Myths and Legends of Our Own Land, vol 5 | Page 3

you do it now?"
"I'm afraid long lodging in your prison-ships has stiffened my joints,
but I'd venture at a handkerchief."
"Then try," said the commandant.
De Courcy mounted into the saddle heavily, crossed the grounds at a
canter, and dropped a handkerchief on the grass. Then, taking a few
turns for practice, he started at a gallop and swept around like the wind.
His seat was so firm, his air so noble, his mastery of the steed so
complete, that a cheer of admiration went up. He seemed to fall
headlong from the saddle, but was up again in a moment, waving the

handkerchief gayly in farewell--for he kept straight on toward the weak
place in the wall. A couple of musket-balls hummed by his ears: it was
neck or nothing now! A tremendous leap! Then a ringing cry told the
astonished soldiers that he had reached the road in safety. Through
wood and thicket and field he dashed as if the fiend were after him, and
never once did he cease to urge his steed till he reached the turnpike,
and saw ahead the scouting party on its way to arrest his brother.
Turning into a path that led to the rear of the little church they were so
dangerously near, he plied hands and heels afresh, and in a few
moments a wedding party was startled by the apparition of a black
horse, all in a foam, ridden by a gaunt man, in torn garments, that burst
in at the open chancel-door. The bridegroom cowered, for he knew his
brother. The bride gazed in amazement. "'Tis the dead come to life!"
cried one. De Courcy had little time for words. He rode forward to the
altar, swung Helen up behind him, and exclaimed, "Save yourselves!
The British are coming! To horse, every one, and make for the manor!"
There were shrieks and fainting--and perhaps a little cursing, even if it
was in church,--and when the squadron rode up most of the company
were in full flight. Ernest was taken, and next morning held his
brother's place on the prison-list, while, as arrangements had been made
for a wedding, there was one, and a happy one, but Albert was the
bridegroom.

SPOOKS OF THE HIAWASSEE
The hills about the head of the Hiawassee are filled with "harnts,"
among them many animal ghosts, that ravage about the country from
sheer viciousness. The people of the region, illiterate and superstitious,
have unquestioning faith in them. They tell you about the headless bull
and black dog of the valley of the Chatata, the white stag of the
Sequahatchie, and the bleeding horse of the Great Smoky
Mountains--the last three being portents of illness, death, or misfortune
to those who see them.
Other ghosts are those of men. Near the upper Hiawassee is a cave
where a pile of human skulls was found by a man who had put up his
cabin near the entrance. For some reason, which he says he never
understood, this farmer gathered up the old, bleached bones and
dumped them into his shed. Quite possibly he did not dare to confess

that he wanted them for fertilizers or to burn them for his poultry.
Night fell dark and still, with a waning moon rising over the mountains
--as calm a night as ever one slept through. Along toward the middle of
it a sound like the coming of a cyclone brought the farmer out of his
bed. He ran to the window to see if the house were to be uprooted, but
the forest was still, with a strange, oppressive stillness--not a twig
moving, not a cloud veiling the stars, not an insect chirping. Filled with
a vague fear, he tried to waken his wife, but she was like one in a state
of catalepsy.
Again the sound was heard, and now he saw, without, a shadowy band
circling about his house like leaves whirled on the wind. It seemed to
be made of human shapes, with tossing arms--this circling band--and
the sound was that of many voices, each faint and hollow, by itself, but
loud in aggregate. He who was watching realized then that the wraiths
of the dead whose skulls he had purloined from their place of sepulture
were out in lament and protest. He went on his knees at once and
prayed with vigor until morning. As soon as it was light enough to see
his way he replaced the skulls, and was not troubled by the "haunts"
again. All the gold in America, said he, would not tempt him to remove
any more bones from the cave-tombs of the unknown dead.

LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP
Drummond's Pond, or the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, is a dark and
lonely tarn that lies