Smollett.

So long had the soldier been delayed by his interviews with Prudence and the Assistant, that it was not until past noon that he reached the knight's residence. It was a large, irregularly built log-cabin, or cottage, covered with thatch, resembling somewhat, except in the last particular, and in being larger, the log-cabins one meets in the new settlements of the West, with a sort of piazza or porch, which seemed to have been lately built, running across the front. Such was the rude exterior; though the interior, as we shall presently see, when we enter the building, was furnished in a style indicating both wealth and refinement.

The house stood near the bottom of a hill, upon a piece of cleared land of perhaps half a dozen acres, upon which not the vestige of a stump was to be seen. The ground sloped gently away from the building to the southeast, until it met a small stream, which meandered at the base of the hill, and running in an easterly direction, was lost to sight in the forest. In front of the house, at the distance of a rod, bubbled up a bright spring, which, dashing down the declivity, fell into the first-mentioned stream. Except this cultivated spot, which had been an old corn-field of the natives, selected by them for the fertility of the soil, its advantage of water, and the favorable slope of the land, which enabled it to engross more than a common share of the genial heat of the sun, and expedite the maturing of its harvests, all was one unbroken extent of forest. In the soft autumnal days, when the maize leaves rustled yellow on their stalks, it must have looked to the soaring eagle, gazing from his "pride of place," like a vast nest in a green leafy frame.

Around this building, at some little distance, viz., at the edge of the encircling forest, were scattered some four or five wigwams, or Indian lodges, made of the bark of trees, from some of which smoke curled lazily up into the blue sky, imparting assurance thereby of their being inhabited, though the presence of some naked children near the entrances, who were shooting with little bows at marks, and amusing themselves in other ways, made any such indication unnecessary.

As the soldier drew near, he heard more and more distinctly musical sounds, and presently could distinguish the tinkling of a guitar, accompanied by a female voice. He stopped and listened. The air was slow and solemn, the notes were soft and clear, and the words sweet, but not English. There was a rich luxuriance, yet pathos in the music, like the utterances of a spirit whose hopes were mingled with reminiscences of joys which it had lost. How long Philip listened, he knew not, so entranced was he by the sounds. It was a long time since he had heard such delicious strains, and the effect upon him was therefore the greater. Suddenly they ceased, as if his approach had been discovered, and immediately thereafter, a man stepped out upon the piazza. Philip recognized him at once as the young man to whom Prudence had sent a message, and whom he himself had called Master Arundel.

He was a fair-haired youth of some twenty-three or four years, with that clear, bright complexion so common among the English, and which they owe to their foggy climate and habit of exercise in the open air. Dark blue eyes looked out joyously from a handsome face, which would have been effeminate, so delicate were the features and rosy the tint of the cheeks, but for a brown moustache, which shaded the lip, and redeemed it from the imputation. His doublet and hose were of a dark green cloth, as was also the cap he held in his hand, and he wore boots made of yellow leather, reaching above the knee, and full at the top. Around his neck was a white band, like those worn by the wealthier colonists. This young gentleman first spoke.

"Ha! Achilles, or Cœur de Lion from captivity," or to fashion my speech more into the humor of this new world, "O, Daniel from the lion's den, greatly doth my heart rejoice at thy deliverance." "Welcome, good Philip," he added, in a more natural tone, betraying some sympathy, and taking him at the same time by the hand; "welcome to your friends."

The tired soldier sank down upon a bench before he was able to speak.

"Thy tongue is dry, and moves slowly, and, now that I regard thee more closely, art pale. We must cheer up thy drooping spirit"

"Having thus spoken, the young man entered the house, and presently returned with a flagon and drinking cups.

"Drink, man," said Arundel, filling a cup with wine, "and wash all sorrow out of thine heart. The suns that ripened the grapes out of which this juice was crushed, were bright and joyous. May they impart their own happiness and vigor unto thee."

The soldier put the cup to his lips, nor withdrew it until the contents were drained.

"I feel," he said, "the good wine tingling through all my veins, and am a new man again."

"Fill once more," said the young man, suiting the action to the word; "one shower is not enough for so thirsty a soil."

The soldier did not refuse, and having drank a second time, he felt refreshed.

"Pleasant enough quarters, Master Arundel," he said, looking around; "and I see ye have some red-skins camped near by."

"They are the knight's particular friends, whose society it seems to be his sovereign pleasure to cultivate. He has persuaded them to gather round him, forming what may be called his body-guard."

"Or outposts of the main garrison. Well, for runners or scouts they may answer, but for hand-to-hand action, they are naught. But where is Sir Christopher?"

"He started on a hunt this morning, our larder having run low. Hark!" he added, as suddenly the blast of a bugle was heard echoing through the forest, "that is the sound wherewith he is accustomed to announce his approach, and you will presently see him coming out of the wood."

Sure enough, in a few moments the tall form of the knight, arrayed in a deer-skin hunting-shirt, with leggins of the same material, and "a piece" in his hand, was seen emerging into the open space. He was followed by a couple of Indians, each of whom bore on his shoulders a deer.

"Quecheco," the two white men heard him say, as he came out of the bushes, "carry thou thy deer to my lodge, and do thou, Pococke, divide thine with thy brother Quecheco." After speaking these words he advanced toward them.

"So, ho, Philip," cried Sir Christopher, "again under my banner. Fate hath decreed us I think for buenas camaradas, and for my part I heartily rejoice thereat. A braver heart than thine never beat under steel corselet, or truer hand wielded a sharp sword."

"I thank you, Sir Christopher, for your good opinion," said the soldier, "but I have seen little service since we parted among the Turbans, of whom somehow your wine sets me a thinking, at all to my mind. As for fighting these naked savages, who have nothing but children's bows and stone hatchets, while our men-at-arms are clad in bullet-proof steel from head to heel, methinks there is little manhood required therefor, and for what I have done in that way, I confess myself somewhat ashamed."

"It doth please me to hear thee speak thus, Philip," replied the knight. True valor is ever joined with generosity, and despises to take advantage of superior strength to crush the weaker. But fear not that I have any service of the kind for thee. I came not among these innocent natives to bring a sword, but the olive branch of peace. I would see them peaceful, and united, and happy, not broken into hostile clans, and delighting in murdering one another."

"I spoke not," said the soldier, "as desiring to make terms with you, Sir Christopher, well knowing that you would ask nothing which an honest man would be unwilling to perform, and am only too happy to enter your service."

"So be it, Philip," said the knight. "Henceforth be here thy home."

"Truly," exclaimed the soldier, stretching out his legs with a sigh of relief, "there is some difference between lying in a prison, or even talking with Master Spikeman in the bushes, as I did but just now, and being with good wine and noble gentlemen."

"Didst meet on thy way that most puritanical of Puritans, the praying, cheating, canting, hypocritical, long-faced Master Spikeman?" cried Arundel. "I wonder what new mischief he hath now on foot, for it is his meat?"

"Master Miles Arundel," said the knight, "thy language is too intemperate to be excused even by thy youth. Check the bitterness of thine expression, and know that he who rules his own spirit is greater than he who wins a kingdom."

A flash of haughty resentment lighted up the eyes of the young man at the reproof, but as he saw that no offence was designed, he answered:

"I expect never to win a kingdom, but as for this villain—"

"Peace, I entreat thee, my young friend," interrupted Sir Christopher. "I am curious to hear of Philip's treatment in his confinement, if he will favor us with an account thereof?"

Hereupon the soldier recounted to them all that had passed in his prison, including his interview with Spikeman, and attack on the jailer, and also the conversation in the wood, except those parts which had relation to Prudence.

"I see not," said Arundel, upon the conclusion of the narrative, "why the wily Assistant should be thine enemy, but he clearly is. Thou art honored in this respect as well as I."

"My mind doth misgive me that you are right," said Philip. "Away from him. He seems an arch villain, though in his presence the feeling changes, for he hath a tongue to wile a bird from the bough."

"Be sure I am not mistaken. See now whether Sir Christopher be not of the same opinion."

Thus appealed to, the knight answered:

"I fear that your judgment, Master Arundel, is correct, though caring not to enter into the reasons which have forced me to this conclusion. But we will endeavor to use such caution that any mischievous designs of his shall be defeated. Happily my homestead is not comprised within the limits of the colony, and the sentence of banishment is complied with, Philip being here."

Hereupon Sir Christopher rose and entered the house, and the soldier took advantage of his absence to deliver the message of Prudence, which, as he had threatened, he colored a little. With all his efforts he was unable to conceal the interest which he felt for the girl, but the young man good naturedly allowed him to suppose it unnoticed. In a short time the knight reappeared, and invited them in to dinner.

The apartment which they entered opened immediately upon the porch, and was a room some twenty feet square, constituting somewhat more than a quarter of the building. The walls were merely unhewn logs, divested of the bark, and filled in with a tenacious clay resembling mortar. Against them were nailed, or supported by wooden pegs, in divers places, branching horns of the moose and deer, over which were hung hunting-shirts and skins of various wild animals, tanned with the hair on. The antlers also, in many instances, supported guns, and swords, and hunting pouches, and powder-horns, and, in short, whatever might be necessary for attack or defence in war, and success in the chase. In the centre of the room a table for four or five persons was set, and a squaw was busy near a fire preparing the meal.

It was not long before the simple dinner, consisting principally of venison steaks and bread made of Indian corn, was placed by the squaw on the board, and the three men drew up, Philip manifesting some modest reluctance, until pressed thereto by the knight.

"The vain distinctions of the world," said Sir Christopher, "are out of place here. My soul sickens at the servile respect paid to stars and garters. The jewel of the spirit is to be prized, not by the setting, but by the degree of its own splendor it darts around."

Nor simple though the dinner was, were there wanting draughts of wine like that of which the soldier had drank upon his arrival. Of the three, he drank the most freely; Arundel moderately, and the knight almost abstemiously. As the last regarded the pale face of Philip, and marked the kindling lustre of his eyes, he pardoned the poor fellow, in consideration of what he had endured, the freedom of his libations.

At the conclusion of the meal, Arundel, turning to the knight, said:

"Philip has brought me word, Sir Christopher, which will necessitate the abridgment of a visit I did intend should be longer. My purpose is to return to Boston in the morning."

"May a friend inquire after the cause of your sudden departure?" asked the knight.

"It hath some connection," answered the young man, slightly blushing, "with a matter wherewith you are already acquainted, I know not why I should hesitate to aver before yourself and Philip that it hath reference to mistress Eveline Dunning."

"Fear not to speak the honest impulses of thine heart, Master Arundel," said the knight, "nor deem that I can take amiss thy preference of the starry eyes of pretty mistress Eveline to a hermitage in the wood."

"She desires to see me," returned the young man, "and I hold it a sacred duty to watch over her, for she is a lamb in the jaws of a lion."

"My opinion of the worshipful Master Spikeman," said the knight, "is not much more favorable than thine own, though mine eyes be not blinded by the deceitful mists of passion. Be wary, however, else mayest thou incur an enmity which it were well to avoid."

"What wouldest have me do, Sir Christopher?" demanded the young man, rising with some impatience. "Detains he not my affianced bride? Refuses he not even to allow me to see her, and must not our meetings be stolen? Does he not deny the solemn obligation he took upon himself by the death-bed of his too confiding friend, to unite Eveline with me in marriage, and is he not thereby a perjured wretch, regardless alike of his vow to God and of duty to the dead and living? I care not for his enmity, but prefer it to his friendship, nor will I tamely permit him to triumph in his villainy."

"Calm thyself, Master Arundel," said the knight; "truly I counselled no such thing. My heart is with thee, and my hand at thy service in this matter, for I esteem thee wronged, but neither violence of speech nor precipitancy in action will avail to right thee. All means of persuasion are not exhausted. Why not endeavor to interest Governor Winthrop in thy behalf?"

"To what purpose? Suppose you he would take my word in opposition to that of a fellow saint and magistrate?"

"Unjust! Master Arundel; degrade not the noble Winthrop, a pattern of many Christian virtues, and some knightly qualities, by such association. But to thy word would be superadded that of the young lady. He must believe her."

"Nay, Sir Christopher, your eagle glance at once detects falsehood wherewith it has no affinity, and you judge of others according to the standard of your own nobleness, but I am persuaded the attempt would be in vain. The case stands thus: there is really but witness against witness, for what know I of what occurred at the death-bed of Eveline's father, except what she herself has told me? Kind though may be the heart of the Governor, and sound his judgment, the false asseveration of the Assistant would outweigh the declaration of Eveline; and, did it not, and were he ever so favorably disposed, no court in this New Canaan, as they call it, would decide against one of the congregation in favor of an orphan girl not protected by their magic covenant, and whose hand is sought by an intruder into their fold."

"I deny not the force of thine argument," replied the knight, "and yet have I remarked an omnipotence in truth, that doth make me insist on having recourse to Governor Winthrop. As is the God-like sun, animating and vivifying all things, searching into dark recesses and driving out bats and impure vermin by his intolerable presence, and unveiling ugliness and hatefulness, so is Truth. Withersoever she turns her shining mirror there Error may not abide, but like a dastardly coward, flies from the glory. Believe, Master Arundel, that He who is uncreated, Truth will magnify that wherein He delights."

"To pleasure thee, Sir Christopher, there is nothing which I would not undertake, convinced though I am of its inefficacy."

"So please you then, represent your grievance in the highest quarter, before you further proceed. And now, I propose to present Philip to Lady Geraldine, if her leisure serve. You will accompany us."

Passing through a vestibule, which separated the two rooms, the knight threw open a door, and admitted them into an apartment of smaller dimensions than the first, but fitted up with far more regard to comfort, and with even some pretension to elegance. The floor was covered with matting made by the Indian women, on which strange figures were drawn, stained with brilliant dyes; the sides of the room also were hung with matting, over which fell folds of scarlet cloth reaching to within a couple of feet of the floor, imparting an air of gayety, while overhead was tightly drawn and fastened to the rafters a light blue cloth, approaching in color the hue of the sky. Some chairs were scattered around, and on a table lay a guitar, on the top of a book. No person was in the apartment at the moment of their entrance, and, upon the invitation of the knight, they took seats to await the arrival of the lady.

They had been seated but a short time when another door opened, and a comely gentlewoman entered, ushered by a little Indian girl. The age of the lady appeared to be about the same as that of the knight, and, to judge from her complexion, she was not of English extraction. Her features, though not regular, were handsome; the eyes large and black, with hair of the same color, confined by a white cap; her figure was tall and slender, and her carriage dignified and noble. Her dress consisted merely of a black gown, without ornament, and rising high into the neck, and as she approached she looked like one oppressed with sadness.

Her little swarthy attendant seemed to be a pet which she took delight in adorning, and truly, the little girl was not unconscious that her childish beauty was enhanced by richness of attire. A crimson satin tunic, like a basque, was fastened around her waist by a golden band, beneath which fell a blue silk skirt as far as the knees, while high upon the ankles were laced deer-skin buskins, profusely bedecked with shining beads and colored porcupine quills. Around her arms, above the elbows, were strings of colored beads, her wrists were clasped by bracelets of the same description, and about her neck was twined a gold chain.

As the lady thus attended advanced, all rose to pay the respect due to her sex and station.

"Behold, Lady Geraldine," said the knight, presenting to her the soldier, "the valiant man to whom I once owed my life."

"He is very welcome," replied the lady, in an accent just foreign enough to impart a strange interest to her speech. "The savior of my cousin's life is very welcome."

The embarrassed soldier, confounded at the presence of one who looked to him like a superior being, could find no words to return to her greeting, and only bowed low to conceal his confusion.

"I have heard, Sir Christopher," she continued, "speak of the daring feat of arms whereby he was rescued from the foe, and longed to behold his valorous deliverer to return my soul-felt thanks. Be seated, most welcome gentlemen. And thou, Master Arundel, I trust, hast received intelligence from Boston which will chase away the cloud that sometimes gathers on thy brow."

"Honored madam," answered the young man, in the inflated style of gallantry which the custom of high-bred society not only permitted but enjoined, "when the beautiful majesty of the heavenly sun appears, clouds have no place above the horizon, but fly away, chased by his golden shafts."

"Would that I had the power," said the lady, "as the beneficent sun dispels the clouds, so to drive away all sorrow and disappointment. There is no grief-laden heart that should not be cheered."

"Recount now, Philip, to Lady Geraldine, the adventure which causes the colony to lose a valiant soldier, and me to gain for our solitude an old friend and companion in arms," said the knight.

The soldier, upon being thus addressed, found his voice, and narrated to the lady the circumstances of his enforced departure from Boston. She listened with an appearance of interest, and upon its conclusion spoke a few words expressive of her sorrow for his imprisonment, and of congratulation for the knight, to whom she hoped he would be for the future attached.

"I do begin to consider my banishment as no misfortune," said the soldier, whose confidence in himself was now restored. "The labor of my forge and exposure of life for folk who know not how to excuse a hasty word or two, are well exchanged for the service of so noble a master and mistress."

"Be sure, thou shalt not rust like a sheathed sword," said the knight, "and it shall go hard, but I will find for thee employment to content an undegenerate spirit. But, Lady Geraldine, while we gain one to our company, we lose (only for a short time, I hope) another. Master Arundel purposes to leave our solitude to-morrow."

The lady looked inquiringly at the young man, who answered with a blush:

"A message brought by Philip doth constrain my departure."

"A sweet constraint," said the knight, smiling. "Fear not, Master Arundel, that Lady Geraldine will blame thee for obeying an impulse as natural as the love of a bee for a flower. The diamond eyes of Mistress Eveline would furnish apology for a deeper crime."

"I trust all is well with sweet Mistress Eveline," said the lady.

"All well, may it please you, madam, save for the injurious durance which, in despite of his promise, and regardless of all honor as a man, the villain Spikeman, who calls himself her guardian, imposes on her."

"He will relent," said the lady. "It may be he desires only to try the strength of thy devotion. The flame of thy love will burn the brighter for the trial."

"I have no hope of such result, Arundel. He is so wedded to evil, that to do a good action would be to him a pain."

"Nay," said the lady, "it cannot be there is a creature who loves evil for its own sake. That were quite to extinguish the heavenly spark. Judge not unhappy Master Spikeman so harshly. Commend me to the love of Mistress Eveline," she added, rising, "when you see her, and say that I wear her sweet image in my heart."

So saying, she bowed and left the apartment, preceded by the little girl, the others rising, and remaining standing as long as she was in sight.

CHAPTER VII.

Bride of Abydos.

It was early on the morning of the next day when Arundel started on his way to Boston, whither the message delivered by the soldier had somewhat hastened his return. There was, indeed, to one not in love, nothing in it to require such haste, and the explanation of his departure is to be found only in the natural desire of a lover to be near his mistress. Something might happen; he would seek an occasion to see her; perhaps a plan might be devised; at least, his wishes could not be promoted by keeping himself at a distance. While the young man, musing on sweet hopes and vague unformed designs, is threading his way through the forest, we will take advantage of the opportunity to explain in a few words what the reader, as yet, only imperfectly suspects.

Two years previous to the time when our story commences, Edmund Dunning, a landholder and gentleman of consideration, in the county of Devon, in England, having recently adopted the creed and practice of the Puritans, (as a sect dissenting from the Church of England, somewhat in doctrine, and wholly in outward observances, was called; from asserting, as it was thought, pretentions to superior purity of belief and strictness of living,) left the shores of his native island with an only child, a daughter, then between seventeen and eighteen years of age, to seek that freedom for his faith in the new world, which, as he conceived, was denied him in the old. His whole family consisted of this daughter, Eveline, his wife having deceased several years previously. His departure was hastened by a circumstance which had for some time occasioned him no little uneasiness, and the evil consequences of which he could think of no other means so effectually to avoid. This circumstance was an intimacy between the beautiful Eveline and a young gentleman in the neighboring town more tender than the father approved, who looked upon the hopes of the suitor as presumptuous, and was, besides, opposed to an union, on account of a diversity of religious sentiment betwixt himself and the aspirant.

This young man was Miles Arundel. A year before Master Dunning and his daughter left England, he had come to the town of Exeter, near to which the Dunnings lived on their estate, and opened a studio as a landscape painter. It was not, however, until a month after his arrival, that he seemed at all decided as to his intentions, the time being spent in wandering over the beautiful country, and making occasionally a sketch; nor after he had offered his services to the public in a professional capacity did he work very diligently. Yet was it remarked that he was never in want of money; and the citizens of Exeter thought that he must get high prices for his pictures in London to warrant his expenditure.

Among the families to which he was introduced as an artist, was that of Edmund Dunning. Eveline was no indifferent sketcher herself, and accompanied her father one day on a visit to the rooms of Master Arundel. It is said that the young people blushed at the meeting, but however that may be, the blush was unobserved by Master Dunning.

So agreeable did the young artist make himself, that one visit led on to another, and he was invited to the house of Dunning, and soon found himself, he hardly knew how, on a familiar footing in his family, and giving lessons in painting to his daughter. Edmund Dunning had no intentions that any other lessons should be given, and it accordingly grieved him when he discovered the terms on which the young people stood to one another, and which their ingenuousness could not conceal. With this relation he had made himself acquainted as soon as he suspected it, by inquiring of Eveline, who frankly told him the whole truth. Arundel loved her, but dared not, on account of the distance that separated him from her father, make known his feelings. The father demanded of his child why she did not, at the beginning, check such aspiring thoughts, and whether it was proper to allow of the continuance of such a state of things. Poor Eveline could only reply with tears, and that she could not prevent Miles loving her, but confessed that she had done wrong, and promised to break off the intimacy.

"I am unacquainted with his family, which is probably obscure," said Edmund Dunning; "but were the blood of Alfred in his veins, he should have no daughter of mine so long as he favors the persecuting Church of England, which I know he does, notwithstanding his constant attendance at the meetings of the congregation, the reason whereof I now understand."

The promise which Eveline made to her father she kept, nor from that moment would she consent to see Arundel. He pleaded hard for a single interview, if only to take leave, and though her heart strongly took his part, she replied that she would not increase the reproaches of her conscience by advancing a step further in an intimacy which she had wrongly concealed from her father, and was disapproved by him. All intercourse between the lovers ceased from this time, and shortly after Arundel disappeared from the neighborhood.

But it was at the risk of her health that Eveline obeyed her parent. The rounded form began to become thin; the cheeks, in which red roses were accustomed to bloom, faded, and the lovely blue eyes lost their lustre. The anxious father noticed these signs with apprehension, and in the hope that new scenes and a change of climate might improve his daughter's health, hastened their departure.

Almost immediately on his arrival in the new world he formed an acquaintance with Spikeman, who used every effort to ingratiate himself into his confidence. So successful was Spikeman, that he persuaded Master Dunning to embark a considerable portion of his property in the business wherein Spikeman was engaged, and on the death of Dunning, which happened only six months thereafter, to appoint him the guardian of Eveline. But as the shadows of this world were settling on the eyelids of the dying man, the light of another and a better dawned upon his mind. The differences of opinion which had separated him from the friends of his youth and manhood, and the distinctions of rank, assumed less and less importance. He regarded with pity the sadness of his daughter, and determined that he would be no obstacle in the way of her happiness. He called her and his friend to his bed-side, and after kissing her pale cheek, gave his full consent to her union with Arundel, and made Spikeman promise to favor her wishes in all things. Having thus settled his worldly affairs, Edmund Dunning turned his face to the wall and gave up the ghost.

The tears of Eveline, left an orphan far away from the only spot which she considered her home, flowed bitterly at the loss of her father. He had been a gentle and sweet-tempered man, and an indulgent parent, and she thought of him with a grief and yearning affection, the pain of which the removal of the interdiction to her marriage with one whom she loved, served at first, but in a slight degree, to mitigate. But time had its usual effect. The swollen eyes of poor Eveline at last resumed their brightness; the color returned to her cheeks; her step became lighter, and she looked forward wish pleasure to the time when she should give her hand to one who already had her heart.

But Spikeman was far from sympathizing with her views, nor had he any intention to keep his promise. At the time when he inveigled Edmund Dunning into entrusting property to his hands, his affairs were in an embarrassed condition, and he needed then and now the funds to save him from ruin. And again, hypocrite though he was in some respects, he was not altogether so. A man of violent passions, and unscrupulous in their gratification, deluding himself with the idea that having once tasted the sweets of justification, (as he fancied,) his condition was one of safety, and that the sins which reigned in the members of his body could not reach his soul, he was yet zealous for the faith which he had adopted, and devoted to the interests of the colony. It was to this devotion mainly that he owed his dignity of Assistant. As a Puritan, he was, or at least believed himself to be, opposed to a marriage between Eveline and Arundel on the same principle which had at first influenced her father, and been corrected only by the dawning light of eternity. Shortly before the decease of his friend, Spikeman had frequently, though never in the presence of Eveline, combated Dunning's resolution with which he had been made acquainted, but in vain. Had he dared, he would have resorted to one or more of the elders to exert their potent influence, but this would have been to betray the secret, and in case of their failure, might have placed himself in an unpleasant predicament. He concluded it was better to lock it up in his own breast, and so remain master of his actions and of her destiny, at least till her majority, which lacked two years before attainment. During that time, his circumstances might change—she might decease—no one knew what was in the future.

It is not, therefore, surprising that the Assistant did not write to England to inform Edmund Dunning's relatives of his death; much less that he did not inform Arundel of the fact. Months slowly dragged by, and yet the expecting girl received no word from home. At first Spikeman accounted for it by the length of time required to make the passage between the countries; afterwards by the supposition that the letters might have failed, or intimating that Arundel had probably changed his mind. A cold pang, as if she had been stabbed by an icicle, pierced the bosom of Eveline at this cruel suggestion, and she felt utterly desolute. What, however, frightened and depressed her spirit, only roused the indignation of Prudence Rix, her attendant from England, who even then had a sharper insight into the character of the Assistant than her mistress.

"Hey-day!" she exclaimed; "to think that Master Miles, the handsomest and darlingest young gentleman in Devonshire, and who, if he was only a painter, looked grander and gave away more gold pieces than many a lord she'd known, and who worshipped Mistress Eveline like some pagans she'd heard of did the sun, should think of forgetting her! It was precious nonsense. For her part, if she was Mistress Eveline, she would write to him herself, without letting old vinegar-face know anything about it."

The advice was not thrown away on the young lady, though with an instinctive delicacy she did not follow it literally. Instead of addressing Arundel directly, she wrote to a female friend, and communicated the change in her circumstances, and the relenting of her deceased father, rightly judging that the information would not long remain unknown to her lover. She did this without the knowledge of Spikeman, else it is probable that the letter would never have reached its destination. The event answered her expectations, and with the arrival of the first ship after her epistle was received, she had the gratification of greeting Arundel. But what was her astonishment, when, upon the demand of the young man that her guardian should carry into effect the wishes of his deceased friend, Spikeman denied that any obligation was imposed upon him. He would not admit that there had been any change of opinion in the dying man, but insisted, on the contrary, that he had remained steadfast in his purpose to the last. He affected surprise at the declarations of Eveline, and while not pretending to say what might have taken place in his absence, persisted in asserting that nothing of the kind had occurred in his presence. The young lady was surely in error. The bewilderment occasioned by excessive grief on account of her father's condition, and partiality for her lover, had caused her to mistake the meaning of the former. He could not, however much desirous to please his ward, violate the instructions of his deceased friend.

The remonstrances of Arundel, and gentle expostulations and entreaties of Eveline, were without effect; and when once the young man, in a moment of anger, threatened Spikeman with an appeal to justice and punishment by the government in England, the latter grimly sneered at his threats, and bade him beware lest he himself might be sent, as a malcontent, out of the country. It was, indeed, far more probable that such would be the result of Arundel's persistency, than that he should succeed in carrying off his mistress; and, blinded as he was by love, he could not conceal from himself the danger. To this was to be added another peril, which the Assistant, in one of their conversations, had hinted at, and of which we have also made mention, viz: that he might incur the punishment provided for those who paid court to maidens without the consent of the guardian or magistrate.

But the young couple had, besides Prudence, a powerful friend, Whose kind heart pitied their misfortunes, and by whose means, assisted by the faithful serving-maid, they had many stolen meetings, unknown to their persecutor, and this was no other than dame Spikeman herself. Destitute of children, she had been early attracted by the beautiful orphan, for whom she soon learned to feel the affection of a mother. Into her tender bosom the unprotected girl poured her griefs, and always met with sympathy and good counsel. At first, the good dame attempted to alter the determination of her husband, but finding her efforts in vain, she finally abandoned them, and contented herself with favoring the lovers by every means in her power, without his knowledge, trusting to the chapter of accidents for the result. Perhaps a few pieces of coin, distributed by Arundel now and then among the servants, contributed to preserve the knowledge of their meetings from the Assistant, who, whatever he might suspect, found it difficult, engaged in his business, to detect them.

While we have been making this tedious but necessary explanation, the young man has had time to reach the thickest part of the forest, lying midway betwixt the residence of the knight and his place of destination. He followed a narrow path made originally by the Indians, as they traversed the woods in the manner peculiar to themselves, known by the name of Indian file, now skirting the edge of a morass, now penetrating through a thick undergrowth, and now walking in more open spaces and under the shade of enormous trees.

Arundel, as he walked along with his piece in his hand, had kept watchfully looking round to discern any game within range, when, as he reached one of these open spaces, his eyes fell upon a dark object crouched upon a lower limb of a tree immediately over the path before him, and he instantly recognised the animal as the cougar or American panther. It is the habit of the creature thus to conceal itself in trees, waiting till its prey passes along, when, with one bound, it springs upon its back, and quickly succeeds, by its own weight, and by tearing the veins and arteries of the neck, in bringing it to the ground.

The youth stopped, and gazed upon the motionless beast, whose half-shut eyes he could see winking at him. He lay extended upon the limb, his forward feet spread out at full length, on which rested his small round head, with little ears falling back almost flat, his hind legs drawn up under his body, and his flexible tail hanging a short distance beneath the bough. The dark reddish color of the hair of his skin, dashed with blackish tints, harmonized and blended well with the hue of the bark, so that at a distance, to an unpracticed eye, he appeared like a huge excrescence on the tree, or a large butt of a branch that had lodged in its fall.

The young man did not hesitate what to do. He had come prepared for meeting with wild animals, and felt too much confidence in himself to fear the encounter. He approached so as to be just without reach of the spring of the creature, and levelling his piece, while he could see the cougar shut its eyes and cling closer to the limb, fired. The sound of the gun rang through the ancient forest, and in an instant the beast, jumping from the limb, fell at his feet. So sudden was this, that Arundel had hardly time to withdraw the weapon from his shoulder, before the animal had made the spring. The first impulse of the youth on finding the ferocious brute thus near, was to club his gun and strike it on the head; and now he discovered that it was wounded in one of the forward legs, which hung helplessly down. But the wound, instead of disabling or intimidating, only inflamed the ferocity of the creature. It made repeated attempts to jump upon its foe, which, in spite of the crippled condition of its leg and the loss of blood, Arundel found it difficult to elude. Active as he was, and though he succeeded occasionally in inflicting with his hunting-knife a wound upon the beast, he soon began to suspect that, notwithstanding he had thus far escaped with some inconsiderable scratches, the powers of endurance of the formidable forest denizen were likely to exceed his own. The combat had lasted some time, when, as the young man endeavored to avoid the leap of the panther by jumping to one side, his feet struck against some obstacle and he fell upon his back. In an instant the enraged beast, bleeding from its many wounds, was upon his prostrate person, and his destruction appeared inevitable. With a desperate effort, he struck with the hunting-knife at the panther, who caught it in its mouth, the blade passing between its jaws and inflicting a slight wound at the sides, so slight as not to be felt, and stood with its unhurt paw upon his breast, powerless to do mischief with the other, and glaring with eyes of flame upon its victim. At the instant when the panther, shaking the knife out of its mouth, was about to gripe, with open jaws, the throat of the young man, it suddenly bounded with a cry into the air, almost crushing the breath out of the body of its antagonist, and giving him an opportunity to rise. When Arundel stood upon his feet, he beheld the panther in the agonies of death—an arrow sticking in one eye and an Indian striking it with a tomahawk upon the head, for which great agility and quickness were necessary in order to avoid the paw and teeth of the creature in its dying struggles. These soon became less violent, until, with a shudder, the limbs relaxed, and it lay motionless and harmless,

Arundel now advanced to thank for his timely succor the Indian, who stood quite still looking at him. He was apparently less than thirty years of age, tall and well formed, with a countenance expressive of nobleness and generosity. His attire consisted only of breech-cloth and leggins, with no covering for the upper part of his person—a garb offering fewest obstructions to his movements through the forest. In his hand he held a bow; a quiver full of arrows was slung across his back; the tomahawk was returned to the girdle around his loins, and a knife hung by a deer-sinew from his neck.

"The arrow was well aimed," said Arundel, "that saved my life. How can I thank my brother?" "Waqua is satisfied," replied the Indian, in very imperfect English, which we shall not attempt to imitate.

"You are my preserver," said Arundel, "and shall not find the white man ungrateful."

"Enough," answered the Indian. "Let wild beasts find some other food than men."

"It was a strong hand as well as true aim that sent this arrow," said the young man, drawing the shaft out of the animal's brain, in which the barbed point, coming off, remained behind, "and I must furnish you at least another arrow."

"Waqua has plenty of arrows in his quiver, and can get more."

"Thou art an independent fellow," exclaimed Arundel; "but there is one thing I have to offer thee which thou must accept—that is, my hand, and it is a sign that I will be thy brother."

There was something in the action and expression of Arundel's face that was irresistibly attractive to the Indian. He took the offered hand into both of his and replied, "Waqua gives his two hands to the white man. He loves the white man, and the Great Spirit sent Waqua to protect his brother."

"Thou hast established a claim to, my friendship stronger than often exists. Be sure we will be friends. My brother is on a hunting path. What success has he?"

"A deer," replied Waqua, stepping into a bush, returning with the carcass on his shoulder, and throwing it upon the ground.

"Is my brother's lodge distant?"

"It would not tire a new born fawn to run the distance. My white brother shall see the wigwam of Waqua, and rest his limbs, and then Waqua will go with him to the lodges of the white men at Shawmut."

It was yet early in the day. There was no need of hurry, and the wish of the Indian of itself was enough. It would have been indeed ungracious to deny acquiescence to one who had just saved his life, and Arundel therefore at once signified his assent. But before they started, the Indian with the knife which he took from his neck, despoiled the panther of its skin. Throwing it then across his shoulders on top of the deer's carcass, he led the way out of the path in a direction different from that in which Arundel had been travelling.

It was truly as Waqua had said, and a few moments sufficed to reach his habitation. It stood by itself, near the margin of the Charles river, which empties into Massachusetts Bay, and was merely a rough hunting lodge, made of bark, yet so constructed as effectually to answer the purpose for which it was designed during the milder months. Doubtless in winter it was deserted for the more comfortable wigwam in the village.

Arrived at his dwelling, Waqua took down some skins suspended on one side, and spreading them upon the ground, courteously invited his companion to a seat. Arundel was glad to rest after his late violent conflict, and availed himself of the opportunity to brush off the dirt, and re-arrange his torn and disordered dress. Meanwhile, Waqua kindled a fire, and cutting off some bear steaks, threw them on the glowing coals. The exercise and danger of Arundel had given him an appetite, and with no little interest he watched the process. The meal was soon ready, and justice done to it by both; and upon its conclusion, it became apparent that it was not on its account only that Waqua had desired to return to his wigwam. It was also to make some alteration in his toilette, therein betraying that fondness for ornament which is equally active in the savage and in the civilized exquisite. For the garments he had worn, others were substituted of finer quality, and more showy appearance. Over his shoulders was thrown a robe of beaver skins; in his hair were stuck some red feathers, and from his ears hung pendants carved out of bone, into a rude imitation of birds. Belts of wampompeag encircled the arms above the elbow, and fell over the robe, hanging down the shoulders. The preparation was completed by painting the cheeks and forehead vermillion. Thus decorated, with bow in hand, an ornamented quiver on his back, and tomahawk in girdle, Waqua considered himself fit to be presented at any court in the world.

Nor when he advanced, conscious of the improvement in his appearance, and stepping as though he were lord of the unbounded wilderness, did Arundel attempt to conceal his admiration of the forest Apollo. Waqua remarked it in the other's eyes, and a gleam of satisfaction lighted up his face. Throwing the deer he had killed over his shoulder, and taking a small bundle of skins in his hand, the Indian preceded his companion on their way to the settlement.

CHAPTER VIII.