 | CHAPTER VII. The forsaken |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
To lead me up and down to visit women,
And be abused and laugh'd at.
—The Captain.
When passion holds dominion, and we attempt to
decide upon a supposed injury, instead of endeavouring
to satisfy ourselves that none has been sustained,
we ingeniously search for argument in support of the
opposite side of the question. Passion becomes the
advocate, passion is the judge, and scarcely a whisper
is heard in behalf of the party arraigned. Jurian, astounded
as he had been by the exposition of Jones, instead
of reasoning for one moment to test its falsity,
brought all the energies of his mind to convince himself
that it could not be otherwise than true. Numberless
circumstances were adduced to strengthen the argument,
and though, in themselves `trifles light as air,'
to his mind they were `confirmations strong as proofs
from holy writ.' True, when he recalled the last interview
with Miriam, her sorrow and apparent devotion
to him, awakened self-reproach for having believed the
evidence of his own senses to her injury; but then she
had of her own accord released him from all his vows,
acknowledged the superior claims of a rival, and dispassionately
spoke of his probable union with another,
and why was this? If her heart were still sincerely his,
her affections still uncontaminated, could she relinquish
worth possessing? Was it in the nature of woman to
make such an appalling sacrifice, and of her own accord
encounter shame and the scoff of the world? If from
devotion to him, she was disposed to sacrifice her own
feelings, to remove every obstacle that lay in the way
of his advancement, could it be supposed that she
would also sacrifice her reputation to attain that end?
No; she must first have been assured of protection
from that most dreadful of all evils, in the arms of a
more favoured lover. Thus he reasoned; and even
the fault that he himself had occasioned, stood forth
and cried aloud for judgment on the accused. Passion
was the advocate, passion was the judge, and the decree
was against Miriam.
It is not uncommon for some minds, when under excitement,
to pass from one object to another without
diminution of the existing fervour. When Jurian had
reasoned himself into the belief of the inconstancy of
Miriam, his thoughts hastily conjured up the beauteous
form of Agatha; he recalled the most prominent incidents
of their lives from childhood; dwelt upon her
charms, accomplishments, and spotless virtue, until she
appeared as a milk-white dove, compared to the raven,
by the side of Miriam. His enthusiasm on the one
hand, and exasperation on the other, tended to their
mutual increase, until his feelings were wrought to such
a degree that he imagined himself the dupe of a designing
woman, and he smiled with bitter irony at the
remembrance of the remorse he had long experienced
for the wrong he had done one apparently so devoted
and so innocent. These virtues were now placed to
the account of hypocrisy, and for a time he felt that all
the ties that had subsisted between him and one so artful
and debased, were violently rent asunder, and by
her hand. He endeavoured to dismiss the faithless
fair from his mind, and direct his feelings into another
channel. Need we say, that channel led to Agatha?
In the tumult of his mind, the hint of Jones that
Miss Morton was at that time in the arbour, was not
forgotten. Its improbability occurred to him, still it
was possible, and he is a phlegmatic lover indeed, who
is not willing at times, to take possibility for certainty.
Having secured his horse, he directed his steps towards
the arbour, and before he arrived in sight of it, he
heard the soft notes of a flageolet, upon which was
performed an air, too familiar to his ear for him to mistake
the musician. His heart beat with delight, and
he exclaimed with joy, “she at least is true to me!”
and he reproached himself for having suffered another
to dispute her claim to his undivided affection. And
when he reflected on the worthlessness of that other,
his reproaches were accompanied by a poignant sense
of shame. Miriam, however, was soon dismissed from
his mind, he quickened his step, and in a few minutes
stood at the entrance of the arbour.
“Agatha,” he exclaimed, “my heart was not mistaken;
we meet again.” She arose, and extended her
hand towards him, which he eagerly seized, and pressing
it to his bosom, repeated, “no, no, my heart was
not mistaken.”
Agatha was one of those sylph-like beings, which
nature seems to have formed in her most prodigal moments,
as if to inhabit a purer orb than this—whose
presence calls forth the better feelings of our nature,
and who seem to be surrounded by a heavenly atmosphere,
that maintains an influence over all by whom it
is inhaled. As in the vegetable kingdom there are various
flowers that appear to have been formed for no
other use than to blossom for a day, impart their fragrance,
and die, so it is in the human race, we meet
with many who are to the world at large as flowers to
the vegetable kingdom. To this class of beings did
Agatha belong.
“True, we meet again,” she replied, smiling, “but perhaps
it would have been as well had it been otherwise.”
“And why so, my little fairy?” said Jurian.
“My father, when he heard of our last interview,”
replied Agatha, “assigned a reason that I may not
readily forget, and have but little desire to hear again.”
“And what was that?”
“A lecture on disobedience, delivered in no very
temperate tone,” she replied. “But when Jones informed
me that you were in the neighbourhood, and
would probably visit this arbour, I know not why, I
felt a strange desire for a stroll, and the spirit of disobedience
guided my steps in this direction.”
“Was it not a more amiable spirit?” said Jurian,
still holding her hand.
“You vain creature!” she exclaimed, “no doubt
will assign another cause, and I am reduced to the
awkard dilemma, of suffering you to enjoy your opinion,
for nothing that I could say, would convince you, that
vanity is sadly given to romancing.”
“Still few possess the faculty of telling a tale so
agreeably,” replied Jurian, “and even the most highly
coloured are, in some measure, founded on fact. They
are seldom altogether fiction.”
“And in the present instance, you have wove a tale
to please yourself, from slender material,” replied
Agatha. “I read it in your face, and I must say I
have little reason to be pleased with the colouring.
You have a fervid imagination, Jurian, and if the world
were as easily pleased with your fictions, as yourself,
I should advise you to turn poet by all means.” The
playfulness of her manner betrayed that Jurian's construction
was not as unfounded as she would have it
appear.
“I will turn poet,” he replied, “or whatever else
may render me acceptable in the eyes of Agatha.”
The slight tinge on her delicate cheek was heightened,
and she averted her deep blue eyes from the gaze of
her admirer. “It has been the study of my life,” he
continued, “and hope has whispered that I have not
now impose; I am ready to undertake it, though it
should be to turn poet in spite of nature.”
“You speak as if that were a task,” replied Agatha,
“when you are aware that it has been undertaken voluntarily
time out of mind. If a fear of ridicule should deter
you, pray dismiss it, for you will certainly be lost sight
of in the multitude. Nothing short of preeminent
success will expose you to the shaft of ridicule.”
“And to that I should be invulnerable by this time,”
said Jurian, “if there be any truth in the remark of
Wycherly.”
“And what, pray, has that naughty writer said,
worth repeating?”
“He tells us, that love makes a man more ridiculous
than poverty, poetry, or a new title of honour,” replied
Jurian.
“The heretic!” exclaimed Agatha, “and is that the
opinion of a man who made love the business of his
life? But your professed wit will have his jest, though
at the expense of his best friend.” She now perceived,
for the first time, that Jurian carried a sword. Her
animated countenance and tone of voice underwent a
sudden change, as she inquired the meaning of the
weapon by his side.
“I have caught the fever of the times, and turned
patriot too, dear Agatha,” replied Jurian.
“In other words,” she replied gravely, “I must
hereafter view you as the enemy of my brother—the
foe of my father and all his race. A rebel to your king
and country. Is it not so?”
“Rather the champion of my country,” said Jurian,
“or our statesmen have declaimed to little purpose.
But the name can only be decided by the result. If
we are successful, we shall be handed to posterity as
heroes and patriots; but if the reverse, rebel will be
considered almost too mild an epithet for the pages of
history. The child must be born before it is christened.”
“Patriot or rebel, then,” said Agatha, “were there
not already obstacles enough to our happiness, without
wantonly increasing the number. You know my father's
inveterate prejudices, in despite of which he still
entertained some kindly feelings towards you; but this,
I fear, will be a death-blow to all.”
“Let the blow fall,” replied Jurian, “if fall it must.
It matters not, how soon, provided his daughter imbibe
not similar prejudice.”
“It becomes the child to tread in the path of the
parent,” replied Agatha. “There is little safety for
those who unadvisedly depart from it.”
“Agatha! can this be possible,” exclaimed Jurian,
his countenance becoming darker as he proceeded.
“Our lives have passed together—from childhood our
hearts have been open to each other—there has been
no concealment of thought or action, and yet you are
ready to imbibe the prejudices of another against one
whom you so thoroughly know. Is it just? Have I
not reason to complain?”
Agatha fixed her mild blue eyes upon him, and her
cheeks became of a deeper hue as she repeated his
words, in a tone of interrogatory—
“No concealment, Jurian?”
No question could possibly have been more startling.
It assumed so great a latitude, that Jurian was
at a loss to discover the particular point to which it was
directed. From her manner the question was evidently
pregnant with meaning. His thoughts were all in
action, and with the rapidity of lightning, they recalled
countless deeds that he wished might never come to
the knowledge of Agatha. He was himself startled at
the number, and his perplexity increased as he attempted
to select the particular one to which she referred.
There was one, however, more alarming than the rest,
and upon that his mind finally settled, for it is a principle
with the guilty, when brought to trial, to believe
that their worst offences have been discovered. The
she has heard of my conduct towards Miriam Grey?
Still he was too well schooled in the ways of the world
to betray his fears. All this passed through his mind,
as we have said, in an instant, and he replied to the
perplexing quere by another—
“In what, dear Agatha, have I used concealment
towards you?”
“There is much has reached my ears in vague
reports,” replied Agatha, “much that has given me
pain—and yet your lips have been sealed upon the subject,
when perhaps a word would have vindicated your
character.”
This remark gave no additional clue to conjecture,
and Jurian was still as much in the dark as at first. He
again asked—
“Of what, pray, am I accused?”
“Of being a reprobate,” replied Agatha; “of spurning
aside every principle that adorns the human character.
A prodigal, a gambler, a man to be shunned.”
The gentle voice of Agatha became tremulous, and she
paused. Jurian replied—
“And all these calumnies are believed, by her who
is familiar with the whole tenour of my life. And she
whom I have loved for years as my own soul, has become
my accuser. Then where may the injured hope
to find an advocate!”
A slight flush suffused the pale features of Miss Morton.
The colour came and disappeared in the same
moment. Collecting herself, she replied, in a subdued
tone—
“That you love me, Jurian, I feel convinced, without
an avowal. It would be unnatural were it otherwise.
Our lives have been passed together, and from
infancy we have been almost as brother and sister to
each other.”
“As brother and sister!” exclaimed Jurian, “and
have I enjoyed no more than a brother's place in your
brightest hope in life; my constant theme, dreaming and
waking!”
Agatha became alarmed by the earnestness of his
manner. She had been taken by surprise, for although
it was not the first time that he had expressed his hopes
in her presence, she had invariably possessed sufficient
address to change the subject. This she found, at present,
impracticable; and overwhelmed with confusion,
she was tottering towards the rustic bench in the arbour,
when he extended his arms to support her. She reclined
her head upon his shoulder, and scarcely articulated—
“You wound me to the soul.”
“Then say you love me,” he continued. “Let me
be satisfied. Pass my doom.”
After a pause, during which Agatha struggled to control
her feelings, she raised her head. Her pale features
were even more pallid than before, and her large
blue eyes, that shone so brilliantly at their first meeting,
were now suffused with tears, while her glossy hair
hung in disorder over her shoulders. She gazed upon
Jurian's face intently for a few moments, and then replied—
“This is a dangerous subject for us to touch upon.
We have heretofore avoided it, for it can tend to no good,
and our feelings are already sufficiently lacerated—it is
useless for us to irritate the wound.”
“Then calumny has done its work, and I have lost
the heart of Agatha. There has been malice in my
destiny from the hour of my birth, but little did I suppose
that it would reach me in this way. The worst
shaft has been sped, and henceforward I have little
either to hope or fear.”
Agatha was touched by the plaintiveness of his tone,
which, whether assumed or natural, had its effect. Well
did he know every avenue to that gentle heart, for he
had studied her character through its various changes,
aware of the extent of the influence he maintained over
her. Her mind, although naturally independent, was
as unresisting as that of a child when it came in contact
with his.
“I said not, Jurian,” she faintly replied, “that I
gave credit to the reports circulated to your disadvantage.
Still you must be aware that there are such reports,
and it appeared strange to me, that you never
denied their truth.”
“Because no charge had ever been made in a tangible
shape,” replied Jurian. “True, I have been called
reprobate, by old men and beldames who have just wit
enough to imagine a devil in every shadow they do not
comprehend. To answer such would be about as
profitable a task as witch-shooting in New-England.”
“I meant not that,” replied Agatha. “I spoke for
myself. My anxiety should have been satisfied.”
“And so it should, my Agatha, had I been aware of
its existence. But let us dismiss the subject, for since
you believe not the odious slander, I care not if fame
lend her trump to every old woman in the land to blast
my character. You have said that the reports are not
credited—a thousand thanks, dear Agatha, for that assurance!
Still, as you doubted, I must ask you to
breathe but a single word, that will satisfy me that you
are sincere.”
“Most cheerfully. Name this potent word,” replied
Agatha.
“Love!—Say that you still love.”
“That I love you,” replied Agatha, “it can scarcely
be necessary for me to avow. My thoughts and feelings
have ripened in your presence, and in a measure
they have been moulded by yourself. My happiest recollections
are associated with your image, as with that
of a brother in the days of childhood; then why ask if
I still love?”
“Either you do not, or will not understand me, Agatha,”
desire, in return for the burning thoughts that prey
upon my mind. It is not a sister's love can repay
the years of anxiety I have passed—devotion like
mine. We have attained an age when the lambent
passion of our childhood must cease to exist. No
longer indulge the idea that we can be as brother and
sister to each other. That dream must pass away as
they daily pass in our progress through life, and it remains
for you to say whether a brighter or a darker shall succeed
it.”
“Spare me. You have hurried me to the brink of
a precipice, and my brain grows dizzy as I gaze upon
it. Spare me now, Jurian.”
“Your doubts, I see, are not yet removed,” said
Jurian, “and you still believe me the creature that slander
has depicted.”
“O, no! you are still the same to me as you have
been for years. You, only, have the power to change
my opinion. You, only.”
“Then I see it all,” replied Jurian. “My fears are
realized. There is another who has met with favour
in your father's eyes—”
“But not in mine; not in mine.”
“Children should tread in the path of their parents,”
replied Jurian, with a bitter smile, “for there is no
safety for those who depart from it. Those were your
words.”
Agatha sank upon the bench, and hiding her face in
her shawl to conceal her emotion, scarcely articulated,
“This is cruel at your hands—doubly cruel at such
a time, and unmerited.” He approached her, and endeavoured
to soothe her feelings. “Leave me,” she
continued, “it is time we part.”
“But not in anger?”
“No, not in anger,” she murmured, “but in the bitterness
of soul, as those who yield to folly should separate.”
“Every action, every word, Agatha,” said Jurian,
“convinces me more fully that you love me. Your
lips have avowed it, and this trembling hand betrays
that it is so. Quiet my fears, and say that you will be
mine.”
“For pity's sake urge me not to that.”
“Then promise that no earthly power shall compel
you to bestow this hand upon another. If fate denies
me the blessing, spare me that additional pang.”
“I promise,” murmured Agatha.
“Enough! then thou shalt be mine, my Agatha, in
spite of the world.” He raised her light frame to his
arms, and passionately imprinted a kiss upon her pale
forehead. He gently drew her closer to him, and she
fell unresistingly upon his bosom. “Mine! only mine!”
exclaimed Jurian rapturously.
“Thine, and thine only,” greeted his ears, in a whisper
scarcely audible. Such is woman's resolution when
she loves! At this moment a gun was discharged close
to the arbour, upon the report of which Agatha started
from his arms, and exclaimed,—
“Ah! my brother. Farewell.”
“Do not leave me yet,” said Jurian, “I cannot bear
the thought of losing you the moment you have become
mine.”
“Absent or present, still I am thine. Farewell.”—
She extended her hand to him, which he eagerly pressed
to his lips, she then darted through the back part of the
arbour, and in an instant disappeared among the under
wood of the grove.
A wounded bird fell near the entrance of the arboun,
and in a few moments the sportsman ran to the spot to
secure his game. He was apparently about twenty-five
years of age, tall and well-proportioned; habited in an
undress uniform, with a sword by his side. Jurian, at
a glance, recognised the features of the person who
had accosted him at the Schuylkill ferry, as related in
a preceding chapter. Lifting the bird from the ground,
with an air of satisfaction, “see, Morton, I have
winged him!” at the same time holding the bird at arm's
length, for his comrade to have a view of it.
“You are a good shot,” replied Morton, ascending
the hillock, “and a true sportsman. You gave the bird
a fair chance, but unluckily it was not swift enough on
the wing.”
“True,” replied the other, “the chance was a fair
one, for I hold it barbarous to shoot at game sitting, and
he is unworthy of the name of sportsman who would
take such an advantage. But really I fear the report
of the gun has alarmed your sister, for see with what
haste she is returning to the house.”
“Do not be concerned on that score,” replied Morton,
“she is a girl of more spirit. There was a time
when she took delight in my amusements, and would
not have hesitated to fire the gun herself; but of late
she has assumed a more serious mood.”
“And really she has chosen a very romantic spot for
her meditations,” added the stranger, approaching the
arbour, at the entrance of which he was met by Jurian.
Notwithstanding his astonishment, which he could not
conceal, he calmly said—
“Well, sir, we meet again, but from what has passed
between us, I did not think so soon to have the honour of
another interview.”
“I dare say you did not,” replied Jurian, “or you
would have been less insolent when last we met.”
“Quite cavalier!” replied the other, his accent betraying
his Scottish origin. “Your language well becomes
your character, for I perceive you have picked up
a sword in your late travels. But bear in mind, young
man,” and his voice assumed a tone of sarcasm, “it is
not the cowl that makes the monk, and it requires more
to the formation of a soldier than a gay cap and
feather.”
“I readily admit your position” replied Jurian, “and
The ass was still an ass in spite of the
lion skin.”
The sword of the fiery child of the North on the instant
leaped from its scabbard, and Jurian coolly followed
the example.
“For shame, gentlemen,” exclaimed Morton.
“Such language is rude and unbecoming.”
“His sword is out,” replied the Scot, “from which
I conclude he intends to cut short all argument. It
were shame so much valour should end in smoke, so
come on, sir, and I will give you a lesson that will
mend your manners for the remainder of your life.”
“Well spoken,” said Jurian, his lips curling with
contempt, “but you appear to have forgotten the conclusion
of the fable.”
“The fable!” exclaimed the angry Scot, at a loss to
comprehend the coolness of his adversary.
“We are told,” continued Jurian, “that the ass
brayed lustily, but no sooner were his ears discovered
than he ceased to alarm the forest.”
“This insolence is beyond endurance,” cried the
Scot, placing himself in a posture of attack. “Defend
yourself.”
“Are you mad?” said Morton, interfering.
“Not yet,” replied the Scot, “but stand out of the
way, or I may become so. Within a day or two, sir,”
he continued, addressing Jurian, “you honoured me
with a blow, and thus I repay it with interest.”
He made a furious attack upon Jurian, who coolly
stood upon the defensive. The weapons they used
were broadswords, and the Scot, who was both active
and skilful, soon discovered that he had no novice to
deal with. The one was all fire and impetuosity, the
other cool and collected. The Scot evidently had the
advantage on the score of science, while the superior
strength and self-possession of his antagonist placed
them nearly upon a footing. The furious clashing of
their weapons denoted the determination of both. The
himself so repeatedly thwarted, became more enraged
as the contest continued. His face was red as scarlet
and his eyes inflamed, which strongly contrasted with
the smile on the countenance of Jurian, who seemed
to read what was passing in the mind of his antagonist.
This self-possession did not escape the notice of the
Scot, and tended to increase his rage. He shifted his
ground, and renewed the attack with redoubled vigour.
Jurian turned to receive him as systematically as if he
had moved upon a pivot, still maintaining the ground
that he had first assumed, and acting upon the defensive,
as he had done from the commencement. The
clashing of the swords was loud, and the strokes succeeded
each other with the rapidity of lightning. This
time the attack was more desperate and of longer continuance
than before. At length the Scot, finding himself
foiled in every attempt to touch the body of Jurian, retreated
a few paces, while his antagonist still remained
stationary, and but slightly discomposed by his exertion.
The same smile was still on his lips, that had excited
the indignation of the Scot.
“Desist, Balcarras,” exclaimed Morton, “for by
heaven he is but playing with you.”
“He shall play a bloody game,” replied Balcarras,
“before it is ended.”
“Well said, Hotspur!” replied Jurian, with that provoking
smile. “Shall I repeat to you another fable,
as applicable as the first? I am learned in fabulous
lore, as Morton can testify.”
“Still you had better listen to the fable,” coolly
replied Jurian.
“No more trifling, but defend yourself,” exclaimed
the Scot.
“You won't listen to the fable, then?”
The clashing of swords was the only answer that the
question received. Balcarras appeared to have been
with the fury and activity of the tiger. Jurian still
maintained his ground and self-possession, but the smile
had disappeared from his lips, and his face was flushed
even to the forehead. Every muscle of his light frame
was called into action, and he stood more firmly, and
his blows were dealt with more determination. His
eye was rivetted on that of his antagonist. Morton
looked on in breathless suspense. The fight lasted
long before the fury of Balcarras abated. Still Jurian remained
stationary, but no sooner did he perceive that the
blows of the Scot were not dealt with their usual force,
than his face became of a deeper hue, the muscles of his
mouth were drawn so as to bare his teeth, which were
firmly clenched, his eyes kindled, and he made one step
towards the Scot. He now in his turn became the
assailant, and it required all the science of Balcarras to
protect himself from a shower of blows dealt with terrible
force and rapidity. This change in their relative
positions, in an instant altered the opinion that the Scot
had entertained of his antagonist, and he abandoned all
idea of acting on the offensive. He had been nearly
wearied out, and self-preservation was now the only
thought that occupied his mind. Jurian read what was
passing in his thoughts, and the blows fell thicker and
thicker. His face was now almost purple, his eye grew
sterner, and his teeth were still bare and clenched.
Balcarras would now have given any thing on earth to
have seen that dark countenance again illuminated by
that sarcastic smile that had provoked his ire. Even
the sound of his voice, he felt, would have rendered the
conflict less terrible. But Jurian was silent, stern, resolved.
He pressed forward, the Scot wavered, and
his flushed cheeks had become ashy pale, as blow succeeded
blow, with undiminished force.
“For God's sake desist,” cried Morton, “do not
kill the man.”
His voice was lost amid the clashing of the steel.
Jurian seemed to brace itself for one mighty blow. He
grasped his sword with both hands, and advanced with
his weapon raised. The next instant it fell with a fearful
crash, and Balcarras reeled beneath the blow.
“Have you no mercy,” cried Morton, and hastened
to the spot where they stood, but his fears were soon
quieted, for Jurian held a bladeless hilt in his hand.
Balcarras perceiving the advantage that fortune had
given him, was about to avail himself of it, as Jurian
sprang forward, and seized the uplifted arm. He took
the sword from his grasp, and hurled it into the creek
that flowed at a short distance. He held the Scot at
arm's length, as though he had been a child, and gazed
upon him in silence for a few moments, during which
his distorted countenance rapidly resumed its usual
expression. The smile also returned.
“And now, my fiery Hotspur,” he cried, “you will
have leisure to listen to my fable.”
Balcarras was astounded, and Morton exclaimed—
“No more of this folly!”
“O! by the Lord,” replied Jurian, “he must listen to
my fable, for there is much sound morality in æsop. I
at times have questioned whether Solomon, though a
king, possessed as much practical wisdom as the
Phrygian slave. O! by all means, he must listen to
my fable.”
“Then let us hear it,” said the Scot, sullenly, and
evincing a desire to be released from the iron grasp of
Jurian.
“Listen,” continued Jurian. “A hungry raven once
in quest of prey, pounced upon a serpent that was
harmlessly basking in the sun. He seized him with
his horny beak, but the venomous tooth of the serpent
soon made the aggressor repent of his folly. You have
wit enough, I presume, to see the application?”
“Certainly; so far as respects the glossy skinned
serpent,” replied Balcarras.
“That I supposed could not escape you,” replied
Jurian, “after the practical lesson you have just received.
Still you will find the serpent a harmless creature
when unprovoked, and, take my word for it, he is
but a fool, who, in obedience to the written law, wantonly
puts his heel upon his head.” Then turning to
Morton, he continued, in a more lively tone, “Edward,
I beseech you to lose no time in procuring for your
friend here a copy of æsop. It will make him a wiser,
and a better man. There is much sound moral in
these apologues, and if ever I form an Utopia, children
shall imbibe them with their milk. Farewell, gentlemen,”
he cried, and his smile approached almost to a
laugh, “farewell, and by all means do not neglect little
æsop.”
He hastily withdrew, and, until he was out of sight,
the mortified Scot stood gazing after him in mute
astonishment. Morton recalled his wandering senses,
and they returned to the mansion-house, not a little
chagrined at the unexpected termination of the rencontre.
Jurian hastened to the spot where he had secured
his horse, and found the scene quite changed during
his short absence. A detachment of British and Hessians
had halted near the village to refresh themselves,
he accordingly kept aloof until they again took up the
line of march, when he mounted his horse and pursued
his way, equally satisfied with the result of his interview
with Agatha, and that with his rival.
| CHAPTER VII. The forsaken | |