University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

We now returned to Colonel Robinson's to dinner.
It was not our intention to give the ladies
any intimation of the occurrences of the day; but
such things cannot be kept from servants, and it
appeared that they had been apprized of what had

passed. We found the poor old lady full of anxious
trepidation, and much relieved by our appearance.
With Mrs. Balcombe the case was widely
different: with cheeks glowing, and eyes flashing
indignantly through sparkling tears, she advanced
steadily to meet her husband, and stretching out
her arms, said, in a firm enthusiastic tone,

“My noble husband! who has dared to cast
suspicion on your name?”

He folded her gently to his bosom, kissed her,
and supporting her on his left arm, parted the curls
from her brow, which he again kissed, and looking
at her with a tender and admiring eye, said, “You
should be the wife of a hero, Bet.”

“And am I not?” said she. “Oh, my unpretending
husband! Generous, brave, and wise!
The pride of your wife's heart needs but to see
you in your own light, and asks nothing from the
praises of others. But when, for the first time in
your life, your name has been aspersed, even I
may be allowed to praise you. And yet I sometimes
wish that others could see you just as I do.”

“And so they do, dear,” said he; “and hence I
have the ill-will of those who hate the qualities
you love. But who has truer friends than I?”

“And who deserves them better?” said she, involuntarily
glancing at me a look, the indelicacy of
which a blush instantly acknowledged and rebuked.

“I can answer that question, my dear madam,”

said I, “with an acknowledgment of obligations
which my whole life can never repay.”

“Enough, enough!” said Balcombe. “My wife,
who has a charter to extol her husband, when she
does praise me grieves me. My dear William,”
continued he, “I should prove recreant to the
most sacred duty that ever benevolence imposed
on gratitude, if I did not hold my life cheap in the
service of any in whose veins flows one drop of
your noble grandfather's blood. But come, come!
My appetite and yours both require a stronger
diet than praise or profession. Let's to dinner.
Come, John, you must not go away. We must
hold a cabinet council presently, and have the benefit
of your quick wit.”

As soon as we had dined we drew together in another
room. “And now,” said Balcombe, “what
part had Montague in this fair work?”

“He is at the bottom of it, you may depend,”
said Keizer. “Just give him one hour to get over
his scare, and he is the cunningest devil in the
world.”

“His hand is in it, I am afraid,” said I.

“It looks like it,” said Balcombe. “But when I
have him so completely in my power—stay—did
you not say, William, that he had opened the casket
and looked into it?”

“Certainly.”

“Then as sure as you're alive he's off to Virginia,
and has cast this noose over us to keep us
here. He knows where the packet is, and if he

can lay his hand upon it, he will not stop till he
puts the Atlantic between him and us. You are
free, and must follow him.”

“Never,” said I. “My testimony is of too
much importance to you.”

“Pho! pho!” said Balcombe; “the prosecution
is all smoke, and ought not to give you the
least concern.”

“Pardon me, my dear sir, I must be governed
herein by my own feelings. And if the wealth of
the world depended on it I would not leave you, if
I did not know a single fact in the case.”

“What is to be done?” said Balcombe.

“I can hear in three hours,” said Keizer, “which
way he went.”

“How so?” said Balcombe.

“Why, sir, there's only one road from this to
St. Louis, and only one house he could have
stopped at for breakfast. If he went that way, I
can hear of him there.”

“And how then?”

“Why, if once I strike his trail, sir, and I don't
have him back, my name is not John Keizer.”

Saying this, he sprang to his feet. Balcombe
rang the bell, and ordered a fleet horse to be in
readiness; and, having handed Keizer some money,
he was in the saddle in a few minutes.

“If he has not been there, John,” said Balcombe,
“return immediately.”

“I'll just stop to feed my horse, sir,” and away
he rode.

Midnight came, and Keizer did not return.
There was now no question that Montague was
gone for Virginia. I hoped, indeed, that Keizer
would overtake him at St. Louis; but of his
power to bring him back I had my doubts. That
Balcombe could do so, I was sure; but who else
could exercise the same absolute control over his
craven spirit? Perhaps I might. I now felt that
I myself ought to have gone. Was it too late?
Was not the attempt worth making? When once
the idea had entered my mind I found it impossible
to compose myself. I mentioned the matter to
Balcombe. He remonstrated, but finally acquiesced.

My horse was saddled, and, with a servant for
a guide, I sallied forth by the light of a waning
moon which had just risen. At daylight I dismissed
the servant, and pushed on for breakfast at
the next house. I had now ridden nine hours.
My horse was weary, and I expressed a wish to
get a fresh one. In this I succeeded, and the horse
which Keizer had ridden was produced. He had
left him there, and hired one which it appeared
Montague had given for a fresh one, paying a difference
for the advantage, although his horse was
the best. I thus found that we all travelled at the
same rate; and being about nine hours apart, we
used each other's horses as relays. This state of
things allowed no relaxation. I had no hope of
overtaking Montague short of St. Louis, but he
might be delayed there for want of a boat. If he

went on horseback, he would probably slacken
his speed in Illinois, and I should overtake him.
As I advanced, I had the mortification to find that
Montague and Keizer had both travelled faster
than I could. They both rode so hard, that the
horses were but imperfectly rested when they
came into my hands. To make the matter worse,
I reached the ferry at St. Charles in the night, and
had to wait for daylight. Here I learned that
Montague had crossed under the same circumstances
the morning before, and Keizer about three
o'clock in the evening. I had some satisfaction in
the thought that he had reached St. Louis on the
same day with Montague, and expected to get
there myself to breakfast. I had now ridden a
hundred miles; and, except my stops to change
horses, and my enforced delay at the river, I had
kept the saddle for thirty hours. But I pressed
on, losing all consciousness of fatigue in the eagerness
of the pursuit.

About half-way between St. Louis and St.
Charles I met a party of men, in advance of
which, at a distance of fifty yards, rode two well-dressed,
well-mounted, and gentlemanly-looking
men, who seemed closely engaged in animated
conversation. Behind were five others, four of
whom carried firearms. The fifth rode in the
midst, and, as I approached, exhibited the features
and figure of John Keizer. I immediately rode
up to him, exclaiming,

“Bless me, John! what means this? Where is
Montague?”

“Gone.”

“Gone! Where, and how?”

“To Virginia, two hours ago in a steamboat.”

“Is there any other boat at St. Louis?”

“None at all. He is off. The rascal has been
too cunning for me, and has got me in a hockly
again.”

“How so?” said I.

“I God!” said he, “don't you see they've got
me tied hard and fast here on this horse?”

I now looked down, and saw that the poor fellow's
feet were tied together with a rope that
passed under the horse's belly. In my life I had
never felt myself so perfectly baffled and disheartened.
It now seemed that Montague's triumph
was complete, and the ultimate success of his machinations
inevitable. I turned back and rode in
silence, wondering at what I saw, and impatient to
ask Keizer, but was rudely prevented by the guard
from riding near enough for conversation. In the
mean time, seeing the gentlemen before us rein up
their horses, I joined them.

As I approached, one of them, a man about
thirty years of age, of a shrewd and sprightly
countenance, accosted me with a cheerful and
courteous air.

“I suspect, sir,” said he, “that we are saving
you some trouble.”

“If you allude to the prisoner,” said I, “you
have indeed curtailed my ride.”

“You were in pursuit of him, then?” said he.

“I was,” replied I; and, not knowing how to
break my request to be permitted to converse with
him, I said no more. Indeed, I was never more
perplexed or indisposed for conversation in my
life; and, in spite of all my endeavours to be courteous,
I have no doubt I answered the remarks and
met the advances of the stranger in a manner
which seemed to him repulsive.

It is probable, too, that he imputed them in part
to my concern for the fate of the deceased. Seeing
me in pursuit of Keizer, he might naturally
suppose the murdered man to be a relative or
friend of mine. At all events, he seemed determined
to break down the barrier of my reserve,
and closing up to me, said, in that sort of tone
which solicits confidence by seeming to give it,
that he was accompanying the sheriff with his
prisoner, having been employed to aid the counsel
for the state in the prosecution of the murderers.

“Employed!” said I. “By whom?”

“By a Mr. Montague,” said he; “who seems to
take a deep interest in the deceased, and is anxious
to secure the most effectual vengeance for his
death.”

Though I had been accustomed to associate
with the name of Montague the idea of every mode
of villany, there was something in this communication
for which I was unprepared; and I uttered

my abhorrence and detestation of the wretch in
terms which completely undeceived my companion.
He heard me, however, with great complacency;
and, as the disclosure of my sentiments produced
no reserve on his part, and opened a vent for the
smothered excitement of my feelings, we began to
converse on the subject very freely. I gave him
the true history of the affair, for I had nothing to
conceal, and he, on his part, told me all he knew
of Keizer's arrest. It seemed that Montague had
seen him the night before in St. Louis, and, having
already engaged the services of Mr. Shaler, acquainted
him with the fact. By his advice, an
affidavit sufficient for the purpose was prepared
and sworn to by Montague; a warrant was procured;
Keizer was taken; and, preparation for
his removal being made in the night, he was hurried
off at sunrise. No doubt was entertained
that Keizer was flying from justice, though Mr.
Shaler remarked, that, strangely enough, he had
seemed to throw himself into Montague's way.

“But,” said he, “I think you said he had been
already arrested and was discharged on bail.”

“Certainly.”

“Then our meeting may have the effect of curtailing
our journey as well as yours. There is no
law, Mr. Green,” continued he, addressing the
sheriff, “for arresting a man on a charge for
which he has been already arrested and bailed.”

“So I understand,” replied the other, a tall,
strong, middle-aged man, of a serious but benevolent

and intelligent countenance—“so I understand,
sir; but the difficulty is to discharge myself
of the duty required of me by my warrant.”

“That is easily done. This gentleman has only
to apply for a habeas corpus, when we stop at St.
Charles, and make affidavit to the facts he states
here, and the fellow will be discharged. Your
return to that effect will exonerate you.”

“I thank you, sir,” said I, “for the frankness of
this information, which I had no right to expect.”

“You have no occasion to thank me. Such
would be the result at all events, and I do but
save myself a fruitless journey. I dare say Montague
would not thank me, but I am not bound to
cater for his petty malice. My engagements with
him will make it my duty to prosecute with unsparing
rigour when the case comes to trial; but
I am under no obligation to harass the accused
beforehand. You see, sir,” continued he, “that I
place undoubting confidence in the fairness of
your intentions. This may seem strange to you,
as you have probably little idea of the keen insight
into character, which the practice of our profession
imparts. There is indeed a point beyond which
we must not rely upon it; and you must not therefore
be surprised, if, when this matter is inquired
into on the habeas corpus, I cross-examine you as
closely as if I did not believe a word you say.”

I was pleased with the manly frankness of my
new acquaintance, and especially with the delicate
compliment to myself, which I requited in my best

way by acknowledging his candour, by hinting
that none but a gentleman could be expected to
recognise a gentleman, jaded, haggard, and travel-soiled
as I was.

“We have to do with all sorts of people, sir,”
said he; “and, in this new country, inhabited by
insulated individuals, no one of whom can stand
sponsor for another, we must learn to know all
sorts of people. Now there are some marks of
the gentleman which he can never lose under any
circumstances. The tones, the modulations and
inflections of his voice, never can be mistaken.
As to the candour you are pleased to compliment,
I would not advise you to trust too much to that.
A lawyer's eyes are like those of a cat. He is not
obliged to keep his mouth shut; because he sees
plainly, and knows that he is not seen.”

This curious remark made me turn and fix my
eye upon him with, no doubt, a perplexed look.
He observed it, and added, laughing, “See, now!
at this moment you are at fault. You don't know
whether to adhere to the favourable opinion you
just now intimated, or to reverse it.”

“It is really so much more agreeable,” said I,
“to adhere, that I must see much more cause to
change it before I give it up.”

“Thank you, sir,” said he, more seriously.
“We are not so hardened by our commerce with
the base, as not to know how to prize the approbation
and confidence of honourable men. Your
enthusiasm on behalf of your friends is not to be

mistaken; and as to Mr. Montague, I assure you
his grimace and sanctimonious deportment did not
deceive me. So far as he is my client, I shall be
true to him. His character I have not taken under
my charge, though if I had I should try to whitewash
him as well as I could.”

By this time we reached the river, and having
crossed it, I took the necessary steps for procuring
poor John's discharge, which was soon effected.
In the mean time I took copies of Montague's
affidavit and of the warrant. I found that this last
embraced the names of Balcombe and Scott.
Montague doubtless supposed, when he saw Keizer
in St. Louis, that Balcombe was there too, and
was particularly anxious to secure him. To effect
this object, he spoke of the pistol as one “known
to be Balcombe's.” I mention this as a specimen
of his art, in so swearing to the truth as to make
others believe what is false. It confirmed me in
my opinion of Mr. Montague's conscientiousness,
leaving no doubt that he was the last man in the
world to swear to a literal falsehood.

Having procured John's discharge, we found
leisure for the rest we both so much needed. I
say both; for of course he must have been weary.
But his eye was as bright, and his air as cheerful,
and his whole appearance as fresh as if nothing
had happened. For my own part, I was not in
condition to resume my journey until the next
morning. Indeed, my impatience was effectually
subdued. I was baffled, beaten, overwhelmed by

the utter ruin of all the golden hopes that had
shone so bright but two days before. I had no
hope even in Balcombe's resources; and the
thought of the difficulties in which he was involved
on my account, made me look forward to our
meeting with anything but pleasure.