GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK
Philadelphia, November 1850

KATHARINE WALTON: OR, THE REBEL'S DAUGHTER.

A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ., AUTHOR OF "THE PARTISAN,"

"MELLICHAMPE," "THE KINSMEN," "THE YEMASSEE," ETC.

(Entered, according to the act of Congress, in the year 1850,

by W. Gilmore Simms, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court

for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.)

(Continued from page 219.)

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"I do arrest thee, here, myself, false knight,

Of treason capital, against the State."

As Mad Archy Campbell dashed out of Charleston on the ensuing morning in his showy establishment, accompanied by Miss Paulina Phelps, he passed General Wilkinson, accompanied by two dragoons, assigned to him by Balfour, as much perhaps by way of guaranty of his return to the city as a guard of honor. This precaution, however, proved insufficient, for the General having arrived at the Quarter House, and thrown himself on a bed for the purpose of taking his siesta, the house was surrounded by a party of rangers, under the command of Colonel Walton, who, notwithstanding the General's endeavors to make him comprehend his real position, and the relations established between himself and Colonel Singleton, made him a prisoner, and hurried him off with his previous prisoners, Major Proctor and his servant, across the Ashley. One of the General's dragoons was permitted to escape, and the other was captured.

Meanwhile, Mad Archy Campbell was rapidly pursuing his way towards Goose Creek with Paulina, determined, at all hazards, to win his wager. Mad Archy's strategy on this occasion was worthy of his character. By a series of perilous maneuvers, such as crossing a ditch, running down a large hog, and passing between two trees within an inch of his axle, he succeeded in convincing the lady that she was indeed in the hands of a madman, with whom her life was hardly safe; and, on their arrival at the parsonage of Goose Creek, the lady being half dead with terror, he fairly frightened the Reverend Edward Ellington into accepting Paulina's silence as her assent, and they were incontinently united in the holy bands of matrimony.

On his return to the city, Mad Archy encountered the dragoon whom Colonel Walton's rangers had permitted to escape, and thus became apprized of the General's capture.

We pass over unnecessary details. The reader will suppose the newly-married wife, "so wildly wooed, so strangely won," to have been safely and quiety disposed of at her own habitation. Mad Archy then hurried away to Balfour's quarters, where he found the usual guard at the entrance. But Balfour himself was absent, and our Benedict proceeded to seek him at his usual haunts. But he failed in the search at Barry's domicile in Queen Street; failed equally at the house of the beautiful Harvey in Baufair; and, after vain inquiries, here and there, he at length obtained a clue which conducted him to the dweling of Mrs. Singleton, in Church Street. But, before reaching this point, he contrived, in passing, to stop at Stock's Quarters, and report events, which he could scarcely hope to make so gratifying to the old major as they were to himself. He found the major engaged at his toilet for the evening. A few words sufficed to empty his budget of the matter most interesting to himself.

"Those guineas, Stock; they are now absolutely necessary to my establishment."

"What do you mean, fool?"

"Mean! That I am married, and to Paulina Phelps. The Sultana is mine, and that saves me the Sultan."

"Don't believe a word of it," said Stock.

"Very likely; but you will have to believe, in fear and trembling, and pay for your slow faith in the bargain. We were hitched for life, man and wife, this very day, at the Goose Creek Parsonage, Ellington, the rector, presiding, and your humble servant submitting. You will hear all, soon enough I don't want your guineas until you are satisfied; but that will be to-morrow. Please prepare accordingly."

"Begone with you, for a madman as you are. That thing's impossible!"

"I grant you. But, nevertheless, quite true."

"If it be so, by all the powers, I shall pray that Harley may make you quite indifferent to your wife and my money. I'll help him to cut your throat."

"I think your malice may lead you to it, very nearly. But talking of throat-cutting reminds me that General Williamson is in danger of a short cord, and five minutes only, to say grace in it. He was captured to-day, by Colonel Walton, with a party, at the Quarter House. I am now looking for Balfour, to give him the tidings."

"Well, he will be grateful for them, no doubt. Seek him at the Widow Singleton's. He is there, now, pretty constantly. The star in the ascendant is Walton's daughter. He will be delighted to show her how many are the obligations he owes to the family."

Leaving the old major in no good humor, Campbell immediately proceeded to the designated dwelling, where he found Balfour, in no pleasant humor at the interruption. But, when he heard the intelligence brought by Mad Archy, he was aghast. It took him no long time to learn all the particulars, and to anticipate all the consequences.

"Great Heavens!" said he; "Walton will hang him!"

"Very likely," was the cool reply. "When a man turns traitor to his colors, hanging proves a part of the understanding. It is the peril always incurred in such cases."

"But we must save him if we can."

"If they mean to hang him at all, it is probably too late. Rope and tree are too convenient in our forests to render much delay necessary."

"They may delay, with the view to a formal trial. A provincial colonel will seldom venture on any such decided measure as execution without trail."

"According to all accounts, Walton is an exception to this rule. The surprise and capture show boldness enough here, within five miles of the city; and why this audacity, unless they designed to make an example of the captive?"

"Granted. But a hurried execution will afford no such example as they require. They will aim at an ostentatious exhibition of their justice. In that is our hope. We must move promptly, Campbell. Do you get your command in readiness. Go to Major Fraser, instantly, and let him call out all the cavalry of the garrison. To-horse, all of you, and scatter in pursuit. There is no time to be lost!"

His commands were instantly obeyed; and, stripping the city of all its horse, Major Fraser led his forces that very night in pursuit of our partisans. Mad Archy was hurried away with his squadron, with a moment only allowed for leave-taking with his wife. He bore the necessity like a philosopher of the Stoic order. Holding the lady in an embrace rather more fervent than scrupulous, he bade her be of good cheer, and show the courage proper to a soldier's wife.

"These rebels shall pay for our privations, Paulina! I almost wish that I were a Cherokee, that I might be justified in bringing you a score of scalps for your bridal trophies! But, if there be any sooty captives to be taken, you shall have spoil enough. There, my beauty! One more smack! Remember, if I perish, Stock has no claim upon my Arabian, and you have a claim for fifty guineas upon him. I may die in your debt, Paula-Paulina, but not in his. There's another! Smack!"

And with this characteristic speech and parting, Mad Archy hurried from the dwelling, leaving his wife quite unprepared to determine whether his death in battle would be really an evil or a blessing. We must in charity conclude that her reflections were finally put at rest by conclusions favorable to their mutual future.

We must not forget what took place between Balfour and Katharine Walton, when, after the departure of Archy Campbell, he returned to the apartment where he had left her. He had been, as we may conjecture, urging indirectly a suit which her reserve had too much discouraged to suffer him to pursue a policy more frank. He had been doing the amiable, after his fashion, for a good hour before Campbell had appeared. In this aspect, his deportment had been forbearing and unobtrusive; his solicitude had been as gentle and delicate as was possible to his nature; marked, indeed, by a degree of timidity which had been steadily on the increase from the moment when his interest first began in the lady and her fortunes. The controlling dignity of her character had sensibly coerced and checked the presumption natural to his, and he was thus, perforce, compelled to submit to an influence which he felt as a curb, from which he would have found it a real pleasure to break away, if, in doing this, he should not thereby perfect other objects even more grateful to him than the license which he loved. On the present occasion, the tidings brought him of Williamson's capture and of Walton's agency in that event, were suggestive to his mind of a mode of accounting with the daughter of the rebel in such a way as not to compromise his own suit, yet to enable him in some degree to exercise his freedom.

"Miss Walton," he said, with serious countenance, "my esteem for you comes greatly in conflict with my duty."

"How so, sir?"

"You cannot know how indulgently I have forborne in your case already, to the great annoyance of all the loyalists in the garrison. But I have just received intelligence which makes it almost criminal for me to regard any of your name with favor."

"Indeed, sir," curiously, but with a smile.

"Yes, indeed, Miss Walton. Your father-"

"Ah, sir! What of my father?" more anxiously.

"He seems resolute to deprive his friends of all power of saving him or serving his daughter."

A pause. He was answered only with a smile.

"You do not seem curious, Miss Walton?"

"Well, sir, since you desire it - what of my father?"

"He has done that, Miss Walton, which, in the case of any other rebel, would conduct all his connections to the Provost, and work a complete forfeiture of all their possessions, and of all hope of the future favor of our sovereign. He has audaciously surprised and captured General Williamson, almost within sight of the garrison."

"General Williamson was a traitor to his country! I see nothing in this but the act of an open enemy; and such my father has frankly avowed himself to your sovereign and his armies."

"Very true. But General Williamson, if a traitor to the rebel cause, is true to that of his sovereign. If a hair of his head suffers at the hands of your father, I fear, Miss Walton, that his pardon will be impossible."

"It will be time enough, Colonel Balfour, to think of his pardon when the attitude of my father shall be that of supplication."

The maiden answered proudly. Balfour's reply was made with a deliberate gravity, which had its effect on his hearer in her own despite.

"And you may very soon behold him in that attitude, Miss Walton; needing and entreating mercy without finding it. I have been compelled to order out my entire cavalry in pursuit. They will spare no speed - they will forego no efforts for the recapture of General Williamson and the destruction of the rebel squadron. Should they succeed, which is high probable - should your father fall into their hands, I shall not be able to answer for his life. It will need all my efforts - and I shall labor in the very teeth of duty, if I strive to save him from his fate. What shall move me to these exertions? - why should I so labor in his behalf? There is but one consideration, Miss Walton - but one! Your hand - your heart - your affections, in return for those which I now proffer you."

He took her hand as he spoke these words; but she instantly withdrew it from his grasp.

"Colonel Balfour, let me entreat you to be silent on this subject, and at such a moment as the present. You describe my father to be in a situation of great danger. I am not prepared to believe in this danger. But, if your report be ture, it is neither a proof of your affection nor your magnanimity that I should be addressed to this effect, and at this juncture. Let me beg your forbearance. You have given me sufficient cause for sad thought - for apprehensions which forbid all considerations of the subject of which you speak."

"But you do not forbid the subject?" he asked, eargerly.

"And of what avail that I should? I have already more than once entreated your forbearance. If I could hope that my command would be regarded when my entreaty is not, the words should be spoken. Is it not enough that I tell you that the subject is ungracious to me - that you only give me pain - that I cannot see you in the character which you assume?"

"It is no assumption. It is felt - it is real! Miss Walton, I love you as fervently as man ever yet loved woman."

He threw himself at her feet, and again endeavored to possess himself of her hand. She rose calmly, and with dignity.

"Colonel Balfour, this must not be! I must leave you. I cannot entertain your suit. That you may be sure that I am sincere, know that my affections are wholly given to another."

"What?" he cried, with an impatience almost amounting to anger, which he did not endeavor to conceal - "what! is it then true? You are engaged to that rascally Singleton?"

"Enough, Colonel Balfour! This was not necessary to satisfy me of your character, and teach me what is due to mine. I leave you, sir. In future, I shall much prefer that we should not meet."

"You will repent this haste, Miss Walton!"

"I may suffer for it, sir."

"By the Eternal, but you shall suffer for it!"

She waved her hand with dignity, bowed her head slightly, and passed into an inner apartment. The lips of Balfour were firmly set together. He watched, with eyes of fiery hostility, the door through which the maiden had departed; then, after the pause of a few seconds, striking his fist fiercely upon the table, he exclaimed-

"She shall pay for this!"

In the next moment, he darted out of the dwelling, and made his way, with mixed feelings, which left him doubtful where to turn, towards the residence of la belle Harvey.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MAJOR FRAZER, with an ample force, as we have already seen, left Charleston on the evening of the day whose events we have just narrated, in pursuit of Colonel Walton and his party. His force consisted of various detachments, who pursued different routes, and Mad Archy Campbell was in command of the strongest.

Meantime, Colonel Walton had selected for his temporary camp a very pretty spot on the east bank of the Combahee. His own quarters were taken up in the dwelling-house of a plantation which his troops occupied, an airy, comfortable habitation, the proprietors of which were in exile. His sentinels and videttes were so placed as to secure all the avenues to the place, and his scouts ranged freely for a considerable distance around it. With ordinary vigiliance on the part of the subordinates, to whom these duties were assigned, there could be no possible danger of surprise; and the commander of the party, feeling himself secure, was enabled to bestow his attention upon his several prisoners.

After conversing with Major Proctor, and deciding to dismiss him on the following morning, he learnt from McKelvy, one of his officers, that Proctor's faithless servant John had made his escape. It was at this moment that Proctor first learnt that John had been captured, and his vexation at this discovery was scarcely less than Colonel Walton's at the man's escape.

After ordering a pursuit of the fugitive, Colonel Walton sat down with Proctor to take a glass of old Madeira, not at all apprehensive that John would be able to bring his enemies upon him, as he had decided to decamp before sunset. In the conversation which ensued with Colonel Walton, Proctor succeeded in prevailing upon the colonel to use his best efforts for saving General Williamson from the summary punishment which the rangers were anxious to inflict upon him.

Proctor then informed Walton of the unpleasant situation in which he himself was placed, by his supposed connivance in the colonel's escape from the hands of the executioner at Dorchester.

Meanwhile, the servant John was encountered by the British detachment under the command of Mad Archy Campbell, whom he informed that Colonel Walton, with but fifty men, was within seven miles of the spot where Campbell, with sixty dragoons, was at that moment. The treacherous rascal added that his master was with Colonel Walton, but apparently not so much a prisoner as a friend and ally. Mad Archy, of course, dashed forward, at speed, in the direction indicated by John.

While this was passing, Colonel Walton and his officers were engaged in a formal trial of General Williamson. This unfortunate officer could make no defence in the least degree satisfactory to the court composed of Colonel Walton's officers; but finally appealed to the superior tribunal of General Marion or General Greene, in order to gain time for his exculpation by the intervention of Colonel Singleton. He was then allowed a private interview with Colonel Walton; but, while he was explaining his real position to the colonel, Mad Archy, with his dragoons, came upon them, after cutting up the negligent sentinels, and made prisoners of the whole party.

On the same day which was distinguished by the rescue of Williamson and the capture of Colonel Walton, Lieutenant Porgy, of Singleton's command, and the young ensign, Lance Frampton, arrived at the cottage of Mrs. Griffith, with the sad intelligence of her husband's death. They also bore the letter of Colonel Singleton, and the gold which had been sent to the widow. The poor woman and her pretty daughter Ellen were overwhelmed with grief at this sad intelligence; and while the lieutenant was attempting to reconcile the widow to her loss, by suggesting the most obvious topics of consolation, Ellen, accompanied by Lance, who had been similarly engaged on the outside of the cottage, suddently entered with the intelligence that a party of British dragoons were approaching the cottage.

There was no time to be lost. The officers retreated to the neighboring woods for concealment. Reconnoitering the party of the enemy from this point, Lance discovered that they held Colonel Walton as a captive; being, in fact, the fortunate troop of Mad Archy Campbell. Lance was for instantly mounting and conveying intelligence of the colonel's capture to Colonel Singleton; but the epicurean lieutenant decided to remain in his covert till the dragoons had departed; and, meantime, busied himself in cooking a dinner, the materials and utensils for which he had brought into the thicket on his hasty flight from the cottage. In this design, however, he was disappointed. Two dragoons came upon him, a skirmish ensued, in which the British troopers were defeated, at the expense of some hard knocks and a shot; and the two American officers, without completing their mission at the cottage, were obliged to mount their horses in haste and make their escape.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE night appointed for the great ball of Colonel Cruden at length came round, and at a tolerably early hour in the evening - for great parties in that day commenced some hours sooner that at present - the guests began to crowd the spacious and well-known mansion of General Pinckney, on East Bay. This venerable and stately dwelling still stands, one of the many memorials which the city of Charleston has to show, in proof of the troubles and changing scenes of that period of revolution. As we have already mentioned, it had fallen to the lot of Colonel Cruden, who fondly anticipated such a permanence of title as no caprices of revolution could distrub. The dwelling, on the occasion referred to, was spendidly illuminated "from minaret to porch." The spacious gardens were draped with lights, which were multiplied and reflected a thousand times at the extremity of each avenue, from pyramidal lustres of shining steel bayonets, burnished muskets, and sabres grouped in stars and crescents.

This fete was the great display of the season. It was attended, accordingly, by all who felt a becoming loyalty, and by many who only sought to display it. There were others, besides, whom policy or the love of pleasure drew to the assemblage, but who did not sympathize with the common sentiment of the company. In the former category, hither also came Mrs. Singleton and Katharine Walton, governed, in doing so, by considerations of prudence, which were greatly in conflict with every political and social sentiment which dwelt within their bosoms. They were not without countenance from others, their friends and relations. Witty and mischievous as ever, Mrs. Brewton was the life of the circle whither she went, and made merry with the spectacle which she had not the stoicism to avoid.

Balfour quickly attached himself to Katharine Walton, in spite of the angry glances cast upon them both by la belle Harvey, who looked her loveliest that night, and, seemingly, looked in vain. Balfour was in the best spirits, though it was remakred that the subdued and grave features of Katharine promised him no encouragement. She had evidently come with the determination to endure, passively, a certain degree of annoyance in regard to certain leading necessities, and her air was that of a resignation, where will, though sufficiently determined, was yet held in abyeance. Her passiveness of temper deceived Balfour. He regarded her seeming submission as an indication in his favor when greater privileges were to be implored; and his satisfaction in this conviction almost rendered him gallant. It was in the midst of his attentions, promenading one of the several thronged apartments, that he was passed by the Harvey. She was walking with Major Stock. She caught the eye of Balfour, and her eye flashed with increasing fires. As they passed slowly, restrained by the crowd, she whipered him-

"It is war, then, between us?"

"Why should it be?"

"Who is not for me is against me!" she answered, through her closed teeth. "Beware, Colonel Balfour! I always told you that your danger was from a woman. You shall pay for all this!"

He laughed - full in her face - he laughed; and the next moment the crowd separated them. She regarded his retreating form but a moment, and with a glance full of malignant passion, that might have taught even a bolder nature than Balfour that her threat was something to be feared. But he was one of those men whom good success and prosperity make forgetful of all prudence. He was quite too much enamored of Katharine to care a straw what were the feelings of vexation, disappointment, baffled love or hate in the bosom of his former mistress.

"What had you to whisper so lovingly to Balfour?" demanded Stock of his companion. "It seemed to amuse him wondrously."

"I did whisper him lovingly, and that is reason good why I should not tell you what was spoken. He is a person to be loved, is he not?" She did not wait for the answer, but continued thus: "But might he not have shown a much better taste in the selection of his new flame? She positively is not even good-looking."

"Is it possible you think so?" asked Stock, curiously. "You once thought otherwise."

"Yes, in truth. But such a stiff, starched, cold, no-meaning sort of person as it is now, as if there were no more blood in her veins than in those of an icicle, is enough to change any opinion. And they speak of her as a very paragon of virtue, a sort of Una, as if it were any merit in ice not to burn."

"My dear Harvey, let me differ with you. You are a beauty, in your way - a way, indeed, very brilliant and very beautiful; but, by Jove, don't deny that the Walton is a beauty also. You, at least, are bound not to deny it."

"Why, indeed?"

"From policy. Utter such an opinion to other ears than mine, and you will be set down as envious of a rival, and trembling for the loss of empire. Now, Harvey, believe me, you can well afford to give the Walton as much credit as anybody else."

"Look you, Stock, I don't care that" - snapping her fingers - "for anybody's opinion. I repeat that she is positively homely."

"Now, my dear child, don't be wilful. You must not say so for another and a better reason. People, then, will be just as apt to decry your lack of taste as of generosity. But let us on. I have a sneaking notion that a tumbler of punch will be particularly grateful at this moment."

They passed into the adjoining apartment; while, pursuing another route, Katharine Walton, never dreaming that she formed the subject of Miss Harvey's discussion, passed into an opposite room, still attended by Balfour. Let us follow Stock and his companion.

That rousing bowls of punch should be conspicuous objects at a mixed party of males and females in that day, will something shock the sensibilities of ours. Yet the fact is not to be denied. Stock made his way with the fair Harvey into the midst of a circle surrounding a table, upon which stood a richly enameled vase holding several gallons of this potent beverage. In goodly-sized cups, of filagreed china, the liquor was served out. Filling one of the smallest of these for his companion, Stock provided himself with another of more ample dimensions; the provider of the host always remembering that the capacity of endurance was much greater in some persons than others. Thus armed, the two made their way to one of the ample windows, at which stood, the centre of a devoted group, the lovely Mary Roupell, another of the loyalist belles of Charleston, of whom we have already spoken. She half sat upon and half reclined against the open window, the sash of which, it so happened, was sustained by a dragoon's sword; the button which usually supported it having been broken off during the evening. Stock was a rough and somewhat awkward gallant. He contrived in some way to jostle the sabre, and elbowed it out of the place. The heavy sash fell upon the wrist of Miss Roupell, who screamed violently, and, under the extreme anguish of the hurt, fainted. Great was the confusion. The crowd was such as to render the place excessively warm; and the extrication of the lady was, for the time, impossible. In the emergency, greatly excited, and before any one could interfere, our excellent major, seizing upon the mammoth bowl of punch, incontinently discharged its volumnious contents, with admirable dexterity, over her face and bosom. With another scream, she came to herself only to swoon again at the condition in which she found her person, saturated with Jamaica, and redolent of sweets that very soon substituted a swarm of flies for a swarm of courtiers. A more considerate friend bore her out of the circle, and, as she recovered, into her carriage. As we may suppose, she never forgave the major. Nor did he escape that evening. Barry's muse was instantly put in requisition for an epigram.

"Ha! ha! ha! Decidedly - the - best - thing - that - I ever heard - in all my life," said McMahon, breaking into the circle of which Mrs. Rivington was the centre. "My friend, Major Barry, is a most wonderful genius. Here it is!"

And he repeated-

'When fair Roupell lay fainting in her pain,

Oh, what,' cries all, 'will bring her to again?'

'What! what!' says Stock, 'but punch, a draught

divine;

'Twill ease her pain - it always conquered mine!' "

The company cheered and applauded.

"But that's not all," continued McMahon. "My friend, Major Barry, had another arrow in his quiver. Listen to this."

"Stock, to the lady dearest to his breast,

Gave the sweet beverage that he loved the best;

Yet mourned the fault committed in his haste,

Such goodly physic doomed to such a waste;

And prays his friends, should fainting be his case,

They'll fill his throat and leave unsoused his face.

A natural error 'twas, that what is good,

Taken internally for flesh and blood,

More grateful, too, than any dose beside,

Should still be good externally applied!"*

* This incident really occurred to Miss Roupell at the ball in question.

The laugh was too great for Stock to withstand. He disappeared by the back stairs, and found his way alone into the garden, which, like the dwelling, was brilliantly illuminated. But he was followed by the merry crew whom he thought to baffle, and, unequal to the encounter with them, he darted once more into the dwelling, and hurriedly made his way through the lobby and into the front portico, resolved on flight to his own lodgings. But he was prevented. At that moment rode up a couple of officers, who proved to be Mad Archy Campbell and one of his lieutenants.

"You, Stock?" asked Campbell.

"Yes, what they've left of me. I've been doing a confounded stupid thing, and shall never hear the end of it."

"Well," said Campbell, "it will keep, then; and I'll permit myself to hear it another time. I need you now. Go and bring Balfour out into the garden. I've news for him - matters which must be seen to at once."

"Get in yourself, then, and see him."

"Nay, that's impossible. I'm covered with mud and dust, and something of darker stain than either. I've had a sharp brush, and have brought in certain prisoners."

"Have you saved Williamson?"

"Yes. But take my message, and laugh at the laugher. I suppose it's no one worse than Barry."

"Confound him for the meanest of all doggrelists!" was the surly answer, while the major was disappearing. A groom, meanwhile, took Campbell's horse, and he glided through the wicket gate into the garden.

Balfour very unwillingly left the side of Katharine Walton, at the instance of Major Stock; but the revelations of Campbell in the garden reconciled him to the interruption of a tete-a-tete which seemed to promise him every encouragement.

"Walton here, and my prisoner! Then she is in my power! But what did you say of Proctor?"

Campbell, with a gentlemanly reluctance, related this part of his history; that portion of it, in particular, which he had derived from the revelations of the treacherous serving-man.

"Enough!" enough!" exclaimed Balfour - "and he too! Ha! ha! Campbell, you are a bird of bright omen. What a lucky cast of your net this has been!"

Cruden was now summoned to secret conference by Balfour.

"It is all as I told you, Cruden. The very worst is true of Proctor. He has gone over to the rebels, was privy to the capture of Williamson, privately whispered his counsels into the ear of Walton when they were actually trying the general for his life, and has now been captured with Walton. Taken in the very act. Nothing new can save him. He must be tried for his life."

"I know not, Balfour," said Cruden, somewhat sullenly. "I know you hate him, but he must have fair play. The trial must be had, of course. He himself will desire it; but I trust, for my sake, you will subject him to no indignity."

"He is under guard - he ought to be in custody."

"No! no! I will be his surety that he will not seek to escape."

"Beware! You undertake too much."

"I would undertake nothing if I could avoid it. But he is my sister's child, Balfour, and I must not abandon him without an effort."

"Make your effort; but see that it does not involve you in any embarrassment with our superiors; particularly as you will scarcely serve him, however much you may sacrifice yourself. But to another matter. You perceive that this capture of Walton places Katharine completely in my power. You will not forego any opportunity of impressing this upon her?"

"Truly not. But what is the process?"

"We shall try him for his life, if need be, as a traitor to his majesty's cause, and a spy of the enemy. For that matter, according to Rawdon's maxims, we need not try him at all. We have only to identify his person, and hang him to the nearest tree."

"It is certainly a most fortunate event."

"Yes, indeed! It makes her mine, if there had been any doubt about it before. I am now the master of her fate!"

They left the garden together, having discussed sundry other matters in detail, which need not concern us! Scarcely had they gone, when Moll Harvey rose from the deep thicket of a bower where she had been crouching, and where she had heard every syllable. Her features were greatly inflamed, and she spoke in brief soliloquy, but with accents of concentrated bitterness.

"So, thus the land lies, Signior Nesbitt Balfour! And thus I am to be sacrificed! But we shall see! There shall be another party to this game; or the soul of woman never knew the passion of revenge, and never had the courage to enjoy it. We shall see! You may shuffle the cards after your fashion; but I will cut them after mine."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

IN less than twenty minutes after this conversation, Mrs. Singleton hurried Katharine Walton away from the assembly, though without giving her the reason which prompted her somewhat precipitate withdrawal. She reserved the painful communciation for a situation of greater privacy. She was in possession of the evil tidings which had been brought by Mad Archy Campbell; the patriots in Charleston being almost as well served with information as their temporary masters. Balfour, it may be mentioned, had left Cruden's house immediately after the conference just reported. He withdrew with Campbell, the circumstances of the case calling for his immediate absence. Cruden returned to his guests with a brow somewhat graver than before, but without betraying any knowledge which might cause a sensation among the company. He did not oppose the departure of Katharine Walton, and immediately perceived, from the countenance of Mrs. Singleton, that she was in possession of the secret. When the two reached home, Katharine for the first time remarked, in the face of the latter, a stern and melancholy gravity, which struck her as significant of something evil.

"You have heard something - something that concerns me - what is it?"

"I have heard something, my child, and something that seriously concerns your peace of mind. Katharine, my child, you have need of all your courage. Read that; your father is in the hands of the enemy!"

Katharine clasped her hands together, and gazed with a wild vacancy of look in the face of the venerable woman.

"God be merciful!" was her only exclamation, as she took the little billet, which had been brought by the boy, George Spidell, written by old Tom Singleton, and which, in a single sentence, contained the whole painful information.

"He is in the Provost;" such was the fact contained in the note. "Oh! madam, you will go with me at once!"

"It is midnight, Katharine."

"Day and night are the same," answered the other, vehemently. "He is in bonds, and shall I sleep? In sorrow and humiliation, perhaps covered with wounds, and shall I not console and minister to him?"

"I doubt if they will give us admission at this hour."

"Oh! madam, no doubts, unless you would drive me mad! How can they deny the father to the child?"

"We shall need to see Balfour first, to obtain permission."

"Is this necessary?"

"I take that for granted. They would scarcely admit us at any hour without this permission."

"Then let us go to him at once."

"It might be more prudent to wait till morning, but be it as you say. The carriage is not yet put up. We can have it ready in a moment."

A few moments sufficed for this, and the two ladies were driven at once to Balfour's quarters. Two sentries guarded the entrance, who gave surly answers to their application to see the commandant. They were denied, and told that he was absent. He had not returned from Cruden's party. Back to Cruden's the carriage was driven. There the merriment still continued, gay crowds passing and repassing, in quick succession, beneath the shining chandeliers and cressets. The garden was now also full of crowds. The sight of all this gayety seemed to sicken Katharine.

"Ask quickly; quickly, if you please!"

Cruden was sent for, and came out to the carriage.

"The commandant? Is he here still, Colonel Cruden?"

"He is not, madam; he left us nearly an hour ago, on receiving some important intelligence."

"You know it then, sir," exclaimed Katharine. "My father!"

"I have been informed, Miss Walton."

"And where shall we find Colonel Balfour?" asked the damsel, impatiently.

"Most probably at his own house."

"We have been there. He is not there!"

"Then I know not, unless at the Provost. But, would it not be well to wait till morning, ladies?"

"Wait! wait! How can I wait, and he a prisoner? My father in bonds, perhaps wounded, ill and suffering!"

"Nay, I can relieve you on that score. Your father is unhurt. He is not sick; he has received no wounds; and, excepting a few bruises, he has no cause of suffering."

"I must see him, nevertheless, as soon as possible. Oh! madam, will you let them drive to the Provost?"

"Surely, my child, we will go thither;" and the carriage was driven off, accordingly. They reached the guarded entrance of the gloomy edifice at the eastern extremity of Broad Street - "where now the merchants most do congregate," - and were doomed to another disappointment. Balfour was not here, nor could they obtain directions where to find him.

"But you will suffer me to see my father, sir?" said Katharine to the officer on duty, and who treated the ladies very respectfully.

"I am sorry, Miss Walton, that I am not permitted to do so."

"What! not permit the child to see the father?"

"It would give me pleasure to comply, Miss Walton, if this were possible; but the commandant has strictly enjoined that the prisoner is to be seen by nobody."

"Ah, he has been here, then!" she exclaimed, with bitterness. "He is merciful! It is his humanity that would not have the eyes of the daughter to behold the chains about the neck of the father!"

"Your father is not in chains, Miss Walton. He is strictly guarded, but subjected to no indignities. Colonel Balfour has said nothing about excluding you in particular. He has only commanded that nobody shall be suffered to visit the prisoner, unless with his permit. I presume that you will find no difficulty in obtaining this permit during proper hours - in daytime."

"Then we must wait, I suppose; and yet, my dear madam, if you would consent once more to ride to the commandant's quarters."

"Cheerfully, my dear child, cheerfully."

"Thank you! thank you!" cried the maiden, eagerly, the big tears rolling from her eyes and falling rapidly upon her hands, which were now clasped upon her knees. A few minutes sufficied to bring them once more to Balfour's dwelling, which, as before described, was that fine old mansion at the foot of King Street, now in the possession of the Pringle family. The visit was again fruitless. The commandant had not yet returned. They received the same answer as before. In silent despair, Katharine gave up the effort for the night.

"We must wait till morning, my child," said Mrs. Singleton.

She was answered by an hysterical sobbing, which lasted painfully for several minutes, to the great anxiety of the venerable widow. A free flood of tears at length came to the relief of the sufferer, and she appeared patiently to resign herself to a disappointment for which there was no apparent remedy. The parties reached their abode, and Katharine retired to her chamber, but not to sleep. The rest of the night, short, indeed, was a long vigil. Slumber never for a moment visited the sad eyes of that suffering daughter; and as soon as she could reasonably insist upon another visit to the commandant she did so. But it was no part of Balfour's policy that she should see him yet. He well knew that her excitement would be intense, and that she would be an early petitioner for his indulgence. He determined to avoid her.

"She shall feel that I am the master of her fate. She shall sue for the smallest privileges, and be made to understand that every concession must have its price. I shall concede nothing too quickly. She shall pay well for every favor."

With this policy, he kept out of her way. It was easy to do so; and, hour after hour, during that long first day of her father's captivity, did she haunt every abode in the city where it was possible to find the person who kept the keys of his dungeon. It was only at the close of the day, when Balfour well knew that she was half distraught, that he suffered himself to see her. When he did so, at his quarters, in the afternoon, his countenance boded no favorable auspice. His words were equally discouraging.

"Miss Walton," said he, "for the first time since I have known you do I regret to see your face."

"Do not say - do not look thus, Colonel Balfour. You will not deny that I should see my father?"

"I know not how I should consent, Miss Walton."

"Not consent - not suffer the daughter to console the father in his bonds!"

"Were these simple bonds, Miss Walton - were his an ordinary case" - he paused, with well-studied gravity of visage.

"What mean you, Colonel Balfour?"

"Is it possible you do not remember - that you do not comprehend?"

"What should I remember? What should I comprehend? My father is a prisoner, taken in battle, the victim of the chances of war, and must remain in captivity until exchanged. As soon as General Greene or General Marion can effect his exchange, I have no doubt"-

He shook his head with great solemnity. She paused.

"Miss Walton, your father is not simply a prisoner of war. He is regarded as a fugitive from justice - as one under condemnation of a competent tribunal, against whom judgment of death stands on record."

"Death! death! Judgment of death!" she cried, wildly, almost fiercely. "Colonel Balfour, you cannot mean this! You do wrong - you are cruel, sir, thus to trifle with the feelings of a daughter!"

"I have found no pleasure in speaking that, Miss Walton, which you will be compelled to hear from others. But I cannot shrink from a duty, however painful."

"But you will suffer me to see him?"

"Even this would be an indulgence, which, under present circumstances, I should very reluctantly accord, and, perhaps, make myself liable to much reproach in doing so. His majesty's government is in possession of facts which go to show that an insurrectionary spirit is at work within this city - that a conspiracy has been for some time on foot, and that Colonel Walton has been privy to the secret workings of this nest of traitors. My duty forbids that I should suffer them in any way to commune with one whose boldness and daring may give them any counsel or encouragement."

"Oh, Colonel Balfour, I am no conspirator! I will promise you to take no part with any traitors, or share in any treason. It is the child that seeks her father, to condole with him, attend upon him, weep over his captivity, and succor him with love and duty only. I give you the word of one who has never wilfully spoken falsely, that I will convey no messages of treason - that I shall in no way partake in any plots of any conspirators."

"Your assurances, Miss Walton, might well satisfy me as a mere individual. As Nesbitt Balfour, my dear Miss Walton, it would not need that you should give them. Nay, it would not need that you should ask for the sympathy and favor which my heart would rejoice to offer you unasked. But I am not permitted to forget that I am here in charge of my sovereign's interest. I know not the extent of our danger, nor the degree to which these conspirators have carried their designs. Caution becomes necessary to our safety. Distrust of all is now a duty, and you and yours, it is well known, are the undeviating enemies of my sovereign."

Mrs. Singleton, who had said little before, now interposed-

"Colonel Balfour, the hostility of Katharine Walton and of her father, to say nothing of myself and all my kindred, has been an openly avowed one to your king and his authority. That it has always been thus openly avowed should be a sufficient guarantee for the assurance that we make you now, that Katharine Walton will not abuse the privilege she solicits of seeing and being with her father. Her claim, indeed, is the less questionable, since you proclaim the painful and perilous situation in which he stands. The policy, real or pretended, which should deny her the privilege of consoling him in his danger would be an outrage to humanity."

"So would his death, madam, under a lawful judgment. But humanity is thus outraged daily for the maintenance of right and justice. But I am not disposed, Miss Walton, to incur your reproaches, however little I may shrink at those of other persons. I will grant your petition, preferring to incur any risk rather than see you suffer, when I have the power to prevent it. The order shall be made out that you shall see your father."

"Oh, thank you! thank you! And shall I have it now?" Katharine asked, eagerly.

"On the instant," and, with the words, he hastened to the table and wrote. "This order," he said, "will secure you admission at any hour of the day, between nine in the morning and six in the afternoon. You will have something over an hour in which to spend with him to-day."

"Oh, thanks, Colonel Balfour! Believe me, I am very grateful."

He smiled with a peculiar self-complacence, which did not escape the eyes of Mrs. Singleton, and, taking the extended hand of Katharine, carried it to his lips before she was aware of his purpose. She hastily withdrew it, while her cheeks reddened with shame and annoyance. He laughed quietly as he perceived her disquiet - a low, sinister chuckel, which might have been construed to say, "You are coy enough now, my beauty; but there shall be a season which shall find you more submissive." But his lips said nothing beyond some idle words of courtesy and compliment, and, as the ladies prepared to depart, he gave an arm to each and assisted them to the carriage. When they had whirled away, he rubbed his hands together exultingly.

"Major Proctor, sir, was here repeatedly to-day, and seemed very urgent to see you. He came, at last, and brought this letter, requesting that it should be placed in your hands the moment you came in."

"Ha! Well, lay it down. I'll see to it."

The secretary disappeared.

"Proctor, eh! Well, we have him too, in meshes too fast to be broken through."

He read the epistle, which, as we may suppose, gave a detailed account of Proctor's captivity, and of what he saw while in the camp of the partisans.

"Pshaw!" said he; "that bird can never fly - that fish can never swim. That story can't be swallowed."

He was interrupted by the entrance of Cruden.

"Balfour," said the latter, "I have seen Proctor. He has been to me - he has been to see you also, a dozen times, he says, but without finding you. He explains all this matter, and very satisfactorily."

"I have his explanation here," was the answer; "and I'm sorry, for your sake, to say that there's nothing satisfactory about it. His revelations are all stale. He makes them only when he can't help himself; when he knows that Williamson has told the story, and Campbell has told the story, and his own fellow, John, has told the story. They all agree in most particulars, and Proctor supplies nothing which we have not from another quarter in anticipation of his account. They are all before him."

"But, Balfour, that is not his fault. He sought for you last night, and repeatedly to-day."

"How idle, Cruden! Campbell sought for me last night, and so did Williamson; they could find me. Why didn't Proctor come to your house in search of me last night?"

"He did so, and you were gone."

"He was unfortunate. But, in truth, Cruden, his narrative is without weight unless supported by other testimony than his own. Look at the facts. He leaves the city without beat of drum. His objects were then suspected, and I sent his man John after him. He leads John into an ambush, where the fellow is laid up neck and heels, hurried across the Ashley and the Edisto with his legs fastened under the belly of a horse; the master, meanwhile, with a sword at his side and pistols in holster, rides in company with the rebel leaders, Walton and others, and actually takes part in the deliberations which they held upon the fate of Williamson."

"Does Williamson say this?"

"Swears to it. John, the servant, contrives to escape from his bonds; but Proctor, the master, when found, is in the rebel camp and under no restraint."

"But Proctor explains all this."

"Pshaw, Cruden! Leave it to the criminal to say, and he will always explain away the gallows. Come in with me, and you shall see all the affidavits."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

PERMISSION had no sooner been granted to Katharine Walton than she flew to visit her father. In an agony of tears, she threw herself into his arms, and, for a time, no words were spoken between them. Colonel Walton was the first to break the silence.

"Nay, my child - Kate, my dear, exercise your firmness. There is really no necessity for tears. I am a prisoner, it is true. I am in the hands of the enemy, useless to my country when every soldier is needful to her cause. This is a great grievance, I confess; but I shall be exchanged as soon as our people shall find a British captive of rank equal to my own."

"But is this true, my father? Is it certain that you will be exchanged? Is it sure that you will be regarded only as a prisoner of war?"

"And why not? Where is the reason to think otherwise, my child?"

"Oh, if you were sure! But"-

"But what? Wherefore do you hesitate? Who has led you to suppose that such will not be the case?"

"The commandant - Balfour! He tells me that you are to be tried as a fugitive from justice - as a"-

"As a what, my child? Speak fearlessly."

With choking accents, she answered, "As a traitor and a spy!"

"Ha!" Walton's brows were clouded for a moment; but he shook off the sudden feeling which had oppressed him, and answered: "It was base and unmanly that he should seek to alarm you thus. He has some vicious purpose in it. Even were it true, my child, which it cannot be, he should have said nothing of the sort to you. He should have felt how cruel was such a statement to a woman and a child."

"No! no! If it be true, my father, I thank him tht he has told me all. Better that I should hear the whole danger at the outset. But you tell me that it is not true. You are sure? You know? Do not you deceive me, my father. Let me know all the danger, that we may labor in season to save you from these people."

"And what can you do, my daughter?"

"Oh, much can be done in all dangers by love and courage. Devotion, armed with a resolute will, can move the mountain. We are feeble, I know. I know that I am good for little; but you have friends here. There are wise and virtuous citizens here, busy always, day and night, in planning measures for the rescue of the country. What they can do for you I cannot say; but they will strive to serve you, I am certain. Do not deceive me, therefore; do not suffer me to remain in blind ignorance of the truth until the bolt falls and it is too late to save you."

"Be of good cheer, Kate. Dismiss these apprehensions. I have heard nothing yet which should lead me to apprehend that Balfour really designs what you mention. I suspect that he only aimed to impress upon you the great value of his favor in permitting you to visit me. There is no denying that the British authorities have a sufficient pretext for bringing me to trial; but there would be no policy in doing so. They would gain nothing by it but discredit to their cause. I see no room for fears at present. Of one thing, Kate, be sure, that, should I ever feel that I stand in danger, you shall be the first to know it."

"Oh, thanks for that, my father! Do not under-rate my strength for endurance. Believe me, I can die with you if I cannot save you."

The father pressed her to his bosom.

"You are the same noble, fearless, loving child, my Kate, that I have ever known you. Believe me, I do not feel or fear the danger that you speak of; yet I do not doubt or deny that, if the policy of the British authorities lay in putting me on trial for my life - nay, putting me summarily to death at this moment - there would be sufficient pretext, and no law of right or reason would be respected by them. But their policy at present is forbearance, toleration and a mild government. Revenge or cruelty would only embitter the public feeling, and arouse a spirit in the country such as they could never hope to allay. Enough now, my child, on this subject. Have you heard anything lately from Robert?"

She told him the history of the ruse de guerre by which Lieutenant Meadows had been defeated, by the soi-disant loyalist, Furness, at which he laughed heartily.

"But, of course, you keep this to yourself, my child. I presume it is known to you only. Furness did not appear in the business, except as a loyalist, and, if I know Robert Singleton truly, he will not abandon a character so long as it will serve a good purpose. We shall hear more of this Furness, be certain. You have not heard directly from Robert since you parted with him at 'The Oaks?' "

"Of him, but not from him. We were told"-

"Hush! Some one approaches."

It was the officer on duty. The evening had closed in, and the time had come for Katharine's departure. She would have lingered. She clung to her father's neck with a renewal of her tears, and it was with some effort that he put her away. When the officer reappeared at the entrance, she met him with dried eyes and a calm exterior, which greatly astonished him. An hour after her departure, Colonel Walton was honored with another, but less welcome visitor. This was Balfour.

"Colonel Walton," said the intruder, in mild and gravely sympathizing accents, "I am truly sorry to find you in this situation."

"As the sentiment honors your magnanimity, Colonel Balfour, at the cost of your policy, I am bound to give you credit for sincerity. I certainly find it irksome enough just now to be a captive; but it is the fortune of war - it is one of the incidents of our profession, and not the worst."

"But my regret, Colonel Walton, has its source in the peculiar condition which you occupy as a prisoner. You cannot be insensible to the fact that his majesty's government regards you in quite another character than that of mere prisoner of war."

"Indeed, sir! Well."

"When rescued at Dorchester, you were under sentence of death. That sentence has never been revoked."

"But was that the sentence of a proper tribunal, Colonel Balfour? Was it not a denial of the right which I had to a proper trial by my peers? Was it not the exercise, by Lord Cornwallis, of a despotic will, in which he sacrificed law and justice to arbitrary authority?"

"I have no right to discuss this question with you. His majesty's officers here are not prepared to oppose their superiors in matters in which the responsibility is theirs alone. It is the expressed opinion of Lord Rawdon, for example, that all that is necessary is to identify your person, and immediately carry out the sentence of Lord Cornwallis."

"I am truly obliged to his lordship, Colonel Balfour. He does not mince matters with us poor provincials. Well, sir, am I to understand that you concur with him? - that you are prepared to carry out his opinion into performance? If so, sir, I have but to spare you the trouble of all investigation, by assuring you that I am the real Richard Walton, Colonel in the State Line of South Carolina Militia."

"It is my wish, Colonel Walton, to save you. It is therefore that I am reluctant to recognize the opinion of Lord Rawdon. I should much prefer an investigation - that you should have a regular trial, as if no decree from Earl Cornwallis had gone forth. In fact, sir, I am anxious to give you time, that you may reconcile yourself to his majesty's government and make your peace with the powers you have so grievously offended. They are not vindictive, and, in the case of one whose private character they have so much reason to respect, they would prefer to be indulgent."

"No doubt of it, sir - no doubt. Hitherto, they have proved their indulgence in a thousand cases as well known to you, sir, as to me. Was it an instance of this regard to our sensibilities, Colonel Balfour, that you should deliberately communicate to my daughter the peril in which her father stood - that you should speak of me as a fugitive and spy, and point, as it were, to the ignominious gallows in which I was to be justified as such?"

The face of Balfour paled at this address. His heart and eyes sank together under the stern questioning of Walton's. He spoke stammeringly.

"I had to excuse my reluctance, sir, at suffering her to visit you in prison."

"And whence this reluctance? Suppose me the condemned criminal, convict, and doomed to the fatal tree - even in such case, what ground would there be for refusing the visits of a child to a parent? At such a time, and under such circumstances, she had an especial claim to make them, if, indeed, you recognize humanity as having a claim at all."

"But, Colonel Walton, you do not know the circumstances - you do knot know that there are traitors in this city, an organized conspiracy, including wealth and numbers, who are for ever plotting against the peace of his majesty's government."

"In spite of all its indulgencies and humanities!"

"Yes, sir, in spite of all! These conspirators would like nothing so well as your extrication from bonds."

"I should be grateful to them for it."

"No doubt, sir. And what would be my answer to his majesty's government, if, knowing these things, and knowing how many women are concerned among these conspirators, I afford them such facilities of communicating with you, through your daughter, as to enable you to make your escape?"

"A subtle difficulty, Colonel Balfour; but the plea is without substance. All captives will desire to escape from captivity, and all true friends will help them to do so. It is for the jailer to see that they do not succeed; not, sir, by a denial to humanity of what it may justly claim, but by vigilance that never sleeps or tires. Sir - Colonel Balfour - you have done a very cruel thing by speaking to my daughter as you have done."

Balfour, by this time, had recovered his native effrontery. He felt his power, and was disposed to assert it. The tone of superiority which Walton employed annoyed his amour propre, and he answered somewhat pettishly-

"I am willing to think, Colonel Walton, that I may have erred. I certainly have no desire to object that you should think so. The error, however, must be imputed to the head only. I had no desire to make Miss Walton unhappy."

"Let us say no more of it, Colonel Balfour."

The lofty manner in which this was spoken had in it an appearance of disgust, which increased Balfour's irritation. He was doubly vexed that, resist it as he would, he felt his resolution quite unseated in the conference with his prisoner. It was with something of desperation, therefore, that he proceeded to resume the conversation, taking a higher attitude than before - in fact, determined on making Walton fully feel, and, as he hoped, fear his situation.

"Colonel Walton," he said, "I must tell you tht you do not pursue the right course to make friends. This tone of yours will never answer. Here you are in our hands a prisoner. By the decree of our highest local authority, your life is forfeited. You are a recovered fugitive from our justice. You are told what is said of our power, having identified you, to subject you instanter to the doom of death from which you were once so fortunate as to escape. Yet you take a tone of defiance which rejects the help of those who would befriend you, alleviate your situation, and, perhaps, help you to elude its dangers. Is it wise, sir, or prudent, that you should set thus?"

"Colonel Balfour, I take for granted that you have some meaning when you speak thus. You mean to convey to my mind, in the first place, that you yourself are friendly disposed to me."

"Undoubtedly, sir. You are right."

"Well, sir, a profession of this kind from you, in your position, to a person in my circumstances, would seem to say that something may be done - that, in fact, my case is not entirely desperate."

"I certainly mean to convey that idea."

"Well, sir, now that we understand each other on this point, may I ask in what manner you propose to exercise this friendly feeling towards me? Clearly, Colonel Balfour, my object is to escape from captivity and death, if I may do so. That I am legitimately a prisoner, I admit; but only a prisoner of war. That I am lawfully doomed to die, I deny; yet I do not profess to think myself safe because I am innocent. I frankly tell you, sir, that I do not doubt the perfect coolness and indifference with which the present authorities of the country will commit a great crime, if it shall seem proper to their policy to do so. I am perfectly willing to deprive them of any excuse for the commission of this crime, in my case, if you will show me how it is to be done; and if, in its performance, I am required to yield nothing of self-respect and honor."

"Oh, surely, Colonel Walton, I am bound to do so. I would not, for the world, counsel you to anything at all inconsistent with either. I have too high a respect for your name and character - too warm an admiration for your daughter"-

"Ah!"

"Yes, sir, for your daughter, whom I esteem as one of the most amiable and accomplished, as she is one of the most beautiful, women I have ever seen."

"I thank you, Colonel Balfour; but I, who know my daughter well, can readily dispense with this eulogium upon her."

Balfour bit his lips, replying peevishly-

"Colonel Walton, you carry it quite too proudly. I would be your friend, sir - would really like to serve you."

"Well, sir, proceed - proceed."

"Thus, then, Colonel Walton, having endeavored to show you perfectly your situation, and the danger in which you stand, I declare myself friendly disposed and willing to assist you. Your case is a bad, but not exactly a desperate one; that is to say, it may be in the power of some persons so to interpose between the justly aroused anger of our sovereign and the victim as to save him from his punishment."

"In other words, sir, you, Colonel Balfour, can exercise a sufficient influence with Lord Cornwallis to relieve me from his sentence."

"Precisely, my dear colonel; that is exactly the point. I may venture to affirm that, besides myself, and, possibly Lord Rawdon, there is no other man, or set of men, in South Carolina, to whom this thing is possible."

"I think it very likely."

"And I am disposed, Colonel Walton, to use this influence in your behalf."

Balfour winced at this. He felt the latent sarcasm. Walton proceeded-

"It is clear, therefore, that I cannot expect you thus to serve me without some special acknowledgments. There must be a consideration for this. The quid pro quo, I understand, is not to be overlooked in anything that may be determined upon."

"Really, Colonel Walton, you relieve me very much," answered Balfour. "As you say, you have no personal or particular claims upon me, except, generally, as a man of worth. There have been no previous relations of friendship existing between us. If, therefore, I am moved to serve you, it must evidently be in consequence of certain considerations personal to myself, which - ah"-

Here he faltered for a moment. The stern, but calm eye of Walton was upon him. His own wavered beneath the glance. But the recollection of the vantage-ground which he held restored his confidence, and he assumed a tone somewhat foreign to his spirit when he resumed what he was saying.

"In short," said he, "Colonel Walton, I can save you from this danger, and I alone; and I will save you, sir, upon one condition, and one only."

"Name it, Colonel Balfour," answered Walton, calmly.

"Your daughter, sir, Miss Walton"-

"Ah!" The brow of Walton grew clouded. The air of Balfour became more desperate as he added-

"Yes, colonel, your daughter! I acknowledge her virtues and her beauties. They have subdued a heart which has never yet trembled at the smile or frown of woman. Sir - Colonel Walton - give me the hand of your daughter in honorable marriage, and you are saved. I pledge my life upon it."

Walton started to his feet with a burst of indignation which he could not repress. He confronted the commandant with a stern visage, and a voice that trembled with passionate emotion.

"What, sir, do you see in me to suppose that I would sell my blood to save my life? That I would put the child of my affections into bonds, that I might break my own? Colonel Balfour, your offer is an insult! You owe your safety to the fact that I am your prisoner."

"You will repent this violence, Colonel Walton," said Balfour, rising, and almost white with rage. "You are trifling with your fate, sir. Be warned! Once more I repeat the offer I have made you. Will you give me your daughter's hand in marriage and escape your dangers?"

"Never! Let me rather die a thousand deaths. Sell my child - yield her to such"-

"Beware, Colonel Walton! You are on the precipice. A single word - a single breath, and you go over it!"

"Away, sir! Away, and leave me!"

"Very well, sir! If the daughter be no wiser than the father, look to it! Your doom must be spoken by her lips, if not by your own. That is your only chance."

Balfour gave the signal, at the close of this speech, to the keeper of the door without, and, as soon as it was opened to him, he rushed out with feelings of fury and mortified vanity such as he had not often endured.

"He means to offer this alternative to my child - this dreadful alternative! But no! She shall never be made the sacrifice for me! Richard Walton cannot accept the boon of life, however precious, at the peril of his child's peace, and to the ruin of her best affections!"

Such was the stern resolution of Walton, spoken aloud after Balfour had retired. He felt that his peril had greatly increased in consequence of the passion which the latter declared for his daughter. He now well understood his game. The danger lay in the bad character of the commandant and the general irresponsibility of the British power at present in the State, the recklessness of its insolence, and the conviction which its representatives generally felt, however blindly, that there was no fear to be entertained that they were destined to any reverses. Walton's mind promptly grasped all the circumstances in his case, and he deceived himself in no respect with regard to the extremity of his danger. But the result only found him more resolute in the determination he had formed so promptly, to perish a thousand times rather than suffer his daughter to make such a cruel sacrifice as that which was required as the price of his deliverance.

(To be concluded.)

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