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~ THE MAID OF ESOPUS;

OR, THE

TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS OF
THE REVOLUTION.

Aew-York ant London:
BEADLE AND COMPANY, 141 WILLIAM ST. N. Y.

_ RB, Coburn, New Orleans.

i Entered according to Act-of Congress, in ‘he Year 1861,
by BEADLE AND Company, in the Clerk’s Office of the Disri: Court of the United Statcs,
for the Southern District of NewYork.

 

the Most Popular Authors

 

|

 

 
The Romance and Perils of the Trail!

 

Beadle’s Dime Novels, No. 22,

TO ISSUR WEDNESDAY, MAY 15th,

WILL COMPRISE

THE TRAIL HUNTERS:

OR,
MONOWANO, THE SHAWNEE SPY.

BY EDWARD 8. ELLIS,
Author of “SETH JONES,” “BILL BIDDON,” “THE FRONTIER ANGEL,” &c,

A story of the “Dark and Bloody Ground,” (Kentucky) which
will command even more attention than the author’s previous works
—all of which have had enormous circulation both in this country
and in England. The Trail Hunters are those inimitable men, Dick
Dingle and Peter Jenkins, who figured so conspicuously in the
“Frontier Angel” romance. They are here revived, and play most
singular parts in a most singular and stirring drama. The Shawnee
Spy is a remarkable character, and his love for the beautiful ward of
Major Mordaunt forms one of the most peculiar episodes in the
history of the “ divine passion.” This novel will be found strong in
all the author’s usual excellence, while its story of mystery and love
add to it an unusual charm.

‘All who have become interested in the “Frontier Angel” will
find in the “ Trail Hunters” a fitting climax to that fine story.

(@§" For Sale by all News Dealers.

BEADLE AND COMPANY, Publishers,
141. William Street, New York

 
 
“aN NI XNAOS

 
 

Ta TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS

THE REVOLUTION,

BY N. OfTRON

~ BEADLE AND COMPANY,
NEW YORK: 141 WILLIAM STREET,
LONDON: 44 PATERNOSTER ROW.

 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1861, by
BEADLE AND COMPANY,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the

‘Southern District of New York.

 
THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

 

CHAP Rada
THE REVELATION.

On a beautiful afternoon at the latter end of August, in
the year 1777, a party of three officers sat at a table on which
was placed seyeral decanters of various wines, dried, garden
and hot-house fruits, and other delicacies of an English des-
sert. The apartment which they occupied was spacious,
elegant, and richly furnished, and was the dining-room of one
of the principal residences of New York at that period, and
was situated at the corner of Broadway and the Battery.
The officers were in full uniform, two of the army and one
of the navy. The dinner had been served, eaten, and re-
moved; but silence and thoughtfulness characterized the
meal, and no other remarks were made but such as referred
to the quality of the viands, although it was evidently the
least significant subject of their meditative brows. The host,
who occupied the head of the table, was short in stature,
corpulent in figure, with a full face, prominent nose, and ani-
mated and intelligent cotintenance; but there could be per-
ceived an indecision in the eye, which was not likely to add
to the reputation of a military commander. This was Sir
Henry Clinton, the commander of the forces in New York,
and his guests were Commodore Hotham and Major Camp-
bell. ‘ The servants had retired, the wine had twice passed
round, and Sir Henry had regarded the doors with a scrutiny
that denoted a suspicion of traitorous ears eyen in his own
household, when, inclining forward toward his companions,
he said in a suppressed voice :

 
 

 

 

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

“We may almost conceive ourselves to be in council,
although I trust the wine will not disparage our judgments.”
Then again casting his eyes toward the doors, as if all his fears
of treachery were there, he added, in a still lower tone: “I
have heard from Burgoyne.”

“Tndeed!” exclaimed the listeners simultaneously, project-
ing their ears yet nearer to the speaker.

“Yes,” said Sir Henry ; “he has quitted the waters of Lake
Champlain, taken that rugged height, Ticonderoga, and is now
leading the Canadian army through the inhospitable wilder-
ness between the lake and the Hudson.”

“ A terrific road for artillery,” remarked Campbell.

“But by no means impracticable. It is his only enemy,’
said Commodore Hotham.

“You are in error, Hotham,” whispered Sir Henry; “he
has two others: a scanty commissariat, and that indomitable
Schuyler, who, with his ‘Army of the North,’ as his men are
called, is harassing Burgoyne most fearfully.”

“But General Burgoyne expresses no apprehension, I
hope?” said Major Campbell.

“Oh no,” exclaimed Sir Henry, “he fearlessly marches on;
but he is so badly provisioned, and so sedulously attended by
that incorrigible rebel, Schuyler, that he invokes me to insti-

tute a diversion by advancing up the Hudson and meeting him

at Albany.”

“ Admirable !” exclaimed Campbell; “for then the whole
country between the Hudson and the St. Lawrence will be
gained.”

“Ts it your intention to follow the suggestion ?” asked the
commodore.

“T regret,” said Sir Henry Clinton, avoiding any direct
reply to. the commodore, “that Howe was so infatuated with
that-expedition to Philadelphia. Burgoyne’s campaign would
produce the richer conquest.”

“But, in the absence of General Howe, Sir Henry ?”
persevered the commodore.

“Well, I am inclined to assist Burgoyne,” replied Sir
Henry; “ but I can not hazard my position here.”

“T think you need fear nothing so disastrous, Sir Henry,”
said the major; “besides, it will relieve the ennui of the

 

  

“As

 

  
 

 

   

  

THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER.

garrison, exercise them in slaughter, and supply them with
lively and thrilling anecdotes for the coming winter.”

“But, Sir Henry,” interposed the persistent commodore,
“are you determined to respond to this invocation of General
Burgoyne? My men are on fire for a little active service ; the
impediments of the Hudson are by no means impassable to
bold spirits, although thought to be so.”

“J will certainly make an effort to assist him,” said Sir
Henry.

“T am rejoiced to hear it,’ exclaimed the commodore.

“Tt must succeed,” said the smiling major.

“ But,” continued Sir Henry, using a conjunction too
common to his indecisive mind, “I must hear from Burgoyne
again.”

“T know you desire me to speak freely, Sir. Henry,” said
the commodore, “and I will use the privilege. I would
advocate a greater rapidity of action; to go up the Hudson
at once, destroy the defenses of the enemy, and march on
to Albany. The daring as well as the achievements would
strike a terror into the enemy’s ranks.”

“Tadd my prayer to that of Commodore Hotham,” said
Major Campbell. “Let us, by our gallant feats, destroy the
prestige of this river. The enemy revere it as their very
Styx, and think that none can pass it but to the regions of
the dead. Let us break this fallacious charm. We have
this giant’s mouth; let us run up his lengthy carcass, and
secure his body.”

“My good friends,” said Sir Henry, “ you are introducing
the impetuosity of the field into the council-chamber. In
reply, however, to Campbell’s wit, I will remark that, should
we reach Albany too soon and attempt to hold it till Bur-
goyne’s arrival, the indefatigable Schuyler might kindly
retire from annoying that general, and with his usual mili-
tary skill and stealthiness, reach our position here, conquer
our diminished garrison, and obtain possession of the mouth
of the giant Campbell speaks of, while we sat weeping
on its tail, So mysteriously do our enemies obtain infor-
mation, and so. warily do they use it, that I am becoming
suspicious even of the birds of the air, ‘although I think
on the present occasion our words have been spoken in a

 
   

  

8 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

tone too inaudible to be heard either by the feathered tribe
on the window-sills, or the more curious attendants at the
key-holes.”

Sir Henry uttered the last words in a louder yoice. As
they were pronounced, a slight noise, proceeding from. the
- orifices of the door referred to, reached the ears of the
party, as if a degree of agitation had been produced in
that region in consequence of the ungracious allusion. “The
eyes of the trio met each other significantly, and a smile
of satisfaction passed over their countenances ag they
thought the reporters note-book still remained a carte-
blanche.

The official conversation was not, however, resumed; the
decanters passed, and, for a time, more cheerful topics occu-
pied the minds of host and guests; still, their thoughts
would wander to the position of their brother-in-arms.
Neither the commodore nor the major felt at liberty to
renew the subject; but they felt acutely for the situation
of General Burgoyne, who, with not more than thirty days’
provisions, and with an active enemy clearing the country

even of the forage, had plunged into the forest in search’

of conquest, and, with nearly ten thousand men, and horses
and artillery, was there struggling, and was there left. With-
out some such relief as he had solicited of Sir Henry Clin-
ton, could his efforts, they thought, end but in disaster ;
and they separated for the night with less hilarity than
was their wont on such occasions.

In the morning, however, the gallant Sir Henry assumed
his usual buoyancy. He took his ordinary ride, surrounded
by his aids, up Broadway (which then extended no further
than the New York Hospital, at that period an orchard)
into the country, and returned to the ‘ parade-ground, a
large space opposite Trinity church, denominated “ the
Mall,” where his motley legions underwent their daily drill.
The scene here was picturesque as well as formidable. The
army was composed of English, Irish, Scotch and Hes-
sians. The former wore their scarlet coats, the Scotch wore
the plaid and kilt, but the Hessians were the most fero-
cious in appearance. Their caps were high, with brass
fronts, dazzling the eyes of every beholder on a sunny

 

 

 

>

 

 
 

THE LIEUTENANT. 9

day; their coats were blue; their vests and breeches yellow ;
their hair, well greased and floured, (the fat mostly of the
kitchen,) depended to their waist in tail-like form; their
moustaches and whiskers, in’ all the lengthiness of bounteous
nature, were blackened, by officers, rank and file, with the same
substance used upon their boots; for those were days when
those polished artisans, Messrs. Day & Martin, as well as
the various connoisseurs in “unfailing hair dyes,’ were
unknown to the sciences or to humanity. So, in the absence
of these modern lights, with one brush and with one liquid,
those serfs of the Prince of Hesse, the hirelings of England at
fifteen pounds a man, darkened their beards and boots.

Sir Henry surveyed, for a time, the military evolutions,
seemed gratified at the efficiency of his men, and then retired
to his residence upon the Battery.

CFA? TER oid.
THE TROUBADOUR.

Marcus GooDHEART was a lieutenant in an English regi-
ment quartered in New York. He was esteemed by his
brother officers, and the diligence and capacity which he had
displayed in his profession commanded the approval of those
higher in rank. He was young, but. had extricated himself
from some very difficult positions in a manner and with a
judgment worthy of riper years. His personal appearance
was extremely prepossessing, and the gentleness of his conduct
was not less so.

On the same evening that the distinguished representatives
of the army and nayy sipped their wine and discussed the
peril of Burgoyne in the distant forests, it was the duty of
Lieut. Goodheart to visit the outposts. The night was cloud-
less, and the stars shone in the firmament in great brilliancy ;
and, as he marched from one post to the other at the
extremity of fis round, his meditative hurhor was aroused by
the soft sounds of a guitar. He halted, and was astonished

e

 
   

10 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

to hear such soft music at this stern hour of night, attended
as it was with no ordinary danger to the performer. He
listened for a time in delight, so delicately were the sweet
strings touched, and then, compelled by his sense of duty to
break the charm, he challenged the sounds by the harsh
demand :

“ Who is there ?”

There was no response but the sounds. They had changed,
however, from the lively to a melancholy air, which seemed
to pour a volume of sorrow into the silence of the night.
With a soldier’s proneness to suspicion, Marcus had first
thought that there was perfidy in the silvery echoes; but as
his heart warmed to the notes so gently trilled, he cast his
doubtful feelings from his mind, and, with a step so stealthy
as not to disturb the plaintive melody, he approached the
spot without even placing his hand upon his sword. At a
short distance from the line of sentinels ran a narrow stream,
and upon its bank, and beneath the shelter of a linden-tree,
with the water in rival mockery gurgling at his feet, sat a
youth of about fifteen, apparently enraptured with the lan-
guage of his own production. He was thus undisturbed at
the approach of the lieutenant, who gazed upon him with
surprise and admiration. He was dressed in a tunic of brown
Holland, reaching to the knee, which was trimmed with blue
cord. The trowsers were of the same texture as the tunic,
but from them peered a foot of exquisite mould. Upon his
head was a green-yelyet cap, and Marcus thought the face
the impersonation of youth, beauty and intelligence; nor
were the hands, which so nimbly and so artistically touched
the strings of the guitar, less exquisite in whiteness nor in
mould. Marcus, as he leaned against the tree by which this

youthful Apollo sat, sighed that such perfection should be

centered in a boy.

But the sigh was heard, the illusion was destroyed, the
music ceased, the agile boy leaped up, and he and the dread
officer of the watch stood face to face. As the affrighted boy
stood gazing upon his military foe, his fingers intuitively
struck a bar, as if in petition, upon the guitar. Marcus
awakened from his dream and said :

: < my little fellow, who are you? What are you doing
er?

   

 

 
 

 

Stl sees

a

=

A PRISONER. 11

“T am a musician, sir,’ replied the boy, in a voice so
deep and rich that Marcus for a moment thought it all
enchantment.

“But are you aware,” asked Marcus, “that you are so
near a military post ?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the boy.

“ Are you not an American ?” again inquired Marcus.

“Yes, sir,” again the boy replied.

“ And are you ignorant of the penalty entailed upon the
stranger who thus trespasses upon our lines 2” asked Marcus.

“T come but as a simple troubadour,” said the boy, “to a
people whom I have heard are fond of poetry and song, to
warble my own compositions in their ears.”

“ Why come by night, and thus suspiciously,” said Marcus,
“and subject yourself to a doom I will not name ?”

A shudder passed through the frame of the delicate boy as

these words reached his ear, and he said, with some timidity: _

“T understand ; but will the English doom to the cord poor
boys as well as men?”

“If boys attempt the crimes of men, and those men be
spies, I question if our commander would mitigate the punish-
ment on no other plea than age,” said Marcus.

“But I am no spy!” exclaimed the boy, with energy. “I
am come at night that I might not excite the jealousy of
those of my own nation, and by that act I seem to have
aroused yours.”

“Tam personally impressed in your favor,” said Marcus;
“but I dare not neglect my duty.”

“ And may I ask what that is?” said the boy.

“To announce that you are my prisoner,” responded
Marcus. :

“Your prisoner!” exclaimed the boy, dropping his guitar
-upon the ground and clasping his hands, for at the moment,
prisoner, spy and death seemed synonymous terms. “ You
will not surely drag me to prison for no other offense than
playing my guitar too near the ears of your grim sentinels ?”

“Perhaps I have needlessly alarmed you,” said Marcus.
“You shall not quit my custody, and in the morning I will

report you so favorably that I have little doubt of obtaining.

permission for you to commence your entertainments on the
morrow, if you desire it.”

anise

 
  

12 THE MAID OF ESOPUS. |
“TJ believe you, and will accompany you,” said the boy.
He raised his guitar from the ground, and the lieutenant,

adopting a courtesy he could not repress, put a short cloak

upon his shoulders, upon which he had been sitting. This

act of attention excited a smile in the boy, which was not

perceptible by starlight, and they commenced their progress. ¢

Marcus looked minutely at his companion as they walked

along. His face was really beautiful, and his light, airy

and graceful figure seemed unsuited to the rather rough |

occupation which he followed. He seemed gentle and inno- ; |

cent, and unconscious of the dangerous error he had com-
mitted in thus approaching, in the concealment of night, an
enemy’s encampment. As they passed on, the boy sometimes
struck a bar or two upon the guitar, but it seemed more a ©
note of reassurance than for any other purpose—as if there
were an inspiration in the instrument which the encouraging {
language of Marcus failed to implant. As they approached
the guard-house, Marcus intimated that their long walk would
soon be ended. :

“Sir,” said the boy, in his musical accents, “do you
really think that I have committed a fault that deserves
punishment ?” |

“TJ think not, because I believe you to have no guilty |
motive,” said Marcus ; ‘“ but Sir Henry may put a mischievous |
construction upon your visit.”

The poor boy seemed timid, and again resorted to the
guitar for courage. After a few bars, which made as much
impression on Marcus as on himself, he continued :

“ Will you befriend me, sir? You first heard and saw me. 2,
If my object had been insidious, I should have remained in 4
silence. But I love the Muses, and I am desirous of dwelling
for a time among those who appreciate them so highly.”

“ But surely you are not homeless ?” said Marcus. : i

“Oh, no,” said the boy; ‘I have a home.”

“ ‘Where ?” asked Marcus.

* Not far from here—upon the Highlands of the Hudson,”
said the boy.”

What caused you to quit your home ?” said Marcus. j

"A roving spirit—an erratic impulse,’ replied the boy.
“ Why should I remain? I am adjudged too youngy 00 "yy,

ma

ee

 
    
  
 
 
    
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
     
 

 

THE GUARD-HOUSE. 18

weak, too delicate to fight. The men of our village are gone
forth to battle for the sweets of liberty, and could I remain to
be reproached by the significant glances of the fair maidens
whom they have left behind them ?”

“Am I to infer that your village is opposed to the king’s
forces ?” said Marcus.

“Oh, yes,” replied the boy, “they favor their own
sovereignty.”

“Then you are a young rebel,” suggested Marcus.

“Nay, that is a harsh term, sir,” replied the boy; “ but I
will not forswear my country, though there be danger in the
ayowal. We want to govern ourselves, and to dispense with
your authority in England. All boys, when they, come to
manhood, seek to direct their own affairs, and are generally
competent to the task. So a colony, when it finds the parent
State querulous and avaricious, and grasping at all the profits
of the copartnership, is apt to be discontent and inclined to
dissolve the union.”

“Where got you that rhetoric, boy ?’ demanded Marcus. -

“Tt is the teaching of our village, sir,” replied the boy ;
“and upon this principle.our chief male population have
marched to the battle-field.”

“Then utter it to no other than myself,” said Marcus.
“Your youth and your harmless and pleasing occupation may
allow you to pass with impunity; but if the Governor were
to imagine you capable of disseminating such dangerous doc-
trines as you have just expressed, he would at least detain
you as a prisoner; and if you just take a glance at the
various warriors of that class confined in the Old Dutch
Church, you will be most carefnl to avoid such association.”

“ Do you, then, treat your prisoners so badly ?” asked the
boy, with considerable trepidation.

But the lieutenant did not regard the question. He had
reached the guard-house, and proceeded to report the occur-
rence of the night in ‘a manner so favorable to the delinquent,
that the appearance of the boy was passed over, and, at the
solicitation of Marcus, he was permitted to remain in garrison
for the amusement of those who had a passion for music.
The boy had excited so deep an interest in Marcus that he
assumed his guardianship. He felt assured that, from his

 

 
 

 

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

language and general deportment, he belonged to the higher

classes of society; and, ‘although he would not attempt to ’

penetrate the mystery which seemed to surround him, he
determined to protect him from the ribald characters of their
motley camp. Marcus, therefore, invited him to occupy a
bed at his own quarters. The boy blushed deeply, seemed
much confused, and declined the kindness, while his eyes
were intent upon the floor.

“Then come with me, my good little friend,” said Marcus,
“and I will seek apartments for you in a quiet house, so that
you may be protected from the rough fellows of the garrison.”

Marcus soon succeeded in procuring his admission to a
respectable house, and the “handsome guitar-boy ” was soon
the most popular character in every circle.

At this period there was a theater in John street, where
amateur theatricals, composed wholly of the officers, gave
frequent representations. Marcus was one of the leading
members of this society, and he soon introduced upon the
stage his favorite guitar-boy, who astonished and bewildered
the ladies by his beauty, elegance and grace, and by his
musical attainments. So elated was Marcus with his protegé
that he wrote a piece called “ The Troubadour,” which, among
other interesting incidents, represented the manner in which
the young minstrel was first introduced into the city, and
the scene beneath the linden-tree. But the plaudits which he
received on these occasions neither engendered vanity nor
lessened his simplicity of character.

The theater, however, was by no means his favorite resort.
He appeared there wholly in deference to Marcus, to whom
he considered he was bound in gratitude. The Old Dutch
Church, which the English had converted into a prison, was
his chief rendezvous. There, day after day, regardless of the
crowd that frequently surrounded him, he would chant, with
exquisite sweetness, his exhaustless songs, and moved the
souls of the miserable inmates till they crawled to their barred
windows to wave their skeleton hands in gratitude. One
poor young prisoner seemed especially delighted with his
songs, and would often call him and stand communing for a
time with smiles of joy that looked like those of ghastliness
upon his pallid and specter face, the contour of which was

  

  
A FAREWELL S0NG. 15

prominently handsome. Marcus never failed to attend those
rapturous concerts; indeed, there was something so enchant-
ing about this fascinating boy that always attracted Marcus
within his orbit. He one day endeavored to entice him from
these public displays, but his attempts were fruitless.

“TJ want to cheer the hearts of these poor prisoners whom
you treat so cruelly,” he ever replied. “ All I can contribute is
my music and my voice, and when they smile through their
sorrows and approve my efforts, my very soul seems half
etherealized.”

Thus passed a month, and the happy fugitive seemed to
have no thought of the home from which he had strayed.
He never spoke regretfully of lost comforts; nor of anxious
friends, although Marcus was certain that he must have pos-
sessed both—when one night Marcus was awakened from his
sleep by a voice he thought the equal of his favorite boy’s.
It was unaccompanied, and sung a farewell song with such
affecting pathos, that he shuddered as he felt what real agony
unreal things produced. The voice ceased, and after lying
some time, rising from his couch, looking from the window,
and finding all in tranquillity, he attributed all to his imagina-
tion. Still he was uneasy. He never heard his little friend
throw so much feeling into song as he had done that night.
He had early duties in the morning, and rose to perform them,
and after these obligations were discharged, the impressions
of the night still perplexing him, he proceeded to the dwelling
of the troubadour. He was absent, but a letter had been left
for Marcus. The troubadour had been absent all the night.
The lieutenant opened the letter, exhibited great emotion,
abruptly quitted the apartment in which he stood, and gained
the air, so necessary to abate the agitation of his mind. The
letter was from the troubadour. He had left his apartments
and the camp. It was he who sung so pathetically that fare-
well to Marcus. And moreover the letter revealed that the
troubadour was a lady, who, thus disguised, had ventured so
much to release from bondage her dear brother, who was a
prisoner in the Old Dutch Church, but who had that night
escaped with her; and she added that her last words in the
garrison should be those of gratitude, and breathed in the
ear of her only English friend.

The lieutenant hastened to the privacy of his home, with

‘

 
 

16 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

the folded letter placed upon his heart. He saw now the
cause of his infatuation. He saw that his instinct, which had
suggested love, and made him the daily follower of this fair
nymph, had been truer than his reason, which had chid his
passion because of the boyish guise of the incomparable
charmer. He reproached himself with unutterable blindness
not to perceive that- such beauty as was exemplified in the
troubadour was never inherited by other than the female sex.
He was overwhelmed with despondency. Those brilliant and
expressive eyes, now so far from his sight,-still pierced his
heart; the dulcet sounds of the guitar reverberated in his ear,
and the music of that voice to which he had paid homage
from morn till night yet electrified his soul, and caused him
for the moment to smile through the bitterness of his sorrows.
Then despondency, with relentless ire, would rush into his
heart, displace those gracious thoughts, and tear his breasi
with agony. From these abject feelings he would recur to
the entrancement of the last farewell warbled with seraphic
richness beneath his pillow on the night of the departure, and
with poetic ardor he would limn in his eye the lovely girl
offering this tribute of her grateful recollection with hands
clasped to heaven and a tear upon her damask cheek. Then,
at issue with every barrier to his love, he would condemn the
catastrophe of war, and lament those hostilities which pre-
vented him from following this enchantress through the forest,
and casting all his fortunes at her feet. He began to doubt
the justice of the cause for which he fought; his heart
demanded peace though his lips dared not to pronounce such
treason in the royal camp. He thought, too, that colonists
had rights and wrongs, and that it was possible for monarchy
to err—a principle at that rather cloudy period considered
derogatory to the English army.

Marcus withdrew his thoughts from these political visions,
as he remembered that he had not fully studied the letter
which now rested on his heart. He thrust his hand into his
bosom, pulled forth the folded amulet, and soon began to
devour those contents which he had so imperfectly read. The
residence of the fair visitor was there described, and the signa-
ture of “Isabelle” was affixed to the inspiring note. He now
learned that Esopus was the village whence she came and

=

aa
»

7”

THE SECRET APARTMENT. 17

”

whither she was returning with her gallant brother. Marcus

_yead the letter many, many times, pressed it to his lips,

reclined upon his chair, and then his heart flew to that village
in the Highlands of the Hudson, and, although it alighted in
an enemy’s country, it remained there in ideal happiness for
many hours.

Marcus, however, was disturbed from the witcheries of
these thoughts by the entrance of his orderly, who reported to
him, the officer of the day, that a prisoner had escaped, and
he, in seeming innocence, attended an inquiry, and was soon
informed that the captive who had fled was he who had
exhibited such gratitude to the minstrel; and when. it became

                                                               

occasioned much consternation and regret—it was suspected
that he had visited New York from other inducements than

merely his love of song.

But while the deyoted Marcus pined in secret, events
occurred which instilled hope into his withering heart, roused
him from his apathy, and made him think that war might yet
be a harbinger of peace to his troubled mind.

CHAPTER III.
THE SPY.

Sir Henry Ciryxron lived in regal splendor. He retained
four residences at various parts of the city to increase his
grandeur, and to approach nearer to vice-royalty. In each
house he maintained a becoming establishment, and occupied
them as might suit his caprice. At one of these he ever
received his secret agents; and those deep in his confidence,
and whom he wished to remain unknown to prying servants,
had the entrée to a certain diplomatic closet of the edifice,
to whom the mystery of access was unfolded.

A month had elapsed since the dinner at the corner of the
Battery and Broadway, and despite the frequent but respectful
recurrence of the commodore and the major to the subject

       
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

  
   

18 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

then so anxiously discussed, no active measures had been
taken to relieve the struggling Burgoyne, when one day as the
courtly governor, surrounded by his ample staff, was review-
ing with much interest the tactics of the military as they
paraded on the Mall, his attention was attracted to a man
who had been long endeavoring to engage his notice. Their
eyes met, there was a recognition, and as Sir Henry rode
toward the bureaw where he received his spies, the gentleman
who had spoken so intelligibly through his eyes strolled across
the sunny Mall, as if nothing but idleness guided him, in
the footsteps of his venerated chief. ‘This lounger reached a
quiet lane, and casting his eagle eye around that he might feel
assured he was unseen, he entered a garden where there was
no evidence of an orifice, and as he advanced, the several doors
flew open as he touched the springs, until he at length
arrived at one at which he was constrained to knock.

“Enter!” exclaimed a voice,.as a slight click was heard,
which announced the obedience of a spring of which he was
not master. ,

“Guy,” said Sir Henry, as the stranger meekly entered,
“you haye intelligence from General Burgoyne.”

“T have, your excellency,” replied the stranger, advancing
and placing upon the table by which Sir Henry sat a small
compact rouleau of paper.

Sir Henry did not unpack this diminutive missive, but
receiving it in his hand, continued :

“How go matters with the general ?”

“Roughly enough, your excellency,”’ replied the spy, for
such was the nature of the stranger’s calling. “General Schuyler
has sorely troubled him, and so has the want of food; but the
general was very anxious that I should make all possible dis-
patch, for it is reported in the camp that he relies much on
the assistance of your excellency.”

“When did you arrive?” demanded Sir Henry.

“T have been within the lines an hour, your excellency,”
replied the spy.

“When can you return?” again asked Sir Henry.

“J can leave in another hour, your excellency,” said the
spy.

“You are invaluable, and indefatigable too,” said Sir Henry,

   
%

THE COUNCIL. 19

“ond I trust no tree will ever bear such fruit,” he added,
jocosely, to this favorite rogue.

“T thank your excellency for your wishes,” replied the spy,
facetiously.

Sir Henry heeded not the answer, but observed :

“T will not tax your willingness thus heavily; but come to
me here this evening at eight, in readinéss to quit the garrison.”

“J will be punctual, your excellency,” said the spy, and
then retired.

Alone, Sir Henry soon perused the laconic words of General
Burgoyne. He seemed agitated, and to feel the position of his
brother-in-arms. He rose from his chair with a resolute look
and an unbending mind, and walked with a firm step from
this secret closet, and proceeding to one of his other dwellings,
invited his chief officers to meet him there. He then made
known to them the wishes of General Burgoyne, and his officers
were unanimous for proceeding up the Hudson to Albany.
He gave his approbation to such a step, also, and the only
symptom of indecision he displayed was that he declined to
appoint a day of departure, although Burgoyne’s position now

«seemed moreimminent thanever. General Gates had superseded
General Schuyler, and now awaited the approach of Burgoyne
on the banks of the Hudson above Albany; and it was to
divert a portion of his forces and to make him an easy con-
quest to Burgoyne, that Sir Henry was invited to operate.
The council, however, separated, but the day of sailing still
remained in abeyance.

That evening Sir Henry sat in his secret chamber. He
was silent and pensive, and his thoughtful brow rested upon
his hand, which was supported from the elbow on the table.
The finger of his other hand occasionally moved in diagrams
upon a sheet of paper spread before him, as if his mind was
occupied on some field moyements; but while the problem
was still unwrought, he was roused from his abstraction by a
slight tap upon the door which unclosed to no other summons
than his own. Soon a stealthy step entered the chamber; it
was the spy; but he closed the heavy door, stood at some
distance from Sir Henry, and spoke not, as if his duty was
but to present himself. Sir Henry abandoned the mimic
battle that he was fighting, and exclaimed:

 
 

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

“Why, Guy, you are early. My dispatches are not pre-
pared.”

“One minute earlier than the hour assigned, your excel-
lency,” said the spy.

“My dispatches are not lengthy, Guy, and I will write
them in your presence. I never overburden you in weight,
although your occupation has its dangers as well as the
profession of a soldier.”

Sir Henry raised a pen, but as quickly seemed to forget his
object, for he fell into a train of meditation, and was uncon-
scious of another’s presence, until, suddenly turning in the
direction of the spy, ‘he said: .

“Ah, Guy, my mind is somewhat irresolute as to the
dispatches. I think I shall defer them. But,’ he continued,
writing upon a slip of paper and pushing it toward the spy,
“take that and remain in the garrison until I quit it. Then
embark with me, follow me diligently, and when you perceive
that I have gained a victory or reduced a fort, be quickly at
my elbow, for I shall then need your services. Be silent, be
secret, be watchful, yet seemingly regardless.”

“T will obey your excellency,” said the spy, taking up the,

paper, and then quitting the room almost without a sound.

OWA PTE Rak Ve.
THE EXPEDITION UP THE HUDSON—DETECTION OF THE SPY.

Tue vacillating Sir Henry at length resolved to force the
passage of the Hudson and march to the relief of General Bur-
goyne. He summoned a council, the determination was
applauded, the day was arranged, and the commodore was
desired to be in readiness; and on a dark night in October,
almost unknown to the inhabitants of the city, three thousand
men, commanded by Sir Henry in person, embarked on board
the fleet, and, with a favorable wind, sailed up the Hudson.
A mysterious figure was seen to glide upon the commodore’s
ship—it was the spy. He knew not whether the operations

 

   

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STONY POINT. 21

would be by sea or land, but did not forget the injunction to
be near the commander in the moment of victory.

Among the regiments detailed for this service was that of
Lieutenant Goodheart. This young soldier, though delighted at
the distinction, never marched to battle with less desire for
military renown. He was devoted to the charming daughter
of the foe, and his course to glory was by the slaughter of
those who were akin to her; and while, in the silence of the
night, he sat alone upon. the vessel’s deck, and fed his soul
with the hope that he should again behold the lovely Isabelle,
and be enabled to avow that she was empress of his heart, he
trembled when he feared that the gory path by which he
must approach would excite her anger, her indignation, and
her unqualified rejection of himself. But though his heart
was in a hostile camp, his honor was with those he served,
and he must maintain it, or sink beneath the withering scath
of cowardice. When morning came he rose from the seat he
had occupied all night, and stalked—the ghastly figure of his
yesterself—to view the landing-place which he had ‘heard
announced.

As the sun disclosed the rugged features of the country, the
vessels reached the place of debarkation, Stony Point. Quickly
the greatest animation prevailed, and as each vessel discharged
its warriors, they were immediately formed and marched
forward. At the distance of about twelve miles three forts
had been erected which commanded the passage of the Hud-
son, and unless these obstructions were removed, no hostile
vessels could proceed higher up the river. The object of the
English was ‘to destroy these batteries, and for this purpose
their commander led them into this perilous country ; but he
advanced with the greatest caution through the narrow passes
and defiles of this highland coast. The British host marched
on unattacked in long and narrow files; but their leader
became alarmed at this immunity from danger, fearing that it
was but a lure of the artful and vigorous foe to some more
deadly ambush—that he should yet meet a Leonidas at
Thermopyle. At length the enemy appeared, but in small
force; made a weak and ineffectual opposition, and then
retired to the batteries, which eventually fell, and the English
fleet proceeded up the river.

 
   

   

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

At the moment of victory, when the cries of agony and the
shouts of joy were mingling in the air, the figure of the spy,
truthful in perfidy, was seen crossing the smoking embers of
Fort Montgomery, regardless of the ferocious combatants
whose appetite for blood was still unsated, and approaching
an officer of distinction, who was gazing around him in great
exultation—it was Sir Henry Clinton. The spy placed him-
self near his elbow, but spoke not, Presently he was per-
ceived by the conqueror, who exclaimed :

“Ah, Guy, am I not prophetic?’ and he pointed toward
the ruins by which they were surrounded. Then he con-
tinued: “But you remind me of my duties. Follow me to
more privacy if the knaves have left us a room for conference.”

Sir Henry led the way over burning timber and hissing
bombs, and through dense masses of smoke, to a sort of stone
guard-house, where were both pens and ink. He then wrote
upon a fragment of paper, which he took from his memo-
randum book, and which seemed to have been prepared for the
cell to which it was afterward consigned, the following words:

“ Nous y voici: (we are here.) There is nothing between
us and Gates.”

Then, raising a small hollow silver bullet, he remarked :

“This is my dispatch-box, Guy, and this is the document to
be inserted.” f

He then unscrewed the bullet, deposited his writing within,
and presented it to the spy, saying:

“That is a contrivance, I think, that, with ordinary precau-
tion, might defeat the shrewdness of our opponents, even if
you were suspected.”

“Tt is very ingenious, your excellency,” said the spy.

“Tt is also portable, and easy to dispose of in case of peril.
It contains the hope of Burgoyne and the doom of Gates, and
could only be intrusted to a courier faithful as yourself.”

“JT will protect it with my life, your excellency,” said the
spy, with some feeling; “and even if that be forfeited, I will.
conceal my charge,”

“Are you in need of gold?” demanded Sir Henry.

“Some little would be useful, your excellency,” replied the
spy. z

 
pn

 

 

THE SPY’S REQUEST. 23

Sir Henry referred to his pocket, produced ten guineas, and
said: “ Will that be enough to-day ? Serve me well, be true to
your engagements, and diligent in your errands, and the
amount of gold is no object in your reward.”

“ Thank your excellency, that will serve me,” said the spy.

He was moving toward the door, and Sir Henry was
watching his stealthy motion, when he suddenly paused,
appeared agitated, and exclaimed: “Your excellency—”

“ What!” said Sir Henry. “Do you lament your mod-
eration ?”

“No, no, your excellency,” said the spy. “ Should I never
see you more—should I perish ere I reach the general—will
you take this address and send what recompense you think

my services and my death may merit to my poor wife ?”

The arrogant yet kindly governor seemed at first indignant
at the commission of this wretched spy, but perceiving the
poor fellow to be much affected, he said :

“T will make provision for her through my secretary.”

“May God reward you and prosper me,” said the spy, as
he' bowed lowly and passed without the door.

Sir Henry examined the paper handed him by the spy,
and placed it in his book, remarking :

“T will not forget my trust. He is the only spy of all my
numerous retinue who has not served me falsely ; and while
those others have a boundless thirst for gold they never earn,
Guy rarely accepts a recompense adequate to his services.”

Sir Henry proceeded no further with the army, but returned
to New York; and while he rested his head in triumph upon
his downy pillow, the spy diligently pursued his perfidious
task, notwithstanding the late hour at which he left his patron.
He plunged into the loneliness of the forest, neither alarmed
at the wild and savage howling of the animals as they sought
their prey, nor suffering beneath the reproaches of his own
conscience at the avidity with which he betrayed the brave
men of his own land for the gold of the royalists. The spy
was named Guy Wanderer. He was of but middle height,
but of strength and power and dauntlessness alike resistless.
He daintily termed himself a courier, and woe to him that
ventured to assail him with the opprobrious epithet of spy.
No one knew whence he came; but he had been true to the

 
SAAS

Pa

es

 

24 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

English, had aided them much, and was correspondingly

- esteemed by their generals. On the occasion of the present

journey*he observed a vigilance equal to the importance of
his trust. He traveled all night, and when the sun rose, and

. he gat beside a brook to partake the frugal meal that he had

-with him, and quench his thirst, his eyes, his ears and his

every nerye were in suspicion, and, like the stag, he peered
between the near and distant trees, even in depasturage.

The second day of Guy Wanderer’s travel, he debouched
from the woods upon the borders of the Hudson, and before
he had proceeded very far he espied, what he conceived to be
a detachment of the royalists. He retired unperceived beneath
the shelter of the trees and commenced a more searching
examination. He was soon satisfied. He knew well the
uniform, and that nothing of the kind distinguished the revo-
lutionary army, and under that impression he gayly and cheer-
fully advanced, carrying his dispatch-box between his thumb
and finger, and hailing them as friends—the more delighted at
the rencounter because it relieved his mind from the sadness
of an impression that adversity awaited him on this mission.
He was soon among them. They surrounded him, and as he
scrutinized them closer, he started. He became alarmed. He
was in error—a deadly one to him. ‘These red-coats were
from another fold; but, being in the royal scarlet, Guy had
mistaken them for royal troops. It was a company of Ameri-
cans under Major Clinton, who, haying intercepted some army
stores of the British, replaced the ragged wardrobe of his men
with the warm and welcome broadcloth of the foe, and, dressed
in this imperial guise, they had unwittingly decoyed into an
ambush the devoted spy.

Guy Wanderer, true to that law of nature which all life
obeys, self-preservation, cast the woeful evidence of his hated
calling into his mouth, which, passing down his roomy gullet,
he hoped he had effectually concealed; but the device was
seen, and a remedy was at hand. The doctor was summoned,
an emetic was administered, and the silvery stranger again
arose to light. When .the dispatch was read, it was equiy-
alent to a sentence upon poor Guy, for the commanding officer
raised his eyes from the single line which it. contained and
silently but significantly pointed to a tree.

 

rm

—
 

THE GALLOWS. 25

The unpitying soldiery seized him as a sacrifice to their
vengeance, and while some held him in a security hopeless to
his life, others eagerly selected the loftiest tree onwhich to
suspend their victim. The spy saw these preparations in
mute despondency. But when he was led, or rather forced,
toward the chosen gallows, and saw the stout, unyielding rope
depending from the highest branch for his destruction, a
tremor came upon him as he thought of that mysterious
world he was about to enter, and with despair in his face,
he exclaimed :

“Oh, let me live! I am not fit to die!”

“What !” said one of the soldiers who was busy with the
rope, “to complete the villainy that you have begun ?”

“No,” said the spy ; “ to repent of what I undertook to do.”

“A minute of true penitence,” said an inexorable ser-
geant, as he placed four men at the end of the rope to which
the doomed spy was now affixed, “will atone for a life of sin.
The mercy which was extended to the thief upon the cross
will not be denied to thee if thou repentest in thy heart.”

“But I have a wife and children!” gasped the spy, as he
was placed beneath the fatal cord ;. “and if you be husbands -
or fathers, you will have mercy for their sake.”

“You cared nut on whose heads destruction might fall,”
said the sergeant, “ when you took the cursed English gold
for our betrayal.”

The spy felt the justice of this admonition. There was no
more humanity in his treachery than in the severity practiced
toward him. He was silent an instant. . He gazed timidly
at the soldiers—furtively at fhe sergeant who had them in
command. All was stern and implacable. Yet, even as the
noose was being adjusted to his neck, a gleam of hope was
glittering in his eye; for in his eventful life he had escaped
so many perils at the eleventh hour of danger, that he was
still. tenacious of the possibility of redemption. He now
essayed to make a last appeal.

“T—” he exclaimed.

But he said no more with his feet upon the earth. The
sergeant, inflexible as the Puritan type from which he sprung,
exclaimed, in words of thunder :

“ Haul in, men !”
THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

And the soldiers, obedient to command, standing at the
cord’s end with their arms stretched to their utmost length
upon the rope, made one long and frightful effort, and in
another instant Guy Wanderer was suspended ten feet in the
air. No pains had been taken to lessen the mortal agonies
of this poor man, nor to confine his limbs, and his struggles
were terrible to behold. His legs and arms were alternately
projected from and drawn toward his body, then, in his love
for life, he threw his quivering hands above his head, grasped
the cord by which he was suspended, and thus relieving his
neck of the weight of his whole body, recovered his voice and
ejaculated, in piteous accents, ‘“ Soldiers—sergeant—wife—
mercy—mercy !” and at each frightful cry he raised himself
still higher toward the branch on which the rope was cast,
when the soldiers, either in compassion for his sufferings or
fear of his escape, gave a violertt motion to the rope. The
spy felt that his enfeebled hands could not resist this shock.
He uttered an appalling scream that pierced even the stub-
born bosoms of his executioners, and rung in the deep solitude
of the forest; but it was his last earthly cry. He fell from
the height to which he had raised himself, and dislocation of
the neck ensued. But his passion for life was evident unto
death, for his fingers still formed an impotent circle around
the rope above his head as his body descended, though unable
to arrest the launch into’eternity. He now hung an awful
spectacle of the punishment of detected treachery.

The soldiers who had been the chief instruments in this
scene now hastened to divest themselves of the rope which
encumbered them. They secured it to a lower branch, and
then quitted the vicinity of the tree. The gallant sergeant,
too, as the words of invocation reached his heart, and the cry
of terror still sounded in his ear, stood for a time dismayed ;
then, perceiving the stealthy movements and whispering
voices of his men, he overcame his weakness, assumed his
usual imperturability, exclaiming, in his stern voice:

“ Fall in!”

The men, recalled to duty, responded gladly to the welcome
order, and when they took a last glimpse at their guilty victim
as they marched from the ground, the body was swinging to
and fro by the impulse of the breeze,

 
 

ESOPUS.

CHAPTER V.
THE DESTRUCTION OF ESOPUS.

LimvTENANT GoOoDHEART was one of the advance-guard of
the expedition, and he soon received orders to mareh as far as
Esopus, where there was established a powder-magazine. The
command was received with delight by the happy Marcus—
the more so as no enemy was likely to appear, and he hoped
not to be compelled again to draw his sword in hostility.
His step was buoyant and his heart was gay, and, as he cheer-
fully marched along, he revolved in his mind all that he had
learned of this sweet village and its fair occupant. He knew
‘that it was one of the earliest settlements on the Hudson, and
almost as ancient as New York itself—that it contained a
population devotedly revolutionary, among whom the most
indomitable were Silas Fearnought (the father of the fair
Isabelle) and her two brothers. He knew something of the
feeling inherited by Isabelle, for he did not, forget the unre-
served sentiments expressed by her in the character of the
troubadour when they walked from the outposts to the guard-
house as custodian and prisoner. But he did not doubt
that revolutionary as well as royalist opinions (as in the case
of himself) would give way to the feelings of the heart.

Pregnant with hope, the guard at length reached Esopus,
to which village a notice of their approach had been previ-
ously conveyed, end they found the inhabitants in the greatest
consternation. Marcus, however, was ordered to advance
and endeavor to restore confidence, and to assure them that
their hostility was only directed against the government
property and not against those people who conducted them-
selves peaceably. He succeeded in calming the apprehensions
of many, and while the soldiers were engaged in pillaging the
magazine, Marcus induced some of the villagers, under the
assurance of his peaceful character toward them, to direct him
to the residence occupied by the Fearnought family,

 
28 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

“ But,” said one of those whom he addressed, “ old Silas is
away, and so’re his boys, or I cale’late you’d have heard the
erack of their rifles through them passes.”

“Ts no one in the house?” inquired Marcus, in some
apprehension.

“ Ay,” replied the native, “the gal and old Nan—them’s
all. Ye’ll hear o’ Si and the boys, though, when yer Gin’ral
Howe finds Phil’delphi too hot for ’im.”

“Then, I suppose,” said Marcus, “that I am to understand
that the Fearnoughts are at Valley Forge ?”

“ Ay,” continued the sarcastic rustic, with a knowing look.
“J guess yer know just so much. They’d ha’ been up at
Stillwater, where yer in a putty tight place, but they thought
the fightin’ wouldn’t be fearce enough for ’’em; but I guess if
they staid at home here, they might have cut up yer dandy
men into mighty small pieces.”

They had now reached a house which stood apart from
the others, and which had a very superior appearance to those
residences. It was surrounded by a tasteful garden, had an
admirable orchard, and such appurtenances as displayed the
homestead of a substantial family. The lieutenant advanced
up the garden, and with a palpitating heart ascended the steps
conducting to the entrance. .The door was unclosed, and he
was about to announce the arrival of a visitor, when, to his
astonishment, Isabelle appeared at the opposite end of the
hall. He could not repress the impetuosity of his feelings.
He rushed toward her, grasped her hand in delight, and
exclaimed :

“Oh, Isabelle, from the moment I heard that sweet and
silvery voice beneath my window, when you sung that
soft but sad adieu, I have been a stranger to happiness.”

“T owe you much, Lieutenant Goodheart,” said Isabelle, smil-
ing, ““and have cherished the debt, for it is one of gratitude.”

“Tsabelle,” said Marcus, “I loved you when I believed you
a poor minstrel boy, listened to your voice as that of a seraph,
followed you from place to place as closely as your shadow,
and wondered all the time what invisible force, more potent
than my love for music, retained me im this bondage ; but
when your letter revealed that you were Isabelle, then I dis-
cerned that my heart had been this silent preceptor unknown
to my understanding.”

 
ISABELLE. 29

Isabelle seemed greatly disturbed and most desirous to stop
this course of conversation. She, therefore, observed :

“Tam glad to believe that my conduct, while sustaining
so difficult a character to assist my dear brother in his cap-
tivity, did not deserve your censure.”

“ Both your eonduct and your object command my admi-
ration,” said Marcus; “ but—”

“I was about to add,” interposed Isabelle, determined to
divert the discourse, “that the discipline of war is severe—
that we are belligerents—and that your visit here, if I mistake
not, is one of rapine.”

“T come as a soldier, at the disposal of my king,” said
Marcus, in great agitation. ‘“ But our visit, here is notdirected
against individuals or their property ; but to possess ourselves
of the powder and missiles of war stored here for rebellious
purposes.”

“ Rebellious purposes, forsooth !” exclaimed Isabelle, with
feelings of indignation. “ Yes, that is the royalist term for
what we esteem more sacred than our lives, and these oppro-
brious epithets will continue until we achieve what we so
deeply reverence—our liberty, and our independence of the
English monarch.”

“ But, Isabelle !” interposed Marcus.

“ Another word and I have ended,” continued Isabelle.
“You attempt to palliate your marauding visit to this quiet
village by confining your pillage to public property.. You
know the Spartan feeling that prevails among us. The public
wealth is dear to us as the great cause for which we now
contend, and there is not an inhabitant of this poor village
but would rather part with the last article covered by his
humble roof than witness the plunder of that magazine.”

“Oh, Isabelle,” exclaimed Marcus, overcome with agony,
“do not thus painfully dissect my conduct/as a soldier. It is
not the topic of my thoughts. I sought. you with the hope
that you would listen to those deep sentiments which prevail
Within my heart, and which reject all soothing influence but
such as can be administered by you.”

They had passed into the parlor, a, large room commanding
a view of the village but not of the magazine. The words of
Marcus caused a pause in the conversation, during which both

-

 
30 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

parties were agitated; but Isabelle raised her head from the
fair hand on which it had been resting, and, still maintaining
their incompatibility of position, she replied :

“Tf my gratitude be an elixir healing to such feelings, no one
possesses more of it than you, Lieutenant Goodheart; beyond
this, Iam incompetent. But I can not deny you this slight
tribute for the protection and kindness which you rendered
me when, forlorn and wretched, I ventured into the camp of
the enemy, although you now come with your sword reeking
with the blood of my patriot countrymen, among whom might
haye been my dear father and my devoted brothers, who are
ever in the ranks of freedom.”

Marcus threw himself on one knee, clasped his hands
passionately, and had just exclaimed: “ Isabelle!” when a step
was heard in the hall. It advanced toward the room, and a
tall, handsome gentleman entered, clad in an undress military
uniform of the American ar my. He wore a sword by his side,
and seemed much excited. Marcus, howeyer, had risen before
he entered, although the stranger could readily perceive that
things were uneasily disposed. He removed a cap from his
head, passed to where Isabelle stood, and took her hand; but
when he perceived her trepidation and the paleness of her
face, he seemed both alarmed and angered, and addressing
Marcus, to whom he had not till then spoken, he said:

“T trust your interview with this lady is concluded, sir ?”

“Your question, sir,’ said Marcus, “is spiced with the
impertinence of ejectment. Still, as you may have a right I

know not of to ask my business here, I will explain that I
“called to renew an acquaintance with Miss Fearnought which
commenced in her attempt to release her brother from. the
military prisons of New York.”

“Miss Fearnought,” replied the stranger, “ must estimate so
signal a visit from a British officer with blood upon his hand
and pillage in his heart.”

“Sir!” said Marcus, as he clenched his teeth in rage—and
he then whispered into the stranger’s ear: ‘You have an
object in this violence of language. I have yet five minutes
of leisure, and much as I wish i" spend them here, I will devote
them to you, Lead the way.”

The stranger smiled at the quiet-words of Marcus, as if they

 
THE BURNING VILLAGE. 81

were suitable to his humor, and signaled his assent; but as
they were preparing to withdraw, shrieks of agony arose from
the villagers en masse. Marcus trembled. He feared that
the military had commenced a massacre of them—so piercing,
so appalling, so terrific were their cries. For a moment no one
moyed; then all rushed toward the door, and there the fearful
light and the uproaring flames of the burning village met their
gaze. Isabelle held tightly by the portico for support, and
Marcus and the stranger were equally petrified by the occur-
rence. At length the latter exclaimed :

“The village is on fire. The British the incendiaries. You
are my prisoner, sir, and a hostage for this most. villainous
act.”

The stranger approached the lieutenant to seize him; but
Marcus drew his sword. The stranger was not unwilling for
the fray, and soon both were engaged. fighting with all the
fury of rival lovers, though Marcus was willing to cast away
some of his advantage in swordmanship, fearing that his
antagonist might be Isabelle’s brother. The interview with
Marcus, the entrance of the stranger, the horror of the fire,
and now the fatal and fierce engagement between the com-
batants, had followed in such rapid succession on the mind
of Isabelle, that for a time she stood upon the portico looking
alternately upon the duel and the flames, without power to
interfere in either. But while she thus contemplated the
terrors of the scene, a burning brand fell at her feet, imperiling
the light texture of her flowing dress, which being perceived
by the gallant stranger, he withdrew at some risk from the
encounter, and, rushing toward Isabelle, removed the dan-
gerous missile. Marcus, who esteemed the act, awaited the
return of his antagonist, and then the combat was renewed
with vengeance increased by this ‘slight pause. Isabelle,
however, was aroused into activity. She could not arrest the

_ flames, but she resolved to exert her influence where it might
have effect. She almost leaped from the portico, hastened
across the grassy lawn, and despite their pointed swords, she
fearlessly cast herself between the infatuated men. They
stood confounded, while she exclaimed:

“May I ask, gentlemen, the cause of this ferocity? The
right by which you convert my garden into your battle-field ?

 
THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

Would you, Adam Morton, presume to violate the hospitality
of the house of Silas Fearnought upon a gentleman who was
partaking of its security, be he of a hostile or a friendly race ?
And, Lieutenant Goodheart, is a lady’s parlor a becoming
place to whisper defiance to an antagonist ?”

Astonishment at the fearless conduct of Isabelle awed them
into submission, and her sweet voice made each combatant
feel that he was in error.

“Tsabelle,” said he whom she had termed Adam Morton,
“T have been impelled by the injuries which we are suffering
from this implacable foe, to presume upon the privileges of
your house.” : :

“And for the discourtesy of which I have been guilty in
your presence, Miss Fearnought,” said Marcus, “I supplicate
your pardon ; but—”

“No reservation, Lieutenant Goodheart—all is forgotten,”
said Isabelle. ‘ But our village is on fire, our people homeless,
and your men are the incendiaries. Hasten for your life or
you are lost. The fury of the injured inhabitants will be
visited on you. And, Adam’ Morton, give me your assurance
that you will not impede Lieutenant Goodheart’s flight.”

“T promise, Isabelle,” responded Adam Morton, instantly,

“One word, Isabelle,” supplicated Marcus.

“Not a syllable,” exclaimed Isabelle. ‘Let me implore
you to begone. There is death in the delay of another minute.
Adam, hasten and appease those friends who are approaching.”

Marcus, thus imperatively commanded, waved his hand to
Isabelle, and disappeared. Adam Morton had already en-
countered those friends to whom he was directed, and Isabelle,
overcome with deep emotion, retreated to the house that she
might have a few minutes to arrange her troubled thoughts.

Adam Morton was a dauntless soldier. He was devoted to
the freedom of his country and to .the Fearnoughts—father,
sons, and daughter; and although’ the former did not conceal
their love for him, the latter-had never been known to indulge
in the same candor. Adam was attached to the army of
General Gates, and he had now descended the Hudson from
Stillwater to inquire into the nature of the assistance indicated
in that famous intercepted dispatch for which poor Guy
Wanderer was so unscrupulously hanged. He had arrived in

 
A CRY FOR HELP.

time to witness the last of the atrocities committed by those
exasperated forces. As he stood in conversation with those
men whom he had joined, listening to their relation of the
commencement of the fire, they suddenly perceived that the
residence of the Fearnoughts, which stood apart from the
other buildings, and had not been included in the conflagration,
to be in flames. The pallor of death came over the face of
Adam Morton as he exclaimed:

“Oh, my friends, behold! Isabelle is there !”

And as these words were uttered, a fearful scream issued
from the burning element. Adam recognized the voice of
Isabelle, and, without speaking, he bounded toward the house.
He entered, passed from room to room, crying, in frantic

agony :

“Tsabelle! Isabelle !”

The villagers, little less excited than himself, forgetting their
crumbling houses, their families and their goods, rushed into
every room, calling in loud tones upon the daughter of their
dear friend Fearnought; but she was not there, and, wounded
and blackened, they returned into the air, forcing with them

the almost lifeless form of Adam Morton.

“Tet me return, good friends,” said he; “let me burn—let
my own remains be sanctified by the same fire which 1s
reducing her own sweet form to ashes.”

“ Adam Morton,” exclaimed one of the elders of the village,
enforcing his words by the grasp of his powerful arm, “you
shall not go within those flaming timbers. Every room, every
closet and pantry has been searched, and Isabelle is not there.
She has escaped.”

“But why that scream for help, good Abel Doright ?”
suggested the agonized Adam. “ Nothing but danger could
induce that cry.”

“She must have escaped at the back of the house,” said
Abel.

But as this portion of the building was mentioned, a terrible
suspicion occupied the mind of Adam. Morton. The British
officer had retreated under cover of the woods behind the house,
There he must have lingered, watched his opportunity to return,
seized upon Isabelle, fired the house to arrest pursuit, and was
now bearing the fair Isabélle to the vessels on the river.

 
 

  

34 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

Quickly he seized his rifle, marched through the wailing and
destitute villagers, who were crowded around the embers of
their little wealth, and with hasty strides approached the river.
He leaped the rocks and clambered the rugged precipices that
led toward the landing-place, and there, concealed in a cavern
known only to himself, which commanded a view of the
tortuous approaches, he awaited, in deadly solitude, the period
when he might see the fair Isabelle dragged to the robber
ship by her abductor, when, from his secret hiding, he would
issue the unerring mandate for the felon’s death.

“T will pierce his false heart,” said Adam, grinding his
teeth in vengeance; “but Isabelle must be rescued. There is
another secret entrance to this cavern, half a mile distant.
Thither I will bear her, and once outside myself, no other living
man shall pass its mouth.” ;

The scene was one of animation. The soldiers were
descending from the high ground laden with the pilfer of the
magazine, bearing it in the pride of victory, and amusing
themselves by an interchange of rude jokes between the
various parties, at the expense of the defenseless villagers
whom their outrages had rendered homeless. All these passed
the cavern of Adam Morton; but he listened to their taunts
with indifference, feeling that all this merry laughter would
soon be turned to woe and sorrow. Adam was astonished
that the lieutenant came not. Many officers stood upon the
heights while the soldiers were noisily shipping their plunder,
but the lieutenant whom he so wanted was not among
them.

At length he perceived a British officer advancing from a
distance. His height and figure corresponded with that of
Marcus, and, what was yet more confirmatory, he seemed to
bear upon his right arm the reclining form of a fainting lady,
which caused him to walk slowly. As he approached, it could
be more distinctly seen that the object was powerless, and the
dress white. Suddenly, the officer dropped his burden. He
was now within range, and the stern avenger raised his rifle,
that his revenge might be complete ; but the officer at this mo-
ment stooped to recover what he had let fall, and then passed
behind a projecting rock, walked some way in the valley, and
reappeared near the cavern, when Adam, whose finger was

 

x

  

 
 

MANIAC GRIEF. 85

upon the trigger, discovered that the officer was not Marcus,
and that he only bore his military roquelaur lined with white.

“ His life is saved by a fortunate accident,” said Adam, with
an expression of bitterness in his face. ‘‘ Not but that I have
appetite for his death, but I must reserve my fire for blood
yet darker than his.”

Adam, from his concealment, watched the pillage of the
day safely stowed in the enemy’s vessel. He saw the last of
the officers step on board, her signal of departure fired, and
the ship leave her moorings, and glide gently down the waters
of the Hudson, and although he issued from his cave, leaped
from crag to crag, and followed the vessel from point to point,
to see if one whom his heart called villain had not outstayed
the hour, and might wave to his comrades for succor, no one
was visible—the prey had escaped the fowler.

He returned to the village almost a maniac. He rushed at
once to the house of Isabelle, which was now a heap of
smouldering ruins. He gazed upon the sparkling embers which
the soft wind made bright, and defying their threatening heat,
leaped in among them, scattering the ashes in his search for
the bones of that fair charmer whose. existence was dearer to
him than his own. As’ he sought those gems he feared to
find, such appalling screams escaped him as affrighted both
men and matrons, and made the wailing and houseless chil-
dren, whose only home was now upon the grass, suspend their
sorrows, and unite their tiny hands in mutual protection.
After a time he emerged from this burning mass, which he
had seemed to walk with the impunity of a salamander, and
approached the terrified inhabitants of the village. He had
no covering to his head, and his hair, which was long, floated
in the wind. His tall figure appeared heightened in his
madness, and his handsome features, disfigured by the dire
passions which inflamed his mind, were blackened by the
smoke from which he had just issued.

“T have been seeking an eternal resting-place upon those
ashes,” he wildly exclaimed, “but the bones of Isabelle form
no part of that desolation, and they would be to me a pillow
of thorns. "Where can that seraph be? In the luster of
heaven, or in the sladows of the earth? I will again seek
her and revenge her wrongs.”

 
  

86 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

He then leaped into the air, as if to inflate his lungs with
a loftier atmosphere, and hastened toward the bank of the
river. He rushed along the heights, the narrow ledges, and
the rugged fastnesses. He looked into the various nooks and
caverns, and examined every possible place of concealment,
crying, with a loud and frantic voice, more adapted to alarm
than tranquilize a fugitive:

“Tsabelle, it is I—~Adam Morton! I come to your rescue
—speak !”

All night those Highlands rung with his powerful cry.
The stealthy fox, the prowling wolf, the savage bear, appalled
by a howl more hideous than their own, hungered in their
lairs rather than brave the ferocity that raged without. The
morning came, and with its first rays some of the men, leaving
their leafy couch, went in search of Adam. The noise had
ceased. He replied not to their cheers, and soon they feared
that his sufferings had ended in his death; but at length they
found him, sitting upon a crag, his clothes torn, his person
jaded and exhausted, and the tears running down his
cheeks. He recognized the men, called them his good friends,
and without objection followed them to the village. He
entered their desolate encampment, ate of such provisions as
they had, and then sat quietly gazing upon the still smoking
ruins of Isabelle’s house.

CHAPTER VI.
THE RETURN OF ADAM MORTON. -

Apam sat all night in the encampment, where the men,
the women, and even the children, suspended their own deep
sorrows in ministering to his comfort; but their sympathizing
efforts gave no solace to his heart. He uttered not a word.
A quiet despair seemed to have displaced the violence of the
day before, and the poor people around him awaited with
terror some other change from these extremes of agony. The
next morning he rose from the ground, and said:

“T must return.” ,

  
    
  
    
  
 
 
 
    
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
    

 
 

-

A FAREWELL. 87

“ Where would you go ?” exclaimed the women, in alarm.

“My duty calls me to the army beyond Albany. I must
join General Gates,” he replied.

“We will go with you !” exclaimed several of the men. ”

“What!” said Adam, pointing toward their wives and chil-
dren, “and leave here all that you have saved from that
fiendish outrage, in yet greater destitution. No, no, my
friends, remain where you are, fell timber, rebuild your houses,
before you are overtaken by the rigor of the coming winter.
But remove not a cinder from the remains of Fearnought’s
house. Let them remain as monuments of the deed. These
ruins stimulate my vengeance. They give power to my arm and
vigor to my heart. I haye sat for hours thinking how I could
more surely glut my appetite for retributive punishment upon
those or upon their race who have made my heart so dreary.
Blood I must have—blood in profusion, that I may flood the
altars of reyenge. The blood, too, of that unpitying villain
who applied the brand to the dwelling of Silas Fearnought, and

stole from it the fairest flower that ever graced humanity.”

He then continued his preparations for departure, which
were simple and soon completed; and when he was in read-
iness, he turned toward the women and children of this
impoverished community, and said : s

“ Farewell, farewell, my friends. I will avenge your suffer-
ings as would your brave husbands, were it not imperative
that they should remain and assist in the better work of pro-
viding for your safety. Your desolation is great—your afflic-
tion most severe ; still there is cause for thankfulness; for had
I nothing to lament but loss of property, I should be a happy,
happy man. But a day of retribution will overtake those
men who caused you all this misery ; and, although I can not

‘follow the retreat of the destroyer, as duty calls me another
path, depend on it that, ere many days are passed, my sword
shall be dyed with the blood of this hated race.”

The women were much affected, and waved their hands
and handkerchiefS in adieu, while the men insisted upon
accompanying him for a short distance. Adam, however,
soon dismissed them, assuring them that their kindly attend-
ance rather impeded than accelerated his progress, and they
were prevailed upon to leaye him to pursue his Journey alone.

 
  

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

Indeed, his diseased and unquiet mind was glad to be relieved
from human association. His passions were more akin to
those of the wolf than of his brother man, and the wild and
pathless forest was a fitting nursery for feelings he wished
rather to encourage than destroy. His progress was rapid.
No impediment was insurmountable, and, traveling incessantly
by day and night, he quickly reached the camp of General
Gates. He hastened to head-quarters, and while waiting his
turn to be announced, a general officer passed into the ante-
room, apparently flushed with anger. He cast his eye upon
Adam as he passed, and exclaiming, “Let every brave man
follow me!” he went out at the opposite doorway, and,
mounting a horse which was held there by an orderly, he
rode off at a furious pace.

The heart of Adam Morton began to warm. The challenge
of the officer seemed to penetrate his brain. He thought it a
summons to the field. There was no enemy but the English,
and their blood he wanted; but while he revolved these |
thoughts within his mind, another officer emerged from the
same room, and in no less confusion, rushed to the outer door,
and loudly recalled the flying horseman ; but, unheard or dis-
regarded, the speed of the retiring rider was not relaxed.
Seeing this, the officer mounted another horse, and a pursuit
commenced. The passions of Adam Morton were now
enlisted. He had forgotten his mission to General Gates. He
had ascertained that it was General Arnold who invoked
brave men to follow him. He stepped to the door—which
seemed to be the Rubicon, to pass which was to go on—there
stood another charger caparisoned. for the field. He was
fastened to a tree, and stood champing his bits, impatient at
the thong which held him there. His arched neck was
occasionally upraised, his foot dashed to and fro with impetu-
osity, and a neigh which he uttered seemed to invite a rider
equal to his own fire and prowess. Adam was that. He
advanced to the noble animal, loosened the thong, leaped into
the saddle, and just as the summons, “Adam Morton!”
announced the general’s readiness to admit him to the audi-
ence-chamber, it was ascertained that the delinquent had
joined in this infatuating race of warriors, having made
choice of a no less distinguished companion to bear him in

 
    
    
   
   
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

  
 

 

   

   

A BORROWED STEED. 39

the chase than the general’s favorite steed, in lieu of which
was left a jaded courser.

The powers of the animal which Adam now bestrode were
unequaled in the camp. Proud of a liberty of rein so rarely
afforded him, and feeling that he was guided by one who sat
in the saddle well, he flew with a speed that soon enabled
him to pass the follower of the general. The fiery Arnold
still spurred toward the intrenchments of the English, when,
finding that some one followed at his horse’s heels, he turned
with apprehension and exclaimed :

“Whence come you, sir?”

“T come from Esopus, general, which the English have
burnt to the ground, and stolen, too, the only tie I have to
happiness in life. But I prefer vengeance to death, and where
I fight there shall be no defeat until I die.”

“Brave boy!” exclaimed the general; “the enemy is in
front, and you need place no limit to your love of sacrifice.
But,” he added, significantly, “you have come to battle on
General Gates’s horse.”

“ Indeed !” said Adam, with some trepidation, almost rein-
ing in his steed as these words were spoken ; then recovering
from the momentary feeling, he added, “I borrowed him in
my impetuosity to follow you. May the rider be thought
worthy of the steed.”

“We shall neither of us win much fayor from the general
to-day,” said Arnold, with a sarcastic smile; “but let us
deserve well of our country, and we shall jeopardize but
little.”

“JT have a double motive for the fight,” said Adam—
“patriotism and the love of all I have lost.”

Soon they came in view of the English camp. Their
position was well chosen, and their intrenchments perfect ;
but hunger, or the fear of it, had caused them to attempt a
further advance toward Albany. Skirmishing had already
commenced; but Adam Morton now suspected that his
vehement companion intended to encourage a general action.

The truth was that General Burgoyne was strongly
intrenched; but the sagacious Gates well knew that the
English commander feared a greater enemy than the sword—
the want of food. This had been already so much felt that
 

40 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

Burgoyne’s capricious allies, the Indians, had abandoned the
camp. General Gates was between Burgoyne and Albany,
and the latter dreaded to encounter such a foe until he was
assured that Sir Henry Clinton was advancing to his aid in
the American rear. He, therefore, waited in anxiety the
arrival of that famous dispatch which was intercepted by his
enemy, and for which Guy Wanderer was now hanging in
the forest. General Gates felt assured of a bloodless victory ;
but this was not congenial to the fiery courage of the impetu-
ous Arnold, and on that very day on which Adam Morton
had arrived with the intelligence of the return to New York
of Clinton’s expedition, Arnold was in audience, enforcing
upon the mind of Gates the expediency of an attack upon the
English, and as he was met by a prudent opposition, he
abruptly quitted General Gates, mounted his charger, and rode
furiously toward the English lines. The general became
alarmed at the excited state of General Arnold, and immedi-
ately sent one of his staff with peremptory orders not to
engage, The soul of Adam Morton became enlisted in these
stirring matters, and, in his frantic efforts to revenge the past,
he seized the noble charger which proved to be that of the
general, by the fleetness of which he was enabled to join
one as ferocious and determined as himself.

As General Arnold and Adam rode on without relaxing in
speed, they mounted an eminence which commanded a view
of the British. They perceived them to be in motion at the
extreme right, and at that sight Arnold drew his sword.

“ See yonder !” he exclaimed, pointing toward the moving
columns. “In a few minutes an engagement will commence.
Then the battle will last till night, and surely six hours’ car-
nage will satisfy, if not surfeit, your revenge.”

Soon column after column advanced to meet the English
legions, and before long the forces on both sides were engaged.
Then ensued that terrible strife which ever characterizes the
meeting of men in mortal combat. The roar of the cannon,
the reverberation of the musketry, and the general clash of
arms prevented the distant hearer from distinguishing the minor
cries of command, of rage, and of withering agony. But all
this was music to the ear of Adam Morton. He found a
harmony in what to others there seemed but terror and
   

|
|
|
|

 

BATTLE OF SARATOGA. 41

discordance. The passions of his heart were being fed, and
British blood was the nectar of the banquet. As the carnage
increased, so did the untiring madness of his spirit. He
plunged into the fight with a reckless bravery that renewed
a courage that was failing, and, wherever he appeared, such
deeds of valor were performed as are record of but few fields
of battle. Burgoyne himself wondered who this man of war
could be, who, without any apparent authority to command,
induced every man to follow his furious path and to fight
with the fearlessness of tigers; and wherever an advantage
for a moment seemed to favor the English forces, that ubiqui-
tous warrior would interpose his avenging arm and turn it to
a defeat. By words of cheer, by irresistible example, and by
deeds of heroic daring, Adam Morton urged the gallant hosts
of the patriotic army to drive the British, in blood and
slaughter, within their intrenchments. “But even this was
not enough. He was fired with a desire to pass those frowning
barriers. He thought it would be a brilliant finale to such
a glorious day. He encouraged the attack, but the tenacity
of the English for their stronghold was great, and their breast-
work bristled with a palisade of glittering and stubborn bay-
onets. General Arnold, pleased with the bold attempt,
cheered on the men, but was severely wounded, when Adam,
dismounting from his horse, and seizing a musket, leaped up
the breast-work, and dashing aside the bayonets with the but,
entered the camp. Hundreds crowded after their bold leader,
and they were soon masters of a position the enemy had
thought impregnable.

Night, however, came, and Adam, scarlet with human
gore, sat surveying with hideous satisfaction the carnage of
the day. Esopus was ayenged, although its suffering people
were still in penury ; but nothing could atone for the violence
done to Isabelle but the blood of her abductor.

Impatiently awaiting the reappearance of the sun, Adam
spent that night surrounded by the pallid corses of hundreds
of the foe, nor could he be removed from this levée of the
dead. But an hour before daybreak peremptory orders were
received that the attack was not to be renewed. He could
searcely conceal his anger; but obedience is a military
ordinance he dared not to contravene, and he endeavored to
appear as satisfied as his brother soldiers.

  
  

42 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

The enemy retreated ; the Americans pursued ; but, although
Adam was ever one of the foremost at their rear, little skir-
mishing occurred, and the eventual submission of General
Burgoyne to General Gates extinguished hostilities in this
locality.

Adam was no lover of inactivity at any time; but in the
present state of his mind it was unendurable, and he now
determined to return to Esopus, in order to learn if more in-
telligence had been collected in reference to the abduction of
Isabelle, and then to attempt her release, even if it could only
be effected by a visit to New York, to which place he had no
doubt that she had been conveyed. He accordingly quitted
the army, and soon reappeared among those people with
whom he so deeply sympathized. His renown had pre-
ceded him, and the homeless families received him with re-
joicing hearts. He expressed his satisfaction at their feelings,
sat down among them, replied to their thousand questions,
and then with more tranquillity than he had exemplified when
last with them, he commenced a series of questions as to
Isabelle. To his astonishment, Lieutenant Goodheart was
pronounced not to be the abductor, nor were any of the English
guilty of the atrocity.

“What other enemy was near at the time ?” demanded the
incredulous Adam, “and who else were capable of committing
such an enormity ?”

“The Indians!’ replied one of the men.

“Tmpossible, my friends,” said Adam.

“ Friend,” said the imperturbable Abel Doright; who had so
toughly restrained Adam from re-entering the flames on the
occasion of the burning of Isabelle’s house, “listen to the
evidence before thou venturest to deny its truth. Ihave goodly
reason to believe that the damsel Isabelle did not form a por-
tion of the prey of those Philistines who stole upon us
when we were unprepared.”

“Your pardon, good father,” said Adam; “my expression
was more one of surprise than of disbelief. But I am impa-
tient to learn how the Indians were guilty of this outrage,
and to what cause it is ascribed ?” -

“Thou art curious beyond our means of giving satisfac-
tion,” observed the quaint Abel; “we can only speak of that

  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
 
 
   
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
  

 

THE ABDUCTORS. 43

which falls beneath the perception of the eye; the cause we
know not—the simple facts we will relate.”
“Thank you, good Abel Doright,” said Adam; “I am

‘impatient to hear you.”

“Tmpatience is a bad master,’ reasoned Abel; “and,
although under its guidance thou didst perform mighty acts
of valor in wrestling with the foe on Bhemis Heights, thou
must not let it conquer thee as thou didst the enemy.”

“But Isabelle,” said Adam; “ what of her ?”

“Thou art but = unapt pupil in matters of philosophy,”
said Abel; ‘“ but—

“ Have mercy,” exclaimed Adam; “my heart burns for the
intelligence that isin yours. Do not increase its agonies.”

“J will tell thee all,” said Abel; “although in doing so
thus quickly I do but feed a passion I would rather destroy.
But listen. On the very morning that the English appeared
among us, the Indians were seen in the wood behind the
house of Fearnought. One of our youths detected their
stealthy forms and glaring eyes. The youth, with becoming
promptitude—who had heard how these Indians had destroyed
this devoted village a century since—was hastening to inform
the elders, when he was astounded at the appearance of the
English columns, and, supposing the Indians to be of the same
party, thought of them only in connection, until questioned
upon the subject. It was the Indians who stole the damsel
Isabelle. It was these dark marauders who seized Isabelle
when we heard the scream, and it was these same unscrupu-
lous wretches who fired the house to increase the confusion,
and to aid them in escape; and while we were intent upon
our flaming houses and the departure of the incendiaries with
their booty, those dark Sons‘ of Baal were seen to cross the
Hudson at a higher point, supporting with great care some
unconscious object. This must have been the maid of our
anxiety.”

“With what motive could these demons have seized on
Isabelle?” exclaimed Adam,

“Didst thou ask thyself that vain question when thou
thoughtest that the rapacious English were her abductors ?”
asked Abel Doright.

Adam made no reply, but commenced making a series of

 

  
 

eset aa — aes

a

 

—

44 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

inquiries of those from whom Abel Doright had obtained
these particulars, and soon became convinced that Lieutenant
Goodheart, and, indeed, the English, were guiltless of this
outrage. :

Adam was correct. The Indians and not Lieutenant Good-
heart had removed Isabelle, The same feeling which had
impelled Marcus to seek Isabelle, even as the enemy of her
country—which had induced Adam Morton to provoke the
ire of Marcus that a duel might ensue, had urged a young
Indian warrior, the chief of a Canadian tribe, to seek the fair
“white.maiden.” It was love. But the Indian, impulsive in
all his actions, was not less so in his wooing ; and he deter-
mined first to possess the form ere he attempted to gain the
heart. In pursuance of this theory he reached Esopus simul-
taneously with the British, and with the cunning and adroit-
ness of his nation, entered stealthily the house at a period
chosen for its aptness to his designs, seized the fainting Isa-
belle, and while he retreated to the concealment of the forest,
his followers fired the house, and, by this dexterity, conferred
the ignominy of the outrage upon their allies, the British.

After due inquiry, Adam announced his resolution to follow
the Indians to their village, and to attempt the recovery of
Isabelle. The friends to whom he spoke were aware of
the danger of this expedition, for it led into an enemy’s coun-
try, where he would be encompassed by almost ingurmount-
able perils ; but they loved Isabelle, and they thought an effort,
however hazardous, to regain so sweet a flower, too sacred to
be forbidden. ‘The bold villagers, therefore, begged to be
allowed to share the enterprise, and requested Adam to select
as many of them as he might think suitable to his wants.
But Adam refused this generous offer.

“Think of your obligations, my good friends,” he replied.
Behold your ruinous village, your destitute wives and your
wailing children, and apply yourselves rather to their preser-
vation than to mine. My one great duty points toward Isa-
belle ; yours to the reinstatement of your devoted wives and
families in houses before the snows of the approaching winter.
Besides, it is more prudent that I should go alone. I am
accustomed to the forest, and can endure its hardships, and
steer through its intricacies, and can ‘approach an Indian
  

 

A HUNT FOR ISABELLE.

village and avoid an enemy with a subtlety equal to the
occasion. To-morrow, therefore, I will leave you, and I trust
that when I return I shall either be accompanied by the
daughter of our,worthy father of the village, or bring intel-
ligence of her safety.”

During that evening every effort was made to induce Adam
to permit even one of their number to accompany him; but
he was immovable. He was determined not to enlist another
in the imminence of the dangers he had allotted to himself,
nor did he desire a companion of whose peculiar adaptation
to the difficult task he was not well assured. He, therefore,
succeeded in prevailing upon the villagers to allow him to
proceed unattended, pledging his. word that, should he find
difficulties that could be overcome only by additional assist-
ance, he would return for their aid. This compromise
effected, the remainder of the evening passed in prayer, in
conversation, and in preparations,

OD AP PERN.
THE PILGRIMAGE.

Ar a late hour at night Adam retired to his couch of
autumn-leaves—for desolate Esopus afforded them no better
resting-place—and in his sleeplessness he gazed upward upon
those bright worlds which decked the firmament, and his
faith was strengthened in the belief that the same Majesty,
who sustained and directed them with so much beauty, would
guide him on his lonely mission. Refreshed, more from the
profoundness of his thoughts than from his slumbers, he rose
in the morning before he felt the radiance of the sun, and,
taking an affectionate leave of his worthy friends, and a well
stored wallet which they had. provided, Adam crossed the
Hudson, waved an adieu to the host which stood upon the
banks he had left, and then plunged into the woods,

An admirable forester, Adam Morton entered the wilder-
ness with as much confidence in his ability to navigate its

 

  
 

 

46 THE MAID OF BSOPUS.

sinuosities as is possessed by the mariner who guides his
bark upon the ocean. He directed his course toward the St.
Lawrence, for he had little doubt that the Indians who

had seized upon Isabelle were a party of those who had

proved faithless to General Burgoyne, and who had diverged
from their nearer path to Canada for the purpose of making
a predatory excursion to Esopus, and that the violent
abstraction of Isabelle was‘ more a matter of accident or
caprice in these fickle people than of premeditation. He
could not think that the incentive of the Indian was love, so
rarely did such a passion move his stoic heart. But, whatever
might be the motive, he had ascertained the fact, and his
object was to loosen the cords which held Isabelle a captive
“in the hands of these dark men, and whether he had to
approach them by stratagem or force, he would only yield the
effort with his life. Day and night he forced his march
through the entanglements of the forest, heeding but little the
discordant howls of the beasts of prey as darkness ensued,
but invigorated rather than discouraged by the solitude, and
by the strength of mind and hope with which rightness of
purpose arms the soul of man.

He had been traveling several days, when, one morning,
while the dews yet sparkled on the leaves, he emerged upon
an open glade. This grassy interval in the recesses of the
woods was a luxury to him, for he had not seen the sun since
he quitted the Hudson; but a fatal signal soon warned him
that he was near an enemy’s country. At the opposite end
of this opening, upon the branch of a stately oak, was sus-
pended the body of a man. Adam approached the spectacle
—it was hideous to behold. The tongue was protruding and
half eaten, the eyes were extracted from the head, and the
cheek-bones of the face left bare, and, added to these distor-
tions, the atmosphere was polluted with the effluvia of decay.
The almost skeleton visage was somewhat upturned, and to
the left breast was appended a circular paper, upon which
was conspicuously written these words of ignominy : “A spy.”

“Poor, wretched and perfidious man !” exclaimed Adam ;
“nothing can be said in extenuation of your crime but that
your integrity was tempted by the gold of those who had as
little morality as yourself.”
 

  

A GANOE WANTED. 47

Adam was soon again in the concealment of the forest,
contending against its obstructions with great vehemence,
endeayoring to chase from his thoughts the revolting object
which he had just witnessed ; but the figure seemed ever to
swing before his eyes, as if typical of the fate that awaited
‘him for venturing so near a hostile camp. But, although
for many days and nights he was unable to banish this vision
from his mind, or the taint of its rottenness from his nostrils,
still his resolution to deliver Isabelle or perish was unshaken.
However, it induced him to proceed with redoubled caution ;
he advanced only by night, and in the day sought, like the
animals of prey, the gloomy shelter of some almost impene-
trable fastness. But soon he heard, as he lay hidden in his
lair, the querulous roar of waters, and then he well knew that
he was not far from the St. Lawrence, whose lengthy rapids
contribute so much to class her as one of the most exciting
rivers in the world.” That eyening he ventured from his den
rather earlier than had been of late his wont,.that te might
ascertain, before the setting of the sun, on which part of the
noble river he had debouched. It was the hoarse yoice of
that famous rapid “Long Saut” which he had heard, and
which now opened before him in a frowning defiance that he
dared not contend against.

Adam had no alternative but to proceed up the river above -
the rapids, or travel down its banks to Lake St. Francis,
which is very wide. However, he determined to adopt the
latter plan, as he believed that the tribe who had made
Isabelle their captive dwelt somewhere on the banks of the
Ottawa, and thither he determined to proceed. He had now
to guard as much against the cunning Indian as the watchful
English, and had to adyance so stealthily as to make his journey
very tedious ; still, he arrived on the verge of the lake without
casualty. He was dextrous in the management of a boat; but,
unfortunately, nothing of the kind presented itself to his view.
He was well aware of the caution of the Indians to cross
from side to side and conceal their boats for many days until
their return ; but they were so ingenious in selecting hiding-
places, and marked them with contrivances so much like
those of nature rather than of art, that there was little hope
of detecting one of these, even admitting that there might be

 

  
 

 

 

Fp SE ST

   

48 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

one upon the shore, Yet he considered his undertaking of
such a sacred character that he made every effort to attain its
object, and sought, with untiring patience, all that day for some
means of crossing the lake. At night he watched for miles
along the shore, hoping to observe the arrival of something
that he might seize for his own use, and when day again
afforded him sufficient light, he resumed his search, until,
thoroughly fatigied and wholly unsuccessful, he sat down
upon what he supposed a tree, almost in despair, when sud-
denly he discovered that his resting-place, the very seat on
which he was giving utterance to so much lamentation, was
the object of his solicitude—a canoe—so artfully secreted that
nothing but accident could have led to its disclosure.

Adam was rejoiced that he had overcome the sagacity of
his rivals, and when night had spread her mantle upon the
lake and upon the land, and he considered that the hour of
safety had arrived, he dragged the canoe to the river’s edge,
and laynched it upon its surface. He leaped in, seized the
paddles, and commenced moving from the shore. The
moment was propitious; another instant might haye been fatal
to his ‘efforts, and to himself. He had not proceeded more
than fifty yards on the lake, when two Indians, furious with
rage, appeared on the bank, and plunged into the water to
recover their boat; but Adam was a dextrous oarsman, and
he found that, notwithstanding their expertness in the water,
they were soon convinced of the uselessness of their exer-
tions.

The lake, at this point, was more than five miles in width,
and the darkness was so profound that it was impossible for

, Adam to distinguish his course. On one or two occasions he

found himself under the influence of strong currents, but he
conquered those dangers, and after seyeral hours’ severe labor
arrived safely on the Canadian shore; but being too much
exhausted to haul up the canoe, or to undertake any other
labor, he moored it beside the bank, and throwing himself on
the bottom, was soon in deep slumber. When he awoke, it
was with alarm that he beheld the sun high above the horizon ;
but all seemed quiet. and peaceful. The boat had drifted
beneath some overhanging branches, by which it was wholly
concealed, and in this sheltered situation, Adam began to
 

   

A TRANSFORMATION. 49

examine into the nature of the material of which his bed had
been composed. To his astonishment he found the full
uniform of a British officer, together with his sword, which,
in all probability, the owners of the boat had pillaged from
some of the garrisons, affecting, at the same time, to be
confederates of the English.

Adam regarded this as a most fortunate incident. He was
aware that no stranger was more acceptable in an Indian
village than a British officer, who had contrived to impress
them with a reverence for his importance, which was greatly
aided by the elegance of his costume. He consequently
determined to impersonate the rank of the owner of these
accouterments, and, thus gayly attired, to prosecute his march
more boldly, and by day instead of laboring under the disad-
vantages of traveling by night. He therefore went on shore,
found an appropriate hiding-place for his canoe, which he
might again require, and, after hauling it on shore and secret-
ing it, he commenced his toilet as an Englishman, by which
he at least changed his coat though unmoved in his principles.

The danger on the Canadian side of the St. Lawrence was
not so great as on that which Adam Morton had just quitted.
It was unlikely that he would encounter the English, and he
thought that he could sufficiently propitiate the Indians by the
importance of his assumed character. He, therefore, with
more confidence, resumed his journey in search of Isabelle. He
directed his course toward the Ottawa river, where he knew
there was an Indian village, and where he hoped to obtain
such intelligence as might guide his future movements.

One evening, just as the sun was tipping the summit of the
trees with its last tints of gold, he found that he was approach-
ing an Indian village. Hope lightened his step and made
joyous his heart. The evening was warm; but by the time
he had reached the opening, whence he could look down upon
the wigwams of the Indians, it had become dark. He knew
it was unsafe to advance unless he could be distinguished, for
as these people valued life but little, especially that of others,
he might be sacrificed as a foe even in the guise of a friend,
and some slight atonement for the error when life was gone
thought a sufficient recompense. He, therefore, placed him-
self in the deep shadow of a tree on a mound at the entrance

  
SS

 

 

 
  
  
   
  
 
 
   
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
    

50 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

to the village, and there awaited an opportunity to introduce
himself to one of their braves, that he might assure himself of
the protection and respect usually accorded to his cloth, or
rather to the cloth he wore.

It was evident that some ceremony was about to be per-
formed, for many torches were burning in the area in front
of the huts, and the Indians were forming in a circle, leaving
the center unoccupied, as if that were reserved for some
special purpose. Adam was wishing to join this general
meeting, when a slight touch upon the shoulder made him
leap from the spot where he thought he had been standing so
secure and so alone. So intent was he upon the proceedings
in front, that he could not anticipate such a salutation from
behind.

“My brother fright!” ejaculated a creature dark as the
night, apparently well pleased to detect in an English officer
a less stoic nature than that usually displayed by an Indian.

Adam Morton, however, for a time could not respond. He
could not so immediately recover from the astonishment pro-
duced by this peculiar whisper in his ear at a moment when
he thought all engaged at the council in the front. The
silence of Adam gaye rise to yet further exultation in the
Indian, who repeated :

“My brother fright !”

This second exclamation aroused Adam from his surprise,
for it conveyed to him the pleasing conviction that his English
costume had been recognized, and procured his acknowledg-
ment as a fellow-warrior; but that his courage might not be
doubted by these susceptible people, who are so apt to form
their judgment from the surface of things, he replied :

“No, no, not frightened. A soldier is neyer frightened.
He is by nature fearless like your braves; but I thought you
were all there, and wondered what could touch me;” and
Adam pointed toward the circle.

“Me everywhere,” said the Indian, casting his arms around
to give emphasis to his words, and as if to impress Adam that
he was something more than ordinary men.

“Except by our council-fire,” observed Adam, sarcastically,
and added, “there my brother does not warm himself.”

“Our braves must come home sometimes,” said the Indian,
¥
 

  

THE INDIAN VILLAGE. 51

somewhat chagrined, supposing that the allusion was to their
abandonment of General Burgoyne. “Indian enemies as well
as white man. White man fight white man. Indian fight
Indian sometimes.”

“But I come to smoke with my brother,” ventured Adam,
and to talk with him.”

“Good, my brother,” replied the Indian.

The chief now led him toward the circle. Those who were
seated gazed upon him in the usually unmoved manner of an
Indian ; but when the chief conducted Adam to a seat among
the elders, and possibly gave some signal to his tribe to afford
so distinguished a visitor a less silent welcome, they unbent in
their affected apathy, and simultaneously greeted his arrival
by exclaiming :

“ Brother !”

This friendly congratulation of the tribe gaye additional
assurance to Adam that he had, for the present at least,
defeated the cunning of his wary associates, and with this feel-
ing he seated himself in the council.

Indian diplomacy is never rapid. There are preliminaries
very irksome to an ardent temperament in approaching the
subject; but this delay suited Adam, who required time for
thought in the fabrication of a treaty. He therefore accepted
the pipe of peace with becoming gravity, inhaled its fumes,
and arranged his plans; and when he discovered that the
business of the conclaye was renounced for the more interest-
ing ceremony of the import of his mission, he said:

“T come to ask the aid of my friendly brothers.”

“Our young men tired,” said the chief; “our scalps so
many,” and he pointed tpward toward the shining stars,
“and our wigwams no meat.”

“The great captain has meat,” said Adam; “he will feed
your braves, and when you return to your wigwams, you
shall have many gifts. The great captain likes his bray
brothers, and hopes to see,them.” ;

“Great captain good man, great brave,” said the subtle
chief, “ but Indian want meat here.”

The chief had advanced in diplomacy in his connection
with his more educated allies, and acting upon a policy purely
European, he demanded to be subsidized before he quitted the

 

  
 

 

52 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

peaceful quiet of his forest-home, and assumed the war-paint
for the defense of others.

“My brothers,” said Adam, “will listen to me, and then I
will bear your wishes to the great captain, and he will do all
that his brothers desire.”

This generous promise caused much satisfaction, and Adam
was explaining to the chief the services that would be required
of him in the next campaign, when the chief, perceiving
some little impatience in the council, rose abruptly, and
exclaimed :

“Me think till morning.”

The assemblage immediately dispersed, leaving Adam and
the chief the sole occupiers of the ground. The latter led
Adam to his wigwam, procured him food, honored him with
his society, though with little of his conversation, and eyentu-
ally strewing a corner of the room with dried grasses and leaves
to form a bed, he quitted his guest for the night.

Adam was charmed at the success of his stratagem, and he
determined to use every effort to conclude a treaty with these
tardy warriors on the following day, that he might then
proceed to his inquiries in reference to Isabelle. He was
therefore prepared to be unsparing in his adulation of their
military valor, and liberal in his promises of reward for their
services. With these thoughts chasing each other in his
mind, and affected somewhat by the soporific herbs which
formed his pillow, he sunk into a slumber from which he did
not awake until the morning dawned.

His first object, after rising from his littered corner, was to
gaze from the aperture in the room which admitted light and
air. Early as it was, he perceived two females standing upon
the mound where he had been accosted by the chief on the
previous evening. The dew was heavy on the grass, and the
air was dense with moisture, but it seemed to be disregarded
by the ladies, who were intent in conversation. The curiosity
of Adam was aroused, and he watched the maidens until they
descended the hillock. They were so concealed with mantles
on their heads, to protect them from the damp, that he could
not distinguish even their color. The house in which he
abode was the first in the village, and this they approached,
and he soon heard the gentle murmur of their voices, When

   

a

  
 

  

THE CAPTIVE FOUND. 58

~ near his hut they paused, and one of the females pointed with
an Indian finger, saying :

“Him there. . Come from great King George chief. Much
gold. Want buy Indian braves to fight whites over river.
Indian warrior very brave. All want Indian warrior.”

“Yes,” replied a sweet voice which made the heart of
Adam leap with joy, “he wants your braves to fight against
my people. He is one of those who burnt my home and
village.”

“Then you bad to great King George,” replied the Indian,
with malicious vehemence. “Him very rich, and love Indian.
You kill him bravye—him burn your house—right.”

“But where does this stranger rest?” said the other female,
looking incredulously at the open window, as if she thought
it could not be there. “Although my country’s foe, he will
not deny aid to one of her poor daughters in distress. I will
endeavor to awaken a solicitude in his heart, that I can not in
one of your race.”

“Wait till young chief come, Bell,” said the Indian.

“When does he return?” demanded the other.

“He come another sun; bring many scalps,” replied the
Indian girl.

The Indian girl uttered this with an exultation that made
her companion shudder. To the one no trophy was more
indicative of the prowess of the warrior, nor more acceptable
to the girl of his heart, than these barbarous evidences of his
mercilessness. But to the other, who had been educated
under different influences, they were only exhibitive of a brutal
nature. The Indian girl returned to the mound, as if in
search for something she had lost, and her companion, stand-
ing beneath the orifice which gave light to Adam’s room,
exclaimed, in a voice scarcely above a whisper:

“ Stranger.”

“Who speaks ?” demanded Adam, greatly agitated.

“One who is friendless,” replied the female.

“But why address me?” asked Adam.

“To implore assistance in my despair,” said the female.

“What is your name?” said Adam, still remaining unseen,
“ And how came you here ?”

“A name unknown to you,” said the female. ‘“Tsabelle, a

 

 

   
i
H
i

 

 

 

Be a GT

54 THE MAID OF ESOPUS. .

poor prisoner, a stolen girl, whose village having been buru
by your remorseless soldiery, afforded an opportunity for these
savages to seize me and convey me here, and I am now
doomed to wed one of their absent chiefs.”

The last words were of magic force, and Adam was about
to declare himself, and exhibit his face at the window, when
he feared that a disclosure so sudden and abrupt might be
injurious in its consequences, although the joy he felt at again
meeting Isabelle scarcely allowed him sufficient calmness to
maintain the concealment, but he again said in a feigned tone
of voice : ‘

“JT pity your position, maiden, and be assured that I will
assist you to the utmost of my: power.”

“Thank you, thank you, valiant enemy or gallant friend,”
exclaimed Isabelle, with deep feeling. “If your king had
subjects like yourself, he would have no enemies upon our
bleeding soil.”

“But I have a revelation to make,” said Adam. “Dare
you listen ?”

“Surely, noble stranger,” said Isabelle, “ you will not reduce
the ardor of my joy to painful doubt?”

“T wish but to inspire confidence and to increase your
hope,” said Adam.

“Your pardon, generous foe,” said Isabelle; “my thoughts
shall not again do you an injustice.”

“Tsabelle,” said Adam, no longer disguising his voice, “I
am not the stranger you conceive. I have assumed a char-
acter in search of you. Does this reyeal my name ?”

“Can it be Adam Morton?” gasped Isabelle, almost over-
come with the gratefulness of this knowledge.

“Tt is,” replied Adam, as he appeared at the window.

“Then I am saved,” exclaimed Isabelle.

Isabelle eould not repress a violent scream, and she would
have fallen, had not the Indian girl that instant returned and
caught her reeling form in her arms, and, with an activity and
strength that could not be inferred from her appearance, so
quickly conveyed her to her hut, that when Adam appeared
outside, which seemed to him but an instant, nothing was to

‘be seen. The cry, though loud and piercing, had excited no
sensation among those unimpassionate people, and neither the

a
 

  

ee AN ANOMALOUS DOCTRINE. 55

curiosity nor the feeling of the women had induced them to
appear at either door or window to inquire into the cause of
that shrill voice of agony uttered by one of their own sex.

Adam stood wondering at the almost magic agency by
which Isabelle had so quickly become invisible, when the
chief approached, and looked somewhat inquiringly into the
face of Adam, who immediately commenced an explanation,
concluding with an expression of astonishment that a girl of
English birth should be a sojourner in the village. The
chief was abashed at this observation, and made some attempt
/ to withdraw Adam’s attention from the subject; but perceiy-
ing his resolution to obtain some response, he endeayored to
appease his curiosity by remarking: |

“White woman; yes, but enemy of great captain—hate
great captain.” ,

“ But, my brother,” said Adam, gravely, “the braves of the
great captain are neyer the enemies of women. They war
not with the daughters, but with the sons of the white people
on the other side of the river. They ever defend women;
according to their maxim the maiden in my brother’s settle-
ment is their sister, although they war with her brother.”

This logic was incomprehensible to the chief. How it was
possible to impale the brother and extend so much tenderness
to the sister of the same family he could not imagine, although
he seemed to think deeply on the subject; but he had found
many things reconcilable to English notions in warfare that
were wholly at variance with his, and therefore he added this
anomalous doctrine to the many strange feelings he had seen
indulged by his powerful ally. Still perceiving that a feeling
of sympathy had entered the heart of his guest in favor of
the white maiden, he warily remarked:

“We very careful of white maiden. Young chief love
her”

Adam could not conceal his disgust, and quickly demanded
of the chief in a tone less conciliatory than his former studied
softness :

“Why does not the young chief wed with one of your own
maidens, who know better how to esteem his valor then the
white maiden, who is more attached to her own people than
those of the stranger ?” \

 

  
   

“Then to-night shall be that of our escape. Be ready at

be successful.”

_ “Brother,” said the chief, when Adam had rejoined him,
while he displayed much anxiety in his manner, “ what say
white maiden ?”

“That the young chief, who is her sniiGk: will return to-
night,” replied Adam.

The response was so rapid, and, apparently, so truthful,
that the chief was quite disarmed of any previous suspicion
that he might have entertained as to the subject of the con-
yersation, and smiled as he observed :

“White maiden like see scalps.” s 3

Iv was not wantonness that led to the abduction of Isabelle.
The unsettled state of the country at this period caused it to
be traversed by scouts, spies, skinners, and other idle, design-
ing and abandoned characters, and frequently by small parties Ree:
of Indians, who were as unscrupulous in their liberties with |
the property of others as the worthless wanderers whom we
have just enumerated. It was in one of these marauding
excursions that a young Indian chief had seen and admired

age and his great sagacity both in war and council, and his
name alone was a terror to other tribes and a safeguard to his
But, although furious in the field, he had a heart well
suited to the softer pastimes of civil life, and often descended
to a playfulness and humor which were wondered at in him,
and would have been severely censured by the elders of his
tribe if indulged in by any warrior less mighty than himself.
This young chief had revisited Esopus on several occasions
to gaze upon this artless and beautiful maiden, the unconscious
goddess of his heart, and had returned refreshed and satisfied

   

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

Be firm, be cautious, and I doubt not that we shall

CHAPTER) VALI.

THE SABLE LOVER.

He was revered by his tribe for his dauntless cour-

 
 

 

 

  

EXPLANATIONS.

with this Platonic indulgence of his ardent passion, Accom-
panied by a few companions, he had taken this route home-
ward on his return from Burgoyne’s army, with no other
thought than to feed his eyes with the beauty of the white
maiden; but when hé arrived, he found that another detach-
ment of his allies, the English—to whom he did not disclose
himself—had applied the firebrand to the whole village. He
saw the desolation and confusion—he saw, too, the contention
of Marcus and Adam in the garden, and the determined con-
duct of Isabelle in their separation, and it did not escape his
jealous eye that a rivalship in love for Isabelle contributed a
ferocity to the ardor with which the soldiers fought. Fire
came into the young chief’s eyes as he gazed from the bound-
aries of the forest upon the incidents at the foot of the hill on
which he stood. The temptation to seize on Isabelle and
bear her from these combatants to his own home crossed his
mind. He followed its impulse, and, rushing toward the
house, he entered at the rear, and encountered Isabelle just as
she had returned from the front where Marcus and Adam had
been fighting. The chief with his powerful arm encircled
her waist. She uttered-a scream and fainted, and he retreated
to the woods. One of his followers, with a characteristic
proneness to. mischief. and destruction, fired the house, and
wantonly consigned it to the ruin to which the hamlet was
deyoted, and which increased the confusion and covered more
effectually the retreat of the Indians, although, as afterward
transpired, they were not unseen.

While the village was burning, the incendiaries escaping, and
the frenzied Adam was searching every niche of the Highlands
in the hope of discovering the abductor of Isabelle, the unsus-
pected delinquent passed the Hudson unobstructedly in the
darkness of the night, and it was not until the cool air of the
river fanned the fair face of Isabelle that she returned to
consciousness. She soon became alarmed when she perceived
the dark forms of her captors, and in the wildness of despair
implored that she might be reconducted to her home. The
tall figure of the chief was soon beside her. He placed his
hand upon his heart and pointed toward heaven, as if he were
invoking the Great Spirit to witness his sincerity and faith.
A groan escaped Isabelle as the feelings of horror entered into

 

  
 

  

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

her heart, and she again sunk into insensibility. With great
dexterity, however, the Indians formed a species of palanquin
with the branches and leaves of trees, and, stretched upon
this, she was borne rapidly through the woods, as if upon a
bier to her grave. During her progress she recovered her
consciousness; but she awoke to such agonies and to such
prostration that insensibility was the only state she coveted.

At length they reached the village of the tribe, and Isabelle
was consigned chiefly to the care of an Indian girl, whose
kindness and unceasing deyotion began to make impression
upon. her sensibilities. But, although she was grateful to this
simple Indian maiden for the attention she bestowed, the
mental comfort which she was no doubt instructed to admin-
ister only increased the anguish of her soul. Sorrow was ©
deep in her heart, and to all the exhortations of her attendant
she responded that nothing would relieye her torture but
liberty or death.

The Indian girl expressed great astonishment that Isabelle
should not esteem the distinguished honor of the love of the
young chief, whose dauntless bravery and wisdom her tireless
tongue was ever lauding, and with an ardency, too, that
taught Isabelle to think that the poor girl spoke from other
inducements than her wish to attract a stranger to his heart.

“Why you not love young chief?” the girl asked, one day.
“He handsome—he great chief—very great—wise in every
thing. He bring home much scalps—much fine things. He
make wigwam very happy.” ;

“Urge me no more, my sister,’ said Isabelle—‘“ the associ-
ation is repugnant to my feelings. To me his person has no
beauty, nor his valor excellence. Those scalps, which you
greet with such enthusiasm, are to me the trophies of barbar-
ism, and the fine things which you. think would confer
happiness on his wigwam, would seem to me but the plunder
of the slain. Why does not this young chief wed with a
daughter of his tribe and color, who can appreciate his
qualities ? Why does he steal from her home a maid whose
habits, feelings and predilections are so irreconcilable to his
own? Why, my sister, does he not see those perfections in
you as a woman, that you so admire in him as a man, and
grace his wigwam with you instead of me 2”

 

  

 
 

 

  

_ THE YOUNG CHIEF.

The poor girl hung down her head, and a tear fell from
her eye. Isabelle read a secret history from the emotion
exemplified by this patient sufferer. It was the evidence of
deep. affection in a heart that had been pleading a cause
destructive to its own happiness. 3

“You are the daughter of a chief,’ continued Isabelle,
“almost as famous as himself, and a far more fit companion
for this young chief than I. Your tastes and prepossessions are
those of the women of his race; and where I should abhor
him you can admire.”

The Indian girl smiled as Isabelle thus argued that she
was more worthy of the young chief’s love than herself; but

she quickly repressed that sign of pleasure, and remarked :
“What, you no like scalps? You not brave’s daughter.”

“Indeed, I am a warrior’s daughter !” exclaimed Isabelle,
with pride; “and a warrior’s sister, too, and I like to hear of
their glorious achievements; but we maim not the body of
our victim — we give him honorable burial where he falls.
If our soldiers were to act otherwise, they would be thought
unfit for honorable warfare.”

But further colloquy upon this subject was disturbed by
the entrance of the young chief. Although Isabelle had been
in the village two or three weeks, he had not before presented.
himself, but intrusted the pleading of his cause entirely to
others. There was a delicacy in his forbearance ; but Isabelle
only thought of the violence of his theft. Fierce as he was
in war, and fearlessly as he ever spoke in the council among the
chiefs, his elders, he was awed before the loveliness of Isabelle,
and, approaching her timidly, he said :

“Young chief leave village this night.”

Isabelle, who had assumed a stern aspect, smiled at the
welcome intelligence ; and the Indian girl glided silently from
the room.

“ Sister no sorry ?” suggested the chief, as he surveyed the
face of Isabelle. .

““ Why should I grieve ?’ demanded Isabelle. ‘ One sor-
row only fills my heart, and that you have caused me.”

“Sister happy with young chief,’ said the chief.

“Neyer !” responded Isabelle, with an expression of
indignation,

 

  
   

   

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

The firmness of that voice, and the absolute manner in
which the word was pronounced, disturbed the tranquil nature
of the hearer. He gazed upon the flushed countenance of
Isabelle, and then, in an impassioned manner, exclaimed :

“ Sister dear to young. chief heart! Young chief know her
long—seen her much. Young chief look at white sister when
no one see—he sigh—he go home. Chiefs want young chief
to fight. Can not fight without sister love. ‘No tell chiefs
that or they angry with white sister.”

There was a gallantry in the conduct of the chief worthy
of admiration ; but Isabelle felt only as a prisoner who had
been unjustly dragged from her home, and was now compelled
to listen to the repulsive pleadings of a forest savage. She
therefore indignantly replied :

“Tf you desire a companion in your hut, seek one from
the maidens of the village who are of your own color, and
who love you.”

“Heart only say white maiden,” said the young chief.

“The Indian girl who has just left me is worthy of your
choice,” said Isabelle.

“She sweet maid,” said the chief.

“She is one of your tribe, and the daughter of a chief,”
continued Isabelle.

“White maiden love Indian girl?” asked the young chief.

“Yes,” responded Isabelle.

“White maiden love young chief if take — girl to him
wigwam ?” demanded the young chief.

“J think I should then esteem you both,” replied Isabelle,
with such smiles of happiness upon her countenance as had
not dwelt there since her sojourn in this dismal village.

The young chief was delighted. He thought that he now
heard all his hopes confirmed, and that it was only necessary
for him to concede his affection to the Indian girl as well as
to Isabelle to be beloved by both. The condition, as under-
stood by him, was by no means uncongenial to his nature. The
amplitude of his heart was equal to this double love, and to
gain the one he willingly admitted the contingency of the other,

At this juncture of the young chief’s happiness the dulcet
Indian syllable, “ Ugh !” met his ear, which signified that his
companion braves were ready for the march. The call of

 
 

 

AGONIZING SUSPICION. 68

duty is imperative in an Indian, and the summoned warrior,
gallantly kissing his hand to the favored Isabelle, resumed his
dignity of demeanor, and placed himself at the head of his
little host, who, in single file, soon disappeared in the shadows
of the forest. -

It was not until the young chief had left her that Isabelle
began to revolve in her mind all that had passed, and the
cause of that sudden satisfaction expressed by her dark
admirer when she suggested the Indian girl as a more befitting -
bride for him than herself; then a fearful suspicion arose that
the young chief had misconstrued her words—that he had
accepted them as an enticement to a double marriage—an act
of bigamy. In affright and horror she made an effort to
follow the misguided chief and correct his inference ; but she
found that he had passed from her view, and she knew that
to attempt to impede these savages on a war-path would be
fatal to the intruder.

While the&e agonies tore her heart, as she stood at the hut
door gazing toward the wood, the Indian girl appeared, and
to her she communicated her grief. Pleasure sparkled in her
dark and expressive eye as she contemplated the delight of
sharing the bridal honors with the white maiden; but her
feelings of hilarity were quickly banished when Isabelle
declared that such suggestions were insulting to the delicacy
of woman.”

“ Sister want young chief all herself?” asked the Indian
girl, with a desponding countenance.

“ Foolish girl!” exclaimed Isabelle, with an expression of
abhorrence upon her crimsoned face, “I want to be deliv-
ered from the young chief, from this village, and from the
oppression from which I am now suffering.”

But this avowal did not soothe the fears of the Indian
maiden. She loved the towering chief, so mighty in his
tribe, so great in war and council, yet so kind and gentle in
times of peace, and she now apprehended that if Isabelle
violated the one half the compact and refused the chief, that
he might not regard the other moiety as binding, and decline
its consummation. Isabelle saw that there was torture in the
poor girl’s mind, and she thought the moment favorable to
impress her with the advantage to be rid of such a rival as
herself. She therefore said :

 

 
64 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

“Why am I here between the love of my sister and the
young chief? Let my sister assist me to escape, and then
she will haye’no oné to trouble the heart of the young chief.
He will love my sister. Why should I not begone ?”

For a moment there was a feeling of hesitation in the girl
addressed, and her beautiful eyes expressed toward Isabelle a
tribute of gratitude. But loftier feelings than those of self-
indulgence seemed’ immediately to govern her, and though
her own happiness might tutor the retreat of Isabelle, she
could not betray the trust reposed in her.

“ Sister unhappy,” she replied—“ both unhappy; but if
Indian girl heart break she true to tribe and to young chief.”

With this expression of fidelity the poor girl retired, and
Isabelle mourned her forlorn and helpless condition in tears of
sorrow.

Isabelle made no further mention of escape. She assumed
a contentment and happiness she did not feel, that she might
the more successfully disarm her subtle custodians of their’
suspicions. She was allowed unbridled liberty, but she soon
found that it was the freedom of the cage, and that watchful
eyes were ever on her track; but this did not prevent the
severity of her perambulations, although it made her prudent
in conducting them, for she never ventured to any distance
unaccompanied, and even displayed an anxiety to enlist as
many of the maidens as could be induced to join her. By
this policy she gained the confidence of the tribe, who did not
imagine that their fair prisoner was training herself to an
endurance that might enable her to abandon their filial care.
the instant she heard of the approach of the absent warrior.

One evening, as Isabelle was sitting alone in her hut, think-
ing that her energies would be soon tested, as the return of
the young chief was expected, the Indian girl hastily entered
and exclaimed :

“White man come !”

“ Who ?” inquired Isabelle, as her heart became painfully
agitated.

“White brave,” replied the Indian girl.

“ Where is he? Where does he come from ?” exclaimed
Isabelle.

“Come from great captain—friend of Indian,” replied the
girl. ‘“ Want Indian fight for him—young chief not home.”

 
 

THE BEACON-STONE.

The hopes of Isabelle abated as she learned that the visitor
came from the English camp; but she would not permit her-
self to think that one of her own color, feelings and religion,
would sanction her @etention by these barbarous people as
their prisoner. To him she determined to appeal, and for
this purpose she induced.the Indian to attend her the follow-
ing morning on an early ramble. But when Isabelle ascer-
tained that this officer was one whom she well knew—her
own good and faithful friend—her countryman—a true son of
independence, and the patriot brother of her race, she knew
that he had introduced himself among these unfriendly Indi-
ans at the hazard of his life, and in her apprehension of the
danger to which he was exposed, a scream escaped her, and
she sunk helplessly into the arms of the Indian girl, who was
ignorant of the cause of this sudden and unusual indisposition.

CHAPTER IX.
2 A NIGHT OF INCIDENTS.

In the middle of the night, when darkness: and quietness
pervaded the village of the Indians, when all were enwrapped
in slumber, Adam Morton, who had awaited this solemn pe-
riod, that he might be the more secure from detection, stole
.from the hut assigned, to him as an illustrious visitor, and ap-
proached the building which he knew to be inhabited by Isa-
belle. Well knowing the cunning, suspicious and watchful
character of his entertainers, he was most careful to examine
the position in the course of the day, and to place, as if by
accident, a large stone opposite the window of the room occu-
pied by Isabelle. For this guide-stone he now searched in
vain, and he almost feared that the jealous espionage of this
artful peeple had caused them to observe and put a doubtful
construction upon so simple a circumstance as a misplaced
stone. It was too dark to perceive any thing.. The heavens
were blackly clouded—not a star shone forth, and the earth
was enveloped in a mantle of deep and impenetrable obscu-

 

 
   

  

66 THE MAID OF RSOPUS.

rity. The removal of this beacon would have been fatal to
his intention, had he not remembered that the hut of Isabelle
was the seventh from his own. He must speak with Isabelle,
and, to accomplish this, he had to return to his own room,
and to advance thence until he reached the seventh. This
effected, again he sought the stone, but it was evidently gone;
and, with the perspiration streaming from his forehead, despite
the severity of the wind, he slightly scratched upon the
boarded window, sufficiently, he thought, to arouse the hopes
of a mind tortured with anxieties. He paused; then, hearing
no response, he repeated the almost soundless signal, that the
inmate might not attribute this slight noise to accident. Life
was in the room—he heard a movement; some one advanced
toward the closed shutter, and, in a voice scarcely louder than-
the sign that Adam gave, yet with melody in the whisper,
exclaimed : ,

“Who is there ?”

“ Adam Morton,” was the reply.

“Ah, I recognize the voice of my daring friend,” said
Isabelle. “Iam prepared, good Adam.”

“One word, Isabelle,” said Adam; “did you observe a
small stone near your window ?” ~

“T did not, Adam,” replied Isabelle; “but the Indian girl
trod upon one there and cast it away. Was there any hidden
meaning in so insignificant an object ?” ,

“Tt only marked your dwelling,” said Adam, his feelings
much relieved, “which I have found by other means.”

“Ts all prepared for our departure?” asked Isabelle.

“TI come to postpone it until to-morrow night,” replied
Adam. “

“Oh, torture unendurable,” exclaimed Isabelle. “Why,
Adam, this delay? Why is not this darkness, this slumbering
hour, and this night propitious to our flight ?”

“ All you enumerate are favorable to escape, Isabelle,” said
Adam ; “‘ but there is an obstacle that we may not surmount.
To-night the return of a chief is anticipated, and I fear that
if we should encounter him in the forest, our chance of liberty
would be gone.”

_ “Ts the young chief so near his return?” gasped Isabelle.
“Oh, you know not what daggers you have planted in my

 

 
 

oe

   

 

 

7

STEALTHY FOOTSTEPS. 67

heart. He seeks my hand, and conceives, upon the authority
of some words which he too hastily misconstrued, that he has
my pledge of faith. It was this young chief—somewhat less
barbarous than those of his savage race—who stole me from
my home when the village was in flames; and, to avoid see-
ing him again, and listen to the persecution of his love, I
have trained myself to run and walk, and endure fatigue with
a discipline as severe as man ever practiced who sought honor
in the Olympic games of ancient Greece; and now that I
thought deliverance had come, I find but a vision.”

Adam was alarmed at the despondency exhibited by Isa-
belle. Her wailings and sorrow went to his heart; but he
dared not consent to leave that night, for he thought the
danger to her would be too great.

“Tsabelle”’ he whispered, through the interstices of the
shutter, “look back into your heart; remember the courage
of your valiant race; recall to your memory their noble
deeds, and then I am sure their heroism will be sustained in
their daughter.”

“ Adam,” said Isabelle, ‘I stand rebuked; but I had fed
so many hours upon the dainty fare of -hope, that I sickened
at the change of diet. But when may I expect redemption
from this bondage ?” ‘

“To-morrow, Isabelle,” said Adam; “as early to-morrow
night as sleep seals the eyes of our enemies, be you prepared.
Let us take as much food as we can conceal without suspi-
cion, for the forest affords little but water, and the journey is
a fearful one—far too severe for one so delicate as you. But
farewell, Isabelle, until to-morrow.”

“Farewell, farewell, Adam,” said Isabelle; “fear me not
as a traveler.”

Adam retreated to his hut, and well that he did; for not a
minute after he heard stealthy footsteps pass his door. They
paused at his window, but he remained profoundly quiet ;
scarcely a breath escaped him. The footsteps, however,
passed on. He dared not remove the shutter, which\ was
closed, nor open the door, which might prove noisy; 80, di-
vesting himself of his coat, he stood ready to exhibit himself
in midnight dishabdille should occasion require it. Soon the
same almost noiseless steps returned, again paused, and,
hearing no sound, in a subdued voice exclaimed :
 

  

THD MAID OF ESOPUS.

“ Brother !”

Adam leaped from the bed on which he had seated himself,
and purposely made some little noise, and then responded :

“Friend, I come!”

He then raised his rifle, unfastened the door, and in another
instant was in the air beside the Indian chief.

There was no distinction in feature visible, so profound
was the obscurity ; but each recognized the voice of the other.
The Indian, accustomed as he was to rapid military tactics,
was more astonished than he chose in his stoic nature to con-
fess, when he perceived the stranger equipped ready for the
field almost as soon as the gentle summons had left his mouth.
The chief approached Adara, laid his hand upon his shoulder
as if to enjoy the pleasure of a closer contact, aad said :

“Brother never sleep—good brave—great man.”

“What causes my brother to pe out to-night?” inquired
Adam.

“Heard noise—heard footsteps,” said the chief; “young
man sleep—squaw sleep—chief never sleep.”

“Tt must have been some animal that passed near the
huts,” suggested Adam.

“ Two feet,” said the chief; “ animal four.”

This perspicuous notation of the chief startled Adam, and
it was well that the darkness of the night concealed the guilt-
iness of his countenance, or this astute student in appearances
might have gained intelligence there. But Adam felt the
necessity of continuing the discourse, and said:

“What footsteps does my brother imagine them to be?”

The chief did not immediately respond; he removed his
hand from the shoulder of Adam, and, after some further hes-
itation, as if he were either. unwilling to speak, or preparing
to charge Adam with the delinquency, he placed his mouth
close to Adam’s ear, and whispered :

“ Brother's spirit.”

“What means my brother?” exclaimed Adam in astonish-
ment, “My spirit could not quit me while I slumbered.
Could the spirit of my brother leave his heart ?”

“ Hope not,” said the chief, in a fearful, solemn voice,

Adam soon found that the chief wished to convey to him
his conviction that the steps proceeded from the unearthly

 

  

 
 

INDIAN SUPERSTITION. 69

portion of himself which had been truant from the body to
which it rightfully belonged, and that he—the imaginative and
superstitious chief—by his truth of ear, had detected this arch
idler in its rambles. No argument of Adam could remove
this impression from the Indian’s mind, and he separated from
his host well satisfied that he so opportunely attributed the
aggression to the ideal instead of the material body.

When morning came, and the chief and Adam again met,
the former regarded his guest with considerable awe. The
pleasing and friendly intercourse which had distinguished
their association no longer existed. The young chief had
not arrived, but the chief did not render him the information,
‘nor did he press his “ brother” to walk in the forest, where it
was his wont to talk over the pleasing theme of the coming
campaign, and of the bounty to his tribe. A solemn thought-
fulness occupied his brow, and, though he feared to refer to
the transactions of the previous night, he could not conceal
the manner in which it influenced him, He was so deeply
impressed at the recollection of the ghostly character of the
midnight visitant, that he dared not to associate with one who
seemed to possess a shadow as active as the substance. Adam
was annoyed that the creative fancy of the foolish chief should
be so stubbornly rooted, for he knew not the degree of swr-
veillance to which it might subject him. It might end in the
detection of his contemplated escape with Isabelle. He now
resolved to address himself to the chief, and to explain to him
that, as the young chief had not yet reached the village, he
should be compelled to leayé without the pleasure of the an-
ticipated interview, and to appoint the approaching day for
his departure. He intended to make no allusion to Isabelle,
so that the subject of his affected mission might be supposed
to oécupy his entire attention. As Adam saw the tall form
of the Indian emerging from the forest, he advanced toward
him, and, without appearing to observe his evident disinclina-
tion for conversation, said :

“Brother, the wigwam of the young chief is still empty.”

“Young chief no come,” said the chief.

“My brother knows how imperative are the orders of a
chief,” said Adam. ‘“ The great captain desired me to stay no
longer in any village than I have sojourned here. I must
leave.”

 
  

70 THE MAID OF. ESOPUS.

The thoughts of the worthy chief seemed to quit the
visionary paths they had been traveling, and to be recalled to
the advantages of the treaty when Adam thus declared his
intention to depart. a

“Brother no go,” said the chief. “Will see young chief.”

“Will the young chief be here before another sun?” asked
Adam.

“ Tyvo sun,” was the laconic response of the chief.

“T can not remain two suns,” said Adam.

The poor chief was really puzzled what to do. His guest
had become fearful, and while he heard him announce with
pleasure his determination to delay his journey no longer, he
could not withdraw his longing from the gilded features of a
compact, which, if ratified, would secure to him an ample
harvest. Adam saw the chief’s face brighten as he gazed on
the gay uniform, upon the bullion epaulets and dainty trim-
mings, which formed his only credentials to that court, and
thought how many of these would soon be his; but there was
an obverse to this flattering side, and that was the adventure
of the previous night. Adam perceived, however, the weak-
ness of his nature, and moralized that in sylvan shades as well
as in mural dwellings, the stronger passion is centered in that
incentive to unrighteousness—gold.

The chief and Adam walked on side by side, the one not
disposed to infringe upon the silence of the other; so for a
time no more was said, and they entered the same hut, ate at
the same board, while each depended on himself for mental
pastime.

CHAPTER X.
THE FLIGHT.

ApAm Morron now exerted himself to remoye from the
mind of the imaginative chief the mischieyous impressions
that made him so restless, and having succeeded partially, he
retired to his apartment with feelings fluttering between hope
and fear. He cast himself upon the mats and grass on which

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
  
     

 
 

ON THE WATCH. 1

he slept, and there silently awaited the hour when he was to
make the effort to restore Isabelle to liberty. All things
seemed hushed; not a sound broke the silence which was so
necessary to his purpose, when, just at the hour of midnight,
the period he had appointed to prepare for his exodus, he
heard steps stealthily approaching his hut. He knew it was
the chief, and a cold perspiration settled on his brow and
chilled his heart, as he feared that this unquiet and suspicious
Indian would cause despair to his beloyed Isabelle. The
Indian paused at the hut, and finding all silent there, he made
a strenuous effort to force the door; but the precaution of
Adam defeated this breach of etiquette. Soon the watcher
removed from the door to the window, but this would not
unclose to such attempts as he ventured to exert. He renewed
his vigil at the door, where, standing in noiseless expectation,
he could only detect such gentle evidences of the placidness
of sleep as Adam in his wakefulness chose to utter. But the
jealous sentinel remained. He had come forth in the mystic
hour of midnight, that he might exorcise this fearful disturber
of his peace, and his ritual had taught the use of no better
weapon for his purpose than the rifle. At length, having
found nothing to increase the suspicion of his mind, nothing
th the air nor in the stranger’s room to excite his wonder, he
abandoned his bleak post, and while the heart of Adam
Morton leaped with joy and gladness, his ear followed the
receding steps, heard them enter the chief’s hut, and then
again all was quietness. :

Adam remained another hour, and not a sound having
broken upon the silence of the night, he went forth. He
approached Isabelle’s hut. She was at the window.

“Tsabelle,” exclaimed Adam, in a whisper so low that his
mouth had almost touched her ear, “are you not periling
your safety ?”

“No, Adam,” responded Isabelle. “I have been concealed
from the chief, whom I heard retire an hour since, and every
thing has been so painfully quiet that I feared you had again
delayed the night of our escape.”

“There is much hazard, Isabelle,” said Adam, “ but we will
not heed it. The utmost prudence is indispensable. Let not
a word be heard. The slightest disturbance would consign

 
  
 
  
 
 
      
      
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
  

 

a eS Sa SIS ETS

Sn

SS EE STE

72 ‘ THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

us to a prison from which it might be impossible to escape.
There is a large tree at some little distance opposite your
window. It is invisible in this darkness, but you know it.
Let that be our place of rendezvous. Be quick, for we are

“late; but above all I implore you to be silent.”

“T will be there in an instant, Adam,” replied Isabelle,
“and will obey your directions implicitly.”

Isabelle was in the greatest agitation when Adam appeared
at her window and whispered solace and liberty in her ear.
She had, in the gloominess of her room, impatiently awaited
the approach of midnight, and when she judged that hour had
come, she heard a step beneath her shutter. She doubted not
the object, and in feverish hope she rushed to unclose it; but
she faltered—there had° been no signal, and she stood with
arms extended toward the latchet until the step passed on, and
then despair darkened the features of her hope. It was not
the valiant Adam. It was another’s footstep, and he was sus-
pected, watched; perhaps detected, killed, for she knew the
madness of these people in their rage. She dared not to look
out upon the night, as she now knew that enemies were
abroad, and she passed an hour of anguish such as has turned
the hair of man from black to white. Then she heard that
fearful step return—it was the chief. She heard him enter
his hut and close its door. Then another hour ensued; but
there was hope'in that, painful. and flickering, but not devoid
of balm. Then Adam came, the light of all this darkness,
and pointed to a haven when the ship was almost wrecked.
His whispering voice was enchantment to her ear, and no
sooner had he again retreated to his hut than Isabelle, with a
softness that scarcely disturbed the air through which she
moved, left the kennel of her sorrows, and was soon beneath
the spreading tree, which outstretched its leafy arms as if to
succor her.

Adam, who had retired from the window to his hut, reached
the tree almost as soon as Isabelle.

“You have moved so lightly, Isabelle,” said Adam, “that I
knew not you were here. I trust we have deceived the wary
ears of our nocturnal persecutor. ‘The hour of midnight, the
fell hour with him, has long passed, and on his dreamy pillow
he is sunk into forgetfulness, while you, his fair ward and

     
 

A PAUSE FOR REST. 13

prisoner, and I, his friend, his guest, and brother, are hasten-
ing from the field of his anxieties.”

“But let us not consume a moment,” supplicated Isabelle.
“At any whim, or from a vision of the night, he may rise and
search our huts, and if we should be pursued and retaken, you °
know the barbarities these hideous savages are capable of
inflicting on their victims.”

Adam saw the justice of this remark, and taking the fair
Isabelle by the hand, he silently led her from the village.
They were two days’ march from the banks of the St.
Lawrence, where was the hidden boat, and Isabelle assured
Adam of her perfect ability to continue her journey until that
goal was reached. Adam, still clad in the habiliments of the
English army, and having a trusty rifle on his arm, hastened
forward, supporting Isabelle in those places where the path
was difficult. They had been four hours in rapid retreat,
when the light of day gradually unfolded, and the bright sun
launched his fiery beams into the air. With the day came
additional fears, as with it their flight would be detected, and
then they knew that they should be pursued with deep
malignity. Thus fear fled as rapidly as revenge could follow.
For more. than twelye hours did the indomitable Isabelle
maintain the race, and even then she would not haye rested,
had not Adam affected an exhaustion unknown to his vigorous
frame. He chose, two hours after midday, a pleasant valley,
from which the density of the forest excluded the burning
sun, and where the crystal waters of a limpid stream rendered
to the parched lips a beverage more refreshing than the golden
wines of the fabulous Jupiter. There their tortured minds
and weary bodies rested, and for a time these sylvan beauties
seemed undisturbed by the turbidness of sorrow. Adam’s
heart was filled with a love for the fair vision before him,
which he had never told, and his noble heart disdained to
influence her affection now that she was so peculiarly under
his protection; nor was he sure that Isabelle was wholly
indifferent to the handsome English officer, whom he had by
implication so deeply wronged. While he thus revolved in
his mind these painful doubts and pleasant hopes, trusting that
the sweet object of his worship would be lulled into sleep by
the peaceful solitude of the spot, forgetting the danger of

 
     
 
  
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
   
    

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

pursuit, a sweet voice admonished him that there was an eye
more watchful than his own. It said, in a soft whisper:

“ Adam.” :

“Tsabelle,” he responded, as he turned, and saw her
reclining on the grass. ;

“T fear there is danger near,” continued Isabelle.

“Good God,” he exclaimed, “impossible ;” and he leaped
up, looked steadily around, as if his thoughts reverted to the
Indian chief.

“TJ saw an Indian peep from yonder tree,” said Isabelle,
pointing with her finger to indicate his hiding-place.

Adam stooped for his rifle, and well he did, for his life was
in that movement; a deadly bullet almost grazed his back as
he bent toward the earth. 3

A scream of terror escaped the fair Isabelle, and then a
second rifle broke upon the air. It was aimed at the
recumbent man, but passed Adam when he was erect, and his
life was again miraculously preserved. Isabelle saw the flash,
involuntarily closed her eyes, and when they were reopened
Adam stood not there. She shuddered like an aspen. She
feared that death—that ghastly monster—had struck her
guardian, and she dared not look upon the earth. But she
struggled against this weakness, rose from the ground on
which she sat, and approached the tree where she last saw
Adam ; she found only his military cap.

Profound silence prevailed, not a sound could be distin-
guished, and none of the combatants reclaimed their prisoner,
though she doubted not that the attacking party was that from
whom they had fled. Still her great agony was at the absence
of her protector. In search of him she rushed from tree to
tree of the mazy forest, calling in piteous wail the name of
Adam, and hoping to find him behind the huge trunk of every
tree she passed; but he was beyond the sound of her sweet
voice or the compass of her eye, and forlorn, wretched, and
seemingly abandoned, she sunk exhausted upon the earth in
utter desolation.

Adam, who had been aroused from his pleasing revery by
the warning voice of Isabelle, leaped from the ground, and at
once saw the glare of hatred from an Indian eye. He stooped
for his rifle, and thus escaped his death; he rose to respond,
THE RIVER REACHED. 75

and the second fatal messenger proved faulty. He boldly
advanced, perceived one of his assailants reloading, and in an
instant shot him through the heart. He recharged his gun,
and proceeded cautiously to.the body of his victim, which
remained untouched, as if no friend were near; Adam was
- well aware that this was not his only enemy, and while he
was hesitating what next to do, he saw a dark human form
receding from tree to tree Adam bounded forward, but the
nimble foe pursued such a devious course, and whirled with
such rapidity among the trees and brushwood of the forest,
that Adam, who now felt assured that his only confederate
was dead, gave up the chase, and returned to Isabelle, whom
he found weeping beneath the tree where she had fallen.
Adam related the cause of his short absence, and regretted
that it had produced anxiety to her, and then their attention
was turned to the necessity of further progress. Adam per-
ceived that the slain Indian was of the tribe they had just
quitted, and that now the incentive of revenge would be added
to the hope of recapture. The escaped Indian would urge
on the pursuers, and nothing but their utmost efforts could
produce success against such crafty enemies. Isabelle was
refreshed, hope gaye her courage, and excitement aided her in
strength, and supported by the help of Adam, she went on
with great rapidity. At length they heard the roar of distant
waters; it was the stream of life to Isabelle, and gave fresh
vigor to her sinking frame, and Adam’s heart shared in the
triumph as he led Isabelle toward the haven where he had so
ingeniously hidden the stolen boat. 5
It was early morning, and these fugitives had journeyed
incessantly since they left the village, and yet so great was
their happiness that they acknowledged no fatigue. Adam
soon attempted to withdraw the boat from its seclusion; but
it would not move. _ It seemed chained to the spot, although
so light to handle that he had not employed one half his
strength to place it there. Its stern was deeper in the
branches than its bow, and the impediment seemed in the
former portion. hither he forced his way that he might at
once release the little bark, and launch Isabelle and himself
upon the waters of safety. With difficulty he reached the
point, placed his shoulder to the stern of the canoe, to force it

 
   
 
  
 
  
    
  
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

THE

 

MAID OF ESOPUS.

through all obstructions, when his feet slipped from under
him ; he fell to the earth, and soon found that he was in the
iron grasp of the inveterate redskins. In an instant he was
tied and rendered helpless—defeated in the hour of victory.

When Adam was thus securely shackled, he was dragged
from the ambush of his enemies by a party of exulting
Indians. The voice of lamentation already reached his ears.
It flowed from the baffled and desponding Isabelle. Her
hopes were wrecked, her anguish had returned, and she suf-
fered a torture that can not be described. Beside her stood
an Indian chief of noble stature, handsome features, and
expressive and intelligent countenance. He regarded Isabelle
with great emotion, and seemed to await the period when the
more acute ebullitions of her sorrow might allow him to
address her, Adam, prostrate on the ground, whence he
could not rise, listened to the dialogue that soon commenced,
and then became aware that this was the redoubted young
chief.

“Why sister quit village with enemy ?” he asked.

“ He is no enemy,” replied Isabelle ; “ he is one of my own
color, and a friend.”

“Why wear false clothing? Why enter village as serpent ?
He come to steal my sister,” said the young chief.

“ He is the more a friend,” sobbed Isabelle.

“Can he be friend who try make your brother weak in
war?” continued the young chief. “To break the power of
him strong arm—to cut from him breast him heart ?”

“What mean you by this language?” asked Isabelle in
surprise.

“ He take from my heart yourself,” replied the young chief.
“You my heart—the power of my arm—my guide-star in the
war.”

Isabelle moaned in agony.

“My sister grieve ?” asked the young chief. “We go back
—then sister happy.”

“ Noble warrior !” exclaimed Isabelle, throwing herself at his
feet—“ mighty chief, renowned and beloved by all your tribe,
and feared by all your enemies, do an act of justice worthy of
your nature and restore me to liberty. You forced me from
my home, from my father and brothers, and you brought me

  

  
 

  

RECAPTURE. YY

among a strange people whose habits and language are not
mine. I can not be happy with them—let me go. You love
your tribe. I love my people. Let me dwell.among them.
And allow my companion, whom you call. enemy without a
cause, and I call friend, to apart with me.”

5 Your’ panion prisoner,” then said the young chief. “ Kill
brave—must die.”

“Die!” exclaimed Isabelle, with an expression of horror.

“Tf man kill, man die. You people say so,” interposed the
chief.

Isabelle was driven to desperation, She forgot her own
misfortunes now that life was in the scale—a life, too, that
would be thus ruthlessly sacrificed for her. She saw the form
of Adam pinioned and helpless on the ground, and her feel-
ings were aroused to wrathfulness.

“Tf you dare take that young warriov’s life,” she exclaimed,
“may the Great Spirit, whom you worship, weaken your arm
when next you meet an enemy, and may you then be bound
as he is now, and meet the same treatment !”

The young chief was appalled at this boldness in a girl he
had ever seen so gentle, and, although he was above many of
the prejudices of his tribe, he was not wholly proof against
their superstitions. To hear a terrible vengeance invoked
upon his head, and destruction on the vigor of his arm, from
a source so beautiful and angelic, made him fear that the
petition would be heard, and he and his attendant braves
stood in mute wonder. Bnt the boldness of Isabelle had
not yet reached its culminating point. She stood a few steps
in front of the young chief. She threw her light figure
forward, seized the scalping-knife from his belt, and, rushing
toward Adam, severed the thongs with which he was so
inhumanly trussed, and in another instant he stood erect, an
unbound man.

The young chief watched this frantic conduct in Isabelle,
although he ascribed it to a different inspiration. He forbade
his companion braves, by a motion of his hand, from rebind-
ing Adam, foward whom he perceived them stealthily
approaching. When the young chief had partially recovered
from his astonishment, he extended his hand to Isabelle for
his. knife, remarking :

“Sister wonderful woman—father must be great chief.”

 

  
  
   
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
  

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

 

None were uninfluenced by this remarkable display of
force and vigor in Isabelle in open defiance of her barbarous
foes. But her power ended with this exercise of humanity.
The young chief would not release his prisoner. He had
slain one of his braves and he must abide the trial of the
chiefs—he must return a captive to the village. A sort of
rude hand-carriage was prepared for Isabelle, who was wholly
unable to walk, and then the cavalcade moved forward, and
again were the backs of these unhappy captives turned upon
their home.

The Indians whom Adam had encountered in the woods
were the two whose boat he had appropriated in crossing the
St. Lawrence, when returning to their home. They had,
however, sought and found the canoe which they had lost,
and had allowed it to remain unmoved, no doubt with some
cunning plan of vengeance.

The young chief reached the Indian village on the morning
of the escape of Adam and Isabelle, and when their absence
was discovered he led the chase, and soon meeting with the
Indian who had fled from Adam, gained from him the
knowledge of the feigned character of the agent, and led them
to the hidden canoe on the banks of the St. Lawrence, which
he did not doubt would be their place of rendezvous. They
were fatally correct, and the joy of Adam and Isabelle ended
in recapture.

The young chief, followed by his band, retraced his steps.
Adam marched unfettered, but was closely guarded. Isabelle,
jaded and dispirited, reclined on her rough carriage, dreading
the doom which awaited Adam. The young chief marched
rapidly but thoughtfully, and it was remarked that he exhib-
ited no signs of exultation at the recovery of those whom he
had sought. Isabelle and Adam dreaded the consequences of
their defeat, and the young chief apparently of his success.

They reached the village. Isabelle was taken to the hut
she before occupied, and was received by the Indian girl with
great affection ; but Adam was conveyed to a room of great
strength, whence the only means of egress was by a door
leading into an anteroom, well guarded. The room was
unlighted, and, in the misery of loneliness, he was left to
lament the misfortunes which had rendered him 80 useless to
Isabelle.

  

  
 

  

AN OFFER OF LIBERTY.

CHAPTER XI.
THE TRIAL AND THE SENTENCE.

Te darkness of the strong cell to which Adam was con-
fined was not more gloomy than his feelings. He knew
the implacability of his enemies, and he prepared himself
for the endurance of their most bitter vengeance. But
the preservation of Isabelle was the ruling thought of his
troubled mind. He knew not how to secure liberty to her.
The walls of his prison were framed with solid logs, and
afforded no hope of escape. The adjoining room was guarded
by several Indians, and he was thus rendered helpless.

He was pacing his narrow room, when the door opened,
and a figure, bearing a light and enveloped in a blanket,
appeared before him. He closed the door carefully. The
blanket unfolded, and disclosed to Adam the young chief. He
came to offer liberty to his prisoner if he would depart alone.
Adam spurned the condition. The young chief expostulated
in his impulsive manner, and represented that the alternative
was a painful death. But Adam was firm, and rejected the
proffer so passionately that the young chief quitted his
presence, exclaiming :

“To-morrow council meet, and prisoner die !”

The agitation of Adam was not lessened by this circum-
stance. His doom seemed inevitable. He knew his captors
thirsted for his blood, and so did the widow of the fallen
man, and so did the young chief who had till now displayed
a feeling more liberal than the rest. And he, Adam Morton,
was content to satisfy all their hideous appetites could he but
procure immunity to Isabelle.

The young chief had been unexpectedly baffled, but he was
too much of a soldier and diplomatist to yield to the first
reverse. He resolved his next visit should be to Isabelle.
He entered her hut. He saw that her eyes were red with

 

  
 

  

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

tears. He pronounced some soothing words, and then referred
to the council of the morning.

“Has the young chief power in that council ?” were the
first words that Isabelle uttered.

“Young chief heard there,’ he responded, with evident
feelings of pride.

“Then plead the cause of justice and of mercy,” continued
Isabelle. “ Let my brother be set free.”

“Prisoner kill brave,” interposed the young chief.

“ Only in his own defense,” cried Isabelle, “ or rather in
mine, If young chief would wish to see me slaughtered,
then is my brother guilty in his eye, for he preserved my
life by destroying that of the villain whom you call your
brave.”

The. young chief hesitated; then, with a winning yoice
which he*could well assume, he thus addressed Isabelle :

“Young chief loye white maiden. Council will say to
prisoner, ‘ Die, by torture and by fire!’ None can save pris-
oner but young chief. Let white maiden say that she will
love young chief, if he save prisoner, and young chief will
set him free.”

Isabelle almost fainted as she listened to these words, She
knew not that Adam was so near to death, nor that it would
be so terrible. Her heart was torn with conflicting passions
—by what she owed to Adam for all that he had ventured for
her, and by her unutterable repugnance to the chief. Her
face became as colorless and almost as rigid as marble, and
even the young chief was alarmed at her ghastly. and unnatural
appearance, and he rose to summon assistance; but she
motioned for him to be reseated, and, placing her bloodless
hands upon her livid brow, as if to hold her reason in com-
mand, she said :

“T have no time for thought. My brain is on fire, though
my heart is as cold as the ice of winter. To-morrow, in the
council, use all. your eloquence and. powerful influence to
deliver that worthy man from punishments of which he is
undeserving, and set him free. If you succeed, young chief,
trust—trust to my gratefulness and honor of feeling, which
are sacred to a white maiden—for reward. For, oh, my God,
whatever. may be the. resolution of my frantic brain, I dare

 

  
 

  

TRIAL OF THE CAPTIVE.

not now pronounce the withering promise, Adieu, for I am
ill and need repose. But, before you leave, pledge your word
that you will defend my brother.”

“Young chief do all, and get him free,” he replied.

“ Farewell,” repeated Isabelle ; “ I am assured”

The young chief passed out, and, as she closed the door to
prevent further intrusion, she exclaimed :

“The words, ‘Freedom to Adam,’ will be those of ‘ Death
to Isabelle,” for I can not say ‘Yes, to that red chief, and
live !”

The following morning two men appeared at Adam’s prison
door and summoned him to come forth. He advanced to the
anteroom, where he was detained until his eyes became famil-
iar with the light. Then he was conducted into the area
between the huts, in the center of which were the preparations
for his sacrifice by fire. The demon jailers cast a triumph-
ant look upon their prisoner as they led him close to the pile;
but Adam maintained unshaken firmness, and kept his eyes
steadily upon the stack of well-dried wood intended for his
speedy immolation.

Adam was desired to enter a low building, and he soon
found himself in the council-chamber in the presence of the
chiefs. The one to whom he had promised such boundless
advantages in the next campaign presided. He had not
visited the prison; but he seemed less malignant than his
brother councilors. The chief then rose to open the case and
state the catalogue of crimes of which the prisoner had been
guilty, and he discharged this duty with ingenuity and
completeness.

The chief then resumed his sitting posture, and immedi-
ately a whisper among the braves was commenced in their
own language. The young chief was there. His gesticula-
tions were vehement, and he seemed opposed by all but the
president, who sat aside, as if he yet felt an awe in the pres-
ence of the prisoner. But Adam broke in upon thig.discus-
sion by a request that he might be permitted to‘urge a few
words in his defense. This clemency was not denied him,
and in an instant the faces of these excited men exhibited a
wondrous calm.

“T stand alone,” said Adam, “ without a friend, and at

 

  
   

82 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

your mercy, for yau are strong, just now, and I am weak. I
know your judgment, for I behold it in yon pile of wood,
though you afford me the semblance of a trial. You charge
me with murder, when you know from the braye who eluded
me that two-balls missed my heart before I raised my rifle in
defense. You charge me, too, with violating the sacred
rites of hospitality, when I only, by a wile far less perfidious
and more harmless than those you daily practice, attempted
to redeem from bondage a daughter of my race, whom you
violently forced from her home, to unite, against her wishes,
to one of your braves. Your accusation is a mere subterfuge
to slay your fellow-man, and your conduct that of demons.
Think not that the remembrance of this deed will die with
me. My ashes will cry out for revenge. In the dead of
night, when your eyes should be sealed in slumber, all shall
be wakefulness, alarm and horror, from the moment my restless
spirit leaves this body. I will goad young and old alike—the
chief, the brave, the squaw and the pappoose—until there be
none left, and your memory shall perish. Now do your vil-
lainy. Burn me at the stake, for the sooner I meet death the
sooner I shall commence my work of vengeance.”

Adam was well aware that it was useless to appeal to such
a court as this for mercy, to whom it was unknown; he there-
fore hoped to work upon their superstition. The president
was predisposed to believe him capable of more than mortal
efforts, and Adam now saw him sink beneath the threats he
heard. <A silence ensued, but it was not of great duration,
and then again the fatal whisper passed through the room.
The powers Were not conjunctive. The president and the
young chief were for mercy—the rest of the council were for
fire. It was evident to the perception of Adam—which was
sharpened by his hope of life—that neither the eloquence nor
the recollection of the past services of their valiant young
chief moved this stubborn conclave—they were resolved on
death. But Adam was ordered from the room—not immediately
to death’ but again to prison.

Toward evening the doors of his wooden cage were again
opened—his enemies had prevailed and he was to die. As
he marched across the area to the funeral pile, he was assailed
by the revilings of the squaws and the hisses of the children

   
THE STAKE. 83

When Adam was chained to the stake, the president and the
council came forth, accompanied by the young chief. They
formed opposite the prisoner, who seemed communing with
himself or some invisible power, for he spoke, though his
words were indistinct, and it was feared by those who had
heard his threat of vengeance that he was even then making
preparations for retribution before it was provoked by punish-
ment. The chief stood and fearfully regarded the intended
victim, and he was supported on his right by the dark lover
of Isabelle. All the motley assemblage kept their eyes upon
the former, as from him the signal to fire the pile would
proceed. The prisoner was the only one who seemed to
disregard the scene. His attention was still mysteriously
occupied, and his eyes intently fixed on something unseen by
others. The noise of the squaws and children was subdued,
and a gaunt Indian, with a lighted brand, stood ready to obey
the slightest signal from the elder chief, when a thrilling
scream was heard—a shriek that rent the air, and would have
torn their hearts were those of the Indians used to such
emotions. It was so shrill, so terrible, that even Adam
awakened from his meditations and directed his solemn eye
toward the source of sound. It came from the hut that he
had known before—just seven from his own—whence a figure
rushed he knew to be that of the graceful Isabelle. Her
glossy hair descended to her waist and partly concealed the
beauty of her shoulders, and her hands were upheld as she
advanced in frantic haste toward the fatal pile, which to that
moment had been concealed from her. She forced herself
through the malignant multitude, and addressed herself to the
young chief: ;

“Ts it thus you seek to gain my love? Give liberty to my
brother at the stake—unfasten that ignominious chain—save
his life, and I will speak a word I could not say before—my
hand is yours—this night will I be your wife !”

“Never!” exclaimed Adam, rushing to the limit of his
chain; “neyer, Isabelle! Let me die. Life is naught to

“me; but what bitterness will it be to you with this dark

villain for your master !”
The young chief had listened to this ayowal of Isabelle
before the assembled host with more astonishment than he

 
     

  

84 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

dared display in the presence of so many witnesses. He,
notwithstanding, determined to make another effort for the
life of Adam, and to submit to the hostile chiefs how much
of his happiness, his vigor and the valor of his arm depended
on the accomplishment of that promise which had been just
uttered by the white maiden whose beauty was so dazzling,
when the Indian who held the fatal brand, affecting to receive
the signal from the elder chief, applied fire to the dried wood
and leaves. This did not escape the eye of Isabelle. In an
instant she bounded to the side of Adam—she seized his hand
—then facing the merciless chiefs, she smiled at their sudden
consternation as she stood like a goddess on the burning pile,
determined to die with him who was to be sacrificed to her.

The squaws ‘gazed on the beauteous Isabelle and uttered a
cry of horror; the frightful serpent hiss was repeated by the
boys, by which they seemed to express both hate and fear,
and even the stoic braves were moved to compassion by this
awful sight. But the young chief was terrible to behold.
Ilis eyes flashed fire, his bosom heaved, his every muscle
swelled to its utmost tension, and with his teeth tightly
clenched, and expanded nostrils, he stood erect, the living
portrait of a modern Hercules. The first effects of his ungoy-
ernable rage were directed toward the incendiary who fired
the pile, and who, in his iniquity, still fanned the unwilling
flame. He reached him in a leap, and, grasping him with
his giant power, hurled him far into the collected wood, that
he might be the victim of his own crime if others were not
saved. Then, selecting a young pine for a club, he dashed
the burning wood to the four quarters of the winds, and pro-
vided against another possible contingency by leaving but
little of the fuel near Adam and Isabelle. When the flame
was extinguished, the young chief, blackened by the smoke,
still retaining his massive club, resumed his position near his
elder, calm and imperturbable, as if the direst rage had not
just before boiled in that fearless heart.

The silence was painful—in that large assembly there
was not a sound. A crisis had arrived, and all awaited the
next scene. It emanated in a sign from the chiefs hostile to
Adam’s pardon; but it only instructed that the wood should
be again gathered round the stake. <A slight twitch was

 
AN OPPORTUNE ARRIVAL. 85

perceptible near the mouth of the young chief—he gave no
other symptom of disapproval; for, although he had scattered
the fagots collected for this drama pretty widely, he had not
resisted the edict of the council, for the pile was fired without
the signal acknowledged to be necessary, though it might
chave met the approval of the adverse councilors. The
materials were again collected, and Adam and Isabelle yet
maintained their places in the center—the former entreating
the latter to retire, but without success—when the attention
of the braves was attracted to a peculiar sound. It came
from the woods, and advanced toward the village, and it
was soon perceived to be the measured tread of disciplined
troops. Quickly the area was cleared—the women and chil-
dren flew for safety—the chiefs and braves to.arms ; the young
chief however still rested upon his pine club, as if he had more
apprehension of the perfidy of his own tribe in his absence
than of the unseen foe; but before the braves had reassem-
bled, an English officer and a dozen men marched into the
open space before the huts, uttering merely the laconic
military announcement :

“ Friends !” “

The officer halted his men in a line opposite, but a short
distance from the pile, and then advanced alone toward the
young chief; but he was astonished when he perceived that
the victims arraigned for torture were of his own race, and one
the most beautiful maiden he had ever beheld. He concealed.
his indignation, and was about to ask some explanation of
these savage preparations, when Isabelle, perceiving that he
was an English officer, rushed from the side of Adam, and,
placing herself before him, cried :

“ Mercy, mercy, or we perish !”

The officer took her hand, attempted to soothe her agitation,
and promised her that he would afford her every protection.
The chiefs and braves, reassured by the English uniform,
came forth unarmed, and a friendly greeting ensued between
them and their visitors, when the officer expressed a hope
that the hospitality which they proffered him would
not be sullied by a punishment so repulsive to his feelings.
The chiefs could not deny this courtesy to their guest, and
bowed their assent, which relieved the heart of the elder

 
  

86 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

chief from great oppression. Adam Morton was reconducted
to his darkened room, and Isabelle to her hut; but the
English officer whispered in their ears to cast aside the fear
of death, for that he would not leave them to the mercy of
these savages, although he should be compelled to proceed
with caution. That night the urchins of the village fired the
pile, and soon gathered together a throng of men and women,
who only lamented that they could not witness the writhing
of the victim, as well as the fury of the blaze.

CF. AR TER X11,
THE DELIVERANCE FROM THE INDIANS.

Tux first attention of the English officer was to the com-
fortable quarters of his soldiers, which was a matter of no
difficulty among a people who were inclined to hospitality.
He then retired with the chief, and without referring in any
way to the scene he had just witnessed, he at once announced
the object of his embassy. His propositions were certainly
far less dazzling than those of the unscrupulous Adam, but
they had more semblance of authority, and the chiefs in
conclaye promised him a reply the following morning. He
then asked their permission to visit the white prisoners, as he
took an interest in all of his color, in whatever position he
might meet them. No objection was offered, and the officer
proceeded at once to the cell of Adam, who candidly explained
the manner in which he had imposed upon the tribe for the
purpose of setting Isabelle at liberty, and the subsequent dis-
asters which led to his presence at the stake.

_ “J commiserate your position,” said the officer; “but
although I have sayed you from the flames, I must claim you
as a prisoner. You have grossly, though possibly harmlessly

infringed the rules of military discipline. You have been
detected within our lines disguised as an English officer, and
involying us in a false obligation to our Indian allies. The
authorities no doubt will look with becoming lenity upon

 
  
 
 
    
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
W

DELIVERANCE. 87

your object in all this cunning, but I have no alternative. I
fear you must prepare to march with me to-morrow. The
lady I will most: certainly protect. I will not allow her to be
detained here against her will.”

“My object is accomplished,” interposed the grateful
Adam. “I am indifferent to the character of the personal
responsibility you affix to my efforts to release Isabelle. I
haye succeeded, and now that she is delivered from the
thraldom of these savages, I am happy. My gallant friend, I
esteem your service whether I travel with you to life or
death.”

The officer, admiring the courageous bearing of Adam,
quitted him for the hut of Isabelle. He listened to her rela- -
tion with great attention, and then reassured her of his
protection.

. “The arrangement of matters,” he said, “ will require the
greatest nicety, for my object is to conciliate, not to exasperate
the Indians, and this redoubted warrior, the young chief, may
conceive that I intrench sadly on his prerogative in withdraw-
ing from his heart so fair a flower; but I must endeavor to
effect it by pacific means, though I-know not rightly how so
much loveliness can be yielded without a blow.”

Isabelle blushed, thanked him for his generosity, and when
he had quitted her, she contemplated with happiness the
morrow as a day of freedom. The only source of sorrow was
Adam’s position as a prisoner; but the same noble soldier
who promised her deliverance, had also given her hope that
the consequence to Adam would not be severe.

The officer, at his meeting with the chiefs the following
morning, suggested that the prisoner in their charge would
be more properly punished by the English authorities, for
haying arrogated to himself the power of making a treaty
under false representations, by which he might be Hable to
death. The chiefs deliberated; but they thought that the
dignity of the tribe required that the prisoner should be con-
ducted by one of their chiefs in order to see strict justice
done. This was conceded, and the young chief was appointed
to command the escort.

The next subject was one which the officer thought to
submit to the private ear of the young chief. It was in

 
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
      
      
 

Se

a

—

88 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

reference to Isabelle. He therefore sought this valiant war-
rior, walked with him in the forest, spoke of his achievements
and the approaching campaign, then gradually receded from
this lordly subject to matters of the heart. The officer then
mentioned the white maiden, and remarked that the manner
in which white suitors won their hearts was to indulge them
in all their various caprices, and to display a readiness to
grant their every wish whenever it was possible; that Isabelle
had expressed a desire to him to again visit the white settle-
ments; that he had named it to the chiefs; that they had
frowned upon it; and that he—the warrior—might depend
that that frown would be visited by the white maiden upon
‘him. He also reminded the young chief that he was to be
the custodian of the prisoner, and that so sweet a companion
as Isabelle had rarely solaced the lonely path of an Indian
traveler. The subtlety of the officer wouw*the chief; he
assented to her wish, and then there was no one to object.
The officer announced his success to the delighted Isabelle,
and begged that if the young chief presented himself, she
would testify some feelings of thankfulness for this grace, as
he might be induced to withdraw his promise at the slightest
adverse incident.

It was midday before the arrangements were completed,
and although the chiefs suggested that the departure should
be delayed until the morning, and the officer had no directions

. that inhibited this postponement, he feared that a night’s

reflection or debate among these oscillating people might
overrule all that had been so diligently effected; and so he
pleaded obligation to be gone, and the chiefs, knowing well
the discipline maintained in the English army, yielded to the
solicitude of their friend and brother, and about two o'clock
the party entered the shadow of the forest.

Isabelle smiled her sweetest on all around. The English
officer, perceiving her fragile form, implored her to be’ con-
veyed on some rude structure, which his own men would
contrive; but she pleaded her ability to walk, and he reluct-
antly yielded to her wish. ‘There was beauty in her face,
happiness in her heart, and freedom in her step, and she
seemed like the goddéss of peace controlling the elements of
war, 80 soft was her loveliness, so radiant her joy. The

  
MARCH THROUGH THE FOREST.

English soldiers marched in front, then followed the fair
Isabelle, then a relay of Indians, then Adam Morton, the rear
being brought up by another detachment of Indian braves,
The English officer marched chiefly at the head of his men,
the young chief mostly beside Isabelle.

Ot Ak 0 ay ed kod
THE ESCAPE,

Apam Morton had but little opportunity of addressing
Isabelle as they proceeded on their journey. As a prisoner,
he could not quit the place assigned him in the rank, and she
appeared more desirous of cultivating the approbation of the
young chief than of any other. Adam was aware that this
marked preference could only be suggested by policy, and he
did not long remain ignorant of the motive. On the second
day’s march, when they rested for refreshments, Isabelle
contrived to convey to him a note, in which was written in
pencil the following words:

“T am alarmed for your safety. I have ascertained that
the penalty for your efforts to save me is possible though not
certain death. Terrible! horrible! Death for virtue and
manly daring, because it is not practiced in a manner
acknowledged in the military code, so that you may have
escaped the Indian fire to grace an English gibbet. This
terror chides the smiles I now assume. The jealousy of the
Indians has retained you still their prisoner, and were you to
flee, the English officer would not pursue you at much incon-
venience. I have been courteous to the young chief, to
induce him to connive at your escape, and then to be regard-
less of your recapture. He will relax his guard on you
to-night; avail yourself of the opportunity. I am safe with
the English, who will not extend their lenity to you. I owe
you my happiness and my life, and you will add another
obligation to this weighty debt, by following these directions
of IsaABELLE.”

 
 
  
 
   
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
    
   
  
    

  
  

90 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

In the bivouac, the English had established themselves
about twenty yards from the Indians, and while a small tent
was nightly erected for Isabelle among the former, Adam was
retained by the latter. A sentinel was placed before the tent,
but the young chief instituted no such precaution. He relied
upon his own lynx eye and his other exquisite senses to
detect an approaching foe. Adam had been allowed to travel
unfettered, and was not very closely guarded. That night,
however, from which he hoped so much, the Indians seemed
more vigilant. The watch-fire, too, burned brighter than
usual, and its slumbering embers, fanned by the fitful breeze,
shed a lurid light upon the sward, which would have been
otherwise darkened by the shadow of the trees. It seemed a
night unsuited to escape; but Adam, never hopeless, cast
himself upon the grass, and, despite the wakefulness of all
around him, soon affected audible evidence of repose, and thus
hoped to allure others to seek the same refreshment. At
midnight the only sound that was not one of slumber was that
of the English sentinel, who, in measured steps, paced to and
fro in front of the tent of Isabelle. Adam gently raised his
head, and as all had succumbed to the solemn hour but that
one man who trod the path of duty, he commenced his
serpent-like retreat to the cover of the forest. This effected,
he placed himself behind a tree, whence he might take one
last glance of the tent which protected Isabelle. He did not
look in vain. She, too, had been a sleepless watcher of the
night. Her bright eye had pierced the darknéss, and seen the
serpent motion toward the trees. She was a fitter sentinel
of the night than the man of war detailed for her protection.
Isabelle waved her handkerchief from the tent to Adam, and
he, proud of the interest he created in her heart, moved
rapidly away.

The morning came, the vigil ended, and the agile Indians
leaped from their grassy couch at the first gleam of day. The
chief moved to the camp of his English brother, and his braves
attempted to revive the smouldering fire to cook their food.
Then they bethought themselves of the absent prisoner, and
one of the braves, perceiving a figure on the earth beneath a
blanket, advanced in anger, and spurned it with his foot; but
the pain and indignity were possibly his own; and when he

 
  
 
 
 
 
    
   
  
   
 
   
   
   
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
    

 
 

ARRIVAL AT MONTREAL. — 91

removed the blanket, there was nothing but a block of
timber. The outcry became general. The fact was evident.
The prisoner had escaped. ‘The consternation reached the
English commander. <A consultation was held, at which the
British officer suggested that the young chief should pursue;
but he refused to quit the side of Isabelle, and thus Adam was
allowed to escape without an effort at recapture.

The march of the English was directed toward Montreal.
The officer had been on a mission to all the Canadian Indians
within a given district, making every effort to enlist their
good feelings and their co-operation. The tribe of the young
chief was the last on his return home, and he arrived there at
a most fortunate period for the safety of Adam and Isabelle.
After submitting to his commanding officer a report of the
duties intrusted to him, he introduced the subject of Adam
and Isabelle, gave him a succinct account of that adventure,
and presented the latter to his notice; who cheerfully and
sincerely promised her protection, and she was at once trans-
ferred to the care of the governor's wife.

It then became necessary to have an interview with the
young chief, who undertook to afford the most efficient aid
in the next campaign. The governor recapitulated to him
the advantages he would receive for this warlike assistance,
independent of the casualties which never failed to await on
victory. The young chief listened with attention and seeming
satisfaction. The governor then referred to the escape of
Adam Morton from the young chief’s custody, and remarked
that had he reached Montreal, his presumptuous and even
treasonable conduct would have been treated with the utmost
severity. He then delicately hinted that when he thought
proper to quit Montreal, he had some presents both for himself
and the other chiefs, which he hoped would be considered
worth their acceptance.

The allusion to departure gave the young chief the oppor-
tunity to introduce a subject which he thought forgotten by
the governor. He replied that he should remain in Montreal
no longer than Isabelle desired, as she was to be his com-
panion on his return. The governor remarked that he did
not understand that the lady was anxious to rejoin his tribe,
but that she had expressed a wish to be restored to her own

 

 
  

SSE

Sn

92 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

people. The young chief pleaded his love, her love, their
joint affection, as the cause of her return. The governor
smiled; he thought it must be a rare caprice in woman,
especially in one so beautiful as Isabelle, to love the gallant
redskin in preference to the handsome sons of her own soil;
but, as it was a matter too delicate for his diplomacy, he
suggested an interview between the young chief and Isabelle
as the most likely mode of adjustment.

‘When the young chief was ushered into the presence of
Isabelle, she advanced to meet him, and her smiles and kind-
ness gaye courage to the suitor, who abruptly introduced the
matter of his thoughts in these words:

“Young chief feel here,” placing his hand upon his heart;
“white maiden feel here too. When we go home? leave this
place ?”

Isabelle could not forbear blushing at this confidence in her
feelings, and the conciseness of his questions; but she knew
his nature, and replied ;

“Why should a bold and fearless chief like yourself care
for a poor and simple maiden so unqualified for your wig-
wam. You love war as a pastime. To me it is a horror,
You bring home your scalps as trophies of your victories, and
expect your squaw to exult over them. To me they would
ever appear as the reproaches of the victims of your merciless-
ness. What would your elders say of a squaw who thus
hated one of their most cherished customs, and whose habits,
thoughts and feelings were as different from theirs as is her
color? Why, they would hate the white maiden, and so
would all their squaws, and the wigwam of their young chief
would soon again be empty, for they would drive her from
their village.” ;

The young chief listened in astonishment. He had erected
his warrior greatness upon thé number of his scalps, and he
hoped that the fame that he was gathering would be handed
down to future ages by the tradition of his tribe. But would
an inglorious squaw afford brightness to a martial reputation ?
Yet he loved Isabelle, and he thought he would use another
effort to attain her.

“There great white warriors,” he reasoned; “there great
Indian .warriors—both very great—white warrior take no

 
   
 
  
    
   
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

 
 

THE TOKEN. 93

scalp—bury it~Indian warrior take scalp—no bury it—but
both kill—what difference ?”

“The difference is in habit,” replied Isabelle,“ and thus is
formed the custom of a nation. It is from this cause that
sons, attached to their own peculiar habits, seek wives from
the daughters of their own country. Ifa white warrior were
to bring from the wars a portion of each man that he had
slain, his wife and people would be horrified ; but if you take
home that portion called the scalp, your squaw meets you
with smiles, and your people with cheers and welcome.”

The young chief, who seemed to comprehend all that
Isabelle had urged, and who had weighed well its bearing on
his case, exclaimed : :

“ White maiden wonderful great—speak great comfort.”

“Young chief has been kind—very kind,” - continued
Isabelle, “‘and'I would help to make him happy. The Indian
girl who dwelt with me is worthy of you. She is the daughter
of a chief, and reckons your valor by the number of your
scalps. Return to your village and leave me with those of
my own color, and, be assured, that none is worthy of so
great and valiant a hero as yourself but a daughter of your
own. tribe.” ;

“ Good—goou,” said the young chief.

“Then will thé young chief consent to return without his
white sister ?” asked Isabelle.

The young chief hesitated—his heart was in the balance.
The argument of Isabelle had convinced him that his choice
of her was not calculated to lead to the happiness of either ;
yet his love had rested so long upon that fair flower that he
could not retire from its fragrance without a struggle. But
he yielded to the wisdom of the maid, and in a sorrowful and
pathetic voice he said:

“Young chief go without white maiden. He always love
her. If white sister ever want Indian brother, she send young
chief that, and young chief leave all war-path for white
sister.”

. As he thus spoke, he drew from his pouch a bullet of his
rifle, and inscribing upon it some characters with his knife,
he presented it to her as a token which she need but send
him to bring him instantly to her side. He then pressed her

 
  

94 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

soft white hand between his, and, bestowing upon her another
gaze of love and admiration, he quitted her presence.

He remained no longer in Montreal than was necessary to
receive his presents and assemble his followers. In his
departure Isabelle forgot the violence of her abduction, and
allowed herself to dwell only upon the uniform kindness and
forbearance of the young chief toward her. A redoubted
warrior of his tribe, he conceived that he conferred great
honor on Isabelle in the offer of his hand; but, although he
had to encounter the objection of the maid he loved, who was
wholly in his power, he never urged his suit with arrogance,
but, with a moderation unusual in the ferocity of his people,
he endeavored to soothe the agonies of which he was the
cause.

GABA BIER: “Rl VR
THE RETURN FROM ESOPUS.

Tux British expedition sailed exultingly down the Hudson
without the slightest feeling of, compunction:at the domestic
misery which it had inflicted upon the inhabitants of an entire
village, who had, in their helplessness, been mere spectators
of the predatory visit.

Marcus Goodheart, having been separated from his antago-
nist, and warned by Isabelle, rushed from the devouring
element, which was rapidly destroying the village of Esopus,
to the vessel, where the truth was first told him that his own
countrymen had fired the village. He thus escaped the fatal
resolve of Adam Morton, who, although perhaps the better
cragsman, was wholly distanced by the agility of Marcus.
The British troops, having secured their rich booty on board
their ships, proceeded down the river, and arrived safely in
New York. ‘

Sir Henry Clinton thought that he had now done all he
could—that he had redeemed his treacherous promise to a
brother officer ; so he daily rode into the country, reviewed
his troops, and feasted his officers at his several dwellings,

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
   
   
   

 
 

agents

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

THE BEARER OF DISPATCHES. 95

until Dame Fortune, by her ever turning wheel, put another
phase upon the happiness of matters, and struck dismay into
the. heart of commander, officers, rank and file; for, as Sir
Henry and his staff drank, in their rosy wine, “ Success to
Burgoyne,” scarcely doubting that he had reached Albany,
intelligence arrived that he and his ten thousand men had
yielded to General Gates on Saratoga Plains. Sir Henry bit
his lips and feared that he had not done enough, and Howe,
too, he thought, had been far better up the Hudson than
across the Delaware. But neither self-reproach nor the
reproach of others could lessen the adversity which had
occurred, and Sir Henry, vigorous and determined for the
moment, resolved to send a messenger to Montreal with most
important information. This he dared not to place on paper,
nor was there a spy, now that Guy Wanderer had perished,
with whom he dared intrust so delicate a mission. He there-
fore resolved to dispatch an officer, and only deferred the
execution of this design until he could select one of sufficient
courage and ability for the task.

As Marcus sat one evening in the solitude of his room,
brooding over the one engrossing subject of his thoughts, an
orderly appeared and respectfully requested his attendance at
Sir Henry Clinton’s. He was astonished at this rare distinc-
tion, but promised compliance, and was soon in the presence
of the commandant. After the courtesies of meeting were
exchanged, Sir Henry remarked :

“J have verbal dispatches for Montreal. The late reverses
of our arms make communication indispensable. You are
aware that such confidence can only be committed to an
officer of integrity and courage, and I have selected you.”

Marcus acknowledged the distinguished preference.

“What preparation will you require, sir?’ inquired Sir
Henry. “ The march is long and has its hardships.”

“ Only that of a soldier, Sir Henry,” replied Marcus.

“T understand, sir,” smiled Sir Henry—“ an hour’s notice
and the line of route.” -

“That is all, Sir Henry,” said Marcus; “and the rest shall
be effected.”

“Then you will have ample time,” said Sir Henry, “if I
name the hour of departure five to-morrow morning; and this

 

 

    
96 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

arranged, you will now, if you please, receive my dispatches
by word of mouth,”

These were soon disclosed, and Marcus found himself the
depositor of most important secrets. Sir Henry then bade
him farewell, and, as they separated, intimated to Marcus that
he never failed to reward both fidelity and diligence.

Marcus was permitted a small guard, which he was allowed
to select from his own regiment. He made choice of men
whom he knew to be well versed in wood-craft, acquainted
with the navigation of the forest, and on whose stability and
faith he could rely. All were delighted with the adventure,
and Marcus hoped that this active service would divert his
mind from the anguish of his almost hopeless love.

As the day dawned, Marcus, with his men, well armed,
well clothed and well provisioned, abandoned the tedious
tranquillity of garrison duty for the thrilling dangers of the
forest. It was his resolve to march as rapidly as possible, and
as all the men were strong, healthy and enduring, they were
not averse to display these powers to their officer.

Two days elapsed without the occurrence of any circum-
stance of note. The _sergeant, an indomitable scout as well
as active soldier, knew every sign which that great wilderness
of living trees afforded, and each night led the party to a
cheerful place of rest; but on the evening of the third, as he
approached a mossy bank well suited to the retirement of
fatigue, he found that a fire burned there already. He
retreated to his officer, who, halting his men, went forward to
reconnoiter. He found the party to consist of six Indians,
who, anticipating no danger, were all collected round a large
fire; and at a short distance was a man, a prisoner, strongly
bound, and lying on the grass. He was evidently a white
man, and Marcus determined to release him, if possible, from
his inhuman fetters. The sergeant pronounced the Indians
friendly to the English, and, ordering up his men, Marcus
headed them and boldly marched into view, and announced
himself as a friend, at the same time offering the hand of
peace. Restraint was soon cast off, and in a few minutes all
were comfortably seated around the fire, the English liberally
sharing their provisions with their new comrades. But Mar-
cus could not endure to see the prisoner in torture upon the

ee
ee

A RECOGNITION. 97

ground ; he therefore requested that he might be unbound.
The Indians testified some reluctance, and their chief replied:

“Him enemy.”

“Whose enemy?” asked Marcus.

“Enemy of great white chief,” said the Indian.

“Still, let him be untied,” said Marcus; “he will not be
less a prisoner among us all. Surely we can secure him with-
out these painful cords.”

The Indians, too well pleased with the liberality of their
allies, offered no further impediment, and one of their num-
ber advanced and cut the thongs, which were so tightly drawn
that it was some time before the prisoner could rise. At the
invitation of Marcus he joined the party at the cheerful fire,
and ‘was soon in the enjoyment of both the fare provided and
his liberty. é

As the night advanced, the only light came from the spark-
ling fire, which, as its blaze rose high in the air, showed dis-
tinctly the motley group around it. It was then that the
prisoner stepped up to the thoughtful Marcus, and with
pleasing and courteous manner, said:

“TJ have to thank you, sir, for the last few hours of free-
dom. But we are not wholly strangers; we have met
before.” 5

“JT did but release you from a position in which you never
ought to have been placed,” said Marcys; “but from the
treachery of my memory, I can not recall you as an acquaint-
ance.”

“Were you not at the destruction of Esopus?” inquired
the prisoner.

“JT was present at that calamitous event,” said Marcus,
gravely.

“JT was your antagonist in a duel there,” said the prisoner ;
“end your kindness to me to-day is some of the good fruit
of our separation in the combat.”

It was Adam Morton, who had, in his retreat, been cap-
tured by the Indians with whom Marcus found him, and by
whom he had been most barbarously treated. Marcus was
deeply affected at this meeting, and remarked that he trusted
that the ‘intermission he had been able to procure him, and
the liberty he would yet obtain for him, would be accepted as

<n enone esannngenenecte=
 

 

  

98 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

some atonement for the injury perpetrated by his countrymen

at Esopus. These feelings established a friendship between

them; and while others gradually yielded to the influence of
slumber, these rival lovers sat by the joyous fire, and Adam re-
lated some of the calamities which had befallen Isabelle, conse-
quent upon the conflagration of that day. When Adam had
concluded his narrative, Marcus, after musing a few moments,
said :

“You have passed through much danger and suffering in a
good cause; and it was my intention to recommend you to
escape while our friends are in repose, but I find that all are
not sleeping. There is more watchfulness in the camp than
I had thought; and,.to leave here without danger of pursuit,
will require the concurrence of two others, with one of whom
we may have difficulty. During the time we have been con-
versing, the Indian chief, whose head is somewhat obscured
by the shadow of yonder tree created by the flames, has been
suspiciously raised toward us, proving that he is yet tenacious
of his prisoner; but a little beyond, with his head resting on
that bank of moss, lies my sergeant, who, loving his officer,
and having little faith in the honor of a redskin, is watching
recumbently ; and each time the dark chieftain moves his
head, the sergeant grasps his rifle.” :

Adam now observed a repetition of all that Marcus had
previously witnessed, and after a few moments the latter ut-
terred a low, suppressed but peculiar sound. The obedient
sergeant sprung upon his feet; so did the agile chief, and
both rushed toward Adam and Marcus.

“ Brother,” said Marcus to the chief, in a low whisper, that
he might disturb no others, “your prisoner is my friend; his
motive is not evil; he has been to release from bondage a
white maiden, and I trust that this present will purchase his
liberty.”

Marcus proffered a handsome stiletto, with a silyer sheath.
The chief was well pleased with the exchange, and ex-
claimed :

“Prisoner friend of captain—prisoner free. Go while
brayes sleep.” ‘

“Farewell,” said Marcus, grasping Adam’s hand; “ take
freedom the moment it is offered, for another hour may beget
another whim. ‘You shall not be followed.”

     
 

  

 
 

THE PARTY. 99

“Farewell, generous stranger,” said Adam.

At these words, Adam disappeared; and Marcus, after ex-
changing a few words with the worthy sergeant, sunk upon
the earth as if to sleep; but he could only think of Isabelle,
her perils, and the bold and fearless hero who had ventured
life and every thing for her.

In the morning, when the Indians awoke, they soon per-
ceived that their prisoner had escaped, and they began to
display the greatest rage; but their chief soon calmed
their anger, and perhaps they might have traced some
connection between the absence of their captive and the
dagger which glittered in the belt of their commander. They
partook a hasty meal, and, as the Indians were returning to
their home in Canada, they consented to be the guides of Mar-

- cus to the banks of the St. Lawrence. These they soon reached
under the able pilotage of those erratic people, who, equal to
all contingencies, procured a canoe of sufficient dimensions
for the whole party to attain the opposite shore. Arrived on
the Canadian side, Marcus rewarded his allies amply for the
service they had rendered him, and they separated—the Indi-
ans to their forest-homes, and Marcus to prosecute his mis-
sion. Montreal was entered without danger or adventure,
and Marcus immediately announced himself to the governor.
He was courteously received, and the important nature of his
embassy procured him distinguished treatment, and the inter-
view concluded by the commander begging the attendance of
Marcus at his residence in the evening, at a rout which his
lady had arranged, and whose personal invitation would, he
trusted, be excused under the circumstances of his sudden
arrival.

Marcus attended, and, being indisposed to dance, amused
himself with observing those who did. One lady engaged
much of his attention. She seemed to have attracted that of
others, too, for around the set in which she danced was quite
a crush of fashionables. Her movements in the dance, which
was one of slow evolutions, were those of perfect grace,
while the figure of her person was incomparable. He could
not obtain a view sufficiently near to see her face, without
rudely crowding. Once he momentarily saw her profile, and
then it reminded him of one who, he felt, could not be

siabnsinantie nse aemisniititicnn ill
 

    
 

100 - THH MAID OF ESOPUB.

there. While he was thus occupied, a gentleman touched his
elbow, saying : :

“Ah! I perceive that you are drinking from those fascinat-
ing waters. Beware! They are intoxicating, and you had

better resist your thirst.”
Marcus turned toward the voice, and beheld the smiling

visage of the governor.

“JT must acknowledge,” said Marcus, “that I was gazing at .

the lady who seems to occupy so much attention.”

* Ah, indecdl” exclaimed the commandant, “she is irre-
sistible. Her beauty is of an order almost extinct—such as
we read of in our fables.”

“Ts the lady a Canadian?” inquired Marcus.

“ No,’ said the commandant, “she is an American lady.”

“Tndeed !” exclaimed Marcus, with perceptible surprise.

“Yes,” continued the humorous commandant, “ an inflexi-
ble and patriot daughter, too, and one who feels no devotion
to your royal uniform.”

“Then I am indebted to you, sir,” replied Marcus, “ for
this timely caution.”

“ She has endured much suffering—escaped frightful perils,”
said the commandant; ‘she was rescued from a tribe of our
Indian allies by a party of our soldiers, who fortunately
marched into their village while she was. standing at the stake,
the fuel of which had been fired. The officer who redeemed
her from this terrible position, and guarded her here, is now
dancing with her.”

Marcus was horrified. It was so. like, and yet so unlike
what Adam Morton had related, that he knew not whether it
were Isabelle or not. But Adam had concealed the details
of Isabelle’s suffering, where connected with himself. The
lady .whom, he had so much admired, soon passed close to
him, and then he perceived that it was Isabelle.

Marcus had never seen her to so much advantage. Ho
had not met her in society, nor so elegantly attired. Indeed,
he had seen her but once in the character of Isabelle;
before that, she had eyer been to him the troubadour. He
retired a few minutes to summon courage to address her—to
claim. the attention for which there was such a rivalry.
When, however, he advanced and attracted the eye of Isabelle,
she started with astonishment.

  

 

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RECOGNITION. 101

“Ts it Lieutenant Goodheart ?” she exclaimed.

SaAtcisy? replied Marcus; “and he is no less amazed at -
seeing you in the camp of the enemy.”

“T owe it to the nobleness of that enemy that I am. here,”
said Isabelle, “and not to his antagonism. He delivered mo
from wretchedness and fear, and even from the jaws of death,
and thus shelters me beneath his generous hospitality.”

“T am rejoiced to hear so flattering a report of my brothers-
in-arms,” said Marcus; “when we last met, the current events
were less worthy of my countrymen.”

“You speak truly,” replied Isabelle; “the calamity of that
day is the cause of all my sorrows—griefs and trials’ that
you know not of.”

“J am not wholly ignorant of the measure of your afflic-
tions,” said Marcus; “they were related to me as. I passed
through the forest.”

“The forest!” exclaimed Isabelle; “who speaks of me
there ?”

“On our march we encountered Indians,” said Marcus.

“Surely they could not refer to me,” said Isabelle.

“But they had a captive,” continued Marcus.

“Know you his name?” inquired Isabelle, in great agi-
tation. 4

“ Adam Morton,” replied Marcus.

“Ts that devoted man again deprived of liberty ?” exclaimed
Isabelle.

“No,” said Marcus, “ he is free.”

“Did you give him liberty?” asked Isabelle, with much
animation.

“J induced the Indians to do so,” replied Marcus.

“May he live to requite you,” said Isabelle, in a most sol-
emn tone. “His conduct has been noble in my cause, and
you could not have conferred a greater favor upon me than
this act of generosity toward him.”

At this juncture supper was announced, and Marcus led the
fair Isabelle to the table, infinitely the most fayored and hon-
ored guest of that numerous assemblage. Isabelle, during
the repast, related to Marcus some of the particulars of her
residence with the Indians, and of the bold and successful
search of the valiant Adam Morton. She spoke of his

 
  

~
102 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

disinterested courage with enthusiasm, and though Marcus
could not deny that he had earned this meed of praise, a silent
fear that such devotion might influence the deeper feelings of
her heart made him less loud in his acclamations than magna-
nimity might have prompted.

They retired from the supper-room, promenaded the recep-
tion-apartment, and had sat down in a retired portion, absorbed
in conversation, when the eyes of Isabelle being suddenly
raised, she perceived standing before her the figure of the
governors lady. Isabelle blushed deeply; but her merry
friend remarked :

“Tf was fearful, my dearest girl, that you were suffering
from illness, and had surreptitiously withdrawn; but I am
rejoiced to perceive a demonstration of my error.”

“T trust you will pardon my delinquency, my dear madam,”
said Isabelle, rising, “but Lieutenant Goodheart is not so
great a stranger to. me as you may imagine. I have long had
the honor of a knowledge of him. He was one of that corps
who assisted in the destruction of my residence at the burning
of Esopus.”

“Oh, I perceive,” replied the lady. “Ah, it must be a
highly gratifying meeting. To have one’s house destroyed
by fire, and every article therein, and then to encounter the
incendiary at a ball, is quite a feature in romance. What
atonement does he suggest, my dear? What terms are you
discussing ?”

Isabelle was confused, and it was visible on her crimson
cheek; but not to be less jocose than her cheerful and arch
interlocutor, she replied:

“ His atonement is that of remorse. He deeply laments a
‘casualty’ that he had no power to prevent, and which he
ascribes more to accident than design.”

“ Ah, Isabelle,” said the lady, “this is the ordinary recom-
pense. These military ‘casualties’,—which we more properly
term outrages—are the execration of the daughters of the bel-
ligerents, and of many of the sons, too. Sorrow is no atone-
ment. Let him rebuild, Isabelle, let him rebuild. Condemn
him to the penalty of reconstruction. Come with me, love,
and leave him to think in retirement on the plan of archi-
tecture, and the strength of edifice ;’ and the lady, with an

  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
   
   
 

 

  
 

 

THE DRAWING- ROOM. 108

air of triumph, carried off the fair charmer from the society of
Marcus, who could not, despite every effort, recover the ad-
vantage he had lost; and when the separation for the night
took place, he could only express a hope to be more successful
the next morning.

CHAPTER XV.
THE DECLARATION,

Limurenant GoopHHARrt retired to his quarters from the
splendid ball with more happiness in his heart than he had ex-
perienced for a long period. He had found Isabelle, and was de-
termined not again to separate until he had ascertained whether
he were acceptable to her love. He recoiled from the step,
though his resolution was unshaken. He knew her devotion
to her country’s cause, and how incompatible his loyalty was
with that; but he did not fear the antagonism of these feel-
ings so much as. the rivalship of the captive of the woods—
of him who had first introduced himself to his notice by
drawing his sword upon him in jealousy at Esopus—of Adam
Morton.

A few days after the rout he had the good fortune to find
Isabelle alone in the drawing-room, and, taking advantage of
an event that might not recur, he commenced :

“JT fear that I shall soon be deprived of your society, for
the dispatches of which I am to be the bearer are expected
daily.”

“You will have along and dreary march,” replied Isabelle, in
a melancholy tone; “and the forest, lonely and dangerous at
all times, will now add to those features inhospitality and
cold.” a ‘

“T fear not the hardships nor the dangers of the forest,
although I would not willingly adventure there without a
talisman, which I am now seeking. I will confide to you the
secret,”

“Why confide in me?” asked Isabelle, as she raised her
eyes to those of Marcus.

 
  

 

— See e e ee

 

 

104 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

“Because you are the enchantress who can render me
impervious to the perils of a soldier’s life. From the moment
you avowed your sex, and sung a sad adieu beneath my win-
dow, my prostrate heart has yearned for the opportunity
which it now enjoys. Isabelle, hear me with patience.
Listen while I recite the agonies which I have endured since
the sudden departure of the troubadour, increased by the
calamities of Esopus. My devotion, my love—”

“ Forbear this language,” interposed Isabelle, deeply affected.
“ Have pity upon a stranger, a suppliant and a prisoner in
your camp. I am here alone, unguided and unguarded, and I
entreat your mercy. My father is a soldier, an unflinching
republican, and your deadly enemy. My brothers are no Jess
enthusiastic in the cause of liberty. I am thus daughter and
sister to your foes, and though I may not share their ani-
mosity, I admire their bold resistance to oppression. I have
just escaped from the power of a ruthless savage, who, for
love of me—for so he apologized for his violence—tore me
from all that made me happy, and, conveying me through wild
forests, dead to my entreaties for release, he placed me in his
barbarous village, where he proffered me the frightful distinc-
tion of his hand. I do not for a moment draw a comparison
between you and the dark chieftain ; but to me there is some-
thing hideously parallel in the circumstances of your loves.
Let the cry, “To arms!” be sounded, would you not draw
your gallant sword, rush to the field, and join in the
slaughter? Would you not thrust to the heart all who stood
between you and the ideal glory which you sought, whether
you were opposed by my dear father, my fearless brothers, or
by all? And when I was fatherless and brotherless, as J am
motherless, then, with sword reeking with the blood of all
her race, you appear before the orphan to renew your yows
of constancy.”

“ Pursue not this terrifying portraiture;” implored Marcus ;
“it will not—shall not occur.”

“Why, are you not a soldier of the great king who
demands our blood or our obedience ?” said Isabelle. “ And
when. the clarion sounded the attack, would you risk the
charge of cowardice and advance less furiously toward the foe
because the father of Isabelle might be there? ‘You know

 
  
 
 
 
 
    
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
THE QUESTION. 105

_you would not. Hager for blood, you would care not what

orphanage, what widowhood, what misery your sword occa-
sioned, so that you sustained your honor in the contest.”

“ Tsabelle,” said Marcus, in a tremulous voice, “my heart,
in its deep devotion, refuses to countenance these almost
impossible casualties. It is a love, founded upon the sweet
remembrances of the troubadour, and now grown unconquer-
able, that the charming associate of that. period of my leisure
is become the peerless Isabelle. And, as I have but the friend-
ship of the boy, let me not be denied the ecstatic compensation
of the affection of his successor.”

“Oh, Lieutenant Goodheart,”’ exclaimed Isabelle, “ press
me no more upon this painful subject. I esteem you. Iam
grateful. for your kind protection when I was friendless and
in peril, and your assistance to my. brother when he was a
helpless prisoner, and you knew not that he had interest in
my heart. But my love, which you value far too highly, is
reserved for my country—” Isabelle. paused for an instant, and
added, in a lower tone—“ and its sons.”

“ Tsabelle,” exclaimed Marcus, “ drive me not to distraction!
Allow me not to infer that you have already pledged your
heart.”

Isabelle spoke not. The thoughts of Marcus were madden-
ing, and he said, in a tone of voice more frightful than his
previous accents:

“ Tsabelle, tell me, is your love another’s, that I may not
importune you yexatiously ?”

“T spoke but in general terms,” said Isabelle, her lustrous
eyes cast down upon the floor, “ when I referred to the sons
of my country. My heart is individually free.”

“That admission gives a vigor to my life,’ said Marcus,
with vivacity, “and an impulsiveness to hope. But, in reply
to those arguments you have used, and which have cast so
deep a shadow o’er my heart,” he continued, taking her fair
hand, “ allow me to explain, fair Isabelle, that a British soldier
is the servant of the crown. He regards no principle but that
of fidelity to his sovereign, and he fights or stands aloof as
that sovereign directs. Thus I am not your father’s or your
brother’s enemy, though bound in honor to support my king.
Permit me to hope, if you can not grant me more; for beneath
this refuge I have been sustained through all my sorrows.”

 
  
 
 
 
 
    
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

   

 

 

 

106 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

Before, however, a reply could be rendered, the governor’s
lady entered the apartment. All three were confused, and
the lady was about to atone for her intrusion by retiring,
when an imploring look from Isabelle caused her to advance,
and addressing Marcus, who stood despondingly beside the
blushing Isabelle, she said :

“Lieutenant Goodheart, the governor has been in search
of you. He has some important intelligence for your ear.”

Marcus bowed to the informant, then endeavored to extract
a glance of encouragement from the eye of Isabelle; but,
perceiving that she viewed nothing but the floor, he slowly ~
and reluctantly retired. Isabelle sunk into a chair greatly
affected.

“Thou queen of hearts!” exclaimed the lady, laughingly
attempting to rally her from her apparent sufferings, and
stepping behind her chair and impressing a kiss upon her
forehead ; “ bewitching in thy simplicity and artlessness, a
foe in thy innocence, our very garrison are surrendering at
discretion to the powerfulness of thy charms, and the gov-
ernor will be deprived of his command by his own fair
guest.” :

“Then, madam,” replied Isabelle, who had partly recovered
from her agitation, “ be it your care to save the noble garrison,
and induce the governor to expel the arch-rebel Isabelle,
whom you have unmasked, and commit her to the custody of
her own people.”

“What! Isabelle,” said the lady, “ would you fly in the
hour of victory ?”

“My dear madam,” said Isabelle, “I am not in a mood to
conquer.”

“Nay, nay, sweet Isabelle,” said the persevering lady,
whose uniform kindness and affection did not repress the
curiosity of her sex; “it seemed like your hour of triumph
when I so inopportunely entered the room.”

Isabelle blushed deeply, and could not reply. She was
greatly agitated. The governor’s lady took a chair beside

_ her, and said:

“T fear, dear Isabelle, that I have too rudely referred to a
subject that I ought not to have mentioned. Pardon me, and
the circumstance shall be forgotten.”

 
 
q

 

    

A LITTLE ADVICE. 107

“Oh, do not term your kindness rudeness,” said Isabelle,
“nor offer apologies for that which deserves my thanks. I
feel so alone, so abandoned, that I am grateful for this interest
which you display in what concerns me. You are well
known to Lieutenant Goodbeart. I have known him before
this unfortunate meeting, and have admired his integrity and
honor. He has now quitted me under painful feelings, which
you might soothe by your counsel and advice.”

“ What has occurred, Isabelle ?” inquired the lady.

“T can not love him,” responded Isabelle.

“J would not attempt to influence or guide your judgment
in a question of the heart,” observed the lady ; “ but I would
tutor you to think well before you"reject the affections of a
gentleman whom I know is an ornament to the British
army.”

“Tam not ignorant of the worth of Lieutenant Goodheart,”
said Isabelle, “and am astonished that he should seek the
hand of one who possesses so little claim ‘to such distinction ;
but still my heart is obdurate, and I follow its teachings in
my hopes of happiness.”

“J will not urge another word, Isabelle,” said the lady,
“upon a topic so momentous to your solace; but we shall
witness little of the lieutenant’s anguish, for, if I understood
the governor correctly, it is not improbable that he will quit
Montreal at dawn to-morrow.” P

Isabelle turned pale when she heard of this sudden depart-
ure of Lieutenant Goodheart. She again looked within her
heart to ascertain if she could lighten with hope the bitterness
of his journey; but, although her mind reverted to all that
gentle kindness from their earliest meeting within the British
lines to the hour of parting, her feelings were not those of
love—only of deep and lasting gratitude.

In the mean time, Marcus, concealing his wretchedness,
had received his dispatches, which were verbal, from the
governor, accompanied by a wish that the following morning
might not be thought too early for his departure, The com-
mand was painful to his bleeding wounds; but; affecting x
cheerfulness while all was desolation, he bowed his acquies-
cence, and left the presence of his superior. He summoned
his little band, delivered to them his orders for the march,

  
 

 

 

 

 

  

108 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

and found that these poor fellows had their attachments to
the place as well as he. He took leave of his friends, made
all necessary arrangements, and in the evening again appeared
at. the governor’s residence. He was welcomed by- Isabelle
and the lady of the governor; but both were shocked at the
alteration in his appearance. He seemed but the ghost of
what he was a few hours earlier. “With glassy eye, and sunken
and pallid cheek, and lips wholly colorless, he seemed to
haye undergone the ordeal of the grave. Tsabelle was terrified
as she thought of the mental torture that had effected this
transformation in the handsome officer.

Marcus, however, endeavored to conceal his sorrow in the
presence of a third, and commenced a species of sportive
conversation, and, while he was making every effort: to main-
tain his feelings by the rapidity of his language, a servant
entered the apartment with a request that the governor’s lady
would join her husband in another room. Isabelle shrunk
from the contingency of her companion’s absence, and was
about to rise also, when that lady remarked to Isabelle :

“T will rejoin you in a few minutes, if I may trouble you
to entertain Lieutenant Goodheart until my return.”

Isabelle was constrained to remain or be guilty of personal
rudeness. Marcus saw the value of the moment.

“Tsabelle,” he said, “I had almost resigned myself to
despair when I received orders to commence my return march
to-morrow ; but the sweetness of hope still flutters round my
heart, and, ere I leave, I trust that you will permit me to
retain just so much of happiness. I love you so deeply, so
sincerely, so unconquerably, that I fear to think of the conse-
quence of the utter rejection of such a passion. The sentence
which your lips pronounced is so appalling that I plead for
mitigation, and will ask no more than hope.”

Marcus approached Isabelle; he raised her soft hand to
his feverish lips, and, while he saw that her bosom was pain-
ful with emotion, he continued : t

“With hope comes life, and with life comes the. hope of
yet clambering to your heart. It will be my companion
through the wintry forest. It will convert that dreary wood
into a floral garden, and I shall be blithe and gay to pursue
my journey, alike insensible to danger and to cold” .

    
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 

 

  

HOPE, 109

“Oh, do not force me to repeat what lacerates the hearts
of both !” exclaimed Isabelle ; “nor would you desire me to
give encouragement where I can not do it with integrity of
feeling.”

“You would not drive me from your presence in this
despondency ?” almost supplicated Marcus.

“Tf I could believe that my heart might undergo a change,”
replied Isabelle, “I would not haye spoken so absolutely ;
but, be assured, that no previous affection influenced my
judgment. My heart has never imbibed an attachment
beyond that of gratitude, and that sublime feeling I entertain
toward you as well as others.”

“Tsabelle, I will distress you no longer,” said Mareus, “I
now feel hope, fragile it may be; but without that little chord
*twixt you and I, the forest would have been my grave, its
lofty trees my monument. But now I go more gayly on my
way, and will still hope that as you revolve in your mind my
deep and ardent love, a feeling may eat into your heart which
is loftier than gratitude.”

Isabelle was silent. She could not again forbid a hope that
seemed to bestow a new existence upon Marcus; and he,
resting on this sweet joy, and pressing her hand first to his
heart and then to his lips, bade her farewell; and when, in
the early morning, he crossed the river and entered the leafless
forest, his was the only countenance of the band that contem-
plated the gloomy march with cheerfulness.

eA ak ee Ls
THE RETURN OF MORTON TO ESOPUS.

IMMEDIATELY after Adam Morton had obtained his liberty
through the generous contrivance of Goodheart, he hastened
on his journey with a vigor increased by his unfortunate
delays. He attained the banks of the Hudson, crossed the
river, ascended the heights, and was at Esopus.

There he saw a village already reconstructed. No ashes

 

  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
  
  
   
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

were visible but those which he had pronounced sacred to
himself. The industry of the people had surmounted the
calamity of the conflagration, and happiness prevailed. He
was soon recognized. The inhabitants surrounded him,
grasped his hands in joy, and demanded, in a thousand
voices: |

“Where is Isabelle ?”

Adam related her perils, and modestly referred to the share
he had in her deliverance; but he made such great omissions
in the narrative, that they heard but little of the bravery he
displayed in her rescue until a much later period. The
remainder of the day was devoted to festivity. Adam was
compelled to pass from house to house, sit before each blaz-
ing fire, and repeat again and again the incidents attending
Isabelle’s abduction and escape, and he received the hearty = ,
gratitude of all for the courageous rescue of one whom each
family of the village cherished as a daughter.

The indefatigable and devoted Adam Morton had another
object in thus hastening to Esopus besides that of allaying
the fears of the inhabitants with the intelligence he brought.
He knew that the scene of desolation which the home of her
infancy presented, would lessen the delight of Isabelle’s resto-
ration to her native village, and he therefore resolved that it
should never meet her eye. With an energy inspired by
feelings that he had not dared to avow, and inviting the
willing aid of the sturdy dwellers in the settlement, he
removed the blackened embers of the house, and prepared to
erect another structure. The trees were quickly felled, the
logs were hewed, the timber was sawed, and with incredible
speed an edifice was reared upon the very spot which had
been occupied by the former home. But there never was a 7 *
building erected with such indomitable energy. It was built
by the enchantment of man instead of magic, in which the
latter art was rivaled, so rapid was the work of restoration. It
was indeed a temple of fame to the sturdy donors, and a
graceful tribute of their love to their peerless Isabelle.
This work completed, and every preparation made to
receive Isabelle, Adam again assumed the soldier, and an-
nounced to his fellow-laborers his intention to proceed at once
to Valley Forge, and join the forces of the commander-in-

  
PHILADELPHIA. : 111

chief. Prompt in the execution of his resolutions, he quitted

the village the following day, leaving his good friends to .
perform the hospitalities in the reception of Isabelle. As the
morning dawned, he was seen shaking the hands of the men,

the women, and the children, and amid a shower of blessings,

sobs, and old shoes in goodly number, Adam marched from

the village to the battle-field.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE RETREAT AND THE BATTLE.

Marovs GoopuHart returned to New York with his little
band, and the governor was highly pleased with his success
and diligence, and soon gave evidence of his approbation by
appointing him to a company. At any other period than
this, Marcus would have been delighted at the distinction ;
but promotion in his profession, unaccompanied by advance-
ment in the heart of the irresistible Isabelle, was but an empty
honor. As he had marched through the silent forest, receding
every day further from Montreal, and as he skilfully anato-
mized each look and word of her from whom he had 60 lately
parted, hope forsook his heart, and he became forlorn and
desolate. So. passed the dreary winter, and with no more
cheer for his wounded feelings came the spring; but warlike {
preparations demanded his attention, and although each blow
he struck in the royal cause might place him further from the
heart of Isabelle, he could not falter in the integrity of char-
acter so dear to life. General Howe was ordered home,
General Clinton was to take command of the army in occupa-
tion of Philadelphia, and he had selected Marcus to accompany
him.
The brother officers of Marcus envied his preferment, and
wondered at his apathy. He, however, endeavored to assume
feelings of more pleasure when he said farewell, though his
heart felt really sadder. He soon reached the gay city of
Philadelphia, where the English red-coats were highly popular

 
a ean

a

a =
———_

ee

112 THE MAID..OF ESOPUS.

with, the, ladies, and he endeavored to divert his melancholy
and amuse his mind in their society ; but there was a witchery,
a sweetness about the unattainable Isabelle, which rendered
her infinitely superior to the fair with whom he now visited.

From. this life of luxurious but. unhappy indolence, he was
aroused by. orders to prepare to quit Philadelphia. The
French had decided to assist America in her struggle for
independence, and it was therefore necessary to concentrate
the British forces, and Sir Henry Clinton resolved to march
his army to New York. The Americans had diligently
watched their enemy during the whole winter from their camp
at Valley Forge, and would no doubt confer upon them the
same unwelcome honor in their retreat.

The gallant host left Philadelphia, and proceeded on their

way, watched by a not less gallant band; that hovered in the
distance, ready to ayail itself of every error of its glittering
enemy. It was the American army under General Washing-
ton, whose men, with the bare necessities of life, were not
deterred from indulging in merriment at the magnitude of the
commissariat and baggage of their sumptuous foe, which were
conyeyed in carriages of yarious devices, and upon bat-horses,
and extended over a distance of ten miles. It was a tempting
recompense to a hungry enemy, could he but find a point
favorable to an onset.

The English reached Monmouth, and were but a day’s
march from the Hook. While the camp was in repose,
Marcus had ridden forward to put the ‘immense train of
baggage in motion at an early hour, that they might not
impede the progress of the army. ‘This he had effected, and
was returning, when he found. that the advance-guard was in
motion, and, at the same time, observed some movements in
General Lee’s division of the American army. In an instant
he gave the alarm; the British formed, and when the general
debouched from a wood which had screened him, he found
the enemy prepared, and quickly retreated. The firing, how-
ever, had brought the adyerse generals to the scene of combat,
and an engagement soon ensued.

The object of the English commander was not to fight; but
now that there was no alternative to battle, he prepared his
men, and the preliminaries for the struggle were soon arranged.

   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

&
e

BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 113

The battle was terrible and remorseless, as all battles are,
where soldiers do every thing like brutes but eat their victims.
The day was surpassing hot, the sun shed its rays in
unremitting fury, and the arid sands on which the. soldiers
fought increased the terrors of the day by their reflection, and

. exhaustion killed as many as the sword. But Marcus was

impervious to these destructive influences. He was in the
midst of carnage; but his wounds were painless, nor did he
feel the maddening thirst that had rendered hundreds speech-
less. ‘Twice he was complimented by the commander for his
daring and timely courage on the field, for none could suppose
“that he sought death who saw how fiercely he struggled
against such a fate. But the end of this frightful day arrived,
evening approached, and the English commander gave the
order to retire. At that moment Marcus was in front. The
order had not reached him, and, when others receded, he and
his company were almost inclosed by the enemy. His-brother
officers, however, advanced to his rescue, and had charged the
Americans, when a young American officer was shot from his
horse, not far from Marcus. For the first time that day, his
heart felt a touch of sympathy. The officer’s horse plunged
greatly, and he used his efforts to disentangle the rider from
the animal. This he effected, and just as he had ascertained
that the wound of the officer was not fatal, a cheer arose in
the air. It was from his own men. They were delivered,
and he was about to mount the noble animal which he held,
and rejoin them, when the bone of his left arm was broken by
a musket shot. Some soldiers perceived his attempts to
escape, and advanced to bayonet him, while he seized a pistol
from the holster of the saddle; but at this juncture a field-
officer rode up, and, in a voice of thunder, commanded their
retirement. He was obeyed. The officer then dismounted,
spoke some kind words to his prisoner, and took his hand ;
but a mist rendered the vision of Marcus imperfect, and he
sunk upon the ground. :

That night the American army slept upon their arms, and
Washington reposed beneath a tree, resolyed to renew the
struggle in the morning; but when the sun rose upon the
battle-field, the British had decamped, and only left their
wounded to the victors.

 
 

  

114 THE MAID OF BSOPUS.

When Marcus returned to consciousness, he found himself
in a small room, stretched upon a bed. His arm was band-
aged to a painful tightness, and his body in a state of great
inaction. He was unable to rise from the bed on which he
reclined, He attempted to revive in his memory past occur-
rences, and as the battle and his participation in it recurred
to his mind, he naturally felt anxious as to his position,
whether he was with friends or enemies. When he had re-
mained some time in this agony of mind as well as body, a
woman, habited as a nurse, entered the apartment. Her
experience instructed her that her patient’s reason had returned.
The instant he perceived this visitor, he exclaimed :

“Where am I, my good friend ?”

“In hospital,” was the laconic answer.

“ Haye I been long here?” inquired Marcus.

“ Eyer since you were taken prisoner,” replied the nurse.

“Prisoner!” exclaimed Marcus. ‘Am I a prisoner?”

“To be sure you are,” replied the nurse; “and there are
plenty more like you.”

“Tell me, my good woman,” interposed Marcus, in great
agitation, ‘‘ what was the result’of the battle ?”

“Why, the Britishers ran away,’ said the nurse, exultingly,
“and left us to bury their dead and to cure their wounded.”

“What!” exclaimed Marcus; “ were the English defeated—
routed ?”

“Oh yes,” replied the nurse, “they were beaten; but in
the night they scampered off over the soft Monmouth sands,
and they managed it so slyly, that even our great Washington,
who took a few hours sleep under a tree, did not hear them.
But the major told me to say nothing to alarm you when you
recovered your senses, so I must say no more.” i

With this sudden prudential notion, she quitted the apart-
ment.

Marcus continued for some time in a state of great solici-
tude, when a tall, military figure entered the little dormitory.
He hastily approached the bed, grasped his hand, and said:

“Captain Goodheart, will you allow one who is greatly
your debtor, and who, at this moment, as a soldier, is more
fortunate than yourself, to offer you his hand in kindness ?”
Marcus regarded him intently. He soon recognized the same

 

 
  
   
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     
 

MARCUS A PRISONER. 115

gallant rival whom he had encountered at Esopus, the same
manacled prisoner whom he had released from the Indians in
the forest, and the same triumphant enemy who had preserved
his life upon the field of Monmouth—Adam Morton. Marcus
pressed his hand in silent thankfulness, although he cared
little for his life.

“J infer,’ he at length said, “that I am your prisoner.”

“By one of those reverses which sometimes attend on
bravery like yours, you have fallen into the power of the
Americans,” said the major; “ but I will endeavor to lighten
the weight of your captivity, though I can not exercise the
generosity toward you that I received when a helpless prisoner
in the forest.” 4

“T owe to you my life,” said Marcus, “but it is so clouded
with sorrows, that although I fully appreciate your noble con-
duct, I fear my poor heart is sadly ungrateful for the boon.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Adam humorously, “you will find an
antidote to this sorrow, even in an enemy’s camp; for your
gallantry in the field, though it ended in your capture, is the
theme of conversation among your foes as well as with your
friends. There is a young officer also anxious to be presented
to you, to thank you for the timely aid you rendered him,
which preserved his life; but he is delighted at the renewal
of the lease, and so will you be when you are less agonized
by your wounds.”

Marcus uttered a sigh of despondency, and then, to divert
his mind from the subject, he questioned Adam in reference
to the British army, and ascertained the truth, which was not
very different from the unguarded relation of the nurse.
Adam sat with Marcus as long as his duties would permit,
and when he left he thought that he had inspired Marcus with
more cheerfulness.

Major Morton visited Marcus once or twice a day, and
when he was well enough to rise from his bed, he introduced
to him his young friend, Lieutenant Fearnought. Marcus
was astonished at the name, and almost overwhelmed at the
resemblance of this gallant soldier to Isabelle.

“TI have been most anxious,” said the lieutenant, “to
acknowledge the peril from which you redeemed me on the
plains of Monmouth; but I deeply regret that such a generous
act should haye contributed to your captivity.”

 
ke ee

 

easels

=

IIE TE

i

 

116 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

“A soldier,” replied Marcus, “ must be prepared as well for
the reverses as for the triumphs of war; but you must. not
attribute my surrender to feelings of sympathy, for at the time
I was attacked by one of your infantry, I was about to mount
your horse, that his speed might aid in my retreat.”

At this period of the conversation, Adam Morton received
a summons, and excusing his sudden departure, Marcus and
the young lieutenant were left alone. After renewing the
conversation on the subject that had been introduced :

“May I inquire,” asked Marcus, “if you have a sister
named Isabelle ?”

“TJ have,” smiled the lieutenant; “through whom I have
been informed how much I am indebted to you on her
account.”

“Ts she in safety?” asked Marcus, anxiously.

“In perfect safety,” replied the lieutenant: “She now
occupies the old homestead at Esopus, and my father and
brother are at this time with her. Major Morton and I were
to have been of the party; but that worthy soldier refused to
quit his prisoner, and I was desirous to render all the services
I could to-one who had saved my life.”

Marcus heard not all this. He was sensible to no other
words than those which alluded to Morton, that he was to
have visited Isabelle. He became thoughtful, and apparently
more faint, and less capable of enduring society, which
Lieutenant Fearnought perceiving, he took his departure.
When his visitor had gone, a deep sigh escaped his breast,
he rested his pensive brow upon his trembling hand, endeay-
oring to alleviate his anguish. For hours he maintained this
posture, and at length retired to his pallet with no less depres-
sion, no less meditation. The struggle of that night was
terrible; but in the morning there was resolution and firmness
in his face. He was impatient for the visit of Adam. When
he arrived, he regarded Marcus with some alarm. His face
was flushed, his hand was heated, and there seemed a feverish
restlessness in his eyes as well as in his habits.

“You are not well to-day,” said Adam. “I fear you dis-
tress your mind unnecessarily in reference to your captivity.”

“My mind has been ill at ease,” said Marcus, “and I am
not surprised that what I last night endured should be visible
LOVE UPROOTED. 117

in my face this morning, for I have been tearing a portion
of the vitality from my heart, and then experimenting on
whether the principle of life could be maintained without it.”

“What mean you, Marcus, my dear friend ?” asked Adam,
in anxiety.

“That I have driven the angel of earth, sweet Isabelle,
from that.region ?” gasped Marcus.

“Tndeed,” said Adam, in a slow, measured tone; “was that
lovely girl so firmly planted there ?”

“T thought immovably so,” replied Marcus, in a melancholy
tone, “but I have subjugated those powerful influences which
held empire over my mind. Adam Morton, we can in future
be friends, for from this moment I cease to regard Isabelle
but as a divinity that I shall never more approach.”

“My dearest friend,” exclaimed Adam, with much emotion,
and grasping the hand of Marcus as he extended it, but
astonished at his conduct, “the happiness of Isabelle is un-
speakably dear to me. I would freely purchase it with my
life, my peace on earth, and almost with my hopes hereafter ;
but this devotion is unselfish. I have never presumed to ask
her love, nor have I seen her since we separated in-the forest,
although I am aware of her safety. Isabelle is all truthfulness
and faith, and will be guided in her preference by her love. I
am no perfidious rival. I shall rejoice in what makes Isabelle
happy.”

“ Noble, admirable man,” exclaimed Marcus. “You shame
me by your magnanimity. Although devoted to the in-
comparable Isabelle, I have found no favor in her heart.
I have avowed my passion—urged my suit with all my
powers of supplication’; but I could not move her love.
Still, I have subdued these feelings, and trust that those
which have supplanted them will endure to the end of life.

Adam was unprepared for this declaration, and remained
some time in silence, but at length replied:

“Where you have failed to inspire a feeling of love, I can
not expect to find acceptance. But why should I aspire to so
bright a gem as Isabelle. I have bridled my tongue, con-
trolled my heart, when either would attempt to express so
bold a thought as love.”

“But, Adam,” replied Marcus, “T perceive matters through

 
 

  
   
  
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

    

118 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

 

a vision unshaded by your modesty. When you were con-
demned to die, and chained to the fatal stake, what feeling
inspired that sweet and lovely maid to rush from the cabin
where she was concealed, and, placing herself beside you,
to call upon the barbarous assembly to fire the pile?”

A tear glistened in the eye of Adam as he was reminded
of that terrible scene, and he replied :

“Tt was her heavenly nature rather than her love. Isabelle
would not have done otherwise, had an enemy been at this-
crisis of his life.”

“Adam, my dear friend, it was love!” said Marcus, with
great solemnity.

The friends continued to pace slowly upon the walk in
silence and much agitated, the crippled prisoner supported
by the more able soldier; but they soon separated, to soothe
their troubled feelings in retirement.

CAPA PPE Rae er ag
THE RELEASE.

Tue recovery of Marcus from his severe wounds was slow,
but every effort was made by his two friends to render his
detention as agreeable as possible. They walked with him,
sat with him, dined with him, until they almost made him
forget his prison-life. Still, his general health remained greatly
impaired. The loss of blood which he had sustained, and the
anxiety his mind had undergone for many months’ previous
to the battle, had so affected his constitution that the surgeon
assured his friends that he would be compelled to return to
England for complete restoration.

One morning, Adam called upon Marcus earlier than was
usual He had a smile upon his face; but it was divested
of its usual pleasantry, and Marcus awaited his first words
in some alarm.

“Good news, my friend!” he said. “I come to congratulate
you on the arrival of good news.”

“For me?” exclaimed Marcus, “ Pray tell it quickly, for such
intelligence is rare indeed, and I feared something~ more
adverse from your painful smile.”

  
ave

-

 

 

FLORA. 119 |

“An exchange of prisoners is negotiating,” said Adam,
“and it is not unlikely that you will soon be free.”

“Ts it so, good Adam?” replied Marcus, humorously.
“Then I must confess that you scarcely come to knock off my
manacles with a grace. You need not fear my sword again
in battle, for you have so maimed this poor body that I can
scarcely draw the weapon from its scabbard.”

“T fear that I am a less merry harbinger of liberty than I
ought to be,” said Adam, “but I can not forget that it entails
separation from so dear a friend.”

At this instant Lieutenant Fearnought entered; but he
perceived that the intelligence with which he was laden had
preceded him, and he congratulated Marcus on what he
judged that he had heard from Adam.

“You have rendered my captivity so pleasant,” remarked
Marcus to his friends, “that I feel the boon of liberty to be
scarcely an enjoyment.”

In a few weeks the terms of exchange between the bel-
ligerents were arranged, and Marcus quitted the fostering care
of his most worthy friends. Upon his arrival in New York,
permission was immediately granted for Marcus to return to
England, and he left the shores of America in the first return-
ship for those of his own country. There was a pang in his
heart as he thus quitted the land of the fair Isabelle ; but he
overcame the feeling, and would only allow himself to re-
member her but as the betrothed of another. He wrote to
Adam and to the brother of Isabelle, and expressed a hope
that peace would soon enable them to continue a correspond-
ence which he trusted would endure for life.

The voyage home was not unattended with advantages,
and upon his arrival in England, Marcus found his health
invigorated. _ The residence of his father was in the county
of Cheshire, and there he proceeded, and under the kind
nursing of an affectionate mother, he soon began to surmount
the weakness that had caused his return.

Adjoining the estate of his father resided a gentleman with
an only daughter. An intimacy had ensued between the
families during the absence of Marcus, and the engaging
society of this daughter afforded a pleasing resource to
Marcus. She was deficient in the beauty and grace of

  
 

   
   
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
   
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
  
 

120 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

Isabelle; but she was very interesting and engaging, and highly
accomplished. They wandered together through the groves
that bounded their homes, indulging in the pleasant shadow
they afforded in their wild beauty, until Marcus began to feel
that the society of the fair Flora was indispensable to his
daily comfort, and that the devotion which bound his heart
to the western side of the Atlantic was greatly modified.

One summer's evening, when the birds warbled in sweet
harmony, when the gold and silver-fish reveled in the cool
waters by which Marcus and Flora sat, when nature seemed
smiling that the heat of the day had passed, and when *the
rose on Flora’s cheek seemed to partake of the beauties of
those influences, Marcus urged his suit and asked the tender
feelings of a heart that. he had learned to love. The gentle
Flora blushed, allowed those tiny fingers to be retained which
Mareus had clasped in his, and before they quitted the spot
where their first words of love had been spoken, they made
it yet more sacred by their vows.

OM A PYP ae + rw.
ISABELLE AND ADAM.

Tne Governor of Montreal, at the earnest solicitation of
Isabelle, communicated with the American authorities, and
delivered her into their hands, and she was transferred to
Esopus. There she learned how much she owed the comfort of
her reception to Adam Morton. She was sensibly affected at
the persevering devotion of this matchless soldier. She could
not but think that there dwelt some hidden feeling beneath
that noble breast which had been disclosed to her only in
deeds; and although her thoughts ever referred to Marcus with
respect and gratitude, they were enriched with a higher and
more enthusiastic feeling when Adam was the subject of her
meditation. She had seen him threatened in every way—
she had seen him suspended between life and death—and
though she had been the cause of those perilous trials, he had
regarded her with the same reverence as before the day she
was stolen from Esopus.

  
AN AVOWAL. 121

Isabelle soon heard from her father and her brothers. They
wrote her every circumstance: their assault upon the British
forces—how they retreated in the night—how Marcus was
their prisoner—that he had saved her brother’s life, and the
brave Adam Morton had saved his. She regretted the weak
state of Marcus, but she heard with pleasure and satisfaction
of his release. One brother and her father were now with
her, and when Marcus had taken his departure, her other
brother and Adam Morton announced their intention to add
their society to the number assembled at the house. The
intelligence was received with satisfaction by all, and Isabelle,
when she retired that night to rest, thought more of Adam’s
coming than of slumber.

Ina few days these visitors arrived. Isabelle flew to meet
these young warriors, cast herself into her dear brother’s arms,
and then welcomed Adam with a cheerful greeting. Adam
thought her more angelic than he had ever seen her, and her
society was the more delightful after the harsh associations of
the camp.

One evening, Isabelle sat pensively alone in the parlor.
Her father, Adam and her brothers had been absent all day,
but were expected to return to supper. The sun had set,
the curtains were undrawn, and the blaze of the cheerful fire
rendered candles needless. It was the season of meditation,
and Isabelle had penetrated so deeply into this shadowy region
that she did not observe the entrance of Adam Morton until
he approached within the circle of the light, and with quiver-
ing lips and beating heart, and scarcely hopeful feelings,
ventured to use such language to Isabelle as he had never
dared before, but which she plainly comprehended. ‘Then
ensued a tranquillity awful to the suppliant Adam. Nota
word was spoken—not a sound was heard but that of the
wild flames raging up the chimney. Thus Adam stood for
judgment. Then a sweet voice, as if from the queen of
paradise, broke the terror of this silence:

“ Adam,” exclaimed the beauteous Isabelle, her brow still
supported by her hand, while her eyes were bent upon the
floor, “I scarcely awaited this avowal to give you my whole
heart. I could not confine my feelings to the bounds of
gratitude for all that I owe you. Had you never asked

 
aS

=

122 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

my love it would not have been another’s. It would have
remained as sacred to you as if it had been pledged.”

Adam stood aghast. He could not believe these sounds,
and doubted if some perfidious atrial spirit—such as sport
with mortals in their dreams—had not assailed his senses.
But the voice was Isabelle’s and the charm was his, and,
speechless with ecstasy, he cast himself at the fair Isabelle’s
feet. . Both were greatly agitated, She implored him to
rise. He obeyed; but he could not control his heart. It
bounded in his breast—it was disturbed by the huge agony
of bliss; and exclaiming :

“Oh, Isabelle, I am too supremely happy for this life,”
he rushed from the room as if in madness. But the cool
breeze of the evening soothed his intoxicated senses, and when
supper was announced he joined the party in comparative
tranquillity. Isabelle withdrew at the earliest moment, the
brothers “had engagements, and then Adam, left alone with
the elder Fearnought, unfolded to him what he had disclosed
to Isabelle, and how favorably she viewed his suit. The face
of the affectionate father beamed with delight; joy sparkled in
his eyes, but he did not reply. He rose, beckoned Adam to
follow, and entered the parlor. There sat Isabelle. Her
eye looked timidly toward that of her father. The language
that was unspoken was not unread, and the affectionate parent,
folding her in his arms, gave her his blessing, and, placing
her hand in that of Adam Morton, he said :

“ May God bless you, as I do,” and quitted the room.

The villagers, who had witnessed Adam’s agony at the loss
of Isabelle, who were aware of the dangerous pilgrimage he
undertook to redeem her from captivity, and who had seen
and shared his anxiety that she should be fittingly received
on her return, rubbed their hands in expression of their glee
when they heard that Isabelle and Adam were to be united,
and that the latter was to return to the camp a bachelor no
more.

When the elder Fearnought, accompanied by his sons,.
rejoined the army, and paid an early visit to the immortal
Washington, he said that he was attended by another son,
though not an additional soldier to the army, and then pre-
sented Adam Morton.

  
  
  
 
 
 
    
  
   
    
  
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
  

   

 

  
 

 

A STRANGER AT ESOPUS. 123

CHAPTER XX.
THE REPRODUCTIONS.

Men, circumstances and names are reproduced. Every
thing recurs in the passage of time. The history of the pres-
ent is but a narration of the past and an anticipation of the
coming age. The comedy, the tragedy and the farce of life are
re-enacted, and the virtues, the crimes and the follies of the
dead are revived in the actions of the living.

Twenty years later, when peace had long been restored to
America, accompanied with the independence for which she
so bravely fought, a gentleman landed from a vessel whieh
had arrived at New York from England. He was tall, hand-
some and courteous, and, instead of being influenced by the
ordinary curiosity of a stranger to view an increasing city, he
seemed anxious to quit it, as if other thoughts occupied his
mind. He sought some conveyance up the Hudson. As he
was by no means choice as to accommodation, he soon found
a craft bound for Albany, the skipper of which bargained to
convey him to any place where he wished to land. This
suited the voyager, and the vessel soon left her moorings.

The captain found the admiration of his! passenger as
unbounded as his scrutiny. He inquired minutely into the
various spots associated with each historical incident that had
transpired during the war of independence. ‘The mariner,
well versed in the lore of the river as well as in its channel,
gave his young companion all the information he required,
interspersed with such sarcasms upon the English as combat-
ants, as caused both occasionally to laugh most heartily. At
length they reached Esopus, where the passenger requested to
be put on shore, to which the skipper yielded with reluctance,

for he regretted to separate from so agreeable an associate.

The stranger, however, landed and proceeded to the vil-
lage. This he viewed with mere cursory attention. As he
walked on he observed a house placed within some very
charming grounds. It was not large, was built of wood, but

 
  

124 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.

its garden was a most attractive object, for it contained rare
flowers and shrubs, and before the house was a pretty lawn.
It seemed like the residence of refinement—as if the poetry
without was only an earnest of the intelligence within. He
was evidently deeply interested, and drew from his pocket a
book upon which he commenced sketching. Soon a gentle-
man, about his own age, passed, and, perceiving his occupa-
tion, observed that he feared so humble an edifice would be
scarcely worthy of such commemoration, although to himself
and to his family it was very dear.

“Was not this house and village burnt?” asked the
stranger.

“ Yes, sir,” replied the other, “ by the British—at least the
village, not the house, though both were destroyed the same
day.”

“‘ May I ask your name, sir?” said the stranger.

“ Adam Morton,” said the other.

“And I am Marcus Goodheart,” said the stranger, “ which
name may not be unknown to you.” -

“ Unknown to me!” exclaimed Adam, seizing the hand of
Marcus, from which the book and pencil had fallen on the
ground—“ unknown to me! I was taught them before my
alphabet. They came to my tongue with those of father and
mother, and almost as often. Our fathers have fought side
by side—no, pardon me, I mean face to face—but no matter,
we are friends. I will not ask you your engagements, for
you are my prisoner, and I will not discharge you on parole
or otherwise until you have been delivered to my father.
Come in—come in, I am not wholly alone.”

Marcus was astonished at this singular encounter, and much
affected. He, however, followed his voluble friend, who,
after rushing through the various apartments on the first floor,
and finding no one, exclaimed :

“ Tsabelle | Isabelle ! come down !”

“T can not, dear Adam,” replied a sweet voice—“I am
engaged.”

“Put aside every thing, dear Isabelle, and hasten dowh,”
again vociferated Adam, “ for Marcus Goodheart is here |”

“Marcus Goodheart !” repeated the same sweet voice, and
a light step was heard in descent upon the stairs,

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
  
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
   

 
 

ISABELLE AND MARCUS. 125

- Then entered the apartment, where Adam stood, a beautiful
maiden of eighteen, and he recognized that lovely vision
which his father had often told him he first loved. Isabelle
approached. ‘Their hands were clasped in friendship, for the
fair nymph only saw the Marcus of her mother.

“Your name, sir,” she said, “is with us a household word.
Our dear parents have taught us to cherish and love you from
our infancy, and I see in you the impersonation of the por-
trait so strongly impressed upon our ini, except that the
artist may have scarcely done you justice.”

Marcus was much confused at this smnigphintionttd flattery,
and Adam did not scruple to indulge in a fit of merry laughter,
exclaiming :

“ Why, Isabelle, this is not the gallant officer who protected
our uncle Fearnought, and who was taken prisoner at the
pattle of Monmouth. It is his son !”

Jn a moment the face of Isabelle was suffused with blushes,
the.smiles faded from her cheeks, and she recoiled from the
hand she had permitted to retain hers. The distress visible
in her trembling figure did not escape the eye of Marcus, who
quickly attempted to relieve her confusion, saying :

“J will consider the graceful tribute addressed to my
father, of whom I am the ambassador, charged to search
with all diligence for those beloved friends who have never
ceased to live within his heart. I repaired to this village and
to this house for further instructions, and I have been
fortunate in meeting your brother and yourself.”

This restored, in some measure, the composure of Isabelle,
and a general conversation soon ensued, when it was arranged
that Marcus should accompany the brother and sister to their
residence which was in New York; and in the course of a
few hours these happy friends were floating down the Hudson
toward the city.

Marcus was received by Adam Morton (who was then a
colonel) and by his wife with as much joy as astonishment,
who at once claimed him as their guest during his sojourn
in’ the States, and, for the first few days, occupied almost his
whole time in replying to their inquiries. Many excursions
were arranged for his diversion and information, and the
time passed so happily that Adam regretted its rapid flight.

 
 

126 THE MAID OF ESOPUS.
Marcus and Adam were inseparable friends; but the former
had become impressed with a feeling of a yet more impas-
sioned nature for another member of the family. As his
father’s heart had succumbed to the charms of the elder
Isabelle, so had Marcus fallen’ before the sweet and unaffected
loveliness of the younger; and when, in the exuberance of his
devotion, he cast himself and his future solace on her mercy,
she displayed feelings of surrender that proved Marcus a more
successful suitor than had been his father to Isabelle’s mother.

This delicate secret was disclosed by Marcus to the colonel,
to whom it afforded much satisfaction-; but he wished Marcus
to procure his father’s sanction, to whom he at once wrote,
and who, among other things, replied :

“Nothing could occur more acceptable to the feelings of
my heart, nor, I think, judging from analogy, more conducive
to your happiness. The felicity which I sought at the feet
of Isabelle will be consummated in the alliance now contem-
plated, and I am delighted that what I then deplored as so
great a calamity will have so graceful an end.”

The marriage was celebrated, and the bride and bridegroom
left America for England, where Isabelle soon became as
prominent for her virtues as for her beauty.

But another link was added to the chain of union between
these families. Adam, the following year, visited England,
became enamored with Marcus’s sister, Flora, and soon he
had to solicit from the colonel a similar permission to that
obtained by Marcus from his father. It was joyously con-

ceded, and for many summers the waves of the Atlantic -

wafted these children from father to father, and from home
to home.

      
    

 

Se

 

  
 

 
 

‘CATALOGUE OF BEADLE'S DIME HAND-BOOKS—Continued,

EAQWeHAR

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A COMPLETE HAND-BOOK O¥ INSTRUCTION,

 

Containing all a beginner can require to guide him to the entertaining
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BY MIRON: J. HAZELTINE, Esoq.,
Chess Editor of the New York Clipper, and Teacher of the Game.
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CATALOGUE OF BEADLES DIME HAND-BOOKS—Continued.

 

BEADLE’S ;

Dime School Melodist.

A CHOICE SELECTION OF FAMILIAR AND BEAUTIFUL

SONGS, DUETS, TRIOS, &,

Arranged ina Simple Manner for Scxoor Srnarna, with Elementary In-
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This little work is not intended to give a full course of musical instruc-
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. CONTENTS.

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A Farmer’s Life,
A smile from thee,
Blow! Blow! Blow!
Bonny Eloise,
Bright Rosy Morning,
Busy Bee,
Canadian Boat Song,
Chairs to mend—Round,
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Day is fading,

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fientle Troubadour,

appy School-Boy,

lark! ’tis the Bells,

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Haste thee, Winter,
House that Jack built,—Catch,
Hazel Dell, ,
I love the merry sunshine,
I'd choose to be a Daisy,
In words of joy,
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Morning rambles,

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See our oars.

Song of the Mountain,
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Smiling May,

Sweet birds are singing,
Switzer’s song of home,
The Sleigh Ride,

The Invitation,

The River,

The Bell doth toll—Round,
eee to os ms
Tyrolese Evenin n,
Vesper Bell, re

We are all nodding,

When tempted to wander,
Working boy.

 
   
     
  
   
     
  
 
 
 
  
    
   
    
        
  
 
 
 
    
      
 

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Century... A ideghooeeees 8) A, Pathetic Old Man... .. 31
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