“No, no, no—poor, dear, dear Hetty!” exclaimed Judith, in an uncontrollable burst of sorrow, “I, at least, will ever think of you; and gladly, oh! how gladly would I exchange places with you, to be the pure, excellent, sinless creature you are!”
Until now, Captain Warley had stood leaning against the door of the cabin; when this outbreak of feeling, and perchance of penitence, however, escaped the beautiful girl, he walked slowly and thoughtfully away; even passing the ensign, then suffering under the surgeon's care, without noticing him.
“I have got my Bible here, Judith,” returned her sister in a voice of triumph. “It's true, I can't read any longer, there's something the matter with my eyes—you look dim and distant—and so does Hurry, now I look at him—well, I never could have believed that Henry March would have so dull a look! What can be the reason, Judith, that I see so badly, today? I, who mother always said had the best eyes in the whole family. Yes, that was it: my mind was feeble—what people call half-witted—but my eyes were so good!”
Again Judith groaned; this time no feeling of self, no retrospect of the past caused the pain. It was the pure, heartfelt sorrow of sisterly love, heightened by a sense of the meek humility and perfect truth of the being before her. At that moment, she would gladly have given up her own life to save that of Hetty. As the last, however, was beyond the reach of human power, she felt there was nothing left her but sorrow. At this moment Warley returned to the cabin, drawn by a secret impulse he could not withstand, though he felt, just then, as if he would gladly abandon the American continent forever, were it practicable. Instead of pausing at the door, he now advanced so near the pallet of the sufferer as to come more plainly within her gaze. Hetty could still distinguish large objects, and her look soon fastened on him.
“Are you the officer that came with Hurry?” she asked. “If you are, we ought all to thank you, for, though I am hurt, the rest have saved their lives. Did Harry March tell you, where to find us, and how much need there was for your services?”
“The news of the party reached us by means of a friendly runner,” returned the Captain, glad to relieve his feelings by this appearance of a friendly communication, “and I was immediately sent out to cut it off. It was fortunate, certainly, that we met Hurry Harry, as you call him, for he acted as a guide, and it was not less fortunate that we heard a firing, which I now understand was merely a shooting at the mark, for it not only quickened our march, but called us to the right side of the lake. The Delaware saw us on the shore, with the glass it would seem, and he and Hist, as I find his squaw is named, did us excellent service. It was really altogether a fortunate concurrence of circumstances, Judith.”
“Talk not to me of any thing fortunate, sir,” returned the girl huskily, again concealing her face. “To me the world is full of misery. I wish never to hear of marks, or rifles, or soldiers, or men, again!”
“Do you know my sister?” asked Hetty, ere the rebuked soldier had time to rally for an answer. “How came you to know that her name is Judith? You are right, for that is her name; and I am Hetty; Thomas Hutter's daughters.”
“For heaven's sake, dearest sister; for my sake, beloved Hetty,” interposed Judith, imploringly, “say no more of this!”
Hetty looked surprised, but accustomed to comply, she ceased her awkward and painful interrogations of Warley, bending her eyes towards the Bible which she still held between her hands, as one would cling to a casket of precious stones in a shipwreck, or a conflagration. Her mind now adverted to the future, losing sight, in a great measure, of the scenes of the past.