Chapter 11

Bid physicians talk our veins to temper,
And with an argument new-set a pulse,
Then think, my lord, of reasoning unto love.

YOUNG.

As the road from the ferry into the town ran along the bank of the river,
we reached the point where the Rev. Mr. Worden had landed precisely at
the same instant with his pursuers, who had been obliged to make a little
circuit, in order to get off the ice. I do not know which party regarded
the other in the greatest astonishment,--the hunted, or the hunters. The
sleigh had in it two fine-looking young fellows, that spoke English with a
slight Dutch accent, and three young women, whose bright coal-black eyes
betokened surprise a little mitigated by a desire to laugh. Seeing that we
were all strangers, I suppose, and that we claimed the runaway as belonging
to our party, one of the young men raised his cap very respectfully, and
opened the discourse by asking in a very civil tone--

"What ails the reverent gentleman, to make him run so fast?"

"Run!" exclaimed Mr. Worden, whose lungs had been playing like a
blacksmith's bellows--"Run! and who would not run to save himself from
being drowned?"

"Drowned!" repeated the young Dutchman, looking round at the river, as if
to ascertain whether the ice were actually moving--"why does the Dominie
suppose there was any danger of _that?_"

As Mr. Worden's bellows were still hard at work, I explained to the young
Albanians that we were strangers just arrived from the vicinity of New
York; that we were unaccustomed to frozen rivers, and had never crossed
one on the ice before; that our reverend companion had chosen to walk at a
distance from the road, in order to be in less danger should any team break
in, and that he had naturally run to avoid their sleigh when he saw it
approaching. The Albanians heard this account in respectful silence, though
I could see the two young men casting sly glances at each other, and that
even the ladies had some little difficulty in altogether suppressing
their smiles. When it was through, the oldest of the Dutchmen--a fine,
dare-devil, roystering-looking fellow of four or five-and-twenty, whose
dress and mien, however, denoted a person of the upper class,--begged a
thousand pardons for his mistake, quitting his sleigh and insisting on
having the honours of shaking hands with the whole of us. His name was
'Ten Eyck,' he said; 'Guert Ten Eyck,' and he asked permission, as we were
strangers, of doing the honour of Albany to us. Everybody in the place knew
him, which, as we afterwards ascertained, was true enough, for he had
just as much reputation for fun and frolic as at all comported with
respectability; keeping along, as it were, on the