CHAPTER XLV.

THE DEATH-SHOT

With wild surprise, As if to marble struck devoid of sense. —Thomson.

Amaz’d, Astonished stood, and blank, while horror chill Ran through his veins. —Milton.

Arrison was thunderstruck by the sudden apparition of Uncle Lawrence. His first movement was to start back, as if he saw a spirit; for the old man was the last person he had expected to confront him. But in a moment he recovered his usual presence of mind. When he perceived that he was opposed by veritable flesh and blood, and that too in the person of one he hated for his goodness, he secretly exulted; for having no suspicion that Uncle Lawrence had friends at hand, he considered that his long threatened vengeance was certain.

Yet he was in no hurry to assail the old man. Aware that his followers must be close behind him, and that a few moments at furthest would enable them to arrive, he determined to keep the contest confined to words, if possible, until they came up. Old as Uncle Lawrence was, he bore a reputation for bravery, skill and strength, which made Arrison quite willing to avoid a hand to hand struggle with the patriarch.

“You!” cried Arrison. “Take a word of advice then, old man, and don’t mix yourself up with a business that’s none of your concern.”

“But suppose I think it does consarn me,” coolly answered Uncle Lawrence. “Miss Katie here is an old pet of mine, so stand aside and let us pass.”

“Not so fast. Again, I say, go your ways and save your life.”

“I do not go without her. Stand aside, villain.”

“Never,” exclaimed Arrison, chafed at these words. “I warn you not to try my patience too far.”

“I’m not afeerd of you, James Arrison,” answered the old man, in a tone of contempt, “and you know it. Keep your warning for some one else.”

“Will you go?”

“No!”

Scarcely had the veteran spoken, when the refugee pulled trigger. But, quick as he had been, the old man was quicker. Resolving to save his fire if possible, in order to be better prepared for self-defence, if the refugees arrived before Major Gordon, he suddenly and dexterously thrust forward the barrel of his piece in such a manner as to knock up the gun of the outlaw. The movement was so swift that Arrison had time neither to counteract it, nor to prevent his load from going off; and the consequence was that his ball whistled harmlessly over Uncle Lawrence’s head, burying itself in the tree against which Kate leaned, a few inches above her. A savage oath broke from the refugee at this failure, and his eyes flashed lightning as it were. He shortened his gun instantly, as if to club it; then hesitated whether he had not better throw it away and rush in on his antagonist; and finally stood irresolute, his face purple with rage and baffled hate.

Had it suited Uncle Lawrence’s purpose that second would have been the last of the ruffian’s existence. A younger man would have been unable, in the sudden heat of the affray, to have restrained himself, even from motives of the clearest policy. But the veteran was as cool and wary now as when sitting by his own hearth. Nothing could induce him to waste his fire; for, in that case, he might not have time to reload before the other refugees came up.

“Throw down your gun,” he said, however. “You are at my mercy.”

What answer Arrison would have made, if no succor had arrived, we cannot say. But, at this crisis, his sharpened ear heard the crackling of the undergrowth, as his followers came running up at full speed, their pace accelerated by the two shots which had been fired in such quick succession; for though it has required a considerable time to describe all this, the whole period between the death of the bloodhound and the useless discharge of Arrison’s gun, had scarcely occupied more than a minute.

Aware that an overwhelming force was now at hand, the outlaw sprang forwards towards Kate, endeavoring to elude his antagonist, and crying out,

“Shoot the old man; but spare the girl. Shoot quick!”

But he did not finish the sentence. Uncle Lawrence, who faced the intruders, had the advantage of observing what Arrison could not; and saw that the new comers, so far from being refugees entirely, were partly Major Gordon and his follows.

In fact, the speed of the patriots had been also accelerated by the shots; they had rushed forward at full run, fearing that Uncle Lawrence was overpowered; and had arrived at the scene simultaneously with the outlaws, the latter only discovering the presence of foes at the very moment that Arrison cried out; for, on their part, they had been so entirely absorbed in what was going on ahead, that they had neither looked behind, nor heard the steps of their pursuers. Instead, therefore, of being able to assist their leader, the outlaws found their own hands full; for the patriots dashed upon them at once, like hunters that have run down a wolf, which has long been the terror of the district.

All this Uncle Lawrence took in with one rapid glance, and seeing that the ruffian’s time had come, he leveled his gun at Arrison’s heart and pulled the trigger, just as the wretch was darting past to lay his sacrilegious hands on Kate.

“To die the death of a dog at last,” he mentally ejaculated. “I knew it years ago.”

As he thus soliloquized, the burly person of the ruffian, spinning half round, while the arms were suddenly thrown up, tumbled headlong to the ground, where it fell directly across the body of the dead hound. Life was gone, even before the form touched the earth.

Meantime the pursuers had closed with the refugees, discharging their guns, each at an antagonist, and following this up by closing with such as were either not injured, or only wounded. Some, dropping their fire-arms, drew their swords, and engaged in a hand to hand conflict; others clubbed their pieces, using them like maces; and some grappled with the refugees to prevent the latter employing their guns, few of which had been discharged in consequence of the surprise.

The onslaught had been so unexpected, and was kept up in so rapid a manner, that the refugees did not hold out long. Two were killed at the first assault; others soon lay on the ground desperately wounded; and finally the survivors, seeing that all was over, broke desperately from their antagonists, and rushing madly into the next thicket, disappeared from sight. Only two succeeded, however, in making good their escape in this way, and one of them at least was seriously wounded, for the bushes were stained with blood as he passed.

The victory was complete, and, owing to the surprise, comparatively without cost. The patriots did not lose a man, and had but two seriously wounded, the rest receiving only slight scratches, scarcely requiring surgical aid. As one of the conquerors was accustomed to say, in rehearsing the transaction afterwards,—he was an inveterate duck-shooter whose language always drew its metaphors from his favorite pursuit— “We stole up onparceived, you understand, and killed and wounded five, whom we got, besides two that scattered that we didn’t get.”

Uncle Lawrence had not joined in the fray after his decisive shot. In fact, the conflict was over before he could have taken any further part in it, even if he had wished; but knowing that a chance shot might strike Kate, he chivalrously threw himself before her; and thus protected her at the risk of his own life.

Major Gordon, ignorant whom he was assailing, had engaged Arrison’s lieutenant. The latter had been the first to discover the pursuers, and had turned immediately and fired at our hero; but in the hurry of the act had fortunately missed his mark. The Major, having no gun, had rushed in with his sword, and though incommoded by his wounded arm, which he still carried in a sling, had run his antagonist through, after an ineffectual attempt on the part of the refugee to avert the lunge. Disregarding every other consideration, our hero had sprung to Kate’s side immediately, which he attained just as the combat was finished, and the last of the outlaws took to flight.

The cold formalities of conventional life were forgotten, in that moment of joyous excitement, as if they had never existed. Even those considerations of superior fortune and presumed difference of political opinion, which had so tormented our hero before, were overlooked. Clasping Kate’s hand, he pressed it with a fervor, which brought the eloquent blood over her pallid countenance. On her part, the behavior of Kate was equally impulsive. It is fair to presume that she did not know what she was doing; for she returned the pressure almost convulsively. Giving one long, grateful look, in which her whole soul went forth, as her eyes met those of her lover, she essayed to speak. But though the sweet lips half parted, no words followed, for a faintness suddenly overcame her; and feeling everything swimming around, she involuntarily staggered towards the Major for support, who clasped her in his arms just as she was falling to the ground.

When next Kate opened her eyes, her head was lying against her lover’s shoulder, while Uncle Lawrence, kneeling beside her as tenderly as one of her own sex, was bathing her temples.

For an instant she did not recognize where she was. She even shuddered at first, with a vague notion that she was still in the power of the outlaws; but when she saw Major Gordon’s face, which was looking anxiously down on her, she closed her eyes with a smile. If, simultaneously, she nestled closer to that manly shoulder, it was only for an instant; for, while she was still half unconscious of what she did; for immediately after she opened her eyes again with a deep blush, and made an effort to rise.

But Uncle Lawrence prevented this. He gently pressed her back, while bathing her forehead, saying, soothingly,

“Hush, darling, and lie still a bit longer. You’ll be fainting right off again, if you get up awhile yet: and you mustn’t think you hurt the Major, for it’s the other arm that’s wounded.”

To his dying day, Major Gordon was accustomed to say that a sly look, almost imperceptible, accompanied these last words. But, if so, Kate saw nothing of this, having grown faint again, from the exertion she had made. Her head now swam around to such a degree, that she was compelled, at this crisis, to close her eyes, and even to repose once more on the Major’s shoulder.

Strange to say, the turn of Uncle Lawrence came next. When Kate was, at last, sufficiently restored to be able to sit up unsupported, she observed a slight stream of blood trickling down the hand of the good old man. With a faint scream she called Uncle Lawrence’s attention to it, who, stripping up his sleeve, found, to his surprise, that a ball had struck him just above the wrist; evidently one of those discharged in the melee, and which would have hit Kate, if he had not interposed his body, in the true spirit of ancient knighthood.

“It’s nothing, my child,” he said, as, indeed, Kate immediately perceived.

But even while he spoke he fainted dead away, for Uncle Lawrence, brave as he was, both morally and physically, had that strange peculiarity common to some of the most courageous men that ever lived, to swoon at sight of his own blood.

It was now Kate’s turn, and, weak as she was, she would allow no one else to bathe the old man’s brow and bind up his wound. Uncle Lawrence’s swoon soon passed away, however. When he opened his eyes, it was with a smile of gratefulness inexpressibly sweet.

“The Lord bless you, darling,” he said, tenderly, as his gaze lingered on Kate’s countenance. Then he added, looking around on the anxious faces, “Pretty doings, to get sick in this way, like a narvous, sterricky woman. You’d drum such a cowardly fellow out of the army, Major—wouldn’t you?”

“If we had a few thousand heroes like you,” answered Major Gordon, pressing his hand, while sudden tears dimmed his eyes, “we’d have had our country free long ago.”