David murmured a pleased, bashful assent. They had now reached the buffalo track, which was not wide enough for the three to ride abreast. It was therefore necessary for them to fall into single file, and David managed to get the lead. This made him feel better, and more of a man, for the darkness was still deep, and the black boughs overhead still hung low and heavy. Neither of the horsemen spoke again for a long time after entering upon the buffalo track. Once more the only sound was the steady, muffled beating of the horses' swiftly moving feet. The two men were buried in their own thoughts of duties and aims far beyond the boy's understanding, and he was not thinking of these silent companions by his side—he was scarcely thinking at all; he was merely feeling. He was held under a spell, dumb and breathless, enchanted by the mystery of the wilderness at night.

It was so black, so beautiful, so terrible, so soundless, so motionless, so unfathomable. There was no moon. The few pale stars glimmered dimly far above the dark arches of the trees. No bird moved among the sable branches, or even twittered in its sleep as if disturbed by the light, swift passing of the shadowy horsemen. No wild animal stirred in his uneasy rest or even breathed less deeply in his hunting dreams, at the flitting of the shadows across his hidden lair.

The mystery, the beauty, and the terror went beyond the black border of the forest. Out in the open and over the clearing, the mists from the swamp mingling with the darkness gave everything a look of fantastic unreality yet wilder than it had worn earlier in the night. Dense earth-clouds were thus massed about the base of Anvil Rock. Its blackened peak loomed through the clouds,—a strange, wild sight, apparently belonging neither to earth or to heaven. But far beyond and above was a stranger, wilder sight still; the strangest and wildest of all; one of the strangest and wildest, surely, that human eyes ever rested upon.

There across the northern sky sped the great comet. Come, none ever knew whence, and speeding none ever knew whither, it reached on that night—on this fifteenth of October—the summit of its swift, awful, arching flight. It was now at the greatest of its terrible splendor and appalling beauty. It was now at the very height of its boundless influence over the hopes and fears of the superstitious, romantic, emotional, poetic race which was struggling to people the wilderness. As it thus burst upon the vision of the three horsemen, each felt its power in his own way,—the man of faith, the man of science, and the fanciful boy,—each was differently but deeply moved. The men looked at the comet as the wise and learned of the earth look at the marvels of another world. The boy gazed quiveringly, like a harp struck by a powerful hand. He strove to cast his fancies aside, and to remember what he had heard before the comet had become visible to this country. He tried vainly to recall the talk about it—not the idle and foolish superstitions which Miss Penelope had mentioned, and which all the common people believed—but the scientific facts so far as they were known. Yet even his imagination failed to realize that this flaming head, with its strange halo of darkness, and its horrible hair of livid green light, was four million times greater than the earth; or that its luminous veil—woven of star-dust so fine that other stars shone through—streamed across one hundred million of miles, thick strewn with other stars.

"Listen!" cried the doctor. "Hear that!" A distant roaring, like the oncoming of a sudden storm, rolled upward from the mists and darkness lying thicker around the swamp.

"There it is again!" Doctor Colbert went on, as if he had been waiting and listening for the sound. "There must be great excitement at the camp-meeting on this last night. Does it still interest you, Father? It does me, intensely. This is not the usual peculiar excitement which seems to belong to a crowd, though that, too, is always curious, mysterious, and interesting. We all know well enough that for some unknown reason a crowd will do wild, strange, and foolish things, which the individuals composing it would never be guilty of alone. But this is something entirely different and still more curious and mysterious. Those people down yonder keep this up by themselves when they are alone—it attacks some of them before they have ever seen one of the meetings. It is certainly the strangest phenomenon of its kind that the world ever saw. It never loses its painful fascination for me. I can't pass it by. How is it with you?"

The priest hesitated before replying. "Any form of faith—the crudest, the most absurd that any soul ever staked its salvation upon—must always be the most interesting subject in the world to every thinking mind."

"It seems so to me," the doctor replied. "And I assure you that there is no irreverence in the scientific curiosity which I feel in this extraordinary epidemic of religious frenzy; for it is certainly something of that sort. It is unmistakably contagious. I have become more and more certain of that as I have watched the poor wretches who are shrieking down yonder. It is a mental and moral epidemic, and so highly contagious that it has swept the whole state, till it now sweeps the remotest corner of the wilderness. And it seems to have originated in Kentucky. It is something peculiarly our own."

"Yes," said Father Orin, "Kentucky is the pioneer in religion, as well as politics, for the whole West. But my church came first," he added with a chuckle. "Remember that! The Catholics always lead the way and clear up the brush, with the Methodists following close behind. I got a little the start of brother Peter Cartwright; but that was my good luck, and not any lack of zeal on his part. And I've got to stir my stumps to keep ahead of him, I can tell you."

"He is down there at the meeting to-night, no doubt. He is its leading spirit. I should like to know what he really thinks of it all. He is by nature a wonderfully intelligent young fellow. And what do you really think of it, Father?" the doctor pressed. "Is this the same thing that has come down the ages? Is it the same that we find in the Bible—making great men and wise ones do such wild things? Is it the same that made a dignified gentleman, like David, dance—as those fanatics are doing down there—till he became a laughing-stock? Is it the same that made a sensible man like Saul join his faith to a witch and believe that he saw visions? And then, just remember the scandalous capers—even worse than the others—that the decent Jeremiah cut."

"Tut! Tut! Tut!" exclaimed the priest, in a voice that betrayed a smile. "Those were holy men, my young friend. I cannot allow them to be laughed at."

"Oh, come now, Father, be honest," said the doctor, laughing aloud, but adding quickly in a serious tone: "I am quite in earnest. What do you make of it all? I should greatly like to have your opinion. Is there anything in the science of your profession to explain it? There isn't in mine. The more of it I see, and the longer I study it, the farther I am from finding its source, its cause, and its real character. There! Just hear that!"

"Well, well," said Father Orin, with a sigh of evasion, "if you are going on to the camp-meeting, Toby and I will have to leave you here. We have a sick call 'way over on the Eagle Creek flats. And it's a ticklish business, going over there in the dark, isn't it, old man?" he said, patting his big gray horse. "The last time we went in the night the limb of a tree, that I couldn't see, dragged me from the saddle." He laughed as if this were a joke on Toby or himself, or both. "But Toby is a better swimmer than I am. He's better at a good many things. He got me out all right that time and a good many other times. He always does his part of our duty, and never lets me shirk mine, if he can help it. Well, then, we must be moving along, Toby, old man." He turned suddenly to the boy. "Will you go with me, David? My way passes close to Cedar House."

"Perhaps, sir, you would like to go on to the meeting," said the doctor to David. "It would give me pleasure to have you with me—if you prefer to go with me. Afterward we can ride home together. My cabin is not far beyond Cedar House."

After a little more talk it was decided that the boy should go with the doctor, and the priest bade them both a cheerful good night.

"Now, Toby, we must be putting in our best licks. If you don't look out, old man, we will be getting into idle ways. Keep us up to the mark—right up to the mark, old man!"

And so, talking to Toby, and chuckling as if Toby made telling replies, the good man and his good horse vanished in the earth-clouds round Anvil Rock. But the doctor and the boy sat their horses in motionless silence, listening to the kind, merry voice and the faithful beat, beat, of the steady feet, till both gradually died away behind the night's heavy black curtain.



VI

THE CAMP-MEETING

As they turned and were riding on toward the camp-meeting, the doctor spoke of the priest and his horse. The boy listened with the wondering awe that most of us feel, when some stranger points out the heroism of a simple soul or an everyday deed which we have known, unknowingly, all our lives.

"Father Orin and Toby are a pair to take your hat off to," the young doctor said. "I have come to know them fairly well by this time, although I have not been here very long. It isn't necessary for any one to be long in the neighborhood before finding out what those two are doing. And then my own work among the suffering gives me many opportunities to know what they are doing and trying to do. The church side is only one side of their good work. I am not a Catholic, and consequently see little of that side; but I meet them everywhere constantly caring for the poor and the afflicted without any regard for creed. And they never have any money, worth speaking of, to help with. They have only their time and their strength and their whole laborious, self-sacrificing lives to give. The expedients that they resort to in a pinch would make anybody laugh—to keep from crying. They were out the other day with a brand-new plan. They travelled about fifty miles through the wilderness trying to find a purchaser for the new overcoat that a Methodist friend gives Father Orin every fall. He, of course, had given his old coat to some shivering wretch last spring while it was still cold, but that didn't make the slightest difference. He didn't even remember the fact till I reminded him of it. It is only October now—so that he can do without the overcoat—and a poor fellow who has come with his wife and baby to live in that deserted cabin near the court-house, is in sore need of a horse for his fall ploughing. Father Orin had suggested Toby's drawing the plough, thinking that some of his own work might be attended to on foot. But Toby, it seems, drew the line at that. It was a treat to hear Father Orin laugh when he told how Toby made it plain that he thought there were more important duties for him to perform, how firmly he refused to drag the plough. He was quite willing, however, to do his best to sell the overcoat, so that they might have money to hire a horse for the ploughing."

The doctor broke off suddenly. The roar coming from the darkness around the swamp rose high on the gusty wind. He and David were now riding fast, and the roaring grew rapidly more continuous and distinct. The vast volume of inarticulate sound presently began to break into many human voices. At last a single voice pierced all the rest. Its shrill cry of spiritual anguish filled the dark forest with the wailing of a soul in extremity.

"And it's a woman, too!" cried the doctor.

He spoke shortly, almost angrily, but something in his tone told David that he also was shivering, although the night was warm, and that his heart was full of pity. They were now drawing near the camp-meeting, but they could not see it, nor even the light from it. They had reentered the forest, which was here made darker and wilder by many fallen trees, blown down and tossed together by the fierce tempests which often rent the swamp. The torn roots, the decaying trunks, and the shattered branches of the dead giants of the ancient wood, were dank with water-moss. Rank poison vines writhed everywhere, and crept like vipers beyond the deadly borders of the great Cypress Swamp. Through such dark and tangled density as this the smoky torches, burning dimly around the camp, could cast their light but a little way. And thus it was by hearing and not by seeing, that they came at last upon the spot almost by accident. They had scarcely got hurriedly down from their horses, and hastily tied them to a swinging bough when the scene burst upon them—a wild vision revealed by the dim flickering torchlight.



There was a long, low shed of vast extent. It was covered with rough boards, and upheld by tree-trunks which still bore the bark. There was no floor other than the bare earth, and there were no seats other than unhewn logs. Here, under the deep shadows of this great shed, all darkly shut in by the black wilderness and dimly lit by a wide circle of smoking, flaring torches, there surged a dark, confused, convulsed, roaring, writhing mass of humanity. And there were many hundreds in that shadowy multitude—swaying, struggling, groaning, laughing, weeping, shouting, praying, dancing, leaping, and falling.

"It does not seem possible that there can be so many in all the wilderness," said the doctor. "But they come from long distances, from as far as fifty and sixty miles around. And they have been coming for weeks—day and night—just like this."

He spoke sadly, and with deep feeling. He laid his firm, gentle hand on David's shaking arm, knowing how the awful spectacle must affect the sensitive boy. David instinctively drew nearer to his side feeling the support of his calm, sane, strong presence, and began gradually to see with clearer eyes, so that this awful vision became by degrees a more awful reality.

"Listen!" cried the doctor. "They are beginning to sing!"

Ah, listen indeed! For a stranger, wilder chant than this which now went swelling up from that frenzied, swaying mass of humanity surely never stirred all that is most mystical in the soul of man! Pealing grandly, awfully upward through the star-lit spaces of a grander temple than ever was reared by human hands, it rolled heavenward, on and on, and higher and higher, to the very dome of the firmament.

With the wild chanting, the madness of the multitude increased. Many men and women—ay, and little children, too—all dropped to their knees, heedless of being trodden underfoot by the unfallen frenzied, and thus crept the length of the earthen floor to the foot of the rude altar. Here, before the pulpit of rough-hewn logs, great heaps of straw were strewn thick and broadcast. On these straw heaps men and women fell prostrate side by side, and lay as if they were dead. Others, both men and women, were suddenly seized with the unnatural, convulsive jerking which gave this mysterious visitation its best-known name. Under this dreadful tremor the long hair of delicate ladies poured unnoticed over the most modest shoulders and flew back and forth with the sound of a whip; for those so wildly wrought upon were not solely of the humble and the ignorant. The highest and the most refined of the whole country were there. The earth was strewn with costly raiment. Gentlemen rent the fine ruffles from their wrists and their bosoms; gentlewomen cast their richest ornaments to the winds. And all the while that this awful, majestic, soul-stirring chant was thus mounting higher and growing wilder, many were whirling and dancing.

David shrunk back, and the doctor drew him closer to his side, as a man suddenly burst out of the swirling mass of maddened humanity, and dashed past them into the forest. There, still within the wide circle of flaring, smoking, torchlight, the poor creature threw his arms around a tree, and uttering strange, savage cries like the barking of a dog, he dashed his head against the tree-trunk till the blood gushed out and poured down his ghastly face. David clung closer to the doctor's arm and turned his eyes away, feeling sick and faint with horror.

"Don't look at him. Turn your head. I must go to him and help him if I can," the doctor said, gently loosing the boy's grasp. "I shouldn't have brought you here. But—Good God! Who is that?" he cried sharply. "Look! Quick! Do you know that girl? Over there by the last pillar—yonder, yonder, with her face turned this way!"

In his eagerness he seized the boy, fairly lifting him from the ground, and held him up so that he could see over all the heads of the surging, swirling crowd. The girl was still there, and David recognized Ruth. She was standing not far off and near the edge of the shed. Close behind her the torches threw out gloomy banners of smoke and vivid streamers of flame, and against them she appeared a quiet, white spirit among many tossed dark shades. When David first saw her, he thought she was looking at him. But in another moment her beautiful face, which had been pale enough before, turned as white as her frock and her large eyes widened with terror. And then David knew that she was looking beyond him and had seen the horror by the tree. He forgot his own horrified faintness, he forgot where he was, the doctor—everything but Ruth and that look in her dear face. He sprang toward her with a piercing cry and outstretched arms.

"Ruth!" he cried. "Here I am, Ruth, dear. I am coming to you. I'll take you away!"

It was a single voice raised against the deafening roar of a hurricane. Only the doctor heard or heeded, and he laid a restraining hand on David's shoulder.

"You are right," he said. "Take her away as soon as you can. She should not have come. Is she your sister? Come this way. We will go round," he went on, without waiting for an answer. "We may be able to reach her from the other side of the shed."

The firm touch and calm tone partly brought the boy to himself, and he followed as closely as he could, but only to be beaten back again and again. That terrific chant was now at its highest and wildest, and he and the doctor were caught in the human maelstrom and swirled hither and thither like straws. They were swept far apart, and when they were quickly driven together again, they had lost sight of Ruth. They were tossed once more, and thrown outside the fiercest swirl. Standing still, they held to a tree, gasping, and searched the crowd with their gaze, trying to find her. She was nowhere to be seen. But while they thus paused, waiting for breath to go on, they saw a tall man near by, leaning against a pillar and quietly overlooking the wild scene. He stood within the circle of torchlight, and they could see him distinctly. Neither the doctor nor David had ever seen him before and neither ever saw him again, but they never forgot just how he looked that night.

He was a very tall man of more than six feet in height. He was very erect and very slender, with the slenderness that gives a look of youth as well as grace. There was no tinge of gray in his tawny hair, which fell heavily back from his high, narrow forehead, without any of the stiffness seen in his later portraits. He was not more than thirty-five years of age at this time, but his face was already lined with care and trouble and exposure. It was naturally pale and thin, almost haggard. Its sole redeeming feature was the wonderful brilliance of his blue eyes. The doctor and David could not see the color of his eyes, and yet he seemed to them a singularly handsome man, as he did to almost every one. There was something about him that may be called a presence, for lack of a better term, something which drew the gaze of the crowd and held it everywhere. Many eyes were upon him that night in the very height and centre of all the frenzy. Glances were cast at him even from the pulpit, which was not far away. One of the ministering preachers gave him a look of recognition, and then, bending down, whispered in the ear of another preacher, a very young man who stood below the pulpit among the fallen, exhorting them to repentance. The exhorter shook off the whisperer and went on with his impassioned plea. He, too, was well worth looking at, and better worth listening to—this inspired young backwoodsman, Peter Cartwright. His swarthy face was pale with the pallor of fanaticism, and his dark eyes were aflame with some mystic fire. His long black hair was wildly blown by the wind which bore his broken words still more brokenly:—

"Such a time as this has not been seen since the day of Pentecost.... A sacred flame is surely sweeping sin from the earth.... Come all ye. Take up your cross and follow Him.... Heaven's gate stands wide to-night.... Praise the Lord!... Come in.... Come at once.... Do not delay—or the gate may close, never to open again. Come! Come with me to the mercy seat. I was once like you. My soul, like yours, was rent in agony. I wept, I strove, I prayed, I was in utter despair ... just as you are now.... Sometimes it seemed as if I could almost lay hold on the Saviour.... Then—all of a sudden—such a fear of the devil fell upon me that he appeared to stand right by my side ready to drag me down to hell. But I prayed on, and said, 'Lord if there be mercy for me, let me find it!' ... At last, in the midst of this awful struggle of soul, I came to the foot of the altar—here—where I am begging you to come.... And then it was as if a voice out of heaven said to me, 'Thy sins are forgiven thee.' ... Glory! Glory! Delight flashed all around me. Joy unspeakable sprung up in my soul. It seemed to me that I was already in paradise. The very trees, the very leaves on the trees, seemed to be singing together and praising God.... Will you share this divine peace with me? Will you come with me this night to the foot of the cross?... Then come now—now—for this may be the accepted hour of your salvation.... Come.... If you wait, you are lost ... lost!"

But these simple, broken words are only the cold and lifeless echo of Peter Cartwright's fiery, living eloquence. Nothing can ever bring that back as it really was. None may hope to tell those who never heard him what it was like. No one, perhaps among the numberless thousands who did hear him, ever knew what the power was, by which this unlettered backwoodsman swayed multitudes at his will. Perhaps David afterward described it as nearly as any one could, when he said that the mere sound of Peter Cartwright's voice that night—when he could not hear the words—made him feel so sorry, so grieved, so ashamed, that he wanted to fall down on the earth and hide his face and weep like a woman, for his own sins and the sins of the whole world.

"There she is!" cried the doctor. "We can reach her now."

But another roaring wave of humanity dashed over them, sweeping them farther from Ruth and nearer the pulpit. They were so near that they could see the fire that flashed over the pale darkness of the young preacher's face as his brother preacher bent down for the second time and touched him warningly, and whispered again. Peter Cartwright, who was still bending over the men and women lying at his feet, suddenly stood erect. He threw back his long black hair, and flung a flaming glance at the tall man leaning against the pillar. And then his voice rang out like a trumpet calling to combat.

"What if it is General Jackson?" he cried. "What is Andrew Jackson but a sinner, too? Let him come with the rest of these poor sinners to beg for pardon before the throne of grace. And let him make haste—or a just and offended God will punish him as if he were the lowest of earth!"

The challenge sounded clear and far. It must have reached the ears of Andrew Jackson, the proud and feared hero of many battles. No man living was more intolerant of indignity or quicker to resent the slightest affront. An alarmed murmur circled through all the tumult; the doctor and David heard it distinctly, and turned with those about them to look at the man thus challenged. But Andrew Jackson himself stood quite still and gave no sign that he had heard. He barely bowed his head when a short, thick-set man pressed through the crowd and touched his arm. The man was a henchman of his, widely and not favorably known in the country, a gambler and adventurer whose name was Tommy Dye. He was leading the general's horse. There were a few words between them, and then the tall figure vaulted into the saddle and disappeared in the surrounding blackness of the forest.

"Now! Here she is. Quick!" cried the doctor.

So crying, he plunged into the storm-lashed sea of humanity like a strong swimmer. The boy followed as well as he could, using all his strength, but they were both dashed back again and again, till at last a wilder wave caught them up and cast them down beside Ruth. Instantly the doctor lifted her in his arms before David found breath, and held her as lightly as if she had been but a wreath of smoke blown across his breast. Holding her thus, and lifting her higher above those wild waves, he bore her through them as if they had been but rippling water. On and on he went to the border of the forest beyond the tumult where the torchlight was brightest, and there he gently set her down. And then all alone they stood silently looking at each other. They were still gazing down into one another's faces, when the boy ran up, panting. At the sight of him the wonder went out of Ruth's blue eyes, and the fright came back. The spell was broken, and she remembered where she was.

"David! Come to me. Take me away!" she cried. "Oh, what a fearful place! I can never forget it while I live. Where is William? We were separated by the crowd."

But even as she spoke, in tones that trembled with alarm, while yet her beautiful face was white and her blue eyes full of tears, there came one of the swift changes that gave her beauty its greatest charm. A vivid blush dyed her cheek, the long, wet lashes suddenly unveiled a coquettish glance, there was a dazzling smile, her hands went up to put her blown hair in order, and she drew on the forgotten gypsy bonnet which was hanging by its strings on her arm. She drew closer to the boy, but she looked at the doctor over her shoulder.

"Who is this gentleman, David?" she faltered. "And how—"

Paul Colbert spoke for himself, telling her his name.

"I am a doctor—the new doctor of the neighborhood," he said, adding with a smile, "I beg your pardon. There was no other way. This young gentleman—who came with me—saw you. We had been trying for an hour or more to reach you. We were afraid to lose the first chance to get you out of that dangerous crush."

His voice was drowned by a sudden roar which lifted the frenzy higher and brought it nearer. The color and smiles fled again from Ruth's face, and she clung to David in greater alarm.

"Take me home. Oh—oh—isn't it terrible! I can't wait to find William. I must go now. I wouldn't be afraid to go alone with you, dear. Not in the least afraid. Take me—take me!"

"Come, then," said David. "The pony's over here."

"But I don't know where my horse is. I don't know where William tied it. I am so turned round that I don't know anything." She was beginning to smile again at her own bewilderment.

"The pony can take us both," said the boy.

She was turning away with him when the doctor interfered with hesitating eagerness:—

"If you will permit me—I would suggest that your friend who came with you may be anxious. He will naturally try to find you. Not knowing that you are gone, he must be alarmed. If I knew him by sight, I could find him and tell him—"

Again his voice was lost in the rising roar of the multitude. The girl buried her face against the boy's shoulder, shudderingly and trembling, and burst into weeping.

"Tell me what to do, David! I can't bear this any longer," she sobbed. "Take me away. Tell me what to do! Oh! Oh!" putting her shaking hands over her ears to shut out the dreadful sounds.

The doctor touched her arm. "If you would allow me to take you home, perhaps this young gentleman could stay and find the person who came with you." He turned quickly to the boy. "You know him?"

"Yes," David replied unwillingly.

His heart had begun to beat high. Here was a better chance to prove himself a man than he had dared hope for. And now this bold stranger was trying to rob him of it. He struggled with himself for a moment, before he could give it up. But Ruth was crying and trembling and clinging to him.

"I will find William," he then said hastily. "Let the doctor take you home."

"But my horse is lost," Ruth lifted her head from David's shoulder and flashed a tearful, smiling glance at the doctor. "How can you take me?"

"Leave it to me," Paul Colbert said quickly, in the tone of a man used to meeting emergencies. "Come with me. I will find a way."

It seemed to Ruth and David that he was one to find a way to whatever he wished. They followed him like two children, to the spot where his horse was tied beside the pony. He untied the bridle with the quickness of constant practice, and sprang into the saddle with the ease of the practiced horseman. He threw the reins over the pommel, and then bending down, held out his arms.

"Now!" he cried. "Give the young lady your hand for her foot!"

David hesitated, not understanding what he meant. It was the custom for the women of the wilderness to ride behind the men; but it was plain that this was not the young doctor's intention. He sat far back in his large saddle, and when Ruth set her foot in the palm of David's hand, and fluttered upward like a freed bird, he caught her and seated her before him. A word to his horse and they were away. He was holding Ruth close to his breast, and her white garments were blown about him, as they vanished in the black wilderness.



VII

A MORNING IN CEDAR HOUSE

It was almost morning when the boy and William Pressley reached home. David did not go to bed, but set out at the first glimmer of dawn to do the judge's bidding, calling the black men to go with him, since there was no great glory to be won by going alone in the daylight. There was time for a little rest after coming back, and it was still very early when he arose from his bed and began to get ready for breakfast.

He looked from his cabin window at the river which always drew his waking gaze. It was sparkling like a stream of liquid diamonds under the flood of sunlight pouring over the dazzled earth. The fringing rushes rippled as gently as the water under the snowy breasts of many swans. The trees along the shore were freshly green and newly alive with the color and chatter of the paroquets. Looking and listening, he thought what a poetic notion it was that these vivid birds should carry the seed pearls of the mistletoe from one mighty oak to another, bearing the tiny treasures in the wax on their feet.

Far up the wide, shining river a great, heavy-laden barge was gliding swiftly down. Its worn and clumsy sail seemed as white and graceful as the wings of the swans in the sun. Its dull and tangled coils of cordelles caught an unwonted charm from the sunbeams. Its merry crew was singing a song, which came gayly over the flashing water:—

"Hi-ho, the boatmen row, The Kentuck boys and the O-hi-o. Dance, the boatmen, dance, Dance, the boatmen, dance; Dance all night till broad daylight, And go home with the gals in the mornin'."

Watching the barge pass out of sight beneath the overhanging trees, David turned to see a small dark object, leading two long verging lines of silvery ripples across the glittering current. This cleft the water near the Shawnee Crossing, and might, not long before, have been the plumed head of a warrior wanting his canoe. But since the warriors were all gone so strangely and suddenly, this brown speck now crossing the river must have been the antlered head of a deer swimming to the other side, thus giving the hunters warning that these green hills would soon be white with snow. If so, there was no other sign of nearing winter. The sombre forest stretching away from the opposite shore had not yet been brightened by a touch of frost. The leaves on the near-by trees, the great oaks and elms and poplars standing around Cedar House, were thinning only through ripeness, and drifting very slowly down to the green and growing grass. On the tall maples perfection alone had culled the foliage, so wreathing the bronze boughs with rarer garlands of fretted gold.

No dread of wintry storms had yet driven away any of the birds that Ruth fed every day on the sill of her chamber window. They were all there as usual—the whole feathered colony—as if they wished to be polite, even though they were not hungry on that sunny morning. The little ones, to be sure, pecked a crumb now and then with a languid indifference. The blue jays—as usual—were brazen in their ingratitude for any dole of commonplace crumbs, while spicy seeds were still strewn by every scented breeze. But shy and bold alike, they all flocked around Ruth's window, and sat on the sill within reach of her hand, and cocked their pretty heads as if it were feast enough only to look at her.

She had already been downstairs to fetch the birds' breakfast, and had gone into the garden where the sweetest and reddest roses of all the year were still blooming. She held a big bunch of them in her hand as she stood at the open window and waved it at David in a morning greeting, when she saw him crossing the yard. She came down the broad stairs as he entered the great room, and she was wearing a fresh white frock and her arms were full of the fragrant red roses.

The rest of the family were already in the room, and the table was laid for breakfast. Ruth greeted each one with a smile, but she did not speak, and began to move quietly about the table, giving those dainty little finishing touches which no true woman ever leaves to a servant. She put some of the roses in a vase, and rearranged this and that, moving lightly and softly about. Her footsteps were as soundless as the fall of tender leaves, and her garments made no more rustle than the unfolding of a flower. She threw one of the red roses at David, and wafted the judge a kiss. Once or twice she turned to speak to William, but forthwith smilingly gave up all thought of it for the time being.

There never was any use in anybody's trying to speak while Miss Penelope was in the height of the excitement of making the morning coffee. An opportunity for a word might possibly occur during the making of the coffee for dinner or supper. Miss Penelope did not consider this function quite so solemn a ceremony at dinner or supper time. Sometimes, at rare intervals, she had been known to allow the coffee for dinner or supper to be made by the cook in the kitchen. But the making of the breakfast coffee was a very different and far more imposing ceremonial. This must always be performed in the presence of the, entire assembled household, by her own hand, on the wide hearth in the great room of Cedar House. To have permitted the cook to make the morning coffee in the kitchen, would have been in Miss Penelope's eyes, to relegate a sacred rite to profane hands in an unconsecrated place. Her own making of the morning coffee had indeed much of the solemnity of a religious ceremony—or would have had, if those who looked on, had been unable to hear, or even slightly dull of hearing. For the sound of Miss Penelope's voice was charming when the listener could not hear what it said. And her dulcet tone always ran through the whole performance like the faint, sweet echo of distant music. But when the listener's ears were keen, and he could hear the things that this kind, caressing voice was saying, the threats that it was uttering!—They were alarming enough to curdle the blood of the little cup-bearers, black, brown, and yellow, who always flew like shuttles back and forth between the big house and the distant kitchen while Miss Penelope was making the breakfast coffee. It required much flying of small dusky legs, to and fro, before the cold water was cold enough, the hot water hot enough, and the fresh egg fresh enough, to satisfy Miss Penelope that the coffee would be all that it should be.

On this particular morning the usual excitement had reached its crisis as Ruth came down the stairs. There was usually a slight lull when the first slender and almost invisible column of steam arose from the long spout of the coffee-pot. That was the most critical moment, and it now being safely past, Miss Penelope hastily sent away all the cup-bearers in a body. But she still hovered anxiously over the pot, gravely considering how many minutes longer it should rest on its trivet over the glowing coals. Hers was a quaint little figure. She wore a queer little black dress, very short and narrow, made after some peculiar fashion of her own, and over it a queerer little cape of the same stuff. Her cap on the other hand was singularly large and white, and the ruffle around her face was very wide and very stiff. The snapping black eyes under the ruffle were never still, and the clawlike little hands were never at rest. David in his idle way used to wonder what she worried about and fidgeted over in her sleep. But it was hard to think of her asleep; it would have been easier to fancy a sleeping weasel. Nevertheless the boy liked Miss Penelope. Ruth and he had learned while they were little children, that there was no unkindness in the snapping of her sharp little black eyes, and that the terrible things she said were as harmless as heat lightning. Even the little cup-bearers, black, brown, and yellow, all knew how kind-hearted she was, and did not mind in the least the most appalling threats uttered by her sweet, soft voice. She always gave them something before she sent them flying back to the cabins. Everybody liked her better than the widow Broadnax who never scolded or meddled and indeed, rarely spoke at all to any one upon any subject. For the household had long since come to understand that this lady, like many another of her kind, was silent mainly because she had nothing to say; and that she never found fault, simply because she did not care. Indifference like hers often passes for amiability; and that sort of motionless silence conceals a vacuum quite as often as it covers a deep. Only one thing ever fully aroused the widow Broadnax; and this was to see her half-sister taking authority in her own brother's house. And indeed, that were enough to rouse the veriest mollusk of a woman. In the case of the widow Broadnax this natural feeling was not at all affected by the fact that she was too indolent to make the exertion to claim and fill her rightful place as mistress of the house. It did not matter in the least that she lay and slept like a sloth while poor little Miss Penelope was up and working like a beaver. No woman's claims ever have anything to do with her deserts; perhaps no man's ever have either; perhaps all who claim most deserve least. At all events, it was perfectly natural that the widow Broadnax should feel as truly and deeply aggrieved at her half-sister's ruling her own brother's house, as if she, herself, had been the most energetic and capable of housekeepers.

On that morning her dull eyes kept an unwavering, unwinking watch over the coffee making; as they always did over every encroachment upon her rights. Her heavy eyelids were only partially lifted, yet not a movement of Miss Penelope's restless little body, not a gesture of her nervous little hands was allowed to escape. Now that the coffee was nearly ready, Miss Penelope had become rather more composed. She still stood guard over the coffee-pot; she never left it till she carried it to the table with her own hands, but she was lapsing into a sort of spent silence. She merely sighed at intervals with the contented weariness that comes from a sense of duty well done. But her half-sister still eyed her as a fat, motionless spider eyes a buzzing little fly which is ceasing to flutter. Miss Penelope had not observed a large pewter cup resting on the floor near the widow Broadnax's chair. It had been left there by a careless servant, who had used a portion of the mixture of red paint and sour buttermilk with which it was filled, to give the wide hearth its fine daily gloss. Miss Penelope had not observed it because she was always oblivious to everything else while hanging over the coffee-pot. The widow Broadnax had seen the cup at once because it was slightly in the way of her foot; and she was quick enough to notice the least discomfort. But she had not immediately perceived the longed-for opportunity which it gave her. That came like an inspiration a few moments later, when Miss Penelope was off guard for an instant. Her back was turned only long enough for her to go to the table and see if the tray was ready for the coffee-pot, but the widow Broadnax found this plenty of time. With a quickness truly surprising in one of her habitual slowness, she swooped down and seized the cup of buttermilk and paint. In a flash she lifted the lid of the coffee-pot, poured the contents of the cup in the coffee, set the empty cup down in its place, and was back again, resting among the cushions as if she had never stirred, when poor little Miss Penelope, all unsuspecting, returned to her post.

"You really must get up, Sister Molly," that lady said resolutely, renewing an altercation. "I hid the pantry keys under your chair cushions at supper, last night. That's always the safest place. But I forgot to take them out before you sat down. And you must get up—there isn't enough sugar for the coffee."

"Let me," said Ruth, coming forward with a smile, in her pretty, coaxing way.

When the antagonism between the sisters broke into open hostility, it was nearly always she who managed to soothe them and restore a temporary semblance of peace—for beyond that no mortal power could go. She now prevailed upon the widow Broadnax to rise with her assistance, thus securing the keys, and when that lady was once on her feet she was easier to move, so that Ruth now led her to her place at the breakfast table without further trouble. There was, however, always more or less trouble about the place itself. It was but woman nature to feel it to be very hard for a whole sister to sit at the side of the table while a half sister sat at its head. The judge always did what he could to spare her feelings, and Miss Penelope's at the same time. He was a bachelor, and held women in the half-gallant, half-humorous regard which sets the bachelor apart from the married man, and places him at a disadvantage which he is commonly unaware of. The judge thought he understood the distinctively feminine weaknesses particularly well, and that he made uncommonly large allowance for them, as the bachelor always thinks and never does. And then when the quarrel reached a crisis, and he was entirely at the end of his resources for keeping the peace, he could always threaten to take to the woods, and that usually brought a short truce.

"Ruth, my dear, what's all this about some stranger's bringing you home last night?" he inquired, taking his seat at the foot of the table. "Where were you, William? and what were you doing? You shouldn't have taken Ruth to such a place, or anywhere, if you couldn't take care of her," with unusual severity.

Ruth sprang to William's defence. She said that it was not his fault. They were separated by the crowd. He had done his best, and all that any one could have done.

"I made William take me. He didn't want to do it. And I am not sorry that I went, although I was so much frightened at the time. Without seeing it, no one can ever know what this strange and awful thing is like. No description can possibly describe it," she said, with darkening eyes and rising color.

"A most shocking and improper scene," said William Pressley, as one who weighs his words. "A most shocking and improper scene."

Ruth looked at him wonderingly.

"Shocking—improper!" she faltered, perplexedly. "What a strange way to think of it. To me it was a great, grave, terrible spectacle. The awe of it overwhelmed me, alarmed as I was. Why, it was like seeing the Soul universal—bared and quivering."

William Pressley said nothing more. He never discussed anything. Once he had spoken, the subject seemed to him finally disposed of.

"Great Grief!" cried Miss Penelope in the blankest amazement and the greatest dismay. "For the land's sake!"

As the faithful high-priestess of the coffee-pot she was always the first to taste her own brew. She now set her cup down hastily. Her red, wrinkled little face was a study. The widow Broadnax, whose cup was untouched, sat silent and impassive as usual, regarding her with the same dull, half-open, unwinking gaze.

"What under the sun!" gasped Miss Penelope, still more and more amazed and dismayed, and growing angry as she rallied from the shock.

"Come, come!—if I can't eat breakfast in peace, I'll take to the woods. What's the matter?" exclaimed the judge. "Didn't you get the coffee made to suit you, after all that rumpus? Isn't it good?"

"Good!" shrieked Miss Penelope. "It's poisoned, I do believe! Don't drink it, any of you, if you value your lives!"

"Oh, nonsense!" said the judge. "You are too hard to please, Sister Penelope. And you spoil the rest of us, making the coffee yourself. Never mind—never mind!"

He took a sip and made a wry face, but he hardly ever knew what he was eating, and pushing the cup back, forgot all about it. He was more interested in Ruth's account of the meeting, and asked many questions about her ride home.

"This young doctor must be a fine fellow," he said. "I have been hearing a good deal about him from Father Orin. They are already great friends, it seems. They meet often among the poor and the sick, and work together. I hope, my dear, that you thought to ask him to call. You remembered, didn't you, to tell him that the latch-string of Cedar House always hangs on the outside? I want to thank him and then I should like to know such a man. He is an addition to the community."

"Oh, yes, I thought of that, of course," said Ruth, simply. "I told him I knew you and William would like to thank him. He is coming to-day. I hope, uncle Robert, that you will be here when he does come."

"I shall be here to thank him," said William. "Uncle need take no trouble in the matter. I will do all that is necessary."

A woman must be deeply in love before she likes to hear the note of ownership in a man's voice when speaking of herself. Ruth was not at all in love—in that way—although she did not yet know that she was not. The delicate roses of her cheeks deepened suddenly to the tint of the rich red ones which she held again in her hands. Her blue eyes darkened with revolt, and she gave William a clear, level look, throwing up her head. Then her soft heart smote her, and her gentle spirit reproached her. She believed William Pressley to be a good man, and she was ever ready to feel herself in the wrong. She got up in a timid flurry and went to the door and stood a moment looking out at the sun-lit river. Presently she quietly returned, and shyly pausing behind William's chair, rested her hand on the back of it. There was a timid apology in the gesture. She was thinking only of her own shortcomings. Had she been critical of him or even observant, she would have seen that there was something peculiarly characteristic in the very way that he handled his knife and fork; a curious, satisfied self-consciousness in the very lift of his wrists which seemed to say that this, and no other, was the correct manner of eating, and that he disapproved of everybody else's manner. But she saw nothing of the kind, for hers was not the poor affection that stands ever ready to pick flaws. He did not know that she was near him until the judge spoke to her; and then he sprang to his feet at once. He was much too fine a gentleman to keep his seat while any lady stood. Ruth smilingly motioned him back to his chair, and going round the table, leant over the judge's shoulder. He had been examining a packet of legal papers, and he laid a yellow document before her, spreading it out on the table-cloth.

"You were asking the other day about the buffalo—when they were here, and so on. Now, listen to this old note of hand, dated the fifteenth of October, seventeen hundred and ninety-two, just nineteen years ago. Here it is: 'For value Rec'd, I promise to pay Peter Wilson or his Agent, twenty pounds worth of good market Buffalo Beef free from Boone, to be delivered at Red Banks on the Ohio River, or at aney other place that he or his shall salt beef on the banks of said river, and aney time in the ensuing fawl before this fawl's hunting is over.' There now, my dear! That would seem to prove that there were plenty of buffalo hereabouts not long ago. A hundred dollars in English gold must have bought a large amount of wild meat. If this meant Virginia pounds it was still a great deal. And the hunter who drew this note must have known how he was going to pay it."

"Rachel Robards says there were lots of buffalo when she came," said Miss Penelope, who was gradually recovering from the shock of tasting the coffee, and now prudently thought best to say no more about the matter. "I always call her Rachel Robards, because I knew her so well by that name. I am not a-disputing her marriage with General Jackson. If she wasn't married to him when she first thought she was, she is now, hard and fast enough. I have got nothing to say about that one way or another. As a single woman, it don't become me to be a-talking about such matters. But married or not married, I have always stood up for Rachel Robards. Lewis Robards would have picked a fuss with the Angel Gabriel, let alone a fire-eater like Andrew Jackson. Give the devil his due. But all the same, if Andrew Jackson does try to chastise Peter Cartwright for what he said last night, there's a-going to be trouble. Now mark my word! I know as well, and better than any of you, that Peter is only a boy. Many's the time that I've seen his mother take off her slipper and turn him across her lap. And she never hit him a lick amiss, either. But that's neither here nor there. His being young don't keep me from seeing that he has surely got the Gift. It don't make any difference that he hasn't cut his wisdom teeth, as they say. What if he hasn't?" demanded Miss Penelope, with the most singular contrast between her mild tone and her fierce words. "What has the cutting of wisdom teeth got to do with preaching, when the preacher has been given the Gift!"

So speaking, she suddenly started up from the table with an exclamation of surprise, and ran to the open door.

"Peter! Oh, Peter Cartwright!" she called. "Wait—stop a minute. To think of your going by right at the very minute that we were a-talking about you!"

She went out under the trees where the square-built, stern-faced, swarthy young preacher had brought his horse to a standstill.

"Now, Peter, you surely ain't a-going up to the court-house to see Andrew Jackson," she said in sudden alarm.

"No, no, not now," said Peter, hurriedly. "I am riding fast to keep an appointment to preach on the other side of the river."

"But you can stop long enough to eat breakfast. I lay you haven't had a bite this blessed day."

Peter shook his head, gathering up the reins.

"And ten to one that you haven't got a cent of money!" Miss Penelope accused him.

Peter's grim young face relaxed in a faint smile. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out two small pieces of silver.

"Ah, ha, I knew it!" exulted Miss Penelope. "Now do wait just one minute till I run in the house and get you some money."

"No, no, there isn't time. I'll miss my appointment to preach. I will get along somehow. Thank you—good-by."

Miss Penelope, reaching up, seized the bridle-reins and held on by main force with one hand while she rummaged in her out pocket with the other.

"There!—here are three bits—every cent I've got with me," she said indignantly, shoving it in his hand. "Well, Peter Cartwright, if your mother could know—"

But the young backwoodsman, whose fame was already filling the wilderness, and was to fill the whole Christian world, now pressed on riding fast, and was soon beyond her kind scolding.

"Well, 'pon my word! Did anybody ever see the like of that!" she cried, seeing that Ruth had followed her to the door. "That boy don't know half the time whether he has had anything to eat or not. And it's just exactly the same to him when he's got money and when he hasn't."

The girl did not hear what Miss Penelope said. Her heart was responding, as it always did, to everything great or heroic, and she looked after this boy preacher with newly opened eyes. She suddenly saw as by a flash of white light, that he and the other pioneer men of God—these soldiers of the cross who were bearing it through the trackless wilderness—were of the greatest. Her dim eyes followed the young man—this brave bearer of the awful burden of the divine mission—watching him press on to the river. She thought of the many rivers that he must swim, the forests that he must thread, the savages that he must contend against, the wild beasts that he must conquer, the plague that he must defy, the shelterless nights that he must sleep under the trees—freezing, starving, struggling through winter's cold and summer's heat, and all for the love of God and the good of mankind.



VIII

THE LOG TEMPLE OF JUSTICE

Most of those dauntless soldiers, who first bore the cross through the wilderness were as ready to fight as to pray—as they had to be. No power of earth or evil which he had been able to combat could have turned young Peter Cartwright that day or have held him back. Pressing on without rest or food, he was in time to preach. When this duty was done, he returned over the Shawnee Crossing and rode straight to the court-house. To go there was in his eyes the next service due the Word.

The court-house was a single large, low room built of rough logs, and standing in the depths of the primeval forest. Great trees arched their branches over its roof and the immemorial "Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes," went up through their heavy dark tops. It must have been strange thus to hear this formal summons before the bar of human justice, strange indeed to see the precise motion of man's law in so wild a spot. Roundabout there still stretched the wilderness which is subject only to nature's law—the one immutable law which takes no heed of justice or mercy; which recks neither man's needs nor his deserts.

The court-house in the wilderness stood quite alone, with no other building near. There was not even a fence round it, nor so much as a hitching-post in front of the rude door which was rarely closed. Those who came—the judge, the jury, the lawyers, the clients, the spectators—all hitched their horses to the swinging limbs of the trees. The sole sign of man's handiwork, beyond the log walls of the court-house itself, was a crude attempt at bridge-building. A creek ran between the court-house and the home of Judge Knox, who was the judge of the court, and over this a few rough boards had been loosely laid across two rotting logs. The structure being both weak and unsteady, it was the judge's habit to dismount on coming to the bridge and to cross it on foot, leading his horse by the bridle. It was then but a stone's throw to the court-house, and as he was heavy, clumsy, and an awkward rider, he did not mount again, but walked on till he came to the spot where he always stopped to tie the bridle to the same limb. And there he invariably tied it in his absent-minded way, without ever thinking of looking round to see if the horse was tied with the bridle. Sometimes he was and again he was not, for this was as that sagacious and dignified animal himself thought best. He commonly made up his mind upon this point when they got to the bridge, where he could tell easily enough by the judge's gait in crossing over, whether or not it would be advisable to follow. If the horse then saw fit to turn back and go home, as a hint to the family to send for the judge at the proper time, he never hesitated to pull his head out of the old bridle which he could do very easily. So that the judge sometimes went on and tied the empty bridle in the usual place, never knowing the difference; while his horse calmly turned round and soberly walked back to the stable. Seeing him thus pass the windows, the good people of Cedar House sighed a little, and shook their heads, but they nevertheless always knew exactly what to do.

On this late October day, however, the horse followed the judge without demur, assured by his own observation that all was right. The judge, honest, simple soul, rarely failed to turn over a new leaf and make a fresh start on the morning after the meeting of the grand jury, which gravely and respectfully found an indictment against him almost as regularly at it met. He had already assessed and—gravely ordering it written up—paid his own fine on this occasion without a murmur, as he always did, and he was now quite sober and ready to resume his place on the bench. He had held it for a long time to the public satisfaction; and he continued to hold it for many years afterward with honor, ability, and distinction, notwithstanding these occasional lapses. His one weakness was of course well known but his profound knowledge of the law, and his unimpeachable integrity were still better known. It was said of him that he never had anything to say which could not be shouted out from the court-house door. And these qualities were sorely needed on the bench of the wilderness, more sorely needed at this time than ever before or since.

The whole country had lately been overrun by open and defiant lawlessness. It was fast coming to be known far and wide as "Rogue's Harbor." It had already become the recognized refuge and hiding-place of the outcasts from the older states. The breakers of all laws human and divine,—the makers of counterfeit money, the forgers of land titles, the stealers of horses, robbers, murderers, thieves and criminals of every sort and condition, the fine gentleman and the ruffian, the duelist and the assassin—all these were now flocking to Rogue's Harbor. Once there, they were not long content merely to find a hiding place from the wrath of broken law and outraged civilization. They were soon seeking and finding opportunity to commit other and worse offences. It was no longer a secret that regular stations of outlawry were firmly established between Natchez on the one side and Duff's Fort, on the other. The most dreaded of these were known to be within the new state's border along the line of the Wilderness Road, although the law had not been able to lay its hand upon them. And thus was southern Kentucky now bound, blinded and helpless, in a long, strong, bloody chain of crime.

It was knowing this and feeling his own responsibility and powerlessness that made the judge's good-humored face stern on that October morning. It was this which made his absent-minded eyes clear and keen as he drew near the court-house. He had come earlier than usual but others, equally anxious, were there before him. And then the court-house was in a way the mart of the whole region, especially for the sale of horses. Rough-looking men with the marks of the stable and the race-track upon them, were riding the best quarter nags up and down the forest path and pointing out the delicate leg, the well-proportioned head, and the elegant form, which made the traits of the first race-horses in Kentucky. Foremost among these first men of the turf was Tommy Dye, scanning the quarter nags with a trained eye. As soon as the judge saw him, he knew that General Jackson was not far away, for wherever the general went, there also was to be found his faithful henchman, Tommy Dye. It was he who arranged the cockfights in which the general delighted, declaring a game cock to be the bravest thing alive. It was he who was always trying to find for him a race-horse which could beat Captain Haynie's Maria. This famous racer had beaten the general's Decatur in that year's sweepstakes, and he had sworn by his strongest oath that he would find a horse to beat her if there was one in the world that could do it. But Tommy Dye and other eager, tireless agents of the general had already searched far and wide. They had gone over all the horse-raising states with a drag-net, they had sent as far as other countries. And no horse which even promised to beat Maria had yet been found, so that the general's defeat was still rankling bitterly, for it was the bitterest that he had ever met or ever was to meet. He did not feel his defeat in the first race for the Presidency nearly so deeply and keenly as this; and then that was afterward retrieved by a most brilliant victory. But, as a friend once said of him—although he went on achieving great victories of many kinds, overcoming powerful enemies, conquering the Indians, subduing the lawless, defying the Spanish and the French, vanquishing the British and slaying single-handed the Dragon of the Bank—he could never find a horse to beat Maria.

But he was still trying everywhere and under all circumstances however unpromising. On that day he cast anxious glances through the open door of the log court-house at the horses which Tommy Dye, in a forlorn hope, was having paraded up and down the forest path. He turned away with a sigh, and went on talking to the United States Attorney for Kentucky at whose request he had come to the court-house that day. He had done for his own territory in a lesser degree, the identical thing which Joseph Hamilton Daviess was desperately striving to do for this country; and he had consented to give him the benefit of his own experience, and to advise him as to ways and means. These were always strenuous with Andrew Jackson, and Joe Daviess himself was not a man of half measures. In mind and body he was quite as powerful as the man to whom he now listened with such profound deference. He was also a handsomer man and younger. He was fully as tall, too, with as lordly a bearing; the most marked contrast in their appearance being in their dress. General Jackson wore broadcloth of the cut seen in all his older portraits; Joe Daviess wore buckskin breeches and a hunting shirt belted at the waist, both richly fringed on the leg and sleeve. The suit was the same that he had worn when he rode over the Alleghanies to Washington, to plead the historic case before the Supreme Court. But the rudest garb could never make him seem other than the courtly gentleman that he was. He was a scholar moreover, and a writer of books. A great mind, and ever eager to learn, he now stood listening to General Jackson with the humility of true greatness. He bowed to the judge, seeing him enter, but he did not move or cease to listen. His grave, intent face brightened suddenly as if a light had passed over it, when he saw Father Orin's merry, ruddy countenance look in at the open door. He and the priest were close friends, although they held widely different faiths, and argued fiercely over their differences of opinion whenever they met—and had time—and notwithstanding that neither ever yielded to the other so much as a single hair's breadth.

Father Orin now came straight toward him, merely nodding and smiling at those whom he passed, and reaching Joe Daviess' side, he coolly ran his hand deep down in his friend's pocket, precisely as if it had been his own. The attorney-general made believe to strike out backward with his left hand—his right being full of papers. But he laughed, and he did not turn his head to see how much money the priest had taken and was calmly transferring to his own pocket. And then, chuckling and nodding his gray head, Father Orin quietly made his way round the court room, keeping close to the wall, and taking care to pass behind the jury which sat on a bench of boards laid across two logs. He was now making his way to the little platform of logs on which the judge was sitting. The judge saw him coming and hastily shook his head, knowing from long experience what he was coming for. But Father Orin only chuckled more merrily and drew nearer. When he put out his hand the judge surrendered, knowing how useless it would be to resist while a few Spanish dollars or even a few bits of cut money were left in his wallet, or there was want in the wilderness which the priest's persistence could relieve. But his left eyebrow went up very high in a very acute angle, as he leant far over to one side and ran his hand into the depths of his breeches pocket.

"There!" he said, handing over what he had. "I am glad I haven't got any more. Hereafter, when I see you coming, I'm going to take to the woods. Much or little, you always get all there is," he said, ostentatiously buttoning the flap over his empty pocket. "Oh, by the way, Father, somebody wants you over yonder in that corner. Those men, standing there, asked me just now if I knew where you were. They have got into some sort of a snarl, and they want you to straighten it out."

"Very well, I will go and see," said the priest, simply, being used to all sorts of calls, temporal as well as spiritual.

The two men had already seen him, and were standing to receive him when he came up. One of them was a member of his own church and known to him as a man of large affairs. The other, a lawyer and a Protestant, he had a much slighter acquaintance with. It was the lawyer who spoke after both had greeted him warmly, as if they felt his appearance to be a relief.

"We have been hoping you might come. We are in trouble and think you are the man to help us set matters right," said the lawyer.

"What is it?" laughed Father Orin. "I don't know anything about law."

The lawyer laughed too. "Well, you see, Father, it isn't law exactly. That is, not the kind of law that I know. That's just where you come in. It's this way. My client here has won a suit. He was bound to win it and I told him so before it came to trial. The law was clear enough. But you see, Father, law isn't always justice. You can keep within the law and do mighty mean things. And my client here doesn't want to do anything that isn't right. He, as you know, is a clean, straight man. He has scruples about the rights that this decision gives him. It's a knotty question. The other man thinks that he is being cheated, and my client isn't quite sure himself. I didn't know what to advise in such a case. I could tell him what the law of the land and the court—of this court—was, and I have told him. But I couldn't tell him anything about the law of that other land or that Higher Court. I don't know any more about those than you know about my laws and my court. And so we have decided to ask you, to leave the whole dispute to you, and the other man has agreed to let you decide it. He is a Protestant, as I am, but that has nothing to do with this business. We are all perfectly willing to leave it to you; we will all abide by your decision without another word."

Father Orin hesitated. "I don't know that I can see any more clearly than the rest of you. Well, call the other man," he then said. "We can try to find out what is right, anyway. We can't go far wrong if we do our best to treat the other man as we should like him to treat us. Come over here where we will be more to ourselves, and fetch the other man."

The judge was too busy to notice the consultation, but after a while he saw the four men leaving the court room together, with quiet, smiling faces. They all stopped for a moment in the doorway to allow Father Orin to shake hands with Peter Cartwright. The young preacher had been delayed on his way, and was just now entering the court-house. He did not smile when the priest said something which made the others laugh. His square jaw was grimly set, and his fiery black eyes looked over the heads of the crowd at the tall figure of General Jackson which towered above every one else in the court room, with the exception of the attorney-general. These two great lawyers still stood absorbed in low-toned conversation. But the young preacher had no eyes for Joe Daviess nor for any one except Andrew Jackson. As soon as he could free his hand from Father Orin's clasp he entered the court room and went straight up to General Jackson and stood still in front of him, looking at him. Both the gentlemen turned in surprise at the young backwoodsman's abrupt approach. Both were much older and taller than he, and very different altogether from this square-built, rough-mannered youth. But they may have felt the power that was his as well as theirs, for neither gave a sign of the impatience that both were quick to feel and almost as quick to show. Peter Cartwright was gazing steadily up into General Jackson's eagle eyes—which few could face, which turned many a stout heart from a firm purpose—without swerving for an instant from what he meant to do.



"This is General Jackson, I believe," he said.

Andrew Jackson bent his haughty head. His gaze was now enough to make the bravest flinch. But the young preacher went on without the slightest flinching.

"I have been told, sir, that you wanted to see me. I am Peter Cartwright. I understand that you intend to chastise me for what I said at the camp-meeting. Well, here I am."

Andrew Jackson stared at him silently for a moment, as if he did not get the drift of the words. And then he suddenly burst into a great roar.

"The man who told you that was an infernal fool! I did say that I wanted to see you—to meet you. But I said so because I desired the honor of knowing you, sir. I wanted to shake the hand of a man like you. Will you give it to me now, sir? I shall take it as an honor. I am proud to know a man who is ready to do his duty in spite of anybody on God's earth—as a preacher should be. A minister of Jesus Christ should love everybody, and fear no mortal man. Give me your hand again, sir. By the eternal, if I had a few officers like you, and a well-drilled army, I could take old England!"

With the meeting of the two men's hands a shout rang out from the crowd now pressing in at the door. Shout followed shout, till the outcry sounded far through the forest. It reached the ears of Philip Alston and William Pressley, who were riding slowly toward the court-house. They spurred their horses forward, wondering what could be the cause of the unusual noise and excitement. When they had reached the court-house and learned what the shouting meant, Philip Alston smiled in approval.

"Very fine, very patriotic," he said.

But his real attention was not for the crowd; he cared nothing for its cries. He was looking at Joe Daviess and Andrew Jackson, the two famous attorneys, who were again absorbed in grave, low-toned consultation.

"Do you happen to know, William, what these distinguished gentlemen are discussing with such interest and gravity? It must be something of importance. But of course you know, my dear boy. You needn't tell me if it is any matter of state or any sort of a secret. I asked without thinking. Pardon me," said Philip Alston.

He spoke in a low tone of gentle indifference. There was nothing to indicate that he felt any special interest, but William Pressley answered the question at once, and without reserve. Nothing pleased that young man more than a chance to display his own first knowledge of political affairs, either local, state, or national. A single word of politics never failed to fire his ambition, to light that one spark in his cold eyes. And Philip Alston knew how to strike the flint that lit this spark, as he knew how to do almost anything that he wished to do. So that William now told him what it was that these two powerful guardians of the public peace and safety had met to discuss. He also told him everything that the judge had said of his own determination to do his utmost to aid Joe Daviess in carrying out the plans which were to be laid that day. Philip Alston listened in silence, with his eyes on General Jackson and Kentucky's attorney-general; looking first at the one and then at the other, admiring and appreciating both. He had a sincere, although purely intellectual admiration for any real greatness. Thus gazing at the two men he saw how great was the responsibility resting on them, and how ably and fearlessly they were meeting it. He realized clearly that these two grave, honest, earnest, fearless thinkers must find help for the whole country solely in the might of their own minds and in the strength of their own hands. He knew that no aid ever had been given, or ever would be given, by the government as none could know better than themselves. All this and much more came to Philip Alston, as he stood looking at Andrew Jackson and Joe Daviess while listening to William Pressley. Through his whole life this had been his attitude. He had always looked one way and rowed another, like the boatman in The Pilgrim's Progress.

"And doubtless you too are giving valuable assistance," he said, turning his inscrutable gaze on William Pressley, and speaking in the tone of deference which often covered his contempt. "You will, however, be in a position to make your services far more valuable and much more widely recognized, should the attorney-general resign. There can be no doubt of your succeeding him. No one else stands so close to the place. You shall have it without fail if any influence can aid you. And then, when things are as we wish them to be in this vicinity, we will send you to Congress to look after our larger interests. But in order to do this, we must both keep a keen lookout beforehand—there must be no mistakes. It might be well for you to meet me to-morrow at Anvil Rock. I shall pass there at twelve o'clock on my way to Duff's Fort. You can then tell me the plans which these able gentlemen are now making. You will learn them from your uncle. Take care to remember the smallest detail. Bear in mind, my dear boy, that you will soon have this whole responsibility on your own shoulders. You are now in excellent training for it. Everything that passes between these brilliant lawyers must be of personal value to you in the discharge of your future duties, and to me, also, in order that I may serve you."

William's chest swelled out with pride, and he held his head higher in conscious rectitude. He had not a doubt of his ability to fill the place, nor thought of doubting that he was doing what was right and wise in being perfectly candid with Philip Alston. He thought it most likely that he could secure the appointment without that gentleman's influence. He was quite sure that he would not require any one's assistance in filling it. Still, he was willing to pay all proper deference to an old friend, and to the foster-father of the girl who was to be his wife. These thoughts were an open book which Philip Alston read with another queer smile, while thanking him for the promise to come to Anvil Rock.

"I will leave you now," Philip Alston said. "I have business to-day, also, at Duff's Fort. And you, left alone, will be free to join your uncle and the distinguished gentlemen who are working with him."

The two great lawyers had not seen Philip Alston up to the moment that he turned to leave the court-house, when General Jackson's eagle eye fell upon him.

"Why, there's Philip Alston now!" he exclaimed in an undertone and with a frown. "The splendid audacity of the magnificent rascal! Think of his coming here—right under our noses—to-day, too, of all days! And he knows perfectly well that we know him to be the leader, the originator, the head and the brains of all this villany!"

"Yes. But how are we going to prove it?" asked the attorney-general. "Believing a thing and proving it are two different things. If I could only once get my hand on a particle of evidence.—Do you suppose he could have known what we were talking about?" with sudden uneasiness. "He is intelligent enough to guess, without hearing a word. It is scarcely possible that Judge Knox could have been so thoughtless as to speak of our plans to his nephew—that solemn, pompous young fool who was with Alston. Surely, even Robert Knox couldn't have been so indiscreet in a matter of life and death, such as this!"

"Not when he was sober; and he hasn't been drinking to-day. As for yesterday—that is another matter," said General Jackson. "Robert Knox always means to do exactly what is right, but what a man means is sometimes very different from what he does, especially when he doesn't know what he is doing."



IX

PAUL'S FIRST VISIT TO RUTH

None of this strife had yet touched Cedar House. Even the hazy sadness which had dimmed Ruth's bright spirits as she had watched the young preacher ride away, had passed as quickly as mist before the sun. For it is one of the mercies that happy youth never sees life's struggle quite clearly, and that it is soon allowed to forget the fleeting glimpses which may cloud its happiness for an instant.

Her thoughts were now solely of the young doctor's coming. He had not named the hour; the epidemic made him uncertain of his own time. But he had said that he would come during the day, so that it was necessary to be ready to receive him at any moment. And there were many pleasant things to do in preparation for his coming. More roses were to be gathered, and other flowers also, were blooming gayly among the sober vegetables as if it were mid-summer. So that the first thing Ruth did was to strip the garden, with David to help her and no one to hinder.

The judge and William had gone away from the house as soon as breakfast was over, saying they would try to return in time to see the visitor. Miss Penelope was busy in seeing that the coffee-pot was washed with hot water and rinsed with cold, and scoured inside and out till it shone like burnished silver. The widow Broadnax, too, was as busy as she ever was, sitting in her usual place in the chimney-corner, looking like some large, clumsily graven image in dark stone, and watching her half-sister's every movement without winking or turning her head. So that Ruth and David were left to follow their own fanciful devices, free to put flowers everywhere. They wrought out their fancies to the fullest and the more fantastic, as the artistic instinct rarely fails to do in its first freedom. When they were done, the great room of Cedar House was an oddly charming sight, worth going far to see. Never before had it been so wonderful, strange, and beautiful. It had now become an enchanted bower of mingled bloom and fragrance, shadowed within yet open to the sun-lit day and the flashing river.

"There!" cried Ruth, looking round, with her head on one side. "There isn't one forgotten spot for another flower. Now, I must run and dress. And you must wait here till I come back, David, dear, for the doctor may arrive at any moment, and somebody should be ready to welcome him. Why! aunt Molly has actually followed aunt Penelope clear to the kitchen, so that there is no one left but you. Don't go till I come back."

She went up the broad, dark stairs, turning on almost every step to look down over the room and drink in the beauty and sweetness. David, also, drank it in still more eagerly, taking deep intoxicating draughts, as the thirsty take cool, sparkling wine. He then sat quietly looking about and waiting. His book was in his pocket, as it nearly always was when not in his hand. But he had grown shy of reading "The Famous History of Montilion—Knight of the Oracle, Son to the true Mirror of Princes, the most Renowned Pericles, showing his Strange Birth, Unfortunate Love, Perilous Adventures in Arms: and how he came to the Knowledge of his Parents, interlaced with a Variety of Pleasant and Delightful Discourse," since Ruth had laughed at it, and had laid the blame for his weakness upon the romance. And then his craving for the romantic and beautiful was satisfied for the moment by gazing about this big, strange, shadowy, embowered room. Moreover, Ruth came back very soon. When beauty is young, fresh, natural, and very, very great, it does not need much time for its adornment. Ruth's toilet was like a bird's. A quick dip in pure, cold water—a flutter of soft garments as the radiant wings cast off the crystal drops—and she was ready to meet the full glory of the sunlight. When she thus came smiling down the stairs that day, with the dew of life's morning fresh upon her, David turned from the flowers.

"Yes, indeed! Isn't it a lovely frock!" she cried, running her hand lightly over the big, puffy, short sleeve. "It is one of the last uncle Philip had made in New Orleans, and fetched up the river. You might draw this muslin through my smallest ring. See this dear little girdle—way up here right under my arms—and so delicately worked in these pale blue forget-me-nots, that look as if they were just in bloom. See!"—lifting the gauzy skirt as a child lifts its apron—"Here is a border of the forget-me-nots all around the bottom. But you are such a goose that you don't know how pretty it is unless I tell you," pretending to shake him, with trills of happy laughter. "All the same, you shall look at the slippers, too! You shall see that the kid is as blue as the forget-me-nots,—whether you want to or not!" drawing back the skirt and putting out her foot.

And the boy gazing at her face, forgot his bashfulness far enough to admire the frock and the slippers as much as she thought they deserved. Neither of these children of the wilderness knew how unsuitable her dress was, that it had never been intended for wearing in the morning anywhere, or for the forest at any time. Ruth had worn only the daintiest and finest of garments all her life, without any regard for suitableness. From her babyhood to this day of her girlhood, it had been Philip Alston's pride and happiness to dress her as the proudest and richest father might dress his daughter, in the midst of the highest civilization. Ruth knew nothing else, and those who knew her would scarcely have known her, seeing her otherwise. It was only the few strangers stopping at Cedar House, on their way over the Wilderness Road, who gazed at Ruth in wondering amazement. Naturally enough, those who had never seen her before could not at first believe the evidence of their own dazzled eyes. To them this radiant young creature in her rich, delicate raiment could not seem real at first; she was too lovely, too like an enchanting vision born of the dim green shadows of the forest, a bewitching dryad, an exquisite sprite.

Some such thoughts as these crossed the mind of Paul Colbert as he looked at her through the open door. He had ridden up unheard, had dismounted, tying his horse to a tree, and had then stood for several minutes without being seen by Ruth or David. When he spoke, they thought that he had just arrived. Ruth went forward to welcome him with the ease and grace that marked everything she did. Nature had given her a pretty, gentle dignity, and Philip Alston's cultured example had polished her manner. She now did all the graceful offices of the hostess, quietly and simply. She said how sorry she was that neither her uncle nor her cousin was at home. They wished, she said, to be there when he came, so that they might try to thank him for his kindness to her. But one or the other would return very soon; both had hoped to do so before his arrival.

"It is early for a visit," Paul Colbert said, in a tone of apology; "but I couldn't come at all to-day, unless I stopped now in passing."

"Oh, no!" said Ruth, quickly. "It isn't very early."

"And then I thought you might like to see this," he said.

Rising, he stepped to her side, and gave her a sheet of paper torn from his note-book and covered with writing. He did not return to the chair which he had arisen from, but took another much nearer her own.

"Poetry!" she said. "Is it something that you have written?"

He smiled. "I have merely copied it. I saw the poem for the first time an hour or so ago at Mr. Audubon's. It is new and has never been printed. It was written by the young English poet, John Keats, to his brother George Keats, who is a partner of Mr. Audubon in the mill on the river. Mr. Keats and his wife are here now, the guests of Mr. Audubon. The poem came in a letter which has just been received. I have copied a part of it, and a few words from the letter, also. Mr. George Keats was kind enough to allow me, and I thought you would like to see them. I hadn't time to copy the entire poem, though it isn't very long."

"It was very kind," said Ruth. "I am so glad to see it. May I read it now? This is what the letter says," reading it aloud, so that David also might hear. "If I had a prayer to make for any great good ... it should be that one of your children should be the first American poet?"

"The first English hand across the sea!" said Paul Colbert.

Ruth read on from this letter of John Keats to his brother: "I have a mind to make a prophecy. They say that prophecies work out their own fulfilment." And then she read as much of "A Prophecy" as the doctor had copied.

* * * * *

"Though, the rushes that will make Its cradle are by the lake— Though the linen that will be Its swathe is on the cotton tree— Though the woollen that will keep It warm is on the silly sheep— Listen, starlight, listen, listen, Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, And hear my lullaby! Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee! Midst the quiet all around thee! Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee! And thy mother sweet is nigh thee. Child, I know thee! Child no more, But a poet ever-more! See, see, the lyre, the lyre! In a flame of fire Upon the little cradle's top Flaring, flaring, flaring, Past the eyesight's bearing. Wake it from its sleep, And see if it can keep Its eyes upon the blaze— Amaze, amaze! It stares, it stares, it stares, It dares what none dares! It lifts its little hand into the flame Unharmed and on the strings Paddles a little tune and sings, With dumb endeavor sweetly— Bard thou art completely; Little child, O' the western wild...."