University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
The Pipe is broken at last.

Sybrandt went away in bitterness of heart, but
with a determination, if possible, to see Catalina
once again before she departed, and give her a
full explanation of his late conduct. In the mean
time he did not for a moment relax in his vigilance.
The night turned out dark and blustering; the
frost-bitten leaves fell thick before the damp, piercing,
north-east wind, whose shrill moanings mingled
with the dashing of the waves along the pebbly
shores of the river. The young man was on his
watch as usual when the night set in, and as usual
saw nothing to excite suspicion, until about ten
o'clock, when he perceived the window of Catalina's
room raised, and the little black waiting-maid standing
with a light before it, calling to some one in the
kitchen. Immediately after he fancied he heard a
more than usual stir in the little copsewood, close
by where he stood, and that he could distinguish in
the pauses of the wind the suppressed breathing of
some one near. The darkness was now intense,
and no object could be distinctly seen save those
immediately within the range of the light from the
window. A shadow passing to and fro within the
room showed that some one else was there besides
the little attendant, and his heart beat thick with
agony while it whispered it must be Catalina. The
low breathing still continued, and became quicker

and quicker. Shall I call out to Catalina to beware?
thought he. No: that would only bring her to the
window to see what was the matter. Shall I go
and alarm the house? No: in the interim her life
may be taken.—Quick as thought these ideas crossed
his mind, and quick as thought he darted into the
thicket, as he beheld Catalina approach the window
to speak to some one below, and heard a clicking
sound like the cocking of a gun. As he did so he
distinguished a single low exclamation of surprise,
and immediately some one seemed making his way
violently through the branches. Sybrandt followed
the sound as fast as possible, and once or twice fancied
he saw something moving a little way before
him. But whatever it was it evaded all his exertions,
and, favoured by the darkness of the night,
escaped his pursuit. On his return the shutters of
Catalina's room were closed, and believing her safe
for the night, he determined not to alarm the family.

The next day Catalina, unconscious of the danger
that hovered around her, took a fancy to stroll
to the little rocky dell we have heretofore described
as a favourite resort of Sybrandt, where he was
once accustomed to retire to conjure up spectres of
misery and mortification. In happier times they
had been used to visit it together, and it was associated
in the mind of Catalina with many hours of
innocent happiness. She wished to see it once
more before she left the country; led by that attractive
sympathy which for ever draws the heart towards
scenes of past enjoyment. The morning was
one of the favourite progeny of autumn. The indications
of the storm the night before had passed away,
and were succeeded by a still, clear morning, a pure
elastic air, that never fails to waken pleasant feelings

in the heart where they are not asleep for ever.
As she passed onward the blue-bird chirped his
plaintive notes of farewell ere he went to seek the
summer in some more genial climate; the grasshoppers,
awakened from the torpor of the chilly
night, were sporting and chirping as gay as ever,
forgetful of the past, and happily careless of the
future; the grass under her feet began to show a
pale and sickly yellowness, and every instant some
portion of the party-coloured robes of the woods
fell whispering to the ground, again to mingle with
the dust which first gave it life and maturity. All
was calm, and beautiful, and touching. It was
beauty smiling in the consciousness of being still
lovely, yet sighing in the certainty that youth is
past; that she has already gained the summit hill
of life, is now descending into the vale, and though
the prospect is still fair to look upon, it is every day
contracting into a single point, beyond which there
is nothing but eternity. The white columns of
smoke ascended straight upwards, uncurled by a
breath of wind, and presenting to the contemplative
mind images of rural happiness here, of pure and
spiritual bliss hereafter. But the feelings of Catalina
were not in a state to enjoy the touching beauties
of the scene, or the associations it naturally inspired.
She passed onwards in painful musings
until she came to the little quiet solitude, and, seating
herself, soon became buried in the labyrinth of
her own perplexities and sorrows.

The residence of Mr. Dennis Vancour was on a
little rising ground, which overlooked the extensive
meadows spreading along the river, and commanded
from its porch a view of the mansion-house. Sybrandt
saw Catalina depart; and the course she

pursued, as well as the whispering consciousness
of his own heart, told him whither she was going.
He turned pale and trembled when he called to
mind the circumstances of the preceding night; and
taking an opposite direction, he hastened to the little
glen, determined to hide himself and watch over her
safety. He arrived at the spot before her, and
concealing himself in the hollow of an immense
oak that nodded on the brink of the high precipice,
waited what might follow. In a few moments Catalina
made her appearance, and seated herself, as we
have before described, in a recess among the rocks and
trees, just where the bubbling basin at the foot of the
cascade laved at her feet against the mossy stones.
There was something touching and sorrowful in
her attitude and look as she leaned on her hand,
and watched the foaming torrent tumbling down the
precipice. Now is the time to tell her all, thought
Sybrandt, and he forgot his great purpose in coming
thither for a moment. Another moment brought it
back to his remembrance. Here he remained quiet
for somewhat more than half an hour, when he
fancied he saw a pair of eyes glaring behind the thick
evergreens that skirted the rear of the high rocky precipice.
He shrunk closer in his covert, and in another
moment saw a head cautiously protruded beyond
the bushes. It was that of Captain Pipe.
He saw him look cautiously round in every direction;
he saw him lay himself down and crawl on his
belly, dragging his gun after him towards the edge
of the precipice, that he might gain a full view of
his victim below,—and he followed him noiselessly,
creeping like a shadow rather than a substance.
At length the Indian raised himself on his knee,
cocked his unerring musket, and carried it to his
cheek. In an instant it was snatched from his grasp,
and in another instant the Indian had grappled it
again. It went off in the struggle, and Catalina,
looking up, saw a sight that recalled all her tenderness
and all her fears.

Almost on the verge of the precipice stood Sybrandt
and the active, powerful Indian, struggling for
life, each almost bursting their sinews to force the
other off the brink. Now one, now the other seemed
to have the advantage; now the back of one and
anon of the other was towards her; and then both
seemed to be quivering on the verge of eternity.
In vain she attempted to cry out—her voice was lost
in the agony of her fears; in vain she attempted to
climb the steep—her limbs refused their office.
Still the deadly struggle continued, and she saw
their quick pantings from the depth below. The
gun had been thrown away in the contest, and now
they wrestled limb to limb, heart to heart. More
than once the Indian attempted to draw his knife,
but Sybrandt gave him such full employment for
both his hands, that he as often failed in his purpose.
But the vigour of the youth was now waning
fast, for he had of late become weakened by watching
and anxiety. The Indian felt the trembling of
his limbs, and heard with savage delight the increased
quickness of his breathing. He redoubled
his exertions; he grasped him tight in his arms,
lifted him off his feet, and hurried him towards the
verge of the rock. Sybrandt made a desperate
effort; he placed one foot on the rock, and with a
quick motion of the other tripped up the heels of
the Indian. Both fell, with their heads from the
precipice, and their feet actually projecting over its
edge. Sybrandt was uppermost, but this was rather

a disadvantage, for the Indian was enabled by violent
exertions to edge himself on by degrees, until
both were poised on the extremest verge, and hovered
on the very brink, being determined to perish with
him rather than fail in his purpose. Another moment
and all had been over, when fortunately Sybrandt
perceived a little evergreen growing out of
the rock within his reach. He seized hold of it,
and it sustained his grasp. With one hand he held
it fast, with the other he suddenly pushed the Indian
from under him, and he slipped over the precipice, still
grasping the legs of the young man, who now clung
to the shrub with both hands, making efforts to
shake the Indian from his hold. But for some moments
his exertions were vain, and only served to
exhaust his remaining strength. Feeling himself
gradually relaxing his hold, and every instant growing
fainter and fainter, he gathered himself to a last
effort. He extricated one of his legs from the grasp
of the Indian, and dashed his foot in his face with such
convulsive violence, that he loosed his hold, and fell
among the pointed rocks which projected out of
the pool below. Catalina heard the splashing of
his body in the water, and not knowing who it was
that had fallen, became insensible. Sybrandt raised
himself slowly and with difficulty, and descended as
fast as possible towards her. She waked in his
arms, and by degrees came to a comprehension of all
that had passed.

“Again!” at length said she, looking up tenderly,
“Again! yet you thanked God I was going away.”

“Cannot you comprehend the reason now, dearest
Catalina? and will you now listen to what you refused
to hear yesterday?”

She cast a shuddering glance at the pool, “I

thought I heard a groan. Perhaps the poor creature
yet lives, and may be saved.”

“Let him perish!” said the youth, indignantly,
“O, if you only knew the days and nights of anxious
misery he has occasioned me!”

“And me, yet I pity him.”

“And wish he were alive?”

“If I were sure—if I could be made quite sure
neither of us could possibly ever see him again.
Go, cousin, and see if he is yet alive, but take care!”

Sybrandt went and dragged the body from the
pool. It was dreadfully mangled, and apparently
lifeless. Catalina shuddered as she cast one look at it.

“Let us go home,” said she.

“Will you not listen to my explanation now?
You are going away from me to-morrow, and we
may never meet again.”

“No, dearest Sybrandt. I now see it all. You
knew this wretched being had not left the country.”

“I did; at least I suspected so from various circumstances.”

“And you were every night on the watch, guarding
me—me—who was accusing you of spending them
in gaming, riot, and seduction—yes, seduction—for
such was the story I heard. O, blessed Heaven!
what short-sighted creatures we are!” And she
raised her tearful eye to his, as if to ask forgiveness.
“Was it not so?”

“I confess it was.”

“But why did you not tell me you suspected the
Indian was still lurking about the neighbourhood?”

“What! and poison all your moments of returning
ease and happiness! No: I thought I could guard
you from the danger, without making you wretched
by knowing it.”

“And left me to endure suspicions a thousand
times more painful.”

“Recollect, dear Catalina, I could not anticipate
your suspicions.”

“True; and your apprehensions for my safety
prompted that ungallant wish,” said she, smiling languidly,
“`Thank God, you are going.”'

“What else could have prompted it, dear love?
And yet, much as I feared for you, I did not know
half the danger.” He then related to her the incidents
of the preceding night. She turned deadly
pale, and remained silent for a few moments.

“I recollect I stood at the window more than
four or five minutes, wondering what was the matter
with the dogs. Once—twice—thrice: it is a heavy
debt, and how can I repay it?”

“By never doubting me again, till I deceive you.”

“That can never be!” exclaimed she, fervently.

“And will you, can you love me, and trust me,
dearest Catalina?”

“I can—I will,” said she, solemnly; “and here,
before the body of that dead wretch, who has expiated
his intended crimes at your hands; in the presence
of that good Being who has preserved me from his
vengeance; by the life and all the hopes here and
hereafter of the life you have three times, perhaps
thrice three times, preserved, I promise to be yours,
and to devote myself to your happiness whenever
you shall ask it of me. I give myself to you by
this kiss, such as no man ever before received from
me, and no other ever will again. I give myself
away for ever!” And she kissed his forehead with
her balmy lips.

“Blessed, for ever blessed, be this day and this
hour!” cried Sybrandt, as he folded her in his arms.

“I cannot thank you, dearest, but I am blessed!”
and he leaned his head on her shoulder, overpowered
by the varying emotions and exertions of the
past and present.

“You are hurt!” screamed Catalina.

“'Tis only happiness—I am faint with joy;” and
again he leaned his head on her panting bosom. A
dreadful shriek from Catalina roused him, and he saw
the ghastly Indian close upon him, covered with blood,
with his arm raised, and grasping his knife. Before
he could take a step to defend himself the blow was
given. The knife entered his bosom, and he staggered
backwards, but did not fall. In a moment Sybrandt
rallied himself, and evading a second blow, closed
with the now exhausted and dying wretch, whom he
dashed to the ground with furious indignation. The
agony of death came upon him, but did not quench
his ruling passion of revenge. With convulsive
agony he repeatedly buried his knife up to the hilt
in the earth, and his last breath expired in a blow.

Poor Catalina, whose mind and body had sunk
under the terrible vicissitudes of the day, during this
momentary struggle sat wringing her hands, almost
unconsciously repeating, “Once—twice—thrice—
four times—and then his own! What a dear, dear
purchase for a poor girl!”

Sybrandt went to her and said, “Fear nothing,
dearest love, he is dead.”

“What, Sybrandt! my preserver? Well, no
matter. I shall be dead too, soon. The Indian will
kill me now my dear preserver is gone.”

“Revive, dear love; it is the Indian that is dead:
he will never trouble you again.”

“I cannot believe it,” said she, recovering a little;
“I saw the knife enter your bosom, yet you do not

bleed. I am sure you must be wounded. Is there
no blood?”

Sybrandt opened his bosom to assure her, and
then, for the first time, comprehended the cause of
his escaping unhurt. The point of the Indian's
knife had left its print in the centre of the ducat
which Catalina had given him when he went on his
trading voyage, and a piece of it remained sticking
there.

“See Catalina,” said he, “you have saved my
life, and we are now even. Do you take back the
gift you just now made me?”

“'Twas Heaven's own doing,” she replied; then
casting her eyes on the body of the Indian, she
shuddered, “Is he dead; are you certain he is dead?”

“He is; come, and be sure of it.”

“No, let us quit this miserable being, and, I was
going to say, miserable place, though I shall love it
as long as I live, and—and you love me,” whispered
she, soft as the zephyr among the leaves.

“That will be for ever!” cried Sybrandt, and they
bent their way towards the mansion-house.