CHAPTER X.

If you have ears that will be pierced, or eyes That can be open'd, a heart that may be touch'd, Or any part that yet sounds man about you; If you have touch of holy saints or heaven, Do me the grace to let me 'scape: If not, Be bountiful, and kill me. You do know, I am a creature hither ill betray'd By one whose shame I would forget it were. BEN JONSON--_Volpone, or the Fox_.

Catherine was now so far recovered as to be able to comprehend her situation in full; and although Hyland Gilbert rode at her side, thus assuring her of protection from all further rudeness, her terrors increased, and were mingled with the most insupportable anguish of spirit. It was in vain that he conjured her to be composed, and vainer yet when he sought to pacify her by expressions indicative of affection and tenderness.

"Take me to my father, Herman," she cried, clasping her hands, and even endeavouring to grasp his own. "Oh, take me but back, and I will forgive you--I will forgive all!"

"Be composed, Catherine, I entreat you"---- But her only answer was, "My father! my poor father!"

"You shall see him, Catherine. I take you not from him, but from Henry Falconer."

"I will never marry him," cried the unhappy girl: "take me but back and I will tell them all, and it shall go no further. Take me but back, and I will forget all,--I will forgive all. Take me but back, and let me die."

In this manner, her mind overcome by but one thought and one feeling, she murmured prayer after prayer, and adjuration after adjuration, until her entreaties became almost frenzied, and Hyland, alarmed and shocked, half repented the act which had brought her to such a pass. Her agitation was not diminished, when Oran, who rode at the other side, and had for a long time maintained a stern silence, and apparent disregard of what passed between them, at last uttered an interjection of impatience, and bade Hyland ride away, and leave her to him.

"The folly but grows upon her in your presence," he said: "it must be checked."

"Leave me not, Herman!" she cried, starting so wildly from the rude Oran, that, had he not arrested the effort, she would have leaped from the horse, in the effort to reach him whom she felt to be her truest protector: "leave me not, Herman, for the sake of the mother who bore you!--leave me not in the hands of any of these rude men!"

"Fear not," said Hyland, and he conjured Oran himself to depart. "Let the girl come to her," he added; "perhaps Phoebe's appearance may relieve her."

But even the presence of Phoebe, now quite content with captivity, (so successful had been the arguments of her wooer,) failed to banish her agitation; and at last, bewildered and in despair, incapable of devising any other means to give her comfort, Hyland checked his horse and hers, and assisted her to dismount.

"Do with me what you will, Catherine Loring," he said--"I am a fool, a wretch, perhaps a villain."

"Oh no, no!" said the maiden; "only take me back, and all will again be well--all will be forgotten."

"Nothing again will be well with me," said the young man, "and nothing, I fear me, with you. Catherine, there is but a moment to decide. In snatching you from the altar, I did the only thing in my power to secure happiness to both,--or at least, to secure us from the misery that was falling on us like a mountain. You hated Henry Falconer"----

"I did--No, no! not _hate_; it was not hate," murmured the Captain's daughter.

"You hated him, Catherine, and--why should I fear to speak it?--you loved another--you loved _me_, Catherine--By heaven, it is true! I felt it, and I knew it; else how could I have done this thing? It is true--and hide it not from yourself, since your own weal, as well as mine, depends upon your resolution this moment."

"Speak not to me so, oh, for heaven's sake do not," cried Catherine, weeping--"I never gave you cause. Take me only to my father."

"To wed with Henry Falconer, and pronounce a vow your heart forswears?"

"I will never marry him--never, never!" said Catherine, with vehemence: "I would have told him so, only that my father stood by, and I knew it would kill him."

"Catherine, hear me--I am neither traitor nor outlaw, and though associated with such for a moment, it is for your sake only.--I have wealth, Catherine,--substance enough and a fair name. Share these with me."--

"No, no! oh speak not so," said Catherine; "speak to me only of my father, and take me to him. He loved you well, Mr. Hunter, and you have not well repaid him."

"Choose, Catherine," said Hyland, gloomily; "if you will return to him, it shall be so:--I am not the ruffian to force you a step further against your will."

"Heaven for ever bless you!" cried the maiden. "Oh be quick, lest it be too late--Take me back, take me back!"

"Yes, take us back, take us back!" cried Phoebe, whose weak mind, yielding with facility to the contagion of Catherine's example, was now as full of terror as before.

"Think once more, Catherine," said the young Gilbert, with a faltering voice--"Of myself I speak not--I will not think what your return may cause me; but think of what wretchedness it must inevitably bring to you.--Catherine, there is sunshine for us in the island.--Say but the word--you will fly with me!"

"Never!--Oh my father! take me, Herman, to my father!"

"It is well," said the youth, sullenly; but motioning as if to assist her to the saddle, "you shall return to him."

"What fool's play is this? and why do you loiter?" cried Oran Gilbert, riding back to the group, who had been left by their sudden pause far behind: "To horse and to the river!"

"It cannot be," said Hyland: "we have erred,--we have done a great wrong, and must repair it. Brother, this maiden must be returned to her friends."

"Madman! what do you say? Have her silly, girlish whimsies so frightened you? Away with you to the front, and I will fetch her!"

"I have said it, Oran," rejoined Hyland, in a firm, though deeply dejected voice. "I have agreed to take her back, and I will do so. If you will allow me a guard, I will not delay the band a moment; and will answer for the lives of those entrusted to me."

"Fool and madman!" exclaimed the brother, in a fury, "must I force you to your senses? What ho, there, Hawks! two of you return; and Dancy Parkins, lift that girl to the saddle, and bear her off."

"Fear not," said Hyland to Catherine, who, with woman's inconsistency, threw herself into his arms, the moment she heard the dreaded order.--"You but frighten her, brother!--Make me not more wretched than I am, by forcing me to shed the blood of any of your people.--I will shoot any one who touches her."--

"Myself, boy?" cried his savage brother, leaping from his horse. Then pausing, for at his approach, Hyland lowered the weapon he had raised to make good his words, he said sternly,

"Choose for yourself.--Bear her along, and be rewarded by smiles in the morning; take her back and die, like a mad wolf, in the trap that has before maimed you. Mount horse, Dancy Parkins, and begone; and you, Hyland Gilbert, mount and follow, or stay where you are and perish.--Will you on?" he added, with inexpressible fierceness.

"When I have put this lady in safety, but not before," replied Hyland.

"Die then for a fool, or help yourself as you may," said the elder brother; and mounting his horse, he instantly galloped out of sight.

None now remained with Hyland save the two maidens; for even Dancy, awed by the voice of the refugee, had deserted the once-willing Phoebe. He turned his eyes towards the retreating figures, as if doubting whether they could wholly desert him; but he heard the tramp of the steeds ring farther and fainter each moment, and it was plain that the incensed Oran had abandoned him to his fate. He assisted Catherine to mount, and Phoebe likewise; then taking Catherine's bridle in his hand, he turned the horse's head, and began to retrace his steps without uttering a word. A moody silence possessed him, and even Catherine's voice, now sobbing out her broken gratitude, failed to draw from him more than a few sullen monosyllables.

"It shall be as you will," he said; "but let us speak no more.--What matters it now to utter vain words?"

The dejection, nay the despair, of spirit conveyed by every tone, smote Catherine to the heart; and had he possessed the art, or the will, to take advantage of the feeling which his evident desolation produced in her bosom, he might yet have won her to his purpose, and borne her afar from parent and friend. But he had neither; he heard her trembling attempts at kindly utterance, (for it was now her part to play the soother,) with apparent indifference; and even when she turned her weeping face towards him, and, in the impulse of real affection, laid her hand upon his, he drew away as with scorn or anger.

Their flight had carried them almost to the base of the mountain; and, obscure as was the night, it was plainly distinguishable at that spot where the convulsions of chaotic ages have riven it from the summit to the base, thus hollowing a pathway for a broad river under the shade of its majestic crags. As they turned from it, a pale light glistened among the pines and oaks of the eastern hill, but so faint and dim that one could scarce pronounce it the peep of day-spring. Such, however, it was; fast as had been the flight, it had been over a road where absolute rapidity is, even at this day, rather to be desired than expected; and, had she continued with the wild band, Catherine would have seen the sun steal into the sky, ere they had buried her in the savage recesses where they found their own cities of refuge.

As the day dawned, however, and long before the sun was yet seen, wreaths of mist began to curl along the mountain top, and even to creep over the river; and before they had ridden much more than a mile, it was seen rolling along these lesser uplands that give such beauty to the whole district, and settling upon the moist woodlands.

This was a circumstance which one in Hyland's situation might have deemed providential, if desirous of avoiding observation. But it is questionable whether, while brooding over his melancholy thoughts, he gave much reflection to the peril that might attend his return to the haunts of men. Peril should, at least, have been anticipated; for whatever had been the check given by the band of outlaws to the first pursuers, it was not a moment to be doubted, from the audacity of the pursuit, as well as the greatness of the outrage, that the chase would be resumed the moment the pursuers could add to their numbers. But dejected as was his spirit, he was not yet reduced to such a state of stupor as to be wholly unmindful of his safety; and of this he gave proof by suddenly halting upon a naked hill, strown over with rocks, and wholly desolate, though breathing into the mist a world of rich odour. It was, in fact, covered with a growth of sweet-fern,--a shrub around which the early thoughts of affection had shed an interest not to be attached even to the rose or violet, though henceforth that interest was to be of a melancholy and painful character. It was the hill on whose summit he had, scarce an hour before, preserved her from the grasp of a villain; though this she knew not, for the mists concealed objects from the eye, and it was not yet sunrise.

As he paused, he bent forward to listen, and drew a pistol from his saddle-bow, but instantly returned it, muttering, "It is no matter--if they take me, let it be without bloodshed."

"Herman,--Mr. Hunter, what is it?" cried Catherine. "You will not pause now?"

"Now I must, or never," he said. "You are safe,--your friends are at the bottom of the hill; and unless you would have them murder me in your sight, I must begone. Farewell, Catherine Loring: if you can be happy, God grant that you may be so. I have done you a great wrong; but I bear that in my bosom which will avenge you. Farewell, Catherine,--farewell, and for ever."

"Herman, Herman!" murmured the maiden, turning upon him a countenance of death, and gasping for utterance.

"Farewell, Catherine," he said, wringing her hand; "they are upon us. God bless you--farewell."

He rode away--it was but a step: the trample of a body of horse was now plainly heard--he looked back upon her--his countenance was bathed in tears. She stretched forth her arms, and murmuring, in a broken voice, "I will go with you--take me, Herman, take me!"--was in a moment locked in his own embrace. He snatched her from the saddle, and, as she clung to his neck, dashed the spurs into his good roan steed. Had the words been pronounced a moment earlier, nay, but an instant, he might have made his escape, and borne her off in safety. But the decision was as late as it proved to be fatal. Phoebe had already heard the trampling of the approaching horsemen, and Hyland had called them friends. She could scarce repress a cry of delight; but when, catching Catherine's last words, she looked round and beheld her, as she thought, in the act of being again snatched away, she raised her voice in a scream that was heard by the most distant of the approaching party, and was echoed by a shout coming from fifty voices.

Again Hyland struck the spurs into his horse, and the fire sparkled from his hoofs as he dashed down the hill; but fire flashed immediately after from the hoofs of twenty others, fresher and perhaps fleeter.

"Shoot not, or you will kill the lady!" roared a voice in his ear.

"Surrender, dog, or die!" shouted another, who was indeed no other than Henry Falconer; and almost in the same instant, as three or four closed upon the unfortunate fugitive, a strong arm snatched the fainting Catherine from his grasp, and a pistol, held by Falconer, was thrust into his face.

The young Gilbert was weak with wounds and sickness, and worn out with toil, watching, and grief; his native spirit was thus in a manner crushed and prostrated; and he would perhaps have yielded himself passively up, if not too bitterly goaded by the taunts and violence of his captors. Such was the opinion of two of them, who, supposing he had already yielded, withdrew their hands, that they might give assistance to the fainting Catherine, whom captain Caliver had so fortunately redeemed from the midst of the fray. But Gilbert had not yet rendered himself. The sight of his rival, exulting in his capture, and menacing him with voice and weapon, inflamed his dying passions. He turned with sudden fierceness, checked and spurred his steed at the same time, and thus caused him to vault into the air with a violence which would have speedily released him from Falconer's grasp, had not his purpose been rather to attack than fly. As he executed this feat, he presented his own pistol, and drew the trigger. The explosion of two pistols at once was followed by the rush of a dozen men to separate the combatants; and the next moment both were seen rolling upon the ground, Falconer lying clear of the melée, and Hyland in the hands of the vengeful Sterling, whose horse, White Surrey, had overthrown the youth, together with his roan steed.

"'Sessa! let the world slide!'" cried the renegade, with a voice of thunder, but a countenance ashy pale. "Here's work for the hangman--I have him fast enough._ Victoria!_"----

But at this moment, a sudden alarm was sounded, and all who could starting up, they heard a wild yell sound from the base of the hill to the north, and the words, pronounced by a voice strong and clear as a trumpet, "Royal Refugees! charge! and bear them to the ground!"

"Huzza!" shouted the captain of cavalry, "here's the rat running at the lion! Now open your mouths and swallow 'em! By the eternal Jupiter, we are five to their one; and more fools they for not knowing it. Sweep them from the earth! charge them! on!"

The refugee had relented; the sound of the pistols had quickened his steps; but he dreamed not of the force now arrayed betwixt him and his abandoned brother. A sheet of fire from twenty pistols blazed through the mist, as twice as many enemies rushed against his little band. They broke at the first fire, and the sounds of pursuit, both hot and fierce, were soon lost in the distance.--It was not until many hours had elapsed that the result of the contest, although it could be easily imagined, was fully known. Two of the refugees had been killed, and one was taken prisoner; while the others, abandoning their horses, which were worn out, and hence easily captured, succeeded in making their escape to the woods.

In the meanwhile, those who remained upon the hill busied themselves in securing the unfortunate Hyland, who was unhurt save by the fall of his horse, aiding the maidens, and raising young Falconer from the earth. This unlucky youth muttered a few words as they lifted him, but, to their horror, almost instantly expired. A pistol bullet had penetrated his throat, dividing the great jugular, and even shattering the spine. His battles were fought, and his dream of folly over.

In the recovery of Catherine and the serving-maid, the company of pursuers had effected the chief object of the expedition; but it was still felt to be a matter of great importance to destroy the relics of the refugee band which had haunted the county so long. The greater number of the pursuers, accordingly, devoted themselves to this object, while enough remained on the hill to take charge of the rescued females, the prisoners, and the dead.

The life of Hyland Gilbert, whom his captors, exasperated by the murder, as they called it, of Falconer, were at one time on the point of tearing to pieces, was saved through the firmness of lieutenant Brooks; but he was treated with much indignity, and even cruelty, being straightway bound both hand and foot to his horse, and thus carried away like the meanest and most desperate of felons. A pair of rude litters were hastily constructed, in one of which was carried the Captain's daughter, while the other supported the clayey corpse of the bridegroom.

These things effected, and the honest Mr. Sterling assuming the station assigned him in the centre of the party, where, although enjoying all appearance of liberty, he was yet esteemed a kind of honourable--or, as the phrase should be, dishonourable--prisoner, the melancholy cavalcade pursued its way back to Hawk-Hollow, within a few miles of which, its leaders stumbled upon Captain Loring and a party of footmen, over whom he had assumed the command. It consisted of no less, indeed, than that identical company of volunteers who had won such immortal distinction on the fourth of July, by their valiant attack, with empty muskets, upon the flying Oran. The reappearance of their enemy was enough to recall them to the field of battle, though they came somewhat of the latest; and uniting themselves with a party of countrymen and domestics whom Captain Loring had previously assembled, and whom he was now gallantly leading to the field of honour, they yielded to his energy the obedience he seemed to consider a matter of right, and thus constituted him commander-in-chief, without much regard to the claims of their own elected officers.

The morning was still misty, so that lieutenant Brooks and his party stumbled upon this formidable detachment without seeing it, or suspecting its existence; and had it not been for the sharpness of his ears in detecting the tones of Captain Loring's voice upon a hill he was just ascending, it is highly probable the magnanimous volunteers would have wiped out the disgrace of their flight before a single enemy, by pouring a warm and well-directed fire into a superior body of friends.

He paused a little,--for he rode at some distance in front of his party,--and distinctly heard Captain Loring's voice giving the following orders to his volunteers:--

"Hark!" said the veteran; "adzooks, you may hear their horse now as plain as the cocking of a sentinel's musket at midnight. Halt, ye vagabonds, and prepare for action. When I say _prepare_, I mean, adzooks, be ready to swinge 'em. You, Dan Potts, John Small, and Peter Dobbs, detach yourselves to the right, six rods from the road, and lay by to flank 'em: Dick Sturgem, Sam King, and Absalom Short, wheel to the left, and do the same thing--and mind you, you scoundrels, don't any of you be frightened; for, adzooks, I despise a coward above all created things. And harkee, you scoundrels, no gabbling; hold your tongues like soldiers, and talk with your muskets: that's what old general Spitfire used to tell us--'Sons,' said he, 'a soldier should always keep his tongue in his musket.' So be off, and stand fast, flanks; and bang away as soon as you see any thing to bang at. Centre, attend: as soon as you hear the flanks at it, you are to crack away, and give no quarter--no quarter, you scoundrels, do you hear!"

At any other moment, the young lieutenant would have been amused at the enthusiasm and tactics of the veteran of the Indian wars; but this was not a moment for jest. He rode forward, hailing the Captain by name; and the old soldier soon forgot his rage and his followers together, to weep in the arms of his recovered child.