University of Virginia Library

53. CHAPTER LIII.
VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

The cassique was not a little surprised by his visiter. As requested,
he procured candles, two of which Calvert lighted instantly,
and placed in front of a window which was visible from
the forest where Belcher and Ligon had been left with the marines.
He then proceeded, as briefly as possible, to report to his
brother the affair which had brought him, the danger as it appeared
to his mind, and the force which he had arrayed to meet it.
It is probable that, filled with the peculiar griefs which then distressed
him, the cassique would have given little heed to his brother's
apprehensions. He was quite as favorably disposed to the
red men as ever; it was difficult to disabuse him of his impressions;
but when he with some degree of indifference began to declare
his doubts, the other said abruptly, and somewhat impatiently:—

“Edward Berkeley, you have no right to trifle with other lives
than your own. You have been so long in the habit of indulging
in your passion of philanthropy, that you fail to see things with
your natural good judgment. But, the danger is no longer questionable.
It is not now a thing of speculation, but of positive evidence.
I have myself made a circuit, only last night, of a camp
of fifty warriors, all well armed, and not quite twelve miles from
you. The place is evidently a rendezvous, where, by this time,
there may be from two to five hundred more! There has been
a gathering of a thousand on the Savannah river; and are you to
learn, for the first time, of the utter destruction of the settlement

of Lord Cardross, at Beaufort, by the Spaniards, no doubt assisted
by the Indians?”

“Good God! is it possible?”

“True, every syllable! These things are certain. But where
is your Indian boy — the hunter? Is he on the premises?”

“I suppose so. He has a little lodge to himself, within fifty
yards of the dwelling, where he sleeps.”

“Ah! does he sleep? We must see if he is in it.”

“But, what of him? He is a mere boy.”

“So is a powder-monkey: but he may fire a magazine! He
has been put with you, by old Cussoboe, for this very purpose.
He is a spy; something more, indeed, if my suspicions be well
founded. By his hands, no doubt, your keys, especially of your
armory and arsenal, are to be delivered to Cussoboe, at midnight,
when you all sleep!”

The cruiser then narrated all that he knew of the habits of the
boy — of the concealed sheaf of arrows, and how he had supplied,
on several occasions, the place of the arrows which had been
broken, so as to disorder the mutual calculations of chief and
boy.

“The keys!” — the cassique hurried away to hunt them up.
“They are all here,” he said, returning. “And when do you
expect the savages?”

“This very night, according to the original count of arrows, or
to-morrow night at farthest. It must be one or t' other. Not
knowing whether the arrow first broken was counted inclusively,
or from, it is not easy to say positively which is the night. We
must prepare for both.”

“To-night? Why, it is already midnight.”

“True, but `the ides of March' are not over! It is at the very
hour of the dawn that the red men most frequently choose to begin
the attack. But never you fear” — seeing that the cassique
was starting away, full of excitement — “I have anticipated their
movements quite as well as you could have done, had you known
sooner of the affair. I had, indeed, made preparations that you
should know. Have you not heard from Gowdey?”

“Not lately. He gave me some warnings, some time ago; but
I made light of them.”

“You were wrong. Gowdey is an authority, in his province,

who might save all your governors and councils. But, did he
send you no letter from me?”

“None.”

“It is well, then, that I relied upon no other agency than my
own. Had your governor done as I counselled, Cardross and his
colony would have been saved. It is lucky I am not too late
here.”

The cassique was now quite willing to listen to his brother.

“Before disturbing you,” continued he, “I made all preparations
for your defence. I have brought a strong force with me;
have taken possession of your armory, which I have garrisoned
with half a dozen stout fellows. I have converted carriage-house
and stables into fortresses also. I have roused your laborers, and
armed them; given them instructions what to do; and these lights
are designed to apprize a party, which I have in the woods, that
you are ready to receive a score of well-armed men in your mansion-house.
You have a closed basement, I perceive, which I
take to be unoccupied. We must put them there, without their
presence being known. I will now withdraw the lights. They
have served their purpose. My men will be here in a few minutes
more.”

The cassique was full of wonder, but he had hardly time to express
it; a muffled sound, as of heavy footsteps, at that moment
being evident without. Stealthily the door was opened; and, in
as much silence as possible, Belcher entered with his squad. Not
a moment was lost in hurrying them down into the basement.

“And, now, see if the hunter-boy is within-doors — within his
cabin,” said our rover. “Possibly he is, for my substitution of
the new for the broken arrows will have probably deceived him
thoroughly as to the time for the rising. He may be there, but
it is just as well to see.”

The two went forth together. Twenty minutes sufficed for the
examination. But the boy was not in his cabin. This was conceived
to be, in some degree, a confirmation of our rover's suspicions.
But it did injustice to the boy. He, poor fellow, was at
that moment buried in the deepest slumbers of an exhausted frame,
scarcely a hundred yards from the spot where Ligon and the rest
of the marines and sailors were crouching out of sight, in closest
harborage. Iswattee had been pursuing his regimen for more

than a week; hence the appearance of illness which had so impressed
the cassique and Grace Masterton. His body had become
enfeebled by potent draughts of his bitter-root decoctions;
while his mind, as he slept, was disordered by wildest dreams,
the result of his equally potent narcotic beverages, through which
he expected to obtain his revelations from the Great Manneyto, or
Master of Life. Alas, for the poor, simple savage! — shrinking
from the cruel duty imposed upon him, from which the red boy
was seldom known to shrink — stubborn, usually, as the Spartan;
and recoiling with horror from those sanguinary deeds which his
imagination had so vividly painted to his thoughts; too gentle a
nature for the destiny before him; assigned by the Fates to an
ordeal for which they had failed to endow him with the requisite
characteristics of a wild and savage blood, and a cold, obdurate,
inflexible heart and will!

Will the Great Spirit help him in this ordeal? Will he descend
with shadowy wings upon his slumbers, and so clear his
vision and arm his will as to enable him to find a way out of the
deadly labyrinth — the snaky folds of his destiny? His trial is
near at hand! Let us leave him where he sleeps, and follow
those only who are all awake to the exigencies of the time.

The cassique, now made fully conscious of the perils of his situation,
roused up all his energies, which, once afoot, were as stirring
and pressing as those of his brother, whom he so greatly
resembled.

“My poor Olive!” he exclaimed; “and at such a moment! O
Harry, she is dying! Your Olive! my Olive! Perchance this
very night — this very night!—”

He could say no more, but fell into his brother's outstretched
arms. For a moment the two clung together — a life of meaning
in the deep silence which followed. Neither had speech. Neither
saw the other's tears, or heard the suppressed sobbing. He
only felt his own; and the deep throes of his heart stifled all
hearing.

For a moment! And then the cassique drew himself up, and
out of our rover's embrace, and said:—

“We must be men! But, O Harry, it is terrible to think that,
in the midst of strife, and storm, and bloodshed, her pure, sweet
spirit shall go out!—”

“Edward, enough! Let me close these shutters. Go you to
Olive's — to your wife's chamber — and close in every shutter.
Gently! No noise! We must, so far as we can, spare her every
sound of strife without. Let this be your present task. Take no
further care or trouble touching this danger. I have prepared —
will prepare — for it all. See to her; cling to her side; let her
not lose you” — a long pause — “lose you, at the last!”

“Nor you! O Harry, it is your right, even more than mine!”

“I will be here, Edward; and, if it may be so, will be there
also. We know not yet at what moment we may be summoned
by the cry of battle without — the cry of death within! Go, now,
and see to all the fastenings: close all the windows in Olive's
chamber.”

The cassique again clasped his brother in his arms.

“Alas, my brother, that we should meet thus!”

“As God wills! And we are stronger for this meeting, even
thus! The terrors of the grave, which surround us, are only
so many clues to a wondrous mystery, to which heart, and
soul, and mind, must equally rise, if we would assert a proper
manhood. Go, now, my brother, and do as I have told you.
If we are to be assailed to-night, the moment of trial can not be
far off.”

The cassique was about to go; but was arrested, even at the
door, by a third party coming upon the scene. Let us, to explain
the interruption, anticipate his visit to his wife's chamber. We
are summoned thither.

It will be remembered that, when the cassique withdrew from
the chamber, he had left the little Spanish wife of our rover in
charge of Olive. She was joined, in a while after, by the Honorable
Mrs. Masterton. This maternal lady would have dismissed
Zulieme to her chamber. But the latter would not consent; professed
her anxiety to remain, and declared that she had had sleep
enough for the night. The mother was talkative, and, after a
space, Olive became restive. Mrs. Masterton approached her
bed:—

“What can I do for you, my child?”

“There are footsteps — voices: some one comes!”

“No, my beloved, there is nobody. The house is perfectly
still.”

The mother smiled — shook her head — and tried to soothe
her.

“I can hear, mother. There are voices. Where is my husband
— Sir Edward?”

“He has gone into the parlor, dear señora,” quoth Zulieme.

“It is there I hear the steps — the voices.”

“Impossible, my child; you have dreamed it. I rather think
Sir Edward has gone to lie down.”

“I have dreamed nothing. I see everything. Life itself is
but a dream with me now; but it is such a dream as makes me
see and hear more than ever. It is as I tell you, mother: there
are footsteps — voices.”

“I think I do hear voices,” said Zulieme.

“No!” sharply rejoined the mother. “It is all a notion. The
house is perfectly quiet.”

“Ah! quiet — quiet! That is death! Death is a great quiet,
mother. But I know that there are men moving and talking in
the house. Ah! — lift me a little. Hark, mother!” — in a whisper;
and, as her mother bent to her, she said, “He is here!”

“He! Who, my child?”

“Harry — Harry Berkeley!”

“My dear child, I tell you, you are only dreaming. It is impossible.”

“And I tell you, mother, that I know he is here! I hear his
voice—”

“What! when we can hear nothing?”

“I hear his footstep!”

The mother smiled, shook her head, and tried to soothe her.

“I feel his presence, mother! He is here! Will you not go
and see, and bring him to me?”

“Bring him, my love?”

“Ay, bring him!”

“Impossible! Why, my child, only think!—”

“Think? How think? Why should I think? Why should
you not bring him?”

“What! after all?—”

“Yes; after all! That is the very time — after all! There
can be no doubts or suspicions now. Do you still think of such
a life as this, that I am leaving? Do you not see that I am no

more one of you? — that the world is going from me? — that life,
society, all those things that made us ever so sadly think, are departing?
I beg you, mother, bring Harry hither. Bring my
husband with him. They are there together. I feel it — almost
see it — hear his voice — know his step! Ah! why will you deny
me?”

“But, my child, I assure you that there is no stranger in the
house.”

“As if Harry should be called a stranger! But he is here!”

“Let me go see, señora,” said Zulieme to the mother. “It can
do no harm.”

“No, no! you are right, my dear girl,” murmured the sufferer;
“it can do no harm. Go see! — go bring him!”

“Well, go if you will!” replied the mother, a little too impatiently
for such a scene and situation. But she had taken a sort
of dislike to Zulieme, from the first moment of her coming, and
this was her mode of expressing it. And Zulieme went.

She opened the door of the hall, at the moment when the brothers
were embracing, as if the better to share their sorrows. The
lights had been placed in the chimney, when Calvert had taken
them from the window. At the opening of the door, the brothers
turned their faces to the intruder; and, even as he turned, the
gleams from the candles were thrown full upon the face of the
rover. His air, figure, face, were unmistakeable by one who so
well knew him as Zulieme; and, forgetting every consideration
but the one vivid memory and feeling, she sprang upon him —
with no power of self-restraint — threw herself upon his bosom,
her arms almost vainly stretching up toward his neck, and cried
aloud:—

“O Harry! you great brute of a Harry, you are come for me
at last!”

The rover was as much confounded as the cassique. He lifted
her in his arms, till her lips were on a level with his own, and
she smothered him with kisses. The cassique recoiled in consternation.
The rover said—

“Why, Zulieme! you here, child?”

“Did n't you know it? Have n't you come for me?”

“N—o! not exactly! But, it 's just as well. I am glad to find
you here. It saves me much pain and peril.”

“What 's just as well?” she demanded, quickly.

He did not answer her; but, still holding the little woman closely
to him, with much more apparent tenderness than we have seen
him show before, he said to his brother:—

“Go, Edward, and see to the windows. All this shall be explained
hereafter.”

The cassique disappeared, leaving the parties, but only for a
brief space, together. When he reached Olive's chamber, and
heard from Mrs. Masterton what a wild notion his wife entertained
of the presence of Harry Berkeley in the house, he was
astounded. He could readily conceive how acute might the senses
become, where the heart was deeply concerned; but that the soul
should be so quickened, while still holding possession of its frail
tenement of clay — should so quicken the sensibilities — was a
mystery of marvellous significance. As he paused in silence,
suddenly struck with the wonder of the thing, Olive said to
him:—

“Surely, it is so, Edward — Harry is here?”

“He is, Olive! Shall I bring him to you, my love?”

“If you please. He has come in time.”

“He belongs to us both, Olive: he shall come to you.”

“It will kill her, Sir Edward!” murmured Mrs. Masterton, in
tones which, as she thought, were inaudible to any ears but his.
To her terror, Olive said:—

“Have you anything to make me live, mother? — Bring Harry
to me, Sir Edward, if you please.”

The cassique obeyed her. The scene had occupied but a few
minutes, and he returned promptly to the hall where he had left
Harry and Zulieme. A few words sufficed to say what was wanted,
and our rover hastened to obey; the little wife still eagerly
hanging on his arm, and whispering:—

“I see it all now, Harry. This lady was your Olive!”

“Hush! child — hush!” he whispered in reply, pressing her
hand, and passing on, while the cassique led the way. At the
entrance of the chamber, Zulieme, with a certain vague instinct
of propriety, held back; but, this time, our rover detained her
hand, as if to say, “You shall see and hear all.” Then he entered,
closely following the cassique, who went at once to the bedside.
So did Harry; and, without a word, he knelt down beside

the dying woman. Her eyes were closed — she did not look at
him — but she knew he was there; and stretched out her thin
fingers, which he took within his grasp, and carried to his lips.
Then she said:—

“You are here, Harry! I am glad! I shall be happy now!
— My husband, Sir Edward—”

The cassique leaned over her; and, possessing herself of one
of his hands, she laid it in that of Harry.

“Am I right?” she continued. “Brothers — always brothers!
Love me both when I am gone! In that world to which I hasten,
I shall love you both, over all living men! I shall watch your
loves! You have been very dear to me both. Oh, be always
dear to one another, in remembrance of my love!”

The brothers were now both kneeling beside her. Their grief
was swallowed up in silence. The mother, however, suddenly fell
into a passionate sobbing, which once more aroused the dying
woman:—

“O mother!” she exclaimed — “peace, now! God is overshadowing
us with his mighty presence. If you could see, as I
see, who are about us, you would grow dumb — you would shut
all your senses! Do not — do not!”

The cassique tried in vain to pacify the matron; but, finding
words unavailing, he led her from the room. She struggled feebly,
but finally submitted. When she was removed, he returned
and closed the door. None but Harry, himself, and Zulieme,
were now in the chamber. Zulieme was kneeling at the foot of
the bed. Harry remained beside Olive — close by, on one side
— her hand still clasped in his. The cassique knelt opposite.
Her eyes were now shut. There was no pressure in her fingers:
but her breathing was audible, though faint. By this only did
they know that she still lived. She seemed to slumber like an
infant. Not a word was spoken for many moments. The silence
was full of sacredness and awe. Yes! they all felt that the overshadowing
presence of a mighty Spirit was there, sovereign over
pain, death, and the grave! And under his wings they were
subdued into silence; each seeming to hold his breath, as if waiting
for some signal, significant of that approaching Power whose
potency they already felt! And, even as Olive seemed breathing
herself gently away, as the zephyr dies along the empurpled

waves of a retiring sea; even as they held their own breathing
suspended with a hush, waiting upon hers — there was a signal —
a fearful one in that hour, and under such influences — but not
that for which only they then looked and listened!

Wild was the cry which suddenly echoed through and shook
the chamber! It was the war-whoop of the painted savage,
howled forth, as by a thousand wolves, raging furiously around
the dwelling.