Chapter 11

And now 'tis still! no sound to wake
The primal forest's awful shade;
And breathless lies the covert brake,
Where many an ambushed form is laid:
I see the red-man's gleaming eye,
Yet all so hushed the gloom profound,
That summer birds flit heedlessly,
And mocking nature smiles around.

Lunt.

The eventful summer of 1776 had been genial and generous in the valley
of the Hutted Knoll. With a desire to drive away obtrusive thoughts,
the captain had been much in his fields, and he was bethinking himself
of making a large contribution to the good cause, in the way of fatted
porkers, of which he had an unusual number, that he thought might yet
be driven through the forest to Fort Stanwix, before the season closed.
In the way of intelligence from the seat of war, nothing had reached
the family but a letter from the major, which he had managed to get
sent, and in which he wrote with necessary caution. He merely mentioned
the arrival of Sir William Howe's forces, and the state of his own
health. There was a short postscript, in the following words, the
letter having been directed to his father:--"Tell dearest Maud," he
said, "that charming women have ceased to charm me; glory occupying so
much of my day-dreams, like an _ignis fatuus_, I fear; and that as
for love, _all_ my affections are centred in the dear objects at
the Hutted Knoll. If I had met with a single woman I admired half as
much as I do her pretty self, I should have been married long since."
This was written in answer to some thoughtless rattle that the captain
had volunteered to put in his last letter, as coming from Maud, who had
sensitively shrunk from sending a message when asked; and it was read
by father, mother, and Beulah, as the badinage of a brother to a
sister, without awaking a second thought in either. Not so with Maud,
herself, however. When her seniors had done with this letter, she
carried it to her own room, reading and re-reading it a dozen times;
nor could she muster resolution to return it; but, finding at length
that the epistle was forgotten, she succeeded in retaining it without
awakening attention to what she had done. This letter now became her
constant companion, and a hundred times did the sweet gill trace its
characters, in the privacy of her chamber, or in that of her now
solitary walks in the woods.

As yet, the war had produced none of those scenes of ruthless frontier
violence, that had distinguished all the previous conflicts of America.
The enemy was on the coast, and thither the efforts of the combatants
had been principally directed. It is true, an attempt on Canada had
been made, but it failed for want of means; neither party being in a
condition to effect much, as