THE OUTLAW.
He seemed a stalwart knight and keen,
That had in many a battle been;
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
Showed spirit proud and prompt to ire;
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.—_Scott._
It was a large, square room, with a low ceiling and walls darkened by
age or smoke. Being a back room, the only two windows looked plumb upon
the side of the mountain against which the house had been built, and
which could be reached from them with an outstretched arm. From the room
no glimpse of the sky was visible.
The ample fireplace opposite the windows was well supplied with great
logs, that smouldered with a subdued heat that the dampness of the house
and the chilliness of the late September evening rendered acceptable.
From the centre of the low ceiling hung an iron lamp, directly over a
substantial round table of black oak. Upon this table lay several heavy
books. Beside it, in a rude oaken arm-chair covered with bearskins, sat
an individual in marked contrast with all his surroundings.
He was a man considerably past middle age, of a tall and powerful form,
with a fine, stately head, thickly covered with long, black hair,
threaded here and there with silver, which, with his grizzly black
beard, framed-in in a fine aristocratic face, with high, aquiline
features, pale complexion, and anxious expression.
His dress was one of faded splendor—a rusty black velvet coat, heavily
embossed with tarnished silver lace, black velvet knee-breeches, and
black cloth gaiters, fastened with dimmed silver buttons.
He sat facing the door, with one hand resting on the open volume upon
the table, and with his haughty head raised in expectancy.
As the strangers entered he arose and stood awaiting their approach.
“My father, this is Lieutenant Deville, the benighted traveler of whom I
told you,” said Lionne, presenting the guest.
Surprise and involuntary deep respect held the young man silent as he
made a profound bow to his mysterious and distinguished looking host.
The latter extended his hand, saying, with stately and somewhat formal
courtesy—
“You are most welcome, sir, to such poor entertainment as our mountain
lodge affords.”
“I should apologize for this enforced intrusion,” began the young man.
“Sir, please to be seated,” gracefully interrupted the host setting
forward a rough deal-chair, and adding, “it is very se’dom that this
unfrequented neighborhood affords us the pleasure of a passing guest.”
With a second bow young Deville placed his hat upon the table, and took
the offered chair.
“You were with Braddock’s troops at the disastrous ambuscade on the
march to Fort Duquesne, my daughter tells me,” said the host,
courteously.
“I was so unhappy as to see that gallant officer fall and his troops cut
to pieces,” replied the guest, with a scarcely repressed groan.
“And—you were wounded?” added his host, with an expression of grave
sympathy.
“You may say dat, ole marse, for he was jes’ putty nigh _kilt_,” came a
voice from an obscure part of the room.
And host and guest both looking up saw old Nero, who had reared himself
up in the angle of the corner, where he stood, still and solemn as an
old-fashioned clock.
“Who is that curiosity?” asked the _eyes_ of the host.
“It is my servant, sir,—a spoiled old rascal,” replied Orville Deville;
then turning to the delinquent, he said—“Who gave you leave to speak,
sir?”
“Nobody didn’t, Marse Awful, honey, ’caze nobody wasn’t axed; but no
offence wasn’t meant to no one; and so ef ole marse dar, want to know
any thing ’bout you’re bein’ wounded, der aint no soul can tell him
nuffin about it ’cept ’tis me; _you_ can’t, Marse Awful, ’caze you
didn’t know nuffin ’tall till twas all ober! dar!”
Orville Deville frowned with confusion and anger; but his host, with a
smile said—
“Will my guest do me a favor? Will he let this original genius come
forward and relate his own and his master’s adventures? for I know,” he
added, gracefully, “that my young soldier will scarcely do himself
justice in his own narrative.”
Deville bowed with a smile that chased away the frown, and turning again
towards his servant, said—
“You meet with great indulgence here, blockhead! Since you are so
favored, come forward and answer this gentleman’s questions.”
Thus exhorted, old Nero, who felt much reassured by the stately and
kindly presence of the master of the house, approached and stood hat in
hand.
“You say your master was severely wounded?”
“No, ole marse, honey, I didn’t say nuffin like dat! I said how he wer
putty nigh _kilt_!”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’se gwine to, honey; I’se gwine to, chile; ’deed I is, ole marse; only
you jes gimme time to memorize my own mind. Well, you see, ole marse,
when we fuss fell in long o’ de amber-scalps——”
“The _what_?” interrupted the host, knitting his brows in perplexity.
“De _amber-scalps_, marster.”
“He means the ambu_scade_,” put in the young gentleman, half laughing
and half vexed.
“Sartin, ole marse, dey _called em scalps_, any how, which der was no
end to dem same taken. Well, as I was sayin’, when we fuss fell in long
o’ de amber-scalps—_scades_, I mean, de bushes was so thick and
’structing dat Marse Awful——”
“_Whom?_”
“Marse Awful, honey, my young marster dere——”
“What a name!”
“He means _Orville_, my Christian name,” again put in the young officer.
“Awful or _Offal_, it’s all de same, ole marse, only ef you dem keeps
puttin’ me out, you’ll make me forget to remember all about it, and now
I shall have to go back to de beginnin’!” said old Nero in high dudgeon.
“Well, go on, you shall not be interrupted again,” said the smiling
host.
“Thanky, ole marse. Well, so when we fuss fell in long o’ de
amber-scalps—_scades_, I mean—de bushes got so thick and ‘structed up,
wid de unwisible bullets a-cuttin’ all about, dat Marse Awful—_Offal_, I
mean—gets off’n his horse, an’ tells me to lead him back for safe takin’
care of. An’ Marse Awful plunges right into de thick o’ de bushes an’
bullets an’ smoke. An’ I leads my hosses back ‘cordin’ to orders.
“Bymeby, I hears de debbil to pay, axin’ your pardon, ole marse! Fuss
’twas only ‘sping! sping! sping!’ o’ de bullets as dey whistled about
troo de trees; den clouds o’ smoke an’ an awful smell o’ brimstone!
“A little while arter, an’ den de groans o’ de sufferin’!
“Den, at long-last, deep silence.
“Den right out’n dat silence, a suddint, univarsal, horrorobel howl, as
ef all de debbils in all de pits had bust out o’ de bowels o’ de yeth to
once. It was de ’fernal amber-scalps—_scades_, I mean, at dere debblish
work!
“Ebery bone in me shuck, only to hear dem! I staid dere trimblin’ an’
trimblin’ hours an’ hours! Den, arter all was quiet, I t’ought how I’d
go see ef I could see any thing o’ my young marster; caze eberyt’ing was
so awful still, it made me feel worse dan de hellobulloo, itself, fur it
seemed jest as ef all de hull yeth was struck wid death. So I tied my
horses and went stealing’ along in de shade.
“I hadn’t gone more’n a quarter o’ a mile when, glory be to Marster in
hebben, what sights I see! Slaughtered men strewed about underneaf de
trees an’ ‘mong de bushes like de dried leaves of autumn! I turned ober
two or three as looked like my young marster, only dey wa’n’t him! Lor’,
it was hours an’ hours o’ s’archin’ ’fore I come upon him ’way in de fur
eend o’ de ground. Dar, under a lonesome hemlock tree, I seen Marse
Awful, layin’ out stiff and still for dead! Jes as I was a goin’ up to
him, a big red debbil ob an amber-scalp come sneakin’ troo de bushes,
an’ creeps up to him, an’ takes him by his long, fair hair, an’ holds
his head up, an’ den fumbles in his own belt, an’ den draps him for a
minute an’ fumbles again!
“I knew well ’nough what de red brute was arter—he was arter his knife
to whip off my young marster’s scalp—scade I mean.
“So, ‘No you don’t,’ sez I to myself. So I had no weepon but a quart
bottle o’ sperrits o’ turpentine, as I brought along in my coat pocket
for a misery in my back;—which it is de best thing for rheumatiz as ever
was, as likewise to cure horses and clean guns—so I whips out my bottle
o’ sperrits o’ turpentine an’ creeps on to Mr. Redskin.
“But ef you’ll please to believe me, marster, though I trod soft as any
cat, ef dat debblish sharp-eared amber-scalp didn’t hear me. He let go
my marster’s hair, turned sharp roun’, and wid a yell and a howl as mos’
druv de soul out’n my body, he lept at me!
“But I was ready for him. I lif’ my big bottle o’ sperrits o’ turpentine
in bof’ hands, an’ let him have it wid all my might an’ main.
“CUSH—SWANGLE—PANG! right into his furnel face an’ eyes!
“YOW-HOO-OO-OO-OO!!
“May I nebber hear sich an unyethly howl as dat dere cussed amber-scalp
guv, as he fell back an’ drapped his knife.
“In one half a minute he’d a been up ag’in, ef I had guv him de chance;
but in one second, you see, old marse, I lept upon him, snatched up de
knife, put its point to his t’roat, an’ bore wid all my might, till I
had pinned him to de ground an’ de handle stopped de blade from gwine
further!
“Den I left go an’ run an’ picked up Marse Awful, laid his head up ober
my shoulder, an’ made off fur de horses as fast as ebber I could. It was
a dreadful tug; an’ I was on de p’int o’ drapping him (cause you see,
ole marse, _I_ thought how he wer’ _dead_, an’ my only motive for
carryin’ of him along was to give him Christian berryin’ wid de hair on
his head), when I hear behind me a crashin’ an a gurgling; an’ lookin’
ober my shoulder, lo an’ behold, dere was de cussed infunnelly
amber-scalp, as I left for dead wid de knife stickin’ in his t’roat,
a-leaping arter me wid de blood a-gushing from his mouth!
“Yes, as I was ’bout to drap my marster, an’ fall down an hollow
(’cause, you see, I hadn’t another bottle o’ sperrits o’ turpentine to
smash in his eyes), _he_ begins to reel an’ totter, an’ den he falls
forrid on his face an’ rolls ober, an’ draws up an’ stretches out, an
rolls ober agin, an’ lays stock still!
“Den I tought he mus’ be dead; dough I wouldn’t trust him for a long
time; but laid marster down an watched.
“While I was watchin’ de cuss of an amber-scalp, I hears a groan close
by me an’ der was my master wid his eyes open!
“My Lord, I was more scared dan oberjoyed. ‘Peared to me all de dead was
comin’ to life agin! I mos’ spected to see Braddock’s cut up troops come
marchin’ back. Still, I _was_ oberjoyed, too.
“‘Marse Awful, chile,’ sez I, ‘is yer alibe?’
“‘_Oh-h-h!_’ sez he.
“‘Is yer alibe, honey?’ sez I.
“‘_Oh-h-h-h-h!_’ sez he.
“‘Can yer speak, honey?’ sez I.
“‘_W-a-t-e-r!_’ sez he!
“Well then thinkin’ as how no dead man wouldn’t call for no water, I
made up my mine as how he mus’ be alibe.
“‘I’ll get it for you, marse,’ sez I.
“But fuss I went to look at de ’fernal amber-scalp. I seen he was layin’
berry still; but I darsent trust him, no how; so I felt berry oneasy in
my mind, an’ ’solved to tote my marster off soon as ebber I guv him a
drink.
“‘_W-a-t-e-r!_’ he kept whinnin’, like a sick puppy. Beg yer pardon,
Marse Awful, honey, but ’deed you _did_.
“Well, I went to look for water. Dat was soon found—a perty little
stream runnin’ along an’ singing, ‘drink, drink, drink,’ as plain as I
can speak. Dar was de water; but where was any thing to dip it wid? His
hat was gone; an’ mine—well, what wid sweat, an’ grease, an’ dust, mine
wa’n’t so ober an’ above nice to drink out’n. I even t’aught how his
boots was cleaner’n my hat; so I went to him an’ pulled off his boot an’
dipped it full of water, an’ hel’ up his head an’ put it to his lips.
“An’ all de time Marse Awful was drinkin’, I had my eye cocked on to de
’fernal amber-scalp, which red cuss neber moved ag’in, as I knows on: ef
he _did_, it was arter _we_ come away!
“So, arter my marse had drank his fill an’ took a long breaf, I lif’s
him up an’ lays his head on my shoulder an’ totes him off to de hosses.
When we gets dere—
“‘_B-r-a-n-d-y!_’ sez my marster.
“Dere was some in his saddle-bags, an so I lays him down on a sof’ rock,
and gits it out an’ puts it to his lips. When he had tuck a good, deep
swig, an’ drawed a good, deep breaf—
“‘Help me onto my horse,’ sez he.
“So I ‘beyed orders, an’ put him in his saddle.
“But ef ebber you see a dead corpse ridin’ horseback, _he_ looked like
_it_. Well, by de blessin’ o’ hebben an’ a miracle on de yeth, at las’
we had de good fortune to ‘rive at a squatter gemmen’s log-cabin, where
Marse Awful guv way an’ fainted soon as ebber he got down off’n his
horse, and where he laid ill for six weeks, ’fore ebber he was able to
’sume his journey.
“An’ dat’s de way how I save my young Marse Awful—_Offal_, I mean—from
losin’ of his scalp,—_scade_, I should say only in de ’citement ob de
narrative I doesn’t allus memorize to speak proper, so I hopes ole
marster’ll excuse me,” concluded Nero, with a profound bow.
“We will applaud you,—a,—what is your name?”
“Nero, marse! ’deed it is, chile—Nero!”
“Then, _Nero_, you are quite a _hero_! Another Eneas!”
“’Neas? who he, marse?”
“Another hero who carried off his father on his back from burning Troy,
as you did your master.”
“Did de amber-scalps—scades—burn Troy, marster?”
“Well, yes, or very much the same sort of devils, though they were not
redskins, or savages,” smiled the host; then turning to Mr. Deville he
said, with grave earnestness, “I fear, sir, that you have not yet fully
recovered your wounds.”
“In truth, no; but, being very anxious to return home, I set out just as
soon as I was able to sit my horse,” replied the young gentleman.
“And you have been exposed, in this invalid condition, to the
storm;—your garments are wet,” remarked the elder gentleman, now for the
first time noticing the steaming coat of his guest.
“A little damp; there was not much rain on the mountains,—it passed off
to the valleys; the storm was mostly thunder and lightning. Pray give
yourself no trouble, sir,” said the young soldier, observing that his
host took a staff that rested against his chair and thumped loudly upon
the floor.
“Nevertheless, you will do me the favor to change your clothing,”
replied the host.
His summons was answered by the entrance of the dwarfed giant.
“Vulcan, show this gentleman into my chamber, and serve him with dry
clothes,” said his master.
The giant ducked his huge head, disappeared for a moment, then
reappeared with a lamp, and stood waiting.
Lieutenant Deville, understanding that he was to follow this strange
guide, arose and left the sitting-room.
Nero prudently remained near the host, who, as I said, inspired him with
confidence.
Vulcan led the stranger-guest into the hall, at the back of which a
broad but rudely-built staircase conducted them to an upper hall
corresponding exactly to the lower one.
Opening a door to the left, he admitted the young man to a chamber
immediately over the sitting-room that they had quitted.
This apartment was furnished with Spartan simplicity—an iron
camp-bedstead, a deal clothes-press, a wash stand, with fixtures, and
two chairs completed its appointment. The windows, in a line with those
below, looked out upon the same dark mountain-side. In the fireplace at
the opposite end of the room, a wood-fire was already kindled.
The dwarf-giant went to the clothes-press, took out a faded suit of
maroon velvet and laid it on the bed, and stood in silence waiting
orders.
Mr. Deville quickly doffed his damp garments, which Vulcan seized and
hung across the back of a chair before the fire. He then put on the dry
suit, and announced himself ready to return below.
Vulcan took the candle and led the way down-stairs, and young Deville
re-entered the sitting-room. His host received him with a smile, and
offered the vacant chair, which he immediately took.
One circumstance perplexed, and even embarrassed young Deville—though
his host received him hospitably, entertained him cordially, conversed
with him freely, yet he had not announced to him his name! Was it from
forgetfulness, distrust, or caution? or was it in the expectation that
_he_—Deville—would ask it? It might be the latter. At any rate, the
young man resolved to act upon the supposition, for he found it
excessively awkward to maintain a lengthened conversation with one whose
name he did not know. He commenced, and with his most persuasive smile
and deferential tone, he said—
“I have yet, I believe, to learn the name of the honored host who has so
promptly extended the shelter of his kindly roof to the stranger.”
A dark cloud gathered upon the brow of the man addressed. He passed his
hand once or twice over his forehead, and then, removing it, fixed his
eyes calmly upon the questioner, and answered—
“I am called Delaforêt.”
His guest bowed. “I shall never forget the name,” he said.
But then he mused—“So, my beautiful dark huntress is named Lionne
Delaforêt! a pretty name, and like her. Stop! it means something, too!
It means ‘lioness of the forest!’ There is some subterfuge here. He said
he was ‘called’ _De-la forêt_! He did not say his _name_ was such!
True—he is ‘of the forest;’ but that is not his name. There is some
mystery here! into which, by the way, I have no right to pry,” added the
young gentleman, in conclusion.
His transient revery was broken by the entrance of Vulcan, who thrust in
his huge head, opened his mouth with one word—“Supper!” and disappeared.
“Come, Mr. Deville,” said he “of the forest,” rising and leading his
guest across the hall to the spacious kitchen immediately opposite.
There, at the head of a great oak table, the beautiful Lionne presided
over a substantial supper of coffee, home-made bread and butter, and
venison steaks.
Soon after supper the guest retired to dream of Lionne.