Kate Aylesford: A Story of the Refugees

Oh! Buckingham, beware of yonder dog;
Look, when he fawns he bites. —Shakespeare.

Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best;
Dissimulation always sets apart
A corner for herself. —Byron.

Deep in the forest, that stretches, a pathless wilderness, to the south and west of Sweetwater, there stood, at the period of our story, a solitary log-cabin, with about two acres of cleared land surrounding it. On nearly every side it was surrounded with swamps, so that approach to it was almost impossible. Here, an hour or two after the rencontre between Aylesford and Major Gordon, the former drew up his horse.

It was a wild scene, characteristic of the region. Huge pines surrounded the clearing, and towering high into air, almost shut out the light. In the small fields about the house the stumps were still standing. A rude stable, or rather shed, built of logs with the bark left on, stood a few rods from the house, while between the two was a well, with a high swinging pole hung in the crotchet of a young sapling. The atmosphere, even on that sultry morning, was damp and cool from the evaporation; the clearing being situated on a small knoll, which rose like an island in the midst of vast swamps, miles from any village, or even farmhouse. It was a haunt fit for outlaws.

As Aylesford approached, a huge bloodhound started up in front of the house, at whose outcry a short, thick-set man came forth, with a countenance which had never been pleasing, but was now embruited by intemperance and other vices. A dirty red beard, which had not felt a razor for a week, increased the repulsiveness of his appearance.

“What a hole you have, Arrison,” said the visitor, with an oath. “It’s the devil’s own retreat. I was half an hour in finding the blind path, and twice came near being swamped before I succeeded. And now, in the fiend’s name, tell us what’s brought you into these parts, and what you want with me.”

“As many questions as would take a week to answer,” replied the man, coolly, “and asked in a temper that would get anything but a civil return from most persons. You needn’t frown. You know I dont’t care a curse for such things. What’s the matter with you? Out with it, or it will choke you.”

Aylesford looked, for a moment, as if he would have liked to run his sword through the speaker, as well as through Major Gordon. But the man met his angry gaze with cool indifference, turning a quid leisurely in his mouth, and waiting for an answer.

“I came here to question,” said Aylesford, haughtily, “not to be questioned. Again I say,” he added, as he dismounted, “what, in the devil’s name, has brought you here.”

“Let me tie the horse. It’s my trade, you know,” said the other, with a sardonic grin. “Or shall I put him up? No, you must return, that there may be no suspicion! Well, then, come in, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

They entered the cabin, and took seats by a table, on which Arrison immediately placed some peach brandy. No one else appeared to be present about the premises, though, at first, Aylesford thought he heard a light step moving in the interior room, for the house had two apartments. After taking a long draught, Arrison spoke.

“You were surprised, I suppose, to get the word I sent? You thought I was completely driven out of these parts? But there’s a good time coming, let me tell you,” and he rubbed his hands, “for his Majesty, God bless him! is going to send an expedition against the Neck, burn the vessels there, and reduce the whole district about the mouth of the river. Before a week we’ll have the pick of all the booty here, live and dead, that can be had. The pretty girls, I suppose,” he added with a leer and chuckle, “are not all gone yet.”

For a moment Aylesford sat in mute surprise.

“You amaze me,” he cried, finally. “I have heard nothing of this.”

“How should you?” answered Arrison, with a laugh. “’Gad, if the rebels caught you acting the spy, they’d string you up to one of the buttonwoods, at the Forks, before you could say Jack Robinson. They’d not stop a minute for your laced coat. It would be a short shrift and a dance on nothing, as they say in the old country.”

“Then you play the spy on the rebels, and in return get at the royal General’s secrets—is that it?” said Aylesford.

Arrison nodded.

“And you are sure of your news?”

“As sure as I sit here. The expedition has sailed before this, and its arrival can be delayed only by head-winds. It may be playing the devil among the rebel privateers and their prizes even now.”

“This is news,” answered Aylesford, joyfully, filling his glass. “Let us drink to his most sacred Majesty, and confusion to all traitors.”

“With my whole heart. The toast is good and the liquor better.”

“It is this which has brought you back? Under the shelter of the royal wing you think you can safely resume your former pranks?”

“Yes, if nothing better turns up. I’ve some old scores to wipe off, and began them yesterday.”

And he narrated his outrage at the widow Bates’ farm, describing, with boisterous glee, the rueful face which the widow must have worn when she returned home and saw but the smoking ashes of her late dwelling.

“But,” said Aylesford, “the people will know your mark, and hunt you down at once. I shouldn’t be surprised if old Herman was already on your trail.”

“They’ll have enough to do to take care of themselves,” was the cool reply. “Before another week, I’ll burn old Herman himself out, like a rat in his hole. There is not many men left in these parts anyhow, and the attack on the Neck will take away what few there are. I owe a debt to another, Jack Sanders, whom I’ll not let off so easily. I carry two of his buckshot still in me; and I’ve sworn to have a life for each one; himself and his wife, if possible; if not, others of his family.”

“And now, what’s the matter with you?” resumed Arrison. “Even this good news can’t make you look pleased more than a minute. Come, drown care in a cup.” And filling his glass again, he handed the bottle to his guest. “What, not drink? It must be something very serious, then.”

“I have to return to Sweetwater, you know. My cousin and aunt are there.”

“I’d forgot. And it wouldn’t do, so early in the day, to show signs of a debauch.” He interlarded this and all his other speeches profusely with oaths. “And how are the good ladies?” he added. “Miss Kate must be grown up into a beauty, if all I hear is true. Ah! you change color. You frown. I have it at last,” he continued, slapping his hand on the table and bursting into a laugh, “it’s about her that you’re so cursedly cross.”

“Come,” answered Aylesford, in a heat, rising from the table, “I’ve had enough of this. Remember, I was once your master. Have you forgotten, sirrah, how to be respectful?”

“I cry your pardon,” answered Arrison, with a profound obeisance, though with a slight tone of mockery. “Sit down again, Mr. Aylesford. I do forget myself sometimes, in talking to you, but it’s because you’ve always allowed me to be familiar. There, don’t let us quarrel; I may want your countenance yet; and in return might be of use even in this affair, if you’d tell me what’s the matter.”

Aylesford allowed himself to be persuaded to take a seat again; but, had he seen the cat-like glance of Arrison, he would have felt far less confidence in the outlaw’s professions.

“You have been a faithful fellow,” said Aylesford. “I’ll not deny that. But this is an affair above your surgery. However, you’ve a quick wit, and may hit on something; and I want somebody to advise with. I’m desperately in love with my cousin, who’s more beautiful even than report allows, and she won’t have me.”

Arrison felt very much inclined to make a jest of Aylesford at this confession. But he saw that his guest was in no mood for banter. So he answered—

“She must be a prude of the worst kind, then.”

“No, she’s in love with a rebel officer, who is stationed at the Forks, a Major Gordon,” and he ended with a hearty curse on his rival.

“Are you sure of this?”

“She has refused me, and that’s enough,” replied Aylesford, passionately, drinking off a bumper, and setting the glass down with such force as to dash it to splinters. “Besides, this fellow has saved her life, or she thinks he has, which is the same. The ship, in which she came over, was wrecked off the mouth of the river, and he had a hand, somehow or other, in getting her ashore. I had my sword at the rascal’s throat this morning, and was on the high road to revenge, when we were interrupted.” And he proceeded to narrate the rencontre, which Uncle Lawrence had so opportunely broken off.

“That old, canting scoundrel again,” answered Arrison. “Well, he hasn’t long to run. He’s about hunted to the end of his track, I take it; and I’ll put a bullet through him, or a knife into him, before the moon’s a week older; and so have my revenge for the harm he did me with your uncle, and for his stopping your slitting this Major’s windpipe. But, to come back to your own affairs,” continued the villain, “I don’t see that they’re half as desperate as you think they are. You remember the old proverb, ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ don’t you?”

“What of it?”

“Only,” answered Arrison, with a laugh,” get rid of this Major.”

“But how?”

“If ‘twas me I’d go out quietly, some fine morning, and take a good position in the brush, near by where I was sure he would pass, and when he came along, I’d pull trigger on him, and so have done with his interference forever. All things are fair in love as in war, you know.”

But Aylesford had sufficient honor left to decline such a proposal, involving deliberate assassination, though he would have eagerly seized any opportunity to take the life of his rival in a less cold-blooded way.

“Well, then,” said the villain, “since you won’t take that course, we must try and get him picked off in a fight. He’ll probably, if he’s not a coward, go down to the Neck the moment he hears the vessels there are in danger. It would be a possible thing, though not an easy one, to shoot him there.”

But Aylesford shook his head.

“Too much uncertainty about it, you think? Well, maybe you’re right,” said the outlaw. “I would wish to make a sure thing of it, if I was yon, that’s a fact. But my invention is almost at an end. I really don’t know what to advise,” he concluded, with a puzzled air.

“If she had only reached New York, there would have been none of this,” said Aylesford, gloomily. “I wish to heaven she was there now.”

“Nothing easier than to get her there,” answered the refugee, “if that will suit your purpose. By the Lord, I’ve hit it at last,” cried he, with sudden energy, emphasizing his words by striking the table till the bottle danced again. “I can put her in New York in a week’s time, if you’ll trust to me; and you shall, moreover, do what will make a set-off to this Gordon’s rescue of her; in short, if you place yourself in my hands, she’ll be yours, or else you’re a fool, which no one yet ever took you to be.”

Aylesford gazed at the speaker with undisguised astonishment. But there was evidently no jest in what Arrison said. His plan, whatever it was, he clearly considered feasible.

“I give you my word,” reaching over and taking the outlaw’s hand, “which I never broke to any man yet—”

“We’ll say nothing of woman,” interrupted Arrison, with a coarse laugh.

“Which I never broke to any man yet,” repeated Aylesford, “that I’ll pay you a thousand pounds if you succeed. On the day I marry my cousin, the money is yours.”

“I’ll put her in New York for half the sum—is it a bargain?”

“It is,” answered Aylesford. “Now for the scheme.”

But we must reserve this for another chapter.

Foul whisperings are abroad; and unnat’ral deeds. —Shakespeare.

I follow you.
To do I know not what. —Shakespeare.

“Does Miss Aylesford ride on horseback as she did before she went abroad?” said Arrison.

“Yes! This militia Major has been riding with her every morning.”

“But don’t she ever ride alone?”

“Sometimes, I suppose. He can’t be for ever dangling after her. At any rate, now that I’ve come back, I’ll take good care that he don’t.” And he finished with an oath.

“Then, without having yourself suspected, get her to ride unattended to-morrow or next day. Yon must also find out which way she is going. I will be on the lookout, with three or four trusty fellows of my gang, and on a sudden, we will rush out and make her our prisoner. You needn’t start and look in that fashion,” said Arrison, with a laugh at his hearer’s glance of alarm, “we’ll not hurt a hair of her head. We shan’t even gag her, as we would anybody else, for the road will be a lonely one most likely, and there’ll be no occasion for rough usage.”

“What next?” said Aylesford, seeing that Arrison paused. And he proceeded contemptuously— “I can’t see any such pretty scheme in this project of kidnapping.”

“Then you haven’t the sense I give you credit for,” answered Arrison. “Don’t you see? I and my followers are to seize her, and you are to rescue her. That’ll be an ace to play on this Major Gordon’s king, and a trump card at that.”

Aylesford’s countenance brightened, the look of suspicion disappearing totally.

“I am dull,” he said. “This infernal affair has driven me half mad, I believe, and benumbed my senses.”

“Of course,” answered Arrison, “it won’t do to rescue her right away. For then, you know, you’d have no good excuse for carrying her within the royal lines, a step which must be taken if you wish to get her to New York. Though, for my part,” added the outlaw, “I don’t see why you should trouble yourself to make so long a journey. Now, in the old country, and especially in the parts where I lived when a boy, it was a common practice, when a gentleman wished to get a wife, for him to call together a party of his friends, waylay the girl, make her a prisoner, carry her off to the mountains, and never let her go back till the priest had made them man and wife. Many’s the Squire’s lady that was won in that way; and they say girls of spirit like it better than more formal wooing. Now, if you say so, we’ll play the part of your friends, instead of acting more naturally as refugees; and though a priest may not be so easy to come at, you’re not what you once were, if you can’t find a way to make the lady eager enough to marry you, after she gets out of the swamp.”

The cool, matter-of-fact manner in which this atrocious proposition was made, showed how business-like the villain considered it. But Aylesford, though he would not have hesitated, as Arrison knew from the past, if the victim had been some poor and friendless girl, revolted at such an outrage on Kate. His face flushed with anger, and he partially rose from his seat. But recollecting immediately that Arrison was not in love like himself, and that the customs of his country had accustomed the refugee to look on such abductions leniently, he resumed his place, while the red tint of passion faded from his brow. But he shook his head.

“No, we’ll stick to the other plan,” he said. “I won’t woo Kate in that fashion, if I never get her, so help me God,” he added, earnestly.

“Just as you say. But I meant no offence,” answered Arrison.

“I believe you” replied Aylesford. “But, apart from every other consideration, my cousin is not the girl to be won in that fashion. She would, I am convinced, kill herself sooner than yield; and even if she was prevented, by force, from injuring herself, she’d hate me to her dying day. No, it would be madness.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” answered Arrison. “I know women better than you do, if you have such notions of them. Their bark is worse than their bite. There’d doubtless be a great tearing of hair, any amount of screeching, vows to starve herself to death, to stab herself, to kill you, perhaps even to turn informer; but she’ll be at last, as they always are in Ireland, as gentle as a lamb, and would crawl to your knees, if necessary, to beg you to make an honest woman of her by marrying—”

He was not allowed to finish the sentence. There was still enough that was good left in Aylesford, or, if not this, love had temporarily bestowed it on him, to make his blood boil at the cool deliberation with which this hardened villain spoke. He sprang from his chair, half drew his sword, and exclaimed—

“Are you man or devil? Another word like that, and I’ll run you through. Miss Aylesford,” he added, haughtily, “is not to be spoken of, sirrah, in this diabolical way.”

Arrison, on seeing him rise, had sprang also to his feet, knocking down the chair behind him and retreating a few paces, while at the same time he whipped out a knife, whose blade gleamed as he held it ready to strike. For awhile, the two men stood regarding each other, without a word being uttered. At last the outlaw spoke—

“Put back your sword, Mr. Aylesford, and I’ll sheathe my knife. You really are not yourself any longer. I don’t know how to talk to you. Every word seems to anger you to-day. We’ve often spoke of women—well, well,” he continued, observing Aylesford’s quick frown, “enough of that. I only seek your good. I’ll say nothing more about the lady, except to tell you my original plan, and to swear by all that’s good, that I never thought to insult you or her.”

Had Aylesford been less accustomed to his present associate, or even perhaps had he been less eager to secure Arrison’s co-operation, he would have broken off the interview. But he allowed himself again to be soothed, and, replacing his sword, took his seat.

“I have said,” resumed Arrison, “that it won’t do for you to rescue Miss Aylesford at once: for then you’ll have no excuse for not taking her back to Sweetwater. I’ll put her in a boat and carry her down the river, making her believe my intention is to throw pursuit off our trail. In this way I’ll conduct her to the vicinity of the Neck, if not past it; the exact point will depend on yourself. You’ll of course be on the watch. Having gone ahead, you’ll know where to look for me, for you’ll have found out how far his Majesty’s pickets extend; and you’ll naturally wish to attack me before I get within the lines, as otherwise the lady might see that I was really taking her to the British, instead of to the woods, and was your confederate.”

Aylesford nodded approvingly, as Arrison paused for an opinion, on which the latter proceeded.

“It will be easy for you to get together a half dozen stout fellows, followers of the royal forces, with which you’ll put yourself in communication at once. I’ll time my arrival so as to reach your neighborhood about dusk. You’ll know my boat by seeing me in the stern sheets. You must shoot out from under the bank of the meadow, where you’ve been hid, and, with a cheer, dash right on us. We’ll have our cue, and pretend to be taken by surprise. You’ll board us, after a few guns are fired, which we’ll take care, on both sides, shall be without shot. To seize your cousin, transfer her to your boat, and sweep away as fast as the tide and four oars can take you, needn’t be but the work of a moment. Some of us will, meantime, have leaped overboard, the better to carry out the farce; for we can easily swim back to our boat, or make the shore, where our comrades will pick us up. By this little bit of stratagem,” he continued, with a hearty laugh at his own cunning, “you’ll get the credit of having saved your cousin from blood-thirsty villains; and if that don’t trump this Major Gordon’s claims, call me a fool. Curse me,” he added, as he filled his glass, and laughed till the tears ran out of his eyes, “I ought to have been a writer of plays, as I might have been, I suppose, if I’d stayed in Dublin; I think I can fix off a plot as well as old Shakespeare himself.”

“It’s certainly a capital plan,” answered Aylesford, even his disgust now gone, so certain seemed the result. “If it succeeds, I’ll make you a gentleman for life.”

“Succeed? It must succeed. Come, cheer up, sir. Faint heart never won fair lady. Gad, I’m bound to have it succeed, if only to make me a gentleman again; a thing I was born for, but missed by my cursed stupidity.”

“You’ve often hinted at that,” said Aylesford, “and it’s easy to see you’ve had a good education. How did you ever come to seek your fortune as an ostler in the colonies?”

“Some other time, maybe, I’ll tell you,” answered Arrison, his gayety giving way to gloom. “It’s enough for to-day, that I became an ostler because I knew more about horses than anything else.”

And gleams of dignity broke through even his imbruted face, and exhibited themselves in his manner as he spoke.

“Of course,” resumed Aylesford, in an ironical tone, “I’ll find it impossible to carry Kate anywhere else than down the river, right into the heart of the British squadron, where the royal commander, also of course, will retain us. My cousin, as an heiress, will be too valuable a prize to be parted with, and her desire to return, if she urges it, will be civilly, but resolutely resisted by his Majesty’s officer. Besides, we will tell her that it would be madness, after her narrow escape, for her to go back to so disturbed a region, and one also which is about to become the theatre of incessant skirmishes. It’s a capital plan, most capital,” said Aylesford, gleefully. “You have a genius for scheming, Arrison. I’ll do my part, and engage that, to-morrow, Kate shall ride out alone. Let me see. She’ll take the road through the cedar-swamp, towards Herman’s. I think I can manage that. You know the way, don’t you. Be there early. If, by any accident, she fails you to-morrow, then be there every day till she passes.”

“I’ll wait near the spring,” said Arrison, rising, as he perceived Aylesford prepare to go. “In going down the bank of the river, I’ll take the other side. You’ll be ready below, will you?”

“Yes,” answered Aylesford, as he proceeded to mount his horse. “But it’s nearly noon, and I must be at Sweetwater by dinner-time.”

With these words, he put spurs to his horse and disappeared in the forest.

Thus do all traitors;
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself. —Shakespeare.

Thou art a traitor and a miscreant;
Too good to be so, and too bad to live. —Shakespeare.

Circumstances favored the wishes of Aylesford even more than he had dared to hope, for that evening, at the teatable, Kate announced her intention of riding over, on the following morning, to Uncle Lawrence’s. She had heard of the destruction of Widow Bates’ dwelling, and understanding that the houseless family was sheltered at Mr. Herman’s for the present, desired to ascertain in what way she could best assist them.

Aylesford had been watching for an opportunity, the whole afternoon, to fulfill his promise to the outlaw; but none had offered. He, therefore, heard this announcement with pleasure. But, in order to prevent suspicion from afterwards resting on himself, he ventured to suggest that it was scarcely safe for Kate to venture out.

“Surely,” were his words, as he looked at Mrs. Warren rather than at his cousin, “if the refugees are so daring as to burn houses on Sunday, they will not be afraid to rob, and perhaps insult, a defenceless lady on Tuesday.”

“Suppose you go with me, Charles,” said Kate looking up.

To understand this frank offer, it is necessary to recall the fact that, as but one person, beside the actors, had witnessed the rencontre between Aylesford and Major Gordon, and as Uncle Lawrence had wisely kept his own counsel, Kate was ignorant of the affair. She naturally concluded, therefore, that her cousin’s threat had been an idle one. In his calmer moments he had, she reasoned, repented of his angry violence. She accordingly resolved to exhibit, by a conciliatory manner, her appreciation of this conduct.

Aylesford, for a moment, was embarrassed, but less by the offer than by the tone in which it was made. He attributed it, however, to its true cause. “She would be very far from being so affable,” he moodily thought, “if she knew all.”

“I am sorry,” he said, “that I cannot accompany you,” addressing his cousin. “But I leave, as early as possible, for the mouth of the river.” And as he spoke, he looked around to see that none of the servants were within hearing.

“For the mouth of the river,” exclaimed Mrs. Warren and Kate in the same breath. “Deary me, what now’s the matter?” added the aunt.

Aylesford made no direct reply, but began whistling the Jacobite air, “Over the water to Charlie.”

“What does he mean?” said Mrs. Warren, looking in alarm at Kate.

“I suppose he is going to join his Majesty’s troops,” answered our heroine. “But surely,” she added, addressing her cousin, “you choose a roundabout path.”

It must be confessed that Kate’s heart beat high even at the suspicion that Aylesford was going within the royal lines; for in that case he had concluded, she reasoned, to abandon his pretensions to her hand. She waited, therefore, for his reply with deep interest.

“What if his most gracious Majesty’s forces,” said her cousin, speaking low, and again glancing cautiously around, “were coming half way to meet me? What if there was a royal expedition at this moment lying in the bay below?”

“I hope not,” answered Kate, turning pale. “I sincerely hope not.”

“And why not?” asked Aylesford. “Is my fair cousin so much of a rebel to her king as to wish for the defeat of his Majesty’s cause.”

“Deary me!” said Mrs. Warren, lifting her hands, “Kate a rebel. How can it be? Who told you so?” she added, confusedly, looking from one to the other. “It isn’t so, Kate, is it?”

“I never said it was,” answered our heroine composedly. “I merely expressed regret at the possible arrival of a royal expedition against the bay, because it would lead to bloodshed, and bring the horrors of war almost to our very doors, and lo! Charles,” she added, with something of haughty contempt, “cries out that I am a rebel.”

“I knew Kate wasn’t a rebel,” said Mrs. Warren, looking appealingly to Aylesford. “You don’t really mean to say she is one, nephew? You were only jesting?”

“I cry Kate’s pardon,” answered Aylesford, whose object was not to irritate, and who had now hastened to repair his error. “As you say, aunt, I was only jesting. But, in serious earnest, a royal expedition has probably anchored in the bay by this time; and, as I am tired of an aimless life,” he glanced meaningly at Kate as he spoke, “I intend seizing the opportunity to offer my sword to his Majesty.”

“Oh! my dear boy, don’t think of it,” cried his aunt in alarm. “You’ll be killed, I know you will; and then what will become of us.”

“Never fear for me, aunt,” replied Aylesford. “I am no more unfortunate than others, at least in war,” he added, significantly looking at Kate. “The chances are ten to one that I’ll escape even a wound. And then, you know, I’ll naturally rise in the service; all officers who serve faithfully do; so that, by the time these revolted colonies are subdued, I’ll probably be a Colonel. Let us hope, some day, to attend a levee of his Majesty, I accompanying you in the uniform of that rank. Besides, aunt, I’m but doing my duty. No Aylesford should refuse to draw sword for his king. I’ve no doubt Cousin Danville has often wondered why I did not serve.”

This last allusion, adroitly introduced, calmed the good lady’s fears, and reconciled her to the scheme more than anything which had gone before. She still, however, looked undecided.

“What do you think of it, Kate?” she said, in perplexity. “It does look odd, doesn’t it, that none of our family are in arms for the King?”

Kate, during the time Aylesford was speaking, had been carefully counting the grounds in her tea-cup. She was persuaded that this sudden scheme of her cousin’s had its origin entirely in her refusal. She could not but feel a pang at being the cause of his exile, yet her reason told her that it was the best for both him and her; and therefore, on being thus appealed to, she looked up and said—

“If Charles thinks he ought to go, under all the circumstances,” and she emphasized these last words, “it is not for us to thwart him. There is certainly both honor and wealth to be had in the service of King George; while here there is nothing at all to engage a man of spirit. And if any Aylesford joins the royal standard,” she added, laughingly, striving, for her aunt’s sake, to give a gayer tone to the conversation, “it must be Charles, unless you choose, aunt, to enlist, a la Joan of Arc, or I go a soldiering, like a vivandiere in the French army.”

“Well, you two children will have it your own way,” said Mrs. Warren, with a sigh. “All I hope is that we shall soon see you back again, Charles, with a royal army. Who knows but his Majesty may make you Governor of New Jersey, when the war’s over?” she added, abandoning herself to her favorite castle-building.

“Who knows?” answered Aylesford.

“But Kate said nothing. She was again studying the contents of her cup. After awhile she looked up.

“You really go to-morrow, Charles?” she said.

“Really and positively. I shall only wait to see you in the saddle, that is if you still persist in your determination.”

“I see no reason,” answered Kate, frankly, “why I should not. The very fact that a royal expedition is down the river will make it all the safer here; for the refugees will flock there like vultures to a feast. They are but carrion warriors at best,” she added, contemptuously, “and only devour generally the prey that stronger and braver ones have pulled down.”

Aylesford thought that he had remonstrated enough for his purpose, so he said no more, not wishing to hazard Kate’s undertaking, by arousing his aunt’s fears.

“I will attend you as far as the church,” he said; “for my way will lie down that side of the river.” He deemed it best to do this, in order to be sure, before he finally left Sweetwater, that Kate would fall into the ambush prepared for her. “But,” he added, lowering his voice and looking across to Kate, as his aunt turned for a moment, “a word from you will change all my plans.”

“It cannot be, Charles,” answered Kate, in the same low tone. But her eyes thanked him for his forbearance.

Aylesford was not so degraded but that he felt a pang of shame. It was not too late, he reflected for a moment, to retreat. But the thought passed as instantaneously as it came. Before he could reply, Mrs. Warren again turned and spoke; and directly afterwards they all rose from the table.

“Why here is Aunt Chloe!” cried Kate, approaching the window. “She has come to see you, cousin; for it was but the other day she was asking when you would come home.” And she ran out into the porch.

“How is yer, honey?” said the old nurse. “’Pears to me yer gets more beautiful ebbery day, ‘deed yer does.” Kate blushed, as she answered—

“Ah, aunty, you know how to flatter. But you’ve heard, I suppose, that Cousin Charles has returned. And here he comes.”

“Glad to see yer, Marse Charles,” was the old creature’s greeting. “It does yer old mammy’s eyes good, ‘deed it does. I heerd yesterday dat yer was come; but dis ole rheumatiz kept me at home. Dey do say dat dar is sometin’ dey sell at de Forks dat’ll cure it, sartin sure. Yer hasn’t got a dollar, Marse Charles, or haf a crown, has yer, for poor ole aunty?”

Aylesford laughingly handed her the gratuity. After a few kind words from Kate, Aunt Chloe kept on to the kitchen, where, seated in the high-backed settle, within the ample fire-place, and with her short clay-pipe in her mouth, she prepared to have a gossip with the magnates of that apartment, about the fire in the woods, the new preacher, the return of Aylesford, and other current topics of interest.

Did you ever see the devil,
With his iron-wooden shovel,
A scratching up the gravel.
With his night-cap on?
* * * *
Did you ever, ever, ever,
Ever, ever, ever, ever,
Ever, ever, ever, ever,
Catch a whale by the tail! —Comic Song.

The indigenous negro, as he used to exist in New Jersey, has long since disappeared before the inundation of new comers of the same race. Aunt Chloe, and her kitchen friends, belonged to the good old stock, however, such as our elder readers may remember to have met with in their youth. They had all, at one time, been slaves in the family, and, though now free, still regarded the Aylesfords as belonging to them, in a sense at least. Hence they freely canvassed the conduct of all, from Mrs. Warren down; and on this occasion, we may be sure, their criticisms were not withheld.

In this conversation Aunt Chloe maintained the principal part. Her auditors were the cook, a good-looking mulatto about forty years old, whose stout and comely person bespoke the excellent living at Sweetwater. A Madras handkerchief, tastefully wrapped about her head, and a new dress, gave Dinah quite an imposing air this evening. Her husband, who was at once overseer, gardener, and head ostler, a Guinea coast African, as black as midnight, sat in front of the fire; while her son, Pomp, a lad of eighteen, who officiated as stable boy, squatted on the floor in the background. Two other servants hovered in the distance, eager listeners, but not daring to join in the conversation with their superiors, especially with Aunt Chloe.

After the fire had been discussed, the return of Aylesford was brought up, and its effect on Major Gordon duly canvassed. Servants are more observant than is always thought, and the kitchen at Sweetwater had discovered the condition of our hero’s affections long before the parlor, or even himself, had suspected it. Aunt Chloe, in spite of having known Aylesford when an infant, leaned to the side of the Major, chiefly, it must be confessed, in consequence of the douceur the latter had bestowed upon her. For a similar reason, Pomp, who as stable-boy, had often received small gratuities, secretly favored the same cause. But, on the other hand, Dinah, as well as her husband, neither of whom had been in the way to be favored by our hero, were warm advocates of Aylesford.

For a time the discussion waxed quite animated, but finally it died away, and the new minister came up for scrutiny in turn. On this subject Aunt Chloe spoke authoritatively, laying down the law to her gaping listeners. It is well known that illiterate negroes are somewhat peculiar in their religious notions. The imagination has a powerful influence over them, and they are exceedingly susceptible to nervous excitements, as any one, who has ever been at a camp-meeting, must have observed. Frequently, indeed, they seem to actually realize mere dreams. Hence it is a common thing to hear them tell, with the greatest gravity, stories of personal interviews with the Arch Enemy. Sometimes, however, these are not delusions, but deliberate romances, invented to increase the importance of the narrator.

“It did dis chile good,” said Aunt Chloe, “to hear dat preacher dis morning. I bless my hebbenly master dat dar are left some who speak de plain trufe. It ‘most made me feel as I did when I fast got religion. Ah! dat was a happy time. It was long ago, Pomp, before you was born, at a woods meeting over by Waldo. ‘Peared as if I was light as a bird, and could fly right up to hebben. I nebber saw de stars shine as dey did dat night, when I walked home; and nebber ‘spect to till I get over Jordan, and into de New Jerusalem—dat is if de ole debbil, dat roarin’ lion, who goes about seekin’ whom he may devour, don’t git dis chile yet.”

Pomp, at this mention of the ubiquitous character of the enemy, mindful, perhaps, of some late improper acts, looked fearfully over his shoulder, as if expecting to see him lurking in the dark shadows at the further end of the kitchen; for it was now after sunset, and the only light in the room was that of the smouldering fire.

“Ah! dat debbil,” groaned Pomp’s sire, rolling up the whites of his eyes. “We must watch and pray, Aunt Chloe, or he’ll git de best of us in spite of all. He ‘most had dis chile once. He was near to me, ‘deed he was, as Pomp dis minnit.”

Pomp started as if he had been shot, and began to edge away from his parent, at this renewed assault upon his nerves.

“You don’t say dat?” cried Aunt Chloe, lifting up both hands. “You’re makin’ fun.”

“’Deed I isn’t, aunty. I seed de debbil, dat ole dragon, only dis last spring, sure sartin.”

“How?” and Aunt Chloe, stuffing more tobacco into her pipe, began to smoke anew, looking the speaker eagerly in the face.

“I was out in de cornfield, one day, hoein’,” said he, “when, stoppin’ to rest a minnit, and looking up, I saw dat of a sudden de woods at de odder end had clean gone away, and de field had stretched hisself away out,” and he extended his arm as he spoke, with the palm of the hand inclined downwards, “just so, slopin’ like, as de roof of a barn does, yer know, only it went slopin’ down, down, till it cum to de end of de world. But it didn’t ‘pear to be de end of de world eider. For over again de field dar was a hill, which sloped up ‘most as high on de odder side,” all this time going through an active pantomine, “and between de two, and kind o’ under de one I was on, was de bottomless pit, ‘deed dere was, wid de brimstone flames and smoke a-shootin’ up, ebbery now and den, like fire out of de stack of Waldo furnace. And standin’ dar between de two hills,” continued the narrator, leaning forward, “and right ober dis pit, I saw de debbil hisself, ‘deed I did, aunty. He had great horns on his head, and eyes like red-hot iron, and held a big pitchfork in his hand, and ‘peared to be a watchin’ me, as near as I could tell, for you see de smoke kept rollin’ up and hidin’ him ‘bout half de time. ‘Oh! Lor’ Amighty!’ I said, ‘dis chile done for now; de debbil will hab him, and no mistake.’ Wid dat, of a sudden, my knees guv way, I fell, and as I fell I begun a slidin’ down de hill. De debbil he saw me a-comin’, and made a grab at me wid his pitchfork; but he couldn’t reach me yet. I tried to cotch hold of somethin’ to stop me, but de field ‘peared to be nuffin but loose sand, widout a cornstalk left, or a blackberry bush, or even a root. De debbil he now made anoder grab at me, but he wasn’t near enough yet. By dis time de sand of de field began to slide, like shelled corn pourin’ out of a half-bushel, slippin’, slippin’, and de debbil reachin’, reachin’, to get my poor ole soul. By’m bye, I saw dat de next time he would fotch me sure. I was away down, yer see, just at de bottom of de hill, and could hear de roarin’ of de flames, and Dives a lookin’ up and cryin’ for a drop of water. De debbil he kind of braced hisself, seein’ me so close, and lifted his pitchfork to hab it ready; and I went slidin’, slidin’, and de hill wid me, faster dan a streak of lightnin’, right down—”

“Datll do,” cried Aunt Chloe, rising authoritatively. “Lord a massy, how you can lie, ole nig.” And as she spoke, the expression of her countenance, which had been one of incredulity almost from the first, settled into disgust.

“I’ll not stay,” she continued, “to hear sich tales. I wonder you ain’t ashamed, and before Pomp too.”

The abashed romancer could not utter a word. Dinah in vain interposed to persuade Aunt Chloe to remain. At last the offender, eager to purchase his peace, said that, if Aunt Chloe must go, at least she must permit Pomp to accompany her home. “Dar was nuffin so ungenteel,” he said, “dan fur company, ‘specially ladies, to be ‘lowed to go home alone.”

Pomp, whose ever active fears had been unpleasantly excited already, would fain have declined, but did not dare; and Aunt Chloe, somewhat mollified by this civility, set off with her attendant. The distance was about a mile, which was soon passed, too soon for Pomp, indeed, who, all the time, had been dreading the lonely walk back.

There was no help for it, however, and so, after leaving Aunt Chloe at her gate, the lad, whistling to keep his courage up, set his face homewards. As long as he remained within sight of the cabin, he managed to keep down his fears; but when he had fairly plunged into the forest, his teeth began to chatter, his knees to shake, and his heart to palpitate. The night was starless, as well as moonless, so that, even in the open country, it was quite dark, while in the narrow wood road the gloom seemed almost palpable. Pomp could not see a dozen feet ahead. He began to recall, not only the story his father had related, and which he firmly believed in spite of Aunt Chloe’s skepticism, but all the supernatural narratives he had listened to during his whole lifetime. Tales of the Arch Enemy, assuming the shape of a wild beast, and pouncing on lonely travellers from some dark covert; tales of the dead coming forth; tales of whole legions of devils carrying off benighted wayfarers; these, which he had often heard beside the kitchen fire, recurred to him now, till his hair stood on end, and he started at every sound.

His road lead near the grave-yard, and as he approached it, his terror redoubled.

All at once, and when at the very darkest part of the road, what seemed a groan made him come to a halt. He immediately rallied, however, and tried to persuade himself that it was only the wind in the tree-tops, which had again momentarily startled him. But as he listened, it came once more, an awful, unearthly sound, that chilled his very marrow. His limbs now refused to support him, and he sank nerveless and shaking to the ground. But when a moment had elapsed, and the sound was not repeated, he began to gather a little courage, thinking that, perhaps, it was only the distant hooting of an owl. Reassured somewhat, by this idea, he rose feebly to his feet. But he had not advanced a step before the sound was heard again, and indisputably close at hand, so close indeed, that he seemed to feel the hot breath from the invisible presence that uttered it. He fell at once flat on his face, half dead with horror, and expecting the next instant to be clutched and borne off.

He was almost too frightened to pray, a duty in which, he now remembered, he had lately been remiss: but he managed, with rattling teeth, and nearly paralyzed jaws, to articulate at last.

“Oh! Marse Lord,” he cried, “don’t let de debbil git dis poor chile, not dis time anyhow. ‘Twasn’t Pomp, dat was in de watermelon patch dis mornin’, when he ought to have been at meetin’. Dar’s some mistake, deed dar is. It’s Sam Jonsing dat you want, Marse Debbil. Tink what my ole mammy will do if you—”

But he never finished his adjuration, for at this crisis two glowing eyes emerged out of the darkness, and stood staring over him, two enormous horns followed, a bellow was heard that seemed to shake the woods for miles, and Pomp felt himself lifted bodily from the sand. It was more than nature could endure. He fainted outright.

When he came to himself, he was lying at the side of the road, stiff with bruises. At first he could not believe that he was still alive. But gradually, though not till after he had pinched himself frequently, he became assured that he was yet in mortal guise; and that his unearthly enemy had disappeared. He now feebly struggled to his feet, and began to feel his limbs; but none were broken, though he found his breeches torn nearly off. Gathering courage, by degrees, he crept away, moving fearfully and cautiously, however, till he had fairly emerged from the woods and passed the grave-yard, when he broke into a run and fled homewards as fast as his limbs would carry him.

Here, to a gaping audience, he recounted breathlessly his narrow escape.

“You darn fool,” said his sire, when Pomp had finished his narration, incredulous of others, because conscious of his own habit of romancing, “do you tink your ole farder’ll believe dat pack of lies? You neber saw anything, but made it all up.”

“De chile didn’t,” said Dinah. “Dar! What you say to dis?”

She exposed to view, as she spoke, the damaged seat of Pomp’s breeches, which afforded unmistakable proof of his having come into contact with an enemy of some kind, even if not a supernatural one. But the sire was still incredulous.

“He’s gone done tore it a purpose,” was all the stubborn skeptic said.

But the next day he professed to solve the enigma. He came in from the barn, where he had been giving Arab an early feed, and, laughing, said—

“De black bull was loose all night, and went way up de road, past de meetin’-house, ‘zactly whar dis darn fool of a Pomp says he met de debbil. It’s lucky his breeches tore, or de critter might have killed him, deed he might. I told you de chile was lyin’. Lor’ Amighty, to get skeered dat way, at nuffin at all!” and he laughed till the tears ran out of his eyes.

But Dinah as well as her son persisted in their original version of the story, and thereafter two distinct accounts of interviews with the Arch Enemy were told in the kitchen at Sweetwater, neither party, however, believing a word that the other said.

And many an old man’s sigh, and many a widow’s,
And many an orphan’s water-standing eye—
Men for their sons’, wives for their husbands’ fate,
And orphans for their parents’ timeless death—
Shall rue the hour that ever thou wert born. —Shakespeare.

Infamous wretch!
So much beneath my scorn. —Dryden.

Kate came down to breakfast in her riding habit, and when the meal was concluded, mounted almost gayly; while Mrs. Warren, nearly weeping, awaited the departure of her and Aylesford.

She watched the equestrians till they reached the bend of the pond, when Aylesford, with a low bow and a wave of the hand, parted from Kate; and immediately after both were lost to sight in the forest, he keeping on over the bridge, and she turning to the left.

Kate rode on, with a light heart, talking to Arab, in the exuberance of her feelings, as if he had been a human friend, patting him caressingly, with her right hand, as she spoke. The intelligent beast pricked up his ears, and looked around as if he actually understood her words.

“Let us have a gallop,” she said. “Here is the road where you beat Selim. You remember it—don’t you, old fellow?”

She gave her horse his head, at these words, striking him smartly, and away they went at full gallop.

Her fate hung, at that crisis, on a single thread. If Arab had maintained, for a quarter of an hour, the pace at which he was going, Kate would have passed the ambush prepared for her, at a speed which would have prevented her detection. Could but a warning voice have whispered to her the peril, could but one of those strange presentiments have come which often occur, she would have escaped the danger. But, suspecting no peril, she drew in her horse, as she approached the spring, where the road became rougher, and reduced his pace to a walk.

“Well done,” she said, leaning over him and patting him again, “good Arab.”

Suddenly she felt her bridle seized, and instantaneously the road was filled with strange faces, to the number of at least half a dozen. They were all alike coarse and ruffian-looking. The person who had seized her bridle was the only one who struck Kate as not unfamiliar; but his countenance was artificially blackened; and she could not, therefore, discover when or where she had seen him.

At first she had uttered a slight scream. But this had been occasioned rather by the startling suddenness of the attack, than by the assault itself. In an instant she had recovered her self-possession, when her first act was to strike her spur violently into Arab, and simultaneously to give him his rein, in hopes to shake off the grasp of the stranger.

But the ruffian’s hold was too firm to be loosened. Arab sprung forward like an arrow, with a snort of rage and terror, lifting the villain almost from his feet and dragging him several paces forward. But it was in vain. The gripe now fixed on the bridle was one evidently accustomed to such work, and though the horse plunged, reared, sprang aside, and resorted to other means to get rid of his mistress’ assailant, the effort was to no purpose.

“So ho, so ho,” said the man, in a deep, gruff voice of authority. “Won’t you be still, sir?” Gradually the restive animal subsided into quiet, and stood trembling all over, the sweat oozing out from every pore, till his satin-like coat glistened like glass.

Meantime his mistress, who had continued spurring him till she saw it was useless, sat in her seat as if she had been part of the animal, till even the coarse ruffians about her audibly cried out at her skill. “It’s no use, miss,” said the voice of the disguised leader. “I’ve held worse colts than this, and when once I get my grip on a horse, he’s bound to stand till I let him go.”

The man’s voice, she thought, was one she had often heard. His evident familiarity with horses was another proof of his identity. She looked again at the burly figure, and at once remembered who he was. “James Arrison!” she said, in surprise.

The ruffian made no distinct reply, but muttered an oath between his teeth.

“What do you mean by this rudeness?” she said, with a dignity amounting to sternness. “Let go my bridle, sir.”

The villain had now, however, recovered from his momentary discomposure at the detection of his disguise. He looked boldly up, and said ironically—

“Not if you please, miss. We haven’t come so far or waited so long, to give up our booty in this fashion.”

Kate’s heart, stout as it was, sunk within her. Though she had heard nothing of Arrison’s proceedings since his return to the vicinity of Sweetwater, and did not therefore identify him with the burning of widow Bates’ house, yet she knew enough of his former deeds to satisfy herself that she had fallen into the hands of refugees. The utter disregard of law, both human and divine, exhibited by these outlaws, was well known to her. She was aware that they valued even human life lightly, when it stood in the way of their plans. It was but a few months ago, if report spoke correctly, that a gang of them had attacked a lone farmhouse at midnight, in a neighboring county, murdered the owner and his wife, and sought even the blood of the innocent daughter, who, however, luckily escaped to a neighboring wood. It was within a period, scarcely less remote, that a band, fifty or sixty strong, had assailed the dwelling of Major Huddy, at what is now Colt’s Neck, and carried off the proprietor as their prisoner, after a protracted defence, which was only terminated by the outlaws setting fire to the house. It was less than a twelvemonth since an armed launch, managed by twenty similar ruffians, had cruized off the mouth of a neighboring river, and even ravaged its shores. Innumerable were the tales authenticated of the ruffianly character of these desperadoes. Old age had been assassinated by them in cold blood; and women, it was said, had been not unfrequently violated. Their brutal ferocity had passed into a proverb. At the name of refugee the very children turned pale, and crept closer to their mother’s side. Yet into the hands of a gang of these ruffians Kate saw that she had fallen, and fallen moreover in consequence of a premeditated ambush.

Most persons of her sex would have lost all presence of mind, at realizing her situation. But Kate’s courageous heart rose with the occasion. Others of her sex also, even if they had retained their presence of mind, would have resorted to tears and supplications. She, however, saw that these would be wasted on the hardened ruffians into whose hands she had fallen. She resolved, accordingly, to appeal to their self-interest, supposing that ransom was their real purpose.

She turned to the refugees, saying—

“Name your price, and, if it is within our means, it shall be paid when and where you please. You all know who I am, I presume. The word of an Aylesford is as good as a bond.”

The men looked at each other, and then at their leader but none of them answered, evidently leaving it to him to be their spokesman.

“And how much do you think you could raise at Sweetwater?” asked Arrison, sneeringly. “If we had known it was such a bank of England, that it could pay down golden guineas for your ransom, maybe we’d have sacked it first, and then carried you off afterwards. Now how much will your ladyship give?”

The tone in which he spoke, coupled with his enigmatical words, gave Kate her first suspicion that the ruffians’ motive was not wholly mercenary in waylaying her. Her cheek, in spite of herself, was a shade paler, and her voice trembled as she replied—

“In heaven’s name, Arrison, state your terms, and let me go. We have but little gold on hand, as you ought to know, in these times; but we can get it; and I pledge you my honor, the honor of my father’s daughter, that your price shall be paid.”

“Without treachery?”

“Without treachery.”

“If I name a day and place, will you send a trusty servant with the gold, and let no one know of it?”

“I will.”

“Will you swear it?”

“I will swear it.”

The particularity with which he proceeded gave Kate hope, which was increased by his next words.

“Will a hundred guineas be too much?”

“I will promise you a hundred guineas,” she said promptly. “It is a large sum, a very large sum, for these times, and you must give me leisure to procure it.” She would have added, “The more as my cousin, Mr. Aylesford, is absent.” But, remembering that this betrayal of her defenceless condition might stimulate the cupidity of the refugees, she corrected herself, and said— “It will require at least a fortnight.”

Anxiously, as she spoke, she studied the faces of her hearers, especially that of their leader, to notice the effect of her words. The affected interest with which Arrison had conducted the conversation, now suddenly gave place to a look of sardonic triumph, which betrayed to Kate that he had been amusing himself at her expense, as the tiger is said to play with his victim before he laps his blood.

“It won’t do, my pretty miss,” said the villain. “I’m too old a bird to be caught with such chaff. Your promises wouldn’t be worth a farthing, when once you were out of my sight. No, no, my cunning she-fox, you’re not so smart as you think you are. I have a plan of my own which you shall know in good time, by which I expect to make a better thing than a hundred guineas out of you. But, for the present, we will listen to no talk of ransom. You go with us, and if you can make up your mind to go quietly, it will be to your interest. But if not, we’ll find a way to make you.”

Kate trembled secretly at the dark hints of the ruffian. Oh! how she longed, at that moment, for the sight of even her cousin. The thought of Major Gordon also, and his stout arm, and of Uncle Lawrence and his brave spirit, rushed across her; and she glanced eagerly up and down the road, in the wild hope of beholding one or both.

“Come,” said her captor, brutally, “make up your mind quick. You needn’t count on help, for we’re strong enough for twice as many as would be likely to pass by; and now that we’ve got you we mean to keep you, even if we have to slit the throats of a dozen rebel officers or canting old scoundrels.” And as Kate’s countenance betrayed that he had divined her thoughts correctly, he continued— “You see I know what you’re hoping for; but they’ll not come, if you wait till to-morrow; since they’ve both gone down the river to fight King George, like two fools, leaving the coast clear for us.” And he laughed again mockingly.

With this announcement, that the only persons to whom she could have looked for aid were absent, her last hope departed. She now recognized fully to what a deliberate and carefully-executed plan she had fallen a victim. As Arrison had intended, she believed herself to be a prey to a lawless gang, who, as they seemed to be above the temptation of lucre, must have designs upon her at which she shuddered even to glance.

But she saw that not only expostulations but even promises were useless, and from this moment, therefore, she was haughtily silent. She resolved that, at present, she would make no further efforts at resistance, since they would only be fruitless; but that, yielding to necessity, she would accompany her captors; determining to reserve all her strength for a crisis, which she now deemed not improbable, when death might probably be her only resource from dishonor.

“If you don’t try to escape,” said Arrison, seeing she did not speak, “we’ll not disturb you, except to lead your horse; and in that case you may ride. But if you give us trouble, we’ll make you dismount and walk; and if you refuse to do this, I’ll blow your brains out.”

The ruffian; as he spoke, drew a pistol from his breast, while he laid his hand emphatically upon her arm. Kate knew that he would keep his promise, both from his past reputation and his present determined look.

“Don’t touch me, sir,” she said, sternly, shrinking back by an impulse she was unable to control, “I will go quietly, since go I must.”

The man answered by a brutal laugh, but removed his hand and put up his pistol. Turning to two of his gang, whom he called by name, he directed them to take Arab by the bridle, close to the bit, one on either side, and so lead the animal.

“And now, miss,” he said, “we’ll be off; for we must put many good miles of land and water between us and Sweetwater before night; because, in matters of this kind,” and he sneered in his cold-blooded way again, “it’s just as well, you know, to clinch the nail. There’s nothing like making even a sure thing surer.”

Without further word the party set forth, in something like military order. Two of the gang went a hundred yards in advance; then came the two who were leading Arab; and, a hundred yards behind, the remaining two brought up the rear. Arrison, at first, walked beside Kate, but as they progressed, he shifted his position frequently, now going ahead even of those in advance, and now dropping to the extreme rear, always on the watch against surprise. Occasionally he addressed our heroine, but as she adhered firmly to her purpose of not answering, and scarcely made an effort to conceal her scorn, he finally relapsed into silence.

Their way led through old and half-overgrown wood-roads, through most of which a vehicle would have found it impossible to pass. Familiar as Kate considered herself with the by-ways of this description in the neighborhood of Sweetwater, most of these they now followed were quite strange to her. She soon lost all knowledge of their whereabouts, in consequence.

Her suspicion that they were following the river towards its mouth became a certainty, as the day wore on, when they emerged suddenly on the banks of a deep, and comparatively wide stream, the shores of which she recognized immediately. A boat lay concealed, under the shadow of overhanging trees and bushes, as if awaiting them.

“You’ll dismount here,” said Arrison, breaking silence for the first time for several hours. “Remember my threat, which, if you scream or resist,” he added, with an oath, and a meaning tap of his breast, “I’ll keep.”

Kate haughtily waved him away, as he approached to assist her, and leaping from the saddle, gathered up the skirts of her riding-dress and walked to the boat, whither his look had directed her.

But even in that perilous moment, when she knew not but that the crisis, which she had feared all day, was close at hand, she could not part from Arab without a pang. As she took her seat in the boat, her eyes still followed her horse; and she was comforted to see that a lad, who appeared all at once, was hoisted into her saddle, as if to ride the animal to a place of safety.

Directly that Arab had disappeared, after turning his head sadly, and as if reproachfully, towards her, the refugees entered the boat, the men assumed the oars, and Arrison taking the rudder, in a moment more they pushed off.