THE ROMANCE OF GILBERT HOLMES (continued 5)

"Yes, in the woods, as he was pursuing you. For you are the lad, I expect, that went by as I lay in wait."

"Yes," I answered, not knowing whether I was or no.

"After you had passed he came along, his horse all afoam, and I followed on. When he stopped at the place where you left the road, I called to him to throw up his hands, but instead he drew a pistol and fired at me point-blank."

"The rascal!" I interrupted; for everything that Moth did appeared hateful to me.

"Yes, and I, not to be outdone, fired back, but over his head, thinking to frighten him; and truly enough, for he turned and fled. My horse was the better of the two, but he the lighter, so for a long time there was no advantage. At last, my animal having the best wind, I overhauled him, and releasing a pistol I raised it and fired, intending, as before, to frighten him into giving up his purse, for I do not think I could kill a man if I were starving."

"Well?"

"Well, just as I fired, my horse, left to himself, stumbled, and falling on his face, threw me over his head into the road."

"Then what happened?" I asked, sympathizing with him in his misfortune.

"The fall stunned me, and before I could so much as stir the little scamp had disarmed me, and when I looked up, bruised and hurt, he held a pistol within an inch of my nose."

"That was too bad," I answered, sorry that Moth should have been the victor.

"When I had recovered a little, he told me to get up, and keeping me under the muzzle of a pistol, marched me forward. After a while, coming across a farmer, they bound me with ropes and straps, and in that shape brought me here."

"What will he do with you now?" I asked, forgetting my own sorrows in his.

"Take me to the county jail. They would have done it to-day, only the jailer and he were off in search of you. Oh, if I had my hands and legs free, I would show him a trick worth two of his!" the robber exclaimed, surveying his limbs with a sigh.

"What would you do?" I asked.

"Leave here," he replied, "within an hour; and we would go together, and so double his rage."

"To do this all you want is your hands and feet?" I asked, doubtingly.

"That is all, and I wouldn't go through the door if it were open."

I could set him free, and why not, I asked myself, the sweat starting out all over me at the thought. What wrong would there be in it, for it was as the robber said—Moth had a right to put him there, but no right to treat me the same way, and in breaking the law he was no better than the highwayman. Reasoning thus, I determined to do what the robber said, and so answered:

"I'll cut the ropes, if that's all you want."

"I shall be much obliged if you will, but I'll not ask you to do it," he answered.

"Why not?"

"Oh, perhaps because I am foolish."

"How will you get out if you are free, as you say?" I asked, not seeing any way.

"Oh, easy enough," he answered. "I have been planning it all day as I lay here on my back. I would use the bench as a ram to displace the logs overhead, for they are short and not half fastened. Once in the loft, it would be easy to remove the shingles, and being on the roof, the ground is not ten feet away."

"That seems easy," I answered.

"It is; for the jail is a poor affair, and only intended for small offenders; and if prisoners have not escaped, it is because they were bound, as I am, or did not think it worth while to try."

What he said was true; and now resolved in my mind, and elated at the prospect of getting even with Moth, I went to the cupboard, and finding a knife, as I had thought, took it and cut the cords that bound the robber's arms and legs.

"There, you are free!" I cried, pleased at what I had done.

"Thank you, my lad; and now we will not lose any time, for we ought to be far away by sunrise," he answered. But when he got to his feet he could scarce stand. "It is nothing," he went on, noticing my surprise, "only I have to get the blood into my legs and arms again before I can do anything, for they are as stiff as ramrods." This did not take long, and in a few seconds he was busy with his preparations for our escape. "See!" he exclaimed, straightening up, "I can touch the ceiling with my hands. Now help me with the bench, for two are better than one. There, that will do. Now send the end of it into that log overhead, as if it were Moth's backbone. Good! we moved it a little. Now again. See! it is giving way." This was true, and at the third stroke it flew out of place, leaving an opening a foot wide. "That is fine, and one more will be enough. Now! right into the small of his back again," and with the words we gave the next log a stroke, lifting it clear from its place, as we had the first.

"That hole is big enough to drive a sleigh through," he exclaimed; and placing the bench on the floor, stood on it, and taking hold of the edge of the opening, swung himself into the loft. "Now, my lad, give me your hand," and doing as he said, I found myself in a moment seated beside him. "We are getting on finely, and the rest will be easy. There! stay where you are, my son, and in a minute I will give you a glimpse of the shining stars." Saying which, he took one of the logs we had displaced, and with it drove a hole through the roof as big as a barrel. At this, and greatly to our surprise, the watchdog in the adjoining yard, aroused by the noise, set up a furious barking, running up to the jail door, where it kept up its angry outcry.

"Quick, my lad! We must go back. It is the jailer's dog, and the old man will be sure to come to see what is the matter"; and without wasting time, the robber lowered himself through the opening to the floor below. "Now let yourself down, and I'll catch you," he called. Doing as he said, I took hold of the cross-beam and let my body swing through the opening, and he taking me in his arms, sat me down safely on the floor.

"Quick! into your bunk, and I'll do the same as soon as I put this bench back." And not a moment too soon, for scarce had he thrown himself on his pallet when the jailer opened the door, and pushing his lantern into the room, peered about.

"Hello there! how do you find yourselves? Comfortable-like?" he asked, when he had succeeded in making us out by the dim light.

"Yes, we are all right. Why, what is the matter? is it time to get up, or has Moth sent you to inquire after our health?" my companion answered, yawning, but with some sarcasm in his voice.

"Never mind about Moth. I heard the dog barking, and thought you might be wanting something, but if not, I'll go back to bed," he answered, as if excusing himself.

"No, we are not in need of anything, thank you. Good night, and pleasant dreams," my companion called out.

"Good night," the jailer answered; and closing and fastening the door, went away.

When he was gone we lay for some time without speaking, until at last the robber, springing up, called out:

"Hello! young man, are you asleep?"

"No; how could I be?" I answered, starting to my feet.

"I thought you looked a little tired when you came in to-night, that is all. Well, now for another try," and with that he placed the bench beneath the opening, and standing on it as before, climbed into the loft, lifting me after him.

"Now for the roof; and as the hole is big enough to push a washtub through, there is no occasion for making any more noise. Let me help you," and with the words he lifted me through the opening, climbing up himself a moment later.

Descending to the eaves without loss of time, he took my hands and lowered me the length of his arm, when, letting go his hold, I dropped to the ground. Inquiring if I was all right, he did not wait, but following, alighted without harm. At this moment, when we thought ourselves free, the dog again set up a dreadful barking, running out into the moonlight within a few feet of where we lay prostrate in the weeds.

"We're lost," I whispered, seeing no way of returning to the room we had left; but placing his hand over my mouth the robber bade me keep my peace. A moment later the jailer came to the door of his hut, but after looking about for a while and yawning, called to the dog, and turning about, reëntered his house. For a long time we lay motionless, afraid to move, until everything being quiet again, we made our way on our hands and knees to the forest, some way off. Here, regaining our feet, we hurried on for a mile or more without speaking, until at last coming to an opening in the trees, we stopped in the bright moonlight and looked into each other's faces.

"Fox," I exclaimed, seeing him now clearly for the first time.

"Fox! how do you know that?" he asked, surprised, starting back.

"I know, for I was with Mr. Lincoln when you sought to rob the stage."

"Good Lord! what are you saying?" he exclaimed, with a scared look.

"Yes, and I heard you promise him you'd change your ways," I answered, angrily, thinking of Mr. Lincoln and the sorrow he would feel at Fox's want of good faith a second time.

"Oh, I remember you well enough now; and, my God, I meant what I said, too!"

"Then why didn't you carry out your promise?" I asked.

"It was my damned luck not to, that is all. For when you were gone from the tavern where I stayed, the old man I robbed of the watch had me arrested; but while on my way to jail I escaped, and as good fortune would have it this time, I ran across the very thief who got me into trouble at first. Recognizing him, and being ready, when he sought to rob me I overcame him, and so made him dismount, and taking his pistols and horse, rode off. That is how it happened that I did not await Mr. Lincoln's return and that I am on the road again."

"What have you been doing?" I asked, pleased at what he said.

"Not much in my line," he answered, sadly, waving his hand; "mostly begging a night's lodging or a meal here and there, till I ran across Moth."

"You will never reform, I'm afraid," I answered, sorrowing, he was so pleasant of face and voice.

"Perhaps not; but I will make no more promises, anyway. And now, just as I once owed my freedom to Mr. Lincoln, so I owe it to you. It is more than life to me, too, for if a man is once condemned, that settles him for all time."

"I only helped myself in helping you, and so you owe me nothing," I answered, true enough.

"Yes, I do. One never asks a neighbor why he does a good act. I could not have escaped except for you, and I owe you a debt I can never pay."

"No, for I couldn't have got off without you, and so we're quits. It's good to be free again, though," I exclaimed, drawing in a long breath of the sweet air.

"Yes," he answered, brightening up; "and on such a night, too! How beautiful everything is—the moon, the sleeping trees, the restful shadows, the soft stir of the leaves!" and he sighed as a better man might have done in his place.

"I hope we'll neither of us ever be in such a fix again," I answered, my happiness at our escape dampened by compassion for my companion and his dangerous way of life.

"No need in your case, surely; but for me," he went on, as if reading my thoughts, "who can tell? My sins will follow me on horseback, let me do what I may. There will be no dodging them, either. It is the first misstep that guides your footsteps ever afterward, my son; but the roads seem so much alike at the start that you can hardly tell one from the other. Both are bordered with flowers, and the sun shines as warm on one as the other; and yet the difference and the quick change if we go wrong! Then the trees lose their green and the flowers fade, and the sun goes out as if it were night. Look to your footsteps, my friend, for once you stray off the beaten path, the lash of justice will scourge you ever afterward. Such is the criminal, and such am I, and there is never but one ending. Who that starts wrong, though, ever gives the ending or its quick coming a thought? This is my sermon to you, my son, and it is real preaching, for that was the calling I meant to follow for man's good and my own salvation when I started out in life. What a mess I have made of it, though, as others have done and will to the end. Not to repent, either, nor strive to, for on this road there is no turning back. The silliness of it all, and the futility! But do not regard what I say, lad. The lost ever thus grieve and go on preaching and reforming and falling anew. So there you are, and here am I; and which way do you go now?" he added, changing in a whimsical way, but as if pleased with his sermon.

"I'm going to Appletop," I answered, sorrowing over what he said, knowing he was making himself out bad when he was only unfortunate and foolish; "but I don't know where I am nor which way to go."

"I will put you on the road, and it is but a step," he answered; and taking my hand we plunged into the forest again. Walking on without speaking for half an hour, we came at last to a road that stretched away, white and glistening, in the bright moonlight.

"Here is your way, my son, and a plain one, too. Go to the right for a mile or thereabouts, where a road leads to the left. Follow it and it will take you zigzagging through the country to Appletop. You can't miss the way, and nothing will harm you; or if you should run across robbers, and maybe you will, say nothing, but go on, for they will not harm a lad like you."

"Where are you going?" I asked, reluctant to leave him.

"Why, what does that matter?" he answered, putting me off; but thinking better of it, added: "I am going to find my horse, the one I took from my friend the robber. He does not know any one but me now, nor I any one but him, and I am not going to leave him here."

"Where is he?" I asked.

"In the village we have just left; but the night is like day, and I shall have no trouble in finding him, and perhaps Moth's, too, who knows!" he added, his eyes lighting up as a boy's might when about to play a trick on a playmate.

"Oh, don't touch Moth's horse," I answered, filled with fear, so clever were his ways. "I wish you'd go with me, and not try to get your horse, and maybe get caught again.

"Never fear!" he answered, lightly. "Good by, and don't forget me, for I shall always be your friend, though not one you will care to own."

"I'm sure I shall; but don't take Moth's horse."

"Well, we will see. Good by."

Clasping his outstretched hand, I was loath to let it go, for he did not seem to me to be bad at all. Surely, I thought, there ought to be some way to save such a man, it not being his nature to do wrong, but a habit likely to grow upon him. Thus do the sympathies of the young ever go out to the wrong-doer before the world has taught them to classify men and treat all alike who go astray, without regard to their nature or surroundings; and thus mine went out to Fox that night as we parted in the white road, with the solemn moon looking down on our leave-taking.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE TRAGEDY OF MURDERER'S HOLLOW

Going the way Fox pointed out, I found the road as he had said; but so overwrought were my nerves by the events of the night that if by chance a shadow outlined the fanciful figure of a man across my path, I stood still, trembling and in doubt, until its harmless nature was disclosed. While thus peering ahead and striving to make out the objects in my path, a rabbit ran into the road and stopped, as if disputing my right to pass. This, strangely enough, disturbed me not a little, as if somehow I were discovered. While I stood still, hesitating whether to go on or turn back, so little control had I over myself, the plaintive notes of a whip-poor-will came to me from out the deep forest, as if in comfort of my loneliness. Clear and sweet, it warmed and cheered my heart like the greeting of a friend. For who that has been brought up in the country ever heard the notes of this songster of the night without such feeling or remembrance of it ever afterward? To all such who traverse the woods, or who are in trouble, it is as if some good spirit were awakening the echoes of the place to soothe their thoughts and calm their fears. Coming to me now, out of the slumbering trees, I was enlivened and cheered so that I went on as if in the company of friends. Thus quickly do those who are in trouble accept the semblance of what they wish for for the thing itself.

Going on as directed, I came at last to the summit of a bluff, from which I looked down into a valley filled with moonlight and sylvan shadows. The road descending the elevation, as I could see, there turned and followed the edge of the hill to the opposite side of the valley, where it reascended the height and was lost to view. Looking to know the reason of this strange detour, I saw it was caused by a shallow river, which following along the edge of the valley, crowded the road from its direct course.

Reaching the foot of the descent, the stream had scarce more water in its bed than the Little Sandy at its best; and wearied by my walk, I determined to cross the valley and so shorten the distance I would otherwise have to go. Looking to determine the course I should take, the plain lay spread before me, and midway in its breadth a grove of walnut trees lifted their graceful foliage to the sky, standing out black and clear against the pale grasses of the sleeping valley. Cheered by the sight, for there is no tree more attractive to the eye, its rich fruit bringing it nearer to us in sympathy of life, I went forward in high spirits, stopping as I crossed the little river to drink my fill and bathe my face in its refreshing waters.

Coming presently to the grove of trees, I plunged beneath their depths, to emerge a moment after in a cleared space, on the edge of which a log hut, charred by fire, stood in lonely seclusion. About it, and as if in mockery, rank weeds grew where once a garden had been planted. Wondering why such a spot should have been selected for a home, I went forward, and turning the angle of the ruin, came without thought upon a towering gibbet, from which ropes, frayed with the wind, dangled in the midnight air. Beneath these, and as if to make the story plainer, rude graves lifted their rounded forms in the bright moonlight. Recoiling at the sight, I had nearly fallen; but with my discovery, and as if the spirits of the dead were returned to earth, voices reached me, and seemingly from the shadow of the gallows and its dangling ropes. Questioning if I heard aright and hesitating whether to go forward or turn and fly, the voices came a second time, and now more plainly than before. In doubt of their friendliness, I threw myself down where I stood, and in that way was hidden by the weeds and the shadow of the crumbling ruin. Thus concealed, I was safe, unless, indeed, the course of the speakers crossed the spot where I lay hidden; but coming presently full on the gibbet, they stopped, one of them crying out in a voice of terror:

"In the name of all the spirits of hell, what's them?"

"What's what?" the other answered, softly, as if seeing nothing out of the way.

"Them graves an' danglin' ropes?"

"Why, what about them?"

"Are they real, or is't the phantoms comin' on agin?"

At this I recognized Blott's voice, now no longer whimsical, but constrained and full of fear. Greatly relieved, I rose to call his name, but doing so, discovered his companion to be the gambler Burke, who had robbed Mr. Singleton and afterward sought to murder Mr. Davis. Seeing him, I dropped down again, trembling and full of fear, for what could Blott be doing here, and in such company! Surely nothing good! And with the thought I hid myself more securely in the shadow of the abandoned hut.

"What is the matter, Blott?" the other replied, as if surprised. "Has liquor got the better of you again, or what is it that frightens you?"

"Frightens me! I'm not frightened; but why the devil have you brought me to this spot, of all others?"

"Was there ever spot more beautiful? Why, it is a bower fit for lovers," Burke replied, softly.

"Fit for the devil an' his bride, mebbe, but not for honest men. Why, the place's damned, Burke."

"Damned, Blott! Why damned? There is not a spot on earth more peaceful. Doves coo in the trees yonder, and birds nest there; but I see your old trouble is coming on again," Burke replied, more softly than at first, if that were possible.

"Curse you, Burke, an' your soft speech! My trouble ain't comin' on, but this place's enough to give a man the jimjams. It's haunted an' I'd rather visit the devil in his den than come here."

"You talk wildly, Blott. It is safe, and what more does one want? There is the gallows rotting away, and under it five good men as ever risked their lives for money; but harmless, Blott, harmless. They will never cast a shadow more, and the traveler may go his way for all the harm they can do him. Then why cry out, Blott?" Burke queried, in his purring voice.

"What these men come to you an' I'll come to, an' I don't care to be reminded of it. So let's leave the spot."

"What silly talk, Blott! what silly talk! Here no one comes, and here we are free from prying eyes. Fools think the hut is haunted, and that is why I have chosen it for a hiding-place. There is no spot on earth so safe, Blott."

"There's other places secure enough for me, an' I'd rather stand in the open than hide here and be safe," Blott answered, in anger.

"Will you never stop, Blott, will you never stop? I shall lose my temper, I am afraid, and it is always bad for those about me when I do," Burke answered, his voice, if possible, more subdued than before. "You can't put off the day you will hang by shutting your eyes, and what is there to fear from the graves of dead men or a rotting gibbet? You put me out, Blott."

"I don't care whether I put you out or not. I'm no boy," Blott answered, impatiently.

"Surely not! surely not! But we must have a hiding-place, and what one so safe as this, which every man shuns?"

"I'm not afeerd, but I don't like the company," Blott answered gloomily.

"These men will never betray us. Do they cry out that it was I who fired the shot for which they were hung? Not a bit of it. Give me dead men when there is anything to hide."

"You're the devil's own, Burke."

"Perhaps, Blott, perhaps; but what has the devil done to you or me that we should be afraid of him?"

"Why've we come here, anyway, I'd like to know?" Blott asked. "Our man'll not cross this cursed valley, an' while we're foolin' away our time he'll pass, an' so we'll lose him."

"There you go again, Blott! I told you he was not to start till one o'clock? So we have time and to spare," Burke answered, in his low, purring way.

"How do you know he'll not start till one? Or how do you know he's comin' at all, for that matter?" Blott replied.

"How did I know Hogge was coming this way that rainy night, or how do I know other things that are going on in the world that interest me?" Burke answered.

"Well, how do you?"

"Because I have a man on the outside whose interest it is to tell me. You don't suppose I trust everything to chance, do you?" Burke answered.

"You devil! Who's the man?"

"Well, I like that, Blott, I like that; and you an old constable, too! Why don't you ask me to give myself up; to put a halter around my neck?"

"If we're to be pards, Burke, you must trust me, for I'll know who's pullin' the strings or I won't go on."

"We are not going to be partners, Blott; or only in this. Why should we?"

"Then why have you brought me here to help you?"

"Because the man is said to be ugly to handle, and I might fail alone."

"Well, what'm I to git out of it if we're not pards?" Blott asked.

"We are partners in this, and you are to get one-third if you do as I tell you," Burke answered.

"What'm I to do?"

"Nothing of any account. You are to stand beside the road and fire when I do, and if one shot doesn't kill him, you are to keep on firing till he is dead. Is that hard, Blott? It is just play."

"You won't kill him, though, if he throws up his hands an' we git what we want?"

"Yes; he is to die whether he throws up his hands or not. That is the understanding," Burke answered.

"Whose understandin'?"

"My understanding with my partner, and in this he is to have his way; and why not?" Burke answered, in his soft voice.

"Great God! what does he want him killed for?"

"I don't know; but what does it matter? That is always the best way, for it leaves one enemy the less."

"Yes, and I hang for't, like these dead men, while you go free, you devil! No, I'll have nothin' to do with the murder. I didn't come here to kill a man 'cause somebody I don't know wants it," Blott answered, in a determined way.

"Don't talk foolishly, Blott; don't!" Burke replied, quietly, but with such dreadful menace in his voice that I shuddered, hearing it.

"No, not a finger'll I raise agin the man, whoever he is," Blott answered, doggedly. "Not a finger!"

"You will think better of it, Blott; but come into the cabin, though it is a poor thing since the boys held it against the Regulators," Burke answered, as if to turn the subject to pleasanter things.

"Were you one of 'em?" Blott asked, as if loath to go on.

"No; or how should I be here? I was late, you see, and when I stuck my head out of the bushes there the cabin was afire, and our men holding up their hands and crying for mercy."

"What happened then?" Blott asked.

"What would be likely to happen? The posse tied them hand and foot and stood them in a row, and before you could count a hundred, had picked a judge and jury. Others went and cut uprights and a crossbeam for the gallows, and when the trial was over the thing was ready as you see it now. After they had convicted the prisoners, every one had his say, but not one peached. Then they strung them up; and when all were dead, they dug holes, one under each man, and so dropped the five into their graves and covered them up, and there they rot. But come, this is idle talk, and we ought to be at work"; and partly following and partly pushing Blott, the two disappeared within the cabin.

When they were gone I remained where I was, not knowing whether to fly or lie still; but while thus deliberating, a ray of light fell across my face, and hearing voices, I partly arose and peered through a crevice into the building. A lantern stood on the rude bench that ran across the room, and beside it Burke was busy with something he held in his hand, while Blott sat a little way off, seemingly taking no interest in what the other was doing. After a while, Burke bringing the object he held near the lantern, I saw it was a pistol, its black barrel glistening in the uncertain light like the body of a serpent.

"There, that will do, that will do. A beauty, too! and now for the others," he exclaimed, as he fell to work on a second weapon, cleaning and polishing it as he had the first. Afterward taking from his belt a third and a fourth, he cleaned and loaded them as he had the others. "There! I think I am ready for the Appletop gentleman; but how are your pistols, Blott? In good shape, I hope?" he purred, looking up as if for the first time.

"I don't know, an' I don't care, for I'll have nothin' to do with the murder."

"Don't speak so roughly, Blott; don't, you shock me. But what are you going to do, then?" Burke continued, keeping his eyes on his companion, though the latter did not look in his direction any more than as if he had not been present.

"What'm I goin' to do? I'm goin' to leave this cursed place," Blott answered, standing up.

"Is that fair, Blott? Is it fair, after learning my plans? You would be a witness against me, without being guilty, you know," Burke answered, softly, taking a pistol in each hand. At this I thought to cry out, so dreadful did Burke's movement appear and so unconscious was Blott of any danger; but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth and my throat was like the dust of the road. Paying no attention to the movements or voice of the other, Blott answered, angrily, and as if secure in his own house:

"You can go to the devil, Burke, if you like; I'll not betray you, but you'll never lack for witnesses to hang you."

"You don't mean that, Blott! You don't, surely! Think again. There will be no danger, and a lot of money to share. A lot, I say."

"You can't tempt me. I don't care about the risk, but I sha'n't be a party to no cold-blooded murder. I didn't come here to engage in any such fool business"; and he turned on Burke as if defying him.

"If you are not going to do as I wish, I will not help you longer, nor give you liquor. I can't afford to keep a dead one in food and whisky," Burke went on in a whining voice, as if loath to act.

"Shut off the whisky, and be damned to you, if you wish! I may want a drink bad enough to-morrer to kill a man, an' I shouldn't wonder if I did; but I'm not feelin' that way to-night," Blott answered, sullenly.

"Then take that, you booby, you driveling idiot!" and Burke leveled a pistol full at Blott's breast and fired. Too late the latter sought to spring upon his enemy, but with the movement he threw up his hands, and without cry or sound of any kind sank down upon the floor.

Burke, who had sprung to his feet, stopped short when he saw Blott waver and fall. And thus he stood watching him, with his face half-revealed. When some time had passed and Blott did not stir, Burke went to him, and lifting his hand, let it fall to the floor.

"Dead, and so quick, too, the ass! But he would have it, and I could do nothing less. Did he suppose I would let him go knowing what he did! Well, well, you need not fear spooks longer, Blott, and I hope they will find you better company than I have"; saying which, he stood contemplating the fallen man as if reflecting on his fate. At last, gathering himself together, he went on: "Lie there, you donkey! till I come back, when a hole will put you out of sight. Better work alone than with such a baby. Yes, yes, much better!" And his voice, which a moment before had been like the cry of a wild beast, was now soft and purring, as if with the occasion all feeling of anger had vanished from his heart forever.

NOTE.—At the time of which Gilbert Holmes speaks, the inhabitants of the Mississippi Valley were greatly harassed by outlaws; but these, differing from the thugs of the East, were often men of education and considerable culture, like Burke. Many of them were the sons of merchants and clergymen and people of character, who thought to commence in the West a better life, or continue their downward course with greater license. These social outcasts were, in the end, driven from the country, or exterminated by bands of Regulators organized by the communities for that purpose. For many years, however, men were not safe abroad, unless in companies or heavily armed, if thought to have money. Horse-stealing was a common crime, and more surely punished with death than murder, as is the case in all new countries. Notwithstanding this, and contrary to what is generally thought, the community was, as a whole, made up of the highest type of men and women; men and women who spoke pure English and in the main were refined and well educated. Coming to the new country, they gave up every comfort to better their fortunes, enduring hardship with cheerfulness, in the prospect held out of wealth and independence for their children, if not for themselves.—THE AUTHOR.

CHAPTER XXX

THE RIDE FOR LIFE

When Burke had assured himself a second time that Blott was dead, he reloaded his pistol and hurriedly left the cabin. Waiting till he was gone, I crept to the corner of the building and watched him as he crossed the open space and disappeared in the shadows of the trees. Overcome, I had now but one desire, and that to leave this place of death; and turning, I fled across the moonlit space, past the graves and dangling ropes, to the woods beyond. Directing my course in the direction I had been following, I made a wide detour that I might strike the highway at the top of the hill instead of the bottom, as I had thought. Reaching the road at last, worn out with fatigue, I threw myself down, the better to regain my lost strength. As I lay outstretched, I listened to catch, if I might, the report of Burke's pistol. In vain, however; but perhaps the distance was too great; or what if the traveler had not yet reached the valley! At the thought I sprang to my feet and ran on, hoping I might yet be in time to warn him of his danger. Stopping at intervals to listen, no sound reached my ears save the moan of the wind and the far-off cry of some night-bird in quest of its prey. At last, discouraged and worn out, I threw myself down beside the road, careless of all else if I might only rest and sleep.

As my face touched the ground, and ere I could close my eyes, there struck upon my ear the far-off rhythmical beat of a horse's hoofs at full gallop. Angry at being disturbed, I arose, but standing upright I could hear it no more. Relieved, I lay down again; but no sooner had my head touched the cool earth than the sound came to me once more, and now nearer and deeper than before. There could be no mistake this time, and rising to my feet, the steady pulse-beat of the galloping horse rose full and clear on the still air, saying as in words, "Coming, coming, coming!" Or some obstruction intervening, it would die away, calling back, as in sad adieu, "Going, going, going!" Then the obstruction cleared, or the ground hardening, it came again, clear and welcome as before, "Coming, coming, coming!" Thus I stood trembling and impatient, counting the hoof-beats as the horse came swiftly on. Surely this must be the man I sought; and so believing, I braced myself and waited. As the horse neared the spot where I stood half-hidden by the overhanging trees, it shied at sight of me, but the rider, keeping control with one hand, drew a pistol with the other, and would have fired had I not cried out:

"Stop! stop! stop!"

Bewildered, he hesitated, but distrustfully, calling in fierce anger:

"Throw up your hands, and come into the light, or I will kill you!"

Hastening to do as he said, and the moon striking my face as I stepped into the road, he lowered his pistol, crying out:

"My God, Gilbert!"

Recognizing Uncle Job's voice, I answered, but hardly above a whisper, so overcome was I at seeing him.

"Great heavens! what are you doing here?" he went on, springing from his horse; but I knew no more till I found myself lying in the road and he bending over me.

"There, you are coming round; but, my God! how pale and wan you look, and how torn your face! Have you been ill, or what is the matter?" he asked, his voice choked and trembling.

"No, I'm all right," I answered; and indeed the sight of him filled me with such happiness that my weariness left me ere I had finished speaking.

"There! do not get up. Lie where you are, and when you are strong enough you can tell me how it happens that you are here and alone, and at this time of night," he replied, his face clouded with anxiety.

"I ran away to escape Moth; but I've something else to tell you," I answered, remembering the tragedy at the cabin and Burke waiting beside the road, "and it's about you," I went on, overcome by the recollection.

"There is no hurry to tell it," he answered, tenderly. "We can stay here till morning for all the difference it will make; so calm yourself."

"There is need, though, for Burke is waiting by the road to kill you," I answered, getting to my feet and striving to overcome my weakness.

"What is that you say? Some one waiting to kill me?" he asked, peering into my face, as if he thought I had lost my senses.

"Yes; I heard them planning it in the cabin in Murderer's Hollow," I answered, simply.

"Good heavens! what could have taken you there, Gilbert?" he asked, as if still doubting what I said.

"I was crossing the valley, and reached the cabin as the robbers came up," I answered, striving to make myself clear, "and seeing them first, hid in the shadow of the hut."

"You said one before, and now you say two," he answered, as if the discrepancy confirmed his thought that I was mad.

"There were two—Burke and Blott."

"Burke and Blott?"

"Yes; our Blott, and Burke, who robbed Mr. Singleton; but when Blott refused to aid, Burke killed him."

"What is all this you are telling me, my poor boy?" he replied, his voice shaking. "Surely you are dreaming."

"No, I'm not; and afterward Burke hurried away to wait your coming."

"Burke! What on earth can he be doing here, unless, indeed, he has been driven from his home, and so turned outlaw. Did he know it was me?"

"I think not, for I never thought of you at all."

"How did he know I was coming this way to-night?"

"Some one in Appletop sent him word, he said."

"He only wanted to rob me. He could not have wished to kill me, unless in revenge!" Uncle Job answered, inquiringly.

"Yes, both rob and kill you, and as it had been agreed between him and the person in Appletop, he said."

Upon this I told Uncle Job all that I had heard and seen at the cabin. When I had finished, he stood for a long time silent, asking himself over and over again who it was that could have informed Burke of his coming, or that desired his death, and wherefore, if, indeed, it was not a ruse of Burke's to deceive Blott.

"I can't make it out," he said at last. "The river is too low for boats to pass the rapids, so I had to come this way, and started late on purpose to avoid highwaymen, for I have a lot of money with me."

"Burke knew all about it," I answered; "even the hour you were to start."

"Then it is lucky I was delayed; but I have still time to pay my respects to him, the villain!" he answered, throwing the rein over his horse's neck.

"Time to do what?" I asked.

"To go on to the cabin and take or kill Burke, the cold-blooded assassin!" he answered, grimly.

"No, no! You'll not do that, Uncle Job, surely!" I cried.

"Yes, I must have Burke, or know who it is that sent him word. My life may depend upon it hereafter."

"He'll kill you! He's a devil, but soft and purring like a cat," I answered, remembering Burke's way.

"I will not give him a chance. Besides, Blott may not be dead."

"I know he is, for his hand dropped like lead," I answered.

"Very likely, and deserves it for the company he was in; but pistols don't always kill. You stay here," he went on, preparing to mount; "there is no danger, and I will be back in an hour."

"No. If you're going, I'm going, too," I answered, determined not to be alone again in this forest, so full of horrors.

"Well, do as you like. There will be no danger if we can reach the place without being seen."

"That'll be easy enough, for the trees will hide us; but I wish you'd go back to Appletop," I answered, full of forebodings.

"To be shot from a bush to-morrow? No! I must find out who it is that seeks my life, if, indeed, there is any one save Burke himself."

"Burke'll never tell, I know he'll not," I answered, still hoping to dissuade him.

"Well, I will get him, anyway, and that will make one enemy the less to guard against," he replied, springing into the saddle.

Lifting me up behind him, he put spurs to his horse, and in a few minutes we reached the top of the bluff. Turning into the forest, we made our way to the grove back of the cabin, and here, fastening the horse, we crept forward on our hands and knees to the rear of the hut. Peering within, and everything being as I had left it, we made our way into the dark inclosure. Closing the door, Uncle Job went to Blott, bidding me keep a lookout for Burke; and this I could do through the opening in the wall without in any way betraying our presence. Trying first his pulse and then his heart, Uncle Job exclaimed at last:

"There is life in him, but whether he can be brought around or not is another thing." Saying which, he got down on his knees and began to beat the man's arms and chest, prying his mouth open at last, and breathing into it, as if he would force life into the body whether or no.

While thus engaged, Burke emerged from the shadows of the trees, and upon my crying out, Uncle Job got up, and taking a pistol in each hand, stationed himself in the middle of the room. Reaching the door, Burke pushed it open, and doing so, stood outlined in the bright moonlight. At this, and before he could enter or suspect our presence, Uncle Job cried out in a terrible voice:

"Throw up your hands, Burke, or you are a dead man!"

Surprised, the robber stepped back, wavering, as if uncertain whether to fly or grasp his weapons; but Uncle Job advancing, thrust his pistols forward, calling out again:

"Quick! before I kill you!" And upon this, Burke, with a dreadful oath, did as he was ordered.

"Thanks, Colonel, thanks!" Uncle Job went on, more quietly. "I had not expected to meet you so soon again; but back up a little, will you? There, that will do. Now, Gilbert, come and relieve him of his pistols. There is no danger, lad, for I will kill him if he stirs so much as a hair," he added, pressing the weapons close against Burke's breast. Doing as I was told, I went to the robber, and taking his pistols, hid them in the cabin. "We are getting on finely, Gilbert. Now see if he has a knife. Don't be afraid." Obeying, I took from Burke a murderous weapon, which I threw, with all my might into the surrounding weeds. All this while the robber stood still, his eyes darting this way and that, as a wild beast's might when suddenly brought to bay.

"Now, Colonel, I must trouble you to remove your coat. There, thank you! Gilbert, take off his belt and strap his arms to his body," Uncle Job went on, pleasantly, keeping his pistols all the while leveled upon Burke. "Tighter, lad, tighter! Don't leave any slack. We are getting on, Colonel, we are getting on; so don't be impatient. Now take my belt, Gilbert, and bind his legs together in the same way. Harder, boy! you don't half pull! There, that is better. I am sorry to do this, Colonel, but assassins and those who murder without knowing why must be carefully looked to," Uncle Job ran on in a chatty way, as if costuming a friend and being desirous of doing it well, even at some personal inconvenience. "Now, Colonel, I must ask you to lie down. There, so, so! That will do; and let me advise you to keep still if you value your life, for I am in a mood to kill you," Uncle Job added, soberly enough, examining Burke's fastenings as he spoke, tightening them and turning the belts about so that the buckles could not be reached.

To all that was said and done, Burke made no response, seeming to feel that it was useless to make remonstrance. Indeed, his discovery and the dead man lying in full view told him that to beg for mercy was a waste of breath. When at last Uncle Job had things fixed to his liking, he stopped, and looking at Burke, said:

"Now that we have some leisure, Burke, I should like to know how it happens you are here, and an outlaw, for when I saw you last you were about to return to Mississippi."

"Yes, and I should, except for your robbing me of my winnings, curse you!" he answered, but mildly, and as if speaking to a friend.

"What difference did that make?" Uncle Job asked.

"All the difference in the world, for I could then have recouped myself, but being under a ban I dared not go back empty-handed."

"Then it was for both gain and revenge that you were going to kill me to-night?"

"Were you the man I was waiting for?" Burke asked, in surprise.

"Yes, and you knew it."

"No; for if I had I would have gone to Appletop to make sure of killing you," Burke answered.

"I should have thought Blott's murder enough for one night," Uncle Job answered, impatiently.

"That was nothing. He brought it on himself, the fool! And I should have slept soundly for a week could I have killed you, too. That is the way such things affect me," Burke replied, looking Uncle Job coldly in the face.

"Have you no conscience?" the latter asked, out of all patience.

"Don't talk cant! Conscience is a matter of digestion. If that is good, I sleep soundly; if not, a cricket will make me start with fear."

"Have you no mercy, either, Burke?" Uncle Job asked.

"No, not if it would rob me of a crumb or a drop of water I craved. It is every one for himself as I look at it."

"You devil! You don't deserve to live."

"Yes, as much as you. We are both animals, only differently built. You can live on vegetables, but I must have meat and plenty of it, and not cooked too well, either."

"Well, all this leads to nothing; but I should like to ask you a question, Burke, and if you are wise, you will answer it frankly," Uncle Job responded.

"You can ask as many as you like, and I will do as I think best about answering them, Mr. Throckmorton," the other replied, with a soft purr in his voice, as if speaking to a comrade.

"What I want to know is, who told you I was to pass this way to-night, if, indeed, any one told you?"

"Well, really, I should like to oblige you, but you will have to excuse me," Burke answered, looking at Uncle Job as if it pained him beyond expression to refuse his request.

"Then you refuse to tell?" Uncle Job replied, disappointment clearly showing in his voice.

"Thank you, yes; I can't, really. And now may I ask you a question in return?" Burke answered.

"Yes, but I will not promise to answer you," Uncle Job replied, shortly.

"Of course not, Mr. Throckmorton, of course not. It is nothing of importance, anyway."

"Well, what is it, Burke?"

"It is this, if you don't mind. Who told you I was waiting by the roadside for you?"

"I don't know that there is any harm in telling you, but I guess I had better not," Uncle Job replied, glancing at me. "Perhaps it was the same person who told you I was coming this way. Who knows? I will make a bargain with you, though, Burke, if you have a mind. Answer my question and I will answer yours."

To this Burke made no reply, shutting his mouth as if it concealed a secret of the greatest value to him.

"Very well; we will say no more about it," Uncle Job continued. "Now, Gilbert, if you will look after him, I will see if I can do anything for Blott." And going into the cabin, he got down on his knees and commenced to work over the fallen man as before. "His heart flutters and there is life in him, if I only knew how to get at it, but that is just where I fail," he exclaimed at last, rising to his feet. "We must have a doctor, Gilbert, and quickly, if he is to be saved."

"A doctor!" I answered.

"Yes; and to get him we must go to Appletop."

"Blott will surely die before he could reach here," I answered.

"Perhaps not, if you were to go without loss of time," Uncle Job replied, looking at me inquiringly.

"I'll not go," I answered, shortly, determined not to leave him alone with Burke.

"Why not? No harm can come to you, and I am as safe here as in bed. Besides, it may save Blott's life. You are not strong enough, though, to stand the ride, I am afraid," he added, scanning my face.

"I'm all right, but I wouldn't know where to go," I answered.

"Oh, that will be easy enough. The road we came leads there, and you can't miss it. In the middle of the town as you go forward there is a park where all the roads meet, and at the end of the one you are following there is a tavern, with a wide porch and green blinds. Stop there and tell them what is wanted, and they will do the rest."

"I can't leave you here alone," I answered, nowise inclined to do as he said.

"There is no danger; and how will I dispose of Burke if you don't go for help?" he replied.

"All right, I'll go," I answered, seeing there was no other way.

"That is a brave lad! Tell them to send a surgeon and a man to aid. There! not another word. The dapple-gray mare is as gentle as a lamb, and will carry you like the wind"; and without saying more he went and brought her to where I stood, and lifting me into the saddle, shortened the stirrups and tightened the girth. "Don't spare her, my lad. She is good for fifty miles, and a better horse you never had at Wild Plum, if you have the strength to stand the ride."

"I'm as strong as an ox," I answered; "and you know I'm used to horses."

"Yes; but look well to the saddlebags, my boy, for the money is not mine. Now be off, and God bless you!" he cried, stepping back and waving me away.

Glancing over my shoulder as I shot under the trees, he stood where I left him, watching and waving me a fond adieu. For a while the cool air and the novelty of my errand buoyed me up, but after a time, being greatly worn in body, I lost somewhat the security of my seat. This I thought due to the swaying of the overwrought animal, and not to any lack of steadiness on my part; but alarmed, I grasped the saddle, urging the horse with whip and rein to still greater speed. Going on, strive as I would, every trifling thing jarred my nerves and agitated my mind, and soon strange fantasies such as I had never seen before began to dance before my eyes. Riding with my back to the moon, my very shadow came to perplex me, as if it were some unnatural thing. Now it would run on ahead, as if afraid, only to halt directly for me to overtake it. Then, as if tired of the road, it would wander off into the bushes, climbing the sides of the hills and trees in the strangest possible way. Why did it not go on before me, as a shadow should? Then I would be conscious that its vagaries were caused by the windings and inequalities of the road, and nothing else; but straightway I had convinced myself that this was so, I would fall to speculating about it again, as if it somehow boded me evil. How strangely, too, the trees and road blended at times or were lost to sight in utter blackness! Surely there was some mist or storm coming on with the dawn! Then again I would seem to topple and fall from my horse, only to find myself a moment after holding hard and going faster than before. What strange forms the objects by the roadside took on, and how dim and tired my eyes with looking! Or was it the wind? Yes, that was it, for I was always affected that way at Wild Plum when riding at full speed. With all this, I was consumed with a burning desire to get on, and faster, as if the world were about to stop and the sky fall. This mare of Uncle Job's that he thought so fine, why, my pony could beat her; and with the thought I fell to pounding her sides with my heels to make her go the faster. What mattered the smoke that steamed from her sides and the foam that flecked her head and shoulders if she could do no better than this! Then changing, I would praise her, patting her shoulder and calling her the bravest horse in the world. How dreary and long the road, though! And its many devious windings! Why were these not straightened? The hills, too! Surely they might be made easier!

Going on in this mood, the moon died out and the gray of the morning came on as I reached the open country, and looking away saw the great river, black and glimmering as if with a sickness of some kind. By this I knew I was far on my way, and urging my horse to still greater speed, rocking this way and that, I came at last, without expectation, full upon the town. Now indeed I was sure, but without halting or looking to right or left I flew onward, until in the uncertain light I came straight upon the park, as Uncle Job had said. Pulling my horse on her haunches, the little tavern, with its sign dangling in the still air, was at my very elbow. With the sight I slipped from my saddle and ran to the door, beating it with my hands and forehead, crying all the time, "Open! open! open!" No response, however, came to my summons until my voice grew hoarse with the effort. Then, as my strength was leaving me and my sight grew dim, the door flew open, and I fell forward into the arms of the man who held it. Of sense I had none left, nor of voice scarce enough to be heard, but clutching him as a drowning man might, I cried:

"I'm from Uncle Job—he's at the cabin in Murderer's Hollow! Go—quick, and—take a surgeon—and help—and—and—look to the saddlebags, and—" But that was all, and sinking down, I thought I was dying, and was glad, as one might be who throws off a burden too heavy to bear.

CHAPTER XXXI

CONSTANCE

When I opened my eyes, I lay without moving, staring and unconscious of life as if I had never been. Presently, tiring with the effort, I sank back into the blackness and stillness of night. Awakening anew, and yet not knowing that I lived, something touched my lips, and I opened them as a young bird will, and swallowed what was given me. Drifting again into somber nothingness, I revived, but after what length of time or wherefore I did not know. Then a face bent over mine, and looking down into my glazed and staring eyes, started back with a sob or stifled cry. Now I began to watch the shadows of the room, as a child might, without knowing they were shadows or what they signified. Relapsing once more into unconsciousness, I awakened, and after a while fell to tracing the objects about me, and with some thought that I had seen them before, but distrustfully, so weak was my understanding. Thus days passed, wherein a shadowy face bent over mine, with sorrowful eyes that were always anxious and often filled with tears. Gaining strength, I made out, little by little, the things about me, and doing so, smiled as children will in their sleep or when a toy is flashed before their eyes. By and by the objects more distinct began to fix themselves, and in the guise of friends, but drifting, and purposely, as if to elude me.

Thus the past came back, until at last I need no longer study the great canopied bed with its dangling laces, nor the faces of the king and his minister staring at me from off the wall. They were friends, and craning my neck, I looked about for the curious table, and in the sweep of my eye caught sight of my old enemy, the timber-wolf, above the door. I was not at Wild Plum, then! That was gone; but next to it, and now as dear, at the Dragon—Constance's home. Beyond the window were the big trees and Little Sandy, and about me the treasures that Constance and her father loved. Here it was I had dined and gone to sleep, and strange that it should seem so long when only a night had passed! It was time to rise, and with the thought I sought to lift my head, but all in vain. Falling back and resting, other thoughts came, and not like shadows: the flight from Wild Plum, Moth, the jail, Murderer's Hollow! At this last I shuddered, so real did it appear. Was it a dream after all, or was I dreaming now? Surely the one or the other! Worn out, I raised my hand; but how white and thin it looked! I had been ill, then, and so had never left the Dragon and Little Sandy. That was it; the things I remembered were visions and nothing else. Reasoning thus, I sighed as one will whose heart is weak or breaking; and scarce had it passed my lips ere a face dearer to me than all else in life bent over mine with a look of pity and tenderest love.

"Constance!"

"Gilbert!"

"Come nearer, dearest, so I can see you better," I whispered, after awhile, afraid to speak aloud lest the vision vanish.

"My face touches yours, Gilbert."

"Then kiss me and put your arms about my neck," I answered, partly reassured.

"Yes, you dear child! I'll do anything you say."

"Oh, I am so weary and tired, Constance," I answered, striving to return her caress.

"Yes, but you will be stronger soon if you lie still"; and the sweet angel laid her fingers on my lips, keeping her face close to mine as I had asked. Kissing her hand, I had no wish to disobey if only I might look into her eyes and feel her breath upon my face; and lest it should be only a dream, I lay still, and looking into her eyes, sank into a gentle sleep.

Awakening, I found her bending over me with anxious eyes and troubled face.

"Constance! you are still there?"

"Yes, always."

"Tell me I'm awake."

"Yes, and better, you dear boy!"

"I'm at the Dragon, and you are surely Constance?" I asked, ready to cry out.

"Yes, you know I'm Constance"; and she bent over and kissed me as if the better to reassure me.

"I've had such dreams, Constance! such terrible dreams!"

"It's nothing, Gilbert. People with fevers always have dreams," she answered, caressing my face.

"I thought I left Little Sandy with Uncle Job, and then a lot of things happened."

"Yes; but don't think of it any more. Dreams never come true, you know," she answered, placing her face beside mine.

"I won't; only I'm glad I'm in Little Sandy," I answered, lying still. When I next awoke Uncle Job and Setti were beside me, my hands clasped in theirs.

"You are better, Gilbert," Uncle Job spoke up, stopping short, as if something choked him.

"I'm all right," I answered, feeling stronger.

"You are a Little Prince, and my True Knight forever," Setti exclaimed, bending over me and taking my face in both her hands.

"I'll be anything you wish, Setti, you know," I answered, striving to answer with some spirit.

"Then I must be careful," she answered, smiling through her tears and kissing me.

"No, you mustn't," I cried, in great spirits. Then turning to Uncle Job I went on: "I'm sorry to have kept you here, uncle, but I couldn't help it. I've never been very strong, you know," I added, thinking how little a thing it took to upset me.

"I said I wanted to stay longer in Little Sandy, you remember," he replied, with a show of being cheerful.

"Your business needed you, though."

"Men always say that, Gilbert," he answered, as if it were nothing.

"What about Aunt Jane?" I asked, fearing to speak her name.

"Oh, she will never bother you any more."

"I'm glad of that, for I dreamed she had a man who followed me everywhere, giving me no peace."

"Poor boy! but you must lie still, the doctor says, if you want to get well," he answered, turning away.

"I've a lot I want to say, Uncle Job," I cried, following him with my eyes.

"Yes, but not now, Gilbert," Constance interposed, coming to my side and laying her hand on my lips. "Your fever will surely come back if you don't keep quiet."

"I must talk, or you'll all vanish and it will turn out to be a dream, I know it will," I answered, holding tight to her hand.

"No, for it's all real. Please lie still now, Gilbert; for my sake," she whispered, bending over me.

"I will if you'll stay and sit where I can see you"; and reaching out I sought to lay hold of her, but eluding me, as if she were a shadow, her form faded from my sight and I knew no more. Coming to again, my first thought was of her, and she, sweet angel, as if knowing it would be so, was there to meet my anxious look. When, however, I would have spoken, she placed her hand on my lips, saying:

"You must not talk"; and kissing her hand, I was fain to do as she said.

In this way many days passed, Constance giving me nourishment, and sitting beside me, her hand clasped in mine. When sometimes I would have talked in spite of her, she would leave her seat as if to go away; at which I would do as she wished, only looking always into her sweet face and gathering there some new hope of life and happiness.

"You are my little mother, Constance, only different from her, and not different either," I said one day.

"Yes, always your little mother," she answered, taking my hand.

"You will not go away as she did, though?" I answered, the fear of losing her being always uppermost in my mind, so sore was my heart.

"You dear boy, you know I will never leave you," she answered, smiling and patting my hand.

Lying thus, my thoughts would sometimes wander, in spite of me, to the visions of my sickness, but if I sought to speak of them and so free my mind and have an end of it, Constance would not listen, saying dreams always came to those who had a fever. So, after a while, not being able to speak of them, they faded away, as such things will when treated irreverently. Thus, at last, I got the peace of mind I needed. Save a visit each day from Uncle Job and Setti, no one came near me except Constance and the doctor. When I slept, Constance rested beside me in a great chair, never seeming to eat nor sleep, nor desire to do either. The doctor I had never seen before, but that was not strange, not having much need of medicine up to this time. He had little to say save to tell me I would soon be on my feet if I but did as Constance told me. One day, however, more talkative than usual, he said, smiling on her, and softly tapping his medicine-case:

"You have been ill to death, my lad, and but for this little woman, and the calomel and jalap, would have surely died."

"I know it; and except for her I'd not care to live," I answered, my throat filling. Nothing, indeed, could exceed my love for the sweet girl, and it added to my happiness now to think I should always owe my life to her and her tender care.

As I grew stronger, Setti came and sat beside me, and I have ever been grateful for this chance that made the gentle being known to me. For with her shy ways I else had never known her as the tender and good in woman should be by those who hold them in respect. As I gained strength Uncle Job's visits were more frequent, but further than caressing my hand or face he scarce said a word, so soft was his heart. The great care with which they watched over me I must believe to have been needed; for one day, when I disregarded some order of Constance's, I fell into such a dreadful faint that all their efforts to bring me to were vain, until Uncle Job and the doctor had been sent for; and thus I found them grouped about my bed when I revived. When at last I had gained strength and was pronounced out of danger, I one day asked Constance if Aunt Jane had been to see me, thinking it strange if she had not, even in one so cold. For a time Constance did not reply, and when she did it was not like her, but as if she were acting a part.

"No, your aunt has not been here, Gilbert. Do you care much?"

"I don't know. Only I thought she might have come while I was sick."

"It's so far, Gilbert, you know."

"So far! her farm is scarce half an hour's ride, Constance. She can't care for me. Or haven't you told her?"

"No, she doesn't know, Gilbert."

"Oh," I answered, not wondering much, but still feeling as if she ought to have been told. "Didn't you want her to know?"

"We thought to write her, but put it off from day to day, hoping you would be better."

"To write her?" I answered, only the more puzzled.

"You don't understand, Gilbert," Constance answered, moving about the room, as she had a way of doing when anyway disturbed. After a while, recovering herself, she went on, "Suppose your aunt is farther away than you think, Gilbert?"

"I don't understand, Constance, unless she is dead or has moved away," I answered, greatly disturbed.

"Suppose this is not Little Sandy, but Appletop. What would you say to that, Gilbert?" she asked, kissing me.

At this I was more bewildered than ever, not being able in any way to make out the sense of what she was saying.

"How can that be and you here?" I answered at last.

"Well, would it be so very strange? I might be in Appletop, you know," she answered, as if leading me on.

"This room, too! It couldn't be in both places!" I cried, thinking that for some reason she was seeking to mislead me.

"Might we not have moved to Appletop and brought these things with us? That would make it clear," she answered, bending over me.

"Yes—I don't know—only tell me quick!" I answered.

"That is how it is, Gilbert. This is not Little Sandy, but Appletop," she replied, pressing her face down close beside mine. After a while, raising her head and smiling on me in tenderest love, she added: "Are you glad, Gilbert!"

"Yes, you being here," I answered, not so much surprised after all, if the truth were told, for I could never quite make myself believe that some part of my dream was not true. "I so longed to see you after we left Little Sandy," I went on, "that I always wished myself back, though a hundred Moths and Aunt Janes were in the way."

"Then you are not worried?" she asked, kissing me again.

"No; why should I be? but have I been sick long?"

"Yes, many weeks."

"How did it happen? I can't remember that I was ailing," I answered.

"You broke down that morning when you came to our door, and for weeks knew nobody, but raved continually about Moth and Burke and the wild animals that had you imprisoned in a tree of some kind."

"Did I talk about such things?" I asked

"Yes."

"I'm a poor stick, always breaking down and making a show of myself," I answered, ashamed of my weakness.

"No, you are not. The doctor said your sickness was brought on by fatigue and lack of food and sleep. It was your coming to, though, he most dreaded, fearing you would lose your mind."

"Now I see why I am in this room, and why you have made it like the old one," I answered, tears coming to my eyes at the thought of their kindness.

"Yes, we fixed it up like the other so you would think you were in Little Sandy. See," she added, going to the window and throwing back the curtain, "this is not the old square, but another, larger and finer, with a house hidden away in the trees."

"Where all the roads meet, as Uncle Job said," I answered, putting my arm about her and kissing her in such delight of living as I had never known before.

"There; you will bring on your fever again if you act in that way, you wild boy!" she answered, drawing back.

"I don't care if I do," I answered, reaching out and taking her hand and pressing it to my lips.

"Then you don't mind my not telling you all this before?" she asked, as if she had been in doubt how I would take the part she had played in misleading me.

"No, for now I'll not have to leave you again. Tell me, Constance," I asked, after a while, "why has your father not been to see me? I've looked for him every day."

"He had to go back to Little Sandy, but will be here in a few days. It was he who caught you that morning."

"Was it? I couldn't see."

"We never expected to hear you speak again, for you lay for hours as if dead. Then sleeping and waking you uttered frightful cries, and for weeks we stood about your bed, watching and praying," Constance answered, tears dimming her soft eyes at the remembrance.

The next day, being stronger than ever, Constance said I might talk, and with that I fell to questioning her about everything that had happened, and particularly about Uncle Job, who, next to her, was ever uppermost in my thoughts.

"Did some one go to Uncle Job that night?" I asked.

"Yes; papa and the doctor."

"What did they find?" I asked, lifting myself up.

"They found your Uncle Job guarding Burke and trying to bring the other man to life," she replied.

"Did he succeed?" I asked, remembering poor Blott, and with what courage he had stood up at the last.

"No; but the doctor soon brought him to."

"How is he now?"

"He is well and at work about the stables. Papa doesn't think he is bad, only weak, and that Burke misled him."

"Burke!" I exclaimed, a tremor creeping over me at the thought of that cruel villain and his soft, purring way. "What did they do with him?"

"They put him in prison, but when Blott refused to appear against him he was released."

"Why wouldn't Blott appear?" I asked, surprised.

"Every one urged him to, but he said he was as bad as Burke."

"They ought not to have let Burke go!" I cried, thinking of Uncle Job.

"That is what papa said, but the jail was full and they would have had to board him, and the town being poor, they didn't want to do that, no one appearing against him."

"It's too bad," I answered, all Burke's cunning and wickedness rising before me. "Didn't Uncle Job try to detain him?"

"No; and he seemed much relieved when Burke was released and left the town, at which we all wondered."

"It was like him not to think of himself," I answered, remembering the Singletons, and why Uncle Job should wish Burke anywhere but in Appletop.

"Has he anything to fear from Burke any more than others?" Constance asked, as if my alarm had in some way communicated itself to her.

"Oh, hasn't he told you?" I asked, stopping short; for if uncle had said nothing about the conspiracy to kill him, ought I to tell?

"No."

At this I wondered, not being able to see any reason why he should not have told Mr. Seymour. Anyway, I determined to tell Constance, and this I did, but without referring to the Singletons or what happened on the boat. Constance thought it strange, and straightway began to wonder who there could be in Appletop that wished Uncle Job harm, but fruitlessly. Indeed, after a while we concluded it was but a ruse of Burke's to give him an excuse for keeping more than his share of the money. This, we made up our minds, was what Uncle Job thought, and so when he came to visit me I ventured to say as much, but without his vouchsafing any reply.

"Did Uncle Job get hurt that night?" I asked, continuing my talk with Constance, the better to keep her by my side.

"No; but when he saw you on his return he was nearly crazed, blaming himself for all you suffered. Nor did he leave the house until the doctor pronounced you out of danger. He was like one out of his mind, and would not go to his room, but slept on a cot before your door. Had you died it would have killed him, the doctor said, so much was he wrought up over your misfortunes."

"Poor uncle! he was in no way to blame," I answered. "Tell me, Constance, how it was that you came to leave Little Sandy?" I asked, flying from one thing to another, as people will whose minds are weak. "You had no thought of it when I came away."

"No; but papa had grown to dislike the place. After my mother died he wanted to leave, and when your father and mother were gone, he was still more inclined that way. So when your Uncle Job wrote to him to come to Appletop, he did not wait to write, but taking everything, we drove across the country, following the route you took. When we got here we were disappointed not to find you, papa not less than I, for you know he has loved you as if you were his son since that day you saved my life."

At this, too full for speech, I drew her to my side and kissed her. For the doctor would have it that I should lie in bed part of the day, to ease my heart, he said—though why my heart should need easing I could not understand; but doctors—once they get you at a disadvantage—exact all kinds of things of you, as every one knows, though for good reasons, it is probable, in most cases.

"How long have you been in Appletop?" I went on, that I might still hear her voice.

"We had only been here a little while when you came."

"How did you find time to fix this room?" I asked, wondering, it was so like the other.

"It gave us a lot of trouble, for carpenters are hard to get here; but papa is pleased, for it is dearer to him than everything else."

"I know; and have you named this place the Dragon?" I asked, smoothing out her hair, which was ever inclined to fly apart as if impatient of restraint.

"Yes; for any other would seem odd."

"The sign, too, is it like the old one?"

"Worse, because better painted, papa says. He does better in water-colors though."

"Did he paint it?"

"Yes."

"Can he paint real pictures, too?" I asked, thinking how beautiful she was with the sun shining in her hair.

"Yes, but no one is to know it," she replied; "though why, I don't know."

"No?" I answered, gazing on her dear form and thinking how much more fortunate I was than other youths, and all because of her love and tender ways.

CHAPTER XXXII

CONVALESCENCE

One day when I was well on my way toward recovery, I was made happy by a visit from Mrs. Singleton. I could plainly hear her inquiries as she mounted the stairs, and so was in a measure prepared to receive the dear lady and respond to her loving embrace and multiplied questions when she finally entered the room.

"You are feeling better, I know, for your looks show it!" she exclaimed, holding my hand and putting an arm about Constance.

"Yes, thank you; I'm a good deal better," I answered, grateful for what she said. For there are no more disagreeable people than those who tell you just how you look when you are ailing. Because of this I have always maintained that if you have nothing agreeable to say about one's looks, you should be silent. Or if you must babble about such matters, should say something that will not depress those you address too much.

"I have been kept away from you, my child, by the vexations of housekeeping," Mrs. Singleton went on, "but have known every day how you were getting on."

"I expect you find it very hard to get started in your new home," I answered.

"Yes; the worry is enough to drive one mad, and it is made worse by the trouble of getting or keeping a servant."

"Do you like Appletop as well as you expected?" I asked at a venture.

"Oh, yes, and so does Mr. Singleton, who has a fine business; but my girls! they drive me wild."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I answered, not sympathizing with her very much, for she was the very picture of health and comfort of life.

"Yes; they say we left slavery in Mississippi to make slaves of them here, and indeed it is like it in many ways. For they have to be taught to wash and iron and cook, just as they were taught music when little things; and not knowing how, their hands are skinned by the washboard and burned by hot irons until they are a sight to see."

"That's too bad."

"Yes; but they are getting on better now, though they manage in one way and another to put most of the work on poor Betty."

"How does Miss Betty like that?" I asked, glad of the reference because of my fondness for her.

"She says she doesn't care, and that in time she will be the best cook in the state."

"There's always one worker in every family, they say," I answered.

"Oh, the others like to work, though not to cook; but it is said, you know, that the acorn that doesn't sprout the pigs eat, and so what one of the dear things lacks, the others make up for," she answered, with a good deal of pride.

"That's true, I'm sure; but haven't you any wish to go back to Mississippi?" I asked, to encourage her to talk.

"No, not if we could. The girls like it here too, I am sure, if their thoughts were known, the air and the freedom are so fine. They all send their love, and will come and see you when the doctor and Constance will permit," she answered, kissing the sweet girl by her side.

"I'm sure I shall be glad to see them," I answered, remembering their pleasant ways and many kindnesses to me.

"Here is something Betty sends you, and it is her own make," Mrs. Singleton replied, removing the cover from a dish of jelly that looked like amber in the morning sunlight.

"Tell Miss Betty I'm much obliged to her," I answered, asking for a spoon that I might try it at once. For I was now hungry all the time, and my thoughts dwelt more on delicacies like this than anything else.

"That will please her, the dear child, for she is never so happy as when doing things of this kind."

"It's good of her to remember me and she may send me more another day, if she has a mind," I answered, as if in banter and yet meaning it, for such things were hard to get in Appletop.

"That she will, my dear, and bring it herself, if she may," Mrs. Singleton answered, turning to Constance.

"I hope she will, for it will do Gilbert good to see his friends now," Constance spoke up, pleased with the kindness shown me; for Mrs. Singleton and her daughters were loved by every one in Appletop, because of their kind hearts and unaffected ways.

When the dear lady had taken her departure, I said to Constance, remembering why the Singletons left Mississippi:

"Have the girls any beaus?"

"Yes, and Miss Betty more especially."

"She is the worker, too."

"It's not on that account, though perhaps it is a recommendation; but her being a worker doesn't prevent your Uncle Job going there very often."

"Uncle Job, is he paying her attention?" I asked, not much surprised, remembering what I had seen at the steamboat landing.

"Yes, he is desperately in love with her; and she is worthy of it, too," Constance answered.

"I'm sure she is; and does she care for him?" I asked.

"I think so, but she is so full of her pretty ways and love of everybody that I can't tell. Sometimes I think she favors him very much, and then I don't know."

"Is there any one else who pays her attention?" I asked, interested at once in Uncle Job's suit.

"Yes, his partner, Mr. Rathe, is madly in love with her, they say, though she doesn't give him any encouragement," she answered.

"I didn't know Uncle Job had a partner," I responded, surprised, I know not why, but more that there should be rivalry between them in such a matter; "what has he got a partner for, anyway?"

"Papa asked him that, and he said because his business called him away so much."

"Who is Rathe?" I inquired, feeling somehow a growing enmity toward him.

"I don't know—no one does, I think; but that is nothing here where most people are strangers to each other, except as they are thrown together and so get acquainted," she answered, simply.

"What do you think of him?" I asked, feeling that if she liked him he must be all right. For every true woman has that strange knowledge of men that cannot go wrong, and so makes them a safe guide in such matters. Constance not answering, I added: "Or maybe you don't know him very well?"

"I have hardly seen him, and so ought not to judge," she answered, as if evading my inquiry.

Thinking of what she said, I braced myself to ask a question that had been on my lips since she told me I was in Appletop, but somehow, when I would have spoken, the words stuck in my throat, as medicine sometimes will. Now, because of Uncle Job's troubles, I determined to speak out, and so asked:

"Has Moth been here?"

"Yes; they had scarcely led your horse to the stable when he rode up to make inquiries; but papa, pretending to fly into a rage, cried out that if he ever spoke to him again or crossed his door he would have him ducked in the river for harassing you so"; and her face lighted at the recollection as if the remembrance pleased her greatly.

"What did Moth do then?"

"Oh, he took it in good part, saying he did not expect help, and that what he wanted was for your good, however others might view it. After lingering about the town for a few days he went away, believing, we think, that you had not come to Appletop; for no one except those we trust know you are here."

"That's good, and I hope it is the end of him," I answered, feeling much relieved.

"We think it is, for unless he has left some one to spy about, how will he ever find out you are here?" she added, as if to clinch the matter.

This mention filled me with new apprehension, for I thought it just like Moth's cunning to leave a spy behind. I said nothing to Constance, however, for it would do no good, and rather than disturb her I would have faced a hundred Moths, such was the tenderness I felt for her. One day not long afterward, when we sat looking across into the park, she suddenly turned to me, saying:

"You have never asked about your friend Fox, Gilbert?"

"Fox!" I answered, startled out of myself; for how could she know anything about that strange man, half robber, half priest. "Who told you about him?"

"He came here to ask about you."

"About me?'

"Yes; late one night a man rode up to the door and called for your Uncle Job, and when he went out, Fox was there. He told how you and he escaped from the jail, adding that he had greatly blamed himself for letting you go off alone that night."

"That was kind of him," I answered, glad to have been remembered, though Fox was an outlaw and cast-off, and thought to be altogether bad.

"Yes; and when your uncle told him of your illness, he was greatly distressed, and afterward kept coming to make inquiries till the doctor said you were out of danger. At last, when he went away, he asked your uncle to tell you that though he had taken Moth's horse, he had returned it to the owner, adding, as if to make light of what he had done, that the horse was a poor thing, anyway, and not worth keeping."

"That was fine of him, and to send word, too. He is no more a robber, though, than I am, only he has got into a loose way of living and there is no chance for him to quit, I am afraid. I only wish he lived in Appletop," I added.

"Why?"

"Oh, he'd be a good friend, and one who would help find out who is plotting against Uncle Job, if what Burke said was true," I answered. At this, and strangely enough, I thought of Rathe, but why I do not know, unless because of his efforts to gain the favor of Miss Betty, and so was an enemy of Uncle Job's. "I don't suppose Uncle Job and Rathe are very good friends, since they have become rivals?" I asked, determined to learn all I could.

"I have never heard your uncle say anything unkind of him. He would be too proud, though, to do that; but Setti says Rathe's face is anything but friendly when your uncle's name is mentioned."

"Does Rathe live at the Dragon?"

"He did until the last few days; but he is away most of the time; indeed, your uncle and he are hardly ever in town together."

"Does he know I am here?"

"I don't know; we have never told him."

"I hope he doesn't," I answered, feeling somehow as if it would be better if he did not, and with that the subject was dropped.

In this way, and little by little, I regained my strength, and not at the last with any pleasure. For with it I should be parted from Constance, whom I grew every day more to love, not feeling then any more than in after years that such a thing was beyond me and not likely to lead to anything I could wish. For those who are mature in thought and pure of heart ever thus love, years being as naught to them. She was mine and I was hers, and alone in our lives we loved and were in everything as one.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE RED ROSE OF CUVIER RIVER

When I was able to be abroad some part of the day, Constance and I loitered at first about the garden beside the house, the plants of which were beginning to turn with the early frost. In the park across the way, where all the roads meet, the hickory and ash were already bare and staring, the limbs of the elm showing black and cold through the scant foliage that yet clung to their extended branches. The oak and willow still held their leaves, but discolored and of bilious hue, as if sick unto death. In pleasing contrast to these, and in rebuke, it seemed, the maples welcomed the frost with pink and red and paling yellow, as if they thought the coming winter a thing to look forward to with delight and not with dread.

The first day we ventured into the street we ran across Blott, grooming a horse near the stable door.

"Howdy do," he exclaimed, taking off his cap on seeing Constance; "I'm glad to see you out an' not lookin' so pale. It's a fine day for inv'lids, miss, an' purty for washin' an' dryin' things," he added, looking across the road at the sheets and pillow-cases flapping in the warm air.

"How are you, Blott, and the dapple-gray?" I cried, going to her. For it was Uncle Job's mare, and the one I had ridden to Appletop that morning.

"Hello, Gilbert! is that you? Well, I'd never know'd you," he exclaimed. "I'm glad to see you out agin, though, for 'ceptin' for you I'd not be curryin' horses now."

"Not this mare, anyway," I answered, stroking her fine face and looking into her mild responsive eyes.

"No; an' she's a good one if I'm a judge, an' fit to ride for one's life."

"So is every horse, Blott," I answered, rubbing my face against hers. "They'll all do the best they can."

"All horses is good, Gilbert, if not broken by fools or the like," Blott answered, striking his currycomb against a post, and making the dust fly; "an' I never hired an old, broken-down livery plug in my life that I didn't want to buy it afterward, if 'twas gentle an' tried to please, which they mostly does."

"That's so; but how are you getting on? As good as new and better, if your looks show," I answered, remarking his fine color and clear eyes.