University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Though naturally impatient to commence the
war against his enemies and rescue the fair Virginia
from her abductors, Vernon was too thoughtful
and deliberate of character to defeat his own objects
by any premature or precipitate attempts. He retired
as soon as possible into the cover of the forests
and from sight of any but his own comrades, after
sending Maitland on his way to Zion's Hill. Here
he closely examined the dwarf Stillyards; and this
done, he despatched Jamison with two others for
the purpose of bringing in, and more effectually
securing the persons of the two rogues, whom we
left fastened in the swamp the night before. There
were two other rogues to be secured of whose
neighbourhood he was now first informed by the
dwarf. These were fellows, who, in the “Beagle”
dialect, went by the significant name of “smellers.”
They were, in fact, advanced sentinels, the keepers
of outposts, watching the highways leading to the
swamp fastnesses, and conveying the earliest tidings
of the approach of any uncongenial or hostile influences.

To divert these watchers from their posts,
Stillyards, whom they knew, was immediately sent
forward, as if with instructions from their captain.
Being in possession of all the first signs of the band,
there could be little or no difficulty in deceiving
them by means of his agency; and not altogether
prepared to rely wholly upon a rogue, even in the
hour of his first conversion, Vernon sent Rawlins,
secretly, with two others—all excellent woodmen—to
follow the dwarf, and correct his treachery, should
he happen to prove faithless to his trust. But his
precautions, though proper, proved unnecessary.
Stillyards was now the sworn enemy of the outlaw
chief on his own account, even if he were not bound
as the agent of Florence Marbois. The humiliating
indignity to which his ears had been subjected by
the fingers of Saxon had turned all the sweet milk
of his nature into gall and bitterness; and he was
now prepared, without fee or reward, to prove to
his superior the extent of that malignity, which, in
the base spirit, never forgives a wrong, and in the
weakly, vain heart never forgets a slight. The wish
to prove his capacity for vengeance, to him who was
to be the object of it, had kept the deformed absolutely
sleepless; and it was with the keenest and
most suspicious impatience that he heard the resolution
of Vernon to make no movement, until night,
against the outlaws of Cane Castle. This resolution
was productive of surprise to other minds than his.
Rawlins himself wondered, that, with a body of stout,
fearless men, which, at mid-day, exceeded in numbers
the entire force of the beagles known to be
then within their camp, he should forbear instantly
proceeding towards their prey. But the determination
of the leader was a judicious one; and when
explained to the few comrades whom he trusted
with his plan, its evident policy overcame all their
scruples and disarmed their doubts.

It was not till the evening shadows had fallen that
their movements were begun. Before this time,
however, the party which had been despatched for
the two prisoners had returned with their charge;
while, with equal success, the dwarf Stillyards, had
beguiled the “Smellers” from their station into the
very hands of the attacking party. Before they
knew where they were, they encountered a dozen
armed men in front, while the three who had been
despatched to follow Stillyards, seasonably arriving
behind, cut off all chance of retreat. The four were
despatched under an equal party towards Zion's
Hill, in time to reach it, a few hours after dark. They
conveyed a request from Vernon to the venerable
elder of that establishment, that they might be suffered
to remain under guard at his retreat, until the
return of the party the next day. Having several
miles the start of the Methodist, it was no longer a
cause of fear that their plans might be defeated
either by the perverse self-esteem and dogmatism
of the father, or the treachery of the son; of whom,
by the way, Rawlins had meanwhile gathered such
knowledge from Rachel Morrison, as confirmed all
his previous suspicions.

These minor matters attended to, Vernon set his
party in motion as soon as the darkness was sufficient
to conceal their movements. But instead of
taking his way down, he advanced up the river,
and in a course directly opposite to that where
Cane Castle lay. Two miles above the place where
he had been concealed through the day, was the
ferry which he had that morning crossed, and while
crossing, had scanned curiously, yet in silence, the
place where the boat was fastened, and as much of
the scene and circumstances around him as he

deemed effectual to his purposes. Having reached
the neighbourhood, he ordered his party to halt in
the woods, while, alighting from their horses, Rawlins,
Jamison, and himself, went forward to reconnoitre.
Finding the coast clear, they loosened the
ferry-boat from its fasts. This boat—a huge flat,
suited to the transportation of wagons of the largest
dimensions across the river—soon received the party
without their horses. These were sent to await
them, under the charge of a couple of the troop, to
a spot, on the same side of the river seven miles below,
which was described to be directly opposite to
that where the outlaws held their abode. Under
the guidance of Rawlins, who knew the river, and
Stillyards, to whom the upper shore was sufficiently
familiar, the flat was suffered noiselessly to fall
down with the current; the only toil of the party
being to push her off when she touched the shore,
and keep her free from the snags and sawyers
—a task not so easy to execute in the imperfect
starlight, which guided them in their progress.
But they experienced fewer difficulties
than Vernon had anticipated, and arrived at the
spot already known to the reader by the fishing adventure
of Horsey, in perfect secrecy and silence.
The flat was now run up, and suffered to rest upon
the oozy plane which skirted the river and lay between
it and Cane Castle; and through this bog,
the most toilsome and unpleasant part of their
journey, the little troop were compelled to scramble
—the silence imposed upon Horsey at this juncture,
being the worst portion of the business to that
worthy amateur. The restraint he found excessively
irksome, at a moment and in a place, which
reminded him of some of his strangest experience,
and of events which had been sufficiently exciting
to himself to make him sure of the dramatic effect
which they must produce in the minds and estimation
of all others. It did not alter the case very
materially that he had discoursed over his experience
to several of his present comrades more
than once already. All day he had exercised his
tongue in the reminiscences, always pleasant when
past, of peril and annoyance: still, some had not
heard—and then, the minutiæ!

“It is in the little touches, my dear fellow,” he
said to Vernon, in a whisper—“the nice and seemingly
unimportant features of a subject, that the
whole character speaks out. A look, a nod, a wink,
or the slightest gesture in the proper place, makes
all the difference in the world—makes eloquent the
commonest passages of the poet, which the ordinary
reader would slur over in impatience.”

“Be a man now, not an actor, Horsey. Every
thing in season,” was the stern response of Vernon,
in a like whisper. “He is neither man nor actor
who cannot keep his tongue, when the part actually
calls for silence.”

“You're right in that, by the ghost of Solomon,
Harry Monmouth;” and as the actor contented
himself with this reply, he sunk back, murmuring
from one of his favourites—

A reflection, we may add, that only distressed him
as he thought how awkward he should look, appearing
a second time, with a bloody nose before Mary
Stinson, otherwise Mrs. Horsey. He was beguiled
from his annoyances, however, by finding that the
next person at his side was Master Edward Mabry,
his late rival. This discovery led him to some
vague musings about coincidences, from which he
was only aroused by the summons, which sent him
forward with three others, for the capture of his
quondam companion, Jones; a summons which enlivened
and gratified him greatly, as it seemed to
imply some retributive agency in Providence, which
thus left open the door to an atonement for all the
indignities of Mr. Aristophanes Bull, and the ruin of
his Hamlet. He followed Rawlins, to whom Stillyards
had given particular directions for finding the
sleeping-place of that sturdy outlaw; while five
others, equally well instructed, were commissioned
for the capture of the rest of the gang. Vernon,
reserving to himself the dwarf Stillyards, only, took
his way with a cautious step, but a bounding heart,
towards the squatter's hovel, where he had been
told by his companion that the maiden was imprisoned.
His command to the rest of his party was,
that the followers of Saxon should be surprised and
captured;—a more sudden, if not more severe doom
he purposed for the outlaw himself. For him the
sudden shot or stroke was designed, as from him
was anticipated the most reckless and resolute resistance.

Meanwhile, the commotion at Zion's Hill, inspired
by the astounding intelligence brought by those who
escorted the captured outlaws, was such as might
have been expected from the vexed self-esteem of
the venerable veteran. The attempt of Vernon and
Rawlins to effect so important a business without
his agency, was a source of equal surprise and indignation.
That Rawlins should be so presumptuous,
was monstrous in the extreme; and what made
it seem more so, was the fact, that in all his schemes
and counsels, submitted from time to time to the
latter, after the departure of Vernon, it seemed to
the dictatorial elder, that the woodman was uncommonly

obtuse and wretchedly deficient in honourable
enterprise. His son, Gideon, on the contrary,
by the boldness of his expressions, and the warmth
of valour which he displayed whenever the capture
of the “Beagles” was the subject, had doubtless
commended himself to the old man's heart. He
even began to think, after making due comparisons
between the two on this subject, that it would be
only a legitimate right which he had as a guardian
of Rachel Morrison, and a becoming exercise of his
wisdom, to urge his wishes upon her that she should
marry a youth of so much more promise, and discard
one of whom so few expectations could be
formed. He had forborne any attempt hitherto, to
bias her affections; but to one who assumed to himself
so large a portion of the allotted sagacity of
mankind, it began to seem perfectly proper and
praiseworthy to employ it in his own way, for the
use of one, who still toiled in a sort of moral darkness
and among the shadows of ignorance. His
first attempts at this sort of jurisdiction, were, however,
moderate enough. He began by reproaches of
Rawlins for his indirection and infirmity of purpose,
and a recommendation, only implied, however,
of the worthy and valiant Gideon.

“What Walter Rawlins can mean,” he remarked
to Rachel one morning shortly after the woodman
had taken his departure, “by keeping his hands from
the good work, I do not understand. Surely he
lacks not heart,—he hath courage for strife. There
hath been no shrinking hitherto, on his part, in the
hour of danger.”

“He has courage, believe me,” was the reply of
Rachel, with the natural and unrestrained warmth
of one who loves without doubt or qualification.
“There is no man of more courage on the river.”

“It would please me to think so, Rachel—nay, I

have thought so, but a short while since; yet, to say
truth, I have my misgivings. Why is he backward
to stir up the people when I bid him? Why, when
the occasion is so pressing—when evil men gather
with deadly weapons in their hands, and deadly malice
in their hearts, as I may say it, around the holy
places of the Lord; and the innocent traveller is
waylaid for his spoil; and they fear not to smite the
unoffending, and the unprepared, and the innocent—
why doth he keep himself aloof at such a time—
how may he justify himself for such slackness of
spirit? Were he feeble of limb, and slight of person,
it were, perhaps, to be forgiven him that he is
backward; but he hath a strength beyond that of
ordinary men, and with a fitting strength of heart,
there would seem to be no justification for this
lukewarmness. Truly, Rachel, it humbleth me
much—this falling off in our friend.”

“There is no falling off, dear uncle, believe me.
I will answer for Walter, that when the fitting time
shall arrive, he will be ready, and among the first.”

“When the fitting time shall arrive!” was the
exclamation of the elder. “Have I not said to thee
and to him, already, that now is the time and the
season? Now! now! Can there be a better hour
than the first for the good performances of a man,
and those which are so needful for human safety?
He hath heard my thought more than once already,
in behalf of this necessity.”

“But, if he thinks otherwise!” was the imprudent
reply of the maiden—her anxiety for the justification
of her lover, making her forgetful of the
mortal stab which such a suggestion must give to
the old gentleman's conceit of heart. His hands
and eyes were uplifted in unmitigated astonishment.

“Ha! It is so, then, even as I expected. He hath
better assurances of wisdom and the truth than older

men—nay, than all men around; for all men seem
to hold it needful that the outlaw should be arrested,
out of hand, in his deeds of evil. He thinks otherwise,
doth he? He will tell us when it is the fitting
season, will he? He is good and wise, but it is unfortunate
that we must do without him. We must
content ourselves with the strength we have, and
only pray to the Lord that it may be equal to the
work before us—that we may go forward without
faintness of heart or slackness of spirit, and that
success may be vouchsafed to us, not because of the
strength which we have, but the will for the performance.”

“Oh, my uncle, speak not thus harshly—think not
thus unkindly of Walter;” responded the maiden,
now fully awake to her indiscretion as she listened
to this outpouring of the morbid vanity of age.
“You do Walter injustice; I'm sure you do; and
he'll be ready to go with the rest, as soon as ever
they're ready. He may think it too soon, but
I'm sure, when you once set the example, and
name the day, he'll be among the first to turn out
at your summons.”

A reply no less bitter than the former answered
this additional speech of Rachel; and was followed
up by a sneering comment of Master Gideon
Badger, who made his appearance while the controversy
was in progress. He muttered some general
remark about the not unfrequent incompetency
of the soul to the frame which enclosed it; and
concluded with assuring his father that mere bulk
or even numbers were not so necessary as spirit
and resolution for the adventure which they had in
view.

“And the sanction of God, my son,” said the
now approving father.

The eye of Rachel Morrison turned upon the

hypocritical Gideon, with an expression of fiery scorn
which he shrunk to encounter. Her heart swelled
within her with a feeling of indignant resistance as
she replied, addressing herself only to the son—

“I can answer equally for the spirit and frame of
Walter Rawlins, Gideon Badger, and will warn you
in season how you provoke either.”

“Rachel Morrison!” exclaimed the old man
sternly—“would you threaten Gideon with the violence
of a stranger?”

“A stranger, uncle—Walter Rawlins a stranger!
—Has it then come to this?—But if he is a stranger
to you, sir, as indeed he seems to be, from the manner
in which you speak and think of him, he is yet
no stranger to me. I can answer equally for his
strength and courage. As for threatening Gideon
with them, I had no such thought—but I thought it
prudent to warn him against offending either. Walter
is patient enough, but he is young, and he is human;
and when human passions are treated with
scorn, they are very apt to rise in resentment. I
respect the courage of Walter sufficiently to make
me think it would not be safe for Gideon to doubt
it in his hearing.”

“In a good cause, and with God's blessing,” said
the devout young man, “I have little fear of him or
of any other person.”

“And with such principles, Gideon, my son, you
need have no fear. The gates of hell shall not prevail
against him who goes forth armed by God's
favour, and in the prosecution of the just war of
truth. It is even such a war as this, which Walter
Rawlins thinks it not yet a seasonable time to begin;
but, as you have already said, we need not numbers
in a righteous cause. God will provide—God will
strengthen—God will see that numbers even shall
not be wanting, in the hour when the banner is to be

raised and the blows are to be struck; and if I have
a sorrow because of the absence of Walter Rawlins
from this conflict, it is because of his own great loss
therefrom.”

“He will not be absent!” exclaimed Rachel Morrison—“I
know he will go in search of these robbers,
when the time comes, so far ahead of some
others, that even their eyes will not dare to follow
him.”

This sarcasm was felt by Gideon, but passed the
old man without attracting his notice; an escape
which no doubt saved the damsel a lecture on presumption
of heart, and pride of opinion, and some
dozen more of the vital sins of ignorance and presumption.

The arrival of the captured outlaws, and the message
from Rawlins—events which took place only
two days after this dialogue—while they completely
justified the warm confidence of the maiden in the
manhood of her lover, as completely confounded
the stern old Methodist, and baffled all his estimates
of character. Not that he thought any better of
Walter Rawlins than before. If forced to believe
him brave and ready now, he was at least thoroughly
vexed with the audacity that dared to
undertake a business so important without his cooperation,
Nay—not only without his co-operation,
but actually, with a studious reservation from him of
a task in which his own threatened performances
were to be the most conspicuous of all human adventures.
His self-complacency did not permit him
to imagine, for a single instant, the true reason why
he should be kept from the knowledge of a scheme,
the object of which he had as sincerely and notoriously
at heart, as any body else; and it would
have been very difficult to persuade him—the fact is
not easy of belief—that a dogmatical old man is of

all others the greatest obstacle to the progress of
any business, where young men are to be the performers.
That Badger would have rejected every
plan but his own, for the capture of the robbers,
and spoiled any that might be undertaken, the
shrewd sense of Vernon perceived in the first hour
of their acquaintance; and the doubts which were
entertained of the fidelity of the son, naturally combined
to strengthen his objections to any participation
of the father in the business. His views of the
subject have been already given to the reader.

The exultation of Rachel Morrison may be
imagined, when these proofs of the courage of her
Walter were produced—an exultation which spoke
in tearful eyes, and a trembling and bounding heart.
Old Badger, as one of the quorum, and one learned
in the law—in all laws—clothed in official authority,
and no less delighted with, than conscious of, the
the power which it conferred, was—however angry
with the captors—not unwilling to take into custody
the captive outlaws. He secured them under good
locks and keys, having first taken the precaution,
with the assistance of the detachment under whose
guard they came, of roping them to some very
heavy articles of furniture. The two soi disant
constables were bound, with upward-looking eyes,
on the flat of their backs, tête-à-tête, to a dresser of
prolonged dimensions, but not so long, as, when the
rogues were stretched upon it, to admit of a support
to their legs, which were, in consequence, suffered
to dangle from it, only in partial possession of
their wonted liberty. They could kick the wall or
each other, at either end of the board, but to these
limited exercises they were unequivocally restrained.
If the other two were not equally well cared for, it
was their misfortune—they were certainly equally
well fastened. It needs not that we should describe

the particular privileges of their situation. Two of
the guard were reserved to keep watch over them
until the proper officers of the law could be got in
requisition, while the other two were dismissed, at
their own request, that they might rejoin the attacking
party that night, and before the descent was
made upon the camp of the outlaws.

After dismissing them, which he did in no very
ceremonious or friendly manner, old Badger was
suddenly seized with the conviction that he should
have gone himself. His amour propre was interested
to lead in an expedition for which his past acquaintance
with the wars, and his present connexion with
“the peace,” seemed equally to constitute a peculiar
justification of his claim. Besides, had he not been
beating up recruits for this very expedition? Were
not some of them in the neighbourhood—could they
not be easily mustered? There was Gideon and
himself—Joe Tompkins, the hired ploughboy, Nicodemus
Root, the schoolmaster, who, though a Yankee,
was able to ride and shoot, and had done execution
more than once at pigeon-distance. A timely
use of the six or seven hours remaining between
that and daylight, would enable him easily to muster
up some half a score; and with these the veteran
was not unwilling, in a fair day, and after due
preliminaries of prayer and fasting, to face all the
outlaws between the Alabama and Arkansas. From
the guard that brought in the prisoners, he had been
led to believe that the party of Vernon would not
commence the march before dawn; and as he had
no thought of the use which might be made of the
ferry-boat in such an expedition, he took it for
granted, that hard riding would bring him to the
post of danger in season for all its honours. This
new course of thought led to instant preparations,

which need to be adverted to only. They do not
affect our expedition at this moment.

But when his plans had to be carried out, the
venerable elder discovered that one of his chief
agents was reported missing. This was his own
son, the worthy Gideon, who was no less confounded
than his father at the developments of the
night. If the old man was vexed and mortified,
Gideon was terrified. The danger was at his very
door. The rascals who were taken, knew him as a
confederate, and in the very presence of the old man
exhibited those secret signs of intelligence which
made the profligate youth's heart quake within him,
though he sufficiently preserved his equilibrium to
return them. The keen eyes of Rachel Morrison
beheld his consternation, and her piercing and suspicious
glance did not fail to perceive that there was
some communion even then going on between the
parties. Gideon, with every additional moment of
reflection, fancied the danger to be increasing. He
knew that the outlaws looked to him for assistance;
nay, looked to him to liberate them;—and also remembered
some of the painful conditions which
were coupled with his association with the Beagles.
He was sworn to convey the tidings of danger to
his comrades in the swamp. Their arrest almost
necessarily led to his own. The discovery of their
secrets involved his safety; and what security could
he have against the revelations of frightened rogues
at the foot of the gallows? He was divided between
conflicting fears and desires. It was important
to rescue the outlaws already in custody—
it was equally, if not more important, to counsel
those in the swamp of their approaching danger.
A few moments' reflection determined him to address
himself exclusively to the latter object. The danger

of the prisoners was not immediate. They were yet
to be committed for trial, and a considerable stretch
of time lay between the present and the period assigned
for the County Court Sessions. If the beagles
in the swamp continued free, it would be no very difficult
matter to rescue the prisoners at some more
favourable moment; and the only evil would be their
temporary detention in confinement. He was well
assured that such hardy rogues would never make
their confessions a moment sooner than was necessary.
That the beagles in the swamp were prepared
for their enemies was very probable, and yet
a promptness, spirit, and vigilance, such as had
already been shown by the assailing party, rendered
important every measure of precaution, and demanded
the instant activity of every member of the
fraternity. Vernon and Rawlins were obviously
men to be feared, and the reader has already seen
that Gideon Badger was one of those men who are
soonest to “despair their charm.” He wanted
“the natural hue of courage,” and his fears on the
present occasion, even exaggerated the danger,
pressing as it really was. To give a sign to the
outlaws in custody, significant of his resolution to
serve them, and to slip from the apartment unobserved,
even before his father had yet dismissed the
two men of Rawlins's party who had brought in the
prisoners, were the first steps of Gideon after he had
concluded upon his course. The venerable Methodist,
with eyes shut and hands uplifted, was too
busy delivering a searching sermon to the prisoners
and their captors, alike, to observe the movements of
the son. But they were seen by the keen eyes of
the damsel, who already knew enough of the truth
to comprehend the condition of Gideon's mind, and
to anticipate his probable course. She followed him
silently from the apartment, and traced his steps to
the foot of the garden. She came up with him as
he was about to cross the fence, and called him instantly
by name.

“Gideon! Gideon Badger!”

How shrunk his heart in terror at the sound—the
sound of his own name uttered by the lips of a woman!
But at that moment he knew not whose lips
uttered it, and it was a sound of terror. His apprehensions
had rendered his senses dull to discriminate,
however acute in the appreciation of all sights and
accents. The summons seemed full of terror, and
it was not till she approached and he turned full upon
her that he felt relieved.

“Gideon,” she said, “go not if you would be safe.
I warn you, stay where you are—you are in danger
if you leave Zion's Hill.”

“In danger, Rachel—in danger, my pretty cousin!”
he replied, with some show of recovered impudence,
if not courage, in his manner—“why,
what should be the danger that I must apprehend,
unless it be that to which I have been so long exposed?
My danger is from you, Rachel—you
only.”

He would have taken her hand as he spoke, with
an air of excessive familiarity, but she repulsed him
and drew back at his approach, with a manner, the
evident aversion of which brought a burning flush
upon his cheek.

“This is no time,” she said coldly, “for these follies;
and least of all is it a season for you to indulge
in them. Hear me, Gideon—I am in possession of
your secrets—I can guess where, even now, you
would bend your steps. You go to warn the robbers
in the swamp of the danger that awaits them.”

“Ha!” It was all he spoke, and his teeth almost
chattered in the utterance.

“Yes—it is known to me—the dreadful tie that

binds you to these miserable men. I have heard
you in speech with their leader, and others of the
band. They are in danger—you cannot show them
this, without involving yourself in their danger, and
it is beyond your power to save them. Stay where
you are—or, if you leave Zion's Hill, let me counsel
you to take a course far different from that you
intend to-night. Fly to the eastward—I will keep
your secret, and do my best to get the means for
you from my uncle.”

“Rachel, you must really care for me. This
friendly revelation,—this pursuit of me—this interest
in my fortunes—this care for my safety, sufficiently
prove it. Be mine, dear Rachel, and I will do as
you counsel—I will fly from this confederacy—I
will go with you where you please.”

“This is only trifling, Gideon—you should know
me better. I have already told you that I am
pledged to another.”

“But you do not love him—you cannot—nay,—
can I doubt your feeling of preference for me after
this proof. It is midnight—the darkness of the night
and forest are around us—yet you seek me to counsel
me against danger; you—”

“God help you to wiser thoughts, Gideon. Is it
not enough that you are the only child of that uncle
who has been a father to me? Is this not sufficient
reason why I should seek to keep you from danger,
and him from misery?”

“I must believe there is yet another and a better
reason. I am sure, Rachel, that we can be happy
together.”

“Never! never!” she exclaimed, with impetuous
energy, as, provoked by the insolent self-complaisance
of his tone and manner, she wrested from him
the hand which he had partially taken in his grasp.
“Flatter yourself with no such idle fancies, Gideon

Badger. Happiness with you is impossible.
Sooner shall the heavy sod lie upon my bosom, and
I not feel it, than I yield myself up to the hope or to
the chance of finding happiness in any closer connexion
with you than now. Even now, I pain to look
upon you as I must daily, and see you as I do, and
know you as you are!”

“Rachel Morrison, you have determined your
own fate. You know too much for your safety and
for mine. My security henceforward must be in
securing you. You have been at some pains to pry
into my secrets—to follow me here and there, and
become a party to those concerns in which you
were required to take no part. This proves that
you have sufficient interest in my fortunes to justify
me in forcing a portion of them upon you. You are
right—I am about to join the beagles in the swamp.
It is useless now to deny to you that I am one of
them. You must go with me. You must be mine
from this instant. Your own lips have sealed your
doom. Your man, Rawlins, is not here to save
you now.”

He advanced upon her as he spoke. She retreated
a pace and spoke with tones of coolness and
deliberation—tones which trembled only from the
aroused energies of her spirit.

“You are mistaken, Gideon Badger. I am prepared
for this. It is you that have sealed your doom,
or will seal it, if you advance another step towards
me. If the man, Walter Rawlins—he is a man,
Gideon Badger!—if he be not here to save me, he
has left me that with which I shall save myself.
One of his pistols is now in my hand—loaded by
him and left at my request—with a fearful conviction
that it might be necessary at some such moment as
the present. Your threats have thus prepared me;
I have learned the use of the weapon, and as I hope

still to maintain the whiteness of my soul to the last
I am resolved to use it against yourself, sooner than
suffer you to sully the purity of mine. You know
me well enough, Gideon Badger, to know that I
will as solemnly execute the resolution which I have
so solemnly made! Now, approach me with violence,
if you dare.”