University of Virginia Library

47. CHAPTER XLVII.
DENOUEMENT.

For a moment, old Travis seemed to cower before the tory-captain.
But the next instant, he laughed aloud, merrily, as at
the contemplation of some queer matter in thought or sight;
and he immediately began to address his rambling and garrulous
discourse to his new auditor, though without rising from
his seat — the hand of Bertha still playing in his thin, gray, but
long, wild, dishevelled hair.

“Lights and a fire, Inglehardt. Though this be the longest
winter, we have it cheerful. I made ready for your coming,
you see. How did I guess you would come to-night? It's like
old times. You shall have some punch. A fire is very seasonable
still, though spring is coming on. We have had winter
long enough. Sit down. We shall have some music now. You
shall hear my birds.”

Inglehardt looked long and steadily at the old man. Was
he feigning? “Is this pretence? Is there not some trick in
this?”

Such was his conjecture. He resented the idea of trick as
an outrage. He suspected all things and persons. He could
not easily persuade himself that one whom he had hitherto
found so cunning at the foils, should, in so short a time, almost
at a bound, become suddenly an imbecile. He searched Travis
with his most stern and penetrating glances. He glanced keenly
to Bertha, who still stood at the aperture, looking with wan despair,
over her father's head, as he sat, smiling and waving his
manacled hands, with a sort of childlike satisfaction. Inglehardt
surveyed both of them with glances of doubt and disquiet.

He was not to be made the subject of fraud and deception. He
was not to be driven from his purpose by any juggleries. He
sat down to the table, deliberately, and drawing his sword, laid
it upon a book which rested upon the table between the two
candles. The book was the Bible. How did it get there?
Why was it brought? The sword crossing it, indicated some
mysterious rites. Whether the tory-captain desired to produce
some impression of this sort, or whether he merely meant to relieve
himself of the hamper of sword and belt, and merely flung
them down in the place which first offered itself, can not be
said. But he probably had a purpose in it. He had a strategic
policy in all his performances. But why should the sword be
drawn? Could he design to use it on any of the parties present;
or was it his vulgar purpose simply to intimidate — to inspire
them with a fear lest he should use it. He had, as we
know, a rascally penchant for stratagems; and there is no conceiving,
or following, the petty artifices of such a man, or conjecturing
the particular effect which he aims to produce.

Old Travis noted with some curiosity, this ostentatious display
of the weapons of the tory. He said:—

“Put up your sword, Inglehardt. Winter's over now, and we
shall have supper directly, so there's no sort of use for weapons.
The wars are over — the spring is come, and we shall have supper.
After supper we shall have a bowl of punch of the good
old fashion. Put up your sword; for, what says Shakspere?
`put up your sword, or the dew will rust it'— no, that's not it
exactly,” and he mused with finger to his temple. “`Put up
your bright sword'— no! `Keep up your bright swords for the
dew will rust them.' It occurs in Othello. Ah! what a masterpiece
is that! It is such a history as belongs only to a warm
climate, such as ours. Though, by-the-way, Inglehardt, this
has been the longest winter I have ever known in Carolina.”

Inglehardt looked at Bertha.

“What does it mean?”

“It speaks for itself,” she answered.

“Yes — but if it be cunning — acting?”

“Acting? Is he able, think you, to put on a gray head in
the short space of four weeks? to look like that! You have
brought him to this! you only.”

“I shall bring him to worse things yet — and you to worse,
unless I can bring you both to wiser.”

“What worse than this?”

“You shall soon know. Captain Travis—”

“Well Inglehardt, what's it now? But not a word about
business now till we have had supper. You were always quite too
fond of business. I hate business in cold weather. You always
had something to discuss just at supper time. Now, I won't
spoil my appetite for supper by any talk of business at this
time. By-the-way, fish ought to be coming in. I reckon the
perch are biting now. How I long for a perch supper. I am
tired of bacon and corn-bread. The fish now must be in season.
The dogwood must be in blossom, I reckon. I have heard the
frogs nightly for a week past.”

“Captain Travis,” said Inglehardt — “suppose we talk of
other things.”

“Well, well, what other things? There's many other things
that we can find to talk about. There's the winter and the
summer; and warm weather and cold; and wars and rumors
of wars; and — hark you, Inglehardt — is that a bible that's
before you? I wonder where it came from? I never saw that
book in our house before. Is it a bible? It is not ours.”

“Yes. But I must beg you to pay attention to other matters.
We shall need the Bible before we are done.”

“Yes: to be sure. If it's the Bible, then there are many
other matters. There's Job, and the vision in the night. I
have seen that very vision. I have. It has made me shiver
all over, head to foot, and the hair stood up on my head, like
bristles. Yes, other matters in the Bible. Hell, and the grave,
and the devil! Ha! ha! ha! Better not look too closely,
Inglehardt, into the Bible. You've been a bad fellow in your
time. Were a bad boy when your daddy was my overseer. The
Bible has your case reported there. Don't look. It's a bad
case. The transaction relates to cattle. I remember all about
it, but you had better not inquire too closely. I wouldn't tell
it for the world.”

The swarthy cheeks of the overseer's son flushed to a deep
crimson. The random bolt is ever a danger where there are
open windows. Inglehardt answered quickly and savagely.

“You are talking nonsense, Captain Travis, and you know
it. If you think to impose upon me, you are mistaken. Let
me see if I can't bring your thoughts back to other matters.”

“To be sure; other matters! Well, let it be the fish. There
are ponds about. I hear the frogs, I tell you, nightly. By
that I know that the season for fishing is come. For what says
the Bible. The winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the
singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in
the land! That's it, or near it. But I half forget. I am afraid,
Inglehardt, that you don't read your Bible enough. That's
your bible. Why don't you read it? If it were mine I should.
It's a good book in times of business. A first-rate book for
keeping accounts in.”

“He has got a-talking devil!” exclaimed Inglehardt aloud,
and with an oath. “But I'll work it out of him. Well, Captain
Travis, we will open our accounts, this night, in the Bible
together.”

“Good! good! the first item relates to cattle.”

“You have violated your bible pledges to me, Captain Travis
— your solemn pledge to give me the hand of your daughter.”

“Ah! that reminds me, Inglehardt — why do you keep these
things on my hands any longer, now that the winter is over? I
find the clothing too heavy for spring. Take 'em off I say, and
let me have the use of my hands again. How shall I do any
fishing in such harness. Take 'em off — wont you?”

“Yes, when you keep your pledges. They are among my
securities for the proper performance of your promise.”

“Well, as you say. Take 'em off: and let me go fish.”

“When you deliver your daughter into my hands, you shall
be free.”

“Oh! I've nothing to do with that. What's it all to me? I
tell you, I will have no more to do with business. I've done
enough. I must rest now — I must sleep, and sport like the
calves in pasture, and must fish in these ponds. Don't you try
now to keep me from pleasure when I'm awake. I must soon
sleep, you know.”

For a moment Inglehardt seemed bewildered and desperate.
He was puzzled. He strode fiercely toward the old man, who
laughed at his emotion, and held up his manacled hands.

“Come, take 'em off at once.”

“Never! till you do what I demand.”

“Oh! don't be angry now. Why should you be angry?
What's the use, and where's the sense of being angry? Why
can't you be sweet tempered like the season, when the voice of
the turtle is heard in the land?”

“You don't cheat me with this pretence of simplicity. I tell
you, Captain Travis, that I will have you scourged like a dog,
and hung up like one, unless you speak to the point.”

The old man whimpered, and then laughed.

“You get so angry of a sudden; and just hear the frogs!
They sing. They sing summer. Why don't you sing summer
like the frogs?”

“Dotard! but you can not deceive me. Do you not comprehend
me, old man?” and he rudely seized him by the shoulder,
and shook him roughly as he added — “Do you not hear that I
mean to hang you like a dog, unless—”

“Oh! monstrous, Captain Inglehardt!” exclaimed Bertha —
“Do you not see that he can not comprehend you; that you
have destroyed him, destroyed his mind — done your worst
upon him!”

“And if he can not comprehend, fair mistress, you can, and
shall! The matter is, indeed, wholly in your hands. To your
ears it is properly addressed. You are aware that your hand
has been pledged to me by your father.”

“But I have given no such pledges.”

“True; but it will be for you to fulfil those which he has
given, or bear the penalties which, as there is a God living, shall
be paid! I am desperate of fortune, and just as desperate of
resolves. You have seen what he has suffered — you see the
result — in consequence wholly of your perverse opposition to
his wishes.”

“Monstrous! Do you charge me with the terrible wreck of
my father's brain, the fruit of your own cruelty and crime?”

“Yes; you can not deny that his wishes were to this effect
as well as mine; that he urged you to accept my hand.”

“He did so. He honestly kept his word with you. But my
pledges were given to another.”

“Ah! we shall see if that other will save you from the consequences
of your disobedience.”

“There was no disobedience. My father expressed his wish,
but the will was wholly mine in a matter which affected my
own happiness only.”

“You are mistaken. You see how it has affected him!”

“How you have affected him — cruelly seeking to compass
your own objects at the expense of right, justice, and humanity.”

“Be it so! And I am in the same mood still.”

“You have done your worst!”

“Ah! do you think so? Do you forget that you, too, are in
my power? That here, in this almost inaccessible swamp, no
cry of yours, though shrieked out in the utmost agony of nature,
will avail for your relief? Shriek as you will, there is no
ear that hears you, but mocks at the suffering which you declare.”

“God hears me — will hear! He will not mock. I am in
his hands.”

“And you really can not conceive, Bertha Travis, that I
have the power to torture you beyond human endurance?”

“Have you not done so? Look at that poor old man! Do
I not conceive it — do I not feel it! God be merciful, and
strengthen me to endure all that you can inflict; but know,
Captain Inglehardt, that I am the pledged wife of another. Do
what you will, no word of my mouth, as no feeling at my heart,
can make me yours.”

“Ah! Well! —”

“Look you, Inglehardt, talk to me — to me — why do you
talk to her?”— now interposed Travis, who had been listening
impatiently, wondering somewhat, at the dialogue between the
tory-captain and his daughter. “Get away from the window,
Bertha — a very comical sort of window — get away, girl; it is
not delicate, not proper, for you to be mingling in the conversation
of grown men. You are but a child, girl — remember that,
a child — a mere brat, who ought to be at her sampler. I say,
Inglehardt, take these hooky bracelets off. They fetter me;
they are as heavy as iron, and quite unseasonable now; take
them off, for it's impossible that I should engage in any business
matters, with such things on my hands.”

“Fool!” said Inglehardt, whirling him aside, with contemptuous
violence.

“Fool! Fool! That was surely an indignity! I shall remember
that, Captain Inglehardt. In my own season, I will
remember it. Fool! Fool! I shall remember!”— and the old
man paced the floor restless, and no longer laughing; while Inglehardt
proceeded to the little aperture where Bertha stood.

“You can not deceive yourself, Bertha Travis. You are in
my power. I am desperate. I am resolved to make you mine.
My fortunes, and — hark you —” here he almost hissed it in
her ears — “my passions demand it! But I shall not subject
you to indignity. My pride requires that you should be my
honorable wife. This assurance given, ask yourself if I have
not the power to make you feel, to the heart — to the heart's
core — if you do not yield me your consent? It is no longer of
use to talk to him — but you can see, feel, know, comprehend,
and to you I leave it. Decide — and quickly. In my power,
at my mercy, with all your family at my mercy; and I am, as
you may see, desperate; ay, I may as well tell you, the British
cause is desperate; thus making it essential to my safety that
your father's daughter should be my wife; decide whether I
will scruple at anything to effect my purpose! It is now my
necessity that will make me cruel!”

“God be with me! Man or devil, what would you more?
what can you do more? Look at him!” and she pointed to
her father.

“Ay, I see! It does not move me. I know him of old! He
scorned me; and I found him out — a rogue, a public peculator
— a liar; a traitor; and, were it worth my while I would bring
him to a British gallows. I need work on him no longer. But
do you forget that I have your brother in my power also?”

“What! that boy?”

“Ay, that boy! What then? Have I not told you, shown
you, that I am desperate; that nothing, however desperate,
shall be forborne to compel you to submission? His very life
— that boy's life — I tell you, is in your hands. Decide!
Decide quickly. Will you be mine?”

“Never — never! So help me Heaven!”

“So help me Hell, but you shall! Ho! there! Brunson.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” and Brunson answered from without.

“Do as I bade you.”

It was with singular appropriateness — no want of mind
shown in this — that old Travis now strode tragically before
Inglehardt, and mouthed out, player-fashion:—

“What bloody scene hath Roscius now to act?”

Inglehardt again hurled him aside, and with no sparing hand.

“Oh, this is very honorable, very noble, Captain Inglehardt
— this treatment of an old man, and in his condition!” said
Bertha.

“Another indignity to be remembered, Captain Inglehardt,”
cried Travis, with a childish show of dignity. “Take off these
bracelets! Only take them off!” and his eye glanced at the
sword upon the table. Inglehardt scowled on the daughter,
took no heed of the father, but, with grim aspect of determination,
took his seat before the table, and sat inflexibly, looking
neither to the right nor to the left. In a few moments after
there was a bustle at the door; in another moment it was
opened, and the Trailer appeared, dragging in Henry Travis,
who was now handcuffed; Inglehardt having ordered the manacles
to be restored which the more notorious Dick of Tophet
had mercifully removed.

At the sight of her brother, so wan, spiritless, drooping —
the mere shadow of his former self — Bertha cried out in
agony:—

“Oh, Henry, my brother! is it you?”

“Bertha!” said the boy. “Bertha! you here too?” and he
wept. He had hardly shed a tear before. His father now approached
him.

“What, Henry, my son! Hurrah, boy! we shall soon have
famous fishing. The perch bite now. We are all together. We
shall have sport. But I have something first to settle with
Captain Inglehardt.”

“Put that old fool aside,” said Inglehardt.

“You hear, boy! He said, old fool. Captain Inglehardt be
so good as to take off these bracelets.”

Inglehardt did not notice him, but sat, sternly observant of
everything, at his table, as before.

“Bertha Travis, you see,” he said.

“I say,” cried old Travis, “take these things off, if you would
have me deal with you, and take them off the boy! Why, Henry,
my son, you can do nothing with these things on your hands.”

The boy looked to Bertha with an air of bewilderment.

“Father,” said he, “what's the matter with you?”

“Matter! oh, you shall see soon enough, the moment these
things are off!”

“Bertha Travis,” said Inglehardt, “I have told you what to
expect — what to fear! Do you consent? The parson will be
here in five minutes.”

“Captain Inglehardt, why will you persist when I tell you
that I am betrothed to another?”

“Does he want to force you to marry him?” demanded
Henry. “Don't, sister. Never marry a man like him. Besides
—”

“Bertha, once more — do you consent?”

“Never! never!”

“And I say, never. I don't know what it is — but I say,
never, till you have first settled with me!” said the father, but
Inglehardt gave him no heed.

“Proceed!” he said, coldly and sternly, to the Trailer. The
latter, by this time, had adjusted a small rope over one of the
cross-pieces of the cabin-roof, and he pointed to it.

“Not that yet!” said Inglehardt; and the next instant, the
willing creature, merciless and murderous, grappled with the
boy, and proceeded to pass a cord around his forehead.

“Don't do that, man!” cried old Travis; “you will hurt the
boy.”

“That's jest what we mean to do!” was the answer of the
Trailer, given with a chuckle.

“But I won't suffer it! Take off these things, and I'll show
you!” cried Travis.

The ruffian laughed outright, as he continued to draw the
cord about the boy's brows.

“Spare him! Oh, Captain Inglehardt, how can you have
the heart to harm this child?” cried Bertha.

“It is your heart, not mine, Bertha Travis. Did I not tell
you that I am desperate?”

“Do not beg for me, Bertha — I don't fear him,” said the
brave boy.

“Hands off, you dirty scamp!” cried old Travis. “This is
my son, I'd let you know. My son! only take off these cursed
things — they are fetters — they are iron — and you shall see!
I am an old man, but I have my teeth! teeth!” and he showed
them, gnashing fiercely together.

“Say the word, cappin!” said Brunson.

“Say what word, fellow? What word should he say?
Hear what I say! Take off these things. They fetter the
boy. They hurt him. They prevent his growth. At his age,
not a limb should be restrained from exercise. He should ride,
should run, should leap, should wrestle, if you would make a
strong man of him. And this is the very season when everything
should leap — when the colt leaps, and the lamb, and the
calf, bird, and beast; and so should he. He should ride.
Where's his horse? Where's your horse, Henry, my son?
Have it got in the morning, and ride. Don't let them keep
these things on you, which fetter your proper exercise. I say,
Captain Inglehardt, make your fellow take off those iron things.
They must hurt the boy, and prevent his proper exercise.”

“Jest as the cappin says,” quoth Brunson, while he coolly
continued to adjust the rope about the forehead of the boy, who
was sufficiently restiff to make the operation a difficult one.

“Do you see what he's doing with the boy, Captain Inglehardt?
Do you approve of what he does? Do you hold yourself
responsible for what he does?”

“Certainly! I command everything he does.”

“You do, do you? Then, sir, let us have it out as soon as
possible! Pistols — or what you please! But, take off these
irons, and I am ready for you. Oh, you will find that I can
shoot! Ay, sir, and I can use a small-sword, too; only take
off these bandages!”

Meanwhile, the Trailer had succeeded in fixing the cord
around the brows of the boy, the latter wincing from the preparations
rather than the pain, and, without knowing the character
of the vile Spanish torture that was contemplated, readily
conceiving, by sure instincts, that some peculiar cruelty was
meant. When he could no longer resist, he cried out:—

“Father, oh father, help me — save me! This man is going
to kill me!”

The old man seemed suddenly to be seized with a shivering,
as if, in that instant, he was vouchsafed a sufficient gleam of
reason to show how impotent he was to save. He tottered in
the direction of the boy, with his braceleted hands outstretched,
but suddenly turned to Inglehardt.

“Don't! don't! For God's sake, don't hurt him! Why
would you rope his head? It will give him headache.”

“I reckon it will, and a mighty bad one too,” chuckled Brunson,
looking to his employer, and waiting for his word. He
had so adjusted the cord that, by inserting a pistol-butt into a
loop of the rope, he could contract it in a moment by a single
twist.

“Jest say when, cappin, and I gives him sich a twist as will
make him see daylight in another world, I reckon. I knows
the trick of old.”

Inglehardt looked at Bertha. His purpose was to compel her
terrors in especial. She stood with clasped hands, in an indescribable
torture, incapable of speech. Her eyes were vacant,
glassy, fixed, yet unintelligible. She gave no other sign.

“Proceed!” cried the ruthless despot; and, at the word, the
Trailer gave but a single twist to the pistol, and the boy
screamed aloud with his agony. Then Bertha shrieked out:—

“I consent! — anything — only spare him — do not harm the
child!”

But old Travis had not witnessed the proceedings with equanimity.
He had recovered from his shuddering terrors. He
was in another mood.

“You will hurt the boy!” he cried.

“We means to,” answered the Trailer. “It's jest what the
cappin says. If he says, I'll twist till I twists the head off.”

“Inglehardt,” cried old Travis, “you don't mean to hurt
little Henry!”

“I mean all that I do.”

“But you don't!” cried the other, approaching the table
where Inglehardt sat. The features and movements of Travis,
looks and gestures, on the instant seemed to undergo a sudden
change. His form was bent forward, as if crouching and creeping
up. The movement was stealthy, like that of a cat. His
braceleted hands were lifted up before his breast, and slightly

thrust forward. The fists were doubled. There was a mixture
of ferocity and cunning in his eyes, as he approached, which
suddenly arrested the attention of Inglehardt. At that moment
a pistol-shot was heard without. Both Inglehardt and the Trailer
started, the former catching up his sword.

“Was that a shot?” he demanded.

“I reckon 'twas nothing else,” was the answer. “It's a
pistol-shot, but whose?—”

“Devil Dick is at the cypress, is he not?”

“Yes — I seed him go there.”

Inglehardt turned once more to Travis, who had approached
the table before which the tory-chief resumed his seat.

“Stand back, sir!” said Inglehardt, as he saw that Travis
nearly touched the table.

“Shall I give him another twist?” demanded Brunson.

“No! wait! Did I understand you to consent, Bertha Travis,
to our immediate union?”

Before she could reply, old Travis interposed, and, striking
his handcuffs down heavily upon the little table, he leaned forward
toward Inglehardt.

“Look you, Inglehardt—”

“Stand back, sir!” said the latter, instinctively presenting
his sword — a cut and thrust — as the instinct, rather than any
mental suggestion, seemed to warn him of danger in the old
man's eye.

“What! you are for the swords, are you? You prefer them,
do you, to pistols? Well, I don't care—”

“Back, I say! You will be hurt.”

“Father! father!” cried Bertha, entreatingly. “Come to
me, father!”

“Sword or pistols, it doesn't matter!” muttered the imbecile,
his eye fastening with singular intensity upon that of Inglehardt.
The latter was about to rise, still keeping his sword's
point at the breast of the other. In the act of rising, his eye
was diverted a moment from that of Travis. That momentary
withdrawal of his eye lost him the natural influence with which
he might have controlled the growing insanity of his captive.
In that one moment, Travis — his soul freed from its master —
made a single, tiger-like bound — threw down the table between

them — threw himself directly, fully, fairly, upon Inglehardt —
and the two went down together to the floor, crushing the chair
beneath them, and shaking the very house in their fall.

The cut and thrust of Inglehardt, meanwhile, passed clean
through the body of his assailant — passed through a vital
region — inflicting a mortal wound, which left him but a few
moments of life.

But those few moments sufficed. He did not feel the pain of
his wound — did not feel the hurt at all; the tiger-like insanity
of his blood, at that moment, making the deadly thrust of no
more consequence than the pricking of a needle.

And, prone upon the body of his tyrant — spread out and
covering him from head to foot — his hands armed only with
their iron bracelets, the handcuffs — he smote heavily, rapidly,
repeatedly, as the blacksmith smites the anvil with the sledgehammer
— every blow delivered upon the face and forehead of
Inglehardt! The eyes of the insolent enemy were driven in,
the face battered out of feature, the skull crashed into a pulpy
mass, the life utterly extinct in the captor, before Travis was
conscious of his own hurt! He himself, a moment after, and
while still in the act of striking, rolled over, with a single convulsion,
and lay dead upon the floor!

The affair seemed hardly to consume a moment. No time
had been left for Brunson to interfere. He was taken by surprise,
and, lacking in impulse and readiness, all was over before
he could well turn to observe the combatants.

Bertha, horror-stricken into dumbness, stood, ghastly pale,
gazing through the hole in the wall, with a stare like that of
idiocy. Henry Travis was the first to recover; and, while
Brunson was looking on bewildered, the boy shook himself free
from his grasp, and had he not been handcuffed also, would, no
doubt, in that moment, have turned with desperate and fatal
efficiency upon the Trailer. The latter, recovering himself at
the evasion of Henry from his grasp, rather than at the horrid
sight which he beheld, in his first movement made after the
boy. He, prompt as a young eagle, dashed through the door,
which had been left unlocked, and, with a cry of fury, Brunson
hurried after him. But the Trailer hurried only to meet his
fate!

Henry Travis soon found himself in the grasp of Willie Sinclair
— safe — while, in a moment after, the Trailer went down
lifeless beneath a single stroke from the powerful claymore of
the dragoon.

A few moments sufficed for the rescue of Bertha. She was
borne away by her lover from the horrid spectacle, and carried
to the wigwam of Blodgit, where the touching condition of poor
Nelly Floyd, and the duty of nursing her, appealing fortunately
to her humanity, served — though still how sadly — to lessen in
some degree the force of that terrible shock which her mind had
received!

To bury the dead — to remove the wounded and still living
— these were duties to which, we need not say, that Willie Sinclair
gave instant heed. We need waste no time upon details,
which were inevitable from the circumstances, and from the
character of the now governing authority in Muddicoat Castle.
Inglehardt and his followers were buried in the swamp. The
remains of Travis were subsequently borne away to the family
vault at Holly-Dale.

Poor Nelly!—

Was it the same owl that hooted the prelude to our tragedy,
which now, suddenly as mournfully, wailed above the hovel
where she lay dying?

Dying, but how placidly — how sweetly, with her head supported
by Bertha Travis, and her eyes looking lovingly up to
those of that damsel, and the brave-souled and strong-limbed
Willie Sinclair. He, too, could weep — that fearless, desperate
soldier — weep as a child — the conflict over, the blow stricken,
the battle won!

The owl has hooted her last notes for the night. Day dawns.
Nelly Floyd still lives — still smiles — knows all — knows that
she is dying, and still smiles!

“If I could only see good Mother Ford!” she says; and
Sinclair, waiting for the carriage with which he hopes to remove
her, sends off one of his dragoons to Mother Ford's, with instructions
to bring her to the widow Avinger's. If she is too
late to see her lovely protégé alive, she will help to deck her
for the grave.

“Oh! if I could see Sherrod Nelson!” says the girl, hardly
conscious that she speaks at all.

And that prayer, too, Sinclair hopes to gratify. He despatches
another dragoon to the camp where Sherrod Nelson is a captive.
And the day wore on till noon, and Nelly lived. She had a
noble vitality. But for that luckless, cruel bullet of Dick of
Tophet!

At noon, the carriage has reached the boundaries of Muddicoat
Castle. A litter, meanwhile, has been prepared, through
the providence of Sinclair, by means of which, Nelly has been
borne across the swamp, without much pain or inconvenience.
She is put upon the mattress in the carriage, and Bertha Travis
takes a place beside her. And with all possible tenderness, she
is thus carried, over the untrodden ways, until they reach the
house of the widow Avinger.

The patient is faint but not exhausted. It was astonishing,
the tenacity of life which she possessed! Mortally wounded,
her lungs perforated by the bullet, she still lives, breathes, and
speaks, for thirty-six hours after the event.

St. Julien arrives with his squad, and Sherrod Nelson comes
with him. He receives the dying breath of the young girl, not
suspecting, to the last, how dear had been his image to her
soul! She leaves a message for his mother, and a dying blessing,
in which old Mother Ford has a share.

The old lady arrives in season. All assembled about the
bedside of the innocent victim — no longer a sufferer, for the
worst pangs of soul and body are passed! She has all beside
her whom she loves. Her cares are ended with her duties.
Fond hands press her own; loving eyes, swimming in tears,
watch the flickering soul-lustre which still lingers in her.
She has possessed herself of a hand of Sherrod Nelson on one
side, of Bertha Travis on the other. They feel the frequent
pressure of her fingers.

To Bertha Travis she whispers, “Will you take care of poor
Aggy?” To Mother Ford, “Ah, mother, if I could only live to
help you on the little farm.” To Sherrod Nelson, “Oh, Sherrod!
tell your mother how much I loved her to the last.” And
her eyes then traversed the several mournful faces in the circle,
and sighed deeply — then somewhat quickly, murmured, “Do

not look so sad. Do not grieve for me. I do not feel pain.
I am not sorry to go. I have done all that I had to do, though
I am so very young — very young!” And she looked at Sherrod
Nelson, and her own eyes filled. She feebly tried to turn
away her head, but her strength failed her; and she shut the
eyes whose fountains were overflowing!

And thus she remained silent, for awhile, seeming to sleep.
Suddenly, she started, her eyes opening, dilating widely —
somewhat wildly — with a strange, spiritual expression, that
seemed full of fear. But this expression passed off in a moment,
and a sweet smile of perfect consciousness followed it,
mantling her whole face as a radiant sunset suddenly flushes up
the sky, ere the dusk night covers it.

In a few moments after, Sherrod Nelson felt her fingers feebly
pressing his hand — and he could just detect the whispered,
parting words, “Good-by, Sherrod — good!— happy — bless!—”
And the voice ceased. She lay as one sleeping with that sunset
flush of soul-sweetness still giving a heavenly glow to face
and forehead. They thought she slept. And she did. But it
was the sleep of death. She had passed without pang or struggle,
into the sacred slumber of eternity!

Our action has reached its proper finish. The obstacles
which warred with the peace and happiness of the surviving
parties to our drama, being at an end, we scarce need the details
which report their future progress. We know that Sinclair
and Bertha, after a certain interval, were united and lived
happily together. We are in daily communication with their
descendants — a noble progeny, from the goodly pair whose
fortunes we have pursued so long. Our baron of Sinclair had
been effectually subdued, and not only forebore opposition to
Bertha Travis, but welcomed her with a love that almost vied
with that of his son. He subsequently made merry with his
own prejudices, and frequently summoned Bertha to his side by
her nom de guerre of Annie Smith. Willie and Bertha were
united in the spring of the following year, at a period when the
war left to our dragoon colonel a temporary respite from active
duty. Indeed, the battle of Eutaw left but little to be done.
Neither of the two great opposing parties were in a condition to

undertake any bold enterprise, and the final capture of Cornwallis,
at Yorktown, sufficed to render Great Britain satisfied to
yield the struggle, and concede to the revolted colonies that
independence, against which it seemed merely a waste of blood
and treasure to contend. That her colonies should rise into free
states, seemed, at length, even to her eyes, to become a decree
of fate — one of the fixed facts of Destiny.

How the war still lingered, and with what petty strifes in
Carolina, we need not report in these pages. Enough, perhaps,
as we may never meet with him again, in fiction, to report, that
our brave boy, Henry Travis, obtained a cornetcy of dragoons,
under Sinclair, and served with great spirit, zeal, and promise,
to the end of the war. We all know what was the good result
of that training which he then received, from the high distinction
which he won subsequently, and long after, in the West,
when, as Colonel Travis, he went through the Creek and Seminole
campaign, and in the war of 1812, fully displayed the
admirable uses of the lessons which he had acquired in that of
the Revolution.

The baron lived to a good old age, in spite of gout and Madeira.
He and Mrs. Travis were equally fortunate and happy,
in being able to dandle numerous grandchildren upon their
knees.

Good old Mother Ford, with Aggy, took up her abode with
Carrie Sinclair, whose union with St. Julien, made the baron
wince a little, even at the moment of the nuptials; but we have
no reason to suppose that Carrie's children were less his favorites
than Willie's.

The benevolent widow Avinger suddenly passed into a large
and loving circle of grateful friends, who ministered fondly to
her declining years; making them subside, finally, into a gentle
sleep, in which all the dreams were pleasant. Ballou, 'Bram,
Benny Bowlegs, and Cato, served out the campaign of life in
close connection with the superiors whom they had loved and
followed; useful during their days of vigor, and honored and
protected in their decline. The two former, it may be said,
continued to scout till the close of the war; while neither of
them utterly renounced his faith in Jamaica as one of the
greatest blessings vouchsafed by Providence to man!

Of Lord Edward Fitzgerald the mournful history may be read
in the pages of the poet Moore.

Sinclair and Bertha Travis were married on the 22d of May,
of the year following the events recorded in this chapter. On
the 22d of April, the year after, they were blessed with a
daughter. As the fond young couple gazed together upon the
child, Bertha exclaimed:—

“Oh, Willie! did you ever see such a likeness to poor Nelly
Floyd?”

“It is wonderful! We owe it to that dear, good, sainted
girl, Bertha — we will name this little creature after her!”

“Ellen Floyd Sinclair,” as many of us will remember, was
the belle of her district, during the long term of seven years,
from her fifteenth to her twenty-second year, when she married
Colonel Walter Surry Lucas, of St. Stephen's parish; her
reign, as a belle, ceasing only when she became a wife, in 1802,
but hardly ceasing as a beauty, even when she had five bright
children of her own, in 1819, when we had the pleasure to
know her first, under the roof of her brother at the barony,
where we spent a week with all the then surviving parties to
our story. It was a sweet and beautiful reunion — one which
seemed to realize to fact, as to fancy, the glorious delights and
grateful simplicities of the Golden Age. It was on that visit
that we gained a knowledge of the parties and events, out of
which we have framed this truthful chronicle.