  It was decided to drive right toward the frontier, beyond which the advance of the French army has already been considerable. All the country, almost to the banks of the Rhine was virtually in the hands of France; but no general system of administration had been thought of. The people were foreign, monarchical and anti-Gallican, and were ready enough to give every assistance to fugitives from a system which they hated and condemned. This decision was taken, like all desperate ones, upon the calculation, right or wrong, of the chances. I was in the room when all points were discussed between Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins. Mariette lay sleeping in a corner of her mother’s bed, looking like a cherub; but I, more anxious perhaps, and more alive to the real perils of our situation than any one of my age could have been, not disciplined by the scenes which I had gone through during the last two months, was still up, and listening eagerly for every word. The order was given for the post-horses to be put to, the next morning, and as was necessary, the route was stated. The post-master showed some little hesitation, saying that the road we proposed to go was directly that to the head-quarters of the army, and that we were none of us military people. “But I am the wife of a soldier,” replied Madame de Salins, at once, and with a tone of dignity, “and these letters are for the surgeons-general of that army, to whom I must deliver them.” She laid her hand upon the packet of letters which she possessed, as she spoke, and the post-master replied in a more deferential tone—“Very well, citoyenne, I dare say it is all right, and I can send you to the frontier; but whether you can get horses beyond or not, I can’t tell. Mind, I am not responsible beyond the frontier.” The next morning at the hour appointed the horses were put to the carriage. They were three in number—we had previously had four—and they were harnessed, as was very common then in France, and is now, abreast. The postillion, instead of getting into his great jack-boots, as I had always previously seen, got upon the front seat of the carriage, gathered up the reins, and with the crack of a long whip set out toward the frontier. He was a sullen-looking, dull, uncommunicative person of that peculiar race found in the neighborhood of Liege, and called Walloons; and I, who was sitting with my shoulder close to his, though with my back toward him, and with nothing to intercept our communication—for the carriage was open in front—endeavored in vain to make him speak a word or two, addressing him frequently but obtaining no reply. At first I supposed that he could speak no French, and at last gave up the undertaking. But I soon found that he could speak French enough when it suited his purpose. We drove along for about seven miles without meeting a single human being, and seeing very few cultivated fields; for as frontier districts generally are, the land was left nearly untended, nobody caring much to plant harvests that they were never sure of reaping. We at length came to a rude stone pillar, upon as bleak and desolate a spot as I ever remember to have seen. The ground was elevated, but sloped gently down to the neighboring country both before and behind us. At least three miles of desolate marsh, which retained its moisture, heaven knows how, swept around us on every side, and the only object which denoted human habitation was the outline of a village, with some trees, seen at the distance of some four or five miles on the plain which lay a little below us in advance. When we reached the rude sort of obelisk I have mentioned, the driver drew in his reins, and the horses stopped to breathe, as I supposed, after climbing the hill: but the next moment the man got down from the front seat, and approaching the side at which Father Bonneville sat, demanded his drink-money. “I will give it you when we reach the next post-house,” said Father Bonneville. “This is the only post-house I shall take you to,” replied the man sullenly, but in very good French, “I am not bound to go an inch beyond the line.” The good priest remonstrated mildly, but the postillion answered with great insolence, threatening to take out the horses and leave us there. Father Bonneville answered without the slightest heat, that he must do so if he pleased; that we were at his mercy; but that he was bound, if possible to take us to the next post-house. Seeing that this menace had produced no effect upon the quiet and gentle spirit of the good old man, the postillion now determined to try another manoeuvre, and grumbled forth that he knew very well we were aristocrats, seeking to fly from the country, and that therefore, like a good citizen, he should turn his horses round, drive us back, and denounce us at the municipality. I had listened anxiously to the conversation, with a heart beating with the fear of being stopped, and indignation at the man’s conduct. At length a sudden thought struck me—what suggested it I do not know—nor how it arose, nor whether indeed thought had any thing to do with it, though I have called it a thought. It was more an impulse—an instinct—a sudden determination taken without reason, which made me clamber with the activity of a monkey over the back of the seat on which I was sitting, and snatch up the reins and the whip which the postillion had laid down upon the foot-board. I was determined to be out of France at all events, whoever staid behind; and I cut the horses on either flank without waiting to give notice or ask permission. I had once or twice driven a cart, loaded with flour, from the mill by the banks of the stream, up to Father Bonneville’s house and back again. I had not the slightest fear in the world; Father Bonneville cried, “Stop, stop!” but I drove on. Madame de Salins gave a timid cry of surprise and fear, but I drove on. The postillion ran shouting and blaspheming after the carriage and tried to catch the reins; but I gave him a tremendous cut over the face with the whip, and drove on. I know not what possessed me; but I seemed as if I was suddenly set free—free from the oppressive shackles of everlasting fear, and forethought and anxiety. The frontier of France was behind me. I was in a land where there were no guillotines—no spies, as I thought—no denouncers—no sans-culottes with bloody heads upon their pikes. I was free—to act, and to think, and to speak, and to come, and to go, as I liked. The cold, leaden, heavy spell of terror which had hung upon me was broke the moment I passed that frontier line, and the first use I made of my disenchantment was to drive the horses down that hill like a madman. Father Bonneville held tight on by the side of the carriage. Madame de Salins caught up Mariette, and clasped her tightly in her arms; but still I drove on without trepidation or pause; not that I disregarded the commands of my good preceptor: not that I was insensible to the alarm of Madame de Salins; but a spirit was upon me that I could not resist. I had no fear, and therefore I saw not why they should have any. The course I was pursuing seemed to my young notions to offer the only chance of safety, and therefore I thought they ought to rejoice as well as myself; and on I went, making the dry dust of a March day fly up into clouds along our course, and leaving the unhappy postillion, cursing and swearing, far, far behind us. Happily for me, the horses were docile, and had been long accustomed to run between the two post-houses. If they had had a will of their own, and that will had been contrary to mine, I am very much afraid the majority of heads and legs would have carried the question; but they comprehended the object of which I aimed, and though unaccustomed to the hand that drove them, yielded readily to its direction—which was lucky—for about half-way down the hill there was an enormous stone in the middle of the road, which would have inevitably sent us rolling down into the middle of the valley if either of the off wheels had come in contact with it. The third horse puzzled me a little; but it did not matter. They had but one way to go, and we got to the bottom of the hill without accident. “Stop them, stop them, Louis,” cried Father Bonneville, when all danger was in reality passed. “I cannot just yet, Father,” I replied, tugging a little at the reins, “but they will go slower in a moment themselves;” and for nearly a mile we went on at a full gallop. Then the good beasts fell easily into a canter, with the exception of one, who shook his head and tugged at the rein when I attempted to bring him in, but soon yielded to the influence of example, and was reduced to a trot as speedily as the other two. When our pace was brought to a speed of about eight miles an hour, I looked round joyously into the carriage, saying—“We have left that rogue far behind.” “Louis, Louis, you should not have done this!” exclaimed Father Bonneville, shaking his head. But Madame do Salins put her hand on his arm, saying, “He has saved us, Father. Do not—do not check such decision and presence of mind. Remember he is to be a man, and such qualities will be needful to him.” I was very proud of her praise: got the horses easily into a quiet, ordinary pace, and drove directly into the village which we had seen from above, and where, as I had expected, the post-house was to be found. The horses stopped of their own accord at the door, and we soon had two or three people round us. Thanks to Father Bonneville’s peculiar skill in acquiring languages, the people who seemed good and kindly disposed, were soon made acquainted with as much of our story as was necessary to tell. They entered into our cause warmly; but the post-master—or rather the post-mistress’s son—a little in awe of the French army, some thirty or forty miles distant, strongly advised that we should proceed without delay, lest our French postillion should come up, and embarrass the authorities by demanding our apprehension. The advice was very palatable to us all; the French horses were It mattered little now whether we went fast or slow; for we were in a hospitable country, and amongst friendly people, and ere nightfall we were many miles beyond pursuit. [To be continued. A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK. ——— BY MRS. MARY O. HORSFORD. ——— Where the waters of the Mohawk Through a quiet valley glide, From the brown church to her dwelling She that morning passed a bride; In the mild light of October Beautiful the forest stood, As the Temple on Mount Zion When God filled its solitude. Very quietly the red leaves On the languid zephyr’s breath, Fluttered to the mossy hillocks Where their sisters slept in death: And the white mist of the autumn Hung o’er mountain-top and dale, Soft and filmy as the foldings Of the passing bridal veil. From the field of Saratoga, At the last night’s eventide, Rode the groom—a gallant soldier Flushed with victory and pride; Seeking as a priceless guerdon From the dark-eyed Madeline Leave to lead her to the altar When the morrow’s sun should shine. All the children of the village, Decked with garlands white and red, All the young men and the maidens Had been up to see her wed; And the aged people, seated In the doorways, ’neath the vine, Thought of their own youth, and blessed her As she left the house divine. Pale she was, but very lovely, With a brow so calm and fair, When she passed the benediction Seemed still falling on the air. Strangers whispered they had never Seen who could with her compare, And the maidens looked with envy On her wealth of raven hair. In the glen beside the river, In the shadow of the wood, With wide open doors for welcome, Gambrel-roofed the cottage stood, Where the festal board was waiting, For the bridal guests prepared, Laden with a feast, the humblest In the little village shared. Every hour was winged with gladness, Whilst the sun went down the west, Till the chiming of the church bell Told to all the hour for rest: Then the merry guests departed— Some a camp’s rude couch to bide; Some to bright homes—each invoking Blessings on the gentle bride. Tranquilly the morning sunbeam Over field and hamlet stole, Wove a glory round each red leaf, And effaced the frost-king’s scroll. Eyes responded to its greeting As a lake’s still waters shine, Young hearts bounded—and a gay group Sought the home of Madeline. Bird-like voices ’neath the casement Chanted through the fragrant air A sweet orison for wakening— Half thanksgiving and half prayer. But no white hand raised the curtain From the vine-clad panes before; No light form with buoyant footstep Hastened to fling wide the door. All was silent in the dwelling— All so silent a chill fear Of some unseen ill crept slowly Through the gay group waiting near. Moments seemed as hours in passing, Till the mild-eyed man drew nigh, Who had blessed the blushing orphan Ere the yester sun was high. He, with glance of dark foreboding, Passed the threshold of the door; Paused not where a crimson torrent Curdled on the oaken floor: But sought out the bridal-chamber— God in Heaven! could it be Madeline who knelt before him In that trance of agony? Cold, inanimate beside her, By the ruthless Cow-boys slain In the night-time whilst defenseless, He—the brave—she loved was lain. O’er her snowy dress were scattered Stains of deep and fearful dye, And the soul’s glance beamed no longer From her tearless, vacant eye. Round her slight form hung the tresses Braided oft with pride and care, Silvered by that night of madness With its anguish and despair. She lived on to see the roses Of another summer wane, But the light of reason never Shone in her sweet eyes again. Once, where blue and sparkling waters Through a verdant forest run, And the green boughs kiss the current, Wandered I at set of sun. Twilight, as a silver shadow, O’er the softened landscape lay, When amid a rambling village Paused I in my wandering way: Plain and gray the church before me In the quiet grave-yard stood, And the woodman’s axe resounded Faintly from the neighboring wood. Through the low, half-open wicket, Slightly worn, a pathway led— Silently I paced its windings, Till I stood among the dead. Passing by the grave memorials Of departed worth and fame, Long I paused before a record That no pomp of words could claim. Simple was the slab, and lowly, Shaded by a jessamine, And the single name recorded, Plainly writ, was “Madeline.” But beneath it, through the clusters Of the jessamine, I read “Spes,” engraved in bolder letters— This was all the marble said.
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