 Chapter 27 of Tales of a Traveller by Washington Irving. This Liber-Vox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Greg Giordano. THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBER, PART ONE I was born at the little town of Frosinone, which lies at the skirts of the Rudsee. My father had made a little property in trade, and gave me some education, as he intended me for the church. But I kept gay company too much to relish the cowl, so I grew up a loiterer about the place. I was a heedless fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasions, but good-humored in the main, so I made my way very well for a time, until I fell in love. There lived in our town a surveyor, or land bailiff, of the princes, who had a young daughter, a beautiful girl of sixteen. She was looked upon as something better than the common run of our town's folk, and kept almost entirely at home. I saw her occasionally, and became madly in love with her. She looked so fresh and tender, and so different to the sun-burnt females to whom I had been accustomed. As my father kept me in money, I always dressed well, and took all opportunities of showing myself to advantage in the eyes of the little beauty. I used to see her at church, and as I could play a little upon the guitar, I gave her a tune sometimes, under her window of an evening, and I tried to have interviews with her and her father's vineyard, not far from the town, where she sometimes walked. She was evidently pleased with me, but she was young and shy, and her father kept a strict eye upon her, and took alarm at my attentions, for he had a bad opinion of me, and looked for a better match for his daughter. I became furious at the difficulties thrown in my way, having been accustomed always to easy access among the women, being considered one of the smartest young fellows of the place. Her father brought home a suitor for her, a rich farmer from a neighboring town. The wedding-day was appointed, and preparations were making. I got sight of her at her window, and I thought she looked sadly at me. I determined the match should not take place, cost what it might. I met her intended bridegroom in the market place, and could not restrain the expression of my rage. A few hot words passed between us when I drew my stiletto, and stabbed him to the heart. I fled to a neighboring church for refuge, and with a little money I obtained absolution, but I did not dare to venture from my asylum. At that time our captain was forming his troop. He had known me from boyhood, and hearing of my situation came to me in secret, and made such offers that I agreed to enlist myself among his followers. Indeed, I had more than once thought of taking to this mode of life, having known several brave fellows of the mountains, who used to spend their money freely among us youngsters of the town. I accordingly left my asylum late one night, repaired to the appointed place of meeting, took the oaths prescribed, and became one of the troop. We were for some time in a distant part of the mountains, and our wild, adventurous kind of life hit my fancy wonderfully, and diverted my thoughts. At length they returned with all their violence to the recollection of Rosetta. The solitude in which I often found myself gave me time to brood over her image, and as I have kept watch at night over our sleeping camp in the mountains, my feelings have been roused almost to a fever. At length we shifted our ground, and determined to make a descent upon the road between Teresina and Naples. In the course of our expedition we passed a day or two in the woody mountains which rise above frozen on. I cannot tell you how I felt when I looked down upon the place, and distinguished the residents of Rosetta. I determined to have an interview with her. What to what purpose? I could not expect that she would quit her home, and accompany me in my hazardous life among the mountains. She had been brought up too tenderly for that, and when I looked upon the women who were associated with some of our troop, I could not have borne the thoughts of her being their companion. All return to my former life was likewise hopeless, for a price was set upon my head. Still, I determined to see her. The very hazard and fruitlessness of the thing made me furious to accomplish it. It is about three weeks since I persuaded our captain to draw down to the vicinity of frozen on, in hopes of entrapping some of its principal inhabitants and compelling them to a ransom. We were lying in ambush towards evening, not far from the vineyard of Rosetta's father. Still quietly for my companions, and drew near to reconnoitre the place of her frequent walks. How my heart beats when, among the vines, I beheld the gleaming of a white dress. I knew it must be Rosetta's, it being rare for any female of the place to dress in white. I advanced secretly and without noise, and so putting aside the vines, I stood suddenly before her. She uttered a piercing shriek, but I seized her in my arms, put my hand upon her mouth, and conjured her to be silent. I poured out all the frenzy of my passion, offered to renounce my mode of life, and to put my fate in her hands, to fly with her where we might live in safety together. All that I could say or do would not pacify her. Instead of love, horror and a fright seemed to have taken possession of her rest. She struggled partly from my grasp, and filled the air with her cries. In an instant the captain and the rest of my companions were around us. I would have given anything at that moment had she been safe out of our hands, and in her father's house. It was too late. The captain pronounced her a prize, and ordered that she should be born to the mountains. I represented to him that she was my prize, that I had a previous claim to her, and I mentioned my former attachment. He sneered bitterly in reply, observed that Brigands had no business with village intrigues, and that, according to the laws of the troop, all spoils of the kind were determined by lot. Love and jealousy were raging in my heart, but I had to choose between obedience and death. I surrendered her to the captain, and we made for the mountains. She was overcome by a fright, and her steps were so feeble and faltering, and it was necessary to support her. I could not endure the idea that my comrades should touch her, and assuming a forced tranquility, beg that she might be confided to me, as one to whom she was more accustomed. The captain regarded me for a moment with a searching look, but I bore it without flinching, and he consented. I took her in my arms. She was almost senseless. Her head rested on my shoulder, her mouth was near to mine. I felt her breath on my face, and it seemed to fan the flame which devoured me. Oh, God, to have this glowing treasure in my arms, and yet to think it was not mine! We arrived at the foot of the mountain. I ascended it with difficulty, particularly where the woods were thick, but it would not relinquish my delicious burden. I reflected with rage, however, that I must soon do so. The thoughts that so delicate a creature must be abandoned to my rude companions maddened me. I felt tempted, the stiletto in my hand, to cut my way through them all, and bear her off in triumph. I scarcely conceived the idea, before I saw its rashness, but my brain was fevered with the thought that any but myself should enjoy her charms. I endeavored to outstrip my companions by the quickness of my movements, and to get a little distance ahead, in case any favorable opportunity of escape should present. Vein effort, the voice of the captain suddenly ordered a halt. I trembled, but had to obey. The poor girl partly opened a languid eye, but was without strength or motion. I laid her upon the grass. The captain darted on me a terrible look of suspicion, and ordered me to scour the woods with my companions, and search for some shepherd who might be sent to her father's to demand a ransom. I saw at once the peril, to resist with violence with certain death, but to leave her alone in the power of the captain. I spoke out then with a fervor inspired by my passion and my despair. I reminded the captain that I was the first to seize her, that she was my prize, and that my previous attachment for her should make her sacred among my companions. I insisted, therefore, that he should pledge me his word to respect her, otherwise I should refuse obedience to his orders. His only reply was to cock his carbine, and at the signal my comrades did the same. They laughed with cruelty at my impotent rage. What could I do? I felt the madness of resistance. I was menaced on all hands, and my companions obliged me to follow them. She remained alone with the chief. Yes, alone, and almost lifeless. Here the robber paused, and his recital overpowered by his emotions. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead. He panted rather than breathe. His brawny bosom rose and fell like the waves of a troubled sea. When he had become a little calm, he continued his recital. I was not long in finding a shepherd, said he. I ran with the rapidity of a deer, eager, if possible, to get back before what I dreaded might take place. I had left my companions far behind, and I rejoined them before they had searched one half the distance I had made. I hurried them back to the place where we had left the captain. As we approached, I beheld him seated by the side of Rosetta. His triumphant look and the desolate condition of the unfortunate girl left me no doubt of her fate. I know not how I restrained my fury. It was with extreme difficulty, and by guiding her hand, that she was made to trace a few characters, requesting her father to send three hundred dollars as her ransom. The letter was dispatched by the shepherd. When he was gone, the chief turned sternly to me. You have set an example, said he, of mutiny and self-will, which, if indulged, would be ruinous to the troop. Had I treated you as our laws require, this bullet would have been driven through your brain. But you are an old friend. I have borne patiently with your fury and your folly. I have even protected you from a foolish passion that would have unmanned you. As to this girl, the laws of our association must have their course. So saying he gave his commands, lots were drawn, and the helpless girl was abandoned to the troop. Here the robber paused again, panting with fury, and it was some moments before he could resume his story. Hell, said he, was raging in my heart. I beheld the impossibility of avenging myself. And I felt that, according to the articles in which we stood bound to one another, the captain was in the right. I rushed with frenzy from the place. I threw myself upon the earth, tore up the grass with my hands, and beat my head, and gnashed my teeth in agony and rage. When at length I returned, I beheld the wretched victim, pale, dishevelled, her dress torn and disordered. An emotion of pity for a moment subdued my fiercer feelings. I bore her to the foot of a tree, and leaned her gently against it. I took my gourd, which was filled with wine, and applying it to her lips, endeavored to make her swallow a little. To what a condition was she recovered, she whom I had once seen the pride of Royzanon, who but a short time before I had beheld sporting in her father's vineyard so fresh and beautiful and happy. Her teeth were clenched, her eyes fixed on the ground, her form without motion, and in a state of absolute insensibility. I hung over her in an agony of recollection, of all that she had been, and of anguish at what I now beheld her. I darted round the look of horror at my companions, who seemed like so many fiends exulting in the downfall of an angel, and I thought of horror at myself for being their accomplice. The captain, always suspicious, saw what this usual penetration was passing within me, and ordered me to go upon the ridge of woods to keep a lookout upon the neighborhood and await the return of the shepherd. I obeyed, of course, stifling the fury that raged within me, though I felt for the moment that he was my most deadly foe. On my way, however, a ray of reflection came across my mind. I perceived that the captain was but following the strickness, the terrible laws to which we had sworn fidelity, that the passion by which I have been blinded might with justice have been fatal to me, but for his forbearance, that he had penetrated my soul and had taken precautions by sending me out of the way to prevent my committing any excess in my anger. From that instant I felt that I was capable of pardoning him. Occupied with these thoughts, I arrived at the foot of the mountain. The country was solitary and secure, and in a short time I beheld the shepherd at a distance crossing the plain. I hastened to meet him. He had obtained nothing. He had found the father plunged in the deepest distress. He had read the letter with violent emotion, and then calming himself with the sudden exertion he had replied coldly, "'My daughter has been dishonored by those wretches. Let her be returned without ransom, or let her die.' I shuddered at this reply. I knew, according to the laws of our troop, her death was inevitable. Our oaths required it. I felt, nevertheless, that, not having been able to have her to myself, I could become her executioner. The robber again paused with agitation. I sat musing upon his last frightful words, which proved to what excess the passions may be carried when escaped from all moral restraint. There was a horrible verity in this story that reminded me of some of the tragic fictions of Dante. We now came to a fatal moment, resumed the bandit. After the report of the shepherd, I returned with him, and the chieftain received from his lips the refusal of the father. At a signal which we all understood, we followed him some distance from the victim. He there pronounced her sentence of death. Everyone stood ready to execute his order. But I interfered. I observed that there was something due to pity, as well as to justice, that that was as ready as anyone to approve the impeccable law which was to serve as a warning to all those who hesitated to pay the ransoms demanded for our prisoners. But that, though the sacrifice was proper, it ought to be made without cruelty. The night is approaching, continued I. She will soon be wrapped in sleep. Let her then be dispatched. All that I now claim on the score of formal fondness for her is, let me strike the blow. I will do it as surely, but more tenderly, than another. Several raised their voices against my proposition. But the captain imposed silence on them. He told me I might conduct her into a thicket at some distance, and he relied upon my promise. I hastened to seize my prey. There was a forlorn kind of triumph at having at length become her exclusive possessor. I bore her off into the thickness of the forest. She remained in the same state of insensibility and stupor. I was thankful that she did not recollect me, for had she once murmured my name I should have been overcome, she slept at length in the arms of him who was to poignant her. Many were the conflicts I underwent before I could bring myself to strike the blow. My heart had become sore by the recent conflicts that had undergone, and I dreaded lest, by procrastination, some other should become her executioner. When her repose had continued for some time, I separated myself gently from her, that I might not disturb her sleep, and seizing suddenly my poignard plunged it into herbism, a painful and concentrated murmur but without any convulsive movement accompanied her last sigh. So perished this unfortunate. He ceased to speak. I sat horror-struck, covering my face with my hands, seeking, as it were, to hide from myself the frightful images he had presented to my mind. I was roused from the silence by the voice of the captain. "'You sleep,' said he, and it is time to be off. "'Come, we must abandon this height. His night is setting in, and the messenger is not returned. I will post someone on the mountain edge to conduct him to the place where we shall pass the night. This was no agreeable news to me. I was sick at heart with the dismal story I had heard. I was harassed and fatigued, and the sight of the Banditi began to grow unsupportable to me. The captain assembled his comrades. We rapidly descended the forest which we had mounted with so much difficulty in the morning, and soon arrived in what appeared to be a frequented road. The robbers proceeded with great caution, carrying their guns cocked, looking on every side, with wary and suspicious eyes. They were apprehensive of encountering a civic patrol. They left Roka Priori behind us. There was a fountain nearby, and as I was excessively thirsty, I begged permission to stop and drink. The captain himself went and brought me water in his hat. He pursued our route when, at the extremity of an alley which crossed the road, I perceived a female on horseback, dressed in white. She was alone. I recollected the fate of the poor girl in the story, and trembled for her safety. One of the brigands saw her at the same instant, and plunging into the bushes. He ran precipitally in the direction towards her. Stopping on the border of the alley, he put one knee to the ground, presented his carbine ready for menace, or to shoot her horse if she attempted to fly, and in this way awaited her approach. I kept my eyes fixed on her with intense anxiety. I felt tempted to shout and warn her of her danger, though my own destruction would have been the consequence. It was awful to see this tiger crushing ready for a bound, and the poor innocent victim wandering unconsciously near him. Nothing but a mere chance could save her. To my joy, a chance turned in her favor. She seemed almost accidentally to take an opposite path, which led outside of the wood, where the robber dared not venture. To this casual deviation she owed her safety. I could not imagine why the captain of the band had ventured to such a distance from the height, on which he had placed the sentinel to watch the return of the messengers. He seemed himself uneasy at the risk to which he exposed himself. His movements were rapid and uneasy. I could scarcely keep pace with him. At length, after three hours of what might be termed a forced march, we mounted the extremity of the same woods, the summit of which we had occupied during the day. And I learned with satisfaction that we had reached our quarters for the night. You must be fatigued, said the chieftain, but it was necessary to survey the environs, so as not to be surprised during the night. Had we met with the famous civic guard of Roca Priori, you would have been fine sport. Such was the indefatigable precaution and forethought of this robber-chief, who really gave continual evidences of military talent. End of Chapter 27 Recording by Greg Giardano Newport Ritchie, Florida Chapter 28 of Tales of a Traveller by Washington Irving This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Greg Giardano Story of the young robber Part II The night was magnificent. The moon rising above the horizon, and a cloudless sky, faintly lit up the grand features of the mountains, while lights twinkling here and there, like terrestrial stars, in the wide dusky expanse of the landscape, betrayed the lonely cabins of the shepherds. Exhausted by fatigue, and by the many agitations I had experienced, I prepared to sleep, soothed by the hope of approaching deliverance. The captain ordered his companions to collect some dry moss. He arranged with his own hands a kind of mattress and pillow of it, and gave me his ample mantle as a covering. I could not but feel both surprised and gratified by such unexpected attentions on the part of this benevolent cut-throat. For there is nothing more striking than to find the ordinary charities, which are matters of course in common life, flourishing by the side of such stern and sterile crime, as like finding the tender flowers and fresh herbage of the valley growing among the rocks and cinders of the volcano. Before I fell asleep I had some further discourse with the captain, who seemed to put great confidence in me. He referred to our previous conversation of the morning, told me he was weary of his hazardous profession, that he had acquired sufficient property, and was anxious to return to the world, and lead a peaceful life in the bosom of his family. He wished to know whether was not in my power to procure him a passport for the United States of America. I applauded his good intentions, and promised to do everything in my power to promote its success. We then parted for the night. I stretched myself upon my couch of moss, which, after my fatigues, felt like a bed of down, and sheltered by the robber's mantle from all humidity. I slept soundly without waking until the signal to arise. It was nearly six o'clock, and the day was just dawning. As the place where we had passed the night was too much exposed, we moved up into the thickness of the woods. A fire was kindled. While there was any flame, the mantles were again extended round it. But when nothing remained with glowing cinders, they were lowered, and the robbers seated themselves in a circle. The scene before me reminded me of some of those described by Homer. They wanted only the victim on the coals and the sacred knife to cut off the succulent parts and distribute them around. My companions might have rivaled the grim warriors of Greece. In place of the noble repasts, however, of Achilles and Agamemnon, had beheld displayed on the grass the remains of the ham, which had sustained so vigorous an attack on the preceding evening. We had scarcely commenced our frugal breakfast when I heard again an imitation of the bleeding of sheep, similar to what I had heard the day before. The captain answered it in the same tone. Two men were soon after seen descending from the woody height, where we had passed the preceding evening. A nearer approach they proved to be the sensional and the messenger. The captain rose and went to meet them. He made a signal for his comrades to join him. They had a short conference, and then returning to me with eagerness. Your ransom is paid, said he. You are free. Though I had anticipated deliverance, I cannot tell you what a rush of delight these tidings gave me. I cared not to finish my repast, but prepared to depart. The captain took me by the hand, requested permission to write to me, and begged me not to forget the passport. I replied that I hoped to be of effectual service to him, and that I relied on his honor to return the prince's note for five hundred dollars, now that the cash was paid. He regarded me for a moment with surprise, then seeming to collect himself. He guessed, though, said he. Equal audio. Footnote. It is just, there it is, a do. And a footnote. He delivered me the note, pressed my hand once more, and we separated. The laborers were permitted to follow me, and we resumed with joy our road towards Tuscalum. The artist ceased to speak. The party continued for a few moments to pace the shore of Teresina in silence. The story they had heard had made a deep impression on them, particularly on the fair Venetian, who had gradually regained her husband's arm. At the part that related to the young girl of Rosinone she had been violently affected, sobs broke from her. She clung close to her husband, and as she looked up to him, as if for protection, the moonbeam shining on her beautifully fair countenance showed it paler than usual with terror, while tears glittered in her fine, dark eyes. Oh, caromeo! Which he murmured, shuddering at every atrocious circumstance of the story. Coraggio Miavita was the reply, as the husband gently and fondly tapped the white hand that lay upon his arm. The English men alone preserved his usual phlegm, and the fair Venetian was peaked at it. She had pardoned him a want of gallantry towards herself, though a sin of omission seldom met within the gallant climate of Italy, but the quiet coolness which he maintained in matters which so much affected her, and the slow credence which she had given to the stories which had filled her with alarm were quite vexatious. Santa Maria, said she to husband as they retired for the night, what insensible beings these English are. In the morning all was bustle at the inn at Teresina. The Procaccio had departed at daybreak, on its route towards Rome, but the Englishman was yet to start, and the departure of an English echelopage is always enough to keep an inn in a bustle. On this occasion there was more than usual stir, for the Englishman having much property about him, and having been convinced of the real danger of the road, had applied to the police and obtained, by dint of liberal pay, an escort of eight dragoons and twelve foot soldiers, as far as fondly. Perhaps too there might have been a little ostentation at bottom, from which, with great delicacy, be it spoken, English travelers are not always exempt, though to say the truth he had nothing of it in his manner. He moved about taciturn and reserved as usual, among the gaping crowd in his gingerbread-colored traveling cap, with his hands in his pockets. He gave laconic orders to John as he packed away the thousand and one indispensable conveniences of the night, double-loaded his pistols with great sangphroid, and deposited them in the pockets of the carriage, taking no notice of a pair of keen eyes gazing on him from among the herd of loitering idlers. The fair Venetian now came up with a request, made in her dulcet tones, that he would permit their carriage to proceed under protection of his escort. The Englishman, who was busy loading another pair of pistols for his servant, and held the ram-rub between his teeth, not at assent as a matter of course, but without lifting up his eyes. The fair Venetian was not accustomed to such indifference. Oh, Dio! ejaculated she softly as she retired. Como sono Freddy, cueste inglesi? At length off they set in gallant style. The aged dragoons prancing in front, as well as foot soldiers marching in rear, and carriages moving slowly in the center to enable the infantry to keep pace with them. They had proceeded but a few hundred yards, when it was discovered that some indispensable article had been left behind. In fact, the Englishman's purse was missing, and John was dispatched to the inn to search for it. This occasioned a little delay, and the carriage of the Venetians drove slowly on. John came back out of breath and out of humor. The purse was not to be found. His master was irritated. He recollected the very place where it lay. The cursed Italian servant had pocketed it. John was again sent back. He returned once more, without the purse, but with the landlord and the whole household at his heels. A thousand ejaculations and protestations accompanied by all sorts of grimaces and contortions. No purse had been seen. His Excellenza must be mistaken. No, his Excellenza was not mistaken. The purse lay on the marble table, under the mirror. A green purse, half full of gold and silver. Again a thousand grimaces and contortions, and vows by San Generio, that no purse of the kind had been seen. The Englishman became furious. The waiter had pocketed it. The landlord was a naïve, the in-a-den of thieves. It was a dung-country. He had been cheated and plundered from one end of it to the other. But he'd have satisfaction. He'd drive right off to the police. He was on the point of ordering the bestillians to turn back. When, unrising, he displaced the cushion of the carriage, and the purse of money fell chinking to the floor. All the blood in his body seemed to rush into his face. "'Ding the purse!' said he, as he snatched it up. He dashed a handful of money on the ground before the pale, cringing waiter. "'There! Be off!' cried he. "'John, order the bestillians to drive on!' Above half an hour had been exhausted in his altercation. The Venetian carriage had loitered along, its passengers looking out from time to time, and expecting the escort every moment to follow. They had gradually turned an angle of the road that shut them out of sight. The little army was again in motion, and made a very picturesque appearance as it wound along at the bottom of the rocks, the morning sunshine beaming upon the weapons of soldiery. The Englishman, lulled back in his carriage, vexed with himself of what had passed, and consequently out of humor with all the world. As this, however, is no uncommon case of the gentlemen who travel for their pleasure, it is hardly worthy of remark. They had wound up from the coast among the hills, and came to a part of the road that admitted of some prospect ahead. "'I see nothing of the ladies' carriage, sir,' said John, leaning over from the coach-box. "'Hang the ladies' carriage,' said the Englishman crustily. "'Don't plague me about the ladies' carriage. Must I be continually pestered with strangers?' John said not another word, for he understood his master's mood. The road grew more wild and lonely. There was slowly proceeding in a foot-pace up a hill, the dragoons were some distance ahead, and had just reached the summit of the hill when they uttered an exclamation, or rather shout, and galloped forward. The Englishman was aroused from his sulky reverie. He stretched his head from the carriage, which had attained the brow of the hill. Before him extended a long, hollow defile, commanded on one side by rugged, precipitous heights, covered with bushes and scanty forest trees. At some distance he held the carriage of the Venetians overturned. A numerous gang of desperados were rifling it. The young man and his servant were overpowered and partly stripped, and the lady was in the hands of two of the ruffians. The Englishman seized his pistols, sprang from his carriage, and called upon John to follow him. In the meantime, as the dragoons came forward, the robbers who were busy with the carriage, quitted their spoil, formed themselves in the middle of the road, and taking deliberate aim, fired. One of the dragoons fell, another was wounded, and the whole were for a moment checked and thrown in confusion. The robbers loaded again in an instant. The dragoons had discharged their carbines, but without a parent effect. They received another volley, which, though none fell, threw them again into confusion. The robbers were loading a second time, when they saw the foot soldiers at hand. Ska-pavia! was the word. They abandoned their prey and retreated up the rocks, the soldiers after them. They fought from cliff to cliff and bush to bush, the robbers turning every now and then to fire upon their pursuers. The soldiers scrambling after them, and discharging their muskets whenever they could get a chance. Sometimes a soldier or a robber was shot down, and came tumbling among the cliffs. The dragoons kept firing from below, whenever a robber came in sight. The Englishman hastened to the scene of action, and the balls discharged at the dragoons had whistled past him as he advanced. One object, however, engrossed his attention. It was the beautiful Venetian lady in the hands of two of the robbers, who, during the confusion of the fight, carried her shrieking up the mountains. He saw her dress gleaming among the bushes, and he sprang up the rocks to intercept the robbers as they bore off their prey. The ruggedness of the steep and the entanglements of the bushes delayed and impeded him. He lost sight of the lady, but was still guided by her cries, which grew fainter and fainter. They were off to the left, while the report of muskets showed that the battle was raging to the right. At length he came upon what appeared to be a rugged footpath, faintly worn in the gully of a rock, and beheld a ruffian at some distance, hurrying the lady up the defile. One of them hearing his approach let go his prey, advanced towards him in leveling the carbine which had been slung on his back fired. The ball whizzed through the Englishman's hat and carried with it some of his hair. He returned the fire with one of his pistols, and the robber fell. The other brigand now dropped the lady and drawn a long pistol from his belt, fired on his adversary with deliberate aim. The ball passed between his left arm and his side, slightly wounding the arm. The Englishman advanced and discharged his remaining pistol, which wounded the robber, but not severely. The brigand drew a stiletto and rushed upon his adversary, who eluded the blow, receiving merely a slight wound, and defending himself with his pistol, which had a spring bayonet. They closed with one another, and a desperate struggle ensued. The robber was a square-built, thick-set man, powerful, muscular, and active. The Englishman, though of larger frame and greater strength, was less active and less accustomed to athletic exercises and feats of hardy-hood, but he showed himself practiced and skilled in the art of defense. They were on a craggy height, and the Englishman perceived his antagonist was striving to press him to the edge. A side-glend showed him also the robber whom he had first wounded, scrambling up to the assistance of his comrade, stiletto in hand. He had, in fact, attained the summit of the cliff, and the Englishman saw him within a few steps, when he heard suddenly the report of a pistol and the ruffian fell. The shot came from John, who had arrived just in time to save his master. The remaining robber, exhausted by loss of blood and the violence of the contest, showed signs of faltering. His adversary pursued his advantage, pressed on him, and as his strength relaxed, dashed him headlong from the precipice. He looked after him, and saw him lying motionless among the rocks below. The Englishman now sought the fear of Venetian. He found her senseless on the ground, but the servant's assistance he bore her down to the road, where her husband was raving like one distracted. The occasional discharge of firearms along the height showed that a retreating fight was still kept up by the robbers. The carriage was rited, the baggage was hastily replaced. The Venetian, transported with joy and gratitude, took his lovely and senseless burden in his hands, and the party resumed their route towards Vendee, escorted by the dragoons, leaving the foot soldiers to ferret out the Bandidi. While on the way, John dressed his master's wounds, which were found not to be serious. Before arriving at Vendee, the fair Venetian had recovered from her swoon, and was made conscious of her safety and of the mode of her deliverance. Her transports were unbounded, and mingled with them were enthusiastic ejaculations of gratitude to her deliverer. A thousand times did she reproach herself for having accused him of coldness and insensibility. The moment she saw him, she rushed into his arms and clasped him around the neck, with all the vivacity of her nation. Never was man more embarrassed by the embraces of a fine woman. "'My deliverer, my angel!' exclaimed she. "'Tut, tut!' said the Englishman. "'You are wounded!' shrieked the fair Venetian as she saw the blood upon his clothes. "'Poo! Nothing at all! Oh, dear!' exclaimed she, clasping him again round the neck and sobbing on his bosom. "'Poo!' exclaimed the Englishman, looking somewhat foolish. "'This is all nonsense!' And of Chapter XXVIII. Recording by Greg Giardano, Newport Ritchie, Florida. CHAPTER XXIX. Of Tales of a Traveler, by Washington Irving. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Greg Giardano. PART IV. THE MONEY DIGGERS. And among the papers of the late Diedrich Nickerbocker. Now I remember those old women's words, who in my youth would tell me winter's tales, and speak of spirits and ghosts that glide by night, about the place where treasure had been hid. Marlowe's Jew of Malta. HELL-GATE. About six miles from the renowned city of the Manhattan's, and in that sound, or arm of the sea, which passes between the mainland, and Nassau, or Long Island, there is a narrow strait, where the current is violently compressed between shouldering promodatories, and horribly irritated and perplexed by rocks and shoals. Being at the best of times a very violent, hasty current, it takes these impediments in mighty dudgeon, boiling in whirlpools, brawling and fretting in ripples and breakers, and in short, indulging in all kinds of wrong-headed paroxysms. At such times, woe to any unlikely vessel that ventures within its clutches. The term against humor is said to prevail only at half tides. At low water it is as Pacific as any other stream. As the tide rises, it begins to fret. At half tide it rages and roars, as if bellowing for more water. But when the tide is full, it relapses again into quiet. And for a time seems almost to sleep as soundly as an alderman after dinner, and may be compared to an inveturate hard-drinker, who is a peaceable fellow enough when he has no liquor at all, or when he has a skinful, though in half seas overplays the very devil. This mighty blustering, bullying little straight was a place of great difficulty and danger to the Dutch navigators of ancient days, hectoring their tub-built barks and a most unruly style, whirling them about in a manner to make any but a Dutchman giddy, and not infrequently stranding them upon rocks and reefs, whereupon out of sheer spleen they dominated at Hellgate, literally Hellgut, and solemnly gave it over to the devil. His appellation has since been aptly rendered into English by the name of Hellgate, and into nonsense by the name of Hurlgate, according to certain foreign intruders, who neither understood Dutch nor English. May St. Nicholas confound them. From this straight to the city of the Manhattan's, the borders of the sound are greatly diversified. In one part, on the eastern shore of the island of Manhattan, an opposite Blackwell's island, being very much broken and indented by rocky nooks overhung with trees which give them a wild and romantic look. The flux and reflux of the tide through this part of the sound is extremely rapid, and a navigation troublesome, by reason of the whirling eddies and countercurrents. I speak this from experience, having been much of a navigator of the small seas in my boyhood, and having more than once run the risk of shipwreck, and drowning in the course of diverse holiday voyages, to which in common, with the Dutch urchins, I was rather prone. In the midst of this perilous straight, and hard by a group of rocks called the Hen and Chickens, there lay in my boyish days the wreck of a vessel, which had been entangled in the whirlpools, and stranded during a storm. There was some wild story about this being the wreck of a pirate, and of some bloody murder connected with it, which I cannot now recollect. Indeed, a desolate look of this forlorn hulk, and the fearful place where it lay rotting, were sufficient to awaken strange notions concerning it. A row of timber heads, blackened by time, peered above the surface at high water. But at low tide, a considerable part of the hull was bare, and its great ribs or timbers, partly stripped of their planks, looked like the skeletons of some sea monster. There was also the stump of a mast, with a few ropes and blocks swinging about, and whistling in the wind, while the seagull wheeled and screamed around this melancholy carcass. The stories connected with this wreck made it an object of great awe to my boyish fancy. But in truth the whole neighborhood was full of fable and romance for me, a bounding with traditions about pirates, hobgoblins, and buried money. As I grew to more mature years, I made many researches after the truth of these strange traditions. For I've always been a curious investigator of the valuable, but obscure branches of the history of my native province. I found infinite difficulty, however, in arriving in any precise information. And seeking to dig up one fact, it is incredible the number of fables which I unearthed. For the whole course of the sound, seemed in my younger days to be like the straits of Pilarus of Yor, the very region of fiction. I will say nothing of the devil's stepping-stones, by which that arch-fiend made his retreat from Connecticut to Long Island, seeing that the subject is likely to be learnedly treated by a worthy friend, and contemporary historian. Footnote. For a very interesting account of the devil and his stepping-stones, see the learned memoir read before the New York Historical Society, since the death of Mr. Knickerbocker, by his friend, an eminent jurist of the place. End of Footnote. When I furnished with particulars thereof, neither will I say anything of the black man in a three-cornered hat, seated in the stern of a jolly boat, who used to be seen about Hellgate in stormy weather. And we went by the name of the pirate's spook, or pirate's ghost, because I never could meet with any person of stanch credibility, who professed to have seen the Spectrum. And this were the widow of Manus Conklin, the blacksmith of Frog's neck. But then, poor woman, she was a little purrblind, and might have been mistaken, though they said she saw farther than other folks in the dark. All this, however, was but little satisfactory, in regard to the tales of buried money, about which I was most curious. And the following was all that I could, for a long time, collect that did anything like an air of authenticity. In old times, just after the territory of the New Netherlands had been rested from the hands of their high mightinesses, the Lord's State's General of Holland by Charles II, and while it was, as yet, in an unquiet state, the province was a favorite resort of adventurers of all kinds, and particularly of buccaneers. These were piratical rovers of the deep, who made sad work in times of peace, among the Spanish settlements and Spanish merchant ships. They took advantage of the easy access to the harbor of the Manhattanos, and of the laxity of its scarcely organized government, to make it a kind of rendezvous, where they might dispose of their ill-gotten spoils, and concert new depredations. Crews of these desperados, the renegades of every country and clime, might be seen swaggering in open day about the streets of the little burg, elbowing its quiet meneers, trafficking away their rich, outlandish plunder, at half price, to the weary merchant, and then squandering their gains and taverns, drinking, gambling, singing, swearing, shouting, and astounding the neighborhood with sudden brawl and ruffian revelry. At length the indignation of government was aroused, and it was determined to ferret out this vermin brood from the colonies. Great consternation took place among the pirates, on finding justice in pursuit of them, and their old haunts turned to places of peril. They secreted their money in jewels and lonely out-of-the-way places, buried them about the wild shores of the rivers and sea-coasts, and dispersed themselves over the face of the country. Among the agents employed to hunt them by sea was the renowned Captain Kidd. He had long been a hardy adventurer, a kind of equivocal borderer, half trader, half smuggler, with a tolerable dash of the picaroon. He had traded for some time among the pirates, lurking about the seas in a little rakish, mosquito-built vessel, prying into all kinds of odd places, as busy as a mother-carries chicken and a gale of wind. This nondescript personage was pitched upon by government as the very man to command a vessel fitted out to cruise against the pirates, since he knew all their haunts and lurking places, acting upon the shrewd old maxim of setting a rogue to catch a rogue. Kidd, accordingly, sailed from New York in the Adventure Galley, gallantly armed and duly commissioned, and steered his course to the Madeiras, to Bonavista, to Madagascar, and cruised at the entrance of the Red Sea. Instead, however, of making war upon the pirates, he turned pirate himself, captured friend or foe, enriched himself with the spoils of a wealthy Indian man, manned by moors, though commanded by an Englishman, and having disposed of his prize, had the hardy hood to return to Boston, laden with wealth, with the crew of his comrades at his heels. His fame had preceded him. The alarm was given of the reappearance of this cut purse of the ocean. Measures were taken for his arrest. But he had time, it is said, to bury the greater part of his treasures. He even attempted to draw his sword and defend himself when arrested, but was secured and thrown into prison with several of his followers. They were carried to England in a frigate where they were tried, condemned, and hanged at execution dock. Kid died hard for the rope with which he was first tied up broke with his weight, and he tumbled to the ground. He was tied up a second time, and effectually, from whence arose the story of his having been twice hanged. Such is the main outline of Kid's history, but it has given birth to an innumerable progeny of traditions. The circumstance of his having buried great treasures of gold and jewels, after returning from his cruising, set the brains of all the good people along the coast in the ferment. There were rumors on rumors of great sums found here and there. Sometimes in one part of the country, sometimes in another, of trees and rocks bearing mysterious marks, doubtless indicating the spots where treasure lay hidden, of coins found with Moorish characters, the plunder of Kid's eastern prize, but which the common people took for diabolical or magic inscriptions. Some reported the spoils to have been buried in solitary, unsettled places about Plymouth and Cape Cod, many other parts of the eastern coast also, in various places in Long Island Sound, had been gilded by these rumors, and had been ransacked by adventurous money-diggers. In all the stories of these enterprises, the devil played a conspicuous part. Either he was conciliated by ceremonies and invocations where some bargain or compact was made with him. Still he was sure to play the money-diggers some slippery trick. Some had succeeded so far as to touch the iron chest which contained the treasure, and some baffling circumstance was sure to take place. Either the earth would fall in and fill up the pit, or some direful noise or apparition would throw the party into a panic and frighten them from the place. And sometimes the devil himself would appear and bear off the prize from their very grasp, and if they visited the place on the next day, not a trace would be seen of their labors of the preceding night. Such were the vague rumors which for a long time tantalized without gratifying my curiosity on the interesting subject of these pirate traditions. There is nothing in this world so hard to get at is truth. I sought among my favorite sources of authentic information, the oldest inhabitants, and particularly the old Dutch wives of the province. But though I flatter myself, I am better versed than most men in the curious history of my native province, yet for a long time my inquiries were unattended with my substantial result. At length it happened, one calm day in the latter part of summer, that I was relaxing myself from the toils of severe study by a day's amusement and fishing in these waters which had been the favorite resort of my boyhood. I was in company with several worthy burgers of my native city. Our sport was indifferent. The fish did not bite freely, and we had frequently changed our fishing ground without bettering our luck. We at length anchored close under a ledge of rocky coast on the eastern side of the island of Manhattan. It was a still warm day. The stream whirled and dimpled by us without a wave or even a ripple, and everything was so calm and quiet that it was almost startling when the kingfisher would pitch himself from the branch of some dry tree, after suspending himself for a moment in the air to take his aim, would sows into the smooth water after his prey. While we were lolling in our boat, half drowsy with the warm stillness of the day, and the dullness of our sport, one of our party, a worthy alderman, was overtaken by a slumber, and, as he dozed, suffered the sinker of his dropline to lie upon the bottom of the river. On waking he found he had caught something of importance from the weight. On drawing it to the surface, we were much surprised to find the long pistol of very curious and outlandish fashion, which, from its rusted condition and its stock being worm-eaten and covered with barnacles, appeared to have been a long time under water. The unexpected appearance of this document of warfare, occasion much speculation among my Pacific companions. One supposed it to have fallen there during the Revolutionary War. Another, from the peculiarity of its fashion, attributed it to the voyagers in the earliest days of the settlement, per chance to the renowned Adrian Block, who explored the sound and discovered Block Island, since so noted for its cheese. But a third, after regarding it for some time, pronounced it to be a veritable Spanish workmanship. "'O warrant,' said he, if this pistol could talk it would tell strange stories of hard fights among the Spanish dons. I have not a doubt, but it's a relic of the buccaneers of all times.' "'Like enough,' said another of the party, there was Braddish the pirate, who at the time Lord Bellamont made such a stir after the buccaneers, buried money and jewels somewhere in these parts, or on Long Island. And then there was Captain Kidd.' "'Ah, that kid was a daring dog,' said an iron-faced Cape Cardweller, as a fine old song about him, all to the tune of. My name is Robert Kidd, as I sailed, as I sailed. And it tells how he gained the devil's good graces by burying the Bible. I had the Bible in my hand, as I sailed, as I sailed, and I buried it in the sand, as I sailed. "'Hey, Gad, if this pistol had belonged to him, I should set some store by it out of sure curiosity. Ah, well, as an odd story, I heard about one Tom Walker, who, they say, dug up some of Kidd's buried money. And as the fish don't seem to bite at present, I'll tell it to you to pass away time.' END OF CHAPTER XXXIV A few miles from Boston, in Massachusetts, there is a deep inlet winding several miles into the interior of the country from Charles Bay, and terminating in the thickly wooded swamp or morass. On one side of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove. On the opposite side the land rises abruptly from the water's edge, into a high ridge on which grow a few scattered oaks of great age and immense size. It was under one of these gigantic trees, according to old stories, that Kidd, the pirate, buried his treasure. The inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a boat secretly, and at night to the very foot of the hill. The elevation of the place permitted a good lookout to be kept, that no one was at hand. While the remarkable trees formed good landmarks, by which the place might easily be found again. The old stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hiding of the money, and took it under his guardianship. But this it is well known. He always does with buried treasure, particularly when it has been ill-gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd never returned to recover his wealth. Being shortly after seized at Boston, sent out to England and there hanged for a pirate. About the year 1727, just at the time when earthquakes were prevalent in New England, and shook many tall sinners down upon their knees, there lived near this place a meagre, miserly fellow of the name of Tom Walker. He had a wife as miserly as himself. They were so miserly that they even conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could lay hands on, she hid away. A hen could not cackle, but she was on the alert to secure the new laid egg. Her husband was continually prying about to detect her secret hordes. And many and fierce were the conflicts that took place about what ought to have been common property. They lived in a forlorn-looking house, that stood alone, and had an air of If you, straggling, saventrees, emblems of sterility, grew near it, no smoke ever curled from its chimney, no traveller stopped at its door. A miserable horse, whose ribs was articulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field, or a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged beds of Puddingstone, tantalized and balked his hunger. And sometimes he would lean his head over the fence, looked piteously at the passer-by, and seemed to petition deliverance from this land of famine. The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. Tom's wife was a tall, termigant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard and wordy warfare with her husband, and his face sometimes showed signs their conflicts were not confined to words. No one ventured, however, to interfere between them. The lonely wayfarer shrunk within himself at the horrid clamor and clapper-clawing, eyed the den of discordous scants, and hurried on his way, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy. One day the Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the neighborhood. He took what he considered a shortcut homewards through the swamp. Like most shortcuts it was an ill-chosen route. The swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high, which made it dark at noonday, and a retreat for all the owls of the neighborhood. It was full of pits and quagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses, where the green surface often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black, smothering mud. There was also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the bullfrog, and the watersnake, where trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half-drowned, half-rotting, looking like alligators sleeping in the mire. Tom had long been picking his way cautiously through this treacherous forest, stepping from tough to tough to rushes and roots, which afforded precarious footholds among deep slews, or pacing carefully like a cat among the prostrate trunks of trees, startled now and then by the sudden screaming of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck, rising on the wing from some solitary pool. Had lengthy arrived at a piece of firm ground, which ran out like a peninsula into the deep bosom of the swamp. It had been one of the strongholds of the Indians during their wars with the first colonists. Here they had thrown up a kind of fort which they had looked upon as almost impregnable, and had used as a place of refuge for their squads and children. Nothing remained of the Indian fort but a few embankments gradually sinking to the level of the surrounding earth, and already overgrown in part by oaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of the swamp. It was late in the dusk of evening that Tom Walker reached the old fort, and he paused there for a while to rest himself. Anyone but he would have felt unwilling to linger in this lonely, melancholy place, for the common people had a bad opinion of it from the stories handed down from the time of the Indian wars, when it was asserted that the savages held incantations here and made sacrifices to the evil spirit. Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of the kind. He reposed himself for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boating cry of the tree toad, and delving with his walking staff into a mound of black mold at his feet. As he turned up the soil unconsciously, his staff struck against something hard. He raked it out of the vegetable mold, and lo! a cloven skull with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The rust on the weapon showed the time that it elapsed, since his death blow had been given. It was a dream and memento of the fierce struggle that had taken place in this last foothold of the Indian warriors. Ha! said Tom Walker, as he gave the skull a kick to shake the dirt from it. Let that skull alone! said a gruff voice. Tom lifted up his eyes and beheld a great black man seated directly opposite him on the stump of a tree. He was exceedingly surprised, having neither seen nor heard any one approach, and he was still more perplexed on observing, as well as the gathering gloom would permit, that the stranger was neither Negro nor Indian. It is true he was dressed in a rude, half-Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swat round his body. But his face was neither black nor copper-color, but swarthy and dingy, and begrined with soot, as if he had been accustomed to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair that stood out from his head in all directions and bore an axe on his shoulder. He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes. What are you doing in my grounds? said the black man with a hoarse, growling voice. Your grounds? said Tom with a sneer. No more your grounds than mine. They belonged to Deacon Peabody. Deacon Peabody be—ding! said the stranger, as I flatter myself he will be if he does not look more to his own sins and less to his neighbors. Look yonder and see how Deacon Peabody is fairing. Tom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, and beheld one of the great trees, fair and flourishing without, but rotten at the core, and saw that it had been nearly hewn through, so the first high wind was likely to blow it down. On the bark of the tree was scored the name of Deacon Peabody. He now looked round and found most of the tall trees marked, with the names of some great men of the colony, and all more or less scored by the axe, the one on which he had been seated, and which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the name of Crownenshield. And he recollected the mighty rich man of that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, when it was whispered he had acquired by buccaneering. He's just ready for burning, said the black man, with a growl of triumph. You see I am likely to have a good stock of firewood for winter. But what right have you, said Tom, to cut down Deacon Peabody's timber? The right of prior claim, said the other. This woodland belonged to me, long before one of your white-faced race put foot upon the soil. And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold? Said Tom. Oh, I go by various names. I am the wild huntsman in some countries, the black miner in others. In this neighborhood I am known by the name of the black woodsman. I am he to whom the red men devoted the spot, and now and then roasted a white man by way of sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have been exterminated by you white savages, I am used myself by presiding at the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. I am the great patron and prompter of slave-dealers, and the grandmaster of the Salem witches. The upshot of all which is that if I mistake not, said Tom sturdily, you are he commonly called Old Scratch, the same at your service, replied the black man with a half civil nod. Such was the opening of this interview, according to the old story, though it has almost too familiar an air to be credited. One would think that to meet with such a singular personage in this wild, lonely place would have shaken any man's nerves. But Tom was a hard-minded fellow, uneasily daunted, and he had lived so long with a termigant wife that he did not even fear the devil. It is said that after this commencement they had a long and earnest conversation together. As Tom returned homewards, the black man told him of great sums of money which had been buried by Kid the Pirate, under the oak trees and the high ridge not far from them or ass. All these were under his command and protected by his power, so that none could find them, but such as propitiated his favor. These he offered to place within Tom Walker's reach, having conceived into special kindness for him, but they were to be had only on certain conditions. What these conditions were may easily be surmised, though Tom never disclosed them publicly. They must have been very hard, for he required time to think of them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles where money was in view, when they had reached the edge of the swamp the stranger paused. What proof have I that all you have been telling me is true? said Tom. There is my signature, said the black man, pressing his finger on Tom's forehead. So, saying, he turned off among the thickets of the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, down into the earth, until nothing but his head and shoulders could be seen, and so on, until he totally disappeared. When Tom reached home he found the black print of a finger burnt, as it were, into his forehead, which nothing could obliterate. The first news his wife had to tell him was a sudden death of Absalom Cranenshield, the rich buccaneer. It was announced in the papers, with the usual flourish, that a great man had fallen in Israel. Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just hewn down, and which was ready for burning. Let the free booter roast, said Tom, who cares? He now felt convinced that all he had heard and seen was no illusion. He was not prone to let his wife into his confidence. But as this was an uneasy secret he willingly shared it with her. All her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged her husband to comply with the black man's terms, and secure would make them wealthy for life. However, Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself to the devil. He was determined not to do so to oblige his wife. So he flatly refused out of the mere spirit of contradiction. Many in bitter were the quarrels they had on the subject. But the more she talked the more resolute was Tom not to be damned to please her. At length she determined to drive the bargain on her own account, and if she succeeded to keep all the gain to herself. Being of the same fearless temper as her husband, she sat off for the old Indian fort towards the close of a summer's day. She was many hours absent. When she came back she was reserved and sullen in her replies. She spoke something of a black man whom she had met about twilight, hewing at the root of a tall tree. He was sulky, however, and would not come to terms. She was to go again, with a propitiary offering. But what it was she forebore to say. The next evening she sat off again for the swamp, with her apron heavily laden. Tom waited and waited for her, but in vain. Midnight came, but she did not make her appearance. Morning, noon, night returned, but still she did not come. Tom now grew uneasy for her safety, especially as he found she had carried off in her apron the silver teapot and spoons and every portable article of value. Another night elapsed. Another morning came, but no wife. In a word she was ever heard of more. END OF CHAPTER XXXI What was her real fate nobody knows, and consequence of so many pretending to know. It is one of those facts that have become confounded by a variety of historians. Some asserted that she lost her way among the tangled mazes of the swamp, and sunk into some pit or slew. Others, more uncharitable, hinted that she had eloped with the household booty, and made off to some other province, while others assert that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal quagmire, on top of which her hat was found lying. In confirmation of this it was said a great black man with an axe on his shoulder was seen late that very evening, coming out of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in a Czech apron with an air of surly triumph. The most current and probable story, however, observes that Tom Walker grew so anxious about the fate of his wife and his property that he sat out at length to seek them both at the Indian Fort. During a long summer's afternoon he searched about the gloomy place, but no wife was to be seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was nowhere to be heard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, as he flew screaming by, where the bullfrog croaked dolefully from a neighboring pool. At length it is said, just in the brown hour of twilight, when the owls began to hoot and the bats still flit about, his attention was attracted by the clamor of carrion-crows that were hovering about a cypress tree. He looked and beheld a bundle tied in a Czech apron and hanging in the branches of a tree of the great vulture perched hard by, as if keeping watch upon it. He leaped with joy for he recognized his wife's apron and supposed it to contain the household valuables. Let us get hold of the property, said he consolingly to himself, and we will endeavor to do without the woman. As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread its wide wings and sailed off, screaming into the deep shadows of the forest. Tom seized the Czech apron, but woeful sight, thought nothing but a heart and liver tied up in it. Such, according to the most authentic old story, was all that was to be found of Tom's wife. She had probably attempted to deal with the black man, and she had been accustomed to deal with her husband. But though a female scold is generally considered a match for the devil, yet in this instance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must have died game, however, from the part that remained unconquered. Indeed, it is said Tom noticed many prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, and several handfuls of hair that looked as if they had been plucked from the coarse black shock of the woodsman. Tom knew his wife's prowess by experience. He shrugged his shoulders as he looked at the signs of a fierce clapper clawing. He'd get ahead, said he to himself. Old scratch must have had a tough time of it. Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property by the loss of his wife, for he was a little of a philosopher. He even felt something like gratitude towards the black woodsman, who he had considered had done him a kindness. He sought, therefore, to cultivate a further acquaintance with him. But for some time without success the old black legs played shy for whatever people may think he is not always to be had for calling for. He knows how to play his cards when pretty sure of his game. At length it is said, when delay had wedded Tom's eagerness to the quick, and prepared him to agree to anything rather than not gain the promised treasure, he met the black man one evening in his usual woodman dress with his axe on his shoulder sauntering along the edge of the swamp and humming a tune. He affected to receive Tom's advance with great indifference, made brief replies, and went on humming his tune. By degrees, however, Tom brought him to business, and they began to haggle about the terms on which the former was to have the pirate's treasure. There was one condition which need not be mentioned, being generally understood, in all cases, were the double grand's favors. But there were others about which, though of less importance, he was inflexibly obstinate. He insisted that the money found through his means should be employed in his service. He proposed, therefore, that Tom should employ it in the black traffic, that is to say, that he should fit out a slave ship. This, however, Tom resolutely refused. He was bad enough, and all conscience, but the devil himself could not tempt him to turn slave-dealer. Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not insist upon it, but proposed instead that he should turn usurer, the devil being extremely anxious for the increase of usurers, looking upon them as to kill your people. To this, no objections were made, for it was just to Tom's taste. You shall open a broker's shop in Boston next month, said the black man. I'll do it tomorrow, if you wish, said Tom Walker. You shall lend money at two percent a month. He gad, I'll charge four, replied Tom Walker. You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the merchant to bankruptcy. I'll drive him to the devil, cried Tom eagerly. You are the usurer for my money, said the black legs, with the light. When will you want the rhino? It is very night. Done, said the devil. Done, said Tom Walker. So they shook hands and struck a bargain. A few days time saw Tom Walker seated behind his desk in accounting-house in Boston. His reputation for a ready-moneyed man, who would lend money out for good consideration, soon spread abroad. Everybody remembers the days of Governor Belcher, when money was particularly scarce. It was a time of paper credit. The country had been deluged with government bills. The famous land bank had been established. There had been a rage of speculating. The people had run mad with schemes for new settlements, for building cities in the wilderness. Land-jobbers went about with maps of grants and townships and El Dorados, lying nobody knew where, but which everybody was ready to purchase. In a word, the great speculating fever, which breaks out every now and then in the country, had raged to an alarming degree, and body was dreaming of making sudden fortunes from nothing. As usual, the fever had subsided. The dream had gone off, and the imaginary fortunes with it. The patience were left in doleful plight, and the whole country resounded with the consequent cry of hard times. At this repricious time of public distress, did Tom Walker set up as a usurer in Boston. His door was soon thronged by customers. The needy and the adventurous, the gambling speculator, the dreaming land-jobber, the thriftless tradesman, the merchant with the cracked credit. In short, everyone driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate sacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker. Thus, Tom was the universal friend of the needy, and he acted like a friend in need, that is to say, he always exacted good pay and good security. In proportion to the distress of the applicant was the hardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and mortgages, gradually squeezed his customers closer and closer, and sent them at length, dry as a sponge from his door. In this way he made money hand-over-hand, became a rich and mighty man, and exalted his cock-tat upon change. He built himself, as usual, a vast house out of ostentation, but left a greater portion of it unfinished and unfurnished out of parsimony. He even set up a carriage in the fullness of his vain glory, though he nearly starved the horses which drew it, and as the young greased wheels groaned and screeched on the axle-trees, you would have thought you heard the souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing. As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. Having secured the good things of this world, he began to feel anxious about those of the next. He thought with regret on the bargain he had made with his black friend, and set his wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions. He became, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer. He prayed loudly and strenuously as if heaven were to be taken by force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had sinned most during the week by the clamor of his undyed devotion. The quiet Christians who had been modestly and steadfastly traveling Zionward were struck with self- reproach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in their career by this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid and religious as in money matters. He was a stern supervisor and censurer of his neighbors, and seemed to think every sin entered up to their account became a credit on his own side of the page. He even talked of the expediency of reviving the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. In a word, Tom's zeal became as notorious as his riches. Still, in spite of all the strenuous attention to forms, Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due. That it might not be taken unawares therefore, as he said he always carried a small Bible in his coat pocket. He had also a great folio Bible on his counting-house desk, and would frequently be found reading it when people called on business. On such occasions he would lay his green spectacles on the book to mark the place, while he turned round to drive some userious bargain. Some say that Tom grew a little cracked brain in his old days, and that fancying his end approaching, he had his horse Nushad saddled and bridled, and buried with his feet up or most. Because he supposed that at the last day the world would be turned upside down, in which case he should find his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was determined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This, however, is probably a mere old wise fable. If he really did take such a precaution, it was totally superfluous, at least so says the authentic old legend, which closes his story in the following manner. On one hot afternoon, in the dog-days, just as a terrible black thunder-dust was coming up, Tom sat in his counting-house and his white linen cap in India silk mourning gown. He was on the point of foreclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete the ruin of an unlucky land speculator, for whom he had professed the greatest friendship. The poor land-jobber begged him to grant a few months indulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated and refused another day. "'My family will be ruined and brought upon the parish,' said the land-jobber. "'Charity begins at home,' replied Tom. "'I must take care of myself in these hard times.' "'We've made so much money out of me,' said the speculator. Tom lost his patience and his piety. "'The devil take me,' said he, "'if I have made a farthing.' Just then there were three loud knocks at the street door. They stepped out to see who was there. A black man was holding a black horse, which nade and stamped with impatience. "'Tom, you're come for,' said the black fellow, roughly. Tom shrank back, but too late. He had left his little Bible at the bottom of his coat pocket, and his big Bible on the desk, buried under the mortgage, he was about to foreclose. Never was Sinner taken more unawares. The black man whisked him like a child to stride the horse, on the way he galloped in the midst of a thunderstorm. The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears, and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker, dashing down the street, his white cap bobbing up and down, his morning gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of the pavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for the black man, he had disappeared. Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. The countrymen who lived on the borders of the swamp reported that in the height of the thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs sort of howling along the road, that when he ran to the window he just caught sight of a figure, such as I have described, on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields, over the hills and down into the black hemlock swamp, towards the old Indian fort, and that shortly after a thunderbolt fell in that direction which seemed to set the whole forest in the blaze. The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins and tricks of the devil and all kinds of shapes from the first settlement of the colony, that they were not so much horror struck as might have been expected. Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom's effects. There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On searching his coffers all his bonds and mortgages were found reduced to cinders. In place of gold and silver his iron chest was filled with chips and shavings. Two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his half-starved horses, and the very next day his great house took fire and was burnt to the ground. Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let all griping moneybrokers lay the story to heart. The truth of it is not to be doubted that the very hole under the oak trees, from whence he dug kids' money, is to be seen to this day, and the neighbouring swamp and old Indian fort is often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horseback, in a mourning gown and white cap, which is doubtless that troubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itself into a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying prevalent throughout New England of the devil and Tom Walker. Such, as nearly as I can recollect, was the tenor of the tale pulled by the Cape Cod Whaler. There were diverse trivial particulars which I have omitted, in which wowed away the morning very pleasantly, until the time of tide favourable for fishing being passed. It was proposed that we should go to land, and refresh ourselves under the trees, until the new tide heat should have abated. It accordingly landed on a delectable part of the island of Manhattan, in that shady and embowered tract formerly under dominion of the ancient family of the hardened brooks. It was a spot well known to me in the course of the aquatic expeditions of my boyhood. Not far from where we landed was an old Dutch family vault in the side of a bank, which had been an object of great awe and fable among my school-boy associates. There were several mortaring coffins within, for what gave a fearful interest with us was its being connected in our minds with the pirate wreck which lay among the rocks of Hellgate. There were also stories of smuggling connected with it, particularly during a time that this retired spot was owned by a noted beggar called Reddy Money Provost, a man of whom it was whispered that he had many and mysterious dealings with parts beyond seas. All these things, however, had been jumbled together in our minds in that vague way which such things were mingled up in the tales of boyhood. While I was musing upon these matters my companions had spread a repast from the contents of our well-stored pannier, and we solaced ourselves during the warm sunny hours of midday under the shade of a broad chestnut on the cool, grassy carpet that swept down to the water's edge. While allowing on the grass, I summoned up the dusky recollections of my boyhood respecting this place, and repeated them like the imperfectly remembered traces of a dream for the entertainment of my companions. When I had finished, it were the old burger, John Joss von der Moer, the same who had once related to me the adventures of Dolf Heiliger, broke silence and observed. They'd recollected a story about money digging which occurred in his very neighborhood. As we knew him to be one of the most authentic narrators of the province, we begged him to let us have the particulars. And accordingly, while we refreshed ourselves with a clean-long pipe of Blasey Moer's tobacco, the authentic John Joss von der Moer related the following tale. CHAPTER XXXII. Recording by Greg Giordano, Newport Ritchie, Florida. CHAPTER XXXIII. OF. TAILS OF A TRAVELER. By Washington Irving. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Greg Giordano. TAILS OF A TRAVELER. By Washington Irving. CHAPTER XXXIII. WOLFERT WEBER. OR GOLDEN DREAMS. PART I. In the year of grace one thousand seven hundred and blank, for I do not remember the precise date. However, it was somewhere in the early part of the last century. They lived in the ancient city of the Manhattanos, a worthy burger, Wolfert Weber by name. He was descended from old Cobus Weber of the Brill in Holland, one of the original settlers, famous for introducing the cultivation of caviages and who came over to the province during the protectorship of Olaf von Cortland, otherwise called the Dreamer. The field in which Cobus Weber first planted himself and his caviages had remained ever since in the family, who continued in the same line of husbandry with that praiseworthy perseverance for which our Dutch burgers are noted. The whole family genius, during several generations, was devoted to the study and development of this one noble vegetable. And to this concentration of intellect may doubtless be ascribed the prodigious size and renown to which the Weber caviages attained. The Weber dynasty continued in uninterrupted succession and never did a line give more unquestionable proofs to legitimacy. The eldest son succeeded to the looks as well as the territory of his sire. And had the portraits of this line of tranquil potonates been taken they would have presented a row of heads marvelously resembling in shape and magnitude the vegetables over which they reigned. The seat of government continued unchanged in the family mansions. A Dutch-built house with a front, or rather, gable end of yellow brick, tapering to a point, with the customary iron weather-cock at the top. Everything about the building bore the air of long, subtle eaves and security. Flights of Martin's people the little coupes nailed against the walls, and swallows built their nests under the eaves. And everyone knows that these house-loving birds bring good luck to the dwelling, where they take up their abode. And a bright sunny morning and early summer. It was delectable to hear their cheerful notes, as they sported about in the pure, sweet air, chirping forth as it were, the greatness and prosperity of the Webers. Thus quietly and comfortably did this excellent family vegetate under the shade of a mighty button-wood tree, which by little and little grew so great as entirely to overshadow their palace. The city gradually spread its suburbs round their domain. Houses sprung up to interrupt their prospects. The rural lanes in the vicinity began to grow into the bustle and populousness of streets. In short, with all the habits of rustic life they began to find themselves the inhabitants of a city. Still, however, they maintained their hereditary character, and hereditary possessions, with all the tenacity of petty German princes in the midst of the empire. Wolfert was elast on the line, and succeeded to the patriarchal bench at the door, under the family tree, and swayed the scepter of his fathers, a kind of rural potentate in the midst of a metropolis. To share the cares and sweets of sovereignty he had taken unto himself a helpmate, one of that excellent kind called stirring women, that is to say, she was one of those notable little housewives who were always busy when there's nothing to do. Her activity, however, took one particular direction. Her whole life seemed devoted to intense knitting, whether at home or abroad, walking or sitting, her needles were continually in motion, and it is even affirmed that by her unwirly industry she very nearly supplied her household with stockings throughout the year. This worthy couple were blessed with one daughter, who was brought up with great tenderness and care. Uncommon pains had been taken with her education, so that she could stitch in every variety of way, make all kinds of pickles and preserves, and mark her own name on a sampler. The influence of her taste was seen also in the family garden, where the ornamental began to mingle with the useful. Whole rows of fiery marigolds and splendid hollyhocks bordered the cabbage beds, and gigantic sunflowers lulled their broad, jolly faces over the fences, seeming to ogle most affectionately the passersby. Thus rain vegetated Wolford Weber over his paternal acres, peaceably and contentedly. Not but that, like all other sovereigns, he had occasional cares and vexations. The growth of his native city sometimes cost him annoyance. His little territory gradually became hemmed in by streets and houses, which intercepted air and sunshine. He was now and then subject to the eruptions of their border population that infest the streets of Metropolis. It would sometimes make midnight forays into his dominions, and carry off captive whole platoons of his noblest subjects. Vagrant swine would make a descent, too, now and then, when the gate was left open, and lay all waste before them. And mischievous urchins would often decapitate the illustrious sunflowers, the glory of the garden, as they lulled their heads so fondly over the walls. Still, all these were petty grievances, which might now and then ruffle the surface of his mind, as a summer breeze will ruffle the surface of a mill-pond. But they could not disturb the deep-sitted quiet of his soul. He would seize a trusty staff that stood behind the door, issue suddenly out, and went the back of the aggressor, whether pig or urchin, and then return within doors, marvellously refreshed and tranquilized. The chief cause of anxiety to Honest Wolfert, however, was the growing prosperity of the city. The expenses of living doubled and troubled, but he could not double and trouble the magnitude of his cabbages, and the number of competitors prevented the increase of price. Thus, therefore, while every one round him grew richer, Wolfert grew poorer, and he could not, for the life of him, perceive how the evil was to be remedied. This growing care which increased from day to day, had its gradually effect upon our worthy burger, in so much that at length it planted two or three wrinkles on his brow, things unknown before in the family of the webers, and it seemed to pinch up the corners of his cocked hat into an expression of anxiety, totally opposite to the tranquil, broad-brimmed, low-crowned beavers of his illustrious progenitors. Perhaps even this would not have materially disturbed the serenity of his mind, had he only himself and his wife to care for. But there was his daughter gradually growing to maturity, and all the world knows when daughters begin to ripen, no fruit or flower requires so much looking after. I have no talent at describing female charms, else feign would I depict the progress of his little Dutch beauty. How her blue eyes grew deeper and deeper, and her cherry lips redder and redder, and how she ripened and ripened and rounded and rounded in the opening breath of sixteen summers. Until, in her seventeenth spring, she seemed ready to burst out of her bodice, like a half blown rosebud. Ah, well a day! Could I but show her, as she was then, tricked out on a Sunday morning in the hereditary finery of the old Dutch clothes-press, of which her mother had confided to her the key. The wedding dresser for grandmother, modernized for use, with sundry ornaments, handed down as heirlooms in the family. Her pale brown hair smoothed with buttermilk and flat waving lines on each side of her fair forehead. The chain of yellow, virgin gold that encircled her neck, the little cross, that just rested at the entrance of a soft valley of happiness, as if it would sanctify the place. The butpoo is not for an old man like me to be prosing about female beauty. Suffice it to say, Amy had attained her seventeenth year. Long since had her sampler exhibited hearts and couples desperately transfixed with arrows, and true lovers' knots worked in deep blue silk. And it was evident she began to languish for some more interesting occupation than the rearing of sunflowers or pickling of cucumbers. At this critical period of female existence, when the heart within a damsel's bosom, like its emblem, the miniature which hangs without, is apt to be engrossed by a single image, a new visitor began to make his appearance under the roof of Wolfertweber. This was Dirk Waldron, the only son of a poor widow, but who could boast of more fathers than any lad in the province. For his mother had had four husbands, and this only child, so that though born in her last wedlock, he might fairly claim to be the tardy fruit of a long course of cultivation. This son of four fathers united the merits and the vigor of his sires. If he had not a great family before him, he seemed likely to have a great one after him. For you had only to look at the fresh, gamesome youth to see that he was formed to be the founder of a mighty race. This youngster gradually became an intimate visitor of the family. He talked little, but he sat long. He filled the father's pipe when it was empty, gathered up the mother's knitting-needle, or ball of worsted when it fell to the ground, stroked the sleek coat of the tortoise-shell cat, and replenished the teapot for the daughter from the bright copper kettle that's sung by the fire. All these quiet little offices may seem of trifling import, but when true love is translated into low Dutch, it is in this way that it eloquently expresses itself. They were not lost upon the Weber family. The winning youngster found marvellous favor in the eyes of the mother, the tortoise-shell cat. Albeit the most staid and demure of her kind gave indubitable signs of approbation of his visits. The tea- kettle seemed to sing out a shearing note of welcome at his approach, and if the sly glances of the daughter might be rightly red, as she sat bridling and dimpling and sewing by her mother's side. She was not a wick behind Dame Weber or Grim Alken, or the tea-kettle in goodwill. Wolford alone saw nothing of what was going on, but finally wrapped up in meditation on the growth of the city and its cabbages, he sat looking in the fire and puffing his pipe in silence. One night, however, as the gentle Amy, according to custom, glided her lover to the outer door, and he, according to custom, took his parting salute. The smack resounded so vigorously through the long, silent entry as to startle even the dull ear of Wolford. He was slowly roused through a new source of anxiety. It had never entered into his head that this mere child, who, as it seemed but the other day, had been climbing about his knees and playing with dolls and baby-houses, could all at once be thinking of love and in matrimony. He rubbed his eyes, examined into the fact, and really found that while he had been dreaming of other matters, she had actually grown into a woman, and what was more, had fallen in love. Here are new cares for poor Wolford. He was a kind father, but he was a prudent man. The young man was a very stirring lad, but then he had neither money nor land. Wolford's ideas all ran in one channel, and he saw no alternative in case of a marriage, but to portion off the young couple with a corner of his cabbage garden, the whole of which was barely sufficient for the support of his family. Like a prudent father, therefore, he determined to nip his passion in the bud, and forbade the youngster the house, though sorely did it go against his fatherly heart, and many a silent ear did it cause in the bright eye of his daughter. She showed herself, however, a pattern of loyal duty and obedience. She never pouted and sulked. She never flew in the face of parental authority. She never fell into a passion or fell into hysterics, as many romantic novel-read young ladies would do. Not she indeed. She was none such a heroical, rebellious trumpery, I warn she. On the contrary, she acquiesced like an obedient daughter, shut the street door in her lover's face, and if ever she did grant him an interview, was either out of the kitchen window or over the garden fence. Wilfort was deeply cogitating these things in his mind, and his brow wrinkled with unusual care, as he went at his way one Saturday afternoon to a rural inn, about two miles from the city. It was a favorite resort of the Dutch part of the community, from being always held by a Dutch line of landlords, and retaining an air and relish of the good old times. It was a Dutch-built house that probably had been a country seat of some opulent burger in the early time of the settlement. It stood near a point of land called Cordillers Hook, which stretches out into the sound, and against which the tide, and its flux and reflux, sets with extraordinary rapidity. The venerable and somewhat crazy mansion was distinguished from afar by a grove of elms and sycamores that seemed to wove a hospitable invitation, while a few weeping willows with their dank, drooping foliage resembling falling waters gave an idea of coolness that rendered it an attractive spot during the heats of summer. Here, therefore, as I said, resorted to many of the old inhabitants of the Manhattanos, where, while some played at the shuffle-board and coits and nine-pins, others smoked a deliberate pipe and talked over public affairs. It was on a blustering, autumnal afternoon that Walford made his visit to the inn. The grove of elms and willows were stripped of its leaves, which whirled and rustling eddies about the fields. The nine-pinality was deserted, for the premature chilliness of the day had driven the company within doors. As it was Saturday afternoon, the habitual club was in session, composed principally of regular Dutch burgers, though mingled occasionally persons of various character and country, as is natural in a place of such motley population. Beside the fireplace, and in a huge leather-bottom arm-chair, sat the dictator of this little world, the venerable Rem, or, as it was pronounced,