ollected quite a large force
of his humble neighbors to assist him in his present emergency, and they
were now making their final arrangements to meet the assault.

The doctor was restless; but it was not on account of any fear of his
personal safety,--he was above that. The lonely and innocent being whom
he had undertaken to protect had filled his mind with a sense of
responsibility. A single day had been long enough for Emily to win a way
to his affections, and he had grown to regard her with the tender care
of a father. Occasionally he left his place at the bedside, and went to
the window, as if to assure himself that the attack had not already
commenced.

In front of the cottage a different sentiment prevailed among the motley
group there assembled. There were twenty men, including Hatchie, all
armed with rifle and bowie-knife, and every one anxious for the fight to
commence. Besides their arms, each man was provided with a small cord,
and a torch of pitch-wood, the end of which had been plentifully
besprinkled with turpentine.

The party was composed mostly of woodmen and boatmen, who had promptly
and willingly obeyed the doctor's summons. Like most men of their class
in that locality, they were hardy and reckless; they had not that
healthy horror of a mortal combat which the moralist would gladly see.
Dr. Vaudelier had always been their friend; had always promptly and
kindly aided them in their necessities, whether moral, physical, or
pecuniary. As he had laved the fevered brows of their wives and
children, so had he said prayers over their dead, in the absence of a
clergyman. He had exhorted the intemperate and the dishonest, and with
his purse relieved the needy in their distress. They were not
ungrateful; they appreciated his many kindnesses, and rejoiced in an
opportunity to serve him. These men, notwithstanding their rude speech,
their rough exteriors, and their reckless dispositions, were
true-hearted men. They reciprocated the offering of a true friendship,
not by smooth speeches and unmeaning smiles, but by actions of manly
kindness. The philosopher in ethics may say what he pleases of the
refinements of sympathy; we would not give a single such heart as those
gathered on Cottage Island for a whole army of puling, sentimental,
hair-splitting moralizers. They were men of action, not of words; and,
though they hesitated not, in what they deemed a good cause, to close
with their man in deadly combat, they