Chapter I.

Who has ever seen and has not admired our beautiful Savannah?
It is ever lovely, whether dashing in light ripples and
foaming falls among the flowery precipices and purple rocks
of Habersham, or whether spreading its broad bosom to the
sea, still and wide, where the shadows of painted barges and
smoking engines pass over it, like the illusions of the enchanter’s
mirror. But in no place, perhaps, is its beauty more striking,
than where its placid current stretches along the noble
border of the District of Abbeville,—its loveliness being there
hallowed by the deepest and softest spirit of repose; which no
sound is known to disturb, save the gush of song from a thousand2 2(1)v 14
birds, or the occasional recurrence of the wild and pensive
notes of a boatman’s bugle. For many miles below the
Point, where the Broad River of Georgia adds its tributary
honors to the stream, nothing can exceed the beauty of
the banks, whose massive foliage, relieved against a deep
blue sky, bend over with graceful elegance, and dip their soft,
shadowy archings in the untroubled waters. The Georgia
bank is high, and mostly rugged; but on the other side is a
vast extent of rich and fertile lowland, presenting at the time
of which we are writing, a thick wooded level, where the Indian
girl might well have loved to sit and weave her baskets
of cane and bamboo, relieving her light task with songs, and
twining chaplets of flowers. But even at that time, the song
of the Indian girl had long ceased to vibrate on the echoes of
the answering river. Her native valleys had resounded to
the white man’s axe, and her canes and flowers were crushed
beneath the white man’s foot. Poor child of the forest! In
another land—if the fabled paradise is no dream—perhaps
thou still wanderest by the semblance of that beloved and
gentle river—happy that thou dost not see the reality; for to
thee, and to the nymphs of that stream there is no longer a
home in its sunburnt and rifled valleys, The genius of civilization
has trodden upon thy sacred haunts, and with the
materials of thy poetic inspiration built up altars to insatiate
wealth—teaching this lesson; that whilst we are improving
on the natural or physical creation, we lose in beautiful simplicity,
what we gain in art.

But at the time of which we write, the settlements were
principally remote from the river. A few families only had
fixed their residences on its margin, and held by grant, all
those rich lands which have since proved of such invaluable 2(2)r 15
consequence. The war of the revolution had been long raging;
but the thunder of its cannon had only been heard in
this remote situation, like the rumbling of a far-off tempest;
and though some of the most gallant spirits among the inhabitants
of this district of country had gone to defend the
southern frontier, the many remained quietly at home, expecting
that the storm would have spent its force, ere it reached
them. The event proved that these theorists were but little
read in the politics of their own society; for the spirit of
rude rebellion and love of plunder, owing to the divided interests
and jealousies of a people so lately thrown together,
without the law, or attachment to bind them, had prepared Carolina
for those scenes of fierce contention and domestic horror,
which stand without a parallel on the page of history.

But man in the pride of his heart, seldom values the “evidence
of things unseen;” and the miseries of the war which
was deluging the Northern States with blood, had not as
yet visited the senses of the Southrons. It was owing to this
circumstance, perhaps, that the hatred of the British was at
this time less violent here than elsewhere. Their aggressions
had been spared, and when at length they came with flatteries
and promises, and unfurled the blood-stained banner of
the mother country, they reaped their full reward of treachery
and sedition. It was during the deceitful calm immediately
preceding these convulsions, that a youth was, one bright
morning, wending his way up the eastern bank of the river, in
the vicinity of the scenery which we have just sketched. He
was passing over ground which is now hallowed and memorable;
for every particle of it is peopled with the invisible
shadows of an acted romance. But the recollection of those
scenes of horrid interest, is gradually fading away with the 2(2)v 16
witnesses, and will soon exist only in the whispered traditions
of their grand-children; yet there are some now living, who
will recognize, in the portrait which we are about to draw,
the original of one, who, by deeds of wild and unequalled
prowess, incorporated his name with the scenery of his native
district, though it deserved no lasting record on the historic
marble of his country.

The muse of history has woven her chaplets for the valant
and noble—she has even given to dishonourable fame the
names of some of those,— “Whose treason, like a deadly blight Came o’er the counsels of the brave.”
but how many, both noble and ignoble, have gone down “unhonored
and unsung,” their memory and deeds alike forgotten,
except in its private records of affection or dislike.

There was at this time, however, nothing in the appearance
of that youth, which could warrant the supposition of his future
dark and wild career. His men was gay and careless, and
he whistled merrily, as he pushed with a light step, bold and
free, through the patches of cultivated grounds, and thickets of
matted vines and canes, which in these degenerate days would
be deemed impervious to any thing but an Indian warrior, or
a rattlesnake. There was a determination in his step which
bespoke a resolution that had never been “sicklied o’er by the
pale cast of thought.” It seemed rather the promptness of
an eager and untamed spirit, acting upon a mind naturally
haughty, and impatient of restraint. There certainly was a
princely superiority in his manner, as of one born to command,
which would have seemed strange in a rude, untutored
child of the American forest, but that nature confines
not her gifts to birth or station. The wild flower expands 2(3)r 17
with greater luxuriance, than that which is pent up in the
gardens of princes—and the tall, almost gigantic person of
this youth, in the power of its fulness and strength and
the beauty of its free, unrestrained gracefulness, might have
shamed the kingly court of Alexander, amid the flower
of its Athletae. His garments though rude, were worn
with a native elegance worthy of his aristocratic bearing;
and the manner in which a pair of silver buckles drew his
small clothes tightly round the knees displayed no common
degree of vanity in those manly and graceful proportions.
His neck bore further evidence of mighty strength—it
might have become a gladiator—and it appeared broad and
fair, where the dark brown hair curled up, over the edge
of a fur cap thrown carelessly on one side of the head.
The tout ensemble of the youth might have been considered
foppish if his features had not been so manly in
expression, so classically beautiful:—the broad open brow,
the eye, full, clear, and hazel, the finely curved lip, so
proudly daring. But his eye, though hazel, had none of
the soft characteristics of that color—it was fierce and sparkling,
and seemed to aid the expression of scorn and daring,
which mingled so strangely with the good humour, that the
power, and strength, and glory, of early youth had settled into
joyousness on his lips; for despite his mighty strength and
stature, he was scarcely eighteen. His cheek though slightly
embrowned by exposure to an ardent climate, still retained
much of its youthful softness.

It was early summer, and the brightness and bloom on the
face of nature, seemed indeed to testify, how much “this was
fashioned for a perfect-world.” From the thick branches of
the lovely syringa, and clustering snow-drops, and from the 2(3)v 18
leafy arbors, suspended like castles in mid air, on the dark
majestic trees, the sweet birds were sending up one unanimous
exhalation of love. The white flowers were covered
with bees and butterflies, and above their buzzing was heard
the monotonous whirl of the tiny humming bird, as it pierced
its slender bill into the rich horn-like flowers of the
trumpet vine, which hung in festoons from the highest trees. Occasionally
through an opening, might be caught a glimpse of
the river, just touched by the morning sunbeam, and in its
still retreats, the silver trout would ever and anon break the
surface of the water into rings of circling eddies. It was
indeed a scene of harmony and peace; and it spoke to the
heart of the youth with a familiar voice. As he advanced
with the dews and flowers falling around him, he appeared to
feel an accustomed delight in the freshness of that early hour,
which seemed to excite in him a sympathy for the vilest thing
that could also enjoy it; for when the lazy mocassin crept
slowly from beneath the fallen limbs in his path, or the wily
rattlosnake glided off amidst the damp grass, he turned smilingly
away, and harmed them not. Sometimes, he would
surprise a humming bird in its flower-cup, for the pleasure of
restoring it to liberty, and once or twice he stopped, to level
the light rifle which he carried in his hand, at a bird perched
upon a high bough—the bird would wing its flight unharmed
but the bullet had glanced the spot where it rested. He was
too happy to take life wantonly; but he prided in himself as
a marksman. And true it is, that there was not another as
sure of eye, and steady of aim in all that country; for like
Hudibras in logic, with his bullet he could “Divide a hair, ’twixt south and south-west side.” 2(4)r 19
He had walked on for some hours, and the sun was high
above his head, when emerging from a thiekthick copse wood, he
came upon a smooth, green plain, and before him lay the little
village of Vienna,—if five or six houses, rising in two
rows from the river’s bank might be so called. On the
border of this plain, where it slopes gently down to the river
stood a little vine-covered cottage, the refuge of a French
emigrant,—one of the many who fled from intolerance in their
own country, hoping to find peace and the quiet worship of
God, in the shades of the great new world. Vain hope
alas!—But as yet, the emigrant had been undisturbed in his
humble avocations, and was enabled to support by the steady
industry of his class, himself, and an only child. This child
planted his choice flowers, sung his favorite songs, and enlivened
the little cottage with all the pretty playfulness and
charming gayety of the peasant girls of her own Ausonia.
She could not have been happier, had she been born a princess;
for the wants of a false refinement had never invaded
that humble dwelling with the longings, the discontents, and
the jealousies of a vain ambition. The homage of one fond
heart was enough for the simple wishes of Annette Bruyésant.

Thither our hero now directed his steps. He had from
earliest boyhood marked this fair flower for his own; and
with a gallantry which seemed to keep pace with his rapid
growth, he had sought her love. No hand but his could
gather her fruits and flowers from the widest bough, and certainly
no arm, so well as his, could swing the light canoe with
such joyous rapidity along their native stream. But the gay
devotions of the boy had changed into the comparatively silent
entrancement of the lover; and many and many were 2(4)v 20
the days that under the pretext of hunting, he had wandered
on and on, until he found himself seated with his pretty Annette,
by the cottage on the lawn.

“Oh Ralph, I am so glad you have come!” said the young
girl, running forward to meet him, and then as if ashamed of
her eagerness, she stopped and hid her face in her hands.

“Are you so?” exclaimed she, in the low, concentrated
tones of impassioned love; and in the next moment he stood
on the threshold, had caught the blushing girl in his arms,
and pressed a salty kiss upon her lips—they were so like
twin cherries, an anchorite might have been tempted to the
deed.

“Ralph Cornet,”—she said angrily; for what young lady
can bear to be kissed before witnesses—it is too much like
assuming power over her. “Ralph Cornet, who gave you
authority to take such liberties with me? I sha’nt submit to
it—I won’t!”

“Who gave me the authority?” repeated Ralph mischievously,
“why, yourself, dearest, when you promised on that beautiful
evening, to be Mrs. Ralph Cornet—don’t you remember, as we
sat by the willows on the river? Oh I have been so happy
ever since! and say father,”—continued he, as Annette tossed
off from him, “did you not give her to me?”

“Ma foi!”—answered the old Frenchman, in a ludicrous
mixture of French and English,—“she would be sorri
veri much to dispute of dat, my son, ha! ha! ha! mais c’est
egul; nevaremind Ralph; de yong demmoiselles know alway,
quand ils sont jolies—n’est-ce pas Annie?”

Annette pouted her pretty lip, and placed herself with her
back to the company, affecting to resume her work, but really
with the intention of hiding the smile which she could not 2(5)r 21
repress. Ralph Cornet pursued her averted face with a smile
which was wickedly fraught with the consciousness of
power—

“Nay, now, Annie, don’t be so prudish,” said he coaxingly,
“I beg your pardon for it. But you did say you were glad
to see me?”

“Well Ralph;”—she replied, looking up gravely in his
face,—“true enough; but you did not wait to hear all. The
fact is, the village is full of strangers, and it was only last
night that one of them came here dressed so fine, and talked
a great deal of nonsense to me, such as I don’t choose to repeat,
Ralph――Oh, it all amounts to nothing,” said she hastily,
as she saw the rising choler of her lover—“but I thought
I should feel better if you were here.”

“He shall pay for it!”—muttered Ralph, between his
clenched teeth.

“How? Ralph,”—exclaimed the girl with an incredulous
laugh,— “you wouldn’t challenge a British officer!”

“Ha!”—almost shouted Ralph, starting from his chair— “British! did you say British?”

“Oui,”—replied the old man,— “c’est bien vrais:—dey come
here wid de compagnie of light-horse—dey look so fin, mais
dey scare de poor peoples half out of all dare sens—dey
drink tout le vin dey talk beaucoup, dey sing, ‘O mon dieu!
que des British sont mechants!’”

Ralph Cornet sat for some time in deep thought,—“Ah, if I
had but fifty men!”—said he, as if thinking aloud.

“Eh—quoi! vat you shall say Ralph?” asked the old man.

“Oh nothing;” replied he, “only I was thinking what fine
sport it would be to drive these rascals from the country.”

“Oui, oui,” said the old man impatiently, “if it could be 2(5)v 22
don; but dey come here temps en temps,—dey grow strong, veri strong.”

Ralph Cornet rose, and walked the floor; and at that moment
a party of four or five men were seen approaching the
house. They wore the British uniform; and their swords
and epaulettes, as they glistened in the sun, filled the fancy of
the old man with images of horror.

“O mon dieu, mon dieu!”—he exclaimed with clasped
hands,—“nous sommes perdu――helas! I com here to find
de peace, an I shall find de trouble—mais je sais mourir
—fuyez, my son, fuyez!”

“Be quiet, father,”—said Ralph, who with his rifle in hand,
stood in the door, a very imposing picture of resolute defiance.

The party halted within reach of Ralph’s rifle: “Hallo!
there, young man,” exclaimed the leader, “in the king’s name,
what do you mean? You will not shoot at friends I
hope.”

Ralph dropped the end of his rifle to the ground, and the
officer advancing, entered the house. Seating himself without
ceremony, he cast a hasty glance round the apartment, and
a shade of disappointment seemed to pass over his pleasant
features, but it was succeeded by an expression of curiosity
and surprize, as his eye fixed upon the fine, manly form of
Ralph Cornet, who stood yet leaning on his small silver-
mounted rifle, regarding the scene with an eager and dangerous
excitement. There was something noble and pleasing in
the aspect of the British officer, and to Ralph’s unpractised
eye, there could be nothing more seducing, than the grace
with which the glittering sword and epaulettes sat upon his
elegant form. The penetrating officer observed this effect on
the artless countenance of the young man, and turning to the 2(6)r 23
old Frenchman, who sat in sullen submission with his hands
folded before him, he said—
“Well, old man, is this your son? Faith, he is a fine
fellow! and I’ll be sworn, has spirit enough too!”

“Aye, aye, true enof;”—cried the old man drily,—“mais, he
not be my son for all dat.”

“Ah!”—replied the officcrofficer, pleasantly,—“a lover then of
your pretty daughter, I suppose; I’ll wager my chapeau she
does not run from him! But,” continued he, seeing the frown
which was gathering on Ralph’s countenance,—“I beg your
pardon young man, we all have our wcaknessesweaknesses, and I confess
that a pair of the finest black eyes that I have ever seen,
drew me here this morning; mais n’importe, as our old
Frenchman here would say, we all have our crosses in love,
as in war, and besides, ‘this is no time to play with mammets,
or to tilt with lips;’ however, I suppose you never read Shakspeare!”

“I am not much accustomed to reading,” said Ralph, surprised
our of his proud reserve by the frank and courteous
bearing of the young officer; “but when it comes to riding,
running, wrestling, or fighting, there is not the man in this
country, whom Ralph Cornet fears to face, hand to hand.”

“Ah! I knew you were a brave fellow. What a shame it
is, that you should sit here idle when there is so much fine
work doing in the country. You should wear a sword, and
plume now, and command a fine body of troopers. How
devilish handsome you would look in regimentals!” Ralph’s
eye sparkled as it caught the gaze of the stranger.

“I should like it of all things,” said he, “if I came by it
honestly; but,”――

“You shall have it, by Jove!” interrupted the officer eagerly 2(6)v 24
“you shall have it. With a few more such as you, we shall
frighten the silly rebels to obedience, I hope, for I hate bloodshed.”

“‘Grand dieu’!” exclaimed the old man, quoting a passage
from scripture in his original tongue: “Ralph, ‘lire les pieds
des pieges des mechants!’”

Ralph had been conversant with the language from infancy
owing to its prevalence among the French settlers in this
district, who clung with fondness to this last relic of their native
country. The officer turning to the speaker, replied in
an elevated voice:

“Old man, I am spreading no snares for my young
friend here. A little reflection will show you, that it is
the best thing he can do for his country. What is the
use of resistance? Our arms are victorious everywhere—
Savannah is ours—Augusta is ours—and Charleston, your
capital, will shortly be in our hands. The sooner we put
down the few rebels left, the sooner will peace be restored to
the country, and much misery spared.”

The old man shook his head, and groaned audibly.
The young officer had spoken with enthusiasm. Perhaps, he
had deceived himself into the belief of his own sophisms;
or thought that the dignity of his career justified the means
which he cmployedemployed in its service. Perhaps he knew that
he was deceiving. But alas for poor Ralph! His youthful
reason, which had never been taught to raise its eagle
eyes to the sun of truth, was blinded by the splendid
illusions conjured up by this master spirit; and his ardent
imagination had already caught something of the ambition
which burned in the eyes of the English officer. They
were both so young, and congenially proud and fierce! But 3(1)r 25
Ralph Cornet thought of his aged father whom it was his duty
to protect, of his brother, absent in the American army, of
Annette—that thought was last and dearest, and he turned
coldly away from the fascinating gaze of the stranger.

The British officer was not a man to be easily turned from
his purpose. Though young, his well educated and disciplined
mind had an order and design to which he trusted, for
swaying the fierce natural temperament of this unsophisticated
youth; for he knew that even the lion may be ruled by the
power of mind. He rose from his seat, and having one hand
familiarly on the shoulder of the young American, with the
other he took the rifle, and examined it with the eye of a connoisseur.

“By heavens it is a fine instrument!”—said he,—“I did not
expect to see anything like it in this new world; it reminds
me of such treasures as I have seen in the armory of England.”

“It has slain many a deer in your parks”—said Ralph smiling,
—“my father is an Englishman, and did not come to this
country without transporting some such treasures as you speak
of.”

“Well, we must be better friends. But tell me, what is
the most you can do with this beautiful little thunderer?”

“Do?” said Ralph, archly, “I expect you would scarcely
like to stand the trial of all I can do with it.”

“Oh, I am a fine shot myself,”—answered the other—,“I
should like to try a mark with you. Pray how often can you
strike the centre of a target at fair distance?”

3 3(1)v 26

“I can come twenty times within the eye, without missing,”
—said Ralph.

“Gad! then I suppose you can bring down a bird on the
wing?”

“Yes, or drive the feather from the top of a pole fifty feet
high.”

“‘Fore heaven! you are the very man for me. Come—I
shall stay here a few days, and we must make a trial of our
skill. If you do not go with me now, I shall say that you cannot
make good your boasts.”

What entreaties or commands could not have done, this
threat effected; for honor, with limited and ungoverned
minds is ever inconsistent. It halts at small matters, and
oversteps the greater. Thus Ralph Cornet, to preserve his
character, as a marksman, betrayed himself into the hands of
the British; even as the bird goes blindly into the snare that
is laid for it. Ralph knew not that he was going to his ruin;
for with a cheerful smile, he promised the old man that he
would return that evening. In the easy familiarity of the
stranger, he had forgotten that they were foes; and when he
had joined his society, the gay life which the British affected
to lead, added to the flattering promises of the officer, completely
ensnared his youthful imagination, and he forgot his
promise of returning to the cottage. If he had felt any regrets,
the pleasant and accomplished Colonel Ferguson, was
just the man to dissipate them. He treated him as a friend;
for there was in the frank bearing, and undoubted bravery of
Ralph, a dignity he was obliged to respect—but he left him
no time for thought. For many days, the British were seen
riding through the neighborhood, in light parties; and ever
was Ralph Cornet mounted on a beautiful black horse, his 3(2)r 27
own matchless Rover, by the side of the English Colonel,
who entertained him with the “Pomp and circumstance of glorious war,”
without any of its concomitant evils: perhaps being young
and enthusiastic, he know them not himself.

One day the British disappeared altogether; and Ralph
Cornet was absent for the first time from his native woods.

Chapter II.

Poor Annette, the tender and feeling girl, wept the loss of
her lover with the greatest bitterness, because for the first
time in his life he had deceived her. Ah, those only who
have permitted the stream of their affections to wear for
itself a deep and powerful channel, can tell with what a
sickening revulsion its whole weight is thrown back upon
the heart, and how worn, and dreary seems the course which
it has hitherto pursued! In that first moment of exquisite
anguish, a life time is comprised. The earth has nothing
left to compensate for the trusting fondness of the heart’s
early innocence; or to restore its withered pulses to their
freshness again. The spring may bloom in vain—and the
summer’s sweets be felt not—for the soul can cast its own
dark shadows over the fairest sky. Thus thought and felt
Annette, as she sat one evening on the green lawn before
the cottage door. The light, yellow leaves of the beech 3* 3(3)v 30
trees were falling softly around her, as the breeze of autumn
whispered through them— “In cadence low, a melancholy sound.”

The river rolled within ten steps of her feet, washing the
edge of the grassy slope, on which she sat; and beautifully
reflecting the rich masses of purple clouds, which the evening
sun had skirted with gold, as it shed through their irregular
openings a soft luxurious light.

But the scene had never been so painful to Annette; for
all the fond recollections of her whole life, from its first glad
infancy, were connected with it. And now, as the stream
of memory flowed back upon her soul, its water were bitter
as the fabled Acheron. Her lips were compressed with an
effort of grief, and her eyes fixed in abstraction on the
western bank of the river, which presented one dazzling
array of gem-like hues; for the slight frosts of autumn had
just tinted the maple and birch with the ruby and topaz,
whilst the emerald oaks, and evergreens—the latter now and
then laden with scarlet berries, and the purple muscodine—
dipped their nodding plumes into the clear lake-like stillness
of the water. But Annette’s thoughts were far away in
search of him who had made the soul of this scene for her;
and who by his defection had spread a pall over its beauties.
So truly hath a sweet poetess felt, when she said— “It is our feelings give the tone to whatso’er we gaze upon;”
Yet Annette wept not so much at the absence of her lover, as
what she imagined to be his honor’s apostacy. The soft
exterior of the French girl covered a heart high and proud,
which Ralph Cornet had in some measure formed in his own
likeness—so naturally do proud hearts assimulate; but being 3(4)r 31
more dispassionate, and with less ambition, she had clearer
views of honor than he; and in the uncertainty and mystery
in which he had left her, she trembled with horror at the
thought—than which there can be none more deeply fraught
with bitterness—of finding the object of her supreme affection,
unworthy of that love. The voice of fame was already
busy with the name of Ralph Cornet. Several times had
armed men been to the cottage in search of him; and curses
mingled with the word “traitor”, sometimes came to the ear
of Annette. But she scorned the accusation with indignant
unbelief, for the fond girl deemed not that the mind, which
she had ever looked up to as a master spirit, could be so
warped from its native nobleness. Time wore on, and doubts,
fearful doubts, forced themselves upon her mind. Why
should he absent himself from her? And that too at a time
of such danger; for the tories had begun their nefarious
works of pillage and oppression. Why deprive her so suddenly
of his confidence?

As Annette sat gazing thus on the opposite bank of the
river, entangling herself more and more in a maze of wildering
and troubled thoughts, her attention was arrested by
something moving among the bushes, and she thought she
perceived the figure of a man swinging from a bough over
a little narrow inlet, where the high bank opened, like the
jaws of a crocodile. Presently the water seemed to be
shaken in that still retreat, and a canoe emerged thence
and shot rapidly across the stream; the feathery bark
seeming scarcely to require an effort of the vigorous arm
that impelled it. The figure which appeared was dressed
in the British uniform, and a tall plume added to the giant
reflection of his person, which the lengthened shades of 3(4)v 32
evening threw on the broad mirror of the river. His coat
which was more than usually ornamented with gold lace
and buttons, was turned off at the sleeves and collar with
crimson velvet, and a sash of the same, very finely embroidered,
girded a sword to a waist of strong, but graceful delineations.

Annette rose, and leaned eagerly forward. The hat with
its nodding feather was drawn far over his brow, so as
nearly to conceal his face; but could she be mistaken in
that form?――It was he!

The heart of the poor girl throbbed with contending emotions:
—love, joy, fear, combatted there, with a violence which
was too much for its strength, and sinking powerless into
her seat, she covered her face with her hands, and wept as if
that heart was breaking. In the meantime, Ralph Cornet
had sprung to the bank and knelt beside her:—

“Annie,—my love—my own Annie, what-what is the
matter?”—he asked in a tone of deepest concern.

But Annette wept more bitterly than before.

“Gracious heavens!”—exclaimed he, in alarm,—“has any
thing really happened, Annette?—is your father ill?—or has
any one”――

“No, no, no;”—interrupted the weeping girl—“but you,
you, Ralph—how can you ask that question? Were you
not my all; and have you not ruined yourself and me?”

“My own, darling, precious Annie,”—said the youth, as he
placed his arm around her waist and drew her near him.—
“How can you say so? do I not love you as much, yea a
thousand times more than I ever did,—what can distress you
so?”

Annette’s cheek flushed high with unwonted energy, as 3(5)r 33
she sprung from his embrace, and standing a few paces from
him, she pointed to the plumed hat, which lay on the grass
with the last ray of the evening sun sparkling in its jewelled
clasp.

“Ralph Cornet, what does that mean?”—she asked in a
firm tone.

“Mean, Annette?”—replied Ralph, a little confusedly,
—“why simply, that—that I am a British officer!”

For the first time in his life, his eyes sank beneath the
bright glance of hers.

“Then, what they say of you is true:—you aided Ferguson
in raising the tories in this neighborhood; you have accepted
a commission under him; and you are”—she continued with
rapid energy, whilst her whole frame quivered with emotion,
—“you are a traitor to your country!”

“There lives not the man, who would dare say that to me,”—
replied Ralph, proudly. “They who tell you these things,
Annette, are no less traitors to their country than I: they
have destroyed its peace and happiness by spreading rebelion
over it; and if I have accepted a commission in the king’s
army, it is with the hope of restoring its tranquility.”

“Oh Ralph!”—she exclaimed with clasped hands,— “how
could your noble mind be blinded with these falsehoods?
You, who have been taught to love the very air of liberty—
you, who have a brother now fighting for the cause of freedom!”

“Freedom!”—said Ralph,—“and are we not all fighting for
the cause of freedom? But, which think you, my little politician
is the freest state,—the rule of one good master, or the
lordship of a dozen petty tyrants? for most likely if we throw
off the yoke of the king, such will be the case.”

3(5)v 34

Annette was not prepared to answer to this equivocal argument.
All her senses were bound up in the one, anguishing
thought, of Ralph’s degradation. She continued, without
seeming to hear him:

“And then, to be classed with the vile creatures who
go about stealing, and murdering;—Oh God! to be a
tory!”

“By heaven!”—he exclaimed, with a furious gesture—“if I
knew who had told you this――Annette, I am not one of the
vile things you mention: no, thank heaven and my grandfather,
I am rich enough of myself,—I ask favors of no man.
But were I as poor and miserable as most of these abominable
wretches, I should no less abhor their hellish spirit of gain.
We fight for principle; but they have no motive, save to enrich
themselves by plundering. Do you not see the difference,
Annette?”

“But you join them, Ralph, you excite them,”――

“Our design,”—interrupted Ralph quickly,— “is to engage
them in a fair field, so as to prevent their midnight pillage, and
murders.”

A silence of some minutes ensued, only interrupted by the
sobs of Annette. In that time Ralph Cornet’s countenance
had changed from its first expression of joy and triumph, to
one of sadness and perplexity—just as some fair landscape is
shaded suddenly by a morning cloud. He knew not what to
do with this strange and unyielding humor of Annette—but
seating himself at her feet, he took her hand, and endeavored
to draw her thoughts from that painful subject, back to the
peaceful scenes of their happy and united childhood. It had
a magical effect. Her hand remained passive within his own,
and her eyes were raised with a sort of half smile to his face. 3(6)r 35
They dwelt there fondly for a moment. She had never seen
him so handsome, or so interesting as now, when he sat there
in that brilliant uniform, unfolding a chain of bright remembrances;
every link of which was riveted in her memory by
thoughts of him. Encouraged by that smile, Ralph Cornet
proceeded; but no sooner did he begin to talk of the future
than she withdrew her hand, and turning away her head, she
said in a voice, so low as scarcely to be audible:

“Ralph Cornet, you must talk to me no more of love.”

“Not talk to you of love, dearest?” said he passionately,
“when this tongue refuses its office, than shall I cease to talk
to you of love. But surely, now, you jest, Annette; you did
not mean to be so cruel?”

“I leave heaven to decide which of us has been the most
cruel,”—replied Annette, sadly. “I loved you, Ralph Cornet—
I cannot hate you now; though I confess that you have lowered
yourself in my esteem; but you have placed a barrier between
us—you will be despised and sought for by your countymen
—even now your stay here is dangerous—if they
should discover you.” Annette looked round fearfully. “And
my father,” she continued with a quivering lip, “who loved
you so well before, he has forbid me to mention your name in
his presence.”

“Ha! is it come to that already?” cried Ralph, starting to
his feet with an angry gesture—but turning immediately to
Annette, he said, in a tone of persuasive tenderness,—“but
you, Annette, will not change; though all the world forsakes
me, I know you will not. You will fly with me, out of the
reach of that cruelty which distresses you so much!”

“Never, Ralph—never will I forsake my father while he
lives. Besides, to follow you would be worse than rash; for 3(6)v 36
disguise it as you will, you have but an outlaw’s life to offer
me.”

“No! No! Annette; I have plenty of resources—and if
these should fail me, my arm will not. I fear no danger.
Go with me my love, and then let them come, one and all.”

“Talk no more of it, Ralph Cornet, it cannot be,”—interrupted
Annette, in a voice so calm and passionless that it
chilled even the eager enthusiasm of the ardent lover; and he
felt that no word of his, however warmly breathed, could prevail
against the sober convictions of her judgment.

But as if she had spoken the sentence which was to separate
them forever, Annette commenced weeping afresh at the
lonely and loveless future which presented itself to her view,
and by an irresistible and impulsive weakness, her head dropped
upon his bosom. What a situation for Ralph Cornet!
The night was fast approaching, and he had promised to set
his company, which lay on the other bank of the river, in motion
by dark; but how could he tear himself from Annette?
He knew that the faithful girl had not aggravated the dangers
which surrounded him. He knew that every moment
of his stay was perilous. He knew that he could not prevail
on her to go with him—indeed he scarcely wished that he
might do so; for brave as he was, he trembled at the hazards
to which she might be exposed in a rude and reckless camp.
But it is true, though it may be strange, that love can beguile
the heart of man of its heaviest affliction! Even in that moment,
he was happy—most exquisitely happy! His arm was
wound around her waist, and his lips were bent to hers in one
long, long, kiss of love.

But alas! “How fleeting few are pleasure’s moments, The brightest still the fleetest,—” 4(1)r 37
That moment of entrancement was interrupted by the noise
as of a struggle in the house behind them, and the next instant
the report of a pistol was heard.

“My father! oh my father!” screamed Annette. Ralph
Cornet staid to hear no more,—he sprang to the door, and
bursting it open, stood with his drawn sword fronting a scene,
which was but too common in those days. The dim twilight
discovered old Bruyésant stretched on the floor, and a ruffian
standing with one foot on his breast, apparently deliberating
whether or not he should dash out his brains with the butt
end of a pistol which he held over him. The next instant the
uplifted arm fell powerless by his side; and the wretch fled
with a howl through the opposite door, where his two companions
sat on their horses awaiting him.

This was one of the slightest effects which the false doctrines
of Col. Ferguson had produced in that neighborhood.
The country was in a crude and uninformed state, ripe for
sedition and outlawry. Perhaps, no where could have been
found a greater number of desperadoes than the extreme western
part of this district, aided by the Georgia side of the Savannah,
afforded; men, who eagerly accepted the favor of the
British as an excuse for indulging their lawless propensities.
The few whigs that had been left in the neighborhood, were
unable either to awe or subdue them, because like prowling
wolves they only left their hiding places in small parties, and
at the dead hour of night,—incited by the love of plunder, revenge,
or wanton cruelty. Though the cottage of old Bruyesant
could offer but little to tempt their cupidity, he was no
less persecuted by them as being an honest man, and an
avowed Republican; for notwithstanding his unprotected 4 4(1)v 38
situation, the old man had expressed himself very boldly on
the true side, a species of conduct which never failed to
meet the prompt vengeance of the tories. Besides, Mr.
Bruyésant had once very harshly refused his daughter to one
of their number, and Ralph Cornet, though he knew it not,
saved his Annette from a worse fate than she had ever yet
anticipated.

That night Ralph reaped bitterly, the first fruits of the
cause he had espoused. When he raised the insensible form
of the old man, to place him on a bed, his hand was dabbled
with blood, and on producing a light, he found that the bullet
which had entered the arm, had fractured the bone. Annette,
with her hands clasped in speechless horror, knelt by
the bedside, watching for the first glimpse of returning life,
but when it did return, it was the frenzy of madness.
All night long, the sufferer was in a raging delirium, occasioned
by the fever and anguish of his wound, and the spectre
which seemed to haunt his distorted fancy, was Ralph
Cornet. Sometimes he called him by every endearing name,
and would seem to be warning him from the brink of some
dreadful precipice—then his voice would sink into low and
muttered curses, and he reviled him with the epithets of villain,
traitor, murderer; and called upon Annette to swear
that she would never marry him. It was evident that Ralph
was associated in his mind with the idea of his recent assailants;
for whenever he approached the bed-side for the purpose
of binding up the wound, the ravings of the afflicted
man would cease, and he would shrink back, cowering and
trembling with terror.

Groaning in spirit, Ralph Cornet sunk into a remote corner 4(2)r 39
of the room, and awaited the light of day with the fever of
impatience. Though he knew that as daylight would bring no
peace of mind to him, yet he felt oppressed by the darkness.

What a night was that for those two young lovers! They,
whose affections had been fanned into vital existence, by the
wings of that “unknown seraph,” which it is said, can make
a paradise of any spot on earth, now found themselves together,
without the power of receiving any comfort from the
beloved presence. Not one word of consolation or condolence
passed between them. There was something so awful
in that lonely night’s watching, by the side of a maniac!

Wearied, pale, and motionless, Annette lay at her father’s
feet, and closed her ears to shut out the sounds of that fearful
laughing and gibbering, whence reason’s light had flown. The
springs of hope and comfort had dried within her; and Ralph
Cornet dared not approach her, for he had none to offer. With
his face buried in his hands, he sat apart, revolving his darkened
and perplexing thoughts. He had already broken his
word to his men, and to his superior officer. They would
move without him, yet he was incapable of leaving
Annette, in this forlorn situation, and of going to seek assistance
for her from his countrymen; for that would be rushing
to imprisonment or death.

Near the hour of morning, the old man from perfect exhaustion
fell asleep-and rendered nervous by the close air of
the room, and his unpleasant thoughts, Ralph rose and opened
the door which looked out upon the river.

The first grey dawn of morning was rolling away the
mists of darkness, which lay like a folded curtain on the 4(2)v 40
west, rendering just perceptible a thick vapor from the river,
which seemed to rest like a dark column against the trees.
As he stood watching its slow and regular ascent, with the
cool breeze of morning blowing on his brow, Ralph Cornet
concluded his first lesson in reflection. During the whole period
of his happy life, he had never before had cause for one
thought beyond the present; and his naturally strong mind
had suffered from the enervation of a thorough indulgence.
But that one night of experience had been to him more than
years of common life-such rapid strides can the mind make
under the stern proofs of adversity-and he stood there, a
wiser, if not a better man.

But, in the meantime, a plot was in process of formation
against him. In the village of Vienna, Lieutenant Pickens
had that night quartered a small party of militia, which
he was raising for the state. At a very late hour, a rap was
given at the Lieutenant’s door, and he was informed that a
British officer was at that time at the cottage of old Bruyesant,
and might become an easy prize.

When the door was opened, the informant was gone, but
with the first light of morning the Lieutenant proceeded cautiously
to the cottage. A noise at the door disturbed the
reflections of Ralph Cornet. “Who’s there?” he asked.

“Friends,” was the reply.

Ralph hesitated—“they cannot know that I am here,”—he
said to himself;—“and if the tories have returned, I will not
leave this spot.” But what was his surprise on opening the
door, to find himself confronting four men, whom, in the
imperfect light of morning, he discovered to be in the American
uniform, and well armed. For a moment they stood there 4(3)r 41
motionless—the seeker and the sought,—and not a word was
passed on to either side. But in that moment, Ralph Cornet
had resolved on what was to be done. Turning hastily to
Annette, he whispered “farewell,” and seizing his hat and
sword which lay on a chair, bounded through the open door.

It was yet too early to distinguish features; but his superior
stature, and the boldness of his movements had awakened
his enemies to the truth.

“It is Ralph Cornet!” passed from one to the other, and
there was a rush on both sides of the house.

“Shoot him,—shoot the d――d traitor,” were the words
that reached the ears of Annette Bruyésant, as she lay in a
half stupified bewilderment on the bed. In a moment, she
comprehended the whole of that fearful scene, and she sprang
to the door with a wild, terrific cry; but they had passed on,
and as shot after shot rang in her ears, the poor girl fell
senseless to the ground.

Ralph Cornet reached his canoe in safety, and the thick
fog favored his escape. His baffled pursuers heard the dash
of his oars, but they had no vessel in which to follow him,
and they were obliged to limit their revenge to the discharge
of their pieces in that direction. Ralph, however, contrived
a feint to deceive them, and his shout of triumph reached
them from afar, where he had landed down the river.

When Annette opened her eyes, she was lying on a bed in
the cottage, and a fair-haired, delicate young man, was bending
over her, with an expression of much concern on his
intelligent features—a plain, military coat was buttoned
tightly round his slender and graceful figure, and a sword
was buckled round his waist.

4* 4(3)v 42

“Thank heaven! you have recovered at last, Miss Bruyésant;”
said he drawing a long breath as of a person much
relieved. “Your syncope was so long and deep, that I feared
for your life.”

Annette looked up wildly.—A feeling of painful confusion
thrilled her heart on seeing herself thus watched by a stranger,
and she covered her face,—to which the blood had
rushed violently—with both her hands. But as a recollection
of the past events dawned upon her mind, she lost all thoughts
of herself:—

“Is he—is he――” she gasped—

“He is safe, Miss Bruyésant,”—said the stranger, soothingly,
—“he has escaped us this time. God only knows how
much evil will ensue from it!”

“Thank God! oh, thank my God!” she exclaimed, fervently,
as she half uprose, and raised her eyes and clasped
hands to heaven.

The young man regarded her with a look of mingled pity
and admiration, as she remained for some minutes in this posture,
with the silent tears trickling down her pale cheeks.
The whole truth of her love for Cornet flashed upon his mind.

“Alas young lady,”—said he,—“how worthy you are of
a better fate! Has not this unfortunate youth done enough
to forfeit your esteem?”

“He is so brave and noble,”—said Annette warmly,—“he
saved my father’s life last night, though he knew that he was
his bitterest enemy.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the young officer in surprise, and he
looked round for the first time to where old Bruyésant lay,
yet in a profound sleep,”— 4(4)r 43 “Something must be done,”—said he, when Annette had
related the scene of the past night.—“You cannot remain
here, thus unprotected Miss Bruyésant.” Then after a moments
pause, he continued; “I know a friend’s house where
you will be kindly received.”

By his orders the soldiers prepared a litter, on which they
laid the still insensible form of the old man. Wearied nature
had sunk into a stupor, from which it seemed impossible to
arouse it.

Touched by the kind and delicate consideration of the
young Lieutenant, Annette in weeping silence followed his
directions for leaving that dear cottage for the first time in
her life. It was now an unsafe residence, but it had been the
scene of all her childhood’s innocence; and the sighs she
gave were not only for her present distress, but for those days of old, now hallowed by sorrow— “For long remembered hours, when first Love on her dawning senses burst.”

Chapter III.

In a grove of beautiful trees about a mile from the river
stood a building, which for the early days of which we have
been writing, might have been considered splendid. It was
large, and lofty in its proportions, and though of rude and
unfinished workmanship, from its superior size, the beauty
of its grounds, and the richness of its furniture, it had that
air of aristocratic pride which belongs essentially to the
English gentry whether on this or the other side of the Atlantic.

But it was not more the seat of wealth and taste, than of
kindness and hospitality; and in these troubled times, the
wretched found a shelter there from oppression. Yet it had
not of itself escaped the curse of that despicable species of
civil warfare. All around was silcntsilent and lonely, where active
industry, and cheerful life reigned hitherto. The slaves
were scattered like sheep without a fold, and the deserted
farm yard, and broken fences of the trampled cornfields, bore
evidence of predatory incursions.

4(5)v 46

A short time after the events recorded in the last chapter,
two young girls were standing in the loftiest balcony of that
building, which sat airily among the green branches of the
majestic oaks, and looked out through their openings upon a
landscape which extended to the river, and bounded itself by
the hills of Georgia, in all their rugged and varied aspect.
The river wound round to the north, and lay like a lake,
with the water sparkling in the sun, and a little farther on,
where they, through “arching willows stole away,” a column
of smoke suspended over the rich trees, revealed the site
of Vienna. It was a beautiful picture, in all its varieties of
river, vale, and hill, as viewed through the mellow light of a
September morning. But the fair beings in that balcony
seemed too much engrossed with more earthly feelings, to
enjoy the serenity, almost divine, of that prospect. It was
evident that one of them had been weeping; and as the arms
of the other encircled her, the afflicted one’s head rested on
her bosom.

“My dear Annette,”—said the fairer, but not more beautiful
of the two,—“forget him: he is unworthy of you!”

Annette Bruyésant, for it was she, raised her head from
the bosom of her friend, and regarding her with a steady,
sorrowful glance, she said in a tone which was embittered by
a slight reproach:—

“Selina Anderson, you have never loved!”

A crimson flush overspread the features of the fair girl thus
addressed, even to her neck and temples. She turned hastily
away, and her bosom heaved convulsively; but at length she
threw her arms round Annette, and pressing her cheek to
hers she said in a soft, low voice—

4(6)r 47

“Forgive me Annette, if I have seemed to distrust the
strength of a woman’s love. Ah, I know its fidelity, through
peril, disgrace, and aye, sometimes through coldness, and neglect,”
—then sinking her voice still lower, as if afraid to hear
her own confession, she continued—“I too love:—one that is
brave, honorable, and respected; but――” She stopped and
blushed still deeper for it was the first time that the proud
heart of Selina Anderson had confessed this much. Gifted
with a mind above the ordinary portion of her sex, she possessed
powers of endurance and concealment, which gave a
proud dignity to her manners; and those who saw her only in
the friendly, but reserved intercourse of social life, never
dreamed that she sighed over a cherished, but uninvited passion.

They had not left the balcony, when a horseman rode into
the yard,—he was in military dress, and armed for travelling
as appeared by the pistols at his saddle bow, and the sword
which hung in its polished sheath at his side. His slender
graceful form, had an air of uncommon neatness, and gentlemanly
elegance; and his very handsome features expressed a
singular union of feminine softness, and masculine pride.
But there were times, when that doubtful expression fled
before the noble daring of his high natural temperament.
When he perceived the ladies, he reined up his fine stcedsteed,
bowed low, and then springing from his seat, in a few moments
was by their side.

“Fair ladies,”—said he, speaking in a tone of playful chivalry,
which was rcnderedrendered almost timid by his native bashfulness,
—“I have come to render you, your knight’s last homage
before his departure,”—and he made a motion of lowly reverence.

4(6)v 48

Annette held the hand of her friend; and on looking in
her face, perceived that she had suddenly become very
pale, and unable to speak. With the true instinct of a woman’s
heart, she instantly comprehended the feelings of Selina
Anderson, and finding it necessary to say something, she
inquired of the young man whither he was bound.

“I go, Miss Bruyésant,”—said he,— “to join my brother, at
the block house, We shall be called upon soon, to co-operate
with Gen. Morgan, and I have come to beg the charms of
your prayers against the dangers of war; for surely,”—he
continued with playful badinage,—“the prayers of love can
avail much.”

Annette could not refuse a smile to this piece of ironical
gallantry.

“You speak lightly of a very serious matter, Mr. Pickens,”
—said she,—“but if the prayers of a grateful heart can avail,
you will go unharmed. I cannot forget, that ’tis to you, I
owe my father’s life, and the peace, and security I now enjoy.
May God bless you, sir!”

The smile vanished from the lips of Lieutenant Pickens,
and he replied warmly:—

“Speak not of it, Miss Bruyésant; it was but doing my
duty to my country, to succour the distressed,—and may God
forget me, when I forget her calls! But Miss Anderson,”—
he continued, in a voice which softened involuntarily,—“has
she no word to encourage a warrior in the hour of battle?”

Selina Anderson had hitherto stood leaning against a
column, with her fingers wound in a braid of her own fair
hair—but on hearing this, with a faint smile, she broke a
sprig of oak which played around her head, and said with
forced gayety:—

5(1)r 49

“Take this—and remember that Selina Anderson believes
that you will deserve it!”

“Dear type of heroic deeds,”—said he with playful enthusiasm,
as he received the branch,—“may I never do aught to
impeach the judgment of the fair one who bestows thee!”

A few moments afterward, and the young Lieutenant
stood on that balcony with Selina Anderson alone. Annette
had some how or other disappeared. His manner now
evinced an embarrassment but little short of awkwardness, and
very different from its former gay and easy tone. There is
nothing more trying to a shy man, than a tete a tete with a
lady under common circumstances; and Lieutenant Pickens
had for a long time, most unaccountable to himself, experienced
a secret uneasiness in the presence of Selina Anderson.
Perhaps it was owing in part, to the high and unmoved
dignity of the young lady’s manners. He did not
analyze his feelings, but he felt that when called upon to
address her by a single word, he was more than usually
reserved, and he avoided the slightest allusion to love. But
the greater the effort to conceal itself, the more evidently is
love betrayed. As has been most wisely observed by one
who possessed a key to its thousand mysteries— “A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon, Than love that would seem hid;”
and it is doubtless, a consciousness of this fact, that makes
even the bravest of men appear very cowards before the
objects of their affection. The pride of the human heart is
so easily alarmed,—so sensitive!

Selina was the first to speak; for nothing oppresses woman
more than silence in such a situation.

5 5(1)v 50

“You go so soon? Mr,Mr. Pickens.”

“To-morrow, Miss.”

“And perhaps we may never see you again,”—said Selina,
with mournful earnestness, as if she had involuntarily spoken
her thoughts aloud.

The eyes of the young man fixed on her for a moment
steadily, until they became tender in their expression.

“And will Miss Anderson regret me?” he asked in a low
voice.

The tone of that question restored Selina Anderson to
herself again. The rich blood crimsoned her cheek, as she
thought of the warmth she had betrayed, and she answered
with her usual proud indifference:—

“Mr. Pickens would be regretted by all who know him,
and certainly, I, who claim the title of friend, might mourn
his loss.”

Her frigid coldness dissolved the enchantment to which
she had for a moment yielded, and recalled the young officer
back to the stern, but high path which duty had marked out
for his contemplation.

“It would be glorious to die thus: beloved and regretted;”
—he said musingly,—“but Miss Anderson,”—he continued,
with rising animation,—“it is not the dream of a vain, and
selfish ambition which actuates our spirits; we are no tyrants
treading on the empires we have crushed. Our country calls
-it is the voice of reason, of humanity, and of freedom; and
in life or death, we are hers.”

The young lady seemed to have caught something of his
high enthusiasm; for her eyes sparkled through the tears
which hung like dew drops on her silken lashes:

5(2)r 51

“Go on,”—said she,—“I feel that you will conquer at last;
for certainly, none but the God of battles has inspired that
high and holy patriotism!”

“I doubt not of victory,”—he replied with a smile,—“though
the prospect is at present discouraging. The friends of liberty
will die in the cause; and such perseverance does not often
fail of success. For myself, I go forward in the confidence
of right, and if it demands the sacrifice of my blood, it shall
not be withheld penuriously. Freedom must be established
at whatever cost!”

“Alas!”—said Selina,—“how much noble blood must be
spilt to rear that sacred edifice! And those who have laboured
most, may least enjoy its benefits.”

“Yes, Miss Anderson; but the friends of liberty would
answer you in the words in which our noble Washington
replied to the suggestions of the Governor of Virginia,”—
and the young officer’s eyes brightened as he repeated that
beautiful sentiment:—
“‘What if I fall? my country’s praise Will grant my memory honor still; And if they fail to recollect, The God of justice never will!’”

Selina’s heart beat thick, and fast, and she held her breath
painfully as she replied with outward calmness:

“Far be it from me to chill that glorious virtue. If I had
a warrior’s arm, it should be among the first to strike for liberty.
But life should not be thrown rashly, even into a noble
cause; and—and,”—she hesitated a moment, and then continued
rapidly, with downcast eyes,—“and remember, Mr.
Pickens, there are those who wish you to guard yours, next
to your sacred honor.”

5(2)v 52

A bright glow overspread the marble brow of the young
officer, as he turned quickly, and took her hand.

“Selina—Miss Anderson――” he commenced:—the confusion
on his cheek grew deeper,—the half-formed words of
passionate declaration, which seemed to tremble on his tongue
died away unheard, and pressing her hand to his lips, he
rushed down the stairs, and was out of sight in a moment.

“And is he gone? on sudden solitude, How oft that fearful question will intrude.”

Selina Anderson stood with her eyes strained in the direction
of his flight; and when she had assured herself that he
was indeed gone, her woman’s nature conquered her forced
and proud philosophy. She sat down and wept long, long.
It was but a moment past, and he stood there with the confession
most dear to her breast, trembling on his lips perhaps,
and now as he vanished from her sight with the melancholy
probability that she might never see him more, it
seemed to the poor girl, that she was tottering over a dark
gulf, from which a ray of sunshine had suddenly withdrawn.

At the same time, the high-hearted young soldier, as he was
pursuing his lonely path, felt an emotion not much less lively
than hers. He mused upon her words, and her attendrissement,
so different from her usually dispassionate exterior,
and a delicious sensation thrilled in his heart with the idea, that
he was beloved. His own feelings, long repressed, or unrecognised,
arose with full force in his breast; but now as he
sped onward in the path of duty, he felt that he had “A rougher task in hand, Than to drive liking to the name of love;”
and with warlike philosophy, he endeavored to banish the
tender thoughts which oppressed him.

5(3)r 53

But that which nature was insufficient to accomplish, fate
contributed to effect. The road he was pursuing was a
lonely, retired path, leading over a ridge of hills for some
miles,—now descending into a valley where the world seemed
bounded to a span, and again ascending to the summit of a
hill, as high as the tallest trees of the dell. As he was entering
one of those profound hollows, Lieutenant Pickens stopped
suddenly, struck with surprise at the sight of a beautiful
horse, which was picking the tender grass, where a little
stream struggled along, dashing against the roots of a tree,
or foaming among the masses of rock scattered through the
ravine. The young officer was a great admirer of this noble
race of animals, and a perfect connoisseur in their excellencies;
and he thought that he had never seen a specimen more
superb than that he now beheld. It was a horse of prodigious
size, and strength, but without the clumsiness which usually
attends these attributes. On the contrary, the flexibility and
grace of his limbs seemed to embody the “speed of thought.”
His flowing mane waved on the ground as he grazed, and his
coat was black, and shining; by as he lifted his head, and recognized
the approach of a stranger, but throwing back his small
ears, and snuffing the air with his wide nostrils, a white crescent
appeared in the centre of his forehead, which relieved the
uniformity of his color. Fascinated at the sight of so beautiful
an animal, Lieutenant Pickens did not at first observe a
man, who, enveloped in a horseman’s cloak, with a cap
drawn over his brows, stood in apparently deep thought, leaning
against a tree, not far off. When the horse by a natural
instinct, testifyed that they were not alone, the unknown
raised his head with a start, and his hand instinctively 5* 5(3)v 54
grasped his sword. As he did so, the glimpse of a British
uniform aroused the suspicion of the Lieutenant, and fully
impressed with the belief that it was one of the many emissaries
sent out by the British to incite the insurgent royalists,
he determined not to let him pass unnoticed.

He first hailed the man, but receiving no answer, he took
a pistol from his saddle-bow, and advancing near him,—for
Lieutenant Pickens knew no fear,—he demanded his name,
and motives, or the surrender of his arms. The next instant
he felt himself in the fierce grasp of the stranger, and the
contents of the pistol were lodged in the tree by which he
had been standing. The slender form of the brave Pickens,
was as a reed in the hands of the other; but though thrown
upon the ground with a drawn sword suspended over him,
he asked no quarters.

The cloak had fallen, and revealed the British dress of the
stalwart conqueror, and as he looked down with a haughty
smile upon his prostrate foe, he said in a slow and measured
tone:

“You have attempted my life, without knowing aught evil
of me; but you are brave, and a soldier, and I give you
yours, now it is at my mercy. But beware, how you tempt
again the desperate hand of Ralph Cornet!”

Pickens, who had begun to be touched by this noble conduct,
sprang to his feet on hearing that name, and stamped
on the ground in a fierce, ungovernable rage, he drew his
sword, exclaiming:

“God! I will not owe my lifclife to so vile a creature! Defend
yourself.”

Ralph Cornet parried his first lunge, and ere Pickens had 5(4)r 55
time to make a more successful thrust, the knee of Cornet
was again on his breast, and his face for the first time appeared
convulsed with passion.

“Rash man,”—said he in a quivering voice,—“have I not
said beware? Will you now promise peace, or shall I be
obliged, for the first time, to dip my hands in the blood of a
countryman?”

“No,”—said Pickens, sullenly,—“I acknowledge your
superior strength, but we shall ever be foes.”

“It is enough,”—replied Ralph, at the same time relaxing
his grasp,—“I can expect nothing else. I do not ask for
friendship; but remember Mr. Pickens, that the man who
has twice given his life to a bitter foe, does not deserve the
epithet of vile!”

Lieutenant Pickens seemed to be struck with these sentiments
in a man, whom he had hitherto regarded as a ruffianly
traitor, for he had never known him personally, and
fame, in blazoning the bold deeds and cvilevil principles of the
young Cornet, had forgotten to speak of his youth, his inexperience
and his gentle blood. The American officer was
no less surprised at these sentiments of honor, than at the
extremely youthful appearance of the man, compared with
his gigantic strength. A feeling rose in his mind mingling
regret with indignation, to see this extraordinary work of
nature perverted from its nobler purposes; and he said with
strong emphasis, in reply to Cornet’s last remark:

“But you will acknowledge, sir, that you have deserved
the hatred of your countrymen; not only for the evil you have
done, but for the good you have left undone. You might
have been――”

5(4)v 56

“It matters not what I might have been,”—interrupted
Ralph impatiently,—“I will abide the consequence of what
I am!”

“Unhappy man,”—answered Pickens,—“if not naturally
bad, you have been wofully misled. But even now, if you
wish well to your country”――

“I might deserve the name of traitor, which you give me,”
—said Ralph, with a smile full of scornful bitterness, supplanting
the thought of Pickens.

The officer would have added something more, but the
other turned from him, and calling his horse by name, the
animal walked up to him, when he threw on its accoutrements,
mounted, and departed.

Perkins waited until he was gone, with mingled feelings
of anger, shame, and interest. That bold man had so proudly
subdued, and scorned him, and with such lofty pride too!
But his bitterest thought was that he owed him the debt of a
life doubly risked, and was bound by the laws of honor to
take no measures against him.

Chapter IV.

That night, as Lieutenant Pickens sat in his apartment at
Vienna, looking out upon the river, and revolving in his
mind the strange events of the day, an individual was ushered
into his presence.

He was a man in the bloom of life: yet in that period of
its bloom, when the fully expanded graces of summer, are
rich, and pliant with the freshness and vigor of youth. He
was short in stature, but slender and active, and his limbs
seemed disposed in a strong, wiry, fox-like suppleness. His
face, which was ruddy and manly, might have been considered
handsome, but for a forehead villainously low, and
the sinister expression, which very black, heavy brows, gave
to a pair of small, restless, grey eyes. His florid complexion
was very strikingly relieved by a thick mass of black curling
hair, and an Herculean beard. His nose was straight, and
well formed, and his full, rich lips, opened upon a set of teeth
strong, white, and beautifully even. But there was nothing
noble, or elevated in his physiognomy; on the contrary, a
smile of servility sat affectedly on his thick lips, showing that
he was accustomed to work his way through the world, by
waiting the wind, and tide of events: and his restless eye 5(5)v 58
had the furtive glance of cunning and treachery. He had
not the air of a man who has much confidence in himself.
His step was light and elastic, but it had more of the stealthiness
of the cat, than the self-importance even of the surly
mastiff; and he had a habit of glancing suspiciously round
him when he walked.

As he presented himself before Pickens, he was dressed
very plainly, with no mark of distinction, except that he
wore the American badge, and his arm was bound in a sling.

“Well, sir, what is your business?”—asked Pickens, in
the haughty tonctone with which he usually addressed men
whom he did not respect.

“I have something very important,”—replied the man,
casting an impulsive glance round the room.

“Never mind Bates,”—said the Lieutenant, with a smile
of irony,—“there is no one here of more doubtful
character than yourself.”

“Your honor means to be merry at my expense,”—he answered
with an unruffled countenance,—“there is not a
better whig in these parts than Hugh Bates.”

“As occasion serves, I suppose; but when the tories are
up to their elbows in plunder, and no fear of hanging, there
is no better tory than Hugh Bates. Eh! have I not hit it?”

A dark scowl passed quickly over the countenance of
Bates, which Pickens did not observe, and he continued:

“But what is the matter with your arm, Bates? We have
had no encounters lately, I think.”

“Oh, it is only a scratch that I got fighting with a tory,”—
replied Bates carelessly.—“The devil was making off with
the best horse in my stable; but I guess I peppered him—he!
he! he!”

5(6)r 59

“Umph! umph!”—said Pickens, incredulously.—“Well, it
is all one, so you stick to the right side in the future. But beware
how you change coats again,—you hear that Bates!
And now to your business; what is it?”

“I’m glad your honor has not forgotten it.”—said Bates,
much relieved to escape from the subject.—“It is a matter
of no importance to me; but of very great interest to the
true cause. Col. Ferguson has been seen in this neighborhood,
and Ralph Cornet”――

“Ha! what of him?”—interrupted Pickens impatiently.”

“Your honor looks as pale as if you had scenseen his ghost!”—
said Bates, with something of the “laughing devil of a sneer.”
“Do not fear sir,”—continued he, still laughing maliciously,—
“that villain of a tory, bold as he is, will hardly attack us
here. He is only helping Ferguson to collect the royalists in
this neighborhood, and then they are to be off for North
Carolina. But, if your honor is not afraid to meet this
lion, I can show you where you can grab these two friends
and put all their plans to sleep.”

The sinister countenance of Hugh Bates winced beneath
the withering look of contempt and scorn, which Pickens
cast upon him, as he uttered this last speech. Notwithstanding
the characteristic softness of the young Lieutenant,
he was subject to fits of arbitrary passion.

“Wretch,”—said he, rising and stamping furiously on the
floor,—“dare to mention that word ‘fear’ again to me, and you
stand there not alive! I doubt much,”—he continued, as he
paced the floor,—“if you have not some other reason for
wishing this man hanged, besides your immaculate patriotism!”
—And his proud lip curled with the strong expression 5(6)v 60
of his scorn, until it displayed the ivory teeth. “Ha! I remember
now,—were you not the man who informed me that
Cornet was at the house of old Bruyésant, on the night that
he was attacked by the tories?”

A slight change came over the face of Bates, and his eye
sunk beneath the penetrating gaze of his officer, as he replied
humbly:

“I was, your honor; I thought it right to inform you of it.”

“And how long have you known this man Cornet, eh?”

“Oh, bless you honor,”—said Bates, reassured,—“we
have been friends of old—he! he!”

“And you wish to obtain the benefit of that friendship by
betraying him into our hands. Ah! I see it all,”—said Pickens,
as he walked to a window.

“Yes d――n your eyes!” muttered Bates between his
clenched teeth, as the Lieutenant’s back was turned to him;
and his eyes, as they fixed upon him, assumed the deadly
glare of the tiger when about to spring upon its prey.

But in those few moments of meditation, the young officer
had formed a resolution, which very materially changed the
face of the matter. It was evident to his mind, that Bates
had some personal revenge to gratify in the persecution of
Ralph Cornet; but he felt it his duty to have these men
arrested; and as he was himself prohibited from leading the
attack, he resolved to trust Bates with the affair; for the
thought occurred to him, that his enmity would be the surest
warrant of success. Turning suddenly to where Bates was
yet standing, he said with haughty calmness:

“Well, sir, how many men will you take for the enterprise?”

6(1)r 61

“Me? your honor!” exclaimed Bates, in real surprise,
while a gleam of satisfaction lit up his eyes with savage ferocity.
—“If your honor would trust me in the business, I warrant
that with four stout fellows, I could take any two British
officers in his majesty’s—I mean in this country.”

“Well, you shall have your choice; but remember that
your head will stand forfeit for the lives of my men, if you
run them needlessly into danger. When, and where do you
propose taking these men?”

“Between this and daylight,”—said Bates,—“the tories
are to meet a little above here, at the upper ferry. Ferguson,
in order to join them, will pass along the public road; for Cornet,
not satisfied to go off without seeing that girl, Annette
Bruyésant, has been down on a fool’s errand to search for
her in the French settlement,—and they are separated from
their party. I will station myself on the road, and wait for
them,—and when we have these two leaders, what can the
tories do? your honor!”

“By heavens!”—said Pickens with a sneer,—“your patriotism
is truly self-sacrificing. Do you know the danger of
meeting these men? Ralph Cornet is said to hold a heavy
hand!”

“I have tried him before,”—said Bates with a fiendish
grin, and then continued with an inward exultation, as if forgetful
that he spake aloud,—“and he shall feel the claws of
the old fox yet!”

“What’s that?”—asked Picken’s in an authoritative tone,—
“these men are to be taken alive; you understand Bates!—
no harm done if possible. Alive on your peril—you hear
that?”

6 6(1)v 62

“Your honor shall be obeyed!”—said Bates, bowing himself
off; but as his back was turned, the whole of his broad
teeth were exposed in a malicious sneer; and clutching the
paper by which he held his commission for that night, firmly
in his hand, he exclaimed—“d――n the preaching fool, dead
or alive, he is now mine!”

Penetrating as was the American officer, he had not
calculated on the full malignity of the heart of Hugh
Bates; and he imagined that by limiting his power, he
should restrain him from committing any outrage against
humanity, in the business with which he had trusted him.
It is a remarkable fact in the history of these lawless times
that however great the hatred to the British might have been,
an act of inhumanity against them was ever revolting to the
feelings of the American officers; and though Ralph Cornet
had excited a bitterer feeling still, Lieutenant Pickens could
not resolve to see him wantonly murdered.

But Hugh Bates had succeeded beyond his most sanguine
hopes in his interview with his officer, and he went forth triumphantly
and boldly, to fasten his net around his intended
victim. For many years he had been the deadliest foe of
Ralph Cornet; and if he had concealed his hatred, it was for
the purpose of working out a surer method of revenge.
From his earliest youth, Ralph had been a serpent in his
path, which he wished, yet feared to crush. Until Ralph
Cornet had grown into manhood, Hugh Bates had been the
theme and boast of every gathering in the country. No man
could contend successfully with him, in running, wrestling,
boxing, throwing the quoit, or in any of those games of
strength and manhood, in which the new world had established 6(2)r 63
her gymnasium. But in every encounter with Ralph
Cornet, the latter had born off the palm; and from the first
time that he brought the back of the proud bully to the
ground, the enraged Bates vowed in his secret heart, that
nothing less than the death of the young man could wipe
away the stain of his disgrace. With every successive triumph,
his curses deepened, to see with what lordly pride
Ralph Cornet spurned the laurels which he had torn from
him.

His evil genius in love, as in ambition, Ralph had also
won the affections of the only being, who had ever touched
the vitiated, but not insensible heart of Bates. But, from the
moment that old Bruyésant had indignantly refused to admit
his addresses to his daughter, the fierce passion with which
he had loved her, was turned into a hatred which called loudly
for revenge on all who had come between him and his
wishes.

He dissimulated his feelings until he could make a sure
spring upon his prey, and his hatred germinating in the
depth of his burning heart, produced a strong and living
principle of revenge. He fed upon it,—he slept upon it,—he
aggravated it day by day. At length the way opened an
agreeable theatre for the views of Hugh Bates. The lawless
rule of the royalist party was congenial to his brutal licentiousness;
besides it was opposed to the family of the Cornets
and without sufficient sentiment to become a partizan, he was
a tory in the vilest sense of the word. We have seen him at
the cottage of old Bruyésant, where Ralph Cornet, by a fortunate
interference, again stept in his path, and thwarted him
of his dearest revenge. Ralph Cornet’s concurrence with 6(2)v 64
the royalist party, instead of canceling the debt of hatred
which he owed him, only seemed to place him more securely
in his power; and when on that night, he fled from the cottage
with a broken arm, he conceived the base plan of betraying
him to the American militia, as already stated.

The failure of that scheme was not sufficient to withdraw
the ferocious Bates. He dreaded to meet Cornet in a personal
encounter; but he imagined that by joining the whig militia,
he could make them a party to his revenge, by working upon
their natural indignation against the royalist leader. Accordingly,
he appeared before Pickens, and enrolled his name
with the company then enlisting. The actions and principles
of Bates had been so secret, that this new step excited
but little notice among the whigs. Pickens, from his connections
with the cottage scene, suspected more of his real character
than any one else knew. Thus secured in this point,
Bates kept a strict surveillance upon the actions of Ralph
Cornet, by mingling with the tories, who revealed to him,
unhesitatingly, their plans, and operations, and by this tortuous
course, he was enabled to spread his toils for his enemy.

Chapter V.

After the departure of the young Lieutenant, Annette
Bruyésant, on returning into the balcony, found her friend
weeping. It had now become her part to console, or rather
to weep in sympathy.

The human heart when left to indulge its sorrows, in inactivity,
sinks under them; and it is no doubt owing to the
fact, that in those perilous times, the minds of the softer sex
were kept in the constant exercise of active duties, that they
showed uncommon strength for exertion and endurance.

A more than common share of the duties of life at this time
devolved upon them. All honest men of strength and capacity,
had volunteered to meet the foe, which was entering
the country, and the aged and infirm left at home, were
afraid to venture out. The few slaves then in the settlement,
had become worse than useless property, and those
that were not scattered through the woods, were obliged to
be kept concealed to prevent them from falling into the hands
of the tories. In this emergency, the fair daughters of the
land,—those tender scions hitherto guarded with such gentle
care, whom even the “winds of heaven had not been permitted6* 6(3)v 66
to visit too roughly,” undertook for the relief of their
suffering families, the most menial offices, and performed
them with unshrinking bravery and cheerfulness.

There are some situations in life, when the nerves being
strained to their utmost tension, give a tone of hardihood to
the weakest system; and there are many instances in the
private histories of the families thus left open to the aggressions
of the tories, of this latent fortitude, or as it might be
better named, necessitious courage.

Annette Bruyésant and her friend, had not long indulged
in the luxury of grief, when they remembered that the bread
stuff had been exhausted since the last night, and there was
nothing to provide for the wants of the family. What was
to be done? Relief might be procured from a mill some miles
off. But old Bruyésant was lying at the house, still disabled
from the injuries he had received, and the only boy in the
family, a lad of ten years old, was sick of a fever. Then, there
was Clary, faithful old Clary, the only servant remaining to
them: but she might be stolen or murdered by the tories.
“We will go!”—said the heroic girls; and now behold the two
beings, who but a few moments before had nearly lost themselves
in a maze of cloudy reveries, mounted on a little vehicle,
half between chair and cart, to which was attached the only
horse left them, and proceeding cheerfully, if not merrily on
their novel errand. The amusing varieties of the situation
in which they found themselves, diverted the memory of their
so recent griefs-so perfectly unnatural it is for the young and
innocent mind to be sad, while pursuing the path of duty.
Enjoy while ye may, young creatures, for ye have yet much
to endure!

6(4)r 67

They had seen nothing to alarm them on their route, and
were returning with feelings of almost triumphant gayety to
their home. They felt that they were bringing comfort to
the sick and hungry, and joy to all by their gladdening presence:
—but scarcely were they arrived within sight of the
house, when they stopt and looking at each other with a kind
of wild affright, the expression of their speechless contenances
seemed to say—“the tories have been here!” No
living creature was visible—but the broken windows, the
mutilated furniture, scattered in fragments over the yard,
and the contents of the feather-beds filling the air, told the
tale at a single glance. When they had partially recovered
from their first exclamation of horror, the poor girls proceeded
with slow and unwilling steps to the house, expecting momentarily
to encounter the murdered bodies of their friends;
but as they continued the search over those lone and desolate
apartments, hope arose once more in their bosoms—not a
mark of blood was to be found, and the family had doubtless
escaped, but they had left no trace of their refuge.

It was fast becoming night—a night of pitchy darkness—
for the moon, which was by this time risen, found it impossible
to struggle through the thick clouds which were distilling
a slow but heavy mist upon the chilly breeze. In the pitiful
and dread uncertainty of these circumstances, Annette and
Selina wandered through the deserted place, searching vainly
for a light, or a morsel of food. The work of destruction had
been complete;—every thing valuable had been carried off,
and that which was not portable wantonly destroyed.
Scarcely a piece was left of the elegant mirrors, in which, at
morning, these lovely girls had viewed themselves—the 6(4)v 68
shelves were empty of plates. In one room, a table was
strewed with the fragments of a feast, mingling with broken
glasses and dishes stamped under feet.

It was like haunting the chambers of the dead to them,
and rather than remain amid that fearful desolation, they
submitted themselves to the darkness of the night. Without
light, or guide, or mark, by which to steer their course, they
took the direction of the river, supposing that their friends
might have hid themselves in some one of the natural recesses
of the deep wood. On they wandered, through the tangled
mazes of the thickety vales and marshes—but no light broke
on their straining eyesight—all around was darkness, silent,
dreadful, profound darkness. Sometimes indeed, as they
scrambled through the deep hollows, an owl would send up
his fiendish laugh over their heads; but no other sound came
to “vex the drowsy ear of night.” Fear, wild, agonizing,
supernatural fear took possession of their hearts—their
tongues seemed glued in their mouths, and every nerve
strained and shrinking from the awful echo of their own
footsteps. At length, they sunk on the ground, wearied and
disheartened, and a stupor occasioned by fatigue and the
damp air, was fast steeping their senses in forgetfulness.
But in that moment of death-like stillness, a sound of voices,
very faint and distant came to their ears. Nerved by hope,
they sprang to their feet, and ran on in that direction—but
the sound seemed hollow and deadened, as if they came from
some subterranean abode, and often did the poor wanderers
stop to assure themselves that they were in the right course.
At length they seemed to be ascending a hill, and suddenly
to their sight, a broad glare came up from the earth, spreading 6(5)r 69
a ghastly yellow glow over the leaden sky and the sombre
foliage of the giant trees—but what was their horror on discovering
beneath them, the very objects from which they
were flying!

The hill, or bank on which they stood, extended round for
many feet perpendicularly below them, forming a kind of circular
barrier for the river, which in high water overspread the
enclosure. Tall trees grew up from the loamy soil, but the
undergrowth was wanting, and the space beneath was strewed
with fallen trees, dried sticks and leaves.—Its naturally
gloomy aspect was now rendered fearfully wild, by the effect
of the various lights scattered through it; around which sat
or stood, about thirty or forty ferocious looking beings, in
every variety of grotesque attitudes. Several groups of four
and five were seated at cards, round an old log, or stump, in
which they had placed a rosin torch, very ingeniously sheltered
from the night air by a piece of bark—and ever few minutes,
they stopped to curse their luck, or the rain which fell
occasionally in soft showers, wetting them through by slow
degrees. Some had burnt coal fires under the logs, by which
they sat cooking and eating; and others had kindled blazing
fires, by piling up heaps of the dried sticks and faggots,
around which they circled in irregular measures, singing,
shouting, and brandishing their empty bottles over dark
countenances, which were rendered fiendish by contrast with
the red handkerchiefs tied carelessly around them.

Fascinated by a spectacle so novel, the poor fugitives
crouched closely behind a large tree in breathless curiosity.
Just beneath them, on the ground sat two men, who seemed
by some marks of distinction to be the leaders of the band. 6(5)v 70
Their swords lay beside them, and hats with read feather sat
jauntily on their rugged, sunburnt features, which were
strongly illumined by the light.

“Ha! ha! ha!”—laughed one of them in a coarse, rough
voice, so near that the frightened girls heard distinctly every
tone—“How these rascals do gig it!”—said he—“they would
sell themselves to the devil for a bottle of whiskey.”

“Damn it, Johnson,”—said the other—“you need’nt say a
word—we’ve all had our share of the fat things at the big
house yonder, to-day. How the poor devils did run!—But as
for belonging to the old fellow below there, that you speak of,
I think I know somebody who will be apt to go there himself,
to pay for a barrel of jewels and trumpery, which the old
woman had buried on the river bank!”

“Ha! ha!”—again laughed the brutal Johnson—“that was
the best thing I ever done, Georgie, except ’twas skinning
that old black rascal alive, when he wouldn’t tell me where
his master was.”

“Yes;”—replied the other,—who was known by the familiar
title of Georgie Long,—“and if you are not damned for
that, you will be, for blowing out the brains of the little brat,
who caught hold of the blanket, you was pulling off of
him!”

“Well Georgie,”—said he, rising from his elbow with an
unmoved and hardened smile,—“we have both done enough
to damn us; but no matter, it is high time we were moving.
You know we promised to meet Ferguson at the ferry; and
if we wait till daylight, we might chance to fall in with some
of the d――d rebels—I’ll be sworn they have the scent of us
by this time.”

6(6)r 71

“And Cornet, Captain Cornet, is to lead us into North
Carolina,”—said Long—“he seems to be in high favor;—but
do you feel like knocking under to this proud, beardless”――

A deep groan from the top of the hill arrested this speech.

“Who’s there?”—shouted the two men, as they sprang
simultaneously to their feet. In a few moments, one half of
the tories had scoured the hill; but the unfortunate objects
of their alarm had fled, with footsteps winged by fear, far
from the tory camp.

Their feet were bruised, their garments torn, but they
knew not where to stop; and in the delirium of their fear
and confusions, they ran on, and on, far as possible from the
direction they had at first taken, until one of them stumbled
over something, and fell with a scream to the ground.

“Mercy! mercy! ye wadna tak an auld man’s life!” said
a voice in a broad Scotch accent, as something seemed struggling
from the ground.

“Heavens be thanked!”—said Annette Bruyésant, with a
long, deep inspiration of her suspended breath—“it is the
voice of old Andrew Morrison, the miller!”

“Yes, it is auld Andrew Morrison,”—said the man, whose
senses were not yet clear of the vapors of sleep—“an what
harm has puir auld Andrew ever din ye, I maun ask?”

“For shame, Andrew, rise; it is I—Annette Bruyésant.”

“Oh, is it yersel’, Miss Annie? Then it canna be the
tories! Guid be praised for a’ his mercies!――Bless yer bonnie
face,”—he continued,—“how caum ye here, yer lane self
this waefu’ night—have ye nae been hame syne?”

“Yes, Andrew, but the tories have sent our friends to the
woods, and we did not know where to find them.”

6(6)v 72

“Bless the puir childer! and ye hae nae hame then?”—
said the kind hearted Andrew—“I guessed some e’il wad come
to ye. Sae whan ye had left the mill aboon, I said to mysel,
I maun see the bonnie leddies safe hame; but jist as I was
gangin on the road hard bye, I heard the tramp o’ feet; an
as I dinna ken, whether frein or fae, I turned in here a bit to
rest mysel’ till day.”――

“But the Lord defend us, Miss Annie, wha’s here?”—
continued old Andrew, as he stooped, and raised from the
ground the form of Selina Anderson, who through fatigue,
and fear, had fainted. Annette supported her in her arms,
and seeing she did not speak, the old man groped about for a
stream, which he knew was close by, and bringing the water
in his hat, threw some in her face. When she had a little
revived, he spread his coat on the grass, and begging them
to lie down and rest, he started off, saying kindly—“Ye maun
bide here yong leddies, ’till I come back.—I will bring ye to
yer freins!”

Worn out with fatigue, the poor wanderers, folded in each
others arms, sunk into a deep sleep. When they awoke,
morning had opened on the horizon, and was chasing with
successive shades of rose and orange, the dark clouds of the
night, away to the west—then all rolled off, and no stain was
left on the delicate azure, whence the bright, beautiful star
of morning, looked down upon them, like the smiling and benignant
eye of the all-seeing one.

Chilled with the damp air of the night, they arose, and
walked out into the road. The old man had not yet returned
—of course he had not found their friends, and accustomed to
act for themselves, and wearied of suspense, they determined 7(1)r 73
to follow the road till they reached Vienna, where they might
expect to find assistance.

They had not proceeded far, when they were overtaken by
two horsemen. One hasty glance behind assured them, that
they were in the uniform of British officers, and the poor
girls turned modestly aside to suffer them to pass. But that
one glance had been sufficient—in the next moment Ralph
Cornet was kneeling before Annette. He had forgotten the
bitterness of their last meeting, his own circumstances, and
the presence of witnesses, in the surprize, the rapture, the
agony of seeing her again.

He caught her hand between both his own—“Oh Annette,”
—he said,—“Where have you been? I have sought you
everywhere!”

With a faint scream, Annette’s head sank on the bosom of
her friend, and she made an effort to withdraw her hand.
Ralph relinquished it, and turned away his head much aggrieved:
“You will not speak to me, Annie?”—he said, in a
tone of reproof so touching that she burst into tears.

“Young gentleman,”—said Selina Anderson, who was
vexed at Annette’s distress,—“if I judge rightly, you are
Mr. Cornet; if so, you had best leave us. This is a dangerous
place for you. As for Miss Bruyésant, whatever kind
remembrances she may have for you, she can never look with
favor on the man who herds with the destroyers of her country,
and who gives his countenance, and support, to the merciless
robbers, that send her friends into the woods penniless
wanderers.”

“Heavens!”—said Ralph eagerly— “You are not thus?”

“Yes,”—replied the young lady, with bitter emphasis— 7 7(1)v 74
“thanks to the courtesies of your friends, we have been all
night seeking ours, from whom we have been separated.”

Ralph Cornet stood for a moment with his brows knit, and
his lips compressed, until he scarcely seemed to breathe.
Perhaps until that moment, he had never known the bitterness
of his situation; for he felt that he could not revenge
that outrage. But he turned round calmly:

“I am not the ruffian you take me for,”—said he in a subdued
voice. “If they have driven you from your homes, it is
my duty to restore you to them. Your friends have taken to
the woods, did you say?”

Selina answered proudly, as if she would have disdained
the offered service; but Ralph affected not to notice it.

“Col. Ferguson,”—said he to the officer who had sat on
horseback, viewing the scene with eager interest,—“You can
await me here, or go on.”

“Heaven forbid, Cornet, that I should prove so recreant a
knight as to retire from such a gallant enterprise,”—exclaimed
the accomplished Englishman, leaping from his saddle.—“If,”
—continued he, bowing gracefully,—“If these young ladies
will accept my services!”

“No! no! Ralph Cornet, you shall not go!”—exclaimed
Annette, starting up wildly.—“They hate you!—they seek
for you!—you go to certain death.”

“I fear no danger for my young friend, but that of your
presence, Miss Bruyésant,”—said Col. Ferguson,—“for all
others I would trust his ingenuity, and daring.”

“Trust me, Annette,”—said Ralph with a bitter smile,—“I
will see you in safety before I die.—I know these woods—
follow me!”

7(2)r 75

Ralph Cornet led the way, and Colonel Ferguson, with the
rein of his bridle thrown over his arm, walked by the side of
Selina Anderson, whom, in spite of her prejudices, he had
already begun to interest by the graces of an elegant mind
and noble soul.

“You are the sister of an American General;”—said he
at length—“and you are worthy of being so!—You will be
surprised, young lady, to hear that I respect your feelings, and
your pride; but hereafter, whenever you hear the name of
Ferguson mentioned, do him the justice to say, that he admired
the enemy it is his misfortune to oppose.”

They had, however, proceeded but a short distance in this
way, when they were met by old Andrew Morrison. He
had found the camp, and was returning. The old Scotch
many stopped short on seeing them, but Ralph advanced and
shook him cordially by the hand.――

“Ah Ralph! Ralph!”—said he in reply to that familiar salutation
—“Sie waefu’ times!—sie waefu’ times—Wha wad
hae thought to hae seen yer manfu’ limbs in British gear,—
ye that waur aye sae kind to a”—

“Hush! hush! Andrew, for heaven’s sake,”—said Ralph,
impatiently.

“Na! na! I wadna hush, Ralph, when yer ain life is at
stake—turn back, this instant, an flee, for the tories have
been up at their e’il doings, and the militia men are out. They
will be here fu’sune, for they hae heard that ye wad pass this
way. Flee, Ralph, flee—ae moment mair, an I dinna ken
what may betide.”

“I’ve sworn to see them safe;”—said Ralph, sullenly,— “and;
I will die in the attempt.”

7(2)v 76

“Wah? these bonnie leddies?—bless yer kind heart, they
are safe enough with auld Andrew—the camp is hard bye—
dinna gang there my boy. On the word o an auld man wha
has lo’ed ye frae the time ye hae sat on his knee, a canny
—awa,’ awa,’—yo’ waur aye kind to an auld body
an”――

At that instant the tramp of horses feet was heard on the
dry sticks and leaves of the forest.

“Whist! whist! my boy—wat ye wha’s coming?” continued
old Andrew fearfully.

Ralph seemed to rouse himself painfully from a fit of
musing.—He turned and wrung the band of the old man.
“They are safe, you say, Andrew Morrison?”

“Awa’! awa’! Ralph, for yer head!”—repeated Andrew in a
tone of the most impatient alarm, for the tramping came
nearer and nearer.

Ralph’s presence of mind never forsook him in the hour of
danger; and though, in the obstinate daring of his nature, he
would have faced a host, and died to serve the object of his
love, he was clearsighted enough to perceive the utter folly,
the madness of drawing himself and his friend into farther
peril. Without more deliberation, he sprang into his saddle
and motion to the astonished Ferguson to do the same, he
made for the road they had left without trusting himself with
even a look at the wondering girls. But it was too late; the
Americans were near enough to catch a glympse of British
uniforms, and already a sharp report rang through the
woods――

“Great God!”—exclaimed Ferguson, as his horse fell under
him in the convulsive motions of death—“‘I am lost!”

7(3)r 77

Ralph Cornet looked behind him, and sprang to me
ground.

“Here Ferguson, take this horse, and fly for your life!”—
said he.

“God of Heaven!”—exclaimed Ferguson passionately—
“and leave you to perish?”――

“Not one word more,”—said Ralph, with solemn earnestness,
—“fly, or we are both lost; for I swear not to quit this
spot ’till you are gone!—fear not for me—but take care of
Rover ’till I see you.”

Ferguson looked vexed and puzzled at the stubborn resolution
of Ralph;—but by this time the foremost man, who discharged
his gun, was grappling with Ralph, and as Ferguson
saw him dash his opponent to the ground, and fly through the
woods, he mounted that good steed, for the others were
close at his heels. Two men followed him, butbut there were
few horses in those days that could compete with Ralph Cornet’s
well trained Rover; and they soon returned to join the
chase of the other fugitive.

Hugh Bates,—for it was he, whom Cornet had again
foiled,—sprang lightly to his feet, and his face was livid with
rage. He grasped only the sword of Ralph Cornet, which
he had torn away in the struggle. Mounting his horse, he
struck his rowels into its flanks, and with a shout to his comrades,
he flew after his adversary. Once they came in sight
of him, and to make “assurance doubly sure,” every gun was
levelled and discharged—but with a bound, like the deer that
bears its death wound, Ralph fled with greater speed than before.
Able at any time on fair ground to distance the fleetest
runner, the thick woods, and broken country were now an 7* 7(3)v 78
advantage to the wounded man. They lost sight of him altogether,
but like blood hounds they followed on that bloody
track.

Once again they saw him on the border of a cornfield, and
as he turned to look, he staggered. The pursuers rushed on
with a shout of exultations. But when they had struggled
through the cane break to the banks of the river, he was no
where visible. There were fresh tracks on the soft soil, and
a bloody glove lay close by the edge of the stream. A canoe
was also lying there, half buried in the leaves which carpeted
the surface of the quiet river, upon which the early sunbeams
were glancing, betraying not by a single ripple, that
any object had lately disturbed its tranquility.

What a contrast was that placid river to me boiling blood
of those hot pursuers? But theirs were not the “high
hearts” to see, and feel its “eloquence and beauty.”

All night long they had ridden on the pursuit; and now
in the fury of their baffled revenge, they scoured the banks
of the river, but there was not trace of Ralph Cornet on land;
and supposing that he might have resorted to the stratagem
of diving, they stationed themselves on each side of the
stream, prepared to shoot him down as he emerged from the
water.

All day, so bitter was their hatred, did they watch. But
night came, and they departed sullenly to spread the report
of his death. Arguing from the impossibility of his having
crossed the river ere they reached it, they believed that he
must have drowned himself in a fit of desperation or exhaustion
—and for many days, Hugh Bates, whose enmity
reached beyond the limits of death itself, searched along the
river for the body.

7(4)r 79

Ferguson, who had arrived safely and met his company at
the appointed rendezvous, lingered a day or so,—but his emissaries
all returned with the story of Ralph’s mysterious disappearance,
and the British Colonel led on where his duty
called him. But he reproached himself with the misfortunes
of that brave, misguided youth. He did more—he shed for
him the manly tears of sympathy, for he had discovered the
worth of the noble heart which he had been instrumental in
corrupting.

In his own neighborhood, Ralph Cornet’s death was currently
reported, attended with supernatural awe among the
ignorant and superstitious. Some said, that an evil spirit had
carried him off, and his name was used to frighten children.—
But there was one, who heard these things with indignation.
She believed not the tale of her lover’s death, so great was
her confidence in his prowess; and so easily can the young
heart be illumined by the slightest ray of hope. Conviction
only, feeling, sensible conviction, alone can extinguish it!

For a length of time, Annette wandered out every day,
alone. She shunned even the company of Selina Anderson.
Something whispered to her heart, that if Ralph was yet
alive, he would seek an interview with her. But one day,
she came upon the place where he had fled before his pursuers
to the river—the traces of blood remained there still, and
even the glove had not been removed.

These mournful tokens seemed to bring to the mind of the
affectionate girl, the conviction she had so long shunned; and
she sat down, and wept over them in bitterness of soul. She
forgot his errors, and his degradation. She thought of him
only as the brave and beautiful boy—the sweet companion of 7(4)v 80
her childhood—as the manly youth—the elected husband of
her young affections. Who could blame that young girl, if,
in such a moment, she forgot that he had been unfaithful to
his country?

Chapter VI.

Months rolled on, and nothing was heard of Ralph Cornet.
He had ceased to be classed among the living; but his
memory had not passed away at all. In one heart, the altar
of his worship was still fed with the daily sacrifice of prayers
and tears; and as its fire burnt on in seeretsecret, the fair priestess
seemed to become less and less earthly. Her mind, like that
dove which hovered over the wide waste of waters, found no
green leaf for a resting place on earth; and it dwelt among
the invisible shadows of the past.

Yet Annette Bruyésant refused to believe in the death of
her lover:—She had not seen him die; and in the slow, torturing
fire of unlimited suspense, her oneeonce rosy cheek paled,
and her rounded form became every day more and more attenuated
and sylph-like.

The spring was far advanced,—that dreadful spring of 1781.
The tories who had escaped from the the fatal rencontre of King’s
Mountain, had returned into the neighborhood, and literally
ravaged it with fire and sword. The whigs were led on by
desperation to return the aggression, and murders were committed 7(5)v 82
and revenged, until many of the families of the
whigs,—who were far in the minority,—were left without
protectors, and without food—the crops of last year having
been destroyed—and despair seemed to have benumbed
the energies of the wretched survivors.

At this erisiscrisis, an individual eamecame to the relief of the suffering
inhabitants, and with a generous assiduity, a self sacrificing
zeal, to which history has not, and never can do justice,
he suceoredsuccored the destitute women and children. Many a “verdant
off’ring to his memory” has been perpetuated in the
children of those who felt his protecting benevolence. This
man was Gen. Pickens.

On the bank of the river a little apart from Vienna, may
be yet seen the remains of a fort which was built for the defense
of the early settlers against the Indians. Its walls were
built of stone, and formed ten feet high, with port holes, and
other appliances of a stout resistance.—Here Gen. Pickens
supported his dependents, and old age, and infancy flocked
daily to his protecting care. But thanks to the cowardice of
the tories, and their successive defeats in open combat, this
weak garrison was in no danger of attack. It was more like
the residence of a pleasant family, than a warlike station, and
during his oceasionaloccasional visits, the Good General, as he was affectionately
called, added to it the charm of an universal cheerfulness;
for he was not more eminent for the soldier-like
qualities which gained him the distinction of an officer, than
for the gracious affability by whiehwhich he won all hearts.
The victory of the Cowpens had given a breathing space
to the militia of the General’s brigade. Most of them had
returned on parole to their families, and the General took 7(6)r 83
occasion at this time to visit Fort Charlotte—which was the
name given to the fortress by the loyal subjects of his majesty
George the Third.

The concentration of the British on the other side of the
district, lulled the inhabitants into the easy security, and the
fort was consequently under but few of the restraints which
martial discipline imposes. Gen. Pickens was walking one
night alone and meditatively, on the outer side of the wall,
when he perceived the figure of a man leaning against it, in
the deep shadow which the dark trees opposed to the moonlight.
Having baited him several times, and received no
answer, the General took a pistol from his pocket, and walked
up to the spot to assure himself that he had not been deceived.

“Speak, or you are my prisoner,” said he, as he approached
the stranger.

The man made no show of resistance; but as the General
was about to lay his hand on his shoulder, he retrieved a few
paces, and folding his arms on his breast, answered doggedly:
—

“Shoot if you will—I will be no man’s prisoner.”

As he stepped back, the moonlight streamed clear upon a
majestic form, and showed the bold outline of a countenance
which looked pale and melancholy in that pensive light.

Gen. Pickens looked at him a few moments in silence—
the subdued and sad expression of his features and attitude,
seemed to have awakened in his heart feelings of commissertation
for the youthful, and apparently unhappy
stranger.

“Young man,”—said he in a softened tone,—“Whoever
you are, or whatever may be your business here, it is my duty 7(6)v 84
to have you arrested; but it would be more congenial to my
feelings, if you would spare me that trouble, by telling me
frankly, your name and intentions.”

“My name can interest no one;”—said the man in the same
tone in which he had first spoken—“And I have no business,
except to seek one who has been long lost to me.”

“You speak haughtily, sir,”—replied the General,—“have
you then no interest in being friends? Know you not that
you are at this moment in my power?”

“Friends!”—repeated the other, with sad emphasis—“I care
not for friends, since I cannot call back the lost:—I am alone
in this world—as to the rest, I defy even the power of Gen.
Pickens!”

“Ha!”—said the General,— “You know me then?” and
for a moment he cast his eyes in deep thought to the ground.
When he looked up, the mysterious stranger was gone.
This little incident dwelt on the mind of the American General.
His feelings had been strangely interested by the appearance
and language of the unknown; but he imagined that he
must have some evil design in lurking around the fort. Why
else should he be so mysterious? Perhaps he was a spy, sent
by some forageing party of British, who supposed that the
stores of the fort might become an easy prey. At this last
thought, General Pickens determined to place a stricter
guard, and immediately sent out a body of men to scour the
neighborhood; but they returned with the intelligence, that
not a single person had been found stirring within a mile of
the fort.

It was a custom with General Pickens to make a circuit of
the fortress every morning to look into it welfare, and 8(1)r 85
attend to its little wants and necessities; at such time he had
a smile and passing word for every one.

“How goes it, Andrew, this fine morning?”—he inquired
of an old man, whose silver locks still curled up from the
broad, fair forehead, which a serene temper and healthful exercise
had kept smooth and unwrinkled.

“Vera weel, yer honor”—said he— “Guid be praised for ’a
His mercies, and thanks to yer honor besides! Yer kind
heart has been a blessen to this country, an――”

“Well, Andrew”—interrupted the General, smiling at the
grateful garrulity of the old Scotchman—“no flatteries between
friends. It is the cause—the cause— the meanest soldier
that fights for liberty deserves the same praise.”

“Na, na! yer honor”—said the old man— “it’s na that ye
fight for liberty sae weel; but that ye pity the puir!”

“Every man should do the same”—said the General—“it is
bad enough fighting; but it must be worse starving. And
now that I think of it, Andrew”—he continued— “I would advise
a stricter watch over this place. I must go hence
to-morrow—my presence is required before Ninety-six—and
I can leave but a small garrison. You have only to keep
close, and be on the alert; there may be no harm meant, but I
saw a very suspicious looking man prying round these walls
last night, who answered me haughtily, and refused to
tell his business.”

“Lord bless yer honor, what kind o’ mon was he?”—
asked Andrew Morrison.

“He was tall, and good looking, as far as I could judge”—
said the General—“but his manner was proud and melancholy,
and he disappeared very suddenly; I sent out men immediately
on pursuit of him, but――”

8(1)v 86

“Heaven defend us!”— exclaimed the old man, in a low and
rapid enunciation—“belike it was Ralph cornet, or aiblins his
ghast.”

The General was not superstitious, but he seemed struck
with a new thought. “Cornet”—said he “What, that
Captain Cornet who tendered himself so famous among the
British? I thought he was killed or drowned in this neighborhood
some time ago.”

“It was believed sae, yer honor”—said Andrew— “but I
canna think sae. Why he was like a wild duke in the water,
because, yer honor, if he gaed never sae mony time to
the bottom, he aye come up alive and well. But if the puir
boy be dead, I ken weel his ghast be haunting this place,
for――”

“You say this Cornet is a comely persons”—said the General,
interrupting this speech, with an irrepressible smile at
the old man’s simplicity.

“A braw hansome lad, as yer honor ever saw;”—replied
the Scotchman, who was delighted at this opportunity of
speaking the praise of one for whom his heart overflowed with
love and pity;—“jist like a young poplar, fu’ sax feet high
and portly; there was na’ the lad in a’ the country sae strang,
sae bonnie, or sae kind, as the young Ralph. Wae’s the day
when the British blinded his young e’en wi’ a sword and
plume,——he has been soor and mornin’ like iver since; for he
had plighted his troth wi’ a sonsie young leddy here, an her
faither wha has bin sinking to the grund iver since the tories
—fuil fa’ them—brak his arm—winna hear o’ the match.”

“Who! the old Frenchman’s daughter; ah! I see it all
now!”—said the General, musingly.

8(2)r 87

“What is’t yer honor sees?”—inquired Andrew, respectfully.

“Why, Andrew, the man that I saw last night must have
been this same Cornet, from your description. I took him for
a spy; but it is likely that his ghost, as you will have it, was
seeking an interview with this young lady.”

“Like eneugh—like encugheneugh—,” said the old man, eagerly—
“the puir boy, dead or alive, wad rin a’ risks to catch a glint o’
her bonnie e’en.”

“I must look to it;”—said the General, as he walked on.
“An sae maun I”—said the Scotchman to himself —“if the
puir boy has escaped once mair, it maunna be said
that the bairn o’ my ould freind has na one freind in a’ this land.”

As the General passed on, he next entered a tent in which
was sitting a lady, yet in the bloom of life, whose vivacity of
manner betokened a spirit which no misfortune could conquer.
She was caressing a little boy of five or six ycarsyears,
whose brown, curling head lay on her lap, whilst at her feet a
little cherub girl was lying asleep. As the happy mother
looked up smiling from her babies, her radiant face afforded a
striking contrast to the thin, pale features of a young girl
who sat not far off, with her head leaning on her hand.

“Good morning, Madam”—said the General, pleasantly,
addressing himself to the elder lady—“your countenance is
truly agreeable in these gloomy times—it is always sunshine.”

“Why, General”—said she, with perfect ease and good
breeding—“thanks to your care, and that of the tories, I’ve
nothing left to cry for. My husband—God bless him!—is
fighting in the true cause; and if I had a dozen husbands, I
should wish them all so employed.”

8(2)v 88

“But, suppose they were all killed?”—said the General,
with a wondering smile.

“Then I should teach my little Willie, here, his duty to the
British;”—said she, twining her fingers in the long silken
curls of the pretty boy.

“Well”—replied the General— “with many such mothers as you, America would become another Sparta But can’t
you inspire my little friend here with some of your heroism;”

“Bless you, no!”—said the lady, with privileged sauciness
—“she is as mopish as an old owl in a hollow tree. There she
has been sitting for the last half hour, poring over a lock of
hair, which she found by the wall, very curiously wound—
into a love knot, I suppose—heaven knows how it came
there. But, General, I have been planning an excursion to
amuse these sentimental young ladies.”

“I should rather you would not go out;” —said the General.
—“There was a strange man prowling about here last
night, and ――”

As the General commenced speaking, he had fixed his eyes
with an expression of curiosity upon Annette Bruyésant, who
sat seemingly regardless of what was passing; but he stopt
short, alarmed at the deep emotions his words had excited in
her. The blood seemed to have forsaken her fair face, and
every blue vein was plainly marked in her closed eyelids as
she sank back in her seat with her arms clasped tightly together.
Her white lips moved unconsciously, and the words—
“It is he!—it is he!”—though murmured passionately, were
rather read than heard by the General, who was observing her
with a keen conviction of the truth of the matter. A frown
passed over his countenance, but it was quickly succeeded by 8(3)r 89 an expression of pity; and turning to the elder lady, he observed:
—“I shall be obliged to leave the fort to-morrow, and
I would advise you, ladies, to keep as close as possible during
my absence.” The lady he addressed would have demurred
at this, but the General asked to be admitted to the presence of
old Mr. Bruyésant, who was confined to an inner apartment
of the tent. What passed between them was never known.
General Pickens departed next morning, leaving orders with
the small garrison, which remained for its protection, that no
one should leave the fort except on business, and that no
stranger should be admitted. But who, by arbitrary measures,
ever forced a woman into a sense of her duty? Ere three
days had elapsed the gay Mrs. Cornet had rebelled against
the orders of the General.

“Come girls”---said she, one fine evening--- “let us play them
a trick! I’m sick to death of this dull place; and despite the
old General and his ghost story---what say you to a little fun?
Eh, Lina, what say you to a sail on the river now? Come, I
must give you a little fresh air, or a certain some one that shall
be nameless, will not know you when he returns from the war.”

“But how shall we escape?”---asked Selina Anderson,
looking listlessly from her sewing work.

“Oh ho! leave that to me;”---said the lively creature, with
a significant nod, as she tripped off towards the gate, where a
soldier stood, true to the orders he had received.

Annette and Selina were well acquainted with the mischievous
tricks of this lady; but whilst they stood now wondering
what she would devise to amuse the vigilance of the gatekeeper,
she had walked up, and was screaming in the ears of 8* 8(3)v 90
the man, with the tone of well-affected surprise—“Mr. Dobson,
are you deaf?”

“Madam!”—said the little man, staring at her in amazement.

“I say, are you deaf, that you stand here so unconcerned,
when your wife has been calling you for the last half hour?
Run, for pity’s sake”—continued she, with the deepest concern
—“I would not for the world be in your place—you know
Mrs. Dobson.”

“I did n’t hear it, Ma’am!”—said poor Mr. Dobson, who
first fidgeted a little uneasily, and then ran with all his speed to
a tent on the oppssiteopposite side of the enclosure—besides the tories,
there was nothing on earth the poor little man had so good reason
to fear as his wife.

The gate had been opened to admit a provision cart, which
now half-filled the entrance. “Quick, quick girls—follow
me;”—said the lady, who was almost dying with laughter at
the success of her scheme. In a moment more, they had all
glided through the opening unperceived; and the girls ran on
following their gay guide, until she threw herself on the grassy
banks of the river, in a perfect helplessness of mirth.

“Fie, Mrs. Cornet”—said Selina Anderson, gravely—
“how could you be so wicked?”

“Heavens! what a little fool you are Lina; you will never
do for a warrior’s wife!”—she replied.

Selina blushed, and turned away her head.

“Bless your heart, child, don’t you know ‘all tricks are
fair in love and war?’ But, then, poor Mr. Dobson!”—
she continued—“how he will fret and fume when he finds out
that he has been quizzed. But no matter; if the little man is 8(4)r 91
hen-pecked, sure its not my fault! And Willie, you are here
too—my little General?—” said she, on perceiving that the
child had followed them— “if you don’t mind, we will give you
a ducking, my boy.”

“You can’t do it!”—said the child, saucily.— “Pa learnt
me how to swim, and uncle Ralph used to throw me in the
water sometimes.”

“Hush, child”—said his mother, in a low voice, aside to
him—“didn’t I tell you not to talk of your uncle Ralph?”

“I don’t care”—replied the boy, with a grieved expression
of countenance—“Annette Bruyésant says I may talk of
him!”

Annette turned deprecatingly, and took the lovely child in
her arms, as if to hash him; but in spite of her efforts, the silent
tears trickled down on his young head, to which her
cheek was pressed.

With all her vivacity, Mrs. Cornet had too much real feeling
not to understand and appreciate that emotion that it was
her nature to banish care, and now springing up from the
bank, on which she had been seated, she ordered the girls into
a canoe that was lying there, and springing in herself after
them, pushed it off into the stream.

A wild and frolicsome creature was that Mrs. Cornet. She
cared not at what expense she followed the bent of her fancy;
and all difficulties were but trifles before the vigorous impulses
of her lively and independent spirit. As she sat in
the stern of that little vessel, and propelled its light motion by
a scarcely visible effort, with those two beautiful maidens at
her feet, and the little cherub boy leaning over the vessel’s
side, she might have passed for Ampthitrite in her ocean 8(4)v 92
shelf. On, on they flew, and her clear, musical laugh rang
over the waters like the touch of some fine instrument, redoubled
and reflected in mocking silvery tones from those
fancied water nymphs—the invisible echoes. At length, the
light back moored itself on the point of a rock in the middle
of the stream. In a moment more the delighted Mrs. Cornet
had gained the flat summit of the rock, and gaily invited her
less ardent companions to follow.

It was indeed a beautiful position, and well worthy of an
evening’s frolic. For many miles above, the broad bosom of
the river swelled on the eye, until it swept down, and divided
its chrystal waters against the rocky base of the island. Not
a speck or stain marred the bright reflection of the pure
spring-time sky. The blessed sun only was there, “careering
in its fields of light,” and throwing its myriads of diamond
sparkles on the rippling water.

The blue rocks which covered nearly one half the extent of
the island, and dotted the steam on each side, were strewed
with mosses, and the lovely flowers of a thousand little twining,
fibrous roots; whilst behind them rose a thicket of all
that is sweet and fair in the American forest. There were
the lovely jessamincsjessamines, and wcodbineswoodbines in clustering garlands
over every tree and bush. The queenly flowers of the rose
laurel sitting so proudly on their emeralemerald stems, the bcautifulbeautiful
white acacia, and the long feathery pendants of the gray ash,
with the sweet wild honeysuckle in its delicious freshness
were there; forming a wilderness such as Eden must have
been in its first creation.

Mrs. Cornet felt all the wild delight of a native child of
the forest newly enfranchised; and even her young companions 8(5)r 93
forgot the subject of their grief for a time. That heart
must be indeed cold and callous, in which the freshness and
beauty of nature cannot awaken a corresponding home of
gladness. With smiles half of pleasure, and half of wonder,
Annette and Selina watched the motions of their sportive
guide, as she leaped like a chamois over the rocks, now bending
from a high point over the glassy stream, and again leaning
most perilously from a bough to gather flowers. After a
time, she stole away unperceived, and when they looked, on
hearing her gay voice, they beheld her apparently clinging
to a rich garland of jessamine, which hung from the branches
of a large oak, far in the midst of the island. The girls
screamed involuntarily with surprise. How had she got
there, unless she had the wings of a fairy?

The island was to all appearance perfectly unfrequented.
Not a pathway, not a broken bush, not even a footstep marked
the place, where any living thing had penetrated. The luxuriant
canes filled up the interstices of the giant trees, and
flowering shrubs, rendering it all dark and inaccessible. But
where she stood, with the flowers clustering around her face,
which, flushed with exercise, and brilliant with excitement,
looked the fairest flower there.

ThcThe mystery was soon explained. The trunk of a very
large tree had fallen across another, supporting its farthest end
on the edge of the rock, and thus forcing a kind of natural
bridge over the tangled maze below. The young ladies proceeded
along it, to where Mrs. Cornet stood at its cxtremityextremity,
but scarcely had Annette—who was foremost—reached her,
than she turned deadly pale, and her eyes seemed riveted in
the glassy gaze of horror, on some object before her. She 8(5)v 94
would have fallen to the ground, if Mrs. Cornet had not
caught her and supported her against the tree by which she
was leaning:—

“Lord have mercy on us!”—she exclaimed— “What is the
matter with the child?”

Selina Anderson, who was too much terrified to discover
the cause of Annette’s alarm, began to weep with affright;
but the little boy, seizing his mother by the dress, exclaimed
with delighted eagerness:—“La ma! here’s Rover!—ma, do
look at Rover!”

Following the direction of the child’s eyes, they saw a
large black horse rising slowly from the ground. The canes
and shrubs for a small space around him had been trodden
down, and the ground was pawed into holes in many places.
How he came there, was a mystery, for there were no marks of
ingress or egress; but a trough was fastened to a tree, where
it was evident he had been fed for some time.

“Gracious heavens! can it indeed be Rover? What then
has become of poor Ralph;—or maybe he is about here,”—
said Mrs. Cornet looking round a little wildly.

At the mention of that name, so fraught with terrible remembrances,
an undefined awe seized the minds of the adventurous
females. They clung closer together, seeming for the
first time to feel alone in that unfrequented place.

“Let us go from here,”—whispered Annette faintly; but
before they turned to depart, Mrs. Cornet, to assure herself
that it was indeed the horse of her husband’s ill-fated brother,
called him by name, and the animal, familiar to the sound of
her voice, walked up to her and evinced his recognition of
her by many mute, but intelligible signs of joy.

8(6)r 95

A musing spirit seemed to have seized Mrs. Cornet. She
left her store of gathered flowers to wither on the rock, and
resumed her station in the canoe in silcncesilence. At length she
said almost unconsciously:—“If Ralph Cornet is about here,
we shall soon see him:—but then,”—she continued,—“the
horse seems to have been a long time in the island.” For
the first time in her life, she appeared to be puzzled, and she
said no more.

A sigh from Annette was the only answer she received.
That speech had aroused the poor girl from similar thoughts.
They returned in perfect silence to the fort, for Selina Anderson
had not sufficiently recovered from her fright to be
conversible, and the little boy had cried himself to sleep on
his mother’s lap, at the thought of leaving his favorite, Rover,
behind

Mr. Dobson, the much abused gate keeper, whose goodness
merited better treatment than he rcceivedreceived, admitted them with
perfect good humor; for he had learnt a vcryvery lcssonlesson of
forced submission to a woman. But the little man resolved
in his inmost heart to be fast enough for them next time.

Chapter VII.

It had become a settled conviction on the mind of Annette,
that Ralph Cornet was still living. In the lock of hair found
within the wall, she recognized some of her own, which had
once been to his possession and this cireumstancecircumstance, connected
with the words which General Pickens had spoken in her
presence, confirmed in her the suspicion, that Ralph had employed
this, as a certain and plain telegraph to her heart.
The discovery of his horse awakened her to the keenest
and most distressing suspcnscsuspense. The reflection, that he was
in the ncighborhoodneighborhood, and obliged to conceal himself in the
midst of dangers, was rendered still bitterer by the thought
that he had not a single being on whom to rely for comfort;
for his father had been killed by the tories long since. In this
desolate situation, she too had apparently deserted him; and
the affectionate girl fcltfelt that is would be some consolation, if
she could only scesee him and assure him of the violence her
coldness had done to her feclingsfeelings. But aftcrafter that wild sally
from the fort, the garrison was proof against the stratagems 9 9(1)v 98
or entreaties of the ladies, and Annette despaired of seeing
the object of her solicitude.

Fate was, however, accomplishing her wishes, by the
severest test of her affections. In a few weeks, a funeral
procession emerged from the fort; and Annette followed as
chief mourner that humble coffin. Her father had never
recovered from his first attack—besides the wound in his
arm, he had received an injury in the chest, which brought on
a pulmonary affection, and he declined gradually, so gradually
that no alarm was conveyed to the heart of Annette, until
near the last moments.

Nearly the whole fortress followed the remains of Pierre
Bruyésant—that humble, but devout supporter of truth
and liberty— to the grave. He was buried according to his own
request, under an elm tree near his cottage. The last sod
was replaced over the spot where the grassy turf had been
disturbed, and the possession moved back to the fort; but Annette
could not be torn away.

“Leave me for a moment alone with him”—she begged;
and there were none hard hearted enough to refuse that sacred
request. When they had all gone, Annette threw herself
on the newly made grave, in that agony of a young spirit,
when first it feels lone and desolate. In all the world she
knew not of one being who shared the blood of her veins,
― “None that with kindred consciousness endued, If she were not, would seem to smile the less.”
and she sobbed aloud the endearing name of father, in the
despairing accents of the shipwrecked mariner, who sees his
last hope,—the shattered plank on which he had born himself,
sink down beneath the wave. How long she remained 9(2)r 99
thus, insensible to all but the weight of her afflictions, she
knew not, nor was she aware that the child of Mrs. Cornet
had lingered with a kindly instinct near her, until he clung to
her screaming with affright.

Aroused by the cries of the child, AnnctteAnnette raised herself,
and as she looked up, she saw the object of his alarm in a man
who was standing within three feet of them. It was Ralph
Cornet; but so pale, so wan, so different from his former self,
that it was no wonder the little boy did not recognize him.
He was dressed plainly in a suit of dark-cloth, which rendered
almost ghostly the expression of the pale, sad, countenance;
and a frightful scar extended over his left eyebrow.

The surprise—the shock of his appearance was too much
for the weakened nerves of the poor girl; and she would have
fallen again to the ground, if she had not been caught in the
arms of her lover.

How wildly did he call upon her to look upon him once
more! And how passionately did he kiss the pale face
which hung like a drooping flower on his arm! But the
warm blood soon flowed back in fitful gushes to her cheek,
and her eycseyes opcnedopened upon him; but shcshe did not this time,
withdraw herself from his embrace. Her mind was impaired
by grief, and long suffering —she had no more the powcrpower of
resistance; and besidcsbesides, in the heart-weary loneliness of her
situation, she felt that the breast on which she leaned was the
only link that bound her to the dear memories of the past.
Who so well could sympathize with her in her joy’s decline
as he, who by the sweet enchantment of his presence, had
given them their gladness?

But, while Annette, with woman’s natural faithfulness to 9(2)v 100
her hallowed memories, fondly rcflectedreflected upon the past,
Ralph Cornet thought only of the future――and, as he recounted
to her the series of misfortunes which had befallen
him; while her head rested quietly on his shoulder, he felt
“the rapture which kindles out of wo.”

The tones of his voice were like a delicious strain of music
to Annette—music long and well remembered. It is true
they had lost the lingering joyousness of other and better
days; but they had now the subdued and yearning tenderness
which sorrow wrings from the heart. Strange it is, that
its pure worth is never known until tried in the fire of affliction!
The gay know not the wealth of their affections; or
the touching softness —the fervor—the fidelity which spring
up from the bruised heart――for passion is the rebel offspring
of disappointment.

“And now, my darling Annie—” continued Ralph Cornet,
in a voice which came “o’er her ear like the sweet south
which breathes upon a bank of violets”;—“we are alone in
this world—why should we be separated more? It is true as
you foretold—I am a dishonored man, feared and despised by
my countrymen— yet, for all that, I care not since you do not
hate me! It has bcenbeen the consequence of my early errors;
and I am not a man to weep idly over what is past. But, my
own love, though there is no longer a place of peace and
safety for us here, we need not despair. In the distant regions
of the far West, I have heard them say, there are lands
richer far than this; and spots more beautiful—where the Indian
lives all the year round without toil or trouble, with his
feathery bow, and his lowing herds—there, by some pretty 9(3)r 101
stream, we will build a little cottage, which shall remind us
of this—and there we will be all the world to each other.”

Annette wept on in silence; her griefs were too fresh and
strong, and disappointment had weighed too heavily on her
mind, for her to be able yet to realise the bright creations of
this day-dream. Ralph, who in the elastic buoyancy which
Love had imparted to his mind, felt the springing hopes which
he so vividly pictured, seemed hurt that she did not participate
in them.

“You do not speak Annette— you do not say that you
will go with me;”—said he mournfully.—“Surely, I have not
deceived myself in the dear hope, that when the world grew
dark around me, and every face was averted from me, that
there would be one heart unchanged—one smile, which shining
as a beacon of hope, would lead me back to the peace and
happiness I had lost.”

Annette raised her head, and looked up in his face. The
flush, which excitement had brought into his cheeks, was fading
away before the deeply mournful expression of his
thoughts; and she felt pained at the memory of all her coldness
must have wrought upon his sensitive soul.

“Ralph Cornet, you have sworn never more to take up
arms against your country?”—she asked eagerly.

“Never, my love, so help me God!—except in my own
defence;”—he replied.

“Then”――said she――“here, on this sacred altar, I renew my
former vow, to be unto you what I have ever been――true in
heart; to leave all, yes, even this precious spot of earth, to
follow ――”

Sobs choked her utterance, and as the young man knelt, 9* 9(3)v 102
and folded his arms around her, tears came into his own eyes
—tears of sublime emotion.

“It is enough”—he whispered—“my own love; you are
what I have always thought you, the truest, and best of womankind.
It is true, I once feared that you had permitted
those around you to estrange your affections from me; but
forgive me, love—I suffered enough for that thought.”

Ralph went on again to picture the bright hopes which he
had imagined of an elysium in another land, where malice and
treachery could not reach them; and where, without any
law but nature, or other guide than love, they should enjoy
the case and happiness of the primitive inhabitants of earth.

“Why should we wait any longer”—said he—“we have nothing
left to blind us to this spot?”

“I, too, have thought of that, my love,”—said he smiling
fondly.――“I saw Andrew Morrison this morning, who informed
me that hche would be here on this mournful occasion.
Something whispered me, that you would be true, and the
plan which I have just revealed to you, of leaving the country
then occured to me. There is in the fort with you a French
minister—a good and kind man—who for the love he bore
your father, might be prevailed on to do us this service. I
will engage Andrew to bring him here—even to-morrow
night if you――”

“What, so soon, Ralph? And my poor fathcrfather just buried
to-day!”—And Annette burst into a fresh passion of tears.

“My beloved Annie, do not grieve so—you shall have it as 9(4)r 103
you please. But I am becoming very cowardly since you have
rendered life so dear to me—and there is no safety for me
here.”

“Well, Ralph—well” said Annette, resignedly—“but I
must return to the fort—and how shall I escape again?”

“Why return, my love? I can place you in safety until
to-morrow—and then I shall bid them defiance for ever.”

“No, no!”—said Annette, who was becoming alarmed for
his safety—“that must not be. My absence from the fort
would excite suspicion—they would search for us; and then
all would be lost.”

“Do not fear, Annette”—said Ralph, smiling at her earnestness
—“no power on earth shall tear you from me now
but return to the fort, as you have prudently suggested. Andrew
Morrison is my friend—you may depend upon him—
and I Will be ready with a rope-ladder on the western side of
the fort—to receive you. Here, where we have enjoyed so
many years of happiness, we will be wedded; and then we
will bid farewell for ever to all that can remind us of sorrow.”

The little boy, who was alarmed at the first sight of Ralph,
had been sitting at their feet, listening with perplexed
interest to this conversation; but by this time he seemed to
recognise him, and clasping him by the knees, he said—
“And I will go, too! May I not go uncle Ralph?”

Ralph had left him hitherto unnoticed, but he now sat him
on his knee, and caressed him fondly. “No, Willie, no!”—
said he—“you must stay to take care of your mother.”

The child was not insensible to these caresses; and he
threw his arms around his uncle’s neck, as he was wont to 9(4)v 104
do: “Where have you been gone so long, uncle Ralph?
Annie Bruyesant has cried so much for you;”—said he, in
infantile simplicity.

“But Annie Bruyesant will cry no more now;”—said
Ralph, with a smile, whilst putting aside the curls, to kiss the
brow of his little relative.

Willie made no reply—his attention seemed to be fixed on
something opposite to him. They were very near the deserted
cottage, which, since it had been rifled by the tories, stood
with its doors open, or broken down. “Look, uncle Ralph,
look!”—said he.—“Yonder is a man peeping through the
door.”

Ralph looked up hastily: “Oh, no, Willie! you are mistaken;”
—said he.

But the child would not be satisfied until his uncle went
with him, to search the house. There was no one visible.
Annette, however, had become alarmed; and after a few more
whispered words, she took the hand of the little boy, and returned,
with trembling steps, to the fort. Ralph Cornet
waited until the last glimpse of her form was hid from his
sight, by the thick trees, and then he turned away also.

Chapter VIII.

In the mean time the British officer had been fulfilling a
wild and bitter destiny. When, on that eventful morning he
fled before his pursuers to the river, he found that he had
but one resource. The pursuers were close at hand, and he
could not have reached the other bank in safety, if even his
wound had not incapacitated him for swimming. But from a
boy, he had acquired great proficiency in the sport of diving;
and was noted for the length of time he could remain under
water— Ralph now turned this talent to good account. With
his handkerchief he first bound tightly the orifice, where a
bullet had entered his thigh, and jumping into the water, he
contrived by swimming and diving to reach a place where its
transparency would least betray him, and whose body of
leaves had drifted up against an old log which extended far
into the river where he concealed himself with just enough
of his face above the water to ensure respiration through the
friendly covering of lcavesleaves. When his enemies reached the
bank, he heard the curses of disappointment, the dreadful
imprecations uttered against him; but deeper than the bitterness 9(5)v 106
of all this, was the sickening feeling of contempt with
which he discovered the treachery of Hugh Bates. “And
it is with such men that I am classed!”—he said to himself
as he lay all day under that close watch. Nature was nearly
exhausted; but Ralph Cornet would sooncrsooner have given him
self as food to the fishes, than to have become the prize of
those desperate men. But when the electric water conveyed
to him the last echo of their retrcatingretreating footsteps, he raised
himself, and looked around.

The moon was rising high on a sky of that soft exquisite
blue, which belongs purely to the American autumn; and as
its bright rays fell upon the river, seemingly setting the liquid
elemcntelement on fire with a flood of silver light, it appeared as
though a new heaven and earth were created within that immense
reflection. The bright yellow and red tints of the autumnal
trees, mingling with the fadeless hues of the majestic
evergreens on the western bank, lay mirrored there in a
dreamlike repose, which the stillness of night and deeply contrasting
shades around rendered almost fearful. Ralph gazed
a few moments; but in these few moments what years of
agonised thought were comprised! Not that he had never
viewed that scene before. He had looked upon nature in all her
varied and bcautifulbeautiful forms, and held communion from his infancy,
with river, rock, and hill. He was nature’s foster
child. From her whispered teachings he had gleaned all the
knowledge he possessed, and in the days of his innocence he
had loved her voiccvoice; but now, from the depths of that awful
volume, a tone went to his heart, which, for the first time,
awakened remorse. He felt that he was not what he had
been—that he never could be that free, that happy, that joyous
thing again.

9(6)r 107

As a sense of his utter wretchedness, of his degradation
came over him, the illusions whiehwhich youthful
imagination faded away, and revealed to him the meagre
skeleton he had embraeedembraced. Hunted like a wild beast ’oy the
best part of his eountrymencountrymen—betrayed by the other, with
whom his spirit seemed to mingle—and she, even she had deserted
him.

Oppressed by all these thoughts, faint from loss of blood,
and benumbed with the cold, Ralph Cornet sank on the
ground. This man of pride, and strength, and daring, now
that there was nothing left to live for, resolved to die there
alone, and in darkness. Cold shivering fits came over him,
succeeded by a feeling of suffocating heat, which brought the
cold perspiration to his brow, and soon he would have been in
a raging fever; but that guardian angel, whiehwhich guides the
children of mercy through storm and darkness, whispered
word of hope which drew the wretched man from the verge
of despair. “There is yet one being left to pity me,”—said
he—“I will arise and go to my father; I have wronged him;
but he will pardon me.”

He arose, and followed the thickety bank for some miles,
insensible alike to pain, fear, or danger; but the cool air, and
exereiseexercise moderated the excitement of his blood; and his
senses gradually became clearer. He had arrived within a
mile of his home, when he heard the splashing of oars in
the water. Every stroke of the paddles became fainter and
fainter, and he stooped down to the bank just in time to observe
a patty of four or five men landing on the Georgia
side, form the kind of eanoecanoe then eommonlycommonly in use.

“What eancan those roseallyrascally Doolys have been after,”— 9(6)v 108
thought he—“they are no friends to our family!”—and
Ralph’s step quickened involuntarily as he thought of his
father’s lonclylonely and unprotected situation.

His worst fears were confirmed; for the first sight which
greeted him was a column of black smoke streaked with fitful
gushes of red flame arising from his native dwelling. He
gave not one glance to the ruin around him, but rushed into
the house calling loudly on the name of his father. His
voice was lost in the loud roaring of the devouring element;
but by the horrid glare which overspread the room, he recognized
a bed in one corner, from which hung the body of a
human being, as if it had fallen in the attempt to escape.
Ralph Cornet staid not to assure himself that it was his
father,—he staggered forward, and seizing the body, bore it
from the devouring flames. He laid it upon the grass in the
bright moonlight, and threw himself upon it in bitter anguish;
but scarcely had he done so, when he started up suddenly, exclaiming:
—“Oh God! hche lives!”—and placing the head upon
his knee, he put back the silvery hair from the high pale brow.
The blood began to stream afresh from a wound in the shoulder,
the fresh air revived him, and Ralph observed that a
bullet had passed quite through it causing a great effusion of
blood, which, independent of the suffocating effects of the
burning house, would have occasioned a swoon. The young
man shuddered at the thought, that but a few minutes later,
and he would have seen only the ashes of his father’s funeral
pyre. But as he reflected that a good angel had guided
him there for the purpose of saving his father’s life, he felt
that hche was not quite a wretch. With something of joyful
alacrity, he bound up the wound; and seeing his father’s lips 10(1)r 109
move in the pain which the action occasioned, Ralph bent
his ear close to catch the sound:—

“Begone,”—said the old man faintly,—“let me die in
peace.”

“Father,”—said Ralph, fondly,—“you may yet live.”

The father’s eyes opened:—“James, is it you, my son?”
he asked.

“No, father; it is your poor Ralph.”

The red glow of the flames threw a vivid light upon that
spot; and the old man looked up long, and earnestly on the
pale countenance which was bending over him—his own was
not more ghastly. As if slowly recollecting something painful,
his brow gathered into a dark frown, and he made an
impatient gesture with his hand—

“Go, go”—said he,—“I cannot bear you.”

“Father,”—said Ralph in an agony of imploring tenderness
—“surely you do not hate me too?”

“Yes, I hate you;”—replied he in a hollow and shivering
tone of wrath—“I hate you as much as I ever loved you before.
You were my darling,—my youngest born, the last
gift of your mother, who is above. In all this country there
was none like you. I saw in you the glory of my own youth
revived, and I prided in you; but you have disgraced,—you
have humbled me. You are the first traitor of my blood!”—
and exhausted by this torrent of passion, the old man sunk
back, with his head on the grass, gnashing his teeth in
anguish.

“Take back the word,—take back the word,”—said Ralph
sullenly—“I have betrayed no trust!”

“Boy!”—said the old man, raising himself with a violent 10 10(1)v 110
gesture, and pointing with one hand to the house, the timbers
of which had just fallen in with a loud crash, and sent up a
strong lurid flame to the sky—“Boy! behold your work!
Freedom, Freedom, was your trust; and behold one of her
many pillars, fallen through your means. You first neglected,
and then raised your arm against her—call you not that
treason?”

“Oh God!”—said Ralph,—“must I bear all this?”

The last drop of his cup was full—his heart was humbled
as a child’s, and he burst into tears.

The proud father turned suddcnlysuddenly to him, as if doubtful of
what he heard; and, as he regarded him a few moments, the
ferocity, which gleamed in his eyes, subsided into a calm and
concentrated gaze of contempt; the strong, impulsive bitterness
of which convulsed his features with a ghastly and unconscious
smile.

“Miserable boy!”—said he—“what has become of the
strength of your glorious ‘patriotism?’ Traitors at least
should never weep; they should have that one virtue—the
power to bear. Go—you are not of my blood; I disown
you.”

“Father”—said Ralph, fiercely—“cease your reproaches—
whatever may have been my early errors, I have wept them
in tears of blood.”

“Then, why not redeem them, boy?”

“And act a double treason!”—said Ralph.—“No! I will
die in the faith I have sworn.”

“Then leave me”—said the old man—“leave me for ever!”

“Not ’till I have placed you in safety, father!”――said
Ralph, mournfully.――“The tories will return to see if their
work prospers, and they must not find you here?”

10(2)r 111

“And it is you who would protect me against the tories?”
――said the father, sneeringly.

Ralphy bit his lips until the blood gushed from them; but
without trusting himself to reply, he seized the feeble frame of
the old man in his arms, and tottered with it to the brink of
the river. A canoe was quietly playing there in an eddy of
the stream—Ralph’s own canoe, the barque of his boyish sallies!
Somehow amid all the changes that had passed, it had
been spared; perhaps, like modest worth, it could flatter no
passion, scrveserve no interest. Just as he had left it, it remained
――locked to a willow. The key was lost, but Ralph wrenched
away the pin, and placed his father in it; and having given
one last look to the painful scene behind him, where the
fiery streaks were fading away on the horizon, he breathed a
bitter curse on those who had wrought this destruction of
household wealth――this utter desolation; and then guided his
little canoe swiftly and noiselessly down the stream. He remembered
a hanging rock, beneath which he had once taken
shelter from a storm, on the river. It was a retired place, completely
hid by the rising ground and trees, and only accessible
by means of a lagoon which backed up from the river. The
eye of mortal man seldom visited the spot; indeed, it was so
entirely hemmed in by the swampy verdure of the two hills
which enclosed it; and was, besides, so dark and gloomy that
it offered but little to tempt the curiosity or daring of the
boldest. But where was it Ralph Cornet had not penetrated?
There was not a single creek, or inlet, for many miles along
that river, which he had not explored in his indulged, and adventurous
childhood; and every dell and cave had opened its
secrete treasures to his eye――for, as the heir of an independent 10(2)v 112
estate, his aristocratic father had fostered in him the bold and
daring spirit which led him to rove unshackled through nature’s
wide domain, and perfect himself in all the hardy
branches of her science, rather than submit to the dull trainings
of domestic labor. This the father had never regretted
until now; for though his proud boy had the strongest arm,
and the lightest and merriest heart in the whole conntrycountry,
there were none more passionately fond, more considerately
kind. Even his wild ungoverned passions had a tone so generous
and elevated, that every one predicted that young Cornet
would be a blessing to his country. His father listened;
and wound him still more closely around his heart. When
the time came that his eldest son volunteered for the service of
the state, though he saw the fire of ardor burning in Ralph’s
eye, he could not resolve to give him up. How different
would have been his course if he could have foreseen that in
so short a time, the self-governed spirit of youth would betray
the imperfections of his judgment to his ruin?

Now he was “fallen――fallen――fallen from his high estate;”
and the deeps of that father’s immeasurable love were stirred
into anguish, not unmingled with remorse; but the pride
which had so qualified that affection, now in its mortified bitterness,
deceived the old man into the belief that he really felt
the hatred he expressed for his son. Yet in that moment,
Ralph Cornet would have died to save his father! He understood
by nature’s sympathy, how the strength of his love
betrayed itself in the violence of his hatred; and, as an atonement
for its justice, which he felt, he resolved to devote himself,
with humble and filial duty, to his protection. Ralph
well knew the unsleeping vigilance—the untiring, wolf-like ferocity 10(3)r 113
of his father’s enemies. He hardly thought of his own
perilous situation; but he conducted his light canoe, freighted
with the almost insensible body of his father, to the wild spot
before mentioned, as the only place of refuge for them both.

The moon was sinking behind the western bank of the
river; but it threw its last ray obliquely into that gloomy retreat
and, by its light, Ralph gathered a couch of dried leaves
under the rock, and laid his father upon it. He also took off
his coat—that coat lately so fine with the trappings and badges
of his relations with the royalists, but now tarnished sadly by
the day’s misfortunes—and formed a pillow for the haughty
republican’s head.

For many days and nights Ralph watched him there, in secret
—and his tender assiduities, his untiring patience through
the reproaches and fretfulness of sickness and anger, at
length won nature back to his father’s heart.

“Bless you, bless you, my boy!”—said he, one morning,
when Ralph having returned with fresh water, and dressed
his wound, placed some food before him—“Surely, such a
kind heart as your’s must be brave and noble, however it may
have been duped. But, how pale you look, my son—I fear
confinement in this horrid place will kill you; better you had
left me to be burnt alive, for those rascals will have me at last.
They can never rest since that unfortunate shot with which I
killed their brother, as he was carrying off my English mare
—the thieving dog! he was paid for it!”

“No, father!”—said Ralph—“you are safe here, for a time,
I trust. No one but old Juba knows of our existence—and
he is not likely to betray us. We can remain here until these
troublesome times are over, for sure as there is a God above, 10* 10(3)v 114
our wretched country will rise sometime from under the rule
of the wicked.”

“That’s spoken like my son;”—said the old man, with a
fond, and almost cheerful accent.

That day, contrary to his usual custom—for he only ventured
out in the darkest hour of night—Ralph wound his canoe
for some distance up the steep and narrow gorge of the
lagoon until he found a place where he might land. As he
clambered up the bank, a branch of the tree, to which he
had clung, broke off, and fell into the stream; but he heeded
not the circumstance, and having gained the summit, he took
a circuitous route across the woods to the hut of the old African,
from whom he had hitherto received the supplies which
sustained his father and himself in their exile. This old negro
had long been supported by his father, for the good he had
done; and though he now lived to himself, and was actually
free, he gloried in the relation of master and servant, and still
retained the warm affection for his master’s family, which time
had strengthened into a habit on his faithful nature. He
would sooner have been flayed alive than have betrayed
them; and cheerfully shared with them the daily pittance
which he either earned or begged, for he had saved but little
from his master’s stores. It was a lonely, long, and unfrequented
way, which Ralph had to traverse, and the sun was
setting at evening, when he again entered his canoe. As the
little vessel heaved up and settled its point upon the sand,
Ralph was alarmed by the sight of many footsteps, and marks
of violence; and rushing into the cave, he fell on his knees
before the horrid spectacle of his father’s bloody and mangled
corpse. Wildly he raised the head, to assure himself that life 10(4)r 115
was indeed gone—and that he was all alone. Then his brain
seemed to whirl round, and he held his brow with a maddening
clasp until tears came to his relief.

During the night he scooped a shallow grave under the
rock, where without other shroud than his tattered garments,
he laid the violated remains of his deeply-loved parent. The
tears, which he had at first shed, relieved the weight on his
heart; for they were lightened by the reflection that he had
soothed the sufferings of that parent, and that his last words
had been a blessing. Perhaps, too, he consoled himself, that
those eyes were closed on a world where they would have
seen only sorrow. But that awful burial of the murdered;
there, alone, and in darkness, was an outrage too shocking
to the feelings of a son, and as he proceeded in the bitter task,
the tears became congealed on his eyelids, and a stern rancour
froze over the latent softness of his heart. He went
forth from that cave, harsh and unpitying as a savage—vowing
to match the blood of a Dooly with that so freely shed.
The old man had spoken truly, from an intimate knowledge
of the character of those fierce men. They could not rest
whilst they thought their brother’s blood cried to them from
the ground; and when they had shot his destroyer in his bed,
and set fire to his house over his head—after having secured
to themselves every thing valuable, they believed their revenge
consummated. It was generally supposed that old
Cornet had perished thus, and they had no suspicion of the
fact of his escape, until, as they were passing down the river
the fated morning of Ralph’s absence, a green branch floating
on the mouth of the lagoon excited their curiosity so far
as to lead them to investigate the mystery. As the man who 10(4)v 116
believed he had killed some poisonous reptile, and seeing it
again move its fangs, springs upon it, and ends not until he
has crushed it from the form of nature, thus they sprung upon
that weak old man, and mangled him with wanton
and beastly cruelty. But, as if in confirmation of the truth,
that “murder will out,” they left, by mistake, a gun behind
them, which they had stolen from his father; and by
this means Ralph, if he had doubted before, would have been
enabled to identify the murderers.

They would, doubtless, return soon to look for it; at least
Ralph judged so, and he lingered there with the hope that
they would come; that he might on that spot satisfy the
manes of his father. But, towards daylight, he grew impatient,
and left the cave. A new and fierce ambition had
seized him—it was the desire of drowning his sorrows in the
noise of battle—of revenging on his kind some of the misery
which maddened him. He had now no ties for good or evil;
but he remembered the friendship of FurgusonFerguson, who had not
appeared ungrateful for the assistance he had rendered him;
and hche resolved, if possible, to join him in his operations, as
he originally intended, and resume command of a company
which he had undesignedly relinquished.

It was, as I have said, near daylight when Ralph Cornet,
without scrip or staff, except the gun which had been left by
the rock, boldly began his journey.

He took no secret turns, no winding ways, to avoid detection;
for his heart was filled with a strange longing, a thirst
for human blood; and he watched eagerly for his enemies,
but no creature crossed his path. It happened, however, that
his route lay near the old African’s dwelling; and as he was 10(5)r 117
passing within half a mile of it, his attention was aroused by
screams, or rather sounds which appeared to be the involuntary,
and irrepressible outpourings of agony. His heart
smote him with having forgotten that humble friend, and he
quickened his stcpssteps in that direction. As he approached, the
sound of a lash was distinctly heard, and occasionally laughter
and curses contrasted mockingly with the scream which
attended each stroke.

Ralph stopped by a tree outside the little enclosure of corn
and potatoes, which surrounded the hut, whence he had a
plain view of the scene, which made his blood to boil once
more. There was his faithful Juba, hanging by the arms
from a log which extended from a corner of the hut, and a
man was still inflicting the punishment of the whip, accompanying
every stripe by an injunction and threat about something
which the old negro refused to reveal; the nature of
which Ralph could not at first determine. Two other men
stood by with drawn swords, laughing fiendishly at the manner
in which the negro winced from the cruel torture of their
companion; but every now and then, enraged at his stubborn
silence, they ran up and thrust the points of their swords
into his flesh, or seized him by the short kinks of grey hair,
threatening to flay him alive, if he did not tell them where
Ralph Cornet was, at that moment. The blood of the African
streamed over his ebon skin; but no expostulation or entreaty
escaped him. His white eyes rolled disdainfully upon
them, and his thick lips were closed in perfect silence—he refused
to utter a single word.

Ralph heard all that passed, and unable to contain himself
any longer, he examined the priming of the riflcrifle, and resting 10(5)v 118
it slowly and steadily against the tree, he took deliberate aim
at the man who had the lash, for as he had once turned round
and discovered his face, the dark joy of revenge rose in the
breast of Ralph. With the report of the gun, the man sprang
at least three feet into the air, and fell, like a lump of lead,
without a groan. His eompanionscompanions, so taken by surprise,
jumped over the fence, and fled—as if a legion had been at
their heels.

Ralph staid only to release the negro, and whispered
“farewell.” The morning sun rose on him, many miles
distant.

It was the third day of his travel, that somewhat exhausted
with so many miles journeying on foot, and almost without
food or sleep, he sat down to rest, by a little mountain stream,
near thcthe border of North Carolina. He knew not what to
think; for the last night and day he had met parties of men,
somcsome of whom seemed to be flying either on horse or foot, and
others pursuing. Neither party had any marks by which he
could distinguish friend or foe; for, knowing that the soiled
British uniform, which he still worcwore, would render him liable
to suspicion, he kept at a distance; but he judged that some
army had been routed, and he feared much for Ferguson,
from whom he had as yet received no information.

As he sat, with his arms folded on his breast, rcvolvingrevolving these
thoughts, a man approached him on foot, who appeared also
to be a traveller. He stood, for some time, regarding Ralph,
with an expression of much curiosity, who, when he had
lifted up his head, testified no less surprise and emotion in discovering
him to have been once a member of his own eompanycompany
of militia. The fugitive soldier sat down there, and told the 10(6)r 119
story to his newly-arisen Captain, of their conflicts with the
mountaineers—of the death of the valiant Ferguson—and of
the total rout, and capture of his army. Ralph listened in silence
to this relation, which brought annihilation to his
hopes, and destruction to his day-dream of glory; but when
the man went on to state that Ferguson, on report of his
death, had given his horse to the new Captain, who headed
his company, and that this man, together with the horse, were
now, with a part of the other prisoners, remaining not far off,
Ralph started to his feet, and shouted as if that cry had
sounded in the ears of an army, instead of the lone woods:—
“To the rescue!—to the rescue!”

The soldier, who had a brother among the prisoners,
eagerly entered into the bold design of Ralph, which was to
rally the flying royalists—of whom he felt assured there were
yet many wandering on the mountains—and endeavor to recover
the prisoners, by surprise.

The attempt succeded beyond his expectation; for he soon
found himself at the head of twenty or thirty men—wild desperate,
daring tories, who, knowing that their lives were already
staked on the no longer doubtful contest with their
countrymen, threw themselves recklessly into the adventure.

Under the limb of a large tree, near to what appeared
to be an American encampment, a rude scaffolding was
erected, around which were bustling many men in lively preparation
for some uncommon event. All seemed to be ready
for moving, when this should have been completed. There
were no signs of tents or baggage wagons; but arms and
knapsacks lay about in heaps, and several fires were yet
smoking. To the left, a number of horses, ready equipped, 10(6)v 120
were tied to the dwarfish shrubs; whilst between them and
the scaffold sat or reclined that part of the captured royalists,
which had been committed to the care of Colonel Shelby—
bound, and secured, by means of chains, to the trees.

These had been detained some few days after the departure
of the rest, by the indisposition of the officer; and their
captors, without fear of molestation, were making ready to
offer offended justice an expiation for the blood of many innocent
victims. From the ranks of the prisoners, one after another,
a man was loosed, and hung from the limbs of the tree—
and it was not the first time that the whigs were provoked to
that method of retaliation. But, whilst these executions were
going on, amid laughing and shouting, which mocked the
screams of the victims, a noise was heard behind, and it was
observed that the remaining captives were loosed, and running
down the hill in the rear. There was swift snatching of arms,
and the mounting of horses, and the last victim, with the cord yet
unbound around his neck, was left alone. But, in the meantime,
Ralph Cornet, with the eye of a lynx, had espied his
horse mong those ready bridled and saddled, and, having
slyly loosed and mounted him, he warmly met and charged the
pursuers, in front of the better half of his men, in the deep
copse-wood of the valley. The mountaineers pressed on furiously;
but Ralph covered the retreat of the prisoners to a rude
defence he had thrown up in one of the fastnesses of the
mountains, and the retreating fire he kept up, obliged the pursuers,
who had set off hastily, and without order, to return and
rally their forces.

The situation, which Ralph had chosen, was perfectly secure
from attack, and he might have maintained his station 11(1)r 121
there, for any length of time, if famine had not obliged him to
abandon it. He knew that Colonel Shelby, strongly reinforced,
was watching them; but, under these circumstances,
he found it necessary to make a push for the lower country.
They sallied out one night; but they had not proceeded far,
when they were attacked in the rear. This was what they
had expected; and each man by the light of the clear, cold
starlight, turned, and grappled with his foe. The conflict
was stern and desperate; but not for long. The numbers were
now unequal; not more than half of the tories had arms, and
every man, but Ralph, was either killed or captured. When
his last comrade fell, fighting by his side, Ralph Cornet, who
was himself stunned by a blow on the head, turned, and fled.
For a long time, he imagined he heard the tramp of feet behind
him; but, when at dawn of day, he pulled up his good
horse to breathe, on the top of a high hill, he looked around,
and he was alone. A wide landscape stretched out to the
west, in successive variation of undulating slopes, over which
the blue mists of morning spread a soft and hallowed repose.
The wearied and misanthropic spirit of Ralph yearned towards
its still, and apparently untrodden solitude. He gazed
back, for a moment, to the gentle vales of the south:—“My
country!”—he said aloud—“it is in vain that we struggle; you
will be free, but I—I cannot see it.”—and plunging down the
hill, he was soon threading the lovely vales of the Toogula.
But all was too soft and beautiful there to sympathize with
the harsh tenor of his thoughts; he sought for the stern and
terrible, that he might hide from himself in the subduing presence
of that nature which had ever been his god. At length
the dark-green mountain tops rose above him, and scarcely 1011 11(1)v 122
less than a madman, he wandered by the “beetling brows”
of precipices, and through the gloomy grave-like hollows. His
horse fed beside him, on the green verdure of the sheltered
spots; but it was many—many days that Ralph Cornet forgot
the calls of nature except to snatch instinctively the wild
grapes and berries that hung to his hand. No sign of human
habitation was there; and only once an Indian hunter had
crossed his path—casting on him a sly, inquiring glance.
The wolves howled around where he struck his fire of nights,
and, not unfrequently, a bear ran off at sight of him. He
still carried his gun, and the leathern pouch, on his shoulder,
had some few charges of ammunition remaining; but the wild
deer played about him unharmed, and watched him with their
timid eyes in wondering innocence.

One day, he found himself upon the edge of a rock, where
a little stream, swollen by the autumnal rains, came rushing
down from the dark bosom of the mountain, through rustling
leaves and chiming cascades, and he had nearly precipitated
himself over the brink before he was aware of the gulf that
yawned beneath him. Then, suddenly as the lightning
scathes the living tree, the full sublimity of that mountain cataract
ran through the nerves of Ralph. He fell prostrate on
the rock, and gazed down into the yawning abyss, and drank
in the roaring of the waters, until his strained eyes ached almost
to bursting, and his brain whirled round with ecstasy.
Scarcely could he refrain from throwing himself headlong, in
sympathy with the torrent, down—down into its eddying
pool; so fascinating—so impelling to his soul were those elements
of the beautiful and terrible.

Long—very long, he gazed, and then winding round to the 11(2)r 123
foot of the mountain, he entered the amphitheatre of the precipice;
and, seating himself by the circular pool, looked up,
nearly two hundred feet, to where the water poured over the
rim of the rock. His mind was over wrought by the novel excitement;
and he laughed loud and exultingly, as the strong
breeze brushed the hair from his brow, and the cool spray
dashed in his face.

“Ha! ha! ha!”—he shouted—“these are my companions!”
—and he stooped down, and kissed the rocks, and shouted
again, and clapped his hands in the ecstasy of insanity. It was
a fcarfulfearful moment; for he was about to plunge into the dark
and unfathomed basin of the torrent—but a stream of lightning,
for several seconds in succession, blinded his eyes, and a
clap of thunder broke on the rock so vividly, that pained by
the shock, he sunk down on the ground, with his head buried
in his arms. A silence succeeded, of such long continuance,
that Ralph ventured to look up, and his eye caught the inky
surges heaving, like the waters of a boiling cauldron, on the
sky. Presently, he heard a low rumbling, like a thousand
chariot wheels, afar off; and the wind whistled shrilly
through the dry leaves of the forest above him—but soon after
the discharge, as of a cannonade, rattled through the hollows,
in rcverberatingreverberating peals, and the winds lashed the sides of the
mountain, and roared and swelled, until the hoary trees, on the
mountain’s brow, tossed their arms in distraction, and
groaned, and creaked, as their trunks were twisted off, and
hurled, like leaves, through the air. Ralph threw himself on
the ground, and prepared to die, in trembling terror; for man,
though he dares to defy his Maker, shrinks from an exhibition
of His almighty power. But the war of elements passed 11(2)v 124
on—the rain came—and, subdued by the voice of Him who
speaketh in the tempest, Ralph Cornet’s madness departed;
and he fell on his knees, and gave thanks for a life preserved.

He had returned to himself, and felt his wretchedness; but
he went forth an humble and a reasonable man. The spirit
of murmuring was quelled, and his mind was strengthened in
its sadness. Impelled by hunger, he sought and obtained
food—and then wandered farther into the heart of the mountains;
for the poetry of his nature was breathing out, after
their beautiful mysteries.

Ere long, he came, of necessity, upon the rich shadows of
Talula, garnered up there in the wild depths of the forest, as
a thing too precious for the eye of man to profane; where
lights and shades, and colors were blended so harmoniously
and so gracefully, with all that is mighty and terrible in magnificence;
and all appearing as new, and fresh, and beautiful,
as if an admiring God, enchanted of his work, had exempted
it from his decree against a fallen world. It burst a
glorious vision on the eyes of Ralph; as if a scroll of darkness
and error had been suddenly withdrawn from his mind,
and the happy buoyancy of his dreaming time, harmonized
with the soft brilliancy of the scene.

For weeks he wandered along those lonely cliffs, which for
many miles enclose that chrystal rivulet into the sweetest prison
house that nature ever formed. Sometimes he would stand
for hours gazing from the dizzy heights, and then he would
descend, perilously, a thousand feet down into the chasm, and
look nearer on those painted walls, where they lost themselves
in the forest trees just a little below the sky, until he 11(3)r 125
drank his fill of beauty. He was there alone, amid the grandeur
of nature, with no evidence before him of fallen man;
no wonder that he forgot the curse of his being. His heart
was softened, his mind purified, and exalted by the mysterious
process of assimilating to God through his works; and
he began again, as in the days of his innocence, to weave
sweet dreams of intercourse with his kind. One morning,
in a fit of musing, he turned his horse’s head, almost involuntarily,
towards his once happy home.

Ralph did not deceive himself with regard to the danger of
returning again to the haunts of men. He hoped that the
rancour of his enemies was somewhat abated by his long
absence; but he could only expect forgiveness from one.
To her, his heart yearned the more tenderly, because her
image was connected with the only things pleasant in his
bitter memory, and was, beneath the sky, the only light
which shone on his darkened spirit. He was riding along
leisurely, through the scenes which reminded him of all he
had hoped and lost in the course of one year, when a man
passed by him at full gallop; but he thought no more of the
circumstance, and had arrived safely, near the river, indulging
in a strange, sweet reverie—very strange for one
who was approaching his country, without a place to lay his
hcadhead; but he was thinking of her, that soft and loving being
who had been always ready to excuse his errors since childhood.
It is true, she had, at their last dreadful meeting, appeared
cold, and that coldness had nerved his heart for deeds
of desperation; but it would have been madness to doubt her
at that moment, when he was returning with a heart so
wearied by desire for sympathy. Ralph Cornet refused to do 10*11* 11(3)v 126
so—already he was with her in spirit—a tender smile sat on
his lips, the first it had worn for months; and once he
stretched out his arms to embrace her—he thought she had
forgiven him. From the luxury of this dream, he was
aroused suddenly by a pistol shot, the ball from which
whistled not two inches above his head. Before he had time
to conjecture whence it came, he was set upon by three men,
who rushed out from a dark wood, and endeavored to drag
him from his horse. Maintaining, with difficulty, his position,
Ralph laid about him lustily with the end of the gun he
still carried. One of the men was soon laid on the ground,
with the blood spouting from his nostrils; but the other two
returned furiously to the attack, with drawn swords. Thus
pressed on both sides, he bore up under several wounds, and
kept his seat in spite of the curvetings of his frightened
horse; but, at length, he was nearly through the body,
and was obliged to clasp his arms around the horse’s neck, to
prevent falling. The assailants now made sure of him, and
seized the horse, to stop his plungings; but Ralph, with all
his remaining strength, struck the spurs into his sides, and
the enraged animal broke away with a terrific snort—dashing
those who held him to the ground, and the next minute the
waters hissed and foamed where he plunged in, and beat
them, like something mad or wild, with terror.

Ralph held on mechanically during the passage of the
river; but, when the horse bounded to the bank, and shook the
water from his flanks, his stiffened limbs were loosed, and he
fell motionless to the ground. The men, on the other side,
who, having been advised of his return by one who had rode
on before him, had waylaid him there with determined revenge, 11(4)r 127
now seeing him fall dead, as they supposed, took no
farther interest in the matter; and Ralph Cornet would have
died there as he lay, if Providence had not so ordained that the
African slave, who had moved his dwelling higher up the
river, since his master’s dcathdeath, should discover him, as he was
out that evening, gathering wood to warm his lonely cabin.

Poor old Juba let his faggots fall, and lifted up his hands
and eyes in amazement at the sight of that bloody and inanimate
form. At first, he sat down, and wept over him; but
perceiving that the heart still beat, he made an effort to bear
him off. The old negro stopped, almost in despair at finding
how incompetent he was to the task; but he could not give up
his beloved young master, to die there in the sharp wintry
night air-and after a long time, by lifting and dragging, he
brought him to his dwelling. There he laid him on a pallet
of fresh straw, and warmed him, and dressed his wounds with
a care, which, if it was not surgeonly, was at least tender and
kind.

Ralph awoke in a delirious fever, which raged many days.
His faithful servant was terrified at his incoherent words, and
the violence of his gestures; but he was discreet enough not
to hazard his chance of recovery, by applying to his enemies
for relief. He took the horse into the island, where he fed him
secretly, and then went on his way as usual, to escape suspicion.
He applied the herbs and roots of which the simple
pharmacy of his country is composed, to the wounds of
Ralph, and trusted to his strong natural system for the rest.
It was triumphant at last, and after some time he looked
around, and knew where he was; but when he attempted to
rise, he fell back powerless. Many weeks he lay there in the 11(4)v 128
slow, lingering torture of recovery. He heard the birds singing
without, and felt the fresh breeze of spring; but could not
drag his weakened limbs to the door.

His suspense, with regard to Annette, rather retarded his
convalesence. He had learnt that she was in the fort, not
far off; and he pined at the thought of being so near, without
being able to see or hear from her. His days and nights were
taken up in contriving some method of informing her of his
existence, with which, however, he could trust no one but
himself; and his first impulse, soon as he was able to crawl
out, was to watch around the fort. On the night that General
Pickens saw him there, in that sad and feeble condition, he
had ventured to throw a lock of Annette’s hair, which he had
preserved through all his trials, over the wall, feeling assured
that if she saw, she would not fail to recognise it. But, after
that interview, he dcemeddeemed it necessary to change his dwelling
—for he supposed that a search would be instituted for him;
and he was no longer able to resist, if discovered.

He built a camp, far in the woods, where Andrew Morrison,
who had been in search of him for a week, came upon
him on the morning of the burial. Ralph’s heart melted down
at the relation of the forlorn and afflicting situation of
Annette; and, as he hcardheard the kind and soothing words of the
old Scotchman, he began to feel and reviving influence of
hope. “I will see her at all risks.”—he said. Accordingly,
he stationed himself where he could watch the course of the
burial—naturally supposing that she would be the last at the
grave; and her stay offered him the opportunity, which he was
determined, at all hazards, to seize.

Chapter IX.

Such was the tale of his varied fortunes, which Ralph Cornet
recounted to the gentle and pitying girl. She could not but
feel how different he was from the light-hearted being who had
first fascinated her young fancy. How changed in heart and
manners, even from the proud and brilliant officer, who, six
months before, sat almost, on that very spot, at her feet—so
handsome, so buoyant with hopes; but, never in the sunny
days of their unclouded love, had he felt so endeared to her as
now. Like the gentle Desdemona, “she loved him for the
dangers he had passed;” and, though she saw him thwarted
in his prospects—sad and subdued in spirit—friendless and
homeless—she would not have left him for the proudest
prince of the earth; for the deeper the desolation, the more devoted
does woman cling to the forsaken.

When Annette returned to the fort, she buried herself in the
seclusion of her tent, and asked advice of no one on the important
step she was about to take. She did not repent of
having promised to fly with him; but the future presented to
her view a dark uncertainty, which even love, in her present
mournful state, could not cheer—and she awaited her destiny 11(5)v 130
in a kind of gloomy apathy. If it is true “that coming
events cast their shadows before,” it was a forerunner of the
dreadful despair she was doomed soon to experience.

SclinaSelina Anderson was near her, with all the comfort that a
tender heart can suggest for such deep affliction; but Anette
turned from her, and wept. She could not resolve to
discover to that proud and noble girl, that she was about to
marry the disgraced and exiled man.

Mrs. Cornet, who was necessarily in the secret, strengthened
in Annette the resolution. It would be hard to say
what were the feelings of this lady towards her unfortunate
brother-in-law. She had always loved him, and notwithstanding
her elevated spirit scorned the part he had acted,
she was pleased to hear that he mediated an escape from the
dangers which surrounded him. She felt a tender friendship
for Annette; but nature spoke still stronger in her heart for
him; and she was soothed to think that his exile would not
be solitary.

Before night, Andrew Morrison was observed to leave the
fort, with the French minister, and return alone into the tent
of Annette Bruyésant. This, though, was no unusual circumstance,
and excited no suspicion.

Every thing seemed to be propitious for their escape. The
gate was closed, and the garrison had retired early to rest. It
was a dark night, excepting the faint light of the stars; for
the “moon’s sweet crescent was only seen glimmering
through thick trees on the water’s edge.”

Ralph had appointed to come early; and already a rope was
thrown over the wall, which Andrew Morrison fixed to the
ground by a stake, and then cautiously helped the trembling 11(6)r 131
girl to ascend. From the top of the wall they observed two
men, standing in the dark shadow bclowbelow, and scarcely had
Annette set her foot on the ground, when one of them rushed
forward, and seized her.

Not a word had been spoken on either side; but Annette
gave a faint scream, and old Andrew noticed, as they moved
off with her, that neither of them had the stature of Ralph
Cornet. The old Scotchman stood transfixed with horror,
and his first thought was to alarm the garrison—for what
could he do—and old man—with those desperate ruffians?

But the avenger was at hand: Ralph Cornet was also approaching
when he heard the scream, and, in an instant, he
was on the spot. one brief word of alarm, and he was flying
off in the direction of the river; but, at that moment, two men
who had been placed there for the purpose, advanced from the
wall, and seized him. Ralph fcltfelt for his sword, and discovered
that he was perfcctlyperfectly unarmed. In the rapturous excitement
under which hche had set off, he had forgotten even the dagger,
he thought it prudent usually to wear. But he shook off the
grasp of those men, as Sampson did the thongs of the Philistines,
who, seeing him thus escape, discharged their muskets
after him by an appointed signal. At the same time, on the
banks of the river, stood the man who yet grasped Annette
with his left arm, and the poor girl’s head leaned against his
shoulder—for shcshe had fainted. The light of the moon’s
silver horn fcllfell clear upon the features of Hugh Bates—they
were fearfully agitated:—“Quick, quick, Miller, and be
damned to you;”—said he—“don’t you hear those guns?—
he is coming!”

There was some difficulty in unfastening a canoe—one moment 11(6)v 132
more, and Hugh Bates had forever bid him defiance;
but Ralph Cornet was now standing face to face with his
deadliest enemy. His fierce grasp was on the shoulder of
Bates, and with the other hand he seized the insensible form
of Annette. “Villain!”—he exclaimed, in a voice hoarse
with rage—“yield her to me!”

The eyes of Bates blazed like a wolf’s in the dark. “In
death, then!”—he muttered, gnashing his teeth; and a dagger
gleamed in the moonlight over the breast of Annette. But
Ralph Cornet saw the flashing of the blade, and letting go his
hold of Annette, he seized the uplifted arm, and with his
other hand grasped the throat of the murderer. Bates
writhed under the pain, and in an effort of desperation, he
twined his pliant limbs around the form of Ralph, and drew
him to the ground. Long and desperate then became the
struggle for the dagger. Bates, strong and active at any
time, was in the healthy vigor of manhood, almost too much
for the enfeebled strength of Cornet. Once, in the contest,
the dagger dropt on the ground, and the quick hands of
Bates had seized it, and aimed with dreadful precision at the
throat of his adversary; but Ralph grasped his wrist with
both hands, and directed it to his heart. The limbs of Bates
slowly relaxed their clasping hold, and he lay there a stiffening
corpse.

When Ralph Cornet rose from that awful conflict, his first
thought was of Annette—but she was gone; and possessed
of a madness, such as he had never before experienced, he
rushed to the fort. Already he was mounting the ladder,
which had been left there, but the still vigorous arm of Andrew
Morrison was laid upon him.

12(1)r 133

“Haud, haud man! wad ye rin to yer destruction!”—said
he.

“Begone!”—exclaimed Ralph, impatiently dashing the
old man aside; but he still laid hold of him.

“Ralph Cornet, are ye mad?”—he asked. “Do ye wish
to die in ane moment mair? If nae for my sake, for the sake
o’ her wha loes ye, forbear. She is na there, at mae
be――”

It was the first time that Ralph had thought of that. He
sunk baekback to the ground, and a fierce convulsive shaking
seized him—he looked as if he were finding refuge in death.
Andrew Morrison wiped the cold perspiration from his brow;
and, as he unbuttoned his collar, to give him air, he pereeivedperceived
a stream of blood upon his bosom.

“MereyMercy!”—exelaimedexclaimed he in surprise—“ye hae been
wounded then, my puir bairn?”

“It is the blood of Bates!”—said Ralph, shivering as he
related the distressing event whiehwhich had oeeurredoccurred. Every
hour of his life seemed to heap eursescurses on the head of the unfortunate
man: but the bitterest drop, in that bitter cup, was
the mysterious disappearance of Annette, and his own inability
to seek for her, and revenge the outrage done to her.

The old man, seeing the pitiful situation into which he had
fallen, attempted consolation, and endeavored to inspire
a hope which he hardly felt himself.

“Tak’ heart, tak’ heart, my boy;”—said he—“ye shall hae
her yet—on the word o’ an auld man ye shall hae her yet! That
Bates was an awfu’ man, an yer mortal enimy—ye hae
done weel in ridding the airth o’ a villain; besides, ye could 12 12(1)v 134
na help what ye hae done, when the black wretch was drawing,
as ane mae say, the verri lifes bluid o’ yer heart. But be
thankfu’, my lad; he canna disturb ye mair, an ye shall hae
her yet.”

But Ralph could not wipe away from his memory that
stain of blood, he was shocked at the dire necessity which imposed
it on him, and maddened that it involved the destruction
of his plans. He dared still less than ever to appear before
his countrymen; for few of them knew as well as
he, the black villainy of Hugh Bates, and still fewer, he was
assured, would look with unprejudiced cyeseyes on the circumstances
attending his death.

Ralph Cornet knew not himself the whole extent to which
that villainy aimed in its accomplishment: he, as well as Annette,
was ignorant of the agency which Bates had had in her
father’s death—and his appearance at this time, and interference
in a plan which Ralph believed he had projected in secret,
was a mystery which he could not unravel. Had
Ralph been quick enough in that last interview by the cottage,
to have heeded the words of the child, that mystery
might have been explained, or rather anticipated. There was
an eyceye upon those lovers—not less envious—not less malicious
than that with which the serpent regarded the first two that
cverever found a paradise on earth—and that was the eye of Hugh
Bates!”

After that unsuccessful pursuit of Ralph Cornet, when he
had given him up as lost, he maintained the character of a
good whig, by following the American army. In this he had
literally no choice, since, to be shot as a deserter, on one 12(2)r 135
side, or as a traitor, on the other, was equally impending if he
had been captured. But when, after the battle of Cowpens,
he returned into the neighborhood, he was left by his own request
with the guard of the fort. There, from often seeing
Annette, his former passion had revived and he dared once
more to look upon her with an eye of love. But, seeing that
the gentle girl treated him with a scorn she never exhibited to
others, he only waited an opportunity to revenge on her this
contempt for his passion. The death of her father he imagined
would place her more seeurelysecurely in his power, and he was
buying a train for hcrher, in his mind, on returning from Vienna,
after having calmly attended the burial of him he had sent to
the grave, when he heard voices back of the cottage, and crept
up closely to reconnoitre. There he saw the man whom he
believed dead, with his arms around his intended victim; and
heard her vow to be another’s. If he had been armed with a
rifle, that would have been the last moment of Ralph Cornet;
but he had no arm except the dagger which he always wore
—and, though fierce as a tiger, when roused, he dreaded nothing
more than a personal encounter with Ralph. He held
his breath gaspingly, as the plot of Annette’s escape was revealed
to him and clenching his fist firmly, muttered between
his grinding teeth—“To-morrow night, then—to-morrow
night, I shall be avenged!”

He returned to the fort and permitted things to pass off in
their usual course; for Hugh Bates knew well the art of dissembling.
But, in the mcantimemeantime, he was busily maturing his
plan, which was to anticipate Ralph to earryingcarrying off Annette.

“I, too, can fly with her;”—said he—“when we arcare off, she 12(2)v 136
shall be mine in spite of her—and I shall be gloriously revenged
on both.”

With these views, he informed the garrison, that at a particular
place they might take Ralph Cornet, whom they had believed
dead; and having excused himself from the party, on
the plea of private business, he left the fort a little before dark,
with one man to whom he entrusted his scheme. He felt very
certain that the enmity of the men was sufficient to ensure
the death of Cornet; but he advised them, if there was any
danger of escape, to fire for assistance.

As to his own private matter—determined that his revenge
should be felt, even in spite of death—he directed Miller, the
man who accompanied him, in case any thing happened to
himself, to fly with Annette to some place of concealment.

The next morning, the body of Bates was found, and buried
on the spot. His fate excited but little sympathy with those
who believed in his guilt—as the story was told by Andrew
Morrison; but a vigorous search was instituted for Ralph
Cornet, and the place of Annette’s imprisonment kept closely
veiled.

On the same day of Bates’ burial, intelligence arrived at the
fort, of the death of the gallant Lieutenant Pickens—he was
picked off by a rifleman before the siege of Ninety-six.

As he had expressed it, he died “beloved and regretted;”
but he did not live to see the victory for which he had so nobly
contended. The mournful pressure of events, which immediately
followed his death, almost erased the memory of his
loss; for the lonely spot, where his grave was dug, soon became
a burying-ground for soldiers like himself. But there 12(3)r 137
was one heart, which raised a proud monument to his name.
As the freshness of grief wore away in the bosom of Selina
Anderson, the pride of his memory rose in her soul: yes, she
could bear to talk, with a tearless eye, of him who slept, “As sleeps the brave, who sleep to rest By all their country’s wishes blest.”

Chapter X.

It was a day of public rejoicing at Vienna. Some part of
the scattered remnant of the American soldiery had returned
from Eutaw into that neighborhood. The victory was
nearly decided; and the voice of exultation, which rose over
the wail of widows and orphans, and drowned the groans of
the dying, told to every surrounding echo, that the country
was free!

What a day was that for the small remnant of whig militia
—that firm, patriotic band, which had withstood temptations,
and distress, poverty, and hardships of every degree—
men who left their families in the hands of a murderous banditti
at home, and went forth to meet the foe:— “Firm as a rock of the ocean, that stems A thousand wild waves by the shore;”
and who, having now returned to witness the woful devastation
created in their absence, could only clasp their few remaining
treasures, and say, “These are mine own!” It was
both a proud and a bitter day for them; but they were conquerors. 12(4)v 140
The foe was retreating from the country, and with
the natural sympathies of men who have been associated, and
come safely out of some dangerous enterprise, they met with
hearts and tongues overflowing with the dagners they had
passed.

The day was in sultry June; and the burning sun, which
had seemed to set on fire the low painted roots of the houses
of Vienna, shed an oblique radiance upon the western windows,
which were now opened to admit the cool breeze
springing up from the river. The single street, as well as the
houses, was thronged with men—under the shade of trees—
in the piazzas—sitting, standing, walking, laughing, and
shouting; in every variety of rude and careless happiness.
Some stood about in groups, resting on their guns, which,
from long habit, had become necessary to their comfort;
whilst some one of the number, swelling with the importance
of fancied advantage over the rest, told, with a boastful air,
the tale of his deeds in arms—how he had fought in such
a battle, or how he had gulled such a tory. All of which his
auditors approved by loud laughing, and significant gestures;
but it was observed that none laughed so loud as those
who had the most doubtful right to sympathise with the
speaker; for, though the pride of the whigs, together with the
recent wrongs they had suffered at their hands, caused them
to scorn all offers of friendship from the crest-fallen tories,
there were yet very many among that class, who, by a prudent
caution, had reserved themselves a place among the conquering
party. Many of these now mingled with the under class
of whigs who filled the grog shops with bacchanalian revelry, 12(5)r 141
and it was not uncommon to see a boasting whig, who had
advanced into the highest state of quarrclsomequarrelsome intermeddling,
step out, and rolling up the slcevessleeves from his brawny arms,
challcngechallenge another man to prove himself not a tory. It was all
a scene of noise and bustle; a true picture of the disorders and
license of a state of recent warfare, and a natural evidence of
the haughtiness with which man assumes power. Some others
of the younger men evcneven, who had rested their guns against
the houses, and cngagedengaged in the peaceful game of running,
wrestling, or ball playing, whencverwhenever a man was seen passing
along the road at a distance, or skulking under the bushes,
would shout the word, “Tory” from one to the other, and
chascchase him out of sight, with the loud laugh, and broad halloo
of childish delight. As the fox, which has long been the terror
of a farm-yard, after having been run down and disarmed
of its power by the huntsman, is crowed and cackled over by
the delighted fowls, and pelted with stones, and pulled about
by the revengeful children; thus these deluded beings, no
longer feared, were become the butts of the conquering party
—objects merely deserving the indignities of contempt.
There was only one, who by the high character of his bold
and lofty dcfiancedefiance, seemed to be worthy of their resentment.
He had baffled and evaded them. His indomitable spirit refused
to sue or submit; and though he had committed fewer
dccdsdeeds of abhorrence than any one of the vile class with whom
he had been associated, his countrymen hated him with the
deepest and most deadly hatred; for the tyrannical heart of man
is too haughty in the hour of victory to suffer any defiance.
But Ralph Cornet, by the superior finesse of his motions, had 12(5)v 142
as yet eluded their grasp. They hunted him as the wild beast
is hunted in the weeds of Africa, with sword and spear; but
though he was known to be yet in the neighborhood, no hand
could be laid upon him.

Thus thwarted, his enemies had but one way of revenging
themselves. It is true, they had seized his broad lands on the
Savannah, by sequestration, but they knew that the only way
to wring the soul of Ralph, was to deprive him of his betrothed
—his beloved Annette. And, however strange it may
appear, it is no less true, that this arbitrary measure against
an innocent and unoffending girl, was put into rigid execution.

As the evening advaneedadvanced, however, a party of the conquerors
apart from these, were preparing for a more refined
species of enjoyment. A large room of the house, on the bank
of the river, was filled to erowdingcrowding with people of both sexes—
it was the same room in which the brave PiekensPickens sat, a few
months before, when he gave audience to the wily Bates.
They were both gone; the noble patriot, and the vile intriguer
had alike sunk into the vortex of the stream whiehwhich deluged
their country—and there, upon the very spot where they had
concerted plans of such vital interest, to one of them at least,
their survivors, with that strange insensibility to death,
whiehwhich always attends times of danger, were making merry.
A ring was elearedcleared in the eentrecentre of the room for dancing, and
as the fiddler entered, and began the tantalizing exereiseexercise of
calling into order his rebellious strings, giving every now and
then an eneouragingencouraging twitch of the elbow over the shrieking
catgut, the young men jumped up in eager antieipationanticipation, and 12(6)r 143
capered about the room. Some were in white stockings and
pumps, with yellow small clothes, which they had just purchased
from some itinerant merchant, peddling through the
country; but most of them wore their high heeled boots, with
yellow tops, turned over from the tights of kersey or home
spun, whiehwhich had, perhaps, borne the brunt of war. Nevertheless,
each one felt himself irresistible in the eyes of the
young ladies, who—silly ereaturescreatures—simpered and whispered
among eaeheach other, still eastingcasting timid and lively glaneesglances at their
invineibleinvincible warriors.

But, there was one eountenancecountenance in that assembly, whiehwhich
moved not for all that merriment, no more than if it had fallen
on the dull eoldcold ear of death. It was the pale face of Annette
Bruyésant, who sat in one eornercorner, far as possible from
the revellers, in the stiff and rigid attitude of marble. No motion
betrayed the vitality whiehwhich animated that statue—no tear,
no sigh, no glaneeglance evinced the sensibilities of a wounded
spirit; but her eyes were fixed on the opposite window, in the
cold glassy gaze of despair, and her hands were folded in her
lap, in the mute eleganeeelegance of submission.

As the dancing went on, she was left alone; no one was
sufficiently hard-hearted to insult her misery, by asking her to
join them. She had only been forced to attend her guardians
there; for fear some effort should be made for her escape in
their absence.

The time was past when that sweet girl eouldcould make any
resistaneeresistance, and she was now perfectly passive in the hands of
her perseeutorspersecutors. If she felt, she showed no resentment towards
them. She might, perhaps, have approved the justieejustice 12(6)v 144
of Ralph Cornet’s condemnation; she never, for a moment,
thought of forsaking him. No, the more wretched an outcast
he became, the more did that faithful girl believe it her
duty to cling to him; and, as she sat in that apparently apathetic
posture, her thoughts were bound up in a painful
dream—but it was not of herself she was thinking. It was
of him—of his griefs, and loneliness, and dangers. Could she
have thrown herself in his arms at that moment, the language
of her heart would have been:— “Thou hast called me thine angel, in moments of bliss, Still thine angel I’ll be ’mid the horrors of this!”
But despair, despair of ever seeing him was doing its dreadful
work there, and her heart continued to weep its drops of
blood. In this situation, she did not perceive that any one
approached her, until shcshe felt herself touched lightly on the
shoulder, and turning round, she mctmet the eyes of Andrew
Morrison for the first time since her captivity, who, with a
cautious look around them, dropped a piccepiece of paper in hcrher
hand. Annette grasped the paper, and turned her back instinctively
on thcthe company. A fearful change came over her
face, as she devourcddevoured the scrawl. It merely contained the
words in rude characters:—“Be at the window an hour
hence—I shall be there.” The blood rushed into Annctte’sAnnette’s
face until it became lurid, and her veins swelled until they
wcrewere visible on the surface of her beautiful forehead,—then
again, she becamcbecame ghostly pale, and gasped for breath. As
she turned to spcakspeak to the old man, the words died away with
a choking noise in her throat; but Andrew Morrison had
left her side. The wary old man knew that suspicion already 13(1)r 145
rested on him, and upon his caution now, depended the
success of his undertaking.

At this time, a very different scene was acting in a house
exactly opposite that in which the ball was going on. There
a wounded man lay upon a pallet on the floor, to get the cool
air of evening, and his hand rested on the bosom of a handsome
woman, who was putting back the thick masscsmasses of raven
hair from his brow. As she did so, the tears fell from
her heavy eyelids on the worn and wasted features of the
dying man.

“My own Ellen,”—said he, as he wiped off the tears from
his face,—“do not weep so—you will kill me before my time
by your gricfgrief.”

“Oh James,”—said she, in a voice which was racked with
anguish,—“how can I help it—to hear all this noise and rejoicing,
and you lying here?”

“Do not let that disturb you, my love,”—replied her husband
with a faint attempt at smiling,—“it is the nature of
man to forget in prosperity, the means by which he gained it.
Why should I think to be remembered more than the thousands
who lie on the field of battle?”

“Oh, but James, they might respcctrespect you, while that you
are living.—You, who are dying for them, as I may say”—and
she burst into fresh agony of tears.

“No Ellen, no,”—answered the dying man with fcrvourfervour,—
“I die for the cause, the glorious cause——and”――he continucdcontinued,
his faded cyeseyes sparkling with some of their wonted brilliancy
――“and, we are free, thank heaven! we are free!”

As the glow of enthusiasm died away from the hollow
cheek of the soldier, he sunk back exhausted, and lay for 13 13(1)v 146
some time silent. It was evident his hour was fast approaching;
his breath at times came thiekthick and gaspingly, and
his eyes rolled upward; but the sobs of his wife seemed again
to disturb him.

“Ellen,”――said he, almost in a whisper,――“my good Ellen――
you have been always kind to me. Do not grieve so, if you
would have me die contented. I eouldcould have wished――but no
matter――it is God’s will, and I have but one wish on earth;
it is to see my poor Ralph before I die――it is too late now; but
you said that Annette Bruyésant was here,――send for her,
that I may tell her—tell her I forgive him.”

A few minutes after Annette had read the paper and resumed
her seat, with apparent calmness, a little boy made his
way through the erowdcrowd and threw himself on her lap, eryingcrying
bitterly. All that eouldcould be extraetedextracted from him was, that his
father was dying, and wished to see Annette Bruyésant. It
was a sight to have melted a heart of stone, and those hearts
already softened by the sweetness of Annette’s temper, could
not refuse her this sad duty. She followed the ehildchild aerossacross
the street, almost surprised at the liberty granted her.

So soon as she was gone, Andrew Morrison also left the
room, but there was no heed given to his actions—the amusements
went on unabated.

By the time Annette reached the house, some of his former
friends were gathered round the pallet of the dying soldier;
but he paid them no attention—his gaze was fixed on Annette,
as she knelt beside him, her eyes, before so cold and
motionless, now streaming with tears. He elaspedclasped her hand
with all his remaining strength, and his lips moved; but Annette
heard no sound until she leaned her ear close to his face.

13(2)r 147

“You will see him,”—said he, in broken sentences,—“tell
him—my brother—that—I loved him to the last.”

He now struggled for utterance,—a low gurgling sound
was heard in his throat, and his wife threw herself in distraction
on his breast. But he opened his eyes――

“Ellen――my boy――where is Willie?”――The child crept up,
and put his little hand into that of his father.――“Make him a
soldier――you hear that, Ellen—and――and――raiscraise me a little
higher love――it is dark here――and――do not—let him die—a—a
—traitor to—to――to”――his voice failed him, and his hand sunk
on his breast. In a few minutes, the soldier’s childrcnchildren were
orphans; for James Cornet lay there, a corpse, one of the
noblest victims to the battle of Entaw.

Annette threw her arms around that widowed mother, the
kind soother of her own bereavement, and wept long with
her. At length, she arose and walked out upon the piazza.
The street was still busy with its crowd, and the sound of
that music, with the heavy tramp of the dancers, came to her
ear. Her heart sickcnedsickened, and she leaned against a column
for support. Then the thought of her own uncertain dcstinydestiny
came over her mind with agonizing force; and she envicdenvied
the man, who, in that chamber of death, was released so
easily and happily from a world which appeared so dark to
her. At that momcntmoment, a horseman was secnseen ascending the
hill of that thronged street, in full view of thcthe windows of the
ball room. He was riding a horse of prodigious size and
beauty, which seemed to yield to every motion of the rider, as
his graceful, swan-like neck, obeyed the impulse of the rein.

Annette raised her clasped hands to heaven, and stood
with her lips apart, and her blood curdling with surprise and 13(2)v 148
terror. She remembered the paper she had received. It
was the appointed hour, and it could be no other than Ralph
Cornet—but would even he dare this much?

The men, who filled the streets, stood regarding the approaching
stranger with a surprise greater than hers. The
hand of every man dropped on his gun, but remained there
motionless; and a death-like silence reigned where all was
before confusion—so great was the curiosity and awe, which
that majestic horseman excited, as he galloped fearlessly, as
it were, against the very bayonets of his enemies. The keen
eye of Ralph had descried that well-known form, and in an
instant he stood by the door, all unconscious how nearly he
was connected with the painful scene within. “Haste—
haste, Annette!”—said he; and he pulled the fainting form of
the poor girl to his saddle bow—one touch of the rein, and the
proud animal, as if conscious of his master’s triumph, arched
his high neck, and with a bound flew towards the river bank.
Then, as if some spell of enchantment had bcenbeen loosed, the
men moved from every part of the village—every gun was
raised; and curses rang on the name of Ralph Cornet—but
by the time they reached the river’s side, the noble horse was
beating the waters with his broad breast, far into the middle
of the current. Why did not those men fire? There was
not one but knew, from the first, that it was Ralph Cornet.
Was it a sympathy with the beautiful, and fearful boldness of
this action, which deterred them? Or was it the native horror
which man has against interfering with any thing already
in the hand of God? Certain it is, that they saw these two
beings, who had suffered so long, piteously struggling there
in the midst of that wide river, and not a gun was discharged. 13(3)r 149
But, when that noble animal bounded, drippingly, on the opposite
shore, with his brave and bcautifulbeautiful burden, a low and
suppressed murmur of admiration and astonishment ran along
that crowd of mcnmen, which, only a few moments before, were
breathing curses.

For a moment did Ralph Cornet pause, and turn his gaze
upon the spot he had left behind. Annette lay, with her
arms around him, and he bent over and kissed her cheek, as
it wcrewere in defiance. A wild—a joyous—a triumphant laugh
rang over the waters, as the horse whecledwheeled round, and was
seen bounding along, for some distance, under the dark, shadowy
trees, extending out from the high grassy bank.
Ralph Cornet had turned his back forever on his country.

In a sweet sequestered spot, where a little stream wound
along through grassy banks, and whcrewhere a rustic bridge was
half overhung with a canopy of pundant vines, Andrew Morrison,
that faithful friend, was awaiting them with the French
minister. The sun was just sinking below the trees, and the
swcetsweet birds, lifting up their voices in the chorus of evening,
sang the marriage hymn of Ralph Cornet and his Annette.
After so much suffering and trial, he felt himself amply
compensated when he clasped her to his bosom――his own!

They then bid those last and dear friends adieu; and were
turning to depart, when a strange and somewhat ludicrous
figure started up from against a tree, exclaiming, in a humble
but reproachful accent:—“Massa Ralph, no lebe ole
nigger stay here――eh?”

“No, my good Juba, no!”――said Ralph――“you shall go, if
you wish it.”

“Ha! ha!”――laughed the African.――“Ole nigger go for 13* 13(3)v 150
true――no stay hcrehere for dam tory gun――whip lash――Juba foller
his massa to cend ob de worl;”――and slinging his huge
bundle on a stick across his shoulder, old Juba trudged on
after the only being he loved on earth.

The world of Ralph Cornet’s acquaintance was lost in conjecture.
Even his enemies would have given up their resentment
for some knowledge of that bold and extraordinary
man; but the old Scotchman was the only depository of that
secret, and to his dying day he never revealed the place
where the British Partizan carried his bride.