CHAPTER V.

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“But oh! that hapless virgin, our lost sister, Where may she wander now, whither betake her?” Comus.

Hope Leslie, on being forced into the canoe, sunk down, overpowered with terror and despair. She was roused from this state by Oneco’s loud and vehement appeals to his father, who only replied by a low, inarticulate murmur, which seemed rather an involuntary emission of his own feelings than a response to Oneco. She understood nothing but the name of Magawisca, which he often repeated, and always with a burst of vindictive feeling, as if every other emotion were lost in wrath at the treachery that had wrested her from him. As the apparent contriver and active agent in this plot, Hope felt that she must be the object of detestation and the victim of vengeance, and all that she had heard or imagined of Indian cruelties was present to her imagination; and every savage passion seemed to her to be imbodied in the figure of the old chief, when she saw his convulsed frame and features, illuminated by the fearful lightning that flashed athwart him. “It is possible,” she thought, “that Oneco may understand me;” and to him she protested her innocence, and vehemently besought his compassion. Oneco was not of a cruel nature, nor was he disposed to inflict unnecessary {86} suffering on the sister of his wife; but he was determined to retain so valuable a hostage, and his heart was steeled against her by his conviction that she had been a party to the wrong done him; he therefore turned a deaf ear to her entreaties, which her supplicating voice and gestures rendered intelligible, though he had nearly forgotten her language. He made no reply by word or sign, but continued to urge on his little bark with all his might, redoubling his vigorous strokes as the fury of the storm increased.

Hope cast a despairing eye on her receding home, which she could still mark through the murky atmosphere by the lurid flame that blazed on Beacon Hill. Friends were on every side of her, and yet no human help could reach her. She saw the faint light that gleamed from Digby’s cottage window, and, on the other hand, the dim ray that, struggling through the misty atmosphere, proceeded from the watch-tower on Castle Island. Between these lights from opposite islands, she was passing down the channel, and she inferred that Oneco’s design was to escape out of the harbour. But Heaven seemed determined to frustrate his purpose, and to show her how idle were all human hopes and fears, how vain “to cast the fashion of uncertain evils.”

The wind rose, and the darkness deepened at every moment, the occasional flashes of lightning only serving to make it more intense. Oneco tasked his skill to the utmost to guide the canoe; he strained every nerve, till, exhausted by useless efforts, he {87} dropped his oars, and awaited his resistless fate. The sublime powers of nature had no terrors for Mononotto. There was something awe-striking in the fixed, unyielding attitude of the old man, who sat as if he were carved in stone, while the blasts swept by him, and the lightnings played over him. There are few who have not, at some period of their lives, lost their consciousness of individuality--their sense of this shrinking, tremulous, sensitive being, in the dread magnificence, the “holy mystery” of nature.

Hope, even in her present extremity, forgot her fear and danger in the sublimity of the storm. When the wild flashes wrapped the bay in light, and revealed to sight the little bark leaping over the “yesty waves;” the stern figure of the old man, the graceful form of Oneco, and Hope Leslie, her eye upraised with an instinctive exaltation of feeling, she might have been taken for some bright vision from another sphere, sent to conduct her dark companions through the last tempestuous passage of life. But the triumphs of her spirit were transient; mortal danger pressed on life. A thunderbolt burst over their heads. Hope was, for a moment, stunned. The next flash showed the old man struck down senseless. Oneco shrieked, raised the lifeless body in his arms, laid his ear to the still bosom, and chafed the breast and limbs. While he was thus striving to bring back life, the storm abated; the moonbeams struggled through the parting clouds, and the canoe, driven at the mercy of the wind and tide, neared a {88} little island, and drifted on the beach. Oneco leaped out, dragged his father’s lifeless body to the turf, and renewed and redoubled his efforts to restore him; and Hope, moved by an involuntary sympathy with the distress of his child, stooped down and chafed the old man’s palms. Either from despair, or an impulse of awakened hope, Oneco suddenly uttered an exclamation, stretched himself on the body, and locked his arms around it. Hope rose to her feet, and, seeing Mononotto unconscious, and Oneco entirely absorbed in his own painful anxieties and efforts, the thought occurred to her that she might escape from her captors.

She looked at the little bark: her strength, small as it was, might avail to launch it again; and she might trust the same Providence that had just delivered her from peril, to guide her in safety over the still turbulent waters. But a danger just escaped is more fearful than one untried; and she shrunk from adventuring alone on the powerful element. The island might be inhabited. If she could gain a few moments before she was missed by Oneco, it was possible she might find protection and safety. She did not stop to deliberate; but, casting one glance at the brightening heavens, and ejaculating a prayer for aid, and ascertaining by one look at Oneco that he did not observe her, she bounded away. She fancied she heard steps pursuing her; but she pressed on, without once looking back or faltering, till she reached a slight elevation, whence she perceived, at no great distance from her, a light placed on the {89} ground, and, on approaching a little nearer, saw a man lying beside it, and, at a few paces from him, several others stretched on the grass, and, as she thought, sleeping. She now advanced cautiously and timidly till she was near enough to conclude that they were a company of sailors, who had been indulging in a lawless revel. Such, in truth, they were; the crew belonging to the vessel of the notorious Chaddock. The disorders of both master and men had given such offence to the sober citizens of Boston, that they had been prohibited from entering the town; and the men having been, on this occasion, allowed by their captain to indulge in a revel on land, they had betaken themselves to an uninhabited island, where they might give the reins to their excesses without dread of restraint or penalty. As they now appeared to the eye of our heroine, they formed a group from which a painter might have sketched the orgies of Bacchus.

Fragments of a coarse feast were strewn about them, and the ground was covered with wrecks of jugs, bottles, and mugs. Some of them had thrown off their coats and neckcloths in the heat of the day, and had lain with their throats and bosoms bared to the storm, of which they had been unconscious. Others, probably less inebriated, had been disturbed by the vivid flashes of lightning, and had turned their faces to the earth. While Hope shuddered at the sight of these brutalized wretches, and thought any fate would be better than

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“To meet the rudeness and swilled insolence Of such late wassailers,”

one of them awoke and looked up at her. He had but imperfectly recovered his senses, and he perceived her but faintly and indistinctly, as one sees an object through mist. Hope stood near him, but she stood perfectly still; for she knew, from his imbecile smile and half-articulated words, that she had nothing to fear. He laid his hand on the border of her cloak, and muttered, “St. George’s colours--Dutch flag--no, d--n me, Hanse, I say--St. George’s--St. George’s--nail them to the masthead--I say, Hanse, St. George’s--St. George’s--” and then his words died away on his tongue, and he laughed in his throat as one laughs in his sleep.

While Hope hesitated for an instant whether again to expose herself to the thraldom from which she had with such joy escaped, one of the other men, either aroused by his companion’s voice, or having outslept the fumes of the liquor, started up, and, on perceiving her, rubbed his eyes, and stared as if he doubted whether she were a vision or a reality. Hope’s first impulse was to fly; but, though confused and alarmed, she was aware that escape would be impossible if he chose to pursue, and that her only alternative was to solicit his compassion.

“Friend,” she said, in a fearful, tremulous voice, “I come to beg your aid.”

“By the Lord Harry, she speaks!” exclaimed the fellow, interrupting her; “she is a woman: wake, boys, wake!”

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The men were now roused from their slumbers: some rose to their feet, and all stared stupidly, not one, save him first awakened, having the perfect command of his senses. “If ye have the soul of a man,” said Hope, imploringly, “protect me--convey me to Boston. Any reward that you will ask or take shall be given to you.”

“There’s no reward could pay for you, honey,” replied the fellow, advancing towards her.

“In the name of God, hear me!” she cried; but the man continued to approach, with a horrid leer on his face. “Then save me, Heaven!” she screamed, and rushed towards the water. The wretch was daunted; he paused but for an instant, then calling on his comrades to join him, they all, hooting and shouting, pursued her.

Hope now felt that death was her only deliverance; if she could but reach the waves that she saw heaving and breaking on the shore--if she could but bury herself beneath them! But, though she flew as if she were borne on the wings of the wind, her pursuers gained on her. The foremost was so near that she expected at every breath his hand would grasp her, when his foot stumbled, and he fell headlong, and as he fell he snatched her cloak. By a desperate effort she extricated herself from his hold, and again darted forward. She heard him vociferate curses, and understood he was unable to rise. She cast one fearful glance behind her: she had gained on the horrid crew. “Oh! I may escape them,” she thought; and she pressed on with as {92} much eagerness to cast away life as ever was felt to save it. As she drew near the water’s edge, she perceived a boat attached to an upright post that had been driven into the earth at the extremity of a narrow stone pier. A thought like inspiration flashed into her mind; she ran to the end of the pier, leaped into the boat, uncoiled the rope that attached it to the post, and, seizing an oar, pushed it off. There was a strong tide; and the boat, as if instinct with life, and obedient to her necessities, floated rapidly from the shore. Her pursuers had now reached the water’s edge, and, finding themselves foiled, some vented their spite in jeers and hoarse laughs, and others in loud and bitter curses. Hope felt that Heaven had interposed for her; and, sinking on her knees, she clasped her hands, and breathed forth her soul in fervent thanksgivings. While she was thus absorbed, a man who had been lying in the bottom of the boat unobserved by her, and covered by various outer garments, which he had so disposed as to shelter himself from the storm, lifted up his head, and looked at her with mute amazement. He was an Italian, and belonged to the same ship’s company with the revellers on the shore; but, not inclining to their excesses, and thinking, on the approach of the storm, that some judgment was about to overtake them, he had returned to the boat, and sheltered himself there as well as he was able. When the tempest abated he had fallen asleep, his imagination probably in an excited state; and, on awaking, and seeing Hope in an attitude of devotion, he very naturally {93} mistook her for a celestial visitant. In truth, she scarcely looked like a being of this earth: her hat and gloves were gone; her hair fell in graceful disorder about her neck and shoulders, and her white dress and blue silk mantle had a saintlike simplicity. The agitating chances of the evening had scarcely left the hue of life on her cheek, and her deep sense of the presence and favour of Heaven heightened her natural beauty with a touch of religious inspiration.

“Hail, blessed Virgin Mary!” cried the Catholic Italian, bending low before her, and crossing himself; “Queen of Heaven! Gate of Paradise! and Lady of the World! O most clement, most pious, and most sweet Virgin Mary! bless thy sinful servant.” He spoke in his native tongue, of which Hope fortunately knew enough to comprehend him, and to frame a phrase in return. The earnestness of his countenance was a sure pledge of his sincerity, and Hope was half inclined to turn his superstition to her advantage; but his devotion approached so near to worship that she dared not; and she said, with the intention of dissipating his illusion, “I am not, my friend, what you imagine me to be.”

“Thou art not--thou art not--holy Queen of Virgins and of all heavenly citizens: then, most gracious lady, which of all the martyrs and saints of our holy Church art thou? Santa Catharina of Siena, the blessed bride of a holy marriage?” Hope shook her head. “Santa Helena, then, in whose church I was first signed with holy water? Nay, thou art {94} not? then art thou Santa Bibiana? or Santa Rosa? Thy beauteous hair is like that sacred lock over the altar of Santa Croce.”

“I am not any of these,” said Hope, with a smile, which the Catholic’s pious zeal extorted from her.

“Thou smilest!” he cried, exultingly; “thou art, then, my own peculiar saint, the blessed Lady Petronilla. O holy martyr! spotless mirror of purity!” and again he knelt at her feet and crossed himself. “My life! my sweetness! and my hope! to thee do I cry, a poor banished son of Eve: what wouldst thou have thy dedicated servant, Antonio Batista, to do, that thou hast, O glorious lady! followed him from our own sweet Italy to this land of heathen savages and heretic English?”

This invocation was long enough to allow our heroine time to make up her mind as to the course she should pursue with her votary. She had recoiled from the impiety of appropriating his address to the Holy Mother; but, Protestant as she was, she unhesitatingly identified herself with a Catholic saint. “Good Antonio,” she said, “I am well pleased to find thee faithful, as thou hast proved thyself by withdrawing from thy vile comrades. To take part in their excesses would but endanger thine eternal welfare: bear this in mind. Now, honest Antonio, I will put honour on thee; thou shalt do me good service. Take those oars, and ply them well till we reach yon town, where I have an errand that must be done.”

“O most blessed lady! sacred martyr, and sister {95} of mercy! who, entering into the heavenly palace, didst fill the holy angels with joy, and men with hope, I obey thee,” he said; and then, taking from his bosom a small ivory box, in which, on opening it, there appeared to be a shred of linen cloth, he added, “but first, most gracious lady, vouchsafe to bless this holy relic, taken from the linen in which thy body was enfolded, when, after it had lain a thousand years in the grave, it was raised therefrom fresh and beautiful, as it now appeareth to me.”

Our saint could not forbear a smile at this startling fact in her history; but she prudently took the box, and, unclasping a bracelet from her arm, which was fastened by a small diamond cross, she added it to the relic, whose value, though less obvious, could not be exceeded in Antonio’s estimation. “I give thee this,” she said, “Antonio, for thy spiritual and temporal necessities; and, shouldst thou ever be in extreme need, I permit thee to give it into the hand of some cunning artificer, who will extract the diamonds for thee without marring the form of the blessed cross.” Antonio received the box as if it contained the freedom of Paradise; and, replacing it in his bosom, he crossed himself again and again, repeating his invocations till his saint, apprehensive that, in his ecstasy, he would lose all remembrance of the high office for which she had selected him, gently reminded him that it was the duty of the faithful to pass promptly from devotion to obedience; on this hint he rose, took up the oars, and exercised his strength and skill with such exemplary fidelity, {96} that in less than two hours his boat touched the pier which Hope designated as the point where she would disembark.

Before she parted from her votary, she said, “I give thee my blessings and my thanks, Antonio; and I enjoin thee to say naught to thy wicked comrades of my visitation to thee; they would but jeer thee, and wound thy spirit by making thy lady their profane jest. Reserve the tale, Antonio, for the ears of the faithful, who marvel not at miracles.”

Antonio bowed in token of obedience, and, as long as Hope saw him, he remained in an attitude of profound homage.

Our heroine’s elastic spirit, ever ready to rise when pressure was removed, had enabled her to sustain her extempore character with some animation; but, as soon as she had parted from Antonio, and was no longer stimulated to exertion by the fear that his illusion might be prematurely dissipated, she felt that her strength had been overtaxed by the strange accidents and various perils of the evening. Her garments were wet and heavy, and at every step she feared another would be impossible. Her head became giddy, and faintness and weariness, to her new and strange sensations, seemed to drag her to the earth. She looked and listened in vain for some being to call to her assistance: the streets were empty and silent; and, unable to proceed, she sunk down on the steps of a warehouse, shut her eyes, and laid down her head to still its throbbings.

She had not remained thus many minutes, when {97} she was startled by a voice saying, “Ha! lady, dost _thou_ too wander alone? Is _thy_ cheek pale--_thy_ head sick--_thy_ heart fluttering? Yet thou art not guilty nor forsaken!”

Hope looked up, and perceived she was addressed by Sir Philip Gardiner’s page. She had repeatedly seen him since their first meeting; but, occupied as she had been with objects of intense interest to her, she thought not of their first singular interview, excepting when it was recalled by the supposed boy’s keen, and, as she fancied, angry glances. They seemed involuntary; for when his eye met hers, he withdrew it, and his cheek was dyed with blushes. There was now a thrilling melancholy in his tone; his eye was dim and sunken; and his apparel, usually elaborate, and somewhat fantastical, had a neglected air. His vest was open; his lace ruff, which was ordinarily arranged with a care that betrayed his consciousness how much it graced his fair, delicate throat, had now been forgotten, and the feathers of his little Spanish hat dangled over his face.

Hope Leslie was in no condition to note these particulars; but she was struck with his haggard and wretched appearance, and was alarmed when she saw him lay his hand on the hilt of a dagger that gleamed from beneath the folds of his vest.

“Do not shrink, lady,” he said; “the pure should not fear death, and I am sure the guilty need not dread it: there is nothing worse for them than they may feel walking on the fair earth, with the lights {98} of Heaven shining on them. I had this dagger of my master, and I think,” he added, with a convulsive sob, “he would not be sorry if I used it to rid him of his troublesome page.”

“Why do you not leave your master, if he is of this fiendish disposition towards you?” asked Hope: “leave him, and return to your friends.”

“Friends! friends!” he exclaimed; “the rich--the good--the happy--those born in honour have friends. I have not a friend in the wide world.”

“Poor soul!” said Hope, losing every other thought in compassion for the poor boy; and some notion of his real character and relation to Sir Philip darting into her mind, “Then leave this wretched man, and trust thyself to Heaven.”

“I am forsaken of Heaven, lady.”

“That cannot be. God never forsakes his creatures: the miserable, the guilty, from whom every face is turned away, may still go to him, and find forgiveness and peace. His compassions never fail.”

“Yes; but the guilty must forsake their sinful thoughts, and I cannot. My heart is steeped in this guilty love. If my master but looks kindly on me, or speaks one gentle word to me, I again cling to my chains and fetters.”

“Oh, this is indeed foolish and sinful; how can you love him whom you confess to be so unworthy?”

“We must love something,” replied the boy, in a faint voice, his head sinking on his bosom. “My master did love me, and nobody else ever loved me. I never knew a mother’s smile, lady, nor felt her {99} tears. I never heard a father’s voice; and do you think it so very strange that I should cling to him who was the first, the only one that ever loved me?” He paused for a moment, and looked eagerly on Hope, as if for some word of encouragement; but she made no reply, and he burst into a passionate flood of tears, and wrung his hands, saying, “Oh, yes, it is--I know it is foolish and sinful, and I try to be penitent. I say my paternosters,” he added, taking a rosary from his bosom, “and my ave-marias, but I get no heart’s ease; and by times my head is wild, and I have horrid thoughts. I have hated you, lady--you, who look so like an angel of pity on me; and this very day, when I saw Sir Philip hand you into the boat, and saw you sail away with him over the bright water so gay and laughing, I could have plunged this dagger into your bosom; and I made a solemn vow that you should not live to take the place of honour beside my master, while I was cast away a worthless being.”

“These are indeed useless vows and idle thoughts,” said Hope. “I cannot longer listen to you now, for I am very sick and weary; but do not grieve thus; come to me to-morrow, and tell me all your sorrows, and be guided by me.”

“Oh, not to-morrow!” exclaimed the boy, grasping her gown as she rose to depart; “not to-morrow; I hate the light of day; I cannot go to that great house; I have no longer courage to meet the looks of the happy, and answer their idle questions: stay now, lady, for the love of Heaven! my story is short.”

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Hope had no longer the power of deliberation; she did not even hear the last entreaty. At the first movement she made, the sensation of giddiness returned, every object seemed to swim before her, and she sunk, fainting, into Roslin’s arms. The page had now an opportunity to gratify his vindictive passions, if he had any; but his mad jealousy was a transient excitement of disordered passion, and soon gave way to the spontaneous emotions of a gentle and tender nature. He carefully sustained his burden, and while he pressed his lips to Hope’s cold brow, with an undefinable sensation of joy that he might thus approach angelic purity, he listened eagerly to the sound of footsteps, and, as they came nearer, he recognised the two Fletchers, with a company of gentlemen, guards, and sailors, whom, with the governor’s assistance, they had hastily collected to go in pursuit of our heroine.

Everell was the first to perceive her. He sprang towards her, and when he saw her colourless face and lifeless body, he uttered an exclamation of horror. All now gathered about her, listening eagerly to Roslin’s assurance that she had just fainted, complaining of sickness and extreme weariness. He, as our readers well know, could give no farther explanation of the state in which Miss Leslie was found; indeed, her friends scarcely waited for any. Everell wrapped her in his cloak, and, assisted by his father, carried her in his arms to the nearest habitation, whence she was conveyed, as soon as a carriage could be obtained, to Governor Winthrop’s.