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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
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mo 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 It might be of some use to such of our young nnMior* as are just 
 about to begin their career in letters, were I to state the reasons which 
 governed me, some eighteen years ago, in giving this story, with 
 several others of the same family to the public, anonymously. But 
 I am not prepared, just yet, to enter the confessional. The matter is 
 of a sort to keep. I treasure up much curious literary history, the 
 fruit of a protracted experience, in reserve for a day and volume of 
 greater leisure and deliberation. Enough now to say that I had my 
 interest ay, and my fun too in the mystery with which the publi 
 cation of the work was originally clothed ; and. if I had one counsel, 
 over all, to impart to the young beginner, it should be io cling to the 
 anonymous in literature as long as it will aiTord him a decent cover. 
 Were I now for the first time, beginning my own career, with the 
 possession of the smallest part of my present experience, my left hand 
 should never know what my right is doing. I should not only keep 
 the public in ignorance of my peculiar labors, but I should, quite as 
 religiously, keep the secret from my friends and associate . This is 
 especially necessary, if you would be safe ; if you have anything like 
 fair play ; if you would escape from a thousand impertinences ; if you 
 
 166364 
 
8 ADVKKTISKMKNT. 
 
 would hope for any honest judgments. There are very few friends, 
 indeed, to \\lniin yen can trust any of your secrets ; and this of author 
 ship, is one which, of all others, is least easy to keep. Your friend is 
 vain on your account or on his own which is much the most like 
 ly anil must blab, with even slighter precautions than were taken 
 by the barber of King .Midas. Even if he honestly keeps your secret, 
 what is the profit to you in letting it out of your own hands? You 
 must employ au silent in finding your way to the pres-.. but this need 
 not be one of those whom you rank among your friends. A business 
 transaction may be kept secret; but a confidence, gratuitously given, 
 is rarely safe. If you reveal a secret, unless from the necessity of the 
 case, you may reasonably be supposed to desire ils farther circulation. 
 So friends mostly understand it. And, do not deceive yourself with 
 tae notion, that, by confiding to the persons nearest to you, and who 
 most share your sympathies, you can possibly derive any advantage 
 from ii. They can seldom serve you in any way. They can give no 
 help to a reputation which is to be founded on your own real merits; 
 no counsel, of any \alue in an art which they themselves do not pro 
 fess, but which they arestill very prone t> teach ; exercise no influence 
 which is not apt, in some way, to prove pernicious ; and, whether 
 they praise or blame, are generally the worst judges to whom 3*011 
 coui l submit your productions. Go to your cook in preference. 
 Yoi r friends always find your own pcrsonalit} conflicting, in 
 their minds, with your pro 1 i ,! ms. They never separate you 
 from your writ in r s. Their personal and local associations per 
 petually start i:p to Lalllc the free influence of your works upon 
 their thoughts and hearts ; and they weigh your opinions, or 
 your Imaginations, or your designs ar.d inventions, with a con 
 tinual reference to i/ t /*, // . as you appear in ordinary society. 
 In society, you are perhaps nothing; silent as (Jihbon without 
 any of the small change of conversation thai clinking < invney 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 9 
 
 which best passes among ordinary people, and which need not 
 be true coin, at all though you may be able to draw for a thou 
 sand pounds; and you thus socially appear at great disadvan 
 tage with the very persons to whom you confide your secret 
 and trustingly declare your labors. What can be the result? 
 Your friend, who has known you only in social relations, is re 
 quired to feel surprise at your performances, or to speak very 
 qualifiedly of their merits. He is reduced to this alternative. 
 If he admits to himself to be surprised, it is equivalent to con 
 fessing that he has not had the capacity to discover your pecu 
 liar endowment. His self-esteem will oppose any such admission, 
 and he disparages it accordingly. " He has always known that 
 you had a certain talent;" "but it was surely a little too 
 bold of you to undertake a book!" And this will be thought 
 and said without any wilful desire to harm; simply from what 
 seems necessary to self-respect and the maintenance of old posi 
 tion and the old social relations. And do you not see, that, if 
 you continue presumptiously to write books, it is possible 
 barely possible that you will outgrow your circle? Every chatty, 
 conceited, "talking potato " of it, is personally interested in pre 
 venting such a growth. The instincts of mediocrity are always 
 on the watch and easily alarmed; and it perpetually toils to 
 keep down any growth which is calculated to fling a shadow 
 over itself. And this is all very natural not to be complained 
 of, or quarrelled with. The safest way to avoid any of these 
 perils, and much annoyance, is to keep your secret, and let your 
 book find its way alone. Let the book win the reputation before 
 you claim the authorship. 
 
 Of all this something hereafter. My own humble experi 
 ence in authorship, of some twenty-five years growth, will some 
 day furnish ample materials for a volume of literary anecdote, 
 which, I promise the reader, will not be found less valuable for 
 its lessons, because .so well riV- 1 -^- 1 in ^rn-^Vo frequent mer 
 riment. I shall make lay uLU-umi, .. more elaborate pages, to 
 
 1* 
 
10 ADvi:ir: IM:M I:NT. 
 
 indicates the true reasons which serve to keep the masses of mankind 
 from any direct intercourse with their authors: show why society, 
 itself, works to this very end. MS if moved by a common necessity, 
 and governed by po-Viively s-.!ish interest. 
 
 " RrciiAun llrunis " was singularly successful with the public 
 in spite of much hostile criticism. It was objected, to the story, 
 that it was of too gloomy and savage a character. But the en 
 tire aspect of a .sparsely-settled forest, or mountain country, is 
 grave and saddening, even where society is stationary and 
 consistent; and, where society is only in process of formation 
 the saddening and the grave in its aspect arc but too apt to 
 take on even sterner features, and to grow into the gloomy 
 and ferocious. It is quite enough, in answer to the objection, 
 to say that the general protraiture is not only a truthful one, 
 in the present case, but that the materials are really of histor 
 ical character. The story is a genuine chronicle of the border 
 region where the scene is laid, and of the period when the date 
 is fixed. Its action, throughout, is founded on well-known facts. 
 Its personages were real, living men; being, doing, and suffer 
 ing, as here reported. Nothing has been " extenuate," nothing 
 has been "set down in malice." A softer coloring might have 
 been employed, and, more frequently, scenes of repose might 
 have been introduced for relieving the intense and fierce 
 aspects of the story; but these would have been out of place 
 in a narrative so dramatic of cast, and where the action is so 
 rapid. 
 
 Some doubts have been expressed touching the actual exist 
 ence of the wild and savage confederation which I have here 
 described; but nobody, at all familiar with the region and pe 
 riod of the story, can possibly entertain a question of the his 
 tory. There are hundreds of persons, now living, who knew, 
 and well-remember, all the parties; and the general history of 
 the outlawry prevailing in the ^Mississippi valley, twenty years 
 ago, can hardly have escaped the knowledge, in some degree 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 11 
 
 of every inhabitant of the southwest, during that period. I 
 knew Stewart, the captor of Murrell, personally ; ar-d had sev 
 eral conferences with him, prior to the publication of his nar 
 rative. I have also met certain of the dramatis persona, during 
 my early wanderings in that then wild country. The crimes 
 here recorded were then actually in progress of commission ; 
 and some of n y scenes, and several of my persons, were 
 sketched from personal observation, and after the current re 
 ports from the best local authorities. 1 repeat, briefly, that 
 the facts here employed arc beyond question, and still within 
 the memory of living men. I need scarcely add, that, as a 
 matter of course, I have exercised the artist s privilege of pla 
 cing my groups in action, at my own pleasure ; using what 
 accessories I thought proper, and dismissing others ; suppress 
 ing the merely loathsome ; bringing out the heroic, the bold 
 and attractive, into becoming prominence, for dramatic effect, 
 and, filling out the character, more or less elaborately, accord 
 ing to the particular requisitions of the story, without regarding 
 the individual claims of the subordinate. Let me say, further, 
 though this, perhaps, is scarcely necessary that, in most 
 cases I have used other than the true nair.es, and altered cer 
 tain localities, simply that living and innocent affections should not 
 be unnecessarily outraged. 
 
 One other matter. It wil\ be seen that there is a peculiarity 
 in the arrangement of the story. The hero tells, not only what 
 he himself performed, but supplies the events, even as they 
 occur, which he yet derives from the report of others. Though 
 quite unusual, the plan is yet strictly within the proprieties of 
 art. The reader can readily be made to comprehend that the 
 hero writes after a lapse of time, in which lie had supplied 
 himself with the necessary details, filling up the gaps in his 
 own experience. I have persuaded myself that something is 
 gained by such a progress, in the more energetic, direct and 
 dramatic character of the story ; and the rapidity of the action 
 
12 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 is a necessary result, from the exclusion of all circuitous narra 
 tion. The hero and author, under the old plan, become identi 
 cal ; a union which the reader will be pleased to believe 
 only fictitious : while the real writer was unknown, it was 
 of little consequence whether the parties were confounded or 
 not. Even now, the disclaimer is hardly necessary ; since 
 nobody need be mystified in the matter, unless it be some invet 
 erate Dogberry, who prides himself on the length of his ears, 
 and insists upon the whole road in his daily crossing of the 
 Pons Asinorum. 
 
 There are two other stories "Border Beagles," and "Beau- 
 champe," which belonged originally to this unnamed family. 
 These will succed to Richard Hurdis " in the present classifica 
 tion of my writings. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 K1CHA1U) HURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A TRUANT DISPOSITION. 
 
 " Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook. 
 And all that Greece and Italy have sung 
 Of swains reposing 1 myrtle graves among ! 
 Ours couch on naked rocks, will cross a brook. 
 Swollen with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 
 This way or that, or give it even a thought 
 More than by smoothest pathway may be brought 
 Into a vacant mind. Can written book 
 Teach what to learn i " WORDSWORTH. 
 
 OF the hardihood of the American character there can be no 
 doubts, however many there may exist on the subject of our good 
 manners. We ourselves seem to be sufficiently conscious of our 
 security on the former head, as \ve forbear insisting upon it ; about 
 the latter, however, we are sore and touchy enough. We never 
 trouble ourselves to prove that we are sufficiently able and willing, 
 when occasion serves, to do battle, tooth and nail, for our liberties 
 and possessions ; our very existence, as a people, proves this ability 
 and readiness. But let John Bull prate of our manners, and how we 
 fume and fret, and what fierce action and wasteful indignation we 
 expend upon him ! We are sure to have the last word in all such 
 controversies. 
 
 Our hardihood comes from our necessities, and prompts our 
 enterprise ; and the American is bold in adventure to a prov- 
 rb. Where the silk-shodden and sleek, citizen of the European 
 
 w 
 
14 HICllAllD 1IUIIDIS. 
 
 world would pause and deliberate to explore our wilds, we plunge 
 incontinently forward ; and the forest falls before our axe, and the 
 desert blooms under the providence of our cultivator, as if the wand 
 of an enchanter had waved over them with the rising of a sudden 
 moonlight. Yankee necessities, and southern and western curiosity, 
 will probe to the very core of the dusky woods, and palsy, by the 
 exhibition of superior powers, the very souls of their old possessors. 
 
 I was true to the temper and the nature of my countrymen. The 
 place in which I was born could not keep me always. With man- 
 hood ay, long before I was a man came the desire to range. 
 My thoughts craved freedom, my dreams prompted the same desire, 
 and the wandering spirit of our people, perpetually stimulated by 
 the continual opening of new regions and more promising abodes, 
 was working in my heart with all the volume of a volcano. Man 
 hood came and I burst my shackles. I resolved upon the enjoyment 
 for which I had dreamed and prayed. I had no fears, for I was 
 stout of limb, bold of heart, prompt in the use of my weapon, a 
 fearless rider, and a fatal shot. Here are the inevitable possessions 
 of the southern and western man, from Virginia to the gulf, and 
 backward to the Ohio. I had these, with little other heritage, from 
 my Alabama origin, and I was resolved to make the most of them 
 as soon as I could. You may be sure I lost no time in putting my 
 resolves into execution. Our grain-crops in Marengo were ripe in 
 August, and my heart bounded with the unfolding of the sheaves. 
 I was out of my minority in the same fortunate season. 
 
 I waited for the coming October only. I felt that my pa 
 rents had now no claims upon me. The customs of our society, 
 the necessities of our modes of life, the excursive and adventur 
 ous habits of our people, all justified a desire, which, in a sta 
 tionary community, would seem so adverse to the nicer designs 
 of humanity. But the life in the city has very few standards 
 in common with that of the wilderness. We acknowledge few 
 at least. The impulses of the latter, to our minds, are worth 
 any day all the mercantile wealth of the former; and that we 
 are sincere in this opinion may be fairly inferred from the pref 
 erence which the forester will always show for the one over the 
 
A TRUANT DISPOSITION. 15 
 
 other region. Gain is no consideration for those who live in every 
 muscle, and who find enjoyment from the exercise of every limb. 
 The man who lives by measuring tape and pins by the sixpence 
 worth, may make money by his vocation but, God help him! 
 he is scarce a man. His veins expand not with generous ardor; 
 his muscles wither and vanish, as they are unemployed ; and 
 his soul it has no emotions which prompt him to noble rest 
 lessness, and high and generous exertion. Let him keep at his 
 vocation if he will, but he might, morally and physically, do far 
 better if he would. 
 
 My resolves were soon known to all around me. They are 
 not yet known to the reader. Well, they arc quickly told. The 
 freed youth at twenty-one, for the first time free, and impa 
 tient only for the exercise of his freedom, has but few purposes, 
 and his plans are usually single and unsophisticated enough. 
 Remember, I am speaking for the forester and farmer, not 
 for the city youth who is taught the arts of trade from 
 the cradle up, and learns to scheme and connive while yet he 
 clips the coral in his boneless gums. I was literally going 
 abroad, after the fashion of the poorer youth of our neighbor 
 hood, to seek my fortune. As yet I had but little of my own. 
 A fine horse, a few hundred dollars in specie, three able-bodied 
 negroes, a good rifle, which carried eighty to the pound, and 
 was the admiration of many who were even better shots than 
 myself these made pretty much the sum total of my earthly 
 possessions. But I thought not much of this matter. To ram 
 ble a while, at least until my money was all gone, and then to 
 take service on shares with some planter who had land and 
 needed the help of one like myself, was all my secret. I had 
 heard of the Chickasaw Bluffs, and of the still more recent Choc- 
 
 l taw purchase at that time a land of promise only, as its ac 
 quisition had not been effected and I was desirous of looking 
 
 L upon these regions. The Choctaw territory was reported to be 
 rich as cream ; and I meditated to find out the best spots, in 
 order to secure them by entry, as soon as the government could 
 effect the treaty which should throw them into the market. In 
 this ulterior object I was upheld by some of our neighboring 
 capitalists, who had urged, to some extent, the measure upon 
 me. I was not unwilling to do this for them, particularly as it 
 
16 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 did not interfere in my own plans to follow up theirs; but my 
 own desire was simply to stretch my limbs in freedom to trav 
 erse the prairies, to penetrate the swamps, to behold the climb 
 ing hills and lovely hollows of the Choctaw lands, and luxuriate 
 in the eternal solitudes of their spacious forests. To feel my 
 freedom was now my hope. I had been fettered long enough. 
 
 But do not think me wanting in natural affection to my pa 
 rents : far from it. I effected no small achievement when I 
 first resolved to leave my mother. It was no pain to leave my 
 father. lie was a man, a strong one too, and could do well 
 enough without me. But, without spoiling me, my mother, of 
 all her children, had made me most a favorite. I was her Rich 
 ard always. She considered me first, though I had an elder 
 brother, and spoke of me in particular when speaking of her 
 sons, and referred to me for counsel in preferenc to all the rest. 
 This may have been because I was soon found to be the most 
 decisive of all my brothers ; and folks did me the further cour 
 tesy to say, the most thoughtful too. My elder brother, John 
 Hurdis, was too fond of eating to be an adventurous man, and 
 too slow and unready to be a performing one. We often quar 
 relled, too ; and this, perhaps, was another reason why I should 
 desire to leave a place from which he was quite too lazy ever 
 to depart. Had he been bold enough to go forth, I might not 
 have been so ready to do so, for there were motives and ties to 
 keep me at home, which shall have developed as I proceed. 
 
 My father, though a phlegmatic and proud man, show r ed 
 much more emotion at the declaration of my resolve to teave 
 him, than I had ever expected. His emotion arose, not so 
 much from the love he bore me, as from the loss which lie was 
 about to sustain by my departure. I had been his best negro, 
 and he confessed it. Night and day, without complaint, my time 
 had been almost entirely devoted to his service, and his crops 
 had never been thalf so good as when I had directed the labor 
 of his force, and regulated his resources. My brother John 
 had virtually given up to me the entire management, and my 
 father was too well satisfied with the fruits of the change to 
 make any objection. My resolution to leave him now, once 
 more threw the business of the plantation upon John ; and his 
 incompetence, the result of his inertness ana ooesity, rather 
 
A TRUANT DISPOSITION. 17 
 
 than of any deficiency of mind, was sorely apprehended by the 
 old man I felt this to be the strongest argument against my 
 departure. But was I always to be the slave I had been? 
 Was I always to watch peas and potatoes, corn and cotton, 
 without even the poor satisfaction of choosing the spot where it 
 would please me best to watch them? This reflection strength 
 ened me in my resolves, and answered my father. In answer to 
 the expostulation of ray mother, I made a promise, which in part 
 consoled her. 
 
 " I will go but for a few months, mother for the winter only; 
 you will see me back in spring; and then if father and myself can 
 come to anything like terms, I will stay and superintend for him, 
 as I have done before." 
 
 Terms, Richard! " were the old lady s words in reply; "what 
 terms would you have, my son, that he will not agree to, so that 
 they be in reason? He will give you one-fifth I will answer for 
 it, Richard and that ought to be quite enough to satisfy any 
 one." 
 
 " More than enough, mother; more than I ask or expect. 
 But I can not now agree even to that. I must see the world 
 a while; travel about; and if, at the end of the winter, I see no 
 better place no place, I mean, which I could better like to live 
 in why then I will come back, as I tell you, and go to work as 
 usual." 
 
 There was some little indignation in the old lady s answer: 
 
 "Better place! like better to live in! Why, Richard, what 
 has come over you? Are not the place you were born in, and 
 the parents who bred you, and the people whom you have lived 
 with all your life are they not good enough for you, that you 
 must come to me at this time of day, and talk about better 
 places, and all such stuff? Really, my son, you forget yourself 
 to speak in this manner. As if everything was not good enough 
 for you here! " 
 
 "Good enougn, mother," I answered gloomily; " good enough ; 
 perhaps I deny it not; and yet not exactly to my liking. I 
 am not pleased to waste my life as I do at present. I am not 
 satisfied that I do myself justice. I feel a want in my mind, 
 and an impatience at my heart; a thirst which I can not ex 
 plain to you, and which, while here, I can not quench. I must 
 
18 RICHAKD HURDIS. 
 
 go elsewhere I must fix my eyes on other objects. You for 
 get, too, that I hava been repulsed, rejected though you told 
 me I should not be where I had set my heart; and that the 
 boon has been given to another, for which I had struggled long, 
 and for a long season had hoped to attain. Can you wonder 
 that I should seek to go abroad, even were I not moved by a 
 natural desire at my time of life to see some little of the 
 world?" 
 
 There were some portions of my reply which were conclusive, and 
 to which my mother did not venture any answer; but nay last 
 remark suggested the tenor of a response which she did not pause to 
 make. 
 
 But what can you see of the world, my son, among the wild 
 places to which you think to go? What can you see at the Bluffs, 
 or down by the Yazoo but woods and Indians? Besides, Richard, 
 the Choctaws are said to be troublesome now in the nation. Old 
 Mooshoolatubbe and La Fleur are going to fight, and it will be dan 
 gerous travelling." 
 
 "The very thing, mother," was my hasty reply. "I will take 
 side with La Fleur, and when we have to fight Mooshoolatubbe, get 
 enough land for my reward, to commence business for myself. 
 That last speech of yours, mother, is conclusive in my favor. I will 
 be a rich man yet; and then" in the bitterness of a disappointed 
 spirit I spoke "and then, mother, we will see whether John 
 Hurdis is a better man with thirty negroes than Richard Hurdis with 
 but three. 
 
 " Why, who says he is, my son?" demanded my mother with a 
 tenderness of accent which increased while she spoke, and with eyes 
 that filled with tears in the same instant. 
 
 My heart told me I was wrong, but I could not forbear the reply 
 that rose to my lips. 
 
 "Mary Easterby," were the two words which made my only 
 answer. 
 
 "Richard, Richard!" exclaimed the old lady, "you envy your 
 brother. " 
 
 "Envy him! No! I envy him nothing, not even his better 
 fortune. Let him wear what he has won, whether he be worthy 
 of it or not. If, knowing me, she prefers him, be it so. She 
 is not the woman for me. I envy not his possessions; neither 
 
A TRUAXT DISPOSITION. 19 
 
 his wife, nor bis servant, his ox, nor his ass. It vexes me that 
 I have been mistaken, mother, both in her, and in him ; but, 
 thank Heaven ! I envy neither. I am not humble enough for 
 that." 
 
 " My dear Richard, you know that I have always sought to 
 make you happy. It grieves me that you are not so. What would 
 you have me do for you ? " 
 
 " Let me go forth in peace. Say nothing to my father to pre 
 vent it. Seem to be satisfied with my departure yourself. I will try 
 to please you better when I return." 
 
 " You ask too much, my son ; but I will try. I will do anything 
 for you, if you will only think and speak less scorfully of your elder 
 brother." 
 
 "And what are my thoughts and words to him, mother ? lie 
 feels them not they do not touch him. Is he not my elder brother? 
 Has he not all ? The favor of our grandmother gave him wealth, 
 and with his wealth, and from his wealth, comes the favor of 
 Mary Easterb}-." 
 
 " You do her wrong ! " said my mother. 
 
 "Do I, indeed?" I answered biiterly. "What! she takes 
 him then for his better person, his nobler thoughts, his boldness, 
 his industry, and the thousand other manly qualities, so winning 
 in a woman s eyes, which I have not, but which he possesses in 
 such plenty ? Is it this that you would say, my mother ? Say it 
 then if you can ; but well I know you must be silent. You can 
 not speak, mother, and speak thus. For what then has Mary 
 Easterby preferred John Ilurdis? God forgive me if I do her 
 wrong, and Heaven s mercy to her if she wrongs herself and me. 
 At one time I thought she loved me, and I showed her some like 
 follies. I will not say that she has not made me suffer ; but I rejoice 
 that I can suffer like a man. Let me go from you in quiet, dear 
 mother ; urge my departure, and believe, as I think, that it will be 
 for the benefit of all." 
 
 My father s entrance interrupted a conversation, which neither of 
 us was disposed readily to assume. 
 
20 RICHARD 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MARY K AST Kit BY. 
 
 "TVr*> was but one 
 
 In whom my heart took pleasure amongst women; 
 ()ii in I lie whole creation; anl in her 
 Yu u.iivd to be my rival." Second Maiden a Tragedy. 
 
 Tin- , reader lias discovered my secret. I bad long loved 
 Mary Kastcrby, and without knowing it. Tbe knowledge 
 came to me at the moment when I ceased to hone. My brother 
 was my rival, and, whatever were the charms he used, my suc 
 cessful rival. This may have given bitterness to the feeling of 
 contempt witli which his own feebleness of character had taught 
 me to regard him. It certainly took nothing from the barrier 
 which circumstances and time had set up as a wall between us 
 Mary Kasterby had grown up beside me. 1 had known no 
 other companion among her sex. We had played together 
 from infancy, and I had been taught to believe, when I came 
 to know the situation of my own heart, and to inquire into that 
 of hers, that she loved me. If she did not, I deceived myself 
 most wofully ; but such self-deception is no uncommon practice 
 with the young of my age, and sanguine temperament. I 
 would not dwell upon her charms could I avoid it; y(>t though 
 I speak of, I should fail to describe and do not hope to do 
 them justice. She was younger by three years than myself, 
 and no less beautiful than young. Her person was tall, but not 
 slight ; it was too finely proportioned to make her seem tall. 
 ami grace was the natural result, not less of her physical sym 
 uietry, than of her maiden taste, and swert consideraleness of 
 chiv-acter Her eye \\as large , and blue, her check not so round 
 as hill, and its rich rosy color almost vied with that which 
 crimsoned the pulpy outline of ber lovely mouth. Her h lir 
 
MARY EASTERBY. 21 
 
 was of a dark brown, and she wore it gathered up simply in 
 volume behind, a few stray tresses only being suffered to escape 
 from bondage at the sides, to attest, as it were, the bountiful 
 luxuriance with which nature had endowed her. See these 
 tresses on her round wM e neck, and let your eye trace them 
 in their progress to the swelling bosom on which they some 
 times rested ; and you may conceive something of those charms, 
 which I shall not seek further to describe. 
 
 Though a dweller in the woods all her life, her mind and 
 taste had not been icft without due cultivatio-n. Her father had 
 been taught in one of the elder states, one of the old thirteen, 
 and he carried many of the refinements of city life with him 
 hit** the wilderness. Books she had in abundance, and these 
 tail"- 1 t her everything of those old communities, which she had 
 never yet been permitted to see. Her natural quickness of 
 intellect, her prompt appreciation of what she read, enabled 
 her at an early period duly to estimate those conventional and 
 improved forms of soci;il life to which her books perpetually 
 referred, and which belong only to stationary abodes, where 
 wealth brings leisure, and leisure provokes refinement. With 
 such aid, Mary Easterhy soon stood alone among the neighbor 
 ing damsels. Her air, mar.ner, conversation, even dress, were 
 not only different from, but more becoming, than those of her 
 associates. She spoke with the ease and freedom of one bred 
 up in the most assured society ; and thought with a mind filled 
 with standards which are not often to be met with in an insu 
 lated and unfrequented community. In short she was one of 
 those beings such as lift the class to which they belong; such 
 as represent rather .1 future than a present generation ; and 
 such as, by superior grasp of judgment or of genius, prepare 
 the way for, and guide the aims of all the rest. 
 
 It were folly to dwell upon her excellences, but that my 
 narration may depend upon their development. They wera 
 powerful enough with me ; and my heart felt, ere my mind 
 could analyze them. A boy s heart, particularly one who i 
 the unsophisticated occupant of the forests, having few other 
 teachers, is no sluggish and selfish creation, and mine was soo 
 filled with Mary Easterby, and all its hopes and desires d*. 
 pended upon hers for their fulK rnent. It was the thought : 
 
22 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 all, that hers \vas not loss dependent upon mine; and when the 
 increasing intimacy of the maiden with my brother, and his 
 confident demeanor toward herself and parents, led us all to 
 regard him as the posscs.vrr of those affections which every 
 body had supposed to be mine, the matter was no less surprising 
 to all than it was, for a season, bitter and overwhelming to me. 
 I could have throttled my more fortunate brother brother 
 though he was in the first moment of my rage at this discov 
 ery ; and all my love for Mary did not save her from sundry 
 unmanly denunciations which I will not now venture to repeat. 
 1 did not utter these denunciations in her ears though I uttered 
 them aloud. They reached her ears, however, and the medium 
 of communication was John Hurdis. This last baseness aroused 
 me to open rage against him. I told him to his teeth he was a 
 scoundrel ; and he bore with the imputation, and spoke of our 
 blood connection as the reason for his forbearance to resent an 
 indignity which, agreeably to our modes of thinking, could only 
 be atoned for by blood. 
 
 "Brother, indeed!" I exclaimed furiously in reply. "No, 
 John Jlurdis, you are no brother of mine, though our father 
 and mother be the same. I acknowledge no relationship be 
 tween us. We are of a different family of far-removed and 
 foreign natures. My kindred shall never be found among the 
 base; and from this moment I renounce all kindred with you. 
 Henceforth, we know nothing of each other only so far as it may 
 be necessary to keep from giving pain and offence to our parents. 
 But we shall not be long under that restraint. I will shortly 
 leave you to yourself, to your conquests, and the undisturbed 
 enjoyment of that happiness which you have toiled for so base 
 ly at the expense of mine." 
 
 He would have explained and expostulated, but I refused to 
 hear him. He proffered me his hand, but with a violent blow 
 of my own, I struck it down, and turned my shoulder upon him. 
 It was thus, in such relationship, that we stood, when I announced 
 to my mother my intention to leave the family. We barely spoke 
 to one another when speech was absolutely unavoidable, and it 
 was soon known to Mary Easterby, not less than to the persona 
 of my own household, that our hearts were lifted in enmity 
 against each other. She seized an early opportunity and spok 
 
MARY EASTERBY. 28 
 
 to me on the subject. Either she mistook the nature of oui 
 quarrel, or the character of my affections. Yet how she could 
 have mistaken the latter, or misunderstood the former, I can not 
 imagine. Yet she did so. 
 
 " Richard, they say you have quarrelled with your brother." 
 
 "Does lie say it does John Hurdis say it, Mary?" was my 
 reply. 
 
 She paused and hesitated. I pressed the question with more 
 earnestness as I beheld her hesitation. She strove to speak with 
 calmness, but was not altogether successful. Her voice trembled 
 as she replied : 
 
 "lie does not, Richard not in words; but I have inferred 
 it from what he does say, and from the fact that he has said s< 
 little. He seemed unwilling to tell me anything." 
 
 "_IIe is wise," I replied bitterly ; " he is very wise ; but it is 
 late. Better he had been thus taciturn always!" 
 
 " Why speak you so, Richard ?" she continued ; " why are 
 you thus violent against your brother ? What has he done to 
 vex you to this pass? Let me hear your complaint." 
 
 "Complaint! 1 have none. You mistake me, Mary I com 
 plain not. I complain of nobody. If I can not right my own 
 wrongs, at least, I will not complain of them." 
 
 " Oh, be not so proud, Richard ! be not so proud !" she re 
 plied earnestly; and her long white fingers rested upon my 
 wrist for an instant, and were as instantly withdrawn. But 
 that one touch was enough to thrill to the bone. It was my 
 turn to tremble. She continued "There is no wisdom in this 
 pride of yours, Richard ; it is unbecoming in such frail beings 
 as we are, and it will be fatal to your happiness." 
 
 " Happiness ! my happiness ! Ah, Mary, if it be my pride 
 only which is to be fatal to my happiness, then I am secure. 
 But I fear not that. My pride is my hope now, my strength. 
 It protects me it shields my heart from my own weakness." 
 
 She looked in my face with glances of the most earnest in 
 quiry for a little while, and then spoke as follows : 
 
 " Richard, there is something now-a-days about you which I 
 do not exactly understand. You utter yourself in a language 
 which is strange to me, and your manners have become strange \ 
 Why is this what is the matter?" 
 
24 P. in fART) HURPT9. 
 
 " Xay, Mary; but that should he my question The change 
 tfe in yon, not inc. I am conscious of r.o change such as you 
 speak of. But a truce to this. 1 see yon are troubled. Let us 
 talk of other vhiu^s." 
 
 "I arn not troubled, Richard, except on your account. But 
 as you desire it, let us talk of other things; and, to return, why 
 this hostility between yourself and your brother?" 
 
 "Let Mm tell you. Demand it of him, Mary; he will better 
 tell the story than I, as it will probably sound ir.ore t") his cred 
 it than to mine, in your oars !" 
 
 " I know not that," she replied ; " and know not M*hy yon 
 should think so, Richard, unless you are conscious of having 
 done wrong; and, if thus conscious, the cure i. in your own 
 hands." 
 
 "What!" I exclaimed impetuously. "You would have me 
 go on my knees to John Ilurdis, and humbly ask his pardoii, 
 for denouncing him as a scoundrel " 
 
 " You have not done this, Richard ?" was her sudden ir.-quiry, 
 silencing me in the middle of my hurried and thoughtless speech. 
 The error was committed, and I had only to avow the truth. 
 Gloomily I did so, ard with a sort of sullen ferocity that must 
 have savored very much of the expression of a wolf goaded to 
 the verge of his den by the spear of the hunter. 
 
 "Ay, hut I have, Mary Kasterby ! 1 have called John Ilur 
 dis a scoundrel, and only wonder that he told you not this along 
 with the rest of my misdoings which he has been careful to re 
 late to you. Perhaps, he might have done so, had the story 
 spoken more favorably for his manhood " 
 
 We had been sitting together by the window while the con 
 versation proceeded ; but at this stage of it, she arose, crossed 
 dhe apartment slowly, lingerer for a brief space at an opposite 
 window, then quietly returned to her scat. But her eyes gave 
 proof of the big tears that had been gathering in them. 
 
 " Richard, I fear that you are doing me, and your brother 
 both injustice. You are too quick, too prompt to imagine 
 wrong, and too ready to act upon your imaginings. You speak 
 to me with the tone of one who has cause of complaint-- of an 
 ger ! Your eyes have an expression of rebuke which is pain- 
 ^il to m^ ~*""1 T think unjust. Your words are sb<rp, an<? 
 
MABY EASTERBY. 25 
 
 sometimes hostile and unfriendly. You arc not what you were. 
 Richard in truth, yon arc not." 
 
 " Indeed ! do you think so. Mary ?" 
 
 " Ay, I do. Toll me, Richard, hi what have I done you 
 wtong ] Where is my error ? Of what do you complain ?" 
 
 "Iia\e I not told yon, Mary, Jiat I have no cause of com 
 plaint that I hold it unmanly to complain? And wherefore 
 should I complain of you ? I have no right. You are mistresf 
 of your own words and actions so far as Richard Ilurdis is con 
 corned." 
 
 The stubborn pride of my spirit was predominant, and the 
 moment of explanation had gone by. A slight sigh escaped 
 her lips as she replied 
 
 " You are not what you used to be, Richard ; but I know not 
 what has changed you." 
 
 She had spoken soothly I was not what I was. A dark 
 change had come upon me a gloomy shadow had passed over 
 my spirit, chilling its natural warmth and clouding its glory 
 The first freshness of my heart s feelings was rapidly passing 
 from me. I had worshipped fruitlessly, if not unwisely; and, 
 if the deity of my adoration was not unworthy of its tribute, it 
 gave back no response of favor to the prayer of the supplicant, 
 
 Such were my thoughts such the conviction which was 
 driving me into banishment. For banishment it was utter, 
 irrevocable banishment, which I then meditated. The promise 
 given to my mother was meant to soothe her heart, and silence 
 her entreaties. I meant never to return. In deeper forests 
 in a wilder home I had resolved to choose me ut an 
 abode, which, if it had fewer attractions, had, at the same time, 
 fewer trials for a bosom vexed like mine. I feared not the si 
 lence and the loneliness of the Indian habitations, when those 
 to which I had been accustomed, had become, in some respects, 
 so tvjarful. I dreaded no loneliness so much as that of my own 
 heart, which, having devoted itself exclusively to another, wag 
 denied the communion which it sought. 
 
26 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 COMRADE IN EXILE. 
 
 Now go we in content 
 To liberty, and not to banishment." As You I-ike ft. 
 
 " Brothers in exile, 
 
 Hath not old custom made this life more sr/eel 
 Than that of painted pomp?" Same. 
 
 WAS I right in such a resolution ? Was it proper in me, be 
 cause one had made me desolate, to make others and not that 
 one equally so? I know not. 1 inquired not thus at the 
 time, and the question is unnecessary now. My resolution wag 
 taken at a leap. It was a resolution made by my feeKiigs, in 
 which my thoughts had little part. And yet I reasoned upon 
 it, and gave stubborn arguments in its defence to others. It is 
 btrange how earnestly the mind will devote itself to the exac 
 tions of the blood, and cog, and connive, and cavil, in compli 
 ance with the appetites and impulses of the body. The animal 
 is no small despot when it begins to sway. 
 
 In leaving home, however, and going abroad among strangers 
 I did not purpose to go alone. My arguments, which had nol 
 moved myself, had their influence upon another. A young man 
 of the neighborhood, about my own age, with whom I had been 
 long intimate, consented to go along with me. His situation 
 and motives were alike different from mine. He was not only 
 a wealthy man, in the estimation of the country, but he was for 
 tunate perhaps because he was wealthy in the favor and re 
 gard of a young damsel to whom he had proffered vows which 
 had proved acceptable. He was an accepted man, fortunate or 
 not; and in this paiticular of fortune he differed from me as 
 widely as in his moneyed concerns. His property consisted in 
 negroes and ready money. He had forty of the former, *nd 
 
COMRADE IN KXILE. 27 
 
 Some three tiiuusand dollars, part in specie, but the greater 
 part in United States Lr.nk notes, then considered quite as 
 good. Jle wanted lands, and to supply this want was the chief 
 motive for his resolve, to set out with me. The damsel to whom 
 he was hetrothed was poor, hut she wore none of the deport 
 ment of poverty. The neighborhood thought her proud." I 
 can not say that I thought with them. She was more reserved 
 than young women commonly, at her time of life more digui 
 tied, thoughtful, and, perhaps, more prudent. She was rathe) 
 pensive in her manner; and yet there was a quickness of move 
 rnent in the flashing of her dark black eye, that bespoke suddev 
 resolve, and a latent character which needed but the stroke or 
 trial and the collision of necessity to give forth unquenchable 
 flame. She said little; but that little, when spoken, was ever 
 1 the point and purpose, and seemed unavoidable. Yet, though 
 thus taciturn in language, there was speech in every movement 
 Df her eyes in all the play of her intelligent and remarkable 
 features. She was not beautiful scarcely pretty, if you ex 
 amined her face with a design to see its charms. But few ever 
 looked at her with such an object. The character which spoke 
 in her countenance was enough, and you forbore to look for 
 other beauties. Emmelhie Walker was a thinking and intelli 
 gent creature, and her mind pre-occupied yours at a glance, and 
 satisfied you with her, without suffering you to look farther. 
 You felt not as when gazing on mere beauty you felt that 
 there was more to be seen than was seen that she had a re 
 source of wealth beyond wealth, and which, like the gift of the 
 fairy, though worthless in its outward seeming was yet inex 
 haustible in its supplies. 
 
 Her lover, though a youth of good sense, and very fair edu 
 cation, was not a man of mind. Jle was a man to memorize 
 and repeat, not to reason and originate. He could follow 
 promptly, but he would not do to lead. lie lacked the think 
 ing organs, and admired his betrothed the more, as he discov 
 ercd that she was possessed of a readiness, the want of which 
 ne had deplored in himsch. It is no un frequent thing with us 
 to admire a quality rather because of our own lack of it, than 
 because of its intrinsic value. 
 
 William Carrington was not without his virtues of inind, as 
 
28 RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 well as of heart. Ho. was temperate in his deportment, forbcai 
 ing in his prejudices, modest in correspondence with Iris want 
 of originality, and earnest in ins desire of improvement. His 
 disposition was gentle and playful. lie laughed too readily, 
 perhaps; and his confidence was quite as free and unrestrain 
 able as his mirth. While my nature, helped by my experi 
 ence, perhaps, made me jealous, watchful, and suspicious, \r&, 
 on the other hand, taught him to believe readily, to trust fear 
 lessly, and to derive but little value even from his own experi 
 ence of injustice. We were not unfit foils, and consequently 
 not unseemly companions for one another. 
 
 Carrington was seeking lands, and his intention was to be at 
 the land-sale in Chocchuma, and to purchase with the first tit- 
 ting opportunity. Having bought, he proposed to hurry back 
 to Marengo, marry, and set forth in the spring of the ensuing 
 year for his new home. His plans were all marked out, and 
 his happiness almost at hand. Kmmeline offered no objection 
 to his arrangements, and showed no womanly weakness at his 
 preparations for departure. She gave my hand a gentle pres 
 sure when I bade her farewell, and simply begged us to take 
 care of each other. I did not witness the separation between 
 the lovers, but I am convinced that she exhibited far less, yet 
 felt much more than William, and that, after the parting, he 
 laughed out aloud much the soonest of the two. Not that he 
 did not love her. He loved quite as fervently as it was in his 
 nature to love; but his heart was of lighter make and of less 
 earnest temper than hers. lie could be won by new colors to 
 a forgetfulness of the cloud which had darkened his spirits, and 
 the moan of his anliction was soon forgotten in gayer and newer 
 , rounds. Not so with her. If she did not moan aloud, she could 
 brood in secret, like the dove upon the blasted bough, over her 
 own heart,, and, watching its throbs, forget that the world belJ 
 it no propriety to \\ eep. 
 
THE HOSTILE GRAPPLB. 28 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TilK HOSTILE URAPPLK. 
 
 ( i"r. Know you before whom, sir? 
 
 Orlaiulc. Ay, Letter than lie I am before knows me. I know you arc- Uij 
 elikr brother; MIH), in the gentle condition of blood, you should so knovt 
 me. The courtesy of tuitions allows you my better, in that you are the first 
 oorn ; but the same tradition dikes not nway my blood were there twenty 
 brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you; albeit, I 
 confess your coining before me is nearer to hie reverence. 
 
 Oliver. What, b,.y? 
 
 Orlninlo. ( ..Hie, eouie. elder brother, you nre too young in this. 
 
 Ofii t-r. Wilt 1)1. .u l;.y hands ,.n me, villain f 
 
 ()rlnn(/<>. I am n villain: weit thoii not my brother, I would not tak- 
 this hand from ihv throat, till this other hud pulled out thy tongue for sav 
 iiiij so! A* You I.ik< It. 
 
 Tin-; time approached which had been appointed for our de 
 parture, and the increased beating of my heart warned me o\ 
 some trial-scenes yet to he undergone. I knew that I slioulc 
 have little, difficulty at parting wi;h my father, and much less, 
 with iin more fortunate brother. The jiartini: from my mothei 
 was a different matter, as, kn\vinj_ r \vell tlie lo\e which sht 
 bore me, I was already prepared fur her sorrow, if not agony 
 when bidding me farewell. Decides, revolving in my secret 
 mind never to return, I had a fetding of compunction for my 
 meditated hypocrisy, \\hich added the annoyance of shame U-. 
 my own srro\v on the. occasion. I did not think less of tht 
 final separation from Mary Easterhy, but my pride :>cliooled my 
 heart in reference to her. I resolved that she should see me go 
 without a change of feature, without the quivering of a single 
 muscle,. I resolved to see her. A more prudent man would 
 nave gone, away in silence and in secrecy. lie would have as 
 resolutely avoided as 1 sought the interview. But i was not a 
 
30 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 prudent man. My feelings were too impetuous, my pride too 
 ostentatious, to suffer me to hide it from exhibition. To depart 
 without seeking and seeing Mary would be a tacit acknowledg 
 ment of weakness. It would seem i,hat I feared the interview ; 
 that I questioned my own strength to contend against an influ 
 ence which aft around me suspected, but which it wa* my pride 
 not to acknowledge oven to myself. 
 
 The day came preceding that on which I was to depart ; and 
 the dinner was scarcely ovor, when, ordering my horse, I set 
 out to go to Squire Kasterby s plantation. The distance was 
 seven miles, a matter of no importance in a country where, 
 from childhood, the people are used equally to fine horses and 
 ]ong distances. 1 rode slowly, however, for I was meditating 
 what I should say, and how I should demean myself during tin 
 interview which I sought. While I deliberated, I discovere/ 
 that I had overtasked rny strength. I felt that I loved too ear 
 nestly not to be somewhat, if not severely, tried. Could it hav 
 been that at that late moment I could have re-resolved, and 
 without a depreciation of my self-esteem, have turned back, ] 
 feel that I should have done so. But my pride would not suffei 
 this, and I resolved to leave it to the same pride to sustain and 
 succor me throughout. To lose emotions which 1 found it im 
 possible to subdue, I increased the speed of my horse. Stri 
 king the rowel into his flanks, and giving him free rein, I 
 plunged into the solitary yet crowded woods, over a road which 
 I had often trodden, and which was now filled at every step in 
 rny progress with staring, obtrusive memories, which chattered 
 as I went in sweet and bitter yet familiar tongues. 
 
 How often had I trodden the same region with her, when I 
 had no fears, and none but pleasant images rose up before my 
 contemplation! What harmonies were my unspoken, my un 
 challenged hopes on those occasions ! What pictures of felicity 
 rose before the mind on every side ! Not that I then thought 
 of love not that I proposed to myself any plan or purpose 
 which regarded our union. No! it was in the death of my 
 hope that I was first taught to know that it had ever lived. It 
 was only in the moment that I was taught that I loved in vain, 
 that my boy-heart discovered that it had ever loved at all. 
 Memories were all that I had rescued from the wreck of hope, 
 
THE HOSTILE GRAPPLE. 31 
 
 and they were such as I had been most willing to have lost forever. 
 It was but a sad consolation to know how sweet had been those 
 things which I had once known, but which I was doomed to know 
 no longer. 
 
 Bitter were the thoughts which attended me as I rode ; yet in 
 their very bitterness my soul gathered its strength. The sweets of 
 life enfeeble us. We struggle among them as a greedy fly in 
 the honey w y hich clogs its wings, and fettersjt forever. The grief of 
 the heart is sometimes its best medicine, and though it may not 
 give us back the lost, it arms us against loss, and blunts the 
 sensibility which too frequently finds its fate in its own 
 acuteness. From my bitter thoughts I gathered resolution. I 
 remembered the intimacy which had formerly prevailed between 
 us; how we had mutually confided to each other how I had 
 entirely confided to her ; how joint were our sympathies, how 
 impatient our desires to be together ; how clearly she must have 
 seen the feelings which I never spoke ; how clearly had like 
 feelings in her been exhibited (so I now thought) to me: and, 
 as I dwelt on these memories, I inly resolved that she had trifled 
 w^ith me. She had won me by her arts, till my secret was 
 in her possession, and then, either unmoved herself, or willing to 
 sacrifice her affections to a baser worship, she had given herself 
 to another whom she could not love, but whose wealth had been too 
 great a temptation to her woman-eyes for her feeble spirit to with 
 stand. 
 
 That she was engaged to my brother, I never doubted for an 
 instant. It was as little the subject of doubt among the whole 
 neighborhood. Indeed, it was the conviction of the neighborhood, 
 and the old women thereof which produced mine ; and then, 
 the evidence seemed utterly conclusive. John Hurdis spoke of 
 Mary Eastcrby, as if the right were in him to speak for her ; and 
 she she never denied the imputation. It is true I had never 
 questioned heron the subject, nor indeed, do I know that she had 
 ever been questioned by others ; but where was the necessity to 
 inquire when there was seemingly so little occasion for doubt ? 
 The neighborhood believed, and it was no hard matter for one, so 
 jealous and suspicious as myself, to leap with even more readiness to a 
 like conclusion. 
 
 And yet, riding along that road, all my memories spoke 
 
32 RICHARD 
 
 against so stra-ge a faith. It was impossible that she who had 
 so freely confided to me the fancies and the feeling of her child 
 hood, to whom I had so readily yielded mine, should have given 
 herself up to another, with whom no such communion had 
 existed to whom no such sympathy had been ever shown. 
 We had sat or reclined under the same tree we had sought 
 the same walks together the same echoes had caught the 
 tones of our kindred voices, and chronicled, by their responses 
 from the hill-side and among the groves, the sentiments of our 
 unfettered hearts. And how could she love another? Her 
 hand had rested in mine without a fear my arm had encircled 
 her waist without a resistance on her part, or a meditating 
 wrong on min-e. And had we not kissed each other at meeting 
 and parting, from childhood, and through its pleasant limits, 
 until ay, almost until the moment when the right of another 
 first led me to know what dear privileges had been my own 1 
 Wonder not at the bitterness of my present memories. 
 
 It was at the moment when they were bitterest, that a sudden 
 turn in the road revealed to me the person of John Ilurdis. I 
 recoiled in my saddle, and, under the involuntary impulse of 
 my hands, bore back my horse until he almost sunk upon his 
 haunches. The movement of both could not have been more 
 prompt if we had beheld a vexed and ready adder in our path 
 And .had he not been the adder in my path] Had he not, by 
 his sly and sneaking practices, infused his venom into the mind 
 of her upon whom my hope, which is the life of life, utterly 
 depended ? Had he not struck at my heart with a sting not less 
 fearful, though more concealed, than that of the adder; and if 
 he had failed to destroy, was it not rather because of the feeble 
 ness of his fang, than either its pirpose or its venom. If he 
 had not, then did I do him grievous wrong. I thought he had, 
 and my soul recoiled, as I surveyed him, with a hatred, which, 
 had he been other than my mother s son, would have prompted 
 me to slay him. 
 
 I had rounded a little swamp that lay upon the side of the 
 road, and gave it the outline of a complete elbow. John 
 Ilurdis was some fifty yards in advance of me. I had not seen 
 him at dinner, and there was he now on his way to the dwelling 
 of her to whom I was about to pay my parting visit. The 
 
THE HC. ,1 GRAPPLE 33 
 
 thought that I should meet him ^ith her, that he might behold 
 the.se emotions which it shamed ice to think I might not be 
 altogether able to x conceal, at once brought about a change in 
 my resolve. I determined to give him no such chance of 
 triumph; and was about to turn the head of my horse and 
 return to my father, when he stopped short, wheeled round and 
 beckoned me to advance. My resolution underwent a second 
 change. That he should suppose that I shrunk from an en 
 counter with him of any description was, if possible, even more 
 mortifying than to expose the whole amount of my heart s 
 weakness to Mary Esterby before his eyes. I determined to 
 give him no such cause for exultation, and furiously spurring 
 forward, another instant brought me beside him. 
 
 His face was complaisance itself, and his manner was pre 
 suming enough; and there was something in the slight smile 
 which played about the corners of his mouth, ana in the twinkle 
 of his eye, which I did not relish. It may ha 1 o been that, in 
 the morbid state of my feelings, I saw through a false medium; 
 but I could not help the thought, that there was exultation in 
 his smile, and my jaundiced spirit put on new f<;rms of jealousy 
 with this conviction. The blood boiled within my veins, as I 
 regarded him, and thought thus; and I trembled like a dry leaf 
 in the gusts of November, while I suppressed, or strove to sup 
 press, the rebellious and unruly impulses to which it prompted 
 me. I struggled to be calm. For my mother s sake, I resolved 
 to say and do nothing which should savor of violence at the 
 moment when I was about to part with her forever. 
 
 " I will bear it all all. I will be patient," I said to my 
 soul ; " It is not long, it will soon be over. Another day and I 
 w r ill be free from the chance of contact with the base, dishonest 
 reptile. Let him gain, let him triumph as he may. It may be 
 the day may come ! But no I will not think of such a 
 thing ; revenge is not for me. He is still, though base, a 
 brother. Let the eternal avenger decree his punishment, and 
 choose his fitting executioner." 
 
 These thoughts, and this resolution of forbearance, w^ere all 
 over in the progress of an instant; and we rode by the side of 
 one another, as two belli <rorert^ who had lately been warring 
 to the very knife, bu 1 the security of a temporary 
 
34 RICHARD HURDIH. 
 
 truce, look on one another, ami move together with a mixed air 
 half of peace, half e>f war, and neither altogether assured of the 
 virtue which is assumed to exist in their mutual pledges. 
 
 "Did I not see yon turn your horse, Richard, as if to gu 
 hack ?" 
 
 " You did," was my reply ; and my face flushed as lie thui 
 compelled me to the acknowledgment. 
 
 " And wherefore ?" 
 
 " Wherefore !" I paused when I had repeated the word. It 
 would have been too galling to have spoken out the truth. 1 
 continued thus : 
 
 " I saw you proceeding in the same direction, and cared not 
 to be in the way. Your good fortune is too well-known, to 
 require that you should have fresh witnesses. Besides, my 
 farewell for it is only to say farewell, that I go now is no 
 such important matter." 
 
 " You are right, Richard. My good fortune needs no wit 
 nesses, though it likes them. But why should you think that 
 you could be in the way? What do you mean by that ?" 
 
 "Mean! can you ask," I replied, with something of a sneer 
 growing on my lips as I proceeded, " when you know it \9 
 proverbial that young lovers, who are apt to be more sent? 
 mental than sensible, usually, need no third persons at theii 
 interviews? Indeed, for that matter, the third person likes it 
 quite as little as themselves." 
 
 "Less, perhaps, Richard, if he himself has been a loser at 
 the game," was the retort. 
 
 " Ay," I rejoined bitterly ; " but if the game be played 
 foully, his dislike is quite as much the result of his scorn, as of 
 his disappointment, lie is reconciled to his loss, when he finds 
 its worthlessncss, and he envies not the victor, whose *rcach- 
 ery, rather than his skill, has been the source of his greater 
 
 1UCCCSS." 
 
 The lips of my brother grew positively livid, as he opened 
 them, as if in the act to speak. He was prudent in forbearing, 
 Tor he kept silent. 
 
 "Look you, John Ilurdis," I continued, turning full upot 
 him as I spoke, arid putting my hand upon his shoulder. H 
 ibrank from under it. His guilty conscience had put a rnorbv 1 
 
THE HOSTILE GRAPPLE. 35 
 
 nerve under every inch of flesh in his system. I laughed aloud 
 as I beheld him. 
 
 "Why do you shrink?" I demanded, now in turn becoming 
 the questioner. 
 
 "Shrink I shrink did I shrink?" he answered me con 
 fusedly, scarcely conscious what he said. 
 
 "Ay did you," I responded, with a glance intended to go 
 through him. "You shrank as if my finger were fire as if 
 you feared that I meant to harm you." 
 
 His pride came to his relief. He plucked up strength to say, 
 "You mistake, Richard. I did not shrink, and if I did, it was 
 not through fear of you or any other man." 
 
 My hand again rested on his shoulder, as I replied my eye | 
 searching through him all the while with a keenness, beneath j 
 which, it was a pleasure to me to behold him again shrink and 
 falter. 
 
 "You may deceive yourself, John Hurdis, but you can not 
 deceive me. You did shrink from my touch, even as you shrink 
 now beneath mine eye. More than this, John Hurdis, you do 
 fear me whatever may be your ordinary courage in the presence 
 of other men. I see I feel that you. fear me ; and I am not 
 less assured on the subject of your fears. You would not fear 
 were you not guilty nor tremble now while I speak were you 
 less deserving of my punishment. But you need not tremble. 
 You are secure, John Hurdis. That which you have in your 
 bosom of my blood is your protection for the greater quantity 
 which you have that is not mine, and with which my soul scorns 
 all communion." 
 
 His face grew black as he gazed upon me. The foam flecked 
 his blanched lips even as it gathers upon the bit of the driven 
 and infuriated horse. His frame quivered his tongue mut 
 tered inaudible sounds, and he gazed on me, laboring, but in 
 vain, to speak. I laughed as I beheld his feeble fury I 
 laughed in the abundance of my scorn, and he then spoke. 
 
 "Boy!" he cried " boy but for your mother, I should lay 
 this whip over your shoulders." 
 
 He shook it before me as he spoke, and I grappled with him 
 on the instant. With a sudden grasp, and an effort, to oppose 
 which, he had neither strength of soul nor of body, I dragged 
 
36 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 him from his horse. Straining feebly and ineffectually to resist 
 his coward tendency, he, at length, after a few struggles, fell 
 heavily upon the ground and almost under the feet of my ani 
 mal. His own horse passed away, and at the s;imc moment, I 
 leaped down from mine. My blood was in a dreadful tumult 
 my fingers twitched nervously to grapple with him again, but 
 ere I could do so, a sound a scream the sudden and re 
 peated shrieks of a woman s voice, arrested me in my angry 
 purpose, and I stood rooted to the spot. Too well I knew that 
 voice, and the tremor of rage which an instant before had 
 shaken me to the center was now succeeded by a tremor far 
 more powerful. Unlike the former it was enfeebling, palsying 
 it took from me the wolfish strength with which the former 
 seemed to have endued me. The voice of a girl had given me 
 the weakness of a girl, and like a culprit I stood, as if fixed 
 and frozen, until my brother had arisen from the ground where 
 I had thrown him, and Mary Easterby stood between us. 
 
PARTI NT, SCENES. 
 
 Oil APTER V 
 
 I AKT NO S 
 
 "I thought to chide thee, but it will not he; 
 True love can but awhile look bitUrly." 
 
 1 i KY WOOD /xwt? i .\fu rt*t. 
 " You have led rue 
 
 Into a subtle labyrinth, where I nevr 
 Shall have fruition of my former freedom." 
 
 The Isidy s J*rivtlfy. 
 
 S IE stood between us like some judge suddenly descended 
 from heaven, and armed with power to punish, and I stood he- 
 fore her like a criminal conscious of my demerits and waiting 
 for the doom. An instant before she came, and I had a thou 
 sand arguments, each, to my mind, sufficient to justify me foi 
 any violence which I might execute upon .John Ilurdis. Now 
 L had not one. The enormity of the act of which I had been 
 guilty, seemed to expand and swell with every accumulated 
 thought upon it ; and my tongue, that had been eloquent with 
 indignation but a little while before, was now frozen with si 
 lence, and without even the power of evasion or appeal. I did 
 not venture to look her in the face 1 did not venture even to 
 look upon my brother. What were his feeling 1 know not ; 
 but if they partook, at that moment, of any of the intense ba 
 rn ility which made up the greater part of mine, then was he 
 almost sufficiently punished for the injuries which he had dene 
 me. I certainly felt that he was almost if not quite avenged 
 in my present humility for the unbrotherly anger of wh,ch he 
 had been the victim. 
 
 " Oh, Richard Hurdis," she exclaimed, " this violence, and 
 opon your brother too." 
 
 Why had she not addressed her speech to him I Was I 
 
RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 guilty ? Had he not provoked had he not even threatened 
 me ? The thought that she was now again showing the par 
 tiality in his favor which had beer, the source of my unhappi- 
 jess, changed the tenor of my fcv". .:>rs. My sense of humilia 
 tion gave way to offended pride. .. t I answered with sullen 
 defiance. 
 
 "And am I only to blame, Mary Easterby? ("an you see 
 faul 4 in no other than me? Methinks tliis is less than justice, 
 and I may safely deny the authority which so openly afl rontsi 
 justice with an avowal of its partialities." 
 
 "I have no partialities, Richard it is you that are unjust. 
 The violence that I witnessed was only yours. 1 saw not any 
 other." 
 
 "There was indignity and insolence provocation enough, 
 Mary Easterby," I replied hastily, " if not violence, to justify 
 me in what 1 did. But I knew not that you beheld us. 1 
 would not else have punished John Hurdis. 1 would have 
 borne with his insolence I would have spared him his shame 
 if not on his account, on yours. 1 regret that you have seen 
 us, though I have no regret for what I have done." 
 
 I confronted my brother as 1 spoke these words, as if to sat 
 isfy him that I was ready to give him the ">nly form of atone 
 ment which 1 felt his due. lie seemed to understand me, and 
 to do him all justice, his port was as manly as 1 could desir 
 that of my father s son to be at all times. His eye flashed 
 back a family expression of defiance, and his lips were closed 
 with a resoluteness that showed him to be fully roused. But 
 for the presence of Mary Easterby, we had come to the death 
 struggle in that very hour. But we felt ourselves too greatly 
 wrong not to acknowledge her superiority. Vexed and sullen 
 as I was, I was doubly vexed with the consciousness of error ; 
 and when she spoke again in answer to my last words my cha 
 grin found due increase in what she said. 
 
 " I know nothing of the provocation, Richard, and need noth 
 ing to believe that there was provocation, or tiiat you thought 
 so, which moved you to what you did. I could not suppose, for 
 an instant, that you would proceed to such violence withoni 
 provocation; but that any prov-.>j.it.:3ii short of violence itself, 
 will justify violence and violence too upon a brother ] tan 
 
PARTING SCENES. * 
 
 not admit, nor, in your secret heart, Richard, do you admit it 
 yourself. What would your mother say, Richard, were she to 
 hear this story 1" 
 
 " She might be loss angry, and less pained, Mary Easterby, 
 
 than you imagine, k sue knew all the story. If she knew 
 
 but no ! why should I recount his villanies, Mary Easterby, 
 and least of all why recount them to you ? I will not." 
 
 Nor do I wish nor would I hear them, Richard," she 
 replied promptly, though gently. I saw the eyes of John 
 Hurdis brighten, and my soul felt full of bitterness. 
 
 " What ! you would not believe me, then, Mary Easterby. 
 Can it be that your prejudices go so far as that?" 
 
 The tears gathered in her eyeis as they were fixed upon mine 
 and beheld the sarcastic and scornfil expression in them, but 
 she replied without hesitation. 
 
 "You are unjust, and unkind to me, Richard;" and her 
 voice trembled : she proceeded : 
 
 I would be unwilling to believe, and am quite is unwilling 
 to hear anything which could be prejudicial to the good name 
 of any of your family, your brother or yourself. I have loved 
 them all too long and too truly, Richard, to find pleasure in 
 anything which spoke against their worth. I should bo not 
 less unwilling, Richard, to think that you could say anything 
 which did not merit and command belief. I might think you 
 guilty of error, never of falsehood " 
 
 " Thank you, Mary ; for so mui h, at least, let me thank you. 
 You do me justice only. When I speak falsely, of man or wo 
 man, brother or stranger, friend or foe, let my tongue cleave to 
 my mouth in blisters." 
 
 John Hurdis mounted his horse at that moment, and an air 
 of dissatisfaction seemed to hang upon his features. He mut 
 tered something to himself, the words of which were unintelli 
 gible to us ; then speaking hurriedly to Mary, he declared his 
 intention of riding on to her father s farm, then but a short 
 mile off. She begged him to do s<\ courteously, but, as I thought 
 coldly ; and giving a bitter glance of enmity towards me, he 
 put spurs to his horse and was soon out of sight. 
 
 His absence had a visible effect upon her, and I felt that 
 much of the vexation was passing from my own heart. There 
 
40 RICHARD HURDI8. 
 
 was something in the previous conversation between us which 
 had softened me, and when the tramp of his horse s heels was 
 no longer in hearing, it seemed as if a monstrous barrier had 
 been broken down from between us. All my old thoughts and 
 fancies returned to me ; sweet memories, which I had just be 
 fore angrily dismissed, now came back confidently to my mind, 
 and taking her hand in one of mine, while leading my horse 
 with the .other, we took our course through a narrow path 
 which wound through a pleasant thicket, we had troddtn to 
 gether a thousand times before. 
 
 " Mary," I began, as we proceeded, " this is our old walk. 
 Do you remember ? That pine has lain across the path from 
 the first time we knew it." 
 
 " Yes, it looks the same as ever, Richard, with one excep 
 tion which I have remarked more than once and particularly 
 this morning. The end of it, upon which we used to sit, is 
 scarcely to be got at now, the bushes have grown up so thickly 
 around it." 
 
 " It is so long, Mary, since we have used it. It was ouv 
 visits that kept the brush down. The weeds grow now withou* 
 interruption from us from me at least ; and the time is fai 
 distant when I shall visit it again. Do you know, Mary, I am 
 come to bid you good-by ? I leave Marengo to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow ! so soon ?" 
 
 " Soon ! Do you think it soon, Mary ? I have been making 
 preparations for months. Certainly, I have declared my inten. 
 tion for months." 
 
 " Indeed ! but not to me. I did hear something of such a 
 purpose being in your mind ; but I hoped, I mean I believed 
 that it was not true." 
 
 " Did you hope that it was not true ?" I demanded with some 
 earnestness. She answered with the ready frankness of child 
 hood. 
 
 " Surely I did ; and when John Ilurdis told me " 
 
 "John Hurdis is no authority for me," I said gloomily, 
 breaking off her speech in the middle. The interruption brought 
 us back to our starting-place, from the contemplation of which, 
 since my brother s departure we had both tacitly seemed to 
 shrink. 
 
PARTING SCENES. 41 
 
 " Oh, Richard, this an evil temper !" she exclaimed. " Why 
 do you encourage it? Why this angry spirit toward your 
 brother ! It is an evil mood, and can do no good. Besides, I 
 think you do him injustice. He is gentle and good natured ; 
 he wants your promptness, it may be, and he lacks something 
 of your enterprise and industry. Perhaps, too, he has not the 
 same zealous warmth of feeling, but truly I believe that his 
 heart is in the right place." 
 
 " It is your policy to believe so, Mary ; else where is yours ?" 
 
 "Mine!" she exclaimed; and her eye was fixed upon me 
 with an expression of mixed curiosity and wonder. 
 
 "Ay, yours," I continued, giving a construction to the equiv 
 ocal form of my previous speech, differing from that which I 
 originally intended ; " ay, yours, for if it be net, your charity 
 is wasted. But no more of this, Mary, if you please. The sub 
 ject, for sundry reasons, is an unpleasant one to me. John 
 Hurdis is fortunate in your eulogy, and for your sake, not less 
 than his, I will not seek, by any word of mine, to disturb your 
 impressions. My words might prejudice your opinion of his 
 worth, without impairing its intrinsic value ; and it may be, as 
 you think, that I am all wrong about it. He is a fortunate 
 man, that John Hurdis doubly fortunate, Mary. He has the 
 wealth which men toil for, and fight for, and lie for, and sell 
 themselves to the foul fiend for in a thousand ways : he has the 
 favor of women ; a greater temptation, for which they do a 
 thousand times worse. He has those possessions, Mary, some 
 of which I am never to have, but for the rest of which I am 
 even now about to leave the home and perhaps all the happi 
 ness of my childhood." 
 
 " You surely do not envy your brother, Richard, any of his 
 possessions 1" 
 
 " Let me know what they are, Mary ; let them be enumer 
 ated, and then will I answer you. Envy John Hurdis I do 
 not; that is to say, I do not envy him his wealth, or his wis 
 dom, his lands, his negroes, or any of his worldly chattels. 
 Are you satisfied now, Mary, that there is nothing base in my 
 envy, though it may be that he has something yet which pro 
 vokes it?" 
 
 "And what is that, Richard?" 
 
42 RICHARD HURDI8. 
 
 Why did I not answer her in plain language ? How often 
 have I repented that I did not ! How much sorrow might have 
 been spared me else ! But I was proud of heart as Lucifer 
 proud in my own despite, stubborn to my own sorrow. 
 
 "Mary, ask me not," I answered. "What matter is it to 
 know, when, even were he to lose that which I envy him, it 
 might be that I would not be esteemed worthy to possess it V 9 
 
 " Richard, there is something strange to me in your tones, 
 and mysterious in your language. Why do you not speak to 
 me as formerly? Why are you changed why should you b 
 changed to me ? You scarcely speak now without saying some 
 thing which I do not thoroughly comprehend. There is a hid 
 den meaning in everything you say ; and it seems to me that 
 you are suspicious and distrustful of the honesty of every 
 body." 
 
 " And should I not be, Mary ? He is not a wise man who 
 learns no lessons of caution from the deception of others ; who, 
 wronged once, suffers himself to be wronged a second time from 
 the same source. I may be distrustful, but I am prudently so, 
 Mary." 
 
 " You prudent, Richarc ! I fear that even now you deceive 
 yourself, as it seems to me you must have deceived yourself 
 before. You have not said, Richard, by whom you have been 
 wronged by whose dishonesty you have acquired all these 
 .essons of prudence and circumspection." 
 
 How could I answer this ? Whom could I accuse ? I could 
 only answer by replying to another portion of her remarks. 
 
 " You think me changed, Mary, and I will not deny it. I 
 am certainly not so happy as I have been ; but my change has 
 O jly corresponded with the changed aspects of the world around 
 me. I know that I have undergone no greater changes than 
 others that I know than you, for example. You are changed, 
 Mary, greatly changed in my sight." 
 
 The deepest crimson and the utmost pallor succeeded to each 
 other in rapid alternations upon her cheek. Her bosom heaved 
 her hand trembled within my own. I thought at first that 
 she would have fainted, and, dropping the bridle of my hurse, 
 I supported her shrinking form with my arm. But she recov 
 ered herself almost instantly , and, advancing from the clasp of 
 
PARTING SCENES 4& 
 
 my arm, which had encircled her waist, with a sudden compo 
 sure which astonished me, she replied : 
 
 "I did not think it, Richard ; I am not conscious of any 
 change in me, but it may be even as you say. I could have 
 wished you had not seen it, if it be so ; for. of a truth, I have 
 not striven for change, and it gives me pain to think that I do 
 seem so to my friends at least." 
 
 " It is so, Mary. I once thought but no ! wherefore should 
 F speak of such things now ? " 
 
 She interrupted me by a sudden and hurried effort seem- 
 ingly an impulsive one : 
 
 "Oh, speak it, Richard speak aloud speak freely as you 
 nsed to speak when we were happy children together. Be no 
 *onger estranged think me not so ! Speak your thought, and, 
 as I hope for kindness from all I love, I will as freely utter 
 mine." 
 
 " No !" I exclaimed coldly, and half-releasing her fingers from 
 my grasp ; " no, Mary, it were but a folly now to say what were 
 my thoughts once my feelings my fancies. I might have 
 done so in a former day ; but now I can not. I acknowledge 
 the change, and so must you. It is a wise one. Ere long, 
 Mary, long before I return to Marengo, you will undergo an 
 other change, perhaps, which I shall not witness, and shall not 
 desire to witness." 
 
 " What is it that you mean, Richard ?" 
 
 "Nothing no matter what. It will be a happy change to 
 you, Mary, and that should be enough to make me satisfied with 
 it. God knows I wish you happiness all happiness as com 
 plete as it is in man s power to make it to you. I must leave 
 you now. The sun is gone, and I have to ride over to Carring- 
 ton s to-night. Good-by, Mary, good-by." 
 
 "Are you going, Richard?" she said, without looking up 
 
 " Yes, I have loitered too long already." 
 
 "You will write to us to father?" 
 
 " No ; of what use to write ? Wherefore tax your sympathiei 
 by telling the story of my sufferings ?" 
 
 " But your successes, Richard ?" 
 
 " You will believe them without the writing." 
 
 -So cold, Richard?" 
 
44 RICHARD HUEDIS 
 
 "So prudent, Mary prudent." 
 
 "And you will not go to the house ?" 
 
 "What! to meet him there? No, no! Good-by God bless 
 you, Mary, whatever be your changes of fortune or condition ! " 
 I carried her hand to my lips, flung it from me, and, gathering 
 up the bridle of my steed, was soon upon my way. Was it in 
 truth a sob which I heard behind me? I stole a glance back 
 ward and she sat upon the log, with her face buried in her 
 hands. 
 
EVIL MOODS 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 EVH, MOODS 
 
 Why talk we not together hand-in-hand, 
 And tell our griefs in more familiar terms I 
 But thou art gone, and leav st me here alone, 
 To dull the air with my discoursive moan 1" 
 
 MARLOWE AND NASA. 
 
 SHE sat upon the log, with her face buried in her hands/ 
 More than once, as I rode away that evening, did I repeat these 
 words to myself. Wherefore should she exhibit such emotion ? 
 wherefore should she sob at my departure ? Did she not love 
 was she not betrothed to another? Of this I had no doubt, 
 and what could I think ? Was not such emotion natural enough ? 
 Had we not been born as it were together ? Had we not been 
 together from the earliest dawn of infancy at that period 
 when children, like clustering buds upon a rose-bush in early 
 spring, rejoice to intertwine, as if the rude hands of the world 
 were never to pluck them asunder, and place them in different 
 and foreign bosoms 1 Was it not natural enough that she should 
 show some sign of sorrow at thus parting with a youthful play 
 mate ? 
 
 I labored to persuade myself that this was all ; yet, the more 
 I reflected upon the matter, the more mysterious and contra 
 dictory did it seem. If it were that her emotions were natural 
 to her as a long-familiar playmate, why had she been so es 
 tranged from me for so many previous and painful months? 
 why did she look always so grave, in later days, whenever we 
 met 1 why so reserved so different from the confiding girl who 
 had played with me from infancy 1 why so slow to meet me as 
 formerly? why so unwilling to wander with me as before, 
 among the secluded paths which our own feet had beaten into 
 
4 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 confirmed tracks ? why, above all, so much more intimate and 
 free with John Hurdis, who had never been her companion in 
 childhood, and who, it was the most surprising thing in the world 
 to me, should be her companion now? he coarse, listless, un- 
 sympathizing; in his taste low, in his deportment unattractive, 
 in his conversation tedious and prosing, in his propensities, if 
 not positively vicious, at least far from virtuous or good ! 
 
 What had they in common together ? how could they mingle, 
 how unite? by what arts had he won her to his wishes? by 
 what baser arts had he estranged her from mine? Of some of 
 these, indeed, I had heard. More than once already had I ex 
 posed him. His hints and equivoques had, as I thought, recoiled 
 only upon his own head; and yet the ties grew and increased 
 between them, even as the walls and barriers continued to rise 
 and thicken between herself and me. I degraded him, but dis 
 dained any longer to strive for her. The busy neighborhood 
 soon informed me how idle would be such struggles. They de 
 clared her betrothed to John Hurdis, and did not stop at this. 
 They went further, and proclaimed her to have been bought 
 by his money to see in him those qualities and that superior 
 worth which, but for this, she I "* been slow to discover. 
 Should I struggle against his good fortune ? should I desire to 
 win one whose market value was so readily understood by all ? 
 I turned from the contest in disdain ; and, wondering at her 
 baseness as a matter no less surprising than humiliating, I strove 
 to fling her from my thoughts as I would the tainted and offen 
 sive weed, which had been, at one time, a pure and chosen 
 flower. 
 
 I had not been successful. I could not fling her from my 
 thoughts. Night and day she was before me ; at all hours, what 
 ever were my pursuits, my desires, my associates. Her image 
 made the picture in the scene ; her intelligence, her mind, the 
 grace of her sentiments, the compass and the truth of her 
 thoughts, were forced upon me for contemplation, by the obtru 
 sive memory, in disparagement of those to which I listened. 
 How perfect had she ever before seemed to me in her thoughts 
 and sentiments ! How strange that one so correct in her stand 
 ards of opinion, should not have strength enough to be the thing 
 which she approved ! This is the most mortifying conviction 
 
EVIL MOODS. 47 
 
 of humanity. We build the temple, but the god does not inhabit it, 
 though we solicit him with incense, and bring our best offerings to 
 his altars. 
 
 I reached the dwelling of William Carrington ere I felt that my 
 journey was begun. The velocity of my thoughts had made me 
 unconscious of that of my motion nay, had prompted me to 
 increase it beyond my ordinary habit. When I alighted, my horse 
 was covered with foam. 
 
 "You have ridden hard," said Carrington. 
 
 "No; I think not. I but came from Squire Easterby s." 
 
 He said no more then, for the family was around; but that night, 
 when we retired, our conversation was long, upon various subjects; 
 and, in the course of it, I told him all the particulars of my 
 rencontre with John Hurdis, and of my parting interview with 
 Mary Easterby. He listened with much attention, and then spoke 
 abruptly : 
 
 "You do that girl wrong, Richard. You are quite too harsh 
 to her at times. I have heard and seen you. Your jealousy 
 prompts you to language which is ungenerous, to say the least, 
 and which you have no right to use. You never told her that ycm 
 loved her never asked her to love you ! What reason can you 
 have to complain, either that she is beloved by, or that she loves 
 another ? " 
 
 "None! I do not complain." 
 
 "You do! Your actions, your looks, your language, are all 
 full of complaint. The show of dissatisfaction of discontent 
 is complaint, and that, too, of the least manly description. 
 It savors too much of the sullenness of the whipped school-boy, 
 or one denied his holyday, to be manly. Let us have no more 
 of it, Richard." 
 
 " You speak plainly enough." 
 
 "I do; and you should thank me for it. I were no friend 
 if I did not. Do not be angry, Richard, that I do so. I have 
 your good at heart, and, I think, you have been fighting seriously 
 against it. You think too bitterly of your brother to do him 
 justice." 
 
 "Speak nothing of him, William." 
 
 "I will not say much, for you know I like him quite as little 
 as yourself. Still, I do not hate him as you do; and caa not 
 
48 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 agree with you, therefore, as to the propriety of your course toward 
 him. You can not fight him as you would a stranger, and have done 
 with it." 
 
 I could ! you mistake. I feel that I could fight him with even 
 less reluctance than I would a stranger." 
 
 " I grant you that your hostility is bitter enough for it, but you 
 have too much sense of propriety left to indulge it. You can not, 
 and should not, were I by, even if you were yourself willing. 
 Have done with him, then ; and, as you have already separated, 
 let your thoughts maintain as rigid a distance from him as your 
 person." 
 
 "And leave him the field to himself?" 
 
 "Have you not already done so? Have you not pronounced 
 the field unworthy fighting for ? Pshaw, man ! this is but 
 wasting valor." 
 
 I listened gloomily, and in utter silence as he went on thus: 
 
 "But," he continued, "I am not so sure, either that the field 
 is in his possession, or that it is unworthy. I tell you, you do 
 Mary Easterby injustice ! I do not think that she loves your 
 brother. I doubt that she even likes him. I see no proof of 
 it." 
 
 "Ay, but there is proof enough. You see not because your 
 eyes are elsewhere. But say no more, William ; let us drop 
 this hateful subject." 
 
 "I am afraid your jealous spirit makes it hateful, Richard. 
 That girl, Mary, is a treasure too valuable to be given up so 
 lightly, By my soul, were I not otherwise bound, I should 
 struggle for her myself !" 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "Yea, even I, William Carrington ! Nay, look not so grim 
 and gluttonous ! You forget that you renounce the spoil, and 
 that I am sworn elsewhere ! I would that all others were as 
 little in your path as I am ! " 
 
 "And I care not how many crowd my path when I am out 
 of it ! " was my sullen answer. 
 
 "Ah, Richard ! you were born to muddy the spring you 
 drink from. You will pay for this perversity in your natui<3. 
 Be more hopeful more confiding, man ! Think better of your 
 own nature, and of the nature of those around you. It is the 
 
EVIL MOODS. 49 
 
 best policy. To look for rascals is to find rascals ; and to believe 
 in wrong, is not only to suffer, but to do wrong. For my part, I 
 would rather be deceived than doubt ; rather lose, than perpet 
 ually fear loss ; rather be robbed, than suspect every one I meet of 
 roguery ! " 
 
 " I answer you through my experience, William, when I tell you 
 that you will pay dearly for your philanthropy. Your faith will be 
 rewarded by faithlessness." 
 
 "Stay!" he cried "no more! You would not impute insin 
 cerity to Emmeline Walker ? " 
 
 "No ! surely not." 
 
 Then let the world be false, and play double with me as it 
 pleases ! She can not ! I know her, Dick I know her ! She will 
 perish for me as freely, I am sure, as I would for her ! And shall I 
 doubt, when she is true ? Would to heaven, Richard, you would 
 believe but half so confidently in Mary ! " 
 
 "And what use in that ? " 
 
 " Why, then, my life on it, she will believe in you ! I somehow 
 suspect that you are all wrong in that girl. I doubt that these old 
 women, who have no business but their neighbors to attend to, and 
 for whose benefit a charitable society should be formed for knocking 
 them all in the head, have been coining and contriving, as usual, to 
 the injury of the poor girl, not to speak of your injury. What the 
 devil can she see in that two-hundred-pouuder, John Hurdis, to fall 
 in love with ? " 
 
 " His money !" 
 
 "No! by G d, Richard, I ll not believe it ! The girl is too 
 humble in her wants, and too content in her poverty, and too gentle 
 in her disposition, and too sincere in her nature, to be a thing of 
 barter. If she is engaged to John Hurdis, it is a d d bad taste, 
 to be sure, of which I should not have suspected her but it is not 
 money ! " 
 
 "There is no disputing tastes," I rejoined bitterly ; "let us sleep 
 now." 
 
 "Ah, Richard, you have an ugly sore on your wrist, which you 
 too much love to chafe. You toil for your own torture, man. You 
 labor for your own defeat. I would you could rid yourself of this 
 self -troubling nature. It will madden you, yet." 
 
50 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 "If it is my nature, William," I responded gloomily, "I must 
 even make the most of the evil, and do as well with it as I can." 
 
 "Do nothing with it have done with it! Believe better of 
 yourself and others. Think better of Mary Easterby and your 
 brother. " 
 
 " I can not ! You ask me to think better of them, yet name them 
 together. To have been successful in your wish, you should have 
 put them as far asunder as the poles. But say no more to me now, 
 William. I am already fevered, and can hear nothing, or heed 
 nothing that I hear. I must sleep now." 
 
 "Well, as you will, But, look out and tell me what sort of night 
 we have. I would be sure of a pleasant day to-morrow." 
 
 He was already in his bed, and I looked out as he desired. The 
 stars were few and gave a faint light. The winds were rising, and a 
 murmur, almost a moan, came from the black forests in the distance 
 It seemed like the voice of a spirit, and it came to me as if in warn 
 ing. I turned to my companion, but he was already asleep. I could 
 not then sleep, desire it as I might. I envied him not his happi 
 ness, but what I then misdeemed his insensibility. I confounded the 
 quiet mind, at peace with all the world and in itself secure, with the 
 callous and unfeeling nature. Sleep is only the boon of the mind 
 conscious of its own rectitude, and having no jealous doubts of that 
 of its fellows. I had no such consciousness and could not sleep. I 
 resumed my seat beside the window, and long that night did I watch 
 the scene lovely beyond comparison before, in utter exhaustion, I 
 laid my head upon the pillow. The night in the forests of Alabama 
 was never more beautiful than then. There was no speck in the 
 heaven not even the illuminated shadow of a cloud and the mur 
 mur of the wind swelling in gusts from the close curtaining woods, 
 was a music, rather than a mere murmur. In the vexed condition 
 of my mood, the hurricane had been more soothing to my rest, and 
 more grateful to my senses. 
 
FAREWELL TO HOME. 51 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE FAREWELL TO HOME. 
 
 " My father blessed me fervently, 
 
 But did not much complain ; 
 Yet sorely will my mother sigh, 
 
 Till I come home again. "BYRON. 
 
 AT the dawn of day I rose, and, without waiting breakfast 
 hurried off to the habitation of my father. I should have slept 
 at home the last night, but that I could not, under my excited 
 state of feeling, have trusted myself to meet John Hurdis. For 
 that matter, however, 1 might have; safely ventured ; for he, 
 probably with a like caution, had also slept from home. It was 
 arranged between William Carriugton and myself that we were 
 to meet at mid-day, at a spot upon the road equidistant from 
 both plantations, and then proceed to together. The time between 
 was devoted to our respective partings he with Emmeline 
 AValker, and I with my father and mother. Could it have been 
 avoided with propriety, I should have preferred to leave this 
 duty undone. I wished to spare my old mother any unneces 
 sary pain. Besides, to look her in the face, and behold her 
 grief at the time when I meditated to make our separation a final 
 one, would, I well kuew > be a trial of my own strength to which I 
 \vas by no means willing tc subject it. My sense of duty forbade its 
 evasion, however, and I prepared for it with as much manful resolve 
 as I could muster. 
 
 My mother s reproaches were less painful to me than the 
 cold and sullen forbearance of my father. Since I had resolved 
 to work for him no lenger, he did not seem to care very greatly 
 where I slept. Not that he was indifferent; but his annoyance 
 at rny resolution to leave him made him less heedful of my ether 
 
52 RICHARD HURDIS, 
 
 and minor movements ; so he said nothing to me on my return. 
 Not so my mother. 
 
 "The last night, Richard, and to sleep from home ! Ah, my son, 
 you do not think but it may be indeed the very last night ! You 
 know not what may happen while you are absent. I may be in my 
 grave before you return." 
 
 I was affected ; her tears always affected me ; and her reproaches 
 were always softened by her tears. From childhood she had 
 given me to see that she sorrowed even when she punished me; 
 that she shared in the pain she felt it her duty to inflict. 
 How many thousand better sons would there be in the world, if 
 their parents punished and rewarded from principle, and never 
 from passion or caprice ? I am sure, with a temperament reck 
 less and impatient like mine, I should have grown up to be 
 a demon, had not my mother been to me a saint. I sought to 
 mollify her. 
 
 " I did wish to come, mother I feel the truth of all you say 
 but there was a circumstance I had a reason for staying away 
 last night." 
 
 "Ay, to be sure," said my father, sullenly; "it would not 
 be Richard Hurdis if he had not a reason for doing what he 
 pleased. And pray what was this good and sufficient reason, 
 Richard ? " 
 
 "Excuse me, sir, I would rather not mention it." 
 
 "Indeed!" was the response; you are too modest by half, 
 Richard. It is something strange that you should at any time dis 
 trust the force of your own arguments." 
 
 I replied to the sarcasm camly 
 
 " I do not now, sir I only do not care to give unnecessary par- 
 tieulars ; and I m sure that my mother will excuse them. I trust 
 that she will believe what I have already said, and not require me to 
 declare what I would be glad to withhold." 
 
 "Surely, my son," said the old lady, and my father remained 
 silent. A painful interval ensued, in which no one spoke, though 
 all w T ere busily engaged in thought. My father broke the 
 silence by asking a question which my mother had not dared 
 to ask. 
 
 "And at what hour do you go, Richard?" 
 
 "By twelve, sir. My horse is at feed now, and I have 
 
FAREWELL TO HOME. 53 
 
 nothing but my saddle-bags to see to. You have the biscuit ready, 
 mother, and the venison ? " 
 
 "Yes, my son; I have put up some cheese also, which you 
 will not find in the way. Your shirts are all done up, and on the 
 bed." 
 
 It required some effort on my mother s part to tell me this. I 
 thanked her, and my father proceeded : 
 
 "You will want your money, Richard, and I will get it for you 
 at once. If you desire more than I owe you, say so ; I can let you 
 have it." 
 
 "I thank you, sir, but I shall not need it; my own money will 
 be quite enough." 
 
 He had made the proffer coldly I replied proudly ; and he 
 moved away with a due increase of sullenness. The quick instinct 
 of my mother, when my father had gone, informed her of the matter 
 which I had been desirous to withhold. 
 
 " You have seen your brother, Richard ? " 
 
 "How know you ?" 
 
 "Ask not a mother how she knows the secret of a son s nature, 
 and how she can read those passions which she has been unable to 
 control. You have seen your brother, Richard you have quar 
 relled with him." 
 
 I looked down, and my cheeks burned as with fire. She came 
 nigh to me and took my hand. 
 
 "Richard, you are about to leave us: why can you not forgive 
 him ? Forget your wrongs, if indeed you have had any at his 
 hands, and let me no longer have the sorrow of knowing that the 
 children, who have been suckled at the same breasts, part, and 
 perhaps for ever, as enemies." 
 
 "Better, mother, that they should part as enemies, than live 
 together as such. Your maternal instinct divines not all, mother 
 short of the truth. Hear me speak, and have your answer. I not 
 only quarrelled with John Hurdis, yesterdy, but I laid violent 
 hands upon him." 
 
 " You did not you could not ! " 
 
 " I must speak the truth, mother I did." 
 
 And struck him ? " 
 
 " No, but would have done so, had we not been interrupted." 
 
 "Thank God for that. It is well for you, Richard. I should 
 
54 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 have cursed you with bitterness, had you struck your brother with 
 clinched hands." 
 
 " I came nigh it, mother. He shook his whip over my head, and 
 I dragged him from his horse. I would at that moment have trampled 
 him under my very feet, but that the voice of Mary Easterby arrest 
 ed me. She came between us. She alone I confess it, mother 
 she alone kept me from greater violence . " 
 
 Heaven bless her ! Heaven bless the chance that brought her 
 there ! O Richard Hurdis ! my son, niy son ! why will you not 
 bear more patiently with John ? why will you not labor for my sake, 
 Richard, if not for his and your own ? " 
 
 She trembled as if palsied, while I related to her the adventure of 
 the preceding day ; and though schooled, as women in the new coun 
 tries of the South and West are very apt to be, against those emotions 
 which overcome the keener sensibilities of the sex in very refined 
 communities, yet I had never seen her exhibit so much mental suffer 
 ing before. She tottered to a chair, at the conclusion of her speech, 
 refusing my offer to assist her, and, burying her face in her hands, 
 wept without restraint, until suddenly aroused to consciousness by the 
 approaching footsteps of my father. He was a stern man, and gave 
 little heed and no sympathy to such emotions for any cause. He 
 would have been more ready to rebuke than to relieve them ; and that 
 feeling of shame w r hich forbids us to show our sorrows to the un- 
 sympathizing, made her hasten to clear up her countenance, and re 
 move the traces of her suffering, as he re-entered the apartment. 
 
 " Well, Richard," he said, throwing down a handkerchief of silver 
 dollars a more profuse collection than is readily to be met with in 
 the same region now "here is your money ; half in specie, half in 
 paper. It is all your own ; count it for yourself, and tell rne if it s 
 right." 
 
 " I m satisfied if you have counted it, sir ; there s no use in count 
 ing it again." 
 
 " That s as you think proper, my son ; yet I shall be better satisfied 
 if you will count it. " 
 
 I did so to please him, declared myself content, and put the 
 money aside. This done, I proceeded to put up my clothes, 
 and get myself in readiness. Such matters took but little time, 
 
FAREWELL TO HOME. 55 
 
 however ; the last words form the chief and most serious business in 
 every departure. The fewer of them the better. 
 
 So my father thought . His farewell and benediction were equally 
 and almost mortifyingly brief : 
 
 "Well, Richard, since it must be :o if you will be obstinate 
 if you will go from where yQux_bi^tU-JiajL_been so long buttered 
 why, God send you to a land whde you won t feel the want of those 
 you leave. I trust, however, to see you return before long, and go 
 hark to tftft n]^j)usiness." 
 
 "Return I may, father, but not to the old business," was my 
 prompt reply; " I have had enough of that. If I am able to be 
 nothing better than an overseer, and to look after the slaves of 
 others, the sooner I am nothing the better." 
 
 "You speak bravely now, boy," said my father; "but the best 
 bird that ever crowed in the morning has had his tail-feathers 
 plucked before evening. Look to yourself my son ; be prudent 
 keep a bright eye about you as you travel, and learn from me what 
 your own fortunes have not taught you yet, but what they may 
 soon enough teach you unless you take counsel from experience 
 that there is no chicken so scant of flesh, for which there is not 
 some half-starved hawk to whom his lean legs yield good picking. 
 You have not much money, but enough to lose, and quite enough 
 for a sharper to win. Take care of it. Should you find it easily 
 lost, come back, I say, and you can always find employment on the 
 old terms." 
 
 "I doubt it not, father I doubt not to find the same terms 
 anywhere on my route from Marengo to Yalo-busha. There is 
 no lack of employment when the pay is moderate and the work 
 plenty." 
 
 "I can get hundreds who will take your place, Richard, for the 
 same price," said my father, hastily, and with no little dis 
 quiet. 
 
 " And do what I have done, sir?" 
 
 He did not answer the question, but walked to and fro for 
 several moments in silence, while I spoke with my mother. 
 
 "And what about your own negroes, Richard?" he again ab- 
 uptly addressed me. 
 
 "Why, sir, you must work them as usual if you have no ob 
 jections. I shall have no need of them for the present." 
 
56 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 " Yes, but you may want them when the next year s crop is to be 
 put into the ground." 
 
 "Hardly, sir but if I should, I will then charge you nothing for 
 their time. It shall be rny loss." 
 
 "No, that it shall not be, Richard; you shall have what is right 
 since you leave it altogether to me. And now, good-by, I ll leave 
 you with your mother and go into the woods : you can always talk 
 more freely with her than you are willing to talk with me ; I don t 
 
 know why, unless it is that I have some d d surly ways about 
 
 me. Tell her if you want anything from me, or if I can do 
 anything for you, don t spare your speech let her know it, and if 
 it s to be done at all, I ll do it. I won t palaver with you about 
 my love and all that soft stuff, but I do love you Richard, as a 
 man and no sneak. Good-by, boy good-by and take care of 
 yourself." 
 
 Thus, after his own rough fashion, my father spoke his part 
 ing. A fountain of good feeling was warm and playing at his 
 heart, though it seemed stolid and impenetrable as the rocky 
 surface that shut it in. He was cold, and phlegmatic in his 
 manner only. One hurried embrace was taken, and seizing his 
 staff, he disappeared in another instant from my sight. The 
 soul of my mother seemed to expand at his departure. His 
 presence restrained her ; and with more than woman s strength, 
 she kept down, while under the inspection of his stern and 
 piercing eye, all of the warmth and tenderness of woman of a 
 mother. 
 
 "My son, my son, you leave me, you leave me doubly 
 unhappy unhappy as you leave me and perhaps for ever 
 unhappy as you leave me with a deadly enmity raging in 
 your breast against your brother. Could you forget this 
 enmity could you forgive him before you go, I should be 
 half-reconciled to your departure. I could bear to look for 
 you daily and to find you not to call for you hourly, and 
 to have no answer to dream of your coming, and to wake only 
 to desire to dream again. Can you not forgive him, Richard ? 
 Tell me that you will. I pray you, my son, to grant me this, 
 as a gift and a blessing to myself. I will pray Heaven for 
 all gifts upon you in return. Think, my son, should death 
 come among us should one of us be taken during the time 
 
FAREWELL TO HOME. 57 
 
 you think to be gone how dreadful to think of the final separ 
 ation without peace being made between us. Let there be 
 peace, my son. Dismiss your enmity to John. You know not 
 that he has wronged you you know not that he has used any 
 improper arts with Mary but if he has, my son admitting 
 ihat he has, still I pray you to forgive him. Wherefore should 
 you not forgive him? Of what use to cherish anger? You can 
 not contend with him in violence; you must not, you dare no*, 
 as you value a mother s blessing, as you dread a mother s curse. 
 Such violence would not avail to do you justice; it could not give 
 you what you have lost. To maintain wrath is to maintain a 
 curse that will devour all your substance and lastly devour your 
 self. Bless your poor mother, Richard, and take her blessing in 
 return. Grant her prayer, and all her prayers will go along with you 
 for ever." 
 
 "Mother, bless me, for I do forgive him." 
 
 Such were my spontaneous words. They came from my un- 
 instructed, untutored, impulse, and at the moment when I uttered 
 them, I believed fervently, that they came from the bottom of my 
 heart. I fear that I deceived myself. I felt afterward, as if I 
 had not forgiven, and could not forgive him. But when I spoke, 
 I thought I had, and could not have spoken otherwise. Her 
 own voluminous and passionate appeal, had overcome me, and 
 her impulse bore mine along with it. I may have deceived her, 
 but I as certainly deceived myself. Be it so. The error was a 
 pious one, and made her happy; as happy, at least, as, at that mo 
 ment, she could well be. 
 
 I need not dwell upon our parting. It was one of mixed 
 pain and pleasure. It grieved me to see how much she suffered, 
 yet it gratified my pride to find how greatly I was beloved. Once 
 taught how delicious was the one feeling of pleasure which such a 
 trial brought with it, I feel I fear that I could freely have in 
 flicted the pain a second time, if sure to enjoy the pleasure. Such is 
 our selfishness. Our vanity still subdues our sufferings, and our 
 pride derives its most rrateful aliment from that which is, or should 
 be, our grief. 
 
 In an hour I was on the road with my companion, and far 
 out of hearing of my mother s voice. And yet I heard it. 
 
 3* 
 
58 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ROADSIDE PROGRESS. 
 
 " But with the word, the time will bring on summer, 
 When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns, 
 And be as sweet as sharp. We must away ; 
 Cur wagon is prepared, and time revives us. 1 SHAKSPERE. 
 
 I HEARD it then in long days after, when she was speech 
 less, I heard it I still hear it I shall never lose its lingering 
 memories. They cling to me with a mother s love; the purest, 
 the least selfish of all human affections. The love of woman is 
 a wondrous thing, but the love of a mother is yet more wonder 
 ful. What is there like it in nature? What tie is there so 
 close, so warm, so uncalculating in its compliances, so unmeas 
 ured in its sacrifices, so enduring in its tenacious tenderness? 
 It may accompany the feeble intellect, the coarse form, the equivocal 
 virtue; but, in itself, it is neither feeble, nor coarse, nor equivocal. 
 It refines vulgarity, it softens violence, it qualifies and chastens, 
 even when it may not redeem, all other vicGs. I am convinced 
 that, of all human affections, it is endowed with the greatest 
 longevity; it is the most hardy, if not the most acute in its vi 
 tality. Talk of the love of young people for one another; it is 
 not to be spoken of in the same breath; nothing can be more 
 inferior. Such love is of the earth, earthy a passion born of 
 tumults, wild and fearful as the storm, and yet more capricious. 
 An idol of clay a miserable pottery, the work, which in a fit of 
 frenzied devotion we make with our own hands, and in another, and 
 not more mad fit of brutality, we trample to pieces with our 
 feet. Appetite is the fiend that degrades every passion, and the 
 flame, of which it is a part, must always end in smoke and 
 ashes. 
 
 Thus I mused when I encountered my friend and companion 
 
ROADSIDE PROGRESS. 59 
 
 He was in fine spirits; overjoyed with the novelty of the situa 
 tion in which he found himself. For the first time in his life, 
 he was a traveller, and his nature was one of those that corre 
 spond with the generous season, and keep happy in spite of the 
 cloudy. Ilis soul began to expand with the momentarily increas 
 ing consciousness of its freedom; and when he described to me the 
 sw r eet hour which had just terminated, and which he had 
 employed for his parting with Emmeline Walker, he absolutely 
 shouted. His separation from his former home, his relatives, 
 and the woman whom he loved, was very different from mine; 
 and his detail of his own feelings, and his joys and hopes, only 
 added bitterness to mine. Going and coming, the world smiled 
 upon him. Backward and forward, an inviting prospect met 
 his eyes. He saw no sun go down in night. He was conscious 
 of no evening not hallowed by a moon. Happy world, where 
 the blessed and blessing heart moves the otherwise disobedient 
 and froward elements as it pleases, banishes the clouds, suspends 
 the storm, and lighting up the sky without, from the heaven 
 within, casts for ever more upon it, the smile of a satis 
 fied and indulgent Deity. The disappointed demon in my soul 
 actually chafed to hear the self-gratulations of the delighted 
 God in his. 
 
 And yet what had been my reflections but a moment before ! 
 To what conclusion had 1 come? In what supposing me to 
 have been right in that conclusion in what respect was his 
 fortune belter than mine? In what resect was it half so 
 good ? The love of the sexes I had proclaimed worthless and 
 vulnerable ; that of a mother beyond all price. I had a mother, 
 a fond, unselfish mother, and Carrington was an orphan. He 
 had only that love, which I professed to think so valueless. 
 But did I seriously think so ? What an absurdity. The love 
 of the young for each other is a property of the coming time, 
 and it is the coming time for which the young must live. That 
 of a mother is a love of the past, or, at the best, of the present 
 only. It can not, in the ordinary term of human allotment, 
 last us while we live. It is not meant that it should, and the Provi 
 dence that beneficently cares for us always, even when we 
 are least careful of ourself, has wisely prompted us to seek and 
 desire that love which may. It was an instinct that made me 
 
60 KICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 envy my companion, in spite of my own philosophy. I would have 
 given up the love of a thousand mothers to be secure of that of 
 Mary Easterby. 
 
 I strove to banish thought, by referring to the most ordinary 
 matters of conversation ; matters, indeed, about which I did not 
 care a straw. In this way, I strove, not only to dispel my own 
 topics of grief, but to silence those of triumph in my companion. 
 What did I care to hear of Emmeline Walker, and how she 
 loved him, and how she cheered him, with a manly spirit, on a 
 journey from which other and perhaps finer damsels would have 
 sought to discourage their lovers ; and how she bade him return 
 as soon as he had bought the lands on which they were to settle all 
 their future lives ? This was talk no less provoking than unneces 
 sary ; and it was not without some difficulty that I could divert 
 him from it. And even then my success was only partial. He was 
 forever getting back to it again. 
 
 "And what route are we to take, William?" I demanded, 
 when we had reached a point of fork in the road. "You spoke 
 yesterday of going up by way of Tuscaloosa. But if you can do 
 without taking that route, it will be the better; it is forty miles out 
 of our road to Columbus, and unless you have some business there, 
 I see no reason to go that way. The town is new, and has nothing 
 worth seeing in it." 
 
 "It is not that I go for, Richard. I have some money owing 
 me in that neighborhood. There is one Matthew Webber, who 
 lives a few miles on the road from Tuscaloosa to Columbus, who 
 ow r es me a hundred and thirty dollars for a mule I sold him last 
 spring was a year. I have his note. The money was due five 
 months ago, and it needs looking after. I don t know much of 
 Webber, and think very little of him. The sooner I get the 
 money out of his hands, the better, and the better chance then of 
 his paying me. I m afraid, if he stands off much longer, he ll 
 stand off for ever, and I may then whistle for my money." 
 
 "You are wise; and forty miles is no great difference to those 
 who have good horses. So speed on to the right. It s a rascally 
 road, let me tell you. I have ridden it before." 
 
 "I know nothing about it; but, thank the stars, I care as 
 little. When a man s heart is in the right place, sound and 
 satisfied, it matters not much what is the condition of the road 
 
ROADSIDE PROGRESS. 61 
 
 he travels. One bright smile, one press of the hand from Em- 
 meline, makes all smooth, however rough before." 
 
 I struck the spurs into my horse s flanks impatiently. He 
 saw the movement, and, possibly, the expression of my coun 
 tenance, and laughed aloud. 
 
 "Ah, Dick, you take things to heart too seriously. What if 
 you are unfortunate, man ? You are not the first you will not 
 be the last. You are in a good and godly company. Console 
 yourself, man, by taking it for granted that Mary has been leB 
 wise than you thought her, and that you have made a more for 
 tunatc escape that you can well appreciate at present." 
 
 " Pshaw ! I think not of it," was my peevish reply. " Let us 
 talk of other matters." 
 
 " Agreed. But what other matters to talk of that shall please 
 you, Richard, is beyond my knowledge now. My happiness, 
 at this moment, will be sure to enter into everything I say ; as 
 I certainly can think of no more agreeable subject. I shall 
 gpeak of Emmeline, and that will remind you of Mary, however 
 different may be their respective treatment of us. If I talk of 
 the land I am looking for, and resolve to settle on, you will be 
 gin to brood over the solitary life in store for you ; unless, as 1 
 think very likely, it will not be long before you console your 
 self with some Mississippi maiden, who will save you the trouble 
 of looking for lands, and the cost of paying for them, by bring- 
 big you a comfortable portion." 
 
 " I am not mercenary, William," was my answer, somewhat 
 more temperately spoken than usual. 1 had discovered the 
 weakness of which I had been guilty, and at once resolved that, 
 though I was not successful, I would not be surly. Indeed, a 
 playful commentary, which Carrington uttered about my savage 
 demeanor, brought me back to my senses. It was in reply to 
 some uncivil sarcasm of mine. 
 
 " Hush, man ! hush ! Because you have been buffeted, you 
 need not be a bear ! Let the blows profit you as they do a 
 beefsteak, and though I would not have your tenderness in 
 creased by the process, Heaven keep you from any increase of 
 toughness! Forgive me, my dear fellow, for being so happy 1 
 I know well enough that, to the miserable, the good humor of 
 one s neighbors is sheer impertinence. But I am more than a 
 
62 RICHARD 
 
 neighboi to you, Dick Hurdis ! I am a friend ; and you must 
 forgive mine !" 
 
 "Ay, that I do, William!" I answered frankly, and l aking 
 his hand while I spoke. " I will not only forgive, but to ^rate 
 your happiness. You shall see that I will ; and to prove t to 
 you, I beg that you will talk on, and only talk of that. W at 
 were EmmeHne fl last words ?" 
 
 ** Come back soon." 
 
 And she smiled when she said tkem 
 
 " Ay ; that was the strangest thing of all, Richard. She did 
 smile when we parted, and neither then nor at any time since I 
 have known her, have I ever seen her shed a tear. I almost 
 bleated like a calf." 
 
 4 She is a strong woman, high-spirited, firm, and full of char 
 acter. She does not feel the less for not showing her feelings 
 Still water runs deep." 
 
 " A suspicious proverb, Richard ! One that has too many 
 meanings to be complimentary. Nevertheless, you are quit* 
 right. Emmeline is a still girl thinks more than she sayf 
 feels more than she will acknowledge; and loves the mor* 
 earnestly that she does not proclaim it from the pine-tops 
 Your professing women, like your professing men, are all puff 
 and plaster. They know their own deficiencies, and in the ID 
 ventory which they make of their virtues, take good care to 
 set them down as the very chattels in possession. Like church- 
 builders and church-goers, the) 1 voek to make up for the substan- 
 tials, which they have not, by the shows and symbols which be 
 long to them ; and, truth to say, such is the universality of this 
 habit, that, now-a-days, no one looks further than the surplice, 
 and the color of the cloth. Forms are virtues, and names things. 
 You remember the German story, where the devil bought the 
 man s shadow in preference to his soul. Heaven help mankind, 
 were the devil disposed to pursue his trade ! What universal 
 bankruptcy among men would follow the loss of their shadows ! 
 How the church would groan the pillars crumble arid fall 
 the surplice and the black coat shrivel and stink ! What a loss 
 would there be of demure looks and saintly faces of groaning 
 and psalm-singing tradesmen men who seek to make a broth 
 erhood and sisterhood in order to carry their calicoes to a good 
 
KOADSIDE PROGRESS. 63 
 
 market ! Well, thank heaven ! the country to which we are 
 now bending our steps, Richard, is not yet overrun by these 
 saintly hypocrites. Time will come, I doubt not, when w r e shall 
 have them where the Choctaws now hunt and pow-wow, making 
 long prayers, and longer sermons, and concluding, as usual, with a 
 collection." 
 
 "It may be that the country is quite as full of rascals, William, 
 though it may lack hypocrites. We have bold villains in place 
 of cunning ones, and whether we fare better or worse than the city 
 in having them, is a question not easily decided. We shall have 
 need of all our caution in our travelling. I have no fear of the 
 Indians while they are sober-, and it will not be hard to avoid them 
 when they are drunk; but we have heard too many stories of 
 outlaws and robbery on the borders of the nation and within it, 
 where the villains were not savages, to render necessary any par 
 ticular counsel to cither of us now." 
 
 "I don t believe the half of what I hear of these squatters. 
 No doubt, they are a rough enough set of people; but what of 
 that? Let them but give us fair play, and, man to man, I think, 
 we need not fear them. I know that you can fling a stout fellow 
 with a single flirt, and I have a bit of muscle here that has not 
 often met its match. I fear not your bold boys let them come. 
 It is your city sneaks, Richard, tbat I don t like; your saintly, 
 demure, sly rogues, that pray for you at the supper-table, and pick 
 your pocket when you sleep." 
 
 Carrington extended his brawny and well-shaped arm as he 
 spoke, giving it a glance of unconcealed admiration. He did 
 not overrate his own powers; but, in speaking of rogues, and 
 referring to their practices, it was no part of my notion that 
 they would ever give us fair play. I told him that, and by a 
 natural transition, passed to another topic of no, little importance on 
 the subject. 
 
 "I don t fear anything from open violence, William," was my 
 reply. "You know enough of me for that; but men. who aim to 
 rob, will always prefer to prosecute their schemes by art rather 
 than boldness. Valor does not often enter into the composition of a 
 rogue. Now, I have enough money about me to tempt a rascal, and 
 more than I am willing to surrender to one. You have, probably, 
 brought a large sum with you also." 
 
RICHARD HUBDI8. 
 
 " All I have ; three thousand dollars, more or less, in United 
 States bank bills, some few Alabama, and Georgia, all passable 
 at the land-office," was his reply. 
 
 " The greater need of caution. There are land-pirates on 
 the Black Warrior, and Alabama, who are said to be worse by 
 far than the pirates of the gulf. Look to it, William, and keep 
 your money out of sight. The more poor your pretensions, the 
 more certain your safety. Show no more money than you wish 
 to spend." 
 
 " I will not, Richard ; and yet I should have no objection to 
 put my money down upon the butt-end of a log, and take a hug 
 with any pirate of them all who should have it." 
 
 " More brave than wise," was my reply. " But let us have 
 no more of this ; there are travellers before and behind us. 
 Let our circumspection begin from this moment. We have both 
 need of it, being at greater risk, as we bring, like a terrapin, 
 our homes and all that is in them, on our backs. You have too 
 much money about you. In that, William, you were anything 
 but wise. I wish I had counselled you. You could have en 
 tered the lands with one fourth of it. But it is too late now to 
 repent. You must be watchful only. I am not at so great a 
 risk as you, but I have quite enough to tempt a Red river gam 
 bler to his own ruin and mine." 
 
 " I shall heed you," replied my companion, buttoning his 
 coat, and turning the butt of a pistol in his b^som, making it 
 more convenient to his grasp. " But who are these travellers ? 
 Settlers from North Carolina, I reckon. Poor devils from Tar 
 river as usual, going, they know not where, to get, they knew 
 not what." 
 
 " They can not go to a poorer region, nor fare much worse than 
 they have done, if your guess be right." 
 
 " I ll lay a picayune upon it. They look sleepy and poor 
 enough to have lived at Tar river a thousand yeais But, we 
 ahall see " 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 TUB KMHiRANTS. 
 
 An aged man whose head some seventy yan 
 Had snowed on freely, led I lie caravan ; 
 His sons and sons sons, and their families. 
 Tall youths and sunny maiden? a glad group 
 Thar, glowed in generous Mood, and had no care, 
 And little thought of the future, followed !i m : 
 Some perched on gallant steeds others IIKM-- slow, 
 Th" infants imd the matrons of the flock, 
 In ooach and jersey hut all moving on 
 To the new land of promise, full of dreams 
 Of western riches, Mississippi mad!" 
 
 BY tliis time we had overtaken the cavalcade, and sure 
 enough, it turned out as my companion had conjectured. The 
 wanderers were from one, of the poorest parts of North Caroli 
 na, bent to better their condition in the western valleys, " full 
 of dreams," and as ^ne of our southern poets, whom I quote 
 above, energetically expresses it, "Mississippi mad." They 
 consisted of several families, three or four in number, all from 
 the same neighborhood, who were thus making a colonizing 
 expedition of it ; and as they had all along formed a little 
 world to themselves before, now resolving with a spirit not less 
 arise than amiable, to preserve the same social and domestic 
 relations in the new regions to which they bent their steps. 
 They thus carry with them the morals and the manners to 
 which they have been accustomed, and find a natural home ac 
 cordingly wherever they go. But even this arrangement does not 
 supply their loss, and the social moralist may well apprehend 
 the deterioration of the graces of society in every desertion by 
 a people of their ancient homes. Though men may lose noth 
 ing of their fecundity by wandering, and in emigration to tht 
 
66 UTCHARD HURDI?. 
 
 west from a sterile region like North Carolina, most commonly, 
 gain in their worldly goods, their losses are yet incomputable. 
 The delicacies of society are most usually thrust from the sight 
 of the pioneers ; the nicer harmonies of the moral world become 
 impaired; the sweeltr coivu of affection are undone or rudely 
 snapped asunder, and a rude indifference to the claims of one s 
 fellow, must follow every breaking up of the old and station 
 ary abodes. The wandering habits of our people are the great 
 obstacles to their perfcr civilization. These habits are encour 
 aged by the cheapness of our public lands, and their constant 
 exposure for sale. The morals not less than the manners of 
 our people are diseased by the license of the wilderness ; and the 
 remoteness of the white settler from his former associates approxi 
 mate him to the savage feebleness of the Indian, who has been 
 subjugated and expelled simply because of his inferior morality. 
 
 We joined the wayfarers, and accommodating our pace to the 
 slow and weary movement of their cavalcade, kept with them 
 long enough to answer and to ask a hundred questions. They 
 were a simple and hard> people, looking poor, but proud ; and 
 though evidently neither ericvprising nor adventurous, yet, 
 once abroad and in the tempe&t, sutHciently strong and bold to 
 endure and to defy its buffeting. There was a venerable grand 
 father of the flock, one of the finest heads I ever looked upon, 
 who mingled the smiling elasticity of youth, with the garrulity 
 of age. He spoke as sanguinely of his future prospects in Mis 
 sissippi, as if he were only now about to commence the world ; 
 and while he spoke, his eyes danced and twinkled with delight 
 and his laugh rang through the forests, with such fervor and 
 life, that an irrepressible sympathy made me laugh with him, 
 and forget, for a moment, my own dull misgivings, and heavy 
 thoughts. His mirth was infectious, and old and young shared 
 in it, as most probably they had done irom childhood. We 
 ro le off, leaving them in a perfect gale of delighted merriment, 
 having their best wishes, and giving them ours in return. 
 
 To one ignorant of the great West ; to the dweller in the 
 Eastern cities accustomed o*\lv to the dull, unbroken routine 
 of a life of trade, which is at r<st only disturbed by some splen 
 did forgery, or a methodical and fortunate bankruptcy, which 
 makes the bankrupt rich at the expense of a cloud of confiding 
 
THE EMIGRANTS. 67 
 
 creditors the variety, and the vicissitudes of forest life, form 
 a series of interesting romances. The very love of change, 
 which is the marked charajtei istic of our people in reference 
 to their habitations, is productive of constant adventures, to 
 hear which, the ears tingle, and the pulses bound. The mere 
 movement of the self-expatriated wanderer, with his motley 
 caravan, large or small, as it winds its way through the circuit 
 ous forests, or along the buffalo tracks, in the level prairies, is 
 picturesque in the last degree. And this picturesqueness is not 
 a whit diminished by the something of melancholy, which a 
 knowledge of the facts provokes necessarily in the mind of the 
 observer. Not that they who compose the cavalcade, whether 
 masters or men, women or children, are troubled with any of 
 this feeling. On the contrary, they are usually j .yful and light 
 spirited enough. It is in the thoughts and fancies of the spec 
 tator only that gloon hangs over the path, and clouds the for 
 tune of the wayfarer. He thinks of the deserted country which 
 they have left of the cottage overgrown with weeds of the 
 young children carried into wildernesses, where no sabbath 
 bell invites them to A decorous service where the schoohnas 
 ter is never seen, or is of little value and where, if fortune 
 deigns to smile upon the desires of the cultivator, the wealth which 
 he gains, descends to a race, uninformed in any of its duties, and, 
 therefore, wholly ignorant of its proper uses. Wealth, under 
 such circumstances, becomes a curse, and the miserable possessor 
 a victim to the saddest error that ever tempted the weak mind, 
 and derided it in its overthrow. 
 
 These thoughts force themselves upon you as you behold the 
 patient industry of the travellers while they slowly make the 
 #ay through the tedious forests. Their equipage, their arrange 
 nients, the evidence of the wear and tear inevitable in a loi 
 journey, and conspicuous in shattered vehicles and bandaged 
 harness, the string of wagons of all shapes, sorts, and sizes, the 
 mud-bespattered carriages, once finely varnished, in which the 
 lady and the children ride, the riery horse of the son in hia 
 teens, the chunky poney of the no less daring boy, the wrig 
 gling jersey the go-cart with the little negro children ; anc 
 the noisy whoop of blacks of both sexes, mounted and afoo*,, 
 and taking it by turns to ride or walk however cheering all 
 
RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 those may seem at a first sight, as a novelty, removing tht 
 sense of loneliness which yon may have felt before, can not but 
 impress upon you a sentiment of gloom, which will not be les 
 sened as you watch their progress. Their very light-hearted- 
 ness so full of hope and confidence as it denotes them to be, 
 is a subject of doubtful reflection. Will their hopes be confirm 
 ed ? Will the dreams so seducing to them now, be realized ? 
 Will they find the fortune which tempted them to new homes 
 and new dangers ? Will they even be secure of health, with 
 out which wealth is a woful mockery. These are doubts which 
 may well make the thoughtful sad, and the doubtful despondent 
 And yet the wayfarers themselves feel but little of this. 
 Their daily progress, and the new objects of interest that now 
 and then p-esent themselves, divert them from troublous thoughts 
 The lands, the woods, the waters, that attract the eye of the 
 planter on every side, serve to fix his attention and keep it in 
 constant exercise and play. They travel slowly, but twelve or 
 fifteen miles a day, and by night they encamp upon the road 
 side, hew down a tree, clear the brush, and build up fires that 
 illuminate the woods for miles round. Strange, fantastic forms 
 danee in the mazes which the light makes among the receding 
 trees ; and the boisterous song of the woodman, and the un 
 measured laugh of the negro, as he rends the bacon with his 
 teeth and fingers, and hearkens to the ready joke of his com 
 panion the while, convey no faint idea of those German stories 
 of the wild men, or demons of the Ilartz Mountains or the 
 Black Forest, which we can not but admire, however uncouth, 
 grotesque, and disproport.ioned, for their felicitous and playful 
 ngenuity. The watch-dog takes his place under the wagon 
 by night, sometimes he sleeps within it, and upon the baggage. 
 The men crouch by the fire, while rude and temporary couches 
 of bush and blanket are made for the women and the children 
 of the party. These arrangements necessarily undergo changes 
 according to circumstances. The summer tempests compel a 
 more compact disposition of their force ; the sudden storm by 
 ught drives the more weak and timid to the deserted house, 
 >r If tbre be none in the neighborhood, to the bottom of the 
 .gon. where they are sheltered by skins or blankets, with 
 b.oi of which the accustomed traveller is usually wall provided 
 
THE EMIGRANTS. G) 
 
 Before the dawn of day they are prepared to renew their joar 
 nej with such thoughts as their dreams or their slumbers ot 
 the night have rendered most active in their imaginations. The 
 old are usually thoughtful when they rise, the young hopeful 
 Some few of both are sad, as an obtrusive memory haunts them 
 wiiJi threatening or imploring shadows. Others again, and not 
 the smaller number, cheerily set forth singing, the first day be 
 ing safely passed singing some country ditty; and when 
 they meet with travellers like themselves an event, which, 
 in our western woods, may be likened to a "sail" at sea- 
 cracking with them some hearty joke upon their prospect?, 
 trim and caparison, with a glee that would startle the nerves 
 and astound the measured sensibilities of the quiet occupant of 
 more civilized abodes. 
 
 The negroes are particularly famous for the light-licartedr.css 
 of their habit while journeying in this manner. You Avill some 
 times see ten or twenty of them surrounding a jersey wagon, 
 listening to the rude harmony of some cracked violin in the 
 hands of the driver, and dancing and singing as they koep time 
 with his instrument, and pace with his horse. The grin of 
 their mouths, the white teeth shining through the glossy black 
 of their faces, is absolutely irresistible ; while he, perched, as I 
 have often seen him, upon the fore-seat, the reins loosely flung 
 over his left arm, in the hand of which is grasped the soiled and 
 shattered instrument, the seams and cracks of which are care 
 fully stopped with tar or pine-gum ; while the bow in his right 
 hf*nd scrapes away unmercifully until it extorts from the reluc- 
 *ant strings the quantity of melody necessary to satisfy the arna- 
 ;eur who performs, or the self-taught connoiseurs who hearken 
 to and depend upon him. 
 
 Sometimes the whites hover nigh, not less delighted than 
 their slaves, and partaking, though with a less ostentatious show 
 of interest, in the pleasure and excitement which such an exhi 
 bition, under such circumstances, is so well calculated to inspire. 
 Sometimes the grinning Momus of the group is something more 
 than a mere mechanician, and adds the interest of improvisation 
 to the doubtful music of his violin. I have heard one of these 
 performers sing, as he went, verges suited to the scene around 
 him, in very tolerable rhythm, which weie evidentlv fl*:ng i6 
 
70 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 as he went. The verses were full of a rough humor which is 
 characteristic of all inferior people. In these he satarized his 
 companions without mercy; ridiculed the country which he left, 
 no less than that to which he was going; and did not spare his own 
 master, whom he compared to a squirrel that had lived upon good 
 corn so long, that he now hungered for bad, in his desire of change. 
 This was a native figure, by which his fruitless and unprofitable 
 discontent with what was good in his previous condition was clearly 
 bodied forth. The worthy owner heard the satire, with which he 
 was not less pleased than the other hearers, who were so much less 
 interested in it. Enough of episode. We will now resume our 
 progress. 
 
OQD AND EVIL SPIRITS. ?1 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 GOOD AND EVIL SPIRITS. 
 
 Had she no lover there 
 That wails her absence? 
 
 Troilu*. 0, sir, to such as, boasting, b/iow their scars, 
 A mock is due. Will you walk on. my lord? 
 She was beloved she loved she ia, and doth 
 But still, sweet love is food for fortune s tooth. 
 
 Troilus and 
 
 THAT night we slept at a miserable hovel, consisting of bnt 
 one apartment, into which the whole family, husband, wife, 
 three children, and ourselves, were oddly clustered together. 
 The house was of logs, and the rain, which fell in torrents be 
 fore we sought shelter in so foul a sty, came through upon the 
 trundle-bed in which we strove to sleep. Still we had no occa 
 sion for discontent. The poor wretches who kept the hovel 
 gave us the best they had. A supper of bacon, eggs, and hoe- 
 cake, somewhcit consoled us for the doubtful prospect in our 
 eyes ; and our consolation was complete, when, at rising in the 
 morning, we found that the storm had passed over, and we were 
 in safety k> depart. We had not been so sure that such would 
 be the case at retiring for the night. Our host had quite a cut 
 throat and hang-dog expression, and we lay with dirk and pis 
 tol at hand, reaclv for the last emergencies. Fortunately, we 
 had no need to uso them ; and, bestowing a couple of dollars 
 upon the children, for their parents refused all pay, we sallied 
 forth upon our journey. That night we arrived at Tuscaloosa, 
 a town now of considerable size, of increasing prosperity and 
 population, but. at the time of our visit, but little more than 
 opened in the woods. Here we took lodgings at the only hotel 
 in the place, and were assigned a room in common with two 
 
72 RICHARD HURD1S. 
 
 other persons. To this arrangement we objected in vain. The 
 chambers were too few and the crowd too great tc permit a tav 
 ern-keeper to tolerate any unnecessary fastidiousness on the part 
 of his guests. 
 
 Here let me pause in the narrative of my own progress, and 
 retrace for a brief period my steps. Let me unfold the do 
 ings of others, necessarily connected with my own, which are 
 proper to be made known to the reader in this place, though 
 only known to me long after their occurrence. The parting 
 with my brother will be remembered. It will be recollected, 
 that, when Mary Easterby came between us after I had dragged 
 him from his horse, and prevented strife, and possibly blood 
 shed, that he left us together, and proceeded to the habitation 
 of her parents. There, with a heart full of bitterness toward 
 me, and a mind crowded with conflicting and angry emotions, 
 he yet contrived effectually to conceal from observation both 
 the struggle and the bitterness. His words were free, easy, 
 well arranged, and good-natured, as usual, to all around ; and, 
 when Mary Easterby returned to the cottage after I had left 
 her, she started with surprise to see how effectually he could 
 hide the traces of that fierce and unnatural strife in which, but 
 a little while before, he had been so earnestly engaged. The 
 unlooked-for ease with which this was done, effectually startled 
 and pained her. By what mastery of his emotions had this 
 been done, and what was the nature of that spirit which could 
 so hermetically seal its anger, its hate, its human and perhapp 
 holiest passions ? She saw him in a new light. Heretofore she 
 had regarded him but in one aspect as a man more solicitous 
 of his ease than of his reputation, good-natured in the extreme, 
 too slothful tc be irritable, too fond of repose and good living 
 to harbor secret hostilities. If her opinion on this subject did 
 not suffer change, it at least called for prompt revision and re- 
 Bxamination under the new light in which it appeared, and 
 ivhich now served only to dazzle and confound her. The won 
 der increased as the evening advanced. He was even humor 
 ous and witty in his easy volubility ; and, but for the annoyance 
 j^hich she naturally felt at what seemed to her hw unnatural 
 low of spirits, she would have been constrained to confess tU*t 
 ever before had he seemed so positively agreeable. All h a 
 
GOOD AND EVIL SPIRITS. 73 
 
 reeoiiroes of reading and observation were brought into requi 
 sition, and he placed them before the company with so much 
 order, clearness, and facility, that she was disposed to give him 
 credit for much more capacity of nature and acquisition than 
 she had ever esteemed him to possess before. He was acting a 
 part, and, had she not been troubled with misgivings to this 
 effect, he might have acted it successfully. But he overshot his 
 mark. He had not the art, the result only of frequeL* practice, 
 to conceal the art which ne employed. His purpose was to 
 seem amiable to be above the passions which governed me 
 and to possess the forbearance which could forgive them, even 
 where he himself had been in a measure their victim. He erred 
 in seeming, not only above their control, but free from their an 
 noyance. Had he been slightly grave during the evening, had 
 he seemed to strive at cheerfulness, and at a forgetfulness of 
 that which could not but be unpleasant to any brother, he had 
 been far more successful with Mary Easterby. Her natural 
 good sense revolted at the perfect mastery which he possessed 
 over his emotions. Such a man might well become an lago, 
 having a power, such as he certainly exhibited, " to smile and 
 emile, and be," if not a villain, one at least wholly insensible to 
 those proper sentiments and sorrows which belonged to his sit 
 uation under existing circumstances. Little did my brothei 
 conjecture the thoughts passing through her mind as he thus 
 played his part. What would I have given to know them ! 
 how many pangs, doubts, and sorrows, would have been spared 
 me! what time had I not saved what affections had I not 
 spared and sheltered ! But this is idle. 
 
 John Hurdis lingered late that night for an opportunity which 
 was at length given him. Mary and himself were left alone to 
 gether ; and he proceeded to do that which, with the precipitato 
 apprehensions of a jealous lover, I had long befo:e supposed to 
 have been over. Either emboldened by the belief that my rash 
 conduct had sufficiently offended the maiden, and that he had 
 properly prepared the way for his declaration or, possibly , 
 somewhat anxious lest, in my parting interview, I had poured 
 out desperately those emotions which I had with undue timidity 
 hopelessly and long lockorl n^. p,,,i rv> \iuus to know the result 
 he resolved to close a pursuit which lie had hitherto conducted 
 
74 BICtt/JlD HURDI8. 
 
 with no less art than perseverance. John Hurdis was a van 
 man, and confident ">f his position ; and yet he did not approach 
 that calm and high- minded girl without some trepidation. His 
 first overture began with a reference t^ the conflict which she 
 had so happily interrupted : 
 
 "Mary, you have this day witnessed that which I should 
 willingly have kept for ever from your knowledge. You havo 
 seen the strife of brother with brother ; you have beheld a vio 
 lence shocking to humanity, and, if not ending like that of the 
 first murderer, one which, but for your timely coming, might 
 have had, for one or boUi of us, a no less fa al termination. T 
 hope, Mary, you do me the justice to believe thai I was not to 
 blame in this quarrel." 
 
 He drew his chair nigher to hers, as he thus spoke, and 
 waited for her answer vith no little solicitude. She hesitated. 
 How could she else tha^ hesitate, when an assenting answei 
 sanctioned the address, the sincerity of which she seriously 
 questioned ? 
 
 " I know not what to say, Mr. Hurdis," was her reply. " I 
 saw not enough of the strife of which you speak to pass judg 
 ment upon it. I will not pretend to say who began it ; I would 
 father not speak on the subject at all." 
 
 "Yet he Richard Hurdis he spoke of it to you?" he re 
 plied suspiciously. 
 
 " No, I spoke of it to him, rather," was the fearless answer. 
 In the first moment of my surprise and terror, Mr. Hurdis, I 
 spoke to Richard to your brother about his rashness; and 
 yet, though I spoke, I know not truly what I said. I was anx 
 ious I was alarmed." 
 
 " Yet you know that it was his rashness, Mary, th** provoked 
 the affair," he said quickly. 
 
 " I know that Richard is rash, constitutionally rasn, V,hn," 
 she replied gravely. " Yet I will not pretend to say, nor Am I 
 willing to think, that the provocation came entirely from him." 
 
 " But you saw his violence only, Mary." 
 
 " Yes, that is tine ; but did his violence come of itself, John t 
 Said you nothing? did you nothing to provoke him to that vir 
 lence ? was there no vexing word ? was there no cause of strifr 
 ell known before, between you ] I am sure that there 
 
GOOD AND EVIL SPIRITS. 75 
 
 have een, John, and I leave it to youi candoi to say if thei* 
 were not I have known Richard long we were children to 
 gether and I can not think thai hi sheer wantonness, and 
 without provocation, he could do what I this day beheld." 
 
 A faint yet bitter smile passed over his lips aj he replied : 
 
 "And do you think, Mary is it possible that you, a lady, 
 one brought up to regard violence with terror, and brutality 
 with disgust is it possible that you can justify a resort to 
 bl r vvs for a provocation given in words ?" 
 
 The cheek of the maiden crimsoned benea f li the tacit re 
 proach ; but she replied without shame : 
 
 " God forbicl ! I do X L ; blows are brutal, and violence de 
 grading to humanity < my eyes ! But though I find no sane 
 lion for the error ol itichard, I am not so sure that you have 
 your justification in his violence for evei^ provocation of which 
 you may have been guilty. Your brother is full of impuls , 
 quick, and irritable. You know his nature well. Did you 
 scruple to offend it? Did you not offend it? I ask you in 
 honor, John Hurdis, since you have invited me to speak, was 
 there not some previous cause of strife between you which pro 
 voked, if it did not justify, your brother in his violence ?" 
 
 "It may be nay, there was, Mary! I confers it. And 
 would you know the cause, Mary ? Nay, you must ; it is of 
 that I would speak ! Will you hear me ?" 
 
 "Freely, John!" was the ready and more indulgent reply. 
 "If the cause be known, the remedy can not be far off, John, 
 if we have the will to apply it." 
 
 He smiled at what he considered the aptness of the reply. 
 He drew his chair still nigher to her own ; and his voice fell 
 and trembled as he spoke 
 
 " You are the cause, Mary !" 
 
 "I I the cause !" She paused and looked at him with un 
 reserved astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, you, and you only Mary ! Richard Hurdis hates me, 
 simply because I love you ! Not that he loves you himself, 
 Mary!" he spoke quickly "no, he would control you for his 
 own pride! he would rule you &ri me, and everything alike! 
 But that he shall not! No, Mary! hear me I have been 
 low to spfiak, as I was fearful to offend ! I would not be pro- 
 
76 RICHAHD HURDIS. 
 
 cipitate. I sought to win your regard before I ventured to proffer 
 mine. The affair this day prompts me to speak sooner than I 
 might have done. Hear me, then, Mary; I love you! I proffer 
 you my heart, my life! I will live for you! I implore you, then 
 be mine!" 
 
 The head of Mary Easterby sank as she heard this language. 
 Her cheek assumed a deeper flush; there was a sorrowful expres 
 sion in her eye which did net encourage the pleader; and when 
 she spoke, which, after a little pause, she did, it annoyed 
 him to perceive that she was composed and dignified in hex 
 manner, and that all trace of emotion had departed from hei 
 voice. 
 
 "I thank you, John I thank you for your favorable opin 
 ion; but I am not satisfied that I should be the occasion of 
 strife between you and your brother. You tell me that I am 
 that he is unwilling that you should love me, or that I should 
 love you in return!" 
 
 "It is it is that, Mary!" he exclaimed hastily, inten-upting 
 her speech, which was uttered composedly, and even slow. 
 
 "I am sorry that it is sorry that you think so, John; for 
 I am sure you must be mistaken." 
 
 " Mistaken! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes, John, mistaken! You are you must be, mistaken! It 
 can not be as you imagine. Supposing that Richard was unwilling 
 that you should regard me with favor, and that I should respond 
 favorably to j our regard for which I see no reason " 
 
 He interrupted her again, and with some show of impatience. 
 There is reason reason enough though you may not see 
 it! I tell you that he would rule us both! His nature is des 
 potical. A younger brother, he has yet the management of 
 everything at home; and, having been brought up as your com 
 panion from childhood, he claims to have some right to manage 
 your concerns also. He would rule in all things, and over 
 everybody, and would not have me love you, Mary, or you me, 
 for that very reason. Not that he loves you himself, Mary; 
 no, no! that might alter the case, were it so but I am sure, 
 I know, that he loves another! It is a sort of dog-in-the-man 
 ger spirit that possesses him, and which brought about our quar 
 rel." 
 
GOOD AND EVIL SPIRITS. 77 
 
 Here was a batch of lies; and yet there was truth in much that 
 he said. Without doubt, I had much of that despotic nature which 
 he ascribed to me, and which, more or less, affected my deportment 
 in all my associations; but the whole tissue of his speech was 
 woven in falsehood, and one difficulty in which he had involved 
 himself by a previous remark led even to a greater number yet. 
 He had ascribed to her the occasion of our quarrel, without 
 reflectiDg that he had already persuaded her that my regards were 
 given to another. It was difficult now for him to account for my 
 hostility to his success with Mary, unless by supposing in me a 
 nature unnaturally froward and contradictory. And such a nature, 
 whatever were my other faults, could not fairly be laid to my 
 charge. To have suffered Mary to suppose that I really loved 
 her, was no part of his subtle policy. For months it had 
 been his grateful labor to impress upon her mind a different 
 belief. 
 
 After hearing him patiently through his hurried tirade, Mary 
 resumed : 
 
 "I think you do your brother much injustice, John, when you 
 ascribe to him a temper so unreasonable. I have known him for 
 many years, and, while I have often found him jealous and passion 
 ate, I must defend him from any charge of mere wilful and cold per 
 versity. He is too irritable, too quick and impetuous, for such a 
 temper. He docs not sufficiently deliberate to be perverse; and as 
 for the base malignity of desiring to keep one, and that one a brother, 
 from the possession of that which he did not himself desire to pos 
 sess, 1 can not think it. No, John, that can not be the true reason, 
 I have no doubt that you think so, but as little is my doubt that you 
 think unjustly." 
 
 "I know no other reason, Mary," was the somewhat cold 
 answer. 
 
 "Nay, John, I speak not so much of the general cause of the 
 difference between you, as of the particular provocation of the 
 strife to-day. Let it be as you say, that Richard is thus per 
 verse with little or no reason, yet it could not be that without 
 immediate and rude cause of anger he should rush upon you in 
 the high road and assault you with blows. Such violence is 
 that of the robber who seeks for money, or the blood-thirsty 
 assassin who would revenge, bv sudden blow, the wrong for which 
 
78 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 he dared not crave open and manly atonement. Now, I know 
 that Richard is no robber ; and we both know him too well to 
 think that he would assassinate, without warning, the enemy 
 whom he had not the courage to fight. Cowardice is not his 
 character any more than dishonesty ; and yet it were base cow 
 ardice if he assaulted you this day without due warning." 
 
 The cool, deliberate survey which Mary Easterby took of the 
 subject, utterly confounded her companion. He was unprepared 
 for this form of the discussion. To dwell longer upon it was 
 not his policy ; yet, to turn from it in anger and impatience was 
 to prejudice his own cause and temper, in the estimation of one 
 so considerate and acute as Mary had shown herself to be. 
 Passing his hand over his face, he rose from his seat, paced the 
 room slowly twice or thrice, and then returned to his place with 
 a countenance once more calm and unruffled, and with a smile 
 upon his lips as gently wii>.iing as if they had never worn any 
 other expression. The readiness of this transition was again 
 unfavorable to his object. Mary Easterby was a woman of 
 earnest character not liable to hasty changes of mood her 
 self, and still less capable of those sudden turns of look and 
 manner which denote strong transitions of it. She looked dis 
 trustfully upon them accordingly, when they were visible in 
 others. 
 
 "You are right, Mary!" said the tempter, approaching her, 
 and speaking in tones in which an amiable and self accusing 
 spirit seemed to mingle with one of wooing solicitation. " You 
 are right, Mary ; there was an immediate provocation of which 
 I had not spoken, and which I remember occasioned Richard s 
 violence. He spoke to me in a manner which I thought in 
 solently free, and I replied to him in sarcastic language. He 
 retorted in terms which led me to utter a threat which it did not 
 become me to uttei, and which, I doubt not, was quite too pro 
 voking for him to bear with composure. Thence came his 
 violence. You were right, I think, in supposing his violence 
 without design. I do not think it myself; and, though, as I 
 have said, I regard Richard s conduct toward me as ungracious 
 and inexcusable, I am yet but too conscious of unkind feelings 
 ;oward him to desire to prolong this conversation. There is 
 \nother topic, Mary, which is far more grateful to me^ 
 
GOOD AND EYIL BPIBIT8. 79 
 
 you suffer me to speak on that ? You have heard my declara 
 tion. I love you, Mary ! I have long loved you ! I feel that 
 I can not cease to love, and can not be happy without you ! 
 Turn not from me, Mary ! hear me, I pray you ! be indulgent, 
 and hear me !" 
 
 " I should not do justice to your good regards, John, nor to 
 our long intimacy, if I desired to hear you farther on this sub 
 ject ! Forgive me leave me now let me retire !" 
 
 She arose as if to depart. He caught her hand and led her 
 back to the seat from which she had arisen. It was now that 
 he trembled trembled more than ever, as he beheld her so 
 little moved. 
 
 " You are cold, Mary ! you dislike you hate me !" he stam 
 mered forth, almost convulsively. 
 
 " No, John, you are wrong. I neither hate nor dislike you ; 
 and you know it. On the contrary, I have much respect for 
 you, as well on your own account as on that of your family." 
 
 " Family ! respect ! Oh, Mary, choose some other words ! 
 Can not you hear me speak of warmer feelings closer ties? 
 Will you not heed me when I say that I love? when I praj 
 you to accept to love me in return?" 
 
 " It must not be, John ! To love you as a husband should be 
 loved as a wife should love wholly, singly, exclusively, so 
 that one should leave father, mother, and all other ties only for 
 that one I cannot! I should speak a base untruth, John, 
 were I to say so ! It gives me pain to tell you this, sir ! it 
 gives pain but better that both of us should suffer the present 
 and momentary anguish which comes from defrauded expecta 
 tions, than risk the permanent sorrow of a long life, passed in 
 the exercise of falsehood! I am grateful for your love, John! 
 for the favor with which you distinguish me ; but I can not give 
 you mine. I can not reply as you would wish me." 
 
 "Mary, you love another!" 
 
 " I know not, John ! I would not know ! I pray that you 
 would not strive to force the reflection upon me !" 
 
 " You mistake Richard Hurdis, if you think that he loves you, 
 Mary. He does not ; you can have no hope of him." 
 
 The coarse, base speech of tke selfish man was well answered 
 fcy the calm and quiet tone of the maiden. 
 
80 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 44 And if I had b jpes of him, or of any man, John Hurdis, thej 
 should be entombed in the bosom, where they had their birth, 
 before my lips or looks should declare them to other bosoms than 
 my own. I have no hopes, uch as you speak of; and, so tru 
 ly as I stand before you, I tell you that I know not, that I have 
 in my heart a solitary sentiment with reference to your brother, 
 which, according: to my present thought, I would not you should 
 hear. That I have always regarded him with favor, is true ; 
 that I deem him to be possessed of some very noble qualities, 
 is no less true. More ; I tell you, it is with pain, anxious and 
 deep pain, that I have beheld his coldness, when we have met 
 of late, and his estrangement from me, for so long a period. I 
 would give much to know why it is. I would do much that it 
 should be otherwise." 
 
 " And yet you know not, Mary, that you love him V 9 
 
 " I know not, John ; and if the knowledge may be now ob 
 tained, I would infinitely prefer not to know. It would avail 
 me nothing, and might might become known to him." 
 
 There is no need to dwell longer upon this interview, though 
 the vexing spirit of my brother, clothing what he spoke still in 
 the language of dissimulation, protracted it for some time longer, 
 in vain assaults upon her firmness, and, failing in that, in mean 
 sarcasms, which were doubly mean as they were disguised alter 
 nately in the language of humiliation and of love. When he 
 left her, she hurried to her chamber, utterly exhausted with a 
 struggle in which all the strength of her mind had been em 
 ployed in the double duty of contending with his and of keep 
 ing her own feelings, upon which it was his purpose to play, 
 in quiet and subjection. Her tears came t > her relief, when 
 ehc fourd herself alone, but they could not banish from her 
 mind a new consciousness, which, from the moment when she 
 parted with my brother, kept forcing itself upon her. " Did 
 she, in truth, love Richard Hurdis 1" was her question to her 
 self. How gladly, that moment would I have listened to hei 
 answer ! 
 
GUILTY PRACTICl. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 GUILTY PRACTICE. 
 
 Macbeth. Know 
 
 That it was he, in the times past, which held you 
 So under fortune which, you thought, had been 
 Our innocent self- this I made good to you 
 In our last conference ; passed iu probation with you 
 How you were borne in hand ; how crossed. 
 ****** 
 
 Now, if you have a station in the file, 
 And not in the worst rank of manhood, say it; 
 And I will put that business in your bosoms, 
 Whose execution takes your enemy off; 
 Grapples you to the heart and love of us, 
 Who wear our health but sickly in his life, 
 Which in his death were perfect 
 Murderer. I am one, my liege, 
 Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world 
 Have so incensed, that I am reckless what 
 I do to spite the world. SHAKSPERK. 
 
 THE interview had barely terminated when my brother left 
 the habitation of the maiden. He had preserved his com 
 posure, at least he had concealed the passion which his disap 
 pointment had aroused within him, until fairly out of sight. It 
 was then that he gave vent to feelings which I had not sup 
 posed him to possess. Base I thought him, envious it may be ; 
 but of malignity and viperous hate, I had never once suspected 
 him. He had always seemed to me, as he seemed to others, too 
 fat for bitterness, too fond of ease and quiet to suffer any dis 
 appointment to disturb him greatly. We were all mistaken. 
 When he reached the cover of the woods he raved like a mad 
 man. The fit of fury did not last very long, it is true ; but 
 while it lasted, it was terrible, and in the end exhausting. He 
 threw himself from his hore, and, casting the bridln ovo r r 
 
e RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 shrub, flung imself indifferently upon the grass, and gave way 
 to the bitterest meditations. He had toiled long, without cessa 
 tion, and his toils had all been taken in vain. It did not offer 
 any qualification to his mortified feelings to reflect that he had 
 also toiled dishonorably. 
 
 But on a sudden he rose, and resumed his seat in the saddle. 
 His meditations had taken a new course. His hopes had r&- 
 vived ; and he now planned projects, the character of which, 
 even worse than those already known to the reader, will soo^a 
 be developed. He put spurs to his steed, and rode furiously 
 through the wood. It was deep, dark and tangled; but he 
 knew the country, with which, it was fortunate for him, hia 
 horse was also familiar. Through by-paths which were made 
 by the cattle, or by scouting negroes, he hurried through the 
 forest, and in a couple of hours space, emerged from it into a 
 more beaten path. A ride of an hour more carried him beyond 
 the plantation of my father, which the circuit through the forest 
 had enabled him to avoid, and in the immediate neighborhood 
 of a miserable cabin that stood in a secluded and wild spot, and 
 was seen with difficulty through the crowding darkness. A 
 faint light shone through the irregular logs of which it was 
 built, and served, while indicating the dwelling, to convey to 
 the observer air increased idea of its cheerlessness. 
 
 It was before this habitation, if such it might be called, that 
 John Hurdis drew up his horse. He alighted, and, having first 
 led the animal into shadow behind the house, he returned to the 
 door in front, and tapping, obtained immediate entrance. The 
 room into which he was admitted was a small one, and so filled 
 with smoke that objects were scarce discernible. Some light 
 wood thrown into the fire on his entrance served to illumine, if 
 not to disperse it, and John spoke to the inmates with a degree 
 of familiarity which showed him to have been an old acquaint 
 ance. They were old acquaintance, not only of him but of 
 myself. The man was a villain whom I had caught stealing 
 corn from our fields, and whom, but for John, I should have 
 punished accordingly. I little knew what was the true motiv* 
 which prompted his interference, a. id gave him credit for * 
 degree of humanity than %v^s consistent either with 
 -i character. He was a burly ruffian, a black 
 
GUILTY PRACTICE. 88 
 
 . icd black-faced fellow, rarely clean, seldom visible by 
 day, a sullen, sour, bad minded wretch, who had no mode of 
 livp inood of which the neighbors knew except by inveigling 
 he negroes into thefts of property which, in his wanderings, 
 he disposed of. He was a constant wanderer to tbe towns 
 around, and it was said, sometimes extended his rambles to 
 others out of the state. His rifle and a mangy cur that slept in 
 the fireplace, and like his master was never visible by day, 
 were his sole companions when abroad. At home he had a 
 wife and one child. The wife, like himself, seemed sour and 
 dissatisfied. Her looks, when not vacant, were dark and threat 
 ening. She spoke little but rarely idly, and however much her 
 outward deportment might resemble that of her husband, it 
 must be said in her favor, that her nature was decidedly gentler, 
 and her character as far superior as it well could be, living in 
 such contact, and having no sympathies save those which she 
 found in her child and husband. Perhaps, too, her mind was 
 something stronger, as it was more direct and loss flexible, than 
 his. She was a woman of deliberate and composed manner, 
 rarely passionate, and careful to accommodate her conduct and 
 appearance to the well-known humility of condition in which 
 she lived. In this lay her wisdom. The people around com 
 miser at ed her as she was neither presumptuous nor offensive, 
 and tolerated many offences in him, in consideration of herself 
 and child, which would have brought any other person to the 
 whipping post. The child, an unhappy creature, a girl of fif 
 teen, was an idiot-born. She was pretty, very pretty, and 
 sometimes, when a sudden spark of intelligence lighted up her 
 eye, she seemed really beautiful. But the mind was utterly 
 lacking. The temple was graceful, erect, and inviting, but the 
 god had never taken possession of his shrine. 
 
 Enough ! It was to ttis unpromising family and mean abode 
 that John Hurdis came late at night. The inmates were watch 
 ful and the man ready to answer to the summons. The woman, 
 too, was a watcher, probably after an accustomed habit, but the 
 idiot girl slept on a pallet in one corner of the apartment. 
 When John Hurdis entered, she raised her head, and regarded 
 him with a show of merest which he did net appear to *ee 
 
84 RICHARD HURDI8, 
 
 He iroked with some curiosity at her couch, however ; but for an 
 instant only His regards that night were for her father only. 
 
 "Ah, Pickett," said he with" an air of jocularity on entering, 
 "how goes it? How does the world use you now-a-days? 
 How d ye do, Mrs. Pickett ? And Jane how is Jane ?" 
 
 " I m well, sir, I m quite well, Mr. John," was the quick 
 i espouse of the poor innocent in the corner, whom everybody 
 thought asleep. The answers of Pickett and his wife were not 
 so prompt. That of the former was somewhat surly, that of 
 the wife slow. A brief formal dialogue passed between the 
 party, in which John Hurdis spoke with infinite good humor. 
 He did not seem to heed the coldness of his host and hostess; 
 and all traces of his late anger had passed effectually from his 
 vice and visage. His only concern seemed now to conciliate 
 those whom he sought, and it does not take long for the rich 
 man to make the poor and the inferior unbend. In a little time 
 John Hurdis had the satisfaction to see the hostess smile, and 
 to hear a broken and surly chuckle of returning good-nature 
 from the lips of Pickett. The preliminary difficulty was over ; 
 and making a sign to Pickett, while his wife s back was turned, 
 the guest led the Avay to the door bidding the latter good-night. 
 The idiot girl half raised herself in the bed and answered for 
 the mother. 
 
 " Good-night, Mr. John, good-night, Mr. John." 
 
 Pickett followed Hurdis to the door, and the two went forth 
 together. 
 
 They soon buried themselves in the thick cover of the neigh 
 boring wood, when John Hurdis, who had led the way, turned 
 and confronted his companion. 
 
 " Well, squire," said Pickett with abrupt familiarity, " I see 
 you have work for me. What s the mischief to-night 1" 
 
 " You are right. I have work for you, and mischief. Will 
 you do it?" 
 
 "If it suits me. You know I m not very nice. Let s hear 
 the kind of work, and then the pay that I m to get for doing it, 
 fore I answer." 
 
 "Richard llurdis goes for the Nation to-morrow," said 
 John in a lower tone of voice. 
 
 " Well, ^ou re glad to get rid of him, I suppose. He g out 
 
GUILTY PHAOTICR. 85 
 
 of your way now. I wish I could be contain that be wai 
 tft of mine." 
 
 " You can make it certain." 
 
 " How 1" 
 
 " Tis that I came about. He goes to the Nation,* on rfome 
 wild goose char.e ; not tliat ho, wishes to go, but because h* 
 thinks that Mary Enstcrby is fond of me." 
 
 "So; the thing works, does it?" 
 
 " Ay, but does not work for me, though it may work against 
 him. I have succeeded in making them misunderstand eacL 
 other but I have not yet been successful in convincing her tb^ 
 I am the only proper person for her. You know my feeling on 
 that subject, it is enough that she declines my ofi cr." 
 
 " Well, what then are you. to do?" 
 
 " That troubles me. She declines me simply because she 
 prefers him." 
 
 41 But you say she has no hope of him. She thinks he loves 
 another." 
 
 "Yes! But that does not altogether make her hopeless 
 Hope is a tiling not killed so easily ; and when wom^n love. 
 they cling to their object even when they behold it in the armf 
 of another. The love lives, in spite of them, though, in most 
 cases, they have the cunning to conceal it. Mary KasU-rby 
 would not give up the hope of having Richard Hurdis, so long 
 as she could lay eyes on him, and they are both single. " 
 
 "Perhaps you re right; and yet, if llichard drives for the 
 Nation she ll lose sight of him, and then " 
 
 ""Will he not return ?" replied the other sternly and gloomily 
 "Who shall keep him away? The discontent that drives him 
 now will bring him back. He goes because he believes that 
 she is engaged to me. He will come back because he doubts 
 it. He will not sleep until he, finds out our deception. They 
 will have an explanation had he not been blinded by his own 
 passions he would have found it out before and then all my 
 labors will have been in vain. It will be my turn to go among 
 the Choctaws. 
 
 " AVell but, squire, while he s off and out of sight, can t 
 you get her to marry you and have done with it ?" said Pickett 
 
 "Net easily; and if I could, what would it avail? Lovinjr 
 
86 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 him at> she does, I should but marry her for him. His hand 
 would bo in my dish, and I should but fence in a crop for his 
 benefit No, no, that would not do either. I tell you, where 
 these v omen once love a man, to see him, to have opportunity 
 with him, is fatal, though they be lawfully bound to another. ] 
 hhould not si joo secure in her arms, as 1 should not be able tc 
 think that 1 io,w was their occupant." 
 
 "Now, tha. what I call being of a mighty jealous sort of 
 disposition, squire. I m sure that you re wrong in your notion 
 of Miss Mary. I don t think she d be the woman to do wrong 
 in that way. She s a mighty nice girl, is so modest and well 
 behaved, and so much of a lady; I m always afraid to look at 
 her when I speak to her ; and she carries herself so high, that 
 I m sure if a man had anything wrong to say to her, he could 
 not say it if he looked at her and saw her look." 
 
 "Ay, that is her look to you, Pickett, and to me, perhaps, 
 whom she does not love,* said John bitterly ; " but let her look 
 on Richard Ilurdis, and meet his eye, and the face changes 
 fast enough. She has no dignified look for him ; no cold, com 
 posed, commanding voice. Oh, no ! It is then her turn to 
 tremble, and to speak brokenly and with downcast eyes; it is 
 then her turn to feel the power of another, and to forget her 
 own ; to be awed, rather than to awe ; to fear herself, rather 
 than to inspire that fear in him which she may in both of us." 
 
 " I reckon he feels it too, squire, quite as much, if not more, 
 than you ; for, say what you please, there s no saying Richard 
 Hurdis don t love her. I ve watched him often when he s been 
 with her, and when he has not thought that anybody was look 
 ing at him and that was at a time, too, when I had no reason 
 to like any bone in his skin and I saw enough to feel certain 
 that he felt a real, earnest love for her." 
 
 " Let us say no more of that now," said John Hurdis coldly, 
 as if not altogether pleased with the tone of his companion s 
 speech " Do you like him any better now, Ben Pickett ? is 
 he not the same man to you now that he has ever beer ? would 
 he not i? rive you out of the country if he could ? has he not 
 tried to do it ? And who was it stood between you and the 
 whipping-post, when, at the head of the connty regulators, he 
 would have dragged you to it, fo- robb-ng the coinhouse, and 
 
GUILTY PRACTICE. 87 
 
 buying cotton from the negroes? Have you forgotten all this 
 Ben Pickett? and do you like Richard Hurdis any better when 
 you remember that, to this moment, he has not relaxed against 
 you, and, to my knowledge, only a month ago threatened you 
 with the horsewhip, if he found you prowling about the plan 
 tation?" 
 
 " Ay, I hear you," said the man, while the thick sweat actu 
 ally stood upon his forehead, as he listened to an enumeration 
 of events from which his peril had been great "I hear you, 
 John Hurdis: all is true that you say, but you say not all the 
 truth. Did you hear what I said to Richard Hurdis when he 
 threatened me with the horsewhip? do you know what I said 
 to myself, and swore in my own heart, when he would have 
 hauled me to the whipping-post from which you saved me? " 
 
 "No; what said you? what did you swear?" 
 
 " To put my bullet through his head, if he laid the weight of 
 his finger upon me; and but that you saved him in saving me, 
 so surely would I have shot him, had the regulators tied me to 
 the tree and used one hickory upon me." 
 
 " I was a fool for saving you, then, Pickett that s all. Had 
 I known that you could so well have fought your own battles, 
 I had let him go on. I am not sorry, Ben, that I saved you 
 from the whip; but, by G d, I am sorry to the soul that I saved 
 him from the shot!" 
 
 " I m not sorry," said the other. " Let Richard Hurdis live; 
 I wish him no harm, I could even like him; for, blast me, but 
 he has something about him that I m always glad to see in a 
 man, and if he would only let me alone 
 
 " He will not let you alone, Ben Pickett. He can not let you 
 alone, if you would look at the matter. He comes back from 
 the nation, and Mary Easterby is still unmarried. What then 
 an explanation takes place between them. They find out 
 the truth: they find, perhaps, that you put the letter in the way 
 of Mary that told her about Richard s doings at Coosauda; that 
 you have been my agent in breeding the difference between 
 them. More than this, they marry, and Richard brings his 
 wife home to live with him at the old man s, where, if he does 
 that, he will have full authority. Do you suppose, when that 
 time comes I will stay in the neighborhood? Impossible. It 
 
88 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 will be as impossible for me to stay here as it will be for you 
 The moment I go, who will protect you? Kichard will rout 
 you out of the neighborhood; he has sworn to do it; and we 
 both know him too well not to know that, if he once gets the 
 powder to do what he swears, he will not hesitate to use it. He 
 will drive you to Red river as sure as you re a living man." 
 
 "Let the time come," said the other gloomily, "let the time 
 come. Why do you tell me of this matter now, squire?" 
 
 "You are cold and dull, Ben Pickett you are getting old," 
 said John Hurdis, with something like asperity. "Do I not 
 tell you other things? do you not hear that Richard Hurdis sets 
 off to-morrow for the nation ? I have shown you that his ab 
 sence is of benefit to both of us, that is return is to our mutual 
 injury. Why should he return. The gamblers may cut his 
 throat and the fighting Choctaws may shoot him down among 
 their forests, and nobody will be the wiser, and both of us the 
 better for it." 
 
 "Why, let them, it will be happy riddance," said Pickett. 
 
 "To be sure, let them," said the other impatiently; "but 
 suppose they do not, Ben? should we not send them a message, 
 telling them that they will serve and please us much by doing 
 so? that they will rid us of a very troublesome enemy, and that 
 they have full permission to put him to death as soon as they 
 please." 
 
 "Well, to say the truth, Squire John," said Pickett, "I don t 
 see what you re driving at." 
 
 "You mean that you won t see, Ben," responded the other 
 quickly; " listen awhile. You are agreed that it will do us no 
 small service if the gamblers or the Choctaws put a bullet 
 through the ribs of Richard Hurdis; it will be a benefit rather 
 than a harm to us." 
 
 "Well." 
 
 " But suppose they think it will not benefit them, are we to 
 forgo our benefits because they show themselves selfish? Shall 
 Richard Hurdis survive the Choctaws, and come home to trouble 
 us? Think of it, Ben Pickett; what folly it would be to suffer 
 it! Why not speed some one after the traveler, who will ap 
 prize the gamblers, or the Choctaws, of our enemy who will 
 show them how troublesome he is how he carries a good sum 
 
GUILTY PRACTICE. 89 
 
 of money in his saddle-bags ? how easy it will be for them to stop 
 a troublesome traveller who has money in his saddle-bags ? It may 
 be that such a messenger might do the business himself in con 
 sideration of the benefit and the money ; but how should we or any 
 body know that it was done by him ? The Choctaws, Ben the 
 Choctaws will get the blame, we the benefit, and our messenger, 
 if he pleases, the money." 
 
 "I understand you now, squire," said Pickett. 
 
 "I knew you would," replied John Hurdis, "and only wonder 
 that you did not readily comprehend before. Hear me, Ben: I 
 have a couple of hundred dollars to spare they are at your 
 service. Take horse to-morrow, and track Richard Hurdis into 
 the nation ; he is your enemy and mine. He is gone there to 
 look for land. Give him as much as he needs. Six feet will 
 answer all his purposes, if your rifle carries as truly now as it did 
 a year ago." 
 
 The man looked about him with apprehension ere he replied. 
 When he did so, his voice had sunk into a hoarse breathing, the 
 syllables of which were scarce distinguishable. 
 
 "I will do it," he said, grasping the hand of his cold and cow 
 ardly tempter, "I will do it it shall be done; but, by G d, 
 squire, I would much rather do it with his whip warm upon my 
 back, and his angry curses loud in my ears." 
 
 "Do it as you will, Ben; but let it be done. The Choctaws 
 are a cruel and treacherous people, and these gamblers of the Mis 
 sissippi are quite as bad. Their murders are very common. It was 
 very imprudent for Richard to travel at this season ; but if he dies, 
 he has nobody but himself to blame." 
 
 They separated. The infernal compact was made and chronicled 
 in their mutual memories, and witnessed only by the fiends that 
 prompted the hellish purpose. 
 
90 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTEK XII. 
 
 A POOR MAN S WIFE. 
 
 " Thou trust st a villain ; he will take thy hand 
 And use it for his own ; yet when the brand 
 Hews the dishonored member not his loss 
 Thou art the victim ! The FUglit. 
 
 WHEN Pickett returned to his hovel, on leaving John Hurdis, his 
 wife abruptly addressed him thus : 
 
 "Look you, Ben, John Hurdis comes after no good to-night. 
 I see it in that smile he has. I know there s mischief in his 
 eye. He laughs, but he does not look on you while he laughs: 
 it isn t an honest laugh, as if the heart was in it, and as if he 
 wasn t afraid to have everything known in his heart. He s a 
 bad man, Ben, whatever other people may think ; and, though 
 he has helped you once or twice, I don t think him any more 
 certain your friend for all that. He only wants to make use of 
 you; and if you let him go too far, Ben, mark my words, he ll 
 leave you one day in a worse hobble than ever he helped you 
 out of." 
 
 "Pshaw, Betsy, how you talk ! you ve a spite against John Hur 
 dis, and that s against reason too. You forget how he saved me 
 from his brother." 
 
 "No, I do nor forget it, Ben. He did no more than any man 
 should have done who saw a dozen about to trample upon one. 
 He saved you, it is true, but he has made you pay him for it. 
 He has made you work for him long enough for it, high and 
 low, playing a dirty sort of a game ; carrying letters to throw 
 in people s paths, there s no knowing for what ; and telling you 
 what to say in people s ears, when you haven t always been 
 certain that you ve been speaking truth when you did so. I 
 don t forget that he served you, Ben, but I also know that you 
 
A POOR MAN S WIFE. 91 
 
 are serving him day and night in return. Besides, Ben, what he 
 did for you is what one gentleman might readily do for another : 
 I m not sure that what he makes you do for him isn t rascal- 
 work." 
 
 "Hush!" said Pickett, in a whisper, "you talk too loud. Is 
 Jane asleep?" 
 
 The watchful idiot, with the cunning of imbecility which still has 
 its object, closed her eyes, and put on the appearance of one lost to 
 all consciousness. 
 
 " Yes, she s asleep ; but what if she does hear us? She s our own 
 child, though not a wise one, and it will be hard if we can t trust our 
 selves to speak before her," said the mother. 
 
 " But there s something, Betsy, that we shouldn t speak at all 
 before anybody." 
 
 " I hope the business of John Hurdis ain t of that character, Ben 
 Pickett," she retorted quickly. 
 
 " And what if it is? " he replied. 
 
 " Why then, Ben, you should have nothing to do with it, if you ll 
 mind wbat I m telling you. John Hurdis will get you into trouble. 
 He s a bad man." 
 
 " What, for helping me out of trouble ? " 
 
 "No, but for hating his own brother as he does, his own flesh 
 and blood as I may say, the child that has suckled at the same 
 nipple with himself ; and, what s worse, for fearing the man he 
 hates. Now, I say that the hate is bad enough, and must lead to 
 harm ; but when he s a coward that hates, then nothing s too bad for 
 him to do, provided he can keep from danger when he does it. 
 That s the man to light the match, and run away from the 
 explosion. He ll make you the match, and he ll take your fingers 
 to light it, and then take to his own heels and leave you all the 
 danger. " 
 
 " Pshaw, Betsy, you talk like a woman and a child," said Pickett, 
 with an air of composure and indifference, which he was far from 
 feeling. 
 
 " And so I do, Ben ; and if you ll listen to a woman s talk, it will 
 be wise. It would have saved you many times before, and it may do 
 much to save you now. Why should you do any business that 
 you re afraid to lay out to me. There must be something wrong in 
 it, I m sure ; and it can t be no small wrong neither, Ben, that you re 
 
92 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 afraid to tell me. What should the rich Squire Hurdis want of 
 Ben Pickett the squatter ? Why should he come palavering you, 
 and me, and that poor child with fine words ; and what can we, poor 
 and mean and hated as we are by everybody, what can we do for so 
 great a man as him ? I tell you, Ben Pickett, he wants you to do 
 dirty work, that he s ashamed and afraid to do himself. That s 
 it, Ben ; and there s no denying it. Now, why should you do 
 his dirty work ? He s better able to do it himself, he s rich 
 enough to do almost what he pleases ; and you, Ben, you re too 
 poor to do even what is proper. These rich men ask what right a 
 poor man has to be good and honest ; they expect him to be a 
 rascal." 
 
 " Well," said the other sulkily, " we ought to be so, then, if it s 
 only to oblige them." 
 
 "No, Ben Pickett, we ought hardly to oblige them in anything; 
 but, whether we would oblige them or not, my notion is, we ought 
 to keep different tracks from them altogether. If we are too mean 
 and poor, to be seen by them without turning up their noses, let us 
 take care not to see them at any time, or if we do see them, let us 
 make use of our eyes to take different tracks from them. There s 
 always two paths in the world, the one s a big path for big people ; 
 let them have it to themselves, and let us keep off it ; the other s a 
 little path for the little, let them stick to it and no jostling. It s the 
 misfortune of poor people that they re always poking into the wrong 
 path, trying to swell up to the size of the big, and making them 
 selves mean by doing so. No wonder the rich despise such people. 
 I despise them myself, though God knows I m one of the poorest." 
 
 "I m not one to poke in big paths." said Pickett. 
 
 " No ! But why do big folks come out of their road into yours, 
 Ben Pickett ? I ll tell you. Because they think they can buy you to 
 go into any path, whether big or little, high or low, clean or dirty. 
 John Hurdis says in his heart, I m rich ; Pickett s poor ; my riches 
 can buy his poverty to clean the road for me where it s dirty. Isn t 
 that it, Ben Pickett ? " 
 
 The keen gray eyes of the woman were fixed on him with a 
 glance of penetration, as she spoke these words, that seemed to 
 search his very soul. The eyes of Pickett shrank from beneath their 
 stare. 
 
A POOR MAN S WIFE. 93 
 
 "Betsy, you re half a witch," he exclaimed with an effort at 
 jocularity which was not successful. 
 
 "I knew it was something like that, Ben Pickett. John Hurdis 
 would never seek you, except when he had dirty work on hand. 
 Now, what s the work, Ben Pickett ?" 
 
 "That s his secret, Betsy : and you know I can t tell you what 
 concerns only another and not us." 
 
 " It concerns you ; it is your secret too ; Ben Pickett it is my 
 secret it is the secret of that poor child." 
 
 The speaker little knew that the idiot was keenly listening. She 
 continued : 
 
 " If it s to do this work, and if it s work done in his name, work 
 that you won t be ashamed of, and he won t be ashamed of when it s 
 done, Ben Pickett, then it s all right enough. You may keep his 
 secret and welcome ; I would not turn on my heel to know it. But 
 if it s dirty work that you ll both be ashamed of, such as car 
 rying stories to Mary Easterby, who is a good girl, and de 
 serves the best ; then it s but too much of that sort of work 
 you ve done already." 
 
 "It s nothing like that," said Pickett quickly. "But don t 
 bother me any more about it, Betsy; for if you were to guess a 
 hundred times, and guess right, I shouldn t tell you. So have 
 done and go to bed." 
 
 " Ben Pickett, I warn you, take care what you do. This 
 man, John Hurdis, is too strong for you. He s Avinning you 
 fast, he ll wrong you soon. You re working for him too cheaply; 
 he ll laugh at you when you come for pay; and may be put to 
 your own account the work you do on his. Beware, look what 
 you re about, keep your eyes open; for I see clear as daylight, 
 that you re in a bad way. The work must be worse than dirty 
 you re going upon now, when you are so afraid to speak of it 
 to me." 
 
 "I tell you, Betsy, shut up. It s his business, not mine, and 
 I m not free to talk of it even to you. Enough that I don t 
 work for nothing. The worst that you shall know of it will 
 be the money it will bring." 
 
 "The devil s money blisters the fingers. And what s money 
 to me, Ben Pickett, or what is money to you? What can 
 money do for us? Can it make men love us and seek us? 
 
94 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 Can it bring us pride and character? Can it make me forget 
 the scorn that I ve been fed on from the time I was a simpler 
 child than that poor idiot in the corner? Can it bring sense 
 into her mind, and make us proud of her? Can it make you 
 forget or others forget, Ben Pickett, that you have been hauled 
 to the whipping-post, and saved from it only to be the slave of 
 a base coward, such as John Hurdis has ever been, and ever 
 will be?" 
 
 "No more of that, Bets} , if j ou please. You are quite too 
 fond of bringing up that whipping-post." 
 
 "And if I do, it has its uses. I wish you would think of it 
 half as frequently, Ben Pickett; you would less frequently 
 stand in danger of it. But I speak of it, because it is one of 
 the black spots in my memory like the lack of that child 
 like the scorn of those around us like everything that belongs 
 to us, as we are living now. Why will you not go, as I wish 
 you, away from this neighborhood? Let us go to the Red 
 river where we know nobod} 7 ; where nobody knows us. Let 
 us go among the savages, if you please, Ben Pickett, where I 
 may see none of the faces that remind me of our shame." 
 
 " Why, so we will. Just as you say, Betsy, I will but do 
 some business that I m bound for, that will give us money to 
 go up and then " 
 
 " No, don t wait for that. Let the money stay ; we have 
 enough to carry us to the Red river, and we shall want but 
 little of it there. When you talk to me of money you vex me. 
 We have no use for it. We want hommony only and homespun. 
 These are enough to keep from cold and hunger. To use more 
 money, Ben Pickett, we must be good and conscious of good. 
 We must not stand in fear and shame, to meet other than our 
 own eyes. I have that fear and shame, Ben Pickett : and this 
 dirty business of John Hurdis it must be dirty since it must 
 be a secret makes me feel new fear of what is to come; and 
 I feel even shame to sickness as I think upon it. Here me, 
 Ben ; hear me while it is in time for me to speak. There may 
 not be time tomorrow, and if you do not listen to me now, 
 you might listen another day in vain. Drop this business of 
 John Hurdis 
 
 "I ve promised him," 
 
A POOR MAN S WIFE. 95 
 
 "Break your promise." 
 
 " No! d d if I do that! " 
 
 " And why not? There s no shame in breaking a bad promise. 
 There shame and cowardice in keeping it," 
 
 " I m no coward, Betsy." 
 
 " You are! You are afraid to speak the truth to me, to your wife 
 and child. I dare you to wake up that poor idiot and say to her, 
 weak and foolish as she is, the business you are going on for John 
 Hurdis. You d fear that, in her very ignorance, she would tell you 
 that your intention was crime ! " 
 
 "Crime?" 
 
 "Ay, crime lies, perhaps, in a poor girl s ear theft; perhaps 
 the robbery of some traveler on the highway; perhaps per 
 haps Oh, Ben Pickett, my husband, I pray to God it be not 
 murder! " 
 
 " Damnation, woman! will 3*011 talk all night?" cried the pale and 
 quivering felon in a voice of thunder. " To bed, I say, and shut up. 
 Let us have no more of this." 
 
 The idiot girl started in terror from her mattress. 
 
 " Lie down, child; what do you rise for? " 
 
 The stern manner of her father frightened her into obedience, and 
 she resumed her couch, wrapping the coverlet over her head, and 
 thus, hiding her face and hushing her sobs at the same moment. The 
 wife concluded the dialogue by a repetition of her exhortation in 
 brief. 
 
 "Once more, Ben, I warn you. You arc in danger. You will 
 tell me nothing; but you have told me all. I know you well enough 
 to know that you have sold yourself to do wrong that John Hurdis 
 has bought you to do that which he has not the courage to do him 
 self" 
 
 " Yet you say I am a coward." 
 
 " I say so still. I wish you were brave enough to want no more 
 money than you can honestly get; and when a richer man than } r our- 
 self comes to buy you to do that which he is too base to do himself, 
 to take him by the shoulders and tumble him from the door. Unfor 
 tunately you have courage enough to do wrong there s a greater 
 courage- than that, Ben Pickett, that strengthens even a starving man 
 to do right." 
 
 Pickett felt that he had not this courage, and his wife had before 
 
96 KICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 this discovered that the power was not in her to endow him with it. 
 Both parties, were compelled when they discovered the idiot girl to 
 be awake and watchful, to forego their discussion of the subject for 
 the night; and when the woman did resume it, which she did with a 
 tenacity of purpose, worthy of a more ostentatious virtue, she was 
 only succesful in arousing that sort of anger in her companion, which 
 is but too much the resort of the wilful when the argument goes 
 against them. It was more easy for Pickett, with the sort of courage 
 which he possessed, to do wrong than right, and having once resolved 
 to sin, the exhortations of virtue were only so many suggestions to 
 obstinacy. With a warmth and propriety infinitely beyond her situ 
 ation did the wife plead; but her earnestness, though great, was not 
 equal to the doggedness of his resolve. She was compelled to give 
 up the cause in despair. 
 
THE BLOODHOUND ON THE SCENT. 97 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE BLOODHOUND ON THE SCENT. 
 
 41 His was the fault ; be his the punishment. 
 Tis not own their crimes only men commit; 
 They harrow them into another s breast, 
 And they shall reap the bitter growth with pain." 
 
 LAN DBS. 
 
 THE messenger of blood departed the next day upon his 
 fearful mission. His calculation was to keep due paee with 
 his victim; to watch his progress ; command Iris person at all 
 times, and to avail himself of the first fitting opportunity, to ex 
 ecute the cruel trust which he had undertaken. Such a pur 
 pose required the utmost precaution and some little time. To 
 do the deed might be often easy ; to do it secretly and success 
 fully, but seldom. He was to watch the single moment in a 
 thousand, and be ready to use it before it was gone forever. 
 
 "You will not be gone long, Ben?" said the wife, as he 
 busied himself in preparation. 
 
 "I know not a day, a week, a mouth! I know not. It 
 matters little ; you can do without me." 
 
 " Yes, your wife can do without you I wish that John Hurdis 
 could do without you .also. I do not like this business, Ben, upon 
 which he sends you now." 
 
 "What business? what know you of it?" he demanded 
 hastily. " Why should you dislike the business which you know 
 nothing about ? " 
 
 " That s the very reason that makes me dislike it. Why should I 
 know nothing about it ? Why should a man keep his business from 
 his wife s knowledge ? " 
 
 "Good reason enough, to keep it from the knowledge of 
 everybody else. You might as well print it in the Montgomery 
 
98 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 paper, as to tell it to a woman. There won t be a Methodist 
 preacher that don t hear of it the first week, and not a meeting 
 in the country that won t talk of it in the second. They have quite 
 enough of other folks affairs to blab, Betsey ; we needn t give them 
 any of mine." 
 
 You well enough know, Ben Pickett, that this sort of talk 
 means nothing. You know I am not the "woman to make her 
 own or her husband s concerns the business of the country. I 
 go not often to the church. I do not often see the preachers, 
 and there is very little to say between us. It might be much 
 better if there w r ere more : and you know well enough that I 
 see few women and have no neighbors. We are not the people 
 to have neighbors what would tempt them? It is enough for 
 me, Ben, to stay at home, and keep as much out of sight as I can, 
 as well on your own account as on account of that poor ignorant 
 creature." 
 
 "Pshaw ! you talk too much of Jane, and think too much of her 
 folly. She is no more a fool than most other girls of her age, and 
 talks far less nonsense. She s quite as good as any of them, and a 
 devilish sight handsomer than most of them. There s hardly one 
 that wouldn t be glad to have her face." 
 
 "You mean me, father Ben, don t you !" said the witless one, 
 perking up her face with a smile, and raising it under the chin of 
 Pickett.. 
 
 "Go, Jane, go and put things to rights on the table, and don t 
 mind what we re a saying." 
 
 The girl obeyed reluctantly, and the father, tapping her on 
 the bead kindly, the only parting which he gave her, left the 
 house, and proceeded to his horse which was fastened to the 
 fence. There he arranged the saddle, and while thus employed his 
 wife came to him. 
 
 "Ben Pickett," she said, resumiug the subject of her apprehen 
 sions, "I hear that Richard Hurdis is going to the nation 
 to-day." 
 
 Well ! what of that ! " said Pickett gruffly. 
 
 " Nothing but this, Ben ; I m afraid that his going to the nation 
 has something to do with your journey. Now, I don t know what 
 it is that troubles me, but I am troubled, and have been so ever 
 since I heard that Richard was going to-day." 
 
THE BLOODHOUND ON THE SCENT 99 
 
 "And bow did you hear it?" 
 
 " From Jane." 
 
 "Jane, the fool! and how did she hear it?" 
 
 "She s a fool, but there s no need for you to call her so al 
 ways, Ben. It s not right; it s not like a father. As for 
 where she heard it, I can t say; I didn t ask her; perhaps 
 from some of the negroes; old Billy, from Squire Easteby s 
 was over here, last night." 
 
 "Last night! old Billy! at what hour was he here?" 
 
 "Nay I don t know exactly. He went away just before 
 John Hurdis came." 
 
 Pickett appeared annoyed by the intelligence, but was silent 
 and concealed his annoyance, whatever may have occasioned 
 it, by strapping his saddle and busying himself with the bridle 
 of his horse. 
 
 "You say nothing, Ben; but tell me, I beg you, and ease 
 my mind, only tell me that the business you re going upon don t 
 concern Richard Hurdis. Say, only say, you don t go the 
 same road with Richard Hurdis, that you didn t know that he 
 was going, that you won t follow him." 
 
 "And how should I say such a thing, Betsy," replied the 
 now obdurate ruffian, " when I don t know which road he s 
 going? How can I follow him, if I don t know the track he 
 takes? " 
 
 "That s not it not it. Tell me that you won t try to find 
 it, that you don t mean to follow him, that oh! my God, that 
 I should ask such a thing of my husband that you are not 
 going after Richard Hurdis to kill him?" 
 
 "Betsy, you re a worse fool than Jane," was the reply of 
 Pickett. " What the devil put such nonsense into your head? 
 What makes you think I would do such a thing? It s true, I 
 hate Dick Hurdis, but I don t hate him bad enough to kill him 
 unless in fair fight. If he ll give me fair fight at long shot, by 
 G d, I d like nothing better than to crack at him; but I m not 
 thinking of him. If I had wanted to kill him, don t you think 
 I d a done it long before, when he was kicking me about like a 
 foot-ball. You may be sure I won t try to do it now, when he s 
 let me alone, and when, as you say yourself, he s going out of 
 the country. Damn him, let him go in peace, say I." 
 
100 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 "Amen," exclaimed the woman, "amen; yet look you, Ben 
 Fickett. What you mightn t feel wicked enough to do for your 
 self, you may be weak enough to do for one who is more wicked 
 than you are. That s the misfortune of a great many people; and 
 the devil gets them to do a great deal of work which they 
 wouldn t be willing to do on their own account, Oh, Ben, take 
 care of that John Hurdis. If you didn t hate Richard Hurdis bad 
 enough to kill him on your own score, don t let that cowardly 
 John tempt you to do it for him. I know he hates his brother 
 and wants to get him out of the way; for he wants to marry 
 Mary Easterby; but don t let him make use of you in any of 
 his wickedness. He stands no chance of Mary with all his trying, 
 for I know she won t have him; and so if you work for him, you ll 
 work against the wind, as you have done long enough both for 
 yourself and him. But whether you work for him or not, hear 
 me, Ben Pickett, do nothing that you ll be ashamed or afraid to 
 near of again. My mind misgives me about Dick Hurdis. I wish 
 you were not a-going I wish you were not a-going the same day 
 with him." 
 
 "Don t I tell you, Betsy, I m not on his trail. I shan t look after 
 him, and don t care to see him." 
 
 "Yes; but should you meet ?" 
 
 "Well, what then? Would you have me cut and run like a 
 nigger s dog? 
 
 "No; but I would not have you go to-day. I would rather you 
 shouldn t meet." 
 
 "We won t, be sure of that. I promise you, we won t meet; and, 
 if we do, be sure we shan t quarrel." 
 
 "You ll promise that, Ben? you ll swear it?" said the woman 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Ay, to be sure I will; I swear, Betsy, I won t meet him, and we 
 shan t quarrel if I can help it." 
 
 "That s enough, Ben; and now go in peace, and come back soon. 
 It s off my mind now, Ben, since you promise me; but it s been a 
 trouble and a fear to me, this going of yours to-day, ever since I heard 
 that Richard Hurdis was to be on the road." 
 
 "Pshaw! you re a fool all over about Dick Hurdis!" said Pickett, 
 with a burly air of good humor; "I believe now, Betsy, that you 
 like him better than me." 
 
THE BLOODHOUXD OX THE SCEXT. Wl 
 
 "Like him!" exclaimed the woman, relapsing into the phleg 
 matic and chilling sterness of expression and countenance which 
 were her wonted characteristics in ordinary moods. "Like him! 
 .... neither like nor dislike, Ben Pickett, out of this paling. 
 These old logs, and this worm fence, contain all that I can ex 
 pend feeling upon, and when you talk to me of likes and dis 
 likes, you only laugh at your own condition and mine." 
 
 The man said no more and they separated. She returned 
 to the house, and in a few moments he leaped upon his horse, 
 which was light-made and fast-going, though small, animal, 
 and was soon out of sight even of the idiot-girl, who laughed and 
 beckoned to him, without being heeded, until his person was no 
 longer visible in the dull gray of the forest which enveloped 
 him. 
 
 "Fool!" he exclaimed, as he rode out of hearing; " fool, to 
 think to make me swear what she pleases, and then to take the 
 oath just as I think proper! I will not meet him, and still less 
 will I quarrel with him, if I can help it; but, I will try and put 
 a bullet through him for all that! It s an old score, and may 
 as well be wiped out now as never. This year is just as good 
 for settlement as the next. Indeed, for that matter, it s best 
 now. It s much the safest. lie breaks off from one neighbor 
 hood, and they know nothing of him in any other. Well/ as 
 John Hurdis said, the Choctaws have done it, or the gamblers. 
 Ben Pickett has been too long quiet, and lives too far from the 
 nation, to lay it at his door. And yet, by G d! it s true what 
 Betsy says, that John Hurdis is a poor coward after all! " 
 
 It was in thoughts and musings such as these sometimes 
 muttered audibly, but most frequently entertained in secret 
 that Ben Pickett commenced his pursuit of me, a few hours only 
 after I had begun my journey. Circumstances, however, and 
 probably an error in the directions given him by my brother, 
 misled him from the path, into which lie did not fall until late 
 the ensuing day. This gave me a start of him which he woud 
 not have made up, had I not come to a full stop at Tuscaloosa. 
 But of this afterward. 
 
KICHAUD Hl RDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE SILLY JANE. 
 
 " She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 
 
 Besides the springs of Dove, 
 A maid, whom there were none to praise, 
 
 And very few to love, 
 A violet by a mossy stone, 
 
 Half hidden from the eye, 
 Fair as a star when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky." WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " And yet lack ! " SHAKSPERE 
 
 THE afternoon of the day following that of Pickett s depart 
 ure was one the loveliest among the lovely days so frequent 
 in the Alabama November. The glances of the oblique sun 
 rested with benignant smile, like that of some venerable and 
 single-hearted sire, upon the groves of the forest, which, by this 
 time, had put on all the colors of the rainbow. The cold airs 
 of coming winter had been just severe enough to put a flush-like 
 glow into the cheeks of the leaf, and to envelop the the green, here 
 and there, with a coating of purple and yellow, which served it 
 as some rich and becoming border, and made the brief remains 
 of the gaudy garb of summer seem doubly rich, and far more 
 valuable in such decorations. Dark brown and blooded berries 
 hung wantonly from bending branches, and trailing vines, that 
 were smitten and torn asunder by premature storms of cold, lay 
 upon the path and depended from overhead, with life enough 
 in them still, even when severed from the parent-stem, to nour 
 ish and maintain the warm and grape-like clusters which they 
 bore. Thousands of flowers, of all varieties of sh.-ipe and color, 
 came out upon the side of the path, and, as it were, threw them 
 selves along the thoroughfare only to be trodden upon; while 
 
THE SILLY JANE. 103 
 
 hidden in the deeper recesses of the woodland, millions beside 
 appeared to keep themselves in store only to supply the places 
 of those which were momently doomed to suffer the consequences 
 of exposure and to perish beneath the sudden gusts of the equal 
 ly unheeding footsteps of the wayfarer. Hidden from sight only 
 by the winter bloom that absorbed all space, and seemed reso 
 lute to exclude from all sight, thousands of trees, of more 
 delicate nature already stripped of their foliage, stood like 
 mourning ghosts or withered relics of the past the melancholy 
 spider, the only living decoration of their gaunt and stretching 
 arms, her web now completely exposed in the absence of the 
 leaves, under whose sheltering volume, it had been begun in 
 secret. At moments the breeze would gather itself up from the 
 dead leaves that strewed the paths of the forest, and ruffle lightly, 
 in rising, the pleasant bed where it had lain. A kindred 
 ruffler of leaves and branches, was the nimble squirrel, who 
 skipped along the forests, making all objects subservient to his 
 forward motion; and now and then the rabbit timidly stealing 
 out from the long yellow grass beside the bay, would bound and 
 crouch alternately; the sounds that shake the lighter leaves and 
 broken branches, stirring her heart with more keen and lasting sensa 
 tions, and compelling her to pause in her progress, in constant dread 
 of the pursuer. 
 
 A fitting dweller in a scene of such innocence and simplicity 
 was the thoughtless and unendowed creature that now enters it; 
 her hand filled with bush and berry and leaf, sought with care, 
 pursued with avidity, gathered with fatigue, and thrown away 
 without regard. A thousand half -formed plans in her mind 
 if the idiot child of Ben Pickett may be said to possess one a 
 thousand crowding, yet incomplete, conceits, hurrying her for 
 ward in a pursuit only begun to be discarded for others more 
 bright, yet not more enduring; and from her lips a heartfelt 
 laugh or cry of triumph poured fourth in the merriest tones of 
 childhood, while the tears gather in her eye.3, and she sits upon 
 the grass, murmuring and laughing and weeping all by turns, 
 and never long. From the roadside she has gathered the 
 pale blue and yellow flowers, and these adorn her head and 
 peep out from her bosom. Now she bounds away to hidden 
 bushes after flaunting berries, and now she throws herself upon 
 
104 RICHARD HURDIS 
 
 a bank and tears to pieces the flowers and shrubs which have 
 cost her so much pains to gather. . She sings and talks by turns 
 as she thus employs herself, and prating in idiot soliloquy at fits, 
 she speaks to the flowers that she rends, and has some idle his 
 tory of each. 
 
 "There s more of blue than of the others, and sure there 
 should be, for the skies are blue, and they take their color from 
 the skies. But I don t want so much of the blue; I won t have 
 so much; I must have more yellow; and there s a little pink 
 flower that Mr. John showed me long time ago, if 1 could get 
 only one of them; one would do me to put in the middle. 
 There s a meaning in that little flower, and Mr. John read it 
 like a printed book. It has drops of yellow in the bottom, and 
 it looks like a little cup for the birds to drink from, I must 
 look for that. If I can only get one now, I would keep it for 
 Mr. John to read, and I would remember what he tells me of it. 
 But Mr. John don t love flowers, he does not wear them in his 
 button-hole as I see Mr. Richard; and Miss Mary loves flowers 
 too; I always see her with a bunch of them in her hand, and 
 she gathers great bunches for the fireplace at home. She reads 
 them, too, like a book; but I will not get her to read my little 
 pink flower for me. I will get Mr. John; for he laughs when 
 he reads it, and Miss Mary looks almost like she would cry; and 
 she looks at me, and she does not look at the flower, and she 
 carries me home with her; but Mr. John takes me a long walk 
 with him in the woods, and we gather more flowers together, 
 and we sit down upon the log, and pull them to pieces. I wish 
 he would come now. If he were with me, I could go deeepr 
 into the woods; but they look too black when I am by myself, 
 and I will not go alone. There s more than twenty bears in 
 those black woods, so mother tells me; and yet, when I go there 
 with Mr. John. I don t see any, and I don t even hear them 
 growl; they must be afraid of him, and run when know he s 
 coming. I wish he were coming to read my flower. I have one 
 I have two if he would but come. Oh, me, mother! what s 
 that?" 
 
 The girl started from the bank in fear, dashing down the flowers 
 in the same instant, and preparing herself for flight. The voice of 
 the intruder reassured her: 
 
THE SILLY JANE. 105 
 
 " Ah, Jane, my pretty, is it you ? " 
 
 "Dear me, Mr. John, I m so glad you re come! I thought it 
 was the black bears. Mother says there s more than twenty in these 
 woods, and tells me that I musn t go into them ; that they ll eat me 
 up, and won t even leav r e my bones. But when you re with me, Mr. 
 John, I m not afraid of the bears." 
 
 "Humph!" was the muttered thought of the new-comer ; not 
 the less danger perhaps, but of this no matter." 
 
 "So you re afraid of the bears, my pretty Jane?" he said 
 aloud. 
 
 "Ah, no, not when you re with me, Mr. John ; they re afraid of 
 you. But when I m by myself, the woods look so black, I m afraid 
 to go into them." 
 
 "Pretty idiot!" exclaimed John Hurdis, for it was he; "but 
 you re not afraid now, Jane : let us take a walk, and laugh at 
 these bears. They will not stop to look at us ; and if they do, 
 all we have to do fs to laugh at them aloud, and they ll be sure 
 to run. There s no danger in looking at them when they run, 
 you know." 
 
 " No, to be sure; but, Mr. John stop. I don t know whether 
 I ought to go with you any longer ; for do you know Here 
 
 she lowered her voice to a whisper, and looked cautiously around her 
 as she spoke "do you know mother s been talking to dad about 
 you, and she says but I won t tell you." 
 
 And, with a playful manner, she turned from him as she fin 
 ished the sentence, and proceeded to gather up the flowers, 
 which, in her first alarm, she had scattered all around her. He 
 stooped to assist her, and, putting his arm about her waist, they 
 walk forward into the wood, the silly creature all the while re 
 fusing to go, yet seeming perfectly unconscious that she was 
 even then complying with his demand. When they were some 
 what concealed within its recesses, he stopped, and with some 
 little anxiety demanded to know what it was that her mother 
 had said. 
 
 " I won t tell you, Mr. John, I won t." 
 
 He knew very well how to effect his purpose, and replied 
 calmly 
 
 "Well, if you won t tell rno. Jmr, T r-"I call the bears " 
 
 "No, don t!" she screamed aloud; "don t, Mr. John! I ll 
 
 5* 
 
106- RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 tell you everything. Did you think I wouldn t tell you, Mr. 
 John? I was only in play. Wait, now, till I pick up this 
 little pink flower, Mr. John, that s got the yellow drops in the 
 bottom, and I ll tell you all. This is the llowcr that you read 
 to me, Mr. John: do, now that s a good dear do read it to 
 me now." 
 
 "Not now, Jane after you tell me about your mother." 
 
 " Yes but, Mr. John, would you set the bears on me for true ?" 
 
 "To be sure, if you wouldn t tell me. Come, Jane, be quick, or 
 I ll call them." 
 
 "No, don t don t, I beg you! I m sure it s nothing so great 
 to tell you ; but I tell you, Mr. John, you see, because mother 
 didn t want you to know. Dad and she talked out, but when they 
 thought I was awake, Oh, then there was no more talk for a while ; 
 but I heard them all." 
 
 " All what, Jane ? " 
 
 "Oh, don t you know?" All about you and dad, and Mr. 
 Richard, and how you hate Mr. Richard, and how dad is to 
 shoot him " 
 
 "The d 1! you didn t hear that, Jane!" was the exclama 
 tion of the thunderstruck criminal ; his voice thick with appre 
 hension, his limbs trembling, his flesn shrinking and shivering, and 
 his eyes, full of wonder and affright, absolutely starting from the 
 sockets. So sudden had been the revelation, it might well have 
 startled or stunned a much bolder spirit than was his. He led, 
 almost dragged her, still deeper into the woods, as if he dreaded the 
 heedful ears of any passing traveler. 
 
 "What have you heard, Jane? what more did your mother 
 say ? She surely said not what you tell me ; how could she 
 know how could she say it? She did not say it, Jane she 
 could not." 
 
 "Oh, yes, but she did : she said a great deal more, but it s no use 
 telling you." 
 
 "How no use ? Tell me all, Jane. Come, my pretty, tell me all 
 tht your mother said, and how she came to say it. Did your father 
 say it to her first ? " 
 
 "Who, dad? Lord bless you, Mr. John, no! Dad never 
 tells mother nothing, and what she knows she knows by herself 
 without him." 
 
THE SILLY JANE 107 
 
 "Indeed! But this about Richard and your father you 
 don t mean that your mother knew any such thing. Your father 
 told her ; you heard him talking to her about it." 
 
 " No, I tell you. Father wouldn t talk at all; it was mother that 
 talked the whole. She asked dad, and dad wouldn t tell her, and sc 
 she told him." 
 
 "Told him what? did she hear? " 
 
 " Yes, she told him as how you loved Miss Mary; but, Mr. John, 
 it isn t true you love Miss Mary, is it?" 
 
 "Pshaw! Jane, what nonsense! Go on, tell me about your 
 mother." 
 
 "Well, I knew it couldn t be that you loved Miss Mary. I 
 don t wan t you to love her. She s a tine lady, and a sweet, 
 good lady, but I don t like you to love her; it don t seem right; 
 and 
 
 The impatient, anxious spirit of John ITurdis could no longer 
 brook the tritling of the idiot, which, at another period, and with 
 a mind less excited and apprehensive, he would rather have encour 
 aged than rebuked; but now, chafing with excited feelings and 
 roused fears, he did not scruple to interrupt her. 
 
 " Nonsense, Jane nonsense! Say no more of Mary, but tell me 
 of your mother. Tell me how she began to speak to your father 
 what she said what she knows and we ll talk of Miss Mary and 
 other matters afterward. What did she say of Richard? what of 
 me, and this shooting of your father?" 
 
 "Oh, she didn t say about shooting dad; no, no, it was Mr. 
 Richard that he was to slioot." 
 
 "Well, well tell me that that! " 
 
 "Oh, dear me, Mr. John, what a flurry you re in! I m sure I 
 can t tell you anything when you look so. You frighten me too 
 much ; don t look so, Mr. John, if you please." 
 
 The criminal tried to subdue the appearance of anxiety and 
 terror which the girl s countenance and manner sufficiently assured 
 him must be evident in his own. He turned from her for an 
 instant, moved twice or thrice around a tree she meanwhile 
 watching his proceedings with a degree of curiosity that made 
 her forget her fears then returning, with a brow somewhat 
 smoothed, and a half-smile upon his lips, he succeeded in per 
 suading her to resume a narrative which her natural imbe- 
 
RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 cility of mind, at no period, would have enabled her to give con 
 secutively. B} r questions carefully put, and at the proper moment, 
 he at length got from her the whole amount of her knowledge, and 
 learned enough to conclude, as was the truth, that what had been 
 said by the mother of the girl had been said conjecturally. His 
 fear had been that she had stolen forth on the previous night, and, 
 secreting herself near the place of conference between Pickett and 
 himself, had witnessed the interview, and comprehended all its 
 terms. However relieved from his fear by the revelation of the 
 idiot, he w T as still not a little annoj^ed by the close guessing of the 
 woman. A mind so acute, so penetrating, so able to search into the 
 bosom, and watch its secret desires without the help of words, was 
 able to effect yet more ; and he dreaded its increased activity 
 in the present business. Vagije apprehensions still floated in his 
 soul, though he strove to dissipate them, and he felt a degree of 
 insecurity which made him half-forgetful of his simple and scarcely 
 conscious companion. She, meanwhile, dwelt upon the affair 
 which she had narrated, with a tenacity as strange as had been 
 her former reluctance or indifference, until, at length, she repeated 
 her mother s unfavorable opinion of himself, his disquiet got the 
 better of his courtesy, for he exclaimed aloud : 
 
 "No more of this nonsense, Jane! Your mother s a fool, and 
 the best thing she can do hereafter is to keep her tongue." 
 
 "No, no, Mr. John!" replied the girl, earnestly, "mother s no 
 fool, Mr. John; it s Jane that s a fool. Everybody calls Jane a fool, 
 but nobody calls mother so." 
 
 " I don t call you so, Jane," said Hurdis kindly, sitting beside 
 her as he spoke, and putting his arm about her waist. 
 
 "No, Mr. John, I know you don t, and" in a whisper 
 "I d like you to tell me, Mr. John, why other people call me so. 
 I m a big girl, and I can run, and walk, and ride like other people. 
 I can spin and I can sew. I help mother plant potatoes, I can 
 break the corn, hull it and measure it, and can do a hundred 
 things besides. I talk like other people; and did you ever see 
 a body pick flowers, and such pretty ones, faster than me, Mr. 
 John?" 
 
 "No, Jane, I never did." 
 
 (< And such pretty ones, tow, Mr. John! Look at this little 
 
THE SILLY JANE. 109 
 
 pink one, with the yellow drops. Come, read it to me now, Mr. 
 John, and show me how to read it like you." 
 
 Not now, Jane some other time. Give me a kiss, now a 
 sweet kiss! " 
 
 " Well, there, nobody asks me to kiss but you and Miss Mary 
 sometimes Mr. John. Sometimes I kiss mother, but she don t seem 
 to like. I wonder why, Mr. John it must be because I m a fool." 
 
 "No, no, Jane, you re not a fool." 
 
 " I wish I wasn t, Mr. John I don t think I am; for, you know, 
 I told you how many things I can do just like other people," 
 
 "Yes, Jane, and you have a sweeter little mouth than anybody. 
 You kiss like a little angel, and your cheeks are as rosy 
 
 "Oh, don t, Mr. John,! that s enough. Lord, if mother was only 
 to see us now, what would she say? Tell me, Mr. John, why don t 
 I want mother to sec me when you re so good to me? And when you 
 kiss me so, what makes me afraid and tremble? It is strange, Mr. 
 John!" 
 
 " It s because your mother s cross to you, and cold, and gets 
 vexed with you so often, Jane." 
 
 " Do you think so, Mr. John? But, it can t be; mother isn t cross 
 to me, Mr. John, and she hasn t whipped me I don t know the day 
 when. She don t know that you walked with me into the woods, 
 Mr. John: why don t I want to tell her it s so very strange? She 
 would be mighty vexed if she was to see me now." 
 
 Hurdis answered her with a kiss; and in the next instant the tread 
 of a sudden footstep behind them, and the utterance of a single word 
 by the intruder, caused the simple girl to scream out, and to leap like 
 an affrighted deer from the arms that embraced her, 
 
tlO RICHARD HURDll. 
 
 CHAPTER X v. 
 
 THE : PRONG MOTHER. 
 
 Afedea. I thought as inuch when first from thick eai >* 
 f aw you trudging in such posting pace. 
 T3ut to the purpose . what may be the cause 
 Uf this most strange and sudden banishment! 
 
 Fausta. The cause, ask you ? a simple cause, God woi 
 T v A*as neither treason, nor yet, felony, 
 But for because I blamed his foolishness. 
 
 Medea. I hear you say so, but I greatly fear, 
 Ere that your tale be brought unto an end, 
 You ll prove yourself the author of the same. 
 But pray, be brief; what folly did your spouse, 
 And how will you revenge your wrong on him f 
 
 ROBERT GREENE. 
 
 HER fear seemed to possess the power of a sr.!l to produce 
 the very person whose presence she most dreaded. As if in 
 compliance with its summons, her mother stood before her. 
 Her tall, majestic form, raised to its fullest height by the fevor 
 01 indignation in her mind, stood between her idiot daughto* 
 and the astounded John Hurdis. Ue had sprung to his feet on 
 the instant when Jane, in terror, Imd started from his embrace, 
 and, without daring to face the woman, he stood fixed to the 
 spot where she first confronted him. Her meager, usually pale 
 and severe features, were now crimsoned with indignation; her 
 eyes flashed a fire of feeling and of character which lifted her, 
 however poor and lowly had been her birth and was her station, 
 immeasurably above the base creature whose superior wealth 
 Lad furnished the facilities, and, too frequently in the minds of 
 men, provide a sanction, for the vilest abuses oi the dependence 
 and inferiority of the poor The consciousness of wrong in his 
 mind totally deprived him \t that instant of those resources of 
 
THE STRONG MOTHER. Ill 
 
 audacity with which he who meditates villany should alwayi 
 be well supplied ; and, woman as she was poor, old, and with 
 out character and command, as was the wife of the worthless 
 Pickett the sound of her voice went through the frame of 
 Hurdis with a keenness that made him quiver. And yet the 
 tones were gentle ; they were studiously subdued, and from this 
 cause, indeed, their influence was mos/ probably increased upon 
 both Hurdis and the daughter : 
 
 Jane, my child, go home go home !" 
 
 These were words not to be disobeyed by the trembling and 
 weeping idiot. Yet she looked and lingered ; she fain would 
 have disobeyed them for the first time ; but the bony and long 
 finger of the mother was uplifted, and simply pointed in the 
 direction of their cottage, which was not visible from the point 
 n which they stood. Slowly at first then, after she had ad 
 vanced a few paces, bounding off with the rapidity of fear th* 
 girl hurried away, and was soon lost to the sight of the two 
 remaining persons. 
 
 When satisfied that she was uo longer within sound of their 
 voices, for her keen eye had followed all the while the retreat- 
 ing footsteps of the maiden, she turned the entire force of its 
 now-voluminous expression upon the man before her. Her 
 gray eyebrows, which were thick, were brought down, by the 
 muscular compression of the skin of the forehead, into a com 
 plete penthouse above her eyes, and served to concentrate their 
 rays, which shot forth like summer lightning from the sable 
 cloud ! The lips were compressed with a smiling scorn, her 
 whole face partaking of the same contemptuous and withering 
 expression. John Hurdis stole but a single glance at the fea 
 tures which were also full of accusation, and, without looking a 
 second time, turned uneasily away. But the woman did not 
 mffer him to escape. She drew nigher she called him by 
 riame ; and, though she spoke in low and quiet tones, they were 
 yet such that he did not venture to persist in his movement, 
 which seemed to threaten as prompt and rapid a departure as 
 that of the idiot. Her words began, abruptly enough, with one 
 of the subjects nearest to her heart. She was not a woman to 
 trifle. The woods in which she had lived, and their obscu 
 rity, had taught lessons of taciturnity ; and :t was, therefore, 
 
112 KICUARD flURDIB. 
 
 in the fullness of her heart ouly that she suffeied hei lips te 
 speak. 
 
 "And wherefore is it," she demanded, " that Mr. Hurdis takes 
 such pains to bring the idiot daughter of Ben Pickett into these 
 secret places? Why do these woods, which are so wild so 
 little beautiful and attractive so inferior to his own why do 
 they tempt him to these long walks? And this poor child, is it 
 that he so pities her infirmity which everybody should pity 
 that he seeks her for a constant companion in these woods, 
 where no eye may watch over his steps, and no ear hear the 
 language which is uttered in her own ? Explain to me this, I 
 pray you, Mr. Huruir>. "Why is it that these woods are so much 
 more agreeable to you than your father s or Squire Easterby s ? 
 and why a gentleman, who makes bold to love Alary Easterby, 
 and who values her sense and smartness, can be content with the 
 idle talk of an unhappy child like mine ? Tell me what it 
 means, 1 entreat you, Mr. Hurdis; for in truth supposing that 
 you mean rightly it is all a mystery to me." 
 
 The very meekness of the woman s manner helped to increase 
 the annoyance of Hurdis. It was too little offensive to find 
 fault with ; and yet the measured tones of her voice had in them 
 so much that was bitter, that he could not entirely conceal from 
 her that he felt it. His reply was such &s might have been ex 
 pected : 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Pickett, I meant no harm, to be sure. As for 
 the woods, they are quiet and pretty "nough for me ; and though 
 it is true that my own or Mr. Easterby s are quite as pretty, 
 yet that s no reason one should be confined only to them. 1 
 like to ramble elsewhere, by way of change ; and to-day, you 
 see, happening to ?e your daughter as I rambled, I only joined 
 her, and we walked together ; that s all." 
 
 " And do you mean to say, Mr. Hurdis, that you have never 
 before joined Jane Pickett in these walks?" 
 
 "To be sure not no " 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 "Yes that s to say, I don t make a practice of it. 1 maj 
 have walked with her here once or it may be twice before, Mrs. 
 Pickett" 
 
 **Ay, sir. twice, thrice, and a half-dozen times if the truth is 
 
THE STRONG MOTHER. 113 
 
 to be told!" exclaimed the woman vehemently. "I have seen 
 you, sir, thrice myself, and watched your footsteps, and heard 
 your words words cunningly devised, sir, to work upon the 
 simple feelings of that poor ignorant, whose very feebleness 
 should commend her to the protection, not the abuse, of a noble- 
 minded man. Deny it, sir, if you dare ! I tell you here, in the 
 presence of the eternal God, that I have heard and seen you 
 walk secretly in this wood with Jane Pickett more than three 
 several times nay, more, sir, you have enticed her into it by 
 various arts ; and have abused her ignorance by speaking to 
 her in language unuecoming in a gentleman to speak, and still 
 more unbecoming in a female to hear. I have seen you, and 
 heard you, sir, with my own eyes and ears; and that yen have 
 not done worse, sir, is perhaps only owing to her ignorance of 
 your meaning. " 
 
 "You, at least, would have known better, Mrs. Pickett," re 
 plied Hurdis with a sneer the discovery of the woman being 
 too obviously complete to leave him any hope from evasion. 
 
 "Your sneer falls harmlessly upon my mind, Mr. Hurdis. I 
 am too poor, and too much of a mother, sir, to be provoked by 
 that. It only shows you to me in a somewhat bolder point of 
 view than I had been accustomed to regard you. I knew well 
 enough your character, when I watched you in your walks with 
 my child, and heard the language which you used in her ears 
 
 "Certainly a very commendable and honorable employment, 
 Mrs. Pickett ! I give you credit for it." 
 
 "Ay, sir, both proper and commendable when employed as 
 a precaution against those whose designs are known to be im 
 proper, and whose character is without honor. I well enough 
 understand your meaning. It was scarcely honorable, you would 
 fay, that I should place myself as a spy upon your conduct, and 
 become an eavesdropper to possess myself of your counsels. 
 These are fashions of opinion, sir, which have no effect upon me. 
 I am a mother, and I was watching over the safety of a frail 
 and feeble child, who God help her that made her so! was 
 too little able to take care of herself not to render it needful 
 that I should do so. It was a mother s eye that watched 
 not you, sir, but her child ; it was a mother s car that sought to 
 know not the words which were spoken by John Hurdis, but 
 
114 RICHARD 
 
 all words, no matter of whom, which were poured into the ears 
 of her child. I watched not you, but her ; and learn from me 
 now, sir, that you never whistled her from our cabin that my 
 ears caught not the signal as readily as hers she never stole 
 forth at your summons, but my feet as promptly followed hers. 
 Do you wonder now that I should know you as I do ? Ah, Mr. 
 Hurdis, does it not shame you to the heart to think that you 
 have schemed so long, with all the arts of a cunning man, foi 
 the ruin of a feeble idiot scarcely sixteen years of age ? " 
 
 " Tis false!" exclaimed John Hurdis, hoarse with passion; 
 " I tell you, woman, tis false, what you say ! I had no such 
 design." 
 
 "Tis true, before Heaven that hears us, Mr. Hurdis; I say 
 it is true," replied the woman in moderate tones. "You may 
 deny it as you please, sir, but you can neither deceive Heaven 
 nor me, and to us your denial must be unavailing. I could not 
 mistake nor misunderstand your arts and language. You have 
 striven to teach Jane Pickett an idea of sin, and perhaps you 
 have not succeeded in doing so only because nobody yet has 
 been able to teach her any idea eveu one of virtue. But it 
 was not only her mind that you strove to inform. You have 
 appealed to the blood and to the passion of the child, and, but 
 for the mother that watched over her, you might have succeeded 
 at last in your bad purposes. O John Hurdis, if Ben Pickett 
 could only know, what, for the sake of peace, and to avoid 
 bloodshed, I have kept to myself, he would have thrust his knife 
 into your throat long before this ! I could have stopped you in 
 your pursuit of my child, by a w r ord to her father ; for, low and 
 poor as he is, and bas& as you may think you have made him, 
 he has pride enough to } T ct avenge our dishonor. I have kept 
 back what I had to say to this moment ; and now I tell you, 
 and you only, what I do know it will be for yourself to say 
 whether Ben Pickett shall ever know it." 
 
 "Pshaw, woman! you talk nonsense; and, but that you arc 
 a woman, I could be very angry with you. As for doing any 
 thing improper with Jane Pickett, I sv r ear " 
 
 "No, do not swear; for if }*ou do, John Hurdis if you 
 dare swear that you had no such design I will swear that you 
 belie yourself that your oath is false before Heaven and that 
 
THE STRONG MOTHER. 115 
 
 you are as Mack-hearted and perjured as I hold you base and 
 cowardly ! And if you did SAVOM-, of what use would be your 
 oath? Could you hope to make me believe you after my own 
 oath? could you hope to deceive Heaven? Who else is here 
 to listen ? Keep your false oath for other witnesses, John Hur- 
 dis, who are more blind and deaf than I am and more easily 
 deceived than the God who alone sees us new." 
 
 " Mrs. Pickctt, you are a very singular woman. I don t know 
 what to make of you." 
 
 The manner of the woman had absolutely quelled the base 
 spirit of the man. When he spoke thus, he literally knew not 
 what he said. 
 
 " You shall know more of me, Mr. Ilurdis, before I have 
 done," was her reply. "My feelings on the subject of my child 
 have almost made me forget some other mntters upon which I* 
 have sought to speak with you. You questioned my child upon 
 the subject of a conversation between her tether and myself 
 She told you that we spoke of you." 
 
 "Yes, I think I remember," lie .said breathlessly, and with 
 feeble utterance. 
 
 "You do remember you must," said the woman. "You 
 were very anxious to get the truth from my child : you shall 
 hear it all from me. You have sent Ben Pickott upon your 
 business." 
 
 " lie will not tell you that," said Ilurdis. 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but 1 know it." 
 
 " Well, what is it ?" 
 
 " Dare you tell ? No ! and he dare not. The husband may 
 aot show to his own wife the business upon which he goes. 
 There is something wrong in it, and it is your business." 
 
 " It is not ; he goes, if he goes at all, upon his own, not mine. 
 I do not employ him." 
 
 " You do. Beware, John Ilurdis ! you are not half so secure 
 as you pretend, and perhaps think yourself. The eyes that 
 watch the footsteps of a weak and idiot child, will not be the 
 less heedful of those of a weak and erring husband. If Ben 
 Pickctt goes to do wrong, he goes upon your business. If wrong 
 is done, and is traced to him, believe me for I swear it I 
 will perish in the attempt, but I will trace it home to its pro- 
 
H6 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 jector and proprietor ! You are not, and yon shall not be, safe. 
 I have my suspicions." 
 
 " What suspicions ? I defy you to say I have anything to 
 Jo with your husband." 
 
 The boldness of John Hnrdis was all assumed, and the veil 
 vas readily seen through by the keen-sighted woman. 
 
 I will confirm to your own ears tht, intelligence which you 
 procured from my chHd. It was base in me to follow and to 
 watch over her safety : it was not base in you to pick from her 
 thoughtless lips the secrets of her parents, and the private con 
 versation of her household ! I will not ask you to define the dis 
 tinction between the two. She told you the truth. I suspected 
 that you were using Ben Pickett to do the villany which you 
 uad the soul to conceive, but not to execute. I know some vil- 
 lanies on which you have before employed him." 
 
 " What villanies mean you ?" he demanded anxiously. 
 
 "No matter now I may find them of more use to me some 
 kjture day than now. I will tell you now what were my fears 
 my suspicions when you came to our cabin the last night, 
 and carried Ben Pickett with you into the woods " 
 
 "You folio wed us? You heard you listened to what was 
 said between us ?" was the hurried speech of Hurdis, his appre 
 hensions denoted in his tremulous and broken utterance, in the 
 startling glare of his eyes, and the universal pallor of his whole 
 countenance. A smile of scorn played upon the lips of the wo 
 man she felt her superiority. She spoke, after a moment s 
 p?,use, during which the scorn of her face changed into sorrow : 
 
 " Your cheek betrays you, John Hurdis, and confirms my 
 worst fears. I would that you had been more bold. I would 
 have given much to have seen you more indifferent to my an 
 swer. Could you defy me now, as you did but a little while 
 ago, I should sleep much easier to-night. But now I tremble 
 quite as much as you. I feel that all my doubts are true. I 
 would have forgiven you your meditated wrong to my child 
 could you have looked and spoken differently." 
 
 "God of heaven, woman!" exclaimed John Hurdis, with a 
 fc.v*m of JOnperatiou \ii hr a voice xnd man. c " what n 4 iu** 
 you \:an? Speak out sue! >,11 me ah --say the worst what 
 \* it thu you knew 1 what is ir you believe ? Did you or did 
 
THE STRONG MOTHER. 117 
 
 /ou not follow us List night? did you hear my conference with 
 your husband ?" 
 
 "I did not!" 
 
 llurdis was relieved by the answer. He breathed freely once 
 more, as he replied 
 
 " Ha ! say no more, then ; I do not care to hear you now. 1 
 have had wind and fury enough." 
 
 " l r ou must hear me. I will tell you now what I believe." 
 
 " I will not hear you. Let me go ! I have heard enough 
 What is your belief to me ?" 
 
 He would have passed her, but she caught his arm. 
 
 " You shall but for one moment/ 
 
 He paused, and, like an impatient steed beneath a curb which 
 Chafes him, and fvom which he can r :t break away, John Hiir- 
 dis fvirncd in he ^r^-p, revolvir;. <. LL /he same ground while 
 she spoke, air 7 / vmg not tf hear the language which yet 
 ibrccd .tself u. - ^iis senses. 
 
 I r.ciicv j, , ohn llurdis, that yoi 1 T| ave sent my husband tc 
 do vine violence. He deni n s it, ma -;tve striven to believe 
 him, but I can not. Since he has left \ne, I find my suspicions 
 return ; and they take a certain shape to my mind, the more I 
 think of them. I believe that you have sent him against yoir 
 own brother, whom you both hate and fear 
 
 "Woman you lie!" 
 
 He broke away from her grasp, but lingered. 
 
 " 1 will not call you man, John llurdis; but I will not think 
 unkindly of you, if it bo, as you say, that I lie. God grant that 
 my fears be false ! But. believing what I say that you have 
 despatched my husband to do a crime cvhich you dare not do 
 yom.- olf I toll you that if it be done " 
 
 "lie will be the criminal !" said llurdis, in low but emphatic 
 tones, as he turned from her ; " he will be the criminal, and, if 
 detected if, as you think, lie lias gono to commit crime, and 
 such a crime the gallows, woman, will be the penalty, and it 
 may be that your hand will guide him to it." 
 
 The woman shrank back, and shivered; but only for an in 
 stant. Recovering, she advanced : 
 
 44 Not my hand, John Hurdis, but yours, if any. But let that 
 day come no matter whose hand shall jonde Ben Pickett to 
 
118 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 such a doom, I tell you, John Html is, he shall have coi.ipany 
 You are rich, John Hurdis, and I am poor ; but know from me 
 that there is energy and resolution enough in this withered 
 bosom to follow you in all your secret machinations, to trace 
 your steps in any forests, and 1 , bring you to the same punish 
 inent, or a worse, than that which you bring on him ! I am 
 poor and old : men scorn me, and my own sex turns away, and. 
 sickening at my poverty, forget for a while that they are human, 
 in ceasing to believe me so. But the very scorn of mankind will 
 strengthen me; and when I am alone when the weak man 
 whom you entice with your money to do the deed from which 
 you shrink, becomes your victim beware of me; for so surely 
 as there is a God in heaven, he will help me to find the evi 
 dence which shall bring you to punishment on earth !" 
 
 "The woman is a fiend a very devil !" cried Hurdis, as he 
 rushed from the strong and resolute spirit before him. Her tall 
 orm was lifted beyond her ordinary height as she spoke, and 
 he shrank from the intense fire that shot through her long, gray 
 eyebrows. "I would sooner face the devil!" he muttered, as 
 he fled. " There s something speaks in her that I fear. Curse 
 the chance, but it is terrible to have such an enemy, and to feel 
 that one is doing wrong !" 
 
 He looked back but onto ere he left the forest, and her eyes 
 were still fixed upon him. He ventured no second glance; but. 
 annoyed with a thousand apprehensions, to which the interview 
 had given existence, he hurried homeward like one pu:sue>l-~ 
 pt "-ting at every sound in the woods, though it were 3nlj the 
 { V~;?.g of a leaf in the sudden gust of November. 
 
THE TBATELLERS FALL AMOXG THIEVES. 119 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE TRAVELLERS FALL AMONG THIEVES. 
 
 " You must eat men. Yet thanks, I must you con, 
 That you are thieves professed ; that you work not 
 In holier shapes; for there is boundless theft 
 In limited professions. Rascal thieves, 
 Here s g-old." Timun of Athens. 
 
 " So I leave you 
 
 To the protection of the prosperous gods, 
 As thieves to keepers." [bid. 
 
 IN the meanwhile, Ben Picket!, moved with no such consid 
 erations as those which touched his wife, set forth in pursuit of 
 his destined victim. His footsteps I may not pursue at present. 
 It will be enough that I detail my own progress. The reader 
 has already seen that I arrived safely at Tuscaloosa. How I 
 came to escape him so far, I can not say; since, allowing that 
 he pursued me with even moderate avidity, he must have over 
 taken me if he had so purposed it. But, it is believed, that he 
 mistook my route. He believed that I had struck directly for 
 the river, on my nearest path to Chochuma. He had no knowl 
 edge of my companion s business in Tuscaloosa; and John Hur- 
 dis, being equally ignorant on that subject, could not counsel 
 him. Whatever may have been the cause of my escape so far, 
 from a foe whose aim was certain, and who had overcome all 
 scruples of policy or conscience if, indeed he ever held them 
 I had reason for congratulating myself upon my own good 
 fortune, which had availed for my protection against his murder 
 ous purpose. But, conscious of no evil then, and wholly ignorant 
 of the danger I had thus escaped, I gave myself no concern 
 against the future; and with all the buoyant recklessness of 
 youth, pleased with novelty, and with faces turned for a new 
 
RICHARD HUBDIS. 
 
 ray companion and myself entered our strange lodgings 
 In Tuscaloosa, with feelings of satisfaction amounting to enthu 
 siasm. 
 
 The town was little more than hewn out of the woods. Piles 
 of brick and timber crowded the main, indeed the only street of 
 the place, and denoted the rawness and poverty of the region in 
 all things which could please the eye, and minister to the taste 
 of the traveller. But it had other resources in my sight. The 
 very incompleteness, and rude want of finish, indicated the fer 
 menting character of life. The stagnation of the forests was 
 disturbed. The green and sluggish waters of its inactivity 
 were drained off into new channels of enterprise and effort. 
 Life had opened upon it; its veins were filling fast with the 
 life-blood of human greatness ; active and sleepless endeavors 
 and a warm sun, seemed pouring down its rays for the first time 
 upon the cold and covered bosom of its swamps and caverns. 
 
 To the young, it matters not the roughness and the storm. 
 Enthusiasm loves the encounter with biting winds, and active 
 opposition; but there is death in inaction death in the slug 
 gish torpor of the old community, where ancient drones, like 
 the old man of the sea on the shoulders of Sinbad, keep down 
 the choice spirit of a country, and chill and palsy all its ener 
 gies. There was more meaning in the vote of the countryman 
 who ostracised Aristides, because he hated to hear him contin 
 ually called " the Just," than is altogether visible to the under 
 standing. The customary names of a country are very apt to 
 become its tyrants. 
 
 Our lodging-house was poor enough, but by no means want 
 ing in pretension. You would vainly look for it now in Tusca 
 loosa. It has given way to more spacious and better conducted 
 establishments. When we arrived it was filled to overflowing, 
 and, much against our will, we were assigned a chamber in com 
 mon with two other persons, who were strangers to us. To this 
 arrangement we vainly opposed all manner of objections. We 
 were compelled to submit. Our landlord was a turbulent sort 
 of savage, who bore down all opposition, and held to his laws, 
 which were not often consistent with one another, with as hardy 
 a tenacity as did the Medes and Persians. The long and short 
 of it was that we must share our chamber with two other men, 
 
THE TRAVELLERS FALL AMONG THIEVES. 121 
 
 or seek lodgings elsewhere. This, in a strange town where no other 
 tavern was yet dreamed of, was little else than a downright declara 
 tion, that we might "go to the d 1 and shake ourselves;" and 
 with whatever grace given, we were compelled to take the accommo 
 dations us they were accorded to us. We insisted on separate beds, 
 however, and here we gained our point. 
 
 " Ay, you may have two a-piece," was the cold and ready answer ; 
 "one for each leg." 
 
 Our objections to a chamber in connection with strangers, did 
 us no service in that wild community ; and the rough adventu 
 rers about, seemed to hold us in no fair esteem on the strength 
 of them. But they saw that we were able to hold our own, and 
 that, in our controversy with the landlord, though we had been 
 compelled to yield our point, we had yet given him quite as 
 good as he sent; and so they suffered their contempt to escape 
 in winks to each other, and muttered sentences, which, as we 
 only saw and heard them indistinctly, we were wise enough to 
 take no heed of. Not that we did not feel in the humor to do 
 so. My comrade iidgettcd more than once with his heavy- 
 headed whip-handle, and my own hand felt monstrously disposed 
 to tap the landlord on his crown ; but it was too obviously our 
 policy to forbear, and we took ourselves off to our chamber as soon 
 as we could beat a retreat gracefully. 
 
 Well might our landlord have given us two or four beds each. 
 There were no less than twelve in the one apartment which had 
 been assigned us. We chose our two, getting them as nigh each 
 other as possible ; and having put our saddle-bags in a corner 
 behind them, and got our dirks and pistols in readiness, some on 
 the table and some under our pillows, we prepared to get to 
 bed as fast as possible. Before we had entirely undressed, 
 however, our two other occupants of the chamber appeared, 
 ,one of whom we remembered to have seen in the bar-room be 
 low, at the time of our discussion with the landlord. They 
 were, neither of them, calculated to impress me favorably. 
 They were evidently too fond of their personal appearance to 
 please one who was rather apt to be studiless of his. They 
 were dandies a sort of New York dandies men with long 
 coats and steeple-crowned hats, great breast-pins, thick gold 
 chains, and a big bunch of seals hanging at their hips. What 
 
 6 
 
122 RICHARD HUilDIS. 
 
 the deuce." thought 1, to myself, "brings such people into thin 
 country? S:_L gewgaws are not only in bad taste anywhere, 
 but nowhere i.. biich bad taste as in a wild and poor country 
 sucli us ours. Of course, the; v.ui not be gentlemen ; that sort 
 oi ostentation is totally incompatible with gentility." Their 
 first overtures did not impress me more favorably toward them. 
 They were disposed to be familiar at the start. There was an 
 assumed composure, a laborious ease about them, which showed 
 them to be practising a part. There is no difficulty in discov 
 ering whether a man has been bred a gentleman or not. There 
 is no acquiring gentility at a late day ; and but few, not habitu 
 ated to it from the first, can ever, by any art, study, or endeav 
 or, acquire, in a subsequent day, those nice details of manners, 
 that exquisite consideration of the claims ami peculiarities of 
 those in their neighborhood, which e;:rly education alone cau 
 certainly give. Our chamber companions evidently strove at 
 self-complacency. There was a desperate ostentation of sa?tg- 
 froid, a most lavish freedom of air about them, which made 
 their familiarity obtrusiveness, and their ease swagger. > 
 glance told me what they were, so far as manners went ; and . 
 never believed in the sympathy between bad manners and mor 
 als. They may exist together. There s some such possibility; 
 yet I never saw them united. A man with bad manners may 
 not steal, nor lie, but he can not be amiable ; he can not often 
 be just ; he will be tyrannical if you suffer him ; and the cloven 
 hoof of the beast must appear, though it makes its exhibition 
 on a Brussels carpeting. 
 
 These fellows had a good many questions to ask us, and a 
 good many remark? to make, before we got to sleep that night. 
 Nor was this very much amiss. The custom of the country is to 
 ask questions, and to ask them with directness. There the south 
 west differs from the eastern country. The Yankee obtains his 
 knowledge by circumlocution ; and his modes of getting it, a> 
 as ingeniously indirect as the cow-paths of Boston. He pro 
 ceeds as if he thought it impertinent to gratify his desire, or 
 and, perhaps, this is the better reason as if he were conscious 
 of motives for his curiosity, other than those which he acknow) 
 edges. The southwestern man, living remotely from the 
 cities, and anxious fo- intelligence of regions of which he 
 
THE TRAVELLED FALL AMONU THIEVES. 
 
 little personal acquarj^vri. e, taxes, in plain terms, the resources 
 of every stranger whom he meets. lie is quite as willing to an 
 swer, as to ask, and this readiness acquits him, or should acquit 
 him, of any charge of rudeness. We found no fault with the 
 curiosity of our companions, but I so little relished their man 
 ners, as to forbear questioning them in return. Carrington was 
 less scrupulous, however ; he made sundry inquiries to which 
 he received unsatisfactory replies, and toward midnight, I was 
 pleased to find that the chattering was fairly over. 
 
 We slept without interruption, and awakened before the 
 strangers. It was broad daylight, and, hastening our toilets, 
 we descended to the breakfast-room. There we were soon fol 
 lowed by the two, and my observation by day, rather confirmed 
 my impressions of the preceding night. They were quite too 
 nice in their deportment to be wise ; they foun 1 fault with the 
 arrangements of the table their breakfast did not suit them 
 the eggs were too much or too little done, and they turned up 
 their noses at the coffee with exquisite distaste. Tl>e landlord 
 reddened, but bore it with tolerable patience for a republican , 
 and the matter passed off without a squall, though I momently 
 looked for one. Little things are apt to annoy lit*.le peop-f 
 and I have usually found those persons most apt to be dissatis 
 fied with the world, whose beginnings in it have been most 
 mean and contemptible. The whole conduct of the stranger" 
 increased my reserve toward them. 
 
 To us, however, they wore civil enough. Their policy wa 
 in it. They spoke to us as if we were not merely friends, but 
 bed-fellows; and in a style of gentility exceedingly new to us, 
 one of them put his arm about the neck of my friend. I almost 
 5xpected to see him knocked down ; for, with all his gentleness 
 A mood, Carrington was a very devil when his blood was up, 
 *nd hated every sort of imm-rtinence ; but whether he thought 
 it wiser to forbear in a strange place, or was curious to see how 
 far the fellow would go, he s*: ; .. nothing, but smiled patiently 
 till the speech which accompfniied the embrace was fairly over 
 and then quietly withdrew from its affectionate control. 
 
 The day was rainy and squally to such a degree that we 
 could not go out. How to amuse ourselves was a question no* 
 o easily answered in a strange country-tavern where we had 
 
124 ilCHARb HUBRIS. 
 
 no books, and no society. Aftor breakfast we returned to ow 
 apartment, and threw ourselves upon the beds. To talk of 
 home, and the two maidens, whom we had loft under such dif 
 fering circumstances, was our only alternative; and thus em 
 ployed our two stranger companions came in. Their excuse 
 for the intrusion was the weatlter, and as their rights to the 
 chamber were equal to ours, we had nothing to say against it. 
 Still I was disquieted and almost angry. I spoke very distant 
 ly and coldly in reply to their speeches, and they quickly saw 
 tha I was disposed to keep them at arm s length. But my de 
 sire, with such persons, was not of so easy attainment. The 
 reserve of a gentleman is not apt to be respected, even if seen 
 by those who have never yet learned the first lessons of gen 
 tility ; and do what I would, I still found that they were utter 
 ing propositions in my ears which I was necessarily obliged to 
 answer, or acknowledge. In this, they were tacitly assisted by 
 my friend. 
 
 Carrington, whose disposition was far more accessible than 
 mine, chatted with them freely, and, what was worse, told them 
 very nearly all of his purposes and projects. They, too, were 
 seeking land ; they were speculators from New York agents 
 for great land-companies such as spring up daily in that city, 
 and flood the country with a nominal capital, that changes like 
 magic gold into worthless paper every five years or less. They 
 talked of thousands, and hundreds of thousands, with the glib- 
 ness of men who had handled nothing else from infancy ; and 
 never was imagination more thoroughly taken prisoner than 
 as that of Carrington. He fairly gasped while listening to 
 them. Their marvellous resources confounded him. With 
 three thousand dollars, and thirty negroes, he had considered 
 himself no small capitalist; but now he began to feel really 
 humble, and I laughed aloud as I beheld the effects of his con 
 sternation upon him. Conversation lagged at length ; even 
 those wondrous details of the agents of the great New York 
 company tired the hearers, and, it would seem, the speakers 
 too ; for they came to a pause. The mind can not bear too 
 touch glitter any more than the eye. They now talked to- 
 :<ther, and one of them, at length, produced cards from hit 
 j-unjr 
 
THE TRAVELLERS PALL AMONG THIEVES. 126 
 
 " Will you play, gentlemen 1" they asked civilly. 
 
 "i am obliged to you," was my reply, in freezing tones, 
 * but I would rather not 
 
 I was ansvjred, greatly to my mortification, by Carrington 
 
 " And why not, Dick 1 You play well, and I know you like 
 it." 
 
 This was forcing upon me an avowal of my dislike to our 
 would-be acquaintance which I would havu preferred to avoid. 
 But, as it was, I resolved upon my course. 
 
 " You know I never like to play among strangers, William !" 
 
 " Pshaw ! my dear fellow, what of that ? Come, take a hand 
 we re here in a place we know nothing about, and where no 
 body knows us. It s monstrous dull, and if we don t play, we 
 may as well drown." 
 
 " Excuse me, William." 
 
 " Can t, Dick can t think of it," was his reply. 
 
 " You must take a hand, or we can t play. Whist is my only 
 game, you know, and there s but three of us without you." 
 
 " Take dummy," was my answer. 
 
 " What ! without knowing how to value him ? Oh, no ! Be 
 sides, I can t play that game well." 
 
 You may fight, or eat, or speak, or travel with a man, with 
 out making yourself his companion but you can t play with 
 him without incurring his intimacy. Now, I was somewhat 
 prejudiced against these strangers, and had so far studiously 
 avoided their familiarity. To play with them was to make my 
 former labor in vain, as well as to invite the consequences 
 which I had beet so desirous to avert. But to utter these rea 
 sons aloud was to challenge them to the bull-ring, and there 
 was no wisdom in that. My thoughtless friend urged the mat 
 tsr with a zeal no less imprudent in his place than it was irk 
 some in mine. He woiild hear no excuses, and appealed to my 
 courtesy against my principle, alleging the utter impossibility 
 of their being able to find the desired amusement without my 
 help. 
 
 Not to seem churlish, I at length gave way. Bitterly do T 
 reproach myself that I did so. But how was I then in my 
 boyhood, as it were to anticipate such consequences from sc 
 seemingly small a source. But, in morals, no departure from 
 
126 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 principles is small. All principles are significant are essen 
 tial in the formation of truth j and the neglect or omission of 
 the smallest among them is not one evil merely, or one error 
 but a thousand it is the parent of a thousand, each, in its turn, 
 endowed with a frightful fecundity more productive than the 
 plagues of Egypt more enduring, and not less hideous and 
 fi ightful. Take care of small r/nciples, if you would preserve 
 great truths sacred. 
 
 As I have said, I suffered myself it matters not with what 
 motives or feeling to be persuaded by my friend to play with 
 him and the strangers. I took my seat opposite to Carrington. 
 The strangers played together. Whist was the game a game 
 we both delighted in, and which we both played with tolerable 
 skill. The cards were thrown upon the table, and we drew for 
 the deal. 
 
 " What do you bet ?" said one of the strangers addressing me. 
 At the same moment, his companion addressed a like inquiry to 
 my partner. 
 
 " Nothing ; I never bet," was my reply. 
 
 " A Mexican !" said Carrington, throwing the coin upon the 
 table. My opponent expressed his disappointment at my re 
 fusal. 
 
 " There s no fun in playing unless you bet !" 
 
 " You mistake," was my reply. " I find an interest in the 
 game which no risk of money could stimulate. I do not bet ; 
 it is a resolution." 
 
 My manner was such as to forbid any further prosecution of 
 his object. He was compelled to content himself as he might; 
 and drawing for the deal, it fell to him. He took the cards, 
 and, to my surprise, proceeded to shuffle them after a fashion 
 which I had been always taught to regard as dishonorable. He 
 would draw single cards alternately from top and bottom, and 
 bring them together ; and, in this way, as I well knew, would 
 throw all the trump-cards into the hands of himself and partner 
 I did not scruple to oppose this mode of shuffling. 
 
 " The effect will be," I told him, " to bring the trumps into 
 your own and partner s haiilj. I have seen the trick before. 
 It is a trick, and that is enough to make it objectionable. I 
 have no pleasure in playing a game with all the cards aerainst me. 
 
THE TRAVELLERS FALL AMONU THIEVES. 127 
 
 He denied tlie certainty of the result which T predicted, and 
 persisted in finishing as he had begun. I would have arisen 
 from the table but my friend s eyes appealed to me to stay. 
 He was anxious to play, and quite too fond of the game, and, 
 perhaps, too dull where he was, to heed or insist upon any little 
 improprieties. The result was as I predicted. There was but 
 a single trump between myself and partner. 
 
 " You sec," I exclaimed, as the hand was finished, " such 
 dealing is unfair." 
 
 " No ! I see not. It so happens, it is true ; but it is not un 
 fair," was the reply of the dealer. 
 
 " Fair or not," I answered, " it matters not. If this mode of 
 shuffling has the effect of throwing the good cards invariably 
 into one hand, it produces such a disparity between the parties 
 as takes entirely from the pleasure in the game. There is no 
 game, indeed, when the force is purely on the one side." 
 
 " But such is not invariably the result." 
 
 Words were wasted upon them. I saw then what they were. 
 Gentlemen disdain the advantage, even when fairly obtained, 
 which renders intelligence, skill, memory, and reflection in- 
 leed, all qualities of mind entirely useless. As players, our 
 opponents had no skill; like gamblers usually they relied on 
 trick for success, and strove to obtain, by miserable stratagem, 
 what other men seek from thought and honest endeavor. I 
 would have risen from the table as these thoughts passed 
 through my mind. We had lost the game, and I had had 
 enough of them and it. But my friend entreated me. 
 
 " What matters one game ]" he said. " It is our turn now. 
 We shall do better." 
 
 The stake was removed by his opponent, and, while I shuf 
 fled the cards, he was required to rent, v ;\ : s bet. In doing so, 
 by a singular lapse of thought, he drew from a side-pocket in 
 his bosom, the large roll of money with which he travelled, for 
 getting the small purse which he had prepared for his travelling 
 expenses. He was conscious, when too late, of his error. He 
 hurried it back to its place of concealment, and drew forth the 
 purse ; but in the one moment which he employed in doing so 
 I could see that the eyes of our companions had caught sight of 
 the treasure. It may have been fancy in me, the result of m} 
 
128 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 suspicious disposition, but I thought that their eyes sparkled as 
 they beheld it, and there was an instant interchange of glances 
 between them. 
 
 Hurriedly I shuffled through, and with an agitation which I 
 could not well conceal, I dealt out the cards. There was a 
 general and somewhat unwonted silence around the table. We 
 all seemed to be conscious of thoughts and feelings, which 
 needed to be concealed. The cheeks of my companion were 
 red ; but he laughed and played. His first play was an error. 
 I fixed my eye upon one of the strangers and his glance fell 
 beneath it. There was a guilty thought busy in his bosom. 
 Scarcely a word was spoken none unnecessarily while that 
 hand lasted. But when it came to the turn of one of our oppo 
 nents to deal, and when I found him shuffling as before, I grew 
 indignant. I protested. He insisted upon his right to shuffle 
 as he pleased a right which I denied. He would not yield 
 the point, and I left the table. The fellow would have put on 
 airs, and actually thought to bully me. He used soiie big 
 words, and, rising at the same time, approached me. 
 
 " Sir, your conduct " 
 
 I stopped him half way, and in his speech 
 
 " Is insulting you would say." 
 
 " I do, sir ; very insulting, sir, very/ 
 
 "Be it so. I can not help it. I will play with no man who 
 imploys a mode of shuffling which puts all the trump cards 
 into his own and partner s hands. I do not wish to play with 
 you, anyhow, sir ; and very much regret that the persuasions of 
 my friend made me yield against my better judgment. My rui^ 
 is never to play with strangers, and your game has confirmed 
 me in my opinion of its propriety. I shall take care never to 
 depart from it in future," 
 
 " Sir, you don t mean to impute anything to my honor. If 
 you do, sir " 
 
 My reply to this swagger was anticipated by William, who 
 had not before spoken, but now stood between us. 
 
 And what if he did, eh T 
 
 " Why, sir but I was not speaking to you, sir," said tht 
 fellow. 
 
THE TRAVELLERS FALL AMOXG THIEVES. 120 
 
 "Ay, I know that, but Tin speaking to you. What if he did 
 doubt your honor, and what if I doubt it, eh ! " 
 
 " Why then, sir, if you did The fellow paused. He was a 
 mere bully and looked round to his companion, who still kept a quiet 
 seat at the table. 
 
 "Pshaw!" exclaimed William, in a most contemptuous 
 manner. 
 
 " You are mistaken in your men, ray good fellow. Take up your 
 Mexican, and thank your stars you have got it so easily. Shut 
 up now and be quiet. It lies upon the table," The fellow 
 obeyed. 
 
 " You won t play any longer ? " he demanded. 
 
 "No," was my reply. "To play with you, i.^ to make you and 
 declare you, our friends. We will fight with you, if you please, but 
 not play with you ! " 
 
 To this proposition the answer was slow. We \vere, at least, 
 possessors of the ground. But our triumph w:n a monstrous 
 small one, and we paid for it. The annoyance of the whole 
 scene was excessive to me. Carrington did not so much feel 
 it. He was a careless, buoyant, good sort of creature, having 
 none of my suspicion, and little of that morbid pride which 
 boiled in me. He laughed at the fellows and the whole affair, 
 when I was most disposed to groan over it, and to curse them. 
 I could only bring his countenance to a grave expression, when 
 I reminded him of his imprudence in taking out his roll of 
 money. 
 
 " Ay, that was cursed careless," he replied ; "but there s no help 
 ing it now I must only keep my wits about me next time ; and i f 
 harm comes from it, keep a stiff lip and a stout heart, and be ready 
 to meet it." 
 
 William Carrington was too brave a fellow to think long of dan 
 ger, and he went to bed that night with as light a heart as if he had 
 not a sixpence in the world. 
 
 6* 
 
130 RICHAKD HURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AMONG PITS AND TRAPFALLS. 
 
 u I heard myself proclaim d; 
 And, by the happy hollow of a tree, 
 Escaped the hunt. No port is free ; no place. 
 That guard and most unusual vigilance 
 Does not attend my taking. While I may scape, 
 I will preserve myself." King Lear. 
 
 THE next day opened bright and beautiful, and we prepared 
 to resume our journey. Our fellow-chamberers had not shown 
 themselves to us since our rupture ; they had not slept that 
 night at the tavern. Their absence gave us but little concern 
 at the time, though we discovered afterward that it had no lit 
 tle influence upon our movements. I have already said that 
 my companion held a claim upon a man in the neighborhood of 
 Tuscaloosa, for some hundred and thirty dollars, the price of a 
 mule which he had sold to him during the previous season. 
 To collect this debt had been the only motive for carrying us 
 so far from our direct route, which had been to Chochuma. 
 The man s name was Matthew Webber ; of his character and 
 condition we knew nothing, save that he was a small farmer 
 supposed to be doing well. That he had not paid the money 
 before, when due, was rather an unfavorable symptom ; but of 
 the ultimate payment of it William had not the slightest doubt, 
 He was secured by the indorsed promise of a Colonel Graf ton, 
 a gentleman of some wealth, who planted about fourteen miles 
 from Tuscaloosa, in the direction of Columbus, but fully eleven 
 miles from the road. There was a short cut to his house, and 
 we proposed to ride thither and obtain directions for finding 
 the debtor. He had once been Graftou s overseer and the lat 
 ter knew- all about him. Our landlord, who had grown civil 
 
AMONG PITS AND TRAPFALIJ3. Idl 
 
 enough to us, and who was really a very good sort f body 
 when taken in the grain, freely gave us prope* instructions for 
 finding our road by the short cut. Of Grafton he spoke with 
 kindness and respect, but I could not help observing, when w* 
 inquired after Webber, that he evaded inquiry, and when re 
 peated, shook his head and turned away to other customers. 
 He evidently knew enough to think unfavorably, and his glance 
 when lie spoke of the man was tu^.isy and suspicious. Finding 
 other questions unproductive, we had our horses brought forth, 
 paid our charges, and prepared to mount. Our feet were al 
 ready in the stirrups, when the landlord followed us, saying 
 abruptly, but in a low tone, as he readied the spot where we 
 stood : 
 
 " Gentlemen, I don t know much of the people whom you 
 seek, but I know but little that is very favorable of the country 
 into which you re going. Take a hint before starting. If you 
 have anything to lose, it s easy losing it on the road to Cho- 
 chuma, and the less company you keep as you travel, the bet 
 ter for your saddle-bags. Perhaps, too, it wouldn t be amiss, 
 if you look at your pistols before you start." 
 
 He did not wait for our answer, but returned to his bar-room 
 and other avocations as if his duty was ended. We were both 
 surprised, but I did not care to reject his warnings. William 
 laughed at the gravity of the advice given us, but I saw it with 
 other eyes. If I was too suspicious of evil, I well knew that 
 my companion was apt to err in the opposite extreme he was 
 imprudent and thoughtless; and, in recklessness of courage 
 only, prevented a thousand evil consequences which had other 
 wise occurred from his too confiding nature. 
 
 " Say nothing now," I observed to him "but let us ride 
 till we get into the woods, then see to your pistols." 
 
 " Pshaw, Dick," was his reply, " what do you suspect now i 
 The pistols have been scarcely out f sight since we left home." 
 
 " They have been out of si^ht. We left them always in the 
 chamber when we went to meaid.* 
 
 " True, but for a few moments only, and then all about the 
 house were at meals also " 
 
 " No ; at breakfast yesterday those gamblers came in after us, 
 and I think then they came from our chamber Besides, though 
 
132 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 they did not sleep with us last night, I am persuaded that one 
 or both of them were in the room. I heard a light step at mid 
 night, or fancied it ; and found my overcoat turned this morn 
 ing upon the chair." 
 
 " The chambermaid, or Gufly for the boots. You are the 
 mojt suspicious fellow, Dick, and, somehow, you hated these 
 two poor devils from tin* very first moment you laid eyes on 
 them. Now, d n em. for my part, I never gave em a second 
 {bought I could have licked either, or both, and when that 
 chap with the hook-nose began to swagger about, I felt mon 
 strous like doing it. But he was a poor shote, and the less said 
 and thought of him the better. 1 should not care much to meet 
 him if he had carried the pistols quite off, and presented them 
 ,o me, muzzle-stuffed, at the next turning." 
 
 " He may yet do so," was my calm reply. " At least it will 
 lo us no harm to prepare for all events. Let us clear the town, 
 and when we once get well hidden in the woods, we ll take 
 Counsel of our landlord, and see to our priming." 
 
 " Why not do it now ?" 
 
 For the best of reasons there are eyes on us, and some ^f 
 them may be unfriendly. Better that they should suppose us 
 ignorant and unprepared, if they meditate evil." 
 
 "As you please, but 1 would not be as jealous and suspicious 
 as you are, Dick, not for all I m worth." 
 
 "It may be worth that to von to become so. But ride on; 
 the ferryman halloos, and beckons us to hasten. There are 
 other travellers to cross. I m sorry for it. We want no more 
 company." 
 
 "Ay, but we do, Dick. The more the merrier, say I. If 
 there s a dozen, no harm, so they be not in our way in entering 
 land. I like good company. A hearty joke, or a good storv, 
 sets me laughing all the day. None of your travellers that need 
 to be bawled at to ride up, and open their ovens ; none of your 
 sober-sided, drawling, croaking methodists, for me your fel 
 lows that preach against good living, yet eat of the fat of the 
 land whenever they can get it, and never refuse a collection, 
 however small the amount. If I hate any two-legged creature 
 that calls himself human, it is your canting fellow, that preaches 
 pennyworths of morality, and practises pounds of sin; that says 
 
AMONG PITS AND TIlAl FALLS. 13b 
 
 r long grace at Flipper, till flic moat grows cold, and that same 
 light inveigles } jur chambermaid into the blankets beside him 
 I wouldn t think so much of the sin if it wasn t lor the hypoc 
 risy. It s bad enough to love the -neal ; but to preach over it, 
 before eating, is a shame as well as a sin. Nore but your 
 sneaks do it; fellows whom you might safer trust with your soul 
 than with your purse. They could do little harm to the one, 
 but they d make off with the other. None of those chaps for 
 me, Dick ; yet give me as manv travellers as v<.u please. Here 
 seem to be several going to cross; all wagoners but one, and be 
 seems just one of the scamps I ve been talking of a short, 
 chunky, black-coated lit .le body : ten to one his nose turns up 
 like a piig-puppy s, ud lie talks through it." 
 
 It was in such careless mood and with such loose speech that 
 my companion beguiled the time between our leaving the hotel 
 and reaching the flat which was to convey us across the river. 
 William was in the very best of spirits, and these prompted him 
 to a freedom of speech which might be supposed to denote^ome 
 laxity of morals ; and yet his morals were unquestionable In 
 deed, it is not unfrequcntly the case that a looseness of speech is 
 associated with a rigid practice of propriety. A consciousness 
 of purity is very apt to prompt a license of speech in hin> \\ h^ 
 possesses it; while he, on the other band, who is most apt to 
 indulge in vice, will most usually prove himself most circum 
 spect in speech. Vice, to be. successful, calls for continual cir 
 cumspection ; and in no respect does it exhibit this quality more 
 strikingly than in the utterance of its sentiments. The family 
 of Joe Surface is a singularly numerous one. My companion 
 was no Joe Surface. He carried his character in his looks, in 
 his speech, and in his actions. When you saw the looks, heard 
 the speech, and witnessed the actions, you had him before you, 
 without possibility or prospect of change, for good and for evil , 
 and, to elevate still more highly the character which I admired, 
 and the man I could not but love, I will add that he was only 
 too apt to extenuate the motives of others by a reference to his 
 own. He had no doubts of the integrity of his fellow no f ars 
 of wrong at his hand ; was born with a nature as clear as the 
 sunlight, ab Confiding as the winds, and had seen too little of 
 the world, at the period of which I speak, to have bad ex peri- 
 
134 RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 ence un teach the sweeter lessons of his unsophisticated humanity. 
 Let not the reader chide me as lavish in my eulogy : before he does 
 so, let me pray him to suppose it written upon his tombstone. 
 
 We soon reached the Hat, and were on our way across the 
 river in a lew minutes after. The little man in the black coat 
 had, in truth, as my companion had predicted, a little pug puppy 
 nose, but in his other guesses he was quite out. We soon dis 
 covered that he was no sermonizer there was anything but 
 hypocrisy in his character. On the contrary, he swore like a 
 trooper whenever occasion offered ; and I was heartily rejoiced, 
 for the decency of the thing, if for no other reason, to discover, 
 as I soon did, that the fellow was about to take another road 
 from ourselves. The other men, three in number, were farmers 
 in the neighborhood, who had been in to supply the Tuscaloosa 
 market. Like the people of all countries who live in remote 
 interior situations and see few strangers who can teach them 
 anything, these people had each a hundred questions to ask, 
 and as many remarks to make upon the answers. They were 
 a hearty, frank, plain-spoken, unequivocal set, who would share 
 with you their hoe-cake and bacon, or take a fling or dash of fisti 
 cuffs with you, according to the several positions, as friend or foe, 
 which you might think proper to take. Among all the people of 
 this soil, good humor is almost the only rule which will enable the 
 stranger to get along safely. 
 
 We were soon over the river, which is broad and not so rapid at 
 this spot as at many others. The Tuscaloosa or Black Warrior river 
 is a branch of the Tombeckbc. 
 
 The site of the town which bears its name, and which is now 
 the capital town of Alabama, was that of the Black Warrior s 
 best village. There is no remnant, no vestige, no miserable 
 cabin, to testify to what he and his people were. The memo 
 rials of this tribe, like that of all the American tribes, are few, 
 and yet the poverty of the relics but speak the more emphat 
 ically for the mournfulncss of their fate. V," ho will succeed to 
 their successors, and what better memorials will they leave to the 
 future ? It is the boast of civilization only that it can build its mon 
 ument leave its memorial; and yet Cheops, could he now look 
 upon his mausoleum, might be seen to smile over the boast. Enough 
 of this. 
 
JONG PITS AND TRAPFAI.LS. 
 
 Ve naa *io sooner separated from our companions of the boat 
 and got fairly into the shelter of the woods, than I reminded 
 William of the inspection of our firearms, which I proposed to 
 make after the cautionary hint of rny landlord. We rode aside, 
 accordingly, into a thick copse that lay to the right, and cov 
 ered a group of hills, and drew out our weapons. To the utter 
 astonishment of my companion, and to my own exasperation, 
 we found, not only no priming in the pans of our pistols, but the 
 flints knocked out, and wooden ones, begrimed with gunpowder, 
 substituted in their place ! Win, in could we suspect of this but 
 our two shuffling companions of the chamber? The discovery 
 was full of warning. We were in a bad neighborhood, and it 
 behooved us to keep our wits about ns. We were neither of us 
 men to be terrified into inactivity by the prospect of danger; 
 and, though aroused and apprehensive, we proceeded to prepare 
 against the events which seemed to threaten ns, and we knew 
 not on which hand. Fortunately, we had other Hints, and other 
 weapons, and we put all of them in readiness for instant requi 
 sition. We had scarcely done so, and remounted, when we 
 heard a horseman riding down the main track toward the river 
 We did not look to se(! who the traveller might be, but, taking 
 our own course, entered upon the left-hand trail of a fork, which 
 took us out of the main, into a neighboring road, by which we 
 proposed to reach the plantation of Mr. Grafton in the rear, 
 avoiding the front or main road, as it was some little distance 
 longer. To our own surprise, we reached the desired place in 
 safety, and without the smallest interruption of any kind. Yet 
 oar minds had been wrought up and excited to the very high 
 est pitch of expectation, and I felt that something like disap 
 pointment was predominant in my bosom, for the very security 
 we then enjoyed. A scuffle had been a relief to that anxiety 
 which was not diminished very greatly by the knowledge that, 
 for a brief season, we were free from danger. The trial, we 
 believed, was yet to come ; and the suspense of waiting was a 
 greater source of annoyance than any doubts or apprehension 
 which we might have had of the final issue. 
 
RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 JHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A FOREST HOME. 
 
 Tlis night at least /\A 
 
 The hospitable hearth Bhall flame 
 And 
 
 Find for the wanderer rest and fire." WALTER SOOTT. 
 
 COLO.XKI, GRAFTOX for we are all colonels at least, in the 
 southern and southwestern states received us at the doorsteps 
 of his mansion, and gave us that cordial kind of reception which 
 makes the stranger instantly at home. Our horses were taken, 
 and, in defiance of all our pleading, were hurried off to the sta 
 bles; while we were ushered into the house hy our host, and 
 made acquainted with his family. This consisted of his wife, a 
 fine, portly dame of forty-five, and some five children, in the 
 several stages from seven to seventeen the eldest, a lovely 
 damsel, with bright blue eyes and dark-brown hair, fair as a 
 city lily ; the youngest an ambitious urchin, the cracking of 
 whose knotted whip filled the room with noises, which it re 
 quired an occasional finger-shake of the indulgent mother finally 
 to subdue. Hospitality was a presiding virtue, not an ostenta 
 tious pretender, in that pleasant household ; and, in the space 
 of half an hour, we felt as comfortably at home with its inmates 
 as if we had been associates all our lives. Colonel Gr;\fton 
 would not listen to our leaving him that night. When William 
 pleaded his business, he had a sufficient answer. The man 
 whom he sought lived full twelve miles ofi ; and, through a te 
 dious region of country, it would take us till dark, good riding, 
 to reach and find tlie spot, even if we started before dinner a 
 violation of good breeding not to be thought of in Alabama. 
 We were forced to stay, and, indeed, needed no great persua- 
 iion. The air of the whole establishment took us both at first 
 
A FOREST HOME. 137 
 
 sight There is a household as well as individual manner, 
 which moves us almost with as great an influence ; and that of 
 Colonel Grafton s was irresistible. A something of complete life 
 calm, methodical, symmetrical life life in repose seemed 
 to mark his parlor, his hall, the arrangements of his grounds 
 and gardens, the very grouping of the trees. All testified to 
 the continual presence of a governing mind, whose whole feel 
 ing of enjoyment was derived from order a method as rigor 
 ous as it was simple and easy of attainment. Yet there was no 
 trim formality in either his own or his wife s deportment; and, 
 as for the arrangement, of things about his house, you could im 
 pute to neither of them a fastidious nicety and marked disposi 
 tion to set chairs and tables, books and pictures, over and against 
 each other of equal size and like color. To mark what I mean 
 more distinctly, I will say that he never seemed to insist on 
 having tilings in their places, but he was always resolute to have 
 them iicccr in the way. There is no citizen of the world who 
 will not readily conceive the distinction. 
 
 We had a good dinner, and, after dinner, taking his wife and 
 all his children along, he escorted us over a part of his grounds, 
 pointed out his improvements, and gave us the domestic history 
 of his settlement. Miss Grafton afterward, at her father s sug 
 gestion, conducted us to a pleasant promenade of her own find 
 ing, which, in the indulgence of a very natural sentimentality, 
 she had entitled " The Grove of Coronatte," after a lovesick 
 Indian maiden of that name, who, it is said by tradition, pre 
 ferred leaving her tribe when it emigrated to the Mississippi, 
 to an exile from a region in which she had lived from infancy 
 and which she loved better than her people. She afterward 
 became the wife of a white man named Johnson, and there the 
 tradition ends. The true story as Colonel Grafton more than 
 hinted was, that Coronatte was tempted by Johnson to be 
 come his wife long before the departure of the tribe, and she 
 in obedience to natural not less than scriptural laws, preferred 
 cleaving to her husband to going with less-endearing relations 
 into foreign lands. The colonel also intimated his doubts as to 
 the formality of the ceremony by which the two vere united 
 but this latter suggestion \vs.- u;i.!. : u.^ ih ;i i.h ^por Julia 
 Graftou wholly denying, and with, some earnestness I thought, 
 
138 RICHARD HURLIfi. 
 
 even such portions of her father s version of the romance as he 
 had permitted to reach her ears. 
 
 That night we rejoiced in a warm supper, and, wreii it waa 
 ended, I had reason to remark with delight the effect upon the 
 whole household of that governing character on the part of its 
 head which had impressed me at first entering it. The supper- 
 things seemed removed by magic. We had scarcely left the 
 table, Mrs. Grafton leading the way, and taken our places around 
 the fire, when Julia took her mother s place at the waiter ; and 
 without noise, bustle, or confusion, the plates and cups and sau 
 cers were washed and despatched to their proper places. A 
 single servant only attended, and this servant seemed endowed 
 with ubiquity. She seemed to have imbibed the general habits 
 of her superiors, and did quite as much, if not more, than would 
 have been done by a dozen servants, and with infinitely less 
 confusion. Such was the result of method in the principal : 
 there is a moral atmosphere, and we become acclimated, when 
 under its action, precisely as in the physical world. The slave 
 had tacitly fallen into the habits and moods of those above her 
 as inferiors are very apt to do and, without a lesson pre 
 scribed or a reason spoken, she had heeded all lessons, and felt, 
 though she might not have expressed, the reasons for all. The 
 whole economy of the household was admirable : not an order 
 was given ; no hesitation or ignorance of what was needed, 
 shown ; but each seemed to know by instinct, and to perform 
 with satisfaction, his or her several duties. Our repasts are sel 
 dom conducted anywhere in the Southwest with a strict atten 
 tion to order. A stupid slave puts everything into confusion, 
 and we do not help the matter much by bringing in a dozen to 
 her aid. The fewer servants about houses the better : they 
 learn to do, the more they are required to do, and acquire a 
 habit of promptness without which a servant might be always 
 utterly worthless. 
 
 When the table was removed, Julia joined us, and we all 
 chatted pleasantly together for the space of an hour. As soon 
 as the conversation seemed to flag, at a signal from Colonel 
 Grafton, which his daughter instantly recognised and obeyed, 
 she rose, and, bringing a little stand to the fireside, on which 
 lay several books, she prepared to read to us, in cojr.pliaucfl 
 
A FOREST HOME. 139 
 
 with one of the fireside laws of her father one which he had 
 insisted upon, and which she had followed, from the first mo- 
 merit of her being able to read tolerably. She now read well 
 sweetly, unaffectedly, yet impressively. A passage from "The 
 Deserted Village" interested us for half an hour; and the book 
 made way for conversation among the men, and needlework 
 among the women. But the whole scene impressed mo with 
 delight it was so natural, yet so uncommon in its aspect 
 done with so much ease, with so little effort, yet so completely. 
 Speaking of it in compliment to our host when the ladies had 
 retired, we received a reply which struck me as embodying the 
 advantages of a whole host of moral principles, such as are laid 
 down in books, but without any of their cold and freezing dry- 
 nesses. " Sir," said Colonel Grafton, " I ascribe the happiness 
 of my family to a very simple origin. It has always been a 
 leading endeavor with me to make my children love the family 
 fireside. If the virtues should dwell anywhere in a household, 
 it is there. There 1 have always and only found them." 
 
 And there they did dw,ll of a truth. 1 felt their force, and 
 so did my companion. William, indeed, was so absolutely 
 charmed with .Julia Grafton, that 1 began to apprehend that he 
 would not only forget his betrothed, but his journey also a 
 journey which, I doubt not, the reader, agreeing with myself, 
 would have us instantly resume. But we had consented to 
 stay with our friendly host that night ; and before we retired 
 we made all necessary imjuiries touching his debtor. Colonel 
 Grafton gave my friend little encouragement -on the subject of 
 his claim. 
 
 " I am almost sorry," he said, " that I endorsed that man s 
 note. I fear I shall have to pay it ; not that I regard the loss, 
 but that it will make me the more reluctant hereafter to assist 
 other poor men in the same manner. The dishonesty of one 
 beginner in this way affects the fortunes of a thousand others, 
 who are possibly free from his or any failings of the kind. 
 When I signed the note for Webber, he was *ny o\ r erscer, but 
 disposed to set up for himself. I had fourd him honest or, 
 rather, I had never found him dishonest. If he was, he had 
 rogue s cunning enough to conceal it. Since he lefi, me, how- 
 evei he has become an object of suspicion to the whole neigh- 
 
140 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 horhood, and many arc the tales which I hear of his miscon 
 duct. It is not known how he lives. A miserable patch of 
 corn and one of potatoes form his only pretence as a farmer 
 and to these he pays so little attention, that his apology ii 
 openly laughed at. The cattle are commonly in the cornfield 
 ai.d the hogs do what they please with the potato-patch. 1L 
 docs not see, or does not care to see. He is seldom at home 
 and you may have to return to-morrow without finding him 
 If so, scruple not. to make my house your home si long as i- 
 may serve your purpose and prove agreeable." 
 
 We thanked him with due frankness, and he pioceeded: 
 
 " Tlws man has no known resources whatsoever, yet he is sul 
 d:>m without money. He is lavish of it, and must get i* easily. 
 It is commonly thought that he gambles, and is connected with 
 a vast association of gamblers that live upon the steamboats, 
 and harass the country from Georgia to Louisiana, assessing the 
 unwary traveller wherever they meet with him; and you know 
 how many thoughtless, confident youth we have, who lose their 
 money from an unwillingness to believe that they can be out 
 witted by their neighbor." 
 
 " My eye, as these words were spoken, caught that of Wil 
 liam, which turned away in confusion from my glance. I felt 
 mischievous enough to relate our adventure at the Tuscaloosa 
 tavern, but Colonel Grafton talked too well, and we were both 
 too much interested in what he said, to desire to interrupt him. 
 He proceeded : 
 
 " It is even said and supposed by some that he does worse 
 that he robs where he can not win, and seizes where he can not 
 cheat. I am not of this opinion. Rogues as well as honest 
 men find it easy enough to get along in our country without 
 walking the highway ; and, though I know him to be bold 
 enough to be a ruffian, I doubt whether such would be his pol 
 icy. My notion is that he is a successful gambler, and, as such, 
 if you find him at home, I doubt not that you will get your 
 m> ;iey. At least, such is my hope, for your sake, as well as 
 017 own. If you do, Mr. Carrington, you will trust again, and 
 I yes I will endorse ajrain the poor man s promise to pay." 
 
 "And how far from you is me residence of this man?" was 
 my question. 
 
A FOREST HOME. 141 
 
 "From twelve to fourteen miles, and through a miserably 
 wild country. I do not envy you the ride ; you will have an 
 up-hill journey of it full two-thirds of the route, and a cheerless 
 one throughout. I trust you may not take it in vain ; but, 
 whether you do or not, you must return this way. It is your 
 nearest route to Columbus, and 1 can put you on your way by 
 a short cut which you could not find yourself. I shall, of course, 
 expect you." 
 
 Such was the amount of our conference with this excellent man 
 that night. We separated at twelve o clock a late hour in the 
 country, but the evening had passed too pleasantly to permit us to 
 feel it so. A cheerful breakfast in the morning, and a renewal of all 
 those pleasant thoughts and images which had fascinated us the 
 night before, made us hesitate to leave this charming family ; and 
 slow were the lirst movements which carried us from the happy ter 
 ritory. Well provided with directions for finding the way, and cau 
 tion? to be circumspect and watchful, we set out for the dwelling of 
 OUT suspicious debtor. 
 
142 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MAT WEBBEK. 
 
 "Old Giaffar sat in his divan, 
 
 Deep thought was in his aged eye; 
 And though the face of mussulman 
 
 Not oft betrays to standers-by 
 The mind within well skilled to hide 
 All but unconquerable pride 
 His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
 Did more than he was wont avow." Bride of Abydos. 
 
 OUR host had in no respect exaggerated the tcdiousness of 
 our journey. Perhaps it became doubly so to us from the pleas 
 ant consciousness, fresh in our minds, of the few preceding hours 
 which had been so unqualifiedly delightful. The hills rose be 
 fore us, and we felt it to be indeed toilsome to ascend them, 
 when we knew that by such ascent we only threw them as bar 
 riers between us and the spot to which we both felt every dis 
 position to return. It is strange how susceptible to passing and 
 casual influences arc the strongest among us. Let our pride not 
 rise in our path as a dogged opponent, and what flexibility is 
 ours what may we not become what not achieve ! How 
 lovely will seem place and person, if, when they commend them 
 selves to our affections, they forbear to assail or offend our pride ! 
 I could tear myself from the dwelling of my childhood from 
 the embrace of the fondest of mothers from all the sympathies 
 and ties to which I had been accustomed yea, from the sight 
 of her to whom all my hopes had been addressed in obedience 
 to this arbitrary influence ; and, failing to derive even the cold 
 est satisfaction from friends, and family, and birthplace, could 
 yet be sensible of pleasure derived from the contemplation of a 
 strange home, and a passing intercourse with strangers, Per- 
 
MAT WEBBER. 143 
 
 haps it may be safe to assert that the greatest enemy to our 
 affections is our mind. The understanding, even among the 
 weakest as if conscious of its superior destiny will assert its 
 sway, and sacrifice the heart which depends on it for life, in 
 deference to that miserable vanity which lives only on its diseases. 
 I have alwaj s been conscious of this sort of warfare going on 
 with me. I have spoken the sarcasm to the loved one, even when my 
 own bosom felt the injustice, and when my heart, with the keenest 
 sympathy, quivered also with the pang. 
 
 We had ridden, perhaps, an hour, and were winding our way 
 down from gorge to gorge among a pile of hills of which there 
 seemed to be no end, when we came suddenly upon three men sitting 
 among the bushes at a little distance from the road-side. Two of 
 them we knew at the first glance to be our chamber companions at 
 Tuscaloosa. The third we had neither of us seen before. He 
 was a short, thick-set person of black hair and unimposing 
 features, presenting in his dress, a singular contrast to the trim 
 and gaudy caparison of his comrades. They w r ere sitting around 
 a log, and may have been eating for aught we knew. They had 
 something between them which called for their close scrutiny, and 
 seemed so well to receive it that we completely surprised them. 
 When they heard us, there was a visible start, and one of the two 
 gamblers started to his feet. I rode on without giving them the least 
 notice ; but, thoughtless as ever, William half advanced to them, 
 and in a good-humored, dare-devil style of expression, cried out to 
 them aloud : 
 
 "Halloo, my good fellows, do you feel like another game to 
 day ? " 
 
 What their answer was, and whether they sufficiently heard 
 to understand his words or not, I can not say they stood 
 motionless and watched our progress ; and I conceived it fortunate 
 that I was able to persuade my companion to ride on without farther 
 notice. He did not relish the indifference with which they 
 seemed to regard us, and a little pause and provocation might 
 have brought us into a regular fight. Perhaps the issue 
 of our journey considered such would have been a fortunate 
 event. We might not have suffered half so much as in the end 
 we did. 
 
 "Now could I take either or both of those fellows by the neck, 
 
144 KICHARD HU11DIS. 
 
 and rattle their pates together, for the fun of it," was the speech of 
 my companion, as we rode off. 
 
 There was a needless display of valor in this, and my answer 
 exhibited a more cautious temper. Rash enough myself at times, I 
 yet felt the necessity of tempcrateness when in company with one so 
 very thoughtless as my friend. 
 
 Ay, and soil your fingers and bruise your knuckles for your 
 pains. If they are merely dirty dogs, you would surely soil your 
 fingers, and if they were at all insolent, you would run some risk of 
 getting them broken. The least we have to do with all such people, 
 the better for all parties I, at least, have no ambition to couple 
 with them either in love or hostility. Enough to meet them 
 in their own way when they cross the path, and prevent our 
 progress." 
 
 " Which these chaps will never do, I warrant you." 
 
 " We have less need to cross theirs the way is broad enough for 
 both of us. But let us on, since our road grows more level, though 
 not less wild. I am tired of this jade pace our nags will sleep at 
 last, and stop at the next turning." 
 
 We quickened our pace, and, in another hour we approached the 
 confines of our debtor s habitation. We knew it by the generally 
 sterile and unprepossessing aspect of everything around it. The 
 description which Colonel Grafton had given us was so felicitous 
 that we could have no doubts ; and, riding up to the miserable 
 cabin we were fortunate enough to meet in proper person the man we 
 sought. 
 
 He stood at the entrance, leaning sluggishly against one of 
 the doorposts a slightly-built person, of slovenly habits, an 
 air coarse, inferior, unprepossessing, and dark lowering features. 
 His dress was shabby, his hat mashed down on one side of his 
 head his arms thrust to the elbows in the pockets of his 
 breeches, and he wore the moccasins of an Indian. Still, there 
 was something in the keen, lively glances of his small black 
 eye, that denoted a restless and quick character, and his thin, 
 closely-pressed lips were full of promptness and decision. His 
 skin was tanned almost yellow, and his long, uncombed but 
 flowing hair, black as a coal, falling down upon his neck 
 which was bare, suited well, while contrasting strongly with his 
 swarthy lineaments. He received us with civility advanced 
 
MAT WEBBER. 145 
 
 from his tottering doorsteps on our approach, and held our horses 
 while we dismounted. 
 
 "You remember me, Mr. Webber? "said my companion calling 
 him by name. 
 
 " Mr. Carrington, I believe," was the reply; " I don t forget easily. 
 Let me take your horses, gentlemen?" 
 
 There was a composure in the fellow s manners that almost 
 amounted to dignity. Perhaps, this tc: was against him. AVhere 
 should he learn such habits such an air ? Whence could come 
 the assurance the thorough ease and self-complacency of his 
 deportment ? Such confidence can spring from two sources only 
 the breeding of blood the systematic habits of an uumingled 
 family, admitting of no connection with strange races, and 
 becoming aristocratic from concentration or the recklessness of 
 one indifferent to social claims, and obeying no other master than his 
 own capricious mood. 
 
 We were conducted into his cabin and provided with seats. 
 Wretched and miserable as everything seemed about the prem 
 ises, our host showed no feeling of disquiet or concern on this 
 account. He made no apology ; drew forth the rude chairs 
 covered with bull s hides ; and proceeded to get the whiskey 
 and sugar, the usual beverage presented in that region to the 
 guest. 
 
 " You have ridden far, and a sup of whiskey will do you 
 good, gentlemen. From Tuscaloosa this morning you ve ridden 
 well." 
 
 William corrected his error by telling where we had stayed last 
 night. A frown insensibly gathered above the brow of the man as 
 he heard the name of Colonel Grafton. 
 
 "The colonel and myself don t set horses now altogether," was 
 the quick remark, "he s a rich I m a poor man." 
 
 " And yet I should scarce think him the person to find cause of 
 disagreement between himself and any man from a difference of con 
 dition," was the reply of William to this remark. 
 
 "You don t know him, Mr. Carrington, I reckon. For a long 
 time I didn t know him myself I was his overseer, you know, and 
 it was then he put his name to that little bit of paper, that I s pose 
 you come about now." 
 
 Carrington nodded. 
 
146 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 "Well," continued the debtor, "so long as I was his overseer, 
 things went on smoothly ; but the colonel don t like to see men 
 setting up for themselves, and tried to keep me from it, but he 
 couldn t ; and since I ve left him, he doesn t look once in the year 
 over to my side of the country. He don t like me now, I know. 
 Did you hear him say nothing about me? " 
 
 I could detect the keen black eye of the speaker, as he finished, 
 watching the countenance of Carrington as he waited for the reply. 
 I feared that the perfect frankness of William might have betrayed 
 him into a partial revelation of Colonel Grafton s information ; but 
 he evaded the inquiry with some address. 
 
 "Yes; he gave us full directions how to find your place, and 
 framed us that we might not find you at home. He said you 
 travelled a great deal about the country, and didn t plant much. 
 You deal in merchandise, perhaps ? " 
 
 The fellow looked somewhat disappointed as he replied in the 
 negative. But dismissing everything like expression from his 
 face, in the next instant he asked if we had met with any trav 
 ellers on the road. I replied quickly by stating with the ut 
 most brevity, the fact that we had met three, whose appearance 
 I briefly described without giving any particulars, and studiously 
 suppressed the previous knowledge which we had of the gam 
 blers at Tuscaloosa; but I had scarcely finished when William, 
 with his wonted thoughtlessness, took up the tale where I had 
 left it incomplete and omitted nothing. The man looked grave, 
 and when he was ended, contented himself with remarking that 
 he knew no person like those described, and inquired if we had 
 not met with others. But, with my wonted suspiciousness of 
 habit, I fancied that there was a something in his countenance 
 that told a different story, and whether there were reason for 
 this fancy or not, I was inly persuaded that our debtor and the 
 two gamblers were birds of a feather. It will be seen in the sequel 
 that I was not mistaken. There was an awkward pause in the 
 conversation, for Carrington, like a man not accustomed to business 
 seemed loth to ask about his money. He was relieved by the 
 debtor. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Carrington," he said, "you come, I s pose, about 
 that little paper of mine. You want your money, and, to say 
 truth, you ought to have had it some time ago. I would have 
 
MAT WEBBER, 147 
 
 Sent it to you, but I couldn t get any safe hand going down 
 into your parts." 
 
 Carrington interrupted him. 
 
 "That s no matter, Mr. Webber, I didn t want the money, 
 to say truth, till just now ; but if you can let me have it now, 
 it will be as good to me as if you had sent it to mo six months 
 ago. I m thinking to buy a little land in Mississippi, if I can 
 get it moderate, and can get a long credit for the best part of 
 it, but it will be necessary to put down something, you know, 
 to clinch the bargain, and I thought I- might as well look to 
 you for that." 
 
 To be sure certain it s only reasonable; but if you think 
 to go into Mississippi to get land now on a long credit, and 
 hardly any cash, Mr. Carrington, you ll find yourself mightily 
 mistaken. You must put down the real grit, if you want to 
 do anything in the land-market." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I expect to put down some 
 
 The acute glance of my eye arrested the speech of my 
 thoughtless companion. In two minutes more lie would prob 
 ably have declared the very amount he had in possession, and all 
 the purposes he had in view. I do not know, however, but 
 that the abrupt pause and silence which followed my interposi 
 tion, revealed quite as much to the cunning debtor as the words 
 of my companion would have done. The bungling succession 
 of half formed and incoherent sentences which William uttered 
 to hide the truth, and conceal that which by this time, was 
 sufficiently told, perhaps contributed to impress him with an 
 idea of much greater wealth in our possession than was even the 
 case. But, whatever may have been his thoughts, his counte 
 nance was too inflexibly indifferent to convey to us their char 
 acter, lie was stolid and seemingly unobservant to the last 
 degree, scarcely giving the slightest heed to the answers which 
 his own remarks and inquiries demanded. At length, abruptly 
 returning to the business in hand, he spoke thus: 
 
 " Well, now, Mr. Carrington, I ll have to give 3*011 a little 
 disappointment. I can t pa} 3"ou to-day, much as I would like to 
 do it ; for, 3*011 see, my mone} is owing to me, and is scattered 
 all about the neighborhood. If 3*011 could take a bed with me 
 to-night, and be satisfied to put off travelling for a da3 T , I could 
 
RICHARD HUKPTP. 
 
 you, I think, for certain, to give yon the whole of your 
 money by to-morrow night. I can get it, for that matter, from 
 a friend, but I should have to ride about fifteen or twenty miles 
 for it, and that couldn t be done to-day." 
 
 " Nor would I wish it, Mr. Webber," was the reply of Wil 
 liam. " To-morrow will answer, and though we are obliged 
 to you for your offer of a bed to-night, yet we have a previous 
 promise to return and spend the night with Colonel Grafton." 
 
 The brows of the man again blackened, but ho spoke in cool, 
 deliberate accents, though his language was that of enmity 
 and dissatisfaction. 
 
 "Ay, I supposed as much. Colonel Grafton has a mighty 
 fine house, and everything in good fi>: he can better aecom 
 modate fine gentlemen than a poor man like me. Yon can cio 
 what you like about that, Mr. Carrington stay with me to-night, 
 or come at mid-day to-morrow all the same to me you shall 
 Btill have your money. I ll get it for you, at all hazards, if it s 
 only to get rid of all further obligation to that man. I ve been 
 obligated to him too long already, and I ll wipe out the score 
 to-morrow, or I m no man myself." 
 
 On the subject of Webber s motive for paying his debt, the 
 creditor, of course, had but little to say. But th pertinacity 
 jf the fellow on another topic annoyed me. 
 
 "You speak," said I, "of the greater wealth and better ac 
 .ommodations of Colonel Grafton, as prompting us to prefer his 
 hospitality to yours. My good sir, why should you do us thi? 
 ATong 1 What do you see in either of us to think such things 
 W r e are both poor men poorer, perhaps, than yourself I 
 know I am, and believe that such, too, is the case with my com 
 panion." 
 
 " L)o you though ?" said the fellow, coolly interrupting me. 
 I felt that my blood was warming; he, perhaps, saw it, for he 
 instantly went on *. 
 
 " I don t mean any offence to you, gentlemen very far from 
 it but we all very well know what temptations are in a rich 
 man s house more than those in a poor innn s. I m a little 
 jealous, you see, that s all; for I look upon myself -.3 just ai 
 good as Colonel Grafton any day, and t j find people go from 
 iny -loor to look for his, is a sort of slight, you see, ibat I can t 
 
MAT WEBBER. 149 
 
 always stomach. But I suppose you arc another guess sort of 
 people ; and I should be sorry if you found anything amiss in 
 what I say. I m a poor man, it s true, but, by God ! I m an 
 honest one, and come when you will, Mr. Carrmgton, I ll take 
 up that bit of paper almost as soon as you bring it." 
 
 We drank with the fellow at parting, and left him on tolera 
 bly civil terms; but there was something about him which 
 troubled and made me apprehensive and suspicious. His habits 
 of life as we saw them but ill compared with the measured 
 and deliberate hiauners and tone >f voice which he habitually 
 employed. The calmness ana dignity of one, conscious of 
 power and practised in authority, were conspicuous in every 
 thing he said and did. Such characteristics never mark the 
 habitually unemployed man. What, then, wci-c Ins occupa 
 tions? Time will show. Enough, for the present, to kno^r 
 that he was even then meditating as dark a piece of villany, a* 
 the domestic hiv/niaii of the frontier was ever called upon fcf 
 record 
 
150 KICHARD IIUliDlS. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE OUTLAWS. 
 
 * 
 
 " They arc a lawless brood, 
 
 But roug-h in form nor mild in mood; 
 
 And every creed and every race, 
 
 With them hath found may find a phice." Byron. 
 
 WE had not well departed from the dwelling of the debtor 
 before it was occupied by the two gamblers, whose merits we 
 had discovered in Tuscaloosa, and the third person whom we 
 had seen with them 011 the road-side. They had watched and 
 followed our steps ; and by a better knowledge of the roads 
 than we possessed, they had been enabled to arrive at the same 
 spot without being seen, and to lurk in waiting for the moment 
 of our departure before they made their appearance. No sooner 
 were we gone, however, than they emerged from their place of 
 concealment, and made for the house. A few words sufficed 
 to tell their story to their associate, for such he was. 
 
 "Do you know the men that have left you? What was their 
 business with you?" 
 
 They were answered ; and they then revealed what they 
 knew. They dwelt upon the large sum in bills which William 
 had incautiously displayed to their eyes; and, exaggerating its 
 amount, they insisted not the less upon the greater amount 
 which they assumed, nay, asserted, to be in my possession a 
 prize, both sums being considered, which they coolly enough 
 contended, would be sufficient to reward them for the most 
 extreme and summary efforts to obtain it. 
 
 "We must pursue them instantly," said the scoundrel, who 
 had sought to bully us at the tavern. " There arc four of us, 
 and we can soon overhaul them." 
 
 "They are armed to the teeth, George," said our debtor. 
 
THE OUTLAWS. 151 
 
 "We have seen to that," was the reply. "Ben had an op 
 portunity to inspect their pistols, which they wisely left in their 
 chamber when they went down to eat ; and with his usual desire 
 to keep his neighbors from doing harm, he knocked out the prim 
 ing, and for the old flints, he put in line new ones, fashioned 
 out of wood. These will do no mischief, I warrant you, to any 
 body, and so let us set on. If my figures do not fail me, these 
 chaps have money enough about them to pay our way, for 
 the next three months, from Tennessee to New Orleans and 
 back." 
 
 His proposal was seconded by his immediate companions, but the 
 debtor, with more deliberateness and effectual judgment, restrained 
 them. 
 
 "I m against riding after them now, though all be true, as you 
 say, about the money in their hands." 
 
 " What ! will you let them escape us ? Are you growing chicken, 
 Mat, in your old days ? You refuse to be a striker, do you ? It s 
 beneath your wisdom and dignity, 1 suppose?" said our bullying 
 gambler, who went by the name of George. 
 
 "Shut up, George, and don t be foolish," was the cool response. 
 "You ought to know me by this time, and one thing is certain, I 
 know enough of you ! You talk of being a striker! Why, man, 
 you mistake! You re a chap for a trick for making a pitfall 
 but not for shoving the stranger into it ! Be quiet, and I ll put 
 you at 3 our best business. These men come back here at mid-day 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Ha ! the devil they do ! " 
 
 "Ay; they dine with me, and then return to Colonel Graf- 
 ton s. To one of them, as I told you the younger of the two, a 
 full-faced, good-natured looking fellow I owe a hundred or two 
 dollars. He hopes to get it by coming. Now, it s for you to say if 
 he will or not. I leave it to you. I can get the money easily 
 enough ; and if you ve got any better from that camp-meeting that 
 you went to, on the Bigby, you will probably say I ought to pay 
 him, but if not " 
 
 "Pshaw!" was the universal answer. "What nonsense! Pay 
 the devil ! The very impudence of the fellow in coming here, 
 to make collections, should be enough to make us cut 1m 
 throat." 
 
152 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 "Shall we do that, men?" was the calm inquiry of the 
 debtor. 
 
 "It s best!" was the bloody answer of the gambler, George. 
 Cowards of bad morals are usually the most sanguinary people when 
 passion prompts and opportunity occurs. " I m clear," continued the 
 same fellow, "for making hash of these chaps. There is one of 
 them the slenderer fellow with the long nose, (meaning me) his 
 d d insolence to me in Tuscaloosa is enough to convict him. The 
 sooner we fix him the better." 
 
 "George seems unwilling to give that chap a chance. I rather 
 think it would be better to let him go in order that the two might 
 fight out their quarrel. Eh, George ! what say you ? " 
 
 The host proposed a cutting question, but in his own cool 
 and measured mariner. It did not seem to fall harmlessly upon 
 the person to whom it was addressed. His features grew dark 
 ly red with the ferocity of his soul, but his reply was framed with 
 a just knowledge of the fearless nature of the man who had pro 
 voked him. 
 
 "You know, Mat, I can fight well enough when it pleases me to 
 do so." 
 
 "True," was the answer ; "nobody denies that. I only meant to 
 say that you don t often find pleasure in it ; nor, indeed, George, do 1 
 I ; and that s one reason which I have for disagreeing with you about 
 these stranger-chaps. " 
 
 "What ! " said one of the companions, " you won t lift? " 
 " Who says I won t ? To be sure I will. We ll lift what we can, 
 and empty the sack ; but I m not for slitting any more pipes if I can 
 help it not in this neighborhood, at least." 
 
 "Mat s going to join the methodists. He ll eat devil s broth, but 
 dip no meat," said George. 
 
 "No if it s needful, I ll eat both ; but one I don t like so much as. 
 the other, and, when I can get the one without the other, I ll always 
 prefer to do so." 
 
 "But they ll blab." 
 
 "So they may; but what care we about that, when we re going 
 where they can t find us ? Let us keep them quiet till to-morrow 
 midnight, and then they may use their pipes quite as much as they 
 please. By that time we shall all be safe in the nation, and thft 
 sheriff may whistle for us." 
 
THE OUTLAWS. 153 
 
 " Well, as to that part of the plan," said George, " I m opposed to 
 it now, and have always been against it. I see no reason to leave a 
 country where we ve done, and where we re still doing, so excellent a 
 business." 
 
 "What business? no striking for a week or more! " said one of the 
 party. 
 
 "But what s the chance to-morrow? These very chaps show 
 us the goodness of the business we may do by holding on a 
 time longer. Here s hundreds going for the nation and there 
 abouts every week, and most of them have the real stuff. They 
 sell out in the old states, raise all the cash they can, and give 
 us plenty of picking if we ll look out and wait for it. But we 
 mustn t be so milk-hearted. There s no getting on in safety if 
 we only crop the beast s tail and let it run. We can stay here 
 six months longer, if we stop the mouth of the sack when we empty 
 it." 
 
 " Ah, George, you are quite too brave in council, and too full of 
 counsel in the field," was the almost indifferent reply of the debtor ; 
 " to stay here six weeks, would be to hang us all. The people are 
 getting too thick and too sober between this and Bigby. They ll cut 
 us off frorn running after a while. Now, you are too brave to run ; 
 you d rather fight and die any day than that. Not so with me; 
 I m for lifting and striking anywhere, so long as the back 
 door s open ; but the moment you shut up that, I m for othei 
 lodgings. But enough of this. We ve made the law for going 
 already, and it s a mere waste of breath to talk over that matter now. 
 There s other business before us, and, if you ll let me, we ll talk 
 about that." 
 
 " Crack away ! " was the answer. 
 
 " These lads come here to-morrow they dine with me. The 
 old trick is the easiest ; we ll rope them to their chairs, and 
 then search their pockets. They carry their bills in their bo 
 soms, I reckon ; and if they ve got specie, it s in the saddle 
 bags. We can rope them, rob them, and leave them at table. 
 All the expense is a good dinner, and we ll leave them that too, 
 as it will be some hours, I reckon, before anybody will come 
 along to help them out of their hobble, and they ll be hungry 
 when their first trouble s fairly over. By that time, we ll bo 
 mighty nigh Columbus ; and if the lads have the money you 
 
 7* 
 
154 RICHARD HUI1DIS. 
 
 .say they have, it will help us handsomely through the nation. 
 It will be a good finishing stroke to our business in this quar 
 ter." 
 
 The plan thus briefly stated was one well understood by the 
 fraternity, as it had been practiced in their robberies more than once 
 before ; and it received the general approbation. The bully, 
 George, was opposed to leaving us alive, but he was compelled to 
 .yield his bloody wishes in compliance with the more humane resolu 
 tion of the rest. 
 
 "I am against cutting more throats than I can help, George," 
 said the calculating host ; " it s a dirty practice, and I don t like it, 
 as it s always so hard for me to clean my hands and take the spots 
 out of my breeches. Besides, I hate to sec a man dropped 
 like a bullock, never to get up again. There s only one chap in the 
 world that I have such a grudge against that I should like 
 to shed his blood, and even him I should forgive if he was only will 
 ing to bend his neck when a body meets him, and say How d ye 
 do ? with civility." 
 
 Who s that, Bill ? " demanded George. 
 
 " No matter about the name. If I have to cut his throat, I don t 
 care to trouble you to help me." 
 
 " I am willing." 
 
 "Ay, if I hold him for the knife. Enough, George we ll 
 try you to-morrow. You shall have the pleasure of dropping 
 the slip over that fellow with the long nose. See that you do 
 it bravely. If you don t pinion his arms, you may feel his elbow, 
 and he looks very much like a chap that had bone and muscle to 
 spare." 
 
 "I ll see to that but suppose they refuse to dine?" was the 
 suggestion of the bully. 
 
 " Why, then, we must take them when at the drink, or as they go 
 through the passage. You must watch your chance, and choose the 
 moment you like best ; but you who are the strikers must be careful 
 to move together. If you miss a minute, you may have trouble, for 
 one will certainly come to help the other, and it may compel us to use 
 the knife at last." 
 
 It s a shorter way to use it at first," said George. 
 
 " Perhaps so but let me tell you it lasts much longer. The 
 business is not dead with the man ; and when you have done 
 
TEE OUTLAWS. lt>0 
 
 hat *rt of tiling once or twice, you ll find that H calls for yon 
 to do a Teat deal more business of different kinds which will 
 
 O 
 
 be not only troublesome but disagreeable. 1 tell you, as I told 
 you before, it is tbe very devil to wash out the stains." 
 
 This affair settled, others of like nature, but of less immediate 
 performance, came up for consideration ; but these need not be 
 related now. One fact, however, may be stated. When they 
 had resolved upon our robbery, thev" set themselves down to 
 play for the results; and. having made a supposed estimate of 
 our effects, they staked their several shares in moderate sumfc 
 and won and lost the moneys which th>y were, yet to steal ! It 
 may be added that my former opponent, the bully George, was 
 01. e of the most fortunate ; and, having won the right from his 
 comrades to the spoils which they wore yet to wi?!, be was the 
 most impatient for the approach of the hour when Lie wi im^u^i 
 wire, to be realized Let vjj now relate our own progress. 
 
156 RICHARD IIURD1S. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE HAPPY FAMILY. 
 
 " So thy fair hand, enamored fancy gleans 
 The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes ; 
 Thy pencil traces on the lover s thought 
 Some cottage home, from towns and toil remote. 
 Where love and peace may claim alternate hours 
 With peace embosomed in Tdalian bowers ! 
 Remote from busy life s bewildered way 
 O er all his heart shall taste and beauty sway- 
 Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, 
 With hermit steps to wonder and adore." CAMPBELL. 
 
 ON our return to Colonel Grafton s, we were received with a 
 welcome due rather to a long and tried intimacy, than to our 
 new acquaintance. There we met a Mr. Clifton a young 
 man about twenty-five years of age of slight, but elegant 
 figure, and a face decidedly one of the most handsome I had 
 ever seen among men. It M r as evident to me after a little 
 space that such also was the opinion of Julia Graf ton. Her 
 eyes, when an opportunity offered, watched him narrowly ; and 
 I was soon enabled to see that the gentleman himself was as 
 siduous in those attentions which arc apt enough to occasion 
 love, and to yield it opportunity. I learned casually in the 
 course of the evening, and after the young man had retired, what 
 I had readily inferred from my previous observation namely 
 that they had been for some time known to each other. Mr. 
 Clifton s manners were good artless exceedingly, and frank, 
 and he seemed in all respects, a perfect and pleasing gentleman. 
 He left us before night, alleging a necessity to ride some miles 
 on business which admitted of no delay. I could see the dis 
 appointment in the cheek of Julia, and the quivering of her 
 lovely lips was not entirely concealed. That night she sang 
 
THE HAPPY FAMILY. 157 
 
 as a plaintive ditty, to the mi. sic of an ancient, but nrbly -toned 
 harpsichord, and trembling but anticipative love was tne burden 
 of her song. The obvious interest of these two in each otber, 
 had the effect of carrying me back to Marengo but the vision 
 vhich encountered me there drove me again into the wilder 
 ness and left me no refuge but among strangers. I fancied that 
 1 beheld the triumphant joy of John Ilurdis; and the active 
 and morbid imagination completed the cruel torture by showing 
 me Mary Kasterhy locked in his arms. My soul shrank from 
 the portraiture of my fancy, and I lapsed away into gloom and 
 silence in defiance of all the friendly solicitings of our host 
 and his sweet family. 
 
 But my companion had no sucb suffering as mine, and be 
 gave a free rein to his tongue, lie related to Colonel Grafton 
 the circumstances attending our interview with the debtor, not 
 omitting the remarks of the latter in reference to the colonel 
 himself. 
 
 " It matters not much,* said the colonel, " what be thinks o* 
 me, but. the truth is, he has not told you the preci-e reason of 
 his hostility. The pride of the more wealthy is always insisted 
 upon by the poorer sort of people, to account for any differences 
 between themselves and their neighbors. It is idle to answe) 
 them on this head. They themselves know better. If thej 
 confessed that the possession of greater wealth was an occasion 
 for their constant hate or dislike they would speak more to the 
 purpose, and with far more justice. Not that I think that 
 Webber hates me because I am wealthy, lie spends daily 
 quite as much money as I do but he can not so well convince 
 his neighbors that he gets it as honestly ; and still less can he 
 convince me of the fact. Jn his own consciousness lies my 
 sufficient justification for the distance at which I keep him, and 
 for that studied austerity of deportment ou my part of which 
 he so bitterly complains. T am sorry for my own sake, not lest 
 than his, that I am forced to the adoption of a habit which it> 
 jot natural to me and far from agreeable. It gives me no less 
 pain to avoid any of my neighbors than it must give them of 
 fence. But I act from a calm conviction of duty, and this fe T 
 lo\v knows it. Let us say no more about him. It is enough 
 tha* he promts to pay you your money lie can do it if he 
 
158 RICHARD 
 
 will; airl J doubt not that he will keep his promise, simply 1m 
 cause ray name is on his paper. It will he a matter of pride 
 with him to relieve himself of an obligation to one who offends 
 his self-esteem so greatly as to provoke him to complaint." 
 
 About ten o clock the next day we left Colonel Grafton s for 
 the dwelling of the debtor. He rode a mile or two with us, 
 and on leaving us renewed his desire that we should return and 
 spend the night with him. His residence lay in our road, and 
 we readily made the promise. 
 
 " Could I live as Grafton lives," said William, after our friend 
 had left us " could I have such an establishment, and such a 
 family, and be such a man, it seems to me I should be most 
 happy. He wants for nothing that he has not, he is beloved 
 by his family, and has acquired so happily the arts of the 
 household and there is a great deal in that that he can not 
 but be happy. Everything is snug, and everything seems to fit 
 nbout him. Nothing is out of place; and wife, children, s^r* 
 vants all, not only seem to know their several places, but to 
 delight in them. There is no discontent in that family ; and 
 that dear girl, Julia, how much she remincb me of Emmeline 
 what a gentle being, yet how full of spirit how graceful and 
 light in her thoughts and movements, yet how true, how firm." 
 
 I let my friend run on in his eulogy without interruption. 
 The things and persons which had produced a sensation of so 
 much pleasure in his heart, had brought but sorrow and dissat 
 isfaction to mine. His fancy described his own household, in 
 similarly bright colors to his mind and eye whilst my thoughts, 
 taking their complexion from my own denied and defeated for 
 tunes, indulged in gloomy comparisons of what I saw in tluj 
 possession of others, and the cold, cheerless fate the isolatior 
 and the solitude of all my future life. How could I appre 
 ciate the enthusiasm of my friend how share in his raptures? 
 Every picture of bliss to the eye of the sufferer is provocation 
 and bitterness. I felt it such and replied querulously : 
 
 " Your raptures may be out of place, William, for aught you 
 know. What folly to judge of surfaces! But your young 
 traveller always does so. Who shall say what discontent reigns 
 hi that family, in the absence of the stranger ? There may be 
 t tt.ftruess and curses, for anght you know, in many a bosom 
 
THE HAW T FAMILY 159 
 
 *he possessor of which meets you with a smile and cheers yon 
 with a song and that girl Julia -she is beautiful you say 
 out is she blest 1 She loves you see that ! -- Is it certain that 
 she loves wisely, worthily that she, wins the object of her 
 love that he does not deceive her -or that she does not jilt 
 him in some moment of bitter perversity and chafing passion? 
 Well did the ancient declare, that the happiness of man could 
 never be estimated till the grave had closed over him." 
 
 "The fellow was a fool to say that, as if the man could be 
 happy then. But I can declare him false from my own bosom. 
 I am happy now, and am resolved to lie more so, Look you. 
 Dick in two we-eks more I will be in Marengo. 1 shall have 
 entered my lands, and made my preparations. In four weeks 
 Krnmeline will be mine ; and then, hey for an establishment 
 like Grafton s. All shall be peace and sweetness about my 
 dwelling as about his. I will lay out my grounds in the same 
 manner I will bring Emmeline to see, his 
 
 I ventured to interrupt the dreamer: "-Suppose she does not 
 like them as much as you do 1 Women have their own mode? 
 of thinking and planning these matters. Will you not give her 
 her own way ?" 
 
 He replied good-naturedly but quickly : " Oh, surely ; but. 
 she will like them I know she will. They are entirely to 
 her taste; and, whether they be or not, she shall have her own 
 way in that. You do not suppose 1 would insist upon so small 
 a matter V 
 
 " But it was anything but a small matter while you were 
 dwelling upon the charms of Colonel Grafton s establishment. 
 The grounds make no small part of its charms in both our eyes, 
 and I wonder that you should give them up so readily." 
 
 " 1 do not give them up, Richard. 1 will let Emmeline know 
 how much I like them, and will insist upon them as long as 1 
 can in reason. But, however lovely I think them, do not sup 
 pose that I count them as anything in comparison of the family 
 beauty the harmony that makes the circle a complete system, 
 in which the lights are all clear and lovely, and the sounds all 
 sweet and touching. 
 
 "I will sooner admit your capacity to lay out your grounds 
 ?8 tasteiully as Colonel (jiafton, than to bring about such results 
 
100 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 in your family, whatever it may be. You are not Colonel Graf- 
 ton, William: you lack his prudence, his method, his experi 
 ence, his years. The harmony of one s household depends 
 greatly upon the discretion and resolve of its master. Heaven 
 knows I wish you happy, William; but, if you promise yourself 
 a home like that of this gentleman, you must become a cooler- 
 headed and far more prudent personage than any of your friends 
 esteem you now. You are amiable enough, and therefore wor 
 thy to have such a family; but you are not grave enough to 
 create its character, and so to decree and impel as to make the 
 lights revolve harmoniously in your circle, and call forth the 
 music in its place. Your lights will sometimes annoy you by 
 their glare, or go out when you most need their assistance; and 
 your music will ring in your ears at times when your evening nap 
 seems to you the most desirable enjoyment in nature. Joy itself is 
 known to surfeit, and you, unhappibj, are not a man to feed in 
 moderation." 
 
 He received my croakings with good nature, and laughed heartily 
 at my predictions. 
 
 "You are a sad boy, Richard; you are quite too philosoph 
 ical ever to be happy," was his good-natured reply. "You 
 analyze matters too closely. You must not subject the things 
 which give you pleasure to a too close inspection of your mind, 
 or ten to one you despise them. The mind has but little to do 
 with the affections the less the better. I would rather not 
 think, but only believe, where I have set my heart. It is so 
 sweet to confide it is so worrying to doubt! It appears to 
 me, now, for example, that the fruit plucked by Eve, producing all 
 the quarrel between herself and daddy Adam, was from the tree of 
 jealousy." 
 
 "What a transition!" was my reply. "You have brought down 
 your generalization to a narrow and very selfish point. But give 
 your horse the spur, I pray yor when your theme becomes do 
 mestic, I feel like a gallop." 
 
 He pricked his steed, in compliance with my wish; but the 
 increased pace of our horses offered no interruption to his discourse 
 on a subject so near his heart. lie continued to speak in the same 
 fashion : 
 
 "Once fairly married, Dicky, you will see how grave I can 
 
THE HAPPY FAMILY. 101 
 
 fa. I will then b*"iome a public man. You win heai of me as 
 a commissioner of the poor, of roads, bridges, and ferries. I 
 will get up a project for an orphan-asylum in Marengo, and 
 ^aake a speech or two at the muster-ground in favor of an insti 
 tute for coupling veteran old maids and inveterate old bache 
 lors together. The women will name all their first children 
 after rne, and in five years I will be godfather to half Marengo. 
 You smile you will see! And then, Dick, when Emmeline 
 gives me a dear little brat of our own ah, Dick ! " 
 
 He struck the spur into his steed, and the animal bounded 
 up the hill, as if a wing, like that in the soul of his master, was 
 lifting him forward and upward without his own exertions. 1 
 smiled, with a sad smile, at the enthusiast-lover ; and bitterly 
 did his dream of delight force me to brood over my own exjic- 
 ience of disappointment. The brightness of h *; hope was like 
 some glowing and breathing flower cast upon tin grave of mine 
 I could almost have quarrelled with him for l.i^ joy on such 
 subject. Little did he or I think, poor fellow, that his joy was 
 but a dream that the doom of denial, nor of denial merely 
 was already written by the fates against him ! Terrible indee* 1 
 with a sudden terribleness when I afterward reflected npon 
 his boyish ardor appeared to me the sad fate which lay, as it 
 were, in the very path over which lie was bounding with de 
 light ! Could he or I have lifted the thick veil at that moment 
 .TT idle would have appeared all his Lopes how much mort 
 idle my despondency ! 
 
16 RICO AMD HURPJP 
 
 C II A P TEH v y T r 
 
 SAVAGK PASS!0\> 
 
 I hate him for he is H Christian 
 
 But more, for that, in low simplicity, 
 
 He lends out money gratis, and brings n<>wn 
 
 The rate of usance In; re with us in Venice. 
 
 If I ean catch him once upon the hip, 
 
 I will feed fat the ancient grudge I hear him t" 
 
 Merchant of Venn** 
 
 WE at length readied the dwelling of our debtor, lie re 
 ceived us as before, with a plain, rude indifference of manner, 
 mingled with good nature nevertheless, that seemed willing to 
 give pleasure, however unwilling to make any great exertion 
 for it. There was nothing to startle our apprehension, or make 
 us suspicious. Nobody appeared, save the host, who played 
 his part to admiration. lie would have carried our horses to 
 the stable, but we refused to suffer him to do so, alleging our 
 intention to ride back to Colonel Grafton s as soon as possible. 
 
 "What! not before dinner? you will surely stay and dine 
 with me. I have prepared for you." 
 
 The rascal spoke truly. lie had prepared for us with a ven 
 geance. I would have declined, for I did not like (though, to 
 confess a truth, I did not distrust) appearances. But finding us 
 hesitate, and fearing probably to lose his prey, he resorted to a 
 suggestion which at once determined us. 
 
 "I m afraid, if you can t stop for dinner, I can t let you have 
 the money to-day. A neighbor of mine, to whom I lent it a 
 month ago, promised to bring it by meal-time ; and, as he lives 
 a good bit off, I don t look for him before." 
 
 This, uttered with an air of indifference, settled our irresolu 
 tion. The idea of coming back again to such a place, and so 
 
SAVAGE PASSIONS. 163 
 
 wasting another Jay. was anything but agreeable, ana we re 
 solved to stay by all menus, if by so doing we could effect GUI 
 object. Still, as we were bent to ride, as sooi. as we had got 
 the money, we insisted that he should not take our horses, which 
 were fastened to the swinging limbs of a shady tree before the 
 entrance, in instant readiness for use. This preparatory con- 
 -ference took place at the door. "NVe then entered the hovel, 
 which ii will be necessary, in order to detail following events, 
 briefly to describe. In this particular, our task is easy the 
 arts of architecture, in the southwestern coumry, being of no 
 very complicated character. The house, as I have said before, 
 was built of logs unhewn, unsqnaivd, rude, ili-adjointed the 
 mere hovel of a squatter, who cuts down fine trees, spoils a 
 good site, and establishes what he impudently styles his im 
 provements ! It consisted of a single story, raised upon blocks 
 four feet from the ground, having an entrance running through 
 the centre of the building, with apartments on cither hand. To 
 the left-hand apartment, which was used as a hall, was attached 
 at each eid a little Imn-to, or shed, the doors to which opened 
 at once upon the hall. These rooms were possibly meant as 
 sleeping-apartments, nothing being more common in the South 
 west than such additions for such purposes. In this instance, 
 however, all regard to appearances seemed to have been neg 
 lected, since, in attaching the shed to each end of the hall, one 
 of these ugly excrescences was necessarily thrown upon the 
 front of the building, which, without such an incnmbrance, was 
 already sufficiently uncouth and uninviting. If the exterior of 
 this fabric was thus unpromising, what could be said of it with 
 in? It was a mere shell. There was no ceiling to the hall, 
 and the roof which covered it was filled with openings that let 
 in the generous sunlight, and with undiscriminating liberality 
 would have let in any quantity of rain. The furniture consisted 
 of an old sideboard, garnished with a couple of common decan 
 ters, a pitcher with the mouth broken ofT, and some three or 
 four cracked tumblers. A rickety table was stationary in the 
 centre of the room, which held, besides, some half-dozen high- 
 backed and low-bottomed chairs, the seats of which were cov 
 ered with un tanned deerskins. 
 
 Into these we squatted with little ceremony. Our host placed 
 
164 RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 before us a bundle of cigars. I did not smoke, and declined to 
 partake , but my companion joined him, and the two puffed 
 away cosily together, to my great annoyance. Meanwhile an 
 old negro wench made her appearance,, spread a cloth which 
 might have been clean in some earlier period of the world s 
 history, but which was inconceivably dirty now, and proceeded 
 to make other shows, of a like satisfactory nature, of the prom- 
 ; sed dinner. The cloth was soon laid plates, dishes, knives 
 and forks, produced from the capacious sideboard ; and, this 
 clone, she proceeded to fill the decanter from a jug which she 
 brought from the apartment opposite. She then retired to make 
 her final preparations for the feast. 
 
 To join with him in a glass of whiskey was the next proceed 
 ing, and, setting us a hearty example by half filling his own 
 glass, he would have insisted upon our drinking with equal lib 
 erality. Fortunately for me, at least, I was stubborn in my 
 moderation. I was not moderate from prudence, but from fas 
 tidiousness. In the society and house of one whom I esteemed 
 more than I did the vulgar creature who sought to persuade 
 me, I feel and confess I should have been more self-indulgent. 
 But I could not stomach well the whiskey of the person whose 
 frequent contact I found it so difficult to endure. I should not 
 have drunk with him at all, but that I was unwilling to give 
 offence. Such might have been the case in the event of my 
 refusal, had it been his cue to quarrel. 
 
 We drank, however, and resumed our seats ; our host with a 
 sang-froid which seemed habitual, if not natural, dashing into 
 speech without any provocation. 
 
 " So you re going back to Colonel Grafton s, are you? He s 
 a mighty great man now-a-days, and it s no wonder you young 
 men like him. It s natural enough for young men to like great 
 men, particularly when they re well off, and have handsome 
 daughters. You ve looked hard upon Miss Julia, I reckon?" 
 
 I said nothing, but Carrington replied in a jocular manner, 
 which I thought rather too great a concession of civility to such 
 a creature, lie continued: 
 
 " Once, tc tell you a dog-truth, I rather did like him myself 
 lie was a gentleman, to say the littlest for him; and, dang it! 
 he made ine feel it always when I stood before him. It wa 
 
SAVAGE PASSIONS. 165 
 
 that very thing that made me come to dislike him. I stood it. 
 well enough while I worked for him, hut after I left him the 
 case was different I didn t care to have such a feeling when 
 I set up business for myself. And then he took it upon him to 
 give me advice, and to talk to me about reports going through 
 the neighborhood, and people s opinions of me, and all that 
 
 d d sort of stuff, just as if he was my godfather. I kicked at 
 
 that, and broke loose mighty soon. 1 told him my mind, and 
 then he pretty much told me his for Grafton s no coward 
 and so we concluded to say as little to one another as we well 
 could spare." 
 
 " The wisest and safest course for both of you, I doubt not," 
 was Carrington s remark. 
 
 " As for the safety now, Mr. Carrington," replied the debtor, 
 " that s neither here nor there. I would not give this stump of 
 tobacco for any better security than my eyes and fingers against 
 Grafton, or any other man in the land. I don t ask for any pro 
 tection from the laws I won t be sued, and I don t sue. Catch 
 me going to the squire to bind my neighbor s fist or fingers. 
 Let him use them as he pleases ; all 1 ask is good notice before 
 hand, a fair field, and no favor. Let him hold to it then, and 
 see who first comes bottom upward." 
 
 "You are confident of your strength," wns my remark, "yet 
 I should not think you able to match with Colonel Grafton. 
 lie seems to me too much for you. lie has a better frame, and 
 noble muscle." 
 
 Not displeased at what might look like personal disparage 
 ment, the fellow replied with cool good nature 
 
 " Ah, you re but a young beginner, stranger, though it may 
 be a bold one ! For a first tug or two, Grafton might do well 
 enough ; but his breath wouldn t hold him long. His fat is too 
 thick about his ribs to stand it out. I d be willing to run the 
 risk of three tugs with him to have a chance at the fourth. By 
 my grinders, but I would gripe him then. You should then see 
 a death-hug, stranger, if you never saw it before." 
 ;hey were no less prompt and determined. With a greater 
 delay, but at the same tim^ better preparedness, they mounted 
 in pursuit. Their safety, perhaps, depended apon arresting hig 
 flight and preventing him from bringing d nvn upon them 
 
166 RICHARD HUUDFS. 
 
 the effort to grasp his opponent s throat ; and I almost fancied 
 I hcheld the wolf upon his leap. The nails of his fingers had 
 not lieea tut for a month, and looked rather like the claws of a 
 wil.1 beast than the proper appendages of a man. 
 
 " You seem to hate him very much," was my unnecessary re 
 mark. I uttered it almost unconsciously. It prompted him to 
 mother speech. 
 
 " I do hate him," was the reply, "more than I hate anything 
 besides in nature. I don t hate a bear, for I can shoot him ; 
 nor a dog, for I can scourge him ; nor a horse, for I can manage 
 him ; nor a wild bull, for I have taken him by the horns when 
 he was maddest. But I hate that man, Grafton, by the eternal ! 
 and I hate him more because I can t manage him in any way 
 He s neither bear, nor bull, nor dog not so dangerous, yet 
 ,.. more difficult than all. I d give all I m worth, and that s some 
 thing, though you don t see it, perhaps, only to meet him as a 
 hear, as a bull, as a dog ay, by the hokies, as all three to 
 gether ! and let us all show after our own fashion, what we 
 arc good for. I d lick his blood that day, or he should lick 
 mine." 
 
 " It seems to me," I replied, and my looks and language must 
 both have partaken largely of the unmitigated disgust within my 
 soul " It seems to me strange, indeed, how any man, having 
 the spirit of manhood, should keep such a hatred as that fester 
 ing in his heart, without seeking to work it out! Why, if you 
 hate him, do you not fight him ?" 
 
 " That s well enough said, young master !" he cried, without 
 hearing me to the end "but it s easier to say that, and to de 
 sire it, than to get it! Fight it out, indeed! and how am I 
 to make him fight? send him a challenge? Ha! ha! ha! 
 Why, he d laugh at it, and so would you, young sir, if he 
 showed you the challenge, while you happened to be in the 
 house. His wife would laugh, and his daughter would laugh, 
 and even nigger Tom would laugh. You d have lots of fun 
 r over it. Ha! ha! a challenge from Mat. Webber to Colonel 
 John Grafton, Grafton Lodge ! What a joke for my neighbor 
 democrats! Every rascal among them each of whom woulf 
 fight you to-morrow, sir, if you ventured to say they were not 
 perfectly your equal would }et laugh to split their sides to 
 
SAVAGE PASSIONS. 167 
 
 think of the impudence of that poor devil, Webbei, in chal 
 lenging Colonel John Grafton, Squire Grafton, tl e great 
 planter cf Grafton Lodge ! Oh, no, sir ! that s all my eye 
 There s no getting a figh^ out of my enemy in that way. You 
 must think of some other fashion for righting poor men in this 
 country." 
 
 There was certainly some truth in what the fellow said. He 
 felt it, but he seemed no longer angry. Bating a sarcastic grin, 
 and a slight and seemingly nervous motion of his lingers, which 
 accompanied the words, they were spoken with a coolness al 
 most amounting to good nature. I had, meanwhile, got some 
 what warmed by the viperous malignity which he had indicate! 
 toward a gentleman, who, as you have seen, had won greatly 
 upon my good regards ; and, without paying much attention to 
 the recovered ease and quiet of the fellow so entirely different 
 from the fierce and wolfish demeanor which had marked him but 
 a few moments before I proceeded, in the same spirit in which 
 I had begun, to reply to him : 
 
 " Had you heard me out, sir, you would, perhaps, have spared 
 your speech. I grant you that it might be a difficult, if not an 
 impossible thing to bring Mr. Grafton to a meeting ; but this 
 difficulty would not arise, I imagine, from any difference be 
 tween you of wealth or station. No mere inequaliticp of for 
 tune would deprive any man of his claim to justice in any field 
 or my own affairs would frequently subject me to such depriva 
 tion. There must be something besides this, which makes 
 man incur a forfeiture of this sort." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he replied instantly, with surprising quickness 
 " I understand what you would say. The world must esteei-* 
 me a gentleman." 
 
 " Precisely," was my careless reply. The fellow looked 
 gravely upon me for an instant, but smoothing down his brow, 
 which began to grow wrinkled, he proceeded in tones as indif 
 ferent as before. 
 
 "I confess to you, I m no gentleman T don t pretend to it 
 I wasn t born one and can t afford to take up the business. 
 It costs too much in clothes, in trinkets, in fine linen, in book- 
 learning, and other matters." 
 
 I was about to waste a few sentences upon him to show that 
 
168 RICHARD HURDI8. 
 
 these were not the requisites of gentility, lut he spared me any 
 such foolish labor by going on thus : 
 
 " That s neither here nor there. You were going to tell me 
 of some way by which I could get my revenge out of Grafton. 
 Let s hear your ideas about that. That s the hitch." 
 
 " Not your revenge ; I spoke of redress for wrong." 
 
 " Well, well," he replied, shaking his head, " names for the 
 same things, pretty much, but, as you please. Only tell me 
 how, if you are no gentleman mark that! I don t want the 
 revenge the redress, I mean, of a gentleman I want the re 
 dress of a man tell me how I am to get it, when the persor. 
 who has wronged me, thinks me too much beneath him to meet 
 me on a fair ground! What s my remedy] Tell me that, and 
 I ll give you my thanks, and call you a mighty clever fellow in 
 the bargain !" 
 
 His insolence annoyed me, and he saw it in my quick reply 
 "I thank you, sir, I can spare the compliment " 
 
 He grinned good-naturedly : " You a poor man !" he ex 
 claimed, interrupting me. " By the hokies, you ought to be 
 rich ; and your mother must have had some mighty high no 
 tions when she carried you ! But go on. I ask your pardon. 
 Go on." 
 
 I should not have complied with the fellow s wish, but that 
 I felt a secret desire which I could not repress, to goad him for 
 his insolence : " Well, sir, 1 say that I see no difficulty, if the 
 person injured has the commonest spirit of manhood in him, in 
 getting redress from a man who has injured him, whatever be 
 his station. I am convinced, if you seriously wish for it, you 
 could get yours from Grafton. There is such a thing, you 
 know, as taking the road of an enemy." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! and what would that come to, or rather what 
 do you think it would bring me to, here in Tuscaloosa county? 
 I ll tell you in double quick time the gallows. It wouldn t 
 bring you to the gallows, or any man passing for a gentleman, 
 but democrats can t bear to see democrats taking upon them 
 selves the airs of gentlemen. They d hang me, my good friend, 
 if they didn t burn me beforehand ; and that would be the up 
 shot of following your counsel. But your talk isn t new to me; 
 I have thought of it lon t^ink but to talk 
 
SAVAGE PASSIONS. 169 
 
 about what you didn t do, is mighty little business To put a 
 good deal in a small calabash, let me tell you, then, that Mat 
 Webber isn t the man to sit down and suck his thumbs when 
 his neighbor troubles him, if so be he can help himself in a 
 quicker way. I ve turned over all this matter in my mind, and 
 I ve come to this conclusion, that I must wait for some odd hour 
 when good luck is willing to do what she has never done yet, 
 and gives me a chance at my enemy. Be certain when that 
 hour comes, stranger, my teeth shall meet in the flesh !" 
 
 He filled his glass and drank freely as he concluded. Hif 
 face had in it an air of resolve as he spoke which left littlt 
 doubt in my mind that he was the ruffian to do what he threat 
 ened, and involuntarily I shuddered when I thought how man} 
 opportunities must necessarily arise to him for the execution ol 
 any villany from the near neighborhood in which he lived witL 
 the enemy whom he so deeply hated. I was not suffered t^ 
 meditate long upon this or any subject. The negro woman ap 
 peared bringing in dinner. Some fried bacon and eggs formed 
 the chief items in our repast ; and with an extra hospitality, 
 which had its object, our host placed our chairs, which were 
 both on the one side of the table, he, alone, occupying the seat 
 opposite. Without a solitary thought of evil we sat down to 
 the repast, which might well be compared to the bail whic u is 
 placed by the cunning fowler for the better entrapping of *he 
 an wary bird. 
 
 8 
 
170 RICHARD HURDI8. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 IN THE SNARE 
 
 Tttius Sabinus. Am I then catch ed I 
 Rufns. How think you, sir? you are. 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 THOUGH neither William Carrington nor myself sat entirely 
 at ease at the table of our host, neither of us had any suspicion 
 of his purposes. Regarding the fellow as essentially low in 
 his character, and totally unworthy the esteem of honorable 
 men, we were only solicitous to get our money and avoid col 
 lision with him. And, so far, we had but little reason to com 
 plain. Though indulging freely in remarks upon persons 
 Colonel Grafton for example which were not altogether inof 
 fensive, his language in reference to ourselves was sufficiently 
 civil ; and bating a too frequent approach which he made to an 
 undue familiarity, and which, when it concerned mo particular 
 ly, I was always prompt to check, there was nothing in his 
 manner calculated to offend the most irritable. On the contra 
 ry, the fellow played the part of humility in sundry instances 
 to admiration ; when we resisted him on any subject, he shrank 
 from pursuing it, and throughout the interview exhibited a dis 
 position to forbear all annoyance, except probably on the one 
 subject of Colonel Grafton. On that point even his present 
 policy did not suffer him to give way his self-esteem had 
 been evidently wounded to the quick by his former employer, 
 and, with a forbearance like his own, which, under any other 
 circumstances, would have been wisdom, we avoided contro 
 versy on a topic in which we must evidently disagree. But 
 not so Webber. He seemed desirous to gain aliment for his 
 nnger by a frequent recurrence to the matter which provoked 
 
IN THE SNARE. 171 
 
 it, and throughout the whole of our interview until the occur 
 rence of those circumstances which served, hy their personal 
 importance, to supersede all other matters in our thoughts, he 
 continued, in spite of all our discouragements, to bring Grafton 
 before us in various lights and anecdotes, throughout the whole 
 of which, his own relation to the subject of remark was that 
 of one who hated with the bitterest hate, and whom fear, or 
 some less obvious policy, alone, restrained from an attempt to 
 wreak upon his enemy the full extent of that malice which he 
 yet had not the wisdom to repress. 
 
 It was while he indulged in this very vein that we heard the 
 approaching tramp of horses. Webber stopped instantly in 
 his discourse. 
 
 " Ah, there he comes," he. remarked, " the debtor is punctual 
 enough, though he should have been here an hour sooner. 
 And now, Squire Carriugtou, I hope we shall be able to do 
 your business." 
 
 Sincerely did I hope so too. There was an odd sort of smile 
 upon the fellow s lips as lie said these words which did not 
 please me. It was strange and sinister. It was not good-hu 
 mored certainly, and yet it did not signify any sort of dissatis 
 faction. Perhaps it simply denoted insincerity, and for this 
 I did not like it. Carrington made some reply ; and by this 
 time we heard a bustling among our horses which were fastened 
 to the branches of a tree at the entrance. I was about to rise, 
 for I recollected that, we had money in the saddle-bags, when 
 I was prevented by the appearance of the stranger who entered 
 in the same moment. One glance at the fellow was enough. 
 His features were those of the undisguised ruffian ; and even 
 then I began to feel some little apprehension though I could 
 not to my own mind define the form of the danger which might 
 impend. I could not think it possible that these two ruffians, 
 bold however they might be, would undertake to grapple with 
 us face to face, and in broad daylight. They could not mis 
 take our strength of body ; and, body and soul, we felt ourselves 
 more than a match for them, and a third to help them. And 
 yet, when I reflected upon the large amount of money which 
 William had in his possession, I could not b lt feel that nothing 
 but a like knowledge of the fact, was wanting to prompt, not 
 
172 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 only these but a dozen other desperates like them, to an attempt, 
 however unfavorable the aspect, to possess themselves of it. 
 Besides, we had surely heard the trampling of more horses than 
 one when the newcomer was approaching. Had he compan 
 ions ? Where were they 1 These thoughts began to annoy 
 and make me suspicious, and I turned to William. Never was 
 unquestioning confidence so clearly depicted in any countenance 
 as in his. He looked on the stranger with, perhaps, no less 
 disgust than myself, but suspicion of foul play he had none. 1 
 determined that he should be awakened, and was about to rise 
 and suggest the conclusion of our business, in such a manner as 
 to make it absolutely impossible that he should not see that I 
 was placing myself against the wall, when Webber of himself 
 proposed the adjustment of the debt. Everything seemed to 
 be unequivocal and above board. The stranger pulled forth 
 his wallet, and sitting down to the table, on the side next to 
 Carrington, proceeded to count out the money before him. The 
 amount was in small bills, and having completed his count, 
 which took him an uneasy time, he pushed the bundle toward 
 Webber, who slowly proceeded to go through a like examination. 
 I grew impatient at the delay, but concluded that it would be 
 better to say nothing. To show temper at such a moment might 
 have been to defeat the purpose which we had in view ; and send 
 us off with a satisfaction, essentially different from that for which 
 we came. Webber s face grew more grave than usual as he count 
 ed the money, and I could observe that his eyes were frequently 
 lifted from the bills, and seemed to Avander about the room as if 
 his thoughts were elsewhere. But he finished at length, and 
 handing the required sum over to William, he begged him to see 
 that all was right. The latter was about to do so had actu 
 ally taken the bills in his hands, when I heard a slight footstep 
 behind me before I could turn, under the influence of the 
 natural curiosity which prompted me to do so, I heard a sudden 
 exclamation from my companion, and in the very same instant, 
 felt something falling over my face. Suspicious of foul play 
 before, I leaped, as if under a natural instinct to my feet, but 
 was as instantly jerked down, and falling over the chair behind, 
 dragged it with me upon the floor. All this was the work of a 
 moment. Striving to rise, I soon discovered the full extent of 
 
IN THE SNARE. 173 
 
 my predicament, and the way in which we were taken. My 
 arms were bound to my side almost drawn behind my back 
 by a noose formed in a common plough-line, which was cutting 
 into the flesh at every movement which I made. 
 
 That I struggled furiously for release need not be said. I 
 was not the man to submit quietly to martyrdom. But I soon 
 found my exertions were in vain. The cords were not only 
 tightly drawn, but securely fastened behind me to one of the 
 sleepers of the cabin a vacant board from the floor enabling 
 my assailants to effect this arrangement with little difficulty. 
 Added to this, my struggles brought upon me the entire weight 
 of the two fellows who had effected my captivity. One sat 
 upon my body as indifferently as a Turk upon his cushions ; 
 while the other, at every movement which I made, thrust his 
 sharp knees into my breast, and almost deprived me of the 
 power of breathing. Kage, for the moment, added to my 
 strength, which surprised even myself as it surprised my ene 
 mies. More than once, without any use of my arms, by the 
 mere writhings of my body, did I throw them from it; but ex 
 haustion did for them what their own strength could not, and I 
 lay quiet at length, and at their mercy. Clio, performance of 
 this affair took far less time than the telling of it, and was over, 
 I may say, in an instant. 
 
 With William Carrington the case was different, lie was 
 more fortunate : I thought so at the time, at least, lie effected 
 his escape. By what chance it was, I know not ; but they 
 failed to noose him so completely as they had done me. The 
 slip was caught by his hand in descending over his shoulders, 
 and he threw it from him ; and, in the same moment, with a 
 blow of his fist that might have felled an ox, he prostrated the 
 ruffian who had brought the money, and who stood most conve 
 nient to his hand. Without stopping to look at the enemy be 
 hind, with that prompt impulse which so frequently commands 
 success, he sprang directly over the table, and aimed a second 
 blow at Webber, who had risen from his seat and stood directly 
 in the way. With a fortunate alacrity the fellow avoided the 
 blow, and, darting on one side, drew his dirk, and prepared to 
 await the second. 
 
 J3y this tiuae, however, 1 was enabled, though prostrated and 
 
174 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 overcome, to behold the combat in which I could bear no part 
 I saw that the only chance of my companion was in flight. Onr 
 enemies, as if by magic, had sprung up around us like the teeth 
 of the dragon. There were no less than seven persons in the 
 room besides ourselves. With my utmost voice I commanded 
 William to fly. He saw, in the same instant with myself, the 
 utter inability of any efforts which he might make, and the 
 click of a pistol-cock in the hands of a fellow behind me was a 
 warning too significant to be trifled with. With a single look 
 at me, which fully convinced me of the pang which he felt at 
 being compelled to leave me in such a situation, he sprang 
 through tlv f jtr.iwc, and in another moment had disappeared 
 from sight Webber and three others immediately rushed off 
 m pursuit, leaving me in the. rupto^v and at the mercy if the 
 hree remaining:. 
 
THE RUFFIAN CONFERENCE. 175 
 
 CHATTER XXIV. 
 
 THE RUFFIAN CONFERENCE. 
 
 " How stubbornly this fellow answered me !" 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 I J_ _^ 
 
 WHEN, more complacently, I looked around, and into the 
 faces of my captors, what was my surprise to behold in the 
 most turbulent the bullying gambler with whom I had refused 
 to play at the tavern in Tuscaloo.sa ! The countenance of the 
 rascal plainly showed that lie remembered the transaction. 
 There was a complacent and triumphant grin upon his lips, 
 which, as I could not then punish him, added to the bitterness 
 of my situation. I tried to turn away from regarding him, but 
 the relative situation in which we were now placed was but too 
 grateful to his mean and malicious soul, and, changing his posi 
 tion to correspond with mine. Le continued to face me with a 
 degree of coldness which could only be ascribed to his perfect 
 consciousness of my inability to strive with him. I felt that my 
 anger would be not only vain to restrain him in his impudence, 
 but, must, from its impotence, only proA oke him to an increased 
 indulgence of it, besides giving him a degree of satisfaction 
 which I was too little his friend to desire. I accordingly fixed 
 my eyes upon him with as much cool indifference as I could of 
 a sudden put into them, and, schooling my lips to a sort of ut 
 terance which fell far short of the feverish wrath in my bosom, 
 I thus addressed him : 
 
 " If you are the same person who would have cheated me at 
 cards in Tuscaloosa a few days ago, I congratulate you upon a 
 sudden increase of valor. You have improved amazingly in a 
 very short space of time, and, though I can not say that your 
 courage is even now of the right kind, yet there s no saying 
 
176 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 bow fast one may acquire it who Las commenced so happily 
 Perhaps as I doubt not that you desire still further to im 
 prove you would be pleased to give me some little opportu 
 nity to try you, and test your progress. If you would but free 
 an arm or so, and let us try it with list or hickory ay, or with 
 other weapons with which I see you are well enough provided 
 I should very much alter the opinion I had formed of you 
 mi our first meeting." 
 
 The fellow chafed to hear these words, and let fly a volley 
 of oaths, which only served to increase the coolness of my tem 
 per. I felt that I had a decided advantage over him, and a 
 speech so little expected from one in my situation, and so con 
 temptuous at the same time, provoked the unmitigated laughter 
 of the fellow s companions, who had assumed with him the cus 
 tody of my person. 
 
 And wh.it the li-ll is there to grin about?" he said to them, 
 aii soon as their subsiding merriment enabled him to be heard; 
 "do you mind, or do you think I mind, the Growings of this 
 cock-sparrow, when I can clip his wings at any moment? Let 
 him talk while he may who cares? It will be for me to 
 wind up with him when 1 get tired of his nonsense." 
 
 " But won t you let the chap loose, Bully George ?" cried one 
 of the companions; "let him loose, as he asks you, and try a 
 hickory. I know you re famous at a stick-fight : I saw you 
 once at the Sipsy, when you undertook to lather Jim Cudworth. 
 You didn t know Jim before that time, George, or you wouldn t 
 ha chose that weapon. But this lark, now he, I reckon s, 
 much easier to manage than Jim : let him try it, George." 
 
 This speech turned the fury of the bully from me to his com 
 rades ; but it was the fury of foul language only, and would not 
 bear repetition. The fellow, whom they seemed pleased to 
 chafe, foamed like a madman in striving to reply. The jest 
 was taken up by the two, who bandied it to and fro. as two 
 expert ball-players do their ball without suffering it once U 
 fall to the ground, until they tired of the game ; and they re 
 peated and referred to a number of little circumstances in the 
 history of their vexed associate, all calculated at once to pro 
 voke him into additional fury, and to convince me that the fel 
 low was, as I had esteemed him at the very first glance, a poor 
 
THE RUFFIAN CONFERENCE. 177 
 
 and pitiable coward In due proportion ap they found merri 
 ment in annoying him, did they seem to grow good natured 
 toward myself perhaps, because I had set the ball in motion 
 which they had found it so pleasant to keep up ; but their sport 
 had like to have been death to me. The ruffian, driven almost 
 to madness by the sarcasms of those whom he did not dare to 
 attack, turned suddenly upon me, and with a most murderous 
 determination aimed his dagger at my throat. I had no way 
 to ward the weapon, and must have perished but for the 
 promptitude of one of the fellows, who seemed to have watched 
 the bully closely, and who caught his arm ere it descended, and 
 wrested the weapon from him. The joke had ceased. The 
 man who stayed his arm now spoke to him in the fierce Ian 
 guage of a superior : 
 
 " Look you, Bully George, had you bloodied the boy, I should 
 ha put my cold steel into your ribs for certain !" 
 
 "Why, what is he to you, Geoffrey, that you should take up 
 for him?" was the subdued answer. 
 
 "Nothing much, and for that matter you re nothing much to 
 me either ; but I don t see the profit of killing the chap, and 
 Mat Webber ordered that we shouldn t hurt him." 
 
 "Mat Webber s a milk-and-water fool," replied the other. 
 
 "Let him hear you say so," said Geoffrey, "and see the end 
 of it ! It s it pretty thing, indeed, that you should talk of Mat 
 being a milk-and-water fool a man that will fight through a 
 thicket of men, when you d be for sneaking round it ! Shut up, 
 Bully George, and give way to your betters. The less you say 
 the wiser. Don t we know that the chap s right ? If you were 
 nly half the man that he seems to be, you wouldn t be half so 
 oloody-minded with a prisoner ; you wouldn t cut more throats 
 than Mat Webber, and perhaps you d get a larger share of the 
 jlunder. I ve always seen that it s such chaps as you, that 
 drn t love fight when it s going, that s always most ready to cut 
 ml stab when there s no danger, and when there s no use for 
 t. Keep your knife till it s wanted. It may be that you may 
 soon have better use for it, since, if that other lark get off, he Ll 
 bri.ig Grafton and all the constables of the district upon us." 
 
 "It s a bad jjb, that chap ? getting off," said the other ruf 
 lian. How did you happen to miss, Geoffrey I" 
 
178 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 " The devil knows ! I had die rope fair enough, I thought; 
 but somehow he twisted round, or raised his hand just when I 
 dropped it over him, and threw it off a bit quicker than I threw 
 it on. He s a stout fellow that, and went over the table like a 
 ball. I m dubious he ll get off. Look out, John, and say what 
 }ou see." 
 
 The fellow complied, and returned after a few moments with 
 an unsatisfactory answer. Some further conference ensued le- 
 tween them touching the probable chances of Carrington s es 
 cape, and my heart grew painfully interested, as I heard their 
 cold and cruel calculations as to the wisest course of action 
 among the pursuers. Their mode of disposing of the difficulty, 
 summary and reckless as it showed them to be, was enough to 
 inspire me with the most anxious fear. If they, unvexed by 
 flight, and unexcited by the pursuit, could yet deliberately re 
 solve that the fugitive should be shot down rather than suffered 
 to escape, tiie event was surely not improbable. I could listen 
 no longer in silence. 
 
 " I hear you, sir," I said, interrupting the fellow who was 
 styled Geoffrey, and who seemed the most humane among them; 
 " you coolly resolve that my friend should be murdered. You 
 can not mean that Webber will do such a deed ? I will not 
 believe you. If you only think to annoy and frighten me, you 
 are mistaken. I am in your pcwer, it is true, and you may put 
 me to death, as your companion, who thinks to make up in cru 
 elty what he lacks in courage, appeared just now to desire 
 but is this your policy ? What good can come of it ] It will 
 neither help you in present flight nor in future safety. As for 
 my money, if it is that which you want, it is quite as easy for 
 you to take that as my life. All that I have is in your posses 
 sion. My horse, my clothes, my cash they are all together ; 
 and, having these, the mere shedding of my blood can give you 
 no pleasure, unless you have been schooled among the savages 
 As for your men overtaking my friend, I doubt it, unless their 
 horses are the best blood in the country. That which he rides 
 I know to be so, and can not easily be caught," 
 
 " A bullet will make up the difference," said Geoffrey ; " and, 
 sure as you lie there, Webber will shoot if he finds he can t 
 catch. He can t help doing so, if he hopes to get off safely 
 
THE RUFFIAN CONFERENCE. 179 
 
 himself. If the chap escapes, lie, brings down old Grafton upon 
 us, and Webber very well knows the danger of falling into his 
 clutches. We must tie you both up for to-night if we can. As 
 for killing you or scaring you, we want to do neither one nor 
 t other, if we can tie up your hands and shut up your mouths 
 for the next twenty-four hours If we can t " 
 
 lie left the rest of the sentence unuttered meaning, I sup 
 pose, to be merciful in his forbearance ; ami nothing mo.e was 
 said by either of us for some time, particularly affecting the 
 matter in hand. A full hour had elapsed, and yet we heard 
 nothing of the pursuit. My anxiety began to be fully shared 
 among my keepers. They went out to the road alternately at 
 different periods, to make inquiries, but without success, (jcof- 
 frey at length, after going forth with my gambling acquaintance 
 of the Tuscaloosa tavern for about fifteen minutes, returned, 
 cringing in with them, to my great surprise, the saddle-bags of 
 William Carrington. In my first fear, I demanded if he, was 
 taken, and rny surprise was great when they told me he was 
 not. 
 
 " How, then, came you by those saddle-bags ?" was my ques 
 tion. 
 
 What ! are they his ?" replied Geoffrey. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Then he s taken your horse, and not his own," was the an- 
 sv or ; " for we found these on one of the nags that you brought 
 with you." 
 
 They were not at all dissatisfied with the exchange, when 
 they discovered the contents, which they soon got at, in spite 
 of the lock, by slashing the leather open with their knives in 
 various places. The silver dollars rolled from the handkerchief 
 in which they had been wrapped, in every direction about the 
 floor, and were scrambled after by two of the fellows with the 
 avidity of urchins gathering nuts. But I observed that they 
 put carefully together all that they took from the saddle-bags, 
 as if with reference to a common division of the spoil. The 
 few clothes which the bags contained were thrown out without 
 any heed upon the floor, but not till they had been closely ex 
 amined in every part for concealed money. They got a small 
 roll of bills along with the silver, but I was glad when I recol 
 
ISO RICHARD HURDTR. 
 
 lectori that William had the, greater sum in his hosom. Poor 
 fellow! at tlmt moment I envied liim his escape. 1 t bought 
 him fortunate ; and regarded myself as the luckless wretch 
 whom fate had frowned upon only. Alas for him I envied! 
 my t-hort-sightedness was pitiable. Little did I dream, or he 
 iciJtl, the dreadful fate that lay in his path. 
 
THE SUDDEN BOLT 181 
 
 CHAPTER XXV, 
 
 THE SUDDEN BOLT. 
 
 Huh. Behold, sir, 
 A saa-writ tragedy, so feelingly 
 Languaged and cast; with such a crafty crusty 
 Contrived and acted, that wild savages 
 Would weep to lay their ears to! ROBERT I )AV KNIGHT. 
 
 IT may be just as well that the knowledge of the rcnclei 
 should anticipate my own, and that I should narrate in this 
 place those events of which I knew nothing till some time after. 
 I will therefore proceed to state what happened to William Car- 
 rington after leaving me at the hovel where I had fallen into 
 such miserable captivity. Having, by a promptness of execu 
 tion and a degree of physical energy and power which had al 
 ways distinguished him, gained the entrance, lie seized upon 
 the first horse which presented itself to his hand, and \\hich 
 happened to be mine. It was a moment when, perhaps, he 
 could not discriminate, or, if lie could, when it might have been 
 fatal for him to attempt to do so. The bloodhounds were clo.^e 
 in pursuit behind him. lie heard their cries and following foot 
 steps, and in an instant tore away the bridle from the swinging 
 bough to which it was fastened, tearing a part of the branch 
 with it. lie did not stop to throw the bridle over the animal s 
 neck. To a rider of such excellent skill, the reins were hardly 
 necessary. He leaped instantly upon his back, making his 
 rowels answer all purposes in giving the direction which he 
 desired him to take. 
 
 His foes were only jss capable and energetic than himself; 
 
 The fellow s teeth gnashed as lie spoke, and his mouth was 
 listorted, and his eyes glared with an expression absolutely 
 fiendish. At the same moment, dropping the end of the segar 
 from his hand, he stuck forth his half-contracted lingers, as if iu 
 
182 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 competent force for their arrest, which certainly would be the 
 case if they suffered him to convey the intelligence to such an 
 active magistrate as Colonel Grafton. Their desire was further 
 stimulated by the knowledge which they had of the large 
 amount of money which William carried with him. 
 
 If their motives were sufficient to quicken their movements to 
 the utmost point within their endeavors, his were not less so. 
 His life, he must have known, depended upon his present 
 escape. Nor was it merely necessary to keep ahead of them ; 
 he must keep out of bullet-reach also to be safe. But I will not 
 do him the, injustice to suppose, for an instant, that his consid 
 erations were purely selfish. I knew better. I feel assured 
 4l iat my safety was no less the matter in his thoughts than his 
 3wn. I feel sure he would never have been content with his 
 own escape, did he not believe that mine now depended upon it. 
 These were all considerations to move him to the fullest exer 
 tion ; and never did good steed promise to serve at need his 
 rider better than did mine in that perilous flight. An animal 
 only inferior to his own, my horse had the blood of a racer that 
 was worthy of his rider s noble nature. lie answered the ex 
 pectations of Carrington without making necessary the frequent 
 application of the spur. He left the enemy behind him. He 
 gained at every jump ; and the distance between them at the 
 first, which was not inconsiderable, t^r the movement of Wil 
 liam had been so unexpected as to have taken Webber and the 
 rest by surprise, was increased in ten minutes nearly double. 
 At moments they entirely lost sight of him, until very long 
 stretches of a direct road again made him visible; but he was 
 already far beyond the reach of their weapons. These, with 
 but one exception, were pistol* of large size, which in a prac 
 tised hand might carry truly a distance of thirty yards. Web 
 ber, however, had a short double-barrelled ducking-gun, which 
 he had caught up the moment his horse was ready. This was 
 loaded with buck-shot, and would have told at eighty yards in 
 the hands of the ruffian who bore it. 
 
 But the object was beyond its reach, and the hope of the pur 
 suers was now in some casualty, which seemed not improbable 
 in tin: desperate and headlong manner of Carrington s flight 
 But the Utter had not lost any of his coolness in bis impetuosi- 
 
THE SUDDEN BOLT. 183 
 
 ty. lie readily comprehended the nature ot that hope in his 
 enemies which prompted them to continue the pursuit; and, 
 perhaps, less confident than he might have been, in his own 
 horsemanship, he determined to baffle them in it. 
 
 Looking round, as he did repeatedly, he availed himself of a 
 particular moment when he saw that he might secure his bridle 
 and discard the fragment of the bough which was still attached 
 to it, before they could materially diminish the space between 
 them ; and drawing up his horse with the most perfect coolness, 
 he proceeded to unloose the branch and draw the reins fairly 
 over the head of the animal. The pursuers beheld this, and it 
 invigorated the pursuit. 
 
 If the reader knows anything of the region of country in 
 which these events took place, he will probably recognise the 
 scene over which I now conduct him. The neighborhood road, 
 leading by Grafton s and Webber s, was still a distinct trace, 
 though but little used, a i cw years ago. It was a narrow track 
 :at best and been a frontier road for military purposes before the 
 Chickasaws left that region. The path was intricate and wind 
 ing, turning continually to right and left, in avoiding sundry lit 
 tle creeks and difficult hills which sprinkled the whole face of 
 the countrv. But the spot where William halted to arrange his 
 bridle was more tnan usually straight, and, for the space of half 
 a mile, objects might be discerned in a line nearly direct. Still 
 the spot was an obscure and gloomy one. The road in one 
 place ran between two rising grounds, the elevations of which 
 were greater and more steep than u&ual. On one side there 
 was an abrupt precipice, from which the trees almost entirely 
 )verhung the path. This was called at that period, the " day- 
 blind," in a taste kindred with that which named a correspond 
 ing region, only a few miles off, " the shades of death." For a 
 space of forty yards or more, this " blind" was sufficiently close 
 and dense, almost to exclude the day certainly the sunlight. 
 
 William had entered upon this passage, and the pursuers 
 were urging their steeds with a last and despairing effort, al 
 most hopeless of overtaking him, and, perhaps, only continuing 
 the chase under the first impulse of their start, and from the ex 
 citement which rapid motion always provokes. He now felt 
 his security, and laughed at the pursuit. The path, though dim 
 
184 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 and dusky, was yet distinct before him. At tlie outlet the Ban 
 shine lay, like a protecting spirit, in waiting to receive him ; 
 and the sight so cheered him, that lie half turned about upon 
 his horse, and while he stayed not his progress, he shook his 
 unemployed aim in triumph at his enemies. Another bound 
 brought him out of the dim valley tnrough which he Li.d rid 
 den ; and when he was mozt sure of his escape, and when his 
 pursuers began to meditate their return from the hopeless chase, 
 a sudden shot was heard from the woods above, and in the same 
 instant, Webber, who was in the advance, saw the unhappy 
 youth bound completely out of his saddle, and fall helplessly, 
 like a stone, upon the ground, while his horse passed from un 
 der him, and, under the impulse of sudden fright, continued on 
 liis course with a more headlong speed than ever 
 
 The event which arrested for ever the progress of the fugi 
 tive, at once stopped the pursuit as suddenly. Webber called 
 one of his companions to his side: a sallow and small peispn, 
 with a keen black eye, and a visage distinguished by dogged 
 resolution, and practised cunning. 
 
 " Barret," said the one ruffian to the other, " we must see who 
 it is that volunteers to be our striker. He has a ready hand, and 
 should be one of us, if he be not so already. It may be Eberly. 
 It is high time he should have left Grafton s, where the wonder 
 is he should have trifled so long. There s something wrong 
 about that business ; but no matter now. We must see to this. 
 Should the fellow that tumbled the chap not be one of us, you 
 must make him one. We have him on our own terms. Pursue 
 him though he takes you into Georgia. Away, now ; sweep 
 clean round the blind, and come on his back he will keep 
 close M Jfc ^i he sees us two coming out in front and when you 
 have g" his trail, come back for an instant to get your instruc 
 tions. Be off, now ; we will see to the carrion." 
 
 When Webber and his remaining companion reached the 
 body, it was already stiff. In the warm morning of youth in 
 the flwbh of hope with a heart as true, and a form as noble, as 
 ever bounded with love and courage my friend, my almosx. 
 brother, was shot down by a concealed ruffian, to whom he had 
 neve-: offered wrong ! What a finish to his day ! What a sud 
 den iitght for so fair a morning ! 
 
NARROW ESCAPE. 185 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 NARROW ESCAPE. 
 
 Villain, I know thou com st to murder me." 
 
 MARLOWE. Eduard the Second 
 
 MATTHEW WEBBER was no trifler. Though represented by 
 his comrades, as we have seen in a previous dialogue, as tmwil- 
 ling to shed blood, it may be added that his unwillingness did 
 not arise from any scruples of humanity, which are always un 
 necessary to the profession of the outlaw. He was governed 
 entirely by a selfish policy, which calmly deliberated upon its 
 work of evil, and chose that course which seemed to promise 
 the greatest return of profit with the greatest security. To 
 avoid bloodshed was simply to avoid one great agent of detec 
 tion. Hence his forbearance. To the moral of the matter, none 
 could have been more thoroughly indifferent. We beheld him 
 giving instructions to an associate the moment that William 
 Carrington fell by an unknown hand, to pursue the murderer, 
 not with a view to his punishment, but with a desire to secure 
 a prom; t associate. It was not the wish of the frateraity of 
 robbers, herding on the Choctaw frontier, that anybody should 
 take up the trade in that region, of which they desired the mo 
 nopoly. When the fellow, thus instructed, had gone, Webber, 
 with his remaining associates, at once proceeded to examine 
 the body, which was lifeless when they reached it. They 
 wasted no time in idle wonder, and gave but a single glance at 
 the wound, which they saw was inflicted by a rifle-bullet ; then 
 lifting the inanimate form into the wood, they rifled it of the 
 large sum of money which Carrington had concealed in his 
 bosom, and taking it into a little crevice in the hill-side, which 
 could not hide it, they threw it down indifferently, trusting to 
 
186 RICHARD HURD1S. 
 
 the wolves, of which that neighborhood had numerous herds, to 
 remove it in due season. Poor youth! with such a heart so 
 noble, so brave with affections so warm, and hopes so full of 
 promise to be shot down in the sun-light in the bloom of 
 manhood by an obscure ruffian, and be denied a grave! 
 
 When they had possessed themselves of the money, the 
 amount of which gave them no small pleasure, they put spurs 
 to their horses and rode back with as great speed as they had 
 used in the pursuit. It was necessary that they should do so, 
 and hasten their flight from the spot where their evil-doings had 
 been begun. My horse had continued on his course with a speed 
 which had been increased by his alarm and unrestraint after the 
 fall of his rider ; and We^oer saw, with no small anxiety, that 
 he was in the direct roaa to Colonel Grafton s, to which place 
 he did not doubt that he would return, having been so lately 
 lodged there. The scoundrels, who were guarding me, had, in 
 the meantime, become greatly disquieted by their apprehensions 
 at the delay of the pursuers, and not small was their relief when 
 they saw them safe, and felt themselves once more secure in 
 their united strength. They consulted together apart, arid fre 
 quently pointed to me where I lay, on my back, and bound 
 rigidly to an exposed joist of the floor. What had taken place 
 in the pursuit, they did not reveal in my hearing ; and bitter, 
 indeed, were my feelings as I lay in this doubly evil state of 
 incapacity and suspense. The doubtfulness of my own, was 
 riot less a subject of concern in my mind than was his fate 
 for my strongest impression with regard to Carrington was, that 
 he had escaped in safety to Grafton s. All then that I had to 
 fear might be the present rage of my captors. They might 
 sacrifice me before relief could come. I strove not to think of 
 this ; still less was I willing that the villains should see I feared 
 them ; yet, to confess a truth, it required no small effort to con 
 ceal the apprehensions which I could not subdue, and my suc 
 cess, with all my efforts, was partial only. They must have 
 beheld the struggle of my bosom in my face. But of this they 
 seemed to take no heed. They were too much interested in 
 their own situation and apprehensions, to give much regard to 
 mine. They consulted together, earnestly with the air of men 
 who had need of haste in their resolutions. " We must be 06 
 
NARROW ESCAPE. 187 
 
 it once," I heard Webber say at one time ; " there will be nc 
 help for us now, if he gets to Grafton s." This last sentence 
 brought warmth and assurance to my heart, I did not doubt of 
 my friend s safety. " But this lark ?" said Geoffrey ; and I 
 saw from the quick, malignant glance which my gambler ac 
 quaintance bestowed upon me when these words were uttered, 
 that it was of me they spoke. The latter bent forward to hear 
 the resolve of Webber whose word here seemed to be law 
 with an air of anxiety not less great,, than that which 1 might 
 have shown myself. The answer of Webber did not seem to 
 satisfy him. 
 
 " What of him 1" said the latter. " Shall we stretch him T* 
 was the further inquiry of Geoffrey ; an equivocal phrase which 
 I suppose coolly meant " shall we cut his throat ?" 
 
 " Pshaw, no !" replied the other. " What s the good of it? 
 let the fellow lie where he is and cool himself. By to-morrow, 
 somebody will cut his strings, and help him turn over, lie will 
 get hungry in the meantime, for he didn t eat a hearty dinner 
 all his own fault. Come, let us jog." 
 
 Ten minutes had not elapsed when they were all ready, and 
 I saw them prepare to depart, leaving me as I lay, bound to the 
 floor by my body and arms, and capable of moving my legs only. 
 Webber took leave of me with the composure of one who has 
 nothing with which to reproach himself. 
 
 " Grafton will be here after a while," said he, "and set you 
 free. You may tell him I m sorry, but it don t suit me to wait 
 for him now. lie will see me, however, at his daughter s mar- 
 liage. Good by." 
 
 The man called Geoffrey said something to me in a similar 
 spirit ; the gambler grinned only upon me as he passed, but 
 \\ith such an expression of malice in his visage, that, though I 
 did not fear the reptile, it yet made me shudder to behold him. 
 In a few moments more I was left alone to in use over my dis 
 consolate condition. I heard the, trampling of their horses die 
 away in the distance, and such w r as tht> chrerl ssness of my sit 
 uation, that I positively seemed to be chilled by their departure. 
 This, however, was but the feeling of the moment, and I was 
 allowed a brief time for its indulgence. To my surprise the gam 
 bler reappeared, when I had thought him with the rest of his 
 
188 RICHARD HURD1S. 
 
 companions full a half mile off; and the increased malignity 
 embodied and looking green in his visage, left ma little doubts 
 as to the motive which had made him lag behind. If I had 
 ioubts at the beginning, he did not suffer me to entertain them 
 iobg. His words removed them. 
 
 " And now," he said, " my brave fellow, the time is come for 
 your quittance. You have had the word of me long enough 
 You are in my power. What have you to say for yourself?" 
 
 " What should I say 1" was my ready and indignant reply. 
 Truly and miserably did I feel at the conviction, that I was in 
 deed in the power and at the mercy of this vile wretch ; but if 
 worlds had depended upon it, I could not have answered him 
 other than in language of the most unadulterated scorn. 
 
 " Ha ! do you riot understand me ?" he cried. " Your life, I 
 tell you, is in my power ! The only man in the world who 
 could have kept me from taking it, is Mat Webber, and he s 
 out of reach and hearing. It is but a blow, and with all your 
 pride and insolence I let your blood out upon this floor ! What 
 do you say that I should not? what prayer will you make to 
 me that I should spare your life ?" 
 
 The fellow leaned upon the table which, occupying the mid 
 dle of the floor, stood between him and the place where I lay. 
 My feet were half under it. He leaned over it, and shook at 
 me a long knife, bared ready for the stroke, in sundry savage 
 movements. I gave him look for look, and a full defiance for 
 all his threatenings. 
 
 " Prayer to you !" I exclaimed ; " that were putting myself, 
 indeed, within your power! You may stab! I can not help 
 myself but you shall only murder ! wretch ! you shall have 
 no triumph !" and, grown utterly reckless, as I believed there 
 was no hope of escape, and that I must die, I lifted my feet, and 
 thrusting them with all my might against the table, I sent it for 
 ward with such force as to hurl it upon him, when both came to 
 the floor together. The fellow was not much hurt, and a few 
 moments sufficed for Lis extrication. With accumulated fury, 
 that foamed but did not speak, he was about to rush upon me, 
 when a sudden footstep behind him drew all his attention to the 
 new-comer. Never could 1 have believed, till then, that fear 
 could so suddenly succeed to rage in any bosom. The villain 
 
NARROW ESCAPE. 189 
 
 grew white as a sheet the moment that he heard the sound and 
 saw the person. It was Webber who looked upon him with the 
 eye of a master. 
 
 " You re a pretty fellow ! ain t you ? So you kept behind for 
 this ? Geoffrey warned me to expect it, as soon as I found you 
 missing; and it s well I got back in time. You are a fool, bul 
 ly boy, and you ll be stretched for it. i>lount before me, and if 
 you re wise, forget you ve ever seen this chap. Come be 
 gone, I say! no word not one Grafton s under way al 
 ready !" 
 
 The assassin was actually incapable of answer. Oertainly he 
 made none. The main villain of this precious set must have 
 seen a various life of service. The whole train of proceedings 
 which lie had this day witnessed the first assault upon Wil 
 liam and myself the pursuit of the former his death and 
 the subsequent attempt of my enemy upon my person all 
 seemed to awaken in him but little emotion. There was but 
 one subject upon which he could not preserve his temper, and 
 that was his old employer, Colonel Grafton but with regard 
 to all others, his selfishness had schooled him successfully to 
 suffer no feeling or passion to interfere in the slightest degree 
 with what might be his prevailing policy. With the inflexi 
 bility ot a superior, suspicious of his slave, he waited until he 
 saw my enemy mount and set forth, then nodding to me with 
 the freedom of an old friend, he left the entrance, and 1 wa 
 GLCO more left alone. 
 
190 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 01APTER XXVII. 
 
 JOY SORROW. 
 
 When Ly cabas his Athis thus beheld, 
 How was his friendly heart with sorrow filled! 
 A youth so noble, to his soul so dear, 
 1o see his shapeless look his dying groans to hear!" 
 
 OVID Mctamorphoi /*, B. 7, 
 
 HOT:R after hour rolled on, night was approaching, and yet 
 no aid came. What could this mean ? What had become of 
 my friend? Had he grown indifferent to my fate? did he fear 
 to encounter a second time with the wretches who had pursued 
 him for his life ? I dismissed this doubt as soon as it was sug 
 gested to my mind ; but I conceived any but the true occasion 
 for his delay. I knew William too well to fear that he would 
 desert me. I knew that he had no pusillanimous fears to deter 
 him from a proper risk. He had probably not been able to get 
 assistance readily, and to come without an adequate force was 
 to commit a rashness and incur a danger without any corre 
 sponding advantage. I tried to solace myself with the convic 
 tion that he would not be much longer absent, but how cheerless 
 did I feel the while ! The very inability under which I la 
 bored to do anything for myself, was, to a mind and body like 
 mine accustomed to do for themselves always enough to 
 discourage the hope of being effectually relieved by otliers. 
 The approach of night did not diminish my apprehensions 
 The sun had now set, and there was a brief interval of dusk 
 and silence between its disappearance and the rising of the 
 moon, which was particularly gloomy. How dreadfully active, 
 my imagination grew in tiint interval, and what i-ffcc-t it had 
 upon my nerves, I almost shame to say ; but 1 felt a degree of 
 fear in that brief space of time which I had never suffered be- 
 
JOY SORROW. 191 
 
 fore, and trust that, in no situation, 1 shall ever be compiled to 
 endure again. 
 
 A state of conscious helplessness suggests a thousand fears 
 and fancies that could not he forced upon the mind under other 
 circumstances. Forms of danger that would seem impossible 
 even in our dreams, become, at such a period, unquestionable 
 foes ; and the mind, losing its balance after a brief contest, fore 
 goes all examination of the danger, and yields up the contest in 
 utter imbecility. But now the moon rose to cheer me. Light 
 is always cheerful. I could not see her orb where I lay, but 
 her smiles, like those of some benign and blessed spirit, streamed 
 through the thousand cracks and openings of the log-hovel which 
 was now a prison as secure to keep me as the donjon of the feu 
 dal baron. Her beams fell around me in little spots that dimpled 
 the whole apartment with shining and bright glances. 
 
 Yet even this cheering spectacle impressed me with added 
 disquiet when I found myself so securely fastened to the floor 
 as not to be able with all my writhings to avoid the occasional 
 rays that fell upon my face and eyes. How bitterly did this 
 make me feel my incapacity ! and when, at moments, I heard 
 the faint but protracted bay of the wolf in his leafy den not 
 far off, which I did as soon as the night set in, I could not 
 doubt that he would soon make his appearance in the deserted 
 hovel : and I, who could not shelter my face from the light of 
 the moon, had still fewer hopes of being able to protect in}- self 
 from him. With every sound in the neighboring thickets I 
 imagined him approaching, under the instinct of a scent as keen 
 as that of the vulture, to his bloody feast ; and 1 vainly asked my. 
 self what I should do in my defence, when his gaunt and shagg) 
 body was stretched out upon my own, and his slobbering snout 
 was thrust into my face ! 1 strove, but could not lift an arm 
 1 could only shout, in the hope to scare him from his prey , 
 and, such was my conscious impotence, that it struck me as not 
 impossible but that I might have lost the use of my voice also. 
 Such was the vivid force of this childish apprehension in my 
 mind, that I actually shouted aloud, to convince myself that it 
 was groundless: I shouted aloud, and, to my great joy with 
 out any such hope or expectation I heard niv shouts returned. 
 Another and another ! Never were there sweeter ei-hces tn the 
 
192 RICHARD HURDI8. 
 
 cry for relief. In a few minutes more I was surrounded by a 
 troop a halt-dozen at least all friends yet where was Wil 
 ham Carrington, the dearest friend of all where ? where ? My 
 demand was quickly answered. 
 
 Colonel Grafton, who led the company, told his story, which 
 was painfully unsatisfactory. My horse, freed from his rider, 
 had brought the only intelligence which Colonel Grafton had 
 received. lie had seen nothing of my friend. He was not at 
 home when the horse came to his gate, and the animal was 
 taken in by a servant. When he did return, he immediately 
 proceeded to my assistance ; though not before calling up a 
 patrol of such of his neighbors as lie could rely upon, to assist 
 him in an inquiry in which he not only feared foul play, but 
 apprehended an issue with more than the one villain into whose 
 clutches we had fallen. I was soon freed from my bonds, but 
 how much more unhappy than I was before ! How puerile had 
 been my selfish -apprehensions, compared to those which now 
 filled my heart when I thought of Carrington ! What had been 
 his fate? where was he? How icy cold in my bosom did my 
 blood run as I meditated these doubts, and dreaded the increase 
 of knowledge which I was yet compelled to seek ! 
 
 Let me pass over this dreadful interval of doubt, and hurry 
 on the palsying conviction of the truth which followed. Our 
 search that night was unavailing, but the next morning the 
 woods were scoured, and it was my fortune to be the first to 
 fall upon traces which led me to the body of my friend. I saw 
 where he had fallen where the horse had evidently shyed as 
 the shot was given and the rider fell. The earth was still 
 smooth where ho had lain, for Webber was too much hurried, 
 or too indifferent, to endeavor to remove the marks of the event 
 It was not now difficult to find the body. They had not carried 
 it far ; and I removed a clump of bushes which grew over the 
 hollow in which they had thrown it, and started with a convul 
 sion of horror to find it lying at my feet. Cold, silent, stiff 
 there he lay, the friend of my heart, battered and bruised his 
 noble face covered with blood and dust, one of his eyes protru 
 ding from its socket, and the limbs, once so symmetrical and 
 straight, now contracted and fixed in deformity by the sudden 
 spasms of death ! 
 
JOY SORROW. 193 
 
 Afl my strength left me as this dreadful spectacle met my 
 eyes. I sunk down beside it, incapable of speech or action. 
 My knees were weakened my very soul dead within me. I 
 could only sob and moan, and my choking utterance might well 
 have moved the wonder and pity of those about me, to behold 
 one who seemed otherwise so strong and hold, now sunk into 
 such a state of womanlike infirmity. Colonel Graft on condoled 
 with me like a father ; but what could he, or any one, say to 
 me in the way of consolation ? Who could declare the amount 
 of my loss? and yet what was rny loss to hers the poor girl 
 who waited for his return? From me she was to hear that lie 
 never coulc return! that he lay cold in his gore his voice 
 silent, his b^dy mangled, his noble figure stiffened into deform 
 ity ! I shivered as with an ague-fit when 1 remembered that it 
 was from my lips she was to hear all this. 
 
 An examination of the body proved two thii us which struck 
 me with surprise. It was found that the fatal \. mind had been 
 received in front, and that it naci been inflicted I y a rifle-bullet 
 How to account for this I knew not. 1 had scru no riiie among 1 
 the weapons carried by any of the outlaws; and even 11 thfre 
 had been, how should the shot have taken o licet in front, lie 
 flying from them evidently in rapid flight when shot, and 
 they some distance behind him ? There was only (me way at 
 that moment to account for this, and that was to suppose that 
 some associate of the pursuers had either been stationed in front, 
 or had, opportunely for them, ;tpp>-r-<Hl there as he approached 
 the point where he had fallen, .".i.ough still unsatisfactory to 
 me, and perhaps to all, we were yet compelled, in he absence 
 of all better knowledge, to content ourselves with a conjecture, 
 which, though plausible enough, die 1 not satisfy us. I felt that 
 there was some mystery still in the transaction, and that Wil 
 liam had not been slain willingly by the pursuers. Webber had 
 headed them, and why should he have been so prompt to mur 
 der one, and spare another ay, even protect him from harm 
 who was so completely in his power? There was as litile 
 personal hostility toward William in the mind of Webber as 
 toward me and vet the blood, warmed by pursuit, might have 
 grown too rash for the deliberate resolve even jf one so habitu 
 ally cool as the master-villain on this occasion. 
 
194 RICHARD FTUTimS. 
 
 Ivoubts thickened in my mind with every added moment of 
 conjecture, and at length I strove to think no more upon it. \ 
 resolved to do so, though I soon found my resolution idle. How 
 could I forbear the thought, when I found it had made my hair 
 gray in that single night ! Either that or my fears had done 
 so, and I fain would believe it was not the latter. I could think 
 now r of nothing else That mangled body lay before me which 
 ever way I turned. I saw the ghastly glaze upon the starting 
 eye that bulged hilf way from its socket. I saw that mouth, 
 whose smile it had been a pleasure to see, distorted from its natu 
 ral shape, and smeared with dust and mire. There, tco was the 
 narrow orifice thrcugh which life had rushed, prayerles<? per 
 haps, and oh, with siich terrific abruptness! I thought then of 
 all his ways his fvank, hearty laugh, his generous spirit, his 
 free, bold character, his love of truth, his friendship, and the 
 sweet heart-ties which had bound him to life and earth, and 
 warmed him with promising hopes, never to be fulfilled. That 
 last thought was the psng above all. Poor William po^r Ytz- 
 meiine ! Little, in the gushing fullness of tJ-ei- rni*ed ho;:**. 
 di-i ib^ r hearts dream of des*inv Hkn thi* ! 
 
AUSE BUT NOT REPOSE. 195 
 
 C1I A PTER XXVI II 
 
 PAUSE BUT NOT KKPOSB. 
 
 -Well! he i8U-ml 
 
 Murdei et] perhaps! anl I iun f;iint, ninl (Vel 
 
 As if it were no painful thmg to .lid" COLKKIDGK. 
 
 WITH a stunned mind and most miserable feelings, I was A!- 
 nu.st led a\vay by Colonel Grafton to liis dwelling. For three 
 days 1 could resolve on nothing. In that time \ve committed 
 William to the earth. A quiet spot under a clump of venerable 
 oaks, which the colonel had chosen for his own final resting- 
 place, afforded one to my friend. The heavy moss depended 
 from the trees above him, and the warm sun came to his turf in 
 subdued glances through the withered leaves. Hirds had built 
 their nests from time immemorial in their boughs, and the con 
 stant rabbit might be seen leaping in the long, yellow grasses 
 beneath them, when the dusky shadows of evening were about 
 to fall. The hunter never crept to this spot to pursue his game 
 of death. The cruel instrument of his sport was forbidden to 
 sound therein. The place was hallowed to solemn sleep and 
 to the brooding watchfulness of happy spirits ; and in its quiet 
 round we left the inanimate form of one whose heart had been as 
 lovely in its performances as to the eye were the serene shadows 
 of the spot where we laid him. I envied him the peace which 
 I was sure his spirit knew, when we put his body out of sight. 
 God help me, for truly there was little that felt like peace in 
 mine ! 
 
 For three days, as I said before, I was like one stunned and 
 deafened. I had no quickness to perceive, nor ability to ex 
 amine. My thoughts were a perfect chaos, and ccntinual and 
 crowding images of death were passing before my eyes. The 
 kind friends with whom I lingered during this brief but moist 
 
196 RICHiRD HURDIS. 
 
 painful period, did all in their power to console me. They 
 spared no attentions, they withheld no consideration, that might 
 have been gratifying to the bruised and broken spirit. And yet 
 no ministerings could have been more judicious than were theirs. 
 The word of kindness was never out of place. There was noth 
 ing intrusive in their tendance, but a general fitness of speech 
 and gesture, so far as 1 perceived them, extended through the 
 movements of the whole family. Colonel Grafton, with a proper 
 considerateness, entirely forebore the subject of my loss; his 
 words were few and well timed ; and, though they were not 
 directly addressed to my griefs, their tendency was to adminis 
 ter to them. If his good sense made him avoid a rude tenting 
 of the wound, he did not fall into the opposite error of seeking 
 to make light of it. His countenance had a subdued gravity 
 upon it, which softened into sweetness a face in which benig 
 nity and manliness were evenly mingled, elevating and qualify 
 ing one another, and his language was given to subjects belong 
 ing to the general interests of humanity which the mourner 
 might very well apply to his affliction without being curiously 
 seen to do so. Mrs. Grafton s cares were no less considerate 
 than his. My mother could not so keenly have studied my 
 feelings, nor so kindly have administered to them. Julia, too, 
 seemed to grow less shy than usual, and sat down like a confi 
 ding child beside me, bringing rne her work to look at, and un 
 folding to me the most valued stores of her little library. Sor 
 row has no sex, and woman becomes courageous to serve in 
 affliction the man whom she would tremble in prosperity barely 
 to encounter. Her lover made his appearance but once during 
 my stay, and remained but a short time, so that I had her com 
 pany in several of my sad rambles. Somehow, I felt my great 
 est source of consolation in her. It is probable that we lerive 
 strength from the contemplation of a weakness which is greater 
 than our own. I felt it so with me. The confiding dependence 
 of this lovely girl her appeals to my superior information 
 taught me at moments to lose sight of my cares: and, perhaps, 
 as she saw this, with the natural arts of her sex, she became 
 more* confiding more a clrld. 
 
 At length, I started from my stupor. I grew ashamed of my 
 weakness. To feel our losses is becoming enough to yield 
 
PAUSE BUT NOT IlKI OSE. 197 
 
 to them and sink under their pressure is base and unmanly 
 I was vexed to think that Colonel Grafton should have so long 
 oeheld me in the feeble attitude of grief. I was determined to 
 resume my character. 
 
 " I must go," I exclaimed; "I must leave you to-inorrov 
 colonel." 
 
 It was thus I addressed him on the evening of the third day 
 after the family had retired for the night. 
 
 " Where will you go ]" he asked. The question staggered 
 me. Where was I to go 1 Should I return to Marengo \ 
 Should I be the one to carry suffering to the poor girl whom 
 fate had defrauded of her lover 1 Could I have strength to 
 speak the words of doom and misery 1 Impossible ! On my 
 own account I had no reason to return. I had nothing to seek 
 in that quarter no hopes to invite my steps no duty (so I 
 fancied then) to impel me to retrace a journey begun with so 
 much boldness, and, so far, pursued with so much ill fortune. 
 
 " I will not return," my heart said within inc. " 1 dare not. 
 I can not look on Emraeline again. It was my pleadings and 
 persuasions, that made her lover my companion in this fatal 
 adventure, and how can I meet her eye of reproach I How 
 can I hear her ask Where is he? why have you not 
 brought him back to me? Well did I remember her parting 
 directions Take care of one another. Had I taken care of 
 him ? I was the more prudent, the more thoughtful and suspi 
 cious. I knew him to be careless, frank, free, confiding. Had I 
 taken due care of him ? Had I been as watchful as I should have 
 been 1 Had I not suffered him heedlessly to plunge into the toils 
 when a resolute word of mine would have kept him from them]" 
 
 I could not satisfy myself by my answer to these self-pro 
 posed questions, and I resolved to go forward. 
 
 " In the wilds of Mississippi I will bury myself. The Losom 
 of the nation shall receive me. I will not look on Marengo 
 again. I will write to Emmeline I will tell her in a letter, 
 what I dare not look her in the face and speak." 
 
 Such was my resolve ; a resolve made in my weakness, and 
 unworthy of a noble mind. When I declared it to Colonel 
 Grafton, with the affectionate interest and freedom of a father, 
 he opposed it. 
 
RICHARD JIURDIS. 
 
 "Pardon me, my young friend, but are y m right in this re 
 olution ? Is it not your duty to go back and declare the cir 
 cumstances to ;ill those who aro interested in the fate of your 
 friend ( It will be expected of you. To take any other course 
 will seem to show a consciousness of error with winch you can 
 not reproach yourself. Suspicion will become active, and your 
 leluctance, which springs from a natural dislike to give pain, 
 u ill be set down to other and far less honorable motives. ("In 
 h;tck. Mr. lltirdis seek the friends of Mr. Carrington and your 
 own. Though it wring your heart to tell the cruel story, and 
 rend theirs to hear it, yet withhold nothing. Take the counsel 
 of one who has seen too much of the world not to speak with 
 due precaution, and avoid concealment in all matters of this 
 sort. Suppress nothing let nothing that is at all equivocal 
 be coupled with your conduct where it affects the interests of 
 others. I have never yet known an instance of departure from 
 duty in which the person did not suffer from such departure. 
 And it is your duty to relate this matter at large -to those who 
 were connected with your friend." 
 
 " But I will write, Colonel Grafton I will write all, and 
 withhold nothing. My duty to the friends and relatives of 
 William Carriugton can not call for more." 
 
 " Your duty to yourself does. It requires that you should 
 not shrink from meeting them. Your letter would tell them 
 nothing but bald fa^ts. They must see you when you give 
 your testimony. They must see that you feel the pain that 
 your duty calls upon you to inflict. When you show them that, 
 you give them the only consolation v* hich grief ever demands ; 
 you give them sympathy, and their sorrows become lessened as 
 they look on yours. To this poor maiden, m particular, you 
 owe it." 
 
 "Ah! Colonel Grafton, you can not kn- w the torture which 
 must follow such an interview. It was 1 w ho persuaded him 
 to go on this hapless journey She heard n.n plead with him 
 to go my arguments convinced him. She will look on me 
 as the cause of all she will call me his murderer." 
 
 " You must bear it all, and bear it with humility, and without 
 reply. If she loved this youth, what is your torture to that 
 which your words will inilict on her ? You have the selfish 
 
PAUSE- BUT NOT REPOSE. 199 
 
 strength and resources of the man to uphold you \vhat has 
 she? Nothing nothing hut the past. Phantoms of memory 
 are all that are left to her, and these torture as often as they 
 soothe. Do not speak, then, of your sufferings in comparison 
 with hers. She must of necessity, be the greatest sufferer, and 
 you must submit to see her griefs, and, it may be, to listen to 
 iier reproaches. These will fall lightly on your ears when you 
 can reproach yourself with nothing. If you did not submit to 
 fhem if you fled from the task before you in place of her 
 lujproaches you would have her suspicions, and your own self- 
 rebuke in all future time." 
 
 He had put the matter before me in a new light, and, with a 
 m, 1 changed my purpose, resolving to stnrt for Marcngo in 
 J.W morning. Meanwhile, let mo relate thf progrosj of other 
 to this narrative. 
 
200 RICHARD HURDW 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE ASSASSIN AM) HIS K.MPLPYER 
 " I ve _one the deed." 
 
 THE murderer of William lay close in the tliickct after hr 
 .Nad done the deed. That murderer v r as l>en Pickett, ana. a* 
 the reader may have divined already, his victim had perisnea 
 through mistake. The fatal cause of this was in his employ 
 ment of my horse, a circumstance forced upon him by the ne 
 cessities of his flight. Pickett knew the horse, and lo /ked no 
 further. It was a long shot, from a risii ^-ground above, whero 
 the umbrage was thick, and at such a distance that features 
 ivere not clearly distinguishable. The dress of William unfor 
 tunately helped the delusion. It was almost entirely like mine. 
 We had been so completely associated together for years, that 
 our habits and tastes in many respects had become assimilated. 
 The murderer, having satisfied himself which he did at a 
 glance that the horse was mine, it was the prompt conclu 
 sion of his mind that I was the rider. Crin.o is seldom delibe 
 rate the mere act, I mean the determination may be delib 
 erately enough made; but the blow is most usually given ib 
 haste, as if the criminal dreaded that he might shrink from an 
 act already resolved upon. Pickett did not trust himself tt 
 look a second time before pulling trigger. Had he suffered the 
 rider to advance ten paces more, he would have withdrawn the 
 ei^ht. The courage of man is never certain but when he is do 
 ing what he feels to be right. The wrong-doer may be despe 
 rate and furious, but he Imp no composed bearing. Pickett was 
 of this sort. lie shot almost instantly after peeing the horse 
 He was about to come ten-ward when he saw the rider tumble; 
 but the sudden approach of the pursuers, whose fonf bad been 
 
THE ASSASSIN AND HIS EMPLOYER. 201 
 
 concealed by the narrow and enclosed "blind" through which 
 they passed, compelled him to resume his position, and remain 
 quiet. He saw them take charge of the body, but had lit lie 
 idea that their aim, like his own, had been vulturous. He saw 
 them busy about the prey which his blow had struck down, but 
 concluded that they were friends seeking to succor and to save. 
 Under any circumstances, his hope of plunder was now cut off, 
 and he silently withdrew into the forest, where his horse had 
 been hidden, and, hurriedly remounting, commenced his return 
 to Marengo. But an eye was upon him that never lost sight 
 of him. The keen hunter that Matthew Webber had set upon 
 his path had found his track, and pursued it with the unerring 
 scent of the bloodhound. More than once the pursuer could 
 have shot down the fugitive with a weapon as little anticipated, 
 and as unerring, as that which he himself had employed; but 
 he had no purpose of this sort in view. He silently followed 
 on, keeping close watch upon every movement, yet never suf 
 fering himself to be seen. AVhen the murderer paused by the 
 wayside, he halted also; when he sped toward evening, he too 
 relaxed his reins; and lie drew them up finally, only when he 
 beheld the former, with an audacity which he never showed 
 while I dwelt in Marengo, present himself at the entrance of 
 my father s plantation, and request to sec my brother. The 
 pursuer paused also at this moment, and entering a little but 
 dense wood on one side of the road, quietly dismounted from 
 his horse, which he fastened in the deepest thicket, and, under 
 cover of the under-brush, crept forward as nearly as he could, to 
 the place where Pickett waited, without incurring any risk of 
 detection. 
 
 It was not long before John Ilurdis came to the gate, and his 
 coward soul made its appearance in his face, the moment that he 
 saw his confederate. His lips grew livid and quivered, his cheeks 
 were whiter than his shirt, and his voice so feeble, when he 
 attempted to speak, that he could only articulate at a.H by uttering 
 himself with vehemency and haste. 
 
 "Ah, Pickett, that you? well! what?" 
 
 The murderer had not alighted from his horse, and he now simply 
 bent forward to the other, as ho hr-.lf wh>pen\l 
 
 "It s all fixed, squire! The nail s clinched! You cm 
 
 9* 
 
202 RICHARD IIURDFJ. 
 
 take the road now when you please, aud find m Jiing to trip 
 you." 
 
 " Ha ! but you do not mean it, Ben ? It is not as you oay I 
 You have not done it ! Are you sure ? Did you see ?" 
 
 " It s done ! I tell you, as sure s a gun !" 
 
 "He s dead, then?" said John Hurdis in a husky whisper 
 " Richard Hurdis is dead, you say ?" and he tottered forward 
 to the rider, with a countenance in which fear and eagerness 
 were so mingled as to produce an unquiet shrinking even ia the 
 bosom of his confederate. 
 
 " I ve said it, squire, and I ll say it again to please you ! I 
 had dead aim on his button just here [he laid his hand on his 
 breast] and I saw him tumble and come down all in a heap 
 like a bag of feathers. There s no doctors can do him good 
 now, I tell you. He s laid up so that they won t take him 
 down again nobody. You can go to sleep now when you 
 please." 
 
 The greater felon of the two shrank back as he heard those 
 words, and covered his face with his hands. He seemed scarce 
 able to stand, and leaned against the posts of the gate for ins 
 support. A sudden shivering came over him, and when that 
 passed off, he laughed brokenly as if with a slight convulsion, 
 and the corners of his mouth were twitched until the tears start 
 ed in his eyes. To what particular feeling, whether of remorse 
 or satisfaction, he owed these emotions, it would be difficult for 
 me to say, as it was certainly impossible for his comrade to con 
 ceive. Pickett looked on with wondering, and was half inclined 
 to doubt whether his propiietor was not out of his wits. But a 
 few moments reassured him as John Hurdis again came forward. 
 His tones were more composed, though still unsubdued, when he 
 addressed him, and, perhaps, something more of human appre 
 hension dwelt upon lu * countenance. 
 
 " You have told me, Ben Pickett, but I am not certain. 
 Richard Hurdis wae a strong man he wouldn t die easily ! 
 He would fight he would strike to the last ! How could you 
 stand against him? Why, Ben, he would crush you with a 
 blow of his fist ! He was monstrous strc jg !" 
 
 " Why, squire, what are you talking about ? Pick Hurdis 
 was strong, I know and stout-hearted. He would hold on till 
 
THE ASSASSIN AND HIS EMPLOYER. 203 
 
 his teeth met, for there was no scare in him. But that s nothing to 
 the matter now, for, you sec, there was no fight at all. The rifle did 
 the business long shot and steady aim ; so, you see, all his strength 
 went for nothing." 
 
 " But how could he let you trap him, Ben Pickctt ? Richard Avas 
 suspicious and always on the watch. He wouldn t fall easily 
 into a trap. There must be some mistake, Ben some mistake. 
 You re only joking with me, Ben ; you have not found him ? 
 He was too much ahead of you, and got off. Well, it s 
 just as well you let him go. I don t care. Indeed, I m almost 
 glad you didn t reach him. He s in the nation, I suppose, by this 
 time ? " 
 
 "But I did reach him, "squire," replied the oilier, not exactly 
 knowing how to account for the purposeless tenor of John 
 Ilurdis s speech, and wondering much at the unlooked-for relenting 
 of purpose which it implied. There was something in this last 
 sentence which annoyed Pickett as much as it surprised him. It 
 seemed to imply that his employer might not be altogether satisfied 
 with him when lie became persuaded of UK- truth of what he said. 
 He hastened, therefore, to reiterate his story. 
 
 "He ll never get nearer to the nation than he is now. I lell 
 you, squire, I come upon him on a by-road leading out from Tusca- 
 loosa, that run along among a range of hills where I kept. There 
 was a d ou We hill close by, and the road run through it ; it was a dark 
 road. I tracked him and Bill Carrington twice over the ground. 
 They had business farther down with a man named \Vebber. and 
 they stopped all night with a Colonel Grafton. I got from one of his 
 negroes all about it. Well, I watched when he was to come back. 
 When I heard them making tracks, I put myself in the br.sh, clear 
 ahead, in a place where they couldn t come upon me till I was clean 
 out of reach. Soon he came running like mad, then I give it to him, 
 and down he come, I tell you, like a miller s bag struck all in 
 a heap." 
 
 " But that didn t kill him ? He was only hurt. You re not sure, 
 Ben, that he s dead ? You didn t look at him closely ? " 
 
 " Xo ; dickens ! they were too hard upon me for that. But I saw 
 where I must hit him, and I saw him tumble." 
 
 " Who were upon you ?" demanded Hurdis. 
 
 " Why, Bill Carrington, and the man he went to sec, I suppose. I 
 
204 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 didn t stop to look ; for, just as I sprawled him out they came from 
 the road behind him, and I saw no more. You didn t tell me that 
 Bill Carrington was going with him." 
 
 " No ; I wasn t certain. I didn t know. But didn t Carrington 
 come after you, when you shot Richard ? " 
 
 " I reckon he was too much frightened ; he jumped down beside 
 the body, and that was all I stopped to see. I made off, and fetched 
 a compass through the woods that brought me out with dry feet into 
 another road. Then I kept on without stopping, and that s all I can 
 tell you." 
 
 " It was strange Bill Carrington didn t take after you ; he s not a 
 man to be frightened easily." 
 
 " He didn t, though." 
 
 "But you re not sure, Ben, after all. Perhaps you ve only hurt 
 him. You have not killed him, I think. It s a hard thing to shoot 
 certain at a great distance. You were far off, you say ? " 
 
 "A hundred yards, or so, and that s nothing, being down hill 
 too." 
 
 " Richard was a tough fellow." 
 
 " Tough or not, I tell you, squire, he ll never trouble you again ! 
 It s all over with him ! They ve got him under ground before this 
 time. I know by the sort of fall he gave that he hadn t any life left. 
 He didn t know what hurt him." 
 
 John Hurdis seemed convinced at last. 
 
 "And yet to think, Ben, that a man so strong as Richard should 
 die so sudden ! It was only a week ago that he had his hand on my 
 throat he had me down upon the ground he shook me like 
 a feather. And he spoke with a voice that went through me. 
 I was like an infant in his hands ; I felt that he could have 
 torn me in two. And now, you say, he can not lift an arm to help 
 himself ! " 
 
 "No, not to wave off a buzzard from his carrion !" was tho 
 reply. 
 
 The arm of John Ilurdis fell on the neck of Pickett s horse at 
 these words, and his eyes, wilh a vacant stare, were fixed upon the 
 rider. After a brief pause, he thus proceeded, in a muttered 
 soliloquy, rather than an address to his hearer : 
 
 "If Richard would have gone off quietly, and let me alone; 
 if but what s the use to talk of that ROW?" He paused, but 
 
THE ASSASSIN AND HIS EMPLOYEE. 205 
 
 again began, in similar tones and like a spirit : "He was too rash 
 too tyrannical ! Flesh and blood could not bear with him, Ben ! 
 He would have mastered all around him if he could trampled upon 
 all suffered no life to any spared no feelings! He was cruel 
 cruel to you, and to me, and to all ; and then to drag me from my 
 horse, and take me, his own brother, by the throat ! But, it s all 
 over now. lie has psid .for it, Ben ! I wish he hadn t done it, 
 though ; for then but, no matter, this talk s all very useless now." 
 
 Here he recovered himself, and in more direct and calmer language, 
 thus continued, while giving his agent a part of the money which he 
 had promised him : 
 
 "Go, now, Pickett to your own home. Let us not be seen 
 together much. Take this money tisn t all I mean to give you. I 
 will bring you more." 
 
 The willing fellow pocketed the price of blood, and made his 
 acknowledgments. Thanks, too, were given by the murderer, as if 
 the balance of credit lay with him who paid in money for the life of 
 his fellow-creature. 
 
 "I will come to you to-night," continued Hurdis, " I would hear 
 all of this business. I would know more stay! What is that? 
 Some one comes hear you nothing, Ben ?" 
 
 Guilt had made my wretched brother doubly a coward. The big 
 sweat came out and stood upon his forehead, and his eyes wore tiie 
 irresolute expression of one about to fly. The composure with which 
 his companion looked round, half reassured him. 
 
 "No there s nobody," said the other, " a squirrel jumped in the 
 wood, perhaps." 
 
 "Well I ll come to night, Ben I ll meet you at the Willows." 
 
 " Won t you come to the house, Squire ? " 
 
 "No!" was the abrupt reply. The speaker recollected his late 
 interview with the stern wife of his colleague, an;! had no desire to 
 encounter her again : " Xo, Ben ; I ll be at the Willows." 
 
 " What time, Squire ? " 
 
 " I can t say, now but you ll hear my signal. Three hoots, and 
 a long bark." 
 
 "Very good I ll be sure." 
 
 John Hurdis remained at the gate a long time after Pickett rode 
 away. He watched his retreating form while it continued in sight, 
 then seated himself on the ground where he had been standing, and 
 
20G RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 unconsciously, with a little stick, began to draw characters in the 
 sand. To the labors of his fingers, his uiiud seemed to be utterly 
 heedless, until, aroused to a sense of what he was doing and where he 
 sat, by the approach of some of the field negroes returning from the 
 labors of the day. lie started to his feet as he heard their voices, but 
 how did his guilty heart tremble, when, his eye took in the letters that 
 he had unwittingly traced upon the sand. Tiie word murderer " was 
 distinctly written in large characters, before his eyes. With a des 
 perate, but trembling haste, as if he dreaded lest other c 3 cs should 
 behold it too, he dashed his feet over the letters, nor stayed his efforts 
 even when they were perfectly obliterated. Fool that he was of 
 what avail was all his toil ? He might erase the guilty letters from 
 the sand, but they were written upon his soul in characters that no 
 hand could reach, and no labors, obliterate. The fiend was there in 
 full possession, and his tortures were only now begun. 
 
THE SPECTRE. 207 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 TIIE SPECTRE. 
 " Let the earth hide thce." SHAKSPERE. 
 
 THE murderer hurried homeward when this dark conference 
 was ended. The affair in which he had acted so principal, yet 
 secondary a part, had exercised a less obvious influence upon him 
 than upon the yet baser person who had egged him on to the deed. 
 There was no such revulsion of feeling in his bosom, as in that 
 of John Hurdis. Endowed with greater nerve at first, and 
 rendered obtuse from habit and education, the nicer sensibilities 
 the keener apprehensions of the mind were not sufliciently 
 active in him to warm at any recital, when the deed itself, 
 which it narrated, had failed to impress him with terror or re 
 pentance. If he did not tremble to do, still less was he disposed 
 to tremble at the bare story of his misdoings ; and he rode away 
 with a due increase of scorn for the base spirit and cowardly 
 heart of his employer. And yet, perhaps, Pickctt had never 
 belu .ld John Hurdis in any situation in which his better feelings 
 had been more prominent. The weaknesses, which the one 
 despised, were the only shows of virtue in the other. The cowardly 
 wretch, when he supposed the deed to have been done on 
 which he had sent his unhesitating messenger felt, for the first 
 time, that it would not only have been wiser but better, to 
 have borne patiently with his wrong, rather than so foully to 
 have revenged it. He felt that it would have been easier to sleep 
 under the operation of injustice than to become one s self a crim 
 inal. Bitterly indeed did this solemn truth grow upon him in 
 the end, when sleep, at length, utterly refused to come at his 
 bidding. 
 
 But, though the obvious fears and compunctious vjsitings of 
 
208 ItlCIIARD HURDIS. 
 
 his employer had provoked the scorn of the murderer, it was 
 decreed that he himself should not be altogether free from sim 
 ilar weaknesses. They developed themselves before he reached 
 his home. It was nearly dusk when he entered the narrow by 
 road which led to his habitation night was fast coining on, 
 yet the twilight was sufficiently clear to enable him to distin 
 guish objects. Without a thought, perhaps, of the crime of 
 which he had been guilty, or rather, without a regretful thought, 
 he pursued his way until the road opened upon his dwelling. 
 The habitation of his wife and child stood before him. lie 
 could now see the smoke rising from the leaning clay chimney, 
 and his heart rose with the prospect for the very basest of 
 mankind have hearts for their homes but, all on a sudden, he 
 jerked his bridle with a violence that whirled the animal out 
 from his path ; and then his grasp became relaxed. He had 
 strength for no more he had neither power to advance nor 
 fly. In an instant the avenues to all his fears were in posses 
 sion of a governing instinct. Guilt and terror spoke in all his 
 features. His glazed eyes seemed starting from their sockets 
 
 his jaws relaxed his mouth opened his hair started up, 
 and the cold dews gathered at its roots ! What sees he ? 
 what is in his path to make him fear ? Why does the bold 
 ruffian, ready at all times to stab or shoot why does he lift 
 no weapon now ? He is sinewless, aimless, strengthless. [There 
 rose before him, even at the gate of his hovel, a fearful image 
 of the man he supposed himself to have murdered^ It stood 
 
 ^between him and the narrow gateway so that he could not go 
 /forward in his progress. The gaze of the spectre was earnestly 
 / bent upon him with such a freezing glance of death and doom 
 
 (as the victim might well be supposed to wear in confronting 
 his murderer. The bloody hole in his bosom was awfully dis 
 tinct to the eyes oS .the now trembling criminal, who could see 
 little or nothing else. His knees knocked together convulsively 
 
 his wiry hair lifted the cap upon his brow. Cold as the 
 mildewed marble, yet shivering like an autumn branch w r aving 
 in the sudden winds, he was frozen to the spot where it encoun 
 tered him he could neither speak nor move. Vainly did he 
 attempt to lift the weapon in his grasp his arms were stiffened 
 to his side his will was not powerful enough to compel its 
 
THE SPECTRE. 209 
 
 natural agents to their duty. He strove to thrust the rowel into 
 his horse s flanks, but even to this effort he found himself unequal. 
 Twice did he strive to cry aloud to the threatening aspect before Mm, 
 in words of entreaty or defiance, but his tongue refused its office. The 
 words froze in his throat, and it was only able in a third and desper 
 ate effort to articulate words which denoted idiocy rather than 
 resolve. 
 
 "Stand aside, Richard Hurdis stand aside, or I ll run over you. 
 You would tie me to the tree you would try hickories upon me, 
 would you ? Go go to John Hurdis now, and he ll tell you I m not 
 afraid of you. No, d n my eyes if 1 am, though he is ! I m not 
 afraid of your bloody finger shake it away shake it away! 
 There s a hole in your jacket wants mending, man ; you d better see 
 to it fore it gets worse. I see the red stuff coming out of it now. Go 
 stand off, or I ll hurt you ! ptsho ptsho ptsho ! " 
 
 And, as he uttered this wandering and incoherent language, his 
 limbs strengthened sufficiently to enable him, to employ wit hone hand, 
 the action of a person hallooing hogs out of his enclosure. The sound 
 of his own voice seemed to unfix the spell upon him. The ghostly 
 figure sank down before his mazed eyes and advancing footsteps, in a 
 heap, like one suddenly slain, and as he had seen his victim fall. It lay 
 directly before him : he pressed his horse upon it, but it disapear- 
 ed before he reached the spot. A brief space yet lay between the gate 
 and the hovel, and, passing through the former, he was about to plunge 
 with a like speed toward the latter, when another figure, and one, too, 
 much more terrific to the fears of the ruffian than the first, took its 
 place, and the person of William Carrington emerged at that moment 
 from the dwelling itself, and stood before him in the doorway ! If 
 Pickett himseif trembled before under his superstitious imaginings, 
 he trembled now with apprehensions of a more human description. 
 It was the vulgar fear of the fugitive that possessed him now. He 
 felt that he was pursued. He saw before him the friend of the man 
 he had murdered, speeding in hot haste to wreak vengeance on his 
 murderer. In the dread of cord or shot, he lost in a single instant all 
 his former and paralyzing terror arising from the blighting visitation 
 of the world of spirits. He was no longer frozen by fear. He was 
 
210 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 strengthened and stimulated for flight by the appearance of Carring- 
 ton. He turned the head of his horse, and, with the movement, the 
 avenger advanced upon him. He felt that there was no escape. There 
 was no hope in flight. In desparatiou, he threw himself from the 
 animal lifted his rifle, and, in taking deadly aim upon the figure, 
 was surprised to see it move away with rapid footsteps and sink into 
 the neighboring woods, in the shadow of which it was soon lost from 
 sight. The conduct of Oarrington was more mysterious to the crimi 
 nal than was the appearance of the spectre just before. If he came 
 as the avenger of his friend, how strange that he should fly ! And 
 how could such timidity be believed of one so notoriously brave as 
 the man in question ? The wonder grew in his mind the more he re 
 viewed it, and he found it easier to continue in his wonderment than 
 to seek by any reference to his past experience and present thoughts 
 for any solution of the mystery. 
 
 Pale and cold with fright, he at last entered his hovel without 
 further interruption. The anxious and searching eyes of his wife 
 beheld in an instant the disordered emotion so prominent in his, and 
 her fears were renewed. 
 
 " What is it, Ben what disturbs you ? why do you look around 
 so ? " she demanded. 
 
 "How long has he been here ? when did he come ? what does he 
 want ? " were the rapid questions which the criminal uttered in 
 reply. 
 
 "Who who has been here? of whom do you ask? "was the 
 response of the astonished wife. 
 
 " Why, Bill Carrington, to be sure who else ? I saw him come 
 out of the door just this minute, and take to the woods. What did 
 he want ? where s he gone ? who s he looking for eh ? " 
 
 "You re sick, Ben," said the wife; "your head s disordered. 
 You d better lie down." 
 
 Can t you answer me a plain question?" was his peremptory 
 answer to her suggestion ; " I ask you what Bill Carrington wanted 
 with me or with you ? " 
 
 " He ? nothing that I know of. He hasn t been here, Ben," 
 
THE SPECTRE. 211 
 
 "The devil you say? Better tell me I m drunk when I 
 saw him, with my own eyes, come out just a moment ago, and 
 take to the woods ! " 
 
 "You may have seen him in the woods, but I m sure you 
 didn t see him come out of this house. I ve been in this room 
 for the last hour never once out of it and nobody but my 
 self and Jane in it and nobody s been here that either of us 
 iias seen." 
 
 The man turned to Jane, and, reading in her eyes a confirma 
 tion of her mother s speech, lie looked vacantly around him for 
 a few moments ; then lifting his rille, which he had leaned up 
 within the entrance, rushed out of the house, and hurried to the 
 woods in search of the person whom he had seen disappear 
 there. lie was gone for an hour, when he returned exhausted. 
 In that time his search had been close and thorough for a cir 
 cuit of several miles, in all those recesses which he had been 
 accustomed to regard as hiding-places, and which, it may be 
 added, he had repeatedly used as such. The exhaustion that 
 followed his disappointment was an exhaustion of mind rather 
 than of body. The vagueness and mystery which attended all 
 these incidents had utterly confounded him, and when he re 
 turned to the presence of his wife he almost seemed to lack the 
 facilities c.f speech and hearing. lie spoke but little, and, observing 
 his fatigue, and probably ascribing his strange conduct to a sudden 
 excess of drink, his wife prudently forebore all unnecessary remarks 
 and questions. 
 
 Night hurried on ; darkness had covered the face of the earth, 
 and in silence the wife and idiot child of the criminal had com 
 menced their evening meal, Pickett keeping his place at the 
 fireside without heeding the call to supper. A stupor weighed 
 down all his faculties, and he almost seemed to sleep ; but a 
 slight tap at the entrance a single tap; gentle as if made by 
 a woman-hand soliciting admission awakened in an instant 
 all the guilty consciousness that could not sleep in the bosom of 
 the criminal. He started to his feet in terror. The keen 
 and searching glance of his wife was fixed upon his face, and 
 heedful of every movement of his person. She said nothing ; 
 but her looks w^cre so full of inquiry, that it needed no words 
 to make Pickett aware that her soul was alarmed and appre- 
 
RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 liensivc. She looked as if feeling that all her previous fears were 
 realized. The knock at the entrance was repeated. 
 
 " Shall I open it, Ben ? " was her question, and her eyes motioned 
 him to a window in the rear. But he did not heed the obvious sug 
 gestion. Gathering courage as he beheld her glance, and saw her 
 suspicions, he crossed the floor to the entrance, boldly lifting in<3 
 bar which secured it, and in firm tones bade the unknown visitor 
 " Come in." 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE MYSTIC KKOTIIKKHOOn. 
 
 Ou"* coming 
 
 Is not for snlutativu -wi have business." Cat Hint. 
 
 THE stranger boldly stepped into the light ns the dooi \vai 
 opened for him. The heart of Pickett sank within him on the 
 instant, for guilt is a thing of continual terrors ; but his glance 
 was fixed on the person without recognition, and there was 
 nothing in the air or visage of the intruder to excite alarm. 
 I] is dark, swarthy features and sinister eye were, it is true, suf 
 ficiently unprepossessing ; but these were evidently the habitual 
 features of the nan, and, being in repose, gave no occult ex 
 pression to his countenance. His guise was common enough, 
 consisting of the common blue-and-white homespun of the coun 
 try, and this bespattered with mud as if he had been loii a 
 traveller, lie demanded traveller s fare, and begged to be 
 accommodated for the night. There was no denial of so small 
 a boon, even in the humblest cottage of Alabama; and though 
 Pickett would rather have had no company, he could not yet 
 refuse. 
 
 " Well," said Pickett, " we are not in the habit of taking in 
 travellers ; but if you can make out with a blanket by the chim 
 ney, you can have it it s all I can give you." 
 
 " Good enough," 3al<l the stranger " I m not particular 
 Room by the chir^ney, uid light voou enough for a blaze, ana 
 I m satisfied." 
 
 "Have you had supper?" demanded Mr*. P okett ; " *ve car- 
 give you some hoe-cake and bacon." 
 
 " Thank you, ma am, but I took a bite from my bag about ar 
 hour ago, as I crossed a branch coming on, which baited my 
 hangn. I won t trouble vou to .-\* anything moro." 
 
214 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 You re from below ? " asked Pickctt, with some show of curi 
 osity. 
 
 " No from above." 
 
 " Do you go much farther ? " 
 
 I think not ; I ve got business in these parts, and shall return 
 when it s over." 
 
 " You ve a horse to see to ? " 
 
 " No, I foot it. I m a very poor man." 
 
 The lie was uttered with habitual readiness. The emissary 
 hal hidden and hoppled his horse in the neighboring woods, 
 lie was too well practiced in his art to forego every precaution. 
 Pickctt had no other questions, and but little more was said for 
 the time by either of the parties, all of whom seemed equally 
 taciturn. The wife of Pickett alone continued anxious. The 
 searching glance of the stranger did not please her, though it 
 appeared to have its impulse in curiosity alone. Perhaps, sus 
 pecting her husband s guilt, all circumstances removed from 
 those of ordinary occurrence provoked her apprehensions. With 
 a just presentiment, she had trembled on the stranger s knock 
 and entrance, and every added moment of his stay increased 
 her fears. She had ;.s yet had no conference with Pickett, 
 touching the business which carried him abroad ; and the presence 
 of their guest denied her all opportunity for the satisfaction 
 of her doubts. Her evident disquiet did not escape the notice 
 of her husband, but he ascribed it in his own mind to her 
 desire to go to bed, which, as they all slept in the same apart 
 ment, was rendered somewhat difficult by the presence of the 
 new-comer. His coarse mind, however, soon made this difficulty 
 light. 
 
 " Go to bed, Betsy don t mind us ; or, to make the matter easy, 
 what say you, stranger, to a bit of a walk the night s clear, and not 
 cold neither ? We ll just step out till the old woman lies down, if 
 you please." 
 
 " To be sure," said the other ; " I was about to propose the same 
 thing to you." 
 
 The fears of Pickctt were newly roused by this seemingly innocent 
 declaration of the stranger a declaration which, at another time, 
 would not have tasked a thought. 
 
 " Why should he wish to take me out to walk with him at 
 
THE MYSTIC BROTHERHOOD. 21o 
 
 night "why should he propose such a thing?" was his inward 
 inquiry ; and with hesitating steps he conducted the suspicious guest 
 from the hovel into the open ground before it. 
 
 "I was just going to propose the same thing to you," said the 
 stranger the moment they had got there, " for, do you see, it isn t to 
 lodge with you only that I come. I have business with you, my 
 friend business of great importance." 
 
 If Pickett was alarmed before, he was utterly confounded now. 
 
 "Business with me-!" l.e cried, in undisguised astonishment; 
 "what business what business can you have with me ? " and he 
 stopped full and confronted the stranger as he spoke. 
 
 " Well, that s what I m going to tell you now, but not here; walk 
 farther from the house, if you please let s go into this 
 thicket." 
 
 "Into the thicket! No, I m d 1 if I do!" cried the now 
 
 thoroughly-alarmed Pickett. " I ll go into the thicket with no 
 stranger that I don t know. I don t see what business you can have 
 with meat all ; and if you have any, you can just as well out with it 
 here as anywhere else." 
 
 " Oh, that s just, as you please," said the other coolly ; " it was for 
 your sake only that I proposed to go into the thicket, for the business 
 is not exacily proper for everybody to hear ; and there s no use in 
 calling the high-road to counsel." 
 
 "For my sake ? What the d 1 do you mean, my friend ? It s 
 your business, not mine : why is it for my sake that you would have 
 me go into the thicket ! " 
 
 "Because it might bring you into trouble, if any ears besides our 
 own were to hear me," replied the stranger with indifference. " For 
 my part, I don t care much where it is said, only to save you from 
 any trouble. " 
 
 "Me from trouble me from trouble! I don t know what 
 3 T ou can mean ; but if you re serious, where would you have me 
 go? 
 
 "There that thicket will do. It looks dark enough for our 
 business." 
 
 The stranger pointed to a dense grove in the neighborhood, 
 but on the opposite side of the road a part of the same forest 
 in which the reader will remember to have witnessed an inter- 
 
216 RICHARD 1IURDIS. 
 
 view between John Hurdis and Jane, the idiot girl. Not knowing 
 what to fear, yet fearing everything, the murderer followed the stran 
 ger, whom he now regarded as his evil genius. The other was passing 
 more deeply into the woods, after having entered them, than Pickett 
 seemed to think necessary for his object, and the voice of the latter 
 arrested him. 
 
 "Dark enough for your business, it may be, but quite too 
 dark for mine. I ll go no further. You can say here all you ve 
 got to say, no matter what it is. I m not afraid, and I think it 
 something strange that you should want me to go into the bush 
 in a dark night with a person I don t know. I don t somehow 
 like it altogether. I m not sure that it s safe. I mean no harm, 
 but it s not the best sense in the world to trust people one don t 
 know." 
 
 " Lord love you," said the other, with a quiet tone of contempt, 
 "you re more scarry than I thought you. There s nothing to be 
 frightened at in me; my business is peaceable, and I m a peaceable 
 man. I don t carry a rifle, and I never tumbled a fellow from his 
 horse at a hundred yards, in all my life, so far as I can recollect 
 now." 
 
 These words were uttered with the utmost coolness, and as if 
 they were entirely without peculiar signification. The effect 
 upon the hearer was almost paralyzing, as it was instantaneous. 
 He started, as if he had been himself shot for a moment was 
 silent, under the obvious imputation contained in the last sen 
 tence of his companion s speech then recovering himself, with 
 the blustering manner of a bully, he addressed the other, who 
 saw, in the dim light which surrounded them, that Pickett s 
 hand was thrust into the bosom of his vest, as if in search of some con 
 cealed weapon. 
 
 " How ! you do not mean to say that I ever did such a thing ? If 
 you do " 
 
 " Put up your knife, brother, and keep your hand and voice down. 
 Lift either too high, and I have that about me which would drive you 
 into the middle of next summer, if you only looked at me to 
 strike." 
 
 Such was the stern reply of the stranger, whose tones changed 
 promptly with the circumstances. Pickett felt himself in the 
 presence of a master. He was cowed. He released his hold 
 
THE MYSTIC BROTHERHOOD. 217 
 
 upon the weapon, which he had grasped in his bosom, and lowering 
 the sounds of his voice in obedience to the stranger s requisition, he 
 replied in more conciliatory language. 
 
 " What mean you, my friend ? What is the business that brings 
 you here ? What would you have with me, and why do you 
 threaten me ? " 
 
 Your hand ! " said the other deliberately, while extending his 
 own. 
 
 "There it is; and now, what ?"_ Pickett reluctantly com 
 plied. 
 
 " Only that you are one of us now that s all." 
 
 One of us how ! who are you ? what mean you ? " 
 
 "Everything. You are a made man your fortunes are made. 
 You ve become one of a family that can do everything for you, and 
 will do it, if you ll let them." 
 
 The silence of Pickett expressed more wonder than his words 
 could have done. The oilier went on without heeding a feeble 
 attempt which he made at reply. 
 
 " You ve volunteered to c o some of our business, and have, there 
 fore, joined our fraternity." 
 
 "Your business! what business what fraternity? I don t 
 know, my friend, what you possibly can mean." 
 
 "I ll tell you, then, and put you out of suspense. You re just 
 from Tuscaloosa, where you ve taken some trouble off our hands. 
 I ve come to thank you for it, and to do you some kindness in return. 
 One good turn deserves another, you know, and this that you have 
 done for us, deserves a dozen." 
 
 The wonder of Pickett was increased. He almost gasped in 
 uttering another request to hear all that the other had to say. 
 
 "Why, it s soon said," he replied. "You shot a lad two days 
 ago, near the shade, up beyond Tuscaloosa 
 
 "Who says who saw it is a lie a d d lie!" cried the 
 criminal, in husky and feeble accents, while quivering at the same 
 time with mingled rage and fear. 
 
 "Oh, pshaw !" said the other, "what s the use of beating about 
 the bush. I saw you tumble the lad myself, and I ve followed upon 
 your trail ever since 
 
 "But you shall follow me no more! One of us must 
 
 10 
 
218 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 way to the other!" cried the criminal in screaming accents, and 
 while drawing his knife with one hand, he aimed to grasp the throat 
 of the stranger with the other. But the latter was too wily a scout 
 to become an easy victim. He had watched his man, even as the cat 
 watches the destined prey to whom she suffers a seeming 
 freedom and sacrifices at the very moment of its greatest appar 
 ent security. With the movement of Pickett to strike, was that of 
 the stranger to defend himself nor to defend himself only. 
 The strength of the former was far inferior to that of the man whom 
 lie availed, and instead of taking him by the throat, he found 
 his grasp eluded, and, at the same moment, the arm which held the 
 weapon, was secured in a grip which effectually baffled all his efforts 
 at release. 
 
 "Don t. be rash!" said the stranger, with a laugh in which 
 there was no sign of anger. "Don t be rash it s of no use! 
 You re only fighting against your own good, and your powder s 
 wasted on me. I m too much for you, and that s enough to 
 make you quiet. But there s another and a better reason than 
 that to keep you quiet. I m yor.r friend, I tell you your best friend 
 and I can bring you many friends. I m come all this distance to 
 befriend you; and, if you ll have patience and be civil, you ll soon see 
 how." 
 
 "Let go my arm!" said Pickett, chafing furiously, but still 
 ineffectually, as far as his own efforts to release himself were con 
 cerned. 
 
 "Well, I ll do that," said the stranger, releasing him at the same 
 instant; " but. mind me, if you try to use it again, as you did just 
 cow, it will be worse for you ! I never suffer a dog to worry me 
 twice. I m sure to draw his teeth, so that he will bite no other; and, 
 if you lift that knife at me again, I ll put a plug into your bosom that 
 will go quite as deep, if not deeper, than your bullet did in the bosom 
 of that young fellow ! " 
 
 "You know not what you say you saw not that ! " was the faint 
 answer of Pickett. 
 
 " It s a true bill, man, and I ll swear to it ! How should I know it, 
 if I did not sec it ? I saw the lad tumble saw you scud from the 
 place, rifle in hand, and take to your creature, which was fastened to 
 a dwarf poplar, in a little wood of poplars, What say you to that ? 
 Js it not true ? 
 
THE MYSTIC BEOTHEKHfX)D. 219 
 
 Pickett leaned against a tree, silent and exhausted. He had 
 no answer. The__fates Lad tracked him to his den. 
 
 "Xay! fear nothing, though I know your secret," said the 
 other, approaching him. "You are in no sort of danger not 
 from me, at least; on the contrary, you have done our friends 
 a service have saved them from the trouble of doing the very 
 thing that we would have had to do for ourselves. Three of us 
 pursu -d the man that you shot . and, if he had got away, which 
 he must have done, but for your bullet, it would have been an 
 ugly and losing matter for us. You did us good service then, 
 I tell you you volunteered to be one of our *fn &r*, and we 
 have got the frame. The search of the body gave us a rich 
 booty, and his death a degree of safety, which we might not 
 el.se have enjoyed." 
 
 Well; wa=n t that enough for you? Why did you come 
 after me?" demanded Pickett. bitterly. "Why follow me with 
 you infernal secret : " 
 
 " Lord love you! to give you your share of the spoil, to be 
 sure what else? Do you think us so mean as to keep all 
 for ourselves, and give none to a man who did. I may say, the 
 dirtiest jtart of the business? Oh. no. brother! no; I ve brought 
 you your share of the booty. Here it i^. You will see when 
 you come to look at it. that we are <juite a^ liV-ral as we 
 should l>e. You have, here, a larger amount, than i> usually 
 given to a (striker." And, as the stranger s]>oke thr^e words, 
 he pulled out something from his pocket, which he presented to 
 his astonished auditor. Pickett thrust away the extended hand, 
 as he replied: 
 
 "I want none of it! I will have no ^barc I am not one 
 of you! " 
 
 "But that s all nonsense, my brother. You must take it. 
 You must be one of us. When a *trik<r refuses his share, we 
 suspect that something s going wrong, and be takes his share, 
 or he pays for it, by our law," was the reply of the stranger, 
 who continued to press the money upon him. 
 
 "Your laws! of what laws of whom do you speak?" 
 
 "Of our fraternity, to be sure! of the Mystic Brotherhood, 
 rerhaps, you have never heard of the Myslic Brotherhood?" 
 
 "2s ever." 
 
220 ItlCIIARD 1IU11DIS. 
 
 "You arc unfortunate to have lived long enough to be wise. 
 Let me enlighten you. The Mystic Brotherhood consists of a 
 parcel of bold fellows, who don t like the laws of the state ex 
 actly, and of other societies, and who have accordingly asso 
 ciated together, for the purpose of making their own, and doing 
 business under them. As we have no money of our own, and 
 as we must have money, we make it legal to take it from other 
 people. When they will not shut their eyes and suffer us to 
 take it without trouble, we shut them up ourselves ; a task for 
 the proper doing of which we ha,ve a thousand different modes. 
 One of these, the task of a striker, you employed in our behalf, 
 and very effectually shut up for us, the eyes of that foolish 
 young fellow, who had already given us sonic trouble, and, but 
 for you, might have given us a great deal more. Having done 
 so well, we resolved to do you honor to make you one of us, 
 and give you all the benefits of our institution, as they are en 
 joyed by every other member. We have our brethren in all 
 the states, from Virginia to Louisiana, and beyond into the ter 
 ritories. Some of our friends keep agencies for us, even so far 
 as the Sabine, and we send negroes to them daily." 
 "Negroes! what negroes have you negroes?" 
 "Yes! when we take them. We get the negroes to run 
 away from their owners, then sell them to others, get them to 
 run away again, and, in this way, we probably sell the same 
 negro half a dozen times. This is one branch of our business, 
 and might suit you. When the affair gets too tangled, and we 
 apprehend detection, we tumble the negro into a river, and thus 
 rid ourselves of a possession that has paid good interest already, 
 and which it might not be any longer safe to keep." 
 "What! you kill the negro." 
 "Yes: you may say so. We dispose of him." 
 "And how many persons have you in the brotherhood?" 
 "Well, I reckon we stretch very nigh on to fifteen hundred?" 
 "Fifteen hundred! is it possible! so many?" 
 "Yes; and we are increasing daily. "Let me give you the 
 first sign, brother the sign of a striker." 
 
 "No!" cried Pickett, shrinking back. "I will not join you! 
 I do not know the truth of what you say! I never heard the 
 like before! I will have nothing to do in this business! " 
 
THE MYSTIC BROTHERHOOD. 221 
 
 " You must! " was the cool re joinder " you must! Nobody shall 
 strike for us, without becoming one of us." 
 
 "And suppose I refuse? " said Pickett. 
 
 " Then I denounce you as a murderer, to the grand jury," was 
 the cool reply. " I will prove you to have murdered this youth, and 
 bring halt a dozen beside myself to prove it." 
 
 "What, if I tell all that you have told me, of your brother 
 hood?" 
 
 " Pshaw! brother, you are dreaming. What, if you do tell; who 
 will you get to believe you where s your proofs? But I will prove 
 all that I charge you with, by a dozen witnesses. Even if it were not 
 true, yet could I prove it " 
 
 The discomfited murderer perspired in his agony. The net was 
 completely drawn around him. 
 
 " Don t be foolish, brother," said the emissary of a fraternity, 
 upon the borders of the new states, the history of which, al 
 ready in part given to the public, is a dreadful chronicle of 
 desperate crime, and insolent incendiarism. " Don t be fool 
 ish ! you can t help yourself you must be one of us, whether 
 you will or not ! We can t do without you we have bought 
 you out! If you take our business from us; you must join part 
 nership, or we must shut up your shop! We can t have any 
 opposition going on. The thing s impossible insufferable! 
 Here take your share of the money. It will help you to be 
 lieve in us, and that s a great step toward making you comply 
 with my demand. Nay! don t hold back, I tell you, brother, 
 you must go with us, now, body and soul, or you hang, by the 
 Eternal! " 
 
 Base and wretched as was the miserable Pickett, in morals 
 and in condition, In. 1 was not yet so utterly abandoned as to feel 
 easy, under the necessity so imperatively presented to him 
 The character or his wife, uoble amid poverty and all its conse 
 quent forms of wretchedness, if it had not lifted his own stand 
 ards of feeling and of thought beyond his oun nature, had the 
 effect, at least, of making him conceal, as much as he could, his 
 deficiencies from her. litre was something more to conceal, 
 and this necessity was, of its:lf, a pang to one, having but the 
 one pcrsone to conlide in and feeling so great a dependence 
 upon- that one. TSiis step estranged him still further from her, 
 and while he passionately took the proltered money, and looked upon. 
 
222 EICIIAllI) HINDIS. 
 
 the uncouth and mystic sign whirh the other made before him, in 
 conferring his first degree of membership, the cold sweat stood upon 
 his face in heavy drops, and an icy weight seemed contracting about 
 his heart. He felt as if had bound himself, hand and foot, and was 
 about to be delivered over to the executioner. 
 
MORE SNARES. 223 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 MORE SXARES. 
 
 " Wo should know each other: 
 As to my character for what men call crime, 
 Seeing I please my senses as I list, 
 And vindicate that right with force or guile, 
 It is a public matter, and I care not 
 If I discuss it with you." The Ccnci. 
 
 THE emissary of the Mystic Brotherhood, which had just con- 
 v erred the honors of its membership on one who so richly de 
 served them, though pursuing his labors with the rigid direct 
 ness of in ordinary business habit, and confining himself thereto 
 with a degree of strictness and method not common to the wicked, 
 was yet by no means a niggard in his communications. lie 
 unfolded much of the history of that dangerous confederacy, 
 which it is not thought necessary to deliver here ; and his hearer 
 became gradually and fully informed of the extent of its re 
 sources and ramifications. Yet these gave him but little satis 
 faction. He found himself one of a clan numbering many hun 
 dred persons, having the means of procuring wealth, which had 
 been limited to him heretofore simply because of his singleness, 
 and not because of any better principle which he possessed ; 
 and yet he shuddered to find himself in such a connection. The 
 very extensiveness of the association confounded his judgment, 
 and filled him with terrors. lie was one of those petty villains 
 who rely upon cunning and trick, rather than audacity and 
 strength, to prosecute their purposes ; and while the greater 
 number of the clan found their chief security in a unity of pur 
 pose and a concentration of numbers, which in the end enabled 
 them for a season to defy and almost overthrow" the laws of 
 society, he regarded this very circumstance as that which, above 
 
224 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 all others, must greatly contribute to the risk and dangers of 
 detection. The glowing accounts of his companions, which de 
 scribed their successes their profitable murders, fearless burglaries, 
 and a thousand minor offences, such as negro, horse stealing and 
 petty thefts only served to enlarge the vision with which he beheld 
 his fears; and, dull and wretched, he returned with his guest to the 
 miserable hovel, now become doubly so since his most humiliating 
 enlightenment, and the formation of his new ties. His wife and 
 daughter, meanwhile, had retired for the night ; but the woman did 
 not sleep. She was filled with apprehensions for husband scarcely less 
 imposing than those which troubled him for himself ; yet little did she 
 dream how completely he was in the thrall of that power from which 
 her own severe and fruitless virtues had been utterly unable at all 
 times to restrain him. Her wildest fears never imagined a bond 
 so terrible as that which had been imposed upon him in the last 
 half-hour. 
 
 "Whenever you want to lie down, stranger, you can do so. 
 There s your blanket. I m sorry there s no better for you." It was 
 with difficulty that Pickett brought himself to utter these common 
 words of courtes3 r . 
 
 "Good enough," said the other "I ll take it a little closer by 
 the fire ; and, if you have no objection, I ll throw a stick or two on. 
 I ve slept in a better bed, it s true, but I ll be satisfied if I never 
 sleep in a worse. 
 
 The hesitating utterance of her husband, and the cool and 
 ready reply of their guest, did not escape the keen hearing of 
 the woman. Pickett muttered something in answer to this 
 speech, and then threw himself, without undressing, upon the 
 bed. The other followed the example, and in a few moments 
 his form, stretched at length before the fireplace, lay as quietly 
 as if he were already wrapped in the deepest slumbers. This 
 appearance was, however, deceptive. The emissary had not 
 yet fulfilled all his duties ; and he studiously maintained him 
 self in watchfulness, the better to effect his objects. Believing 
 him "to be a sleep, however, the anxieties of Pickctt s wife 
 prompted her, after a while, to speak to her miserable husband, 
 with whom, as yet, she had had no opportunity of private 
 speech ; but her whispered accents were checked by the appre 
 hensive criminal on the first instant of their utterance. With 
 
MORE SNAKES. 225 
 
 quick and nervous gripe he grasped her arm in silence, and, 
 in this manner, without a word, put a stop to her inquiries. In 
 silence, thus, and yet with equal watchfulness, rtid the three 
 remain, for the space of two goodly hours. The night was ad 
 vancing, and Pickett began to hope that John Hurdis would 
 fail to keep his promise ; but the hope had not been well formed 
 in his mind, before he heard the signal agreed upon between 
 them three hoots and a bark and, in a cold agony that 
 found in every movement a pitfall, and an enemy in every bush, 
 he prepared to rise and go forth to his employer. 
 
 " Where would you go ?" demanded the woman in a hurried 
 whisper, which would not be repressed, and she grasped his 
 arm as she spoke. She, too, had heard the signal, and readily 
 divined its import when she saw her husband preparing to 
 leave her. 
 
 "Nowhere what s the matter? lie still, ai <1 don t be fool 
 ish !" was his reply, uttered also in a whisper, v > hile with some 
 violence he disengaged his arm from her gr;^j. She would 
 have still detained him. 
 
 "Oh, Ben !" was all she said, and the still, whispered accents 
 went through him with a warning emphasis that well reminded 
 him of that good counsel which he had before rejected, and 
 which he bitterly cursed himself for not having followed. 
 
 "She was right," he muttered to his own heart "she was 
 right : had I listened to what she said, and let John Hurdis do 
 his own dirty work, I would have had no such trouble. But 
 it s too late now too late ! I must get through it as I may." 
 
 He rose, and, silently opening the door, disappeared in the 
 night. He had scarcely done so, when the emissary prepared 
 to follow him. The wife saw the movement with terror, and, 
 coughing aloud, endeavored in this way to convince the stranger 
 that she was wakeful like himself; but her effort to discourage 
 him from going forth proved fruitless : he gave her no heed, 
 and she beheld him, with fear and trembling, depart almost in 
 stantly after her husband. She could lie in bed no longer ; but 
 rising, hurried to the door, which she again opened, and gazed 
 anxiously out upon the dim and speechless trees of the neigh 
 boring forests with eyes that seemed to penetrate into the very 
 dimmest of *,h<3ir recesses. She looked without profit. She 
 
/6 RICHARD uunms. 
 
 saw nothing. The forms of both lier husband and his guest were 
 nowhere visible. Should she pursue them? This was at once her 
 thought, but she dismissed it as idle a moment after. Shivering 
 with cold, and under the nameless terrors in her apprehension, she 
 re-entered the hovel, and closed the entrance. 
 
 "God be with me," she cried, sinking on her knees beside 
 the miserable pallet where she had passed so many sleepless 
 nights; "God be with me, and with him! We have need of 
 thee, O God both of us have need of thec. Strengthen me, 
 O God, and save him from his enemies ! The hand of the 
 tempter is upon him is upon him even now. I have striven 
 with him, and I plead with him in vain . Thou only, blessed 
 Father thou only, who art in heaven, and art all merciful on 
 earth thou only canst save him! He is weak and yielding 
 where he should be strong, timid when he should be bold, and 
 bold only where it is virtue to be fearful. Strengthen him when 
 he is weak, and let him be weak where he would be wicked. 
 Cut him not off in thy wrath, but spare him to me to this 
 poor child to himself! He is not fit to perish : protect him! 
 
 He s What is this who? Is it you, Jane? Is it you, my 
 
 poor child ? " 
 
 The idiot girl had crawled to her unseen, during her brief 
 but energetic apostrophe to the Eternal, and, with a simpering, 
 half-sobbing accent, testified her surprise at the unwonted ve 
 hemence and seeming unseasonablcness of her mother s prayers. 
 With increasing energy of action, the woman clasped the girl 
 around the waist, and dragged her down upon the floor beside 
 her. 
 
 "Put tip your hands, Jane!" was her exclamation; "put up 
 your hands with me ! pray pray with me. Pray to God, to 
 deliver us from evil your father from evil from his own, and 
 the evil deeds of other men ! Speak out, child, speak fast, and 
 pray pray !" 
 
 "Our Father who art in heaven" The child went on with 
 the usual adjuration which had been a possession of mere mem 
 ory from her infancy : while the mother, with uplifted hands, 
 but silent thoughts, concluded her own heartfelt invocation to 
 the God of bounty and protection. S!ie felt that she could do 
 no more; yet much rather would t=he have followed her husband 
 
MORE SNARES. 227 
 
 into the woods, and dragged him away from the grasp of the 
 tempter, than knelt that moment in prayer. 
 
 Pickett meanwhile, little dreaming that he was watched, hur 
 ried to the place assigned for meeting John Hurdis, among the 
 willows. The emissary followed close behind him. It was no 
 part of his plan to leave the former ignorant of his proper 
 quality ; and the first intelligence which he had of his approach 
 was the sound of his voice, which sank into the heart of Pickett 
 like an ice-bolt. He shivered and stopped when he heard it, 
 as if by an instinct. His will would have prompted him to fly, 
 and leave it behind for ever, but his feet were fastened to the 
 earth. " What s the matter ? why do you come after me ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I ll go along with you, brother," said the stranger, coolly in 
 reply. 
 
 " As you will, but why ? You don t think I m running off from 
 you, do you ? " 
 
 " No ! that you can t do, brother, even if you would. We have 
 eyes all around us, that suffer no movement by any of us to be made 
 unseen ; and, if you do run, such are our laws, that I should have to 
 follow you. But I know your business, and wish for an introduction 
 to your friend." 
 
 "My friend!" exclaimed Pickett in profound astonishment! 
 " what friend ? I know of no friend." 
 
 "Indeed! but you must surely be mistaken; your memory 
 is confused, I see. The friend you re going to meet ; is he not your 
 friend ? " 
 
 " I m going to meet no friend 
 
 "Surely you are! Brother, you wouldn t deceive me, would 
 you ? Didn t I hear the owl s hoot, and the dog s bark V I 
 wasn t asleep. 1 tell you. I heard the signal as well as you." 
 
 " Owl s hoot and dog s bark ? why, that s no signal in these 
 parts," said Pickett, with a feeble attempt at laughter which failed 
 utterly; "you may hear owls and dogs all night, if you listen to 
 them. We are wiser than to do that." 
 
 The other replied in graver accents than usual : 
 
 "I m afraid, brother, you are not yet convinced of the powers 
 of the Mystic Brotherhood, or you wouldn t suppose me to have 
 been neglectful of the duties they sent me upon. I tell you, 
 
228 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 they gave it to me in charge to follow you, and to find out who 
 and what you were; to learn your motives for killing the youth 
 that we were in pursuit of; and to take all steps for making so good 
 a shot and ready a hand one of our own. Do you think I lost sight 
 of you for a single instant from that time to this? Be sure I did not. 
 No! I saw you from the moment you took your nag from the 
 stunted poplar, where you fastened him. I marked every footstep 
 you have taken since. When you stopped at that plantation, and 
 told your friend of your success 
 
 Great God! you didn t hear what we said? " 
 
 " Every syllable. That was a most important part of my service: 
 I wouldn t have missed a word or look of that conference." 
 
 Pickett turned full upon the inflexible emissary, and gazed upon 
 him with eyes of unmixed astonishment and terror. When he spoke 
 at length, it was in accents of mingled despair and curiosity: 
 
 " And wherefore was this important? Of what use will it be to 
 you to know that I was working for another man in this 
 business!" 
 
 "It helps us to another member of the Mystic Brotherhood, my 
 ; brother. It strengthens our arm; it increases our resources; it ripens 
 our strength, and hastens our plans. He, too, must be one of us! It 
 is for this I seek to know him." 
 
 "But there s no need with him," said Pickett. 
 
 Plow no need ? " 
 
 " He s rich; he s not in want of money, as we are. Why should 
 he be one of us?" 
 
 "To keep what he s got," said the other coolly. 
 
 "But, suppose he won t join you!" 
 
 "We ll hang him, then, my brother! You shall prove that he 
 was the murderer! " 
 
 " The devil you say! but I ll do no such thing." 
 
 "Then, brother, we must hang you both! " 
 
 The eyes of Pickett looked the terror that his lips could not speak; 
 and, without further words, he led the way to the place of meet- 
 i !..<:. urging no further opposition to a will before which his own 
 quailed in subjection. 
 
DOMINO! THE GAME BLOCKED. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 DOMINO! THE GAME BLOCKED. 
 " Now we arc alone, sir ; 
 
 And them hast liberty to unload the burden 
 Which thou groan st under." MASSINGEK. 
 
 THERE is no fascination in the snake, true or fabled, of more 
 tenacious hold upon the nature of the victim, than was that of the 
 emissary of the Mystic Brotherhood upon the miserable creature 
 Pickett. A wretch born in degradation, living as it were by stealth, 
 and in constant dread of penal atonement, life was torture enough of 
 itself, when it came coupled with the constant fear of justice. J5ut 
 when to this danger was added that of an accountability to a power 
 no less arbitrary than the laws, and wholly illegitimate, the misery 
 of the wretch was complete. Hut if such was the inllucnce of such 
 a condition over Picketl s mind, what must it b(3 over the no less 
 dishonorable and far more; base offender who employed him ? 
 Though a murderer a cold-blooded, calculating murderer, who 
 could skulk behind a bush, and shoot down his victim from a 
 covert, without warning made, or time given for preparation 
 lie wa^ yet hardy enough, if he had the sensibility for hate, to 
 avenge his wrong by his own hand, and not by tiiat of an 
 agent. 
 
 John Hurdis had proved himself deficient even in this doubt 
 ful sort of courage. He could smile, and be the villain could 
 desire and devise the murder of his enemy but wanted even 
 the poor valor of the murderer. What must be the feeling, the 
 fear, of his leprous heart, when he is taught his true condition 
 when he finds his secret known when he feels himself in 
 the power of a clan having a thousand tongues, and hourly ex 
 posing themselves to a thousand risks of general detection ? It 
 would have been a sight for stud) , to behold those three vil- 
 
^^0 RICHARD IIURIiift. 
 
 lains gathered together in that no % cturi al iiitei \ iew : Hindi.-* 
 his soul divided between triumpli and horror eager to lean 
 the particulars of the horrid crime which his agent had honit.ly 
 executed, vet dreading the very recital to which he gave all 
 ears ; J ickett burdened with the consciousness of unpniiltah .e 
 guilt, and of its exposure to the dogging bloodl. oui. at hi., 
 heels; and he, the emissary, like a keen hunt -r, ha.^ .ii -r "> 
 the Hanks of both, pricking them forward when they ialu rc</, 
 and now by sarcasm, and now by threats, quelling their sj;5ii! 
 and commanding all their secrets. Secure of his game, In 
 smiled in his security at the feeble efforts which he beheld their, 
 make, and the futile hopes which he saw they entertained of 
 being able to baffle his pursuit, and throw out his unerring nos 
 tril from the scent which he had so fortunately followed. The 
 struggle was, indeed, no less pitiful than painful, and well might 
 ihe utter villain smile with contempt at the partial character 
 which the two brought to bear upon their designs of evil. 
 Without virtue, and radically vicious, they were alike deficient 
 in that bold and daring insolence which can defy the laws 
 which it offends, and by a courage, of however doubtful merit 
 at least elevate its offences above the level of sneaking and in 
 sidious vice. His game was that of the cunning angler, win 
 knows that his hook is keenly fixed in the jaws of his prey, 
 and who plays with his hopes only to make his fears more 
 oppressive, and his compliance the more unreserved and un 
 qualified. 
 
 Hurdis was awaiting his companion in the place appointed. 
 
 "What have we here? who is this?" he exclaimed in sur 
 prise, as he beli eld the stranger with J ickett. 
 
 " It is a friend," replied the latter, with a subdued and dis 
 couraging voice. 
 
 "A friend!" said Hurdis. "What friend? who? we 
 want no friend ; vhy have you brought him ?" 
 
 "You mistake," said the stranger, boldly. "You do want n 
 friend, though you may not think so; and 1 am the very man 
 for yon. But go aside with Pickett; he ll tell you all about it." 
 
 Having thus spoken, the emissary coolly seated himself upon 
 a log. and John Hurdis, completely confounded by his impu 
 dence, turned, as he w* bidden, foi explanation to his agent 
 
231 
 
 They went aside 1 together, and in a confused and awkward 
 manner, Pickett went through the bitter narration, which it al 
 most paralyzed tlui other to hear. 
 
 " Great God ! Ben Pickctt, what nave you done 1 We are 
 mined lost for ever!" 
 
 The cold sweat rolled from the forehead of Unrdis, and his 
 knees trembled beneath him. His companion tried to console 
 him. 
 
 "No; there s no sort of danger. Hear his story of his busi 
 ness, and we know much more against him, than h-e knows 
 against us." 
 
 " And what is that to us ? What is it to me that I can prov* 
 him a villain or a murderer, Ben Pickctt ? Will it help our de 
 fence to prove another as worthy of punishment, as ourselves? 
 Will it give us security 1" 
 
 " We must make the best of it now. It s too late to grieve 
 about it," said the other. 
 
 " Ay, we must make the best of it," said Ilurdis, becoming 
 suddenly bold, yet speaking in tones that were suppressed to a 
 whisper "ana thore is but one way. Hear me, Ben Pickctt; 
 does this fellow come alone /" 
 
 " He does." 
 
 "Ha! that is fortunate; then we have him. His companions 
 are where, did you say?" 
 
 "All about on the high roads everywhere from Au 
 gusta to Montgomery, to Mobile, to Tuscalocsa from the 
 Muscle Shoals to Jackson from Tuscaloosa to Chochuma. 
 Everywhere, according to his account of it." 
 
 "Which is probably exaggerated. They may be every 
 where, but they certainly are not here not in this neighbor- 
 nood." 
 
 " We don t know that, squire. God ! there s no telling. 
 To think that the fellow should track me so, makes me afraid 
 of everything." 
 
 "You were careless, Pickett- frightened, perhaps " 
 
 "No, I wasn t. I was just as cooi as I wished to be, and 
 1 cleared every step in the road afore I jumped it." 
 
 * ! It needs not to talk of this. We must be more careful iii 
 *uture. We must match his cunning with greater cunning, ir 
 
232 RICHARD HITEDI9. 
 
 we are undone for ever. We are in his power, ar J who K*. * 
 that he is one of a gang such as you descril e ? Who kn.: H T 
 that he is not an officer of justice one who suspects us, and i 1 
 come to find out our secrets ?" 
 
 " No, no, squire ; how should he be able to tell ms all tha 
 he did? How should he know that I shot Dick Ilurdis froi: 
 the hill that hangs over the road ?" 
 
 " You remember yoii told me that yourself, Ben Pickett ; am 
 you sny he overheard our conversation ?" cried Ilurdis, eagerly 
 
 " Yes, squire ; but how should he know that I hid my nag n 
 a thicket of poplars? how should he be able to tell me the 
 very sort of stump I fastened him to 1" 
 
 " And did he do that, Ben ?" 
 
 That he did every bit of it. No, no, squire, he saw all 
 that he says he saw, or he got it from somebody that did see 
 it." 
 
 " Great heavens ! what arc we to do ?" exclaimed Hurdis, at 
 he folded his hands together, and looked with eyes of supplies 
 tion upward. But his answer and the counsel which it con 
 eeyed, came from an entirely opposite region. 
 
 " Do ! well that s the question," replied Pickett, " and I don t 
 know what to tell you, squire." 
 
 " We must do something we can not remain thus at tli8 
 mercy of this fellow ! The thought is horrible! The rope is 
 round our necks, Ben, and lie has the end in his hands!" 
 
 " It s tco true." 
 
 "Hear me !" said Ilurdis in a whisper, and drawing his com 
 panion still farther from the spot where the emissary had been 
 left in waiting "there is but one way. He comes alone. 
 We must silence him. You must do it, Ben." 
 
 "Do what, squire?" 
 
 "Do what!" exclaimed the other impatiently, though still in 
 a whisper. " Would you have me utter every word ? Do with 
 him as you have done with Dick Hurdis !" 
 
 " I ve thought of that, squire, but " 
 
 " But what ?" 
 
 " There s a mighty risk." 
 
 "There s risk in everything. But there s no risk greater 
 >la that of being at the mercy of *uch a bloodhound:" 
 
DOMINO! TIIR GAME BLOCKED 23b 
 
 "That s tme enough, squire; but he s too much for me sin- 
 ie-handed. You ir.iut help inc." 
 
 " What s the need ? You tlon t think to do it now ? : * de 
 manded llurdis, in some alarm. 
 
 "If it s to be done at all, why not now? The sooner, the 
 better, squire. This is the very time. lie has poked his nose 
 into our pot, and he can t complain, if he gets it scorched To 
 gether, we could put it to him, so that there could be no mis 
 take." 
 
 But this counsel did not suit the less courageous nature of 
 John Hurdis. 
 
 " No, Ben, that would be a risk, indeed. We might tumble 
 him, but a chance shot, from a desperate man, might also tum 
 ble one or both of us." 
 
 " That s true." 
 
 " We must think of something else some safer course, whici 
 will be equally certain. lie sleeps at your house." 
 
 " Yes," said the other quickly ; " but I will do nothing of that 
 sort within smell of Betsy. It s bad enough to draw blood on 
 the high read, but it must not run on one s own hearth." 
 
 " Pshaw ! whore s the difference ? Murder is murder wher 
 ever it is done !" 
 
 "That s true, squire; but there s a feeling in it, that makes 
 the difference. Besides, I won t have the old woman worried 
 ith any of this business. I ve kept everything of this sort 
 A om her that I could ; and the thing that I most hated ])ick 
 Hurdis for, was his making such a blaze of that whipping busi 
 ness, as to bring it to her sight. There s Jane, too. No, 
 squire, my wife and child must not know all the dirty matters 
 that stick to my fingers." 
 
 " Well, as you please, on that score. But something must 
 le uone. You must fix a trap for him. When does he leave 
 yoci V 
 
 " There s no knowing. lie wants to fix you as he s fixed me ; 
 to n.ake us both members of his clan Mystic Brotherhood 
 as he calls It ; and when that s done, I suppose, he ll be off." 
 
 " But why should he desire this 1 What motive can he 
 in it? Why a society so PT^^ TP 7 " 
 
 "There s no telling; uuiy you u Uuve to cor/sent" 
 
234- RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 " What ! to this accursed brotherhood? Never! " 
 
 "How can you help it, squire? If you don t, he ll expose you! 
 He swears to hang you, if you do not! " 
 
 "But he can not! How can he prove his charge? Besides, I 
 struck no blow I never left my home ! " 
 
 "You forget, squire; he heard our talk together." 
 
 "But who ll believe him, Ben? You can swear him down that 
 you never had such a conversation." 
 
 "No! I dare not; for then he d prove me to be the man that shot 
 the shot, We must submit, squire, I m afraid, or he d convict us 
 both; and, to save myself, I d swear against you! I d have to do it, 
 squire ! " 
 
 This declaration completed the misery of Hurdis, as it showed 
 him how insecure was the tenure by which the slaves of vice are held 
 together. The bitterness of fear the very worst bitterness of 
 human passion was in his heart, in all its force and fulness, and he 
 had to drink deeper draughts of its humiliating waters even than 
 this. 
 
 "What! Ben Pickett, can it be that you would give evi 
 dence against me, after all I have done for you? You do not tell 
 me so? " 
 
 "To save life only, squire! To save life only for no other 
 necessity. But life is sweet, squire too sweet for us to stand on 
 any friendship, when we can save it by giving everything up 
 beside. It wouldn t be at the first jump, neither, squire, that I 
 would let out the secrets of an old friend. It is only when I -see 
 there s no other hope to save myself, and, then, I should be mighty 
 sorry." 
 
 "Sorry!" exclaimed Hurdis, bitterly. "Thus it is," he 
 thought, "to use base instruments for unworthy ends. The 
 slave becomes the arbiter the master and to silence and 
 to subdue our fears, we add to our secret consciousness of 
 shame." 
 
 In anxiousness, but without expression, he mused thus with his 
 own thoughts. 
 
 " Well, Ben, since it can be no better," he spoke to his companion 
 "we must even hold together, and do as well as we can to work 
 ourselves out of this difficulty. You are resolved to do nothing with 
 the fellow at your own house? " 
 
235 
 
 Picketl replied in words and a tone, which made his negative con 
 clusive. 
 
 " We must see his hand, then, and know the game he intends to 
 play," continued Hurdis. " You are agreed that we must get him out 
 of the way for our own safety. To say when and how is all the dif 
 ficulty. Am I right ? " 
 
 "That s it, squire; though, somehow, if we could clinch him 
 now, it seems to me it would be better than leaving it over for another 
 day." 
 
 "That s not to be thought on, Ben. It s too great a risk." 
 
 " I don t know, squire. I could give him a dig while you are 
 talking with him ; and if, when I made the motion, you could take 
 him by the throat, or only dash your hat in his face to confuse him, 
 I think it might be done easily enough." 
 
 Pickett showed his bowie-knife as he spoke, which he had care 
 fully hidden in his bosom, unpcrceived by his guest, before he went 
 abroad. But this plan, though, perhaps, the best, met with no en 
 couragement from his more politic, or, to speak plainly, more timid 
 companion. lie shook his head, and the voice of the emissary at a 
 little distance, was heard, as he sang some rude ditty to cheer the 
 solitude of his situation, or perhaps to notify the twain that he was 
 becoming impatient. 
 
 "Hark! he approaches us," said Hurdis. "Let us say no more 
 now. Enough that we understand each other. We must watch his 
 game, in order to determine upon our own ; and, though, I would 
 not we should do anything to-night ; yet, what we do, must not only 
 be done without risk, but must be done quickly. Let us go to him 
 now." 
 
23G RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIV. 
 
 THE SLAVERY OF GUILT. 
 
 " Your oaths arc past, and now subscribe your name, 
 That his own hand, may strike his honor down, 
 That violates the smallest branch herein." 
 
 Love s Labor s Lost. 
 
 " Unto bad causes, swear 
 Such creatures as men doubt. Julius Ccesar. 
 
 THE emissary had awaited the end of their long conference 
 with exemplary patience. 
 
 " I could have told you all in fewer words," he said bluntly to John 
 Hurdis the moment they came in sight. " The story is soon told by 
 one who is accustomed to it. I am compelled to talk it over to so 
 many, that I go through it now almost as a matter of memory, with a 
 certain set of words which I seldom have occasion to change. I trust 
 that my brother, here has done no discredit to my skill, by halving 
 it in repeating." 
 
 " I fear not," replied Hurdis. "He has certainly told enough to 
 startle one less confidently assured in his own innocence, than myself. 
 He has unfolded a strange history in my ears. Can it be true ? " 
 
 As gospel ! " 
 
 "And you really have the large number of persons leagued 
 together which he mentions ? " 
 
 " Full fifteen hundred." 
 
 And for such purposes ? " 
 
 "Ay ! " 
 
 f And what is your object here ? What do you seek from us ? " 
 
 " To increase the number. We seek friends." 
 
 " Whcrcfon; ? Why should you increase your number, when such 
 an increase must only diminish your resources ? " 
 
THE SLAVERY OF GUILT. 237 
 
 "I don t know that such will be its effect, and it increases our 
 power. We gain in strength, when we gain in number." 
 
 "But why desire an increase of strength, when even now you 
 have enough for all your purposes?" 
 
 "Indeed! but who shall know who declare our purposes? I, 
 even I, know nothing of them all. I may suspect I may con 
 jecture but I know them not, They arc kept from us till the 
 proper moment." 
 
 "Indeed who should then if you do not? Who keeps them 
 from you?" 
 
 "The grand council. They determine for us, and we execute." 
 
 "Who are they?" 
 
 "That must be a secret from you, yet. You shall know it, and all 
 our secrets, when you shall have taken your several degrees in our 
 brotherhood." 
 
 "I will take none!" said Ilurdis, with more; emphasis than 
 resolution. 
 
 " You do not say it !" was the cool reply of the emissary. "You 
 dare not." 
 
 " How! not dare?" 
 
 " It s as much as your life is worth." 
 
 " You speak boldly." 
 
 "Because I am confident of strength, my brother," replied 
 the emissary. "You will speak boldly too more boldly than 
 now when you become one of us. You will feel your own 
 strength, when you know ours. When you feel as I do, that 
 there are friends for ever nigh, and watchful of your safety; 
 making your enemies theirs; guarding your footsteps; fighting 
 your battles; making a common cause of your interests, and 
 standing elbow to elbow with you in all your dangers. Where 
 fore should I be bold enough to seek you here two of you, 
 both strong men both, most probably armed I, alone, having 
 strength of person, not greater, perhaps, than either of you, and, 
 possibly, not so well armed but that I feel myself thus mighty 
 in my connections? I know they have taken my footsteps 
 they know where I am at all seasons, as I know where to find 
 others of our brotherhood, and if I could not call them at a given 
 moment, to save me from a sudden blow, I am at least certain that 
 they know where, anci when to avenge me. But for this, brothers, 
 
238 1UCHAKD HURDIS. 
 
 both, I should not have ventured my nose into your very dm, as I 
 may call it, telling you of your tricks upon travellers, and spurring 
 L you into our ranks." 
 
 The audacious development of the emissary absolutely con- 
 founded the t\vo criminals, before whom he stood. They looked at 
 one another vacantly, without answer and the emissary smiled 
 to see in the ghastly starlight, their no less ghastly counte 
 nances, lie put his hand upon the arm of Kurd is who stood next to 
 him. 
 
 "I sec you are troubled, brother; but what reason have you to 
 fear? The worst is over. Your secret is known to friends to 
 those only who can and will serve you." 
 
 "Friends! friends! God help me, what sort of friends!" was the 
 bitter speech of Ilimlis, as he listened to this humiliating sort of 
 consolation. With increasing bitterness he continued. "And what 
 do our friends want of me? what shall I do for them what give 
 them? Their friendship must be paid for, I suppose. You want 
 money?" 
 
 "We do but none of yours." 
 
 "And why not mine as well as others. Is it not quite as 
 good?" 
 
 "Quite, but not enough of it perhaps. But we never take from 
 our friends from those whom we are resolved to have in our 
 brotherhood. You might give us money upon compulsion, but it 
 would ha scarce worth our while, to extort that, when your coopera 
 tion is necessary to our other purposes, and must result in getting us 
 a great deal more." 
 
 "I must know how I must know your other purposes, before I 
 consent to unite with you. I will not league with those who are 
 common robbers." 
 
 "Common robbers, brother," cried the emissary, with a con 
 temptuous sneer, "arc not, perhaps, such noble people as com 
 mon murderers, but, I take it, they arc quite as virtuous. But 
 we are not common robbers, my brother; far from it. You do 
 great injustice to the Mystic Brotherhood. Know from me that 
 we arc simply seekers of justice; and we only differ from all 
 others having the same object, in the means which we take to 
 bring it about. We are those who redress the Avrongs and inju 
 ries of fortune, who protect tJic poor from the oppressor, who 
 
THE SLAVElvY OF GUILT. 239 
 
 v 
 
 subdue the insolent, and humble the presumptuous and vain. 
 Perhaps we are, in truth, the most moral community under the 
 sun ; since our policy keeps us from harming the poor, and, 
 if we wrong anybody, it is only those who do. We take life 
 but seldom, and then only with the countenance of our social laws, 
 and by the will of the majority, except in individual cases, when 
 the fundamental law of self-protection makes the exception to 
 other laws which arc specified. Does your courthouse in Ma- 
 rengo do better than that more wisely, more justly? I know 
 to the contrary, my brother, and so do you." 
 
 " But we are content with our laws," said Hurdis. 
 
 "Ah, indeed ! are you willing to be tried by them ? Shall I 
 go to the attorney, and tell him what I know ? shall I point to 
 your agent beside you. and say he shot down a tall fellow with 
 out any notice, and would have robbed him of his money if he 
 could, and all on your account ? " 
 
 " You could not say that !" said Hurdis in trembling haste, 
 "his robbery was not our object." 
 
 " His death was." 
 
 "Ay, but he was an enemy- a hateful, malignant enemy 
 one who trampled on his elder and his brother 
 
 "Was he your brother?" exclaimed the emissary, starting 
 back at the words, and looking upon the criminal in undisguised 
 astonishment. 
 
 The silence of Hurdis answered the question sufficiently. 
 
 "Your own brother the child of the same mother! Well, 
 it must have been a cruel wrong that he did to you." 
 
 "It was!" stammered out Hurdis in reply. 
 
 "It must have been," said the other "it must have been. 
 I would take a great deal from a brother, if I had one, before 
 I d shoot him ; and then, I tell you, if twas necessary to be 
 done, my own hands should do it. I wouldn t send another 
 man on the business. But, I ve nothing to do with that. All 
 that I ve got to say is, that you re just the sort of man we want. 
 You must be one of us, swear to stand by us, help us, and coun 
 sel with us, and in all respects obey the grand council, and be 
 faithful." 
 
 "Anything but that. Tell me, my good fellow, is there no 
 alternative? Will not money r.r.swcr ? you shall have it," 
 
240 lUCIIAUD IILTiDIS. 
 
 I 
 
 "Money! why, what can you give, that we might not take! 
 What arc you worth that you talk so freely of money ? We 
 can take your life and money too. You only live bv our indul 
 gence. ABC! why do we indulge you ? Not because of any 
 affection that we bear you, nor because of any admiration which 
 we entertain of your abilities and valor, but simply because we 
 lack assistants, here and there, throughout the whole South 
 west, in order to facilitate the progress of certain great events 
 which we have in preparation^ But for this, we should com 
 pound with you, and take a portion. of your wealth, in lieu 
 of your life, which you have forfeited. This is what we do daily. 
 Whenever we detect a criminal a friend, as it were, ready 
 made to our hands we do not expose, but guard, his secret; 
 and when he becomes one of us, his secret becomes ours, which 
 it is then no less our policy than principle to preserve. No, 
 no, my brother we want you, not your money. Do you keep 
 your money, but we will keep you." 
 
 "Great God!" muttered the miserable wretch, in self-rebuke, 
 "into what a pit have I fallen! Better die better perish at 
 once, than submit to such a bondage as this." 
 
 "As you please, my friend ; but to one or the other you must 
 submit. You have; heard my terms : you must decide quickly. 
 I have not much time to waste I have other members to secure 
 for the confederacy, and must leave. you in a day or so." 
 
 "What am I to do? what is it you require ?" 
 
 "Your oath your solemn oath to do what I shall enjoin 
 upon you now, and whatever else may at times be enjoined 
 upon you by the grand council." 
 
 " What may that be ? what sort of duties do they enjoin ? " 
 I cannot answer you that. Our duties are various, and are 
 accommodated to the several capacities and conditions of our 
 members. You, for example, are a man of substance and family. 
 From you the tasks exacted would seldom be of an arduous 
 character. You will, perhaps, be required to furnish monthly 
 reports of the conduct, wealth, principles, and pursuits, of your 
 neighbors, particularly the most wealthy, active, and intelligent. 
 It is the most important branch of our study to know all those 
 Tvho are able to serve or to annoy us. You must also commu- 
 licate to us the names of all who intend emigrating from you, 
 
THE SLAVERY OF GUILT. 241 
 
 parts; find out aud let us know their destination, the route they take, 
 the amount of money they have with them, their arms and resolu 
 tion. I will give you an address which will enable vou to communi 
 cate these things." 
 
 The enumeration of these degrading offices filled ;he measure of 
 John Ilimlis s humiliation. A sense of the most shameful servitude 
 vexed his soul, and he absolutely moaned aloud, as in the extremity 
 of his despair he demanded 
 
 "May there be more than this ? " 
 
 "Hardly. You will, perhaps, be required to meet the brother 
 hood before long, in order to learn what further duties they may 
 impose." 
 
 " Meet them! where where do they meet? " 
 
 "Everywhere but where is not to be said at this time. You 
 will be warned in season by one of our messengers, and possibly by 
 myself, who will show you the sign, and whom you must follow. 
 Let me show you the sign now, and administer the oath." 
 
 The victim submitted, as Pickett had already done, and the bonds 
 of iniquity were sealed and signed between them. John Ilurdis be 
 gan to feel that there was no slavery so accursed, no tyranny so un 
 scrupulous, no fate so awful, as that of guilt He almost began to 
 steel himself with the conviction that it would be an easier matter 
 for him to give himself up at once to the executioner of the laws. 
 With a feeling almost akin to despair, he beheld the cool emissary 
 take out his pocket book, and in the uncertain light of the night 
 record their names nay, actually tax both himself and Pickett for 
 lie right orthography in doing so with all the exe?r>plary and 
 Xmrtly nicety of one "learned in the law." 
 
242 RICHARD HURDK 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXV. 
 
 DESPERATE MEASURES. 
 
 " It must be done: 
 
 There is no timely season in delay, 
 
 When life is waiting. I must take the sword, 
 
 Though my soul trembles. Would it were not so ! " 
 
 Conspirator, 
 
 THE conference was over. The emissary did not seem willing to 
 waste more words than were absolutely necessary. He was a man of 
 business. But Hurdis, to whom the conference had been so terrible, 
 he was disposed to linger. 
 
 "I must speak with you, Ben Pickett, before you go," said he 
 hoarsely to his colleague. The emissary heard the words, and went 
 aside, saying as he did so, with a good-humored smile of indifference 
 upon his countenance 
 
 Wtyt ! you would not that I should hear, though you know we 
 are now of the same family. You will grow wiser one day." 
 
 "It s nothing," said Hurdis, "a small matter a mere trifle," 
 and his tones faltered in the utterance of the lie. 
 
 "It s of no account," said the emissary, "I do not care to know 
 it ; " and whistling as he went, he put aside the bushes which sur 
 rounded the group, and made his way toward the road. 
 
 "Ben Pickett," said Hurdis, when the emissary had got out 
 of hearing, "I cannot bear this dreadful bondage; it \vill kill 
 me if I suffer it a week. We must break from it ; we must put 
 an end to it in some way or other. I cannot stoop to do the 
 dirty business of this confederacy these grand rascals and 
 what is our security ? This scoundrel, or any one of the pack, 
 may expose us at any moment, and, after toiling deeper in the 
 mire, we shall be taken out of it at the cart s tail. It is not to 
 
DESPERATE MEASURES. 243 
 
 be thought on I can not bear it. Speak to me. Say, what are we 
 to do ? " 
 
 "Well, squire, I can t, say; it s for you to speak. You know 
 best." 
 
 "Nonsense, Ben Pickett ! this is no time for idle compliments. 
 It is you who should know best. You are better taught in the 
 tricks of these scoundrels than I am, and*can give better counsel 
 of what we are to do. Something must be done. Is there no 
 easier way to get rid of this fellow than by you know what I 
 mean ? 1 would not that either of us should do any more of that 
 business. 
 
 " I reckon not, squire. There s only one way to stop a wagging 
 tongue, that I know of ; and if you re willing to lend a hand, why, 
 the sooner it s done the better. The chap stands by the end of the 
 broken fence 
 
 The constitutional timidity of John Ilurdis arrested the sugges 
 tion ere it was fully spoken. 
 
 "That s too great a risk, Ben ; besides, we have not come pre 
 pared." 
 
 " I don t know, squire : I ve get a knife that s snarp enough, and 
 I reckon you ve got your pistols. Twould be easy enough us we* 
 walk along beside him. The night s clear enough to let you take 
 good sight upon him 
 
 " But should the pistol miss fire, Ben 
 
 " Why, then, my knife," was the prompt reply. 
 
 "It might do, IK H, if he were not armed also. But you remem 
 ber he told us that he was, and it is but reasonable to think that 
 he must be, coming on such a business as this. He must not only 
 be armed, but well armed. No, no it will not do just now ; 
 and there s another objection to our doing it here : it s too nigh 
 home. Let him leave us first, Ben, and it s safest in every respect 
 to give him long shot for his passport. That s our plan, Ben I see 
 no other." 
 
 " Just as you say, squire just as you say; but, to tell 3*011 the 
 truth, I m almost of the notion that it s best to come toe-to-toe, 
 at the jump : take it now, in the starlight, and have it over. 
 It s a monstrous cold business, now, that watching behind a 
 bush with your rifle, till your enemy conies in sight ; it s a cold busi 
 ness." 
 
244 RICHARD TIURDTS. 
 
 "Yes, it may be, but it s the safest of all, and our safety is now 
 the single object of both of us. That must be the way, Ben; 
 and 
 
 "But who ll watch for him? You, I think there s no other, 
 for, as he sleeps at my house, I can t leave him, you know, to take a 
 stand. You ll have to do it." 
 
 The suggestion was afi astounding one ; and for a few moments, 
 Hindis was puzzled and silent. To become himself a princi 
 pal actor in such a business was no part of his desire, lie w;is 
 unprepared, as well by habit as constitution, to engage in deeds 
 of violence, where he himself was the chief performer, though 
 at no sort of personal risk. Not that he had any moral or 
 human scruples in the matter. \V 7 e have seen enough of him 
 already to know the reverse. It was necessary, however, for him 
 to say something ; and he proposed a course to his confederate 
 which was vacillating and indecisive, and could promise not even 
 a probable advantage. He could not muster courage enough to 
 recognize the necessity of doing all himself, and looking his task in 
 the face. 
 
 "Well, but you could let him off, and follow him, as you fol 
 lowed Dick Ilurdis." 
 
 " Yes, if I knew his course so well. But when he leaves the 
 neighborhood road, who knows where he ll strike? All we know 
 is, that he goes upward. We are sure of him then before he gets 
 to the Crooked branch, which is but ten miles off. There 
 you could watch for him snugly enough, and be sure of him 
 from the opposite hill for a good quarter of an hour. But it would 
 be impossible for me to bent round him, so as to get in front, before 
 he reaches that point ; and, after that, who knows where he turns 
 his bridle ? " 
 
 "Well, Ben, but you must find that out. You can inquire as 
 you go, and mark his hoofs." 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 " I m dubious about that way, squire. If the fellow says true, 
 that he has his friends all about him, I may be asking about his 
 tracks from one of them, ami then all s dicky with both of us. I 
 think, squire, there s only that one way, which is the safe one. 
 You ll have to take the bush at Crooked branch, and do this busi 
 ness yourself." 
 
DESPERATE MEASURES. 245 
 
 " But I m not a sure shot with the rifle, Ben; and to miss, 
 were to knock everything in the head." 
 
 "Take your double barrel; you re a good shot with that. 
 Put twenty buckshot in each barrel, and give him one after the 
 other. He won t know the difference." 
 
 " If I should miss, Ben 
 
 "You can t miss how can you? The path s clear noth 
 ing to stop your sight. You re out of his reach; you re on the 
 hill. You see him coming toward going round by you, 
 und you see him for two hundred yards on a clear track after 
 he s passed you. There s no chance of his getting oil , squire; 
 and 
 
 "Ha! what s that?" cried ITurdis, as the sound of a pistol- 
 shot aroused all the sleeping echoes of the wood. The voice 
 of the emissary followed, and he was heard approaching them 
 through the bushes. 
 
 " Don t be frightened, brothers; but, believing you to have 
 fallen asleep, I thought to arouse you up, for fear that you d 
 take cold. Are you most done, for I m getting cold myself ? " 
 
 They were taught by this which the emissary probably de 
 siredthat he had fire-arms, and enough too, to render the 
 loss of one load a matter of small consequence. 
 
 "The fellow s getting impatient," said Ilurdis, in suppressed 
 tones to Pickett. Then, crying aloud, " AVe will be witii 3011 
 directly," he hurried through the rest of his blood v arrange 
 ments for the ensuing day. When they were about to go forth, 
 Pickett suddenly stopped his employer. 
 
 "I had almost forgot, squire, but do you know Bill Carring- 
 ton s got back already. lie gave me a mighty bad scare to 
 day, that I han t got over yet." 
 
 " How? " demanded Hurdis, with natural alarm. 
 
 " I saw him going from my house door. He hadn t been in 
 it, so Betsy swore to me, though I could almost swear I saw him 
 come out; and without stopping to say what he wanted, he took 
 to the woods, like one more frightened than myself." 
 
 " Strange! He hadn t come home by dinner time to-day. 
 Did you take after him?" 
 
 "Yes, after a little while I did; but I was too much scared 
 at first to do anything quickly not that I was so much scared 
 by Bill Carrington, as by another that I saw just afore him." 
 
M6 RICHARD 1JURDIS, 
 
 " Who was that?" 
 
 "Dick Ilurdis." 
 
 John Ilurdis started back, and with jaws distended, and 
 cheeks, whose pallid hue denoted the cowardly heart within 
 him, almost gasped his words of astonishment. 
 
 "Ha! you do not say but why ask? You had not 
 killed him then! and yet, if you had wounded him even, how 
 could he be there? " 
 
 " lie was not there," replied the other, in low and trembling 
 accents "it was his ghost ! " 
 
 "Pshaw! I believe not in such things," was the answer of 
 Ilurdis; but his faltering tones contradicted the contidence of 
 his language. " It was your imagination, Ben nothing else." 
 
 And, speaking thus, he drew nigher to Pickett, and looked 
 cautiously around him. The other, who had faith, had less 
 fear than him who had none. 
 
 "Well, I can t say I don t believe in the things that I see. 
 Call it imagination, or what you will, it gave me a mighty 
 scare, squire. But, come, sir; let us go to the man; he is ap 
 proaching us again I hear his whistle.* 
 
 "A moment/ said Ilurdis. Pickett hung back while the 
 other hesitated to speak. It required an unusual effort to en 
 able him to do so. 
 
 "I say, Ben, I m ready to do this matter, but if you could 
 contrive any w 7 ay to take it off my hands, I should like it " 
 
 " I don t see, squire, how I can, i said the other. 
 
 " If a couple hundred, or even three, Ben 
 
 "I d like to serve you, squire, but 
 
 "Say five, Ben." 
 
 " I reckon it s impossible, squire. I see no way; besides, to 
 tell you the truth, I d rather not. When I think that the blood 
 on my hands, already, is got for fighting another man s battles, 
 squire, I m worse satisfied than ever with what I ve done, and 
 I m clear for doing no more, hereafter, than is for my own 
 safety." 
 
 "But this is for our own safety, Ben we are in the same 
 boat." 
 
 "Not so, squire; our boats are different very different. 
 You arc in a fine V.rge ship with mighty sails I am in a poor 
 
DESPERATE MEASURES. 24? 
 
 dug-out. If I lose my dug-out, it s no great matter. But your ship, 
 squire if you lose that ? " 
 
 I lose more than you do, and yet we both lose all we have, Ben, 
 You, your life I, mine ! It matters not much which of us is the 
 most wealthy, since we both lose everything in losing life. Our lose 
 is equal then, and it is your interest, quite as much as mine, to pr: ; 
 this fellow out of the way." 
 
 "Well, squire, the truth is, I m tired of scuffling for life. I ve 
 been scuffling for it all my life. I won t scuffle any more. I ll take 
 the world as I find it. I ll take my chance with this fellow, and run 
 the risk of his blabbing, sooner than squat down behind a bush and 
 blow his brains out. " 
 
 " And yet you expect me to do it, Ben ? " 
 
 " Xo, I don t expect you. You ask me how to put this fellow out 
 of your way, and I tell you." I know no other way, unless you ll 
 come to the scratch at once, and have it out with him now, while the 
 stars are shining." 
 
 " What ! just when you ve heard his pistol too, and know that he s 
 well provided in arms ! That would be madness." 
 
 " I know no othei way, squire," was the indifferent reply. 
 
 " Ah, Ben, don t desert me ! " was the pitiful appeal of the imbe 
 cile villain " Don t fly from me at the very first sight of danger !" 
 
 " I don t, squire! I m ready to jump now, this minute, into its 
 throat, though you know, as well as I do, that it s full of teeth!" 
 
 " That we must not do ! We should both perish, perhaps cer 
 tainly, if my pistol should miss fire !" 
 
 " But it would be a warm scuffle for it, squire; and that s better 
 than waiting in a cold bush." 
 
 " We must not think of such a plan. It would be folly. The first 
 is the best after all the safest. I must do it, then, myself. I will ! 
 why should I fear? All rests on it, and he what is he? The 
 deed w r ere a benefit to society, not less than to ourselves." 
 
 A sudden fit of courage and morality grew at once prominent to 
 gether in the spirit of the dastard. Driven to the necessity, he, at 
 length, seemed to .embrace it with the resolution of the man; and, 
 thus resolved, he went forth to meet the person w r hom, the next day, 
 he had decreed for the sacrifice. 
 
248 RICHARD IIURDL: 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE HEART FAILS. 
 
 " Like dastard currcs, that having at abay 
 The savage beast embost in wearie chaee, 
 Dare not adventure on the stubborn prey, 
 Ne byte before, but rorae from place to place, 
 To ; f a snatch, v, lien turned is his face." 
 
 Faery Queen* 
 
 THE emissary of the mystic confederacy had been well chosen for 
 the business upon which he came. He discriminated at a glance be 
 tween the characters of John Hurdis and his agent. The imbecility 
 of the one had been the chief occasion of his vices; the destitution of 
 the other had originated his. A proper education, alone, with due 
 reference to their several deliciencies, could have saved them; and, 
 under strict guidance and just guardianship, they had, doubtlessly, 
 been both good men. They were not, however; and the task of the 
 emissary was to make the particular deficiencies of each, the agent 
 for securing the required degree of influence over them. To Pickett, 
 when Hurdis left them, he had that to say, which, though it did not 
 entirely answer the intended purpose of securing his hearty coopera 
 tion, had, at least, the effect of confounding him. Though the agent 
 of Hurdis could not be immediately changed into an enemy, he was 
 effectually prevented from appearing forever after in the attitude c2 
 an active friend. The words were few which effected this object. 
 
 "That is a poor creature for whom you risked your life. 12 
 he dared, he would even now have you risk it again for him. 
 There is no need to risk it for yourself. He would pay you 
 well to murder me ! The fool ! as if I, only, am in possession 
 of his secret as if I were utterly unguarded in coming down 
 
THE IIEAliT FAILS. 249 
 
 into his jaws, or stood in any sort of danger of their closing upon 
 rne! I ll tell you what, brother when you stab or shoot, let it be 
 on your own account. If you do it for another, let it be for one who 
 is not too great a coward to do it for himself. Here s a wretch 
 would kill his enemy that s nothing if his own arm held the 
 weapon! Has the feeling which makes him hate the malignity 
 which prompts him to revenge yet lacks the very quality which 
 alone can make hate honorable, and malignity manly. By the seal 
 of the grand council, if twere with me, I d compound with the 
 fellow for his life take his money, as much as he could give 
 and let him off from the confederacy. I despise such sneaks, and 
 would trust them with nothing. And yet, they have their uses. 
 To save his own throat, he can tell us where others arc to be 
 found, and do the business of a spy, if he lacks the boldness to take 
 the weapon of the soldier. The scoundrel, too, to strike his own 
 brother; there s no trusting such a chap, Piekctt, and it s for 
 tunate for you that another has him on the skirts as well as your 
 self. If ever this business had come out, you would have 
 suffered all ; he d have made you the scapegoat, and would have 
 lacked the will, as well as the courage, to have helped you, 
 by a proper effort, out of the halter. He is planning something 
 now I know it something against me; but he must be a 
 keener hunter of blood than I think him, to find me nap 
 ping. By mid-day to-morrow, I ll put another hound upon his 
 track, so that he shall take no step without the council knowing 
 it." 
 
 Thus speaking, the emissary led the way back to the hovel 
 of Pickett, with a manner of the utmost unconcern. The latter 
 was too much bewildered by what he heard by his own pecul 
 iar situation, and the position in which his former coadjutor 
 was likely to be placed to think of anything calmly, or to make 
 any answer. He began, with that easy pliability to vice and 
 its suggestions, which had always marked his character, to feel 
 that there was no need for him to struggle against a power that 
 almost seemed like a fVe ; and if he had any reflections at all, 
 they were those of one, who, buffeting much with the world s 
 roubles, had, at last, learned to make something of the worst of 
 them. Ills mind began to address itself to the advantages which 
 might result from this new association, and it was not an emis- 
 
250 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 sary, so faithful to his trust as the one before us, who would suffer 
 these to go unraustered into notice. Before Pickett slept that night, 
 he had come to the conclusion that he might as well take his share in 
 the business of the mystic confederacy, which promised so magnifi 
 cently, and paid so well. 
 
 But, meanwhile, what of John Ilurdis ? "What were his thoughts 
 his dreams that night? Anything but pleasant and promis 
 ing. The hopes of Pickett, springing from his poverty and 
 destitution, were nothing to him. He was rich a man of family 
 and substance. Standing fair in the world s esteem seeking the 
 regards and the affections of the virtuous and the beautiful what 
 were his reflections in the position in which he now found him 
 self ? His felony brought home to his doors, and only withheld 
 from public exposure at the mercy of a band of professed felons 
 and then, only, by his timely compliance with their laws and 
 exactions by his becoming one with them forced into their 
 crimes forced into all their thousand responsibilities. What a 
 mesh of dangers gathered about him! What a fecund crime was 
 that which he had committed! The teeth of his malignity were 
 already sprouting from the ground, and under his own feet. Well 
 might he tremble at every step he was about to take, and 
 bitterly curse the folly, not less than the wickedness, of the 
 deed which he had commissioned Pickett to perform. And Pick 
 ett, too, had deserted him that was a blow not less severe 
 than the rest. Could he have thrust upon the hands of his agent 
 the other deed yet to be done, he had been comparatively easy, 
 not so much because of the service itself, but because he 
 would not then have been taught so terribly to feel the awful 
 solitude of crime. The desertion of the confederate is, perhaps, 
 the first-felt warning which a just fate despatches to the 
 vicious. 
 
 "Fool! miserable fool that I w r as ! " raved the miserable Hur- 
 dis, when he found himself alone. "Where am I? What have 
 I done? Where do I stand? The earth opens before me! Would 
 it hide me? I have labored wildly, and without profit. I 
 am no nearer to Mary Eusterby than ever! nay, farther off 
 than ever ! and th<! bloo-1 of a brother, shed that I might clear 
 the way to her, is iiMr-.n r.iy hrinds in vain ! She rejects me, 
 and I have gained nothing but misery and danger. I am at th^ 
 
THE HEART FAILS. 251 
 
 mercy of the worst the most desperate of mankind with nc 
 ties to bind them in my service and to secrecy ! The very 
 wealth, which I believed capable to do everything, rejected at 
 my hands! There is I". 1 *; ore hop-, but one chance for free 
 dom ! It must be done, ard double misery ! my hand alone 
 must do it! I rnui-t not shrink I must not falter now! On 
 the word of this desperado ny life hangs ! I must risk life that 
 lie should not spe ; ik that word! lie must be silenced! Bet 
 ter that I should do r.o now, than wait till the sheriff knocks at 
 the door ! It can not be worse it may save all !" 
 
 His terror dM not deprive him of his cautions, ncr cpu ate 
 to defeat his deliberate thoughts uj. on the course which he re 
 solved to tak 3. On the contrary, it rather contributed to in 
 crease his acuteness, and make his caution more deliberate than 
 ever. Nature, which denied him courage, seemed to have pro 
 vided him, in his strait, with a double share of cunning ; and OMC 
 little incident will sufficiently serve to show !.-is own providence 
 in making his arrangements. He had to takt.. his gun from his 
 chamber, after he had carefully leaded both barrels with buck- 
 fili< >t, and, lest he might be met while descending the stairs, by 
 any of the family or servants, he lowered it from his window by 
 means of a string thus obviating any danger of being seen 
 armed at an unusual hour of the night. Before the clay ha- 1 
 dawned, he had made his way to the place desigred for his COM 
 cealment ; and with the patience, if not the ii difiercnco of the 
 professed outlaw, he waited for the approach of one. 
 
 TJo i.ih,a to wait for some hours, for i ickett s hospitality 
 t-.- Oy&ni h\6 new associate, would not sutler him to depart till 
 niter breakfast. The panic consideration was not sufficient, 
 h . wever, to induce the former to acquaint the emissary with 
 the ambush which lie well-knew had been set for him. His 
 regards Lad not yet been warmed to such a degree. His policy 
 may ba comprised in a few words. 
 
 If," thought he, "John Ilurdis kills him, well and good 
 I ve nothing to do with it I can lose nothing by it, but will 
 most probably escape from a connection, which is decidedly 
 daageious. But whetner I escape from the connection or not, 
 at least I am safe from any charges of having done this deed , 
 I am certainly untroubled with the consciousness of it. Should 
 
252 RICHARD IIUIIDIS. 
 
 he not kill him, still well and good - we stand where we are 
 T am neither worse nor better. The confederacy, if it has itt 
 dangers, has its rewards also and what am I, and what are my 
 prospects in the world, that, I should heod the former, when the 
 latter are to me, so important a consideration. Live or die, my 
 orother" here he adopted the affectionate language of the 
 emissary " live or die, my brother, it s all one to me." 
 
 And with these thoughts, though unexpressed, he sent the 
 emissary forward on his path of danger. As was inevitable 
 he took tho load upward according to tho opinion of Pickctt. 
 and, it may be added, his course was directly over the ground 
 whlc i ho held already travelled. The distance was small. 
 howev3r, from tho house of Pickett, to the spot where Ilurdit. 
 a w a ted him; and the fellow took no long time in approaching 
 it. Meanwhile, what were the emotions of the felonious watcher. 
 We ifiay imagine I can not describe them. Life and death 
 depended upon his resolve so he thought, at least yet wab 
 he still irresolute. He had chosen, with the judgment of one 
 experienced in such matters, the very spot vhich, for all other a 
 afforded him the best opportunity of putting his design in exe 
 cution. Approaching or departing from him, his victim -was at 
 his mercy for a full hundred yards OR eit ier hand. Tho bushes 
 around effectually concealed Kim his ai.i was unobstructed 
 the path was not often travelled not -ixble to frequent inter 
 ruption the day was dark there wrr a:.t a breath stirring 
 Yet the hand of the assassin trembled, and tie tremor at his 
 heart was even greater than that of his hand. Nature had not 
 designed him for a bold villain. He might have n^do a cun 
 ning shopkeeper, and succeeded, perhaps, in doing a far better 
 business, though not a more moral one, in vending bad wares, 
 uid spurious money, than by crying, " stand" to a true man 
 His nerves were not of the iron order, and painfully, indeed, 
 was he made conscious of this defect, as he beheld hie enemy 
 approach. No opportunity could have been better. Tiie road 
 by the branch, above which he lay in waiting, was almost raider 
 him ; and for a good three minutes, the movement of the travel 
 ler was in a direct line with his first appearance. Hurdis got 
 his gun in readiness, and when the victim came within its reach 
 he raised it to his shoulder. But it sank again a moment after 
 
THF HEART FAILS. 253 
 
 The muzzle veered to and fro, as a leaf in the wind. He could 
 not bring the sight to rest upon the traveller. Keen was the 
 anguish which he felt when he brought 5* Town to the eaitb : 
 and it was in desperate resolve that he ^m lifted it. 
 
 "It must be done," he said to himseJf "there IB no hope 
 else. My life or his shall I hesitate I must do it I can 
 not miss him now." 
 
 Again the instrument of death was uplifted in his unwilling 
 hands, and this time he rested it upon a limb of the tree, which 
 rose directly before his person. 
 
 " 1 have him now. It is but fifty yardo. There he is beside 
 the poplar! Ila ! what is this where is he I can not see 
 him a mist is before my eyes." 
 
 A mist had indeed, overspread ..".*; jight. His straining eyes 
 were full of water, and he drew ba^k fiom the tube, and looked 
 over it upon the road. Still, his enemy was there. Why had 
 he not seen him before? He would have resumed his aim, but 
 just then he saw the eyes of the emissary turned upward uprn 
 the very spot where he stood. Had Le been seen through the 
 bushes? The doubt was a palsying one. and he shrunk back 
 in terror, and listened with a beating heart that shook in his 
 very throat, to hear the steps of the enemy in pursuit of him 
 up the hill. But he heard nothing and was emboldened to look 
 again. He had lost one chance. The emissary had rounded 
 the branch, and was now upo-i the other end of the trace and 
 going from him. 13ut hin V.^-k was now turned to the assassin, 
 and his base spirit derive, I strength fiom this circumstance. He 
 felt that he could no!: L-ivc j . Jrann a trigger upon his foe, while 
 he looked upon his fare, lie now did not doubt of his being 
 able to execute ihe -f^ed. His arms were rigid he feit that 
 he was resolved. J";K J ,I o was not the slightest quiver in limb 
 or pube ; and with the, confidence of assured strength, and a 
 tried courage, he onoo moic lifted the- weapon. Never did man 
 take better aim upon his f o<i. The entire back of the slow 
 moving stranger was towird him. The distance was small for, 
 in rounding the branch, the traveller had approached, rather 
 than receded from, ths point where the murderer 1>, y in waiting. 
 Cautiously, but firmly, did he cock the weapon. The slight 
 click upon his own ears, was startling, and before he could 
 
254 RICHARD UURDIS. 
 
 recover from the start win h it liad occasi ^rPil hh". JMK! while* 
 lie was about to throv/ his eyes along the, banrl. his ui.invwh-ss 
 purpose was again defeated, by one of the simplest incidents in 
 the world. A flock of partridges, startled by the tread of ri:<? 
 horse, Pew up f :om tin roa-1-side, at the very feet of (lie traveller. 
 The moment had paise l. The victim was out of reach before 
 his wretched enemy could recover his resolution. Desperate 
 and wild, John Hurdis rushed out of his covert, and hall-way 
 down the hill, lie world have cried aloud to the retreating 
 
 O 
 
 emissary. lie woiOd have defied him to an equal, mortal strug 
 gle. But the soul was wanting, if not the will. The sound 
 died away in his husky throat. The voice stuck the tongue 
 was palsied. The imbecile dropped his weapon, and sinking 
 down upon the grass beside it, thrust his fingers into the earth, 
 and moaned aloud. It is a dreadful misery to "feel that we can 
 confide in no friend that we can trust no neighbor; but thifc 
 sorrow is nothing to that last humiliating conviction, which tells 
 us that we can not trust ourselves. That our muscles will fail 
 us in the trying moment that, when we most need resolution, 
 we shall find none within oar hearts. That our nerves shall be 
 unstrung when their teneion is our safety that our tongue 
 shall refuse its office, when its challenge is necessary to warm 
 our own hearts, and alarm those of our enemies. Conscious 
 imbecility next to conscious guilt, is the most crushing of all 
 mental maladies. To look upon that poor, base criminal now, 
 as he lies upon the giass his lingers stuck into the sod and 
 fixed there his jaws wide, and tl.e frothing tongue lolling out 
 and motionless big drops upon hij forehead bigger drops in 
 his red and glassy eyes his hair soaked by the sweat of his 
 mental agony, and fJl his limbs without life and we should 
 no longer hate, but pity we should almost forget his crime in 
 the paralyzing punishment \vhich followed it. But. this was 
 not the limit of his afflictions, though, to the noble mind, it 
 must appear the worst. There were yet other tenors in store 
 for him. lie was yet to learn, even IL th : s narrow life, that 
 " the wages of sin is death." 
 
NAMELESS TERRORS. 256 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII, 
 
 NAMELKSS TERRORS. 
 
 "Why stand you thus amazed? Methinks your eyee 
 % Are fixed in meditation ; and all here 
 
 Seem like so many senseless statues; 
 As if your souls had suffered an eclipse 
 Betwixt your ju lument and affections." Woman Hater. 
 
 HOURS elapsed before John Kurd is arose from the earth upon 
 which he had thrown himself, overcome by the mortification of 
 his conscious imbecility. When he did arise he was like one 
 bewildered. But he went forward. Stunned and staggering, 
 he went forward the stains of the soil upon his face and 
 bands his gun and clothes marked also with the proofs of his 
 humiliation. But whither should he go ? His mind, for a brief 
 space, took no heed of this question. He wandered on without 
 direction from his thought ; but, with an old habit, he wandered 
 toward the dwelling of his coadjutor, Pickctt. lie was par 
 tially awakened from his stupor, by the sounds of a voice 
 the merry voice of unheeding childhood. The sounds Mere 
 familiar they half recalled him to himself they reminded 
 him where he was, while fully impressing upon him his forlorn 
 condition. They were those of the idiot girl, and she now 
 came bounding toward him with an old feeling of confidence 
 But ere she drew nigh, she remembered the interview with 
 John Hurdis, in which her mother unexpectedly became a party 
 Without knowing why, she yet well enough understood that her 
 mother found fault with her conduct on that occasion, and the 
 remembrance served to arrest her forv.-ard footsteps. She hung 
 back when but. a few feet, iVoni the criminal ; and a faint cry 
 escaped her. She shrunk f,-o;n his altered appearance. There 
 is no form of idiocy, wbi :!i :-;-:ngs with it an utter insensibility 
 
256 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 to wo ; and never was wo more terribly depicted upon liuman 
 countenance, than it was then OR that of John Ilurdis. The in 
 voluntary exclamation and spontaneous speech of the girl, taught 
 the miserable criminal, who had hitherto regarded his inner 
 man only, to give a moment s consideration to his outer appear 
 ance ; and he smiled, with a sick and ghastly smile, to behold 
 the clay-stains upon his garments. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. John, what s the matter what have you been 
 doing to yourself? Look at your clothes. You ve tumbled in 
 the ditch, I reckon." 
 
 "Yes, Jane, yes; I ve had a fall, Jane a bad fall. But 
 how do you, Jane ? I haven t seen you for a very long time." < 
 
 " Most a week, Mr. John ; and I ve been wanting to see vou 
 too, Mr. John, to tell *)u all about the strange man and dad ; 
 and how mother was frightened so. But you re hurt, Mr. John 
 you ve got a bad hurt, I m sure, or you wouldn t look so." 
 
 John Hurdis thought only of his hurts of mind, and his moral 
 fall, in replying to the idiot in the affirmative- ^-a reply which 
 she received in a purely literal sense. She would have run on 
 in a strain of childish condolence, but he listened to her impa 
 tiently, and, at length, with an air that mortified the child to 
 whom he had always looked indulgence only, he interrupted 
 her prattle, and bade her go to the hovel and send her father 
 to him. She prepared to comply, but her steps were slow, and, 
 looking back with an expression of mournful dissatisfaction on 
 her countenance, awakened Hurdis to a more considerate feel 
 ing. Changing his tone of voice, and employing a few kind 
 words, she bounded to him with a sudden impulse, caught his 
 hand, kissed it, and then, like a nimble deer, bounded away in 
 the direction of the hovel. An age seemed to pass away, in 
 the mind of the criminal, ere Pickett came in obedience to his 
 summons. When he beheld him coming, he retired into the 
 wood, to which the other followed him, eagerly asking, as he 
 drew nigh 
 
 "Well, squire, how is t? all safe all done?" 
 
 "Nothing s done!" was the reply. "All s lost all! Oh, 
 Pickett ! I am the most miserable, the most worthless wretch 
 alive. My heart failed me at the very moment. My hand re 
 fused its office my eyes, my limbs all denied their aid to 
 
NAMELESS TERRORS. 257 
 
 rescue me from tliis accursed bondage. I knew it would be so 
 I feared it. I would that you bad done it! I am pity met 
 Ben Pickett, that I must say the words myself I am a coward 
 a poor, despicable coward. I can not avenge iuy own wrong, 
 I can not defend my own life. I can not lift my aim, though 
 the enemy stands threatening before me. I must only submit 
 and die." 
 
 The look which accompanied these words the looks of 
 mingled frenzy and despair, of feebleness and passion would 
 beggar all attempt at description. The cheeks of the wretched 
 imbecile were white whiter than the marble ; his eyes glassy, 
 almost glazed with the glaze of death ; his mouth was open, and 
 remained so during the greater part of their conference ; and a 
 stupid stare which he fixed upon his companion while the latter 
 spoke in reply, was far from attesting that attention which his 
 ear nevertheless gave to his utterance. The ii.i.-rior yet better- 
 nerved villain absolutely pitied, and, after his < u humble fash 
 ion, endeavored to console him under his aiHir - MS. But words 
 are idle to him who has need of deeds which he dares not to 
 perform himself, and can not purchase from another. It was a 
 bitter mockery to Ilurdis, in his situation, to hear the common 
 places of hope administered by one whom guiit and ignorance 
 alike made hopeless as a teacher of others, as he must have 
 been in his own case hopeless. After hearing all that Pickett 
 could say, Ilurdis was only conscious of increased feebleness. 
 
 "Go home with me, Ben I feel so weak I don t think I 
 can find the way myself. I am very weak and vvretched. Let 
 me take your arm." 
 
 Pickett complied, and relieving him from the gun, the weight 
 of which was oppressive to him under his general mental and 
 physical prostration, conducted him through by-paths to his 
 home. Ere they reached the avenue, he gave him up the gun; 
 and finding that he was unable to confer further, though wil 
 ling, upon their mutual situation and necessities, he left him, 
 with a cold exhortation to cheer up and make the most of his 
 misfortune. The other heard him with little head or heed, and 
 in the solitude of his own chamber endeavored to conceal the 
 marks of that misery which he was only now beginning to dis 
 cover it was beyond his art to subdue. 
 
258 RICHARD UUKDIS. 
 
 But, to return to my own progress while these events wore 
 passing. It will he remembered that, stunned by the murder 
 of my friend, T was for three days almost incapable of thought 
 or action. I lingered during that time with Colonel Grniton, 
 whose own kindness and that of his happy family ministered 
 unremittingly to the sorrows which they did not hope to stay. 
 Aftor that time, 1 felt the necessity of action. The stunning 
 sensations occasioned by the first blow were now over, and 1 
 begun to look about me and to think. 
 
 1 set forward on my way homeward, burdened with the cruel 
 story, which I did not know how to relate. Nothing but a pen 
 knife and plain gold ring of William Carriiigton had been left 
 untouched by his robbers. They had stripped him of every 
 thing in the shape of arms and money. The knife was in a 
 vest-pocket, and was probably too insignificant for appropria 
 tion ; the ring one given him by Emmeline was upon a 
 little finger, and probably escaped their notice, or was too tight 
 for instant removal. These I bore with me back sad tokens 
 of what I could not bring. Ilis horse they had taken in their 
 flight from the hovel, and probably sold the next day in the 
 Choctaw nation. Mii-e was preserved to me ; as, when William 
 fell, and he felt hiiir-elf freed from all restraint, ho naturally 
 made his way back to Colonel Grafton s, where he had beer 
 well provided for the night before. I had, indeed, lost nothing 
 but that which I could not replace. My money was untouched 
 in my saddle-bags, and even that which I had about my person 
 had been left undisturbed. It is true I had concealed it in a 
 secret pocket of my coat, but they had not even offered at a 
 search. The fl^ht of Carrington had too completely occupied 
 their mind? at first, and the large sum which they found upon 
 hiij person had subsequently too fully answered their expecta 
 tions to render it important, in their hurry, that they should 
 waste time in examining me. Perhaps, too, they may have re 
 garded William us the purse-bearer for both. Whatever may 
 have been the cause of their neglect, 1 was certainly no loser 
 of anything with which I had at first set out. And yet how 
 dreadful was the loss which I had to relate ! how could I relate 
 it 1 how name to the poor girl, looking for her lover, any one 
 of the cruel woi Is which must teach her that she looked foi 
 
NAMELESS TERRORS. 259 
 
 him in vain ? Thu was n:y continu;;! thought as I travelled 
 homeward. I had no other. It ham. ted me with a continual 
 questioning, and tlie difficulty of speech seemed to increase with 
 the delay to answer it, and, before 1 had answered it, I reached 
 home. 
 
 The very first person I encountered was John Ilurdis. I 
 approached him unawares. lie was walking from me, and tow 
 ard the house. 1 had dismissed from my bosom all feeling of 
 hostility ; for, since the murder of William, it seemed to me that 
 all my old hates and prejudices were feeble. They were all 
 swallowed up and forgotten in th.-it greater sorrow. So com 
 pletely had this become the case that, though, at leaving him 
 but a week before, I should have only spoken to him in curses, 
 1 DOW bpoke to him in kindness. My speech seemed to con 
 found him, no less than his conduct, on hearing it, confounded 
 me. As I have said, he was walking from me in the road lead 
 ing up to the avenue. He had nearly reached the entrance, 
 Mid was so completely absorbed in his own thoughts, that the 
 he-rtd of my horse provoked none of his attention. I called to 
 him, and 1 am sure that my voice could not have been made 
 more studiously unoffending. 
 
 Well, John, how are you how are all ?" 
 
 "John John !" he exclaimed, turning round, and staring at 
 me with a face full of unspeakable agitation. ""Who s that? 
 what do you mean? what do you want with me ? ha !" 
 
 ** Why, what s the matter with you, John ?" I cried ; " what 
 frightens you ? don t you know me ?" 
 
 " Know you ? yes, yes 1 know you ;" and his face and move 
 ments both indicated a strong disposition on his part to fly from 
 me, but that his trembling limbs refused to assist him. 
 
 "Why do you shrink from me?" I asked, thinking that all 
 his agitation arose from our previous quarrel, and the fear that 
 I was seeking some opportunity of personal collision with him. 
 " Why do you shrink from me, John Ilurdis ? I am not angry 
 with you now ; I do not seek to harm you. Be yourself, broth 
 er, for God s sake, and tell me how the old folks are : how s 
 mother ?" 
 
 He saw me alight from my horse, which I did at this moment, 
 and approach him. without being able to give me any answer 
 
260 RICHARD HURDI3. 
 
 When, however, I had got alongside of him, he enforced hiiu 
 self to speech, but without replying to my question. 
 
 "And what brings you back? How did you I mean, you 
 have come back safely ?" 
 
 "Ay, I am safe," was my answer ; " but, truth to say, brother 
 John, you do not seem to know exactly what you mean. What ! 
 you are still angry about the old business ? but you are wrong 
 It is for me to be angry, if anybody ; but I am not angry I 
 have forgiven you. Tell me, then, are the old people well?" 
 
 " They are !" was his only and brief answer ; and I got noth 
 ing from him but plain yes and no, while we moved along to 
 gether to the house. He was evidently overcome with aston 
 ishment and fear. I knew him to be timid ; but, at that time, 
 ignorant as I was then of the history which has been already 
 related, I found it difficult to account for his imbecility. It wag 
 easily understood afterward. But even then I looked on him 
 with pity, mixed with scorn, as, shrinking and silent, he moved 
 along beside me. Guilty or not, I would not have had in my 
 bowmi such > soul as his for all creation. 
 
THE BilOKKX IIEAUT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV II J. 
 
 THK r.HOKHA HEART. 
 
 -Hold! Holill 
 
 Oh. stop that epoody messenger of death, 
 Oh, let him not run down thai narrow path, 
 Which loads unto thy heart." SATIRO MASTIC. 
 
 MY unexpected return, of course, brought the f-u^ly together 
 John Hurdib could not well be absent, and lie was a pale and 
 silent listener to my melancholy narrative. The story was 
 soon told, a/id a dumb horror seized upon all. 1 saw that lie 
 was palsied that ho shivered that a spasmodic emotion had 
 fastened upon all his limbs, but, even liB.d ho not be<-n guilty, 
 such emotion, at such a narrative, would have been natural 
 enough. Tie rose to leave the room, but staggered in such a 
 manner that he was forced once more to take his seat. My ac 
 count of th<- 1 murder had confirmed the story of the emissary. 
 lie had a vain, vague hope before, that the clan the mystic 
 confederacy was a fable of the stranger, got up for purposes 
 yet unexplained, or, if true, that its purposes and power had 
 been alike exaggerated. The history of my seiz-are, and of 
 the pursuit of William Carrington, however, was attended with 
 so many circumstances of bold atrocity, that he could deceive 
 himself no longer as to the strength and audacity of the clan. 
 Still, his guilty soul could draw some consolation, even from a 
 fate so dreadful. He breathed with more freedom, when he 
 found that I unhesitatingly ascribed the murder of my friend to 
 the robbers, and had no suspicion in any other quarter. II in 
 own common sense sufficiently taught him that such a belief 
 was the most reasonable and natural to one who did nc know 
 the truth ; and with a consciousness of increased security, from 
 . o quarter at least, he did not afflict himself much with the 
 
262 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 reflection that he hail been the murderer d one unoffending 
 person, and the cruel destroyer of another s dearest hopes. So 
 long as he was himself safe, these considerations were of small 
 importance. And, yet let us not suppose that they did not 
 trouble him. lie had not slept in peace from the moment that 
 he Despatched Pickett on his bloody mission. He was doomed 
 Ti .ver to sleep in peace again no, nor to wake in peace. 
 Forms of threatening followed his footsteps by day. and images 
 ft U-rror haunted his dreams by night. lie might escape from 
 unan justice, but he soon felt how idle was any hope to escape 
 Vom that worst presence of all the constant consciousness of 
 crime. 
 
 1ml I must not forget my own troubles in surveying those of 
 John Unrdis. Of his woes I had no thought at this moment. 
 .My only thought was of that fearful interview with l^rnmcline. 
 What would I not have given could JL nave escaped it. But 
 such wishes wore foolish enough. I had undertaken the task, 
 regarding it as A solemn duty, as well to the dead as f ,;> ..he 
 livng, and, sooner or later, the task was to be exeeuicvl. IV;- 
 Iriy was proof of weakness; and f.hat afternoon L set out fcr i.hp, 
 nuuse of rhu poor maiden, widowed ere a wife. During t -.e 
 solitary ride, I thought in vain of the words whi^K I l-ould -i. e 
 in telling her tho story. JIow should I break iid abfiptne^s- - 
 how soften tho severity of the stroke. The more I Bought of 
 this as is most usually the case in such mattc Vn vv.h most 
 persons the more difficult and impracticable did ir a labor seem 
 and, but for thw shame of such a movement, I coul \ h--\\e turned 
 my bridle, and trusted to a letter to <i<> that, which I felt it im 
 possible that my lips should do well. I had ee^u > :*oK,;n3rs, 
 otherwise sagacioT B enough, undertake i<> conso o */: f> afflicted, 
 by trite maxims -vhich tauglit them -*rnr.^f)v .-, ir ;.gb to 
 forbear g;rief f<-i he very reiiHon which iiri x^, t jem grieve 
 namely, because their loss ia irreparable " Your tears are 
 vain," says the bookman. " Thereib:.-f, 1 wvep," replies thr 
 j an. How to avoid such wanton folly was the question with 
 me, yet it was a question not so easy to answer. The mind 
 runs upon commonplaces in the matter of human consolation, 
 and we prate of resignation to the end of the chapter to those 
 who never hear us. This, of course, assumes the grief to be 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 2C3 
 
 sincere. There is a conventional sort of sorrow which is re 
 lieved by conventional language ; and the heir finds obedience 
 to the will of Providence a very natural lesson. But the lovd 
 of Emmeline Walker seemed to me a thing all earnestness. I 
 had seen enough of her to know that she could freely have 
 risked life for William Carrington to tell her thai no risk of 
 life could save him UOAV, I felt convinced would almost be at 
 the peril of hers. Yet the irksome labor must be taken the 
 risk must be met. I had that sort of pride which always sent 
 me forward when the trial appeared a great one; and the very 
 extremity of the necessity, awakened i. me an intensity of 
 feeling, which enabled me to effect my object. And I did ef 
 fect it how, it will be seen hereafter. Enough, that I shared 
 deeply in the suffering I was unavoidably compelled to inflict. 
 
 It was quite dark when I reached her dwelling. My prog 
 ress toward it had been slow, ye f . I felt it too fast for my 
 feelings. I entered the house with th.?, desperate haste of one 
 who distrusts his own resolution, and leaps forward in order 
 that it may not leave him. My task was increased in diiliculty 
 by the manner in which Emmeline met me. The happy heart, 
 confident in its hope, shone out in her kindling eye, and in the 
 buoyant tones of her voice. 
 
 " All, Mr. Hurdis, back so soon ! I did not look for you for 
 a whole month. What brought you -but why do 1 ask, when 
 1 can guess so readily ] Havo you setva Mary yet ?" 
 
 While she spoke, her eyes peered behind me as if seeking 
 for another; and the pleasant and arch smile which accompa 
 nied her words, was mingled with a look of fondest expectation 
 I could not answer her I could not look upon her when I be 
 held this glance. I went forward to a chair, and sank down 
 within it. 
 
 She arose and came hurriedly toward me. 
 
 What is the matter-- are you sick, Mr. Hurdis?" 
 
 And, though approaching me, her eyes reverted to the en 
 trance as if still seeking another. Involuntarily, I shook my 
 head as if in denial. She saw the movement and seemed tc 
 comprehend it. Quick as lightning, she demanded 
 
 "You come qlone ? Whero s William where o Mr. (Jar 
 rington ?" 
 
264 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 " He did not come with me, Emmcline. He could not." 
 
 "Ha! could not could not! Tell me why he could not 
 corns, Mr. Hurdis. He is sick! where did you leave him? 
 He is ill, perhaps dangerously ill. Tell me speak, Richard 
 Hurdis yo^r ^.ooks frighten me." 
 
 "Thsy ohculd: Emmeline." 
 
 I could not th jn speak more. My face was averted from 
 her. Trembling with half-suppressed emotion, she hastened to 
 confront me. Her voice grew thick and hoarse as she again 
 spoke. 
 
 Yon have come for me, Richard. You have come for me 
 to go to him. He mus: be ill, indeed, when he sends for me. 
 I will go to him at oncj let us set out instantly. Where did 
 you leave him ? Is it far ?" 
 
 I availed myself of t 1 e assistance which she thus furnished 
 me, and replied 
 
 "Near Tusealocca p, two days journey." 
 
 " Then the less time ha\ 3 we to spare, Richard. Let us go 
 at once. I fear not to travel by night I have done it before 
 Brt tell me, Mr, Hurdis, what is his sickness. From what does 
 be suffer T 
 
 "An accident a hurt." 
 
 "Ha! a Irirt" 
 
 " A wound !" 
 
 " God be merciful a wound a /vound. Out with it, Rich 
 ard Hurdie, and tell me all, if you be a man. I am a woman, 
 it is true, but I can bear the wor ff t, rather than the doubt 
 which apprehends it. How came he by a wound how was 
 he hurt what accident? 
 
 " He was shot !" 
 
 "Shot! shot! By what by whom? Tell me, Richard, 
 dear Richard his friend my fr end tell me not that he is 
 hurt dangerously that he will recover that there are hopes. 
 Tell me, tell me, if you love me ar.i would have me live." 
 
 I shook my head mournfully. Her hand grasped my arm, 
 and her gripe though trembling, was firm as steel. 
 
 "You do not say it you can not tell me, Richard that his 
 wound is mortal. That, VViUi;in 1 can not think it I dare 
 not, though you may tell me s- - tint he will die 1" 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 "Be calm, awhile, dear Emmeline, and hear me." I an 
 swered retreatingly, while I took her hand, with which she still 
 continued to grasp my arm, in my own. She released her hold 
 instantly. 
 
 " There ! I am calm. I am patient. I listen. Speak now, 
 Richard fear not for me, but tell me what I must hear, and 
 what, if my apprehensions he true, I shall never he hotter pre 
 pared to hear than now. William Carrington is hurt by an 
 accident you say. He sends for me. Well I will go to him 
 
 go this instant. But you have not told me that there is hope 
 
 that he is not dangerously not mortally hurt. Tell me 
 that. It is for that I wait." 
 
 Wonderful woman ! She had recovered her stature her 
 firmness her voice all, in a single instant. And never had 
 she looked so beautiful as now, when her eyes wore shining 
 with a fearful light when doubt and apprehension had im 
 parted to their natural fire, an expression of wildness, such as 
 the moon shows when mocked on her march, by clouds, that 
 flit over her disk, yet leave no iinpri-sssion on its surface 
 when her small and rosy mouth, the lips slightly parted, and 
 occasionally quivering, exhibited the emotion, which she was 
 only able to subdue by assuming one of a higher character, tnd 
 putting on the aspect of command. Full, finely formed in per 
 son, with a carriage in which grace and dignity seemed twins, 
 neither taking precedence of the other, but both harmoniously 
 co-operating, the one to win, the other to sway ; she seemed, 
 indeed, intended by nature to command. And she did command. 
 Seeing that I hesitated, she repeated her injunction to me to 
 proceed ; but with a voice and words that evidently proved her 
 to have lost some of her most sanguine liQpes, by reason of my 
 reluctant and hesitating manner. 
 
 " Tell me one thing only tell me that I am in time to see 
 him ! That he will not be utterly lost that I may again hear 
 his voice that he may hear mine that I may tell him I come 
 to be with him to the last if need be, to die with him. Say, 
 Richard say, my brother, for he called you his say that I 
 will be in time for this." 
 
 My answer was spokrn ,;!:!;>! \\ltl:. mi n:y u\vu consciousness, 
 and it seemed as instantaneously, to deprive her of all hers. 
 
266 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 " You will not r 
 
 With one wild, piercing shriek, she rent the air, while tossing 
 her arms above her head, she rushed out of the room and into 
 the passage. Then I heard a dead, heavy fall ; and, rushing 
 after her, I found her prostrate at the foot of the stairs, a? 
 utterly lifeless as if a cleaving holt had been driven through 
 her heart. 
 
THE MANIAC. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX, 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 What! thou hast fled his side in time of danger, 
 
 That clung to him in fortune 1 
 
 Oh ! cruel treachery ; he had not done thee 
 
 So foul a wrong as this. Away, and leave me." TJie Paragon. 
 
 I FOLLOWED her with all haste and raised her from the floor 
 My cries brought her mother to her assistance a venerable 
 and worthy dame, whom years and disease had driven almost 
 entirely to her chamber. She received her daughter at my 
 hands in an almost lifeless condition. I assisted in bearing the 
 poor maiden to her room ; and after giving the mother a brief 
 account of what had taken place for the circumstances of the 
 scene would admit of no more I left her for my father s habi 
 tation. I shall not undertake to describe my misery that night. 
 The thought, that, in my want of resolution, my haste, my im 
 perfect judgment, I had given a death-stroke to the poor heart 
 that I had seen so paralyzed in a single instant before my eyes, 
 was little less than horrible to me. It was a constant and stalk 
 ing terror in my eyes. In my dreams, I beheld the bloody 
 body of William Carrington, and the lifeless form of Emrneline 
 beside it, stretched out in the same damp, cold bed of death. 
 It I awakened, my active fancy represented a thousand similar 
 objects familiar forms lying and gasping in all the agonies of 
 dissolution, or crouching in terror, as if beneath some sudden 
 bolt or blow. In all these visions I never lost sight of the 
 living and real scene of misery through which I had so recently 
 gone. At first, the smiling, hopeful face of Emmeline rose 
 before me ; and I could distinguish the devoted 1 /ve in the look 
 that asked after her betrothed, when her lips refused all ques 
 tion. Then rose the wonder why he came not then the doubf 
 
2 18 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 then the fear the terror next; and, lastly, the appalling 
 jn id thunder-riving blow, which hurled her to the ground in a 
 stupor scarcely less felt and freezing than was that which had 
 stricken down her lover, and from which he could never more 
 awake. Was it better that she should awake ? Could the light 
 t returning life, be grateful to her eyes? Impossible! The 
 heart which had been so suddenly overthrown, was never 
 destined to know any other than the consciousness of sorrow. 
 There was no light in life for her. The eyes might kindle, and 
 the lips might wear a smile, in after days, even as the tree 
 which the wanton axe of the woodman has wounded, will some 
 times put forth a few sickly buds and imperfect branches. But 
 these do not speak for life always. The life of the soul is 
 wanting carried off by untimely sap. The heart is eaten out 
 and gone, and when the tree falls, which it does when the night 
 is at the stillest, men wonder of what disease it perished. 
 The natural world abounds in similitudes for humanity, which 
 it is our misfortune, perhaps, too unfrequently to regard. 
 
 The next day, to my surprise, I was sent for, by Emmeline. 
 [ had not thought it possible she should recover in so short a 
 time she was, it seems, resolved, to hear all the dreadful par 
 ticulars of my narrative ; and strove, with wonderful energy, to 
 listen to them calmly. Her words were subdued almost to a 
 whisper, and uttered as if measured by the stopwatch. I could 
 see that the tension of her mind was doing her but little good. 
 That she was overtasking herself, and exhausting the hoarded 
 strength of years, to meet the emergency of a moment. I im 
 plored her to wait but a day, before she required the intelli 
 gence she wished. I pleaded my own mental suffering in ex 
 cuse ; but to this, she simply answered, by touching her head 
 with her finger, and smiling in such a sort, as if to rebuke me 
 for arrogating to myself a greater degree of feeling and suffer 
 ing than was hers. I could not refuse, and yet, I trembled to 
 comply with her demand. I shuddered as I thought upon the 
 probable nay, the almost certain consequences of evil which 
 must follow to her life, from the recital. Her features denoted 
 a latent war in the mind, which my details, like the spark to 
 the combustible, I felt sure, must bring about an explosion no 
 luss terrible than sudden. Her eyes were bloodshot and dry 
 
THE MANIAC. 269 
 
 without a sign of moisture. ITad they heen wet, I should have 
 been more free to speak. Her checks were singularly pale ; 
 but in the very centre of her forehead, there was a small spot 
 of livid red at almost purple spot that seemed like a warn 
 ing beacon, fired of a sudden in sign of an approaching danger. 
 I took her hand in mine, as I sat down by the couch on which 
 she lay, and found it cold and dry. There was little, if any, 
 pulse, at that moment. It was not long after, however, when it 
 bounded hotly beneath my finger, like a blazing arrow, sent 
 suddenly from the bended bow. 
 
 "And mns r ," she said, " now that I am calm, Richard I can 
 hear all that you have to say yon need not be afraid to speak 
 to me now, since the worst is known." 
 
 " You have heard, then, from your mother ?" I asked affirm 
 atively. 
 
 "Yes, I have heard all 1 have heard that he is " here 
 she interrupted the sentence by a sudden pause, which was 
 followed by a long parenthesis. " You will now see how strong 
 1 have become 1 , when you hear the words that I can calmly 
 speak know then, that you can tell me nothing worse than I 
 already know. I know that he is dead, to whom I had given 
 myself, and whom I repeat it to you, Richard, as his friend 
 and whom, as heaven is my witness, I most truly loved." 
 
 "I believe it I know it, Emmelinc ; and he knew it too. * 
 
 " Did he ? are you sure he knew it ?" she asked, putting her 
 hand upon my arm, as she spoke these words in a tone of ap 
 pealing softness. "Ah, Richard, could I know that he felt this 
 conviction to the last could I have been by to have heard him 
 avow it to have laid bare my heart before him to have lis 
 tened to the last words in which he received and returned my 
 affections ! Oh, those last words ! those last words ! Let me 
 hear them ? What were they ? It is for this I sent for you to 
 come. It is those words that I would hear ! Tell me, then, 
 Richard, and set rny heart at rest give peace to my mind, 
 and relieve me from this anxiety ! What said he at the last 
 \\\\:\.l said he?" 
 
 " AVill it relieve you] 1 fear not, Emmeline .1 fear it woald 
 only do you harm to listen to such matters now. You corld not 
 bear it now," 
 
270 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 "Not bear it! Have I not heard all have I not borne the 
 worst? What more can you have to say to distress me? I 
 tell you, I know that he is dead ! I know that I shall speak 
 to him no more that I can never hear his voice in answer tc 
 mine ! For him, I might as well be dumb as he ! You see 
 now, that I can speak the words which yesterday you could 
 not speak ! What, then, have you to fear? Nothing noth 
 ing ! Begin then, Richard begin, my brother, and tell me the 
 particulars of this cruel story. It will be a consolation, though 
 a sad one, to know the history of the sorrow that afflicts me." 
 
 " Sad consolation, indeed, Knmieline, if any, but I will not 
 believe that it can be a consolation now. Some time hence, 
 when you have learned calmly to look upon your loss, and be 
 come reconciled to your privation, I doubt not that you will re 
 ceive a melancholy satisfaction from a knowledge of the truth 
 But I do not think that it will benefit you now. On the con 
 trary, I fear that it will do you infinite harm. You are not 
 well there is a flushed spot upon your brow which shows 
 your blood to be in commotion ; to-morrow, perhaps " 
 
 " No to-morrow, Richard ! all days are alike to me now ! I 
 am already in the morrow the present is not mine I live in 
 the past, or in the future, or I live not at all ! Let me, then, 
 hear from you now let me know all at once now, while the 
 cup is at the fullest, let me drink to the bottom, and not take 
 successive and hourly draughts of the same bitter potion ! 1 
 must hear it from you now, Richard, without delay or evasion, 
 or, I tell you, I can not sleep again ! If I do, it will only be 
 to dream a thousand things, and conjure up a thousand fancies, 
 much more terrible than any you can bring me now ! Come, 
 then ! why should you fear to tell me, when I already know 
 the worst ? I know that he perished by the sudden stroke of 
 the murderer, having no time given him for prayer and prepa 
 ration ! Can your story tell rne worse than this? No, no ! you 
 have no words of darker meaning in my ears, than those which 
 my own lips have spoken !" 
 
 "Emmeline, dear Emmiline, let me have time for this. Let 
 me put it off for a while. Already the blood is rising impetu 
 ously in your veins. Your pulse beneath rny finger is shooting 
 wildly" 
 
THE MANIAC. 271 
 
 "I am calm you mistake, clear Richard you are no doc 
 tor, clearly. I was never more calm never more composed 
 in all my life. My pulse, indeed !" 
 
 The impatient and irritable manner of this speech, was its 
 sufficient refutation. I replied 
 
 " Your will is calm and resolute, Emmeline ; I doubt not 
 your strength of mind and purpose ; but I doubt your com 
 mand of nerve, Emmeline, and your blood. You are very fe 
 verish." 
 
 She interrupted me almost petulantly. 
 
 " You are only too considerate, Richard. Perhaps, had you 
 been half so considerate, when a fellow-traveller with the man 
 you called your friend, and who certainly was yours, he had not 
 perished !" 
 
 " Emmeline !" 
 
 "Ay! I speak what I think, Richard what I feel! You 
 are a grave physician when with me. You talk sagely and 
 shake your head. But with him with William Carrington ! 
 were you grave, and wise, and considerate? You persuaded 
 him to this journey ; you knew that he was hasty and thought 
 less ; did you shake your head in warning, and lift your finger 
 when you saw him running wide from prudence from safety?" 
 
 " Emmeline, my child," exclaimed the mother, " you are un 
 kind you do Richard injustice!" 
 
 " Let him show me that I do him injustice, mother. That is 
 what I wish him, and pray him, to do. I do not desire to do 
 him injustice." Her tone and manner, which were almost vio 
 lent before, now changed even into softness here ; and, turning 
 to me, she continued : " You know I do not wish to do you in 
 justice ; but why will you not oblige me ? Why not tell me 
 what I claim to know what I have a right to know?" 
 
 I could see that the blood was mounting in torrents to her 
 brain. Her pulse was momently quickening ; and the little 
 speck of red, so small and unimposing at first, had overspread 
 her face, even as the little cloud, that dots the western heavens 
 at morning, spreads by noon until it covers with storm and 
 thunder the whole bosom of the earth. It was more than ever 
 my policy to withhold a narrative so full of details, which, 
 though they could unfold no circumstance worse in substance 
 
272 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 tli an that which she already knew, were yet almost certain to 
 harrow up her feelings by the gradual accumulation of events 
 before her imagination, to a pitch almost unendurable. I re 
 sorted to every argument, plea, suggestion everything which 
 might move her to forego her wish at least, for the present. 
 But my efforts were unavailing. 
 
 "You entirely mistake me," she would say, " I am earnest 
 not excited. My earnestness always shows itself in this man 
 ner. I assure you that my blood is quite as temperate as it 
 would be under the most ordinary affliction." 
 
 And this she said in words that were uttered with spasmodic 
 effort. Her mother called me aside for a moment. 
 
 " You will have to tell her," she said ; " the very opposition 
 to her desire makes her worse. Tell her all, Richard, as she 
 demands it, and Cod send, that it be for the best!" 
 
 Thinking it probable that such might be the case, though 
 still reluctant, I waived my objections, and determined to com 
 ply. When I resumed my seat by the bedside, and avowed 
 this determination, as if to confirm the words of the mother, a 
 sudden change came over her. Her respiration, which had 
 been impeded and violent before, became easier ; and, closing 
 her eyes, she leaned back upon the pillow, from which, during 
 the greater part of the previous conference, her head had been 
 uplifted, and thus prepared herself to listen. It was a strong 
 effort which she made to be, or seem, composed, and it was 
 only successful for a time. My confidence in it soon began to 
 waver, as I found, when fairly in my narrative, that her eyes 
 were re-opened, and with a fearful resumption of light her 
 head once more raised from the pillow and her unconscious 
 hand, when I reached that part of my narrative which detailed 
 the first assault upon us at the hovel of Webber, suddenly ex 
 tended and grasping my arm which lay on the bed beside her 
 " Stop stop awhile a moment I am.not ready yet to heai 
 you not yet not yet !" 
 
 I paused at her direction, and she sank back upon the pillow, 
 and closed her eyes with a rigid pressure of her fingers upon 
 their lids, as if to shut out from sight some horrible vision. In 
 this state she remained for a space of several seconds; and ] 
 could perceive, when she resumed her attitude of attention, 
 
THE MANIAC. 2T 
 
 and bade me proceed with my narrative, that. though she might 
 have succeeded in expelling the phantom from her sight, the 
 very effort requisite in doing so, had accelerated the action of 
 her blood. I proceeded, however, striving to avoid every word, 
 phrase, or unnecessary incident, which might have the effect 
 of increasing the vividness of an event, already too terribly im- 
 "jessive ; but with all my caution I could perceive the constant 
 flow and gathering of excitement in her brain. Her words be 
 came thick, yet more frequent. She started constantly from the 
 pillow, to which she as constantly and immediately sank back, 
 as if conscious of departing from the tacit pledge which she had 
 given me, but which I had never relied on, to be calm and col 
 lected while I spoke. At length, Avhen I told of the flight of 
 Carrington, of his pursuit by the ruffians, of the long interval, 
 in which, bound to the floor, I lay at their mercy, and after 
 they had gone, before the arrival of Grafton to my relief; and 
 how I looked for my friend in vain among those who rescued 
 me ; her emotion grew utterly beyond constraint, and she cried 
 out aloud, and gasped with such effort between her cries, that I 
 dreaded lest suffocation should follow from her fruitless endeav 
 ors at speech. But she contrived to speak. 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! they came they loosed you they set you free 
 but what did they for him what did you, who called your 
 self his friend 1 What did you for him, who was yours ? Tell 
 me that that!" 
 
 These were words of madness certainly there was madness 
 in the wild and roving expression of her fire-darting eye. I 
 would even then have paused, if I could ; but she would not 
 suffer it. Resuming a look of calmness such a look as mocked 
 itself by its inadequacy to effect her object when she saw me 
 hesitate, she begged me to continue. 
 
 "I am calm again, Richard it was for a moment only. 
 Forgive me, I pray you, Richard forgive me, and go on. 
 Let me hear the rest. I will not cry out again." 
 
 I hastened to close the painful narrative, but she did not hear 
 me to the end. She was no longer capable of knowing what she 
 did or said; but leaping from the couch, in defiance of all my 
 own and her mother s efforts short of absolute violence to 
 restrain her, she strode across the chamber, as if with a leading 
 
274 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 purpose in view. Then, suddenly turning, she confronted me, 
 with a face in which, if a face might ever be said to blaze with 
 fire, and yet maintain its natural expression, hers did. She 
 gazed on me for a few seconds with all the intensity of an ex 
 pression which was neither hate nor anger, but blind ferocity, 
 and destructive judgment ; and then she spoke, in accents 
 which would have been bitter enough to my heart, had I not 
 well enough understood the maddening bitterness in hers. 
 
 "And so he was murdered and you led him on this expe 
 dition to be murdered ! You were his friend and while they 
 pursued him for the accursed money you lay quietly with 
 out effort having bonds, which a child a woman which I 
 weak and feeble as I am which I would have broken at 
 such a time which you might have broken, had you been 
 warmed with a proper spirit to help your friend ! And he 
 thought you a brave man, too he told me you were so, and I 
 believed it I gave him in charge to you, and you suffered 
 your villains to murder him ! Tell me nothing, I say, Richard 
 Hurdis they were your villains, else how should you, a brave 
 man, submit, as you did, to be bound and laughed at, while he 
 could break from his bonds and escape from the very snare to 
 which you so tamely submitted ! I will not hear you they 
 were your villains else how should you, a brave man, submit 
 and do nothing! Would he would William have submitted 
 thus? Would he have left his friend to perish? or, if he 
 could not save his life, would he have come sneaking home with 
 the tidings of his friend s murder and his own base cowardice ? 
 No, Richard Hurdis ! I tell you I answer for the dead he 
 would have pursued these murderers to the ends of the earth ! 
 He would have dragged them to justice, or slain them with his 
 own hands ! He never would have slept in his bed till he had 
 \aken this vengeance ! Day and night would have been to him 
 the same ! Day and night, he had pursued them through the 
 forests through the swamps, in all haunts, in all disguises, till 
 he had revenged the murder of his friend till, for the holy 
 blood of friendship, he had drained the hearts of all having any 
 hand in his murder! But you what have you done? Ha! 
 ha ! ha ! Bravely bravely, Richard Hurdis ! William thought 
 you had courage he did and he relied on it ! He relied too 
 
THR MAX1AC. 275 
 
 much. You have shed no blood, though he is murdered ! You 
 have neither shed the blood of his murderers, nor your own! 
 Show me a finger-scratch, if you can ! You are ha! ha! ha! 
 this is courage, is it? and lie thought you brave! Well, the 
 wisest may be mistaken the wisest the very wisest!" 
 
 She went on much further, but her ravings grew incoherent, 
 and at length, from imperfect thoughts, her strength being nigh 
 exhausted, she only articulated in broken words and sentences. 
 On a sudden, she stopped; her eye grew fixed while gazing 
 upon me, and her lower jaw became paralyzed, ere the halting 
 word was uttered. I snw that a crisis was at hand, and rushed 
 toward her at the fortunate n -.ment. I caught lier as she fell ; 
 nd she lay paralyzed and senseless, like the very u arble. in 
 niv arms. 
 
RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 DEATH ! 
 
 " Are th^y botli dead ? I did not. think 
 To find thoe in this ]>al<> society 
 Uf ghosts so soon!" The Brother* 
 
 1 no nil little of a physician, I yet saw that something n.- rt 
 be don 3 lor her relief instantly, in this almost complete suspen 
 sion of her powers, or she must perish ; and procuring- a lancet, 
 which was fortunately in the. house, made an opening in one of 
 her arms. The results were hardly satisfactory. A few drops 
 of jellied and almost black blood oozed from the opening, and 
 had no visible effect upon her situation. I opened a vein in 
 the other arm, but with little better success. Warm fomenta- 
 tation and friction were next resorted to, but to no advantage ; 
 and, leaving the patient to the charge of the mother, I mounted 
 my horse, and rode with all speed to tl\e nearest physician a 
 man named Hodges, an ignorant, stupid fellow, but the best 
 which at this time our neighborhood could afford. lie was one 
 of those accommodating asses who have the one merit at least, 
 if they are fools in all other respects, of being an unpretending 
 one ; and gladly, at all times, would he prefer taking the opinion 
 of another to the task of making, or the responsibility of giving, 
 one of his own. I have heard him ask an old lady if she had 
 jalap and calomel in the house ; and when she replied that she 
 \i?d not, but she " had some cream of tartar," answer, " That 
 will do, ma am," and give the one medicine in lieu of the other. 
 There was little to be looked for ;vt the hands of s.ich a crea 
 ture hut what were we to do 1 I ivul already exhausted at! 
 my little stock of information on such subjects; and ignorance., 
 in a time. of emergency, is compelled to turn even to licensed 
 stupidity for the relic Ivhidh it cr.r not find itself 
 
DEATH ! 277 
 
 Dr. Hodges came, and did nothing. He reopened the veins 
 without advantage, repeated the warm-water fomentations, took 
 an extra chew of tobacco, shook his empty head, and remained 
 silent. I ventured a suggestion, of the merits of which I had 
 only a partial guess. 
 
 " Would not a blister to the head help her, doctor?" 
 
 "I think it would, Mr. Hurdis I think you had better 
 try it." 
 
 Cursing the oaf in the bitterness of my heart, I went to work, 
 with the help of the old lady, and we prepared a blister. When 
 it was ready, we proceeded to cut away the voluminous masses 
 of her raven hair, the glistening loveliness of which we could 
 not but admire, even while we consigned it to destruction. But 
 we were not suffered to proceed in this work. Ere the scissors 
 had swept away one shred, the unhappy maiden awakened from 
 her stupor ; but she awakened not to any mental consciousness. 
 She was mad raving mad; and with the strength of madness 
 she rushed from the couch where she was lying, and flew at her 
 mother like a tigress. I was fortunately nigh enough to inter 
 fere, and save the old lady from her assaults, or the effects 
 might have been seriously hurtful. I clasped her in my arms, 
 and held her, though with some difficulty. Her strength was 
 prodigious under the terrible excitement which ragc^l in her 
 bosom ; and, though rather a strong man, I found that I dared 
 not relax for a single instant in my hold, or she became free 
 Yet she complained not that I held her. She uttered no word 
 whatsoever. She knew nothing ; she spoke to none. Some 
 times a sligjyt moaning sound escaped her lips, but she had no 
 other form of language. Her eyes were fixed and fiery ; yet 
 they never seemed to look upon any one of us. I observed 
 that they seemed instinctively to avoid the light, and that they 
 shone with a less angry lustre when turned toward the darker 
 sections of the apartment, and from the windows. Seeing this, 
 I directed the mother to double her curtains, and exclude as 
 much of the light as possible : this done, it seemed to relieve 
 the intensity of her stare and action. But she was as little dis 
 posed to be quiet as before. The moment I yielded in my 
 grasp, that moment did she make new exertions to escape ; and 
 when she failed in her object, that same slight moaning, per- 
 
278 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 haps, once or twice repeated, was all tlie acknowledgment given 
 by her lips to the annoyance which the constraint evidently 
 put upon her. 
 
 In the meantime, what a terrible loveliness shone in her 
 countenance and form ! The pythoness, swelling with the volu 
 minous fires of the god. were but a poor comparison to the 
 divinity of desolation, such as she appeared at that moment to 
 my eyes. Her long, black tresses, which we had let loose in 
 order to cut, were thrown all around her own neck, and par 
 tially over my shoulders as I held her. Her eyes were shoot 
 ing out from their spheres the whites barely perceptible, as 
 the dilating orbs seemed to occupy entirely the dry and fiery 
 cells from which they yet threatened momently to dart. Pur 
 ple lines and blotches gleamed out upon and as suddenly disap 
 peared from her face the consequence, probably, of her re 
 straint, and the violent exertions which she made to get herself 
 free from it ; and her teeth and lips were set as resolutely as if 
 death s last spasm had been already undergone. If they had 
 opened at all, it was only when she uttered that heart-piercing 
 moan so faint, so low, yet so thrilling, that it seemed to indi 
 cate at every utterance the breaking of some vital string. 
 
 In this way she continued full two hours, without intermitting 
 her struggles. My arm* had grown weary of the rigid grasp 
 which I had been compelled to keep upon her, and sheer ex 
 haustion must have soon compelled me to relax my hold. But 
 by this time she, too, had become exhausted ; her efforts grew 
 fainter, though the insane direction of her mind was not a whit 
 changed. Gradually, I felt her weight increase upon me, and 
 her own exertions almost entirely cease; and I thought at 
 length that I might safely return her to the couch. It was with 
 some difficulty that I did so, for her poor mother miserable 
 and infirm, not to say terrified could give me no help; and 
 the doctor, no less terrified than she, had hurried off, on the first 
 exhibition of the maiden s fury, to procure her, as he promised, 
 some medicine which was to be potential for everything. But 
 the doctor knew not the disease of his patient. With all his 
 "parmaceti" he could do nothing for that inward bruise" 
 \\hich was mortifying at her heart. 
 
 VVhen fairly placed in the bed, I found it still somewhat dif 
 
DEATH ! 279 
 
 ficult to keep her there ; and, in order to avoid grvmg her pain, 
 which the grasp of my hand might do, I contrived to fold the 
 bedclothes in such a manner about her as not only to retard her 
 movements, but to enable us, by sitting upon either side, to 
 keep her down. An old negro-servant was called in to assist 
 in this duty, and with the mother s aid I was partially relieved. 
 With a few struggles more, her eyes gradually closed, and her 
 limbs seemed to relax in sleep. An occasional moan from her lips 
 alone told us that she suffered still ; and a sudden opening and 
 flashing of her eye at other moments still served to convince U8 
 that her show of sleep was deceptive. She slept not, and we 
 were compelled to be watchful still. 
 
 While she remained in this situation, our doctor returned, to 
 my great surprise, bringing with him a score of bottles, with 
 one nostrum or another. lie seemed a little more confident now 
 in what he should do, having most probably, during his absence, 
 consulted some book of authority in the circle of his limited 
 reading. Thus prepared, he compounded a dose from some 
 two or three bottles, one of which, asafoetida, soon declared its 
 quality to our nostrils, and left no hope to Dr. Hodges of ma 
 king a medical mystery a practice so common among small 
 practitioners of the agent by which he was to work the salva 
 tion of the patient. I had no great hope of the potion which he 
 brought, for I had no great faith in the doctor ; but I readily 
 took the wineglass in which he compounded it, and addressed 
 myself to the arduous task of forcing it down the throat of the 
 poor sufferer. It was an arduous task indeed ! Her teeth were 
 riveted together, and she seemed to have just sense enough to 
 close them more tenaciously in defiance to our prayer that she 
 might open them. Here was a difficulty ; but, as Hodges in 
 sisted upon the vital importance of the dose, cruel as the opera 
 tion seemed, I determined to do all that I could to make her 
 take it. In our efforts we were at length forced to pry her 
 teeth apart with our fingers, and to force the glass between 
 them. It was an error to have used the wineglass in such a 
 situation ; and the reflection of a single instant would have 
 taught us to transfer the medicine to a spoon. We were taught 
 this lesson by an incident of startling terror ; for no sooner had 
 we put the edge of the glass between her divided teeth, than 
 
280 RICHARD Minima. 
 
 they closed upon it, crunching it into the minutest fragments. 
 Fortunately, I was prompt enough to prevent che worst conse 
 quences of this act. I dropped the fragment */ the glass which 
 remained in my hands, and grasped her ins UJJy by the throat. 
 I grasped her almost as tightly as I shoul j 7 j0ve done a mortal 
 foe. It was a desperate resort for a d^fporato situation. I 
 nearly strangled her, hut it was the only Jung that could have 
 saved her from swallowing the broken Articles. With my fin 
 gers, while the jaws were stretched aj^rt, I drew out the bits 
 of glass, which were numerous, though not without cutting her 
 mouth and gums in a shocking mar.ver. The blood ran from 
 her mouth, and over the side of hci pallid face, staining its pu 
 rity ; and her tongue, bleeding al//> the while, lining over the 
 lips. And yet she seemed to ftv./ none of the pain : no cry 
 escaped her; no struggle was nvjdo; and the occasional moan 
 which now and then continued </> escape her wa.s the acknowl 
 edgment of a greater agony .r. m any for which we labored to 
 provide remedies. 
 
 Dr. Hodges persevered ir. his physic, but we might as well 
 have spared the poor girl th/. pain of forcing it down her throat* 
 for it did no good. Her must aess, it is true, was no longer hys 
 terical ; but this change WA? probably quite as much the result 
 of exhaustion as of the medicine we gave her. She seemed 
 conscious of none of our labors ; yet she studiously kept her 
 eyes from the spectator, and fixed them upon the darkest part 
 of the wall of her chamber. Her grief was speechless in all 
 other respects ; she seemed not to hear, and she answered none 
 of our inquiries. In hope to arouse and provoke her conscious 
 ness, I even ventured to speak to her of her lover, and the cruel 
 fate which had befallen him. I named to her the bitter words 
 of death which I had shrunk before to utter. But the ear 
 seemed utterly obtuse. She moved neither limb nor muscle, 
 and the stupor of complete mental indifference was gradually 
 overcoming all her faculties. Thus she continued throughout 
 that day. 
 
 Night came on, and yet there was no change. It was a dis 
 mal night to me. I sat up with her and watched her with a 
 degree of nervous irritation and anxiety which led me to fear, 
 at moments, that I might fall into some condition of insanity 
 
DEATH ! 28 
 
 like that I witnessed. The poor old mother strove to sleep, but 
 she could not subdue the nature within her ; and that raised 
 her every moment to look into the face of her child, whose un 
 conscious eyes were yet bright and unblessed by sleep. Be 
 sides these, there were no interruptions to the general silence 
 of the aight, unless that slight and now scarcely sensible moan, 
 which continued at intervals to escape the lips of the sufferer, 
 might be called one. Day dawned upon us, and found her still 
 in the same condition. We gave her the prescribed physic ; 
 but I felt, while pouring it down her throat, that our labors 
 were as cruel as they were idle. We administered the little 
 nourishment which she took, in the same manner, by violence. 
 She craved nothing she asked for nothing ; and what we gave 
 her brought no nourishment in consequence. 
 
 The day and night passed in the same manner with the pre 
 ceding. I snatched a few hours sleep during the day, and this 
 enabled me again to sit up with her the night following. But 
 there were other watchers besides myself around her bed ; and, 
 amid all my agonizing thought of the terrible picture of afflic 
 tion present in my eyes, there were other thoughts and feelings 
 of a far different character mingling among them and operating 
 upon my mind. Mary Easterby sat by the bedside of the invalid, 
 and our eyes and hands met more than once during the night, 
 which to me, though not less painful, was far less wearisome, 
 than that which I had passed before. Such is the nature of 
 man. We foster our petty affections even at the grave of our 
 friend s sweetest hopes. Our plans and promises for self .iesert 
 us nowhere ; they mingle in with our holiest emotions ; they 
 pile the dust of earth upon the very altars of heaven ! Perhaps 
 it is only right that such should be the case. Our nature while 
 on earth must be, to a certain extent, earthy. It may be, too, 
 that our pride undergoes some restraint when it discovers that 
 base necessities and narrow aims clog the loftiest wing, and 
 dazzle the most eagle-eyed of the soaring spirits among men. 
 
 But why linger upon a painful narrative like this 1 why re 
 cord throbs and agonies ] I will hasten to a conclusion which 
 the reader may readily anticipate. Emmeline Walker died. 
 In three days more she was silent for ever ! Her hopes, her 
 fears, her pangs all were silent, all buried. Five days did 
 
282 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 i?he live in tliis state of suspended consciousness taking n 
 nourishment save that which we poured down her throat by 
 main force ; and every added hour proved her less able to op 
 pose us in our labors of doubtful kindness. She sank just after 
 that last paroxysm in which she crushed the brittle glass be 
 tween her teeth. Our man of art had exhausted his slender 
 resources of skill, and, with a modesty that did not shake a con 
 fident head of power to the last moment, he soon declared his in 
 ability to help her more. But we needed not his words to give us 
 painful assurance to this effect. We saw it with our own eyes, 
 while looking into the fast-glazing orbs of hers. We knew, from 
 every symptom, that she must die. Perhaps it was as well 
 what should she live for 1 
 
 It was on the sixth day after her attack, when her powers 
 had been so far exhausted that it became somewhat doubtful at 
 moments whether she breathed or not and when, up to that 
 time, she had given no sort of heed to any of the circumstances 
 going on around her that she suddenly started, as if out of a 
 deep sleep, and turned her sad but still bright eyes, now full of 
 divine intelligence, upon me. There was " speculation" in their 
 orbs once more. The consecrating mind had returned to its 
 dwelling, though it were only to set all in order, and then dis 
 pose of it for ever. I bent forward as I saw the glance wh;ch 
 she gave me, and breathlessly asked her how she felt. 
 
 " Quite well," she answered, in a scarcely-perceptible whis 
 per "quite well, Richard; but it is so dark! Do put aside 
 that curtain, if you please. Mother has shut everything up. I 
 don t know whether it s daylight or not." 
 
 I rose and put aside the curtain ; and the waiting sunlight 
 the broken but bright beams that he sprinkled through the 
 leaves came gliding into the chamber. Her eyes bright 
 ened, as if with a natural sympathy, when she beheld them 
 She made an effort to raise herself in the bed, but sunk back 
 with an expression of pain, which slightly impressed itself upon 
 her countenance, even as a breath passes over the mirror, giving 
 a momentary stain to its purity. It was one breath of the ap 
 proaching tyrant to her the consoler. Seeing that she desired 
 to be raised, I lifted and sustained her head upon my bosom 
 tier mother asked her if she felt better. 
 
DPATH ! 1*3 
 
 Well, quite v. ell," was her answer. A minute did not 
 elapse after that, when I felt a slight shiver pass over her frame, 
 which then remained motionless. Her breathing was suspended. 
 I let her head sink back gradually upon the pillow, and, looking 
 in her face, I saw that her pure yet troubled spirit had departed 
 for cAer. Mv watching was ended. 
 
RICBAJUJ HUBDI8. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 LOVE AND REVENGE. 
 
 " I shall find time , 
 
 When you have took some comfort, I ll begin 
 To mourn his death and scourge the murderer." 
 
 T. HETWOOD, 1655. 
 
 THE ending and beginning I had seen the whole of this 
 catastrophe. We buried the poor maiden in a grove near the 
 dwelling in which her feet had often rambled with him whose 
 grave should have been beside her. There was nothing more 
 for me to do there was no reason why^I should linger ir, 
 Marengo ; and I resolved once more to leave it. As yet, my 
 error remained unconnected in regard to Mary Easterby. I 
 still deemed her the affianced wife of John Hurdis ; and some 
 times wondering why he came not with her to the dwelling of 
 Emmeline Walker, and sometimes doubting their alliance, from 
 little signs and circumstances, which now and then occurred to 
 my observation, I was still impressed with the conviction that 
 there was no more hope for me. I escorted her home after the 
 burial of Emmeline, and sad and sweet was our conference by 
 the way. We rode together, side by side on horseback, and we 
 soon left the animals to their own motion, which was gratefully 
 sluggish to me. I will not say whether I thought it so to her, 
 but, at least, she gave no symptoms of impatience, nor made 
 any effort to accelerate the movements of her steed. It v* ill 
 not, perhaps, be assuming too much, to suppose that, in s< u:o 
 large respects, our thoughts and feelings ran together in satisili-.l 
 companionship. We were both deeply affected and subdued Ly 
 the cruel events to which we had been witnesses. There w.-is 
 a dreadful warning to hope, and love, and youth, in tlfe H;:<! 
 history which has been written, and which we were forced tr 
 
LOVE AND REVENGE. 285 
 
 read in every stage of its performance. Never could morality 
 teach more terribly to youth its own uncertainties, and the 
 mutations hanging around that deity whose altar of love it is 
 in >st apt to seek in worship. How evanescent to our eyes 
 seemed then all our images of delight. The sunlight, which 
 was bright and beautiful around us making a " bridal of earth 
 and sky," we looked upon with doubt and apprehension as a 
 delusion which must only woo to vanish. We spoke together 
 ol tlie.se things; and what, it may be asked, was the conclusion 
 of all this sombrous reflection? Did it make either of us for 
 swear the world and hope? Did it make either of us more 
 doubtful and desponding than before ? No ! Its effects were 
 softening and subduing, not overthrowing not destructive of 
 any of those altars, to which love brings wreaths that wither, 
 and offers vows that are rejected or forgotten. We* lost not one 
 hope or dream of youth. We gave freedom to none of our 
 anticipations. Even the lessons taught us by the death of those 
 who, loving in life so fondly, in death were not divided, were 
 lessons of love. The odor of the sacrifice made amends for the 
 consumption by fire of the rich offerings which were upon the 
 altar ; and love lost none of his loveliness either in her eyes or 
 mine, because, in this instance, as in a thousand others, it had 
 failed to rescue its votaries from the grasp of a more certain, if 
 not a greater power. The lesson which was taught us by the 
 fate of Emmeline Walker, made us esteem still more highly 
 the sacred influence, which could consecrate so sweet and pure 
 a spirit to immortality, and lead it, without struggle or reluc 
 tance, into the brazen jaws of death. What a triumph to youth, 
 to fancy, to reflection, was the thought which portrayed a power 
 so wonderful so valuable to those who more than love already. 
 
 " I will see you before I leave Marengo, Mary," was my 
 promise on leaving her that evening. 
 
 " What ! you mean to leave us, again, Richard ?" was her 
 involuntary and very earnest demand. " Oh ! do not, Richard 
 wherefore would you go? Why would you encounter such 
 cruel risks as befell poor William ? Stay with us leave us not 
 again." 
 
 With aii "Iterance and movement, equally involuntary, I 
 took her hand and replied : 
 
286 RK:HAUU nunois. 
 
 A\id would you have me stay, Mary? Wherefore.? What 
 reward can yon give ? what is there now in your power to give 
 that could bribe me to compliance?" 
 
 I paused just at the time when I should have spoken freely. 
 To \\hat I had said, she could make no answer; yet she had 
 lu-r answer ready to what I might have said. But I said noth 
 ing, and she made no reply. Yet, could I have seen it! had 
 I not been still the blind and besotted slave and victim to my 
 own jaundicing and jealous apprehensions, the blush upon her 
 cheek, the tremor upon her lip, the downcast and shaded eye, 
 the faltering accent all these would have conveyed an an 
 swer, which migbt have made me happy then. And yet these 
 persuasive signs did not utterly escape my sight. I felt them, 
 and wondered at them and was almost tempted, in the new 
 warmth of heart which they brought me, to declare my affec 
 tions, but for the thought that it would be unseemly to do so, 
 at a moment when we had just left the chamber of death, and 
 beheld the last gleam of life pass from the eyes of loveliness 
 and youth. Fool that I was, as if love did not plant his roses 
 even on the grave of his worshipper, and find his most flourish 
 ing soil in the heart of the beloved one. 
 
 That night my mother drew me aside, and asked me with 
 some significance, what had passed between Mary and myself. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " What ! have you not spoken ?" 
 
 " Of what ?" 
 
 " Of your love ! " 
 
 " No ! Why should you think it, mother ? What reason ? 
 Is she not engaged to John ? is that matter broken off?" 
 
 " I think it is he has not been to see her for a week." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 " And have you not seen, my son, how sad she looks ? she 
 has looked so ever since you went away." 
 
 " That may be only because he has not been to see her, 
 mother; or, it may be, because of the affliction which she has 
 been compelled to witness." 
 
 " Well, Richard, I won t say that it is not, and yet, my son, 
 I m somehow inclined to think that yon could have her for the 
 asking;." 
 
LOVE AND REVENUE. 287 
 
 * Do you think so, mother, and yet even if it were so 
 mother, I would not ask. The woman who lias once accepted 
 the hand of John Hurdis, though she afterward rejects him, if 
 not the woman for me." 
 
 "But, Richard, I m not so sure now, that she ever did accept 
 him. There was that poor woman, Mrs. Pickett, only a few 
 days ago came here, and she took particular pains to let me 
 know that Mary and John were never half so near together, to 
 use her own words, as Mary and yourself." 
 
 " How could she know anything about it ?" was my reply. 
 
 " Well, I don t know ; but I can tell you, she s a very know 
 ing woman " 
 
 " She would scarcely be the confidant of Mary, nevertheless." 
 
 " But you will see Mary, Richard you will try ?" 
 
 i; If I thought, mother, that she and John had never been 
 engaged if I knew that. But I will see her." 
 
 The promise satisfied both my mother and myself for the 
 time; and I now gave myself up to reflection, in solitude, as a 
 new task had been forced upon me, by the circumstances of the 
 few past days. 1 had suffered more in mind from beholding the 
 misery and madness of Emmcline Walker, than it would be 
 manly to avow ; and there was one portion of this tragedy 
 which more than any other, impressed itself upon me. 1 was 
 haunted by the continual presence of the lovely maniac, as she 
 appeared at the moment when she denounced me as deserting 
 my friend, exposing and leaving him to peril, and finally, suffer 
 ing his murder to go unavenged. The more I thought upon 
 this last passage of her angry speech, the more impressively did 
 it take the shape of moral requisition. I strove seriously to 
 examine it as a question of duty, whether I was bound to go 
 upon this errand of retribution or not, and the answers of mv 
 mind were invariably and inevitably the same. Shall the mur 
 derer go unpunished shall so heinous a crime remain una 
 venged? Are there no claims of friendship of manhood 
 upon you 1 The blood of the innocent calls upon you. The 
 indignities which you yourself have undergone these call 
 upou you. But a louder call upon you than all, is the demand 
 of Society. She calls upon you to ferret out these lurkcrs upon 
 the highway to bring then; to justice that the innocent travel- 
 
^88 RICHARD EIURDIS. 
 
 ler may not oe shot down from the thicket, in the sunshine, ii. 
 the warm morning of youth, and hope, and confidence. True 
 the laws of man do not summon .you forth on this mission; 
 but is there no stronger voice in your heart inciting you to the 
 sacred work ? The brave man waits not for his country s sum 
 mons to take the field against the foreign enemy shall he need 
 her call when his friend is slain almost by his side ; and when 
 sworn foes to friendship, and truth, and love, and all the social 
 virtues, lurk in bands around their several homes to prey upon 
 them as they unconsciously come forth ? Can you doubt that it 
 is your duty to seek and exterminate these wretches ? You say 
 that is the duty of others no less than of yourself; but does 
 the neglect of others to perform their duties, render yours 
 unnecessary or release you ? On the contrary, does it not 
 make it more incumbent upon you to do more than would be 
 your duty under other circumstances, and to supply, as much as 
 lies in your power, their deficiencies] Such was the reasoning 
 of my own mind on this subject ; and it forced conviction upon 
 me. In the woods where I had meditated the matter, I made 
 my vow to the avenging deities. 
 
 " I will seek the murderers, so help me Heaven ! I wiL 
 suffer not one of them to escape, if it be within the scope oi 
 my capacity and arm, to bring them to justice." And, eve| 
 upon the ground where I had made this resolution, I kneeled 
 and prayed for the requisite strength and encouragement from 
 Heaven in the execution of my desperate vow. 
 
 This resolution induced another, and endued me with a courage 
 which before I had not felt. Conceiving myself a destined man, 
 I overleaped, at a moment, all the little boundaries of false deli 
 cacy, morbid sensibility, and mere custom, which before, had, 
 perhaps, somewhat taken from my natural hue of resolution 
 and the next day I rode over to the house of Mary Easterby. 
 A complete change by this time had taken place in my feelings 
 in one respect. I was no longer apprehensive of what I said 
 in speaking to Mary. I now proceeded as if in compliance 
 with a prescribed law; and asking her to walk with me, I led 
 ler direitly to the favi.iite walk which, in our childhood, our 
 own feet ihiefly had beaten out in the forests. I conducted her 
 \most b silence to the huge fallen tree -which had formed the 
 
LOVE AND REVENGE. 28 
 
 boundary of our previous rambles, and seated her upon it, and 
 myself beside her, as I had done a thousand times before. 
 
 "And now, Mary," I said, taking her hand, "I have a seri 
 ous question to ask you, and beg that yon will answer it with 
 the same unhesitating directness with which I ask it. Your 
 answer will nearly affect my future happiness." 
 
 I paused, but she was silent evidently through emotion 
 and I continued thus : 
 
 "You know me too well to suppose that I would say or do 
 anything to offend you, and certainly you will believe mo when 
 I assure you that it is no idle curiosity which prompts me to ask 
 the question which I will now propose." 
 
 A slight pressure of her fingers upon my wrist, her hand be 
 ing clasped the while in mine, was my sufficient and encour 
 aging answer, and I then boldly asked if she was or had been 
 engaged to John Ilurdis? Her answer, as r e reader must 
 anticpate, was unequivocally in the negative, hi the next mo 
 ment she was in my arms she was mine ! Tl.rn followed ex 
 planations which did away, as by a breath, with a hundred little 
 circumstances of my own jaundiced judgment, and of my broth 
 er s evil instigation, which for months 1 had looked upon as 
 insuperable barriers. For the part which John Ilurdis had in 
 raising them, I was at that moment quite too happy not to forgive 
 him. I now proceeded to tell Mary of my contemplated jour 
 ney, but not of its objects. This 1 kept from the knowledge of all 
 around me, for its successful prosecution, I had already well con 
 ceived, could only result from the secrecy with which I pursued 
 it. Nor did I suffer her to know the direction of country in 
 which I proposed to travel ; this caution was due to my general 
 plan, and called for, at the same time, by her natural apprehen 
 sions, which would have been greatly alarmed to know that I 
 was about to go into a region where my friend had been so in 
 humanly murdered. I need not say that she urged every argu 
 ment to keep me in Marengo. She pleaded her own attachment, 
 which, having once avowed, she now delighted in ; and urged 
 every consideration wh u-h might be supposed available among, 
 the thoughts of a young maiden unwilling to let her lover go, 
 But my resolve had been too seriously and solemnly taken. " I 
 had ail oath in heaven !" and no tics, even such, so dear ones, 
 
290 RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 as those which I -had just formed, could make me desire escape 
 from it if I could. She was compelled to yield the contest, since 
 I assured her that my resolution was no less imperative than rny 
 engagements ; hut I promised to return soon, and our marriage, 
 was finally arranged for that period. What an hour of bliss 
 was that, in those deep groves, under that prevailing silence ! 
 What an Elysium had suddenly grown up around me! I low 
 potent was the magician which could make us forget the graves 
 upon which we stood, and the blood still flowing around us. 
 dreaming only of those raptures which, in the fortunes of two 
 other fond creatures like ourselves, had so suddenly been de 
 feated ! In that hour, I thought not of the dangers 1 was about 
 to undergo, and she the dear girl hanging on my bosom, and 
 shedding tears of pleasure she seemed to forget that earth 
 ever contained a tomb ! 
 
 Next morning, after we had taken breakfast, I strolled down 
 the avenue to the entrance, and was suddenly accosted by a 
 man whom I had never seen before. He rode up with an air 
 of confidence, and asked me if I was Mr. Ilurdis Mr. John 
 .Ilurdis? I replied in the negative, but offered to show him the 
 way to the house, where he would find the person whom he 
 Bought. We met John coming forth. 
 
 "That is your man, sir," said I to the stranger, lie thanked 
 me, and instantly ndvaneed to my brother. 1 could not help 
 being a spectator, for I was compelled to pass them in order to 
 enter the house; and my attention was doubly fixed by the 
 singular manner in which the stranger offered John Ilurdis his 
 hand. The manner of the thing seemed also to provoke the 
 astonishment of .John, himself, who looked at me with surprise 
 amounting to consternation. I \\as almost disposed to laugh 
 out at the idiot stare with which he transferred his gaze from 
 me to the stranger, and to me again, for the expression seemed 
 absolutely ludicrous; but I was on terms of too much civility 
 with my brother to exhibit any siu-h unnecessary familiarity: 
 and, passing into the house, I left the two together. Their 
 business seemed of a private nature, for thev went into the 
 neighboring woods to finish it; and .John Ilurdis did not return 
 from the interview, until I had set forth a second time on my 
 travels. The meaning: of this conference, and the cause of that 
 
ANO REVENGE. 291 
 
 singular approach of the stranger, which awakened so much 
 seeming astonishment in the face, of John Html is, will be suffi 
 ciently explained hereafter. Little did I then imagine the na- 
 Uire of that business which I had undertaken, and of the mys 
 terious developments of crime to which my inquiries would 
 I wul me. 
 
RICHAIID HUIL!1^ 
 
 UNIVER- 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 DKSPAIR OF TIIK VICTIMS 
 
 " What! thou dost quit me then 
 In the first llnsh of my necessity, 
 The danger yet at distance." Captive. 
 
 IT was, peril aps, an earnest of success in the. pursuit which 1 
 had undertaken, that I did not underrate, to myself, its many 
 difficulties. I felt that I would have to contend with experi 
 enced cunning and probably superior strength that nothing 
 but the utmost adroitness and self-control could possibly enable 
 me to effect my purposes. My first object was to alter rny per 
 sonal appearance, so as to defeat all chance of recognition bv 
 any of the villains with whom I had previously come in collis 
 ion. This was a work calling for much careful consideration. 
 To go down to Mobile, change my clothes, and adopt such 
 fashions as would more completely disguise me, were rny imme 
 diate designs ; and I pushed mv way to this, my first post, with 
 all speed, and without any interruption. My first care, in Mo 
 bile, was to sell my horse, which I did, for one hundred and 
 eighty dollars. 1 had now nearly five hundred dollars in pos 
 session a small pan in silver, the rest in United States bank, 
 Alabama, and Louisiana notes, all of which were equally cur 
 rent. I soon procured a coupJe of entire suits, as utterly differ 
 ent from anything I had previously worn as possible. Then, 
 having a proper regard to the usual decoration of the professed 
 gamblers of our country, I entered a jeweller s establishment, 
 and bought sundry bunches of seals, a tawdry watch, a huge 
 chain of doubtful, but sold as virgin, gold ; and some breast 
 pins ami shirt-buttons of saucer size. To those who had per 
 sonally known me before, I was well assured that no disguise 
 would have been more perfect than that afforded by these trin- 
 
DISPAIIl OF THE VICTIMS. 203 
 
 feets; but, when, in addition to these and tlio other changes in 
 my h.ibit, of which I have spoken, I state that my beard waa 
 suffered to grow goat-like, after the most approved models of 
 dandyism, under the chin, in curling masses, and my whiskers, 
 in rival magnificence, were permitted to overrun my cheeks 
 I trust that I shall be believed, when I aver that after a few 
 weeks space, I scarcely knew myself. I had usually been 
 rather fastidious in keeping a smooth cheek and chin, and I 
 doubt very much, whether my own father ever beheld a two 
 days beard upon me, from the day that I found myself man 
 enough to shave at all, to the present. The more I contempla 
 ted my own appearance, the more sanguine I became of success; 
 and I lingered in Mobile a little time longer, in order to give 
 beard and whiskers a fair opportunity to overrun a territory 
 which before had never shown its stubble. When this time 
 was elapsed, my visage was quite Siberian ; a thick cap of 
 otter-skin, which I now procured, fully completed mv northern 
 disguises, and, exchanging my pistols at a hardware establish 
 ment, for others not so good, but for which 1 had to give some 
 considerable boot, I felt myself fairly ready for my perilous ad 
 venture. It called for some resolution to go forward when the 
 time came for my departure, and when I thought of the dan 
 gers before me; but, when, in the next instant, 1 thought of 
 the murder of my friend, and of the sad fate of his betrothed, 
 my resolution of vengeance was renewed. 1 tvlt that 1 had an 
 oath in Heaven sworn registered; and 1 repeated it on 
 earth ! 
 
 Let me now return, for an instant, to the condition of my 
 worthy brother, and relate some/passages, in their proper place 
 in this narrative, which, however, did not come to my knowledge 
 for some time after. The reader will remember my meeting 
 with the stranger at the entrance of the avenue leading to my 
 father s house, who asked for John Ilurdis, and to whom I in 
 troduced him. It will also be remembered that I remarked the 
 surprise, nay almost consternation, which his appearance and 
 address seemed to produce in my brother s countenance. There 
 was a reason for all this, though I dreamed not of it then. John 
 Hurdishad good cause for the terrors, which, at that time, I found 
 rather ludicrous, and was almost disposed to laugh at. They went 
 
294 RICHARD HURDTS. 
 
 together into the woods, and, as T loft, tlio plantation for Mobile 
 an hour after, I saw no more of either of them on that occasion 
 The business of the stranger may best be told in John Ilnrdlft l 
 own words. Th.it very afternoon he went to the cottage of 
 Piekett, whom he summoned forth, as was his custom, by a sig 
 nal agreed upon between them. When together, in a voice of 
 great agitation, John began the dialogue as follows : 
 
 " I am ruined, Pickett ruined, undone for ever ! Who do 
 von think has come to me presented himself at the very house, 
 and demanded to see me?" 
 
 Pickett looked up, but exhibited no sort of surprise at this 
 speech, as he replied by a simple inquiry : " Who ?" 
 
 " A messenger from this d d confederacy. A fellow with 
 his cursed signs and a summons to meet the members at some 
 place to which he is to give me directions at a future time. 1 
 run required to be in readiness to go Heaven knows where, and 
 to meet with Heaven knows who to do Heaven knows what !" 
 
 I ickett answered coolly enough, and with an air of resigna 
 tion to his fate, which confounded Ilurdis: 
 
 " He has been to me too, and given me the same notice." 
 
 Ha! and what did you tell him what answer what an 
 swer ?" 
 
 That T would come that I was always ready. I suppose 
 you told him so, likewise?" 
 
 44 Ay you may well suppose it what else, in the name of 
 all the fiends, could I tell him. I have no help T must sub 
 mit I am at their mercy thanks to your bungling, Ben 
 Pickett you have drawn us both into. a bog which is closing 
 apon us like a gulf. I told him as you told him, though it was 
 \n the gall of bitterness that I felt myself forced to say so much, 
 v hat I would obey the summons and be ready when the time 
 came to meet the mystic, confederacy. Hell s curses upon 
 their confederates and mystery that 1 V-MS at their disposal 
 as I was at their mercy, to go as they bid me, and do as they 
 commanded T was their servant their slave, their ox, their 
 iss, their anything. Death! death! that I should move my 
 tongue to such admission, and feel my feet bound in obedience 
 with my tongue." 
 
 " It s mighty hard, squire, but it s no use getting into a pas- 
 
DESPAIR OP THE VICTIMS. 295 
 
 sion about it. We re in, and. like the horse in the mire, we 
 mustn t think to bolt, till we re out of it. * 
 
 "It s mighty hard, and no use getting in a passion," said 
 Ilurdis ironically, and with bitterness repeating the words of 
 his companion. " "Well, I know not, Ben Pickett, what situa 
 tion would authorize a man in becoming angry and passionate 
 if this docs not. You ??em to take it coolly, however. You re 
 more of a philosopher,! see, than I can ever hope to make myself." 
 
 "Well, squire, it s my notion," said the other, "that what s 
 not to be helped by grumbling, will hurt the grumbler. I ve 
 found it so always ; and now that I think of it, squire, there s 
 less reason for you to grumble and complain than anybody I 
 know ; and as it s just as well to speak the truth first as last, I 
 may say now once for all, that it was you that bungled, not me, 
 or we shouldn t have got into this bog; or we might have got 
 out of it. 
 
 "Indeed! ! bungle, and how, I pray you, Mr. Pickett? 
 Wasn t it you that was caught in your own ambush ?" 
 
 " Yes but who sent me ? I was doing your business, squire, 
 as well as I could ; and if you didn t like my ability, why did 
 you trust it? Why didn t you go yourself? I didn t want to 
 kill Richard Ilurdis I wasn t his brother." 
 
 " And then to mistake your man too that was another spe 
 cimen of your bungling." 
 
 " Look you, squire, the less you say about that matter, the 
 better for both of us. The bungling is but a small part of that 
 business that I m sorry for. I m sorry for the whole of it, and 
 if sorrow could put back the life in Bill Carrington s heart, and 
 be security for Dick Hurdis s hereafter, they d both live for 
 ever for me. But if I was such a bungler at first, squire, there s 
 one thing I may tell you, and tell you plainly. I was never 
 afraid to pull trigger, when everything depended on it. The 
 cure for all my bungling was in your own hands. When the 
 man first talked with us in these same woods, under them Mil- 
 lows, what did I say to you? Didn t I offer to close with him, 
 if you d only agree to use your pistol ? And wasn t you afraid ?" 
 
 "I was not afraid it was prudence only that made me put 
 it off," said Ilurdis hastily. 
 
 " And what made you put it off when you waylaid him in 
 
296 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 Ten-Mile Branch ? No, squire, as you confessed yourself, it 
 was because you were afraid to shoot, though everything hung 
 on that one fire. Had you tumbled that fellow, we hadn t seen 
 this ; and if it had been convenient for me to have done it, as 
 God s my judge. I d much rather have put the bullet through a 
 dozen fellows like that, than through one clever chap like Bill 
 Carrington. That s a business troubles me, squire ; and more 
 than once since he s been covered, I ve seen him walk over my 
 path, leaving a cold chill all along the track behind him." 
 
 " Pshaw, Ben, at your ghosts again." 
 
 " No, squire, they re at me. But let s talk no more about it. 
 What can t be undone, may as well be let alone. We must 
 work out our troubles as we can ; and the worst trouble to our 
 thoughts is, that we have worked ourselves into them. We 
 have nobody but ourselves to blame." 
 
 The manner of Pickett had become somewhat dogged and 
 inflexible, and it warned Hurdis, who was prompt in observing 
 the changes of temper in his neighbor, to be more considerate 
 in his remarks, and more conciliating in his tone of utterance. 
 
 " Well, but Ben, what is to be done ? What are we to do 
 about this summons ? How shall we get over it ? how avoid it ?" 
 
 " Avoid it ! I don t think to avoid it, squire." 
 
 " What ! you intend to go when they call you ?" 
 
 "Certainly what can I do ] Don t you intend to go* 
 Did you not promise obedience ?" 
 
 " Yes, but I never thought of going. My hope was, that 
 something might turn up between this and then, that would in 
 terpose for my safety. Indeed I never thought of anything at 
 the moment, but how best to get rid of the emissary." 
 
 " That s the smallest matter of all," said Pickett. 
 
 " Now it is," replied Ilurdis, " but it was not then, for 1 
 dreaded lest some one should ask his business. Besides, he 
 was brought up to me by Ilichard, and his keen eyes seem al 
 ways to look through me when he speaks. As you say, to get 
 rid of him is in truth a small business, to getting rid of his gang. 
 How can that be done is the question ] I had hope when I 
 same to you 
 
 The other interrupted him hastily. 
 
 "Don t come to me for hope, squire; I should bungle, per 
 
DESPAIR OF THE VICTIMS. 297 
 
 haps, in what I advise you to do, or in what I do for you my 
 self. Let us each paddle our canoes apart. I m a poor man 
 that can t hope to manage well the business of a rich one ; and 
 as I ve done so badly for you before, it won t be wise in you to 
 employ me again. Indeed, for that matter, I won t be employ 
 ed by you again. It s hard enough to do evil for another, and 
 much harder, to get no thanks for it." 
 
 "P.shaw, Ben, you re in your sulks now think better of it, 
 my friend. Don t mind a harsh word a hasty word uttered 
 when I was angry, and without meaning." 
 
 "I don t mind that, squire I wish it was as easy to forget 
 all the rest, as to forgive that. But the blood, squire the 
 blood that is on my hands blood that I didn t mean to spill, 
 squire tis that makes me angry and sulky so that I don t 
 care what comes up. It s all one to me what happens now." 
 
 " But this fellow, Ben. You say you have resolved to comply 
 with the summons, and to go when they call for you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And what am I to do ?" 
 
 "The same, I suppose. I m ready to go now; and I give 
 you the last counsel, squire, which I think I ever will give 
 you, and that is to make the best of a bad situation do with 
 a good grace what you can t help doing, and it will go the bet 
 ter with you. They can t have any good reason to expose a 
 man of family to shame, and they will keep your secret so long 
 as you obey their laws." 
 
 "But suppose they command me to commit crime to rob, 
 to murder ? " 
 
 "Well then you must ask yourself which you d prefer to 
 obey or to swing. It s an easy question." 
 
 "On all sides -the pit the fire the doom!" was the piti 
 able and despairing exclaimation of Ilurdis, as he clasped his 
 forehead with his hands, and closed his eyes against the terrors 
 which his imagination brought before them. Suddenly recur 
 ring, he asked 
 
 "But why, Ben, do you say this is the last counsel which 
 you will give me? You do not mean to suffer a hasty and 
 foolish word, for which I have already uttered my regrets, to 
 operate in your mind ng-)i:v-t m<j - 
 
298 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 "No, Squire Hurdis, I don t mind the words of contempt 
 that you rich men utter for the poor ; if I did, 1 should be mis 
 erable enough myself, and make many others more so. That s 
 gone out of my mind, and, as I tell you, I forget it all when I 
 think of those worse matters which I can t so well forgot." 
 
 " Why, then, say you will counsel me no more ?" 
 
 " Because I m about to leave Marengo for ever." 
 
 "Ha! remove! where when?" 
 
 In three days, squire, I ll be off, bag and baggage, for the 
 nation. My wife s ripe for it ; she s been at me a long time 
 to be off from a place where nobody knows any good of me. 
 Ind I have heard a good deal about the nation. " 
 
 "And what will you do there for a livelihood?" 
 
 " Well, just what I can ; try, at least, to live a little more 
 honestly than I did here or more respectably, which is not 
 often the same thing." 
 
 " But do you expect, when there, to evade this confederacy ? 
 Hurdis eagerly demanded. 
 
 "No I have no such hope." 
 
 " How, then, can you hope to live more honestly ?" 
 
 " More respectably, I may." 
 
 " They will summon you to do their crimes." 
 
 " I will do them." 
 
 " What ! shed more blood at a time when you are troubled 
 for what s already done ?" 
 
 "Yes I will obey where I can not escape; but I will ao 
 no crime of that sort again on my own account nothing which 
 I am not forced to do. But if they say, Strike, I will do so 
 as readily as if it was the best action which they commanded. 
 I will cut the throat of my best friend at their bidding ; for you 
 see, squire, I have been so long knocked about in the world 
 now to one side, now to another, like a clumsy log going down 
 stream that I m now quite indifferent, I may say, to all the 
 chances of the current, and I ll just go wherever it may drive 
 me. This confederacy can t make me worse than I have been 
 than I am and it increases my security and strength. It 
 gives me more certain means and greater power ; and, if 1 am 
 to be forced, I will make what use I can of the power that 
 forces ma 
 
DESFATK OF THE VICTIMS. 291 
 
 " But, Ben, such a resolution will make you a willing and 
 active member of tins clan." 
 
 " Surely !" said the other indifferently. 
 
 "All your old interests and friendships, Ben, would be for 
 saken, rooted up " 
 
 "Ay, uquire, and my old friends just as liable to my bullet 
 ami knife as my enemies, if the command of the confederacy 
 required me to use them. You yourself, squire though we 
 have worked together for a long time even you I would not 
 spare, if they required me to shed your blood ; and you will 
 ^;>e from this that there is no hope for you unless you comply 
 >vith the summons, and heartily give yourself up to the interests 
 of the whole fraternity." 
 
 Ilurdis was stricken dumb by this frank avowal of his asso 
 ciate. He had no more to say ; and, with a better understand 
 ing of each other than either had ever possessed before, there 
 was now a wall between them, over which neither at the pres 
 ent moment seemed willing to look. 
 
 In three days more, Pickett with all his family was on his 
 way toward the ** nation," where, it may be added in this place, 
 he had already made arrangements with the emissary for a 
 more active co-operation with the members of the " Mystic 
 Confederacy." His destiny, which forced him into the bosom 
 of this clan, seemed thoroughly to yield to his desire. The buf 
 feting of the world, of which he had spoken, had only made 
 him the more indifferent to the loveliness of virtue more reck 
 less of the risk, and less averse to the natural repulsivenenb, of 
 vice. 
 
00 RICiTAKD liUttUIa. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 AMONG THE ENEMY. 
 
 " He seemed 
 
 For dignity composed, and high exploit; 
 But all was false and hollow." MILTON. 
 
 it oroper for me to pause in my narrative for the pur 
 pose of moial reflection, how naturally would the destitute con 
 dition of the criminal, as instanced in the case of John Ilurdis, 
 present itself for comment ! Perhaps the greatest penalty which 
 vice ever suffers is its isolation its isolation from friends and 
 fellowship from warm trust, from yielding confidence. Its 
 only resources are in the mutual interests of other and perhaps 
 greater criminals, and what is there in life so unstable as the 
 interests of the vicious 1 How they fluctuate with the approach 
 of danger, or the division of the spoil, or the drunkenness of 
 heart and habit which their very destitution in all social respects 
 must necessarily originate ! When John Hurdis separated 
 from his late colleague, who had taught him that they were no 
 longer bound to each other by mutual necessities, he felt as if 
 the last stay, in the moment of extremity, was suddenly taken 
 from him. A sickness of soul came over him, and that despaii 
 of the spirit which the falling wretch endures in the brief in 
 stant when, catching at the impending limb, he finds it yielding 
 the moment that his hold is sure upon it, and, in its decay, be 
 traying utterly the last fond hope which had promised him 
 security and life. 
 
 But, enough of this: my journey is begun. I entered a 
 steamboat one fair morning, and, with promising auspices, so 
 far as our voyage is considered, we went forward swimmingly 
 enough. But our b-jat was an old one a wretched hulk, which 
 having worked wt its term of responsible service in the Missis 
 
AMONG THE ENEMY. SOI 
 
 sippi, had been sent round to Mobile, at the instance of cupidity, 
 to beguile unwitting passengers like myself to their ruin. She 
 was a piece of patchwork throughout, owned by a professional 
 gambler, a little Israelite, who took the command without know 
 ing anything about it, and, by dint of good fortune, carried us 
 safely to our journey s end. Not that we had not some little 
 stoppages and troubles by the way. Some portion of the 
 machinery got out of order, and we landed at Demopolis. built 
 a fire, erected a sort of forge, and in the space of half a day and 
 night repaired the accident. This incident would not be worth 
 relating, but that it exhibits the readiness with which our wild 
 est and least scientific people can find remedies for disasters 
 which would seem to call for great skill and most extensive 
 preparations. 
 
 On the eleventh day we reached Columbus; but, in the mean 
 time, practising my new resolves, I made an acquaintance on 
 board the boat. This was an old gentleman, a puritan of the 
 bluest complexion, whom nobody would have suspected of being 
 a rogue. Setting out to seek for and meet with none but rogues, 
 he yet nearly deceived me by his sanctity ; and had I not main 
 tained my watchfulness a little longer than I deemed necessary 
 myself, I should have taken it for granted that he was a saint 
 of the most accepted order, and, if 1 had not committed my se 
 cret to his keeping, I should at least have so far involved its 
 importance as to make my labor unavailing. Fortunately, as I 
 said, having put on the dress common to the gamblers of the 
 great Mississippi valley, as much of their easy impudence of de 
 meanor as I could readily assume, I succeeded as effectually in 
 convincing my puritan that I was a rogue, as he did in persua 
 ding me at the beginning that he was an honest man. It was 
 my good fortune to find out his secret first, and to keep my own. 
 It so happened that there were several passengers, like myself, 
 bound for Columbus, on the Tombeckbe, to which place ouj 
 boat was destined. As customary at that time, we had no 
 sooner got fairly under way, before cards were produced, and 
 one fellow, whose lungs and audacity were greater than the 
 
302 RICUARD IIUKDIS. 
 
 challenge. I had provided myself in Mobile with several packs, 
 and, taking a couple of them in hand, I went forward to the 
 table, which meanwhile had been drawn out in the cabin, and 
 coolly surveyed my companions. Our puritan came forward at 
 the same moment, and in the gravest terms and tones protested 
 against our playing. 
 
 "My young friends," he cried, "let me beg you not to en 
 gage in this wicked amusement. Cards are as it has been 
 often and well said cards are the prayer-books of the devil. 
 It is by these that he wins souls daily to his gloomy kingdom. 
 Night and day he is busy in these arts to entrap the unwary, 
 whom he blinds and beguiles, until, when they open their eyes 
 at last, the} open them in dwellings of damnation. Oh, my 
 dear children, do not venture to follow him so far! Cast the 
 temptation from you defy the, tempter; and, in place of these 
 dangerous instruments of sin, hearken, I pray you, to the goodly 
 outpourings of a divine spirit. If you will but suffer me to 
 choose for you a text from this blessed volume " 
 
 Here he took a small pocket-bible from his bosom, and was 
 about to turn the leaves, when a cry from all around me silenced 
 him in his homily, which promised to be sufficiently unctuous 
 and edifying : 
 
 " No text, no text !" was the general voice ; " none of the 
 parson, none of the parson !" 
 
 " Nay, my beloved children " the preacher began, but a 
 tall, good-humored looking fellow a Georgian, with the full 
 face, lively eyes, and clear skin, of that state came up to him, 
 and laid his broad hand over his mouth. 
 
 " Shut up, parson, it s no use. You can t be heard now, for 
 you see it s only civility to let the devil have the floor, seeing 
 he was up first. If, now, you had been quick enough with 
 your prayer-book, and got the whip-hand of him, d n my eyes, 
 but you should have sung out your song to the end of the 
 verses; but you ve been slow, parson you ve been sleeping at 
 your stand, and the deer s got round you. You ll get smoked 
 by the old one, yourself, if you don t mind, for neglecting your 
 duty." 
 
 " Peace, vain young man ! " 
 
 Ho was about to begin a furious denunciation, but was al* 
 
AMONG THE ENEMY. .303 
 
 lowed to proceed no further. The clamor was unanimous around 
 him ; and one tall fellow, somewhat dandyishly accoutred, like 
 myself, coming forward, made a show of seizing upon the ex 
 horter. Here 1 interposed. 
 
 " No violence, gentlemen ; it s enough that we have silenced 
 the man let him not be hurt." 
 
 "Ay, if he will keep quiet," said the fellow, still threatening. 
 
 " Oh, quiet or not," said the Georgian, " we mustn t hurt the 
 parson. Dang it, he shan t be hurt ! I ll stand up for him. 
 Parson, I ll stand up for you ; but, by the hokey, old black, you 
 must keep your oven close !" 
 
 I joined in promising that he would be quiet, and offer no 
 further interruption ; and he so far seemed to warrant our assu 
 rance as, without promising himself, to take a seat, after a few 
 half -suppressed groans, on a bench near the table on which we 
 were about to play. I was first struck with suspicion of the 
 fellow by this fact. If the matter were so painful to his spirit, 
 why did lie linger in our neighborhood when there were so 
 many parts of the boat to which he might have retreated ? The 
 suspicion grew stronger when I found him, after a little while 
 as watchfully attentive to the progress of the game as any of 
 the players. 
 
 Favorably impressed with the frankness of the Georgian, 1 
 proposed that we should play against the other two persons 
 who were prepared to sit down to the table, and my offer was 
 closed with instantly. We bet, on each hand, on the highest 
 trump, and on the game with each of our opponents, a dollar 
 being the amount of each bet, so that we had a good many dol 
 lars staked on the general result of the game. I know that I 
 lost nine dollars before the cards had been thrice dealt. I now 
 proceeded to try some of the tricks which I had seen others 
 perform, and in particular that in which the dealer, by a pecu 
 liar mode of shuffling, divides the trumps between his partner 
 and himself.-* My object was, to fix the attention of one of my 
 opponents, whom I suspected from the first to be no better than 
 lie should be, simply because he wore a habit not unlike my 
 own, and was covered with trinkets in the same manner. But 
 I lacked experience : there was still a trick wanting, which no 
 bleight-of-haud mine could remedy. Though I shuffled th? 
 
04 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 cards as I had seen them shuffled, by drawing them alternately 
 from top to bottom together, I found neither mine nor my part- 
 ner t* hand any better than before ; and looking np, with some 
 affected chagrin in my countenance, I caught sight of what 
 seemed to be an understanding smile between the opponent in 
 question and the parson, who, sitting a little on one side of me, 
 was able to look, if he desired it, into my hand. This discov 
 ery as I thought it gave me no little pleasure. I was re 
 solved to test it, and ascertain how far I was correct in my sus 
 picions. I flattered myself that I was in a fair way to fail upon 
 the clue whir h might conduct me into the very midst of the 
 gamblers, who are all supposed to be connected more or less on 
 the western waters, and yield me possession of their secrets. 
 Accordingly, I displayed certain of my cards ostentatiously be 
 fore the eyes of the preacher, and had occasion to observe, an 
 instant after, that the play of my opponent seemed to be regu 
 lated by a certain knowledge of my hand. He finessed con 
 stantly upon my lead, and with an adroitness which compelled 
 the continual expression of wonder and dissatisfaction from the 
 lips of my partner. I was satisfied, so far, with the result ->f 
 my experiment, and began to think of pausing before T pro 
 ceeded further; when my Georgian dashed down his cards as 
 the game was ended against us, and cried out to me, with a 
 countenance which, though flushed, was yet full of most excel 
 lent feeling : 
 
 " Look you, stranger, suppose we change. We don t seen: 
 to have luck together, and there s no fun in being all the time 
 on the losing side. The bad luck may be with me, or it maj 
 be with you, I don t say, but it can do no harm to shift it tc 
 other shoulders, whoever has it. I ve been diddled out of 
 twenty-six hard dollars in mighty short order." 
 
 "Diddled !" exclaimed my brother dandy, with fin air of 
 ineffable heroism, turning to my partner. Without discom 
 posure the other replied: 
 
 "I don t mean any harm when I say diddled, stranger, so 
 don t be uneasy. 1 call it diddling when I lose my money, 
 fight as hard for it as I can. That is the worst sort of diddling 
 I know." 
 
 The other looked fierce for a moment, but he probably sooi 
 
AMONG THE ENEMY. 306 
 
 discovered that the Georgian had replied without heeling his 
 air of valor, and there was something about his composed man 
 ner which rendered it at least a doubtful point whether anything 
 in the shape of an insult would not set his bulky frame into 
 overpowering exercise. The disposition to bully, however 
 slightly it was suffered to appear, added another item to my 
 suspicions of the character before me. The proposition of my 
 partner to change places with one of the other two, produced a 
 different suggestion from one of them, which seemed to please 
 us all. It was that AVC should play vmgt-un. 
 
 " Every man fights on his own hook in that, and his bad luck, 
 if lie has any, hurts nobody but himself." 
 
 I had begun to reproach myself with a course which, how 
 ever useful in forwarding my own objects, had evidently con 
 tributed to the loss by my partner of his money. If free to 
 throw away my own, I had no right to try experiments on his 
 purse, and" I readily gave my assent to the proposition. Oar 
 bets were more moderate than before, but I soon found the 
 game a losing one still. The preacher still sat at my elbow, 
 and my brother dandy was the banker ; and in more than one 
 instance when I have stood on " twenty" he has drawn from 
 the pack, though having "eighteen" and "nineteen," upon 
 which good players will always be content, unless assured that 
 better hands are in the possession of their opponents, when, by 
 " drawing," they can not lose. This knowledge could only be 
 received from our devoted preacher, and when I ceased to play 
 
 which, through sheer weariness 1 did I did so with the 
 most thorough persuasion, that the two were in correspondence 
 
 they were birds of the same brood. 
 
 Moody and thoughtful, for I was now persuaded that my own 
 more important game was beginning to open before me, I wem 
 to the stern of the boat, and seated myself upon one of the 
 bulks, giving way to the bitter musings of which my mind wa, 
 sufficiently full. While I sat thus, 1 was startled on a suddei 
 to find the preacher beside me. 
 
 "Ah, my young friend, I have watched you during youi 
 sinful play, against which I warned you, with a painful sort of 
 curiosity. Did I not counsel you against those devilish instru 
 ments you scorned my counsel, and what has been your for 
 
306 RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 tune. You have lost money, my son, money a goodly sum 
 which might have blessed the poor widow, and the portionlesf 
 orphan which might have sent the blessings of the word infr 
 strange lands among the benighted heathen which mighJ 
 have helped on in his labors some wayfaring teacher of the 
 word which might be most needful to yourself, my son; which, 
 indeed, I see it in your looks which you could very ill spare 
 for such purposes, and which even now it is your bitter suffering 
 that you have lost." 
 
 Admiring the hypocrisy of the old reprobate, I was yet, in 
 obedience to my policy, prepared to respect it. I availed my 
 self of his own suggestion, and thus answered him. 
 
 " You speak truly, sir ; I bitterly regret having lost my 
 money, which, as you say, I could ill spare, and which it has 
 nearly emptied my pockets to have lost. But suppose I had 
 been fortunate if I was punished by my losses for having 
 played, he who won, I suppose, is punished by his winnings for 
 the same offence. How does your reason answer when it cuts 
 both ways ?" 
 
 " Even as a two-edged sword it doth, my friend ; though in 
 the blindness of earth you may not so readily see or believe it. 
 Truly may it be said that you are both equally punished by 
 your fortunes. You suffer from your losses who shall say 
 that he will suffer less from his gains. Will it not encourage 
 him in his career of sin will it not promote his licentiousness 
 his indulgence of many vices which will bring him to disease, 
 want, and possibly which Heaven avert to an untimely end. 
 Verily, my friend, I do think him even more unfortunate than 
 thyself; for, of a truth, it may be said, that the right- use of 
 money is the most difficult and dangerous of all; and few ever 
 use it rightly but such as gain it through great toil, or have the 
 divine instinct of Heaven, which is wisdom, to employ it to it* 
 rightful purposes." 
 
 Excellent hypocrite ! How admirably did he preach ? HOM 
 adroitly did he escape what had otherwise been his dilemma 
 He almost deceived me a second time. 
 
 " In your heart, now, my friend, you bitterly repent that yoi 
 heeded not my counsel." 
 
THE KXKMY. 
 
 " Xot a whit !" was my reply ; " if I were sure I could 
 I would stick liy the card table for ever." 
 
 "What! so profligate and so young. Oil! my friend, think 
 upon your end think of eternity." 
 
 "Rather let me think of my beginning, reverend sir. if you 
 please. The business of time requires present attention, and 
 to a man that IF starving your talk of future provision is a mere 
 mockery. Give me to know bow I am to get the bread of life 
 in this life before you talk to me of bread for the next." 
 
 " How should you get it, my friend, but by painstaking and 
 labor, and worthy conduct. The world esteems not those, who 
 play at cards " 
 
 "And I esteem not the world. What matters it to me. my 
 good sir, what are the opinions of those to whom I ;im unknown, 
 and for whom 1 care nothing. Give me but money enough, and 
 1 will make them love me, and honor me. and force truth an 
 honesty into all shapes, that they may not offend my principles 
 or practice." 
 
 "But, my son, you would not surely forget the laws of hon 
 esty in the acquisition of wealth . " 
 
 This was said inquisitively, and with a prying glance, of the 
 eye, which sufficiently betokened the deep interest which tlu 
 hypocrite felt in my answer. Hut that I was i*\v persuaded of 
 his hypocrisy, I should have never avowed myself so boldly. 
 
 " What are thev ? what are these laws of honest} of which 
 you speak ? I can not, all at once, say that I know them. 
 
 " Not know them !" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Well," he continued, "to say truth, they are rather he- 
 quently revoked among mankind, and have others wholly oppos-ite 
 in character substituted in their place; but yon can not mistake 
 me, my young friend you know that there are such laws." 
 
 "Ay, laws for me for the poor to crush the weak rnadw 
 by the. strong for their own protection for the pvotertir n :/ 
 the wealth of the cunning. These are not lav.- 3 calculated t r . 
 win the respect or regard of the destitute. of those who are 
 desperate enough, if they did not lack the strength, to pull 
 dnwii Kor-ii tv with a fearless hand, though perhaps, they pulled 
 7 c. gum upon themselves." 
 
308 mCHAKD 7TUr,n:S. 
 
 " But you, my friend, you are not thus desperate this is nol 
 your situation." 
 
 " What ! you would extort a confession from me, first of my 
 poverty, then of my desperation you would drag me to the 
 county court, would you, that you might have the proud satis 
 faction of exhorting the criminal in his last moments, in the 
 presence of twenty thousand admiring fellow-creatures, who 
 come to see a brother launched out of life and into hell. This 
 is your practice and creed is it ?" 
 
 " No, my friend," he replied, in a lower tone of voice, which 
 was, perhaps, intended to restrain the emphatic utterance of 
 mine. "Know me better, my friend I would save you 
 such is my heart from so dreadful a situation yes, I would 
 even defeat the purposes of justice, though I felt persuaded you 
 would sin again in the same fashion. Be not rash be not 
 hasty in your judgment of me, my friend. I like you, and will 
 say something to you which you will, perhaps, be pleased to 
 hear. But not now one of these vicious reprobates ap 
 proaches us, and what I say must be kept only for your own 
 tars. To-night, perhaps to-night." 
 
 He left me with an uplifted finger, and a look such a look 
 as Satan may be supposed to have fixed on Adam in Paradibe 
 
DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 809 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 DEEPEK IN THE PLOT. 
 
 "Twill be a bargain and sale, 
 I see, by their close working of their heads, 
 And running them together so in counsel." BEN 
 
 THE old hypocrite sought me out again that night. So far, 
 it appears that rny part had been acted with tolerable success. 
 My impetuosity, which had been feigned, of course, and the 
 vehemence with which I denounced mankind in declaring my 
 own destitution, were natural enough to a youth who had lost 
 his money, and had no other resources ; and I was marked out 
 by the tempter as one so utterly hopeless of the world s favors, 
 as to be utterly heedless of its regards. Of such, it is well- 
 known, the best materials for villany are usually compounded, 
 and our puritan, at a glance, seems to have singled me out as 
 his own. We had stopped to repair some accident to tli 
 machinery, and while the passengers were generally making 
 merry on land, I strolled into the woods that immediately bor 
 dered upon the river, taking care that my reverend fox, whose 
 eye I well knew was upon me, should see the course I took. I 
 was also careful not to move so rapidly as to make it a difficult 
 work to overtake me. As I conjectured would be the case, he 
 followed and found me out. It was night, but the stars were 
 bright enough, and the fires which had been kindled by the 
 boat-hands, gave sufficient light for all ordinary objects of sight. 
 I sat down upon the bluff of the river, screened entirely by the 
 overhanging branches which sometimes almost met across the 
 stream, where it was narrow, from the opposite banks. I had 
 not been here many minutes before the tempter was beside me. 
 
 "You are sad, my friend your losses trouble you. But 
 distrust not Providence, which takes care of us all. though 
 
.10 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 perhaps, we see not the hand that feeds us, and fancy all tho 
 while that it is our own. You will be provided when you least 
 ook for it ; and to convince you of the truth of what I say, let 
 me tell you that it is not in goodly counsel alone that I would 
 serve you, I will help you in other matters I can help you to 
 the means of life nay, of wealth. Ha! do you start? Do 
 you wonder at what I say] Wonder not be not surprised 
 be not rash refuse not your belief, for of a truth, and by tho 
 blessing of God, will I do for you all that I promise, if so be 
 that I can find you pliant and willing to strive for the goodly 
 benefits which I shall put before you." 
 
 " What ! you would make me a preacher, would you] You 
 would have me increase the host of solemn beggars that infest 
 the country with stolen or silly exhortations, stuffed with abused 
 words, and full of oaths and blasphemy. But you are mistaken 
 in your man. I would sooner rob a fellow on the highway, 
 than pilfer from his pockets while I preach. None of your 
 long talks for me tell me now of some bold plan for taking 
 Mexico, which, one day or other, the southwest will have to 
 take, and I am your man. I care not how bold your scheme 
 there is no one so perfectly indifferent to the danger as he who 
 can not suffer the loss of a single sixpence by rope or bullet." 
 
 " You do not say, my friend, that you would willingly do 
 such violence as this you speak of, for the lucre of gain. Sure 
 ly, you would not willingly slay your brother for the sake of 
 his gold]" 
 
 " Ask me no questions, reverend sir," I replied, moodily. " I 
 am not in the humor to be catechized." 
 
 " And yet, my friend," he continued, " I much fear me that 
 your conscience is scarcely what it should be. This was my 
 surmise to-day, as I beheld you with those unholy cards in your 
 hands. Did I riot see you, while giving them that sort of dis 
 tribution which is sinfully styled shuffling <lid I not see you 
 practising an art which is commonly held to be unfair among 
 men of play ] Ha ! my son am I not right ] have I not smit 
 ten you under the fifth rib ]" 
 
 " And what should you, a preacher of the gospel, as you call 
 yourself, what should you know about shuffling]" 
 
 " Preacher of the gospel I am, my friend," was his cool redv. 
 
DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 311 
 
 " X am an expounder of the Holy Scriptures, though it may be 
 an unworthy one. I have my license from the Alabama confe 
 rence, for the year 18 , which, at a convenient season, I am 
 not unwilling that you should see. Yet, though I am a preach 
 er of the blessed word, I have not, and to my shame be it spo 
 ken, been always thus. In my youth, I am sad to say, I was 
 much given to carnal indulgence, and many were the evil prac 
 tices of my body, and many the evil devices of my heart. In 
 this time of my ignorance and sin, I was a great lover of these 
 deadly instruments of evil ; and, among my fellows, I was ac 
 counted a proficient, able to teach in all the arts of play. It 
 was thus that I acquired the knowledge knowledge which 
 hurts to see when tliou designedst a trick in which thou didst 
 yet fail, to win the money of thy fellow. I will show thee that 
 trick, my friend, that thou mayst know I tell thce nothing but 
 the truth." 
 
 Here was a proposition from a parson. I closed with him 
 instantly. 
 
 " You will do me a great service, I assure you." 
 
 " But, my friend, you would not make use of thy knowledge 
 to despoil thy fellow of his money ?" 
 
 " Would I not 1 For what else would I know the art ?" 
 
 "But, if I could teach thee other and greater arts than these 
 if I could show thee how to make thy brother s purse thine 
 own, at once, and without the toil of doling it out dollar by dol 
 lar I fear me, my friend, that thou wouldst apply this knowl 
 edge also to purposes of evil that thou wouldst not regard the 
 sinfuluess of such performances, in the strong desire of lucre 
 which I see is in thy heart that thou wouldst seek an early 
 cliauce to put in practice the information which I give thee." 
 
 " And wherefore give it me, then 1 Of a certainty I would 
 employ it, as you see, to increase my means of life." 
 
 " Alas ! my friend, but thy necessity must be great, else 
 would I look upon tltee with misgivings and much horror." 
 
 " Great, indeed ! I tell you, reverend sir, but that for your 
 coming, it is ten to one I had sent a bullet through my own 
 head, or buried myself in the waters of the Bigby." 
 
 " Thou surely didst not meditate an act so heinous." 
 
 " Look here !" and I showed him my pistol as I spoke. Hi 
 
312 RICHARD ii minis. 
 
 coolly took it into his hands, threw up the pan, and, with his 
 finger, assured himself that- it was primed. His tone was al 
 tered instantly. lie dropped the drawling manner of the ex 
 horting; and, though his conversation was still sprinkled with 
 the canting slang of the itinerant preacher, which long use had 
 probably made habitual, yet he evidently ceased to think it ne 
 cessary to play the hypocrite with me any longer. 
 
 " You are too bold a fellow," he said, " to throw away your 
 life in such a manner, and that, too, because of the want of mon 
 ey. You shall have money as much as you wish of it; and, 
 I take it, you would infinitely prefer shooting him who has it 
 rather than yourself " 
 
 "Nay, nay, not that neither, reverend sir. There s some 
 danger of being hung for such a matter." 
 
 "Not if you have money. You forget, my friend, your own 
 principles. You said, and said truly, that money was the power 
 which made virtue and opinion take all shapes among men ; 
 and, when this is the case, justice becomes equally accommoda 
 ting. You shall have this money you shall compel this opin 
 ion as you please, so that you may do what you please, and be 
 safe only let me know that you wish this knowledge." 
 
 I grasped his hand violently. 
 
 " Ask the wretch at the gallows if he wishes life, and the 
 question is no less idle than that which you put to me." 
 
 " Come farther back from the river some of these boatmen 
 may be pulling about ; and such matters as I have to reveal, 
 need no bright blaze like that which gleams upon us from you 
 forge. That wood looks dismal enough behind us let us go 
 there." 
 
 Thither we went; and, having buried ourselves sufficiently 
 among the thick undergrowth to be free of any danger of dis 
 covery or interruption, he began the narrative which follows ; 
 and which, together with much additional but unnecessary mat 
 ter, I have abridged to my own limits : 
 
 " There was a boy," said he, " a poor boy of West Tennessee, 
 who knew no parents, and had no friends who worked for hia 
 bread and education, such as it was, at the same moment and, 
 ID spite of all his labors, found, at the end of every year, after 
 
DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 813 
 
 casting up his accounts, that lie bad gained during its passage 
 many more kicks than coppers." 
 
 " No uncommon fortune in a country like ours." 
 
 " So he thought it," continued the parson, availing himself of 
 my interruption "so he thought it. He wasted no time and 
 feeling in idle regrets of a condition which he found was rather 
 more general than grateful to mankind, and one day he asked 
 himself how many years he was willing to expend in trying to 
 get a living in an honest way?" 
 
 " Well, a reasonable question. What answer ]" 
 
 "A reasonable one like the question. Life is short even 
 if we have money, said he to himself; but we have no life at all 
 without it. Following a plough gives me none I must follow 
 something else." 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " He resolved on being honest no longer." 
 
 " Indeed ! But how could he put his resolution into effect in 
 a country like ours, where we are inundated with so much pro 
 fessional virtue ?" 
 
 " He put on a professional cloak." 
 
 " Excellent." 
 
 " But, though commencing a new, and, as it proved, a profit 
 able business, he was not so selfish as to desire a monopoly of 
 it ; on the contrary, a little reflection suggested to him a grand 
 idea, which was evolved by the very natural reflection which 
 you made just now. 
 
 " What was that ?" 
 
 " Simply, that his condition was not that of an individual, but 
 of thousands." 
 
 " Well, that is a truism. What could he make of that ?" 
 
 " A brotherhood." 
 
 " He conceived that, if there were thousands in his condition, 
 there were thousands governed by his feelings and opinions. 
 We all have a family likeness in our hearts, however disguised 
 by habits, manners, education ; but when habits, manners, edu 
 cation, are agreed, and to these is added a prevailing necessity, 
 then the likeness becomes identity, arid the boy who, on reach 
 ing manhood, resolved to be no longer despicably honest, felt 
 
314 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 assured that his resolve could be made the resolves of all wlio 
 are governed by his necessities. 
 
 "A natural reflection enough none more so." 
 
 " Accordingly, his chief labor was that of founding an order 
 a brotherhood of those who have learned to see, in the prin 
 ciples which ostensibly govern society, a nice system of cob 
 webs, set with a double object, as snares to catch and enslave 
 the feeble and confiding, and defences for the protection of the 
 more cunning reptiles that sit in the centre, and prey at ease 
 upon the marrow and fat of the toiling insects they entangle." 
 
 " Such is certainly a true picture of our social condition. 
 Man is the prey of man the weak of the strong the unwary 
 of the cunning. The more black, the more bloated, the spider, 
 the closer his web, and the greater the number and variety of 
 victims. He sits at ease, and they plunge incontinently intt 
 his snare." 
 
 Such were some of the reflections with which I regaled my 
 companion. lie proceeded with increasing earnestness. 
 
 " lie travelled through all the slave states making proselytes 
 to his doctrine. With the cassock of a sanctified profession, 
 which we no more dare assail now than we did four hundred 
 years ago, he made his way not only at little or no expense, 
 but with great profit. On all hands he found friends and fol 
 lowers men ready to do his bidding to follow him in all 
 risks to undertake all sorts of offences, and in every respect 
 to be the instruments of his will, as docile and dependent as 
 those of any Oriental despot known in story. His followers 
 soon grew numerous, and having them scattered through all the 
 slave states, and some of the free, he could enumerate more than 
 fifteen hundred men ready at his summons and sworn to his al 
 legiance." 
 
 I was positively astounded. 
 
 " But you are not serious ?" 
 
 " As much so as at a camp-meeting. There is not an atom 
 of the best certified texts of scripture more true than what I 
 tell you." 
 
 "What! fifteen hundred men fifteen hundred in these 
 southern states professing roguery !" 
 
 " Nay, not professing roguery ; there you are harsh in youi 
 
DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 315 
 
 epithet. Professing religion, la\v, physic, planting, shopkeep- 
 ing anything, everything, but roguery. They practise 
 roguery, and roguery of all kinds, I grant you, but no profes 
 sions could be more immaculate than theirs." 
 
 " Is it possible ?" My wonder could not be concealed, but I 
 contrived to mingle in some delight with my tones of astonish 
 ment, and my words were cautiously adapted to second my af 
 fectation of delight. 
 
 " Yes," he continued, " by the overruling influence of this 
 boy, as I may call him, though now a full-grown man, such has 
 become the spread of his principles, and such is the power 
 which he wields. Yet, in all his labors, mark me, he himself 
 commits no act of injustice with his ~,wn hand. He manages, 
 he directs others; he sets the spring in motion, and counsels 
 the achievement, yet no blow is struck by his hand. He is 
 above the petty details of his own plans, and leaves to other 
 and minor spirits the task of executing the little offices bv 
 which the grand design is carried out, and the work effected." 
 
 " Why, this man is a genius." 
 
 My unaffected expression of admiration warmed my compan 
 ion, and he soon convinced me not only that he had all the 
 while spoken of himself, but that he was remarkably sensitive 
 on the subject of his own greatness. Discovering this weakness, 
 I plied him by oblique flatteries of the wonderful person whom 
 he had described to me, and he became seemingly almost en 
 tirely unreserved in his communications:. He related at large 
 the, history of the clan the Mystic Confederacy, as it was 
 termed as it has already been partially narrated to the read 
 er ; and my horror and wonder were alike increased at every 
 step in his progress. I could no longer doubt that the fellows 
 who murdered William Carrington were a portion of the same 
 lawless fraternity; and while the developments of my new ac 
 quaintance gave me fresh hope of being soon able to encounter 
 with those murderers, they opened my eyes to a greater field of 
 danger and difficulties than had appeared to them before. But 
 I did not suffer myself to indulge in apprehensive musings, and 
 pressed him for an increase of knowledge ; taking care, at my 
 each solicitation, to lard my inquiries thick with oily eulogies 
 upon the great genius who had planned, and so far executed, 
 
316 RICHARD I1URDIS. 
 
 " How has this wonderful man contrived to evade detection, 
 or suspicion at least? It is not easy to have a secret kept, 
 which is so numerously confided." 
 
 " That is on-e of the beauties of his scheme, that he confides 
 little or nothing which affects himself, and he secures the 
 alliance and obedience of those only who have secrets of their 
 own much more detrimental to them if made public than could 
 be any which they have of his. His art consisted simply in 
 seeking out those who had secrets of a dangerous nature. In 
 finding these he found followers. But, though he has not al 
 ways escaped suspicion he has been able always to defy it. 
 Societies have been formed, schemes laid, companies raised, 
 and juries prompted, to catch him in the act, but all in vain. 
 It is not easy to entrap a man who has an emissary in every 
 section of the country. The most active secretaries of the so 
 cieties were his creatures the schemes have been reported 
 him as soon as laid, and one of his own right-hand men has 
 uiore than once been an officer of the company sworn to keep 
 watch over him in secret." 
 
 " Wonderful man ! and what does he design with all this 
 power? To rob merely to procure money from travellers 
 upon the highway would not seem to call for such an exten 
 sive association." 
 
 " Perhaps not ! but he has other purposes; and the time 
 will come, I doubt not, when his performances will, in no re 
 spect, fall short of the power which he will employ to effect 
 them. When I tell you of such a man, you see at once that he 
 is no common robber. Why should he confine himself to the 
 deeds of one be assured he will not. You will see you will 
 hear yet of his performances, and I tell you they will be such 
 that the country will ring with them again." 
 
 "He must be a man of great ambition he should be, to 
 correspond with the genius which he evidently has for great 
 achievements. I should like to know by iny soul, but I could 
 love such a man as that." 
 
 "You shall know him in season he is not unwilling to be 
 known where he himself knows the seeker, but " 
 
 He paused, and I determined upon giving my hypocrisy a 
 crowning virtue, if possible, by utterly overmastering his. J 
 
DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 817 
 
 put my hand upon his shoulder suddenly, and looked him in 
 llie face, saying deliberately at the same time : 
 
 " You are the iruin himself I ll swear it." 
 
 " I low !" he exclaimed, in some alarm ; and I could see that 
 he fumbled in his bosom as if for a weapon. " How ! you mean 
 not to betray me ?" 
 
 "Betray you, no. I honor you 1 love you. Yon have 
 opened a road to me you have given me light. An hour ago 
 and I was the most hopeless, benighted wretch under heaven 
 without money, without the means of getting it, and fully 
 resolved on putting a bullet through my head. You have saved 
 my life you have saved me." 
 
 He seized my hand with warmth. 
 
 " I will be the making of you," he replied. " I have the 
 whole southwest in a string, and have only to pull it to secure 
 a golden draught. You shall be with me at the pulling." 
 
 What more he said is unnecessary to my narrative, though 
 he thought it all important to his. In brief, he told me that he 
 had concocted his present schemes for a space of more than 
 twenty years from the time that b*, was fifteen years of age, 
 and he was now full thirty-five ; showing by this, a commenda 
 ble perseverance of purpose, which, in a good work is seldom 
 shown, and which, in a good work must have insured to any 
 individual a most triumphant greatness. We did not separate 
 that night until he had sworn me a member of the " Mystic 
 Confederacy," and given me a dozen signs by which to know 
 my brethren, make myself known, send tidings and command 
 assistance acquisitions which I shuddered to possess, and the 
 consequences of which, I well knew, would task all ray skill 
 imd resolution to escape and evade. 
 
818 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THB TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 
 
 "I protest, 
 
 Maugre thy strength, youth, place and eminence, 
 Despight thy victor sword, and fire new fortune, 
 Thy valor and thy heart thou art a traitor." King 
 
 MY thoughts, in my berth that night, were oppressive enough. 
 I ad involved myself in the meshes of a formidable conspiracy, 
 kiLi was now liable to all its dangers. It mattered not to the 
 public how pure were my real purposes, so long as the knowl 
 edge of them was confined only to myself. The consciousness 
 of virtue may be a sufficient strengthener of one s resolve, but 
 I doubt whether it most usually produces a perfect feeling of 
 mental quiet. I know all was turmoil in my brain that night. 
 I tossed and tumbled, and could not sleep. Thought was busy, 
 as, indeed she had need be, I had now full occasion for the 
 exercise of all my wits. To entrap the black and bloated spi 
 ders in their own web was now my task to escape from it 
 myself, my difficulty. But I had sworn to avenge William 
 Carrington ; and now, with a less selfish feeling, I registered 
 another oath in heaven. 
 
 In my next conversation with the parson, who gave mr, as 
 lis name, Clement Foster, though 1 doubt not indeed 1 after 
 ward discovered that he had twenty other names; I endeav 
 ored, with all my art, to find out if he knew anything of Web 
 her and his associates. To do this without provoking suspicion, 
 was a task requiring the utmost caution. To a certain extent 
 1 succeeded. 1 found that Webber was one of his men, but I 
 also discovered that he let me know nothing in particular 
 nothing, the development of which might materially affect his 
 future plans, or lead to the discovery of his past projects. J 
 
THE TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 319 
 
 was evidently regarded as one, who, however well estimated, 
 was yet to undergo those trials which always precede the confi 
 dence of the wicked. I was yet required to commit inyself, be 
 fore I could be recognised in a fellowship of risk and profits 
 with them. Foster gave me to know, that there was a test to 
 which I would be subjected a test depending on circumstan 
 cesnot arbitrary and my full and entire admission to the 
 fraternity, would depend on the manner in which 1 executed 
 my tusk. 
 
 " You will have to take a mail-bag, or shoot an obstinate fel 
 low, who has more*money than brains, through the head. Our 
 tasks are all adapted to the particular characters of our men. 
 Gentlemen bred, and of good education and fine feelings, will 
 be required to do some bold action : our common rogues and 
 underlings are made to run a negro from his master, or pick a 
 pocket at a muster, or pass forged notes, or some small matter 
 of that sort. You, however, will be subjected to no such mean 
 performances. I will see to that." 
 
 Here was consolation with a vengeance ! I felt my check 
 burn, and my heart bound within me ; but I was on the plank, 
 and the stern necessity schooled me so, that I was able to con 
 ceal all my emotion. But I soon found that there were other 
 tests for me, and that my friendly parson was not yet so satis 
 fied that my virtue was of the desirable complexion. My 
 brother-dandy sought me out one day before we reached Co 
 lumbus : 
 
 "I see," said lie, confidentially, " that parson talking with 
 you very frequently ; and, as you seem to listen to him very 
 respectfully, I think it only an act of friendship to put you on 
 your guard against him. Between us, he s a great rascal, I m 
 <nore than certain. I know him to be a hypocrite ; and while 
 [ was last in Orleans, there was a man advertised for passing 
 forged notes, and the description given of the rogue answers to 
 a letter the appearance of this fellow." 
 
 I thanked him for his kindness, but told him that I really 
 thought the parson a very good man. and could not believe that 
 he would be guilty of such an act as that ascribed to him. 
 
 " You re mistaken," said lie ; " you re only too confiding, and 
 I ll convince you, if you ll only back me in what 1 do. Stand 
 
320 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 by me, and I ll charge him with it before the captain ; and, if 
 so, we ll have the reward. I ll lay my life his pocket is full of 
 forged bills at this very moment." 
 
 I answered him with some coolness, and more indifference : 
 
 " I m no informer, sir, and do not agree with you in your 
 ill opinion of the poor man. At least, I have seen nothing in 
 his conduct, and witnessed nothing in his deportment, to war 
 rant me in forming any such suspicions. He may have forged 
 notes or not, for me ; I ll not trouble him." 
 
 The fellow went off, no wise discomfited, and I heard noth 
 ing more of his accusation. That night I related the circum 
 stance to Foster, who smiled without surprise, and then said to 
 me in reply 
 
 " You see how well our agents work for us. Haller [that 
 was the dandy s name] is one of our men. He knew from me of 
 what we had spoken, and proposed to try you. It is no small 
 pleasure to find you so faithful to your engagements." 
 
 In this way, and by the practice of the most unrelaxing cun 
 ning, I fully persuaded Foster of my integrity if 1 may use 
 that word in such relation. Hour after hour gave me new rev 
 elations touching the grand fraternity the " Mystic Brother 
 hood" into the bosom of which I was now to be received; 
 and of the doings and the capacities of which Foster spoke at 
 large and with all the zest of the truest paternity. After re 
 peated conferences had seemed to assure him of my fidelity, he 
 proceeded to reveal a matter which, in the end, proved of more 
 importance to my pursuit than all tbe rest of his revelations. 
 
 " We have quarterly and occasional meetings of our choice 
 spirits, who are few in number, and one of these meetings is at 
 hand. We meet in the neighborhood of the Sipsy swamp, on 
 the road from Columbus to Tuscaloosa, where we have a famous 
 hiding-place, which has heard, and kept too, many a pretty 
 secret. We have a conference to which twenty or more will 
 be admitted, who will report their proceedings in western Ala 
 bama. There will be several new members, like yourself, who 
 are yet in their noviciate ; but none, I am persuaded, who will 
 go through their trial half so well as yourself." 
 
 " What ! the stopping the mail, or shooting the traveller ?" 
 Yes tis that I mean. Yoa will do your duty, I doubt not 
 
THE TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 321 
 
 There is another business which we have on hand, which is of 
 some importance to our interests. It is hinted that one of oar 
 leading confederates a fine young fellow, who committed an 
 error, and joined us in consequence a year ago is about to 
 play the traitor, or at least fly the track." 
 
 "Ah, indeed! and how do you punish such an offence?" 
 
 " How, but by death ? Our very existence as a society, and 
 safety as men, depend upon the severity which we visit upon 
 the head of the traitor, lie must die that is, if the offence be 
 proved against him." 
 
 " What ! you give him a trial, then ?" 
 
 " Yes, but not by jury : no such folly for us ! We put on the 
 track of the offender some two or three of our most trusty con 
 federates, who take note of all his actions, and are empowered 
 with authority to put the law in force without further reference 
 to us. I will try and get you upon this commission, as your 
 first trial before we invest you with our orders. JIaller will 
 most probably be your associate in this bush <-ss. He brings 
 the report of the suspected treason, and it is oi.r custom to em 
 ploy in such a business those persons who have the clue already 
 in their hands. Haller has some prejudice against Eberly ; 
 there have been words between them, and Eberly, who is a fel 
 low of high spirit, got the better of him, and treats him with 
 some contempt." 
 
 " Will there not be some danger of Ilaller s abusing the trust 
 you give him, then, and making its powers subservient to his 
 feelings of personal hostility ?" 
 
 " Possibly ; but llaller knows our penalty for that offence, 
 and will scarcely venture to incur it. Besides, I fear there is 
 some ground for his charges : I have heard some matters about 
 Eberly myself which were suspicious." 
 
 "Eberly!" said I, "where did I hear that name before? I 
 have surely heard it somewhere." 
 
 " Not unlikely : I know several Eberlys in Georgia and Ala- 
 abama ; it s not a very uncommon name, though still not a com 
 mon one." 
 
 The consciousness of the next instant made my cheek burn. 
 I remembered hearing the name of Eberly uttered by one of 
 the banditti, while I lay bound in the hovel of Matthew Web 
 
322 RICHARD HUKDTS. 
 
 bor ; and then it appeared to me in language which was dispar 
 aging. Things were beginning to fit themselves strangely to 
 gether before my eyes ; and when the parson left me, to retire 
 to his berth, I was soon lost in a wilderness of musing. 
 
 We soon reached and landed at Columbus a wild-looking 
 and scattered settlement, at that time, of some thirty families, 
 within a mile of the Tombeckbe. We proceeded boldly to the 
 tavern our parson leading the way; and never was prayer 
 more earnest and seemingly unaffected than that which he put 
 up at the supper-table that night. He paid amply for his bacon 
 and greens by his eloquence. He tendered no other form of 
 pay nor, indeed, did any seem to be desired. 
 
 The next morning it was arranged between us that we should 
 all meet at a spot a little above the ford at Coal-Fire creek 
 a distance of some thirty miles from Columbus, and on the di 
 rect route to Tuscaloosa. But here a difficulty lay in my way 
 which had been a source of annoyance to me for the three days 
 past. I had no horse, and had declared to Foster my almost 
 absolute want of money. To proceed on my mission, it was 
 necessary to procure one, and, if possible, a good one ; and how 
 to do this while Foster stayed, was a disquieting consideration. 
 Hut he was too intent upon securing his new associate, and not 
 less intent upon his old business, to suffer this to remain a diiii- 
 ctihy long. 
 
 " You must buy a horse in Columbus, Williams (that was the 
 name I had set out with from Mobile) ; you can not get on with 
 out one. As you have no money, I must help you, and you can 
 repay rne after you have struck your first successful blow. Here 
 are a couple of hundred dollars bills of the bank of Mobile 
 counterfeit, it is true, but good here as the bank itself. There s? 
 an old fellow here old General Cocke that has several nags ; 
 you can possibly get one from him that will do you good ser 
 vice, and not cost you so much, neither. Go to him at once and 
 get your creature : you ll find me to-morrow noon at the creek, 
 just as I tell you. Set up a psalm-tune, if you can, even as you 
 reach the creek, and you ll hear some psalmody in return that 
 will do your heart good." 
 
 He left me, followed by Haller, and I took a short mode foi 
 getting rid of the counterfeit bills he gave me. I destroyed 
 
THE TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 323 
 
 them in my fire tlint night, ami, taking the necessary sum from 
 my own treasury, I proceeded to procure my horse, which I 
 found no difficulty in doing, and at. a moderate price, though 
 General Cocke had \one to sell. I bought from another person, 
 whom I did not know. 
 
 Being so far ready, I took a careful examination of my pistols, 
 procured me an extra knife of large size in Columbus, and com 
 mending myself to Providence with a prayer mentally littered, 
 as earnest as any which 1 ever made either before or since, I 
 set oil for the place of meeting, which I readied about sunset. 
 Though nothing of a psalm-singer, 1 yet endeavored to avail 
 myself of the suggestion of Foster, and accordingly set up a 
 monotonous stave, after the whining fashion of the methodists 
 of that region; and was answered with a full burst of the same 
 sort of melody, of unsurpassable volume, proving the lungs of 
 the faithful whom I sought, to be of the most muliseased com 
 plexion. I was immediately joined by Foster and three other 
 persons, among whom I felt a spontaneous movement of pleas 
 ure in my bosom as I recognised the features of Matthew Web 
 ber. Hut it was the pleasure of the hunter, who, having his 
 ritie lifted, discovers the wolf at the entrance of the den. It 
 relieved me from many apprehensions to lincl that Webber, 
 though looking at me. with some attention, did so without seem 
 ing to recognise me. This was an earnest of success in mv pur 
 suit which cheered me not a little in my onward progress. 
 
 We entered their hiding-place together, where, in a leafy 
 cover that might have been used by innumerable tribes of bears 
 and foxes before, we found our supper and a tolerable lodgment 
 for the night. There we slept, though not till some hours had 
 been spent in conversation touching a thousand plans of villany, 
 which astounded me to hear, but to which I was compelled not 
 only to give heed, but satisfaction. But little of their dialogue 
 interested me in my pursuit. To some parts of it, however, I 
 lent an ear of excited attention. Webber spoke of Eberly ; 
 and though I could not understand much of the matter he re 
 ferred to, yet there was an instinct in my mind that made me 
 nervous while the discussion continued, and melancholy long 
 after it was over. To me was the task to be assigned of pur 
 suing this young man, of spying into his conduct, and reporting 
 
324 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 and punishing his return to the paths of virtue. Not to do thii 
 work faithfully to those who sent me, was to incur his risk : and 
 this was a position into which, with my eyes open, I had gone 
 of my own head. 
 
 It was no small addition to my annoyance, that, in prosecu 
 ting the search into Eberly s conduct, I was ministering to the 
 mean malice of Haller and the open hate of Matthew Webber. 
 But there was no room for hesitation now. I was to go for 
 ward, or fall. My hope, as Avell as purpose, was for the best; 
 my resolution to do nothing wrong. My task was to steer wide 
 of injury to others, and of risk to myself no easy task, with 
 so many villains around me. A sentence or two of the dialogue 
 which so interested me may be well enough repeated here. It 
 will be supposed that what was said must have had the effect of 
 lifting the destined youth in my consideration : it certainly 
 placed him in a more favorable light than could well be claimed 
 for one found in such a connection. 
 
 "He is become too melancholy for any business at all," said 
 Webber, " and least of all for such a business as ours. Set him 
 to watch for a traveller, and he plays with the leaves, twists 
 the vines round his finger, writes in the sand, and sighs all the 
 while as if his heart were breaking." 
 
 " Why, he has suffered himself really to fall in love with the 
 girl !" exclaimed Foster. " What an ass !" 
 
 " So he is; and that is perhaps his chief offence, since a man 
 who is an a.ss can never be a good knave certainly never a 
 successful one," was the reply of Webber. 
 
 "True enough, Matthew," said Foster, "but this is the poor 
 fellow s misfortune. In this condition he can do nothing for 
 himself any more than for us. Will he marry the girl ?" 
 
 "If he can." 
 
 And can he not?" 
 
 " Yes, I think he may he might if he could keep his secret 
 But it is my fear that he can not keep his secret. His heart 
 has got the better of his head his conscience of his necessi 
 ties ; and these gloomy fits which he has now so constantly not 
 only make him neglectful of our interests and his duties, but 
 will, 1 arn dubious, precipitate him into some folly which will be 
 the undoing of all of UP. You know the laws, Clement Foster 
 
THE TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 325 
 
 don t you think he could get clear of justice, by telling all he 
 knows about us ?" 
 
 "Pshaw! what does he know? and who would believe him, 
 unless he gave us up to justice unless he brought the hounds 
 to our cover? and even that would do little, unless he could 
 point out and prove particular acts. What does he know of 
 ie, or you ? We could prove him a liar by a cloud of witnes 
 ses whom he never saw, who could go into court and swear 
 everything." 
 
 " True enough ; but that we should get clear does not do 
 away with his offence, should he endeavor to involve us." 
 
 "By no means but wherefore should he seek to do so? 
 what could be his object ? Ills own exposure follows, or, in 
 deed, precedes ours ; and for a man to prove himself a knave, 
 merely to show that his neighbor is just as bad, is thrice-sodden 
 folly." 
 
 " Well, such is always your conscientious fool." 
 
 " But Eberly is a fool of love, Mat, and not of conscience." 
 
 "And fools of love, Foster, are very apt to be fools of con 
 science." 
 
 "By no means: they arc the greatest knaves in the wido 
 world, and worse hypocrites than a pork-eating parson ! They 
 lie or do anything to get the woman ; for passion was never yet 
 a moralist." 
 
 "Well I don t know but Eberly has done nothing for 
 some time past. He has let several matters slip through his 
 fingers. There was an affair only two weeks ago that 
 nearly swamped us all, from his not coining according to 
 promise." 
 
 "What affair? something I have not heard of?" 
 
 " Yes. There were two larks that were hitched at my nouse, 
 or rather that we tried to hitch. One of them got out of the 
 noose, and thumped Breton over his mazzard so that the bridge 
 of his nose is broken down for ever. lie got off as far as the 
 Day Blind, and there was tumbled by a stranger a fellow 
 that we sent after, and made sure of. I told you something 
 already of the matter." 
 
 Here was something to confound me. Webber evidently al 
 luded to the affair of William and myself yet he spoke of my 
 
526 RICHARD HURDIS 
 
 friend being killed by a stranger. I was confused and bewil 
 dered by the new position of events, but was quite too awk 
 wardly placed to venture any questions on so dangerous a topic. 
 They proceeded in their dialogue: 
 
 "All this comes of his passion for the girl. When they are 
 once married, you ll see that he ll recover." 
 
 If 1 thought so, by God, it would please me the best of all 
 things. It would do my heart good to sing it in the ears of her 
 insolent father, that his daughter was the wife of a public rob 
 ber a thief of the highway !" 
 
 " So, so, Mat ! Don t, I pray you, disparage our profession ! 
 Tenderly, tenderly no nicknaming and have done with your 
 malice. Malice is a base, bad quality, and I heartily despise 
 your fellows who treasure up inveterate prejudices. They are 
 always a yellow-souled, snakish set, that poison themselves 
 with the secretions of their own venom. Now, for my part, I 
 have no hates, no prejudices: if I have anything to thank 
 Heaven for, it is possessions of a better sort than this. My 
 chickens lay better eggs, and hatch no vipers." 
 
 A pretty sentiment enough for a rogue and hypocrite ! lint 
 of what strange contradictions are we compounded ! The dia 
 logue was soon brought to a close : 
 
 " It is understood, then," said Foster, "that llallcr and Wil 
 liams" (meaning me) " are to watch his motions, and see that 
 he keeps in traces. Are these two enough, or shall we put a 
 third with them ?" 
 
 "Quite enough to follow and to punish, though it is well that 
 we should all note his movements, ami watch him when we can. 
 Does Mr. Williams know the extent of his power ?" demanded 
 Webber, turning to me. 
 
 "Ay," was the reply of Foster; " lio knows that he line 
 power to adjudge, and execute even to di ;ith ; but 1 would beg 
 him to recollect that he must award with ^iroat caution Against 
 a confederate. An unjust punishment incurs similar judgment ; 
 and we are prompt to avenge an injury done t> one of our com 
 rades. I would not have him too precipitate \\ 5th Eberly : he 
 is a fellow of good qualities; he is bold as a lion gencruud 
 to the last sixpence " 
 
 And a little too conscientious, you should add," wue tiie is- 
 
THE TOO CONSC1ENTIOOS BROTHER. 
 
 terruption of Webocr " a little too conscientious. "We were 
 a few thousand dollars the richer, but for that." 
 
 "Ah, you mistake, Matthew; he was busy making love, and 
 had holyday Let him but become a husband, and you ll 
 then see how constant he will be in his absence from home." 
 
 Here the conversation ended for tV 
 
RICHARD HUBDT& 
 
 OHA^TER XLVI. 
 
 DESPAIR OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 
 
 The drunkard after all his lavish cups 
 Is dry, and then is sober; so, at length, 
 When you awake from the lascivious dream 
 Repentance then will follow, like the sting 
 Placed in the adder s tail." White Devil. 
 
 THE next morning, before it was yet dawn, Foster aroused 
 me where I was sleeping beneath my green-wood tree. 
 
 " We must be stirring, Williams ; I have tidings from some 
 of our friends in Tuscaloosa, who appoint to meet me to-morrow 
 noon, at the Sipsy. We have a snug place in the River Swamp, 
 more secure and comfortable even than this ; and we shall no 
 doubt meet many of our friends. There, too, you must keep a 
 bright look out, for you will there see Eberly, and your watch 
 must begin from the moment you encounter him." 
 
 I arose with no very comfortable feelings at this assurance. 
 I was to begin the labors of the spy. Well ! my hand was in 
 for it, and it was no time to look back. I must on, with what 
 feeling it mattered little to those around me; and, having gone 
 BO far, perhaps but little to myself. I strove, as well as I might, 
 to shake off my sombre feelings certainly to conceal their 
 expression. Foster did not seem to heed my taciturnity. If 
 he did, he did not suffer me to see that he remarked it ; but 
 playfully and even wittily remarking upon the sluggish move 
 ments of our companions, Webber included, to whom early 
 rising seemed an annoyance, he led the way, and we were all 
 soon mounted and on our journey. It was near noon when we 
 reached our place of destination, and such a place ! Imagine 
 for yourself, a thousand sluices over a low boggy ground run 
 ning into one, which, in time, overflowing its channels sluicei 
 
DESPAIR OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 329 
 
 all the country round it, and you have some faint idea of the 
 borders of the Sipsy River. Nothing could we see but a turbid 
 yellow water, that ran in among the roots of the trees, spread 
 itself all around for miles, forming a hundred little currents, 
 some of which were quite as rapid as a mill-race. The road 
 was lost in the inundation ; and but that our men were well 
 acquainted with the region, we should have been drowned 
 our horses at least in the numerous bays and bogs which lay 
 everywhere before us. Even among our party a guide was 
 necessary and one who understood the route better than the 
 rest was singled out to lead the way. For a time we seemed 
 utterly lost in the accumulating pits and ponds, crossing cur 
 rents and quagmires in which our path was soon involved, and 
 I could easily conjecture the anxiety of our company from the 
 general silence which they kept. But our guide was equal to 
 the task, and we soon found ourselves upon a high dry island, 
 within a few yards of the opposite shore, which, when we 
 reached, Foster throwing himself with an air of satisfaction 
 from his horse, proclaimed it our present resting-place. Here 
 we were joined by a man whom I had not seen before, who 
 had been awaiting us, and who brought letters to Foster. 
 Some of these, from Mobile, New Orleans, Montgomery, and 
 Tuscaloosa, he was pleased to show me ; and their contents 
 contributed not a little to confound me, as they developed the 
 large extent of the singular confederacy, of which I was held a 
 member. Some of the plans contained in these letters were of 
 no less startling character. One, which was dwelt on with some 
 earnestness by two of the writers was a simultaneous robbery 
 of all the banks. 
 
 " A good proposition enough," was the quiet remark of 
 Foster, passing his finger over the paragraphs "had they in 
 money but one-tenth part of the amount which they have in 
 paper. But to empty vaults which have no specie, is little to 
 my taste. I should soon put a stop to specie payments, without 
 rendering necessary an act of Congress. Here now, is some 
 thing infinitely more profitable, but far more dangerous. We 
 shall consider this." 
 
 He pointed out to me nnnilirr *r.;j-;-T<r!un cf i!;c writer which 
 seemed to have been debated upon before the atrociousnesi 
 
880 RICHARD TTURDIS. 
 
 of which curdled my blood to read. I could scarcely projose 
 the question. 
 
 "But you will hardly act upon this it is too " 
 
 I was about to say horrible it was well I did not. Foster 
 fortunately finished the sentence for me in a different manner. 
 
 " Too dangerous you would say ! It would be to a blunderer. 
 But we should be off the moment it was over. Having made 
 use of the torch, we should only stay long enough to take what 
 was valuable from the house, arid not wait until it had tumbled 
 upon us. But this matter is not yet ready. We have business, 
 scarcely less profitable, to be seen to, and three days more may 
 give us a noble haul. See to this. Here I am advised by a 
 sure friend at Washington, that a large amount of government 
 money is on its way for the Choctaws it will not be my fault 
 if they get it. That is worth some pains-taking but " 
 
 He paused and folded up his papers. The tramp of steeds 
 was heard plashing through the in ire and approaching the 
 island. "Webber was next heard in conversation with the new 
 comers, whose voices now reached us distinctly. Foster ad 
 dressed me as he heard them in suppressed tones and with a 
 graver manner. 
 
 "That s Eberly s voice," he said "you must look to him, 
 Williams. From this moment do not lose him from your sight 
 till you can report on his conduct decisively. Here is Haller 
 coming toward us. He has heard of Eberly s approach and 
 like yourself will be on the watch. Let me say to you that 
 Haller will report of you as narrowly as he does of Eberly. 
 He does not know you yet, and has no such confidence in you 
 as I have. I know that you will fear nothing that he can 
 report ; and yet, that my judgment may not suffer in the esti 
 mation of our people, I should be better pleased if you could 
 outwatch your comrade." 
 
 I made out to say " Trust me you have no need of appre 
 hension. I will do my best at least." 
 
 " Enough," said he, " he comes. Poor fellow, he looks sick 
 unhappy !" 
 
 This was said in an under-tone, as if in soliloquy, and the 
 next moment, the person spoken of, emerging from the shade of 
 a bush which stood between himself and me, came full in ny 
 
DESPAIR OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 331 
 
 sight "What was my astonishment and misery to beheld in 
 him, the young man Clifton, introduced to me by Colonel Graf- 
 ton, and, as I feared, the accepted lover of his daughter. I was 
 rooted to the spot with surprise and horror, and could scarcely 
 recover myself in time to meet his approach. A desperate 
 resolve enabled me to do this, and when he drew nigh, I was 
 introduced to him as " one of us" by Foster. Clifton, or as I 
 shall continue to call him Eberly, scarcely gave me a look. 
 His eyes never once met either Foster s or my own. He was 
 p.ile and looked care-worn. With a haggard smile, he listened 
 to the kind yet hypocritical compliments of Foster, but uttered 
 nothing in reply. Other persons now began momentarily to 
 arrive, and by night our number was increased to twenty-five 
 or thirty. I underwent the fraternal hug, with all the old vil 
 lains, and some, five noviciates like myself; and, in a varied 
 discussion of such topics as burglary, horse and negro stealing, 
 forging, mail-robbing and various other similarly innocent em 
 ployments, we contrived to pass over the hours without discord 
 or monotony until the coming on of night put our proprietors 
 in mind of supper. I need not dwell upon any of the plans 
 and purposes of crime, in particular, which underwent discus 
 sion on that occasion, since none of them will affect very ma 
 terially my own narrative. It is enough for me to affirm that 
 among these members of the Mystic Brotherhood, crime of all 
 sorts and complexions, seemed reduced to a perfect system, and 
 the hands which ministered seemed to move rather like those 
 of automata than of thinking and resolving men. At supper I 
 sat opposite to Eberly my eye was fixed upon him all the 
 while, and my recognition of him, as the lover of the poor 
 Julia, fully reconciled me to the task I had undertaken, of con 
 victing him of treason to his associates. His treason to beauty 
 to innocence to hospitality, and confiding friendship 
 made my otherwise odious duty a grateful one ; and I felt a 
 malignant sort of pleasure, as I watched my victim, to think 
 that his punishment lay in my own hands. And yet, while I 
 looked upon him, I felt at moments, my heart sink and sicken 
 within me. I somehow began to doubt how far he could be 
 guilty hoAv far he could be guilty with these how far guilty 
 to her ? He ate nothing, and looked very pale and wretched 
 
832 RICHARD iiuunis. 
 
 flis spirit seemed anywhere but with liis associates and 
 though his eye acknowledged every address, and his tongue 
 replied to every demand, yet it was evident enough that there 
 was a lack of mental consciousness an abstractedness of mood 
 and thought, which left it doubtful when he spoke whether he 
 was altogether assured of the words he uttered, or of those ho 
 heard. 
 
 After supper our chief rogues renewed the discussion of sun 
 dry of their plans, arid for a while the curiosity which I felt at 
 the strangeness of some of their propositions, and the stories 
 of their several achievements, half reconciled me to listen to 
 their heinousness. But there was quite too much of it in the 
 end a still-beginning, never-ending repetition of the same 
 business, only varied by the acting persons, place, and time ; 
 and, following the lead of Webber and one or two others, I 
 went aside to the fire which Haller had kindled up, and under 
 a tent of bark, I housed myself for the night. I did riot hope 
 for sleep, for my mind was full of troublesome thoughts, yet I 
 Avas surprised by the feather-footed visitant, and slept soundly 
 for a space of two hours. I was awakened by some one sha 
 king me by the shoulder, and, starting to my feet, found my 
 comrade Haller standing beside me. 
 
 " Get up," he said, " it s time to look after Ebcrly. He has 
 gone out into the bushes, having left Webber whom he slept 
 with. He thought Mat was asleep, and stole off. We must get 
 on his trail and see what he s after." 
 
 I obeyed and we went together with great caution to the 
 rude tent in which Webber slept. He gave us some directions, 
 and following them we soon found our man. He had gone to 
 the place where Foster slept alone a bushy dell of the woods 
 scooped out sufficiently to enable one, by crawling through a 
 narrow mouth to secure an easy, though perhaps confined, couch 
 within. The greater apertures made by torn branches or 
 fallen leaves were supplied by sapplings hewn from neighbor 
 ing places, and twisted in with the native growth of the spot; 
 and with the aid of some rushes, a blanket and a good warm 
 watch-coat, Foster had a tenement which art could scarcely 
 have made warmer, though in social respects, it certainly miglil 
 have undergone considerable improvement. 
 
DESPAIR OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 383 
 
 We readied a spot within hearing distance of this, in suffi 
 cient time to note the first approaches of Eberly to its inmate. 
 Foster came forth at his summons, and as my eye turned upon 
 the course which they took together, Haller touched my arm. 
 When I turned, I beheld Webber also standing beside us, who, 
 taking Haller Avith him, proceeded cautiously to an opposite 
 point, where it seems they expected the *.wo to go, Webber 
 giving me instructions to follow them cautiously from where I 
 stood; by which division of our force, he seemed resolute that 
 one of us should succeed in our espionage. The several fires 
 of the party were nearly extinguished. But there was still light 
 enough to enable me to discern the outlines of their persons as 
 they moved from me. I crept and crawled upon my mission 
 of baseness, with all pains-taking circumspectness, but every 
 moment increased the space between me and the men I pur 
 sued, until 1 had nearly lost sight of them altogether, when, on 
 a sudden, they turned about and came again toward me. It is 
 probable that they may have been disturbed by the too eager 
 progress of the two spies on the other side, who thus drove 
 them back upon me. Whatever may have been the cause of 
 their return, I had barely time to shrink back into the shade 
 of a large tree as they approached it ; and the spot being 
 sufficiently dense and dark prompted them to make it the 
 scene of their conference. Foster was the first to speak. 
 Stopping short as he reached a cluster of saplings, only a few 
 paces removed from the place where I stood in shadow, he 
 said : 
 
 " Here now, Eberly, we are safe. Everything is still here, 
 and there is no more danger of interruption. Unfold yourself 
 now. What secret have you why do you bring me forth at 
 an hour when I assure you a quiet snooze would be more agree 
 able to me than the finest plot which you could fancy for rob 
 bing the largest portmanteau in Alabama ?" 
 
 "Do not jest with me, Foster I can not jest ; it is a mat 
 ter of life and death to me which makes me disturb you, else 1 
 should not do it. My life hangs upon your hands more than 
 life; I can not sleep myself; forgive rne that I have taken you 
 from yours." 
 
 Never were the tones of a man more piteously imploring than 
 
334 RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 those of the speaker. I could well believe him wh^n he said ba 
 couJd not sleep. 
 
 " Your life .and death !" said Foster ; " why, what mean you, 
 man ? Don t stop to apologize for breaking my sleep, when 
 such is the danger! Speak speak out, and let us know from 
 what quarter the storm is coming. Who is the enemy you 
 fear ? * 
 
 " You !" was the emphatic reply. " You are my enemy !" 
 
 "Me!" 
 
 " You, your fellows, and mine myself! These are my ene 
 mies, Foster! It is from these that my apprehensions come 
 it is these that I fear ; my life is in their hands ! More than 
 life much, much more:" 
 
 " II a ! what is all this ?" 
 
 " You wonder. Hear me, Foster. I will tell you the truth 
 nothing but the truth ! I must leave the fraternity ! I am 
 not fitted for its membership. 1 can not do the work it requires 
 at my hands. I dare not my soul sickens at its duties, and I 
 can not perform them ! I lack the will the nerve !" 
 
 " You know not what you say, Eberly," was the grave reply 
 of Foster. " You surely do not forget the penalties which fol 
 low such an avowal as this?" 
 
 "No ! would I could forget them ! Have I not said that my 
 life and death are in your hands ]" 
 
 " Wherefore have you awakened me then ?" was the cold and 
 inauspicious reply. " I could tell you no more than you al 
 ready know." 
 
 " Yes, you can save me ! I come to you for pity ! I implore 
 you to save me, which you can ! A word from you will do it." 
 
 " Can I should 1 speak that word ? It would ruin me it 
 would ruin us all !" 
 
 " No ; it would not. You could lose nothing by letting me go 
 free nothing! for I can do nothing for you. I can not com 
 mit crime! I can neither lie, nor rob, nor slay! 1 can not 
 obey you ; and, sooner or later, you must execute your judg 
 ment upon me for neglect or perversion of my pledges!" 
 
 " This is certainly a very sudden attack of virtue, Mr. Eber 
 ly. You can neither lie, nor steal, nor slay. You have become 
 too pure for these duties ; but I remember the time, and that 
 
DESPAIR OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 335 
 
 too, no very distant time, when you were guilty of one or more 
 of these dreadful sins from which your soul now shrinks." 
 
 " Ay, and I remember it too, Foster. I did not need that you 
 should remind me; would I could forget it! hence came my 
 bondage. You discovered my unhappy secret, and forged my 
 shackles ! It is to you that I come to break them !" 
 
 " You deny it not that you were guilty of the robbery of old 
 Barbers then ?" 
 
 " I deny it not ; and yet I know not, Foster, if it was an of 
 fence of which I have so much reason to be ashamed. Thank 
 God! I took not his money for myself; the wants of a dying 
 mother, the presence of a cruel necessity, was my extenuation, 
 if not excuse, for that hapless act an act which has been the 
 heavy millstone around my neck in each succeeding moment of 
 my life ! Bitterly have I repented " 
 
 "You can not repent you shall not repent!" was the sud 
 den speech of Foster. "You have not the right to repent 
 you are sworn to us against it, and can not repent without our 
 permission." 
 
 " It is for that permissioil, Foster, that I come to implore you 
 now. I know that you are superior to the cold and cruel peo 
 ple whom you lead. You will, you must, feel for my situation. 
 I am of no use to you, I can not rob the traveller, nor forge a 
 note, nor inveigle a negro from his master still less can I stab 
 or shoot the unoffending man who opposes my unlawful attempts 
 upon his property. I am, indeed, only an incumbrance upon 
 you" 
 
 " You have our secrets." 
 
 " I will keep them I swear to you, Foster, by all that I* 
 sacred that I will keep them !" 
 
 " You can not, to be honest to go back to the paths of vir 
 tue. You must reveal our secrets ; and not to do so is a half 
 virtue which looks monstrously like hypocrisy. It is a com 
 promise with vice, to say the least of it, which puts the blusb 
 apon your late returning innocence. No, Eberly, we must 
 Keep our secrets ourselves by keeping bound those who know 
 them. Say that you are unable to serve us by any of the acts 
 you mention you are not less able to serve us in other re 
 spects, equally sinful yet not so obnoxious to public censure 01 
 
336 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 punishment. As a strong man it might be my lot to depend on 
 your friendly sympathy to save me from a halter." 
 
 " I would do it, Foster, believe me." 
 
 " We must make you do it. We must keep our reins upor. 
 you. But of what avail would be a permission to you which 
 could not annihilate the proofs which AVC have against you? 
 Whether we suffered you to go free, and held you to be no 
 longer one of us or not ; the offence which we could prove 
 against you, would still make you liable to the law. Our mere 
 permission to depart would be nothing " 
 
 "Yes everything! It would free me from a bondage that 
 now crushes me to the earth, and defeats all my meditated ac 
 tion in other respects ! For the wrong I have done to Harbers, 
 1 would make atonement " 
 
 " Repay him the money from the robberies of others," re 
 plied Foster, with a sneer. 
 
 " No, Foster," said the young man patiently, " not a cent 
 would I bear from your treasury. I woidd go forth as unen 
 cumbered with your booty as 1 hope to be unencumbered with 
 the sin and shame of the connection." 
 
 " You use tender words in speaking of your comrades and 
 their occupations, Eberly." 
 
 " Without meaning to offend, Foster. But hear me out. I 
 should not merely repay Harbers, but 1 would confess to him 
 the crime of which 1 had been guilty." 
 
 "Ha! and the subsequent sinful connections which you have 
 formed with us, and our precious doings together. This is your 
 precious plan, is it ?" 
 
 " Not so ! Though resolved to declare my own crimes and 
 errors, I am not bound to betray the confidence of others." 
 
 " This is your resolution now ; how long will it remain so, and 
 what will be our security when the chance happens which 
 may happen when, at one full swoop, you may take us all 
 like a flock of partridges, and deliver us up as an atonement 
 for your own youthful sins, to the hands, so called, of Justice? 
 Eberly Eberly, you are speaking like a child. Do you think 
 we can hearken to a prayer, such as that you make 1 Why 
 every white-livered boy of our band, who happened to fancy a 
 pair of blue eyes, and a dimity petticoat, would be seized with 
 
DESPAIR OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 337 
 
 a fit of virtue toward us, in precise degree with his hot lust 
 after the wench he fancied " 
 
 " Stay, Foster ; I see that you are aware of my intimacy 
 with Miss Grafton." 
 
 " Surely. You have never taken a step that I am not ac 
 quainted with. And now let me ask, did you feel our bondage 
 so oppressive till you became acquainted with this girl ?" 
 
 " I did not ; my knowledge of her first impressed upon me, 
 with a more just sense of their worth, the value of those rewards 
 which follow virtuous practice." 
 
 " Pshaw, man, how is the getting of this girl a reward of vir 
 tuc. Can t you get her now, while you are a trusted member 
 of the confederacy ? To the point, man, and speak out the 
 truth, have you not spoken to her, and has she not consented 
 to be yours ?* 
 
 " She has." 
 
 " What more ! Marry her we do not hinder you. We ob 
 ject not to the new bonds which you propose to put on yourself, 
 though grumbling so much at ours. Be sure, we shall none of 
 us forbid the banns. Marry her, and settle down in quiet ; our 
 laws will give you no trouble ; your duties shall be accommo 
 dated to the new change in your condition, and, as a justice of 
 the peace, a juror, member of the assembly, or of Congress, you 
 can be as eminently useful to us as, nay, more useful than, a stri 
 ker along the woods, or a passer of counterfeit notes. These 
 are small matters which any bull-head among us can perform; 
 you have talents which can better serve us in higher stations." 
 
 The youth shook his head, as he replied sadly 
 
 " If I did not love Julia Grafton, or if I loved her less, it 
 might be easy to be satisfied with what you say. But I neither 
 can nor will tetter myself or her in a bondage such as you men 
 tion. In truth, Foster, I can serve you no more -I can serve 
 the confederacy no more. I make this declaration to you, 
 though I die for it! On your mercy I throw myself on your 
 kindness often professed, and tried on more occasions than one ! 
 Be my friend, Foster on my knees I pray you to save rue in 
 this respect save me let me go free I will leave the coun 
 try I will go into a distant state, where you can be in no dan 
 ger from anything that I can do or say ! You can have no rea 
 
338 RICHARD HURDI8. 
 
 son to refuse me, since you can have no interest in keeping me 
 to pledges which yield you no interest, and only bring me suf 
 fering ! Feeling as I do now, and situated as I am, I can do 
 nothing for you ! Command me to strike here or there, and I 
 can not obey you ! From this day forth I must withhold my 
 service, though you do not cancel my bonds !" 
 
 Foster seemed touched while the young man spoke, but this, 
 perhaps, was only a part of his cool and ready hypocrisy, lie 
 interrupted Fberly when he had said the last sentence. 
 
 " Your refusal to serve us, would, you know, be the signal 
 for your death." 
 
 " I know it ; and if you send forth the decree, I must meet 
 my doom, and, I trust, will meet it like a man. But I would 
 escape this doom ; and to you, and you only, I refer, to extri 
 cate me from it, to effect my object, and get my release from 
 the secret council. There is but one man whose refusal I fear, 
 and with him you would have some difficulty, I doubt not ; but 
 even that I know you could overcome. Webber hates Grafton 
 the father of Julia, and hates me, because 1 love her honorably. 
 It was he who brought her to my notice, and prompted me to 
 the scheme by which I became an intimate in the family ; a 
 scheme projected for a dishonorable and foul purpose, which 
 has resulted so far, in one of which I have no reason to be 
 ashamed. I would spare her the shame, Foster, of having con 
 sented to share the name and affections of one, who may be 
 outlawed the very moment that he confers upon her his name." 
 
 I have said enough to exhibit the nature of this conference, 
 which was continued twice as long. In its progress, the youth 
 exhibited a degree of remorse and sorrow on the score of his 
 own offences, and an honorable and delicate consideration in 
 reference to Julia Grafton, which turned all my feelings of hos 
 tility into feelings of pity. Nor was this sentiment confined t<> 
 my own bosom. I conscientiously believe, that Foster sympa 
 thized with his grief, and inly determined, so far as the po\vor 
 in him lay, to help him to the desired remedy. The conference 
 was ended by the latter saying to him, as he led the way back 
 to his place of rest : 
 
 " I must think on this matter, Eberly. I will dc what I can 
 for you, but I can promise nothing:. I deny not that 1 have 
 
OKSPAIII OF THK U F.AK BROTHER. 33 
 
 influence, but my influence depends, as you well know, upon 
 such an exercise of it as will best accord with the views and 
 wishes of those whom 1 control. 1 am sorry for you." 
 
 The youth stood a moment when the other had gone. Then 
 throwing his arms up to Heaven, as he turned away, he ex 
 claimed : 
 
 " At the worst I can but perish. But she ! she, at least, shall 
 suffer nothing, either from my weakness or my love. She, at 
 least, shall never he wedded to my accursed secret. Sooner 
 than that, let the bullet or the knife do its work. Thank Got , 
 amidst all my infirmities, I have no dastard fear of death; 
 and yet, I would live. Sweet glimpses of joy in life, such as 1 
 have never known till now, make, it a thing of value. Oh ! 
 that I had sooner beheld them 1 had not then been so profli 
 gate of honor so ready to yield to the base suggest ionn >1 thif 
 wretched clan." 
 
RICHARD HURDtS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 PLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 
 
 Til note you in rny book of memory, 
 To scourge you for this reprehension ; 
 Look to it well, and say you are well warned." SHAKSPEKB. 
 
 THE unhappy youth had scarcely gone from sight when Mat 
 Webber and my colleague Haller emerged from a bush oppo 
 site, not ten paces off , in which they had, equally with myself, 
 listened to the whole dialogue as I have already narrated it. 
 
 " So !" was the exclamation of Webber, shaking his slow fin 
 ger after the departing form of the youth " So ! It is as 1 
 expected ; and your doom is written, Master Eberly. Foster 
 can save you, can he ? We will see to that ! It would be a 
 difficult matter for him to save himself, were he to try it. It is 
 well you have no hopes from me -w a ll ! / hate your girl, do 
 I, because she is the daughter of Grafloo. nu<\ i a -. 3 you because 
 you love her honorably ] Well 1 there *L trv.r.h in the notion, 
 however your dull brains happened to hit upon it. I do hate 
 both of you for that very reason. Had the fool used his pleas 
 ure with the girl, byG d, Iliad forgiven him he had had my 
 consent to go where he pleased, and swear oil from us at any 
 moment, for he has done nothing since he has been a member 
 he was never of much use, and will be of still less now. But 
 to love where I hate, is an offence I can not so readily forgive 
 No, Haller, the bullet and the knife for him. He shall keep 
 our secrets, and his own too, if you and Williams do your duty 
 Ha! who s that?" 
 
 " Williams himself," was my answer, as I came out of my 
 hiding-place, and joined them. 
 
 "Well! you have heard him he avows hia treason, an3 
 
FLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 341 
 
 you know his doom. What need of delay! Go after him 
 alone you will not have a better place for the blow if you 
 waited a month. Go alone, and despatch the business." 
 
 I was not prepared for so sudden a requisition, and the san 
 guinary and stern command at once confounded me. Yet Web 
 ber had only repeated the words of Foster. In our hands lay 
 the award and the execution of justice. We had been instruct 
 ed to punish, the moment we resolved that the penalty had 
 been incurred ; and there was no reasonable pretext for doubt. 
 What to do or say, I knew not to think of committing the 
 cruel deed was, of course, entirely out of the question. Fortu 
 nately, the answer of my colleague, Haller, relieved me. 
 
 " We had better wait and hear what Foster has to say. He 
 may not be pleased that we should proceed so suddenly, par 
 ticularly when we knew that he had promised to take the affaii 
 into consideration." 
 
 "And what can his consideration come to? What can he 
 have to say? He can not alter the laws he can not acquit 
 an offender whom we condemn he has no power for that." 
 
 " No ! He has no power for that ; and, so far as my voice 
 goes, we shall give him no such power in this instance," was 
 the reply of Haller. "Yet, as a matter of civility only, it will 
 be better that we should not proceed in this business till we 
 have heard what Foster has to say. He might look upon it, 
 that we slighted his opinions, and his wishes, at the least ; and 
 there s no necessity for our seeming to do that. Besides, we 
 can not lose by the delay. We can execute to-morrow just as 
 well as to-day Eberly can not escape us." 
 
 " True that s true," was the reply of Webber ; " though, to 
 speak plainly, I don t like this undertaking to interfere on the 
 part of Clem Foster. He can t certainly hope to persuade us 
 to reverse our judgment, and let this boy loose, unmuzzled, to 
 confuse and convict us in some of their dirty courts of jus 
 tice ! " 
 
 No ! As you heard him say, that s a matter more easy to 
 think upon than to do. All that Eberly could say in a court 
 house could not prove against one of us, and we might hang 
 him whenever we choose/ 
 
 " Yes, but we don t want to get into a court of justice at all," 
 
312 RICHARD HURDI8. 
 
 said Webler; "and there s little need for it, when we have 
 laws, and courts, and executioners, of our own. I tell you, 
 Haller, that I shall regard as an enemy any man who attempts 
 to get this chap off from punishment, lie shall die, by the 
 Eternal!" 
 
 " So he may, for what I care," said ITaller. " So, indeed, 
 he shall, under our own certainty of what he deserves, and the 
 power which has been entrusted to us. Be at rest, Mat Web 
 ber I have as little reason to let Edward Eberly escape as 
 you have. I hate him from my heart I hate him ! He has 
 scorned and insulted me before our men ; and it will go hard 
 with me if I don t avenge the insult with sevenfold vengeance." 
 
 "I m satisfied that you will keep your word, Haller; but 
 Foster s a smooth-spoken fellow, and he may have some kink 
 in liis head for saving this chap. He used to be very fond of 
 keeping company with him, and they were always spouting 
 verses and such stuff together. I know, too, for all Foster 
 speaks so promptly of punishing him, that, in his secret heart, 
 he had much rather let Eberly go clear from punishment, though 
 he risked the safety of the whole company by it." 
 
 " No danger of his doing it, whatever may be his wish," said 
 Haller ; " you have my oath upon it, Mat. Whatever Foster 
 may say or do in the business, he can t say or do anything to 
 alter my determination. So make yourself easy. To-morrow, 
 or the next day, at farthest, will wind up the traitor." 
 
 "You must keep watch meanwhile upon him." 
 
 "Yes! go about it now, Williams; look to Eberly for the 
 space of an hour, and I will come and relieve you. I must go 
 with Webber, to see what Foster has to say in the business 
 and hearken to his interference, even if we do not mind it. But 
 I d.n t think he ll interfere, Mat. The spouting poetry might 
 please his ears well enough, but I m convinced he could slit the 
 pipe of the spouter the moment he was done." 
 
 " Perhaps so," was the reply of Webber ; " but, at all 
 events " 
 
 They were leaving me now, and Haller interrupted the 
 speaker to counsel me before he went. 
 
 " I showed you, Williams, the place where Eberly sleeps t 
 do yo-u think you can find it ?" 
 
FLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 343 
 
 Yes 1 doubt not." 
 
 Then go to it at once, and note well who goc? in t:> him, 
 who comes out. If he comes out slyly, and seems disposed 
 to make off, do not stop to consider, but give him your bullet. 
 Be sure to do this if you find him with his horse." 
 
 These were the instructions of Webber. The other merely 
 i\id 
 
 " Don t fear tha* he wil) trj ic make off He knows such 
 efforts can not give him security, though lie should, for the pres 
 ent, escape us. No he thinks Foster s influence can save him, 
 and he will remain quiet in reliance upon it. v 
 
 " Be not now too sure, Williams," were the parting words of 
 Webber; "watch closely, or the fellow may escape you yet. 
 Remember you are on trial now : your promotion depends upon 
 .your zeal and success." 
 
 Nothing but the purposes which influenced me could havj 
 enabled me. to tolerate, with patience, nu-li language from such 
 a wretch. I felt my heart burn, and mv blood rise, and my lip 
 quiver, with an anger \\hich it required all my strength of res 
 olution to repress, every moment which I spent in my connec 
 tion with this herd of rogues. They left me, and, obeying their 
 instructions, I proceeded to the place among the bushes a 
 leafy house where Kberlv slept : and, taking a position which 
 enabled me to observe all the movements of its inmates, I pre 
 pared, with a thoughtful and sleepless mind, to pass away my 
 hour of watch. 
 
 Ilaller afterward related to me what took place in their in 
 terview with Foster. As he had predicted, the latter made but 
 & feeble effort to excuse the unfortunate Eberly. 
 
 " We first tried to find out," said Kaller, " if Foster was dis 
 posed tvj ,iave any concealment from us ; and, pretending that 
 we knew nothing of the interview between Eberly and himself, 
 we spoke of other matters entirely. But he volunteered, and 
 told us all pretty nearly as we ourselves heard, except he may 
 liave suppressed some of those parts where Eberly spoke scorn 
 fully of Mat Webber. These he did not speak. He then 
 asked us what we thought of the application ; and when we 
 told him that now there was no doubt that Eberly ought to die 
 and must die, lie agreed with us entirely. Indeed, even if he 
 
344 RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 had not agreed with us, he must have seen, from the resolved 
 manner in which we spoke, that it would not have heen wisdom 
 in him to express his disagreement; and his death is therefore 
 resolved upon. We arc instructed to do the business at once 
 better now than never. You say he is still in his house?" 
 
 This conversation took place where I had been watching in 
 front of the bushy dwelling in which Kberly slept; but my 
 answer to the con biding question of my comrade was a false 
 hood : 
 
 "Yes, he is still there. No one has gone in or out since I 
 Lave been here." 
 
 Nothing but the lie could save me, and I had no scruples 
 whatsoever in telling it. 1 had seen persons go in and out. 
 Scarcely had I got to my place of watch, indeed, whrn I saw 
 Foster enter the dingle. J crawled closely up behind it, and 
 heard enough to convince me that Foster was a greater hypo 
 crite than 1 had thought him, yet not so bad a man. 
 
 "Eberly!" he said quickly. The youth started from the 
 ground where I could see he was kneeling. He started and 
 drew a pistol in the same moment. The click of the cock 
 warned Foster to speak again. He did so, and announced his 
 name. 
 
 " I come to warn you that you can stay here no longer. I 
 can not save you, Kberly. I wish I could. But that is impos 
 sible. My lips must denounce you, to keep myself unsuspected. 
 There is a conspiracy against me, which 1 must foil. To seek 
 to save you, I would only sacrifice myself, and do you no ser 
 vice. I can do nothing, therefore, but counsel you to fly. The 
 sooner you are off the better. Indeed, I risk not a little in 
 coming to you now. Breton, the trusty fellow, advises me that 
 Webber, Haller, and Williams, are even now denouncing me in 
 the woods, where it seems they overheard all our conference. 
 It was well that I suspected them, and scrupulously addressed 
 my words rather to their cars than yours. This will excuse to 
 you my seeming harshness. But I can say no more. In a 
 short time they will seek me. Take that time to be off. Fly 
 where you can. Put the Ohio between us as soon as possible, 
 for no residence in the Southwest will save you." 
 
 But few words were uttered bv the visitor, but these were 
 
FLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 345 
 
 eiiongh to prompt the immediate exertions of the youth. Ilith 
 crto ho had appeared to me in an attitude wither feeble and 
 unmanly ; there was something puny and effeminate in the 
 manner of his appeal to Foster in their previous interview; 
 but this he seemed to discard in the moment which called for 
 resolute execution. He drew forth and reprimed his pistols, 
 Fet his dirk-knife in readiness, and was ready in two minu es 
 \z depart. 
 
 " Fortunately, I left my horse on the very edge of the island," 
 was his self-congratulating remark. " Foster, God bless you, as 
 I do ! Would that I could persuade you to fly with me !" 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 "Go! go! that is impossible. You fly because you have 
 hopes to fly to. 1 have none. You love, Eberly may your 
 love be more fortunate than mine has been than I am dis 
 posed to think human affections generally are. It is because I 
 too have loved, that I sympathize with you, and am willing to 
 assist you in your flight. 1 know not that I am serving you, 
 Eberly, in this, yet it is my will to serve you. Take the will 
 for the deed, and be gone vkh all haste. You have not a mo 
 ment adieu !" 
 
 Foster left him, and, in an instant after, Eberly emerged from 
 the dingle. It was in my power to have obeyed to the very 
 letter the instructions which had been given me, and to have 
 shot him down without difficulty. My extended arm, at ono 
 moment, as he passed from the copse, could have touched his 
 shoulder. But my weapon was unlifted ; and I felt a sudden 
 satisfaction as I found it in my power to second the intiutions 
 of Foster. This personage had placed himself also in a more 
 favorable light before my eyes during the brief interviev?- which 
 I have narrated. It gave me pleasure to see that, amid brutal 
 comrades, and wild, lawless, and foul pursuits, he yet cherished 
 in his bosom some lingering sentiments of humanity. There 
 was something yet in his heart which partook of the holy na 
 ture of a childhood which, we may suppose, was even blessed 
 with hopes and kindred, and which, however perverted now to 
 the lessons and performances of hate, once knew what it was to 
 do homage at the altar of confidi:.^ love. Foster, as may al 
 ready have appeared to the reader, was not deficient in those 
 
346 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 requisitions of education which refine the taste and sentiment*, 
 nowever much they may fail to impress themselves for good 
 on a corrupt and insensible spirit. 
 
 To return. I denied to Haller, as already stated, that any 
 one had gone in or out from the place where Eberly slept. In 
 the unequivocal lie was my only hope, and I had no scruple to 
 utter it. My comrade then spoke as follows : 
 
 " We have agreed among ourselves that he must be wound 
 up. Foster makes no objections, and AVcbber insists that it be 
 done immediately. To you it is intrusted to give the blow ; 
 and this concludes your trial. I will go in and entice him out 
 to you. Do you creep forward as you see me enter. Stand 
 behind yon tree to the left, and I will bring him under it on 
 the other side. Have your pistol cocked, and use it. But take 
 care not to mistake your man. If you notice his white hat, you 
 can t blunder. Keep quiet, now, while I go in." 
 
 He left me, and I paused where I was. Musing on the un 
 anticipated disappointment of the ruffian, a sudden whisper at 
 my side aroused me to a recollection of myself. The voice was 
 Webber s. He had crawled up to me with the stealthy pace 
 of the wild-cat, and my involuntary start, as he spoke, attested 
 my wonder at the ease and dexterity of his approach. 
 
 " Why do you stand ?" he said in stern accents ; " were you 
 not told what to do where to go ? You have no time to waste 
 go forward !" 
 
 Not to seem remiss, I answered promptly : 
 
 " I wished him first to get there. Both of us moving at the 
 same time, might alarm him." 
 
 " More likely to do so moving one at a time ; but move now 
 you are slow. You will win no favor in the club if you are 
 not more prompt." 
 
 I could have driven my fist into his teeth as he spoke thus 
 authoritatively ; but prudence stifled my anger. As it was, 
 however, I gave a sharp reply, which had in it a latent threat : 
 
 " You will find me prompt enough when the time comes, Mr. 
 Webber." 
 
 " I hope so, I hope so," he said coolly. I went forward, and 
 reached my station but a single instant before HaJJer re-emerged 
 from the copse. 
 
FLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 347 
 
 " He is gone the bird is off ! " he cried out as he approached. 
 
 "Ha ! how is this ? " exclaimed Webber, putting his hand upon 
 my shoulder with a firm grip. " You have let him escape, 
 Williams ! You have slept on your post, man ; or you have 
 connived 
 
 He paused ; but his language, tone, and manner, were so irresist 
 ibly provoking, that I shook his grasp from my shoulder, and, facing 
 him boldly, replied : 
 
 " It s false, whoever says it ! I have done neither, sir neither 
 connived with him, nor seen him fly. liecull your words, or, by 
 Heavens, I strike you in the mouth ! " 
 
 "And if you did, young un, you d get little profit from it 
 you d get quite as good as you sent. But this is no time to vapor. 
 It s very likely you re right, and I m wrong, and that must satisfy 
 you at present. How is it, Ilaller ? wherefore should he 
 fly ? Did you not understand that he would wait to hear Foster s 
 decision ? " 
 
 " No, I did not understand, but I inferred it. It seemed to me, 
 from the confidence which he expressed in Foster s ability to save 
 him, that he would scarce think it policy to fiy ; since flight, as it 
 indicated distrust of us, would at once provoke our distrust of him, 
 and lead to a denial of his prayer. I would have sworn that we 
 should find him there." 
 
 He has thought better of it, and taken to his heels. But he has 
 not gone far. He will not go far. He s to marry Grafton s 
 daughter; I know that they re emyau cd, and the afl air is to take 
 place very soon. I shouldn t be at all surprised, from his agitation 
 and hasty reference to Foster -not to speak of his flight now if it 
 is fixed for to-morrow or the next night. 
 
 There was much in this speech to confound and afilict me. 
 "That marriage must be prevented," I inly declared to myself. " I 
 must risk everything to prevent its consummation. The poor girl 
 must not be sacrificed to such a connection. However much I may 
 pity him" and circumstances really began to impress me favor 
 ably toward Clifton " I must yet save her." 
 
 While the two confederates debated the matter, I formed my own 
 plans. 
 
 " Mr. Webber," I said, "you have ascribed the flight of this 
 man to my neglect, or, which is worse, my connivance ; and 
 
348 niciiAiiD iiiriiDis. 
 
 your apology, if it may be called such, is scarcely satisfactory to me. 
 But I leave my personal atonement over, and waive my own claims to 
 the interests of our confederacy. I claim to pursue this man 
 Eberly to pursue and put him to death. The privilege is 
 mine, for several reasons : the principal are enough. I will 
 establish my claim to the confidence of the confederacy ; and, as the 
 death of Eberly seems now essential to our secret, secure that. 
 Instruct me where to seek for him. I will pursue him to Graf ton s, 
 and put a stop to this wedding in the most effectual manner. 
 Give me the necessary directions, and you shall see that I am neither 
 a sleeper nor a traitor. You will also see whether I am bold 
 enough to strike either in our common cause or in defence of my 
 own honor." 
 
 "Shrewdly crowed, young chicken, and to the purpose," was 
 the chuckling response of Webber. "Now, that s what I like 
 that s coming out like a man ; and if you succeed in doing what 
 you promise, you will undoubtedly have an equal claim on me and 
 the confederacy. But don t misunderstand me, Williams. I never 
 had any doubt of your honor, and, if I had, your offer now 
 sufficiently proves me to have been wrong. I spoke from 
 the haste and disappointment of the moment ; and I have not the 
 slightest question that Eberly took off the moment after leaving 
 Foster. He took the alarm at something or other and men who 
 have in them a consciousness of wrong, find cause of alarm 
 in everything ; or it may be that he meditated flight from the first 
 for, now I think of it, -I observed, when he first came, that 
 he fastened his horse on the edge of the swamp, by Pigeon-Roost 
 branch, which you know, Haller, is scarce a stone s throw from the 
 main road ; though that would be a stranger plan than all, since, if 
 he meditated flight, he need not have come ; he only incurred useless 
 risk by doing so." 
 
 " lie s half mad that s it," eaid Haller. "But let us look if his 
 horse is gone. That will settle our doubts. It may be that he is 
 still on the island somewhere." 
 
 To ascertain this fact did not take many minutes, and the 
 absence of the horse confirmed the flight of the fugitive. 
 I now demanded of Webber if my proffer was accepted. To go 
 upon a mission of this kind, which would enable me to seek out and 
 confer with Colonel Graf I on, was now the dearest desire of my 
 
FLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 349 
 
 heart. To save his daughter was a sufficient motive for this desire ; 
 to wreak the measure of my great revenge upon the damnable frater 
 nity with which I had herded for this single object, was no less great, 
 if not, in a public point of view, much greater. I had a stomach for 
 the lives of all ali. The memory of my murdered friend took all 
 mercy from my heart. 
 
 To my question, Webber answered : 
 
 li We must see what Foster says. We will go to him at once. 
 I m willing that you should go about this business, and will help you 
 to all information ; but I m scarcely in a hurry about it now. I ve 
 been thinking it would please me better to let him marry the girl 
 before we kill him. Then, if it so happened that I could ever lay 
 my foot on Graf ton s throat, as I hope to do before long, I could 
 howl it in his ears, till it hurt him worse than my bullet or my knife, 
 that his sweet Julia, his darling, of whom he is so fond and proud 
 and boastful, was the wife of a common robber a thief of the high 
 way a rogue to all the world, and worse tiian a rogue to his own 
 comrades! That would be a triumph, Ilaller; and Grafton, if I know 
 the man rightly, would go out of the world with a howl when I 
 cried it in his ear ! " 
 
 Sickening at the fiendish thought, I turned with revulsion from 
 the iiend, and felt humbled and sad as I was constrained to follow 
 such a rufllan in silence, and without any show of that natural resent 
 ment which I felt. But i conquered my impatience as I retlected 
 that, by delay, I hoped to obtain at once a complete and certain satis 
 faction. An image of my sanguinary revenge rose before my eyes as 
 I then went forward; and, in fancy, I beheld streaming wounds, and 
 I felt my feet plashing in rivulets of stagnating blood! and a 
 strange but shuddering pleasure went through my bosom at the fancy. 
 
350 RICHARD 1IURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 THE AFFAIR GROWS MORE INTRICATE. 
 
 " The land wants such 
 
 As dare with vigor execute the laws ; 
 
 Her festered members must be hvnced and tented : 
 
 He s a bad surgeon that for pity spares 
 
 The part corrupted, till the gangrene spreads, 
 
 And all the body perish : He that s merciful 
 
 Unto the bad is cruel to the good." RANDOLPH. 
 
 FOSTER received the tidings of Ebcrly s flight with well-affected 
 astonishment. Putting on the sternest expression of countenance, 
 he looked on me with suspicion. 
 
 "And you were set to watch him, Williams. How is this: 
 I fear you have been neglectful you have slept upon youi 
 watch I can not think that you have had any intelligence 
 with Eberly." 
 
 In answering the speaker, I strove to throw into my eyes a 
 counselling expression, which it was my hope to make him 
 comprehend. My answer, shaped to this object, had the desired 
 effect. 
 
 "I have not slept, and you do me only justice, when you 
 think that I have had no intelligence with the fugitive. But I 
 have volunteered to pursue him, and will execute your judg. 
 mc iits upon him, if I can; even though he should put tJte Okie- 
 bdirccii us." 
 
 The reader will remember, that the phrase here italicised 
 was employed by roster himself, in giving his parting counsels 
 to Eberly. Foster readily remembered it, and I could detect 
 so I fancied in the tone of voice with which he adressed 
 me in reply, a conviction that I was privy to his own partial 
 and perhaps, pardonable treachery to his comrades. In 
 
THE AFFAIR UliOWS MORE INTRICATE, 351 
 
 other respect lie seemed unmoved, and his reply was instan 
 taneous. 
 
 "And we accept your offer, Williams you shall have the 
 
 opportunity you seek to prove your fidelity, and secure the confi 
 dence of the club. We are agreed, Webber, are we not, that 
 Williams shall take the track of Eberly ? " 
 
 "Ay tomorrow, though I care not that he should strike 
 ill the day following, if it be that I conjecture rightly on one 
 matter." 
 
 "What matter? What is it that your conjecture? " demanded 
 Foster, suspiciously. 
 
 "Why, that Eberly is about to marry Julia Grafton. It would 
 not surprise me much if the affair takes place; in a day or two. 
 "( think it must be so, from his present anxiety." 
 
 "lie would be a fool, indeed, to think of such a thing, with 
 out our permission," replied Foster; " but even if such be the case, 
 therefore would y< u defer execution upon him till the day fol 
 lowing, supposing that Williams should get a chance to strike as 
 $ve blow." 
 
 " I would have the marriage completed," was the answer. " I 
 vvould have Grafton s pride humbled by his daughter s union with 
 ine whom we should be able, not only to destroy, but dishonor. 
 By all that is devilish in my heart, Foster, I could risk my life 
 freely, to tell Grafton all his story, with my own lips the day 
 after his daughter s nuptials. 
 
 " Well, you hate fervently enough," said Foster; "and, perhaps, 
 A here one s hand s in, he may as well thrust away with his whole 
 soul. But this helps not our purpose. It is agreed, you say, that 
 Williams goes upon this business . " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then his course must take him at once to Grafton s neighbor 
 hood." 
 
 "Yes that is our course ioo. We meet to-morrow, you recol 
 lect, with Dillon and others, at the Blind. Our beginners must 
 be examined there." 
 
 "But Williams must start before us." 
 
 "No it needs not," said Webber. "We need be in no 
 hurry now, since there can be no doubt that we shall be able 
 to find Eberly at any moment within the three next days 
 
352 RICHARD 1IURDIS. 
 
 Williams knows that lie must find him in that time, and if he 
 docs not, send Dillon and Hnller on his track, and they find him, 
 I ll bet my life, though they hid him in the closet scuttle-hole 
 of Natchy swamp. Let us all go together to the meeting of the 
 Blind, and not alarm the traitor by pressing the pursuit upon him 
 in the very moment of his flight. Let him have a little time let 
 him marry away, and be happy, if he can, for a night or two. 
 It will not diminish his punishment that he has a taste only 
 of wedlock. Julia Grafton is a sxvcct girl enough I could 
 have taken her nn self, and, perhaps, been an honest overseer of 
 her father s plantation all my life bowing respectfully to his 
 high mightiness, and kissing the rod of his rebuke had he only 
 looked a willingness to let me have her. But, as it is let the 
 game go! It matters not much who has what we can t have; and 
 yet I hate Grafton so cursedly, that it gives me pleasure to think 
 that she is to be the wife of one so completely in our r>ower as 
 Edward Eberly or Clifton, as we should call him in Grafton 
 Lodge. Let him swing freely on his gate awhile; and Williams may 
 take his time. He cannot escape all of us, though he may escape 
 him." 
 
 "You will instruct Williams, then, when he shall go, and where," 
 said Foster. 
 
 "Yes that shall be my look-out. In the meantime, let us go to 
 sleep. We have to start early, and the small hours are beginning I 
 can tell from the increasing darkness and the cold. Let us wrap up, 
 and sleep fust, for we must be stirring early. Williams, I ll wake 
 you in the morning." 
 
 " The sooner the better," was my reply; " for, between us, I don t 
 like this putting off. If I am to go after Eberly, I d rather start 
 at daylight, and strike as soon as I get a chance. I hate, when I 
 have such a business on li.-iwl, to risk its justice by my own delay; 
 particularly when delay can be avoided. Besides, I m thinking 
 that if Eberly marries this girl, he will be cunning enough to leave 
 the country. Ten to one, he s made all his arrangements for 
 an early start, and will be off on fast horses soon after the 
 event." 
 
 "That s true," said the ruffian; "I did not think of tliat 
 you shall start as soon as possible after we have met our men 
 at the Blind to-morrow. AYe must meet them there first, for 
 
THE AFFAIR GROWS MORE INTRICATE 353 
 
 I have business of importance with one of them that must be seen to ; 
 and you ll have to wait till I can show you the way to Grafton s, and 
 some few of our hiding-places, thereabouts. 
 
 In my eagerness, I had almost told him that I knew the 
 place well enough, and could find it without him. My anxiety 
 to be in season to prevent, the nuptials, had nearly blinded me 
 to the great risk of detection, to which S".ch ;iu avowal must 
 have subjected me. But I met the inquiring glance of Foster s 
 eye at this moment, and that brought me to my senses. It taught 
 me that I was playing a part of triple treachery, and warned 
 me to be duly cautious of what I uttered. Without further 
 question or reply, we broke up for the night ; and it seemed 
 to me that I had scarcely got snugly into my place of rest, and 
 closed my eyes for an instant, before I was awakened by Webber, 
 with a summons to set forward. However w.r. ling in proper 
 rest, for my partial slumbers of the night h;i-i given me no 
 refreshment, I had too greatly at heart, the pe:;"e of Grafton s 
 family, and the safety of the poor girl Julia, rot to leap with 
 alacrity at the summons. Ten minutes sufiiced :o set us all in 
 motion, and as the bright bla/.e of the sun open d upon us, we 
 were speeding on at full gallop, some seven of us, nt least, to our 
 place of meeting at the "Blind." There had been, at different 
 periods of the night, full thirty men in our bivouac in the 
 Sipsy, but they came and went at all hours, and none remained 
 but those who had something of the general management of the 
 rest. Five of these were my companions now. The other two 
 were Ilaller and myself. Haller, it seems, was not so much a 
 counsellor as a trusted underling or orderly a fellow sufficiently 
 cunning to seem wise, and so much of the rogue as to deserve, 
 even if lacking wisdom, a conspicuous place among those 
 whose sole aim was dishonesty. But our business is not with 
 him. 
 
 A smart ride of a few hours brought us to our resting-place, 
 a nest of hills huddled together confusedly, and forming, with 
 the valley already described, called the "Day Blind," a hundred 
 natural hiding-places of like form and character. Here I was 
 within a few miles of Col. Grafton s residence. I had passed 
 the dwelling of Matthew Webber, already so well known 
 to the reader, and who should "be my companion, side 
 of the mountain, threatened in their flow to break down all barriers, 
 
354 RICH A 111) I1URDI8. 
 
 by side with me as I passed it, but Webber himself. I watched 
 him closely when we came in sight of it, and though I could 
 see that lie regarded it with wistful attention, yet he was as 
 silent as the grave even on the subject of his own late pro 
 prietorship ; and my position was too nice and ticklish to make 
 any reference to it, advisable on my part. 
 
 When we got to the place of rest, which was about noon, we 
 found several of the brotherhood already assembled, most of 
 whom were instantly taken aside by Foster, Webber, and one 
 or two others, who ruled with them, and underwent an exami 
 nation as to what they had done or were in preparation to do. 
 For my part I had nothing to do but saunter about like many 
 others lie down on the sunny knolls, and tumble among the 
 yellow leaves, lacking employment. This was no pleasurable 
 exercise for one who had in his heart such an unappeasable 
 anxiety as was then pervading mine, and which I could scarce 
 keep from exhibition. Meantime, I could see men coming and 
 going on every side ; the persons seeming quite as multiformed 
 and particolored as the business was diverse in character in 
 which they were engaged. While 1 gazed upon them without 
 particular interest, my eyes were drawn to a group of three 
 persons who now approached the valley from a pass through 
 the two hills that rose before me. At the distance where I lay, 
 I could not distinguish features, but there was an air and man 
 ner about them, which, in two of the party, compelled my clo 
 sest attention. The horses which they rode seemed also to be 
 familiar j and with more earnestness of feeling than I can now 
 describe, or could then account for, I continued to gaze upon 
 them, as, without approaching much nigher to where I lay, they 
 continued their progress forward to where Foster and Webber 
 were in the habit of receiving their followers. But, at length, 
 overcome by strange surmises, I sprang to my feet, and shading 
 my eyes with my hands, endeavored to made out the parties. 
 The next moment they disappeared behind the knoll, and, with 
 my anxiety still unsubdued, I threw myself again upon the 
 ground, and strove with my impatience as well as I could. 
 Perhaps a full hour elapsed when I saw the three re-emerge 
 from behind the knoll, and come out into the valley. They 
 were followed by Foster, who conducted them a little afii^ n% 
 
** THE AFFAIR GROWS MORE INTRICATE. 355 
 
 the four seatel themselves together for a while, on the side of 
 the hills ; after a hrief space, Foster left them and came toward 
 me. He threw himself do\vn beside me, with an air of weariness. 
 
 "Well, Williams, yon seem to take the world easily. Here 
 yon lie, stretched at length upon the ground, as if it had no 
 insects, and looking np to the skies as if they were never shad 
 owed by a cloud. For my part I see nothing but insects and 
 worms along the earth, and nothing but clonds in heaven. 
 This comes from the nature of our pursuits, and to speak a 
 truth, I sometimes see a beauty in virtue which I have never 
 been able, to see in man. I almost think, if circumstances 
 w.uld let me, that I would steal away, like poor Kbcrly, from 
 cur comrades, ami try to do a safer and an humbler sort of busi 
 ness, among better reptiles than we. now work with." 
 
 This speech, it meant to deceive, did not deceive me. 
 
 " You would soon long to return, Foster, to your present com 
 panions and occupations, or I greatly >:i intake your temper," 
 was rny reply. " Your ambition is your prevailing principle 
 to sway, your leading object to be great, to have distinction, 
 is the predominating passion of your heart." 
 
 My reply was intended merely to Hatter him, and it had its 
 effect. He paused for an instant, then said, with a smile: 
 
 "And yon would add, Williams, that, like Milton s devil, I 
 am not at all scrupulous as to the sort of greatness which I aim 
 at, or the quality of the instruments with which I wrought." 
 
 " And, if I did, Foster, I do not see that the imputation would 
 do you any discredit. Men are pretty much alike wherever we 
 tind them, and there are virtuous monsters no less than vicicus 
 ones. Circumstances, after all, make the chief cV.tfe.renees in 
 the characters of mankind ; and many a saint m y "?. te, born in 
 my condition, would have cut many more throats than it s my 
 hope ever to do. To rule man is to rule man any ?nf[uiiy as 
 to the moral differences between these you rule and those you 
 rule by, is a waste of thought, since the times, and the seasons, 
 the winds and the weather, or a thousand differences which 
 seem equally unreal and shadowy, are the true causes of the 
 vices of one class and the virtues of another. A planter pays 
 his debts, and is liberal if he makes a good crop he fails in 
 hoth respects if his crop fails ; and tbe creditor denounces hup 
 
356 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 as a rogue, a id sells his property under the hammer of a sher 
 iff, while the church frowns upon him from the moment he 
 ceases to drop his Mexican in the charity hat. Saints ami 
 devils are pretty much the same people, if the weather prevails 
 with equal force in their favor; but when the wind changes 
 and blights the crop of the one, and ripens that of the other, tea 
 to one, the fiist grows to be a general benefactor and is blessed 
 by all, while the other is driven from society as a miserable 
 skunk, whom it is mere charity to kick out of existence. You 
 should not bother your head in wishing for better followers or 
 a dominion less questionable. If you have fifteen hundred 
 men willing to fight and die for you, and not minding the laws 
 on the subject, you arc a better and a greater man than the 
 governor of Mississippi, who, do his best, can not command 
 fifteen hundred votes. To my mind, it is clear that yours is the 
 greater distinction." 
 
 "That is true; and yet, Williams, what is distinction, indeed, 
 but a sort of solitude a dreary eminence, which, though wo 
 may behold many laboring at all seasons to scramble up its 
 side, how few do we see able to occupy it, how much more few 
 the number to keop it. My eminence, imposing as it may seem 
 to you, is at best very insecure. I have rivals some who seek 
 to restrain me and to crush my power, by lopping off my best 
 friends at every opportunity, and on the slightest pretences. 
 These I am bound to save, yet I do so at great peril to myself. 
 I risk my own rule, nor my rule only I risk my life daily, in 
 >hls connection, by seeking to save, as I am resolute always to 
 do, the frigid, however wanting in other respects, who has 
 proved true to my desires and cause." 
 
 J Baw which way these remarks tended; and resolved, at 
 once, to pn< a satisfactory conclusion to the apprehensions 
 which I saw prevailed in the mind of my companion. He was 
 obliquely seeking to justify himself for his course in regard to 
 Kberly, which he saw that I knew and, probably, he wafl 
 aiming to discover in how far I might be relied on in sustain 
 ing him in any partisan conflict with the rivals of whom he 
 spoke. My answer was not without its art ; and it fully an- 
 * vtMvd its intended purpose. . 
 
 " You do uo more than you should," was my reply. " You 
 
THE AFAIR GIIO\VS MOIIK IXT1IICATK. 357 
 
 are bound to succor your friends over, against the laws of youi 
 comrades, since they risk the peril of these laws in serving you. 
 I understand your difficulty. Indeed, it did net need that yon 
 should declare it to me, in order to make me know it. J had 
 not been an hour in your camp on the Sipsy before I saw the 
 secret strife wl.hh was going on ; and, I may say, Foster, once 
 for all, you may count upon me to sustain yon ji^ainst any 
 rival that may be raised up in opposition to your jti>t rule, from 
 among the confederates. Count en me, I ^iy, to support you 
 against Webber and his clan, for it strikes me that he isllie fel 
 low you have most to fear." 
 
 "You are right!" he said, grasping my hand nervously 
 you are quite right, and I admire your keenness of observa 
 tion, only less than the warmth of your personal regard fur me. 
 t-Vebber is, indeed, the person who is now plotting secretly 
 igainst me. There will be a trial of strength between us in 
 he council of twelve to-morrow and I shall defeat him there, 
 though by so small a vote that it will tend to stimulate him to 
 still greater exertions, and to make him more inveterate in his 
 hostility, which he has still grace enough to seek to hide." 
 
 lie would probably have gone on much further in the (level 
 opment of the miserable strife that followed hard upon his state, 
 but that a movement of my own interrupted him. 31 y eyes had 
 been for some time turned watchfully upon the group of three 
 persons to which I have already called the reader s attention. 
 They had left the little knoll on which they seated themselves 
 when Foster first emerged with them from the place, of confe 
 rence, and had advanced somewhat further into the valley, and 
 consequently rather neaj-er to my place of repose, which was 
 half way down one of the hills out of which it was scooped. 
 This approach enabled me to observe tnem better ; and. aa 
 they movod about among another party, who were pitching 
 quoits, my eyes gradually distinguished their persons first, and 
 at length their features. This discovery led to my interruption 
 "f Poster s developments. What was my consternation and 
 wonder to recognise John Hurdis in one, and Ben Pickett in 
 another of this group. With difficulty I kept myself from 
 leaping upright my finger was involuntarily extended toward 
 them 
 
358 RICHARD HURDIS, 
 
 "What see you]" demanded Foster, loo^ti g in the same di 
 rection. His demand was a sufficient warning foi ine to b* 
 cautious, and yet, for the life of me, I could not forbear the 
 question in reply. 
 
 " Who are those ?" 
 
 "What, the pitchers?" 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! and their companions the lookers-on." 
 
 "One of the pitchers is a fellow named Ilatfield a close 
 friend of Webber, and one of our most adroit spies; he is the. 
 fellow in green ; the other two are common strikers, who will 
 set out on an expedition to-night. They are exceedingly ex 
 pert horse-stealers, and the people near Columbus will hear of 
 them- before they are two days older the tallest one is named 
 Jones, the other Baker." 
 
 "And how do they incline toward you or Webber?" was 
 an indifferent question, almost too indifferently put to answer 
 the purpose of a disguise to my real curiosity, for which it was 
 intended. I heard his answer impatiently, and then, with lips 
 that trembled, I demanded 
 
 "And who are the three lookers-on? I have not seen them 
 before ! They were not with us on the Sipsy last night ?" 
 
 " No ; they have just come from down the river. The smal 
 ler fellow is one of our keenest emissaries, and, perhaps, one of 
 our bravest men. lie has just brought up the two men who are 
 with him " 
 
 " What ! as prisoners ]" I exclaimed, in my impatience. 
 
 " Prisoners, indeed ! No. What should we do with prison 
 ers ? They belong to us. They are our men." - 
 
 " Why, then, do you say he brought them up ?" 
 
 "This is the affair. I have just fini.-hed their examination. 
 It appears that the large, fat fellow, is rather a rich young 
 planter somewhere in Aiarengo. lie had n brother with whom 
 he had a quarrel. This brother set off Y/iiii a companion some 
 weeks ago for the nation, where they propped to enter lands 
 The elder brother avails himself of this oppon unity to revenge 
 himself for some indignities put upon him by the younger, and 
 despatches after him the fellow in homespun, whom you see be 
 side him, his hands in his breeches pockets. Webber, it appears, 
 about the same time, laid a trap for the two travtllrs, <>uc "f 
 
THE AFFAIR GROWS MORE INTRICATE. 359 
 
 whom fell into it very nicely the other broke off and got 
 away. They pursued him, but they must have lost him, but 
 for the timely aid of the chap in homespun, who, lying in wait, 
 shot down the fugitive, and then made off to his employer. Ac 
 cording to our general plan, an emissary was sent after the mur 
 derer; and, in securing him, the secret of the brother was dis 
 covered. In this way, both have been secured, and are now 
 numbered among our followers." 
 
 I have abridged Foster s narrative, in order to ivoid telling 
 a story twice, llere was a dreadful discovery. My stupid 
 amazement can not be described. I was literally overcome. 
 Foster saw my astonishment, and inquired into its cause. My 
 reply was, perhaps, a sufficient reason for my astonishment, 
 though it effectually concealed the true one. 
 
 " Great God ! can this be possible ? His own brother ?" 
 
 " Even so. Neither youju>r J^mihljhave done such a thing, 
 bad as >yp, may~])p T7^Il-Uy.-4^4JL^r/l tfrr( ] j^^t^ The fellow 
 seems but a poor creature after all, and could hardly stand du 
 ring our examination. Of such creatures, however, we make 
 the most useful, if not the most daring members. We will let 
 him go back to Marengo after to-morrow, and be a pillar of the 
 church, which, 1 think it not improbable, he will instantly join, 
 if, indeed, he be not already a member. The other fellow, who 
 is called Pickett, takes to us with a relish, and Webber has found 
 him a place to squat somewhere on the banks of the Big Warrior. 
 But, a truce to this. Here Webber approaches. Do not 
 forget, Williams and, I am your friend. We must act togeth 
 er for mutual benefit. Mum, now." 
 
 Webber drew nigh, bringing with him the emissary who haJ 
 gone after Pickett and John Hurdis. They remained with ;.he 
 pitchers, among whom, I may add, Pickett was, at tlv .me, in 
 corporated, and working away as lustily as the most expert. 
 But I had no time allowed me to note either his, or the labors 
 of John Ilurdis. My attention was instantly challenged by 
 Webber, who, unless angry, was not a man of many -\\ ords. 
 
 "Get yourself in readiness, Williams; I will set you on the 
 track in an hour, and show you a part of the route." 
 
 I proceeded to obey, and it was not long, as may be conjec 
 tured, before I wr.s properly mounted for that journey whicfe. 
 
360 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 was to eventuate in the rescue of my friend s child from the 
 cruel sacrifice which was at hand. Webber and myself set off 
 together. Foster shook my hand at parting, and his last phrase 
 was one, which, between us, had a meaning beyond that which 
 met the ear. 
 
 " I trust you will find your man, Williams, though he even 
 puts the Ohio between us. Let us see you back soon." 
 
 I was annoyed by the searching stare of the keen-eyed emis 
 sary. Ilis eyes were never once taken from my countenance, 
 from the moment of my introduction to him ; and, I am sure, 
 thai lie had some indistinct remembrance of me, though, fortu 
 nately, not of a sufficiently strong character to do more than 
 confuse him. I dreaded discovery every moment, but, though 
 watching me keenly to the last, with a most unpleasant per 
 tinacity of stare, he suffered me to ride away without the ut 
 terance of those suspicions which I I joked moD ently to he*i 
 spoken. 
 
TROUBLES AT GRAFTON LODGE. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 TROUBLES AT GRAFTON LOUUC. 
 
 " Cold tidings, sir, 
 
 T bring you, of new sorrows. You have need 
 To make division of your wide estate, 
 And pnrcel out your stores. Take counsel, sir, 
 How you v/ill part from life; for tis my fear 
 That you must part from hope, which life more neev?p. 
 Than the dull fare it feeds on." Knight Errant, 
 
 WE did not delay, having now put ourselves in readiness, but 
 *fter a few brief words of parting, we left Foster and the emit*- 
 sary, whose searching eyes I was truly anxious to escape from. 
 That fellow s stare gave me more uneasiness, and a greater 
 idea of the danger that I ran, than any other one circumstance 
 ince my connection with the ruffians. Foster did not let me 
 ieave him without giving me some expressive glances. I could 
 see that he was desirous of saying something to me, which, 1 
 fancied, must concern Eberly ; but we had no opportunity for 
 a private word after Webber joined us, and to make an oppo* 
 tunity was wishing far more than I desired or Foster was pre 
 pared for. Off we went at full gallop, and we were soon out 
 of sight of the encampment, and rough hills were momently 
 rising between us. In the course of a quarter of an hour, I 
 found myself going once more over the very spot where we 
 found the body of William Carrington. I shuddered involun 
 tarily as my eyes rested upon it ; the next moment I saw the 
 glance of Webber fixed curiously on the same spot, and a slight 
 smile played upon his lips, as he caught my look of inquiry. 
 
 "A tall fellow was tumbled here only the other day," he 
 said, with an air of indifference that vexed me " who might 
 kave been alive and kickir? now. *f 1,1s ]..<:<>]* had been less 
 
362 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 I now drew Higher, and pretended a curiosity to hear the 
 story, but he baffled my desire as he replied 
 
 " Not now : another time, when we are more at leisure, I ll 
 tell you stories of what I ve seen and know, to make you open 
 your eyes much wider than you do now. But here we reach 
 the road, the Day-Blind as they call it, for it s so deep and 
 narrow that there s always a shade over it. This road taking 
 the left-hni d fork, v, hen you get on a rnile farther, takes you 
 direct to Gvifton s. You ll see the avenue leading to the lodge, 
 to the right, and a pretty place enough it is. You can lie to 
 night at a house which you ll see two miles after you pass Graf- 
 ton s, where you ll find two of our people. Give them the first 
 two signs, and they ll know who you are, and provide you with 
 any help you may call for. But the places which you must 
 watch in particular are the two avenues to the lodge the front 
 and rear. There is a thick wood before the back avenue, where 
 we ve got one of our men watching now. You must relieve him 
 and send him to me instantly. lie will not need you to urge 
 him to full speed if you will only remember to tell him that the 
 saddle wants nothing but the stirrups. He ll understand *liat, 
 and come." 
 
 " But what does that mean ?" I demanded. 
 
 "Oh, nothing much it s a little matter between us, that 
 doesn t at all concern the fraternity." 
 
 " What ! have you secrets which the club is not permitted to 
 share ?" 
 
 " Yes, when they do not conflict with our laws. An affair 
 with a petticoat is a matter of this sort." 
 
 "And yet such is Eberly s affair." 
 
 " True ; but Eberly would sacrifice all to the petticoat, and 
 for that we punish him. He might go after a dozen women if 
 he pleased, and have a seraglio like the Grand Turk, and none 
 of us would say him nay, if he did not allow them to play Deli 
 lah with him, and get his secret. But listen, now, while I give 
 you the necessary information." 
 
 Here we stopped a while, and he led me into the woods 
 where he gave a brief account of Graftou family and lodge, in 
 formed me of one or two hiding-places of Eberly, and even told 
 me at what hour I might look to see him arriving &* the aveu^a 
 
TROUBLES AT GRAFTON LODGE. obd 
 
 So keen had been his watch, and that of his creatures, upon the 
 doomed fugitive, that, as I afterward discovered, he was not only 
 correct to the very letter in what he told me, but he also knew every 
 movement which his victim made; and there had not been a day, for 
 the three months preceding, in which he had not been able at any 
 time to lay hands upon him Indeed, had the directions of Webber 
 been followed while in the Sipsy swamp, Eberly could not by any 
 possibility have escaped, unless through my evasion of the mur 
 derous task which had been then assigned me. I need not add 
 that such would have been the case. Regarding the unhappy youth 
 as not undeserving of punishment, I had yet no desire to be 
 come his executioner. 1 had taken enough of this duty on my 
 hands already ; and my late discovery, touching John Hurdis, 
 had increased the solemnity of the task to a degree which put the 
 intensity of my excitement beyond all my powers of description. 
 I could now only reflect that I had sworn in the chamber of 
 death, and in the presence of the dead, to execute the eternal sen 
 tence of justice upon the person of my own brother. When 
 Webber left me in that wood, I renewed the terrible oatli before 
 Heaven. 
 
 But to my present task. I rode forward as I had been coun 
 selled, and soon came in sight of the well-known lodge, which, 
 whatever might be my wish, I did not dare to enter, until I 
 had first got out of the way of the spy whom Webber kept 
 upon it, and whom he requested me to send to him. Avoiding 
 the entrance accordingly, I fell into a by-path, which ran round 
 the estate, and whistling a prescribed tune, as I approached the 
 back avenue, I had the satisfaction to hear the responsive note 
 from the wood opposite. Who should present himself at my 
 summons, but my ancient foe, the Tuscaloosa gambler whom 
 they called George? I felt the strongest disposition to take 
 the scoundrel by the throat, in a mood betwixt merriment and 
 anger ; but there was a stake of too much importance yet to be 
 played for, and with praiseworthy patience I forebore. Subdu 
 ing my voice, and restraining my mood to the proper pitch, I 
 introduced myself to him in the prescribed form. I showed him 
 the first two signs of the club the sign of the striker, and the 
 sign of the feeder the first being that of the common horse- 
 thief or mail robber ; the other that which empowers a member 
 
RICHARD IIl UDIS. 
 
 probe the nature of the man he meets, and secure him, if he 
 thinks he can, to the uses of the brotherhood. I gave him my 
 assumed name, and the history of my membership, and then 
 sent him on his way happy to get him out of mine to tne 
 brothers in the encampment. I waited with impatience till he 
 had gone fairly out of sight ; then, with a full heart, and a bosoin 
 bounding once more vith freedom, I entered the avenue, and 
 hurried forward to the dwelling of my friend. 
 
 My disguise was quite as complete in concealing me from 
 Colonel Grafton as it had been in hiding me from my foes. It 
 was with difficulty I persuaded him to know me. His first 
 words, after he became convinced of my identity, were 
 
 "And the poor girl Emmeline ? How did she stand your 
 tidings ?" 
 
 44 She is dead." I told him all the particulars ; and accounted 
 for the disguise in which I appeared, by telling what were the 
 novel duties which I had undertaken. 
 
 " You are a bold man a very bold man, Mr. Hurdis. And 
 how far have you been successful ?" 
 
 Briefly, I related to him my meeting with Foster ; the success 
 of my plans ; IP S revelations to me ; and the progress of events 
 until I came to the encampment in the Sipsy swamp. These 
 he listened to with an intense interest, and frequently inter 
 rupted me to relate little incidents within his own knowledge, 
 which, strange and unaccountable before, found an easy solu 
 tion when coupled with such as I related. When I had told 
 him thus far, I came to an uneasy halt. He had evidently no 
 apprehension that he could be interested further in such a nar 
 rative tlum as a good citizen and a public magistrate. Finding 
 me at a pause, lie thus spoke : 
 
 "And you left these rascals in the Sipsy; you have come 
 now for assistance, have you not?" 
 
 " You are right, colonel : I have come to get what assistance 
 I can to bring them to punishment. But I left them not in the 
 Sipsy ; they are nigher than you think for, and much more con 
 veniently situated for a surprise." 
 
 " Ha ! in the * Day-Blind* is it so ? That has long been a 
 suspicious place ; and, if my conjecture is right, I will do my 
 best to ferret them out, arid clear it for good and all." 
 
TROUBLES AT GRAFTON LODGE. 365 
 
 They are near it, if not in it," was my reply. I proceeded 
 to describe the place, which he very well knew. 
 
 " In three days more, Hurdis, I shall be ready for the hunt. 
 We can not conveniently have it sooner, since a little domestic 
 matter will, for the next day or two, take up all my attention ; 
 and I must forget the magistrate for a brief period in the father. 
 You are come in season, my friend, for our family festivities. 
 My daughter, you must know 
 
 " Let me stop you, Colonel Grafton I do know ; and I trust 
 you will not regard the bearer of ill tidings as responsible for 
 the sorrow which he brings. Your daughter, you would tell 
 me, is to be married to Mr. Clifton." 
 
 " Yes it is that. But what ill tidings?" 
 
 Mr. Clifton is with these ruffians ; I saw him in the Sipsy 
 swamp." 
 
 What ! a prisoner?" 
 
 1 ihook my head. 
 
 Nothing worse, I trust. They have not murdered him, Mr. 
 Hurdis ? He lives ?" 
 
 " He lives, but is no prisoner, Colonel Grafton. It is my 
 sorrow to be compelled to say that he was with them volunta 
 rily when I saw him." 
 
 " How ! I really do not understand you." 
 
 I hurried over the painful recital, which he heard in speech 
 less consternation. The strong man failed before me. He 
 leaned with a convulsive shudder against the mantel-place, and 
 covered his face with his hands. While he stood thus, hi? 
 daughter entered the room, with a timid and sweet smile upon 
 her lips, but shrunk back the moment that she saw me. As yet, 
 none of the family but Colonel Grafton himself knew who I was. 
 The father turned as he heard her voice. 
 
 "Julia," he said, "my daughter go to your chamber re 
 main there till I send for you. Do not leave it. 
 
 His voice was mournful and husky, though he strove to hide 
 his emotion. She saw it, and prepared to obey. He led her 
 by the hand to the door, looking back at me the while ; and, 
 when there, sho whispered something ir his ears. He strove 
 to smile as be l<a%rd it, but the effort was a feeble and ineffeo 
 {.ual one. 
 
366 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 ri Go to your mother, my child : tell her that it matters noth 
 ing. And do you keep your chamber. Do not come down 
 stairs till I call you." 
 
 The girl looked at him with some surprise, but she did not 
 utter the question which her eyes sufficiently spoke. Silently 
 she left the room, and he returned to me instantly. 
 
 "Ilurdis, you have given me a dreadful blow ; and I can not 
 doubt that what you told me you believe to be the truth. But 
 may you not be deceived? It is ever) thing to me and my 
 child, if you can think so- it is more important, if you arc not, 
 that I should be certified of the truth. You saw Clifton in the 
 swamp with these villains : that 1 doubt not. It may be, too, 
 that you heard them claim him as a colleague. This they 
 might do such villains would do anything; they might claim 
 me as well as you ; for the horse-thief and the murderer would 
 not scruple to rob the good name from virtue, and murder the 
 fair reputation of the best of ns. They have sought to destroy 
 me thus already. Tell me, then, on what you ground youi 
 belief; give me the particulars. It may be, too, that Clifton, 
 if he leagues with them at all, docs so for some purpose like 
 your own." 
 
 How easy would it have been to deceive the father to per 
 suade him to believe anything which might have favored his 
 desires, though against the very face of reason and reflection ! 
 
 " I would i could answer you according to your wish, but I 
 can not. I have told you nothing but the truth what I know 
 to be the truth if the confessions of Clifton himself, in my 
 hearing, and to the leader of this banditti, can be received in 
 evidence." 
 
 His own confessions? Great God ! can it be possible? 
 But I hear you. Go on, Mr. Ilurdis tell me all. But take a 
 chair, I pray you ; be seated, if you please, for I must." 
 
 lie strode over the floor toward a seat, with a slowness of 
 movement which evidently proceeded from a desire to conceal 
 the feebleness of body which he certainly felt, and to a certain 
 extent exhibited, lie sunk into the chair, his hands clasped, 
 and drooping between his knees, while his head was bent for 
 ward, in painful earnestness, as I proceeded in my story. I 
 related, step by step, all the subsequent particulars in 1113 wr 
 
TROUBLES AT GBAFTON LODGE. 367 
 
 narrative, suppressing those only which did not concern Clif 
 ton. He heard me patiently, and without interruption, to the 
 end. A single groan only escaped him as I concluded ; and 
 one brief exclamation declared for whose sake only, all his suf 
 fering was felt, 
 
 " My poor, poor Julia !" 
 
 Well might this be his exclamation ; and as it came from 
 liis lips, while his eyes were closed, and his head fell forward 
 upon his breast, I could see the cherished hopes of a life van 
 ishing with the breath of a single moment. That daughter was 
 the pride of his noble heart. Nobly had he taught dearly 
 had he cherished her; with a fond hand he had led her along 
 f he pleasant paths of life, securing her from harm, and toiling 
 with equal care, for her happiness. And all for what ? My 
 heart joined with his, as I thought over these things, and it 
 was with difficulty I could keep my lips from saying after his 
 own "Poor, poor Julia!" 
 
 At this moment a servant entered the apartment. 
 
 "Mr. Clifton, sir!" 
 
 " Ha ! comes he then!" was the sudden exclamation of the 
 /atlier, starting from his chair, and, in a single instant, throwing 
 aside the utter prostration of soul which appeared in his fea 
 tures, and which now gave place to a degree of energy and res 
 olution, which fully spoke for the intense fire which had been 
 kindled in his heart. 
 
 " Show him in !" 
 
 The servant disappeared. 
 
 "This night, Mr. Hurdis, this man was to have married my 
 daughter. You have saved us just in time. You speak of his 
 repentance you have almost striven to excuse him but it 
 will not answer. I thank you thank you from my heart 
 khat you have saved us from such connection. Step now into 
 this chamber. Y^ou shall hear what he will say whether he 
 will seek to carry out his game of deception ; and, to the last, 
 endeavor to consummate by villany, what his villany had so 
 successfully begun. It is but right that you should hear his 
 answers to my accusation. He may escape the vengeance of 
 his brother scoundrels but me he shall not escape. He comes 
 into tint : Camber, Mr Hurdis, I must beg you to retire 
 
i568 RICriAKD HUHDI6. 
 
 bear with ine if I seem rude in hurrying you thus. My misery 
 must excuse me, if I am less heedful than I should be of ordi 
 nary politeness." 
 
 Thus, with that nice consideration of character which made 
 him somewhat a precisian in manners, he strove to forget his 
 own feelings in his effort to avoid offending mine. At that mo 
 ment I could have forgiven him a far greater display of rude 
 ness than that for which he apologized. When I looked upon 
 the face of that father, solicitous to the last degree for the wel- 
 ^are of the beloved child of whom such care had been taken 
 and thought upon the defeat of all his hopes, and possibly all 
 of hers, which had followed rny narration, I could not but won 
 der at the iron strength of soul which could enable him to bear 
 his disappointment so bravely. 
 
 He conducted me into the little room, to which for the pres 
 ent he had consigned me, and taking from it a smal) mahogany 
 box, which I readily conceived to be a case of pistols, he re 
 turned instantly to the apartment which I left, where, a mojie _: 
 after, he was joined by Clifton. 
 
CAJPTIVTTT 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 CAPTIVITY. 
 
 "To v hat gulfs 
 
 JL iir.^le deviation from the track 
 Of human duties, leade. ever tlioae who claici 
 Tlie homage of mankind." Surdana paint, 
 
 "COLONEL GKAFTO.X." 
 
 " Mr. Clifton," were the simple forms of addros employed 
 by the two on first encountering. 
 
 " Yon are surprised to see me so soon, Colonel Grafton," waa 
 the somewhat abrupt speech of Clifton the next minute. 
 
 " Surprised ! not a whit, sir," was the quick reply. " You 
 Tore looked for." 
 
 "Looked for, sir! Ah! yes, of course, T was expected tc 
 jome, but not yet, sir not for some hours. You looked for 
 me, indeed, but you scarcely looked for the person who now 
 seeks you ; and when you know the business which brings me, 
 Colonel Grafton, you will not, I am afraid, hold me so welcome 
 as before." 
 
 " Why should you be afraid, Mr. Clifton ? Believe me, you 
 were never more welcome than at this very moment never!" 
 was the grave and emphatic reply. "You seem surprised, sir, 
 that I should say so, but wherefore ? Are you surprised that I 
 should promptly welcome the man who seeks to do so much 
 honor to my farrily as to become one of it ? Way do you look 
 on me so doubtingly, Mr. Clifton 1 Is there anything so strange 
 in what I say ?" 
 
 " No, sir, nothing, unless it be in the manner of your saying 
 it. If you speak, Colonel Grafton, in sincerity, you add to the 
 weight of that humility which already presses me to the eartb 
 
370 RICHARD in:mia. 
 
 if in derision if with a foreknowledge of what I come to 
 say then, I must only acknowledge the justice of your scorn 
 and submit myself to your indignation." 
 
 "Of what you came to say, Mr. Clifton ?" slowly replied the 
 half-hesitating listener. " Speak it out then, sir, I pray you 
 let me hear what you came to speak. And in your revelations 
 do not give me credit for too great a foreknowledge, or you 
 may make your story too costive for the truth. Proceed, sir 
 I listen." 
 
 " You seem already to have heard something to my disad 
 vantage, Colonel Grafton. It is my misfortune that you have 
 not heard all that you might have heard all that you must 
 hear. It- is my misery that my lips alone must tell it." 
 
 The unfortunate young man paused for an instant, as if under 
 the pressure of emotions too painful for speech. lie then 
 resumed : 
 
 " I come, sir, to make a painful confession ; to tell you that 
 1 have imposed upon you, Colonel Grafton dreadfully imposed 
 upon you in more respects than one." 
 " Go on, sir." 
 
 " My name, sir, in the first place, is not Clifton, but 
 " No matter, sir, what it is ! Enough, on that point, that it 
 :s not what you call it. But the letters, sir what of thei.it 
 How came you by letters of credit and introduction from my 
 known and tried friends in Virginia ?" 
 " They were forged, sir." 
 
 " Well, I might have known that without asking. The one 
 imposition fairly implies the other." 
 "But not by me, Colonel Grafton." 
 
 " They were used by you, and you know them to be forged, 
 sir. If your new code of morality can find a difference between 
 the guilt of making the lie, and that of employing it \viiru 
 made, I shall be informed, sir, if not pleased. Go on with yom 
 story, which seems to concern iao ; and, considering the manner 
 of its beginning, the sooner you bring it to an end the better. 
 What, may I ask, did you propose to yourself to gain by this 
 imposition ?" 
 
 44 At first, sir, nothing. I was the creature the base instru 
 ment of tho baser malice of another. Withou* any object iny 
 
AITIVITY. 371 
 
 at first, I was weak enough to labor thus criminally for 
 the unworthy objects of another." 
 
 "Ha! indeed! For another. This is well this is better 
 and better, sir; but go on go on." 
 
 " But when my imposition, sir, had proved so far successful 
 as to bring me to the knowledge and the confidence of your 
 family when 1 came to kiio\\ the treasure yju possessed in 
 the person of your lovely daughter " 
 
 "Star, sir imt a word of her. Her name irmst not pass 
 your lips in my hearing, unless you would have me strike you 
 to my feet, for your profanity and presumption. It is wonder 
 ful to me, now, how I can forbear." 
 
 " Your blow, though it crushed me into the earth, could not 
 humble me more, Colonel Grafton, than my own conscience has 
 already done,. 1 am not unwilling that you should strike. I 
 came here this day to submit, without complaint or prayer, 
 to any punishment which you might deem it duo to your 
 injured honor to inflict. Hut, MS a part o^" the reparation which 
 1 propose to make to you. it i> my carneM dchire that you 
 should hear me out." 
 
 " Reparation, sir reparation ! Do you talk to me of repara 
 tion you that have Moh-n into my bosom, like an insidious 
 serpent, and tainted the happiness, and poisoned all the springs 
 of joy which 1 had there. Tell your story, sir say all that 
 you deem essential to make your villany seem 1 *ss, but do not 
 dare to speak of reparation fr wrongs that you can not repair 
 wounds thut no art of yours, artful though you have proved 
 yourself, can ever heal." 
 
 " 1 do not hope to repair I feel that it is beyond my power 
 to heal them. I do not come for that. I come simply to de 
 clare the truth to acknowledge the falsehood and, in for 
 bearing to continue a course of evil, and in professing amend 
 ment for the future, to do what I can for the atonement of what 
 is evil in the past. To repair my wrongs to you and yours, 
 Colonel Grafton, is not within my hope. If it were, sir, my 
 humility would be less than it is, and, perhaps, your indulgence 
 greater." 
 
 " Do not trust to that, sir do not trust to th.it. But we will 
 spare unnecessary words. Your professions for the future ar* 
 
372 RICHARD 
 
 wise and well enough ; it is to be Loped that you will be prj 
 fcred to perform them. At present, however, our business is 
 with what is past, of evil, not with what is to come, of good. 
 You say that you were set on by another to seek my confidence 
 that another prepared the lies by which you effected your 
 object. Who was that other ? Who was that master-spirit to 
 T hich your own yielded such sovereign control over truth and 
 reason, and all honesty ? Answer me that, if you would prove 
 your contrition." 
 
 " Pardon me, sir, but I may not tell you that. I may not 
 betray the confidence of another, even though I secured your 
 pardon by it." 
 
 " Indeed ! But your principles are late and reluctant. This 
 is what is called honor among thieves/ You could betray my 
 honor, and the confidence of a man of honor, but you can not 
 betray the confidence of a brother rogue." 
 
 " My wrong to you, Colonel Grafton, I repent too deeply to 
 suffer myself to commit a like wrong against another, however 
 unworthy he may be. Let me accuse myself, sir; let me, I 
 pray you, declare all my own offences, and yield myself up to 
 your justice, but do not require me to betray the secrets of 
 another." 
 
 " What ! though that other be a criminal though that othei 
 be the outlaw from morals, which you should be from society, 
 and trains his vipers up to sting the hands that take them into 
 the habitation^ of the unwary and the confiding ! Your sense 
 of moral justice seems to be strangely confounded, sir." 
 
 " It may be I feel it is, Colonel Grafton, but I am bound 
 to keep this secret, and will not reveal it. It is enough that I 
 am ready to suffer for the offence to which I have weakly and 
 basely suffered myself to be instigated." 
 
 You shall suffer, sir ; by the God of Heaven you shall suffer, 
 if it be left in this old arm to inflict due punishment for your 
 treachery. You shall not escape me. The sufferings of my 
 child shall determine yours. Every pang which slu> endures 
 shall drive the steel deeper into your vitals ! But proceed, sir, 
 you have more to say. You have other offences to narrate I 
 will hear you." 
 
 " T feel that you will not heed my repentance. I know 
 
CAPTIVITY. 87 & 
 
 too, why your indulgence should be beyond myhope. I do not 
 ask forgiveness, which I know it to be impossible that you 
 should grant ; I only pray that you will now believe me, Colo 
 nel Graftou, for before Heaven I will tell you nothing but the 
 truth." 
 
 " Go, on, sir, tell your story ; your exhortation is of littlo 
 m:e, for the truth needs no prayer for its prop. It must stand 
 without one or it is not truth. As for my belief, that can not 
 effect it. Truth is as certainly secure from my doubts, as I am 
 sorry to think she has been foreign to your heart for a long 
 season. If you have got her back there, you are fortunate, 
 thrice fortunate. You will do well if you can persuade her to 
 remain. Go on, go on, sir." 
 
 " Your unmeasured scorn, Colonel Grafton, helps to strengthen 
 me. It is true, it can not lessen my offence to you and yours, 
 but it is no small part of the penalty which should follow them ; 
 and holding it such, my punishments grow lighter with every 
 moment which I endure them." 
 
 " Trust not that. 1 tell you, William Clifton, or whatever else 
 may be your true name for which I care not that I have 
 that tooth of fire gnawing in my heart, which nothing, perhaps, 
 short of all the blood which is in yours can quench or satisfy. 
 Think not that I give up my hope of revenge as I consent to 
 hear you. The delay but whets the appetite. I but seek in 
 thought for the sort of punishment which would seem most 
 fitting to your offence." 
 
 " I will say nothing, Colonel Grafton, to arrest or qualify it 
 let your revenge be full. The blood will not flow more freely 
 from my heart, when your hand shall knock for it, than does 
 my present will, in resignation, to your demand for vengeance. 
 Let me only, I pray you, say a few words, which it seems to 
 me will do you no offence to hear, and which I feel certain i* 
 will be a great relief to me to speak. Will you hear me, sir ?" 
 
 The humility of the guilty youth seemed not without its 
 effect on the heated, but noble old man, who replied promptly : 
 
 "Surely, sir God forbid that I should refuse to hear the 
 criminal. Go on speak." 
 
 1 am come of good family, Colonel Grafton " began the 
 youth 
 
374 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 " Certainly ^ I doubt not that. Never rogue yet that did 
 not." 
 
 A pause ensued. The voice of the youth was half stifled, 
 as with conflicting emotions, when he endeavored to speak 
 again. But lie succeeded. 
 
 "I am an only son a mother a feeble, infirm mother 
 looked to me for assistance and support. A moment of dread- 
 !ul necessity pressed upon us, and in the despair and appre 
 hension which the emergency brought with it to my mind, I 
 soiiunitted nn error a crime, Colonel Grafton I appropriated 
 tlic money of another !" 
 
 "A lit beginning to so active a life but go on." 
 
 " Not to my use, Colonel Grafton not to my use, nor for any 
 pleasure or appetite of iny own, did I apply that ill-got spoil. 
 It was to save from suffering and a worse evil, the mother which 
 had borne me." 
 
 "I believe, Mr. Clifton, in no such necessity," was the stern 
 reply. " In a country like ours, no man need steal, nor lie, nor 
 cheat. The bread of life is procured with no difficulty by any 
 man having his proportion of limbs and sinews, and not too 
 lazy and vicious for honest employment. You could surely 
 have relieved your parent without a resort to the offence you 
 speak of." 
 
 "True, sir I might. But I did not know it then I was 
 a youth without knowledge of the world or its resources. 
 Brought up in seclusion, and overcome by the sudden terror of 
 debt, and the law " 
 
 " Which, it seems, has kept you in no such wholesome fear 
 to the end of the chapter, i ity for both our sakes that it had 
 not. But to make a long story short, Mr. Clifton, and to relieve 
 you from the pleasure or the pain of telling it, know, sir, that I 
 am acquainted with all, and, perhaps, much more than you arc 
 willing to relate." 
 
 " Indeed, sir but how how came you by this knowledge ?" 
 
 " That is of no importance, or but little. Not an hour before 
 you made your appearance, I received an account of your true 
 character and associates thank Heaven! in sufficient time to 
 be saved from the fatal connection into which my child had so 
 fallen. 
 
CAPTIVITY. 376 
 
 " She should not have fallen, Colonel Graftun," said Clifton 
 solemnly. " I came on purpose to declare the truth, sir." 
 
 "So 1 belie* Mr. Clifton; and it is well for you, and, 
 perhaps, well for .PC, that you were so prompt to declare 
 L c truth when you made your appearance. Had you but 
 pafe~3cl for five minutes had you lingered in your self-exposure 
 I had put a bullet through your head with as little remorse, 
 as I should have shot the wolf which aimed to prey upon my 
 little ones. I had put my pistols in readiness for th/.t purpose. 
 They are this instant beneath my hands. Nothing but your 
 timely development could have saved you from death, and even 
 that would not have availed, but that you have shown a degree 
 of contrition during your confession, to which I could not shut 
 my ?ye& Know, sir, that I not only knew of the deception 
 prauised npon me, but of your connection with the daring 
 outhnv, fi\w overrun the country; and from whom, by the 
 way, yc . have much more at this moment to fear, than you can 
 ever havo reason to fear from me. Their emissaries are even 
 now in pursuit of you, thirsting for your blood." 
 
 Colonel Grafton, tell me 1 pray you tell me how know 
 you all this." 
 
 " Is it not true ?" 
 
 "Ay! ay! true as gospel, though my lips, though I per 
 ished for denying, should never have revealed it." 
 
 " What ! you would still have kept bond with these outlaws V 
 
 :t No, sir ; but I would not have revealed their secrets." 
 
 "But you shall, sir you shall do more. You shall guide 
 me and others to the place where they keep. You shall help to 
 deliver them into the hands of justice." 
 
 "Never, sir! never!" was the quick reply. 
 
 " Then you perish by the common hangman, Mr. Clifton," 
 said Colonel Grafton. " Either you deliver them up to punish 
 ment, or you die for your share in their past offences." 
 
 " Be it so I can perish, you will find, without fear, though 1 
 may have lived without honor. Let me leave you now, Colonel 
 Grafton let me pass." 
 
 " You pass not here, while I have strength to keep you, sir," 
 said Grafton ; and as these words reached my ears, I heard a 
 rushing sound, and then a r truggle. With this movement, J 
 
376 RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 opened the door, and entered the apartment. They were 
 closely grappled as they met my sight, and though it was 
 evident enough that Eberly studiously avoided the application 
 of his whole force in violence to Graft on, it was not the less 
 obvious that he was using it all in the endeavor to elude him, 
 and break away. I did not pause a moment to behold the 
 strife, but making forward, I grasped the fugitive around the 
 body, and lifting him from the floor, laid him, in another instant, 
 at full length upon it. This done, I put rny knee upon hi.- 
 breast, and presenting my dirk-knife to his throat I exaewJ 
 from him a constrained and sullen submission. 
 
STRATAGEMS. 877 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 STRATAGEMS. 
 
 "The sun has act; 
 
 A pjatoful evening doth descend upon us, 
 And brings on the long night" SCJJILLKH. 
 
 To DISPOSE of 1)5m now was a next consideration, and one Df 
 some little difficulty. It was no wish of mine, and certainly 
 still less a wish with Colonel Grafton, to hold the unfortunate 
 a lid misguided youth in bondage for trial by the laws. This 
 was tacitly understood between us. By the statements of his 
 associates, it was clear enough that he had been a profitless 
 comrade, doing nothing to earn the applause, or even approval 
 of the criminal ; and as little, if we except the mere fact of his 
 being connected with such a fraternity, to merit the punishment 
 of the laws. His hands had never been stained by blood ; and, 
 setting aside his first offence against virtue, and that which 
 brought him into such perilous companionship with vice, we 
 *.new nothing against him of vicious performance. Apart from 
 his, the near approximation which he had made toward a union 
 with the family of Colonel Grafton, however mortifying such 
 <tii event may have become to his pride, was calculated to pro 
 duce a desire in his mind that as little notoriety as possible 
 nhould bfc given to the circumstances, and even had Eberly been 
 iiore guilty than he was, I, for ine, would rather infinitely 
 have suffered him to escape, than to subject the poor girl, 
 wuuse affections he had won. to the constant pain which she must 
 iiav,-, feU by the publication of the proceedings against him. 
 Jiiven as it was, her trial was painful enough, as well to those 
 who witnessed her sufferings n !o the poor heart that was com 
 pelled to bear them. Enough of t-liifl .-.t present. 
 
 iiut it was essential at this moment when it was our design 
 
878 RICHARD 
 
 to entrap the heads of tlie Mystic Brotherhood, that Eberly, 
 though we refrained to prosecute him before the r oocr tribu 
 nal, should not be suffered to escape our custody, i y his reluc 
 tance to accuse, or to act against these outlaws, he evidently 
 held for them a degree of regaru, which might prompt him, if 
 permitted, to apprize them of their danger, even though he may 
 have held himself aloof, as he had promised, from all future con 
 nection with them. But how and where to secure him was aa- 
 ->ther difficulty for which an an v jr was not so readily provided. 
 To imprison him in the dwelling, in which that very day he was 
 to have found his bride, and in which, as yet uninformed of the 
 melancholy truth, that unconscious and full-hearted maiden was 
 even then preparing to become so, was a necessity of awkward 
 complexion ; and yet to that necessity we were compelled to 
 come. After deliberating upon the matter, with an earnestness 
 which left no solitary suggestion unconsidered, the resolution 
 was adopted to secure the prisoner in the attic, until our pursuit 
 of his comrades was fairly over. This, it was our confident 
 hope, would be the case by the close of the day following, and 
 only until that time did we resolve that he should be a prisoner. 
 Ills comrades once secured, and his way of flight, it was intend 
 ed, should be free. How our determination on this subject was 
 evaded and rendered unavailing, the following pages will show. 
 
 His course once resolved upon, and the measures of Colonel 
 Graft on were prompt and decisive. 
 
 " Keep watch upon him here, Hurdis; let him not stir, while 
 I prepare Mrs. Grafton with a kuowlege of this unhappy bus ; - 
 ness. My daughter, too, must know it soon or late, and bc^tei 
 Jiis hour than the next, since the strife will be the sooner o\j- 
 They must be out of the way when we take him up the stai t 
 out of hearing as out of sight. Once there, I have a favor \e 
 "ellow who will guard him as rigidly as I should myself." 
 
 He left me, and was gone, perhaps, an hour it was a tedi 
 ous hour to me, in the painful watch that I was compelled to 
 keep over the unhappy prisoner. In this time he had commu 
 nicated the discovery to both his wife and Julia ; and a single 
 uhriek, that faintly reached our ears, and the hurried pace c* 
 many feet going to and fro in the adjacent chambers, apprized 
 is of the very uioim-nt wlirn tin- soul of tLo. poor maklca \vas 
 
dTRATAGEMS. 379 
 
 anguish-stricken by the first intelligence of her hapless situa 
 tion. My eye was fixed intently upon the face of Eberly, and 
 wnen mat snriek reached us, I could see a smile, which had in 
 it something of triumph, overspread his cheek, and, though it 
 ind not. rest there a sinjrle moment it vexed me to behold it. 
 
 " Do you exult," I demanded, <l that you have made a victim 
 of one so lovely and so young? Do y.m rejoice, sir in the y,an? 
 tnal you inflict ?" 
 
 " Xo ! God forbid !" was his immediate answer. " If it were 
 tt-ith me now, she should instantly forget not only her present, 
 \mt all sorrows she should forget that she had ever known so 
 miserable a wretch as myself! But is it wonderful that I should 
 feel a sentiment of pleasure, to find myself an object of regard 
 in the eyes of one so pure so superior? Is it strange that I 
 should rejoice to find that I am not an outcast from all affections, 
 as I am from all hopes that there is one angelic spirit, who 
 may y,t intercede for me at the bar of Heaven, and pray for, 
 and command mercy, though she may not even hope for it OD 
 e*irtb ?" 
 
 Grafton now returned, and the flush of anger was heightened 
 on his face, though I could see a tear even then glistening in 
 his eye. 
 
 " Mr. Clifton," he said calmly, but peremptorily, " we must 
 secure your person for the night." 
 
 "My life is at your service, Colonel Grafton I tende v it 
 freely. As I have no hopes in life now, I do not care to live. 
 But I will not promise to remain bound, if I can break from my 
 prison. I came to you of my own free will, without any impulse 
 beside; and, though I thought it not unlikely when I came ana 
 revealed my story Miat you would take my life, I had no fear 
 that you would ocastitute yourself my jailer. I am not pre 
 pared for bonds. 
 
 "Make what distinctions you please," was the cold reply; 
 " you hear my resolution. It will be my fault if you escape, 
 until I myself declare your freedom. I Uust that you will not 
 render it necessary that we shouu use "jrce to place, you in th 
 chamber assigned for you." 
 
 "Force!" he exclaimed fiei-ooiy, ou j jere was a keen mo 
 mentary Gashing of the youth s eye, as he heard these words, 
 
880 RICHARD EURDIS 
 
 that proved him a person to resent as quickly as he felt but 
 the emotion soon gave way to another of more controlling influ 
 ence. His tone changed to mildness, as he proceeded : 
 
 " No, sir ; no force shall be necessary. Lead me where you 
 please. Do with me as you please. I know not whether it 
 would not be better and wiser for me, henceforward, to forego 
 my own will and wishes altogether. God knows it had been 
 far better and wiser, had I distrusted them half as much hither 
 to as I now distrust them. I had now but, lead on, sir; con 
 duct me as you will, and where you will. I will not trouble 
 you longer even with my despondency. It is base enough to 
 be humbled as I am now I will not further debase myself by 
 the idle language of regret. I have put down a boy s stake in 
 he foolish game which I have played I will bear with its 
 iuas as a man. I will go before you, sir, or follow even as you 
 desire. It shall not be necessary to employ violence. I am 
 I eady." 
 
 We could not help pitying the youth, as we conducted hiuc 
 up stairs into the small garret-room, which had been prepared 
 for him. He was evidently of noble stuff at first naturally 
 well fashioned in mind and moral with instincts, which, but 
 for circumstances, would have carried him right and feelings 
 gentle and noble enough to have wrought excellence within 
 him, could it have been that he had been blessed with a better 
 education, and less doubtful associates, than it was his fortune 
 to have found. He certainly rose greatly in my esteem within 
 the last two hours, simply by the propriety of his manners, and 
 the degree of correct feeling with which he had, without any 
 ostentation, coupled their exhibition. Securing the windows 
 as well as we could, and placing a sturdy and confidential ser 
 vant at the door of the chamber, which was double-locked upon 
 him, we descended to the lower apartment, where we imme 
 diately proceeded to confer upon the othei toils before us. 
 
 " There is some public -ood, ; said Colonel Grafton, with a 
 degree of composure, which spoke admirably for the control 
 which his mind had over his feelings "there is some public 
 good coming from the personal evil which has fallen to rny lot 
 The proposed festival, which was iliis night to have taken place, 
 hrin>js together the verv friends, a^ quests, whom J should have 
 
STRATAGEMS. 881 
 
 sought in our proposed .adventure to-morrow, and whom it would 
 have taken me some time to have hunted up, and got in readi 
 ness. Our party was to have been large, and I trust that it 
 will be, though the occasion now is so much less loving and at 
 tractive than was expected." 
 
 This was said with some bitterness, and a pause ensued, in 
 wh ch Grai ton turned away from me and proceeded to the win 
 dow. When he returned, he had succeeded quite in oblitera 
 ting the traces of that grief which he was evidently unwilling 
 that his face should show. lie continued : 
 
 " We shall certainly have some fifteen able-bodied and fear 
 less men, not including ourselves ; there may be more. Some 
 of them will, I am sure, bring their weapons; they have done 
 so usually ; and, for the rest, I can make out to supply them, I 
 think. You shall see I have a tolerable armory, which though 
 anything but uniform, can be made to do mischief in the hands 
 of men able and willing enough when occasion serves to use it 
 There is a rifle or two, an old musket, two excellent double- 
 jaiTelled guns, and a few pistols, all of which can be made use 
 of. You, I believe, are already well provided." 
 
 I showed him my state of preparation, and lie then proceed 
 ed: 
 
 " I know the region where these fellows harbor, much better 
 than you do, and, perhaps, much more intimately than they ima 
 gine. My plan is to surprise them by daybreak. If we can 
 do this, our fifteen or twenty men will be more than a match 
 for their thirty And then, I trust, we have no less an advan 
 tage in the sort of men we bring to the conflict ; men of high 
 character, and among the most resolute of the FUI -rounding conn 
 try. I have no doubt that we shall be able to destroy at least 
 one half of them, and disperse the rest. We must strike at 
 ^our master-spirits your Foster and your Wobber though 
 the former, according to your account, seems not without his 
 good qualities. The latter is a tough villain, but he fears me, 
 deny it as he may. If he did not, having such a feeling toward 
 me as he has so openly avowed, he would have drawn trigger 
 on me before now. I must endeavor, this time, to wipe out old 
 scores, and balance all my accounts with him. These two, and 
 one or two more provided for, and we may be content with the 
 
382 RICHARD IIURDIS. 
 
 dispersion of the rest. I care nothing for the pitiful rascals that fol 
 low let them go." 
 
 But such was not my thought. There wa". one of these pitiful 
 rascals whom it brought the scarlet to my cheek to think on. Brother 
 though* he was, he was the murderer of William Carrington, and I 
 had sworn, and neither he nor Pickett could escape, according to my 
 oath. But of this I said nothing to Colonel Grafton. I was r-solved 
 that John Hurdis should perish, but that he should perish namelessly. 
 There was a family pride still working in my breast, that counselled 
 me to be silent in respect to him. We proceeded in our arrange 
 ments. 
 
 "There are two fellows, belonging to this clan," said Grafton; 
 "that lodge, if I recollect rightly what you said, some two miles 
 below me." 
 
 "Yes, at a place called the Trap-Hole, if you know such a spot. 
 It was described to me so that I could find it easily, but I know noth 
 ing of it." 
 
 "I know it well it s an old hiding-place ; but I had not thought 
 the hovel was inhabited. These fellows must be secured to-night 
 at an early hour. They are spies upon us, I doubt not, and will 
 report everything that happens, if they see anything unusual. Cer 
 tainly, it is our policy to clear our own course as well and speedily as 
 possible ; and as soon as our men come, which will be by dark or 
 before, we will set forth as secretly as we may to take them into 
 custody. This, as you have the signs which they acknowledge, can 
 be done without risk. You shall go before, and set them at rest, 
 while we surround the house and take them suddenly. They will 
 hardly lift weapon when they see our force ; and, once in our posses 
 sion, we will take a lesson from the book of Master Webber, and rope 
 them down in the woods, with a handful of moss in their mouths to 
 keep them from unnecessary revelations." 
 
 Such, so far, was our contemplated plan. It was the most 
 direct of any, and, indeed, we hardly had a choice of expedi 
 ents. To come upon our enemy by surprise, or in force, was all 
 that we could do, having so little lime allowed us for. prep 
 aration of any. sort. It was fortunate; that we had n man like 
 Grafton to manage a man so well esteemed by the friends he 
 led, and so worthy in all respects of the confidence they put in 
 
STRATAGEMS. 38S 
 
 him. As the hour drew nigh, and the looked-for guests Logan 
 to assemble, he rose superior to the paternal situation in which 
 he stood, and seemed to suppress the father in the man ai3 
 citizen. He revealed separately to each of his guests the iftair 
 as it now stood, upon which they had heen summoned tog jther, 
 then submitted the new requisition which he made pon theii 
 services, as a friend and magistrate alike. AVith one voicr 
 they proclaimed themselves ready to go forth against the com 
 mon enemy, and with difficulty were restrained from precipita 
 ting the assault; changing the hour to midnight from the dawn 
 This rashness was fortunately overruled though it could 
 scarcely have been thought rashness, if all the mon had pos 
 sessed an equal kncvrledge with Colonel Grafton, of the place 
 iii which the outlaws harbored. To quiet the more impetuous 
 among his guests, ho led them out after dark, in obedience to 
 our previous resolve, to take the two fellows at " the Trap- 
 Hole/ and, I may say, 5n brief, that wo succeeded to a tittle 
 in making them prisoners just .<* we had arranged it. Sur 
 prise was nc\er move complete We roped th?m to saplings 
 in a thicket of the woods, filled tneii 1 mouths wirh green moss, 
 and the arms rf which we despoiled them, enabled UP \e bot 
 ter - meet thoir comrades 
 
384 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 ANOTHER VICTIM. 
 
 44 Had we never loved so kindly, 
 
 Had we never loved so blindly 
 
 Never met or never parted, 
 
 We had ne er been broken-hearted ! " BURNS. 
 
 WE completed our preparations at an early hour, and by midnight 
 were ready to depart on our work of peril. We had so arranged it 
 as not to go forth en masse; it was feared that, if seen, our array 
 would occasion apprehension, and possibly lead to a detection and 
 defeat of all our plans. By twos and threes, therefore, our men set 
 forth, at different periods, with the understanding that, taking dif 
 ferent routes, we were all to rendezvous at the "Day-Blind," by one 
 o clock, or two. at farthest. The onslaught we proposed to make with 
 the first blush of the morning. I remained, with two others, behind 
 with Colonel Graf ton, until the designated hour drew nigh ; then, 
 \vith emotions exciting in the last degree, and greatly conflicting with 
 each other, I mounted my steed, and we took our departure for the 
 place agreed on. 
 
 Let us now return, for a few moments, to the unhappy maiden, 
 whose bridal-night was so suddenly changed to gloom from festivity. 
 We were permitted to see nothing of her sorrows. When first 
 stricken by the intelligence which her father gave of her felon-lover, 
 her grief had shown itself in a single, sudden shriek, a fainting-fit, 
 and, for some time after, a complete prost ration of all her physical 
 powers. Restorative medicines were given her, and it was only when 
 she was believed to be in a dee)) and refreshing: slumber, that her 
 mother retired to her own apartment. 
 
 But the maiden did not sleep. The medicines had failed to 
 work for her that oblivion, thai momentary blindness and for- 
 
ANOTHER VICTIM, 385 
 
 getfulness, which they were charitably intended to occasion. The 
 desire to relieve her mother s anxiety, which she witnessed led her 
 to an undoubted effort at composure, and she subdued her sorrows 
 so far as to put on the aspect of a quiet, apathetic condition, 
 which she was very far from enjoying. She seemed to sleep, and, 
 as the hour was late, her mother, availing herself of the oppor 
 tunity, retired for the night, leaving her daughter in charge of a 
 favorite nurse, who remained in the apartment. 
 
 Julia who was no less watchful than suffering, soon discov 
 ered that her companion slept, She rose gently, and hurried 
 on her clothes. Her very sorrows strengthened her for an effort 
 totally inconsistent with her prostration but a little while before ; 
 and the strange and perilous circumstances in which Eberly 
 stood prompted her to a degree of artfulness which was alike 
 foreign to her nature and education. The seeming necessity of 
 the case could alone furnish its excuse. She 1; iieved that the 
 life of the } T outh was jeoparded by his position. In the first 
 feeling of auger, her father had declared him to be liable to 
 the last punishments of the law, and, in the sail 1 - breath, avowed 
 himself, as an honest magistrate, bound to inflict them. She was 
 resolved, if possible, to defeat this resolution, and to save the 
 unhappy youth, whom, if she might no longer look upon with 
 respect, she, at least, was still compelled to love. Without im 
 pugning the judgment of her father, she felt the thought to be 
 unendurable which told her momently of the extreme peril of 
 the criminal ; and, under its impulse, she was nerved to a de 
 gree of boldness and strength quite unlike the submissive gen 
 tleness which usually formed the most conspicuous feature in 
 her character and deportment. 
 
 We have already seen that it was no part of Grafton s desire, 
 whatever might be the obnoxiousness of Eberly to the laws, to 
 bring him to trial. Though evidently connected with the ban 
 ditti that infested the country, and, strictly speaking, liable to 
 all the consequences of their crimes, yet the evidence had been 
 conclusive to Graf ton that the unhappy youth had shared in 
 none of their performances. Could he have proved specifically 
 any one offence against him, Grafton must have brought him to 
 punishment, and would have done so, though his heart writhed 
 at its own resolution ; but it was with a feeling of relief, if not 
 
 17 
 
386 lilv -IlAUD HUIIDIS. 
 
 of pleasure, that lie found no such evidence, and lelt himself 
 morally if not legally freed from the necessity of prosecution, 
 A hich such a knowledge must have brought with it. To secure 
 Eberly until his late associates were dispersed or destroyed 
 vas the simple object of his detention; for, to speak frankly, " 
 was G raft on s fear that, if suffered to go forth, he might still be 
 carried back, by the desperate force of circumstances, to the 
 unholy connections from which he had voluntarily withdrawn 
 himself. lie had no confidence in the avowed resolutions of 
 the youth, and deemed it not improbable that, as his repent 
 ance seemed originally to have been the result of his attach 
 ment to Julia, the legitimate consequence of her rejection would 
 be to throw him back upon his old principles and associates. 
 But this doubt did injustice to the youth. The evil aspects of 
 crime had disgusted him enough, even if the loveliness of vir 
 tue had failed to persuade him. llis resolution was fixed ; and, 
 Considering his moral claims alone, without reference to the 
 exactions of society, it may be safely said that never was Eb- 
 rly more worthy of the love of Julia Grafton than at the ver/ 
 moment when it was lost to him for ever. 
 
 "With cautious hands she undid the fastening of her apart- 
 Ment, and, trembling at every step, but still resolute, she as 
 cended the stairs which led up to the garret-chambers. In one 
 of these Eberly was confined. From this as there was but a 
 * igle window, to leap from which would have been certain 
 
 w.ath there was no escape, save by the door, and this was 
 securely fastened on the outside, and the key in the possessic:) 
 of a faithful negro, to whom Colonel Grafton had given particu 
 lar instructions for the safe-keeping of the prisoner. But \Ke 
 guardian slept on his post, and it was not difficult for Julv* to 
 detach the key from where it hung, upon the fore-finger of hip 
 outstretched hand: this she did without disturbing him in the 
 slightest degree. In another moment she unclosed the door, 
 and fearlessly entered the chamber. 
 
 " Julia !" was the exclamation of the prisoner, as, with a fresh 
 sentiment of joy and love, he beheld her standing before him. 
 " Julia, dear Julia, do 1 indeed behold you? You have not 
 ther. forgotten you do not then scorn the wretch who is au 
 
 *itcast from all beside ?" 
 
ANOTHER VICTIM. 387 
 
 He approached her. Her finger waved him back, while she 
 replied, in melancholy accents : 
 
 "Clifton, you must fly! You are in danger your very life 
 is endangered, if you linger here." 
 
 " My life?" cried the criminal, in tones of melancholy de 
 spair, " my life? Let them take it! If I must leave you, 
 Julia, I care not to live. Go to your father let him bring 
 the executioner you will see that I will not shrink from the 
 defiling halter and the cruel death nay, that I will smile at 
 their approach, when I am once assured that I can not live for 
 you." 
 
 "And you cannot!" said the maiden, in sad but fum accents. 
 "You must forget that thought, Clifton that wish if, indeed, 
 it be your wish. You must forget me, as it shall now be the 
 chief task of my life to forget you." 
 
 "And can you, Julia can you forget me, after those hours 
 of joy those de.u walks, and the sweet delights of so many 
 precious and never-to-be-forgotten meetings? Can you forget 
 them, Julia? Nay, can you desire to forget them? If you 
 can if such be, indeed, your desire then death shall be 
 doubly welcome death in any form. But I can not believe 
 it, Julia I will not. I remember but no! I will not remind 
 you I will iot seek to remind you, when you declare your 
 desire to forget. Why have you sought me here, Julia? Know 
 you not what I am? have you not bc-en told what the world 
 calls me what the malice of my cruel fortune has compelled 
 me to become? Have you not heard ? jrist I tell you that I 
 am 
 
 "Hush!" she exclaimed, in faltering and expostulating ac 
 cents; "say it not, Clifton say it not. If, indeed, it be true, 
 as they told me 
 
 "They have told you, then, Julia? your father has told you? 
 and, oh, joy of my heart! you ask of me if what they have said 
 to j r ou can be true. You doubt you can not believe it of me. 
 You shall not believe it 
 
 "Then it is not true, Clifton?" cried the maiden eagerly, ad 
 vancing as she spoke, while the tear which glistened in her 
 eyes took from her whole features the glow of that joy and 
 hope which had sprung up so suddenly in her bosom. "They 
 
RICHARD HURDI8. 
 
 have slandered you when they pronounced you -he associat* 
 of these outlaws; it is a wanton, a malicious faL-ohood, wh:ch 
 you can easily disprove? I knew it I thought it from the 
 *iist. Clifton ; and yet, when my father told me, and told crie 
 vi .h such assurances, with such solemn looks and words, and 
 ipo.i such evidence ah ! Edward, forgive me, \\heit I confess 
 ) you I could not doubt what I yet dreaded and trembled tr 
 /elieve. But you deny it, Kdward ; y:>u will prove it to my 
 Miner s conviction to he false; you will cleanse yourself fron; 
 ihis polluting stigma, and I feel, 1 hope, we filial]: he happy yet 
 My father 
 
 The chilling accents of her lover s voice recalled her from (lie 
 hopeful dream which her young heart began to fancy. He 
 dashed the goblet of delight from the parting lips which wero 
 just about to quaff from its golden circle. 
 
 "Alas, Julia, it is only too true! your father has told you 
 but the truth. Bitter is t.he necessity that makes me say so 
 much ; but, 1 will not deceive vou ; indeed :< f he told you ail 
 he must have told you tha came of my own free will t n un 
 deceive him. My own lips pronounced to him my own fault, 
 and, humbling as its consciousness is to me, 1 must decla/e that, 
 in avowing my connection with these wretched associates, 1 
 have avowed the extent of my errors, though not of my suffer 
 ings. Thank God ! 1 have taken part in none of their crimes; 
 1 have shared in none of their spoils ; my hands are free from 
 any stain save that which they have received from grasping 
 theirs in fellowship. This, I well know, is a stain too much, 
 and the contact of my hands would only defile the purity of 
 yours. Yet, could I teli you the story of wo and suffering which 
 drove me to this miseiible extien-ity, you would pity me, Julia, 
 if you could not altogether forgive. But wherefore should I 
 tell you this ?" 
 
 " Wherefore !" w is the moaning exclamation of the maiden, 
 as the youth briefly paused in his speech, "wherefore? it 
 avails us nothing! Yet, I will believe you, Clifton ; I must be 
 lieve that you have been driven to this dreadful communion, if 
 I would not sink under the shame of my own consciousness. I 
 believe you, Edward I believe you, and I pity you from 
 uiy very soul 1 pity you. T^ut I can no more : let UP jnrt u 
 
ANOTHER VICTIM. c 
 
 r ,eave me fly, while there is yet time ! My father re* irns i 
 the morning, and I fear that his former regard for you will no 
 he sufficient to save you from the punishment whittli he thinks 
 due to your offences. Indeed, he will even be more strict and 
 severe because of the imposition which he thinks you have prac 
 tised upon him " 
 
 "And upon you, Julia : you say nothing of that." 
 
 "Nothing! because it should weigh nothing with me at such 
 a moment. I feel not the scorn which you have put upon me, 
 Edward, in the loss which follows it." 
 
 "Blessed, beloved spirit! and I, too, must feel the loss; and 
 such a loss ! Oh, blind, base fool that I was, to suffer the pang 
 and the apprehension of a moment to baffle the hopes and the 
 happiness of a life 1 Ah, Julia, how can I fly? how can 1 leave 
 you, knowing what you aie, and not forgetting that you have 
 loved me, worthless as I am ?" 
 
 "No more of this, Edward," replied the maiden, quirkly 
 withdrawing her hand frm the grasp which his ov ft i had pas 
 sionately taken upon it "no more of this; Ic Trill be your 
 policy, as it shall be my duty, to forget all this. >Ye must strive 
 to forget we must forget each other. It will be my first prayer 
 always to be able to forget \ r hat it must only be my constant 
 shame and son <n w to remember." 
 
 "And why your sliame and sorrow, Julia? I toll you that, 
 V- connecting myself most unhappily with these wretched peo- 
 *! *, 1 nave abstained from their offences. If they have robbed 
 *Ke traveller, I have taken none of their spoils ; if they have 
 in^rdered their victim, his blood is not upon my hands. 1 have 
 been their victim, indeed, rather than their ally. They forced 
 me a dire necessity forced me into their communion, in 
 which I have been a witness rather than a partaker." 
 
 "Alas! Edward, I am afraid the difference is but too slight 
 to be made use of in your defence. Did you witness to con 
 demn and disapprove ? did you seek to prevent or repair ? did 
 you stay the uplifted hand which struck down the traveller ? 
 did you place yourself on his side to sustain and help him in 
 the moment of his deadly and last peril ? My father would havi 
 taken this part his lessons have always taught me that such 
 
 as the part always of the brave and honorable gentleman. If 
 
 w 
 
, U KICIIARD IIURDTS. 
 
 you have taken tliis part, Edward ; if you can prove ti.- Vim 
 lliat you liave taken tliis part 
 
 She paused. The criminal shrunk from her u bile she spoke, 
 *ind covered hij face with his hands, while lie murmured hoarse 
 ly, and in Litter, broken accents 
 
 " 1 have not. 1 have seen him robbed of his little wealth 
 i have seen him stricken down by the unexpected blow; and 1 
 have not lifted voice or weapon in his defence. Basely have I 
 witnessed the deeds of baseness, and fittingly base should be 
 my punishment And yet, Julia, I could say that will you 
 liear me ?" he demanded, seeing that she turned away. 
 
 44 Speak, speak," she murmured faintly. 
 
 44 Yes, Julia, I have that to say which would go far to make 
 you forget and forgive my weakness my crime." 
 
 44 Alas! Edward, I fear not. There is nothing " 
 
 Nothing! nay, Julia, you care not to hear my defence! 
 you are indifferent whether I live or die whether they prove 
 me guilty or innocent of crime !" said he, with a bitter manner 
 of reproach. She answered with a heart-touching meekness: 
 
 "And yet I come even now to save your life. 1 throw aside 
 the fears and delicacy of my sex I seek you at midnight. 
 Edward I seek you but to save. Does this argue indiffer 
 ence ?" 
 
 44 To save my life ! Oh, Julia, bethink you for a moment 
 what a precious boon this is to one of whom you rob everything 
 which made life dear, at the very moment when you profess to 
 save it. This is a mockery a sad, a cruel mockery! Let 
 them take the life, if they will : you will see how that boon is 
 valued by me, to which you offer to prove that you are not in 
 different. You will see how readily 1 can durrender the life 
 which the withdrawal of your love has beggared which the 
 denial of your esteem has embittered for over !" 
 
 44 All, Edward, speak not thus!" Wherefore would you force 
 me to say that my love is not to be denied n-r my esteem with- 
 heLl, b} a will, or in an instant ?" 
 
 "And you do still love you wilt promise, .Julia, to esteem 
 ine yet " 
 
 44 No ! I will promise nothing, Edward nothing. 1 will 
 strive only to forget you; and though J promise nut myself tr 
 
ANOTHER VICTIM. 
 
 be successful in the effort, duty requires that it should yet be 
 made. Go, no\\ . Let us part, and for ever ! My fathe.i and 
 hip guests are all gone ; there is none to interrupt you in your 
 flight. Fly fly far, Edward, I pray you. Let us not meet 
 again, since nothing but pain could come from such a meeting." 
 
 " But, Julia, will you not promise me that if I can acquit my 
 self worthily, you will once more receive me ?" 
 
 " I can not. My father s will must determine mine, Edward , 
 since it is to his judgment only that I can refer, to determiiiii 
 what is worthy in the sight of men and what is not. "Were \ 
 to yield to my affections this decision, I should, perhaps, care 
 nothing for your offences ; I should deem you no offender ; and 
 Love would blindly worship at an altar from which Truth would 
 turn away in sorrow and reproach. Urge me i:ct further, Ed 
 ward, on this painful subject. Solemnly I declare to you, that, 
 under no circumstances henceforward, can I know you, unless by 
 permission of my father." 
 
 Eberly strode away, with a spasmodic effort, to another part 
 of the chamber. His emotions left him speechless for a while. 
 When he returned to her, his articulation was still imperfect 
 and it was only by great resolution that he made himself intel 
 ligible at last : 
 
 " I will vex you no more. I will be to you, Julia, nothing 
 even as you wish. I will leave you; and when next you hear 
 of me, you will weep, bitterly weep ; not, perhaps, that you have 
 sent me from you in scorn, but that I was not wholly worthy of 
 that love which you were once hnppy to bestow upon me." 
 
 He passed her as he spoke these words, and, before she could 
 fix any one of the flitting and confused fancies in her mind, he 
 had left the apartment, and her ear could readily distinguish his 
 footsteps, as, without any of the precautions of the fugitive, 
 trembling for his life, he deliberately descended th- rtairs. She 
 grasped the post of the door, and hung on it for support. Her 
 strength, which had sustained her throughout the interview, was 
 about to leave her. When she ceased to hear his retreating 
 steps, she recovered herself sufficiently to reach her chamber ; 
 where, after locking carefully her door, she threw herself, almost 
 without life, upon her bed, and gave vent to those emotions 
 which now, from long restraint, like the accumulated torrert* 
 
392 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 and overwhelm the region which they were meant to invigorate and 
 refresh. One bitter sentence of hopelessness alone escaped her lips ; 
 and the unsyllabled moaning which followed it attested the depth of 
 these sorrows which she had so long and nobly kept in check : 
 
 " He leaves me I have secu him for the last time I have heard 
 his departing footsteps departing for ever! Hark! it is the tread 
 of a horse. It is his. He flies he is safe from harm. He will be 
 free, he will be happy, and I O my father I am desolate ! " 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 " If thou couldst redeem me 
 
 With anything but death, I think I should 
 Consent to live." Tlie Traitor. 
 
 MEANWHILE, we sped toward our place of rendezvous. We 
 reached it, as we had calculated, in sufficient season. The whole 
 party was assembled at the "Blind," according to arrangement, 
 and within the limited hour; and for a brief period after our 
 reunion, nothing was to be heard but the hum of preparation 
 for the anticipated strife. Our weapons, as before stated, were 
 of a motley description. But they were all effective; at least we 
 resolved that they should be made so. Leaving as little to acci 
 dent as possible, we reloaded and rcprimcd our firearms, put in 
 new flints, where we could do so, and girded ourselves up for the 
 contest with the cool consideratcness of men who arc not disposed to 
 shrink back from the good work to which they have so far put their 
 hands. Encouraged by the feeling and energy of Colonel Grafton, 
 who was very much beloved among them, there was not one of the 
 party who did not throw as much personal interest into the motives 
 for his valor as entered either into Grafton s bosom or mine. 
 
 When we were all ready, we divided ourselves into three 
 bodies, providing thus an assailing force for the three known 
 outlets of the outlaws retreat. One of these bodies was led by 
 Grafton, and, under his lead, and by his side, I rode. To two 
 sturdy farmers of the neighborhood, who were supposed to be 
 more conversant with the place than the rest, the other divis 
 ions were given; and it was arranged that our attack upon the 
 three designated points sliorH N : "> r T.rV .^ivnultancous as 
 possible. The darknc&i ui ihc i...^ the difficulty of deter- 
 
 17* 
 
y4 HICHARD UITRDI8. 
 
 mining and equalizing the several distances the necessity oi 
 proceeding slowly and beedfully. in order to avoid giving a^ .r 
 and other considerations and difficulties of like nature an*! 
 equal moment rendered our advance tedious and protracted; 
 and, though we had not more than two miles to cover after SP.P 
 arating at the " Blind," yet the gray streaks of the early dawu 
 were beginning to vein the hazy summits in the east before we 
 reached the point of entrance which had been assigned us. 
 
 The morning was cold and cloudy, and through the misty 
 lir sounds were borne rapidly and far. We were forced to con 
 tinue our caution as we proceeded. When we reached the val 
 ley, the porch, as it were, to the home among the hills where 
 the robbers had found their refuge, we came to a dead halt. 
 There were slight noises from within the enclosure which an 
 noyed us, and we paused to listen. They were only moment 
 ary, however, and we rode slowly forward, until the greater 
 number of our little party were fairly between the two hills. 
 In my anxiety, I had advanced a horse s length beyond Colonel 
 Qrafton, by whose side I had before ridden. We were just about 
 to emerge from the passage into the area, when the indistinct 
 figure of a man started up, as it were, from beneath the very 
 hoofs of my horse. I had nearly ridden over him, for the day 
 was yet too imperfect to enable us to distinguish between ob 
 jects not in motion. lie had been asleep, and was, most prob 
 ably, a sentinel. As he ran, he screamed at the loudest pitch 
 of his voice ; the probability is, that in his surprise he had left 
 his weapon where he had lain, and had no other means of 
 alarming his comrades, and saving them from the consequencea 
 of his neglectful watch. In the midst of his clamors, I silenced 
 him. I shot him through the back as he ran, not five steps in 
 front of my horse, seeking to ascend the hill to the right of us. 
 He tumbled forward, and lay writhing before our path, but 
 without a word or moan. At this moment, the thought pos 
 sessed me, that it was John Hurdis whom I had shot. I shiv 
 ered involuntarily with the conviction, and in my mind I felt a 
 busy voice of reproach, that reminded me of our poor mother. 
 I strov-e to sustain myself, by referring to his baseness, and to 
 his deserts, yet I felt sick at heart the while. I had the stran- 
 est curiosity to look into the face of the victim, but for world f 
 
CONCLUSION. 6 
 
 1 vrK ld not thei have done so. It was proposed tliat we should 
 examine the body by one of the men behind me. It was a voice 
 of desperation with which I shouted in reply : 
 
 No no examination ! We have no time for that !" 
 
 ;< True!" said Grafton, taking up the words. "We must 
 think of living, not dead enemies. This shot will put the gang 
 in irotion. We must rush on them at on~e, if we hope to do 
 anything, and the sooner we go forward the better." 
 
 He gave the \\o\ \ at this moment, which I seconded with a 
 fierce shout, which was half-intended to overcome and scare 
 away my own obtrusive fancies. 
 
 "Better," I said to myself "better that I should believe 
 John Hurdis to be already slain, than that I snould think the 
 duty yet to be done. lie must perish, and I feel that it will be 
 an easier deed to slay him while he is unknown, regarding him 
 merely as one of the common enemy." 
 
 These self-communings indeed, the whole events which 
 had occasioned them were all the work of a moment. I ha 1 
 fired the pistol under the impulse which seemed to follow the 
 movement of the victim, as closely as if it had been a certain 
 consequence of it. In another instant we rushed headlong into 
 the valley, just as sounds of fright and confusion reached us from 
 one of the opposite entrances, which had been assigned the other 
 partieL . There was now no time for unnecessary reflections 
 the moment for thought and hesitation had gone by, and the 
 blood was boiling and bounding in my veins, with all the ar 
 dor and enthusiasm of boyhood. Wild cries of apprehension 
 and encouragement reached us from various quarters, and we 
 could see sudden forms rushing out of the bushes, and from be 
 tween the hollows where they had slept ; and with the sight of 
 them, our men dashed off in various directions, and divided in 
 pursuit. Colonel Grafton and myself advanced in like manner 
 toward a group consisting of three persons, who seemed disposed 
 to seek, rather than fly, from us. A few bounds brought us near 
 enough to discover in one of these, the person of Matthew 
 Webber. 
 
 The two deadly enemies were now within a few steps of eaci 
 other; ana, resolving to spare Colour! Grafton the encounte* 
 w ith a man who had professed such ittcr maiice toward him 
 
396 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 and such a blood-thirsty and unrelenting hate, I put spurs to my 
 horse, and, with earnest efforts, endeavored to put myself between 
 them ; but my object was defeated, and I was soon taught to 
 know that I required all my address to manage my own particular 
 opponent. 
 
 This was the man whom we have before seen as the emissary 
 of the brotherhood, at the habitation of Pickett, and, subsequently, 
 when I left the encampment, ostensibly as the spy upon 
 Ebcrly. This fellow seemed to understand my object for he 
 put himself directly in my way, and, when not three steps dis 
 tant, discharged his pistol at my head. How he came to miss 
 me, I know not. It would appear impossible that a man, re 
 solved and deliberate as he certainly showed himself then and 
 elsewhere to be, should have failed to shoot me at- so small a 
 distance. But he did ; and, without troubling myself at that 
 moment to demand how or why, I was resolved not to miss him. 
 I did not. 
 
 But my bullet, though more direct than his, was not fatal. I 
 hit him in the shoulder of the right arm, from the hand of which 
 lie dropped the knife which he had taken from his bosom, the 
 moment after firing his pistol. My horse was upon him in an 
 other instant ; but, as if insensible to his wound, he grasped the 
 bridle with his remaining hand, and, by extending his arm to its 
 utmost stretch, he baffled me, for a brief space, in the effort 
 which I was making to take a second shot. It was but a mo 
 ment only, however, that he did so. I suffered him to turn the 
 head of the horse, and deliberately took a second pistol from my 
 bosom. 
 
 He sunk under the breast of the animal as he beheld it, still 
 grasping him by the bridle, by swinging from which he was en- 
 abled to avoid the tramplings of his feet. But I was not to be 
 defeated. I threw myself from the animal, and shot the outlaw 
 dead, before he could extricate himself from the position into which 
 he had thrown himself. 
 
 This affair took less time to act than I now employ to narrate 
 it. Meanwhile, the strife between Colonel Grafton and Web 
 ber had proceeded to a fatal issue. I had beheld its progress 
 with painful apprehensions, beholding the danger of the noble 
 gentleman, without the ability to serve or succor him. On 
 
CONCLUSION. 397 
 
 their first encounter, the deliberate ruffian calmly awaited the bold 
 assault of his foe, and, perhaps, feeling some doubt of his weapon 
 in aiming at the smaller object, or, resolved to make sure of him, 
 though slow, he directed his pistol muzzle at the advancing steed, 
 and put the bullet into his breast. The animal tumbled forward, 
 and Webber, nimbly leaping to one side, avoided his crushing car 
 cass, which fell over upon the very spot where the outlaw had taken 
 his station. 
 
 In the fall of the beast, as Webl>er had anticipated, Grafton 
 became entangled. One of his legs was fastened under the animal, 
 and he lay prostrate and immovable for an instant, from the 
 stunning effect of the fall." AVith a grim smile of triumph, Web 
 ber approached him, and when not three paces distant from his 
 enemy, drew his pistol, but before he could fix the sight upon 
 him, a fierce wild scream rang through the area, and in the 
 next instant, when nothing beside could have saved Grafton. 
 and when looking fearlessly at his advancing enemy, he momently 
 expected the death which he felt himself unable to avoid, 
 he beheld, with no less satisfaction and surprise, the figure of 
 the doubly fugitive Clifton bounding between them, to arrest 
 the threatened shot. He came too late for this, yet he baffled the 
 vengeance of the murderer. The bullet took effect in his own 
 bosom, and he fell down between Grafton and Webber, expiating 
 his errors and offenses, whatever may have been their nature and 
 extent, by freely yielding up his life to save that of one, who 
 just before, as he imagined to the last, had sat in inflexible and 
 hostile judgment upon his own. A faint smile illuminated his coun 
 tenance a moment before his death, and he seemed desirous to 
 turn his eyes where Graf ten lay, but to this task he was unequal. 
 Once or twice he made an effort at speech, but his voice sunk away 
 into a gurgling sound, and, at length, terminated in the choking 
 rattle of death. 
 
 Webber, while yet the breath fluttered upon the lips of his 
 victim, strode forward, with one foot upon his body, to repeat the 
 assault upon Graftou, which had been baffled thus, but before he 
 could do this, he fell by an unseen hand. He was levelled to the 
 earth by a stroke from the butt of a rifle from behind, and despatched, 
 in the heat of the moment, by a secoad blow from the hands of the 
 sturdy forester who wielded it 
 
398 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 We extricated Grafton from a situation which had been pro 
 ductive to him of so much peril, and addressed ourselves to a pursuit 
 of the surviving outlaws, who were scattered and flying on all 
 hands. In this pursuit it fell to my lot to inflict death, without 
 recognizing my victim at the time, upon the actual murderer of 
 William Carrington. I saw a fellow skulk bokiml a bush, and 
 shot him through it. That was Pickett. I only knew it when, in 
 the afternoon of the day, we encountered his wife, with countenance 
 seemingly unmoved, and wearing its general expression of rigid 
 gravity, directing the burial of her miserable husband, whom a 
 couple of negroes were preparing to deposit in a grave dug near the 
 spot where he had fallen. 
 
 But our toils were not ended. Seven of the outlaws had been 
 killed outright, or so fatally wounded as to die very soon after. 
 Two only were made prisoners; and we had started at least eight 
 or ten more. These had taken flight in as many different direc 
 tions, rendering it necessary that we should disperse ourselves 
 in their pursuit. My blood had been heated by the af 
 fray to such a degree that I ceased to think. To go forward, to 
 act, to shout, and strike, seemed now all that I could do; and 
 these were performances through which my heart appeared to 
 carry me with an ungovernable sensation of delight a sensation 
 cooled only when I reflected that the body of John Hurdis had 
 not yet been found that we were in pursuit of the survivors, and 
 that I had sworn by the grave of the hapless Emmeline Walker, 
 to give no mercy to the murderers of my friend. My oath was 
 there to impel me forward, even should my heart fail me, and 
 forward I went in the bloody chase; \ve urged, having a distant and 
 imperfect view of two wretches, both mounted, and fleeing 
 backward upon the Big Warrior. They had gone through the 
 "Blind," and for a mile farther I kept them both in sight, At 
 length, one disappeared, but I gained upon the other. Every 
 moment brought the outlines of his person more clearly to my 
 eye, and, at length, I could no longer resist the conviction that 
 the fates had brought me to my victim. John Hurdis was before 
 me. 
 
 What would I not then have given to have found another ene 
 my. How gladly would I then have unsworn myself, and, could 
 it be so, have given up the task of punishment to other persons. 
 
CONCLUSION. 399 
 
 There was a sound of horsemen behind rne, and at one moment,. 
 I almost resolved to turn aside and leave to my comrades the 
 solemn duty which now seemed so especially to devolve itself 
 upon me. But there was a dread in my mind that such a move 
 ment might be misconstrued, and the feeling be taken for fear, 
 which was in strict truth the creature of conscience. The con 
 viction grew inevitable that the bloody duty of the executioner 
 was mine. The horse of my brother stumbled ; the fates had 
 delivered him into my hands he lay on the earth before me; 
 and, with a bursting heart, but a resolved spirit, I leaped down 
 on the earth beside him. He had weapons, but he had no 
 power to use them. I would have given worlds had he been able 
 to do so. Could he have shown fight I could have slain him 
 without scruple ; but when, at my approach, he raised his hands 
 appealingly, and shrieked out a prayer of mercy, I felt ashamed of 
 the duty I had undertaken. I felt the brutal blood-thirstiness 
 of taking life under such circumstances the victim but a few 
 paces off using no weapons, and pleading with a shrieking 
 desperate voice for that life, which seemed at the same time too 
 despicable to demand or deserve a care. 
 
 And yet, when I reflected that to grant his prayer and take 
 him alive, was not to save his life, but to subject him to a 
 death, in the ignominy of which I too must share, I felt that he could 
 not live. I rushed upon him with the extended pistol, but was 
 prevented from using it by a singular vision, in the sudden 
 appearance of the poor idiot daughter of Pickett. She came 
 from the door of a little cottage by the road-side, which I had 
 not before seen, and to which, it is more than probable, that 
 John llurdis was bending his steps, as to a place of refuge. 
 To my horror and surprise she called me by name, and thus 
 gave my brother the first intimation which he had of the person 
 to whom he prayed. How this idiot came to discover that which 
 nobody besides had suspected, was wonder enough to me ; and 
 while I stood, astounded for the instant, she ran forward like 
 a thoughtless child, crying as she came : 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Richard, don t you shoot it s Master John it s 
 your own clear brother don t you Bhoot don t." 
 
 " Brother !" cried the miserable wretch, with hoarse and husky 
 tones, followed by a chuckle of laughter, which indicated 
 
400 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 the latent hope which had begun to kindle in his breast at this 
 discovery. 
 
 "Away I know you not, villain," was my cry as I recoiled 
 from him, and again lifted the pistol in deadly aim. The idiot 
 girl rushed between us, and rising on tiptoe, sought to grasp 
 the extended hand, which I was compelled to raise above her 
 reach. 
 
 "Run, Master John, run for dear life," was her cry, as she 
 clung upon my shoulders. "Run to the bushes, while I hold 
 Mr. Richard I ll hold him tight he can t get away from me. 
 I ll hold him tight enough while you run." 
 
 The miserable dastard obeyed her counsel ; and while clinging, 
 now to niy arms, and now to my legs, she baffled my 
 movements, and really gave him an opportunity, which a cool, 
 brave fellow would have turned to account, and most probably saved 
 himself. He, in his alarm, actually rushed into the woods, in the 
 very direction of the pursuit. Had he possessed the spirit of 
 a man, he would have leaped upon his horse, or upon mine, 
 and trusted to the chase a second time. Hardly a minute had 
 elapsed from his disappearance in the woods, and when I had 
 just extricated myself from the clutches of the girl, which I 
 did with as little violence as possible, when I heard one shot 
 and then another. I resumed my horse and hurried to the 
 spot whence the sounds came. One of our party, who had 
 taken the same route with me, had overtaken the fugitive, and 
 had fired twice upon him as he fled. My voice trembled when 
 I asked the trooper, as he emerged from the bush, if the outlaw 
 was dead. 
 
 "As a door-nail!" was the reply. I stopped for no more, 
 but turuing the head of my horse again, I renewed the pursuit 
 of the second fugitive, whom I had first followed. My com 
 panion kept with me, and we went forward at full speed. As 
 we rode we heard the faint accents of the idiot girl crj ing in 
 the woods for " Master John ;" as, here and there, she wound 
 her way through its recesses, seeking for him who could no 
 longer answer to her call. The sounds were painful to me, and 
 I was glad to get out of hearing of them. I had now none 
 of those scruples in the pursuit which hud beset me before. My 
 trial was over ; and fervently in my heart did I thank God, 
 
CONCLUSION. 401 
 
 and the stout fellow who rode beside me, that my hand had not 
 stricken the cruel blow which was yet demanded by justice. I 
 urged my horse to the utmost and soon left my companion be 
 hind. I felt that I must gain upon the footsteps of the fugitive. 
 There were few horses in the country of better bottom, and 
 more unrelaxing speed than mine. He proved himself on this 
 occasion. Through bog and branch, he sped ; over hill, through 
 dale, until the road opened in double breadth upon us. The 
 trees grew more sparsely the undergrowth was more dense iu 
 patches, and it was evident that we had nearly reached the 
 river. In another moment I caught a glimpse, not of it only, 
 but of the man I pursued ; and he was Foster. He looked round 
 once ; and I fancied I could detect a smile playing on his lips. 
 I felt loth to trouble this strange fellow. He was a generous 
 outlaw, and possessed many good qualities. He had given me 
 freely of his money, though counterfeit, and had shown me a 
 degree of kindness and consideration, which made me hesitate, 
 now that I had brought him to the post. I concluded it to be 
 impossible that he should escape me, and I summoned him with 
 loud tones to surrender, under a promise which I made him, of 
 using all my efforts and influence to save him from the conse 
 quences of the laws. But he laughed aloud, and pointed to the 
 river. 
 
 "He will not venture to swim it surely," was my thought on the 
 instant. A few moments satisfied my doubts. There was a pile of 
 cotton, consisting of ten or fifteen bags, lying on the brink of the 
 river, and ready for transportation to market whenever the boats 
 came by. He threw himself from his horse as he reached the bags, 
 and tumbling one of them from the pile into the stream, he leaped 
 boldly upon it, and when I reached the same spot, the current had 
 already carried him full forty yards on his way, down the stream.* 
 I discharged my pistol at him but without any hope of touching him 
 at that distance He laughed good-naturedly in return, and cried 
 out 
 
 "Ah, Williams, you are a sad dog, and something more of a 
 hypocrite than the parson. I am afraid you will come to no 
 good, if you keep on after this fashion ; but should you ever 
 
 * This is a fact ; such a mode of escape would not readily suggest itself to 
 a romancer s invention, but it did to that of a very great rogue. 
 
402 RICHARD HURDIS. 
 
 get into a difficulty like this of mine, I am still sufficiently your 
 friend to hope that you may find as good a float. You can say 
 to the owner of this cotton a man named Baxter, who, I sup 
 pose, is one of your party this morning that he will find it 
 some five miles below ; I shall not want it much farther. 
 Should he lose it, however, it s as little as a good patriot as. 
 it is said he is should be ready at any time to lose for his 
 country. Farewell though it be for a season only. We shall 
 meet some day in Arkansas, where I shall build a* church in 
 the absence of better business, and perhaps make you a convert. 
 Farewell." 
 
 Colonel Grafton came up in time to hear the last of this dis 
 course ; and to wonder and laugh at the complacent impudence 
 and ready thoughts of the outlaw. Foster pulled his hat, with 
 a polite gesture, when he had finished speaking, and turned his 
 eyes from us in the direction which his strange craft was tak 
 ing. 
 
 "Shall I give him a shot, colonel?" demanded one of the 
 foresters, who had come up with Grafton, lifting his rifle as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "No, no!" was the reply "let him go. He is a clever 
 scoundrel and may one day become an honest man. We have done 
 enough of this sort of business this morning, to keep the whole 
 neighborhood honest for some years. Let us now return, my friends, 
 and bury those miserable creatures out of sight. Hurdis ! " He took 
 me suddenly aside from the rest, and said : 
 
 " Hurdis, there is a girl back here, who says that you have killed 
 your own brother. She affirms it positively." 
 
 " She speaks falsely, Colonel Grafton," was my reply ; " I am not 
 guilty of a brother s blood ; and yet I may say to you that she has 
 spoken a portion of the truth. A brother of mine has been killed 
 among the outlaws. Guilty or not guilty of their offences, he pays 
 the penalty of bad company. If you please we will speak of him no 
 more." 
 
 I had been married to Mary Easterby about three years, when 
 one day who should pay us a visit but Colonel Grafton and 
 the lovely Julia, the latter far more lovely than ever. Her 
 
403 
 
 sorrows had sublimed her beauty, and seemed to give elevation 
 to all her thoughts and actions. The worm was gnawing at her 
 heart, and its ravages were extending to her frame ; but her 
 cheek, though pale, was exquisitely transparent, and her eye, 
 though always sad, was sometimes enlivened with the fires of 
 an intense spirituality which seemed to indicate the approxima 
 tion of her thoughts to the spheres and offices of a loftier home 
 than ours. She lived but a year after this visit, and died in a 
 sweet sleep, which lasted for several hours, without being dis 
 turbed by pain, and from which she only awakened in another 
 world. May we hope that the loves were happy there which 
 had been so unblessed on earth. 
 
 UNIVESSiT - 
 
 THE END. 
 

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