CHAPTER XXX—AN INTERRUPTED JOURNEY

The men about Charlotte had disputed his advance; they now harassed his foraging parties, intercepted his despatches and cut off his communications. Declaring that every bush hid a rebel, Lord Cornwallis fell back across the Catawba into South Carolina.

At the plantation the news of the victory was received with joy, causing Peggy to unfold the plan that had been maturing ever since she had regained possession of Star.

“What doth hinder my going home now?” she asked the assembled family one evening. “The British have gone, and I have but to keep to the road to arrive in time at Philadelphia.”

“But the Tories?” questioned Mistress Egan. “They are everywhere.”

“I have waited so long for a way to open,” continued Peggy, stoutly. “It is wonderful how it hath all come about. First, the sea brought me to thy door, Friend Mandy. Then we came up here where the road is the selfsame one used by the delegates to go to the Congress. Then my own pony is brought to this very house. Does thee not see that ’tis the way opened at last?”

“I see that we must let you go,” said the good woman sadly, “though I shall never know a minute’s peace until I hear of you being safe with your mother.”

“I will write as soon as I reach her,” promised the girl. “And I shall get through, never fear. Did thee not say to thy husband when the cottage was burned that the people would help? Well, they will help me too.”

“You cannot go alone, my girl,” interposed Henry Egan decidedly. “’Twould never do in the world. Things air upset still, even though the British air gone. If I hadn’t joined the milish I’d take you home myself. As things air there can’t a man be spared from the state jest now. North Carolina needs every man she can get.”

“I know it, Friend Henry,” answered Peggy. “And I would not wish any one to leave his duty for me. The cause of liberty must come before everything.”

“That is true,” he said. “Be content to bide a little longer, and mayhap a way will be opened, as you say.”

So, yielding to his judgment with the sweet deference that was her greatest charm, Peggy bore her disappointment as best she could. It was but a few days, however, until the matter was brought up again by the fisherman.

“Peggy,” he said, “I heard as how Joe Hart was going to take his wife and baby to her folks in Virginny, so that he can join the Continentals with Gates. If you’re bound to go this might be your chance. Things don’t seem to be so bad over there as they air in this state, and it may be easier for you to get some one to take you on to Philadelphia.”

“When do they start?” asked Peggy joyfully.

“To-morrow morning. That won’t give you much time, but——”

“’Tis all I need,” she answered excitedly. “Oh, Friend Henry, how good thee is to find a chance for me.”

“There, my girl! say no more. Of course you want them even as they must want you. You’ll write sometimes, and when this awful war is over, if there air any of us left, mayhap you’ll come down to see us again.”

“I will,” she promised in tears.

“Another thing,” he said, bringing forth a few gold pieces, “you must take these with you. They will help you in your journey, but use ’em only when you can’t get what you want any other way. ’Tis better to trust to kindness of heart than to cupidity.”

In spite of her protests he made her accept them, and she sewed them in the hem of her frock, promising to use them with discretion. With many tears Peggy took leave of these kindly people the next morning, and set forth with Joe Hart and his wife and baby for Virginia. The road was mountainous, and the riding hard, but Peggy’s heart danced with gladness and she heeded not the fatigue, for at last she was going home. Home! The opaline splendor of the morning thrilled her with an appreciation that she had never felt before. What a wonderful light threaded the woods and glorified the treetops! Home!

At night they stopped at some woodman’s hut, or at a plantation, if they were near the more pretentious establishment; for inns were few, and the habitations so far removed from each other that the people gladly gave entertainment to travelers in return for the news they brought.

Often they encountered bodies of irregular troops upon the road directing their wearied march toward the headquarters of the patriot army. The victory at King’s Mountain had thrilled the people even as Concord and Lexington had done, and roused them to renewed exertions.

Peggy’s companions were not very cheerful. The man was a rough, kindly, goodhearted fellow, but his wife was a delicate woman, peevish and complaining, whose strength was scarcely equal to the hardships of the journey and the care of the sickly infant who fretted incessantly.

Four days of such companionship wore upon even Peggy’s joyousness. They were by this time some fifteen miles east of Hillsborough, where the remnant of the patriot army lay. The road was lonely, the quiet broken only by the whimpering of the baby and the querulous soothing of the mother. Peggy felt depressed and mentally reproached herself for it.

“Thee is foolish, Peggy,” she chided sternly, “to heed such things. If the poor woman can bear it thee should not let it wherrit thee. Now be brave, Peggy Owen! just think how soon thee will see mother. Can thee not bear a little discomfort for that? And how exciting ’twill be to tell them——What was that?” she cried aloud, turning a startled look upon the mountaineer, who rode a short distance ahead of Peggy and his wife.

“It sounded like a groan,” exclaimed he.

They drew rein and listened. The road ran through a forest so densely studded with undergrowth that it was impossible to see any distance on either side. For a few seconds there was no sound but the whispering of the pines. They were about to pass on when there came a low cry:

“You, whoever you are! Come to me, for the love of God!”

For a moment they looked at each other with startled faces, and then the mountaineer made a motion to swing himself from his horse.

“Joe,” cried his wife, “what air you going to do? Don’t go! How’d you know but what it’s an ambush?”

“Nay; some one is hurt,” protested Peggy.

While Hart still hesitated, Peggy dismounted, and leading Star by the bridle walked in the direction from which the cry came.

“Where is thee, friend?” she called, her voice sounding clearly through the stillness of the forest.

“Here! Here!” came the feeble reply.

Dropping the pony’s bridle Peggy pushed aside the undergrowth, and advanced fearlessly, pausing ever and anon to call for guidance. Shamed by this display of courage Joe Hart followed her, despite the protests of his wife. Presently just ahead of them appeared a man’s form lying outstretched under a clump of bushes, and wearing the uniform of the Continentals. One arm, the right one, was broken, and lay disabled upon the grass, while the hand of the other lifted itself occasionally to stroke the legs of a powerful horse which stood guard over the prostrate form of his master.

The animal snapped at them viciously as they approached, but the soldier spoke to him sharply, so that they could draw near in safety. The girl bent over the wounded man pityingly, for a gaping hole in his side through which the blood was flowing told that he had not long to live.

“What can I do for thee, friend?” she asked gently, sinking down beside him and raising his head to her lap.

“Are you Whig or Tory?” he gasped, gazing up at her eagerly.

“A patriot, friend,” she answered wiping the moisture from his brow with tender hands.

“Thank God,” he cried making a great effort to talk for the end was fast approaching. “I bear letters to General Gates from the Congress. In my shoe; will you see that they are taken to him?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Promise me,” he insisted. “You look true. Promise that you yourself will take them to him.”

“I promise,” she said solemnly. “And now, friend, thyself. Hast thou no messages for thy dear ones?”

“Mary,” he whispered a spasm of pain contracting his face. “My wife! Tell her that I died doing my duty. She must not grieve. ’Tis for the country. Water!” he gasped.

But Joe Hart, foreseeing the need for this, had already gone in search of it, and opportunely returned at this moment with his drinking-horn full. The vidette drank eagerly, and revived a little.

“Thy name?” asked Peggy softly, for she saw that his time was short.

“William Trumbull, of Fairfield, Connecticut,” he responded. The words came slowly with great effort. “’Twas Tories,” he said, “that shot me, but Duke outran them. Then I fell and crawled in here. My horse——” A smile of pride and affection lighted up his face as he turned toward the animal. “We’ve taken our last ride, old fellow!”

“Would thee like for me to speak to the general about thy horse?” asked Peggy.

“If you would,” he cried eagerly. And then after a moment—“Take off my boots.”

The mountaineer complied with the request, and the dying patriot gave the papers which Hart took from them to Peggy.

“Guard these with your life,” he continued. “And get to General Gates without delay. They have news of Arnold’s treason——”

“Of what, did thee say?” cried Peggy.

“Of the treason of Benedict Arnold,” he said feebly. “He is a traitor.”

“Not General Arnold!” exclaimed Peggy in anguish. “Not the Arnold that was at Philadelphia! Oh, friend! thee can’t mean that Arnold?”

“The very same,” he responded. “And further, he is seeking to induce the soldiers to desert their country’s colors.”

“Merciful heavens! it can’t be true!” she cried. “Friend, friend, thee must be wandering. It couldn’t happen.”

“But it hath,” he gasped. “They told me to make speed. I—I must go!”

With a superhuman effort he struggled to his feet, stood for a brief second, and fell back—dead.

CHAPTER XXXI—HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED AT CAMP

“But ’tis wrong,” remonstrated she, kneeling beside the dead vidette, and touching his brow reverently. “He died for his country, friend.”

“Tell them at the camp,” suggested he. “Mayhap they will send out and get him.”

“Yes; that is what we must do,” she said. “I could not bear to think of him lying here without Christian burial.”

“And what is it now, miss?” questioned Hart, as she still lingered.

“Could we cut a lock from his hair, friend? For his wife! I know that mother and I would wish if father—if father——” Peggy faltered and choked.

Silently Hart drew out his hunting-knife and severed a lock of hair from the vidette’s head, which the maiden placed with the despatches in the bosom of her gown. Then taking the kerchief from about her throat she spread it over his face, and followed the mountaineer back to the road. As they left the spot the horse resumed his former position, and a last glance from Peggy showed the faithful creature standing guard over the dead form of his master.

“Whatever made you so long, Joe?” cried his wife petulantly. “The baby’s that fretful that I don’t know what to do with her. She’s jest wore out, and we must get where something can be done for her.”

“Tilly,” he answered gravely, “there was a pore soger in there who died. He wanted us to take his despatches to Gates. I reckon we’ll have to go back to Hillsboro’town.”

“Back fifteen miles, with the baby sick,” exclaimed the woman in dismay. “Joe Hart, you must be crazy. We shan’t do no such thing. It will lose us a whole day, and we ain’t got any too much time as ’tis. Your own flesh and blood comes before anything else, I reckon. Jest see how the child looks.”

The baby did look ill. The father regarded it anxiously, and then glanced about him with an uncertain manner.

“The general ought to have them despatches,” he said, “but the child is sick, sure enuff. Mayhap we can find somebody to take the letters back at the next cabin.”

“Nay,” objected Peggy. “I promised the soldier that I would see that the papers were given into the general’s own hands; therefore I will ride back with them. We cannot trust to uncertainties.”

“Yes,” spoke the wife eagerly. “That is just the thing, Joe. The girl can take them. It’s daylight, and nothing won’t hurt her. We’d best push on to where the baby can be ’tended to. She can catch up with us to-morrow!”

“Very well,” replied Peggy quietly. “And, friend, where shall I tell the general to come for the body? Does thee know the place?”

The mountaineer glanced about him. “Jest tell him about two mile above the cross-tree crossing,” he said. “On the north side the road. Anybody that knows the country will know where ’tis. I don’t like——” But Peggy bade them good-bye and was gone before he could voice any further regrets.

“’Twas useless to parley over the matter,” she thought as a turn in the road hid them from view. “In truth the little one did look ill. I would as soon be alone, and I can return the faster. This awful thing about General Arnold! How could it have happened? Why, oh, why did he do it?”

Her thoughts flew back to the night of the tea at General Arnold’s headquarters. How kind he had seemed then. The dark handsome face came before her as she remembered how he had walked down the room by her side, and how proud she had felt of his attention. And how good he had been to John Drayton! Drayton! Peggy started as the thought of the lad came to her. How had he taken it? The boy had loved him so.

It is never pleasant to be the bearer of ill tidings, and Peggy found herself lagging more than once in her journey. The afternoon was drawing to a close when she came in sight of the town on the Eno near which the army was encamped. They had passed around it in the morning. Mrs. Hart had feared that her husband might be tempted into staying with the army, and so had insisted upon the détour.

The little town, nestled among beautiful eminences, seemed deserted as the maiden rode down the long unpaved street to the upland beyond, where the camp lay. In reality the inhabitants were at supper, and sundry fragrant odors were wafted from the various dwellings to the passing girl. Peggy, however, was too heavy of heart for an appeal to the senses, though she had not tasted food since the morning meal.

Passing at length through a defile the encampment came to view. It was surrounded with woods, and guarded in its rear by the smooth and gentle river. A farmhouse in the immediate neighborhood served as headquarters for the officers.

Numerous horses were tethered in rows about the upland plain. There were no tents or huts, but rude accommodations for the men had been made by branches and underwood set against ridge-poles that were sustained by stakes, and topped by sheaves of Indian corn.

Groups of men were scattered over the plain, some wagons were to be seen in one direction, and not far off, a line of fires around which parties were engaged cooking food. Here and there a sentinel was pacing his short limits, and occasionally the roll of the drum, or the flourish of a fife told of some ceremony of the camp.

Peggy had but time to observe these details when she was stopped by the picket who demanded the countersign.

“I know it not, friend,” was her response. “Lead me at once to thy general, I beg thee; for I bear despatches for him.”

At this moment the officer in charge of the relief guard, for the beautiful and inspiring music of the sunset retreat was just sounding, came up.

“What is it, Johnson?” he asked. Peggy gave a little cry at the sound of his voice.

“John!” she cried. “John Drayton!”

“Peggy,” he gasped. “In the name of all that’s wonderful, what are you doing here?”

“I might ask thee the same thing,” she returned. “I was thinking of thee but now, John.”

“Were you?” he cried gladly. “I am a lieutenant now, Peggy.” He squared his shoulders with the jaunty air which the girl remembered so well, and which had always caused Harriet so much amusement. “What think you of that?”

“Oh, I am glad, glad,” she returned.

“There is so much to tell you,” continued he. “Just wait until I place this other sentinel, and then we can have a nice long talk.”

“I can’t, John,” exclaimed she, remembering her mission. “I bear despatches for the general.”

“You with despatches,” he ejaculated laughing. “Have you ’listed, Peggy?”

“Nay,” returned she gravely, his lightness of heart striking her like a blow. How could she tell him? “John, let me give the letters first.”

“Come,” said he. “I will take you there at once. I am curious as to why you are the bearer of such missives.”

“’Tis ill tidings,” spoke Peggy.

“Another disaster, eh?” He laid his arm over the pony’s glossy neck and walked thus over toward the farmhouse. “Well, we are used to them. A victory would upset us more than anything just at present. The day we heard of King’s Mountain I thought the men would go wild. We didn’t try to maintain discipline on that day. Oh, well; if we are whipped, we just fight ’em again. We’ll win out in time.”

The color fled from Peggy’s face. He did not know, and it was she who must tell him. How would he bear it? They had reached the farmhouse by the time, and Drayton assisted Peggy from the horse, and turned to an orderly.

“Will you say to the general that Ensign—I mean Lieutenant Drayton is without with a young lady who bears despatches? ’Tis important. I have hardly got used to my new dignity yet,” he explained turning to Peggy with a boyish laugh. “It’s good to see you, Peggy.”

“John,” said the girl, laying her hand on his arm and speaking with intense earnestness. “Will thee try to be brave? The news I bring——”

“What mean you?” he asked in surprise. “Why should a disaster effect me more than any one else? Peggy, I never knew you to act and to speak so strangely before. What is it?”

“The general waits, lieutenant,” interrupted the orderly. “He has but a few moments, as he is going to Hillsboro’ for the night.”

“Come, Peggy,” said Drayton. “I will take you in.” They passed into the dwelling, and Drayton opened a door on the right of the hall which led to General Gates’ office. There were several men in the room, among them Colonel Daniel Morgan who had but recently arrived, and Colonel William Washington.

“General Gates,” said Drayton saluting, “allow me to present Mistress Peggy Owen, who is the bearer of despatches. She is the daughter of David Owen, of the Pennsylvania Light Horse.”

“You are welcome, Mistress Owen,” said General Gates rising courteously. “Stay, lieutenant,” as the lad made a movement to depart. “If the young lady is friend of yours you may be her escort back to Hillsboro’ when the mission is ended.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Drayton, saluting again.

“Sir,” said Peggy with a certain wistfulness in her voice caused by the knowledge of the news she bore, “before thee takes the letters I should like to tell thee how I came by them.”

“Certainly you may,” he said regarding her with a new deference, for the girl’s manner and accents bespoke her gentle breeding.

“Yes,” acknowledged the girl, looking at him earnestly, for she had feared that very thing. “Sir,” giving him the despatches, “I pray thee to pardon me for being the bearer of such awful tidings.”

There was a slight smile on General Gates’ face at her manner of speaking, but it died quickly as he ran his eye down the written page. He uttered an exclamation as he mastered the contents, and then stood staring at the paper. At length, however, he turned to the men at the table, and said in a hollow voice:

“Gentlemen, it becomes my painful duty to inform you that Major-General Arnold is a traitor to his country.”

An awful pause followed the announcement—a pause that throbbed with the despair of brave men. Disaster had followed fast upon disaster. The South was all but lost. Two armies had been wiped out of existence in three months, and what was left was but a pitiful remnant. Washington’s force in the North was so weakened by detaching troops for the defense of the South that he was unable to strike a blow. And now this calamity was the culmination. A murmur broke out in the room. Then, as though galvanized into action by that murmur, John Drayton, who had stood as though petrified, bounded forward with a roar.

“’Tis false,” he cried, whipping out his sword. “I’ll run any man through who says that my general is a traitor!”

He advanced threateningly toward General Gates as he spoke. He had drawn upon his superior officer, but there was no anger in the glance that Horatio Gates cast upon him.

“Would God it were false,” he said solemnly. “But here are proofs. This is a letter from Congress; this one from General Washington himself, and this——”

“I tell you it is not true,” reiterated the boy fiercely. “Look how they’ve always treated him! It’s another one of their vile charges trumped up against him. Daniel Morgan, you were with him at Quebec and Saratoga! Are you going to stand there and hear such calumny?”

Morgan hid his face in his hands and a sob broke from his lips. The sound seemed to pierce Drayton like a sword thrust. His arm dropped to his side, and he turned from one to another searching their faces eagerly, but their sorrowful countenances only spoke confirmation of the news.

“In mercy, speak,” he cried with a catch in his voice. “Peggy, tell me truth! Speak to me!”

“John, John, I’m afraid ’tis true,” cried Peggy going to him with outstretched hands. “Don’t take it like this! Thee must be brave.”

But with a cry, so full of anguish, of heartbreak, that they paled as they heard it, Drayton sank to the floor.

“Boy, I loved him too,” spoke Colonel Morgan brokenly. “We were both with him on that march to Quebec. And at Saratoga in that mad charge he made. I loved him——”

He could not proceed. Bending over the prostrate lad he lifted him, and with his arm about him drew him from the room. Peggy broke into a passion of tears as Drayton’s wailing cry came back to her:

“My general! My general! My general!”

CHAPTER XXXII—ON THE ALTAR OF HIS COUNTRY

“My child,” he said, “I am about to ride into Hillsboro’ to confer with Governor Nash. Will you permit me to be your escort? We must find a resting place for you. You must be weary after this trying day.”

“I am,” she replied sadly. “Wearied and heart-sick. Thee is very kind, and I thank thee.” She rose instantly, and followed him to the door where the orderly had her horse in charge.

What a change had come over the encampment. From lip to lip the tidings had flown, and white-faced men huddled about the camp-fires talking in whispers. No longer song, or story, or merry jest enlivened the evening rest time, but a hush was over the encampment such as follows a great battle when many have fallen.

Seeing that she was so depressed General Gates exerted himself to cheer her despondency, leaving her when Hillsborough was reached in the care of a motherly woman.

“I shall send Lieutenant Drayton to you in the morning,” he said as he was taking his departure. “He will need comfort, child; as we all do, but the boy was wrapped up in Arnold.”

It was noon the next day before Drayton appeared, and Peggy was shocked at the change in him. There was no longer a trace of jauntiness in his manner. There were deep circles under his eyes, and he was pale and haggard as though he had not slept.

“John,” she cried, her heart going out to him for his sorrow, “thee must not take this matter so. General Washington is left us.”

“Yes,” he replied, “but I loved him so. Oh, Peggy! Peggy! why did he do it?”

“I know not,” she answered soberly. “After thee left Philadelphia there were rumors concerning General Arnold’s extravagance. Mother was much exercised anent the matter. But as to whether that had anything to do with this, I know not.”

“How shall I bear it?” he cried suddenly. “Who shall take his place? Had he been with us there would have been another tale to tell of Camden.”

“That may be, John.” And then, seeking to beguile his thoughts from the matter, she added with sweet craftiness: “Thee has not told me how thee came to be down here? Nor yet if thee ever returned to New York City after that trip with the wood? Thee should have seen Cousin William after the failure of the alert. That was why he brought me down here.”

“Tell me about it, Peggy,” he replied with kindling interest. And the girl, pleased with her artifice, related all that had befallen her.

“And now?” he questioned. “What are you going to do now?”

“There is but one thing to do, John,” she answered, surprised by the query. “That is, to get home as quickly as possible.”

“I like not for you to undertake such a journey, Peggy. There are more loyalists in the South than elsewhere, which was the reason the war was transferred to these states. ’Tis a dangerous journey even for a man. ’Tis hard to get despatches to and from Congress, as you know by the death of that poor fellow whose letters you carried. I don’t believe that your mother would like for you to undertake it.”

“But there is danger in staying, John. No part of the Carolinas is safe from an incursion of the enemy. ’Tis as far back to the plantation at Charlotte as ’twould be to go on to Virginia, and I want my mother. Friend Hart said that he and his wife would travel slowly so that I could o’ertake them.”

“Yes; you ought to be out of this,” agreed Drayton. “Every part of this country down here is being ravaged by Tories, who seem determined to destroy whatever the British leave. Would that I could take you to your mother, Peggy, but I cannot leave without deserting, and that I——”

“Thee must not think of it,” she interrupted, looking at him fearfully.

“And that,” he went on steadily without noticing the interruption, “I would not do, even for you.”

“That forever settles my last doubt of thee,” declared Peggy with an attempt at sprightliness. “I know that thee is willing to do almost anything for me.”

“Yes,” he replied. “And now I must go.”

“Shall I see thee again before I leave, John?”

“When do you start?”

“In the morning. I waited to-day to see thee.”

“Then it must be good-bye now,” he said. “I am to carry some despatches to General Marion on the morrow, and that will take us far apart, Peggy. I asked for the mission; for I must have action at the present time. I like not to think.”

“Don’t be too venturesome,” pleaded the girl. “We who know thee have no need of valiant deeds to prove thy merit.”

“I want a chance to distinguish myself,” declared the lad. “That, and to prove my loyalty too. All of General Arnold’s old men will be regarded with suspicion until they show that they are true. And now good-bye, Peggy.”

“Good-bye, John,” spoke the maiden sorrowfully. “Thee carries my sympathy and prayers with thee.”

He bade her good-bye again, and left. Early next morning Peggy set forth at speed hoping to overtake Mr. and Mistress Hart before the day’s end. Her thoughts were busied with Drayton and his grief, and she now acknowledged to herself the fear that had filled her lest he too should prove disloyal.

“But it hath not even occurred to him to be other than true,” she told herself with rejoicing.

And so thinking she rode along briskly, and was not long in reaching the spot where they had been stopped by the dying vidette. She gazed at the place with melancholy, noting that the bushes were trampled as though a number of men had passed over them. Doubting not but that this appearance had been caused by the soldiers who had been sent for the body, which was indeed the fact, the girl sped on rapidly, trying not to think of all that had occurred in the past few days.

Peggy had been sure of her bearings up to this time, for she had traversed the highway twice to this point, but from this on she was confronted by an unfamiliar road. So it happened that when directly she came to a place where the road diverged into two forks, she drew rein in bewilderment.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “I don’t know which one to take. What shall I do? How shall I decide, Star?” appealing to the only living thing near.

Hearing her name the little mare neighed, tossed her head, and turned into the branch of the roadway running toward the South, just as though she had taken matters in hand for herself. Peggy laughed.

“So thee is going to decide for me, is thee?” she asked patting the pony’s neck. “Well, we might as well go in this direction as the other. I know not which is the right one. I hope that we will come to a house soon where I may ask.”

But no dwelling of any kind came in sight. The afternoon wore away, and the girl became anxious. She did not wish to pass the night in the woods. The memory of that night so long ago when she and Harriet had ridden to Amboy was not so pleasant that she wished to repeat the experience. But Star sped ahead as though familiar with her surroundings. At nightfall there was still no sign of either Joe Hart and his wife, or sight of habitation.

“I fear me we have lost our way, Star,” she mused aloud. “I wonder what we’d best do? Keep moving, methinks. ’Tis the only way to reach anywhere.”

Peggy tried to smile at her little sally, but with poor success. The pony trotted ahead as if she at least was not bewildered, and presently, to the girl’s amazement, of her own accord turned into a lane that would have escaped Peggy’s notice. To her further astonishment at a short distance from the highway stood a woodman’s hut, and the mare paused before the door.

“Why, thou dear creature!” cried Peggy in delight. “It seems just as though thee knew the way.”

She dismounted, and with the bridle over her arm approached the cabin almost gaily, so greatly relieved was she at finding a shelter. A woman came to the door in answer to her knock, and opened it part way.

“What do you want?” she asked harshly.

“A lodging for the night, friend,” answered the maiden, surprised by this reception, for the people were usually hospitable and friendly.

“How many air you?” was the next question.

“Myself alone, friend,” replied Peggy, more and more amazed. “I wish food and a stable for my pony also. I will pay thee for it,” she added with a sudden remembrance of the money that Henry Egan had given her.

“Well, come in.” The door was opened, and the woman regarded her curiously as she entered. It was but a one-room hut, and a boy of twelve appeared to be its only occupant aside from the woman. He rose as the girl entered, and went out to attend the horse.

“Do you want something to eat?” asked the woman ungraciously.

“If thee pleases,” answered Peggy, ill at ease at so much surliness. The woman placed food before her, and watched her while she ate.

“Where air you all going?” she asked presently.

“To Philadelphia, in the state of Pennsylvania,” explained Peggy, who had found that many of the women in the Carolinas were but ill-informed as to locations of places.

“Is that off toward Virginia?”

“I must go through Virginia to reach there,” said the girl.

“You’re going wrong, then,” the woman informed her. “You air headed now for South Carolina.”

The girl uttered a cry of dismay.

At this moment the urchin reëntered the hut, and whispered a moment to his mother. Instantly a change came over her. She turned to Peggy with a glimmer of a smile.

“Air you a friend?” she asked.

“Why, yes,” answered Peggy, thinking naturally that she meant the sect of Quakers. “I should think thee would know that.”

“You can’t always tell down here. Sam says that you air riding Cap’n Hazy’s horse. It used to stop here often last summer.”

“Then that was why the pony brought me here,” cried the girl in surprise. “I was lost. How strange!”

“Why, no. Horses always go where they are used to going,” said the woman, in a matter-of-fact tone. “That is, if you give ’em their head. When is the cap’n coming?”

“How should I know?” asked Peggy, staring at her. “I don’t——”

“We air friends, miss. You needn’t be afraid to say anything you like. But you air right. Keep a still tongue in these times. ’Tis safest. And now, I reckon you’d like to go to bed?”

“Yes, if you please,” answered the maiden, so amazed by the conversation that she welcomed the change for reflection. Was Captain Hazy the British commander of the foraging party who had come to the plantation, she wondered. It occurred to her that it might be wise to accept her hostess’s advice to keep a still tongue.

There was but one bed in the room, and this was given Peggy, while the mother and son simply lay down upon the floor before the fire, which was the custom among mountaineers. Without disrobing the girl lay down, but not to sleep. She was uneasy, and the more she reflected upon her position the more it came to her that she had been rash to start out alone as she had done.

“But I won’t turn back now,” she decided. “I will take some of the money which Friend Henry gave me, and hire some one to take me home. ’Tis what I should have done at first.”

At the first sign of dawn she was astir. The woman rose at the same time, and prepared her a hot breakfast.

“Now you just go right down that way,” she told Peggy, as the maiden mounted her pony, indicating the direction as she spoke. “That’ll take you down to the Cross Creek road. Ford the river at Cross Creek, and you will be right on the lower road to Virginia.”

Peggy thanked her, gave her a half guinea, and departed. Could she have followed the direction given she would, as the woman said, have been on the lower road to Virginia, but alas, such general directions took no account of numerous crossroads and forkings, and the maiden was soon in a maze. That night she found a resting-place at a farmhouse where the accommodations were of a better nature, but when she tried to hire a man for guidance not one seemed willing to go.

“They were needed at home,” they said. “There were so many raiding parties that men could not be spared.” Which was true, but disheartening to Peggy.

In this manner three days went by. At long distances apart were houses of some description, and many ruins, some of them smoldering.

On the afternoon of the third day Peggy was riding along slowly, thoroughly discouraged, when all at once from the dense woods that lined the roadway there emerged the form of a horseman.

He was hatless and disheveled in appearance, and he surveyed the road as though fearful of meeting a foe. As his glance fell upon the maiden he uttered an ejaculation, and dashed toward her.

“Peggy,” he cried staring at her in amaze, “what in the world are you doing down here in South Carolina? I thought you in Virginia by this time.”

“I would not be surprised if thee told me that I was in Africa,” answered poor Peggy half laughing, half crying. “I started for Virginia, but took a wrong turning, and seem to have kept on taking them ever since. I don’t want to be down here, but no one will come with me to guide me, and I always go wrong on the crossroads.”

In spite of the gravity of the situation Drayton, for it was he, laughed.

“Nay,” he said, “let me believe that you came down here to help me deliver my despatches to Marion. I will have to take you in charge. Let me think what to do. I have it! There is a farmhouse where Whigs are welcomed near here. You shall stay there until these papers are delivered, and then we shall see if something can’t be arranged.”

“Oh, thank thee, John,” cried she, mightily relieved. “’Tis so nice to have some one to plan. I shall do just as thee says, for I begin to believe that I am not so capable as I thought.”

“These winding roads are enough to confuse any one,” he told her. “You are not alone in getting lost, Peggy. Some of the soldiers do too, if they are not familiar with localities.”

Cheered by this meeting, Peggy’s spirits rose, and she chatted gaily, not noticing that Drayton kept looking behind them, and that he frequently rode a little ahead, as though he were on the lookout.

“What is it?” she asked at length becoming aware that something was amiss. “Is there danger, John?”

“Yes, Peggy. South Carolina is full of British, you know. I must watch for an ambush. I would not fail to deliver these despatches for anything. They are important, and as I told you the other day, all of us who were under Arnold will be suspected until tried.”

Peggy grew pale. “I did not know there was danger, John. Doth my presence increase your anxiety?”

“’Tis pleasure to have you, Peggy, but I would rather you were in Virginia for your own safety. However, we shall soon turn into a side road which will lead to that farmhouse I spoke about. I could no longer get through the woods, or I should not have left them for the highway. But had I not done so I would not have met you. ’Tis marvelous, Peggy, that you have met with no harm.”

“Why should I meet with any?” she queried. “I am but a girl, and can bring hurt to none.”

Drayton drew rein suddenly, and listened.

“We must make a run for it, Peggy,” he cried. “The British are coming. I gave them the slip a while ago, but I hear them down the road. If we can reach the lane we may escape them.”

Peggy called to Star, and the boy and girl struck into a gallop. It was soon evident, however, that Drayton was holding back his horse for Peggy to keep pace with him. As Peggy realized this a whoop from the pursuers told that they had caught sight of them, and the clattering hoofs that they were gaining upon them.

“John,” she cried, “go on! Thee can get away then.”

“And leave you, Peggy? Never,” he answered.

“But thy despatches? Thee just told me they must be delivered. Thee must go on.”

“No,” he replied with set lips.

“’Tis thy duty,” she said imploringly.

“I know, but I’m not going to leave you to the mercy of those fiends,” he cried.

“John, thee must not fail. See! they are gaining. Go, go! Does thee remember that thee will be suspected until thee is tried?”

“I know,” he said doggedly, “but I won’t leave you.”

“For thy country’s sake,” she entreated. “Oh, John, I can’t have thee fail because of me. Think of that poor vidette. Is thee going to do less than he? ’Tis thy duty.”

“Peggy, don’t ask it,” he pleaded.

“Thee is less than soldier if thee doesn’t do thy duty,” she cried, quick to see her advantage. “John Drayton, I will never trust thee again if thee fails in thy duty now.”

The two young people gazed at each other through the dust of the road, the girl with earnest entreaty, determined to keep the lad to his duty in spite of himself, and the youth torn by his fear for her and his loyalty.

“Go,” she cried again. “I am a soldier’s daughter. Would I be worthy the name if thee failed because of me? Go at once, or ’twill be too late.”

“I’m going, Peggy,” he said with a sob. “I’m going to do my duty even if you are the sacrifice. Take this pistol, and defend yourself. Good-bye.” He bent and kissed her hand, and then without one backward glance went flying down the road and disappeared around a bend. For duty to country must come before everything, and father, mother, brother, sister, wife or sweetheart, must be sacrificed upon its altar, if need arises.

There was a smile on Peggy’s lips, for Drayton had kept to his duty in spite of as great a temptation as ever assailed a man to do otherwise, and so smiling she turned to meet the pursuers.

CHAPTER XXXIII—A GREAT SURPRISE

The smile died from her lips, and a sort of panic took possession of her as the sunshine caught the sheen of their scabbards and lighted into glowing color the scarlet of their uniforms. Nearer they came. The girl trembled like a leaf.

“I am a soldier’s daughter,” she told herself in an effort to regain self-control. “I will die like one.”

Almost unconsciously her little hand clutched the pistol that Drayton had thrust into it, and, as the enemy were nearly upon her, in an agony of fear Peggy raised the weapon and fired. The foremost dragoon reeled slightly, recovered his balance immediately, and drew rein with his right arm hanging limply by his side. The others also checked their horses as a scream of horror burst from Peggy’s lips.

“God forgive me,” she cried. “Blood-guiltiness is upon me! I knew not what I did.”

And with this cry she threw the pistol from her, and dashed at once to the dragoon’s side.

“Thee is hurt,” she exclaimed looking up at him wildly. “Forgive me, friend. I meant not to harm thee. Oh, I meant it not!”

“Then why did you fire?” he demanded, regarding her with astonishment.

Peggy wrung her hands in anguish.

“I was afraid. Thee and thy troopers looked so terrible that I was in panic. I knew not what I did, friend. And thy arm! See how it bleeds! Sir, let me bandage it, I pray thee. I have some skill in such matters.”

Her distress was so evident, her contrition so sincere that the scowl on his face relaxed. Without further word he removed his coat, and let her examine the injured member while the dragoons gathered about them, eyeing the girl curiously. Her face grew deadly pale at sight of the blood that gushed forth from a wound near the elbow, but controlling her emotion she deftly applied a ligature, using her own kerchief for it.

“You’re a fine rebel,” was his comment as she completed the self-imposed task. “Shoot a man so that you can patch him up! ’Tis small wonder that you have skill in such matters. Gordon, bring me that pistol. ’Tis the first time that Banastre Tarleton hath been wounded in this war, and I am minded to keep the weapon that did it.”

“Is thee Colonel Tarleton?” asked she, her heart sinking.

“Yes,” he made answer, a peculiar light coming into his eyes at her involuntary shrinking. “And now, my fair rebel with the Quaker speech, will you tell me why one of your sect fires upon an officer of His Majesty? But perchance you are not a Quakeress?”

“Methought I was in all but politics,” she replied. “I have been trained all my life to believe that courage is displayed, and honor attained by doing and suffering; but I have sadly departed from the ways of peace,” she added humbly. “I knew not before that my nature had been so corrupted by the war that my fortitude had become ferocity. Yet it must be so since I have resorted to violence and the shedding of blood. And how shall I tell my mother!”

“Have you despatches?” he asked sternly. “Where were you going when we captured you? I suppose that you realize that you are my prisoner?”

“Yes; I know, sir. I bear no despatches,” she told him meeting his eyes so frankly that he could not but believe her. “I was trying to get to my home in Philadelphia. I started three days since, but lost my way. Every one I asked for guidance gave it, correctly, I doubt not, but what with the crossroads and swamps, and being unfamiliar with the country I have gone far astray. Now I suppose that I shall never see my mother again!”

“Well, you know that you deserve some punishment for that hurt. And now what about that fellow that was with you? Why did the dastard leave you? Zounds! how can a maiden prefer any of these uncouth rascals when they exhibit such craven spirit!”

“He was doing his duty, sir,” answered Peggy, and her eyes flashed with such fire that he laughed, well pleased that he could rouse her.

“His duty, eh? And did duty call him so strongly that he could leave a girl alone to face what might be certain death? We English would call it another name.”

“Then you English would know nothing of true courage,” she retorted. “He is a patriot, and his duty must come before everything else. Thee will find, if thee has not already found, Colonel Tarleton, that these uncouth rascals, as thee terms them, are not so wanting in spirit as thy words imply.”

“No; ’fore George, they are not,” he exclaimed. “And now unravel your story to me. Your whole history, while we go on to Camden. ’Tis a goodly distance, and ’twill serve to make me forget this hurt.”

“Doth it pain thee so much?” she asked tremulously, the soft light of pity and sorrow springing again to her eyes.

“Oh, yes,” he answered grimly. “But now your story, mistress. And leave out no part of it. I wish to know of all your treasonable doings so as to make your punishment commensurable with your merits.”

And Peggy, suppressing that part of her narrative that related to the army, told him how she had been taken to New York, of the shipwreck, and about her efforts to reach her home.

“And so Colonel Owen of the Welsh Fusileers is your cousin,” he mused. “Methought that I had seen you somewhere, and now I know that it must have been at his house. Would you like to stay with your cousin and his daughter until I decide upon your punishment?”

“Thee did not understand, I fear me,” she exclaimed with a startled glance. “I could not stay with them because they were lost at sea. Does thee not remember that I said they were on the ‘Falcon’?”

“True; but you could not see for the fog what happened after you left in the small boat. They were rescued by another schooner, the ‘Rose,’ which I was on myself. We escaped serious injury in the storm, and came across the ‘Falcon’ just in time to rescue the crew and skipper, and those officers and others who happened to be aboard.”

For a short time Peggy was so overcome that she could not speak, but at last she murmured faintly:

“Oh, I am glad, glad!”

“What sort of girl are you,” he asked abruptly, “that you rejoice over their rescue? They were unkind to you, by your own telling. Why should you feel joy that they are living?”

“They are my kinspeople,” she said. “And sometimes they were kind. Had it not been for Harriet I would not have been in the little boat. She made me enter it when to remain on the ‘Falcon’ seemed certain death. She knew not that they would be rescued.”

“Perhaps not,” he remarked dryly. “Although I have never known Mistress Harriet Owen to do one act that had not an underlying motive. But I should not speak so to one who sees no wrong in others.”

“Don’t,” she uttered the tears springing to her eyes at the sneer. “I do see wrong; and thee doesn’t know how hard I am trying not to feel bitter toward them. I dare not think that ’tis to them I owe not seeing my mother for so long. I—I am not very good,” she faltered, “and thee knows by that wound how I am failing in living up to my teaching.”

“I see,” he said; and was silent.

Camden, a strong post held by the British in the central northern part of South Carolina, was reached at length. It was at this place that General Gates met his overwhelming defeat in the August before, and as Peggy viewed its defenses she could not but wonder that he had ventured to attack it. Colonel Tarleton proceeded at once to a large two-story dwelling, the wide verandah of which opened directly upon the main street.

“I will leave you,” he began, but Peggy uttered a cry of surprise as a girl’s figure came slowly through the open door of the house.

“Harriet! Harriet!” she cried. “Oh, thee didn’t tell me that Harriet was here!”

She sprang lightly from the pony’s back, and ran joyfully up the steps, with arms outstretched.

“I thought thee dead,” she cried with a little sob. “I knew not until now that thou wert alive. Oh, Harriet, Harriet! I am so glad thee lives. And where is Cousin William? And oh!——” she broke off in dismay. “What hath happened to thee? What is the matter, Harriet?”

For Harriet’s wonderful eyes no longer flashed with brilliancy but met her own with a dreary, lustreless gaze. Her marvelous complexion had lost its transparency, and was dull and sallow. She leaned weakly upon Peggy’s shoulder, and as the latter, shocked at the change in the once spirited Harriet, asked again, “Oh, what is the matter? What hath happened?” she burst into tears without replying.

“’Tis the Southern fever,” spoke Colonel Owen, coming to the door at this moment. “So you escaped a briny grave, my little cousin? How came you here? Was it to seek us that you came? You at least seem to have suffered no inconvenience from this climate. It hath carried off many of our soldiers, and Harriet hath pulled through by a miracle. It will take time, however, to restore her fully to strength. Did you say you came to seek us?”

“Nay,” interposed Colonel Tarleton. “The girl is my prisoner, Colonel Owen. I will leave her with you for the present, but will hold you answerable for her safety. You are to send her to me each day so that she may give attention to this wound which I owe to her marksmanship. So soon as it shall heal I will decide upon her punishment.”

“Well, upon my word, my cousin,” exclaimed William Owen as Colonel Tarleton, scowling fiercely, went away. “You are improving. I knew not that Quakers believed in bloodshed. Tell us about it.”

And Peggy, drawing Harriet close to her in her strong young arms, told of her rescue and how she came to be once more with them.