THE provisional articles of peace, between the King of Great Britain, and the revolted colonies of America, were signed at Paris, on the 13th Nov., 1782. The British forces in Charleston, South-Carolina, prepared to abandon that city early in the following December. The event took place on the 14th of that month. Prior to this period, the enemy had been confined to the immediate precincts of the garrison. The gradually contracting arms of the Americans had established a cordon about them, which they had found it impossible to break; and the rival armies, the one unable to take the field, and the other too feeble to force the garrison, lay watching each other, like a couple of grim tigers, who have learned, by frequent combats, to regard their opponents with respect, if not affection. Both were exhausted. Exhaustion, not wisdom, or a better state of feeling, was the secret of the peace which was finally concluded between the two nations, and of which, South-Carolina, and Charleston in particular, was eagerly expecting the benefits. For more than two years this region was in full, or in partial keeping, of the enemy. The days had been counted by skirmishes and battles, by fears, hates, anxieties, persecution and blood. The time for repose was at hand. Peace was agreed upon; the British army was about to evacuate the city; the Americans were crowding about their outposts, eager to come in. Meanwhile, commissioners from both, were in the city, preparing for a peaceable restoration of prisoners, chattels and soil. There was much to be re-delivered, which irked the stomach of the British captor, and his allies among the Loyalists. The latter had many fears of meeting with their ancient brethren.—Both the British and themselves had much plunder which it was becoming difficult to make away with. The American commissioners were particularly solicitous in respect to this matter. South-Carolina had already lost twenty-five thousand slaves, which British philanthropy had transferred from the rice fields of Carolina, to the sugar estates of the West India Islands; and there were yet other thousands waiting to be similarly transported. But how to conceal them from the lynx eyes of the commissioners, who were studiously attentive to the mode of fitting up the transport-ships, and their accommodations provided for passengers; and especially heedful that they were not too much crowded with the black, for the comfort of the white inhabitants. Such vigilance was the subject of much soreness on the part of those who exercised their charities for the African race, without desiring to give their labours any unnecessary publicity. The anxieties of the one party, and the vigilance of the other, were duly increased as the moment drew nigh for the exodus of the British.

It was but three days from this event, when Colonel Moncrieff, of the latter—whose philanthropy on behalf of the blacks had been exercised on a most extensive scale—was surprised by an unexpected visitor. We may add, an unwelcome one. He was sitting in his office, books and papers around him, swords upon the wall, pistols among papers upon the table, and with but one companion. This was a person of rusty complexion, sharp visage, small bulbous-shaped nose, a low, broad forehead, and sinister expression of mouth and eyes. The latter were of a light grey, keen rather than bright, and significant of cunning rather than character. The two appeared to be busy in long details, figured out on several sheets of paper, and a confused array of arithmetical propositions. But there seemed no difficulty between them; the business, which equally interested both, seemed mutually satisfactory. Over some of the details they chuckled pleasantly. They were thus employed, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and a white servant, partly in military habit, appeared at the entrance.

“Well, Waldron;” said Moncrieff, scarcely looking up, “what now?”

“A lady, sir.”

“A lady? Who, pray? What name?”

“Didn't tell me, sir—is here, the lady says she must see you.”

“Well, if a lady says she must see me, the necessity is hardly to be escaped, I suppose. Show her in.”

The servant stepped back, and the lady entered—a fair and comely dame, scarcely forty, with a fresh, healthy expression, a bright, cheery blue eye, a sweet, intelligent mouth, as indicative of character as of beauty, and a frank, buoyant expression of countenance. Her figure was tall, yet somewhat inclined to embon point, though her carriage was equally dignified and graceful.—The gentlemen rose promptly at her entrance. Moncrieff advanced politely and handed her a chair, which she took with a quiet ease and promptness that showed her to be accustomed to society.

Moncrieff was evidently and immediately impressed by her presence. It was quite apparent, however, that she was entirely unknown to him. Not so with his companion, whose visage put on a look of blank dissatisfaction at the moment of her entrance, which at once dispersed the smiles that had mantled it only a moment before. But neither of the other persons in the room seemed to notice his disquiet. He drew apart, and went towards one of the windows, but kept his eye upon the two, with an oblique glance eminently his own; and his ears were keenly alive to what was spoken.

“May I have the honour, madam, of serving you?” was the question of Moncrieff, with all the courtesy proper to an officer in his Britannic Majesty's service. The answer was prompt. In a clear, frank, musical voice, the lady said—

“I bring you, sir a billet from his Excellency, General Leslie, which will fully explain my business. My name is Eveleigh, the widow of the late Major Eveleigh, who once held the office in your army that you now hold.”

“I remember, madam; I had not the pleasure of knowing Major Eveleigh personally, but his rank and character are fully known to me.’

“Here, sir, is General Leslie's letter.”

She took it from her bag, and handed it as she spoke. The brow of Colonel Moncrieff clouded as he read.

“You will perceive, sir,” said the lady, “that his Excellency General Leslie, requests you to see that certain negroes be restored to me, my property, which are now within the garrison—their names are in this paper, and a description of them individually, by which they may each be identified.”

Moncrieff read the second paper with increasing gravity of aspect. His male companion crossed the floor to him, and looked over the paper as he read. The widow Eveleigh observed the movement—and the man—with some interest. After a few moments, Moncrieff, with something of annoyance in his tone, remarked—

“Why, madam, it is very doubtful if there be any such slaves within the garrison. You are aware that we have been delivering them up, as fast they can be found, to the American Commissioners. They may be concealed—”

“They are concealed,” answered the lady.

“If that be the case, Mrs. Eveleigh,” answered the other, with a soothing smile, “we must try and find them for you. We shall institute a thorough search, and should they be found, they shall be delivered to the Commissioners.”

“I thank you, sir; but something of this trouble may be spared you; and I should prefer—as the ownership of the property is unqestionably in me, as I have satisfied General Leslie—that they be delivered to myself.”

“That, too, my dear madam, I cheerfully promise, should we find them.”

“It is the trouble of this search, sir, that I would spare you. I have already found them.”

“The devil you have, madam!” cried Moncrieff, starting to his feet, and evidently disquieted,—“and where, pray?”

“In the old Hulk, sir, at Market Dock, in company with some two hundred others, upon whom I have no claim, but who, I have no doubt, will find claimants fast enough if they be once exposed on the wharf to the examination of the American Commissioners.”

“'Pon my soul, madam, for a whig-American, you calculate largely upon the generosity of his Majesty's Government.”

“Very far from it, Colonel Moncrieff; I calculate nothing at all upon the generosity of His Majesty's Government. My calculations are all based upon what seems the necessity of the case, and the policy, which His Majesty's officers seem generally to recognize, of performing the conditions of the treaty in good faith. You speak of me, sir, as an American and a whig;—I am not ashamed to say that I am both; but, remembering that my late husband was a good Loyalist, and a faithful and trusted officer in His Majesty's service, I have forborne, with a due regard to his memory, from taking any active part in this contest. On this subject, however, General Leslie has been long quite satisfied. I feel proud that I may number him among my friends. You have read his letter—it appears to me that nothing more is necessary to be said.”

“THIS is a d—d awkward business, McKewn!”

“What's to be done?” said the person addressed, in rather sullen accents.

“Aye, what? That's the question,” answered Moncrieff; “I see no way to escape it, my good fellow. It robs us of some of our profits.”

“But will you give up the negroes?”

“Eh! to be sure! What else? Show me how it may be managed, saving me scot-free with old Leslie, who, though three parts old woman, is yet a Tartar when you cross him—and I'm for any remedy. But it seems to me impossible.”

“Can't we get off the negroes while you keep her in play?”

“Scarcely! She has identified them, and found them entered in my name. How the devil she has done this, I can't see. What could that Hessian, Dort, have been about?”

WE left the brave widow in an apparent calm of mind, which she did not altogether feel. She was a person of that temperament which does not affect repose,—to which it is rather restraint than rest—and which, having grateful performances before it, regards delay with disgust, and feels the necessity to wait, as an evil rather than a virtue. But the good lady had schooled her moods with considerable success, and, if she felt the feverish impatience which prompts one to be up and doing, she was yet able to subdue its exhibitions when these might come in conflict with duties equally requiring forbearance. She amused herself, as we have seen, in examining the more curious portions of the furniture of the apartment in which she was required to wait. We have noticed her examination of the beautiful duelling pistols of Moncrieff, and the discovery to which this examination led. Her eyes were soon caught by the swords and sabres hung upon the wall. Among these was a Turkish scimitar, with a handle of mother of pearl, at the sight of which she slightly started. In a moment she had arisen and taken the weapon from the wall. She drew it fairly from the scabbard, and surveyed the polished and beautiful blade, unstained and unspotted, with a degree of interest which seemed to arise from other causes than its simple beauty. She waved the bright steel upwards, with a somewhat gladiatorial air, then held it before her eyes, and it was while she was thus employed, and in this attitude, that Moncrieff suddenly rëentered the apartment. He absolutely recoiled at the spectacle, with an expression of wonder on his countenance, which he did not seek to conceal.

“By Mars, madam, you terrify me! Positively, I must arm myself, and get me a shield. I shall believe in the Amazons after this.”

The lady smiled sadly, and restored the weapon slowly and carefully to its sheath. A tear was in her eye, but it escaped that of Moncrieff. She said in low tones, as if apologetically—

“I know this scimitar, Colonel Moncrieff: I have seen it often, with its former owner, at my dwelling. It was Major André's.”

“You are right, madam; and I do not wonder at your curiosity. Poor André! What a cruel fate!—and he, with such tastes, such sensibilities, and such ambition!”

“Too much lacking pride, however.”

“How, madam, pride?”

“Yes; or he had never suffered himself to be put to such base uses.”

“I do not see, Mrs. Eveleigh, that fidelity to one's King, can properly be so stigmatized.”

“There is a higher fidelity to one's self, one's honour and individual character. But he paid the terrible penalty, and we must not dwell upon his weaknesses. He had tastes, and sensibilities, as you say;—he loved music and poetry, and could make the song, and find for it the fitting harmonies. He has frequently joined me on the harpsichord, and would forget, at our evening fireside, all the habits of the soldier. He was not fitted for such a life, and he felt it. I have listened to his own self-reproaches, for having chosen the profession. He did so in an hour of disappointment—of weakness—and was only not courageous enough to abandon it when he felt his unsuitableness for it.”

“But, André was a brave man, Mrs. Eveleigh.”

“Yes; in one sense of the word. He had conventional courage, but not intrepidity. He would have shown himself fearless in the sight of armies—he would have fought his man without flinching in the sight of friends; but he had none of that gladiator spirit—that Hunnish blindness—which belongs to the soldier from choice. Had he possessed this quality, he would have disdained the petty employments which finally cost him his life.”

“Well, madam, you have given me something to think upon, though I knew André well. We exchanged swords in proof of friendship,—though, by the way, mine was the most costly weapon of the two. It was a genuine Damascus, while this, though a very beautiful imitation, is not!”

The widow looked at the speaker with an unalloyed expression of disgust. Her glance did not escape him, and his face was slightly flushed, as he added—

“Though, of course, the difference of value between the weapons was not a subject of consideration. Indeed, if I remember rightly, the first proposal to exchange came from me. It was just when he was about to embark for New-York, with Sir Henry.”

He paused, and the lady was also silent. She appeared willing to drop the subject. Moncrieff then promptly recurred to the business upon which she came.

“I have made you out the order, Mrs. Eveleigh, for your negroes, if they are, as you say, in the custody of Captain Dort.”

“Captain Dort, sir! I know nothing of him, and have named no such person. The negroes are in the “Hulk” at Market Dock, and their keeper I have not seen.”

“He is Captain Dort, madam, a Hessian, and the keeper of the “Hulk.” Had he not been drunk, madam, you would possibly have seen him,—and possibly not your negroes.”

This was spoken with unsuppressed chagrin.

“Here is the order, madam.”

“I thank you, Colonel Moncrieff. And now that my own affair is settled, suffer me to draw your attention to that of one of my neighbours, and an old acquaintance. I discovered in the “Hulk,” while looking for my own slaves, seven others, who belong to Captain Porgy, a planter on the Ashepoo. They knew me, and I them, in an instant. They implored me to obtain their restoration to their owner, and I shall be obliged to you for an order to this effect also.”

“By the powers, madam, but this is quite too much! One would think that you might be content with having secured your own property.”

“Not so, Major Moncrieff! We are taught to love our neighbour as ourself, and such love can be shown in no better way, perhaps, than in giving heed to his interest at the moment when we attend to our own. Indeed, sir, I do not know but that, as a good Christian, I should have thought first of his concerns.”

“Oh! you are scrupulous, ma'am! But, in truth, this Porgy is a fierce and pestilent fellow—one of the gang of Marion—who has made himself particularly conspicuous as a malignant. He has certainly no reason to expect favour at our hands.”

“Oh! surely not favour! The question is one of right, simply. Either these negroes are Captain Porgy's or not. I can prove them to be so.”

“But not that he has not sold them?”

“His Bill of Sale would show that.”

“Madam, you should have been a lawyer.”

“But a little while ago, your opinion was that I should have been a soldier.”

“Egad! madam, it is difficult to say what profession you might not have chosen successfully.”

“Thank you sir for the compliment, however equivocal. But you will give me the order, will you not?”

“Oh! to be sure, if there really be such negroes in our possession.”

“They are entered in the ‘Hulk-book’ in your name.”

“The devil they are! It is is strange that people should take my name in vain so eternally. I must see to it. These cursed Hessians, Mrs. Eveleigh, are the greatest rogues and drunkards in the world. I will see to the matter. If the negroes are there, when I make inquiry, I will send you an order for them. Let me have your address, if you please.”

“I am with my friend, Mrs. Merchant, in Church-street.”

“Mrs. Merchant,” writing. “The Merchants are all our friends. And now, Mrs. Eveleigh, as I have already said, if the negroes of Captain Porgy are really in the ‘Hulk’—”

“You forget, Colonel Moncrieff, that I have just told you that I myself have seen them there,”

THE excellent lady of whom these words were spoken, had, meanwhile, quietly taken her place in the carriage which had been awaiting her in the street. The driver was a black, in the livery of Mrs. Merchant, to whom the establishment belonged. Mrs. Eveleigh was not its only occupant. On the back seat, beside her, sat a white man, who had held possession while she remained within the quarters of Moncrieff. Here, he had studiously kept himself from being seen, but had not been the less disposed to maintain a vigilant watch upon all without. He received the widow, on her return, with a manner which was equally attentive and respectful. The appearance of this person was that of one who had not been accustomed to a place so distinguished. He was not abashed, but awkward. He was evidently a backwoodsman, in humble life, wearing the costume of the woodsman of that period, a rather snug fitting suit of blue homespun, with a sort of hunting shirt of the same colour and material, though without the customary fringes which made it the military garb of the forest rangers, or militia. His face and hands were well embrowned by the sun. The latter were large and rough, and had been well exercised in splitting their two hundred rails per day. The features of his face were large and rough also, but mild, and full of honesty. His great blue eye was expressive of much benevolence, but mixed with a decisive and earnest manliness. The widow addressed him as Mr. Fordham—nay, she called him “Fordham,” familiarly, without the prefix, and it did not at all lessen his deference, this freedom. He was, in fact, the overseer of her plantation, and had been the employée of her husband. A long experience had perfectly assured them both of his fidelity and worth. That the widow had chosen him as her companion, on the present occasion, was due to the objects she had in view, and to the necessity of the case. He had been the agent who had successfully discovered the place in which her negroes were confined. By his scheming, the Hessian guards at the “Hulk” had been drenched with Jamaica, and access had been procured to that prison, and to the books which identified the slaves with their several British appropriators. In this business he was much more efficient than any of the more eminent friends of Mrs. Eveleigh could have been; and the work being an unpleasant one, she had preferred to employ a person whose services she could compensate, rather than those who, however well pleased to serve her, would yet have found the particular duty somewhat disagreeable. But the good lady, though an aristocrat, was not disposed to underrate Mr. Fordham, as a friend, while employing him as her overseer. She really respected the man, and, as he never trespassed upon her indulgence, she felt that she might safely honour him with her friendship, as well as her interests.

“Well, Fordham,” she said, as soon as she had taken her seat beside him, “if you have kept your eyes about you, you have, probably, made a discovery.”

“Indeed I have, ma'am! You mean the squatter, Bostwick.”

“I was not mistaken in the fellow, then! You saw him?”

“Oh! yes, ma'am; there's no mistaking such a fellow! He came up soon after you went in—pushed in without knocking, jest as ef he was at his own home. But, did he see you, ma'am?”

“Yes; but I rather think he believes that I did not see him! Are you sure that he did not see you?”

“Quite sure, ma'am. He never once looked this way, and seemed a little beflustered and in a mighty great hurry. I reckon he's found out what we've been after. He's at the bottom of this business.”

“I have no doubt of it now. Yet, who could have believed it?—that the wretch could be so ungrateful—and his wife and children living, as it were, out of my hands!”

“He's jest one of that very breed, ma'am, that does this sort of things. No good ever comes out of sich a cre'tur' no more than out of a snake. Warm 'em as you please by your own fireside, and feed 'em kindly out of your own hands, and it makes no difference. Once warm, they're sure to bite you. All their vartue, they seems to think, lies only in their venom. What will you do with him, ma'am?”

“I don't see that any thing can be done with him. The proofs against him are, at present, only in our suspicions. Besides, for the sake of the poor, broken-hearted woman, his wife and his wretched children, I prefer that he should go free.”

“Why, yes, ma'am, if one could be sure that he would do no more mischief. But you're not sure of sich a cre'tur' a minute. He's always at something wrong. 'Twould be a monstrous sight better for his wife and children ef he'd clear out with the British. He's as good as one of 'em.”

“Perhaps he may.”

“A good riddance then for all. But Lynching might be of help to him before he goes.”

“Nay, I'm not sure of that.”

“ 'Twould hurt him then, and that's, anyhow, as much as we ought to care about. But, one thing, I'll tell you, ma'am. Ef he don't clear out when the British go, he'll be of trouble to us yit. We'll have to keep all eyes open, ef he's to stay in the country.”

“I must use your eyes then, Fordham, for this purpose, as I have done for so long a time already. I have every confidence in your vigilance and ability, Fordham.”

“You may rest on me, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Fordham. I feel sure of that. I need not tell you, Fordham, that I have the order for the negroes.”

“Captain Porgy's too, ma'am?”

“Yes, both.”

“Good! It must have been like physic to the British Colonel to have to give 'em up.”

“Yes, indeed! But here are the orders, both for Capt. Porgy's and mine. You must take the negroes into your own keeping—take them to Moore's house, ‘up the Path,’ and Moore and his two sons, will take turns with you, for a few days, in watching them. We will keep within the garrison 'till the British troops leave, and our own people march in, and shall then escape any danger from detachments about the country. In a week or ten days we may depart safely. I will leave town with you. Here we are, at Mrs. Merchant's. You will take the carriage, and go at once to the ‘Hulk.’ My friends there, Miles, Johnson and Sturgis, will help you to procure the negroes, and here is General Leslie's order for keeping them in your possession undisturbed. I will get the protection of our Commissioners also, who will be in town to-morrow. Now, Fordham, I leave all in your hands. Good morning.”

“MAY the Foul Fiend deliver us from such a woman!” was the exclamation of Moncrieff, as his two confederates entered the apartment; and he swore terribly as ‘our army did in Flanders.’

“Why, what's the matter? any thing more—any thing worse?” demanded McKewn.

“Ay, indeed!” answered Moncrieff, busily looking among his papers—and he told of the further requisition which the widow had made for the negroes of Porgy.

“But you did not give them up?”

“How, the devil, could I help it?” was the fierce response of the British Colonel. McKewn was almost as furious.

“I'd have seen her d—d first!” cried the other.

“Oh! you would, would you? but she would have had the negroes, though you d—d her into the deepest part of your own future dominions.”

And he then told of the precaution taken by the wily widow—how she had placed her friends in watch upon the “Hulk,’ leaving them no opportunity for evasion. For the time, they were in her power.

“I would have baffled her if the thing could have been done; but I saw no way of escape. She has the order, and it will not be long before the negroes are in her keeping.”

Moncrieff and McKewn were equally savage. Bostwick, who had nothing to lose, and could not be made to disgorge, was comparatively cool and indifferent. The anger of the two former having subsided a little, they began to congratulate themselves that the matter was no worse—that they had got off, in fact, so easily. The requisition might as readily have relieved them of two hundred as of twenty negroes. The question with them was, in what way to save the residue. The widow had only to report what she knew, to the Commissioners of the American army, to wrest from them all of their ill-gotten fugitives. Fortunately for them, the Commissioners were not then in the city. They were in the American camp, procuring all possible forms of proof for the reclamation of the goods of citizens. They might, and probably would, return to the city, in the space of another day, and the first object with our Arcadians, was how, meanwhile, to secure the rest of the stolen negroes. But the parties interested had their mode of operation, and were not without experience. It will suffice here, if we mention the fact that, but very few of the two hundred remaining in the “Hulk,” after Mrs. Eveleigh had secured hers, were ever restored to their owners. The next morning, at dawn, found the “Hulk” empty, while one of the transports had hauled out into the stream, ready to depart at a given signal. To arrange these matters, our companions needed little discussion.

“And now,” said Moncrieff, “now that we have resolved what is to be done, I will give you the order without delay. That drunken rascal, Dort, must be relieved of all such trusts in future. This woman, through some of her friends, has practised upon his love of Hollands. She had never got a peep at those books otherwise. We must give their charge to Witsell. Do you keep here, McKewn, and see that Bostwick does not expose the beauties of his face until I send Waldron to you. He will tell you if the coast be clear. For his own sake, it will not do to identify him in my quarters. Indeed, I dont know but that my own character needs the same precaution. You are not, Master Bostwick, the handsomest piece of humanity that the world has witnessed.”

“I am jist as God made me, Colonel Moncrieff,” responded the Squatter, sulkily.

“Pooh! pooh! Bostwick, that's all a mistake. Do you suppose that God made you at all? If he did, do you presume to say that you are in just as good condition as when you came out of his hands?”

“Ef I'm changed for the worse, Colonel, I know who has helped to change me;” and the fellow's eyes looked alternately to his two companions.

“What! you would give us the credit of your bad improvements; but you know better, Bostwick. We found you as you are, a ready made rascal, my lad; and employed you in a business for which your education was complete. But you want money, McKewn says? Well, we must give you a little. Five guineas you say! There it is. And now, Master Bostwick, you are pretty well paid. In fact, considering our losses this morning—the seven of the widow Eveleigh, and the seven more of the rebel, Captain Porpoise—seven, is it, or six?—where the d—1 can those memorandums be?—I say, considering these losses, you are something overpaid. But we won't be tight with you, my good fellow; and, as McKewn hints, I will leave you, at parting, a tolerable supply of stores with which you can do a clever little business, hereafter, with your rebel friends. How does this plan suit you?”

“I reckon it must do, Colonel.”

“Do! By —, my good fellow, you are about the most ungrateful, and not easily satisfied scoundrel of my acquaintance!”

SATURDAY, the 14th of December, 1782, was the day, memorable in the annals of Charleston, for the evacuation of that city by its British conquerors. They had held possession of it for two years, seven months and two days. Painful to them was the necessity of departing from a region in which they had been so successful in combining profit with pleasure. They had spoiled the Egyptians with a vengeance—had luxuriated in their flesh-pots for a long season, and naturally tore themselves away with reluctance. Nobody suffered more grievously from the necessity than our thirsty Colonel of Engineers, Moncrieff. Yet, no one, probably, had so successfully engaged in the business of “appropriation.” His portion of the spoils, in negroes alone, is estimated at eight hundred. These had been shipped, at various periods, for the West India Islands, as soon as it became obvious to all that the war was about to close, and the evacuation was inevitable. Fully two hundred slaves, as we have seen, were about to accompany his departure, all to his credit; the profits of which, in some degree, served to alleviate the disquiet that he felt at the discontinuance of a career, the fruits of which had been so abundant. In respect to these, there was a final conference between himself and McKewn, at the dawning of the day assigned for the exodus of the British. McKewn sought the British Colonel in his chamber, and while the latter was yet yawning dismally, not thoroughly awake, at once over his own broken slumbers, and the cheerlessness of the prospect, the former opened the last interview that was destined to take place between the parties, by a somewhat abrupt reference to the one matter which particularly concerned himself.

“You have not found the memorandum, Colonel?”

“No, d—n it, it is gone, certainly. I have searched everywhere but in vain. Your rascal, Bostwick, has it, in all probability. I can hardly persuade myself that the woman took it. She is too much of a lady.”

“Thatmay be, yet I doubt; and, indeed, I'm not so sure that, even as a lady, she need have any scruples at putting in her pocket a document which so much concerned her own interest.”

“Ah! and that's your opinion?” said Moncrieff, yawning, with an insolent contempt in his manner. “But, permit me to say, McKewn, that your habits in life, and business, are not, perhaps, the best calculated to make you a judge in such matters. The rules which govern the conduct of ladies and gentleman do not necessarily occur to persons in trade. They are, perhaps, almost exclusively understood by those only whose life from the beginning has been in society, and among that class which finds its chief occupation in this very study. Now, you are a shrewd man of business, McKewn—devilish shrewd as a man of business—one may say wise, indeed,—certainly, monstrous knowing—but you will admit that you have paid but small attention to the affairs of polite society. You cannot well understand them, my good fellow.— Permit me to repeat that Mrs. Eveleigh, who was born in the purple chamber of aristocracy, never could have taken this paper:—never! never!”

McKewn's brow became contracted as he listened to this offensive speech. It betrayed the contempt, without any desire for concealment, with which the insolent Briton regarded him. All motives for concealing this contempt were at an end. The intercourse was over between them. The orange had been fully sucked, and McKewn could no longer be of use to the avarice of his employer. He felt all this, in an instant, but it was not his policy to express the indignation which it provoked. A sharp sarcasm, indeed, almost forced its way between his teeth; but he crushed them together, at the peril of his lips, and held his peace until the impulse was over. Then he said, quietly—

“Bostwick, I know, could not have taken the paper, for the scoundrel can't read a syllable, and knew not that such a paper was in existence. The temptation to the widow, Eveleigh, was great, and if she has it in her possession, the affair becomes a very serious one to me.”

“Why, yes,” rejoined the other, with an air of the greatest sang froid, “it might hang you, McKewn.”

“Hardly that; but it would ruin me.”

“You have managed badly. Why did you invest in real estate? How could you expect to make away with it? How could you expect to remain after our departure? Whether this paper arises or not, you are surely committed irrevocably with the rebels.—Here you have been a contractor for the British army—you were one of the addressors of Sir Henry—an unforgivable offence. That you are a creditor of some of the rebels, and hold mortgages upon their estates, are only additional reasons for the confiscation of your property, and the endangering of your personal safety. It has always seemed to me the greatest folly that you should think to remain. It is not too late to determine more wisely. Abandon these villainous acres, these liens, which will be wholly worthless to you, and get yourself aboard the fleet before the army moves.”

McKewn seemed to brood upon the suggestion for a few moments, then looking up suddenly, replied—

“No! it is now impossible. I should be a beggar elsewhere. My whole capital consists in these lands, and these liens, and my whole stock in trade. I must take my chance. I do not think that my debtors, though rebels, will take advantage of my situation; and but for this accursed paper—’,

“Oh! d—n the paper! Let's hear no more about it. You see my desk there. It contains the only papers in my possession which I have not destroyed. These will go with me, and can never rise against you. I can say no more on the subject. I repeat, you are an idiot if you stay. You cannot hope for safety. Take to the fleet, and be aboard as soon as you can. This is my last and best counsel.”

McKewn longed to utter the savage answer which he could have spoken—longed to snap his fingers in the face of the insolent Briton, and tell him that while he fancied that he used him, he was himself used—that he had guarantees of safety of which the other did not dream, and which, had he known, would have probably ensured him a British, quite as soon as an American gallows;—but the moment for such daring had not come by several hours. He reserved himself for this relation to the moment when the American army was fairly within the city. A slight smile, therefore, was employed to shadow his future purpose.—Moncrieff did not perceive the sinister meaning of this smile—he added—rather contemptuously than kindly—

“If you reject my counsel you will deserve your fate. Yet, I assure you, McKewn, it will distress me to hear that so shrewd a business man has been suddenly made to ride a wooden horse, and unprovided with stirrups.”

THE day passed off in pleasurable excitements which did not end with the night. An illumination followed, and every house was thrown wide for the reception of friends and visitors. The military bands were in full requisition: and the merry violin, sounding from this or that great house, in almost every street of the city, denoted the extemporé dancing party, and the joyful rëunion of long separated friends and dear ones. Formality interposed to mar none of the conviviality. There were no tedious ceremonials. The strangers were known friends, and successful valour and unquestioned patriotism, were to be honoured and rewarded. There had been little time, and less means for any stately ceremonials. Invitations had not been given out, but were commonly understood; and every gentleman knew that he was welcome at every whig mansion. Doors every where were thrown wide, and the gay cavalier passed from one to another dwelling, sure to find in all an attraction and a welcome. It was at one of these, in Broad-street, that Mrs. Eveleigh was, for the evening, an honoured guest. A considerable party had assembled, when General Greene made his appearance with his suite. Moultrie came soon after, with good natured visage, looking the very personification of peace and good will to men. There were stately cavaliers in train from Virginia, Maryland and Delaware,—the old North State was honourably represented in more than one tall and portly soldier, while Georgia had two or three handsome blue-eyed and round-faced youths, following the wake of the fiery Wayne. The assemblage hastily conceived, and promiscuously brought together, was nevertheless, comparatively, a brilliant one. We do not propose to describe it more particularly.

It was while the rooms were most crowded, that Mrs. Eveleigh was suddenly surprised by the entrance of McKewn, whom she had known only as the associate of Moncrieff, and by the memoranda which she still held in her possession. He approached the hostess, Mrs. W—, with the easy assurance of one who has no doubt of his reception. Mrs. Eveleigh watched curiously to see what that reception would be. To her increased surprise, she found it affable in the extreme. McKewn was next seen among the gentlemen. With these, also, he seemed to enjoy an excellent understanding. Her surprise underwent still farther increase, as she discovered in the persons with whom he seemed most at home, none but unquestionable patriots. By one of these she saw him led up to General Greene and introduced; a few words were whispered in the General's ear, by the gentleman who did the courtesy on this occasion, and Greene was then seen to shake McKewn's hand with a hearty and nervous grasp. Good Mrs. Eveleigh knew not what to think. She turned to a gentleman who sate beside her, whom she well knew, and asked—

“Who is that person just introduced to General Greene—he to whom General Moultrie is now speaking?”

“His name is McKewn—he is, or was, a Scotch merchant here, but I believe he has declined business recently. He is a man of substance.”

“The General seems to view him with favour.”

“Well they may, if all's true that is said of him. He is one of the few Scotchmen who have been with us during the war. He was one of the addressors of Sir Henry Clinton, but his ostentatious loyalty was only employed as a cover for his revolutionary principles. He has been one of the spies, in part, upon the garrison, and has frequently served Marion with information of the state of affairs.”

“His being a Scotchman, yet a spy for us, does not speak much for principle of any kind. I suppose he feathered his nest by it.”

“Ah!” with a shrug, “we must not be too scrupulous about the quality of the tool we use if we pick the lock with it.”

“Perhaps not: the necessity of the case is to be considered, surely. But is it certain that Marion got any really valuable information out of him?”

“That is a problem. But you seem curious in respect to this person. Have you any reason for it?”

MRS. Eveleigh, as we have already stated, left the city for her plantation on Wednesday, instead of Friday. The change in her arrangements, called for a corresponding change in those of McKewn, and the Squatter, Bostwick. The latter, with his five confederates, or employeés, took their departure on Tuesday; and, well knowing the route to be pursued by the widow, sped rapidly for the Edisto, in the neighbourhood of which river, they proposed to plant their ambush. Their departure was quite a relief to McKewn, as it greatly lessened the expense to which he was necessarily subject, so long as they remained in idleness, and in a vicinity so full of temptations. We need not note their progress. Conducted by Bostwick, they were not long in reaching their hiding places, and in taking such a position, west of the Edisto, as would enable them to fasten upon their prey at a bound. The excellent lady, unsuspicious of danger, set forth after breakfast on Wednesday morning, in her great family carriage drawn by four stout horses. The lumbering vehicle of that period need not be particularly described. It is very well known that the carriages of that day were huge, unsightly and heavy machines, very solid structures of wood and iron, which, even when entirely empty, were a sufficient burden for their teams. When occupied by our widow, her son, a youth of sixteen, a maid-servant of no small dimensions, sundry trunks, bags and boxes, filling up every foot of space—and condemned to a lonely progress over rough and heavy roads, it was inevitable that its movements must be slow. Accordingly, it made no more rapid progress than the plantation wagon which accompanied it, and in which several of the negroes found a place. One or two of these were mounted on mules, while others, the more vigorous, walked, easily keeping up with the carriage.—Among these were the half-dozen negroes, belonging to Captain Porgy, whom, as we have seen, the widow was so fortunate, and so firm, as to recover, with her own, from the clutches of Moncrieff. The overseer of Mrs. Eveleigh, Fordham, led the cortege, mounted on a clumsy, but powerful, sumpter horse, and armed with the well-used long rifle of the country. He carried, besides, in holsters, a pair of large but common pistols. Young Eveleigh was similarly armed. He rode, sometimes with his mother in the carriage, but occasionally left the vehicle for a little ‘marshtacky,’ or poney, of Spanish breed, such as are to be found very commonly about the parishes of South-Carolina to this day—a light, hardy, lively creature, very small, but of great endurance. Young Eveleigh was a tall, handsome and vigorous youth, full of spirit, of a strong will and resolute character. Properly armed, the party, including the negroes, might have laughed at any demonstration which could be made by the force under Bostwick; but, unsuspicious of danger, they had taken no precautions against it, and travelled as carelessly along as if their course lay through the pathways of the peaceful city. Sometimes, Fordham and young Eveleigh rode together ahead; at other moments they were to be seen about the wagon and negroes, in the rear; and, not unfrequently, when riding ahead, they were out of sight both of wagon and carriage. Bostwick had made all his calculations with due regard to what he knew of the travelling habits of the people on such occasions. The party had been suffered to cross the Edisto at Rantowle's, and had made some progress upwards and towards the Ashepoo; when the hour for “nooning” approached. Of course, carriage and wagon were both well provided with the necessary supplies of provisions; as the lodging houses along the route, few at any time, and with long intervals, had been very generally broken up during the war, upon any but the great thoroughfares. Fordham and young Eveleigh had ridden forward to find a branch—a stream of water—or a spring, at which the party might stop. A turn of the road had taken them out of sight of the carriage. The regions were well wooded; and the vehicles were passing through a defile of the forest, more than commonly dense. They had just passed an ancient Clubhouse, such as may be found, to this day, throughout the Parish country of South-Carolina; where, after the day's hunt, the gentry of the surrounding district rëassembled for dinner. The house had been disused for this purpose, during the war, and was now in ruins. The planks had been torn off from the frame, which stood up an almost naked skeleton. The floor was gone—the roof could afford no shelter. Weeds and grass, still in rankest luxuriance, environed the decaying frabric, in which, no doubt, during the heats of summer, the serpent and the wild-cat found frequent harbourage, Just beyond this spot, a heavy timbered forest spread away to the South, over a low, mucky tract, which the deer and the bear could alone inhabit. The road wound along the edges of this low region, pursuing the higher grounds. It was while the carriage was passing through the dark shadows of this defile, that it was suddenly arrested. The horses were made rudely to recoil, and wheeled about; the vehicle was thrust directly across the road so as fairly to close it up. The shock awakened Mrs. Eveleigh from a drowsy mood, while the cry of the servant-maid who accompanied her, warned her of some event which required her attention. At first, she fancied that the horses were unruly; but she was soon undeceived. The words of the negro girl—

“Oh! missis, look a' dem black looking man! He da ketch de horse by de head.”

At that moment the driver cried out—

“Hello! da'—wha' you gwine do wid my hosses?”

He was silenced with a blow from a bludgeon delivered by a hand which he had not seen, and which tumbled him fairly from his seat. Two or three men, covered with masks, and dressed with long, shaggy black hair, through which their wild dark eyes only were visible, now appeared at the side of the carriage, the door of which was torn open in an instant.

“Who are you? What do you mean by this violence?” demanded the widow, looking very pale, but speaking very firmly. One of them replied harshly, seizing her by the wrist as he spoke—

“Come out, my good woman!—that we may hev' a good look at your handsome wisage!”

HAVING, as they fancied, secured the only persons who were likely to give them any trouble,—having ransacked the carriage, and taken into their own keeping any small valuables which had previously eluded their search—our banditti, under the conduct of the Squatter, Bostwick, now prepared to turn their attention upon the negroes and the approaching wagon. This vehicle might have been three quarters of a mile in the rear of the carriage when the latter was arrested, the inmates taken captive, and the assault made upon Fordham and young Arthur. Of these events, the negroes, by whom the wagon was accompanied and driven, had no sort of conjecture, at the moment when they happened. The road was one of those admirably circuitous ones, so common in our forest country, which seldom afford you a direct survey of the route for three hundred yards together; and, trudging on, with tongues incessantly employed, singing or talking, the negroes had ears for no sounds but those which they themselves produced. The wagon was mostly filled with stores, sugar, coffee, flour, bacon, blankets and negro clothes. These loaded it rather heavily for the six mules by which it was drawn. To this load, you may add, at intervals, two or three of the negroes, who, from temporary lameness, or a less degree of strength than the rest, were permitted, occasionally, to relieve their fatigue by a lift in the wagon. One of these negroes, belonging to Captain Porgy, was, by the way, an expert violinist. His only possession was a cracked and ancient fiddle, the seams of which had been carefully, but roughly, closed with resin from the pine trees, gathered as he passed. With this instrument, he contrived to increase the noise and the merriment which still accompanied their progress, and to lessen the consciousness of fatigue on the part of his companions.—Pomp, or Pompey—that was his name—as might be expected, was a great favourite; and his plea of lameness, we may add, was not examined too closely by the driver of the wagon, when it was remembered that his violin could be made to work while he played. The negroes were fourteen in number, seven of them being the property of Mrs. Eveleigh, the rest of Captain Porgy—all of whom, with one exception, had been recovered from the clutches of the insatiate Colonel Moncrieff and his colleagues. These were all walking, with the exception of the wagoner, Tobias, Pomp, the violinist, and Dembo, a young fellow of sixteen; the two latter being within the wagon; Dembo looking out from the opening of the cover, in the rear, while Pomp occupied a similar position in front; the post of honour being naturally claimed for the violin. Tobias bestrode the wheel-horse immediately in front of him, and when Pomp was not actually playing, he and Tobias kept up a running commentary upon the ways before them, the events through which they had passed, their recent captivity in the British Hulk, and their fortunate escape at the very last moment. Thus travelling and employed, the party at length wound its way slowly into the plain, at the farthest opening of which—perhaps a quarter of a mile distant—the carriage of the widow could now be seen, awkwardly enough, turned directly across the road.

The situation of this vehicle was first beheld by the pioneer of the party, an able bodied, fine looking fellow, named John, or John Sylvester, as he preferred to be called, after a former owner by whom he had been reared. John was a calm, and rather thoughtful fellow, of quick comprehension, keen sight, and good judgment. He stopt immediately, looked earnestly about him, and, after surveying, for a few moments, the situation of the carriage, he turned quietly back to the wagon and his companions.

“Look yer, Toby,”—speaking to Tobias, the wagoner—“dem hoss of missis nebber tu'n dat carriage 'cross de road, as you see 'em. He hab somebody for tu'n 'em so, for sure!”

“Ki!” quoth Tobias, looking out and drawing up his team, as he gazed. “Wha' dat? He choke up de road for true. Sartain, John, de hoss nebber tu'n 'em so hese'f (heself)!”

“Nebber!” continued John, “and you see nudder t'ing, Toby—de hoss tak' out and gone! He nebber tak' out hese'f.”

“Da's true! Wha' dis?”

“Now, Toby, you hab eye! Look to de little wood ob scrubby oak; you see? You see hoss hitch, and der's a coal black hoss hitch wid udder hoss in dat scrubby oak?”

THE whole aspect of the affair had now undergone a serious change in the eyes of the outlaws. We must enter into their councils for a moment. Close by the side of the road, but concealed amid the shubbery which skirted it, three of the party had assembled, including the person who had been left in charge of the captured negroes. These, as they had all, by this time, been well secured with ropes, and were now grouped together at the side of the wagon, needed, perhaps, no close surveillance. Still, the party at the road-side, but a few paces distant, were ready, should there be any movement among the slaves. But they lay quiet, crouching close to the earth, and entirely subdued by their terrors. The two absent outlaws were still in pursuit of the fugitive negroes in the woods opposite. The three whom we now find in council, consisted of Bostwick, the squatter, Ralph Burke and Dick Norris—distinct persons all, certainly, but with such a family likeness among them, the result of great beards, mammoth wigs and whiskers, all of glossy back, and similar habits, that they could really only distinguish each other by their voices. Bostwick, as was proper, was the person to open the conference upon the state of their affairs.

“Well, boys, here's a trouble. These chaps have got loose, and how, is the puzzle.”

“No puzzle, I reckon;” answered Burke. “They've been on-tied by that wench that you let slip out of the carriage. That's the how!”

“I reckon it must be so;” answered Bostwick.

“And how you come to let her slip, is a matter I can't see. You would take the carriage to yourself, and shet your eyes to hafe (half) the business.”

“Yes; whar' was your eyes, Bostwick?” quoth Norris.

“In the widow's pockets, I reckon;” muttered Burke, with a shrewd approach to the truth.

“I miss'd it sartain, somehow;” replied Bostwick, composedly; “but that's not the matter now. It's now to see how we hev' to mend the slip. It's sartin sure that Fordham and the young man are loose, and it don't matter by whose hands. I suppose the widow's loose too?”

“There was only one shot, Bostwick;” quoth Norris.

“Well! What of that?”

“Well! That would show there was only one man. Now, it's not so cl'ar to me that Fordham's loose. He had quite too hard a hit o' the head to git the use of his eyes and fingers so mighty quick, ay, or his senses either. Now, if it should be only the young un.”

“Hardly! He's not got the sense for it yet, though he's spunky, I know—I know him of old. I've seen and talked with him years ago, when he was'nt knee high. Ef 'twas only him, we could soon sarcumvent him. But it's not so easy work with Fordham, who is a sort of man-fox, I tell you; as cunning as a sarpent, and with a mighty hard head and fist in a fight.”

WHILE the youth remained, thus, perdu, confused and impatient, but, by this time, fully tutored in the necessity of keeping quiet and watchful where he had been placed, ten minutes might have passed; to him seemingly a good half hour. He was suddenly awakened to increased agitation and anxiety, by hearing a second rifle shot about twenty paces on his right. He conceived, rightly, that this shot was from the overseer, and eagerly began to anticipate the necessity, himself, of taking part in the action. But a deep silence again followed, and ten minutes more may have elapsed, when he was suddenly conscious of a sound among the bushes as of a stick broken. He turned his eyes in this quarter, guaged it with his rifle, and, though expecting Fordham, stood prepared to meet an enemy. He was reässured by a chirp, not louder than that of the cricket from a splitlog, and the next moment the overseer glided up the bank.

“You shot! What have you done?”

“Nothing much, I reckon! I didn't expect to do much, but mostly to give the skunks an idee that we were in different camps, and that they could'nt git at one fairly, without putting themselves in the way of eating the bullets of the other. I was tempted, as I seed a little motion in a heap of tallow-bushes; and, as I reckoned that was pretty much about the spot where their shot come from, I kept my eye upon it, and when I saw the top of the bush move again, I aimed pretty low down and blazed away.”

“Well?”

“Nothing came of it, so far as I seed! I reckon I was a leetle too quick on trigger, jest like a younger person, Arthur. But let us slip down this bank, and get farther along up the swamp.”

“But when you drew their fire, by the cap, Fordham, why did'nt you offer for a rush at them?”

“How was I to know how many rifles they had, with mouths full of bullets still? No! no! Master Arthur;—we are but two, and they are five, may be;—certainly four;—and ef thar's to be a rush made, why they are the proper persons to take the resk. We must resk nothing. We're on the defensive, all the time. What we must aim at is to sarcumvent them. We must fetch another compass, and change ground constantly.”

Having, by this time, reloaded his discharged rifle, Fordham led the way for his young companion. Creeping along the hedge of laurel, but not so near it as to disturb a sprig, the two glided down the tussock, and soon made their way into the deeper shelter of the swamp. They now moved steadily upward, aiming, though by a circuitous progress, in the direction of the creek where Fordham was suprised in the opening of the affair. While thus moving, let us look into the camp of the enemy, and pierce their policy, if that be possible.

We need not detail the several fetches by which the two bandits, Bostwick and Ralph Burke, approached the point where we find them. Their route, like that of the party we have hitherto accompanied, has been a circuitous one; in recognition of the vital necessity, which existed, that they should not unadvisedly happen upon their foes. A proper knowledge of woodcraft, led Bostwick and Burke readily to conjecture what would be the game practised by Fordham. They aimed, accordingly, to accomplish a circuit so sufficiently wide, as to bring them, finally, in the rear of the overseer, no matter how much the compass, he, too, might have allowed himself in the desire to attain a similar object. In this progress, they measurably accomplished their aims; and, but for the retreat to the “Hurrah” and “gall berry bushes,” and the short pause of the overseer and Arthur in that place of refuge, they would, probably, have arrived at better opportunities than those which they enjoyed. It was while fully concsious, from certain discoveries which they had made, that the fugitives were nearly within striking distance, that the two outlaws hid themselves for awhile; keeping a sharp watch, rifle in hand, within twenty paces of each other. Their instincts led them to divine that Fordham would seek the cover of the swamp;—and, upon this region they kept their eyes, from the centre of the elevated ground over which the overseer had so cautiously crept, leading his inexperienced associate. While lurking and watching thus, the eyes of Burke were the first to catch a glimpse of the youth's cap elevated above a clump of laurel. The bait took and he fired; to the great annoyance of Bostwick, who had seen it also, and had suspected the ruse. The parties rejoined, a moment after this shot, and, with a brief wrangle in respect to it, separated as before, and once more shrouded themselves among the myrtle and tallow bushes. It was, while recovering this position, that Bostwick drew the fire of Fordham;—suffering a narrow escape, the bullet actually cutting the cape of his coat, and razing the skin of his shoulder as if a cowhide had been laid on with a will. The fellow writhed under the smart, but made no other movement, and, after a brief pause of watch, in the hope that the secret enemy, whose bullet he had escaped, presuming on a more fatal result, would show himself, he readily conjectured, from his forbearance to do so, that he had changed his ground. But he waited still awhile longer; then, as all continued silent, he whistled to Burke, who answered him from his place of shelter, and both drew backwards, crawling away in snake-fashion, and scarcely stirring the foliage which had given them shelter.

“We can't play these cards too nicely,” said Bostwick, to Burke, as they went some yards in the rear of their late position, and with the ‘hurrah bushes’ effectually concealing them from sight. “This chap, Fordham, is a whole team of foxes, and no mistake! We must git across the road, and push down quick for the swamp on that side—cross the creek and road at the same time, and come in on 'em from that quarter.”

The plan was agreed on, and at once put in execution. Once in the forest, on the opposite side of the road, the two bandits made rapid progress upward; reaching the margin of the swamp in which, as we have seen, the widow Eveleigh had previously taken shelter, very nearly as soon as Fordham and young Arthur. But a considerable space now lay between the latter and their hunters, destined, however, to be rapidly overcome, as the overseer and his companion were also bending their steps towards the same creek which the bandits are now crossing, Once on the opposite side, the two latter struck into the swamp, proposing to pursue the course of the creek which wound through it, and place themselves in ambush among the willows and laurels by which it was skirted. But they had not gone far, preserving the caution which had hitherto marked their movements, when they discovered such proof of the near neighbourhood of other parties, as made them momently forgetful of Fordham. The anxieties of the widow Eveleigh, in respect to her son, had made her unwilling to leave him, while there was any prospect of his suffering from an encounter with his foes. Though she had crossed the creek, and had consented to go forward on her route—keeping still the cover of the wood, under the guidance of Jenny, the servant-maid—yet with a fearful fascination, which she could not withstand, did she again return upon her own footsteps. Her track, going, had been detected in the soft ooze along the margin of the creek. It was followed instantly by the outlaws.

“Let us but git our hand on her ag'in,” quoth Bostwick, “and we'll git a purchase on her son and Fordham.”

Such was the cold-blooded calculation.

“Right!” responded Burke. “Son or mother, the one kin always be made to sell out for the other.”

“That's jest as they have vartue and nateral affection. These will do it—but, let me tell you, 'taint the case with many hundred others. 'Gad! there's some people that'd rether sell mother and grandmother, and son and grandson, than give up the hair of a nigger, or the shine of a dollar. I've known many of that sort—but it's no use to talk. There's man-beasts, Burke—wolf and tiger, fox and skunk, 'coon and 'possum, snake and spider—who don't know no law but jest to strike and swallow—and make snares and steal, when they can't take; and run, rether than fight, for their thievings! I don't know, old fellow, but we b'longs to some one of these breeds, ourselves; and we'd be bad enough, ef we wa'n't willing to resk our lives as well as our honesty. There's one I know, but—”

“Who?”

“Never mind—he's one who would cut his inimy's throat with your knife or mine, and take his neighbour's money with our hands; he's—but no matter. Now, this widow and her son are of the true grit—people of raal blood; and raal blood, Burke, is a vartue by itself, and by natur'. They'd die for one another!”

“We won't hurt 'em, Bostwick?”

“That's as it happens. We don't know what we may hev' to do. One must help himself, no matter who he hurts! We must use one of 'em to bring the other to reason. So—stop!—hist!”

THE overseer and his young companion, having struck somewhat deeper into the swamp, were necessarily compelled to make a considerable circuit in approaching the point where the outlaws had succeeded in recapturing Mrs. Eveleigh. The swamp, of irregular figure, thrust out a huge horn between the parties, the extent of which Fordham had not calculated. This was always pretty full of water, and not passable, except with great difficulty and inconvenience. The two were on one side of this horn, or arm of the swamp, itself a lake—while the outlaws skirted the other—the creek being between the parties also—when the screams of the servant maid of the widow, smote sharply on the ears of our wanderers. The first instincts of Arthur led him naturally to suppose that the cries were from his mother.

“My poor mother!” he exclaimed, passionately. “They have found her, Fordham! Hear! It is she! These are her screams. They are ill-treating her.”

“I don't think!” returned the other, with interest, but still calmly. “Don't be scared, Arthur. I reckon they've found your mother, and have made her a prisoner again, though she ought, by this time, to have been a mile farther on the road. But 'taint her that you hear a-screaming. I'ts Jenny, the gal, I reckon.—Mrs. Eveleigh aint the lady to scream, I'm thinking. It aint like her.”

“But are we to stand here, Fordham, when there's no knowing what these villains are after?”

“That we must try and see, Arthur. We must push on, that's sartain; but we musn't push on any faster than we've been doing. The only way to save her, and to save ourselves, is just to play scout 'tell we kin git some advantage. Jest you leave the thing to me, and ef so be we're to work out of this trouble, with whole bones, it's only by showing not a white of the eye to these skunks, until we kin speak to 'em safely by the mouth of the rifle. Let's push on, along the edge of this lagoon, as we're a-doing. It'll bring us out upon the road after awhile, and we'll see. Now that these rascals have got your mother, as I reckon, they'll not be able to work their way through the woods so easy as afore.”

FROM the deep silence which covered the region, one might suppose that all the parties had suddenly disappeared. Mrs. Eveleigh had been warned to silence by the brutal threat of the ruffian, Burke; and having, as she thought, sufficiently informed her son and his companion of the proximity of enemies, she was not unwilling to respect the warning. She knew not of the effect produced by her son's shot. The fact was unknown, indeed, to any of the parties. Fordham had been suddenly made more than ever cautions by the narrow escape he had made from Burke's bullet, and lay in supreme quiet in the bushes which sheltered him. Young Arthur had also sunk back into cover, quite ashamed of his own (assumed) rashness and indiscretion, and congratulating himself that he had not drawn the enemy's fire also. Bostwick, in the meanwhile, conscious of the fact which Fordham had no reason to suspect, that the parties were equally matched, and that all his hope lay in the excellence of his own stratagem, crouched more closely than ever in his place of ambuscade, with every sense quickened by the feeling that he had an enemy before him, who, thus far, had shown himself a match for him in Indian artifice. In the practice of woodcraft he was now willing to acknowledge that Fordham was quite as good a man as himself. Of that which had been exercised by the opponents respectively, we have been able to report but imperfectly. It would need more space than we could afford, to chronicle minutely those details, of which we have given an outline only. The fox-like doublings, the snake-like crawlings, the subtlety, stealth, keen sight, and foresight, equally, which had been shown by both sides, in their several approaches to, and recedings from, each other, had been of the best school of stratagem, as practised by the red-men of America. The little practice of our dramatis personœ will, on a small scale, exhibit the characteristic features of Indian warfare, which, first of all, recognizes the necessity of risking nothing, and of making a clear gain, without equivalent loss of all its advantages. Where the number is so small on both sides, the first necessity is to economise it. Art is to supersede brute valour. No perils are to be incurred except in cases of extreme necessity, and when the issue of new force is absolutely inevitable.

In the present instance, Bostwick and Fordham were equally impressed with the necessity of avoiding loss. Neither dared show himself, with the view to an assault, or any bold demonstration, as long as an enemy lay concealed and on the watch, with a rifle-barrel still unemptied. Thus, accordingly, after the space of ten or fifteen minutes, after the several shots of Burke and Arthur had been delivered, neither of the parties had moved or spoken. The first sounds which struck the ears of Fordham and Arthur were the faint whistles of a partridge. The latter, in his inexperience, really supposed them to proceed from the bird; but Fordham knew better. He now held his breath, if possible to distinguish from what precise quarter the sound had issued. He knew it to be a signal. It was repeated at slight intervals, and he found that it came from the opposite woods, the carriage being, in fact, directly between himself and the sound. He supposed it to be forty or fifty yards distant. Thrice did he hear it, and always from the same precinct. He could perceive no answer to it.—Either therefore, his late assailant was nigher to him than he had imagined, and therefore dared not answer, or he had succeeded in drawing himself off from the scene of action. He never once fancied any thing so agreeable, but so little probable, as that the hasty shot of Arthur had done his business. But the conjecture of Bostwick led him more nearly to the truth. The failure of Burke to answer his signal—for it was his—filled him with doubt and apprehension. He repeated it thrice, as had been agreed upon between them, and listened vainly for the reply. He, at once, reviewed all his ground, and, for the first time, began to loose his confidence in the enterprise.

“I'm jubous,” he muttered to himself, “that Burke has got his fodder! There's but one way for it, and that's to back out. It's high time! Better half a loaf than no bread! Six negroes sure, is better than a dozen, with a ragged bullet to chaw into the bargain. I must shift the ground—get back to the wagon—bring the boys together, and take what we've got.”

These results were slowly arrived at. Once resolved upon, the execution was immediate. Bostwick, with habitual cunning and caution, withdrew from his place of hiding, drawing back into the deeper woods, and without provoking any suspicion of his movement. The widow, from her seat in the front of the carriage, and who, without actually seeing the Squatter in his place of ambush, was yet aware of the spot in which he harboured, was totally ignorant of his departure. Once in the deep thicket behind, Bostwick rose to his feet, and sped down the road with all possible haste, in the direction of the wagon. There, also in concealment, he found his colleague, Norris, who, having heard the firing, had become exceedingly uneasy.

“Well—how goes it, Bost?” he enquired, as the other drew to his side. “Where's Burke?”

“Not in Heaven, I reckon! Maybe in a worse place, if the preachers know anything about it.”

“What? You dont mean—?”

“I reckon he's chawed his bullet. He don't answer the call. That d—d etarnal Fordham! They've had a shot apiece, and the widow cried out, and Burke, like a bloody fool, must git out of the bush, and curse her, and shake his fist at her, and so draw'd the inimy's fire. Sence then, he's laid quiet, and don't answer to the call.”

“But you ain't sure? You ha'int seed for sartain?”

“No! He may be only barked a leetle; but there's no telling. I durs'nt ventur', as Fordham still keeps close!”

“And what's to be done?”

“Claw off—that's the how! Take what we've got, sure, and be off. The boys not in?”

“Yes; they're after the horses. They caught another of the niggers, and we've tied him with the rest.”

“Makes seven?”

“Yes.”

“We must be satisfied with that, and be off. It's been a mighty hard business, and I'm getting tired, and scary too. We'll be having somebody upon us, ef we stay much longer. Better mount and drive the niggers we've got, and make for Dooley's Cove. We ought to be there afore moonrise.”

“But don,t you think we kin git something out of the wagon? A jug or two of rum, I'm thinking, and prehaps some other little fixings that we kin carry on the saddle?”

“Well, I suppose, we might make a s'arch; but you mus'nt be long about it. I reckon the boys have got the horses by this time. There's been nobody to hender, this time. Where did they go to?”

“Yonder, in the open piney wood, where there's grass, I'm thinking. It's thar' the boys went. Hesh!—thar' they come, bringing all the critters. What shall we do about Burke?”

“Do! What should we do? Mind what the Scripture tell us—‘Let the dead bury the dead.’”

“But we don't know that he's dead.”

“And we mus'nt resk the life of a live man to find out. Ef he's living, I reckon he knows what to do. We'll make a divarsion in his favour, and he kin then snake away to the swamp. Ef he's dead, there's an eend to his troubles, and we kin take care of his horse among us, and spend his share of the money! Aint that sense, I ax you?”

“Right! But about the divarsion?”

“Well, look you—these chaps—this overseer Fordham—d—n his quarters, I say! he and the young chap lie about the carriage now, a'most within pistol shot. I'll put myself in the thicket thar'—pointing to a spot some fifty yards farther on the road, one third of the distance, perhaps, between the wagon and the carriage)—and jest cover the track with my rifle, while you s'arch the wagon. Let Brydges and Tony Hines lead off the niggers. Have our horses ready to follow. Tell 'em to take the woods down for a mile or so, then strike into the old road for the burnt Church; we can push a'ter them at a smart gallop, and overtake 'em any time. Anything more?”

“No! go ahead, and put yourself on the watch, and I'll make the s'arch. We must pick up some little vallyables, if we kin.”

“How's your arm?”

THE moment we choose to rëintroduce Captain Porgy, and his late lieutenant to our, readers, is one which is usually found to fulfil all the conditions of happiness to the ordinary mortal. They have dined. Crouched at ease, under the shadows of an enormous oak, they have feasted upon the simple fare provided by the hands of their excellent cook, and have done the amplest justice to the thin slices of broiled ham, ‘done to a turn,’ and the brown hoe-cake, in the proper composition of which, Tom had established in camp the most enviable reputation. These constituted the sum total of their commissariat. The sufficient potations of oily old Jamaica had followed; and, with a sense of physical satisfaction which greatly brightened the prospect, Capt. Porgy leaned back against the shaft of the tree, and closed his eyes in order justly to enjoy it. That complacent sort of reverie which usually occupies every mind, after the noon-day appetite has been subdued and satisfied, had already seized upon our corpulent Captain. Under its present influences, the state of his affairs began to look less gloomy. The circumstances which more particularly pressed upon his thoughts at this juncture—the loss of his late employment, the involvement of his estates, the supposed abduction of all his negroes, the danger which threatened at the hands of certain creditors—sharks, in shoals, lying in wait like tigers of the land, seeking what they may devour—these crowding and dismal figures upon his landscape which, before he dined, had rendered his thoughts a very jungle, worse than Indian, of lions, tigers, and snakes of mammoth dimensions—with the consummation of the noonday meal, retreated from before his path, disarmed of most of their terrors, and, though still lurking and still hostile, looking so little capable of doing mischief, that our Captain began to wonder at his own feebleness of soul which had, but a little while before, so greatly alarmed him on their account. A mild and soothing languor of mood, as if by magic, changed and modified all the figures in his landscape, and nature, having gained time—which is the best capital, after all, as well in morals as in war,—it was surprising how grateful and agreeable became the philosophy which she had taught our Captain. He actually—to the amusement of Lance Frampton, who had tried in vain to soothe his melancholy mood as they rode together before dinner—began to chuckle aloud, yet unconsciously, during his reverie, and finally afforded to his young lieutenant an opportunity to twit him, good humouredly, upon his sudden change of humour, by snapping his fingers in the air, as if at the flight of some enemy, whom he had successfully combatted.

“Well, I say, Captain, you don't seem quite so sick of life as you said you were before dinner. I reckon you won't be shooting yourself, as you threatened, only a little while ago.”

THE negro guides did their duty with the exactness and promptitude of persons who knew exactly what was required of them, and what was the object of the arrangement. They stopt the rapid motion of the horsemen when within three or four hundred yards of the spot where they conjectured the wagon had been left, and with that happy instinct which marks the faculty of the Southern woodsman, they uttered their several warnings nearly at the same moment. The horsemen drew up carefully, the negroes, John and Pomp, leapt down, and kept along on foot with the horses, which were now held at a walk; and, in this way, they approached the opening of the road, within eighty yards of the place where the wagon stood.

Here, Porgy was enabled to get a practical glance of the state of affairs. They arrived at a fortunate moment. The negroes, who had been captured, roped together in pairs, were marching off under the charge of two of the ruffians, who were both mountted, and were still to be seen moving slowly away into the pine forests in the distance. Four other horses were discovered fastened to the swinging branches of a tree some ten or fifteen steps from the wagon. The wagon-horses were hidden in the woods. The vehicle, itself, however, presented a singular appearance of vitality. The cover had been thrown off, and lay upon the ground on one side of it. On the other were to be seen bales, bags, boxes and barrels; and, every now and then, something was seen to upheave itself within the wagon, to revolve slowly over the sides, and come down upon the grovnd with a heavy squelsh.

Were the robbers all in the wagon, the two excepted who were to be seen going off with the negroes? That was Porgy's first question, which he soon answered, as he saw that the contents of the wagon were thrown out slowly, and seperately, giving evidence of the presence of a single worker only. Where were the other three? In ambush somewhere—but where? A moment's reflection led our troopers, in a brief conference, to the conclusion that they were somewhere in front, between the wagon and carriage; and not in the rear, or on the route which they were pursuing.—The carriage was to be seen, and Lance Frampton fancied that he could distinguish the garments of a woman in it. Porgy surveyed the field with a military eye. A dead silence prevailed, broken only by the dull, heavy sound of the falling packages from the wagon.

“There is some bush-whacking going on still,” said he; “some hiding and seeking, but it is not hereabouts. The fellow in the wagon works coolly and composedly, as if he had no apprehensions, If there had been any suspicion of danger from our side of the woods, the ambush would have been so placed, as to have kept us from working so far forward. Our first duty is clear.—We must pursue these fellows who are marching away, cut them off, and rescue the negroes. This will compel the ambush to show itself. We may draw their bullets, as we appear—but if we are sudden, with a shout, and go forward at full speed, we are very apt to escape the taste of lead. We can ride those rascals down! They are but two! Lance, you will keep back, and, with John and Pomp, contrive to capture the fellow in the wagon.—Don't kill him if you can help it. We must get his despatches, and cut the secret of this expedition from under his tongue! Do you hear?”

“Every word, Captain!”

“Very good; now, if you will dismount, fasten your nag in the bushes, and creep forward with John and Pomp towards the wagon, you will, probably, have a good chance, the moment after we make our rush! The rascal will then jump and make for the bushes, or for the horses. In either case, you ought to be able to grapple him. See to it and let the boys understand you.”

The negroes were soon instructed, and betrayed a patriotic eagerness to be up and doing. Seeing that Frampton had fastened his horse, and was already advanced upon his way, with his sable allies, in the direction of the wagon, Porgy gave the signal, and, with a terrible shout from the throat of Millhouse, the two dashed headlong out of the wood in pursuit of the robbers who had charge of the fugitive negroes.

At this sound, as Porgy had anticipated, the outlaw, Norris, who had been at the work of unlading the wagon, naturally popped up his head to see what was the matter. The vigilant eye of Frampton saw it. He could have shot the fellow even in the single instant of opportunity which was thus afforded him; but he remembered his instructions, and forebore; wisely, it seemed, for Norris, seeing the charge of two well mounted horsemen upon his companions, and recognising these as new comers, whose reinforcement to the two customers whom they had already found so troublesome, might well lead to doubts of his own safety, concluded to see to this matter, without any regard to the spoils contained in the wagon. Seizing his rifle, accordingly, he leapt out of the vehicle; but, with singular ill-fortune. His feet alighted upon a hamper of Irish potatoes, part of the contents of the wagon, which rolled away beneath him, and laid him at length with his face to the ground. Before he could recover himself, Lance Frampton was upon him. The rifle of the outlaw was wrested from his grasp; and, with the vigorous young lieutenant griping him firmly by the throat, John Sylvester by the legs, and Pompey, junior, literally sitting, astraddle, upon his back, Dick Norris resigned himself to his fate, after a few spasmodic but ineffectual struggles! The whole affair consumed but a few minutes, and was concluded by Lance Frampton securing his prisoner, within the wagon, by the strongest cordage, scientifically knotted; while John Sylvester, pistol in hand, was seated at his head, instructed to quiet him with a bullet, should he prove troublesome. Frampton, meanwhile, with Pomp, stole away to the bushes opposite, prepared to afford succour to his friends whenever there should be need and opportunity.

Meanwhile, Bostwick, the Squatter, lying snug in his place of watch, contemplating his enemy only in the direction of the carriage, was confounded by the sudden appearance of the horsemen in his rear. With their shout and charge, he became almost instantly aware of the assault upon, and the captivity of Norris; for, though the struggle had taken place on the opposite side of the vehicle, of which he had but a very imperfect view from the spot where he crouched, he could yet see enough to assure him of such an inequality of force, between the parties, as must be fatal to his colleague. He was too heedful of himself to incur any unnecessary perils in the effort to succour his companion; and, indeed, could not well have done so, at least, at that distance, and with his rifle, as it was impossible so to distinguish any of the writhing figures upon the ground, as to be sure that he should not draw his lead upon his friend rather than his foe. Besides, he well knew, that, to show himself in any demonstration upon the new enemies in the rear, he must only become exposed to the shot of those whom he felt to be somewhere harbouring, and on the watch, in front. To crawl backwards—to increase the distance between himself and all these parties—his own as well as the rest—became now the selfish policy of the Squatter. He could do nothing to help his comrades—the negroes would be recovered—two of his associates were slain already—he himself was in danger, unless he moved promptly away; and, besides, he was already in possession of the most valuable of the portable spoils,—the strong-box of the widow, having the important paper—as virtually important to the rich McKewn as to the Squatter, Bostwick—to say nothing of the fifty guineas, in money, which—he had the widow's word for it—was in the strong box also; and of which he had already determined to betray nothing to his comrades. It required no great argument to persuade him to be content with his acquisitions, and to draw off in season; no matter what fate should befal his companions. He crawled back, accordingly; slowly and with admirable circumspection; and so changed his ground, as to place himself out of immediate reach of either of the several groups, into which his assailants were divided.

But one anxiety alone prevented him from utterly taking his departure. He would, unhesitatingly, have gone, were he sure that his comrades were all slain, or certain to be slain, without speaking. But the doubt occurred to him.

“Norris is taken! Should he confess? Should others be taken and confess? Thar's the trouble! Thar's the danger and the resk!”

This reflection disquieted him. He lingered in sight of the field of action, fully assured that he ought to fly, yet with that incertitude of mood which left him incapable of determination.

“If they confess,” said he to himself, “there's nothing for me but to cut and run! The country would be too hot for me!”

Why he should not leave it?—is the question that might occur to any body else. But the wretch was not without his ties, his affections, his sensibilities, such as they were—and when he thought of the necessity of leaving the country, a picture of three young children—one tall, sad-eyed girl among them—grew vividly up before his eyes! He had a wife too, but he saw nothing of her. It was the three children, alone, that formed the spell, so potent about the heart of the bad and seemingly heartless man. Strange, that such a creature should so feel and think, at such a moment! Yet not strange either!”

Let us follow our partisans. The wild halloo of their onset soon made their presence and purpose apparent to the persons they pursued. Looking about them quickly, one cried to the other—

“Jimini! They're Marion's men, as I'm a sinner! Here's a fix! Cast the niggers loose, Jeff, and use a bloody spur ef you knows how! We must scatter.”

“How many do you see, Tony?” cried the other.

“Only two as yit; but they rush as ef there was a dozen!—They've got the heels of us, too, I reckon! there's no racing with such a nag as this! I'm for the swamp, Jeff; I can't trust the run; I must try the dodge! And you better do the same, but make your push for the hammock lower down. We must scatter!”

Wheeling to the right, as he spoke these words, one of the out-laws made off for the denser woods which conducted to the heart of the swamp, and was soon lost to the sight of his companion in the thick undergrowth of that region. The other, whether less apprehensive of danger, or more confident of his horse, which was young and of tolerable swiftness, seemed to hesitate. He bade the negroes run ahead, and hide themselves; then, once more looking over his shoulder, he felt the necessity of going off at all speed, and did so with the best impulse of whip and rowel. Porgy and Corporal Millhouse were soon up with the negroes who cheered them with hearty shouts as they drew nigh.

“Da maussa!” was the cry of his own people, almost with one voice. “Hurrah, maussa! Gorrah Mighty bress you! How you do?”

“Young, boys, young and lively! God bless you! How many of these tory rascals are there?”

“Only two ob dem, maussa; one push right ahead t'rough de woods—t'udder one gone keen for de swamp. Push hard, maussa, you sure for catch 'em. He hoss no better dan cow for run.”

“Don't mind the fellow in the swamp, Corporal! We can look for him as we return. Go back, boys, to the wagon, and help Lieutenant Frampton to put the things into it again, or you will lose all your chance for coffee and molasses. Now, Corporal, as you are left-handed, take the right of this robber, while I take the left. His nag will be a good one, if we do not overhaul him between us in the next three hundred yards.”

No more words! They were off, separated by an interval of fifty yards, perhaps, and coursing through the pine woods at a tearing gallop. A few minutes hard riding gave them a fresh glimpse of the fugitive. He was making up for lost time, and going through the undergrowth, and among the thick-set trees, which began to approach each other more and more closely, at a rate, which, to those who have never beheld a fox chase in the South, would seem sheer desperation. The fellow was a good rider, however, and an experienced hunter, born in the bush, and of kindred to the fox himself!”

“He goes well, but it can't last!” muttered Porgy, as he applied his persuaders anew to the flanks of his own high-spirited courser. It was wonderful to see how well the animal sped with such a bulk upon his back! But the steed was a powerful one, chosen heedfully with reference to the severe duty which he had been required to perform. The fugitive looked about him as he fled.—The partisan Captain could already count his gains. The space was reduced between then. The outlaw soon made this discovery. He extricated one of his pistols from the holster, and knit his teeth firmly together, with the air of a man who already anticipates the worst. Porgy was too good a soldier not to calculate on a certain degree of danger, in such an enterprise as that which he had in hand;—but, as he was apt to phrase it himself—

“Danger is a part of the contract! It is to be counted on, but not considered! He who stops to consider the danger never goes into battle! No wise man, embarking in such an amusement as war, ever considers its mischances as likely to occur in his own case. He knows the Fatal Sisters have singled out certain favourites for Valhalla, but he always takes for granted that they have overlooked himself! He relies, always, on his peculiar personal star, and goes into battle—not to be killed, but to kill!”

With such reflections, our Captain Porgy, corpulent as he is, was very apt to behave in battle, as we are told the Berserkirs, or wild warriors of the Scandinavians, were wont to behave. To dash, with a sort of phrenzy, into the worst of dangers, totally heedless of them all, as if bearing a charmed life—and only seeking to destroy! And such a practice, by the way, is very apt to carry with it its own securities. A rage that blinds the champion to all dangers, and makes him totally unconscious of all fears, is very apt to inspire fear in the enemy who beholds his approach. The onset of Porgy was well calculated to prompt such feelings. A mountain in a passion, and in progress—a human avalanche descending upon the plain—crashing, rending, overwhelming, as it goes—such, in some small degree, was the image presented to the mind of the trembling enemy, seeing the headlong rush of our plethoric Captain!

Our outlaw was soon enabled to distinguish his chief pursuer. He knew his man as he approached—knew his character—his fierce, headlong valour, the power of his arm, the fleetness of his steed. His mind became oppressed heavily, with the sense of whelming danger, as he saw the space lessening momently between them. He now saw his other assailant, Corporal Millhouse, who, less rapidly, but quite as certainly, was making towards him on the right. He felt very sure that the game was up with him unless some interposition of Good Fortune—call it, if you will, his gallows destiny—should baffle the pistols, or the swords, of his pursuers. The outlaw had no remarkable properties of mind or courage;—he was only one of the myriad of ordinary men, who, as we are told by the dramatic poet, issue from one common mould; nature, after their being cast, ashamed of her own handy-work, and sending them forth into the world without putting any mark upon them! But he was a drilled and practiced ruffian; had served for years as a soldier; as a robber; as a pirate;—and, from habit, and induration, was a man with whom the exigency only brought out the coolness, the determination and resource. He did not show his pistol, but he cocked it! He saw the course which Porgy rode, and he slightly inclined his horse to the right, in order that he should use his pistol-hand more freely. Porgy suspected his object and made a corresponding change in his own course. He was now sufficiently nigh to the robber to make himself heard. He accordingly cried out—

OUR Captain of Partisans would have gladly undertaken the escort of the widow, had circumstances—in which the condition of his travelling costume must be included—allowed. But he felt, as leader of the party, so suddenly engaged in such an adventure as that which followed his encounter with the outlaws, that a serious further duty had devolved upon him; and, however selfish, or luxurious his character might be, it was seldom that he permitted his tastes or his love of ease and enjoyment, to thwart the performances to which he was professionally bound. He was a soldier, not less than a bon vivant and gentleman. True, he had been regularly dismissed from duty. He was no longer an officer in command. There was no longer an army. But he had character. He was sure of his own honesty. He felt, and understood, the lawlessness which prevailed throughout the country; and, in the deficiency of Courts and Sheriffs, he resolved that he was still a Captain of militia, and that each militia officer was ad interim, in the commission of the peace. The old idea of regulation was as much in fashion throughout the country as ever. It was now as much the necessity of the region, as it had been in the early stages of society when the practice originated. The woods were filled with outlaws and offenders; and, to await the slow processes of the courts of law, at such a period, and in a country so sparsely settled, was to sacrifice all the securities of the better sort of people. Society, in such cases, always resorts to the necessary means for sustaining law; and the morals of law always will, and should, sustain what are the obvious necessities of society. In this you have the full justification of the code of regulation; a code which is, no doubt, sometimes subject to abuse, as is the case with law itself, but which is rarely allowed to exist in practice a day longer than is absolutely essential to the common weal. Captain Porgy simply fulfilled the conditions of this code when he resolved on subjecting the captive outlaw to the tender mercies of an extemporé court of justice, all the members of which had been trained in a severe military school, the rules of which recognised no limits to its own powers, and usually threw upon the accused the burden of proof, in establishing his own innocence.

The wagon of Mrs. Eveleigh, reloaded, and despatched upon its way, under an escort composed wholly of the slaves of the widow—several of whom, including John Sylvester, had been armed, with the view to its defense, should either of the two outlaws in the woods, be prepared, and in the humour to attempt farther mischief—which was held to be scarcely possible;—our Captain established himself under a goodly oak, planted himself comfortably upon a heap of dry leaves at its roots, and instructed Corporal Millhouse to bring the offending outlaw before him.

MEANWHILE, the Squatter, Bostwick, had become quite sensible of the danger of his comrade. He could not mistake his situation, or the nature of the experiment which was about to be tried upon his firmness. Old experience had made him quite familiar with the whole process. He was very well aware that the purpose of the Partisans would not be simply to execute punishment upon him, except in degree; and simply to the extent which would ensure the revelation of his secret. But this was the very danger that he most dreaded. Were they to slay the prisoner outright, the Squatter would be much less disquieted. But to force him to speak—to compel him to buy his life by giving up his comrades—was a danger to himself, involving many dangers, which he could by no means contemplate with serenity. Agitated by various dark and savage feelings, he unconsciously advanced several paces from the spot where he had sheltered himself. He advanced; but did not forget his caution. His approach was still from cover to cover; his place of concealment being always made sure of before taking a single forward step. But he again receded—once more crouched into the thicket, and leaned against his tree; the big sweat coursing, in beaded drops, upon his swarthy forehead. But he still kept watch upon his unhappy comrade, and upon the proceedings of his judges. Sometimes, he muttered in brief spasmodic soliloquy, as if endeavouring to assure himself, in some such utterances as the following—

“He will die game! He will not confess! Very well! a!l's right! Norris was always a tough fellow! He won't give out! I wish I could help him; but that's onpossible! But they won't carry it through! It's only to scare him! He know's that!—He won't leak! He'll keep all close!—Ah!”

He again advanced, and a shudder went over his frame. He caught up his rifle, threw it out, and drew it to the range, as if in the act to fire, but, in a moment after, dropt it in the hollow of his arm again, while he murmured—

“It's no use! It kin do no good! I might kill one on 'em, easy enough; but that wouldn't save him, and would only resk myself. Better he should die in the rope! Every man has his time. He must die sometime or other. Ef I could help him, wouldn't I? But I can't! It's onpossible, me one, to do anything! Ah! they're at him! The bloody tigers! I know what they're arter!”

Meanwhile, at the signal of Millhouse, the culprit was drawn up slowly into the air, His hands were tied behind him. He could offer no resistance. He showed no submission—uttered no entreaty—submitted doggedly to the torture—impressed with the idea, no doubt, that the party would not proceed to extremities, and that the purpose was to scare him only. He, accordingly, remained firm! He bore, without a groan or struggle, the painful distension of his frame, and the stifling pressure of the cord about his throat—his face alternately whitening and reddening, and his breast heaving, with the voluminous effort of his lungs. Porgy watched the effect with painful feeling. Practice had not indurated him, and, though satisfied of the outlaw's deserts, and fully sensible of the importance of procuring his confession, and not prepared to quarrel with a process which the practice of the army had fully justified—he was yet not insensible to the claims of humanity; and was disposed to spare the victim as much as possible. It is indeed, highly probable, that, as was the conjecture of the prisoner, himself, and of his ally, the Squatter, our Captain of Partisans did not really meditate any thing beyond the whole-some fright which would compel the outlaw to disgorge his secrets. But the fellow remained obstinately silent, and his Judges were disappointed.

“Ease him down, Corporal;” was the order of the Captain.

“Now, fellow;” he continued, as soon as the criminal had somewhat recovered, “are you grown wiser? Do you begin to comprehend your danger? Are you ready to confess?”

The half suffocated wretch answered with curses, and scorn, and defiance! In fact, from having been let down so soon, and having suffered so much less than he had anticipated, or had even endured before, he had grown more confident of his position, and more insolent accordingly. Porgy replied to him with real sympathy, but in his own manner.

“My poor fellow, you are trifling with your safety. You don't know your danger! Let me warn you. Do not force me to the last extremity.”

A brutal oath was the only answer.

“Hoist away boys;” cried Millhouse, not waiting for the orders of his superior. Again the fellow was hauled up—again let down; but with the same result! Porgy began to grow restive under the insolence of the outlaw; who, evidently suffering, was as insolent after recovering as ever. Time was accorded him, and new exhortations addressed to him.

“My poor fellow,” said Porgy, “you must speak now or never! Your last chance is before you. If you go up again, you only come down to make a full confession, or you come down a dead man! You hear what I say? I am in earnest! You have shown yourself very much a fool as well as a robber. The time left you for growing wise is very short. The sun is near his setting! Confess your accomplices, and if we can catch and convict them, by your evidence, we'll get you clear! Show yourself hardened, and you sleep to-night six feet under this tree. You have heard; will you deliver?”

“Do your d—dest! I ain't afear'd!”

This is quite enough of his answer, which exhibited greater brutality than before. We suppress the oaths with which he garnished every sentence. Again, the executioners, at a signal from Millhouse, mutely drew the fellow up to the tree—this time with a swift motion and a somewhat rapid jerk. Millhouse had served as Provost-Marshal, on other occasions. The outlaw now showed great distress. It was seen that his hands worked—opened and shut—as if giving signs; then he kicked desperately. His gasping, at length, grew into sounds like speech, and the party below at once understood the half-stifled assurance that he would confess, if let down. The miserable wretch succumbed the moment he began to fear that his Judge was in earnest. His sufferings were of a sort to induce this change in his opinions. He could not have borne them much longer and lived. He was already black in the face, and his eyes seemed starting from their sockets. Porgy had already thwarted his own policy in the premature yieldings which he had shown. He was evidently unwilling to urge the torture beyond the degree necessary for his object. He had tried to maintain his apparent calmness—it was a matter of pride with him that he should do so; but he was not always successful; and now, as he witnessed the sufferings of the outlaw, he cried out quickly to Millhouse—

“Let him down, Corporal! For God's sake, let him down!” Millhouse hesitated, and ventured to expostulate.

“He's a mighty tough rascal, Cappin! 'Taint 'tell the life gits a'most clean out of the body of such a rascal, that the honesty gits in! Don't be too easy with him, or we'll have to do it all over again.”

IT would be much more easy to imagine, than to describe the confusion which ensued among our partisans and their followers, by this unexpected catastrophe within their circle. For a moment all seemed paralyzed. The event was so strange, so startling, and so utterly unaccountable, particularly supposing it to be the act of one of the outlaws. Porgy was the first to recover, and to conceive the motive for the murder by the fellow's colleague. He started up and cried aloud—

“One hundred guineas to him who shall take the murderer alive!”

One hundred guineas! Our Captain of Partisans was a person of most magnificent ideas. Porgy had not, himself, seen such an amount of cash, in one heap, during the last seven years! We have already been advised of the very moderate amount in guineas which he bore away with him at the disbanding of the army But our Captain always spoke in round numbers, such as could roll off trippingly from the tongue. He might have been good for five guineas, and no doubt he would have given this number, cheerfully, though it drained him of every copper that he had; but a hundred! He laughed the moment after, at the audacity of his own imagination.

But it did not need any reward, so soon as the party had sufficiently recovered their faculties, to stimulate their pursuit of the murderer. But there was a decided pause, for a brief space after the event. The negroes, at first, were terribly alarmed; some crouched closely to the earth, while others were disposed to scatter themselves in flight. All but Tom, the cook, who was an old soldier, and Pomp, the fiddler, who, flattered by recent distinctions, was ambitious to prove himself a young one—were utterly paralyzed by their terrors. A gulph, opening suddenly beneath their feet, could not have more suddenly swallowed up their courage than did the unexpected bullet of Bostwick. But, with the voice of Porgy they looked up. Its clear, trumpet tones cheered them, and satisfied them that they were not all slain. He rose to his feet, with surprising agility, as he cried aloud, and found his Lieutenant, Lanco Frampton, already on the alert; while Corporal Millhouse, without a word, after giving a single glance to the stiffening body of the outlaw, proceeded, at monstrous long strides, in the direction whence came the bullet of the living one. Tom, the cook, and Pomp, the fiddler, both caught up weapons and darted after Millhouse. Frampton dashed off, also, pursuing another route. The negroes, now, generally, encouraged by these demonstrations, took heart and followed in pursuit and search. They were all more or less provided with weapons which had been taken from the outlaws.

“Scatter yourselves, boys, scatter if you would search and be safe!” was the cry of Porgy. He, too, was in motion, with an agility really astonishing in his case. He caught up sword and pistols in the twinkling of an eye, and started off, at a moderate trot, to gain the tree, where his horse—that which he had taken from one of the slain outlaws—was fastened to a swinging limb. But he was not destined to reach it so easily, or in so short a space of time, as he had allotted himself. He had forgotten certain embarrassments in his own case—forgotten that he had, in order to the more easy administration of justice, ungirthed, and unbuttoned himself, when taking his seat under the royal oak. He was suddenly restored to recollection, on this subject, and brought to an abrupt stand, by feeling himself fettered, with his nether garments clinging about his legs. The circumstances in which he found himself, were utterly indescribable, but it will not be difficult to conjecture them. He was only brought to a full consciousness of his embarrassment, by nearly measuring his full length upon the ground.

“What a devil of a fix!” quoth he, soliloquizing. “Were I now to hear the cry which aroused the Hebrew wrestler—‘The Philistines are upon thee, Samson!’ what should I do? I should be shot, and sabred, and scalped, before I could steady my legs for decently falling to the ground! I should go over in a heap like a bushel of terrapins! And what a figure I should make upon the earth! How dreadfully exposed! A most shameful condition for ‘man and soldier!’ ”

And thus speaking, he deliberately laid down sword and pistols, and, looking about him cautiously, proceeded to draw up his inexpressibles, and to button, and belt up—a performance less easy than necessary.

“It's well the war is over.” quoth he, as he laboured to contract his waistbands over his enormous waste of waist, and to bring the strap and buckle of his belt to bear. “I am no longer fit for war. It's wonderful that I've escaped so long and so well! With such a territory to take care of, it's perfectly surprising there have been so few trespassers! I could not always have kept them off! They would have overcome me at last! They might have caught me at some such awkward moment, in some such awkward fix, as the present! Ah! There! It is done at last! The wilderness is under fence at last!”

And he breathed, long and heavily, after such severe exertion! But he wasted no more time than was necessary. Porgy was no loiterer when duty was to be done. He skulked no task, skirked no obligations; and hence his greater merit, inclining, naturally, as he did, to the creature comforts, and a selfish desire for repose and luxury. He now reached his horse, and mounted in a few moments. He was a good horseman. It was much easier to raise than to lower himself—easier to get into the saddle, than to subside upon his leafy couch on the earth. Once in the saddle, he was a hard rider! The steed that carried him had a great deal to bear beside his weight. He used the spur freely, and was never more liberal in its use than now, when required to make up for lost time. Headlong, he drove into the thick cover of the forest, and for the swamp-fastnesses, where the outlaw, Bostwick, had taken refuge. Here, our Partisan Captain was soon found, making his way over log and through bog, in mire and water, through close thicket and tangled vine, in a wilderness from which the light was disappearing fast; and as far as horse could well go, where a career on horseback must be very soon arrested.

The pursuit was hotly urged. It was well that Bostwick had made his calculations so cunningly, and taken such deliberate precautions. He had to deal with old “swamp-suckers,”—hunters as keen and familiar with such places as himself. Had they been as well acquainted with this particular locality, he had never escaped. Nay, had there been one hour more of sunlight, his chances would have been very doubtful. As Porgy phrased it—

“But once inch of candle more, and we should have his hide.”

As it was, the outlaw was more than once caught sight of in the chase. Millhouse once detected him, as a half-floating log turned with him in the water. Pompey cried out that he was going through the gall bushes in front; and Lance Frampton got a clear view of him, at long distance, crossing a tussock. He gave him both pistols as he sped—“bang! bang!” with scarce an interval between the the two shots; but, at each fire, Bostwick was seen to duck his head instinctively; and, at length, he disappeared in a pond, rising up on the opposite side, amidst a heap of drift wood. Here he paused, with his nose just out of water, and lay still, as he thought he lay unseen. And he was in a place of safety. Night had come to his relief. He could hear the cries of his pursuers, but could no longer see them, and he felt that he was secure. It only required that he should keep still. The sounds of pursuit finally ceased; his enemies had all disappeared; and, like a great Newfoundland dog, shivering all over, he raised himself out of the alligator hole which had harboured him, and stood, savage and gloomy, upon the neighbouring bank; the owl hooting overhead from the blasted cypress, and the sad stars coming out, one by one, and looking down like so many mysterious sentinels in Heaven, watchers over the guilty course of man on earth. Bostwick shivered, as he looked up, with superstition as well as cold. He had certainly, that day, received a fearful lesson of the vicissitudes and terrors which wait upon evil deeds! The way of the transgressor is indeed hard! His comrades gone; not one to be seen! How many of the five who had set out with him on this expedition, now breathed the air of life with him? He knew not, then, of one! He had been baffled in the purpose he had in view. Had lost every thing—even his rifle, which, in the hotness of the pursuit, he had been compelled to cast away. But one thing he had saved—the box of the widow Eveleigh, containing the fifty guineas, and the papers which McKewn so much desired! He had concealed this box in a hiding place in the swamp above, which he had no fear would be discovered. There was consolation in the recollection of those fifty guineas. He had other consolations when he thought of the papers and McKewn! For the latter, his present situation filled him with new bitterness.

“D—n him!” he muttered to himself. “He shall pay well for them afore he gits them! He shall make up to me all my losses! He shall pay for these poor fellows, and what they suffered. There will be a sweet bill of it, which he shall foot up every shilling, or there shall be no peace for him on this airth!”

Let us leave him, cowering and cursing in the swamp, and return to the partisans. They gave up the chase only when they found it no longer possible to see. Lance Frampton picked up, and brought in, the outlaw's rifle, which they all examined closely, in the hopes to identify it; but they had-none of them seen it before in any hands. Three letters, evidently initials of a former owner's name, were cut rudely in the stock.

“M. T. C.”

“Marcus Tullius Cicero!” quoth Porgy, very gravely.

“Who, Captain? I never heard the name! Do you know him?” was the simple inquiry of the Lieutenant.

“I ought to; for I received many a flogging, when a boy, that I might become intimate with him, and the old fellows he kept company with. And you may be sure the flogging did not make me love him or them any better! But I doubt if either Marcus or his companions owned this rifle. If they did, then the historians have suppressed many an interesting fact in science. But, let us push out of this wilderness, Lance, and get into the open road. Corporal, see to the negroes, and send them on ahead.—Let them get wood and have fire for us at least, when we reach home. It is getting monstrous chilly! Yes—we shall need a fire, even more than supper!”

Supper, indeed! thought Porgy. It was his philosophy only which preferred the fire.

Obedience was now pleasure. The whole party was well tired of the fruitless pursuit, and all began to feel the chilliness of which the Captain complained—and the hunger also.

“See that the negroes cover the dead bodies with leaves, Lance, until to-morrow, when we must borrow shovels from Mrs. Eveleigh, and have them buried. The buzzard and wild cat will hardly find them in one night.”

ALL was done as had been commanded. Tom's world of kitchen and camp baggage, was fairly divided among the negroes, all of whom were now mounted on the captured horses of the outlaws, some of them riding double. The dead bodies were hidden away beneath the forest leaves and branches, as closely as it could possibly be done. The odds and ends of the party were carefully picked up; not a tin pan suffered to escape inquiry; and, under the growing starlight, the negroes took up the line of march, as a sort of advance, with Tom, the cook, for guide and leader; Porgy, Frampton, and Millhouse following at a less rapid pace. Of these three, the two latter were suffered to lead the way, our Captain of Partisans seeming disposed to linger in a manner that surprised Millhouse, who made it a subject of comment to his companion. Frampton, through the sympathies which he entertained for his superior, could well understand the reason of his apparent apathy. Without much logic or knowledge—without being much a student of human nature—the genial temper of Frampton had taught him to conjecture the peculiar mood which now troubled the Partisan. Besides, he had been enlightened measurably, that day, on the subject of Porgy's secret cares, by the long conversation between them which has been already reported, and, through which, the Lieutenant had found clues to the Captain's nature and difficulties, such as his buoyant temper had never before suffered him to betray. That the latter should now hesitate—now that he was almost at his own threshold—did not greatly surprise the youth, and reawakened all his sympathies for his chief. He might well linger on the route, loath to approach scenes so precious once, so full of dear recollections, but now so full of gloomy aspects and discouraging arguries. From Porgy's own description, there could be no prospect half so cheerless as that of the ancient homestead which was about to receive him. Memory and thought might well be painfully busy in his mind. The one recalled a past which was full of sunshine and promise. The other reproached him with a profligacy which had measurably cast fortune from his arms; and bitterly rehearsed the recent history, in which events seemed to have studiously aided to consummate the ruin which his own erring youth had begun. The journey, from the Camp of Marion, at the head of Cooper river, and which was now to terminate upon the Ashepoo, had afforded prospects, all along the route, well calculated to give the gloomiest colour to the mind of the observer. Of this journey, we cannot afford a better idea than to copy from Moultrie's memoirs, a few passages descriptive of what he saw, in a neighbouring district of country, about the same period—in fact, the preceding summer—on his own return to his estates, which had suffered in like manner with most others.

“Soon after my being exchanged,” writes the old General, “I prepared to set off, with my family, for South Carolina, and, early in April, left Philadelphia, and arrived at Waccamaw, in South Carolina; where I was informed that General Greene's army lay at Ashley river, quite inactive, and no military operations going on. I remained at Winyaw till late in September, at which time I paid a visit to General Greene. It was the most dull, melancholy, dreary ride that any one could possibly take, of about one hundred miles, through the woods of that country, which I had been accustomed to see abound with live stock, and wild fowl of every kind. It was now destitute of all. It had been so completely chequered by the different armies, that, not a part of it had been left unexplored; consequently, not a vestige of horses, cattle, hogs or deer, &c., was to be found. The squirrels and birds of every kind were totally destroyed. The dragoons told me, that, on their scouts, no living creature was to be seen, except a few camp-scavengers, (turkey-buzzards) picking the bones of some unfortunate fellows, who had been cut or shot down, and left in the woods above ground. . . . . My plantation I found to be a desolate place; stock of every kind taken off; the furniture carried away, and my estate had been under sequestration.”

This individual picture was equally true of all the country; and the condition of Moultrie's estate, that of every man who had distinguished himself on either side, whether for, or against the revolutionary struggle. Very many had fared even worse—their negroes being wholly carried off, and their dwellings destroyed by fire. Though but a Captain in the brigade of Marion, Porgy had been honoured by a fair share of British hostility. His home, he knew, had escaped the torch of the incendiary, but his negroes had been stolen, and the plantation utterly laid waste. We have already seen what special additional causes of anxiety were at work to make him moody. Debt hung upon his fortunes like an incubus; and he possessed no conscious resources, within himself, by which to restore his property, or even to acquire the means of life. He rode forward, gloomy and comfortless, in spite of all his philosophy, scarcely exchanging a word with his companions.

Meanwhile, his negroes, under Tom's guidance, eager once more to regain their old homes, sped on, at a smart canter, which soon left their superiors behind. It was after ten o'clock at night, when the lights from a score of wild, gleaming torches, waving in air, announced the approach to the avenue of “Glen-Eberly,” which was the name of Porgy's ancient homestead—so named after a goodly grandmother by whom it had been entailed on her brother's children. Our Captain of Partisans was aroused to a consciousness of external things, by the loud shouts of the negroes who had preceded him, and who now hailed his approach after a fashion such as Moultrie describes in the same narrative from which we have already quoted.

“T'ank de Lord, here's maussa git to he own home at last!—Bress de Lord, Maussa, you come! We all berry glad for see you, maussa—glad too much!”

And the same negroes who had been with him for several hours before, without so much as taking his hand, now rushed up and seized it, with loud cries, as if they were hosts, and welcoming a favourite guest. The tears stood in the eyes of our Captain, though he suffered none of his companions to behold them; and he shook hands with, and spoke to them each in turn—few words, indeed, but they were uttered tremulously, and in low tones.

Fordham, the overseer of Mrs. Eveleigh, now made his appearance from the house. The wagon had departed, having left the supplies as the good widow had ordered. Porgy entered his house expecting to find it empty and cheerless. He was confounded to see the goods, blankets, drink, provisions, all around the hall, and shown to the best advantage under the ruddy gleams of a rousing fire in the chimney.

“Ah!” said he, “Fordham, Mrs. Eveleigh is a very noble lady. Make her my best respects and thanks. I shall soon ride over and make them in person.”

“Well, my friends;” said he to Frampton and Millhouse, when Fordham had departed, “I felt doubtful how to provide you your supper to-night; though, knowing this excellent lady as I did, I should not have doubted that she would contribute largely to it. See what she has done! Here are sugar and coffee; here are meal and bacon; here is a cheese; here—but look about you, and say what we shall have for supper. Supper we must have! I am famishing. Tom! Tom! where the d—l is that fellow! Does he think that he's free of me, because he's free of the army?—Tom! Tom!”

“Sah! yer, maussa! Wha' de debbil mek' (makes) you holler so loud, maussa, when I's jis' (just) at you elbow? You t'ink I hard o'hearing, 'cause I got hard maussa, I 'spose!”

“Hard maussa, you impertinent scamp! Another master would have roasted you alive long before this. See, and let us have something, in the twinkling of an eye. Look among these provisions, that Mrs. Eveleigh has sent us, and take out enough to give us all a good feed—niggers and all!”

“Miss Ebleigh! He's a bressed (blessed) woman, for sartin; for sen' we all sich good t'ings; de berry t'ings we bin want; and jis' when we want 'em. He's a mos' 'spectable pusson, is dat Mrs. Ebleigh. Ki! Here's a'mos' (almost) ebbry t'ing for gempleman supper! Kah, me! dis dah cheese, in dis tub! Pomp, you son ob a snail! whay you day? Yer! (here) open dem bundle wha' b'long to me, in de piazza! bring fanner, (a shallow winnowing basket) and bring bucket you will see day (there). Hab out de t'ree knife and de four fork, for maussa, when he got comp'ny. See a'ter de hom'ny pot; and de coffee pot; and look up some water for wash dem! Dere's no kitchen, maussa; he all bu'n down. We hab for cook de supper in de house, yer, or, maybe, we kin find fire-place down stairs in de brick part. Go see, Pomp—and Pomp, sen' out some of dem nigger for git lightwood, and bring water and de udder t'ings.”

We allow Tom to be thus prolix, not simply because he was so permitted by his master, but as he gives us a very correct idea of the condition of household affairs. The kitchen, as he states, was destroyed; the cooking was finally decreed to be carried on in the brick basement of the house hereafter, but, for this night, Tom made free with the fireplace of the salle à manger. The house was an ample one, of wood, on a brick basement. But it had been completely gutted. There was neither table nor chair; and our friends couched themselves upon the blankets of Mrs. Eveleigh, spread about the fireplace; and, accustomed as they had been to still harder, if not humbler seats, upon the naked ground, were not seriously conscious of any privations. Thus sitting, or reclining, they waited in comparative silence the preparations which Tom was making for supper. That sable kitchen-despot had found employment for all the negroes, Pompey acting as a sort of lieutenant or orderly. Water and wood, in any quantity, were soon provided. Soon, the hominy was set to boil; the coffee-pot began to smoke; while the “hoe” and “johnny” cakes, spread upon sections of barrel heads, four or five in number, were seen facing the now brightly blazing fire. The chimney-place of the dining-room, though not quite so ample as that of a Southern plantation kitchen, was yet one of sufficiently large dimensions. What with the hominy and coffee pots, the bread stuffs, and the frying-pan, hissing with broad but tender slices of ham—which the fork of the Grand Cuisinier shifted from side to side, as the occasion seemed to require—there was little space left in the premises, and no room suffered near them for mere idlers: in which rank, at this moment, we may consider the Captain, himself, and his two companions in arms. But the fire was sufficient to warm the room, the shutters being closed in, though there was not a pane of glass left in one of the sashes. If the whites of the group were silent, Tom was not.—The benefactions of Mrs. Eveleigh afforded him an ample theme for talk; and, while he stirred the hominy, and turned the ham and the hoe cakes, and pushed up the fire—keeping Pompey busy all the while—he maintained a running commentary on the blessings of life in the neighbourhood of such an excellent woman—a woman so well conversant with her duties to her neighbours.

“Dis is fus' (first) rate new bacon, maussa, dat Miss Ebleigh bin sen' we! And de grits (grist) is de bes' flint; an' dis flour is white like snow; and sich a bowl of coffee, as I guine gib you tonight, wid sich sugar, you ain't bin see dis fibe, t'ree, seben years, maussa! Lord be praise, for all he massies! When I bin riding 'long yer to-night, coming to we ole home, I bin say to myself, all 'long de way, wha' de debbil we guine fin' home yer for supper to-night! Enty I know, dem d——n British and Tory bin skin de plantation ob ebbry t'ing? Hah! I say, der' will be heap o' growling 'tomachs yer to-night! An' I t'ink of de cole (cold) and de starbation, 'till I begin to shibber all ober like new sodger, jiswhen de inimy begin for shoot! But, de Lord be praise! Der's no cole, der's no 'tarbation! Yer's ebbry t'ing for las' we niggers, and you gemplemens mos' t'ree week!”

Tom had calculated nicely, as well as an experienced commissariat could have done. He had an eye to a man's dimensions. He continued—

“Time 'nough, t'ree week from now, to consideration how for git more supper: and der's no knowing wha' guine tu'n (turn) up, in dat time, for gib us more hom'ny and bacon. De Lord is wid us! An' Maussa, you ain't bin see dis bag o' rice, a good bushel, I reckon, dat Miss Ebleigh bin sen' wid dem udder t'ings. Hab a pot o' rice to-morrow!”

Tom, when he declared it time enough to consider how to procure more food when the present supplies were fairly exhausted, dealt in genuine negro philosophy. Sambo seldom troubles himself to look out for the morrow. His doctrine somewhat tallied with that of Scripture. Instead of—“sufficient for the day, the evil thereof,” he read, “sufficient for the day, the good thereof.” Foresight and forethought are his remarkable deficiencies. He never houses his harvest in anticipation of the storm.

There was one virtue in Tom's philosophies. They never embarrassed, or delayed him, in his duties and performances; and it was not very long before he made the grateful annunciation to the hungering troopers that supper was ready to be served. Then followed the bustle. Then was Pomp conspicuous as head waiter, while Tom, as if satisfied with his share of the performance, already executed, drew up a keg to the fireside, and leisurely seated himself as a spectator—ready to take up the smoking dishes from the fire as soon as the cloth should be spread to receive them; but in no other way interested in the performance!

“WHY you no spread de table-clot', Pomp?” was the snappish demand of Tom, seeing the other hesitate.

“I no see no clot', uncle Tom,” replied the bewildered fiddler.

“Enty blanket is clot', you son ob a skunk! Is you lib so long in de worl', dat you nebber l'arn wha' one t'ing is, and wha' nodder t'ing is—wha' is wood, and wha' is clot'! I reckon, boy, when we calls you to eat you' own supper, you wunt ax ef it's dut (dirt) you mus' eat, or hom'ny.”

Pomp, humbled by this rebuke, possessed himself of one of the blankets, from the pile sent by the widow, but he still stood, vacantly looking about the apartment.

“Well,” quoth our Major Domo, “wha' you 'tan' (stand) for, sucking in de whole room wid your eyes?”

“I no see any table, uncle Tom!”

“Don't you uncle me, you chucklehead! Lay de table on de floor! Who could b'lieb dat a pusson could lib so long and grow so big, and nebber l'arn nutting! Ha! boy, you bin in de army, you'd ha' l'arn all sort ob t'ing at de sharp p'int ob de baggnet! De army's de place for mek' man ob sense out ob fool. Ax de gempleman's to git out ob de way, so you kin spread de table-clot'; dough gemplemans ought to hab sense 'nough, hese'f, for moob (move) widout axing!”

“Hear that impudent rascal!” quoth Porgy, moving good-naturedly, his example followed by Frampton and Millhouse. “Was ever fellow so completely spoiled?”

“I nebber spile supper, maussa!” responded Tom, with a toss of the head, as if to say—‘nobody knows my qualities better than yourself.’

“No, indeed, Tom, and you presume on your merits, somewhat to their injury; but you will be taken down, you scamp, when you are required to find and hunt up the supper, as well as cook it.”

“Ha! but you see, maussa, my business is cook—I knows um! It's maussa business to fin' de bittle (victuals). Put de meat and bread yer, whay I kin put out my han' and git 'em, and leff it to me to hab 'em ready for eat; but da's all I hab a right for do.”

“Ah! indeed, my buck; but I'll persuade you, at the end of a hickory, that you have other rights.”

IT has been said that the homestead of the old soldier was entirely swept of furniture. In emerging from the hall to the piazza, Porgy and his followers were without a chair upon which to sit. They paced the piazza, accordingly, puffing as they went. The floor of it shook beneath their steps. It needed repair. The bannisters were gone. The boards were half-decayed. The steps by which they ascended to the house, “were ticklish to the last degree,” to employ the phrase of Porgy himself. The latter paused in his paces.

“This won't do,” said he. “To smoke is to contemplate. Contemplation implies calm, repose, and an easy position for the body. With the pipe in my mouth, I must sit or lie. Let us go out and sit by that fire, boys.”

The negroes had kindled a fire within fifty feet of the house, and on one side of the avenue. It was the customary camp-fire to the old soldiers, and there was no reluctance, expressed or felt, to the proposition of the Captain of Partisans. He led the way, accordingly, and, with a grunt and some effort, let himself down beside the blaze. New brands were supplied by Frampton, and himself and Corporal Millhouse, subsided upon the ground also, at respectful distances from their superior. Here they crouched for awhile. Supper had done its work, in inducing a certain feeling of sluggishness. Change of circumstance was productive also of a mood which inclined rather to musing than to speech. The thoughts of all were more or less busy. The subjects of Porgy's speculations may be easily conjectured. Those of Millhouse are not less easily definable, but they involved few anxieties on his own account. Lance Frampton was a young lover, who felt every hour an age which kept him away from his rustic beauty. Of course his head and heart were filled with her image. Not that he had not other thoughts more proper to his immediate associations. His was a spirit of generous sympathies, and, spite of all Porgy's selfishness of character, the young man, through an intercourse of three years, had learned to love and honour him for the really good points in his nature in spite of its egotism. He mused quite as much upon the fortunes of his superior as upon his own.

For a time, accordingly, all were busy, brooding each after his own fashion, and all silent. The pipes sent forth their volumes, adding not a little to the cloudy atmosphere by which they were surrounded. The night was dark and raw, without being really cold. The winds were low, and faintly sighed through the too scanty bit of wood which lay between our group and the north. The prospect promised rain by morning. The weight of the atmosphere was felt, and, pressing back the smokes of the fire, kept the party enveloped in a white shroud of mist and vapour. A melancholy stillness overspread the scene, and the ear felt oppressed, as well as the eye, by the uniform absence of all provocation from without. Not a star was to be seen. A solid wall seemed to shut in the circle within thirty yards; and inside of this circuit, nothing was visible but the skeleton outlines of the trees, and the vague, faint white of the dwelling-house. Our party felt the gloom of the prospect. The Captain and Corporal puffed with all their vigour, and very soon replenished their pipes. The former at length broke silence.

“We are to have rain by the morning; but this must not prevent us from putting those rascals out of sight—(meaning the outlaws who had been slain). You must give instructions, Lance, to one of the negroes, to set off by daylight to Mrs. Eveleigh, and borrow spades and showels, or hoes, for the purpose of burying them. I doubt if such things are to be found any where on this place. After that, Lance, I suspect that you will desire to ride over and visit the widow Griffin. It will be a day's visit only, I suspect, and you will be back at night. But that's just as you and they think proper. Of course, you know, my boy, that so long as I have house-room and enough for supper, you shall share it. When you are married, you shall still do as you please. You may bring your wife here, if it suits you, and her mother too. At all events, here is your home, so long as it is mine.”

“Thank you kindly, Captain; and I hope you'll keep your plantation forever. I expect to work for you here, until I'm married, and after that we'll see. I reckon Mrs. Griffin will want Ellen and me to live with her when we are married, and to manage her little place.”

“That is, if she herself does not marry.”

“Oh! I don't think she's going to do that. She was mighty fond of her husband.”

“Y-e-s!” quoth Porgy, taking out his pipe, and emptying the ashes—“Y-e-s! It may be so—and yet the widow is tolerably young, fresh and good-looking. A dead husband is of no sort of use in this world, and that is the present question. When I have smoked out my pipe, and emptied the ashes, I am apt, after a little pause, to fill it with fresh tobacco. He who has smoked one pipe, will be apt to try another, and another, as long as he can smoke. That is, if the first has not sickened him. That the widow has found one husband grateful, is good reason why she should try another. Mrs. Griffin is a woman of sense, and has too many good qualities to remain single. She is a good house-keeper—every thing is in trim about her. She takes care of every thing, and keeps herself neat. Besides, she makes a first-rate terrapin stew, quite as good as Tom; and her broil and fry will pass muster in any camp. I remember the blue cat, which she gave us on the Edisto, with a relish even now; and that reminds me, by the way, that we must get hooks and lines ready for the Ashepoo pretty soon. We shall have the Spring upon us before we get our tackle ready.”

“I'm a-thinking, Cappin,” said Millhouse, “that you'll have to be seeing about something besides blue cat and fishing lines. You'll want ploughs and hoes sooner than any thing else. These niggers must go to work, mighty soon, ef I'm to have the managing of 'em.”

“You, Millhouse! Do you mean to volunteer as overseer?”

“Don't I! I reckon that's pretty much all I'm good for. But it's lucky I do know something of rice planting; and I was never a slouch at making corn. I'm for breaking up land, and going to work, without so much as axing your leave or blessing.”

“You shall do as you please, old fellow, for I don't know that I can teach you any thing in these matters. I was always one of that large class planters who reap thistles from their planting. I sowed wheat only to reap tares. I never had luck in planting.”

“That's because you never trusted to luck, Cappin. You was always a-thinking to do something better than other people, and you wouldn't let nater (nature) alone. You was always a-hurrying nater, 'tell you wore her out; jest like those foolish mothers who give their children physic—dose after dose—one dose fighting agin the other, and nara (neither) one gitting a chance to work. Now, I'm a-thinking that the true way is to put the ground in order, and at the right time plant the seed, and then jest lie by, and look on, and see what the warm sun and the rain's guine to do for it. But you, I reckon, warn't patient enough to wait. You was always for pulling up the corn to see if it had sprouted; and for planting over jest when it was beginning to grow. I've known a many of that sort of people, preticklarly among you wise people, and gentlemen born. It ain't reasonable to think that a man kin find new wisdom about every thing; and them sort of people, who talk so fine, and strange, and sensible, in a new way, about the business that has been practised ever sense the world begun, they're always overdoing the business, and working agin nater. They're quite too knowing to give themselves a chance.”

“That's philosophy, Millhouse.”

“No, Cappin, 'tain't philosophy, but its mighty good sense. I kin make corn, and rice, I reckon, jest as good as any man; and you must leave it all to me. I'll work it all out, and you musn't meddle, Cappin, except to do jest them things that I tell you.”

“Good! I like that! I feel that I should greatly improve under a good sense keeper.”

“'Zackly, Cappin; that's the very thing you've been awanting all your life. Now, I've hearn you tell, how you used, when a-planting these same rice lands of your'n, to let the water off of the fields to catch the fish, ef so be some of your friends happen'd to come and dine with you. Sp'ile a whole field of fine rice, jest flooded, to catch a few pairch!”

“Ah! but Millhouse, they were such beauties. You never saw such perch in your life.”

“I reckon I've seed as fine pairch as ever you caught, Cappin. But that ain't the thing, no how. Ef they were as fine fish as ever grow'd in water, it was a sin and shame to spile the rice to catch 'em; and, as sure as a gun, Cappin, ef you had been rightly sarved, you'd ha' been tucked up to a swinging limb, and been dressed with a dozen hickories, 'tell you was made sensible and ashamed.”

“Humph!” exclaimed Porgy, emptying the ashes from his pipe, and by no means delighted with the suggestion. But his self-esteem was less combative than usual, and he remained silent. Millhouse proceeded.

“Now, Cappin, I've wolunteered to be your sense-keeper, as you calls it, in all the plantation business, and you must jest let me have my own way, ef you want to git on sensible in the world.—I'm overseer, and you musn't come between me and the niggers. I'll do my work and will make 'em do their's. Ef there's any licking to be done, I'll lay it on. You may look on, but you musn't meddle. You may think what you please, but you mus'nt say nothing. We kin talk over the matter every night, and I'll show you the sense of what I've been doing in the day. You kin fish in the river when you please, and hunt in the woods when you please, and go riding and dining out where you please, and I won't meddle nor say nothing; but in the crop, Cappin, you musn't put a finger to spile what I'm a-doing for your good.”

“A very pretty arrangement.”

“Ain't it, now?”

“Very! I have your permission to hunt, and fish, and dine abroad, if I think proper. These, then, are my duties?”

“'Zackly! but you are not to take hands and horses out of the crop, Cappin, for your 'musements. You're not to carry a good plough-boy off, to find bait for you when you're a-fishing; or horse and nigger to beat the woods when you're a-hunting. You must choose one horse for your own riding, Cappin, and stick to that.”

“You'll let me keep a dog or two, Millhouse?”

“One, I reckon, ef he's a good one, Cappin. One good beagle is quite enough for these woods.”

“But I shall want a pointer for birds.”

“A p'inter! I never could see the use of a p'inter! I kin find as many partridges, or doves, to shoot, in a pea country, as any man can p'int a gun at, and without any dog at all! I've shot, myself, a whole covey of partridges, sixteen, at a single fire.”

“Oh! that was butchery, Millhouse. Any body can kill partridges upon the ground, or doves upon the tree. But to do this upon the wing, and to bird like a gentleman and a sportsman, Millhouse, requires a dog to point and flush.”

“Look you, Cappin, them's all notions; and when a man's wanting flesh for the pot, and meal for the hoe-cake, it's not resonable that he should be a sportsman and a gentleman. That's a sort of extravagance that's not becoming to a free white man, when he's under bonds to a Sheriff.”

“D——n the Sheriff! Don't mention such an animal in my hearing.”

“Well, d——n the Sheriff! I'm agreed to that. I've no reason to love the animal any more than you; but when we can't shake off the beast, the best way that I kin see is to draw his teeth. Now, the sort of life you wants to lead, Cappin, will do for a nigger gentleman, that ain't got nothing to lose; or for an Ingin gentleman who's got nothing that a Sheriff can put under the hammer; but for you that's got edication, and has been a soldier, the thing is different. The difference between a white man and a nigger, or an Ingin, is that a white man was made to gather substance about him, and a nigger and an Ingin was made to waste it. That's the whole. The Ingin was born to clear the woods of the varmints for us; and the nigger to clean up after we've eaten. That's the philosophy.”

“And very sensible philosophy too, Millhouse. I had no idea that you had such profound ideas. I begin to think that you'll save me from the Sheriff if any one can.”

“You must be doing something for yourself, Cappin, besides fishing and hunting; or, ef you will hunt, there's a sort of game that, ef you kin take it, will always be sure to bring us meat for the pot. That's the sort of game that you might hunt, and want no p'inter more than your own nose!”

“Unless yourself, Millhouse. Pray point out this profitable sort of game, if you please.”

“Well, that ain't so hard a matter. And first, Cappin, let me say you're a good-looking personable man, only a little over middle age. You haint lost your uprightness. Your face is smooth. It haint a wrinkle on it. Your eyes is small, but of a mighty sweet sort of blue; and though you're a leetle too fleshy to be sprigh, yet, Lord save me, you kin stand a mighty great deal of hard usage.”

“And so——”

“And, therefore, Cappin, you ought to git married!”

“As logical a conclusion as I ever heard in all my life. A man who can stand hard usage may safely venture upon matrimony. 'Pon my soul, Millhouse, your philosophy and logic improve together.”

“I'm glad you think so, Cappin;” responded the other with increasing gravity. “I've been a-thinking what you ought to do ever sence I heer'd you talking of the bad state of your affairs. Now, says I to myself, what better kin the Cappin do, than find some clever, good sort of woman, that's outlived all her girlishness and foolishness, and that's come to know the valley of a husband! That won't be looking too closely at his figure, and thinking his paunch too big, and his legs too little—that won't be axing whether he's cut his eye-tooth or not; but 'll jest consider that a man's a man in spite of his gairth, that a soldier's altogether the best sort of a man going in these times; and that'll pass over the sprinkle of gray in his head, in consideration of his sound teeth and good wind. Now, Cappin, you does git a leetle out of wind, when you're pushed too hard; but considering what a mortal weight of flesh you've got to carry, it's wonderful how much you kin stand. It's wonderful I say, and jest as surprising as wonder ful. Well, now, considering all these things, what's to hender you from gitting to the right side of some good woman, with a smart chance of property, and proving your title to it, by the sensible way you come over her. I reckon there's more than a hundred such women here, in Carolina, now, that, when they come to consider how many of the handsome young fellows is cut off in the war, will be mighty glad to hev' you in spite of figure, and gray hairs. You aint so old, Cappin, but that you've a right to hev' a wife: and, under the sarcumstances, I say, a wife is the one thing needful; that is, always providing she's got something of a property to go upon; for, onless you git a woman of substance, it'll only make your affairs harder to manage than ever. You must be thinking of a woman that'll pay off that mortgage you talk about, and hev' something over. Then, we kin work the plantation to some purpose. Then you need'nt fear the d——d warmint of a Sheriff, and then, with God's blessing on our innocent disposition, we may all live here like fighting cocks.”

All this, and much more, was said with a delightful gravity. Porgy was overwhelmed. He was so taken by surprise, by the coolness with which Millhouse analyzed himself and his affairs, and reported upon his shortness of wind, while he acknowledged the excellence of his teeth;—the immensity of his girth, while he admitted the amiable cast of his eyes; his slenderness of leg, (or “shrunk shank,” as Porgy muttered sotto voce) while recognizing the smoothness of his cheeks—that he was absolutely dumbfoundered, and never once thought to interrupt him, letting him run to the end of his tether, which was by no means a short one. At length, the worthy Corporal came to a halt. He had reached his climax. What a soldier's idea of life—living “like a fighting cock”—properly must be, need only be left to the conjecture of the reader. Porgy evidently understood it.

“That would be something, indeed, Corporal.”

“Wouldn't it!” exclaimed the other.

“TOM,” said Porgy, stirring his rum and sugar, and touching glasses with the Corporal—Frampton declined to drink—“Tom! where are you going to spread my blankets to-night?”

“Yer, maussa, yer by de fire. Yer's de place for you; de Lieutenant must lie dere, and de Copp'ral will ease he limbs yonder, close by de sugar kag.”

“'Twont do, Tom! I must sleep in my old room, you rascal, if it's habitable. You know this, but——”

“But dere's no fire dere, maussa.”

“And why the d——l, didn't you have a fire made there, you lazy rascal? See to it at once. Open the room, and if there's floor enough for my length and breadth, have it swept out in the twinkling of an eye. Set some of the fellows at once to work bringing in wood and kindling fire.”

“You, Pomp——”

THE day, as was expected, opened in gloom. The sun made no showings that morning. The skies were enveloped in unbroken cloud and vapour, relieved, imperfectly, by a constant fall of rain, which was of that cool, measured, deliberate sort, which indicates unfailing resource, and a quiet determination to have its own way. Our Captain of Partisans walked out into the piazza, front and rear, without any sense of relief from either quarter. The avenue in front exhibited a dreary aspect in spite of the fact that it was composed mostly of evergreens. The great oaks, grown together and arching above the track, each wore its heavy streamers of gray moss, which drooped almost to the earth with the great water drops, like the old fashioned pictures of Winter, his big beard crested with icicles. Vacant fields on each hand, fenceless and wholly uncultivated, added vastly to the dreariness of the scene. Fog and cloud, vapour and rain, were present everywhere, and made every thing as gloomy to the eyes of the spectator, as it was to his thoughts. Those old fields, should be ever again see them smiling in corn? The old house, whose timbers groaned beneath his tread, how long should he enjoy its shelter?—should he ever, with any feeling of security, behold it gay with the joyous faces of his friends? Was not all the life prospect before his mind, as sombre and cheerless as that before his eyes? While he mused thus, perhaps with a wholesome bitterness, having in it no small degree of self-reproach, he was joined by Millhouse.

“These old fields, Cappin,” said the latter, extending the stump of his arm, as he spoke, to the indicated quarter, “these old fields will be sure to bring fine corn; they are all matted with weeds, and have been lying out so long. I reckon you kaint ricollect when they were planted last?”

“Not I!” was the answer.

“But you hev' seen em a-growing, Cappin?”

“I suppose so; I can now see that they have been planted, and I suppose in my time; but really, my good Corporal, to say that I saw them in a crop, or ever saw the crop, of any kind, when I was professedly a planter, would be something of a rashness on my part. Pray believe that I was a very foolish, profligate person, who, in ceasing to be young, did not cease to be foolish, and continued his absurd vanities and excesses to the last. And, I am telling you now, Millhouse, what has been but too commonly the case among our young men of fortune of my day. There were some exceptions, it is true; but the curse of my generation was that our fathers lived too well, were too rapidly prosperous, and though they did not neglect the exercise of a proper industry in themselves, they either did not know how to teach it to their children, or presumed on the absence of any necessity that they should learn. We were to be affluent in what they should leave us—enough, in God's name, if we could keep it—but it is very sure that the best way to teach one to value and to keep what he gets, is just to teach him how to get. He who has not learned the one lesson will fail in the other, and is apt to waste what he did not work for. And now, my good fellow, don't say another word to me about the crops in past seasons. I have really no wish to confess my sins and follies to man as well as to myself and God. Turn in, if you are so disposed, and make your crops; you say you know how, and I am willing to believe you. I will assist you when I can——”

“But don't you meddle, Cappin.”

“Oh! no! you shall have full swing for a season, at least, and I will second you—I will be your Corporal only. You shall have a fair share of the spoils at harvest time, and we'll continue to live as decently as possible in the meanwhile. And that reminds me that it is time for breakfast. That rascal, Tom, because we broke his slumbers so suddenly this morning, will be out of humour all day. Let's see to him.”

Corporal Millhouse was not quite satisfied to have his mouth shut so summarily by the frank confession of the faults and follies on the part of his superior. He was not content that a general confession, however sweeping, should anticipate the details, one by one, of Porgy's short-comings. He had a sort of inquisitorial faculty for dragging out the truth, inch by inch, slowly from the criminal, so that he should not escape a single pang which was proper to his case; and his deliberate purpose had been to take the Captain over his territories, field by field, and extort from him at each, some admission of fault or ignorance. It was with a growl that he yielded to the very decided manner of his superior which at once closed the door against farther “question.”

The day, opened as we have seen with bustle and confusion, was destined to be a busy one. Breakfast was sullenly prepared by Tom—with whom the whole world had seemed to go wrong from the moment when the stump of Millhouse's arm, that morning had made so free with his sensibilities; and Pomp, stupid, rather than savage, was serving it up to our partisans, as he had done the super the night before, when Fordham, the overseer, suddenly cantered up to the house. He had brought with him the negro who had gone for hoes and shovels, with some three of four others, similarly provided, for the purpose of assisting in the burial of the outlaws. This was due to the timely suggestion or the widow Eveleigh, who, the night before, had given the overseer his instructions, and who had expressed herself particularly anxious for the recovery of the mahogany box, which she urgently counselled him to look for in all the places in which the outlaws had been seen to harbour during the day of her adventure. She did not tell him of the contents of the box, and had been silent, so far as he was concerned, in respect to the paper which contained the memoranda of McKewn, and the signature of that amiable philanthropist. Fordham, accordingly, simply stated that a mahogany box was missing containing fifty guineas, and we may mention, in this place, that Porgy, his followers, and the negroes generally, all busied themselves in its search with as much anxiety as if the property had been their own. But the labour was unavailing, and the search was finally given up as hopeless, after a persevering scrutiny in swamp and thicket, hiding place and hollow, wherever it seemed possible, or plausible to think, that the outlaws had penetrated. But to return.

Fordham was invited to share the breakfast, which he did with right good will. He was now told of the alarm which the party had had, and the loss which they had suffered, of one of the captured horses.

“Which one, Cappin?” demanded Fordham.

“A raw bone black.”

“Ah!”

“Da Bossick horse, Mass Fordham,” quoth Tom, putting in confidently. “Pomp say he know de horse, and John Sylbester bin tell me de same t'ing.”

“He look like hoss I bin see Bossick ride one time.”

“But you ain't sart'in, Pomp?” asked Fordham.

“He bin ride raw bone black, one time.”

“It may be,” said Fordham. “Bostwick is not too good for any villany; and we have good reason to think it was by his means that your niggers and Mrs. Eveleigh's was carried off to the British. We don't know for sartin, but it's mighty like. Now, I have hearn of Bostwick riding a raw bone black, but I don't know that I ever seed him on a critter in my life. He's a mighty cute fellow that never lets you git too near to him. I'm pretty sure he headed them rascals yesterday, yet I never seed one man more than another that I could lay finger on for him and be sart'in.—Yet I could almost swear a Bible oath that he was one of them, and one of the worst. There was one on them that called Jenny, the nigger gal, by the right name; and I reckon he was the one. He know'd her well, and let the word slip onawar's.”

“Does not the fellow live somewhere in this neighbourhood still?” demanded Porgy.

“Well, thar's no telling if he lives any whar. He's never to be seen in these parts. I haven't heard of him for a year, positive, from anybody that could sw'ar they seed him. He's got his family on the corner of Mrs. Ev'leigh's land, and not far from your's—jest in the swamp, and not a half a mile from the river; but I reckon he's hardly there once a year. The family never sees much of him, I'm sartin.”

“But that is one of his quartering places. We must root 'em out, Fordham; his family is as bad as himself. Has he any sons?”

“A leetle boy, only, and two gals. The boy is just creeping about. The two gals are most half-grown—one's about twelve, I reckon, the other ten. But, Lord love you, Cappin, there's no rooting these people out. It would be the cruellest thing that you could do. They are so poor and miserable, and so humble, and the poor wife's so sad and heart-broken, and onhappy, and the gal children is so sweet, and so mighty pretty, preticularly the oldest, who's a born beauty, jest like the darter of some great people. As for being as bad as himself, that's not so, Cappin, axing your pardon. They're good people, working hard, night and day, and gitting none of the benefit of all that Bostwick airns or steals. He's hardly ever with 'em, and does nothing for 'em when he comes, onless for the oldest gal, and they tells me that he pets her a leetle, and according to his humours. It's a a hard case for them that they have to do with sich a born rascal; but what's to help it. The poor wife can't git rid of him now, and the poor little children. They can only groan and cry together, when they're by themselves, and take what the marcy of God sends 'em, through the hands of their neighbours. You kain't think of rooting 'em out; Mrs. Ev'leigh knows jest as well as anybody what Bostwick is, but she has pity on the poor wife and children. She gives them spinning to do, and weaving, and the oldest darter is both mighty clever to work and willing; and it's through Mrs. Ev'leigh that they gits on at all; but for her they'd starve; she feeds 'em, and physics 'em, and clothes 'em; and yit that black-hearted scamp, Bostwick, has been about the worst inimy of her and her plantation, that she ever had in these parts.”

“Well, Fordham, I'm sworn to do this poor woman and her children a greater charity than ever Mrs. Eveleigh has done——”

“Ah! you kain't do that easily, Cappin.”

“I will!”

“What's that?”

“I've sworn by Acheron and Styx, to see him hung to the first good swinging limb within half an hour after I lay eyes upon him.”

“And may God, in his marcy, grant you the strength and the chance, Cappin, to keep your oath! That would be a great charity, I'm consenting, to the poor woman and the little chicks; and I'm willing to take a hand in it, whenever you are ready to tree the critter. Ef she was free of him, she would do better, for he brings her no help, and I'm a-thinking takes away from her all she can airn. Besides, people's afear'd to hire her at their places, for fear they'll bring him about 'em. Ef he was dead and out of the way, she would be a thousand times better off.”

“We must pay her a sudden visit to-day—try to ascertain if he has been there lately, and when. He would hardly visit the neighbourhood, without seeing them.”

“That's as it happens, and seems advisable. He wouldn't resk a hair of his head on a visit to them at any time, though the niggers do say that he loves the eldest gal child.”

“And she's a beauty?”

“A raal flower of the forest, Cappin.”

“Poor thing! Why don't Mrs. Eveleigh take her home?”

“She's afear'd of the father's coming about the place; besides, the mother won't let her leave her. She says she's her only comfort, and I reckon she is. She's a raal sweet, smart, and beautiful little critter.”

“We'll take them coming back. You can guide us, Fordham, for I pretty much forget all the routes in this quarter. And now, to horse.”

“But what's the need for you to go, Cappin?” demanded Fordham and Millhouse in the same breath. “We kin bury these blackguards, and look up for the box without troubling you; and you see the rain keeps on.”

“A fig for the rain! After soaking for five years in rain, and, indeed, all sorts of liquors, to talk to me now of another soaking as a thing to skulk from. Shut up, my good fellows. Pomp, my horse! Besides, how do I know but that you may have customers in the surviving robbers. A couple of stout rascals, in ambush, would easily settle twice their number, for your negroes could never be relied on. Ho! Pomp!”

“Wha' mek' you holler, maussa? Enty you see de hoss ready for you by de tree. All ready but you swode and pistols, and yer he is.”

Thus Tom, with sword and holsters on his arm. The sword was quietly girded about the waist of Porgy by Frampton, while Tom followed with the holsters. A few moments, and the party moved up the avenue, all mounted, even the negroes, who carried their hoes and shovels across their thighs, or up in air, as the Scythian and Cumanche robber carries his spear, and went forth better pleased with the idea of burying their dead, than with that of going into battle.

Their farther progress requires no detailed report. They reached the skirmishing ground in due season, and reviewed its aspects. The slain outlaws were found undisturbed where they had been left, and were buried where they lay. No coffin or shroud enwrapped the forms of those who had cast themselves off from social sympathies. Holes in the earth, some three feet deep, beyond the reach of wolf and wild cat, sufficed to hide them out of sight. And this was all. The negroes heaped up the earth in mounds above them, and a stake, cut from the woods and driven down at the head of the grave, indicated to the wayfarer the place of human sepulture, in that wild spot, and remote from settlement or church, very much as the wayside cross in Spain denotes where the murdered traveller has perished. This duty done, and the search after the lost box of Mrs. Eveleigh proving ineffectual, our Captain of Partisans, some two hours after noon, proposed to his party to return. All assented but Lance Frampton, who seemed to hesitate, and, by his manner, reminded Porgy of the young man's obligations elsewhere.

“Ah! Lance, by the way,” said he, “ride over and see Mrs. Griffin and her daughter. It is but two miles and a half from us where we stand, and a shorter distance, by twice that number, than if you go back with us, and then proceed. You can return at night, or not, as you think proper. Of course, we want you, if you can be spared, and will keep supper for you, till bed time.—Go, my good boy, and present my best respects to the good widow. You remember, I spend the day, to-morrow, at Mrs. Eveleigh's, and shall wish you to accompany me. Millhouse will go also, while Tom keeps watch at home. The next day or soon after, I shall, probably, be compelled to set out for the city to get supplies. There now, my lad, you have all my plans for the present, and can make your own arrangements accordingly.”

“Ef you are riding over to the widow Griffin's now, Lieutenant,” said Fordham, turning to the youth, “be so good as to say to her, that I'll send the peas and inyons (onions) over to her a Saturday night—that's all.”

And Lance Frampton rode off alone.

“And now, Fordham,” said Porgy, “lead the way to the wigwam of the Squatter. Let us see his family at all events, and find out, if we can, whether he has been there lately.”

IT is time that we should return to the recesses of the swamp where we left the Squatter, Bostwick, up to his neck in water. No condition could have appeared more hopeless,—no situation more humbling or perplexing. It is, perhaps, the case commonly, that the habitual criminal is habitually an unthinking person, else how should the utter profitlessness, and certain perils of crime, fail to impress themselves upon the mind of him who toils in his vocation of sin, and is taught by the bitter experience of each day the terrible truth that the only wages he can earn, in this employment, is shame and scorn, and foes, and ignominy and death!—What had been Bostwick's profits in his career? As he muttered more than once to himself, standing on the cold and gloomy hammock—

“I have nothing to show! McKewn kin show, and Moncrieff kin show; they've got the money and the goods; they're great men in the world and rich;—but I—I've got nothing but the danger, and the cold, the resk and the exposure, the empty pockets, and the swinging limb! Empty pocket! No!—not so bad as all that, either. The widow said there was fifty guineas in her box.”

The miserable wretch found his temporary consolation in this reflection. His comrades had mostly perished. He had nearly shared their fate. The plunderers were stript. They who went forth to shear, came homeshorn. Even his horse and rifle had disappeared in the grasp of the partisans; and they were a class of people with whom long experience had taught him that it was very dangerous to meddle. But the recollection of the widow's strong box consoled him for the moment. That was safe. He had hidden it beyond the search and suspicion even of his comrades, and he chuckled to himself, even in that gloomy hour, at the cleverness with which he had succeeded in doing so. Fifty guineas were in that box. Fifty guineas! He began to calculate how long they were to last, according to the life of riot, drinking and gaming which he led. He made no appropriations of any portion to his family. They had no such need as himself. Fifty guineas!—and the papers. They, too, must be in that box; and these papers, according to the inadvertent admissions of McKewn, were important to his safety.

“The d——d skinflint!” muttered Bostwick to himself. “He shall pay for them or hang! He talks of me hanging, and to my face, jest as ef he had any right to make me feel oneasy. But we'll see who's most likely to hang. We'll see who's the rope guine to fit best. The mean, dirty scoundrel. I see what he's after; but I'll put a spoke in that wheel, will upset his carriage, ef he don't walk a safe track with me. He's got property. He's a great man now-a-days. He's bought a plantation here jest alongside the widow's, and who but he, with his niggers and lands. Ha! well! He's played a mighty strong hand in the game, but there's a trump he aint got, and aint guine to git till he agrees to share the stakes. Let him try! He was quite a clever chap among the British. Lord! how they loved one another; and he's now to be quite a clever chap among the rebels! Well, it's for me to say, I reckon, how much love is to be lost atween 'em. Only wait! I'll wait—jest as long as it suits me. But now for the box.”

And threading his way out of the swamp, with the ease of one who had never walked on freer or firmer ground, he proceeded to the spot in the woods above, not a hundred yards from the place where the widow's carriage had been brought to a halt, in which the box had been safely hid away.

He found it even where he sought. He held it up to the light of the stars. It was heavy, but it was locked. The key had never been taken from the possession of Mrs. Eveleigh. Her bunch still remained in her pocket. She had not been searched; but would have been, in all probability, but for the unexpected defeat of the enterprise of the outlaws. But the want of the key suggested no difficulty to our Squatter. At one moment he had lifted up the box to dash it upon a stump, the short process being always the most grateful to the ruffian for attaining his object. But he arrested himself.

“The guineas will scatter, and I kaint afford to lose the ugliest on 'em.”

He felt for his knife. It was gone—lost.

“Never mind!” he muttered, “I kin wait 'till I git to see Rachel.”

Rachel—poor Rachel—his wife! He thought of her at that moment, not as one whom he loved or cared for, but as the creature from whom he might find service—obtain the implement which should give him access to a more precious treasure. He started off with the box under his arm. His swiftness of foot seemed undiminished by the day's fatigue. He was one of those sinewy, lean, elastic, beings of iron—hard wood and endurance—who seem never to have enjoyed life, yet are equal to all its requisitions. In training, like most people of the same description of life in the same region, he was an Indian—could outrun a horse in a day's journey, and never appeared to suffer from thirst or hunger. He had short cuts through swamp and thicket, known to few besides himself, and in half the time occupied by our Partisans on horse, he made his way, on foot, to the swamp margins of the plantations of Mrs. Eveleigh and Captain Porgy. Within half a mile stood the wigwam of his wretched family. It occupied a place half hidden in a little clump of woods, near which stretched a small cornfield of a few acres, the old decaying stalks crumbling over the spot where they had feebly grown. He again concealed his box, this time in the hollow of a cypress, when about to emerge from the cover of the swamp. He did not approach his own dwelling without the greatest caution. He knew not what sort of customers he was to encounter in the neighbourhood. Winding about the woods wherever a cover could be found, he gradually drew nigh to the rear of the habitation which he skirted cautiously. The hum of the spinning-wheel alone reached his ears from within. He stole up to the habitation and peeped through a crevice between the logs. We will follow his example.

The wigwam was one of the meanest sort of log-houses, not more than sixteen by twenty feet—built of slender pine poles, which were already greatly decayed. The spaces had been closed with clay, but this had mostly fallen out. Originally, the house had been clap-boarded (a coarse and inferior shingle) with split pine, and fastened down by wooden pegs. Much of the roofing had decayed, and the openings were thatched with ricks of broom-grass and pine-straw—a very slight and imperfect shelter for the encounter with our March and September squalls. But there was an additional protection in a great live oak, of a thousand generations, which overspread the roof on the northern side, the branches resting upon it, and, when stirred by the wind, making such a strange scraping along the clap-boards, as if a score of wild cats were striving to scratch their way, as would have startled one, not familiar with the noise, with a thousand staggering apprehensions—particularly at midnight. But our Squatter's family heard nothing, or if they did, the sounds had become companionable, and thus agreeable. We are not sure that the wife of the Squatter did not find it a great relief to listen to the disordered branches, in the long, weary hours of the night, when the children were all asleep, but when she could not. The poor, subdued, faint-spirited woman, she sat within, knitting her worsted and cotton into thick stockings for the ungrateful wretch who peered, unsuspected, between the logs, and beheld her occupation. She was a thin, frail, pale-faced body, with fair complexion still, of soft, sad eyes, the only remains of a once girlish beauty, Her look almost vacant, was fixed upon the fire. Her dress was of the plainest sort of blue homespun—her own manufacture—but it was scrupulously neat and clean. She seemed to work unconsciously as if from habit; yet her fingers traversed the needles and passed the threads with the rapidity of one whose whole soul was in the task. At the other corner of the fire-place, stood her eldest daughter, whom she called Dory. Her proper name was Dorothy. It was her spinning-wheel whose song saluted the ears of Bostwick as he approached the house. Dory, although still but twelve years old, was an adept at all her labours. Nobody—it was her mother's boast—could spin better than Dory, a finer or a stronger thread. And Dory could weave also, quite as well as her mother. The child was nearly as strong. Indeed, responsibilities, at an early period, had matured her mind and body very equally. They grew together, and therefore both grew strong. The child might have passed for a girl of fifteen, so well was she developed. When you looked at her face she seemed still older—there was such a sad, settled, and profound expression in the sweet symmetrical and chastened features. She was very fair, though she bore the fuel from the woods, and the water from the spring. She was tall, and, moving to and fro about the spinning wheel, she exhibited a natural grace such as a humble life like her's seldom displays. Her hair, a rich auburn, curled and floated free in long silken tresses, having escaped from the massy folds in which she commonly kept it bound. She, too, was clad in the simplest homespun, and her naked feet and ancles, in consequence of the scantiness of her dress, were conspicuous upon the floor. But the floor was kept tidily clean. If there was poverty in the dwelling, there was evidently a natural purity also, which reconciled the spectator to the scene.

The other children of the Squatter, were asleep in a pallet in one corner of the room. There was no separate apartment. Dory slept with her mother in the father's absence, and when he came home she crouched in with Bet, her younger sister, and Benny, the infant boy. The mother's bedstead, was a rude frame work of pine, clumsily executed by a country carpenter. There was a single pine table in the room, and four chairs, bottomed with cowhide. This was all the furniture. A few gourds containing seeds and spices hung against the walls. A shelf outside sustained the water bucket. In a corner of the fireplace was an iron pot, and in a nook of the chamber was leaned a frying-pan. The fragment of a mirror, without frame, a trimmed bit of glass, of a few inches at most each way, was fastened by pegs against one of the logs over the fire-place. Such was the picture, lightened up fully by the blaze from half-dozen pine knots, which hissed and sparkled in the hearth, giving light and heat equally. The very poor, in all the South, rarely use candles, or those of their own making only. The Squatter's wife had her's, it is true, a small supply, made of tallow and myrtle wax, but these were to be used only on particular occasions. They were made by Dory, and were too precious to be wasted. But this was not a consideration with Bostwick. He consumed them whenever he came home, with little heed to the poor child whose means were so small, and whose labours were so heavy. Yet the miserable wretch loved this child as well as he could love any human being—infinitely more than he loved the mother. He was sensible of her beauty—her eye sensibly impressed him. To her he was never brutal, seldom harsh. To all others of the family he was cold or truculent. Something in her glance seemed to impress him with respect, if not awe. She did not shrink from, yet did not seek to conciliate him. She felt, and resented by her withdrawal, his brutalities to her mother. She submitted to his endearments, yet never returned them. Her instincts—shall we not say her thoughts—were all at war with his nature, and the habits in which he indulged. She had courage, too, and, never once forgetting that he was her father, she could yet venture upon terms of rebuke and reproach, at moments when his excesses revolted her, such as became singularly impressive, spoken by the lips of a child, and in the unsophisticated language of the heart. Still he loved her, after a fashion—loved her with a sort of reverence, as she represented to his eyes that higher phase of society to which he felt that he himself could never aspire, and to which, as is commonly the case with the class to which he belonged, he looked ever with feelings of envy and desire.

He announced his presence to the inmates of the hovel, by a peculiar whistle through the logs. The girl looked quietly at her mother, but said nothing. The woman started up, all in a terror, and hastened to draw the bolt of the door and give him entrance.

“What! Bostwick! You've come?”

“Don't you see me! Well, Dory, hev' you got nothing to say to me?”

THE Squatter, meanwhile, armed with knife and tinder-box, hurried away to the edge of the swamp, eager to examine his casket of ill-gotten treasures. He drew the box of Mrs. Eveleigh from the hollow of the cypress, and, upon a little bank in the swamp, surrounded by a wall of forest and swamp, thicket, shrubs, vines and trees, he proceeded to strike a light. It required but a few moments after this, to pry open the cover of the box, which was much better suited to a lady's toilet, than for the purpose of keeping or securing a treasure. The guineas were the first objects that compelled his attention. They were contained in a small linen bag, and rolled in paper in small sums of ten each. He counted them religiously, and then proceeded to turn over the rest of the contents of the box, which was pretty closely packed with papers. He was able neither to read nor write. He took for granted that the paper, which McKewn so much desired, was among them, but the point was one beyond his capacity to determine.

“It's here, I reckon, safe with the rest; but won't he pay for it when he gits it.”

His curiosity was satisfied, if not his cupidity. One would suppose that his first act would be to convey to his wife and children a small portion, at least, of the golden spoils in his possession.—But he was too selfish and too wary for that. His cunning did not suffer him to risk, in their hands, any proof that might facilitate his detection. It seems that some suggestion did arise in his mind, prompting him to detach a guinea, to be given to Dory. He spoke of her affectionately, and turned the glittering coin, separated from “his pile,” between thumb and forefinger.

“But where's the use,” he muttered, “and ef they was to ax where she got it, what was she guine to say?”

He restored it to the heap, restored the bag to the box, with all the papers, and restored the box to the hollow of the cypress, the base of which was encircled by a thick shrubbery. This done, he made his way back to the cottage, where his supper of bacon, corn-bread and coffee, already awaited him. He flung the knife down upon the table, and proceeded to eat, but had scarcely begun, when he commanded that the spinning-wheel should stop.

“The blasted noise keeps a body from hearing any thing. Ef an inimy was at the door, nobody could know'tell they bursted in.”

The girl obeyed, put her cotton into the basket, and removed the wheel to a corner of the room. She then disappeared behind the curtain of clothes, and when she again came forth, and drew near the fire, he perceived that she had a book in her hand. Dory had been taught to read by her mother, and loved her book. The eyes of the Squatter did not suffer her long from sight.

“A book!” said he, “and what sort of book is it, you've got?'

“It's the Holy Bible, Father.”

“The Holy Bible;—and what do you know about the Holy Bible, and where did you get it, I want to know? You hain't been spending money, or your airnings, upon a thing that's no account, hev' you?”

“No, father, 'twas given to me by Mrs. Eveleigh.”

“Well, she might hev' given you something to be more useful to you. She's rich; she might hev' given you some good clothes, I'm a-thinking, ef she'd ha' wanted to do a good thing for you. But these great rich folk are all as mean as h-ll!”

“Mrs. Eveleigh aint mean, father; and she has given me clothes,” replied the child.

“She has, has she? what! the frock you've got on, I reckon.”

“No, I made that myself. She's given me good clothes, to wear when I go out, and on a Sunday.”

“Sunday! as ef there ever was a Sunday for a poor man! Let me look at the book.”

She handed it to him without a word, and he turned it over curiously. It was not a costly book; had it been—had the edges been of gold, and the back richly adorned with the same metal—it is quite probable that the perverse wretch would have been tempted to throw it into the fire. As it was, he thrust it back into the child's hands, saying—

“And what's the good of it to you? You kain't understand it even ef you reads it.”

“Oh! yes I can, father.”

“Let me hear you read some—thar', jest where the paper's been turned down. I'll see ef you ain't been reading how to curse your own daddy.”

The child gave him but a single look, but it made him restless. He could not meet the clear, calm glance fixed upon his own. He turned his gaze upon the fire, but repeated—

“Read, I say,—let's hear what sort of bible l'arning you're a-gitting. Read where you've put the mark.—That a man's own children should turn agin him!”

The child gave him another look, so simple, so expressive—of a calm, unspeaking, submissive sorrow, the most touching of all sorts of reproach: then, turning to the book she began to read from the New Testament, the Acts of the Apostles, the first chapter, just where the leaf had been turned down; but scarcely had she got through three paragraphs, when the Squatter started up, having by this time finished eating, and, swallowing a pint of coffee at a gulph, he cried out—

“That's enough! It's mighty good, what you're reading, I'm a-thinking, for a gal child. But it's no use. There's no apostles, now-a-days. At least, I never hear tell of any merracles now, or I reckon I might have a chance of being saved myself. But, without a merracle, I'm pretty much past saving, so it's no use to try. Shut up, Dory; you kin read to your mammy after I'm gone. I must be off.”

“What!” cried the poor mother, “you're not a guine, Sam, at this late time o' night.”

“And what should I stay for? Don't I know there's none of you hev' any love to spare for me here.”

“Oh! don't say so, Sammy: don't!”

“Pooh! Git out! Don't suppose I'm fool as well as scamp. You're too full of good books, and good women here, to have any likings for sich as me. Kiss me, Dory, you're a good child for a gal. I don't say you shan't read the book the widow give you, only I don't care. You may read, for the good 'twill do you.—'Twont do me none. Blast all the gifts of your rich people. They only burn the heart out. What's good you kin git out of them, is what you kin take! I'm off;—and look you, Rachel, mind what I say. Ef you're axed, you don't know nothing about me. You ain't seed me you don't know when, and, as for a horse, you don't reckon I've had one for a year, not sence the blasted men of Harden carried off my bay trotter. Blast all their two legs forever for it. Don't you let Dory say nothing. She don't know how to speak sensible in such cases. Good-bye, Dory.”

And he was gone—gone out into the darkness—lost to sight as to hope. Not another word of kindness or farewell. None, in fact, to the poor woman who followed him to the door, as if entreating for it. Not even a glance to the poor children sleeping on the pallet, the eldest of whom, awakened by the unusual voices, raised herself up in the bed, and looked, but did not dare to make herself heard. She had old experience of blows, suddenly and sharply administered, to admonish her against any childlike and loving forwardnesses. Besides, the watchful mother had seen, and pushed her back, under the scanty covering, with—

“Lie still, Ben, it's pappy!”

Dreadful sound with which to quiet the baby! the baby was quiet for the rest of the night. But he was gone, and then the woman sate down and wept over the fire-place.

“Ef he had only shaken hands, Dory, and told me good-bye, my child; but no! He wouldn't care ef I was on my cooling board to-morrow.”

The girl began quietly to read the chapter in the Acts which she had attempted at her father's bidding and her low, soft voice, still that of a child, delivered the inspired sentences in good time, and with very tolerable discretion, but without emphasis, and with the simplicity of one who did not fully comprehend what she was reading. When she had finished and put away the book, the mother said—

“I know it's good to hear and to read the blessed book, but my heart ain't in it. I don't feel it at all. I feel only that I am a very great sinner, very poor and miserable.”

THE poor woman, the wife of the Squatter, was half-scared to death when she saw the squad of our partisan approach her dwelling. She at once conjectured that the Squatter had been at his old tricks, and that the enemy was upon his footsteps. Cadaverously pale, trembling in every limb, she staggered to her bedside, and sank upon it, faintly exclaiming as they approached the house—

“Oh! Dory, they've come after him.”

“Lie down, mother, and let me speak to the gentlemen,” said the little girl.

“You, Dory! oh, no! You remember he told me, you were not to speak at all. Come back from the door, I tell you. Don't you say a word.”

“But you musn't look so scared, mother. They'll think something wrong if you're so pale and trembling. Don't be afraid.— We haven't done anything wrong, and we don't know any thing of father's doings.”

“Hush, child, you musn't be talking. There they come. Oh! my God, what is to become of us?”

“Don't be afear'd mother! God won't let them hurt us.”

“Oh! how do you know, Dory?”

“I believe, mother.”

“Believe! oh! yes, you'll believe anything, even though the soldiers kill us and carry us to prison. Come back from the door, I tell you. I'll open it. I'll answer all they ax.”

The child drew away, and rested her elbows upon the table, as the party approached the house. A rather heavy knock, thrice repeated, threw t