32. CHAPTER XXXII.
WHAT HAPPENED AT THE “INDIAN CAMP.”
The “Indian Camp” was a wild and secluded retreat, the
haunt, in former times, so said tradition, of the great King
Powhatan and his dusky followers. In course of time it had,
however, become the resort of those fond of natural beauties—especially
the chosen meeting-place of lovers. Many
allusions to it may be found in letters of the period.
It now lay before the eyes of the young man, clothed in
all its wild and mysterious beauty. Seating himself upon a
mound of moss-covered rock, he gazed pensively upon the
scene, surrendering his thoughts wholly to the woman whom
he loved. For an hour he was scarcely aware of the objects
around him. The weird moonlight fell from the heights of
heaven unheeded. The dazzling orb rode like a ship of
pearl through the drifting clouds; the melancholy whippoorwill
sent his mournful cry from the wood; the owl
whooped from the low grounds; the river breeze came
and fanned the dreamer's cheek—he was still absorbed in
thought.
“Yes,” murmured the young man, “I'll go and essay
my fate; `to-morrow, at half past eleven,' shall find me at
Vanely, and I'll put it on the hazard of the die. Is there
hazard? Did I misinterpret her demeanor on that evening
at the trysting tree? Courage! nec timide, nec temere!”
And the murmur died into silence. Another hour passed
by, the young man pondered still, gazing at the old shadowy
mounds and trenches as they gleamed in the moonlight.
Suddenly the light was obscured, and raising his eyes, he
saw that a huge cloud, moving slowly like a great black
hulk, had invaded the moon, and buried it in its ebon folds.
In the darkness the rude objects of the scene loomed out
more shadowy and solemn still, and the cry of the whippoor-will
assumed a deeper sadness. St. John rose and leaned
against the trunk of an oak, whose wide boughs cast an impenetrable
shade, and thus elevated, as it were, above the
scene, listened to the subdued and mysterious sounds of night.
All at once to these stealthy noises was added another
sound; he thought at first that his fancy deceived him, but
this impression soon disappeared. He heard cautious voices
whispering.
He bent forward, inclining his ear in the direction of the
sound. He was not mistaken in his surmise. As he gazed
and listened, holding his breath almost, two dark figures
detached themselves, as it were, from the darkness, and advanced
toward the spot which he occupied.
With an unconscious movement he drew deeper into the
shadow of the heavy boughs, and, blended with the shade
which they cast, was lost completely to view.
The figures passed so close to him that their garments almost
touched his own, still whispering in a low and stealthy
tone. They had gone but a few paces when the obscuring
cloud passed from the moon, and St. John discerned them
clearly. The first figure was very tall, the other shorter,
and wrapped from head to foot in a long cloak, upon whose
collar drooped the folds of what seemed a Spanish hat, completely
concealing the face.
The taller of the two wore no wrapping, and Mr. St. John
distinctly recognized the form of Lindon. He bent earnestly
toward his companion, and seemed to be urging something
which had been met with opposition. Mr. St. John could
not catch the words, which were uttered in a low and cautious,
though very excited tone, and he was glad that they
did not reach him; glad when the voice grew more and
more a mere murmur, and Lindon, with his silent companion,
disappeared in the distance and the darkness. Their
footfalls, growing fainter and fainter, were finally absorbed
by the silence.
St. John stood for an instant looking in the direction they
had taken, and then, issuing forth from the shadow, calmly
bent his way back to Williamsburg.
“That is really something more than I bargained for,”
he muttered as he went along. “I came to enjoy my own
thoughts in silence, and alone, and here I stumble on this
man and one of his companions. They say that Lindon and
his Excellency have exchanged many civilities, and my head
to half a crown! that man is engaged in the plots against
the liberties of Virginia!”
“Well,” continued the young man, after a pause, during
which he looked thoughtfully toward the lights of the town,
which were, one by one, disappearing, like fire-flies going
to sleep, “well, let this gentleman of the villainous countenance
go on his way. He is nothing to me, and I do n't
fear that he will do us any injury. He plots and walks in
darkness as his congenial element, but there are others who
conspire against the conspirator!”
With these words St. John returned to his chamber, and
after a last look at the moon, fell asleep murmuring the
motto of Bonnybel's seal, “Nec temere, nec timide!”
He had a strange dream. He fancied himself again at the
Indian Camp, with the mysterious figures of Lindon and his
companion before him. They disappeared, but suddenly
came upon him again, before he was aware, behind his back.
He saw Lindon's face convulsed with a smile of triumphant
hate, as he placed a dagger in the hand of his companion,
with which the cloaked figure struck at the young man's
back. He started from sleep, and half sprung from bed, but
laughing at his fears, soon fell asleep again, his slumber remaining
uninterrupted until morning.
Do dreams ever forewarn? Had Mr. St. John believed
so, and acted upon his convictions, the whole current of this
narrative would have been changed.
At seven o'clock upon the following morning, he was pursuing,
at full speed, the road to Vanely.
