“While through the broken pane the tempest sighs,
And his step falters on the faithless floor,
Shades of departed joys around him rise,
With many a face that smiles on him no more;
With many a voice, that thrills of transport gave,
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!”
ROGERS.
Nearly a year had elapsed since the commencement of our story, and the night was cold and rainy, when two friends were regaling themselves with pipes by a comfortable fire in a small building which stood apart from the few houses at that time constituting the village of Bowling Green. This place was even then beginning to show marks of civilization, for log cabins had in many instances, been superseded by well built frame edifices, and taste and culture were now exhibited in many of their walks and gardens.
As the friends sat smoking, the wind ever and anon whistled as it hurried fitfully past, causing them to shrug up their shoulders, and draw still nearer to the fire.
“It makes me feel cold,” said Earth, “to hear the wind whistle as it does, for many and many's the time I've slept out, just sich a night as this,—and I think, Rolfe, you have had a small touch at it too.”
“Yes, Earth, but my experience is nothing in comparison with yours. I often think of the time we passed together in the woods and always with pleasure; though we have had some singular adventures. We ought to have found that girl, Earth.”
“Yes, we ought so, Rolfe; I have never felt satisfied about it. We ought to have found her, and, but for that lying Prophet, we should.”
“I think now,” said Rolfe, “that she was concealed, and that he knew it, but he deceived me at the time.”
“And would do it agin,” said Earth; “you know nothing about Ingens. He is the cause of all this fracas now, and has brought down war upon our heads. What say you, Rolfe; the governor wants volunteers; suppose we go on and take a brush; I reckon this will be about the last chance we shall have, and I am getting right rusty: I hain't killed one now for nearly a year. This business of collecting taxes, and keeping out of the woods, civilizes one mightily. I feel so slick and smooth, I hardly know myself,—what say you?”
“Why, we will talk about that another time; if there is a necessity, we will go. But I am thinking of something else. Earth, the idea will sometimes come across my mind, that the girl who was captured, is the same I once loved.”
“It is all nonsense, Rolfe, you are nation hard to satisfy,—didn't that letter from Petersburg put it all straight?”