The Secret Shot; Or, The Rivals Of Misty Mount — page 34: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ee mame SE 8 Le A et 0s ta. ——oe oe ee es ee —se == = — 82 THE SECRET SHOT. round the temples of their chief as he neared the foe; but they knew him too well—had fought under him too long, to ascribe his gloom to aught of apprehension or unsol- dierly dubiousness as to the affair in hand, and had no doubt that.the actual shock of battle would strike out the old fire from the nature which they knew to be steel. There was one thought, one hope, that blazed like a star in the gloom of Cleave- land’s soul. He might mect the destroyer of his peace onthe field. The red gleam of battle might reveal to him again those hateful features from which he had torn the mask on that hideous night of rapine. How his heart leaped—how he clutched the hilt of his sword at the thought of that pos- sible meeting! The gloom of his stern lips broke into a cruel smile as that sweet hope of vengeance brightened his sorrowful breast. It was a long ride from Valleyton to the place of contemplated battle; but, by sun- down of the first day nearly half the dis- tance was .accomplished, and the hardy rangers were encamped on the banks of the _ Catawba with light hearts. The country was wonderfully beautiful in its autumnal garb ; but, as night drew on, the air came down from the murky mountains in their rear, with a chilliness which made the camp- fires comfortable for the outer man. The rude fare of the riflemen was soon prepared and dispatched, and they stretched them- selves in their blankets for a long night’s snooze. Cleaveland sat alone by the feeble embers of a camp-fire, on the bank of the running stream. He could not sleep, and sought in vain for a refuge from his haunt- ing thoughts. The night was splendid. Every thing around him was beautiful and lovely. The stars were abroad in their olden glory. The bright half-moon was rising above the poplar tops of the opposite shore, and her holy splendor rolled upon the shimmering and peaceful stream, and bathed-the forms of his sleeping comrades with marvelous sweetness. Now and then the faint calls and responses of his distant pickets would come to his ear in a dreamy way, or a lonely whistle from some night- bird in the near timber would echo out strangely on the night. Perhaps the beauty of the landscape soothed his aching heart ; but, presently, as if a sweeter balm was sent him from above, he heard the far-off dip of a boatman’s oar, and, as it neared him, a melodious voice accompanied it, and came floating down the moonlit stream in a& pensive song. “ My boat on the clear Catawba’s tide Is drifting to the sea ; : And over the current smooth and wide The bloomy borders be. “The bloomy banks that take the sun All day in a blissful dream ; And show their forms when the day is done In the glass of the gliding stream. * And my boat is swinging, swinging slow, With the light on her folded wings; And under her keel, in the erystal flow, Her trembling shadow swings. ‘Oh, dear to me is the tender sweep Of Catawba’s brimming flood; And dear the willows that downward weep, And the banks, in bloom or bud. “Tt minds me of the placid maid Whom I loved in the long-ago, Bat whose course was lost in the somber shade Where the Stygian waters flow. ‘* But I know she floated, floated far, Till the stream heed glad and bright, Like a river of gold in a chosen star, Or Catawba’s stream to-night. “So bear me, bear me, glad and free, Bright river with verdure lined; _ There heaves in sight the sunny sea Where her shallop waits the wind.” As the sweet voice of the singer ebbed away, he swung into view from the shade of the overhanging willows he had sung of, and his boat drifted dreamily down the shining stream. Cleaveland watched the lonely boatman, with a feeling of envy, till he was shut from sight by a bend of the river. And then, again, as the dip of the oars was dying away, the pensive voice of the singer was heard in repetition: “Tt minds me of the placid maid Whom I loved in the long-ago, - But whose course was lost in the somber shade Where the darker waters flow. **But I know she floated, floated far, Till the stream grew glad and bright, Like a river of gold in a happy star, Or Catawba’s stream to-night. ‘*So bear me, bear me, glad and free, Bright river with verdure lined; There heaves in sight the sunny ea Where her shallop waits the wind. “ How I envy him!” mused the gloomy colonel. “And yet, might I not take a les- son from the boatman’s pensive song? His love is dead, beyond his mortal ken and hope; yet he knows that ‘her shallop but waits the wind’ that shall bear him through eternity by her side. My love is, in all prob- ability, alive; but where ?—in what*hands ? Heaven help her! She may need it !” He heaved a deep sigh, and relapsed into his former mood of somber contemplation. Presently, as if worn out by his own har- assing thoughts, he stretched himself by the remains of the fire, and slumber at last came to his relief. It was probably in the dead of night, Gomichooksncom