University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Our youthful readers may perhaps be inclined
to suspect that we have forgotten our heroine,
and lost sight of the principal object of every
history of this kind, which ought always to be that
of throwing as many obstacles in the way of the
happiness of the lovers as possible. But the
suspicion is entirely groundless. The fair
Christina is not an object to be so easily overlooked;
and though we may occasionally turn aside
from her affairs, to graver matters of state, it is
only with a view of giving our lovers an opportunity
of enjoying, without interruption, those
innocent, and never-to-be-forgotten delights,
that accompany the early dawnings of affection;
and to which the aged always look back
as the happiest period of existence.

The blue-eyed maid, and the fair, tall youth,

were left pretty much to themselves, during the
progress of the autumnal season, the Governor
and aunt Edith being both, as we have before
stated, busily employed, the one in public improvements,
the other reforming mankind. The
youthful pair sung, and read, and rambled
together; and every passing day added to the
strength of those ties, which were gradually
uniting their hearts for ever. Koningsmarke,
although his actions and looks expressed all
the feelings of a devoted attachment, never made
any explicit declaration on the subject, for both
seemed satisfied with the sweet consciousness of
mutual attachment. Christina had no rivals in
the village, and Othman Pfegel treated her with
a sort of pouting indifference, seldom intruding
on their lonely rambles, or disturbing their
domestic enjoyments.

But Christina was far from being happy.
She could not deceive herself with the hope,
that her affection would be sanctioned by her
father's approbation; and every new feeling
that developed itself in the progress of her affections,
served to convince her that a time would
come, when a more intimate union would be
necessary to her happiness. Besides this, certain
indefinable and vague suspicions, which,

ever as she chased them from her mind, returned
again to haunt her lonely musings, gave her
many a heart-ach. These suspicions were
kept alive, by the sudden and unaccountable
changes in the expression of Koningsmarke's eye,
which occasionally indicated a wild ferocity, as
well as by the mysterious warnings of the
Snow Ball, who took every opportunity of
uttering most fearful oracles, that Christina
could not comprehend, but which excited vague
apprehensions.

She became gradually fond of solitude, and
often indulged herself in long and lonely walks,
usually following the course of the little stream,
whose windings led to the forests, which spread
their endless shades towards the west, the haunt
of Indians and their game.

These neighbouring Indians were, for the
most part, on friendly terms with the whites
at Elsingburgh; but occasionally, took little
miffs, and committed depredations on the cattle
and fields.

On the banks of this stream, about a mile, or
perhaps a mile and a half from the village, resided
a singular being; a white man, who came there
about fifteen years from the period of which
we are treating, and had ever since lived

alone on that spot. His dwelling consisted of
dry sticks, supported on one side by an old log,
on the other by the earth, and covered over
with leaves. It was neither sufficiently high to
allow him to stand upright, nor long enough to
permit him to lie at full length. He possessed no
means for lighting or preserving fire, but, in the
coldest weather, contented himself with crawling
into his hut, stopping the mouth of it with leaves,
and remaining there till hunger drove him forth.
Yet he appeared to delight in this miserable mode
of existence, which no persuasion could induce
him to forsake, to join in participating in the
labours and enjoyments of social life. He enjoyed
perfect health, and never asked charity,
except when neither nuts nor apples could be
procured in the woods and orchards. Then he
would appear in the village, uttering certain
unintelligible sounds, which the people understood
as expressive of his wants, and relieved
him accordingly. For fifteen years this solitary
being had never been heard to speak a single
word that could be understood, either from a
natural dumbness, a derangement of mind, or a
wish to escape all questioning, as to who he was
or whence he came, two things that nobody ever
knew. He seemed, however, a harmless being,
and when the people got a little used to him, he
ceased to excite either curiosity or apprehension.

Christina often walked that way, without
thinking of the hermit, or fearing any outrage;
although there had been rumours in the village,
that he was once or twice seen, about the full of
the moon, in a paroxysm of raving insanity.

One afternoon she stole away from Konings-marke,
to take a solitary walk along the brook-side,
and strolled as far as the hut, which happening
to be untenanted at that moment, she
sat down near to it on the bank of the stream.
It chanced that a little popular song of her own
country, which turns on a breach of constancy
on the part of a young woman, came over her
mind, and she was singing it to herself, when a
wild and horrible laugh alarmed her fears. She
started up, and looking round, beheld the Hermit,
coming towards her with the look and action
of a maniac.

“Ha! ha!” he exclaimed; “have I found
you at last, faithless, inconstant girl! Thou
art she—I know thee by thy song.”

Thus saying, he rushed towards the affrighted
maid, and attempted to drag her towards his
hut. Christina struggled, and begged him for

God's sake to release her; but his violence only
increased with opposition. His eyes flashed
fire, he gnashed his teeth, and foamed at the
mouth in horrible ecstacy.

“O! for pity's sake—for the sake of Heaven,
my father, all those who have been kind to
you, let me go—I am not her you think; my name
is Christina.”

“False, deceitful woman,” cried the maniac;
“did I not hear the sing thee song—the very song!
do I not know thee by thy soft blue eye, thy
curling, flaxy hair, thy voice, thy very breath,
whose sweetness I once used to inhale? Thou
hast sought me, to laugh at my misery and triumph
in my wrongs. But come—come in,”
added he in a hurried tone—“come in; the bridal
bed is made; I have waited for you many
long wintry nights, when the wolves howled,
and thought you'd never come. In—in—we
shall be happy yet.”

So saying, he again attempted to force her
towards the door of his wretched hut. The
poor girl shrieked and struggled with all her
might, and the fury of the madman increased
with her resistance. He dragged her forcibly
along, and when she caught by the young trees,
to enable her to resist more effectually, cruelly

bruised her tender hands, to force her to let go
her hold. Gradually her powers of resistance
gave way to a fainting, deadly languor. Again
she shrieked; and at that moment a man with a
gun darted from the woods towards them. The
maniac let go his hold, and, ere the stranger
could point his gun, darted forward, and seized
it with both hands. A mortal struggle ensued.
The maniac, with a desperate effort, snatched the
gun from the other; who, springing forward,
seized him round the waist, and forced him to
drop the weapon, in order to defend himself.
They fell, the stranger uppermost; but in the
act of falling, the maniac seized him by his ruff,
tore it off, grappled his neck with his long nails,
and, burying his teeth in his flesh, seemed to enjoy
the sucking of his blood. Koningsmarke,
for it was he, turned black in the face, and his eyes
became gradually almost shrouded in darkness,
when, with a convulsive effort, he placed his
knee on the breast of the maniac, drew himself
up on a sudden, and loosed his hold. Both
started up; but Koningsmarke had a moment's
advantage, which he employed in seizing the
gun and running a few steps from him. The
other followed.

“Stand off,” cried Koningsmarke. “Were

I alone, I would give you a fair chance; but the
life and happiness of an angel is at stake.
Stand off—or—”

The maniac advanced—one—two steps. The
third was the step to eternity. The piece went
off with a true aim; he uttered a yelling laugh,
jumped into the air, and fell without sense or
motion. Koningsmarke, after satisfying himself
that all was over with the poor wretch, hastened
to Christina, who was lying insensible,
with her hair dishevelled, her garments torn, and
her cheeks as white as the pure and snowy bosom,
whose modest covering had been displaced
in the struggle. He called her his dear Christina;
he ran to the brook for water to sprinkle
her face; and kissed the drops as they rolled
down her pale cheeks. At length she opened
her eyes, gazed for a moment as if bewildered,
and shut them again. By degrees, however,
she recovered a recollection of her situation—
adjusted her dress, and essayed to express her
gratitude. But her voice failed her. She saw
the blood running from the neck of her deliverer,
wiped it away with her hair, and wistfully gazing
on the wound, cried out with an expression
of horrible and sudden despair—“The scar!
the scar!” Covering her face with both her

hands, she groaned in the agony of conflicting
emotions, and throwing herself to the earth, was
relieved from distraction by a shower of
tears.

It was now evening—the youth raised her up,
placed her arm within his, and pressed it
tenderly to his heart. Christina shuddered,
and looked up in his face with an expression so
tender, yet so wretched, that had not his conscious
heart told him it was now impossible, he
would have asked her to be his for ever. They
walked home without uttering a word, and were
received with a very bad grace by the Heer, who
did not much like their walking so late by moonlight.
But when he heard the story of Christina's
deliverance from the blue-eyed maiden herself,
he wept over her like an infant, and, grasping
the Long Finne in his arms, blessed the
youth, and called him his dear son.

A long illness followed this adventure, on the
part of Christina, and when her health was
apparently restored, her innocent sprightliness,
her buoyant step, rosy cheek, laughing eye, and
all the bright hopes which youth delights to cherish,
seemed gone for ever. From this time
forward, the character and deportment of the
poor girl seemed to have undergone a great

change. Violent bursts of gayety, followed by
instantaneous gloom and despondency; laughter
and tears; listless acquiescence, or obstinate
opposition to the wishes of all around her, bespoke
either an unsettled mind, or a heart torn
by contending feelings. It was believed that
the fright of her late adventure had unsettled
her nerves, and all the wise old women of the
village prescribed for her in vain.

But her deportment towards the Long Finne
was marked by the most sudden and extraordinary
inconsistencies. Sometimes she would
silently contemplate his face, till the tears gushed
from her eyes; and at others, when he came
suddenly into her presence, utter a scream of
agonized feeling, and flee from his presence with
a look of horror. She would sometimes consent
to take the arm of the youth, and walk along the
river side, and then, as if from a sudden and
irresistible impulse, snatch it away, and recoil
from him, as from the touch of a serpent. In
short, every passing day made it more and more
apparent, that she was struggling with powerful
and contending emotions, that obtained an alternate
mastery, and governed her actions for
the moment, with unlimited sway.

Koningsmarke, though he saw, and appeared

to lament this change in her character, never
essayed to draw from her the cause. He seemed
deterred by a secret consciousness, that a full
explanation would do him at least no good, and
continued his attentions as usual.

Bombie of the Frizzled Head acted a conspicuous
part at this time, and became more incomprehensible
than ever. She seemed to know
the secret of all these wonders, but would tell
nothing of what she knew; contenting herself
with a more than usual quantity of mysterious
warnings, too well now understood by Christina
but incomprehensible to her father. The Heer
often cursed her in the bitterness of his perplexity,
exclaiming—“why dost thou not speak out,
thou execrable Snow Ball.” But Bombie only
shook her head, and replied as usual: “I have
seen what I have seen—I know what I know.”

One day as Koningsmarke had taken a solitary
walk, and was seated on the bank of the
stream, close by the hut of the solitary stranger,
reflecting painfully on matters that deeply concerned
himself, he was roused from his reverie
by the well-known voice of the Snow Ball, calling
out, “Koningsmarke!”

“I am here,” he replied.

“Thou art here, when thou shouldst be far

away,” cried the Snow Ball. “Art thou not
satisfied with the mother's fate, that thou hungerest
for the ruin of the daughter's happiness?
Go thy ways, or I will tell what I have seen, and
what I know.”

“Who will believe thee?” replied the Long
Finne. “Thou art a slave, and canst not witness
against him that is free. I have been long
enough a wanderer, without a resting place; I
have found a home at last, and I will not go
hence. Tell what thou wilt; I care not.”

“Ay,” cried the sybil, “thou hast found a
home, at the price of misery to those who afford
thee a shelter; thou hast turned viper, and stung
him that warmed thee at his fire; thou hast
nestled thyself into an innocent bosom, to destroy
its repose, or corrupt its innocence, and
tortured the heart that would, ay, and will yet,
die for thee, if thou lingerest here. Depart, I
say, and let this one act towards the daughter
atone for thine acts to the mother.”

The Long Finne wrung his hands, and the
tears rolled down his cheeks, as he exclaimed,
“Woman! woman! whither shall I go? I
would remain here, where none but thou and
— know who I am, and atone for the past,
by devoting myself to the happiness of Christina

and her father. This is my only chance;
for if I go hence an outcast, I shall become—
what I once was. The fate of mine immortal
soul turns upon this cast.”

“It is too late,” replied the other; “SHE
KNOWS IT NOW. Dost thou not see it in her
tears, her struggles, her pale cheek, and wild
and hollow eyes? It is too late; if thou stayest,
she dies—if thou goest speedily, she may
yet live. Hence, then, and never let her see
thee more.”

“Away, old raven,” answered the youth, resuming
his obduracy. “If SHE should rise
from the dead, and motion me with her fleshless
finger, to the north or the south, the east or the
west—nay, if I saw the hand of Fate pointing
to the destruction of myself and all around me,
I would stay.”

The sybil dropped her horn-headed cane,
raised her bent, decrepit figure, till she stood
upright as the tall pine, threw her hands and
eyes towards heaven, and cried out, in the bitterness
of her heart—

“Stay then—and may the curse of the wicked
come swiftly upon thee. May the sorrows
thou hast caused unto others recoil tenfold upon
thy blasted head. May the malediction of the

father, who opened his house to thee, crush the
spoiler. May the forgiveness of her who will die
forgiving thee, be but the forerunner of thine
eternal condemnation to that fire which is never
quenched and never consumes.”

Again Bombie relapsed into her usual stooping
attitude, picked up her stick, and disappeared, leaving
the youth with a load of consciousness on his
heart, but with a determined purpose not to depart
from Elsingburgh.