University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Charles accepted Richard's invitation to dine with him.
Rose brought in the smoking fowls and other viands, and
they fared sumptuously.

Before the dinner was over, and when even Mrs. Schooley
herself was smiling at the idea of the Irish gardener planting
poles for the watermelon-vines to run on, (an account
of which Charles was entertaining the family with,) Paddy
himself made his appearance in a most unlooked-for manner.
He sprang into the room and overturned the table,
over which he fell, sprawling to the floor. Before any one
had time to demand an explanation, he bawled out, “Indians!
the savage Indians!”

`Where?” asked Richard, jumping up, and manifesting
some alarm.

“Be calm, Richard. Thee need not fear,” said Mrs.
Schooley. “Thou knowest the chiefs have often been the
guests of thy father in Burlington, and thee need not fear
them here.”

“How many did you see?” asked Charles.

“I don't know how many, Misther Charles,” said Paddy.
“But one of the blackguards was laning over the palings
close be my head when I was sticking the marrow-fat pays.
He was as close to me as I am to you at this moment.”

“Then it could not have been his purpose to kill you,”
said Julia, “or he might have done it easily.”

“Och, and I should niver have been the wiser! What
a country to live in! Nothing but rattlesnakes and blackguard
Indians!”

“Thee must not term them so, Patrick,” said Mrs.
Schooley; “for, if they should hear thee, they might do
thee some mischief.”

“I will call them gintlemen if they'll only let me sculp

alone. I hope they did not hear me. I'm sure I beg
their pardon if they did.”

Charles stepped to the door and uttered a friendly call
in the Seneca language; and the solitary Indian, who had
so much alarmed the gardener, approached from the position
he had occupied when Paddy beheld him, and from which
he had not moved. He entered the house, shaking hands
with all the inmates, and uttering the usual “How do?”
Paddy hesitated and squirmed a great deal, but yielded
when told by Charles that if he refused to extend his hand
it might be considered as a token of hostility.

The Indian wore upon his garments a great many bears'-claws
and porcupine-quills; and behind, hanging from his
feathered head-dress, was the skin of a large rattlesnake,
reaching nearly to his heels. The rattles were still on
the lower end of it, and at every motion of his body
they gave forth the startling sound so terrifically familiar
to the ears of the first settlers of every portion of our
country.

The Indian was invited to eat as soon as Rose could readjust
the table. When he had finished eating, Mrs.
Schooley lighted his pipe, and Charles smoked with him.

“My Seneca brother,” said Charles, in the Indian language,
“has threatened the White Eagle. It was done in
sport, was it not?”

“The Rattlesnake listened to the voice of the great chief,
Captain Pipe, and did his bidding. The Rattlesnake does
not aim his fangs at the White Eagle.”

“The White Eagle is glad to hear it, and he smokes the
pipe of peace with his brother. But he would have the
Seneca chief listen to his voice also. He would have him
say to the great Captain Pipe that he fears him not, nor
any other captain who threatens at a distance; but, that
if the Antelope should be molested, the White Eagle would
soar to the top of the highest mountain, whence he could
see his farthest enemy; and the bird of the fleetest wing
would soon alight upon him.”

The Seneca promised to deliver the message, and at the
same time declared that Thayendanegea was entirely ignorant
of what had been done to offend his brother.

Charles learned from this Indian, who was but a minor
chief, that the colonists had taken the fort at Ticonderoga,

and that preparations for war were being made everywhere
in the North.

The Seneca soon after set out in quest of Moody, for
whom he had certain messages.

Meantime the interview with the mysterious occupant of
the humble hut took place under the elm on the margin of
the stream that swept along the base of the cliff. Mr.
Cameron did not apologize for not offering to entertain his
visitors within the house, but proceeded to business without
delay. And when he exhibited his title, (it was for five
thousand acres, to the utter astonishment of Mr. Schooley,)
derived from the heirs of Edward Byllinge, one of the original
purchasers from Lord Berkeley, who had his title from
the Duke of York, and produced a plot made by John Rockhill,
a noted surveyor still living, neither Mr. Green nor
the Quaker had a word to say against the correctness of
his lines or the validity of his title.

“And now, gentlemen,” said the exile, “I believe our
business is at an end, and we must part as strangers. If
this examination into my title had not been made a pretext
for inspecting my premises, I might have desired a more
social intercourse with my neighbours. I know it is believed
that gold exists in these rocks; but such can only be the
supposition of the ignorant; for any one at all acquainted
with chemistry would know that the substances found in
this region resembling the precious metals can be nothing
more than worthless iron pyrites.”

When he ceased speaking, Moody, who, as usual, had
been a concealed auditor, came forward and placed sealed
packets in the hands of Mr. Schooley, whom he knew by
his Quaker hat and coat. He then wandered carelessly
aside, while Mr. Schooley broke open the seals. They
contained letters both from New York and Burlington.
Moody had just arrived from the former place, and the
Indian (who now made his appearance, “how-doing” and
shaking hands) from the latter. From Governor Franklin
he brought a commission, creating Thomas Schooley a justice
of the peace.

The Indian, true to his instinct, followed Moody's trail,
and entered the small ravine which opened into the valley
where the interview had been held.

“No, mon! I tell ye no! Gae bock, or I'll dirk you!”

Such were the words spoken a moment after, in a loud
voice, by Hugh McSwine. And when all eyes were turned
in the direction of the hut, Moody and the Indian were
seen retreating, driven back by Hugh.

“If you scratch us with your Scotch dirk, I'll send a
ball through you!” said Moody, half presenting his rifle.

The Indian uttered one of his warwhoops and brandished
his tomahawk. Mr. Schooley and Mr. Green became much
excited. The first, by virtue of the commission he had received,
besought and even commanded the white man to
keep the peace; while the latter, who knew something of
the Seneca language, warned the Indian against shedding
blood. The white-haired exile lifted a small horn to his
lips and sounded a shrill blast, which was answered by another
from the hut of a Mr. McArthur, living near the summit
of the range of hills. The faint echoes of several
other blasts were then discernable in the distance, but did
not seem to be comprehended by Moody, who was still
intent upon the execution of his purpose.

“I call upon you, Mr. Schooley,” said he, “by virtue of
your commission, to arrest these men in the name of the
king. Here is a paper given me several months ago by Sir
John Johnson, in which is described a certain fugitive from
justice, and for whose arrest and delivery into the custody
of any of his Majesty's officers a reward of one thousand
guineas has been offered.”

“Dost thou suppose this Hugh the one?” asked Mr.
Schooley.

“No; but the pale Scotchman, if his hair were not so
white, would answer the description,” said Moody, lifting
the paper before Mr. S.'s face.

“Art thou the man?” asked Mr. Schooley, turning to
Mr. Cameron.

“What man?” was the reply.

“The Highland laird who fled with the Pretender,” said
Moody.

But the exile made no reply, while Hugh gazed steadily
up the ravine.

“I see,” continued Mr. Schooley, having adjusted his
spectacles, and holding the document before his eyes with
both hands, “I see that John Johnson, known as Sir John,
hath been charged by his Majesty's ministers to seek a

certain fugitive, supposed to have taken refuge in the hills
of New Jersey, whose description followeth, &c. Truly,
my friend,” he continued, turning to the exile, “thou dost
answer the description in every thing but the colour of thy
hair. The name, too, is the same; for every one knows
that the rebel Lochiel was the chieftain of the Camerons.
And this paper further sayeth that there is quite a number
of Scotchmen hidden in these parts, and they are supposed
to possess several very valuable jewels rightfully belonging
to the crown of Great Britain, but which were seized and
carried away by the second James Stuart in his flight from
the kingdom. One of said diamonds is valued at five thousand
pounds. Bless my life! What canst thou say to all
this?”

“Not one word will I say to you,” replied the chief.
“If it must be answered, let it be before a proper tribunal.”

“Proper tribunal! Thee forgets I am one of the king's
justices of the peace.”

“I do not recognise the king's authority. What say you,
my friends?”

“Down with the Usurper!” was the cry of some half-dozen
voices; and the next instant a number of the brawny
sons of Scotland, armed with dirks and rifles, emerged
from the bushes and stood in a line before the amazed
magistrate.

“What men are these?” demanded Thomas.

“They are the Scotchmen alluded to in this paper,”
said Moody; “and they are too strong for us,” he added,
in a whisper.

“They are the Sons of Liberty,” said Mr. Cameron.

“Sons of Liberty!” said Mr. Schooley, in astonishment.
“William Franklin urges me, as a loyal subject,
to prevent the organization of such a body in this section,
and says it is belived a secret association, calling themselves
by that name, are pushing their ramifications into
every township.”

“My friend,” said Cameron, with a smile, “your labour
will be fruitless if it is the design to suppress the Sons of
Liberty. As for you, sir,” he continued, addressing
Moody, “go back to the miserable cave which is the
repository of the plunder taken by thee in the name of the

usurper styled King. If thou wouldst lose thy life in his
service, die like a man in the heat of battle, or else bury
thyself in the murky shades of the swamp, so that thy
name may never more be mentioned. And thou, son of
the forest,” he continued, turning to the Indian, “fly far
beyond the trail of the white man. Hunt the deer, the
moose, and the buffalo, in the primeval forests, or on the
interminable plains, beyond the reach of civilization.
Avoid alike the faces of the English and the Americans.
No matter which side you may choose,—no matter which
party may be victorious,—a union with either will be thy
destruction. Render that into his own language,” added
he, speaking to his son Charles, who had silently joined
the party, and was now standing beside his father.

The chief listened attentively—as Indians ever do—to
the speech intended for the ears of his race. When it was
finished, he merely replied that all the lands and rivers had
been given to the red man by the Great Spirit, and he
would be unworthy the gift if he fled before the invaders
from beyond the broad water.

During this scene Mr. Green remained silent, but did
not seem surprised. He had much land, and was not disposed
to place it in jeopardy by hastily taking sides with
either party. Charles was indignant, and so greatly excited,
it was with difficulty his parent could restrain him
from making a desperate assault on Moody.

Of course the statue-like Sons of Liberty, who had
descended from the hills, and now stood in imperturbable
composure, each grasping his gun, put to flight for the
time the purpose of making the arrest in the king's name.
Moody slowly withdrew, in company with Mr. Schooley;
Mr. Green and the Indian followed, while the exiled chief
motioned his small band of Highlanders to return to their
homes. He then entered his hut, and laid before Charles
some papers he had just received from New Brunswick by
the hands of one of Hugh's runners,—a red-haired boy, of
an idiotic appearance, but of reliable shrewdness, called
Skippie.

By these documents Charles learned that he had been
appointed captain of a company of minute-men, to be
raised in his county. The Convention had likewise imposed
a tax of £10,000, to be paid to agents named by the

committees; and until such appointments were made the
captains were authorized to act, and were to correspond
with the standing committee of patriots:—James Kinsey,
John Wetherill, John Stevens, Richard Stockton, &c.

Governor Franklin was declared a public enemy by Congress,
and his seizure ordered—by the advice, it was said,
of his own father. And malignant persons asserted that
the wise philosopher and his son made a politic choice of
different sides, so that the one who chanced to be of the
victorious party might save the other.

The Continental Congress decreed that if the Quakers
could not conscientiously take the oath prescribed by
them, they might subscribe a declaration as follows:—“I
agree to the above association as far as the same is consistent
with my religious principles.” As many believed
it a Christian duty to be true to the king, they found no
difficulty in singing when hard pressed. Such was the
case in many localities where the whigs were the most
numerous. But those who refused were to be disarmed, to
give security for their peaceable conduct, and to “pay the
expenses attending thereon.” And the captains in the
township, or the county committees, were to attend to the
matter without delay, and were empowered to arrest and
imprison dangerous persons at discretion; and all who
would not muster when required, armed as the law directed,
were to pay ten shillings for each offence, recoverable by a
distress warrant.

“Now you are invested with quite as much authority,”
said the elder Cameron, smiling, “as the Quaker guardian
of Julia Lane.”

“It seems so, sir,” said Charles; “but I shall be embarrassed
in the exercise of it.”

“You will accept the appointment, then?”

“Certainly, if you advise it, since Mr. Livingston accepts
the appointment bestowed on him.”

“You have my permission. And I would advise you to
enroll your company with as little delay as possible, and
lodge this Moody in the new jail at Newton,—else he will
attempt to capture your father, not from motives of duty,
but for the sake of the reward.”

“True, sir!” cried Charles, starting up. “It must not
be delayed. As I came from Mr. Schooley's, I crossed a

trail in the woods, which arrested my attention. A dozen
men had passed since morning, and they were evidently
seeking to conceal their presence. It was not a mile distant,
and they must be lurking in this vicinity.”

“Were they Indians?” asked his father, in some
concern.

“No, sir. I marked their footprints. They may have
been guided by one, however. It is the tory gang of this
Moody. I must be up and doing, sir, for we cannot tell
what moment they will fall upon us.”

“Stay,” said his father. “You must remain till morning.
It is now growing dark. You know we are impregnable
in our defences. To-morrow, when the sun again
illuminates the paths, you may seek these robbers. Hugh,
barricade the door; but first admit the bloodhound. He
seems to snuff the foe,” he continued, when the whining
animal was called in and the lighted torch revealed his
gleaming eyes as he crouched beside the door.

“They will attack us to-night!” said Charles.

“They would depart in peace, if I would only accompany
them,” said his father.

“Rather let every one of them perish! What say you,
Hugh?” exclaimed Charles.

“Kill!” was Hugh's reply.

Charles was permitted by his father to prize the ponderous
stone door slightly open, so that they might readily
escape in the event of a sudden emergency.

Hugh prepared the supper, which was heartily eaten, as
if the presence of danger could produce no diminution of
appetite.

Time wore on until the usual hour for rest, and still the
apprehended assault had not been made.

“They must have abandoned the project,” said Charles,
breaking the silence which had prevailed for some moments.

“Perhaps not,” said his father, rousing from one of the
prolonged reveries to which he was addicted, and taking
up one of the jewelled pistols that lay on the table, which
had been presented him by the unfortunate Charles Edward.
“But no matter,” he continued; “there will be strife sufficient
before this contest is ended. And the usurper will
lose. Unlike the civil wars suppressed by tyrants, we
here see the instigators of the revolution assuming the posts

of danger. When cowards urge their instruments to rise,
keeping themselves beyond the reach of injury, their enterprises
fail. It was thus with many of the Jacobites. They
not only kept aloof themselves, but would not consent for
the king to take the field in person. His son could not
sustain his standard. But it is different here. Every man
of note who sanctions the movement throws his head into
the scale. The usurper's empire will be ruptured. America
will be lost. And the last of the royal line of Stuarts,
degenerate as he is, will have the melancholy satisfaction
of witnessing it.”

The bloodhound bayed twice, and sprang against the
door, which he gnawed with his teeth.

“I thought so!” said the exile; “and it is quite likely
the leader of the party has been listening to my words.”

“It is certain!” said Moody, without. “We have heard
enough. I have with me some fourteen men, and resistance
will be in vain. In the king's name, I bid you open the door.”

“The devil's name would be quite as potential here as
the king's,” said Charles; “but neither will avail.”

“We will see,” replied Moody; and the next moment
a dull, heavy blow sounded on the door, and nearly prostrated
it. They had lifted up a heavy log and projected
it forward like a battering-ram.

“Awa' with you! awa' with you, mon!” said Hugh,
“or—”

“Or what?” demanded Moody. “We are armed, and
quite ready to meet you in that way. But we do not wish
to take the life of the prisoner, if we can avoid it.”

“No,” said the aged exile; “there might be some difficulty
in proving my identity and in obtaining the reward.”

“If you have money,” said Moody, restraining his men
during the parley, “we will listen to terms. Have you no
disposition to offer a ransom?”

“None whatever!” said Charles, and then fired his rifle
through the door. The log, held in readiness for the renewal
of the assault, was heard to fall, and doubtless one
of the assailants had been wounded.

A moment after, ten or twelve shots were fired by the
party without, and the door was riddled with their bullets;
but no injury was sustained by those within, who had anticipated
such an occurrence.

“Father,” said Charles, “as they have a great superiority
of numbers, would it not be well to summon our
friends from the hills?”

“It would be well, but it is not practicable. However,”
continued the old man, “these assailants will not be able
to injure us.”

“You are mistaken!” cried Moody, ever listening.

“Then do your worst! we defy you!” said the elder
Cameron.

“What will they do?” asked Charles, to whom it was
apparent they were not resorting again to the heavy timber
with which to force the door.

“They will try to burn us out,” said his father, in a
whisper.

“They may destroy the hut,” said Charles, “but not
injure us.”

“They can do no more than burn the outside shell,” said
his father, smiling. “Do you not observe how heavily and
completely the interior is plastered? The cement is thirteen
inches in thickness. The logs outside will burn and
fall to the ground; but the house itself will remain, to
astonish them, and to furnish stories for the superstitious.
Come; let us retreat into the rock. I hear the crackling
flames already, and the light will bring down my little
clan on their rear. Come, Hugh, unless you would be
roasted like a wild boar.”

“Let me stay, sir, until I feel too warm,” was McSwine's
reply; and the father and son retired into the excavated
rock.

Very soon the cliffs of the valley, the crests of the hills,
and the tops of the distant woods, were tinged with the
crimson glare of the burning house. The wolves ceased
their howling, and the owl, stricken blind, flapped down to
the earth in mid career.

“Open the door, before it's too late!” cried Moody.

“Hoot, mon, what're you impatient about?” was the
response of McSwine.

“Where are the others? Why don't they speak?”

“Gone, mon, where you canna' hear 'em.”

“Are they smothered? suffocated?”

“It's nane o' your business.”

“You seem to take it very coolly.”

“Yes, I am smoking in the chimney-corner.”

“Smoking, are you? I guess you'll soon be burning.”

“I'm smoking my pipe, mon, and you're ower impudent
to be disturbing ane.”

This was true. McSwine enjoyed his pipe when the roof
was in a blaze and the consuming logs were falling from
the sides of the hut. Yet it was rather warm within to be
comfortable; but the surly Scot determined to bear it.
He posted himself in the fireplace for the benefit of the
draught; but the current of heated air forced him at last to
step through the aperture and join his master. He did not
remain long, however, before the heat diminished in intensity
as the burning logs fell away, and he was able to
breathe again in the hut, which he re-entered, closing the
stone door behind him.

“The old boy must be roasted too, by this time,” said
Moody.

“The de'il you say!” responded McSwine.

“He is the devil, I believe!” cried one of the gang.

“Knock a hole through the infernal lime,” said Moody,
“and let us see him.”

This was not an easy matter. Failing to accomplish it,
they once more resolved to assail the door, which had escaped
the flames by being deeply sunk in the wall. But,
before the first blow was aimed, McSwine sent another bullet
through, and the timber was again heard to fall.

“He's broken my arm!” cried one of the men, “and
I'll have nothing more to do with 'em.”

Shortly after, several shots were fired on the right,
and then could be heard the tramp of running men.
Another minute, and all was quiet. The Highlanders,
aroused by the light, had come to the rescue of their loved
chieftain, and at the first discharge Moody and his robbers
made a precipitate retreat.

In the morning Charles was eager for an immediate
pursuit. But the aged chief forbade it. Before attempting
to punish Moody, it would be prudent first to ascertain
precisely the sentiments of the people:—whether, indeed,
the Federal Congress or King George on such a question
would have the greatest number of adherents.

Yielding to the counsels of his parent, Charles strove to
suppress the deadly rage he felt, but harboured a settled

determination to punish the knavish miscreant on some
future occasion. He then aided in rebuilding the hut.
Like a block of granite, the lime and cement, though
blackened, and in many places cracked and scaled, still
remained standing, and the redoubtable Hugh said it would
bear another siege of fire. It was thoroughly repaired,
however, with all possible expedition.

During the day, and as the news of the assault spread
over the country, it was gratifying to Charles to receive
tenders of assistance from many persons hitherto total
strangers to him; and it soon became apparent that Moody
had but few sympathizers and abettors in the neighbourhood.
On the contrary, although Lochiel's identity was
no longer doubted or denied, no one stepped forward to
arrest him, tempted by the munificent reward. This was
a cheering sign, and Charles lost no time in communicating
to the people the substance of the documents he had received
from the Colonial Convention. Although at first
many remained unmoved, preferring not to commit themselves
at that early stage of the rupture, yet it was apparent
that in any test of authority between the king and
the Congress the latter would have the preponderance.

Emboldened by such indications, Charles commenced
canvassing for volunteers, and before the eve of the third
day he had the names of forty “minute-men” enrolled on
his list. His sergeant was a herculean Irishman, by the
name of Timothy Murphy,—a well-digger up the county,
whose life had been saved by Charles when in the hands
of the Indians.

One day, leaving Tim in charge of the recruiting service,
the head-quarters and rallying-point being in the vicinity
of his father's hut, where a temporary encampment had
been built both for the shelter of men and horses, Charles
set out in the direction of Mr. Schooley's plantation.

Charles was surprised, when approaching the smithy of
Van Wiggens, now in full blast, to find a sign hung out in
front of the dwelling with a huge bear roughly painted
on it.

“What does that mean, Will?” asked Charles.

“My Joan's doings,” said Van Wiggens, wiping the
perspiration from his fat cheeks with his leather apron,
blackened with the dust of the shop. “You see, dese crossroads

are dravelled more and more, and te people keep
stopping at our house and living on us. So Joan has set
up a davern, and I painted te Black Bear sign.”

“I hope the entertainment won't be as rough as the
sign, Will.”

“Dat's uncertain, and tepends on te sort of guests dat
come. She's a fine laty, captain,” he continued, in a whisper,
“but she's a Tartar! As soon as she was mistress of
her own house, she began to scold me about every ding.
And ten she flung her shoe at me te oder day for telling
some dravellers our ages.”

“She did? That's strange. Your ages?'

“Yaw. I'm dirty, and she's dirty-two.”

“Women don't like to have their ages told, Will, if they
are older than their husbands. But thirty-two is nothing
to be frightened at. I suppose you gave her a taste of
your authority, as the Indians do their scolding squaws.”

“No, captain; dey always said Vill Wan Viggens and
his dog” (a small brown animal of mongrel breed, crossed
principally with the cur) “didn't fear man or teiffle—but
didn't say voman.”

“I understand. Well, Will, suppose you join my company?”

“Keep tark!” replied Will, in a very low whisper; “I
see Joan's cap bobbing up in te pea-patch. I can't stand
it much longer—tam if I do! She owns a pig nigger, you
know, who larnt his drade in Burlington, and she says he
can shoe a horse better as me. Tam if I don't go mit you!
Captain, when you're ready to go after te red-coats or te
savages, send a note here for Vill and his dog.”

Charles shook hands with the poor hen-pecked blacksmith,
and promised not to forget him and his dog.

He soon after fell in with Richard Schooley, resting on
his plough in a corner of the fence. Richard stared at
him in silence, and with something like an expression of
anger on his stoical brow.

“Richard,” said Charles, seeing his nod of salutation
had not been returned, “what makes thee so grum to-day?”

“Thee knows well enough,” said Richard, with a sigh.

“I do not, upon my word.”

“Thy word don't signify.”

“What? Do you mean to doubt my veracity? Do
you give me the lie?”

“I did not give thee the lie.”

“But to doubt my word is pretty much the same thing.
Never do it again, unless you wish to quarrel with me.”

“Thee knows we never quarrel.”

“Then what the devil is the matter?”

“Don't use profane words, I beseech thee. But, to be
plain with thee, hast thou not striven to win Julia's heart
away from me?”

“I have sought to win her esteem, because I respected
her. Have you really loved her, Richard?”

“Oh, deeply! almost desperately! and if thee would not
see me miserable, thee will forsake her and seek some other
maiden.”

“I am sorry to hear you say so, Richard. But still, if
it should so happen that Julia be loved by me also, why
not seek some other maiden yourself?”

“Thee knows we were children together; and thee must
know that both my father and mother told me that Julia
was to be my wife.”

“Indeed! But then thee knows that Julia and I were
companions at Mr. Livingston's when she was a young
lady and I a young man.”

“I know it! And my mother always said that evil
might come from such indulgence.”

“Thy father, her guardian, had no right to restrict her
in the choice of a residence or in the selection of companions.
There is but one way, I fear, Richard, to settle
the difficulty.”

“If thee knows any way, so I can espouse the maiden, I
will be obliged to thee.”

“Would the maiden espouse thee, Richard, if I were removed
out of the way?”

“I think she would, in time, if father could persuade
her to attend our meetings.”

“Oh, is that all? Well, the way to adjust the difficulty
between us is, I suppose, to fight a duel. The survivor
will then have no rival.”

“Thee knows I durst do no such thing!” said Richard,
with an encrimsoned visage; “and thee does very ill in
naming it.”

“I beg your pardon, Richard. But declare thy passion
to Julia, if thou wilt, and receive her answer. Know that I
love her as well as thyself. She must be the arbiter of her
own fate.”

“Stay!” said Richard, seeing Charles about to move on.
“If thee marries her, thee being a rebel as Mr. Moody
says, thou wilt bring her to beggary, for all her lands will
be confiscated.”

“Fool!” ejaculated Charles. “The Malcha Manito is
now moving thee. Gold is thy god, and the god of too
many of thy persuasion. I thought thee capable of worshipping
the lovely Julia—”

“Thee knows we never worship any mortal being,” said
Richard, interrupting him.

“Oh, yes, I know it. You merely sought her estates.
But learn, sir, that her union with me might be the only
means of saving them. Congress can confiscate as well as
the king. Follow me to the house; I have more to say on
this subject.”

Charles put spurs to his steed, and never paused until he
reached the stile in front of the dwelling.

He was met in the entry by Julia, who chanced to be
passing out, accompanied by her faithful dog. She wore a
troubled countenance, which soon vanished, however, in
the hearty greetings that followed.

“Meet me at the sycamore,” Charles whispered, as he
passed on to accost Mr. Schooley, whose approaching step
his keen ear had detected. Julia vanished in silence, which
was a sufficient response for the lover.

“Good-morning, Charles,” said Mr. Schooley; “I have
wished to see thee on serious matters,” he continued, as he
led the young man into the sitting-room, where Mrs.
Schooley's foot was propelling the incessant spinning-wheel.
She nodded her staid chin at him, and stared a
brief moment through her spectacles.

“I am sorry, Charles,” said Mr. Schooley, when they
were seated, “that thy father is truly the rebel laird who
waged war against the King of Great Britain.”

“And I am proud of it, sir!” said Charles.

“I hope thee will be calm. Thee knows it is a grievous
offence for one to take up arms against the sovereign.”

“King George was not the rightful king. Thou knowest,

Thomas, it was the Stuarts who granted religious liberty to
the outcast members of thy society when they landed in
this country.'

“That is true; but we are bound to honour the rulers
set over us, without discussing their right to govern.”

“Very good, Thomas,” said Charles, quickly; “and if
you remain of that opinion long, you and I will concur in
honouring the Congress, which will soon be omnipotent.
King George III. has ceased to reign in America. I
renounce all allegiance to him!”

“What! what dost thou say?” exclaimed Mrs. Schooley,
the thread snapping asunder in her fingers and the wheel
abruptly pausing in its revolutions.

“I say,” continued Charles, “so surely as thy wheel
has ceased to revolve, Mary, a great revolution has begun
in this country.”

“Thee is mistaken! thee is mad!” said she, her foot
again violently in motion.

“Yes, thou art greatly in error, Charles,” said Mr.
Schooley; “and I desire thee to pay particular attention
to what I am going to say. Thou knowest I am a magistrate,
and it is my duty to arrest any offender that may be
pointed out within the limits of my jurisdiction. Thy father
confesses he is the individual described in the document
that Bonnel received from John Johnston, called Sir John.
Thy father hath resisted the king's authority—”

“Certainly,” said Charles; “he resisted the king's
claim to the throne.”

“Thee knows how deadly an offence that was. Well, it
is incumbent on me to discharge my duty, else my commission
becomes derelict. Thee knows, if thy father be
taken, he will not be entitled to a trial, as he hath been
condemned already. The king's signature will merely be
required to his death-warrant, and then he must be executed.
Such, thee must know, was the case with his brother,
Dr. Cameron. Now, inasmuch as I dislike being
made the instrument of the vengeance of the law, and as I
have still a regard for thee, notwithstanding thou hast
done very wrong in attempting to woo away my ward, I
confess to thee that I feel an inclination—which the monitor
within seems hourly to strengthen—to decline the commission
sent me, and remain an inoffensive spectator of

the scenes of violence and bloodshed which I very much
fear will be the result of the rebellious conduct of the
politicians.”

“I think, Thomas,” said Charles, “that thou art moved
now by the right spirit, and that thou wilt do well in
yielding to its monitions.”

“But then, Charles, thee knows, if I would keep myself
entirely aloof from implication, there must be an utter
severance between every member of my family and those
who foolishly embark in the rebellion.”

“I understand thee, Thomas. Thou canst not see that
this outburst is a revolution, instead of a rebellion. And
thou wouldst stipulate that I should cease to visit Julia, the
only Christian friend I ever knew besides my father, so
that her fortune—which I do protest forms no portion of
my motive in seeking her hand—may remain with thine,
and become thy son's when thou art dead (and all must
die) and canst not even be a witness of the happiness his
wealth is to secure him? Oh, Thomas, Thomas, I very
much fear, after all, the invisible spirit within, which furnishes
thee the law for thy conduct, is sometimes a very
dangerous and irresponsible monitor—the devil himself!”

“Thou art uttering a vile profanation!” cried Mary,
dropping her thread and silencing the wheel.

“I am sorry for thee!” said Thomas.

“Be not uneasy on my account,” continued Charles;
“but tremble for thyself. Mammon and the true God
cannot be honestly worshipped at the same time or by the
same individual. In regard to Julia, in heaven's name, let
her be the arbitress of her own fate! Let her decide for
herself in matters pertaining to her affections. Her
father never supposed he was delegating to you the privilege
of choosing a husband for his daughter; and, if it had
been his purpose to bestow her lands upon your family, he
might have done it in a more direct manner. No, Thomas;
I will make no such compact with thee.”

“Then thee knows the consequence. I must not be implicated
with my ward if she casts her lot among the rebels.
I must convince John—called Sir John—that I am a loyal
subject. I must deliver thy father into the custody of his
Majesty's governor of this colony.”

“Very well. But, Thomas, thy messengers travel very

slowly, else thou wouldst have known, as I do, that William
Franklin, late his Majesty's governor, is now a prisoner,
having been declared a public enemy by Congress;
and his successor will be my friend, and Julia's friend, and
my father's friend, William Livingston.”

“Thee seems to be in earnest,” said Thomas, in perplexity.
“Thou hast never attempted to misrepresent
any thing, and I must do thee the justice to say so.”

“What I say is the truth. And now I have a duty to
perform. By these orders it is my duty to require thy
signature to this,” continued Charles, placing a form of the
Declaration on the table; “and power is given me to arrest
those who decline it, if they do not give security for their
good conduct. Be not so pale, Mary, for thou art not in
danger. I will be his surety. I do not believe that
Thomas advised the attack on my father's house—

“Thee speaks truly, Charles,” said Mr. Schooley.

“No. I have never known one of thy society to counsel
violence.”

“That is just, Charles,” said Mary.

“But it cannot be denied that the measures they advise
are sometimes calculated to produce bloodshed.”

“What does thee mean, Charles?” asked Thomas.

“I mean, that although the slaves at Amboy were incited
to insurrection by the abolition declarations and teachings
of John Woolman, the pious tailor remained in his shop at
Mount Holly instead of heading the negroes. Several
were executed; and it strikes me that the blood which was
shed—both that of the negroes and their victims—flowed in
consequence of Woolman's intermeddling.”

“John was a conscientious man,” said Mary, who knew
him well; “but it was an unintended wrong to speak such
dangerous things to our slaves.”

“Whatever might have been the intention, the result
was most lamentable,” said Charles. “Yet, I repeat, I
have never known a Quaker to participate directly in acts
of violence. But they are not slow to grasp at the wealth
squandered by others; and, consequently, I think they
should not be exempted from contributing something to defray
the expenses of a just war, in which the government
that protects them may be involved, even if they are opposed
to the shedding of blood. Therefore, if thy son

Richard will not join the ranks, armed as the law directs,
he must be prepared to bear the expenses of a substitute.”

Charles then mounted his horse and galloped to the
sycamore overshadowing the Council Rock; and when
Richard joined his parents a few minutes after, and learned
what had been said in relation to him, he could only stare
in blank amazement.

Julia had been some time awaiting Charles.

“Your guardian will be quiet now, Julia,” said Charles,
exhibiting his papers and assuming an air of authority.
“Instead of arresting my father, he is indebted to my forbearance
for escaping an arrest himself. I acquit him,
however, of any participation in the incendiary assault.
As much as I dislike the Quakers, I do not think any of
them would be capable of sanctioning such acts as that.”

“No, indeed,” said Julia; “at least, I am sure Mr.
Schooley would never participate in them. But what did
they say respecting me?”

“Oh, a great deal. They desired me never to see you
more.”

“Indeed, Mr. Basilisk! They fear you will fascinate
me, I suppose.”

“Or rather than I will envenom your heart against
Richard! But the fellow is large enough to muster; and,
since he will remain at home and fill a labourer's place in
the field, I intend to make him pay for a substitute in the
little army under my command. Yes! before they knew
their idol William had ceased to govern or to enjoy his
liberty, they proposed—I mean Mr. Schooley proposed—to
resign his commission, and thereby suffer my father to
escape arrest, and the executioner's block, as a sort of
equivalent for my relinquishment of your society.”

“Surely they put a very high estimate upon it! But
then they have almost intimated a purpose to relinquish it
themselves; for my good guardian has hinted at the necessity
of returning to Burlington, since we too may be
liable to such outrages as happened on your father's
premises.”

“And what could you say in reply to that?”

“I read to him Kate Livingston's letter brought by the
last express. She writes that her father thinks it will soon
be unsafe for her to remain in the old settlements, and she

has a strong desire to be here with me. She is enchanted,
she says, with my descriptions of life and scenery in the
forest.”

“But did not Thomas say something in behalf of poor
Richard?”

“Not directly. But both he and Mary expatiated on
the beauties of Quakerism, and seemed anxious I should
join the meeting. That obstacle removed, Richard's superior
merits would doubtless secure the inestimable prize.
But why do you stare so? Oh, there are new pictures on
the tree! Read them for me,” she added, when they had
risen.

“Blue Pigeon has arrived with a message from my
mother!”

“From your mother? Oh, yes, I remember; you told
me she was ever indulgent and affectionate, and they called
her—”

“Gentle Moonlight. And she was truly gentle. And
Blue Pigeon was one of my most loved companions.”

“But here is the song-bird again—the same painted by
the other Indian. Its mouth is open, and it sings for thy
return.”

“My sister joins my mother in the message. I will
know more when I see Blue Pigeon.”

“Is it right to call the Thrush thy sister? Have you
not said the mother who adopted thee was only the aunt
of Brandt and his sister? How, then, can they be your
sister and brother?”

“Gentle Moonlight,” said Charles, with emotion, “lost
her husband in battle, and her only child, a little son,
sickened and died. This was before my capture. After
her bereavement, Brandt and his sister called her mother;
her affection was bestowed on them, and they seemed to
love their aunt almost as well as their true mother. Their
mother, seeing this, prevailed on Sir John Johnston to procure
a white captive for her sister, on whom her love might
be lavished. Sir John complied, and I was the captive.
Gentle Moonlight loved me as fondly as she had done her
own lost son, while I was taught to call Brandt my brother
and Brown Thrush my sister.”

“And they now wish you to return—to marry Brown
Thrush, and remain with them—to—”

“Ah, Julia! how can you utter such bitter words? Am
I not free?—a man—and a white man? Have I not found
my father?”

“Oh, very true! But do not the rules among the Indians
require an unconditional compliance with the requests
of mothers? Do not all inheritances, titles, and wealth,
come from the mother? Do not the mothers contract the
marriages and the maidens sometimes make the proposals?”

“Very true; but Gentle Moonlight is not really my
mother, and I am no Indian.”

“And I have learned that the Brown Thrush and her
brother are the children of the British knight.”

“It is so said, but I doubt it. They have very fair
complexions, it is true; but I have seen hundreds of the
children of the forest as fair as themselves.”

“Then, as Moonlight is not thy mother, as thou hast
found thy father,” continued Julia, archly, “and as thou
hast no Indian blood in thy veins, thou wilt remain?”

“I do not know what may be required of me. I must
see this runner, this old playmate of mine, and hear what
he has to say. But, Julia, whatever I may do, whatever
may be my fate, you alone have my heart. It is thine.
But still I must feel a brother's affection for my forest
sister. A more gentle and loving creature does not exist.
She would have died for me, and—”

“She loves you! She loves you! But it is no fault
of thine. Poor, unhappy girl! I wish she were my
companion here, or I were with the Gentle Moonlight—”

“Nay, Julia, you know not what you say! You know
not how soon the Iroquois may be hurling the tomahawk
at the heads of our race and kindred. Then the brave and
terrible brother of the Thrush, and the nephew of the
Gentle Moonlight, will be upon the war-path. He will
descend the valleys with yells of vengeance for the ills the
Indians have suffered at the hands of the white man. And
the Gentle Moonlight and the singing Thrush must be
witnesses of the tortures inflicted upon prisoners. They
will be chilled by the howls of the Malcha Manito which
dwells in the shrivelled bosom of Queen Esther—the remorseless
Catharine Montour—”

“Oh! name her not! I have heard of her cruelties—
and she not an Indian!”

“No, Julia. The whites are as capable of committing
monstrous cruelties as the poor Indians. But I know you
could never become a second Catharine Montour, or desire
to witness her savage fierceness. She is the daughter of the
French governor, Frontenac, it is believed, and was made
queen by the Senecas. She carries a war-club and scalping-knife,
and slays the miserable prisoners with her own hands!”

“Horrible! No; I would not behold her. Nor would
I have thee see her. But I fear this messenger will summon
thee away.”

“I would not obey any summons of hers. She is a Seneca.
Among the Indians I am of the bird tribe, having
taken the name of White Eagle, which was conferred by
Gentle Moonlight when they made me a chief. I was under
the usual age, but had saved the life of Brandt. I will tell
thee the manner of it some other time. Queen Esther's
totem is the wolf.”

“Then you might intermarry with the feathered tribe,”
said Julia, smiling; “and of course the thrush is one of
them.”

“No,” said Charles; “it is not permitted for those of
the same totems to marry.”

“Indeed!”

“But then,” he continued, “my forest sister's totem is
the turtle, or tortoise.”

“And, then, you might marry her?”

“Perhaps, if I desired it. But see! Solo is bristling
up, and growls. Behold, yonder comes Blue Pigeon! He
has sought me at my father's house, and returns to the tree.
Be quiet, Solo! And my poor horse, Yameder, pricks up
his ears. Will you remain? You may, if you desire it;
but you will not understand our language.”

“Yes, I will remain.”

When the Blue Pigeon recognised Charles, after a long
pause, he sprang forward and clasped him in his arms;
and, upon being informed that Julia was the Antelope of
whom he had doubtless heard Brandt speak, he offered his
hand, and uttered the word “sister” in good English. And
Julia, struck by his noble features and perfect form, called
him “brother.”

“Now, my brother,” said Charles, “my ear is open. I
am ready to hear the words of my mother.”

“The Gentle Moonlight,” said the young warrior, “has
been weeping. Like the dew-drops on the leaves at early
morning, the tears have stood upon her face. Her sister's
children have striven to comfort her, but they have another
mother. `White Eagle,' said she, `has no mother but the
Gentle Moonlight, and she beholds not her son.' She waited
very patiently until the moons were ended during his stay
at college. Then she sang with joy, and the Brown Thrush
also sang with her. But the wings of her noble Eagle did
not cleave the air of the mountain. The dew was not wiped
from her face by the feathers of her darling boy. Thayendanegea
said the White Eagle had come within a short
flight of his mother, but was perched near an Antelope that
had charmed him. Then Queen Esther summoned a council
of the warriors, chiefs, and sachems, and proposed that the
Five Nations should invade this country and burn and slay.
But their ears were closed to her words. It was the land
of the Sagorighwiyogstha, (Doer of Justice,) and if the
Indians loved the young White Eagle, why should not the
pale-faces love him too? Then Gentle Moonlight was permitted
to speak. She said her son had never disobeyed
her. He had said, when his white-haired father led him
away, that he would never cease to love his forest mother.
And he never lied. She would therefore summon him to
her presence, and if he still loved her he would obey. If
he loved the Antelope too, still he would come to the Gentle
Moonlight, and return again to his new charmer. He might
do so, if he desired it. But he must come to his mother,
or she would die. Such were her words, my brother, and
I have given them truly to you.”

“Blue Pigeon, my brother,” said Charles, “you have
seen the dew-drops fall from my eyes when you repeated
the words of my mother. She is the only mother I have
in the world. She loved me ever as the dearest of mothers
only can love. She loves me still. Moons may wane, but
a mother's love does not decline. The White Eagle still
loves the Gentle Moonlight. My brother, look at my face
and repeat my words to my mother. Say I will love her
always. But her Eagle cannot say at the present time
when he will fly to her wigwam;—whether it will be this

moon or the next. But he will come. He never lies. He
must first see his white-haired father, and hear his counsel;
and he must take leave of the Antelope, who will be sad at
his flight. Go, my brother. Return to the forest by the
clear waters where you and I have hunted the deer and the
bear. We were very happy then. I shall again behold
the wild scenes through which we loved to roam. Tell my
mother I often see her in my dreams. I awake and find
myself near the torn fields of the white man. I hide my
face and try to dream again. I would dream forever. Farewell,
my brother. I have finished until we meet again.”

Charles remained in a profound reverie after Blue Pigeon
had departed, which even Julia did not seek to break until
the silence became painful.

“Is it not as I conjecture?” asked Julia.

“Precisely,” said Charles. “My mother has sent for
me.”

“And you have declined going?”

“No, Julia. She consents to my return hither after
seeing her. I have sent her word that I will come; but I
could not say when. I must consult my father, and also
General Livingston.”

“They will keep you with them or kill you if you again
put yourself in their power,” said she.

“No—I fear nothing. They durst not injure me. War
is not declared by them. I may prevent it. If not, I can
return hither.”

“But will they really consent to it?”

“I suppose so. If not, I could easily escape. Adieu.
I must see my father and send his runner, the boy Skippie,
to General Livingston, or Governor Livingston, or whatever
his title may be by this time. Have your letter for Kate
in readiness; but do not prevail on her to urge her father
to decide against my visit to the lakes. It is only a few
days' travel. At this season the Indians are at home, petitioning
De-o-ha-ho, the spirit who presides over the growth
of corn, beans, and squashes. In the fall they might be
in the great western hunting-grounds beyond the Ohio,
whither Gentle Moonlight sometimes accompanies them,
for she used to take me thither.”

“And you have seen the `Dark and Bloody Ground' in
Kentucky?”

“Yes, and a fairer land the sun never shone upon.
Many a happy day have I passed under its maples, and
many a blissful dream of Kentucky still illumines my
slumbers. Adieu!”

He galloped away, while the maiden, with a throbbing
bosom, gazed after him until he vanished from her sight.
She then turned her footsteps toward home, warbling a
plaintive ditty, and thinking of the Indian maiden who bore
the name of one of the sweetest of wild-wood songsters.