speak—
withheld perhaps, by their natural politeness.
`You tremble,' said Harold, laying his hand upon
hers. Her pulse throbbed faintly, and hurriedly.
`Bear up—courage—we shall soon find friends. We
are now at home.'
`At home!—O Harold'—Loena could not utter another
word, had it been to save her own life. A tear
dropped upon his hand, and her breathing became audible.
It was her first experience of desolation, forlornness.
So many faces, so happy, so busy, and she, a
stranger! Such thoughts are terrible to a stranger, in
a strange place. Man is never oppressed with such a
sense of his own utter insignificance, as when he finds
himself, all at once, in a large city;—and finds himself
disregarded, overlooked—creating no disturbance, no
curiosity—no matter who or what he may have been
On his first appearance, he is nothing, and the worst of
it is, that he, himself, begins to submit to the treatment,
as just. `These men,' he will say, `are not influenced
by my reputation. They see me as I am—and
they pass me, without deigning to look me in the face.
Am I not contemptible?'
Her feelings were sorrowful—painful. Self-sustained
heretofore, by her own heart, unrebuked by her own knowledge
of good and evil, she had trodden thus far, the journey
of life, almost without imagining it possible that
there could be any other way for woman to walk in, if
she loved, than that which she had fallen upon; but she
was now visited with unaccountable terrours. Her own
feeling of innocence and purity was not support enough
to her, she found, before the scrutinizing, impertinent
looks of her own sex. A distressing study was opened
to her view—Thoughts that never troubled her before,
now scorched her brain, like lightning. Sensations of
shame and terrour shot up, over her pale forehead, and
made her temples throb. And why? Solely because the
eyes of some women were upon her.
She was now among strangers—a new people, whose
manners were new, whose language was to be learnt.
She felt subdued and restrained—a new sense of propriety
came over her, and, while she almost wished herself
back in the forest again, the blood of the Logans
rushed back to her heart, and awoke her like electricity.
Her step became, instantly, more queen like, and stately. Her fond, yielding manner, that, which solitude and
an affectionate heart had taught her, gave immediate
place, with the instinctive delicacy of untutored nature,
whenever it is left to its own unassisted, artless prompting,
to a swanlike carriage, and a calm forehead, a steady
look, and a subdued tone.
She released her waist from his encircling arm, and
trod, with a beautiful superciliousness, that, like every
attempt of an ambitious woman, was successful, and
established her dominion on the spot. She blushed
at the effect; but her heart danced in her bosom, in spite
of herself, as she beheld the multitude, young and old,
upon him with eyes, whose smile was a blessing.
A carriage was rolling past. A bell range; and the
blinds were instantly let down, as it stopped in the
square, through which Harold and Loena were passing.
A little blue-eyed girl, with a playful, sprightly face,
popped her head out, and began clapping her hands
with delight. The window was instantly filled with
faces. Harold passed on; but the gathering crowd prevented
him from escaping immediately, and he began
to feel disconcerted and distressed—nay angry; and had
half a mind to unsheath his hanger, and hew his way
through the thoughtless and ill-mannerly rabble. The
carriage steps were let down at this moment; and a venerable
man, tall and graceful, with the air of a constable,
or mareschal of ancient France, a courtier of
the old school, descended with a brisk action, and stood
regarding Harold. Harold felt an almost irresistible desire
to approach—that face!—`surely,' thought he, `I
have seen it before. But it was younger then—Where
was it? When?—In my childhood?'
The stranger seemed unaccountably affected for a
moment. His look was mingled of curiosity, astonishment
and perplexity, chastened and subdued by habitual
politeness and dignity.
Both advanced some steps toward each other; and
Harold, whose education had been consummated among
the English, involuntarily advanced his hand.
The governour did the same; and the little girl, who
had been watching all this tedious ceremony with increasing
impatience, could refrain no longer. `Oh, mon
père!' she cried—`parlez—mon chèr pare—parlez lui!'
The veteran advanced, and addressed Harold in English;
giving him his hand, which he received, and
could have kissed, for the benignity and kindness of
manner, with which it was tendered.
`Victorine!—ma chère—tais-toi!'—said he, to the
child, seriously, but affectionately. Her eyes filled immediately;
and her mother, who was at her side, gently
laid her hand upon her delicate forehead—`ma chere
petite—Je snis bien fache: mais—tais-toi, chere.'
`My little girl is forgetful: you will excuse her, I
same time directing the carriage to proceed, while he
led Harold through the crowd, that made way, on
all sides, with symptoms of the profoundest respect,
for them to pass.
`Where have I seen you before, young man?' said
the stranger, abruptly, forgetting for a moment, his habitual
delicacy, in a kind of imperiousness, that indicated
a haughty and impatient temper, not entirely subdued
to common occasions.
Harold stood proudly before him. This questioning
was not to be brooked—and yet, what had he to resent?
His unconquerable spirit flamed out of his eyes, for a
moment, and then waned, as the second thought passed
through his mind; and he replied coldly, while Loena,
who had seen the portentous brightning of his aspect,
with terrour, clung to him with a look of such beseeching
helplessness—so soothing, so supplicating! that he
must have flung her off, or he could not have resented
a direct insult on himself, at the moment—very coldly,
`I know not, sir. At the first moment of our meeting,
I too, had a thought that we had once met, and
pleasantly too. But I believe that I was mistaken.' As
he said this, he bowed, and attempted to pass on.
`One moment more—Stay, youth. I am not satisfied,'
added the stranger, uncovering his head, and
passing his hand slowly over his high, commanding
front.
Harold appeared troubled. His eye was fixed for a
moment, upon the fine features before him, and then
wandered away, with a peculiar expression of anxiety
and restlessness, like one hunting, with inquietude,
among the forgotten things of his early life. He was
startled from his revery, by a tear—yes, a tear—it fell
upon his own hand, and from his own eye, as he held
the locked arm of Loena near his heart.
Harold was thunderstruck. A tear! without preparation,
without cause! Surely it was a rain drop. He
looked up to the sky, incredulous. No—it was too blue,
too serene. The drop had fallen from his own eyes.
The stranger too, seemed affected in the same way.
and passed over his dark eyes and pale forehead, like
spirits. There was a tenderness, an affectionate earnestness
in his look, so opposite to his voice, when he spoke,
that it went to the heart of Loena. She pressed Harold's
arm.
`Can you not recollect me?' said the stranger, in a
tone of suppressed feeling.
`No. I cannot,' was the reply. `I have somewhere
seen such a countenance, and heard such a voice, before;
but I cannot tell when, or where.'
Several children had now gathered about our travellers,
unintimidated, unrebuked by authority; and Loena
was amusing them, by exhibiting what she saw attracted
their little hands and eyes unceasingly, the beautiful
porcupine work of her moccasin, and the magnificent,
rough gold ornaments that she wore, in profusion,
upon her beaver skin, and wreathed in her hair, and
clasped about her arms and ancles.
`Well, then. I am the governour.'
Harold's countenance expressed no surprise.
`You will come with me. We must be better acquainted.'
Harold could not refuse. He felt like a son in the
presence of his own father—obedient, with a mixture
of awe and delight.
It was the governour; the accomplished De Vaudreuil—a
nobleman, a soldier, and a gentleman; the favourite
of his queen. He drew Harold's arm within
his, and proceeded, with such gentleness of deportment,
that the friendless Harold could not forbear pressing
the arm upon which he leaned. It was answered
by a glance that shot to his heart. `Young man,' said
the count, in a tone of evident pleasure. `I like this
ardour. By what name am I to call thee?'
`Harold.'
`Harold!—Harold?—is it possible?—it is certainly
very extraordinary,' he added, musing—`but thy other
name?'
`I have no other.'
`And whom have we here,' said he, stooping, and
whose whole heart and soul, at the same moment, were
oocupied with the mischievous little wretches about her.
They were pulling and hauling her dress about, and
answering the caresses of her hand, by plucking at the
ornaments upon her wrist; all which she bore with her
accustomed innocent good-humour. The most of these
ornaments, and all indeed, which she could detach,
she had already distributed among the little riflers—
`whom have we here?'
Her downcast eyes were raised, for a moment, to his
face. But at the touch of his hand, (it was upon her
naked shoulder,) they were instantly rivetted upon the
earth, and she clung to Harold, trembling in all her
joints, and pale as death.
The count repeated the question. Her heart rebelled.
The colour came and went with the rapidity of light,
over her brown and intelligent countenance. He stood,
gazing upon her with unaffected delight. He took her
hand, and the very tears came into his eyes, as he felt
it tremble in his, while she timidly raised her beautiful
lids, shook back her abundant hair, which, in her romping
with the children, had been turned loose upon her
shoulders, and looked up in his face, with such an expression
of childish, confiding simplicity; and yet, with
a something of innocence, so awful, that it rebuked the
passionate ardour of his countenance, as he retreated,
almost in confusion. Yes, courtier as he was, such was
the effect of her countenance, as she slowly lifted her
head, that he went gradually to the length of all his
arm, and there stood, just retaining it, with the fullest
expression of respect and tenderness.
`What! No answer?' said he, at length, recovering—
`wife, or sister, Harold?'
`Neither,' said Harold.
`Neither!' echoed the count—and smiled.
`Harold started as if a thunderbolt had exploded at
his feet. His dark eyes flashed fire; and he sternly
withdrew his arm, and turned his back, with a haughty,
cold self-possession, whose rebuke was not to be mistaken
by any man, and least of all men, by De Vaudreuil.
A dead silence followed. Harold stood with Loena
clinging to him, as if balancing whether to go or
stay.
De Vaudreuil smiled again; but this was not the
smile that welcomed Harold—the smile of benignity—
nor that which shot into his heart, the smile of significance.
No!—but there was a paleness in it, and a quivering
of the under lip, which Harold regarded as portentous.
His hand fell upon the hilt of his sabre.
But they were now, where matters of this sort were
not to be decided, in a way so summary, The governour
bit his lip, and added, with calmness and pleasantry—`very
well, indeed! I like your spirit, sir; come,
come, forgive me, (extending a hand to each.) You
are strangers to our customs, and I to yours. I have
my reasons for desiring to know who is your sweet
companion, for I would protect you both. Your looks
bespeak an elevation that I love to countenance; and
for once, I will trust to looks alone; but surely!—a
turn of Harold's head at the moment, caused an exclamation
of astonishment to break from the lips of the
governour—`By heaven! I have seen thee before!—
babe, or boy.—'
Harold was constrained to yield. He accepted the
proffered hand, but not, till after a severe struggle with
his proud, rebellious spirit. And now, he began to appreciate
some of the difficulties which he was about to
encounter. These were but the stepping stones; if his
heart shrank at these, what would he suffer by and by!
And now, for the first time, came home to him, this
question. `How am I to live?'
He turned thoughtfully toward the governour, and
the distressing question, fell, half articulately, from his
lips.
The governour faced him, and pressed his hand.
`Cheer up, young man,' he said. `Never despond.
Never be cast down. It matters not what happens,
while we are young, and in health.'
`Governour,' said Harold, with a seriousness that
approached to solemnity—`we are friendless. I am
poor, destitute, an adventurer. My trade is fighting.
This dear creature, (he trembled, and shivered all over,
`This!—is—governour—this girl is a—Logan. She is
indeed, a Logan—and the last!'—(he added, with a
faltering voice) `we are alone, unfriended, among strangers—what
shall I do?'
`A Logan!' said the count—`A Logan! come with
me. My own home shall be open to you. Come, come.
But why does she hesitate? Is she afraid?'
`We must not be separated.'
The count smiled benignantly, for the dark eye of
Loena repeated the thought, and her lips murmured,
`we must not be separated.'
Harold drew her arm more closely within his own,
and with his princely head lifted up, strode along, side
by side, with the governour. Loena caught the spirit.
She did the same. Her carriage was princely!—the natural
gracefulness of her person, undulating at every
step, with a beautiful expression of intellectual power,
and physical imbecility or helplessness. It was the revelation
of spirit prevailing over matter.
`How proudly thou walkest love,' whispered Loena.
Harold was not conscious of it, but he smiled at the alteration
of her presence. Every eye was upon them,
and even the governour would, now and then, turn
round and look at them, and utter some words of gentleness
and endearment, that set them in motion, with
lighter hearts and brighter eyes, as if they had been
treading to musick.
They soon came to the palace. The last words of
Harold as they entered, were—`Loena, thou art my
wife—remember that—thou art the daughter of Logan
—remember that!'
The operation was electrical. She stood instantly upright,
her dark eyes filling with royalty; her beautiful
proportions swelling and dilating with an imperial
spirit. She was instantly, as by enchantment, at her
ease. Her aspect and voice returned to her, and she
moved and spoke, with the air of unreproved superiority.
`The wife of Harold! the child of Logan!' she repeated,
a thousand times to herself, while her arteries
thrilled with the thought.
The servants in the hall stood still with astonishment.
All dusty and unprepared as our wanderers were, the
governour led them forward to the family parlour,
where they were all assembled at breakfast.
`Your pardon,' said he, entering first. `I must announce
you.'
He entered, leaving the door ajar:—a few brief exclamations
were heard—a general murmur, and all was
silent. He returned, and threw open the door.
The whole family were at table; and, as if overpowered
by the presence of these children of the
wood, all—all! instinctively arose, and bent, not merely
their heads, but their bodies, before they recollected
themselves: and then, with a general air of embarrassment,
discontent, and shamefacedness, the whole, successively,
sunk into their seats, as if recovering from some
beautiful illusion, during which they were conscious
of having exposed themselves. Their involuntary rising
had been the obedience of those, who prostrate
themselves, almost without looking at the object of
their veneration, in the first spontaneous impulse of
their hearts. It was the unqualified homage, that we
must pay to nature.
The little blue eyed girl, with her silken hair floating
and flying all about her head, ran skipping about the
floor, and clapping her hands, in a paroxysm of delight.
The father looked at her, but in vain; an elder sister
reproved her extreme vivacity, by a shake of the finger,
but that was disregarded; and even the mother, who
smiled as she chided her, found her chiding had no effect
at all, until she was exhausted by her own excess
of spirit. Before they could interfere, she had clambered
up a sofa, thence to a table, and had just thrown her
little arms about Loena's neck, and put up her pretty
mouth to the blushing girl, for a kiss. She was taken
down by force; but her untameable sprightliness took
a new turn—she shook her redundant hair, down, all
over her sweet face, and thence, peeping through it,
as through a veil of unwoven, raw silk, with half opened
mouth, stood watching every movement of Loena's
countenance.
`Ah!' she sighed at last, quite audibly, as if that were
the first breath that she had drawn since Loena entered:
and the timid Loena, who had, at first, shrunk
from the little romp, trembling with apprehension, lest
some unlucky rudeness might be perpetrated, if she
had encouraged her, (for she had had some experience
with forward, and petulent, and what are the worst
plagues under heaven, smart children) and become
grave and lofty, could resist her playfulness no longer.
At the sound of this `Ah!' and seeing the arch expression
of face that accompanied it, she dropped on one
knee, and caught the victor to her bosom. The child
jumped about her neck, looked patiently in her eyes
for a moment, and then fell a kissing them, as if she
would never be done; lisping all the while, between
every breath, in French; `O! how beautiful they are—
dear eyes—dear little eyes!'
Loena blushed—and to hide her blushes, arose and
romped with her about the room, ignorant that the
elegant and graceful creatures about her, were admiring
her attitudes, as the consummation of art.
As she passed, she caught a glimpse of herself in a
large mirrour—(the largest that she had ever seen, beyond
all comparison)—with Harold watching her; his
fine eyes and high wrought countenance, reflecting
every movement of her form.
How she reddened! The blood crimsoned her forehead,
neck, shoulder, and bosom. Nay, she blushed all
over.
Harold was leaning against a group of statuary, on a
high pedestal, and he looked as if he knew that she was
the subject of all eyes and thoughts.
A low conversation began, between two young ladies,
upon a sofa on the opposite side of the room, in
French; in which the father occasionally joined. It soon
became exceedingly embarrassing, and Harold found it
necessary to apprise the governour, that he understood
the language.
`Monseigneur,' said he, in a low voice, and colouring
to the eyes—Je vous demand pardon; mais, il me
faut—'
He was interrupted, by a cry of astonishment and
shame, from one of the young ladies; and De Vaudreuil,
himself, appeared thunderstruck. It had never occurred
to him. Harold's manners, and language, and name,
were so purely English, that it was possible he understood
French. The whole family were mute, for some
moments, as if each were endeavouring to recal what
they had been saying, in their sportiveness and admiration.
`Va tú, Julie,' said the younger of the two, coaxingly,
and aside, to her sister—`hablemos Espanol, un poco
—no entiende.'
Harold could not forbear; and the count laughed outright,
as he interrupted them, with, `no, Senora—entiendo
y hablo el Romance.'—`va tú diablo!' said the
younger, half pouting, in a whisper.'
`Encore, encore, mes filles!' said the count, to the
laughing girls—`es senor del campo; y que es mejor—
es Senor de se. Encore mes filles!—parlez en Italien. Il
n' entend pas cela, je crois;—courage!'
`Doucement, doucement—je te prie,' said the mother,
delighted with the growing acquaintanceship, and
unable to speak any but her own language.'
`Oh! signora donna Julie,' said the mischievous
creature, who seemed most to enjoy the frolick—`Siete
ottimamente accompagnata,' pointing to her father.'
`Si,' was the reply—`a che, son io ridotto!—ho la
memoria infelice; ma, ancora, io ho piacere de non restar.'
`Fo umilisscma riverenza,' said Harold, suddenly
recollecting a phrase or two in Italian—`alla signora
donna Julie.' A peal of laughter followed, and the ladies
threw aside their work in despair, vowing that
they had exhausted all their knowledge of languages,
and must turn, `el hombre,' over to their father, for
Latin, and Greek, and German, and Portuguese, and
Dutch.
`No, my children,' said the father, `I have no hope
of success in so perilous an adventure. I never could
string a good sentence of Greek together, with any
sense of security; my Latin is rusty; I hate Portuguese
know any thing at all of that language, as I think he
does, by the smile that I see, I shall only expose myself
in the trial.
`O, but try pa!—try; do try,' cried Louise, springing
from the sofa, and running forward—`do try, pa.'
`Well, then, to amuse thee, child, I am willing to
make one desperate attempt, at the risk of being ridiculous,
if thou wilt promise not to laugh, minx, at the faces
that it may cause me to make.'
`Wie befinden Sie sich, mein Herr?'—said the count,
with all possible gravity.
`Ziemlich wohl!' was the answer—`ich danke ihnen—'
and both had exhausted their knowledge of German,
without being at all suspected of it.[1]
The whole family were thus, in fifteen minutes, better
acquainted, than, they would have been, by many
months of ceremonious intercourse. When men have
once laughed together, or drunk together, they are completely
acquainted. Each knows something of the
other's infirmities, and is conscious of having degraded
himself. Therefore, when they meet again, each is
unaffected, and frank.
Just at the conclusion of this ludicrous affair, an old
lady, who had then entered the room, deliberately
mounted her spectacles, and walked up to Harold, who
shrunk back at her approach.
`N'ayez pas peur, mon enfant,' said the good creature,
with the kind, affectionate manner of a mother, to
her own child; and putting her hand upon his forehead,
at the same time—`n'ayez pas peur'—Harold retreated,
covered with confusion. The laughing eyes of the
young girls grew intolerable to him, while he was undergoing
this examination. He fancied that they gleamed
spitefully their encouragement to his persecutrix,
and incessant exclamation.
The old lady now hobbled away; but immediately
returned, leading in an aged man, who, from his dress
and respectful carriage, appeared to be a domestick of
some importance: repeating, over and over again, as she
entered, `Oui, oui, cest lui—j'en suis certain.'
They were followed by a military-looking, middle
aged man, who walked lame, but with great dignity and
uprightness. The room was now darkened, by an approaching
storm, and he could not distinctly see Harold,
until very near him, when a flash of lightning, very
bright and lasting, shone through and through him.
The stranger uttered a sound of astonishment, and retreated.
`Almighty God!' he exclaimed, as soon as he could
speak, dropping his uplifted hands.
`O, how like the chevalier!' said another, behind—
`Did'nt I tell you so?' said the old lady, with a shrill
voice, pressing eagerly before him. `It is his very image;
is it not—Va t-en au diable!' she added, (to the servant,
who stood before her.)
`There!—there!—there it is!' cried De Vaudreuil,
slapping his forehead. `Strange that I should not remember
that. I could have sworn that I had met thee,
somewhere, before, young man. Who is thy father? Nay,
do not hesitate—I'll swear to it—there is no mistaking
thee. Thou art of a race of heroes; men that never
parleyed with dishonour. Speak! Tell me that thou art
the son of the chevalier—no, the English George of—'
`I am not,' cried Harold!' with a haughty and forbidding
seriousness. I am only Harold, the son of an
unknown man.'
`No—not Harold—Auguste. He swore that he
would name thee after his friend. My dear brother was
that friend.'
`Harold started at the sound of that name. His heart
answered it. Could it be? Was he, himself, once called
Auguste, or had he loved one, some playmate, in his
infancy, who was so named.'
`No, governour—no!' he added, after musing
for some minutes. `Mine is a long story. I
cannot tell it now. But my father was not—I am sure
of it—he was not, he could not have been the friend of
your brother.'
The count looked surprised and hurt, by the apparant
rudeness of this speech—`nay, do not mistake me.
My father was a bad man—a terrible man. No, governour,
the chevalier was another; or thou wouldst
dread to meet a child of his.'
`Impossible!' said the wounded veteran. At first
sight, I took thee for himself, just as I saw him
last;'—He stopped; for the melancholy, agitated face of
Harold—the mournful steadiness of his eye, forbade
all further speculation at the time.
Breakfast was served again, and the constitutional
politeness of a Frenchman was almost forgotten, in the
intense watchfulness, with which the count regarded
every emotion, and every change of Harold's face.
Breakfast over, at which Loena sat, with a kind of
trembling awkwardness, infinitely amusing to the younger
part of the family, the governour beckoned Harold,
and withdrew.
Loena, who had never taken her eyes from Harold
for a minute, immediately dropped the untasted goblet
of milk, and rose to accompany him.
De Vaudreuil smiled, and beckoning to his second
daughter, Louise, in whose playfulness and waggery,
he thought it most likely that Loena would find some
amusement, he bade her take care of, and entertain her,
as well as she could, awhile.
The ladies retired; and Loena, with manifest relucance
went with them. They wondered at her indelicacy,
in wishing to accompany men, at such an `ungenteel
hour;' and yet, there was a shrinking timidity,
with all her princely bearing, that looked too like the
tenderest modesty, to be any thing less amiable.
`Farewell!' said she, as she lingered a moment at the
door, (being the very last out, of course.) It was the first
word that she had been heard to articulate audibly.
English, so delightful! that they were ravished with it.
Harold passed her, laying his hand for a moment,
gently, upon hers—a gesture too graceful, and too full
of tenderness, not to excite a good deal of speculation
after his departure. That touch restored her! She felt
reassured and confirmed.
They passed away: and when Harold next looked
in upon her, he found her beleagued and beset on all
sides, with half a dozen children, little and big, all
chattering together, and trying to make her comprehend
the meaning and intention of all the playthings,
bandboxes, jewelry, and dresses, with which the floor
and furniture were covered.
Louise was teaching her to jump the rope. Marie
was racing after her with a battledore—the blue eyed
Victorine was dancing round her with a great waxen
doll, nearly as big as herself; and Pierre Jacques, the
only boy in the family, and just old enough to be a
plague to every body within his reach, was for flying
a kite in her face. Here was my lady's maid, coaxing
her into a beautiful dress, with Spanish hat and
feathers; and there was my young lady's woman, making
faces at the unshorn, glossy, luxuriant tresses of
nature, and lamenting with continual emphasis, that
they should be suffered to run about so rudely, without
powder or pomatum.
The governour and Harold, and even Loena herself
laughed, at the ridiculous figure that she cut, huddled up
among such a world of trumpery, the very existence of
which she was unconscious of, until she was assured
that it was all, so indispensable, that there was no existing
without it; all which she believed, as soon as she
understood it.
Thus passed the morning. In the afternoon, while
the governour and Harold were sitting in the hall, and
enjoying the magnificent prospect below, the door suddenly
opened, and their old Indian guide, whose unceremonious
disappearance had caused Harold some
little inquietude at first, stalked in, with his son, and
two other Indians.
The governourwas forcibly struck with the difference
between them and Harold. Their very tread was
a signal of submission: his, of defiance. He carried command
in his forehead; they, subjection. He walked like
a prince; they, like slaves. He, like the undegenerate
Indian; they, like the scorned and derided of white
men. The very children observed this difference, and
shrank from the new comers, with abhorrence, contempt,
and loathing. Their feelings were too obvious,
too inartificial, too innocently revealed, at once, to
leave the matter, for a moment, in dispute—and yet, so
lost were the reviled ones, so utterly, to all the heroick
confidence of their race, that, instead of turning upon
their scoffers, and rebuking them to dust, with the majesty
of their awakened countenances, they forbore to
express aught of their feeling; they trembled and quailed
before the merriment of babes; the very babes of
white men, with the look and carriage of helpless insignificance—patient,
and fearful. Shame on them!
Not so Harold. He stood erect—his dark locks lying
broadly on his Grecian forehead, and clustering thickly
about the back of his head, in short, strong, matted
curls—his neck and shoulders, and chest, partially exposed—charactered
with strength, and breadth, and
fullness, as well as beauty—with a golden laced military
undress, of the most brilliant scarlet, made of
European materials, but after the Indian manner, under
the ample and shining folds of the beaver mantle—
forming, altogether, a noble and spirited picture, as of a
young Scythian, clad in his own spoils—a young barbarian,
returning with the habiliments of a slain enemy.
The old Indian, alone, came forward, unintimidated,
frankly and intrepidly: and offered his aged hand to the
governour, with the expression of perfect equality.
But, perceiving, at the same time, the embarrassment
of his attendants, and their scowling awkwardness, he
reddened, and uttered a few rapid words, with an air
of authority, which they instantly obeyed, by leaving
the room.
The governour received him with unaffected cordiality
as he could, in a mixture of broken English, French,
and his own dialect, that Harold was going to England.
`To England!' quoth the governour, shaking his
head—`No. no, not if I can help it.'
A long conversation ensued; in which Harold explained
all that he thought necessary of his purpose
and hope.
`You have great influence, I believe, with the Indians?'
`Yes—decidedly—great,' answered Harold. `They
are willing to be led by me, now—but I am not qualified
to lead them, yet, as I would wish.'
`What is your plan?'
`To fit myself for a captain and statesman, in the
schools of Europe; to return; to establish a confederacy
among all the tribes of America—wrench back a part
of our possessions from the English—and prevent all
further encroachment.'
`Boy!' cried De Vaudreuil, his eyes sparkling with
enthusiasm—`Boy! I glory in thee. Thou art fitted for
this. None but a hero could think of such a scheme.
Give me thy hand. I pledge myself, this moment, to
assist thee, heart and soul, sword and purse. My king
shall assist thee, too. Our English neighbours are getting
too formidable—they are breaking in upon our
chain of fortifications upon the frontier. We must, we
will drive drive them back to their entrenchments.'
Harold looked this wily politician in the face, steadily,
for some moments. `Governour!' said he; `I accept
the pledge. I give myself up to you, without reserve
or qualification. But mark me—I have a natural antipathy
to the whites, and so have all my countrymen.
Beware then, how you put such power into my
hands, unless you believe your people capable of continuing,
as they have begun, fair traders, faithful allies,
and honest purchasers of our territory. At the first
symptom of treachery or oppression, I will turn my hand
against you.'
`Me!'
`Yes—even you, governour! though I would rather
die.'
`Very well,' said the governour, smiling at his ardour,
though his blood ran cold, when he saw the settled
look of determination, with which the purpose was
so boldly announced. It was devout, deadly, and unsparing.
Harold continued to explain his views; and De Vaudreuil
listened with astonishment. His observations were
profound and rational: evincing an intimate familiarity
with all the French possessions, from Louisiana to Quebec;
and he almost dreaded to put such an engine in motion.
The thundering of its wheels and cylinders, and
chains, would not easily be stayed again, he was sure.
`You are young, brave, resolute, and of a military
turn, Harold. I am willing to believe, therefore, that
you can do incredible things. Nay, when I look upon
you, and hear you, nothing seems impossible, that
you meditate. Will you stay with me? I will take
care of you.'
`Governour, I am resolved to take care of myself.
I have lived too long in dependance.' As he said this,
he raised his arms—and the passionate nature of the
boy broke out, all at once, like flame, in his scornful
countenance—a withering and blasting flame.
The count, carried away by his feelings, embraced
him on the spot.
`Thou shalt go, my young hero!' he said; `thou shalt!
to England, France, whither thou wilt. I will be thy
friend—thy father—go where thou wilt, and when.'
Harold's eyes filled. This was unexpected kindness.
All else he could have resisted. Of late, he was so unaccustomed
to the voice of manly encouragement, that
the slightest tone went thrilling to his heart. Such was
his nature. He that could withstand, sternly and forever,
the assaults of the unkind—the wind and the rain
of heaven—encasing himself in adamant, as they beat
upon him, and wrapping the protection of his great
nature in more impenetrable folds, about and about
him, threw it off—unharnessed—uncased—abandoned
all his armour, and stood, naked, and trembling from
upon him.
`Governour!' said he, at last, nearly suffocated by his
emotion—`governour—'(the governour was shocked
and alarmed at the deeply broken voice—the suppressed
breathing of Harold—they were indicative of
such tremendous inward agitation)—`governour—I
thank you!'
It was all that he could say—all that he dared to say,
without weeping. It was enough. The count saw that
he was choking; and Harold felt, at that moment, as if
every evil passion of his convulsed, disincumbered
heart, had fled forever: as if all its greenness and poison
had been neutralized by a few tears, and all its hatred
and malignity, risen and passed off, as in distillation.
Its bitterness was no longer to be tasted, as it
had been, burning and acrimonious, as the venom of
the rattlesnake, when he thought of his indignities, and
the wrongs of his people.
And the count, himself, felt, in the protracted utterance
of these few simple words, `I thank you,' a full
assurance that Harold would abide the trial, and live
to requite all that had dared to stand by him, when he
was unfriended, trampled on, belied, and alone.
`God bless thee, my boy!' was the fervent ejaculation
of De Vaudreuil, in reply, his very spirit flaming out
of his eyes.
What was this strange enthusiasm? Whence was it?
A young stranger, an Indian, swarthy and repulsive,
haughty and forbidding in his aspect, but stands up
before another stranger, an aged man, a nobleman, a
soldier, and a courtier; accustomed for a score of years
to having his passions assailed, in vain, by the mightiest
and craftiest—and, straightway, the latter is his
friend, body and soul, to the spilling of blood? Verily,
all things are possible to the young and valiant! It was
the electrick communication of proud hearts, hearts
beating with chivalry. De Vaudrueil was a soldier;
one of the tried and graceful ones of France—a nation
of young knights! And his heart leaped in his bosom,
at the trumpet toned voice of young Harold. It was the
the trial, when his voice sounds as if his arteries are
ruptured with the effort.
`But what are we to do with her?' said the governour,
pointing to a distant room, where sat the pale
girl, in a drooping, disconsolate attitude—smiling, in
her abstraction, upon the children, who were striving
to amuse her, with a sweet, desolate smile.
`Her!' answered Harold, his brow knitting, and his
lip writhing, entirely forgetful of his newly proffered
allegiance, as he observed the tone of doubtful hesitation
and distrust, in which the inquiry, to his anxious
hearing, appeared to be made. `Her!' what mean you,
governour?—the princess—'
`Aye,' said the count, laughing—aye, my hot spark,
the princess. What are we do with her, when you are
gone?'
`When I am gone!—what! Think you, I would go
alone—think you that I could? No, governour—no!
Go where I will, she goes with me. We go together, or
we stay together. Nay, not even that—go we will, and
together, and over the wide water too, if we have to
swim for it.'
`Bravo!' said De Vaudreuil, shaking his hands heartily.
But his purpose of separating them, nevertheless,
did not change. It was essential to all his plans, that
Harold should go unincumbered, and that he should
hold some check upon him during his absence; and he
determined to study the character of Loena, thoroughly,
before he revived the subject.
He soon found not only the family, but the very
servants, inconceivably interested in her. And before
another week had passed, it was determined among
them, to retain her, educate her, and hold her in the
bosom of their own family, until Harold should return.
In this determination, there were compounded all the
feelings of a man, a father, and a consummate politician.
The power which Loena had over the prejudice and
reverence of the red men, as the child of a Logan, and
the only one left, was not to be lightly disregarded.
With Harold's assistance, she might be made to effect,
synonimous, however, at all times,) of his master had
only dared to contemplate; namely, the ultimate expulsion
of the English from their new possessions, and
their confinement to the shores of the Atlantic.
The subject was renewed. Harold had considered it,
with an aching heart, but coolly and dispassionately.
His head hung upon his bosom, and he finally consented
that Loena herself should determine whether to go
or stay. By her decision, he would abide. But another
season had passed—and another, before she was tried.
Her artlessness had captivated all hearts: her earnestness
to please, her uncorrupted purity, her docility,
her unaffected dignity and grace, under the most embarrassing
emergencies, when a delicate instinct, supplying
the part of all experience, made her very ignorance
charming: her strange, wild, troubled beauty,
continually changing from meekness to fire; from melancholy
to enthusiasm, from submission to authority—
and the unaffected corruscations of character that broke
out, continually, in collision, from their dark hiding
places, like the sudden lights of bedded diamonds, broken
and shattered in the trampling of iron hoofs. All
these things had soon become a study and a delight, nay,
an employment, for the whole of De Vaudreuil's household.
They could not have parted with her.
This reluctance increased, as they discovered her
acquaintance with the principles of their own sublime
religion, (the Catholick.) She was not told that Harold
had consented. The very thought would have shaken
her to the earth with apprehension.
But why did he consent? Did he believe it possible
that she would? No; but he flattered himself that his
manly purpose, the result of deliberate reasoning,
which had convinced him of the rash impropriety that
there would be in taking a helpless Indian girl along
with him, into such jeopardy and vicissitude as he
must necessarily encounter, would be entirely overthrown
by the first movement of Loena, without any
weakness in himself. The desire of being with him,
he knew to be a constantly active principle with her—
to appear like a man, and a stoick, because he knew
that the Indian maid would not permit him to act like
one. Oh, no!—and this was his only hope; for he dreaded,
even when he testified his submissiveness to her
will, a separation, more than death.
How little he knew her! How widely he mistook his
own influence, and the influence of accustomed endearment
over her! Hitherto she had been among men
only. Her heroick nature had met with no rivalry.
She had been absolute; and she had walked and wandered,
whither she would, in her own dominion, unreproved,
unrebuked, unreproached. But now, she was
beset with a new and strange inquietude—a new sense;
a scrupulous, delicate wakefulness to propriety. She
had become prouder too of him, for she saw the young
Indian walking proudly, before the proudest white
men; men who had been, hitherto, so very terrible to
her nation; and she naturally thought more highly of
herself, for being beloved by one so considerable.
It was only required to set her own powerful and
beautiful mind at work, and the rich element, once in
commotion, would teem, of its own will and activity,
with proportion, and loveliness, and wisdom. This,
with the assistance of his lady, the count soon discovered,
to be the character of the princess, as the whole
family now persisted in calling her, in spite of her remonstrances,
when she found how lofty a title it was.
It hurt her innocent and unambitious heart, to rank
higher, even in phraseology, than her protectors, the
count and countess.
One morning, as the count entered the parlour, he
discovered his wife employed in trimming the hair of
Loena into a thousand fantastick undulations. Now
she would persist in giving her the picturesque and
beautiful aspect of a Greek girl—and now, she would
toss it wildly over her temples and bosom, till she resembled
some terrified Bacchante. His own daughters
sat, laughing and pouting by her side, occasionally interfering,
and squabbling about the gracefulness and effect
flowed, as if it were liquid silk, over her shoulders.
He laid his parental hand upon Loena's head, and
put his lips to her forehead. She coloured, but seized
his hand, and blessed him with that fervour, that innocent
and natural fervour, which is not to be counterfeited
or affected. Her emotion choked her.
The conversation, so long dreaded, was soon began;
and the countenances of all grew more and more serious,
mournful, sad, as he proceeded, until there was
not a dry eye in the room.
A frigate was to sail the same evening for Calais—
Harold was to depart in her.
`Harold!' faintly articulated the gasping girl, and
shut her eyes. `Harold!' echoed all the others. The
word died away on their lips. They all clung to poor
Loena, with hands and mouths, as she buried her face
in the lap of the countess.
A sad presentiment sat heavily upon her heart. So
much admonition—so much advice—so much gentle
insinuation—so many new feelings and thoughts about
propriety, conjured up—it could not be for slight purposes.
Yet what was she to fear? They were to go together—
together! were they?—oh yes—but then he
said Harold—Harold only.'
`I will go!' she exclaimed, starting upon her feet,
forgetful of their presence. `I will go with him, the
wide world over! Let me see who shall dare to oppose
me! Harold! come thou to my defence!'
They had been watching every movement; and De-Vandreueil
now left the room, saying to his wife, significantly,
that he left Loena to her care.
`Oh!' said the countess, after a few moments of
mournful silence, while the dim eyes of the Indian girl
were searching out the mystery of this behaviour, with
a look of unutterable expostulation—`Oh'—(as if she
that moment recollected herself) oh, how long is it, my
dear—' (she stopped a moment, for she found it exceedingly
difficult to make herself intelligible to Loena, whose
early lessons in French, were but just beginning to revive—besides,
she was startled at her own abruptness,
self-possession that arose gradually upon the youthful
countenance before her—as if to rebuke all particular
inquiry—(so much for her lessons in propriety)
but her lip trembled, and she pressed the hand of the
countess, and put her mouth meekly upon the blue
veins, as if conscious that this was not the time for the
princess to be seen—no! but for the woman, the tender
and impassioned woman alone.
A tear fell upon the hand. She stooped with her luxuriant
tresses, and would have wiped it away, but her
mother, (for thrice had the lady called her `daughter,'
and her heart yearned to show its sensibility to the endearing
relationship)—her mother forbad it, and dismissed
the girl and children, with her hand.
`I am abrupt, love,' she said, `I know that I am; but
thy frank nature is accustomed to that. Thou art a woman,
a young, inexperienced, and enthusiastick woman.
I tremble for thee—Here thou hast come, a stranger,
my child, an innocent, unfriended, unsupported, helpless
stranger—among strangers—(Loena's eyes overflowed)
with no brother—no father—no sister—not even one of
thy nation—(Loena attempted to speak) what sayest
thou, love?—nay, do not weep.'
Poor Loena sobbed as if her heart would break.
The countess continued—`no father—no mother. Oh,
yes thou hast. I will be thy mother, my sweet girl.
Wilt thou be my daughter?'
`I will, O, I will,' faintly whispered the fainting
girl. Bid me as thou wilt—I will do thy bidding—my
mother—my dear, dear mother!'
The countess embraced her passionately.
The contact was inconceivably affecting to both. Loena
felt as if her own mother had risen from the grave;
and the countess, as if caressing her youngest born, the
child of her old age. Behold them!—a beautiful woman—a
French woman—a Parisienne, locked to the bosom
of a young American—an Indian girl, brown, and
sparkling with barbarian ornament—locked too, as a
mother and daughter, in overwhelming and inexpressible
tenderness.
It was the union of ministering intelligences—the
priesthood of loveliness among the oppressors and the
oppressed. Fashion and Nature; the perfection of Art,
and the simplicity of unadulterate, uncontaminate Nature!
`My daughter, compose thyself,' continued the countess,'
lean awhile on me—the bosom of thy mother—
why, how thy temples throb, child—and the sweat, I
declare, thy hair is wet, on thy forehead, with it. Verily,
verily, but thou art fearfully and wonderfully made.
We are all so—woman is, at best, but frailly, delicately
constituted, but thou art so, in an especial manner—
more a thing of intellect and nerve, and spirit, than
aught that I know, even among women. Come, come,
cheer up, and prepare thyself. Thy heart too, why it
is coming through thy side!'
`It feels, mother, as if it would, indeed,' answered
the trembling girl, as she shook back her redundant
hair, and looked up in her face, with a quivering lip,
and a pale, very pale cheek—`It feels, mother, as if it
were nothing but ashes—O, it is dry, pulverised—
there is no moisture in it—I would weep—but I cannot
weep—I cannot shed another tear. But go on, my
mother, O, how it delights me to pronounce the strange
word—ma mère! ma mère!—I am prepared.'
Saying this, she arose, and sat upright: upheld and
sustained, by her own unconquerable spirit. Now was
to be the trial. She was sure of it. She knew not what
was coming, but whatever it was, she was now ready to
face it. The countess dreaded to begin, now that the
moment had come.
`Hast thou known Harold long?' said she, at last,
with solemnity.
`From my very infancy, ma mère.'
`Constantly; with no interval?'
`None—yet stay—O, yes, ma mère, there was a dreary
interval. I remember it now—I hate to think of it.
I thought that I had forgotten it—he wandered—'
`Loved another, perhaps?'
`What!—he—he! Harold—he love another! O, no—
no—no—ha!—ha!—ha!'
She laughed deliriously, and shuddered, as her
voice died away on her lips, and the echo came back to
her, `ha! ha! ha!'
What shook her so? Was this the first pang of jealousy,
to the brown girl of the wilderness? What shook
her so?
She had heard tales, but she did not believe them.
She had traced them to the old Indian, but inadvertently;
and she disdained to ask Harold if they were
true; nay, she almost scorned herself for thinking of
them for a moment.'
`He is going to England,' continued the countess.
`Yes, ma mère.'
`Thy mother was—'
`O, name not my mother!—O, name not that blessed
one!'
`Didst thou love her, dear?'
`Love her!—love my mother!—ask her!—call her
hither!—call her down from heaven!—Bid her tell thee!
O, my mother, my mother! did I love thee? Gracious
heaven!—did I love my own mother?'
`I do not doubt thee, Loena, dearest: But I ask thee
for especial purposes. How old wast thou when she was
taken away?'
`Fourteen springs.'
`Hadst thou learned to read?'
`A little—a very little.'
`Did thy mother ever talk to thee of the customs
abroad; of marriage, religion, delicacy, propriety?'
`Of marriage and religion, she did; of delicacy and
propriety, never. She had no occasion for it. I have
learnt their meaning only since I came here—the words,
I mean. I have been familiar with the actions, which
they denote, from my childhood. It was the religion
of my blessed mother, to be modest. She made us innocent
and sincere. Here, I have learnt, that to be modest,
innocent, and sincere, is not enough. We must
appear so, and to strangers:—and that, pardon me, lady,
but it seems to me, that here it is better to appear so,
and not be so, than to be so, and not appear so.'
`Did she love Harold?'
`Yes, as the apple of her eye.'
`Did she ever interfere, or restrain your childish
frolicks?'
`Restrain us! no. Together we clambered the mountain—together
buckled on our quivers, and hunted the
red deer together—swam the torrent together—together
wrestled, played, and toiled together—and slept
together, in each other's arms. Restrain us! no. Why
should she? It would have made us miserable. And
her whole study was to make us happy—she was our
mother. Nay, she held us together in her arms, and
bade me love Horold—and bade him protect me,
through all peril, temptation, and vice. We have done
so. Restrain us—no, indeed.'
`These were the feelings of thy childhood. What
are they now?'
`Now, oh, I know not. I do not love Harold now, as
I did. I am afraid of him. I tremble when I hear his
step. I know not why it is; but I cannot bear to sport
with him now—not even to touch him—nay, if he come
near me, I am ready to fly from him. And yet, I am
so unhappy when he is away; and still, he is dear, very
dear to me.'
She hid her face in her mother's bosom.
`And when did these emotions first assail thee? this
change?'
`After we were separated the first time. I loved him
before. I would have laid down my life for him, before.
But then, I never trembled, never wept before him. I
could bear to speak to him, and could understand what
he said in reply: but now I cannot. He talks to me, but
I never answer, for I cannot understand him. I only
hear his voice. It thrills through and through me, and
I could fall asleep, while I am listening to it, as I would
to unknown musick. If he speak suddenly now, to me,
there is a confused ringing in my ears. Is it not very
strange? I am afraid, mother,' (she added, in a low
whisper) I am afraid that I don't love Harold now,
as I ought.'
`Loena—look at me—wouldst thou swim with him,
now?'
`Yes, certainly—why not?'
`Wouldst thou sleep with him, as thou didst in
childhood?'
`Would I? Certainly I would. Did I not, all the way
through the wilderness?'
`Dear innocent,' said the countess, kissing her, with
full eyes, and a smiling lip.
But Loena's countenance underwent a change. She
appeared troubled, pensive, thoughtful—She raised her
head. The working of her soul began to betray itself—
`Mother,' said she—a slight tinge of red, the slightest
in the world, passing over her forehead, and her fringed
lids dropping—`Mother, I never thought of this before—no—no—I
could not swim with Harold now.
And never shall lie with him again.'
`Why not, my dear?' said the countess, willing to
prosecute the whimsical inquiry. It was so delicious to
watch the first contracting and dilating of a pure heart
—naked and transparent before her—palpitating with
its own heat.
`Indeed, I know not; except that just now, when I
said I would, ma mère looked so surprised! I was frightened.
And then, the other day, when I happened to mention
how diverted I used to be when Harold talked in
his sleep, Louise asked me a very strange question, and
when I answered—'
`What was it, my dear?'
Why, whether I was married?—only think!—and
then, when I laughed and told her no, she turned red,
and fell a whispering with her sister, and I thought she
was less cordial to me, ever afterward; and so, I am
afraid that there must be something wrong in what I
said. I ought to keep my thought a secret, ought I not,
ma mère. Now, don't be angry with me.'
The countess was irresistibly diverted with her simplicity.
But she took her throbbing hands, and said,
as she pressed them in her own—'
`My child—Harold must leave thee.'
`Leave me!—me!' screamed Loena.
The countess, herself, shrieked, at the wildness and
suddenness of her exclamation. It was a cry of delirium—as
Harold!—me!'
`Hush hush,' my dear girl, they are coming. (The
steps passed away.) Now hear me. Harold is going
away. (Loena gasped for breath.) Thou art a woman.
He is a man. He is not thy brother, nor thy husband—
nor even a kinsman—wilt thou go with him alone?'
`Aye lady, aye! all the world over. Aye, to the
abode of darkness!' she continued, without raising her
eyes, `to the green earth—to the cold northern sky!
Brother, husband, father, clansman—all, all, is Harold
to me! I abjure all the world for him. To him, and
him alone, will I forever cling, in my desperation. I
will, I will! nothing shall separate us. I am desolate
enough now, but I should be dead, dead, in my desolation,
were he away. No—I tremble to be with him,
but I cannot, will not, be separated. I cannot bear his
voice, but I should die, perish, go utterly mad, were I
where I could not hear it. I cannot touch him; but he
may be sick—sick, lady, in a strange land, and who
shall nurse him, then?—who shall hold his hot forehead
—wipe off the sweat, and spread the beaver for his cabin—who?—O,
I should die if any other touched him.
If I may not, O withered and accursed be the hand
that soothes him—I should hate her forever and ever.'
`Her! my dear—whom do you mean?'
`The woman that should go to Harold's cabin when
I was away.'
`My child! my child! this must not be. Wouldst
thou, poor innocent, thou!—go alone with a man, the
wide world over; unsanctioned, unblessed?'
`Aye, lady, the wide world over! What care I for
your Christian ceremonies? We love, and God, God,
himself, will say a blessing for us, the first time that
we are alone upon the waters! Think you, that we shall
not sleep as soundly in each other's arms, dreaming
and embracing, innocently and fervently, and devoutly,
too—yea, religiously—for we have our religion!—like
the man and woman of Paradise—as if we had been
kneeling down to the benediction of mortal man, a
poor child of infirmity and sorrow, like ourselves—No,
He is my husband, and I am his wife.'
`My child, my child! what will become of thee?
A beggar—an outcast—helpless—suppose he should
die, Loena—Yea, shudder, my child; such a thing may
be. Wilt thou go?'
`I will.'
`Can nothing disturb thee?'
`Nothing.'
`And art thou, canst thou so forget thy blood—
thine ascendancy. Thou! daughter of Logan?'
`What!—what is that, lady!—Logan! who spake of
Logan?—O speak again—speak, I conjure thee!'
`Daughter of Logan,' said the countess, with the
most impressive solemnity, while Loena stood as if
rooted to the spot—`I knew thy mother. Nay, it is
true. Another day, and I will tell thee all. I was a
prisoner once, and she saved my life; and that of a
child of mine, who is now dead. Thy mother now
speaks to thee. Her commands are imperative. Go
thou not with Harold! Thou art a princess, an Indian
princess. Thou knowest him not. He is young, fiery,
and irresolute; wait awhile. Thou art to be the saviour
of the Indians. Be thou the companion of some hero.
Be Harold himself, that hero. He is the apostle of Ambition.
But first learn thine own value. Try his constancy.
Be not easily won, and cast aside, like that
poor creature—Ah, thou hast not forgotten her, I see—
Nay, nay, do not grasp my neck so tightly, dear; thou
wilt strangle me. Think of her, Loena. Men are always
the same.
Let Harold go alone—alone. If he be worthy of
thee, and thy heritage, he will return; and thou, my
dear child, wilt be assured of his sincerity and truth.
What is thy determination?'
`I know not. I am of the blood of Logan. I feel
that tingling in all my blood vessels. That poor girl!
No, no, I will not, cannot be like her—broken hearted,
and so pale!—O, Harold! Harold! couldst thou?—no,
no, thou couldst not. And I could curse myself for
all gentleness? terrible as thou seemest. Let me go, mother.
At what hour does the great canoe depart?'
`At sunset—his baggage is already on board.'
`At sunset!' echoed Loena, faintly. `Before that
hour I shall be prepared. I tremble now.'
She withdrew, and the countess watched her from
the window, as she saw her move, with a hurried and
agitated step, up the acclivity through the garden, to
where she could see the sails, and the water. Her step
faltered. She stood alone. She knelt. A large tree
overshadowed her, and her attitude was that of a Christian
girl at her supplication, broken down, and bowed—She
stretched out her arms to the water, and bent
her head. She arose—her beautiful drapery, newly
modelled after the antique of a bronze dancing girl,
was blowing about her. She retreats—why so fast?—
She conceals herself—She stoops, as if half willing to
be seen. What significance of motion! Thus much of coquetry
had she already learnt. While her heart bounded
to meet some loved one, she hung back timidly! O
children of the mountain, how are ye worn, and wasted,
and degenerate, upon the plain!
No—she is in earnest. How erect she stands! What
beautiful loftiness—so concentrated. A man!—a French
officer!—ah, he approaches her. What awes him so?—
No further—not one step—and yet, he advanced at first,
familiarly enough—stay, he gathers courage—he approaches
her.
`Insolence!' cried the countess, with burning cheeks,
and rang the bell, with passionate violence.
The officer had thrown his arm round the Indian
maid—what! Is she feeling for a weapon?—merciful
heaven! he is hurled to the earth! A lion is upon him!
An apparition!
`O heaven! O heaven! spare him! spare him!' shrieked
the countess, as she threw up the window, in horrour
and consternation. * * * * Great
God! It is too late—he is going—I see him—I hear
him—help! help!—there! there!'
The servants passed the window. Their exhausted
looked up, and leaped forward, like madmen, to the
rescue.
`Ah—it is all over!' said the countess, a moment after,
letting the window fall, and sinking upon the floor
—`Ah!—Oh! his blood is spirting upon me—hot!—
hot!—and see, see,' she added, as her female attendants,
alarmed at the outcry, filled the room—holding
out her hands, and stretching her fingers apart, and
shuddering—`see! see—his torn flesh!—his brains—
reeking—reeking!'
Another moment, and Harold burst into the room,
bearing the triumphant Loena upon his bosom, which
was half-buried in her abundant, and disordered tresses;
while hers was half revealed, in its beautiful undulations,
through her torn dress.
Harold began an explanation, but was interrupted by
a clamour at the door. He anticipated the result. He
unsheathed his cymetar—it rang, and whistled, as he
drew it forth, with the accustomed flourish, as if impatient
for service; and those who stood near, shrunk
back, as it flashed by them; breathlessly looking upon
the fierce and fell, the wrathful and settled composure
of his countenance. Death was in every lineament: yet
in every lineament was a mortal and unutterable fixedness.
It was terrible.
The noise increased. There was a clamorous outcry
for `the Indian—the Indian—the murderer!'
Harold moved toward the door. The countess
forbade him: but Loena bade him go—go, and beat back
the rabble herd, and not suffer the dwelling of his benefactor
to be profaned.
He obeyed. He threw open the door; but De Vaudreuil
was already rebuking them, with a drawn sword
in his hand, and promising them justice.
In the mean time, the sails were heaved upward—
bent in the setting sun—persons and boats were seen
running hither and thither, in the bustle of departure;
and the mob were soon occupied, in their fickleness,
with the scene. The count turned his attention to his
lady, and soon heard from her, all the particulars of the
of the fierceness of the combatants; but the
leap, to which Harold had compelled the wounded man,
from the precipice, was soon found not to have been fatal.
He had fallen upon the top of a slightly built summer
house, in a garden below, and escaped, with only a
dislocated shoulder; a wound in his side; and a few
bruises, for his presumption.
He was to have gone in the very vessel with Harold,
and had ascended the hill for a last look at the picturesque
scenery, when his impetuous and headlong folly
had well nigh cost him his life. His fate was deserved.
He was driven to the precipice, and thence, shricking,
with a strong, unsparing hand, was thrust down.
Harold and Loena remained locked in each other's
arms. This new danger had endeared them, if it were
possible, more than ever, to each other. Their tears
and kisses were mingled.
`I am going, Loena,' said Harold. `Am I to go
alone?' `I cannot, cannot answer thee,' said she; `What
shall I say? I am a woman. Ought I to go? What
wouldst thou, Harold, dear Harold, that thine own sister
should do, at such an hour? By thy soul, I conjure
thee!—declare unto me, thy true thought—and—so help
me heaven, in my utmost need!—I will abide by it—go,
or stay—be with thee, or apart, forever and ever—as
thou shalt now judge me?'
Harold sank upon his knee: held her to his heart;
heard her sobbing above him; sobbing aloud—felt her
heart beating against his cheek, as if it would burst its
cell. What did he?
Harold was a hero; but Harold was human: Godlike,
he might be, but his true nature was humanity. What
did he, in this hour of trial?
He bade her stay—aye, by heaven and earth, that
Indian boy had the courage and heart, the heroick
courage, and the greatness of heart, to speak honestly,
and bid her stay!
Again and again, they embraced, convulsively—parted
and wept—and blessed each other, over and over
again.
`I obey,' said Loena. `But think not, countess, mother,
that it is to try his faith—oh, no! of that, I cannot
doubt—why Harold, love—how deadly pale thou art.'
She remained looking at him, a moment; and then,
coming nearer, added, `I have been provoked to try
a spell upon thee, before thou goest—nay—smile—do
smile—we shall soon meet again. Shall we not, mother?
Shall I try it, mother?'
The countess nodded in the affirmative. Harold trembled
from head to foot.
`Nay, it is only a name. Don't be so frightened.'
Her voice and countenance instantly changed—`but
it may be true—gracious god! it may be—Harold, look
at me—' (She placed her hands upon his shoulders, and
looked him intently in the eyes—his lips were bloodless—)
`Elvira!' she said; and, at the instantaneous
change of his countenance, hers fell—her hands dropped
down, and she stood, as if struck with sudden
death.
At this moment, a flash, like a wide, thin, and suddenly
diffused vapour, whitened the opposite wall. It
was the last sail! A peal of thunder followed. It was
the signal gun!
`Once more! once more, Loena,' cried Harold, approaching
her, and extending his arms to her.
She shook her head in silence. His forehead reddened.
He turned to depart. He had shaken hands with
all, and embraced the count and countess, and was going.
Loena never moved, nor spoke.
Harold could not bear it. He went to her. `Loena,'
he said, tenderly, and solemnly—`Loena. Look at me
once. I cannot part with thee—it may be—forever,
thus.'
She turned—but her countenance was fixed.
`Speak to me, once more, before we part forever—
I cannot leave thee, thus. O, speak to me! What of
Elvira?—It is nearly three years since I saw her.'
At that name, she started and shrieked—pressed her
hands distractedly to her forehead—came to him, once
more—laid her face upon his bosom—fell upon her
knees, and called upon him
`O, Harold! Harold—thou, whom I thought so pure
—O, is it true?'
`What, love?'
`I cannot speak it?—the hateful thought. O, how I
have derided and scorned it. Is it true? O, tell me—
tell me, or I shall die at thy feet!'
`Hast thou not read my letter?'
`What letter?'
The count here interfered, taking a large pacquet
from his bosom, and saying. `No, my son, I thought
it best to defer it till you had gone. Your parting ought,
at least, not to be in sorrow: still less in bitterness—but
here it is.'
`No, no! I want no letters, no pacquets—none! I only
want him to speak! Let me hear thy voice, Harold.
Answer me—is it true?—one word! one word, dear Harold!'
`I know not what thou wouldst ask, dearest of women.
All I know, is, that that letter, which I wrote
last night, for thee, was intended to assist thee in thy
decision about going with me. It contains the history
of my whole life; all my transgressions—all my crimes.
I should have told thee, love, but I feared that thou
mightest be influenced by my presence, to forgive me,
in spite of thyself—or, perhaps, fly from me, into the
wilderness. I have left it now—now—that thou mayest
know me, entirely, with all my infirmities, and decide
upon me, by thyself, alone, before it be too late.'
`Harold! thou hast broken my heart—one word I
ask for—only one word—and that thou deniest me—
answer me—thou knowest what I mean—whom I mean
—art thou innocent?'
Harold shuddered at her calmness. `And suppose I
tell thee that I am; wilt thou believe me, Loena? canst
thou take my simple word?' said he.
`Believe thee!—oh, God, yes—yes—though all the
angels in heaven, swore against thee—believe thee, Harold!—O,
but raise thy hands now, as I do mine—but lay
them upon mine—and say to me, Loena, I am innocent,
of that one offence—I am innocent—and I will forgive
thee, all others—all!—my own blood—ah, speak, speak
simple words—and they will make thy wretched girl so
happy!—O, say, Loena, I am innocent—say so, dear,
and I will fall down and worship thee.'
`Loena,' said Harold, in a sepulchral voice—he shut
his eyes, and his lips were covered with froth—`Loena!'
(She stood as if her very soul were about to take wing,
forever.) `I am not innocent.”
She fell flat upon her face, without sense or motion.
Harold ran to her, lifted her up, but no sign of life appeared.
Another gun!—he turned deliriously—lifted up his
arms. A hollow groan broke from him. `Show me to
the water,' he said, sternly, with shining eyes.
The count took his arm, and they walked, nay, almost
ran to the shore. The boat was ready—the sailors
gave three cheers—Harold shook the governour's
hand, muttering continually in a low voice—`no, no,
not innocent—dead—dead—very well—to meet again
—a falsehood would have saved her—no matter. Governour,
farewell—farewell, forever!' and leaped into
the boat.
The governour stood and watched him. He sat with
his arms hanging over in the water—motionless, and
abstracted, as despair—hearing nothing—seeing nothing—doing
mechanically, what his preservation required
him to do, as the sharp boat, heeled under the
weight of the rowers, shipping water at every pull, and
splashing the cold spray into his bosom and face, unheeded.
He saw them arrive—he saw Harold ascend—his
eyes filled; and he returned with a heavy heart to his
own distracted family.
This will remind the reader of the story told by Barthelmie,
(author of Anarcharsis' Travels,) of himself. An impostor came
to him, and pronounced part of a Hebrew psalm before him. Barthelmie
happened to know the other half, and replied; each had spoken
all that he knew; and the spectators, nay, the impostor himself,
declared Barthelmie to be a prodigy of learning.
| CHAPTER XIV. Logan | |