BLACK NICK,

THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS:

OR,

THE EXPIATED CRIME.

A STORY OF BURGOYNE’S SURRENDER.

BY FREDERICK WHITTAKER.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

BLACK NICK.

CHAPTER I.

THE WOOD FIEND.

In the midst of the lonely forest, that stretched in an almost unbroken line of solitude from the head-waters of the Hudson to the Mississippi, during the last century, a small party of Indian warriors, in full war-paint, treading one in the other’s footsteps, to the number of five, stole into a little clearing formed by the hand of Nature, and halted by a spring.

The sun was about to set, in an angry glow of crimson, that portended bad weather. The fiery beams shot aslant through the open arches of the forest, and the trunks of the trees stood out, as black as jet, against the red glow of evening.

“He has not been here,” remarked the warrior who seemed to be the leader, as he scanned the earth around the little spring with a practiced eye.

“The pale-faces are all liars,” said a young brave, disdainfully, as he leant upon his bow. “When was a Mohawk known to break his word?”

“The Panther Cub is wrong,” he said, quietly. “There are good and bad pale-faces. I have never known the white chief to fail before. He has been stopped on the way. He will soon come, and show us how to strike the children who have rebelled against the great father who dwells beyond the sea.”

“The Mohawk needs no white teacher,” returned Panther Cub, in the same tone. “I can find a house to strike, and scalps to take, long before the morning dawns, if need be.”

“Has the Black Fox lost his eyes, that Panther Cub thinks he is the only Mohawk that can see in the night?” asked the old chief, sternly. “Let the young warriors be silent, while they have chiefs on the same war-path. We have eaten of the white father’s bread, and he has ordered us here to await his messenger. Black Fox will stay.”

As he spoke, he leaned his rifle against the tree by which he stood, drew up his blanket around his shoulders, and took his seat in dignified silence.

The other warriors, as if determined by his example, proceeded to make their dispositions for the night. A flint and steel were produced, tinder was found in a dead tree, and a small glowing fire was soon started, around which the Indians clustered, eating their frugal meal of dried venison and parched corn in silence.

These Indians were a small scouting party from the flankers of Burgoyne’s army, who had been dispatched through the woods to the west of Albany, to meet an emissary of the British Government, who was to give them certain instructions.

Slowly the sun disappeared as they clustered round the fire, and the crimson glow died away in the sky, to be replaced by a murky mass of cloud of dark slaty gray, rapidly becoming black. Overhead the stars shone out, but the clouds began to gather and hide them from view, and a low moaning in the tops of the trees warned the hearers of a storm brewing.

Suddenly, as if by common consent, every Indian sprung to his feet, and grasped his weapons, as the sound of snapping sticks, and of horse-hoofs in rapid motion, approached the spot. There was no underbrush in those primeval forests, as yet innocent of the ax of the woodman, and a horseman could be seen in full career, rapidly approaching the little glade.

At a word from the chief, the four warriors resumed their seats by the fire, while the old leader himself stalked forth from the group, and drawing himself up, awaited the coming of the stranger, in an attitude of dignity, grounding the butt of his rifle.

The new-comer proved to be a man of large size, with a stern, determined face, gloomy and lowering in expression. He was dressed like a farmer, and well mounted on a stout horse, carrying holsters on the saddle, from which peeped the butts of large pistols. Otherwise the rider was unarmed, only carrying a horse-whip. He checked his horse, and dismounted before Black Fox, who addressed him with the grave reminder:

“The Night Hawk is late.”

“I couldn’t be earlier, Fox,” returned the other, in the Mohawk tongue. “I was fired at by Schuyler’s pickets, and chased out of my path by a patrol of the cursed mounted rifles of that fellow, Morgan. Here I am at last. Go back to the General, and let him know that the rebels are rousing everywhere. Schuyler has sent orders to rescue the fort beyond Oriskany at any cost, and they will march in two days from now, a thousand strong, under General Herkimer, to raise the siege. Have you a swift runner here?”

“The Panther Cub has long legs. He shall carry the Night Walker’s words,” said the chief, sententiously.

“Good. Let him run to General St. Leger, and warn him that his rear will be attacked,” said the spy. “For the rest, back to Burgoyne. Tell the General his foes are gathering. He must spring like the wild-cat, or he will be trapped like the beaver. Tell him I will bring him more news by way of the lakes, and that—”

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! I gather them in! I gather them in!”

The interruption was sudden and startling. A loud, harsh voice, with an accent of indescribably triumphant mockery, shouted these words from the midst of the intense darkness, which had crept over the scene during the short conference, since sunset. At the same moment, out of the opening of a hollow tree that stood near the fire, a bright, crimson glare of flame proceeded, in the midst of which appeared an unearthly figure of gigantic hight, but lean and attenuated as a skeleton.

The appearance of this figure was singularly fearful, for it was clothed in some tight black dress with steely gleams, that covered it from head to foot, a pair of short, upright horns projecting from the close skull-cap, and only leaving exposed a face of deathly pallor, with great, burning black eyes, and a mustache that pointed upwards in true diabolical fashion.

There was but a moment to examine this figure, as it stood in the cavity, outlined against the red glow. In one hand it brandished a single javelin, in the other a bundle of similar darts. A second later the red glow disappeared, and the figure with it, leaving the usually stolid Indians and their companion struck aghast with astonishment and awe.

Then, ere a word could be spoken, the same demoniac laugh rung out, and the gigantic apparition, with a bound, was in the midst of their little fire, which it scattered in all directions with a single kick.

Through the thick darkness that ensued, the white man heard the noise of a confused struggle, that seemed to endure for about half a minute. Firm and determined as was the spy, he recoiled in ungovernable terror to the side of his horse, and snatched from the holsters his pistols, one of which he fired in the direction of the sounds of battle.

By the flash of the pistol he distinguished the terrible figure, in an attitude of mad glee, brandishing its darts over the prostrate bodies of three Indians, the fourth striving to rise, and transfixed with a dart, while the fifth was fleeing for his life toward the spy. Instinctively the white man climbed on his horse in the darkness, as a wild peal of laughter greeted his shot.

He had seen the demon leaping toward him!

“Ha! ha! ha!!! Black Nick has them fast!” yelled the harsh voice, and again, as if by magic, a red glow flashed over the place.

In the midst of this glare, the spy beheld the black demon clutch the fleeing Indian with his long arms, and go leaping back toward the hollow tree, with the writhing form of the savage close clasped. Then there was a blinding white glare, a cloud of smoke, and a loud report, in the midst of which the demon leaped into the hollow, and vanished from sight sinking visibly into a pit of darkness.

With a muttered groan of terror, the now completely unnerved spy wheeled round his frightened horse and fled, as fast as the animal could carry him, while the forest resumed the gloom and silence of night.

CHAPTER II.

THE AID-DE-CAMP’S DISCOVERY.

There are few sights in the world as beautiful as an American mountain side, clothed with forest to the summit, when early frosts have begun to touch the leaves, and wake them into color.

In the midst of the wild mountains of Vermont, in those days almost deserted by human beings, a young man on horseback was pursuing his way at a smart trot along a narrow road that wound round the lower ridges, in a way that showed the ingenuity of the rustic engineers in economizing labor.

To all appearance there was not a creature in sight, save the wild animals and the lonely traveler, who pursued the path as if he knew it well. Once, when he stopped to water his horse at a stream, he startled a herd of deer who were coming to drink, and caused them to scurry away through the bushes in alarm.

The young traveler looked around him as the deer vanished in the thicket, with great admiration. He was in the midst of a small valley, hemmed in by rounded mountains, and through the midst of which ran a brown, brawling stream, in which the spotted trout played by hundreds. The mountains were clothed to the very summit with woods, and although it was not yet the end of August, light frosts had already been there, in the long nights on the mountain sides. Here and there amid the green blazed out the scarlet of a distant tree, half of whose foliage had been touched as with a fiery pencil, while the verdure of the rest looked fresher by contrast. Now and then the golden hue of a maple shed a glory of color over its vicinity, but there was, as yet, only enough of this to set off the somber green of the pines and the lighter foliage of the oak and birch.

The traveler was a young man, and handsome withal. His dress was, perhaps, the most picturesque in the annals of military history, for the youth was evidently a soldier, and an officer at that. The towering fur cap, narrowing as it rose, and ornamented with gold cord and white plumes, the furred and braided jacket, hanging from his shoulder, the still more gorgeous dolman that fitted his slight form to a nicety, blazing with gold embroidery, all over the sky-blue ground of the breast, the light buck-skin breeches, with braided pocket-covers, and the scarlet morocco boots, rising mid-leg and tasseled with gold were unfailing indications to the eye practiced in military costume, that the wearer was an officer of some German corps of hussars, then at the zenith of their reputation under the great Frederick of Prussia. The young hussar was magnificently mounted on a dapple-gray horse of wonderful bone and sinew, though quite low in flesh from campaigning, and his housings were as splendid as his dress and arms. The latter, saber, pistols, and light carbine, were all silver inlaid, and of exquisite finish.

To a hidden observer, the sight of this gay cavalier, alone in the wilds of Vermont, would have suggested great wonder. How came he there, and what was he doing? In those early days of the Revolutionary struggle, rags and bare feet were the rule, brilliant uniforms the few exceptions. There was no corps of hussars in the Continental service, and the Hessians, on the English side, wore green, not pale blue. Besides, the uniform of the hussar officer was distinctively Prussian, the black eagle being worked on his horse’s housings.

Whatever he was, he seemed to be quite at home in the woods, for his blue eye was calm and fearless, and the long fair mustache that drooped over his chin covered as resolute a mouth as ever closed firmly over shut teeth.

Having allowed his beast to drink, the young cavalier urged him through the water to the other side, and trotted briskly up the lonely road between the arches of the wood, till he had stopped opposite the ridge, and beheld before him another valley and more hills.

The ridge on which he stood happened to command an extensive view; reining up, he scanned it with a practiced eye.

“By heavens!” he exclaimed to himself, in a low tone, after a long and searching look; “there is some one living on the haunted hill, where even the Indians would not dare to go. I must investigate that.”

So saying, he shook his rein, and galloped down the hillside, in the direction of a mountain, the largest of any in sight, from the side of which a thin column of smoke curled up in the air.

Nothing very strange in that it may be said; but the young officer knew better.

He was passing through a country in which there was no settlements in the path he was riding, till he came to Derry field. The mountain before him was well-known by the name of “Haunted Hill” to the whites, and had the reputation of being haunted by a demon, who frightened away all the Indians who ventured near it. This was well known to the young cavalier who, being free from superstition, had chosen that way to escape any danger from the outlying Indians of Burgoyne’s army, then lying between Ticonderoga and Albany, slowly advancing. The young officer himself was on the staff of General Schuyler, who was then retreating before his formidable foe, and who had sent the aid-de-camp on a secret mission on which he was now proceeding.

The sight of smoke on the side of the Haunted Hill excited the curiosity of the young officer. Smoke meant settled habitation. No Indian could be there, he felt certain, on account of their superstitious fears of the mountain demon. If any one else were there, might he not prove to be in some way connected with the mystery of the demon? Full of curiosity, and for the moment forgetting his mission the young aid-de-camp crossed the valley, and commenced to toil up the sides of Haunted Hill.

He was not aware, keen as was his glance, that one still keener was watching him. Hardly had he gained the foot of the mountain, than an Indian warrior looked out of the cover he had quitted, and giving a rapid signal to some one behind, plunged down the hillside, skirting the road and keeping the cover, followed at a loping trot by at least a dozen more, in full war-paint.

The course of the savages was after the cavalier, and so rapidly did they run, that they reached the foot of the hill before he had got half-way up the side of Haunted Hill.

It is true that the hussar had slackened his pace, and was now toiling up the steep ascent, holding by the mane of his steed. The Indians, on the other hand, pressed along at the same rapid, tireless lope, and quickly came in sight of the aid-de-camp, whose steps they seemed to be dogging with true savage pertinacity.

Once having him safe in sight, the warriors slackened their pace, and contented themselves with following, step by step, gliding from tree to tree, and keeping themselves carefully hidden.

Meanwhile, the young officer pursued his way up the hill in the direction that promised to bring him close to the mysterious smoke which had excited his curiosity.

In half an hour’s climbing he had reached the summit of the lower ridge of Haunted Hill, and beheld before him a little basin, scooped by the hand of nature in the side of the hill, about a hundred yards across, bare of wood, in the center of which stood a low stone hut, thatched with fir branches, from the summit of which curled the blue smoke that he had first noticed.

The little basin was bounded on one side by a precipice of rock about fifty feet in hight, crowned with trees, and surmounted by the steep ascent of the upper mountain. At the right it ended abruptly in a second precipice, which fell away into the valley, while the tops of lofty trees below just showed themselves over the edge. The forest bounded the other side, and a little spring trickled over the edge of the lower precipice with a tinkling sound.

But what riveted the attention of the youth, was a group that he discovered in the midst of the little valley standing in front of the cabin door.

Several tame deer were crowding eagerly around a young girl, in a quaint, picturesque dress, in strange proximity to a huge black bear and three tall bloodhounds of the largest breed.

The officer reined in his horse in amazement as he looked, and ejaculated aloud:

“Heavens! It is Diana herself.”

CHAPTER III.

THE ROCK NYMPH.

The sight of the horseman in that lonely place excited a strange commotion. Hardly had the young officer uttered his involuntary exclamation, when the three hounds set up a loud baying, and came leaping toward him, the black bear waddled after them, while the timid fawns bounded away into the forest in great alarm.

The girl herself, who seemed to be the mistress of this menagerie, turned toward the stranger with the port of the goddess to whom he had compared her. In truth, she resembled nothing so much as a living statue of Diana, for she wore the same short tunic and buskins, and carried the bow and quiver of the patroness of hunting. Her figure and face, with the simple antique knot in which her hair was arranged, confirmed the likeness; and when she hastily fitted an arrow to the bow she carried, it seemed to the young soldier as if he had indeed insulted the privacy of some supernatural being.

Most men in his position would have either turned to flee or made some motion of defense. Not so the hussar.

He remained sitting on his horse, in spite of the menacing appearance of the bloodhounds, without moving a muscle; and the dogs, as soon as they closed in, justified his course, by ceasing to bay, while they ran inquisitively round, snuffing at the horse’s legs, now and then uttering a low growl, but offering no actual violence. The black bear likewise became peaceable, halting at a little distance and sitting up on its haunches, surveying the intruder with a comical air of wisdom.

The girl who had been disturbed, observing the passive attitude of the hussar, hesitated a moment, and finally advanced toward him, with the same haughty and insulted aspect however.

As she came closer, and her eyes ran over the face and equipments of the intruder, the severity of her glance insensibly relaxed. It was not in female nature to look cross at such a dashing young cavalier. He on his part, surveyed her with increasing admiration, as he beheld her purely Grecian face with its frame of golden hair, lighted by great solemn blue eyes.

The girl was the first to speak, in a tone of displeasure.

“Do you know where you are, sir?” she asked. “What made you venture where all men shun to go?”

“Fairest Diana,” began the hussar, half wondering if he were not dreaming.

The girl interrupted him with an expression of surprise.

“How? You know my name?”

“How could I mistake it?” said the hussar, with great adroitness. “The beauty of Diana is famous the world over, and I am the humblest of her worshipers.”

The girl looked at him in amazement. She could not see that the accomplished man of the world was but taking advantage of a lucky accident, to feel his way into her confidence, by a mingling of truth and falsehood in his manner.

“Then who are you that knows me so well?” she asked, artlessly. “I never thought human creature would come nigh our cottage, and you say it is famous.”

“For my name,” said the hussar, smiling, “you may call me Captain Schuyler, if you will. If you would like a shorter name and a pleasanter one, call me Adrian.”

“Adrian is a pretty name,” said the girl, smiling with the frank, fearless innocence that distinguished her every action. “Adrian and Diana are both beautiful.”

“Diana is beautiful,” said the hussar, meaningly; “how beautiful no one knows but me.”

Diana looked up at him inquiringly. Then something seemed to inform her of his meaning, for she flushed hotly and drew herself up with sudden haughtiness, asking:

“What brought you here? Do you not know that it is death to intrude on this mountain? Even the wild Indian shuns it.”

“I have heard that a demon haunts it,” said the hussar, boldly; “but I never dreamed that it wore such a shape as yours.”

At the bold words of the intruder Diana turned pale, and looked apprehensively around her, saying in low tones:

“Do not mention him, foolish Adrian. He will seize you and plunge you into a fiery pit if he hears you. Away, while you have time, or you may repent it. Any moment he may be here.”

“In that case I should like to see him,” said Schuyler, coolly. “I don’t believe in demons, Diana. Your demon is a man, and I am curious to see him. I rode over here expressly to do that.”

“You rode over here to dare the mountain demon?” asked the girl, in a faint tone, as if wonder-stricken. “Man, are you mad? I tell you he has killed every creature that has passed this way for years, and he will kill you, if he finds you.”

The captain of hussars laughed carelessly, and threw up the flap of one of his holsters, from whence he produced a long pistol of elegant finish, and double-barreled.

“That, for his demoniac majesty,” he said, holding up the weapon, “and let him beware how he crosses my path. I have—”

He was interrupted by a suspicious growl from one of the hounds, who had been couched on the grass in seeming contentment since the conference had become peaceful.

The animal rose to its feet and stalked to the edge of the glade, followed by its three companions, snuffing and growling.

A moment later an arrow came from the cover of the mountain-side, grazed the neck of the foremost hound, and whizzed past the hussar, sticking harmlessly in a tree.

The three hounds set up a simultaneous savage bay and dashed headlong into the cover, from whence, a moment later, rose the appalling war-whoop of the Mohawk, as a dozen warriors sprung out, and rushed towards Schuyler and Diana.

In a moment a fierce contest had commenced, the gallant hounds each pinning an Indian by the throat, while the bear rushed into the fight with a savage growl. Adrian Schuyler shot down a savage with his pistol, and wounded a second, then drew his saber, and instinctively looked around for the mysterious girl, Diana.

She had vanished, as if the earth had swallowed her up!

He was too much confused by the sudden attack to think of where she had gone. Already two of the hounds were ripped up by Indian scalping-knives, and the third was transfixed with an arrow.

As he turned toward the Indians, his horse plunging and rearing, the flashes of several rifles were followed by a sharp stinging sensation in his side, and two warriors seized his bridle, while a third rushed at him, tomahawk in hand.

But the hussar was not the man to yield to a surprise. His keen saber played round his head like a flash of light, and in a trice he had cut down one assailant, while the other let go the bridle to escape a second blow.

With a shout of triumph he dashed in his spurs, and the gray charger took him clear of his enemies with a bound. Then, lying down on his saddle to escape the bullets, away went Captain Adrian Schuyler, late of the Zieten Hussars of Prussia, at full speed, through the clearing, passing the stone hut, which seemed to be quite deserted, and darting into the forest beyond.

Arrows and bullets whistled past him as he went, but he was untouched, save by the first graze which he had lately felt. He heard the Indians whooping behind him, and doubted not that they were pursuing, but he felt secure on his swift steed, and his only anxiety seemed to be as to the safety of the strange girl who called herself Diana.

Where she had gone, and whether the Indians had seen her, was an enigma to him as he fled away, but he had no time to lose. The young aid-de-camp was even then on an important mission, and his detour to the Haunted Mountain had cost him valuable time.

Fully resolved to return with sufficient force to investigate the mystery at some future time, the officer galloped on through the woods till he regained once more the road to Derryfield, and pursued his journey at a gallop.

CHAPTER IV.

THE YOUNG CAPTAIN’S CAPTURE.

The sun was within about an hour of setting behind the western ridges of the Green Mountains, as a tall, heavily-built man, with strong, sullen face, sat at the door of a log cabin, within a few miles of the settlement of Derryfield, looking across a lonely valley.

The attire of this individual was that of a farmer, and a little patch, of about half an acre, behind his cabin, showed by its ripening corn, that his occupation was not wholly a fiction. Still, a certain air of neglect about cabin and owner, and the presence of a long rifle that lay across his knees, announced that his farming was at least eked out by hunting, if not subordinated thereto.

Although only a few miles from a settlement, the scene around the seated man was completely wild and lonely, so much so that the people had christened the owner the “Mountain Hermit.” His solitary habits and sullen manner repelled strangers from forming his acquaintance, and even his name was unknown to any one in the country side.

He had first made his appearance there about three years before, had built his own cabin in that solitary place, and resided there ever since. The only occasions he was ever seen away, were when some hunter caught sight of him in the woods on the same errand as himself, and it remained a mystery where he procured powder and lead, for he never entered Derryfield to buy any.

Since the advance of Burgoyne’s army, people ceased to watch him. It was well known that hordes of Indians were prowling about in the vicinity of every settlement, and no one dared to venture away alone. Still, the Mountain Hermit remained in his cabin, as if insensible to danger, although “Indian sign” had been seen more than once near his little clearing.

On the evening in question he sat gazing at the sunset and soliloquizing, according to the habit of most lonely men.

“Let them come,” he muttered. “They cannot do as much harm to the Puritanical hounds as I wish them. Let them scalp the women if they please. There will be so many rebel brats the less, to grow up into boors. Let them abuse me. I can stand the name of renegade, if I get my revenge. Let us see their Washington, that they boast so much of, help them out of this scrape.”

As he spoke, his frown grew dark and gloomy, and he rose to his feet. His manner was fretful and impatient.

“Why don’t the fools come?” he muttered. “When there is no danger, who so bold as an Indian? Let them once get a good scare, and you cannot drive them into battle. It is beyond the chief’s time—no—there he comes. After all, the brutes keep faith.”

At the moment he uttered the last words, the stately form of an Indian chief stepped into the clearing, as if he had issued from the ground, and calmly advanced toward the recluse.

The new-comer was a Mohawk on the war-path, from his paint and other peculiarities. He carried a short rifle over his arm, and saluted the hermit with grave courtesy.

The white man opened the conversation with an air of authority to which the Indian submitted quietly.

“Bearskin is ready? Where are his warriors?”

The chief waved his hand toward the exit of the valley.

“My brothers are in wait by the white road that leads to the town. They await the Night Hawk’s orders.”

“Good. It is new moon. When the moon sinks, I will be there. Let them stop every one that passes by the road; but no firing. Let the arrow do its work silently. Is the town well watched all round?”

“Not a creature will escape. My warriors are like the web of the spider, the white men are like the flies. We shall suck their blood before morning, and the squaws will be tired of counting the scalps.”

“It is good,” said the Mountain Hermit, with a grim smile. “Let Bearskin watch well. Has any one come along the road to-day?”

The Indian answered not for a moment. His quick ear had caught a sound to which the other was insensible, and he stood with his head bent on one side listening intently.

“One comes now,” said the white man, quickly. “Do not kill him on the road, or the sight may deter others. Drag him into the forest, and keep him till I come.”

The Indian nodded silently, and plunged into the forest in a direction that promised to take him toward the road that crossed the foot of the valley almost within sight of the clearing.

The recluse remained a moment listening, and presently caught the sounds which the quicker senses of the chief had first announced. A horseman was evidently galloping along the road toward him, and the clatter of spur and scabbard told the nature of the traveler without words.

The recluse cast his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and struck across the valley to a point where he could intersect the road in its many curves at a much nearer point. He was a little curious to see who the advancing dragoon might be.

There was still plenty of light, although the sun was fast nearing the mountain tops, and the long strides of the Mountain Hermit took him across the stretch of woods that barred him from the road in a very short time.

As he neared it, the sound of horse-hoofs and the clatter of a saber-scabbard were plainly audible, skirting the mountain-side beyond.

At the point which the recluse had reached, the road came round a spur, over the dividing ridge, and dived into the valley beyond. Waiting a few moments, till the sound of hoofs was close by, the Mountain Hermit stalked boldly into the road, just as the young hussar captain dashed around the corner.

At the sight of the stranger’s figure, Adrian Schuyler abruptly halted, throwing his horse on its haunches close to the other, while the sharp click of his pistol-lock enforced the stern command, “Halt!”

The stranger quietly turned, and faced the hussar with a sullen frown, asking:

“Who are you to halt a peaceable farmer? I’ve as much right as you, and more, in this place.”

“Perhaps so,” said the hussar, coolly: “but in war-time we of the light cavalry take liberties that we support with our weapons. Who are you?”

“A peaceable farmer, as I said before,” answered the other, with a sullen scowl. “Who are you?”

“An officer on duty, my man, who doesn’t care to be trifled with. There are too many Indians and spies loose in these mountains for me to trust strangers. If you’re a peaceable farmer, you’re as sulky a looking one as I have seen. How far is it to Derryfield?”

“Four miles,” said the sullen stranger, gruffly. Then he turned away as if the colloquy was terminated, but the hussar was not going to let him off so easy.

“Halt!” he again cried, in his sharp tones, covering the other with his pistol. “Move another step, and it’s your last.”

The stranger obeyed the order with his usual sullen air, but the hussar’s voice showed that he was in earnest.

“Look here, Mr. Officer,” began the stranger, in a tone of injury, “I don’t see what you have against me to treat me in this way. Let me alone, or by the Lord, we’ll see if my rifle ain’t as good as your pistol.”

The hussar was close to him, as he spoke, and he was already beginning to handle his long rifle, when Adrian’s horse, obedient to his master’s will, made a sudden leap, which brought the soldier’s left hand to the shoulder of the recluse.

In a moment the muzzle of the pistol was at the sullen stranger’s ear, as Adrian sternly ordered him:

“Fire in the air, quick, or I fire here. Not a word. Fire!”

The sullen man cast one savage look up at the hussar’s face, but the menace he met there was so unyielding that he obeyed the order.

The harmless rifle-bullet whistled skywards, and the sharp report waked the echoes for miles around, as the now disarmed man stood glaring defiantly up at the hussar.

“Now drop your gun,” said Adrian, sternly.

The stranger obeyed, still with the same scowl.

“It’s my impression,” pursued the officer, grimly, “that you’re a spy of some sort, or you’d have treated a patriot officer with more courtesy. Unbuckle your belt, and drop it. I see you have a knife still. No fooling, sir. I shall be fully justified in shooting you if you hesitate.”

The stranger, without a word, did as he was told, still looking up at the hussar with the same defiant scowl as ever. The soldier, still keeping his strange captive under his eye, dived into the gay saber-tasche that dangled beside his sword, and produced therefrom a pair of delicate steel handcuffs.

“Hold up your hands,” he said, quietly, “I’m going to take you into Derryfield, dead or alive.”

Still the stranger spoke not a word. His face wore the same expression of bitter rage, without a trace of fear, though he stood there disarmed and helpless. He held up his hands, and allowed Schuyler to handcuff him, without a struggle. Then, as the officer passed a cord between his manacled wrists, and fastened it to his saddle-bow, he uttered a short laugh of bitter mockery.

The captain did not deign to notice it.

“Go on,” he said, spurring up his horse, “and run your best, or you’ll find yourself dragged.”

He set off at a slow trot, the prisoner running alongside, with surprising power, and took the road to Derryfield.

CHAPTER V.

TURNING THE TABLES.

Captain Adrian Schuyler pursued his way toward Derryfield, pistol in hand, keeping a vigilant watch over his prisoner. The altercation on the road had detained him so long that the sun had kissed the mountain tops ere he had crossed the valley, and a dark shadow had crept over the landscape.

The hussar felt uneasy, he hardly knew why, but the defiant manner of his prisoner had roused strange misgivings in his breast. Still, nothing occurred to disturb him on his passage through the valley, and as he crossed the ridge on the other side, he came in sight of the village of Derryfield, nestling in the wide valley, through which ran a large tributary of the Connecticut, while the glimmer of lights stole through the gathering darkness.

“Thank Heaven, in sight at last!” ejaculated the officer, as he involuntarily pulled up to gaze at the scene. The outlines of houses could be distinguished in the twilight, but as some three miles still intervened, every thing was misty and uncertain. The hussar chirruped to his horse, and was about to ride on, when the hitherto silent prisoner suddenly woke into terrible life and activity.

Seizing the soldier by the belt with his manacled hands with the strength of a giant, he endeavored to drag him down from the saddle, uttering a shout as he did so.

The hussar, though slight of frame, seemed to possess considerable nerve and activity, for he resisted the effort with great adroitness, by throwing himself to the further side of the saddle, while he instinctively leveled his pistol and fired.

The grim recluse uttered a savage cry of pain as the bullet plowed his shoulder, and grappled the slender soldier with such power that he lost a stirrup, let go his bridle and tried to push away his assailant with his left hand, while he cocked the other barrel of his pistol with his right.

How the struggle might have terminated is uncertain, but just as the soldier was almost out of the saddle, and bringing his pistol to bear, a score of dark forms sprung from the roadside, and Adrian Schuyler was seized by strong hands, the pistol going off in the struggle.

A moment later he was a prisoner, while the charger, freed from his burden, and snorting with terror, gave a series of flying kicks at the crowd of Indians, broke loose from all restraint, snapping the cord which bound him to the unknown spy, and galloped away toward Derryfield, neighing as he went.

“Hell’s furies, give him an arrow!” cried the spy, savagely. “Stop the brute, or he’ll alarm the town! Fools, have ye no bows?”

The answer was given in a shower of arrows after the flying steed, which only seemed to increased its speed, for it soon vanished in the gathering darkness, leaving its master a captive.

The reflections of Adrian Schuyler were by no means pleasant at finding himself in the power of his quondam prisoner. Too late he recognized the trap into which he had fallen, and that he had made a bitter and remorseless enemy.

The spy, for such he evidently was, seemed to be the leader of the Indians; he issued his orders as peremptorily as a chief, and was implicitly obeyed.

He did not deign to take any notice of the hussar himself, but in a few moments the latter found himself stripped of all his weapons, while the handcuffs were transferred from the wrists of the recluse to his own, and he was hurried off into the darkening woods.

The white leader remained on the spot where the fracas had occurred, gazing angrily toward Derryfield, scowling and muttering to himself.

“Curse the popinjay hussar! why did I let him stop me, when a bullet would have kept his brute from giving the alarm? It is too late now. Another goodly scheme thwarted by one of those cursed accidents that none can foresee! We must retire. One comfort, I have him, and I’ll take satisfaction out of his pretty face, when I see the flames distorting it. Ay, ay, there you go, in the toll-gate. I thought the brute would rouse ye.”

As he spoke, several moving lights appeared in the distance, on the way to Derryfield, and the sound of distant shouts, mingled with the hoof-beats of the flying charger. The new moon shed a faint light over the landscape, and the spy turned away into the woods on the track of the Indians, who had already vanished.

Adrian Schuyler, manacled and guarded, stumbled on through the darkness, not knowing whither he was going. He judged that his escort was numerous, from the constant rustle of leaves, and the sound of low signals that echoed through the woods.

He did not know that those signals were the recall of a numerous band of Indians, who, but for his accidental presence and the escape of his horse would, ere this, have been closing around Derryfield, for a midnight massacre, as well planned as it was atrocious.

Like the tiger, the Indian attacks only by surprise, and, that foiled, is apt to slink away. Adrian Schuyler knew that a body of troops was already gathered at Derryfield, militia, perhaps, but none the less the victors of Lexington and Breed’s Hill. In a midnight surprise these men would have fallen an easy prey to the waiting Indians, but their leader knew too well that the flying horse with its bloody saddle would tell a tale to the commander at Derryfield that the latter was not likely to pass unheeded.

For several hours the weary march through the woods was continued, the Indians in sullen silence urging on their weary captive, till the latter was ready to drop. He had been riding rapidly for at least ten hours before, and was tired when he dismounted, and his high-heeled boots were not the style of foot-gear to wind a way among rocks and roots.

At last, when the moon had been down for several hours, and the poor hussar was nearly exhausted, the whistle of a whippowil, echoing through the arches of the wood, brought the party guarding Schuyler to a halt, and the sound of horse-hoofs announced that some one approached.

Presently up rode the quondam farmer and Mountain Hermit, now revealed in his true character as a partisan leader, and followed by several men in green uniforms, wearing the brass and bear-skin helmets of a well-known Tory corps, called after their leader the “Johnson Greens” or “Rangers.”

The spy was dressed as before in homespun clothes, but he rode a stout horse, and wore a sword, while he seemed to be in authority over white and red alike.

He issued a few brief orders, after which he dismounted from his horse, and the rangers and Indians proceeded to encamp.

It was not long before a fierce fire was glowing under the arches of the woods, the heat being very grateful to the frame of the captive hussar, for the night was chilly, and he was wet and shivering, from wading so many brooks.

He had sunk down at the foot of a tree, quite tired out, when a ranger stirred him up with the butt end of his rifle, and ordered him, in a surly tone, to “get up, the captain wanted to see him.”

Schuyler obeyed the ungracious order with patience, for he knew the hands he had fallen into, and did not wish to provoke further indignities. He followed the soldier to where his late enemy lay under a tree, with his feet to the fire, gloomily meditating.

The partisan looked up, and a grim smile lighted his face.

“So, my young hussar, the tables are turned, it seems. It takes an old warrior to keep Tony Butler in irons. Now, hand out your dispatches, unless you prefer to be searched. Which shall it be?”

The young officer smiled disdainfully.

“My dispatches are in my brain,” he said. “All I carry in writing is this.”

And he drew a paper from his bosom and handed it to the captain of rangers.

CHAPTER VI.

A DEMONIACAL VISIT.

Captain Butler, for such was the name by which the partisan seemed to be known, took the parchment extended by the prisoner, and examined it closely.

“Why, this is only a commission,” he growled. “What do I care for that? I want your dispatches, Captain Schuyler, since that seems to be your name.”

“I have none, on my word as an officer,” said Schuyler calmly.

“Then what were you doing on the road to Derryfield?” asked Butler, bending his shaggy brows on the other.

“On duty,” was the laconic reply.

“What kind of duty?”

“That is my own affair and my General’s.”

“Who is your General?”

“General Philip Schuyler.”

“So,” said the ranger leader, musingly. “Are you a relation of his?”

“His second cousin.”

“On his staff?”

“As an aide—yes.”

“What uniform is that you wear? I know none such among the rebel ragamuffins.”

“It is the uniform of the Zieten regiment of hussars, in the Prussian service.”

Butler looked at the other with more respect. At that time, the name of Frederic of Prussia was as famous as that of Napoleon, twenty-five years later, and the Tories, while despising the “rebels,” held a great reverence for the few foreign officers who had found their way into the American service.

“Have you, indeed, served in the Zieten Hussars?” be asked.

“Seven years,” said young Schuyler, proudly.

“You must have been a boy when you entered.”

“I was—a cadet.”

“And what brought you back here to link your fortunes with these rebels, sir?”

“My country. She was in danger, and I owed her my life.”

“What orders did you carry to Derryfield?”

The hussar smiled slightly, and remained silent.

Butler looked at him with a gloomy but hesitating manner. He did not seem so much incensed against the hussar since he had discovered the famous corps to which he belonged.

“Look here, captain,” he said, suddenly, altering his manner to one of complete cordiality, “there can be no use in hiding the truth from me. I have no ill-feeling against you for treating me so roughly. It was war-time, and a hussar should always be on the alert. But why should an officer of your experience take a side which must be the losing one in this struggle, when a commission in the king’s service awaits you, if you wish? Already General Burgoyne has your cousin enveloped in the toils, at Albany, and another week will see the rebels cut in half, from the lakes to New York. I know why you went to Derryfield. It was to try and rouse the Vermont militia. But it is of no use, I assure you. Who is in command there, by the by?”

Schuyler again smiled, but made no answer.

The partisan leader frowned in a vexed manner at that.

“Captain Schuyler,” he said, in a low, grating voice, “remember there are Indians round you. For the last time, what was your errand?”

“For the last time, Captain Butler, I will not tell you.”

Butler changed his manner to its old repulsive sullenness.

“Very well. Your blood on your own head.”

He spoke a few words in the Mohawk tongue, and Schuyler was seized and bound hand and foot in an incredibly short space of time, then cast down at the foot of a tree, and left between two guards, to sleep if he could.

The last words of the partisan had led him to anticipate immediate torture, at least, but such did not seem to be the intention of his captors. He was left to himself, in a position far from uncomfortable as regarded warmth, with a tree overhead and a fire near him, while his bonds, though secure, were by no means painful.

Meanwhile, the few simple preparations of the Indians for camping out had been completed, and the whole band lay stretched around the fire, with their feet in close proximity. The leader had wrapped himself in a cloak and lain down a little apart, and every thing was quiet, as Adrian Schuyler softly raised his head to look for his chances of escape. He counted his enemies, and found that there were only thirteen Indians and six soldiers present, including Butler. Where the other bands had gone, he could not tell, but none were there.

Young Schuyler had not served under the best light cavalry Generals of Europe without acquiring much fertility of resource and boldness of character. To be left alone was, with him, to plan some means of escape, and as he lay there, he considered that in the morning his chances would probably be desperate.

He lay quite still for some time, till he heard the deep breathing of sleepers on all sides. Then he rolled over to one side, nearer one of his guards, the knife at whose belt excited his hopes.

The instant he moved, a deep voice accosted him from behind a neighboring tree, saying, in English:

“Roll back!”

The hussar obeyed, and his heart sunk as he did so. He was evidently watched by a hidden sentry.

A moment later the man moved out from the tree against which he had been leaning, a stalwart ranger of the “Johnson Greens.”

Without another word, he grounded his rifle-butt, and stood leaning on the muzzle, looking at Schuyler with grave attention. From that moment the young officer saw it was useless to move till that gaze was off him.

Resigning himself to his fate, he pretended to go to sleep, and insensibly the warmth and silence lulled him into a doze, from which he woke with a sudden start, after a lapse of time that he could not compute exactly.

When he looked round, the fire was burning low, and all was in gloom. The sentry had left his post, but Schuyler could distinguish the dark outline of his form leaning against a tree. Silently as he could, the hussar rolled over once more toward his nearest guard, and this time there was no warning from the sentry. With his head bowed on his hands, which were clasped on the muzzle of his rifle, the latter was sleeping and snoring audibly.

The prisoner raised his manacled hands to withdraw the knife from the sleeping Indian’s belt, and was already in the act of touching him, when a sudden interruption occurred to the quiet—an interruption of the most awful character.

A bright glare of red light shot over the scene from above, and the astonished hussar beheld, in the midst of the branches of the tree over his head, a blazing ball of crimson fire.

On a lower branch, stood a gigantic black figure, which Schuyler recognized, with an indescribable sensation of awe and superstition which he could not conquer, as the very embodiment of the traditional idea of the Genius of Evil himself.

The gaunt, gigantic figure, with short, upright horns on its head, black from head to foot, with steely gleams; the deathly white face, with great burning eyes and pointed mustache, curved upwards in a malicious grin of triumph; all were the usual and traditional aspects of the fiend in art.

For one moment the horrible demon stood erect on a branch, holding another above his head, while he brandished a bundle of darts in his left hand.

Not a soul in camp was awake but Schuyler, who fancied himself for a moment the victim of nightmare, so inexplicable was the vision to his senses.

Then there echoed a triumphant laugh from the tree, and a deep, hoarse voice roared out:

“Ha! ha! ha! ha!!! I gather them in! I gather them in!”

Even at the second word, every man in camp started up, and stood gazing spellbound at the fearful figure.

Then, with a final yell of fiendish laughter, the demon leaped down on the head of an Indian, and cast a shower of his darts in all directions. Every one went with fearful force and unerring aim straight to the heart of a victim, and four men fell writhing to the earth in as many seconds.

Then, with a low wail of inexpressible terror, white and red, without venturing a blow or shot for defense, flew in wild dismay in all directions.

As for Schuyler, he was too much astounded to move. His bonds also prevented him, had he been so inclined. He lay mutely gazing up at the extraordinary apparition as it stood over the fire dealing death around it, expecting his own death to follow.

Suddenly, almost in the instant that his captors fled, there was a loud explosion in the top of the tree, and the red glare vanished to be replaced by a profound darkness, in the midst of which the wild laugh of the specter sounded fearfully distinct, while the rapid rush of feet through the leaves told of the flight of every one else.

Adrian Schuyler lay perfectly still. He was not naturally superstitious, but the strange events he had witnessed were enough to rouse the fears of the bravest. He remained where he had fallen, listening to the receding feet, after which all was silent.

How long he lay there he could not tell. The stillness of death hung over the forest for hours, but he feared to move, least he might attract the notice of the strange creature. Where it had gone to, he did not know, but he fancied it must be near, from having heard nothing of its departure.

Thus the hussar lay on his back by the glimmering embers, till the doubtful light of dawn stole over the scene, and revealed the empty forest to his view, with a heap of corpses lying by an extinguished fire.

The demon had vanished.

CHAPTER VII.

A STRANGE SERVICE.

Adrian Schuyler sat up, with some difficulty, owing to his bonds, and looked around him. There lay the dead bodies, five in number, and every one was that of an Indian. Strange to say, not a white man had fallen. Each body was lying flat on its back, with a ghastly gash right over the heart, that stretched across the whole length of the rib, leaving a gaping red pit in the side.

The javelins with which death had been inflicted had vanished, and the footprints of some creature with a cloven foot were plainly visible by the side of the corpses.

The light of day, instead of dispelling the mystery, only served to render it deeper. The hussar could not tell where he was, for the thick woods, but he noticed that the ground rose to the right of the camp, with a steepness that told he was at the foot of a mountain.

Now, unwatched by human eye, he rolled himself near the body of an Indian, and using the latter’s knife with his own fettered hands, soon cut the cords that bound his feet together. His own handcuffs remained, but they were not an incumbrance to his further escape. Moreover, it was not hard to find weapons. They lay by the bodies, or scattered in terror over the ground, and a heap of abandoned horse equipments, at the foot of a tree, showed where the demoralized rangers had fled on barebacked horses. Lying among these equipments he found his own weapons as they had been thrown there, and it was with great joy that he resumed them, one by one.

Putting on a sword-belt, when the person is handcuffed, is by no means an easy operation, but Adrian managed it somehow, and then took his departure for the mountain, presenting the strange spectacle of a fully armed hussar roaming the woods, handcuffed like a prisoner.

The irons were decidedly inconvenient, but he had no means to unlock them. The key in his saber-tasche had been taken by his captors of the evening to extricate their chief, and the latter had fled, carrying it with him.

In a short time the young officer had reached the ascent which he judged to be the side of a mountain, and beheld his expectations verified. A lofty mountain indeed was before him, and a break in the woods, higher up, promised him a prospect of the surroundings.

After some minutes of hard climbing he reached a flat rock that jutted out many feet from the mountain-side, and around which the trees had gradually thinned away, leaving a view of the usual sea of mountains and valleys.

Something in the scene seemed familiar to the hussar, who yet could not exactly ascertain where he was. Casting his eyes to the right, over a sea of foliage, he caught sight of a thin wreath of blue smoke curling in the air, and at the same time, beheld a peculiar shaped cliff, with a stream falling over its side, which he instantly recognized, ejaculating:

“By heavens, it is the Haunted Hill!”

It was indeed, but the other side from that which he had seen the day before.

“The mystery is solved,” mused the hussar. “No wonder the Indians fled. It must have been the Mountain Demon that saved me last night. But, surely, it can not be possible that demon’s really in it. There was none here yesterday, and the savages must have grown bold from its absence. Who can it be, then?”

As he thus mused, the clear silvery notes of a horn echoed from the rocks overhead on the mountain-side, and soon after came the flying feet of some creature rapidly approaching.

Instinctively, Adrian Schuyler drew one of his pistols and cocked it, ready to defend himself against any attack.

The next moment one of the large bloodhounds he had seen the day before, dashed over the rock at some distance, without noticing him, and then came the graceful figure of the girl Diana, who bounded past him within ten feet, and suddenly stopped, dumb with amazement, staring at the handsome stranger.

Adrian was the first to break the silence.

“Fairest Diana,” he said, in his most winning tones, “well met once more on the mountain.”

“How came you here, rash man?” asked the girl, hastily, and turning pale as she spoke. “Do you not know that this is fatal ground? Are you tired of your life? If he finds you here, he will kill you.”

Schuyler smiled.

“As to why I came here, it is easily answered. I was brought here a prisoner, by a party of Indians and Tories, who camped with me in the woods at the foot of the hill. Last night a strange apparition entered our camp, killed or frightened away all the Indians, and released me. I am trying now to find my way back to Derryfield.”

Diana listened to his words with apparent wonder.

“A strange apparition! What! is he here again?”

“I know not to whom you refer, lady, but a creature in the likeness of a man, but with cloven feet and horns, created such a panic among my captors as I never saw paralleled.”

“And still you dare stay here,” said the girl, in a tone of wonder. “Oh, sir, if you value your life, let me entreat you to fly. The road to Derryfield is straight and easy.”

“And yet you stay here,” said the hussar, meaningly. “Why should I fear what you do not?”

“Oh, sir, that is different. I am—I can not tell you what. But I entreat you to fly.”

“Madam,” said Schuyler, gravely, “I should be glad to do so, for my duty calls me away. But I have no horse, and the woods are full of enemies. If I go on foot, the chances are that I never get there.”

“What then? You can not stay here—you say you saw him—what is to be done? You must go back whence you came.”

“I can not do it,” said Schuyler. “The scouts of Burgoyne’s army are between me and home. I must get to Derryfield, if I have to steal a horse.”

Diana wrung her hands in agony.

“Man, man, I tell you he will kill you if you stay here. You must go away.”

“I have a choice of deaths, then,” said the hussar, coolly. “I am safe from the Indians, on this mountain, and as for the demon, if he kills me, he will serve his enemies. On my mission to Derryfield depends the whole future of a campaign.”

As he spoke, the sound of another horn, deep, hoarse and bellowing, echoed from the top of the hill, and the girl turned deadly pale, ejaculating:

“It is too late! He is here! You are lost!”

In spite of his general courage and coolness, an involuntary thrill of terror gathered over the heart of Adrian Schuyler, as he listened to the mysterious sounds of the phantom horn. It echoed from hill to hill in deep reverberations, and when it died away, left him with an indescribable sense of awe.

At the same moment, as if the mysterious demon had waited to sound his horn till the aspects of nature were in harmony with diabolical influences, a sudden shadow swept over the sun, and Adrian, looking up, beheld a deep thundercloud, hitherto hidden behind the mountains, swallow up the sun, and rush across the sky with wonderful swiftness, while a powerful gust of wind shook and bowed the trees on the mountain-side in a groaning chorus.

He turned to Diana, and behold, she was gone! He just caught a glimpse of her white deer-skin tunic vanishing in the upper woods on the mountain-side, whence the sound of the horn had come, and he realized that it had been a summons.

“Man or demon—girl or spirit,” muttered Schuyler, as he entered the woods in pursuit, “I’ll follow you, and find the mystery of this mountain, if it costs me my life. I’ll know the secret, at least.”