22 The Prize of Daring

“Did I kill him? O Henry, did I kill him?” cried William Penn, as he met me in the shadow of the woods. “And to think that a timid man, such as I am, a man opposed to all violence, should shoot a fellow-creature! Shall I ever get forgiveness?”

“Was it a crime, William Penn, to save my life from that scoundrel?” I asked, as we ran deeper into the forest. I saw that he was trembling violently, but he still held the smoking rifle, and certainly there had been no trembling of his hand when he pulled its trigger.

I had little fear now. It requires almost superhuman skill to follow fugitives on a dark night through a deep forest, and William Penn’s rifle shot was likely to make our enemies fear that they would run into an ambush. My surmise was right, as in five minutes all noise of pursuit died, and slackening our pace we walked side by side among the trees.

“How can I ever thank you, William Penn?” I asked.

“By never getting me into such another scrape,” he replied.

“William Penn,” I said, “if I call upon you to risk your life for me again you know that you will do it. If there were more cowards like you it would be a braver world.”

He muttered something about the reckless heart and tongue of youth, and a wish not to have my grandmother’s feelings hurt. Then he relapsed into silence, and we walked lightly through the wood until we came to the glade in which the horses were hitched.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

He thrust his hand into some brush, drawing forth a pair of fine pistols and a plentiful supply of ammunition.

“Take them, Henry,” he said, “you will need them, and at the same time you will rid me of them. Why were such dreadful things ever made?”

“William Penn,” I exclaimed with warmth, “did ever a man have a friend like you?”

“I’m certain I never did,” he rejoined, with a faint humorous inflection. “My friends get me into trouble, never out of it.”

“I shall repay you some day,” I said.

But I knew that he did not want repayment.

I was exultant over my escape, and since it had turned out happily I was not sorry now that they had seen me. The greater the confusion among my enemies the better it was for my plans. .

“What time do you think it is, William Penn?”

“About ten o’clock.”

“Then wait for me here; I shall return by two in the morning.”

He looked at the dark and silent woods and shivered.

“Do I have to stay alone?” he asked.

I laughed, and left him. I stopped in the shadow of a great tree before I had gone far, and looked back. He was sitting on a stump, reloading his rifle.

My joy increased as I walked briskly through the forest. Success was the finest of comrades, and I was free again; free, too, to attempt whatever I wished. “Surely,” I thought, “the good fortune which has attended me so far can not fail!”

Less than an hour brought me within sight of the house of Mrs. Maynard, standing, like my grandmother’s, not far from the forest. Now my heart began to beat with a heightened emotion. I thought of Elinor persecuted and imprisoned, and the knowledge that I was about to risk my life to reach her sent the blood leaping through my veins. I never doubted that she loved me. She would not have saved my life, she would not have come to me when wounded, she would not now suffer oppression for my sake, if she did not care more for me than for any other man.

Two windows of the Maynard house were lighted. One of the lights marked Mrs. Maynard’s room, and the other came from a chamber that had been set apart for guests in the old days. I was sure that Varian was there, rejoicing in his imagined security and triumph. I felt anger and then a fierce exultation, for I believed that he would yet be defeated.

Elinor’s room was at the northeast corner of the building, and all that quarter was dark, but I did not wish it to be otherwise. I crept to the edge of the wood, and then followed a fence until I was within thirty yards of the house, when I stopped and looked for the sentinel, whom I knew Varian would not neglect to post. I saw him presently walking in front of the house, and, though I watched ten minutes, I saw no other. No hostile troops were within fifty miles, and a single sentinel was enough for even a prudent commander.

The man turned presently and walked toward the far end of the lawn, and then, stepping lightly, I ran to the house. When he came back I was standing behind a pillar of the piazza. Our Southern homes are always built with piazzas or porches, in which we sit in the warm weather, and now I was finding Mrs. Maynard’s most convenient. I was thankful, too, that I knew this house so well. I waited there until the man turned and went back again on his beat, and then, standing upon the banisters, I seized the low edge of the piazza roof and drew myself up.

This roof was almost flat, and the windows of the second floor opened upon it. Burglars were unknown with us, and I smiled to myself to think that I was the first who had ever come to the Maynard house. The lighted window of the guest chamber was at one end of the porch and my destination at the other; but, drawn by curiosity, I turned aside for a moment to the window in which the light shone. I knelt on the roof, and looked into the room.

Varian, in full military dress, was sitting at a table, writing. He raised his head presently, and I dropped mine below the edge of the window, but he was not looking in my direction, and again I watched him. Whatever he wrote, it was pleasing to him, because he smiled, and when he smiled he looked like a man whom one would wish to have as his friend. I wondered anew at his character, and I wondered, too, if I misjudged him.

The sentinel on the lawn coughed, and I pressed myself close to the wall, but he was too far away to see me, and for the greater part of his beat I was completely hidden by the projections of the house. I had little fear of him, especially as he seemed to be far from alert. Moreover, I did not believe that Blanchard would hurry to the Maynard home with the alarm of my escape. He would at least make the pretence of a search for me before facing the wrath of his master.

Varian resumed his writing, bending his head over the paper again, and, leaving him, I passed along the roof to the other end, stopping before the window that I knew was Elinor’s. I did not forget then to be thankful once more for our Southern style of building houses.

I paused here, and realized for the first time the full gravity of my attempt. More depended upon her now than upon me, and would she be willing to go with me? But, having come so far, it would be foolish to turn back. I tapped upon the window shutter three times quickly, and then, after a pause, a fourth time. When we played together as boy and girl we used to have signals for calling each other after the fashion of children, and this was one. I waited, and I thought I heard a movement within the room, but it was followed by several minutes of silence, and I grew anxious. I caught a glimpse of the sentinel, and he appeared to be unsuspicious. His eyes were not turned once in my direction. I feared the vigilance of Varian more than that of any other, but the bar of light from his window still fell upon the piazza roof.

I repeated the signal, and in a few moments the slight noise as of some one moving was resumed in the room. The sash was raised, and the voice of Elinor, trembling, but nevertheless brave and confident, whispered between the slats of the shutter:

“Is it you, Henry?”

I did not know until then, until I heard the joyful tone of her voice welcoming me, how much I loved her. I felt, even in that moment of danger, a deep glow of happiness.

“Yes, Elinor,” I said; “I have come for you.”

“I believed that you would,” she said. “I have been sitting here every night waiting for you.”

She opened the shutter softly, and for the first time since she had become a woman I kissed her. I put my arms around her, and she gave a little sigh of relief. I felt then that I was strong enough to protect her against all men.

“I have come for you,” I repeated.

“To go where?”

“I do not know; but to be my wife.”

“Then I do not care where we go.”

I kissed her again, and warm lips returned the kiss.

“We must go now,” I said.

“I am ready,” she replied.

I lifted her through the window. Then she stood upon the roof of the piazza. Her face was pale, but her eyes glowed with resolute fire as she stood beside me, slender and straight. She saw the beam of light on the far end of the piazza roof.

“It comes from the room of Varian,” I said. “He is writing there.”

“They could never have forced me to marry him,” she said.

“I know they could not,” I replied with confidence.

The sentinel, turning on his beat, walked back and came into view.

“Lean against the wall, sweetheart, until he passes,” I said.

She pressed herself against the wall, but my arm was still around her waist. I could feel her trembling, and we waited there in the darkness until the sentinel went by.

“Neither of us should ever forget to be thankful that this night is dark,” I whispered.

She made no answer, but leaned trustfully against me.

Then, holding her hand and steadying her, I led her to the edge of the piazza roof.

“Sit there a moment,” I said, and I dropped lightly to the ground. Then I looked up at her, and she looked down at me.

“Come! It is the last step,” I said, holding out my arms.

“Then should I not hesitate before taking it?” she asked, a faint smile flickering over her face.

“Are you afraid?” I asked.

“Do you promise to love and protect me all your life?”

“With all my heart and strength.”

“Then stand fast; I am coming.”

She sprang down, and I caught her in my arms.

“Ah, you robber!” she cried. I had taken toll before I put her on the ground.

“You are to be my wife in an hour,” I replied, and I kissed her again.

Thus I stole my sweetheart from the house of her persecutors, and thus she left all the world to follow me. So, too, did I forget the great war and all else, to take her with me. It was love.

The sentinel was about to pass again, and I drew her behind the pillar of the piazza. The night was so still that we heard the soft crush of the man’s footsteps on the turf.

“Are you afraid?” I asked.

“I am with you,” she replied.

The sentinel passed again, unsuspicious as ever, and, two bent figures, we stole across the lawn and behind the fence, and then into the depths of the forest. I looked back only once as we ran, and I saw the light still shining from Varian’s window.

“I have beaten you with all your power and all your smooth intrigues,” I said exultingly, but not aloud.

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