The dejection, nay the despair, of spirit conveyed by every tone, smote Catherine to the heart; and had he possessed the art, or the will, to take advantage of the feeling which his evident desolation produced in her bosom, he might yet have won her to his purpose, and borne her afar from parent and friend. But he had neither; he heard her trembling attempts at kindly utterance, (for it was now her part to play the soother,) with apparent indifference; and even when she turned her weeping face towards him, and, in the impulse of real affection, laid her hand upon his, he drew away as with scorn or anger.
Their flight had carried them almost to the base of the mountain; and, obscure as was the night, it was plainly distinguishable at that spot where the convulsions of chaotic ages have riven it from the summit to the base, thus hollowing a pathway for a broad river under the shade of its majestic crags. As they turned from it, a pale light glistened among the pines and oaks of the eastern hill, but so faint and dim that one could scarce pronounce it the peep of day-spring. Such, however, it was; fast as had been the flight, it had been over a road where absolute rapidity is, even at this day, rather to be desired than expected; and, had she continued with the wild band, Catherine would have seen the sun steal into the sky, ere they had buried her in the savage recesses where they found their own cities of refuge.
As the day dawned, however, and long before the sun was yet seen, wreaths of mist began to curl along the mountain top, and even to creep over the river; and before they had ridden much more than a mile, it was seen rolling along these lesser uplands that give such beauty to the whole district, and settling upon the moist woodlands.
This was a circumstance which one in Hyland's situation might have deemed providential, if desirous of avoiding observation. But it is questionable whether, while brooding over his melancholy thoughts, he gave much reflection to the peril that might attend his return to the haunts of men. Peril should, at least, have been anticipated; for whatever had been the check given by the band of outlaws to the first pursuers, it was not a moment to be doubted, from the audacity of the pursuit, as well as the greatness of the outrage, that the chase would be resumed the moment the pursuers could add to their numbers. But dejected as was his spirit, he was not yet reduced to such a state of stupor as to be wholly unmindful of his safety; and of this he gave proof by suddenly halting upon a naked hill, strown over with rocks, and wholly desolate, though breathing into the mist a world of rich odour. It was, in fact, covered with a growth of sweet-fern,—a shrub around which the early thoughts of affection had shed an interest not to be attached even to the rose or violet, though henceforth that interest was to be of a melancholy and painful character. It was the hill on whose summit he had, scarce an hour before, preserved her from the grasp of a villain; though this she knew not, for the mists concealed objects from the eye, and it was not yet sunrise.
As he paused, he bent forward to listen, and drew a pistol from his saddle-bow, but instantly returned it, muttering, "It is no matter—if they take me, let it be without bloodshed."
"Herman,—Mr. Hunter, what is it?" cried Catherine. "You will not pause now?"
"Now I must, or never," he said. "You are safe,—your friends are at the bottom of the hill; and unless you would have them murder me in your sight, I must begone. Farewell, Catherine Loring: if you can be happy, God grant that you may be so. I have done you a great wrong; but I bear that in my bosom which will avenge you. Farewell, Catherine,—farewell, and for ever."
"Herman, Herman!" murmured the maiden, turning upon him a countenance of death, and gasping for utterance.
"Farewell, Catherine," he said, wringing her hand; "they are upon us. God bless you—farewell."
He rode away—it was but a step: the trample of a body of horse was now plainly heard—he looked back upon her—his countenance was bathed in tears. She stretched forth her arms, and murmuring, in a broken voice, "I will go with you—take me, Herman, take me!"—was in a moment locked in his own embrace. He snatched her from the saddle, and, as she clung to his neck, dashed the spurs into his good roan steed. Had the words been pronounced a moment earlier, nay, but an instant, he might have made his escape, and borne her off in safety. But the decision was as late as it proved to be fatal. Phoebe had already heard the trampling of the approaching horsemen, and Hyland had called them friends. She could scarce repress a cry of delight; but when, catching Catherine's last words, she looked round and beheld her, as she thought, in the act of being again snatched away, she raised her voice in a scream that was heard by the most distant of the approaching party, and was echoed by a shout coming from fifty voices.