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"V "H: -V. " ' ISSUED SEMI-WEEKLY, . l. m. grist & sons, Publishers. } % ^amitj $eu:spapcr: 4jor the gromotinn jf the golitiral, Social, Agricultural, and Commercial Interests of the geogle. j terjmnSSoty! faite' centsance' ESTABLISHED 1855^ YORKVILLE. S. C., SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 1901. ISTO. 4. THE MYSTE AGA By ANNA KATH7 Author of "The Leavenworth Ca; ^ and Ring," Copyright, 1900, by Anna Katharine C Synopsis op Previous Chapters. In order that new readers of The Enquirer may begin with the following Installment of this story, and understand it just the same as though they had read it all from the beginning, we here give a synopsis of that portion of which has already been published: The story opens with the close of a ball after > daylight in the morning. While the guests are leaving the house Frederick Sutherland dashes out frantically and disappears in the woods on the other side of the road. Agatha Webb is found up stairs murdered. The body of Batsy, the cook, is found hanging from a window. Philemon Webb, Agatha's husband, is discovered sitting before a dining table asleep, with a smear of blood on his coat sleeve. Philemon being charged with the murder, his mind, alrady feeble gives way completely. All Agatha Webb's money has been taken. Miss Page, standing on the lawn, points to a spot of blood on the grass. Frederick Sutherland, who has been a wild fellow, promises nis father to reform; also to give up Amabel Page, whom he has been expecting to marry. Miss Page tells Frederick that she followed him on the night of the murder and saw him secrete $1,000 in a hollow tree. She declares that he shall either marry her or she will proclaim him a murderer. She is about to leave him and the town MVmw ?*VA I" U/vM ft PI O wlfnaoo fTVl a W11C11 sue IS 11C1U as a T*twuvo0> a *?v past life of Agatha Webb. Six children have been born to her and all died in infancy. It is learned that the money taken from Agatha Webb was all in new bills. A storekeeper produces one of them that a strange man with a flowing beard gave him the night of the murder. The problem now is to find the man with the long beard. Suspicion falls on the Zabel brothers. Frederick visits the hollow tree and finds the money gone. Wattles a gambler from Boston, demands $950 of Frederick in payment of a gambling debt. Frederick secures a check for the amount from his father, pays the debt and is about to leave home when he is stopped by Miss Page. Knapp, detective, and Abel, with the coroner, visit the Zabel brothers. They are obliged to break into the house, and find both brothers dead. A spot of blood is found on the clothing of one of the brothers, and a miniature of Agatha Webb when a young girl is lying on James Zabel's breast. The party visit the hollow tree, and Sweetwater, who aI*\a/4 fVinm H i era nn^or It Q nH flnd.Q UCIO Vilicu wnvm, uuuv* ?V ?? %> ?.? $980. The finder declares that Amabel Page buried the money. He also declares that he followed Amabel Page when she left the house on the night of the murder and saw her bury the money. He accuses her oftrying to throwsuspicion on one of the Zebel brothers with one of the bills. Miss Page is examined with reference to her conduct on the night of the murder and proves a very wily witness. The will of Agatha Webb bequeaths her fortune to Frederick Sutherland. Frederick testifies before the coroner that Agatha Webb gave herself the blow wnich killed her. On the night of the murder he visited her in his necessities for money, and was so excited she thought he was about to murder her. To save him from crime she struck the blow herself, but before she died pointed to a drawer containing $1,000, and bade him take it. He also declares that Agatha Webb was his mother. CHATTER XXII. HOW HE WAS FOILED. , Impossible! lucredible! Like a wave suddenly lifted tbe whole assemblage rose in surprise if uot in protest. But there was uo outburst. The very depth of the feeliugs evoked made all ebullition impossible, and as oue sees the billow pause ere it breaks aud gradually subside,.so this crowd yielded to the awe within them aud one by oue sank back into their seats till quiet was again restored and only a circle of listeuiug faces con frouted the rnau who had just stirred a whole roomful to its depths. Seeing this and realizing his opportunity, Frederick at once eutered iuto the explaua tious for which each heart there paut ed. This will be overwhelming news to him who has cared for me since Infancy. You have heard him call me sou. With wliat words shall I overthrow his couhdence in the truth and rectitude of his long buried wife and make him know in his old age that he has wasted years of patience upou one who was not of his blood or lineage? The wonder, the incredulity, you manifest are my best excuse for my long delay iu revealing the secret intrusted to me by this dying woman." An awed sileuce greeted these words. Never was the interest of a crowd more intense or its passions held in greater restraint. Yet Agues' tears flowed freely, and Amabel's smileswell. their expression had changed, ami to Sweetwater, who alone had eyes for her now. they were surcharged with a tragic meaning strange to see In one of her callous nature. Frederick's voice broke as be pro ceedeil In his self imposed task: "The astouudiug fact which 1 have Just communicated to you was made known to me by my mother, with the dagger still plunged lu her breast. Site would uot let me draw it out. She knew that death would follow that act. and she prized every momeut remaining to her because of the bliss she enjoyed of seeing and banng near her her only llvlug child. The luve. the passion, the boundless devotion, she showed In those last few minutes transformed me In an instant front a selfish brute into a deeply repentant man. 1 knelt before her in anguish. 1 made her feel that, wicked as I had been. I was not the conscienceless wretch she had Imagined and that she was mistaken as to the motives which led me into her presence. And when 1 saw by her clearing brow and peaceful look that I had fully persuaded her of RTOF THA WEBB. VRINE GREENE, se," "Lost Man's Lane," "Hand Etc., Etc. Jreen. this I let her speak what words she would and tell, as she was able, the secret tragedy of her life. "ii is a sucreu siuij tu mc, a^v. .? you must know it let It be from ber own words in the letters she left behind ber. She only told me that to save me from the fate of the children who had preceded me?the five little girls and boys who had perished almost at birth in her arms?she had parted from me in early infancy to Mrs. Sutherland, then mourning the sudden death of her only child; that this had been done secretly and under circumstances calculated to deceive Mr. Sutherland, so that he had never known I was not his own child, and she enJoined me never to enlighten him If by any sacrifice on my part I could rightfully avoid it; that she was happy in having me hear the truth before she died; that the joy which this gave her was so great that she did not regret her fatal act, violent and uncalled for as it was, for it had showed her my heart and allowed me to read hers. Then she talked of my father, by whom ( I mean he whom you call Philemon, ( and she made me promise I would care for him to the last with tenderness, saying that I would be able to do this , without seeming impropriety, since she had willed me all ber fortune under 1 this proviso. Finally she / ve me n j key and. pointing out where iue rest of her money lay hidden, bade me carry It < away as her last gift, together with | the package of letters I would find with it And when I bad taken these | and given ber back the key she told me that but for one thing she would < die happy, and. though her strength | and breath were fast failing her. she made me understand that she was worried about the Zabels. who had not ] come. according to a sacred custom be- | tween them, to celebrate the anniver sary of her wedding, and prayed me to see the two old gentlemen before 1 slept since nothing but death or dire distress would have kept them from gratifying the one whim of my father's failing mind. 1 promised, and with perfect peace in her face she pointed to the dagger in her breast "But before I could lay my hand upon It she called for Batsy. 'I want her to hear me declare before I go.' said she. 'that this stroke was delivered by myself upon myself.' But when I rose to look for Batsy I found that the shock of her mistress' fatal act had killed ( her and that only her dead body was ( lying across the window sill of the ad ( joining room. It was a chance that robbed me of the only witness who could testify to my innocence, in ease my , preseuce In this house of death should become known, and. realizing all the ; "1 saw it to t>e the elder ot the two, John Zabcl." danger in which it threw me, I did not dare to tell ni.v mother for fear it would make her last moments miserable. So I told her that the poor woman had understood what she wished, but was too territied to move or speak, and this satisfied my mother and made her last breath one of trust aud con tented love. She died as I drew the dagger from her breast, and. seeing this. 1 wus seized with horror of the instrument which had cost me such a dear and valuable life and flung it wildly from the window. Tben I lifted her and laid her where you found her. on the sofa. That the dagger was an old time gift of her former lover. James Zabel. 1 did not know, much less that it bore his Initials on the handle." He paused, and the awe o^hsloned by the scene he had described was so deep and the silence so prolouged that a shudder passed over the whole assemblage when from some unknown quarter a single, cutting voice arose in this oue short, mocking comment: "Oh. the fairy tale!" Was it Amabel who had spoken? Some yet thought so and looked her way. but they only beheld a sweet, tear stained face turned with an air of tnovlug appeal upon Frederick as if begging pardon for the wicked doubts which had driven him to this defense. Frederick met that look with one so severe it partook of harshness. Then, resuming his testimony, he said: "It Is of the Zabel brothers I must now speak, and of bow one of them. James by name, came to be involved In this affair. "When I left my new found mother, I was In such a state of mind that I passed tbe loom in which my new found father sat sleeping, with scarcely so much as a glance. But as I hastened on toward the quarter where the Zabels lived some compunctions of pity for bis desolate state caused me to falter In my rapid flight, so that I did not reach the house quite as quickly as I might otherwise have done. When 1 did. I found it dark, as I might reasonably have expected; but, remembering tbe extreme anxiety which my mother had shown In their regard, even In her dying moments, I approached the front door and was about to knock when I found it open. Greatly astonished, I at once passed In and, seeing my way perfectly In the moonlight, entered the room on tbe left, the door of which also stood open. It was the second house I had entered unannounced that night, and in this, as In the other, I encountered a man sitting asleep by the table. "Going up to him, I saw it to be the elder of the two, John Zabel, and, perrpivinor that be was suffering for food and in a condition of extreme misery, I took out the first bill my hand encountered in my overfull pockets and laid It on the table by his side. As I did so he gave a sigh, but did not wake; and, sat isfied that I had done all that was wise and all that even my mother would expect of me under the circumstances, and fearing to encounter the other brother if I lingered, I hastened away and took the shortest path home. Had I been more of a man, or if my visit to Mrs. Webb had been actuated by a more communicable motive, I would have gone at once to the good man who believed me to be of his own flesh and blood and told him of the strange and heartrending adventure which had' changed the whole tenor of my thoughts and life and begged his advice as to what I had better do under the difficult circumstances in which I found myself placed. But the memory of a thousand past ingratitudes, together with the knowledge of the shock which he could not fail to receive on learning at this late day and under conditions at once so tragic and full of menace that the child which his long buried wife had once placed In his Rrms as his own was neither of her blood or his, rose up between us and caused me not only to attempt silence, but to secrete in the adjoining woods the money I had received in the vain hope that all visible connection between myself and my mother's tragic death would thus be lost. You see, I had not calculated on Miss Amabel Page." The flash he here received from that lady's eyes startled the crowd and gave nlitAnrln on ffnvln nn/lckf owccinatci, ancauj ouuviuig uuuv? shock after shock of mingled surprise and wonder, his first definite idea that he had never rightly understood the relations between these two and that something besides justice had actuated Amabel In her treatment of this young man. This feeling was shared by others, and a reaction set in In tils favor which even affected the officials who were conducting the Inquiry. This was Bhown by the difference of manner now assumed by the coroner and by the more easily impressed Sweetwater, who had not yet learned the indispensable art of hiding his feelings. Frederick himself felt the change and showed it by the look of relief and growing confidence he cast at Agnes. Of the questions and answers which now passed between him and the various members of the jury I need give no account They but emphasized facts already known and produced but little change In the general feeling, which was one now of suppressed pity for all who had been drawn into the meshes of this tragic mystery. When he was allowed to resume his seat, the name of Miss Amabel Page was again called. She rose with a bound. Naught that she had anticipated had occurred; facts of which she could kuow nothing had changed the aspect of affairs and made the position of Frederick something so remote from any she could have imagined that she was still In the maze of the numberless contlicting emotions which these revelations were calculated to call out in one who had risked all on the hazard of a die and lost She did not even know at this moment whether she was glad or sorry he could explain so cleverly his anomalous position. She had caught the look he had cast at Agnes, and, while this angered her, it did not greatly modify her opinion that he was destined for herself, for, however other people might feel, she did not for a moment believe his story. She had not a pure enough heart io uu so. 10 uer an seir sacrince was an anomaly. No woman of the mental or physical streugth of Agatha Webb would plant a dagger In her own breast just to prevent another person from committing a crime, were he lover, husband or son. So she believed and so would these others also when once relieved of his magnetic personality. Yet how thrilling it had been to hear him plead his cause so well, so thrilling it was almost worth the loss ol her revenge to meet his look of hate and dream of the possibility of turning it later into the old look of love. Yea, yes, she loved him now, not for his position, for that was gone; not even for his money, for she could contemplate Its loss, but for himself who had so boldly shown that he was stronger than she and could triumph over her by th? sheer force of his masculine daring. nruu a x _i ,u MU/v ? uu bUL'ii tecuugs, vmat suuuiu our say to these men? Hew conduct herself under questions vrhlch would be much more searching new than before? She could not even decide in her own mind. She must let impulse have Its way. Happily she took the right stand at first She did Dot endeivor to make any corrections In her former testimony, only acknowledged that the flower whose presence on the scene of death had been such a mystery had fallen from her hair at the ball and that she had seen Frederick pick It up and put it in his buttouhole. Beyond this and the Inferences it afterward awakened in her mind she would not go, though many present, and among fliem Frederick, felt confident that her | attitude bad been one of suspicion from the first and that It was to follow him < rather than to supply the wants of the < old men. the Zabels, she bad left the [ ball and found her way to Agatha ; Webb's cottage. < i CHAPTER KXIII. i A CHANGELING. Meanwhile Sweetwater had been witness to a series of pantomime actions I that Interested him more than Ama- 1 bel's conduct under this final examlna- i tlon. Frederick, who had evidently \ some request to make or direction to give, had sent a written line to the coroner, who, on reading It, had passed I It over to Knapp, who a few minutes 1 later was to be seen In conference with i * TV-11U A ~ ? Agnes rtainuuy. AS a icauu iuc ian? ( rose and left the room, followed by the < detective. She was gone a half hour. Then, simultaneously with her reap- ] pearance, Sweetwater saw Knapp hand 1 a bundle of letters to the coroner, who, 1 upon opening them, chose out several ( which he proceeded to read to the Jury. I They were the letters referied to by < Frederick as having been given to him 1 by his mother. The first was dated 35 years previously and was in the handwriting of Agatha herself. It was directed to James Zabel and was read amid a profound hush: Dear James?I know I have a temper, a wicked temper, and now you know it too. When it Is aroused, I forget love, gratitude and everything else that should restrain me and utter words I am astonished at myself. But I do not get aroused often, and when all Is over I am not averse to apologizing or even to begging forgiveness. My father says my temper will undo me, but I am much more afraid of my heart than I am of my temper. For Instance, here I am writing to you again, just because I raised my riding whip and said?but you know what I said, and I am not fond of recalling that moment, for I cannot do so without seeing your look of surprise and contrasting It with that of Philemon's. Yours had judgment in It, while Philemon's held only indulgence, yet I liked 1 yours best or should have liked it best < If It were not for the insufferable pride which is a part of my being. Temper I onnli no mlna aii crh f f a onrnrlan mil . OUV.U UQ UJ JUV VU^UV W OU1 [/11UV J V Yet would I be Agatha Gilchrist without It? I very much fear not, and, not being Agatha Gilchrist, should I have your love? Again I fear not. James, forgive me! When I am happier, when I know my own heart, I will have less provocation. Then if that heart turns your way you will And a great and bountiful serenity where now there are lowering skies and thunderous tempests. Philemon said last night that he would be content to?bave my fierce word o' mornings if only I would give him one drop out of the honey of my better nature when the sun went down and twilight brought reflection and love. But I did not like him any the better for saying this. You would not halve the day so. The cup must hold no bitter that would give you true refreshment. Will it not, then, have to be proffered by other hands than those of Agatha? Mr. Philemon Webb: Respected Sir?You are persistent. I am willing to tell you. though I shall I never coufide so much In another, that c It will take a stronger nature than I yours and one that loves me less to hold me faithfully aud make me the happy, devoted wife which I must be If I would not be a demon. I cannot, I 1 dare not, marry where I am not held In a passionate, self forgetful subjection. I am too proud, I am too sensitive to I wrong, I am too little mistress of myself when angry or aroused. If, like t some strong women, I loved what was "5 weaker than myself and could be con- o trolled by goodness and unlimited kind- t ness, I might venture to risk living at S the side of the most Indulgent and up- J right man that I know, but I am not of s that kind. Strength only can command b my admiration or subdue my pride. I ? must fear where I love and own him 1 for husband who has first shown him- b self my master. So do not fret any * more for me, for you, least of all the G men I know, will never claim my obe- c dience or command my love. Not that n I will not yield my heart to you, but that I cannot, and. knowing that I cannot, feel it honest to say so before any ^ more of your flue manhood is wasted. . Go your way. then. Philemon, and leave t, me to the rougher paths my feet were j. made to tread. I like you now and feel b something like a tender regard for a your goodness, but if you persist In a courtship which only my father Is in- p cllned to smile upon you will call up an v antagonism that can lead to nothing i but evil, for the serpent that lies coil- k ed in my breast has deadly fangs, and n it Is to be feared, as you should know, e who have more than once seen me an- S gry. t< Do not blame John nor James Zabel o nor Frederick Snow nor even Samuel tl Barton for this. It would be the same e If none of these men existed. I was n not made to triumph over a kindly n nature, but to subdue the haughtiest t: heart In all this country to the gentle but firm hand of my heart's master. e Do you want to know who that master " is? I cannot tell you. for I have not b yet named him to myself. Dear James?I am going away. 1 e am going to leave Porchester for sev- a eral months. I am going to see the world. I did not tell you this last night s for fear of weakening under your entreaties?or should I say commands? -r Lately I have felt myself weakening n more than once, and 1 want to know k what It means. Absence will teach me. t) abseuce and the sight of new faces. 0 Do you quarrel with this necessity? Do a vou think I should know my mind T without any sucli test? Alas, James, it a is not a simple mind, and It baffles me s] at times. Let us then give It a ehance. tl If the glow and glamour of elegant city a life can make me forget certain snatch- s es of talk at our old gate or that night tl when you drew my hand through your d arm and softly kissed my Qnger tips, o then I am no mate for you, whose lov? fi however critical, has never wavered from the (Jrst. but has made Itself felt even in rebuke, as the strongest, sweetest thing that has entered my turbulent life. Because I would be worthy of you I submit to a separation which will either be a permanent one or the last that will ever take place between you and me. John will not bear this as well as you, yet he does not love me as well, possibly because to him I am simply a superior being, while to you I am a living but Imperfect woman, who ivlshes to do right, but can only do so inder the highest guidance. Dear John?I feel that I owe you a etter because you have been so parent. You may show it to James If pou like, but I mean it for you us an )ld and dear friend who will one day lance at my wedding. I am living in a whirl of enjoyment. [ am seeing and tasting of pleasures I lave only dreamed about till now. Prom a farmhouse kitchen to Mrs. AuIrews' drawing room Is a lively change 'or a girl who loves dress and show >nly less than dally intercourse with iarnous men aud brilliant women. But ft "Dear John," she wrote, I am bearing it nobly and have develjped tastes I did not know 1 possessed. \nd no cue seems to think 1 aiu out of place, nor do I feel so. ouly? do not tell lames?there are movements in my leart at times which make me shut my ;yes when the lights are brightest and Iream. if hut for an iustaut, of home ind the tumble down gateway where I aave so often leaned when some one? jou know who it is uow, John, and 1 jhall not hurt you too deeply by men:ionIng him?was saying good night ind calling dowu the blessings of heavin upon a bead uot worthy to receive :bem. Does this argue my speedy return? Perhaps, yet I do not know. There are , 'ond hearts here also, and a life In this :ountry's center would be a great life 'or me if only 1 could forget the touch )f a certain restraining hand which ias great power over me even as a nemory. For the sake of that touch shall I give up the grandeur and charm )f this broad life? Answer, John. You enow him and me well enough now to say. TO BE CONTINUED. of ^oral pstortt. REMINISCENCES OF YORK. ~ 1 Valuable Bits of Local History Pre- ' served by a Septuagenarian. 1 ( >r. Maurice Moore In The Enquirer of 1870. ' ? ? ? ? 1 nnt> ? v.o+ ' xi was in me summer ut mu, a. uoialion, composed mostly of men from rork, was ordered to oppose the Cherkee Indians, who had been Induced, hrough the machinations of two Icotchmen, Alexander Cameron and ohn Stewart, to espouse the British ide, and raise the war-club. This ody of men was under the command f Major Frank Ross. It was In July hey took up their line of march, and efore they arrived at the "Block louse," In the northeastern part of Ireenvllle district, the residence of !olonel Height, an Indian trader, they let with the exciting intelligence of he murder of Colonel Height?a "Whig -the pillaging of the station, and the bduction of Mrs. Height and her two aughters by the savages. In addition r\ thooo awful Hdlncg thov Vienrd thp ale of the murder of a son of Colonel [eight, which caused the heart of each rave soldier to beat with sympathy nd a desire to avenge these outrages. Young Height had heard of the base urposes of Cameron and Stewart, ,'hich contemplated a rising of the ndians; and having from boyhood nown the chiefs of the Cherokees intilately, he hoped to have influence nough to undo the work of the wily cotchmen, and fearlessly went alone o the Keowee towns, for the purpose f persuading them against taking he warpath. He was too late. The vil spirit was not to be exorcised, and ot only were his efforts as peacelaker among them unavailing, but hey barbarously murdered the unofsnding youth, who had confidingly one into their midst. His early death 'as the more sad, because of the roken life and wrecked hopes that fell pon another. He was affianced to usan Parris, the daughter of anothr Indian trader, whose post was at nother "block house," situated where he town of Greenville, S. C., now tands. After the deed of blood, like the wild nimal smeared with crimson gore, the isatiate thirst of their appetites for lore, must be appeased. The Cheroees set out to carry horror and desolaon along our frontier settlements, ine of their first encampments was t the house of Parris. He being a ory, they looked upon him as a friend nil confederate, and told him of their i laying young Height, unfolding, too, J leir plan to kill his father and destroy g 11 his property. The heart of gentle i usan Parris was fairly paralyzed by e le unexpected blow of her lover's r eath. But woman-like, she forgot her ' wn woes to avert disaster and sorrow ?] om others. Those threatened now i were doubly deap by their common loss. She quickly fell upon a plan to save them. From her father, on account of his politics, she knew she need not look for assistance. Therefore, unaided, she must achieve her design. As soon as dark came, she took a horse from the stable, and all womanly fears being swallowed up In her great apprehension for the fate of her friends, through the dark, wild forestpaths she hurried along, hoping to apprise them of the threatened calamity In time to enable them to escape. Sad Indeed, to relate, her act of heroism was In vain. The Indians knowing the relations existing between Susan Parids and the murdered man, on discovering a horse had been taken from the stable, and guessing who had done it, surmised her design and destination. They hurriedly gave the alarm to the others, broke up their encampment, went through a nearer way, and when she arrived, a bleeding, lifeless form, and smoking ruins, told her agonized heart her efforts to save were fruitless. Major Ross pushed on with his command, in the hope of rescuing Mrs. Height and her daughters from their captivity. As they passed Parris' Station, it was with difficulty that he could restrain his men from visiting on Parris the fate of the dead trader. But the' brave attempt of Susan Parris to save the Heights, and sympathy for her sorrows, induced them to hold her father and his property sacred and pass him unmolested. Some miles beyond Reedy river, the battalion joined General Williamson, who had twelve or fifteen hundred men under his command. The combined fnrpoa rontHlv nnrl flfl tVlPV drew near the Keowee towns, every effort was made to avoid falling Into any ambuscade which might be laid by their cunning foe. An advanced guard was composed of 125 men, with an addition of 25 Catawba Indians, who were valuable auxiliaries In such a campaign as this.* They were placed In the front ranks, and with the characteristic caution of their mode of warfare, would often pause In the march, and examine with the greatest care the bark of the tallest trees, to ascertain If they had been recently ascended; for it was the practice of the southern Indians, In their warfare, to have a certain number of "climbers" to look out, as well as "runners" to bring In news. It was not long before they descended a cove. Here the Catawbas made a halt, and pointing to the wild peavlne, and rank weeds freshly broken and trampled upon, which gave evidence that some numbers of feet had recently traversed this place, they advised that the advance guard should remain here until the main body of the army came up. But the whites were Impatient to go on; and, although the Indians insisted on going no further, they were finally overcome by persuasion, and again took up the line of march. The trail now descended Into a small valley covered with grass, situate between two bald mountains and by a gushing rivulet. Following the course of the branch awhile, they came to the spring, around which large smooth rocks were lying In abundance. The quick eye of the savage warrior was caught directly by a few corn-field beans scattered here and there, which, attracting their attention, a minute survey showed them on a flat rock the foot-print of a naked foot. It being noon-day, and the rock fully exposed to the scorching rays of a July sun, It was Incontrovertible proof that the enemy was near at hand. The Indians now refused to go on until the remainder of the army came up, which by this time was two or three miles In the rear. This refusal of the Indians to advance caused a parley of half an hour or more, when a proposition was made by a young Frenchman, an aide-de-camp of Moul trie's, named St. Pierre, wno was a volunteer In the expedition, that the captain of the advance guard should lead on the men. The captain hesitated to take the responsibility of so hazardous an undertaking. "I will lead!" at last exclaimed the impetuous St. Pierre, "if the rest will follow." To this all readily acceded. Accordingly he went forward, following the plainy-marked trail, which led directly up a bald mountain, with no growth, except rank grass and wild pea-vine, higher than a man's head. In single file, with trailed arms, and 1 In perfect silence, they ascended the mountain. They had gone about 400 vards, when spang! went the report of i rifle, and the rash but brave and generous St. Pierre fell dead. A quick succession of shots reverberated from cliff to cliff, poured forth from the i ?uns of the concealed Cherokees. The clamor was enhanced by their yells, producing a terrific effect. The whites i found themselves "each man his own commander," and in their confusion, eaving the path beaten down by their feet on their ascent, ran helter-skelter :hrough the long grass and luxuriant 1 Dea-vines, making poor speed, as they 1 ihought, for at every ten or twelve steps they would become so entangled n the vines, that the only way to ex:ricate themselves quickly, was to hold 1 :heir guns tightly in front against t ;neir migns, inruv* uieiuaeivca ivmaiu ind roll, heels overhead, rise as quick- : y as possible and run; then when again mtwined, another somersault and *ace. The hostile Indians had planted :hemselves through the tall grass < ibove, with tomahawks and scalping cnives in hand, and seeing their foes oiling and tumbling pell-mell down he mountain, of course imagined them ; :o be severely wounded, and bounded forward to finish them with a toma- : lawk and secure the coveted scalp, for vhich the British government, to their i ihame it is recorded, gave a guinea a- I )iece. j I think it more than probable that i his body was entirely composed of ; ifork men, with the addition of the ' riendly York Indians, all under the i :oinmand of Major Ross. The account < f have given, I had from the lips of two i >f the actors. First, in my boyhood, I rom Mr. William Ervin, whose timely 1 issistance saved Major Frank Ross's I ife, in his struggle with the Indian; i tnd years after Mr. Ervin's death, 1 neeting Mr. John Kidd, who was also < n the Keowee expedition, he gave me < he same account, incident for incident. 1 rhey both belonged to the York battal- i on. 1 Major Ross was with the advanceguard, probably the commander, till the voluntary assumption of that position by young St. Pierre in the disastrous attempt just recorded. He was among those who rolled to the bottom, and in a little ravine was attacked by an Indian. They grappled. In the struggle both dropped their weapons, but not till from both the blood was flowing freely. Ross was a remarkably athletic man; the Indian was less muscular, but naked and greased?a custom of Cherokee warriors?and holding him was like holding an eel. The savage was about to gain the advantage, when a soldier, coming up, (or rather rolling down), saw "the situation," clubbed his musket and knocked the Indian down. Major Ross, faint from loss of blood, fell at the same time. He had received a blow on the head from the Indian's tomahawk, which he thought fractured his skull, and believed death was upon him. By this time the Cherokees had ceased the pur suit and withdrawn up the mountain. The men, bruised, wearied and disheartened, gathered abound the major, who was a man much beloved, among them the surgeon. After a short examination he exclaimed, "Pooh! Ross, you can talk. Now, if you can bite, your head's not broke, and you'll not die." The major eagerly seized the finger the good doctor thrust in his mouth, and bit so vigorously that the old surgeon screamed loudly with pain. All felt perfect confidence in the doctor's surgery, never doubted his theory, and were delighted at the evidence afforded of their friend's certain recovery. Ross, himself, felt much relieved by his successful effort, was helped to his feet, and walked to where his late antagonist was lying, who, though in the agonies of death, grinned defiance at his adversary. Ross took the Indian's tomahawk, and to terminate his mortal sufferings, burled it in his brain. The main body of the army having arrived, they forthwith, though with more precaution, pursued the Cherokees up the mountains, but did not overtake them that day. Late in the evening they arrived at the first Keowee town, containing about 75 wigwams. The entire population had fled, and the only human being to be seen, was an old Indian squaw, whom they secured as prisoner, and after pulling green corn from the smiling fields, sufficient to feed their horses, destroyed what remained growing, and burned the huts to the ground. They placed the old woman on an Indian pony, and directed her to pilot them to the nearest Indian town, promising to let her gb uninjured, if she did their bidding, but threatening death if she dealt treacherously with them. The old squaw smiled with contempt at their overtures and warnings; and when the encamp- ? mont hrnlra nomn fVin nnwf inviiv wtunv VU1I1|/ tliC aiut lUllgi and the men started on the march, they felt It was with an ambiguous smile the old woman beckoned them on. All day, through a most broken and rugged country, the army pressed forward, still Incited by the hope of the re-capture of Mrs. Height and her two daughters. Twilight found them two or three miles from the town, where the Cherokees had assembled. As night came on, the old guide led them Into narrow defiles, amongst fallen trees, broken rocks, and here and there a precipice. It was useless to try to proceed. The troops could not travel through the dark In such a trail, besides they felt satisfied the squaw had misled them, and they must halt for the night, with their arms In hands ready for use, for they were, by this time, In sight of the town, could plainly see the Indian fires, hear their fiendish yells, and later In the night, what was Indeed heart-rending to them, they V?vuiu neat LUC tvauiJig anu oci caiiio vi a female voice. This drove the officers and men to fair desperation, for the wild country and darkness were such that, although many made superhuman exertions, they could not find their way across rocks and chasms that encountered them at each step, and rendered thejr attempt to proceed worse than useless. At the first glimmering of day they pushed on, and before sunrise they were at the Indian town. It was deserted, but the naked corpse of the Ill-fated Mrs. Height lay not far from the fire, around which, through the night, the cruel savages had danced their war dance, and ended the sufferings of their poor victim. A soldier pulled off his coat and threw It over the body. They dug a grave and piously buried her near the scene of her sad death. For a few days longer our men pursued the savages, then reluctantly gave up the effort; but, in returning, completely destroyed the Indian country?burning all the towns and destroying the green corn?after which the little army was disbanded. Not long after the Cherokees sued for fcatCf it ci c ^uiiipciicu i.\j ccuc cncii lands beyond the mountains of "Unacays,' to South Carolina, of which are now composed the counties of Greenville, Anderson and Pickens. The daughters of Colonel Height were sold from one tribe to another, and at last got to the Mississippi river, where a French trader happily met them, and benevolently bought them from the Indians and carried them to New Orleans, whence he sent them to their relatives In South Carolina, five years after the massacre of their parents. [to be continued next saturday.] Things to Forget.?If you would Increase your happiness and prolong your life, forget your neighbor's faults. Forget the slander you have heard. Forget the temptations. Forget the fault-finding, and give a little thought to the cause which provoked it. Forget the peculiarities of your friends, and only remember the good points which make you fond of them. Forget all personal quarrels or histories you may have heard by accident, and which, if repeated, would seem a thousand times worse than they are. Blot aut, as far as possible, all the disagreeable of life; they will come; but they will grow larger when you remember them, and the constant thought of the acts of meanness, or, worse still, malice, will only tend to make you more familiar with them. Obliterate iverything disagreeable from yesteriay; start out with a clean sheet for ;oday, and write upon it, for sweet memory's sake, only things which are ovely and lovable.?The Trumpeter. /ilk