← catalogue

Cudjo's Cave

by J. T. Trowbridge · English · Gutenberg #31406 · 653,754 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Cudjo's Cave
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Cudjo's Cave

Author: J. T. Trowbridge


        
Release date: February 26, 2010 [eBook #31406]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31406

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
        by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CUDJO'S CAVE ***




Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









                                  CUDJO'S CAVE.

                               BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE

              AUTHOR OF "NEIGHBOR JACKWOOD," "THE DRUMMER BOY," ETC.



BOSTON:
J. E. TILTON AND COMPANY.
1864.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by
J. T. TROWBRIDGE,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.

ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED
BY THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
4 SPRING LANE.




CONTENTS.


I. The Schoolmaster in Trouble

II. Penn and the Ruffians

III. The Secret Cellar

IV. The Search for the Missing

V. Carl and his Friends

VI. A Strange Coat for a Quaker

VII. The Two Guests

VIII. The Rover

IX. Toby's Patient has a Caller

X. The Widow's Green Chest

XI. Southern Hospitality

XII. Chivalrous Proceedings

XIII. The Old Clergyman's Nightgown has an Adventure

XIV. A Man's Story

XV. An Anti-Slavery Document on Black Parchment

XVI. In the Cave and on the Mountain

XVII. Penn's Foot Knocks Down a Musket

XVIII. Condemned to Death

XIX. The Escape

XX. Under the Bridge

XXI. The Return into Danger

XXII. Stackridge's Coat and Hat get Arrested

XXIII. The Flight of the Prisoners

XXIV. The Dead Rebel's Musket

XXV. Black and White

XXVI. Why Augustus did not Propose

XXVII. The Men with the Dark Lantern

XXVIII. Beauty and the Beast

XXIX. In the Burning Woods

XXX. Refuge

XXXI. Lysander Takes Possession

XXXII. Toby's Reward

XXXIII. Carl Makes an Engagement

XXXIV. Captain Lysander's Joke

XXXV. The Moonlight Expedition

XXXVI. Carl finds a Geological Specimen

XXXVII. Carl Keeps his Engagement

XXXVIII. Love in the Wilderness

XXXIX. A Council of War

XL. The Wonders of the Cave

XLI. Prometheus Bound

XLII. Prometheus Unbound

XLIII. The Combat

XLIV. How Augustus Finally Proposed

XLV. Master and Slave Change Places

XLVI. The Traitor

XLVII. Bread on the Waters

XLVIII. Conclusion

L'Envoy




CUDJO'S CAVE.




I.

_THE SCHOOLMASTER IN TROUBLE._


Carl crept stealthily up the bank, and, peering through the window, saw
the master writing at his desk.

In his neat Quaker garb, his slender form bent over his task, his calm
young face dimly seen in profile, there he sat. The room was growing
dark; the glow of a March sunset was fading fast from the paper on which
the swift pen traced these words:--

"Tennessee is getting too hot for me. My school is nearly broken up, and
my farther stay here is becoming not only useless, but dangerous. There
are many loyal men in the neighborhood, but they are overawed by the
reckless violence of the secessionists. Mobs sanctioned by self-styled
vigilance committees override all law and order. As I write, I can hear
the yells of a drunken rabble before my school-house door. I am an
especial object of hatred to them on account of my northern birth and
principles. They have warned me to leave the state, they have threatened
me with southern vengeance, but thus far I have escaped injury. How long
this reign of terror is to last, or what is to be the end----"

A rap on the window drew the writer's attention, and, looking up, he
saw, against the twilight sky, the broad German face of the boy Carl
darkening the pane. He stepped to raise the sash.

"What is it, Carl?"

The lad glanced quickly around, first over one shoulder, then the other,
and said, in a hoarse whisper,--

"Shpeak wery low!"

"Was it you that rapped before?"

"I have rapped tree times, not loud, pecause I vas afraid the men would
hear."

"What men are they?"

"The Wigilance Committee's men! They have some tar in a kettle. They
have made a fire unter it, and I hear some of 'em say, 'Run, boys, and
pring some fedders.'"

"Tar and feathers!" The young man grew pale. "They have threatened it,
but they will not dare!"

"They vill dare do anything; but you shall prewent 'em! See vat I have
prought you!" Carl opened his jacket, and showed the handle of a
revolver. "Stackridge sent it."

"Hide it! hide it!" said the master, quickly. "He offered it to me
himself. I told him I could not take it."

"He said, may be when you smell tar and see fedders, you vill change
your mind," answered Carl.

The schoolmaster smiled. The pallor of fear which had surprised him for
an instant, had vanished.

"I believe in a different creed from Mr. Stackridge's, honest man as he
is. I shall not resist evil, but overcome evil with good, if I can; if I
cannot, I shall suffer it."

"You show you vill shoot some of 'em, and they vill let you go," said
Carl, not understanding the nobler doctrine. "Shooting vill do some of
them willains some good!" his placid blue eyes kindling, as if he would
like to do a little of the shooting. "You take it?"

"No," said the young man, firmly. "Such weapons are not for me."

"Wery vell!" Carl buttoned his jacket over the revolver. "Then you come
mit me, if you please. Get out of the vinder and run. That is pest, I
suppose."

"No, no, my lad. I may as well meet these men first as last."

"Then I vill go and pring help!" suddenly exclaimed, the boy; and away
he scampered across the fields, leaving the young man alone in the
darkening school-room.

It was not a very pleasant situation to be in, you may well believe. As
he closed the sash, a faint odor of tar was wafted in on the evening
breeze. The voices of the ruffians at the door grew louder and more
menacing. He knew they were only waiting for the tar to heat, for the
shadows of night to thicken, and for him to make his appearance. He
returned to his desk, but it was now too dark to write. He could barely
see to sign his name and superscribe the envelope. This done, he
buttoned his straight-fitting brown coat, put on his modest hat, and
stood pondering in his mind what he should do.

A young man scarcely twenty years old, reared in the quiet atmosphere of
a community of Friends, and as unaccustomed, hitherto, to scenes of
strife and violence as the most innocent child,--such was Penn Hapgood,
teacher of the "Academy" (as the school was proudly named) in
Curryville. This was the first great trial of his faith and courage. He
had not taken Carl's advice, and run, because he did not believe that he
could escape the danger in that way. And as for fighting, that was not
in his heart any more than it was in his creed. But to say he did not
dread to meet his foes at the door, that he felt no fear, would be
speaking falsely. He was afraid. His entire nature, delicate body and
still more delicate soul, shrank from the ordeal. He went to the outer
door, and laid his hand on the bolt, but could not, for a long time,
summon resolution to open it.

As he hesitated, there came a loud thump on one of the panels which
nearly crushed it in, and filled the hollow building with ominous
echoes.

"Make ready in thar, you hound of a abolitionist!" shouted a brutal
voice; "we're about ready fur ye!" Penn's hand drew back. I dare say it
trembled, I dare say his face turned white again, as he felt the danger
so near. How could he confront, with his sensitive spirit, those
merciless, coarse men?

"I'll wait a little," he thought within himself. "Perhaps Carl _will_
bring help."

There were good sturdy Unionists in the place, men who, unlike the
Pennsylvania schoolmaster, believed in opposing evil with evil, force by
force. Only last night, one of them entered this very school-room,
bolted the door carefully, and sat down to unfold to the young master a
scheme for resisting the plans of the secessionists. It was a league for
circumventing treason; for keeping Tennessee in the Union; for
preserving their homes and families from the horrors of the impending
civil war. The conspirators had arms concealed; they met in secret
places; they were watching for the hour to strike. Would the
schoolmaster join them? Strange to say, they believed in him as a man
who had abilities as a leader, "an undeveloped fighting man"--he, Penn
Hapgood, the Quaker! Penn smiled, as he declined the farmer's offer of a
commission in the secret militia, and refused to accept the weapon of
self-defence which the same earnest Unionist had proffered him again,
through Carl, the German boy, this night.

Penn thought of these men now, and hoped that Carl would haste and bring
them to the rescue. Then immediately he blushed at his own cowardly
inconsistency; for something in his heart said that he ought not to wish
others to do for him what he had conscientious scruples against doing
for himself.

"I'll go out!" he said, sternly, to his trembling heart.

But he would first make a reconnoissance through the keyhole. He looked,
and saw one ruffian stirring the fire under the tar kettle, another
displaying a rope, and two others alternately drinking from a bottle. He
started back, as the thundering on the panel was repeated, and the same
voice roared out, "You kin be takin' off them clo'es of yourn; the tar
is about het!"

"I'll wait a few minutes longer for Carl!" said Penn to himself, with a
long breath.

Unfortunately, Carl was not just now in a situation to render much
assistance.

Although he had arrived unseen at the window, he did not retire
undiscovered. He had run but a short distance when a gruff voice ordered
him to stop. He had a way, however, of misunderstanding English when he
chose, and interpreted the command to mean, run faster. Receiving it in
that sense, he obeyed. Somebody behind him began to run too. In short,
it was a chase; and Carl, glancing backwards, saw long-legged Silas
Ropes, one of the ringleaders of the mob, taking appalling strides after
him, across the open field.

There were some woods about a quarter of a mile away, and Carl made for
them, trusting to their shelter and the shades of night to favor his
escape. He was fifteen years old, strong, and an excellent runner. He
did not again look behind to see if Silas was gaining on him, but
attended strictly to his own business, which was, to get into the
thickets as soon as possible. His success seemed almost certain; a few
rods more, and the undergrowth would be reached; and he was
congratulating himself on having thus led away from the schoolmaster one
of his most desperate enemies, when he rushed suddenly almost into the
arms of two men,--or rather, into a feather-bed, which they were
fetching by the corner of the wood lot.

"Ketch that Dutchman!" roared Silas. And they "ketched" him.

"What's the Dutchman done?" said one of the men, throwing himself lazily
on the feather-bed, while his companion held Carl for his pursuer.

"I don't know," said Carl, opening his eyes with placid wonder. "I
tought he vas vanting to run a race mit me."

"A race, you fool!" said Silas, seizing and shaking him. "Didn't you
hear me tell ye to stop?"

"Did you say _shtop_?" asked Carl, with a broad smile. "It ish wery
queer! Ven it sounded so much as if you said _shtep_! so I _shtepped_
just as fast as I could."

"What was you thar at the winder fur?"

"Vot vinder?" said Carl.

"Of the Academy," said Silas.

"O! to pe sure! I vas there," said Carl. "Pecause I left my books in
there last week, and I vas going to get 'em. But I saw somebody in the
house, and I vas afraid."

"Wasn't it the schoolmaster?"

"I shouldn't be wery much surprised if it vas the schoolmaster," said
Carl, with blooming simplicity.

"You lying rascal! what did you say to him through the winder?"

Carl looked all around with an expression of mild wonder, as if
expecting somebody else to answer.

"Why don't you speak?" And Silas gave his arm a fierce wrench.

"Vat did you say?"

"I said, you lying rascal!----"

"That is not my name," said Carl, "and I tought you vas shpeaking to
somebody else. I tought you vas conwersing mit this man," pointing at
the fellow on the bed.

"Dan Pepperill!" said Silas, turning angrily on the recumbent figure,
"what are you stretching your lazy bones thar fur? We're waiting fur
them feathers, and you'll git a coat yourself, if you don't show a
little more of the sperrit of a gentleman! You don't act as if your
heart was in this yer act of dooty we're performin', any more'n as if
you was a northern mudsill yourself!"

"Wal, the truth is," said Dan Pepperill, reluctantly getting up from the
bed, and preparing to shoulder it, "the schoolmaster has allus treated
me well, and though I hate his principles,----"

"You don't hate his principles, neither! You're more'n half a
abolitionist yourself! And I swear to gosh," said Silas, "if you don't
do your part now----"

"I will! I'm a-going to!" said Dan, with something like a groan.
"Though, as I said, he has allus used me well----"

"Shet up!" Silas administered a kick, which Dan adroitly caught in the
bed. Mr. Ropes got his foot embarrassed in the feathers, lost his
balance, and fell. Dan, either by mistake or design, fell also, tumbling
the bed in a smothering mass over the screaming mouth and coarse red
nose of the prostrate Silas.

The third man, who was guarding Carl, began to laugh. Carl laughed too,
as if it was the greatest joke in the world; to enhance the fun of
which, he gave his man a sudden push forwards, tripped him as he went,
and so flung him headlong upon the struggling heap. This pleasant feat
accomplished, he turned to run; but changed his mind almost instantly;
and, instead of plunging into the undergrowth, threw himself upon the
accumulating pile.

There he scrambled, and kicked, with his heels in the air, and rolled
over the topmost man, who rolled over Mr. Pepperill, who rolled over the
feather-bed, which rolled again over Mr. Ropes, in a most lively and
edifying manner.

At this interesting juncture Carl's reason for changing his mind and
remaining, became manifest. Two more of the chivalry from the tar kettle
came rushing to the spot, and would speedily have seized him had he
attempted to get off. So he staid, thinking he might be helping the
master in this way as well as any other.

And now the miscellaneous heap of legs and feathers began to resolve
itself into its original elements. First Carl was pulled off by one of
the new comers; then Dan and the man Carl had sent to comfort him fell
to blows, clinched each other, and rolled upon the earth; and lastly,
Mr. Silas Ropes arose, choked with passion and feathers, from under the
rent and bursting bed. The two squabbling men were also quickly on their
feet, Mr. Pepperill proving too much for his antagonist.

"What did you pitch into me fur?" demanded Silas, threatening his friend
Dan.

"What did Gad pitch into me fur?" said the irate Dan, shaking his fist
at Gad.

"What did you push and jump on to me fur?" said Gad, clutching Carl, who
was still laughing.

Thus the wrath of the whole party was turned against the boy.

"Pless me!" said he, staring innocently, "I tought it vas all for
shport!"

The furious Mr. Ropes was about to convince him, by some violent act, of
his mistake, when cries from the direction of the school-house called
his attention.

"See what's there, boys!" said Silas.

"Durn me," said Mr. Pepperill, looking across the field as he brushed
the feathers from his clothes, "if it ain't the master himself!"

In fact, Penn had by this time summoned courage to slip back the bolt,
throw open the school-house door, and come out.

The gentlemen who were heating the tar and drinking from the bottle were
taken by surprise. They had not expected that the fellow would come out
at all, but wait to be dragged out. Their natural conclusion was, that
he was armed; for he appeared with as calm and determined a front as if
he had been perfectly safe from injury himself, while it was in his
power to do them some fatal mischief. They could not understand how the
mere consciousness of his own uprightness, and a sense of reliance on
the arm of eternal justice, could inspire a man with courage to face so
many.

"My friends," said Penn, as they beset him with threats and blasphemy,
"I have never injured one of you, and you will not harm me."

And as if some deity held an invisible shield above him, he passed by;
and they, in their astonishment, durst not even lay their hands upon
him.

"I've hearn tell he was a Quaker, and wouldn't fight," muttered one;
"but I see a revolver under his coat!"

"Where's Sile? Where's Sile Ropes?" cried others, who, though themselves
unwilling to assume the responsibility of seizing the young master,
would have been glad to see Silas attempt it.

Great was the joy of Carl when he saw Mr. Hapgood walking through the
guard of ruffians untouched. But, a moment after, he uttered an
involuntary groan of despair. It was Penn's custom to cross the fields
in going from the Academy to the house where he boarded, and his path
wound by the edge of the woods, where Silas and his accomplices were at
this moment gathering up the spilt feathers.

"All right!" said Mr. Ropes, crouching down in order to remain concealed
from Penn's view. "This is as comf'table a place to do our dooty by him
as any to be found. Keep dark, boys, and let him come!"




II.

_PENN AND THE RUFFIANS_.


Penn traversed the field, followed by the gang from the school-house. As
he approached the woods, Silas and his friends rose up before him. He
was thus surrounded.

"Thought you'd come and meet us half way, did ye?" said Mr. Ropes,
striding across his path. "Very accommodating in you, to be shore!" And
he laughed a brutal laugh, which was echoed by all his friends except
Dan.

"I have not come to meet you," replied Penn, "but I am going about my
own private business, and wish to pass on."

"Wal, you can't pass on till we've settled a small account with you
that's been standing a little too long a'ready. Bring that tar, some on
ye! Come, Pepperill! show your sperrit!"

This Pepperill was a ragged, lank, starved-looking man, whose appearance
was on this occasion rendered ludicrous by the feathers sticking all
over him, and by an expression of dejection which _would_ draw down the
corners of his miserable mouth and roll up his piteous eyes,
notwithstanding his efforts to appear, what Silas termed, "sperrited."

"You, too, among my enemies, Daniel!" said Penn, reproachfully.

It was a look of grief, not of anger, which he turned on the wretched
man. Poor Pepperill could not stand it.

"I own, I own," he stammered forth, a picture of mingled fear and
contrition, "you've allus used me well, Mr. Hapgood,--but," he hastened
to add, with a scared glance at Silas, "I hate your principles!"

"Look here, Dan Pepperill!" remarked Mr. Ropes, with grim significance,
"you better shet your yaup, and be a bringin' that ar kittle!"

Dan groaned, and departed. Penn smiled bitterly. "I have always used him
well; and this is the return I get!" He thought of another evening, but
little more than a week since, when, passing by this very path, he heard
a deeper groan than that which the wretch had just uttered. He turned
aside into the edge of the woods, and there beheld an object to excite
at once his laughter and compassion. What he saw was this.

Dan Pepperill, astride a rail; his hands tied together above it, and his
feet similarly bound beneath. The rail had been taken from a fence a
mile away, and he had been carried all that distance on the shoulders of
some of these very men. They had taken turns with him, and when, tired
at last, had placed the rail in the crotches of two convenient saplings,
and there left him. The crotch in front was considerably higher than
that behind, which circumstance gave him the appearance of clinging to
the back of an animal in the act of rearing frightfully, and exposed a
delicate part of his apparel that had been sadly rent by contact with
splinters. And there the wretch was clinging and groaning when Penn came
up.

"For the love of the Lord!" said Dan, "take me down!"

"Why, what is the matter? How came you here?"

"I'm a dead man; that's the matter! I've been wipped to death, and then
rode on a rail; that's the way I come here!"

"Whipped! what for?" said Penn, losing no time in cutting the sufferer's
bonds.

"Ye see," said Dan, when taken down and laid upon the ground, "the
patrolmen found Combs's boy Pete out t'other night without a pass, and
took him and tied him to a tree, and licked him."

The "boy Pete" was a negro man upwards of fifty years old, owned by the
said Combs.

"Wal, ye see, jest cause I found him, and took him home with me, and
washed his back fur him, and bound cotton on to it, and kep' him over
night, and gin him a good breakfast, and a drink o' suthin' strong in
the morning, and then went home with him, and talked with his master
so'st he wouldn't git another licking,--just for that, Sile Ropes and
his gang took me and served me wus'n ever they served him!" And the
broken-spirited man cried like a child at the recollection of his
injuries.

He was one of the "white trash" of the south, whom even the negroes
belonging to good families look down upon; a weak, degraded,
kind-hearted man, whose offence was not simply that he had shown mercy
to the "boy Pete," after his flogging, but that he associated on
familiar terms with such negroes as were not too proud to cultivate his
acquaintance, and secretly sold them whiskey. After repeated warnings,
he had been flogged, and treated to a ride on a three-cornered rail, and
hung up to reflect upon his ungentlemanly conduct and its sad
consequences.

At sight of him, Penn, who knew nothing of his selling whiskey to the
blacks, or of any other offence against the laws or prejudices of the
community, than that of befriending a beaten and bleeding slave, felt
his indignation roused and his sympathies excited.

"It's a dreadful state of society in which such outrages are tolerated!"
he exclaimed.

"_I_ say, dreadful!" sobbed Mr. Pepperill.

"The good Samaritan himself would be in danger of a beating here!" said
Penn.

"I don't know what good smart 'un you mean," replied the weeping Dan,
whose knowledge of Scripture was extremely limited, "but I bet he'd git
some, ef he didn't keep his eyes peeled!" And he wiped his nose with his
sleeve.

Penn smiled at the man's ignorance, and said, as he lifted him up,--

"Friend Daniel, do you know that it is partly your own fault that this
deplorable state of things exists?"

"How's it my fault, I'd like to know?" whimpered Daniel.

"Come, I'll help thee home, and tell thee what I mean, by the way," said
Penn, using the idiom of his sect, into which familiar manner of speech
he naturally fell when talking confidentially with any one.

"I am stiff as any old spavined hoss!" whined the poor fellow,
straightening his legs, and attempting to walk.

Penn helped him home as he promised, and comforted him, and said to him
many things, which he little supposed were destined to be brought
against him so soon, and by this very Daniel Pepperill.

This was the way of it. When it was known that Penn had befriended the
friend of the blacks, Silas Ropes paid Dan a second visit, and by
threats of vengeance, on the one hand, and promises of forgiveness and
treatment "like a gentleman," on the other, extorted from him a
confession of all Penn had said and done.

"Now, Dan," said Mr. Ropes, patronizingly, "I'll tell ye what you do.
You jine with us, and show yourself a man of sperrit, a payin' off this
yer abolitionist for his outrageous interference in our affairs."

"Sile," interrupted Dan, earnestly, "what 'ge mean I'm to do? Turn agin'
him?"

"Exactly," replied Mr. Ropes.

"Sile," said Dan, excitedly, "I be durned if I do!"

"Then, I swear to gosh!" said Sile, spitting a great stream of tobacco
juice across Mrs. Pepperill's not very clean floor, "you'll have a dose
yourself before another sun, which like as not'll be your last!"

This terrible menace produced its desired effect; and the unwilling Dan
was here, this night, one of Penn's persecutors, in consequence.

It was not enough that he had shown his "sperrit" by fetching the
victim's own bed from his boarding-house, telling his landlady, the
worthy Mrs. Sprowl, that Sile said she must "charge it to her abolition
boarder." He must now show still more "sperrit" by bringing the tar. A
well-worn broom had been borrowed of Mrs. Pepperill, by those who knew
best how the tar in such cases should be applied: the handle of this was
thrust by one of the men, named Griffin, through the bail of the kettle,
and Dan was ordered to "ketch holt o' t'other eend," and help carry.

Dan "ketched holt" accordingly. But never was kettle so heavy as that;
its miserable weight made him groan at every step. Suddenly the
broom-handle slipped from his hand, and down it went. No doubt his
laudable object was to spill the tar, in order to gain time for his
benefactor, and perhaps postpone the tarring and feathering altogether.
But Griffin grasped the kettle in time to prevent its upsetting, and the
next instant flourished the club over Dan's head.

"I didn't mean tu! it slipped!" shrieked the terrified wretch. After
which he durst no more attempt to thwart the chivalrous designs of his
friends, but carried the tar like a gentleman.

"This way!" said Silas, getting the escaped feathers into a pile with
his foot. "Thar! set it down. Now, sir," throwing away his own coat,
"peel off them clo'es o' yourn, Mr. Schoolmaster, mighty quick, if you
don't want 'em peeled off fur ye!"

Penn gave no sign of compliance, but fixed his eye steadfastly upon Mr.
Ropes.

"I insist," said he,--for he had already made the request while the men
were bringing the tar,--"on knowing what I have done to merit this
treatment."

"Wal, that I don't mind tellin' ye," said Silas, "for we've all night
for this yer little job before us. Dan Pepperill, stand up here!"

Dan came forward, appearing extremely low-spirited and weak in the
knees.

"Is it you, Daniel, who are to bear witness against me?" said Penn, in a
voice of singular gentleness, which chimed in like a sweet and solemn
bell after the harsh clangor of Silas's ruffian tones.

Dan rolled up his eyes, hugged his tattered elbows, and gave a dismal
groan.

"Come!" said Silas, bestowing a slap on his back which nearly knocked
him down, "straighten them knees o' yourn, and be a man. Yes, Mr.
Schoolmaster, Dan is a-going to bear witness agin' you. He has turned
from the error of his ways, and now his noble southern heart is
a-burnin' to take vengeance on all the enemies of his beloved country.
Ain't it, Dan?--say yes," he hissed in his ear, giving him a second
slap, "or else--you know!"

"O Lord, yes!" ejaculated Dan, with a start of terror. "What Mr. Ropes
says is perfectly--perfectly--jes' so!"

"Your heart is a-burnin', ain't it?" said Silas.

"Ye--yes! I be durned if it ain't!" said Dan.

"This man," continued Ropes, who prided himself on being a great orator,
with power to "fire the southern heart," and never neglected an occasion
to show himself off in that capacity,--"this individgle ye see afore ye,
gentlemen,"--once more hitting Dan, this time with the toe of his boot,
gently, to indicate the subject of his remarks,--"was lately as
low-minded a peep as ever you see. He had no more conscience than to
'sociate with niggers, and sell 'em liquor, and even give 'em liquor
when they couldn't pay fur't; and you all know how he degraded himself
by takin' Combs's Pete into his house and doin' for him arter he'd been
very properly licked by the patrol. All which, I am happy to say, the
deluded man sincerely repents of, and promises to behave more like a
gentleman in futur'. Don't you, Dan?"

As Dan, attempting to speak, only gasped, Ropes administered a sharp
poke in his ribs, whispering fiercely,--

"Say you do, mighty quick, or I'll----!"

"O! I repents! I--I be durned if I don't!" said Dan.

"And now, as to you!" Silas turned on the schoolmaster. "Your offence in
gineral is bein' a northern abolitionist. Besides which, your offences
in partic'ler is these. Not contented with teachin' the Academy, which
was well enough, since it is necessary that a few should have larnin',
so the may know how to govern the rest,--not contented with that, you
must run the thing into the ground, by settin' up a evenin' school, and
offerin' to larn readin', writin', and 'rithmetic, free gratis, to
whosomever wanted to 'tend. Which is contrary to the sperrit of our
institootions, as you have been warned more 'n oncet. That's charge
Number Two. Charge Number Three is, that you stand up for the old rotten
Union, and tell folks, every chance you git, that secession, that noble
right of southerners, is a villanous scheme, that'll ruin the south, if
persisted in, and plunge the whole nation into war. Your very words, I
believe. Can you deny it?"

"Certainly, I have said something very much like that, and it is my
honest conviction," replied Penn, firmly.

"Gentlemen, take notice!" said Mr. Ropes. "We will now pass on to charge
Number Four, and be brief, for the tar is a-coolin'. Suthin' like eight
days ago, when the afore-mentioned Dan Pepperill was in the waller of
his degradation, some noble-souled sons of the sunny south"--the orator
smiled with pleasant significance--"lifted him up, and hung him up to
air, in the crotches of two trees, jest by the edge of the woods here,
and went home to supper, intending to come back and finish the purifying
process begun with him later in the evenin'. But what did you do, Mr.
Schoolmaster, but come along and take him down, prematoorely, and go to
corruptin' him agin with your vile northern principles! Didn't he, Dan?"

"I--I dun know" faltered Dan.

"Yes, you do know, too! Didn't he corrupt you?"

These words being accompanied by a severe hint from Sile's boot, Mr.
Pepperill remembered that Penn _did_ corrupt him.

"And if I hadn't took ye in season, you'd have returned to your
base-born mire, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose I would," the miserable Dan admitted.

"Wal! now!"--Sile spread his palm over the tar to see if it retained its
temperature,--"hurry up, Dan, and tell us all this northern agitator
said to you that night."

"O Lord!" groaned Pepperill, "my memory is so short!"

"Bring that rope, boys! and give him suthin' to stretch it!" said Silas,
growing impatient.

Dan, knowing that stretching his memory in the manner threatened,
implied that his neck was to be stretched along with it, made haste to
remember.

"My friends," said Penn, interrupting the poor man's forced and
disconnected testimony, "let me spare him the pain of bearing witness
against me. I recall perfectly well every thing I said to him that
night. I said it was a shame that such outrages as had been committed on
him should be tolerated in a civilized society. I told him it was partly
his own fault that such a state of things existed. I said, 'It is owing
to the ignorance and degradation of you poor whites that a barbarous
system is allowed to flourish and tyrannize over you.' I said----"

But here Penn was interrupted by a violent outcry, the majority of the
persons present coming under the head of "poor whites."

"Let him go on! let him perceed!" said Silas. "What did you mean by
'barbarous system'?"

"I meant," replied Penn, all fear vanishing in the glow of righteous
indignation which filled him,--"I meant the system which makes it a
crime to teach a man to read--a punishable offence to befriend the poor
and down-trodden, or to bind up wounds. A system which makes it
dangerous for one to utter his honest opinions, even in private, to a
person towards whom he is at the same time showing the mercy which
others have denied him." He looked at Dan, who groaned. "A system----"

"Wal, I reckon that'll do fur one spell," broke in Silas Ropes. "You've
said more 'n enough to convict you, and to earn a halter 'stead of a
mild coat of tar and feathers."

"I am well aware," said Penn, "that I can expect no mercy at your hands;
so I thought I might as well be plain with you."

"And plain enough you've been, I swear to gosh!" said Silas. "Boys,
strip him!"

"Wait a moment!" said Penn, putting them off with a gesture which they
mistook for an appeal to some deadly weapon in his pocket. "What I have
said has been to free my mind, and to save Daniel trouble. Now, allow me
to speak a few words in my own defence. I have committed no crime
against your laws; if I have, why not let the laws punish me?"

"We take the laws into our hands sech times as these," said the man
called Gad.

"You're an abolitionist, and that's enough," said another.

"If I do not believe slavery to be a good thing, it is not my fault; I
cannot help my belief. But one thing I will declare. I have never
interfered with your institution in any way at all dangerous to you, or
injurious to your slaves. I have not rendered them discontented, but,
whenever I have had occasion, I have counselled them to be patient and
faithful to their masters. I came among you a very peaceable man, a
simple schoolmaster, and I have tried to do good to everybody, and harm
to no one. With this motive I opened an evening school for poor whites.
How many men here have any education? How many can read and write? Not
many, I am sure."

"What's the odds, so long as they're men of the true sperrit?"
interrupted Silas Ropes. "I can read for one; and as for the rest, what
good would it do 'em to be edecated? 'Twould only make 'em jes' sech
low, sneakin', thievin' white slaves, like the greasy mechanics at the
north."

"The white slaves are not at the north," said Penn. "Education alone
makes free men. If you, who threaten me with violence here to-night, had
the common school education of the north, you would not be engaged in
such business; you would be ashamed of assaulting a peaceable man on
account of his opinions; you would know that the man who comes to teach
you is your best friend. If you were not ignorant men, you, who do not
own slaves, would know that slavery is the worst enemy of your
prosperity, and you would not be made its willing tools."

The firm dignity of the youth, assisted by the illusion that prevailed
concerning a revolver in his pocket, had kept his foes at bay, and
gained him a hearing. He now attempted to pass on, when the man Gad,
stepping behind him, raised the broom-handle, and dealt him a stunning
blow on the back of the head.

"Down with him!" "Strip him!" "Give him a thrashing first!" "Hang him!"

And the ruffians threw themselves furiously upon the fallen man.

"Whar's that Dutch boy?" cried Silas. "I meant he should help Dan lay on
the tar."

But Carl was nowhere to be seen, having taken advantage of the confusion
and darkness to escape into the woods.




III.

_THE SECRET CELLAR._


No sooner did the lad feel himself safe from pursuit, than he made his
way out of the woods again, and ran with all speed to Mr. Stackridge's
house.

To his dismay he learned that that stanch Unionist was absent from home.

"Is he in the willage?" said the breathless Carl.

"I reckon he is," said the farmer's wife; adding in a whisper,--for she
guessed the nature of Carl's business,--"inquire for him down to barber
Jim's." And she told him what to say to the barber.

Barber Jim was a colored man, who had demonstrated the ability of the
African to take care of himself, by purchasing first his own freedom of
his mistress, buying his wife and children afterwards, and then
accumulating a property as much more valuable than all Silas Ropes and
his poor white minions possessed, as his mind was superior to their
combined intelligence.

Jim had accomplished this by uniting with industrious habits a natural
shrewdness, which enabled him to make the most of his labor and of his
means. He owned the most flourishing barber-shop in the place, and kept
in connection with it (I am sorry to say) a bar, at which he dealt out
to his customers some very bad liquors at very good prices. Had Jim been
a white man, he would not, of course, have stooped to make money by any
such low business as rum-selling--O, no! but being only a "nigger," what
else could you expect of him?

Well, on this very evening Jim's place began to be thronged almost
before it was dark. A few came in to be shaved, while many more passed
through the shop into the little bar-room beyond. What was curious, some
went in who appeared never to come out again; Mr. Stackridge among the
number.

It was not to get shaved, nor yet to get tipsy, that this man visited
Jim's premises. The moment they were alone together in the bar-room, he
gave the proprietor a knowing wink.

"Many there?"

"I reckon about a dozen," said Jim. "Go in?" Stackridge nodded; and with
a grin Jim opened a private door communicating with some back stairs,
down which his visitor went groping his way in the dark.

Customers came and went; now and then one disappeared similarly down the
back stairs; many remained in the barber's shop to smoke, and discuss in
loud tones the exciting question of the day--secession; when, lastly, a
boy of fifteen came rushing in. His face was flushed with running, and
he was quite out of breath.

"What's wanting, Carl?" said the barber. "A shave?"

This was one of Jim's jokes, at which his customers laughed, to the
boy's confusion, for his cheeks were as smooth as a peach.

"I vants to find Mishter Stackridge," said the lad.

"He ain't here," said Jim, looking around the room.

"It is something wery partic'lar. One of his pigs have got choked mit a
cob, and he must go home and unchoke him."

This was what Carl had been directed by the farmer's wife to say to the
barber, in case he should profess ignorance concerning her husband.

"Pity about the pig," said Jim. "Mabby Stackridge'll be in bime-by. Any
thing else I can do for ye?"

Carl stepped up to the barber, and said in a hoarse whisper, loud enough
to be heard by every body,--

"A mug of peer, if you pleashe."

"I got some that'll make a Dutchman's head hum!" said Jim, leading the
way into the little grog room.

"That's Villars's Dutch boy," said one of the smokers in the
barber-shop. "Beats all nater, how these Dutch will swill down any thing
in the shape of beer!"

This elegant observation may have had a grain of truth in it, as we who
have Teutonic friends may have reason to know. However, the man had
mistaken the boy this time.

"It is not the peer I vants, it is Mr. Stackridge," whispered Carl, when
alone with the proprietor.

Jim regarded him doubtfully a moment, then said, "I reckon I shall have
to open a cask in the suller. You jest tend bar for me while I am gone."

He descended the stairs, closing the door after him. Carl, who thought
of the schoolmaster in the hands of the mob, felt his heart swell and
burn with anxiety at each moment's delay. Jim did not keep him long
waiting.

"This way, Carl, if you want some of the right sort," said the negro
from the stairs.

Carl went down in the darkness, Jim taking his hand to guide him. They
entered a cellar, crowded with casks and boxes, where there was a dim
lamp burning; but no human being was visible, until suddenly out of a
low, dark passage, between some barrels, a stooping figure emerged,
giving Carl a momentary start of alarm.

"What's the trouble, Carl?"

"O! Mishter Stackridge! is it you?" said Carl, as the figure stood erect
in the dim light,--sallow, bony, grim, attired in coarse clothes. "The
schoolmaster--that is the trouble!" and he hastily related what he had
seen.

"Wouldn't take the pistol? the fool!" muttered the farmer. "But I'll see
what I can do for him." He grasped the boy's collar, and said in a
suppressed but terribly earnest voice, "Swear never to breathe a word of
what I'm going to show you!"

"I shwear!" said Carl.

"Come!"

Stackridge took him by the wrist, and drew him after him into the
passage. It was utterly dark, and Carl had to stoop in order to avoid
hitting his head. As they approached the end of it, he could distinguish
the sound of voices,--one louder than the rest giving the word of
command.

"_Order--arms!_"

The farmer knocked on the head of a cask, which rolled aside, and opened
the way into a cellar beyond, under an old storehouse, which was
likewise a part of Barber Jim's property.

The second cellar was much larger and better lighted than the first, and
rendered picturesque by heavy festoons of cobwebs hanging from the dark
beams above. The rays of the lamps flashed upon gun-barrels, and cast
against the damp and mouldy walls gigantic shadows of groups of men.
Some were conversing, others were practising the soldiers' drill.

"Neighbors!" said Stackridge, in a voice which commanded instant
attention, and drew around him and Carl an eager group. "It's just as I
told you,--Ropes and his gang are lynching Hapgood!"

"It's the fellow's own fault," said a stern, dark man, the same who had
been drilling the men. "He should have taken care of himself."

"Young Hapgood's a decent sort of cuss," said another whom Carl knew,--a
farmer named Withers,--"and I like him. I believe he means well; but he
ain't one of us."

"I've been deceived in him," said a third. "He always minded his own
business, and kept so quiet about our institutions, I never suspected he
was anti-slavery till I talked with him t'other day about joining
us--then he out with it."

"He thinks we're all wrong," said a bigoted pro-slavery man named
Deslow. "He says slavery's the cause of the war, and it's absurd in us
to go in for the Union and slavery too!" For these men, though loyal to
the government, and bitterly opposed to secession, were nearly all
slaveholders or believers in slavery.

"May be the fellow ain't far wrong there," said he who had been drilling
his comrades. "I think myself slavery's the cause of the war, and that's
what puts us in such a hard place. The time may come when we will have
to take a different stand--go the whole figure with the free north, or
drift with the cotton states. But that time hain't come yet."

"But the time _has_ come," said Stackridge, impatiently, "to do
something for Hapgood, if we intend to help him at all. While we are
talking, he may be hanging."

"And what can we do?" retorted the other. "We can't make a move for him
without showing our hand, and it ain't time for that yet."

"True enough, Captain Grudd," said Stackridge. "But three or four of us,
with our revolvers, can happen that way, and take him out of the hands
of Ropes and his cowardly crew without much difficulty. I, for one, am
going."

"Hapgood don't even believe in fighting!" observed Deslow, with immense
disgust; "and blast me if I am going to fight _for_ him!"

Carl was almost driven to despair by the indifference of these men and
the time wasted in discussion. He could have hugged the grim and bony
Stackridge when he saw him make a decided move at last. Three others
volunteered to accompany them. The cask was once more rolled away from
the entrance, and one by one they crept quickly through the passage into
the first cellar.

Stackridge preceded the rest, to see that the way was clear. There was
no one at the bar; the door leading into the shop was closed; and Carl,
following the four men, passed out by a long entry communicating with
the street, the door of which was thrown open to the public on occasions
when there was a great rush to Jim's bar, but which was fastened this
night by a latch that could be lifted only from the inside.




IV.

_A SEARCH FOR THE MISSING._


The academy was situated in a retired spot, half a mile out of the
village. Stackridge and his party were soon pushing rapidly towards it
along the dark, unfrequented road. Carl ran on before, leading the way
to the scene of the lynching.

The place was deserted and silent. Only the cold wind swept the bleak
wood-side, making melancholy moans among the trees. Overhead shone the
stars, lighting dimly the desolation of the ground.

"Now, where's yer tar-and-feathering party?" said Stackridge. "See here,
Dutchy! ye hain't been foolin' us, have ye?"

"I vish it vas notting but fooling!" said Carl, full of distress,
fearing the worst. "We have come too late. The willains have took him
off."

"Feathers, men!" muttered Stackridge, picking up something from beneath
his feet. "The boy's right! Now, which way have they gone?--that's the
question."

"Hark!" said Carl. "I see a man!"

Indeed, just then a dim figure arose from the earth, and appeared slowly
and painfully moving away.

"Hold on there!" cried Stackridge. "Needn't be afeared of us. We're your
friends."

The figure stopped, uttering a deep groan.

"Is it you, Hapgood?"

"No," answered the most miserable voice in the world. "It's me."

"Who's _me_?"

"Pepperill--Dan Pepperill; ye know me, don't ye, Stackridge?"

"You? you scoundrel!" said the farmer. "What have ye been doing to the
schoolmaster? Answer me this minute, or I'll----"

"O, don't, don't!" implored the wretch. "I'll answer, I'll tell every
thing, only give me a chance!"

"Be quick, then, and tell no lies!"

The poor man looked around at his captors in the starlight, stooping
dejectedly, and rubbing his bent knees.

"I ain't to blame--I'll tell ye that to begin with. I've been jest
knocked about, from post to pillar, and from pillar to post, till I
don't know who's my friends and who ain't. I reckon more ain't than is!"
added he, dismally.

"That's neither here nor there!" said Stackridge. "Where's Hapgood?
that's what I want to know."

"Ye see," said Dan, endeavoring to collect his wits (you would have
thought they were in his kneepans, and he was industriously rubbing them
up), "Ropes sent me to tote the kittle home, and when I got back here, I
be durned if they wasn't all gone, schoolmaster and all."

"But what had they done to him?"

"I don't know, I'm shore! That's what I was a comin' back fur to see. He
let me down when I was hung up on the rail, and helped me home; and so I
says to myself, says I, 'Why shouldn't I do as much by him?' so I come
back, and found him gone."

"What was in the kittle?" Stackridge took him by the throat.

"O, don't go fur to layin' it to me, and I'll tell ye! Thar'd been tar
in the kittle! It had been used to give him a coat. That's the fact,
durn me if it ain't! They put it on with the broom--my broom--they made
me bring my own broom, that's the everlastin' truth! made me do it
myself, and spile my wife's best broom into the bargain!" And Pepperill
sobbed.

"You put on the tar?"

"Don't kill me, and I'll own up! I did put on some on't, that's a fact.
Ropes would a' killed me if I hadn't, and now you kill me fur doin' of
it. He did knock me down, 'cause he said I didn't rub it on hard enough;
and arter that he rubbed it himself."

"What next, you scoundrel?"

"Next, they rolled him in the feathers, and sent me, as I told ye, to
tote the kittle home. Now don't, don't go fur to hang me, Mr.
Stackridge! Help me, men! help me, Withers,--Devit! For he means to be
the death of me, I'm shore!"

Indeed, Stackridge was in a tremendous passion, and would, no doubt,
have done the man some serious injury but for the timely interposition
of Carl.

"O, you're a good boy, Carl!" cried Dan, in an exstasy of terror and
gratitude. "You know they druv me to it, don't ye? You know I wouldn't
have gone fur to do it no how, if 't hadn't been to save my life. And as
fur rubbing on the tar, I know'd they'd rub harder 'n I did; so I took
holt, if only to do it more soft and gentle-like."

Carl testified to Dan's apparent unwillingness to participate in the
outrage; and Stackridge, finding that nothing more could be got out of
the terror-stricken wretch, flung him off in great rage and disgust.

"We must find what they have done with Hapgood," he said. "We're losing
time here. We'll go to his boarding-place first."

As Pepperill fell backwards upon some stones, and lay there helplessly,
Carl ran to him to learn if he was hurt.

"Wal, I be hurt some," murmured Dan; "a good deal in my back, and a
durned sight more in my feelin's. As if I wan't sufferin' a'ready the
pangs of death--wus'n death!--a thinkin' about the master, and what's
been done to him, arter he'd been so kind to me--and thinkin' he'd think
I'm the ongratefulest cuss out of the bad place!--and then to have it
all laid on to me by Stackridge and the rest! that's the stun that hurts
me wust of any!"

Carl thought, if that was all, he could not assist him much; and he ran
on after the men, leaving Pepperill snivelling like a whipped schoolboy
on the stones.

Penn's landlady, the worthy Mrs. Sprowl, lived in a lonesome house that
stood far back in the fields, at least a dozen rods from the road. She
was a widow, whose daughters were either married or dead, and whose only
son was a rover, having been guilty of some crime that rendered it
unsafe for him to visit his bereaved parent. Penn had chosen her house
for his home, partly because she needed some such assistance in gaining
a living, but chiefly, I think, because she did not own slaves. The
other inmates of her solitary abode were two large, ferocious dogs,
which she kept for the sake of their company and protection.

But this night the house looked as if forsaken even by these. It was
utterly dark and silent. When Stackridge shook the door, however, the
illusion was dispelled by two fierce growls that resounded within.

"Hello! Mrs. Sprowl!" shouted the farmer, shaking the door again, and
knocking violently. "Let me in!"

At that the growling broke into savage barks, which made Stackridge lay
his hand on the revolver Carl had returned to him. A window was then
cautiously opened, and a bit of night-cap exposed.

"If it's you agin," said a shrill feminine voice, "I warn you to be
gone! If you think I can't set the dogs on to you, because you've slep'
in my house so long, you're very much mistaken. They'll tear you as they
would a pa'tridge! Go away, go away, I tell ye; you've been the ruin of
me, and I ain't a-going to resk my life a-harboring of you any longer."

"Mrs. Sprowl!" answered the stern voice of the farmer.

"Dear me! ain't it the schoolmaster?" cried the astonished lady. "I
thought it was him come back agin to force his way into my house, after
I've twice forbid him!"

"Why forbid him?"

"Is it you, Mr. Stackridge? Then I'll be free, and tell ye. I've been
informed he's a dangerous man. I've been warned to shet my doors agin'
him, if I wouldn't have my house pulled down on to my head."

"Who warned you?"

"Silas Ropes, this very night. He come to me, and says, says he, 'We've
gin your abolition boarder a coat, which you must charge to his
account;' for you see," added the head at the window, pathetically,
"they took the bed he has slep' on, right out of my house, and I don't
s'pose I shall see ary feather of that bed ever agin! live goose's
feathers they was too! and a poor lone widder that could ill afford it!"

"Where is the master?"

"Wal, after Ropes and his friends was gone, he comes too, an awful
lookin' object as ever you see! 'Mrs. Sprowl,' says he, 'don't be
scared; it's only me; won't ye let me in?' for ye see, I'd shet the
house agin' him in season, detarmined so dangerous a character should
never darken my doors agin."

"And he was naked!"

"I 'spose he was, all but the feathers, and suthin' or other he seemed
to have flung over him."

"Such a night as this!" exclaimed Stackridge. "You're a heartless jade,
Mrs. Sprowl!--I don't wonder the fellow hates slavery," he muttered to
himself, "when it makes ruffians of the men and monsters even of the
women!--Which way did he go?"

"That's more'n I can tell!" answered the lady, sharply. "It's none o' my
business where he goes, if he don't come here! That I won't have, call
me what names you please!" And she shut the window.

"Hang the critter! after all Hapgood has done for her!" said the
indignant Stackridge,--for it was well-known that she was indebted to
the gentle and generous Penn for many benefits. "But it's no use to
stand here. We'll go to my house, men,--may be he's there."




V.

_CARL AND HIS FRIENDS._


Carl Minnevich was the son of a German, who, in company with a brother,
had come to America a few years before, and settled in Tennessee. There
the Minneviches purchased a farm, and were beginning to prosper in their
new home, when Carl's father suddenly died. The boy had lost his mother
on the voyage to America. He was now an orphan, destined to experience
all the humiliation, dependence, and wrong, which ever an orphan knew.

Immediately the sole proprietorship of the farm, which had been bought
by both, was assumed by the surviving brother. This man had a selfish,
ill-tempered wife, and a family of great boys. Minnevich himself was
naturally a good, honest man; but Frau Minnevich wanted the entire
property for her own children, hated Carl because he was in the way, and
treated him with cruelty. His big cousins followed their mother's
example, and bullied him. How to obtain protection or redress he knew
not. He was a stranger, speaking a strange tongue, in the land of his
father's adoption. Ah, how often then did he think of the happy
fatherland, before that luckless voyage was undertaken, when he still
had his mother, and his friends, and all his little playfellows, whom he
could never see more!

So matters went on for a year or two, until the boy's grievances grew
intolerable, and he one day took it into his head to please Frau
Minnevich for once in his life, if never again. In the night time he
made up a little bundle of his clothes, threw it out of the window, got
out himself after it, climbed down upon the roof of the shed, jumped to
the ground, and trudged away in the early morning starlight, a wanderer.
It has been necessary to touch upon this point in Carl's history, in
order to explain why it was he ever afterwards felt such deep gratitude
towards those who befriended him in the hour of his need.

For many days and nights he wandered among the hills of Tennessee,
looking in vain for work, and begging his bread. Sometimes he almost
wished himself a slave-boy, for then he would have had a home at least,
if only a wretched cabin, and friends, if only negroes,--those
oppressed, beaten, bought-and-sold, yet patient and cheerful people,
whose lot seemed, after all, so much happier than his own. Carl had a
large, warm heart, and he longed with infinite longing for somebody to
love him and treat him kindly.

At last, as he was sitting one cold evening by the road-side, weary,
hungry, despondent, not knowing where he was to find his supper, and
seeing nothing else for him to do but to lie down under some bush, there
to shiver and starve till morning, a voice of unwonted kindness accosted
him.

"My poor boy, you seem to be in trouble; can I help you?"

Poor Carl burst into tears. It was the voice of Penn Hapgood; and in its
tones were sympathy, comfort, hope. Penn took him by the arm, and lifted
him up, and carried his bundle for him, talking to him all the time so
like a gentle and loving brother, that Carl said in the depths of his
soul that he would some day repay him, if he lived; and he prayed God
secretly that he might live, and be able some day to repay him for those
sweet and gracious words.

Penn never quitted him until he had found him a home; neither after that
did he forget him. He took him into his school, gave him his tuition,
and befriended him in a hundred little ways beside.

And now the time had arrived when Penn himself stood in need of friends.
The evening came, and Carl was missing from his new home.

"Whar's dat ar boy took hisself to, I'd like to know!" scolded old Toby.
"I'll clar away de table, and he'll lose his supper, if he stays anoder
minute! Debil take me, if I don't!"

He had made the same threat a dozen times, and still he kept Carl's
potatoes hot for him, and the table waiting. For the old negro, though
he loved dearly to show his importance by making a good deal of bluster
about his work, had really one of the kindest hearts in the world, and
was as devoted to the boy he scolded as any indulgent old grandmother.

"The 'debil' will take you, sure enough, I'm afraid, Toby, if you appeal
to him so often," said a mildly reproving voice.

It was Mr. Villars, the old worn-out clergyman; a man of seventy
winters, pale, white-haired, blind, feeble of body, yet strong and
serene of soul. He came softly, groping his way into the kitchen, in
order to put his feet to Toby's fire.

"Laws, massa," said old Toby, grinning, "debil knows I ain't in 'arnest!
he knows better'n to take me at my word, for I speaks his name widout no
kind o' respec', allus, I does. Hyar's yer ol' easy char fur ye, Mass'
Villars. Now you jes' make yerself comf'table." And he cleared a place
on the stove-hearth for the old man's feet.

"Thank you, Toby." With his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, his
hands folded thoughtfully before his breast, and his beautiful old face
smiling the kindness which his blind eyes could not _look_, Mr. Villars
sat by the fire. "Where is Carl to-night, Toby?"

"Dat ar's de question; dat's de pint, massa. Mos' I can say is, he ain't
whar he ought to be, a eatin' ob his supper. Chocolate's all a bilin'
away to nuffin! ketch dis chile tryin' to keep tings hot for his supper
anoder time!" And Toby added, in a whisper expressive of great
astonishment at himself, "What I eber took dat ar boy to keep fur's one
ob de mysteries!"

For Toby, though only a servant (indeed, he had formerly been a slave in
the family), had had his own way so long in every thing that concerned
the management of the household, that he had come to believe himself the
proprietor, not only of the house and land, and poultry and pigs, but of
the family itself. He owned "ol' Mass Villars," and an exceedingly
precious piece of property he considered him, especially since he had
become blind. He was likewise (in his own exalted imagination) sole
inheritor and guardian-in-chief of "Miss Jinny," Mr. Villars's youngest
daughter, child of his old age, of whom Mrs. Villars said, on her
death-bed, "Take always good care of my darling, dear Toby!"--an
injunction which the negro regarded as a sort of last will and testament
bequeathing the girl to him beyond mortal question.

There was, in fact, but one member of the household he did not
exclusively claim. This was the married daughter, Salina, whose life had
been embittered by a truant husband,--no other, in fact, than the erring
son of the worthy Mrs. Sprowl. The day when the infatuated girl made a
marriage so much beneath the family dignity, Toby, in great grief and
indignation, gave her up. "I washes my hands ob her! she ain't no more a
chile ob mine!" said the old servant, passionately weeping, as if the
washing of his hands was to be literal, and no other fluid would serve
his dark purpose but tears. And when, after Sprowl's desertion of her,
she returned, humiliated and disgraced, to her father's house,--that is
to say, Toby's house,--Toby had compassion on her, and took her in, but
never set up any claim to her again.

"Where is Carl? Hasn't Carl come yet?" asked a sweet but very anxious
voice. And Virginia, the youngest daughter, stood in the kitchen door.

"He hain't come yet, Miss Jinny; dat ar a fact!" said Toby. "'Pears like
somefin's hap'en'd to dat ar boy. I neber knowed him stay out so, when
dar's any eatin' gwine on,--for he's a master hand for his supper, dat
boy ar! Laws, I hain't forgot how he laid in de vittles de fust night
Massa Penn fetched him hyar! He was right hungry, he was, and he took
holt powerful! 'I neber can keep dat ar boy in de world,' says I; 'he'll
eat me clar out o' house an' home!' says I. But, arter all, it done my
ol' heart good to see him put in, ebery ting 'peared to taste so d'effle
good to him!" And Toby chuckled at the reminiscence.

"My daughter," said Mr. Villars, softly.

She was already standing behind his chair, and her trembling little
hands were smoothing his brow, and her earnest face was looking pale and
abstracted over him. He could not see her face, but he knew by her touch
that the tender act was done some how mechanically to-night, and that
she was thinking of other things. She started as he spoke, and, bending
over him, kissed his white forehead.

"I suspect," he went on, "that you know more of Carl than we do. Has he
gone on some errand of yours?"

"I will tell you, father!" It seemed as if her feelings had been long
repressed, and it was a relief for her to speak at last. "Carl came to
me, and said there was some mischief intended towards Penn. This was
long before dark. And he asked permission to go and see what it was. I
said, 'Go, but come right back, if there is no danger.' He went, and I
have not seen him since."

"Is this so? Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because, father, I did not wish to make you anxious. But now, if you
will let Toby go----"

"I'll go myself!" said the old man, starting up. "My staff, Toby! When I
was out, I heard voices in the direction of the school-house,--I felt
then a presentiment that something was happening to Penn. I can control
the mob,--I can save him, if it is not too late." He grasped the staff
Toby put into his hand.

"O, father!" said the agitated girl; "are you able?"

"Able, child? You shall see how strong I am when our friend is in
danger."

"Let me go, then, and guide you!" she exclaimed, glad he was so
resolved, yet unwilling to trust him out of her sight.

"No, daughter. Toby will be eyes for me. Yet I scarcely need even him. I
can find my way as well as he can in the dark."

The negro opened the door, and was leading out the blind old minister,
when the light from within fell upon a singular object approaching the
house. It started back again, like some guilty thing; but Toby had seen
it. Toby uttered a shriek.

"De debil! de debil hisself, massa!" and he pulled the old man back
hurriedly into the house.

"The devil, Toby? What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Villars.

"O, laws, bress ye, massa, ye hain't got no eyes, and ye can't see!"
said Toby, shutting the door in his fright, and rolling his eyes wildly.
"It's de bery debil! he's come for dis niggah dis time, sartin'. Cos I,
cos I 'pealed to him, as you said, massa! cos I's got de habit ob
speakin' his name widout no kind o' respec'!"

And he stood bracing himself, with his back against the door, as if
determined that not even that powerful individual himself should get in.

"You poor old simpleton!" said Mr. Villars, "there is no fiend except in
your own imagination. Open the door!"

"No, no, massa! He's dar! he's dar! He'll cotch old Toby, shore!" And
the terrified black held the latch and pushed with all his might.

"What did he see, Virginia?"

"I don't know, father! There was certainly somebody, or something,--I
could not distinguish what."

"It's what I tell ye!" gibbered Toby. "I seed de great coarse har on his
speckled legs, and de wings on his back, and a right smart bag in his
hand to put dis niggah in!"

"It might have been Carl," said Virginia.

"No, no! Carl don't hab sech legs as dem ar! Carl don't hab sech great
big large ears as dem ar! O good Lord! good Lord!" the negro's voice
sank to a terrified whisper, "he's a-knockin' for me now!"

"It's a very gentle rap for the devil," said Mr. Villars, who could not
but be amused, notwithstanding the strange interruption of his purpose,
and Toby's vexatious obstinacy in holding the door. "It's some stranger;
let him in!"

"No, no, no!" gasped the negro. "I won't say nuffin, and you tell him I
ain't to home! Say I'se clar'd out, lef', gone you do'no' whar!"

"Toby!" was called from without.

"Dat's his voice! dat ar's his voice!" said Toby. And in his desperate
pushing, he pushed his feet from under him, and fell at full length
along the floor.

"It's the voice of Penn Hapgood!" exclaimed the old minister. "Arise,
quick, Toby, and open!"

Toby rubbed his head and looked bewildered.

"Are ye sartin ob dat, massa? Bress me, I breeve you're right, for
oncet! It _ar_ Mass' Penn's voice, shore enough!"

He opened the door, but started back again with another shriek,
convinced for an instant that it was, after all, the devil, who had
artfully borrowed Penn's voice to deceive him.

But no! It was Penn himself, his hat and clothes in his hand, smeared
with black tar and covered with feathers from head to foot; not even his
features spared, nor yet his hair; on his cheeks great clumps of gray
goose plumes, suggestive of diabolical ears, and with no other covering
but this to shield him from the night wind, save the emptied bed-tick,
which he had drawn over his shoulders, and which Toby had mistaken for
Satanic wings.




VI.

_A STRANGE COAT FOR A QUAKER._


Now, Virginia Villars was the very last person by whom Penn would have
wished to be seen. He was well aware how utterly grotesque and ludicrous
he must appear. But he was not in a condition to be very fastidious on
this point. Stunned by blows, stripped of his clothing (which could not
be put on again, for reasons), cruelly suffering from the violence done
him, exposed to the cold, excluded from Mrs. Sprowl's virtuous abode, he
had no choice but to seek the protection of those whom he believed to be
his truest friends.

In the little sitting-room of the blind old minister he had always been
gladly welcomed. Such minds as his were rare in Curryville. His purity
of thought, his Christian charity, his ardent love of justice, and
(quite as much as any thing) his delight in the free and friendly
discussion of principles, whether moral, political, or theological, made
him a great favorite with the lonely old man. His coming made the winter
evenings bloom. Then the aged clergyman, deprived of sight, bereft of
the companionship of books, and of the varied consolations of an active
life, felt his heart warmed and his brain enlivened by the wine of
conversation. He and Penn, to be sure, did not always agree. Especially
on the subject of _non-resistance_ they had many warm and well-contested
arguments; the young Quaker manifesting, by his zeal in the controversy,
that he had an abundance of "fight" in him without knowing it.

Nor to Mr. Villars alone did Penn's visits bring pleasure. They
delighted equally young Carl and old Toby. And Virginia? Why, being
altogether devoted to her blind parent, for whose happiness she could
never do enough, she was, of course, enchanted with the attentions she
saw Penn pay _him_. That was all; at least, the dear girl thought that
was all.

As for Salina, forsaken spouse of the gay Lysander Sprowl, she too,
after sulkily brooding over her misfortunes all day, was glad enough to
have any intelligent person come in and break the monotony of her sad
life in the evening.

Such were Penn's relations with the family to whom alone he durst apply
for refuge in his distress. Others might indeed have ventured to shelter
him; but they, like Stackridge, were hated Unionists, and any mercy
shown to him would have brought evil upon themselves. Mr. Villars,
however, blind and venerated old man, had sufficient influence over the
people, Penn believed, to serve as a protection to his household even
with him in it.

So hither he came--how unwillingly let the proud and sensitive judge.
For Penn, though belonging to the meekest of sects, was of a soul by
nature aspiring and proud. He had the good sense to know that the
outrage committed on him was in reality no disgrace, except to those
guilty of perpetrating it. Yet no one likes to appear ridiculous. And
the man of elevated spirit instinctively shrinks from making known his
misfortunes even to his best friends; he is ashamed of that for which he
is in no sense to blame, and he would rather suffer heroically in
secret, than become an object of pity.

Most of all, as I have said, Penn dreaded the pure Virginia's eyes. Mr.
Villars could not see him, and for Salina he did not care
much--singularly enough, for she alone was of an acrid and sarcastic
temper. What he devoutly desired was, to creep quietly to the kitchen
door, call out Carl if he was there, or secretly make known his
condition to old Toby, and thus obtain admission to the house,
seclusion, and assistance, without letting Virginia, or her father even,
know of his presence.

How this honest wish was thwarted we have seen. When the door was first
opened, he had turned to fly. But that was cowardly; so he returned, and
knocked, and called the negro by name, to reassure him. And the door was
once more opened, and Virginia saw him--recognized him--knew in an
instant what brutal deed had been done, and covered her eyes
instinctively to shut out the hideous sight.

But it was no time to indulge in feelings of false modesty, if she felt
any. It was no time to be weak, or foolish, or frightened, or ashamed.

"It is Penn!" she exclaimed in a burst of indignation and grief. "Toby!
Toby! you great stupid----! what are you staring for? Take him in! why
don't you? O, father!" And she threw herself on the old man's bosom, and
hid her face.

"What has happened to Penn?" asked the old man.

"I have been tarred-and-feathered," answered Penn, entering, and closing
the door behind him. "And I have been shut out of Mrs. Sprowl's house.
This is my excuse for coming here. I must go somewhere, you know!"

"And where but here?" answered the old man. He had suppressed an
outburst of feeling, and now stood calm, compassionating, extending his
hands,--his staff fallen upon the floor. "I feared it might come to
this! Terrible times are upon us, and you are only one of the first to
suffer. You did well to come to us. Are you hurt?"

"I hardly know," replied Penn. "I beg of you, don't be alarmed or
troubled. I hope you will excuse me. I know I am a fearful object to
look at, and did not intend to be seen."

He stood holding the bed-tick over him, and his clothes before him, to
conceal as much as possible his hideous guise, suffering, in that moment
of pause, unutterable things. Was ever a hero of romance in such a
dismal plight? Surely no writer of fiction would venture to show his
hero in so ridiculous and damaging an aspect. But this is not altogether
a romance, and I must relate facts as they occurred.

"Do not be sorry that I have seen you," said Virginia, lifting her face
again, flashing with tears. "I see in this shameful disguise only the
shame of those who have so cruelly treated you! Toby will help you. And
there is Carl at last!"

She retreated from the room by one door just as Carl and Stackridge
entered by the other.

Poor Penn! gentle and shrinking Penn! it was painful enough for him to
meet even these coarser eyes, friendly though they were. The shock upon
his system had been terrible; and now, his strength and resolution
giving way, his bewildered senses began to reel, and he swooned in the
farmer's arms.




VII.

_THE TWO GUESTS._


Virginia entered the sitting-room--the same where so many happy evenings
had been enjoyed by the little family, in the society of him who now lay
bruised, disfigured, and insensible in Toby's kitchen.

She walked to and fro, she gazed from the windows out into the darkness,
she threw herself on the lounge, scarce able to control the feelings of
pity and indignation that agitated her. For almost the first time in her
life she was fired with vindictiveness; she burned to see some swift and
terrible retribution overtake the perpetrators of this atrocious deed.

Mr. Villars soon came out to her. She hastened to lead him to a seat.

"How is he?--much injured?" she asked.

"He has been brutally used," said the old man. "But he is now in good
hands. Where is Salina?"

"I don't know. I had been to look for her, when I came and found you in
the kitchen. I think she must have gone out."

"Gone out, to-night? That is very strange!" The old man mused. "She will
have to be told that Penn is in the house. But I think the knowledge of
the fact ought to go no farther. Mr. Stackridge is of the same opinion.
Now that they have begun to persecute him, they will never cease, so
long as he remains alive within their reach."

"And we must conceal him?"

"Yes, until this storm blows over, or he can be safely got out of the
state."

"There is Salina now!" exclaimed the girl, hearing footsteps approach
the piazza.

"If it is, she is not alone," said the old man, whose blindness had
rendered his hearing acute. "It is a man's step. Don't be agitated, my
child. Much depends on our calmness and self-possession now. If it is a
visitor, you must admit him, and appear as hospitable as usual."

It was a visitor, and he came alone--a young fellow of dashy appearance,
handsome black hair and whiskers, and very black eyes.

"Mr. Bythewood, father," said Virginia, showing him immediately into the
sitting-room.

"I entreat you, do not rise!" said Mr. Bythewood, with exceeding
affability, hastening to prevent that act of politeness on the part of
the blind old man.

"Did you not bring my daughter with you?" asked Mr. Villars.

"Your daughter is here, sir;" and he of the handsome whiskers gave
Virginia a most captivating bow and smile.

"He means my sister," said Virginia. "She has gone out, and we are
feeling somewhat anxious about her." She thought it best to say thus
much, in order that, should the visitor perceive any strangeness or
abstraction on her part, he might think it was caused by solicitude for
the absent Salina.

"Nothing can have happened to her, certainly," remarked Mr. Bythewood,
seating himself in an attitude of luxurious ease, approaching almost to
indolent recklessness. "We are the most chivalrous people in the world.
There is no people, I think, on the face of the globe, among whom the
innocent and defenceless are so perfectly secure."

Virginia thought of the hapless victim of the mob in the kitchen yonder,
and smiled politely.

"I have no very great fears for her safety," said the old man. "Yet I
have felt some anxiety to know the meaning of the noises I heard in the
direction of the academy, an hour ago."

Bythewood laughed, and stroked his glossy mustache.

"I don't know, sir. I reckon, however, that the Yankee schoolmaster has
been favored with a little demonstration of southern sentiment."

"How! not mobbed?"

"Call it what you please, sir," said Bythewood, with an air of
pleasantry. "I think our people have been roused at last; and if so,
they have probably given him a lesson he will never forget."

"What do you mean by 'our people'?" the old man gravely inquired.

"He means," said Virginia, with quiet but cutting irony, "the most
chivalrous people in the world! among whom the innocent and defenceless
are more secure than any where else on the globe!"

"Precisely," said Mr. Bythewood, with a placid smile. "But among whom
obnoxious persons, dangerous to our institutions, cannot be tolerated.
As for this affair,"--carelessly, as if what had happened to Penn was of
no particular consequence to anybody present, least of all to him,--"I
don't know anything about it. Of course, I would never go near a popular
demonstration of the kind. I don't say I approve of it, and I don't say
I disapprove of it. These are no ordinary times, Mr. Villars. The south
is already plunged into a revolution."

"Indeed, I fear so!"

"Fear so? I glory that it is so! We are about to build up the most
magnificent empire on which the sun has ever shone!"

"Cemented with the blood of our own brethren!" said the old man,
solemnly.

"There may be a little bloodshed, but not much. The Yankees won't fight.
They are not a military people. Their armies will scatter before us like
chaff before the wind. I know you don't think as I do. I respect the
lingering attachment you feel for the old Union--it is very natural,"
said Bythewood, indulgently.

The old man smiled. His eyes were closed, and his hands were folded
before him near his breast, in his favorite attitude. And he answered,--

"You are very tolerant towards me, my young friend. It is because you
consider me old, and helpless, and perhaps a little childish, no doubt.
But hear my words. You are going to build up a magnificent empire,
founded on--slavery. But I tell you, the ruin and desolation of our dear
country--that will be your empire. And as for the institution you mean
to perpetuate and strengthen, it will be crushed to atoms between the
upper and nether millstones of the war you are bringing upon the
nation."

He spoke with the power of deep and earnest conviction, and the
complacent Bythewood was for a moment abashed.

"I was well aware of your opinions," he remarked, rallying presently.
"It is useless for us to argue the point. And Virginia, I conceive, does
not like politics. Will you favor us with a song, Virginia?"

"With pleasure, if you wish it," said Virginia, with perfect civility,
although a close observer might have seen how repulsive to her was the
presence of this handsome, but selfish and unprincipled man. He was
their guest; and she had been bred to habits of generous and
self-sacrificing hospitality. However detested a visitor, he must be
politely entertained. On this occasion, she led the way to the parlor,
where the piano was,--all the more readily, perhaps, because it was
still farther removed from the kitchen. Bythewood followed, supporting,
with an ostentatious show of solicitude, the steps of the feeble old
man.

Bythewood named the pieces he wished her to sing, and bent graciously
over the piano to turn the music-leaves for her, and applauded with
enthusiasm. And so she entertained him. And all the while were passing
around them scenes so very different! There was Penn, heroically
stifling the groans of a wounded spirit, within sound of her sweet
voice, and Bythewood so utterly ignorant of his presence there! A little
farther off, and just outside the house, a young woman was even then
parting, with whispers and mystery, from an adventurous rover. Still a
little farther, in barber Jim's back room, Silas Ropes was treating his
accomplices; and while these drank and blasphemed, close by, in the
secret cellar, Stackridge's companions were practising the soldier's
drill.

Salina parted from the rover, and came into the house while Virginia was
singing, throwing her bonnet negligently back, as she sat down.

"Why, Salina! where have you been?" said Virginia, finishing a strain,
and turning eagerly on the piano stool. "We have been wondering what had
become of you!"

"You need never wonder about me," said Salina, coldly. "I must go out
and walk, even if I don't have time till after dark."

She drummed upon the carpet with her foot, while her upper lip twitched
nervously. It was a rather short lip, and she had an unconscious habit
of hitching up one corner of it, still more closely, with a spiteful and
impatient expression. Aside from this labial peculiarity (and perhaps
the disproportionate prominence of a very large white forehead), her
features were pretty enough, although they lacked the charming freshness
of her younger sister's.

Virginia knew well that the pretence of not getting time for her walk
till after dark was absurd, but, perceiving the unhappy mood she was in,
forbore to say so. And she resumed her task of entertaining Bythewood.




VIII.

_THE ROVER._


Meanwhile the nocturnal acquaintance from whom Salina had parted took a
last look at the house, and shook his envious head darkly at the room
where the light and the music were; then, thrusting his hands into his
pockets, with a swaggering air, went plodding on his lonely way across
the fields, in the starlight.

The direction he took was that from which Penn had arrived; and in the
course of twenty minutes he approached the door of the solitary house
with the dark windows and the dogs within. He walked all around, and
seeing no light, nor any indication of life, drew near, and rapped
softly on a pane.

The dogs were roused in an instant, and barked furiously. Nothing
daunted, he waited for a lull in the storm he had raised, and rapped
again.

"Who's there?" creaked the stridulous voice of good Mrs. Sprowl.

"_You know!_" said the rover, in a suppressed, confidential tone. "One
who has a right."

Now, the excellent relict of the late lamented Sprowl reflected,
naturally, that, if anybody had a right there, it was he who paid her
for his board in advance.

"You, agin, after all, is it!" she exclaimed, angrily. "Couldn't you
find nowhere else to go to? But if you imagine I've thought better on't,
and will let you in, you're grandly mistaken! Go away this instant, or
I'll let the dogs out!"

"Let 'em out, and be----!"

No matter about the last word of the rover's defiant answer. It was a
very irritating word to the temper of the good Mrs. Sprowl. This was the
first time (she thought) she had ever heard the mild and benignant
schoolmaster swear; but she was not much surprised, believing that it
was scarcely in the power of man to endure what he had that night
endured, and not swear.

"Look out for yourself then, you sir! for I shall take you at your
word!" And there was a sound of slipping bolts, followed by the careful
opening of the door.

Out bounced the dogs, and leaped upon the intruder; but, instead of
tearing him to pieces, they fell to caressing him in the most vivacious
and triumphant manner.

"Down, Brag! Off, Grip! Curse you!" And he kicked them till they yelped,
for their too fond welcome.

"How dare you, sir, use my dogs so!" screamed the lady within, enraged
to think they had permitted that miserable schoolmaster to get the
better of them.

"I'll kick them, and you too, for this trick!" muttered the man. "I'll
learn ye to shut me out, and make a row, when I'm coming to see you at
the risk of my----"

She cut him short, with a cry of amazement.

"Lysander! is it you!"

"Hold your noise!" said Lysander, pressing into the house. "Call my name
again, and I'll choke you! Where's your schoolmaster? Won't he hear?"

"Dear me! if it don't beat everything!" said Mrs. Sprowl in palpitating
accents. "Don't you know I took you for the master!"

"No, I didn't know it. This looks more like a welcome, though!" Lysander
began to be mollified. "There, there! don't smother a fellow! One kiss
is as good as fifty. The master is out, then? Anybody in the house?"

"No, I'm so thankful! It seems quite providential! O, dearie, dearie,
sonny dearie! I'm so glad to see you agin!"

"Come! none of your sonny dearies! it makes me sick! Strike a light, and
get me some supper, can't you?"

"Yes, my boy, with all my heart! This is the happiest day I've seen----"

"Ah, what's happened to-day?" said Lysander, treating with levity his
mother's blissful confession.

"I mean, this night! to have you back again! How could I mistake you for
that dreadful schoolmaster!" Here her trembling fingers struck a match.

"Draw the curtains," said Lysander, hastily executing his own order, as
the blue sputter kindled up into a flame that lighted the room. "It
ain't quite time for me to be seen here yet."

"Where did you come from? What are you here for? O, my dear, dear
Lysie!" (she gazed at him affectionately), "you ain't in no great
danger, be you?"

"That depends. Soon as Tennessee secedes, I shall be safe enough. I'm
going to have a commission in the Confederate army, and that'll be
protection from anything that might happen on account of old scores. I'm
going to raise a company in this very place, and let the law touch me if
it can!"

He tossed his cap into a corner, and sprawled upon a chair before the
stove, at which his devoted mother was already blowing her breath away
in the endeavor to kindle a blaze. She stopped blowing to gape at his
good news, turning up at him her low, skinny forehead, narrow nose, and
close-set, winking eyes.

"There! I declare!" said she. "I knowed my boy would come back to me
some day a gentleman!"

"A gentleman? I'm bound to be that!" said the man, with a braggart laugh
and swagger. "I tell ye, mar, we're going to have the greatest
confederacy ever was!"

"Do tell if we be!" said the edified "mar."

"Six months from now, you'll see the Yankees grovelling at our feet,
begging for admission along with us. We'll have Washington, and all of
the north we want, and defy the world!"

"I want to know now!" said Mrs. Sprowl, overcome with admiration.

"The slave-trade will be reopened, Yankee ships will bring us cargoes of
splendid niggers, not a man in the south but'll be able to own three or
four, they'll be so cheap, and we'll be so rich, you see," said
Lysander.

"You don't say, re'lly!"

"That's the programme, mar! You'll see it all with your own eyes in six
months."

"Why, then, why _shouldn't_ the south secede!" replied "mar," hastening
to put on the tea-kettle, and then to mix up a corn dodger for her son's
supper. "I'm sure, we ought all on us to have our servants, and live
without work; and I knowed all the time there was another side to what
Penn Hapgood preaches (for he's dead set agin' secession), though I
couldn't answer him as _you_ could, Lysie dear!"

"Wal, never mind all that, but hurry up the grub!" said "Lysie dear,"
putting sticks in the stove. "I hain't had a mouthful since breakfast."

"You hain't seen _her_, of course," observed Mrs. Sprowl, mysteriously.

"Her? who?"

"Salina!" in a whisper, as if to be overheard by a mouse in the wall
would have been fatal.

"Wal, I have seen _her_, I reckon! Not an hour ago. By appointment. I
wrote her I was coming, got a woman to direct the letter, and had a long
talk with her to-night. What I want just now is, a little money, and
she's got to raise it for me, and what she can't raise I shall look to
you for."

"O dear me! don't say money to me!" exclaimed the widow, alarmed.
"Partic'larly now I've lost my best feather-bed and my boarder!"

"What is it about your boarder? Out with it, and stop this hinting
around!"

Thus prompted, Mrs. Sprowl, who had indeed been waiting for the
opportunity, related all she knew of what had happened to Penn. Lysander
kindled up with interest as she proceeded, and finally broke forth with
a startling oath.

"And I can tell you where he has gone!" he said. "He's gone to the house
I can't get into for love nor money! She refused me admission
to-night--refused me money! but he is taken in, and their money will be
lavished on him!"

"But how do you know, my son,----"

"How do I know he's there? Because, when I was with her in the orchard,
we saw an object--she said it was some old nigger to see Toby--go into
the kitchen. Then in a little while a man--it must have been Stackridge,
if you say he was looking for him--went in with Carl, and didn't come
out again, as I could see. I staid till the light from the kitchen went
up into the bedroom, in the corner of the house this way. There's yer
boarder, mar, I'll bet my life! But he won't be there long, I can tell
ye!" laughed Lysander, maliciously.




IX.

_TOBY'S PATIENT HAS A CALLER._


Mr. Bythewood had now taken his departure; Salina had been intrusted
with the secret; and Penn had been put to bed (as the rover correctly
surmised) in the corner bedchamber.

He had been diligently plucked; as much of the tar had been removed as
could be easily taken off by methods known to Stackridge and Toby, and
his wounds had been dressed. And there he lay, at last, in the soothing
linen, exhausted and suffering, yet somehow happy, thinking with
gratitude of the friends God had given him in his sore need.

"Bress your heart, dear young massa!" said old Toby, standing by the bed
(for he would not sit down), and regarding him with an unlimited variety
of winks, and nods, and grins, expressive of satisfaction with his work;
"ye're jest as comf'table now as am possible under de sarcumstances. If
dar's anyting in dis yer world ye wants now, say de word, and ol'
Toby'll jump at de chance to fetch 'em fur ye."

"There is nothing I want now, good Toby, but that you and Carl should
rest. You have done everything you can--and far more than I deserve. I
will try to thank you when I am stronger."

"Can't tink ob quittin' ye dis yer night, nohow, massa! Mr. Stackridge
he's gone; Carl he can go to bed,--he ain't no 'count here, no way. But
I'se took de job o' gitt'n you well, Mass' Penn, and I'se gwine to put
it frew 'pon honor,--do it up han'some!"

And notwithstanding Penn's remonstrances, the faithful black absolutely
refused to leave him. Indeed, the most he could be prevailed upon to do
for his own comfort, was to bring his blanket into the room, and promise
that he would lie down upon it when he felt sleepy. Whether he kept his
word or not, I cannot say; but there was no time during the night when,
if Penn happened to stir uneasily, he did not see the earnest, tender,
cheerful black face at his pillow in an instant, and hear the
affectionate voice softly inquire,--

"What can I do fur ye, massa? Ain't dar nuffin ol' Toby can be a doin'
fur ye, jes' to pass away de time?"

Sometimes it was water Penn wanted; but it did him really more good to
witness the delight it gave Toby to wait upon him, than to drink the
coolest and most delicious draught fresh from the well.

At length Penn began to feel hot and stifled.

"What have you hung over the window, Toby?"

"Dat ar? 'Pears like dat ar's my blanket, sar. Ye see, 'twouldn't do,
nohow, to let nary a chink o' light be seen from tudder side, 'cause dat
'ud make folks s'pec' sumfin', dis yer time o' night. So I jes' sticks
up my ol' blanket--'pears like I can sleep a heap better on de bar
floor!"

"But I must have some fresh air, you dear old hypocrite!" said Penn,
deeply touched, for he knew that the African had deprived himself of his
blanket because he did not wish to disturb him by leaving the room for
another.

"I'll fix him! Ill fix him!" said Toby. And he seemed raised to the very
summit of happiness on discovering that there was something, requiring
the exercise of his ingenuity, still to be done for his patient.

After that Penn slept a little. "Tank de good Lord," said the old negro
the next morning, "you're lookin' as chirk as can be! I'se a right smart
hand fur to be nussin' ob de sick; and sakes! how I likes it! I'se gwine
to hab you well, sar, 'fore eber a soul knows you'se in de house." Yet
Toby's words expressed a great deal more confidence than he felt; for,
though he had little apprehension of Penn's retreat being discovered, he
saw how weak and feverish he was, and feared the necessity of sending
for a doctor.

Penn now insisted strongly that the old servant should not neglect his
other duties for him.

"Now you jes' be easy in yer mind on dat pint! Dar's Carl, tends to
out-door 'rangements, and I'se got him larnt so's't he's bery good, bery
good indeed, to look arter my cow, and my pigs, and sech like chores,
when I'se got more 'portant tings on hand myself. And dar's Miss Jinny,
she's glad enough to git de breakfust herself dis mornin'; only jes' I
kind o' keeps an eye on her, so she shan't do nuffin wrong. She an'
Massa Villars come to 'quire bery partic'lar 'bout you, 'fore you was
awake, sar."

These simple words seemed to flood Penn's heart with gratitude. Toby
withdrew, but presently returned, bringing a salver.

"Nuffin but a little broff, massa. And a toasted cracker."

"O, you are too kind, Toby! Really, I can't eat this morning."

"Can't eat, sar? I declar, now!" (in a whisper), "how disappinted she'll
be!"

"Who will be disappointed?"

"Who? Miss Jinny, to be sure! She made de broff wid her own hands. Under
my d'rections, ob course! But she would make 'em herself, and took a
heap ob pains to hab 'em good, and put in de salt wid her own purty
fingers, and looked as rosy a stirrin' and toastin' ober de fire as eber
you see an angel, sar!"

For some reason Penn began to think better of the broth, and, to Toby's
infinite satisfaction, he consented to eat a little. Toby soon had him
bolstered up in bed, and held the salver before him, and looked a
perfect picture of epicurean enjoyment, just from seeing his patient
eat.

"It is delicious!" said Penn; at which brief eulogium the whole rich,
exuberant, tropical soul of the unselfish African seemed to expand and
blossom forth with joy. "I shall be sure to get well and strong soon,
under such treatment. You must let Carl go to Mrs. Sprowl's and fetch my
clothes; I shall want some of them when I get up."

"Bress you, sar! you forgets nobody ain't to know whar you be! Mass'
Villars he say so. You jes' lef' de clo'es alone, yit awhile. Wouldn't
hab dat ar Widder Sprowl find out you'se in dis yer house, not if you'd
gib me----"

Rap, rap, at the chamber door; two light, hurried knocks.

"Miss Jinny herself!" said old Toby, forgetting Mrs. Sprowl in an
instant. And setting down the salver, he ran to the door.

Penn heard quick whispers of consultation; then Toby came back, his eyes
rolling and his ivory shining with a ludicrous expression of wrath and
amazement.

"It's de bery ol' hag herself! Speak de debil's name and he's allus at
de door!"

"Who? Mrs. Sprowl?"

"Yes, sar! and I wish she was furder, sar! She's a 'quirin' fur
you,--says she knows you'se in de house, and it's bery 'portant she must
see ye. But, tank de Lord, massa!" chuckled the old negro, "Carl's
forgot his English, and don't know nuffin what she wants! he, he, he! Or
if she makes him und'stan' one ting, den he talks Dutch, and _she_ don't
und'stan.' And so dey'se habin' it, fust one, den tudder, while Miss
Jinny she hears 'em and comes fur to let us know. But how de ol' critter
eber found you out, dat am one ob de mysteries!"

"She merely guesses I am here," said Penn. "I'm only afraid Carl will
overdo his part, and confirm her suspicions."

"'Sh!" hissed Toby in sudden alarm. "She's a comin! She's a comin' right
up to dis yer door!" And he flew to fasten it.

He had scarcely done so when a hand tried the latch, and a voice
called,--

"Come! ye needn't, none of ye, try to impose on me! I know you're in
this very room, Penn Hapgood, and you'll let me in, old friends so, I'm
shore! I've bothered long enough with that stupid Dutch boy, and now
Virginny wants to keep me, and talk with me; but I've nothing to do with
nobody in this house but _you_!"

Mrs. Sprowl had not been on amicable terms with her daughter-in-law's
family since Salina and her husband separated; and this last declaration
she made loud enough for all in the house to hear.

Penn motioned for Toby to open the door, believing it the better way to
admit the lady and conciliate her. But Toby shook his head--and his fist
with grim defiance.

"Wal!" said Mrs. Sprowl, "you can do as you please about lettin' a body
in; but I'll give ye to understand one thing--I don't stir a foot from
this door till it's opened. And if you want it kept secret that you're
here, it'll be a great deal better for you, Penn Hapgood, to let me in,
than to keep me standin' or settin' all day on the stairs."

The idea of a long siege struck Toby with dismay. He hesitated; but Penn
spoke.

"I am very weak, and very ill, madam. But I have learned what it is to
be driven from a door that should be opened to welcome me; and I am not
willing, under any circumstances, to treat another as you last night
treated me."

This was spoken to the lady's face; for Toby, seeing that concealment
was at an end, had slipped the bolt, and she had come in.

"Wal! now! Mr. Hapgood!" she began, with a simper, which betrayed a
little contrition and a good deal of crafty selfishness,--"you mustn't
go to bein' too hard on me for that. Consider that I'm a poor widder,
and my life war threatened, and I _had_ to do as I did."

"Well, well," said Penn, "I certainly forgive you. Give her a chair,
Toby."

Toby placed the chair, and widow Sprowl sat down.

"I couldn't be easy--old friends so--till I had come over to see how you
be," she said, folding her hands, and regarding Penn with a solemn
pucker of solicitude. "I know, 'twas a dreadful thing; but it's some
comfort to think it's nothing I'm any ways to blame fur. It's hard
enough for me to lose a boarder, jest at this time,--say nothing about a
friend that's been jest like one of my own family, and that I've cooked,
and washed, and ironed fur, as if he war my own son!"

And Mrs. Sprowl wiped her eyes, while she carefully watched the effect
of her words.

"I acknowledge, you have cooked, washed, and ironed for me very
faithfully," said Penn.

"And I thought," said she,--"old friends so,--may be you wouldn't mind
making me a present of the trifle you've paid over and above what's due
for your board; for I'm a poor widder, as you know, and my only son is a
wanderer on the face of the 'arth."

Penn readily consented to make the present--perhaps reflecting that it
would be equally impossible for him ever to board it out, or get her to
return the money.

"Then there's that old cloak of yourn," said Mrs. Sprowl,
sympathizingly. "I believe you partly promised it to me, didn't you? I
can manage to get me a cape out on't."

"Yes, yes," said Penn, "you can have the cloak;" while Toby glared with
rage behind her chair.

"And I considered 'twouldn't be no more'n fair that you should pay for
the----I don't see how in the world I can afford to lose it, bein' a
poor widder, and live geeses' feathers at that, and my only son----" She
hid her face in her apron, overcome with emotion.

"What am I to pay for?" asked Penn.

"Fur, you know," she said, "I never would have parted with it fur any
money, and it will take at least ten dollars to replace it, which is
hard, bein' a poor widder, and as strong a linen tick as ever you see,
that I made myself, and that my blessed husband died on, and helped me
pick the geese with his own hands; and I never thought, when I took you
to board, that ever _that_ bed would be sacrificed by it,--for 'twas on
your account, you are ware, it was took last night and done for."

"And you think I ought to pay for the bed!" said Penn, as much
astonished as if Silas Ropes had sent in his bill, "To 1 coat tar and
feathers, $10.00."

"They said I must look to you," whined the visitor; "and if you don't
pay fur't, I don't know who will, I'm shore! for none of them have sot
at my board, and drinked of my coffee, and e't of my good corn dodgers,
and slep' in my best bed, all for four dollars fifty a week, washing and
ironing throwed in, and a poor widder at that!"

"Mrs. Sprowl," said Penn, laughing, ill as he was, "have the kindness
not to tell any one that I am here, and as soon as I am able to do so, I
will pay you for your excellent feather-bed."

"Thank you,--very good in you, I'm shore!" said the worthy creature,
brightening. "And if there's anything else among your things you can
spare."

"I'll see! I'll see!" said Penn, wearily. "Leave me now, do!"

"But if you had a few dollars, this morning, towards the bed," she
insisted, "for my son----" She almost betrayed herself; being about to
say that Lysander had arrived, and must have money; but she coughed, and
added, in a changed voice, "is a wanderer on the face of the 'arth."

Penn, however, reflecting that she would have more encouragement to keep
his secret if he held the reward in reserve, replied, that he could not
possibly spare any money before collecting what was due him from the
trustees of the Academy. Her countenance fell on hearing this; and,
reluctantly abandoning the object of her mission, she took her leave,
and went home to her hopeful son.




X.

_THE WIDOW'S GREEN CHEST._


Mr. Villars had spoken truly when he said Penn's persecutors would not
rest here. In fact, Mr. Ropes, and three of his accomplices, were even
now on the way to Mrs. Sprowl's abode, to make inquiries concerning the
schoolmaster.

That lone creature had scarcely reached her own door when she saw them
coming. Now, though Penn was not in the house, her son was. Great,
therefore, was her trepidation at the sight of visitors; and she evinced
such eagerness to assure them that the object of their pursuit was not
there, and appeared altogether so frightened and guilty, that Ropes
winked knowingly at his companions, and said,--

"He's here, boys, safe enough."

So they forced their way into the house; her increased tremor and
confusion serving only to confirm them in their suspicions.

"Not that we doubt your word in the least, Mrs. Sprowl,"--Ropes smiled
sarcastically. "But of course you can't object to our searching the
premises, for we're in the performance of a solemn dooty. Any whiskey in
the house, widder?"

The obliging lady went to find a bottle. She was gone so long, however,
that the visitors became impatient. Ropes accordingly stationed two of
his men at the doors, and with the third went in pursuit of Mrs. Sprowl,
whom they met coming down stairs.

"Keep your liquor up there, do ye?" said Ropes, significantly.

"I--I thought--" Mrs. Sprowl gasped for breath before she could
proceed--"the master had some in his room. But I can't find it. You are
at liberty to--to look in his room, if you wants to."

"Wal, it's our dooty to, I suppose. Meantime, you can be bringing the
whiskey. Give some to the boys outside, then bring the bottle up to us.
That's the way, Gad," said Silas, as she unwillingly obeyed; "allus be
perlite to the sex, ye know."

"Sartin! allus!" said Gad.

It was evident these men fancied themselves polite.

"But he ain't here," said Silas, just glancing into Penn's room, "or
else she wouldn't have been so willing for us to search. Le's begin at
the top of the house, and look along down." They entered a low-roofed,
empty garret. "As we can't perceed without the whiskey, we'll wait here.
Meantime, I'll tell you what you wanted to know."

They sat down on a little old green chest, and Ropes, producing a plug
of tobacco, gave his friend a bite, and took a bite himself.

"What I'm going to say is in perfect confidence, between friends;"
chewing and crossing his legs.

Gad chewed, and crossed his legs, and said, "O, of course! in perfect
confidence!"

"Wal, then, I'll tell ye whar the money fur our job comes from. It comes
from Gus Bythewood."

"Sho!" said Gad, looking surprised at Silas.

"Fact!" said Silas, looking wise at Gad.

"But what's he so dead set agin' the master fur?"

"I'll tell ye, Gad." And Mr. Ropes rested a finger confidingly on his
friend's knee. "Fur as I kin jedge, Gus has a sneakin' notion arter that
youngest Villars gal; Virginny, ye know."

"Don't blame him!" chuckled Gad.

"But ye see, thar's that Hapgood; he's a great favoryte with the
Villarses, and Gus nat'rally wants to git him out of the way. It won't
do, though, for him to have it known he has any thing to do with our
operations. He pays us, and backs us up with plenty of cash if we get
into trouble; but he keeps dark, you understand."

"The master ought to be hung for his abolitionism!" said Gad, by way of
self-excuse for being made a jealous man's tool.

"That ar's jest my sentiment," replied Silas. "But then he's allus been
a peaceable sort of chap, and held his tongue; so he might have been let
alone some time yet, if it hadn't been for----What in time!"

Ropes started, and changed color, glancing first at Gad, then down at
the chest.

"He's in it!" whispered Gad.

Both jumped up, and, facing about, looked at the green lid, and at each
other.

The chest was so small it had not occurred to them that a man could get
into it. Lysander had got into it, however, and there he lay, so
cramped, and stifled, and compressed, that he could not endure the
torture without an effort to ease it by moving a little. He had stirred;
then all was still again.

"Think he's heerd us?" said Silas.

"Must have heerd something," said Gad.

"Then he's as good as a dead man!"

Silas drew his pistol, resolved to sacrifice the schoolmaster on the
altar of secrecy. But as he was about to fire into the chest at a
venture (for your cowardly assassin does not like to face his victim),
the lid flew open, the chivalry stepped hastily back, and up rose out of
the chest--not the schoolmaster, but--Lysander Sprowl.

Silas had struck his head against a rafter, and was quite bewildered for
a moment by the shock, the multitude of meteors that rushed across his
firmament, and the sudden apparition. Gad, at the same time, stood ready
to take a plunge down the stairs in case the schoolmaster should show
fight.

"Gentlemen," said the "wanderer on the face of the 'arth," straightening
his limbs, and saluting with a reckless air, "I hope I see ye well.
Never mind about shooting an old friend, Sile Ropes. I reckon we're
about even; and I'll keep your secret, if you'll keep mine."

"That's fair," said Ropes, recovering from the falling stars, and
putting up his weapon. "Lysander, how are ye? Good joke, ain't it?" And
they shook hands all around. "But whar's the schoolmaster?" And Silas
rubbed his head.

"I know all about the schoolmaster," said Lysander, stepping out of the
chest; "he ain't in this house, but I know just where he is. And I
reckon 'twill be for the interest of me and Gus Bythewood if we can have
a little talk together, tell him. If he's got money to spare, that'll be
to my advantage; and what I know will be to his advantage."

So saying, Lysander closed the chest, and coolly invited the chivalry to
resume their seats. They did so, much to the amazement of Mrs. Sprowl,
who came up stairs with the whiskey, and found the "wanderer on the face
of the 'arth" conversing in the most amicable manner with Gad and Silas.




XI.

_SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY._


If what Silas Ropes had said of his patron, Augustus Bythewood, was
true, great must have been the chagrin of that chivalrous young
gentleman when an interview was brought about between him and Lysander,
and he learned that Penn, instead of being driven from the state, had
found refuge in the family of Mr. Villars--that he was there even at the
moment when he made his delightful little evening call, and was
entertained so charmingly by Virginia.

Bythewood gave Sprowl money, and Sprowl gave Bythewood information and
advice. It was in accordance with the programme decided upon by these
two worthies, that Mr. Ropes at the head of his gang presented himself
the next night at Mr. Villars's door.

Virginia, by her father's direction, admitted them. They crowded into
the sitting-room, where the old man rose to receive them, with his usual
urbanity.

"Virginia, have chairs brought for all our friends. I cannot see to
recognize them individually, but I salute them all."

"No matter about the cheers," said Silas. "We can do our business
standing. Sorry to trouble you with it, sir, but it's jest this. We
understand you're harboring a Yankee abolitionist, and we've called to
remind you that sech things can't be allowed in a well-regulated
community."

The old man, holding himself still erect with punctilious
politeness,--for his guests were not seated,--and smiling with grand and
venerable aspect, made reply in tones full of dignity and sweetness: "My
friends, I am an old man; I am a native of Virginia, and a citizen of
Tennessee; and all my life long I have been accustomed to regard the
laws of hospitality as sacred."

"My sentiments exactly. I won't hear a word said agin' southern
horsepitality, or southern perliteness." Mr. Ropes illustrated his
remark by spitting copious tobacco-juice on the floor. "Horsepitality I
look upon as one of the stable institootions of our country."

"No doubt it is so," said Mr. Villars, smiling at the unintentional pun.

"That's one thing," added Silas; "but harboring a abolitionist is
another. That's the question we've jest took the liberty to call and
have a little quiet talk about, to-night."

"Sit down, dear father, do!" entreated Virginia, remaining at his side
in spite of her dread and abhorrence of these men. Holding his hand, and
regarding him with pale and anxious looks, she endeavored with gentle
force to get him into his chair. "My father is very feeble," she said,
appealing to Silas, "and I beg you will have some consideration for
him."

"Sartin, sartin," said Silas. "Keep yer settin', keep yer settin', Mr.
Villars."

But the old man still remained upon his feet,--his tall, spare form,
bent with age, his long, thin locks of white hair, and his wan,
sightless, calm, and beautiful countenance presenting a wonderful
contrast to the blooming figure at his side. It was a picture which
might well command the respectful attention of Silas and his compeers.

"My friends," he said, with a grave smile, "we men of the south are
rather boastful of our hospitality. But true hospitality consists in
something besides eating and drinking with those whose companionship is
a sufficient recompense for all that we do for them. It clothes the
naked, feeds the hungry, shelters the distressed. With the Arabs, even
an enemy is sacred who happens to be a guest. Shall an old Virginian
think less of the honor of his house than an Arab?"

Silas looked abashed, silenced for a moment by these noble words, and
the venerable and majestic mien of the blind old clergyman. It would not
do, however, to give up his mission so; and after coughing, turning his
quid, and spitting again, he replied,--

"That'll do very well to talk, Mr. Villars. But come to the pint. You've
got a Yankee abolitionist in your house--that you won't deny."

"I have in my house," said the old man, "a person whose life is in
danger from injuries received at your hands last night. He came to us in
a condition which, I should have thought, would excite the pity of the
hardest heart. Whether or not he is a Yankee abolitionist, I never
inquired. It was enough for me that he was a fellow-creature in
distress. He is well known in this community, where he has never been
guilty of wrong towards any one; and, even if he were a dangerous
person, he is not now in a condition to do mischief. Gentlemen, my guest
is very ill with a fever."

"Can't help that; you must git red of him," said Silas. "I'm a talking
now for your own good as much as any body's, Mr. Villars. You're a man
we all respect; but already you've made yourself a object of suspicion,
by standing up fur the old rotten Union."

"When I can no longer befriend my guests, or stand up for my country,
then I shall have lived long enough!" said the old man, with impressive
earnestness.

"The old Union," said Gad, coming to the aid of Silas, "is played out.
We couldn't have our rights, and so we secede."

"What rights couldn't you have under the government left to us by
Washington?"

"That had become corrupted," said Mr. Ropes.

"How corrupted, my friend?"

"By the infernal anti-slavery element!"

"You forget," said Mr. Villars, "that Washington, Jefferson, and indeed
all the wisest and best men who assisted to frame the government under
which we have been so prospered, were anti-slavery men."

"Wal, I know, some on 'em hadn't got enlightened on the subject," Mr.
Ropes admitted.

"And do you know that if a stranger, endowed with all the virtues of
those patriots, should come among you and preach the political doctrines
of Washington and Jefferson, you would serve him as you served Penn
Hapgood last night?"

"Shouldn't wonder the least mite if we should!" Silas grinned. "But
that's nothing to the purpose. We claim the right to carry our slaves
into the territories, and Lincoln's party is pledged to keep 'em out,
and that's cause enough for secession."

"How many slaves do you own, Mr. Ropes?" Mr. Villars, still leaning on
his daughter's arm, smiled as he put this mild question.

"I--wal--truth is, I don't own nary slave myself--wish I did!" said
Silas.

"How many friends have you with you?"

"'Lev'n," said Gad, rapidly counting his companions.

"Well, of the eleven, how many own slaves?"

"I do!" "I do!" spoke up two eager voices.

"How many slaves do you own?"

"I've got as right smart a little nigger boy as there is anywheres in
Tennessee!" said the first, proudly.

"How old is he?"

"He'll be nine year' old next grass, I reckon."

"Well, how many negroes has your friend?"

"I've got one old woman, sir."

"How old is she?"

"Wal, plaguy nigh a hunderd,--old Bess, you know her."

"Yes, I know old Bess; and an excellent creature she is. So it seems
that you eleven men own two slaves. And these you wish to take into some
of the territories, I suppose."

The men looked foolish, and were obliged to own that they had never
dreamed of conveying either the nine-year-old lad or the female
centenarian out of the state of Tennessee.

"Then what is the grievance you complain of?" asked the old man. They
could not name any. "O, now, my friends, look you here! I believe in the
right of revolution when a government oppresses a people beyond
endurance. But in this case it appears, by your own showing, that not
one of you has suffered any wrong, and that this is not a revolution in
behalf of the poor and oppressed. If anybody is to be benefited by it,
it is a few rich owners of slaves, who are prosperous enough already,
and have really no cause of complaint. It is a revolution precipitated
by political leaders, who wish to be rulers; and what grieves me at the
heart is, that the poor and ignorant are thus permitting themselves to
be made the tools of this tyranny, which will soon prove more despotic
than it was possible for the dear old government ever to become. God
bless my country! God bless my poor distracted country!"

As he finished speaking, the old man sank down overcome with emotion
upon his chair, clasping his daughter's hand, while tears ran down his
cheeks.

His argument was so unanswerable that nothing was left for Silas but to
get angry.

"I see you're not only a Unionist, but more'n half a Yankee abolitionist
yourself! We didn't come here to listen to any sech incendiary talk.
Kick out the schoolmaster, if you wouldn't git into trouble,--I warn
you! That's the business we've come to see to, and you must tend to't."

"Pity him--spare him!" cried Virginia, shielding her aged father as
Ropes approached him. "He cannot turn a sick man out of his house, you
know he cannot!"

"You're partic'larly interested in the young man, hey?" said Ropes,
grinning insolently.

"I am interested that no harm comes either to my father or to his
guests," said the girl. "Go, I implore you! As soon as Mr. Hapgood is
able to leave us, he will do so,--he will have no wish to stay,--this I
promise you."

"I'll give him three days to quit the country," said Silas. "Only three
days. He'd better be dead than found here at the end of that time.
Gentlemen, we've performed this yer painful dooty; now le's adjourn to
Barber Jim's and take a drink."

With these words Mr. Ropes retired. While, however, he was treating his
men to whiskey and cigars with Augustus Bythewood's money, advanced for
the purpose, one of the eleven, separating himself from the rest,
hurried back to the minister's house. He had taken part in the patriotic
proceedings of his friends with great reluctance, as appeared from the
manner in which he shrank from view in corners and behind the backs of
his comrades, and drew down his woe-begone mouth, and rolled up his
dismal eyes, during the entire interview. And he had returned now, at
the risk of his life, to do Penn a service.

He crept to the kitchen door, and knocked softly. Carl opened it. There
stood the wretched figure, terrified, panting for breath.

"Vat is it?" said Carl.

"I've come fur to tell ye!" said the man, glancing timidly around into
the darkness to see if he was followed. "They mean to kill him! They
told you they'd give him three days, but they won't. I heard them saying
so among themselves. They may be back this very night, for they'll all
git drunk, and nothing will stop 'em then."

Carl stared, as these hoarsely whispered words were poured forth rapidly
by the frightened man at the door.

"Come in, and shpeak to Mishter Willars."

"No, no! I'll be killed if I'm found here!"

But Carl, sturdy and resolute, had no idea of permitting him to deliver
so hasty and alarming a message without subjecting him to a
cross-examination. He had already got him by the collar, and now he
dragged him into the house, the man not daring to resist for fear of
outcry and exposure.

"What is it?" asked Mr. Villars.

"A wisitor!" said Carl. And he repeated Dan's statement, while Dan was
recovering his breath.

"Is this true, Mr. Pepperill?" asked the old man, deeply concerned.

"Yes, I be durned if it ain't!" said Dan.

Virginia clung to her father's chair, white with apprehension. Toby was
also present, having left his patient an instant to run down stairs, and
learn what was the cause of this fresh disturbance.

"He's a lyin' to ye, Mass' Villars; he's a lyin' to ye! White trash
can't tell de troof if dey tries! Don't ye breeve a word he says,
massa."

Yet it was evident from the consternation the old negro's face betrayed
that he believed Dan's story,--or at least feared it would prove true if
he did not make haste and deny it stoutly; for Toby, like many persons
with whiter skins, always felt on such occasions a vague faith that if
he could get the bad news sufficiently denounced and discredited in
season, all would be well. As if simply setting our minds against the
truth would defeat it!

"But they spoke of fittin' yer neck to a noose too!"

"Mine? Ah, if nobody but myself was in danger, I should be well content!
What do you think we ought to do, Mr. Pepperill?"

"The master has done me a good turn, and I'll do him one, if I swing
fur't!" said Dan, straightening himself with sudden courage. "Get him
out 'fore they suspect what you're at, and I'll take him to my house and
hide him, I be durned if I won't!"

"It is a kind offer, and I thank you," said the old man. "But how can I
resolve to send a guest from my house in this way? Not to save my own
life would I do it!"

"But to save his, father!"

"It is only of him I am thinking, my child. Would it be safe to move
him, Toby?"

"Safe to move Massa Penn!" ejaculated the old negro, choking with wrath
and grief. "Neber tink o' sech a ting, massa! He'd die, shore, widout I
should go 'long wid him, and tote him in my ol' arms on a fedder-bed
jes' like I would a leetle baby, and den stay and nuss him arter I got
him dar. For dem 'ar white trash, what ye s'pose day knows 'bout takin'
keer ob a sick gemman like him? It's a bery 'tic'lar case. He's got de
delirimum a comin' on him now, and I can't be away from him a minute. I
mus' go back to him dis bery minute!"

And Toby departed, having suddenly conceived an idea of his own for
hiding Penn in the barn until the danger was over.

He had been absent from the room but a moment, however, when those
remaining in it heard a wild outcry, and presently the old negro
reappeared, inspired with superstitious terror, his eyes starting from
their sockets, his tongue paralyzed.

"What's the matter, Toby?" cried Virginia, perceiving that something
really alarming had happened.

The negro tried to speak, but his throat only gurgled incoherently,
while the whites of his eyes kept rolling up like saucers.

"Penn--has anything happened to Penn?" said Mr. Villars.

"O, debil, debil, Lord bress us!" gibbered Toby.

"Dead?" cried Virginia.

"Gone! gone, missis!"

Struck with consternation, but refusing to believe the words of the
bewildered black, Virginia flew to the sick man's chamber.

Then she understood the full meaning of Toby's words. Penn was not in
his bed, nor in the room, nor anywhere in the house. He had disappeared
suddenly, strangely, totally.




XII.

_CHIVALROUS PROCEEDINGS._


Thus the question of what should be done with his guest, which Mr.
Villars knew not how to decide, had been decided for him.

Great was the mystery. There was the bed precisely as Penn had left it a
minute since. There was the candle dimly burning. The medicines remained
just where Toby had placed them, on the table under the mirror. But the
patient had vanished.

What had become of him? It was believed that he was too ill to leave his
bed without assistance. And, even though he had been strong, it was by
no means probable that one so uniformly discreet in his conduct, and
ever so regardful of the feelings of others, would have quitted the
house in this abrupt and inexplicable manner.

In vain the premises were searched. Not a trace of him could be anywhere
discovered. Neither were there any indications of a struggle. Yet it was
Toby's firm conviction that the ruffians had entered the house, and
seized him; that Pepperill was in the plot, the object of whose visit
was merely a diversion, while Ropes and the rest accomplished the
abduction. This could not, of course, have been done without the aid of
magic and the devil; but Toby believed in magic and the devil. The fact
that Dan had taken advantage of the confusion to escape, appeared to the
Ethiopian mind conclusive.

Nor was the negro alone in his bewilderment. Carl was utterly
confounded. The old clergyman, usually so calm, was deeply troubled;
while Virginia herself, pierced with the keenest solicitude, could
scarce keep her mind free from horrible and superstitious doubts. The
doors between the sitting-room and back stairs were all wide open, and
it seemed impossible that any one could have come in or gone out that
way without being observed. On the other hand, to have reached the front
stairs Penn must have passed through Salina's room. But Salina, who was
in her room at the time, averred that she had not been disturbed, even
by a sound.

"He has got out the vinder," said Carl. But the window was fifteen feet
from the ground.

Thus all reasonable conjecture failed, and it seemed necessary to accept
Toby's theory of the ruffians, magic, and the devil. Only one thing was
certain: Penn was gone. And, as if to add to the extreme and painful
perplexity of his friends, the clothes, which had been stripped from him
by the lynchers, which he had brought away in his hands, and which had
been hung up in his room by Toby, were left hanging there still,
untouched.

The family had not recovered from the dismay his disappearance
occasioned, when they had cause to rejoice that he was gone. Ropes and
his crew returned, as Pepperill had predicted. They were intoxicated and
bloodthirsty. They had brought a rope, with which to hang their victim
before the old clergyman's door. They were furious on finding he had
eluded them, and searched the house with oaths and uproar. Virginia, on
her knees, clung to her father, praying that he might not be harmed, and
that Penn, whom all had been so anxious just now to find, might be safe
from discovery.

Exasperated by their unsuccessful search, the villains hesitated about
laying violent hands on the blind old man, and concluded to wreak their
vengeance on Toby. That he was a freed negro, was alone a sufficient
offence in their eyes to merit a whipping. But he had done more; he had
been devoted to the schoolmaster, and they believed he had concealed
him. So they seized him, dragged him from the house, bared his back, and
tied him to a tree.

As long as the mob had confined itself to searching the premises, Mr.
Villars had held his peace. But the moment his faithful old servant was
in danger, he roused himself. He rushed to the door, bareheaded, his
white hair flowing, his staff in his hand. Both his children accompanied
him,--Salina, who was really not void of affection, appearing scarcely
less anxious and indignant than her sister.

There, in the light of a wood-pile to which fire had been set, stood the
old negro, naked to the waist, lashed fast to the trunk, writhing with
pain and terror; his brutal tormentors grouped around him in the glare
of the flames, preparing, with laughter, oaths, and much loose,
leisurely swaggering, to flay his flesh with rods.

"My friends!" cried the old clergyman, with an energy that startled
them, "what are you about to do?"

"We're gwine to sarve this nigger," said the man Gad, "jest as every
free nigger'll git sarved that's found in the state three months from
now."

"Free niggers is a nuisance," added Ropes, now very drunk, and very much
inclined to make a speech on a barrel which his friends rolled out for
him. "A nuisance!" he repeated, with a hiccough, steadying himself on
his rostrum by holding a branch of the tree. "And let me say to you,
feller-patriots, that one of the glorious fruits of secession is, that
every free nigger in the state will either be sold for a slave, or druv
out, or hung up. I tell you, gentlemen, we're a goin' to have our own
way in these matters, spite of all the ministers in creation!"

The men cheered, and one of them struck Toby a couple of preliminary
blows, just to try his hand, and to add the poor old negro's howls to
the chorus.

"No doubt,"--the old clergyman's voice rose above the tumult,--"you will
have your way for a season. You will commit injustice with a high hand.
You will glut your cruelty upon the defenceless and oppressed. But, as
there is a God in heaven,"--he lifted up his blind white face, and with
his trembling hands shook his staff on high, like a prophet foretelling
woe,--"as there is a God of justice and mercy who beholds this
wickedness,--just so sure the hour of your retribution will come! so
sure the treason you are breathing, and the despotism you are
inaugurating, will prove a snare and a destruction to yourselves! Unbind
that man! leave my house in peace! go home, and learn to practise a
little of the mercy of which you will yourselves soon stand in need."
His venerable aspect, and the power and authority of his words, awed
even that drunken crew. But Silas, vain of his oratorical powers, was
enraged that anybody should dispute his influence with the crowd.
Holding the branch with one hand, and gesticulating violently with the
other, he exclaimed,--

"Who is boss here? Who ye goin' to mind? that old traitor, or me? I say,
lick the nigger! We're a goin' to have our way now, and we're a goin' to
have our way to the end of the 'arth, sure as I am a gentleman standing
on this yer barrel!"

To emphasize his declaration, he stamped with his foot; the head of the
cask flew in, and down went orator, cask, and all, in a fashion rendered
all the more ridiculous by the climax of oratory it illustrated.

"Just so sure will your hollow and inhuman schemes fail from under your
feet!" exclaimed Mr. Villars, as soon as he learned what had happened.
"So surely and so suddenly will you fall."

This incident occurred as Toby's flogging was about to begin in earnest.
Virginia had instinctively covered her eyes to shut out the terrible
sight, her ears to shut out the sounds of the beating and the poor old
fellow's groans. Luckily, Silas had fallen partly in the barrel, and
partly across the sharp edge of it, and being too tipsy to help himself,
had been seriously hurt, and was now helpless. The ruffians hastened to
extricate him, and raise him up. Carl, who, with an open knife concealed
in his sleeve, had been waiting for an opportunity, darted at the tree,
cut the negro's bonds in a twinkling, and set him free.

Both took to their heels without an instant's delay. But the trick was
discovered. They were pursued immediately. Carl was lively on his legs,
as we know; but poor old Toby, never a good runner, and now stiff and
decrepit with age, was no match even for the slowest of their pursuers.

They ran straight into the orchard, hoping to lose themselves among the
shadows. The glare of the burning wood-pile flickered but faintly and
unsteadily among the trees. Carl might easily have escaped; but he
thought only of Toby, and kept faithfully at his side, assisting him,
urging him. A fence was near--if they could only reach that! But Toby
was wheezing terribly, and the hand of the foremost ruffian was already
extended to seize him.

"Jump the vence over!" was Carl's parting injunction to the old negro,
who made a last desperate effort to accomplish the feat; while Carl,
turning sharp about, tripped the foot of him of the extended hand, and
sent him headlong. The second pursuer he grappled, and both rolled upon
the ground together.

Favored by this diversion, Toby reached the fence, climbed it, and
without looking how, he leaped, jumped down upon--a human figure,
stretched there upon the ground!

Notwithstanding his own danger, Toby thought of his patient, and
stopped.

"Is it you, massa?"

The man rose slowly to his feet. It was not Penn; it was, on the
contrary, the worst of Penn's enemies, who had stationed himself here,
in order to observe, unseen, and from a safe distance, the operations of
Silas Ropes and his band of patriots.

"O, Massa Bythewood!" ejaculated Toby, inspired with sudden joy and
hope; "help a poor old niggah! Help! De Villarses will remember it ob ye
de longest day you live, if you on'y will."

"Why, what's the matter, Toby?" said Augustus, full of rage at having
been thus discovered, yet assuming a gracious and patronizing manner.

Toby did not make a very coherent reply; but probably the young
gentleman was already sufficiently aware of what was going on. He had no
especial regard for Toby, yet his credit with Virginia and her father
was to be sustained. And so Toby was saved.

Augustus met and rebuked his pursuers, released Carl, who was suffering
at the hands of his antagonist, and led the way back to the house. There
he expressed to Mr. Villars and his daughters the utmost regret and
indignation for what had occurred, and took Mr. Ropes aside to
remonstrate with him for such violent proceedings. His influence over
that fallen orator was extraordinary. Ropes excused himself on the plea
of his patriotic zeal, and called off his men.

"How fortunate," said Augustus, conducting the old man, with an
excessive show of deference and politeness, back into the
sitting-room,--"how extremely fortunate that I happened to be walking
this way! I trust no serious harm has been done, my dear Virginia?"

Bythewood no doubt thought himself entitled to use this affectionate
term, after the service he had rendered the family.

After he was gone, Toby, having recovered from his fright and the
fatigue of running, and got his clothes on again, rushed into the
presence of his master and the young ladies.

"I've seed Mass' Penn!" he said. "Arter Bythewood done got up from under
de fence whar I jumped on him, I seed anoder man a crawlin' away on his
hands and knees jest a little ways off. 'Twas Mass' Penn! I know 'twas
Mass' Penn."

But Toby was mistaken. The second figure he had seen was Mr. Lysander
Sprowl, now the confidential adviser and secret companion of Augustus.




XIII.

_THE OLD CLERGYMAN'S NIGHTGOWN HAS AN ADVENTURE._


Where, then, all this time, was Penn? He was himself almost as
profoundly ignorant on that subject as anybody. For two or three hours
he had been lost to himself no less than to his friends.

When he recovered his consciousness he found that he was lying on the
ground, in the open air, in what seemed a barren field, covered with
rocks and stunted shrubs.

How he came there he did not know. He had nothing on but his
night-dress,--a loan from the old clergyman,--besides a blanket wrapped
about him. His feet were bare, and he now perceived that they were
painfully aching.

Almost too weak to lift a hand to his head, he yet tried to sit up and
look around him. All was darkness; not a sign of human habitation, not a
twinkling light was visible. The cold night wind swept over him, sighing
drearily among the leafless bushes. Chilled, shivering, his temples
throbbing, his brain sick and giddy, he sat down again upon the rocks,
so ill and suffering that he could scarcely feel astonishment at his
situation, or care whether he lived or died.

Where had he been during those hours of oblivion? He seemed to have
slept, and to have had terrible dreams. Could he have remembered these
dreams, it seemed to him that the whole mystery of his removal to this
desolate spot would be explained. And he knew that it required but an
effort of his will to remember them. But his soul was too weak: he could
not make the effort.

To get upon his feet and walk was impossible. What, then, was left him
but to perish here, alone, uncared for, unconsoled by a word of love
from any human being? Death he would have welcomed as a relief from his
sufferings. Yet when he thought of his home far away, in the peaceful
community of Friends, of his parents and sisters now anxiously expecting
his return,--and again when he remembered the hospitable roof under
which he lay, so tenderly nursed, but a little while ago, and thought of
the blind old clergyman, of Virginia fresh as a rose, of kind-hearted
Carl, and the affectionate old negro,--he was stung with the desire to
live, and he called feebly,--

"Toby! Toby!"

Was his cry heard? Surely, there were footsteps on the rocks! And was
not that a human form moving dimly between him and the sky? It passed
on, and was lost in the shadows of the pines. Was it some animal, or
only a phantom of his feverish brain?

"Toby!" he called again, exerting all his force. But only the wailing
wind answered him, and, overcome by the effort, he sunk into a swoon. In
that swoon it seemed to him that Toby had heard his voice, and that he
came to him. Hands, gentle human hands, groped on him, felt the blanket,
felt his bare feet, and his head, pillowed on stones. Then there seemed
to be two Tobys, one good and the other evil, holding a strange
consultation over him, which he heard as in a dream.

"We can't leave him dying here!" said the good Toby.

"What dat to me, if him die, or whar him die?" said the other Toby.
"Straight har!" He seemed to be feeling Penn's locks, in order to
ascertain to which race he belonged. "Dat's nuff fur me! Lef him be, I
tell ye, and come 'long!"

"Straight hair or curly, it's all the same," said Toby the Good. "Take
hold here; we must save him!"

"Hyah-yah! ye don't cotch dis niggah!" chuckled Toby the Bad,
maliciously. "Nuff more ob his kind, in all conscience! Reckon we kin
spar' much as one! Hyah-yah!"

Something like a quarrel ensued, the result of which was, that Toby the
Good finally prevailed upon Toby the Malevolent to assist him. Then Penn
was dreamily aware of being lifted in the strong arms of this double
individual, and borne away, over rocks, and among thickets, along the
mountain side; until even this misty ray of consciousness deserted him,
and he fell into a stupor like death.

And what was this he saw on awaking? Had he really died, and was this
unearthly place a vestibule of the infernal regions? Days and nights of
anguish, burning, and delirium, relieved at intervals by the same
death-like stupor, had passed over him; and here he lay at length,
exhausted, the terrible fever conquered, and his soul looking feebly
forth and taking note of things.

And strange enough things appeared to him! He was in an apartment of
prodigious and uncouth architecture, dimly lighted from one side by some
opening invisible to him, and by a blazing fire in a little fireplace
built on the broad stone floor. The fireplace was without chimney, but a
steady draught of air, from the side where the opening seemed to be,
swept the smoke away into sombre recesses, where it mingled with the
shadows of the place, and was lost in gloom which even the glare of the
flames failed to illumine.

Such a cavernous room Penn seemed to have seen in his dreams. The same
irregular, rocky roof started up from the wall by his bed, and stretched
away into vague and obscure distance. All was familiar to him, but all
was somehow mixed up with frightful fantasies which had vanished with
the fever that had so recently left him. The awful shapes, the struggles
of demoniac men, the processions of strange and beautiful forms, which
had visited him in his delirious visions,--all these were airy nothings;
but the cave was real.

Here he lay, on a rude bed constructed of four logs, forming the ends
and sides, with canvas stretched across them, and secured with nails.
Under him was a mattress of moss, over him a blanket like that which he
remembered to have had wrapped about him last night in the field.

Last night! Poor Penn was deeply perplexed when he endeavored to
remember whether his mysterious awaking in the open air occurred last
night, or many nights ago. He moved his head feebly to look for Toby.
Which Toby? for all through his sufferings the same two Tobys, one good
and the other evil, who had taken him from the field, had appeared still
to attend him, and he now more than half expected to see the faithful
old negro duplicated, and waiting upon him with two bodies and four
hands.

But neither the better nor even the worse half of that double being was
near him now. Penn was alone, in that subterranean solitude. There
burned the fire, the shadows flickered, the smoke floated away into the
depths of the dark cavern, in such loneliness and silence as he had
never experienced before. He would have thought himself in some grotto
of the gnomes, or some awful cell of enchantment, whose supernatural
fire never went out, and whose smoke rolled away into darkness the same
perpetually,--but for the sound of the crackling flames, and the sight
of piles of wood on the floor, so strongly suggestive of human agency.

On one side was what appeared to be an artificial chamber built of
stones, its door open towards the fire. Ranged about the cave, in
something like regular order, were several massy blocks of different
sizes, like the stools of a family of giants. But where were the giants?

Ah, here came Toby at last, or, at any rate, the twin of him. He
approached from the side where the daylight shone, bearing an armful of
sticks, and whistling a low tune. With his broad back turned towards
Penn, he crouched before the fire, which he poked and scolded with
malicious energy, his grotesque and gigantic shadow projected on the
wall of the cave.

"Burn, ye debil! K-r-r-r! sputter! snap! git mad, why don't ye?"

Then throwing himself back upon a heap of skins, with his heels at the
fire, and his long arms swinging over his head, in a savage and
picturesque attitude, he burst into a shout, like the cry of a wild
beast. This he repeated several times, appearing to take delight in
hearing the echoes resound through the cavern. Then he began to sing,
keeping time with his feet, and pausing after each strain of his wild
melody to hear it die away in the hollow depths of the cave.

    "De glory ob de Lord, it am comin', it am comin',
        De glory ob de Lord, let it come!
    De angel ob de Lord, hear his trumpet, hear his trumpet,
        De angel ob de Lord, he ar come!"

At the last words, "_He ar come!_" a shadow darkened the entrance, and
Penn looked, almost expecting to see a literal fulfilment of the
prophecy. A form of imposing stature appeared. It was that of a negro
upwards of six feet in height, magnificently proportioned, straight as a
pillar, and black as ebony. He wore a dress of skins, carried a gun in
his hand, and had an opossum slung over his shoulder.

"Hush your noise!" he said to the singer, in a tone of authority.
"Haven't I told you not to _wake him_?"

"No fear o' dat!" chuckled the other. "Him's past dat! Ki! how fat he
ar!" seizing the opossum, and beginning to dress him on the spot.

"Past waking! I tell you he's asleep, and every thing depends on his
waking up right. But you set up a howl that would disturb the dead!"

"Howl! dat's what ye call singin'; me singin', Pomp."

"Well, keep your singing to yourself till he is able to stand it, you
unfeeling, ungrateful fellow!"

"What dat ye call dis nigger?" cried the singer, jumping up in a
passion, with his blood-stained knife in his hand. "Ongrateful! Say dat
ar agin, will ye?"

"Yes, Cudjo, as often as you please," said Pomp, calmly placing his gun
in the artificial chamber. "You are an unfeeling, ungrateful fellow."

He turned, and stood regarding him with a proud, lofty, compassionating
smile. Cudjo's anger cooled at once. Penn had already recognized in them
the twin Tobys of his dreams. And what a contrast between the two! There
was Toby the Good, otherwise called Pomp, dignified, erect, of noble
features; while before him cringed and grimaced Toby the Malign, alias
Cudjo, ugly, deformed, with immensely long arms, short bow legs
resembling a parenthesis, a body like a frog's, and the countenance of
an ape.

"You know," said Pomp, "you would have left this man to die there on the
rocks, if it hadn't been for me."

"Gorry! why not?" said Cudjo. "What's use ob all dis trouble on his
'count?"

"He has had trouble enough on our account," said Pomp.

"On our 'count? Hiyah-yah!" laughed Cudjo, getting down on his knees
over the opossum; "how ye make dat out, by?"

"Pay attention, Cudjo, while I tell ye," said Pomp, stooping, and laying
his finger on the deformed shoulder. Cudjo looked up, with his hands and
knife still in the opossum's flesh. "This is the way of it, as I heard
last night from Pepperill himself, who got into trouble, as you know, by
befriending old Pete after his licking. And you know, don't you, how
Pete came by his licking?"

"Bein' out nights, totin' our meal and taters to de mountains,--dough I
reckon de patrol didn't know nuffin' 'bout dat ar, or him wouldn't got
off so easy!" said Cudjo.

"Well, it was by befriending Pepperill, who had befriended Pete, who
brings us meal and potatoes, that this man got the ill will of those
villains. Do you understand?"

"Say 'em over agin, Pomp. How, now? Lef me see! Dat ar's old Pete,"
sticking up a finger to represent him. "Dat ar's Pepperill," sticking up
a thumb. "Now, yonder is dis yer man, and here am we. Now, how is it,
Pomp?"

Pomp repeated his statement, and Cudjo, pointing to his long, black
finger when Pete was alluded to, and tapping his thumb when Pepperill
was mentioned, succeeded in understanding that it was indirectly in
consequence of kindness shown to himself that Penn had come to grief.

"Dat so, Pomp?" he said, seriously, in a changed voice. "Den 'pears like
dar's two white men me don't wish dead as dis yer possom! Pepperills
one, and him's tudder."

Pomp, having made this explanation, walked softly to the bedside. He had
not before perceived that Penn, lying so still there, was awake. His
features lighted up with intelligence and sympathy on making the
discovery, and finding him free from feverish symptoms.

"Well, how are you getting on, sir?" he said, feeling Penn's pulse, and
seating himself on one of the giant's stools near the bedstead.

"Where am I?" was Penn's first anxious question.

"I fancy you don't know very well where you are, sir," said the negro,
with a smile; "and you don't know me either, do you?"

"I think--you are my preserver--are you not?"

"That's a subject we will not talk about just now, sir; for you must
keep very quiet."

"I know," said Penn, not to be put off so, "I owe my life to you!"

"Dat's so! dat ar am a fac'!" cried Cudjo, approaching, and wrapping the
warm opossum skin about his naked arm as he spoke. "Gorry! me sech a
brute, me war for leavin' ye dar in de lot. But, Pomp, him wouldn't; so
we toted you hyar, and him's doctored you right smart eber sence. He ar
a great doctor, Pomp ar! Yah!" And Cudjo laughed, showing two tremendous
rows of ivory glittering from ear to ear; capering, swinging the opossum
skin over his head, and, on the whole, looking far more like a demon of
the cave than a human being.

"Go about your business, Cudjo!" said Pomp. "You mustn't mind his
freaks, sir," turning to Penn. "You are a great deal better; and now, if
you will only remain quiet and easy in your mind, there's no doubt but
you will get along."

Many questions concerning himself and his friends came crowding to
Penn's lips; but the negro, with firm and gentle authority, silenced
him.

"By and by, sir, I will tell you everything you wish to know. But you
must rest now, while I see to making you a suitable broth."

And nothing was left for Penn but to obey.




XIV.

_A MAN'S STORY._


Three days longer Penn lay there on his rude bed in the cave, helpless
still, and still in ignorance.

Pomp repeatedly assured him that all was well, and that he had no cause
for anxiety, but refused to enlighten him. The negro's demeanor was well
calculated to inspire calmness and trust. There was something truly
grand and majestic, not only in his person, but in his character also.
He was a superb man. Penn was never weary of watching him. He thought
him the most perfect specimen of a gentleman he had ever seen; always
cheerful, always courteous, always comporting himself with the ease of
an equal in the presence of his guest. His strength was enormous. He
lifted Penn in his arms as if he had been an infant. But his grace was
no less than his vigor. He was, in short, a lion of a man.

Cudjo was more like an ape. His gibberings, his grimaces, his antics,
his delight in mischief, excited in the mind of the convalescent almost
as much surprise as the other's princely deportment. For hours together
he would lie watching those two wonderfully contrasted beings. Petulant
and malicious as Cudjo appeared, he was completely under the control of
his noble companion, who would often stand looking down at his tricks
and deformity, with composedly folded arms and an air of patient
indulgence and compassion beautiful to witness.

Meanwhile Penn gradually regained his strength, so that on the fourth
day Pomp permitted him to talk a little.

"Tell me first about my friends," said Penn. "Are they well? Do they
know where I am?"

"I hope not, sir," said the negro, with a significant smile, seating
himself on the giant's stool. "I trust that no one knows where you are."

"What, then, must they think?" said Penn. "How did I leave them?"

"That is what they are very much perplexed to find out, sir."

"You have heard from them, then?"

"O, yes; we have a way of getting news of people down there. Toby has
nearly gone distracted on your account. He is positive that you are
dead, for he believes you could never have got well out of his hands."

"And Miss--Mr. Villars----?"

"They have been so much disturbed about you, that I would have been glad
to inform them of your safety, if I could. But not even they must know
of this place."

"Where am I, then?"

"You are, as you perceive, in a cave. But I suppose you know so little
how you came here that you would find some difficulty in tracing your
way to us again?" This was spoken interrogatively, with an intelligent
smile.

"I am so ignorant of the place," said Penn, "that it may be in the
planet Mars, for aught I know."

"That is well! Now, sir," continued the negro, "since you have several
times expressed your obligations to us for preserving your life, I wish
to ask one favor in return. It is this. You are welcome to remain here
as long as you find your stay beneficial; but when you conclude to go,
we desire the privilege of conducting you away. That is not an
unreasonable request?"

"Far from it. And I pledge you my word to make no movement without your
sanction, and to keep your secret sacredly. But tell me--will you
not?--how you came to inhabit this dreadful place?"

"Dreadful? There are worse places, my friend, than this. Is it gloomy?
The house of bondage is gloomier. Is it damp? It is not with the cruel
sweat and blood of the slave's brow and back. Is it cold? The hearts of
our tyrants are colder."

"I understand you," said Penn, whose suspicion was thus confirmed that
these men were fugitives. "And I am deeply interested in you. How long
have you lived here?"

"Would you like to hear something of my story?" said the negro, the
expression of his eyes growing deep and stern,--his black, closely
curling beard stirring with a proud smile that curved his lips. "Perhaps
it will amuse you."

"Amuse me? No!" said Penn. "I know by your looks that it will not amuse:
it will absorb me!"

"Well, then," said Pomp, bearing his head upon his massy and flexible
neck of polished ebony like a king, yet speaking in tones very gentle
and low,--and he had a most mellow, musical, deep voice,--"you are
talking with one who was born a slave."

"You know what I think of that!" said Penn. "Even such a birth could not
debase the manhood of one like you."

"It might have done so under different circumstances. But I was so
fortunate as to be brought up by a young master who was only too kind
and indulgent to me, considering my station. We were playmates when
children; and we were scarcely less intimate when we had both grown up
to be men. He went to Paris to study medicine, and took me with him. I
passed for his body servant, but I was rather his friend. He never took
any important step in life without consulting me; and I am happy to
know," added Pomp, with grand simplicity, "that my counsel was always
good. He acknowledged as much on his death-bed. 'If I had taken your
advice oftener,' said he, 'it would have been better for me. I always
meant to reward you. You are to have your freedom--your freedom, my dear
boy!'"

The negro knitted his brows, his breath came thick, and there was a
strange moisture in his eye.

"I loved my master," he continued, with simple pathos. "And when I saw
him troubled on my account, when he ought to have been thinking of his
own soul, I begged him not to let a thought of me give him any
uneasiness. My free papers had not been made out, and he was for sending
at once for a notary. But his younger brother was with him--he who was
to be his heir. 'Don't vex yourself about Pomp, Edwin,' said he. 'I will
see that justice is done him.'

"'Ah, thank you, brother!' said Edwin. 'You will set him free, and give
him a few hundred dollars to begin life with. Promise that, and I will
rest in peace.' For you must know Edwin had neither wife nor child, and
I was the only person dependent on his bounty. He was not rich; he had
spent a good part of his fortune abroad, and had but recently
established himself in a successful practice in Montgomery. Yet he left
enough so that his brother could have well afforded to give me my
freedom, and a thousand dollars."

"And did he not promise to do so?"

"He promised readily enough. And so my master died, and was buried, and
I--had another master. For a few days nothing was said about free
papers; and I had been too much absorbed in grief for the only man I
loved to think much about them. But when the estate was settled up, and
my new master was preparing to return to his home here in Tennessee, I
grew uneasy.

"'Master,' said I, taking off my hat to him one morning, 'there is
nothing more I can do for him who is gone; so I am thinking I would like
to be for myself now, if you please.'

"'For yourself, you black rascal?' said my new master, laughing in my
face.

"I wasn't used to being spoken to in that way, and it cut. But I kept
down that which swelled up in here"--Pomp laid his hand on his
heart--"and reminded him, respectfully as I could, of the doctor's last
words about me, and of his promise.

"'You fool!' said he, 'do you think I was in earnest?'

"'If you were not,' said I, 'the doctor was.'

"'And do you think,' said he, 'that I am to be bound by the last words
of a man too far gone to know his own mind in the matter?'

"'He always meant I should have my freedom,' I answered him, 'and always
said so.'

"'Then why didn't he give it to you before, instead of requiring me to
make such a sacrifice? Come, come, Pomp!' he patted my shoulder; 'you
are altogether too valuable a nigger to throw away. Why, people say you
know almost as much about medicine as my brother did. You'll be an
invaluable fellow to have on a plantation; you can doctor the field
hands, and, may be, if you behave yourself, get a chance to prescribe
for the family. Come, my boy, you musn't get foolish ideas of freedom
into your head; they're what spoil a nigger, and they'll have to be
whipped out of you, which would be too bad for a fine, handsome darkey
like you.'

"He patted my shoulder again, and looked as pleasant and flattering as
if I had been a child to be coaxed,--I, as much a man, every bit, as
he!" said Pomp, with a gleam of pride. "I could have torn him like a
tiger for his insolence, his heartless injustice. But I repressed
myself; I knew nothing was to be gained by violence.

"'Master,' said I, 'what you say is no doubt very flattering. But I want
what my master gave me--what you promised that I should have--I shall be
contented with nothing else.'

"'What! you persist?' he said, kindling up. 'Let me tell you now, Pomp,
once for all, you'll have to be contented with a good deal less; and
never mention the word "freedom" to me again if you would keep that
precious hide of yours whole!'

"I saw he meant it, and that there was no help for me. Despair and fury
were in me. Then, for the only time in my life, I felt what it was to
wish to murder a man. I could have smitten the life out of that smiling,
handsome face of his! Thank God I was kept from that. I concealed what
was burning within. Then first I learned to pray,--I learned to trust in
God. And so better thoughts came to me; and I said, 'If he uses me well,
I will serve him; if not, I will run for my life.'

"Well, he brought me here to Tennessee. Here he was managing his aunt's
estate, which she, soon dying, bequeathed to him. Up to this time I had
got on very well; but he never liked me; he often said I knew too much,
and was too proud. He was determined to humiliate me; so one day he said
to me, 'Pomp, that Nance has been acting ugly of late, and you permit
her.' I was a sort of overseer, you see. 'Now I'll tell you what I am
going to have done. Nance is going to be whipped, and you are the fellow
that's going to whip her.'

"'Pardon, master,' said I, 'that's what I never did--to whip a woman.'

"'Then it's time for you to begin. I've had enough of your fine manners,
Pomp, and now you have got to come down a little.'

"'I will do any thing you please to serve your interests, sir,' said I.
'But whip a woman I never can, and never will. That's so, master.'

"'You villain!' he shouted, seizing a riding whip, 'I'll teach you to
defy my authority to my face!' And he sprang at me, furious with rage.

"'Take care, sir!' I said, stepping back. ''Twill be better for both of
us for you not to strike me!'

"'What! you threaten, you villain?'

"'I do not threaten, sir; but I say what I say. It will be better for
both of us. You will never strike me twice. I tell you that.'

"I reckon he saw something dangerous in me, as I said this, for, instead
of striking, he immediately called for help. 'Sam! Harry! Nap! bind this
devil! Be quick!'

"'They won't do it!' said I. 'Woe to the man that lays a finger on me,
be he master or be he slave!'

"'I'll see about that!' said he, running into the house. He came out
again in a minute with his rifle. I was standing there still, the boys
all keeping a safe distance, not one daring to touch me.

"'Master,' said I, 'hear one word. I am perfectly willing to die. Long
enough you have robbed me of my liberty, and now you are welcome to what
is less precious--my poor life. But for your own sake, for your dead
brother's sake, let me warn you to beware what you do.'

"I suppose the allusion to his injustice towards me maddened him. He
levelled his piece, and pulled the trigger. Luckily the percussion was
damp,--or else I should not be talking with you now. His aim was
straight at my head. I did not give him time for a second attempt. I was
on him in an instant. I beat him down, I trampled him with rage. I
snatched his gun from him, and lifted it to smash his skull. Just then a
voice cried, 'Don't, Pomp! don't kill master!'

"It was Nance, pleading for the man who would have had her whipped. I
couldn't stand that. Her mercy made me merciful. 'Good by, boys!' I
said. They were all standing around, motionless with terror. 'Good by,
Nance! I am off; live or die, I quit this man's service forever!'

"So I left him," said Pomp, "and ran for the woods. I was soon ranging
these mountains, free, a wild man whom not even their blood-hounds could
catch. I took the gun with me--a good one: here it is." He removed the
rifle from its crevice in the rocks. "Do you know that name? It is that
of its former owner--the man who called himself my master. Do you think
it was taking too much from one who would have robbed me of my soul?"

He held the stock over the bed, so that Penn could make out the
lettering. Delicately engraved on a surface of inlaid silver, was the
well-known name,--

    "_Augustus Bythewood._"




XV.

_AN ANTI-SLAVERY DOCUMENT ON BLACK PARCHMENT._


Penn was not surprised at this discovery. He had already recognized in
Pomp the hero of a story which he had heard before.

"But all this happened before I came to Tennessee, did it not? Have you
lived in this cave ever since?"

"It is three years since I took to the mountains. But I have spent but a
little of that time here. Sometimes, for weeks together, I am away,
tramping the hills, exploring the forests, sleeping on the ground in the
open air, living on fish, game, and fruits. That is in the summer time.
Winters I burrow here."

"If you are so independent in your movements, why have you never escaped
to the north?"

"Would I be any better off there? Does not the color of a negro's skin,
even in your free states, render him an object of suspicion and hatred?
What chance is there for a man like me?"

"Little--very true!" said Penn, sadly, contemplating the form of the
powerful and intelligent black, and thinking with indignation and shame
of the prejudice which excludes men of his race from the privileges of
free men, even in the free north.

"These crags," said the African, "do not look scornfully upon me because
of the color of my skin. The watercourses sing for me their gladdest
songs, black as I am. And the serious trees seem to love me, even as I
love them. It is a savage, lonely, but not unhappy life I lead--far
better for a man like me than servitude here, or degradation at the
north. I have one faithful human friend at least. Cudjo, cunning and
capricious as he seems, is capable of genuine devotion."

"Have you two been together long?"

"One day, a few weeks after I took to the mountains, I was watching for
an animal which I heard rustling the foliage of a tree that grows up out
of a chasm. I held my gun ready to fire, when I perceived that my animal
was something human. It climbed the tree, ran out on one of the
branches, leaped, like a squirrel, to some bushes that grew in the wall
of the chasm, and soon pulled itself up to the top. Then I saw that it
was a man--and a black man. He came towards the spot where I was
concealed, sauntering along, chewing now and then a leaf, and muttering
to himself; appearing as happy as a savage in his native woods, and
perfectly unconscious of being observed. Suddenly I rose up, levelling
my gun. He uttered a yell of terror, and started to cast himself again
into the chasm. But with a threat I prevented him, and he threw himself
at my feet, begging me to grant him his life, and not to take him back
to his master.

"'Who is your master?' said I.

"'Job Coombs was my master,' said he, 'but I left him.'

"'You are Cudjo, then!' said I,--for I had heard of him. He ran away
from a tolerably good master on account of unmercifully cruel treatment
from the overseer. But as he had been frightfully cut up the night
before he disappeared, it was generally believed he had crawled into a
hole in the rocks somewhere, and died, and been eaten by buzzards. But
it seems that he had been concealed and cured by an old slave on the
plantation named Pete."

"Coombs's Pete!" exclaimed Penn.

"You have good cause to remember the name!" said Pomp. "As soon as Cudjo
was well enough to tramp, he took to the mountains. It was a couple of
years afterwards that I met him. We soon came to an understanding, and
he conducted me to his cave. Here he lived. He has always kept up a
communication with some of his friends--especially with old Pete, who
often brings us provisions to a certain place, and supplies us with
ammunition. We give him game and skins, which he disposes of when he
can, generally to such men as Pepperill. He was going to Pepperill's
house, after meeting Cudjo, that night when the patrolmen discovered and
whipped him. That led to Pepperill's punishment, and that led to your
being here."

"Does old Pete visit you since?"

"No, but he has sent us a message, and I have seen Pepperill."

"Not here!"

"Nobody ever comes here, sir. We have a place where we meet our friends;
and as for Pepperill, I went to his house."

"That was bold in you!"

"Bold?" The negro smiled. "What will you say then when I tell you I have
been in Bythewood's house, since I left him? I wanted my medicine-case,
and the bullet-moulds that belong with the rifle. I entered his room,
where he was asleep. I stood for a long time and looked at him by the
moonlight. It was well for him he didn't wake!" said Pomp, with a
dancing light in his eye. "He did not; he slept well! Having got what I
wanted, I came away; but I had changed knives with him, and left mine
sticking in the bedstead over his head, so that he might know I had been
there, and not accuse any one else of the theft."

"The sight of that knife must have given him a shudder, when he woke,
and saw who had been there, and remembered his wrongs towards you!" said
Penn.

"Well it might!" said Pomp. "Come here, Cudjo."

Cudjo had just entered the cave, bringing some partridges which he had
caught in traps.

"It's allus 'Cudjo! Cudjo do dis! Cudjo do dat!' What ye want o' Cudjo?"

Pomp paid no heed to the ill-natured response, but said calmly,
addressing Penn,--

"I have told you my reasons for escaping out of slavery: now I will show
you Cudjo's."

The back of the deformed was stripped bare. Penn uttered a groan of
horror at the sight.

"Dem's what ye call lickins!" said Cudjo, with a hideous grin over his
shoulder. "Dat ar am de oberseer's work."

"Good Heaven!" said Penn, sick at the sight of the scars. "I can't
endure it! Take him away!"

"Don't be 'fraid!" said Cudjo. "Feel of 'em, sar!" And taking Penn's
hand, he seemed to experience a vindictive joy in passing it over his
lash-furrowed flesh. "Not much skin dar, hey? Rough streaks along dar,
hey? Needn't pull your hand away dat fashion, and shet yer eyes, and
look so white! It's all ober now. What if you'd seen dat back when 'twas
fust cut up? or de mornin' arter? Shouldn't blame ye, if 't had made ye
sick den!"

"But what had you done to merit such cruelty?" exclaimed Penn, relieved
when the back was covered.

"What me done? De oberseer didn't hap'm to like me; dat's what me done.
But he did hap'm to like my gal; dat's more what me done! So he cut me
up wid his own hand,--said me sassy, and wouldn't work. Coombs, him's a
good man 'nuff,--neber found no fault 'long wid him; but debil take dat
ar Silas Ropes!"

"Silas Ropes!"

"Him was Coombs's oberseer dem times," said Cudjo. "Him gi' me de
lickins; him got my gal--me owe him for dat!" And, with a ferocious
grimace, clinching his hands together as if he felt his enemy's throat,
he gave a yell of rage which resounded through the cavern.

"Go about your work, Cudjo," said Pomp. "What do you think of that back,
sir?"

"It is the most powerful anti-slavery document I ever saw!" said Penn.

"He is a native African," said Pomp. "He was brought to this country a
young barbarian; and he has barely got civilized--hardly got
Christianized yet! I will make him tell you more of his history some
day. Then you will no longer wonder that his lessons in Christian love
have not made a saint of him! Now you must rest, while I help him get
dinner."

The manner of cooking practised in the cave was exceedingly primitive.
The partridges broiled over the fire, the potatoes roasted in the ashes,
and the corn-cake baked in a kettle, the meal was prepared. The
artificial chamber was Cudjo's pantry. One of the giant's stools, having
a broad, flat surface, served as a table. On this were placed two or
three pewter plates, and as many odd cups and saucers. Cudjo had an old
coffee-pot, in which he made strong black coffee. He could afford,
however, neither sugar nor milk.

Penn's wants were first attended to. He picked the bones of a partridge
lying in bed, and thought he had never tasted sweeter meat.

"With how few things men can live, and be comfortable! and what simple
fare suffices for a healthy appetite!" he said to himself, watching Pomp
and Cudjo at their dinner. Pomp did not even drink coffee, but quenched
his thirst with cold water dipped from a pool in the cave.




XVI.

_IN THE CAVE AND ON THE MOUNTAIN._


That afternoon, as Penn was alone, the mystery of his removal from Mr.
Villars's house was suddenly revealed to him.

"I remember it very distinctly now," he said to Pomp, who presently came
in and sat by his bed. "Ropes and his crew had been to the house for me.
Sick and delirious as I was, I knew the danger to my friends, and it
seemed to me that I _must_ leave the house. So I watched my opportunity,
and when Toby left me for a minute, I darted through his room over the
kitchen, climbed down from the window to the roof of the shed, and from
there descended by an apple tree to the ground. This is the dream I have
been trying to recall. It is all clear to me now. But I do not remember
any thing more. The delirium must have given me preternatural strength,
if I walked all the distance to the spot where you found me."

"That you did walk it, your bruised and bleeding feet were a sufficient
evidence," said the negro. "You had just such delirious attacks
afterwards, when it was as much as Cudjo and I wanted to do to hold
you."

"And the blanket--it is Toby's blanket, which I caught up as I fled,"
added Penn.

He now became extremely anxious to communicate with his friends, to
explain his conduct to them, and let them know of his safety. Besides,
he was now getting sufficiently strong to sit up a little, and other
clothing was necessary than the old minister's nightgown and Toby's
blanket.

"I have been thinking it all over," said Pomp, "and have concluded to
pay your friends a visit."

"No, no, my dear sir!" exclaimed Penn, with gratitude. "I can't let you
incur any such danger on my account. I can never repay you for half you
have done for me already!" And he pressed the negro's hand as no white
man had ever pressed it since the death of his good master, Dr.
Bythewood.

Pomp was deeply affected. His great chest heaved, and his powerful
features were charged with emotion.

"The risk will not be great," said he. "I will take Cudjo with me, and
between us we will manage to bring off your clothes."

At night the two blacks departed, leaving Penn alone in the fire-lit
cave, waiting for their return, picturing to himself all the
difficulties of their adventure, and thinking with warm gratitude and
admiration of Pomp, whose noble nature not even slavery could corrupt,
whose benevolent heart not even wrong could embitter.

It was late in the evening when the two messengers arrived at Mr.
Villars's house. All was dark and still about the premises. But one
light was visible, and that was in the room over the kitchen.

"That is Toby's room," said Pomp. "Stay here, Cudjo, while I give him a
call."

"Stay yuself," said Cudjo, "and lef dis chil' go. Me know Toby; you
don't."

So Pomp remained on the watch while Cudjo climbed the tree by which Penn
had descended, scrambled up over the shed-roof, reached the window,
opened it, and thrust in his head.

Toby, who was just going to bed, heard the movement, saw the frightful
apparition, and with a shriek dove under the bed-clothes, where he lay
in an agony of fear, completely hidden from sight, while Cudjo, grinning
maliciously, climbed into the room.

"See hyar, ye fool! none ob dat! none ob your playin' possum wid me!"
said the visitor, rolling Toby over, while Toby held the clothes tighter
and tighter, as if to show a lock of wool or the tip of an ear would
have been fatal. "Me's Cudjo! don't ye know Cudjo? Me come for de
gemman's clo'es!"

"Hey? dat you, Cudjo?" said Toby, venturing at length to peep out.
"Wha--wha--what de debil you want hyar?"

"De gemman sent me. Dis yer letter's for your massy."

"De gemman?" cried Toby, jumping up. "Not Mass' Penn? not Mass'
Hapgood?"

Immense was his astonishment on being assured that Penn was alive,
recovering, and in need of garments. Carl, who had been awakened in the
next room by the noise, now came in to see what was the matter. He
recognized Penn's handwriting on the note, and immediately hastened with
it to Virginia's room. A minute after she was reading it to her father
at his bedside. It was written with a pencil on a leaf torn from a
little blank book in which Pomp kept a sort of diary; but never had
gilt-edged or perfumed billet afforded the blind old minister and his
daughter such unalloyed delight.

It was long past midnight when Pomp and Cudjo returned to the cave,
bringing with them not only Penn's garments, but a goodly stock of
provisions, which Cudjo had hinted to Toby would be acceptable, and,
more precious still, a letter from Mr. Villars, written by his
daughter's own hand.

Penn now began to sit up a little every day. Gloomy as the cave was, it
was not an unwholesome abode even for an invalid. The atmosphere was
pure, cool, and bracing; the temperature uniform. Nor did Penn suffer
inconvenience from dampness; though often, in the deep stillness of the
night, he could hear the far-off, faint, and melancholy murmur of
dropping water in the hollow recesses of the cavern beyond.

One day, as soon as he was well enough for the undertaking, Pomp ordered
Cudjo to light torches and show them the hidden wonders of his
habitation. Cudjo was delighted with the honor. He ran on before, waving
the flaring pine knots over his head, and shouting.

Penn's astonishment was profound. Keen as had been his curiosity as to
what was beyond the shadowy walls the fire dimly revealed, he had formed
no conception of the extent and sublimity of the various galleries,
chambers, glittering vaults, and falling waters, embosomed there in the
mountain.

"Dis yer all my own house!" Cudjo kept repeating, with fantastic
grimaces of satisfaction. "Me found him all my own self. Nobody war eber
hyar afore me; Pomp am de next; and you's de on'y white man eber seen
dis yer cave."

It grew light as they proceeded, Cudjo's torch paled, and the waters of
a subterranean stream they were following caught gleams of the
struggling day from another opening beyond. Climbing over fragments of
huge tumbled rocks, and up an earthy bank, Penn found himself in the
bottom of an immense chasm. It had apparently been formed by the sinking
down of the roof of the cave, with a tremendous superincumbent weight of
forest trees. There, on an island, so to speak, in the midst of the
subterranean darkness, they were growing still, their lofty tops barely
reaching the level of the mountain above.

"It was out of this sink I saw the wild beast climbing, that turned out
to be Cudjo," said Pomp.

"Dat ar am de tree," said Cudjo. "No oder way but dat ar to get up out
ob dis yer hole."

"What a terrible place!" said Penn, little thinking at the time how much
more terrible it was soon to become as a scene of deadly human conflict.

Beyond the chasm the stream flowed on into still more remote parts of
the cave. But Penn had seen enough for one day, and the torch-bearing
Cudjo guided them back to the spot from which they had started.

Penn had now completely won the confidence of the blacks, who no longer
placed any restrictions on his movements. It had been their original
purpose never to suffer him to leave the cave without being blindfolded.
But now, having shown him one opening, they freely permitted him to pass
out by the other. This was that by which he had been brought in, and
which was used by the blacks themselves on all ordinary occasions. It
was a mere fissure in the mountain, hidden from external view by
thickets. Above rose steep ledges of rocks, thickly covered with earth
and bushes. Below yawned an immense ravine, far down in the cool, dark
depths of which a little streamlet flowed.

Pomp piloted his guest through the thickets, and along a narrow shelf,
from which the ascent to the barren ledges was easy. Upon these they sat
down. It was a beautiful April day. This was Penn's first visit to the
upper world since he was brought to the cave. The scene filled him with
rapture; the loveliness of earth and sky intoxicated him. Here he was
among the rugged ranges of the Cumberland Mountains, in the heart of
Tennessee. On either hand they rolled away in tremendous billows of
forest-crowned rocks. The ravines in their sides opened into little
valleys, and these spread out into a broad and magnificent intervale,
checkered with farms, streaked with roads, and dotted with dwellings.
Spring seemed to have come in a night. It was chill March weather when
Penn left the world, which was now warm with sweet south winds, and
green with April verdure.

"How beautiful, how beautiful!" said he, receiving, with the
susceptibility of a convalescent, the exquisite impression made upon the
senses by every sight and sound and odor. "O! and to think that all this
divine loveliness is marred by the passions of men! Up here, what glory,
what peace! Down yonder, what hatred, violence, and sin! No wonder,
Pomp, you love the mountains so!"

"It is doubtful if they leave the mountains in peace much longer," said
Pomp. He had heard the night before that fighting had begun at
Charleston, and the news had stirred his soul. "The country is all alive
with excitement, and the waves of its fury will reach us here before
long. Take this glass, sir: you can see soldiers marching through the
streets."

"They are marching past my school-house!" said Penn. He became very
thoughtful. He knew that they were soldiers recruited in the cause of
rebellion, although Tennessee had not yet seceded,--although the people
had voted in February against secession: a dishonest governor, and a
dishonest legislature, aided by reckless demagogues everywhere, being
resolved upon precipitating the state into revolution, by fraud and
force,--if not with the consent of the people, then without it. "I had
hoped the storm would soon blow over, and that it would be safe for me
to go peaceably about my business."

"The storm," said Pomp, his soul dilating, his features kindling with a
wild joy, "is hardly begun yet! The great problem of this age, in this
country, is going to be solved in blood! This continent is going to
shake with such a convulsion as was never before. It is going to shake
till the last chain of the slave is shaken off, and the sin is punished,
and God says, 'It is enough!'"

He spoke with such thrilling earnestness that Penn regarded him in
astonishment.

"What makes you think so, Pomp?"

"That I can't tell. The feeling rises up here,"--the negro laid his hand
upon his massive chest,--"and that is all I know. It is strong as my
life--it fills and burns me like fire! The day of deliverance for my
race is at hand. That is the meaning of those soldiers down there,
arming for they know not what."




XVII.

_PENN'S FOOT KNOCKS DOWN A MUSKET._


Weeks passed. But now every day brought to Penn increasing anxiety of
mind with regard to his situation. His abhorrence of war was as strong
as ever; and his great principle of non-resistance had scarcely been
shaken. But how was he to avoid participating in scenes of violence if
he remained in Tennessee? And how was his escape from the state to be
effected?

"You are welcome to a home with us as long as you will stay," said Pomp.
"I shall miss you--even Cudjo will hate to see you go."

Penn thanked him, fully appreciating their kindness; but his heart was
yearning for other things.

Day after day he lingered still, however. The difficulties in the way of
escape thickened, instead of diminishing. In February, as I have said,
the people had voted against secession. Not content with this, the
governor called an extra session of the legislature, which proceeded to
carry the state out of the Union by fraud. On the sixth of May an
ordinance of separation was passed, to be submitted to the vote of the
people on the eighth of June. But without waiting for the will of the
people to be made manifest, the authors of this treason went on to act
precisely as if the state had seceded. A league was formed with the
confederate states, the control of all the troops raised in Tennessee
was given to Davis, and troops from the cotton states were rushed in to
make good the work thus begun. The June election, which took place under
this reign of terror, resulted as was to have been expected. Rebel
soldiers guarded the polls. Few dared to vote openly the Union ticket;
while those who deposited a close ticket were "spotted." Thus timid men
were frightened from the ballot-box; while soldiers from the cotton
states voted in their places. Then, as it was charged, there were the
grossest frauds in counting the votes. And so Tennessee "seceded."

The state authorities had also achieved a politic stroke by disarming
the people. Every owner of a gun was compelled to deliver it up, or pay
a heavy fine. The arms thus secured went to equip the troops raised for
the Confederacy; while the Union cause was left crippled and
defenceless. Many firelocks were of course kept concealed: some were
taken to pieces, and the pieces scattered,--the barrel here, the stock
there, and the lock in still another place,--to come together again only
at the will of the owner: but, as a general thing, the loyalists could
not be said to have arms. It was in those times that the precaution of
Stackridge and his fellow-patriots was justified. The secrecy with which
they had conducted their night-meetings and drills, though seemingly
unnecessary at first, saved them from much inconvenience when the full
tide of persecution set in. They were suspected indeed, and it was
believed they had arms; but they still met in safety, and the place
where their arms were deposited remained undiscovered.

All this time, Penn had no money with which to defray the expenses of
travel. When his school was broken up, several hundred dollars were due
him for his services. This sum the trustees of the Academy placed to his
credit in the Curryville Bank; but, in consequence of a recent
enactment, designed to rob and annoy loyal men, he could not draw the
money without appearing personally, and first taking the oath of
allegiance to the confederate government. This, of course, was out of
the question.

Meanwhile he learned to rough it on the mountain with the fugitives.
Pomp taught him the use of the rifle, and he was soon able to shoot,
dress, and cook his own dinner. He grew robust with the exercise and
exposure. But every day his longing eyes turned towards the valley where
the friends were whom he loved, and whom he resolved at all hazards to
visit again, if for the last time.

At length, one morning at breakfast, he informed Pomp and Cudjo of his
intention to leave them,--to return secretly to the village, place
himself under the protection of certain Unionists he knew, and attempt,
with their assistance, to make his way out of the state.

"Why go down there at all?" said Pomp. "If you are determined to leave
us, let me be your guide. I will take you over the mountains into
Kentucky, where you will be safe. It will be a long, hard journey; but
you are strong now; we will take it leisurely, killing our game by the
way."

"You are very kind--and----"

Penn blushed and stammered. The truth was, he was willing to risk his
life to see Virginia once more; and the thought of quitting the state
without bidding her good by was intolerable to him.

"And what?" said Pomp, smiling intelligently.

"And I may possibly be glad to accept your proposal. But I am determined
to try the other way first."

Both Pomp and Cudjo endeavored to dissuade him from the undertaking, but
in vain. That evening he took his departure. The blacks accompanied him
to the foot of the mountain. Notwithstanding the friendship and
gratitude he had all along felt towards them, he had not foreseen how
painful would be the separation from them.

"I never quitted friends more reluctantly!" he said, choked with his
emotion. "Never, never shall I forget you--never shall I forget those
rambles on the mountains, those days and nights in the cave! Let me hope
we shall meet again, when I can make you some return for your kindness."

"We may meet again, and sooner than you suppose," said Pomp. "If you
find escape too difficult, be sure and come back to us. Ah, I seem to
foresee that you will come back!"

With this prediction ringing in his ears, and filling him with vague
forebodings, Penn went his way; while the negroes, having shaken hands
with him in sorrowful silence, returned to their savage mountain home,
which had never looked so lonely to them as now, since their beloved and
gentle guest had departed.

The night was not dark, and Penn, having been guided to a bridle-path
that led to the town, experienced no difficulty in finding his way on
alone. He approached the minister's house from the fields. Although late
in the evening, the windows were still lighted. He was surprised to see
men walking to and fro by the house, and to hear their footsteps on the
piazza floor. He drew near enough to discern that they carried muskets.
Then the truth flashed upon him: they were soldiers guarding the house.

Whether they were there to protect the venerable Unionist from
mob-violence, or to prevent his escape, Penn could only conjecture. In
either case it would have been extremely indiscreet for him to enter the
house. Bitter disappointment filled him, mingled with apprehensions for
the safety of his friends, and remorse at the thought that he himself
had, although unintentionally, been instrumental in drawing down upon
them the vengeance of the secessionists.

Penn next thought of Stackridge. It was indeed upon that sturdy patriot
that he relied chiefly for aid in leaving the state. He took a last,
lingering look at the minister's house,--the windows whose cheerful
light had so often greeted him on his way thither, in those delightful
winter evenings which were gone, never to return,--the soldiers on the
piazza, symbolizing the reign of terror that had commenced,--and with a
deep inward prayer that God would shield with his all-powerful hand the
beleaguered family, he once more crossed the fields.

By a circuitous route he came in sight of Stackridge's house. There were
lights there also, although it must have been now near midnight. And as
Penn discerned them, he became aware of loud voices engaged in angry
altercation around the farmer's door. It was no time for him to
approach. He stole away as noiselessly as he had come. In the still,
quiet night he paused, asking himself what he should do.

The Academy was not far off. He remembered that he had left there, among
other things, a pocket Bible, a gift from his sister, which he wished to
preserve. Perhaps it was there still; perhaps he could get in and
recover it. At all events, he had plenty of leisure on his hands, and
could afford to make the trial.

He heard the mounted patrol pass by, and waited for the sound of hoofs
to die in the distance. Then cautiously he drew near the gloomy and
silent school-house. Not doubting but the door was locked,--for he still
had the key with him which he had turned for the last time when he
walked out in defiance of the lynchers,--he resolved not to unlock it,
but to keep in the rear of the building, and enter, if possible, by a
window.

The window was unfastened, as it had ever remained since he had opened
it, on that memorable occasion, to communicate with Carl. Softly he
raised the sash, and softly he crept in. His foot, however, struck an
object on the desk, and swept it down. It fell with a loud, rattling
sound upon the floor.

It was a musket; the owner of which bounded up on the instant from a
bench where he was lying, and seized Penn by the leg. The school-house
had been turned into a barrack-room for recruits, and the late master
found that he had descended upon a squad of confederate soldiers.

Lights were struck, and the sleepy sentinels, rubbing their eyes open,
recognized, struggling in the arms of their companion, the unfortunate
young Quaker.

"I knowed 'twas him! I knowed 'twas him!" cried his overjoyed captor,
who proved to be no other than Silas Ropes's worthy friend Gad. "I heern
him gittin' inter the winder, but I kept dark till he knocked my gun
down; then I grabbed him! He's a traitor, and this time will meet a
traitor's doom!"

"My friends," said Penn, recovering from the agitation of his first
surprise and struggle, "I am in your power. It is perhaps the best thing
that could happen to me; for I have committed no crime, and I cannot
doubt but that I shall receive justice all the sooner for this accident.
You need not take the trouble to bind me; I shall not attempt to
escape."

His captors, however, among whom he recognized with some uneasiness more
than one of those who had been engaged in lynching him, persisted in
binding him upon a bench, in no very comfortable position, and then set
a guard over him for the remainder of the night.




XVIII.

_CONDEMNED TO DEATH._


Early the next morning Virginia Villars overheard the soldiers
conversing on the piazza. The mention of a certain name arrested her
attention. She listened: what they said terrified her. Penn Hapgood had
been apprehended during the night, and his trial by drum-head
court-martial was at that moment proceeding.

"Mr. Pepperill!" she called, in a scarcely audible whisper; and, looking
around, Daniel saw her alarmed face at the window.

Daniel was one of the soldiers who had been detailed to guard the house.
Strongly against his will, he had been compelled to enlist, in order to
avoid the persecutions of his secession neighbors. Such was already
becoming the fate of many whose hearts were not in the cause, whose
sympathies were all with the government against which they were forced
to rebel.

"What, marm?" said Pepperill, meekly.

"Is it true what that man is saying?"

"About the schoolmaster? I--I'm afeard it ar true! They've cotched him,
marm, and there's men that's swore the death of him, marm."

Virginia flew to inform her father. The old man rose up instantly,
forgetting his blindness, forgetting his own feebleness, and the danger
into which he would have rushed, to go and plead Penn's cause.

Fortunately, perhaps, for him, the guard crossed their muskets before
him, refusing to let him pass. Their orders were, not only to defend the
house, but also to prevent his leaving it.

"Then I will go alone!" said Carl, who was to have been his guide. And
scarcely waiting to receive instructions from Virginia and her father,
he ran out, slipping between the soldiers, who had no orders to detain
any person but the minister, and ran to the Academy.

The mockery of a trial was over. The prisoner had been condemned. The
penalty pronounced against him was death. Already the noose was dangling
from a tree, and some soldiers were bringing from the school-house a
table to serve as a scaffold. Silas Ropes, who had a feather stuck in
his cap, and wore an old rusty scabbard at his side, and flourished a
sword, enjoying the title of "lieutenant," obtained for him through
Bythewood's influence; Lysander Sprowl, who had been honored with a
captaincy from the same source, and who, though a forger, and late a
fugitive from justice, now boldly defied the power of the civil
authorities to arrest him, trusting to that atrocious policy of the
confederate government which virtually proclaimed to the robber and
murderer, "Become, now, a traitor to your country, and all other crimes
shall be forgiven you;"--these, and other persons of like character,
appeared chiefly active in Penn's case. That they had no right whatever
to constitute themselves a court-martial, and bring him to trial, they
knew perfectly well. They had not waited even for a shadow of authority
from their commanding officer. What they were about to do was nothing
more nor less than murder.

Penn, with his hands tied behind him, and surrounded by a violent
rabble, some armed, and others unarmed, was already mounted upon the
table, when Carl arrived, and attempted to force his way through the
crowd.

"Feller-citizens and soldiers!" cried Lieutenant Ropes, standing on a
chair beside the scaffold, "this here man has jest been proved to be a
traitor and a spy, and he is about to expatiate his guilt on the
gallus."

Two men then mounted the table, passed the noose over Penn's neck, drew
it close, and leaped down again.

"Now," said Ropes, "if you've got any confession to make 'fore the table
is jerked out from under ye, you can ease your mind. Only le' me
suggest, if you don't mean to confess, you'd better hold yer tongue."

Penn, pale, but perfectly self-possessed, expecting no mercy, no
reprieve, made answer in a clear, strong voice,--

"I can't confess, for I am not guilty. I die an innocent man. I appeal
to Heaven, before whose bar we must all appear, for the justice you deny
me."

In his shirt sleeves, his head uncovered, his feet bare, his naked
throat enclosed by the murderous cord, his hands bound behind him, he
stood awaiting his fate. Carl in the mean time struggled in vain to
break through the ring of soldiers that surrounded the extemporized
scaffold,--screamed in vain to obtain a hearing.

"Let him go, and you may hang me in his place!"

The soldiers answered with a brutal laugh,--as if there would be any
satisfaction in hanging him! But the offer of self-sacrifice on the part
of the devoted Carl touched one heart, at least. Penn, who had
maintained a firm demeanor up to this time, was almost unmanned by it.

"God bless you, dear Carl! Remember that I loved you. Be always honest
and upright; then, if you die the victim of wrong, it will be your
oppressors, not you, who will be most unhappy. Good by, dear Carl. Bear
my farewell to those we love. Don't stay and see me die, I entreat you!"

Yet Carl staid, sobbing with grief and rage.

"Why don't you hurry up this business?" cried Lysander Sprowl, angrily,
coming out of the school-house. "Somebody tie a handkerchief over his
eyes, and get through some time to-day."

"All right, cap'm," said Ropes. "Make ready now, boys, and take away
this table in a hurry, when I give the word."

"Hold on, there! What's going on?" cried an unexpected voice, and a
recruiting officer from the village made his appearance, riding up on a
white horse.

The summary proceedings were stayed, and the case explained. The man
listened with an air of grim official importance, his coarse red
countenance betraying not a gleam of sympathy with the prisoner. Yet
being the superior in rank to any officer present (Silas called him
"kunnel"), besides being the only one of them all who had been regularly
commissioned by the confederate government, this man held Penn's fate in
his hands.

"Hanging's too good for such scoundrels!" he said, frowning at the
prisoner. "As for this particular case, there's only one thing to be
said: his life shall be spared on only one condition."

Carl's heart almost stood still, in his eagerness to listen. Even Penn
felt a faint--a very faint--pulse of hope in his breast. The "kunnel"
went on.

"Let him take his choice--either to hang, or enlist. What do you say,
youngster? Which do you prefer--the death of a traitor, or the glorious
career of a soldier in the confederate army?"

"It is impossible for me, sir," said Penn, in a voice of deep feeling
and unalterable conviction--"it is impossible for me to bear arms
against my country!"

"But the Confederate States shall be your country, and a country to be
proud of!" said the man.

"I am a citizen of the United States; to the United States I owe
allegiance," said Penn. "So far from being a traitor, I am willing to
die rather than appear one."

"Then you won't enlist?"

"No, sir."

"Not even to save your life?"

"Not even to save my life!"

"Then," growled the man, turning away, "if you will be such a fool, I've
nothing more to say."

So it only remained for Penn to submit quietly to his fate. The
executioners laid hold of the table, and waited for the order to remove
it.

But just then Carl, breaking through the crowd, threw himself before the
officer's horse.

"O, Colonel Derring! hear me--von vord!"

"Von vord!" repeated the officer, with a coarse laugh, mocking him.
"What's that, you Dutchman?"

"You vill let him go, and I shall wolunteer in his place!" said Carl.

"You!" The officer regarded him critically. Carl, though so young, was
very sturdy. "You offer yourself as a substitute, eh, if I will spare
his life?"

"Carl!" cried Penn, "I forbid you! You shall not commit that sin for me!
Better a thousand times that I should die than that you should be a
rebel in arms against your country."

"I have no country," answered Carl, ingeniously excusing himself. "I am
vot this man says, a Tuchman. I vill enlisht mit him, and he vill shpare
your life."

"Boy, it's a bargain," said Colonel Derring, whose passion for obtaining
recruits overruled every other consideration. "Cut that fellow's cords,
lieutenant, and let him go. Come along with me, Dutchy."

Ropes obeyed, and Penn, bewildered, almost stunned, by the sudden change
in his destiny, saw himself released, and beheld, as in a dream, poor
Carl marching off as his substitute to the recruiting station.

"Now let me give you one word of advice," said Captain Sprowl in his
ear. "Don't let another night find you within twenty miles of that
halter there, if you wouldn't have your neck in it again."

"Will you give me a safe conduct?" said Penn, who thought the advice
excellent, and would have been only too glad to act upon it.

"I've no authority," said Sprowl. "You must take care of yourself."

Penn looked around upon the ferocious, disappointed faces watching him,
and felt that he might about as well have been despatched in the first
place, as to be let loose in the midst of such a pack of wolves
thirsting for his blood. He did not despair, however, but, putting on
his clothes, determined to make one final and desperate effort to
escape.




XIX.

_THE ESCAPE._


Walking off quickly across the field towards Mrs. Sprowl's house, he
turned suddenly aside from the path and plunged into the woods.

He soon perceived that he was followed. A man--only one--came through
the undergrowth. Penn stopped. "God forgive me!" he said within himself;
"but this is more than human nature can bear!" He had been, as it were,
smitten on one cheek and on the other also: it was time to smite back.
He picked up a club: his nerves became like steel as he grasped it: his
eyes flashed fire.

The man advanced; he was unarmed. Suddenly Penn dropped his club, and
uttered a cry of joy. It was his friend Stackridge.

"What! the Quaker will fight?" said the farmer, with a grim smile.

"That shows," said Penn, bursting into tears as he wrung the farmer's
hand, "that I have been driven nearly insane!"

"It shows that some of the insanity has been driven out of you!" replied
Stackridge, beginning to have hopes of him. "If you had taken my pistol
and used it freely in the first place, or at least shown a good will to
use it, you'd have proved yourself a good deal more of a man in my
estimation, and been quite as well off."

"Perhaps," murmured Penn, convinced that this passive submission to
martyrdom was but a sorry part to play.

"But now to business," said Stackridge. "You must get away as quickly
and secretly as possible, unless you mean to stay and fight it out. I am
here to help you. I have a horse in the woods here, at your disposal. I
thought there might be such a thing as your slipping through their
hands, and so I took this precaution. I will show you a bridle-road that
will take you to the house of a friend of mine, who is a hearty
Unionist. You can leave my horse with him. He will help you on to the
house of some friend of his, who will do the same, and so you will
manage to get out of the state. I advise you to travel by night, as a
general thing; but just now it seems necessary that you should see a
little hard riding by daylight. You'll find some luncheon in the
saddlebags. When you get into some pretty thick woods, leave the road,
and find a good place to tie up till night; then go on cautiously to my
friend's house. I'll give you full directions, while we're finding the
horse."

They made haste to the spot where the animal was tied.

"He has been well fed," said the farmer. "You will water him at the
first brook you cross, and let him browse when you stop. Now just trade
that coat for one that will make you look a little less like a Quaker
schoolmaster."

He had brought one of his own coats, which he made Penn put on, and then
exchanged hats with him. Penn was admirably disguised. Brief, then, were
the thanks he uttered from his overflowing heart, short the
leave-takings. He was mounted. Stackridge led the horse through the
bushes to the bridle-path.

"Now, don't let the grass grow under your feet till you are at least
five miles away. If you meet anybody, get along without words if you
can; if you can't, let words come to blows as quick as you please, and
then put faith in Dobbin's heels."

Again, for the last time, he made Penn the offer of a pistol. There was
no leisure for idle arguments on the subject. The weapon was accepted.
The two wrung each other's hands in silence: there were tears in the
eyes of both. Then Stackridge gave Dobbin a resounding slap, and the
horse bounded away, bearing his rider swiftly out of sight in the woods.

All this had passed so rapidly that Penn had scarcely time to think of
any thing but the necessity of immediate flight. But during that
solitary ride through the forest he had ample leisure for reflection. He
thought of the mountain cave, whose gloomy but quiet shelter, whose dark
but nevertheless humane and hospitable inmates he seemed to have quitted
weeks ago, so crowded with experiences had been the few hours since last
he shook Pomp and Cudjo by the hand. He thought of Virginia and her
father, to visit whom for perhaps the last time he had incurred the risk
of descending into the valley; whom now he felt, with a strangely
swelling heart, that he might never see again. And he thought with
grief, pity, and remorse of Carl, a rebel now for his sake.

These things, and many more, agitated him as he spurred the farmer's
horse along the narrow, shaded, lonesome path. He met an old man on
horseback, with a bright-faced girl riding behind him on the crupper,
who bade him a pleasant good morning, and pursued their way. Next came
some boys driving mules laden with sacks of corn. At last Penn saw two
men in butternut suits with muskets on their shoulders. He knew by their
looks that they were secessionists hastening to join their friends in
town. They regarded him suspiciously as he came gall

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/31406