Chapter XLII: The Blacksmith’s Shop

When Daniel Hart recovered from the stupor which had fallen upon him, with a conviction that his innocence could no longer be doubted, he was sitting in the midst of the court-room perfectly alone. A noise—a strange, murmuring noise—came surging in through the windows. He arose and staggered a few paces forward, wondering what had become of his children. A crowd of human beings blocked up the street, dark as death, close to him, but lighted up, on the opposite side, by a fierce ruddy glare. It fell on a platform of stern faces, uplifted, with a sort of savage awe, toward a human form swinging from a post directly before the huge opening cut through the blacksmith-shop instead of a window. Hart cast one look toward the form, framed as it was in the rude opening on a back-ground of fire. He recognized his enemy, shrunk back with a groan, and, covering his face with both hands, shuddered from head to foot.

As Daniel Hart lifted his face again, the stupor that had chained down his faculties gave way, and, for the first time, he comprehended, in its entire force, his deliverance from danger, and the fearful retribution that had overtaken his adversary.

“Stop, neighbors! in the name of God, do not murder him!” he shouted, weaving his great hands convulsively together, and casting another wild look through the window.

There was a hush in the crowd—the terrible reaction of fiercely excited passions. The powerful voice of Daniel Hart, as it shouted the word _murder_, fell like a bolt of cold iron on many a living heart. Murderers! were they murderers?—those stout men, whose lives had hitherto been spent in honest toil! They looked in each other’s faces, and each saw the fearful pallor that had fallen on the features of his companion.

Murderers they were—murderers! A moment of passion had made them such. A single act, a single half-hour, and the black blood-stain had fallen upon many a heart which had never known the thought of violence before. Alas! how short a time it takes to fling the one gall-drop of crime into a human soul!

While this appalling silence reigned over the throng, Daniel Hart rushed down the veranda and through the crowd, dashing those who opposed his progress to the right and the left, like a lion in his wrath. He caught hold of an iron in the post where the wretched victim was suspended, sprang up with almost superhuman force, and made a grasp at the handkerchief, in a wild attempt to wrest it from its fastening. He failed, and fell back gasping for breath. He took a knife from his pocket, opened it with his teeth, and, while the glittering blade was still clenched in their fierce hold, sprang into the blacksmith’s shop. In an instant he stood in the red light of the window, flung one arm around the body, and cut the handkerchief. The body fell heavily across his shoulder; he dropped the knife, and, springing back, laid it upon the ground.

“Bring brandy—bring brandy!” he exclaimed, tearing the wisp of red silk from the purple and swollen throat.

“If you raly have an idea of bringing the scoundrel to,” said the blacksmith, quite coolly, rolling up his sleeve, as he spoke, “a good ducking will do him more good than all the brandy on arth; but the fellow has got over the worst of it, and, to my notion, is about as well off as he ever will be!”

While making this philosophical observation, the smith took a sooty pail from one corner of the shop, and dipping it full of water from a great wooden trough in which he cooled his iron, dashed it over the body. There was no effect; not a quivering muscle, not a single motion, gave the slightest hope of life.

“You may as well give up; he’s dead as a door-nail,” said the smith, coolly setting down his pail. “You’d better not waste good coneac on the critter, but hand it round to the chaps outside; they look as if they needed it bad enough, gracious knows.”

But all unmindful of his friend’s advice, Hart took the measure of brandy which some one had brought from the tavern, placed it by his side on the ground, and laving both hands in it, bathed the livid face, the throat and chest of the wretched being, who had so lately been his bitter enemy. When he saw that it was of no avail, he laid the corpse reverently back on the cinders scattered deep over the earth which formed a floor to the blacksmith’s shop, and, covering his face with both hands, groaned aloud.

“Come, there is no use in staying here,” said the smith, shaking his friend by the shoulder. “Them poor gals will be rather anxious to see you by this time, I calculate; then there is your brother-in-law a-lying in my spare-room, as weak as a baby. Come along now, do!”

Hart arose, drew a deep breath, and went forth with his friend. The street was yet filled with scattering groups, but they stood away from the sight, and conversed together in low, hoarse whispers. Two by two, and in larger groups, many of them had left the town, while those who had no companions went over to the tavern, and, when the beds were full, stretched themselves on the floor, for no man of all that multitude had courage to pass through the woods alone, after the fearful scene which he had witnessed.

There was that evening a faint star-like glimmer, breaking through the creepers that covered a gable-window of four panes in the blacksmith’s dwelling. As Daniel Hart drew near the house, his eyes fell on the light; a glow came stealing to his heart—thoughts of his daughter, her devotion, and the returning happiness ensured to her, were breaking up the horrid sensations that had almost suffocated him. He ascended the rude stairs which led to a chamber in the house, and passing his head up through a trap cut in the floor, stood, with tearful eyes and trembling limbs, gazing on the scene which presented itself in that humble garret-room. Directly opposite lay the languid form of Mr. Bentley; his head was supported by pillows, and the blacksmith’s wife was standing over him, with her navarino thrust clear to the back of her head, and armed with a huge camphor-bottle, with which she deluged the moist hair of the invalid, now and then pausing to press her wet hand on the temples of Gillian, who half knelt, half lay upon the bed, with her eyes fixed on those of the wounded man, trembling and crying all the time. Her fingers were twined in the hand of the invalid, and every other moment she lifted her head and closed the fond eyes which gazed so tenderly upon her with kisses, that wandered thence over cheek, forehead, and back to the eyes again, breaking each caress with words of passionate thanksgiving.

When she saw her father, Martha shook the tears from her eyes, and, reaching forth her hand, drew him close up to the bed, pressed his broad palm down on the hand of the invalid, and kissed them both together, murmuring—

“Oh, father! oh, uncle! did you think we should ever be so happy again?”

“Thank God!—oh, thank God, my brother, it was not you that struck me!” said Bentley, feebly grasping the hand which lay against his; “but where is he? what will they do with him?”

“Oh, he is settled for, I reckon,” said the smith. “They hung him up, like a dog, before my shop.”

“What—what”—the invalid could say no more; his eyes closed, and a shudder ran through his frame.

“Let me—let me!” said Gillian, taking the camphor bottle from the smith’s wife, and pressing her cool damp hand tremulously down on the pale forehead of the invalid.

“Well, take it; he seems to like the feel of your hand best, so I may as well go down and take my old man with me—he don’t know how to tend on sick folks no more than a wild Injun; yet he’s a good-hearted cretur as ever lived, though I do say it that ought not to say it.”

The next moment nothing was seen of the blacksmith’s wife except her navarino, as it sunk slowly through the trap door, while she cautiously followed her husband down-stairs.

And now they were alone—that united family. Bentley was no longer insensible, for even in his fainting fit there was a happy thrill warming his heart to life again. Notwithstanding all the horrors of the night, that was a blissful meeting; but there was little talking done. What of that? love may be expressed by silence.