XLI.

PROMETHEUS BOUND.

At the wave of the lieutenant's hand, a squad of soldiers rushed to the spot. In a minute their muskets were pointed downwards, and aimed. "Fly!" said Penn, thrusting Virginia from him. "Carl, take her away!"

The boy drew her back down the rocks, following Cudjo, who was descending on all fours, like an ape. She turned her face in terror to look after Penn. There he stood, where she had left him, intrepid, his fine head uncovered, looking steadfastly up at the men on the cliff, and waving his hat, defiantly. At once she recognized his noble self-sacrifice. It was his object to attract their fire, and so shield her from the bullets as she fled.

She struggled from Carl's grasp. "O, Penn," she cried, extending her hands beseechingly, and starting to return to him.

"Fire!" shouted Silas Ropes.

Crack! went a gun, immediately succeeded by an irregular volley, like a string of exploding fire-crackers. Penn, expecting death, saw first the rapid flashes, then the soldiers half concealed by the smoke of their own guns. The smoke cleared, and there he still stood, smiling—for Virginia was unhurt.

"Your practice is very poor!" he shouted up at the soldiers; and, putting on his hat, he walked calmly away.

The bullets had struck the trees and flattened on the stones all around him; but he was untouched. And before the rebels could reload their pieces, he was safe with his companions in the cavern.

He found Cudjo hastily relighting his torch. Virginia was sitting on a stone where Carl had placed her; powerless with the reaction of fear; her countenance, white as that of a snow-image in the gloom, turned upon Penn as if she knew not whether it was really he, or his apparition. She did not rise to meet him. She could not speak. Her eyes were as the eyes of one that beholds a miracle of God's mercy.

"Is no guns here?" cried Carl.

"De men hab all urn's guns,"' said Cudjo, over his kindlings. "Me gwine fotch 'em!" And, his torch lighted, he darted away. In a minute he was out of sight and hearing; only the flame he bore could be seen dancing like an ignis fatuus in the darkness of the cavern.

"O, if I had only that pistol, Carl!" said Penn. "I could manage to defend the chasm with it until they come. But wishes won't help us. Virginia, Deslow has turned traitor! He must have known his friends were going this morning to visit thy father, or else he could not so well have chosen his time for betraying them." He lighted his torch, and lifted Virginia to her feet. "Have no fear. Even if the rebels get possession here, the subterranean passages can be held by a dozen men against a hundred."

"I am not afraid now; I am quite strong."

"That is well. Carl, take the light and go with her."

"And vat shall you do?"

"I will stay and watch the movements of the soldiers."

"Wery goot. But I have vun little obshection."

"What is it?"

"You know the vay petter, and you vill take her safer as I can. But my eyes is wery wigorous, and I vill engage to vatch the cusses myself."

"Thou art right, my Carl!" said Penn, who indeed felt that it was for him, and for no other, to convey Virginia back to her father and safety.

He crept upon the rocks, and took a last observation of the cliffs. Not a soldier was in sight. But that fact did not delight him much.

"They fear a possible shot or two. No doubt they are making preparations, and when all is ready they will descend. I only hope they will delay long enough! Farewell, Carl!"

"Goot pie, Penn! Goot pie, Wirginie!" cried Carl, with stout heart and cheery voice. And as he saw them depart,—Penn's arm supporting her,—listened for the last murmur of their voices, and watched for the last glimmer of the torch as it was swallowed by the darkness, and he was left alone, he continued to smile grimly; but his eyes were dim.

"They are wery happy together! And I susphect the time vill come ven he vill marry her; and then they vill neither of 'em care much for me. Veil, I shall love 'em, and wish 'em happy all the same!"

With which thought he smiled still more resolutely than before, and squeezed the tears from his eyes very tenderly, in order, probably, to keep those useful organs as "wigorous" as possible for the work before him.

Handcuffed and securely bound to the rock, that modern Prometheus, Captain Lysander Sprowl, like his mythical prototype, felt the vulture's beak in his vitals. Chagrin devoured his liver. An overflow of southern bile was the result, and he turned yellow to the whites of his eyes.

Old Toby noticed the phenomenon. Poor old Toby, with that foolish head and large tropical heart of his, knew no better than to feel a movement of compassion.

"Kin uh do any ting fur ye, sar?"

The unfeigned sympathy of the question gave the wily Prometheus his cue. He uttered a feeble moan, and studied to look as much sicker than he was as possible.

Pity at the sight made the old negro forget much which a white man would have been apt to remember—the disgrace this wretch had brought upon "the family;" and the recent cruel whipping, from which his own back was still sore.

"Ye pooty sick, sar?"

"Water!" gasped Lysander.

The patriots had finished their coffee and taken their guns. Toby ran to them.

"Some on ye be so good as keep an eye skinned on de prisoner, while I's gittin' him a drink!"

He hastened with the gourd to a dark interior niche where a little trickling spring dripped, drop by drop, into a basin hollowed in the rocky floor. As he bore it, cool and brimming, to his captive-patient, Withers said,—

"I don't keer! it's a sight to make most white folks ashamed of their Christianity, to see that old nigger waiting on that rascal, 'fore his own back has done smarting!"

"If, as I believe," said Mr. Villars, "men stand approved before God, not for their pride of intellect or of birth, but for the love that is in their hearts, who can doubt but there will be higher seats in heaven for many a poor black man than for their haughty masters?"

"According to that," replied Withers, "maybe some besides the haughty masters will be a little astonished if they ever git into heaven—nigger-haters that won't set in a car, or a meeting-house, or to see a theatre-play, if there's a nigger allowed the same privilege! Now I never was any thing of an emancipationist; but by George! if there's anything I detest, it's this etarnal and unreasonable prejudice agin' niggers! How do you account for it, Mr. Villars?"

"Prejudice," said the old man, "is always a mark of narrowness and ignorance. You might almost, I think, decide the question of a man's Christianity by his answer to this: 'What is your feeling towards the negro?' The larger his heart and mind, the more compassionate and generous will be his views. But where you find most bigotry and ignorance, there you will find the negro hated most violently. I think there are men in the free states whose sins of prejudice and blind passion against the unhappy race are greater than those of the slaveholders themselves."

"Our interest is in our property—that's nat'ral; but what possesses them to want to see the nigger's face held tight to the grindstone, and never let up?" said Withers. "Their howl now is, 'Put down the rebellion! but don't tech slavery, and don't bring in the nigger!' As if, arter dogs had been killing my sheep, you should preach to me, 'Save your sheep, neighbor, but don't agitate the dog question! You mustn't tech the dogs!' I say, if the dogs begin the trouble, they must take the consequences, even if my dog's one."

"They maintain," said Grudd, "that, no matter what slavery may have done, there is no power in the constitution to destroy it."

"I am reminded of a story my daughter Virginia was reading to me not long ago,—how the great polar bear is sometimes killed. The hunter has a spear, near the pointed end of which is securely fastened a strong cross-piece. The bear, you know, is aggressive; he advances, meets the levelled shaft, seizes the cross-piece with his powerful arms, and with a growl of rage hugs the spear-head into his heart. Now, slavery is just such another great, stupid, ferocious monster. The constitution is the spear of Liberty. The cross-piece, if you like, is the republican policy which has been nailed to it, and which has given the bear a hold upon it. He is hugging it into his heart. He is destroying himself."

The story was scarcely ended when Cudjo leaped into the circle, crying,—

"De sogers! de sogers!"

"Where?" said Pomp, instinctively springing to his rifle.

"In de sink! Dey fire onto we and de young lady!"

"Any one hurt?"

"No. Massa Hapgood cotch de bullets in him's hat!" for this was the impression the negro had brought away with him. "Hull passel sogers! Sile Ropes,—seed him fust ob all!"

It was some moments before the patriots fully comprehended this alarming intelligence. But Pomp understood it instantly.

"Gentlemen, will you fight? Your side of the house is attacked!"

There was a moment's confusion. Then those who had not already taken their guns, sprang to them. They had brought lanterns, which were now burning. They plunged into the gallery, following Pomp. Cudjo ran for his sword, drew it from the scabbard, and ran yelling after them.

The sudden tumult died in the depths of the cavern; and all was still again before those left behind had recovered from their astonishment.

There was one whose astonishment was largely mixed with joy. A moment since he was lying like a man near the last gasp; but now he started up, singularly forgetful of his dying condition, until reminded of it by feeling the restraint of the rope and seeing Toby. Lysander sank back with a groan.

"'Pears like you's a little more chirk," said Toby.

"My head! my head!" said Lysander. "My skull is fractured. Can't you loose the rope a little? The strain on my wrists is—" ending the sentence with a faint moan.

Had Toby forgotten the strain on his wrists, and the anguish of the thumbs, when this same cruel Lysander had him strung up?

"Bery sorry, 'deed, sar! But I can't unloosen de rope fur ye."

And, full of pity as he was, the old negro resolutely remained faithful to his charge. Sprowl tried complaints, coaxing, promises, but in vain.

"Well, then," said he, "I have only one request to make. Let me see my wife, and ask her forgiveness before I die."

"Dat am bery reason'ble; I'll speak to her, sar." And, without losing sight of his prisoner, Toby went to Cudjo's pantry, now Virginia's dressing-room, into which Salina had retreated, and notified her of the dying request.

Salina was in one of her most discontented moods. What had she fled to the mountain for? she angrily asked herself. After the first gush of grateful emotion on meeting her father and sister, she had begun quickly to see that she was not wanted there. Then she looked around despairingly on the dismal accommodations of the cave. She had not that sustaining affection, that nobleness of purpose, which enabled her father and sister to endure so cheerfully all the hardships of their present situation. The rude, coarse life up there, the inconveniences, the miseries, which provoked only smiles of patience from them, filled her with disgust and spleen.

But there was one sorer sight to those irritated eyes than all else they saw—her captive husband. She could not forget that he was her husband; and, whether she loved or hated him, she could not bear to witness his degradation. Yet she could not keep her eyes off of him; and so she had shut herself up.

"He wishes to speak with me? To ask my forgiveness? Well! he shall have a chance!"

She went and stood over the prisoner, looking down upon him coldly, but with compressed lips.

"Well, what do you want of me?"

Sprowl made a motion for Toby to retire. Humbly the old negro obeyed, feeling that he ought not to intrude upon the interview; yet keeping his eye still on the prisoner, and his hand on the pistol.

"Sal,"—in a low voice, looking up at her, and showing his manacled hands,—"are you pleased to see me in this condition?"

"I'd rather see you dead! If I were you, I'd kill myself!"

"There's a knife on the table behind you. Give it to me, free my hands, and you won't have to repeat your advice."

She merely glanced over her shoulder at the knife, then bent her scowling looks once more on him.

"A captain in the confederate army! outwitted and taken prisoner by a boy! kept a prisoner by an old negro! This, then, is the military glory you bragged of in advance! And I was going to be so proud of being your wife! Well, I am proud!"

There was gall in her words. They made Lysander writhe.

"Bad luck will happen, you know. Once out of this scrape, you'll see what I'll do! Come, Sal, now be good to me."

"Good to you! I've tried that, and what did I get for it?"

"I own I've given you good cause to hate me. I'm sorry for it. The truth is, we never understood each other, Sal. You was always quick and sharp yourself; you'll confess that. You know how easy it is to irritate me; and I'm a devil when in a passion. But all that's past. Hate me, if you will—I deserve it. But you don't want to see me eternally disgraced, I know."

She laughed disdainfully. "If you will disgrace yourself, how can I help it?"

"The other end of the cave is attacked, and it is sure to be carried. I shall soon be in the hands of my own men. If I don't succeed in doing something for myself first, it'll be impossible for me to regain the position I've lost."

"Well, do something for yourself! What hinders you?"

"This cursed rope! I wouldn't mind the handcuffs if the rope was away. Just a touch with that knife—that's all, Sal."

"Yes! and then what would you do?"

"Run."

"And lose no time in sending your men to attack this end of the cave, too! O, I know you!"

"I swear to you, Sal! I never will take advantage of it in that way, if you will do me just this little favor. It will be worth my life to me; and it shall cost you nothing, nor your friends."

"Hush! I know too well what your promises amount to. How can I depend even upon your oath? There's no truth or honor in you!"

"Well?" said Lysander, despairingly.

"Well, I am going to help you, for all that. Only it must not appear as if I did it. And you shall keep your oath,—or one of us shall die for it! Now be still!"

She walked back past the block that served as a table, and, when between it and Toby, quietly took the knife from it, concealing it in her sleeve.

"Don't come for me to hear any more dying requests," she said to the old negro, with a sneer. "Your prisoner will survive. Only give him a little coffee, if there is any. Here is some: I will wait upon him."

And, carrying the coffee, she dropped the knife at Lysander's side.