Dogberry. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore, bear you the lantern. This is your charge; you shall comprehend all vagrom men.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

It may well be supposed that the misadventures on the ice were ill calculated to soothe the excited mind of the constable. He bore a grudge towards the Solitary before, for his failure and the beating he had received at the island, and now to be made the object of such abuse in the presence of his townsmen, and that on account of a person whom he looked down upon as a sort of vagrant, was more than his philosophy could bear. For Basset, with that kind of logic which is so common with a certain class of people, could not avoid regarding the Recluse as the culpable cause of his misfortune in both instances. “If he hadn’t gone agin the law,” he said to himself, “I shouldn’t have tried to take him; and if I hadn’t tried to take him, I shouldn’t have been treated so.” Whatever Hedge or Mills may think of such logic, it was satisfactory to Basset.

His lucubrations, moreover, were very different in the daytime from those in the solemn shades of night. As ghosts are said to disappear when they scent the morning air, so the constable’s apprehensions of them fled at the rising of the sun. When in the dark at the island he received the blow that prostrated him on the earth, he was unable to determine in his confusion, whether it had been inflicted by the fisherman’s ghost or by Holden. It never crossed his mind that it might have come from any one else. On this subject he had mused during the whole time of his return from his nocturnal disaster, without being able to arrive at any conclusion. If in those witching hours, when the stars gleamed mysteriously through the drifting clouds, and the wind moaned among the bare branches, he was inclined to one opinion rather than to another, it was to that which would attribute the blow to the ghost. But with the light of returning day the current of his thoughts changed. Things assumed an altered aspect. Fears of inhabitants of an unseen world vanished, and Basset was angry at himself for entertaining such silly imaginations. It was now evident that Holden by some means had obtained a knowledge of the design to capture him, or had suspected it, or had noticed the approach of the boat and laid in wait to take a most unjustifiable revenge. “I wish I could prove it,” thought Basset; “if I wouldn’t make him smart for striking an officer!”

We shall not be surprised to find that the constable feeling thus, provided himself with another warrant. Smarting under a sense of injury, both as a man and a baffled administrator of the law, he had immediately sought the Justice, revealed the loss of the instrument, and procured another. Upon returning to the river, where he hoped to triumph in the presence of those who had witnessed his disgrace, over one whom he now regarded as an enemy, he found to his infinite mortification that the bird had flown. He dared not follow alone, and meditating vengeance, he kept the fatal document safely deposited in his pocket-book, where “in grim repose” it waited for a favorable opportunity and its prey.

On the following Monday morning, the constable met Gladding in the street, whom he had not seen since the latter assisted him on the ice.

“How are you?” cried Tom, seizing him by the hand, and affecting the greatest pleasure at the meeting; “how do you feel after your row, friend Basset?”

“Oh, pretty well,” answered the constable; “how is it with you?

“Alive and kicking,” said Tom. “But, Basset, you hain’t got the dents out o’ your hat, I see.”

“No, and I don’t expect they ever will come out. It’s good as two dollars damage to me,” he added, taking off the hat and looking at it with a woeful face. “You’re a little to blame for it, too, Tom.”

“Me! You ongrateful critter,” exclaimed Gladding, indignantly. “You want me to give you a new hat, don’t ye?”

“What made you ask if I’d got the warrant?”

“I never said no such a thing. I only said sort o’ promiscuously, you hadn’t showed your document.”

“Well, what was the use o’ that? If you’d kept still there wouldn’t been no fuss.”

“Who’d ha’ thought you’d ha’ gone to take a man without being able to show your authority? Now I call that plaguy green, Basset. But who stood by you when everybody else desarted you, and got you out from under them rough boys, and helped you clean out o’ the scrape? Darn it all, Basset, you’re the ongratefullest varmint I ever did see, when, in a manner, I saved your life. Really, I did think, instead o’ blowing a fellow up in this way, you’d a stood treat.”

“So I will,” said Basset, who began to fancy he had found too much fault, and was unwilling to lose his ally; “so come along into Jenkins’, and we’ll take it on the spot. But you must give in, Tom, your observation was unfortunate”

“Unfortunate for you,” returned Tom; “but I guess Holden thought ’twasn’t unfortunate for him. Howsomever, you’ll let the old fellow slip now, won’t you?”

“Let him slip!” almost screamed the exasperated Basset, whom Tom’s manner of treating the subject was not calculated to mollify. “Let him slip, you say. I’ll see him, I’ll see him” but in vain he sought words to express the direful purpose; language broke down under the effort.

“Poh, poh,” said Tom, “don’t take on so, man forget and forgive luck’s been on his side, that’s all.”

“I tell you what,” said Basset, “who do you think struck me the other night?”

“Why, what could it be but Lanfear’s ghost?”

“Don’t talk to me about sperits; whose afraid o’ them? But tell us one thing, did you see Holden when you looked into the window!”

“What makes you ask?” said the cautious Tom, “supposing I did, or supposing I didn’t?”

“’Cause I know you didn’t. Now it’s my opinion,” said Basset, lowering his voice and looking round suspiciously as if he were afraid of an action for slander should he be overheard, “that Holden himself made the assault.”

“That ain’t possible,” said Gladding, confidently. “You and Prime stood by the door and would ha’ seen him if he’d come out there, and I know he didn’t jump out o’ the window, for I should ha’ seen him.”

“But, perhaps he wasn’t in the house at all,” persisted Basset; “it was plaguy dark, and perhaps he heard us coming and hid himself outside on purpose to play the trick and take an unfair advantage on us.”

“You’ll never make me believe that story,” said Gladding, shaking his head. “I’d as soon believe it was me as the old man. Prime and me are of the same opinion, and we should both be witnesses agin you.”

The two, at this stage of the conversation, reached the door of the grocer’s shop, into which we will not follow them, but turn our attention elsewhere.

Meanwhile, the cause of all this excitement was quietly pursuing the ordinary tenor of his life. It will have been observed that when Basset attempted to arrest him, Holden did not even inquire with what offence he was charged, unless demanding the production of the warrant may be considered so, and that upon the constable relinquishing his purpose, he turned away without giving any attention to the observations addressed to him. It is not probable that his design was to avoid the service of process, all unconscious as he was of any violation of the laws of the State; and certain it is he made not the slightest difference in his habits. As before, he pursued his occupation of basket-making at his hut and his recreations of fishing and strolling through the woods, as though no such formidable character as Basset was in existence. If he did not appear in the village it was an accidental circumstance, it being only at irregular intervals that he ever made his appearance there. Thus, then, passed a week longer; the petulant constable on the watch, and the steady malignity of Davenport gradually becoming impatient for gratification. But the little drama had a course of its own to run.

One morning Primus saw the tall figure of Holden passing his cabin. The veteran was at the window smoking his pipe when the Recluse first came in sight. A secret must have been very closely kept, indeed, in the village, not to come to his ears, and the warlike equipment and intentions of Basset were well known to him. “Dere he come,” said the negro to himself, “jist like a fly flying into de spider-web. I guess I gib him warning.” With this benevolent intention, Primus went to the door, and as Holden approached, addressed him with the salutation of the morning. It was courteously acknowledged, and the General commenced as if he wished to engage in a conversation.

“Beautiful wedder dis marning, Missa Holden.”

“Old man, thy days are too short to be wasted in chattering about the weather,” said Holden. “Speak, if thou hast aught to say.”

The General’s attempt at familiarity was effectually checked, and he felt somewhat chagrined at the reply; but for all that he would not give up his friendly purpose.

“Dey say,” he said, with military precision, “dat de Constable Basset hab a warrant agin Missa Holden.”

“Thanks, Primus,” said Holden, resuming his walk, “but I fear the face of no man.”

“De obstinate pusson!” exclaimed the negro. “And den to talk about my short day! Dat is bery onpleasaut. Short day, Missa Holden, eh? Not as you knows on. I can tell you dis child born somewhere about de twenty ob June (at any rate de wedder was warm), and mean to lib accordingly. Oh, you git out, Missa Holden! Poor parwarse pusson! What a pity he hab no suspect for de voice ob de charmer! I always hear,” he added, chuckling, in that curious, mirth-inspiring way so peculiar to the blacks, “dat de black snake know how to charm best, but all sign fail in dry wedder, and de pan flash in de powder dis time.”

Holden paid not the least regard to the information. According to his system of fatalism he would have considered it beyond his power to alter the predetermined course of things, but it is not probable that his mind dwelt upon the thought of personal security. He went straight forward to the village, calling at places where he thought he would most likely find customers for his wares, and in no respect avoiding public observation. He had sold his baskets, and was on his return to the river, over whose frozen surface lay his road home, when he beheld a scene that solicited his attention and arrested his steps.

It was an Indian burial. Holden in his round had strolled as far as the piece of table land, of which mention was made in the first chapter, to a distance of nearly a mile from the head of the Severn, and was at the moment opposite a spot reserved by the tribe, of which a small number were lingering in the neighborhood, as the revered resting-place of the bones of their ancestors, whence they themselves hoped to start for the happy hunting grounds. It was a place of singular beauty, selected apparently with a delicate appreciation of the loveliness of the scenery, for nowhere else in the vicinity was there so attractive a combination of hill and dale, and wood and water, to compose a landscape.

The little burying-ground, shorn of its original dimensions by the encroachments of the fatal race that came from the rising sun, contained less than half an acre, and was situated at the top of a ravine, running down from the level land, on which the gravestones were erected, to the Yaupaae, where that river expands itself into a lake. The sides of the ravine, along its whole sweep upwards, was covered quite to the top with immense oaks and chestnuts, the growth of centuries, interspersed with ash trees, while in the colder and moister part in the centre, the smooth-barked birch threw out its gnarled branches. There was no undergrowth, and under and between the limbs of the trees, the eye caught a view towards the south of the widened Yaupaae and of the islands that dotted its surface, with hills sweeping round in a curve, and presenting an irregular outline like that made by the backs of a school of porpoises. Towards the three other quarters of the compass, a level plain extended for a short distance, and then was broken up into an undulating surface which rose into éminences covered with woods that hemmed in the whole. The falls of the Yaupaae were at a distance of only a few rods, but invisible, being hidden by the plain that occupied the intervening space, at an elevation of some forty feet higher than the point where the river, rushing down its rocky bed, made its presence known by a ceaseless roar, and seemed to chant a dirge over the vanished greatness of the tribe.

Here were assembled some sixty or seventy Indians to perform the rights of sepulture to one of their number. No vestige of their original wildness was to be traced among them. They were clothed in the garments of civilization, but of a coarse and mean quality, and appeared broken down and dispirited. One half, at least, were women, and at the moment of which we are speaking they were collecting together from among the blue slate gravestones, where they had been dispersed, around a newly dug grave. The rites were of a Christian character, and performed by an elder of one of the neighboring churches, who offered up a prayer, on the conclusion of which he retired. The grave was immediately filled, and then commenced a ceremony of a singular character.

At a given signal the assembled company began with slow and measured steps, and in silence, to encircle the grave. It must have been a custom peculiar to the tribe, at least we do not recollect seeing it alluded to by any traveller or describer of Indian manners, and consisted in walking one after the other around the grave, in the manner called Indian file, and recounting the good qualities of the departed; nor was it considered permissible to leave until something had been said in his praise. The Indians walked round and round in unbroken silence, each one modestly waiting, as it seemed at first, for another to speak. But no one begun, and it soon became evident that some other cause than modesty restrained their speech. Thus, with downcast eyes, or casting side long glances at each other, as in expectation of the wished-for eulogy, and with the deepest gravity, they followed round and round, but still with sealed lips. The defunct must have been a strange being to deserve no commendation. Could it be? Did he possess no one good quality by which he could be remembered? Had he never done a kind act? Could he not hunt, or fish, or make baskets, or plant corn, or beans, or potatoes? Surely he must have been able to do something. Had it never happened that he did some good by mistake? Perhaps that would answer the purpose. Or had he been the mere shape and appearance of a man, and nothing more? He had vanished like a shadow; was he as unsubstantial? Were they not mistaken in supposing he had lived among them! Had he been a dream?

Confused thoughts like these passed through the simple minds of the rude race, as with tired steps they followed one another in that weary round. But was there to be no cessation of those perpetual gyrations? Yet no gesture, no devious step betrayed impatience. On they went, as if destined to move thus for ever. Looks long and earnest began now to be cast upon the new-made hillock, as if striving to draw inspiration thence, or reproaching its tenant with his unworthiness. No inspiration came, and gradually the steps became slower and more languid, yet still the measured tread went on. A darker and darker cloud settled on their weary faces, but they could not stop; the duty was too sacred to remain unfulfilled. They could not leave without a word to cheer their friend upon his way, and yet the word came not. When would some one speak? Who would relieve them from the difficulty? At length the countenance of an old squaw lighted up, and in low tones she said, “He was a bery good smoker.” The welcome words were instantly caught up by all, and with renewed strength each one moved on, and rejoicing at the solution of the dilemma, exclaimed, “He was a bery good smoker.” The charm had taken effect; the word of affectionate remembrance was spoken; the duty performed; and each with an approving conscience could now return home.

What thin partitions divide the mirthful from the mournful, the sublime from the ridiculous! At the wedding we weep, and at the funeral we can smile.

Holden who had been standing with folded arms leaning against the rail fence that enclosed the yard, and contemplating the ceremonies till the last Indian departed, now turned to leave, when the constable with a paper in one hand approached, and touching Holden with the other, told him he was his prisoner. The Solitary asked no questions, but waving his hand to the constable to advance, followed him in silence.