"O, Prime," whined Basset, "you hain't no better friend in the world than me, and no more bowels of marcy than a stump. I tell ye, I don't suspect you. Lend us a hand, and I'll never forget it, the longest day I have to live."

"Well," said the General, "you must make us a promise, fust."

"What promise? I'll make any promise you please, only do help us out. I'm 'most dead with cold."

"You must promise nebber to say any ting about dis night. Dere's 'spicious folks round, like de doctor, and when dey hear you git catch like a rat in a trap, dey is likely to say, 'Ah, dat is dat old niggur Primus's work,' and so I lose my good character. De innocent man must be like de weasel dat is nebber catch asleep."

It went hard against the grain, for the constable to make the promise, but there was no alternative except remaining there, he knew not how long, finally to be extricated by a laughing crowd. With a very ill grace, therefore, he promised all that Primus required, and would have bound himself to ten times more, if necessary; but the General was generous, and asked only security for the future, having no indemnity to demand for the past. Planting his sound foot firmly in the snow, the General extended his hand, which being grasped by Basset, he was soon delivered from thraldom.

"What's to hender me now, you infernal darkey," exclaimed the exasperated constable, as soon as he found himself in the upper air, "from throwing you into the well, and letting you rot there!"

"What to hender, Missa Basset?" returned the General, stepping back. "You own feelings, Missa Basset. But you can try it if you please," he added, letting fall his arms by his sides, which, at the threatening tone of the constable, he had raised instinctively in self-defence.

But the other seemed more disposed to allow his anger to explode in words than to resort to violence.

"To be chucked into a hole like a dead cat, by a cunning old wool head, was more'n mortal man could bear," he said, "and he didn't know why he shouldn't knock out his black brains, on the spot."

"You can try de 'speriment, if you please," said Primus, cooly, "and when dey is knock out, I advise you to gadder dem up for you own use."

"You're a saacy nigger," said Basset, "and if I sarved you right, I'd clap you into the workhouse."

"Missa Basset, you bery mad; and when a man is mad, he always onreasonable. But fire away—it keep you warm, and stop you catching cold."

"Onreasonable! when a fellow's been sprawling about in snow and cornstalks, for more'n two hours, and got more'n half froze! How would you like it?"

"If Missa Basset chase Missa Holden, in de moonlight, and fall into a hole, is I to blame?"

"I don't believe it was Holden. I believe it was all a plan between you and some other fellow to git me into the scrape. Come, now, Prime," he said, moderating his voice into a less ill-natured tone, "tell us, and I'll let you off this time."

"O, Lord!" exclaimed Primus, lifting up his hands, with open palms, and rolling up his eyes towards the moon, "de man is crazy wid de fright, and he see Missa Holden, too, widin two tree feet."

He turned now on his way home, as if disdaining longer converse with one who refused to listen to reason. The constable followed at his side, growling the whole way, and reproaching the General with his perfidy, the latter protesting it was Basset's own fault, "when he knew dere was a hole dere," and that he would have nothing to do with him, or with the cunning old man, for the future. Upon arriving at the bars, Primus, notwithstanding his indignation at the suspicion cast on his honor, courteously invited Basset to take a drink with him, but the latter, suspecting, perhaps, another snare, was in no humor to accept the invitation; and, turning away without even noticing the black's good-night, directed hasty steps towards the lights of the town.



CHAPTER XXI.

"Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns, called you forth, Down those precipitous black-jagged rocks, For ever shattered, and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?"

COLERIDGE.

William Bernard had, of late, been more than usually attracted to the society of Faith. In habits of familiar intercourse with the family of the Armstrongs, from his childhood, and admitted to almost the same degree of intimacy which exists between brothers and sisters with the little black-eyed girl whom, in winter, he drew on his sled, with Anne, to school, and, to fill whose apron, he shook chestnuts and walnuts from the trees, in autumn, he and Faith had never had, during the earlier period of their acquaintance, feelings other than those attaching one to another, members of the same household. The fact that Faith had no brother, taken in connection with her love for Anne, had caused her to lean more on William, and be willing to call upon him for a thousand little services, which he was as ready to grant as she to ask. These, in the years of childhood, were rewarded by a kiss, or permission to ride on her rocking-horse, or to make calls, with Anne and herself, on their dolls, and so forth; but as years rolled on, and vague feelings and shadowy intimations assumed definiteness, a delicate veil of reserve imperceptibly interposed itself, as effectual to bar the former familiarity as if a Chinese wall had been built between them. Yet, for years, no warmer sentiment succeeded; and, though William Bernard felt pleasure in the society of his beautiful neighbor, he experienced no uneasiness in her absence.

But a change was destined to take place which, indeed, it is surprising had not sooner occurred. William found himself, he hardly knew how, more frequently in the company of his sister's lovely friend, notwithstanding it was with a more timid step he sought the dwelling of Mr. Armstrong. For it seemed to him as if the little community were beginning to suspect the existence of those feelings which, like the morning glory, shrink from the rays of the sun. They were too delicate for inspection. They were like the wing of the butterfly or the plumage of the humming-bird, which cannot be handled without being tarnished. Hence, though longing to enter the house as in his school-boy days, were it only to catch for a moment the sounds of Faith's voice or a glimpse of her face, he would content himself with merely passing by, deriving a satisfaction from the consciousness of being nearer to her, and of gazing on the house beautified by her presence. Besides, as his feelings became more interested, his distrust of himself increased. The heart of the bold, young man, which real danger had never disturbed, fluttered like a caught bird at the voice of Faith, more and more, and he hesitated to make an avowal which might, indeed, crown his hopes, but which might, also, dash them to the ground. For he could not conceal from himself that Faith, so far from giving him encouragement as a lover, had never even appeared to suspect his feelings. Her conduct had always been the same, the same unreserved confidence, the same frank, unconstrained deportment. She spoke to him as freely as ever of her hopes and fears; she took his arm as readily, nor did a blush welcome his coming or a tremor of the voice signalize his departure.

Young ladies are usually sharp-sighted enough in detecting admiration, and fathoming the heart of a lover, and some may think her want of penetration strange. If so, I must entreat indulgence for my simple Faith. Be the circumstances remembered in which she was placed and had grown up; her child-like innocence and purity, unacquainted with the world, her seclusion from society, the intimacy that had always existed between her and young Bernard, which continued to make many attentions that would have been marked in another, natural and expected from him, and the want of all preoccupation in his favor, and the surprise of the keen-sighted will diminish. Is not an inexperienced and modest girl slow to suspect in another, emotions towards herself of a kind which she has never felt?

William Bernard, then, had never told his love, nor did Miss Armstrong dream of its existence. To her he was the dear friend of her childhood, and nothing more. His mother and sister suspected the condition of his heart, and it was with calm satisfaction in the former, and a glow of delight in the latter, that they looked forward to the time when the attentions and amiable qualities of the son and brother should ripen the friendship of the unimpassioned beauty into love. Of this result, with a pardonable partiality they did not doubt. With this explanation of the feelings of the two young people towards each other at this time, we will accompany them on a morning walk to the Falls of the Yaupaae.

It was one of those bright, glorious days which the poet Herrick calls the "bridal of the earth and sky." From a heaven intensely blue, the sun, without a cloud, "looked like a God" over his dominions. Some rain had fallen in the night, and the weather suddenly clearing up towards morning, had hardened the moisture into ice. Every bush, every tree, the fences, were covered with a shining mail, from which and from the crisped surface of the snow, the rays of the sun were reflected, and filled the air with a sparkling light. Transmuted, as by a magician's wand, the bare trees were no longer ordinary trees. They were miracles of vegetable silver and crystal. Mingled among them, the evergreens glittered like masses of emerald hung with diamonds. Aladdin, in the enchanted cavern, saw not so brilliant a spectacle.

The narrow road which led to the Falls descended a declivity, where it left the main street until it came to within a few feet of the surface of the river, then curving round the base of the hill, it skirted the winding margin of the stream until it ascended another hill, on the top of which, from a platform of level rock, one of the finest views was commanded. The path was slippery with ice, and in descending the declivity the arm of Bernard was necessary to support the uncertain steps of his companion. It was with a sort of tremor he offered it, of which Faith was all unconscious. She took it without hesitation, and stepping cautiously over the glazed surface, and laughing at each other's slips, the young couple pursued their walk. On their right was a steep hill, rising in some places to a height of one hundred feet above their heads, covered over, for a considerable distance along the road, with the perennial beauty of the graceful hemlock and savin, now resplendent in jewels; and on the left the Yaupaae, its frozen level hid in snow, out of which the trees and shrubs on the little islands raised their silver armor glittering in the sun. In the distance, and visible from the greater part of the road, the river, in a narrow chasm, dashed down the rocks. An unusual quantity of snow had lately fallen, which, having been succeeded by heavy rains, had swollen the stream to more than double its ordinary size. It was evident that, what in the language of the country is called a freshet was commencing. Such is the name given to those swellings of the water, the most formidable of which commonly occur in the month of February, or early in the Spring, when the overcharged rivers, bursting their boundaries and overflowing the neighboring lowlands, sometimes occasion great damage to property, sweeping away bridges, and mills, and dams, with irresistible violence.

The roaring of the Falls had been long distinguishable, but, it was not until the first curve in the road had been turned, that they came into sight."

"Look! Faith," cried Bernard, as they burst into view; "did you ever see them more magnificent?"

The attention of the young lady had been, hitherto, too much engrossed by the necessity of watching her footsteps down the descent, to give much heed to surrounding objects; but, now, she looked up, having reached the comparatively level spot, which extended as far as the second hill or rising ground above mentioned, and felt all the admiration expressed by her companion.

"They are grand," she replied. "I have beheld this view a thousand times, and never weary of its beauty. I do not know whether I love it more in summer or in winter."

"How would you express the difference of your feelings, then and now?"

"I am afraid I have not the skill to put the feeling into words. But, the impression, on a day like this, is of a magnificence and splendor unusual to the earth. In summer, the beauty though less astonishing, is of a softer character."

"You would rather listen to the song of the robin, and of our northern mocking-bird, than to the roaring of the angry river?"

"There is no anger in the sound, William," she replied, looking up into his face; "It is the shout of praise to its Creator, and the dashing of the torrents over the rocks are the clapping of its hands."

"You are right, Faith. How much better you are tuned to the meanings of nature than I?"

"You do yourself injustice. It was your love of all this beauty that induced you to invite me to this walk. Without you I should have missed it, nor known what I had lost."

William Bernard sighed. She has not, he thought, the least suspicion that I love her. She does not know, and would not care if she did, that, by her side, the only prospect I behold is herself, and the invitation to this stroll but a pretext to approach her.

"Your presence, dear Faith," said he, "imparts a double charm to the scenery."

"It is sweet," she answered, leaning, as it seemed to him, at the moment, more affectionately on his arm, "to have one to whom we can say, how lovely is all this loveliness."

"The sentiment of the Poet never seemed so true before," said Bernard, looking at her with admiration.

She made no reply, for her whole soul was absorbed by the view before her.

They had arrived at the platform, which, somewhat higher than the Fall, commands a prospect of the river and surrounding country. Below them foamed and thundered the torrent, which, first, making a leap some twenty feet down, over large, irregularly-shaped boulders of granite, that strove to oppose its passage, rushed in a steep descent over a bed of solid stone, irregularly worn by the action of the water; and, then, contracting itself between its adamantine walls, burst in distracted fury, like a maniac, from the narrow throat. Against the opposing rocks, which, perhaps, had fallen into the Yaupaae, when the fierce convulsion of nature opened the chasm, and bade the river pour down the gorge—the water lashed with ceaseless rage, throwing the spray high into the air. This, freezing as it fell, encrusted the rough sides of the beetling crags with icy layers, covering them all over with plates like silver, and hanging them with stalactites. Right in front, and separated only by the narrow pass from the ledge on which they stood, still higher than which it rose, towered a huge rock, perpendicularly, to a height of ninety or one hundred feet above the cataract. Its foam-beaten base, just above the water, was encased in icy incrustations, higher up, gray moss overspread its flat side, and tufts of cedar struggled through the fissures, whilst its top was canopied with hemlocks and savins, and white oaks. Looking towards the left, the eye swept over the green hill-side, along which they had walked, and, glancing over the islands in the Yaupaae, followed the winding coarse of the river, catching here and there on ground, that sloped to the stream, the sight of white buildings, with green blinds, till the surrounding hills shut in the view.

They both stood silent, as they looked, she, unwilling, by an exclamation, to break the charm; and he, with his mind full of the lovely creature before him. Surely, never so angelic a being gazed upon that scene! As, with kindling countenance and suspended breath, her dark eyes flashing with enthusiasm, her soul drank in the sublimity and sparkling radiance that enveloped her, she seemed no being of mortal mould, but some celestial visitant. The rapt expression of her face gradually settled into awe, and she softly murmured these lines, of the Russian poet, Derzhavin—

"God! thus to Thee my lowly thoughts can soar, Thus seek thy presence, Being wise and good, 'Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore; And when the tongue is eloquent no more, The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude."

The tears were indeed standing in her eyes, as she turned and placed her hand in that of Bernard.

"You must think it strange," she said, "that I, to whom all this is no novelty should be thus affected. It is a weakness from which I shall never recover."

"Not weakness, dear Faith," said Bernard, "but the impressibility of a poetical temperament. Only an insensible heart could be unmoved."

"If these rocks could speak, what legends they might tell of vanished races," said Faith. "There is something inexpressibly sad in the fate of those who once were the masters of these woods and fields, and streams.

"They but submit to the common fate, which compels the inferior to make way for the superior race, as my father says."

"How beautiful," she continued, "must this goodly land have seemed to the Indian hunter, when, after the day's chase, he dropped the deer upon the ground, and, from this high point, looked over the green forests and shining stream. I should not wonder, if now, in the voice of the cataract, he fancies he hears the groans of his ancestors, and the screams of demons."

"There are traditions connected with this place," said Bernard, "but they are fast fading away, and promise soon to be forgotten."

"Are you acquainted with any?"

"A friend of mine has endeavored to rescue one from oblivion, but I doubt if it would interest you."

"I am interested in everything that relates to this people. Tell me the story now. What more fitting place for romance!"

"A fitting place certainly, but no fitting time. Romance would hardly mitigate the keenness of the air, or diminish the probability of taking cold, were you to stand here listening to Indian legends. Besides, the tale is in manuscript, and I should not be able, relying on memory, to do it justice."

"You shall read it to me this evening, where you cannot make such excuses," she replied, taking again his arm, and resuming their walk, "by the light of candles, and near the parlor fire, where we may hear, and not feel the wind."

"But where would be the accompaniments of the tale? The framing I fear would spoil the picture."

"You will have the benefit of contrast, which every great painter desires."

"I am only too happy to please you," he said, with a sigh.

"My almost brother, William, I knew you would not refuse me the favor."

Conversing in this manner, they had reached a turn in the road, which led back to the village by a route different from that they had come, when they saw Esther approaching, with her son. The boy walked in advance of his mother, who seemed to tread in his steps, while that unfailing companion of the semi-civilized red man, a dog, lounged by his side.

Quadaquina was a handsome child, of thirteen or fourteen years of age, with a perfectly oval face, and eyes deep set and keen, that glittered like a snake's, resembling his mother, from whom he inherited his beauty. His dress differed not from that of white boys, except that there was thrown round his shoulders a piece of coarse blue broadcloth, disposed like a shawl. Esther had on her head a dark colored felt hat, such as is worn by laborers, from beneath which long black hair fell down upon her shoulders. A shawl, like the boy's, was thrown over her, a skirt, of the same material, extended half way down between the knee and ankle, and crimson leggins completed the dress.

As they came up, Faith and Bernard stopped to speak to them, and inquire after Holden. She had been apprised of his escape, and of the visit of Pownal and Anne, but had refrained from going to his retreat in consequence of its being thought advisable to attract as little attention to it as possible. To her inquiries Esther returned the most satisfactory answers. Holden appeared quite contented, and was engaged in preaching to the Indians, and teaching them the principles of the Christian faith.

"Do the Indians listen to what he says?" inquired Bernard.

"They listen; Indian always listen," said Esther, "and the wind blow the words through the ears."

"I suppose so," said the young man, laughing. "Holden may now truly call himself the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and a wilderness it is likely to remain."

There was something both in the manner and language that jarred the feelings of Faith, and she said:

"I will never give up the hope that these poor people may be Christianized. Do you not think, Esther, that there has been an improvement in the habits of the tribe within a few years?"

Esther hung down her head, and only answered, "Indian will be Indian."

"I will not despair," said Faith. "Be sure, Esther, you come to the house before you return. I have something for you, and a message for Father Holden.

"I can conceive of no character," said Faith, after they had parted from Esther, "more noble than that of the Christian missionary. He is the true redresser of wrongs, the only real knight that ever lived. You smile," she said, looking at Bernard. "Do you not think so?"

"I think with you," he replied. "There can be no nobler man than he who submits to privation, and exposes his life to danger through love to his fellow man. It is God-like. But I smiled at the association of ideas, and not at the sentiment. Think of Holden as a knight."

"To me there is nothing ludicrous in the thought. When I look at him, I see not the coarse unusual dress, but the heroic soul, that would have battled valiantly by the side of Godfrey for the holy sepulchre."

"I am afraid he will meet with only disappointment in his efforts to reform the Indians."

"We cannot know the result of any labor. We will do our duty, and leave the rest to God."

"They have not the degree of cultivation necessary to the reception of a religion so refined and spiritual as the Christian. They must first be educated up to it."

"But you would not, meanwhile, neglect the very thing for which they are educated. Religious instruction must be a part of the education, and it brings refinement with it."

"Certainly, if it can be received; but therein consists the difficulty. I am afraid it is as reasonable to expect a savage to apprehend the exalted truths of Christianity, as one unaquainted with geometry, the forty-ninth proposition of the first book of Euclid."

"The comparison is not just. Science demands pure intellect; but religion, both intellect and feeling, perhaps most of the latter. The mind is susceptible of high cultivation, the heart feels instinctively, and that of a peasant may throb with purer feeling than a philosopher's and for that reason be more ready to receive religious truth. And who may limit the grace of God?"

"You have thought deeper on this subject than I, Faith. But how hard must it be for the rays of divine truth to pierce through the blackness of that degradation which civilization has entailed on them! The conversion of the North American Indian was easier at the landing of the Pilgrims than now."

"The greater our duty," exclaimed Faith, clasping her hands, "to atone for the wrongs we have inflicted. But, William, some good has been done. Look at my dear, good Esther."

"Esther deserves your praise, I am sure, because you say it. But it is you that have made her good. She could not be with you, without being benefited."

"You are very kind, but no merit attaches to me. They were the precepts of Christianity that softened her heart, though she was always gentle."

"It was the sweetness of religion she heard in your voice, its kindness she read in your eyes, and its loveliness illustrated in your life, that attracted and improved Esther"

"Were I to admit what you say, the credit would, after all, belong to religion."

The sun had nearly reached his meridian, as the young couple approached the house of Mr. Armstrong. What a change had been produced in a few hours! The warm sunshine, while it glorified the landscape had robbed it of its sparkling beauty. The trees no longer wore their silver armor; the branches, relieved of the unusual weight, had lost the graceful curves and resumed their original positions; white blossoms no longer bedecked the evergreens; and all around, large drops were falling, as if lamenting the passing away of the short-lived magnificence.

On parting from Bernard, at her father's door, Faith reminded him of his promise, and invited him and Anne to tea with her in the evening. Bernard accepted the invitation for himself, and conditionally for his sister.



CHAPTER XXII.

"O nymph, with loosely flowing hair, With buskined leg, and bosom bare, Thy waist with myrtle girdle bound, Thy brow with Indian feathers crowned, Waving in thy snowy hand An all-commanding magic wand Of power, to bid fresh gardens blow, Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow!"

JOSEPH WARTON.

Bernard and his sister, on their arrival, found only Mr. Armstrong and his daughter, but were joined, in the course of the evening, by Pownal, at whose arrival all expressed pleasure. The whole company united with Miss Armstrong in requesting Bernard to read the legend, who, at last, produced the manuscript from his pocket.

"I must entreat your indulgence," he said, "for the defects of which the piece is full. The author is an inexperienced writer, and unable, like an accomplished hand, to atone by elegance of style for improbability or poverty of incident. You will expect no more than that he should observe the proprieties of his subject, nor require him to introduce into a tale of the children of Nature the refinement of language or delicacy of sentiment, to be met with in the modern romance. The stories of an uncivilized people must be rude, even approaching in simplicity tales designed for children."

"The writer could not have an audience more ready to be pleased," said Mr. Armstrong; "and are we not all children of various growths?"

"I do not believe any excuses are necessary," said Faith, "and am expecting a great deal of pleasure."

"The more extravagant, the better," cried Anne. "What can equal the Arabian Nights Entertainment?"

"We are all attention," said Pownal; "so whistle your apprehensions, Bernard, to the wind."

Thus encouraged, the young man opened his manuscript, and commenced reading.

THE LEGEND OF MAGISAUNIKWA AND LEELINAU.

Where the clear Sakimau mingles its waters with the great salt lake, which would be too salt, but for the innumerable rivers that pour themselves into its bosom, the mighty Aishkwagon-ai-bee, whose name, rendered into the language of the pale faces, is the 'Feather of Honor,' had erected his lodge. He was the war-chief of a tribe whose name is lost in the mists of antiquity. He boasted his descent from the great Ojeeg, of whom it is related that he opened a hole in the blue sky and let out the soft, warm air of Paradise, so that it poured down upon the earth, and bestowed summer upon a region before condemned to perpetual cold. He also liberated the singing-birds from the mocucks, or basket-cages, where they were confined, which, descending through the aperture, have since enlivened the woods and fields with their melodies. He was unable to return to this world, and may still be seen in the heavens, being changed into the stars called Ojeeg Annung, known to the wise men among the pale faces as the Constellation of the Plough.

Nor was Aishkwagon-ai-bee unworthy of his noble descent. The grandeur of his thoughts and the boldness of his achievements proved the purity of his blood. A skillful hunter, a successful warrior, equally renowned for wisdom in council and bravery in action, he enjoyed the highest consideration, not only in his own tribe, but as far as the great lakes to the North, and the river Delaware to the South. When he pointed to the beautiful scalps that adorned the sides of his wigwam, he could with truth say, there was not one of them but had graced the head of a warrior.

The Sachem had several children, sons and daughters, and among the latter, the lovely Leelinau was the darling of his heart. The maiden had attained the age of eighteen, and was the admiration of the youth for many days' journey round. Her cheeks were the color of the wild honey-suckle, her lips like strawberries, and the juice of the milk-weed was not whiter than her teeth. Her form was lith as the willow, her eyes sparkled like the morning star, her step was that of a bounding fawn, and her fingers were skilful in weaving the quills of the porcupine. What wonder if hearts both young and old beat quicker at her approach?

Many, it may well be supposed, were the offers of marriage made to the beautiful Leelinau. Innumerable were the legs of venison, and choice pieces of bear's meat, which the mothers of the young hunters presented for acceptance at her lodge, being careful to mention whose skill in the chase procured them, but in vain did they look for the bowl of succatash or embroidered moccasins—the products of woman's labor—in token that their gifts were pleasing to the coy beauty. In vain, when the shades of evening fell, the softly breathed flute lamented in melancholy tones her cruelty. In vain, with tasteful hand, the sighing lover painted his face and person to heighten his attractions and draw attention. The insensible Leelinau relished not the venison or bear's meat, nor would she listen to the flute, or look often at the painted suitors.

Among her admirers none was more deeply smitten by the power of her charms nor cherished a truer love than Magisaunikwa or Wampum-hair, so called from the gentleness of his disposition and love of peace. He was only a few years the senior of the maiden, and of an obscure family compared with that of the famous Aishkwagon-ai-bee. But love levels all distinctions, and, impelled by an influence he could not withstand, he dared to aspire to the hand of Leelinau. Besides, there was one superiority he enjoyed which made the claim less presumptuous. Young as he was no hunter of the tribe could be compared with him in skill or daring. Other lodges might be destitute, but there was always abundance of meat in that of Magisaunikwa and those of his friends. Happy, thought most of the girls, would she be who should lie in the bosom of the young hunter, and cook his food.

But notwithstanding his devotion, Leelinau would not accept his gifts. Still he fancied he had made some impression. She would listen to his conversation by the light of the evening star, though whenever he hinted at his passion, she would hastily retire; and twice or thrice he had caught her eyes fixed on him, when she thought herself unobserved. Hope lives on scanty aliment, and the young man did not despair.

Aishkwagon-ai-bee had noticed the liking of Magisaunikwa for his daughter, and was not displeased. The noble youth had found favor in his eyes, and he did not disdain his alliance. There was only a single cause of hesitation in his mind. Wampum-hair had never been on a war-path, and had always shown a disinclination to shed human blood. Yet his courage was undoubted. None encountered with more audacity the panther and the bear, and several were the lives he had saved at the hazard of his own. A successful war expedition only was necessary to complete his claims to the highest honors. Save the bloody scalp, no ornament was lacking in his wigwam.

"Magisaunikwa," said the Sachem, "the fire of your eyes melts not the snow around the heart of Leelinau, and it is because she looks upon your hands and sees they were never painted with the blood of an enemy."

"Can Leelinau be happier." asked the young hunter, "because another is made miserable? Were I to kill a warrior for her sake, would not her dreams be disturbed by the groans of his mother?"

The eyes of the Sachem flashed when he heard such language.

"Go," he said, "if thou art a dove, seek not to mate with the hawk."

But the resolution of Wampum-hair was not to be shaken by threats or reproaches, nor weakened by the seductions of love. In the long and final fast which revealed to him his guardian spirit, twelve days with unshaken fortitude, to the wonder of the tribe, had he remained without food before the vision came. He then beheld a child white as the water-lily leading a little animal unknown to the country. It was the size of the beaver, and covered all over with long white hair that curled closely to its body. Its eyes were mild and sweet, and the expression of its face gentler than anything ever seen on earth. The child laid his hand on the heart of the fainting youth, and an influence soft as the breath of the south wind streamed through his frame, and he was strengthened, and stood upon his feet and partook of food. Since then the war-song had been hateful to the ears of Wampum-hair, and he loathed the vauntings of the braves. He preached peace to his people, and endeavored to convince them of the folly of killing their fellow men. But prejudices old as the mountains were not to be removed by the exhortations or arguments of an obscure youth; and although the old men listened, and some few approved, yet the young men scoffed and burned to distinguish themselves after the manner of their ancestors. It was fortunate for the young man that opportunities had occurred to test his courage, and that he had never hesitated when others flinched. His tribe therefore ascribed his conduct to no want of bravery, but to a delusion sent by his guardian genius. Hence, though his influence was impaired, it was not entirely destroyed.

Thus things continued for some time, till one day the Sachem again addressed Wampum-hair.

"Does the heart of Magisaunikwa still beat softly, like the heart of a deer!"

"It beats like a man's," said the young hunter, "and not like that of a vile wild beast. The Indian should imitate the Good Spirit in his actions, and not destroy his brothers and sisters"

"Yes," said the Sachem, "his heart is a man's, though it is soft. Does Wampum-hair still love Leelinau?"

"The breath of Thequan is not more welcome to the wood-flower which it wakes up to life, or the song of the bird dearer to its mate, than the sight of Leelinau to Magisaunikwa."

"What would Wampum-hair do to obtain her love?"

"He would climb the sky, or dive to the bottom of the salt lake; all that the Great Spirit could ask would he do."

"A chief cannot compel the affection of his daughter, but he can give his own consent, and the young bird listens to the voice of its parent."

"Let the great chief say what he would have, and the arm of Wampum-hair shall be strong to do his will. For the sake of Leelinau he would please her father."

The Sachem paused, and gazed with pleasure on the kindling features of the young man. He was a wise chief, and desired the good of his people. In those days the panthers, driven from the north by a severe winter, infested the country in great numbers, and threatened to destroy the game, on which the Indians depended for subsistence. Although many had been killed, there still remained enough to ravage the land and do serious injury; and they had become so cunning by being frequently hunted that they almost uniformly succeeded in eluding the chase. It would be a public service, though a difficult undertaking, to exterminate the ravenous animals. He therefore said:—

"Let Magisaunikwa bring me a conaus made of the scalps of panthers, and another for Leelinau, and he shall have the strong word of a chief to whisper commendations of the hunter in the ears of the maiden."

"It is well. The words of the great chief are pleasant, and my ears drink them up as the thirsty sand the drops of rain. The feet of Wampum-hair are swift; his arrows are true, and they shall pierce the screaming panther."

That same day, so eager was the young hunter to commence the chase, he started for those parts of the forest where the game was most likely to be found. Many were the beasts destroyed by him, so that a little child might wander in security ten days' journey, in every direction, from the lodge of the Sachem, and narrow were the escapes from death of the intrepid hunter, and yet scarcely scalps enough were obtained to make a conaus or wrapper for the sloping shoulders of Leelinau. In vain, the enamored youth extended his hunt still further, even twenty days' journey from his starting point. Only at long intervals was a beast discovered, but, finally, not one was to be found, and the youth awoke to the conviction that he had been made a dupe to the cunning of the Sachem.

After a fruitless chase he was musing one day sorrowfully over his disappointed hopes, ashamed to go back to his village, to which he had never returned without success before, when, suddenly, a man of majestic presence stood before him. His nose was like the beak of an eagle, and his eyes resembled fires in a dark night. Strange feathers, of brilliant colors, were woven into his scalp-lock; a magnificent robe of skins depended from his shoulders; and in his hand he held a long spear, tipped with a pointed stone.

"My brother is sad," he said. "Let my brother give me the half of his grief to bear."

Thus exhorted, Magisaunikwa disclosed the cause of his dejection to his sympathizing friend.

"Is that all?" said the stranger. "Return, and thou shalt find the conaus in thy lodge, and when thou beholdest them, remember they are the gift of Manabozho. I am Manabozho."

He spoke, and before the astonished hunter had time to thank him, vanished from his sight. Then the young man knew that he had conversed with the capricious Manito, and with full faith and light heart, he directed his steps homeward.

He found the two conaus in his wigwam, according to the promise of the Manito. One he presented to the chief, and the other he offered to the maiden, but she refused to accept the tribute of his devotion.

The astonishment of Aishkwagon-ai-bee, and of the whole tribe, is not to be conceived, and the fame of Wampum-hair mounted to the stars. The truthful chief spoke earnestly to his daughter, of the merits of her lover, and proposed him for her husband, but Leelinau showed the strongest aversion to the union. The haughty maiden inherited the fierce temper of her father, without his wisdom, and she looked with contempt on all not distinguished by high descent or bloody deeds, nor in her soaring pride was there one of the young men of the tribe worthy of her hand. Not that there were not youthful warriors who could point to the evidences of their prowess, and whose names were familiar to the song, but in every instance the difficult beauty had found some objection, and turned away her head. The truth is, the west wind, that entices the flowers from the ground in spring, and leads the bird to its mate, had never breathed upon the heart of Leelinau.

But the time finally came when the maiden was constrained to make a choice. Her family had become impatient of delay, and Leelinau yielded to their remonstrances. It was only in appearance, however, that she acquiesced in the wishes of her relatives. She determined to propose, as the price of her hand, some enterprise too difficult to be accomplished. She represented to her father that lightly won, was lightly prized, and that the daughter of a great chief like him, was not to be wooed like other maidens, and obtained from him, to whom her voice was sweeter than the notes of the mocking-bird, his consent to her scheme.

The conditions on which Leelinau consented to follow a husband to his lodge were soon known. Only him would she acknowledge for her lord, who should guide his canoe in safety from the head of the Falls of the Yaupaae to the little islands below. The old men shook their heads when they heard the terms, and the squaws said, her heart must be made of stone, but the young men felt warm, and thought of trying their fortunes.

The enterprise was more difficult than any Manabozho had undertaken. When the river was low, it poured almost perpendicularly down, a height of twenty feet, on rocks, thrusting sharp points into the air, then bounded in sinuous windings through rifts and basins, made by the constant beating of the water, and the attrition of stones, whirled round in the cavities, to dash over a declivity of yet other rocks, before it reached its calm welcome below. When swollen by rains the rocks were all hidden, the perpendicular fall disappeared, it was as if the Great Salt Lake were pouring down the side of the mountain, and from top to bottom was all one vast mass of foam, lashing the huge rock at the throat, around which the torrent turned with a sudden bend. No canoe could live on such a cataract. It must be overturned and engulfed long before reaching the bottom, or if those perils were, by any wonderful chance, escaped, inevitable destruction awaited the presumptuous adventurer, dashed against the rock at the bottom.

The lovers of Leelinau gazed at the Fall, but the more they considered the less inclination they felt to encounter the danger. In a low stage of the water the canoe would be overturned, and pierced by the sharp rocks, while mangled limbs certainly, if not death, must be the doom of the rash aspirant, and who would dare to brave the terrors of the swollen river?

The eyes of Leelinau were bright, and her smile sweet, but there were other maidens with bright eyes and sweet smiles, and less difficult to please.

But not thus felt Magisaunikwa. The absorbing passion swallowed up all considerations of prudence, and he resolved to undertake the adventure. If he perished, the Great Spirit would be pleased with his courage, and what was life without Leelinau? While thoughts like these passed through his mind, he remembered Manabozho. He had assisted him once, although in vain, why not a second time? He sought once more the recesses of the forest, where he had met him, and called upon his name, but no answer was returned. He kindled a fire and threw upon it the fragrant tobacco, and called again, "Ho! Manabozho!" and the majestic figure stood before him, but there was anger on his brow. To his stern demand the hunter made known what had happened, and begged his assistance. But the Manito showed no disposition to grant it. In fact, the task was beyond his powers, but he was unwilling that it should be known.

"Fool!" he said, "is a scornful squaw worth the hazard of death and the shame that attends defeat? Seek thy lodge and blow away these thoughts as the wind disperses the winged seeds of the stinging nettle." It was evident Manabozho had never been in love, for then he would not have thrown away his advice. He stayed not for a reply, but with a gesture of disdain disappeared.

Wampum-hair sought his wigwam, melancholy but not discouraged. It was, indeed, impossible to follow the counsel of the friendly Manito. Sleeping or waking the image of Leelinau swam before his eyes, and sometimes smiled as if to incite him to the enterprise.

He resolved to undertake a solemn fast. He therefore sought a retired place and built a pointed lodge.

Six days and nights he fasted, lying on the ground, and on the seventh day, at the rising of the sun, his guardian spirit, the child with the white beaver, slowly descended from the sky. His face was kind and gentle as at the first, but not as before did he lay his hand on the heart of Wampum-hair. Now he pressed his palm upon the forehead of the hunter, and strange thoughts and determinations, like rising storms, passed through his mind: slowly, then, up through the pointed roof, which opened for his passage, mounted the child till he disappeared in the blue field.

Magisaunikwa arose from the ground, and a frown was upon his brow. He ate and was refreshed, and returned to his lodge.

It was the last month of snows, and great rains had fallen, and the torrents were shouting from the mountains, and the Yaupaae pouring out a mightier flood than had ever been seen rushing through between the cleft rocks. It was then Wampum-hair announced his intention to undertake the adventure of the Falls, and invited the tribe to gather together to witness its performance. It is said that the heart of Leelinau, touched by so much constancy, was inclined to relent and excuse her lover the terrible ordeal, but this is probably the dream of some soft-hearted girl, and only indicates what she would have done in like circumstances.

On the day selected, the tribe was collected at the outpouring of the waters, to witness the achievement of Magisaunikwa, and lament his death. In great numbers they lined the banks of the stream, seeking those positions from which the best views could be obtained, while his friends watched at the foot of the cataract in canoes to rescue the body should it be thrown up by the raging water. Leelinau, too, was there, unyielding, yet proud of a devotion unheard of in the annals of her nation. She looked haughtily as on a spectacle devised in her honor, of which she should be celebrated as the heroine, long after her feet should have travelled the path that leads to the Spirit-land. No regret for the destruction to which her lover was doomed appeared to touch her heart, nor did pity moisten her eyes as she looked upon the preparations for the sacrifice.

At length Magisaunikwa appeared, and never before had he attracted such admiration. He moved like one returning from victory. No war paint, such as warriors are accustomed to use when upon the war-path in order to strike terror into the foe, or when commencing an enterprise of great peril, stained his person. His dress was the conaus of panther scalps, and he walked amid a company of young men of his own age, above the tallest of whom he rose by a head.

Before commencing the adventure, he performed the customary ceremony to propitiate the Great Spirit, pointing to the heavens, the earth, and the four winds, and invoking with a loud voice the Master of Life to smile upon the undertaking. This being done, he cast his eyes over the assembled crowd, till they fell upon Leelinau. Long he gazed, as if he desired to carry her image with him to the Spirit-land, nor after that last look did he allow his glance to rest upon another human being. Then, at a little distance above the head of the cataract, he entered the canoe and grasped the paddle.

The motion of the frail bark was at first gentle, but only for a short time: every moment its speed became accelerated, until, even before it reached the plunge, it seemed to fly like the swallow. Calmly guiding its fearful course sat the young man, his eyes fixed upon the narrow opening between the rocks. And now the canoe is at the brink of the Falls—it leaps like the salmon when he journeys up the stream—it is gone!—the raging waters have devoured it—no, I see it again—the arm of Magisaunikwa is strong, and the paddle unbroken. Help, Manito! he is dashed against the rock at the throat—no, the canoe is whirled round and darts away, and I behold it gliding with the youth over the quiet water. The Great Spirit hath protected him.

A shout, rivalling the roar of the Falls, went up from the assembled multitude, and they rose with songs such as welcome returned warriors to greet the successful hero.

But Wampum-hair received their congratulations and their praises with indifference. With eyes fixed on the ground, he suffered himself to be borne in triumph to the spot, where, on a platform of rock, stood the beautiful Leelinau. What were the thoughts that passed through her mind? Was she proud of being the object of a love so true and daring, or did she lament the necessity of accepting a lord? Wampum-hair approached, and before his calm, sorrowing eyes, her own sunk to the ground. Searching was his look, as if to descry the secrets of her soul, and at last he spoke.

"Leelinau," he said, "the Great Spirit created thee loveliest among the daughters of women; wherefore gave he thee not a heart?

"Leelinau, Wampum-hair will sigh no more for thee. Henceforth, thou art to him only a flower or a painted bird.

"Leelinau, the waters of the Yaupaae have extinguished the fire that burned here," and he laid his hand on his heart. He turned upon his heel and left the assemblage.

Astonishment at the address of Magisaunikwa at first held all mute, but presently a cry for revenge arose among the kinsmen of the slighted maiden. But the commanding voice of the wise Aishkwagon-ai-bee stilled the tumult.

"The blood of the mighty Ojeeg," he said, "cannot mingle with water. The Great Spirit hath taken this way to release Leelinau from a promise which He is displeased that she made."

Whatever might have been the vindictive feelings of the relations of Leelinau, their resentment was never visited on the head of the young hunter. Once, it is said, two brothers of the rejected maiden lay in ambush to take his life; but as he passed unconsciously near them, and the fatal arrows were drawn to the head against his bosom, Manabozho appeared and forbade the deed.

Magisaunikwa continued to cherish through a long life his love of peace. He obtained a great influence over his own and the neighboring tribes, and succeeded in spreading widely his pacific views. At the time of his death, which happened at an advanced age, the calumet of peace was everywhere smoked among the northern tribes, and their numbers had greatly increased. Wampum-hair was universally honored, and regarded as the cause of this felicity. But no wife ever cooked the venison in his lodge. With the dream of his youth vanished all predilection for the softer sex. He had loved and been disappointed. Where he expected to meet gentleness he had found pride. He looked for the yielding willow, and behold the inflexible oak!

But in Leelinau also a revolution had been effected. Her whole being was transformed. What devoted love that anticipated every wish was incapable of accomplishing, indifference achieved. Her soul from that moment flew on the wings of desire after Magisaunikwa. At first she thought his conduct caused by some temporary pique or resentment, and trusted to the power of her fascinations to restore him to her nets. As time, however, wore on, her hopes became fainter, until the terrible conviction settled like a night upon her soul, that she had trifled with the noblest heart of her nation and driven it for ever away. Then it was she felt the desolation no language can express. A settled melancholy took possession of her. Her eyes lost their fire, her lip its smile, and her voice the song. She would wander alone, far away into the recesses of the forest, speaking to herself in low tones, and weeping at the remembrance of happy days. Her health declined rapidly until she became too weak to leave without assistance the couch, where day after day reclined her fading form. One soft summer morning she begged two of her mates to support her to the rock, whence she beheld the exploit of Wampum-hair. She sank down, and removing, with her wasted hand, the long hair that had fallen over her eyes, gazed sadly on the foaming river. With a wistful look she followed the course of the cataract from top to bottom, probably recalling at the moment her lover's danger for her sake and her own repented scorn, then heavily sighed, and leaning her head on the bosom of one of her companions, expired.



CHAPTER XXIII.

Wide o'er the brim with many a torrent swelled, And the mixed ruin of its banks o'erspread, At last the roused up river pours along: Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes From the rude mountain and the mossy wild.

THOMSON'S SEASONS.

The company expressed their acknowledgments to Bernard for the entertainment he had furnished, although they all seemed to consider the conduct of Wampum-hair inconsistent with his amiable character, and to pity the fate of Leelinau.

"The writer must have had some suspicion of the inconsistency himself," said Bernard, "to judge from his attempt to obviate the difficulty, by ascribing a magic change in his hero, to the application of the child's hand to the head, instead of as before, to the heart. This part of the tale is slightly and unskillfully developed."

"I cannot agree with you," said Faith, "and think you do your friend injustice. The idea is, that the guardian genius exercised a controlling influence over the destiny of the young man; and I see no reason why if we concede the power to the genius to soften his nature, we may not grant also the ability to harden it."

"Especially," observed Pownal, "as the object of the protecting spirit would have been frustrated, had the lovers been united."

All looked inquiringly towards him for an explanation.

"I mean," said he, "that with such a fierce little squaw for a wife, the gentleman with the unpronounceable name, would not have continued a man of peace long. There certainly would have been war within the wigwam, however dense the puffs of smoke from the calumet of peace outside."

All laughed at the sally, but Anne intimated that she would have preferred a different termination.

"At least," said Mr. Armstrong, who had listened in silence to the criticisms of the young people, "it teaches a profitable lesson to you girls."

"What is that, Mr. Armstrong?" inquired Anne.

"That young ladies should know their own minds."

"A most unreasonable expectation!" exclaimed Anne. "We should become as stupid—as stupid as reasonable people."

"Besides," said Faith, coming to her friend's assistance, "the story was intended for the benefit of Indian girls, and not for those who read Shakspeare."

"I suspect," said Bernard, "that the writer was better acquainted with the Shakspearean ladies, than with Indian girls."

"Why do you think so?" asked Faith.

"Do you not observe," answered Bernard, "that he confines himself to generalities? Not a word does he venture to say about the toilette of the beauty. A description of the dress of the heroine, has always been considered indispensable in every tale."

"Poh, William!" said Anne, "what a savage critic you are. But, probably, there was so little to describe, the author did not think it worth his while."

"And," said Pownal, "is anything admissible in a picture which distracts the attention and withdraws it from the principal figure? Good taste excludes ear-rings and gold chains from portraits."

"Well," said Bernard, "I dare say you are right. It may be, too, that the dress was indescribable."

"Who is this Manabozho, who comes in so opportunely, yet, without effecting much after all?" inquired Anne. "I am charmed with his appearance; particularly, his big eyes."

"He is a sort of Indian Hercules," replied Bernard, "who plays a conspicuous part in many legends. He is a compound of wisdom and folly, of benevolence and mischief, of strength and weakness, partly Manitou and partly man, and is privileged to do anything, however absurd and impossible, at one moment, while, at the next, he may be shorn of his power, so as to be incapable of taking care of himself."

"A very convenient person indeed," said Anne.

"Loosing the knot of a difficulty by the intervention of such a Power, shows but little ingenuity, I confess," said Bernard.

"There is classical authority for it, though," said Mr. Armstrong. "Homer, himself, condescends to introduce a God, when he cannot extricate himself from embarrassment without his help."

"Aye," said Bernard, "but the rule of Horace must not be forgotten, nec Deus," &c.

"True," said Mr. Armstrong; "but how would you have accomplished the feat, like one of the labors of Hercules, without some such means?"

"I do not pretend to be able to do it," answered Bernard, modestly; "but, doubtless, one possessed of more imagination could have accomplished it."

"You are but a cold advocate for your friend," said Faith. "You do not allow him half the merit he deserves"

"He would not complain were he to hear me," said Bernard. "No one can be more sensible than himself, of the defects of his work."

"And I say," said Anne, "that I like his story exceedingly; only, he knows nothing about our sex. It may be all very well for a man to praise that hard-hearted Wampum-head, and make poor Leelinau pine away for his precious sake, but, I do not believe she was so silly as to care much about him."

"If the truth were known," said Pownal, "I have no doubt that the girl rejected him, because she liked some one else better."

"And her ungallant beau," said Anne, "made up the story, to cover his confusion."

"I am satisfied with it as it is," said Faith. "We pity and love Leelinau, now; her haughtiness and pride are forgotten in her misfortunes, and we remember her as one faithful unto death."

"Your tale reminds me," said Pownal, addressing Bernard, "that there is a tremendous freshet in the Wootuppocut, and that the waters are increasing. Suppose, if the ladies consent, we make up a party, to view it, to-morrow?"

The proposition was received with approbation by all, and it was agreed, that they would meet at the house of Mr. Armstrong, as the starting-point, on the afternoon of the next day. The evening being now considerably advanced, Faith's friends took their leave.

The nine o'clock bell was ringing, as the young people passed through the quiet streets. The custom of ringing a bell, at that hour, is one which has fallen into desuetude, although, once, almost universal in New England, and may be said to bear some relation to the vesper-bell, in Roman Catholic countries. Its avowed object, indeed, was not, as in the case of the latter, to call the people to prayers, but, its effect, perhaps, was the same; for, it marked the hour at which the population of the village were in the habit of retiring to rest; and, in those days of simple faith, many were the families whose members united together, before seeking their pillows, to return thanks for the blessings of the day, and ask for protection during the defenceless hours of the night. Luxury and dissipation have since crept in, and parties assemble, now, at an hour when they formerly broke up. We call ourselves more refined, but, it may admit of a doubt, whether all our show and parade are not purchased at too dear a rate, at the price of substantial comfort and happiness.

The shore was lined with spectators, when the little party approached the scene of the freshet. We do not know that we have succeeded in conveying a clear idea of the river we have attempted to describe. It may be recollected, that it was spoken of as one of the tributaries of the Severn, coming in from the East, and sweeping round that side of the town. The banks, on the side opposite, were high and precipitous; but, on the hither side—with the exception of the narrow passage through which the river poured itself into the Severn, and for a short distance above—the ground rose gently from the stream before it reached the foot of the hill, interposing a piece of comparatively level land. The road that ran on this flat spot, and connected the eastern portion (which, from the extempore character of its buildings, as well as from other causes we do not choose to mention, was called Hasty-Pudding), with the rest of the town, was, usually, in very high floods, overflowed. Such was the fact in the present instance, and boats were busily engaged in transporting persons over the submerged road. As you stood near the mouth of the river, and looked up the current, a scene of considerable interest, and, even grandeur, presented itself. At that time, the innumerable dams higher up the stream, that have been since constructed, had not been built, nor had the rocks, at the throat, been blasted to make a wider egress. The ice, which then rushed down, as it were by agreement, simultaneously and in huge blocks—but, now-a-days, at intervals, and broken up by falling over the dams—unable to escape in the eager rivalry of the cakes to pass each other, was jammed in the throat, and piled up high in the air, looking like ice-bergs that had floated from the North Pole. You saw the stream, at all times, rapid, and now, swollen vastly beyond its ordinary proportions, rushing with ten-fold force, and hurrying, in its channel, with hoarse sounds, the ice-cakes, which, in the emulous race, grated against, and, sometimes, mutually destroyed one another, to drive some under the icy barrier, thence to glide away to the ocean, and to toss others high above the foaming torrent on the collected masses, more gradually to find their way to the same bourne. Looking away from the channel, one saw the cakes caught in the eddies, whirled up against the banks, and, in some instances, forced into smoother and shoaler water, where they grounded, or were floated into little creeks and bays formed by the irregularities of the shores. These quiet places were, of course, on the side nearest the town, the opposite bank being too abrupt and the water too deep, for there was the channel, and there the water tore along with the greatest violence.

In one of these placid bays a party of school-boys were amusing themselves with getting upon the loose blocks and pushing them about like boats. The amusement appeared to be unattended with danger, the place being so far from the current, and the water but two or three feet deep. The children, therefore, were but little noticed, especially as they were at quite a distance from where the multitude of spectators was assembled, being considerably higher up and near the flat-land, bearing the undignified name which only historical accuracy compels us to introduce. After a time a cake, on which one of the boys was standing, began slowly to slip away from the shore. So gradually was this done that it was unobserved by the boys themselves until it had quite separated itself from the neighborhood of the other cakes, so that no assistance could be rendered, when one of his companions cried out to the little fellow upon it, to push for the shore. This he had already been attempting to do, but in spite of all exertions he was unable to come nearer. On the contrary, it was evident he was receding. The water had now become so deep that his pole could no longer reach the bottom. The current had drawn in the cake, and was sweeping it with its precious freight to destruction. The children set up a cry of alarm, which was heard by the spectators below, and first attracted their attention.

A thrill of horror ran through the crowd. Men drew in their breath hard, and women shrieked, unable to turn away their eyes, fastened by a terrible fascination on the peril. Horrid apprehensions invaded the mind of many a parent. The doomed boy might be his own son. Despairing glances were cast around in every direction for help. In vain: none could be given. There was time for nothing: with every second the child was swept more rapidly to destruction.

Meanwhile the brave little fellow, planted firmly on the centre of the cake, was balancing himself with the pole, and intrepidly confronting the danger he could not avoid. Not a cry escaped, nor did his self-possession desert him. As the vexed and whirling water raised up the one side or the other of his frail bark, he would incline his body in this or that direction to preserve the equilibrium, now standing upright and now cowering close to the surface of the uncertain footing. And now the block approached the throat, where the torrent ran the swiftest and was most turbulent. The child seemed to have escaped thus far by miracle, but now it appeared impossible he would be able to maintain his place. His head must become dizzy, his courage fail in the awful confusion of so many threatening dangers; the tormented waves must upset the block, or another must strike against it and cast the boy into the water. And now the cake has reached the icy barrier stretched across the stream. It strikes; it is sucked in below and disappears.

The spell-bound spectators, their eyes fastened upon the danger of the boy, had not noticed the figure of a man, who, descending the opposite bank, and clambering at considerable risk over the masses of heaped up ice, stood waiting for the approach of the child. So truly had he judged the sweep of the current, that he had planted himself upon the edge of the ice at the precise spot where the block struck. Reaching out his arm at the moment when it slipped beneath, he seized the boy by the collar of his jacket and drew him to the place on which he stood. As soon as the crowd caught sight of the man, they saw that it was Holden.

The position of the two was still one of danger. A false step, the separating of the ice, the yielding of a cake might precipitate both into the torrent. But the heart of the man had never felt the emotion of fear. He cast his eyes deliberately round, and with a prompt decision took his course. Raising the rescued child in his arms, he started in the direction of the wharf, built just below the narrow opening. Springing with great agility and strength over the blocks, selecting for footing those cakes which seemed thickest and fastened in firmest, he made his way over the barrier and bounded safely on the land. The spectators, seeing the direction he was taking, had run down, many of them, to the place, and were waiting to receive them.

"I vow," said our friend, Tom Gladding, who was among the first to welcome Holden, "if it ain't little Jim Davenport. Why, Jim, you come pretty nigh gitting a ducking."

"Yes," said the boy, carelessly, as if he had been engaged in a frolic, "I wet my shoes some, and the lower part of my trousers."

Here a man came hastening through the crowd, for whom all made way. It was Mr. Davenport. He had been, like the rest, a witness of the danger and the rescue, but knew not that it was his own son who had made the perilous passage. But a report, running as if by magic from one to another, had reached his ears, and he was now hurrying to discover its truth. It was, indeed, his son, and Holden was his preserver. He advanced to the boy, and examined him from head to foot, as if to assure himself of his safety before he spoke a word. Shaking with agitation, he then turned to Holden, and grasping his hand, wrung it convulsively.

"May God forget me, Mr. Holden," he stammered, in a broken voice, "if I forget this service," and taking the boy by the hand he led him home.

"Well," said Gladding, who had been looking on, "Jim don't mind it much, but I guess it'll do old Davenport good."

Holden, according to his custom, seemed indisposed to enter into conversation with those around him, or to accept the civilities tendered, and started off as soon as possible, upon his solitary way. As he emerged from the crowd, he caught sight of the advancing figures of Faith and of her companions, who had more leisurely approached, and stopped to greet them. From them he seemed to receive with pleasure the congratulations showered upon him, though he disclaimed all merit for himself.

"Be the praise," he said, devoutly, "given to Him who, according to the purpose of his own will, maketh and destroyeth. The insensible block of ice and I were only instruments in His hands." He turned away, and walking rapidly was soon out of sight.

Constable Basset, who was present, had just sense enough to understand that this was no occasion for his interference, and although he followed the retreating figure of the Solitary with longing eyes, while his hands clutched at the writ, ventured on no attempt to exercise his authority.



CHAPTER XXIV.

We talk of love and pleasure—but 'tis all A tale of falsehood. Life's made up of gloom: The fairest scenes are clad in ruin's pall, The loveliest pathway leads but to the tomb.

PERCIVAL.

After the event just recorded, it may well be supposed that all further legal proceedings against the Recluse were abandoned. They had been commenced only to gratify the wounded pride of Davenport, and since the preservation of the life of his son by Holden, the community would have cried shame on him had the matter been pursued further. But no such public sentiment was needed in order to induce Davenport to give the justice and Basset a hint to do nothing more. He was really grateful, though feeling no compunction for his conduct, easily persuading himself that it had been prompted by a love of justice, and a desire to protect the interests of religion.

Holden could, therefore, without fear of the consequences, resume openly his usual visits to the village. Of late they had been more than usually frequent at the house of Mr. Armstrong, by whom he seemed almost as much attracted as by Faith. With the former the conversation usually turned upon points of theology that every day appeared to assume with Armstrong deeper importance, with the latter on the effects produced by the teachings of Holden among the Indians. For since his exile at the Patmos of the Indian village, a new subject had engaged the attention of the Solitary, to which with characteristic energy he had devoted the powers of his soul—the conversion of the poor wretches who had kindly harbored and protected him. To his sanguine expectations, expressed in the impassioned language of Scripture he loved to use, the enthusiastic girl would listen, with the warmest interest. Accustomed to assign every event to an overruling Providence, she thought she now saw clearly the hand of a superior Power in the occurrences which had compelled Holden, in the first instance, to take up his temporary residence among them. Temporary residence, we say, because the Solitary had since returned to his hut, which was at the distance of only two or three miles from the cabins of his former protectors. Solitude he found was necessary in order to enable him the better to perform his new duties, and the distance was too slight to interpose any serious obstacle, or even inconvenience.

Such was the state of things, when some weeks after the freshet, Mr. Armstrong acquainted his daughter, at the breakfast-table, with his intention to visit Holden that day.

"It is a long time," he said (four days had elapsed), "since we have seen him, and there are things upon my mind I would gladly speak about."

A few months before, such a declaration from her father would have suprised Faith, but now she regarded it as quite natural. The intimacy between the family and the Recluse had become such, and the commanding character of the latter had acquired so great an influence over both its members, that neither of them saw anything strange in the deference paid him. She, therefore, acquiesced with some common-place remark in the proposal, begging to be remembered to the old man.

Accordingly, after breakfast, Mr. Armstrong walked down to the wharf, thinking it probable he might find some boat going down the river, by which he might be left at the island, intending, should he not find the Solitary there, to go to the Indian settlement. Nor was he disappointed. He found a fisherman making preparations to cast off his boat, who cheerfully consented to convey him to the place of destination. Mr. Armstrong jumped into the boat, and, the wind favoring, they rapidly scudded down the stream.

The fisherman, a fine, frank fellow, of some thirty years of age, to whom Mr. Armstrong was well known, at least, by reputation, although the recognition was not mutual, endeavored to engage him in conversation, but without effect. Although answering politely any questions, he made no remarks in return, and the conversation soon languished for want of material to support it. Poor Josiah Sill, finding his social qualities not appreciated, soon himself relapsed into silence, wondering what could induce his companion to seek Holden, and connecting his reserve in some mysterious way with the visit. Finding the silence not altogether agreeable, Josiah finally burst out with "Yankee Doodle," which he amused himself with whistling together with some other favorite tunes, until they reached the island. As they approached they caught a glimpse of Holden entering the house, and Josiah landed his passenger, promising to call for him on his return in the afternoon, though Armstrong expressed a doubt whether he should remain so long.

"If you ain't here, there won't be no harm done," said the good-natured fellow, "and it won't take a minute to stop."

Mr. Armstrong having thanked him and wished him success, advanced to the cabin.

He found Holden in the outer room, engaged in his usual employment, when at home, of weaving baskets. A large quantity of prepared saplings, split very thin, lay scattered around him, while bundles of walnut poles, the crude material of his manufacture, were piled up in the corners ready for use. With a quick and dexterous hand the Solitary wove in the ribbon-like pieces, showing great familiarity with the work. Without desisting from his labor, he expressed pleasure at the visit of his friend, and requested him to be seated.

"I am honored," he said, "this day. To what shall I ascribe the notice of the wealthy Mr. Armstrong?"

There was a slight tone of irony in the words. It probably was observed by Mr. Armstrong, for, with some feeling, he replied:

"Speak to me not so coldly. And yet," he added, dejectedly, "I deserve that all the world should reject me. Neither the happy nor the miserable feel sympathy for me."

The wayward humor of Holden was evidently softened by the sadness of the sweet, low voice.

"Each heart," he said, "knoweth best its own bitterness, and I repent me of my rudeness. But when I saw thee here I could not but remember that I had dwelt long years in this dwelling, and"—he hesitated, and Armstrong finished the sentence:

"And you would say this is the first time I have darkened your door. Well may it be called darkness where my unhappy shadow falls. But forgive me: it is only lately that I learned to know you."

"Thou errest, James Armstrong," returned Holden, "if thou thinkest thou knowest me, or will ever know me. Yet, after all," he added in a gentler manner, "thou art right. Yes, know me as a fellow sinner, journeying with thee to eternity."

"As my friend," replied Armstrong; "as the guide whose deeper experience in heavenly things shall teach me the way to heaven, unless by some inscrutable decree I am excluded."

"How has my heart been open, how has it longed for years to meet thine! How gladly would I have poured out my grief into thy bosom as into that of a brother!" cried Holden, his voice choked with emotion.

The countenance of Mr. Armstrong betrayed astonishment. "How is this?" he said. "I never knew it. You have always been to me as a common acquaintance."

A shade fell on the face of Holden. He misunderstood the meaning of the other. He supposed the phrase applicable to the feelings of Armstrong towards himself, and not as descriptive of his own conduct to Armstrong. "For the sake of the little Faith," he said coldly, "who is now a lovely woman, have I highly regarded thee."

"It is even so," said Armstrong, in a melancholy tone. "There are none left to love me for my own sake. Yet why should I quarrel with my own daughter? Let me rather be grateful that she has been the means of attracting one being towards me. How can I show my friendship? How can I make you my friend?"

"I am thy friend," cried Holden, grasping his hand with another revulsion of feeling. "Put me to any proof. I will not fail."

"If money could avail with a man like you," continued Armstrong, "it should not be wanting. If ease or luxury could tempt—but you have trampled them under foot, and what are they to one whose conversation is in heaven?"

Holden, while he was speaking, had risen from his seat and strode twice or thrice across the room. When Armstrong had finished speaking he again approached him.

"It is not for naught," he exclaimed, "that the Lord hath conducted thee this day unto me. Speak what he shall put into thy mouth to say."

"I would have your confidence," said Armstrong. "As the sick beast or the hurt bird knows by an infallible instinct what herb or plant will best promote its cure, so it seems to me does Providence direct me to you. Repulse me not, but be my kind physician."

"How can the physician prescribe, if he knoweth not the complaint."

"You shall know if you have patience to listen. But I must go back years to make myself intelligible."

"Speak, my brother," said Holden, gently, "not a word shall fall in vain."

"Then listen," said Armstrong, "and learn what sorrows the outward shows of prosperity may gild."

Holden resumed his seat, and Armstrong began his relation.

"My parents," he said, "had but two children, myself and my brother, who was younger by two years. The tenderest affection existed between us, and we were never separated until I went to college, where, after a couple of years, I was joined by him, and where we remained together until the close of my collegiate course. I then returned home, in order to take my place in the mercantile business, in which our father was engaged. My brother George was destined for one of the professions. During the last year of his stay at college, his letters to me were full of the praises of a young lady whose acquaintance he had made, and in vacations he was never weary of talking of her beauty and amiable qualities. I was present when he took his degree, and at a party, given during my stay, in the town, he introduced me to her. Alas! that introduction was the cause of the happiness and the wretchedness of my life. It found me a wife, and lost me a brother. I cannot describe the impression which the first sight of Frances made upon me. Nor did she seem averse to my attentions. I offered myself, and was accepted."

"And didst thou nothing to alienate her affections from thy brother?" inquired Holden, in a hoarse voice.

"She never regarded him with more than a passing liking," returned Armstrong, "nor do I believe she had an idea of the fervor of his affection. God be my witness, I never spoke a word in his disparagement. We were married, and shortly after George began to exhibit indications of insanity. By the advice of physicians he was taken to an asylum for the insane, where it was hoped, under proper treatment, his reason might be restored. May God pardon me, who am the cause of the horrid tragedy, but, by some negligence of his keeper, he was permitted to escape—his body was found, after some days, in a neighboring pond." Here Armstrong paused and covered his face with both hands.

"The body was recognized as thy brother's?" inquired Holden.

"It had been in the water too long to be perfectly recognized, but the height, and age, and color of the hair, and what there was left to make it distinguishable, were sufficient to identify it as George's."

"There is no certainty then. Thy brother may be yet alive."

"There can be no doubt of his death. Thirty years have elapsed, and were he in existence he must have been heard of. Twelve years afterwards my Frances died, leaving me two children, a son and infant daughter. God saw fit, in his providence, to take my boy, but left me Faith, to lay my grey hairs in the grave. It will not be long before she will do me that service."

Mr. Armstrong ceased speaking, and silence succeeded, which was at last broken by the Solitary. He bent his brows with a keen, searching glance upon his guest, and said:

"Thou wert false to thy brother."

"Yes, and his blood cries against me. Whither shall I turn to hide my guilt?"

"Thou dost repent, then, of thy treachery?" inquired Holden, who seemed determined to probe the wound to the bottom.

"Alas! restore to me the morning of life; place me in the same circumstances, and I should fall again. I should be irresistibly attracted by a heart that seemed made for mine."

"In her arms thou didst forget the brother, whom thy cruelty had doomed to the maniac's cell and chain?" said Holden.

"Never! his image is graven on my heart. I have never ceased to think of him."

"Thou wouldst know him should he stand before thee?"

"Know him! aye, amidst ten thousand. No years could make such changes as to hide him from me. But he is in his grave, while his murderer lives."

"Thou didst find compensation for lamentation over the dead, in the caresses of the living?"

"True, too true. While Frances lived, she was my heaven. It was necessary that this idol should be torn from me. My son, too. Oh, James, my son! my son!"

Holden, during the conversation, had been unable to keep his seat, but with the restlessness of his nature had been walking across the room, stopping occasionally before Armstrong. The last expression of feeling evidently affected him. The rapidity of his steps diminished; his motions became less abrupt; and presently he laid his hand upon the shoulder of Mr. Armstrong.

"Thy tale," he said, "is one of sorrow and suffering. Thou didst violate thy duty, and art punished. No wrong shall escape the avenger. As it is written, 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' But it is also written, 'He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness, and repenteth him of the evil.' Thou art after all but an instrument in the hand of One mighty to do. Even out of crime He works out the purposes of his will. Thou knowest not from what sin and sorrow an early death may be the refuge. Commit thyself to the hands of the Lord, nor grieve as one without hope. Thy brother liveth, and thou shalt yet behold him."

"I know he lives, and at the Judgment shall I behold him," said Armstrong, shuddering, "to upbraid me with his murder."

"Not to upbraid, but to forgive, and to imprint upon thy brow the seal of reconciliation, as I now, by this token, vow to thee an everlasting love." So saying, Holden bent down, and his lips touched the forehead of Armstrong.

We do not know that we ought to be surprised at anything in the conduct of this extraordinary man. The principles by which he regulated himself, if he had any that were fixed and determinate, and was not impelled to his actions by the impulse of the moment, were so different from those of other men, that it is difficult to reduce them to the same standard, or, indeed, to assign them to any standard. Be it as it may, so accustomed was Mr. Armstrong to his ways, that so singular a thing did not impress him as strange. He only looked up with eyes dimmed with tears, and, in broken accents, thanked the Solitary.

The rest of the time spent by Armstrong on the island, was passed in conversation of very much the same description. It would seem from his self-reproaches and confessions, that during the lives of his wife and son, the melancholy death of his brother had made no great impression upon him. Happy in a woman he adored, and who returned his affection; with a blooming family around him; immersed in thoughts of business; and in the enjoyment of a large fortune, there seemed nothing wanting to complete his felicity. He remembered, too, that there had been an instance of insanity in his family, some years before the birth of himself, which had terminated fatally, the cause of which could not be traced, and felt disposed, therefore, with the natural tendency to self-exculpation of the happy, to find the reason for the tragical end of his brother in hereditary infirmity, rather than attach any serious blame to himself for securing the affections of a lady, whom he was assured had never loved another. But when after a few years of unclouded bliss, first his wife, and then his son, was taken away, all things assumed an altered aspect. He found himself the last male of his family, his name about to become extinct and forgotten, with only one other being in the world in whose veins ran his blood, and for whose life his paternal solicitude almost daily trembled. His mind brooded day by day more and more over his misfortunes, which gradually began to wear the form of judgments, the object and result of which must be to erase his hated name from the earth. As Faith grew up, his anxieties on her account diminished, but that only left him the wider scope to dwell upon wild imaginations and make himself more the subject of his thoughts. Of a grave and reflective cast of mind, he had even from his early years respected the duties of religion, and now he turned to it for consolation. But the very sources whence he should have derived comfort and peace were fountains of disquiet. His diseased mind seemed incapable of appropriating to itself the gentle promises of pardon and acceptance, but trembled at the denunciations of punishment. The universal Father came not to him with open arms, as to welcome a returned prodigal, but frowned with the severity of a Judge about to pronounce sentence. Whithersoever the unhappy man turned, he saw no ray of light to gild the darkness, and he himself sometimes feared lest reason should desert her throne. But his friends felt no apprehensions of the kind. In their presence, though grave, he was always reasonable and on his guard—for he shrunk with the sensitiveness of a delicate mind from exposing its wounds—nor with the exception of the minister, and now Holden, was there one who suspected his condition, and they probably did not realize it fully. These remarks may serve to abate, if not to remove entirely the reader's surprise, that one with the education, and in the position of Armstrong, should have sought counsel from Holden. But it may be, that the condition of mind to which Armstrong was approaching—similar in some respects to that of the Solitary—established a sort of relation or elective affinity between them, operating like the influence of the magnet, to attract one to the other. We have seen how fond Holden was of visiting the house of Mr. Armstrong. Could it be that this mysterious influence, all unconsciously to himself, led his steps thither, and that afar off he dimly espied the talisman that should establish a full community between them? Or was not this community already established? How else account for the visit of Armstrong, the strange conversation, the confessions, concluded by an act, tender, and perhaps graceful, but only such as was to be expected from a deranged man?

Josiah Sill, true to his promise, arrived while the two men were still talking, heedless of the passage of time. Mr. Armstrong stepped on board, and the boat resumed her course. The wind was drawing down the river, remaining nearly in the same point from which it had blown in the morning, and they were obliged in consequence to pursue a zig-zag course, tackling from one shore to the other. It blew fresh, and the little vessel, gunwale down, with the water sometimes pouring over the lee side, flew like a bird. They had run two-thirds of the distance, nor was the sun yet set, when the wind, which, till then, had blown pretty steadily, began to intermit and come in flaws or puffs, now driving the small craft with great rapidity, and now urging her gently on. At an instant, when she was about to tack, having hardly head-way sufficient to prevent missing stays, a sudden and violent puff, from a gorge in the hills, struck the sail. Had it come at any other moment, the catastrophe that followed could not have happened; but the boat lying almost motionless, received all the force of the wind, and instantly upset. Mr. Armstrong, unable to swim, and encumbered by his clothes, sank, but was caught by the strong arm of Sill, and pulled upon the keel. In a state of great discomfort, though of safety, there both remained for some time, waiting for assistance. None arriving, Sill, at last, became impatient, and as he was an excellent swimmer, proposed to throw off the heavier part of his clothing, and swim to land to hasten succor. As Mr. Armstrong made no objection, and the danger appeared less than what was likely to proceed from a long continuance on the boat, exposed in their wet clothes to the wind, the shore being but a few rods distant, Sill, after divesting himself of a part of his clothes, plunged into the water, and with vigorous strokes swam towards the land. He had proceeded but a short way when, either in consequence of becoming benumbed by the coldness of the water after being chilled by exposure to the wind, or from being seized by cramp, or from what other cause, the unfortunate man suddenly turning his face towards Armstrong, and uttering a cry of alarm, sank and disappeared from sight. Once more only was anything seen of him, when brought near the surface, perhaps, by an eddy in the stream, a hand emerged, and for an instant the fingers quivered in the air.

With a sort of desperate horror Armstrong gazed upon the appalling spectacle. The expression of anguish on the face of the drowning fisherman, as his distended eyes met his own, froze his blood, and left a memory behind to last to his dying day. Fascinated, his eyes dwelt on the spot where the fisherman sunk, and for a moment a terrible temptation was whispered into his ear quietly, to drop into the river, and accompany the spirit of the drowned man. But it lasted only a moment, and the instinct of life resumed its power.

It was not long ere his condition was discovered from the shore, when chilled and shivering he was taken off by a boat that put out to his rescue. On arriving at his home, Faith, excessively alarmed, immediately dispatched the faithful Felix for the doctor.



CHAPTER XXV.

How sweetly could I lay my head Within the cold grave's silent breast, Where sorrow's tears no more are shed, No more the ills of life molest.

MOORE

Mr. Armstrong escaped, to all appearance, with a cold, from the accident. But although this seemed the only effect produced upon his bodily health, his mind had suffered a severe shock which was not equally obvious. Fancies, each gloomier than the preceding, took, henceforth, more and more possession of his imagination. He seemed the harbinger of misfortune to all connected with him. Frequently rose up the image of his dead brother, mingling with his dreams and obtruding itself even into his waking thoughts, at one time dripping with water as when taken from the pond—ghastly pale—livid—with scarcely distinguishable lineaments; at another wrapped in the dress of the tomb, and pointing with bony finger to a new-made grave. Then his wife would appear, holding their little son by the hand, and standing on the opposite side of a river that rolled between, beckoning him to cross. But whenever he made the attempt the waves would close over his head, and he awoke with a sense of suffocation and gasping for breath. At another time the scene of the drowning fisherman would be repeated, but with innumerable variations. Sometimes, in some way or other, Holden would be mixed up with it, sometimes Faith, and sometimes, most horrible of all, he himself would be desperately struggling to hold Sill under water, till finally the yielding body sunk, sunk into depths no eye could fathom. But never till the face turned and transfixed him with the despairing glare of those dreadful eyes.

But we are anticipating and rather describing the condition into which his mind gradually fell, than its state immediately after his interview with the Solitary. It took some time longer before the idea that by an inexorable decree he was doomed to entail destruction on all connected with him, became fixed. For awhile it floated uncertainly and impalpably before him, and only slowly, like an approaching spectre, took upon itself shape and presence. A conversation between himself and his daughter on the second day after the accident, and his conduct immediately thereafter, may give us some apprehension of the current of his thoughts and feelings then.

"My dearest father," said Faith, throwing her arms around his neck, and repeating what she had said more than once before, "oh, how thankful ought I to be for the saving of your precious life!"

"We are often thankful in our ignorance," said her father, "for the greatest misfortunes."

"Do you call it a misfortune to me," she cried, "that I am not left alone in the world? Oh, father, what should I do without you?" And in spite of her exertions to suppress them, the tears burst from her eyes.

"Come to me, my child," said Armstrong, and he took the weeping girl into his arms, and leaned her head gently upon his bosom. "Compose yourself. Believe me, there are trials harder to be borne than the loss of parents."

"None, none to me," sobbed Faith. "If it were right I would pray that I might die the same moment with you."

"It is well for one like me to think often of death," said her father, "nor should the young forget they are mortal. But many happy days, I trust, are reserved for my darling."

"Happy, if you are to share them with me, father. But why do I weep," she said, raising up her head and smiling through her tears, "at thinking of the possibility of a misfortune to myself, when my heart is swelling with thankfulness for your preservation?" She arose from her father's lap, drew a chair to his side, and as her custom was, took one of his hands in both of hers.

"Such are the dispensations of Providence," said Armstrong. "The old man, with white hair and bent body, creeps to his grave, while the infant that has just learned to smile in its mother's face, is hurried from her arms. Why was it that Sill, so strong, so happy, so young, with a wife and children dependant on him for support, should be taken and I left?"

"Why should we curiously inquire?" replied Faith. "If we could look behind the curtain, no doubt we should see sufficient reasons for the choice."

"When I look back upon my life," continued Armstrong, more distinctly revealing the thought lurking in his mind, "it seems as if I were born to be the cause of misfortune to others. Had any one else been in the boat, the accident would not have happened, or certainly not terminated fatally."

"Do not say so, dear father. Can you regulate the winds and waves?"

"No, Faith. Yet unmanly as it is, let me lament the fate that makes me the instrument to execute the decrees of Heaven. I am a rod to attract the fires that consume, while itself rises unscathed amid the destruction."