In a small log-cabin, a few miles above "Cottage Island," reposing upon a rude bed, on the morning of the Chalmetta's disaster, was a young and beautiful female. She was pale and in tears, evidently suffering the most excruciating mental agony. An old woman, from whose bosom her half-civilized mode of life had not entirely banished those refined sympathies which belong by intuition to her sex, was vainly striving to impart comfort.
"You ought to be thankful, ma'am, that you wan't blowed up, with the rest of the poor people," said she, kindly, attempting to turn the lady's attention from her absorbing misery.
"I had rather a thousand times have perished than fallen into the hands of the villain who rescued me," replied Emily,—it was she,—with a shudder.
"O, ma'am, they shan't hurt a hair of your head. My old man wouldn't see such a good cretur as you hurt, for all the world."
"Alas! I fear his power will not avail against this hardened villain."
"Never you fear, ma'am! Two sich popinjays as them couldn't skeer my Jerry, nohow. Besides, my son, Jim, will be back in an hour or two."
"I fear they cannot aid me."
"Yes, they can. My Jerry alone would turn 'em inside out, if they are sarcy."
"I can scarcely hope the villains—"
"Softly, lady, softly! do not be harsh!" said Harwell, entering the apartment in which Emily was, and which was the only one the cabin contained.