that our good mother is a little sore of late in her rivalship, for I have caught her more than once throwing in, with a laughable unluckiness, some of the wretched French that she has picked up at Madam Arnauld's."
"You are severe upon Mrs. Arnauld," said I—"too severe; I only complain that she will not consent to talk her mother tongue—not that her French and Italian are wretched."
"But they are," said my brother.
"Oh, no! she has been familiar with them both—and—"
"Pho! not a word of either did she ever pronounce properly in her life."
"But how do you know?" He coloured again—I never say any body blush so readily as he could, about that time. Every emotion of his heart sent the blood all over his face, as if he had been a bashful young girl, on horseback, in male attire. "Not of knowledge, to to sure," said he—"but I have seen Lucia hold down her face a hundred times, when her mother threw in a word or two of some other language—and though I know nothing of either, yet I am persuaded that all my mother knows of French or Italian has been gathered from the daughters. Beside, how different their manner and pronunciation—they never introduce a word of either language unnecessarily; and you might live with them for a whole year, without suspecting that they knew a word of any but their own, were they not led into it by some stratagem of their mother, when strangers from the city are there—or by the accomplished elegance of their father—the profligate!—or by actual necessity: and their pronunciation, too, is so firm and neat, as if they were not conscious of speaking in any but their mother tongue. Besides, I have not forgotten the look of approbation that—that—Miss Lucia bestowed on me once, when I said that he who had any thought, could always express it; that the use of foreign phrases was a proof of poverty, rather than opulence; of ignorance rather than superiority."
"Her mother was not there, I hope," said I.
"Oh, no—Gracious God! brother, what is that?—is not that our house?"
I turned in the direction where he pointed, and beheld a black smoke rising, as from the ruins of some farm-house, given to massacre and pillage by the damnable Hessians.
"No, brother, that is not our house—but—let us ride on—who knows what may have happened?"
"We started at full speed, and were just on the top of a second hill, where we could see a clear road before us, when we heard shot after shot fired behind us—and the next moment a horseman dashed headlong over the side of a distant hill, pursued at their topmost speed by at least a dozen men in royal uniform.
"Follow me, brother!" cried Archibald striking the rowels into his mare, and galloping directly to the spot.
"Madman!" I shouted—"come back! rein up, rein up!—where are your arms?"
He heeded me not—his hat flew off, and it was in vain for me ever to think of overtaking him. What could I do?—there were noises and shouting all about me, it appeared; and I could see, every now and then, somebody dashing out of the far wood, or down a hill, as if the whole country were in alarm.
Yet I prest on, at the top of my speed, to the brow of the hill—just in season, to see the horseman that was ahead, wheel short upon his first pursuer, and exchange a shot with him, when, it appeared to me, that, their pistols almost touched. The latter kept on, sitting bolt upright—and the former drew out his sword and came immediately upon St. George, without looking behind him—and then—finding that he was not pursued, gave a cut in the rear, and wheeled—and looked at his enemy—who passed on a hundred yards, at least, after receiving the shot and then fell dead from the saddle.
Down came his comrades then, with a loud outcry upon the conqueror but, with a presence of mind that dismayed me, he wheeled upon them, a full dozen as they were, and leaped a broad ditch, exchanging cut after cut as he passed, and giving point, with a precision that I never saw equalled at the ring. It was then that I saw his object—two only of the squadron could follow him—and there was Archibald on the other side, shouting with all his might, as if succour were at hand: "Come on, boys, come on!" The troopers reined up, and loaded their pistols—and I, desperate with apprehension, rode round to join my brother, designing to pass by the dead man and make prize of his sword, and his pistols too, if possible, for about a hundred yards from where he lay his horse had tumbled, and was yet struggling in his furniture; but I had not gone half way to the place—though the flanks of my poor horse ran down with blood, and I thought that I never should get to it when there was another shout, a clashing of swords, and a rapid discharge of pistols—and the same moment Archibald's mare darted by me—the bridle broken, and stirrups ringing. O! I never shall forget that pang. "Poor Archibald!" I cried, and the next moment I heard the trampling of hoofs at my side.
It was Arthur! pale as death—bloody—and covered with sweat.
"Your father!" said he "your father!"
"What of him!" I cried, blinded and thunderstruck with a new fear.
"Ride, for life and death, ride!" he answered, in a voice so changed that I scarcely knew it,—but I could not obey him—I could not—I threw myself from the saddle—plucked the sword from the dead hand of the horseman, and rode to the spot where I had seen Archibald last.
He was safe—thank Heaven, he was safe; his forehead was cut a little, and the blood was running down his naked arms—this is all that I remember—for a bugle sounded in our rear—the fellows halted in chase, one after the other, like a line of violettes—and seeing horsemen mustering in all directions obeyed the call and abandoned the chase.
"There!" said I, throwing a sword to Archibald as he stood over the stranger, wrapping up his wounds with the shirt that he had torn off from his own body, "there!—follow, to the farm! follow, for life and death!"
I then set off with a feeling of horror and darkness that I cannot pretend to describe. I set off for my father's—I arrived. It was a ruin! I fell from the saddle. The place that I had left but the morning before, the house, the house, it was one pile of ashes and fire. Nothing but the chimney and one of the rough-cast ends were leftstanding; the very barns and out-houses were a heap of smoking cinders—the hay and grain, at every blast of wind, sending np a rush of sparkles, with a sudden blaze like powder.
I was bewildered for some moments, unable to feel or to understand the nature of the calamity that had befallen us, till, on looking about, I saw the skeleton of two or three half-consumed bodies in the fire. I knew not what gave me the strength for such a desperate attempt, but I leaped into the burning ashes, up to my knees, and dragged out—merciful powers
