"The assassin, Captain?" cried the young officer, as he leaped upon his horse, his sister having been already, almost without any exercise of her own will, thrust into the carriage, and the door secured. "Quick, Phil, you scoundrel, will you never have done strapping?—The assassin, Captain! oh yes, the assassin!—Remember the description—tall man, lantern-jawed, white horse, with a dappled near fore-leg, a black coat, and preaches!"
"Hah!" cried Captain Loring, with a shout of triumph, "saw the rascal, and meant to arrest him, but couldn't stand his sermons! I couldn't, by the lord!—Your horse, Phil! your horse! doctor, I'll take yours!—Whoop, Harry, you dog! down to the old witch's, and we'll nab him yet!"
While the Captain gave utterance to these expressions, he seized upon the nearest horse, and mounted him—a feat, that nothing but the frenzy of his enthusiasm could have urged him to attempt; for his infirmity had almost altogether incapacitated him from riding, save at the gentlest pace. But the recollection of the zealous Nehemiah, the assassin of his friend, now sheltered under a roof that he fancied, in the ardour of the moment, he could almost touch with his hand—and that holy impostor a villain so notorious and redoubted as the chief Hawk of the Hollow!—the fiery conception scattered his years and infirmities to the winds, and in an instant he was astride the beast of mettle, galloping over the park at full speed, followed by the two soldiers, as soon as they comprehended the meaning of his words—by the coach, which the venerable Richard set in motion upon an impulse of his own—and by some half a dozen of the male loungers, some on foot, some on horse, and all fired with the prospect of capturing a foe so famous and so deeply abhorred.
The pale gibbering ghosts, that start in affright at the magical alarum of the early chanticleer, could not have vanished from their doleful divan with a more impetuous haste, than did full two-thirds of those human beings from the mansion, who had given such life to it a moment before. In an instant, as it seemed, the hall was left to solitude; and the rough stranger, who still sustained the mangled frame of the painter, and had stood staring in astonishment at a scene so unexpected and confounding, had some reason to fear he was left to relieve the sufferings of his charge as he could, and to relieve them alone. A dark frown gathered over his visage, as he beheld the crowd rush away almost without bestowing a look upon his piteous burthen, or upon him; and he was about to mutter his indignation aloud, when it was pacified by a husky voice exclaiming in his ear,
"Hum, hah! bless my soul! what, drowned, eh? is the gentleman drowned? a case of suspended animation?—Hillo, Jingleum, stop! Come back, Pepperel! 'Pon my soul, 'tis the identical red-jacket we saw at the Rest! Why, what the devil's all this?—Beg pardon, Miss Loring!—Bless my soul, I hope you ain't hurt? Blood about your sleeve, and look very pale and nervous! A little wine, with"——
"Think not of me, doctor," replied Catherine. "Attend to the young gentleman. This dreadful surprise and the hurry of my father—it will explain all, and excuse all. Aunt Rachel will show you a chamber: command every thing—every thing shall be done that you order. Hasten, doctor, pray hasten, and relieve the young gentleman's sufferings. Gentlemen, pray give your assistance to this good man, and heaven—yes, heaven will crown your exertions with success!"
With these hurried expressions, and still more earnest gestures, the young lady gave an impulse to the group now gathered about the wounded man, and he was immediately carried into the house and out of her sight.
"Oh, Miss Katy,—beg pardon—that's to say, Miss Catherine," cried a buxom, blubbering damsel, whose quavering treble had borne a distinguished part in the late din of voices, and who had no sooner laid eyes on the young lady, which she did as soon as the tumult was over, than she ran bustling hysterically to her side,—"never saw you in such a pucker! hope we shan't all be murdered. Such dreadful contractions were never heard of—great big hole in your sleeve—the Gilberts all come to life again, and will murder us as sure as we live!"
"Be quiet, Phoebe—come with me to my chamber—I don't think he will die!"
"Hope not, Miss Katy,—that's Miss Catherine; but they shot him right through the head with a blunderbush, and slashed him to pieces with a baggonet. Oh, the cruel murderers! And Philip, the yellow boy, says——Lor' 'a' mercy! Miss Katy, what's the matter?"