University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
A trial of Skill.

In casting about among the rural population of the
neighbourhood, there was but one person on whom
Sybrandt could fasten the slightest suspicion, and
that was Captain Pipe. He knew the persevering
spirit of revenge which animates the sons of the
forest, and the patience with which they watch and
wait the moment of attaining their object. He remembered
the bitter resentment he had expressed
at being discarded by Colonel Vancour, and recalled
to mind the look of keen, deep malignity he had cast
on Catalina, as they were carrying him to prison
the day of the affray at the mansion-house. He
knew that an Indian never forgives. His sudden
change after his release from prison—his apparent
piety, industry, and sobriety, and the circumstance
of the purchase of the gun—all arose in succession
to the recollection of Sybrandt, and seemed to indicate
some deep settled purpose in the mind of the Indian.
There was no one else he could suspect, for the character
of the neighbourhood was that of sober, quiet simplicity,
and no strangers had been known to visit it
for a long time past. The result of these reflections
was a determination to watch the motions of Captain
Pipe from that time forward, and, if possible, to
do so without exciting his suspicions.

His first step was to tempt him to remain under
his eye, by offering him high wages in the employ of

Mr. Dennis Vancour. Accordingly he sought him
out for the purpose, and the Indian acceded to his
proposal without any apparent suspicion of his real
object. He came the next day; and that day, and
every other day, Sybrandt, under various pretences,
took care to have him perpetually under his eye,
avoiding every appearance of design. The Indian
had his eye on him, also, and though he discovered
no indications of being aware of this perpetual supervision,
his own cunning conscious heart whispered
a suspicion that redoubled his watchful self-command.

“What have you done with your musket, captain?”
said Sybrandt, one day, suddenly; and fixing
his eye upon him, he fancied he could detect a slight
start as the Indian caught the question. It was,
however, so almost imperceptible that it might have
been mere fancy.

“I left it at home,” said he.

“Why so? there is plenty of game about this
house, as well as at Colonel Vancour's.”

“I never heard there was much game about the
colonel's.”

“O, plenty! fine shooting, especially in the night.
The birds sometimes sit in the windows to be
shot at.”

The Indian, who was at that moment stooping
down, turned an upward glance of scorn at Sybrandt.

“I am no fool—the Indian's game does not sit in
the windows.”

“Why not? suppose you were to see a beautiful
deer, standing looking out at a window at night,
would you not be tempted to shoot it?”

“Maybe I might,” said the captain, gruffly.

“But if your gun was to miss fire on account of
the damps, or the deer was to turn out only a sham,

what would you do then, captain?” said Sybrandt,
affecting to be in jest.

“I'd look sharper another time.”

Sybrandt fancied he was probing the Indian without
his suspecting it, but he understood the allegory
perfectly, and only wrapped himself up the more
closely in the impenetrable folds of savage hypocrisy.
He never went out of sight of the house
during the day, and though Sybrandt took every
means for the purpose, he could never ascertain that
he was absent at night. On one occasion he rode
out, taking care to say in the hearing of the captain
that he was going to Albany, and should not
return till the morrow. He then actually went to
the city, from whence he returned after midnight,
leaving his horse in a field at a considerable distance.
He found that the captain had not left the
house, nor did he leave it that night.

By degrees he appeared to relax his watchfulness,
for the purpose of throwing the captain off
his guard. He left him frequently, but it was only
to visit Catalina, who always received him with a
gentle melancholy welcome, that went straight to
his heart. “You come so seldom now; but I know
the reason, and thank you,” would she say. It was
evident that she laboured under a deep feeling of
oppression. There was no longer any elasticity of
spirits, and the roses of her cheek gradually
changed to lilies. Sybrandt's heart would almost
burst with sorrowful tenderness when he saw how
she suffered, under the sad consciousness that the
arrow of death was pointed at her bosom, she knew
not when or by whom, and that every moment
might be her last. An inexpressible tenderness, a
solemn sympathy, a union of feelings partaking of

time and eternity, grew up between them; and their
affections became almost as pure as those of the
fabled spirits with which the imagination has peopled
the region of the skies.

But the caution of the savage never slept for a
moment; and, so far as any one knew, he never
availed himself of the absence of Sybrandt to neglect
his employment, and leave the house, except
for a few moments at a time. Still suspicion lingered
in the mind of Sybrandt, and when, finally,
the captain had finished his work, and there was no
longer any pretext for retaining him, he relaxed not
his vigilance, but continued to keep a wary eye upon
him wherever he went. There are no people in the
world, perhaps, so cunning and suspicious, so expert
in surprising and so difficult to be surprised, as the
sons of the forest. Continually at war, either with
their neighbours or with the wild beasts, they are
for ever under the necessity of perpetual watchfulness.
A thousand appearances and indications that
escape the notice of civilized men, convey lessons
of caution and experience to the savage: like the
tracks in the forest, which the white man cannot see,
they are visible to the Indian, and serve either as
guides to pursue or warnings to avoid an enemy.
Thus, notwithstanding all the care Sybrandt took
to disguise his system of espionage, the wary instinct
of Captain Pipe very soon taught him that he was
suspected and watched.

One day, not many days after the period of quitting
his employment at Mr. Dennis Vancour's, he
came over to the mansion-house, and announced
his intention of quitting that part of the country,
and spending the rest of his days among the remnant
of his countrymen in Canada. “You prevented

my being burned by the Mohawks,” said he
to Colonel Vancour; “you saved my life, but you
turned me out of doors. The Indian never forgets.”
The colonel gave him a variety of little presents that
would be useful among his countrymen, telling him
at the same time to remember what he owed to the
white men, and be their friend whenever it was in
his power.

“The Indian never forgets—or forgives,” replied
the captain, pronouncing the latter part of the sentence
to himself, and grating his teeth. Colonel
Vancour was not deceived. He said in his heart,
“That fellow is the enemy of me and mine; thank
God, he is going away for ever.”