"Horror-stricken—aghast at what I had done—I stood for a moment, gazing upon him weltering in his blood, with eyes that burned and seemed starting from their sockets—with feelings that are indescribable—and then rushing to him, I endeavored to raise him, and learn the extent of his injury.

"'Fly!' said he, faintly, as I bent over him—'fly for your life! I have got my due—I am mortally wounded—and if you remain, you will surely be arrested as my murderer. Farewell, Algernon—the fault was mine—but this you can not prove; and so leave me—leave me while you have opportunity.'

"His words were true; I felt them in force; if he died, I would be arraigned as his murderer—I had no proof to the contrary—circumstances would be against me—I should be imprisoned—condemned—perhaps executed—a loathsome sight for gaping thousands—I could not bear the thought—I might escape—ay, would escape—and bidding him a hasty farewell, I turned and fled. Not a hundred rods distant I met my father; and falling on my knees before him, I hurriedly related what had taken place, and begged advice for myself, and his immediate attendance upon my cousin. He turned pale and trembled violently at my narration; and, as I concluded, drew forth a purse of gold, which he chanced to have with him, and placing it in my hand, exclaimed:

"'Fly—son—child—Algernon—for Heaven's sake, fly!'

"'Whither, father?'

"'To the far western wilds, beyond the reach of civilization—at least beyond the reach of justice—and spare my old eyes the awful sight of seeing a beloved son arraigned as a criminal!'

"'And my mother?'

"'You can not see her—it might cost you your life,—farewell!' and with the last word trembling on his lips, he embraced me fondly, and we parted—perchance forever.

"I fled, feeling that the brand of Cain was on me; that henceforth my life was to be one of remorse and misery; that I was to be a wanderer upon the face of the earth—mayhap an Ishmael, with every man's hand against me. To atone in a measure to my conscience for the awful deed I had committed, I knelt upon the earth, and swore, by all I held sacred in time and eternity, that if the wound inflicted upon my cousin should prove mortal, I would live a life of celibacy, and become a wandering pilgrim in the western wilds of America till God should see proper to call me hence."

"And—and did the wound prove mortal?" asked Ella, breathlessly.

"Alas! I know not, Ella, and I fear to know. Four months have passed since then; and after many adventures, hardships, sufferings, and hair-breadth escapes, you see me here before you, a miserable man."

"But not one guilty of murder, Algernon," said Ella, energetically.

"I know not that—Heaven grant it true!"

"O, then, do not despair, Algernon!—trust in God, and hope for the best. I have a hope that all will yet be well."

"Amen to that, dear Ella; and a thousand, thousand thanks, for your sweet words of consolation; they are as balm to my torn and bleeding heart; but until I know my fate, we must not meet again; and if, oh Heaven! and if the worst be true—then—then farewell forever! But who comes here?"



CHAPTER IV.

THE STRANGER.

The closing sentence of the preceding chapter was occasioned by the glimpse of a man's shadow, that for a moment swept along in the sunlight, some twenty paces distant from the speaker, and then suddenly disappeared by being swallowed up in the larger and more stationary shade thrown from the cottage by the sinking sun. Scarcely were the words alluded to uttered, ere the sound of a step was heard close by the door, and the next moment the cause of the shadow and remark divided the light of the entrance.

The individual in question, was a stout built, broad-shouldered, athletic man—some five feet nine inches in height—whose age, judging from his general appearance, as well as his features, might range from twenty-seven to thirty years. At the moment when he appeared before our acquaintances of the foregoing chapter, his right arm was held in a manner so as to screen the lower portion of his face; while a hat, not very much unlike those of the present day, pressed down upon his forehead, left but little of his countenance, and that mainly about the eyes, visible. With the latter he gave a quick, searching, suspicious glance at the two before him; and then, as if satisfied he had nothing to fear, lowered his arm and raised his hat from his forehead, exposing a physiognomy by no means pleasing to one skilled in reading the heart thereby. His complexion was swarthy—his skin coarse—and the general expression of his features repulsive in the extreme; this expression arising from the combination of three distinct parts of his countenance—namely: the forehead which was low and receding from two dark-red, shaggy eye-brows,—the eyes themselves, which were small, bloodshot and very fiery; and the mouth, which was narrow, thin-lipped, and habitually contracted into a sneering, sinister smile. In this general expression, was combined cunning, deceit, treachery, and bloodthirsty ferocity—each one of which passions were sufficiently powerful, when fully excited, to predominate over the whole combination. The hair of his head was short, thick, coarse and red, grew low upon his forehead, and, in its own peculiar way, added a fierceness to his whole appearance. Nature had evidently designed him for a villain of the darkest die; and on the same principle that she gives a rattle to a certain venomous snake, that other creatures may be warned of the deadly fang in time to avoid it—so had she stamped him with a look wherein his passions were mirrored, that those who gazed thereon might know with whom and what they had to do, and be prepared accordingly. The costume too of the stranger was rather singular, and worthy of note—being composed, for the most part, of an extraordinary long frock or overcoat—more like the gown of some monk than either—which reached almost down to the moccasins covering his feet, and was laced together in front, nearly the whole length, by thongs of deerskin. Around the waist passed a rude belt of the same material—carelessly tied at one side—in which, contrary to the usual custom of that period, there was not confined a single weapon, not even so much as a knife; and this fact, together with the general appearance of the individual and his own suspicious movements, led Algernon, almost at the first glance, to consider the long frock or gown an article of disguise, beneath which the stranger was doubtless doubly armed and costumed in a very different manner.

As the eyes of the new comer, after closely scanning Reynolds, rested for the first time upon Ella, there flashed across his ugly features an expression of admiration and surprise—while the look of suspicion which he had previously exhibited, seemed entirely to disappear. Turning to the young man, who on his appearance had risen from his seat, and now stood as if waiting to know his commands, in a voice evidently much softened from its usual tones, but still by no means pleasant and harmonious, he said:

"Will you be kind enough to inform me, sir, to whom this dwelling belongs?"

"It is owned, I believe, by one Benjamin Younker," answered Algernon, in a cavalier manner, still eyeing the other closely.

"May I ask his occupation?"

"He is a farmer, sir—a tiller of the soil."

"Will you favor me with a description of his personal appearance?"

"I can do so," replied Algernon, somewhat surprised at the question, "provided I know the motive of inquiry to be a good one."

"It is no other, I assure you," returned the stranger. "It was simply prompted by curiosity."

"Well, then, the individual in question is a man who has seen more than fifty years—is tall, raw-boned, muscular, has a stoop in the shoulder, a long, thin face, small eyes, and hair slightly gray."

"Has he any sons?" inquired the stranger.

"One, a youth of twenty, who bears a strong resemblance to his father."

"Daughters?"

"He has no other child."

"Then this young lady"—slightly bowing to Ella.

"Is a more distant relation—a niece," answered Ella, rising as she spoke and disappearing from his sight.

"A beautiful creature!" said the stranger, musingly, as if to himself—"a beautiful creature! Pardon me," added he, again addressing Algernon; "but may I inquire concerning yourself?"

"I am a guest here, sir."

"Aha—yes; a hunter I presume?"

"I sometimes hunt."

"Pardon me again—but are there more indwellers here than you have mentioned?"

"One, sir—the good dame of the cottage."

For a moment or two the stranger mused, as if running over in his mind all that had been said; and then observed:

"Doubtless you think me very inquisitive; but I had a reason for all my questions; and I thank you sincerely, sir, for your prompt replies. It is now growing late; the sun will presently be down; and as I am a traveler—a stranger in this region—I would rather not pursue my journey further, providing I could be entertained here for the night."

"As to that, I am unable to answer," said Algernon; "but if you will step within, I will make the necessary inquiries."

"Thank you," replied the stranger, with a show of cordiality; "thank you;" and he immediately entered the cottage.

Those days, as before said, were the good old days of hospitality—and, as far as population went, of social intercourse also—when every man's cabin was the stranger's home, and every neighbor every neighbor's friend. There were no distinct grades of society then as now, from which an honest individual of moral worth must be excluded because of poverty—a good character for upright dealing being the standard by which all were judged; and whoever possessed this, could rank equally with the best, though poor as the beggar Lazarus. Doubtless intellect and education then, as well as at the present day, held in many things a superiority over imbecility and ignorance; but there were no distinct lines of demarcation drawn; and in the ordinary routine of intercourse one with another, there was no superiority claimed, and none acknowledged. And this arose, probably, from the necessity each felt for there being a general unity—a general blending together of all qualifications, as it were, into one body politic—by which each individual became an individual member of the whole, perfect in his place, and capable of supplying what another might chance to need; as the man of education might be puny in stature and deficient of a strong arm; the man of strong arm deficient in education; the imbecile man might be a superior woodman—the man of intellect an inferior one:—so that, as before remarked, each of these qualities, being essential to perfect the whole, each one of course was called upon to exercise his peculiar talent, and take his position on an equality with his neighbor. There has been great change in society since then; those days of simple equality have gone forever; but we question if the present race, with all their privileges, with all their security, with all their means of enjoyment, are as happy as those noble old pioneers, with all their necessities, with all their dangers, with all their sufferings.

According, therefore, to the established custom of the early settlers, the stranger for whom Algernon proceeded to make inquiries, was entitled to all the rights of hospitality; and whether liked or disliked, could not consistently be smiled away, nor frowned away, as doubtless he would have been, had he lived in this civil, wonderworking age of lightning and steam; and though his appearance was any thing but agreeable to Mrs. Younker, who surveyed him through her spectacles (being a little near sighted) from the adjoining cabin, whither Algernon had repaired to learn her decision; and though it would prove inconvenient to herself to grant his request; yet, as she expressed it, "He war a stranger, as hadn't no home and didn't know whar to go to; and prehaps war hungry, poor man; and it wouldn't be right nor Christian-like to refuse him jest a night's lodging like;" and so the matter was settled, and Algernon was deputed to inform him that he could stay and would be welcome to such fare as their humble means afforded.

Some half an hour later, a loud hallooing announced the arrival of the two Younkers with the domestic cattle—consisting of the kine and some pet sheep which ran with them—from their labors in a distant field, where they had been engaged in harvesting corn. A few minutes after, the elder Younker entered the cabin, bearing upon his shoulder a rifle, from which depended a large, fat turkey that he had shot during his absence. With a slight but friendly nod to the stranger, he proceeded to deposit his game on the hearth—where it was presently examined and commented on at considerable length by the good dame—and then carefully placing his rifle on a couple of horn hooks depending from the ceiling for the purpose, he seated himself on a stool, his back to the wall, with the air of one who is very much fatigued, and does not wish to mingle in conversation of any kind.

The sun by this time was already below the horizon; twilight was fast deepening into night; and the matron, having finished her remarks on the turkey, and "Wondered ef sech birds wouldn't git to being scaser arter a while, when all on, 'em war shot?" proceeded to the cow-yard, to assist Isaac in milking; while Ella hurried hither and thither, with almost noiseless activity, to prepare the evening repast. A bright fire was soon kindled in the chimney, over which was suspended a kettle for boiling water; while in front, nearly perpendicular, was placed a large corn loaf, whose savory odor, as it began to cook, was far from being disagreeable to the olfactory organs of the lookers on. The table, of which we have previously given a description, was next drawn into the middle of the apartment and covered with a home-made cloth of linen; on which were placed a medley of dishes of various sizes and materials—some of wood, some of pewter, some of earthern, and one of stone—with knives and forks to correspond. Three of these dishes were occupied—one with clean, fresh butter, another with rich old cheese, and the third with a quantity of cold venison steak. In the course of another half hour, the cake was baked and on the table—Isaac and his mother had entered with the milk—the announcement was made by Ella that all was ready; and the whole party, taking seats around the humble board, proceeded to do justice to the fare before them.

A light, placed in the center of the table, threw its gleams upon the faces of each, and exhibited a singular variety of expressions. That of the stranger was downcast, sinister, and suspicious, combined with an evident desire of appearing exactly the reverse. Occasionally, when he thought no eye was on him, he would steal a glance at Ella; and some times gaze steadily—like one who is resolved upon a certain event, without being decided as to the exact manner of its accomplishment—until he found himself observed, when his glance would fall to his plate, or be directed to some other object, with the seeming embarrassment of one caught in some guilty act. This was noticed more than once by Algernon; who, perhaps, more than either of the others, felt from the first that strong dislike, that suspicious repugnance to the stranger, which can only be explained as one of the mysteries of nature, whereby we are sometimes warned of whom we should shun, as the instinct of an animal makes known to it its inveterate foe; and though he strove to think there was nothing of evil meant by a circumstance apparently so trifling—that the glance of the stranger was simply one of admiration or curiosity—yet the thought that it might be otherwise—that he might be planning something wicked to the fair being before him—haunted his mind like some hideous vision, made him for the time more distrustful, more watchful than ever, and was afterward reverted to with a painful sensation. The features of Algernon also exhibited an expression of remorse and hopeless melancholy; the reason whereof the reader, who has now been made acquainted with the secret, will readily understand. The face of Ella, too, was paler than usual—more sad and thoughtful—so much so, that it was remarked by Mrs. Younker, who immediately instituted the necessary inquiries concerning her health, and explained to her at some length the most approved method of curing a cold, in case that were the cause. In striking contrast to the sober looks of the others—for Younker himself was a man who seldom exhibited other than a sedate expression—was the general appearance and manner of Isaac. He seemed exceedingly exhilarated in spirits, yet kept his eyes down, and appeared at times very absent minded. Whatever his thoughts were, it was evident they were pleasing ones; for he would smile to himself, and occasionally display a comical nervousness, as though he had some very important secret to make known, yet was not ready to communicate it. This had been observed in him through the day; and was so different from his usual manner, and so much beyond any conjecture his mother could form of the cause, that at last her curiosity became so excited, that to restrain it longer was like holding down the safety-valve to an over-heated steam boiler; and, accordingly, taking advantage of another mysterious smile, which Isaac chanced to display while looking at a large piece of corn bread, already on its way to his capacious jaws, she exclaimed:

"Why, what on yarth is the matter with you, Isaac, that you keep a grinning, and grinning, and fidgetting about all to yourself so much like a plaguy nateral born fool for?"

So loudly, suddenly and unexpectedly was this question put—for all had been silent some minutes previous—that Isaac started, blushed, dropped the bread—already near enough to his teeth to have felt uncomfortable, had it been capable of feeling—endeavored to catch it—blundered—and finally upset his plate and contents into his lap, in a manner so truly ridiculous, that Ella and Mrs. Younker, unable to restrain their mirth, laughed heartily, while the stranger and Algernon smiled, and the stern features of the father relaxed into an expression of quiet humor seldom seen on his countenance.

"'Pon my word," continued Mrs. Younker, so soon as she could collect breath enough after laughing to go on; "I do raley believe as how the boy's ayther crazy, or in love, for sartin. What does ail ye, Isaac?—do tell!"

"Perhaps he was thinking of his dear Peggy," said Ella, archly; who was, by the way, very fond of teasing him whenever opportunity presented; and could not even now, despite her previous low spirits, forbear a little innocent raillery—her temperament being such, that wit and humor were ever ready on the slightest provocation to take the ascendancy, as old wine when stirred ever sends its sparkling beads upward. "I wonder, Isaac, if you looked as amiable and interesting in the eyes of dear Peggy, and made as graceful an appearance, when you popped the question?"

"Why, how in the name o' all Christen nater did you find out I'd done it?" asked Isaac, in reply; who having, meantime, regained his former position, and restored the plate, minus some of its contents, now sat a perfect picture of comical surprise, with his mouth slightly ajar, and his small eyes strained to their utmost and fastened seriously upon the querist as he awaited her answer.

"Murder will out, dear Isaac," replied Ella, with a ringing laugh; in which she was joined by most of the others; and particularly by the subject of the joke; who perceiving, too late for retreat, that he had been betrayed into an acknowledgment of his secret, deemed this his wisest course for defence.

"And so, Isaac, you have really proposed to darling Peggy, then? and we are to have a wedding shortly?" continued his tormentor. "And pray which did look the most foolish of the two?—or was it a drawn-game, as we sometimes say of draughts?"

"Why," rejoined Isaac, changing color as rapidly as an aurora borealis, and evidently much embarrassed; "I 'spect I mought as well own up, being's I've got cotched in my own trap; and besides, it won't make no great difference, only as I war intending it for a surprise. You see I axed Peggy the question last night; and it's all settled; and we're going to be married in less nor a week, ef nothing unforeseen don't happen; and as Mr. Reynolds ar a stranger in these diggins, I thought prehaps as how he'd like a little amusement like, and so I've fixed on him for my groomsman."

"I am much obliged for your kind intentions, and the honor you would confer on me," answered Reynolds, sadly; "but I am sorry to say, I shall be under the necessity of declining your invitation; as on the morrow I design taking a farewell leave of you all, and quitting this part of the country forever."

Mr. Younker, his wife, and son, all started, with looks of surprise, at this announcement, while Ella again grew deadly pale; and rising, with some little trepidation, retired from the table. The stranger was the only one unmoved.

"To-morrow!" ejaculated Mrs. Younker.

"Take leave o' us!" said the host.

"Quit the country forever!" repeated Isaac.

"Such, I assure you, is my determination," rejoined Algernon.

"But your wound, Mr. Reynolds?" suggested Younker.

"Is not entirely healed," returned Algernon; "yet I trust sufficiently so to allow me to pursue my journey. The wound, as you are aware, was only a flesh one—the ball having entered the right side, glanced on the lower rib, and passed out nearly in front—and though very dangerous at the time from excessive hemorrhage, has of late been rapidly healing, and now troubles me but little if any."

"Well, now, Mr. Reynolds," rejoined Mrs. Younker, "I'm a considerable older woman nor you ar—that is, I mean to say, I'm a much older individule—and I 'spect I've had in my time some lettle experience in matters that you don't know nothing about; and so you musn't go to thinking hard o' me, ef I give you a lettle advice, and tell you to stay right whar you ar, and not stir a single step away for three weeks;—'cause ef you do, your wound may get rupturous agin, and in some lone place jest carry you right straight off into the shader o' the valley of death—as our good old Rev. Mr. Allprayer used to say, when he wanted to comfort the sick. O, dear good man he war, Preacher Allprayer,"—continued the voluble old lady, with a sigh, her mind now wholly occupied with his virtues—"dear good man he war! I jest remember—Lor bless ye, I'll never forgit it—how he come'd to me when I war sick—with tears a running out o' his eyes like he'd been eating raw inyuns, poor man—and told me that I war going to die right straight away, and never need to hope to be no better; and that I'd most likely go right straight to that orful place whar all bad folks goes to. O, the dear man! I never could help always liking him arter that—it made me feel so orful narvous and religious like. Why, what on yarth be you grinning at agin, Isaac?—jest for all the world like a monkey for?"

"Nothing, mother," answered Isaac, nearly choking with smothered laughter; "only I war jest kind o' thinking what a kind comforter Mr. Allprayer war, to tell you you couldn't live any longer; and that when you died you'd jest go right straight to—to—"

"Silence! you irrelevant boy, you!" (irreverent was doubtless meant) interrupted the dame, angrily: "How dare you to go making fun o' the pious Rev. Mr. Allprayer?—him as used to preach all Sunday long, and pray all Sunday night, and never did nothing wrong—though he did git turned out o' the meeting house arterward for getting drunk and swearing; but then the poor man cried and said it were nothing but a accident, which hadn't happened more nor ten times to him sence he'd bin a preacher of the everlasting gospel. Thar, thar, the crazy head's a giggling agin! I do wish, Ben, you'd see to Isaac, and make him behave himself—for he's got so tittery like, sence he's axed Peggy, thar's no use o' trying to do nothing with him."

"Isaac! Isaac!" said his father with a reproving glance; and, as though that voice and look possessed a spell, the features of the young man instantly became grave, almost solemn. Then turning to Algernon, the old man continued: "As to leaving us, Mr. Reynolds, you of course know your own business best, and it arn't my desire to interfere; but ef you could put up with our humble fare, say a week or ten days longer, I think as how it would be much better for you, and would give us a deal of pleasure besides."

"Why, I'll jest tell you what tis," put in Isaac: "I've fixed on you for groomsman, and I arn't a going to gin in no how; so unless you want to quarrel; you'll have to stay; and more'n that, it's spected you'll see to takin Ella thar; for I know she don't like to go with any o' the fellers round here; and I shall gin out she's going with you; which may be won't hurt your feelings none—at any rate, I know it won't hers."

At the mention of Ella, Algernon crimsoned to the eyes, and became so exceedingly confused, that he could with difficulty stammer forth, by way of reply, the query as to the time when the important event was expected to take place.

"Let me see," answered Isaac, telling off the days on his fingers: "to-morrow's Friday; then Saturday's one, Sunday's two, Monday's three, and Tuesday's four—only four days from to-morrow morning, Mr. Reynolds."

"Then, as you so urgently insist upon it," rejoined Reynolds, "I will postpone my departure till after the wedding."

Isaac thanked him cordially, and the father and mother looked gratified at the result; Ella he could not see—she having withdrawn from the table, as previously noted. Some further conversation ensued relative to the manner in which weddings were conducted in that country, and the design of proceeding with the one in question; but as we intend the reader to be present at the wedding itself, we shall not detail it. We will remark here, by the way, that the stranger seemed to take a singular interest in all that was said concerning the residence of the intended bride, the road the party were expected to take to reach there, their probable number, manner of travel, and the time when they would be likely to set forth and return. In all this it was observed by Algernon, that whenever he asked a question direct, it was put in such a careless manner as would lead one not otherwise suspicious to suppose him perfectly indifferent as to whether it were answered or not; but he somehow fancied, he scarce knew why, that there was a strong under current to this outward seeming. And furthermore he observed, that the stranger in general avoided putting a question at all—rather seeking his information by conjecturing or supposing what would immediately be contradicted or confirmed. This mode of interrogation, so closely followed up to every particular, yet apparently with such indifference, together with the stranger's treacherous look and several minor things all bearing a suspicious cast, more than half convinced Algernon that the other was a spy, and that some foul play was assuredly meditated; though what, and to whom, or for what purpose, he was at a loss to determine.

From the particulars of the coming wedding, the stranger, after a little, adroitly turned the conversation upon the wound of Reynolds; asked a number of questions, and appeared deeply interested in the whole narration concerning it—the attack upon him by the Indians and his providential escape through the assistance of Boone—all of which was detailed by Isaac in his own peculiar way. From this case in particular, the conversation gradually changed to other cases that had happened in the vicinity; and also to the state of the country, with regard to what it had been and now was—its settlements—its increase of inhabitants—the many Indian invasions and massacres that had occurred within the last five years on the borders—and the present supposed population of the frontiers.

"As to myself," said Younker, in reply to some observation of the stranger, "as to myself and family, we've been extremely fortunate in 'scaping the red foe—though I've bin daily fearful that when I went away to my work in the morning, I'd may be come back agin at noon or night and find my women folks gone, or murdered, and my cot in ashes; but, thank the Lord! I've been so far spared sech a heart rending sight."

"And had you no personal fears?" asked the stranger.

"I don't know's I understand you."

"Had you no fears for yourself individually?"

"Well, I can't say's I had," answered the other. "I'm an old man—or at least I'm in my second half century—and I've so endeavored to live, as not to fear to go at any moment when God sees fit, and by whatsomever means he may choose to take me."

"I suppose you now consider yourself in a measure safe from Indian encroachments?" observed the other.

"No man, stranger—I beg pardon, but I'd like to know your name!"

"Certainly, sir," answered the other, a little embarrassed. "My name is—is—Williams."

"Thank you! No man, Mr. Williams, ar justified in considering himself safe from Injens, in a country like this; but to tell the truth, I don't feel so fearful of 'em, as when I first come out here with my family, two year ago; though thar's no telling what may hap in the course o' two year more."

"And did you venture here at once on your arrival in this western country?"

"Not exactly; for the land laws o' Virginna, passed the year I come out, made it rayther difficult gitting hold o' land, about which thar war a great deal o' disputing; and which war kept up till the commissioners came out and settled the matter; and so while this war agitating, I took my family to Boonesborough, whar they remained, excepting Isaac, who went along with me, until we'd got all matters fixed for moving 'em here. But as you've axed considerable many questions, pray may I know ef you're from the east?—And ef so, what news thar is with respect to this here war with the Britishers?" "Why," replied the other, hesitatingly, "though not strictly speaking from the east, yet I've been eastward the past season, and have some news of the war; and, as far as I am able to judge, think it will result in the total subjugation of the colonies."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Younker.

"Heaven forefend!" said Reynolds, with a start.

"Lord presarve us!—marsy on us!" cried Mrs. Younker, with vehemence. "What on yarth shall we do, ef them plaguy Britishers git uppermost? They'll take away all our lands, for sartin!—and Ben's bin and bought four hundred acres, poor man, at forty cents a acre, under the new laws of Varginna[4]—which comes to one hundred and sixty dollars, hard money; and now maybe he'll have to lose it all, and not git nothing for it; and then what in the name o' the whole univarsal creation will become on us?"

"Well, well, Dorothy—don't fret about it till it happens—thar'll be plenty o' time then," said Younker, gravely; "and perhaps it won't happen at all."

"Don't talk to me about fretting, Mr. Younker!" rejoined the now irritated dame, a la Caudle: "I reckon I don't fret no easier nor you do, nor half so much nother; but I'd like to know who wouldn't fret, when they know they're going to lose all thar property by them thar good for nothing red-coated Britishers, who I do believe is jest as mean as Injens, and they're too mean to live, that's sartin. Fret, indeed! I reckon it wouldn't do for you to be letting Preacher Allprayer hear ye say so; for he said one time with his own mouth—and to me too, mind that!—that I'd got the bestest disposition in the whole universal yarth o' creation under the sun!" and the voluble old lady paused to take breath.

"It's my opine, that ef Preacher Allprayer had lived with you as long as I have, he wouldn't repeat that thar sentence under oath," returned Younker, quietly. Then perceiving that a storm was brewing, he hastened to change the conversation, by addressing the stranger: "What cause have you, Mr. Williams, for speaking so discourageous o' the war?"

"The failure of the American arms in battle, the weakness of their resources, and the strength of their opponents," replied the other. "I presume you have heard of the battles of Guilford and Camden, in both of which General Greene was defeated?"

"General Gates commanded at Camden, sir!" interposed Reynolds somewhat haughtily.

"I beg pardon, sir!" retorted the other, in a sneering, sarcastic tone; "but I was speaking of the defeat of General Greene!"

"At Camden?"

"At Camden, sir!"

"I am sorry you are no better informed," rejoined Algernon, with flashing eyes. "I repeat that General Gates commanded at Camden; and as, unfortunately, I chanced to be in the fight, I claim the privilege of being positive."

"The youth is doubtless speaking of the battle fought a year or two ago," rejoined Williams, turning to Younker, in a manner the most insulting to Reynolds; who clenched his hand, and pressed his nether lip with his teeth until the blood sprang through, but said nothing. "I have reference to the two engagements which took place at Guilford Court House and Camden, in March and April last; whereby, as I said before, General Greene, who commanded at both, was twice defeated, and retreated with great loss; although in the former action his forces outnumbered those of his opponent, Lord Cornwallis, as two to one; and in the latter, far exceeded those of Lord Rawdon, his opponent also."

"This is indeed startling news," answered Younker, "and I'm fearful o' the result!"

"You may depend on't, them thar four-hundred acres is all gone clean to smash," observed Mrs. Younker; "and its my opine, Ben, you'd better sell right straight out immediately, afore the news gits about any further, for fear o' accidents and them things."

"I suppose in reality the present war with England does not trouble you here?" said the stranger, interrogatively.

"Why not in reality," answered Younker, "only so far as the Britishers and thar accursed renegade agents set on the Injens agin us."

"To what renegade agents do you allude?" inquired the other, with a degree of interest he had not before exhibited.

"Why, to the Girtys, McKee, and Elliot—and perticularly to that thar scoundrel, Simon Girty the worst o' all on 'em."

"Ha! Simon Girty," said the other, with a slight start and change of countenance; "what know you of him?"

"Nothing that's good, you may be sartin, and every thing that's evil. He's leagued with the Injens, purposely to excite 'em agin his own white brethren—to have them murder women and children, that he may feast his eyes on thar innocent blood. I'm not given to be o' a revengeful speret, Mr. Williams; but I never think o' that thar renegade, Simon Girty, but I inwardly pray for the curse o' an avenging God to light upon him; and come it will, ayther soon or late, you may depend on't!"

"Amen to that thar sentiment!" responded the dame; while the stranger became very much agitated, on account, as he said, of a violent pain in his side, to which he was subject.

Mrs. Younker was on the point of bringing down her invectives on the head of the renegade in a speech of some considerable length, when, perceiving the distressful look of the other, the kind-hearted woman suddenly forgot her animosity in sympathy for her suffering guest; and forthwith proceeded, with all the eloquence of which she was master, to recommend a certain essence that chanced to be in the house, as a never failing remedy for all griping and other pains with which unfortunate humanity was oftentimes afflicted.

"It's one o' the bestest things as ever war invented," continued the good woman, in her eulogy of the article in question; "and has did more good in it's time, nor all the doctors on the univarsal yarth put together could do, in the way of curing sprains, and bruises, and stomach-pains, and them things; and ef you don't believe it, Mr. Williams, you can see it all in print, ef you can read, and I spect you can, on the bottle itself, jest as plain as any thing; and besides, I've got the testament (testimony, doubtless) of the good and pious Rev. Mr. Allprayer, who tuk some on't once for the gout; and he said as how the contracting (counteracting?) pains war so many, that he didn't no more feel the gout for a long time to come afterwards. I've no doubt it'll sarve you jest the same way, and I'll go and fetch it right straight off."

But the mission of the good woman was prevented by the complainant's insisting that he was much better, would presently be well, and wished to retire for the night. His request was granted—but little more was said—and all shortly after betook themselves to bed—to think, or sleep, or dream, as the case might be with each.

When the family arose on the following morning, they found the stranger had departed; but when or whither none could tell.

[Footnote 4: It may be proper to note here, for the benefit of those unfamiliar with the early history of Kentucky, that, at the period of which we write, it was claimed and held by Virginia as a portion of her territory, for which she legislated accordingly.]



CHAPTER V.

THE WEDDING.

The year 1781 was remarkable in the history of Kentucky for the immense emigration from the east into its territory of unmarried females. It appears, in looking over the records of the time, as though some mighty barrier had hitherto kept them in check, which, being removed, allowed them to rush forward in overwhelming force, like to the pent up waters of some stream when its obstruction suddenly gives way. Whatever this hitherto obstruction or barrier may have been, we do not pretend to say; but the fact itself we record as we find it chronicled in history. The result of this influx of females into a region almost wholly populated by the opposite sex was one, as will readily be perceived, of great importance to the well-being of the embryo state; and was duly celebrated by the rising generation, in a general jubilee of marriages—one following fast upon another, like drops of rain in a genial summer shower; and, to extend the simile, with an effect by no means less productive of fertility, in a long run, to the country round about.

A wedding in those days was an affair of great importance to the neighborhood of its location; and was looked forward to by old and young—the latter in particular—as a grand holiday of feasting, dancing, and general rejoicing. Nor can this be wondered at, when we take into consideration the fact, that, in the early settlement of the country, a wedding was almost the only gathering, as they were called, which was not accompanied with some laborious employment—such as harvesting, log-rolling, and the like. Occasionally there might be some dissatisfaction felt and expressed by some, who, from some cause or another, chanced to be left out of the almost general invitation; in which case a special resentment not unfrequently followed. This was accomplished in various ways—sometimes by felling trees, or placing other obstacles across some narrow portion of the horse-path by which the wedding party were advancing, thereby causing considerable delay for their removal—sometimes by ambushing and firing a volley of blank cartridges at the party in question, so as to frighten the horses, by which means more or less were frequently injured, by being thrown to the ground—and sometimes by shearing the manes and tails of the horses themselves, while their owners were being occupied with the feast, and the dance, and the gay carousal of the occasion. But to proceed.

The morning of the day set apart by Isaac Younker, as the one which was to see him duly united to Peggy Wilson, came in due time—as many an important one has both before and since—without one visible sign in the heavens, or otherwise, to denote that any thing remarkable was about to happen. In fact it might be put down to the reverse of all this; for, unlike the generality of wished-for days, it was exceedingly fair, balmy, and beautiful. The sun rose at the expected time, large and red, and saluted the hills and tree-tops, and anon the vales, with a smiling light, as though he felt exceedingly happy to greet them again after a calm night's repose. The dew sparkled on blade and leaf, as if with delight at his appearance; a few flowers modestly uncovered their blooming heads; a few warblers of the forest—for although autumn had nearly half advanced, some had delayed their journey to the sunny south—sung gleesome songs; and altogether the morning in question was really a delightful one.

The family of the Younkers were stirring betimes, making the necessary preparations for their departure, and looking out for the expected guests; who, according to the custom of the period, first assembled at the residence of the groom, to proceed thence in company with him to the mansion of the bride, which place they must always reach in time to have the ceremony performed before partaking of the dinner prepared for the occasion. For this purpose, as the distance to the house of the fair intended was not unfrequently considerable, they generally came at an early hour; and as Isaac's fair Peggy was not likely to be visible short of a ten miles' ride, his companions for the journey accordingly began to appear in couples before his father's dwelling, ere the sun was an hour above the hills.

Isaac, on the present occasion, stood ready to receive them as they rode up, arrayed in his wedding garments; which—save a few trifling exceptions in some minor articles, and the addition of five or six metal buttons displayed on his hunting frock in a very singular manner, and a couple of knee buckles, all old family relics—presented the same appearance as those worn by him during his ordinary labors. And this, by the way, exhibits another feature of the extreme simplicity of the time—and one too highly praise-worthy—when the individual was sought for himself alone, and not for the tinsel gew-gaws, comparatively speaking, he might chance to exhibit. Necessity forced all to be plain and substantial in the matter of dress; and consequently comfort and convenience were looked to, rather than ostentatious display. All at that day were habited much alike—so that a description of the costume of one of either sex, as in the case of their habitations, previously noted, would describe that of a whole community.

"Let the reader," says a historian, in speaking of the manners and dress of those noble pioneers, "imagine an assemblage of people, without a store, tailor, or mantuamaker within an hundred miles; and an assemblage of horses, without a blacksmith or saddler within an equal distance. The gentlemen dressed in shoepacks, moccasins, leather breeches, leggins, linsey hunting-shirts, and all home-made. The ladies dressed in linsey petticoats, and linsey or linen bed-gowns, coarse shoes, stockings, handkerchiefs, and buckskin gloves, if any. If there were any buckles, rings, buttons or ruffles, they were the relics of old times—family pieces from parents or grandparents. The horses were caparisoned with old saddles, old bridles or halters, and packsaddles, with a bag or blanket thrown over them—a rope or string as often constituting the girth as a piece of leather."

But to our story:

Since leaving Isaac in the preceding chapter, after his important announcement, as therein recorded, he had been by no means idle. The two days immediately following had been spent by him in riding post-haste through the surrounding country, to inform his friends that he was on the point of becoming a married man, and require their presence at the appointed hour and place of ceremony. The rest of the time (Sunday of course exempted) had been carefully husbanded by him in making all due preparation; and he now stood before his expected guests with the air one, to use a common phrase, who has not been caught napping. For each, as they rode up, he had a friendly salutation and familiar word; and inviting them to dismount and enter, until the whole number should be arrived, he led away and secured their horses to the neighboring trees.

In due time the last couple made their appearance; and having partaken of some refreshment, which was highly recommended and presented by Mrs. Younker herself—whose tongue, by the way, had seen no rest for at least two hours—the whole party, in gleeful spirits, prepared to mount and set forth on their journey. Even Algernon, as he assisted the graceful Ella into her saddle, and then sprung lightly himself upon the back of a high mettled, beautiful steed by her side, could not avoid exhibiting a look of cheerfulness, almost gaiety, in striking contrast to his habitual gloom. And this too produced a like effect upon Ella; who, mounted upon a fine spirited, noble animal, and displaying all the ease and grace of an accomplished rider, with her flushed cheek and sparkling eyes, seemed the personification of loveliness. Her dress was exceedingly neat, of the fashion and quality worn in the east—being one she had brought with her on her removal hither. A neat hood, to which was attached a green veil, now thrown carelessly back and floating down behind, covered her head and partially concealed a profusion of beautiful ringlets.

The company at length being all mounted, Isaac took it upon himself to lead the way; for the reason, as he alleged, that having traveled the ground oftener than either of the others, he of course knew the best and nearest path to the abode of Peggy Wilson. Algernon as groomsman rode next with Ella; followed in turn by the father and mother of the groom; and then in double file by the whole company—talking, laughing and full of glee—to the number of some fifteen couples. Turning the corner of the house, they forded the streamlet previously mentioned, crossed the valley, and ascended by a narrow horse-path the opposite hill, leaving the canebrake some distance away to the left.

In those days a road—or at least such a highway as we of the present so denominate—was a something unknown; a few horse-paths, so termed, traversing the country in various directions—narrow, oftentimes obstructed, and sometimes dangerous. Over one of this latter class, as before said, our wedding party now wended their way, in high spirits; sometimes riding at a brisk trot or gallop, where their course lay open and clear, sometimes walking their horses very slow, in single file, where the path, winding across craggy bluffs, among rocks and trees, became very narrow and unsafe. Twice, on this latter account, did the gentlemen of the company dismount and lead the horses of their partners for some considerable distance past the stony and dangerous defile, by which means all accidents were avoided. When they had reached within a mile of their destination, Isaac drew rein and all came to a halt. Turning upon his saddle, with the air of a commander of some important expedition, he sang out in a loud, shrill voice;

"Well, boys and gals, here we ar—this here's the spot—who's agoing to run for the bottle?"

"Whoop! yaho! give way thar!" was the answer from a couple of voices in the rear; and at the same instant, two young men, separating from their partners, came bounding forward, on two blood horses, at break-neck speed.

"Stop!" thundered Isaac, as they came tearing up to where he was sitting astride his beast; and obedient to his command, the two individuals in question reined in their impatient steeds, hard abreast, close by his side. "Well, ef you arn't a couple o' beauties, then jest put it down that I don't know," continued Isaac, eying them coolly from head to heel, with a quizzical, comical look. "You'd both on ye average two decent looking fellars—for whar Seth Stokes is too long, Sam Switcher arn't long enough; and whar Sam Switcher's got too much, Seth Stokes han't got nothing."

A roar of laughter, in which both Seth and Sam joined, followed Isaac's closing remarks; for besides partaking of the ludicrous, none could deny that his description was correct. The two worthies in question were certainly two very singular looking beings to be brought together for a race, and presented a most laughable appearance. The one bearing the poetical appellation of Seth Stokes, was long, thin and bony, with sharp features, and legs that reminded one of a carpenter's compass; while his companion, Sam Switcher, was round-favored, short in limbs and stature, and fat almost to corpulency—thus forming a contrast to the other of the most striking kind.

As soon as the laugh at their expense had subsided, Isaac again sang out: "Squar your hosses' heads thar—get ready, boys—now clippet, and don't keep us long waiting the bottle! for I reckon as how some on us is gitting dry. Yehep! yahoa!" and ere the sound of his voice had died away, down came the switches, accompanied by a terrible yell, and off went horses and bottle-riders—over stumps, logs and rocks—past trees and brush, and whatever obstacle might lie in their course—with a speed that threatened them with death at every moment; while the others remained quietly seated on their ponies, enjoying the sport, and sometimes shouting after them such words of encouragement as, "Go it, Seth!" "Up to him, Sammy!" "Pull up, legs!" "Jump it, fatty!" so long as the racers were in sight.

This race for the bottle, as it was called, was a peculiar feature for displaying the horsemanship and hardy recklessness of the early settlers; as a more dangerous one, to both horse and rider, could not well be imagined. That the reader may form a clear conception of what it was in reality—and also to destroy the idea if any such may have been formed, that it existed only in our imagination—we shall take the liberty of giving a short extract from the author already quoted. In speaking of the foregoing, he says:

"The worse the path—the more logs, brush, and deep hollows, the better—as these obstacles afforded an opportunity for the greater display of intrepidity and horsemanship. The English fox-chase, in point of danger to the riders and their horses, is nothing to this race for the bottle. The start was announced by an Indian yell; when logs, brush, muddy hollows, hill and glen, were speedily passed by the rival ponies. The bottle was always filled for the occasion, so that there was no use for judges; for the first who reached the door was presented with the prize, with which he returned in triumph to the company. On approaching them, he announced his victory over his rival by a shrill whoop. At the head of the troop he gave the bottle first to the groom and his attendants, and then to each pair in succession to the rear of the line, giving each a drachm; and then putting the bottle in the bosom of his hunting shirt, took his station in the company."

In something like a quarter of an hour, the clatter of horses' feet was heard by the company, the rival-racers presently appeared in sight, and all became anxious to learn who was the successful runner. They were not long kept in suspense; for advancing at a fast gallop, the riders were, soon within speaking distance; when a loud, shrill whoop from Seth Stokes, announced that in this case success had at least been with the long, if not with the strong.

"How's this, Sammy?" cried a dozen voices, as the rivals rode up to the party.

"I don't exactly know," answered the individual addressed, shaking his head with a serio-comical expression; "but stifle me with the night-mar, if ever I'm cotched riding a race with death on horseback agin."

This allusion to the bony appearance of his companion, caused a roar of laughter at the expense of the winner, in which he good-humoredly joined. According to custom, as previously mentioned, the bottle was presented first to Isaac, and then passed in regular order through the lines—Algernon and Ella merely putting it to their lips without drinking. When this ceremony was over, the party resumed their journey—no less merry on account of the whiskey—and by half an hour past eleven o'clock, all drew rein before the door of Abijah Wilson, the father of the fair intended.

Here another party, the friends of the bride, were waiting to receive them; and after some few introductions, much shaking of hands, and other demonstrations of joy, the announcement was made, that the squire was ready to perform the ceremony. Instantly all talking was suspended, the company proceeded to form into a half circle, and then all became silent and solemn as the house of death. Isaac presently appeared from behind a coarse, temporary screen of cloth, hung up for the occasion—the house having no division save a chamber over head—leading the blushing Peggy by the hand, (a rosy cheeked, buxom lass of eighteen) both looking as frightened and foolish as could reasonably be expected. Behind the bride and groom came Algernon, in company with a dark-eyed, pretty brunette, who performed the part of bridesmaid. Taking their several places, the Squire, as he was termed—a man of forty—stepped forward, and said a few words concerning the importance of the present event, asked the necessary questions, joined their hands, and pronounced them man and wife. Then followed the usual amount of congratulations, good wishes for the future happiness of the married pair, kissing of the bride, and so forth, in all of which proceedings they differed not materially from their successors of the present day.

About half an hour from the close of the ceremony, the guests were invited to partake of a sumptuous dinner, prepared expressly for the occasion. It was placed on rough tables made of large slabs, supported by small, round legs, set in auger holes; and though there was a scantiness of dishes—and these in the main consisting of a few pewter-plates, several wooden trenchers, with spoons of like material, interspersed with some of horn—and though the scarcity of knives required many of the gentlemen to make use of those carried in their belts—yet the food itself was such as might have rejoiced an epicure. It consisted of beef, roasted and boiled—pork, roasted and fried—together with chicken, turkey, partridge, and venison—well flanked on every side by bread, butter, and cheese, potatoes, cabbage, and various other vegetables. That it was both acceptable and palatable, was sufficiently proved by the hearty, joyous manner, in which each individual performed his or her part, and the rapidity with which it disappeared. The dessert was composed of two or three kinds of pies and puddings, washed down (at least by those who chose so to do) with whiskey. Great hilarity prevailed—particularly after the introduction of the bottle. Immediately dinner was over, the tables were removed, the fiddler was called for, and the dance commenced, which was to last till the following morning. The dance was opened by Isaac and the bridesmaid, with another couple—beginning with a square four, and ending with what was termed a jig. From this time forth, until the party separated, the poor fiddler experienced but little relaxation or comfort—unless in being encouraged, occasionally, by a refreshing salute from the lips of Black Betty; a being of no greater intellect, reader, than a bottle of whiskey.

Some two hours after dinner, the father and mother of Isaac announced their intention of forthwith returning home; and, although seriously pressed to tarry longer, shortly after took their leave of the company—Mrs. Younker adding, as a farewell speech, "That she hoped to gracious Peggy'd jest make Isaac as good a wife nor she had Ben, and then thar wouldn't never be no need o' having trouble;" and wound up by quoting the Rev. Mr. Allprayer as the best authority on the subject. Younker stood by her side, calmly heard her through, and then shrugging his shoulders with a very significant expression, walked away without saying a word, to the great amusement of the whole assemblage.

As to Algernon, he seemed to take no delight in what was going forward; and though he participated somewhat in the dance, yet it was evident to all observers that his mind went not with his body, and that what he did was done more with a design of concealing his real feelings, than for any amusement it afforded himself. When not occupied in this manner, or in conversation, he would steal away, seat himself where he was least likely to be observed, and fall into a gloomy, abstracted mood; from which, when suddenly roused by some loud peal of laughter, or by the touch and voice of some person near, he would sometimes start and look around as one just awakened from a frightful vision. This gloomy abstraction, too, appeared to grow upon him more and more, as the day settled into night and the night wore on, as though he felt some dreaded calamity had been hanging over, and was now about to fall upon him. So apparent was this toward the last, that even the most careless began to observe, and make remarks, and ask questions concerning him; and some even proceeded to inquire of him regarding the state of his health. His answers to all interrogatives now became so brief and abrupt, that but few ventured to address him the second time. Whatever the cause of his present gloomy state of mind, it was evidently not the ordinary one—at least not wholly that—for never before had Ella (who was in the habit, since their acquaintance, of observing him narrowly) seen him in such a mood as now. It was, perhaps, one of those strange mental foresights, peculiar to certain temperaments, whereby the individual is sometimes warned of impending danger, and feels oppressed by a weight of despondency impossible to shake off.

This serious change in the appearance of Algernon, was not without its effect upon Ella. Naturally of a tender, affectionate, and sympathetic disposition, she could not feel at ease when another was suffering, and particularly when that other was one standing so high in her estimation as Algernon Reynolds. Naturally, too, possessing light and buoyant spirits—fond of gaiety where all were gay—she exhibited on the present occasion the effect of two strong but counteracting passions. Her features, if we may be allowed the comparison, were like the noon-day heavens, when filled with the broken clouds of a passing storm. Now all would be bright and cheerful, and the sun of mirth would sparkle in her eyes; and anon some dark cloud of dejection would sweep along, shut out the merry light, and cast its shadow drearily over the whole countenance,—or, to use language without simile, she would one moment be merry and another sad. Toward the last, however, the latter feeling gained the ascendancy; she appeared to take no further share in the merriment of the dance; and had any watched her closely, they might have guessed the cause, from the manner in which she from time to time gazed at the pale face of Algernon.

Meantime the dance went bravely on, Black Betty circulated somewhat freely, and the mirth of the revelers grew more and more boisterous. Taking advantage of a slight cessation in the general hilarity, about nine o'clock in the evening, and while the fiddler with some of the party were engaged in partaking of refreshment, Seth Stokes, encouraged doubtless by the inspiration he had received from the whiskey, stepped boldly into the middle of the apartment with the bottle in his hand, and said:

"Jest allow me, my jollies, to give a toast."

"Harken all! A toast—a toast—from the long man o' the bony frame!" cried the voice of Sam Switcher. A laugh, and then silence followed.

"Here's to—to Isaac and Peggy Younker—two beauties!" continued Seth. "May thar union be duly acknowledged by the rising generation o' old Kaintuck;" and the speaker gravely proceeded to drink.

"Bravo! bravo!" cried a dozen voices, with a merry shout, accompanied with great clapping of bands; while Isaac, who was sitting by his new wife, arose, blushed, bowed rather awkwardly, and then sat down again.

"Isaac! Isaac!—A toast from Isaac!" shouted a chorus of voices.

Isaac at first looked very much confused—scratched his head and twisted around in a very fidgetty manner,—but presently his countenance flushed, and a smile of triumph crossing his sharp features, announced that he had been suddenly favored with an idea apropos. This was instantly perceived by some of the wags standing near, one of whom exclaimed:

"I see it—it's coming!"

"He's got it!" said a second.

"I knew it—I'd ha' bet a bar-skin he'd fetch it," cried a third.

"Out with it, Ike, afore you forget it," shouted the fourth.

"Hold your jabbering tongues—!" cried Isaac, in vexation. "You're enough to bother a feller to death. I'd like to see some o' the rest on ye cramped up fur a toast, jest to see how you'd feel with all on 'em hollering like." A hearty laugh at his expense was all the sympathy poor Isaac received.

"Give us the bottle!" resumed Isaac. "Now here goes," continued he, rising and holding Black Betty by the neck. "Here's to the gals o' old Kaintuck—Heaven bless 'em! May they bloom like clover heads, be plentier nor bar-skins, and follow the example o' Peggy, every mother's daughter on 'em!—hooray!" And having drank, the speaker resumed his seat, amid roars of laughter and three rounds of applause.

By the time this mirth had subsided, the fiddler struck up, and the dance again went on as before. Some two hours later the bridesmaid, with two or three others, managed to steal away the bride unobserved; and proceeding to a ladder at one end of the apartment, ascended to the chamber above, and saw her safely lodged in bed. In the course of another half hour the same number of gentlemen performed a like service for Isaac—such being customary at all weddings of that period.

During the night Black Betty, in company with more substantial refreshment, was sent up to the newly married pair some two or three times; and always returned (Black Betty we mean) considerable lighter than she went; thus proving, that if lovers can live on air, the married ones do not always partake of things less spiritual. About three o'clock in the morning, Algernon and Ella took leave of the company and set out upon their return—he pleading illness as an apology for withdrawing thus early. The remainder of the party keep together until five, when they gradually began to separate; and by six the dancing had ceased, and the greater portion of them had taken their departure. Thus ended the wedding of Isaac Younker—a fair specimen, by the way, of a backwood's wedding in the early settlement of the west.



CHAPTER VI.

THE PRESENTIMENT.

Deep and gloomy were the meditations of Algernon Reynolds, as, in company with Ella Barnwell, he rode slowly along the narrow path which he had traversed, if not with buoyant, at least with far lighter spirits than now, the morning before. From some, latent cause, he felt oppressed with a weight of despondency, as previously mentioned, that served to prostrate in a measure both his mental powers and physical system. He felt, though he could give no reason why, that some calamity was about to befall himself and the fair being by his side; and he strove to arouse himself and shake off the gloomy thoughts; but if he succeeded, it was only momentary, and they would again rush back with an increased power. He had been subject, since his unfortunate quarrel with his cousin, to gloomy reveries and depressions of spirits—but never before had he felt exactly as now; and though in all former cases the event referred to had been the cause of his sad abstractions, yet in the present instance it scarcely held a place in his thoughts. Could it be a presentiment, he asked himself, sent to warn him of danger and prepare him to meet it? But the question he could not answer.

The night, or rather the morning, though clear overhead, was uncommonly dark; and the stars, what few could be discerned, shed only pale, faint gleams, as though their lights were about to be extinguished. For some time both Algernon and Ella continued their journey without exchanging a syllable—she too, as well as himself, being deeply absorbed in no very pleasant reflections. She thought of him, of his hard fate, to meet with so many bitter disappointments at an age so young; and at last, for no premeditated, no intentional crime, be forced to fly from home and friends, and all he held dear, to wander in a far off land, among strangers—or worse, among the solitudes of the wilderness—exposed to a thousand dangers from wild savage beasts, and wilder and more savage human beings; and perhaps, withal, be branded as a felon and fugitive from justice. She thought what must be his feelings, his sense of utter desolation, with none around to sympathize—no sweet being by his side to whisper a single word of encouragement and hope; or, should the worst prove true, to share his painful lot, and endeavor to render less burdensome his remorseful thoughts, by smiles of endearment and looks of love. She thought, too, that to-morrow—perhaps today—he would take his departure, peradventure never to behold her again; and this was the saddest of the train. Until she saw him, Ella had never known what it was to love—perchance she did not now—but at least she had experienced those fluttering sensations, those deep and strange emotions, those involuntary yearnings of the heart toward some object in his presence, that aching void in his absence, which the more experienced would doubtless put down to that cause, and which no other being had ever even for a moment awakened in her breast. For something like half an hour the two rode on together, buried in their own sad reflections, when Ella broke the silence, by saying, in a low, touching voice:

"You seem sad to-night, Algernon."

Algernon started, sighed heavily, and turning slightly on his saddle, said: "I am sad, Ella—very, very sad."

"May I ask the cause?" rejoined Ella, gently.

"Doubtless you will think it strange, Ella, but the cause I believe to have originated in a waking vision or presentiment."

"That does seem strange!" observed Ella, in return.

"Did it never strike you, dear Ella, that we are all strange beings, subject to strange influences, and destined, many of us, to strange ends?" inquired Reynolds, solemnly.

"Perhaps I do not understand you," replied Ella; "but with regard to destiny, I am inclined to think that we in a measure shape our own. As to our being strange, there are many things relating to us that we may not understand, and therefore look upon them in the light of which you speak."

"Are there any we do understand, Ella?" rejoined Algernon. "When I say understand, I mean the word to be used in its minutest and broadest sense. You say there are many things we may not understand concerning ourselves—what ones, I pray you, do we fully comprehend? We are here upon the earth—so much we know. We shall die and pass away—so much we know also. But how came we here, and why? How do we exist? How do we think, reason, speak, feel, move, see, hear, smell, taste? All these we do, we know; but yet not one—not a single one of them can we comprehend. You wish to raise your hand; and forthwith, by some extraordinary power—extraordinary because you cannot tell where it is, nor how it is—you raise it. Why cannot a dead person do the same? Strange question you will say to yourself with a smile—but one easily answered! Why, because in such a person life is extinct—there is no vital principle—the heart is stopped—the blood has ceased to flow in its regular channels! Ay! but let me ask you why that life is extinct?—why that breath has stopped?—and why that blood has ceased to flow? There was just the same amount of air when the person died as before! There were the same ingredients still left to stimulate that blood to action! Then wherefore should both cease?—and with them the power of thought, reason, speech, and all the other senses? It was not by a design of the individual himself; for he strove to his utmost to breathe longer; he was not ready to die—he did not want to quit this earth so soon; and yet with all his efforts to the contrary, reason fled, the breath stopped, the blood ceased, the limbs became palsied and cold, and corruption, decay and dust stood ready to follow. Now why was this? There is but one answer: 'God willed it!' If then one question resolves itself into one answer,—'the will of God'—so may all of the same species; and we come out, after a long train of analytical reasoning, exactly where we started—with this difference—that when we set out, we believed in being able to explain the wherefore; but when we came to the end, we could only assert it as a wonderful fact, whereof not a single iota could we understand."

Algernon spoke in a clear, distinct, earnest tone—in a manner that showed the subject was not new to his thoughts; and after a short pause, during which Ella made no reply, he again proceeded.

"In this grand organ of man—where all things are strange and incomprehensible—to me the combination of the physical and mental is strangest of all. The soul and the body are united and yet divided. Each is distinct from and acts without the other at times, and yet both act in concert with a wonderful power. The soul plans and the body executes. The body exercises the soul—the soul the body. The one is visible—the other invisible; the one is mortal—the other immortal. Now why do they act together here? Why was not each placed in its separate sphere of action? Again: What is the soul? Men tell us it is a spirit. What is a spirit? An invisible something that never dies. Who can comprehend it? None. Whither does it go when separated forever from the body? None can answer, save in language of Scripture: 'It returns to God who gave it.'"

"I have never heard the proposition advanced by another," continued Algernon, after another slight pause, "but I have sometimes thought myself, that the soul departs from the body, for a brief season, and wanders at will among scenes either near or remote, and returns with its impressions, either clouded or clear, to communicate them to the corporeal or not, as the case may be: hence dreams or visions, and strong impressions when we wake, that something bright and good has refreshed our sleep, or something dark and evil has made it troubled and feverish. Again I have sometimes thought that this soul—this invisible and immortal something within us—has power at times to look into the future, and see events about to transpire; which events being sometimes of a dark and terrible nature, leave upon it like impressions; and hence gloomy and melancholy forebodings. This may be all sophistry—as much of our better reasoning on things we know nothing about often is—but if it be true, then may I trust to account for my present sadness."

"Have you really, then, sad forebodings?" inquired Ella, quickly and earnestly.

"Against my will and sober reason, dear Ella, I must own I have. Perchance, however, the feeling was only called up by a train of melancholy meditations. While sitting there to-night, gazing upon the many bounding forms—some full of beauty and grace, and some of strength—noting their joyous faces, and listening occasionally to the lightsome jest, and merry, ringing laugh—I could not avoid contrasting with the present the time when I was as happy and full full of mirth as they. I pictured to myself how they would stare and shudder and draw away from me, did they know my hand was stained with the blood of my own kin. Then I began, involuntarily as it were, to picture to myself the fate of each; and they came up before me in the form of a vision, (though if such, it was a waking one) but in regular order; and I saw them pass on one after another—some gliding smoothly down the stream of time to old age—some wretched and crippled, groping their way along over barren wastes, without water or food, though nearly dying for the want of both—some wading through streams of blood, with fierce and angry looks—and some with pale faces, red eyes, and hollow cheeks, roving amid coffins, sepulchres and bones; but of all, the very fewest number happy."

"Oh! it was an awful vision!" exclaimed Ella, with a shudder.

"It was awful enough," rejoined Algernon; "and despite of me, it made me more and more sad as I thought upon it. Could it indeed be a dream? But no! I was—seemingly at least—as wide awake and conscious as at the present moment. I saw the dance going on as ever—I saw the merry smiles, and heard the jest and laugh as before. Could it be some strange hallucination of the brain—some wild imagining—caused by my previous exercise and over heat? I pondered upon it long and seriously, but could not determine. Suddenly—I know not how nor why—that ill-looking stranger who lodged one night at your uncle's, and departed so mysteriously, came up in my mind; and almost at the same moment, I fancied myself riding with you, dear Ella, through a dark and lonely wood—when all of a sudden there came a fierce yell—several dark, hideous forms, with him among them, swam around me—I heard you shriek for aid—and then all became darkness and confusion; from which I was aroused by some one inquiring if I were ill? What I answered I know not; but the querist immediately took his leave."

"It all seems very strange, Algernon," observed Ella, thoughtfully; "but it was probably nothing more than a feverish dream, brought about by your exercise acting too suddenly and powerfully upon your nervous system, which doubtless has not as yet recovered from the prostration caused by your wound."

"So I tried to think, dear Ella," returned Algernon, with a sigh; "but I have not even yet been able to shake off the gloomy impression, that, whatever the cause, it was sent as a warning of danger. But I am foolish, perhaps, to think as I do; and so let us change the subject. You spoke a few moments since of destiny. You said, if I mistake not, you believed each individual capable of shaping his own."

"I did," answered Ella; "with the exception, that I qualified it by saying in a measure. No person, I think, has the power of moulding himself to an end which is contrary to the law of nature and his own physical organization; but at the same time he has many ways, some good and some evil, left open for him to choose; else he were not a free agent."

"Ay," rejoined Algernon, "by-paths all to the same great end. I look upon every one here, Ella, as a traveler placed upon the great highway called destiny—with a secret power within that impels him forward, but allows no pause nor retrograde. Along this highway are flowers, and briars, and thistles, and weeds, and shady woods, and barren rocks, and sterile bluffs, and glassy plots; but proportioned differently to each, as the Maker of all designs his path to be pleasant or otherwise. Beside this highway are perhaps a dozen minor paths, all running a similar course, and all finally merging into it—either near or far, as the case may be—before its termination at the great gate of death. The free agency you speak of, is in choosing of these lesser paths—some of which are full of the snares of temptation, the chasms of ruin, and the pitfalls of destruction; and some of the flowers of peace, the bowers of plenty, and the green woods of contentment. But how to follow the proper one is the difficulty; for they run into one another—cross and recross in a thousand different ways—so that the best disposed as often hit the wrong as the right one, and are entrapped before they are aware of their dangerous course. Worldly wisdom is here put at fault, and the fool as often goes right as the wise man of lore—thus showing, notwithstanding our free agency, that circumstances govern us; and that what many put down as crime, is, in fact, oftentimes, neither more nor less than error of judgment."

"Then you consider free agency only a chance game, depending, as it were, upon the throw of a die?" observed Ella, inquiringly.

"I believe this much of free agency, that a train of circumstances often forces some to evil and others to good; and that we should look upon the former, in many cases—mind I do not say all—as unfortunate rather than criminal—with pity rather than scorn; and so endeavor to reclaim them. Were this doctrine more practiced by Christians—by those whom the world terms good, (but whom circumstances alone have made better than their fellows,) there would be far less of sin, misery, and crime abounding for them to deplore. Let the creed of churches only be to ameliorate the condition of the poor, relieve the distressed, remove temptations from youth, encourage the virtuous, and endeavor, by gently means, to reclaim the erring—and the holy design of Him who died to save would nobly progress, prisons would be turned into asylums, and scaffolds be things known only by tradition."

Algernon spoke with an easy, earnest eloquence, and a force of emphasis, that made each word tell with proper effect upon his fair hearer. To Ella the ideas he advanced were, many of them, entirely new; and she mused thoughtfully upon them, as they rode along, without reply; while he, becoming warm upon a subject that evidently occupied no inferior place in his mind, went on to speak of the wrongs and abuses which society in general heaped upon the unfortunate, as he termed them—contrasted the charity of professing Christians of the eighteenth century with that of Christ himself—and pointed out what he considered the most effectual means of remedy. To show that a train of circumstances would frequently force persons against their own will and reason to be what society terms criminal, he referred to himself, and his own so far eventful destiny; and Ella could not but admit to herself, that, in his case at least, his arguments were well grounded, and she shaped her replies accordingly.

Thus conversing, they continued upon their course, until they came to the brow of a steep descent, down which the path ran in a zigzag manner, through a dark, gloomy ravine, now rendered intensely so to our travelers, by the hour, their thoughts, the wildness of the scenery around, and the dense growth of cedars covering the hollow, whose untrimmed branches, growing even to the ground, overreached and partly obstructed their way. By this time only one or two stars were visible in the heavens; and they shone with pale, faint gleams; while in the east the beautiful gray and crimson tints of Aurora announced that day was already breaking on the slumbering world. Drawing rein, Algernon and Ella paused as if to contemplate the scene. Below and around them each object presented that misty, indistinct appearance, which leaves the imagination power to give it either a pleasing or hideous shape. In the immediate vicinity, the country was uneven; rocky, and covered with cedars; but far off to the right could be discerned the even surface of the cane-brake, previously mentioned, now stretching away in the distance like the unruffled bosom of some beautiful lake. A light breeze slightly rustled the leaves of the trees, among whose branches an occasional songster piped forth his morning lay of rejoicing.

"How lovely is nature in all her varieties!" exclaimed Ella, with animation, as she glanced over the scene.

"Ay, and in that variety lies her loveliness," answered Algernon. "It is the constant and eternal change going forward that interests us, and gives to nature her undying charm. Man—high-souled, contemplative man—was not born to sameness. Variety is to his mind what food is to his body; and as the latter, deprived of its usual nourishment, sinks to decay—so the former, from like deprivation of its strengthening power, becomes weak and imbecile. Again: as coarse, plain food and hardy exercise add health and vigor to the physical—so does the contemplation of nature in her wildness and grandeur give to the mental a powerful and lofty tone. Of all writers for poetical and vigorous intellects, give me those who have been reared among cloud-capped hills, and craggy steeps, and rushing streams, and roaring cataracts; for their conceptions are grand, their comparisons beautiful, and the founts from which they draw, as exhaustless almost as nature herself."

"I have often thought the same myself," returned Ella; "for I never gaze upon a beautiful scene in nature, that I do not feel refreshed. To me the two most delightful are morning and evening. I love to stand upon some eminence, and mark, as now, the first gray, crimson and golden streaks that rush up in the eastern sky; and catch the first rays of old Sol, as he, surrounded by a reddened halo, shows his welcome face above the hills; or at calm eve watch his departure, as with a last, fond, lingering look he takes his leave, as 'twere in sorrow that he could not longer tarry; while earth, not thus to be outdone in point of grief, puts on her sable dress to mourn his absence."

"Ah! Ella," said Algernon, turning to her with a gentle smile, "methinks morning and evening are somewhat indebted to you for a touch of poetry in their behalf."

"Rather say I am indebted to them for a thousand fine feelings I have not even power to express," rejoined Ella.

Algernon was on the point of returning an answer, when, casting his eyes down into the ravine, he slightly started, his gaze became fixed, and his features grew a shade more pale. Ella noticed this sudden change, and in a voice slightly tremulous inquired the cause. For nearly a minute Algernon made no reply, but kept his eyes steadily bent in the same direction, apparently riveted on some object below. Ella also looked down; but seeing nothing worthy of note, and growing somewhat alarmed at his silence, was on the point of addressing him again, when, slightly turning his head, and rubbing his eyes with his hand, he said:

"Methought I saw a dark object move in the hollow below; but I think I must have been mistaken, for all appears quiet there now—not even a limb or so much as a leaf stirs. Lest there should be danger, however, dear Ella, I will ride down first and ascertain. If I give an alarm, turn your horse and do not spare him till you reach Wilson's."

"No, no, no!" exclaimed Ella, with vehemence, laying her hand upon his arm, as he was about starting forward, her own features now growing very pale. "If you go, Algernon, you go not alone! If there is danger, I will share it with you."

Algernon turned towards her a face that, one moment crimsoned with animation and the next became deadly pale; while his whole frame quivered with intense emotion, and he seemed vainly struggling to command contending feelings. Suddenly clasping her hand in his, he pressed it warmly, raised it to his lips, and in a trembling tone said:

"Ella—dear Ella—God bless you! If ever—but—no—no—no;" and covering his face with his hands, he wept convulsively; while she, no less deeply affected, could scarcely sit her horse.

At length Algernon withdrew his hands, and exhibited features pale but calm. Drawing forth his pistols, he carefully examined their priming, and then replaced them in his belt. During this proceeding, he failed not to urge Ella to alter her design and remain, while he went forward; but finding her determined on keeping him company, he signified his readiness to proceed, and both started slowly down the hill together. They reached the ravine in safety, and advanced some twenty yards further, when suddenly there arose a terrific Indian yell, followed instantly by the sharp report of several fire-arms, a wild, piercing shriek, some two or three heavy groans, a rustling among the trees, and then by a stillness as deep and awfully solemn as that which pervades the narrow house appointed for all living.



CHAPTER VII.

THE OLD WOODSMAN AND HIS DOG.

The sun was perhaps an hour above the mountain tops, when a solitary hunter, in the direction of the cane-brake, might have been seen shaping his course toward the hill whereon Algernon and Ella had so lately paused to contemplate the dawning day. Upon his shoulder rested a long rifle, and a dog of the Newfoundland species followed in his steps or trotted along by his side. In a few minutes he reached the place referred to; when the snuffling of his canine companion causing him to look down, his attention instantly became fixed upon the foot-prints of the horses which had passed there the day before, and particularly on the two that had repassed there so lately.

"What is it, Caesar?" said he, addressing the brute. "Nothing wrong here, I reckon." Caesar, as if conscious of his master's language, raised his head, and looking down into the ravine, appeared to snuff the air; then darting forward, he was quickly lost among the branching cedars. Scarcely thirty seconds elapsed, ere a long, low howl came up from the valley; and starting like one suddenly surprised by some disagreeable occurrence, the hunter, with a cheek slightly blanched, hurried down the crooked path, muttering as he went, "Thar's something wrong, for sartin—for Caesar never lies."

In less than a minute the hunter came in sight of his dog, which he found standing with his hind feet on the ground and his fore-paws resting on the carcass of a horse, that had apparently been dead but a short time. As Caesar perceived his master approach, he uttered another of those peculiar, long, low, mournful howls, which the superstitious not unfrequently interpret as omens of evil.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the hunter, as he came up; "thar's been foul play here, Caesar—foul play, for sartin. D'ye think, dog, it war Indians as done it?"

The brute looked up into the speaker's face, with one of those expressions of intelligence or sagacity, which seem to speak what the tongue has not power to utter, and then wagging his tail, gave a sharp, fierce bark.

"Right, dog!" continued the other, as, stooping to the ground, he began to examine with great care the prints left there by human feet. "Right, dog, they're the rale varmints, and no mistake. Ef all folks war as sensible and knowing as you, thar would'nt be many fools about, I reckon."

Having finished his examination of the ground, the hunter again turned to look at the carcass of the horse, which was lying on its left side, some two feet from the path, and had apparently fallen dead from a shot in the forehead, between the eyes. An old saddle, devoid of straps, lay just concealed under the branching cedars. The ground around was trodden as if from a scuffle, and the limbs of the trees were broken in many places—while in two or three others could be seen spots of blood, not even yet dry—none of which informants of the recent struggle escaped the keen observation of the woodsman. Suddenly the dog, which had been watching his master's motions intently, put his nose to the ground, darted along the path further into the ravine, and presently resounded another of those mournful howls.

"Ha! another diskivery!" exclaimed the hunter, as he started after his companion.

About thirty yards further on, he came upon the carcass of another horse, which had been killed by a ball in the right side, and the blow of some weapon, probably a tomahawk, on the head. By its side also lay a lady's saddle, stripped like the former of its trappings. This the woodsman now proceeded to examine attentively, for something like a minute, during which time a troubled expression rested on his dark, sunburnt features.

"I'm either mightily mistaken," said he at length, with a grave look, "or that thar horse and saddle is the property of Ben Younker; and I reckon it's the same critter as is rid by Ella Barnwell. Heaven forbid, sweet lady, that it be thou as met with this terrible misfortune!—but ef it be, by the Power that made me, I swar to follow on thy trail; and ef I meet any of thy captors, then, Betsey, I'll just call on you for a backwoods sentiment."

As he concluded, the hunter turned with a look of affection towards his rifle, which he firmly grasped with a nervous motion. At this moment, the dog, which had been busying himself by running to and fro with his nose to the ground, suddenly paused, and laying back his ears, uttered a low, fierce growl. The hunter cast toward him a quick glance; and dropping upon his knees, applied his ear to the earth, where he remained some fifteen seconds; then rising to his feet, he made a motion with his hand, and together with Caesar withdrew into the thicket.

For some time no sound was heard to justify this precaution of the woodsman; but at length a slight jarring of the ground became apparent, followed by a noise at some distance, resembling the clatter of horses' feet, which, gradually growing louder as the cause drew nearer, soon became sufficiently so to put all doubts on the matter at rest. In less than five minutes from the disappearance of the hunter, some eight or ten horses, bearing as many riders, approached the hill from the direction of Wilson's, and began to descend into the ravine. The party, composed of both sexes, were in high glee—some jesting, some singing, and some laughing uproariously. Nothing occurred to interrupt their merriment, until they began to lose themselves among the cedars of the hollow, when the foremost horse suddenly gave a snort and bounded to one side—a movement which his companion, close behind, imitated—while the rider of the latter, a female, uttered a loud, piercing scream of fright. In a moment the whole party was in confusion—some turning their horses to the right about and riding back towards Wilson's, at headlong speed—and some pausing in fear, undecided what to do. The two foremost horses now became very refractory, rearing and plunging in a manner that threatened to unseat their riders every moment. Of the two, the one ridden by the lady was the most ungovernable; and in spite of her efforts to quiet or hold him, he seized the bit in his teeth, and, rearing on his hind legs, plunged madly forward, until he came to where the other carcass was lying, when, giving another snort of fear, he again reared, and turning aside into the thicket, left his rider almost senseless in the path he had just quitted. Fortunately the beast shaped his course to where the hunter was concealed, who, with a sudden spring, as he was rushing past, seized upon the bridle near the bit, and succeeded, after a struggle, in mastering and leading him back to the path.

By this time the companion of the lady had come up; and seeing her condition, was dismounting to render her assistance; when his eye falling upon the stranger, he started, and placed his hand quickly to his belt, as if in search of some weapon of defence. The hunter saw the movement, and said, with a gesture of command:

"Hold! young man; don't do any thing rash!"

"Who are you, sir?"

"A friend."

"Your name!" continued the other, as he sprang to the ground.

"Names don't matter, stranger, in cases sech as this. I said I war a friend."

"By what may I know you as such."

"My deeds," returned the other, laconically. "Think you, stranger, ef I wanted to harm ye, I couldn't have done it without you seeing me?" and as he spoke, he glanced significantly toward his rifle.

"True," returned the other; "but what's the meaning of this?" and he pointed toward the dead horse.

"It means Indians, as nigh as I can come at it," replied the hunter. "But look to the living afore the dead!" And the woodsman in turn pointed toward the lady.

"Right!" said the other; and springing to her side, he raised her in his arms.

She was not injured, other than slightly stunned by the fall, and she quickly regained her senses. At first she was somewhat alarmed; but perceiving who supported her, and nothing in the mild, noble, benevolent countenance of the stranger, who was still holding her horse by the bridle, of a sinister nature, she anxiously inquired what had happened.

"I can only guess by what I see;" answered the hunter, "that some o' your company have been less fortunate than you. Didn't two o' them set out in advance?"

"Gracious heavens!" cried the young man supporting the lady; "it is Ella Barnwell and the stranger Reynolds!"

"Then they must be quickly trailed!" rejoined the hunter briefly. "Go, young man, take your lady back agin, and raise an armed party for pursuit. Be quick in your operations, and I'll wait and join you here. Leave your horses thar, for we must take it afoot; and besides, gather as much provision as you can all easily carry, for Heaven only knows whar or when our journey'll end."

"But do you think they're still living?"

"I hope so."

"Then let us return, Henry," said the lady, "as quick as possible, so that a party for pursuit may be collected before the wedding guests have all separated."