CHAPTER VII.

THE SECRET MISSION.

The cool night air awakened Imogene from the unconscious state into which she had fallen when first seized by her abductors.

Staring wildly around the apartment in which she was confined, she was unable to account for her strange position. Pressing her hot hands to her throbbing temples she tried to collect her scattered thoughts.

The recollection of the events of the past evening appeared to her like a terrible dream. Like a flash the thought occurred to her that she had been abducted. To think of such a thing almost crazed her brain.

“Where am I?” she wildly exclaimed, springing toward the ruffian who was keeping guard at her chamber door.

Without heeding her question, he made a commanding gesture for her to remain silent. She tried to draw him into conversation, but in vain.

Seeing she could not gain any information, she seated herself on the rude couch that had been prepared for her, and commenced to reflect.

The excitement and fatigue of the past few hours, however, were too much for her delicate frame, and in a few moments she fell into a gentle slumber.

The guard, seeing his charge asleep, closed the door of the chamber gently, and being wearied, seated himself near the fire. After fruitless endeavors to keep his heavy eyelids from closing, he was finally obliged to succumb to his drowsiness.

His head fell heavily on his breast, his arms hung listlessly by his side, and in a few moments he was slumbering heavily. Imogene’s sleep was light and fitful. Her dreams were haunted by the transactions of the past night.

In a short time she awoke. Hearing no movement outside, she listened attentively for the monotonous tread of her guard, but it had ceased. Nothing broke the awful stillness save the heavy breathing of the sleeping ruffians.

Rising quickly, she peered cautiously out, and there, by the dim light of the dying embers, she perceived her abductors wrapped in sound slumber.

Hastily procuring what articles were necessary to protect her against the chill air of the evening, she wrapped her shawl around her person, and quietly entered the dimly lighted room. Stepping lightly over the sleeping forms of her captors, she fled down the stairs.

The cool air fanned her fevered brow, and seemed to impart new strength to her exhausted frame. The inspiring hopes of escaping from her villainous captors had a salutary effect. Vaulting on the back of one of the horses that stood ready equipped, she dashed away from the house.

The clattering of the horse’s hoofs aroused her guard. Looking around him in a bewildered manner, he hurried to where his prisoner was confined, only to find her gone.

“Awake! awake! to horse! to horse!” he frantically cried, applying his foot in no gentle manner to the sleeping forms of his companions.

“What’s up?” asked they, in a single breath, springing to their feet.

“Our prisoner’s escaped!”

“The prisoner escaped!” they both exclaimed in one voice.

“Yes; look for yerselves!” answered the other, pointing to the vacated chamber.

“To yer horses! We must hev the gal again, dead or alive!” cried the ruffian leader, hurrying to where the animals were picketed.

When they reached the spot, there were but two horses, the third was gone. Imogene had unconsciously selected the animal belonging to the wounded member of the party, and the owner had no other alternative than to follow in the pursuit on foot, or go back to the house and await the return of his comrades. He chose the latter.

He slowly retraced his steps, muttering imprecations loud and deep. The mounted ruffians hurried in pursuit of Imogene, hoping every moment to catch some sound that would direct them.

The chase was fruitless. They scoured the forest for miles around, but were finally obliged to abandon the search. Chagrined and disappointed by their ill-success, they were slowly returning to where they had left their companion that morning.

The day was drawing gradually to a close. The sun had already disappeared behind the western hills, when the two ruffians were suddenly confronted by a female--it was Imogene.

It appears that after leaving the house, she wandered, she knew not whither, until chance directed her attention to a small cavity near the roadside, where she lay concealed during the greater part of the day without being discovered by her pursuers.

The shades of night were fast approaching, wrapping the grand old forest in a somber gloom, when Imogene awakened to a sense of her lonely situation. As she pondered on her isolated condition, her mind was filled with fear and dreadful forebodings.

The thought, that she was there alone in that gloomy forest, a prey to wild beasts and starvation, almost distracted her. She almost wished that she had not effected her escape, and was about to give vent to her wild grief, when the tread of horses attracted her attention.

She paused and listened. Her ears had not deceived her. There was no mistaking the sound--some one was approaching. She quickly hid herself in the bushes, where she could get a view of the passers-by.

She had not long to wait; the footsteps steadily approached, and the next instant two horsemen loomed up in the distance. What was it that made Imogene start, and sent the hot blood coursing through her veins, as she caught sight of the foremost stranger?

“No--yes--it must be--it is _he_!” she murmured to herself. She could with difficulty refrain from uttering a cry of joy, as she recognized in the form of one of these men, the pretended American scout and patriot--Hank Putney.

The sight of the scout reanimated her and restored her drooping spirits, and she quickly determined to discover herself to him and claim his protection until she should reach some place of safety.

At the sudden appearance of Imogene, after her recapture had been given up as hopeless, the scowl that darkened the brows of the two ruffians gave place to a look of savage joy.

It was evident to Putney, for it was indeed he, that Imogene had not yet recognized him as being one of her abductors, for what other reason could possibly have induced her to surrender herself into his hands unless it was that she still deemed him to be the character he had so basely assumed--a stanch American patriot, and the thought seemed to give infinite pleasure to the ruffian.

“So we’ve found ye at last,” he growled.

“Oh, Hank!” exclaimed Imogene, with delight, without noticing his rough salutation, as she approached the scout, her hands extended to welcome him, “I am so glad to have met you.”

“Yes?” answered Putney, with a sinister smile on his countenance.

“I have been in this dreary place the entire day, without either food or drink,” and Imogene shuddered as she commenced to relate the particulars of her abduction and escape, but the scout interrupting her, replied:

“I know all about it.”

“Have you captured some of the miscreants?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then you have been informed of their vile plot?”

“That neither.”

“In what manner, then, did you acquire this knowledge? You puzzle me, Hank--I can not understand you,” said Imogene, growing a little nettled at his cold, formal manner.

“That’ll all be explained to ye soon enough. In the meanwhile ye’ll mount and foller us,” he responded, at the same time making a gesture to his comrade to lead forward Imogene’s steed, which she had fastened near her place of concealment.

Depressed by the mysterious manner of Putney, Imogene, with a heavy heart, mechanically obeyed his order. The two ruffians stationed themselves on either side of her. These precautions looked suspicious, and a chill of fear crept over Imogene, as she witnessed them.

However, she quietly accompanied her companions, following wherever they led. During their journey she endeavored to draw her taciturn escort into a conversation, but without success. After a weary ride of several miles, stopping suddenly, she exclaimed:

“I will proceed no further, until you tell me whither you are leading me!”

“Ye won’t, eh! I’ll see about that.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“That, willin’ or unwillin’, ye must foller me.”

“Where?”

“To th’ place ye left this mornin’.”

“Not back to the haunt of my villainous abductors?”

“’Xactly.”

“Oh, no, Hank! You do not--you can not mean this! Tell me that you are but jesting!” wildly exclaimed Imogene, now thoroughly alarmed at the villain’s words.

“It’s th’ truth.”

“Then you are concerned in this plot?”

“If ye’ll hev it so, I am.”

“What! You do not mean to tell me, Hank, that _you, you_ are a traitor--that _you_ are one of these ruffians!”

The Tory hesitated a moment before answering, but feeling assured that he had nothing to fear in revealing his true character to his captive, as it was beyond her power to do him harm, he turned abruptly and replied:

“Yes. Hereafter ye’ll know me, not as Hank, th’ American scout and patriot, but as Putney, th’ spy of th’ Tory League!”

This announcement, like the sting of some venomous serpent, sunk deep into the heart of Imogene. For a moment she seemed completely paralyzed.

“Great Heavens! then I am lost!” she murmured, seeing how basely she had been betrayed, and how unwarily she had surrendered herself into the clutches of the villains.

The fact that Hank Putney and the leader of her abductors were one and the same person, was more than she could seem to realize. To her, the greatness of the man’s crime was only equaled by his perfidy.

Her spirit was almost crushed by the acknowledged treachery of him in whom she had reposed so much confidence, and she resigned herself to her fate.

The party continued the remainder of their journey in silence. The moon had risen bright and full, when they arrived near the house in which the ruffians had left their companion to await their return.

As they emerged from the forest to cross the lawn leading to the dwelling, a slight breeze shook the tall pines--a peculiar sound reached their ears--the lengthened shadow of a human body stretched across the moonlit sward, reaching nigh to their very feet in its vacillating course.

They stopped--looked up--when, oh, horror! they beheld a spectacle sufficient to harrow up their very souls.

There, pendent between heaven and earth, with its form clearly outlined against the bright sky, was a black, frightful, hideous corpse, once their own cheerful comrade, now no more.

As it slowly swayed to and fro, moved by the gentle wind, with the pale moonbeams reflecting on the grim, distorted countenance, with features ghastly and repulsive, with eyes staring and glassy, that seemed to protrude from their sockets in their endeavors to pierce, as it were, the impenetrable darkness that enveloped the path of the soul, the ill-boding, shrill screams of the birds of prey, as they struggled and fought over their ghostly banquet of flesh, was a sight too dreadful to look upon.

The ruffians turned their heads in disgust from the horrible sight, and dragging more than leading Imogene, who seemed chained to the spot by some terrible fascination, they hurried away.

The ominous cries of the carnivorous birds still rung in their ears--sounds that penetrated the deepest chambers of their own dark hearts, pricking their consciences with the knowledge of the loathsome deeds there secreted.

On, on they hurried, through brier, bramble, and thicket, stopping not even to cast a single glance behind them, lest they should again see the spectral figure of their late companion, until they had satisfied themselves that they had nothing to fear from ghost or human, when they reined in their panting steeds to recover breath.

“Oh, God! thet wor awful!” exclaimed Putney, in a husky voice. “Poor Tom wor a plucky one; but that wor an awful death to die!” and he covered his face with his brawny hands, trying to shut out the terrible scene from his imagination.

The corpse was that of their companion, to whom, that morning, the dragoons had administered such summary justice.

After a moment of respite, Putney gave the signal to again press onward. Over fallen trees, through swamp and morass, up the steep hill and across the valley, they hurried with a precipitation which naught but their superstitious fears could have created.

Their progress was at length arrested by the small stream that flowed into Lake George, between Forts William Henry and George. One of the party reconnoitered the bank for some distance to find a fordable place.

Finally the desired spot was discovered, and they succeeded in passing over in safety, receiving only a slight wetting. They were so near the forts, that the distant roll of the drums and winding of the bugles could be heard distinctly.

Putney urged the party to their utmost celerity. He was in great trepidation lest he should come across some scouting party returning to the fort. However, the crisis passed safely over, and they breathed freely as they escaped beyond the American lines.

After a short but wearisome ride, Putney signaled the party to halt and dismount. The spot at which they stopped was at the base of a large hill, possessed, in no respect, of any peculiarities to distinguish it from the landscape of the surrounding country.

Putney pushed his way through a large clump of bushes that grew some distance back from the roadside, and made a sign for the others to follow him.

They proceeded cautiously along a secret path that wound around the base of the mountain, and at length stopped before a large cavity partly concealed by shrubbery.

Putney knocked on a small door that barred what appeared to be the entrance to a cave. The bolts were slowly withdrawn, and the door cautiously opened by a dark, sullen-looking man, who held a large bunch of keys in his hand.

A nod of recognition was exchanged between this personage and Putney, and the party was allowed to enter. The place into which they were introduced, bore a dismal, somber appearance.

Benches were scattered promiscuously about, while on the side walls were hung all sorts of martial implements. Not a single person, however, was visible: all was as quiet as the grave.

They were conducted along a large corridor dimly lighted a by a single lantern, whose feeble glare served only to heighten the gloominess of the situation.

Imogene was ushered into a brilliantly illuminated apartment, which, from all appearances, had, no doubt, been fitted up for her special reception.

She gazed about her with a half-bewildered air. The apartment was a magnificent one. There was a lavish display of grandeur, unsurpassed in many of our wealthiest drawing rooms.

From the ceiling hung a beautiful pendent, with variegated lights. The tapestried walls were grandiosely decorated in the richest and most artistic manner.

In the center of the room stood a table with vases, containing the choicest and rarest flowers, whose fragrant exhalations perfumed the whole apartment, serving to dispel the disagreeable odors emanating from the naturally damp walls.

The whole appearance of the place was strikingly at variance with the rest of the interior of this mysterious cavern. Recovering from her fit of abstraction into which she had fallen, Imogene rushed to the door of her prison, for this we must term it, to try and gain an egress, but it was securely barred.

She then turned her attention to the walls, lest perchance there might be some secret avenue to escape, but her hopes in that direction were speedily blasted.

Again she returned to her prison door, and with frantic energy shook it violently, but it was proof against her feeble strength.

In an agony of despair, she cried aloud for assistance; however, naught save the echoes of her own voice gave back an answer.

“Lost! lost! lost!” she cried! “May Heaven defend and guide me in this, my hour of peril!”

The exertions she had made were too much for her delicate and exhausted frame. Tottering to a small couch that stood at the further end of the room, she cast herself upon it, and burying her face in her hands, gave vent to her grief.

Gradually a sense of drowsiness stole over her, and succumbing to nature’s wants, she soon was lost in slumber. How long she remained thus, she knew not, when she was awakened by the creaking of her prison door as some person entered.

Remaining silent, she listened. The footsteps approached the middle of the apartment, then stopped. She started in alarm from her reclining posture and confronted her silent visitor.

He was a tall and stately personage, with an authoritative and commanding mien. His face was carefully concealed in the folds of an ample cloak that fell gracefully from his shoulders.

“Why this intrusion, sir?”

“No intrusion, fair lady, only a friendly visit.”

At the sound of the stranger’s voice Imogene involuntarily drew back.

“That voice--surely I have heard it before--it is so like _his_!” she whispered to herself. “Who are you, sir?”

“Behold!” exclaimed the stranger, throwing off his disguise.

“Great Heavens! Maurice!” and Imogene, trembling in every joint, staggered against the wall for support.

“Yes, Imogene!” replied her visitor, making a bow, half courteous, half ironical--“it is I.”

“For what reasons are you here?--you, whom all thought to be hundreds of leagues hence?”

“To express my love to you. Yes, Imogene--it is the great love I bear you that has placed me here, and made me what you see me.”

“Are you a voluntary inmate of this horrid place?”

“I am.”

“And these wretched men that brought me hither?”

“Are my subordinates.”

“But they, according to their own confession, are members of that notorious band called the Tory League. Are you then, numbered among their associates?”

“I am--their leader.”

“Do you mean to tell me that _you_--but I dare not mention that terrible name; the very thought of it makes my blood run cold with horror.”

“It is but too true--I _do_ bear that name which none have learned to repeat, save to visit with curses and execrations the head of its possessor--Iron Hand.”

“Yes, yes; that dreadful synonym for bloody murder and rapine.”

“Imogene, you judge me too harshly. Though hated by mankind; though my name be whispered in accents of fear and loathing, yet I am not so bad as the world would have me. One thing always has sustained me when on the very verge of despair, and like a celestial guide, has directed my footsteps, and bid me hope when all around me was ingulfed in misery and darkness--it is the thought, that you might yet look upon me more kindly; that you might at some future day, even learn to love me.”

“Talk not to me of love! Know you not that I am already betrothed--that my hand is already plighted to another?”

“Ay! I know it but too well. It is that that has compelled me to have recourse to these extreme measures; it is the burning love that is consuming me, that has goaded me on to undertake that which in my better moments I would scorn to do.”

“Is it to avow your vile passion that you have torn me from my happy home, and brought sorrow to the heart of my venerable father? Is it for that purpose that you have seduced America’s sons from their allegiance--that you have enlisted in your service the silvery locks of age, and made them subservient tools for the furtherance of your diabolical schemes? It is for this, then, that you have outraged propriety, modesty, and the laws of God and man? Is it thus you expect to be successful? You speak of love; yes, it is like that the hawk bears the dove, merely to toy with its victim for a time, then to rend it in pieces with its talons. Thank God! I have penetrated your disguise, and understand your villainous designs--I am no longer deceived. Your heart is black and treacherous, your soul stained with crimes innumerable, and honor has fled the breast of one so corrupted!”

The Tory chieftain drew back at the passionate energy of Imogene’s manner. His rage stood revealed in his pale and distorted face; but suppressing his anger--he thought it policy--he replied with affected composure:

“You know not, Imogene, how I have loved and love you. Even supposing that I have acted with any rashness in this, why will you insist on my suffering for it? Why should reproaches be added to rejection, as if to make the cup of bitterness more full? Come, Imogene, we must yet be friends. I do not press you for an immediate answer; but tell me you will think of me, and think more kindly, and I will be happy. I go now, but will return on the morrow to receive my answer.”

Bowing low, he turned to depart.

“Hold! hold, sir!” exclaimed Imogene. “I wish to be harassed no further by these unwelcome visits. Your very presence fills me with a loathsome feeling I can not express. You can not deceive me by your duplicity. I know your purposes are vile. Hear then my answer. It is irrevocable and absolute. I hate you! I despise you! My soul tells me that you are worse than you appear. You have bribed a villain with a heart as black as your own, to deliver me into your power. Think you that vengeance sleepeth? No! its loud cry will rise to Heaven until you perish beneath its withering influence!”

As she spoke these words, with an energy beyond what she had ever shown, the fire that smoldered on the hearth fell in, and caused a sudden light to fill the place.

It shone ruddy brown upon the beautiful but stern face and uplifted arm of Imogene, and gave to her the appearance of an angel denouncing on the head of the villain before her the sentence of eternal woe.

It glared likewise upon the pale countenance of the Tory, and gave to his distorted features a look of ghastliness and fear that might have suited such an occasion well.

The awe-inspiring picture lasted but for a second, then vanished. The fire again sunk low, the light grew dim. It came like a dismal vision, and like a vision faded.

This was more than her visitor had expected. He felt how thoroughly he was despised, and for a moment was speechless; but quickly recovering himself, a Satanic look overspread his countenance, and his eyes glared with a furious fire as he fairly hissed these words between his teeth:

“You have given me _your_ answer, now list ye to _mine_! When we were but mere children together, you rejected my boyish love--you looked down upon me with scorn and contempt as you do now--you spurned me from you as though I were a dog, without pity, without mercy! Think you that I am impervious to such wrongs, such insults? Think you that you can with impunity beard the lion in his den, without reaping the result of your audacity? Mark ye! I will give you three days to reconsider your rash decision; at the expiration of that time, I will return for a final answer. Should you refuse me, then you are mine--mine, body and soul. There is no one to whom you can appeal for assistance--none that can help you. I alone possess that power, and should you disdain to avail yourself of it, then you are irretrievably lost!” and with a demoniac laugh, the Tory rushed from the place.

Imogene gazed for a moment with a wild stare after the retreating form of her late visitor, then reeled, and sunk swooning to the floor.

* * * * *

The morning succeeding the arrest of Captain Sherwood dawned clear and beautiful. The bright sunbeams struggled through the narrow, grated window of Edgar’s cell, and brilliantly illuminated the apartment.

When he gazed about him, and beheld the joyful sunlight streaming athwart the floor of his prison, his feelings were too painful for description--it seemed, as it were, that every thing mocked him.

“Would that I could dispel these gloomy thoughts that possess me,” he murmured. “There is an indescribable something--a feeling of sadness I can not banish. Shake it off I can not--it clings to me despite my efforts, and I feel as though it were a precursor of some terrible affliction about to befall me.”

While these despondent thoughts occupied his mind, he remained leaning with his shoulder against the wall, and gazing with a troubled look upon the decaying fire, when Colonel Hall entered the cell.

“Ah, good-morning, colonel,” exclaimed Edgar; “I am so glad to see you; your presence makes me feel less sad.”

“Good-morning, captain; I hope you are well.”

“Yes, colonel, well in body, though not in spirit. But why do _you_ look so sad? Are you in trouble?”

“Yes, captain, I am.”

“Then we are companions in misfortune.”

“Would to God that we were!”

“Why? Do you so commiserate the unhappiness of others, that you are willing to share it with them?”

“The affliction is not so much my own, captain, as my friend’s.”

“Your friend! Ah! then there is another to whom you may offer condolence. May I inquire his name?”

“Alas! you know it but too well; the person is--yourself!”

“Myself! Is there then some new tale of woe--some additional sorrow to be added to my already heavy burden? Tell it me, I beseech you, colonel--keep me not in suspense.”

“Calm yourself, Captain Sherwood, that you may listen to me.”

Drawing his seat close to that of Edgar, Colonel Hall, in as gentle a manner as possible, related to him Imogene’s sudden and mysterious disappearance, the success of the party that he had dispatched in search of her, and their return to the fort that morning.

At the conclusion of this sad intelligence, Edgar uttered a deep groan. His head sunk forward on his knees in an access of deep emotion, and his eyes were fixed with a vacant stare on the floor.

For several moments, silence, gloomy and profound, reigned. Raising his head slowly, his face, which was now pale and haggard, presented a picture of despair.

“What have they done with her?” he faintly asked.

“At present I am unable to answer you. The prisoner that was captured, and from whom the information which I have imparted to you was elicited, remained reticent on that point. However, I will use the most strenuous exertions to have the mystery unraveled in a satisfactory manner. Too long has the border ran with the blood of the victims of these cut-throats. I will have them hunted down wheresoever they be, till they pay the penalty of their villainous deeds,” exclaimed Colonel Hall, in an emphatic tone, a stern look settling on his brow.

“Heaven bless and reward you, colonel, for your kindness to me.”

“Mention it not, Captain Sherwood, I beg of you. I have done no more to you, than I would have expected you to do me under like circumstances. I must tarry no longer, however, as the time flies swiftly by, and my men are under orders, impatiently awaiting my commands.”

His hand was already on the latch of the cell-door, when Edgar again addressed him.

“A word more, Colonel Hall, before you go. I have another--a final request to make of you; should you accede to it, you will confer upon me an inestimable boon.”

“Well, what may it be?”

“That you will allow my friend, War-Cloud, to visit me here alone.”

“Captain, any thing within my power that will tend to alleviate the rigorousness of your unpleasant position I will willingly do--your request I grant.”

“Thanks! thanks!”

But a short interval elapsed after the departure of Colonel Hall, when the door opened and War-Cloud entered. Edgar, seizing the hand of his friend with warmth, and wringing it cordially, led him to a seat beside his own, near the fire.

“I have a purpose, my friend, in thus sending for you,” said Edgar. “You are aware of my helpless situation, unable assist myself, or even her who is dearer to me than life itself; for this reason have I sought you, as the only one to whom I could unhesitatingly reveal my grave suspicions. I also have a plan to unfold. Should it succeed, every thing may again be righted; however, its undertaking entails many hazards, perhaps death.”

“War-Cloud is always ready to aid his white brother.”

“Thanks, my faithful friend! To you, then, will I confide my suspicion--in you do I place my last, my forlorn hope. Draw near to me, that not a single word I speak may escape you; for should this fail, then all is lost!”

Looking cautiously around to see that he could not be overheard, Edgar commenced in a low, whispering tone to disclose to the scout the plan of which he had spoken.

It was evident by the startled manner of War-Cloud, so foreign to his natural stoicism, that he was a listener to a disclosure that surpassed his most extravagant conceptions.

After a long conversation, they both arose. The sad, dejected features of Edgar were now lighted up by a more hopeful look, while on the countenance of War-Cloud there was an expression of settled determination to be successful in this enterprise, could human efforts effect such a result.

Moving toward the door, their eyes met, and in that gaze each read the depth of friendship’s love. The two friends clasped hands affectionately, and with a mutual farewell, the next moment the Indian was gone.

The following morning anxious inquiries were made at the fort concerning the whereabouts of War-Cloud, but he was nowhere to be found.

He had quietly made his exit, unknown to any of the garrison; but as these sudden and mysterious disappearances were of no uncommon occurrence, they created no suspicion.