University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
OVER THE CLIFF.

It would be worse than useless to attempt a portrayal
of the feelings of Isaline Holcombe as she
found herself being borne away by the dreadful Methoto.
She could not have described them herself,
because there are certain sensations of horrid despair
for which language has no adequate expression.
Fancy yourself being carried off by a demon into
outer darkness, and you have the nearest approach
to what she experienced that can possibly be given.
She had screamed out in her agony of horror, and then
had become silent, though not unconscious. She
knew and felt and thought rapidly, with a thousand
recollections of the past crowding upon her every
moment; but hers was the passively physical state of
awful dread and uncertainty of one standing on the
drop of the scaffold waiting to be launched into eternity.
Away and away they sped through the forest,
with its gathering gloom of advancing night, Methoto
holding her with arms of iron and urging onward
his rushing beast. She heard the yells of his
pursuers for a time, and prayed they might be successful
in recapturing her—for far better, she
thought, to be in the hands of savages and near him

she loved, than alone in the power of the strange being
who was bearing her she knew not whither, nor
to what doom. But as night drew on, even this
poor hope died out—for the sounds of pursuit gradually
grew distant and then ceased altogether—and
Isaline felt that nothing but God's mercy could save
her.

“Squaw girl mine!” now muttered Methoto, as
if to himself, with his strong arms pressing her even
closer to him.

It is one of the mercies of Heaven, that hope,
phoœnix like, often springs into new life from the
very ashes of despair; and so was it now with poor
Isaline, in this her darkest hour of trial. Her spirits
had sunk to the last degree at which consciousness
could be retained, and for a time she felt utterly
prostrated and helpless—as if she were nothing but
a piece of dull clay in the hands of a fiery potter.
Then came back, as a ray of light gleaming in upon
a sea of night, a slight gathering of courage, and a
faint renewal of hope, each strengthening the other
into new and active life. She was alone with this
man, she reasoned—who, dark and brutalized
though he might be, was still human and swayed by
selfish passions, such as govern most men, however
they may be concealed or displayed—and why not
use her only weapon of self-defence, and play upon
his feelings for a righteous purpose—the protection
and salvation of herself? Why had he snatched her
away from all others and deserted his companions

forever? Was it not because of a strong, wild passion
he had conceived for her? too selfishly barbarous
to be dignified by the holy term of love, and
yet not unlike it in some of its effects! Then why
not make use of this passion—which, if left to its
wild course, would destroy her—why not make use
of it and mould it and control it to save herself?
She had once before tried her powers of fascination
on him with the success she sought, and why not
again? As he had fled from the Indians in a way
that would most probably preclude forever a return
to them, might she not persuade him to seek out some
of his own race and color, and thus get herself into
the hands of men strong enough to take her from his
possession and restore her to her father? or if not
this, might she not succeed in keeping herself from
harm till some opportune moment should arrive for
escaping from his vigilance?

With this worthy object in view, poor Isaline,
with her very soul racked with anguish at the recollection
of the terrible events that had been crowded
upon her within the last few days, prepared to play
a part at such total variance with her feelings that
she even shuddered while she contemplated it.
Summoning all her faculties to her aid, she at length
spoke the name of Methoto, in a low, quiet tone.

“Oogh!” grunted the white savage.

“Where are you going?” asked Isaline.

“Run away from Injun!” was the answer, in a

tone indicating some surprise, for evidently the
question was not expected.

“You will not harm me, Methoto?” said Isaline,
in the same quiet way.

“Me no hurt squaw girl!” was the reply.

“Will you not tell me then where you are going?”

“Me don't know—get heap away from Injun.”

“The Indians have already given up the pursuit,
I think.”

“May be so Injun follow trail to-morrow.”

“Then we had better go to some station, where
we can be protected!” said Isaline.

“No un'stand much speak Englee!” was the reply.
Isaline repeated her suggestion in even a more
simple form.

“Methoto 'fraid white man hang um.”

“If Methoto will treat me well, and do me no
harm, I will say to the white men they must not
harm Methoto.”

“Oogh! squaw girl mine!” said the other.

“Yes, I am in your hands; and I can say to the
white men that Methoto has been kind to me; and
then they may not hurt you, but give you handsome
presents.”

“No want present—want squaw girl live Methoto!”

“Well, could I not live there with you better
than here?”

“May be so white girl run away again!” said the
suspicious white savage. “Best stay in wood, guess!”

“But how can we live in the wood? We must
have something to eat.”

“Me got gun—shoot heap.”

“But I must have corn as well as meat.”

“Me get heap corn for squaw wife.”

“Where can you get corn?”

“Me go steal um.”

“But we must have a house to live in.”

“Me go where house white squaw see when run
away.”

“That is a great way off, and we cannot get there
to-night.”

“Much ride fast all night.”

“But it is dark now, Methoto, and I am afraid the
bushes will hurt me: they often strike against my
face.”

“Oogh! so me show!” said the other, bending
Isaline over toward the neck of the horse as he
spoke, and then putting his own head down near
hers. “So bushes no hurt!” he pursued, urging his
beast at the same time to greater speed. “Much
ride so heap fast, no hurt!” he added.

“But where are you going, Methoto?” repeated
the poor girl, with a feeling of despair.

“Much run heap, then stop!” he said.

Isaline now felt there was nothing more she could
say or do at present, and so she remained quiet and
silent, permitting matters to take their own course,
but praying Heaven to guide her to some point of
safety.

Away and away sped the panting beast, under the
trees and through the thickets, up hill and down,
going she knew not whither, but swiftly putting
mile after mile between her and him to whom her
soul went out in a great agony of yearning sympathy
and love, and whom she had left a bound and
helpless prisoner in the hands of cruel savages and
might never behold again with mortal eyes. Oh!
the agony, the unutterable anguish, of that long,
dismal, painful ride!

Methoto did not pretend to guide his horse. It
would have been useless attempting to do so, for
the beast could see much better than himself. He
did not seem to care whither the animal went, so
that he kept on and on, and put mile after mile
between him and the savages. It was a heavy
barden the poor beast was carrying at such a rapid
pace; but though he foamed and panted, Methoto
gave no heed to his condition, and still urged him
forward, taxing his strength to the utmost, and
seeming to care for nothing but his own selfish purpose.

“Oh, Methoto, you will kill me!” at length
groaned poor Isaline.

“Me no hurt squaw girl!” replied the white Indian,
mistaking the meaning of his fair prisoner.

“Why do you not stop? at least for rest?” said
Isaline.

“Bime-by stop!” grunted Methoto. “Get much
heap away from Injun!”

The horse soon after entered a small stream and
stopped himself to drink.

“Water good break trail!” said Methoto, as the
idea occurred to him, that here, by this means, he
might baffle pursuit. “Oogh! water much good
fool Injun!” he pursued. “Us go heap 'long water!”

He waited till the panting beast had drank his
fill, and then guided him slowly down the bed of
the stream, the water of which was only a few inches
deep, but the footing rough and uncertain. He kept
on in this way for a mile or more, and then said,
with a sort of laugh:

“Guess Injun have heap hunt now!”

He then turned his horse to the opposite bank,
and again urged him forward through the wood, as
uncertain about where he was, or whither he was
going, as Isaline herself.

At last they ascended a short, but rather steep,
hill or ridge; and just as they fairly reached the
top of it, the wild, terrifying shriek of the Phantom
was heard ringing through the forest. Isaline was
startled, but Methoto was scared. As superstitious
as any of the savages, he believed it to be a demon
of darkness; and remembering what the Indians
had said concerning whoever should attempt to
harm Isaline—and remembering, too, the misfortune
which had overtaken Hampton for doing far less
perhaps than he was doing now—he suddenly felt
his heart sink, and began to tremble like a coward.
Instinctively he jerked out his tomahawk and struck

the horse a violent blow on the flank. The beast,
already snorting with fear, made a wild leap forward,
and the next moment attempted to recoil on
the verge of a precipice. Too late—the momentum
was too great—and, after hanging poised for a bare
moment, over he went; and riders and horse went
down—down—far down—upon the rough and stony
earth below!

The noble brute struck with a dull shock; and
then he himself sent forth a shriek more wild and
terrifying than that which had been the primary
cause of the disaster. He shrieked and struggled
for a few moments; and then, uttering a long, heavy
dismal groan, remained still in death.

And his riders? how was it with them?

Isaline lay on one side of the dead beast, and
Methoto on the other. They had both struck with
a shock, and a rebound that had sundered and sent
them different ways; as if Nature herself, abhorring
the late union, had here asserted her great law of
repulsion and parted them forever—separated the
dark, guilty man from the sweet, innocent maiden.

Both lay still. Were they both dead? was all
over with them? Had their mortal existence already
closed and eternity already opened upon their
immortal being?

For a short time after the last expiring struggle
of the beast, beth lay there, upon the hard, stony
earth, near the rippling plash of water, in the dark

gloom of night, motionless as the huge rocks above them.

Then there began to be signs of life in one. Methoto
stirred and groaned—stirred and groaned again
—and then, slowly and painfully, raised up his head
and body—a ghastly sight if he could have been
seen—his body all bruised and his face all bloody.
Slowly he turned his face around and tried to pierce
the gloom. He could not see far enough to comprehend
his situation. To the left and above him rose
the high cliff over which he had fallen—to the right
and a little below, stretched out a dark river—and
before him lay the dead body of his horse, with perhaps
another dead body, a human body, a little beyond.
He put up his hand and felt of the cuts and
bruises on his head, wiped the blood from his face
and eyes, and then attempted to get upon his feet.
He made the effort, shrieked and fell back. Miserable
wretch! the punishment of Heaven was now upon
him! Both of his legs were broken, and one was
fearfully shattered and crushed!

The shriek of Methoto seemed to rouse up Isaline.
She uttered two or three low moans, and then
raised her head and looked wildly and fearfully
around her. She evidently did not comprehend all
at first—for she said, as if speaking to herself, putting
one hand to her forehead:

“Where am I? where am I?”

Methoto groaned, but Isaline did not heed.

“Ha! what is this?” exclaimed Isaline, raising

herself still more, and looking wonderingly at the
dead beast, which lay between her and the white
savage. “Ah, yes, I remember now! That strange,
terrible man was carrying me off, when we went
over some awful precipice—down, down, down—
Heaven only knows where! Am I alone? has
he gone and left me? or has he been killed by the
fall?”

Methoto groaned again.

“Ha! what is that?”

“Me killed!” groaned the white Indian.

“Is it you, Methoto?” said Isaline, getting upon
her feet and looking quickly around, till her eyes
fell upon him, stretched out beyond the horse, like a
black shadow. “Are you badly hurt, Methoto?”
she asked, in a tone of sympathy, all her sweet, womanly
feelings rising above the remembrance of her
wrongs, at this knowledge of distress, and going up
to Heaven like a living prayer.

“Oogh! me killed!” groaned the sufferer again.
“Water! water! water!”

The shock of the fall, which had partly stunned
her together with her overstrained feelings, both
before and while she was going down, as she believed,
to certain death, had brought on a temporary
swoon, or state of unconsciousness; and this, and a
few slight bruises, were, through the mercy of that
Providence in which she had so much faith, the
only injuries our sweet heroine had received. She,
therefore, without difficulty, walked around to where

Methoto was lying stretched out in the most agonizing
pain, and stood beside that dark man of crime
like an angel of light.

“Squaw girl no hurt Methoto—me heap sorry!”
said the poor wretch, in a piteous tone, evidently
thinking he must say something to appease the anger
of her who now, by the reversed condition in which
they were placed, had it in her power to avenge her
own wrongs.

“If you are sorry, Methoto,” said Isaline, kindly
and solemnly, “may the Great Spirit forgive you!”

“Me heap sorry!” groaned Methoto. “Squaw girl
forgive?” he asked, with eager earnestness.

“You probably acted according to your nature
and the light you had received, and I will let the
past go and do what I can for you, now that you
have met with such fearful retribution!” answered
Isaline.

Methoto only partly comprehended her, and
quickly repeated:

“Squaw girl forgive?”

“As you understand it—yes!” replied Isaline.

“Me love squaw girl heap!”

“You must not talk so to me!” said Isaline
reprovingly; “our natures are too far asunder for
that!”

“Me no un'stand much speak.”

“You must not talk to me of love!” repeated Isaline;
“I do not like to hear you. I cannot love

you, but I will do what I can to help you now.
Where are you hurt?”

“Leg broke! broke! broke!” groaned the other.
“Water! water! water!”

“I hear water near us,” said Isaline, kindly, “and
I think I see a river, but I have no means for bringing
it to you.”

Methoto thought of his cap, made of the skin of a
raccoon, which was lying by his side; and handing
this to Isaline, he said:

“Fill water!”

Isaline hurried down to the stream, dipped it full,
and returned in haste to the groaning sufferer with
about half of it, the other half having leaked out on
the way. Methoto seized the rude vessel with both
hands, and almost poured the remainder down his
throat.

“Good!” he grunted. “More! more!”

Isaline went again, and still again, before Methoto
became satisfied.

“Can I do anything more for you?” asked the noble-hearted
girl, seeming to forget herself in her
sympathy for the sufferings of one who had in effect,
if not in intent, proved himself a cruel foe.

“Oh, me killed!” groaned the other. “Where me
go?”

“Alas, poor man, I cannot tell you—I know not
where we are myself!” replied Isaline, now trembling
at the thought of her own lonely, unprotected

condition, and recalling, with a terrible pang, the
still more awful condition of him she loved.

They had ridden for hours—they had ridden mile
upon mile—and yet, strange to say, they were now
less than a league and a half from the Indian camp
they had left! Without a guide, the poor dumb
beast had taken by chance a long, round-about
course, and had at last fallen over one of the precipitous
cliffs of the Kentucky River.

While poor Isaline stood before Methoto in harrowing
perplexity, and the latter lay writhing and
groaning with pain, that most dismal of all sounds, to
be heard at night when abroad in the forest alone,
the howl of a prowling, hungry wolf, came borne up
against the light breeze and made Isaline shudder.
Soon after, the first howl was answered by another
in a different direction; and then by another, and
still another; and every minute the trembling maiden
fancied the dismal sounds drew nearer, as if the
smell of blood had tainted the whole atmosphere
and was bringing these ravenous creatures to their
feast.

“Oh, merciful Heaven, we shall have the wild
wolves upon us!” she exclaimed in terror.

“Where gun?” asked Methoto, quickly, as if in
alarm, and lifting up his body with his hands.

“I do not know—I have not seen it!” answered
the trembling Isaline.

“Me drop—squaw find—quick!”

Isaline began a hurried search, getting down on

her knees and feeling all around with her hands.
She spent some five minutes in this manner, and yet
met with no success—the howling of the wolves
meantime sounding oftener and nearer, as if they
were gradually collecting together and approaching
the fated spot where the dead beast lay.

“Oh, my God! we shall be torn to pieces at last!”
she exclaimed, wringing her hands in terror.

“Squaw girl find Methoto gun!” cried the now
frightened white savage.

“I cannot find it, Methoto!” almost gasped Isaline.
“I have felt all around, on every side, and it
is not here! Oh, Heaven, what is to be done? The
wolves are coming nearer and nearer. There! hark!
that one was not far off! Oh, Father in Heaven,”
she prayed, with clasped hands and upturned eyes,
“Thou who hast in Thy holy wisdom preserved me
through so many perils, vouchsafe me some deliverance
now, that I be not torn to death by these wild
beasts!”

“Must go water!” cried Methoto, beginning to
drag himself toward the river.

At that moment, while the dismal voices of the
gathering wolves were filling the souls of Isaline
and Methoto with terror, the strange, wild, prolonged,
quavering, and seemingly unearthly shriek
of the Phantom, came thrilling down from above,
as if it might be the agonized cry of a lost spirit,
or an avenging demon.

For a moment Isaline stood speechless, as if paralyzed,
and Methoto uttered a wild, terrified yell.

The wolves howled louder and nearer, and the
Phantom or Demon shrieked again.

Isaline felt as if her senses were leaving her, and
Methoto forgot his pain in his terror.

Again the wolves howled, and again the Unknown
shrieked.

It was as if Pandemonium were coming to earth,
Finding again the use of her limbs, Isaline sprung
to Methoto and cowered down by his side. Poor
girl! it was the only shadow of protection that occurred
to her almost distracted mind. She felt as if
she must be beside something human, or else lose
her senses.

“Must get river! must get river!” groaned the
terrified Methoto, making a desperate struggle to
drag himself forward by his hands.

“Here, I will help you all I can!” cried Isaline,
starting up and seizing one of his arms. “Far better
to drown than to be torn to death by wild beasts!”

“'Fraid Devil catch um!” gasped the wounded
white savage, more fearful of the shrieking Evil
Spirit, as he supposed the Unknown to be, than of
the hungry wolves, which were not likely to attack
a human being at that season of the year, especially
with other less dangerous food so near.

The water was only a few feet distant from the
base of the cliff, and, assisted by Isaline, Methoto
made a terrible effort to reach it, dragging his

crushed and broken limbs over the stony beach,
with such excruciating pain as almost to deprive
him of his senses.

The water was not deep along the shore, and
Methoto soon reached and dragged himself into it,
still assisted by Isaline, who waded in with less fear
of danger there than from the beach where the
approaching wolves would soon be gathered.

And where they were soon gathered indeed; for,
looking back, she presently beheld fiery eyes and
shadowy forms, and heard the most terrific and
savage growls, as they leaped in together upon the
carcass of the unfortunate horse, and began to rend
it in pieces and devour it with the wildest, maddened
fury. It was a sight calculated to shake the stoutest
nerves and make the bravest heart quail; and how
poor, unprotected Isaline could look upon it and
not faint with terror, was a mystery to herself. But
she had of late been through so many perils, and
seen so much of the terrible and horrible, that unconsciously
to herself her keen senses had become
somewhat dulled, like one who has borne great physical
pain so long as to feel far less acutely than at
first.

Had Methoto been the man he was before he met
with the accident that rendered him more helpless
than a child, and been armed with his trusty rifle,
he would not have feared to encounter the formidable
pack of wild beasts alone; but now he was

terribly frightened, and wanted to get away from
the awful scene.

“Much get in river—you draw—get heap away!”
he said to Isaline.

She understood him to mean that he would like
to get into deeper water and be drawn far down the
stream.

“I am afraid to venture in any further, lest I miss
my footing, get beyond my depth, and drown!” she
replied.

“Me go—you stay land!” he rejoined.

“But I cannot aid you if you get beyond my
reach.”

“Me fix um!” he pursued, producing a thoug of
deer-skin, of some ten or twelve feet in length,
which he carried about with him as an article often
needed in his forest life.

As he could use his hands and arms, he quickly
made an end of this fast to one of the latter, and
gave the other end to Isaline, who was to move
along the beach and keep him from being carried
off by the current while floating along down the
stream in deep water.

Just as this arrangement was completed, and
while the ravenous wolves were snarling and fighting
over the dead body of the horse, which they
had more than half devoured, both Isaline and Methoto
were still more amazed and terrified by a
strange and novel sight.

There was another wild, fearful shriek of the

Phantom, followed by a great commotion among the
wolves, which began to scatter in different directions,
as if they were being assailed by some superior
animal. In another minute not one of the beasts
was to be seen, but in their place a shadowy figure,
like a human being, which glided down toward the
trembling Isaline, carrying in its hands, or claws, or
whatever they were, something that looked like a
formidable club. She would have screamed in her
terror, but she was speechless; she would have fled,
but she had lost the power of motion. As for
Methoto, he lay in the shallow water, perfectly helpless,
looking at the Apparition with open mouth,
dilated nostrils, suspended breath, and glaring eyes.
Both seemed to feel and know it was the dreadful
Unknown of the forest; but neither had the power
to get away from it: they were literally spell-bound.

It glided up to Isaline and stood before her, face
to face, its bright eyes looking directly into hers.
It was only star-light, but she could see enough to
convince her it was the same fearful Creature she
had first beheld in the Indian camp, with its short,
smooth hair completely covering it—face, arms,
hands and body. It stood before her in silence, and
looked right at her for quite a minute, she still conscious
and staring back, but feeling as if she had
suddenly been turned into marble. Then one hand
of this mysterious Thing was placed upon Isaline's
face, and brought slowly down over it, and then up
and down again, over her head, and around her neck

and shoulders, and down about her waist, where it
seemed to fondle and press, and draw her up nearer,
like the arm of affection. Isaline felt her hair rise
and her blood turn to ice; but she could not have
moved or spoken then if her soul's salvation had depended
on it. And yet, as if this were not enough
to kill her with terror, there now came a wonderful
and mysterious transformation. The hairy hands
of this Mysterious Thing were suddenly carried
upward to its own head, which was the next moment
apparently lifted off and put aside; and in its place
was seen a face—a strange, white, human, girlish
face—with two bright eyes still looking straight into
hers, and seemingly charming her like the eyes of
a serpent.

Methoto had seen something of this, but dimly,
and yet enough to excite a feeling of such absolute
terror that he sent forth a wild, despairing shriek.

Instantly the Unknown started back, grasped its
club, whirled it aloft, and turned to him, still retaining
its white, human face in its proper place,
and holding its brown, hairy face and head in its
hand.

“Devil, go leave me?” shireked the terrified Methoto,
in the Indian tongue, and making a desperate
effort to throw himself further back into the river.

The Apparition advanced into the water and bent
down over him.

Methoto yelled, and felt at his belt for a weapon.
He found his knife still there, whipped it out, and,

raising up his body as far as he could, made a thrust
at the object of his dread and fear. Like lightning
the thrust was parried by a downward blow of the
club of the Phantom; and the knife, by a strange
fatality, was driven deep into the bowels of the
wretched man, inflicting a mortal wound.

Methoto sunk back, with a wild groan, the Phantom
uttered a horrible shriek, and poor Isaline
swooned and fell.

When morning once more dawned upon that
tragic scene, it displayed the ghastly sight of a dead
white man upon the beach, clad in skins, half in and
half out of the water, its livid face contorted and upturned,
and its rigid hands clutched in the gravelly
soil, as if the spirit had been wrested from the body
by a convulsive spasm: a bloody knife lay near it,
a rifle further up the beach, and, close under the precipitous
cliff, the mangled and half-eaten body of a
dead horse. Overhead the early vultures were flapping
their filthy wings, screaming forth their discordant
notes, and gathering to the horrid feast,
which they had already scented from afar. The dark,
jagged rocks rose frowningly above the awful scene,
the dark river swept along with its dull ripple and
dismal plash, the breeze seemed to moan as it floated
timidly by, and no motion, nor sound, nor life was
there, save only such as made even death more
horrible.'

Where was the strange Unknown?

Gone!

Where was poor Isaline Holcombe?

Gone!

Had they gone together? Had the one borne
off the other? Would either ever be heard of
more?

Had you asked the rocks, the woods, the waters,
you would have heard only the solemn moan:

“Gone!—Gone!—Gone!”