University of Virginia Library

LOVE'S MARTYR.

Prize Tale—By Delia S. Bacon.

—Lalla Rook.

—L. E. L.

It was almost morning; the deep blue of the
midnight heaven had half faded and the stars were
going out, one by one, in that pale dome, as though
the glory they had all night showered upon the silent
earth, had exhausted their eternal fountains of
brightness. The fog lay thick and unbroken in the
valley, the walls of the fort were wrapt in gloom,
and the dark river to the west still rolled on the
shadows of night; but away beyond the plain and
its clumps of trees and scattered dwellings, along
the fringe of woods that marked the horizon, the
pale streaks of orange were brightening momently,
and those varied sounds, that to a practised ear tell
of the coming day, were rising low and sweet on the

misty air. Others, and less peaceable ones, now
and then mingled with these. The calls of armed
sentinels echoed from mouth to mouth, along the
palisades that encircled the village: there was a low
hurried hum within the fort, a noise like that of
clashing metals, and now and then the stern, deep
voices of command, and, rising above all these, at
intervals, came a swell of martial music from beyond
the hill at the north. The aspect of affairs,
too, within the palisades was no less striking and
peculiar. Various symptoms of bustle began to appear
among the darkened dwellings; not merely in
the sound of here and there an opening blind, or the
lagging tread of some early pedestrian, which at
such an hour and place usually present the sole indications
of life; but there were tokens of many
watchers. Indeed it needed but a single glance
along the street of the little village, to show that the
mass of its inhabitants had already forsaken the
world of dreams, for the acting of some stern part
in the exigencies of life and its realities. Vehicles
of various descriptions were moving to and fro, or
stood before the doors of the dwelling houses, and
those who walked hastily along the road-side were
talking hurriedly, with anxious brows and half-suppressed
voices; lights were seen moving by the
windows, and now and then, as a candle glared
for a moment through some open door, women
with pale cheeks and bloodless lips looked anxiously
forth; and as the day-light brightened, trunks
and female forms in traveling array, darkened the
green courts before the dwellings. The faces of
children too might be seen among them pale and unrefreshed,
their various tones, some in glee and
some in pevishness, formed an accompaniment that
is seldom wanting in the romances of real life.

“The guard will be ready in fifteen minutes,”
shouted a soldier, who was mounting the steps of a
large white dwelling that stood at a short distance
from the road side, half hid by the shubbery.
“Where is Mrs. Gray?” he continued, entering
the open door, for his annunciation had been wholly
lost in the sounds of bustle within. “Ah! Miss
Catharine,” (for a beautiful young lady who had
peeped for a moment over the balustrade, now hastened
eagerly down,) “the artillery is at this moment
crossing the river, and in fifteen minutes more
we shall wait for you. Tell your mother, miss
Catharine, there is no time to be lost,” and he hurried
down the path as he spoke. “Fifteen minutes,
only fifteen minutes,” echoed with breathless rapidity
through the various apartments of the mansion,
and above and below the confusion and hurry seemed
to have reached a new impulse. “A fine hour to
be routed out of house and home,” murmured an
old lady who stood in the door. “However it's a
good cause, a righteous cause, and, doubtless, we
should be willing to suffer in it meekly,” she continued,
vainly endeavoring to subdue the querulousness
of her tones. “William Gray, where's the
carriage?” “Coming, grand-ma,” replied the
youth, who was bustling about in the performance

of those duties his father's absence had devolv'd upon
him in this emergency. “Here's the carriage
we must content ourselves with to-day,” he continued,
as two large, light-wagons drove up the
avenue. “The green one is ours, and the red one
for the servants and such light baggage as we can
contrive to carry.” “O Lord! a marcy, the Britishes
and the Indians are all down upon us, and here's
my trunk and umberell, and nobody to help me with
them an inch,” soliloquised a plaintive voice within,
“and to think of leaving my straw bonnet to these
murderous savages, O Lord! a marcy, we shall be
murdered every soul of us.” “Here, Andrew, the
box behind,” shouted the voice of William Gray,
“and those packages in the green wagon—that's
right. The basket under the middle seat. Ay,
grand-ma, one moment and we are ready. Hark!
was not that the signal?” and he darted up
the steps and stood at the foot of the staircase.
“Come Ma, Catharine, come Helen, the wagons
are waiting and in five minutes more we must be on
the square;” and the sound of hurrying feet echoed
above, and soon the various members of the family
stepped eagerly into the wagon. “Are you all here,
my loved ones?” said the younger Mrs. Gray, as
she lingered a moment at the door of her dwelling,
while a shade of deep maternal solicitude mingled.
with the expression of sorrow on her fine features
“Here's the little Henry, Catharine, you are there,
and Marion, and Anna, but where is Helen?” “Ah
where is she?” replied the young lady quickly. “I
think I've scarce met with her this morning.” “I
heard her walking in her room,” said the servant girl,
who was at that moment advancing to the wagon.
“Ah, and there she is,” she continued, glancing for
a moment towards one of the upper windows that
was close shaded with luxuriant foliage. “Shall I
call her, Mrs. Gray?” “Ay, and that speedily
too,” replied the mother, as she hastened towards
the wagon to complete the arrangement of her family.
This was already done, and she herself was
just re-entering her dwelling, alike in search of the
messenger and her daughter, when the former suddenly
made her appearance alone. “And where's
Helen then?” exclaimed several voices from the
wagon in tones of surprise and concern. “Mrs.
Gray,” replied Hannah, vainly endeavoring to conceal
the emotion with which she spoke, “will you
please to go up and see her yourself, miss Helen is
in a very strange way I'm certain.”

Without waiting to ascertain the import of those
mysterious words, Mrs. Gray now moved rapidly
through the lonely and silent rooms of her beautiful
home, so lately echoing with the sound of happy
voices. A faint light was straying through the crevices
of the shutters, revealing, as in mockery, the
tasteful elegance soon to be the prey of a desolating
enemy, and calling out as it were from their burial
places, the strong and beautiful pictures of memory
that costlier wealth of feeling, which only long
years, with all their vicissitudes of sorrow and gladness,
have power to gather, even around the home of

love. But the bitter thoughts of the past that had
rushed to her mind, were now weighed down in the
heart of the mother, as she drew near the door of her
daughter's apartment, by a strong sensation of undefinable
dread, a fancied presentiment of coming evil,
to her who had ever been the favorite and flower of
that happy household. For Helen Gray was one of
those rare beings, that now and then cross the dull
pathways of earth, like young wanderers from the
regions of romance, invested with all those bright
attributes that the common experience of life teaches
us to look for only in the world of fancy.

The door was ajar, as it had been left by the servant
in the hurry of the occasion, and Mrs. Gray
stood for a moment before it, silently surveying the
interior of the room. It was partly darkened, and
the sweet light and air of morning stole, with a softened
effect through the half lifted curtains and the
venetian blinds without, while in the window opposite
the door, they were only intercepted by the
curtaining leaves of the jasmine, whose faint perfume
filled the apartment. The half withered
flowers of yesterday drooped from the delicate vases
on the shelf, and this with the careless appearance
of the toilette, and the scattered volume on the
table, was all that betrayed the neglect of the wonted
arrangements of the morning. A fine muslin robe
hung on the chair by the table, and beside it a
wreath of white roses whose look of perfect freshness,
betrayed their workman to be some less severe
moralist than nature, and bracelets and ornaments

of pearl were lying among the articles of the
toilette.

But the eye of the mother rested only on a single
object, the fair young being who was leaning on
the couch beneath the window. Considering the
exigencies of that moment, the whole circumstances
of her appearance were singular in the extreme. She
was leaning silently, and her head drooped motionless
among the foliage of the jasmine, as though all else
had been utterly forgotten in some overpowering
emotion. It was evident at a glance that her toilette
had been suddenly abandoned, for the ribbon that
bound her curls, lay among the articles on the
table, and the long loose hair, with its sunny tint, fell
in light waves over the folds of her dressing gown.
“Helen! Helen Gray!” exclaimed the mother, who
had stood for a moment silent with astonishment.
“Helen Gray are you ill? For the love of Heaven,
daughter, what means this?” The young lady had
started from her reverie at the first sound of that
familiar voice, and she now slowly, and with apparent
reluctance, turned her face to her mother.

It was a countenance of rare and exquisite beauty,
but not of the cast to remind one of the rose, or
lily, the ruby or the diamond. An intellectual
charm, a kind of spiritual loveliness, lingered on
that young face. The ray of lifeless stone, the unmeaning
blush of flowers have no similitude to the
living beauty of thought and feeling, that mantled
on her lip and cheek, and kindled in the eye, with
the ever-varying bloom and brightness of the spirit.

It is not hard for a mother to read the language of
such a face, and the moment that dark fringe was
lifted Mrs. Gray knew in her inmost heart, that
some mysterious influence had been at work within,
that some strange, fearful change had come over the
whole purpose of her daughter's soul. Still nothing
of the agitation, which the circumstances of the
morning seemed calculated to excite, was visible.
And yet, her eyes wanted expression—all those familiar
looks, those common emotions and passions
that belong to the every day scenes of life, seemed
utterly quenched within them, and the poetry of
feeling alone lay in their blue and star-like depths.

“Helen, my daughter,” continued Mrs. Gray
hastily, “you surely heard the message that came this
morning from the fort; you can't but know the appointed
hour has already arrived, and we are all at this moment
waiting for you. Five minutes more, and we
shall be too late for the protection of the escort.” The
young lady returned her mother's glance with one
of unutterable sorrow, and with a quick heavy sigh,
she rose from the window, and began to gather up
the beautiful hair from her shoulders. “Make
haste, Helen,” continued the mother, her voice faltering
with uncontrollable emotion, “there's no
time to dress, only throw on your cloak and bonnet,”
and as she spoke she glanced rapidly over the
apartment. A sudden pang evidently crossed her
mind, as her eye at length rested on the delicate and
costly dress that hung by the toilette. “Surely,
Helen,” she said quickly and with something of

displeasure, “these precious moments have been
idly wasted. Methinks the occasion yonder robes
were to have graced, was scarce like the present.
Little need for bridal gear, Heaven knows, in this
day's emergencies.” The young lady seemed about
to reply, but a loud impatient voice at the door arrested
her words. “Is it possible, Helen,” exclaimed
her young brother who had just entered her
apartment, and now stood gazing at her with astonishment—“not
ready yet? and standing there too
at your toilette now. I tell you, sister,” he added
in tones that betrayed more of anger than the sportiveness
they affected, “stay but a little longer to
dress those pretty curls of yours, and we'll all
stand a chance to try a certain Indian style, that's
much in vogue in yonder camp.”

“Oh, God!” exclaimed the young maiden, with
a fearful shudder, dropping the hair from her hand
and pressing her brow hurriedly, while her whole
face grew white like death. “Oh, God! that fearful
dream. I charge you, William Gray, speak not of
that,” and she buried her face in her hands with a
convulsive shudder. Surprised and shocked at an
effect so utterly unintentional, the youth approached
his sister with a look of deep solicitude, casting at
the same time an inquiring glance at his mother,
who was leaning, pale and agitated, in one of the
windows. “But William is right, mother,” murmured
the young lady, suddenly resuming her calmness,
though her tones were inconceivably mournful,
“my brother speaks truly. Every moment you

stay but deepens your danger, and surely,” she
added in a voice so low it was scarcely heard,
“one is enough for the sacrifice.” “Then why not
hasten, daughter?” replied Mrs. Gray. “What
mean you, Helen, have done with this strange mystery.”
“I mean,” replied the young lady in a low
voice, and speaking with a fearful emphasis, “I
mean, Ma, I can't go with you.” “Not go with us,
Helen!” repeated both her auditors in one breath.
“Now Heaven be gracious unto you,” continued
the mother, “for surely this is utter madness.”
“No,” rejoined the brother, “she is only jesting,
Helen knows as well as myself, that the enemy
will be within the walls to-morrow,” and yet as the
youth met the full light of his sister's eye, he felt in
his heart that they were wrong. There was neither
jest nor madness in that calm and sorrowful expression.
“You said well,” resumed the young lady,
“this is indeed no time for idle mystery. Mother,
one to whom my troth was given years ago, last
night sent me this token. To-day I must await
him here. A strange and fearful bridal! God help
me!” added the young maiden solemnly.

Wondering and astonished, Mrs. Gray gazed
alternately on the slender ring of gold, that adorned
her daughter's finger, and the white robes and ornaments
that had before awakened such painful remembrances,
but some new and strong associations
seemed to fasten on her bewildered thoughts, and
her eye darted like lightning towards the window,
resting earnestly on the distant hills. “Ay, ay, I

see it now” she murmured slowly, while a shade of
fearful agony darkened her features. “Everard
Maitland? God forgive him,” and she threw herself
on the couch and groaned aloud.

“Helen,” exclaimed the brother, in a tone of
earnest remonstrance, “you cannot be capable of any
thing so wrong, so madly foolish! you are only
testing the strength of our love for you. But the
time fails,”—“Helen,” he added, sternly, as with
a cheek white as the snowy wreath beside her, the
young lady still leaned by the toilette, motionless
and silent, “do you count your own life and the
lives of all your family as nothing utterly worthless,
that you risk them so wilfully?” “I say, Helen
Gray make haste, and come with us.”

But the voice of the younger sister was now
heard at the foot of the stair-case. “An accident
has happened among the boats, mother, and Col.
Morgan has sent you word, that the guard will be
detained an hour or two longer, and well for Helen;
strange that she's not ready yet. “Ay well for
Helen,” repeated Mrs. Gray, fervently, and rising as
she spoke, William Gray I must speak with your
sister a few moments. But go down to the court
and see that no one comes hither. Aye, well indeed,
Heaven be praised, this madness will have
passed away ere then. “No mother not madness”
interrupted the young lady, as her mother slowly
approached her, “it is but the cool dictate of reason.”
“Ah, so it seemed, I doubt not my daughter, so it
seemed to you last night, in the first glow of romantic

feeling. I know that such a summer's
moonlight as last evening's hath a strange power
over the reason of a young mind. There are a
thousand bewildering influences abroad in the still
air, and what may seem like reason then, is only
madness, when you look at it again in the full glare
of day. “Surely, Helen, you will not stake the
destiny of your whole being on the hasty purpose
of such an hour. Sit down with me here, my
daughter, in this pleasant window, we'll talk it all
over, coolly and dispassionately, and I know you'll
take back those wild words of yours.” “No—no”
replied the young lady, as she reluctantly obeyed
her mother,” do not tempt me, my purpose hath
been tried already. There have been hours of
agony, the long, lonely hours of this fearful night,
have all past since it was made, and still 'tis unshaken.
No mother, I can't recall it. I can't, I
must not go with you.”

A slight quivering of the lip, and the rapid flush
on the mother's face, betrayed for a moment, the
strong effort with which she had maintained her
voice and language: but 'twas only for a moment,
she spoke again with the same unnatural composure.
“Aye that is it, my daughter. Weariness and
watching have fevered your brain, and you can't
think and reason as you were wont to do. But
bethink yourself Helen Gray. How doth this resolution
of yours become the delicacy of your years and
sex? One hour, and this village will be deserted by
all who can yield you protection. A few more

and it will become the home of yonder enemy.—
Think of it Helen. A young and delicate female
withdrawing herself from the protection of friends
and countrymen, and waiting alone in a surrendered
citadel, for the approach of her lover! On my
word, daughter it hath a strange sound even in my
ear; how think you a cold, impartial world will read
it? Surely Helen Gray is not the proud, high-minded
maiden I had deemed her, if the dignity and
honor of her fair name, are held thus lightly? Mrs
Gray paused and gazed upon her daughter earnestly.
She had covered her face with her hands, but the
painful glow was but half hidden, and the burning
tears were stealing over her fingers. “Aye, daughter,
you had not thought of this, but, 'tis not even now
too late. No one knows of this wild scheme but
your brother and myself. No one else ever shall
know it. Come Helen, 'tis not even now too late.”
“Iv'e thought of it all, dear mother, replied the
young lady, still covering her face, “I know it all—
all—nevertheless it must be.” The mother relinquished
the grasp, with which in the earnestness of
her entreaty she had unconciously sought to urge
her purpose. She seated herself again beside her:
“Helen Gray, have you forgotten, that in the pay of
yonder army are hundreds of that race, whose very
name from your childhood upwards, hath always
had such strange power over you? Have you forgotten
all at once that deep unnatural horror of them,
which hath always formed, as it were, a part of your
being? When all was peace and safety, have I not
seen your cheek grow white, at the mere mention of
those, whose vengeance you are now ready to incur
so madly. It was but last week we sat in this window,
and talked of it, and you told me then, how
the dark face of the Indian with his glittering knife,
had looked in upon you in all your dreams, haunting
your childish sports, and even throwing a cloud
around the visions of love and hope, that once
brightened your youth. You remember I child you
then for such foolish fancies, but I was wrong,—
they were warnings Heaven sent to save you from
this doom. Did you not speak too but now of some
strange dream? Ah! continued Mrs Gray, suddenly
withdrawing her gaze, methinks I too have a dim
remembrance of something like this, and she looked
thoughtfully downward, as if seeking to recall some
forgotten impression. Strange it hath passed so soon
from my memory, when the horror it left, has all the
morning sat so heavily upon me.” “What can you
mean, dear mother.” “Nothing, my child; it matters
not, it was only a dream, a horrid vision of
blood that haunted me last night, in my broken and
feverish slumbers. No, not of blood, I remember
now, I saw a long dark arm wound with clusters of
golden tresses, but though the very edge of a glittering
steel was ever waving over the white brow. I
remember there was no blood. I knew not who
was the victim, for always as I strove to see, the
vision faded. But once it seemed the form of the
young English girl that was wedded here last winter,
in her gay bridal dress, and once, yes I remember
now, she turned her eye upon me. Ha! I had forgotten
that glance of agony. Surely Helen Gray,
that look was yours.”

At the first mention of the dream the young
lady had raised her brow, gazing earnestly on her
mother's eye, while the rich glow, tint by tint,
melted slowly on lip and cheek, and even the fair
coloring of life, on the white brow, at last went
out in that deathlike paleness. As the last words
were uttered, a slight convulsive shudder betrayed
her emotion; still she spoke not, and the breath
came slow and heavily through her white lips.

“Helen,” continued Mrs. Gray, “do not look at
me thus. It was only a dream, you know, a fearful
one indeed, but thank Heaven, even for all the
agony of that dream, if it will but win you from
your purpose.”

“Saw you nothing else in your dream dear mother,”
said the young lady, gazing earnestly upon her, and
apparently unconscious of her last remark. “Do you
not remember where you were? Say mother, tell me
truly, was it not among a clump of bright green
trees, by a rushing fountain, and was it not noonday
in your dream?—a hot bright sultry noon with a few
clouds on the western sky, and the leaves all drooping
heavily and motionless, and nothing astir but the
singing locust?”

“What can you mean Helen,” interrupted Mrs.
Gray, surprised and alarmed at these singular inquiries,
and the unnatural air with which they were
uttered. “Why should I remember any thing like

this, I've told you my dream already, Helen, and
foolishly. After all 'tis but natural. You know the
rumours from the enemy that came ere we slept, and
my mind could not but be filled with visions of
terror. At all events Helen, you have but to listen
to its warning. You will not now surely render its
fulfilment so fearfully probable, as to remain in the
way of these savages.”

The unconscious and bewildered look with which
the young lady had listened to her mother's remarks
now suddenly vanished, and the settled and lofty
purpose that had before calmed the features, seemed
again to resume its influence. But still she pressed
her brow as she spoke, and though her words were
calm and cold they brought no tint of life to her lip.
“My mother does not indeed know the heart of
Helen Gray, if she thinks with fears like these, to
win her from a purpose, when her first argument
hath failed. Say no more, dear mother, it is vain,
I've counted it all already. The disgrace, the fear,
the agony, I know this choice of mine is a costly
thing, nevertheless 'tis worth the sacrifice—all—aye
and more,” and her eye brightened, and the blood
mantled proudly back to her lip and cheek.”—
“Mother I'll stay here and meet my destiny, be it
what it may, 'tis ordained of Heaven, and I'm not
afraid.”

I've done, Helen,” rejoined the mother, in a low
and heart-broken voice. “I had thought, but I was
wrong—you've counted it all already, and my words
were idly spoken. I had thought of your Father,

Helen, of a Father's claims on the heart of his eldest
and best beloved; something too I would have said of
my own deep anguish—but such arguments were poor
and little worth, to one who has counted as nothing
the love of her kindred. For Helen Gray, if you
do indeed follow your lover to yonder camp, our
destinies are henceforth parted and forever, our interests,
our hopes, are henceforth severed wide as earth
and Heaven. But oh! Helen this must not be,”
exclaimed Mrs. Gray suddenly abandoning the restraint
she had hitherto maintained over her feelings,
while her voice broke forth into the rich and plaintive
tones of passionate grief and tenderness. “It
cannot be that you have thought of all the misery
you would bring on those who love you. You
could not thus coldy reckon the worth of a mother's
sorrow? You thought indeed of the tumult of this
bitter moment, but did you count the hours of
yearning and hopeless anguish, the sleepless pillow,
the long weary nights of tears, did you think of your
sister, Helen, of her lonely and sorrowful youth.—
Oh no, Helen Gray this must not not be,” and with
a wild burst of grief she folded the beautiful and
doomed one to her heart, “I charge you my daughter
as you would yourself hope for pity in your need,
hear me now, give up this mad purpose.” “And is
it come to this?” she continued, as the low stifled
sobs from her daughter's heart, told how well those
words had touched its inmost springs of feeling,
“hath it come to this, that daughter of mine, should
forsake all who love her, and her country too in the
hour of its extremity, to go over to the side of wrong
and oppression, and all for the love of one who hath
proved himself but a tyrant's tool, a traitor to the
cause of truth and liberty.”

A wrong string had that mother touched. Helen
Gray lifted her brow, and the dew that had trembled
on her drooping lashes, melted away, in the sudden
light that sparkled in the blue fountains beneath.—
“Now you wrong him, mother—you wrong him
fearfully. A Traitor, a tyrant's tool; thank you,
aye thank you, for those cruel words. Now I can
nerve my heart again. Have you forgotten, mother,
a year to day, I was to have been the bride of Everard
Maitland, and was it not with your own approval?—was
it without my Father's sanction.”

“But ere that period arrived, you know, Helen,
the circumstances that compelled us to withdraw
that sanction and approval.”

“I know, indeed, dear mother, that Everard
Maitland would not—dared not, even for me, violate
his sacred oath of allegiance to his king and
country. I know too, that even for me, his high
heart could not tamely brook my father's angry and
bitter words when he refused to do it. And yet,
need I tell you, mother, for all this he is nevertheless
dear to me—me his own betrothed bride. I
know, dear mother, you have never known my
heart—no one hath ever known it, not even Everard,
to this hour, my name is to him only a memorial of
woman's faithlessness. It hath always seemed to
me that love was a thing too holy to dwell idly on

the lips, but restraint is over now. In a few moments
we part—something tells me it is forever.
Mother, I will speak freely.”

“Oh, do not say thus, Helen,” interrupted Mrs.
Gray, “Everard Maitland will not—cannot claim
the fulfillment of promises, made in circumstances
so utterly unlike the present.”

“Unlike indeed! A strange argument that for a
loving heart. But hear me, mother; when the
English stranger first came hither, and reared his
beautiful home in these wilds, you know full well,
in spite of his high bred and courtly mein, he was
the favourite of all. Wherever he moved with his
free, light step and sunny smile, there was loving
and admiring eyes upon him, and even in yonder
crowded city, his presence was a spell to gather
around him the love and favour of many hearts.
Then, mother, I admired him, as you and all did,
as I would a star in yonder sky, and had the light
of his name set then, I would have mourned for it
only as for any thing else bright and lovely, that
had perished from my sight. But even then it was
pleasant to me to gaze on his bold and beautiful
brow, and meet the changeful thoughts that were
brightening in his eye, and I remember once, when
he spoke tenderly of the young sisters he had left
in England, I felt a strange fervent wish that I had
been but one of them. But, mother, when Everard
chose me, unworthy as I was—me of all the admiring
ones that thronged his path, to share henceforth
his bright existence, to be the beloved of all, the

flower of his hearth and home—then, mother, I
loved him. Ay him, not his goodly fortunes, his
fair home, or the honor that clung to his name; but
him, Everard Maitland, the bright living spirit that
looked out upon me in the clear eye, and spoke to
me in the low music of his words. I loved him.
Need I say more, dear mother? Need I say that I
love Everard Maitland still, though his beautiful
home is desolate, and his fair domains are passed into
other hands; though those who loved him once are
now ready to shed his life's blood, and words of infamy
are staining the honour of his high name, still
the being I loved before is the same to me as then,
and though his destiny is changed, and his path is
now amid scenes of tumult and blood, still mother,
to share that destiny—to be the flower on that path,
seems to me as precious a lot as ever; ah! and a
thousand times more precious than when all else
was bright around him.”

“But believe me, my daughter, did Everard truly
love you, or were his affection for you any but a
selfish principle, he would not ask or wish you to
make him happy, at the sacrifice of all else that is
dear to you!”

“There, dear mother, again you wrong him, he
hath not asked it. When Everard and I last parted,
'twas in bitterness. I do not mean the day my
father forbade him the dwelling. I've met him
once since then, though I did not tell you of the interview,
because his name was a painful word between
us. I met him with Catharine by the hemlock

spring, and then he besought me to go home
with him to England, and told me how happy he
could make me there, with his gentle mother and
his fair young sisters. I spoke of you, and of my
father's anger—Heaven knows unkindness was
farthest from me; but his high spirit had been
deeply wounded, and his feelings had grown
strangely sensitive. He construed my looks and
language into coldness at his altered fortunes—Oh!
how wrongfully—and his proud spirit grew stern,
and with cold and haughty words we parted. I've
never seen him since that hour. You know we
heard he hurried to Quebec, and then that he had
joined the army that was mustering its forces there,
but from that hour no word hath passed between us
till last evening. Last evening, a stranger, a soldier
I doubt not from the camp above, brought me a
message from him. It was only a ring that I had
given him for this, and a few hasty words written
within the envelope.”

“And what were they Helen?” said the mother
calmly, for the young lady had paused a moment,
as if waiting for the inquiry.

“The purport of them was—that as I had doubtless
bestowed elsewhere, the affections I had withdrawn
from him, it were better that the token should
go with them also; but he prayed that I would still
deign to wear the other, as the memorial of a heart
that was irrevocably given; and even he added,
could it be withdrawn thus lightly, it were but an
idle appendage to one who could bestow nothing

with it but blighted fortunes. His home, too, was
henceforth in the field and camp, and woman's love
he knew full well, was a thing too delicate for such
a soil. I sent him back the ring, dear mother, and
with it the assurance, that affections strong enough
to endure cold and wrongful words, could flourish
amidst strife and danger as well as by a fireside
home, and love that had lived through slight and
scorn was none too delicate for blighted fortunes.
And it would be because he himself had grown
weary of his promises, if Helen Gray was not his
bride to-morrow. And I promised, mother, at all
hazards, I promised to await him here this day. So
the blame is all mine, the sacrifice is voluntary, and
I am not alone in it, dear mother. You know that
even in that very camp, are females high-born and
beautiful, who have forsaken all and come over the
blue waters to a land of strangers and enemies, to
share the toils and dangers of the camp with those
they love. And were I less devoted, I were unworthy
of such a one as Everard Maitland.”

But a loud quick voice was now heard without,
and the next moment Catharine Gray rushed eagerly
in. “Now, mother, do you know that the army are
already beyond the river, and every wagon is at this
moment in the square but ours? Helen Gray,” she
continued, retreating with amazement as her eye just
then fell upon her sister's dishabille, “are you bent
upon our ruin and your own? Are you utterly distracted
sister?”

“No, Catharine,” replied Mrs. Gray, suddenly

rising and drawing the arm of her younger daughter
in hers, “not distracted, Catharine, but better, far
better that she were, than thus to sin against the
reason that God hath given her. To him, and to her
own soul, must Helen Gray answer for the hearts
that she hath this day made broken and desolate.”

“What is it, what can it mean?” exclaimed
Catharine in astonishment, and vainly seeking to read
the expression of her mother's eye, as it still rested
on her sister. “Ay, Catharine, continued Mrs.
Gray,” here's heavy news for your young heart.
Your sister there in yonder recess, your eldest, your
kind and loving sister, hath given you and me, and
all of us up forever. Heavy news for you, and heavier
still for your father. Children, “she continued, glancing
at the little faces that were peeping in at the door,
drawn thither by the loud exclamations of Catharine,”
your sister Helen is going away from us, and
you'll never see her again. Helen, “said Mrs. Gray,
who had just returned, and she spoke with an air
so calm, it seemed almost coldness at that fearful
moment, I've persuaded Hannah to remain here,
and accompany you to the camp; I need not ask
you to make her safety dear to you as your own.
And now, Helen, farewell! she continued, turning
to the door, and her eye carefully avoiding her
daughter's farewell, Helen Gray.” If you live but
a little longer in this unloving world, there will come
an hour, when you will mourn for the deep love
you have this day flung from you. Farewell,

Helen! But then she paused, and the rushing
tears dimed her sight.

The parting words that tremble on the lip are but
a cold unmeaning ceremony to the eye's farewell,
that one last look hurrying forth from the heart's
deep places, a thousand images of love and sorrow;
and the mother's glance, in spite of her resolution,
had wandered once more to the recess. The full
light of those sad eyes was again on hers, that
same sweet look of touching sorrow, that lay in her
memory, gleaming through the mists of forgotten
years, as it had beamed from those blue eyes, in
the winning beauty of infancy—the same deep shade
that had a thousand times clouded in their depths
the laughing glory of childhood. And the next moment
Helen was lying within her arms. And
will you leave me thus, mother? If I have indeed
wronged you is there not sorrow enough already
for me? You have said it yourself our paths of existence
part here, and I know, dear mother, I know
full well they meet no more, unless it be before the
bright throne in heaven. Mother, your love has been
all unto me, will you leave me coldly when 'tis forever?
And Helen clung to her and wept aloud.
“God be with you,” murmured the mother, “God
be with you, Helen, and make your days on earth
bright and joyful, as mine are henceforth desolate.”
No, no, interrupted the daughter, “pray not for
that—the sorrow is all mine, let the gladness be
yours. God be with you, Helen Gray, repeated
the mother, in calm and solemn tones, God be

with you, my own sweet Helen, my beautiful, my
cherished one, when mother and kindred have all
forsaken you, and bless you and keep you safe for
me, and bring you home to me at last in heaven.
Fear nothing, my own precious child, if we must
part, I say fear nothing. When you lay here, Helen,
a babe in my arms, I told you of one whose love
was better than a mother's—now trust him. Once
more, Helen, God be with you.

There were breaking heart-strings, as that clinging
grasp was undone; but the love of a young heart
is a thing of strange power, hidden and strange
and mysterious power, that none dream of until
the hour of trial, and Helen Gray rose up even
amid the low words of that mother's blessing, and
stood again unwavering in the strength of her
affection. And now that last lingering look had
vanished; she threw herself again upon the couch,
and buried her face among the jasmine leaves.—
But a low dewy voice rung in her ear—one more
bitter farewell. The sweet light-hearted being who
had been the play-fellow of her childhood, was
standing beside her, and near her, her young brother,
the tears fast gathering in his proud eye in spite of
all his gaiety. “Have you no word for me, Helen,
murmured that plaintive voice. Many a bright
hour have we had together. One more kiss, sweet
sister, ere we part forever.” There were hurried
embraces, a few low heart-breaking words, and once
again she was leaning alone by the window. The
sound of retiring steps soon echoed from the staircase,

at last dying in the hall below, then came the
noise of the distant door, closing heavily. A moment
more, and the rumbling of wheels rose beneath
the window, even this at last grew faint in the distance,
and all within and without was utter and breathless
stillness.

And Helen Gray bowed her head, and wept long
and bitterly. Her soul went down into the sweet
hours of memory—the bright laughing days of other
years came back again—she was in the still and
beautiful woods—as of old—by the rushing streams,
and the laughing voices of her childhood rung around
her, or she climbed once more into her father's arms,
and listened to the tales of heroic and saintly deeds,
or her voice mingled with her playmate sisters in
the evening prayer, as they lay on one pillow in the
soft moonlight. The sun rose high and clear thro'
the parted shutters, the dew-drops sparkled and
melted away, one by one, on the curtaining leaves,
and still she leaned weeping on the window. It
was all over—the fearful task was done. The
smiles that had brightened on her in her cradle, the
voices that had restrained the waywardness of her
childhood, were now unto her as perished things,—
the love that had never failed, had indeed been flung
from her. And now were the sweet enjoyments of
her home; unto her as sealed treasures. The joyous
rambles among the hills, the still and holy sabbaths,
the bright gatherings around the evening hearth—it
was a tale all told, a dream that had passed, and left
nothing but its memory. And for whom was all

this? Was he not a mere stranger in comparison
with those who for his sake were now lost unto her?
One who had scorned the strength of woman's love,
one who had charged her with change and faithlessness,
and more than this, one who had joined himself
to an army, he was destined to lay waste, and
desolate all else she loved. And yet that same
being, was he not to her the one being, for whom,
home, and friends, and country, were but too poor
a sacrifice—to gladden whom, sorrow, and fear, and
death itself, were but a welcome destiny. And this
is love. “Aye, Everard Maitland shall learn this
day, there is power in the depths of a loving heart,
he never dreamed of,” and Helen rose up at last
from that long dream of feeling, and stood by the
toilette with a smiling lip, gathering once more the
bright clusters from her forehead.

“Will you have any thing,” Miss Helen, said a
low and timid voice at the door, that low and timid
as it was, echoed with a startling effect, in that
heavy stillness. “Shall I help you dress, Miss
Helen,” continued the servant girl, gazing with
something of awe upon the face of her young mistress,
as it met her eye in the mirror.”

“Ha! is it you Hannah! I remember now, some
one spoke of your staying. But this is kind of you.
Aye, come in and help me, you little thought to
have been my bridesmaid. Yes, Hannah I am a
bride to day, and I must not await here unadorned.
Everard Maitland, she continued in a lower voice,
shall have no hint from me this day of altered fortunes,

I will deck myself as gaily, and wear as light
a smile, as though this long dark year, had been but
last night's dream, and my wedding day had come,
as it was fixed in light and joyfulness.” With
sighs and half murmured exclamations, the servant
obeyed her bidding, but ever and anon as a word
rose to her lip, a single glance at the face of her
companion, repressed it suddenly. For as one by
one, the arrangements of the toilette were completed,
a strange unnatural beauty seemed gathering around
her, flashing out from her blue eyes, and glowing on
her cheek, and brightening her lip with smiles of
strange joyfulness, and when at last she stood, in all
her bridal array, the white roses wreathed among
her gathered curls, and the snowy drapery flowing
like light around her, to the eye of her admiring attendant,
she seemed some radiant creature, from the
home of spirits, and she retreated from her touch,
gazing at her in awe and silence. “And now,
Hannah, I charge you watch by yonder window—
fix your eye on the road as it winds by the hemlock
wood, and if you see but a shaddow crossing it; call
me, and that speedily.” She left the room as she
spoke, and her light tread was soon heard along a
distant passage.

The sun was shining high in the Heavens, as the
young bride at length opened the door of the deserted
mansion, but no voice, or faintest tread, broke that
perfect stillness. The dwellings that but yesterday,
at this hour, were echoing with the sounds of life
and toil stood with closed doors, lonely and desolate,

and midnight silence hung around the busy haunts
of noonday. There was a solitude about it all,
chilling and fearful, and she stood in the door gazing
down the street, till her eye ached for some form of
life, and the slightest tone of human voice would have
been like music. A deep shrill sound seemed to wind
at that moment along the distant hills, but so faintly
it reached the ear it might be fancy, and she leaned
forward listening breathlessly. It came again, as
shrill and deep and nearer than before, and still she
leaned listening in doubt. So strange a sound it
seemed, so utterly unlike all she had heard before!
The first faint echo had indeed sounded like some
strain of martial music, but as it came again, nearer
and more distinct, she knew it was neither drum, or
fife, or clarion—could it be the note of human voice?
and with an undefined and sickning fear, she watched
for it again. But now a loud quick call from above,
rung through the building. “Make haste, make
haste, Miss Helen.” The door was closed swiftly
and locked and barred, and she stood by her maid
on the stair-case!

They are on the hill, Miss Helen, you may see
them now, if you will but hasten—a dozen of them
—I marked them plainly,” and in a moment she
was by her window, following the direction of her
servant's finger, as she pointed away among the
distant hills. “No, no, not there, dear Miss Helen,
below the woods, there they are by the hemlock
spring. You see them now.” “Who?” inquired
her companion slowly, as her eye at last fell upon

a cluster of small white objects, that now seemed
stationary on the hill side, just where the winding
road came out from the woods above. “Who do
you mean, Hannah?” “And is it for me to say
Miss Helen, you surely see their blankets waving
in the wind, as plain as I do, and you heard the
war-whoop when you stood in the door below.—
Sure I am you could not mistake that, for any sound
in earth or Heaven.” “Ay, ay, the Indians,” replied
the other slowly. “But you are not afraid of them,
Miss Helen, or you would not think of living in
yonder camp. They say they are plenty there.—
And after all I need not to have been so frightened. I
should have known they were coming to the spring
for water. Ah, now they are moving!—Sure as I
am alive, Miss Helen, they are coming this way
again! But do not look so pale; it cannot be they
are coming here, for how should they know so soon
that the General is gone?”

With silent and fearful emotion they now watched
from the window the slightest movements from the
distant horsemen, until their forms were at length
hid by the intervening objects; and still they gazed
on the spot where they had last vanished listening
breathlessly for some sound to confirm or scatter
their conjectures. Minutes past, long dreadful minutes,
and all was silence, and minutes more, and still
no sound but the rushing river, broke the stillness.
“Yes I was wrong” exclaimed Hannah, at length
rising from the posture of painful attention. “We
should have heard from them long before this, if they

were coming hither. They have gone home some
other way, Miss Helen, and all my wonder is they
have contrived to keep their horrid tongues to themselves
so long in any case!” But the words died
on her bloodless lips. A heavy trampling and the
loud whoop within the very street of the village,
gave a fearful check to her exultations. “Now God
save you and me Miss Helen, for there is no help in
man for us,” and she threw herself on the floor,
groaning aloud in the extremity of her terror. “Be
quiet, be quiet, Hannah,” repeated her companion,
assuming at that fearful moment that calm decision
that belongs at times to high wrought feelings, “fear
nothing Hannah, when they find the fort and village
deserted, they will never think of searching this
dwelling. Why should they dream that it is not
deserted as the rest—unless it be,” she added in a
tone half inaudible, “that the doom which hangs
over me, must be fulfilled.” The tramp drew nearer.
“Hush, hush,” whispered the young lady, as a low
shriek escaped from the lips of her companion.—
“They are passing now,” and she wiped away the
cold dew that was settling fast upon her brow. But
even while the words were yet on her lip the noise
without had suddenly ceased, and the next moment
the horrid whoop rung loud and clear beneath her
very window. “It is all over with us,” whispered
Hannah, as again and again that wild yell
rose and trembled through the room. “It is all over
with us both, an evil hour was that when I consented
to stay with you.” “Hark Hannah,” interrupted
her companion, “Did you hear that?” she continued
listening eagerly. “Was it not Maitland they said?”
She waited and again the name of her lover rose to
her ear, in the wild and strange accents of that savage
tongue. “Thank Heaven!” she exclaimed, hastening
to the window, but the arm of her servant with-held
her from her purpose. “You must not—you
shall not” she murmured in the desperate tones of
terror. “There has been madness enough already.
Do not tempt Providence too far, Miss Helen.”
“Fear nothing Hannah, hide yourself, I'll meet
these savages alone,” she continued with a strong
effort releasing herself from her grasp, and hastening
to the window. But she turned away quickly, with
a low, shuddering groan, from the dark eyes that
were glaring up from beneath, and it needed indeed
all the magic influence of that precious name, that
now once more rung on her ear to draw her again
to meet them.

There were many Indians waiting without the
gate on horseback, but one had rode within the
court, and he sat beneath the window gazing upward.
He was a chief—by the tokens on his neck
and arms—and there he sat in all the wild fantastic
array of savage warfare, the lines of black mingling
with the blood-red paint on his features, and the
long hair hanging loosely on his blanket, from the
circlet of crimson feathers above. Scarce human
he seemed, and well indeed might the eye of that
young and beautiful creature shrink from his withering
gaze, as she stood there, lone and helpless, looking

fearfully down upon him. But another object
now caught her eye, “surely there's Everard's own
beautiful steed,” she murmured, glancing on the
noble animal that stood beside the chief, arrayed
and prancing fiercely beneath his unskilful rein.
“It is, it must be so, and caparisoned for a lady
too—what means it?” and she now perceived, that
as the Indian again repeated her lover's name, he
pointed to a sealed letter in his hand, motioning her
at the same time to unbar the door, and receive it
from him. Was there still a chance for treachery?
But love and fear are inventive passions. In a few
moments she had let down her toilette box from the
window, and the next, the letter was in her eager
hand. A dark chesnut lock fell from its folds, as
she tore it quickly open. Suspicion was now over;
there needed no other token, and yet as her trembling
companion watched her features, while one by
one the hurried lines met her eyes, she saw with
surprise the bright flush of joy all fading out, and
when at length it was finished, and she quietly refolded
it, it was with a look of deep and strange
hopelessness.

“This is too much,” she murmured, “this is
cruel! How could you, Everard, ask it of me,
when you knew how strangely I've always feared
these beings?” and her eye fell again on the contents
of the letter. “Ay, sweet Helen,” and she
read aloud, as if unconsciously. “Fear nothing, my
sweet Helen. If I had but dreamed yesterday of

your noble, generous purpose, I would have come
at my life's risk, gladly. And now this is all that
I can do. But trust me, my precious one, you need
not fear them, they are true and faithful to me—
trust me, they will not harm you,” and twice she
repeated the last sentence, with a strange and solemn
earnestness. “Trust me, ay it is well,” she added,
rising quickly. “I will not shrink from it now,”
and she gave an assenting token from the window.
“Bring me my hat and mantle, Hannah,” she continued,
calmly, “I must go with these savages.
There's no help for it. And why need I shrink
from it? Surely I should not dread to go where
Everard Maitland trusts me so fearlessly. But your
life shall be safe. Your horse still waits for you. I
see the news from the fort has not yet reached the
enemy, you may yet rejoin those who this morning
left us. You will see my mother,” Hannah, she
added after a moment's pause, ardently struggling
with her emotion, “you will see them all. Oh
what would I not sacrifice for one such glimpse.
But that is past—forever,” and she checked the
strong passion that trembled in her tones. “Hannah,
speak to them of me, as of one who had not
grown weary of her choice, even before the glance
of an Indian's eye.” And she flung her light
mantle around her as she spoke. “God bless you,
Hannah, you have been kind to me,” she continued,
tearing herself from the embrace of her weeping
companion. A loud signal from without announced
the impatience of her savage conductors, and with
one long lingering glance, Helen Gray went out
from her apartment.

The next minute the outer door was unbared, and
Hannah beheld her as she gazed eagerly through
the shutters, coming forth at last into the court beneath.
She saw the gentle and calm resolution
with which the high-hearted maiden bore those
savage glances that in a moment flashed upon her,
and beneath it all the deep suppressed emotion, that
once, and only once, gleamed out as her eye fell on
the long bare knife that hung by the chief, glancing
in the sunbeam. It would seem as if that fiery
steed had recognised the touch of that fair hand,
that for a moment lay on his neck so soothingly,
and as he reared his beautiful head, and quietly
obeyed the gentle impulse, the young lady lifted her
face once more to the window. And the faithful
servant leaned her head, and wept as that sweet
mournful smile, and the last glance of those sad, sad
eyes faded from her sight. When again she looked
forth from the window, the white plume and the
bright green mantle were waving among the distant
trees; but these were soon lost to her view, as with
that strange and fearful retinue, Helen Gray moved
on to her bridal.

The burning noontide was past. Hot and sultry
glowed the early afternoon among the lonely hills,
and in the path that here wound along the edge of
the blue river at their feet, a single horseman was
winding his way swiftly onward. Beautiful to the

aching eye were the bright patches of wood that
now and then crowned the hills, and the cool, clear
waves that murmured at their depths, but the eye of
the horseman rested only on a single peak among
the distant summits, and heedless of dust, and toil
and the burning heat, onward he pressed, as though
life and death were in his errand. The strength of the
noble animal he rode was already well nigh exhausted,
but though no vestige of human dwelling appeared
in sight, onward and onward he urged him with a
speed which seemed at every step to gather a fresh
impulse. There was a cloud on the brow of the
bold young rider, and something of deep passion in
the restless and changeful light of his clear eye,
that seemed only to find relief in the renewed speed
with which he still urged on to the hill beyond.
And as at last he toiled slowly up the ascent, amid
the stillness of that wild and secluded spot, hitherto
broken only by the slight music of insects, or the
faint warble of some lonely bird, there came a low
hum, a mingling as of many sounds, deepening and
swelling momently. At last he stood on the brow
of the cliff, looking eagerly downward. A strange
sight was there. In that solitude of woods and hills,
where but a moment before nature had seemed alone
in her majesty, lay the flower of England's forces
—a vast army strewed with its thousands the plains
beneath. The wealth and genius of a mighty nation
lay spread among the silent hills, profaning the
sanctity of nature with the tumult of many voices,
the roll of the fife and drum, and tents and waving
streamers, and all of that vast array of martial pomp
that became the camp of the victorious and royal
army, pursuing even here in her far temples, the
sons of freedom who had fled to their refuge. But
the glittering uniform of the young officer who was
now leading his panting steed towards the intrenchments,
plainly indicated that his sympathies were
one with those within, and, in a few minutes more,
he was standing before the splendid tent, that betokened
the general of those proud forces.

“Ha! Colonel Maitland,” exclaimed the officer
who sat by the table within, starting suddenly from
an abstraction so deep, that the intruder stood by
his side ere he had lifted his eye from the papers
before him. “Returned, Colonel Maitland?—what
accident?” and something of a frown hung on his
heavy brow. “My embassy was accomplished,
sir,” replied the other, laying upon the table a sealed
packet as he spoke. “Accomplished!” repeated
the officer, surveying him with incredulous surprise.
“How am I to understand you, Colonel Maitland?
my memory deceives me strangely, or you left the
camp this morning. Am I to congratulate myself
that the necessity of proceeding to the fort was already
obviated?” “Scarce morning when I left sir,”
replied the young gentleman, hurriedly, “there were
many miles between me and the camp ere sun-rise
and little cause for congratulation as these dispatches
will prove to you. I left the advanced party but ten
miles from the fort.” “And the draught horses,

Colonel Maitland? no further news from them?”
“Yes, sir, they had arrived, but only one fourth of
the number contracted for.” A half muttered curse
fell from the lips of the superior officer, as he broke
the seals of the packet, “Ha! ha!” he murmured,
glancing hastily over the contents, “this is too
much!—twelve oxen to one batteau, and but fifty
teams. But ten miles, you said Colonel Maitland,
and only one day's provision in advance for all this
army. This will not do,” he continued, shoving
the papers fiercely from him, and striking his hand
upon the table, as he spoke with an emphasis that
startled his musing companion. He leaned his
brow heavily on his hand, apparently lost in abstracted
thought, for a long, and it seemed to his
impatient auditor, an irksome pause succeeded to
his last observation.

“General Burgoyne,” said the latter, at length
venturing to interrupt the tedious silence, “I'm intrusted
with a message from General Reidsel to the
Baroness —, if you have no farther commands”
—“what said you, Colonel Maitland?” interrupted
the other, suddenly lifting his abstracted glance.
“The Baroness?—ay,” he added quickly, “it will
do well enough in time of peace, but Colonel Maitland
is aware, no doubt, there are more important
subjects on the tapis just now, than a lady's behests.
The eye of the young officer darted suddenly on
the speaker with a glance of keen and angry suspicion,
gazing sternly on his features for a moment,

as though he would have detected some hidden
meaning in his words of irony, but the brow of the
General again sunk on his hand, in the same deep
reverie from which his words had aroused him.

“Sit down, Colonel Maitland,” said the latter, at
length lifting his eye to the young gentleman, as he
stood by the table in the attitude of patient attention,
while his restless glance betrayed some powerful
and suppressed emotion. “The alertness you have
this day displayed,” continued his commander, “and
the judgment as well as gallantry you have on many
occasions exhibited induce me to offer you now the
charge of an expedition of high importance, one
which has for some time past been maturing, today's
despatches have convinced me that it can't
with expediency be delayed any longer.” He
paused a moment. “There's little explanation
needed. You know, as well as myself, the situation
of this army—moving just in the rear of one
whose business it is to remove from the way every
supply of service or provision. We shall give these
rebel forces,” he muttered with an oath, “other
work ere many days, than driving cattle, and breaking
down bridges, for our accommodation. Once
in the rich country beyond, Colonel Maitland, and
the difficulty is ended, but meanwhile we must
open other sources than the scanty supplies from
above, or I see nothing but defeat and ruin, in spite
of discipline and numbers. An army whose expenses
are draining the treasures of the nation,
loitering idly among the hills! It will never do

But as to this expedition, Colonel Maitland, mark
me, I leave it to your option to accept or decline the
appointment as you will; but until the choice is
made, I must speak briefly of it. A foraging party,
what say you, Colonel? a foraging party on the
borders of Connecticut, to re-unite the provincial
corps, to collect horses and provisions for the army,
and join me again at Albany, what say you, sir?”
he continued, gazing with some surprise upon the
flushed brow of the young officer. “I say, sir,” replied
the latter, “I can only say, General Burgyone,
the honor you would confer upon me is immeasurably
above my merits—but you have left it to
my choice. At an other time the liberty were useless:
now I must avail myself of it. There are circumstances,
sir, which compel me wholly to decline
this appointment.” “It is well, as you please,
Colonel Maitland,” replied the other, surveying him
with some slight displeasure, “I had thought it a
service suited to the daring of your character—but it
matters little. There is another in the camp, who
indeed, until to-day, I had purposed to lead the expedition,
but I sent him but now with a small detachment
to take possession of the hill to the left.
There has been another skirmish among our savage
adherents. They were at the watering-place on
this same hill, preparing to scalp and murder each
other, according to their national customs on such
occasions, when a party of the enemy, stragglers
from the fort I should think, drove them from the
ground. At least this was Sigana's own account of
the affair.” “Sigana,” exclaimed the young officer.
starting to his feet, and gazing upon the face of his
officer, with a sudden and fearful emotion, “Sigana,
did you say, sir?” “Ay, Sigana, I think it was
one of the chiefs of the Sacos, but, Colonel, you are
ill,” he added, surveying the deadly paleness that
had gathered on the face of his auditor. “This
furious ride has been too much for you, and I have
done wrong to detain you so long without refreshment.
But one word more,” he exclaimed, as his
companion moved quickly to the door of the tent,
“the post that Colonel Baum abandons is one of
importance. I know of none to whom I can better
intrust it than yourself. As speedily therefore as
may be, you are expected to take command of that
detachment.”

The officer bowed in silence, and in a few minutes
more, he was seen moving rapidly through a distant
quarter of the camp. A heavy hand fell suddenly
on his shoulder. “The bargain, Colonel Maitland,
the bargain. Three measures of brandy and”
—“Ha! Sigana,” exclaimed the officer, as his eye
rested on the tall Indian beside him, “where is
she?” he inquired quickly. “Did the Baroness
meet her on the hill, as she promised? Speak, Sigana.”
“Who Colonel Maitland?” said the Indian,
calmly, after waiting till the rapid exclaimations of
his companion were exhausted, and fixing his cool
dark eye upon him. There was something in that
glance that sent the hand of the officer to his sword
instinctively. “No trifling, villain!” he murmured

in the stern, deep voice of passion. “With your
own life you answer for hers. Ay, where is she?
The lady you were to 've brought this noon, to the
tent of Lady Ackland?” “I saw no lady,” replied
the Indian, casting his eye suddenly downward, and
then continuing in a tone of apparent grief. “My
white brother is angry with me, because his pretty
woman loved her own nation better than the enemy.
I saw no lady, I entered into the great house you
told me, here, and above, but I saw no lady; I
dreamed she went away with her father, to live in a
better wigwam than this. No carpet here, no windows,
no sofa—ah, Colonel Maitland, the squaws
never love the fight.” “Have you truly spoken,
Sigana?” replied the officer sternly. “Remember
no trifling with me. Was the house indeed deserted
as you said?” “And is it for the chief of the Sacoes
to speak dark and crooked words, Colonel Maitland,
that is the white man's talk. The words of the
Sacoes are like light. When you go to her father's
new wigwam, and see your white fawn again, you
will be sorry for the words you have this day spoken
to your red brother.”

Once during the preceeding conversation, it had
flashed upon the mind of the officer, that the hurried
and angry language he had made use of in the
course of his interrogations had been somewhat
tamely borne by the bold, high tempered chieftain, but
all suspicion seemed now to have vanished in other
and sterner feelings. “It is well, Sigana,” he replied
after a moment's silence, releasing his lip from

its fearful compression, while his pale features
grew strangely calm and haughty. “You've done
well, Sigana—but what of the fight? Something
was said to me, but now, of a skirmish you was engaged
in this morning?” “Who told you that?”
replied the chieftain, lowering his eye suddenly.
“And what matters it who told me? you were wont
to prate enough of such a fray yourself. But you
were driven from the field; ay, that was it.” “And
what if we were, Colonel Maitland? the white men
were many and we were few, but for all this, the
scalps should have been waving on my spear, but
my Mingo brother was treacherous—he lay by the
cold spring in wait for me, he thought to have—
but” he checked himself, and the strange gleam of
satisfied malice, that had darted from his eye, faded
suddenly. “But that is settled now,” he continued
in a calmer tone. “The Mingo chief thought to have
found the white maiden among us, and forced her from
our hand and won the prize, but,” and again that gleam
of revengeful joy, darted from his eye, and again he
checked it. “But the white men came and scattered
us,” he continued in an altered tone, “and I am at
peace with my Mingo brother, for I've promised to
share the prize with him.” “You have grown strangely
forgiving, Sigana,” returned the officer carelessly,
while his heart chilled at the thought of the fearful
lot that might have been thus avoided, and he
wondered, that even in the distraction of that morning's
desperate emergency, he could ever have
thought of trusting to such a convoy, a treasure so
inestimably precious. “Ay, this is well indeed,”
he murmured as he moved slowly away, better all
this cruel mockery, this wanton trifling with the
heart's holiest feelings, than that Helen Gray should
have come to evil through my neglect. It is well.
as it is,” and in a few minutes more Everard Maitland
appeared, moving with a haughty and careless
mein towards the new intrenchment of the east.

Calm and brilliant glowed the afternoon along the
hemlock hill, and away from the sounds of bustle
and toil, in the edge of the dark green woods, two
officers, from the regiment above, stood talking
earnestly. Pleasantly came the hum of the bee
from the bending thistle and long and loud rung
the chaunt of the locust from the depths of the lone
wood, and, broken by the rocks and trees, came the
faint murmur of the distant fall, while the plashing
sound of some nearer wave, mingled with the cool
trickling among the grass at their feet. Beautiful
lay the broad bright meadows beyond, and the fields
of waving gold, waiting for the sickle, and still farther
away in the hazy brightness, rose the walls of
the fort, and the tops of the clustering houses.
Thither the eye of the young officer was roaming
momentarily, as with a stern, cold smile on his
handsome features, he listened with something of
restrained impatience to the hurried tones of his
companion. “Is this all, Colonel Maitland?” inquired
the latter. “Can I give you any farther information?
And yet I might have spared myself
the trouble,” he continued, following the direction

of his eye; “you know more of these wilds than
myself. At all events you pretty dwelling among
the trees seems an old acquaintance. And did I not
once hear you say, you had resided in its vicinity.
Ah, ha! I see it now; I scarce thought that a man
in his senses, at least such a man as Colonel Maitland,
could have declined an offer like this, for the
privilege of loitering in the camp. Some local attachment,”
he continued in a tone of merriment,
“Ah, ha, I've unravelled your mystery—some lady
—love in that same dwelling.” “Love,” repeated
the other scornfully, “a pretty theme for the verse-maker,
Colonel Baum, but you and I scarce have
time for rhyming now; good afternoon to you, sir.”
The elder officer surveyed his companion for a moment
with some surprise, as he flung himself upon
his horse, and then turned in pursuit of his own,
which had wound his way along the edge of the
woods to the fresh clover beyond.

A beautiful spot was that which the hungry animal
had chosen for his repast, just where the bright
spring came gushing clear and transparent among
the cool shadows of the clustering hemlocks. On
the side of the spring, remote from the path the
ground broke suddenly away to the left, in a
small glen, but as the level was still preserved by the
tops of the low brushwood that grew in its depths,
none but a careful observer would have discovered
its presence. On the edge of the cliff the officer
now sprung upon his steed, but he started back with
aloud exclamation of surprise. There is something

fearful in the sight of a human being, where it is so
little looked for, and the eye of the officer had
rested suddenly on a bright silk mantle, and a meek
white brow was gleaming up from beneath. A female,
a stranger, young and beautiful, was lying
there among the parted evergreens, asleep, with the
white plume in her bonnet, soiled and broken; and
the long bright curls streaming heavily on her mantle.
She lay asleep, but there was a strange stillness
in her slumbers. The brow was slightly lifted
as in sorrow, in the deep repose of that slight figure;
and over all that, pale surpassing loveliness there
was a sad, calm grace, strangely unlike the beauty
of life.

The officer gazed for a moment in silence, but his
first hurried exclamation had not been unheard;
there was a tramp in the path without, and the companion
from whom he had just parted, rode to the
edge of the cliff, and he stood looking down for a
moment, silently, on the young and beautiful sleeper.
“Helen Gray,” and the lone woods rung with that
deep and startling anguish. “Helen Gray, my
own, my beautiful, God forgive me for the wrong I've
done you,” and he had flung himself from the horse,
and was kneeling beside her, loosening the bonnet
from her brow. Beautifully burst the light clusters
from beneath, but the brow was cold and pale as ever,
and the dark lash still lay on the snowy cheek,
like penciling. “My bride, my murdered one, and
all for me. Would to God I had perished yesterday.”
He bore her to the spring; he unclasped

the mantle; he dashed the cold water on
her forehead and softly fell the shadowed light of
that sweet spot on the face that had so often
brightened it with smiles. “And is it thus we
meet at last, Helen Gray, and here, here where
we parted, here where we first met. An evil
hour. Would to God that I had never crossed
your path, to cloud and darken it forever.” Was
it the shadowed sunlight; for as the cold drops
sparkled on her brow, there came a faint tinge
like life; ah, and then the slight breath stirred the
parted lips. “Helen, Helen,” murmured the lover,
in a voice that, with all its ecstacy, was low and
sweet like music, “Helen Gray, my blessed one,
speak to me, your own, your betrothed, though
it be but one word; I have murdered you, but you
can forgive even me. Oh, Say one word of love
ere we part forever. “And his burning lips were
on her brow.”

'Twould have seemed as if those impassioned
words had reached the deep fountains of that sealed
spirit; she moaned heavily. “Thank God,” murmured
Everard Maitland, “thank God, there is
life,” but he drew in his breath, for something like
a low murmur moved on her lips. She turned her
head. “Oh, I am ill and weary, my mother?”
and still she murmured in tones that were sweet
and plaintive beyond that, but inaudible even to the
quick ear of that fervent lover; and again a few
low words trembled faintly on her lip. “Again,
again that fearful dream! Oh do not stop by the

fountain. On, on, we are almost there—was that
not a white tent I saw? Do not frown Everard: I
am coming, I am coming,” and once more her tones
sunk into a grieved and plaintive murmur. “Look
at me, Helen; open your eyes my beautiful one.—
One more look ere we part forever.” Slowly and
heavily rose the drooping lids at that bidding, but
oh, how dimed were the bright eyes beneath, that
now roamed bewildered around her. At last that
wandering glance rested on his; and then the brightness
came back to their shining depths; and then a
smile, her own sweet joyous smile, gathered on her
lips. She knew him then, and Everard Maitland
smiled on her, though his heart was breaking. Again
she gazed slowly around, and the truth seemed to flash
all at once upon her darkened thought. She raised her
pale hand to her brow. “Safe, safe, she murmured,
“the bitterness is over;” and then the smile grew
almost gay and passing beautiful. “Helen, Helen
Gray,” murmured the lover in a burst of deep and
uncontrollable passion. Again, those sweet eyes
were on his with an appeal of strong tenderness.—
“Ah, Everard, I did—I lov'd you. Say, did I not?
And now I am yours and forever,” and her head
drooped on his shoulder, and with a moan low and
sweet as of a grieved babe, the gentle and loving
spirit went home to Heaven.

Death is a fearful thing, come how it will. To
think of the living spirit that a moment before was
one with us in thought and feeling, gone forth forever
from the home that hath hitherto furnished it

with all its avenues of being, wandering away alone
to some far country, beyond the light of the sun and
the moon, where there is no night or day, or summer's
heat or cold of winter; where the sight and
the sound, and all knowledge rush on the soul, when
the eye and the ear that served it once are returning
to dust in the forgotten earth. It is a fearful thing
to think of the loved spirits that have vanished from
our path. Oh, where are they, when the eye glazes
on us, and the voice and the smile that have gladened
our homes, are a lost treasure on the earth.
Beautiful indeed is that sweet influence that brightens
that fearful mystery, peopling a world of light and
holiness with the gentle and lovely, who are fading
from this, and joining the lone spirit of the dying,
with a love stronger than death, to Him who is the
brightness of that far country. They buried the
young bride at evening in all her pearls and bridal
array, with the white roses still wreathing among
her curls—so Everard Maitland would have it. The
crimson light of the setting sun shone gloriously
through the trees, shedding a glow on the bright
cheek of the dead that was almost fearful; a faint
breeze stirred the fair curls on the brow like life,
and deeper and deeper glowed the smile that the
vanished spirit had left for its memorial. And another
smile was at that burial scarce less deep and
wildly beautiful, but some said that even then
visions of madness were gathering in that high
spirit, Everard Maitland smiled on his young bride,
as he gazed on that exceeding and holy beauty—to
which the beauty of life is nothing.

They buried her among the thick hemlocks, on
the spot where the arrow of the Indian had reached
her heart, and the soldiers, and the men of rank, and
all who stood at that burial, owned the power of a
woman's heart. They buried her by the murmuring
fountain in the green glen, where they found her,
among the waving evergreens that had shielded her
as she fell amid that horrid fray from the eye of her
startled murderer.

Many years have rolled away, but to this day
that tale of woman's love is told to the traveler, who
pauses at the fountain, and some have said that the
gentle spirit still lingers there at evening. But no,
why should she? Her loved ones are long since
vanished from the earth. Why should she? She
hath a brighter home. When a few months of
sorrow and madness were over, the spirit of Everard
Matiland left its darkened dwelling, to roam
with her where there is no death to cloud the brightness
of the eternal noontide, where the trees are of
life, and the fountains of living water, and that long
past scene of horror, with all the anguish of that
fearful day, are remembered only as the dim passages
of a dream.

This story is characterized by eloquent diction—
affecting incident—deep pathos, and powerful appeals
to sympathy and feeling.