THE OUTLAW’S HOME
It was a lodge of ample size
But strange in structure and device;
Of such materials as around
The builder’s hand had readiest found.—_Scott._
As they cantered over the mountain-top, the full moon rising in the
east, shone upon their forward pathway, flecking with silver light one
side of every tree, and every jutting rock.
Lionne rode foremost, seemingly bent only upon getting home.
Orville Deville followed close behind, his attention fixed upon the
elegant equestrian figure, beautiful horse, and beautiful girl before
him.
Nero brought up the rear, at a respectful distance. Not only was the old
creature shy of the enchantress ahead, but also he was very much
embarrassed by the carriage of the buck on the shoulders of his steed.
And when they began to descend the narrow path leading down the
precipice, the difficulty grew greater; the legs and antlers of the
animal, carried crosswise on the horse, were continually catching in the
cedar bushes that bordered each side of the track, seriously obstructing
his progress, and severely trying his patience. At such times, while
disentangling his “freight,” his eyes would be fixed in indignation upon
the beautiful witch in advance, and his ire would break forth—
“Consarn dis trick, I do say! Marse Awful’s ‘witched! nothing shorter! I
hopes we’ll get well out’n it, that’s all! Wonder what he tinks Lady
Adelaide would say to _dis_? Wouldn’t catch _her_ rantypoling over the
mountains wid a pack ob hounds at her heels like the Witch o’ Window!
Dar! look here now!” he exclaimed, pulling and jerking at the antlers
that had this time got entangled in the top of a pine sapling.
In this manner they slowly descended the declivity. When about half way
down, the musical murmur of water flowing over a rocky bed came to their
ears.
“That,” said Lionne, drawing rein and turning her head to speak to her
companion,—“that is the sound of the creek that washes the foot of this
ridge. It is called the ‘Singing Stream,’—and rightly, I think. Do but
listen to its melodious murmur!”
“Is the voice of the river so musical? I do not know, for the supernal
melody of _one_ voice has spoiled me for all others!” answered the young
man in a low, significant tone.
“And whose voice is that?” inquired the huntress.
An ardent gaze and expressive silence answered.
Lionne touched up her horse and rode onward.
“Ef yer ain’t a-gettin’ on swimmingly with the witch-girl, young massa,
_I’ll give up_. What will Lady Adelaide say to that?” mentally
ejaculated old Nero, who had caught up to them, and witnessed this
little passage of gallantry.
Meanwhile Lionne cantered down the track, closely followed by her
escort.
A quarter of an hour more of riding brought them to the foot of the
mountain, and to the borders of the singing stream. Now flooded with the
moonbeams, it seemed a river of soft light flowing on between the base
of the hoary ridge and the dark evergreen woods on the other side.
The party drew rein to pause and gaze for an instant upon the lovely
sylvan scene; and then—
“Turn to the left,” directed their beautiful guide, as she led the way
down the banks of the stream.
A ride of a few hundred yards brought them to a rough-hewn stone house,
large in size, but only of one story, built against the foot of the
precipice, and fronting the creek. A low wall of rough-hewn rock, like
that of which the house was constructed, enclosed a small yard. Between
the front of this wall and the banks of the stream there was barely room
enough for two horsemen to ride abreast.
Drawing rein at the gate, Lionne alighted and invited her companions to
dismount and follow her into the house, whose aspect, on nearer view,
was dark, close and repellant.
Opening the door, that was placed between four front windows, she
called—
“Vulcan!”
“Here, mistress!” growled a voice like that of a bear, as a back door
opposite opened, and a dwarf—a _huge_ dwarf like a short giant—made his
appearance. He stood about four feet in his shoes, but what he lacked in
altitude was made up in width; he was as nearly square as it was
possible for a human form to be, as if some wizard had placed his hand
upon the head of a very tall man, and pressed him down until his height
ran all to breadth.
Even Orville gazed in wonder upon this strange monster.
As for poor old Nero he felt sure he was ruined! After staring in a
helpless panic, he suddenly dropped upon his knees and began zealously
to pray.
“Oh! Lor’ goramity, have marsy on us! It is de debbil! It is de debbil!
it is de debbil! de witch has delibered us to de debbil, as I knew she
would—so I did! Oh! goramity! we’se lost, done for, ruinated an’ gibben
ober to sudden struction!—have marsy on _us_! Deliber us from dis
beautiful ’ceiving witch-girl, and dis mons’ous, ugly debbil!” All this
was delivered in a low voice, unheard by the others, whom, between his
invocations, the terrified creature furtively watched. The little
dialogue that was going on among them did not tend to calm his nerves.
“What do you want, Lionne? and who are those?” growled the monster, in a
discontented voice.
“These are strangers——”
“I see that!” interrupted the beast.
“Well, they are—an officer and his servant, who have lost their way in
the mountains and are in need of supper and lodging, and whom it is my
will to see well attended, do you hear! See to it! And first of all go
show the servant where to put his horses,” replied the girl, in a voice
of authority that enforced observance.
“Yes, Lionne. Come, fellow, get up!” grumbled the great brute,
approaching the panic-stricken negro and grasping his shoulder.
But Nero, with protruding eyeballs, sprung from under his hand, as
though he had been shot from a gun, ran, and fell upon his knees before
his master, crying:
“Oh, sabe me! sabe me, marster! it is de debbil! it is de debbil! an’
’deed an’ ’deed I aint ’pared for to go!”
“Be silent, idiot! do you not see that it is the young lady’s servant?”
exclaimed Mr. Deville, sternly.
“‘Young lady,’ _oh_! ‘Servant,’ _oh_, it’s the debbil and de witch!”
whimpered the old man, with grave face and shaking teeth.
“Vulcan! leave this man here to recover his senses, and go yourself and
stable the horses; you will find them with mine at the gate; carry the
buck around to the back shed and hang him up,” said the girl, promptly.
“Yes, Lionne—_Gur-r-r-r_!!” he added, grinning and snarling at poor Nero
as he passed him, and throwing that victim into a new spasm.
“Be so good as to sit and wait here till I return,” said Lionne,
pointing to a settee, and then opening a door on the left, through which
she disappeared.
In an instant after, Deville heard a deep-toned, manly voice, inquiring—
“What has kept you out so late, Lionne?” and her reply—
“The chase, my father! I have been unusually successful!”
“Mad girl!”
“Ah, sir, do not reproach me!”
“I do not, my child! You have none of the pleasures of civilization, of
refinement, such as might become my daughter!”
“Nor miss them! nor know of them, even, my father!”
“Ah! poor one! before men gamble in politics and stake their _all_, they
should think of others depending upon them, whose lives may be ruined!
For myself, I care not! but when I think of what you _should be_ and
what you _are_——”
“——Me! would I be other than I am! ‘the free, wild, joyous Lionne,’ that
you call me? Ha! ha! ha! ha!”—her merry laughter rung through the house.
“So I have called you; but—no matter!”
“Father! tell me once for all, what is all this great good that I have
lost? Who were _you_ in the world? What _is it_ that you have forfeited?
And _how_ have you forfeited it?”
“Not now—but sometime, sometime, I will tell you, Lionne!—I will tell
you why I have been hunted like a wild beast from society, finding no
security for life until I had reached this mountain fastness.”
“Sometime you will tell me! God grant it may be soon. But, father, when
I approach this subject I forget all others. I came to tell you that I
have brought strangers home with me.”
“Strangers! Lionne! are you mad, then, indeed?”
“No, father.”
“In the name of all the saints, who are these strangers?”
“An officer in the army and his servant.”
“A king’s officer! Girl, you are positively frantic!”
“No, father, this is a provincial officer, returning from Fort——”
“——A provincial! worse and worse! Lionne! you are betrayed! _we_ are
betrayed! you have unconsciously led the hunter of man to his prey!”
“Father! father! _no_, I say, if ever I read stainless honor on a human
brow, I read it on this young gentleman’s; he is, therefore, what he
reported himself to be—an officer returning from the fatal ambuscade
into which Braddock’s army fell,” said Lionne.
“Show him in! I cannot bear suspense. I will soon know.”
Lionne opened the door and beckoned Deville, who was deeply blushing at
playing the part of a spy, though it was that of an involuntary one.
He arose to follow.
Nero sprang up and caught the skirt of his coat, crying out—
“Oh, Marse Awful! for Lor’s sake, don’t leave de poor old nigger
behind—don’t. I’m worse scared ’an when I fell down flat o’ my face, an’
kicked an’ hollered in de Indian’s amber-scalps!”
“Be silent, fool, and let go my coat!”
“Let him come,” said Lionne, kindly, though scarcely able to repress her
laughter.
“Come, zany, then, since the young lady is so good as to permit you,”
said Mr. Deville, half angrily.
“‘Young lady’—_oh-h-h_! I wouldn’t ax to follow arter the witch inside,
ef I w’a’nt ten t’ousand times worse afeared o’ the snarlin’ debbil
outside. _Ur-r-r!_” muttered Nero, with a shudder, as he crept close
behind his master.
And thus they entered the inner room and the presence of their
mysterious host.