University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
A STRANGE MEETING.

The yells and shouts and roar of musketry grew
louder and louder in the ear of the trembling Isaline.
The storm of battle was clearly rolling up
toward the point where she stood. What was to
be done? To remain was to be involved in the
contending forces, and to fly was perhaps to run
into new danger—to escape it might be from friend
to foe. Concealment seemed to promise most, and
this was offered on the spot. An immense tree had
been blown down just before her, and some of its
roots were high above her head. A large hollow
or cavity had thus been formed in the earth, and
this was now filled with brambles. Down in this
hollow, close up to the clinging roots of the tree,
with the yielding brambles shutting her in, Isaline
thought would be the safest place she could find,
and she hastened to put herself there.

Nearer and still nearer rolled up the storm of
battle. The yells grew louder, the shouts grew
louder, the ring of rifles sharper, and now and then
was heard the heavy groan or the shrill cry of pain.
It appeared as if, while fighting desperately, one
party was slowly falling back before the other; but

which was pushing on in triumph, Isaline had no
means of knowing. Nearer and still nearer came
the sounds of furious contest; and at last, peering
out from her place of concealment, she began to
catch glimpses of white men, dodging from tree to
tree, loading and firing, and then suddenly falling
back, as if pressed upon by superior numbers in
front.

The knowledge thus gained was most painful to
Isaline, for it seemed to prove that the savages were
gradually becoming masters of the field; and the
bright ray of hope that had suddenly sprung up in
her breast, was already beginning to fade out into
the darkness of despair.

In a few minutes more the contest appeared to be
directly around her, on every side, and she could
now and then distinguish the supporting and cheering
words of the brave Kentuckians, while the
horrid yells and screeches of the savages seemed to
curdle her blood.

Suddenly she became aware of a personal contest
within a few feet of her. A white man and a
savage had grappled and were swaying to and fro
on the verge of the pit in which she was concealed.
Each seemed struggling to throw the other; and
now they bent and staggered this way and now that
—one moment pressing up so as to stir the brambles
over her head, and the next falling back some two or
three paces. From her position, Isaline could not
see their features, nor even the upper portion of

their bodies; but she somehow felt as if it were a
death-struggle between friend and foe, and that her
fate was involved in the contest; and she trembled
and held her breath, with her hands pressed upon
her heart. Still they rocked and swayed, and stumbled
to and fro, till at last the foot of the white man
extended beyond the broken earth; and then, failing
support, he fell backward upon the brambles,
and came crashing down through them, just grazing
the head of Isaline, with the panting and furious
savage directly on the top of him.

Involuntarily, and we may add unconsciously,
Isaline now uttered a wild, prolonged, piercing
scream—a scream not unlike that made by the
Phantom—and which went echoing and re-echoing
far away through the leafy aisles of the forest.
Fortunately it fell upon superstitious ears, and the
effect was magical. The savage so near to the
frightened girl, started up, with a yell of terror,
scrambled out of the pit, and bounded away; other
similar yells were heard in various directions; the
white men shouted to each other and their voices
soon grew distant; the firing and noise of conflict
ceased; and in the course of two or three minutes
the wood around had become as still as if no bloody
conflict had ever taken place within its solemn
depths.

Isaline was thus left in the bramble-pit, with only
the body of a white man by her side. Perhaps a
dead body—for it did not stir and gave no sign of

life. Neither did she—for the shock of fright had
so acted upon her overstrained, nervous system as
to suddenly deprive her of consciousness. She had
swooned. And thus the two lay side by side, with
the yielding brambles closed around and above
them, as the dead might lay.

After the lapse of a few minutes, Isaline began to
revive. At first she was confused and bewildered,
and could not recollect where she was, nor what had
occurred to place her in that strange situation.

Then, just as she began to have a clear comprehension
of the startling truth, a dull, heavy groan
sounded in her ear. The man beside her then was
wounded—perhaps dying—but not yet dead! Poor
fellow! what could she do for him? and what might
she dare do for him? for as yet she knew nothing
of the effect produced by her shriek of terror, and
still supposed herself surrounded by savage enemies.
What had become of his dusky adversary? was her
mental query; and why was all around her so silent?
Had she indeed been unconscious for a long time?
and was the battle indeed over? and who were the
victors?

Another groan from the man beside her appealed
directly to her tender, sympathetic, womanly nature.
A fellow-being, who had bravely fought, (perhaps
for her,) might be dying for the want of attention
and care—such attention and care as it was in her
power to bestow—and she now gave her whole
thought to him. Carefully she pushed back the

brambles and raised herself over him; and then,
nerving herself for a horrid sight, and such work as
it might be in her woman's power to perform, she
carefully parted and pushed aside the brambles that
concealed his face and body from her view.

Mereiful God!

For a few moments Isaline Holcombe had no
power of volition; her breath became suspended;
her face colorless, even to her lips; her muscles rigid
—her features stony—her eyes glaring! Then,
with a great cry—great in its expression of agonized
emotion, that welled up and rushed outward from
the innermost depths of her being—she fell forward
and clasped, with the embrace of a love eternal as
immortal existence, the insensible form of Henry
Colburn!

Thus had they been drawn together to meet again.

Was it Providence?

Tears came to the relief of Isaline—tears came
and saved her: or reason might have left her—or
soul and body might have parted: for unutterable
joy, or unutterable grief, results sometimes in insanity
or death.

While Isaline wept, with her arms clasping Henry
and her lips pressed to his, consciousness returned
to him: as if his spirit, hovering about its mortal
tenement and ready to take its eternal flight, had
been forced back and secured by the strongest of
earthly powers. Consciousness returned to him, and
he opened his eyes, to behold what his mental faculties

were not prepared to comprehend and believe.
Was he dreaming? or was the idol of his soul
within his embrace?

“Isaline!” he murmured, and trembled with the
sweet word, lest the ecstatic vision should suddenly
dissolve and be no more.

“Oh, Henry!” burst widly and rapturously from
the quivering lips of the devoted girl, and was followed
by a flood of tears. “Oh! God in Heaven be
praised that you do live!”

Henry clasped his arms around her, and strained
her to his heart, in a strange, incomprehensible
delirium of joy.

For some time neither spoke again. It seemed
to be enough for them to know that each lived in
the other's arms—each lived in the other's soul.

Isaline was the first to break the rapturous silence.

“Oh, Henry,” she cried, in sudden alarm, “Heaven
forgive me for forgetting that you are wounded!
that you may be dying!”

“Wounded, dearest angel?” he answered, with a
wondering look at her, and a quick, puzzled glance
around him. “Wounded? I? Where am I? and
what has happened? and where did you come from?
and how came we both here in this thicket?”

“Before I answer your many questions, dear
Henry,” replied Isaline, “let me find your wound
and bind it up; and get the assurance, if our kind
Father in Heaven will grant me so much happiness,

that you are not now about to be snatched from me
by death!”

“I think you are mistaken, dear Isaline, in supposing
that I am wounded!” returned Henry.

“Why then were you so long unconscious, after
falling down here, with the savage fairly upon you?”

“The savage?—yes—ha! I recollect now. My
companions and I were engaged in a battle with the
Indians, who outnumbered us; and they were driving
us back—when—what?—let me think!—ha! yes—
I encountered one single-handed; and we grappled
and wrestled; and I fell down—down—down—I
know not where.”

“Here,” said Isaline, “almost upon my very head!
It was here you fell, dear Henry. I witnessed the
awful struggle, and saw you come crashing down
here, (though I little dreamed then it was you,) upon
the very spot where now you lie, with the savage
fairly upon you; and then I lost my senses, which
have just returned again, to show you here by my
side.”

“Here?” exclaimed Henry; “was the fight here,
do you say? Then where are the combatants now?
Where are my friends and where are my foes? and
what has become of the Indian I struggled with?
and who, as you say, fell upon me.”

“Ah, Henry, I know no more than yourself.
When you fell, there was fighting all around us; but
what followed, after the world turned dark to me, I
do not know, nor how long a time has elapsed since

then. I only know that, when I came to myself,
all was still here till I heard you groan. Oh, do,
pray, see if you are not wounded! for if not, why
should you have been unconscious for so long a
time?”

As no wound could be found upon the person of
Henry—none at least more serious than here and
there a scratch and a bruise—the conclusion was
arrived at that he had been stunned in falling—
which was in a measure confirmed by the discovery
that his head in one place was much swollen and
tender to the touch. His face too still exhibited
some marks of the brutal treatment he had received
from Blodget and Hampton. After the examination
had been carefully made, Isaline breathed again;
and even ventured to hope, though with fear and
trembling, that all might yet be well with them.

“It is very strange,” said Henry, “that friends
and foes should all have left this ground so soon
after the fight! for I can see, by the position of the
sun, that no great length of time has elapsed since
the struggle. Ha!” he added, “I think I understand
it now! The whites have probably been
vanquished, and the Indians have gone in pursuit
of them! If so, the savages may come back again
to search the ground for plunder and untaken
scalps!”

“Oh, God forbid!” gasped Isaline; “for I am
sure it would be death to me to again fall into their
hands!”

“And you must not!” said Henry, with a shudder.
“Oh, God of mercy, you must not!—sooner would I
die to save you from such a fate!”

“But do not forget yourself, my noble, generous
friend!” returned Isaline; “do not forget that those
cruel beings would treat you even worse than me!
for while I might be doomed only to rough, harsh
usage, you would certainly be decreed to die at the
stake, in the most agonizing tortures! Oh, I tremble
to think what we have just escaped from! And oh!
how wonderfully, mysteriously, miraculously, we
have been preserved through all our perils and
brought together again!”

“Most wonderfully, most mysteriously, most
miraculously indeed!” said Henry. “Ah, my dear,
dear Isaline, pray tell me what has happened to
you? what terrible trials and sufferings and agonies
you have gone through since we parted before the
station, and I left you in the hands of two white
devils, to say nothing of their savage friends? and
how you came to be here in this pit, to receive me,
like a guardian angel, when my enemy hurled me
down, as he believed, to destruction? Oh, it is all
so strange and wonderful, that even now I can hardly
credit my senses, and am led to fear it is all a dream,
from which I, too, too soon shall wake!”

“Henry,” observed Isaline, solemnly, “it was
Providence that preserved and brought us together,
and Providence is God! That accounts for all—for
His ways are not as our ways, and His secrets are

past finding out. But Henry, my dearest friend,”
she added, glaneing timidly around and up through
the brambly screen, “have we time to remain here
and recount our adventures? Are we safe here?
Shall we not be in danger of recapture in case the
enemy return as you fear?”

“That is what I must consider at once!” replied
Henry. “Remain here, perfectly quiet, while I go
and reconnoitre.”

“Oh, you will be very careful, very prudent,
Henry?” anxiously spoke Isaline, as he cautiously
stretched himself up through the dense thicket to
peer about him.

“My darling, I will!” he answered. “I will not
forget that much of all we both have suffered, was
the result of my carelessness; and God forgive me,
if, with your sweet self in my care, I ever forget the
lesson I then learned!”

Henry first peered about the wood from his place
of concealment; and then, again cautioning Isaline
to remain perfectly quiet and not expose herself to
the chance view of any one, under any circumstances,
he crept carefully up from the pit, out into the more
open forest, leaving her, pale and trembling, to pray
for his safe return.

He was only absent a few minutes from her side,
and brought back with him two rifles.

“Here is a mystery which I cannot solve!” he
said in a whisper, as with great care he drew together
the bent and parted brambles over head, so that it

might appear to a casual eye that they had not been
disturbed. “When the savage and myself, with
both our pieces discharged, suddenly encountered
for that death struggle, which so providentially resulted
in placing me by the side of the only being on
earth I truly love, (for great events have been so ordered
that I dare speak thus to you now, my darling,)
we threw aside our larger weapons, and I have
now found both on the ground where they fell.
The question therefore arises, what has become of
the Indian with whom I fought? I remember of
being grappled with him, and struggling hard for
some considerable time, and of finally falling what
appeared to me a long, long way downward—though
the distance, it seems, was only a few feet; but if he
kept hold of me, as you say he did, what can have
become of him? and how is it—since, as we see, he
had strength enough left to get off—he did not kill
and scalp us both while we were in his power?”

“It seems to me now,” answered Isaline, reflecting,
“as if I might have uttered a wild cry, or
shriek, at the moment—but I am not sure. Would
that have been sufficient to have frightened him off,
Henry?”

“Perhaps--if, like the scouts, he had any superstitious
fears concerning the Phantom.”

“Oh, yes,” rejoined Isaline, quickly, “the Phantom
has actually appeared among the Indians. I saw it
myself, and they heard it, and they fear it, and think
it is an Evil Spirit!”

“Ha! perhaps then,” said Henry, jumping directly
at the truth, “you did utter a wild cry! (what more
likely?) and both whites and savages, mistaking the
sound for that of the object of their dread, at once
fled in dismay. This would certainly account for
their sudden departure, and is the most rational explanation
I can think of.”

“But even granting your conjecture to be the
correct one, Henry, is there no danger of their
coming back here soon?” anxiously inquired Isaline.

“Much may depend on circumstances.”

“And if they should, are we safe here? are we
concealed here from their sharp, prying eyes?”

“If we keep perfectly still and silent, I am inclined
to believe we may not be discovered: at least,
dear Isaline, I think we are quite as safe here as we
can be anywhere in this region. If we were to
attempt a hurried flight through the forest, we might
run into danger instead of running from it—the
eyes of some scouting savage might fall upon us
and thus seal our doom.”

“You think then we had better remain here,
Henry?”

“For the present, dearest—perhaps through the
day, to set off under cover of darkness. I have so
arranged these brambles over our heads, that I do
not think any eye will be sufficiently attracted to
them to cause any search to be made underneath.”

“But should the Indian you fought with return,

would he not be likely to look into this thicket, to
see if his foe be still here?”

“Perhaps. Still I cannot but think, dear Isaline,
since we have been so wonderfully preserved and
brought together, that a way will be provided for us
to be saved. If we can only remain here undiscovered
till night, and you find yourself able to
endure the fatigues of a ten-mile journey, with God's
help I will conduct you to a stronghold where you
will no longer be in danger from the barbarians of
the wilderness!”

“Are we indeed within ten miles of a station,
Henry?”

“The distance is not greater—it may be less.”

“And you know the way, Henry?”

“So well, dear Isaline, that I can easily lead you
thither after dark.”

“Oh, Heaven send us that deliverance!”

“And Heaven will, I do believe.”

Henry now cautiously proceeded to load the two
rifles, and place them in a position where they could
be grasped in an instant. This done, he gently
passed his arm around the slender form of Isaline,
drew her fondly to him, and looking, with the eye
of saddened love, full into her pale, sweet, lovely
countenance, said tenderly:

“Isaline, my darling, now let me hear your tale
of suffering since we parted—that parting, my sweet
angel, that almost broke my heart—when I flew
away from you as if I were a coward—but only

that I might save you in the end, or come back as
your avenger!”

“A parting,” said Isaline, “that thrilled me with
joy unspeakable, because of the belief that you
might pass beyond the reach of your foes!”

“God bless you, my own!” returned Henry, impulsively
drawing the noble girl to his heart, and
impressing upon her sweet lips a seal of deep, pure,
holy love.

Trembling with happiness, with hope, and with
fear—with the warm blood mounting upward and
giving the whole face a radiant glow—or falling
back to the heart and leaving an icy pallor in its
place—in accordance with the powerful and conflicting
emotions that controlled her—Isaline began and
told her tale.

Henry listened with intense and breathless interest,
with a wildly beating heart, and with his feelings
and passions so strongly stirred that he could
not all the time keep silent, but was occasionally
forced to interrupt the sweet narrator with an exclamation
of anger, or of pity, or to ask some important
question.

Among other things, the Phantom excited his
interest and curiosity to a wonderful degree; but
though his speculations failed to solve the mystery,
they tended to convince him that it was some strange
animal—perhaps of an unknown genus or species.
Isaline, however, who had seen it, under the strong
excitement of awe and fear, was not prepared to

agree with him, because it had suddenly vanished
from her sight; and how could a mere animal vanish?

“Optical illusion,” explained Henry, who was
something of a philosopher as well as artist. “Remember
the hour, my dear Isaline, the dull gray
of morning—the distance of the object from where
you were lying—the excited state of your feelings,
affecting your vision—and then the scene, so every
way favorable to a sudden disappearance by the
dropping of the Thing to the ground, or its quick
gliding behind a tree, or its pushing into a thicket.”

“No, Henry, it vanished!” persisted Isaline. Like
most persons who have seen anything wonderful or
marvellous, its mysterious properties had with Isaline
been rather increased than lessened by subsequent
reflection. “I was looking directly at it, had
not for a moment taken my eyes from it, when it
suddenly vanished, as if into air.”

“Well, let it pass for the present, for I am anxious
to hear the rest of your painful story, dear Isaline,”
said Henry, knowing how useless it would be
to argue against an illusive conviction without substantial
proof to sustain his points.

Isaline went on to the conclusion, and her eventful
narration affected Henry in the manner described.
During some of the details concerning Methoto and
Hampton, he could not keep himself passive; and
unconsciously his fingers clutched at his throat, as
if his anger were choking him, or hovered convulsively

around the haft of his knife, while his lips not
unfrequently parted with a bitter, threatening exclamation.
The final result, however—the bringing
of himself and the being he loved together in so
strange a manner—tended to soothe and soften down
his revengeful irritation, and inspire him with a feeling
of reverential awe; so that at last he bowed his
head humbly, and said so emnly:

“It was the hand of God!”

At the urgent request of Isaline, Henry now told
the story of his own adventures, after his escape
from his captors before the station; but these we
will not dwell upon. He had fortunately soon met
with a large body of armed Kentuckians, who had
been brought to the rescue from a distant station by
Rough Tom; and he had subsequently been provided
with arms and clothing, and had joined in the
pursuit of the flying Indians. Rough Tom had received
him with the wildest demonstrations of joy,
as one who had come back from the dead; and
learning from him that Isaline was a captive, the
rough woodman had, in his characteristic manner,
sworn to rescue her or lose his own scalp. Night
soon coming on, they had not been able to pursue
the Indians far that day, but had started on their
trail at the break of morn. When they reached the
place where the Indians had divided, their own
force had also divided, and a part had followed each
trail—Henry and the scouts pursuing the larger
party, because they had discovered that Isaline had

been taken along with the main body. Subsequently
their force, large enough at that time to
have overpowered the savages, had again been divided,
the other division striking off to the northward,
toward the Ohio, with the view of alarming the country
in that direction and effectually cutting the Indians
off from that river when they should attempt
to leave the country in that direction, as it was supposed
they soon would. By pushing on rapidly,
giving themselves little rest, the direct pursuers,
some twenty in number, had succeeded in overtaking
the savages on the present morning, and the battle
in which Isaline had so strangely been involved had
been the immediate result. At the time of the attack,
about half of the Indians were mounted; but
these had quickly given their horses in charge of a
few—who had taken them, with the plunder they
were carrying, beyond the reach of the flying bullets—and
then all had joined in the contest, fighting
with a desperation that was giving them an assurance
of victory at the moment Henry lost his senses
in the manner shown. He knew that some had
been killed and wounded on both sides; but what
had since become of the living or dead, of course
he could not say.

“When we first came up with the Indians, dear
Isaline,” said Henry, “I eagerly looked for you; but
not seeing you among them, I had reason to suppose
you had been killed; and then, with such mental
anguish as tongue cannot express, I sternly resolved

that while a single savage lived I would not come
out of the fight alive; and that was the cause of my
reckless desperation, of which you were to some extent
a witness.”

“Ah, my dear, dear friend,” returned Isaline, “it
is fortunate I then little dreamed that the white man
I saw struggling with the Indian was yourself—
though I thought it possible you might be in the
fight—or I fear I should have impulsively rushed
out from my hiding-place, and probably both of us
would have been destroyed.”

“God bless you, my darling!” ejaculated Henry,
again pressing the lovely maiden to his heart.
“How well everything was ordered for the salvation
of us both!” he reverently added. “Ah, yes, dear
Isaline, I truly see the hand of God in all!”

There was a long, solemn pause, during which
both, with souls full of gratitude for their wonderful
preservation, offered up silent prayers of thanksgiving.

“Was Rough Tom with you when the fight commenced?”
at length inquired Isaline.

“Yes, he and the scouts that came with you down
the Ohio, and a dozen or so of other borderers that
you do not know. Ah! old Tom may be rough, as
his sobriquet implies,” said Henry, with an enthusiastic
glow, “but his heart is true to his friends, and
I shall never forget his eager determination to rescue
the colonel's daughter, as he calls you.”

“Heaven bless him!” ejaculated Isaline; “and I
hope and pray no harm has befallen him!”

“God forbid!” said Henry, quickly; “for rough
and unlettered as he is, I have not in all this wide
world a friend to supply his place. I have not told
you what I learned from him since we met—that he
was on his way back from the train in search of us,
when he saw the tornado tear through the wood
before him, and believed we were both involved in
it and destroyed—notwithstanding which, he went
on, as soon as the storm was over, and, while picking
his way through the fallen timbers, discovered
the Indians. He then fled back to the train, which
he found at the ford, with the water so raised that
it could only be crossed by swimming over the
horses. He gave the alarm—and a wild, terrific
one it was—and had barely succeeded in getting
the whole party across, when the savages appeared
on the opposite bank and fired a volley over, killing
a little child. Only for his turning back to seek
us, the whole number would either have been killed
or captured—for they would not have attempted to
cross the river in its swollen state, and the Indians
would have had them at their mercy.”

“Ah, Providence again!” said Isaline; “do you
not see? If we had not turned off from our companions,
no one would have turned back to seek us,
the Indians would not have been discovered, the
ford would not have been crossed, and all would
have been involved in one common ruin.”

“True! true! true!” slowly and thoughtfully replied
Henry. “Yes, I see, dear Isaline—I see!
Such are the mysterious ways of Providence indeed!”

“Do you know if my poor girls reached the fort
in safety?” inquired Isaline.

“Yes, and they are almost inconsolable for the loss
of their sweet mistress.”

“Poor dear things!” sighed Isaline; “I believe
they truly love me!”

It was the design of Henry, as we have shown,
that he and Isaline should if possible remain in their
place of concealment through the day, and set off
after dark to find their way to the nearest station;
and in pursuance of this plan they had passed a
couple of hours together, in undisturbed happiness,
when, alas! a series of events took place which were
destined to plunge them into the deepest depths of
wretchedness and woe.