At the sound of her name, Ellen sprung to her feet, with a suppressed scream of fright on her lips. Looking up, she saw a tall, dark man standing before her, his eye bent upon hers with a look that sent the blood to her heart, she hardly knew why; for certainly the individual before her was a stranger, or one with whom she had had so slight an acquaintance, as to remember nothing concerning him. While her mind was running over all the passing acquaintances she had ever made, and endeavoring among them to put the personage before her, he continued to scan her countenance with a steady gaze, as if to read her thoughts, which divining, he continued:
"I perceive you do not remember me, though we have met before. My memory is not so treacherous; and, beside, your looks made a lasting impression on my mind, an impression that time can never efface or obliterate; and to this impression you are indebted for my present visit—an unceremonious one, I must confess."
At this point of his discourse Ellen made a movement as if to retrace her steps homeward, seeing which, he went on:
"Do not be impatient, fair maiden, or in haste to go, for I have that to tell thee which is of the utmost importance both to thy present and future welfare."
This adoption of the familiar and solemn style of address, had the effect rather to increase than diminish the tremors about the girl's heart; yet she silently awaited his words:
"I am come to warn thee that great, very great and imminent danger is hanging, impended but by a thread, over thy head."
This blunt and unexpected announcement caused Ellen to start with a shudder, and sent the blood still more forcibly upon her heart, which labored, for a moment, under the load, and then beat so loud she was afraid the stranger would hear it. Noticing the effect of his words, he continued:
"Thou hast an enemy, a bitter enemy, who has sworn to do thee an evil, and it is in his heart to keep the oath. I see by the pallor of thy countenance thou hast not forgotten him."
And true it was that the mention of "an enemy" called up her old foe to the most vivid recollection of the now thoroughly alarmed Ellen. With the utmost exertion of her strength and will, she could barely suppress the outward manifestations of her terror.
"Well, this enemy, whom you had well-nigh forgotten, has never, for a single day, had thee out of his mind. Ever since his threat, he has been laying deep schemes to ruin thee, and once very nearly succeeded. For two years he has been at work in a new way; his plans are about matured, and you will soon be in his power!"
This last clause was spoken slowly, and emphasized on every word. All the time he was speaking, Ellen's feelings became more and more intensely excited, and, at the close, had reached the limit of control. For a moment she was overcome, and leaned against a tree for support; but seeing the stranger make a motion as though to assist her, she rallied again, and, becoming more composed, demanded:
"How know you these things of which you speak?"
"It matters but little to thee, to know more than the facts in the case; these I tell thee, but no more."
"Then you have come as a kind friend to warn me of my danger?"
"Aye, and more."
"Thanks! thanks! and pardon me if, at the first, I looked with suspicion on a friend. The circumstances of our meeting is my apology for the ungenerous thought."
"Thou hadst cause to suspect, if not to fear me, and for thy thought I have no need to pardon thee. But my mission is not yet completed."
"Then let us go to the house of my father, which is but a short way off, and there hear what further is to be said."
"No, I have but little time, and this place will answer my purpose quite as well as your father's house, with the situation of which I am well acquainted."
"Indeed! Then you are not a stranger in these parts?"
"Not entirely so; but as my business was with you, more particularly, it was natural that I should familiarize myself with your place of abode, that, if need be, I might render myself efficient in a case of emergency, which may arrive but too soon."
This allusion to danger re-awakened Ellen's apprehensions, which noticing, he continued:
"I have told you of overhanging peril; yet I have told you but half. You are unable to escape from the net that is woven around you—you have no means in your power to free yourself from the unseen toils that have been secretly laid to ensnare you. Every step you take is one of danger, and every effort you make to flee from that danger, may but drive you nearer to destruction. Such is the nature of your enemy's operations, that while they are secret, they are sure; and so thoroughly has every preparation been made, and so exact has every minute particular been examined and attended to, there is no possibility of his scheme failing, and equally no possibility for you to escape."
"Your words are words of doom. How am I to interpret your enigmatical conduct? But now I thought you a friend, come to give me timely warning to guard against threatened danger, when, all at once, you declare my situation a hopeless one! If you are my friend, why not warn me sooner, and in time?"
This was said in a firm manner, and gave the stranger to understand he had no common, timid nature to deal with. The truth was, the thought had flashed across Ellen's mind that this man was some way connected with Durant, perhaps employed by him, and she began to conclude it might be a trick to frighten her, after all. If so, or if not, she determined to meet boldly what he had to say. The man perceived the change, and replied:
"My seemingly enigmatical conduct is easily explained. It is true I have a long time been known to the fact that most determined designs of mischief were entertained against you, and that your enemy was ceaselessly at work to perfect his plans; but just as I was preparing to come to inform you of this state of affairs, I was so unfortunate as to be desperately wounded in battle with the Indians. I have but just recovered; the fresh scar you can see on my temple."
And brushing away the hair, he exposed a hardly healed, terrible gash. This appeared to satisfy his listener.
"I have, therefore, done the best I could, and you must charge the rest to fate—a fate whose inexorable decree I almost rebeled against bowing to. But I am here, my warning is given, and I can only regret that it comes so late."
These words and the exhibition of the scar restored Ellen's confidence in the stranger, and, with it, her fears returned. He perceived this, and proceeded:
"Though your case is a desperate one, there is still some hope; there is a possibility of your deliverance from impending peril."
"Then let me know how I am to act."
"I fear to do so."
"It may prove a desperate alternative."
"Nothing can be so dreadful as falling into the hands of my enemy."
"Perhaps not; still you may be unable to choose between the evils."
"Let me know them, and I will try."
"As I said, it may be a desperate alternative, and I must ask of you beforehand to pardon me for being compelled to give you only the choice between what may prove one of two equally direful evils. Your only hope of relief from present evil is in me."
This was an unexpected announcement; it fairly startled Ellen, and, in the moment of bewilderment, she made no reply. He continued:
"Do not consider me selfish—at least do not condemn me for my selfishness. If you have ever loved, you know what almost omnipotent power that passion has over the mind and heart. For long years I have loved you in secret, with a burning, consuming intensity of feeling, which defies all efforts to describe. I cannot tell you all the joy or agony love has awakened in my bosom; I can only say, that you have it now in your power to render me supremely happy, or abjectly miserable. If you will cast yourself on my love, I will save you from your plotting foe, and devote my life to your service, and to make you happy. If I had any other means of saving you, I would not propose this one, but I have not. Just now I have not time to explain all that I would like to make clear, and must ask you, for the present, to take my word; for at any moment, even now, your malignant foe may come upon us, and then all is lost. Can you accept the alternative?"
"I—I thank you, but I cannot."
"You say, in view of all the facts, this is your unalterable decision, from which I may not hope to persuade you?"
"It is. For all or any kind intentions and wishes you may have had or still entertain for me, please accept my sincere thanks; but do not attempt to change my purpose, for it is fixed, and I would save us both the pain of repeating it."
"Then farewell, and God protect you!"
"Amen!"
This one word was said in such a fervent, and, at the same time, confident manner, the stranger paused a moment as he was turning away; for a short time he seemed engaged in deep thought, which had the effect of totally changing his former, and apparently predetermined course of action. Turning again to Ellen, who saw his hesitancy of action, he said:
"You rely, then, in God?"
"I do, most assuredly."
"And you have a hope that He will deliver you from the sad situation in which you are now placed?"
"I humbly trust He will shield and protect me from harm."
"Perhaps that confidence induces your present course of action?"
"Doubtless it does, in part."
"Well, let me tell you that angels nor devils can save you!"
"I have no wish to be saved by the devils."
"I wonder you can be at all merry in your situation."
"I begin to be less apprehensive than I was."
"Indeed! and why, pray?"
"To be plain, an explanation will not be very flattering to your vanity, or very creditable to my penetration, and, therefore, I had rather not make it."
"I see you suspect me, so you may as well know the truth."
Saying which, he threw off some outward disguises, and stood before the astonished maiden—Louis Durant himself!
"You see me, Ellen Walton, and in me your worst enemy, because you will not permit me to be a friend. I have made the present attempt to win you by stratagem, in the not very sanguine hope of success. I have failed—now for my revenge. Know that all I have said concerning my plans, and the net I have woven around you, is true. You are now in my power, and I only forbear taking you captive at this time because I wish you to live for a short period in dread and suspense, as you once made me."
"Keep to the truth, sir, in making your statements."
"I intend to; and so bid you beware, and to escape if you can!"
"I have a very comfortable expectation for the future, thank you."
"Well, cherish it, then; hug it close, for it will be short lived, I give you fair warning."
"The warnings of a man who comes with the tissue of falsehood, are of little worth. Keep them to yourself."
"Beware how you presume on my forbearance; it may give way."
"I presume on nothing but your cowardice."
"Enough! enough! I will bear no more! I go, but you will see me soon again! Your doom is sealed! 'Cowardice!' This from a woman! Gods! but I'll remember this in my revenge!"
He started, as if to leave the place, but turned again, and said.
"Girl, I dislike to leave you in this manner. For the love I bear you, I would still see you happy—happy as a wife and not a despised outcast—the scorn of society. You might once have been my honorable bride; yes, you might still be. Passing by all your insults, I would still offer you my hand, and honorable marriage."
"Infamous villain! how dare you insult my self-respect by even naming such a thing? Never dare again, to couple my name with yours! never, sir! It is the basest sacrilege to humanity!"
"Very well. Our names shall not be coupled; our destinies shall be! Go, with the consoling thought to cheer you for a few fleeting hours. Here I stand and swear it—witness my oath, ye trees! witness it, earth and sky! and, if such beings there are, witness it, angels and devils—Ellen Walton shall be mine!"
He was so deeply absorbed in calling on his witnesses, he noticed nothing about him, and now looking to the spot where she stood, to observe the effect of his words, behold, Ellen was not there. His tragic agony had been wasted on the "desert air." Turning away once more, he left the place in a rage.
Ellen, though she had left, heard his words in the distance, and notwithstanding she had made a show of boldness, she was really alarmed, and greatly dreaded the future. She knew that an evil-minded man, however contemptible, was capable of doing infinite harm to a fellow-being, when determinedly set thereon. Thus, between hope and fear, her time was passed.
CHAPTER VI.
PLANS FRUSTRATED—ESPIONAGE.
Durant, who considered himself a perfect genius in contriving strategetical measures, now turned all his attention to the execution of the secret plans he had matured. He first accompanied a body of Indians, who were ready to march upon the settlements of Kentucky, with a select few, to whom he had confided his intentions of capturing a white squaw. With these villains he intended to attack the house of the Waltons, while the main body of the savages made their onset upon the bulk of the settlement, including the block-house. This measure failed, for the simple reason that he had mistaken the house, and a family by the name of Scraggs suffered in the stead of his intended victim.[A]
He next resolved to go, with a few of his renegade followers, in a secret manner, and steal Ellen at night, or during some of her daily walks, when alone. Soon after crossing the river, he was taken sick, and his followers, mistaking his directions, went another way, and made a worse blunder than on the first occasion; and a party of whites coming into the vicinity of his camp, the villain hastened to recross the river to the Ohio side, not yet knowing the fate of the expedition, that portion of the band who had been commissioned with the execution of the plot not having returned when he was forced to retreat. However, he was not long kept in suspense; one of his men came back, and reported a wonderful adventure with a "big squaw, taller than the greatest warrior," who killed a number of the Indians, he said, and when two of the others undertook to get down the chimney, "big squaw took up mighty great wallet, all full of feathers, more than was on all the eagles of all the hunting grounds of the red men, and tearing it open, easy as we tear a leaf, poured them on the fire. Big black smoke puff up quick as powder flash, and down come Indian like he shot. White squaw take up big tomahawk, and strike both on the head. Me nearly in the door by this time; big squaw jump at me with he great tomahawk, so big the great chief no lift it, and lifted it to strike. Me no like to be killed by old squaw, so me come away." A very marvelous story told the Indians, full of high flourishes and exaggerations, but founded on truth, nevertheless.[B]
Durant saw that some mistake had been made, and that his attempt had signally failed, notwithstanding his confidence and boasting, and the care with which he had laid his "hidden toils." He was greatly exasperated at the failure of his plots, on the success of which he had built such sanguine hopes.
After much reflection, and the formation and abandonment of many schemes for the accomplishment of his object, he finally hit upon a plan which he felt sure would succeed. This time he called into requisition the services of his old crony in crime, the infamous, but not untainted, Ramsey. With him and a couple of trusty Indians, he set out on his expedition, resolved to succeed at the risk of his life. Ellen he would possess at all hazards.
The party reached a point which was as near the settlement as prudence allowed them to go, and here, in the deep forest, his three companions hid themselves, while he went forward to make observations, and work out the details of the plot and attack. Stealthily approaching the vicinity of the Waltons, he secreted himself in a hollow tree during the day, from an orifice of which, at some distance from the base, he had quite a commanding view of the adjacent country for a considerable distance either way. Here he placed himself to make observations.
It was in the early part of autumn; the weather was mild and pleasant; the forest had put on its diadem of rich colors, purple, scarlet and yellow, and was gorgeously beautiful in the ripened glory of its drapery. The season, the scene, the sunny warmth all invited to a participation in the enjoyment which nature held out to those who would accept her bounty, and refresh themselves in her sylvan bowers.
It was on the second day of his watch, that Durant had the satisfaction of noticing the arrival of a gentleman at the house of Mr. Walton, which was followed on the succeeding day by a circumstance which at once gave him fresh encouragement and sanguine hopes. Ellen made her appearance, leaning on the gentleman's arm; they were out enjoying the pleasure of an excursion into the quiet woods, and to his infinite gratification, wended their way to his immediate neighborhood.
Fortune sometimes favors the wicked, and, in this instance, she smiled on the villain; for the lovers, fancying the spot, seated themselves on the trunk of a fallen tree, that lay close to the one in which he had ensconced himself, and by placing his ear near the orifice, he could distinctly hear what passed between them.
"It is so refreshing to sit in the shade of the 'gray old forest,'" said Ellen. "I have not enjoyed such a treat these many months."
"Why, with your facilities, I should think you would recreate every day in pleasant weather."
"That was my habit formerly; but the last time I ventured out alone, I met with an unexpected streak of ill luck, which has deterred me ever since from laying myself liable to a repetition of the same bad fortune."
"Indeed! You have not informed me of this before."
"For the simple reason that more agreeable thoughts and memories have occupied my mind; and, after all, it is hardly worth relating, though it made me feel very unpleasant for a time."
"I must know of this adventure."
"It was only the unlooked-for appearance of my old and sworn enemy, Durant, who made another attempt to deceive me; but failing in his designs, finally renewed his threats of revenge."
She then, at her lover's request, narrated the incidents of her interview with Durant, as already known to the reader.
"Strange that the villain should form such an unaccountable dislike for you, when you never injured him in the least."
"I think his bad nature was excited, and his ill-will increased, by a few words of merited rebuke I was forced, by his unmanliness, to pronounce against him, the last time he was at our house in Virginia."
"And you have heard nothing from him since the day he obtruded himself upon your notice here in the woods?"
"Nothing direct or definite, though I think he made an attempt to capture me, with the aid of some Indians, soon afterward, but failed in his object from some cause. But notwithstanding I have heard no direct tidings from him, I feel a constant dread of evil, as though some impending calamity was hanging over me."
"Such fears had better be banished at once from your mind."
"I know it, and have tried to get rid of them, but they will, despite my efforts to the contrary, come into my mind. I do not and will not yield to them, though I find it impossible at all times to shake them off."
"Singular, truly; I pray God, they presage no harm."
"Oh, I so much wish you could always be near me; I dread nothing in your presence."
"I hope the time is not far distant when this dearest wish of both our hearts will be realized."
The conversation took a tender cast at this point; and as matters of the heart are secrets between lovers, which they dislike for third parties to look into, we will take ourselves away, and leave them to enjoy their hour of happiness in undisturbed quiet.
Several days brought a return of much the same routine of events, the lovers always spending an hour of each afternoon in the woods. Durant kept to his tree, and the others invariably occupied the same seat near his hiding-place. At the end of a week, Durant learned from the conversation of the young couple that the gentleman was to return to Virginia in a day or two, to make preparations for the coming wedding, which was to take place about the holidays, he being now on a visit to arrange the preliminaries, and enjoy for a brief time the society of his betrothed. When they had returned home, Durant muttered to himself:
"Now is my time! To-morrow is their last day for walking, and, like loving fools as they are, they will be so absorbed in each others' feelings, and the silly sentimentality of love, as to be easily surprised. Yes, to-morrow will be my time!"
And gloating over the anticipated triumph, he left his burrow, and hastened to his companions, to make known his intentions, and prepare everything for the event of the morrow. He and one Indian were to seize and secure Ellen, while Ramsey and the other should perform the more difficult task of capturing her lover. All the details of their arrangements were discussed and adopted; and Durant, now that he felt certain of his victims—for his hate of Ellen's lover was bitter, though of recent date—was almost beside himself with malignant and hellish joy. He saw before him the speedy accomplishment of his fiendish purpose—the gratification of his inveterate hate and long sought revenge, by the commission of the most damnable act known this side of the "bottomless pit" of darkness; and his sin-polluted heart actually swelled with venomous delight, and demoniac exultation. One of the fairest flowers of earth is to be plucked by his rude hand, and soiled by his touch and embrace! Will he succeed in his satanic designs?
CHAPTER VII.
THE LOVERS
Ellen Walton, ere she left the home of her childhood for the scenes of border life, was the affianced bride of Walter Hamilton, a young man of most promising talent, irreproachable character, and fine looking withal; and, in a word, was worthy of the high favor he found in the eyes and the heart of his beloved. As gathered from the narrations of the last chapter, he was now on a visit to the wilderness home of his betrothed, to arrange for the nuptials, which were to be solemnized on Christmas Eve, the winter season being deemed most safe from the predatory excursions of the Indians. All these particulars their bitter adversary was familiar with; and he so exulted over the sad termination of their plans, he could scarcely command his feelings, or act with becoming sanity.
Without further ado, we will introduce the lovers at their last interview in the forest, previous to Hamilton's return home. The same spot finds them seated again, as though fate led them surely on into the jaws of destruction, and opened the way of triumph for the plotting villain.
"And this is the last time we shall enjoy together the sweet solitude of this sylvan temple of love?" said Hamilton, after they had been conversing for some time on the hopes before them.
"Oh, I pray it may not be the last time! What fatal words!" replied the fair Ellen, as a momentary pallor overspread her beautiful face.
"You know, love I only meant for this visit. Of course, I hope to enjoy the same felicity many times when we shall mutually sustain to each other those dearest of all relations; after that our hopes shall have been fully consummated."
"I know you did not intend to say the last time for life; but the word last struck with a chill to my heart, and called up old dreads, which, unbidden, sent a thrill of fear through my spirit. I could not avoid the thought that this might be, indeed, our last meeting. Would to heaven the unwelcome thought were banished from my mind, never again to return."
"Well, love, just banish it. You are certainly in no personal danger; and there is hardly a possibility, let alone a probability, protected as I shall be, of my encountering serious danger on my way home."
"I know all you say; I can see no cause of fear; no reason to apprehend danger; yet I do feel alarmed; but it is a vague, undefined sensation, which I hope reason will soon banish from my mind. I am not now, and never have been, a believer in presentiments, and I do not intend to become a convert to the notion to-day."
"I am glad to hear you speak in that manner. There are but few things in the compass of possibility that may not be achieved, if we bring a resolute will to bear upon them. The belief in presentiments, signs of good and bad luck, and the like, is calculated, in no small degree, to 'make slaves of us all,' and to detract very much from the happiness we might otherwise enjoy. I have known persons who were perfect slaves to such things, having their evil omens and good omens, their bad days and good days, their moon signs, their owl signs, their cat and dog signs, and I know not what all other kinds of signs, all of which were regarded with the reverence due only to sacred things. I must confess I have often been disgusted at the tomfoolery of some of these 'signs' people."
"Really, I hope you do not intend to be personal in your remarks?"
"My usual reply to such inquiries is, 'if the shoe fits, wear it;' but you know, love, I had no intention of alluding to you in what I said; at least, if you did not know it, I tell you so now."
"Very well; your amusing strictures on the 'signs' have had the effect to dispel, in a good degree, my forebodings of evil, whatever may have given rise to them. I presume, if the sign is really reliable, I may now conclude that the danger, if any was near me, has passed away."
"One would naturally suppose that the more imminent the danger, the heavier would be the pressure on the spirits."
"And who knows but some unseen calamity was near us—a serpent, for instance, whose deadly fangs might have proved fatal, or some other unknown or invisible foe, with power to work us evil?"
"Without entering the field of speculation, we will just suppose your snakeship has departed, and, as your spirits have recovered their wonted elasticity, let us talk of more pleasing and interesting matters."
"With all my heart."
And had the serpent, Durant, really withdrawn himself? Had some long buried cord of human sympathy at last been touched in his heart, and the slumbering emotions of a better nature awakened? Let us hope so if we can.
The lovers continued to converse of their hopes for the future, and regrets for the immediate separation; and their attention became so fixed in each other, that it would have required some extraordinary occurrence or sound to arouse them. In reply to a remark of his companion, Hamilton said:
"Yes, but four months, and our probation will be ended. Would that they would speed away as rapidly as the past week. Four months, and then shall our happiness be—"
The sentence was never finished. At that precise moment rude hands grasped each lover. A smothered cry arose to Ellen's lips, but was hushed by a covering which was placed and fastened over her mouth. They were both secured with thongs, and led away into captivity. As Ellen was being secured, the miscreant captor hissed in her ear:
"Be of good cheer, you are in the hands of Durant, the 'dog!' who distinctly remembers your former kindness and amiability!"
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CAPTIVES.
With all the speed possible, Durant hurried off toward the Ohio, determined as soon as it could be done, to place that river between himself and captives and any pursuers that might follow them, when it became known that the lovers were missing.
It was a matter of wonder with Ellen's family what could keep her and Hamilton out so late in the evening; and when darkness set in, and they were still absent, the wonder changed to alarm. Search was instantly made; they were traced to their resting-place; the evident marks of a scuffle were visible; and the unanimous opinion of all was that they were in the hands of Indians. Preparations for pursuit were immediately instituted, and by daylight next morning, a strong band of armed pioneers, well mounted, were on the trail of the fugitives, determined to retake the captives, if such a feat were in the bounds of possibility.
Durant had everything so arranged, that his party need not be subjected to a moment's delay. Every member of his band, including the prisoners, expected a vigorous pursuit, and the lovers were not without hope that it would prove successful. In this hope, they, as far as circumstances and ability permitted, endeavored to retard the progress of the captors by slow movements; and Durant was finally constrained to threaten them, if they did not step with greater alacrity; for he feared they might be overtaken.
At length the hilly banks of the Ohio were reached; the clear waters of that noble stream lay before them; and between the prisoners and despair, and no friends in sight to bid them hope! Durant now concluded all was safe; and the malice of his heart, which the pressure of circumstances had kept smothered, began again to display itself. Pointing to the verdure-clad and tree-crowned hills on the other side of the river, he said:
"Once there, amid the lovely groves of Ohio, and you are beyond the last hope of recovery from my power, my beautiful girl! Then and there I shall have the exquisite pleasure of informing you more particularly concerning my plans for the future. For the present, receive my assurances, that nothing else could give me such unbounded satisfaction as the felicity unspeakable of having won my old and dear love from all competitors for her hand and person, and the certain assurance, that, for the time to come, she is all my own, without fear of rivalship!"
The bitter irony attempted in this malignantly polite address went to the heart of the fair girl; but she resolutely set herself against any display of fear, or the least manifestation of alarm, well knowing that the marks of such emotions would but increase the revengeful feeling of delight evinced by her adversary.
Just as Durant concluded his speech, the tramp of horses' feet was heard in the distance, and the cry raised by the Indians:
"White man come! white man come!"
All hands sprung to unmoor the canoes, which were in readiness, concealed among the drooping branches of some trees which overhung the margin of the stream. While thus engaged, Hamilton, who was watching his opportunity, knocked down the Indian who guarded him, sent Durant whirling round like a top to the distance of ten or twelve feet, seized Ellen in his arms, and with strength almost superhuman, and a speed miraculous under the circumstances, bounded away in the direction of the approaching horsemen, who were now visible through the interstices of the forest, a good way off, but coming rapidly on to the rescue, though, as yet, in ignorance of their near proximity to friends and foes.
"Seize them! seize them!—shoot the infernal dog!" roared Durant, in a hoarse voice of passion and rage, so soon as he recovered from the astonishment and fright into which the unceremonious assault of Hamilton had thrown him.
His first command was not obeyed, for Hamilton and Ellen were already beyond reach when the order was given; but the second one led to the discharge of two guns without effect, and the leveling of a third by Ramsey, with a coolness and steadiness of nerve and aim which gave assurance of success. His finger was on the trigger, when Durant himself threw up the muzzle of the rifle, and sent the ball whizzing through the air, some ten feet above the heads of the fugitives.
"My revenge must be fuller than that, or not at all," he said. "The ball would have killed both, and I would not have had that for the world."
He had hardly uttered these words, when the sharp crack of the remaining Indian's rifle, who had recovered from the blow given him by Hamilton, and was glad of the opportunity of so speedily avenging it, rung in his ear with piercing shrillness, and looking in the direction of the flying couple, Durant saw Hamilton stagger with his burden, and then both fell to the earth. Instantly the demon was roused within him; every emotion of fear was swallowed up in his usually cowardly heart by the burning thirst for revenge which rankled in his bosom; and crying "Come!" he rushed to the spot where the lovers lay, followed by his comrade. Both were wounded, but neither was dead. Lifting the bleeding Ellen in his arms, he bore her back, while Ramsey and an Indian did the same by Hamilton. Springing into their canoes, and bending to the oars with all the strength they could muster, they were soon far out into the stream, and had just reached a point of safety, when the pursuing party of whites came up to the water's brink. Several shots were fired at the canoes without effect, and then the men tried to force their horses into the river; but by yelling and splashing the water with their oars by the enemy, the beasts were effectually frightened, so that no efforts of their riders could induce them to attempt the unwilling task of swimming across.
Durant could perceive the agony of the father and brother of Ellen, as they wrung their hands in despair, still vainly striving to urge forward their stubborn steeds. Feeling perfectly secure, now that the pursuers were effectually baffled in their designs, he gave orders to cease the frightening demonstrations, and continue their course. In a few minutes the Ohio shore was gained, and they soon buried themselves in the deep woods beyond and were lost to the sight of those on the opposite bank, who reluctantly turned their faces homeward, and, in deep and mournful silence, retraced their steps, revolving in their minds what next could be done.
Hamilton and Ellen were both severely wounded, the ball having passed through the right side of each, but no vital part seemed to have suffered, and the wounds were not deemed mortal of themselves, but might prove fatal if not properly attended to. Durant's first care was to have them dressed and bound up; and he used every means within his reach to expedite their recovery. He had them taken to a place of safety, a kind of cove, known to himself and Ramsey, which was in an obscure and unfrequented spot, where they were carefully nursed until in a fair way for speedy recovery.
Until now, Durant had been careful to say and do nothing that might tend to excite the minds of his captives, fearing that inflamation might ensue, and rob him of his anticipated triumph and revenge. But so soon as their convalescence was distinctly manifest, the crisis and the danger past, he began to torment his victims; the one of his wounded vanity, his disappointed avarice, and his venomous hate; the other of his envy and jealous malice. In consummating his revenge upon Ellen, he would not only gratify his malicious and vengeful nature, but minister, also, to the basest passions of a corrupt human heart. Seating himself in her presence one day, he said:
"I now understand why it was that I found no more favor in your sight while so foolishly attempting to win your love. Your heart was already occupied, a circumstance you took good care to conceal. Thank my stars, my rival is now in my hands! And do you know, my dear, that he is a doomed man? If not, permit me to inform you of the fact."
"Sir, what has he ever done to you that you should wish to harm him?"
"Done! Has he not robbed me of your love, your hand, and made my life a hopeless desert and a weary waste?"
"No, sir, he has not. My heart was his before I saw you, and you, sir, attempted the part of a robber, not Mr. Hamilton. Now judge yourself by your own rule and what fate should be yours?"
"Ah, very fine logic, truly; but, unfortunately, you have not the power to back it up. I presume you have never beheld the sacrifice of a victim on a funeral pile, nor more than read of prisoners burned at the stake; how would such a spectacle affect you, think?"
This was said with a peculiar expression, and was evidently intended to make a strong impression; but whatever its real effect upon the mind of his auditor, no visible tokens of dread or pain were manifested, and Ellen replied:
"I do not know, so much would depend on circumstances; but that I would abhor the actors in the scene of barbarous cruelty, I can well imagine."
This was not the kind of a reply expected, and Durant changed his discourse from an insinuating tone to a direct manner.
"I perceive it will be necessary for me to render my meaning more explicit, and I now change the form of my query, and beg to know how you would probably feel, were you compelled to witness the burning of your lover at the stake?"
A momentary paleness blanched the cheek of the fair girl, as this heartless interrogation was fully comprehended, but recovering herself quickly from the rude shock, she replied:
"I doubt not the sight would be a harrowing one, but I do not anticipate such an unlikely event."
"Pardon me, but I may as well tell you at first, that this fate is in store for you."
"Why do you persist in this attempt at refinement of cruelty? Bad as you are, I give you credit for too much humanity to believe your words are more than an idle threat, which you have no intention of putting into execution."
"Then you have given me credit for more humanity than is justly my due; for I never was more earnest in my life, and it is my fixed determination to do exactly what I have intimated."
Ellen, who had all the time been really alarmed, now gave way, in her reduced strength of body, to the feelings which, until now, she had kept in subjection; and, changing her tone, commenced pleading with the miscreant:
"Mr. Hamilton has never harmed you, and can, therefore, only be hated by you through me; do not, then, make him the object of your wrath, but let it fall on me. I will readily burn at the stake to save him."
This last remark, as it showed the depths and tenderness of her love for his rival, only excited him the more, and he repeated his intention of burning Hamilton at the stake in her presence, with many additions, purposely introduced to make a more horrifying impression. In vain she pleaded for her lover, and offered herself as the sacrifice; the only effect of her prayers was to render him more savage and determined in his intentions and avowals. The excitement of the interview, however, in her case, superinduced a state of fever, which bid fair, for a few days, to render her recovery very doubtful. This result was not expected by Durant, and he in turn became alarmed, lest his dearly bought vengeance should yet slip from him. Every exertion was put forth for her restoration, and finally success crowned the well directed but ill intentioned efforts of the villain. Ellen's fever abated, and she again began to mend. It would be some time, however, ere the monster would dare renew his threats, and in the interim, he set his wits to work with a little different object in view. A new thought had entered his mind, the ultimate end of which he would endeavor to carry out.
He had never fallen in love with savage life, because it was one of too much peril to suit his natural disposition to cowardice, and he would gladly return to civilized life, if he could do so safely—his Indian home and habits having only been adopted as a means, and the only means, of ministering to his revengeful desires. His idea looked to the accomplishment of this object, and he was fain to believe he saw a way to succeed. As Ellen was to act a part in his newly formed plan, his manner toward her changed. He was polite and respectful in his words and attentions. He was, also, very kind and considerate toward Hamilton. They were both surprised at this unexpected change in the demeanor of their captor, but were unable to account for it. All was explained in time. One day, after Ellen was much restored, he ventured on the following communication:
"I have," he said to her, "had very serious thoughts of late. A singular dream, which made a powerful impression on my mind, opened up to my mental vision the sinfulness of my past life, and convinced me of the necessity of repentance and reformation. I would gladly amend my ways, and lead a new and better life, but my way is hedged up before me. I am an outcast of society, made so by my own acts, the dark enormity of which I now behold with astonishment, and, unless some great influence is brought to bear in my favor, I dare not return to a Christian community, and if I remain here among the heathens, I may give up all hope at once, as it will be impossible for me, as one of the savages, to become a moral and Christian man. It is in your power, fair lady, to give me the requisite guarantee of safety. May I hope that you will extend to me the hand of salvation?"
Ellen hardly knew whether to believe in the man's sincerity or not; but hoping for the best, she replied:
"If in your good intentions I can aid you in any way, I shall be most happy to do so."
"Thank you; I expected as much from your generous heart, though I have merited nothing but hatred from you by my acts. I will consult Mr. Hamilton on the subject, before pointing out more definitely the mode in which you can serve and save me."
Leaving her presence, he placed himself before Hamilton, whom he addressed after this manner:
"I am aware, my good sir, that you are on somewhat intimate terms with Miss Walton, the lady in another apartment of this rather dismal abode, and, I doubt not, have much influence over her. If so, I very much desire the benefit of that influence, to aid me in the best and noblest undertaking of my life."
He then explained his intentions and desires of reformation, and the impediments in the way, much in the same manner as he had done to Ellen; after which he continued:
"Now, to relieve me from my embarrassing situation, I deem it needful to form a connection with some influential person or family, whose recommendation and protection will secure me from harm, and restore me to the bosom of that society from whose enjoyments and privileges I severed myself by a rash act, committed in an hour of passion, and followed up by a strange course of infatuation ever since. I know of none upon whose names and aid I would sooner cast myself than upon you and Miss Walton, as your families are of the first respectability, and could throw an effectual shield around me. I would, therefore, that you let me bear to the young lady the assurances that you approve my plans and purposes, (if you really do so,) and that you are willing to aid me yourself, and hope she will also, in carrying them out."
Hamilton was still confined by his wound, which had been a much more serious one than that inflicted upon Ellen; and in his then state of prostration, was not as well prepared to scorn the motives of Durant, or penetrate his designs, as he might have been under more favorable auspices; and having no reason to doubt the sincerity of the seemingly repentant man, he entered into his plans at once, with all the warmth of a benevolent and Christian heart. He said:
"I can hardly believe it necessary that I should say a word to Miss Walton, to induce her to put forth her best endeavors to serve you in so worthy a work; but, if need be, bear to her the assurance of my hearty approval of your designs and wishes, and that I shall do all in my power to aid you in the laudable efforts you are making to return to a Christian country, and a virtuous life."
"As I have, very unfortunately, laid myself liable to her distrust, will you have the goodness to place your approval on this slip of paper?"
Saying which, he handed him the paper and a pencil. He wrote as follows: