“No, Richard! I will go before you. I must go to prevent outrage. I must show to Dunbar that Frederica is your wife. It is my duty to testify in this proceeding. I am the first witness.”
“But your peril, Elijah! He will become furious as a wild beast when he hears. He will proceed to the most desperate excesses.”
“It will be for you to interpose at the proper moment. You must be at hand. As for me, I doubt if there will be much if any peril. I will go unarmed. Dunbar, while he knows that I am with you, does not know that I have ever lifted weapon in the cause. He will probably respect my profession. At all events, I must interpose and save him from a great sin, and a cruel and useless violence. When he knows that Frederica is irrevocably married, he will probably give up the pursuit. If Brough’s intelligence be true, he must know it now or never.”
“Be it so;” said Coulter. “And now that you have made your determination, I will make mine. The odds are desperate, so desperate, indeed, that I build my hope somewhat on that very fact. Dunbar knows my feebleness, and does not fear me. I must effect a surprise. If we can do this, with the first advantage, we will make a rush, and club rifles. Do you go up in the dug-out, and alone, while we make a circuit by land. We can be all ready in five minutes, and perhaps we should set out at once.”
“Right!” answered the preacher; “but are you equal to the struggle, Richard?”
The young man upheaved his powerful bulk, and leaping up to the bough which spread over him, grasped the extended limb with a single hand, and drew himself across it.
“Good!” was the reply. “But you are still stiff. I have seen you do it much more easily. Still you will do, if you will only economise your breath. There is one preparation first to be made, Richard. Call up the men.”
They were summoned with a single, shrill whistle, and Coulter soon put them in possession of the adventure that lay before them. It needed neither argument nor entreaty to persuade them into a declaration of readiness for the encounter. Their enthusiasm was grateful to their leader whom they personally loved.
“And now, my brethren,” said Elijah Fields, “I am about to leave you, and we are all about to engage in a work of peril. We know not what will happen. We know not that we shall meet again. It is proper only that we should confess our sins to God, and invoke his mercy and protection. My brothers—let us pray!”
With these words, the party sunk upon their knees, Brough placing himself behind Coulter. Fervent and simple was the prayer of the preacher—inartificial but highly touching. Our space does not suffer us to record it, or to describe the scene, so simple, yet so imposing. The eyes of the rough men were moistened, their hearts softened, yet strengthened. They rose firm and resolute to meet the worst issues of life and death, and, embracing each of them in turn, Brough not excepted, Elijah Fields led the way to the enemy, by embarking alone in the canoe. Coulter, with his party, soon followed, taking the route through the forest.