58. LVIII.
THE SEARCH.
FALCONBRIDGE pushed his spirited animal until
the courser rather bounded than ran.
The great trees flitted by like spectres; the
prairie glimmered, and fled behind him; darting
onward like some phantom of the German poets, he resembled
rather the wild image of a feverish dream, than a
real man of flesh and blood.
A terrible dread had seized upon him. The Indians had
gone directly toward Mr. Argal's. She was slain perhaps—
even now she might be weltering in her blood! That tender
and beautiful face might be gashed by the tomahawk—
the scalping-knife might have encircled the white temples,
—and the mass of raven curls which he had often twined
around his fingers might be hanging at the belt of a savage!
The thought maddened him almost, and he felt, with
something like a dreadful shudder, that he loved this woman
still.
All the nobility and pity of his high nature was aroused.
She had trifled with him perhaps—she had played with his
deep love—but after all, she was a woman, a weak woman!
She was even more than that! She was a poor feeble girl,
smitten by the hand of the Almighty, and irresponsible!
Could he think of her lying in her blood on the threshold,
and turn away coldly with the thought, “She has deceived
me—I care nothing?”
No, that was not possible. She was sacred to him still—
if all was ended between them. His life was a bauble; of
no value; he cared naught for it: he would fulfill that
promise which he had made to her father. He would still
guard her from harm, and if necessary, die for her.
He fled on more rapidly. Sir John panted, and the foam
flew from his jaws. Then suddenly the house rose in the
darkness.
All was silent. The young man leaped to the ground and
rushed in.
As he entered he stumbled and almost fell over a dead
body. An awful shudder convulsed him. He scarcely
dared to look down. Leaning for an instant against the
framework of the door, a sort of mist passed before him,
and he shook from head to foot. Then he summoned all
his strength, and knelt down, passing his trembling hand
over the figure. It was a woman, but not the form of her
he sought. A deep breath filled the bosom of the young
man as he rose erect. Stepping over the corpse of the
servant, he hastened in, and going to the fire-place, struck a
light. The apartment was all at once illuminated. An
awful spectacle presented itself.
All around lay the corpses of the servants of the establishment,
in attitudes of indescribable agony, as they had died.
The room was rifled, the furniture broken. On more than
one object was a bloody stain which indicated a desperate
struggle. This, however, was the least of the spectacle.
There was another element—an object, or rather five objects
which sent the blood to his breast, and made him turn sick
with horror.
To the four corners of the room were affixed, by knives
driven through them into the wall, the quartered body of
Mr. Argal. On the summit of a stake which leaned against
the mantel-piece, the bleeding head of the unhappy man
looked, with a ghastly grin upon the features, at the intruder.
[1]
The young man recoiled before the terrible sight, step by
step, until he touched the opposite wall. He seemed endeavoring
to fly from the grinning mouth, the lack-lustre
eyes.
Then suddenly he remembered the object of his visit,
which had disappeared from his mind for an instant. Her
figure was not among the corpses on the floor—was it elsewhere?
With the flaring light raised above his head, he rushed
through the house from top to bottom—with clenched teeth
—breathing heavily—searching for what he dared not to
think of.
It was not visible. Then she too had been carried away
prisoner—every moment that he tarried, increased the distance
between them. Hurrying back to the main room, he
passed through it with averted head and shuddering limbs.
Stepping over the dead body of the woman at the threshold,
he ground the light beneath his heel, and leaving the accursed
mansion with its horrors to darkness and silence,
leaped into the saddle and darted off in the direction of
the “Three Oaks.”
