University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XII.

Cain.

Not long after this conversation; within two or three
days, I believe; for, I remember well, that the pleasant
eyes of Ellen were near me; and I was comparing
them with the mysterious loveliness of Lucia's, who had
just been weeping, as I held her hands, and blessed hers,
with all my soul, for her noble and generous confidence,
wondering as I did, that she should look so beautiful,
even yet; so pure—and hallowed---that I dared not
breathe, even to her, another word upon the tale of
sorrow—there came several letters, chiefly dated anteriour
to the packet, of which I have already spoken, and
one which was dated since. That was from Copely.
It related a terrible disaster to our cavalry; and ran
thus—

`We have had the devil to pay. Archibald is taken
prisoner. Arthur narrowly escaped; with two or
three sabre cuts, not worth mentioning. Sir Henry
Clinton is carrying all before him; and poor Sullivan,
never was mortal man so put to it! notwithstanding his
generalship, he is tied up, hand and foot, by Cornwallis
and Clinton. We were sent out, with a few hundred
regulars, and a few rascally militia, to keep open a
route at Monk's corner, for Lincoln to retreat by when
he could do no better. But Tarleton, would that Arthur

or Archibald could meet him, face to face, for
a few minutes: my notion is that he would never get
through his six divisions again. I say nothing for
myself, for this twist in my neck has become confoundedly
troublesome of late; and I am nothing to be
compared with Archibald, as a swordsman. By the way
---Archibald looks altogether better than when we wrote
last, and we begin to have hope; but he has none; or, if
he have any, he will not own it; he only smiles, patiently,
when we speak of what may be, like one that
feels the principles of vitality going out, one after the
other, in his heart.'

`But, to the scuffle. General Clinton thought fit, day
before yesterday, to pack off about fifteen hundred men
to bring us in, dead or alive. Tarleton's legion was
with them—a legion of devils, to be sure; for he rides
over horse and foot, with them at his heels. But, we
shall remember him, and, if it be God's will, there may
be a change of wind one day or other.'

`The first intelligence that we had of his approach,
was the sight of three of our videttes, at full speed; two
of whom were cut down in our sight, and the third, followed
into camp; we had no time to do our duty. We
were literally ridden down. The bullets rattled about
our harness, like hail, for a moment; and then, before
we could make a movement, or gain ground enough for
a charge, half of our men were unhorsed and rolling in
the dirt; Arthur among the rest; but he gave a pretty
account, I am told, of three or four of the fellows about
him. They rode down, all at once, upon him; and—
there they are yet. Our troop broke; and, by the
trumpet, were ordered to the woods, whence most of
them escaped under Colonel Washington. But Archibald,
after having rallied a few, was attracted by
the cries of women, to one of the dwellings; he stove in
the door of the house; and rode, through and through
it, with about a dozen men; and there, in the heat
and smoke, on horseback and on foot, with the pistols
ringing in at his ears; the enemy without firing in the
windows; and the wretched women, within, shrieking

in the arms of their ravishers, the gallant, glorious
Archibald set fire to the house; slew, with his own
hand one of the ruffians; and, amid a general hourra
and explosion, rescued three lovely creatures, in the
moment of their extremest peril. But the rescue was
only from the flame and smoke; the roof fell in, ere
the brave fellows had cleared the garden wall; and,
three or four of their horses, that were actually within
the house, came thundering through the sides of it,
their manes all on fire, and furniture ringing; and the
enemy, who gave way for a moment, and held up their
hands, at the terrible beauty of the spectacle, immediately
contracted about him and his few followers, reduced
to five or six now, on foot; and about as many
more on horseback, and took them prisoners. He
fought to the last moment; and fell, at length, exhausted
with blood, and stifled with heat. But we have
heard not ten minutes ago, that he is in no danger. It is
for that reason that I write you. I was unwilling to
begin a letter, until I knew his fate. He is the talk
of the whole army; nay, of the two armies. They
say that his beautiful hair was burnt off; his clothes
burnt to a coal; and that one of the women whom he
saved, is a creature of singular beauty and—but hush,
we shall be dreaming treason, before we know it. It
is too late now, I am sure, for beauty to dream of sharing
in the dominion of death. Yet bear up; let him
die! let me die! let us all die! it is nothing—nothing,
so that we have done worthily. Let us learn to look
death in the face. It is cowardly to shut our eyes.
Arthur, as I told you, had a narrow escape. He had
a dear friend slaughtered under his very eyes; but
Arthur avenged him; and poor Bernie—(Major Bernie
was his name—) was literally swimming in the blood
of his murderers, before Arthur would permit himself
to think of safety; but then, a horse happened to dash
by him, a noble beast, he is before the tent now—
Arthur sprang into the saddle, under a shower of balls
from the infantry, and before a dozen horsemen; but
he escaped, and joined us within an hour.

`I had a strange dream last night. I hope that it
is true. Give the enclosed to Ellen; and, if it be not
true, bid her to pray for me, that it may be, if not now
—that is, if it be too late, now—that it may be true, at
some future day. I dreamt that I was a father; that
my babe was a boy—a giant, with the palest blue eyes
in the world; and a lip—the young rascal! so like his
mother's—that, when the rough hand of Arthur past over
my mouth, to awaken me, for another battle—I kissed
it again and again, under the notion that it was Emwa's.
What shall be his name—Archibald, I say.'

And how comes on your little ones? If I remember
rightly, John, you were in the hope of some young
horsemen, born, I suppose, saddled and bridled—I—I—
curse it, I cannot trifle. That girl has spoilt me. I
must stop—it may be—it may—O, God, have compassion
upon me, and avert the owen; it may be, that,
while I am jesting about my boy, I have neither boy—
nor girl—nor wife—Oadley, farewell—I cannot
write another line, my heart is too full.—Write! in
mercy, write!

The letter to Ellen; and one, which we received the
same day for Mary, contained an account of another
affair with the cavalry, in which Copely had been
wounded, and about forty of our men cut to pieces, or
taken prisoners, by the impetuous Tarleton. Lincoln
too was vehemently pressed. And, ere we could recover
from these apprehensions, there came, successively,
to us the account of Lincoln's surrender; the humiliating
terms imposed upon him; and the destruction of a
part of the Virginia line, by Tarleton, who behaved in
a manner, for which there is no doubt that he has been
haunted by devils ever since—no man ever deserved
it better. It was a scene of merciless, cold blooded,
taunting butchery. The men of his troop literally practised
their cuts upon our unarmed, bare headed and
kneeling militia, after they had surrendered—thrusting

them through the face, and hacking, piece after piece,
from their arms and legs.

All this looked so like having overrun the country,
that Sir Henry Clinton, after a few more depredations
of a like nature, determined to return to New York.
Mistaken man!—the elements of death were concocting
in silence. Disasters made us stronger. We fell, only to
rise, like Antœus, with renewed power. It was success
that ruined us—enervated us—calamity only made us
the more terrible.

The tories of the south had been overrated; the
republicans much underrated. They were impatient for
a trial of strength. A general dissatisfaction began to
prevail under the administering loyalty of Cornwallis.
The countenances of men looked stern; their hands
were clenched; and these symptoms of a troubled spirit
were punished and denounced, as downright rebellion.
Gates had been ordered to the south. The sun broke
out!—But Gates was defeated, shamefully defeated;
and a series of calamities and disheartening events followed,
in such rapid succession, at the south, that I began
to think seriously of mounting my horse again, and,
feeble as I was—leaving all that I loved, helpless
and alone behind me, to strike one more blow at the
enemy, though I died for it.

Then came the treachery of Arnold; the execution
of Andre; the trial of General Gates; the operation
of Greene at the south—offering a changeable map, of
encouragement and terrour, to the eyes of our stout
hearted countrymen.

Still we had no news from Archibald; nay, we
knew not whether he was living or dead. But Washington
was in negociation for an exchange of prisoners;
and our cavalry, at the south, had begun to retaliate
upon Tarleton.

At last, there was a dreary interval of some months
during which, we heard no direct intelligence, whatever,
from Arthur, Copely, or Archibald. Our apprehension
became terrible. We were sick at the
heart; and heaven only knows, what might have happened

to us, had not a line in Arthur's hand, come to
us at last, as we sat together, on a cold, wintry evening,
the first of March, 1781. Let that evening never
be forgotten in our blood or name—never! Let it be
a jubilee! My heart bounds now, at the thought of
our rapid and tumultious transition, from despondency
to joy. We have set it apart, for tears, and prayer, and
thanksgiving.

My boy was about a year old; as heavy and fine a
little fellow as ever cuddled in the bosom of a mother.
We were weary and cold. Poor Clara sat near me,
upon a low stool—leaning her elbow upon my knee,
and rocking the cradle, where Copely's little daughter,
and poor James lay, cheek to check, breathing like
matted honeysuckles. Ellenour, whose whole character
had changed, of late, to a deeper melancholy and
apprehensiveness, was gazing, all the while, upon her
babe; her sweet eyes running over with involuntary
tears; and Lucia, the blessed sufferer, was reading
aloud to us, from the Bible: her voice, always full of
pathos and tenderness: her modulation, always full of
delicate and expressive sensibility: her tones and emphasis,
always those of passion, simplicity and eloquence,
as the subject demanded either the one or the
other—were now so sweet and thrilling, that we sat
and listened to her, with our lips apart, as to musick
coming out of the grass.

`What a source of perpetual consolation it is,' said
Mrs. Arnauld, laying her hand reverently upon the
blessed book.

`Yes,' said her husband, in a low voice; `weak and
erring as we are; full of infirmities; liable to transgression
and sorrow, from the cradle to the grave; yet,
is there in that book, what he, who has once tasted of
it—though broken-hearted and abandoned of all the
world, will never forget; but will turn to, like the unweaned
child to the bosom, whence it hath drawn
its nourishment, and draw it again, while tears and
sobs are choaking him. Lucia! dear Lucia—what
troubles you?'

A faint smile played over her pallid features; and I
saw that the picture, which her father had drawn, of a
child nestling in the bosom of a mother, drawing
warmth and life from the sweet fountain of the pure in
heart; and the two sleeping babes before her—were—
it was not envy; yet, there was a sorrowful sweetness
in the dark of her eyes, which, told me, but too
plainly, what was the cause of that trouble which her
father spoke of.

`Dear Lucia,' said my mother, leaning over her lap,
and looking her in the face; `read on. There, we
may find consolation; they, that have leaned upon a
spear may be healed there; they, that are broken and
bruised, may find wine and oil there; the flower of the
grass that perisheth; the beauty, that the sun and the
wind have scattered, may revive again, if—nay, dear,
why do you weep? our sorrow is not past bearing.'

Mr. Arnauld arose, and walked up to his daughter,
and stood by her side, and pressed her white, transparent
forehead to his bosom.

`Lucia!' he said, in a voice almost inarticulate with
emotion; `why will you break my heart! Am I to
stand, forever, before my wasting child, and see her fading
away—dying, hour by hour, of some mysterious
malady, which I—I—Lucia—I— Take comfort,
my child—take comfort. It is good for us to be
afflicted. We know nothing evil yet, with certainty.
I do not attempt to flatter you. I cannot; there is little
ground for hope. I say it to all of you, my children;
and, while I invite you all to join with me, and,
laying your hands together, upon that book, to put up
your petitions for their safety, to Him that watcheth
over the widow and the orphan; while I do this; nay,
while I say to you, in the sincerity of my heart—a
broken heart, my dear ones, broken by your sorrow,
and crushed by the weight of ancient transgression—
let us be prepared for the worst—the worst! yet, do
I entreat you to remember, that God is good; that all
his ways are best and wisest; that—arise my children,

and let us kneel together! and once more pray for
them that are away, in the battle, or in the place of
death.'

We did kneel. We knelt together; and we prayed
together, till the sound of sobbing and distress grew
fainter and fainter; and were just rising, with the
tears of penitence and submission upon our cheek, when
a tap was heard at the door.

Some little disorder followed; for the best are more
than half ashamed, to be caught at their devotion; and
it was some moments before the door was opened—and
a stranger, treading and looking like a soldier, entered,
cap in hand, holding a letter to Mr. Arnauld.

`Sit down, my friend,' said Mr. Arnauld to him, as
a faint cry broke from every lip in the room, except
mine; but the stranger remained standing.

Mr. Arnauld took the letter; while the dark eye of
the veteran, (for, though he was a middle aged man, and
evidently of the ranks, there was the air and authority
of age upon him,) went, slowly, from face to
face of the little group about him, without any change
of expression, till it lighted upon Lucia; when his lip
trembled—and he put his hand into his bosom, and
then hesitated, and sat down, as if undecided whether
to speak or not.

`My children,' said Mr. Arnauld, in a pleasant
tone; `the hand writing is one that I know; nay—
nay—be patient—compose yourselves. Are you prepared?
It is the writing of—'

A murmur dropped from all their lips—except Lucia's:
she sat like a marble woman—like something,
over which life and death—emotion and change had
lost their power.

`Of Arthur Rodman.'

`O, my husband! my husband!' said Mary, who
had not opened her mouth before—and then fell back
into her chair, almost powerless.

The stranger passed the back of his large hand athwart
his eyes; and shook the March rain out of the
bear-skin cap, that he held in his hand, and compressed

his lip, with a loud hem—as if that rain had blinded
him, and then sat down.

Mr. Arnauld read the letter; his agitation growing
at every line, more and more evident, till, at last, the
letter fell from his hands, while the tears were running
out of his shut eyes, as if his very heart were overflowing
with pleasure and thankfulness.

Mary moved timidly toward the letter, looking up
to him, with her lips apart, as if fearing a reproof.

`Nay—nay, dear,' said Mr. Arnauld, catching her
hands, `nay—I cannot bear, that you should be the
first to know what has happened.'

He then took up the letter, and began to read; while
we sat, hand in hand, holding by each other, and feeling
every pleasant word, at the same moment, like a
thrill of electricity.

(The Letter.)

`I am well—very well. We have retaliated upon
the enemy, and I shall get leave, if I can, to visit
you—'

Mary's head fell upon the bosom of my mother.

—`We have had a severe battle, and beaten Tarleton
like men. The particulars, I have no time to relate.
The bearer, my friend—'

The stranger shifted his position, and appeared uneasy—crossed
his legs, and played with the collar of his
coat.

—`To whom you will prove, I believe, that you
know how to appreciate the favour, has saved my life.
He will tell you all about it—'

`No he wont,' said the stranger, muttering impatiently,
while Mary arose, and tottered to him.

`I—I—' said she, `I do not ask your name—
but, (giving to him, her two hands, while his strong
features and dark eyes, were illuminated with surprise
and delight,) you have saved the life of my husband.
God will reward you for it! I will—I— Will
you accept of this—this, to remember me by,' (offering
him a locket, that she wore.)

The stranger started back, and stood haughtily before
her.

`No, ma'm—no! I'll accept of nothing. I did my
duty—I— Yes— I will— I— Give me a
little lock o' your hair. I— my children shall have
it; and when your children want their blood, they shall
have that.'

My mother clipped off a lock, and put it into his
hands.

The soldier, with a look of embarrassment, that sat
amazingly well upon his sunburnt countenance, while
Mr. Arnauld smiled, was about packing it away in
some old continental money—ragged and dirty; when
a sudden thought seemed to strike him; he laid down
his cap, stood over it, swung his arms to and fro, for a
moment, and then broke out, into the following strange,
broken, but feeling ejaculation.

`No—no—'twon't do—'twon't do—mustn't find
it there— Say — what may come o' this? Faith,
I'll give it to him! No, I wont. Will he like it? will
he? What! haven't I paid dear enough for it? by
—p'shaw—what o' that! he'd save my life, too.
No, I won't have it—can't keep it—take it back. I
shall lose it, if I'm taken, or killed in battle; and
then—stop—I'll hide it here, (ripping open his
sword-belt, as if utterly unconscious that there was
another soul within hearing,) there! there! now let
any man touch me—or the major—or the cap'un
—or the cap'un's wife—or—ah, pretty creatures!
(stooping to the cradle,) ah, God bless them! so like
my little biddies—chuck! chuck!—which is your'n?
If I may be so bold. I— lord! that's he—I'd
know my cap'un's boy, among a thousand—chuck!
chuck! bobby! chuck!'

Who could forbear laughing? The honest fellow's
eyes were running over; and he had kissed Ellen's
little daughter, twenty times, before we had leisure to
remark the reddening confusion of the mother; or the
sweet embarrassment of Ellen, who had twice put out

her hand, to pluck him away from the cradle; and then
withdrew it, quietly, trembling and colouring from
head to foot.

`Hey, Rodman, hey! my fine fellow! Faith! as
like as two peas. Eyes!—nose—hair—ho, Rodman!
chuck! The whole troop 'ould know you. The
very picture of the captain! Gorry! what a fellow
for a saddle!'

This was too much; we all laughed together, to see
the little girl sitting upon his arm, as he caught her
out of the cradle, and began tossing her about; while
her sweet eyes were just beginning to fill, and her
face to pucker, in the blaze of the fire-light, and the
natural fretfulness of children, when waked out of a
sound sleep. Yet she did not cry; perhaps, because
she was too much terrified; or, perhaps, the incressant
motion of his arms prevented her. But at last, Mr.
Arnauld was fain to interfere; just, it was evident, as
she was beginning to clear her pipes for a squall; and
the mother sat laughing, for the first time, for many
a week, as if she would kill herself, at the confusion of
Mary.

`My good friend,' said Mr. Arnauld, looking as seriously
as he could—and placing the little creature in the
arms of Ellen, where, after turning its eyes for a moment,
at the stranger, like a mouse that has escaped
from a cat—and quivering all over—with its little
mouth wide open—its pretty head fell on one side, and
it was sobbing itself asleep immediately. `My good
friend—I—'

And there he stopped, as if unwilling to mortify the
honest fellow, by a disclosure of so untimely a truth—
`have you supped?—'

`No Sir—that I haven't; not a mouthful has entered
my jaws, since yesterday mornin.'

A table was instantly spread; and Mr. Arnauld
continued reading the letter.

`His name is Hanson. The particulars of the letter
he will detail to you. Archibald has struck a blow
that—'

`Archibald,' said all of us, together.

`Hush! hush!' said Mr. Arnauld, seeing that we
were about to overwhelm Hanson with questions—`let
him finish his meal; and then you shall worry him to
your heart's content.'

`By your leave,' said Hanson—falling at once upon
a loaf, as it passed him on the waiter. `Let me draw
my rations in my own way.'

`Certainly, certainly,' said Mrs. Arnauld, assisting
to arrange the table—while Mr. Arnauld continued to
read, as follows.

`Archibald has struck a blow, that the enemy will
never forget, to his dying day. The affair of Monk's
corner, with twenty other scrapes, of the same kind,
is fairly balanced by this of the Cowpens. Tarleton
himself narrowly escaped; Washington was so close
to him, at one time, that they exchanged several cuts,
with what effect, we do not yet know. My last, I
hope, apprised you of Archibald's situation. I would
have you prepare yourself for a severe shock. You
will scarcely know him.'

Copely cannot write, till his hand is better; he orders
me to say, all that mortal man should say to such
a `pestilent little creature, (his very words) as'—

`Me! I dare say,' cried his wife,—`but I forgive
him—bless the creature—is he well?'

`Read on, pray read on, my dear Sir,' said Mary,
faintly—`what else?'

`I shall write further, before Hanson departs,
unless—'

`Unless what?' said Lucia, seeing her father hesitate,
and struggle, as if to suppress some violent tumult
of joy—while he folded the paper—`father! father
—is that all?'

Mr. Arnauld shook his head—and turned to Hanson,
who sat, so as to keep his eye upon the door, at which
he kept continually glancing, whenever it opened, as
if he expected somebody else to appear; we saw it,
and smiled, for the table was already loaded with fare;

and we attributed his anxiety to the natural longing
of a famished man—he said to him.

`Did you receive any other letter?'

`No,' said Hanson, significantly—`no, sir—no
other letter.'

Mr. Arnauld breathed more audibly; his whole
countenance changed to a natural, steady tranquillity—
nearly religious. I say nearly, for, even in the most
pious ministering of Arnauld, upon his knees, there
was a want of natural lowliness; a want of that
beautiful truth, which early habit in religious indulgence
will produce upon the manner of men; and which,
open a better habit, when the countenance is written
all over with the mysterious and deep language of
passion, and passionate thought, aye, and worldly
experience, can never entirely predominate, however
deeply the heart may be affected.

There was a long and breathless silence of some
minutes; during which, there was much pleasant weeping,
and pious, inward aspiration, interrupted only by
the hearty smack of Hanson's lips—now and then, as
he plucked away the exhausted tankard from his mouth,
with a strong hand; or the rattling of his knife and
fork; which, at any other time, in its vivacity, would
have diverted us not a little. Many of the flourishes
were there of a swordsman, I saw; and, before he
threw it down, and drew a long breath—pushed back
his chair, and wiped his mouth, I should have known
that he was a great hand at a sabre.

`Well,' said Mr. Arnauld—looking at Hanson, who,
though crowded to the throat with the hearty cheer—
could not forbear following every movement of the girl,
that cleared away the table, with a piteous look; now
and then, shifting his position; sucking his lips; and,
passing his broad hand down his waiscoat; and sitting
more upright; as if he thought, that, by a little jolting
and good management, he should be able to stow away
some odd pounds more, nevertheless.

It was in vain to ask any questions for some time;
his movements were too unsteady; his sorrowful, half

uttered ejaculations were so numerous; as dish after
dish went away, till, at last, by his continual hitching,
he found himself along side of the table again, just as
the girl was taking away the large tankard of cider.

`Stop,' said Hanson—`I can't bear that, my pretty
dear—one swallow more!'

The poor girl was in the middle of the apartment;
but, seeing him start out of his chair, and wipe his lips
with his cuff; and not rightly understanding his motive;
and, perhaps too, ashamed at his manner all the
while that she had been clearing away the table; and
thinking that his broken ejaculation had more reference
to herself, (a natural thought for a young, blooming,
country girl,) than to the supper; she stood still,
with such an aspect of terrour and submission, shame
and embarrassment, that, when Hanson came near
enough to her, and then, instead of kissing her, as she
certainly expected; and for which she had prepared
herself, to see him catch at the tankard, utterly unconscious
of her proximity to it; and then her mortification
—it was altogether too much for our composure. We
could bear it no longer. Here was an excuse, such as
we wanted; and the suppressed laughter of all the evening,
now broke out, all at once! peal after peal! till
Mr. Arnauld was fain to put a stop to it, by main force.

`I am really ashamed of you,' said he, seeing us all
ready to break out again, just as Hanson drew away
the tankard from his lips—looked into it, with a sorrowful
eye; turned it bottom upward; counted the
drops that fell—shaking his head all the while; and
then returned it to the poor girl; whom, I verily believe,
he had not seen till then, for the colour ran instantly
all over his face, and he made an awkward
military bow and scrape, which somewhat appeased
poor Kitty.

`What was this affair of the Cowpens?' said Mr.
Arnauld, `were you there?'

`Were I there?—Yes. I'll tell him—capital cider
that—capital!'

`Another tankard,' said Arnauld, nodding to Kitty,
as she went out.

`D'ye see,' continued Hanson—sitting erect in his
chair, and following the girl with his eyes; `d'ye see,
we'd got into a hobble; trenched up—Cornwallis was
arter us, on one side; Leslie on t'other; and Tarleton,
fiend take him! he was gallopin all over the country:
So Morgan backed out, and we'd got to the Cowpens.
`Hanson!' said the major to me. I was always
a favourite with the major, after we escaped from
the enemy.'

`Major who?' said Arnauld.

`Why, Major Oadley,' said Hanson, `to be sure.'

`What! is he a major? I thought that he was only
a captain.'

`You mean his brother, Capt'un Jonathan: I mean
Major—Major Archibald. Pray ma'm, (seeing Lucia
turn pale.) maybe you're his wife, that he used to
talk about in his fever—his—ah— very well! I
say nothen; but Archibald Oadley is the boy, what
might make any woman turn pale—he—he—
hey?—I —'

`You spoke of his escape—how was it?'

`Well—(the yankees, and Hanson was a yankee, had
the practice of prefacing almost every remark, and
every question, and every answer, then, as now, with
a well, or a why)—`after he got well, they let him
go out on parol; and, one night some of 'em run off;
and, he might a' gone—but he would'nt—out 'pon
honour, he said—so he would'nt—never mind 'em—
they braced him up—served him all the same as
the rest—now look out, said he—I'm clear o' my word,
now—keep me, if you can—so, not a week after, we
escaped—see here—(showing his wrist—) `I had a
bay onet through, there—and here, and here---the balls
whistled like hail; they sent hundreds arter us, through
the bushes—but we got clear—guns!'

`When was this, Hanson?'

`Well—about—let me see—August's one—September's
two—October—say six months.'

`Six months! and why did he not write?' said I.

`Why, he did write, I saw him write a dozen letters
to you; and, you (bowing archly to Lucia)—you, for
he cried like a child, when—I beg pardon—capital
cider! guns!—what cider!'

`Never mind,' said Mr. Arnauld, smiling—`so, now
for the battle.'

`Well—said the Major, says he—speaking to me
—`Hanson, damn my blood—'

`Does he swear?' said Lucia,—

`Why—no; only with his eyes—don't say that he
said, damn my blood, ma'am; but, he looked—
looked it, ma'am, as plain as—as—as two and two
makes four. Guns! how he flourished his sword about
—best broadsword in the army—says he, Hanson,
we must score off some o' their cuts? what say you?
If Tarleton should fall in our way, remember who
used to starve us, while we were prisoners; and,
curse us, and beat us; and, leave us rotting in filth
and nastiness, with bread full of pounded glass, and
maggotty meat, that made the water hiss, when it
touched it. Guns! give it ten yards o' start, and
I'd bet on it agin a three year old cat. You could'nt
keep it still, could'nt catch it. So, we were all on
horse back; had jest come in, and Morgan was just
encampin on our left. All at once—hourra! we heard
a number of scatterin shot; and, seed two or three
of our videttes scampering, like devils, up the hill, and
along the bank of the river—then, two or three volleys.
`Tarleton! Tarleton!' cried the major.

`Tarleton! Tarleton!' bawled the troop—In less
than five minutes, Colonel Washington, Lieutenant
Colonel Copely, and Captain Rodman came to their
places, crying.—Remember the prison ship! remember
Monk's corner! Remember the tories!—when Tarleton
broke down upon our rear—and we were stunned with
the artillery. I say nothin Sir, nothin of what I
saw, except that, in the thick o' the battle, when
you could see the faces of our troop, through the smoke,
by the sparkles of their own swords—I heard Colonel

Copely laughin; and, saw him, as he cut down a tall
fellow close by me, rein up, and burst out into a loud
laugh, at one of the blundering rascals, who had just
exchanged a cut with him, and then rid off, frightened
out of his wits. Captain Rodman too, did famously;
but the major!—well—Guns! how he rattled away
at 'em!—hey—no quarter—none!—It soon became
a race—whoop! Morgan's riflemen peppered 'em, fore
and aft, well—the horse tumbled together, in heaps;
while Colonel Howard, the Maryland boy, with some
of the raw Virginians, blazed away before 'em, so
that the horses were frightened with the noise. We
killed about a hundred on 'em; took five hundred prisoners;
and some dragoon horses; about a hundred,
was jest what we wanted. So, you see, they got a
sound drubbin.'

`And how long was this? how long ago?' said
Mr. Arnauld.

`Why—there was a matter of—'

Another tap was heard at the door.

`I pray, you ladies,' said Hanson, jumping up, with
a change of deportment, that startled us---`I pray you
----be prepared for a serious trial'—to which Mr.
Arnauld nodded.

The door opened.

`Rodman! Rodman! Arthur! Arthur!' shouted all
of us, at the same moment, while, after a little interval,
another faint voice followed—`O, Arthur! Arthur---
my husband!'

`Mary! love!' said the princely fellow, putting us
all aside with his arms, and rushing to his wife, and
taking her out from the midst of us, like a giant---and
standing over her, like one tranced; while she clung
about his neck and sobbed aloud.

There was not a dry eye in the room; not one!----

Hanson himself snuffled; and unbuttoned his jacket;
while Arthur, hearing nobody, seeing nobody but
Mary, stood over her, holding her cold face to his
bosom; and, watching the bright tears that trickled
over her lips.

What could we do? we were a family of love; all
our sorrow, and all the sources of it, were known alike
to all---all, I should say, save one---the sorrow of Lucia
was her own; untold—unguessed at, but by me.
We would have left the newly met; the desolate; the
widowed and widow—to weep, if it might he, with
joy, unprofaned by our presence---but, no, we had no
time for it.

Arthur was standing erect, his majestick person
abundantly heightened by his close uniform and martial
carriage; his browned features radiant with intelligence;
and his soldier-like head, and manner, as he
stood upright, before his delicate, timid, and innocent
Mary, who looked so lovingly so imploringly up to
him, absolutely awed us. I was half afraid to speak to
him. How he had changed!---`How know we,' said
the eyes of one to another---`how know we, that he is
the same Arthur Rodman, whom we knew? nay, he
is not the same; he is an altered man; sterner, and
taller; even his beautiful hair is withered and blighted;
his voice too, that is not the voice of his boyhood.'

`Heaven bless you all,' said he, recollecting for the
first time, that his trooper's harness was yet upon him;
his tall ruffian cap that darkened half the room; and,
that he was drenched with the cold, uncomfortable
rain of the season. So, throwing aside his sword belt,
sword and cap; he seated himself, just as he used to,
before our great fire, and rubbed his knees, with that
expression of comfort, which we see in them that have
travelled long in the wind, his face flushed, his heart
full, and every eye glistening upon him, and every
tongue unable to articulate one of a thousand questions,
that it had meditated.

`Supper!' said Mrs. Arnauld, `supper again?'

`Yes,' said Hanson, `if you would save trouble, you
will let it stand all night long—there may be other
guests,' (significantly.)

`Oh,' replied Mr. Arnauld, taking out the letter
again, and reading a line or two, which he had omitted;
`no—he says nothing of the others—can it be?'

Hanson nodded, and Lucia turned deadly pale, as
we heard the trampling of hoofs by the window—and
the ring of a broadsword, upon the flagged pavement in
the yard—as if somebody leaped down from a horse.

`Archibald;' cried she, starting from her chair.

`O no! no—it is my husband! mine!' shrieked Ellen,
rushing forward, with her girl in her arms, just as
Copely entered.

Here was another blow for us. What were we to
think! Our hearts and eyes reeled at his entrance;
might there not be another, yet another! our lips were
all apart, as Copely caught his wife and babe at the
same moment.

`Nell! by Jupiter,' he cried, laughing; `why,
what is the simpleton crying at? Whose brat is that?
mine! mine! hourra! hourra!' Saying this, he
caught the little girl in his arms, and began capering
about the room, like a mad creature—laughing and kising
it by turns, for several minutes, while Ellen ran
after him, endeavouring to catch at the child, and half
choked by her own sobs: and Hanson clapped his hands,
and tumbled over tables and chairs in his rapture—imitating,
unconsciously, as if he had an invisible babe in
his own arms, every movement of Copely, as he ran,
hither and thither, tossing the child about.

Another step, a— I know not what she saw; but
Lucia tottered through the door—rushed out into the
rain and darkness; and, a few minutes after, we heard
her fall, and a faint groan reached us.

Her father ran out: and, while we stood awaiting
her return, and wondering at her sudden delirium—the
two husbands unable to move, from their clinging
wives, Archibald came in, faint, and pale—following
Mrs. Arnauld, with the lifeless body of Lucia in his
arms, just I had seen them years before.

I was appalled. Archibald looked like a ghost—so
pale—so ghastly pale, and thin; but withal, strangely
beautiful; as if, while his body thinned and waned—
the spirit of him, became more visible—as if, the nearer
it was to death, the body became but the more and

more intensely animate with his spirit. It was, as if his
heart and soul were transparent before me.

Lucia's insensibility continued so long, that we were
all thrown into a stillness and consternation, so terririble,
as to prevent our recognition of each other.

`She is dead,' said Archibald, with a patient lifting
of his deep blue eyes; `she is dead, brother—'

I took his hand. It was cold as death; and when I
looked upon his face, the wan forehead—hollow temples,
ridged all over with his large blue veins—his fresh
lips, alternately white as ashes, and then, of a deep
blood colour, as the rapid emotion of his heart came
and went, hither and thither, over his face—I felt as
if I were suffocating.

`Yes—yes,' he replied, in a low voice, bending down,
over the broken hearted mother, upon whose lap the
beautiful, dead face of his beloved lay, like that of one
suddenly struck down in prayer. `O Lucia!—'

Her eye-lids quivered, at the sound of his voice: a
sweet smile broke, like that of a sleeping infant, about
her gentle lips, hitherto so haughty; and their motion
was audible, as if they articulated his name.

All eyes were upon her: all, I should say, but those
of Hanson, who, unable to support the terrible conflict
longer, had withdrawn, leaving us, like mourners,
standing about the blessed sufferer, as she lay lifeless—
helpless, and worn out.

`Lucia! o' Lucia!' said Archibald, holding her
hand, to his heart, with convulsive eagerness; and
stooping over her, as if to catch the first murmur of her
mouth.

She drew a long breath, half opened her eyes, while
the tears ran slowly down through her redundant hair,
upon which her face lay, half buried—and pronounced
his name. A slight shivering followed; and, in a few
minutes, amid the dead stillness of all about, she arose,
and sat up, and put her two hands into his—saying.

`Archibald, I can now die in peace—I have only
waited for you.'

`And I, Lucia,' he replied, kissing her forehead—
while the tears gushed out again at the pressure, and
her red lips thrilled and trembled with pleasure. `I
have come to you for no other purpose, than to—'

`To close my eyes, Archibald? Heaven bless you!
heaven bless you for it! O, mother, do not break my
heart upon the spot. Why will you sob and weep, so
distractedly? Is not this, what I have always told
you? always? Have I not said; father—mother—sister—brother—
there is no hope! God hath heard my
prayer: His hand hath stayed me. I do not desire to
live. I do not deserve it. He hath upheld me, till now,
that I might see Archibald—dear Archibald, once more.
O, Archibald! how I have wept for you!'

`And I,' said he, in a solemn, sweet voice—like one
summoned by something invisible—dreading it not, and
ready to depart, whenever it shall please heaven. `I,
dear Lucia, have wept and prayed, many a night
through, for you. Let us be firm—the little time that
is left to us—I—'

`What! is there no hope—none for you, Archibald?'
said the dying girl, kissing his hands with uplifted
eyes—and watching the changes of his face.

`None, dear—none. The malady is incurable. I—'

`Hush,' said Mr. Arnauld, `have done with this,
my children. It is impious, vain, and ungrateful. You
know not what death is, coming upon you in stillness,
slowly—and perpetually.'

`Do I not!' said Archibald, calmly—putting his
hand through his brown beautiful hair, and wringing
out the moisture, as if it had been the heavy March
rain. `Do I not? It is not rain, Sir,—it is the sweat
of death—a night sweat, that hath been upon me, for
more than a year. I—'

`Hush—in mercy, hush!' cried Clara.