Kate Aylesford: A Story of the Refugees

His hand did quake,
And tremble like a leaf of aspen green. —Spenser.

Still as he fled his eye was backward cast,
As if his fear still followed him behind,
As flew his steed as if his bands had brast,
And with his winged heels did tread the wind. —Spenser.

The adventure of Pomp with the black bull, or, as his mother persisted in declaring, “wid dat ole enemy Satan,” had no little influence on the events of this story, for it was partly in consequence that Kate received no succor sooner from either Sweetwater or the Forks.

Up to within an hour of dinner, Mrs. Warren felt no uneasiness at her niece’s absence, but when the time for that meal came, without the return of Kate, the good dame began to be seriously alarmed. Our heroine had not only said that she would not be gone for more than two hours, but had never before protracted her stay to dinner time.

Another circumstance contributed to the fears of Mrs. Warren. During the course of the morning the quiet of Sweetwater had been suddenly disturbed, by the appearance of a body of cavalry, which, emerging from the woods in the direction of Mr. Herman’s, had paused for awhile to water their horses at the head of the pond. Lying about under the trees, in a temporary bivouac, while their chargers cooled off, the dismounted horsemen had not, at the time, affected the good dame with any other feeling than that of admiration of their picturesque appearance. But when the trumpet had summoned them to the saddle; when they had wound slowly past the bridge, with their arms glittering in the sun; and when, two hours after, dinner was ready to be served, without Kate having returned, Mrs. Warren began, not only to be alarmed at her niece’s disappearance, but to connect that disappearance with the advent of the cavalry.

“Deary me,” she cried, wringing her hands, as she walked the parlor, “how could Charles leave us so unprotected. These rebel horsemen have carried off Kate, there isn’t a doubt of it.” For Mrs. Warren, with the prejudices of too many of her class, persisted in believing that the patriots were little better than highwaymen. “Oh! my poor niece! My poor niece!”

She burst into tears, and in this condition Pomp found her, when, some time later, he made his appearance to ask her whether dinner should be served immediately, or whether she would wait for Miss Aylesford.

“I couldn’t eat,” she answered. “Tell Dinah to keep the dinner waiting till my niece returns: that is, poor dear! if she ever returns. I’ve a presentiment she won’t, though. I felt so dreadful, when she went away this morning, that I know something terrible would happen.” And again she gave way to loud weeping.

Pomp, in consternation, summoned his mother, who, in turn, called in the assistance of the lady’s maid. Opportunely, at this crisis, Pomp’s other parent appeared, and he, as the only male present, proceeded to take the reins of authority into his own hands.

“Look a here, yer lazy, good-for-nuffin wagabond,” he cried, turning to Pomp and cuffing him soundly, “how dare yer stand dar a-gapin’, when yer know yer ought to be off a-lookin’ up young Missus? Yer’ll come to the gallous, some day, deed yer will.”

Pomp ran to a corner, defending his ears with his hands, and protesting, in a whining tone, that he did not know where to go.

“Yer lie, yer young scape-grace,” interrupted the irate parent. “Young Missus took der road to Uncle Lawrence’s, and dar yer’ll find her, if nuffin has happened. Go right off, not a word,” and he menacingly followed the unwillingly retreating messenger, adding, “go, or I’ll skin yer, deed I will. Maybe she’s at Aunt Chloe’s, or maybe her bridle’s broke. Take der colt, and ride for dear life,” he cried, elevating his voice louder and louder, as Pomp increased his distance.

Mrs. Warren, who had become quite hysterical, was gradually soothed by assurances that Kate had not met with any serious misadventure, and that the American cavalry, at least, had not interfered with her.

“I axed one ob de men,” said Dinah, “who was de handsum officer a ridin’ at de head; and he told me dat it was a grand furren count.”

“Do you remember his name?” said Mrs. Warren, eagerly, her face brightening. “A nobleman wouldn’t do any harm to a gentlewoman. You’re sure you’re not mistaken.”

“De blessed Lord knows I’se telling de truf,” answered Dinah. “I wouldn’t for de whole world lose my poor ole soul, by telling a lie.”

“You don’t recollect his name? Was it Pulaski? The Count Pulaski, I believe, commands a regiment of cavalry in the American army.”

“Dat’s de name. Count Poorlackey,” cried Dinah.

“Pulaski,” said Mrs. Warren, correcting her, and smiling through her tears.

“Well, Poorlackey or Puleskaski; it’s all one, I spose,” replied Dinah, with an air of offended dignity. But, relenting immediately, she added, “Now, Missus, ef yer’ll just eat a little bit of somethin’, say de wing of dat boiled chicken, dat’s a spoilin’ wid waitin,’ you’ll feel like anodder person; deed yer will.”

The eloquence of Dinah, who continued expatiating on this subject for some time, finally induced Mrs. Warren to consent to her wishes. Buoyed up with the persuasion that Pomp would soon return, bringing intelligence of Kate, she ate with appetite, and indeed forgot for a season her niece, in the delicacies before her.

Meantime, Pomp had saddled the colt and set forth, but with reluctant steps, for his thoughts reverted to his adventure of the preceding evening, and his teeth shook in anticipation, when he remembered that his road would lie directly past the spot where he had been set upon, as he conscientiously believed, by the Arch Enemy. As he approached the head of the pond, he drew the colt into a walk, and began to soliloquize thus with himself:

“Yer’s in a fix now, Pomp, ef ebber yer was. Ef yer go after young Missus, de debbil will cotch you sure; and ef yer don’t go, yer daddy’ll skin you.”

He had now reached the point where the two roads met, that to the right leading past the church and across the bridge, and that to the left conducting to Aunt Chloe’s and Mr. Herman’s. He came to a dead halt.

“Yer’ll be a darn fool, Pomp,” he soliloquized again, and his teeth began to chatter with the thought, “to run right into de jaws of de debbil, arter havin’ got off once. He’s a lyin’ dar, like a roarin’ lion, ready to jump out on yer.”

As he thus reflected, he slowly turned the colt’s head to the right.

“Pears to me,” he resumed, glancing affrightedly over his shoulder towards the haunted road, “dat poor young Missus has been a took off by dis ole Satan; and dat it wouldn’t do no good, sartin it wouldn’t, to go arter her. It would ony be givin’ yerself, Pomp, to de debbil, deed it would.”

The colt’s head was now turned even more to the bridge, and Pomp had actually permitted it to walk a few paces in its direction, when suddenly he checked the animal.

“Pomp,” he said, “what yer doin’? Yer’ll get skinned alive, sartin sure. Yer ole daddy never said he’d do it, dat he didn’t. Lor’ Almighty, how he licked yer, Pomp, dat last time; and de more yer cried ‘murder,’ the more he said he’d giv’ yer ‘somethin’ to cry murder fur,’ deed he did.” And Pomp rubbed sympathetically that portion of his person which had felt most keenly his sire’s wrath.

It would have moved even the most serious to mirth to have seen Pomp’s countenance, as he thus alternated in his fears. Twice he turned the colt’s head towards the fatal road, and twice altered his mind, the whimsical contortions of his face, all the time, exceeding anything that Hogarth ever painted. At last there arose, out of the heart of the forest on the left, one of those low, long wails, which, on a summer day, is often the precursor of a coming storm. Pomp’s already excited imagination needed only the smallest circumstance to decide him. The moan of the rising wind was to him irresistible proof of the presence of the Arch Enemy. He dug his heels into the flanks of the colt instinctively, and sped over the bridge, as yet with no fixed determination where to go, but only to escape as well from parental vengeance at Sweetwater, as from the supernatural foe: and as he galloped off, his eyes were dilated to the size of saucers, his dark visage positively paled, and his teeth chattered, as if they would drop out of his jaws.

When Mrs. Warren found that Pomp did not return, all her old fears came back. It was night before she and her attendants finally abandoned the hope of seeing him, and then it was too late to take further action. Besides, her servants were, by this time, nearly as incapacitated as herself. This was especially true of Dinah, who filled the house with her lamentations, declaring that Pomp had been carried off by Satan himself, “deed he had.”

All that night Mrs. Warren walked her room, wringing her hands and sobbing, and occasionally falling into fits of hysterics.

Be just, and fear not!
Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s,
Thy God’s and truth’s, then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell!
Thou fall’st a blessed martyr. —Shakespeare.

Seek not to know to-morrow’s doom,
That is not ours which is to come. —Congreve.

Though Major Gordon had been pinned to the earth by a bayonet, in the breach of the fortification, he was fortunately not killed. For a moment, indeed, he believed his last hour had come. He would, in fact, have perished, had it not been for Uncle Lawrence. When he saw all hope of victory gone, he dexterously threw himself down, across the prostrate body of our hero; by this stratagem, both covering his friend, and inducing the belief that he also was dead.

In the hurry and confusion of the melee it was not difficult to carry out this deception. The eager soldiery, fired with emulation of their comrades, hurried to be within the works as soon as possible, and consequently did not care to stop, in order to examine in whom of their fallen enemies life yet remained. It was enough for the victors that the way was now clear before them, and accordingly they rushed forward, pell-mell, with loud shouts, over the prostrate heap of wounded and slain.

In this way our hero escaped with only a bayonet thrust in his left arm, while Uncle Lawrence received only a few bruises, the result of being trodden upon. Others, however, of the brave band were less fortunate. Charley Newell lay stark and stiff, with a bullet through his heart, having fallen in the early part of the conflict; while Mullen was seriously injured by a wound in the side, from a bayonet. Three others also paid the forfeit of their lives for their gallant defence.

When the fight was over, and all danger of being murdered in hot blood had passed away, Uncle Lawrence rose, surrendered himself a prisoner, and besought for a surgeon to examine his friend’s wound. The rank of Major Gordon obtained for him immediate attention. His hurt was found, however, not to be dangerous, though it would incapacitate his arm for awhile.

“All the inconvenience you will be subject to,” said the doctor, “will be the having to carry your arm in a sling. Perhaps a little fever may set in, but we can soon reduce that: I will look you up, later in the day, and give you some medicine, if necessary.”

For the present the prisoners were placed in a barn, Major Gordon being accommodated, as an officer, with a place by himself. This was a small apartment, partly shut off from the rest of the building, in which meal had been kept. A few armsful of sweet, salt hay, thrown upon the floor, rendered the accommodations a palace comparatively, at least to one who had experienced the hardships of Valley Forge. Uncle Lawrence was permitted to remain with our hero at his own request.

Here, as evening closed in, the two friends sat, conversing in low tones. Major Gordon was regretting that Uncle Lawrence had not availed himself of a chance to retreat, instead of remaining to save the speaker’s life.

“I have no family,” said the Major, “no ties on earth whatever. I have lost this post. Life is comparatively of little value to me.”

“Don’t say that, Major,” interrupted the veteran. “It’s agin religion, if not agin natur. No man knows what the Lord may have in store for him. You’ll not be long a prisoner, maybe, and you’ve friends, and warm ones, where you least suspect, perhaps.”

“No, my good, kind Herman; I will not affect to misunderstand you; I know to whom you allude; but it is not so. Your partiality has misled you. That lovely creature, whom I shall never cease to reverence, through my whole life, is too far separated from me by fortune, social position, and difference of political opinion, for me ever to hope to be honored with her love. I talk to you as to a father, you see, frankly and unreservedly. She can never be mine. It was folly in me to think otherwise, even for a moment.”

“You are low-speerited, Major,” said the honest old patriarch. “You’re worn out, body and soul, just as I’ve been sometimes after hunting all day. The loss of this post sticks in you too, I see; though a braver fight was never made than you made, and so everybody, even the tories, will say. Cheer up! It’s always darker, you know, just afore the dawn.”

“Ah!” answered the Major, “it’s less for myself than for you I am cast down. For my sake you are a prisoner. And do you know,” he said, looking earnestly at his companion, “what that means?”

In the uncertain twilight of the place, the countenance of the speakers could still be faintly discerned; yet Major Gordon saw no perceptible change in the face of the old man, as the latter replied.

“It means a prison-ship, the fever, and maybe death,” he said, “but I am in the Lord’s hands, and his will be done. I’d do it over agin, Major, this minit,” he said, earnestly, “if I had the chance; for it was duty; and my notion is that a man’s got to do that, if wife, and children, and life too, all go for it.”

The veteran’s voice quivered at this thought of his family. But he resumed almost immediately, and in a firm voice.

“Howsomever, as I said afore, the Lord’s will be done. He took Daniel out of the lion’s den, and saved Shadrach, Meschid and Abednego in the fiery furnace; and if his ends are to be sarved by it, he’ll open my prison doors as he did those of Peter.”

“Alas! I don’t wish to say anything to shake your beautiful faith,” answered Major Gordon, “but the days of miracles are over. It’s because I see no way in which you are to be restored to your family, that I blame myself so; for I was—say what you will—the instrument of bringing you to this pass.”

Uncle Lawrence paused a moment, when he replied, in a voice slightly husky, but which he evidently tried to deprive of every evidence of emotion.

“If you please, Major, we’ll say no more about the wife and boys at home. It’s not the wisest plan, I take it, when a man’s never to see ‘em agin, perhaps, to aggervate it by telling him of ‘em.”

“Forgive me,” said the Major, deeply touched, and grasping his hand; feeling more poignantly than ever the evil he had unconsciously done.

“Well, we’ll say nothing about it,” continued Uncle Lawrence, “but there’s nothing to forgive.”

There was a moment’s silence; and then the old man spoke again.

“You’re mistaken, though, Major,” he said, “in what you say of Miss Katie. She’s no more a tory than you and me.”

“Not a royalist!” exclaimed Major Gordon, surprised out of his depression. And he added, after a pause for reflection. “Indeed, you must be mistaken. What grounds have you for your opinion?”

“Did you ever hear her say she was for the King?”

The Major thought awhile. He could, to his surprise, recall no such circumstance.

“Never!” he said at last.

“Haven’t you heerd her say that she was a patriot?”

Again Major Gordon reflected.

“I have,” he said, “but only in jest.”

“Only in a joke, you mean, I suppose,” answered Uncle Lawrence. “And don’t you know Miss Katie well enough to know, that she says many a true thing in that gay, joking way of hers? Have you ever heerd her make fun of the poor fellers in General Washington’s army, the Lord bless him! as she makes fun of the red coats and their dandy officers?”

Major Gordon was compelled to acknowledge, greatly to his own astonishment, that he never had. In fact a light began to break in upon him. He suspected that he had been in error all along, simply for having started with a fixed impression that Kate was a royalist, and having consequently viewed her acts and weighed her words under that delusion. Uncle Lawrence confirmed his opinion.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the veteran, with a triumphant chuckle, “you’re like what I was once, when I put on the preacher’s green spectacles, which he wore for his eyes; everything was sort of colored by the glasses; the sand looked as green as a meadow in spring, and the sky all over sickish-like, as if it had been on a spree, as they used to call it when I was a wild youngster. You’ve thought Miss Katie was a tory because her aunt was, and her cousin; but she’s as good a whig as Lady Washington herself; and what’s more, she’d as soon marry a monkey as one of them red coated captains,” and the old man snapped his fingers with a gesture of sovereign contempt.

“There’s her cousin,” Major Gordon ventured to say; for since the conversation had became so familiar, he no longer avoided questions, which, at an earlier period of his acquaintance with Uncle Lawrence, he would have omitted from motives of delicacy to Kate.

“Her cousin!” and the veteran snapped his fingers even more scornfully than before. “If there wasn’t another man on airth, she’d never marry Charles Aylesford. I tell you, Major,” he added decisively, “she’d never marry where she don’t love; and there’s one man she loves already, or my name ain’t Lawrence Herman.”

His hearer’s heart leaped into his throat, but he dared not ask who the man was.

The veteran saw, by the faint light the conflagration cast through the chinks, the emotion of our hero; and his gratification was evinced by another silent chuckle. He waited awhile, but receiving no answer, went on.

“You don’t ask who the lucky man is,” he said. “Now what if I was to tell you it was yourself?”

“You can’t mean it!” cried Major Gordon, half starting to his feet; a glow of happiness, such as he had never experienced, shooting through his frame.

Uncle Lawrence was about to answer, when the door opened, and a stranger stooped to enter. He carried a lantern, which, though it threw a vivid glare on the two prisoners, did not at first reveal the face of the intruder. But, when the door was closed, this person raised the light so as to show his countenance, and held out his hand to the Major, whom he called by name.

“Captain Powell!” exclaimed our hero in astonishment, rising and grasping the proffered hand. “It is—isn’t it?”

“It is Captain Powell,” was the reply. “The last person, no doubt, you expected to see. But I owe you a heavy debt, and I have come to pay it, by setting you free.”

“The Lord’s hand is in it,” cried Uncle Lawrence, lifting up his eyes reverently. “Did I not say, ‘trust in the Lord,’ Major?”

Oh! give me liberty. —Dryden.

Thus doth the ever-changing course of things
Run a perpetual circle. —Daniels.

‘Tis not the many oaths, that make the truth;
But the plain single vow, that is vow’d true. —Shakespeare.

Captain Powell was one of those who had been a listener at Aylesford’s bedside, during the confession of the latter. Arriving in New York, after the loss of his ship, without employment, or the chance of any, he had volunteered on the expedition against the Neck, and hence his presence. He it was, also, who had been commissioned by the chaplain to quiet Aylesford, by carrying a message to the American camp.

Accordingly, Captain Powell had left the room, but with other ulterior designs. He had already ascertained that Major Gordon had been made prisoner, and having heard his name mentioned by Aylesford more than once, a suspicion of the truth had flashed upon him. Indeed, often since his rescue from the wreck, had he speculated on an attachment springing up between our hero and Kate; for though he had seen little of the officer, he had observed enough, during those hours of terrible peril, to be convinced that he and Miss Aylesford were eminently fitted for each other. He resolved, accordingly, to see Major Gordon, in this crisis, satisfied, that if it was as he suspected, the best course would be to secretly liberate the prisoner.

“This is my friend,” said our hero, turning to Uncle Lawrence, on observing that Captain Powell seemed surprised at not finding him alone. “He has, this day, saved my life, and whatever debt you may think you owe to me, I transfer to him.”

The captain looked at Uncle Lawrence, at these words, with increased interest. But he was a judge of character, and the simple dignity with which the veteran rose and returned the salutation of the visitor, at once convinced the latter that the old man was no common person. The delicate subject, however, on which he had come to see Major Gordon, made him hesitate. Our hero, discovering this from his manner, said,

“You can speak, Captain, before Mr. Herman, as frankly as if he was myself.”

Still, Captain Powell knew not how to open his mission, and paused in embarrassment. At last he bethought him to mention the fact, that “a young gentleman, named Aylesford, had come into camp desperately wounded, and was now at the point of death.”

The surprise of Major Gordon, the horror of Uncle Lawrence, and the interest of both, produced immediately a torrent of questions, which led the conversation to the point that the visitor desired.

We will not attempt to paint the excitement of the hearers, when Captain Powell informed them that Kate was in the hands of Arrison. The emotion of Uncle Lawrence was almost as great as that of Major Gordon. The former, in fact, was more thoroughly acquainted with the refugee’s character, and had consequently a keener sense, if possible, of Kate’s peril. It was fortunate it was so: fortunate that the Major could scarcely believe in depravity so great as Arrison’s; for otherwise he must have gone mad with suspense.

As it was, he could not keep still for an instant. He had started to his feet again, on the first intimation of Kate’s danger; and had heard the conclusion of the narrative, striding up and down the narrow apartment, like a chafed lion in a cage.

“Oh! if I had been there, instead of here,” he cried, clenching his hands. “Just heaven! such villainy.”

“Calm yourself, my dear Major,” answered Captain Powell. “You will be overheard.” For this, as well as the former conversation between the prisoners, had been conducted in low tones, to prevent the other occupants of the building from hearing, whereas the Major, under the excitement of his feelings, had uttered these exclamations aloud.

“Calm yourself,” continued Captain Powell. “It is to set you free, remember, that I am here.”

The words were scarcely uttered before Major Gordon stopped in his walk, and seizing the speaker’s hand, wrung it with energetic gratitude. His heart, however, was too full to allow him utterance.

“I need not say,” resumed Captain Powell, “that there is not a minute to be lost.”

But suddenly a shade of deep concern extinguished the light in Major Gordon’s countenance. For the instant he had forgotten his fellow prisoner. But it had been only for an instant. Much as he desired freedom, in order to rescue Kate, or die in the attempt, he could not abandon Uncle Lawrence. He paused, and fixed his eyes on the old man, who stood silent and motionless, though every feature of his face was working with intense emotion; emotion not on his own account; not because the Major was to be freed, and himself remain a prisoner, but because his darling was in the hands of such a ruffian as Arrison.

“I cannot go,” said Major Gordon, turning frankly to Captain Powell, “at least alone. My friend must accompany me. He has a family, and his life is precious to them; let him be released in my stead.”

Captain Powell looked perplexed. But Uncle Lawrence spoke up.

“No,” said he, addressing Captain Powell, “I am an old man, and my time is nearly out, while the Major is young, and can yet be of service to his country.”

“But the young lady, consider her, sir,” urged Captain Powell, speaking to Major Gordon. “Time is precious, and succor ought to be sent at once. For God’s sake, Major, don’t stand on scruples, which would honor you at another time, but are only periling Miss Aylesford’s life at this crisis.”

A sharp pang of agony shot visibly across his hearer’s face. But the Major was inexorable. He resembled Uncle Lawrence, indeed, in the inflexibility with which he walked in the path of duty, when that duty became plain. No martyr, condemned to pass barefoot over burning plough-shares, could have executed his task more unflinchingly.

“Mr. Herman,” he replied, “is the more suitable person then to be released, for he knows every acre of the forests about Sweetwater; and can do more, in an hour, in tracking these ruffians to their den, than I could in a day.”

Captain Powell was evidently struck with this remark. He looked inquiringly at Uncle Lawrence, feeling, by that instinct which is called insight into character, that the veteran would speak the truth in reply, irrespective of conventional reserve on the one hand, or of self-interest on the other.

“I’ll not deny,” said the patriarch, mildly, “but what the Major speaks truth, in that partic’lar. I’ve hunted a’most every inch of the woods, for a dozen miles about, on every side, these forty years nigh. And I’d give,” he added, earnestly, “half of the years I may have to live, if the Lord allowed me the right to do it, that I might be free. I’d burn the rascal out, like a fox from his hole, I’ll warrant, afore to-morrow’s sun was many hours high.”

Captain Powell looked from one to the other, in perplexity, for a full minute, before he spoke again. At last he said, with sudden impulse,

“You shall both be free. Nay! no thanks,” he continued, as the Major sprang forward again, and grasped his hand, “but listen. I have a pass for the Major. You, my venerable sir, are luckily about my height. You must exchange hats and coats with me,” removing the articles as he spoke, and proffering them to Uncle Lawrence. “Go boldly out, for I left the pass with the sentinel, as if you were myself. The breeze was beginning to blow freely up the river, when I came in. You’ll find a boat, with her sail ready, lying near the outside of the camp. The sentinel there will let you pass, on giving the watchword, ‘loyalty.’ Make the best of your way, in God’s name, up the stream; and may success crown your efforts!”

He pressed the hands of both his hearers, as he ceased speaking, and the change of garments having been effected, fairly pushed them out of the place, first giving the lantern in charge to Uncle Lawrence, and whispering, as a parting admonition, “I brought it in with me, and they’ll naturally expect to see me carry it out—be sure to lose not a minute, for the trick must soon be found out.”

We will not detain the reader with the obstacles which the fugitives met on their way to the boat. To avoid being seen they were forced to skulk along in the shadows; but twice even this failed; though fortunately the knowledge of the pass-word secured their safety. At last they reached the skiff, and were almost instantly sweeping up the river, carrying what was a wholesale breeze, when we consider the size of their craft.

She was, indeed, but a mere cockle-shell, one of those small, decked, gunning skiffs, such as are still used in those waters, intended for only one person, but capable on emergency of carrying two; and she sank under the weight of her passengers, quite to the gunwale. There is, in these light and buoyant craft, which a strong man may easily carry on his shoulder, a small hole cut in the deck, where the sportsman sits, covered with sedge, and so paddles himself unperceived upon the wild fowl. Into this aperture, Uncle Lawrence directed Major Gordon to insert himself, while the old man, sitting flat on the stern, took both the tiller and sheet in his hand.

“Now, all I’ll ask,” said the veteran, “is that you’ll trim boat as I tell you, and that this ‘ere wind will hold all night. There’s one or two reaches, where we’ll have to row, probably.”

“But I must first land and seek my late command,” interposed Major Gordon. “If Count Pulaski has come up, I will then attend you; but if not,” and he sighed audibly, “you will have to proceed alone.”

Uncle Lawrence did not reply immediately. But a little reflection convinced him that his companion had decided aright, and therefore he said nothing to change the Major’s opinion, though his heart ached.

“We had better come to here,” he said, at last. “There’s a road, somewhere near, that’ll take us where we’ll be pretty sure to find the Count, if he’s on the ground.”

The storms of heaven
Beat on him; gaping hinds stare at his woe. —Joanna Baillie.

Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate. —Byron.

An exile, ill in heart and frame,—
A wanderer, weary of the way. —Mrs. Osgood.

Fastening the skiff to the overhanging bough of a tree, Uncle Lawrence stepped ashore, followed by Major Gordon. For about ten minutes, the two advanced along a narrow woodland path, until suddenly they were stopped by the challenge of a sentry.

Yielding themselves prisoners immediately, they were conducted to a woodland bivouac, where several volunteers recognized both Major Gordon and his companion. The horses picketed about, with the dismounted cavalry soldiers, imparted to the Major the glad intelligence that Count Pulaski had arrived.

“Say to the Count,” he said, addressing his captor, “that I desire an interview, as soon as possible.” For he was now all impatience to be gone.

In a few minutes he was ushered into the presence of his successor, whom we must take this opportunity to describe.

The Count Pulaski, who served so gallantly in the war of independence, until he fell at the storming of Savannah, must not be confounded with his relative, who achieved the daring feat of carrying off Stanislaus, King of Poland, from the heart of his capital. Nevertheless he was scarcely inferior in daring to that adventurous conspirator. Driven from his native land, in consequence of his connexion with the patriotic party, the Pulaski to whom we now introduce the reader, had, like Kosciusko, offered his sword to the struggling colonies of England, and now held the rank of Brigadier General, with the command of the entire American cavalry.

A more consummate horseman, perhaps, never lived. When in the saddle he seemed to be a part of the charger he bestrode. The traditions told of his skill appear really fabulous. He could pick up a pistol when galloping at speed; dismount and mount again in full career; and make his horse execute the most difficult feats apparently without moving hand or limb. Seventy-five years ago, equestrianism, as an art, was carried to a perfection unknown at the present time; and to say that Pulaski was considered the most perfect rider of his day, is, therefore, to assert that he would have been regarded as a miracle now.

Those who were intimate with the exile spoke enthusiastically of his lofty honor and the steadfastness of his friendship. But the number of these were few. Though courageous in his deportment, he was reserved, and this, added to his ignorance of the language, circumscribed the number of his associates. When alone he was the victim of a settled melancholy; for he remembered then, in all its force, that he was an exile, and what exile meant. As an officer he was diligent, sober and intrepid, never permitting himself to be disheartened by difficulties, but prosecuting the vexatious duty of organizing the cavalry force amid a thousand discouragements. The legionary corps which he established, and which he so chivalrously led till he fell at the siege of Savannah, was the model of one subsequently raised by Major Henry Lee, and which won immortal laurels under Greene, in the southern campaign.

Major Gordon was among the few who enjoyed the friendship of Pulaski. The gallant Pole was standing with folded arms, looking sadly up to the sky, thinking that the stars, which shone down on him, shone also on his native land, when the Major was announced. At once the melancholy faded from the Count’s face, and he eagerly embraced our hero in the Polish fashion.

“Mon ami,” he cried, in excellent French, “this is, indeed, a surprise. I heard you had been taken prisoner, or killed, the accounts did not agree as to which. How did you manage to escape?”

In a few hurried words, Major Gordon explained the cause and manner of his deliverance. The Count listened breathlessly. When, at last, the Major paused, Pulaski said, earnestly,

“Much as I wish to have a friend’s companionship tonight, for I am in one of my dark moods, I beg you, dear Major, to be gone at once. Miss Aylesford must be rescued, or avenged, no matter at what cost. I shall count it one of the few fortunate events of my life, that I arrived here in time to release you from your command, especially if you succeed in recovering this fair girl from the hands of the refugees.”

The Count accompanied Major Gordon to the river side, where, with many a “God-speed” from Pulaski, our hero and his companion embarked again. The little lateen sail was given to the wind, and the boat went dancing up the stream, until it vanished from the eyes of the spectators like the white wing of a gull disappearing in the distant gloom of the seaboard.

For some time there was silence on board the skiff. But at last Uncle Lawrence spoke.

“We’ll be able, I suppose,” said he, “to find a few men at the Forks; and we’d better strike into the woods there, instead of following the track of the varmints from the river. I’ve a notion I know pretty well where to find the rogues. If Arrison was alone, you might have to hunt him here, and there, and everywhere; but when a lady’s in the case, he’s sure to take to some roof; and there’s a clearing, a matter of six miles or so, sou’east of Sweetwater, and right in the heart of the swamp, where a little gal lives, that I’ve heerd was a niece of Arrison’s. I once stopped there for a drink of water; but though it’s the only time I was ever there, seein’ I don’t gin’raly hunt on that side of Sweetwater, I can go to the place as straight as my gun would carry buckshot; it’s a pity,” he added, with a sigh, “that I’ve lost the old piece.”

The fugitives did not, however, continue their route without pausing at the post where the refugees were fired on. They did this in the faint hope that the patriot boat, which Aylesford had seen set forth in pursuit, had overtaken the refugees.

Neither Major Gordon nor Uncle Lawrence knew how much each had secretly nourished this expectation, until it was destroyed by the intelligence they received at the post. But one good result followed the narrative they hurriedly gave in return. The sentry, who proved to be an old acquaintance of Uncle Lawrence, when he learned who the lady was, and into whose hands she had fallen, promised to follow, within half an hour, with four other able woodsmen. “We shan’t be wanted below now, since the Neck’s burnt,” he said, “unless the British advance up the river; which they’ll not try, I reckon, since Pulaski’s come.”

The sun was but an hour high, when every arrangement had been completed, and a party of a dozen determined men, all experienced shots, and all well armed, set out from the Forks, under the guidance of Uncle Lawrence and the leadership of Major Gordon. To hunt down the refugees, if it took days instead of hours; to rescue Kate unharmed, and to avenge her, at any cost:—these were the solemn vows of every member of the party.

While Uncle Lawrence had been marshaling the expedition, Major Gordon had thrown himself on Selim, and galloped to Sweetwater, with the faint hope that Kate might have been released, or made good her escape. Early as it was, he found Mrs. Warren already up. The good lady, as we have seen, had not slept a wink; and, just before the Major’s arrival, she had been summoned to interrogate Pomp, who, to the amazement of all, had suddenly appeared, leading Arab captive.

The lad, of course, suppressed his fright, but said, that not hearing anything of Kate on the road to Mr. Herman’s, but observing the tracks of what he thought her horse, he had followed down the river, by unfrequented paths, till about nightfall, when, passing a small cabin, he had been surprised to hear Arab whinny, from a shed that was apparently used for a cow-stable.

“When I hears dat,” said he, “I goes up to de door, and axes ef dey wouldn’t let me stay all night, telling ‘em I’d lost my way, and was afeerd of de refugees. Dey said I might, ef I’d sleep in de barn; and guv me some cold pork. De minnit I goes in de stable, Arab he knew me, and lays his nose agin me, as ef he’d been a kitten, deed he did. I got in among de salt hay, and begun to snore dre’ful loud; but I wasn’t asleep for all dat. By’m bye, when de moon rose, I gits up, saddles de colt, takes Arab by de halter, and here I is.” And he looked around, not a little proud of his exploit, while Dinah, hugging him in her arms, sobbed over her recovered boy.

It was at this juncture that Major Gordon arrived. Mrs. Warren, in dishabille, her hair all dishevelled, no sooner saw him, than she rushed forward, frantically asking if he had brought back Kate. The Major, who had hoped, as we have seen, to find Miss Aylesford at Sweetwater, was not less disappointed than the anxious aunt; but he controlled his feelings better, and considerately forbore informing Mrs. Warren either of the terrible situation of her niece, or of Aylesford’s death. A fit of hysterics almost immediately seized the now heart-broken woman, in which condition, time being precious, the Major was compelled to leave her, in order to reach the rendezvous.

Uncle Lawrence was waiting for him on his return. The little party set forth immediately, the veteran leading the way to the refugee’s hut, almost in a straight line.

A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Incapable of pity, void and empty
From ev’ry drachm of mercy. —Shakespeare.

Spare not the babe,
Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy. —Shakespeare.

The astonishment of Arrison, when he discovered the escape of Kate, was only equaled by his rage. He was not the first, however, to detect her flight. Having resisted the influence of the last night’s potations longer than the rest, he slept sounder than some of the others, and was still lost in a deep stupefying slumber, when one of the gang waking, and looking around, as he sat up on the floor, started to observe the door of the inner chamber open.

“Hello!” he cried, rubbing his eyes, to be sure that he beheld aright. “The bird’s flown.”

With the words, he sprang to his feet, and advancing hastily to the chamber, leaned over Arrison’s recumbent body, and looked in. His suspicions were immediately verified. Their prisoner was gone. The discovery struck him in so ludicrous a light, that he burst into uproarious laughter.

This loud mirth roused all the sleepers, Arrison among the rest.

“What do you mean?” cried the latter, leaping to his feet, and collaring the laugher. “What are you doing here?”

Arrison, still confused in intellect, and not yet comprehending the truth, had seized his comrade, by instinct, on finding the refugee so near Kate’s chamber.

“Ha! ha!” continued the youth, unable to restrain his merriment, “to think she’s flown, after I nailed fast her window too.”

“Who’s flown?” angrily cried Arrison, shaking the youth violently; while, with an oath, he added, as he now first observed the open door, “You don’t mean to say Miss Aylesford’s gone.”

The youth stopped laughing, and breaking loose by a sudden effort, answered, with a flushed and angry face,

“Take care who you collar, Captain; I’m not a nigger.” And as Arrison rushed into the chamber, he muttered, sulkily, “I’m not sorry she’s gone; for he was goin’ to make all for himself there was to be made; takin’ the oyster and leaving us the shell.”

A rapid glance satisfied Arrison that his prey had really escaped, and he came back, perfectly white with rage, just in time to hear the concluding murmurs of the youth, though without being able to make out what was being said.

“What’s that you’re muttering, you mutinous rascal?” he shouted, darting on the speaker. “I believe you had a hand in it. She couldn’t have got off alone.”

The youth sprang nimbly to one side, just in time to elude the grasp of his enraged leader, and interposing the table between himself and Arrison, drew his knife.

“Keep off,” he cried, “or I’ll drive this into you, Captain or no Captain. Say that again, if you dare. It was your own stupidity, in getting drunk, not drawing the bolt on this side, and sleeping like a log of wood, that let the girl off.”

He flourished his weapon as he spoke, and glared at Arrison with such savageness, that the latter, heated as he was with passion, paused. Before either could make any new movement, and while they watched each other like two angry tigers, the lieutenant, whom we have seen so active the preceding day, rushed between them.

“Captain, you’re too quick,” he cried; “Bill, put up your knife; the Captain’s hardly awake. If the gal’s really gone,” he continued, more composedly, “the best thing to do is to put after her; she can’t have got far; and with that hound of yours,” and he turned to Arrison, “we ought to be able to track her to hell itself.”

“I meant no offence,” said Bill, who was easily mollified, as men of his disposition usually are. “But when I found she’d got off, by walking right through this ‘ere room, I couldn’t help thinking it a good joke. She’s a gal of mettle, anyhow.” And he laughed again, in spite of Arrison’s scowling brow, and the lieutenant’s significant winks.

Arrison, now that he had time to reflect, saw that Bill spoke the truth, and though the youth’s laughter galled him, he could not resent it further. The ties which held his followers to him, were wholly voluntary, and he feared, if he persisted in wreaking his vengeance on Bill, that a real mutiny might arise; for the lad was a general favorite, as he always told the merriest tale, was continually joking to beguile the time, and generally was the life of the gang, socially. So the chief answered, smothering his rage, “I was but half awake, that’s a fact. The jade’s had no one to help her but herself; and Bill must forget what I said.” He held out his hand as he concluded, which the youth took and shook in token of restored amity.

“That’s all I ask, Captain,” replied Bill. “I don’t wonder you’re a little riled, for if she’d been mine, as she was yourn, I’d have fell on the first feller I saw, when I woke and found her gone, so infernally rampaging mad would I have been. She’ll be lucky if she gets away; for them ere swamps ain’t so easy for a stranger.”

But the wrath which Arrison could not discharge on Bill, found vent on the helpless child, his reputed niece. It suggested itself to him, at this point, that the bloodhound must have been roused by Kate’s escape; that the child must have interposed to quiet the dog; and that thus his prey had succeeded in escaping. Scarcely had the speaker ceased, therefore, before Arrison rushed out, and entering the barn, where the child still lay asleep, grasped her rudely by the arm, and jerked her to her feet.

Terrified, and as yet but half awake, the poor thing began to tremble violently; and seeing Arrison’s face distorted with rage, burst into tears, exclaiming,

“Oh! don’t—please don’t—”

But the ruffian, shaking her violently, she could not proceed; and so remained sobbing and choaking, piteously supplicating him with her eyes.

“You jade,” he cried, “I’ll shake the breath out of you to some purpose. You little liar, don’t dare to say you didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t say it,” gasped the child. “Please don’t, ple-e-ase—”

But again he shook her, till it seemed that her little limbs would be rent apart; and her touching words of pleading ended in inarticulate murmurings. When he had fairly exhausted himself by this brutal exhibition of passion, he stopped, and holding her before him, as in a vice, said,

“Tell the truth, or I’ll break every bone in your body. You kept the dog quiet while she went off.”

“Oh! please, don’t. You hurt me so,” answered the child, endeavoring, with one of her little hands, to remove his iron grasp, which was bruising her arm.

“Answer me,” yelled the monster, purple with rage, and shaking the friendless orphan again.

The child would not reply falsely; she, therefore, said nothing.

“What! You won’t speak?” he cried, perfectly beside himself and; he struck her a blow over the head, which brought the blood gushing from her ears and nose. She fell, as if dead, at his feet.

His comrades had witnessed this scene, and though hardened to most descriptions of crime, could not longer endure his brutality. Indeed, Bill and another would have interfered before, if the lieutenant had not held them back, telling them it was Arrison’s niece, and that “he had a right to do as he pleased with her.” But now even this personage overcame his scruples.

“Come, come, Captain,” he said, picking up the child, “we’d better be off. What’s done can’t be helped. She’s but a poor, weak thing, anyhow; and who knows that the dog gave the alarm at all?”

At first Arrison scowled at this interference, but the faces of his followers showed him that the lieutenant had spoken the will of the majority. So, resolving to punish her to his heart’s content at a future period, he bade her “go and wash her face, and stop crying, or he’d give her something to cry for,” and turned away.

It took but a few minutes longer to complete the preparations for the pursuit. The refugees hastily swallowed some food, and drained each a deep draught of Jamaica, after which, with the bloodhound for their guide, they began the search. The dog struck the trail immediately, and went off in full chorus: and in a little while the pursuers were out of sight.

The child remained where she had been left, sobbing as if her heart would break, and with her face buried in her hands; every bone in her body aching from the violence she had suffered.

“Oh! I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!” she cried, rocking her little body to and fro. “Mother, mother, let me come to you;” and she looked up piteously to the skies.

Gradually, however, the passion of her tears ceased. She had often endured equally brutal treatment before; and she was, in a measure, hardened to it. So her sobs grew less frequent; her thoughts dwelt less on her own sufferings; and she began to recollect Kate.

“I hope she’ll get off,” she cried, jumping up and clapping her hands. “If she only took the right road.”

But scarcely had she spoken, when she reflected that, if his prey wholly escaped, Arrison would return more violently enraged than ever. Experience warned her that, in such a case, he would wreak double vengeance on her. She burst into tears again, in almost speechless terror at the idea.

She could think of nothing in this extremity, but the little prayers her mother had taught her, and which she still murmured nightly before retiring, for lack of others more suited to her years. So she fell on her knees, and, with her hands clasped before her, prayed. But, with the almost infantile words went up earnest heart-petitions, which, more eloquent than the most burning language, reached—who shall doubt it?—the ear of the Father of all.

When Uncle Lawrence reached the hut, an hour or two later, the child, who had heard the approach of the party, was nowhere to be seen; for she had hidden herself in terror in the barn, thinking her persecutor was coming back. But she was not long suffered to remain concealed. Alarmed at the evidences of the debauch, Uncle Lawrence decided to search every spot about; and thus the child was soon discovered. On finding that the intruders were friends of Kate, the poor thing lost her terror, however, and answered their questions eagerly, giving what information she could as to the route the pursuers had taken.

The woodcraft of Uncle Lawrence now came into full play. No Indian could have tracked the refugees more surely than he did. Occasionally, a few moments were lost in hesitancy, but he invariably selected the right crossing at last. Such minutes of delay, however, were almost intolerable, especially to Major Gordon; for, now that the crisis of Kate’s fate approached, he felt the agony of suspense increase tenfold. His incessant cry to himself was, “we shall be too late.” This terrible conviction deepened, as the hours wore on without conducting them to our heroine, or apparently bringing them nearer to the refugees, the bay of whose bloodhound they listened for in vain.

But when the way became more difficult, they began, though as yet ignorant of it, to gain rapidly on Arrison; for, as the path had grown more intricate, the bloodhound had been often at fault, and thus had lost much time.

At last the cry of the hound was heard. What a thrill of joy it sent through Major Gordon’s frame! Every nerve tingled, as he cried,

“She is yet safe. On, on, for the love of God—we may not be too late after all.”

The pace of the pursuers was now accelerated to a run. Suddenly Uncle Lawrence said,

“That dog is nearly up with her; I know it by the quick way in which he cries. Follow the track as fast as you can. I’ll take a short cut through the swamp; I think I can make something by it, though none of the rest can. The cry of the hound will lead me to the right spot.”

He had never ceased running as he spoke; and it was wonderful to see how he could run, with the weight of sixty winters on him; and he now vanished from sight, the bushes crackling as he dashed right into the undergrowth.

Following the trails made by the wild animals, and occasionally breaking through a thicket; now wading in black, slimy water up to his knees, and now plunging into blacker mud ankle-deep; and guiding himself, partly by the cry of the hound, and partly by a woodman’s instinct of the course which he knew Kate must have taken, he reached our heroine, as we have seen, just in time to save her life by shooting the bloodhound that was springing at her throat. Then pausing to reload, with a veteran hunter’s precaution, he leaped into the open space, and confronted Arrison.

Everything now depended on the length of time it would take Major Gordon to come up with his companions. Minutes, at present, were worth hours at any other crisis.

With wild surprise,
As if to marble struck devoid of sense. —Thomson.

Amaz’d,
Astonished stood, and blank, while horror chill
Ran through his veins. —Milton.

Arrison was thunderstruck by the sudden apparition of Uncle Lawrence. His first movement was to start back, as if he saw a spirit; for the old man was the last person he had expected to confront him. But in a moment he recovered his usual presence of mind. When he perceived that he was opposed by veritable flesh and blood, and that too in the person of one he hated for his goodness, he secretly exulted; for having no suspicion that Uncle Lawrence had friends at hand, he considered that his long threatened vengeance was certain.

Yet he was in no hurry to assail the old man. Aware that his followers must be close behind him, and that a few moments at furthest would enable them to arrive, he determined to keep the contest confined to words, if possible, until they came up. Old as Uncle Lawrence was, he bore a reputation for bravery, skill and strength, which made Arrison quite willing to avoid a hand to hand struggle with the patriarch.

“You!” cried Arrison. “Take a word of advice then, old man, and don’t mix yourself up with a business that’s none of your concern.”

“But suppose I think it does consarn me,” coolly answered Uncle Lawrence. “Miss Katie here is an old pet of mine, so stand aside and let us pass.”

“Not so fast. Again, I say, go your ways and save your life.”

“I do not go without her. Stand aside, villain.”

“Never,” exclaimed Arrison, chafed at these words. “I warn you not to try my patience too far.”

“I’m not afeerd of you, James Arrison,” answered the old man, in a tone of contempt, “and you know it. Keep your warning for some one else.”

“Will you go?”

“No!”

Scarcely had the veteran spoken, when the refugee pulled trigger. But, quick as he had been, the old man was quicker. Resolving to save his fire if possible, in order to be better prepared for self-defence, if the refugees arrived before Major Gordon, he suddenly and dexterously thrust forward the barrel of his piece in such a manner as to knock up the gun of the outlaw. The movement was so swift that Arrison had time neither to counteract it, nor to prevent his load from going off; and the consequence was that his ball whistled harmlessly over Uncle Lawrence’s head, burying itself in the tree against which Kate leaned, a few inches above her. A savage oath broke from the refugee at this failure, and his eyes flashed lightning as it were. He shortened his gun instantly, as if to club it; then hesitated whether he had not better throw it away and rush in on his antagonist; and finally stood irresolute, his face purple with rage and baffled hate.

Had it suited Uncle Lawrence’s purpose that second would have been the last of the ruffian’s existence. A younger man would have been unable, in the sudden heat of the affray, to have restrained himself, even from motives of the clearest policy. But the veteran was as cool and wary now as when sitting by his own hearth. Nothing could induce him to waste his fire; for, in that case, he might not have time to reload before the other refugees came up.

“Throw down your gun,” he said, however. “You are at my mercy.”

What answer Arrison would have made, if no succor had arrived, we cannot say. But, at this crisis, his sharpened ear heard the crackling of the undergrowth, as his followers came running up at full speed, their pace accelerated by the two shots which had been fired in such quick succession; for though it has required a considerable time to describe all this, the whole period between the death of the bloodhound and the useless discharge of Arrison’s gun, had scarcely occupied more than a minute.

Aware that an overwhelming force was now at hand, the outlaw sprang forwards towards Kate, endeavoring to elude his antagonist, and crying out,

“Shoot the old man; but spare the girl. Shoot quick!”

But he did not finish the sentence. Uncle Lawrence, who faced the intruders, had the advantage of observing what Arrison could not; and saw that the new comers, so far from being refugees entirely, were partly Major Gordon and his follows.

In fact, the speed of the patriots had been also accelerated by the shots; they had rushed forward at full run, fearing that Uncle Lawrence was overpowered; and had arrived at the scene simultaneously with the outlaws, the latter only discovering the presence of foes at the very moment that Arrison cried out; for, on their part, they had been so entirely absorbed in what was going on ahead, that they had neither looked behind, nor heard the steps of their pursuers. Instead, therefore, of being able to assist their leader, the outlaws found their own hands full; for the patriots dashed upon them at once, like hunters that have run down a wolf, which has long been the terror of the district.

All this Uncle Lawrence took in with one rapid glance, and seeing that the ruffian’s time had come, he leveled his gun at Arrison’s heart and pulled the trigger, just as the wretch was darting past to lay his sacrilegious hands on Kate.

“To die the death of a dog at last,” he mentally ejaculated. “I knew it years ago.”

As he thus soliloquized, the burly person of the ruffian, spinning half round, while the arms were suddenly thrown up, tumbled headlong to the ground, where it fell directly across the body of the dead hound. Life was gone, even before the form touched the earth.

Meantime the pursuers had closed with the refugees, discharging their guns, each at an antagonist, and following this up by closing with such as were either not injured, or only wounded. Some, dropping their fire-arms, drew their swords, and engaged in a hand to hand conflict; others clubbed their pieces, using them like maces; and some grappled with the refugees to prevent the latter employing their guns, few of which had been discharged in consequence of the surprise.

The onslaught had been so unexpected, and was kept up in so rapid a manner, that the refugees did not hold out long. Two were killed at the first assault; others soon lay on the ground desperately wounded; and finally the survivors, seeing that all was over, broke desperately from their antagonists, and rushing madly into the next thicket, disappeared from sight. Only two succeeded, however, in making good their escape in this way, and one of them at least was seriously wounded, for the bushes were stained with blood as he passed.

The victory was complete, and, owing to the surprise, comparatively without cost. The patriots did not lose a man, and had but two seriously wounded, the rest receiving only slight scratches, scarcely requiring surgical aid. As one of the conquerors was accustomed to say, in rehearsing the transaction afterwards,—he was an inveterate duck-shooter whose language always drew its metaphors from his favorite pursuit— “We stole up onparceived, you understand, and killed and wounded five, whom we got, besides two that scattered that we didn’t get.”

Uncle Lawrence had not joined in the fray after his decisive shot. In fact, the conflict was over before he could have taken any further part in it, even if he had wished; but knowing that a chance shot might strike Kate, he chivalrously threw himself before her; and thus protected her at the risk of his own life.

Major Gordon, ignorant whom he was assailing, had engaged Arrison’s lieutenant. The latter had been the first to discover the pursuers, and had turned immediately and fired at our hero; but in the hurry of the act had fortunately missed his mark. The Major, having no gun, had rushed in with his sword, and though incommoded by his wounded arm, which he still carried in a sling, had run his antagonist through, after an ineffectual attempt on the part of the refugee to avert the lunge. Disregarding every other consideration, our hero had sprung to Kate’s side immediately, which he attained just as the combat was finished, and the last of the outlaws took to flight.

The cold formalities of conventional life were forgotten, in that moment of joyous excitement, as if they had never existed. Even those considerations of superior fortune and presumed difference of political opinion, which had so tormented our hero before, were overlooked. Clasping Kate’s hand, he pressed it with a fervor, which brought the eloquent blood over her pallid countenance. On her part, the behavior of Kate was equally impulsive. It is fair to presume that she did not know what she was doing; for she returned the pressure almost convulsively. Giving one long, grateful look, in which her whole soul went forth, as her eyes met those of her lover, she essayed to speak. But though the sweet lips half parted, no words followed, for a faintness suddenly overcame her; and feeling everything swimming around, she involuntarily staggered towards the Major for support, who clasped her in his arms just as she was falling to the ground.

When next Kate opened her eyes, her head was lying against her lover’s shoulder, while Uncle Lawrence, kneeling beside her as tenderly as one of her own sex, was bathing her temples.

For an instant she did not recognize where she was. She even shuddered at first, with a vague notion that she was still in the power of the outlaws; but when she saw Major Gordon’s face, which was looking anxiously down on her, she closed her eyes with a smile. If, simultaneously, she nestled closer to that manly shoulder, it was only for an instant; for, while she was still half unconscious of what she did; for immediately after she opened her eyes again with a deep blush, and made an effort to rise.

But Uncle Lawrence prevented this. He gently pressed her back, while bathing her forehead, saying, soothingly,

“Hush, darling, and lie still a bit longer. You’ll be fainting right off again, if you get up awhile yet: and you mustn’t think you hurt the Major, for it’s the other arm that’s wounded.”

To his dying day, Major Gordon was accustomed to say that a sly look, almost imperceptible, accompanied these last words. But, if so, Kate saw nothing of this, having grown faint again, from the exertion she had made. Her head now swam around to such a degree, that she was compelled, at this crisis, to close her eyes, and even to repose once more on the Major’s shoulder.

Strange to say, the turn of Uncle Lawrence came next. When Kate was, at last, sufficiently restored to be able to sit up unsupported, she observed a slight stream of blood trickling down the hand of the good old man. With a faint scream she called Uncle Lawrence’s attention to it, who, stripping up his sleeve, found, to his surprise, that a ball had struck him just above the wrist; evidently one of those discharged in the melee, and which would have hit Kate, if he had not interposed his body, in the true spirit of ancient knighthood.

“It’s nothing, my child,” he said, as, indeed, Kate immediately perceived.

But even while he spoke he fainted dead away, for Uncle Lawrence, brave as he was, both morally and physically, had that strange peculiarity common to some of the most courageous men that ever lived, to swoon at sight of his own blood.

It was now Kate’s turn, and, weak as she was, she would allow no one else to bathe the old man’s brow and bind up his wound. Uncle Lawrence’s swoon soon passed away, however. When he opened his eyes, it was with a smile of gratefulness inexpressibly sweet.

“The Lord bless you, darling,” he said, tenderly, as his gaze lingered on Kate’s countenance. Then he added, looking around on the anxious faces, “Pretty doings, to get sick in this way, like a narvous, sterricky woman. You’d drum such a cowardly fellow out of the army, Major—wouldn’t you?”

“If we had a few thousand heroes like you,” answered Major Gordon, pressing his hand, while sudden tears dimmed his eyes, “we’d have had our country free long ago.”