OUR story opens early in September, in the eventful year of American revolutionary history, one thousand seven hundred and eighty. Our scene is one destined to afford abundant materials for the purposes of the future romancer. It lies chiefly upon the banks of the Ashley, in South Carolina—a region which, at this period, was almost entirely covered by the arms of the foreign enemy. In previous narratives, as well as in the histories, will be found the details of his gradual conquests; and no one need be told of the events following the fall of Charleston, and terminating in the defeat of General Gates, at Camden, by which, for a season, the hopes of patriotism, as well as the efforts of valor which aimed at the recovery of the country from hostile domination, were humbled, if not wholly overthrown. The southern liberating army was temporarily dispersed, rallying slowly to their standards in the wildernesses of North Carolina; few in number, miserably clad, and almost totally wanting in the means and appliances of war. The victory of the British over Gates was considered complete. It was distinguished by their usual sacrifices. Many of their prisoners were executed upon the spot, mostly upon the smallest pretexts and the most questionable testimony. These sacrifices were due somewhat to the requisitions of the loyalists, to the excited passions of the conquerors, and, in some degree, to their own scorn of the victims. But one of those decreed for sacrifice had made his escape, rescued, in the moment of destined execution, by a most daring and unexpected onslaught of a small body of partisans, led by a favorite leader. Colonel Richard Walton, a gentleman of great personal worth, of considerable wealth and exercising much social influence, had, under particular circumstances, and when the State was believed to be utterly lost to the confederacy, taken what was entitled a "British protection." This was a parole, insuring him safety and shelter beneath the protection of the conqueror, so long as he preserved his neutrality. It was some reproach to Colonel Walton that he had taken this protection; but, in the particular circumstances of the case, there was much to extenuate his offense. With his justification, however, just at this moment, we have nothing to do. It is enough that the violation of the compact between the citizen and the conqueror was due to the British commander. In the emergency of invasion, at the approach of the continental arms, the securities of those who had taken protection were withdrawn, by proclamation, unless they presented themselves in the British ranks and took up arms under the banner of the invader. Compelled to draw the sword, Colonel Walton did so on the side of the country. He fell into the hands of Cornwallis at the fatal battle of Camden; and, steadily refusing the overtures of the British general to purge himself of the alleged treason by taking a commission in the service of the conqueror, he was ordered to execution at Dorchester, in the neighborhood of his estates, and as an example of terror to the surrounding country. He was rescued, at the foot of the gallows, from the degrading death which had been decreed him. By a well-planned and desperate enterprise, led by Major Singleton, a kinsman, he was plucked from the clutches of the executioner; and the successful effort was still farther distinguished by the almost total annihilation of the strong guard of the British, which had left the garrison at Dorchester to escort the victim to the fatal tree. The beautiful hamlet of Dorchester was partially laid in ashes during the short but sanguinary conflict; and, before reinforcements could arrive from the fortified post at the place, the partisans had melted away, like so many shadows, into the swamps of the neighboring cypress, carrying with them, in safety, their enfranchised captive. The occurrence had been one rather to exasperate the invader than to disturb his securities. It was not less an indignity than a hurt; and, taking place, as it did, within twenty miles of the garrison of Charleston, it denoted a degree of audacity, on the part of the rebels, which particularly called for the active vengeance of the invader, as an insult and a disgrace to his arms.

But if the moritification of Colonel Proctor, by whom the post at Dorchester was held, was great, still greater was the fury of Colonel Balfour, the commandant of Charleston. The intelligence reached him, by express, at midnight of the day of the affair, and roused him from the grateful slumbers of a life which had hitherto been fortunate in the acquisition of every desired indulgence, and from dreams holding forth the most delicious promise of the otium cum dignitate which was in the contemplation of all his toils. To be aroused to such intelligence as had been brought him was to deny him both leisure and respect—nay, to involve him in possible forfeiture of the possession of place and power, which, he well knew, were of doubtful tenure only, and easily determinable by a run of such disasters as that which he was now required to contemplate. Yet Balfour, in reality, had nothing with which to reproach himself in the affair at Dorchester. No blame, whether of omission or performance, could be charged upon him, making him liable to reproach for this misfortune. He had no reason to suppose that, with Rawdon in command at Camden, and Cornwallis, but recently the victor over Gates, with the great body of the British army covering every conspicuous point in the country, that any small party of rebels should prove so daring as to dart between and snatch the prey from the very grasp of the executioner. Marion had, however, done this upon the Santee, and here now was his lieutenant repeating the audacious enterprise upon the Ashley. Though really not to blame, Balfour yet very well knew how severe were the judgments which, in Great Britain, were usually visited upon the misfortunes or failures of British captains in America. He had no reason to doubt that, in his case, as commonly in that of others, his superiors would be apt to cast upon the subordinate the responsibilities of every mischance. It is true that he might offer good defense. He could show that, in order to strengthen his army against Gates, Cornwallis had stripped the city of nearly all its disposable force, leaving him nothing but invalids, and a command of cavalry not much more than sufficient to scour the neighborhood, bring in supplies, and furnish escorts. Dorchester had been shorn of its garrison for the same reason by the same officer. The reproach, if any, lay at the door of Cornwallis. Yet who would impute blame to the successful general, who offers his plea while yet his trumpets are sounding in every ear with the triumphal notes of a great victory? Success is an argument that effectually stops the mouth of censure. To fasten the reproach upon another, by whom no plea of good fortune could be offered, was the policy of Balfour; and his eye was already turned upon the victim. But this, hereafter. For the present, his task was to repair, if possible, the misfortune; to recover the freed rebel; to put Dorchester in a better state to overawe the surrounding country, and make himself sure in his position by timely reports of the affair to his superiors; by which, showing them where the fault might be imputable to themselves, while studiously imputing it to another, he should induce them to such an adoption of his views as should silence all representations which might be hurtful to his own security.

All these meditations passed rapidly through the brain of Balfour, as he made his midnight toilet. When he came forth, his plans were all complete. As we are destined to see much more of this personage in the progress of our narrative, it will not be unwise, in this place, to dwell somewhat more particularly upon the mental and moral nature of the man. At the period of which we write, he was in the vigor of his years. He had kept well, to borrow the idiom of another people, and was altogether a very fine specimen of physical manhood. With an erect person, fully six feet in height, broad-chested, and athletic; with cheeks unwrinkled, a skin clear and florid; eyes large, blue, and tolerably expressive; and features generally well-chiseled, he was altogether a person to impose at a glance, and almost persuade, without farther examination, to the conviction of generous impulses, if not a commanding intellect, as the natural concomitants of so much that is prepossessing in the exterior. But Balfour was a man neither of mind nor heart. In ordinary affairs, he was sufficiently shrewd and searching. It was not easy, certainly, to delude him, where his selfish interests were at all at issue. In the mere details of business, he was methodical and usually correct; but he neither led nor planned an enterprise; and, while able in civil matters to carry out the designs of others, it is not seen that he ever counseled or conceived an improvement. His passions were more active than his mind, yet they never impelled him to courageous performance. He was a carpet knight, making a famous figure always on parade, and, in the splendid uniform of his regiment, really a magnificent person—in the language of a lady who knew him well, "as splendid as scarlet, gold lace, and feathers could make a man." But he never distinguished himself in action. Indeed, the record is wanting which would show that he had ever been in action. That he should have risen to his high station, as second in command of the British army in South Carolina—for such was his rank—might reasonably provoke our surprise, but that the record which fails to tell us of his achievements in battle, is somewhat more copious in other matters. His method of rising into power was among the reproaches urged against him. His obsequious devotedness to the humors and pleasures—we may safely say vices—of Sir William Howe, first gained him position, and led finally to his present appointment. In the capacity of commandant at Charleston, his arrogance became insufferable. His vanity seems to have been in due degree with the servility which he had been forced to show in the acquisition of his objects. He could enact the opposite phases in the character of his countryman, Sir Pertinax MacSycophant, without an effort at transition—bow without shame or sense of degradation, and command without decency or sense of self-respect. In council, he was at once ignorant and self-opinionated. In the exercise of his government, he absorbed all the powers of the state. "By the subversion," says Ramsay, "of every trace of the popular government, without any proper civil establishment in its place, he, with a few coadjutors, assumed and exercised legislative, judicial, and executive powers over citizens in the same manner as over the common soldiery." He was prompt to anger, obdurate in punishment, frivolous in his ex-actions, and bloated with the false consequences of a position which he had reached through meanness and exercised without dignity. Feared and hated by his inferiors, despised by his equals, and loved by few, if any, he was yet one of that fortunate class of persons whom an inordinate but accommodating self-esteem happily assures and satisfies in every situation. Gratifying his favorite passions at every step in his progress, he probably found no reason to regret the loss of affections that he had never learned to value and never cared to win. Utterly selfish, his mind had nevertheless never risen to the appreciation of those better treasures of life and of the heart which the noble nature learns to prize beyond all others, as by a natural instinct. His sympathies were those only of the sensual temperament. His desires were those of the voluptuary. He was an unmarried man, and his habits were those of any other gay Lothario of the army. The warm tints upon his cheek were significant of something more than vulgar health; and the liquid softness of his eye was indicative of habits such as were admitted not to be among the worst traits of that passionate Roman whose world was lost probably quite as much as wine as love. Balfour was not the person to forfeit his world through either of these passions, though he too freely and frequently indulged in both. He possessed yet others which Mark Antony does not seem to have shared, or not in large degree; and his avarice and lust of power were the rods, like those of Aaron, which kept all others in subjection. But we have lingered sufficiently long upon his portrait. Enough has been said and shown to furnish all the clues to his character. Let us now see to his performances.

In a short period after receiving his advices from Dorchester, Balfour was prepared for business. His secretary was soon in attendance, and his aids were dispatched in various quarters in search of the officers whom he had summoned to his morning conference. He occupied, as "Head Quarters," that noble old mansion, still remaining in the lower part of King Street, Charleston, known as number eleven. At that period, it belonged to the estate of Miles Brewton. Subsequently, it became the property of Colonel William Allston, in whose family it still remains. But with Balfour as its tenant, the proprietorship might fairly be assumed to be wholly in himself; determinable only in the event, now scarcely anticipated by the invader, of the State every being recovered by the arms of the Americans. With his secretary seated at the table, his pen rapidly coursing over the sheets under the dictation of his superior, Balfour trod the apartment—the southeast chamber in the second story—in evident impatience. At times, he hurried to the front windows, which were all open, and looked forth, as any unusual sounds assailed his ears. Returning, he uttered sentence after sentence of instruction, and paused only to approach the sideboard and renew his draught of old Madeira, a bottle of which had been freshly opened before the secretary came. At length, to the relief of his impatience, the sound of a carriage was heard rolling to the door, and the soldier in attendance looked in to announce

"Colonel Cruden."

"Show him in," was the reply; and, the next moment, the person thus named made his appearance, and was welcomed in proper terms by the commandant, who, turning to the secretary, hastily examined what he had written, as hastily attached his seal and signature, and, in lower tones than was his wont, gave him instructions in what manner to dispose of the papers.

"Leave us no," said Balfour, "but be not far, I may need you shortly. No more sleep to-night; remember that. You may help yourself to some of the wine; it may assist you in sustaining your vigil."

The young man did not scruple to employ the privilege awarded him. He drank the wine, and, with a bow, retired.

"Let us drink, also, Cruden," was the speech of Balfour, the moment the youth had gone. "This early rising renders some stimulus necessary, particularly when the matter is as annoying as troublesome. Come, this Madeira is from the cellar of old Laurends, some time President of Congress. He had a better taste of Madeira than politics. There is no better to be found in all the city. Come."

"But what is this business which calls us up at this unseasonable hour?"

"Something in your way, I fancy. But first let me congratulate you on your appointment. As agent for sequestrated estates, you should soon be a millionaire."

"There certainly ought to be good pickings where rebellion has been so fruitful," said the other.

"Surely; and in possession of the fine mansion of that premature rebel, Colesworth Pinckney—decidedly the finest house in Carolina—you are already in the enjoyment of a pleasant foretaste of what must follow. The house, of course, will remain your own."

"I suppose so, if the State is not reconquered."

"And have you any fears of this, after the defeat of that sentimental here, Gates, at Camden? That affair seems to settle the question. These people are effectually crushed and cowed, and Congress can never raise another army. The militia of the Middle States and the South are by no means numerous, and they want everything as well as arms. The New Englanders no longer take the field, now that the war has left their own borders; and, come what may, it is very clear that the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida must still remain the colonies of Great Britain. In that event, a peace which even yields independence to the more northern provinces, will give nothing to these; and my faith in the uti possidetis principle makes me quite easy with regard to my possessions."

And he looked round upon the pleasant apartment which he occupied with the air of a man perfectly satisfied with the architectural proportions of his building.

"I am glad to hear you in this pleasant vein. From your impatient summons, I had thought the devil was to pay."

"And so he is," said the commandant, suddenly becoming grave; "the devil to pay, indeed; and I am sorry to tell you that your kinsman, Proctor, is in danger of sharp censure, if not a loss of his commission."

"Ha!"

"He has nearly suffered the surprise of his post; suffered this malignant Walton to be snatched from his clutches on the way to execution, half of his men to be cut to pieces, and Dorchester burnt to ashes."

"You confound me!"

"it is too true. There is his own dispatch, which, of course, makes the best of it."

He pointed to the table where lay a couple of letters with the seals both broken; and Cruden was about to place his hand on one of them, when his grasp was prevented, rather precipitately, by that of Balfour.

"Stay; that is not the dispatch. Here it is," giving the one letter, and carefully thrusting the other into his pocket. But Cruden had already seen the superscription, which bore the Dorchester stamp also. He made no comment, however, on the circumstance, and forbore all inquiry, while he proceeded to read the dispatch of Colonel Proctor, to whom the post at Dorchester and the contiguous country had been confided.

"This is certainly a most unfortunate affair; but I do not see how Proctor is to blame. He seems to have done everything in his power."

"That is to be seen. I hope so, for your sake no less than his. But it is a matter of too serious a kind not to demand keen and searching inquiry."

"Proctor had no more than seventy men at the post. Cornwallis stripped him of all that could be spared; and more, it seems, than it was safe to spare."

"My dear friend, you are just in the receipt of a handsome appointment from Cornwallis. How can you suppose that he should err in a military calculation of this sort? How suppose that the King of Great Britain can be persuaded of his error at the very moment which brings him advices of so great a victory? It is impossible! Come, let us replenish;" and he again filled the glasses. Cruden drank, but deliberately; and while the goblet was yet unfinished, paused to say—

"I see, Balfour, my kinsman is to be sacrificed."

"Nay, not so; we shall give him every opportunity of saving himself. On my honor, he shall not be pressed to the wall. But you see for yourself that the affair is an unlucky one—a most unlucky one—just at this juncture."

"And Proctor such a good fellow—really a noble fellow."

"Admitted; and yet, between us, Cruden, he has been particularly unfortunate, I fear, in allowing his affections to be ensnared by the daughter of this very rebel, Walton; who is not without attractions, considering her vast estates. She is more than good-looking, I hear—indeed, Kitty Harvey tells me that she was quite a beauty a year ago. Moll is not willing to go so far, but says she was very good-looking. Now, these charms, in addition to some two or three hundred slaves, and a most baronial landed estate, have proved too much for your nephew; and the fear is that he has shown himself quite too indulgent—indeed, a little willfully careless and remiss; and to this remissness the rebel owes his escape."

"This is a very shocking suspicion, Balfour; and not to be reported or repeated without the best of testimony. John Proctor is one of the most honorable men living. There does not seem to have been any remissness. These partisans of Singleton were surely unexpected; and when Proctor sends out half of his disposable force to escort the rebel to execution, one would think he had furnished quite as large a guard as was requisite."

"So, under ordinary circumstances, it would seem; and yet where would this party of rebels, though led by a notoriously daring fellow, find the audacity to attack such a guard within sight of the fortress, in midday, unless secretly conscious that the chances favored him in an extraordinary manner? Mind you, now, I say nothing of my own head. I give you only the conjectures, the mere whisperings of others, and beg you to believe that I keep my judgment in reserve for more conclusive evidence."

"I don't doubt that Proctor will acquit himself before any court. But have you any farther advices—no letters?"

"None that relate to this affair," was the rather hesitating reply.

"And what is it, Balfour, for which you want me now?"

"As cast of your office, mon ami, I wish to afford you an opportunity of exercising yourself in your new vocation. You must accompany me to Dorchester this very day. Here is a memorandum of particulars. Take your secretary with you. The estates of this rebel Walton are to be sequestered. You shall take them in charge and administer them. Lands, negroes, house, furniture, man-servant and maid-servant, ox and ass, and such an equipage as you will scarcely find anywhere in the colonies. I am told that the Madeira in Walton's garrets is the oldest in the country. Remember, there must be a fair division of that spoil. I have not insisted upon your merits to Cornwallis to be denied my reward. Besides, the stud of this rebel is said to be a magnificent one. I know that Tarleton itched to find a plea for laying hands upon his blooded horses. We must share them also, Cruden. I am by no means satisfied with my stock, and must recruit and supply myself. There are two or three hundred negroes, an immense stock of plate, and a crop of rice just about to be harvested. You will be secure of most of this treasure, anyhow, even should you find an heir for it in your nephew."

This last sentence was said with a smile, which Cruden did not greatly relish. There was much in what Balfour had spoken to disquiet him as well as give him pleasure. Cruden, like the greater number of his fellow-soldiers, was anxious to spoil the Egyptians. His avarice was almost as blind and devouring as that of Balfour, and his love of show not less; but he had affections and sympathies, such as are grateful to humanity. He was proud of his nephew, whose generous and brave qualities had done honor to their connection; and he was not willing to see him sacrificed without an effort. This he clearly perceived was Balfour's present object. Why, he did not care to know. It was enough that he resolved to do what was in his power to defeat his purpose.

We need not follow the farther conference of these good companions. It was of a kind to interest themselves only. With the first glimpses of the gray dawning, Cruden took his departure to hasten his preparations for the contemplated journey; while Balfour, having given all his order, threw himself upon the sofa, and soon slept as soundly as if he had only just retired for the night.

CHAPTER II.

Your confidence, I'm sure, is now of proof;
The prospect from the garden must have show you
Enough for deep suspicion.

The blare of trumpets beneath his windows, announcing the readiness of his cavalry to march, found Balfour at the conclusion of a late breakfast. He was soon in the saddle, and accompanied by his friend Cruden, followed by some inferior officers. This party rode on slowly, while the major in command of the brigade proceeded on the march, drawing up only as they reached the great gate of the city. The stranger who, at this day, shall find himself gazing upon the southern front of the stately pile called the "Citadel," in Charleston—a building of the State, devoted to the purposes of military education—will stand at no great distance from what was then the main entrance to the city. Along this line ran the fortification, extending from the river Cooper to the Ashley, and traversing very nearly what is now the boundary line between the corporate limits of Charleston and its very extensive suburb. At that early period, the fortifications of the place were at some distance from the settlement. The surface occupied by the city scarcely reached beyond a fourth of the present dimensions, and, in the north and west, was distinguished only by some scattered and inferior habitations. "Up the path" was the phrase used by which to distinguish the region which had been assigned to the defenses and beyond. Without, the region lay partially in woods, broken only by an occasional farmstead and worm fence, which, when the British took possession of the "Neck" for the purposes of the leaguer, soon disappeared, either wholly or in part, beneath the fire and the axe. The gate of the city stood a little to the east of King Street—not quite midway, perhaps, between that and Meeting Street. It was covered within by a strong horn-work of masonry, originally built by the besieged, and afterwards improved by the enemy. It was a work of considerable strength in that day, fraised, picketed, and intended as a citadel. The British, after the fall of the city, greatly strengthened and increased these fortifications; though, even in their hands, the lines remained what are called field-works only. Beyond them, at the moment when we request the reader's attention, were still perceptible the traces of the several footholds, taken by the enemy when the leaguer was in progress. You could see the debris of the redoubts, under the cover of which they had made their approaches; the several parallels—though thrown down in part, and the earth removed, with the view to strengthening the fortifications—still showing themselves upon the surface, and occasionally arresting the eye by an unbroken redoubt, or the mound which told where the mortar-battery had been erected. Farms and fences had been destroyed; trees had been cut down for pickets and abbatis; and even that noble avenue, leading from the city, called the "Broadway," which old Archdale tells us was "so delightful a road and walk of a great breadth, so pleasantly green, that I believe no prince in Europe, by all their art, can make so pleasant a sight for the whole year," even this had been shorn of many of its noblest patriarchs, of oak and cedar, for the commonest purposes of fuel or defense. It was still an avenue, however, to compel the admiration of the European. All was not lost of its ample foliage, its green umbrage, its tall pines, fresh and verdant cedars, and ancient gnarled oaks; and, as the splendidly uniformed cavalry of the British, two hundred in number, filed away beneath its pleasant thickets, the spectacle was one of a beauty most unique, and might well persuade the spectator into a partial forgetfulness of the fearful trade which these gallant troopers carried on. On each hand, from this nearly central point, might glimpses be had of the two rivers, scarce a mile asunder; beneath which, on the most gradual slope of plane, the city of Charleston rises, the Ashley on the west, the Cooper on the east, both navigable for a small distance—streams of ample breadth, if not of depth; and, in fact, rather arms of the sea than arteries of the land.

The British detachment, about to leave the garrison, its objects not known, nor its destination, was necessarily a subject of considerable interest to all parties. Whig and loyalist equally regarded the movements with curiosity and excitement. The recent defeat of the Americans at Camden; the sudden and startling event, so near at hand, in the rescue at Dorchester, and the partial conflagration of that hamlet, were all now know among the citizens. The question with the one party was that of the dethroned sovereign of England on the ominous appearance of Gloster, "What bloody scene hath Roscius now to act?"—while the other looked forward to new progresses, ending in the acquisition of fresh spoils from new confiscations, and the punishment of enemies whom they had learned to hate in due degree with the appreciation of their virtuous patriotism, which persevered, under all privations, in a manly resistance to the invader. Groups of these, of both parties, separated naturally by their mutual antipathies, had assembled in the open space contiguous to the citadel, and were now anxiously contemplating the spectacle. Among these, scattered at plays that had an earnest signification, were dozens of sturdy urchins, already divided into parties according to the influence of their parental and other associations. These, known as the "Bay Boys" and the "Green Boys," were playing at soldiers, well armed with cornstalks, and hammering away at each other, in charging and retreating squadrons. The "Bay Boys" were all loyalists, the "Green Boys" the Whigs, or patriots; and, in their respective designations, we have no inadequate suggestion of the influences which operated to divide the factions of their elders in the city. The "Bay Boys" represented the commercial influence, which, being chiefly in the hands of foreigners, acknowledged a more natural sympathy with Britain than the "Green Boys," or those of the suburban population, most of whom were the agricultural aristocracy of the low country, and with whom the revolutionary movement in Carolina had its origin.

The appearance of Balfour and his suite dispersed these parties, who retired upon opposite sides, leaving a free passage for the horses, which were driven forward with but small regard for the safety of the crowds that covered the highway. The men turned away with as much promptitude as the boys; neither Whig nor loyalist having much assurance of consideration from a ruler so arrogant and capricious as Balfour, and so reckless of the comfort of inferiors. A few women might be seen, as if in waiting, mostly in gig or chair—then the most commonly used vehicle—though one or more might be seen in carriages, and a few on horseback, followed by negro servants. These were all prepared to leave the city, on brief visits, as was customary, to the neighboring farms and plantations along one or other of the two rivers. They were destined to disappointment, Balfour sternly denying the usual permit to depart from the city, at a moment when there was reason to suppose that stray bodies of Marion's parties were lurking in the neighborhood. The precaution was a proper one; but there was no grace or delicacy in the manner of Balfour's denial.

"Get home, madam," was the rude reply to one lady, who addressed him from the window of her carriage; "and be grateful for the security which the arms of his majesty afford you within the walls of the city. We will see after your estates."

"My concern is, sir, that you will prove yourself only too provident," answered the high-spirited woman, as she bade her coachman wheel about to return.

"There is no breaking down the spirit of this people," muttered Balfour to Cruden, as they rode forward. "That woman always gives me the last word, and it is never an unspiced one."

"They who lose the soup may well be permitted to enjoy the pepper," said Cruden. "It ruffles you, which it should not."

"They shall bend or break before I am done with them," answered the other. To the major commanding in his absence, he gave strict instructions that no one should be allowed to leave the city under any pretense.

"Unless General Williamson, I suppose?" was the inquiry, in return.

"Has he desired to go forth to-day?"

"To-morrow, sir."

"Well, let him be an exception;" and he rode off; "though"—continuing, as if speaking to himself—"were he wise, he should hug the city walls as his only security. His neck would run a sorry chance were he to fall into the hands of his ancient comrades."

"I do not see that his desertion of the enemy has done us much service," was the remark of Cruden.

"You mistake; his correspondence has been most efficient. He has brought over numbers in Ninety-Six and along the Congaree. But these are matters that we cannot publish."

At the "Quarter's House," between five and six miles, the party came to a halt. This was a famous place in that day for parties from the city. The long, low building, still occupying the spot, might be almost esteemed a fac-simile of the one which covered it then. It received its name, as it was the officers' quarters for the old field range contiguous, which is still known as "Izard's Camp." It was now a region devoted to festivity rather than war. Hither the British officers, of an afternoon, drove out their favorite damsels. Here they gamed and drank with their comrades; and occasionally a grand hop shook the rude log foundations of the fabric, while the rafters gleamed with the blaze of cressets, flaming up from open oil vessels of tin. Though not yet midday, Balfour halted here to procure refreshments; and Mother Gradock, by whom the place was kept, was required to use her best skill—which was far from mean in this department of art—in compounding for her sensual customer a royal noggin of milk punch; old Jamaica rum being the potent element which the milk was vainly expected to subdue. A lounge of half an hour in the ample piazza, and the party resumed their route, following after the march of the brigade at a smart canter. A ride of four hours brought them to Dorchester, where, apprised of their approach, the garrison was drawn out to receive them.

The spectacle that met the eyes of Balfour, in the smoking ruins of the village, was well calculated to impress him with a serious sense of the necessity of a thorough investigation into the affair. He shook his head with great gravity as he said to Cruden—

"It will be well if your kinsman can acquit himself of the responsibility of this affair. Proctor is a good soldier; it quick, sensible, and brave; but I fear, Cruden, I very much fear, that he has been somewhat remiss in this business. And then the awkward relations which are said to have existed between this rebel's daughter and himself—"

"Stay," said Cruden; "he approaches."

The next moment, Major Proctor joined the party, and offered the proper welcome. He was a young man, not more than twenty-eight or thirty in appearance; and more than ordinarily youthful to have arrived at the rank which he held in the service. But he had been fortunate in his opportunities for distinction; and, both in the conquest of New York and of Charleston, had won the special applauses of his superiors for equal bravery and intelligence. His person was cast in a very noble mould. He was tall, erect, and graceful, with a countenance finely expressive; lofty brow, large and animated eyes; and features which, but for a stern compression of the lips, might have appeared effeminately handsome. At this time, his face was marked by an appropriate gravity. He conducted his visitors through the village, pointing out the scene of every important transaction with dignity and calmness. But his words were as few as possible; and every reference to the subject, naturally so painful, was influenced chiefly by consideration of duty to his superior.

When this examination of the field was ended, they made their way towards the fortress, at the entrance of which they found an officer in waiting, to whom Balfour spoke rather eagerly, and in accents much less stately than those which he employed in dealing with subordinates. Captain Vaughn—for such was the name and title of this officer—met the eye of Proctor at this moment, and did not fail to observe the dark scowl which over-shadowed it. A sudden gleam of intelligence, which did not seem without its triumph, lighted up his own eyes as he beheld it; and his lip curled with a smile barely perceptible to a single one of the party. Balfour just then called the young officer forward, and they passed through the portals of the fortress together. Proctor motioned his kinsman, Cruden, forward also; but the latter, twitching him by the sleeve, held him back as he eagerly asked the question, in a whisper—

"For God's sake, John, what is all this? How are you to blame?"

"Only for having an enemy, uncle, I suppose."

Proctor simply waved his hand forward in the direction of Vaughan, whose retiring form was still to be seen following close behind Balfour.

"You will soon see."

"Vaughan! But how can he hurt you? Why should he be your enemy?"

"I am in his way somewhat; and—but not now, uncle. Let us go forward."

They were soon all assembled in Proctor's quarters, where dinner was in progress. Balfour had already renewed his draughts, enjoying, with a relish, the old Jamaica, of which a portly square bottle stood before him. His beverage now was taken without the milk; but was qualified with a rather small allowance of cool water. The conversation was only casual. It was tacitly understood that, for the present, the subject most in the mind of all parties was to be left for future discussion. Proctor did the honors with case and grace, yet with a gravity of aspect that lacked little of severity. Captains Vaughan and Dickson were of the company—officers both belonging to the station—and Cruden contrived to examine, at intervals, the features of the former, of whom he knew but little, with the scrutiny of one who had an interest in fathoming the character of him he surveyed. But Vaughan's face was one of those inscrutable ones—a dark fountain, which shows its surface only, and nothing of its depths. He was not unaware of Cruden's watch—that circumspect old soldier, with all his shrewdness and experience, being no sort of match for the person, seemingly a mere boy, small of features, slight of figure, and with a chin that appeared quite too smooth to demand the reaping of a razor—whom he sought to fathom. Yet those girlish features, that pale face, and thin, effeminate, and closed lips, were the unrevealing representations of an intense ambition, coupled with a cool, deliberate, almost icy temper, which seldom betrayed impatience, and never any of its secrets. His eyes smiled only, not his lips, as he noted the furtive scrutiny which Cruden maintained.

At length, dinner was announced, and discussed. Balfour was at home at table. He was a person to do the honors for the bon vivant; and here, perhaps, lay some of the secret of his influence with Sir William Howe. Fish from the Ashley, which glided beneath the walls of the fortress, and venison from the forests which spread away on every hand within bowshot, formed the chief dishes of the feast; and the Jamaica proved an excellent appetizer and provocative. Wines were not wanting; and the commandant of Charleston very soon showed symptoms which acknowledged their influence. Before the cloth had been removed, his forbearance was forgotten; and, rather abruptly, the affair of Walton's rescue was brought upon the table.

"I'll tell you what, Proctor, this affair is decidedly unfortunate. Here you have seventy-six men in garrison, good men, not including invalids, and you send out a detachment of thirty only to escort this rebel Walton to the gallows. I must say, you might almost have expected what followed."

"Really, Colonel Balfour, I see not that. I send out half of my force, or nearly so, to superintend the execution of a single man. One would suppose such a force sufficient for such a purpose. Was I to abandon the garrison entirely? Had I done so, what might have been the consequences? Instead of the mere rescue of the prisoner, the post might have been surprised and captured, with all its stores, and the garrison cut to pieces."

"Scarcely, if the reported force of the rebels be true. They do not seem to have had more than twenty men in all."

"You will permit me to ask, sir, how you arrive at this conclusion? I am not conscious of having made any definite report of the number of the rebels in this assault."

"No, Major Proctor; and this, I am sorry to observe, is a most unaccountable omission in your report. You had the evidence of a worthy loyalist, named Blonay, who distinctly told you that they numbered only twenty men."

"The deficiencies of my report, Colonel Balfour, seem to have been particularly supplied by other hands," was the ironical remark of Proctor, his eye glancing fiercely at Vaughan as he spoke; "but your informant is scarcely correct himself, sir, and has been too glad to assume, as a certainty, a report which was only conjectural. Blonay stated distinctly that there were twenty men and more. These were his very words. He did not say how many. His whole account was wretchedly confused, since his mind seems to have been distracted between the difficulty of rescuing his mother from the feet of the horse, by which she was really trampled to death, and the desire of taking revenge upon a single enemy, upon whom alone his eyes seem to have been fixed during the affair. This Blonay, sir, instead of being a worthy loyalist, is a miserable wretch, half Indian, and of no worth at all. He has an Indian passion for revenge, which, on this occasion, left him singularly incapable of a correct observation on any subject which did not involve the accomplishment of his passion. But, allowing that the rebels made their assault with but twenty men, it must be remembered that they effected a surprise—"

"Ah! that was the reproach, Major Proctor; there was the error, in allowing that surprise."

"But Balfour," said Cruden, "this seems to be quite unreasonable. A detachment of thirty men from the post, leaving but forty in charge of it, seems to be quite large enough."

"That depends wholly on circumstances, Cruden," was the reply of Balfour, filling his glass.

"Exactly, sir," resumed Proctor; "and these circumstances were such as to call for a guard for the prisoner no stronger than that which I assigned it. But a few days had elapsed since Earl Cornwallis totally defeated the rebel army at Camden. Were we to look for an effort of the rebels, in his rear, of this description? Did we not know that Marion, with his brigade, had joined himself to the force of Gates? And had we not every reason to suppose that he had shared its fate? The whole country was in our possession. Lord Rawdon held Camden; Colonel Stuart was at Ninety-Six; Orangeburg, Mottis, Watson's, Monk's Corner, Quinby—all posts garrisoned by ourselves; and our scouts brought no tidings of any considerable force of rebels embodied in any quarter."

"But the inconsiderable," answered Balfour.

"They were scarcely provided against in a force of thirty men, led by a competent officer, who sealed his devotion with his life."

"Why did you not take command of the escort yourself?" queried Balfour.

For a moment, an expression of strong disgust spread over the face of Proctor. But he replied, calmly—

"It might be a sufficient answer to say, that such was not my duty. The command of the post at Dorchester involved no obligation to assume the duties of a subordinate. But I will express myself more frankly. I could not have assumed this duty without violating some of the most precious feelings of humanity. I had enjoyed the hospitality of Colonel Walton; had shared his intimacy; and cherished a real esteem for the noble virtues of that gentleman, which his subsequent unhappy rebellion cannot obliterate from my mind. I could not have taken part in the terrible event of that day. I preferred, sir, as my duty allowed it, to withdraw from so painful a spectacle."

"Ah! that was the error—the great error. The soldier, sir, has obligations to his king superior to those of mere sentiment. I am sorry, Major Proctor—very sorry—not less for your sake, than because of the deep sympathy which I have with my friend, Cruden."

"But, Balfour," said Cruden, "it strikes me that John's course has been quite justifiable. With his force, he could not have detached from the garrison more than he did, as an escort for the rebel's execution. And, under the circumstances of the country, with Cornwallis so completely triumphant over Gates, and with our troops everywhere overawing every conspicuous point, there could be no reason to anticipate such a surprise as this. Now"—

"My dear Cruden, all this sounds very well; and were these things to be considered by themselves, I have no doubt the defense would be properly urged. But I am afraid that an evil construction may be placed upon the deep sympathy which our young friend seems to have felt for the family of this rebel. He seems to have been a frequent visitor at Walton's plantation."

"Only, sir, when Colonel Walton was understood to be a friend of my king and government."

"That he never was."

"He was admired in our roll of friends among the people of the country; and I have Lord Cornwallis's especial instructions to treat him with great courtesy and favor, in the hope of winning him over to active participation in our cause."

"Very true, sir; that was our object; but how long is it since this hope was abandoned? Could you have entertained it, my dear major, for a moment after your fruitless attempt to capture Singleton, the lieutenant of Marion, harbored by this very rebel—nay, rescued by Walton from your grasp, at the head of an armed force, which put you at defiance? Nay, I am not sure that the curious fact, that Walton suffered you to escape, though clearly in his clutches, will not make against you. Even since these events, it is understood that you have more than once visited the daughter of this rebel, alone, without any attendants, returning in the evening to your post."

Proctor smiled grimly, as he replied—

"It will be something new, I fancy, to the officers of his majesty in Charleston and elsewhere, if it be construed into a treasonable affair when they visit a rebel damsel. But really, Colonel Balfour, this conversation assumes so much the appearance of a criminal investigation, that I see no other course before me than to regard it as a sort of court of inquiry. Perhaps, sir, I had better tender my sword, as under arrest. At all events, sir, permit me to demand a court of inquiry for the full examination of this affair."

He unbuckled his sword as he spoke, and laid it upon the table.

"What are you about, John? What need of this?" demanded Cruden. "I am sure that Balfour means nothing of the kind."

"Perhaps it is just as well, Cruden" answered Balfour, "that our young friend should so determine. I like to see young men fearless of investigation. Better he should invite the court than have it forced upon him; and you will see, from what I have said, that there is much of a suspicious nature in this affair which it is proper for him to clear up. But remember, my friends, what I have said has been said in a friendly spirit. I have too much regard for both of you to suffer you to be taken by surprise. You now see what points are to be explained, and what doubts discussed and settled."

This was all said very coolly; we shall not say civilly.

"I am deeply indebted to your courtesy, Colonel Balfour," answered Proctor, "and will be glad if you will still further increase my acknowledgments, by suffering me to know the sources of that information which, I perceive, has followed my footsteps as a shadow."

"Nay, now, my young friend, you must really excuse me. I should be happy to oblige you; but the nature of the affair, and the caution which is due to my situation, will not suffer me to comply with your desires. Excuse me. Let us have a glass all round."

"Stay," said Cruden; "am I to understand that John is deprived of his command at this post?"

"Most certainly," interposed Proctor, himself. "Until purged of these suspicions, I can certainly hold no station of trust in the service of his majesty."

"Your nephew has a right notion of these matters, Cruden," remarked Balfour; "but it will not be long. He will soon purge himself of these suspicions, and be in a situation to resume all his trusts."

"And to whom," said Cruden, "will you confide the post, meanwhile?"

"Who?—ay!" looking round. "I had thought of requesting our young friend, Vaughan, here, to administer its duties, and to take charge of the precincts of Dorchester."

Vaughan bowed his head quietly and respectfully, and, in a few calmly expressed words, declared his sense of the compliment. The keen eye of Proctor was fastened upon him with a stern and scornful glance, and, a moment after, he left the apartment, followed by his uncle.

"This is a most abominable affair, John," was his remark; "a most abominable affair!"

"Do you think so, sir? There would be nothing abominable about it, were there not a villain in the business."

"And that villain"—

"Is Vaughan! the servile tool of Balfour; the miserable sycophant, who fancies that ambition may be served by falsehood. But I shall crush him yet. His triumph is for the moment only."

CHAPTER III.

MIDDLETON.

The sun was still an hour high when Balfour gave instructions to prepare his horses and a small escort, proposing a visit to the plantation called "The Oaks," the domain of the famous rebel, Colonel Walton.

"You will, of course, accompany me, Cruden. Your duties begin in this quarter. It is just as well that we should have this estate within our clutches as soon as possible, and before the alarm is taken. We will quarter ourselves upon the young lady to-night, and see how the land lies. Should she prove as beautiful as they describe, we shall make her a ward of the king, and dispose of her accordingly."

"In that event, you had best take her to the city."

"I shall most surely do so."

"I shall certainly be better pleased to take charge of the plantation in her absence. Our authority might, otherwise, conflict. With the dawn, we must proceed to gather up the negroes, and for this purpose I shall need your assistance. You will have a sufficient detachment with you?"

"Twenty men will do. There are some three hundred slaves, I understand, of all classes; and the fewer soldiers we employ in bringing these into the fold, the less heavy will be the assessment on the estate."

This was said with a grin, the meaning of which was perfectly understood by his associate.

"Does my nephew accompany us, Balfour?"

"If he chooses."

"I may need his assistance in the matter."

"You have brought your secretary?"

"Yes, but John is a ready fellow at accounts—as quick with the pen as with the sword;—besides, he knows something of the estate already, and may give some useful hints in respect to plate, horses, and other property, which these rebel women are apt to conceal."

"The plate generally finds its way into the cellar, or under some great oak-tree in the woods; but I have long been in possession of a divining rod, which conducts me directly to the place of safe-keeping. We have only to string up one of the old family negroes, and, with a tight knot under the left ear, and a little uneasiness in breathing, he soon disgorges all his secrets. But, in truth, these women seldom hide very deeply. It is usually at the very last hour that they consent to put away the plate, and then it is rather hurried out of sight than hidden. I have sometimes detected the hoard by the ears of a silver milk-pot, or the mouth of a coffee-urn, or the handle of a vase, sticking up unnaturally beside an old chimney in the basement. But see your nephew, and let us ride."

Cruden proceeded to Proctor's room, but, on the expression of his wish, was met by a firm and prompt refusal.

"How can you ask me, Colonel Cruden, to take part in this business? It is your day, as the proper officer of the crown, and that is your apology. I should have none."

"I am afraid, John, you are quite too deeply interested in this beauty."

"Stop, sir; let us have nothing of this. Enough, that Miss Walton can never be to me more than she is. She is one always to command my respect, and I beg that she will your. For my sake, sir, administer this unpleasant duty, upon which you go, with all possible tenderness and forbearance."

"I will, John, for your sake. To be sure I will."

And they separated—Balfour clamoring without, impatiently, for his companion, who soon after joined him. An easy ride of an hour brought them to the noble avenue, "The Oaks," which conducted, for half a mile, to the entrance of Colonel Walton's dwelling—a stately, somber wood—the great, venerable trees arching and uniting completely over the space between, while their bearded mosses drooped to the very ground itself. The mansion was in a style of massive grandeur to correspond with so noble an entrance. The approach of the British party was known to the inmates, even before it had entered upon the avenue. There inmates consisted, now, only of Colonel Walton's maiden sister, Miss Barbara—a lady of that certain age which is considered the most uncertain in the calendar—when, in fact, the spinster ceases to compute, even as she ceases to grow—and Katharine, the only daughter of the fugitive rebel himself. Katharine was still a belle and a beauty, and youthful accordingly. She might have been nineteen; and, but for the majestic and admirable form, the lofty grace of her carriage, the calm and assured expression of her features, the case and dignity of her bearing—the fresh sweetness of her face, and the free, luxuriant flow of her long, ungathered locks, simply parted from her forehead, and left at freedom upon her neck and shoulders—would have occasioned a doubt whether she was quite sixteen. An obsequious negro, who rejoiced in the name of Bacchus, without making any such exhibition of feature or conduct as would induce the suspicion that he was a worshiper at the shrine of that jolly divinity, received the British officers at the entrance, and ushered them into the great hall of the mansion. Their escort, having had previous instructions, was divided into two bodies, one occupying the front avenue, the other that which led to the river, in the rear of the building. But two persons entered the house with Balfour and Cruden—Captain Dickson, of the garrison, and one who knew the Walton family, and the secretary of Colonel Cruden.

It was not long before the ladies made their appearance. Though by no means disposed to waive any proper reserves of the sex, they were yet prepared to recognize the policy which counseled them to give no undue or unnecessary provocations to those to whose power they could offer no adequate resistance. Mrs. Barbara Walton—the old maid in those days being always a mistress, through a courtesy that could no longer regard her as a miss—led the way into the hall, dressed in her stateliest manner, with a great hoop surrounding her as a sort of chevaux de frize (frieze?)—a purely unnecessary defense in the present instance—and her head surmounted by one of those towers of silk, gauzes, ribands, and pasteboard, which were so fashionable in that day, and which reminded one of nothing more aptly than of the rude engravings of the Tower of Babel in old copies of the Bible, done in the very infancy of art. Poor Mrs. Barbara was a tame, good-natured creature, no ways decided in her character, upon whom a foolish fashion could do no mischief, but who was always playing the very mischief with the fashions. They never were more military in character than in her hands—leading to conquest only by the absolute repulsion of all assailants. Whether, at forty-five, this good creature fancied that it was necessary to put her defense in the best possible array against such a notorious gallant as Balfour, we may not say; but certainly she never looked more formidable on any previous occasion. Her very smiles were trenches, pitfalls for the invader—and every motion of her person, however gracefully intended, seemed like a "warning to quit"—with a significant hint of "steel traps and spring guns" in waiting for trespassers.

Doubtless, the venerable maiden might have largely compelled the consideration of the British officers, but for the bright creature that appeared immediately behind her; and who, without any appearance of timidity or doubt, quietly advanced and welcomed the strangers, as if performing the most familiar office in the world. Balfour absolutely recoiled as he beheld her. So bright a vision had not often flashed across his eyes.

"By Jove," he muttered, at the first opportunity, to Cruden, "she is a beauty! What a figure!—what a face! No wonder your kinsman neglected his duties for his love."

"It is yet to be seen that he has done so," was the grave aside of Cruden.

"Having seen her," whispered Balfour, "I can believe it without further testimony."

We need not follow these asides. Katharine did the honors of the reception with an ease and dignity, which, while making the visitors at home, made it sufficiently evident that she felt quite as much what was due to her condition as to their calms. She wore the appearance of one who was conscious of all the cares, the responsibilities, and the dangers of her situation; yet without yielding to any of the fears or weaknesses which might be supposed, in one of her sex, to flow from their recognition. Her schooling had already been one of many trials and terrors. But her guests knew something of the training through which she had gone, and this rendered her bearing still more admirable in their sight. But her beauty, her virtue, her dignity, and character did not suffice, after the first impressive effect produced by her appearance, to disarm her chief visitor of any of his purposes. The usual preliminaries of conversation—such commonplaces of remark as belong to the ordinary encounters of persons in good society—having been interchanged as usual, and Balfour seized the opportunity of a pause, when his fair hostess, indeed, appeared to expect something from him in the way of a revelation, to break ground in regard to the ungracious business on which he came.

"It would greatly relieve me, Miss Walton," said he, with a manner at once seemingly frank as seemingly difficult, "if I could persuade myself that you, in some degree, anticipate the painful affair which brings me to your dwelling."

"That it is painful, sir, I must feel; and, without being able to conjecture what will be the form of your business, I can easily conceive it to be such as can be agreeable to none of the parties. To me, at least, sir, and to mine, I can very well conjecture that you bring penalty and privation at least."

"Nay, nay! These, I trust, are not the words which should be used in this business. In carrying out the orders of my superior, and in prosecuting the service which is due to my sovereign, I shall certainly be compelled to proceed in a manner, materially to change your present mode of life; but that these will involve penalty and privation is very far from probable. The conduct of your father—his present attitude in utter defiance to the arms and authority of his majesty, and in total rejection of all the gracious overtures made to him as well by Earl Cornwallis as by Sir Henry Clinton, leaves it impossible that we should extend to him any indulgence. As a rebel in arms"—

"Stay, sir!—you speak of my father. It is not necessary that you should say anything to his daughter's ear, save what is absolutely necessary that she should know. If I conceive rightly your objects in this visit, it is to visit upon my father's property the penalty of my father's offense."

"'Pon my soul," whispered Cruden, "the girl speaks like a very Portia. She comes to the point manfully."

"You relieve me, Miss Walton; and, in some measure, you are correct," answered Balfour, interrupting her speech. "It could not be supposed that his majesty should suffer Colonel Walton to remain in possession of his property, while actually waging war against the British standard. Colonel Cruden, here, is commissioned by Lord Cornwallis to sequestrate his estates—their future disposal to depend wholly upon the final issues of the war."

Here Cruden interposed, by reciting the general terms of the British regulation in regards to the confiscated or sequestrated estates of the rebels—enumerating all the heads of the enactment, and proceeding to details which left no doubt unsatisfied, no ambiguity which could lead to doubt, of the universal liability of the estate of the offender. Lands, houses, slaves; furniture and horses; plate and jewelry—"Of course, Miss Walton, the personal ornaments of a lady would be respected, and"—

Katharine Walton smiled quietly. This smile had its explanation, when the commissioner commenced his operations next day—but, though he was very far from conjecturing its signification, it yet struck him as something mysterious. Balfour, also, was impressed with the smile of Katharine, which seemed quite unnatural under the circumstances.

"You smile, Miss Walton."

"Only, perhaps, because he who anticipates the worst needs no such details as Colonel Cruden has bestowed on me. You are the masters here, I know. For myself, you see I wear no jewels. I had some toys, such as rings, brooches, chains, and watches, but I thought it unseemly that I should wear such ornaments, when the soldiers of my people wanted bread and blankets, and they all found their way, long since, to the money-chest of Marion."

"The devil!" muttered Cruden, in tones almost audible, though meant as an aside to Balfour. "It is to be hoped that the family plate has not taken the same direction."

"We shall see at supper, perhaps," was the whisper of Balfour.

Katharine Walton was seen again to smile. She had possibly heard the apprehensions of Cruden. At least, she might reasonably have conjectured them. She resumed—

"And now, Colonel Balfour, that I am in possession of your determination, you will permit me to retire for awhile, in order that I may properly perform the duties of a hostess. For this night, at all events, I may reasonably be expected to act in this capacity, let to-morrow bring forth what it may."

"Stay—a moment, Miss Walton—I am not sure that you conceive all that we would say—all, in fact, that is appointed us to execute."

"Well, sir?"

"Lord Cornwallis has left it to my discretion to decide whether, as a ward of the crown, you should be left exposed to a dangerous propinquity with rebellion—whether, in short, it would not be advisable that one so lovely, and so worthy of his guardianship, should not be placed in safety within the walls of the city."

"Ha! that, indeed, is something that I had not anticipated. And this, sir, is left to your individual discretion?"

"It is, indeed, Miss Walton," replied the commandant, turning his eyes very tenderly upon hers, and throwing into his glance as much softness as could well consist with the leer of a satyr.

"Well, sir, I suppose that even this claim can challenge nothing but submission. As I have said already, you are the master here."

She retired with these words.

"'Pon my soul, Cruden, the girl is a princess. With what a grace she yields! She seems no ways stubborn; and so beautiful! It ought not to be very difficult to thaw the heart of such a woman. That she has not been won before, is because they have never suffered her to come to the city."

"But, by—, should the plate have followed the jewels, Balfour?"

"The question is a serious one. We shall see at supper. Your kinsman might have said something of this matter, if he pleased. He must have seen, in his frequent visits, whether any display of plate was made."

"He did not visit frequently," said Cruden.

"Ah! but he did; too frequently for his good;—but here comes that gentlemanly negro; Bacchus, they call him. Such a name seems particularly suited to a butler. I think, Cruden, you had better send him to me. I like the fellow's manners. He has evidently been trained by a gentleman. Well, my man?"

"My lady begs to tell you, sir, that supper waits."

"Very well—show the way. Did you hear that, Cruden?—my lady! How these Provincials do ape nobility!"

(To be continued.)

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