"It is not a time for idle grief,
Nor a time for tears to flow;
The horror that freezes his limbs is brief—
He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf
Of darts made sharp for the foe."
BRYANT.
As might be inferred from the scenes and excitements of the preceding day, the inmates of the cottage did not seek the night's repose with the accustomed feelings of tranquility and safety. Ruth went over again in memory the events of the day, and she could not conceal from her own mind the fact that Ralph Weston was much more to her than an ordinary stranger. Having known him in youth, she had always esteemed the leading traits of his character; and she now felt that esteem ripening into a passion which bears a much more tender name.
As for Ralph, he had not needed to pass through any such excitements or dangers, as Ruth and he had that day encountered, to adjust any wavering balance of affection. He had seen enough to perfectly satisfy him that Ruth looked upon him with no indifference; and notwithstanding the preparations for defense and the unpleasant ideas which the prospect of an Indian attack would be likely to excite, he sank into a pleasant slumber, and was willingly borne off into the region of fairy dreams.
Ichabod had no such potent specific with which to drown care and reflection. The Tuscarora, and his probable object in visiting the valley—his mysterious manner during their brief conversation—were ever present to his mind; and after tossing about restlessly on his bed until nearly daylight, he arose with the resolution of seeking an explanation of the mystery. His preparations were made in silence, and without disturbing any of the inmates of the house. Throwing his rifle across his arm, and fastening into a belt which he buckled around him a large hunting-knife, he noiselessly descended into the lower part of the building.
In the gloom which pervaded the room into which Ichabod entered, it was some time before he discovered Sambo, who had been stationed there to keep watch during the night. He at length espied him, sitting in a chair before the huge fire-place, with his head bent upon his breast, in a most unmistakable attitude of slumber. Ichabod had not forgotten the grinning of the negro, at his exploits in fishing the day before, and he was willing to give him a sufficient fright to punish him a little. Advancing noiselessly towards him, he placed one hand on the top of his woolly head, and with a rapid motion of the other imitated the circular cutting used in the process of scalping, imprinting his thumb-nail with sufficient force into the skin, to give the sleeping negro a distinct impression of that disagreeable operation.
As the whole family for that night had retired to the upper part of the house, Ichabod knew that he should be able to stifle the cries of the negro, so that no one in the building would be alarmed.
The moment Sambo felt the impression of the thumb-nail on his skin, he awoke with a scream of fear; but Ichabod rapidly closed his mouth with one of his heavy hands.
"Oh gor-a-massy—massa Injin! I'm scalped. O Lor'! O Lor'!" exclaimed the negro; and in his distress he tumbled down upon the floor under the impression that he was about to give up the ghost.
Ichabod, who saw that he had carried the joke as far as safety to the negro would allow, lifted him up into the chair.
"There, you black devil! go to sleep will you, when you're on duty? You do that again, and we'll have you hung by the articles of war."