University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
HOPE IN DESPAIR.

The night that Isaline was carried off by Methoto
—that night in which she was exposed to all the perils
and suffered all the horrors recorded in the previous
chapter—it has been shown that Henry, owing to
a heavy stupor, caused by excessive mental anguish,
slept soundly; the second night, after a hard day's
march, during which he made his escape from the
Indians, it has also been shown he did not sleep at
all; the day that followed, on which he and Tom
went back on the main trail and set off on the other,
proved one of great excitement, perplexity and fatigue;
and it will be remembered we left him, with
the third night closing in, in a state of great mental
disturbance and depression, praying God to support
and aid him.

While Tom had cooked his venison, and eaten it
like a hungry man, laying in a store to supply the
present and some portion of the uncertain future, he
had had great difficulty in persuading Henry to
touch it at all; and it was not in fact till the old
woodman had positively declared that “ef he didn't
fill his holler, like a decent Christian, he'd see him
hanged afore he'd go a step furder with him arter

the gal,” that he had done anything like justice to
his physical requirements.

The night alluded to was not cold—in fact the
weather all along had been unusually warm for the
time of year—but the air, after sunset, was moderately
cool; and as our friends had no blankets now,
and only the little clothing on them which the Indians
had not stripped off, Tom thought they had
better have a fire.

“I don't s'pect that ar' cussed white imp and his
red niggers'll come back on thar own track,” he said,
“and as thar arn't no others about he-yar, we won't
run no risk, I reckons.”

“Do as you think best, Tom!” sighed Henry, casting
himself down and dropping his head upon his
hands, as one buried in heavy thought or gloom.

Tom collected the materials, and soon the forest
around was lit up with the crackling flames.

“Agh!” grunted Tom, rubbing his hands with an
air of satisfaction, as he squatted down before the
cheerful blaze; “this feels good and looks good, and
totes me back to old times, Harry, when me and you
used to do a heap of tramping.”

If Henry heard he did not heed, but still sat with
his face buried in his hands; and after looking at
him for a minute, Tom observed:

“Look-a he-yar, younker—whar's the use o' you
agwine on in a way that'll jest spile you fur to-morrow's
work, hey?”

“I cannot help my thoughts, Tom.”

“Yes you kin. Lay down and go to sleep, and
git up fresh!”

“How can I sleep, Tom, while I am in such uncertainty
about poor Isaline? Even now perhaps
she may be suffering such cruel indignities as would
make my blood run cold to name!”

“And then ag'in she mayn't; and let's sleep on
the mayn't, Harry!”

“I tremble to think of her in the hands of Methoto!
and I tremble more to think of her in the
power of Blodget! Oh, Tom, suppose that latter
fiend has overtaken her—and that, in the quarrel
likely to follow, she has been murdered? or suppose
that the decoy has secured her and gone on after
the others, and shall succeed in getting her out of
the country?”

“And so you mought go on s'posing till you died,
and whar's the use? It don't make nothing no
better, younker—no, sir! Ef you don't lay down
and go to sleep, you'll use yourself up; and then
s'pose you could save her, and hadn't got strength
enough to do it?”

“True! true! your advice is good, Tom; but I
fear I shall not be able to follow it. Oh, if it were
only morning again!”

“Ef you'll only go to sleep, like a decent Christian,
it 'll be morning in about two shakes of a
dorg's tail!” said Tom.

“I will do my best,” sighed Henry, “for I know
the folly of losing my rest as well as you!”

Soon after this conversation, he laid himself down
near the fire, thinking it impossible to lose himself
for even a minute. But fortunately he was mistaken.
Over-wearied nature enforced her law of
restoration, and in ten minutes he was sound asleep,
and did not wake till the hand of Tom shook him
in the gray of morning.

“I told you so, Harry!” said the old scout, with
an air of triumph, as Henry started up, rubbed his
eyes, and looked quickly and wonderingly around
him. “I told you you'd put her through in no
time, and you done it beautiful!”

“Is it indeed morning?”exclaimed Henry.

“It arn't nothing else, lad.”

“Then let us be on the move and make the most
of our time!”

“That's your tork, and I'm with you to the death!”
said the other. “I knowed you'd want to be a
tramping with the fust light, and so I've cooked and
eat my breakfast, and toasted enough of meat besides
to last us all day.”

“God bless you, Tom!” cried Henry.

“Yes, I wants to see that ar' gal cl'ar, purty nigh
as bad as you does, and so I've ben up and fixed
everything fur a start. Ef I looked as ef I tuk it
kind o' easy last night, I didn't; but I knowed thar
warn't no use o' talking and worrying, and so I
made the best on't. Warn't I right?”

“Unquestionably you were, my brave friend! and

I must thank you for my feeling wonderfully refreshed
by a long, sound sleep.”

As soon as it was light enough to see the trail,
they set off at a fast walk, Henry feeling in rather
better spirits, because of his night's rest and the long
day he had before him for active work. They pursued
the trail for several hours, without any incident
worthy of note; when, after ascending a hill which
commanded an extensive view, Henry remarked:

“Tom, does it not strike you that we have been a
long way round, and are now coming back to something
near where we started?”

“It has so'thing of that look, I allow!” replied the
other, glancing at the position of the sun, which was
dimly visible through a thick haze.

“Methoto must have ridden on a venture in the
dark, letting his horse take what course he pleased!”
was the correct conjecture of the young artist.

“That's it to a dot!” coincided Tom.

“I am so fearful that Blodget and his Indians
have overtaken him, wrested Isaline from his
clutches, and gone off on the trail of their friends!
If we could come upon Methoto alone, we should be
two to one; but if the savages have got her in their
power, it will be desperate work to rescue her.”

“Ef so, we'll hev to dorg thar steps, and lay low,
and wait till we kin cotch 'em snoozing!” rejoined
the fearless woodman. “Agh! when I thinks how
we got away from t'other niggers, I feels as ef we kin
do most anything.”

“Oh, God be merciful and send her deliverance!”
prayed Henry.

Some two hours after this, they came to the stream
where, it will be remembered, Methoto broke the
trail by walking his horse down the bed of it for
something like a mile. Here was unexpected
trouble and perplexity. The Indians had been at a
loss, and had crossed over, and gone up and down
the stream on both sides; and there was such a confusion
of steps, going backward and forward, crossing
and recrossing, that more than once the impatient
lover became almost distracted.

“Oh, this is terrible!” he groaned; “to be here
doing absolutely nothing, and the sun fast going
down!”

“Ef we only knowed which way the devil went,
we mought find the eend of this afore the Day of
Judgment!” grumbled Tom; “but as it ar', Harry,
thar's nothing left for it, I s'pect, but to tramp fust
one way and then t'other, up and down, both sides,
till we finds it!”

A trail at the best, unless broad and clear, is a
slow thing to follow, because there are so many
places where the ground, being hard, takes only a
faint impression of the passing steps, even when it
is a horse, and none at all when it is a moccasined
foot; and then the point beyond, where it resumes,
has to be found, sometimes by a slow and careful
process of search through the whole vicinity; but
where it is intentionally broken off in the water, the

case becomes still more difficult, as it is impossible
to tell whether the party pursued went up or down
the stream, and whether they came out on the hither
or thither bank. An hour may be consumed in
searching a space comprised in a few rods only; but
when, as in the instance under notice, the break of
the trail has taken the long reach of a mile, it may
require hours of the most careful and skilful toil to
discover the point of resumption.

Tom and Henry did indeed work for hours, with
the most unremitting diligence, before they could
find where the horse of Methoto had again struck
off through the forest—the search of the party before
them making matters worse instead of better; and
when at last they did find it, Henry saw, with a feeling
of dismay akin to despair, that the sun was only
some two or three hours above the horizon.

“Oh, God!” he groaned; “I fear it is fated I shall
never behold my dear Isaline again!”

“Never say die, lad! for whar's the use?” responded
Tom. “He-yar we is ag'in—all right, you
see!”

“But think of the hours we have lost, Tom! such
precious hours!”

“I knows it; but then thar warn't no help for't,
younker. Jest you wait till I gits hold of that white
devil, and see ef I don't break a trail fur him as he
won't find ag'in in this yere world!”

“Ah, Tom, I am fearful we shall never see him
nor Isaline again!” groaned Henry. “I did have

some little faint hope in the morning; but now that
I see this day drawing to a close, and nothing accomplished—only
at the most a few miles on a trail
that was made in a few hours, after the flight of Methoto,
nearly three days ago—I feel the cold, icy
hand of despair taking hold of me!”

“Whar's the use?” returned Tom. “You arn't
agwine to gin in, I hopes, and squat yourself down
and make a die on't!”

“No, I will go on, and on, till I know the worst,
Tom.”

“Ef it war ary other gal,” said Tom, “you'd hev
her, sartin as shooting, ef it tuk a month to fotch
her; but now you're ready to caterwallup in three
days! This yere comes of gitting in what they
calls love, I s'pect. Agh! wagh! shagh! I'm powerful
glad as I warn't never cotched in no sich—
finiky operation—no, sir! Woofh! whar's the
use?”

They continued to pursue the trail till the heavy
shadows of declining day at times made it quite
difficult to follow. At last they reached the hill, up
which the doomed beast had panted and struggled
at the end of his last journey; and on gaining the
top of it, and looking down over the fearful cliff,
upon the stony beach and the flowing waters of the
Kentucky River, Henry suddenly clutched the arm
of his companion, and, with eyes wildly glaring with
horror, almost shrieked forth the words:

“God of mercy! Look there, Tom! look there!”

Tom turned pale, and every nerve in his strong,
hardy frame quivered.

“Poor feller!” he said, in a voice made husky by
such powerful emotions as he had seldom or never
felt before in his eventful life; and he drew the almost
frantic Henry back from the dizzy verge and
the horrid sight that lay below.

A horrid sight indeed, to a lover seeking her
who was more to him than all the world beside!

The sun, in a crimson glory, was just beginning
to sink behind the western hills; but adown a long,
leafy slope of forest, and through a kind of rocky
gorge, it poured a red, mellow flood of light, that
crossed the river like a stream of blood, and fell,
with a strange and almost startling effect, upon the
white and glistening bones of a horse and man—all
that was now left of the beast and his rider. The
vultures had been there, the wolves had been there,
and nothing of corrupting flesh remained: only the
white and glistening bones scattered here and there,
in strange confusion—the skull of the man and its
massive jaws, with its eyeless sockets and long, white
teeth, seemingly looking up and grinning through a
bath of blood!

What a sight for a lover who believed his mistress
had gone down there literally into the Valley of
Death!

Henry groaned a few times, like one in mortal
agony; and then, disengaging himself from the embrace
of his rough but sympathetic companion, he

sunk down on the ground, clasped his temples with
his two hands, and rocked himself to and fro in a
fearful silence.

“Don't, Harry, poor feller, don't!” pleaded Tom,
who felt that his friend had now arrived at a point
of grief where he could offer no consolation. “Don't,
Harry! don't, poor feller! Whar's the use?”

For some two or three minutes Henry continued
to clasp his temples and rock himself in silence, as
if trying to compress his swelling, throbbing brain,
and keep himself from going mad. Then he burst
out, in a long, agonized moan, that was frightful to
hear. It was a moan that seemed to well up from
the very depths of his innermost soul, quiver through
every nerve and fibre of his mortal being, and at last
find vent in a wail of unutterable woe.

“Harry, my poor feller, don't!” said Tom, sitting
down by his side and fondly placing an arm around
his neck. “Don't, my poor Harry! case it can't do
no good!”

There came only in response another long, agonized
moan, or wail; but this, thank God, was presently
followed by a wild burst of tears!

“Ah, blessed tears! which in some degree
quenched the fire of his brain and saved him from
madness!

Then he suddenly threw his arms around Tom,
laid his aching head against the rough woodman's
manly breast, and fairly sobbed forth:

“Oh, my dear, good friend, it is all over with her!

but we must find her bones and give them Christian
burial. I will kneel over them and pray! and you
must pray with me, Tom!”

“I'll do my best, Harry, I will!” said Tom, brushing
the tears from his eyes; “fur your sake, lad, I'll
do my best—though I'll allow I'll allow I arn't much at them
kind o' things! I can't put a prayer into ary partikerlar
kind of a finiky shape; but I s'pects as how
the Lord 'll make out what I means: ef He don't,
whar's the use?”

“Come, then, Tom!” cried Henry, starting to his
feet; “come! quick! for night will soon be upon us,
and we must collect the remains before it is too dark
to see!”

The sun had by this time passed behind the
western ridge of hills, and the river and the beach
already lay in the first shadow of advancing night.
By going upward a short distance, our two friends
found a place where they could descend the cliff;
and a few minutes later they reached the tragic
scene, and began to move carefully and searchingly
among the white bones—Henry, pale as a ghost,
trembling so that he could scarcely stand.

Tom picked up the skull of Methoto, and, looking
savagely at it for a few moments, muttered, half
aloud:

“So, then, you're the devil as fotched all this yere
trouble on us, hey? Wall, you're dead and gone—
lucky fur you—fur ef I'd a got hold o' you alive,

I'd a made you see snakes! Yes, sir! Wagh!
bagh! whar's the use?”

He threw the skull on the ground, with a look of
angry scorn, and continued his search for the skull
and bones of poor Isaline, expecting to know them
by the size and formation.

“It is strange,” said Henry at length, in a tremulous
tone, stopping and looking almost wildly into
the face of Tom, “it is very strange that I have seen
nothing yet that looks like her bones!”

“Nyther has I!” returned the woodman.

“Tom!” gasped Henry, grasping an arm of his
companion with both hands, and trembling so that
his teeth chattered.

“What is it, my poor boy?” asked Tom.

For nearly a minute Henry tried to speak before
he could articulate another syllable; and then the
words came out slowly and gaspingly:

“Tom—do you—think it possible—she was not—
killed—and has escaped—with life?”

“May be so,” answered the other, “for she arn't
he-yar—nyther body nor bones!”

“Oh, Tom, are you sure?”

“I've seed every bone he-yar, Harry, and I'll sw'ar
thar arn't one of'em hern!”

“God bless you, Tom, for these words! Oh, my
God! my God! dare I hope again? Perhaps she
was wounded, Tom, and Blodget and his Indians have
carried her off alive? Quick, quick, my friend!
look, search, and see if they have been here!”

“In course they has, lad. Didn't we foller the
niggers to the top of the cliff? and don't you s'pect
as how they'd come down he-yar to see whatsomever
they could steal, ef fur nothing else? Whar's
Methoto's rifle, powder-horn, bullet-pouch, knife,
tomahawk, and them? The wolves didn't eat them,
did they? No, sir! Thar's the skins he had on,
all torn up in pieces; but whar's the solid things,
hey?”

“True! true! Oh, gracious Heaven! my brain
seems on fire again! Oh, dare I hope? dare I hope?
You think, Tom, they may have carried her off?”

“Perhaps, Harry!”

“Alive, Tom? alive?”

“I don't s'pect the imps would carry her off
dead.”

“See what it is, Tom, to pray for one thing and
then want another!” cried Henry, almost beside
himself with a strange, wild hope. “How I did pray
that she might not fall into the hands of Blodget
and his Indians; and now I would give half my life
to know her living, even if in their power! Oh, to
find their trail and follow them! And yet, oh, God!
here is another night upon us—a long, long night of
darkness—in which we can do nothing! nothing!
nothing! Oh, wretched, wretched me!”

“Thar arn't nothing for 't, lad, but to wait till
morning ag'in!” rejoined Tom.

“Oh, how can I, how can I, pass another night in
this awful, racking, torturing suspense?”

“It's powerful hard, Harry!” sighed Tom; “but
thar arn't no use of kicking agin what we can't help
—no, sir! We've got to do it; and as I don't keer
to stay amongst these yere bones, we'll jest climb up
the cliff ag'in and start a fire.”

Henry mechanically followed his companion up
to the higher ground, where Tom soon collected the
materials and started another fire; and there they
passed another night—a most wretched night to
Henry, who could not sleep for thinking of poor
Isaline.

His hope now was that she had been carried off
alive by Blodget and his Indians, and that he and his
companion might possibly pursue and overtake them;
but what would he have thought, and how would he
have felt, had he even dreamed that she had been
spirited away by the dread Phantom of the Forest?