THE WHIGS CONTINUE THEIR MARCH.—MILDRED IS LEFT BEHIND.

The army of mountaineers halted at Gilbert-town only until a vidette from Williams brought tidings of Ferguson's late movements. These reached Campbell early in the day succeeding his arrival at the village, and apprised him that Williams followed on the footsteps of the British partisan, and would expect to unite his force with that of the allied volunteers at the Cowpens—(a field not yet distinguished in story)—whither he expected to arrive on the following day. Campbell determined, in consequence, to hasten to this quarter.

The present position of Mildred, notwithstanding the kind sympathy with which every one regarded her, was one that wrought severely upon her feelings. She had heretofore encountered the hardships of her journey, and borne herself through the trials, so unaccustomed to her sex, with a spirit that had quailed before no obstacle. But now, finding herself in the train of an army just moving forth to meet its enemy, with all the vicissitudes and peril of battle in prospect, it was with a sinking of the heart she had not hitherto known, that she felt herself called upon to choose between the alternative of accompanying them in their march, or being left behind. To adopt the first resolve, she was painfully conscious would bring her to witness scenes, and perhaps endure privations, the very thought of which made her shudder; whilst, to remain at a distance from the theatre of events in which she was so deeply concerned, was a thought that suggested many anxious fears, not less intolerable than the untried sufferings of the campaign. She had, thus far, braved all dangers for the sake of being near to Butler; and now to hesitate or stay her step, when she had almost reached the very spot of his captivity, and when the fortunes of war might soon throw her into his actual presence, seemed to her like abandoning her duty at the most critical moment of trial. She was aware that he was in the camp of the enemy; that this enemy was likely to be overtaken and brought to combat; and it was with a magnified terror that she summoned up to her imagination the possible mischances which might befal Arthur Butler in the infliction of some summary act of vengeance provoked by the exasperation of conflict. "I have tempted the dangers of flood and storm for him—of forest and field—noon-day battle and midnight assault," she said, with an earnestness that showed she had shaken all doubts from her mind; "I have taken my vow of devotion to his safety—to be performed with such fidelity as befits the sacred bond between us. I will not blench now, in the last struggle, though perils thicken around me. I'm prepared for the worst."

Allen Musgrove, Robinson, and Henry combated this resolve with joint expostulation, urging upon Mildred the propriety of her tarrying in the village, at least until the active operations of the army were terminated—an event that might be expected in a few days. But it was not until Campbell himself remonstrated with her against the indiscretion of her purpose, and promised to afford her the means of repairing to the scene of action at any moment she might think her presence there useful, that she relinquished her determination to accompany the army on its present expedition. It was, in consequence, ultimately arranged that she should remain in the quarters provided for her in Gilbert-town, attended by the miller and his daughter, whilst a few soldiers were to be detailed as a guard for her person. With this train of attendants, she was to be left at liberty to draw as near to the centre of events as her considerate and faithful counsellor, Allen Musgrove, might deem safe.

Another source of uneasiness to her arose out of the separation which she was about to endure from the sergeant and her brother Henry. Horse Shoe, swayed by an irresistible and affectionate longing to be present at the expected passage of arms, which might so materially affect the fortunes of his captive fellow-soldier, Butler, had represented to Mildred the value of the services he might be able to render; and as the friendly solicitude of the miller and his daughter left nothing within their power to be supplied, towards the comfort and protection of the lady, she did not refuse her consent to this temporary desertion—although it naturally awakened some painful sense of bereavement, at a moment when her excited feelings most required the consolation of friends.

Henry, captivated with the prospect of military adventure, and magnified in his own esteem by the importance which Stephen Foster and the Rangers playfully assigned to his position in the ranks, had so far lost sight of the special duty he had assumed, as his sister's companion, that he now resolutely rebelled against all attempts to persuade him to remain in the village; and Mildred, at last, upon the pledge of the sergeant to keep the cadet under his own eye, reluctantly yielded to a demand which she found it almost impossible to resist.

These matters being settled, it was not long before Mildred and Mary Musgrove, seated at the window of the house which had been selected as their present abode, saw the long array of the army glide by at a brisk pace, and watched the careless and laughing faces of the soldiers, as they filed off through the only street in the village, and took the high road leading south.

The troops had been gone for several hours, and Allen Musgrove and the few soldiers who had been left behind, had scattered themselves over the village, to get rid of the tedium of idleness in the gossip of the scant population which the place afforded. Mildred had retired to a chamber, and Mary loitered from place to place like one disturbed with care. All the party felt that deep sense of loneliness which is so acutely perceptible to those who suddenly change a life of toil and incident for one of rest, while events of busy interest are in expectation.

"They are gone, ma'am," said Mary, as she now crept into Mildred's presence, after having travelled over nearly the whole village, in the state of disquietude I have described; "they are gone at least twenty miles, I should think, by this time; and I never would have believed that I could have cared so much about people I never saw before. But we are so lonesome, ma'am. And young Mister Henry Lindsay, I should say, must be getting tired by this time of day. As for the matter of that, people may get tireder by standing still than by going on."

"How far do they march to-day?" inquired Mildred; "have you heard your father say, Mary?"

"I heard him and the troopers who are here allow," replied the maiden, "that Colonel Campbell wouldn't reach Colonel Williams before to-morrow afternoon. They said it was good fifty miles' travel. They look like brave men—them that marched this morning, ma'am; for they went out with good heart. The Lord send that through Him they may be the means of deliverance to Major Butler!"

At the mention of this name, Mildred covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled through her fingers. "The Lord send it!" she repeated, after a moment's pause. "May He, in his mercy, come to our aid!" Then uncovering her face, and dropping on her knees beside her chair, she whispered a prayer for the success of those who had lately marched forth against the enemy.

When she arose from this posture, she went to the window, and there stood gazing out upon the quiet and unfrequented street, running over in her mind the perils to which her brother as well as Butler might be exposed, and summoning to her imagination the thousand subjects of solicitude, which her present state of painful expectation might be supposed to create or recall.

"We will set forth early to-morrow," she said, addressing herself to her companion, "so tell your father, Mary. We will follow the brave friends who have left us: I cannot be content to linger behind them. I will sleep in the lowliest hovel, or in the common shelter of the woods, and share all the dangers of the march, rather than linger here in this dreadful state of doubt and silence. Tell your father to make his preparations for our departure to-morrow: tell him I cannot abide another day in this place."

"I should think we might creep near them, ma'am," replied Mary, "near enough to see and hear what was going on—which is always a great satisfaction, and not get ourselves into trouble neither. I am sure my father would be very careful of us, and keep us out of harm's way, come what would. And it is distressing to be so far off, when you don't know what's going to turn up. I will seek my father—who I believe is over yonder with the troopers at the shop, talking to the blacksmith—I will go there and try to coax him to do your bidding. I know the troopers want it more than we do, and they'll say a word to help it along."

"Say I desire to have it so, Mary. I can take no refusal. Here I will not stay longer."

Mary left the apartment, and as she descended the steps, she fell into a rumination which arrested her progress full five minutes, during which she remained mute upon the stair-case. "No wonder the poor dear lady wishes to go!" was the ejaculation which came at last sorrowfully from her heart, with a long sigh, and at the same time tears began to flow: "no wonder she wants to be near Major Butler, who loves her past the telling of it. If John Ramsay was there," she added, sobbing, "I would have followed him—followed him—yes, if I died for it."

AFFAIRS BEGIN TO DRAW TO A HEAD. PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE. A PICTURE OF THE TWO ARMIES.

After leaving Gilbert-town, Campbell moved steadily toward the point at which he proposed to meet Williams, and by night-fall had accomplished about one half of the journey. The march furnished Henry Lindsay unalloyed pleasure. Every incident belonging to it awakened the fancies which he had indulged in reference to military life, and he was delighted in the contemplation of this actual accomplishment of some of the many dreams of glory which his boyish romance had engendered at home. Besides, being a favorite of those in command, he was allowed to ride in the ranks whenever it suited his pleasure, and to amuse himself with what subject of interest the journey afforded; whilst, at the same time, he found his personal ease so much attended to as to leave him but little room to complain of the discomfort or toil of the campaign.

The night was spent in the woods, and it was scarcely daybreak, when the exhilarating though harsh clamor of the horns summoned the troops to the renewal of their journey, which was pursued until the afternoon, when, about four o'clock, they reached the border of the tract of country known as the Cowpens. Afar off, occupying a piece of elevated ground, Campbell was enabled to descry a considerable body of cavalry, whose standard, dress, and equipment, even at this distance, sufficiently made known to him their friendly character,—a fact that was immediately afterwards confirmed by the report of some videttes, who had been stationed upon the road by which Campbell advanced. A brief interval brought the two parties together, and the force of the allied bands was thus augmented by the addition of our gallant friend Williams, at the head of four hundred sturdy companions.

"Make a short speech of it," said Shelby, addressing Williams, after that officer had ridden into the circle of his comrades, and had exchanged with them a friendly greeting, "you have been busy, fellow-soldier, whilst we were waiting to see the grass grow. What has become of the runaway?"

"He left this spot but yesterday," replied Williams; "Ferguson has something of the bull-dog in him: his retreat, now that he is forced to it, is surly and slow; he stops to snarl and growl as if he defied us to follow him. If he had but stood his ground here, we should have had him in as pretty a field as one might desire. Devil thank him for his prudence! But he is now at the Cherokee Ford of Broad river—so I conjecture, by the report of my scouts—hard upon thirty miles from here, on his way towards Charlotte."

"Say you so?" exclaimed Campbell; "then, by my faith, we have no time to lose! Gentlemen, we will rest but an hour, and then to it, for a night march. Pick me out your best men and stoutest horses; leave the footmen behind, and the weakest of the cavalry. This fellow may take it into his head to show his heels. If I can but tread upon the tail of the copperhead with one foot, he will throw himself into his coil for fight,—that's the nature of the beast,—and after that, if need be, we can threaten him until all our force arrives. Shelby, look to the immediate execution of this order."

"That's glorious, sergeant," said Henry, who, with his companion, Robinson, had stolen up to the skirts of the circle of officers during this conference, and had heard Campbell's order. "I am of this party, whoever goes. Colonel Campbell," he added, with the familiarity of his privilege, "the Rangers are ready for you, at any rate."

"There's a mettlesome colt," said Campbell, laughing and speaking to the officers around him, "that bird shows fight before his spurs are grown. Pray, sir," he continued, addressing Henry, "what command have you?"

"I consider myself answerable for the second platoon of the Amherst Rangers," replied Henry, with a waggish sauciness, "and they march this night, whatever happens."

"You shall serve with me in the staff, master," said Campbell, playfully, "such fiery young blades must be looked after. Get your men ready; you shall go, I promise you."

Henry, delighted at the notice he had received, rode off with alacrity to spread the news.

The council broke up, and the earliest arrangements were set on foot to make the draught required by the general orders.

Before the day had departed, nine hundred picked men, well mounted and equipped, were seen spurring forward from the line, and taking a position in the column of march, which was now prepared to move. All the principal officers of the army accompanied this detachment, in which were to be seen the Amherst Rangers with their redoubtable recruits, Henry Lindsay and the sergeant.

It rained during the night, a circumstance that, however it increased the toils of the soldiers, but little abated their speed—and, an hour before daybreak, they had reached the destined point on Broad river: but the game had disappeared. Ferguson, as we have seen, had pushed his march on the preceding evening beyond this spot, and had taken the road, as it was reported, towards King's mountain, which was not above twelve miles distant.

A few hours were given by Campbell to the refreshment of his troops, who halted upon the bank of the river, where, having kindled their fires and opened their wallets, they soon found themselves in a condition that pleasantly contrasted with the discomforts of their ride during the night. The enemy consisted principally of infantry—and Campbell, having gained so closely upon their footsteps, felt no doubt of overtaking them in the course of the day. He, therefore, determined to allow his men full time to recruit their strength for the approaching conflict.

The rain had ceased before the dawn. The clouds had fled from the firmament before a brisk and enlivening autumnal breeze, and the sun rose with unusual splendor. It was one of those days which belong to October, clear, cool, and exhilarating—when all animal nature seems to be invigorated by breathing an atmosphere of buoyant health. For more than an hour after the sun had cast his broad beams over the landscape, the wearied encampment was seen stretched in slumber—the camp-guards only, and some occasional parties on fatigue service, were to be observed in motion. By degrees, the drowsy soldiers woke up, refreshed by the change of weather, no less than by the repose which they had snatched in the short moments of the halt. A general summons, at last, brought every one into motion. By nine o'clock of the morning, the army were in condition to prosecute their march, as little wanting in alacrity or vigor as when they first commenced their labors; and, at the hour designated, they were seen to prick forth upon their way with an elastic movement that had in it the vivacity of a holiday sport. Even our young martialist, Henry, had become so inured to the toils of the road, that now, with the aid of a sleep which Horse Shoe had affectionately guarded until the last moment—to say nothing of a good luncheon of broiled venison, which the boy discussed after he had mounted into his saddle—he might be considered the most light-hearted of the host.

Towards noon, the army reached the neighborhood of King's mountain. The scouts and parties of the advance had brought information that Ferguson had turned aside from his direct road, and taken post upon this eminence, where, it was evident, he meant to await the attack of his enemy. Campbell, therefore, lost no time in pushing forward, and was soon rewarded with a view of the object of his pursuit. Some two or three miles distant, where an opening through the forest first gave him a sight of the mass of highland, he could indistinctly discern the array of the adverse army perched on the very summit of the hill.

The mountain consists of an elongated ridge, rising out of the bosom of an uneven country, to the height of perhaps five hundred feet, and presenting a level line of summit or crest, from which the earth slopes down, at its southward termination and on each side, by an easy descent; whilst northward, it is detached from highlands of inferior elevation by a rugged valley—thus giving it the character of an insulated promontory, not exceeding half a mile in length. At the period to which our story refers, it was covered, except in a few patches of barren field or broken ground, with a growth of heavy timber, which was so far free from underwood as in no great degree to embarrass the passage of horsemen; and through this growth the eye might distinguish, at a considerable distance, the occasional masses of grey rock that were scattered in huge boulders over its summit and sides.

The adjacent region, lying south from the mountain, was partially cleared and in cultivation, presenting a limited range of open ground, over which the march of Campbell might have been revealed in frequent glimpses to the British partisan, for some three or four miles. We may suppose, therefore, that the two antagonists watched each other, during the advance of the approaching army across this district, with emotions of various and deep interest. Campbell drew at length into a ravine which, bounded by low and short hills, and shaded by detached portions of the forest, partly concealed his troops from the view of the enemy, who was now not more than half a mile distant. The gorge of this dell or narrow valley opened immediately towards the southern termination of the mountain; and the column halted a short distance within, where a bare knoll, or round, low hill, crowned with rock, jutted abruptly over the road, and constituted the only impediment that prevented each party from inspecting the array of his opponent.

It was an hour after noon, and the present halt was improved by the men in making ready for battle. Meanwhile, the chief officers met together in front, and employed their time in surveying the localities of the ground upon which they were soon to be brought to action. The knoll, I have described, furnished a favorable position for this observation, and thither they had already repaired.

I turn from the graver and more important matters which may be supposed to have occupied the thoughts of the leaders, as they were grouped together on the broad rock, to a subject which was, at this moment, brought to their notice by the unexpected appearance of two females on horseback, on the road, a full half mile in the rear of the army, and who were now approaching at a steady pace. They were attended by a man who, even thus far off, showed the sedateness of age; and, a short space behind them, rode a few files of troopers in military array.

It was with mingled feelings of surprise and admiration at the courage which could have prompted her, at such a time, to visit the army, that the party recognised Mildred Lindsay and her attendants, in the approaching cavalcade. These emotions were expressed by them in the rough and hearty phrase of their habitual and familiar intercourse.

"Let me beg, gentlemen," said Campbell, interrupting them, "that you speak kindly and considerately of yonder lady. By my honor, I have never seen man or woman with a more devoted or braver heart. Poor girl!—she has nobly followed Butler through his afflictions, and taken her share of suffering with a spirit that should bring us all to shame. Horse Shoe Robinson, who has squired her to our camp, even from her father's house, speaks of a secret between her and our captive friend, that tells plainly enough to my mind of sworn faith and long-tried love. As men and soldiers, we should reverence it. Williams, look carefully to her comfort and safety. Go, man, at once, and meet her on the road. God grant that this day may bring an end to her grief!"

Williams departed on his mission, and when he met the lady her brother and the sergeant were already in her train.

Allen Musgrove explained the cause of this unlooked-for apparition. The party, in obedience to Mildred's urgent wish, and scarcely less to the content of all the others, had quitted their secluded position at Gilbert-town on the preceding morning; and learning in the course of the day from persons on the road, that Ferguson had moved northwards, the miller had taken a direction across the country which enabled him to intercept the army at its present post, with little more than half the travel which the circuitous route of the march had required. They had passed the night under a friendly roof some ten or twelve miles distant, and had overtaken their companions at the critical moment at which they have been introduced to view.

At Mildred's request she was conducted into the presence of Campbell, who still retained his station on the knoll. A thoughtful and amiable deference was manifested towards her by the assembled soldiers, who received her with many kind and encouraging greetings. That air of perturbation and timidity which, in spite of all efforts at self-control, the novelty of her position and the consciousness of the dreadful scene at hand had thrown over her demeanor, gradually began to give way before the assurances and sympathy of her friends; and, at length, she became sufficiently self-possessed to look around her and mark the events that were in progress.

The important moment of battle drew nigh, and the several leaders respectively took their leave of her, with an exhortation to be of good cheer, and to remain at her present post under the charge of her trusty companion, the miller, who was fully instructed by Campbell as to the course he should take for the lady's safety, in whatever emergency might arise.

Here we leave her for a moment, whilst we cast a glance at the preparations for battle.

It was three o'clock before these arrangements were completed. I have informed my reader that the mountain terminated immediately in front of the outlet from the narrow dell in which Campbell's army had halted, its breast protruding into the plain only some few hundred paces from the head of the column, whilst the valley, that forked both right and left, afforded an easy passage along the base on either side. Ferguson occupied the very summit, and now frowned upon his foe from the midst of a host confident in the strength of their position, and exasperated by the pursuit which had driven them into this fastness.

Campbell resolved to assail this post by a spirited attack, at the same moment, in front and on the two flanks. With this intent his army was divided into three equal parts. The centre was reserved to himself and Shelby; the right was assigned to Sevier and M'Dowell; the left to Cleveland and Williams. These two latter parties were to repair to their respective sides of the mountain, and the whole were to make the onset by scaling the heights as nearly as possible at the same instant.

The men, before they marched out of the ravine, had dismounted and picqueted their horses under the winding shelter of the hills; and, being now separated into detached columns formed in solid order, they were put in motion to reach their allotted posts. The Amherst Rangers were retained on horseback for such duty as might require speed, and were stationed close in the rear of Campbell's own division, which now merely marched from behind the shelter of the knoll and halted in the view of the enemy, until sufficient delay should be afforded to the flanking divisions to attain their ground.

Mildred, attended by Allen Musgrove and his daughter, still maintained her position on the knoll, and from this height surveyed the preparations for combat with a beating heart. The scene within her view was one of intense occupation. The air of stern resolve that sat upon every brow; the silent but onward movement of the masses of men advancing to conflict; the few brief and quick words of command that fell from the distance upon her ear; the sullen beat of the hoof upon the sod, as an occasional horseman sped to and fro between the more remote bodies and the centre division, which yet stood in compact phalanx immediately below her at the foot of the hill; then the breathless anxiety of her companions near at hand, and the short note of dread, and almost terror, that now and then escaped from the lips of Mary Musgrove, as the maiden looked eagerly and fearfully abroad over the plain; all these incidents wrought upon her feelings and caused her to tremble. Yet, amidst these novel emotions, she was not insensible to a certain lively and even pleasant interest, arising out of the picturesque character of the spectacle. The gay sunshine striking aslant these moving battalions, lighting up their fringed and many-colored hunting-shirts, and casting a golden hue upon their brown and weather-beaten faces, brought out into warm relief the chief characteristics of this peculiar woodland army. And Mildred sometimes forgot her fears in the fleeting inspiration of the sight, as she watched the progress of an advancing column—at one time moving in close ranks, with the serried thicket of rifles above their heads, and at another deploying into files to pass some narrow path, along which, with trailed arms and bodies bent, they sped with the pace of hunters beating the hill-side for game. The tattered and service-stricken banner that shook its folds in the wind above these detached bodies, likewise lent its charm of association to the field the silence and steadfastness of the array in which it was borne, and its constant onward motion; showing it to be encircled by strong arms and stout hearts.

Turning from these, the lady's eye was raised, with a less joyous glance, towards the position of the enemy. On the most prominent point of the mountain's crest she could descry the standard of England fluttering above a concentrated body, whose scarlet uniforms, as the sun glanced upon them through the forest, showed that here Ferguson had posted his corps of regulars, and held them ready to meet the attack of the centre division of the assailants; whilst the glittering of bayonets amidst the dark foliage, at intervals, rearward along the line of the summit, indicated that heavy detachments were stationed in this quarter to guard the flanks. The marching and countermarching of the frequent corps, from various positions on the summit; the speeding of officers on horseback, and the occasional movement of small squadrons of dragoons, who were at one moment seen struggling along the sides of the mountain, and, at another, descending towards the base or returning to the summit, disclosed the earnestness and activity of the preparation with which a courageous soldier may be supposed to make ready for his foe.

It was with a look of sorrowful concern which brought tears into her eyes, that Mildred gazed upon this host, and strained her vision in the vain endeavor to catch some evidences of the presence of Arthur Butler.

"We both look, perchance," she said to herself, "at this very instant, upon yon hateful banner—and with the same aversion: but oh, with what more painful apprehension it is my fortune to behold it! Little does he think that Mildred's eyes are turned upon it. 'Tis well he does not—his noble heart would chafe itself with ten-fold anguish at the cruel thraldom that separates us. Yes, 'tis well he does not dream that his Mildred is here to witness this dreadful struggle," she continued, musing over the subject of her grief, "it might tempt him to some rash endeavor to break his bondage. It is better as it is; the misery of the thought of our afflictions should be mine only; the brave patience of a manly soldier is his, and should not be embittered with sorrows that belong not to the perils of war."

"Sister," said Henry, who had stolen up the hill unobserved, and now stood beside Mildred, "take courage and keep a good heart! The very day I often prayed to see has come—and it has come sooner than you promised it should. Here I am in the field, amongst men, and no play-game is it, either, to keep us busy, but downright earnest battle. And then, dear sister, you are here to look on—isn't that a piece of good luck?"

"Ah, brother, I could talk to you with a boastful tongue when all around us was peace and security. I cannot exhort you now. If I dare, I would beg you to stay by my side. I have need of your comfort, and shudder with a chilly fear. Henry, that small hand of yours can do no service to-day—and in truth, I cannot bear to see you exposed to danger."

"In tears, sister! Come now, this is not like you. Hasn't Arthur fought many a day and often? And didn't you set him on, with good brave words for it?"

"I was not there to see him," interrupted Mildred.

"Well, sister, I must get to my post," said Henry. "I serve as aide-de-camp, and Horse Shoe is to help me. By-the-by, Mildred, the sergeant is uncommonly silent and busy to-day. He smells this battle like an old soldier, and I heard him give a few hints to Campbell, concerning the marching up yonder hill:—he told him the column should not display until they got near the top, as Ferguson has no cannon; and the Colonel took it very gladly. Horse Shoe, moreover, thinks we will beat them—and the men have great dependence on what he says. I shall not lose sight of him to-day."

"For Heaven's sake, Henry," exclaimed Mildred, "my dear brother, do not think of following the sergeant! I cannot part with you," she added, with great earnestness; "it is an awful time for brother and sister to separate—stay with me."

The cadet turned a look upon his sister of surprise, at the new light in which her present fears represented her.

"I thought, Mildred," he said, "you were brave. Hav'n't we come all this way from home to assist Butler? And are you now, for the first time—just when we are going to pluck him from the midst of the wolves upon that mountain—are you now to weep and play the coward, sister?"

"Go, go!" said Mildred, as she covered her eyes with her hand, "but, dear Henry, remember you have a weak arm and a slender frame, and are not expected to take upon you the duties of a man."

"Besides," said Mary Musgrove, who had been a silent and perplexed witness of this scene, and who now put in her word of counsel, out of the fulness of her heart, "besides, Mister Henry Lindsay, what trouble would it give to Sergeant Robinson, and all the rest of them, if you should get lost scampering about the hills, and they shouldn't know where to find you? It would take up so much of their precious time in looking for you: and, I am sure, they hav'n't much to spare!"

"You are as valiant as a mouse," replied Henry, laughing, "and monstrous wise, Mary Musgrove. Do you take care of my sister, and speak a word now and then to keep up her spirits—that is, if your tongue doesn't grow too thick with fright. Your teeth chatter now. A kiss, Mildred. There: God bless you! I must get to my post."

With these words, Henry bounded off towards the valley to rejoin his comrades. Half way, he met Allen Musgrove, who was now on his return to the top of the hill, whence he had withdrawn for a brief space to hold some converse with Robinson.

"A word," said Allen to Henry, as they met; "you are but a stripling. Remember that this day's work is to be wrought by men of might—those who are keen of eye and steady of foot. In the tempest of battle your weight, Mister Henry, would be but as a feather in the gale. Yet in this fight none might be crushed whose fall would bring more anguish than yours. Let me beg you, as a rash and thoughtless youth, to think of that. The good lady, your sister—"

"I cannot stay to hear you," interrupted Henry; "the column is beginning to move."

And in a moment he was at the foot of the hill.

THE BATTLE OF KING'S MOUNTAIN.

Every corps was now in motion, and the two flanking divisions were soon lost to view in the intervening forest. An incident of some interest to our story makes it necessary that we should, for a moment, follow the track of Cleveland in his march upon the left side of the mountain.

The principal road of travel northwards extended along the valley on this side; and upon this road Cleveland and Williams conducted their men, until they arrived at a point sufficiently remote to enable them, by ascending the height, to place themselves in Ferguson's rear. They had just reached this point when they encountered a picquet of the enemy, which, after a few shots, retired hastily up the mountain.

The little outpost had scarcely begun to give ground, before the leading companies of the Whigs had their attention drawn to the movements of a small party of horsemen who at that moment appeared in sight upon the road, some distance in advance. They were approaching the American column; and, as if taken by surprise at the appearance of this force, set spurs to their horses and made an effort to ride beyond the reach of Cleveland's fire, whilst they took a direction up the mountain towards Ferguson's stronghold. From the equipment of these individuals, it might have been inferred that they were two gentlemen of some distinction connected with the royal army, attended by their servants, and now about arriving, after a long journey, at the British camp. The first was habited in the uniform of an officer, was well mounted, and displayed a light and active figure, which appeared to advantage in the dexterous management of his horse. The second was a gentleman in a plain riding costume, of slender and well-knit proportions, and manifestly older than his companion. He rode a powerful and spirited horse, with a confidence and command not inferior to those of his associates. The others in attendance, from their position in the rear, and from the heavy portmanteaus that encumbered their saddles, we might have no difficulty in conjecturing to be menials in the service of the two first.

The course taken by this party brought them obliquely across the range of the fire of the Whigs.

"It is a general officer and his aide," exclaimed one of the subalterns in the advance. "Ho there! Stand. You are my prisoners!"

"Spur, spur, and away! For God's sake, fly!" shouted the younger of the two horsemen to his companion, as he dashed the rowels into his steed and fled up the mountain. "Push for the top—one moment more and we are out of reach!"

"Stop them, at all hazards!" vociferated Cleveland, the instant his eye fell upon them. "Quick, lads—level your pieces—they are messengers from Cornwallis. Rein up, or I fire!" he called aloud after the flying cavalcade.

The appeal and the threat were unheeded. A score of men left the ranks and ran some distance up the mountain side, and their shots whistled through the forest after the fugitives. One of the attendants was seen to fall, and his horse to wheel round and run back, with a frightened pace, to the valley. The scarlet uniform of the younger horseman, conspicuous through the foliage some distance up the mountain, showed that he had escaped. His elder comrade, when the smoke cleared away, was seen also beyond the reach of Cleveland's fire; but his altered pace and his relaxed seat in his saddle, made it apparent that he had received some hurt. This was confirmed when, still nearer to the summit, the stranger was seen to fall upon his horse's neck, and thence to be lifted to the ground by three or four soldiers who had hastened to his relief.

These incidents scarcely occupied more time in their performance than I have taken in the narrative; and all reflection upon them, for the present, was lost in the uproar and commotion of the bloody scene that succeeded.

Meanwhile, Campbell and Shelby, each at the head of his men in the centre division of the army, steadily commenced the ascent of the mountain. A long interval ensued, in which nothing was heard but the tramp of the soldiers and a few words of almost whispered command, as they scaled the height; and it was not until they had nearly reached the summit that the first peal of battle broke upon the sleeping echoes of the mountain.

Campbell here deployed into line, and his men strode briskly upwards until they had come within musket-shot of the British regulars, whose sharp and prolonged volleys, at this instant, suddenly burst forth from the crest of the hill. Peal after peal rattled along the mountain side, and volumes of smoke, silvered by the light of the sun, rolled over and enveloped the combatants.

When the breeze had partially swept away this cloud, and opened glimpses of the battle behind it, the troops of Campbell were seen recoiling before an impetuous charge of the bayonet, in which Ferguson himself led the way. A sudden halt by the retreating Whigs, and a stern front steadfastly opposed to the foe, checked the ardor of his pursuit at an early moment, and, in turn, he was discovered retiring towards his original ground, hotly followed by the mountaineers. Again, the same vigorous onset from the royalists was repeated, and again the shaken bands of Campbell rallied and turned back the rush of battle towards the summit. At last, panting and spent with the severe encounter, both parties stood for a space eyeing each other with deadly rage, and waiting only to gather breath for the renewal of the strife.

At this juncture, the distant firing heard from either flank furnished evidence that Sevier and Cleveland had both come in contact with the enemy. The uprising of smoke above the trees showed the seat of the combat to be below the summit on the mountain sides, and that the enemy had there half-way met his foe; whilst the shouts of the soldiers, alternating between the parties of either army, no less distinctly proclaimed the fact that, at these remote points, the field was disputed with bloody resolution and various success.

It would overtask my poor faculty of description, to give my reader even a faint picture of this rugged battle-field. During the pause of the combatants of the centre, Campbell and Shelby were seen riding along the line, and by speech and gesture encouraging their soldiers to still more determined efforts. Little need was there for exhortation; rage seemed to have refreshed the strength of the men, who, with loud and fierce huzzas, rushed again to the encounter. They were met with a defiance not less eager than their own; and, for a time, the battle was again obscured under the thick haze engendered by the incessant discharges of fire-arms. From this gloom, a yell of triumph was sometimes heard, as momentary success inspired those who struggled within; and the frequent twinkle of polished steel glimmering through the murky atmosphere, and the occasional apparition of a speeding horseman, seen for an instant as he came into the clear light, told of the dreadful earnestness and zeal with which the unseen hosts had now joined in conflict. The impression of this contact was various. Parts of each force broke before their antagonists; and in those spots where the array of the fight might be discerned through the shade of the forest or the smoke of battle, both royalists and Whigs were found, at the same instant, to have driven back detached fragments of their opponents. Foemen were mingled hand to hand, through and among their adverse ranks; and for a time no conjecture might be indulged as to the side to which victory would turn.

The flanking detachments seemed to have fallen into the same confusion, and might have been seen retreating and advancing upon the rough slopes of the mountain, in partisan bodies, separated from their lines; thus giving to the scene an air of bloody riot, more resembling the sudden insurrection of mutineers from the same ranks, than the orderly war of trained soldiers.

Through the din and disorder of this fight, it is fit that I should take time to mark the wanderings of Galbraith Robinson, whose exploits this day would not ill deserve the pen of Froissart. The doughty sergeant had, for a time, retained his post in the ranks of the Amherst Rangers, and with them had travelled towards the mountain top, close in the rear of Campbell's line. But when the troops had recoiled before the frequent charges of the royalists, finding his station, at best, but that of an inactive spectator, he made no scruple of deserting his companions and trying his fortune on the field in such form of adventure as best suited his temper. With no other weapon than his customary rifle, he stood his ground when others retreated; and saw the ebb and flow of "flight and chase" swell round him, according to the varying destiny of the day. In these difficulties, it was his good fortune to escape unhurt; a piece of luck that may, perhaps, be attributed to the coolness with which he either galloped over an adversary or around him, as the emergency rendered most advisable.

In the midst of this busy occupation, at a moment when one of the refluxes of battle brought him almost to the summit, he descried a small party of British dragoons, stationed some distance in the rear of Ferguson's line, whose detached position seemed to infer some duty unconnected with the general fight. In the midst of these, he thought he recognised the figure and dress of one familiar to his eye. The person thus singled out by the sergeant's glance stood bare-headed upon a projecting mass of rock, apparently looking with an eager gaze towards the distant combat. No sooner did the conjecture that this might be Arthur Butler flash across his thought, than he turned his steed back upon the path by which he had ascended, and rode with haste towards the Rangers.

"Stephen Foster," he said, as he galloped up to the lieutenant, and drew his attention by a tap of the hand upon his shoulder, "I have business for you, man—you are but wasting your time here—pick me out a half-dozen of your best fellows and bring them with you after me. Quick—Stephen—quick!"

The lieutenant of the Rangers collected the desired party and rode after the sergeant, who now conducted this handful of men with as much rapidity as the broken character of the ground allowed, by a circuit for a considerable distance along the right side of the mountain, until they reached the top. The point at which they gained the summit brought them between Ferguson's line and the dragoons, who, it was soon perceived, were the party charged with the custody of Butler, and who had been thus detached in the rear for the more safe guardianship of the prisoner. Horse Shoe's manœuvre had completely cut them off from their friends in front, and they had no resource but to defend themselves against the threatened assault, or fly towards the parties who were at this moment engaged with the flanking divisions of the Whigs. They were taken by surprise—and Horse Shoe, perceiving the importance of an immediate attack, dashed onwards along the ridge of the mountain with precipitate speed, calling out to his companions to follow. In a moment the dragoons were engaged in a desperate pell-mell with the Rangers.

"Upon them, Stephen! Upon them bravely, my lads! Huzza for Major Butler! Fling the major across your saddle—the first that reaches him," shouted the sergeant with a voice that was heard above all the uproar of battle. "What ho—James Curry!" he cried out, as soon as he detected the presence of his old acquaintance in this throng; "stand your ground, if you are a man!"

The person to whom this challenge was directed had made an effort to escape towards a party of his friends, whom he was about summoning to his aid; and in the attempt had already ridden some distance into the wood, whither the sergeant had eagerly followed him.

"Ah ha, old Truepenny, are you there?" exclaimed Curry, turning short upon his pursuer, and affecting to laugh as if in scorn. "Horse Shoe Robinson, well met!" he added sternly, "I have not seen a better sight to-day than that fool's head of yours upon this hill. No, not even when just now Patrick Ferguson sent your yelping curs back to hide themselves behind the trees."

"Come on, James!" cried Horse Shoe, "I have no time to talk. We have an old reckoning to settle, which, perhaps, you mought remember. I am a man of my word; and, besides, I have set my eye upon Major Butler," he added, with a tone and look that were both impressed with the fierce passion of the scene around him.

"The devil blast you, and Major Butler to boot!" exclaimed Curry, roused by Horse Shoe's air of defiance. "To it, bully! It shall be short work between us, and bloody," he shouted, as he discharged a pistol-shot at the sergeant's breast; which failing to take effect, he flung the weapon upon the ground, brandished his sword, and spurred immediately against his challenger. The sweep of the broadsword fell upon the barrel of Horse Shoe's uplifted rifle, and in the next instant the broad hand of our lusty yeoman had seized the trooper by the collar and dragged him from his horse. The two soldiers came to the ground, locked in a mutual embrace; and, for a brief moment, a desperate trial of strength was exhibited in the effort to gain their feet.

"I have you there," said Robinson, as at length, with a flushed cheek, quick breath, and blood-shot eye, he rose from the earth and shook the dragoon from him, who fell backwards on his knee. "Curse you, James Curry, for a fool and villain! You almost drive me, against my will, to the taking of your life. I don't want your blood. You are beaten, man, and must say so. I grant you quarter upon condition—"

"Look to yourself! I ask no terms from you," interrupted Curry, as suddenly springing to his feet, he now made a second pass, which was swung with such unexpected vigor at the head of his adversary, that Horse Shoe had barely time to catch the blow, as before, upon his rifle. The broadsword was broken by the stroke, and one of the fragments of the blade struck the sergeant upon the forehead, inflicting a wound that covered his face with blood. Horse Shoe reeled a step or two from his ground, and clubbing the rifle, as it is called, by grasping the barrel towards the muzzle, he paused but an instant to dash the blood from his brow with his hand, and then, with one lusty sweep, to which his sudden anger gave both precision and energy, he brought the piece full upon the head of his foe, with such fatal effect as to bury the lock in the trooper's brain, whilst the stock was shattered into splinters. Curry, almost without a groan, fell dead across a ledge of rock at his feet.

"The grudge is done, and the fool has met his desarvings," was Horse Shoe's brief comment upon the event, as he gazed sullenly, for an instant, upon the dead corpse. He had no time to tarry. The rest of his party were still engaged with the troopers of the guard, who now struggled to preserve the custody of their prisoner. The bridle-rein of Captain Peter had been caught by one of the Rangers, and the good steed was now quickly delivered up to his master, who, flinging himself again into his saddle, rushed into the throng of combatants. The few dragoons, dispirited by the loss of their leader, and stricken with panic at this strenuous onset, turned to flight, leaving Butler in the midst of his friends.

"God bless you, major!" shouted Robinson, as he rode up to his old comrade, who, unarmed, had looked upon the struggle with an interest corresponding to the stake he had in the event. "Up, man—here, spring across the pommel. Now, boys, down the mountain, for your lives! Huzza, huzza! we have won him back!" he exclaimed, as seizing Butler's arm, he lifted him upon the neck of Captain Peter, and bounded away at full speed towards the base of the mountain, followed by Foster and his party.

The reader may imagine the poignancy of Mildred's emotions as she sat beside Allen Musgrove and his daughter on the knoll, and watched the busy and stirring scene before her. The centre division of the assailing army was immediately in her view, on the opposite face of the mountain, and no incident of the battle in this quarter escaped her notice. She could distinctly perceive the motions of the Amherst Rangers, to whom she turned her eyes with a frequent and eager glance, as the corps with which her brother Henry was associated; and when the various fortune of the fight disclosed to her the occasional retreat of her friends before the vigorous sallies of the enemy, or brought to her ear the renewed and angry volleys of musketry, she clenched Mary Musgrove's arm with a nervous grasp, and uttered short and anxious ejaculations that showed the terror of her mind.

"I see Mister Henry, yet," said Mary, as Campbell's troops rallied from the last shock, and again moved towards the summit. "I see him plainly, ma'am—for I know his green dress, and caught the glitter of his brass bugle in the sun. And there now—all is smoke again. Mercy, how stubborn are these men! And there is Mister Henry once more—near the top. He is safe, ma'am."

"How earnestly," said Mildred, unconsciously speaking aloud as she surveyed the scene, "Oh, how earnestly do I wish this battle was done! I would rather, Mr. Musgrove, be in the midst of yonder crowd of angry men, could I but have their recklessness, than here in safety, to be tortured with my present feelings."

"In God is our trust, madam," replied the miller. "His arm is abroad over the dangerous paths, for a shield and buckler to them that put their trust in him. Ha! there is Ferguson's white horse, rushing, with a dangling rein and empty saddle, down the mountain, through Campbell's ranks: the rider has fallen; and there, madam—there, look on it!—is a white flag waving in the hands of a British officer. The fight is done. Hark, our friends are cheering with a loud voice!"

"Thank Heaven—thank Heaven!" exclaimed Mildred as she sprang upon her feet; "It is even so!"

The loud huzzas of the troops rose upon the air; the firing ceased; the flag of truce fluttered in the breeze, and the confederated bands of the mountaineers, from every quarter of the late battle, were seen hurrying towards the crest of the mountain, and mingling amongst the ranks of the conquered foe. Again and again, the clamorous cheering of the victors broke forth from the mountain-top, and echoed along the neighboring valleys.

During this wild clamor and busy movement, a party of horsemen were seen, through the occasional intervals of the low wood that skirted the valley on the right, hastening from the field with an eager swiftness towards the spot where Mildred and her companions were stationed.

As they swept along the base of the mountain, and approached the knoll, they were lost to view behind the projecting angles of the low hills that formed the ravine, through which, my reader is aware, the road held its course. When they re-appeared it was in ascending the abrupt acclivity of the knoll, and within fifty paces of the party on the top of it.

It was now apparent that the approaching party consisted of Stephen Foster and three or four of the Rangers led by Horse Shoe Robinson, with Butler still seated before him, as when the sergeant first caught him up in the fight. These were at the same moment overtaken by Henry Lindsay, who had turned back from the mountain at the first announcement of victory, to bring the tidings to his sister.

Mildred's cheek grew deadly pale, and her frame shook, as the cavalcade rushed into her presence.

"There—take him!" cried Horse Shoe, with an effort to laugh, but which seemed to be half converted into a quaver by the agitation of his feelings, as, springing to the ground, he swung Butler from the horse, with scarce more effort than he would have used in handling a child; "take him, ma'am. I promised myself to-day, that I'd give him to you. And, now, you've got him. That's a good reward for all your troubles. God bless us—but I'm happy to-day!"

"My husband!—my dear husband!" were the only articulate words that escaped Mildred's lips, as she fell senseless into the arms of Arthur Butler.

THE CONCLUSION.

The victory was won. In the last assault, Campbell had reached the crest of the mountain, and the loyalists had given ground with decisive indications of defeat. Ferguson, in the hopeless effort to rally his soldiers, had flung himself into their van, but a bullet at this instant reached his heart; he fell from his seat, and his white horse, which had been conspicuous in the crowd of battle, bounded wildly through the ranks of the Whigs, and made his way down the mountain side.

Campbell passed onward, driving the royalists before him. For a moment the discomfited bands hoped to join their comrades in the rear, and, by a united effort, to effect a retreat: but the parties led by Sevier and Cleveland, cheered by the shouts of their victorious companions, urged their attacks with new vigor, and won the hill in time to intercept the fugitives. All hopes of escape being thus at an end, a white flag was displayed in token of submission; and the remnant of Ferguson's late proud and boastful army, now amounting to between eight and nine hundred men, surrendered to the assailants.

It has scarcely ever happened that a battle has been fought, in which the combatants met with keener individual exasperation than in this. The mortal hatred which embittered the feelings of Whig and Tory along this border, here vented itself in the eagerness of conflict, and gave the impulse to every blow that was struck—rendering the fight, from beginning to end, relentless, vindictive, and bloody. The remembrance of the thousand cruelties practised by the royalists during the brief Tory dominion to which my narrative has been confined, was fresh in the minds of the stern and hardy men of the mountains, who had pursued their foe with such fierce animosity to this his last stage. Every one had some wrong to tell, and burned with an unquenchable rage of revenge. It was, therefore, with a yell of triumph that they saw the symbol of submission raised aloft by the enemy; and for a space, the forest rang with their loud and reiterated huzzas.

Many brave men fell on either side. Upon the slopes of the mountain and on its summit, the bodies of the dead and dying lay scattered amongst the rocks, and the feeble groans of the wounded mingled with the fierce tones of exultation from the living. The Whigs sustained a grievous loss in Colonel Williams, who had been struck down in the moment of victory. He was young, ardent, and brave; and his many soldier-like virtues, combined with a generous and amiable temper, had rendered him a cherished favorite with the army. His death served still more to increase the exacerbation of the conquerors against the conquered.

The sun was yet an hour high when the battle was done. The Whigs were formed in two lines on the ridge of the mountain; and the prisoners, more numerous than their captors, having laid down their arms, were drawn up in detached columns on the intervening ground. There were many sullen and angry glances exchanged, during this period of suspense, between victors and vanquished; and it was with a fearful rankling of inward wrath, that many of the Whigs detected, in the columns of the prisoners, some of their bitterest persecutors.

This spirit was partially suppressed in the busy occupation that followed. Preparations were directed to be made for the night-quarters of the army; and the whole host was, accordingly, ordered to march to the valley. The surgeons of each party were already fully employed in their vocation. The bodies of the wounded were strewed around; and, for the protection of such as were not in a condition to be moved, shelters were made of the boughs of trees, and fires kindled to guard them from the early frost of the season. All the rest retired slowly to the appointed encampment.

Whilst Campbell was intent upon these cares, a messenger came to summon him to a scene of unexpected interest. He was informed that a gentleman, not attached to the army, had been dangerously wounded in the fight, and now lay at the further extremity of the mountain ridge. It was added that he earnestly desired an interview with the commanding officer. Campbell lost no time in attending to the request.

Upon repairing to the spot, his attention was drawn to a stranger who lay upon the ground. His wan and haggard cheek, and restless eye, showed that he suffered acute pain; and the blood upon his cloak, which had been spread beneath him, indicated the wound to have been received in the side. A private soldier of the British army was his only attendant. To Campbell's solicitous and kind inquiry, he announced himself, in a voice that was almost over-mastered by his bodily anguish, to be Philip Lindsay, of Virginia.

"You behold," he said, "an unhappy father in pursuit of his children." Then, after a pause, he continued, "My daughter Mildred, I have been told, is near me: I would see her, and quickly."

"God have mercy on us!" exclaimed Campbell, "is this the father of the lady who has sought my protection? Wounded too, and badly, I fear! Where is Major Butler, who was lately prisoner with Ferguson?" he said, addressing the attendant—"Go, go, sir," he added, speaking to the same person, "bring me the first surgeon you can find, and direct some three or four men from the ranks to come to your aid. Lose no time."

The soldier went instantly upon the errand, and soon returned with the desired assistance. Lindsay's wound had been already staunched, and all that remained to be done was to put him in some place of shelter and comfort. A cottage at the foot of the mountain was pointed out by Campbell; a litter was constructed, and the sick man was borne upon the shoulders of four attendants to the designated spot. Meantime, Campbell rode off to communicate the discovery he had made to Mildred and her brother.

Lindsay's story, since we last parted from him, may be briefly told. He and Tyrrel had journeyed into the low country of Virginia, to meet the friends of the royal government. These had wavered, and were not to be brought together. A delay ensued, during which Tyrrel had prevailed upon Lindsay to extend his journey into North Carolina; whence, after an ineffectual effort to bring the Tory party to some decisive step, they both returned to the Dove Cote, having been nearly three weeks absent.

Upon their arrival, the afflicting intelligence met Lindsay of the departure of Mildred and her brother for the seat of war, Mildred's letter was delivered to him; and its contents almost struck him dumb. It related the story of Arthur Butler's misfortunes, and announced, that, for nearly a year past, Mildred had been the wedded wife of the captive officer. The marriage had been solemnized in the preceding autumn, in a hasty moment, as Butler travelled south to join the army. The only witnesses were Mistress Dimock, under whose roof it had occurred, Henry Lindsay, and the clergyman. The motives that induced this marriage were explained: both Mildred and Arthur hoped, by this irremediable step, to reconcile Lindsay to the event, and to turn his mind from its unhappy broodings: the increased exasperation of his feelings, during the succeeding period, prevented the disclosure which Mildred had again and again essayed to make. The recent dangers which had beset Arthur Butler, had determined her to fly to his rescue. As his wife she felt it to be her duty, and she had, accordingly, resolved to encounter the peril of the journey.

For a day or two after the perusal of this letter, Lindsay fell into a deep melancholy. His presentiments seemed to have been fatally realized, and his hopes suddenly destroyed. From this despondency, Tyrrel's assiduous artifice aroused him. He proposed to Lindsay the pursuit of his children, in the hope of thus luring him into Cornwallis's camp, and connecting him with the fortunes of the war. The chances of life, he reasoned, were against Butler, if indeed, as Tyrrel had ground to hope, that officer were not already the victim of the snares that had been laid for him.

Upon this advice, Lindsay had set out for Cornwallis's head-quarters, where he arrived within a week after the interview of Mildred and Henry with the British chief.

Whilst he delayed here, he received the tidings that his daughter had abandoned her homeward journey, and turned aside in quest of Butler. This determined him to continue his pursuit. Tyrrel still accompanied him; and the two travellers having arrived at the moment of the attack upon King's mountain, Lindsay was persuaded by his companion to make the rash adventure which, we have already seen, had been the cause of his present misfortune.

It is not my purpose to attempt a description of the scene in the cottage, where Arthur Butler and his wife, and Henry, first saw Lindsay stretched upon a rude pallet, and suffering the anguish of a dangerous wound. It is sufficient to say that, in the midst of the deep grief of the bystanders, Lindsay was composed and tranquil, like one who thought it vain to struggle with fate. "I have foreseen this day, and felt its coming," he muttered, in a low and broken voice; "it has happened as it was ordained. I have unwisely struggled against my doom. There, take it," he added, as he stretched forth his hand to Butler, and in tones scarcely audible breathed out, "God bless you, my children! I forgive you."

During the night fever ensued, and with it came delirium. The patient acquired strength from his disease, and raved wildly, in a strain familiar to his waking superstition. The same vision of fate and destiny haunted his imagination; and he almost frightened his daughter from beside his couch, with the fervid eloquence of his madness.

The cottage was situated near half a mile from the encampment of the army. Towards daylight, Lindsay had sunk into a slumber, and the attendant surgeon began to entertain hopes that the patient might successfully struggle with his malady. Mildred and Mary Musgrove kept watch in the apartment, whilst Butler, with Horse Shoe Robinson and Allen Musgrove, remained anxiously awake in the adjoining room. Henry Lindsay, wearied with the toils of the preceding day, and old Isaac the negro, not so much from the provocation of previous labor as from constitutional torpor, lay stretched in deep sleep upon the floor.

Such was the state of things when, near sunrise, a distant murmur reached the ears of those who were awake in the cottage. These sounds attracted the notice of Horse Shoe, who immediately afterwards stole out of the apartment and repaired to the camp. During his walk thither the uproar became more distinct, and shouts were heard from a crowd of soldiers who were discovered in a confused and agitated mass in the valley, at some distance from the encampment. The sergeant hastened to this spot, and, upon his arrival, was struck with the shocking sight of the bodies of some eight or ten of the Tory prisoners suspended to the limbs of a large tree.

The repose of the night had not allayed the thirst of revenge amongst the Whigs. On the contrary, the opportunity of conference and deliberation had only given a more fatal certainty to their purpose. The recent executions which had been permitted in Cornwallis's camp, after the battle of Camden, no less than the atrocities lately practised by some of the Tories who were now amongst the captured, suggested the idea of a signal retribution. The obnoxious individuals were dragged forth from their ranks at early dawn, and summary punishment was inflicted by the excited soldiery in the manner which we have described, in spite of all remonstrance or command.

This dreadful work was still in progress when Horse Shoe arrived. The crowd were, at that moment, forcing along to the spot of execution a trembling wretch, whose gaunt form, crouching beneath the hands that held him, and pitiful supplications for mercy, announced him to the sergeant as an old acquaintance. The unfortunate man had caught a glance of Robinson, and, almost frantic with despair, sprang with a tiger's leap from the grasp of those who held him, and, in an instant, threw his arms around the sergeant's neck, where he clung with the hold of a drowning man.

"Oh save me, save me, Horse Shoe Robinson!" he exclaimed wildly. "Friend Horse Shoe, save me!"

"I am no friend of yours, Wat Adair," said Robinson, sternly.

"Speak for me—Galbraith—speak, for old acquaintance sake!"

"Hold!" said Robinson to the crowd who had gathered round to pluck the fugitive from his present refuge. "One word, friends! stand back, I have somewhat to say in this matter."

"He gave Butler into Hugh Habershaw's hands," cried out some of the crowd.

"He took the price of blood, and sold Butler's life for money—he shall die!" shouted others.

"No words!" exclaimed many, "but up with him!"

"Mr. Robinson," screamed Adair, with tears starting from his eyes, "only hear me! I was forced to take sides against Major Butler. The Tories would have burnt down my house; they suspected me,—I was obliged,—Mike Lynch was witness,—mercy, mercy!" and here the frightened culprit cried loud and bitterly.

"Friends," said Horse Shoe calmly to the multitude, "there is better game to hunt than this mountain-cat. Let me have my way."

"None has a better right than Horse Shoe Robinson," said a speaker from the group, "to say what ought to be done to Wat Adair. Speak out, Horse Shoe!"

"Speak! We leave it to you," shouted some of the leaders: and instantly the crowd fell back and formed a circle round Horse Shoe and Adair.

"I give you your choice," said the sergeant, addressing the captive, "for though your iniquities, Wat Adair, desarve that you should have been the first that was strung up to yonder tree, yet you shall have your choice, to tell us fully and truly, without holding back name of high or low, who put you on to ambush Major Arthur Butler's life at Grindall's Ford. Tell us that, to our satisfaction, and answer all other questions besides that we may ax you, and you shall have your life, taking, howsever, one hundred lashes to the back of it."

"I will confess all, before God, truly," cried Adair with eagerness. "James Curry told me of your coming, and gave me and Mike Lynch money to help Hugh Habershaw."

"James Curry had a master in the business," said Robinson: "His name?"

Adair hesitated for an instant and stammered out "Captain St. Jermyn."

"He was at your house? Speak it, man, or think of the rope!"

"He was there," said Adair.

"By my soul! Wat Adair, if you do not come out with the whole truth," said Robinson, with angry earnestness, "I take back my promise. Tell me all you know."

"Curry acted by the captain's directions," continued the woodsman, "he was well paid for it, as he told me, and would have got more, if a quarrel amongst Habershaw's people hadn't stopped them from taking Major Butler's life. So I have heard from the men myself."

"Well, sir?"

"That's all," replied Adair.

"Do you know nothing about the court-martial?" asked Robinson.

"Nothing, except that as the Major wasn't killed at the Ford, it was thought best to have a trial, wherein James Curry and Hugh Habershaw, as I was told, had agreed to swear against the Major's life."

"And were paid for it?"

"It was upon a consideration, in course," replied Adair.

"And Captain St. Jermyn contrived this?"

"It was said," answered Adair, "that the captain left it all to Curry, and rather seemed to take Major Butler's side himself at the trial. He didn't want to be known in the business!"

"Where is this Captain St. Jermyn?" demanded many voices.

This interrogatory was followed by the rush of the party towards the quarter in which the prisoners were assembled, and, after a lapse of time which seemed incredibly short for the performance of the deed, the unhappy victim of this tumultuary wrath was seen struggling in the agonies of death, as he hung from one of the boughs of the same tree which had supplied the means of the other executions.

By this time Butler and Henry Lindsay, attracted by the shouts that reached them at the cottage, had arrived at the scene of these dreadful events. Wat Adair was, at this moment, undergoing the punishment for which his first sentence was commuted. The lashes were inflicted by a sturdy arm upon his uncovered back; and it was remarkable that the wretch who but lately had sunk, with the most slavish fear, under the threat of death, now bore his stripes with a fortitude that seemed to disdain complaint or even the confession of pain. Butler and Henry hurried with a natural disgust from this spectacle, and soon found themselves near the spot where the lifeless forms of the victims of military vengeance were suspended from the tree.

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Butler, "is not that St. Jermyn? What has he done to provoke this doom?"

"It is Tyrrel!" ejaculated Henry. "Major Butler, it is Tyrrel! That face, black and horrible as it is to look at, I would know it among a thousand!"

"Indeed!" said Butler, gazing with a melancholy earnestness upon the scene, and speaking scarce above his breath, "is it so? Tyrrel and St. Jermyn the same person! This is a strange mystery."

Robinson, at this moment, approached, and, in answer to Butler's questions, told the whole story of the commotions that had just agitated the camp.

"St. Jermyn was not with Ferguson," said Butler, when the sergeant had finished his narrative. "How came he here to-day?"

"First or last," replied Robinson, "it is my observation, Major, that these schemers and contrivers against others' lives are sure to come to account. The devil put it into this St. Jermyn's head to make Ferguson a visit. He came yesterday with Mr. Lindsay, and got the poor gentleman his hurt. James Curry has done working for him now, Major. Master and man have travelled one road."