University of Virginia Library

3. CHAP. III.

Never, in all my life, did I pass such a night as that,
which followed the conversation that I have just related.
I know not whether I was born with a more
timorous heart than other men; but I have been ready
to believe, when I have seen their indifference to matters
of life and death, where we have stood together, ankle
deep in blood—their cold, phlegmatick, habitual disregard
of what made my heart feel, sometimes, as if it
were turning to stone within me, and my flesh crawl—
that they were fashioned originally, and by constitution,
of sterner material than myself—and yet, I have
seen Archibald too, pale as death, in the awful stillness
that preceded the first shot, while they went on,
immoveable and solid as a phalanx of machinery,
with no sweat upon their foreheads, no prayer upon
their lips, no knocking at their ribs.—What then should
I think? His courage was indisputable—yet he was
abundantly more agitated than myself.—However, not
to anticipate, there were a thousand apprehensions,
natural to an inexperienced country lad, like myself,
about to abandon the roof of his father, mingled and
dashed too, with some pleasant and adventurous feeling,
common, I dare say, to the high in blood, whatever
may be their courage;—but there were some perils—
some, that the terrour of, would not let me sleep. The
small pox was in the American army, and its ravages
were tremendous, as we were told, and believed:—add

to this, that Cornwallis had just moved upon our frontiers,
with the design of effecting a junction between
his army and that of Sir Henry Clinton, then in possession
of New York.—Their forces, exceeding fifty
five thousand men, were well known to be admirably
appointed, and altogether superior to ours.
Arnold had been beaten—and we had just lost the
command of the lakes—and Fort Pitt, too, had fallen.
—several perilous changes had been made in the Staff
—General Schuyler and Gates were at loggerheads—
Washington himself, was losing a part of his popularity—and
they were intriguing to set him aside, not
by a dismissal, but by passing a vote of censure upon
him, which they knew the great man would not brook
—the army had dwindled to nothing, by the folly and
madness of short enlistments, and literally, nothing at
all had been done, on our part, during the campaign—
nothing experienced, but a series of defeat and humiliation,
which no human being could have held up against,
except George Washington.—

—Such was the state of affairs at this time;
and if you add to these facts, which were painful and
disheartening enough, to intimidate and bow the bravest,
the ten thousand rumours and exaggerations perpetually
afloat—the fact that we were safer under the
protection of the enemy than of our own countrymen—
the different appearance of our tatterdemalions, half
naked, half armed, and half starved, from their invaders,
a gallant, and dazzling army with banners
and trumpets,—and the offer of pardon and mercy,
just made by Sir William Howe, at the head of thirty
thousand veterans, offers which were not only made
to, but were accepted far and near, by the dastardly
gentry (for the poor held out—in their nakedness and
poverty, to their last breath)—and the threat, constantly
reiterated, that all the prisoners of war would
be hung for rebels and traitors, and never exchanged—
you will not wonder that my heart was heavy at the
thought of what I was about to encounter.

However, the night wore away, at last, and never
did the morning light break in upon me with such
influences; my blood danced in my body, and before I
had been out in the wind an hour---a fine, frosty air,
with a few stars, yet visible, and the bluest sky that I
ever saw, above me, I do believe that I could have
gone into battle, with less terrour than I had heard the
proposal to go, ten or twelve hours before. Such is
the steadying effect of contemplation; such is it, to be
prepared—and such the strengthening of God's breath,
when it blows down from the mountain upon us, before
sun rise. It would revive a dead man—I have sometimes
thought, when I was galloping away before it,
for life and death, almost:---but Arthur appeared the
same frank, cordial, carcless fellow, in the morning,
that I had always found him. He was one of them,
that take whatever happens, in this world of commotion
and trial, as a sort of thing, not to be troubled about.

“Well, John,” said he, clapping me on the shoulder,
retreating about forty yards, and levelling his rifle at
my head, “let me see if you can stand fire?”

I started, in good earnest, for it went off, and the
ball whistled, through my head, I thought, for a moment---but
it certainly passed very near me.

“Better than you, cousin, I am sure!” said I, forgetting
my consternation, in looking at the sudden
change, and frightful expression of his face.

“Gad a mercy!” he cried—“whew!”—stopping a
moment to see if I would fall, and then running up to
me, and feeling all about my head, like a delirious
creature, for a minute or two—“bless my heart and
soul!—whew!—well how do you feel?—d—n that
rifle—it goes off, without touching the trigger—it only
jarred in my hand.”

“Yes!” said I, rising forty fold in my own estimation,
to find that I was so little discomposed by an accident,
that had well nigh settled the campaign with
me, forever and ever—and shaken poor Arthur's courage
into dust—“yes—but if you do not aim better

than that, when you get among the Virginia riflemen
—Morgan's men—they'll—”

“Don't talk to me---don't talk,” cried Arthur, choking
with joy and terrour—while his black eyes actually
ran over, and he trembled, from head to foot.

“Well” said Archibald, joining us with a prouder
step than common, “you are harnessing, for the war,
I see, my brave brother; and you too, cousin Arthur—
have you made up your minds, never to return—never
to lay down your arms—never! never! till—ha!
what's all this—by heaven, it cannot be”—(catching
Arthur by the arm, and turning him partly round, for
he was stooping, as if to tighten the girth of his horse,
but had remained there rather too long a time for the
impatient temper of Archibald)---“tears!---tears upon
the face of Arthur Rodman!”

“Yes” cried Arthur---“and tears had well nigh
been upon your face too, my lad.”

Archibald shook his head, and smiled.

“O, you may smile---any body can smile---but if you
had seen your brother shot through the head, I am
inclined to think that—”

“What were you firing at?” said my father, leaping
over the fence, near where we stood, and standing,
all at once, by our side.

Arthur, though I attempted to avoid it, immediately
told him; and as he did, I could perceive the under
lip of Archibald, violently compressed, and his brow
knitting with emotion—but my father did not change
countenance.

“And how did he bear it?” said he—“like a lion!”
cried Arthur, striking his hands together—“he only
turned upon me, and chided me for my bad shot.”

“Not so bad a shot, neither,” said Archibald, putting
his hand to my face—“an inch or two more, and
the hall would have done your business—you will have
to get a lock shorn, on the other side of your head.”

It was very true—my hair was loose and flying in
the wind, and the ball, diverted from its aim, by the
jar of the piece, as it fell into Arthur's hand, had cut

away one of the heaviest locks, as if it had been shorn
with a razor. My blood thrilled—and I felt sick at
the heart, for a moment—and if I had been alone, I
should have fainted, I dare say, while I thought of my
narrow escape; but eventually, it was a happy thing
for me, perhaps, one of the happiest, for it gave others
a great opinion of my self-command, and finally,
produced a like opinion in myself. Nay, to this very
incident, in a great measure, I believe, may be attributed,
the reputation, that I subsequently obtained, of
being one of the most intrepid fellows in our regiment
—for I have always observed, that, when a report has
once gone abroad, people rarely think of enquiring
into the origin, or authority of it; so that it would
be no difficult matter, I believe, for any man to put
his own character, in what form he pleases, out into
the world; and, after a time, they that were vociferous
in defence of his virtues, would forget that he,
himself, was the author and origin of all that related
to them. “Say that you are not afraid of the devil,”
said Arthur, to our sergeant, one day, “and by and
by, it will become your general reputation—every
body will swear, that you are not afraid of the devil,
and forget who told him so—nay, fight to prove it—
for such is man's nature; enlist him to report a doubt
ful affair, and it is ten to one, that he exaggerates in
proportion as he is distrusted, until at last, he is
willing to spill his blood in proof of it!—another good
effect is, that the man himself, at last, begins to believe
that other people know him better than he knows
himself---and he really becomes, what they say he is---
not afraid of the devil!”

At last, we breakfasted altogether, my dear mother
at my right hand,—a mournful, but manly and noble
sorrow was in the countenance of my father—a more
tender and passionate one, in the light hazle eyes of
my mother,—and, in all the rest, that kind of unwillingness
to be either silent or talkative, which
characterises young hearts, when they are among them
that mourn—without being able to understand or comfort

them.—We swallowed our milk (for coffee was unknown
to us then)—but left the food untasted—and
then, with an occasional word or two, that sounded
abruptly upon the ear, as if spoken in a wrong place,
unpreparedly, as in a sick chamber, or house of
prayer—we mounted our horses.

“You will beat up for recruits,” said my father,
“during the day, and return to us at night—tomorrow
we shall try to set you both off in good earnest.”

Archibald came to me, and took the bridle in his
hand for a moment, as I was turning away—and then
let it go again, reluctantly, as if he had intended to
bid me a farewell,—but his heart had failed him—

“But Archy—how is this?” said my father, “Do
you not go with them?”

“No Sir”—said Archibald, throwing down his eyes,
“my horse might run away with me, you know.”

My father laughed—“no, my boy, you are the
better horseman of the three—if not the best of the
county, and I would trust you to break a colt, that
I would not trust many a rider to cross, after you had
subdued him.—I did not mean to mortify you—I only
desired to make you feel that you were comparatively
helpless.”

“I did feel it father;” said Archibald—walking
away.—

“Well, well,—never mind it son. The stud is your
own. Take your choice, and follow them, if you will,
—or go with me to the muster—or take your own way,
and, if you think you can succeed, go among the lads
of the neighbourhood, and see how many you can
bring in.”—

His eyes flashed fire, I remember, as we set off at
full gallop, for the high road; and, in less than twenty
minutes, we saw him, stretching like a hunter over a
distant elevation; after which—for he only took off
his hat, stood up in the stirrups, for a moment, and
waved it without stopping—after which, we saw no
more of him, till about nine that evening, when he
came suddenly upon us, with nearly twenty well mounted

young fellows, upon the best horses in the country
—rattling at his heels, like so many mad devils—they
almost rode us down,—for, with all our efforts, we had
been able to muster but five.

`How he sits!' cried Arthur, pointing to him, as
he rode leisurely about, while we were all trying
to form.—The moon shone gallantly upon us, and
really, had there been a trumpet there, and an enemy,
we should have given a good account of him, notwithstanding
our inexperience, and wretched equipment.—Indeed,
there is a natural feeling of the heart,
a proud pulse, about men always, who ride well, and
are well mounted, though they are alone, in the daylight;—but
when there are thirty more of them, thundering
along at full gallop, under a broad blue sky,
and a clear star light—though they were day labourers
on foot, there would be a swelling of the heart,
warlike and hazardous I am sure, like banditti at
least, if not like well trained cavalry.

“I am thinking,” said Archibald, leaping his horse
at full speed, over a ditch, where all the others halted
and boggled—and joining us—“I am thinking that,
if we ride over to the plain, yonder,—the musterground—
—that we may spend an hour or two,
profitably, in manœuvring against tomorrow—”

Arthur smiled, but, in that spirit of fellowship, which
all men have, under excitement, we rode on, renewing
our acquaintance with some of the horsemen about us,
and making it with such as were strangers—they
were fine fellows indeed, and when we were afterward
counted off into fours, and sixes, and the order was
given to gallop,—I thought that I had never seen so
handsome a troop of yeomanry.

Archibald had ridden hard, I am sure, that day, for
the mettlesome creature that he rode, kept throwing
down her head, and snorting continually, when she
stopped, as if hurt in her wind.

“My friends,” said Archibald—the moon shone full
upon his white forehead, as he uncovered it, and wiped
away the sweat,—“it is now time to separate. Let us

meet tomorrow, at twelve on this spot, each prepared,
to return no more—or to return victorious—I said us
—I do not mean it. It is not in my power to be with
you, except perhaps, as I have already told you, to
bid you God speed. But before we part, if you are
willing to spend half an hour, and your horses are not
fatigued, I will show you what little I know of the
cavalry exercise; so that you will be enabled, at least,
to enter the camp, with an air of respectability.”

The proposition was agreed to, and he threw us
into line; counted us off into sections; wheeled in and
out, gallopped, and charged. I was truly astonished at
the result. Before we parted, our horses would rein
as steadily into line, and wheel, with as much precision,
almost of themselves, as if they took a pride in it—
and subsequent experience has proved to me that they
do; for many a wild one have I seen broken to the line,
in a single drilling.

We then separated, all to our different homes, for
the night;—When Arthur, who had been riding at our
side, in silence, for about half an hour, suddenly
wheeled from the road, with a laugh, leaped a low
stone wall, and dashed away to our left—

“At twelve precisely,” said I calling after him—
—“aye! aye.—At twelve!”—he answered, flourishing
his sword in the star light.

Archibald reined up for a moment, and looked after
him, in surprise—“not the way to his uncles?”—
said he—

“No,” I replied, well knowing where he had gone.
—“I believe not”—

Archibald looked at me for a moment, as if about
to speak—but he did not, and then put a head for
some time.—

“What say you,” said he, abruptly—“shall we ride
over to Arnauld's.”—

“By all means,” I cried, leaping forward and
abreast of him, it is only a mile or two—and I should
like to see Lucia, before I go.”—

“Lucia!—Yes,” said Archibald, stooping over the
neck of his horse and feeling the curb—“it would be

well, you are a favorite there brother; and it would
be rather unfriendly to go away for so long a — brother
your stirrups are too long—shorten them—you
can never sit firmly in that way—throw your feet
home.”

“Pho, pho—how should you know better than I.”
“I do know better than you, brother; and it matters
not how I know it—if you do not ride with short stirrups,
and your feet home, you are perpetually in danger
of losing your seat, and your stirrup.”

“But suppose I should be thrown?”—

“You cannot be thrown. You must not look to
such an event as possible. I was never thrown.”—

“I beg your pardon.”—said I—

“Never!” he replied, warmly,—“once or twice
the horse fell with me.”—

“And suppose that your feet had been home then,
what would have become of you?”—

“They were. I grant brother, if you are thrown,
that it is more dangerous; but then you are not the hundreth
part so likely to be thrown as—ah! musick!”—

We were now passing the windows; a long row of
which, with the curtains up, were all illuminated.
Archibald put his hand gently upon mine, for a minute,
and sat listening.

“By heaven!” said I—“there never was such a
voice upon earth.”—

But he said nothing—he only drew a long breath,
and turned aside his face—

There was Lucia, lolling upon the sofa, and singing
away, with all her heart and soul, as if her very breath
were melody—so sweet and natural was the modulation
of the tone.

“How very beautiful!” said I—dazzled by her
brightness, as the fire light shone upon her eloquent
countenance, and gave to the whole of it, the hue of,
like a lighted transparency.

Archibald made no reply, but threw himself from
the saddle, and struck the gate with his whip handle.
The sound immediately ceased, and some tokens of

alarm were given, for hands were busy in letting
down the curtains of the room, all round; and it was
some minutes before we were admitted—but then—O!
our welcome, was that of the heart.

“Oh, my dear, dear friend,” cried Lucia, running
to Archibald, and putting her hands into his—“how
glad I am that you are here.”

“Why so?”—said he, colouring a little.

“O”—she answered—“O”—her pleasant, dark,
hazle eyes, with lashes, black as death, were shaded,
for a moment, with embarrassment—“we have been
terrified, this afternoon, with some stories about a
troop of horse, in the neighbourhood.”

“But you seem to have forgotten Mr. Oadley,”
said her elder sister Clara, a remarkably pale, tall
girl, with a serious cast of countenance, with very
bright eyes, incessantly in motion.

Lucia, coloured to the temples, and stepping forward,
her superb person just losing its girlishness,
for the graver beauty of womanhood—“I pray Mr.
Oadley, to pardon me,” she said; “I have always
been more intimate with his brother, as he knows well,
and when I see him, there are so many feelings of the
old school-fellow, at my heart, that I am half inclined
to forget both our ages in a game of romps!”

Her sister smiled, a little scornfully, I thought;
and her mother, one of the most truly beautiful women
of the age, immediately set all matters right, by shaking
her finger at Lucia—and welcoming, with her
accustomed gracefulness and ease—her “caro amico!”

“I am really glad that you have come—separate from
the pleasure that your company always gives to us,
on account of this report, and the absence of my husband.”
“Absent?” said I—but before I could say
more, a look from Archibald cut me short.

There was a momentary embarrassment in all our
faces—for I dreaded to mention, that I had seen him
within an hour or two; and still less, would I have
told her, where—for there was something, rather mysterious—and,

as my father thought, dangerous in the
movements, and authority of Mr. Arnauld—but it soon
wore off, and we joined, pleasantly, in conversation.

“I heard your voice, I believe,” said Archibald,
looking at Lucia, “as we approached.”

“Mine!”—she answered, with surprise—“a—
laughing, I suppose?”

“No—singing—your favourite air.”

“O, no—that was Clara's.”

Archibald and I exchanged a look with each other,
and smiled. Here had been one of those delusions, at
which men may laugh, if they will, but which are
strangely mortifying to them, after all. We had
united, heretofore, in our condemnation of Clara's
voice, chiefly, I dare say, because we had not often
heard it, and when we had, only by stealth or accident;
yet, to night, in the depth of our feeling, we had
mistaken it for that of her sister, which was, undeniably,
the richest, sweetest, and most passionate of all the
country—we!—no, how do I know that he was deceived?

“One song,” said my brother, “Miss Lucia, and
we will then leave you.”

“A strong temptation!” she said, softly, to me,
looking through her abundant, dark hair—“shall I?”

“O, certainly!” I answered, “I have come on purpose
to hear one more of—”

“Why, what is all this?” said her mother, glancing
at Archibald—“your countenance, is more than commonly
serious. Has any thing happened?”

“My brother,” said Archibald, “will join the army,
to-morrow.”

“The army!—gracious heaven!”—said Clara, and
then checked herself, while the blood darkened her
whole forehead.

“And your brother”—said a faint voice to me—I
looked up, and saw the face of Lucia, near mine,
exceedingly pale—and her white hand, raised—“will
he go with you?”

I shook my head, and her hand fell—the next moment,
I saw her sitting back, as far as she could, with
her eyes upon a book; but occasionally, they turned
timidly aside, to the face of my brother, who sat, in
his usual mood, studying the fire, with his under lip
working, and shadows flitting, now and then, over his
intensely white forehead, as if the thoughts of his heart
took wing, one after the other.

His revery was profound, and undisturbed, till the
clock struck, and he started upon his feet—and began
buttoning up his coat, to depart.

“You will not leave us to-night?” said the mother.
Clara, walked up to me, as pallid as ever—and the
book fell from Lucia's hand.

“Madam,” answered my brother, “if you have
any apprehension remaining, we certainly shall not—
one of us (Lucia, moved near to him, and Clara, to
me, as he continued) one of us will remain.”

She shook her head.

“Well then, both of us will remain,” said Archibald,
drawing up his chair to the corner, and entering
into conversation, as if his thought were any where in
this world, but in that room.

“But why do not you join the army?” said Mrs.
Arnauld to him.

Archibald turned slowly round, and smiled rather
bitterly, I thought; and Lucia sat more erect, for
awhile—and then leaned forward, as if to catch every
word, and tone, and look.

“For two or three reasons,” said Archibald, firmly

—“In the first place, I am not twenty-one—not my
own man—in the next place, I am to be a parson—
a parson!—and, finally, I am so weakly a creature,
that I might be run away with, by my horse—or trampled
to death, by the foot—excellent reasons, Madam;
are they not?”

I could perceive, that Mrs. Arnauld looked astonished,
and Lucia terrified; and I---I confess, that I
should have been equally so, had I not seen the late

developement of his character, before my father; for
his irony was a naked blade---it went to the heart.

Here Lucia's hair fell---and she consumed ten minutes,
at least, in adjusting it, all the time keeping her
beautiful eyes turned in the direction where he sat,
with his fingers playing, involuntarily, upon the next
chair, without moving a limb, or uttering a sound.

On the whole, it was a melancholy evening; such as
I should not desire to pass again, under any circumstances.
It was saddening to my heart; oppressive to
my spirits; and, when I thought of the possibility;
nay, of the probability, that we might never all meet
again, in the same room, it was with difficulty that I
could refrain from expressing a sorrow, and apprehension,
that would have been unmanly.

At last we parted---“Farewell, Madam,” said I
—“I shall not see you in the morning.”

“Heaven bless you!” she replied, cordially pressing
my hand. “May God be with you, in battle and
in sleep—night and day—bien bon soir.”

“Amen!” said some one faintly, at my side;—it
was Clara—I turned to offer her my hand, but some
unaccountable timidity—took sudden possession of me,
and I could not—I gave it to Lucia—who burst into
tears.

I was astonished—what was there to affect her so
deeply, more than her sister? why at all?—might it not
be that her heart was full before, to running over,
and that she was glad of any pretence to discharge the
fountain of tears.—

“Farewell,” said I again—“farewell!”—

Clara put her hand upon my arm—as I passed her—
but instantly withdrew it, and when I looked, she had
turned away her face, so that I could not tell if it were
designedly done or not:—but I lay awake, I know,
many a long hour, sleepy as I was, that night, endeavouring
to reconcile such an accident, with her habitual
reserve, and lofty, severe rectitude of deportment.—It
could not be—no—Clara Arnauld was not a woman to

feel at the heart—and least of all—for such a man as
I—uninformed—inexperienced and—

We were in our saddles by early day light, the next
morning, and trotted slowly, past the windows of the
chamber, where we knew that the young ladies slept—
a white hand stirred the curtain—nothing more—I
could have sworn that it was Clara's—but on looking
into Archibald's eyes—I was sure that he thought it
Lucia's.

Alas! it was the hand of neither—it was that of a
man—a man!—what!—said I, half audibly, in the bed
chamber of—the next moment, I saw that it was Mr.
Arnauld himself, evidently wishing to see us, without
being seen himself, for he hastily disappeared, and the
next minute, the curtain of another window fell, suddenly,
as if some one had just left it—after all then,
my heart was right—it was she!---

“What a charming creature she is!” said I, half
unwilling to interrupt the solemn stillness of our
ride.

“Yes,” said my brother---“full blooded”---but
reining his beautiful mare about, so as to see her
blood red nostrils, through which her breath issued,
like a bright vapour, for a whole yard, upon
the cold air—“but she was sadly put to it yesterday,
and I feared for her wind—not blown I hope, but—

“O, I understand you, now,” I replied, completely
puzzled for a moment, “you are always thinking of
your mare.”

“Aye brother!—what else have I to think of? she
knows me—see!”

As he spoke, he loosened the rein for a moment:—
the fire flashed from her wild eyes, and she shot by me
like an arrow.

The road was a very dangerous one, encumbered
with trees and rocks, roots, stumps, and broken
all up, with the feet of heavy cattle; so that I held my

breath for a moment, till I saw him rein her short, as
if upon a pivot, without stopping.

“By heaven, Archibald, how did you teach her
that?”---said I, coming up with him.

He laughed, but there was a mournfulness in the
sound; as there was, even in the warm flush upon his
pallid front, and the arrowy brightness of his intensely
blue eyes---they were not the symptoms of
health or happiness.

“I'll tell you brother---I was reading some time
since about the Arabian horses; and, when we get to
a better place, I will shew you that there is no such
mighty matter, in stopping at full speed, or mounting
and dismounting, at a gallop.—But what were
you speaking of---brother?” “Of the most charming
creature in the world,” said I, feeling every word that
I uttered---

“Yes, yes, brother”---responded Archibald---stooping
on the off side of his mare, and turning the stirrup,
for his foot; “yes---but I cannot well bear to talk of
her now”---

But, I replied, unwilling to let the conversation die
away so soon---we were just approaching the highest
ground in the neighbourhood, from which we could
have a view of twenty miles all about us---“I do not
like her coquetry.”

“What!”---said Archibald, abruptly---“no,” I continued---“nor
that womanish pedantry and affectation.”—

“Affectation!”---said he, rivetting his eyes upon me,
in astonishment---“what the devil do you mean?
John?”

“O---I do not hope to convince you of it, such a
favourite as you are”---(He coloured to the eyes)---and
that vile habit of sprinkling all she says, with poetry,
and French and Italian---a smattering of”---

“I'll tell you what, brother,” said he, riding up to
me---“I can't put up with this. I told you once before,
that I did not like to talk upon the subject---and I tell

you once more---and once, for all---that I won't put up
with it---”

I was amazed---we stopped our horses, and faced
each other, for a moment, upon the very summit of the
elevation---“are you mad?” said I---“one would think
that you were in love with her---(the fire streamed
from his eyes)---take care what you are about-- that
husband is not the gentlest of men, or the most forgiving;---nor
will he be the more likely to treat you
gently for your passionate adoration of his wife, because
he is the greatest profligate of the country.”---

“Husband! wife!”---said Archibald---impatiently,
and stooping from the saddle---“what are you talking
about?”---

“Of Mrs. Arnauld,” I replied.

He drew a long breath, and reached me his hand,
with a smile that went to my heart---“I am a little
absent, I believe,”---said he---“you know that I am
apt to be thoughtful, and just now”---(he appeared to
forget himself, for a moment, in another revery---but
started again, at the sound of two or three shot, that appeared
to be fired in the valley below:---when the mare
plunged suddenly, and had well nigh dislodged him
on the spot.

“She had well nigh broken your neck then, brother,”
said I—looking about for the sportsmen, who, I
supposed, were out after game; but I could see nothing;
not even the smoke of their pieces—yet they sounded
very near to us.

“I deserved it,” said he, reining her up firmly, and
adjusting himself to the seat—“tame as she is, I ought
never to forget what she has been—a horseman will
always mind saddle, rein and stirrup, (no matter what
he is upon) as if he expected to be run away with, every
moment—Ha!—another, that!—the game must
be well up this morning.”

“That was a pistol shot” said I—“O yes, I
dare say it was,” he answered;—“our troop are
amusing themselves at a mark. But you were speaking
of her affectation;—I am sorry for it on some

accounts; she is so truly charming in every other
respect—and then, it cannot have escaped you, that our
good mother is a little sore of late in her rivalship,
for I have caught her more than once, throwing in,
with a laughable unluckyness, some of the wretched
French that she has picked up at Madam Arnauld's.”

“You are severe upon Mrs. Arnauld,” said I—“too
severe; I only complain that she will not consent to
talk her mother tongue—not that her French and
Italian are wretched.”

“But they are,” said my brother.

“Oh! no; she has been familiar with them both—
and—”

“Pho!—Not a word of either did she ever pronounce
properly in her life.”

“But how do you know?” He coloured again—I
never saw any body blush so readily as he could, about
that time. Every emotion of his heart sent the blood
all over his face, as if he had been a bashful young
girl, on horseback, in male attire.—“Not of my own
knowledge, to be sure,” said he—but I have seen
Lucia hold down her face, a hundred times, when her
mother threw in a word or two of some other language
—and though I know nothing of either, yet I am persuaded
that all the mother knows of French or Italian,
has been gathered from the daughters. Beside, how
different their manner and pronunciation—they never
introduce a word of either language, unnecessarily;
and you might live with them for a whole year, without
suspecting that they knew a word of any but their
own, were they not led into it by some stratagem of
their mother, when strangers from the city are there
—or by the accomplished elegance of their father—
the profligate!—or by actual necessity: and their
pronunciation too, is so firm and neat, as if they
were not conscious of speaking in any but their
mother tongue.—Beside, I have not forgotten the look
of approbation that—that—Miss Lucia bestowed on
me once, when I said that he who had any thought,
could always express it; that the use of foreign

phrases was a proof of poverty, rather than opulence;
of ignorance rather than superiority:”

“Her mother was not there, I hope,” said I—

“O, no—gracious God! brother, what is that?—is
not that our house?”

I turned in the direction where he pointed—and
beheld a black smoke rising, as from the ruins of
some farm house, given to massacre and pillage by the
damnable Hessians.

“No, brother, that is not our house—but—let us
ride on—who knows what may have happened?”

We started at full speed, and were just on the top of
a second hill, where we could see a clear road before
us—when we heard shot after shot fired, behind us—and
the next moment, a horseman dashed headlong over the
side of a distant hill, pursued at their topmost speed, by
at least a dozen men in the royal uniform.—“Follow
me, brother!” cried Archibald, striking the rowels
into his mare, and galloping directly to the spot—

“Madman!” I shouted—“come back! rein up, rein
up!—where are your arms?”—

He heeded me not, his hat flew off, and it was in
vain for me ever to think of overtaking him. What could
I do?—there were noises and shouting all about me,
it appeared—and I could see, every now and then,
somebody dashing out of the far wood, or down a hill,—
as if the whole country were in alarm—

Yet I prest on, at the top of my speed, to the brow
of the hill—just in season, to see the horseman that was
ahead, wheel short upon his first pursuer—and exchange
a shot with him, when, it appeared to me, that
their pistols almost touched: the latter kept on, sitting
bolt upright—and the former drew out his sword and
came immediately upon St. George, without looking
behind him—and then—finding that he was not pursued-gave
a cut in the rear, and wheeled—and looked at his
enemy—who passed on a hundred yards, at least—after
receiving the shot, and then fell, dead, from the saddle.

Down came his comrades then, with a loud outcry

upon the conqueror; but, with a presence of mind that
dismayed me, he wheeled upon them, a full dozen as
they were, and leaped a broad ditch, exchanging cut
after cut, as he passed, and giving point, with a precision
that I never saw equalled at the ring; it was
then that I saw his object---two only of the squadron
could follow him---and there was Archibald, on the
other side, shouting with all his might, as if succour
were at hand---“come on, boys! come on!”---The
troopers reined up, and loaded their pistols---and I,
desperate with apprehension, rode round to join my
brother, designing to pass by the dead man and make
prize of his sword---and his pistols too, if possible,
for about a hundred yards from where he lay, his horse
had tumbled, and was yet struggling in his furniture:
but I had not gone half way to the place---though the
flanks of my poor horse ran down with blood, and I
thought that I never should get to it---when there was
another shout, a clashing of swords, and a rapid discharge
of pistols—and the same moment, Archibald's
mare darted by me—the bridle broken, and stirrups
ringing—O!—I never shall forget that pang—
`poor Archibald!' I cried, and the next moment,
I heard the trampling of hoofs at my side.

It was Arthur!—pale as death—bloody—and covered
with sweat—

`Your father!!' said he—`your father!'—

`What of him!' I cried, blinded and thunderstruck,
with a new fear.—

`Ride, for life and death, ride!'—he answered, in a
voice so changed that I scarcely knew it,—but I could
not obey him.—I could not—I threw myself from the
saddle—plucked the sword from the dead hand of the
horseman—and rode to the spot where I had seen Archibald
last.

He was safe—thank heaven, he was safe—his forehead
was cut a little—and the blood was running down
his naked arms—this is all that I remember—for a bugle
sounded, in our rear—the fellows halted in chase, one
after the other, like a line of videttes—and seeing horsemen

mustering in all directions, obeyed the call, and
abandoned the chase.

`There!' said I—throwing a sword to Archibald,
as he stood over the stranger, wrapping up his wounds,
with the shirt that he had torn off from his own body—
`there!—follow, to the farm! follow for life and
death!'

I then set off, with a feeling of horrour and darkness,
that I cannot pretend to describe. I set off for
my father's—I arrived. It was a ruin! I fell from the
saddle. The place that I had left, but the morning
before—the house—the house—it was one pile of ashes
and fire.—Nothing but the chimney, and one of the
roughcast ends were left standing—the very barns
and out houses were a heap of smoking cinders—the
hay and grain, at every blast of wind, sending up a
rush of sparkles, with a sudden blaze, like powder.

I was bewildered for some moments—unable to feel
or to understand the nature of the calamity that had
befallen us—till, on looking about, I saw the skeleton,
of two or three half consumed bodies in the fire. I
know not what gave me the strength for such a desperate
attempt, but I leaped into the burning ashes, up to
my knees, and dragged out—merciful powers!—what I
feared were the last remains of my own father and
mother—but no—that horrour was spared to me—they
were Hessians—they were covered with leather—and I
fell down upon my knees and thanked heaven for it! but
still I persisted in the search, till my boots and clothes
were literally burnt from me, and I was choked and
blinded by the loathsome smoke of the bodies.