That part of the State of New York in which the first scenes of this life drama are laid, was a country at this time cut up and diversified by numerous streams—the greater number of comparatively small size, but a few of considerable magnitude. Skirting and between these were thousands of acres of thick luxuriant forest, while in some places were plains of great extent entirely devoid of timber.
It was about the middle of the day referred to, that a single horseman was slowly skirting one of these open patches of country, a few miles distant from Haverland’s home. A mere glance would have shown that he had come a great distance, and both he and the animal he bestrode were jaded and well-nigh worn out. He was a young man, some twenty or twenty-five years of age, attired in the costume of a hunter; and, although fatigued with his long ride, the watchfulness of his motions would have shown any one that he was no stranger to frontier life. He was rather prepossessing in appearance—had fine dark eyes, curly hair and whiskers, an expressive Roman nose, and small and finely formed mouth. In front, a long polished rifle rested across the saddle ready for use at a second’s warning. His horse’s sides were steaming and foamy, and the animal made his way along with painfully evident weariness.
As the day waned, the traveler looked about him with more interest and eagerness. He carefully examined the streams he crossed, and the pieces of woods, as though searching for some landmark or habitation. At length he manifested a pleasure in what he saw, as though the signs were as he wished, and hurried the lagging steps of his animal.
“Yes,” said he to himself, “the woodman’s house can not be far from this. I remember this stream, and that wood yonder. I shall then be able to reach it by night. Come, my good horse, go ahead with better spirits, for you are near your journey’s end.”
A short time after, he crossed a small stream that dashed and foamed over its rocky bed, and entered the broad tract which led to the clearing in front of Haverland’s door. But although he had a tolerably correct idea of his situation, he had sadly miscalculated the distance. It was already dusk when he struck the stream several miles above where we have seen the fugitives take it. This river, or creek, he knew led directly by the cabin he was seeking, and he determined to keep it until he had reached his destination. His progress was now quite tardy, from being often obliged to pass around the thick undergrowth which lined the river; and, when he reached a point that he knew was a mile distant from Haverland’s cabin, it was far in the night.
“Come, my good horse, we have had a longer tramp than I expected, but we are now very near the termination of our journey. Heigh! what does that mean?”
The last exclamation, or question, was caused by seeing directly ahead of him, a bright lurid glare shot high into the heavens.
“Can it be that the woodman’s house is fired? Impossible! and yet that is the precise spot. Heavens! something is wrong!”
Agitated by strong and painful emotions, Everard Graham (such was his name) now hurried his horse toward the spot from which the light emanated. In a short time he had proceeded as far as he dared with his horse, then dismounting, he tied him, and made his way cautiously forward on foot. The light was so strong that he found it necessary to pick his way with the greatest care.
A few moments sufficed to show him all.