University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
SCENES AT HOLLY-DALE.

Our little group of three seated themselves on the river bluff,
Henry Travis sitting at the feet of the lovers, and Bertha's
hand grasped by that of Sinclair. Very sweet was the situation
to all the parties. The night air was soft and pleasantly cool,
coming up from the river. The stream swept by, darkly bright,
with a gentle murmur as it went, chafing against roots of
cypress, and bending branches of oak and willow, that trailed
down into the water. There was no moon yet, but the stars
were shining gayly and numerously down, their pale gleams
dropping about the group through the great roof of trees under
which they sat, and which crowned the little promontory, even
where it overhung the river.

That silly sweet prattle of lovers! How idle to shrewish
ears! That enumeration of little ridiculous dreams and hopes,
so childishly little, when heard by third persons, which amply
satisfy the minds of the interested parties, no matter how
wise. For love is verily a little child — so full of faith, so
full of wisdom in its simplicity, finding so much of compensation
in its life of trifles; finding life itself so busy and full
of work, even when given up to the most unperforming revery.
We will not seek to repeat the little nothings of which its
speech is so full, assured that the situation is sufficiently satisfactory,
though the speech be silly.

Willie Sinclair, strong man as he is; man of thought and
action, purpose and performance; honest patriot and brave

partisan; he, too, like the lovely creature with whose fingers his
own paddled, could have dreamed away the livelong night in the
pleasant commerce, but that there was that stern monitor called
duty at his elbow, which kept up a continual undersong of exhortation,
muttering in his ears at every period —

He started up, at length, impetuously, and with the air of
one desperately shaking himself free from a pleasant thraldom.

“Bertha, I must away. I have work before me of a pressing
sort. I must get writing materials. I have to despatch 'Bram
on a mission within an hour. Can I get to the house unseen,
where I may write a letter?”

“Why must you hurry, Willie? I thought you had a little
respite now.”

This was said reproachfully.

“Faith, so I said — and truly, a very little respite. But a
single hour with you, Bertha, is a very precious blessing in a
jewel's compass. I must be content with just so little, now, in
order that we may secure a longer time hereafter. But the
business now is pressing.”

“You are always so eager to begone, Willie.”

“Ah! you are so jealous, Bertha. But it does not vex me
that you are so.”

And he laughed and caught her in his arms, and kissed her,
and she pouted prettily.

“Kiss her again, major,” said Henry,—“I'm sure she rather
likes it, though she does push you off and grumble.”

And the boy clapped his hands at the result of his suggestion,
Sinclair dutifully doing as he was bidden, and getting soundly
slapped for his offence. Bertha Travis was, you see, something
of a rustic, and knew not exactly how to resist an impertinence,
which came in disguise of a tribute.

“You see what I've got for listening to you.”

“I reckon, major, you'd risk the slap over and over again for
the kiss. But I wouldn't.”

“Hush, you!” said the sister; “your impudence grows faster
than your shoulders. But, Willie, must you be going?”

“I must: but I need first the materials for writing a letter.
It is your father's business, Bertha, rather than mine. Now,
dearest, if I could make my way to the house, unseen by the
servants, slip into your father's office, and write a letter —”

“It can be done. Henry can go before and whistle to you
if all's clear. We can steal round the kitchen, under cover of
the garden-wall, which is shady with evergreens, and the office
is in the basement. And mother wants to see you, Willie. She
can come down to you in the office.”

“Yes — to be sure: but do not let your father know that I
am there. Not that he will not know — at least suspect — and
approve; but that he must not be burdened with an unnecessary
fact, about which he may hereafter be questioned by that
arch rascal Inglehardt.”

It was arranged that Henry Travis should go ahead, and see
that the land was clear, while the two followed slowly after.
His whistle was the signal to time their paces and regulate
their course. The boy was already something of a woodsman
and scout, and delighted at every sort of employment which
exercised his faculty. He stretched away as soon as apprized
of what he was to do. How the lovers loitered on, hand in
hand, whispering what grateful nonsense, we may conjecture.
Enough to report their arrival beneath the shadow of the dwelling,
in the right basement of which Travis kept his office. A
door opened upon the yard in the rear of the office, and here
Henry stood and gave them admission, closing the entrance after
them. A tallow (dipped) candle burned upon the table, which
was covered with books and papers. Travis was a reader of
books, of which he had a tolerable English collection of that
day, some of them standards even to ours. He was a busy
man, too, as a British commissariat, and hence a multitude of
papers, calculations, memoranda, reports, &c. He was up stairs,
companioning his wife. When Henry came to his father for
the key of his office, the latter was about to ask him for what
he wished it — as the application was somewhat unusual —
but with the promptness of an older wit, the boy anticipated
him:—

“Don't ask me any questions, papa. You know I shall not
do any mischief.”

The father in a moment suspected the nature of his secret.
The mother asked:—

“Where's your sister, Henry?”

He looked at her significantly, and said:—

“She's at the office door outside, waiting for me to open for her.”

The father instantly handed the key to the boy, who, snatching
up the only candle burning in the hall, hurried down to let
in the two lovers, leaving his excellent parents in the dark.

“The thoughtless scamp!” said the father.

The mother said:—

“Never mind the light. We can talk as well in the dark as
with the candle. Have you any idea what he's after, Travis?”

“Yes!”

“Ah! — are all things going right, my husband?”

“I hope so. They promise well! They are in a fair train
for it.”

“Heaven speed it — and send us out of this painful bondage.
I trust we shall never again be cursed with the sight of Richard
Inglehardt.”

“That we can hardly hope for, my dear — certainly, we must
endure it a little while longer; but I hope not too long. We shall
probably see him again, and we must keep up appearances,
Lucy, until we are able to bid him defiance.”

“You are of course aware that Sinclair is in the neighborhood—
has been on the plantation?”

“Yes; but the less I know of this the better. I suspect that
he is below at this very moment, but I would not willingly be assured
of it. You may ascertain if you will, but tell me nothing
of it. I suppose that Bertha will let you know anon.”

At that moment the girl's steps were heard coming through
the passage-way, a flight of stairs leading up from the basement
through the centre of the building. She found her way to her
mother in the dark, and whispered in her ears. Then she
lighted a candle.

“Bertha,” said the father —“have the windows of the office
been securely shut in for the night?”

The precaution had been taken by Sinclair, to have this done
before he entered. Meanwhile, Mrs. Travis rose, and with her
daughter went to the pantry.

“I'll venture anything, Bertha, you never thought of giving
him any supper.”

“Indeed, mother, I did not.”

“As if love was sufficient support for a major of dragoons. I
think it just as likely as not, the poor fellow hasn't had a mouthful
for twenty-four hours.”

Bertha was full of regrets and self-reproaches.

“Never mind, you shall amend your fault. Get out the ham;
there's some johnny-cake put up; and the fish Henry caught
to-day are fried and in the safe. Step out and bring them in.
Your father can go off to bed, and we'll bring the major in here.
He can take his supper in the pantry. Have everything ready,
while I step down and have a talk with him. You've had him
to yourself long enough.”

Meanwhile, our major of dragoons, had written out his despatches,
whatever they were. He had just finished, and sealed
them, when Mrs. Travis joined him in the office. When she
appeared, and pronounced his name, he started up, and, with as
natural a grace and ease, as if he had done the thing repeatedly
before, he threw his arms about the matron's neck, and inflicted
a smart kiss upon her lips.

“Bless me, Major Sinclair,” said the lady, recovering from
the salute —“It is well Bertha does not see you — she might
take it amiss.”

“But Bertha does see you, you wicked couple,” cried the
girl, making her appearance at the same moment; “you erred,
mother, in leaving me so little to do up-stairs.”

“Well, major, since we are so closely watched, you will see
that you time your kisses more seasonably, and when there
shall be no jealous eyes upon us.”

“Ah! my dear Mrs. Travis — mother that is to be — we
might apprehend from Bertha's jealousy were she to be utterly
shared out.”

“What! you don't mean to say that you are in the habit of
kissing my daughter — Bertha!”

“Fie! Willie! You know that such a thing happens very
rarely.”

“A major of dragoons,” said the mother shrewdly, “is certainly
the last person in the world to indulge in such a practice,

except as mere matter of duty. But now that we have all
had our kisses, I propose, Major Sinclair, that you step up to
the pantry, and take a little cold supper. I fancy that you get
as little good food now-a-days as kisses. Bertha has got together
everything in the house that is eatable.”

“Ah! she is thoughtful of me. I confess to an appetite.”

“Oh!” said the girl with a blush — “it is mother who has
been considerate. I confess I never once thought of your mere
mortal appetites.”

“While feeding on my heart you never felt for my hunger.”

“What a superb Spanish sort of speech. But come up, and eat.”

“Where's Mr. Travis?”

“He will not be in the way.”

“The appeal is irresistible. I confess that I am one of that
class of lovers, who never lose appetite. A sigh never relieves
my hunger. The recollection of my lady's eyes rarely moves
me to an indifference for food; — even a kiss, dear Bertha, never
lessens my taste for ham and eggs, chickens and salad. I will
look into your pantry with a will. But I have little time for
pleasures of this sort, and I must swallow as fiercely as an Edisto
raftsman. I must be across the river again in an hour.”

“So soon, Willie?”

“Yes; my business will admit of no delay. I must send
'Bram on a journey to-night. Where's Henry?”

The boy answered from the outside of the door.

“Run down, Henry, to the landing and wind this bugle,
three short mots, and then come back. This will bring 'Bram
down to the river, where he will wait me. And now for the
cold meats.”

The boy sped on his errand, and the rest of the party adjourned
up-stairs to the pantry, where Bertha had spread out
everything with the natural nicety with which a damsel does
everything for her lover. There was the ham, not over-deeply
cut into, there the dish of perch, cold but very appetizing, there
were some fragments of chicken; a plate of corn johnny-cake;
a tray of pickles, cucumbers and melons; — and a decanter of
old Jamaica.

“If you would wait a while, major, till we could get you a
bowl of coffee —”

“Not for the world, my dear Mrs. Travis — all this suffices,
amply — meets all my desires — and I frankly confess to you
that my hunger was beginning to rage. It is not often that I
see so good a table, and recently, I have eaten little — nothing
half so good since I have been on the Edisto. A snack at Kit
Rowe's did but whet and stimulate the appetite which has had
no supply since.”

Willie Sinclair had no affectations. His was one of those
hearty, whole-souled spontaneous natures, which frankly deliver
their true characteristics — having no strategic tendencies in
morals — few or no reserves in respect to their own moods —
simply because there is no secret consciousness perpetually
prompting concealment. He slashed away at the ham, tore the
chicken asunder, swallowed pickle after pickle, as men of sanguine
temperament are apt to do, and washed down his edibles
with a copious draught of Jamaica, and this without mincing
the matter, without any delicate hesitation, and scrupulous
nicety because of the presence of his mistress. And, we do not
scruple to say further — we have no desire for any peevish suppression
of the truth, in deference to canting delicacy — and
therefore state frankly that Bertha Travis herself was persuaded
to take the wing of a chicken between the fingers of one
hand and a fragment of johnny-cake in the other, and, for a
part of the time at least, to keep her lover company in his
pleasant performances. And we give it as our sober opinion,
that love — happy love we mean — always begets an appetite
— i. e., among all sensible and Christian people!

Suddenly, even while Sinclair ate and prattled with the
ladies, the sound of horses' feet was heard in the court below;
and Henry Travis dashed into the apartment crying:—

“To cover, Major Willie, there are troopers without, all in
armor.”

“I have not finished!” quoth Sinclair, coolly snatching up
the ham-bone and the bottle of Jamaica, and, chewing as he
went, he followed Bertha down stairs into the office, while Henry
Travis proceeded to open for the strangers whose raps were
now audible at the entrance.

And who were these unexpected visiters but Richard Inglehardt
and a portion of his crew?

That subtle engineer, who had not for some time seen Mistress
Bertha Travis, had suddenly bethought him that he might
wisely put himself in the way of Fortune, having put such a
spoke into her wheel during his late negotiations with Captain
Travis. At all events, he had resolved to make a sudden visit
to see how his schemes had worked — to see if he could, by close
deciphering of the faces of the damsel and her father, ascertain
the effect upon her of the communications of the latter. Had
he communicated the arrangement made between themselves?
How had she received it? Was she resigned to her fate, and
would these three allowed weeks find him at the close the master
of it? No wonder he was curious. The maiden was a rare
prize, and he hungered for its possession. We may add that,
never wholly assured of the father's good faith, he was not quite
free from a lurking suspicion that nothing had as yet been done.
His purpose was threefold — to take in a draught of beauty at
the eyes, in anticipation of his future hopes — to see for himself
if there had been any progress in the matter — and to goad the
reluctant Travis to the performance of his hateful task. Satisfied
that the father held it to be a hateful task, he could readily
believe that he would work at it very slowly. It was, perhaps,
just as well that he should be made to feel the spur in his
sides.

Never for a moment did Richard Inglehardt suppose that,
just when he rode up to the dwelling, his lucky rival was at
full feast, of eyes and mouth in the pantry, with the lady of his
love.

Captain Travis, though he had left the field to Sinclair, and
retired to his chamber, had, fortunately, not retired for the
night. He had heard the sounds of the troopers as soon as
Henry Travis, and made his way down stairs, not a little
anxious, in season to welcome Inglehardt at the entrance. That
subtle swordfish came in alone, having left his troopers, who
were simply rough-riding rangers, to keep watch in the court
below, and cool their restiffness by the contemplation of the
quiet stars, always supposing that such people may occasionally
incline to look upward.

Of course, Captain Travis was courtlily gracious, and in civil
terms enough welcomed his unwelcome visiter. They entered the

parlor together, where they found good Mrs. Travis, sitting
calmly in her rustic rocker, made of oak-staves, with a square
of undressed oxhide stretched across the seat, the mottled hair,
white and black, outside. And she was civil enough in her
welcome; and Inglehardt had no reason to complain. He thought
the old lady rather stiff and stately in her reception, but this
might be due to the uneasy working of the hinges of age — the
stiffness might be in the joints rather than the soul; though he
confessed to himself, while only forming this supposition, that, at
no period, could he have flattered himself with the belief that
the good lady had ever shown herself cordial in her deportment,
while in his presence.

Whatever Inglehardt thought or felt, he never suffered himself
to lose the quiet, easy, subdued, deliberate, and very gracious
manner which usually characterized his bearing. His
genuflections were profound and graceful, his smile the most
benignant, and when he took the lady's hand, and inquired after
her well-being, it was with the air of a dutiful and devoted
son, all reverence and solicitude; and taking his seat beside her,
he drew his box from one pocket, fed his nostril gingerly —
followed the feeding by the use of his kerchief — a genuine
“Injy,” which he drew from the other, restored both to their
places again, and renewed his remark, with singularly sweet
empressement, upon the admirable keeping in which he found his
amiable hostess.

But Bertha Travis was nowhere to be seen. He sweetly insinuated
his wishes for her health — which were construed naturally
into an inquiry for her presence — and was told that she
had retired for the night — the hour was late — no guests were
expected; — Captain Travis, by the latter remark, meaning to
convey the idea that, could it have been foreseen that the house
was to be honored with the presence of so distinguished a visiter,
the damsel would not have disappeared so early. And with
this pleasant insinuation, Master Inglehardt was compelled to
be content. And the conversation flagged.

After a-while, Captain Inglehardt, apologizing sweetly to
Mrs. Travis, begged to see her spouse on public business, in
private, and in his office. Travis, without knowing how Sinclair
had been disposed of, and feeling not a little anxious for

the subject, was yet unable to evade this requisition. His wife
would have retired, giving up the parlor to her guest and husband;
but this Inglehardt would by no means permit; and
Travis had no ready subterfuge by which to escape the necessity
of taking his visiter, down stairs, “on public business,” to
that office whither it had been always usual with them to go on
such occasions. So, seizing a candle, almost desperately, and
making as much bustle as he well could, without exciting suspicion,
he led the way for the unwelcome guest.

The office was wholly in darkness. All was silent there.
Where was Sinclair? was the mental query of Travis. Had
he got off in the face of the troopers without? If not, where
could he be? There was a rude settee in the apartment upon
which Inglehardt subsided with an air of graceful negligence.
Could Sinclair have been forced to take shelter, under the form
which sustained his enemy? If so, Travis felt for the mortifications
of the man whose proud spirit he knew, and whom he
desired for his son-in-law! But, casting an anxious glance
about the room, the father of Bertha caught a glimpse of the
door, ajar, which opened into a closet occupying that portion of
the passage way, which lay beneath the stairflight into the
second story. If not gone, he felt it probable that our major of
dragoons was sheltered there amidst wines and liquors, and any
number of demijohns and bottles. These, he remembered,
crowded the shelves to the very edges, and covered the floor,
leaving precious little space for the movements of a restless
person. Our commissary felt exceedingly uneasy. A single
incautious movement, of the occupant, if concealed there,
might tumble a dozen bottles from their spheres, and he might
be witness to some such scene as that in which Hamlet administers
to Polonius through the arras. Travis was half disposed
to think that Inglehardt's visit, so late, so unexpected, was
only made in consequence of his suspicions. Had he been furnished
with any clues? had the spies upon his steps, of whom
Sinclair had spoken, followed the trail to his dwelling? Had
the espionage which he had long felt to be maintained upon
himself, made and reported the discovery of Sinclair's presence?
Well might he be anxious. His secret — nay, his fate, hung
upon a single hair.

But Travis was an old soldier, and a pretty cool politician.
Whatever he felt, he yet contrived to appear perfectly unconcerned
and indifferent.

“Well, Inglehardt,” he said, with an air of frankness, “you
have news, I'm sure. You are not the man to ride at night
without a burden. What have you heard?”

The other answered gently and slowly.

“Nay,” said he, “will you not credit me with the anxious
feeling of a lover who would gaze occasionally upon the beautiful
star which is to crown his destiny? Is it not enough that
my star is the jewel of your house?”

“Pshaw! You are not the person to fatigue yourself with
love-making. I know you too well for that. What are your
tidings?”

“Faith, but you do me wrong, my dear captain. Sentiment
is my infirmity. Love is my weakness. The eagerness of my
passion alone compels me here, and I feel a signal disappointment
in not being able to see the creature of my devotions.
Verily, you might have expected me. After our conference, in
which I showed you fully the intensity of my passion, you
could scarcely have expected me to keep away. Ah! — do
tell me what progress you have made?”

The other answered bluntly and truly: —

“None as yet! I have not even broached the subject to wife
or daughter. I felt too much like a coward. I had not the
courage for it. It is not an agreeable duty, Captain Inglehardt,
to repeat to their ears, the terrible language you have thrust into
mine.”

“Ah! — but it must be done, Captain Travis!” said the other,
with a contemptuous coolness, and he took snuff after the
speech.

“Ay! Of course! It must be done; but though I know
this, I do not the less feel how painful is the necessity. And
it shall be done, Captain Inglehardt. You have my promise,
but you must leave it to me to decide the when and the how.
I must seize a favorable moment for it. I have three weeks
remember.”

“Less some thirty-six hours! I will not bate one moment of
the limit.”

“I know you for a terrible tyrant, as I have told you, and,
by Heaven, Inglehardt, if I saw any way to escape you, I should
a thousand times prefer to defy you to the teeth, than sacrifice
that dear child to your desires.”

“Sacrifice! Pooh! pooh! Travis; — what silly, inappropriate
words you use. How should there be any sacrifice? Your
safety is something, and I flatter myself that I am as proper a
person to render your daughter happy as any captain you could
find. But you desire, possibly, a higher rank for your son-in-law.
Well, our union of forces will secure that also. We shall
see. Though I care nothing for the distinction myself, yet, to
satisfy you, I shall put myself in the way of a colonelcy.”

“Do that!” said Travis with energy.

“Well — it shall be done.”

“But your news? You have had some intelligence?”

“Y-e-s!” drawlingly, “we are to have three more regiments
from Ireland; Cornwallis is to return from Virginia, bringing
Arnold with him, and we shall finish the rebels at a blow in
Georgia and the Carolinas. It needs but this to bring about
negotiations for peace. Congress is worn out, and prepared to
make terms for the Northern Colonies, giving up the Carolinas
and Georgia, which, with Florida and the Southwest territory,
will leave the Crown in possession of the richest of its provinces
— worth all the rest to her commerce, There! Isn't that a
plentiful budget?”

“If true! But how do you get it?”

“From Charleston. It comes from a sure hand. It comprises
Balfour's latest intelligence.”

“Heaven send it to be true! Yet, will Great Britain be willing
to yield so much to Congress, with the certainty of continual
insurrection here, stimulated by a republic alongside.”

“There will be no insurrection here. It is to be a war of
extermination waged upon the rebels, till the whole race is extinct.
The conquerers will be put in possession, and a new
plan of colonization will fill up the vacant places with the loyal
people. You perceive a sufficient motive in the prospect for
present and future fidelity.”

“I have never wanted motive for this.”

“To be sure not,” said the other with a smile, which was a

sneer. “At all events, this intelligence will furnish sufficient
motive for sundry who are shaking in the wind, deceived by the
apparent successes of the rebel partisans.”

“Very true,” said the other musingly.

Travis was not deceived by this intelligence. He not only
knew it to be an invention — a lie throughout — but he knew
it to be the invention of Inglehardt himself. Travis, who had his
own emissaries in the village, knew that, unless within the last
eight hours, Inglehardt had received no such intelligence up to
their last interview. Carelessly insinuating the question as to
the period when he got his despatches, Inglehardt inadvertently
answered — “This morning.” The other said no more. The
conversation became desultory, and finally flagged, both parties
beginning to show decided symptoms of weariness.

“I must ride,” at length said Inglehardt. “A stoup of your
Jamaica, Travis; this day's work has enfeebled me.”

The requisition filled Travis once more with uneasiness. It
was one which Inglehardt rarely made. Could he have any
suspicions of that closet beneath the stairs? He knew that it
was there the liquors were kept. But there were no means of
evasion. Any hesitation, or delay, would probably confirm the
suspicions of the other if any were entertained; and Travis
rose promptly and proceeded to the closet, the door of which he
opened carefully and no wider than was necessary for the admission
of his person. Judge of his momentary consternation
when he discovered not only the major of dragoons, but Bertha
Travis, within its shelter; his movement, on opening the door
— which opened within — having the effect of forcing them into
the closest relations. As he entered, Bertha thrust the square
black-bottle — in which the Jamaica of that day was usually
found most portable — into his grasp. He was saved the
trouble of finding it. He withdraw with it promptly, drawing
the door closely behind him. But now, another dilemma
awaited him. He had the rum, and the tumblers, and these
were planted upon the table near the unwelcome guest; but
the water was above stairs. To leave Inglehardt alone, even
for a moment, was a peril. His papers were strewn about the
table. He rapidly asked himself whether there was anything
in them to compromise him. A tricky politician never feels

himself quite safe. He knew that Inglehardt had as few scruples
as himself, and, then, he might take it into his head to
look into the closet. But he had no escape from this new
necessity, and, groaning in spirit as he went, he hurried up-stairs
for the water.

Sinclair readily conceived all the dangers of his own situation
as certainly as did Travis; but he got his couteau de chasse
in readiness, and felt that even strife would be a grateful relief
from a position, in which, though with an arm about his beloved,
he had stiffened from constraint. He had shifted the burden of
his body from one leg to the other, until both were weary. And
he weighed little short of two hundred. But Inglehardt never
looked at the closet. He, however, did not hesitate at a rapid
glance at the papers on the table, which only ceased as he
heard Travis approaching from above.

“The dirty rascal!” muttered Sinclair to himself, as through
the crack of the door he witnessed the transaction. The next
moment Travis made his appearance, and the two drank together,
the potation of Travis rendered necessary from the excitement
he felt, exceeding thrice in quantity that taken by his
companion. Then, slowly, to the last, Inglehardt took his departure,
Travis carefully seeing him beyond the dwelling, and
to his horse.

“What a tedious scoundrel!” exclaimed Sinclair, emerging
from the closet, and leading out Bertha. “Cold and conceited,
isn't it wonderful that such a fellow should have any of the
qualities of the soldier? Yet he has: he can plan well; is
cunningly clever, and prompt enough to blows on most occasions;
but he lacks one warlike essential — one of the most
essential for a dragoon. He is wanting in impulse; is deficient
in celerity. What a lover he must be — eh, Bertha? Did he take
snuff between the sentences when he was making love to you?”

“Ah! he never got so far as that.”

“A snake in the grass! Subtle, sly, venomous, and deliberate.
I am curious to think how the encounter between us
shall take place. I know that it will come — but how? Heaven
speed it be in the open daylight, in the broad field, with Heaven
looking on; and, if Heaven pleases, with no other spectators.
I should dread that he should creep near me in the darkness,

while I slept, sheltering his sliding, spotty carcass under innocent
leaves and flowers.”

Travis reappeared.

“Is the coast clear, sir?” asked Sinclair.

He was answered by Henry Travis, who hastily reappeared.

“All right, Major Willie — they're out of the avenue by this
time.”

“What! not a-bed, boy?” said the father. “And what have
you got here? — my pistols, as I live! Are they loaded, boy?”

“To the muzzle, sir. I thought they had found out the
major, and that I might have to take a crack at 'em.”

“'Faith, Captain Travis, I shall have to ask you for both
your children,” said Sinclair, lifting the boy up in his muscular
arms, and kissing him.

“Don't be jealous, Bertha,” said the saucy urchin — “you
shall have it as soon as he's gone.”

“I shan't wait for that, saucebox,” said the girl, slapping him
on one cheek, while kissing the other. Sinclair announced the
necessity for his immediate departure, and took Bertha by the
hand. Her father felt a sudden impulse to examine his papers;
and, during this study, our major atoned, upon her lips, for the
outrage committed upon her brother's. Then she slipped out of
the room and up-stairs without rousing a single echo; and, if
she slept without dreaming that night, it was not because of the
absence of very pleasant fancies. A parting stoup of the Jamaica
was hastily swallowed by our dragoon, and he disappeared
— a few words as he left being sufficient to establish an
understanding between himself and Travis, for future meeting.
Henry would go with him down to the river and see him across
in the boat. The boy would have given his favorite pony to
have been permitted to cross also. In another hour, Sinclair
had despatched, by Abram, the missive which he had encountered
so much risk to prepare. Of course, the black was properly
schooled in his duties, and perfectly understood what was
to be done. His task implied a canter of ten or twelve miles
that night.

“But where is Ballou?” was Sinclair's query to himself, as
he prepared to occupy the forest-camp of the negro, his good
steed being his only companion. “The fellow must be very

busy — on a warm trail — or — which is most likely — must be
drunk again!”

But our major was quite too tired for much reflection, and
soon delivered himself up to sleep. We must not omit to state
that he had not sent 'Bram off without his supper, having
brought with him the ham-bone and bread which he had so
hastily appropriated, from the pantry of Mrs. Travis, when the
alarm was given by the steeds of Inglehardt and his party.