 | CHAPTER III. Seventy-six |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
`Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,
And man ne'er trod before.
`And near him the she wolf stirred the brake,
`And the copper-snake breathed in his ear.'
In hurrying rapidly over the events of this period,
which related to the operations of the army, I have
omitted to mention an incident, which, at the time,
made little impression upon us, (Archibald and myself
I mean), but which, from the consequences that afterward
grew out of it, became exceedingly important.
I have alluded already to the jealousies and heart
burning, between the eastern and southern troops; and,
it is a fact, not now to be denied, that the New Englanders,
with a few exceptions, were the most substantial
men for the service. There was scarcely a foreigner in
their ranks; all were natural born Americans. But
the levies of our southern brethren were sadly adulterated
with such rabble, as could be bought cheapest.
There were some noble exceptions, of course—Smallwood's
regiment, and Morgan's were full blooded
southerners; their arteries running with fire and chivalry.
About the time when these discontents first broke
out, Archibald came accidentally in contact with a
yankee named Copely, Chester Copely—a strange,
cold blooded fellow, with resolute features, light grey
eyes, and a remarkably muscular, sinewy frame; of
the middle size—with a little twist in his neck, to the
left, that cost him many a pleasant gibe. He was a
There was something mysterious, too, in his
manner toward Archibald; for, contrary to his known
habits, he seemedto court the acquaintance of my haughty
brother. And in time—such was the nature of his
temper—the cold, silent dominion that he exercised over
all about him—that Archibald himself, a creature,
whose very tread was rebellion to all that looked like
an assumption of authority over him—became so
infatuated with this man, that he would put up with any
thing from him. I never liked him—nor did Arthur;
yet it would have been impossible to give a reason for
it—except that there was a sullen, implacable steadiness;
a sort of passionless insensibility in all that he
said and did, which bore hard upon us, I confess; with
an expression of superiority. Nothing seemed to move
him. He would say the bitterest things, and the pleasantest,
with precisely the same tone. Why he had
sought Archibald's acquaintance, was a matter of
inquiry with all our division. He was known and
shunned; and, when they appeared together, there was
a general expression of surprise. I suspected some
design in it, yet, what could it be? Archibald was not
popular—nor rich—nor powerful.
This thing had continued about two months, until
Arthur and I had forgotten to speak of it, even to each
other; and the troop, who were passionately devoted
to Archibald, had become, in a measure, reconciled to
the cold evenness of temper---so unlike what it had
been—that characterised him, and grew upon him, day
by day, after his acquaintance with the Yankee.
I have seen Copely, when I thought him handsome;
no, not handsome—something better, higher, nobler.—
There was a remarkable expression of manhood and
strength in his manner of sitting, standing, or even in
folding his arms. His forehead was very high, but
sunburnt, and hard. So knitted were his joints; so
compact his frame, so firm his tread, and so confident
and cool were all his movements, that there was not a
man in the army whom I would not sooner have encountered,
hero—for Washington was of a race above heroes; but
my notion has always been, that Copely was intended
for one. But let me give you some example of his
conduct and conversation. They will enable you to
judge better of his true character, than any general description.
After we had first seen him, and noted him for the
cold, strange indifference of his look, on all occasions—
in battle and out—it was remarked that he would be
absent, for a week or ten days at a time, in the neighbouring
country, without any notice being taken of it;
nay, it would almost seem, without asking leave; for,
when nobody else was permitted to move beyond our
entrenchments, the yankee captain used to come and
go, as freely as if our camp had been a publick market
place. At last, a rumour came among us, that he was
in the confidence of Washington, to a degree passing all
belief; and that he was consulted, whenever any affair of
moment, was in agitation—alone, and apart from all the
favorites of Washington. How true this was, I cannot
take upon myself to say; for he never spoke or
hinted of any such power or confidence; and, when
others hinted at it, pretty broadly too, at times, he
paid precisely the same kind of attention to it, that he
did to every thing else; neither affecting concealment,
nor frankness—but wearing always the same—not
haughty, it was not haughty, but proud, insensible
regal front, as if the things that troubled other men,
were beneath his attention, except in the mechanical
routine of his duty, and there he was unrivalled. His
discipline was stern, implacable, unrelenting, less
from any feeling of ambition, or because he coveted
the name of a disciplinarian—but merely, as if—he
scorned to be outdone, even in what he regarded as beneath
him. That he was on a footing, different from
that of any other young man, in the army, with Washington,
I can testify to, from my own knowledge. I
was eye witness once, of a scene, where Washington
stood before him, with a troubled countenance—and an
of my presence: while Copely eyed me, with
his cold bright balls, all the while, as if he had been
expecting me.
It was just about this time, that he formed an acquaintance
with Archibald; and, there were hours,
when, as they passed me in the dark, or at night, treading
in time, upon the snow before our tents, I should
have believed that they were brothers—and I a stranger.
More than once, have I heard a suppressed sob;
from, I dare not say, that it was from Copely, for his
unalterable nature never showed a symptom of feeling
equal to that, in the day time—no tear, no smile,
no laugh. Happen what would, he was the same, to
all outward appearance; collected and distant, not
from affectation, or melancholy, or reserve, or sorrow,
but, perhaps I am wrong, but such was my thought at
the time, from a natural feeling of superiority misplaced.
He was deeply read, and had travelled; but this was
not to be discovered by a common man. He disdained
to parley with a common man; not because he despised,
or pitied him; or was proud of his own character;
but from a natural incapacity to herd with him.
It was thought that he never slept during the night;
for, pass his tent, when we would, he was always sitting
at his table, if in camp—like one employed on
forbidden matters, about which he was careless, because
there was none but himself, to understand them.
At last, a report reached us, after one of his longest
absences, at a time when we were just about breaking
up, in the hope of a battle from Sir William Howe,
that he was to be married—and that too, immediately,
to one of the most extraordinary women in the country.
How the report came, where it originated, we know
not. But there was a cloud upon his face, at his return;
and his conferences with Archibald were more
frequent than ever. I remonstrated; and mentioned
something of my suspicion, and thought, concerning
him. Archibald smiled; but his lips were agitated; I
armed, beyond what seemed required by his situation;
that the door of his tent was always secured, and
that he never admitted any person, till he had first made
a bustle within. These were trifles, but they all served
to quicken our observation and wonder. We learnt
too, that he was the subject of especial animosity to
several southern officers; and, one day, it was just after
the report of his intended marriage had reached us,
we made an attempt to rally him about it. He had been
riding out with Archibald; and, when they returned,
whether it was that their faces had become flushed with
the exercise, or that something had happened to disturb
them, I knew not—but I thought that I had seldom
seen two heads more unlike each other, and, at the same
time, so full of character. Copely too, had equipped
himself in a new uniform, that laced athwart his broad
chest, so as to exhibit all its manly proportions; and
the contrast between his marked and athletick frame—
and the delicate expressiveness of Archibald's, would
have been worthy of a painter. Copley was a little the
taller—but, in every movement, there was the strength of
a lion—but that of a lion sleeping; while every movement
of my brother was that, in the quietest time of a
young catamount, her sinews always crouching—while
her joints are all loose and supple.
But, before I relate what I am about to, you will
bear this in mind; that Copely talked to all men, on
all occasions, in the same manner; saying, with a
face like cast iron, the severest things in the world,
without appearing to intend it. And yet, there was no
affectation of dry humour, or simplicity, or gravity in
him. All was natural, and uniform, like the expression
of a strong brain, and solid heart; and, when we
were, sometimes, all struck aback at the abrupt plainness
of his manner; he would look round upon us, as
if he pitied our amazement, and knew that what he
had done—was nothing—in comparison with what he
could do. He had a strange faculty too, of facing upon
you, and throwing all your thought into disorder, by
dying day; were anxious to resent—but could not.—
Add to all this, that, without appearing to intend it,
he always appeared to take his stand exactly upon that
line, which separates impunity from accountability.
Time and again, have I seen dark eyes flashing, swollen
lips writhing, and brave hearts, throbbing under what
he had said—while it would have been impossible to
quarrel with him for it. He was hated, hated, with a
deadliness and steadiness, by the Virginia interest, surpassing
all that I have ever seen. Yet my brother adhered
to him—and held aloof even from his beloved
Virginians, to consult with him.
And now, I will attempt to give you an idea of his
manner, from a conversation that he held with us on
that very evening, after he appeared, for the first time,
in a new uniform, which had probably given rise to the
report that he was to be married. It was a few weeks
before the battle of Brandywine.
Arthur, Copely, a Captain Henshaw, (one of the
most quiet creatures, that ever breathed, but the devil
in battle) and myself, were forming a party in the new
quarters of Archibald, which, by the united effort of the
troop, after his recovery, had been made very comfortable.
Copely sat facing me, the red fire light flashing
in his face,—his elbows square, and toes turned in,
exactly as if he were on horseback.
We had been admiring the cut of his uniform.
`Well Copely,' said Henshaw, in his pleasant, deliberate
way, `so you are to be married?'
`God forbid!'—was the reply.
`Why so?'—said Arthur.
Copely made no answer, except by shrugging his
shoulders.
`Do you deny it?' said Archibald—I thought, with
a slight agitation about the mouth.
`Yes,' said Copely.
`What!' retorted Archibald, leaning toward him.
`Do I not know, that you are courting—and preparing
for it—and, that the day is fixed?'
`True,' answered the impenetrable man.
`Then, why deny it?' said I.
`I do not deny that. I only deny that I shall be married—and
I recommend the same conduct to every
other man.—I would never own it, till the benediction
had been pronounced, unless I were sure that there
was not another man in the world.'
`You are very bitter?' said Archibald.
`No; I may be very honest. But you look (addressing
himself to me,) as if you had something at your
heart.'
`Delight, and astonishment,' said I.
`Pho, you dont mean any such thing—you may feel
surprise and pleasure—but few things would delight or
astonish such a man as you.'
`But why marry,' said Arthur, `with such an opinion
of women.'
`Why spill my blood, at sixpence a day? Because, I
must be occupied in one way or another.'
`But why rail at marriage?' said Henshaw, laughing—`where
there is such a charming example before
you—Colonel R—, he has married three wives.'
`Yes—and that is not all.'
`What else has he done?'
`Survived them. I reverence him—I never let him
pass me, without taking off my hat—rain or shine. I
gaze upon him, as I would upon the Duke of Marlborough,
or Turenne, or Eugene. The veteran!'
`Copely,' said Archibald, changing his whole manner.
`Do you know why I have called you together
this evening?'
`No.'
`There is a conspiracy against you.'
`I know it,' said Copely.
`They are determined to provoke you; and put you
out of the way, if they can.'
`I know it.'
`You had better keep out of the way awhile'—said
Archibald, with some emotion—`will you?'
`No.'
`But what will you do?'
`Exactly what I have always done.'
`But they will insult you.'
`I expect it.'
`Challenge you.'
`Undoubtedly.'
`Cut your throat.'
`I don't believe it.'
`Shoot you.'
`Probably.'
`And yet, dear Copely,' said Archibald, drawing
his chair up to him, and leaning upon his shoulder,
while Copely's stern features—no not stern—his steady
features were red with the fire light—`of what avail
will it be? what can you do? You do not expect, alone,
to fight up the New England character—do you?'
`Yes.'
`You are mad—there are thirty of them, and not
more than six or eight of your side, whose principles
will permit them to fight a duel.'
`I am mad.'
`But what will you do—if the whole thirty challenge
you one after the other?'
`Fight the whole thirty—when I have nothing better
to do.'
`But why not keep out of their way?'
`Because they have threatened me.'
`And so, you throw yourself into their way.'
`No—not a step. I behave just exactly, as if I had
never heard of the matter.'
The above will give you some idea of the man. I
will now relate an affair or two, which will give you
a better one.
Just before the battle of Brandywine—nay, before
the encampment broke up at Morristown, Archibald
and I, were tilting at a ring, in a large circular enclosure,
which we called the riding school. Copely was
there; but he seemed to take no interest in the sport,
until a Virginian—he, of whom I have already spoken,
that was with Clinton at the time of his death, after a
hard game, had borne off the ring, repeatedly, in better
style than Archibald, who, before his illness, had no
match in the troop. Archibald was vexed not a little,
by the airs of the conqueror; and, as he backed his
horse just in front of me, and caught my eyes, he struck
his blade into one of the wooden posts, with a force
that astonished me; saying, at the same time, that he
could bear to be beaten by anybody better than that
man. The Major scowled—and my brother, in a pet,
swore that he was ashamed of himself and his troop.
I saw the cloud gathering. But Copely, turning
to Archibald, asked him what he would give him to
beat the victor?
`Give you!' said Archibald—`a pair of pistols
such as haven't their match in the army.'
`Dismount a moment,' said Copely, in reply, with
his head on one side.
Archibald could not believe him to be in earnest;
and none of us had ever seen him in heat, as he used to
call it, when a good swordsman went handsomely
through his divisions.
`Mind the stirrup!' said Archibald—as Copely
reined up the horse, and grasped the mane with his left
hand, preparing to mount, as if on parade—`if you
touch the stirrup, you'll never touch the saddle.'
Copely made no reply; but was in the seat, and running
full speed at the ring, which he took off, and replaced
at every successive evolution, till the whole circus
rang with huzzaz. When, he dismounted, and returned
to the same position, which he had occupied before,
and there stood, with his arms folded, precisely
as if he had no concern in what was going forward.
Archibald could hardly forbear embracing him on the
spot; but the Major was overflowing with wrath and
blackness.
`We shall have a quarrel out of this;' said Archibald,
turning a little pale, `I perceive it.'
`Yes,' said Copely, just as if he had been asked to
take a pinch of snuff—`it is very probable.'
And so it happened; for the major began abusing
first, all mankind—then, all horseman—then, all strangers—then,
all captains—and finally, all Yankees.—
Finding that nobody was disposed to answer him; and,
when he had fairly run out of breath, after working
himself into a passion, that I expected every moment—
for he grew black in the face—would end in an apoplexy—he
stood still, fumbling about the hilt of his
hanger.
There was a dead silence. Copely stood, with his
arms folded, looking him in the face, as if he had been
some object, rather of curiosity than fear. `Did you
know, sir,' said he, in his natural cold tone; `that I
am a Yankee.'
`Did I—yes, and be damned to you,' said the other,
riding fiercely up to him; `and what then?—take it
as you like.'
`Thank you,' he replied, `I admire your courtesy.'
For the world, I would not have undergone the look
that Copely gave him. There was neither contempt,
nor scorn, nor pity, nor defiance, nor compassion in
it; but it was a compound, that—would have made me
feel like a fool, for years afterward, had I thought of
it, as having been levelled at me.
`Stop sir,' continued Copely, seeing the other about
to wheel off, as if to hide his perturbation—`I have a
word to say to you,'—this was in the same tone—the
same attitude—and he was unarmed. `You have said
what I hope you will be sorry for. At present, I have
no more to say to you. But, once for all, I would
have you understand that this language is never to be
repeated in my presence. I shall be happy to see you
here to-morrow, at the same hour, with the same company.'
`With all my heart!' said the other, `now or then,
it is all the same to me.'
`Nay—you appear to misunderstand me. You are
in a passion. I cannot permit myself to retort now.
Remember—I do not challenge you: I do not come
here to-morrow, to fight you. But, I shall meet you
here.'
The major looked down upon him for a moment, as
if he would have ridden over him, in the scorn and detestation
of his heart. But nothing moved Copely—
nothing, though Archibald appeared exceedingly disturbed,
and had been several times on the point of interfering.
`What do you intend to do?' said Archibald, after
a silence of nearly half an hour, as we were returning.
`You shall know to-morrow. I never bark;' was
the reply.
The next day, he went with us, unarmed, contrary
to all our remonstrances.
`Pho,' said he, coldly, `if I arm, there will be
bloodshed. I am not prepared for that.'
We found the major there, surrounded by four or
five as handsome fellows as I ever saw, looking black
as death, however, while they held aloof from the exercise.
They saw that Copeley was unarmed; and their lips
curled, as they called the attention of Major Ellis to
the circumstance; and he muttered something, which
was too true—but it made my heart giddy, for a moment,
with passion—and Archibald's hand search for
the hilt of his cimetar.
The exercises were gone through with in a sort of sullen,
discontented silence; and Copely stood all the while,
precisely in the same spot—in the same attitude—with
the same countenance—natural—and careless.
`Gentlemen,' said he, turning his eyes, leisurely,
round the enclosure; `I see some new faces; but are
all here now, that were here yesterday?'
`Aye! aye! sir!' was the reply, from twenty
voices, at the same moment; while the major, leaning
his warlike person over the broad white mane of his
charger, which swept abroad at every movement of
the neck, like breakers flying in the wind, seemed delighted
than was natural, for his feet rattled in the stirrups.
`Well, Major Ellis,' said Copely, in the same unaltered,
unalterable tone; `have you nothing to say to
me, for the intemperate language that you held to me
yesterday?'
`To you! God! is it come to this! I thought that
you had something to say to me.'
`I have,' was the reply; `but I would first know
if you have well considered it. You have nothing to
say then?'
`Nothing,' said the other, haughtily.
`I am sorry for it. It compels me to use harsh language
to you. You are a blockhead—an overgrown
blockhead. You are an overbearing man, with, I believe,
very little courage at the heart. You are a disgrace
to Virginia; and, had I any virginia blood in my
veins, I would cut your throat for the dishonour that
you have done it, by your brutal misbehaviour. I
have done.'
I looked at the major; he was trying to draw his
sabre—and, every moment, I expected to see him fall
from his unruly horse, as he bent over for the purpose;
while Archibald, with a keen eye, and spurs ready to
strike into his charger, sat, with his blade glimmering
in his hand, as if anticipating the result. But Copely—I
was more and more amazed at the expression of
his countenance—at every movement. I verily believe,
that he would have stood with his arms folded,
though Ellis had charged upon him, and the iron hoofs
and glittering sword were above his eyes. But before
the major could extricate his sword, which had became
entangled in his trappings, one of his companions had
interfered, and obtained a suspension of the judgment,
that his heart had evidently pronounced.
`You will hear from me,' said he, yielding to his
friend, and passing out.
`If you please,' said Copely.
`And me! and me! and me!' said the others.
`If you please;' he replied to each.
We returned to our quarters; and were hardly housed,
when a stranger brought a note to Copely.
He read it—and reaching it to Archibald, whose
hand shook now, though it did not shake when he received
Clinton's for himself—he asked him what he
thought of it?
`Sit down, young man,' said Copely, to the stranger.
The stranger bridled, like a blood horse fretting on
the bit—and made no other answer than a reluctant,
haughty inclination of the head. He was true Virginia!
I could have hugged him for it; I hated the
Yankees.
`I have nothing to say.' said Archibald, returning
it; `it is a matter for your own determination.'
The stranger bowed, and said that the friend of Captain
Copely would communicate with him, and return
an answer, when it was agreeable.
`Very courteous—very—said Copely. But stop
young man. Tell the major that I will meet him.'
`Please to write it, Sir.'
`No, Sir.'
`And when —?'
`When?—ah, well considered. I should like to
spill some blood for my country first. To day is friday.
Oadley, what think you of next week? I have
a good deal of writing on hand.'
`As you please,' said Archibald.
`No, no—next week, I am to be married. I must
fight one battle first. I should like to rehearse. The
major and I can fight afterward, though I should happen
to be disabled. But I might not do for the enemy,
after he and I had met.—Tell the major, that I will
meet him, and all his friends, one after the other.—Let's
see—to day is friday; any time that he pleases, after
we have had one brush with the enemy; and I have
had a—a—after I have had my likeness taken. I
should be sorry to leave no resemblance behind me.
Is he married?'
`Sir, I am in no disposition to trifle,' said the stranger.
`Nor I, God knows. My question is enough to
prove that. If he be not, tell him that I give him the
same time that I shall take, to bequeath his lineaments;
we might make it a very pretty family piece.'
`And what am I to say, Sir? Yes, or no?—when,
and where, and how?'
`Peremptory enough! But the where and how, I
leave to him. The when, I must be permitted to determine.
I wish that I could fix the day; but I cannot.
These cursed matters of marrying, and fighting,
must be gone through with, first. I am under an engagement;
a foolish one I grant; but I never break
my word. After that, tell the major to call in, any
time when he is going by, and I shall be happy to entertain
him, or any of his friends.'
`And this is your answer?' said the stranger.
`Yes, Sir.'
`You will not be surprised, I hope, if the major
should accost you with a horsewhip to-morrow?'
`Not in the least,' he replied.
The stranger left us—and we burst out into one loud
peal of laughter. There was something so irresistibly
comick in the indifference of Copely, which, whether
felt or feigned, every one of us envied.'
But the major did not attempt to horsewhip him,
probably from the fear of our commander; and Copely
continued to go among them, just as usual, till the afternoon
previous to his marriage, when I saw him embrace
Archibald, in whose eyes, when I met him, were
the traces of tears; hot tears, such as are wrung from
high hearts, by a pressure that scorches, while it exhausts
them.
But that very night, Copely returned again—or
rather, the next morning; for, about two o'clock, I heard
his voice, and saw Archibald throw on his watch cloak,
and rejoin him;---they walked away together, and
appeared, whenever they approached, by the sound of
their voices, and the movement of Archibald's shadow
upon the wall, to be in earnest conversation. At
last, they separated; and, when Archibald had thrown
his face, I saw it working for several minutes like a
convulsion.
`What has happened?' said I. `He was to have
been married to night, was he not? What brought him
back?'
`Death,' said he, in a low voice.
`Death!---heavenly father---was she dead?'
`No, no, would that she were. But do not ask me.
He is not married. Good night!'
`Good night!'
I saw Copely in the morning---and fancied---perhaps
it was only fancy, that he was paler and sterner than
I had ever seen him; but perhaps he had grown paler
by watching, as he had, week after week.' And so the
time passed away, his intimacy remaining about the
same, till the battle of Brandywine, in which he fought,
it is said, with the cool intrepidity of a veteran, spurring
into the hottest fire, with a senseless disregard to danger,
utterly unlike the distempered eagerness of young
men that are brave—and resembling, what one might
look for in a creature, that felt himself to be immortal,
invulnerable, and exceedingly potent. But, the battle
over, and a moment of repose allowed to it, the pledge
of blood was to be redeemed.
It was night—I had just heard the report of a pistol;
and on looking out, saw a crowd of soldiers rushing
into Copely's tent. A part of them soon returned
bearing, what appeared by their movements, as they
staggered along over the uneven ground, to be a dead
body. I ran out in a paroxysm of terrour. It was a
dead body—the body of Major Ellis. Copely had shot
him through the brain. I entered his tent, and saw
him, in his shirt sleeves, bandaging his left arm, which
hung, as if broken, over the chair—with his own hand.
He never took off his eyes from the arm, but continued
the operation—though the sweat stood upon his forehead
(and heart too, I dare say) in loose drops, when
I entered.
Archibald followed me.
`What have you done?' said he.
`Shot the Major,' he answered, without lifting his
eyes.
`And what has he done?'
`Shot me,' was the reply.
`How happened it?'
`How! he accepted my invitation—called, as he was
going by—and I—having the vapours—I suppose, for
I have been very low spirited of late; and would have
done any thing, for pastime—I consented to exchange
a few shot. The man was exceedingly importunate—
and I thought it a pity to trouble him to call again;
so I took one of his pistols, as I sat—he on one side of
that table, I on the other, just as I am now, for I had begun
to turn in—and my coat being too tight for me, had
thrown it off.'
`Poor fellow!' said Archibald.
`Yes—poor fellow!' echoed Copely, in the same tone.
`It was a great pity that he called—I told him so.'
I left the room in horrour—went to my bed, and
soon fell into a troubled, disorderly dreaming, that shook
and wasted me like a long illness. Let me attempt
some description of it—some only; for it would be
impossible, by any power of language, to give a faithful
one.
I was asleep. At dead of midnight, I heard a trumpet,
as I thought, sounding to battle. I arose, pained and
dizzy,—unwilling to go out—and desirous to skulk, if
I could, into the holes of the rocks. Then I thought
that it began to rain fire upon me; and the earth shook,
and battalions of men, armed all over in shining mail,
spattered with blood, came, parading, column after
column, from the earth—nation after nation—each of
loftier, and yet loftier stature still, -warlike—and
terrible, like the buried Apostles of liberty: and then,
all at once, there was a tremendous explosion, and I
felt myself sinking in a swamp—the loose earth quivering
like jelly, at every tread, and cold serpents and
bloated toads all slipping about me, so thickly, that,
had life in it—some fat icy reptile would stir under the
pressure—and then I was entangled in the thorny
creeping tendrils of many a plant that encumbered my
path; dead bodies lay in my way; I was pinioned hand
and foot, and serpents fed upon my blood, and vultures
flapped over me. And then, out of the east, there blazed,
all at once, a light, like a million of rockets, that
blinded me. And then, I felt a hand—the hand of a
murderer about my throat—God!—that could be no
dream, it was too distinct! Even in my sleep, I felt it,
and started broad awake. My heart stopped—stopped,
as if struck with death! a hand was upon my head!—
feeling about my hair; as if to get a good hold. I
shuddered—gasped—`Archibald!' said I, `dear Archibald!
(Archibald had been suspected of walking in his
sleep, since the death of Clinton.')
The blood rushed back to my heart—I put out my
hands. They encountered a human creature.
`Archibald!' I repeated, with all my force.
No answer. `What art thou?' I cried, starting
up, and putting out my hands toward a hideous shape,
that sat on the table near me, with its long legs swinging
carelessly under it, and creaking like the joints of a
gibbeted man.
I heard something rattle on the floor. It was a large
knife. The lamp gleaned upon the blade, as the creature
stooped to pick it up.
I was desperate now. I threw myself upon it, in
silence; and, after a struggle, in which I, who could
have torn a wild beast, limb from limb, had well nigh
been mastered—I said to it.
`What the devil are you?'
`Nick Sampson,' he replied.
`Nick Sampson! what business have you here!
How is Ellen?'
`Dying. You have broken her heart. I came to
kill you—but I could not. You were sleeping. That
saved you.'
Judge of my feelings. They were unutterable. It
was a long time before I was able to speak, while the
shapeless wretch sat before me, like a coiled reptile,
his, small bright eyes glittering under his heavy eyebrows,
as if he were hardly satisfied with his own clemency.
At last, however, a new feeling took possession of
me. My horrour and affright had gone; and my eyes were
already running along the bright blade of the knife,
and glancing at the door, with thoughts, that even now
I shudder at. He certainly understood me, for he
addressed me abruptly, thus.
`You had better not.'
The sound of his voice scared the demon away. A
rush of humanity and gratitude came back to me,
flooding my heart, with a gentle warmth, like new
milk—the weapon fell from my hand.
`How came you here, Sampson?' said I.
`By dodging the sentinels.'
`What! to night! they are doubled, and very vigilant.'
`Vigilant!' I found one asleep. And the other I
passed in his own shadow.
`And how is Ellen?'
`Ellen,' his eye snapping fire---`Ellen! washing her
heart away with her own tears!'
`God bless her!'
`What, Oadley, what! do you really pity poor Ellen
---really? or (menacing me) are you---damn it, you
cannot be such a villian---are you mocking me, or not?'
`No,' said I, amazed at his look and manner.
`No!'
`But where is she? how is her health?'
`I've told you, the sap of her heart is running to
waste; she has cried herself blind.'
| CHAPTER III. Seventy-six | |