Chapter VII (1)

To one familiar with the dense swamps that skirt the rivers through the alluvial bottom lands of the South, there will be no difficulty in comprehending the fact that a fugitive may find temporary security within half a mile of his enemy, even where his pursuers hunt for him in numbers. Thus it happened that, in taking to the river, our little corporal’s guard of patriots, under the direction of Elijah Fields, the worthy preacher, swimming their horses round a point of land on the opposite shore, sought shelter but a little distance below “Bear Island,” in a similar tract of swamp and forest, and almost within rifle-shot of their late retreat. They had no fear that their enemy would attempt, at that late hour, and after the long fatigue of their recent march and search, to cross the river in pursuit of them; and had they been wild enough to do so, it was equally easy to hide from search, or to fly from pursuit. Dunbar felt all this as sensibly as the fugitives; and with the conviction of his entire failure at “Bear Castle,” he gave up the game for the present. Meanwhile, the little barque of Frederica Sabb made its way down the river. She made her calculations on a just estimate of the probabilities in the situation of Coulter’s party, and was not deceived. As the boat swept over to the opposite shore, after rounding the point of land that lay between it and “Bear Castle,” it was hailed by Fields, for whom Brough had a ready answer. Some delay, the fruit of a proper caution, took place before our fugitives were properly sensible of the character of the stranger; but the result was, that with returning consciousness, Richard Coulter found himself once more in safety with his friends, and, a still more precious satisfaction, attended by the woman of his heart. It was not long before all the adventures of Frederica were in his possession, and his spirit became newly strengthened for conflict and endurance by such proofs of a more than feminine attachment which the brave young girl had shown. Let us leave the little party for a season, while we return with the captain of loyalists to the farmstead of old Frederick Sabb.

Here Mat Dunbar had again taken up his quarters as before, but with a difference. Thoroughly enraged at his disappointment, and at the discovery that Frederica had disappeared—a fact which produced as much disquiet in the minds of her parents, as vexation to her tory lover; and easily guessing at all of the steps which she had taken, and of her object, he no longer imposed any restraints upon his native brutality of temper, which, while he had any hope of winning her affections, he had been at some pains to do. His present policy seemed to be to influence her fears. To reach her heart, or force her inclinations, through the dangers of her parents, was now his object. Unfortunately, the lax discipline of the British authority, in Carolina particularly, in behalf of their own followers, enabled him to do much toward this object, and without peril to himself. He had anticipated the position in which he now found himself, and had provided against it. He had obtained from Col. Nesbett Balfour, the military commandant of Charleston, a grant of the entire farmstead of old Sabb—the non-committalism of the old Dutchman never having enabled him to satisfy the British authorities that he was a person deserving their protection. Of the services and loyalty of Dunbar, on the contrary, they were in possession of daily evidence. It was with indescribable consternation that old Sabb looked upon the massive parchment, sealed, signed, and made authoritative by stately phrases and mysterious words, of the purport of which he could only conjecture, with which the fierce Dunbar denounced him as a traitor to the king, and expelled him from his own threshold.

“Oh! mein Gott!” was his exclamation. “And did the goot King Tshorge make dat baber? And has de goot King Tshorge take away my grants?”

The only answer to this pitiful appeal vouchsafed him by the captain of loyalists was a brutal oath, as he smote the document fiercely with his hand, and forbade all further inquiry. It may have been with some regard to the probability of his future marriage—in spite of all—with the old Dutchman’s daughter, that he permitted him, with his wife, to occupy an old log-house which stood upon the estate. He established himself within the dwelling-house, which he occupied as a garrisoned post with all his soldiers. Here he ruled as a sovereign. The proceeds of the farm were yielded to him, the miserable pittance excepted which he suffered to go to the support of the old couple. Sabb had a few slaves, who were now taught to recognise Dunbar as their master. They did not serve him long. Three of them escaped to the woods the night succeeding the tory’s usurpation, and but two remained in his keeping, rather, perhaps, through the vigilance of his sentinels, and their own fears, than because of any love which they entertained for their new custodian. Both of these were women, and one of them no less a person than the consort of Brough, the African. Mrs. Brough—or, as we had better call her, she will understand us better—_Mimy_, (the diminutive of Jemima,) was particularly watched, as through her it was hoped to get some clue to her husband, whose treachery it was the bitter resolution of our tory captain to punish, as soon as he had the power, with exemplary tortures. Brough had some suspicions of this design, which it was no part of his policy to assist; but this did not discourage him from an adventure which brought him again very nearly into contact with his enemy. He determined to visit his wife by stealth, relying upon his knowledge of the woods, his own caution, and the thousand little arts with which his race usually takes advantage of the carelessness, the indifference, or the ignorance of its superior. His wife, he well knew, conscious of his straits, would afford him assistance in various ways. He succeeded in seeing her just before the dawn of day one morning, and from her discovered the whole situation of affairs at the farmstead. This came to him with many exaggerations, particularly when Mimy described the treatment to which old Sabb and his wife had been subjected. It did not lose any of its facts or dimensions, when carried by Brough to the fugitives in the swamp forests of Edisto. The news was of a character to overwhelm the affectionate and dutiful heart of Frederica Sabb. She instantly felt the necessity before her, and prepared herself to encounter it. Nine days and nights had she spent in the forest retreats of her lover. Every tenderness and forbearance had been shown her. Nothing had taken place to outrage the delicacy of the female heart, and pure thoughts in her mind had kept her free from any annoying doubts about the propriety of her situation. A leafy screen from the sun, a sylvan bower of broad branches and thickly thatched leaves, had been prepared for her couch at night; and, in one contiguous, lay her wounded lover. His situation had amply reconciled her to her own. His wound was neither deep nor dangerous. He had bled copiously, and swooned rather in consequence of loss of blood than from the severity of his pains. But the hands of Elijah Field—a rough but not wholly inexperienced surgeon, had bound up his hurts, which were thus permitted to heal from the first intention. The patient was not slow to improve, though so precious sweet had been his attendance—Frederica herself, like the damsels of the feudal ages, assisting to dress his wound, and tender him with sweetest nursing, that he felt almost sorry at the improvement which, while lessening his cares, lessened her anxieties. Our space will not suffer us to dwell upon the delicious scenes of peace and love which the two enjoyed together in these few brief days of mutual dependence. They comprised an age of immeasurable felicity, and brought the two together in bonds of sympathy, which, however large had been their love before, now rendered the passion more than ever at home and triumphant in their mutual hearts. But with the tidings of the situation in which her parents suffered, and the evident improvement of her lover, the maiden found it necessary to depart from their place of hiding—that sweet security of shade, such as the fancy of youth always dreams of, but which it is the lot of very few to realise. She took her resolution promptly.

“I must leave you, Richard. I must go home to my poor mother, now that she is homeless.”

He would, if he could, have dissuaded her from venturing herself within the reach of one so reckless and brutal as Mat Dunbar. But his sense of right seconded her resolution, and though he expressed doubts and misgivings, and betrayed his uneasiness and anxiety, he had no arguments to offer against her purpose. She heard him with a sweet smile, and when he had finished, she said,

“But I will give you one security, dear Richard, before we part, if you will suffer me. You would have married me more than a year ago; but as I knew my father’s situation, his preferences, and his dangers, I refused to do so until the war was over. It has not helped him that I refused you then. I don’t see that it will hurt him if I marry you now; and there is something in the life we have spent together the last few days, that tells me we ought to be married, Richard.”

This was spoken with the sweetest possible blush upon her cheeks.

“Do you consent, then, dear Frederica?” demanded the enraptured lover.

She put her hand into his own; he carried it to his lips, then drew her down to him where he lay upon his leafy couch, and repeated the same liberty with hers. His shout, in another moment, summoned Elijah Field to his side. The business in prospect was soon explained. Our good parson readily concurred in the propriety of the proceeding. The inhabitants of the little camp of refuge were soon brought together, Brough placing himself directly behind his young mistress. The white teeth of the old African grinned his approbation; the favoring skies looked down upon it, soft in the dreamy twilight of the evening sunset; and there, in the natural temple of the forest—none surely ever prouder or more appropriate—with columns of gigantic pine and cypress, and a gothic luxuriance of vine, and leaf, and flower, wrapping shaft, and cornice, capital and shrine, our two lovers were united before God—our excellent preacher never having a more solemn or grateful sense of the ceremony, and never having been more sweetly impressive in his manner of performing it. It did not impair the validity of the marriage that Brough honored it, as he would probably have done his own, by dancing _Juba_, for a full hour after it was over, to his own satisfaction at least, and in the absence of all other witnesses. Perhaps, of all his little world, there were none whom the old negro loved quite so much, white or black, as his young mistress and her youthful husband. With the midnight, Frederica left the camp of refuge under the conduct of Elijah Fields. They departed in the boat, the preacher pulling up stream—no easy work against a current of four knots—with a vigorous arm, which, after a tedious space, brought him to the landing opposite old Sabb’s farm. Here Frederica landed, and the dawn of day found her standing in front of the old log-house which had been assigned her parents, and a captive in the strict custody of the tory sentries.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

RED JACKET.

Written on being presented by a lady with a wild flower that grew on his
grave, near Buffalo.

BY W. H. C. HOSMER.

Thanks to the Genii of the flowers
Who planted on his humble tomb,
And nursed, with sun and pleasant showers,
This herb of faded bloom!
And, lady fair, my thanks to thee
For bringing this frail gift to me,
Although it cannot match in dye
The velvet drapery of the rose,
Or the bright tulip-cup that glows
Like Summer’s evening sky.

It hath a power to wake the dead—
A spell is in its dying leaf
To summon, from his funeral bed,
The mighty forest chief.
Realms that his fathers ruled of yore—
Earth that their children own no more,
His melancholy glance beholds;
And tearless though his falcon eye,
His bosom heaves with agony
Beneath its blanket folds.

Within the council-lodge again
I hear his voice the silence breaking,
Soft as the music of the main,
When not a wind is waking;
With touching pathos in his tone
He mourns for days of glory flown,
When lay in shade both hill and glen,
Ere, panoplied and armed for slaughter,
The big canoes brought pale-browed men
Over the blue salt water;
When deer and buffalo in droves
Ranged through interminable groves,
And the Great Spirit on his race
Smiled ever with unclouded face.
_Now_, with a burning tale of wrong,
He wakes to rage the painted throng,
And points to violated graves,
While eloquence dilates his form,
And his lip mutters like the storm
When winds unchain the waves;
An hundred scalping-knives are bare—
An hundred hatchets swing in air,
And while the forest Cicero,
Lost power portrays, and present shame,
Old age forgets his palsied frame,
And grasps again the bow.

Thus, sweet, wild-flower of faint perfume!
Thy magic can unlock the tomb,
And forth the gifted sagamore
Call from the shroud with vocal art
To sway the pulses of the heart,
And awe the soul once more;
For on his couch of lowly earth
Thy modest loveliness had birth,
And lightly shook thy blooming head,
When midnight summoned round the place
The kingly spectres of his race
To sorrow for the dead;
And sadly waved thy stem and leaf
When Erie tuned to strains of grief
The hollow voices of the surge,
And for that monarch of the shade,
By whom his shore is classic made,
Raised a low, mournful dirge.

The pilgrim from Ausonian clime,
Rich in remains of olden time,
Brings marble relics o’er the deep—
Memorials of deathless mind,
Of hallowed ground where, grandly shrined,
Sage, bard and warrior sleep;
And precious though such wrecks of yore,
I prize thy gift, fair lady, more,
Plucked with a reverential hand;
For the old chief, above whose tomb
Its bud gave out a faint perfume,
Was son of my own forest land,
And with bright records of her fame
Is linked, immortally, his name.

* * * * *

PEDRO DE PADILH.

BY J. M. LEGARE.

Spain, and Tercera. }
AD. 1583. }

It is part of the popular belief, I know, that our ancestors, of three centuries back, lived and talked in quite a different fashion from mankind at the present day; but as I entertain no political designs on that Great Caioled, the people, I may venture to assert an opinion of my own. I cannot persuade myself what is called human nature has undergone much alteration in the exchange of an iron for a broadcloth suit, and it is very certain people ate, drank, and slept in those remote times much as we now do, although your stilted romancers seldom recognise the fact, and make their heroines as unlike tangible women, “not too good for daily food,” as their heroes are exemplars of the mendacious gifts of their biographers. In the matter of speech, through which we mainly receive impressions of fictitious personages, it is extraordinary what fustian is palmed on a credulous posterity, as the veritable domestic talk of nobles, knights and folks of lesser condition. There is no comedy, high or low, in the conceptions of many of these authors; Man having apparently assumed the distinguishing trait of a laughing animal, or at best of an humorous one, at some more recent epoch of modern history. Every body struts about in buskins and speaks tragedy, nothing less; and as to the fooleries enacted by pages, grooms, and servitors of all kinds, there is no end to them, nor any like nowadays, except we find it on the boards of a country theatre.

What I say admits of easy illustration. Thus, when the page woke Don Pedro out of his morning nap—which, by the bye, he was taking not as the usual impression is, in greaves and a casque—he, the page, did not “lout low as it behooves trusty varlets” to do, but in a manner as straight-forward as a modern Thomas would employ, gave the drowsy knight to understand that some one had been sounding his horn at the gate for the last half hour.

“Very well,” returned the master, turning over to resume his doze where he was interrupted—the gate being the concern of the warder, of course.

“But, Sir Peter,” put in the page, by way of remonstrance, “it is mi señora who has sent.”

“Ah ha!” cried the knight, suddenly becoming wide awake, and leaning on both elbows in bed to regard the speaker. “Well, what message does she send?”

“That she wishes you to come up to the castle as soon as your comfort allows, as she has something special to say.”

“That I will, presently,” exclaimed Don Pedro, getting up so promptly his gaunt figure showed to no advantage in its scant costume. “And so tell Gil, or whoever came, to carry back word. How the dear lady talks of comfort to a man accustomed to the ease of camps! Fetch me those things, Iorge, and look behind the arras for my slashed doublet. Stop, before you go, reach down my sword and spurs from the hook behind the door.”

Now all this is very rational, much like what one would say at the present date, and unless the Spanish version of my story was never written, (which the Muse of veracity—whatever her name—it was not Clio, I know—forbid!) was the identical language employed on the occasion by my hero, as true a knight as Spain has produced since her Cid Rodrigo. This reminds me a hero of romance cannot be passed over as commoner folks, with a surmise as to his inches and the color of his hair, and moreover is expected to be an Apollo in shape, and sort of supernatural in virtues, provided his character is not cast in quite a different mould, and dependent for admiration on the enormity of its crimes. But Don Pedro, unfortunately for the interest his fortunes are destined to excite, fell into neither extreme, was neither a saint nor a monster of iniquity, and as far from being handsome as from being deformed. To have designated him in a crowd, you would have called attention to his overtopping the rest by a full head, or to a certain sinewy spareness of limb, or else the simplicity of his toilet, at a time when country gentlemen wore ribbons and gewgaws alternately with steel harness. But closer, the irregularity of his features, browned by the sun where the rim of the casque had not interposed, was compensated for by the singularly calm beauty of his eyes, which, in their serene intelligence, would have become the brows of any woman, and even in battle shone with a high sort of exultation, such as one would attribute to a victorious angel in the celestial wars. There was nothing about Don Pedro which harmonized with these eyes, except, perhaps, an undertone of gentleness pervading his voice; it was an undertone only, for nothing womanish characterized his speech, no mincing of words or petit-maître modulations in addressing the other sex: there was not a particle of affectation in the man, because there was not a particle of untruth.

I think it was these same fine eyes and gentleness which first won the heart of the lady Hermosa, and his sincerity that safely kept it. Of where and how they first met, in what words our Don laid his little keep of a castle and patrimony at her feet, (his whole estate would not have paid her upholsterer’s bill,) history discloses nothing. It is only known she married him, and thereby raised a tempest of wrath and despair in the breasts of numberless admirers, who, however, all consented to eat of her cake on the happy occasion. Sir Peter was in nothing changed by the event, but lived as before in his tower, spent not a _maravedi_ of his wife’s income on himself, and contented her by the frequency and tenderness of his interviews. It was his whim to lead this style of life, and she loved him enough to soon make it a whim of her own, the separations not being very remote it must be conceded, as the keep and castle stood perched on opposing hills, in full sight of one another. Such concession in a young wife was certainly praiseworthy, although some were found to be scandalized at its want of precedent. Of the husband’s crotchet I say only, it was a quaint piece of instinctive honor, which a few of his neighbors extolled, and the greater part laughed at as an act of arrant simplicity: although, to my mind, the less said about simplicity the better, by people who lived when dragons and giants were not yet supposed to have retired upon ultimate Thule, and Ponce de Leon’s search after the fountain of youth, (he was looking for it then in Florida!) counted no great waste of time.

The Don and his countess concerned themselves very little about such gossip, finding abundant occupation in a course of life which, without the bias one unavoidably entertains for his heroes, is a source of satisfaction to the writer hereof. It was in the lady’s nature to be charitable, being one of those unaffected well wishers of humanity with “abundant means,” whose part in this life seems to be to render everybody in reach as satisfied as themselves, and before Sir Pedro’s discretion and mature knowledge of the world came to her assistance, committed as many philanthropic blunders as would have made her eligible to an abolition chair, or seat in Exeter Hall. Of course I must not be understood to undervalue the good she continued to do in the dark. I have too great a reverence for money to suppose it capable of injury to any recipient under any circumstances, differing in this respect from all medicines whatever, which become poisons in quantity, and are defective in the important item of universal application. The truth is, I am led to this admission by an instance I have now in mind. There was one Don Carlo, (so he called himself: the fellow had a dog’s name, but any dog, short of a sheep-worrier, would have been compromised by his acquaintance.) A free-captain, who earned his crust by such little excesses as made the payment of black-mail an acceptable compromise on the part of his favorites, and even in Philip the Second’s time, brought an amount of civil odium upon his head which would have relieved him of that incumbrance, had he not disbanded his company and retired to the provinces to enjoy his honest gains. Here Captain Carlo—who was of a playful temper and delighted in masking—made the acquaintance of our heroine in the likeness of a veteran of the Moorish wars, and found waylaying her steps and asking an alms as many times a day as she walked out unattended (in as many different characters, of course,) so much more profitable, to say nothing of the safety of the proceeding, than poniarding a foot-passenger, or roasting a villager to discover hidden treasure, that he became a pattern of morality to the country round, and is currently said to have refrained more than once, when sorely tempted by the purse she carried, from cutting his benefactress’ slender throat; in this respect showing himself wiser than the avaricious owner of the goose Æsop tells us of.

Captain Carlo, however, lost his golden eggs, as did many others of scarcely less merit, when Sir Pedro de Padilh brought, as has been hinted, his longer head and more comprehensive benevolence to the aid of his young wife’s virtuous designs.

The latter quickly saw her mistake when once its results were laid bare, and fell to correcting it with a feminine energy which constituted a strong element of her character; Sir Peter meanwhile contenting himself with a vigilant guardianship of her interests and benevolent projects, and a hearty participation in her active measures—suggestions of his own, not unfrequently too—which it was his fancy to conceal under an assumption of caution; although I can’t say his wife was ever deceived by the cloak worn on such occasions, for her tender affection would have lent intelligence to faculties much duller than my heroine’s.

Sir Pedro very well knew it was some such work ahead which brought a summons to his gate so early, and was in his saddle, breathing in the fresh, moist air, and galloping through the fields and olive plantations between, before Gil reached his lady’s castle.

I see the good knight now in my mind’s eye: Andalusian steed and housings both spotless white, the first as much over the average height of his race as was his master above that of common men: sitting straight, with doublet buttoned easily across the breast, and a cap with a trailing plume, which a branch caught off and forced him to wheel his horse, with a _gracias señor_, to recover: so, picking a way up the hill, and stooping under the portcullis, ready open, diminishing the stature of the men around by contrast with his figure dismounted. Up the wide steps, and into a room where his countess met him with her usual happy face whenever this giant of a husband was nigh her. Perhaps I call attention too often to Sir Peter’s seven feet of altitude, but in this case the mention was involuntary; for I was thinking how, when she put her arms about him, there being no one near, she was constrained to kiss him where she laid her cheek, on his breast, being able to reach no higher; and he, as a pine might an ash in windy weather, stooped and kissed her on the forehead.

“Lady mine,” he said with a grave smile, holding her off to look down in her face, “what is the matter? You were scarcely more troubled when I rode against the Moors.”

“Señor—husband”—she replied, “what I have to tell may induce you to leave me again. It is that troubles me.”

“Humph!” returned the knight, “a crusade against something or somebody?”

“Yes,” answered the countess, “one full of danger.”

Don Pedro smiled as a soldier of his inches, of course, should at the idea of the thing.

“A week ago, my cousin Vida Inique came to me in much distress. You remember her?”

“Certainly! She is the betrothed, Heaven help her, of that vagabond nephew of mine.”

“She stopped here, for she came from Madrid with that purpose; partly because she needs sympathy now, and I am her nearest relative, and partly for the sake of society during the absence of her father with the Marquis of Santa Cruz.”

“Santa Cruz!” repeated the Don, with the animation of his Andalusian snuffing a whiff of cannon smoke.

“Yes. The king has ordered an armament under the marquis against Tercera.”

“Not a word of this reached me in the mountains. A handful of good knights would drive every Portuguese into the sea; I wonder the marquis sails against such enemies, when he complained only the other day of their ill breeding in Portugal; there was scarce a skirmish in which their backs were not turned upon their Spanish guests.”

“You will think differently, my señor, when I tell you all; but let me tell it as I heard it. Doña Viola wept so incessantly at first, whenever she attempted to allude to Hilo—for, of course, he is the cause of her grief—that I could understand nothing. The silly girl loves him with her soul and heart, and pretty and wealthy as she is, this half nephew of yours feels the yoke of his connection intolerable, and has adopted the most outrageous means of extorting her consent to canceling the agreement.”

“Ha! what mischief has he been doing lately?”

“First, when his representations and contemptuous reception of her fond prayers failed to gain his purpose, he insulted her eyes by parading before them on all occasions his companions, the most notorious thieves and desperadoes of the capital, and women of the vilest character, flaunting, not unfrequently, in chains and baubles he had stooped to accept but never to wear, for the boy is as proud and wicked as Lucifer; all this done with a scornful, overbearing air, which plainly said, ‘these, madam, are my intimate friends; they will sit at your table and fill your house when I am master. Beware how you make me so!’ She is so subdued and heart-broken already, she only wept and endeavored to hide his insults from her father.”

“Santiago! what infatuation!”

“Then his vile nature broke forth still more insolently. His birth, as you know, gives him access to the company of numerous dissolute cavaliers, although the society he usually affects is of a much baser sort. Through their means, without other harm to himself than what is in store for his lying tongue, señor, he poisoned her life by spreading through all ranks tales in which her maiden name was coupled with that of infamy, and when this gossip was in the mouth of everybody, flung her off publicly with a show of horror and mental anguish, which probably had its weight on those who knew nothing of the man’s character.”

Sir Pedro’s brows contracted above his fine eyes, but he remained silent.

“The scandal reached at last the ears of Don Augustino Inique himself, in Portugal, and hastening from the frontier to the court, he laid the matter before the king, demanding redress. Unluckily, this was not until he had exhausted every source of information in tracing the flight of the young man, who had stabbed the Count of Villenos in a quarrel in the meanwhile, and disappeared from the city. Don Philip loves to be called the Prudent, and has no fancy for being second in any intrigue, and accordingly the enraged and baffled father was dismissed with polite promises that meant nothing. Since then he has received secret intelligence that Hilo has gone over to France, and either through unnatural hatred of his countrymen, or characteristic recklessness of every honorable purpose—for he is capable of any degradation—enlisted under the commander, De Chaste, who sails soon at the bidding of the queen mother to reinforce the Tercerans.”

“Why he is more depraved than his father, and he scrupled at little when his passions were roused!” exclaimed Sir Pedro, baiting suddenly in a walk which crossed the chamber at six strides. “This man is only my half relative, as his father was, and does not even bear my name; but I must save him from final ruin if that be possible. What steps have been taken by Inique?”

“He readily obtained the appointment of camp-master under the marquis, as no one at court knew his motive, and supposed he went abroad to find forgetfulness in active service. A singular feature in the affair, is his ignorance of Hilo’s relation to yourself; and although Viola is acquainted with its existence, the chief defect in her character, a timid reluctance to confiding any personal matter to her father, has prevented his learning the truth during his brief visits to his home. Yet a more gentle nature I have never found than hers.”

“I scarcely wonder at her shrinking from opening her heart to Don Augustino,” answered our knight, “and were you to see him frequently, you would entertain a like opinion. He is a soldier, and nothing better if nothing worse—stern, scrupulous of his word, and jealous of his honor; although what he calls by that name is of no wide compass; a man whose outbreak of rage against his daughter I would have awaited with strong apprehension, had I known any thing of this affair before. Perhaps, however, the purpose of swift vengeance so occupies his brain that feebler emotions is pushed aside.”

“I think you are right, Sir Pedro,” returned his lady, thoughtfully. “For during the short space he remained with us, he seemed pre-occupied, as if tracing a single idea through a maze of thought, and spoke little of his own accord. His bearing was frigid enough, but if any unjust anger toward his child remained, it was well concealed under the elaborate courtesy he shared between us.”

“Yes,” said the knight, with a half laugh. “His old way, I recollect it well; never more labored than when a volcano is smouldering under his doublet. Only once have I seen him forgetful of this courtesy, when his son, a mere stripling, and a coward by instinct, as others are brave without will of their own, in a skirmish with the French sheltered himself behind his father in sight of the opposing lines. He was his only son, but he had better have been thrust through by a Gallic lance, than taken refuge where he did.”

“Poor fellow! Did Sir Augustino strike him?”

“Worse. His boy was on foot, himself on horseback; when his threats and imprecations failed to drive him back into the melee, in a paroxysm of fury he struck him repeatedly on the head with the pommel of his sword, unsoftened by the fair, bleeding face the child turned up while clutching his leg, and begging for life. Not a gentleman in the two armies sympathised with the father except Capt. De Chaste, who, incapable of a like barbarity, is noted for pushing to an extreme all questions of honor.”

“He was scarcely less cruel than Beaumanoir, who cried, ‘Bois ton sang,’ to his fainting son,” exclaimed Doña Hermosa, with a cheek paled by the recital. “Did the poor lad die?”

“No. He lived by an accident, or Providence, which you will, a miserable idiot, his brain having been injured by the concussion, perhaps, also by the anguish endured. Sir Augustino takes him with him, no matter where he goes, studiously bent on concealing his existence, much more his presence from his companions in arms. In spite of every precaution, however, the fact is well known; and twice this wreck of a man has eluded his keeper, and appeared suddenly in the midst of the knight’s guests.”

“Was his father much moved?”

“No, very little in appearance, his usual proud composure concealing whatever pang he felt; and it is impossible to ascertain from his manner whether he adheres to this strange companionship from remorse, and a resolute purpose of atonement, or a less worthy desire to smother the reproach by a jealous guardianship of its living witness.”

“Or else, dear señor, from a return of natural tenderness which a false shame prevents him acknowledging for so mean an object.”

“Why some share of good belongs to every man; even it may be, to my next of kin, although warped by the supremacy of his passions.”

“That is the only sane argument Viola advances for her love.”

“Humph!” After an interval; “I would like to see the Doña, if only to remove the impression that she is no higher than this chair, as she was when I saw her some years since.”

“You will find her,” rejoined the countess, smiling, “less a child in height and style than her youth would lead you to suppose; for a comparatively self-dependent life in close vicinity to the court, has already converted girlish bashfulness into a becoming modesty enough. But stay here till I find her,” added Doña Hermosa, going out.

“A wretched state of things,” mused our knight, resuming his suspended strides, with hands clasped behind. “It is evident I have but one course left; to track that young knave down, and by dint of soft or hard words, turn him from a career which has already entitled him to a bench in the galleys, if nothing worse. It is a good way, at all events, to pay back the bitter hatred of his father, God forgive him!” and the soldier’s moody brows relaxed at the thought, while his eye ran down the steep road at the foot of which the father of the man he designed saving, had one evening shattered his carbine on the rocks, because its hanging-fire saved Sir Pedro’s life in passing. A quiet smile, called up, perhaps, by a recollection of the solicitude shown by the countess the day succeeding, still lingered about the knight’s mouth when he turned from the window and saw the lady herself approaching, accompanied by her guest, a fair girl, with the light, soft hair and eyes of an Englishwoman, which her mother was. Her beauty appeared less imposing than that of the thoroughly Spanish Hermosa, but much more delicate, and so Sir Pedro seemed to think, for advancing and taking her by both hands, he said, in a tone much more modulated than was common with him,

“Doña Viola—I called you Viola when we last met, and you were no taller than my sword.”

“Call me so now, señor,” put in Viola, gently. “I cannot afford to lose even the wording of friendship.”

The knight looked attentively at the speaker, whose eyes meeting his, swam in tears. He paused thoughtfully, and then with his usual straight-forward kindness, said,

“My child, I have learned your grievances through your cousin here. You are nearly alone in the world, let us both assist you in all we can. You see I am old enough to be your father, think of me as such for the present. Besides, the cavalier whose fiancée you are, is, you know, my half nephew; and the attempt I am about making to draw him from his wicked courses, will be materially assisted by any good traits I may become acquainted with; for while I confess my ignorance of the better side of his character, Doña Viola, I am sure one exists, or you would not have proved so faithful as you are.”

A faint red spot in the girl’s cheek had deepened and spread as Sir Pedro spoke, until at his last words, her whole face was flushed, and stooping quickly, she pressed her lips on his hand before he could withdraw it.

“You are right,” she said, eagerly to Padilh, who stood with something like a blush on his soldierly features at the impulsive action. “Save him from himself, from his temptations, for he has a virtue mated with every vice he practices, and ready to assume its place when the bad is uprooted. I know,” she added, with an impetuous accent which betrayed her Spanish blood, and was singularly impressive in her timid manner of speaking, “he is a professed gambler, yet I have seen him clothe and feed a company of beggars with the lavish generosity of a prince; I know he has repeatedly endeavored to rescind our contract of marriage, but how should this bind his love, since we were infants when it was drawn in our joint name; and I have no reason, surely, to complain that he has employed harsh means to accomplish his end, when I shut my eyes to the growth of his aversion. No, Sir Pedro, the fault has been mine in tempting him on; no one can say how different his life might have been, but for the incumbrance I would not consent to his putting away—and so let me suffer, not him. Save him, I earnestly beseech you, from himself, and if need be,” she added, dropping her voice, and becoming as suddenly pallid as before flushed, “save him from an encounter with my father.”

“That I will,” returned the Don, soothingly, “if interposition of my words or body can. And one of these days, Doña Viola, we will talk these matters over calmly, and discuss what is best to be done.”

“The poor thing is crazed,” he said an hour after to his countess, “to love this Hilo! It was not easy to bring my mouth to call the scamp ‘cavalier;’ but her innocent distress overcame the reluctance. When this feverish excitement, which forbids all close questioning, subsides, it will be well to learn more, if she knows more of her betrothed. And if I set out before that can be done—”

“What, do you really go to this war!” exclaimed our heroine, with the admirable versatility of the sex, “when you have resigned yourself to the gratification of a particular request not at all to your liking at first.

“_Dear_, Sir Pedro, don’t you think some better way may be found of accomplishing our purpose? For instance, let some trusty person find out this young man and carry him a letter from you, as from an uncle solicitous of doing him a benefit. Or, perhaps, Señor Inique might be moved from his design by your calm representations. Only don’t go!” she urged, with a tremulous lip.

To this outbreak Don Pedro de Padilh, with the tranquillity of one who remembers a story he is anxious to tell and overlooks the last question, rejoined,

“Did you ever hear, Hermosa, the history of the wonderful cat that lived in Biscay when I was of no great size myself? There is one of the tribe on the battlement yonder, marked as that intelligent animal must have been, and put the story in my head.”

“Pshaw!” said the countess, half inclined to laugh, with tears in her eyes.

“This cat was remarkable for ugliness and cunning, qualities which increased the umbrage the priest naturally took to a cat who was said to use better Latin than himself, to that degree he could not rest at ease until the object of his jealousy was condemned to be burned, on the rational plea of possessing more learning than was orthodox. But so sagacious a creature was not to be caught asleep, and at the first rumor of the affair took occasion to pay his respects to the most notorious gossip of the province.

“‘Ah!’ said the cat, in the course of conversation, “‘talking of merit, I am so delighted to find it rewarded occasionally, that I have been in a state of ecstasy since the news came from the capital.’

“‘Santomio!’ cried the old woman _arrectis auribus_; ‘what are they doing there, my dear cat?’

“‘Have you not heard about it! Our curà is to be rewarded with a bishopric instanter; and for my part I don’t think a better selection possible, when his scholarship is taken into consideration, and I have some cause to count myself a judge of such matters.’

“‘Yes, yes, Señor Miz,’ put in the other. ‘But this is important news to be sure; I hope you have it from good authority.’

“‘None better. My sister’s grandkitten is attached to the household of the cardinal resident, and has just come down to pay me a visit. Trust to my honor, señora most respected, you may talk of it without fear for your veracity.’

“Of course, this was all sheer invention on the part of the cat, but served his purpose for a time.”

“But why did not the foolish cat slip quietly away beforehand?” asked the countess, who began to feel an interest in his fortunes.

“Oh, because the _familiars_ on watch were too alert, I suppose. But hear what followed. When the curà, who had been on a little expedition to bargain for the faggots, returned to his house, he was charmed to learn his approaching exaltation from a score of friends; and at this juncture, being seized with remorse at his precipitation, resolved to hear from the cat’s own mouth the state of his faith. ‘For,’ said he to himself, as he tucked up his cassock and waded through the mud to the latter’s door, ‘one should not burn a Christian beast by mistake; and who knows what influence the grandkitten of his very discreet sister may have in his eminence’s house.’

“‘Why,’ said the shrewd grimalkin, who saw in a twinkling how much this last reason had to do with the curà’s visit, ‘your reverend worship’s excellency must perceive at a glance how this seam in my upper lip forms a cross with the nostril above—a sign which I need not inform your worship, is found only on catholic quadrupeds.’

“‘Ha!’ cried the priest, struck with the idea, ‘so it is. I beg your pardon, Señor Miz, for overlooking it hitherto.’

“‘Not at all, the wisest sometimes err, as my relative, the cardinal’s favorite, remarked to me yesterday. I am glad your reverence was not within hearing, for she was good enough to repeat much of the praise his eminence bestows on your worship, knowing she could not better please me.’

“In such amicable conversation time passed, until the priest, bethinking himself that the preparations for Autodafeïng his host, had gone too far to be hushed up without some plausible excuse, and seeing no way out of his dilemma, reluctantly confided his difficulty to the party interested, for whom he began to feel a very disinterested friendship.

“‘Make yourself easy,’ rejoined the other, scarcely able to hide his satisfaction, ‘if that is the whole difficulty, all your worship has to do is to fling my _san-berito_ (faugh! the name makes me hot and cold all over!) into the fire, and give me a chance to clutch your reverend legs, under your worship’s gown.’

“‘_To_ be sure!’ said the curà, in a tone of benignant admiration, which one should get Judge Belton, or the Mayor of Aiken, (who got it from the Spanish original,) to mimic.

“Even the joint sagacity of a cat and a priest may fall short of perfection. It was natural, certainly, for the curà to dream all night of his expected mitre, and allow the same agreeable subject to occupy his brain all day to the exclusion of every other. But I hold to it, that he should have remembered at the right moment, (as he might easily have done, of course, by tying a knot in his handkerchief or thread round his finger,) to slip off the _san-berito_, and _not_ throw his unhappy friend into the fire. Why, but for his confounded (I beg pardon, but one has their feelings!) absence of mind, he might have seen his victim’s tail—his head being smothered in the conical _caroza_—as big as his arm, with rage and indignation.

“‘Wo is me!’ cried the wretched man, when he saw what was done, tearing his beard in anguish of mind, ‘I have burned a Christian cat, and lost my mitre!’”

While saying the last words, Don Pedro, who had been standing during the recital, took his cap and moved to the door. But his countess intercepted him with a wistful, half-perplexed face.

“Well?” said the knight, stopping, and looking at her with a scarce visible smile.

“I think,” returned Hermosa, doubtingly, “you mean I am no wiser than the curà, who, forgetting what he was about, threw his friend into the fire, and then fell to lamenting his loss. But who is the cat?”

“Ah!” rejoined Sir Pedro, laughing, “the pith of the story lies in six words,

‘La casa quemada,
Acudir con el agua.’”

A couplet I design putting into the mouth of that scape-gallows, Hilo de Ladron, in the next number of Graham, to serve as a thread, by closely following which, the somewhat tangled woof of the young gentleman’s character may in good time be unraveled.

* * * * *

THE MARINER’S TALE.

BY R. PENN SMITH.

Scene. _A Flower Garden of a Mariner’s Asylum._
_Characters. An aged Sailor and a Visiter._

_Sailor._ All things must move in circles as earth doth. The orbs that make space gorgeous move in circles; E’en space itself is one eternal circle; For were it not, its end would sure be reached. All drag a chain still moving round and round Until we join the two ends of the chain: Thus man completes his circle. No escape then.

_Stranger._ You spoke, sir, of a voyage.

_Sailor._ Oh! pardon me: I had forgot—those circles set me wild. Where left I off? ’Tis strange, the thread is broken.

_Stranger._ In the South Sea.

_Sailor._ O, true!—’mong fruitful isles The jocund waters leaped when morn arose, And fringed each billow’s snow-white pinnacle With golden tissue. Waves that wildly roared Through night, like fiends contending for their prey, Now smiled serenely as a lawn in spring Spangled with herbage ’mid the wasting snow; And as our gallant vessel glided on The joyful waters, like some amorous dame, Kissed the bright prow in very wantonness, Regardless of the wound so rudely made In the too pliant bosom.

_Stranger._ You liken well The waters to a woman; beautiful In the bright sunshine of prosperity! But when the tempest rages, sea-tossed man Oft finds a shoal there, where his barque may strand, Expecting a safe haven.

_Sailor._ You are bitter: But truth is not always sweet. All on board Assembled on the deck to hail the sun Weaving with gold God’s heaving world of green; While lowly murmuring the gladsome waves Sang matins to their master. Voices full As deep-toned organ’s swell, and others shrill As notes of linnets, mingled with the songs The glad sea made in praising Him who made it.

_Stranger._ Let the great sea and all that therein is; The earth—its fruit—and all that live thereby— And all that live hereafter, praise his name.

_Sailor._ Amid our happy concourse there was seen A father and his little family, And the fair partner of his joys and griefs, The mother of his children. While they gazed Upon the wide expanse, their bosoms heaved With admiration for His mighty works Who rules the fearful sea. They thanked and trusted.

_Stranger._ All thank and trust, who know the God they trust in.

_Sailor._ Among them was a fair-haired rosy boy Who hugged his father’s knee; his little hands Clasped in devotion to the unseen God, In ignorance adoring; for his spirit, Unstained of earth, was redolent of heaven, And instinct with the praises he had learnt From angel-lips in his celestial birth-place.

_Stranger._ Childhood’s inheritance, which manhood squanders,
God gives us all, while we return but little.

_Sailor._ As the sun rose he sung a little hymn.
The words were these. I think his father made it.

In the morning of existence,
Earth smiles, as Eden smiled on Adam;
With God and angels for companions,
Man—little lower than the angels—
Receives the truth as it was given
_Once_—face to face, and fresh from heaven.

In the noontide of existence,
With bathed brow and stalwort limb,
Man, singing, struggles for subsistence
For those in sin begot by him,
Rejoices in those human frailties
Which make him imitate his God.

In the sunset of existence,
Alone, in thy Gethsemane,
Quaff the cup bravely and repine not—
For man, thy God is there with thee.
Meekly obey the mandate given,
It purifies thy soul for heaven.

_Stranger._ A strange thought that—childhood is Adam’s Eden, Where man beholds his Maker face to face; The close of life is his Gethsemane, Where he must quaff the chalice to the dregs, Without a prayer to take it from his lips. I’ve heard that hymn before.

_Sailor._ Why call it strange? The cup is sweetened though it smack of bitter, And the most bitter drops become the sweetest. Gethsemane was nearer heaven with him Who bathed with tears and blood the sacred soil, Than fresh blown Paradise appears to have been With angel visitants. Perchance they are The self-same garden, typed by Spring and Autumn, Seed-time and harvest! If that thought be true, With bathed forelock and with steadfast soul Gather the harvest of Gethsemane, More precious than the flowers that smiled in Eden. The task is thine—first husbandman, then reaper.

_Stranger._ Talk further of the boy who sung the hymn.

_Sailor._ That spotless child, the rudest of the crew
Loved, for his presence made us better men.

_Stranger._ True, all men who love children still grow better; And the best men are children to the last, At least in thought and feeling.

_Sailor._ There’s the circle— Extremes must meet, and we are hedged within them. But to pursue our voyage—and the boy. Day passed away, and as the night came on The full-orbed moon roiled in a cloudless sky, And the wide waters now lay hushed in sleep. As gentle as the slumber of a child Wearied with gambols through the live-long day. The night-breeze from the orange-groves passed by, Laden with odor. Heaven was chrisolite; The sea a living mirror, in whose depths The richly studded concave was reflected, Making a perfect globe; and as the ship Pursued her trackless flight, she seemed to be Some spirit on errand supernatural, So dark and silently she glided on The babbling waves were scarcely audible.

_Stranger._ A pleasant sail which landsmen only dream of—
But never enjoy.