"It must be the place—my place? there is no other clearing within a mile? My directions have been given with exact minuteness of detail. I have followed them to the letter: I cannot be mistaken: I have reached Holt's Clearing at last."

I had ridden quite up to the fence, but could see no gate. A set of bars, however, between two roughly mortised uprights, indicated an entrance to the enclosure. The top bar was out. Not feeling inclined to dismount, I sprang my horse over the others; and then trotted forward in front of the shanty. The door stood wide open. I had hopes that the sound of my horse's hoof-stroke would have brought some one into it; but no one came! Was there nobody within? I waited for a minute or two, listening for some sign of life in the interior of the cabin. No voice reached me—no sound of any one stirring! Perhaps the cabin was empty! Not untenanted: since I could perceive the signs of occupation, in some articles of rude furniture visible inside the doorway. Perhaps the inmates had gone out for a moment, and might be in the woods, near at hand?

I looked around the clearing, and over the fence into the forest beyond. No one to be seen no one to be heard! Without the cabin, as within, reigned a profound silence. Not a living thing in sight—save the black vultures—a score of which, perched on the dead-woods overhead, and fetid as their food, were infecting the air with their carrion odour. Although within easy range of my rifle, the foul birds took no heed of my movements; but sat still, indolently extending their broad wings to the sun—now and then one coming, one going, in slow silent flight— their very shadows seeming to flit lazily among the withered maize-plants that covered the ground.

I had no desire to appear rude. I already regretted having leaped my horse over the bars. Even that might be regarded as rather a brusque method of approach to a private dwelling; but I was in hopes it would not be noticed: since there appeared to be no one who had witnessed it. I coughed and made other noises, with like unfruitful result. My demonstrations were either not heard, or if heard, unheeded.

"Certainly," thought I, "if there be any one in the house, they must not only hear, but see me:" for although there was no window, I could perceive that the logs were but poorly "chinked;" and from within the house, the whole clearing must have been in sight. Nay, more, the interior itself was visible from without—at least the greater part of it—and, while making this observation, I fancied I could trace the outlines of a human figure through the interstices of the logs! I became convinced it was a human figure; and furthermore, the figure of a man. It was odd he had not heard me! Was he asleep? No: that could not be—from the attitude in which he was. He appeared to be seated in a chair, but with his body erect, and his head held aloft. In such position, he could scarcely be asleep? After making this reflection, I coughed again—louder than before; but to no better purpose! I thought the figure moved. I was sure it moved; but as if with no intention of stirring from the seat! "Cool indifference!" thought I—"what can the fellow mean?" I grew impatient; and, feeling a little provoked by the inexplicable somnolency of the owner of the cabin, I determined to try whether my voice might not rouse him. "Ho! house, there!" I shouted, though not loudly; "ho!—holloa!—any one within?" Again the figure moved—but still stirred not from the seat! I repeated both my summons and query—this time in still a louder and more commanding tone; and this time I obtained a response.

"Who the hell air you?" came a voice through the interstices of the logs—a voice that more resembled the growl of a bear, than the articulation of a human throat. "Who the hell air you?" repeated the voice, while at the same time, I could perceive the figure rising from the chair.

I made no answer to the rough query. I saw that my last summons had been sufficient. I could hear the hewn floor-planks cracking under a heavy boot; and knew from this, that my questioner was passing towards the door. In another instant he stood in the doorway—his body filling it from side to side—from head to stoop. A fearful-looking man was before me. A man of gigantic stature, with a beard reaching to the second button of his coat; and above it a face, not to be looked upon without a sensation of terror: a countenance expressive of determined courage, but, at the same time, of ferocity, untempered by any trace of a softer emotion. A shaggy sand-coloured beard, slightly grizzled; eyebrows like a chevaux-de-frise of hogs' bristles; eyes of a greenish-grey, with a broad livid scar across the left cheek, were component parts in producing this expression; while a red cotton kerchief, wound, turban-like, around the head, and, pulled low down in front, rendered it more palpable and pronounced. A loose coat of thick green blanket, somewhat faded and worn, added to the colossal appearance of the man; while a red-flannel shirt served him also for a vest. His large limbs were inserted in pantaloons of blue Kentucky jeans cloth; but these were scarcely visible, hidden by the skirt of the ample blanket-coat that draped down below the tops of a pair of rough horse-skin boots reaching above the knee, and into which the trousers had been tucked. The face of the man was a singular picture; the colossal stature rendered it more striking; the costume corresponded; and all were in keeping with the rude manner of my reception.

It was idle to ask the question. From the description given me by the young backwoodsman, I knew the man before me to be Hickman Holt the squatter.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A ROUGH RECEPTION.

For fashion's sake, I was about to utter the usual formula, "Mr Holt, I presume?" but the opportunity was not allowed me. No sooner had the squatter appeared in his doorway, than he followed up his blasphemous interrogatory with a series of others, couched in language equally rude.

"What's all this muss about? Durn yur stinkin' imperence, who air ye? an' what air ye arter?"

"I wish to see Mr Holt," I replied, struggling hard to keep my temper.

"Ye wish to see Mister Holt? Thur's no Mister Holt 'bout hyur."

"No?"

"No! damnation, no! Didn't ye hear me!"

"Do I understand you to say, that Hickman Holt does not live here?"

"You understan' me to say no sich thing. Eft's Hick Holt ye mean, he diz live hyur."

"Hick Holt—yes that is the name."

"Wall what o't, ef't is?"

"I wish to see him."

"Lookee hyur, stranger!" and the words were accompanied by a significant look; "ef yur the shariff, Hick Holt ain't at home—ye understand me? he ain't at home."

The last phrase was rendered more emphatic, by the speaker, as he uttered it, raising the flap of his blanket-coat, and exhibiting a huge bowie-knife stuck through the waistband of his trousers. I understood the hint perfectly.

"I am not the sheriff," I answered in an assuring tone. I was in hopes of gaining favour by the declaration: for I had already fancied that my bizarre reception might be owing to some error of this kind.

"I am not the sheriff," I repeated, impressively.

"Yur not the shariff? One o' his constables, then, I s'pose?"

"Neither one nor other," I replied, pocketing the affront.

"An' who air ye, anyhow—wi' yur dam glitterin' buttons, an' yur waist drawd in, like a skewered skunk?"

This was intolerable; but remembering the advice of my Nashville friend—with some additional counsel I had received over-night—I strove hard to keep down my rising choler.

"My name," said I—

"Durn yur name!" exclaimed the giant, interrupting me; "I don't care a dog-gone for yur name: tell me yur bizness—that's what I wanter know."

"I have already told you my business: I wish to see Mr Holt—Hick Holt, if you like."

"To see Hick Holt? Wal, ef that's all yur bizness, you've seed him; an' now ye kin go."

This was rather a literal interpretation of my demand; but, without permitting myself to be nonplussed by it, or paying any heed to the abrupt words of dismissal, I replied, half interrogatively: "You, then, are he? You are Hick Holt, I suppose?"

"Who said I ain't—durn your imperence? Now, then, what d'ye want wi' me?"

The filthy language, the insulting tone in which it was uttered, the bullying manner of the man—evidently relying upon his giant strength, and formidable aspect—were rapidly producing their effect upon me; but in a manner quite contrary to that anticipated by Master Holt. It was no doubt his design to awe me; but he little knew the man he had to deal with. Whether it might be called courage or not, I was just as reckless of life as he. I had exposed my person too often, both in single combat and on the battle-field, to be cowed by a bully—such as I fancied this fellow to be—and the spirit of resistance was fast rising within me. His dictatorial style was unendurable; and discarding all further prudential considerations, I resolved to submit to it no longer. I did not give way to idle recrimination. Perhaps, thought I, a firm tone may suit my purpose better; and, in my reply, I adopted it. Before I could answer his question, however, he had repeated it in a still more peevish and impatient manner—with an additional epithet of insult. "Wal, Mister Jaybird," said he, "be quick 'bout it! What d'ye want wi' me?"

"In the first place Mr Hickman Holt, I want civil treatment from you; and secondly—"

I was not permitted to finish my speech. I was interrupted by an exclamation—a horrid oath—that came fiercely hissing from the lips of the squatter.

"Damnation!" cried he; "you be damned! Civil treetmint i'deed! You're a putty fellur to talk o' civil treetmint, arter jumpin' yur hoss over a man's fence, an' ridin' slap-jam inter his door, 'ithout bein' asked! Let me tell yer, Mister Gilt Buttons, I don't 'low any man—white, black, or Injun—to enter my clarin' 'ithout fust knowin' his reezun. Ye hear that, d'ye?"

"Your clearing! Are you sure it is yours?"

The squatter turned red upon the instant. Rage may have been the passion that brought the colour to his cheeks; but I could perceive that my words had produced another emotion in his mind, which added to the hideousness of the cast at that moment given to his features.

"Not my clarin'!" he thundered, with the embellishment of another imprecation—"not my clarin'! Shew me the man, who says it's not!— shew'm to me! By the Almighty Etarnal he won't say't twice."

"Have you purchased it?"

"Neer a mind for that, mister; I've made it: that's my style o' purchase, an', by God! it'll stan' good, I reck'n. Consarn yur skin! what hev you got to do wi't anyhow?"

"This," I replied, still struggling to keep calm, at the same time taking the title-deeds from my saddle-bags—"this only, Mr Holt. That your house stands upon Section Number 9; that I have bought that section from the United States government; and must therefore demand of you, either to use your pre-emption, right, or deliver the land over to me. Here is the government grant—you may examine it, if you feel so inclined."

An angry oath was the response, or rather a volley of oaths.

"I thort that wur yur bisness," continued the swearer. "I thort so; but jest this time you've kim upon a fool's errand. Durn the government grant! durn your pre-emption right! an' durn yur title-papers too! I don't valley them more'n them thur corn-shucks—I don't. I've got my pre-emption dokyment inside hyur. I'll jest shew ye that, mister; an' see how ye'll like it."

The speaker turned back into his cabin, and for a moment I lost sight of him.

"Pre-emption document!" he said. Was it possible he had purchased the place, and was gone to fetch his title-deeds?

If so—

My reflection was cut short. In another moment he re-appeared in the doorway; not with any papers in his hand—but, instead, a long rifle, that with its butt resting on the door-stoop, stood almost as high as himself?

"Now, Mister Turn-me-out?" said he, speaking in a satirical triumphant tone, and raising the piece in front of him, "thur's my title—my pre-emption right's the right o' the rifle. It's clur enuf: ye'll acknowledge that, won't ye?"

"No," I replied in a firm voice.

"Ye won't? The hell, ye won't? Look hyur, stranger! I'm in airnest. Look in my eye, an' see if I ain't! I gi' ye warnin' then, that ef ye're not out o' this clarin' in six jumps o' a squ'll, you'll niver go out o' it a livin' man. You see that ere stump? Its shadder's jest a creepin' up to the house: the minnit that shadder touches the wall, I'll shoot you down, as sure's my name's Hick Holt. Mind, I've gin ye warnin'!"

"And I give you warning, Mr Holt, that I am prepared to defend myself; and if you miss—"

"Miss!" ejaculated he with a contemptuous toss of the head—"miss, ye fool! thur's no fear o' that."

"If you miss," continued I, without heeding the interruption, "I shall show you no mercy. If you are going to take the cowardly advantage of having the the first shot, I have my advantage too. In self-defence, I shall be justified in killing you; and if you fire at me, I shall certainly do so. Be warned! I never spare a coward."

"Coward!" exclaimed the colossus, with an imprecation that was horrible to hear. "An' how ef I don't miss?" continued he, apparently calming his rage, and speaking with a significant sneer—intended to awe me, by insinuating the certainty of his aim. "How ef I don't miss, Mister Popgun?"

"You may, for all that. Don't be too sure of hitting—I've been shot at before now."

"You'll niver be shot at arter now, 'ceptin' ye leave this clarin'. One crack from my gun'll be enuf for ye, I reck'n."

"I'll take my chance. If it should go against me, you won't gain by it. Remember, my good man, it's not a duel we're fighting! You have chosen to attack me; and if I should fall in the affair, I've faith enough in the law to believe it will avenge me."

I fancied that my speech produced some effect upon the fellow; and, seeing that he remained silent, I followed up it by words of similar import: "If it be my fate to fall, I leave behind me friends who will inquire into my death. Trust me, they will do so! If I kill you, it will be but justifiable homicide, and will be so adjudged; while your killing me will be regarded in a different light: it will be pronounced murder!" I gave full emphasis to the last word.

On hearing it my antagonist showed signs of emotion. I fancied I saw him tremble, and turn slightly pale! With an unsteady voice he replied:

"Murder? No, no; I've gin ye warnin' to go. Ye've time enuf yet to save yerself. Git out o' the clarin', an' thur'll be no harm done ye!"

"I shall not go out of the clearing, until you've acknowledged my claim."

"Then you'll niver go out o' it alive—I swar by God! niver!"

"You are determined, then, to be my murderer?"

I again pronounced the word in the most emphatic tone. I saw that it affected him in some singular way; whether through a fear of consequences; or that there still lingered in his heart some spark of humanity; or, perhaps—but least possible of all he was beginning to be ashamed of his foul play. By which of of these three motives, or by what other inspired, I could not guess; but he seemed to cower under the imputation.

"Murderer!" echoed he, after a moment of apparent reflection. "No, no; it's bad enuf to hev the blame o' that, 'ithout bein' guilty o't. I ain't agwine to murder ye; but I ain't agwine neyther to let ye go. I mout a did so a minnit agone, but ye've lost yur chance. Ye've called me a coward; an' by the Etarnal! no man 'll say that word o' Hick Holt, an' live to boast o't. No, mister! ye've got to die; an' ye may get yurself ready for't, 's soon's ye like. Coward indeed!"

"I repeat it—your act is cowardly."

"What act?"

"Your unprovoked attack upon me—especially since it gives you the first shot. What if I were to shoot you down now? With the pistol you see in my holster here, I could send six bullets through your body, before you could bring your rifle to your shoulder. What would you call that? Sheer cowardice, would it not be; and murder too?"



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A DUEL WITHOUT SECONDS.

While I was speaking, I saw a change pass over the countenance of my gigantic antagonist—as if some new resolve was forming in his mind, that affected the programme he had already traced out. Was it possible I had touched him on a point of honour? It was this purpose I desired to effect; and, though hopeless it might appear, I continued the only kind of appeal that, with such a spirit, seemed to promise any chance of success.

"You dare not play fair in this game?" I said, banteringly. "You are a coward; and would murder me. You want the first shot: you know you do?"

"It's a lie!" cried the colossus, raising himself to his full height, and assuming an air of chivalric grandeur I could not have deemed him capable of—"it's a lie! I don't wish to murder ye; an' I don't want the the first shot neyther."

"How?"

"I hain't so little confidence in my shootin' as to care for you an' yur jim-crack gun! Nor is Hick Holt in such consate wi' his life eyther, that he's afeerd to risk it. Tho' ye air a stuck-up critter, I won't gi' ye the opportunity to 'kuse me o' foul play. Thur's grit in ye, I reck'n; and seein' that's made me change my mind."

"What!" I exclaimed, taken by surprise at the speech, and fancying it promised an end to our altercation—"you have changed your mind? you mean to act justly then?"

"I mean, it shall be a fair stan'-up fight atween us."

"Oh! a duel?"

"Duel, or whatever else ye may call it, mister."

"I agree to that. But how about seconds?"

"D'ye think two men can't fight fair 'ithout seconds? Ye see yander stump standin' nigh the bars?"

"Yes—I see it."

"Wal, mister, thur you'll take yur stand—ahine or afront o' it, whichsomever ye like best. Hyur's this other un, clost by the crib— thur'll be my place. Thur's twenty yurds atween 'em, I reck'n. Is that yur distance?"

"It will do as well as any other," I replied mechanically—still under the influence of surprise, not unmingled with a sentiment of admiration.

"Dismount, then! Take your pouch an' flask along wi' ye—ye see I've got myen? One shot at ye's all I'll want, I reck'n. But ef thur shed be a miss, look out for quick loadin'! an' mind, mister! thur's one o' us'll niver leave this clarin' alive."

"About the first shot? Who is to give the signal?"

"I've thort o' that a'ready. It'll be all right, promise ye."

"In what way can you arrange it?"

"This way. Thur's a hunk o' deer-meat in the house: I mean to fetch that out, and chuck it over thur, into the middle o' the clarin'. Ye see them buzzarts up thur on the dead-woods?" I nodded in the affirmative. "Wal—it won't be long afore one or other o' them flops down to the meat; an' the first o' 'em that touches ground, that'll be the signal. That's fair enuf, I reck'n?"

"Perfectly fair," I replied, still speaking mechanically—for the very justness of the proposal rendered my astonishment continuous.

I was something more than astonished at the altered demeanour of the man. He was fast disarming me. His unexpected behaviour had subdued my ire; and, all consideration of consequences apart, I now felt a complete disinclination for the combat! Was it too late to stay our idle strife? Such was my reflection the moment after; and, with an effort conquering my pride, I gave words to the thought.

"Yur too late, mister! 'twon't do now," was the reply to my pacific speech.

"And why not?" I continued to urge; though to my chagrin, I began to perceive that it was an idle effort.

"Yuv riz my dander; an', by God! yuv got to fight for it!"

"But surely—"

"Stop yur palaver! By the tarnal airthquake, I'll 'gin to think you air a coward! I thort ye'd show, the white feather afore 'twur all over!"

"Enough!" cried I, stung by the taunt; "I am ready for you one way or the other. Go on."

The squatter once more entered his cabin, and soon came out again, bringing forth the piece of venison. "Now!" cried he, "to yur stand! an' remember! neyther fires till a bird lights on the grown! Arter that, ye may go it like blazes!"

"Stay!" said I; "there is something yet to be done. You are acting honourably in this affair—which I acknowledge is more than I was led to expect. You deserve one chance for your life; and if I should fall it will be in danger. You would be regarded as a murderer: that must not be."

"What is't you mean?" hurriedly interrogated my antagonist, evidently not comprehending my words. Without answering to the interrogatory, I drew out my pocket-book; and, turning to a blank leaf of the memorandum, wrote upon it: "I have fallen in fair fight." I appended the date; signed my name; and, tearing out the leaf, handed it to my adversary. He looked at it for a moment, as if puzzled to make out what was meant. He soon saw the intention, however, as I could tell by his grim smile.

"You're right thur!" said he, in a drawling tone, and after a pause. "I hedn't thunk o' that. I guess this dockyment 'll be nothin' the wuss o' my name too? What's sauce for the goose, air likewise sauce for the gander. Yur pencil, ef ye please? I ain't much o' a scholart; but I reck'n I kin write my name. Hyur goes!" Spreading out the paper on the top of a stump, he slowly scribbled his name below mine; and then, holding the leaf before my eyes, pointed to the signature—but without saying a word. This done, he replaced the document on the stump; and drawing his knife, stuck the blade through the paper, and left the weapon quivering in the wood! All these manoeuvres were gone through with as cool composure, as if they were only the prelude to some ordinary purpose!

"I reck'n, strenger," said he, in the same imperturbable tone, "that'll keep the wind from blowin' it away, till we've settled who it's to belong to. Now, to yur place! I'm agwine to throw the deer-meat!"

I had already dismounted, and stood near him rifle in hand. Unresistingly, I obeyed the request; and walked off to the stump that had been designated, without saying another word, or even looking around. I had no apprehension of being shot in the back: for the late behaviour of the man had completely disarmed me of all suspicion of treachery. I had not the slightest fear of his proving a traitor; and no more did I hold him to be a coward. That impression was gone long ago.

I confess, that never with more reluctance did I enter upon the field of fight; and at that moment, had my antagonist required it, I should not only have retracted the allegation of of cowardice, but, perhaps, have surrendered up my claim to the clearing—though I knew that this could be done, only at the expense of my name and honour. Were I to have done so, I could never have shown my face again—neither in the settlement of Swampville, nor elsewhere. Even among my polished friends of more fashionable circles, I should have been taunted—branded as a coward and poltroon! The rude character of my adversary would have been no excuse especially after the manner in which he was acting. "Backed out" would have been the universal verdict! Moreover, notwithstanding the apparently calm demeanour the squatter had now assumed—courteous I might almost call it—I knew he was implacable in his determination. There was no alternative—I must fight!

I arrived at the stump; and turning on my heel, stood facing him. He was already in his place—with the joint of venison in one hand, and his long rifle in the other. The moment was nigh, when one of us should make an abrupt exit from the world!

Such a destiny, for one or other of us, I saw depicted in the impassible face of my adversary—as plainly as if written upon the sky. I could read there, that there was no chance of escaping the combat; and I resigned myself to meet it.

"Now, mister!" cried my antagonist in a clear firm voice, "I'm agwine to chuck the meat. Remember! neyther's to fire, till a bird lights on the ground! Arter that, ye may go it like hell!"

I saw him swing the joint once or twice round his head; I saw it jerked aloft, and then whirling through the air; I saw it falling—falling, till the sodden sound told that it had reached the ground. It was a fearful moment!



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

WAITING THE WORD.

In truth was it a fearful moment—one to shake the steadiest nerves, or thrill the stoutest heart. To me, it was an ordeal far more terrible than that of an ordinary duel; for there was, lacking the motive—at least on my side—which usually stimulates to an affair of honour. Sense of wrong I felt, but too slightly for revenge—not enough to steel the heart to the spilling of blood. Anger I had felt but the moment before; and then I could have fought, even to the death! But my blood, that had boiled up for an instant, now ran coldly through my veins. The unexpected behaviour of my adversary had calmed my wrath—acting upon it like oil upon troubled water.

Thus to fight without seconds; to die without friend to speak the last word of worldly adieu; or to take the life of another, without human being to attest the fairness of the act—no earthly eye beholding us—no living creature save the black vultures—appropriate instruments to give the death-signal—ominous witnesses of the dark deed: such were the appalling reflections that came before my mind, as I stood facing my determined antagonist. It would scarcely be true to say, that I felt not fear; and yet it was less cowardice, than a sort of vague vexation at risking my life in so causeless a conflict. There was something absolutely ludicrous in standing up to be shot at, merely to square with the whim of this eccentric squatter; and to shoot at him seemed equally ridiculous. Either alternative, upon reflection, appeared the very essence of absurdity: and, having ample time to reflect, while awaiting the signal, I could not help thinking how farcical was the whole affair.

No doubt, I might have laughed at it, had I been a mere looker on— herald or spectator; but, unfortunately, being a principal in this deadly duello—a real wrestler in the backwoods arena—the provocative to mirth was given in vain; and only served to heighten the solemnity of the situation. The circumstances might have elicited laughter; but the contingency, turn whatever way it might, was too serious to admit of levity on my part. Either horn of the dilemma presented a sharp point. To suffer one's-self to be killed, in this sans facon, was little else than suicide—while to kill, smacked strongly of murder! And one or the other was the probable issue—nay, more than probable: for, as I bent my eyes on the resolute countenance of my vis-a-vis, I felt certain that there was no chance of escaping from the terrible alternative. He stood perfectly immobile—his long rifle raised to the "ready," with its muzzle pointing towards me—and in his eye I could not read the slightest sign that he wavered in his determination! That grey-green orb was the only member that moved: his body, limbs, and features were still and rigid, as the stump behind which he stood. The eye alone showed signs of life. I could see its glance directed towards three points—in such rapid succession, that it might be said to look "three ways at once"—to the decoy upon the ground, to the shadowy forms upon the tree, and towards myself—its chief object of surveillance!

"Merciful Heavens! is there no means to avert this doom of dread? Is it an absolute necessity, that I must either kill this colossus, or be myself slain? Is there no alternative? Is there still no chance of an arrangement?"

Hopeless as it appeared, I resolved to make a last effort for peace. Once more I should try the force of an appeal. If he refused to assent to it, my position would be no worse. Better, indeed: since I stood in need of some stimulus to arouse me to an attitude, even of defence. This thought swaying me, I called out:

"Holt! you are a brave man. I know it. Why should this go on? It is not too late—"

"You air a coward!" cried he, interrupting me, "an' I know it—a sneakin' coward, in spite o' yur soger clothes! Shet up yur durned head, or ye'll scare away the birds! an', by the tarnal! ef you do, I'll fire at ye, the fust that takes wing!"

"Let that be the signal, then!" cried I, roused to an impatient indignation by this new insult: "the first that takes wing!"

"Agreed!" was the quick rejoinder, delivered in a tone that bespoke determination to abide by it.

My irresolution troubled me no longer. Thus driven to bay, I felt that further forbearance would not only be idle, but dangerous. It was playing with my life, to leave it in the hands of this unrelenting enemy. Better make him suffer for his sanguinary folly, than be myself its victim. Stirred by these thoughts, I grasped my rifle—now for the first time with a determination to make use of it. By the same prompting, my eye became active—watching with resolute regard the movements of the birds, and measuring the ground that separated me from my adversary.

Notwithstanding the sting which his words had inflicted, I was yet hampered by some considerations of mercy. I had no desire to kill the man, if I could avoid it. To "cripple" him would be sufficient. I had no fear of his having the shot before me. Long practice had given me such adroitness in the use of my weapon, that I could handle it with the quickness and skill of a juggler. Neither did I fear to miss my aim. I had perfect reliance on the sureness of my sight; and, with such a mark as the huge body of the squatter, it was impossible I could miss. In this respect, the advantage was mine; and, at so short a distance, I could have insured a fatal shot—had such been my intention. But it was not. The very contrary was my wish—to draw blood without inflicting a mortal wound. This would perhaps satisfy the honour of my antagonist, and bring our strife to an end.

Whether any such consideration was in his mind, I could not tell. It was not visible in his eye—nor in his features that, throughout the whole scene, preserved their stern statue-like rigidity. There was no help for it—no alternative but to shoot at him, and shoot him down—if possible, only to wing him; but, of course, a sense of my own danger rendered this last of less than secondary importance. A single exchange of shots would, no doubt decide the affair; and the advantage would fall to him who was "quickest on the trigger." To obtain this advantage, then, I watched with eager eye the behaviour of the birds. In like manner was my antagonist, occupied.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE DUEL DELAYED.

Full five minutes passed, and not one of the vultures showed signs of stirring—five minutes of prolonged and terrible suspense. It was odd that the birds had not at once swooped down upon the piece of venison: since it lay conspicuously upon the ground—almost under the tree where they were perched! A score of them there were—ranged along the dead limbs—each with an eye keen of sight as an eagle's! Beyond doubt, they observed the object—they would have seen it a mile off, and recognised it too—why, then, were they disregarding it—a circumstance so contradictory of their natural instincts and habits, that, even in that dread hour, I remarked its singularity? The cause might have been simple enough: perhaps the birds had already glutted themselves elsewhere? Some wild beast of the woods—more likely, some straying ox—had fallen a victim to disease and the summer heats; and his carcase had furnished them with their morning's meal? There was evidence of the truth of this, in their blood-stained beaks and gorged maws, as also the indolent attitudes in which they roosted—many of them apparently asleep! Others at intervals stretched forth their necks, and half spread their wings; but only to yawn and catch the cooling breeze. Not one of all the listless flock, showed the slightest disposition to take wing.

There were several already in the air, wheeling high aloft; and two or three had just joined their companions—increasing the cluster upon the tree. These had arrived, after we had taken our stand; and others were constantly coming down. But the signal mutually agreed to was mutually understood: it was the departure of one of the birds—not its arrival—that was to give the cue of entree to the tragic act—the signal for the scene of death.

Those five minutes to me appeared fifty—ah! far more than that: for, brief as was the actual time, a world of thoughts passed through my mind during its continuance. The past and future were alike considered. The memory of home, kindred, and friends; the probability that all such ties were to be severed now and for ever; some regret that laurels lately won were to be so briefly worn; the near prospect of life's termination; of a death inglorious—perhaps scarcely to be recorded; vague visions of a future world; doubts not unmingled with dread, about the life to come: such were the thoughts that whirled confusedly through my brain.

And the proximate past had also its share in my reflections—perhaps occupying the largest space of all. That thing of light and gold—that but an hour ago had filled my heart to overflowing—was still there, mingling with its last emotions! Was I never more to look upon that radiant form? never more behold that face so divinely fair? never more listen to that melodious voice? Never more! The negative answer to these mental interrogatives—though only conjectural—was the bitterest reflection of all!

Still stir not the vultures: only to preen their black plumes with fetid beak; or, extending their broad wings, to shadow the sunbeam from their bodies. It is the hour of noon; and the sun, shining down from the zenith, permeates the atmosphere with his sultriest rays. The birds droop under the extreme heat. It imbues them with a listless torpor. Carrion itself would scarce tempt them from their perch. Five minutes have elapsed; and not one moves from the tree—neither to swoop to the earth, nor soar aloft in the air! I no longer wish them to tarry. The suspense is terrible to endure—the more so from the ominous stillness that reigns around. Since the last angry challenge, not a word has been exchanged between my adversary and myself. In sullen silence, we eye each other, with scintillating glances watching for the signal.

————————————————————————————————————

The situation was more than unpleasant. I longed for the finale. My antagonist also showed signs of impatience. No longer preserving his statue-like pose, his body began to sway from side to side; while at intervals, he stamped the ground with his heavy heel. From the increasing anger that betrayed itself in his looks, I expected an explosion. It came at length. "Durn them buzzarts!" cried he, with a hurried gesture, "thar agwine to keep us stannin' hyur till sundown. Durn the sleepy brutes! we can't wait no longer on 'em. I dare ye—"

The challenge thus commenced was never completed—at all events, I did not hear its conclusion; and know not to this hour what he meant to have proposed. His speech was interrupted, and his voice drowned, by the shrill neighing of my horse—who seemed startled at some sound from the forest. Almost at the same instant, I heard a responsive neigh, as if it were an echo from behind me. I heeded neither the one nor the other. I saw that the birds were aroused from their lethargic attitude. Some of them appeared as if pressing upon their limbs to spring upwards from the tree. The deadly moment had come!

With my rifle raised almost to the level, I glanced rapidly towards my antagonist. His piece was also raised; but, to my astonishment, he appeared to be grasping it mechanically, as if hesitating to take aim! His glance, too, showed irresolution. Instead of being turned either upon myself or the vultures, it was bent in a different direction, and regarding with fixed stare some object behind me! I was facing round to inquire the cause, when I heard close at hand the trampling of a horse; and, almost at the same instant, an exclamation, uttered in the silvery tones of a woman's voice. This was followed by a wild scream; and, simultaneously with its utterance, I beheld a female form springing over the bars! It was that of a young girl, whom I recognised at a glance. It was she I had encountered in the forest!

I had not time to recover from my surprise before the girl had glided past me; and I followed her with my eyes, as she ran rapidly over the space that separated me from the squatter. Still mute with surprise, I saw her fling herself on the breast of my antagonist—at the same time crying out in a tone of passionate entreaty: "Father, dear father! what has he done? Mercy! O mercy!"

Good God! her father? Holt her father?

"Away, Lil!" cried the man in a peremptory tone, removing her arms from his neck. "Away, gurl! git ye from, hyur!"

"No, father! dear father! you will not? What does it mean? What has he done? Why are you angry with him?"

"Done! gurl? He's called me coward; an' 'ud drive us out o' house an' home. Git ye gone, I say! Into the house wi' ye!—away!"

"Mercy! O father, have mercy! Do not kill him. He is brave—he is beautiful! If you knew—"

"Brave! beautiful?—gurl, yur ravin'! What do you know about him? Ye've niver seed him afore?"

"Yes, dear father! only an hour ago. If you but knew—it was he who saved me. But for him—Father! he must not—he shall not die!"

"Saved ye? What do ye mean, gurl?"

"Hilloo! what's all this rumpus?"

The familiar ejaculation, and its adjunct interrogatory, admonished me that a new personage had appeared upon the scene. The voice came from behind. On turning, I beheld the unexpected speaker—a man on horseback, who had ridden up to the bars; and having halted there was craning his neck into the enclosure—gazing upon the scene that was being enacted there, with a singular half-comic, half-satirical expression of countenance!



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE PEACEMAKER.

Without knowing why, I hailed the arrival of this stranger as opportune. Perhaps his presence, added to the entreaties of that fair young creature—still urgent in my behalf—might prevent the effusion of blood. Indeed, I had already determined that none should be spilled by me—let the consequences be as they might; and whatever was to be the denouement of this awkward affair, I had resolved that my rifle should have nought to do in deciding it. The piece had fallen to the "order arms;" the ill-omened birds had forsaken their perch; and, now soaring in the blue sky, almost beyond the reach of human vision, their movements were no longer heeded—neither by my adversary nor myself.

Turning away from the stranger—whom I had only regarded for a second or two—I faced again to the more interesting tableau in front of me. That, too, was rapidly undergoing a change. The squatter no longer clung to his rifle. The girl had taken it from his hands; and was hurrying with it into the door of the cabin. There was no hindrance made by my antagonist! On the contrary, he appeared to have delivered it over to her—as if the affair between us was to have a pacific termination, or, at all events, a respite.

What surprised me more than all was the altered demeanour of my adversary. His whole manner seemed to have undergone a sudden change. Sudden it must have been, since it had taken place during a second or two, while my attention was occupied by the newly arrived horseman. What still further astonished me, was, that this transformation was evidently produced by the presence of the stranger himself! That it was not due to the young girl's interference, I had evidence already. That had not moved him for a moment. Her earnest appeal had received a repulse—energetic and decisive, as it was rude; and of itself would certainly not have, saved me. Beyond doubt, then, was I indebted to the stranger for the truce so unexpectedly entered upon.

The change in Holt's demeanour was not more sudden than complete. At first, an air of astonishment had been observable; after that, an expression of inquietude—becoming each moment more marked. No longer did he exhibit the proud aspect of a man, who felt himself master of the ground; but, on the contrary, appeared cowed and quailing in the presence of the new-comer—whom he had met at the entrance, and at once invited into the enclosure. This manner was observable in the half-mechanical courtesy, with which he removed the bars, and took hold of the stranger's horse—as also in some phrases of welcome, to which he gave utterance in my hearing.

For myself, I was no longer regarded, any more than if I had been one of the dead-woods that stood around the clearing. The squatter passed, without even looking at me—his whole attention seemingly absorbed by the new arrival! It was natural I should regard with curiosity an individual, whose presence had produced such a wonderful effect; and my scrutinising gaze may have appeared rude enough to him. I cannot say that he elicited my admiration. On the contrary, his appearance produced an opposite effect. I beheld him with, what might be termed an instinct of repulsion: since I could assign no precise reason for the dislike with which he had inspired me on sight. He was a man of about thirty years of age; of a thin spare body, less than medium height; and features slightly marked with, the bar sinister. A face without beard—skin of cadaverous hue—nose sharply pointed—chin and forehead both receding—eyes small, but sparkling like those of a ferret—and long lank black hair, thinly shading his cheeks and brows—were the prominent characteristics of this man's portrait. His dress was of a clerical cut and colour—though not of the finest fabric. The coat, trousers, and vest were of black broad-cloth—the coat and waistcoat being made with standing collars, similar in style to those worn by Wesleyan ministers—or more commonly by Catholic priests—while a white cravat not over clean and a hat with curving boat-brim, completed the saintly character of the costume.

Judging from his personal appearance, I concluded that I saw in the individual before me the Methodist minister of Swampville. If so, it would account for the obsequiousness of his host, though not satisfactorily. There was something more than obsequiousness in Holt's manner—something altogether different from that deferential respect, with which the gospel minister is usually received in the houses of the humbler classes. Moreover, the character of the squatter—such as I had heard it, and such as I had myself observed it to be—bore no correspondence with the attitude of reverence he had so suddenly assumed. Even under the hypothesis, that the new-comer was his clergyman, I was puzzled by his behaviour.

He in the ecclesiastical costume appeared to be a man of few words; and of gesture he made a like limited use: having passed me, without even the courtesy of a bow. On the contrary, I was honoured with a glance of cynical regard—so palpable in its expression, as to cause an itching in my fingers, notwithstanding the saintly gown. I contented myself, however, with returning the glance, by one I intended should bear a like contemptuous expression; and, with this exchange, we separated from each other. I remained by my stand, without offering remark—either to the squatter or his guest. The only change I effected in my position, was to sit down upon the stump—where, with my rifle between my knees, I resolved to await the issue. All idea of using the weapon was gone out of my mind—at least, against Hickman Holt. He was her father: I would as soon have thought of turning its muzzle to my own body.

I tarried, therefore, with no hostile intention. On the contrary, I only waited for an opportunity to propose some pacific arrangement of our difficulty; and my thoughts were now directed to this end. I had every chance of observing the movements of the two men: since, instead of entering the cabin, they had stopped in front of it—where they at once became engaged in conversation. I took it for granted that I was myself the subject; but, after a time, I began to fancy I was mistaken. Judging from the earnest manner of both—but more especially from Holt's gestures and frequent ejaculations—something of still greater interest appeared to be the theme of their dialogue. I saw the squatter's face suddenly brighten up—as if some new and joyous revelation had been made to him; while the features of his visitor bore the satisfied look of one, who was urging an argument with success. They were evidently talking of some topic beyond my affair, and unconnected with it; but what it could be, I was unable even to guess. Perhaps, had I listened more attentively, I might have arrived at some knowledge of it—since words were occasionally uttered aloud—but my eyes were busier than my ears; and at that moment, neither the squatter nor his guest was the subject of my thoughts.

Beyond them was the attraction that fascinated my gaze—that thing of roseate golden hue, whose shining presence seemed to light up the dark interior of the cabin—gleaming meteor-like through the interstices of the logs—now softly moving from side to side, and now, thank Heaven! gliding towards the door! Only for a moment stood she silently on the stoop—one smiling moment, and she was gone. Her fair face was once more hidden, behind the rude jalousie of the logs; but the smile remained. It was mine; and lingered long within the trembling temple of my heart.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

YES—YES!

Towards the interior of the hut, hallowed by such lovely presence, I continued to direct my glances—with an occasional side-look, noting the movements of the two men. Whatever had been the exciting topic of discourse but the moment before, I saw that it was now changed; and that I was myself the subject of their conversation. This I could tell by their looks and gestures—evidently bearing upon me and my business. Conscious that I was observing them—and as if desirous of conferring more privately—they passed round to the rear of the cabin; where for the time they were out of my sight, as well as hearing. So far from regretting this movement, it was just what I desired: it left me free to continue the pleasant espionage in which I had become engaged. New more boldly my eyes explored the dark interior of the hut—more freely roamed my glance along the interstices of the logs. Gladly should I have gone up to the doorway—fain would I have been to enter—had I not been restrained; but delicacy, and something more stood in the way; and I was forced to keep my ground. Again I saw the bright form flitting within. Gliding gently across the floor—as if on tiptoe, and by stealth—the young girl stood for a while near the back-wall of the cabin. Close behind this, the two men were conversing. Did she go there to listen? She might easily hear what was said: I could myself distinguish the voices, and almost the words.

She remained motionless; and, as well as I could judge, in an attitude of attention—her head lowered, and her body bent slightly forward. I was forming conjectures as to her motive, when I saw her moving away from the spot. In another instant, she appeared in the doorway—this time evidently with some design, as her manner clearly betokened. For a moment she stood upon the stoop, fronting towards me—but with her face averted, and her eyes by a side-glance directed towards the rear of the hut. She appeared to look and listens—as if noting the position of the men; and then, seemingly satisfied that she was not herself observed, she suddenly faced round, and came running towards me!

Taken by surprise—a surprise mingled with sweet satisfaction—I rose to my feet; and stood silently but respectfully awaiting her approach. I had acted with prudence in not speaking: for I saw by her manner that the movement was a stolen one. Moreover, the finger, raised for an instant to her lips, admonished me to silence. I understood the signal, so piquantly given; and obeyed it. In another instant she was near— near enough for me to hear her words—delivered in a half-whisper. She had paused before me in an attitude that betokened the fear of interruption; and, before speaking, again cast behind her another of those unquiet looks.

"Brave stranger!" said she, in a hurried undertone, "I know you are not afraid of my father; but oh, sir! for mercy's sake, do not fight with him!"

"For your sake," I said, interrupting her, and speaking in a low but impressive tone—"for your sake, fair Lilian, I shall not fight with him. Trust me, there is no fear. I shall bear anything, rather than—"

"Hush!" said she, again motioning me to silence, at the same time glancing furtively behind her. "You must not speak: you may be heard! Only listen to me. I know why you are here. I came out to tell you something."

"I listen."

"Father does not now wish to quarrel with you: he has changed his mind. I have just heard what they said. He intends to make you a proposal. Oh, sir! if you can, please agree to it; for then there—will be no trouble. I hope there will be none!"

"For you, fair Lilian, I shall agree to it—whatever the conditions be. Can you tell me what proposal he intends making me?"

"I heard him say he would sell—Oh, mercy! they are coming—if I am seen—"

The murmuring words were drowned by the louder voices of the men—who were now heard returning round the angle of the wall. Fortunately, before they had reached the front of the cabin, the young girl had glided back into the doorway; and no suspicion appeared to be entertained by either, of the clandestine visit just paid me.

On rounding the corner, the stranger stopped. The squatter continued to advance, until within a few paces of where I stood. Then halting, he erected his gigantic form to its full height; and, for a moment, confronted me without speaking. I noticed that his countenance no longer bore signs of angry passion; but, on the contrary, betrayed some traces of a softer feeling—as of regret and contrition.

"Strenger!" said he at length, "I've two things to propose to ye; an' ef you'll agree to them, thur's no need why you an' I shed quarrel—leest of all plug one another wi' bullets, as we wur agwine to do a minnit ago."

"Name your conditions!" rejoined I, "and if they are not impossible for me to accept, I promise you they shall be agreed to."

With Lilian in my thoughts, they would be hard indeed if I could not square with whatever terms he might propose.

"They ain't unpossible—neyther o' 'em; thur only just an' fair."

"Let me hear them; and believe me, Hickman Holt, I shall judge them most liberally."

"Fust, then, you called me a coward. Do you take that back?"

"Willingly I do."

"So fur good; an' now for tother proposal I hev to make. I don't acknowledge yur right to this clarin'. I've made it; an' call it my own, as a sovereign citizen of these United States; an' I don't care a cuss for pre-emption right, since I don't believe in any man's right to move me off o' the groun' I've clared. But I ain't so durned pertickler 'bout this hyur bit. Another 'll answer my bizness equally as well— maybe better—an' ef ye'll pay me for my improvements, ye can take both clarin' an' cabin, an' hev no more muss about it. Them's my proposals."

"How much do you expect for these improvements? At what sum do you value them?"

I trembled as I awaited the answer. My poor purse felt light as it lay against my bosom—far lighter than the heart within: though that had been heavier but an hour before. I knew that the sack contained less than two hundred dollars, in notes of the Planters' Bank; and I feared that such a sum would never satisfy the expectations of the squatter.

"Wal, stranger," replied he, after a pause, "thur worth a good wheen o' dollars; but I shan't valley 'em myself. I'll leave that part o' the bizness to a third individooal—my friend as stands thur; an' who's a just man, an's been some'at o' a lawyer too. He'll say what's fair atween us. Won't ye, Josh?"

I thought this rather a familiar style of address, on the part of the squatter, towards his clerical and saint-like friend; but I refrained from showing my astonishment.

"Oh, yes," replied the other, "I'll value the property with pleasure— that is, if the gentleman desires me to do so."

"How much do you think it worth?" I inquired with nervous anxiety. "Well, I should say that, for the improvements Mr Holt has made, a hundred dollars would be a fair compensation."

"A hundred dollars?"

"Yes—in cash, of course, I mean."

"Will you be satisfied with that sum?" said I, turning to Holt for the answer.

"Parfitly satisfied—so long's it's in cash."

"I agree to give it then."

"All right, strenger! a bargain's a bargain. You kin shell out the dollars; and I'll gie ye pursession afore this gentleman—who'll witness it in writin', ef you like."

"I want no writing. I can trust to your word."

It was no flattery: I felt at the moment that the squatter—rudely as he had acted—was still possessed of an honourable principle; and I knew that, under the circumstances, his word would not only be as good as his bond, but better! I made no hesitation, therefore; but, counting out the money, placed it upon the stump—alongside that curious document, impaled there by the blade of the squatter's knife.

"When 'ud ye like to take pursession?" asked the outgoing tenant.

"At your convenience," I replied, wishing to behave as courteously as possible.

"It won't take me long to move. My furniter ain't very cumbersome; an' I kud let ye in to-morrow, ef 't wan't that I hev some unexpected bizness with my friend hyur. Say day arter the morrow? Ef ye'll kum then, ye'll find me ready to deliver up. Will that answer for ye?"

"Admirably!" was my reply.

"All right, then! I'd ask ye in, but thur's nothin' to gie you—'ceptin' that piece o' deer-meat, an' it's raw. Besides, strenger, I've some partickler bizness jest now, that I'm 'bleeged to see to."

"Oh, never mind! I shall not need any refreshment till I reach Swampville."

"Wal, then, I'll bid you good-mornin' at the same time wishin' you luck o' your bargin."

"Thanks—good morning!"

I leaped into the saddle, and turned my horse's head towards the entrance of the enclosure. I should have given him the touch to go forward with more reluctance, had I not perceived the fair Lilian gliding out of the cabin, and proceeding in the same direction! Two or, three of the bars had been replaced by the clerical visitor; and she had gone, apparently, to remove them. Was it simple courtesy, or a pretence to speak with me? My heart heaved with a tumultuous joy, as I fancied that the latter might be her motive. When I reached the entrance, the bars were down; and the young girl stood leaning against one of the uprights—her round white arm embracing the post. Envied piece of timber!

"Promise me, we shall meet again?" said I, bending down, and speaking in a half-whisper.

She looked back towards the cabin with a timid glance. We were not observed. The two men had gone into the horse-shed. In her fingers, I noticed the flower of a bignonia. She had taken it from among the golden tresses of her hair. Her cheek rivalled the crimson of its corolla, as she flung the blossom upon the saddle-bow.

"Promise me!" I repeated in a more earnest tone.

"Yes—yes!" she replied in a soft low voice, that resembled the whisper of an angel; and then, hearing noises from the house, she passed hurriedly away. "Yes—yes—!" cried the mimic thrush, as I rode on through the tall tulip-trees. "Yes—yes!" repeated a thousand rival songsters; or were the sounds I heard but the echoes of her voice, still pealing through the glad chambers of my heart?



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

AN ERRAND OF LOVE.

This second purchase and payment rendered necessary a communication with my Nashville friend. Fortunately, Swampville had a mail; and, to avail myself of it, I rode direct for the settlement. On my return, I found the river-town, figuratively speaking, on fire. Short as bad been the period of my absence, it had been marked by an incident of no ordinary character. That morning's mail had conveyed to the settlement the intelligence of a rare and interesting event—the discovery of the gold placers of California. I had heard rumours of this before—only half believed, and not yet reaching to Swampville. Returned emigrants from California were now reported, as having arrived in Saint Louis and other frontier towns—bringing with them, not only the full account of the gold discovery, but its confirmation, in the shape of large "chunks" of gold-bearing quartz, and bags of the yellow dust itself. The marvellous tale was no longer questioned, or doubted. The mail had brought newspapers from New Orleans and Saint Louis, giving detailed accounts of the digging of Sutter's mill-race by the disbanded soldiers of the "Mormon Battalion;" of the crevasse caused by the water, which had laid open the wonderful auriferous deposits; and describing also the half frantic excitement which the news had produced these populous cities.

In this, Swampville had not been slow to imitate them. I found the little village on the qui vive: not only the idlers showing an interest in the extraordinary intelligence; but the business men of the place being equally startled out of their sobriety. A "company" was already projected, in which many well-to-do men had registered their names; and even Colonel Kipp talked of transporting his penates across the great plains, and swinging the Jackson sign upon the shores of the Pacific. Swampville was smitten with a golden mania, that seemed to promise its speedy depopulation.

Though many of my old camarados of the Mexican campaign found fresh vent for their energies in this new field of enterprise, for me it had no attractions whatever. I therefore resisted the solicitations of the Swampvillians to "jine thar company"—in which I was offered the compliment of a command. On that day, and at that hour, not for all the gold in California would I have forsaken my new home in the forest— under whose "boundless contiguity of shade" sparkled, in my eyes, "a metal more attractive." Instead of longing for the far shores of the Pacific, I longed only to return to the banks of Mud Creek; and chafed at the necessary delay that hindered me from gratifying my wish. Even the generous hospitality of Colonel Kipp—amiable under the influence of golden dreams—even the smiles of the simpering Alvina, and the more brave coquetry of Car'line—now become a decided admirer of my yellow buttons—were not sufficient to preserve my spirits from ennui. Only at meals did I make my appearance at the hotel—at all other times, seeking to soothe the impassioned pulsations of my heart in the dark depths of the forest. There I would wander for hours, not listing where I went; but ever finding myself, as if by some instinct, upon the path that conducted in the direction of the creek! It was some solace to listen to the notes of the wild-woods—the songs of birds and bee—for these had become associated in my mind with the melodious tones of Lilian's voice—to look upon the forest flowers; more especially upon the encarmined blossom of the bignonia—now to me a symbol of the sweetest sentiment. The one most prized of all, I had carefully preserved. In a glass I had placed it, on the dressing-table of my chamber, with its peduncle immersed in water.

My zealous care only procured me a chagrin. On returning from one of my rambles, I found the flower upon the floor, crushed by some spiteful heel? Was it thy heel, Caroline Kipp? In its place was a bunch of hideous gilly-flowers and yellow daffodils, of the dimensions of a drum-head cabbage—placed there either to mock my regard, or elicit my admiration! In either case, I resolved upon a revanche. By its wound, the bignonia smelt sweeter than ever; and though I could not restore the pretty blossom to its graceful campanulate shape, from that time forward it appeared in my buttonhole—to the slight torture, I fancied, of the backwoods coquette.

In the two days during which I was denied sight of her my love for Lilian Holt was fast ripening into a passion—which absence only seemed to amplify. No doubt the contrast of common faces—such as those I observed in Swampville—did something towards heightening my admiration. There was another contrast that had at this time an influence on my heart's inclinings. To an eye, fatigued with dwelling long and continuously on the dark complexions of the south—the olivine hue of Aztec and Iberian skins—there was a relief in the radiance of this carmined blonde, that, apart from her absolute loveliness, was piquant from the novelty and rareness of the characteristic. Additional elements of attraction may have been: the mise en scene that surrounded her; the unexpected discovery of such a precious jewel in so rude a casket; the romantic incident of our first encounter; and the equally peculiar circumstances attending our second and last interview. All these may have combined in weaving around my spirit a spell, that now embraced, and was likely to influence, every act of my future existence. Therefore, on the morning of the third day, as I mounted my horse, and turned his head in the direction of Holt's clearing, it was not with any design of dispossessing the squatter. Occupied with sweet love-dreams, I had as yet given no thought to the ruder realities of life. I had formed no plan for colonising—neither towards entering upon possession, nor extending the "improvement" I had twice purchased.

Notwithstanding both purchase and payment, the squatter might still continue to hold his cabin and clearing—and share with me the disputed land. Welcome should I make him, on one condition—the condition of becoming his guest—constant or occasional—in either way, so long as I might have the opportunity of enjoying the presence of his fair daughter, and to her demonstrating my heart's devotion. Some such idea, vaguely conceived, flitted across my mind, as I entered upon my second journey to Mud Creek. My ostensible object was to take formal possession of an estate, and turn out its original owner. But my heart was in no unison with such an end. It recoiled from, or rather had it forgotten, its purpose. Its throbbings were directed to a different object: guiding me on a more joyful and auspicious errand—the errand of love.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A RED-SKINNED SIBYL.

Not a sound came from the forest to disturb my sweet musings. Silent was the sky of the Indian summer—soft and balm-laden its breeze. The trees stirred not; the branches seemed extended in the stillness of repose; even the leaves of the tremuloides, hanging on their compressed petioles, were scarcely seen to quiver. The rustling heard at intervals, was but the fluttering of bright wings amid the foliage; or the rushing of some mountebank squirrel in reckless evolution among the branches—sounds harmonising with the scene. Not till I had entered the glade was I aroused from my reverie—at first gently, by the sudden emergence from shade into light; but afterwards in a more sensible manner on sight of a human form—at a glance recognised as that of the Indian maiden. She was seated, or rather reclining, against the blanched log; her brown arm embracing an outstretched limb; half supported on one leg—the other crossed carelessly over it in an attitude of repose. Beside her on the log lay a wicker pannier, filled with odds and ends of Indian manufacture.

Though I had risen close up to the girl, she vouchsafed no acknowledgment of my presence. I observed no motion—not even of the eyes; which, directed downwards, seemed fixed in steadfast gaze upon the ground. Nothing about her appeared to move—save the coruscation of metallic ornaments that glittered in the sun, as though her body were enveloped in scale-armour. Otherwise, she might have been mistaken for a statue in bronze. And one, too, of noble proportions. The attitude was in every way graceful; and displayed to perfection the full bold contour of the maiden's form. Her well-rounded arm entwining the branch, with her large body and limbs outlined in alto-relievo against the entablature of the white trunk, presented a picture that a sculptor would have loved to copy; and that even the inartistic eye could not look upon without admiration.

Instinctively I checked my horse, and halted in front of this singular apparition. I can scarcely tell why I did so; since neither by look nor gesture was I invited to take such a liberty. On the contrary, I could perceive that my movement was regarded with displeasure. There was no change in the statuesque attitude: even the eyes were not raised from the earth; but a frown was distinctly traceable on the features of the girl. Thus repulsed, I should have ridden on; and would have done so, but for that sense of awkwardness, which one feels in similar situations. By pausing in the marked manner I had done, and gazing so pointedly at the girl, I had committed an act of ill-breeding—of which I now felt sensible. Indian though she was, she was evidently no common squaw; but gifted with certain noble traits, of which many a maiden with white skin might have envied her the possession. Beyond that, I knew she was the victim of a passion—all-absorbing as it was hopeless— and this in my eyes, ennobled and sanctified her.

Just then, I had myself no cause to fear an unrequited love—no need to be ungenerous or selfish—and could, therefore, afford to extend my sympathy to the sufferings of another. It was some vague prompting of this kind, that had caused me to draw up—some idea of offering consolation. The repelling reception was altogether unexpected, and placed me in a predicament. How was I to escape from it? By holding my tongue, and riding on? No; this would be an acknowledgment of having committed an act of gaucherie—to which man's vanity rarely accedes, or only with extreme reluctance. I had rushed inconsiderately into the mire, and must plunge deeper to get through. "We must become worse to make our title good."

So reflecting, or rather without reflecting at all, I resolved to "become worse"—with the risk of making a worse of it. "Perhaps," thought I, "she does not recognise me?" She had not looked at me as yet. "If she would only raise her eyes, she would remember me as the friend of the White Eagle. That might initiate a conversation; and cause her to interpret more kindly my apparent rudeness. I shall speak to her at all hazards. Su-wa-nee!" The dark Indian eye was raised upon me with an angry flash; but no other reply was vouchsafed. "Su-wa-nee!" I repeated in the most conciliatory tone. "Do you not remember me? I am the friend of the White Eagle."

"And what is that to Su-wa-nee? She has no words for you—you may go on!"

This decided repulse, instead of bettering my position, rendered it still more complicated. Somewhat confusedly, I rejoined: "I am on the way to visit the White Eagle. I thought—perhaps—you might—that possibly you might have some message for him."

"Su-wa-nee has no message for the White Eagle!" replied she, interrupting me, in the indignant tone, and with a contemptuous toss of her head. "If she had, she would not choose a false pale-face, like himself, to be its bearer. You fancy, white man, you can insult the Indian maiden at your pleasure? You dare not take such liberty with one of your own colour?"

"I assure you I had no such intention: my object was very different. I was prompted to speak to you, knowing something of your affair of the other night with my friend Wingrove—which you remember I was witness of. I could not help overhearing—"

I was interrupted by another quick contemptuous exclamation, that accompanied a glance of mingled vexation and scorn:—"You may know too much, and too little, my brave slayer of red panthers! Su-wa-nee does not thank you for interfering in her affairs. She can promise you sufficient occupation with your own. Go! See to them!"

"How? What mean you?" I hurriedly asked, perceiving a certain significance in her looks, as well as words, that produced within me a sudden feeling of inquietude. "What mean you?" I repeated, too anxious to wait her reply; "has anything happened?"

"Go, see yourself! You lose time in talking to a squaw, as you call us. Haste! or your bell-flower will be plucked and crushed, like that which you wear so proudly upon your breast. The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer: the yellow fawn will be his victim! Su-wa-nee joys at it: ha, ha, ha! Hers will not be the only heart wrung by the villainy of the false pale-face. Ha, ha, ha! Go, brave slayer of red panthers! Ah! you may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late—too late—too late!"

Finishing her speech with another peal of half-maniac laughter, she snatched her pannier from the log, flung it over her shoulder, and hurried away from the spot! Her words, though ill understood, were full of fearful significance, and acted upon me like a shock—for a moment paralysing my powers both of speech and action. In my anxiety to ascertain their full meaning, I would have intercepted her retreat; but before I could recover from my unpleasant surprise, she had glided in among the shrubbery, and disappeared from my sight.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

A STORM WITHOUT AND WITHIN.

Heading my horse to the path, I rode out of the glade; but with very different feelings from those I had on entering it. The words of this ill-starred maiden—attainted with that sibylline cunning peculiar to her race—had filled my heart with most dire forebodings. Her speech could not be mere conjecture, put forth to vex and annoy me? She had scarcely motive enough for this; besides, her display of a positive foreknowledge was proof against the supposition, that she was deceiving me?

"Slayer of red panthers? You may go, but only to grieve."

"Your bell-flower will be plucked and crushed like that you wear so proudly upon your breast."

These, and other like innuendoes, could not be conjectural? However obtained, they betokened a knowledge of the past, with an implied forecast of the future—probable as it was painful. The "yellow fawn," too. The reference was clear; Lilian Holt was the yellow fawn. But the wolf that had "slept in its lair"? Who was the wolf? Who was to make her a victim? and how? These unpleasant interrogatives passed rapidly through my mind, and without obtaining reply. I was unable to answer them, even by conjecture. Enough that there was a wolf; and that Lilian Holt was in danger of becoming his victim!

This brought me to the consideration of the last words, still ringing in my ears: "You will be too late—too late!" Prompted by their implied meaning, I drove the spurs into my horse, and galloped forward—as fast as the nature of the ground would permit. My mind was in dread confusion—a chaos of doubt and fear. The half-knowledge I had obtained was more painful to endure than a misfortune well ascertained: for I suffered the associated agonies of suspense, and darkly outlined suspicion. A wolf! In what shape and guise? A victim? How, and by what means? What the nature of the predicted danger?

The elements seemed in unison with my spirit: as if they too had taken their cue from the ill-omened bodings of my Indian oracle! A storm-cloud had suddenly obscured the sun—black as the wing of the buzzard-vulture. Red shafts were shooting athwart the sky—threatening to scathe the trees of the forest; thunder rolled continuously along their tops; and huge isolated rain-drops, like gouts of blood, came pattering down upon the leaves—soon to fall thick and continuous! I heeded not these indications. At that moment, what where the elements to me? What cared I for the clouds or rain—lightning, thunder, or the riven forest? There was a cloud on my own heart—an electric rush through my veins—of far more potent spell than the shadows of the sky, or the coruscations of the ethereal fire. "The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer: the yellow fawn will be his victim. You will be too late—too late!" These were clouds to be regarded—the fires to be feared. No heavenly light to guide me along the path, but a flame infernal burning in my breast?

The bars were down, but it mattered not: I would have leaped the fence, had there been no gateway; but the entrance to the enclosure was free; and, galloping through it, I drew bridle in front of the hut. The door was open—wide open, as was its wont; and I could see most of the interior. No one appeared within! no one came forth to greet me!

Inside, I observed some pieces of rude furniture—several chairs and a rough table. I had noticed them on my first visit. They were now in the same place—just as I had seen them before. One of my apprehensions was allayed by the sight: the family was still there. "Strange that no one hears me! that no one comes out to receive me!"

I made these reflections, after having waited a considerable while. "Surely I was expected? It was the time named by Holt himself? The day and hour! Was I again unwelcome? and had the squatter relapsed into his uncourteous mood?"

It certainly had that appearance: more especially, since it was raining at the moment—as if the very clouds were coming down—and I stood in need of shelter. But that grievance was little thought of. I was suffering a chagrin, far more intolerable than the tempest. Where was Lilian? Such cool reception, on her part, I had not expected. It was indeed a surprise. Had I mistaken the character of this Idyllian damsel? Was she, too, an arch creature—a coquette? Had she bestowed the blossom only to betray me?

I had looked down at the crushed corolla borne upon my breast. I had promised myself a triumph by its presence there. I had formed pleasant anticipations of its being recognised—fond hopes of its creating an effect in my favour. The flower looked drenched and draggled. Its carmine colour had turned to a dull dark crimson: it was the colour of blood!

I could bear the suspense no longer. I would have hailed the house; but by this time I had become convinced that there was no one inside. After a short survey, I had remarked a change in the appearance of the cabin. The interstices between the logs—where they had formerly been covered with skins—were now open. The draping had been removed; and a closer scrutiny enabled me to perceive, that, so far as human occupants were concerned, the house was empty! I rode up to the door; and, leaning over from my saddle, looked in. My conjecture was correct. Only the chairs and table with one or two similar pieces of "plenishing," remained. Everything else had been removed; and some worthless debris strewed over the floor, told that the removal was to be considered complete. They were gone!

It was of no use harbouring a hope that they might still be on the premises—outside or elsewhere near. The pouring rain forbade such, a supposition. There was nowhere else—the horse-shed excepted—where they could have sheltered! themselves from its torrent; and they were not in the shed. Rosinante was absent from his rude stall—saddle and bridle had alike disappeared. I needed no further assurance. They were gone.

With a heavy heart, I slid out of my saddle; led my steed under the shed; and then entered the deserted dwelling. My footfall upon the plank-floor sounded heavy and harsh, as I strode over it, making a survey of the "premises"—my future home. I might have observed with ludicrous surprise the queer character of the building, and how sadly it needed repair. But I was in no mood to be merry, either with the house or its furniture; and, tottering into one of the odd-looking chairs, I gave way to gloomy reflections. Any one, seeing me at that moment, would have observed me in an attitude, more benefiting a man about to be turned out of his estate, than one just entering upon possession!



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A VIRGIN HEART IN CIPHER.

"Gone! and whither gone?" Half aloud, I soliloquised the interrogatory. There was an echo from the empty walls, but no reply. Even conjecture failed to furnish an answer. The affair was altogether unexpected. Not anticipating that the squatter would leave his cabin before my return, I had made no inquiry either about his destination or future designs. I was, therefore, without the slightest clue as to whither he had gone. Nor should I have had any inquietude at this premature disappearance, but for the words of the Indian sibyl. Beyond the mere disappointment of missing an interview with Lilian—chagrin enough after such high-raised expectation—I should not have felt either uneasiness or regret. It would have been but natural to believe, that they had moved to some neighbour's house—perhaps to that up the creek, where lived the "friend of Lilian's father"—in all likelihood, the saint I had seen—or some other within a five-mile circuit. Or, if even ten miles distant, what would it matter to me? A ride of ten miles twice a day would be nothing—only an airing for my Arab. I should soon scent out the whereabouts of that sweet-smelling rose. Not all the forests in Tennessee could hide from me my fair blooming flower.

Such would have been my reflections, no doubt, had I not encountered the Indian girl. But her words of harsh warning now guided the current of my thoughts into a ruder channel—"You may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late."

Figurative as was her speech, and undefined its meaning, it produced within me a presentiment sufficiently real: that the removal was not a mere flit to some temporary shelter under a neighbour's roof, but a departure for a distant point. Scarcely a presentiment, but a belief—a conviction. Around me were circumstances corroborative of this view. The articles of furniture left behind, though rude, were still of a certain value—especially to a householder of Holt's condition; and had the squatter designed to re-erect his roof-tree in the neighbourhood, he would no doubt have taken them with him. Otherwise they were too heavy for a distant migration.

Perhaps he intended to return for them? If so—but no: there was no probability of his doing so. I need not have tried to comfort myself with the reflection. The innuendoes of the Indian had already negatived the hope. Still vaguely indulging in it, however, I cast a glance around the room in search of some object that might guide my conjectures to a more definite conclusion.

While so employed, my eyes fell upon a piece of paper carelessly folded. It lay upon the rough table—the only object there, with the exception of some crumbs of corn-bread, and the debris of a tobacco-pipe. I recognised the piece of paper. It was an old acquaintance—the leaf from my memorandum-book—upon which was written that laconic "last will and testament," jointly signed by the squatter and myself. On observing this paper upon the table, it did not occur to me, that it had been left there with any design. My reflection was, that the squatter had taken it from the stump, and carried it into the house—perhaps to shew it to his clerical visitor. No doubt, they had enjoyed a good laugh over it— as the souvenir of a ludicrous incident; and for this very reason I resolved upon preserving it.

I had taken the document in my hand, and was about depositing it in my pocket-book, when my eye was attracted by some fresh writing on the paper. A slight scrutiny of the recent cipher secured for the torn leaf a deeper interest than I had before felt in it: I saw that it was the chirography of a female hand. What other than the hand of Lilian? I thought of no other. Beyond doubt, her fingers had guided the pencil— for it was pencil-writing—and guided it so deftly, as to impress me with surprise and admiration. Astonished was I, that she—the child of a rude squatter—should be able to set down her ideas in so fair a hand—thoughts thrilling, though simply expressed.

Ah! sweet simple words! Trembled my own hand as I read them—trembled as from a spell of delirium—a delirium produced by the antagonistic emotions of grief and joy! Yes! both were present. In that simple inscript I had found cue for both: for there I learnt the ecstatic truth that I was beloved, and along with it the bitter intelligence, that my love was lost to me for ever! Words of welcome, and words of woe! how could they be thus commingled? Read them, and learn:

"To Edward Warfield,—

"Stranger!—It is to say farewell, but I am very sad as I write these words. When you asked me to promise to meet you again, I was happy, I said, Yes. O sir! it can never be! We are going to some far place, and shall be gone before you come here, and I shall never see you again. It is very distant, and I do not know the name of the country, for it is not in Tennessee, nor in the United States, but somewhere in the west, a long way beyond the Mississippi river and the great prairies; but it is a country where they dig gold out of the sand—perhaps you have heard of it, and might know it. I tried to know its name, but father is angry with me for speaking of you, and will not tell me; and our friend, that you saw, who is taking us with him, will not tell me either. But I shall find out soon, and if I thought you might like to know where we are gone, I would write to you. I am glad that mother taught me to write, though I do not compose very well; but if you will allow me, I will send a letter to Swampville, from the first place we come to, to tell you the name of the country where we are going. I know your name, for it is upon this paper, and I hope you will not think I have done wrong, for I have written my own name beside it. O sir! I am very sad that I am not to see you any more, for I am afraid father will never come back. I could cry all night and all day, and I have cried a deal, but I am afraid of their seeing me, for both father and his friend have scolded me, and said a many things against you. I do not like to hear them say things against you; and for that reason I try not to let them know how very sorry I am that I am never to meet you any more. Brave stranger! you saved my life; but it is not that, I think, that makes me so unhappy now, but something else. You are so different from the others I have seen; and what you said to me was not like anything I ever heard before; your words sounded so sweet, and I could have listened to them for ever. I remember every one of them. And then I was so proud when you took the flower from me, and held it to your lips, for it made me think that you would be my friend. I have been very lonely since my sister Marian went away—she went with the man you saw. I hope to see her soon now, as she is somewhere out in the country where we are going to, but that will not make me happy, if I can never see you again.

"O sir! forgive me for writing all that I have written; but I thought from what you said to me you would not be displeased with me for it, and that is why I have written it. But I must write no more, for my eyes are full of tears, and I cannot see the paper. I hope you will not burn it, but keep it, to remember—

"Lilian Holt."

Yes, Lilian! to the last hour of my life! Close to my bosom shall it lie—that simple souvenir of your maiden love. Sacred page! Transcript of sweet truth—hallowed by the first offerings of a virgin heart! Over, and over, and over again, I read the cipher—to me more touching than the wildest tale of romance. Alas! it was not all joy. There was more than a moiety of sadness, constantly increasing its measure. In another moment, the sadness overcame the joy. I tottered towards the chair, and dropped into it—my spirit completely prostrated by the conflicting emotions.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A WORD ABOUT MORMON MONSTERS.

Not long did I remain under the mental paralysis. There was no time for idle repining. The intelligence, derived from the torn leaf, had given me a cue for action; and my spirit struggled to free itself from the lethargy of grief. Hope whispered the watchword, "Up and be doing!" and I arose to obey its mandate.

My heart was on fire—wildly, madly on fire. The contents of that epistle, while it imbued my spirit with the sweetest of all earthly pleasures, revealed to it the deadliest of dangers—imparting to it an anguish beyond expression. It told me far more than the writer herself knew—both of her love and what she had need to fear: for, in her guileless innocence, was she alike unconscious of the passion and the peril. Not so I. She had opened her heart before me. As on a printed page, I could trace its tender inclinings. Had this been all, I should have been happy—supremely happy. But, alas! that writing told me more: that she who had pencilled it was in deadly peril. No—not deadly: it was not of life; but of something fur dearer—to me a thousand times more dear—her virgin honour. Now comprehended I, in all their diabolical significance, those wild weird words: "The wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer—the yellow fawn will be his victim!" Now knew I the wolf—a wolf disguised in the clothing of the lamb? It needed no remarkable acumen to tell to whom the figure referred. The writing itself revealed him—all but the name; and that was manifest by implication. The man with whom "Marian went away"—he whom I had seen in clerical garb and guise, was the wolf of the metaphor; and that man was Stebbins, the Mormon! With him, too, Lilian had gone away!

Not with words can I express the suggestive hideousness of this thought. To understand it in all its cruel significance, the reader should be acquainted with that peculiar sect—known as the "Church of Latter-Day Saints"—should have read its history and its chronicles. Without this knowledge, he will be ill able to comprehend the peculiar bitterness, that in that hour, wrapped and wrung my soul. Accident had made me acquainted with the Mormon religion; not with its tenets—for it has none—but with the moral idiosyncrasy of its most eminent "apostles," as well as that of its humbler devotees—two very different classes of "Saints."

In the animal world, we seek in vain for the type of either class. The analogies of wolf and lamb, hawk and pigeon, cat and mouse, cannot be employed with any degree of appropriateness—not one of them. In all these creatures there are traits either of nobility or beauty. Neither is to be found in the life and character of a Mormon—whether he be a sincere neophyte or a hypocritical apostle. Perhaps the nearest antagonistic forms of the animal world, by which we might typify the antithetic conditions of Mormon life, both social and religious, are those of fox and goose; though no doubt the subtle Reynard would scorn the comparison. Nor, indeed, is the fox a true type: for even about him there are redeeming qualities—something to relieve the soul from that loathing which it feels in contemplating the character of a "ruling elder" among the "Saints."

It would be difficult to imagine anything further removed, from what we may term the "divinity of human nature," than one of these. Vulgar and brutal, cunning and cruel, are ordinary epithets; and altogether too weak to characterise such a creature. Some of the "twelves" and of the "seventies" may lack one or other of these characteristics. In most cases, however, you may safely bestow them all; and if it be the chief of the sect—the President himself—you may add such other ugly appellatives as your fancy may suggest; and be sure that your portraiture will still fall short of the hideousness of the original. Perhaps the most striking characteristic of these fanatics is the absolute openness of their cheat. A more commonplace imposture has never been offered for acceptance, even to the most ignorant of mankind. It appeals neither to reason nor romance. The one is insulted by the very shallowness of its chicanery, while its rank plebbishness disgusts the other. Even the nomenclature, both of its offices and office-bearers, has a vulgar ring that smacks of ignoble origin. The names "twelves," "seventies," "deacons," "wifedoms," "Smiths" (Hiram and Joseph), Pratt, Snow, Young, Cowdery, and the like—coupled as they are with an affectation and imitation of Scripture phraseology—form a vocabulary burlesquing even the Sacred Book itself, and suggesting by their sounds the true character of the Mormon Church—a very essence of plebeian hypocrisy.

I have used the word "fanatics," but that must be understood in a limited sense. It can only be applied to the "geese"—the ignorant and besotted canaille—which the "apostolic" emissaries have collected from all parts of Europe, but chiefly from England, Scotland, and Wales. The Welsh, as might be expected, furnish a large proportion of these emigrant geese; while, strange as it may sound, there is but one Irish goose in the whole Mormon flock! There are but few of these "birds" of native American breed. The general intelligence, supplied by a proper school system, prevents much proselytism in that quarter; but it does not hinder the acute Yankee from playing the part of the fox: for in reality this is his role in the social system of Mormondom. The President or "High Priest and Prophet" himself, the Twelves and Seventies, the elders, deacons, and other dignitaries, are all, or nearly all, of true Yankee growth; and to call these "fanatics" would be a misapplication of the word. Term them conspirators, charlatans, hypocrites, and impostors, if you will, but not fanatics. The Mormon fox is no fanatic: he is a professor in the most emphatic sense of the word, but not a believer. His profession is absolute chicanery—he has neither faith, dogma, nor doctrine.

There are writers who have defended these forbans of religion; and some who have even spoken well of their system. Captain Stansbury, the explorer, has a good opinion of them. The captain is at best but a superficial observer; and, unfortunately for his judgment, received most courteous treatment at their hands. It is not human nature "to speak ill of the bridge that has carried one over"; and Captain Stansbury has obeyed the common impulse. In the earlier times of the Mormon Church, there were champions of the Stansbury school to defend its members against the charge of polygamy. In those days, the Saints themselves attempted a sort of denial of it. The subject was then too rank to come forth as a revelation. But a truth of this awkward kind could not long remain untold; and it became necessary to mask it under the more moderate title of a spiritual-wifedom. It required an acute metaphysician to comprehend this spiritual relationship; and the moralist was puzzled to understand its sanctity. During that period, while the Saints dwelt within the pale of the Gentiles' country this cloak was kept on; but after their "exodus" to the Salt Lake settlements, the flimsy garment was thrown off—being found too inconvenient to be worn any longer. There the motive for concealment was removed, and the apology of a spiritual-wifedom ceased to exist. It came out in its carnal and sensual shape. Polygamy was boldly preached and proclaimed, as it had ever been practised, in its most hideous shape; and the defenders of Mormon purity, thus betrayed by their pet proteges, dropped their broken lances to the ground. The "institution" is even more odious under Mormon than Mohammed. There is no redeeming point—not even the "romance of the harem"—for the zenana of a Latter-day Saint is a type of the most vulgar materialism, where even the favourite sultana is not exempted from the hard work-a-day duties of a slave.

Polygamy? No! the word has too limited a signification. To characterise the condition of a Mormon wife, we must resort to the phraseology of the bagnio.

In company of a Mormon had Lilian gone away! No wonder that my heart was on fire—wildly, madly on fire. I rose from my seat, and rushed forth for my horse. The storm still raged apace. Clouds and rolling thunder, lightning and rain—rain such as that which ushered in the Deluge! The storm! What cared I for its fury? Rain antediluvian would not have stayed me in doors—not if it had threatened the drowning of the world!



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

ANOTHER DUEL DETERMINED ON.

Into my saddle—off out of the clearing—away through the dripping forest—on through the sweltering swamp, I hurried. Up the creek was my route—my destination, the dwelling of the hunter, Wingrove. Surely, in such weather, I should find him at home?

It was natural I should seek the young backwoodsman. In such an emergency, I might count with certainty on having his advice and assistance. True, I anticipated no great benefit from either: for what could either avail me? The young man was helpless as myself; and had similarly suffered. This would secure me his sympathy; but what more could he give?