University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

The day dawned beautifully and brightly. The sun
rose without a cloud darkening his upward progress,
and the richly variegated woods gladdened in his
beams. The air was balmy, and the wind silent.
The quiet, slumberous day of the intense summer, unbroken
by warning or discordant sounds, and alive
only in the cheering scream of the bird, and the drowsy
hum of the insect, seemed but indifferently to accord

with the bitter and the gloomy purpose of man. It
was the day of purposed execution. How little did
the spirit of the unconscious and thoughtless nature
harmonize with that having an immortal hope and
destiny, yet so bent upon earthly strife, so busy with
its foolish passions! Alas! that man should take
so few lessons from the sweet ministers of God—the
bird and the flower—sent for his pleasure and his
profit, and which, ministering innocently by song and
sweet to his happiness, should yet so commonly fail to
teach him innocence.

A sad scene was going on in the cell of the destined
victim. His daughter kneeled beside him at daylight
in his prison. She had eheered his solitude with the
sunshine of her own sweet and gentle thoughts—she
had whispered hope in his ears when he himself refused
to hope. She had forgotten her own griefs
while ministering to his—and this is the reward which
virtue always brings to duty. How happy was she thus
to minister! how pointless was the shaft of fate to him,
while thus he listened to, and felt her tribute ministry!
In that hour, if he did not hope, he at least felt free
from all the chafings of despair. What if the doom
came—what if he escaped not the cruel indignity and
the painful death—had he not heard—did he not feel,
deep in his soul, the prevailing force of those prayers
which the lips of his innocent child sent up for him
momently to Heaven?

“Yet, do not flatter yourself too much, my daughter,”
he said to her in reply to one of her uttered anticipations
of relief from Singleton. “You must not persuade
me, at least. I must be prepared; and though I shall
certainly contribute all in my power to co-operate with
Robert in any effort which he shall make, I must not the
less prepare to encounter the last trial as unavoidable.
Robert will do what he can, I feel satisfied. But what of
that? His force is small, inferior to that which guards
me, and desperation only may avail in what he attempts.”

“And he will be desperate, father; he will not strike
feebly, or heartlessly, or hopelessly. Oh no! I know

he will not. He is resolved with all his resolve, and
you know his spirit. He does not say—he will not tell
me what he intends; but his eyes are so earnest, and
he looks—could you but have seen him, father, when
he promised me to save you, your hope would be like
mine; you would not, you could not, doubt that he
would do it.”

“I would not—I do not doubt, my child, that he will
try—”

“And if Robert tries, father—”

He interrupted her sanguine speech and the implied
tribute to her lover, folding his arms about her neck,
as she knelt beside him, and placing his lips upon her
forehead.

“You are a devoted girl, and Robert may well love
you, my child. Tell me, Katharine—it will do me
good to know that his affections are yours, and that
you have not been unmindful of his worth.”

“How could I—how? Have we not known him
long enough, my father?”

“God bless you, Kate—God bless you! This, if I
perish, would still be a redeeming pleasure, as I should
then know him to be well rewarded, and be sure that
I leave you with a protector. Your loves, my child,
are hallowed with my blessings, with the prayers for
your good of one who, in a few hours, may be in the
presence of God himself.”

She clung to him like a despairing infant.

“Speak not thus, my father—let me hope—do not
make me doubt that you will be saved—that the bitter
cup will pass by us.”

“Hope—hope on, my child—it is your duty. Hope
is one of life's best allies—the first to come, the last to
desert us. But I need not tell you to hope. You cannot
help it. Hope and virtue are twins, and inseparable;
the one never flies until the other deserts it.
There is no despair for the good.”

“I believe it—I trust—and you, too, hope, my father,
if this be true. I feel it in my soul, even as if, at this
moment, I beheld it with my eyes. A good spirit at my
heart—God's spirit—is there to assure me of my hope.”

Thus cheered and cheering, the two, interrupted
only occasionally by the entrance of the colonel's sister,
conversed together from daylight until the approaching
noon. But, as the hour drew nigh assigned
for the execution—when the danger began to assume, as
it were, a bodily form and pressure; the thoughts came
thick to the mind; the doubts grew strong and oppressive
about the heart; the fears seized upon the flickering
fancies; and imagination, painting in vivid colours
the dreadful circumstances of the approaching time to
the mind's eye of the maiden, greatly served to overthrow
all the stability of her resolve—all the fine
soothing of her hope. She moaned aloud as she clung
now to the neck of her father. In that moment the nature
of the man grew active, and the contrast between
the two would claim the art of the painter to imbody
to the eye, and the strong imagination, only, could depict
it to the mind of one not beholding it. He, who
had wept with her before, was now erect and strong.
If it was not hope that strengthened, it was the courage
and high resolve of fine moral character, strong in
conscious integrity—strong in resolve—that lifted up
spirit and form, alike, defyingly, in the face of death.
It is a noble picture, that of a brave man looking out
upon danger, and fearlessly awaiting its approach. It
is a painfully sweet picture, that of the frail woman
storm beaten, storm broken, like a flower stricken to
the earth, and, in its weakness, compelled to rest upon
its bosom; but still smiling, still cheering, still giving
forth love and worship, even as the flower gives forth
perfume, and ready to share the fate which it dreads,
but which it has not the strength to avert.

Such was the picture in the dungeon of Colonel Walton.
The masculine spirit was already composed for
the final trial—the last struggle of life, with its uncompromising
enemy. The man was prepared to meet
death with unshrinking resolution; the gentleman, with
grace and dignity: and when, entering his dungeon,
Colonel Proctor came to his prisoner—his own eyes suffused,
and his deportment that of one himself a victim

—a victim certainly to humiliation and grief—to announce
the arrival of the hour, he met the unshaken
glance and carriage of one who seemed rather a conqueror
than a condemned.

“Leave us, but a few moments, Colonel Proctor—but
a few moments, and let my servant, Cæsar, be summoned,
if you please. He, only, will attend me.'

Proctor bowed, and departed.

“Father—oh! my father—it is not the hour—it is
not time yet—do not go—not yet! Robert may not be
ready—not quite ready. He has to come from the Cypress—he
has a great deal to do, and will want all the
time he can get.”

She clung to him, as if to keep him back. Her
eyes were starting from their sockets, bloodshot and
wandering. Her words came chokingly forth—her
frame was convulsed and shivering; her whole manner
that of one in whose mind reason and opposing apprehensions
were earnestly at strife for the ascendancy. He
lifted her from the floor, as if she had been a child—
his own nerves untrembling all the while. He lifted
her to his lips, and calmly kissed her cheek. The
act itself told more than words. He had treated her
as a child, and she understood the gentle form of that
rebuke. She tried to compose herself, and her words,
though equally broken and incoherent, were far more
subdued in their utterance. How tender—how holy
was that brief communion!

“Katharine be firm, my child—be firm, for my sake.
Be firm to pray—to pray for my rescue; nor for that
alone—you must be firm to act.”

She grasped his hand, and looked inquiringly.

“Robert,” he continued, as she listened—“Robert,
with that good sense which distinguishes his proceedings
always, has told you nothing plainly of his present
plan. He knew that you could not well comprehend
military particulars, and that you would better be satisfied
with his own general assurance, than if he had undertaken
to show you those arrangements which you must
yet fail to appreciate. To teach only a part of his design,

would be to leave the inquiring mind doubtful of the
rest. I can conjecture the design which he has in
view, in part at least—and the horses which you were
required to send him, he has doubtless prepared in
readiness for me along the road, in the event of his
rescuing me. It is for you to contribute something to
the same object. He could not venture across the
bridge, and he therefore made no arrangements in that
quarter, should it suit me to shape my flight to that side
of the river—a desperate man most desperately bent, I
may be disposed to push through my enemies, even
where they are thickest. In that event, there should
be horses there. You must see to this, for your aunt
has none of the necessary energy. Your firmness must
do this, even now. Take the carriage there, and there
remain with it. It may be all to me, and the trust is
now with you.”

The object of Walton was not expressed to his
daughter. He had no real idea that he should need
any such assistance; but he well knew that by the
employment of her mind at the most perilous moment,
in a labour of seeming necessity, he should divest it in
reality of its own griefs. Throw responsibility upon
the young mind, if you seek to strengthen it. This
was his design; and its effect was instant. The belief
that on her resolution now so much was to depend,
alone restored and strengthened her. Yet she could
not so soon recover, and, taking her last embrace
almost in a convulsion, she was hurried away by her
aunt from the mournful dungeon, a few moments before
the officer appeared to conduct the prisoner to the place
of doom. Colonel Proctor himself forebore to attend
the execution. He assigned the task to an inferior officer,
his duty not requiring his personal presence. A
strong guard was detached from the garrison, and the
sad procession emerged at midday from the gates.

Major Singleton had well devised his plans, and
prepared, as fully as in his power, for the due execution
of his purposes. He had brought his troop
before daylight to the spot assigned them. To those

who know the ground, his arrangement will be readily
comprehended. To those who do not, a few
words may be necessary, and will certainly suffice
for explanation. The road at the point of execution
was on the easy ascent of a small clay hill. The
woods were thick on either hand. On the eastern
side of the wood, a few yards below the gallows,
a small track—a common wagon or neighbourhood
road—wound into the forest, making a turn within a
few paces from the main path, which effectually concealed
it at that distance from the sight. In this sheltering
place, one half of Singleton's troop, well mounted
and ready for the charge, lay concealed. On the opposite
side of the main road, closely hidden in the
wood, some thirty paces above, another portion of his
force, similarly posted and prepared, stood in waiting
for the signal. Three chosen riflemen were assigned
trees at different points of the wood on either hand,
commanding the scene of execution. They were
closely imbowered in the foliage, and the trees, intervening,
effectually secured them from the sight, even
though the report of their pieces indicated the direction.
Their horses were hitched to swinging boughs
in the wood behind them, ready for their reception the
moment their task should have been finished. Singleton
himself led the party destined to make the first
charge. To Humphries the other body was assigned.
No instructions were omitted, necessary to bring about
concerted action; and the minutest directions—ay, even
to the rifleman who was required to lead the fire—were
insisted upon by the young but thoughtful partisan.
Such being the preparation, there was no danger of
the plan failing from hurry or want of coolness.

The little coquette, whom the restoration to the good
regards of John Davis had made the most obliging
little creature that the village had for some time known,
did not forget the part which had been assigned her in
the duties of the day. Clambering over the graves,
with some little feminine trepidation, she made her
way into the church, and from thence into the steeple,
while the stars were yet shining palely in the heavens.

She had her dread of ghosts, for she had heard
a thousand stories of their nocturnal habits; but then,
she recollected John Davis, who had given her a parting
admonition to do ably the task assigned her.
John Davis stood to her at that moment in the place of
a principle; and, like many thousand others of both
sexes, she always understood her duties best when
they came through certain lips, and were insisted upon
by a certain preacher. Man-worship, in those times, as
at present, was not uncommonly mistaken for the most
profound worship of God.

Here she watched patiently and long. Day came,
and from the tower looking forth, she beheld his rising
light with a feeling of relief, if not of joy. The first
faint blush that drove away the stars from the east, almost
won her worship on this occasion; not only because
it relieved her gloomy watch, but because of its
own beauty. How natural is the worship of the sun!
How idle to wonder at the pagan who sees in it the
imbodied god of his idolatry! It speaks for a God in
all its aspects, and is worthy of homage, not only as it
so greatly ministers to man, but as it is worthy of its
Creator.

Patiently, hour after hour, until the approaching noon,
did the girl continue close concealed in the steeple,
awaiting the moment which should call for the execution
of her duties—and it came at last. The painful
and suppressed tones of the military music reached
her ear, and the gloomy procession emerged from the
gate of the garrison beneath her eye. First came a
small guard, then the prisoner, attended by a clergyman,
and then the main body of the guard marching
on either hand. As the fearful notes resounded through
the village, its inhabitants came forth in groups, joining
the melancholy march, and contributing by their
numbers so much the more to its imposing solemnity.
The prisoner was much beloved in the village and its
neighbourhood, even by those who had taken sides
with the invader; and the knowledge of this fact only
made the hope more strong and active in the bosom of
Singleton, that his plan must be successful. He felt

assured, in the event of a commotion, that none of the
natives would interfere to prevent the rescue of Walton
or assist in his recovery.

The heart of Bella Humphries thrilled fearfully as
she watched the procession. The imposing martial
array, the gorgeous uniform of the British, their fine,
regular movement, close and well-arrayed order, and
gleaming bayonets, struck terror to her heart, while
they aroused all the enthusiastic admiration of her
mind. Her task was to watch until the cavalcade
should reach a certain point, which, from her elevated
position, she could easily behold over the trees. She
was then to sound the tocsin, and thus furnish the expected
signal to all the conspirators. Firmly, though
tremblingly, she looked forth upon the array, which
she could readily distinguish in all its parts. There
was the prisoner, seated in the degrading cart; there
was the priest beside him; there the different bodies of
soldiers; and there, hanging upon the skirts, or crowding
upon the sides of the melancholy procession, came
the villagers and country people. She could even
distinguish Goggle, and his hag-like mother, trudging
along, at a hurried pace, in the front of the procession.
The old woman hung upon the arms of her son,
who seemed but partially disposed to carry such a
burden. The savage had not lost a single feature
marking his old identity. He was the same lounging,
shuffling, callous wretch that we have before known
him; and his slow, indifferent movement—for here he
had no mischief to perform—was the subject of rebuke
with his own mother.

“Come now, Ned, my boy—move a bit faster, will
you? The people are coming fast behind, and we shall
see nothing if they get before us.”

“Why, what's to see, mother? Adrat it, there's nothing
so much in a fellow hanging. I've seen more than
one, and so have you.”

“That's true, Ned; but still I like it, and I don't care
how many of these great folks they lift up among the
trees. I hate 'em all, Neddy, boy; for all of them hate

you. They keep you down, my son—they trample
upon you—they laugh at you, and their best word to
you is a curse. God curse 'em for it; I hate 'em all.”

“Adrat it, but you can't hang 'em; and so what's the
use to talk about it?”

“If I could!” she muttered bitterly between her
closed teeth. The son replied with a laugh, concluding
the sentence—

“The trees would be full of such fruit.”

“Ay, that they would; and I've tried for the power
—I've asked for the power over them, but it hasn't
come to me. I've got out of my bed at midnight, when
the night was blackest, and I've called upon the bad
spirits to come to me, and help me to my revenge
on them that have scorned you, and spit upon you, and
called you by scornful names; but I had no learning,
and so the evil ones came not to my aid, though I've
looked for 'em, and longed for 'em, and wanted 'em
badly.”

She spoke in the language of disappointment; her
looks and manner both corresponded with the chagrin
which her words expressed. Yet she complained unjustly.
The spirits of evil had been serving her to
the utmost extent of their power; but, with the vulgar
mind, always, the power must have a body and
a sign to the external senses, before its presence will
be recognised or understood.

The ill-favoured son chuckled at the disappointment
she expressed, and with a taste differing from her own,
congratulated her upon their indulgent absence.

“Adrat it, mother, but they would have been ugly
company if they had come; and I'm mighty glad they
didn't listen to you. They would ha' made the cabin
too hot to hold us.”

“Fear not; for they say that the person who calls
them can keep them down, and make 'em only do
what's wanted. I wasn't afraid; they wouldn't have
seen me tremble if they had come, even at midnight,
when I called them. But there goes another that ought
to be strapped up too. He's another great man too,

and has scarlet cushions in his pew at church, while
I must sit on the bare bench in the aisle, as if in God's
house some are to be poor, and some rich.”

“Adrat it, mother, hush, or they'll hear you. Come
this side, out of the way of the crowd—here to the
left.”

“Don't carry me where I can't see. I want to see
every thing, and you must get me a place on the hill.”

“Why, that'll be close by the tree.”

“That's what I want. I want to see his mouth
when the cart moves.”

“D—n my heart, if I stand there with you; I'll go
higher up; and so must you. You'll only be in the
way, mother, to go there.”

“But there I will stand, for my eyes are bad, and I
can't see farther off. You can leave me, if you don't
like it. I can stay by myself.”

“Adrat it, so I will. I can see very well at a hundred
yards; that's nigh enough for me: and I don't
like to go too nigh when people's in the notion of hanging.
It aint safe.”

He hurried the beldam to the hill assigned for the
place of execution. A few paces only separated her
from the fatal tree; and she saw all the desired points
distinctly. The procession moved on; the crowd gathered;
the tree was before the doomed victim; and the
officer in command riding up, ordered a halt before it,
and proceeded to make his arrangements, when the
bell sounded: a single stroke and then a pause—as if
the hand grew palsied immediately after. That stroke,
however, so single, so sudden, drew every eye, aroused
all attention; and coming immediately upon the solemn
feelings induced by the approaching scene in the
minds of all the spectators, it had the effect of startling,
for an instant, all who heard it. But when it was
repeated—when the painful clamour grew quick and violent,
and the rapidly clashing metal thundered forth a
reckless, unregulated peal, varying, yet continuous—the
surprise was complete. In that moment, a new terror
came, close following upon the first. The signal had
been heard and obeyed by the other conspirators, and

wild cries of men, women, and children, coming from
Dorchester, aroused in painful astonishment those forming
the procession, soldiers as well as people. The
cause of the alarm, in another instant, seemed explained
to the wondering multitude, as they looked
towards the village. A sudden rush of flame—a wide
high column—rose from its centre, and ascended into
the calm atmosphere, like a pyramid. Another, and
another body of flame, in different directions, and the
now distinguishable cry from the village, announced it
to be on fire. The crowd—each individual only thinking
of his family and household goods—broke on every
side through the guard clustering around the prisoner;
heedless of the resistance which they offered, and all
unconscious of the present danger. In that moment,
while the alarm was at the highest, and as the officer
struggled to keep his ranks unbroken, the rifle of one
of the marksmen in the tree-top singled him out as a
victim, and he fell beneath the unerring aim which the
rifleman had taken. It was then that the bugle of Singleton
sounded—a clear, quick, and lively note. That
of Humphries, on the opposite quarter, responded, and
the charge of the partisan followed close upon it. The
officer next in command to him who had fallen, however
surprised, coolly enough prepared to do his duty.
He closed his men around the prisoner with the first
appearance of danger, and when the rushing horses
were heard trooping from the wood, he boldly faced in
the direction of the expected enemy. All this was the
work of an instant. The brands had been well prepared
under the direction of old Pryor; and with the feeling of
a true patriot, his own dwelling had been chosen by him
the very first for destruction. He had piled the resinous
and rich lightwood in every apartment. He had
filled it with combustibles, and had so prepared it, that
the blaze must be sudden, and the conflagration complete.
Three other houses were chosen and prepared
in like manner; and, once ignited, their possessors
rushed away to the place of execution, crying their
alarm aloud, and adding to the wild confusion. Their
cries resounded violently, with a new and more emphatic
burst, as, coming out of the village, they appeared
upon the road, just as the bugle of Singleton
had sounded for his charge. The brave partisan had
bent all his energies to his purpose, and he now gave
all his spirit, and all his strength, to its manful completion.
His first plunge from the coppice placed him in
front of a presented bayonet. Quick as thought, he
wheeled his steed to the right, avoiding the lunge
which carried the soldier forward. While the forefeet
of the animal were yet in air, he, as suddenly,
wheeled him back again, and his hoofs were beaten
down, with all his weight, upon the body of the soldier,
who lay crushed and twisting under his legs. This
movement had broken the bristling line, in the centre
of which the strong-limbed partisan now found himself.
He did not stop to calculate. In action, alone, lay his
hope of safety or success. He was penetrating the
square in which his uncle was a prisoner. The fatal
cart was before him, and this was enough to give new
vigour to his effort. Right and left, his heavy sabre descended—a
sweeping death, defying the opposing steel,
and biting fatally at every stroke. He was well supported
by his men, and, though not one-half the number
of his enemies, he had already gained a decided advantage,
and made some progress towards his object,
when the charge of Humphries followed up his success.
The lieutenant hurried over the ground, cheering and
shouting. An old woman, feebly tottering to the road-side,
stumbled along the path, but he did not pause in
his progress. Indeed, he could not. The troop followed
him—horseman after horseman went over the
prostrate body, grinding it to the earth, until there was
as little human in its appearance, as there was in the
heart of its owner. She gave but one cry—a dreadful
scream. It chilled the heart of the brave trooper,
as the hoofs of his steed went down upon her breast.
He knew the voice—he heard the words—and, hag as
she was, foul and malignant, the appeal to her son, in
the last accents of her lips, was touching in the extreme.
It was his name that she cried in her death-struggle—and
he heard the cry. He emerged from the
bush, where he had been sheltered; but, when the contest
was clear before him, he again sunk back. He
was cool enough to see that nothing could save the beldam—he
was calculating enough to risk nothing in an
effort so hopeless. Stealing along the wood, however,
he unslung his rifle, freed his knife from the sheath, and
prepared to take any possible advantage which the
progress of circumstances might afford him.

The fight grew fearful around the cart in which the
prisoner sat. The clergyman leaped into the crowd,
dreading that conspicuousness in the affray which the
situation gave him. Colonel Walton, alone, remained
within it. He had arisen, but his hands were tied;
and, though his feet were free, he yet felt that his position
was much more secure, as long as the sabre only
was employed, than it would be, without weapons, and
having no use of his hands, in the melee, and under
the feet of the horses. But he shouted encouragingly
to Singleton, who, indeed, needed now no other encouragement
than his own fierce phrensy. The fury
that impelled him looked little less than madness. He
seemed double-armed and invulnerable. More than
once had a strong combatant opposed him, and hopelessly.
He had ploughed his way through the living
wall, with a steel and strength equally irresistible.

“Courage, uncle—courage! Can you do nothing for
yourself?” And, striking as he spoke, down went
another soldier.

“I am tied,” was the reply as quickly. In the next
moment, leaping from his horse into the centre of the
vehicle, Lance Frampton applied his knife to the
cords.

“Hurrah!” was the cheering cry of the partisans,
as the prisoner clapped his hands in air, showing their
enlargement. A soldier seized the horse which drew
the cart, by the bridle, and turning his head among the
crowd, sought to lead him off. But the sabre of Singleton—seemingly
aimed at the soldier, who dodged
it by sinking down while yet holding upon the bridle
—was adroitly intended for the horse. It went resistlessly
through his neck, and falling among the crowd

about him, the animal struggled in the agonies of death,
still farther adding to the confusion. Walton, at that
moment, sprang from the cart, and the partisans gathered
around him. The guard, considerably diminished,
now collected for a charge; but the pistols of the partisans,
which they could now safely venture to employ,
were brought to bear upon them. They recoiled, and
in the moment, Colonel Walton gained the cover of
the wood; another found him mounted: and rushing
forth, with a wild shout, he gave to the enemy an idea
of the presence of some fresher enemy. This was all
that was wanting to the completion of the confusion.
They gave back—at first they merely yielded—then
they broke, and, as the partisans beheld their advantage,
and pressed on to avail themselves of it, the dismembered
guard fled down the road in the direction of the
village.

“Back—back!” cried Singleton, to his men, as they
prepared to pursue. “Enough has been done for our
purpose—let us hazard nothing in a rash pursuit.”

Then turning to Colonel Walton, in a few brief words,
he congratulated him on his rescue, but urged his immediate
flight.

“Humphries,” cried he to that officer, “conduct
Colonel Walton to the Cypress instantly. I follow you
with the men. Nay, linger not for me, there is more
to be done if we delay. I will collect the troop.”

They would have paused, Colonel Walton in particular,
who seemed determined to share all the risks
to which Singleton was subjected; but the latter, at
once, put on the authority with which he was invested,
and sternly commanded immediate and implicit obedience
to his orders. There was no farther delay.
Walton was soon out of sight, while Singleton, collecting
his scattered troops, followed hard upon his footsteps.
They fled in season—just as Colonel Proctor, who had
now become familiar with the cause of alarm, and sallied
forth with all the remaining garrison, emerged from
the village. The Briton found only the remnant of the
defeated guard; and it was not his policy to pursue, with
so small a force as that under his orders, a body now

almost equal, and flushed with recent victory. Thus
terminated the battle of Dorchester. The victory
was with the partisans, but they paid dearly for it.
Five of their men were slain outright, and an equal
number wounded. The battle, so long as it lasted,
had been sanguinary in the extreme; nor did it terminate
altogether with the actual conflict. The flames
which had ushered in the conflict, continued to rage
long after it was over; and one-half of the beautiful
town, by close of day, lay in ashes.

How sweet was the meeting of the father with his
child, the day of peril now safely over, in the deep
recesses of the Cypress swamp! There, on the first
tidings of the advantage gained by her friends, she had
repaired in the hope to meet him. Nor had she sought
him there in vain. He himself bore her the first
tidings of his safety; and convulsed with joy, and
almost speechless, she hung upon his neck, feeble and
fainting, with not the strength to speak her emotions.
But when she looked round and saw not her lover,
the thought of his danger—the doubt of his safety—
awakened all her anxieties anew, and brought forth all
her strength.

“Tell me that he is safe—Robert—Robert.”

“He is, and will soon be here.”

They had not long to wait. He came, guiding her to
the spot where her first pledge to him had been given—
where the first kiss of a true love had been exchanged
between them: the pledge under better auspices was
gratefully renewed.

“And you are now mine—mine for ever, my own
Katharine.”

“Yours—yours only, and for ever.”

The eye of a father looked on, and sanctioned the
fond embrace, which rewarded the partisan for his peril,
and the maiden for her firm and filial devotion.

“But this is not a time for dalliance, my Katharine.
It is enough that I am secure of your affections—
enough that you are mine—we must part now. Your
father is not yet safe—not till we get him into the
camp of Marion. Be satisfied that the immediate

danger is withdrawn; we must try and keep him from
a renewal of it; and can only do so by throwing the
Peedee between him and his enemies. For us, my
love, the hope is strong, though there must still be
doubt. We must part now.”

“So soon!”

“Too soon. But we may not linger here with safety.
We are still in danger. This blow will bring Tarleton
upon us, who rides like a madman. Come—I will lead
you to your carriage, and—”

He bore her away through the copse, and no eye
beheld their parting; but it was sweet, and it was
holy. Her last kiss hung upon his lips, with an enduring
sweetness, for the long season which intervened
between that period and the hour of their final union.
He returned in a few moments to the swamp, and
there found the maniac Frampton standing upon the
edge of the swamp, in curious observation of the men.
He would have carried him along with the party, and
spoke to him to that effect; but the other appeared
not to heed: and the only glance of consciousness
which he seemed to exhibit was when his fiery eye
rested upon the features of his youthful son. Singleton
approached, and while persuading him to remove
with his party from the swamp, laid his hand upon
the shoulder of the insane wretch. The effect was
electrical. He bounded away with his demoniac
laugh, and plunging through the creek, fled in the
direction of his wife's burial-place. The partisan
saw that nothing could possibly be done with him,
and bidding his youthful charge, Lance Frampton,
beside him, he put his band in motion, and hurried forward,
once more to unite with Marion in the long and
perilous warfare of the swamps—kept up as it was,
until, step by step, beaten to the Atlantic shores, the
invader fled to his ships, and left the country. But
these events are for other legends. Our present task
is ended.