University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
A TRIAL OF FIDELITY.

The Peytons were among the earliest settlers and
largest landholders in Virginia. Their plantation
stretched along one of the southern branches of
James River, called Rock Creek, although, but for
the overshadowing of its grander neighbor, it might
well have been dignified with the name of river,
for there are many celebrated streams that are neither
so deep nor broad as that known simply as
Rock Creek.

The family mansion, a large, substantial stone

building, with a piazza running entirely round it,
was built some years before the province of Virginia
became a state, and its wide hall and winding
staircase of dark mahogany, its deep windowseats
and broad fire-places remained unaltered, although
here and there a few of the modern improvements
or additions might be traced. It stood upon
a hill once covered with a forest of cedars, but they
had long since been cleared away, excepting a grove
of them which clustered down one side of the hill
and along the creek, and gave their name to the
place. Cedar Hill was celebrated through all the
country round for the hospitality, liberality, and true
benevolence of its high-minded owners. They were
the great people of that part of the world, and were
sometimes called the “royal family;” but few royal
families can claim as much real respect and true
homage as was rendered to the Peytons in the esteem
of all their neighbors.

For the last few years the shadow of grief had
been resting on Cedar Hill; for first the head of
the family, whom years had seemed only to mature
and ennoble, and in whom no trace of infirmity had
yet appeared, was suddenly summoned away, and
in the two following years Mrs. Peyton saw her
eldest son lying in the fresh glory of his young
manhood by his father's side, and her daughter's
husband, dear to her as her own children, was

brought by his desolate widow to wait with the
rest for the final resurrection.

A gleam of sunshine had fallen on them when, a
few months before the story opens, Charles, Mrs.
Peyton's youngest child and only living son, had
brought home a bride, a being who seemed the
incarnation of hope and gladness. Bright, joyous,
and restless, she shed the light of her happiness
through every dark corner of that saddened house.

It seemed to Mrs. Peyton that Virginia was a
living blessing sent to cheer them after the great
sorrow that had been crowded in the last few years;
and even her widowed daughter, Margaret Fairfax,
felt the influence of the sunny nature Virginia was
gifted with, and could better endure the mirth of
her fatherless children, and watch with greater
calmness the daily unfolding of the latest blossom
of their love, on whom a father's eye had never
rested, who had never known the great happiness
of a father's love and care.

But already that transient gleam had passed
away, and for days and weeks Virginia had been
the quiet, and sometimes, for hours, the almost motionless
tenant of a single room. Sitting by the
bedside of her young husband, who was stricken
by a slow fever before the moon which had shone
upon their bridal had waned from the sky, she
watched him with the intensity that could only be

felt by one who was conscious that her all of earthly
happiness was in imminent peril. There was but
little that could be done for him—to moisten his
parched lips, to bathe his fevered forehead or hands,
to arrange his pillow, and give him from time to
time a little refreshment or medicine, was all that
he required; but in these little offices Virginia jealously
refused all assistance, and, watching him night
and day, slept only while he slept, and waked with
his slightest motion.

Her cheek soon lost its color and roundness, and
her eye its light, but she persisted in saying that she
was neither tired nor sleepy, and neither Mrs. Peyton
nor Mrs. Fairfax could gain resolution enough
to insist on her leaving her husband, while they
felt how precious every moment that she had passed
with him might soon become to her; for the physician
had the day before announced to the family
that there was but little, if any hope, of a favorable
termination to his illness. It had been a long and
exhausting one; and, now that the fever was conquered,
or had worn itself out, he feared that there
was not strength enough left in the patient for him
to rally.

Margaret had promised her brother, in the early
part of his illness, that if there were any doubts of
his recovery, she would inform him of it; and leaving
to Mrs. Peyton the sad task of acquainting Virginia

with the physician's opinion, she went to her
brother's side to fulfill the promise she had made to
him. It was a hard task she had to perform, but
Margaret Fairfax was never known to shrink from
any duty, or to put aside any cup her heavenly
Father held to her lips. The whole family were
accustomed to rely almost implicitly on her judgment
in all times of difficulty, and Charles, who
was some years younger than herself, regarded her
with a degree of love and respect that might almost
be called reverential.

Her sad duty was performed with the greatest
tenderness, and Charles, looking the thanks he was
too weak to speak, whispered to her to read to him
from the Psalms.

After she had finished, he asked if Virginia knew
his danger.

“I believe she does,” replied Margaret; “I left
her with mother.”

Just then Virginia walked into the room, and the
sad question was answered—a soul so despairing
looked out of her deep eyes, and intense grief had
given to the almost childish countenance, for she
was but seventeen, such an expression of sternness
and solemnity, that she seemed almost transformed.
She bent over her husband, and pressed her pale
lips to his forehead.

“Dearest,” he feebly murmured, “Margaret has

been reading to me; but if you could, I would like
your voice to be the last I shall hear on earth, if I
must leave you so soon, Virginia.”

Margaret turned to the fourteenth chapter of St.
John, and Virginia, as she read the blessed words,
felt insensibly sooothed and comforted. Lulled by
her sweet tones, Charles fell asleep. At first his
sleep was troubled, and every few minutes he would
open his eyes, and fix them on his young wife's face
with an anxious, searching gaze; but gradually he
grew quieter; and at last, when Virginia laid aside
the Bible, she could not help imagining that his
slumber was deeper and more natural than any he
had enjoyed through his whole illness. She wanted
to call Margaret or his mother, but refrained for
fear of disturbing him. Occasionally they glanced
into the room; but seeing him asleep, and Virginia's
face turned toward him with the paleness and almost
the immobility of a statue, they went silently
away, knowing that perfect quiet was the only
medicine for the invalid in his present state of
weakness.

Thus passed away the night; as the morning
light was slowly breaking into the room, Charles
opened his eyes; in answer to Virginia's glance,
which looked the question she could not speak, he
said, “I feel better, dearest; it seems to me that I
must be much better; but I am yet very weak.”

He spoke in a whisper, and Virginia had to bend
low over him to catch his words; but, faint as it was,
a watchful ear outside had heard it, and the door
was softly pushed open as a dark face thrust itself
in and turned anxiously to the bed. Charles caught
the earnest look and smiled in reply. The whole
expression of the troubled countenance changed as
if by magic, and then disappeared.

“Keziah has gone for your gruel,” said Virginia.

“Mast'r Charles is gwine to get well,” said Keziah
to the eager questioners in the kitchen; “I seed it
in his face the very moment I opened the do'; besides,
I had a dream about him last night, and
know'd as soon as I woke up he wouldn't die this
time.”

“What was your dream, aunt Keziah?” asked
half a dozen voices.

“Oh, go long, chillun, and don't speak another
word to me; don't you see I'm too glad to talk,
and I must make this gruel this very moment; he's
mighty weak, but he'll get well.”

Keziah was a privileged character in the kitchen
and out of it. Few of her fellow-servants ever ventured
to oppose her, and it would have been useless
if they had been inclined to attempt it. To say
that her will was iron, is to give but an inadequate
idea of it, for its strength lay not only in passive
resistance, but in active exertion, and so not another

question was addressed to her by the chattering
group, all full of anxiety to hear about Mas'r
Charles, and devoured by curiosity as to Keziah's
dream. In grim silence, which certainly did not
look much like gladness, the gruel was made, and
most carefully arranged on a waiter. A little boy,
who seemed to know what was expected of him,
came running in from the garden with a freshly-gathered
bunch of flowers. Throwing aside the
gaudier ones, Keziah selected some English violets,
a half-blown rose-bud, and some geranium leaves,
and arranging them in a champagne glass, with a
taste no one would have imagined lay hidden under
such harsh features and an expression so forbidding,
she placed the simple but fragrant bouquet on the
waiter, and proceeded to the sick-room.

For the first time since his illness, Charles observed
the flowers, and with evident pleasure; for
the first time, too, he seemed to relish his breakfast.
These symptoms of amendment could hardly have
given greater pleasure to Virginia than they seemed
to produce in Keziah. She strove in vain to retain
her usual grim composure; but the broad smile,
which seldom appeared in Keziah's face, yet when
it did, produced a general illumination in that abode
of gloom and sternness, was now a fixture there for
several minutes.

“I wonder why the doctor does not come!” said

Virginia; “he said he would be here before this
time.”

She was very anxious to see him, that he might
encourage the hope newly sprung up in her heart;
her next thought was to impart her good tidings.
Bidding Keziah remain, for the first time for many
weeks she left the sick-room of her own free will,
and hastened to find Mrs. Peyton. She met her in
the hall; and telling her as connectedly as she could
that she thought, she hoped Charles would get
well, he was so much better, and asking her to go
and see if it were not so, she flew in search of Mrs.
Fairfax.

The overseer, Mr. Burke, was with her, but Virginia
did not see him. With an exclamation of
“Oh! sister Margaret!” she leaned her head upon
Mrs. Fairfax's shoulder, and burst into tears. Mrs.
Fairfax, who already seemed to have been agitated,
terrified by Virginia's sudden appearance and great
emotion, could hardly support herself. She sank
upon a chair near her, and, with a voice hardly audible,
asked,

“What is it, Virginia? what have you to tell
me?”

“Oh, he will get well—I know he will get well
—he is so much better.”

With great difficulty, Mrs. Fairfax controlled herself.
She neither fainted nor wept, though she felt

for a moment that if she could yield to her feelings,
they would be more endurable; but so much
was depending on her, and there was a crisis full
of such great terror before her, that she nerved herself
with all her strength to meet it. When Virginia
wiped away her tears, Margaret was smiling
upon her, but it was a smile so tremulous and sad
that she exclaimed,

“Do you think I am deceiving myself, sister
Margaret? Do you think it impossible that Charles
should recover?”

“No, dear, I have never thought him so ill as
Dr. Parker seemed to, though I did not say it, as I
did not wish to excite false hopes; I will come and
see him directly.”

“What is the matter, sister Margaret?” Mrs.
Fairfax hesitated. With an air of impatient authority,
Virginia turned to Mr. Burke.

“Something is the matter — what is it, Mr.
Burke?”

“Why, ma'am, they say the negroes are rising
all through the country.”

“It may be only a false rumor,” suggested Mrs.
Fairfax; “don't be alarmed, Virginia; I will take
some immediate measures to ascertain the truth.”

Virginia did not look in the least alarmed; the
blessed hope of her husband's recovery so predominated
over every other feeling, that she could

hardly dwell long enough on any other idea to realize
it.

“There must be some truth in the report,” said
Mr. Burke, “even if things are not so bad as I
have heard; for Dr. Parker stopped outside the big
gate to tell me that he could not come here this
morning, as he was taking his wife and all his family
to Somerton; he told me all the neighbors were
going, and that, if you could, you ought to go too.”

“But Charles can not be moved,” said Virginia.

“So I told him, ma'am,” replied Mr. Burke,
“and he seemed to feel very much troubled about
it, and said that, as soon as his family were safe at
Somerton, he would come back if he could, and see
him; but it is more than ten miles there, you know,
and the roads are very bad.”

Just then the hasty tramp of a horse was heard,
and in a moment, without knocking, a young man
walked hastily into the room. After the usual
greeting, he said,

“I have come, cousin Margaret, to take you and
all the rest of the family to Somerton. My mother
is waiting in the road for you. We knew cousin
Charles was too ill to take care of you, and we could
not go by without stopping to see about you.”

“Charles is too weak to be moved, cousin Frank,”
replied Margaret, “and we can not leave him, of
course.”

“In a case like this, when the danger is really so
great, for we have heard the most horrible rumors
of deeds the negroes are committing all through the
county, and it is said they are marching on here in
great force, don't you think it better to run the risk
of injuring Charles, than that all your lives should
be sacrificed?” said Frank Lee.

“It would kill him to disturb him now,” said
Virginia, with an imploring gaze; “I am certain
he could never bear that long, hard ride; but you
know we are not sure the negroes will come here,
even if it is true that they have risen.”

Margaret agreed with Virginia that, to escape an
uncertain danger, they ought not to sacrifice a life
so precious to them, and that, in Charles's debilitated
state, he could not endure any agitation or exertion.

Frank Lee urged every argument in his power
to induce them to join him. He said all the neighbors
through the whole country were flocking to
Somerton, and that they would be necessarily left
alone for the present, till each one had seen that his
immediate family were safe. He wished, at least,
to take Mrs. Peyton with him; but, on being informed
of the circumstances, she resolutely refused
to leave her son. Mrs. Fairfax hesitated about her
children; but her oldest son, a brave little boy of
eleven, begged so hard not to be separated from her,
that she told Frank Lee he need wait no longer—

trusting themselves to Providence, they would live
or die together. Frank left them most unwillingly,
promising, if possible, to return the next day.

They decided to keep Charles in ignorance of
their situation, and Virginia returned to his sick-room.
Something flurried or excited in her manner
seemed to strike her husband, but he made no remark
about it.

All the active duty fell, as usual, upon Mrs. Fairfax.

“Can we depend upon you to remain with us,
Mr. Burke?” asked she.

“Of course, ma'am, I would not leave you entirely
unprotected, though I think it would have
been better for you to have accepted Mr. Lee's
offer; it seems almost like tempting Providence to
stay here.”

“We certainly have no right,” said Mrs. Fairfax,
“to expect you to expose your life for us, and if you
think the danger is so great, I hope you will not
suppose it necessary to remain. One person can
do but little in such a case, and—”

“Oh, Mrs. Fairfax, do you think I could leave
you now; don't speak of it again, I beg of you,”
exclaimed Mr. Burke, vehemently.

Mrs. Fairfax had trembled inwardly lest her proposal
should be accepted; for, though she had not
wished to show it, for fear of inducing him to remain

against his inclinations, she could not help
feeling that even one strong man was a great protection
and safeguard.

It was settled, therefore, that the house should
be shut up, excepting the front entrance, where
Mr. Burke stationed himself to keep watch and
ward. But it was no easy matter to fasten the
house securely. The outside locks, and bars, and
bolts on a Virginia house in those days were so little
used, that, when needed, they were almost always
found out of order. In this instance they
succeeded tolerably until they came to the rooms
that had been occupied by Charles before his marriage,
and then even Mrs. Fairfax was obliged to
give up in despair. The negroes about the place,
all in the state of the greatest excitement, were
crowding about the house, talking, advising, and
trying as well as they could to help Miss Margaret,
whom they all looked upon with a feeling amounting
to veneration. She selected some of the most
trustworthy, and told them to guard certain points
that were the least protected, and give her the
earliest possible notice of the approach of those
she dreaded so much to see. She called Nathan,
one of the older and most trusted servants, a man
who had been “born and raised” in the family, and
upon whose judgment and fidelity she felt she
might rely, and told him to take his position on the

top of the house, from where he could see far over
the surrounding country.

“You will stand by us, Nathan, will you not?”
asked she.

“Till I die, Miss Margaret,” he replied.

The day wore away. The last rays of the sun
fell on Nathan, patiently watching from the house-top—on
the groups of negroes about the lawn, flitting
and changing like the figures in a kaleidoscope
—on the figure of a man on horseback, riding swiftly
along the highway to Somerton—and they lighted
up with gleaming radiance the three monuments
that rose like columns of snow from beneath the
grand old cypress-tree at the foot of the garden.

Mrs. Peyton stood at the window, looking in that
direction, her favorite place of late years, and
watched the pale, unearthly light that radiated from
those memorials of the departed. “Oh! if I had
wings like a dove, then would I flee away and be
at rest,” she softly murmured. An arm gently encircled
her, a stately form bent over and kissed her,
and the mother and daughter stood in a silence full
of eloquence, gazing on the spot where each had
laid the strong arm on which they had leaned so
trustingly, the courageous yet gentle heart, that
would have shed its last drop of blood ere harm
should come near them.

“Mr. Burke has gone, mother,” said Margaret,

calmly, after a few moments; “the negroes brought
so many tales, each one more dreadful than the
other, that I suppose his courage gave way. He
took Argyle, Charles's fastest horse, and is a mile
or more on his way by this time; he met Polydore,
and sent him back to tell us.”

“Yes, missis,” said an immense black man, full
six feet and a half high, and large in proportion,
but with a countenance as amiable and simple as a
child's—“yes, missis, I was clar down by the big
gate when Mas'r Burke came ridin' past, and he
told me to come right straight to you, and tell you
he was gwine for help; he didn't think he should
be back for some hours.”

“No, he will never come back,” said Margaret;
“I saw, some time ago, he was getting more and
more alarmed.”

“I seed Mas'r Burke a riding off,” said uncle
Nathan, putting his head in the door; “but don't
be frightened, Miss Margaret, nor ole missis either.
I'll take his place at the door, and send one of de
little niggers up on top of de house. No one shall
harm either of you while I am alive.”

“I believe you,” replied Mrs. Fairfax; and both
mother and daughter felt a sensation of security
they had been strangers to before. Nathan's manner
was so earnest and devoted, that they could as
soon doubt themselves as him.

“I am afraid, mother, we shall have to tell
Charles our situation. He hears the commotion outside
the house, which I can not prevent, and the little
bustle within, so unlike our usual stillness lately,
and he has been insisting on knowing the cause.
I dread to tell him, for any agitation must be so
injurious to him now!”

While they were consulting as to what had best
be done, a message came from Virginia, begging
them to come to Charles, who was insisting on being
dressed. They hastened to him, and found
that he had partly guessed and partly discovered,
by questioning adroitly his young wife, the alarming
state of affairs. He insisted on going with
them to Somerton. No arguments nor entreaties
were effectual in changing his resolution. He
thought only of their danger, and would not admit
that there was any to himself.

By this time night had come on, cold, dark, and
starless. Margaret drew aside the curtain, and
showed him the thick darkness that seemed to encompass
them. She reminded him of the wretched
roads, and of their doubly defenseless state if met
by the armed negroes on the way at night.

“Wait only till morning,” said she, “and we
will do whatever you wish. If we only considered
ourselves, and not you, we should be safer here, I
think, to-night. There is not a servant on the

plantation who does not seem anxious to prove his
fidelity, and Nathan is a host; Polydore has found
a gun, and is marching up and down before the
door, just as he saw the soldiers keep guard at father's
tent during the last war.”

“If I had only known this in the morning,” said
Charles, “you would all have been safe now!” and
his eye passed sadly over his wife, and mother, and
sister, who returned his glance with looks of calmness
and assurance, that sadly belied their fainting
hearts.

“Ah! you can't deceive me,” he continued,
smiling sorrowfully. “You are not so brave as you
wish to make me believe. I know very well that,
if I were not lying helpless here, you would all be
trembling, and crying, and clinging to me, especially
you, you simple little deceiver,” turning to his
wife, whose lips trembled, but who could not trust
herself to speak.

“Margaret,” he went on slowly and with difficulty,
“you have thought too much of me; think
now of yourself, of your boys, our precious mother,
and my wife. If you really think that it would be
safer for them to wait till morning, I will consent;
for myself, I feel that the delay would be harder to
bear than any exertion.”

They decided to wait till dawn. A sleepless
night was passed amid frequent but groundless

alarms. The least noise sent all the little negroes
flying to the house with tidings of the approach of
the enemy; but the gray dawn came slowly on,
and no destroyer's foot had yet trodden the path to
Cedar Hill.

There was great bustle and confusion around it.
The carriage-house, with all it contained, had been
burned just before Charles's illness, and no one had
thought yet of replacing their loss; so a large covered
wagon stood before the door, in which Keziah
was carefully arranging a bed. As soon as it was
ready, Charles, partly dressed and partly enveloped
in a wrapper, was brought down by Polydore and
laid upon it. He fainted from over-exertion and
excitement as his head touched the pillow, and it
was some time before he revived. Virginia took
her seat by him, supporting him to prevent him
from receiving too rude a jar in their progress.
Then Mrs. Peyton, Margaret, her two youngest
boys, and their nurse joined them.

Nearly all the negro men, and many of the boys,
were assembled in a group on the lawn, and Nathan
was marshalling them in battle array. Such arms
as he had, he had distributed to the most efficient
of them; the rest he had told to look out for themselves,
and, consequently, pitchforks, hoes, and rails
figured largely among their hastily-collected weapons.

“What's dat you have dar, Orful?” asked Nathan
of a boy, whose real name of Lord Orville,
given to him by some novel-reading damsel, was
changed to Orful by his companions.

“Tongs, uncle Nathan, and Peter he has de shovel
—couldn't find nothin' else, you see.”

“Oh, go 'long, you didn't look; you niggers are
too lazy for any thing. Take your place there at
de tail of de line; you hear?”

With great difficulty Nathan arranged the curious
assemblage in two lines—one to walk on each
side of the wagon. Polydore was to march at the
head of one column, while Nathan took command
of the other, and superintendence of the whole.
Philip Fairfax, mounted on a spirited pony, with
some difficulty reined it in that he might keep by
Polydore's side, into whose charge he had been especially
given, for between these two a most devoted
attachment existed, that dated from Philip's
babyhood. It began by his always preferring to be
carried about, during a long period of great feebleness,
by Polydore's stalwart arm, and then, as he developed
into a sprightly, intellectual child, he never
felt that he had half enjoyed any fairy story, or tale
of giants and magicians, till he had related them to
his patient listener, and heard his exclamations of
wonder. The only fault Polydore had in Philip's
eyes was an unfortunate facility in going to sleep,

and often he would have to be waked up in the
most interesting part of the story, and kept awake
by the most energetic means till it was finished.
Since Philip had left off fairy stories, and taken to
history and mythology, this propensity had greatly
increased.

“Laws, now, Mas'r Phil,” Polydore would say,
“I only shets my eyes to hear better, you see.”
But five minutes after he had uttered this justification,
he gave such convincing evidence of the depth
of his slumbers, that even Philip could not doubt
their reality. He had been trying to teach Polydore
to read for the last two or three years, and to
see the intense earnestness with which one threw
his whole soul into the work, and the easy complacency
with which the other gave himself up to be
instructed, would have amused any one.

But now Philip's mania for instruction was forgotten,
and he rode silently by Polydore's side, whose
heavy tramp kept steadily up with the pony's dainty
prancings, and who, with eyes glancing with unusual
restlessness, and lips closed with strange firmness,
was mentally resolving, at the first alarm, to
catch Philip in his arms and escape to the woods
with him; for Mas'r Phil was his idol; he loved
him as well, perhaps better, than any one in the
world. A native African, and separated from all
his own family, he had but few else to love, although

for Keziah he cherished an attachment as
yet unrequited. In fact, it had but once burst the
bonds of silence, and then was received with such
an energetic “Shut up! I don't want to yer none of
yer nonsense!” that the poor Polydore had since
worshiped in the sleepy depths of his soul.

At last the cavalcade was in order. The wagon
moved slowly through the heavy roads, and Nathan,
riding at the head of the troop, looked with no small
satisfaction on the train he had managed to bring
into something like marching order. Suddenly an
expression of vexation appeared on his face; the
light from a blazing pine knot, held by one of the
impromptu guard, had fallen on a yellow turban
that was resolutely forcing its way through the
crowd, throwing all into confusion as it passed.

“Dat's Keziah—I knowed she'd be coming,”
muttered Nathan; and, in truth, at that moment
Keziah's gaunt figure and grim face appeared, unmoved
by all the commotion she had left behind
her.

“Go right straight back, Keziah,” uttered Nathan,
in a commanding voice; “we don't want no
women folks.”

“You attend to your own niggers, and I'll take
care of myself,” was the curt and decisive reply.

Nathan was not a man who readily gave up what
he intended to do, and therefore, from his not insisting

on obedience from Keziah, it may be inferred
he knew the hopelessness of the undertaking.

Keziah had good cause for all the gratitude and
devotion her conduct displayed. Ill treated from
her earliest infancy, first by an unfeeling mother,
whose punishments were all so many ingenious tortures,
and who had twice been prevented by her
master from killing her own child, having hung her
up once with her head down, and at another time
being caught dashing her up and down against a
pile of bricks; afterward falling under the power
of a harsh and capricious owner, who, with a dim
perception of her capabilities, and vexed at not knowing
how to avail himself of them, determined, as he
said, “to beat her sulkiness out of her.”

He could not have chosen a worse course.

Every week Keziah grew more obstinate, perverse,
and sulky; at times a strange fire gleamed
in her eyes, like that which may be seen in a newly-encaged
wild beast; and if the mutterings of her
restless lips could have been understood, she would
have been guarded like some savage animal. The
fell purposes she was nurturing in a soul tortured
by desolation and cruelty into crime had not yet
matured themselves into action, when, providentially,
her whole life was changed, and with it, as if by
magic, her character developed itself in feelings and
acts before strange to her heart. As some deep valley,

made damp and unwholesome from the dark
shade of the overhanging trees, leaps into beauty
and freshness when the sun's rays fall unobstructed
upon it, so great and entire a transformation did
happiness produce in Keziah.

Charles, when a mere boy, was sent by his father
to Keziah's master on an errand. As he was leaving,
she crossed his path, returning to the quarter
after one of the severest punishments she had ever
received. Every nerve thrilling with agony, she
walked with difficulty. Charles could not help perceiving
that something was the matter. His look
fell compassionately on her. She raised her eyes,
full of a dumb yet fierce despair, and met his kind
glance. A sudden impulse seemed to tell her that
here lay her only chance of salvation for this world
or the next. Moved by an irresistible impulse,
which she always declared came, not from herself,
but the Lord, she stood for a moment, and, stretching
out her trembling hands, exclaimed,

“Mas'r Charles, will you buy me?”

The words were few, but the attitude and manner
were so imploring, so full of entreaty, that
Charles, with a heart full of generous and kind feeling,
could not withstand it.

“Yes, Keziah, I will,” he replied, and rode off.

All the way home, his thoughts were dwelling
upon his promise and upon the means of fulfilling

it. He felt that he had done wrong in having made
it unconditionally, but since it had been given, and
given to one so helpless, every high and honorable
feeling in his boyish heart forbade him to retract, or
even to repent of it.

He informed his father of what he had rashly
bound himself to do.

“As it is your own promise, my son, and made
without consulting me, you must suffer the consequences
yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is that new horse I promised you when
you were fifteen, and your birth-day comes next
month, I believe.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the rifle your brother intended to give
you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the watch your mother has sent to England
for for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you give up these, I can let you have the
money to do as you please with it.”

Charles had had little opportunity in his life to
cultivate the Spartan virtue of self-denial, the corner-stone
of so much that is noble and elevated, and
even his generosity was put to the proof, as all these
long-desired possessions were slipping from his

grasp. “He that sweareth unto his neighbor, and
disappointeth him not, though it were to his own
hinderance,” rose in his mind, as if some guardian
angel were whispering it there.

“Yes, father, I must do it, for I promised Keziah;
besides, I can do very well with old Roanoke and
my gun; the watch is the hardest thing to give
up,” and Charles sighed.

“Do as you think right, my son,” said Mr. Peyton.

“Could you go over to Mr. Carpenter's to-night,
father?”

“No; but I will go to-morrow.”

And, in due time, a miserable-looking figure, barefooted,
and with but one poor garment and no bundle,
stood in the broad gravel-walk leading to Mr.
Peyton's front door.

“There, Charles, is your purchase,” said he, smiling.
“Go tell her where she is to stay.”

Charles led the way across a broad lawn sloping
gently down, then through a grove of trees carefully
cleared of underbrush, and then, winding his way
among a cluster of whitewashed cabins, he came to
one a little larger and more carefully built than the
rest. An idiot boy was basking in the sun before
the door; within, an aged, infirm, but happy-looking
woman lay in the bed.

“This is Mammy Katy's cabin,” said Charles;

“she nursed us all; but she has been bed-ridden
for the last ten years, and now we nurse her. You
are to stay here for the present. You need not go
to work in the field till you are quite well;” for Keziah's
languid step and heavy eye showed clearly
that she had not yet recovered from her severe punishment.

Fortunately, the management of Keziah was left
entirely to Charles. She had learned his sacrifices
for her, and her devotion to him knew no bounds.
She begged to be allowed to wait upon him and attend
to his wardrobe. Her uncouth figure and
coarse hands seemed but ill fitted for any in-door
work, especially the needle, but no shirts could
have been more neatly stiched or elaborately made
than Charles's. The work she put upon one would
have made three in the ordinary way.

Her habits were peculiar. It was asserted for a
long time that she never slept nor ate. But Charles,
having investigated the matter, discovered that her
only meal was a late but very substantial supper,
and that she slept on the stairs, or threw herself,
with no covering nor bed, on the floor in the passage
leading to his room, or, if any one in the family
were ill, near their door, so that, at the slightest
noise, she was up and wide awake, to render any
service that might be required.

It was almost wonderful to see into how much

responsibility and trust Keziah had gradually worked
herself, and her influence over the other servants
was hardly less than that of the master or
mistress. Nathan was almost the only one who did
not stand somewhat in awe of her, and even he never
ventured to thwart her when she was bent on
any object.

So, much to Nathan's discomfiture, Keziah, grasping
the handle of a well-sharpened carving-knife,
the blade of which was hidden in her dress, headed
the march; and doubtless, if she had been put to
the proof, her yellow turban would have been, like
Henry the Fourth's white plume, a guide to the
hottest of the fray.

The morning light came slowly on. At every
breath of clear, bracing air, Charles felt renewed
vigor, and, ordering the covering of the wagon to
be put back, he lay gazing out on the earth and
glowing sky he had never thought to see again but
with spiritual eyes, and felt that he could almost
realize the emotions of the widow's son, as, at the
gate of Nain, he rose and looked around on the
crowd whose mourning was changed into wonder,
and on Him whose heart was ever open to our sorrows,
and touched with a feeling for our infirmities.

He felt so tranquil in his helplessness, so full of
trustfulness and hope, when, having no power to do
any thing for himself, he had placed himself, and all

those who were dear to him, in the keeping of Him
who is mighty to save, that he had no room in his
heart for fear. Repeating aloud David's speech,
“The Lord that delivered me out of the paw of the
lion, and out of the paw of the bear, He will deliver
me out of the hand of the Philistine.” “Do you
remember, mother,” he continued, “reading that to
me when I was a little boy, and how much I liked
it, and repeated it so often that father and brother
Hamilton called me `little David' for a long time.”

His mother smiled sadly, and whispered to him
not to talk, for it might disturb Virginia.

There was little danger of that, for she had fallen
into a sleep of perfect exhaustion, and her slumber
was so profound that Charles was at first alarmed,
so like death were her pale cheeks, her eyes sunken
with long watching and tears, and her lips lightly
parted, through which, so gently did her bosom
heave, no breath seemed to come.

He turned from his young wife to his mother and
sister, and saw, in the cold, truth-telling light of the
morning, lines of care and sorrow that had been
newly traced in the last few weeks. A feeling of
passionate love for them—love that would have held
life cheap if his death could shield them from one
pang or fear, mingled with a conviction of his great
weakness, swelled his heart almost to bursting.

Turning for consolation to the sky, that whispered

to him of all-embracing love, and the green earth,
that murmured in its thousand voices lessons of
hope and faith, his eyes fell on the rude guard that
marched steadily by the side of the wagon. In
whatever direction he looked, he met only glances
of affection and encouragement. Different voices,
all familiar to his ear from childhood, called out to
bid him, in their untutored but heartfelt words, to
be of good cheer, they would defend him with their
lives. He thanked them by a look, and, leaning
back on his pillow, fell into a train of earnest
thought.

What had he done for these men, that they should
devote their lives so willingly to him and his? His
parents had been faithful to the great responsibility
they took up with their lives, his sister was untiring
in her efforts for the improvement and education of
her family, but beyond a general feeling of kindness
and interest, he could recall nothing that would account
for such fidelity. Excepting in the case of
Keziah, he could remember no instance of self-denial
that could excite their gratitude.

“Hereafter, if God spares my life, it shall not be
so,” thought he; “I am rich—as far as this world
is concerned; I have nothing to strive for—my lines
are cast to me in pleasant places—I will devote
my life to them who are now so willing to offer
theirs for me. I will make it my chief object to

see how best to promote their interest and advantage,
and may God help me to a right decision.”

With a few words of earnest prayer, he looked
again on the dark throng around him, letting his
eyes rest on each face, that he might impress it,
with his vow, on his memory. One of them stepped
close to the wagon, and in a whispered voice
said,

“Please, Mas'r Charles, would it 'sturb Miss Virginia
if we sung a little? We can hold out so much
better if we can sing.”

“No, a cannon would hardly disturb her now,”
replied he; “sing, if you wish to.”

And the voices of the motley crowd rose in singular
harmony in the clear morning air. The most
delicate ear would have been puzzled to detect a
false note, no matter how varied or intricate the
tune might be. The songs they sung were principally
the joyous and triumphant hymns heard
only at a Methodist camp-meeting, and especially
suited to encourage and animate persons in doubtful
or hazardous situations.

Keziah was indignant at this interruption to the
stillness that had prevailed. In angry tones she demanded
silence, but in vain.

“Mas'r said we might sing,” shouted Orful, from
the farther extremity of the line.

“Mas'r Charles said so,” echoed Peter.

“Keziah,” said Charles.

The faint whisper of that voice reached the ear to
which it was addressed through the confused murmuring
around. Her great love seemed to quicken
all her senses. In a moment the yellow turban was
stretched over the side of the wagon, that Charles
might communicate his wishes with the least possible
exertion.

“You know this is the only road till we reach
Derrick's cross-roads, four miles off. So, unless the
people are already on their way toward us, they can
not hear us; if they are, no noise can harm us. It
cheers me to hear them sing.”

“Sing away, boys,” said Keziah, with a condescending
nod; and again the strange harmony rose
in the air. Even the horses seemed to feel the inspiriting
power of the music, and moved more rapidly.

The favorite melody of “The old Ship of Zion”
was just commenced, when a trampling of many
horses was heard. A silence full of horror and
dread fell over those in the wagon. Charles grasped
his mother's hand, and threw himself over the
unconscious Virginia, as if to shield her with his
body—it was all he could do. Margaret clasped
her infant closer to her breast, and threw her arm
around her little Harry. She cast a glance of agony
on Philip, whose boyish face was the calmest there.

“I am not frightened, mother—don't think of
me,” said he, in reply to her look.

“Polydore, take care of him,” exclaimed Mrs
Fairfax.

“Yes, Miss Margaret, I will,” was the reply.

These were the only words spoken. Keziah
strided on far in advance of the rest, and, if it should
prove to be the enemy approaching, woe to the first
man that should cross her path. No womanish
fears, no feminine tenderness was in her heart, but
the fierceness and pitilessness of a lioness fighting
for her young.

Nearer and nearer came the sound of hurrying
hoofs, and, as all strained their eyes to catch the
first glimpse of the approaching crowd, each heart
grew stiller and more resolute, excepting that beating
in the breast of the young Lord Orville, who,
shaming his illustrious name, stood trembling fearfully,
while the tongs clattered in sympathy in his
hands. At last he fairly turned, and, fleeing for
safety, hid himself behind the trunk of some fallen
monarch of the forest. Peter, with uplifted shovel,
looked in supreme contempt on the base flight of
his whilome companion in arms.

“Hi! I allers know'd he no count,” said he, and
stretched his short neck to see what was coming.

“Oh, glory! glory! if it ain't Mas'r Frank and
all de rest on 'em.”

Orful heard the shout, and, peering over his rampart,
saw, to his great relief, a crowd of the young
men of the surrounding country, who, having attended
to the safety of their own families, were on
their way to escort the defenseless inhabitants of
Cedar Hill to Somerton.

Learning that all was quiet in the neighborhood,
and that the threatened disturbance had nearly
passed over, Charles dismissed his faithful defenders
with earnest expressions of thankfulness, and
left them to return home under the guidance of Nathan,
while the family pursued their way to Somerton,
to wait there for a more settled state of security,
and to give Charles the repose he needed after
so much excitement. Keziah accompanied the family,
being unwilling to trust her young master to
other hands until he was quite recovered.