THE MASK REMOVED.
While all in the garrison were bathed in quiet sleep, the slumbers of
Captain Sherwood were broken. After spending a night of restlessness,
he arose unrefreshed from the rude bed where he had thrown himself,
and walked to his prison window.
That brilliant luminary, the sun, like a ball of golden fire, was
just beginning to light up the eastern sky, giving promise of another
bright autumnal day. As Edgar looked out upon the beautiful landscape
painted by his Creator, a feeling of awe which he had never before
experienced, crept over him.
Every thing seemed to assume a more beautiful aspect, now that he
was soon to be parted from them forever; they began to find a more
precious place in his affections. It almost drove him to despair to
think that he was to die so soon. Ay! before his course was run; to
die a disgraceful--a traitor’s death!
“Oh! my God!” he exclaimed, dropping his head upon his breast, “have
mercy on me! If I must die, let me leave a spotless name behind me!”
unable any longer to control his feelings, he gave way to his grief.
“My life is fated!” exclaimed he, at length. “A dark shadow is cast
before me; but I will show them that I can die like a man!” and with
these words Captain Sherwood prepared himself to meet his doom like a
hero.
He paced up and down his cell in deep abstraction. He was thinking
over his whole life, and it was one that had experienced some
vicissitudes. As his thoughts flew on, they gradually came back to
the present.
“What could have become of his beautiful Imogene?” he asked
himself for the hundredth time; “and again, his faithful friend,
War-Cloud--where was he all this time?”
After putting one suspicious circumstance with another, he fully
believed that some one was plotting against him. It was not those
men who had sworn his life away, but some profound villain of whom
they were but tools.
“Can it be possible,” he mused, “that Imogene may be even at this
moment in the power of this villain, whosoever he may be!”
The remembrance of his frightful dream flashed across his mind.
“Great Heavens!” he cried, “it was a presentiment--a true one! Oh!
oh! oh! she is dead--I shall go mad!” and he staggered against the
wall of his cell for support.
Just then the first beams of the morning sun stole in through the
window. This little circumstance, slight as it may seem, reanimated
the captain.
“It is an emblem of hope,” said he, recovering himself.
There is no more delusive phantom than hope; and it seems to be the
happy privilege of all to cull whatever pleasures can be gathered
from its indulgence. What we think ought to be, we are fond to think
will be.
Thus it was with our hero--he hoped that something might happen
before the appointed hour for his execution to extricate him from his
terrible dilemma.
Time, however, passed away. As the hours flew swiftly by, every blow
of the clock’s brass hammer sounded like a death-knell upon the heart
of the prisoner. Shortly there was heard a great noise without--the
creaking of timbers, and the sound of the hammer and saw.
Edgar grew pale and approached the window. There it was--that horrid
machine of human vengeance--the gibbet, glaring before his eyes, like
an evil conscience harassing the soul of a dying man.
The cold sweat burst from his burning brow. He had felt before that
it was hard for one so young as he to die a death of infamy; but to
spend his last moments alone and unpitied; to know that all near him
thought his fate merited; that in a few hours he was to be conducted
from the gloom of his cell to the gallows, there to meet the gaze of
a curious multitude, as if he were a beast led to slaughter; and then
to take his departure of life, amidst the jeers and scoffs of his
fellow-creatures--this, indeed, was death--terrible death.
A short time previous to the execution, Edgar was aroused by hearing
a slight tap on his cell door, and the next instant a man was ushered
into the apartment.
The stranger was a minister. His face was one of awful gravity.
In stature he was above the size of ordinary men, though his
excessive leanness might contribute in deceiving as to his hight; his
countenance was sharp and unbending, and every muscle seemed set in
the most rigid compression; his eyes were concealed beneath a pair of
enormous green spectacles, which gave these organs a very singular
look.
His coat was black, and his breeches and stockings were of the same
hue, his shoes were without luster, and half concealed beneath their
huge, plated buckles.
“I have come,” said the divine, nodding to Edgar, “to pray with you.”
Edgar bowed his head, and the two knelt down. The good man’s sonorous
voice filled the cell with solemn words. Edgar’s heart beat with wild
emotions, and he now felt that every throb was but another herald
warning him of death’s near approach.
Upon rising from prayer, he ventured near the window once more and
cast another glance at the gallows. A large crowd was collected about
it, eagerly waiting to witness the death of Iron Hand, the British
spy.
“These are heartless people!” said the minister, looking over Edgar’s
shoulder. “But be firm, my poor brother; there is mercy for all
before the great Throne of Justice.”
The multitude did not have long to wait. A few moments prior to the
expiration of the appointed hour, the prisoner, guarded by several
soldiers, came forth.
He was slightly pale, but stood erect, and marched forward with a
firm, military step. Approaching the scaffold, they went slowly up
the stairs to the platform.
The vast concourse of people were now as one, silent and motionless.
Nothing broke the stillness save the hanging rope, which trembled and
squeaked as a slight wind swayed it back and forth.
The soldiers of the garrison were drawn up in a square around the
gallows, while outside of the guard was the populace. Every elevated
place was thronged with spectators.
Edgar advanced to the front of the platform to say a few parting
words, but the reports of several rifles in quick succession
prevented him. All turned simultaneously to look from whence they
came.
A horseman was seen in the distance approaching with flying speed.
On, on, he comes--now for a moment lost to view as he plunges through
some grove of trees, then quickly emerges again, leaping forth on
the open ground, growing larger and larger, until at length he is
near enough to be recognized by all, when the cry of “War-Cloud!
War-Cloud!” rung upon the air.
The steed, foaming and gray with dust, with nostrils dilated and eyes
flashing fire, dashed by the guard and halted before the scaffold.
The scout leaped from the faithful charger, and springing up the
steps seized the executioner’s arm.
“Hold, my pale-face brother!” he cried.
At these words the spectators were struck with amazement, and gazed
about them for an explanation. At the expiration of a few moments,
four more horsemen arrived. They were dragoons, and with them rode
a man lashed to his horse, and behind him, on a white steed, came a
female.
The party halted, and awaited War-Cloud’s orders. As Edgar caught
sight of the unknown lady, he gave a sudden start, and the color
faded from his cheek.
“Can it be she?” he murmured to himself.
He had surmised correctly; it was in truth Imogene Lear. As she
approached him their eyes met. The recognition was mutual. The next
instant, shedding tears of joy, they were clasped in each other’s
arms.
The scout now advanced, and untied the cords that bound the horseman,
and ordered him to alight. The prisoner obeyed; he offered no
resistance. His head was bowed down upon his breast, and he appeared
to be completely crushed in spirit.
With the aid of two of the dragoons, War-Cloud assisted him up on the
scaffold, and then quickly removed the muffler that had heretofore
concealed the prisoner’s face from view.
“My God!” exclaimed Edgar, starting back. “That countenance--it is
he--it is Maurice, _my brother_!” and reeling, would have fallen, had
he not been supported by the scout.
On beholding the face thus exposed to their gaze, the spectators
stood aghast.
_The features were an exact counterpart in every respect, of those of
Edgar Sherwood._
That these two men were brothers could not now be doubted, and all
seemed to comprehend, in an instant, the mistake that had been made.
The great mystery was at length solved. It was, indeed, a--DOUBLE
FACE.
Imogene now related the cause of her sudden and mysterious
disappearance, the treachery of Hank Putney and his implication in
the conspiracy for her abduction, and lastly confirmed the statement,
that the prisoner before them was the dreaded Iron Hand, by his own
confession during their interview in the cave of the Tory League.
At the conclusion, Colonel Hall arose, and congratulated the
multitude on the happy termination of what had almost succeeded in
becoming a tragedy.
He had scarcely finished, when a low murmur of applause ran through
the assembly, which at length broke forth into lusty cheers. All
now turned toward the spot where Hank Putney had been seen only a
few moments before, among the most clamorous for Captain Sherwood’s
execution; but the traitor, seeing the turn events were taking, had
fled.
Although Edgar Sherwood had been condemned to suffer death for his
brother’s crimes, nevertheless how little was known concerning the
deep plot that had been laid to bring about this dreadful mistake.