University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE CLOVEN FOOT VISIBLE.

When I rolled myself in my blanket and laid down by
the camp fire that night, I felt restless and uneasy, as if
some new calamity were impending. I was fatigued, but
could not sleep; and for a long time I lay and watched
the ruddy gleam of the fire, as it flashed upon the overshadowing
branches of the wood, and upon the dark
human forms stretched around me—my thoughts the while
busy with the foul suspicions which the brief interview
between Warncliff and the Colonel, together with my subsequent
conversation with Harley and Walter, had excited
in my breast.

Harley was lying next to me, and was already asleep—
as apparently were most of the others—and even those on
duty as sentinels, stood with their backs against the trees,
and appeared to be nodding. I glanced over to where the
Colonel, with Clara carefully wrapped up beside him, was
lying apart from the others; and I could detect no
motion there to show that either was awake. If treachery
were intended, I finally reasoned myself to the conclusion
that nothing would be attempted that night; and feeling
greatly relieved, my nerves gradually grew calm and I
grew drowsy.

At last the trees seemed to be nodding assent to a
curious moral lecture from the fire—such was my strange
fancy—and with a sing-song sound in my ear I passed
into a state of forgetfulness.

How long I slept soundly, I do not know; but at length
I began to dream of Clara. I thought we were children

together, wandering hand in hand through a beautiful
grove, beside a purling stream of limpid water, whose
gentle murmur came over our souls with a soothing effect.
Every thing was bright and joyous around us, and we
were very happy in the companionship of each other.
Suddenly a dark cloud overshadowed us; and looking up,
I saw a huge panther springing from one of the trees.
Clara uttered a fearful scream, and the next moment was
struggling with the beast of prey, which had alighted full
upon her, bearing her to the earth. Bewildered and horrified,
I was about to rush to her rescue and certain
death, when I felt myself seized in the hug of a grizzly
bear, and in terror awoke.

But I awoke, alas! to find it not all a dream; for a
couple of Warncliff's ruffians were stooping over me, in
the very act of binding my arms.

“Villains!” I shouted, struggling in vain to rise—
“what means this outrage?”

“Have a care, my Injen brother!” said one, tauntingly:
“we don't allow strangers to call us names.”

“But what is the meaning of this? why are you
binding me? do you intend to murder me?” I cried,
hardly knowing whether to believe myself awake, or still
under the pressure of a night-mare.

“Keep your mouth shut, and don't bother!” said the
other, gruffly.

“Easy, Harry—easy,” said the voice of Harley, addressing
me. “We are all prisoners, and it is useless to
struggle against fate.”

I turned my head, and saw him still lying on the ground
where he had fallen asleep, and a couple of Warncliff's
fellows bending over him.

“And are they binding you too, Morton?”

“Hand and foot, Harry.”

At this moment I heard the voice of the Colonel.

“You are a villain, sir!” he fairly shouted: “a base,
treacherous, damnable villain!”

“Softly, my dear Colonel,” I heard Warncliff say in
reply; “softly, my dear sir! I am only acting for your
good, and it grieves me to see that my kindness is not
appreciated. You were meditating a withdrawal from my
protection; and I could not bear the thought that you
should fall into the hands of the savages, and your lovely
daughter be doomed to a second barbarous captivity.”

“Oh! my daughter! my dear Clara!” groaned the
Colonel: “you have killed her already.”

“Oh, no—not so bad as that,” returned Warncliff.
“If you think she is dead, I beg to undeceive you; she
has only fainted; and a little water sprinkled in her face
will set her all right.”

“Fool! fool! that I am! and dupe of my own folly!”
muttered the Colonel, as if to himself.

“Well,” returned Warncliff, ironically, “I cannot gainsay
that you speak the truth now; for I have been under the
impression, ever since you sent your daughter off with that
rascally Virginian, that you are sadly deficient in wisdom.”

“Away with you!” cried the other, vehemently: “my
eyes loathe the sight of you! You must be an ill-begotten
child, for your reputed father was a gentleman. Begone,
I say, and do your worst—murder me if you will—and
may the heaviest curse of Heaven fall upon you!”

Warncliff muttered a reply, in a tone so low I could not
catch what he said. Soon after this I heard Clara utter a
piercing cry of—

“Father! dear, dear father! where are you?”

“Here, my daughter—here—bound like a felon.

“Unhand me, villain!” I now heard her say; “and let
me go to my father. Unhand me! Walter—Henry—
where are you?—help! help! help!”

These words from Clara—this appeal to me from her I
so dearly loved—nearly drove me frantic; and, like a
madman, I tried the strength of my cords. But all in
vain I struggled; for my limbs were so bound by this
time, that I could not move them; and either for greater
security, or to prevent my seeing any thing that was
taking place, my captors, as they rose from my body,
turned me over upon my face; and, passing a long stick
between my arms and back, compelled me to remain in
that position.

But though I could render Clara no assistance, her
appeal for help was not altogether made in vain; for the
next moment I heard the sharp crack of a rifle, followed by
a loud yell of agony, a shriek from Clara, a general howl
of rage and consternation, the quick reports of fire-arms,
and, above all, the voice of Warncliff, shouting:

“Take him, men! take him! dead or alive!”

“In the name of Heaven, Morton, do tell me what has
happened?”

“I can only conjecture,” was the reply, “that, by some
means, Walter having escaped seizure in the first place,
has answered the appeal of his sister by shooting one of
the ruffians, and has again fled, pursued by at least one
half of the cut-throat band.”

This, as I afterward learned, was a true surmise.
Walter, after his conversation with me, had lain down to
rest, pondering upon what I had said. At first he had not
been disposed to treat the matter as any thing serious;
but falling asleep, and dreaming a fearful dream, he awoke
in terror, and became so impressed with a sense of
approaching evil, that he determined to steal into the
wood and keep on the watch the remainder of the night.
This, from his position near some bushes, he had easily
effected, without being seen or missed; and as the reader
knows, he had ere long good reason to congratulate

himself on his prudential movement. About midnight—or
perhaps an hour or two later—the treacherous design of
Warncliff was executed; but it was not known to him
that Walter had escaped, until apprised of it by a ball,
which, just grazing his cheek, cut the jugular vein of Tom,
his lieutenant. Walter had been watching an opportunity
to take the life of Warncliff; and, hidden in a thicket,
where he could note every thing going on, had reserved his
fire for this purpose.

On the seizure of her father—which, by a preconcerted
signal, occurred at the same moment as my own—Clara
had uttered a piercing shriek and fainted; and Tom, by
Warncliff's directions, had taken charge of her. On her
return to consciousness, she immediately called for her
father; and would have rushed to him, but was prevented
by Tom. She then called on her brother and me for help;
and Warncliff coming up to her at this moment, Walter
fired, intending to kill both him and his ruffianly lieutenant
with the same discharge. But fate had ordered otherwise,
and only Tom fell a victim.

It is impossible to describe the scene of confusion which
immediately followed Walter's fatal shot. Those of the
bandits—for so I must now term them—who chanced to
have their rifles in their hands, instantly discharged them
into the thicket where Walter had been concealed; and
then bounded away to take him, dead or alive. A few
remained to guard us; and among the rest Warncliff,
who stormed and swore in the most vehement manner. I
could occasionally hear what he said, but could see nothing
that was taking place.

“Look to the girl, that she does no mischief!” I could
hear him say to some of his men. Then he addressed the
Colonel: “Hark ye, Colonel Moreland! if your son is
taken alive, the nearest tree shall bear fruit from your
marriage bed.”

“What has he done,” was the inquiry, “that you can
so easily sacrifice the friendship of the past to such fiend-like
monstrosity?”

“Done what I will never forgive, and be — to him!”
cried the other, hoarse with rage. “He has killed Tom
Strathman, by a ball aimed at my life.”

“I only regret that he missed his mark,” was the bold
reply.

“Have a care, old man! or you shall swing with him.”

“I expect nothing better; for I suppose you planned
our death before you seized us; and my only wonder is,
that you have delayed execution so long.”

“No, Colonel Moreland, in justice to myself I will say, I
did not intend any harm to you personally, nor to Walter,
nor to Clara; but as for that — Virginian, who has more
than once crossed my path, and who once struck me—an
insult I would not forgive if I were dying—for him the rope
and the tree wait; and they shall not long be cheated of
their prey, nor the vultures of a feast on his hateful carcass.
I once attempted his life with a ball; but I have ever since
rejoiced that I missed my mark. I have daily prayed for
this hour of revenge, and now my prayer is granted.”

“Which proves, I suppose, that the devil is both
powerful and liberal,” returned the Colonel.

“You are pleased to be facetious,” rejoined the other,
in an angry tone; “but you will soon have cause to
change your humor;” and with this he apparently stalked
away to his fair victim; for immediately after I heard him
and Clara speaking together, but was unable to distinguish
any thing that was said, though the latter appeared to be
sobbing.

“Well, Morton, I think it is all over with me,” I said,
in a low tone.

“Would to Heaven I could give you aid, my dear
friend?” he replied, in a voice half-choked with emotion,

“Yes, Harry,” he continued, “you and I may both prepare
ourselves for the worst; for as well might the lamb hope
mercy from the wolf, as we from this traitor and renegade.
Alas! poor Viola! and shall we never meet again?”

“It is not your wont to despair, Morton.”

“There is an end to all things, Harry, and Fate can
only bear us to the end,” he replied, gloomily.

“But there is no reason why you should expect the
doom he pronounced on me,” I rejoined. “You are not
his rival—you never struck him—and unless it is his
design to murder the whole of us, I think, with fair speech,
you may yet regain your liberty.”

“I shall not beg my life,” said Harley.

“No! but you need not refuse it if offered. Be chary
of your speech, and say nothing in my favor; for no good
can accrue from it to me, and it will certainly be injurious
to yourself.”

“Hist!” exclaimed Harley: “he comes this way.”

I now heard steps approaching; and soon after some
one withdrew the stick from between my arms and body,
and turned me over upon my back. I looked up, and by
the light of the fire, which flashed full upon his face,
beheld the eyes of Warncliff riveted upon me, and gleaming
with an expression of malignant triumph.

“So!” he said, drawing in his breath, and almost
hissing the words between his shut teeth—“at last you are
in my power.”

“So it seems,” I replied.

“And how do you think I will use it?”

“In the worst manner possible.”

“Ay, by —! you are right,” he rejoined, with an
oath; “the worst manner possible for you. Was it ever
foretold you, by some gifted seer, that your end would be
by the halter?”

“Do your worst!” returned I: “I shall not sue to you
for mercy.”

“No! for you know you well deserve all you will get at
my hands.”

“So you will probably settle it with your own conscience;
but a day of fearful reckoning will come, notwithstanding.”

“Umph! you are disposed to moralize. But you should
have thought of that before you struck one a blow, who
then swore to reckon fearfully with you for the insult.
That insult, sir, bear in mind, was given in the presence
of a lady whose hand was pledged to me, and whose affections
you won from me by the meanest arts. I did not
cross your path—you crossed mine. You deliberately
drew the consequences upon yourself, and have no right
to complain.”

“I make no complaints, sir!—do your worst,” I answered.

“What right had you,” he pursued, with considerable
vehemence, “to thrust yourself upon a family where you
were not wanted, and basely endeavor to breed disaffection
and destroy all social harmony? It was for a selfish
purpose—that you, out of the wreck you would thus make,
might be able to secure a prize. You may thank your
meddling nature for all the trouble that has so far come
upon you, and also for the fearful punishment that will
certainly follow; for I swear to you, were an angel from
Heaven to plead in your behalf, I would not mitigate in
the slightest degree the doom I have fixed for you!”

“In the words of Colonel Moreland,” I rejoined, “ `my
only wonder is that you have delayed execution so long.' ”

“I have chosen my own time; and it is enough that I
have succeeded in my design at the moment most befitting.”

“But why trouble me with the matter now? If you
have doomed me to death, and your conscience is easy,

why seek to justify your conduct to me by attempting to
fasten the blame upon my shoulders? If I have but a
few minutes, or a few hours, to live, I pray you leave me
to myself—to the solemn thoughts and reflections which
so near an approach to death awakens!”

“Death,” he rejoined, with a grim smile, “is but a feeble
punishment, if unattended with terrors or regrets; and
I wish to punish to the full extent of my power. To
do this, it is necessary to wring your very soul while it
occupies its earthly tenement, that it may pass from mortal
scenes with an agony even eternity cannot alleviate!”

“A fiend could not be more devilish,” I said.

“Then think me a fiend,” he replied, with a grim
smile; “it suits my purpose well. But to begin my tortures—not
of the body, but of the mind—for they are
fools who torture the body, and inflict temporary pain,
when they can reach the soul—for that once stirred with
anguish, writhes in misery long after the victim has passed
beyond the reach of his tormentors. Ha! do I make
your cheek blanch already? then I shall certainly triumph
in my purpose. Listen! you love, and are beloved; but
she you love is in my power; and hateful as I am to you
and her, I swear to you she must and shall be mine; and
while these arms enfold her in a close embrace, I will
whisper in her ear, that he for whom she would have given
her life, is a prey to vultures, dangling between Heaven
and earth. Ha! you shudder: it is enough: I know you
feel; and I will leave the rest to your imagination, and
you to quiet meditation.”

He then turned to Harley, and said:

“As for you, sir! your end may be as awful as that of
your friend; but on your fate another must decide;” and
with these words he strode away, leaving us to such reflections
as his words and our circumstances naturally excited.