Wolfert
thought his last moment had arrived; already had he committed his soul
to St. Nicholas, when the string broke and he tumbled down the bank,
bumping from rock to rock and bush to bush, and leaving the red cloak
fluttering like a bloody banner in the air.
It was a long while before Wolfert came to himself. When he opened his
eyes the ruddy streaks of the morning were already shooting up the sky.
He found himself lying in the bottom of a boat, grievously battered. He
attempted to sit up but was too sore and stiff to move. A voice
requested him in friendly accents to lie still. He turned his eyes
toward the speaker: it was Dirk Waldron. He had dogged the party, at
the earnest request of Dame Webber and her daughter, who, with the
laudable curiosity of their sex, had pried into the secret
consultations of Wolfert and the doctor. Dirk had been completely
distanced in following the light skiff of the fisherman, and had just
come in time to rescue the poor money-digger from his pursuer.
Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor and Mud Sam severally
found their way back to the Manhattoes, each having some dreadful tale
of peril to relate. As to poor Wolfert, instead of returning in
triumph, laden with bags of gold, he was borne home on a shutter,
followed by a rabble route of curious urchins. His wife and daughter
saw the dismal pageant from a distance, and alarmed the neighborhood
with their cries: they thought the poor man had suddenly settled the
great debt of nature in one of his wayward moods.
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