University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
CHIAR' OSCUR'.

Involuntarily, every eye turned, as bidden, and beheld,
even as the strange passionate woman had said, the shadowy
outlines of the dark hostile figures by which they were surrounded;
armed every man; and, though few in number, but five or
six in all, yet, under the circumstances, ready and able to put
in execution the commands of the speaker. Lem Watkins fairly
howled in his rage and fury; gnashed his teeth; and, being
really brave enough for any struggle, would incontinently have
brought the pistol, which was already in his gripe, to bear
upon the nearest of the strangers, but that Murdoch caught his
hands, and, in low tones said to him:—

“What's the use, captain? We should all be murdered.
They have the track of us now: we've only got to make terms,
and get off as easy as we can.”

“And with twenty men give up to half a dozen?” yelled the
captain aloud.

“Ay!” was the shrill answer of Harricane Nell, “and thank
your stars that we are not such murderous wretches as yourself,
or we'd have shot you down in your tracks, man by man, and
you couldn't have raised a finger. But we do not want your
blood on our hands. Enough that you have none of ours on
your souls. Pursue your course in safety, but beware how you
cross ours. We shall see that you get your weapons before
morning. But the night must be ours. Do not attempt to pursue
us, or look to do it at your peril. We are not so many, but
we are sworn against you; and you are not so sure of your own
people to attempt anything against mine. Remain here till

you hear our bugle three times. If you attempt to move, it will
be the worse for you. I won't answer for the life of one of you
that passes, before that signal, from the spot where he now
stands.”

With these words, without waiting for any answer, she leaped
out from the spot where she stood, as it were into the great
black void behind her, and, catching the branch of a China tree
that rose from the bank behind her, she descended by it to the
earth, as safely and as nimbly as the native squirrel of the
swamps. In the next moment, her partisans, one by one, silently
disappeared, slipping down the columns of the rude fabric
where the scene had taken place, and by which some of them
had ascended, or by the great logs of ranging timber, which had
furnished as easy a mode of ascent, as had been afforded the
party of the outlaw, by the piled-up masses of refuse plank.

When they were gone from sight, Watkins and his men gave
free expression to their rage and mortification, the first, in
openly expressed fury; the rest in sullen growls and mutterings,
and undertoned disputes among themselves.

“Pretty soldiers have you shown yourselves,” cried the captain
— “to leave sword and pistol and rifle behind you, to be
seized upon by a handful of traitors, and suffer yourselves to be
caged here, and bullied by a mad woman.”

“Harricane Nell is not so mad as people think her,” quoth
one of the party, “and I'm mighty sorry that anything's driv'
her off from us.”

“And do you mean that I drove her away?” demanded
Watkins. “Who is it that dares say I drove her off! Is there
one among you that believes her silly story that I did or said
anything to drive her off? If there is, let him say it out boldly,
and let me see him while he talks.”

And he was about to stride off in the direction of the grumbler,
when the timely interposition of Murdoch arrested him.

“Take care, captain, or you may get a shot, as she promised
you, if you move too soon. We haven't heard the bugle-signal
yet.”

“No, and I reckon we shall hardly hear it for an hour yet.
They'll want time to carry off all our we'pons and plunder,”
was the growling speech of another of the gang.

“Don't you believe it. Mad or not, and fierce as the devil
when you rouse her, Harricane Nell never lies! I don't think
she'll suffer 'em to carry off anything. She says the we'pons
will be all put back, and I think it likely that she'll make
Rhodes restore all that he can of the treasury. You've got the
watch, captain, you see, and her spirit won't suffer her to keep
anything that she can't make her own title to.”

“D—n her!” was the ungallant response of Watkins, his soul
sickening beneath its insults — her open exposure of his villany
— her scornful rejection of his tenders — and, as we have reason
to believe, her blow upon his mouth, when his suggestions became
insolent.

“D—n her! I only wish I had her tied up to a tree, and
with a good slip of hickory in my grasp.”

“Why, cappin, you wouldn't lick a woman.”

“Why not! This creature,” — he used a more offensive epithet
— “is no woman but a she-tiger! It was as much as I
could do to keep from putting a bullet through her skull.”

“And she seemed mighty nigh, cappin, to giving you a taste
of her knife.”

A laugh followed among the group whence this latter speech
issued, which Watkins did not relish. He felt that the insubordination
was growing among his ruffians. The scene, which
had just taken place, was certainly somewhat calculated to lessen
the reverence for his authority.

“No more of this, man,” he cried hoarsely. “As for the
traitors, we shall have it out of them yet. They can not escape
us. Let us once get our weapons, and—”

“Tsh! captain,” whispered Murdoch. “Don't say what
you'll do, till you feel yourself on solid ground again! Wait
till you feel the rifle in your hand. No halloo till we're out
of the woods. I reckon they've got their spies listening to us
now. Rhodes is a born scout; Mat Floyd is first rate for spying.
If they hear what we mean to do hereafter, they may
change their minds and never give us a chance. We're in a
fix, now, and its good sense, and right soldiership, to be patient
till we can undo the hitch, and get on free legs again.”

“You're right, Murdoch — right!” answered the captain.
“So, fellows, all keep silence; not a word in the ranks! As

we've got to wait upon a woman, it's only wisdom to take it
patiently.”

And the men squatted down on the places where they stood;
some stretched themselves off at length, as if for sleep; Watkins,
himself, condescended to take a seat upon the planks,
leaning back against one of the uprights of the fabric; while
Murdoch peered out, with all his eyes, through the openings of
the floor, as if to see whether there were any watchers below.
Meanwhile, the torches gave out, and the party was left in utter
darkness. They did not dare to look for new brands.

Darkness and silence for a goodly hour! Meanwhile, the
great horned owl which had possessed himself of the deserted
fabric, assured of its abandonment, flew back to his perch, and
resumed his doleful chant above their heads; a disquieting
burden that seemed to every watcher, oppressed naturally still
with misgivings of the enemy, to be an ominous assurance of
future evils! And, in all probability, the mysterious bird did
not absolutely hoot vainly, to their fancies, of their fates! Who
shall say what the future shall bring forth, of evil, to the life
which is itself evil? Who shall say that those wild, mournful,
mystic voices, which, in so many situations, do sound an omen to
our conscious souls, were not designed for this very purpose? to
inspire terror — to induce a reasonable fear — to compel the
soul to assert itself above the passions; and, failing in this, to
indicate the danger that hovers in the air, in the night, in calm
and storm, invisible, but not less armed and present, with all the
avenging powers of the Fates that we despise?

For a goodly hour — incessant, in the ears of those criminal
and sleepless watchers, did the obscene bird chant his gloomy
warnings; they, themselves held voiceless all the while! At
length the sudden and cheering signals of the bugle sounded
from the edge of the swamp above — faintly, but sufficiently to
reach every ear of the party.

Then, with a breathless sense of relief, each leaped to his
feet.

“Torches! lights!” cried Watkins. “Ho, one of you nearest
to the plank, get down and bring us a light, so that we may
not break our necks in this place of pitfalls.”

And the refugee chief impatiently waited, cursing all the

while, till Fritz and Brodrich, brought lightwood torches from
the cabin.

“All's right!” they cried, as they ascended the platform,
waving their lights before them. “The rifles and pistols, and
swords, and knives, are all put back, though its cl'ar they had
'em all off for awhile. They're all bundled up together in the
corner.”

“D—n 'em!” cried the ungrateful captain — “they shall pay
for their frolic yet.”

And the party slowly, though with no little eagerness of
mood, found their way back to the hovel. Then followed a
hasty inspection of their rifles and pistols.

“Every flint gone!” cried Fritz.

“Ha! they thought to make themselves safe by knocking
them out, did they? Fortunately, I have a pound of them
somewhere, in one of my wallets. Well, boys, you can't complain
hereafter, of anything that I may wish to do to this impudent
pack of traitors.”

Thus the captain. All parties agreed, nem. con., that the
worst was too good for such ungrateful wretches.

“I'm glad to hear you say so,” quoth Watkins; “for I was
afraid some of you were getting quite too mealy-mouthed, and
milky-souled for your business, and for me; and I confess, fellows,
there was one or two among you, that I began to be a
leetle suspicious, was somewhat inclining to the same practice
with these traitors! I was getting ready, at the first show of
skulking or sloping, to throw away an ounce bullet on an
empty skull. But I see you're right. I'm glad of it, for it
makes the work easy to-morrow. You all see what's to be
done, I reckon.”

It so happened that all did not see, and the amiable captain
was compelled to explain.

“Why, we're to take the woods after these rebels and traitors
— bring 'em up to the bullring, when we've got broad daylight
for it, and no danger of surprise, and see if we can't get back
our stolen goods at least; we've worked quite too hard after
them, and risked too much life, to have 'em whipt off from us
by those we trusted!”

“Well, I reckon, the goods are all here,” interposed old Snell,
“in this sack, that stands here in the corner.”

“And how did you know all about it?” demanded the captain
sharply.

“Why, I see the sack in the corner, and 'twa'n't here before,
and then Harricane Nell said she'd have all the plunder brought
back.”

“Hand it up, fellows, and let's see what's in it. As for you,
Snell, you seem to be quite too knowing in this business. I am
doubtful of you, old fellow; do you hear? I'm doubtful that
you would like to play us just such a trick as Nat Rhodes; so
be on your P's and Q's, for as sure as thunder, if I catch you
at any fox-tricks, I shall have your skin off, and your scalp too,
and so fix it that no surprise shall get you out of the scrape
until it's too late for you to do any grinning on your own account.”

“I don't see why you should suspicion me, cappin: I've always
done my duty. I'm an honest man to my duty.”

“Yes, and perhaps something more than your duty. But no
words. You're a little too quick to answer. I'm suspicious to-night
of all quick-speaking people. Up with the sack on the
bench, here. The d—d table hasn't a leg left.”

The sack was raised. The treasures were carefully lifted out
— a curious and various spoil, and one of comparative value.
The eyes of the ruffians gloated over the recovered treasure.

“That mad wench, Harricane Nell, has some good in her,”
quoth Murdoch. “She has made the rest bring it back. We'd
never hav' seen a stiver of it, if 'twa'n't for her.”

“No thanks to her, d—n her! I'll have it out of her hide
to-morrow, if I can catch her.”

Such was the unamiable resolution of the ungrateful Watkins.
Murdoch evidently thought him imprudent also, which, among
rogues and politicians, is a much worse offence than lying or
stealing.

“You talk too loud, captain, if you mean what you say. It's
no use giving the game any unnecessary warning. We don't
know what coon may be squat under the eaves. Turn out one
of you — you Shivily — and snake about the premises. Look
sharp, for you've got to deal with a whole family of sharps.”

“Ay, and by thunder they've found us nothing but flats to-night!
But what's to be done with this stuff, fellows? Shall
we divide again to-night, or wait a more quiet time?”

“A bird in the hand, cappin,” said Fritz, and his sentiment
found sundry echoes. “Better share off to-night.”

“Very good,” growled the captain; “I'm sure I don't want
any more risk and trouble in keeping your money and valuables.
Come up, all of you, and see that it's fair play and fair
share. As for Shivily, you Murdoch, can answer for him.”

We need not report or watch the dull detail of distribution,
or note what each man receives of the ill-gotten treasure.
Enough that, at the close of another half-hour, all parties were,
or professed themselves to be, satisfied.

“And now, fellows, that we've jobbed that job, let's arrange
for to-morrow. You understand that we're to take the woods
after the party of Rhodes, the traitor, and this mad woman,
Harricane Nell.”

“But, cappin,” said Fritz, “I dont see why; they've gin up
everything.”

“No, d—n 'em!” was the fierce response of the refugee chief,
“they've got more. They've got their lives, do you hear —
their lives! They've got off — safely — after their treason and
rebellion; their defiance, their mutiny; and after that bloody
rascal has planted both his feet in my face! He, at least, shall
sweat for it — shall sweat in blood! I've sworn to that, so,
look you, there's no argument. There's but one. It's between
him and me! His blood or mine.”

A long consultation followed, as to the processes by which
Captain Watkins was to carry out his plans, and pacify his
passions. His followers were not altogether influenced by his
moods, even those who were apt to be most ready at his will.
The fellow, Murdoch, who was quite as shrewd and bold as he
was selfish; Fritz, who was cool and calculating; and some few
others — were all disposed to argue the case, in spite of the
decrees which had gone forth forbidding argument; but Watkins
was found so mulish, as well as savage — so obstinate as
well as sanguinary, that, finally, all parties seemed to arrive at
the conclusion, that, the only course which a further discussion
of the subject would leave to them, would be the alternative

which he himself had indicated, namely, a choice between himself
and the late culprit, Matthew Floyd! For this none of
them was quite prepared; or, rather, they were not prepared,
as yet, to break out in open defiance of their leader. The result
was that the captain had his way, and it was resolved, that,
next day, they were to hunt up and punish the fugitives, to
whose forbearance they owed so much to-night.

Meanwhile, the objects of their hostility were safely shrouded
(temporarily, at least) in the swamp-thickets a mile or two below.
Let us gather, with them, around their little camp-fire,
and make the acquaintance of those whom we have only seen
in shadow.

Thus far we have seen them, by contrast, in rather favorable
aspects. The nearer view will not help the portraiture. They
were mostly ruffians, like the rest; quarrelling with the majority
only because of passion, or a degree of cupidity in themselves
which had been denied the desired exercise. Jeff Rhodes the
miller, an old man of sixty, was simply a rude, coarse offender
— without much sense, and with even less sensibility. His son,
Nat Rhodes, was only a younger likeness of the father. Mat
Floyd we have seen already, and the evidence we are possessed
of in respect to him will probably suffice. Of three others, whom
we shall be content simply to name — Clem Wilson, Barney
Gibbes, and John Friday — we have no other report to make.
They do not differ materially, in moral or aspect, from their
associates. Something more of the women.

These were two sisters. Mary or Moll Rhodes, wife of Nat,
was an ordinary slattern; cold and coarse, young but unattractive.
Her sister, Nelly or Ellen Floyd, otherwise “Harricane
Nell,” was a creature of different stuff — quite an anomaly, in
fact. We have seen her under wild conditions — conducting
herself with the spirit of a man; showing a masculine intrepidity
and energy which shamed all the men about her; quick
to the occasion; prompt in the emergency; equal to the danger;
superior to the event!

Now, as we see her, under the full blaze of the rousing
camp-fire around which the party was grouped, and in a state
of comparative repose, it may be well, as it is now easy, to describe
her personal appearance.

She was tall, but slight of form, with features which betrayed
some family likeness to those of the brother whom we have
seen in peril of his life; dark of skin, with glossy black hair,
which was allowed to hang down upon her shoulders, without
tie or restraint, a foot perhaps, and was then squarely cut away,
presenting a not dissimilar appearance to that of an Indian girl
of thirteen. Her eye was of a piercing black, like that of her
brother, but, unlike his, was singularly prominent and large,
round and dewy, and dilating in its flashing light. Her cheeks
were neither thin nor full; the mouth was small; the nose Grecian,
and rather large than small; the chin finely rounded; and
the forehead, as we see it now, freed of cap or covering, large
and high, but somewhat narrow. The whole face was finely
oval, and of a rich olive color, warmly tinted by the southern
sun. It was not one which you would call handsome — certainly
it was not pretty; but it was a distinguished portrait,
worthy of Murillo, and such as he would have gone out of his
way to paint. Nothing could be more expressive, more intelligent
— nay, at times, startling — in the flash of its glance, in the
glowing vivacity and spirit, in every feature, all consentaneously
working to produce a singleness of effect, under the goads of an
impulsive and bounding blood, which was for ever restless, and
impatient of restraint.

Her costume was far less feminine than picturesque. It was
a nondescript — mannish rather. A boy's hat of felt, wrapped
about with a red handkerchief, was her usual head-dress, and
its aspect, in connection with the long, black hair, that fell down
upon her shoulders, was not a little curious; but a few moments
fully reconciled you to it, by its evident propriety, judging by
the excellence of its effect. Was she aware of this? Perhaps!
—she was a woman, spite of all!

Her frock — she certainly wore a frock — was short enough
to serve the wants and satisfy the tastes of a favorite sultana;
but the material was of the common blue homespun of the country.
Under this she wore loose trowsers, and her feet were
clad in moccasins. A man's jacket, fastened tightly about her
body, with close-set rows of jet buttons, completed her costume.
The stuff of which the jacket was made was of homespun, like

the pantaloons, but dyed, with wild roots of the country, of a
bright orange color.

Such is Nelly Floyd — “Harricane Nell” — to the eye, as
she half sits, half reclines, against a tree, a few paces from the
fire of the camp. Her sister is preparing supper — a homely
and rather surly drudge. The rest of the group are busied,
each, in some fashion: one cleans his rifle; another sharpens
his knife; a third attends the horses, some twenty paces distant;
and all pursue their toils in silence. Mat Floyd, so nearly
the victim to the hostility of the refugee captain, is not present;
and the party, obeying the signal of Mrs. Rhodes, gather about
the supper, which is laid out upon the grass — an ample supply
of bacon and corn-bread, not forgetting the inevitable
coffee.

Of the men, as they came up to the circle, we need but mention
that they were stout fellows, capable of service; well built,
and looking finely in the picturesque and highly-appropriate
hunting-shirt of the frontiers — a garment that never should
have been abandoned by our rural population. But their faces
betray none of that superiority which indicates the present authority;
and we see, as we look into them, how and why it is
that the slight girl, whom we find along with them, should have
taken upon herself the lead in an enterprise of great difficulty.
The eager impulse in her eyes — the fire that burned upon her
cheek — the lively play of muscle in her vivacious countenance
— are in beautiful contrast with the bald, inexpressive,
and sullen visages, of all around her.

It did not seem that her companions relished this natural superiority,
and the authority to which it as naturally led. The
glances shot toward her were unfriendly. The words addressed
her were cold and discouraging.

“Why do you not come up and eat, Nelly?” was the query
of her sister.

“I wish nothing. I can not eat.”

“Well, but take some coffee.”

“Yes, I will drink directly — not now.”

“Oh, don't bother with her!” said old Rhodes, churlishly;
“she will eat when she wants to. She will only do what pleases
herself, you know.”

The girl shot a flash of the eye at the speaker, but took no
further notice of the speech.

“You're too proud, Nelly Floyd, for your own family,” said
her sister, Mrs. Rhodes, junior. “It's a great misfortin' and a
sin when a person gits too proud for her own family. That
raising you got in the house of rich people, and being larned
above your sarcumstances, did you no good.”

To her also the wild girl gave only a flashing glance of her
large, eager, and dilating eyes.

“I don't know where she got her edication,” said old Rhodes,
“and I don't much care. I only know that it don't at all suit
the needcessities of the life we have to lead here on the Edisto.”

“Then leave it!” said the girl, almost fiercely. “Leave it,
and be a better man elsewhere. Leave it, and have clean hands
elsewhere, and make your soul white with peace.”

“Peace! and where are we to git peace anywhere, now-a-days,
in this country?”

“Nowhere! so, leave the country! It's high time that you
should do so. There are enemies that you have made, all
around you, who will haunt your footsteps till they wash out
blood with blood — the blood you have spilt with the blood that
runs in your own veins! I warn you, Jeff Rhodes, that you
can't stay here long. The war is coming down upon you.
Watkins knows it, and he's going below, and going south. You
will need to fly too.”

“Well, and if we've got to do what Watkins is gwine to do,
where was your argyment that took us all off from Watkins?”

“The argument was your own. It was an argument of plunder.
You got possession of the treasure of the troop;—it's ill-gotten
treasure; and you robbed the robbers.”

“And right enough, too.”

“You never cared to quit Watkins, till you had his gold and
silver.”

“Ay, and where's it now? Why ha'n't we got it now? Why
are we all, now, poor as Job's turkeys, not knowing where to
find a house to sleep in, or git food for to-morrow's dinner? It's
owing to you! If you hadn't got the bag in your own keeping,
and, like a mad fool as you are, gi'n it back to Watkins, we'd
ha' had something to go upon now, go where we will. There

was no right and reason to give up the plunder. Hadn't we
got the boy off? Wasn't it enough to give 'em back their rifles
and pistols? Where was the use, I want to know, of your
toting back the bag of gould, and silver, and paper, the silver
cups, and the gould watches? It was jest so much waste. H—l
and blisters! ef it had been only in my hands, or ef I could ha'
got it out of your'n, they'd never ha' fingered the first shilling
of the treasure. Why the h—l, Nat, did you trust the bag to
sich a crazy critter?”

“I did it for the best,” answered the son sullenly. “I was
hard pushed, and she offered to take care of it, and said she
could hide it away where none could find it.”

“And did I not?” responded the girl, with something of triumph
in her tones. “You tried to find it, did you not? You
failed! and well for you that you did. Your blind avarice
would have kept it. You would have risked nothing to save
my brother's life.”

“Didn't we offer to make a dash upon 'em, when they was
bringing him into the swamp, after night? and couldn't we have
done it, when they was stumbling along the causeway?”

“You might, with a chance of having every one of you butchered!
— with a chance, at least, of some of you being slain, and
of my brother falling first. For, had you attacked them, what
would he have done, with both arms tied behind him, and Black
Murdoch with his pistol at his ear? No! we could only save
him as we did, without peril to any one of you — except myself!”

“Well, supposing we agree to that, what was the use, then,
of giving up the bag? We had 'em at our marcy! We had
all their we'pons! We made jest what tarms we pleased with
'em, and they was all too glad to git off with their we'pons and
their lives. We needn't ha' gi'n 'em a copper of the treasure.”

“Better so, than have the weight of blood upon your souls!
But, had we not given up this treasure, do you think that Watkins
would have suffered you to make away with it? Would
he not follow your steps, day by day? would he not haunt you
and harass you out of your lives, from swamp to swamp, and
from thicket to thicket? would you ever be permitted to sleep
in peace, so long as he knows that there is gold or silver in your

keeping? No! It matters not to him from whom he drags the
treasure, so that he has it; and while he knows that you have
it, will he not haunt you for it? And the very fact that you
had violated your trust, and robbed him of his gains, however
ill-gotten, would have justified him in pursuit, and kept you for
ever in a consciousness of wrong-doing, which would have kept
you always in a state of fear! Better as it is, old man! Better
clean hands, and a white soul, though we hunger by day,
and sleep shelterless by night. I can sleep shelterless; I need
no house, though it is thought that, because I was reared in a
noble one, I have been spoiled for other uses. I can do without
supper, ay, and without growling over my starvation. I
can endure hunger, poverty, exposure, if I feel that my hands
are clean. My heart is light under the naked sky.”

“Ay, 'twouldn't be amiss having a light heart, ef the head
wasn't so cussed light too. It's your head, Nell, that plays the
d—l with us. 'Twas your light head, a'ter all, that made us
dissatisfied with Watkins, and want to quit the sarvice. 'Twas
a good sarvice, and it paid pretty well, though it gin us hard
work sometimes. And I don't see why you should have flashed
up in the face of Watkins, jest because he was fond and scrumptious
to you. You might go farther, I reckon, and fare worse,
than ef you had taken to him kindly.”

“Hark you, old man! it is not for such as you to speak of
my head or my heart,” answered the girl, rising as she spoke,
and stretching her hand over the group, with the air of a far
superior being. “You know nothing of either. You neither
know the thoughts in the one nor the feelings in the other. My
head is light, do you say? And yours, I say, is heavy — heavy
as the solid lead or rock! As for my heart — man! man! it
has stood between you and damnation more than once. It has
striven, a thousand times, to save you from eternal fires. You,
to dare to speak of my heart — you, to me — when these eyes
have seen you shoot down an angel; ay, in ambush, behind a
thicket, you have shot down the unsuspecting angel, as he went
upon his way. I saw him fall! I saw you as you rifled his
person. And, even while you were engaged in the pitiless robbery,
I saw the angel rising from the corpse, and hanging over
you in the air, without wings, but supported in space, and going

upward slowly; and, as he went, he looked down upon you
with pity, though I could see that his hands were lifted up to
heaven, as if pleading for eternal judgment! And you to talk
of my heart, when I know that black crime, and how many others
that I do not know, to be hanging like a millstone about
yours! Ay, old man, even now I see your heart before me.
The breast is naked. I see into your soul, and I see it covered
with grimy spots of corruption, black and rotting, where your
evil deeds have each made a print of hell!”

It was through such speeches as this that Harricane Nell had
incurred the imputation of insanity. Was she insane? Was it
madness that spoke, or had she the fearful gift of supernatural
vision that she claimed?

“Mad — mad as thunder!” cried the old man. “Was ever
sich nonsense? To think of my shooting an angel! 'Tis the
affair of young Ancrum that she's thinking of. But only to believe
that she seed his sperrit, rising up from the body, jest
when I was a-stripping him!”

“I saw it! I saw it! There is not a star shining down upon
us now, but can assure you that I saw it.”

“Mighty good witnesses of sich a matter, ef they could only
come into court and make affidavy of it. What a mad fool she
is — madder than ever! Ha! ha! ha! — shoot an angel! Ha!
ha! ha! Shoot an angel — only think!”

The laugh was not a sincere and honest laugh. There was
something quite suspicious in the tones. They were husky and
laborious. The old man was sensibly affected by the strange,
startling, and solemnly-uttered communication. He had just
enough knowledge of religion to believe that there is a soul;
and, though his practice betrayed usually but small concern
after the conditions of the future, yet souls ascending and descending
were (however vague) the articles in his secret faith.
He found the effort vain to encounter the intense spiritual gaze
of that great, prominent, round, dark eye, that looked on him,
while he yelled out his labored laughter, with a glance of fascination.
She turned away a moment after.

“Don't laugh, father!” cried the sister reproachfully. “Nelly's
not to be laughed at. She's got a power of seeing sperrits.
She has! Now, don't laugh! It's very fearful to think of;

but she has it! She's told me of other things before, and I'm
sure she seed 'em. Nelly never lies!”

The girl had sprung off several paces into the shadows, but
she returned as quickly.

“Be warned,” she said, “and leave this place by peep of day
if you can. Mat will be in soon. He's done all that could be
done. He sounded the bugle a mile above, in the upper swamp;
and if Watkins hunts after you, he will probably strike upward.
Better you go below. Keep down the Cawcaw, till you strike
the Edisto, then cross; get on to South Edisto, and cross that
too; and you can find close harbor for the present in the Salke-watchie
swamp. That's your safest place. You're not safe
here. You're not safe from Watkins. You're not safe from the
dragoons of either party. Both of them know too much of you
by this time. Go, if you are wise! It is the last counsel that
you will probably ever get from my light head and heavy heart.
Go!”

She turned instantly away, not waiting for any answer. Her
sister called after her, but in vain.

“She's gone! she kaint bear hard speaking,” said the sister.
“Your hard speaking's driv her off.”

And the woman, who had shown no sort of sensibility before,
now began to whine pitifully.

“Shet up,” said the husband, “and don't make a fool of yourself!”

“Let her go, and a good riddance!” was the speech of the
old miller. “She was for ruling everything while she stayed,
and meddling in every man's business. The misfortin' is, she
won't be gone long. She'll be back agin, there's no telling how
soon. I reckon she'll jest canter over to old Mother Ford's;
and the two between 'em will be talking of ghosts, and sperrits,
and witches, the whole livelong night. Shoot an angel, indeed!
Only to think of that! Well, Molly, though she's your own
dear sister, I must jest say she's as mad as any critter that was
ever commissioned for a lunatic.”

In these words, the old ruffian only declared his real sentiments.
He was perfectly satisfied to get rid of the wild girl
whom nobody could well comprehend. Rude and savage as he
was, she was a restraint upon him. She kept him and most of

the party in awe. He was afraid of her on many accounts —
not only as a superior, who still, somehow, contrived to control
himself and all the party, but because she knew too much, and
might some day work him evil. He did not much fear being
brought to account for shooting an angel, but he had some misgivings
lest society should think that there was a degree of
criminality in shooting a man; and he felt that it would be
quite as distressing to him to suffer on the gallows even for so
innocent a mistake. He felt relieved, therefore, in the absence
of so truth-telling a witness.

Meanwhile, Nelly Floyd, alias Harricane Nell, was speeding
on horseback — riding a-straddle like a man — across the country,
and in the direction of the Edisto.