"No wonder that the shock bereft her, for a time, of life. The interval
was seized by the ruffian to effect his escape. The rebukes of justice
were shunned by a wretch conscious of his inexpiable guilt. These things
he has hidden from you, and has supplied their place by a tale specious
as false." "No. Among the number of his crimes, hypocrisy is not to be numbered. These things are already known to me: he spared himself too little in
the narrative. The excellencies of his lady, her claims to gratitude and
veneration, were urged beyond their true bounds. His attempts upon her
life were related. It is true that he desired and endeavoured to destroy
her." "How? Has he told you this?" "He has told me all. Alas! the criminal intention has been amply
expiated." "What mean you? Whence and how came he hither? Where is he now? I will
not occupy the same land, the same world, with him. Have this woman and
her daughter lighted on the shore haunted by this infernal and
implacable enemy?" "Alas! It is doubtful whether he exists. If he lives, he is no longer to
be feared; but he lives not. Famine and remorse have utterly consumed
him." "Famine? Remorse? You talk in riddles." "He has immured himself in the desert. He has abjured the intercourse of
mankind. He has shut himself in caverns where famine must inevitably
expedite that death for which he longs as the only solace of his woes. To no imagination are his offences blacker and more odious than to his
own. I had hopes of rescuing him from this fate, but my own infirmities
and errors have afforded me sufficient occupation." Sarsefield renewed his imprecations on the memory of that unfortunate
man, and his inquiries as to the circumstances that led him into this
remote district. His inquiries were not to be answered by one in my
present condition. My languors and fatigues had now gained a pitch that
was insupportable. The wound in my face had been chafed and inflamed by
the cold water and the bleak air; and the pain attending it would no
longer suffer my attention to stray. I sunk upon the floor, and
entreated him to afford me the respite of a few hours' repose. He was sensible of the deplorableness of my condition, and chid himself
for the negligence of which he had already been guilty. He lifted me to
the bed, and deliberated on the mode he should pursue for my relief. Some mollifying application to my wound was immediately necessary; but,
in our present lonely condition, it was not at hand. It could only be
procured from a distance. It was proper therefore to hasten to the
nearest inhabited dwelling, which belonged to one by name Walton, and
supply himself with such medicines as could be found. Meanwhile, there was no danger of molestation and intrusion. There was
reason to expect the speedy return of those who had gone in pursuit of
the savages. This was their place of rendezvous, and hither they
appointed to reassemble before the morrow's dawn. The distance of the
neighbouring farm was small, and Sarsefield promised to be expeditious. He left me to myself and my own ruminations. Harassed by fatigue and pain, I had yet power to ruminate on that series
of unparalleled events that had lately happened. I wept, but my tears
flowed from a double source: from sorrow, on account of the untimely
fate of my uncle, and from joy, that my sisters were preserved, that
Sarsefield had returned and was not unhappy. I reflected on the untoward destiny of Clithero. Part of his calamity
consisted in the consciousness of having killed his patroness; but it
now appeared, though by some infatuation I had not previously suspected,
that the first impulse of sorrow in the lady had been weakened by
reflection and by time; that the prejudice persuading her that her life
and that of her brother were to endure and to terminate together was
conquered by experience or by argument. She had come, in company with
Sarsefield and Clarice, to America. What influence might these events
have upon the gloomy meditations of Clithero? Was it possible to bring
them together; to win the maniac from his solitude, wrest from him his
fatal purposes, and restore him to communion with the beings whose
imagined indignation is the torment of his life? These musings were interrupted by a sound from below, which was easily
interpreted into tokens of the return of those with whom Sarsefield had
parted at the promontory. Voices were confused and busy, but not
turbulent. They entered the lower room, and the motion of chairs and
tables showed that they were preparing to rest themselves after their
toils. Few of them were unacquainted with me, since they probably were
residents in this district. No inconvenience, therefore, would follow
from an interview, though, on their part, wholly unexpected. Besides,
Sarsefield would speedily return, and none of the present visitants
would be likely to withdraw to this apartment. Meanwhile, I lay upon the bed, with my face turned towards the door, and
languidly gazing at the ceiling and Walls. Just then a musket was
discharged in the room below. The shock affected me mechanically, and
the first impulse of surprise made me almost start upon my feet. The sound was followed by confusion and bustle. Some rushed forth and
called on each other to run different ways, and the words, "That is
he,"--"Stop him!" were spoken in a tone of eagerness and rage. My
weakness and pain were for a moment forgotten, and my whole attention
was bent to discover the meaning of this hubbub. The musket which I had
brought with me to this chamber lay across the bed. Unknowing of the
consequences of this affray with regard to myself, I was prompted, by a
kind of self-preserving instinct, to lay hold of the gun and prepare to
repel any attack that might be made upon me. A few moments elapsed, when I thought I heard light footsteps in the
entry leading to this room. I had no time to construe these signals,
but, watching fearfully the entrance, I grasped my weapon with new
force, and raised it so as to be ready at the moment of my danger. I did
not watch long. A figure cautiously thrust itself forward. The first
glance was sufficient to inform me that this intruder was an Indian,
and, of consequence, an enemy. He was unarmed. Looking eagerly on all
sides, he at last spied me as I lay. My appearance threw him into
consternation, and, after the fluctuation of an instant, he darted to
the window, threw up the sash, and leaped out upon the ground. His flight might have been easily arrested by my shot, but surprise,
added to my habitual antipathy to bloodshed unless in cases of absolute
necessity, made me hesitate. He was gone, and I was left to mark the
progress of the drama. The silence was presently broken by firing at a
distance. Three shots, in quick succession, were followed by the deepest
pause.