74. LXXIV.
THE YOUNG CAVALIER.
THE young girl who has played so woeful a part
in our drama—who, under the influence of
some Fatality, it would seem, had wrecked in
their freshest bloom the hopes and happiness of
a noble heart—this child of error and unhappy weakness,
had blotted out the record of her fault, by one supreme and
all-embracing act of courage and devotion.
She had sacrificed her life in the vain attempt to preserve
that of her lover.
It was at the moment when Lord Fairfax was ascending
the slope, when Captain Wagner was struggling with the
Half-breed, that Falconbridge, finding himself nearly surrounded
by a number of the savages, retreated, fighting
desperately, toward a rock, against which he designed to
place his back.
The tide of conflict had rolled in another direction, and
borne George and his companions from his side; he was
thus left alone to oppose his enemies.
Thus contending with all the desperation of a knight of
the Middle Ages surrounded by a cloud of Saracens, Falconbridge
retreated, step by step, toward the rock which
we have mentioned—on the opposite side of which was the
cleft in which Miss Argal and the two others were concealed.
Cannie and Mrs. Butterton were bending over Lightfoot,
and did not hear the clash of Falconbridge's weapon, as he
parried the blows aimed at him. But Miss Argal heard it
—and something in her heart told her that the man whom
she loved was in danger.
With the impulsive and daring girl, to determine was to
act. She hastily left the hiding-place, and passing round
the rock, found herself in the midst of the Indians.
She did not look at them. Her burning eyes were fixed
upon the youth, who contended single-handed against his
adversaries. At the same instant she saw the Indians draw
back, as by a concerted movement—one of them, who was
behind, levelled his rifle at the breast of Falconbridge—and
fire leaped from the muzzle.
The ball which was intended for the young man, entered
the bosom of Miss Argal. With the activity of a tigress
whose young is threatened, the girl had bounded forward,
and thrown one arm round his neck, protecting his body
with her own.
He heard the discharge—the young girl's wild cry of
anguish; he felt her form weigh heavily upon his breast.
An awful horror for a moment made his heart ice—but
then the blood rushed back like a torrent of raging fire.
With the hoarse cry of a lion lashed to fury, he deposited
the form of the girl upon the ground, and throwing himself
with insane rage upon the crowd of savages, plunged his
sword right and left into every breast which opposed him.
His mad passion was so frightful and deadly, his face so
terrible in its menace, that the bravest of the savages recoiled
before him with superstitious dread.
But the unseen Ruler of the world had decreed that all
the courage, all the strength, all the immense passion of
Falconbridge should avail him nothing; his last hour approached.
In his headlong advance, his foot slipped in
blood; he fell upon one knee, and his sword striking against
the rocks, was broken close to the hilt. As he essayed to
rise, one of the savages levelled his pistol, and the ball entered
his breast.
With a last look toward the sky, Falconbridge, like
Lightfoot, fell backward, the blood welling from the wound,
and staining his white ruffles with crimson.
The Indians had begun to waver already, as they saw the
advance of Lord Fairfax; the form of the Half-breed had
disappeared in the gulf beneath; as Falconbridge fell, they
hastily retreated, and finally disappeared down the slope
beneath the boughs of the evergreens.
When Lord Fairfax leaped from his horse, the first object
which greeted his gaze, was the body of Falconbridge. He
seized it in his arms with a hoarse cry, and at the pressure
of the father's heart to the son's, the young man opened his
eyes and gazed about him faintly.
“My son! my child!” cried the Earl, with inexpressible
anguish; “my boy, speak to me! Where are you wounded?
Oh! in the bosom here!”
And with trembling, but rapid hands, the Earl tore open
the young man's waistcoat and shirt. Pushing hastily aside
a small gold locket which hung from Falconbridge's neck
by a fine steel chain, he searched for the wound. He did
not search long; turning suddenly pale, the Earl seemed
about to faint.
Immediately over the heart, a circular spot of blood indicated
the place where the ball had entered.
He saw that all was over. His knowledge of gunshot
wounds told him this one was mortal—and turning away
his head, the stern old nobleman uttered a sob which tore
its way from his inmost heart, like a cry of agony and despair.
“Yes, yes!” said a panting and broken voice at his elbow,
“yes, friend, you are right; you are not deceived; he's
as good as gone from this earth! Falconbridge! Falconbridge!
look at me once more, comrade! It is Wagner that
speaks to you!”
And the rude Borderer, who had hastened with giant
strides to the spot, threw himself upon his knees at the
side of the young man, and inclosed his pale hand in a
grasp of iron.
“Look at me, comrade!” growled the Captain, in hoarse
and tragic accents, “you see me, don't you? Come, open
your eyes! I'm Wagner, the old bear that loved you, and
here's George, who's got hold of your other hand. Don't
be talking, for your wound is sure to bleed, only look up,
companion! Black day! miserable hour!” groaned the
speaker despairingly; “a bullet has done for him—all's
over with the boy!”
As he spoke, the young man slowly opened his eyes, and
looked round with a dreamy glance, at the faces beside
him.
“Companion!” he muttered, as his glance fell on Wagner,
“is she saved?”
“There, stop talking!” cried the soldier, with a glow
in his cheeks, “stop that talking, I say.”
“Ah! comrade, you are there,” he murmured, “and she
—she is—gone! I remember!”
As he uttered these words, which were almost inaudible,
the cheeks of Falconbridge flushed, and then turned white
again: a convulsion passed over his frame, and made the
hot blood gush from his bosom. With a faint attempt to
rise, he fell back with a low cry into the arms of Lord Fairfax,
whose strength seemed about to desert him.
“Rouse! rouse! my child!” he exclaimed in an agony of
despair; “do not die without looking at your father—it will
kill me!”
And the grim Earl strained the fainting and languid
form to his breast so wildly, that it seemed to infuse a portion
of his own life into Falconbridge.
He slowly opened his eyes. His glance fell upon the face
of George, which was bathed in tears. The boy held his
white cold hand, and kneeling, pressed it to his throbbing
heart. The wandering eye of Falconbridge arrested itself
as it fell upon the agitated countenance—his lips moved,
and he endeavored, vainly, to speak.
“Bend your ear to his lips, George,” groaned Wagner,
“he's going, and has got something to say.”
George quickly obeyed, and placed his ear to the mouth
of Falconbridge.
“I am dying,” was the low murmur; “I am going—to
leave you, George! I always loved you—dear companion—
as I know that you loved me! You will do me a last favor,”
he said, raising his hand feebly to the locket on his breast;
“see that I am buried on the mountain yonder—by the pine
which—we looked at on that autumn day—and bury her beside
me!—this locket—it contains a woman's hair—her hair
—don't let them remove it from my bosom, George!”
“Oh, no! I swear it! I will protect it with my life!”
exclaimed the weeping youth.
“And now, farewell!” murmured Falconbridge, a sorrowful
smile passing over his pale face; “I am dying—am I
not?”
“It won't be long!” muttered Captain Wagner, his fiery
eyes moistened with tears; “five minutes I give him!—miserable
day! Oh, why did he ever come on the trail! Falconbridge!
Falconbridge! look here, comrade! Look at
Wagner, who's crying like a baby at your knees!”
The young man heard the appeal of the Borderer, and
turned his eyes upon his face.
“Friend!—true and tried!” he murmured, faintly, “we
must part! Remember me—when I am gone!”
“Remember you! Until my grave is dug, I'll love and
think of you, my boy, and cherish you! My heart is bleeding,
look you!—my poor old heart!”
He stopped, overcome by emotion.
The face of Falconbridge grew soft and serene: then a
slight color came to the pale cheeks; and by a great effort
he turned his eyes in the direction of Miss Argal's body, and
faintly stretched out his hands.
“He wants to have her by him when he goes!” groaned
the Borderer; “he's faithful to the death!”
And the soldier rose quickly, and going to the spot where
the pale, cold form of the young lady lay, took it in his
arms, and brought it to the side of Falconbridge. The face
of the Borderer was white, and his frame shuddered, as he
thus held close to his breast the body of the woman whom
he had seen so often, smiling and beautiful in life. But he
did not falter—he deposited the inanimate figure at the
side of the youth.
As the eyes of the dying man fell upon the pale features,
the exquisite face, as of one who was sleeping tranquilly
and happily, his lip quivered, and a tremor agitated him,
making the blood well, in a crimson stream, from the
wound in his bosom.
“She is gone before me!” he murmured in a whisper; “is
the day about to wane, companion?—this darkness! 'Tis
a grand, beautiful world—with its flowers and sunshine!—
but—another land!—see how it shines above me as I go!”
These words were his last. With a final movement,
which exhausted all his strength, he bent toward the dead
body of the young lady, and encircling it with his arms, died
with his head upon her bosom.
