University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

But he soon found it was no such easy matter to
behold this damsel. The course of true love was not
permitted to run smooth in his case, any more than in
that of Romeo. It was not the policy of Jones to
suffer the actor to come in contact with the Yarbers
family. He knew the intimacy which already
existed between him and brown Bess; and as the
reader may have seen, the adherence of John Yarbers
to the brotherhood, did not imply any attachment
of his wife in the same quarter. Awkward
revelations, for which the faternity were not yet prepared,
might have resulted from a meeting of that
dame with Horsey; and Jones made his arrangements
accordingly to prevent it. But Jones could
not be every where, however ubiquitous may have
been his desires; and Bess, by some means, found
out that Horsey was at Cane Castle. She probably
had caught a glimpse of him as he emerged from
his oozy bath, in the waters of the Chitto-Loosa;
or, as is equally probable, John Yarbers was partially
in the habit of serving two masters. He may
have shared some of the secrets of the beagles, with
his larger, if not his better, half. How she arrived

at her knowledge, however, is very unimportant to
our narrative. It is enough, that, once possessed of
this knowledge, all the strategics of feminine policy
were put in exercise to defeat the uncharitable designs
of Jones. It was not a mere female curiosity
which Bess sought to gratify in once more desiring
to see the actor. Far from it. Other and more
serious desires filled her mind; and the evident admiration—however
strangely shown—with which
Horsey regarded her daughter, had inspired her
with the hope of connecting Mary Stinson with
better fortunes, and less-doubtful family connexions,
than those to which she had unhappily—and, to do
her justice—unwittingly bound herself. Horsey was
a wild chap—that she knew;—but his heart was
in the right place, and he was the son of one of the
most substantial of the small planters in Mississippi.
Old John Horsey had what he had, free from debt,
and was therefore more independent than most of
his class. As he owed nothing, he had no favours
to ask of the Brandon Bank, and could keep
back his cotton till a favourable market. Alas! for
Mississippi—nay, for half the southwest—that his
policy had not been more general among the agriculturists
of that region. The debtor is every
where at the mercy of his creditors, and we are
all debtors.

But a truce to this; and, to sum up in brief,
Brown Bess contrived to find a way to the actor.
There was a moment when the outlaw, to whom
Cane Castle was given in charge during the absence
of the master beagle of the band, was necessarily
withdrawn; and, seizing upon this moment,
the persevering dame sought Horsey with success.
At this interview, the poor actor was utterly overwhelmed
by the tidings which he heard. At first,
indignation seized upon him to think how he had

been imposed upon and laughed at; and he was for
seeking the outlaw, and punishing him in the midst
of the encampment. But the cooler woman checked
these ebullitions of mortified vanity and impatience.
She showed him the danger of this proceeding, and
counselled him to a policy as deep and quiet as that
of the beagles. Under her direction, arrangements
were made for his escape; and wisely leaving all
these to her, our actor, now considerably sobered
on the subject of his grand steam company of theatricals,
in which the state was expected to subscribe
so largely, was content to play second fiddle for
awhile in this political duet. Perhaps, he was the
more readily reconciled to this inferior position by
the presence of a third person, who had been judiciously
provided to appear at the nick of time by
the calculating Mrs. Yarbers. This was Mary
Stinson. After her appearance, the mother might
have made what arrangements she pleased. That
nothing should be wanting to her schemes, she made
away with herself after awhile, leaving the two
children together—the babes in the wood—Horsey
being as much a dreaming boy and as full of heart
and enthusiasm, as if he never had known any of
the world's experience; and Mary—poor Mary—
as simple of soul and innocent of mind, as the adhesive,
dependant and docile daughter of Polonius herself.
It was strange with what rapidity the moments
flew, when these two were left together.
There—in that deep and quiet wood—thickly shaded
by the intricate forests, that had never echoed to
the dull cleaving blow of the destroying axe,—on
the edge of that dark mysterious water—and with
no sounds in their ears, but those which seemed to
invite them to mutual sensibilities—sounds of birds
and insects that hummed beside and above them,
without any regular song, and with efforts that
seemed to imply wakefulness and not work—life,
rather than exertion—the hearts of the twain, in
which the fire had been placed, if not kindled into
flame, before, now warmed with a mutual ardour,
and gushed freely with the sweet waters of a mutual
affection.

“It will do,” was the whisper of the mother of the
girl, as through the leaves of a copse on one hand,
where she had concealed herself, she saw the ardent
amateur impress—having not the fear of Ned Mabry
in his eyes—his second kiss upon the lips of the
trembling and very much frightened damsel; and
heard his pledges of love and promises of marriage.
Then the old dame contrived to reappear and separate
the parties. The very day on which Saxon
bore away Virginia Wilson to the recesses of
Cane Castle, our amorous actor might have been
seen on old “dot-and-go-one,” his father's steed,
with Mary Stinson perched behind him, going as
fast as his passions could drive, and his decrepid
steed would permit, in the hope of finding a convenient
magistrate willing to officiate for love in a
hurry, after the fashion of the Gretna blacksmith.
The policy of Dame Bess might be supposed rather
censurable by the very staid and starched prudes of
a metropolitan city; but let them not bite their
thumbs too inveterately. The old lady was desirous
of getting her lovely daughter out of the swamp,
and freeing her from that miserable connexion with
a clan of robbers, from which, under existing circumstances,
she could not free herself. She was
anxious to marry her to a man of family and substance,
and she knew that she could trust the honour
of Horsey, to transact the business of hymen according
to the State laws, on that subject made and
provided. She could have wished, it is true, that
the affair might have been conducted with more deliberation

and under her own eyes; but as this could
not be the case, she was too wise a woman to suffer
such matters to stand in the way of primary objects;
and, counselling the couple how to keep the narrow
road on the swamp, which would lead them, by a
short ten miles, to Squire Nawls, she sent them off,
with a God-speed, to be happy after a fashion that,
however constantly practised for six thousand years,
has not yet fallen into disuse.

One incident, which occurred before the departure
of Horsey from Cane Castle, should not be unnoted.
While yet utterly undreaming of the revelations
subsequently made by Brown Bess, and while still
perfectly persuaded that he was the member only of
a brotherhood of Thespians, who, if ignorant, were
yet innocent, the enthusiastic amateur found an opportunity
of making his way to the presence of
Florence Marbois. Regarding her as the prima
donna, the great gun, the tragic muse of the company,
he could not refrain—though counselled to
beware of the weapon of her husband, whom
Jones described as “worse than a Turk for
jealousy”—from contriving an interview with one
from whose great powers he promised himself no
small support in the personation of his loftier characters.
The play at cross-purposes between them
which followed this interview was as mysterious to
both, as it would have been ludicrous to a spectator
at all aware of their true history. Horsey addressed
her as Lady Macbeth, or Portia, or Constance,
and she replied to him in such language as
would have suited well the auditories of a conscious
knave. The poor actor was utterly confounded,
and did not feel at all satisfied with, however much
as an amateur he might admire, the lofty scorn which
looked out from her eyes, and the contemptuous
language which rose upon her lips, in reply to all

his high-flown speeches. She sooner comprehended
his true position than he hers. Perhaps she had
some inkling of the truth before.

“You are mistaken, sir, in me, if not in yourself.
You have been imposed upon, and are in a den of
thieves, from whence you had best escape as soon
as possible. Leave me, sir.”

“But, my dear Mrs. Clifford,” was the objurgatory
opening of the bewildered actor.

“Clifford! Begone, sir,—you are mad. I tell
you, you are among knaves and thieves. You are
gulled, imposed upon. Go home to your parents.”

“`Was ever woman in such humour wooed?”'
was the slowly spoken sentence of Horsey, as the
haughty Florence, after this scornful counsel, withdrew
from his presence. Two hours after this interview,
he was made to comprehend its true meaning
and the manner in which he had been played
upon, by the more painstaking and common-sense
personage whom he was about to select as a mother-in-law.
It might not have been so easy for herto
subdue the wrath which her revelations excited in
his mind, had it not been for her lovely daughter;
and that movement of the maternal tactician which
left the two children to their own cogitations. The
result of these cogitations we have seen in the departure
of the happy pair, riding double on “dot-and-go-one,”
in search of the country squire. But one
thing qualified the otherwise unmixed joy of the
actor in this novel situation. It was the necessity
of leaving his saddle-bags behind him, with the best
of his theatrical wardrobe. This necessity occasioned
some serious fears, but the better baggage
which filled its place, soon reconciled him to, if it
did not make him absolutely forgetful of, his loss.

Let us now return to Harry Vernon, whom we
left, attended by the faithful Jamison and the two

constables, on his way to Mr. Justice Nawls, to
undergo his examination for the murder of Thomas
Horsey, Esquire. The justice was a plain farmer-looking
person, very ignorant of books and refinement,
but with some knowledge of men and things,
which, on the borders of every country, is by far
the better sort of knowledge. He came out of
his fields, and in the same condition in which he
used his hoe, he sat down to make his examination.
He was in his shirt-sleeves, which were rolled up to
the elbow; his bosom was bare, and none of the
cleanest; and the perspiration, discoloured by the
dust through which he had been, stood in dark dots
upon his cheeks and forehead. What a lecture on
American jurisprudence would have been written
by that profound spinster, Harriet Martineau, or
that profound sea-attorney, Captain Basil Hall, or
that social martinet, Col. Hamilton, could they have
been present at this examination. Justice Nawls
had no need of books, or statutes, or authorities,
and still less occasion did he seem to have for
tablets and a clerk. The proceedings were summary
enough. There were two sly fellows who
swore to several suspicious circumstances against
our hero. It was proved that Horsey and Vernon
were seen together last—that the time of their separation
was unknown—and that, a short time after,
poor Horsey was found in the woods bored through
with bullets, dirked in sundry places, his ribs
literally riddled and laid bare—and his bloody coat
and breeches were finally produced in damning
confirmation of this tragedy. Such was the testimony
of Augustus Mortimer and Edward Montmorenci.
The alias of a rogue is usually a very
ear-taking concatenation of syllables; and, par
parenthese, what an adroit rascal is Davy Hines,
the celebrated South Carolina swindler (all rascals
are celebrated in North America, while great
statesmen, orators, poets, and actors, are simply
notorious), in the selection of his temporary nom de
guerre. He is for the nonce, an Allston, a Hamilton,
a Rutledge, a Berkeley, a Singleton, or a Livingston.
Sometimes he condescends to be a Hayne, or a
Benton, and he has even been known, on trending
farther east, to contract himself into a Webster or
an Adams. Colonel Augustus Mortimer swore with
singular precision and confidence, and Major Marcus
Montmorenci followed him. Vernon examined
these two worthies with the utmost care and vigilance,
but they were as impenetrable as they had
shown themselves incorrigible. They just swore to
enough to place the offence at his door, without
committing themselves by the positive asseveration
that they had seen him do it. They were old
practitioners, in one form or other, in half the courts
of Mississippi, and knew all the quirks of justice,
however little they might have really cared about
its principles. Poor Vernon was in a quandary.
He saw that Squire Nawls could do no less than
commit him, on the strength of the testimony
offered; and though this testimony fell short of convicting
him of the offence, he yet could not but feel
that the refined rascals whose deposition had been
just taken, had wrought him some very troublesome
meshes, from which it would not be so easy to extricate
himself upon trial. Still the awkwardness,
if not the danger of his own situation troubled him
less than his particular arrest at such a moment.
There was the affair of Carter, his friend, which he
was anxious to bring to a conclusion which might
save him as well as the miserable father of the very
lovely Virginia. And she—just won, and so soon
lost. Ah! reader, if you have a heart at all, and
have not forgotten all the love-passages of your boyhood's
days, think of the thousand privations involved
in that separation.

If Vernon was annoyed, poor Jamison, his Alabama
friend, was utterly confounded at the aspect
of his affairs. Unwilling to believe the youth guilty,
for whom he had taken a liking as extreme as sudden,
he was yet staggered by the closeness of the
testimony against him—the nice linking together of
the circumstances as declared by the joint evidence
of Messrs. Mortimer and Montmorenci, and the
grave, deliberate, and very genteel appearance of
those worthy witnesses. It was in vain that he
added to the cross-examination of Vernon, as many
questions as, in his sagacity, he thought might be
instrumental in bringing out a difference in their
statements. His efforts were more perplexing to
himself than to the witnesses, and with a groan that
came from the bottom of his heart and was almost
a growl, he gave up all farther attempts at examination.
So also did Vernon himself, and Justice
Nawls proceeded to write out and sign the commitment
of the prisoner, for further and final trial—a
manual performance, not so easy to one whose skill
in penmanship was of that “d—d cramp” sort,
which bothered Tony Lumpkin.

The deed was done, however, and the constables
were just beginning to bustle about for the resumption
of their charge in conveying Vernon to prison,
when a hubbub was heard without, and the accents
of a voice which, to the ear of our hero, seemed no
less sweet than familiar.

“Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious
summer,” cried one from without.

“By heavens!” exclaimed Harry Vernon, “that
is Mr. Horsey himself.”

“So it is, Harry, my boy,” cried the actor, rushing
in and bearing on his arm the shrinking form of

the half-affrighted Mary Stinson, whose cheeks,
glowing with the deepest tints of the carnation, betrayed
the mingled effects of a ten mile ride with
her lover, and the not unpleasant novelty which she
felt to exist in such a situation.

“Who else but Horsey,” exclaimed the delighted
actor,—“who but the young Lochinvar,” and he
concluded by singing a stanza from the popular song
of that name, by which he communicated the tenor
of his love adventure, and the reason of his appearance
with his fair companion.

“They'll have fleet steeds that follow, Harry,
my boy,” he continued, “though, truth to speak, had
they started as soon on the chase of old Bowline, as
they did after Lochinvar, Tom Horsey would have
won no bride to-day. You recollect my little Juliet,
Harry?—Mary Stinson? Come forward, Mary—
don't be shy—don't be scary,—it's Mr. Vernon, that
came with me to your house—Mr. Harry Vernon;
and there's the squire that's to make us man and
wife,—and these gentlemen, why I take it, they're
all friends to a frolic, and a good fellow when he's
about to go off, like a comedy, in a happy ending.”

“Mr. Horsey, I was never more rejoiced to see
any one in my life, than I am to see you;” said
Vernon. “You've come at the most providential
moment for my safety.”

“Your safety!”

“Yes—I am here before the magistrate charged
with murdering you.”

“The devil you say!”

“However strange, it is no less than truth. Squire
Nawls, let me introduce to you my friend, Mr.
Thomas Horsey, of Raymond, the gentleman with
whom I travelled, and whom I stand suspected of
having killed. You see that as he is alive, I cannot
have murdered him.”

Squire Nawls looked bewildered, and turned inquisitively
to Messrs. Mortimer and Montmorenci.
An incredulous and sarcastic smile sat upon the
countenance of the first named of these gentlemen,
A brief pause followed.

“You see, gentlemen,” continued Vernon, turning
to them also, “that the body which you found and
buried was that of some other person, and the
clothes which you have shown—”

“Were those of Mr. Thomas Horsey and no
other,” said Mr. Augustus Mortimer, with the utmost
coolness and a quiet imperturbable composure,
that obsolutely shocked the Alabamian, whom the
promise of a change in the colour of Vernon's fortunes
had provoked to a shouting, cheering, and
dancing, which, for several moments, utterly banished
silence and stateliness from the hall of justice.

“That is not Mr. Thomas Horsey,” continued
Mr. Mortimer; “we buried the poor young gentleman
with our own hands. Did we not, Major?”

Major Montmorenci confirmed this statement, by
a conclusive nod to Justice Nawls.

“The devil you did,” exclaimed Horsey, utterly
aghast with the reckless hardihood with which the
lie was spoken.

“Yes, poor fellow,—he lies in the wood, a little
way beyond the lower fork that leads to the two
ferries.”

“The devil he does!” continued the actor, with
increasing astonishment, as he listened to the manner
in which his body was disposed of.

“Yes, we can show you the grave at any moment.
We cut his name, T. H., with the year, in
the bark of a hickory that stands over the spot.”

“You were very good,” said Horsey.

“No, no, not at all—it was only common charitable.”

“Pray, my good fellow,” said Horsey, dropping
the arm of Mary Stinson, and crossing over to
where Mr. Augustus Mortimer stood, on the left
hand of Justice Nawls, and looking him in the face
with as much curiosity as astonishment—“pray,
my good fellow, who may you be—what may be
your name? I am, in truth, very anxious to know.”

“Augustus Mortimer, Esq.,” was the calm reply,
“son of the Hon. Bannister Mortimer, Judge of the
United States District Court, in West Tennessee.”

“You are—are you?—and you, sir,”—to the
other witness—“pray, oblige me with your name
and connexions.”

The answer was equally prompt and civil.

“Major Marcus Montmorenci, last from Virginia,
a late settler in the Choctaw purchase.”

“And you are sure, gentlemen, that you buried
Thomas Horsey, of Raymond, under a hickory tree
on the lower road to the ferry—and it was over his
body that you were good enough to mark T. H.,
with the year—perhaps you put a death's head and
cross bones above the inscription?”

“No, sir, we put nothing but the initials, and the
year; and we did not cut them as well or deeply as
we could have wished, owing to the dullness of our
knives,” said Mr. Mortimer.

“And you are sure that it is my body—that is, the
body of Tom Horsey—that you so charitably put
from sight in that place?”

“Very certain.”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh, my dear sir, these questions are very unnecessary
and your manner is somewhat offensive.
When I tell you, that my poor friend, Tom Horsey,
was seldom out of my sight and company for a
spell of four years at least, that we lived together,
travelled together, and slept together at different

and long periods, you certainly can't doubt that I
ought to know him.”

“And you, sir, have been equally intimate?”

“Equally,” said the more sententious Montmorenci.

It would he difficult to describe the expression of
Horsey's face, as he hearkened to these cool asseverations,
and marked the stolid composure of the
two.

“Really, gentlemen, you must excuse me, if I
ask a few more questions. The Horsey, who is
dead, and whom you buried—did he look any thing
like me? There is some mistake—some deception
in this, Squire Justice, which I must find out.”

“Nothing,” said Mortimer.

“Nothing,” said Montmorenci.

“And yet,” said the former, looking at Montmorenci,
with a grave inquisitiveness, “don't you think
there is something in this gentleman's chin that
looks like poor Tom's?”

“Why, yes—there is a something—a—”

“A sort of split—a—”

“There's no split in my chin, gentlemen,” exclaimed
Horsey, smoothing the misrepresented member—“it's
as smooth and round as any chin in
company.”

“Oh, sir, we don't mean to say that they're alike
—but there was a something—”

“Yes, only a something—that is, they were both
chins,” said Horsey—“for that matter, don't you
think that we had other features in common? How
about eyes, nose, head and hair?—pray, gentlemen,
oblige me, by answering closely. The question is
important, I assure you.”

“Well, now, sir, to speak plainly, you are nothing
like our poor friend, Tom Horsey. Tom,
though an excellent fellow as ever lived, was monstrous

ugly; now, if I were asked my opinion, I
should say you are a very good-looking sort of
person.”

“Indeed! I thank you—so Tom Horsey was ugly,
was he?—Squire Nawls, do me the favour to
marry me with Mary here, while I have some remaining
confidence in my own identity. If I talk
much longer with these rascals, I shall begin to look
upon Tom Horsey as a dead man. I suppose if she
takes me as Tom Horsey, you can have no objection
to give me that name till the ceremony's over;
and after that, it's just what you please about the
trial. Harry Vernon, don't think I am indifferent
to your concern, my boy; but Mary's here alone
with me—a sort of runaway match you see, though
we have the mother's consent,—and I shan't be
easy any more than herself, till she has a lawful
right to look to me, and I have my lawful rights as
well as herself. There may be another Tom Horsey
but I don't believe it, and I know he can't be
Tom of Raymond. Those breeches and that coat
are mine, though how they came so bloody and
holy is past my telling. They were stolen from me
in the Big Black Swamp, as the newspapers say, by
some scoundrel or scoundrels unknown. I don't say
you stole 'em, Colonel Mortimer, or you, Major Montmorenci,
but I intend to make you show how you
got 'em, if there's any justice in Mississippi.”

The answer of these worthies was made in high
head and with some show of valour and defiance;
but this, Horsey, whose regards were chiefly given
to Mary Stinson, at this moment, did not seem to
heed.

“All in good time, gentlemen,” he said, “after
the ceremony's over. I invite you to remain till
then, though, in your ear, let me tell you, I look on

you to be as arrant a pair of liars as ever wagged a
Munchausen.”

Squire Nawls was better skilled in that department
of his business for which Horsey demanded his
present aid, than in any other of its requisitions. He
saw no reasonable objection to giving the actor a wife
as Thomas Horsey, though, in the next moment, he
refused his own evidence as such, to prove himself
alive. No assertions that he could make, no proofs
that he could offer, could impair the positive and
sweeping testimony of the two witnesses, or disturb
the settled decision which the Justice had made
before he came; and, in equal fury, the actor and
the Alabamian listened to the regrets with which he
sought to mollify his resolve, to commit the supposed
murderer of Tom Horsey to prison. Before
Nawls came to this conclusion, however—for the
dull country justice had been somewhat confounded
by the contre temps of the dead man's reappearance
—he was compelled to retire in private conference
with Mr. Augustus Mortimer, a minute's talk with
whom was quite enough to set him on his legs.

“Let him be Tom Horsey or the d—l, it matters
nothing to you. You have the evidence of two
witnesses that Horsey is dead, and you might go farther
and arrest this fellow as an imposter. Though
we've no instruction to do so, yet it might be good
service to the beagles. Your account is easily
squared with the state's attorney—there's the proof
on which you committed Vernon to prison, and
that's enough. Send him on his way, and let Cane
Castle do the rest. I'll engage you never hear of
him again from that quarter.”

The commitment of Vernon was accordingly
made out and delivered to the two emissaries of
Saxon, in whose custody he had been left before.
They had their instructions as well as Nawls, and

they knew if he did not, that the unfortunate youth
was reserved for the sacrifice by those whose secret
haunts he was supposed to have invaded as a spy,
and whose practices of crime he had been commissioned
to arrest and punish. Meanwhile, the keen-searching
mind of Vernon had discovered the true
circumstances and secret of those difficulties by
which he was involved. While he was under the
impression that Horsey had really been murdered,
he had little cause to think himself the object of an
organised plan of injustice or detention. But the
reappearance of the actor, and the revelations which
he made during the random dialogue which took
place on the examination, together with the fact
that his clothes had been stolen, mutilated, and made
bloody,—were circumstances of sufficient strength
to open the eyes of the lawyer to the whole hidden
truth. The conviction that he was singled out as a
victim, and that the persons around him were mostly
parties to the conspiracy, strongly impressed him
with the necessity of being as cautious, yet seeming
as little suspicious as possible. A look, and the significant
application of his finger to his lips, at a
moment when Horsey was about to blurt out in
public, the whole burden of his discoveries in the
swamp, fortunately served to check the torrent of
his speech, and to impose upon him the necessity of
a caution like that of Vernon, whose composure had
seemed in his eyes very much like the most unmanly
tameness. When the resolve of the magistrate
was made known, Vernon remarked quietly, without
any show of anger or suspicion to the justice—

“I cannot blame you, sir,—as a lawyer, I should,
perhaps, say that you have done nothing but your
duty. There is evidently some mistake in this business,
for this I know to be Mr. Thomas Horsey
from Raymond, who was the only travelling companion

I had from that place. Still these gentlemen
who have given their evidence, may know another
of the same name, who has unfortunately been murdered
as they state. I do not gainsay their assertions—I
only declare my innocence of the crime.
Still, sir, you are not to know that, and could only
do as you have done. One privilege, however, I
must pray to be allowed—that of writing to my
friends in Raymond and elsewhere, for the necessary
evidence to prove my innocence and the identity of
this gentleman. If you will suffer me to have a
brief private conference with my two friends here,
Mr. Horsey and Mr. Jamison, I will provide them
with directions for seeing to this business, and procuring
all the necessary proofs.”

This small favour could not well be denied to a
man in such an emergency. The calm, respectful
deportment of the prisoner, his forbearance to hint
or even look any of the suspicions which he really
felt, deceived the witnesses as well as the justice.
Looking upon it as certain that any evidence which
he might procure from Raymond would come too
late to affect a trial which was to take place in Cane
Castle, and to be as summary as it was certain to be
secret,—Mr. Augustus Mortimer, to whom Squire
Nawls was wont to refer privately in all cases of
especial doubt, recommended that his prayer be
granted.

“It will be getting these fellows, Jamison and
Horsey out of the way—they might be troublesome—and
before they get back with their witnesses,
Cane Castle will have done his business
beyond any Horsey's undoing. Let 'em talk together.”

“And what are we to do for you, Harry Vernon?”
demanded Horsey, the moment they reached the
little chamber to which the courtesy of the justice

had permitted them to retire. “Say the word, and
I'm for you,

In less classical style and language the Alabamian
made a like offer of his services and sinews.

“You shall say yourselves what you shall do for
me, when I tell you how I stand,” said Vernon. “I
am in the hands of outlaws—the witnesses who
swore against me are outlaws, the constables who
guard me are outlaws, and the justice who commits
me is their creature.”

After this startling preliminary, Vernon proceeded
to classify those details of fact—those floating circumstances,
which, picked up from sundry quarters,
formed the groundwork of the faith that was in
him.

“And knowing this, you took it so patiently,”
was the joint exclamation of Horsey and the Alabamian.

“Had my passions been suffered to play as freely
as yours, Horsey, Squire Nawls would never have
permitted me this interview. But, stay, I do not
hear their footsteps below—they have ceased walking—they
are watchful. Not a word now above
your breath, gentlemen, for it is now doubly important
that we should be secret as the grave. Now,
then, hear me. You are both strong men, and I am
sure, as fearless as you are strong. I claim your
help in a matter, which, were it your case, should
freely command my own. You must help to rescue
me from the clutches of these fellows.”

The hands of the two were instantly clasped in
frank and manly assurance upon that of the speaker.