“It is melancholy, Forrester, to think that, with such a feeling as that you profess for this young woman, you should be so little regardful of her peace or your own; that you should plunge so madly into strife and crime, and proceed to the commission of acts which not only embitter your life, but must defeat the very hopes and expectations for which you live.”

“It’s the nature of the beast,” replied the woodman, with a melancholy shake of the head, in a phrase which has become a proverb of familiar use in the South.  “It’s the nature of the beast, ’squire:  I never seem to think about a thing until it’s all over, and too late to mend it.  It’s a sad misfortune to have such a temper, and so yesterday’s work tells me much more forcibly than I can ever tell myself.  But what am I to do, ’squire? that’s what I want to know.  Can you say nothing to me which will put me in better humor—­can you give me no advice, no consolation?  Say anything—­anything which will make me think less about this matter.”

The conscience of the unhappy criminal was indeed busy, and he spoke in tones of deep, though suppressed emotion and energy.  The youth did not pretend to console—­he well knew that the mental nature would have its course, and to withstand or arrest it would only have the effect of further provoking its morbidity.  He replied calmly, but feelingly—­

“Your situation is unhappy, Forrester, and calls for serious reflection.  It is not for me to offer advice to one so much more experienced than myself.  Yet my thoughts are at your service for what they are worth.  You can not, of course, hope to remain in the country after this; yet, in flying from that justice to which you will have made no atonement, you will not necessarily escape the consequences of your crime, which, I feel satisfied, will, for a long season, rest heavily upon a spirit such as yours.  Your confederates have greatly the advantage of you in this particular.  The fear of human penalties is with them the only fear.  Your severest judge will be your own heart, and from that you may not fly.  With regard to your affections, I can say little.  I know not what may be your resources—­your means of life, and the nature of those enterprises which, in another region, you might pursue.  In the West you would be secure from punishment; the wants of life in the wilderness are few, and of easy attainment:  why not marry the young woman, and let her fly with you to happiness and safety?”

“And wouldn’t I do so, ’squire?—­I would be a happy fellow if I could.  But her father will never consent.  He had no hand in yesterday’s business, and I wonder at that too, for he’s mighty apt at all such scrapes; and he will not therefore be so very ready to perceive the necessity of my flight—­certainly not of hers, she being his only child; and, though a tough old sort of chap, he’s main fond of her.”

“See him about it at once, then; and, if he does not consent, the only difficulty is in the delay and further protraction of your union.  It would be very easy, when you are once well settled, to claim her as your wife.”