[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

The last sounds of the combat died on the ears
of the anxious listeners in the cottage, and was succeeded
by the stillness of suspense. Frances had
continued by herself, striving to exclude the uproar,
and vainly endeavouring to summon resolution
to meet the dreaded result. The ground
where the charge on the foot had taken place,
was but a short mile from the Locusts, and, in the
intervals of the musketry, the voices of the soldiery
had even reached the ears of its inhabitants.
After witnessing the escape of his son, Mr. Wharton
had joined his sister and eldest daughter in
their retreat, and the three continued fearfully
waiting news from the field. Unable longer to
remain under the painful uncertainty of her
situation, Frances soon added herself to the uneasy
group, and Cæsar was directed to examine
into the state of things without, and report on
whose banners victory had alighted. The father
now briefly related to his astonished children the
circumstance and manner of their brother's escape.
They were yet in the freshness of their surprise
when the door opened, and Captain Wharton, attended
by a couple of the guides, and followed by
the black, stood before them.

“Henry—my son—my son,” cried the agitated

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

parent, stretching out his arms, yet unable to rise
from his seat, “what is it I see—are you again a
captive, and in danger of your life.”

“The better fortune of these rebels has prevailed,”
said the youth, endeavouring to force a
cheerful smile, and taking a hand of each of his
distressed sisters. “I strove nobly for my liberty,
but the perverse spirit of rebellion has even lighted
on their horses. The steed I mounted carried
me, greatly against my will I acknowledge,
into the very centre of Dunwoodie's men.”

“And you were again captured,” continued the
father, casting a fearful glance on the armed attendants
who had entered the room.

“That, sir, you may safely say; this Mr. Lawton,
who sees so far, had me in custody again immediately.”

“Why you didn't hold 'em in, Massa Harry?”
cried Cæsar, advancing eagerly, and disregarding
the anxious looks and pallid cheeks of the female
listeners.

“That,” said Wharton, smiling, “was a thing
easier said than done, Mr. Cæsar, especially as
these gentlemen” (glancing his eyes at the guides)
“had seen proper to deprive me of the use of my
better arm.”

“Wounded!” exclaimed both sisters in a breath,
catching a view of the bandages.

“A mere scratch, but disabling me at a most
critical moment,” continued the brother kindly,
and stretching out the injured limb to manifest
the truth of his declaration. Cæsar threw a look
of bitter animosity on the irregular warriors who
were thought to have had an agency in the deed,
and left the room. A few more words sufficed to
explain all that Captain Wharton knew relative
to the fortune of the day. The result he thought

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

yet doubtful, for when he left the ground, the
Virginians were retiring from the field of battle.”

“They had tree'd the squirrel,” said one of the
sentinels abruptly, “and didn't quit the ground
without leaving a good hound for the chase, when
he comes down.”

“Ay,” added his comrade drily, “I'm thinking
Captain Lawton will count the noses of what are
left before they see their whale-boats.”

Frances had stood supporting herself by the
back of a chair, during this dialogue, catching, in
breathless anxiety, every syllable as it was uttered—
her colour changed rapidly—her limbs shook
under her—until, with desperate resolution, she
inquired—

“Is any officer hurt on—the—on either side?”

“Yes,” answered the man cavalierly, “these
southern youths are so full of mettle, that it's seldom
we fight but one or two gets knocked over—
one of the wounded, who came up before the
troops, told me, that Captain Singleton was killed,
and Major Dunwoodie”—

Frances heard no more, but fell back lifeless
in the chair behind her. The attention of her
friends soon revived her, when the captain, turning
to the man, said, fearfully—

“Surely Major Dunwoodie is unhurt.”

“Never fear him,” added the guide, disregarding
the agitation of the family, “they say a man
who is born to be hung will never be drowned—if
a bullet could kill the major, he would have been
dead long ago. I was going to say, that the major
is in a sad taking because of the captain's being
killed; but had I known how much store the lady
sat by him, I would'nt have been so plain spoken.”

Frances now rose quickly from her seat, with
cheeks glowing with confusion, and leaning on

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

her aunt, was about to retire, when Dunwoodie
himself appeared. The first emotion of the maid,
when she saw him, was unalloyed happiness; in
the next instant she shrunk back appalled from
the unusual expression that reigned in his countenance.
The sternness of battle yet sat on his
brow—his eye was fixed, penetrating and severe.
The smile of affection that used to lighten his
dark features, on meeting his mistress, was supplanted
by the lowering look of care; his whole
soul seemed to be absorbed with one engrossing
emotion, and he proceeded at once to his
object.

“Mr. Wharton,” he earnestly began, “in times
like these, we need not stand on idle ceremony—
one of my officers, I am afraid, is hurt mortally;
and presuming on your hospitality, I have brought
him to your door.”

“I am happy, sir, that you have done so,” said
Mr. Wharton, at once perceiving the importance
to his son, of conciliating the American troops;
“the necessitous are always welcome, and doubly
so, in being the friend of Major Dunwoodie.”

“Sir, I thank you for myself, and in behalf of
him who is unable to render you his thanks,” returned
the other hastily; “If then you please, we
will have him conducted where the surgeon may
see and report upon his case without delay.” To
this there could be no objection, and Frances felt
a chill at her heart, as her lover withdrew without
casting a solitary look on herself.

There is a devotedness in female love that admits
of no rivalry. All the tenderness of the
heart—all the powers of the imagination, are enlisted
in behalf of the tyrant passion, and where
all is given much is looked for in return. Frances
had spent hours of anguish—of torture, on

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

behalf of Dunwoodie, and he now met her without a
smile, and left her without a greeting. The ardor
of feeling in the maid was unabated, but the elasticity
of her hopes was weakened. As the supporters
of the nearly lifeless body of Dunwoodie's
friend, passed her in their way to the apartment
prepared for his reception, she caught a view of
this seeming rival in her interest with her lover.
His pale and ghastly countenance, sunken eye,
and difficult breathing, gave her a glimpse of
death in its most fearful form. Dunwoodie was
by his side and held his hand, giving frequent and
stern injunctions to the men to proceed with care,
and, in short, manifested all the solicitude that the
most tender friendship could, on such an occasion,
inspire. The maid moved lightly before them,
and, with an averted face, held open the door for
their passage to the bed; it was only as the major
touched her garments on entering the room, that
she ventured to raise her mild blue eyes to his
face. But the glance was unreturned, and Frances
unconsciously sighed as she sought the solitude
of her own apartment.

Captain Wharton voluntarily gave a pledge to
his keepers not to attempt again escaping, and then
proceeded to execute those duties on behalf of
his father, which were thought necessary in a host.
On entering the passage for that purpose, he met
the operator, who had so dexterously dressed his
arm, advancing to the room of the wounded officer.

“Ah!” cried the disciple of Esculapius, “I see
you are doing well—but stop—have you a pin?—
No! here, I have one—you must keep the cold
air from your hurt, or some of the youngsters will
be at work at you yet.”

“God forbid,” muttered the captain in an

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

under tone, and attentively adjusting the bandages,
when Dunwoodie appeared at the door, impatiently
crying aloud—

“Hasten—Sitgreaves—hasten, or George Singleton
will die from loss of blood.”

“What! Singleton! God forbid—bless me—is
it George—poor little George,” exclaimed the
surgeon as he quickened his pace with evident
emotion, and hastened to the side of the bed; “he
is alive though, and while there is life there is
hope. This is the first serious case I have had to
day, where the patient was not already dead.
Captain Lawton teaches his men to strike with so
little discretion—poor George—bless me, it is a
musket bullet.”

The youthful sufferer turned his eyes on the man
of science, and with a faint smile endeavoured to
stretch forth his hand. There was an appeal in
the look and action that touched the heart of the
operator, with a force that was irresistible. The
surgeon removed his spectacles to wipe an unusual
moisture from his eyes, and proceeded carefully
to the discharge of his duty—while the previous
arrangements were, however, making, he
gave vent in some measure to his feelings by saying—

“When it is only a bullet I have always some
hopes—there is a chance that it hits nothing vital—
but bless me, Captain Lawton's men cut so
at random—generally sever the jugular, or let out
the brains, and both are so difficult to remedy—
the patient mostly dying before one can get at
them—I never had success but once in replacing
a man's brains, although I tried three this very
day. It is easy to tell where Lawton's troop
charge in a battle, they cut so at random.”

The group around the bed of Captain Singleton
were too much accustomed to the manner of

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

their surgeon, to regard or reply to his soliloquy;
but they quietly awaited the moment when he was
to commence his examination. This now took
place, and Dunwoodie stood looking the operator
in the face with an expression that seemed to
read his soul. The patient shrunk from the application
of the probe, and a smile stole over the
features of the surgeon, as he muttered—

“There has been nothing before it in that
quarter.” He now applied himself in earnest to
his work, took off his spectacles, and threw aside
his wig. All this time Dunwoodie stood in feverish
silence, holding one of the hands of the sufferer
in both his own, watching the countenance
of Doctor Sitgreaves. At length Singleton gave
a slight groan, and the surgeon rose with alacrity,
and said aloud—

“Ah! there is some pleasure in following a
bullet, it may be said to meander through the human
body, injuring nothing vital; but as for Captain
Lawton's men”—

“Speak,” interrupted Dunwoodie in a voice
hardly articulate; “is there hope—can you find the
ball?”

“It's no difficult matter to find that which one
has in his hand, Major Dunwoodie,” replied the
surgeon coolly, and preparing his dressings; “it
took what that literal fellow, Captain Lawton,
calls a circumbendibus, a route never taken by the
swords of his men, notwithstanding the multiplied
pains I have been at to teach him how to cut scientifically.
Now I saw a horse this day with his
head half severed from his body.”

“That,” said Dunwoodie, as the blood rushed
to his cheeks again, and his dark eyes sparkled
with the rays of hope revived, “was some of my
own handy-work; I killed that horse myself.”

You!” exclaimed the surgeon, dropping his

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

dressings in surprise, “you! but then you knew
it was a horse.”

“I had such suspicions, I own,” said the Major
smiling, holding a beverage to the lips of his
friend.

“Such blows alighting on the human frame are
fatal,” continued the doctor, pursuing his business,
“and set at nought all the benefits which
flow from the lights of science; they are useless
in a battle, for disabling your foe is all that is required.
I have sat, Major Dunwoodie, many a
cold hour, while Captain Lawton has been engaged,
and after all my expectation, not a single
case worth recording has occurred—all scratches
or death wounds; ah! the sabre is a sad weapon
in unskilful hands. Now, Major Dunwoodie,
many are the hours I have thrown away in endeavouring
to impress this on Captain Lawton.”

The impatient major pointed silently to his
friend, and the surgeon quickened his movements
as he continued—

“Ah! poor George—it is a narrow chance—
but”—he was interrupted by a messenger requiring
the presence of the commanding officer in the
field. Dunwoodie pressed the hand of his friend,
and beckoned the doctor to follow him, as he withdrew.

“What think you?” he whispered on reaching
the passage, “will he live?”

“He will;” said the surgeon laconically, turning
on his heel.

“Thank God!” cried the youth, hastening below.

Dunwoodie for a moment joined the family, who
were now collected in the ordinary parlour. His
face was no longer wanting in smiles, and his salutations,
though hasty, were cordial. He took
no notice of the escape and recapture of Henry

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

Wharton, but seemed to think the young man had
continued where he had left him before the encounter.
On the ground they had not met. The
English officer withdrew in haughty silence to a
window, leaving the major uninterruptedly to
make his communications.

The excitement produced by the events of the
day in the youthful feelings of the sisters, had been
succeeded by a languor that kept them both silent,
and it was with Miss Peyton that Dunwoodie held
his discourse.

“Is there any hope, my cousin, that your friend
can survive his wound?” said the lady, advancing
towards her kinsman with a smile of benevolent
regard.

“Every thing—my dear madam—every thing,”
answered the soldier cheerfully. “Sitgreaves says
he will live, and he has never yet deceived me.”

“Your pleasure is not much greater than my
own at this intelligence. One so dear to Major
Dunwoodie cannot fail to excite an interest in the
bosom of his friends.”

“Say one so deservedly dear, madam,” returned
the major with warmth; “he is the beneficent
spirit of the corps—equally beloved by us all—so
mild, so equal, so just, so generous, with the
meekness of a lamb and the fondness of a dove—
it is only in the hour of battle that Singleton is a
lion.”

“You speak of him as if he were your mistress,
Major Dunwoodie,” observed the smiling spinster,
glancing her eye at her niece, who sat pale and
listening, in a corner of the room.

“I love him as one,” cried the excited youth;
“but he requires care and nursing—all now depends
on the attention he receives.”

“Trust me, sir,” said Miss Peyton with dignity,
“he will want for nothing under this roof.”

“Pardon me, dear madam,” cried the youth

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

hastily; “you are all that is benevolent, but Singleton
requires a care which many men would feel to
be irksome. It is at moments like these, and in
sufferings like his, that the soldier most finds
the want of female tenderness.” As he spoke,
he turned his eyes on Frances with an expression
that again thrilled to the heart of the maiden—
she rose from her seat with burning cheeks, and
said—

“All the attention that can with propriety be
given to a stranger will be cheerfully bestowed on
your friend.”

“Ah!” cried the major, shaking his head, “that
cold word propriety will kill him; he must be
fostered, cherished, soothed.”

“These are offices for a sister or a wife,” said
the maid, with still increasing colour.

“A sister!” repeated the soldier, the blood
rushing to his own face tumultuously; “a sister!
he has a sister—and one that might be here with
to-morrow's sun.” He paused, mused in silence,
glanced his eye uneasily at Frances, and muttered
in an under tone—“Singleton requires it, and it
must be done.”

The ladies had watched his varying countenance
in some surprise, and Miss Peyton now observed,
that—

“If there were a sister of Captain Singleton
near them, her presence would be gladly requested
both by herself and nieces.”

“It must be, madam; it cannot well be otherwise,”
replied Dunwoodie with a hesitation that
but ill agreed with his former declarations; “she
shall be sent for express this very night.” And
then, as if willing to change the subject, he approached
Captain Wharton, and continued mildly—

“Henry Wharton, to me honour is dearer than

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

life—but in your hands I know it can safely be
confided—remain here unwatched, until we leave
the county, which will not be for some days to
come.”

The distance in the manner of the English officer
vanished, and taking the offered hand of the
other, he replied with warmth—“your generous
confidence, Peyton, will not be abused, even
though the gibbet on which your Washington
hung André be ready for my own execution.”

“Henry—Henry Wharton,” said Dunwoodie
reproachfully, “you little know the man who
leads our armies, or you would have spared him
that reproach; but duty calls me without. I leave
you where I could wish to stay myself, and where
you cannot be wholly unhappy.”

In passing Frances, the maid received another
of those smiling looks of affection she so much
prized, and for a season she forgot the impression
made by his appearance after the battle.

Among the veterans that had been impelled by
the times to abandon the quiet of age for the service
of their country was Colonel Singleton. He
was a native of Georgia, and had been for the earlier
years of his life a soldier by profession. When
the struggle for liberty commenced, he offered his
services to his country, and from respect to his
character they had been accepted. His years and
health had, however, prevented his discharging the
active duties of the field, and he had been kept in
command of different posts of trust, where his country
might receive the benefits of his vigilance and
fidelity without inconvenience to himself. For
the last year he had been entrusted with the passes
into the Highlands, and was now quartered, with
his daughter, but a short day's march above the
valley where Dunwoodie had met his enemy. His
only other child was the wounded officer we have

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

mentioned. Thither then the major prepared to
despatch a messenger with the unhappy news of
the captain's situation, and charged with such an
invitation from the ladies as he did not doubt
would speedily bring the ardent sister to the couch
of her brother.

This duty performed, though with an unwillingness
that only could make his former anxiety more
perplexing, Dunwoodie proceeded to the field
where his troops had again halted. The remnant
of the English were already to be seen, over
the tops of the trees, marching on the heights towards
their boats in compact order, and with
great watchfulness. The detachment of the dragoons
under Lawton were a short distance on
their flank, eagerly awaiting a favourable moment
to strike a blow. In this manner both parties
were soon lost to the view.

A short distance above the Locusts was a small
village where several roads intersected each
other, and from which, consequently, access was
easy to the surrounding country. It was a favourite
halting place of the horse, and frequently held
by the light parties of the American army during
their excursions below. Dunwoodie had been
the first to discover its advantages, and as it was
necessary for him to remain in the county until
further orders from above, it cannot be supposed
he overlooked them now. To this place, the
troops were directed to retire, carrying with
them their wounded; parties were already employed
in the sad duty of interring the dead. In
making these arrangements, a new object of embarrassment
presented itself to our young soldier.
In moving to and fro the field, he was struck with
the appearance of Colonel Wellmere seated by
himself, brooding over his misfortunes uninterrupted
by any but the passing civilities of the

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

American officers. His anxiety on behalf of Singleton
had hitherto banished the recollection of
his captive from the mind of Dunwoodie, and he
now approached him with apologies for his neglect.
The Englishman received his courtesies
with coolness, and complained of being injured
by what he affected to think was the accidental
stumbling of his horse. Dunwoodie, who had
seen one of his own men ride him down, and
doubtless with very little ceremony, slightly smiled,
as he offered him surgical assistance. This
could only be procured at the cottage, and thither
they both proceeded.

“Colonel Wellmere,” cried young Wharton in
astonishment, as they entered, “has the fortune
of war been thus cruel to you also; but you are
welcome to the house of my father, although I
could wish the introduction to have taken place
under more happy circumstances.”

Mr. Wharton received this new guest with the
guarded caution that distinguished his manner,
and Dunwoodie left the room to seek the bedside
of his friend. Every thing here looked propitious,
and he acquainted the surgeon that another patient
waited his skill in the room below. The
sound of the word was enough to set the doctor
in motion, and seizing his implements of office,
he went in quest of this new applicant for his notice.
At the door of the parlour he was met by
the ladies who were retiring. Miss Peyton detained
him for a moment to inquire into the welfare
of Captain Singleton, before she suffered him
to proceed. Frances smiled with something of
her natural archness of manner, as she contemplated
the grotesque appearance of the bald-headed
practitioner; but Sarah was too much agitated,
with the surprise of the unexpected interview
with the British Colonel, to notice his attire. It

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

has already been intimated that Colonel Wellmere
was an old acquaintance of the family. Sarah
had been so long absent from the city, that
she had in some measure been banished from the
remembrance of the gentleman, but the recollections
of Sarah were more vivid. There is a period
in the life of every woman, when she may be said
to be predisposed to love—it is at the happy age
when infancy is lost in opening maturity—when the
guileless heart beats with the joyous anticipations
of life which the truth can never realize, and when
the imagination forms images of perfection that
are copied after its own unsullied visions---it was
at this age that Sarah left the city, and she had
brought with her a picture of futurity, faintly impressed,
it is true, but which gained durability
from her solitude, and in which Wellmere had
been placed in the fore-ground. The surprise of
the meeting had in some measure overpowered
her, and after receiving the salutations of the colonel,
she had risen, in compliance with a signal
from her observant aunt, to withdraw.

“Then, sir,” observed Miss Peyton, after listening
to the surgeon's account of his young patient,
“we may be flattered with the expectations that
he will recover.”

“'Tis certain, madam,” returned the doctor,
endeavouring, out of respect to the ladies, to replace
his wig, “'tis certain with care and good
nursing.”

“In those he shall not be wanting,” said the
spinster mildly. “Every thing we have he can
command, and Major Dunwoodie has despatched
an express for his sister.”

“His sister,” echoed the practitioner with a
look of particular meaning; “if the Major has sent
for her, she will come.”

“Her brother's danger would induce her, one
would imagine.”

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

“No doubt, madam,” continued the doctor laconically,
bowing low, and giving room to the ladies
to pass. The words and the manner were
not lost on the younger sister, in whose presence
the name of Dunwoodie was never mentioned unheeded.

“Sir,” cried Dr. Sitgreaves, on entering the parlour,
addressing himself to the only coat of scarlet
in the room, “I am advised you are in want of my
aid. God send 'tis not Captain Lawton with whom
you came in contact, in which case I may be too
late.”

“There must be some mistake, sir,” said Wellmere
haughtily; “it was a surgeon that Major
Dunwoodie was to send me, and not an old woman.”

“'Tis Dr. Sitgreaves,” said Henry Wharton
quickly, though with difficulty suppressing a laugh,
“the multitude of his engagements to-day has
prevented his usual attention to his attire.”

“Your pardon, sir,” added Wellmere, but very
ungraciously, proceeding to lay aside his coat and
exhibit, what he called, a wounded arm.

“If, sir,” said the surgeon drily, “the degrees
of Edinburgh—walking your London hospitals—
amputating some hundreds of limbs—operating on
the human frame in every shape that is warranted
by the lights of science, a clear conscience, and
the commission of the Continental Congress, can
make a surgeon, then am I one.”

“Your pardon, sir,” repeated the colonel stiffly.
“Captain Wharton has accounted for my error.”

“For which I thank Captain Wharton,” said
the surgeon, proceeding coolly to arrange his amputating
instruments with a formality that made
the colonel's blood run cold. “Where are you
hurt, sir? What, is it then this scratch in the

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

shoulder? In what manner might you have received
this wound, sir?”

“From the sword of a rebel dragoon,” said
the colonel, with emphasis.

“Never,” exclaimed the surgeon as positively.
“Even the gentle George Singleton would not
have breathed on you so harmlessly.” He took
a piece of sticking plaster from his pocket and applied
it to the part. “There, sir, that will answer
your purpose, and I am certain it is all that is required
of me.”

“What do you take to be my purpose, then,
sir,” said the colonel fiercely.

“To report yourself wounded in your despatches,”
replied the doctor with great steadiness;
“and you may say that an old woman dressed
your hurts, for if one did not, one easily might?”

“Very extraordinary language,” muttered the
Englishman.

Here Captain Wharton interfered, and by explaining
the mistake of Colonel Wellmere to proceed
from his irritated mind and pain of body, he
in part succeeded in mollifying the insulted practitioner,
who consented to look further into the
hurts of the other. They were chiefly bruises from
his fall, to which Sitgreaves made some hasty applications,
and withdrew.

The horse, having taken their required refreshment,
prepared to fall back to their intended
position, and it became incumbent on Dunwoodie
to arrange the disposal of his prisoners. Sitgreaves
he determined to leave in the cottage of
Mr. Wharton in attendance on Captain Singleton.
Henry came to him with a request that Colonel
Wellmere might also be left behind under his
parole, until the troops marched higher into the
country. To this the major cheerfully assented,
and as all the rest of his prisoners were of the vulgar

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

herd, they were speedily collected, and, under the
care of a strong guard, ordered to the interior.
The dragoons soon after marched, and the guides,
separating in small parties, accompanied by patroles
from the horse, spread themselves across
the country in such a manner, as to make a chain
of sentinels from the waters of the Sound to the
Hudson.

Dunwoodie himself had lingered in front of the
cottage, after he paid his parting compliments for
the time, with an unwillingness to return, that he
thought proceeded from solicitude for his wounded
friends. The heart which has not become
callous, soon sickens with the glory that has been
purchased with a waste of human life. Peyton
Dunwoodie, left to himself, and no longer excited
by the visions which youthful ardour had kept
before him throughout the day, began to feel
there were other ties, than those which bound the
soldier within the rigid rules of honor. He did
not waver in his duty, yet he felt how strong was
the temptation. His blood had ceased to flow
with the impulse created by the battle. The
stern expression of his eye gradually gave place
to a look of softness; and his reflections on the
victory, brought with them no satisfaction that
compensated for the sacrifices by which it had
been purchased. While turning his last lingering
gaze on the Locusts, he remembered only that it
contained all that he most valued. The friend of
his youth was a prisoner, under circumstances that
endangered both life and honor. The gentle
companion of his toils, who could throw around
the rude enjoyments of a soldier, the graceful
mildness of peace, lay a bleeding victim to his
success. The image of the maid, who had held
during the day a disputed sovereignty in his

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

bosom, again rose to his view with a loveliness that
banished her rival, glory, from his mind.

The last lagging trooper of the corps had already
disappeared behind the Northern hill, and the major
unwillingly turned his horse in the same direction.
Frances, impelled by a restless inquietude, now
timidly ventured on the piazza of the cottage.
The day had been mild and clear, and the sun
was shining brightly in a cloudless sky. The
tumult, which so lately disturbed the valley, was
succeeded by the stillness of death, and the fair
scene before her looked as if it had never been
marred by the passions of men. One solitary
cloud, the collected smoke of the contest, hung
over the field; and this was gradually dispersing, as
if no vestige of its origin was worthy to hover
above the peaceful graves of its victims. All
the conflicting feelings—all the tumultuous circumstances
of the eventful day, for a moment,
appeared to the maid like the deceptions of a
troubled vision. She turned and caught a glimpse
of the retreating figure, who had been so conspicuous
an actor in the scene, and the illusion
vanished. Frances recognised her lover, and with
the truth, came other recollections that drove her
to her room, with a heart as sad as that which
Dunwoodie himself bore from the valley.

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