"And will you again leave me?" asked Virginia, in a reproachful tone.

"Leave you, dearest, oh, how sweet would be my fate, after all my cares and sufferings, if I could but die here. But this must not be. Though I trust I know how to meet death as a brave man, yet it is my duty, as a good man, to leave no honourable means untried to save my life."

"But your danger cannot be so great, dearest," said Virginia, tenderly.

"Surely my father-"

"Would feel it his duty," said Hansford, interrupting her, "to deliver me up to justice; and feeling it to be such, he would have the moral firmness to discharge it. Poor old gentleman! like many of his party, his prejudice perverts his true and generous heart. My poor country must suffer long before she can overcome the opposition of bigoted loyalty.

Forgive me for speaking thus of your n.o.ble father, Virginia-but prejudices like these are the thorns which spring up in his heart and choke the true word of freedom, and render it unfruitful. Is it not so, dearest?"

"You mistake his generous nature," said Virginia, earnestly. "You mistake his love for me. You mistake his sound judgment. You mistake his high sense of honour. Think you that he sees no difference between the man who, impelled by principle, a.s.serts what he believes to be a right, and him, who for his own selfish ends and personal advancement, would sacrifice his country. Yes, my dear friend, you mistake my father. He will gladly interpose with the Governor and restore you to happiness, to freedom, and to-"

She paused, unable to proceed for the sobs that choked her utterance, and then gave vent to a flood of pa.s.sionate grief.

"You would add, 'and to thee,'" said Hansford, finishing the sentence.

"G.o.d knows, my girl, that such a hope would make me dare more peril than I have yet encountered. But, alas! if it were even as you say, what weight would his remonstrance have with that imperious old tyrant, Berkeley? It would be but the thistle-down against the cannon ball in the scales of his justice."

"He dare not refuse my father's demands," said Virginia. "One who has been so devoted to his cause, who has sacrificed so much for his king, and who has afforded shelter and protection to the Governor himself in the hour of his peril and need, is surely ent.i.tled to this poor favour at his hands. He dare not refuse to grant it."

"Alas! Virginia, you little know the character of Sir William Berkeley, when you say he dares not. But the very qualities which you claim, and justly claim, for your father, would prevent him from exerting that influence with the Governor which your hopes whisper would be so successful-'His n.o.ble nature' would prompt him at any sacrifice to yield personal feeling to a sense of public duty. 'His love for you'

would prompt him to rescue you from the _rebel_ who dared aspire to your hand. 'His sound judgment' would dictate the maxim, that it were well for one man to die for the people; and his 'high sense of honour' would prevent him from interposing between a condemned _traitor_ and his deserved doom. Be a.s.sured, Virginia, that thus would your father reason; and with his views of loyalty and justice, I could not blame him for the conclusion to which he came."

"Then in G.o.d's name," cried Virginia, in an agony of desperation, for she saw the force of Hansford's views, "how can you shun this threatening danger? Whither can you fly?"

"My only hope," said Hansford, gloomily, "is to leave the Colony and seek refuge in Maryland, though I fear that this is hopeless. If I fail in this, then I must lurk in some hiding place until instructions from England may arrive, and check the vindictive Berkeley in his ruthless cruelty."

"And is there a hope of that!" said Virginia, quickly.

"There is a faint hope, and that slender thread is all that hangs between me and a traitor's doom. But I rely with some confidence upon the mild and humane policy pursued by Charles toward the enemies of his father. At any rate, it is all that is left me, and you know the proverb," he added, with a sad smile, "'A drowning man catches at straws.' Any chance, however slight, appears larger when seen through the gloom of approaching despair, just as any object seems greater when seen through a mist."

"It is not, it shall not be slight," said the hopeful girl, "we will lay hold upon it with firm and trusting hearts, and it will cheer us in our weary way, and then-"

But here the conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and the light, graceful form of Mamalis stood before them.

The quick ear of the Indian girl had caught the first low notes of Hansford's serenade, even while she slept, and listening attentively to the sound, she had heard Virginia leave the room and go down stairs.

Alarmed at her prolonged absence, Mamalis could no longer hesitate on the propriety of ascertaining its cause, and hastily dressing herself, she ran down to the open door and joined the lovers as we have stated.

"We are discovered," said Hansford, in a surprised but steady voice.

"Farewell, Virginia." And he was about to rush from the place, when Virginia interposed.

"Fear nothing from her," she said. "Her trained ear caught the sounds of our voices more quickly than could the duller senses of the European.

You are in no danger; and her opportune presence suggests a plan for your escape."

"What is that?" asked Hansford, anxiously.

"First tell me," said Virginia, "how long it will probably be before the milder policy of Charles will arrest the Governor in his vengeance."

"It is impossible to guess with accuracy-if, indeed, it ever should come. But the king has heard for some time of the suppression of the enterprise, and it can scarcely be more than two weeks before we hear from him. But to what does your question tend?"

"Simply this," returned Virginia. "The wigwam of Mamalis is only about two miles from the hall, and in so secluded a spot that it is entirely unknown to any of the Governor's party. There we can supply your present wants, and give you timely warning of any approaching danger. The old wigwam is a good deal dilapidated, but then it will at least afford you shelter from the weather."

"And from that ruder storm which threatens me," said Hansford, gloomily.

"You are right. I know the place well, and trust it may be a safe retreat, at least for the present. But, alas! how sad is my fate,-to be skulking from justice like a detected thief or murderer, afraid to show my face to my fellow in the open day, and starting like a frightened deer at every approaching sound. Oh, it is too horrible!"

"Think not of it thus," said Virginia, in an encouraging voice.

"Remember it only as the dull twilight that divides the night from the morning. This painful suspense will soon be over; and then, safe and happy, we will smile at the dangers we have pa.s.sed."

"No, Virginia," said Hansford, in the same gloomy voice, "you are too hopeful. There is a whispering voice within that tells me that this plan will not succeed, and that we cannot avoid the dangers which threaten me. No," he cried, throwing off the gloom which hung over him, while his fine blue eye flashed with pride. "No! The decree has gone forth! Every truth must succeed with blood. If the blood of the martyrs be the seed of the Church, it may also enrich the soil where liberty must grow; and far rather would I that my blood should be shed in such a cause, than that it should creep sluggishly in my veins through a long and useless life, until it clotted and stagnated in an ign.o.ble grave."

"Oh, there spoke that fearful pride again," said Virginia, with a deep sigh; "the pride that pursues its mad career, unheeding prudence, unguided by judgment, until it is at last checked by its own destruction. And would you not sacrifice the glory that you speak of, for me?"

"You have long since furnished me the answer to that plea, my girl," he replied, pressing her tenderly to his heart. "Do you remember, Lucasta,

'I had not loved thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.'

Believe me, my Virginia, it is an honourable and not a glorious name I seek. Without the latter, life still would be happy and blessed when adorned by your smiles. Without the former, your smile and your love would add bitterness to the cup that dishonour would bid me quaff. And now, Virginia, farewell. The night air has chilled you, dearest-then go, and remember me in your dreams. One fond kiss, to keep virgined upon my lips till we meet again. Farewell, Mamalis-be faithful to your kind mistress." And then imprinting one long, last kiss upon the fair cheek of the trusting Virginia, he turned from the door, and was soon lost from their sight in the dense forest.

Once more in her own little room, Virginia, with a grateful heart, fell upon her knees, and poured forth her thanks to Him, who had thus far prospered her endeavours to minister to the cares and sorrows of her lover. With a calmer heart she sought repose, and wept herself to sleep with almost happy tears. Hansford, in the mean time, pursued his quiet way through the forest, his pathway sufficiently illumined by the pale moonlight, which came trembling through the moaning trees. The thoughts of the young rebel were fitfully gloomy or pleasant, as despondency and hope alternated in his breast. In that lonely walk he had an opportunity to reflect calmly and fully upon his past life. The present was indeed clouded with danger, and the future with uncertainty and gloom. Yet, in this self-examination, he saw nothing to justify reproach or to awaken regret. He scanned his motives, and he felt that they were pure. He reviewed his acts, and he saw in them but the struggles of a brave, free man in the maintenance of the right. The enterprise in which he had engaged had indeed failed, but its want of success did not affect the holiness of the design. Even in its failure, he proudly hoped that the seeds of truth had been sown in the popular mind, which might hereafter germinate and be developed into freedom. As these thoughts pa.s.sed through his mind, a dim dream of the future glories of his country flashed across him. The bright heaven of the future seemed to open before him, as before the eyes of the dying Stephen-but soon it closed again, and all was dark.

The wigwam which he entered, after a walk of about half an hour, was desolate enough, but its very loneliness made it a better safeguard against the vigilance of his pursuers. He closed the aperture which served for the door, with the large mat used for the purpose; then carefully priming his pistols, which he kept constantly by him in case of surprise, and wrapping his rough horseman's coat around him, he flung himself upon a mat in the centre of the wigwam, and sank into a profound slumber.

CHAPTER XL.

"He should be hereabouts. The doubling hare, When flying from the swift pursuit of hounds, Baying loud triumph, leaves her wonted path, And seeks security within her nest."

_The Captive._

On the evening which followed the events narrated in the last chapter, a party of half a dozen hors.e.m.e.n might be seen riding leisurely along the road which led to Windsor Hall. From their dress and bearing they might at once be recognized as military men, and indeed it was a detachment of the force sent by Sir William Berkeley in search of such of the rebels as might be lurking in different sections of the country. At their head was Alfred Bernard, his tall and graceful form well set off by the handsome military dress of the period. Dignified by a captaincy of dragoons, the young intriguer at last thought himself on the high road to success, and his whole course was marked by a zealous determination to deserve by his actions the confidence reposed in him. For this his temper and his cold, selfish nature eminently fitted him. The vindictive Governor had no fear but that his vengeance would be complete, so long as Alfred Bernard acted as his agent.

As the party approached the house, Colonel Temple, whose attention was arrested by such an unusual appearance in the then peaceful state of the country, came out to meet them, and with his usual bland courtesy invited them in, at the same time shaking Bernard warmly by the hand.

The rough English soldiers, obeying the instructions of their host, conducted their horses to the stable, while the young captain followed his hospitable entertainer into the hall. Around the blazing fire, which crackled and roared in the broad hearth, the little family were gathered to hear the news.

"Prythee, Captain Bernard, for I must not forget your new t.i.tle," said the colonel, "what is the cause of this demonstration? No further trouble with the rebels?"

"No, no," replied Bernard, "except to smoke the cowardly fellows out of their holes. In the words of your old bard, we have only scotched the snake, not killed it-and we are now seeking to bring the knaves to justice."

"And do you find them difficult to catch?" said the Colonel. "Is the scotched snake an 'anguis in herba?'"

"Aye, but they cannot escape us. These worshippers of liberty, who would fain be martyrs to her cause, shall not elude the vigilance of justice.

I need not add, that you are not the object of our search, Colonel."

"Scarcely, my lad," returned Temple, with a smile, "for my mythology has taught me, that these kindred deities are so nearly allied that the true votaries of liberty will ever be pilgrims to the shrine of justice."

"And the pseudo votaries of freedom," continued Bernard, "who would divide the sister G.o.ddesses, should be offered up as a sacrifice to appease the neglected deity."

"Well, maybe so," returned Temple; "but neither religion nor government should demand human sacrifices to a great extent. A few of the prominent leaders might well be cut off to strike terror into the hearts of the rest. Thus the demands of justice would be satisfied, consistently with clemency which mercy would dictate."