Roger Malvin's Burial

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

　　One of the few incidents of Indian warfare naturally susceptibleof the moonlight of romance was that expedition undertaken forthe defence of the frontiers in the year 1725, which resulted inthe well-remembered "Lovell's Fight." Imagination, by castingcertain circumstances judicially into the shade, may see much toadmire in the heroism of a little band who gave battle to twicetheir number in the heart of the enemy's country. The openbravery displayed by both parties was in accordance withcivilized ideas of valor; and chivalry itself might not blush torecord the deeds of one or two individuals. The battle, though sofatal to those who fought, was not unfortunate in itsconsequences to the country; for it broke the strength of a tribeand conduced to the peace which subsisted during several ensuingyears. History and tradition are unusually minute in theirmemorials of their affair; and the captain of a scouting party offrontier men has acquired as actual a military renown as many avictorious leader of thousands. Some of the incidents containedin the following pages will be recognized, notwithstanding thesubstitution of fictitious names, by such as have heard, from oldmen's lips, the fate of the few combatants who were in acondition to retreat after "Lovell's Fight."

　　. . . . . . . . .

　　The early sunbeams hovered cheerfully upon the tree-tops, beneathwhich two weary and wounded men had stretched their limbs thenight before. Their bed of withered oak leaves was strewn uponthe small level space, at the foot of a rock, situated near thesummit of one of the gentle swells by which the face of thecountry is there diversified. The mass of granite, rearing itssmooth, flat surface fifteen or twenty feet above their heads,was not unlike a gigantic gravestone, upon which the veins seemedto form an inscription in forgotten characters. On a tract ofseveral acres around this rock, oaks and other hard-wood treeshad supplied the place of the pines, which were the usual growthof the land; and a young and vigorous sapling stood close besidethe travellers.

　　The severe wound of the elder man had probably deprived him ofsleep; for, so soon as the first ray of sunshine rested on thetop of the highest tree, he reared himself painfully from hisrecumbent posture and sat erect. The deep lines of hiscountenance and the scattered gray of his hair marked him as pastthe middle age; but his muscular frame would, but for the effectof his wound, have been as capable of sustaining fatigue as inthe early vigor of life. Languor and exhaustion now sat upon hishaggard features; and the despairing glance which he sent forwardthrough the depths of the forest proved his own conviction thathis pilgrimage was at an end. He next turned his eyes to thecompanion who reclined by his side. The youth--for he hadscarcely attained the years of manhood--lay, with his head uponhis arm, in the embrace of an unquiet sleep, which a thrill ofpain from his wounds seemed each moment on the point of breaking.His right hand grasped a musket; and, to judge from the violentaction of his features, his slumbers were bringing back a visionof the conflict of which he was one of the few survivors. Ashout deep and loud in his dreaming fancy--found its way in animperfect murmur to his lips; and, starting even at the slightsound of his own voice, he suddenly awoke. The first act ofreviving recollection was to make anxious inquiries respectingthe condition of his wounded fellow-traveller. The latter shookhis head.

　　"Reuben, my boy," said he, "this rock beneath which we sit willserve for an old hunter's gravestone. There is many and many along mile of howling wilderness before us yet; nor would it availme anything if the smoke of my own chimney were but on the otherside of that swell of land. The Indian bullet was deadlier than Ithought."

　　"You are weary with our three days' travel," replied the youth,"and a little longer rest will recruit you. Sit you here while Isearch the woods for the herbs and roots that must be oursustenance; and, having eaten, you shall lean on me, and we willturn our faces homeward. I doubt not that, with my help, you canattain to some one of the frontier garrisons."

　　"There is not two days' life in me, Reuben," said the other,calmly, "and I will no longer burden you with my useless body,when you can scarcely support your own. Your wounds are deep andyour strength is failing fast; yet, if you hasten onward alone,you may be preserved. For me there is no hope, and I will awaitdeath here."

　　"If it must be so, I will remain and watch by you," said Reuben,resolutely

　　"No, my son, no," rejoined his companion. "Let the wish of adying man have weight with you; give me one grasp of your hand,and get you hence. Think you that my last moments will be easedby the thought that I leave you to die a more lingering death? Ihave loved you like a father, Reuben; and at a time like this Ishould have something of a father's authority. I charge you to begone that I may die in peace."

　　"And because you have been a father to me, should I thereforeleave you to perish and to lie unburied in the wilderness?"exclaimed the youth. "No; if your end be in truth approaching, Iwill watch by you and receive your parting words. I will dig agrave here by the rock, in which, if my weakness overcome me, wewill rest together; or, if Heaven gives me strength, I will seekmy way home."

　　"In the cities and wherever men dwell," replied the other, "theybury their dead in the earth; they hide them from the sight ofthe living; but here, where no step may pass perhaps for ahundred years, wherefore should I not rest beneath the open sky,covered only by the oak leaves when the autumn winds shall strewthem? And for a monument, here is this gray rock, on which mydying hand shall carve the name of Roger Malvin, and thetraveller in days to come will know that here sleeps a hunter anda warrior. Tarry not, then, for a folly like this, but hastenaway, if not for your own sake, for hers who will else bedesolate.'

　　Malvin spoke the last few words in a faltering voice, and theireffect upon his companion was strongly visible. They reminded himthat there were other and less questionable duties than that ofsharing the fate of a man whom his death could not benefit. Norcan it be affirmed that no selfish feeling strove to enterReuben's heart, though the consciousness made him more earnestlyresist his companion's entreaties.

　　"How terrible to wait the slow approach of death in thissolitude!" exclaimed he. "A brave man does not shrink in thebattle; and, when friends stand round the bed, even women may diecomposedly; but here--"

　　"I shall not shrink even here, Reuben Bourne," interruptedMalvin. "I am a man of no weak heart, and, if I were, there is asurer support than that of earthly friends. You are young, andlife is dear to you. Your last moments will need comfort far morethan mine; and when you have laid me in the earth, and are alone,and night is settling on the forest, you will feel all thebitterness of the death that may now be escaped. But I will urgeno selfish motive to your generous nature. Leave me for my sake,that, having said a prayer for your safety, I may have space tosettle my account undisturbed by worldly sorrows."

　　"And your daughter,--how shall I dare to meet her eye?" exclaimedReuben. "She will ask the fate of her father, whose life I vowedto defend with my own. Must I tell her that he travelled threedays' march with me from the field of battle and that then I lefthim to perish in the wilderness? Were it not better to lie downand die by your side than to return safe and say this to Dorcas?"

　　"Tell my daughter," said Roger Malvin, "that, though yourselfsore wounded, and weak, and weary, you led my tottering footstepsmany a mile, and left me only at my earnest entreaty, because Iwould not have your blood upon my soul. Tell her that throughpain and danger you were faithful, and that, if your lifebloodcould have saved me, it would have flowed to its last drop; andtell her that you will be something dearer than a father, andthat my blessing is with you both, and that my dying eyes can seea long and pleasant path in which you will journey together."

　　As Malvin spoke he almost raised himself from the ground, and theenergy of his concluding words seemed to fill the wild and lonelyforest with a vision of happiness; but, when he sank exhaustedupon his bed of oak leaves, the light which had kindled inReuben's eye was quenched. He felt as if it were both sin andfolly to think of happiness at such a moment. His companionwatched his changing countenance, and sought with generous art towile him to his own good.

　　"Perhaps I deceive myself in regard to the time I have to live,"he resumed. "It may be that, with speedy assistance, I mightrecover of my wound. The foremost fugitives must, ere this, havecarried tidings of our fatal battle to the frontiers, and partieswill be out to succor those in like condition with ourselves.Should you meet one of these and guide them hither, who can tellbut that I may sit by my own fireside again?"

　　A mournful smile strayed across the features of the dying man ashe insinuated that unfounded hope,--which, however, was notwithout its effect on Reuben. No merely selfish motive, nor eventhe desolate condition of Dorcas, could have induced him todesert his companion at such a moment--but his wishes seized onthe thought that Malvin's life might be preserved, and hissanguine nature heightened almost to certainty the remotepossibility of procuring human aid.

　　"Surely there is reason, weighty reason, to hope that friends arenot far distant," he said, half aloud. "There fled one coward,unwounded, in the beginning of the fight, and most probably hemade good speed. Every true man on the frontier would shoulderhis musket at the news; and, though no party may range so farinto the woods as this, I shall perhaps encounter them in oneday's march. Counsel me faithfully," he added, turning to Malvin,in distrust of his own motives. "Were your situation mine, wouldyou desert me while life remained?"

　　"It is now twenty years," replied Roger Malvin,--sighing,however, as he secretly acknowledged the wide dissimilaritybetween the two cases,-"it is now twenty years since I escapedwith one dear friend from Indian captivity near Montreal. Wejourneyed many days through the woods, till at length overcomewith hunger and weariness, my friend lay down and besought me toleave him; for he knew that, if I remained, we both must perish;and, with but little hope of obtaining succor, I heaped a pillowof dry leaves beneath his head and hastened on."

　　"And did you return in time to save him?" asked Reuben, hangingon Malvin's words as if they were to be prophetic of his ownsuccess.

　　"I did," answered the other. "I came upon the camp of a huntingparty before sunset of the same day. I guided them to the spotwhere my comrade was expecting death; and he is now a hale andhearty man upon his own farm, far within the frontiers, while Ilie wounded here in the depths of the wilderness."

　　This example, powerful in affecting Reuben's decision, was aided,unconsciously to himself, by the hidden strength of many anothermotive. Roger Malvin perceived that the victory was nearly won.

　　"Now, go, my son, and Heaven prosper you!" he said. "Turn notback with your friends when you meet them, lest your wounds andweariness overcome you; but send hitherward two or three, thatmay be spared, to search for me; and believe me, Reuben, my heartwill be lighter with every step you take towards home." Yet therewas, perhaps, a change both in his countenance and voice as hespoke thus; for, after all, it was a ghastly fate to be leftexpiring in the wilderness.

　　Reuben Bourne, but half convinced that he was acting rightly, atlength raised himself from the ground and prepared himself forhis departure. And first, though contrary to Malvin's wishes, hecollected a stock of roots and herbs, which had been their onlyfood during the last two days. This useless supply he placedwithin reach of the dying man, for whom, also, he swept togethera bed of dry oak leaves. Then climbing to the summit of the rock,which on one side was rough and broken, he bent the oak saplingdownward, and bound his handkerchief to the topmost branch. Thisprecaution was not unnecessary to direct any who might come insearch of Malvin; for every part of the rock, except its broad,smooth front, was concealed at a little distance by the denseundergrowth of the forest. The handkerchief had been the bandageof a wound upon Reuben's arm; and, as he bound it to the tree, hevowed by the blood that stained it that he would return, eitherto save his companion's life or to lay his body in the grave. Hethen descended, and stood, with downcast eyes, to receive RogerMalvin's parting words.

　　The experience of the latter suggested much and minute advicerespecting the youth's journey through the trackless forest. Uponthis subject he spoke with calm earnestness, as if he weresending Reuben to the battle or the chase while he himselfremained secure at home, and not as if the human countenance thatwas about to leave him were the last he would ever behold. Buthis firmness was shaken before he concluded.

　　"Carry my blessing to Dorcas, and say that my last prayer shallbe for her and you. Bid her to have no hard thoughts because youleft me here," --Reuben's heart smote him,--"for that your lifewould not have weighed with you if its sacrifice could have doneme good. She will marry you after she has mourned a little whilefor her father; and Heaven grant you long and happy days, and mayyour children's children stand round your death bed! And,Reuben," added he, as the weakness of mortality made its way atlast, "return, when your wounds are healed and your wearinessrefreshed,--return to this wild rock, and lay my bones in thegrave, and say a prayer over them."

　　An almost superstitious regard, arising perhaps from the customsof the Indians, whose war was with the dead as well as theliving, was paid by the frontier inhabitants to the rites ofsepulture; and there are many instances of the sacrifice of lifein the attempt to bury those who had fallen by the "sword of thewilderness." Reuben, therefore, felt the full importance of thepromise which he most solemnly made to return and perform RogerMalvin's obsequies. It was remarkable that the latter, speakinghis whole heart in his parting words, no longer endeavored topersuade the youth that even the speediest succor might avail tothe preservation of his life. Reuben was internally convincedthat he should see Malvin's living face no more. His generousnature would fain have delayed him, at whatever risk, till thedying scene were past; but the desire of existence and the hopeof happiness had strengthened in his heart, and he was unable toresist them.

　　"It is enough," said Roger Malvin, having listened to Reuben'spromise. "Go, and God speed you!"

　　The youth pressed his hand in silence, turned, and was departing.His slow and faltering steps, however, had borne him but a littleway before Malvin's voice recalled him.

　　"Reuben, Reuben," said he, faintly; and Reuben returned and kneltdown by the dying man.

　　"Raise me, and let me lean against the rock," was his lastrequest. "My face will be turned towards home, and I shall seeyou a moment longer as you pass among the trees."

　　Reuben, having made the desired alteration in his companion'sposture, again began his solitary pilgrimage. He walked morehastily at first than was consistent with his strength; for asort of guilty feeling, which sometimes torments men in theirmost justifiable acts, caused him to seek concealment fromMalvin's eyes; but after he had trodden far upon the rustlingforest leaves he crept back, impelled by a wild and painfulcuriosity, and, sheltered by the earthy roots of an uptorn tree,gazed earnestly at the desolate man. The morning sun wasunclouded, and the trees and shrubs imbibed the sweet air of themonth of May; yet there seemed a gloom on Nature's face, as ifshe sympathized with mortal pain and sorrow Roger Malvin's handswere uplifted in a fervent prayer, some of the words of whichstole through the stillness of the woods and entered Reuben'sheart, torturing it with an unutterable pang. They were thebroken accents of a petition for his own happiness and that ofDorcas; and, as the youth listened, conscience, or something inits similitude, pleaded strongly with him to return and lie downagain by the rock. He felt how hard was the doom of the kind andgenerous being whom he had deserted in his extremity. Death wouldcome like the slow approach of a corpse, stealing graduallytowards him through the forest, and showing its ghastly andmotionless features from behind a nearer and yet a nearer tree.But such must have been Reuben's own fate had he tarried anothersunset; and who shall impute blame to him if he shrink from souseless a sacrifice? As he gave a parting look, a breeze wavedthe little banner upon the sapling oak and reminded Reuben of hisvow.

　　. . . . . . . . . . .Many circumstances combined to retard the wounded traveller inhis way to the frontiers. On the second day the clouds, gatheringdensely over the sky, precluded the possibility of regulating hiscourse by the position of the sun; and he knew not but that everyeffort of his almost exhausted strength was removing him fartherfrom the home he sought. His scanty sustenance was supplied bythe berries and other spontaneous products of the forest. Herdsof deer, it is true, sometimes bounded past him, and partridgesfrequently whirred up before his footsteps; but his ammunitionhad been expended in the fight, and he had no means of slayingthem. His wounds, irritated by the constant exertion in which laythe only hope of life, wore away his strength and at intervalsconfused his reason. But, even in the wanderings of intellect,Reuben's young heart clung strongly to existence; and it was onlythrough absolute incapacity of motion that he at last sank downbeneath a tree, compelled there to await death.

　　In this situation he was discovered by a party who, upon thefirst intelligence of the fight, had been despatched to therelief of the survivors. They conveyed him to the nearestsettlement, which chanced to be that of his own residence.

　　Dorcas, in the simplicity of the olden time, watched by thebedside of her wounded lover, and administered all those comfortsthat are in the sole gift of woman's heart and hand. Duringseveral days Reuben's recollection strayed drowsily among theperils and hardships through which he had passed, and he wasincapable of returning definite answers to the inquiries withwhich many were eager to harass him. No authentic particulars ofthe battle had yet been circulated; nor could mothers, wives, andchildren tell whether their loved ones were detained by captivityor by the stronger chain of death. Dorcas nourished herapprehensions in silence till one afternoon when Reuben awokefrom an unquiet sleep, and seemed to recognize her more perfectlythan at any previous time. She saw that his intellect had becomecomposed, and she could no longer restrain her filial anxiety.

　　"My father, Reuben?" she began; but the change in her lover'scountenance made her pause.

　　The youth shrank as if with a bitter pain, and the blood gushedvividly into his wan and hollow cheeks. His first impulse was tocover his face; but, apparently with a desperate effort, he halfraised himself and spoke vehemently, defending himself against animaginary accusation.

　　"Your father was sore wounded in the battle, Dorcas; and he bademe not burden myself with him, but only to lead him to thelakeside, that he might quench his thirst and die. But I wouldnot desert the old man in his extremity, and, though bleedingmyself, I supported him; I gave him half my strength, and led himaway with me. For three days we journeyed on together, and yourfather was sustained beyond my hopes, but, awaking at sunrise onthe fourth day, I found him faint and exhausted; he was unable toproceed; his life had ebbed away fast; and--"

　　"He died!" exclaimed Dorcas, faintly.

　　Reuben felt it impossible to acknowledge that his selfish love oflife had hurried him away before her father's fate was decided.He spoke not; he only bowed his head; and, between shame andexhaustion, sank back and hid his face in the pillow. Dorcas weptwhen her fears were thus confirmed; but the shock, as it had beenlong anticipated. was on that account the less violent.

　　"You dug a grave for my poor father in the wilderness, Reuben?"was the question by which her filial piety manifested itself.

　　"My hands were weak; but I did what I could," replied the youthin a smothered tone. "There stands a noble tombstone above hishead; and I would to Heaven I slept as soundly as he!"

　　Dorcas, perceiving the wildness of his latter words, inquired nofurther at the time; but her heart found ease in the thought thatRoger Malvin had not lacked such funeral rites as it was possibleto bestow. The tale of Reuben's courage and fidelity lost nothingwhen she communicated it to her friends; and the poor youth,tottering from his sick chamber to breathe the sunny air,experienced from every tongue the miserable and humiliatingtorture of unmerited praise. All acknowledged that he mightworthily demand the hand of the fair maiden to whose father hehad been "faithful unto death;" and, as my tale is not of love,it shall suffice to say that in the space of a few months Reubenbecame the husband of Dorcas Malvin. During the marriage ceremonythe bride was covered with blushes, but the bridegroom's face waspale.

　　There was now in the breast of Reuben Bourne an incommunicablethought--something which he was to conceal most heedfully fromher whom he most loved and trusted. He regretted, deeply andbitterly, the moral cowardice that had restrained his words whenhe was about to disclose the truth to Dorcas; but pride, the fearof losing her affection, the dread of universal scorn, forbadehim to rectify this falsehood. He felt that for leaving RogerMalvin he deserved no censure. His presence, the gratuitoussacrifice of his own life, would have added only another and aneedless agony to the last moments of the dying man; butconcealment had imparted to a justifiable act much of the secreteffect of guilt; and Reuben, while reason told him that he haddone right, experienced in no small degree the mental horrorswhich punish the perpetrator of undiscovered crime. By a certainassociation of ideas, he at times almost imagined himself amurderer. For years, also, a thought would occasionally recur,which, though he perceived all its folly and extravagance, he hadnot power to banish from his mind. It was a haunting andtorturing fancy that his father-in-law was yet sitting at thefoot of the rock, on the withered forest leaves, alive, andawaiting his pledged assistance. These mental deceptions,however, came and went, nor did he ever mistake them forrealities: but in the calmest and clearest moods of his mind hewas conscious that he had a deep vow unredeemed, and that anunburied corpse was calling to him out of the wilderness. Yetsuch was the consequence of his prevarication that he could notobey the call. It was now too late to require the assistance ofRoger Malvin's friends in performing his long-deferred sepulture;and superstitious fears, of which none were more susceptible thanthe people of the outward settlements, forbade Reuben to goalone. Neither did he know where in the pathless and illimitableforest to seek that smooth and lettered rock at the base of whichthe body lay: his remembrance of every portion of his travelthence was indistinct, and the latter part had left no impressionupon his mind. There was, however, a continual impulse, a voiceaudible only to himself, commanding him to go forth and redeemhis vow; and he had a strange impression that, were he to makethe trial, he would be led straight to Malvin's bones. But yearafter year that summons, unheard but felt, was disobeyed. His onesecret thought became like a chain binding down his spirit andlike a serpent gnawing into his heart; and he was transformedinto a sad and downcast yet irritable man.

　　In the course of a few years after their marriage changes beganto be visible in the external prosperity of Reuben and Dorcas.The only riches of the former had been his stout heart and strongarm; but the latter, her father's sole heiress, had made herhusband master of a farm, under older cultivation, larger, andbetter stocked than most of the frontier establishments. ReubenBourne, however, was a neglectful husbandman; and, while thelands of the other settlers became annually more fruitful, hisdeteriorated in the same proportion. The discouragements toagriculture were greatly lessened by the cessation of Indian war,during which men held the plough in one hand and the musket inthe other, and were fortunate if the products of their dangerouslabor were not destroyed, either in the field or in the barn, bythe savage enemy. But Reuben did not profit by the alteredcondition of the country; nor can it be denied that his intervalsof industrious attention to his affairs were but scantilyrewarded with success. The irritability by which he had recentlybecome distinguished was another cause of his decliningprosperity, as it occasioned frequent quarrels in his unavoidableintercourse with the neighboring settlers. The results of thesewere innumerable lawsuits; for the people of New England, in theearliest stages and wildest circumstances of the country,adopted, whenever attainable, the legal mode of deciding theirdifferences. To be brief, the world did not go well with ReubenBourne; and, though not till many years after his marriage, hewas finally a ruined man, with but one remaining expedientagainst the evil fate that had pursued him. He was to throwsunlight into some deep recess of the forest, and seeksubsistence from the virgin bosom of the wilderness.

　　The only child of Reuben and Dorcas was a son, now arrived at theage of fifteen years, beautiful in youth, and giving promise of aglorious manhood. He was peculiarly qualified for, and alreadybegan to excel in, the wild accomplishments of frontier life. Hisfoot was fleet, his aim true, his apprehension quick, his heartglad and high; and all who anticipated the return of Indian warspoke of Cyrus Bourne as a future leader in the land. The boy wasloved by his father with a deep and silent strength, as ifwhatever was good and happy in his own nature had beentransferred to his child, carrying his affections with it. EvenDorcas, though loving and beloved, was far less dear to him; forReuben's secret thoughts and insulated emotions had graduallymade him a selfish man, and he could no longer love deeply exceptwhere he saw or imagined some reflection or likeness of his ownmind. In Cyrus he recognized what he had himself been in otherdays; and at intervals he seemed to partake of the boy's spirit,and to be revived with a fresh and happy life. Reuben wasaccompanied by his son in the expedition, for the purpose ofselecting a tract of land and felling and burning the timber,which necessarily preceded the removal of the household gods. Twomonths of autumn were thus occupied, after which Reuben Bourneand his young hunter returned to spend their last winter in thesettlements.

　　. . . . . . . . . . .It was early in the month of May that the little family snappedasunder whatever tendrils of affections had clung to inanimateobjects, and bade farewell to the few who, in the blight offortune, called themselves their friends. The sadness of theparting moment had, to each of the pilgrims, its peculiaralleviations. Reuben, a moody man, and misanthropic becauseunhappy, strode onward with his usual stern brow and downcasteye, feeling few regrets and disdaining to acknowledge any.Dorcas, while she wept abundantly over the broken ties by whichher simple and affectionate nature had bound itself toeverything, felt that the inhabitants of her inmost heart movedon with her, and that all else would be supplied wherever shemight go. And the boy dashed one tear-drop from his eye, andthought of the adventurous pleasures of the untrodden forest.

　　Oh, who, in the enthusiasm of a daydream, has not wished that hewere a wanderer in a world of summer wilderness, with one fairand gentle being hanging lightly on his arm? In youth his freeand exulting step would know no barrier but the rolling ocean orthe snow-topped mountains; calmer manhood would choose a homewhere Nature had strewn a double wealth in the vale of sometransparent stream; and when hoary age, after long, long years ofthat pure life, stole on and found him there, it would find himthe father of a race, the patriarch of a people, the founder of amighty nation yet to be. When death, like the sweet sleep whichwe welcome after a day of happiness, came over him, his fardescendants would mourn over the venerated dust. Enveloped bytradition in mysterious attributes, the men of future generationswould call him godlike; and remote posterity would see himstanding, dimly glorious, far up the valley of a hundredcenturies.

　　The tangled and gloomy forest through which the personages of mytale were wandering differed widely from the dreamer's land offantasy; yet there was something in their way of life that Natureasserted as her own, and the gnawing cares which went with themfrom the world were all that now obstructed their happiness. Onestout and shaggy steed, the bearer of all their wealth, did notshrink from the added weight of Dorcas; although her hardybreeding sustained her, during the latter part of each day'sjourney, by her husband's side. Reuben and his son, their musketson their shoulders and their axes slung behind them, kept anunwearied pace, each watching with a hunter's eye for the gamethat supplied their food. When hunger bade, they halted andprepared their meal on the bank of some unpolluted forest brook,which, as they knelt down with thirsty lips to drink, murmured asweet unwillingness, like a maiden at love's first kiss. Theyslept beneath a hut of branches, and awoke at peep of lightrefreshed for the toils of another day. Dorcas and the boy wenton joyously, and even Reuben's spirit shone at intervals with anoutward gladness; but inwardly there was a cold cold sorrow,which he compared to the snowdrifts lying deep in the glens andhollows of the rivulets while the leaves were brightly greenabove.

　　Cyrus Bourne was sufficiently skilled in the travel of the woodsto observe that his father did not adhere to the course they hadpursued in their expedition of the preceding autumn. They werenow keeping farther to the north, striking out more directly fromthe settlements, and into a region of which savage beasts andsavage men were as yet the sole possessors. The boy sometimeshinted his opinions upon the subject, and Reuben listenedattentively, and once or twice altered the direction of theirmarch in accordance with his son's counsel; but, having so done,he seemed ill at ease. His quick and wandering glances were sentforward apparently in search of enemies lurking behind the treetrunks, and, seeing nothing there, he would cast his eyesbackwards as if in fear of some pursuer. Cyrus, perceiving thathis father gradually resumed the old direction, forbore tointerfere; nor, though something began to weigh upon his heart,did his adventurous nature permit him to regret the increasedlength and the mystery of their way.

　　On the afternoon of the fifth day they halted, and made theirsimple encampment nearly an hour before sunset. The face of thecountry, for the last few miles, had been diversified by swellsof land resembling huge waves of a petrified sea; and in one ofthe corresponding hollows, a wild and romantic spot, had thefamily reared their hut and kindled their fire. There issomething chilling, and yet heart-warming, in the thought ofthese three, united by strong bands of love and insulated fromall that breathe beside. The dark and gloomy pines looked downupon them, and, as the wind swept through their tops, a pityingsound was heard in the forest; or did those old trees groan infear that men were come to lay the axe to their roots at last?Reuben and his son, while Dorcas made ready their meal, proposedto wander out in search of game, of which that day's march hadafforded no supply. The boy, promising not to quit the vicinityof the encampment, bounded off with a step as light and elasticas that of the deer he hoped to slay; while his father, feeling atransient happiness as he gazed after him, was about to pursue anopposite direction. Dorcas in the meanwhile, had seated herselfnear their fire of fallen branches upon the mossgrown andmouldering trunk of a tree uprooted years before. Her employment,diversified by an occasional glance at the pot, now beginning tosimmer over the blaze, was the perusal of the current year'sMassachusetts Almanac, which, with the exception of an oldblack-letter Bible, comprised all the literary wealth of thefamily. None pay a greater regard to arbitrary divisions of timethan those who are excluded from society; and Dorcas mentioned,as if the information were of importance, that it was now thetwelfth of May. Her husband started.

　　"The twelfth of May! I should remember it well," muttered he,while many thoughts occasioned a momentary confusion in his mind."Where am I? Whither am I wandering? Where did I leave him?"

　　Dorcas, too well accustomed to her husband's wayward moods tonote any peculiarity of demeanor, now laid aside the almanac andaddressed him in that mournful tone which the tender heartedappropriate to griefs long cold and dead.

　　"It was near this time of the month, eighteen years ago, that mypoor father left this world for a better. He had a kind arm tohold his head and a kind voice to cheer him, Reuben, in his lastmoments; and the thought of the faithful care you took of him hascomforted me many a time since. Oh, death would have been awfulto a solitary man in a wild place like this!"

　　"Pray Heaven, Dorcas," said Reuben, in a broken voice,--"prayHeaven that neither of us three dies solitary and lies unburiedin this howling wilderness!" And he hastened away, leaving her towatch the fire beneath the gloomy pines.

　　Reuben Bourne's rapid pace gradually slackened as the pang,unintentionally inflicted by the words of Dorcas, became lessacute. Many strange reflections, however, thronged upon him; and,straying onward rather like a sleep walker than a hunter, it wasattributable to no care of his own that his devious course kepthim in the vicinity of the encampment. His steps wereimperceptibly led almost in a circle; nor did he observe that hewas on the verge of a tract of land heavily timbered, but notwith pine-trees. The place of the latter was here supplied byoaks and other of the harder woods; and around their rootsclustered a dense and bushy under-growth, leaving, however,barren spaces between the trees, thick strewn with witheredleaves. Whenever the rustling of the branches or the creaking ofthe trunks made a sound, as if the forest were waking fromslumber, Reuben instinctively raised the musket that rested onhis arm, and cast a quick, sharp glance on every side; but,convinced by a partial observation that no animal was near, hewould again give himself up to his thoughts. He was musing on thestrange influence that had led him away from his premeditatedcourse, and so far into the depths of the wilderness. Unable topenetrate to the secret place of his soul where his motives layhidden, he believed that a supernatural voice had called himonward, and that a supernatural power had obstructed his retreat.He trusted that it was Heaven's intent to afford him anopportunity of expiating his sin; he hoped that he might find thebones so long unburied; and that, having laid the earth overthem, peace would throw its sunlight into the sepulchre of hisheart. From these thoughts he was aroused by a rustling in theforest at some distance from the spot to which he had wandered.Perceiving the motion of some object behind a thick veil ofundergrowth, he fired, with the instinct of a hunter and the aimof a practised marksman. A low moan, which told his success, andby which even animals cars express their dying agony, wasunheeded by Reuben Bourne. What were the recollections nowbreaking upon him?

　　The thicket into which Reuben had fired was near the summit of aswell of land, and was clustered around the base of a rock,which, in the shape and smoothness of one of its surfaces, wasnot unlike a gigantic gravestone. As if reflected in a mirror,its likeness was in Reuben's memory. He even recognized the veinswhich seemed to form an inscription in forgotten characters:everything remained the same, except that a thick covert ofbushes shrouded the lowerpart of the rock, and would have hiddenRoger Malvin had he still been sitting there. Yet in the nextmoment Reuben's eye was caught by another change that time hadeffected since he last stood where he was now standing againbehind the earthy roots of the uptorn tree. The sapling to whichhe had bound the bloodstained symbol of his vow had increased andstrengthened into an oak, far indeed from its maturity, but withno mean spread of shadowy branches. There was one singularityobservable in this tree which made Reuben tremble. The middle andlower branches were in luxuriant life, and an excess ofvegetation had fringed the trunk almost to the ground; but ablight had apparently stricken the upper part of the oak, and thevery topmost bough was withered, sapless, and utterly dead.Reuben remembered how the little banner had fluttered on thattopmost bough, when it was green and lovely, eighteen yearsbefore. Whose guilt had blasted it?

　　. . . . . . . . . . .Dorcas, after the departure of the two hunters, continued herpreparations for their evening repast. Her sylvan table was themoss-covered trunk of a large fallen tree, on the broadest partof which she had spread a snow-white cloth and arranged what wereleft of the bright pewter vessels that had been her pride in thesettlements. It had a strange aspect that one little spot ofhomely comfort in the desolate heart of Nature. The sunshine yetlingered upon the higher branches of the trees that grew onrising ground; but the shadows of evening had deepened into thehollow where the encampment was made, and the firelight began toredden as it gleamed up the tall trunks of the pines or hoveredon the dense and obscure mass of foliage that circled round thespot. The heart of Dorcas was not sad; for she felt that it wasbetter to journey in the wilderness with two whom she loved thanto be a lonely woman in a crowd that cared not for her. As shebusied herself in arranging seats of mouldering wood, coveredwith leaves, for Reuben and her son, her voice danced through thegloomy forest in the measure of a song that she had learned inyouth. The rude melody, the production of a bard who won no name,was descriptive of a winter evening in a frontier cottage, when,secured from savage inroad by the high-piled snow-drifts, thefamily rejoiced by their own fireside. The whole song possessedthe nameless charm peculiar to unborrowed thought, but fourcontinually-recurring lines shone out from the rest like theblaze of the hearth whose joys they celebrated. Into them,working magic with a few simple words, the poet had instilled thevery essence of domestic love and household happiness, and theywere poetry and picture joined in one. As Dorcas sang, the wallsof her forsaken home seemed to encircle her; she no longer sawthe gloomy pines, nor heard the wind which still, as she beganeach verse, sent a heavy breath through the branches, and diedaway in a hollow moan from the burden of the song. She wasaroused by the report of a gun in the vicinity of the encampment;and either the sudden sound, or her loneliness by the glowingfire, caused her to tremble violently. The next moment shelaughed in the pride of a mother's heart.

　　"My beautiful young hunter! My boy has slain a deer!" sheexclaimed, recollecting that in the direction whence the shotproceeded Cyrus had gone to the chase.

　　She waited a reasonable time to hear her son's light stepbounding over the rustling leaves to tell of his success. But hedid not immediately appear; and she sent her cheerful voice amongthe trees in search of him.

　　"Cyrus! Cyrus!"

　　His coming was still delayed; and she determined, as the reporthad apparently been very near, to seek for him in person. Herassistance, also, might be necessary in bringing home the venisonwhich she flattered herself he had obtained. She therefore setforward, directing her steps by the long-past sound, and singingas she went, in order that the boy might be aware of her approachand run to meet her. From behind the trunk of every tree, andfrom every hiding-place in the thick foliage of the undergrowth,she hoped to discover the countenance of her son, laughing withthe sportive mischief that is born of affection. The sun was nowbeneath the horizon, and the light that came down among theleaves was sufficiently dim to create many illusions in herexpecting fancy. Several times she seemed indistinctly to see hisface gazing out from among the leaves; and once she imagined thathe stood beckoning to her at the base of a craggy rock. Keepingher eyes on this object, however, it proved to be no more thanthe trunk of an oak fringed to the very ground with littlebranches, one of which, thrust out farther than the rest, wasshaken by the breeze. Making her way round the foot of the rock,she suddenly found herself close to her husband, who hadapproached in another direction. Leaning upon the butt of hisgun, the muzzle of which rested upon the withered leaves, he wasapparently absorbed in the contemplation of some object at hisfeet.

　　"How is this, Reuben? Have you slain the deer and fallen asleepover him?" exclaimed Dorcas, laughing cheerfully, on her firstslight observation of his posture and appearance.

　　He stirred not, neither did he turn his eyes towards her; and acold, shuddering fear, indefinite in its source and object, beganto creep into her blood. She now perceived that her husband'sface was ghastly pale, and his features were rigid, as ifincapable of assuming any other expression than the strongdespair which had hardened upon them. He gave not the slightestevidence that he was aware of her approach.

　　"For the love of Heaven, Reuben, speak to me!" cried Dorcas; andthe strange sound of her own voice affrighted her even more thanthe dead silence.

　　Her husband started, stared into her face, drew her to the frontof the rock, and pointed with his finger.

　　Oh, there lay the boy, asleep, but dreamless, upon the fallenforest leaves! His cheek rested upon his arm--his curled lockswere thrown back from his brow--his limbs were slightly relaxed.Had a sudden weariness overcome the youthful hunter? Would hismother's voice arouse him? She knew that it was death.

　　"This broad rock is the gravestone of your near kindred, Dorcas,"said her husband. "Your tears will fall at once over your fatherand your son."

　　She heard him not. With one wild shriek, that seemed to force itsway from the sufferer's inmost soul, she sank insensible by theside of her dead boy. At that moment the withered topmost boughof the oak loosened itself in the stilly air, and fell in soft,light fragments upon the rock, upon the leaves, upon Reuben, uponhis wife and child, and upon Roger Malvin's bones. Then Reuben'sheart was stricken, and the tears gushed out like water from arock. The vow that the wounded youth had made the blighted manhad come to redeem. His sin was expiated,--the curse was gonefrom him; and in the hour when he had shed blood dearer to himthan his own, a prayer, the first for years, went up to Heavenfrom the lips of Reuben Bourne.