The wood-path led out upon a
clearing, after a while: here I was fairly puzzled. There was no sign of
human habitation, except a rough hut, some hundred yards to my right,
that I took to be an outlying cattle-shed: there was not the glimmer of
a light anywhere.
I have not yet written the name of the man I was seeking: contrasts of
time and place made it so very remarkable, that I venture to break the
rule of anonyms. Mortimer Nevil--who would have dreamt of lighting on,
perhaps, the two proudest patronymics of baronial England, in a log hut
crowning the ridge of the Alleghanies?
While I wandered hither and thither in utter bewilderment, my ear caught
a sound as of one hewing timber; I rode for it, and soon found that the
hovel I had passed thrice was the desired homestead; truly, it was
fitting that the possible descendant of the king-maker should reveal
himself by the rattle of his axe.
It is needless to say, that I was received courteously and kindly. The
mountaineer promised his services readily; albeit, he spoke by no means
confidently of our chances of getting through; the company of Western
Virginians that had recently marched into Greenland, was said to be
unusually vigilant; only the week before, a professional blockade-runner
had been captured, who had made his way backwards and forwards
repeatedly, and was thoroughly conversant with the ground.
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