University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The woodman, who had continued the pursuit of
the ruffians without being at all apprised of the malicious
aim of one of them upon him, from which he
had been so fortunate as to escape, soon found his
efforts unavailing to overtake them. They had made
their way into a canebrake immediately contiguous,
in whose thick, fostering glooms and secret abodes,
they could easily defy and baffle the search of any
hundred men. Ignorant of the hurt of Vernon, whom
he had seen enter the forest in pursuit, like himself,
he shook his hand in anger at the sheltering recesses
in which the robbers were lost from sight,
and returned towards the scene of action, with a
degree of composure, which seemed to regard the
fatigue of his horse as superior to all other considerations.
His astonishment and concern, when he discovered
the insensible condition of his companion,
was worthy of a much longer acquaintance, and a
more social and equal relationship than had existed
between them. A few moments sufficed to
convince him that his friend was not dead, nor, perhaps,
badly injured; and a few more enabled him to

kick the dead robber with a quiet conviction that he
could do no more hurt. The features of the ruffian
he inspected carefully; but if he had any knowledge
of them before, he kept the matter to himself, and
having emptied the pockets of all that they contained
of value, and possessed himself of the pistols with
which the fellow had been armed, but which the
true and prompt shot of Vernon had prevented him
from using, he left the carcass in the highway, with
probably some such motive as that of the woodman
when he kills a snake—namely, the start and momentary
terror which such a spectacle will provoke
in the spectator. This business was the work of a
few moments only; and he now addressed himself
seriously to the task of assisting his wounded companion,
and directing the farther movements of the
party, all the members of which were labouring under
more or less excitement and apprehension. The
whole scene was over in a few minutes, but the full
pressure of its terrors and dangers had not passed
entirely away. The old gentleman who had been
rescued, was even then busy in cleansing his face
and bosom, as well as he might, from the blood and
brains of the slain robber which had spurted over
them. He was a fine-looking man, of very venerable
aspect; but there was an incertitude in his
looks, and a tremulousness of limb in his movements,
which seemed to the mind of the woodman
strangely inconsistent with the fine, manly mould
in which nature had cast his frame. It was also
apparent to our forester that there was a fidgety uneasiness
in his manner, which denoted apprehensions
no less active at the moment of his rescue and seeming
safety, than when he lay under the weapon of
the robber. He spoke confusedly, yet not with rapidity;
checked and interrupted himself repeatedly;
caught up his speech before he had completed his
sentences; corrected, or strove to correct his expression;
and increased his confusion, as folks are very
apt to do, by anticipating it. His determination on
little matters seemed to undergo alteration quite as
often as his speech; and in all that he said and did,
he exhibited to the countryman, who was not entirely
obtuse, that purposeless, imbecile character, which
is conscious of much to be done, yet is capable of
nothing, and despairs even while it undertakes, and
falters before fatigue. Yet, so far as the ordinary
circumstances are involved which produce fear in
the minds of men, the stranger had shown himself
hardy enough. It is true, he did not offer resistance
to the robbers, though armed; but this arose as well
from the manner in which he had been surprised by
them, as from a proper conviction that he could not
hope to resist them with any chance of success; and
might, by doing so, have provoked their ill-treatment
of his daughters, for whose safety he had shown all
the solicitude of a father. He had not betrayed so
much alarm for his own safety, while actually beneath
the body of his assailant, as he did now, speaking
of the event to the sturdy woodman, by whose
assistance, in part, his rescue had been achieved.
Indeed, his timidity, uneasiness and downcast looks
while he spoke, surprised the latter quite as much as
they vexed him; and his words were spoken with the
view to reassuring the courage which he could not
but think—and this too with some feelings of contempt,—had
been quite too much cast down by the
strife through which it had just gone.

“There's no sort of danger now, old gentleman,
while we're so strong around you. It won't be any
two robbers of the Chitta-Loosa that'll venture to
lay thumb and fingers on the nose of Wat Rawlins,
and he with his eyes open. So since you're safe
now, and don't seem to have lost any thing, take

your seat in your wagon, while I help Vernon
into the bottom of it. You must make some room
for him, young lady, and don't be frightened at a
little blood. It is good blood, and spilt in your own
behalf, so you may look on it with a sort of pleasure,
if you a'n't too faint-hearted,—which I don't think
so much your case as that of the old gentleman.
He's mighty uneasy now, though for what there's
no telling. Why don't you mount, old gentleman,
and put yourself in readiness.”

In some agitation, the stranger turned to his daughter,
and a brief conversation was carried on between
the two in whispers. The woodman remarked that
the fine eye of the maiden was kindled, her cheek
flushed, and he could hear her distinctly exclaim, at
the conclusion of a long and very earnest sentence,
—“do not—do not think of such a thing, dear father;
common humanity alone, were there no other reasons,
should require this; now it is the due,—gratitude—”
The rest of the words were lost to the listener,
who, at the same time, busied himself in binding
a handkerchief around the thigh of the youth in the
hope to arrest the bleeding. While thus engaged,
the traveller approached him, and asked how far
they might be at that moment from the first ferry.
The question surprised the woodman, who looked up
at the speaker with increased surprise. With a mind
so utterly unsophisticated as his own, he could conceive
of no condition of things justifying the reluctance
of the traveller to lend himself to the work of
succouring one to whom he owed so great a service.
His wonder, however, did not extend to the conduct
of the elder maiden. She had stooped to assist him
in his rude surgery, and had yielded the mantle from
her shoulder to help in binding up the hurts of his
patient. But his eye spoke to her father a different
language from that which his lips addressed to her.

To him he looked the surprise he felt, and something
more. Scorn was mingled with his wonder, and
anger rose no less upon his lips than upon his countenance.

“The ferry!” he exclaimed; “the ferry! Why
what the diccans can you be after? A'n't there time
enough for that question to-morrow, or the next day,
or the day after, or any day for the next six months
to come? We can give you house-room, stranger,
as I told you before, and keep you in the dry, though
it rains rivers. There's old Billy Badger, that'll give
you something more than a supper—a sermon with
it—and be glad that you eat heartily, if you can hear
well. Come, old man, give us a lift, while we set
the lad in your wagon. He won't oncommode the
ladies much, and if so be he does, it was all their own
fault and yours, to git into difficulties, and he's hurt
in gitting you out of them. Give us a lift, and look
better pleased, and by gimini, I'll forget how little
minded you seem to holp the man that holped you.”

“Do my father no injustice,” interposed the elder
maiden; “he is not indifferent to the fate of your
friend—of our friend,—and will do what you require,
and all that he can, for his succour and relief. Do
not suppose, even had you not been nigh to urge it,
that we should have needed any persuasion to move
us to so necessary an act of duty. No, sir, believe
me, had there been no better strength than that
of my own feeble frame, that should have been given
for his service, and though I sank beneath the burden,
I should, at least, have done my utmost to find
succour for one who has been of the greatest succour
to us.”

“I believe you, my dear young lady, I believe
you; there's no mistake in your face; by the
powers! I believe you jist as much as if your words
had come from the lips of Rachel herself; but the

old gentleman, why don't he spunk up, and lend a
hand?”

The keen eye of the woodman was fixed upon the
traveller as he spoke these words. The latter became
still more confused at the apostrophe; his
glance sank to the ground, and he faltered out
some only half-intelligible accents, about the necessity
he was under of pursuing his journey, and the
inconveniences which would arise to him, of any unexpected
delay; and here he turned to his daughter,
and proceeded to repeat what he had said to the
woodman, touching the exigencies of his situation.
The blunt language of Rawlins anticipated the
maiden, and prevented her replying to a speech,
which, though partially intelligible only, seemed
greatly to distress her.

“By the powers! old gentleman, to my thinking
you have been saying any thing but the right thing.
What are you talking about your journey for at this
time, when here's the man that saved your throats,
and your money, and may be, God only knows,
saved this handsome young lady, that's your own
daughter, from something worse than all. Here he
is, I say, lying on the ground, knocked over in holping
you out of the hobble, and wanting help himself
now, to get him to a soft bed, and a quiet place to
get well in. If it hadn't a-been for him, who knows
what might have happened? It's true I was close
behind, but my nag's not the creature that he rides.
I'd ha' done as much for you as I could, but then he
did it, and made no promises; so fall to, and give me
a shoulder here, while I lift the lad into your wagon.
The ladies can sit on one side, and we can lay him
in the bottom; he's swoonded, and won't know any
thing about it, and it's only two miles we've got to
go.”

“Two miles!” exclaimed the traveller, “is it only
two miles to the ferry?”

“Ferry! Why, what do you want with the ferry?”
demanded Rawlins.

“I must cross the ferry to-night,” returned the
other.

“You can't—you shan't! by all the powers you
shan't! You shall carry the lad in your wagon to
Billy Badger's, which is only two miles off, and it
will be quite dark by the time we git there, for
you'll have to go slow on account of the lad's
hurts. After that, if you are so cursed hard-hearted,
old gentleman, as to set off without waiting
to know how the man is that resked his life to save
yours and your daughter's, not to say nothing
about your cash, which must be pretty considerable,
to bring these robbers about you—”

“You mistake, you mistake, my friend,” was the
hasty interruption of the traveller, “I have but little
money with me—precious little—nothing to speak
of.”

“Tell that to the chickens—the old fowls won't
believe you. But that's neither here nor there. As
for your crossing the ferry this night, that's impossible.
Where would you have been, or what, let me
ask you, would you have had to cross with, if the
lad hadn't put in to save you? If you don't choose
to do the thing willingly, by the powers, I'll do it for
you. I'll take possession of your carry-all, and fix
the thing to my own liking.”

“Oh, my father, why will you resist?—why
oppose any longer?” was the pleading inquiry of the
elder maiden, whose own solicitations, though before
chiefly whispered, as if in deference to her father's
years and feelings, were as warm in expression, and
as humane in their purport, as were those of the

more abrupt and sturdy woodman. “The gentleman
says rightly,” continued the maiden, “we have all
been saved by the valour of his companion, and we
must see him carried safely to his dwelling. Nay,
more, we cannot leave him till he is out of danger.”

“Virginia, my child, what is it that you say?
You know not my reasons—my necessity,” was the
bewildered response of the father.

“Nothing, my father, but absolute danger can
justify inhumanity.” She laid down this just principle
with due solemnity.

“I am in danger,” whispered the father in her
ear—“foes seek—evils beset—dangers follow me.”

“God forbid! say not so!—your life—how?—
from what?—from whom?—speak to me, dear
father! Tell me all—now, now. Let me know
wherefore this journey—why have you left your
home—our dear home—in this strange and sudden
manner?”

The anxiety of the maiden almost overturned her
caution. Her whispers became full and perfect
sounds at the close, and were silenced in much
agitation by the father, who pointed to Rawlins,
now approaching with the body of Vernon, which
he had lifted upon his massive shoulders, and was
bearing to the carriage. The groan of the father
was insuppressible.

“Not now, my child, not now. We must submit
to this. Take your seat; Ellen will sit on the front
with me. The stranger speaks truly. It might have
been, but for the youth's coming, that we had lost that
which is of more value than life.”

The parties were soon seated, and the cushions of
the vehicle were made to support, in tolerable ease,
the form of the wounded man, from whom an occasional
escaping groan announced the lingering
presence of life within him. Having effected all the

arrangements, to his own satisfaction at least, Rawlins
took charge of Vernon's horse, which he led;
and congratulating the old man upon his slowly-recovered
humanity, he proceeded to guide him to the
dwelling which he had assigned for their temporary
lodging-house, leaving the dead robber to the possible
care of his comrades.

“By the powers! old gentleman,” said he, with an
air of great tolerance, as he rode up beside the
vehicle, and looked in upon the face of his companion,
“it was only because of the young ladies
that I let you off so easily. When you wanted to
back out, and leave the lad in his blood, when he
had just done getting you out of a mighty ugly
scrape, I had it in mind to make you walk your own
trotters, and take the wagon to myself all together;
for, you see, it would have been mighty shameful in
you to go off in safety, not asking and not caring
what became of him that helped you. If you had
seen him ride as I did, when he heard the screams
of the ladies, and seen his face when he spoke, and
heard his words when he cried to me that was riding
close behind him, `a woman's voice, Rawlins!'—
Rawlins is my name, sir—you would say to yourself,
`by the powers! this is the very sort of man to wrap
up in your heart, and to love,' and I love him,
stranger, by the powers!—I love the lad for what
I've seen him do to-day, jist the same as if I know'd
him for a hundred years, though I never set eyes on
him afore to-day.”

“He is a stranger, then, in this neighbourhood?”
was the inquiry of the old gentleman.

“A traveller, like yourself; he comes from below
—I reckon from some of the old states, for he's got
a sight of larning, knows every thing, and talks jist
like a book.”

The eyes of the elder maiden were fixed for
awhile with increasing interest upon the pale countenance

of the wounded man, and she now remarked
the finely formed and expressive features—expressive
even while overspread by a pallor such as that of
death—the softness and fineness of his skin, the small,
sweet mouth, and the flowing locks of hair which
escaped in small, single ringlets from the confining
cap which he wore, but which had been displaced
by the motion of the carriage. The instincts of
women are no less busy and prompt than those of
men, else why should the maiden blush when she
beheld the eyes of the woodman suddenly cast
upon her, as she scanned the features of his unconscious
companion? She had, with equal suddenness,
arrived at the conviction that the face of the
stranger youth was one of the most noble she had
ever seen, and distinguished by that delicacy of
feature and expression which are conjectured to
denote equally aristocratic birth and natural genius.
This conviction was, perhaps, strengthened by the
few words which Rawlins had spoken, and which
represented the youth as a traveller like themselves.
Imagination soon busied itself to discover his objects,
his pursuits, family, and mental resources; and even
when the searching glance of the woodman compelled
her to avert her eyes to the opposite side of
the carriage from the wounded man, the subject
was too interesting to suffer her to forego its consideration,
which employed her young thoughts and
virgin fancies in a manner which did not please the
less because they lacked all means for arriving at
any conclusion. The carriage reached Zion's Hill—
the name which the strongly assured Methodist had
conferred upon his habitation—and yet Virginia
Wilson—for Wilson was the name given by her
father, as his own, in reply to the demand of Rawlins
—with a tenacity which is probably rational enough
among young ladies in all such cases, had not yet
exhausted her subject.