"And you?" cried the gentleman, with an agitated voice.
"I—what matters it what I am?" said the youth; "I am neither footpad nor assassin,—let that satisfy you. What do you in this place? Cannot even conscience make you wiser? Methinks, there is not a rock or a bush in this dark den,—there should not be a rustle of the leaf or a clash of the waters, but should tell you what you should expect, when treading the soil of a Gilbert."
"If you meditate violence, young man," cried Falconer, whose agitation visibly increased, the more he regarded the figure before him, and who now spoke with an emotion amounting almost to terror, "heaven forgive you. But heaven will not—there is no pardon in store for the young man who assails the gray hairs of the old."
"False, Colonel, false!" cried the youth, with a laugh of singular bitterness, "or surely you had never lived to tell me so. There was a man of gray hairs, Colonel Falconer, who once lived among these woods, and very happily, too; but a young man struck him, and struck him to the heart, Colonel; and the young man lived to have a head as white and reverend as he whom he slew! Yet fear not; again I say, fear not: I came to save, not to kill. Hear me, and then away. Begone from this place, and begone with such speed as becomes a man flying from a loosed panther. Mount your horse and away,—away instantly; and in return for the good deed of one who has perhaps saved your life, speak not a word to any human being of what you have heard and seen in this place."
"Stay," cried Colonel Falconer, recovering from his terror, yet speaking with a choking voice, "I owe this caution to a"——
"To an enemy," cried the other, turning from him.
"Stay, I charge you,—I command you,"—and as the Colonel spoke, in a sudden revulsion of feeling, he grasped the arm of the youth, who had already placed his foot upon the fallen sycamore, for the purpose of crossing the stream. To the surprise of Colonel Falconer, he discovered that even the strength of his aged arm was superior to that of the young man, who seemed to have been enfeebled by long sickness. He struggled to release himself, but not succeeding, he turned upon his captor, and shedding tears, said,
"If you will seize me, I have no strength to resist, nor any means of defence but this—and I will not use it." As he spoke, he cast his rifle to the earth. "You have but to will it, to complete the ruin you have begun."
"Alas, young man, unhappy young man," said Colonel Falconer, "I know you, and would recompense your humanity, if such it really be. You should not, at least, perish like the rest of your mad and infatuated brothers, and yet you are rushing upon the same destruction; you have not been gently nurtured, to live the life of a bravo and outcast. I have heard of you, of your generous acts—of at least one,—nay, two; for Henry Falconer confessed you had both spared and saved his life. I can save you, young man,—I can and will;—and,—think of me as you please,—I will do it for your father's sake. You were not meant for this dreadful life, on which you are embarking."
"Such as it is," said Hyland Gilbert, picking up his rifle, for the Colonel had withdrawn his hand, "I am driven to it by you and yours. Now, Colonel Falconer," he added, leaping on the tree, "mock me no more with a sympathy I despise as much as I hate him who offers it. I am not your prisoner, and I will not be. I am weak and almost helpless—thank your son for that, and the skill that was exercised at the expense of one who had scarce ever fired a pistol in his life—I am weak, but I am armed and desperate. Follow me no further, for I trust you not. Follow me not, or be it at your peril."