University of Virginia Library

40. CHAPTER XL.
A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES.

From the stately dwelling of the governor, our rover hastened
to the lowly one of the ancient Jack-tar Franks, in “Boggy Quarter.”
His route was an obscure one, by Fiddler's Green, Cowalley,
and Myrtle cove — places no longer known to modern nomenclature
in the same precinct — until he found himself safe in
the obscurities of “Boggy Quarter.” Here he obtained a mask,
and such change of costume as he desired to make, should he think
proper to peril his person at the fancy ball of Mrs. Perkins Anderson.

Old Franks had a “curiosity shop” of his own — how collected,
we may conjecture, but are not able to say — and could, at a
pinch, have fitted out a score of masqueraders in their fancy
dresses.

But Harry Calvert, while he twiddled the domino in his fingers,
did not seem eager to habit himself for the evening. He gave
himself up to a sombre fit of meditation, seeing which, old Franks,
with genuine sailor instinct, proceeded to get out the rum, and
sugar, and lemon-juice, and quietly concoct a bowl of punch. He
knew the virtues of punch in vexatious moods. He also knew
that, though our rover was anything but a swiller of liquor, yet,
when in such a mood, he had only to place a can of the beverage
beside his captain, and it would be swallowed unconsciously.
Were he to offer to prepare it, as dull dogs are apt to do, Calvert
would no doubt refuse. The only proper way, as old experience and

a gentlemanly tact had taught him, was the process already adopted.
And, having such a profound faith in punch, in all similar cases
of head and heart, Franks held himself justified in beguiling his
superior to his medicine. His moral in the business was such as
any honest temperance society will approve.

But, though Calvert drank, he grew moodier than ever. At
length, Franks went forth and left him alone. Anon he returned
and made his report.

Lieutenant Molyneaux and the old pirate, Sam Fowler, had
reached town in their boat.

“Well,” said the rover, not turning his head, “does Belcher
know?”

“'T was he told me, yer honor.”

“Ah! well! — he knows what to do.”

And he relapsed again into his meditations.

Leaving him to these, let us pick up and unwind some of the
clues which we have, hitherto, rather laid aside than dropped.

First, then, the mode of Fairchild's escape from the Happy-go-Lucky?

The mulattress was, in truth, the agent. She had pretty much
the freedom of the ship. As the maid of Zulieme, a great many
privileges had been accorded her. As the spy and agent of Lieutenant
Molyneaux, she had succeeded to a good many more.
Eccles, the second lieutenant, though really an honest and good
fellow, belonged to the numerous family of the “softs.” He was
bashful in office; and while Molyneaux was present, in authority,
Eccles never adequately asserted his own.

Molyneaux had temporarily forgotten his interest in Sylvia, in
that more absorbing interest which followed from his intrigues
with Fowler. Sylvia, while slighted by Molyneaux, had still the
freedom of the ship.

The mulatto is the cross of white upon negro blood. The male
mulatto has a share of the quickness of the white man, with little
of his solidity or grasp. He has the cunning of the negro, without
his loyalty, or strength, or even courage.

The female mulatto has, in excess, all the arts of the male, with
a proportionate increase of that dexterity and cunning which naturally
belong to the sex. She is fond of toys, capricious of mood,
restless of place, eager for change, greedy for show and vanity,

and vindictive in her passion. This is especially true of the creature
where the cross is that of Spaniard or Portuguese. If the
father be French, there will be equal caprice but greater playfulness.
The Spanish mulattress will be a shade more religious.
The cross with the English gives a more solid character, capable
of greater thought and work. If Scotch, there will be a certain
character of moodiness and sullenness, with a like capacity for
work, and a greater degree of endurance. Descendants of the
Irish cross are apt to approach those of the French in character.
Sylvia was the daughter of a white Spaniard.

She had vanity and religion, appetite and frivolity, superstition
and passion, all huddled up together, in her composition. She
was a fool, of course; but not the less dangerous because a fool.
Molyneaux had slighted her. He had promised to convey her to
town, for which she sighed quite as much as her mistress. He
gave her the freedom of the ship, but so watched, that she could
not get away from it. He found that she could only profit him,
in his proposed intrigue with her mistress, while with her; and,
separate from her, she was good for nothing, and could do nothing.
Finding the vessel empty, he simply left it on the shelf.

And Sylvia resented this, after vainly seeking to regain her ascendency.
He gave her no credit for her amulets. She might
have been pacified, if he had recognised her charms. But the
mulattress was no beauty. And so, with the sense of neglect, she
grew mischievous. She had, among other petty passions, a most
terrible curiosity. There was a prisoner in the hold, brought in
under mysterious circumstances. She found her way to him.

Gideon Fairchild was a straight-laced Puritan; a rogue by instinct,
but a saint by profession. He succeeded in persuading
Sylvia to undo his fetters. He promised to take her to town, to
her mistress; the very thing she most sighed for at that moment,
How he proceeded — by what oily words and phrases, by what
asseverations — we need not say. But it will not surprise you
to hear that, in the darkness of the hold, Gideon did not scruple
to promise marriage to the mulattress. He had one wife already
in Charleston; and there had been a scandal, which insisted that
he had left another in Connecticut. But the latter never looked
him up in Carolina, no doubt for very good reasons; and to the
former he may have meditated no wrong in his promise to the

mulattress. It was probably the only argument by which to persuade
her to undo his bonds; and some little latitude must be accorded
to a Puritan in durance vile.

Well, they escaped together; and even at his departure from
the ship, Molyneaux was ignorant of the fact. Eccles, indeed,
knew it, but did not trouble his senior officer with the intelligence.
Nor, in fact, had he the chance: all that day, Molyneaux had
been busied in adjusting his costume for the night. He had a
wondrous wardrobe. Costumes of English cavalier, French marquis,
Spanish don, Italian bandit, and (no less picturesque) gallant
rover: black hat, like steeple; diamond button; great, black plumage
of the ostrich: rich frock, heavy with lace; belt, studded
with jewels; slings, for a brace of silver-mounted pistols; sling,
for long, glittering cut-and-thrust; diamond buckles for the knee;
silken stockings, elaborately clocked; and peaked shoes, glossy
with varnish, and gleaming with their buckles also.

What shall he wear? The question is one of proverbial difficulty
to an English macaroni, especially when the object is a fancy
ball. Molyneaux labors under an embarras des richesse. It takes
him a whole day to determine; and, though he decides before
nightfall, he is still dubious. He decides to be a courtier of
Charles II.; but, lest his tastes should change ere he reaches
town, he concludes to carry with him an Italian brigand, a Spanish
don, and a French marquis. Anyhow, he will wear an aigrette
of pearl, and a great rope about his neck, of the same precious
tears, from the sea of Oman, or the less classical shores of the
Pacific.

Sam Fowler, “Squint-eyed Sam,” the old pirate, begrudges
boat-room to the chest which is required for these precious fantasticals;
for Sam's taste is more of the butcher than the tailor
order. But Molyneaux makes a point of it, and such a comrade
is not to be quarrelled with in a mere matter of taste. And so
they leave together the snug nook upon the Ashley, and make
their way to “Oyster Point” — a name which, among the vulgar,
clung to the good city of the cavaliers a long time after. She
had been formally christened “Charleston,” after the “merrie
monarch.”

They reached their destination, a creek which put in somewhere
between the present streets Queen and Wentworth, in the very

heart of the modern city, and possibly an eighth of a mile above
that which usually afforded shelter to the skiff of Captain Calvert.
And here, on a little bank of sand, over which hung a single live
oak, skirted by a fringe of myrtle and sea-willows, the gallant Mr.
Molyneaux made his toilet, rigging himself out as a cavalier of
the English court.

He was now ready for the masking. But he had still to find
his way to the dwelling of Mrs. Perkins Anderson. For the necessary
knowledge he could only look to Sam Fowler; and the
latter, in turn, must refer to his trading-acquaintance, Mr. Ebenezer
Sproulls.

As both of our parties were eager after their several affairs
— for if Molyneaux looked to the costume-ball for his delights,
Fowler had visions of a famous drinking-'bout, with choice companions,
running in his head — they very soon left the boat in the
keeping of the two sailors who had rowed them down. These
sailors, by-the-way, were among their confederates, sworn brothers
under the “Jolly Roger.” Fowler gave them stern counsel to
keep the boat, lie close under the willows, and obey their signal.

“If you try to git into town, my lads, they 'll have you in the
bilboes; and then, be sure, you 'll die in your shoes, and that too
with no solid deck to stand upon.”

“They've no liquors?” asked Molyneaux.

“Not a drap, yer honors!” And the two rascals grinned as
they answered in the same breath.

“Well, eyes bright, my lads, and lie close, with a good gripe of
pistols as well as oars. Remember, the three whistles and a
chirrup!”

And so they were left to the consolations of a dry time on a lee
shore. The reckless rascals, however, had made provision for
themselves; and, hardly had their two superiors gone from sight,
ere they produced a portly jug of Jamaica, and proceeded to
refresh themselves. Their providence, and the frequency and
strength of their draughts, rendered the work of Jack Belcher
much easier than it otherwise might have been. In one hour
after they had begun their potations, they were only half conscious,
and nowise capable of using oar or pistol; and in this condition
were set upon by half a dozen sturdy fellows, who had them
roped and gagged in a jiffy, stripped of every weapon, and carried

off to a closer harborage. Their places in the boat were supplied
by two others, who were soon habited in their garments, and
better able to perform their duties.

Meanwhile, Molyneaux and Fowler made their way to the habitation
of Sproulls. A Spanish roquelaure, of great dimensions,
though light of weight, sufficed to conceal the gayety of our lieutenant's
costume from all vulgar eyes. But they met few persons
in the infant city, and no policemen. Not that the town was lacking
in its Dogberries. But the mere corporal's guard, then kept
on the establishment, did not suffice for more than angel-visits to
the several streets.

Our lieutenant found the thoroughfares muddy. There were
pools to cross, and quagmires to leap, and ditches which were
more easy to penetrate than to pass; and Sam Fowler was something
of a blind guide. But all difficulties were finally overcome,
and the two reached Sproulls's dwelling in safety, though it was
found that the shoes of our lieutenant needed nice treatment and
a considerate brush. And Sproulls himself condescended to this
labor. He was, or affected to be, full of admiration at the costume
of his visiter; and no doubt he was. Besides, Molyneaux
was a very pretty fellow, with a good leg, and a well-built and
graceful figure. He prided himself with propriety upon his leg.
Sproulls was no doubt moved to admiration, in some degree, because
of the notion he had taken that the famous rover, Calvert
himself, stood before him. Fowler had not named his companion.
Molyneaux kept on his vizard, and Sproulls himself had never
seen Calvert. He conjectured and concluded just as he wished.
Here let us leave the parties for awhile, until it becomes proper
to take the principal to the assembly of Mrs. Perkins Anderson.

It is not known exactly at what hour, and by what particular
mode, Gideon Fairchild and Sylvia succeeded in leaving the
Happy-go-Lucky. But we do know that their escape was made,
in the first instance, to the woods on the western side of the river.
Here they immediately buried themselves in the thickets, hurrying
below with the flight of fear. Two miles below, they discovered
an old canoe fastened to a tree in the water by a grapevine.
It was leaky, and seemed to have been abandoned as unseaworthy.
A broken paddle lay in the bottom of the boat. But this,
with a stream so narrow at this point, and so smooth, was sufficient

for their purposes. They did not stop to bail the rickety
vessel, but boldly ventured in and paddled across; their apprehensions
increasing during the voyage lest the canoe should sink,
for the water gurgled in from numerous seams and cracks. But
they succeeded in getting her into a creek running through the
opposite marsh, and landed safely at a point which tradition still
indicates as near the eastern bank of the “Ten-mile Ferry.” But
it must have been above this point, since, according to the “claim”
put in by Gideon Fairchild for “damages” — which may perhaps
still be found in the records of the colonial office — he mentioned
his dreary midnight tramp of fourteen miles to the city after he
had crossed the river. But the matter is not of serious moment.
The fugitives crossed in safety, and succeeded in making their
way to the main thoroughfare of the country — a noble avenue,
girdled on both sides by mighty live oaks, hung with moss, and
gigantic pines, the most stately of all evergreens, the growth of
half a century or more, which literally linked their branches
across the track, forming a grand Gothic archway of many, many
miles in length. Old John Archdale, the Quaker governor for a
season, and one of the lords-proprietors, said of this avenue many
years after, that it was such as no prince in Europe could boast.
And for a good reason: it was cut out of the primitive forests,
which the axe of civilization had never dishonored by a stroke!

It was hard work for our fugitives, in the thick woods and
thicker darkness, to make their way from the river to the open
road. Gideon, who pretended to some merits as a scout, but was
at best nothing but an express, was frequently puzzled and in
despair. But Sylvia kept beside him, cheerful through all, and
sometimes helping him forward by a hint, often by a word of encouragement.
Her exercises as vaulter, tumbler, and dancer, had
admirably prepared her lower limbs for any ordeal on foot; and
she ran beside Gideon without effort, as he stumbled and fought
his way through the thicket, his Puritan restraints frequently so
far forgotten as to allow of sundry explosive expletives, such as
“Odds blood!' “Odds flesh!” “Odds zounds!” and “Odds bodikins!”
— all so many contractions of the Sacred Name, modifications
of well-known English oaths of the days of “good Queen
Bess.”

“You 're swearing, ain't you?” demanded the gipsy; “what for?'

“These 'tarnal thick woods!”

“What! do you mind the woods? I can see like an owl.”

“Well, I wish I could light my eyes by your lamp. I 'm tarnation
'fear'd we shall never git out of this thick.”

“Oh, yes, we will! I can get through! You ought n't to mind
that, since your 're out of the hold of that nasty old ship.”

“S'blood! but 't was nasty! I shall never forgit, ef I live till
Methuselah. I do n't think I shall ever git the smell of the tar
out of my nose.”

“Well, you 're out now, and that 's something. It 's better here,
and free to go, than stay there without any daylight.”

“Odds Bob! but what 's the freedom here, I wonder? There,
now! I had it right slap in my face! Sich a wipe! — a blasted
big airm of the tree!”

Sylvia laughed merrily as her companion, growling the while,
extricated himself for the moment, but only to run into a new
mesh of entanglement.

“Here, hold my hand,” said the girl, “I 'll show you the way.”

But his pride would n't suffer this; and when she laughed again,
he growled, fiercely —

“What the dickens do you yell for! Do n't you know there 's
wolves and tigers all about these woods?”

“Madre de Dios! is it true?” And the gipsy nestled closer.

“True! why, you can hear them sometimes a-barkin' in the
streets of Charlestoun.”

“Jesu! holy Mother! but is it true?”

“True! — Ah! the Lord be praised, we 're in the road at
last!”

And the two looked up, and saw the stars shining out fairly
through the avenue.

“Yes! we 're in a cl'ar track now, and that 's a God's mercy.”

“ the wolves and tigers, Mr. Gideon!”

“Yes! do n't you wake 'em up with your infarnal yells ag'in.
You do n't know how soon they 'll be on us anyhow. Stick to
me.”

“I will!”

“And there 's the red, painted, devilish sons of Satan — the
Injins!”

“O Jesu! and have you the red Injins so near the town?”

“Near the town! We 've got a good ten miles to go yet; and
we may both lose our sculps before we git a mile further.”

“But they would n't sculp a woman, would they?”

“Would n't they? Why, why not? What would they want
her for?”

“Why, they 'd want her to go with one of the warriors; they 'd
some of them be wanting to marry her.”

“And so you think you 'd git off that way, while they was asculpin'
me, do ye?”

“No! but that would be the worst of it for a woman.”

“And you 'd marry an Injin, would ye?”

“And why not? He 's got a good color, jest like mine. But,
you know, I 'm to marry you, Mr. Gideon.”

“Hem! marry me? Wal, I guess we did say something
about it, when I was onable to make a contract. Do you recollect
anything of sich talk?”

“To be sure, I do! You are to carry me to my missus, you
know, and if she says `Yes,' why, you 're to marry me.”

“I 'm afear'd, my poor gal, that your mistress won't say `Yes.'”

“Oh, but she will!”

“I guess not. You see, I 've been a-thinkin' about it, Sylvia;
and, you see, you 're a slave.”

“Oh! you 'll pay missus so much money, you know.”

“And whar 's it to come from, I say?”

“Why, to be sure, you ought to know.”

“But I do n't know. And I reckon, my poor gal, you 'll have
to give up any sich onreasonable ixpectations.”

“But why?”

“For the reasons I tell you, and for other reasons that I won't
tell you.”

The gipsy began to whine and blubber. But just then, Gideon:—

“Hairk! what 's that in the thick? Shet up your oven, gal,
and do n't bring out all the painted savages 'twixt here and hell
to eat us up! Shet up, I say, and push on, now the track 's clear.
It 'll be broad daylight afore we git to town, ef you do n't walk
faster.”

The word “savages” sufficed. Sylvia darted forward at a run.

“Why, you 'tarnal —! would you jest now surrender me up

to the painted varmints, and leave me to be sculped intire? Is
that the way you shows your gratitude, now that I've extercated
you out of that pirate prison?”

Gideon had completely changed the relative obligations of the
parties. In due degree as he began to feel himself secure, did
the sense of gratitude decline within him. We have seen how
decidedly he ignored his promise of marriage. It was necessary
that he should do this effectually before he reached the presence
of the Mrs. Gideon of Charleston. But, even as he felt the necessity
of silencing the one idea, another entered his head. He
was not altogether prepared to give Sylvia up to her mistress.
She was a slave to the Spaniard. Why not to him? In the abstract,
he was decidedly opposed to negro slavery; but there is,
as every virtuous Christian knows and understands, a very substantial
difference between a slave to keep and a slave to sell!
Now, it was very certain that Mrs. Gideon would never suffer
him to keep Sylvia; but he was quite as sure that that excellent
woman would never object to selling her, at a proper market valuation.
Sylvia would bring, even in that day, as an accomplished
lady's maid, some fifty pounds under the hammer. Now, if Sylvia,
reconciled to the denial of her claims, as wife, could be persuaded
of the superior advantages to herself of becoming, for a
season, lady's maid to Mrs. Gideon, the next step was easy. Once
recognised, though for the briefest possible period, as the servant
of Gideon, the presumption of ownership would be sufficient. As
for the rival claims of Zulieme Calvert, Gideon knew enough to
satisfy him that he could dispose of them by a very easy process.
He had not been slow to extract from the prattling Sylvia the
evidence that he desired in respect to our rover, the Señorita de
Montano, and the good ship, the Happy-go-Lucky. Sylvia had
left herself few secrets.

With these cunning thoughts running in his head, and which
matured with great rapidity in a brain that cupidity had sharpened
as a cut-and-thrust, Gideon, when about half way from town,
concluded to call a rest.

“Let 's set awhile, Sylvia, my gal; let 's set, and rest. We 've
done the worst half of our work, and the rest 's pretty easy. A
leetle rest, now, will be good for both.”

“Where shall we set? I 'm tired.”

“So am I. Here 's a log, now, jest convenient to the roadside.
I 'll jest poke it first, to scare off the snakes, ef there be any.
Thar! set you down, gal.”

And the two sat, cheek by jowl. Then Gideon, putting his
hand good-naturedly on Sylvia's shoulder, began:—

“I 've helped you out of the hands of them heathen pirates—”

“But they ain't no pirates, I tell you.”

“Oh, yes, my gal, they air, though you kain 't understand.”

“Yes, I can; and I know they ain't no pirates. They 're a
rough, nasty set, and she 's a nasty little ship, and that 's true;
but they ain't no pirates, Mr. Gideon.”

“Wal, do n't matter; they 're nasty, and I 've helped you out
of their hobbles.”

“You! I was a-thinkin' 't was I helped you. I could git
away at any time.”

“En why did n't you, I wonder?”

“'Cause I had nobody to ax me to be married, before you
come.”

“Ahem! you still talks about that, Sylvia, as ef you had a sort
of right. But I guess I made it cl'ar to you that sich a thing was
all foolishness.”

“But you said it.”

“A man what 's in a donjin, or is a-drownin', ain't answerable
for what he says! That 's the law, Sylvia, and it 's sense! So,
jest you shet up about the marriage. Marriage, 'twixt us, is only
so much nonsense. It kain 't be.”

“Why not?”

“Bekaise, you see, I 've got a Mrs. Gid a'ready, and the law
won't let me have tew Mrs. Gids; and, what 's more, I do n't want
'em. Lord save us from sich a happiness! Next, you see, you 're
a nigger—”

“Nigger!” starting up. “No more nigger than you, sah!”

“Oh, yes, Sylvia, you 've got the blood, and I aint! My
blood 's the nateral, white, pure blood of `the pilgrims,' that come
out of the Mayflower — genooyne Saxon, without a cross. The
family of Fairchild was about the first that ever planted a foot on
the Plymouth rock, and 't was a foot in a shoe, my gal; for, you
see, old Gid, my great, great, great, gran'ther, was a shoemaker,
and it stands to reason he always took care to have a good pair

of shoes for himself. The blood 's the best, I tell you, in all
Plymouth, and Massachusetts bay to boot; and 't wont do to cross
it with nigger blood, unless for a good consideration. Now, I 've
hearn of some of your Spaniards that had a cross of black, or
white, or mestizo; but they had, same time, a smart chance of
nigger-property and lands. Ef so be you was one of them sort,
now—”

“Yer' you, Mr. Gideon, I 'm no nigger. I 've got white blood
— a leetle yellowish, that 's all; and ef you thinks your 'n is so
much better, look yer, git yourself out of prisoned next time for
yourself! See what your white blood 's guine to do, to open
them iron rings you had about your legs and arms! You ain't
forgot that, I reckon.”

“Guess not! Wal, you see, I held up the darbies, and you
found the key, and, between us, I worked out! That was all you
did. I paddled you over the river, and showed you the way
here—”

“You!” and the gipsy laughed merrily at the absurdity. She
had not seen so much absurdity in his mode of presenting the
manner of his escape from the darbies — he holding up the manacles,
and she finding and using the key; but, remembering his
troubles in the woods, his claims as a guide seemed to her superlatively
ridiculous.

“Now,” said he, “I 've showed you what we 've done for one
another; and I reckon we 're about square. As for a wife, that,
you see, is the onpossible thing; it 's like the onpardonable sin of
scripter. You see, thar 's a Madam Gid a'ready, and she 'd tear
all to pieces before she 'd hear of it; and, what's more, she 'd have
you sent back, tied neck and heels, to this pirate-vessel.”

“Oh, do n't say so!”

“She 'd do it, by all that 's bloody, or she 'd make everything
crack ag'in!”

“O Mr. Gideon, what shall I do?”

“Wal! to do you a sarvice, for the leetle that you did for me,
you must mind your eyes, and some few things I 've got to tell
you. First, you 'll have to clap a stopper on your jaws, and never
let out about our gittin' out of that ship, or what you did, and what
I might happen to say to you in my weakness of heart and tribulations
of sperit, when them cussed iron clamps was upon me.”

“Yes.”

“You 're not to say a word about husband and wife, you
hear?”

“Not a word.”

“And you 're to go to my house; and my wife, Mrs. Gideon —
a most sweet, sainted vessel of the sperit — she 'll be your missus
instead of that painted harlot, what do you call her? —”

He was interrupted by a scream — a shriek — a yell of disgust
and indignation. And the next moment the girl was on her feet,
and darting forward down the road like mad.

“Odds 'ounds! Where are you goin', and at that mad rate,
gal?”

“You 're a brute — a great British brute — that you are!”

“But where are you goin', gal?”

“To town — to my missus. I 'll not have any missus of
your 'n.”

“But the wolves — the tigers!”

“You 're a wolf and a tiger yourself! I won't stay with you.”

“But you must. How would you git on in town, ef 't want for
me? You 'd never find your way.”

“The road 's a big one.”

“But, before you git a mile, there 's a dozen roads; and, in
town, there 's two hundred houses. You 'd never find the right
one.”

“I 'll go through town, through every street, and holler for the
señora. I kin holler — I kin! Whoo—whoo—whoop! O se
ñora! O my lady Zulieme! Where are you? I 'm here! I 'm
lookin' for you. It 's Sylvia that 's callin' for you everywhere.”

“Confound the b—! She 'll wake up the Injins for true, ef
any of 'em 's a-harborin' about. Hairk ye, gal! do n't be foolish.
I 'll see you safe.”

“Whoo—whoo—whoop!”

“Was ever sich a bletherin' b—! Hairk ye, gal! There 's
Injins, as I 'm a livin' sinner!”

“Where?”

He got up to her, and caught her by the arm.

“They 're in the woods, on the right, on the left, front and rear;
and they 'll have your sculp, and they 'll have mine too, ef you
do n't put a bridle on your tongue. Do n't be a fool! I 'll carry

you to your missus — the half-witted Spanish fool! I 'll carry you
safe. Trust me. I was only a-tryin' you. O Lord, presarve
us — women 's are sich blasted fools!”

The momentary paroxysm was over. Sylvia was quieted by
the Indians, though she snapped her fingers at the wolves. She
had an infantile dread, as a Mexican, of red fingers in her hair.
She was pacified, but only on conditions.

“Ef you talk ag'in the señora, I 'll bawl though there were
fifty Injins! I must go to the señora. You must take me to
her.”

“I will.”

“And no more about your Mrs. Gideon, or I 'll tell all!”

“To be sure not. I 'm still as a suckfish.”

“And take your fingers off me. I 'm not to be your wife.”

“No! to be sure not.”

And then the girl yelled again, probably at her painful disappointment.
“Some natural tears she shed, but dried them soon.”
In brief, Sylvia was cunning. The arts of Gideon had not suffered
him to conceal the dread of his spouse which he felt. In
this, Sylvia found her strength and the secret of her safety. Gideon
grew complaisant; and if he did not utterly forego his secret
purpose of making her a slave to himself, he yet felt that his policy
must be reserved for other circumstances. He did not forego
it; but he said to himself —

“It will be easier to fix that, when we 've got the señora and
her bully under government hatches!”

The result was, that the two reached town in safety; and, though
still an hour before day, Sylvia made him take her to the dwelling
of Mrs. Perkins Anderson. When the servant, after repeated
and clamorous rapping with a stick, was roused to open
the door, Sylvia darted in headlong, calling for the señora. Zulieme,
awakened by the clamor and well-known voice, started out
of bed, and threw open the chamber-door. Mrs. Perkins Anderson
was also roused, and appeared at the same moment. Great
was the confusion. But Sylvia, as each lady stood before her
with candle in hand, soon distinguished her “missus.”

“O my lady! O señora! it 's me — it 's Sylvia! I 'm come to
you all afoot; and there 's wolves and tigers, and the red Injins!”

“Where? where?” demanded both ladies, in a breath.

“In the woods! in the woods! But I 'm safe now. O my
lady, I 'm safe here, I know!”

Gideon Fairchild slipped off in the confusion. In the same
hour he made his way to the housing-place of Sylvester. He
could find that cunning master of fence, though Belcher and
Franks could not; and he found him a willing listener.

He had, in some degree, anticipated the tidings of Gideon. He
had but just returned from a secret mission to Colonel Morton,
one of the most influential of the council of state. But of this,
hereafter. We shall see that Sylvester lost no time in availing
himself of the swelling intelligence which was brought by Gideon.
But this in due season. Let us to bed now.