Histories of combats with beasts of prey, and of massacres by roving and
lawless Indians, were the moving legends of the border. Thrones might be
subverted, and kingdoms lost and won, in distant Europe, and less should
be said of the events, by those who dwelt in these woods, than of one
scene of peculiar and striking forest incident, that called for the
exercise of the stout courage and the keen intelligence of a settler. Such
a tale passed from mouth to mouth, with the eagerness of powerful personal
interest, and many were already transmitted from parent to child, in the
form of tradition, until, as in more artificial communities, graver
improbabilities creep into the doubtful pages of history, exaggeration
became too closely blended with truth, ever again to be separated.
Under the influence of these feelings, and perhaps prompted by his
never-failing discretion, Content had thrown a well-tried piece over his
shoulder; and when he rose the ascent on which his father had met the
stranger, Ruth caught a glimpse of his form, bending on the neck of his
horse, and gliding through the misty light of the hour, resembling one of
those fancied images of wayward and hard-riding sprites, of which the
tales of the eastern continent are so fond of speaking.
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