Chapter M: E. Braddon (10)

He asked to see his sister, but when they met, Pauline showed no recollection of him. He called often, and she watched him, I noticed, with an eager, troubled look. One night, after dinner, as he described how, in a battle, he had killed a white-coated Austrian, he seized a knife from the table, and illustrated the downward blow with which he had saved his own life. I heard a deep sigh behind me, and turning, I saw Pauline in a dead faint. I carried her to her room. When she came to herself again, or rather when she rose in her bed and turned her face to mine, I saw in her eyes, what, by the mercy of God, I shall never again see there.

With eyes fixed and immovable, and dilated to their utmost extent, she rose and passed out of the room. I followed her. Swiftly she passed out of the house into the street, and without the slightest hesitation, turning at right angles, moved swiftly up a long, straight road. After turning once more she stopped at a three-storeyed house. Going up to the door, she laid her hand upon it. I tried to lead her gently away, but she resisted. What was I to do? The house was an empty one. I paused. Once before my latch-key had opened a strange door. Would it open this one? I tried it. It fitted exactly.

Without waiting for me, Pauline ran in ahead. I shut the door. All was darkness. I could hear Pauline moving about on the first floor. I followed her, and, striking a match, found myself in a room with folding-doors. It was furnished, but the dust lay deep everywhere. Pauline stood in the middle of the room, holding her head in her hands, striving, it seemed, to remember something. I entered the back room with the candle I had found. There was a piano there. Something induced me to sit down at it and to play the first few notes of the song I had heard that terrible night.

A nervous trembling seemed to seize Pauline. She crossed the floor towards me, and I made room for her at the piano. With a master hand she played brilliantly the prelude of the song of which I had struck a few vagrant notes. I waited breathlessly, expecting her to sing. Suddenly she started wildly to her feet and, uttering a wild cry of horror, sank into my arms. I laid her on a sofa close by. As I held her there, a strange thing happened.

The room beyond the folding-doors was lit with a brilliant light. Grouped round a table were four men. One of them was Ceneri, the other Macari. The third man was a stranger to me. These three men were looking at a fourth man--a young man who appeared to be falling out of his chair, clutching convulsively the hilt of a dagger, the blade of which had been buried in his heart, clearly by Macari, who stood over him.

I cannot explain this vision. I only saw it when I held Pauline's hand. When I let her hand drop the scene vanished. You may call it cataleptic, clairvoyant, anything you will; it was as I relate.

_IV.--Seeking the Truth in Siberia_

Macari called on me the day after this strange scene to ask me about the memorial to Victor Emanuel.

"Before I consent to help you," I said, "I must know why you murdered a man three years ago in a house in Horace Street."

He sprang to his feet and grasping my arm, looked intently into my eyes. I saw that he recognised me in spite of the great change that blindness makes in a face.

"Why should I deny the affair to an eye-witness? To others I would deny it fast enough. Now, my fine fellow, my gay bridegroom, my dear brother-in-law, I will tell you why I killed that man. He had insulted my family. That man was Pauline's lover!"

He saw what was in my face as I rose and walked towards him.

"Not here," he said hastily, "what good can it do here--a vulgar scuffle between two gentlemen?"

"Go," I cried, "murderer and coward. Every word you have spoken to me has been a lie, and because you hate me you have to-day told me the greatest lie of all."

He left me with a look of malicious triumph in his face. I knew he lied, but how could I prove that he lied? Only Ceneri could tell me the truth. He was in Siberia, and, mad as the scheme seemed, thither I determined to go to get the whole truth from his lips.

I exerted all the influence I possessed. I spent money freely, and with a special passport signed by the Czar himself, which placed all the resources of the Russian police at my disposal, I passed across Russia into Siberia. At last, after travelling thousands of miles, I came up with the gang of wretched prisoners in which the doctor was. Showing my papers to the officer in command, I was taken at once to the awful prison-house. I had him brought to me in a private room, and placed before him food and drink.

"I want to ask you some questions," I said, "questions which you alone can answer."

"Ask them. You have given me an hour's release from misery. I am grateful."

"The first question I have to ask is--who and what is that man Macari?"

Ceneri sprang to his feet. "A traitor! a traitor!" he cried.

It was Macari who had betrayed him. Macari was no more Anthony March, the brother of Pauline, than I was, and Pauline had never had a lover in the sense in which Macari had used the word.

Pauline was an innocent as an angel. The lie I had come so far to destroy had dissolved. There was one other question I had to ask. Who was the man Macari had killed, and what had he to do with Pauline? Ceneri's face turned ashen as I asked him the question. It was some moments before he understood that I was the man who had stumbled into the room. Then he told me all.

The murdered man was Anthony March, the brother of Pauline. As he had already confessed, Ceneri had spent all the trust-money of which he was guardian for Pauline and her brother, in the cause of Italian freedom. When the young man grew up, the time drew near when Ceneri must explain all and take the consequences. The evil day was delayed by providing him with money. That money ran out. Ceneri and the two other men, fearful of the consequences to all of them, decided upon a plan to silence Anthony. He was to be lured to the house in Horace Street, and to leave it as a lunatic in charge of a doctor and keepers. But Macari ruined the plot. He was in love with Pauline, and Anthony had spoken contemptuously of such a match for his sister. A few insolent words at the house in Horace Street, and the passionate Italian's knife had found its way into the young man's heart. It was Ceneri who had saved my life when I stumbled upon the scene. The third sharer in the tragedy, who had drowned Pauline's shrieks in a sofa cushion, had since died raving mad in a cell. That was the story.

I hastened back to England, leaving money behind me to provide a few comforts for the unfortunate prisoner. I went direct to the little village where Pauline was staying with Priscilla. I could see that she remembered me but as a person in a dream. I had to woo her now. Of our marriage she seemed to have forgotten everything. Though all the old apathy had disappeared, and her mind had once more awakened in her beautiful body, she did not remember that. I despaired at last of winning her, and I determined to bid her good-bye forever. As I sat in the woods with her for the last time, gloom in my heart, I fell into a doze. I was awakened by kisses on my cheeks. I sprang to my feet. In front of me stood Pauline, and looking into her eyes, I saw that she loved me.

She had realised on my first return that I was her husband, but had determined to find out if I loved her. As I said nothing, so she too had remained silent.

"Gilbert," she said, "I have wept, but now I smile. The past is passed. Let the love I bore my brother be buried in the greater love I give my husband. Let us turn our backs on the dark shadows and begin our lives."

Have I more to tell--one thing only. We went to Paris for our real honeymoon. The great war was over, and the Commune had just ended. In the company of a friend I saw some Communists led out to be shot, and among their faces I recognised Macari.

* * * * *

FENIMORE COOPER

The Last of the Mohicans

James Fenimore Cooper, born in New Jersey on September 15,
1789, was a hot-headed controversialist of Quaker descent,
who, after a restless youth, partly spent at sea, became the
earliest conspicuous American novelist. Apart from fiction,
Cooper's principal subject was American naval history. Though
he made many enemies and lived in turmoil, the novelist had a
strain of nobility in his character that is reflected
throughout his formal but manly narratives. Love interest
rarely rises in his stories beyond a mechanical
sentimentality; it is the descriptions of adventure that
attract. Nowhere are Fenimore Cooper's vivid powers of
description more apparent than in "The Last of the Mohicans,"
the second in order of the Leatherstocking tales. In the first
of the series, "The Pioneers," the Leatherstocking is
represented as already past the prime of life, and is
gradually being driven out of his beloved forests by the axe
and the smoke of the white settler. "The Last of the Mohicans"
takes the reader back before this period, to a time when the
red man was in his vigour, and was a power to be reckoned with
in the east of America. The third of the famous tales is "The
Prairie," in which Cooper's picturesque hero is laid in his
grave. Despite this, the author resuscitates him in the two
remaining volumes--"The Pathfinder" and "The Deerslayer." Of
these five novels, and, as a matter of fact, of all Cooper's
works, "The Last of the Mohicans" is regarded as the
masterpiece. In it are to be found all the author's virtues,
and few of his faults. It is certainly the most popular,
having been translated into several languages. It was first
published in 1826. Cooper died at Cooperstown, the family
locality, on September 14. 1851.

_I.--Betrayed by the Redskin_

It was the third year of the war between France and England in North America. At Fort Edward, where General Webb lay with five thousand men, the startling news had just been received that the French general, Montcalm, was moving up the Champlain Lake with an army "numerous as the leaves on the trees," with the forest fastness of Fort William Henry as his object.

Fort William Henry was held by the veteran Scotchman, Munro, at the head of a regiment of regulars and a few provincials. As this force was utterly inadequate to stem Montcalm's advance, General Webb at once sent fifteen hundred men to strengthen the position. While the camp was in a state of bustle consequent on the departure of this relieving force, Captain Duncan Hayward detached himself from the throng, and conducting two ladies, the daughters of Munro, Alice and Cora, to their horses, mounted another steed himself. It was his welcome duty to see that the ladies reached Fort William Henry in safety. In order that they might make the journey the more expeditiously, they had obtained the services of a famous Indian runner, known by the name of Le Renard Subtil, whose native appellation was Magua.

The party had but five leagues to traverse, and Magua had undertaken to lead them a short way through the forest. The girls hesitated as they reached the point where they left the military road and had to take to a narrow and blind path amidst the dense trees and undergrowth. The terrifying aspect of the guide and the loneliness of the route filled them with alarm.

"Here, then, lies our way," said Duncan in a low voice. "Manifest no distrust, or you may invite the danger you appear to apprehend."

Taking this hint, the girls whipped up their horses and followed the runner along the dark and tangled pathway. They had not gone far when they heard the sounds of a horse's hoofs behind them, and presently there dashed up to their side a singular-looking person, with extraordinary long thin legs, an emaciated body, and an enormous head. The grotesqueness of his figure was enhanced by a sky-blue coat and a soiled vest of embossed silk embroidered with tarnished silver lace. Coming up with the party, he declared his intention of accompanying them to Fort William Henry. Refusing to listen to any objection, he took from his vest a curious musical instrument, and, placing it to his mouth, drew from it a high, shrill sound. This done, he began singing in full and melodious tones one of the New England versions of the Psalms.

Magua whispered something to Heyward, and the latter turned impatiently to David Gamut--such was the singer's name--and requested him in the name of common prudence to postpone his chant until a safer opportunity. The Indian allies of Montcalm, it was known, swarmed in the forest, and the object of the party was to move forward as quietly as possible.

As the cavalcade pressed deeper into the wild thicket, a savage face peered out at them from between the bushes. A gleam of exultation shot across his darkly painted lineaments as he watched his victims walking unconsciously into the trap which Magua had prepared.

_II.--In the Nick of Time_

Within an hour's journey of Fort Edward two men were lingering on the banks of a small stream. One of them was a magnificent specimen of an Indian--almost naked, with a terrific emblem of death painted upon his chest. The other was a European, with the quick, roving eye, sun-tanned cheeks, and rough dress of a hunter.

"Listen, Hawk-eye," said the Indian, addressing his companion, "and I will tell you what my fathers have said, and what the Mohicans have done. We came and made this land ours, and drove the Maquas who followed us, into the woods with the bears. Then came the Dutch, and gave my people the fire-water. They drank until the heavens and the earth seemed to meet. Then they parted with their land, and now I, that am a chief and a Sagamore, have never seen the sun shine but through the trees, and have never visited the graves of my fathers. When Uncas, my son, dies, there will no longer be any of the blood of the Sagamores. My boy is the last of the Mohicans."

"Uncas is here," said another voice, in the same soft, guttural tones. "Who speaks to Uncas?" At the next instant a youthful warrior passed between them with a noiseless tread, and seated himself by the side of his father, Chingachgook. "I have been on the trail of the Maquas, who lie hid like cowards," continued Uncas.

Further talk regarding their hated enemies, the Maquas, who acted as the spies of Montcalm, was cut short by the sound of horses' feet. The three men rose to their feet, their eyes watchful and attentive, and their rifles ready for any emergency.

Presently, the cavalcade from Fort Edward appeared, and Heyward, addressing Hawk-eye, asked for information as to their whereabouts, explaining that they had trusted to an Indian, who had lost his way.

"An Indian lost in the woods?" exclaimed the scout. "I should like to look at the creature."

Saying this, he crept stealthily into the thicket. In a few moments he returned, his suspicions fully confirmed. Magua had clearly led the party into a trap for purposes of his own, and Hawk-eye at once took steps to secure his capture. While Heyward held the runner in conversation, the scout and the two Mohicans crept silently through the undergrowth to surround him, but the slight crackle of a breaking stick aroused Magua's suspicion, and, even as the ambush closed on him, he dodged under Heyward's arms and vanished into the opposite thicket.

Hawk-eye was too well acquainted with Indian ways to think of pursuing, and, restraining the eagerness of Heyward, who would have followed Magua, and would have been undoubtedly led to the place where the scalping-knives of Magua's companions awaited him, the scout called a council of war.

The position was serious in the extreme, how serious was disclosed that night as they lay hid in a cave.

Suddenly, with blood-curdling yells, the Maquas surrounded them. They were surrounded completely, and, to add to the terrors of their situation, they discovered that their ammunition was exhausted. There seemed nothing to be done but die fighting. It was Cora who suggested an alternative: that Hawk-eye and the two Mohicans should make for Fort William Henry and procure from their father, Munro, enough men to take them back in safety. It was the one desperate chance, and the Mohicans took it. Dropping silently down the river, they disappeared. Duncan, David, and the two girls were left alone; but not for long. As the night drew out, a body of the Maquas, swimming across the river, entered the cave, and made the whole party prisoners.

It was Magua who directed all these operations, and it was Magua who announced their fate to his prisoners. Alice should go back to her father, but Cora was to become his squaw in an Indian wigwam.

"Monster!" cried Cora, when this proposal was laid before her. "None but a fiend could meditate such a vengeance!"

Magua answered with a ghastly smile, and, at his command, the Indians, seizing their white victims, bound them to four trees. Stakes of glowing wood were prepared for their torture. Once more Magua offered the alternative of dishonour or death. Cora wavered, but Alice strengthened her resolution.

"No, no!" she cried. "Better that we die as we have lived, together."

"Then die!" shouted Magua, hurling his tomahawk at the girl's head. It missed her by an inch. Another savage rushed to complete the terrible deed. Maddened at the sight, Duncan broke his bonds, and flung himself on the savage. He was at once overpowered. He saw a knife glistening above his head; it was just about to descend. Suddenly there was a sharp crack of a rifle, and his assailant fell dead at his feet. At the same moment Hawk-eye and the two Mohicans dashed into the encampment. In a few moments the six Indians, taken by surprise, were killed; only Magua lived. He seemed to be at the mercy of Chingachgook. Already he lay apparently lifeless. The Mohican rose with a yell of triumph, and raised his knife to give the final blow. Even as he did so Magua rolled himself over the edge of the precipice near which he lay, and, alighting on his feet, leapt into the centre of a thicket of low bushes and disappeared.

_III.--"The Jubilee of Devils_"

The party had reached William Henry only to leave it again. Montcalm asked for an interview with Munro, and through Duncan, who acted as the latter's representative, explained that it was hopeless to think of holding the fort. General Webb had withdrawn the relieving force, and the English were outnumbered by about twenty to one. With chivalrous courtesy, the French general proposed that his brave enemies should march out with their arms and ammunition and all the honours of war. These conditions Munro sadly accepted. Compelled to be with his men, Munro entrusted his daughters to the care of David.

According to the conditions of the surrender, the troops marched out. Behind them came the women and stragglers, the French and their native allies watching them in silence. At the other side of the plain was a defile. The troops slowly entered this, and disappeared. The rear-guard of civilians was now left alone on the plain. Cora, as she pressed slowly onwards with her sister and David, saw Magua addressing the natives, speaking with his fatal and artful eloquence. The effect of his words was soon seen.

One of the savages, attracted by the shawl in which a mother had wrapped her baby, seized the child, and dashed its brains out on the ground. As the mother sprang forward, he buried his tomahawk in her brain. It was the signal for a massacre. Magua raised the fatal and appalling war-whoop. At its sound two thousand savages broke from the wood and fell upon the unresisting victims. Death was everywhere, and in his most terrific and disgusting aspect.

"It is the jubilee of devils," said David, who, in spite of his uselessness, never dreamed of deserting his trust. "If David tamed the evil spirit of Saul, it may not be amiss to try the potency of music here."

He poured out a strain of song that echoed even over the din of that bloody field. Magua heard it and, through the throng of savages, rushed to their side.

"Come," he cried, seizing Alice in his blood-stained arms; "the wigwam of the Huron is still open!"

In vain Cora begged him to release her sister. Across the plain he bore her swiftly, followed by Cora and David. As soon as he reached the woods, he placed the two girls on horses that were waiting there, and, never heeding David, who mounted the remaining steed, dashed forward into the wilds.

_IV.--Captives of the Hurons_

Three days after the surrender of the fort, Hawk-eye and his two Mohican companions, accompanied by Munroe and Duncan, stood upon the fatal plain. Everywhere they had searched for the bodies of the two girls, and nowhere could they be found. It was clear to Hawk-eye that they still lived, and had been carried off by Magua. With untiring energy he at once set off to try and discover the trail. It was Uncas, who, finding a portion of Cora's skirt caught on a bush, first opened up the line of pursuit. He it was, too, who read the track of Magua's feet on the ground--the unmistakable straddling toe of the drinking savage. An ornament dropped by Alice, and the large footprints of the singing-master, laid bare to the trained intelligence of the Indian scout everything that had happened.

As they reached the outskirts of a clearing, they perceived a melancholy-looking savage in war-paint and moccasins seated by the side of a stream watching a colony of beavers busily engaged in making a dam. Duncan was about to fire, but Hawk-eye, roaring with laughter, stayed his arm. The savage was none other than David.

Alice and Cora were near at hand, and Duncan was all eager to make his way to their side. Hawk-eye so far humoured his whim as to consent to his visiting the encampment disguised as a medicine man.

As soon as he entered the camp he declared that he had been sent by the Grand Monarque to heal the ills of the Hurons. The chief to whom he spoke listened to him for some time, and then asked him to show his skill by frightening away the evil spirit that lived in the wife of one of his young men. Duncan could not refuse, though he felt certain that the trial of his skill would result in the detection of his disguise. Just as the chief was about to lead the way to the woman's side, Magua joined the group, to be followed shortly afterwards by a number of young men bringing with them a prisoner. A cry went up, "Le Cerf Agile!" and every warrior sprang to his feet. To his dismay, Duncan saw that it was Uncas. Magua gazed at his captive gravely for some time; then, raising his arm, shook it at him, exclaiming, "Mohican, you die!"

Duncan's conductor led him to a cave which went some distance into the rocky side of the mountain. As he entered, Duncan saw a dark; mysterious-looking object that rose unexpectedly in his path. It was a bear, and though the young soldier knew that the Indians often kept such animals as pets, its deep growls, and the manner in which it clutched at him as he passed up the long, narrow passage of the cave, caused him not a little uneasiness.

Having shown him the sick woman, who, it was clear, was dying, the Indians left the supposed medicine man to fight the devils by himself. To his horror, Duncan saw that the bear remained behind, growling savagely. Watching it uneasily, he noticed its head suddenly fall on one side, and in its place appeared the sturdy countenance of the scout. As quickly as he could Hawk-eye explained how he had come across a wizard preparing for a _séance_, how he had knocked him on the head and taken the bear's skin in which the charlatan had proposed to make his magic.

While the scout rearranged his disguise, Duncan, searching the cave, in another compartment discovered Alice. But even as the girl was in the first throes of delight at this unexpected meeting, the guttural laugh of Magua was heard, and she saw the dark form and malignant visage of the savage.

"Huron, do your worst!" exclaimed the excited Heyward, as he saw that all his plans were brought to nought.

"Will the white man speak these words at the stake?" asked Magua, turning to leave the cave. As he did so the bear growled loudly and threateningly; believing it to be one of the wizards, Magua attempted to pass it contemptuously. Suddenly the animal rushed at him, and, seizing him in its arms, completely overpowered him. Duncan at once ran to the scout's assistance, and secured the savage.

At Hawk-eye's suggestion, Alice was wrapped up in the dying woman's clothes, and, completely hidden from view, was carried out of the cave.

"The disease has gone out of her," explained Duncan to the father and husband who waited without. "I go to take the woman to a distance, where I will strengthen her against any further attack. Let my children wait without, and if the evil spirit appears beat him down with clubs."

Leaving the Indians with a certainty that they would not enter the cavern and discover Magua, Duncan and the scout made their way to the hut where Uncas lay bound. Entering with David, they released the Mohican, and immediately hastened to take the next step suggested by the resourceful Hawk-eye. David was secure from all harm; so the scout, stepping out of his bear-skin, dressed himself in the singing-master's clothes, while Uncas donned the wizard's disguise. Thus arrayed they ventured out among the natives, leaving David within. Without being suspected, they passed through the encampment; but they had not got far before a yell announced that their subterfuge had been discovered. Uncas cast his skin, and having used their rifles with deadly effect, he and the scout made their escape into the woods, taking Alice with them.

_V.--Hawk-eye's Revenge_

Magua, for motives of policy, had, while keeping Alice in his own hands, entrusted Cora to the neighbouring tribe of Tortoise Delawares. Thither went Magua, to find that the scout and his companions were before him. Nothing daunted, Magua almost persuaded the Tortoises to surrender the girl. As the chief of the tribe hesitated how to act, Uncas stepped forward and bared his breast. A cry rose from all present, for there, delicately tatooed on the young Mohican's skin, was the emblem of a Tortoise. In him the tribe recognised the long-lost scion of the purest race of the Delawares, who, tradition said, still wandered far and unknown on the hills and through the forests.

But in spite of Uncas's authority, the Indian law could not be set aside. Cora was Magua's captive of war. He had sought her in peace, and she must follow him. By all the laws of Indian hospitality his person was sacred till the setting of the sun.

As soon as the Maquas had disappeared, the Tortoises made ready for war, with all the grim and terrifying ceremonies of their race. As hour after hour slipped by, the savage spirit of the tribe increased in fury. Uncas alone remained unmoved. Standing in the midst of the now maddened savages, he kept his eyes fixed upon the declining sun. It dipped beneath the horizon; at once the whole encampment was broken up, and the warriors rushed down the trail which Magua had followed.

As soon as they came in touch with the enemy, a desperate and bloody battle was fought. Under the leadership of the two Mohicans and Hawk-eye, victory swayed to the side of the Tortoises. Huron after Huron fell, until only Magua and two companions were left. Then, with a yell, Le Renard Subtil rushed from the field of battle, and, seizing Cora, ran up a steep defile towards the mountains. On the side of the precipice Cora refused to move any farther.

"Woman!" cried Magua, raising his knife, "choose--the wigwam or the knife of Le Subtil?"

Cora neither heard nor heeded his demands. Magua trembled in every fibre. He raised his arm on high. Just then a piercing cry was heard from above, and Uncas leapt frantically from a fearful height upon the ledge on which they stood. He fell prostrate for a moment. As he lay there, Magua plunged his knife into his back, and at the same moment one of the other Indians stretched Cora lifeless. With the last effort of his strength Uncas rose to his feet, and hurled Cora's murderer into the abyss below. Then, with a stern and steady look, he turned to Le Subtil and indicated with the expression of his eye all that he would do had not the power deserted him, Magua seized his nerveless arm and stretched him dead by passing his dagger several times through his body.

"Mercy!" cried Heyward from above. "Give mercy, and thou shalt receive it!"

For answer, Magua raised a shout of triumph, and, leaping a wide fissure, made for the summit of the mountain. A single bound would carry him to the brow of the precipice and assure his safety. Before taking the leap he shook his hand defiantly at Hawk-eye, who waited with his rifle raised.

"The pale faces are dogs! The Delawares women! Magua leaves them on the rocks for the crows!"

Making a desperate leap, and falling short of his mark, Magua saved himself by grasping some shrub on the verge of the height. With an effort he pulled himself up. Hawk-eye, whose rifle shook with suppressed excitement, watched him closely. As his body was thus collected together, he drew the weapon to his shoulder and fired.

The arms of the Huron relaxed and his body fell back a little, but his knees still kept their position. Turning a relentless look on his enemy, he shook his hand at him in grim defiance. But his hold loosened, and his dark person was seen cutting the air, with its head downwards, for a fleeting instant, until it glided past the fringe of shrubbery in its rapid flight to destruction.

* * * * *

The Spy

Cooper's first success, "The Spy," appeared when he was
thirty-two, and his novel-writing period extended over a
quarter of a century. The best tales--the famous
Leatherstocking series--were begun two years after "The Spy."
Susceptible patriotism has discovered in his writings an
anti-English bias, but "The Spy" is rather a proof of balanced
judgment in the midst of sharp national antagonisms.

_I.--Uncomfortable Visitors_

Near the close of the year 1780 a solitary traveller was pursuing his way through one of the numerous little valleys of New York State which were then common ground for the British and Revolutionary forces. Anxious to obtain a speedy shelter from the increasing violence of the storm, the traveller knocked at the door of a house which had an air altogether superior to the common farmhouses of the country. In answer to his knocking, an aged black appeared, and, without seeming to think it necessary to consult his superiors, acceded to the request for accommodation.

The stranger was shown into a neat parlour, where, after politely repeating his request to an old gentleman who arose to receive him, and paying his compliments to three ladies who were seated at work with their needles, he commenced laying aside his outer garments, and exhibited to the scrutiny of the observant family party a tall and graceful person, apparently fifty years of age. His countenance evinced a settled composure and dignity; his eye was quiet, thoughtful, and rather melancholy; the mouth expressive of decision and much character. His whole appearance was so decidedly that of a gentleman that the ladies arose and, together with the master of the house, received anew and returned the complimentary greetings suitable for the occasion.

After handing a glass of excellent Madeira to his guest, Mr. Wharton, for so was the owner of this retired estate called, threw an inquiring glance on the stranger and asked, "To whose health am I to have the honour of drinking?"

The traveller replied, while a faint tinge gathered on his features-- "Mr. Harper."

"Mr. Harper," resumed the other, with the formal precision of the day, "I have the honour to drink your health, and to hope you will sustain no injury from the rain to which you have been exposed."

Mr. Harper bowed in silence to the compliment, and seated himself by the fire with an air of reserve that baffled further inquiry.

The storm now began to rage without with great violence, and on the way being led to the supper-table a loud summons again called the black to the portal. In a minute he returned and informed his master that another traveller desired shelter for the night.

Mr. Wharton, who had risen from his seat in evident uneasiness, scarcely had time to bid the black show the second man in before the door was thrown hastily open and the stranger himself entered the apartment. He paused a moment as the person of Harper met his view, and then repeated the request he had made through the servant.

Throwing aside a rough great-coat, the intruder very composedly proceeded to allay the cravings of an appetite which appeared by no means delicate. But at every mouthful he turned an unquiet eye on Harper, who studied his appearance with a closeness that was very embarrassing. At length, pouring out a glass of wine and nodding to his examiner, the newcomer said, "I drink to our better acquaintance, sir; I believe this is the first time we have met, though your attention would seem to say otherwise."

"I think we have never met before, sir," replied Harper, with a slight smile, and then, appearing satisfied with his scrutiny, he rose and desired to be shown to his place of rest.

The knife and fork fell from the hands of the unwelcome intruder as the door closed on the retiring figure of Harper; listening attentively he approached the door, opened it--amid the panic and astonishment of his companions--closed it again, and in an instant the red wig which concealed his black locks, the large patch which hid half his face, the stoop that made him appear fifty years of age, disappeared.

"My father! my dear father!" cried the handsome young man.

"Heaven bless you, my Henry, my son," exclaimed the astonished and delighted parent, while his sisters sank on his shoulders dissolved in tears.

A twelvemonth had passed since Captain Wharton had seen his family, and now, having impatiently adopted the disguise mentioned, he had unfortunately arrived on the evening that an unknown and rather suspicious guest was an inmate of the house.

"Do you think he suspects me?" asked the captain.

"How should he?" cried Sarah, his elder sister, "when your sisters and father could not penetrate your disguise."

"There is something mysterious in his manner; his looks are too prying for an indifferent observer," continued young Wharton thoughtfully, "and his face seems familiar to me. The recent fate of André has created much irritation on both sides. The rebels would think me a fit subject for their plans should I be so unlucky as to fall into their hands. My visit to you would seem to them a cloak to other designs."

_II.--The Disguise That Failed_

The morning still forbade the idea of exposing either man or beast to the tempest. Harper was the last to appear, and Henry Wharton had resumed his disguise with a reluctance amounting to disgust, but in obedience to the commands of his parent.

While the company were yet seated at breakfast, Caesar, the black, entered and laid a small parcel in silence by his master.

"What is this, Caesar?" inquired Mr. Wharton, eyeing the bundle suspiciously.

"The baccy, sir; Harvey Birch, he got home, and he bring you a little good baccy."

To Sarah Wharton this intelligence gave unexpected pleasure, and, rising from her seat, she bade the black show Birch into the apartment, adding suddenly, with an apologising look, "If Mr. Harper will excuse the presence of a pedlar."

The stranger bowed a silent acquiescence, while Captain Wharton placed himself in a window recess, and drew the curtain before him in such a manner as to conceal most of his person from observation.

Harvey Birch had been a pedlar from his youth, and was in no way distinguished from men of his class but by his acuteness and the mystery which enveloped his movements. Those movements were so suspicious that his imprisonments had been frequent.

The pedlar soon disposed of a considerable part of the contents of his pack to the ladies, telling the news while he displayed his goods.

"Have you any other news, friend?" asked Captain Wharton, in a pause, venturing to thrust his head without the curtains.

"Have you heard that Major André has been hanged?" was the reply.

"Is there any probability of movements below that will make travelling dangerous?" asked Harper.

Birch answered slowly, "I saw some of De Lancey's men cleaning their arms as I passed their quarters, for the Virginia Horse are now in the county."

"You must be known by this time, Harvey, to the officers of the British Army," cried Sarah, smiling at the pedlar.

"I know some of them by sight," said Birch, glancing his eyes round the apartment, taking in their course Captain Wharton, and resting for an instant on the countenance of Harper.

The party sat in silence for many minutes after the pedlar had withdrawn, until at last Mr. Harper suddenly said, "If any apprehensions of me induce Captain Wharton to maintain his disguise, I wish him to be undeceived; had I motives for betraying him they could not operate under present circumstances."

The sisters sat in speechless surprise, while Mr. Wharton was stupefied; but the captain sprang into the middle of the room, and exclaimed, as he tore off his disguise, "I believe you from my soul, and this tiresome imposition shall continue no longer. You must be a close observer, sir."

"Necessity has made me one," said Harper, rising from his seat.

Frances, the younger sister, met him as he was about to withdraw, and, taking his hand between both her own, said with earnestness, "You cannot, you will not betray my brother!"

For an instant Harper paused, and then, folding her hands on his breast, replied solemnly, "I cannot, and I will not!" and added, "If the blessing of a stranger can profit you, receive it." And he retired, with a delicacy that all felt, to his own apartment.

In the afternoon the sky cleared, and as the party assembled on the lawn to admire the view which was now disclosed, the pedlar suddenly appeared.

"The rig'lars must be out from below," he remarked, with great emphasis; "horse are on the road; there will soon be fighting near us." And he glanced his eye towards Harper with evident uneasiness.

As Birch concluded, Harper, who had been contemplating the view, turned to his host and mentioned that his business would not admit of unnecessary delay; he would therefore avail himself of the fine evening to ride a few miles on his journey.

There was a mutual exchange of polite courtesy between the host and his parting guest, and as Harper frankly offered his hand to Captain Wharton, he remarked, "The step you have undertaken is one of much danger, and disagreeable consequences to yourself may result from it. In such a case I may have it in my power to prove the gratitude I owe your family for its kindness."

"Surely, sir," cried the father, "you will keep secret the discovery which your being in my house has enabled you to make?"

Harper turned to the speaker, and answered mildly, "I have learned nothing in your family, sir, of which I was ignorant; but your son is safer from my knowledge of his visit than he would be without it."

And, bowing to the whole party, he rode gracefully through the little gate, and was soon lost to view.

"Captain Wharton, do you go in to-night?" asked the pedlar abruptly, when this scene had closed.

"No!" said the captain laconically.

"I rather guess you had better shorten your visit," continued the pedlar, coolly.

"No, no, Mr. Birch; here I stay till morning! I brought myself out, and can take myself in. Our bargain went no further than to procure my disguise and to let me know when the coast was clear, and in the latter particular you were mistaken."

"I was," said the pedlar, "and the greater the reason why you should go back to-night. The pass I gave you will serve but once."

"Here I stay this night, come what will."

"Captain Wharton," said the pedlar, with great deliberation, "beware a tall Virginian with huge whiskers; he is below you; the devil can't deceive him; I never could but once."

_III.--A Dangerous Situation_

The family were assembled round the breakfast-table in the morning when Caesar, who was looking out of the window, exclaimed, "Run, Massa Harry, run; here come the rebel horse."

Captain Wharton's sisters, with trembling hands, had hastily replaced the original disguise, when the house was surrounded by dragoons, and the heavy tread of a trooper was heard outside the parlour door. The man who now entered the room was of colossal stature, with dark hair around his brows in profusion, and his face nearly hid in the whiskers by which it was disfigured. Frances saw in him at once the man from whose scrutiny Harvey Birch had warned them there was much to be apprehended.

"Has there been a strange gentleman staying with you during the storm?" asked the dragoon.

"This gentleman here favoured us with his company during the rain," stammered Mr. Wharton.

"This gentleman!" repeated the other, as he contemplated Captain Wharton with a lurking smile, and then, with a low bow, continued, "I am sorry for the severe cold you have in your head, sir, causing you to cover your handsome locks with that ugly old wig."

Then, turning to the father, he proceeded, "Then, sir, I am to understand a Mr. Harper has not been here?"

"Mr. Harper?" echoed the other; "yes, I had forgotten; but he is gone, and if there is anything wrong in his character we are in entire ignorance of it."

"He is gone--how, when, and whither?"

"He departed as he arrived," said Mr. Wharton, gathering confidence, "on horseback, last evening; he took the northern road."

The officer turned on his heel, left the apartment, and gave orders which sent some of the horsemen out of the valley, by its various roads, at full speed.

Then, re-entering the room, he walked up to Wharton, and said, with some gravity, "Now, sir, may I beg to examine the quality of that wig? And if I could persuade you to exchange this old surtout for that handsome blue coat, I think you never could witness a more agreeable metamorphosis."

Young Wharton made the necessary changes, and stood an extremely handsome, well-dressed young man.

"I am Captain Lawton, of the Virginian Horse," said the dragoon.

"And I, sir, am Captain Wharton, of His Majesty's 60th Regiment of Foot," returned Henry, bowing.

The countenance of Lawton changed from quaintness to great earnestness, as he exclaimed, "Then, Captain Wharton, from my soul I pity you!"

Captain Lawton now inquired if a pedlar named Birch did not live in the valley.

"At times only, I believe, sir," replied Mr. Wharton cautiously. "He is seldom here; I may say I never see him."

"What is the offence of poor Birch?" asked the aunt.

"Poor!" cried the captain; "if he is poor, King George is a bad paymaster."

"I am sorry," said Mr. Wharton, "that any neighbour of mine should incur displeasure."

"If I catch him," cried the dragoon, "he will dangle from the limbs of one of his namesakes."

In the course of the morning Major Dunwoodie, who was an old friend of the family, and the lover of Frances, the younger daughter, arrived, took over the command of the troop, and inquired into the case of his friend the prisoner.

"How did you pass the pickets in the plains?" he asked.

"In disguise," replied Captain Wharton; "and by the use of this pass, for which I paid, and which, as it bears the name of Washington, is, I presume, forged."

Dunwoodie caught the paper eagerly, and after gazing at the signature for some time, said, "This name is no counterfeit. The confidence of Washington has been abused. Captain Wharton, my duty will not suffer me to grant you a parole--you must accompany me to the Highlands."

_IV.--Justice by Evasion_

The Wharton family, by order of Washington, now removed to the Highlands, out of the region of warlike operations, and Captain Wharton was brought to trial. The court condemned him to execution as a spy before nine o'clock on the morning following the trial, the president, however, expressing his intention of riding to Washington's headquarters and urging a remission of the punishment. But the sentence of the court was returned--_approved_. All seemed lost.

"Why not apply to Mr. Harper?" said Frances, recollecting for the first time the parting words of their guest.

"Harper!" echoed Dunwoodie, who had joined the family consultation. "What of him? Do you know him?"

"He stayed with us two days. He seemed to take an interest in Henry, and promised him his friendship."

"What!" exclaimed the youth, in astonishment, "did he know your brother?"

"Certainly; it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise."

"But," said Dunwoodie, "he knew him not as an officer of the royal army?"

"Indeed he did, and cautioned him against this very danger, bidding him apply to him when in danger and promising to requite the son for the hospitality of the father."

"Then," cried the youth, "will I save him. Harper will never forget his word."

"But has he power," said Frances, "to move Washington's stubborn purpose?"

"If he cannot," shouted Dunwoodie, "who can? Rest easy, for Henry is safe."

* * * * *

It was while these consultations were proceeding that a divine of fanatical aspect, preceded by Cæsar, sought admission to the prisoner to offer him the last consolations of religion, and so persistent were his demands that at last he was allowed a private interview. Then he instantly revealed himself as Harvey Birch, and proceeded to disguise Captain Wharton as Cæsar, the black servant, who had entered the room with him. So complete was the make-up that the minister and Wharton passed unsuspected through the guard, and it was only when the officer on duty entered the room to cheer up the prisoner after his interview with the "psalm-singer" that the real Cæsar was discovered, and in fright hurriedly revealed that the consoling visitor had been the pedlar spy.

The pursuit was headlong and close, but when once the rocky fastnesses were reached the heavy-booted dragoons were, for the moment, out of the chase, and Harvey Birch conducted Captain Wharton at leisure towards one of his hiding-places, while the mountain was encircled by the watchful troopers.

_V.--Unexpected Meetings_

When passing into the Highlands from her now desolated home, Frances Wharton had noticed under the summit of one of the rockiest heights, as a stream of sunlight poured upon it, what seemed to be a stone hut, though hardly distinguishable from the rocks. Watching this place, for it was visible from her new home, she had fancied more than once that she saw near the hut a form like that of Harvey Birch. Could it be one of the places from which he kept watch on the plains below? On hearing of her brother's escape, she felt convinced that it was to this hut that the pedlar would conduct him, and there, at night, she repaired alone--a toilsome and dangerous ascent.

The hut was reached at last, and the visitor, applying her eye to a crevice, found it lighted by a blazing fire of dry wood. Against the walls were suspended garments fitted for all ages and conditions, and either sex. British and American uniforms hung side by side. Sitting on a stool, with his head leaning on his hand, was a man more athletic than either Harvey or her brother. He raised his face and Frances instantly recognised the composed features of Harper. She threw open the door of the hut and fell at his feet, crying, "Save him, save my brother; remember your promise!"

"Miss Wharton!" exclaimed Harper. "But you cannot be alone!"

"There is none here but my God and you, and I conjure you by His sacred Name to remember your promise!"

Harper gently raised her, and placed her on the stool, saying, "Miss Wharton, that I bear no mean part in the unhappy struggle between England and America, it might now be useless to deny. You owe your brother's escape this night to my knowledge of his innocence and the remembrance of my word. I could not openly have procured his pardon, but now I can control his fate, and prevent his recapture. But this interview, and all that has passed between us, must remain a secret confined to your own bosom."

Frances gave the desired assurance.

"The pedlar and your brother will soon be here; but I must not be seen by the royal officer, or the life of Birch might be the forfeit. Did Sir Henry Clinton know the pedlar had communion with me, the miserable man would be sacrificed at once. Therefore be prudent; be silent. Urge them to instant departure. It shall be my care that there shall be none to intercept them."

While he was speaking, the voice of the pedlar was heard outside in loud tones. "Stand a little farther this way, Captain Wharton, and you can see the tents in the moonshine."

Harper pressed his finger to his lip to remind Frances of her promise, and, entering a recess in the rock behind several articles of dress, was hid from view.

The surprise of Henry and the pedlar on finding Frances in possession of the hut may be imagined.

"Are you alone, Miss Fanny?" asked the pedlar, in a quick voice.

"As you see me, Mr. Birch," said Frances, with an expressive glance towards the secret cavern, a glance which the pedlar instantly understood.

"But why are you here?" exclaimed her astonished brother.

Frances related her conjecture that this would be the shelter of the fugitives for the night, but implored her brother to continue his flight at once. Birch added his persuasions, and soon the girl heard them plunging down the mountain-side at a rapid rate.

Immediately the noise of their departure ceased Harper reappeared, and leading Frances from the hut, conducted her down the hill to where a sheep-path led to the plain. There, pressing a kiss on her forehead, he said, "Here we must part. I have much to do and far to ride. Forget me in all but your prayers."

She reached her home undiscovered, as her brother reached the British lines, and on meeting her lover, Major Dunwoodie, in the morning learned that the American troops had been ordered suddenly by Washington to withdraw from the immediate neighbourhood.

_VI.--Last Scenes_

The war was drawing to its close when the American general, sitting in an apartment at his headquarters, asked of the aide-de-camp in attendance, "Has the man I wished to see arrived, sir?"

"He waits the pleasure of your excellency."

"I will receive him here, and alone."

In a few minutes a figure glided in, and by a courteous gesture was motioned to a chair. Washington opened a desk, and took from it a small but apparently heavy bag.

"Harvey Birch," said he, turning to the visitor, "the time has arrived when our connection must cease. Henceforth and forever we must be strangers."

"If it be your excellency's pleasure," replied the pedlar meekly.