To us, even now in the midst of a wonderful temperance reform, with Father Matthew in the land to second the great moral progress, and to make its claims at once impressive and religious, for the contemplation of succeeding time as for the benefit of our own, it will be difficult to conceive the excesses which prevailed in the use of ardent and vinous beverages in the days of which we write. They had harder heads, probably, in those days than in ours; they could drink with more audacity, and under fewer penalties, physical and moral, in their debauches. Certainly, they were then far less obnoxious to the censure of society for the licentious orgies in which it was the delight of all parties to indulge; and, indeed, society seldom interfered, unless, perhaps, to encourage the shocking practice, and to goad the young beginner to those brutal excesses from which the natural tastes might have revolted. "He was a milk-sop," in proverbial language, "who could not carry his bottle under his belt." "Milk for babes, but meat for men," the language of the apostle, was the ironical and scornful phrase which the veteran toper employed when encountering a more abstemious companion than himself. Precept and example thus combined, it was scarcely possible for the youth to withstand the pernicious training; and the terrible results have ensued to our period, and still measurably hold their ground, in practices which it will need the continued labors of a generation of reformers wholly to obliterate. To drink deep, as they did in Flanders, was quite a maxim with the soldiers of the Revolution on both sides; and too many of the American generals, taught in the same school, were much more able to encounter their British adversaries over a bottle than in the trial and the storm of war. Scotch drinking was always as famous as Dutch or English. Indeed, it is, and has ever been quite absurd to speak of the indulgence of the Irish as distinguishing them above their sister nations in a comparison of the relative degrees of excess which marked their several habits. The Scotch have always drank more than the Irish; but they drank habitually, and were thus less liable to betray their excesses. Balfour was a fair sample of his country-men in this practice. He had one of those indomitable heads which preserve their balance in spite of their potations. A night of intoxication would scarcely show any of its effects in the morning, and certainly never operated to embarrass him in the execution of his daily business. His appearance usually would seldom warrant you in suspecting him of any extreme trespasses over his wine. He would be called, in the indulgent phrase, as well of that day as our own, a generous or free liver—one who relished his Madeira, and never suffered it to worst his tastes or his capacities. Such men usually pay the penalty in the end; but we need not look so far forward in the present instance. Enough for us that, with the departure of the ladies and the supposed loyalist, and Captain Dickson, the worthy commandant of Charleston determined to make a night of it. In this he was measurably seconded by his companion. Cruden, however, had a cooler head and a more temperate habit. Besides, he had a master passion, which sufficed to keep him watchful of his appetites, and to guard against the moment of excess. Still he drank. What officer of the army, in those days, did not drink, who had served three campaigns in America, after having had the training of one or more upon the continent?

"The wine improves, Cruden," said Balfour "I say, Mercury, how much of this wine have you in the cellar?"

"We don't keep wine in the cellar, master," replied the literal Bacchus, who showed himself at the entrance when summoned; "we keep it in the garret."

"Well, well, no matter where. Have you got much of this wine in the garret?"

"A smart chance of it, I reckon, sir."

"What an answer! But this is always the case with a negro. A smart chance of it—as if one could understand anything from such an answer. Have you got a thousand bottles?"

"Don't think, sir."

"Five hundred?"

"Can't say, general."

"Five, then?"

"Oh, more than five—more than fifty, sir."

"Enough for tonight then, at all events. Go and bring us a few more bottles. This begins to thicken. I say, Cruden, I can respect even a rebel who keeps good liquors. Such a person must always possess one or more of the essentials of a gentleman. He may not be perfectly well bred, it is true, for that depends as much on good society as upon good wines; but he shows that, under other circumstances, something might have been made of him. But why do you not drink? You neither drink nor talk. Finish that glass now, and tell me if you do not agree with me that the man deserves respect whose wines are unimpeachable."

"I can readily acknowledge the virtues which I inherit."

"Good—very good. It is a phrase to be remembered so long as the work of sequestration goes on with such happy results. But good fortune does not seem to agree with you. You are moody, Cruden."

"It is the effect of the Madeira. Wine always makes me so. I like it, perhaps, as well as my body; but it sours me for a season. I become morose, harsh, ungenial—"

"What an effect! It is monstrous. It is only because you stop short where you should begin. 'Drink deep,' was the counsel of the little poet of Twickenham. That's the only secret. Do you read poetry, Cruden? I could swear no!"

No, indeed, it appears to me great nonsense."

"It comes to me—the taste for it, I mean—always with my liquor. I never think of it at other periods. I would keep a poet myself, if I could find a proper one. Poor Andre did some rhyming for me once, but it went like a broken-winded hackney. Harry Barry has a sort of knack at verse-making; but it is monstrous insipid, and only fit for his friend McMahon. 'Me and my friend McMahon!' 'Me and my friend Barry!' Are you not sick of the eternal speech of these two great-eared boobies, when they prattle of each other?"

"I never listen to them."

"Your are right; but as I talk a great deal myself over my wine, I can't do less than listen to the brutes when I am sober."

"I say, Balfour, have you given any orders about the search of this place tomorrow? We should take it early."

"Oh, you are too impatient. Your avarice gets the better of you. Sufficient for the day is the plunder thereof. No cares tonight. Ha! Jupiter, you are there."

This was said to Bacchus, as he arranged half a dozen dusty bottles upon the sideboard.

"Draw one of those corks; put the bottle here; remove these skins, and prepare to answer."

He was obeyed.

"Now stand there, that we may have a good view of you. Your name is Brutus, you say?"

"Bacchus, master."

"Bacchus! Bacchus! Strange that I should always forget. Bacchus, you have a very beautiful young mistress."

The negro was silent.

"Do you not think so, fellow?"

"She always good to me, master."

"And that, you think, means the same thing. Well, we'll not dispute the matter. Now, Bacchus, do you think that your young mistress cares a copper for any of the young officers at Dorchester? Speak up, like a man."

"I don't know, general."

"You general me, you rascal! But you shan't out-general me. I tell you, you do know. Answer, sirrah—didn't they come here constantly after your young mistress? Wasn't that handsome fellow, Proctor, always here?"

"Balfour, Balfour," interposed Cruden, "do not forget, I beg you, that Proctor is my kinsman."

"Pshaw! Why will you be throwing your nephew constantly in my teeth? Isn't ours a common cause? Don't we stand or fall together? And if your kinsman is in our way, shan't we thrust him out of it? What's he to either of us when the accounts are to be made up?"

"My sister's child, Balfour."

"Pish, were he your own now! Don't interrupt the negro. I say, Neptune, wouldn't you like to see your young mistress well married?"

"If she have no objection, master."

"A judicious answer! Well, she can have no objection, surely, to being married to a governor. Eh?"

"I reckon, master."

"She shall have a governor for her husband, Jupiter; she shall—and you shall be his body servant. I mean to be governor here, Pluto, as soon as we've driven all these rebels out; and she shall be my wife. Do you hear, fellow?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're a sensible fellow, Bacchus, and know that a governor's something more than a major of foot, or dragoons either. He makes majors of foot and dragoons—ay, and unmakes them, too, when they're troublesome. I say, Cruden, this affair looks squally for Proctor; it does; and yet I'm sorry for the fellow, I am. I like him as much on his account as your own. Come, we'll drink his health. You won't refuse that?"

Cruden filled his glass moodily, and drank. Balfour proceeded—

"You think, Cruden, that I am talking with too much levity? Don't deny it. I see it in your face. You look as surly as Sir William, with the last touches from the tail of the gout—just beginning to be unmiserable. But, you shall see, I will conduct the rest of the good fellow's examination with due sobriety."

"If you have any more questions to ask, let him answer about the plate."

"Ay, to be sure; I meant to come to that. I see what troubles you. Ho, Pluto, your master was a gentleman; I know, from your manners. I can always tell a gentleman by his servants. They reflect his manners; they imitate them. That is to say, your master was a gentleman before he became a rebel. You are no longer his servant, and you continue a gentleman still. Your master was rich, eh?"

"I expect so."

"He had lands and negroes, and, I feel certain, kept good wines. Now, Pluto, among the qualities of a gentleman who is rich, he must be in possession of a famous service of plate; he must have urns of silver, punch-bowls, plates, vases, teapots, cream-pots, milk-pots, and a thousand things necessary to the table and the sideboard, made out of the bright metal, eh?"

"Yes, sir; I expect so."

"And, Juno, your master had them all, hadn't he?"

"O yes, sir."

"Where are they, Bacchus?" put in Cruden.

"I don't know, master."

"What? Well! Go on, Colonel Cruden, go on; if you are not satisfied with my—ah!—with my mode of—of—making this little domestic inquisition, why, you are at perfect liberty to—to do it better, if you can."

Cruden sullenly apologized, as he perceived that there was no propriety in doing otherwise.

"Go on, Balfour; I didn't mean to take the game out of your hands. No one could do it better."

"I flatter myself you're right, Colonel Cruden. I do think that I can—ah—examine this gentleman of a negro as—as—successfully as any gowned inquisitor of—of—Westminster. But you've put me out. I must have something stronger than Madeira to restore my memory. I say, Brutus—Bacchus—have you the water heated?"

"Yes sir—general."

"And did your master—that was—did he have the decency, fellow, to keep in his cellar any good old Scotch whisky?"

"I don't think, master; but there is some particular fine old Jamaica."

"There is? It will do. Jamaica is only an apology for old Scotch whisky; but it is such an apology, Cruden—I say, Cruden, it is such an apology as any gentleman may accept. I must have some of it."

The bottle was already on the sideboard which contained the then favorite liquor of the South—Madeira being excepted always—and Bacchus was soon engaged in placing the spirits, the sugar, and the boiling water under the hands of Balfour, who insisted upon uniting the adverse elements himself.

"How gloriously it fumes! There, Cruden; drink of that, old fellow, and bless the hand that made it. Bacchus, you shall have a draught yourself—you shall, you handsome old rascal—the better to be able—to answer my questions. There is much of this Jamaica?"

"Smart chance, general."

"Drink, fellow, and forget your old master in your new."

The negro showed some reluctance; and the commandant of Charleston, rising from his chair, seized the fellow by his wool with one hand, while he forced the huge goblet, with its smoking potation, into his mouth. Few negroes reject such a beverage, or any beverage containing spirits; and Bacchus, though a tolerably temperate fellow, swallowed the draught without much reluctance or suffering.

"And now for this plate, Cæsar?"

"Yes, sir."

"You say there was plate?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where was it kept?"

"In little room up stairs, sir."

"Have you the key to that room?"

"It's on the bunch, master."

"Show it me."

The negro pointed it out. Balfour grasped it firmly, and shook it free from the rest.

"And now, fellow, where's the key to your wine vaults—your cellar?"

"Garret, Bacchus?" interposed Cruden.

"I thank you, Colonel Cruden. But had you—I say, Cruden, in a moment more I should have used the word myself. Garret, fellow?"

"I left it in the door, master, last time I went up, thinking maybe you might want more of the Madeira."

"You did? You sensible fellow! Who shall say that a negro lacks forethought? Ah, Bacchus, you are the man for me. Come, Cruden, let us go."

"Whither? What do you mean?

"To explore the wine vaults—to look into the cellar—to see after the plate! Now or never. I must see the extent of our possessions, old boy, before I sleep tonight."

The curiosity of Cruden—his cupidity, rather—prevailed over his sense of propriety. He was quite as ready for the exploration of the plate-room as was Balfour for the wine-cellar; and the two started, without further delay, under the guidance of Bacchus, bearing the candle. It was only when they emerged from the dining-room into the great passage way below stairs, that our lovers above were first apprised of the danger in which they stood of discovery. The voice of Bacchus first told them of the probable intrusion of the British officers into a portion of the dwelling not assigned to them, and in which their presence, at that hour of the night, was totally unexpected. The alarm of Katharine Walton may be imagined. Her fears, with regard to the safety of her companion, were naturally mixed up with the apprehensive sense of female delicacy, which must suffer from any detection under such circumstances. Singleton shared in this apprehension, with regard to her, more than any with regard to himself. He felt few fears of his personal safety, for he was conscious that he possessed, in the last resort, a means for escape, in the conviction that he could, himself, easily deal with the two enemies, encountering him, as they would, unexpectedly. To feel that his pistols were ready to his grasp in his belt, that the dagger was in his grip and free for use, was to reassure himself, and to enable him, with composed nerves, to quiet those of his fair companion. Meanwhile, the two Britons, both somewhat unsteady, though not equally so, made their way up the stairs. The anxiety of Bacchus to give due warning to those above, prompted him, more frequently than seemed necessary to Balfour, to insist, in loud tones, upon the necessity of the greatest caution in ascending a flight of steps which, he repeated, were more than ordinarily steep.

"Hold on to the banister, general," he cried, on seeing the commandant make a sweeping lurch against the wall; "these steps are mighty high and steep."

"Shut up, fellow, and go ahead. Throw your light more behind you, that we may see the steepness. There, that will do. This is a large house, Cruden, eh? The proprietor contemplated a numerous progeny when he built. Solid, too: fee these banisters.."

"All mahogany," was the answer.

"And carved. Old style, and magnificent. These provincials were ambitious of showing well, eh? An old house, eh? I say, Pluto, is this house haunted?"

"Haunted, master?"

"Yes, fellow. Don't you understand? Have you any ghosts about?"

"Why yes, sir. The old lady walks, they say."

"What old lady?"

"The lady of the old Landgrave."

"Landgrave?" exclaimed Cruden, inquiringly.

"Yes," answered Balfour. "You know that they had their nobles in this province: there were the Landgraves—which is German for lord or baron—and their Cassicoes, which is Indian for another sort of nobility; and their Palatinos, which is a step higher than both, I'm thinking—a pretty little establishment for a court in the woods. It was a nice sort of fancy of Lord Shaftesbury, after whom they christened this river and its sister—Ashley and Cooper—and if the old fox hadn't had his hands full of other conceits, we might have had him here setting up as a sort of Prince Macklevelly, the Italian, on his own account."

All this was spoken as Balfour hung upon the banister, midway up the steps, steadying himself for a renewed effort, and balancing to and fro, with his eyes stretched upwards to the dim heights of the lofty ceiling.

"Yes," said he, continuing the subject, "an old house, and a great one—not ill-planned for a palace; the family an old one; and of the nobility."

"An Indian nobility," said Cruden, somewhat contemptuously.

"Well, and why not? Nobility is nobility, whether savage or Saxon; and I'll marry into it when I can. Take my advice, and do the same. Is it not arranged between us that we are to divide the fair ladies of this establishment? I am to have the young one, Cruden, old fellow—being more suited, you know, by reason of my youth and good-fellowship, to her tender years. The stately and magnificent aunt, Mistress Barbara, who has a right to the quarterings of her great grandsire, and is an heiress in her own right, they tell me—she is the very fellow for you, Cruden. You will make a famous couple. She will preside like a princess in your Pinckney Castle; and the royal ships, as they enter the harbor, will be always sure to give you a salute. Yes, I yield to you the aunt; I do, Cruden, old fellow, without grudging; and will content myself modestly with the young creature."

This was spoken at fits and starts, the tongue of our worthy commandant, by this time, having thickened considerably, to say nothing of frequent spasmodic impediments of speech, known as hiccups to the vulgar.

"You are disposed of in a somewhat summary manner, Kate," whispered Singleton to his companion, both of whom had heard every syllable that was spoken.

"The brute!" was the muttered reply.

"What would Aunt Barbara say to all this?"

"If she be awake," said Katharine, "she hears it all. It will greatly provoke her."

"I can fancy her indignation! How she tosses her head!"

"Hush, Robert; they advance."

"If we are to divide all our spoils, Balfour," was the slow reply of Cruden, "upon the principle you lay down, my share would be a sorry one."

"What! you won't take the antique? Ha! ha! You go for tenderer spoils, do you; but I warn you, no squinting towards my Ballamira. She is mine! Look elsewhere, if the old lady don't suit you; but look not to the young one. Divide the spoils equally, to be sure! 'Pickings' was the word of our backwood's captain—the unsophisticated heathen! 'Pickings!' The rascal might as well have called it stealings at once. But here we are, landed at last. Hello, Brutus, whose portraits are these? Lift your light, rascal. Ha! that's a pretty woman—devilish like our virgin queen. Who's that, Plutus? Your young mistress?"

"No, sir; that's her great grandmother, the Landgravine."

"God bless her nobility! It's from her that my Queen of Sheba inherits her beauty. I shall have no objection to marry into a family where beauty, wealth, and title are hereditary. I shall love her with all my heart and all my strength. And this, Scipio?"

"That's master, the colonel, sir—Colonel Walton."

"The rebel! Fling it down from the walls, fellow. I'll have no rebel portraits staring me in the face—me, the representative here of his most sacred majesty, George the Third, King of England, Scotland, Ireland, Defender of the Faith, and father of a hopeful family. I say, down with the rebel-rascal, fellow; down with it! We'll have a bonfire of all the tribe, this very night. They shall none escape me. I have burnt every effigy of the runagates I could lay hands on; and, by the blessed saints! I will serve this with the same dressing. Do you hear, Beelzebub? Down with it!"

Katharine Walton, in her place of hiding, her soul dilating with indignation, was about to dart forward to interpose, totally forgetful of her situation, when the arm of Singleton firmly wrapped her waist. In a whisper, he said—

"Do not move, Kate, dearest; they will hardly do what this drunken wretch requires. But even should they, you must not peril yourself for the portrait, however precious it may be to your sympathies. Subdue yourself, dear heart. We must submit for a season."

"Oh, were I but a man!" said the high-souled damsel, almost audibly.

"Hush, Kate! Believe me, I prefer you infinitely as you are."

"Oh, how can you jest, Robert, at such a moment?"

"Jest! I never was more serious in my life."

"But your tone?"

"Says nothing for my heart, Kate. It is better to smile, if we can; and play with words, at the moment when, though we feel daggers, we dare not use them."

Meanwhile, the negro made no movement to obey the orders of Balfour. He simply heard, and looked in stupid wonderment.

"Do you not hear me, fellow? Must I tear down the staring effigy myself?"

He advanced as he spoke, and his hands were already uplifted to the picture, when Cruden interposed—

"Leave it for tonight Balfour. You will alarm the household. Besides, you will give great offense to the young lady. I don't love rebels any more than you, and will help to give themselves as well as their effigies to the fire; but let it be done quietly, and after you've sent the girl to town. You wouldn't wish to hurt her feelings?"

"Hurt her feelings? No! How could you imagine such a vain thing? Of course, we'll leave the rebel for another season. But he shall burn in the end, as sure as I'm Nesbitt Balfour."

"Robert," whispered Katharine, in trembling accents, "that portrait must be saved from these wretches. It must be saved, Robert, at every hazard."

"It shall be, Kate, if I survive this night."

"You promise me, and that is enough."

CHAPTER VIII.

The lovers were suddenly hushed, in their whispered conversation, by the nearer approach of the British officers. Cruden had, at length, persuaded his companion to forget the rebel portraits for a while, and to address himself earnestly to the more important object of their search. Under the guidance of the reluctant Bacchus, they drew nigh to the plate chamber, or the closet, in which, according to the negro, the silver of the household was usually kept. This apartment was placed at the extremity of the passage, closing it up apparently in this quarter, but with a narrow avenue leading beside it, and out upon a balcony in the rear of the building. It was in this narrow passage that Katharine and her lover had taken shelter. The outlet to the balcony was closed by a small door; and against this they leaned, in the depth of shadow. With the dim candlelight which guided the enemy, they might reasonably hope, in this retreat, to escape his notice—unless, indeed, the light were brought to bear distinctly upon their place of hiding. Here they waited, in deep silence and suspense, the approach of the British officers.

Bacchus might have saved the commandant and the commissary the trouble of their present search. He well knew that the silver of the household had all disappeared. It is true that he knew not positively what route it had taken; but his conjectures were correct upon the subject. He was prudently silent, however—rather preferring to seem ignorant of a matter in which a too great knowledge might have ended in subjecting him to some of the responsibility of the abstraction. They reached the door, and Balfour fumbled with the keys, to the great impatience of his companion, who more than once felt tempted to offer his assistance; but forbore, from sufficient experience of the tenacious vanity of the commandant. At length the opening was effected, and the two darted in—Bacchus lingering at the entrance, prepared to make a hasty retreat should the discoveries of his superiors result in any threatening explosion. For a time, their hopes were encouraged. They beheld several rows of broad shelves, almost covered with old boxes, some of which were fastened down. It required some time to examine these; but, at length, the unpleasant conviction was forced upon them that they had wasted their labor upon a beggarly account of empty boxes.

"Bacchus," said Cruden, "is there no other closet?"

"Bacchus, you beast, where's the plate, I say?"

"'Tain't here, general," humbly responded the trembling negro.

"Well, that's information for which we are grateful; but, you bloody villain, if you don't find it—if a spoon's missing, a cup, a tankard, a pot, a—a—I'll have you hung up by the ears, you villain, with your head downward, like Saint Absalom! Do you hear, Plutus? Do you know what hanging means, eh? Do you know how it feels? Do you know—"

"Ask him, Balfour, if there are not other closets."

"Poh! poh! Cruden; am I the man, at this time of day, to be taught how to put the question to a son of Ishmael? What do we want with closets? What have we got by looking into closets? It's the plate we want; the precious metals, the cream of Potosi—the silver, the ingots, the Spanish bars, you sooty, black, Ethiopian, Beelzebub; and if they're not forthcoming—ay, tonight, this very hour—you shall have dispatches for your namesake and grandfather, you nefarious Pluto—head downwards, you son of soot and vinegar! Do you hear! Head downwards shall you swim the Styx, old Charon, with a fifty pound shot about your neck, by way of ballast for a long voyage. The plate, old villain, if you wish to be happy on dry land, and keep your honest Ethiopian complexion!"

Bacchus declared himself fully sensible of the dangerous distinction with which he was threatened; but declared himself, in good set terms, and with the most earnest protestations, totally ignorant of the whereabouts of the missing treasure.

"I'm a poor nigger, master; they never gave the silver to me to keep. The colonel or young missus always kept the keys."

"Tell us nothing, fellow," said Cruden. "We know perfectly well that you are the trusted servant of your rebel master; we know that you have helped to hide the plate away. Show us where you have hidden it, and you will be rewarded; refuse, or pretend not to know, and as certainly as the commandant swears it, you will be hung up to the nearest tree."

"Head downwards!" muttered Balfour.

"If you will b'lieve a poor black man when he swears, master, I swear to you I never had any hand in hiding it."

"Swear, will you, old Pluto? And by what god will your reverence pretend to swear, eh?" was the demand of Balfour.

"I swear by the blessed Lord, master?"

"Poh! poh! that won't do, you old rapscallion. Would you be tasking the name of the Lord in vain? Would you have me encourage you in violating the Ten Commandants? Besides, you irreverent Ichabod, such an oath will never bind such a sable sinner as you are. No, no; you shall swear by the Horned Jupiter, by the Grand Turk, and by Mahomet and Pharaoh. Do you hear? Will you swear by Jupiter Ammon?"

"I never hear of such a person, master."

"You never did! Is it possible? You see, Cruden, how lamentably ignorant this rebellious rascal is. I shall have to take this Ethiopian into my own keeping, and educate him in the right knowledge. I will teach you, Busiris, and make you wise—that is, if I do not hang you. But hang you shall, by all the gods of Egypt—and that is an oath I never break—unless you show where you have hid this treasure."

"I never hide it, master: I swear by all them people you mention!"

"People! They are gods, fellow, gods! But he swears, Cruden; he swears."

"Yes," said the other; "and he does not seem to know about the hiding, let him conduct us to the other closets and close rooms. There are other rooms, Bacchus," continued Cruden. who ventured, upon the somewhat drowsy state of Balfour, to take a leading part in the examination.

"Some rooms down stairs, colonel," said the negro, eagerly.

"Down stairs? But are there no others above stairs? What is this opening here, for example? Whither does this avenue lead?" and, as he inquired, he approached the mouth of the passage, at the extremity of which Katharine Walton and her lover were concealed.

"Here, Bacchus, bring your light here! This place must lead somewhere—to some chamber or closet. Let us see. Your light! Ten to one this conducts us to the hiding-place of the treasure."

The hand of Katharine clasped convulsively the arm of Singleton, as she heard these suggestions. Her companion felt all the awkwardness of their situation; but he apprehended little of its dangers. He felt that he was quite a match for Cruden, even against the half-drunk Balfour; and he had no doubt that Bacchus would not wait for his orders or those of his mistress to join in a death-grapple with the enemy. He gently pressed the hand of the maiden, with the design to reassure her; then quietly felt the handle of his dirk. His breathing was painfully suppressed, however, as he waited for the movement or the reply of Bacchus. That faithful fellow was sufficiently prompt in the endeavor at evasion.

"That's only the passage into the open balcony, master; that jest leads out into the open air;" and, speaking thus, he resulutely bore the light in the opposite direction.

"Never you mind; bring the light here, fellow; let us see"—the very apparent reluctance of Bacchus stimulating the curiosity of Cruden.

"The open air!" said Balfour. "To be sure, I want a little fresh air. The balcony, too! That should give us a view of the prospect. The scene by starlight must be a fine one. We'll but look out for a moment, Cruden; and then give up the search for the night. I'm sleepy, and, after another touch of the tankard, will doll boots and buff, and to bed. This ignoramus know nothing. We'll find the plate in the cellar, or under some of the trees, with a little digging. Don't be uneasy; I carry a divining rod, which is pretty sure to conduct me to all hiding-places. It only needs that the rod should be put in pickle for awhile. Ha, fellow, do you know what is meant by a rod in pickle?"

"Don't let us forget the balcony, Balfour. Do you not wish to look out upon the night?"

"Ay, true; to be sure."

"Here, fellow, Bacchus, your light here."

"Yes, sir," was the answer; and the heart of Katharine Walton bounded to her mouth as she heard the subdued reply, and listened to the movement of feet in the direction of the passage. But Bacchus had no intention of complying with a requisition which he felt so dangerous to the safety of those whom he loved and honored. The negro, forced to the final necessity, still had his refuge in a native cunning. It was at the moment when he turned, as if to obey the imperative commands of Cruden, that Balfour wheeled about to approach him; and Bacchus timed his own movements so well, that his evolutions brought him into sudden contact with the person of the commandant. The light fell from his hand, and was instantly extinguished, while a cry of terror from the offender furnished a new provocation to the curiosity of the British officers.

"Lord ha' mercy upon me! what is that?"

"What's what, you bloody Ishmaelite?" exclaimed Balfour, in sudden fury. "You've ruined my coat with your accursed candle-grease!"

"Lord ha' mercy! Lord ha' mercy!" cried the negro, in well-affected terror.

"What scares you, fool?" demanded Cruden.

"You no see, master? The old lady! She walks! I see her jest as I was turning with the candle."

"What, the old Landgrave's housekeeper?" demanded Balfour.

"Pshaw!" cried Cruden; "don't encourage this blockhead in his nonsense. Away, fool, and re-light your candle; and may the devil take you as you go!"

The commissioner of confiscated estates was now thoroughly roused. His disappointment, in the search after the missing plate, and the fear that it would prove wholly beyond his reach, had vexed him beyond endurance. He was really glad of an occasion to vent his fury upon the negro, since the temper of Balfour was such as to render it necessary that he should exhibit the utmost forbearance in regard to his conduct, which Cruden was nevertheless greatly disposed to censure a thousand times a day. It was with a heavy buffet that he sent Bacchus off to procure a light, following his departure with a volley of oaths, which proved that, if slow to provocation, his wrath, when aroused, was sufficiently unmeasured. Even Balfour found it proper to rebuke the violence which did not scruple at the quality of his curses.

"Don't swear, Cruden, don't; it's a pernicious, immoral practice; and here, in the dark, at midnight—for I heard the clock strike below just before old Charon dropped the candle—and with the possibility—I say possibility, Cruden—that we are surrounded by spirits of the dead, ghosts of past generations, venerable shades of nobility—for you must not forget that the ancestors of this rebel colonel were Landgraves and Landgravines—his grandmother, as you hear, being the first Landgrave in the family—you saw her portrait on the wall, with an evident beard upon her chin, no doubt intended by the painter to denote the dignity and authority of her rank, as Michael Angelo painted Moses with a pair of horns: and there is a propriety in it, do you see; for ghosts—By the way, Cruden, you believe in ghosts, don't you?"

"Not a bit."

"You don't? Then I'm sorry for his majesty's service that is has such an unbelieving infidel in it. A man without faith is no better than a Turk. It's a sign that he has no reverence. And that's the true reason why these Americans became rebels. The moment they ceased to believe in ghosts and other sacred things, they wanted to set up for themselves. Don't you follow their example. But where are you going?"

Cruden was striding to and fro impatiently.

"Nowhere."

"Don't attempt to walk in this solid darkness," counseled the moralizing Balfour, who gradually, and with some effort, holding on to the wall the while, let himself down upon the floor, his solid bulk, in spite of all his caution, giving it a heavy shake as he descended. "Don't walk, Cruden; you may happen upon a pitfall; you may get to the stairway, and slip. Ah! did you hear nothing, Cruden?"

"Nothing!" somewhat abruptly.

"I surely heard a whisper and a rustling, as if of some ancient silken garment. Come near to me, Cruden, if you would hear. I wish that fellow Bacchus would make haste with his light. I surely heard a footstep! Listen, Cruden."

"I hear nothing! It's your fancy, Balfour;" and the other continued to stride away as he spoke, not seeming to heed the repeated requests of Balfour to approach him, in order properly to listen.

Balfour's senses, in all probability, had not deceived him. The moment that Bacchus had disappeared, Singleton whispered to his trembling companion—

"Now is our time, Kate, if we would escape. Bacchus has flung down his light only to give us the opportunity. Let us use it."

"But they are at the entrance?"

"I think not. Near it, I grant you; but on the side, and with room enough for us to pass. Follow me."

It was lucky that the necessities of the service had long since forced upon Singleton the use of moccasins. There were few boots in the camp of Marion. The soft buckskin enabled our partisan to tread lightly through the passage; the heavy tread of Cruden contributing greatly to hush all inferior sounds. Singleton grasped firmly, but gently, the wrist of his companion. But she no longer trembled; her soul was now fully nerved to the task. Balfour had, however, in reality, settled down, in part, at the entrance of the passage. He was seeking this position of humility and repose at the very moment when the two began their movement. For the instant, it compelled them to pause; but when assured that he was fairly couched, they passed lightly beside him; and, had not his superstitious fancies been awakened by the story of the ghostly Landgravine, his suspicions might have been more keenly awakened by the supposed rustlings of the ancient silk. To steer wide of Cruden was an easy task for our fugitives, as his footsteps announced his whereabouts with peculiar emphasis. The great passage was traversed with safety, and the maiden paused at the door of her chamber. Fortunately, it had been left ajar when she joined Singleton, though this had been done without regard to any anticipations of the interruptions they had undergone. To push it open and enter occasioned no noise. Singleton detained her only for an instant, as he whispered—

"Be not alarmed, Kate, at anything that may take place tonight—at any uproar or commotion."

"What mean you? What—But go! I hear Bacchus. You have not a moment to lose."

He pressed her hand, and stole off to the stairway. The steps yielded and creaked as he descended; but the heavy boots of Cruden still served as a sufficient diversion of the sound from the senses of the British officers. Our partisan passed on that side of the hall below which lay in shadow, being careful not to place himself within the range of the light carried by Bacchus, who crossed him in the passage. He had something to say to the negro, but deferred it prudently, nothing doubting that he would find his way to his chamber when all had become quiet in the house.

Let us once more ascend with the light, and see the condition of the enemy. Balfour was philosophizing. His drink had rendered him somewhat superstitious.

"I say, Cruden," said he, "if I have not felt the rustling of a ghost's petticoat tonight, may I be—!"

"I see no necessity why even a female ghost should appear in petticoats."

"It would be a very improper thing to appear without them," was the decent reply. "But," continued our philosopher, "I certainly heard her footsteps."

"Really, Balfour, if I could conceive of ghosts at all, I should certainly have no reason to suppose that they needed to make any noise in walking. A ghost, with so much materiality about it as to make her footsteps heard, is one with whom any strong man might safely grapple."

"Cruden, Cruden, you are no better than a pagan. You have no faith in sacred things. I certainly heard a rustling as of silks, and the tread of a person as if in slippers—a dainty, light, female footstep, such as might reasonably be set down by an ancient lady of noble family. I am sure it was a ghost. I feel all over as if a cold wind had been blowing upon me. I must have a noggin; I must drink! I must sleep. Confound the plate, I say! I'd sooner lose it all than feel so cursed uncomfortable."

"I am afraid it is lost, Balfour," responded the other, in tones of more lugubrious solemnity than those which his companion had used in the discussion of the supernatural.

"No matter," was the reply of Balfour; "we'll talk the matter over in the daylight. I don't despair. There is the cellar yet, and the vaults. Vaults are famous places, as I told you, for hiding treasure. But the mention of vaults brings back that ghost again. Where are you, Cruden? Why do you walk off to such a distance? Beware! You'll tumble down the steps headlong, and I shall then have you haunting me for ever after."

"No fear. But here the negro comes with the light. Perhaps it is just as well that we should go to be at once, and leave the search till the morning. It is not likely that we shall make much progress under present circumstances."

"Some of that liquor first, Cruden. My night-cap is necessary to my sleep. I thought I had taken quite enough already; but this cold wind has chilled me to the bones, and sobered me entirely. The ghost must have had something to do with it—one spirit acting upon another."

The light now appeared, and Bacchus emerged from the stairhead; and with an evident grin upon his features as he beheld Cruden erect in the centre of the passage, as if doubtful where to turn, bewildered utterly in the dark; and Balfour at the extremity of it, his huge frame in a sitting posture, in which dignity did not seem to have been greatly consulted.

"Ha, Beelzebub, " cried the commandant, the moment he beheld the visage of the negro, "you are here at last! This is a hanging matter, you scoundrel, to leave us here in the dark to be tormented by the ghosts of your old grandmother. I have hung many a better fellow than yourself for half the offense; and, were you a white man, you should never see another daylight. Look to it, rascal, and toe the mark hereafter, or even your complexion shall not save you from the gallows."

"I will look to it, general, jest as you tell me."

"See that you do. Here, Cruden, give me an arm; my limbs seem quite stiff and numbed. That infernal wind! It was surely generated in a sepulchre!"

Cruden did as he was desired, and the bulky proportions of the commandant were raised to an erect position on the floor. He stood motionless for a moment, having thrown off the arm that helped him up, as if to steady himself for further progress: but the ghost, or rather his superstitious fancies, had really done much to sober him. His hesitation was due less to any real necessity than to his own doubts of the certainty of his progress. While thus he stood, Cruden in the advance, and Bacchus between the two, aiming to divide the light with strict impartiality, for their mutual benefit, the eyes of Balfour rested upon the portraits against the wall. That of the ancient Landgravine first compelled his attention.

"Hark you, Beelzebub: that, you say, is the venerable lady who still keeps house here at midnight? She is the proprietor of the ghost by which I have been haunted. It was her garment that rustled beside me, and her footsteps that I heard; and it was she that blew upon me with her ghostly breath, giving me cold and rheumatics. She shall burn as a witch tomorrow. We shall have a bonfire that shall be a due warning to witch and rebel; and to all, you sooty rascal, that believe in them."

"Come, Balfour, let us retire."

Cruden was now at the head of the stairway.

"Let us drink, first. Advance the light, Beelzebub; and see that you bear it steadily. Drop it again, and I cleave your head off where you stand, ghost or no ghost. It's not so sure, yet, that you shall escape from hanging. If there be but a single spot of grease on my regimentals tomorrow, Beelzebub—say your prayers suddenly. I shall give you very little time."

The party at length found themselves safely below. Scarcely had they disappeared, when Mistress Barbara Walton put her head out of her chamber door. She had overheard the progress from beginning to end. She had drank in, with particular sense of indignation, that portion of the dialogue which, as the two officers first ascended the stairs, had related to herself, and the cavalier disposition which it was proposed to make of her; and she felt that she was in some measure retorting upon the parties themselves when she could vent her anger on the very spot which had witnessed their insolence.

"The brutes!" she replied; "the foreign brutes! But I despise them from the bottom of my heart. I would not bestow my hand upon their king himself, the miserable Hanover turnip, let alone his hirelings. The drunken wretches! Oh!"—she exclaimed, looking up at the picture of the venerable Landgravine, threatened with the flames—"oh! how I wish that her blessed spirit could have breathed upon them, the blasphemous wretches—breathed cramps upon their bones, the abominable heathens! To speak of me as they have done! Of me—the only sister of Richard Walton! Oh, if he were here—if I could only tell him how I have been treated!"

The British officers suffered little from this burst of indignation. Balfour was soon comforted in the enjoyment of his night-cap; and Cruden was not unwilling to console himself, under his disappointments, by sharing freely of the beverage. In a little while both of them were asleep—the former in full possession of such a sleep as could only follow from the use of such a night-cap.

(To be continued.)

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