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Preceded by the landlord, Muggs, who carried a dark
lantern, Morton took his way to the secluded block-house
in which his kinsman was a prisoner. The only
entrance to this rude fabric was closely watched by the
two persons to whom Clarence was given in charge.
These found shelter beneath a couple of gigantic oaks
which stood a little distance apart from one another,
yet sufficiently nigh to the block-house to enable the
persons in their shadow, while themselves perfectly
concealed, to note the approach of any intruder. Dismissing
them to the tavern, the chief of the Black
Riders assigned to Muggs the duty of the watch, and
having given him all necessary instructions, he entered
the prison, the door of which was carefully fastened behind
him by the obedient landlord.

The lantern which he bore, and which he set down
in one corner of the apartment, enabled Clarence to
distinguish his brother at a glance; but the youth
neither stirred nor spoke as he beheld him. His mind,
in the brief interval which had elapsed after their violent
separation in the tavern, had been busily engaged in
arriving at that stage of stern resignation, which left
him comparatively indifferent to any evils which might
then occur. Unable to form any judgment upon the
course of his brother's future conduct, he was not prepared
to say how far he might be willing to go, and
how soon, in permitting to his sanguinary troop the

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indulgence of their bloody will. Wisely, then, he had
steeled his mind against the worst, resolved, if he had
to suffer death in an obscurity so little desired by the
youthful and ambitious heart, to meet its bitter edge
with as calm a countenance as he should like to display
under a similar trial, in the presence of a thousand
spectators.

Edward Morton had evidently made great efforts to
work his mind up to a similar feeling of stern indifference;
but he had not been so successful, although,
at the moment, untroubled by any of those apprehensions
which were sufficiently natural to the situation of
his brother. His face might have been seen to vary in
colour and expression as his eye turned upon the spot
where Clarence was sitting. The moral strength was
wanting in his case which sustained the latter. The
consciousness of guilt enfeebled, in some degree, a
spirit, whose intense selfishness alone, were he unpossessed
of any other more decisive characteristics, must
have been the source of no small amount of firmness
and courage. As if ashamed, however, of his feebleness,
and determined to brave the virtue which he still
felt himself compelled to respect, he opened the conference
by a remark, the tone and tenor of which were
intended to seem exulting and triumphant.

“So, Colonel Conway, you find your wisdom has
been at fault. You little fancied that you were half so
intimate with that fierce bandit—that renowned chieftain,
of whom report speaks so loudly. It does not
need that I should introduce you formally to the captain
of the Black Riders of Congaree.”

The youth looked up and fixed his eye steadily on
that of the speaker. Severe, indeed, but full of a manly
sorrow, was the expression of that glance.

“Edward Conway,” he replied, after a brief delay,
“you do not deceive me by that tone—nay, you do not
deceive yourself. Your heart, instead of exultation,
feels at this moment nothing but shame. Your eye
gazes not steadily on mine. Your spirit is not that of
a fearless man. You shrink, Edward Conway, in spite

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of your assumed boldness, with all the cowardice of a
guilty soul.”

“Cowardice!—do you charge me with cowardice?”

“Ay, what else than cowardice has made you descend
to the subterfuge and the trick—to the base disguise
and the baser falsehood? These, too, to your
brother, even at the moment when he was risking his
own life to rescue that which you have dishonoured
for ever.”

“I will prove to you, in due season, that I am no
coward, Clarence Conway,” replied the other, in hoarse
and nearly undistinguishable accents; “you, at least,
are seeking to convince me that you are none, in thus
bearding the lion in his den.”

“The lion! Shame not that noble beast by any such
comparison. The fox will better suit your purpose and
performance.”

With a strong effort the outlaw kept down his temper,
while he replied:

“I will not suffer you to provoke me, Clarence Conway.
I have sought you for a single object, and that I
will perform. After that—that over—and the provocation
shall be met and welcomed. Now!—”

The other fiercely interrupted him, as he exclaimed:

“Now, be it if you will. Free my hands—cut asunder
these degrading bonds which you have fixed upon
the arms whose last offices were employed in freeing
yours, and in your defence, and here, in this dungeon,
breast to breast, let us carry out that strife to its fit
completion, which your evil passion, your cupidity, or
hate, have so dishonestly begun. I know not, Edward
Conway, what perversity of heart has brought you to
this wretched condition—to the desertion of your
friends, your country—the just standards of humanity—
the noble exactions of truth. You have allied yourself
to the worst of ruffians, in the worst of practices,
without even the apology of that worst of causes which
the ordinary tory pleads in his defence. You cannot
say that your loyalty to the king prompts you to the
side you have taken, for I myself have heard you

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declare against him a thousand times; unless, indeed, I
am to understand that even ere we left the hearth and
burial-place of our father, you had begun that career of
falsehood in which you have shown yourself so proficient.
But I seek not for the causes of your present
state; for the wrongs and the dishonour done me. If
you be not utterly destitute of manhood, cut these
bonds, and let the issue for life or death between us
determine which is right.”

“There! You have your wish, Clarence Conway.”
And as he spoke, he separated the cords with his hunting-knife,
and the partisan extended his limbs in all the
delightful consciousness of recovered freedom.

“You are so far free, Clarence Conway! your limbs
are unbound, but you are unarmed. I restore you the
weapon with which you this day provided me. It
would now be easy for you to take the life of him whom
you so bitterly denounce. I have no weapon to defend
myself; my bosom is without defence.”

“What mean you? Think you that I would rush on
you unarmed—that I seek unfair advantage?”

“No, Clarence—for your own sake and safety, I
would not fight you now.”

“Why for my safety?” demanded the partisan.

“For the best of reasons. Were you to succeed in
taking my life, it would avail you nothing, and your
own would be forfeit. You could not escape from this
place, and fifty weapons would be ready to avenge my
death.”

“Why, then, this mockery—this cutting loose my
bonds—this providing me with weapons?” demanded
Clarence.

“You shall see. You know not yet my desire.
Hear me. My purpose is to acquit myself wholly of
the debt I owe you, so that, when we do meet, there
shall be nothing to enfeeble either of our arms, or
diminish their proper execution. Once to-night I have
saved you, even at the peril of my own life, from the
fury of my followers. I have already severed your
bonds. I have restored your weapon, and before the

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dawn of another day, the fleet limbs of your own
charger shall secure your freedom. This done, Clarence
Conway, I shall feel myself acquitted of all those
burdensome obligations which, hitherto, have made me
suppress the natural feelings of my heart—the objects
of my mind—the purposes of interest, ambition, love—
all of which depend upon your life. So long as you
live, I live not—so long as you breathe, my breath is
drawn with doubt, difficulty, and in danger. Your life
has been in my hands, but I could not take it while I
was indebted to you for my own. By to-morrow's
dawn I shall be acquitted of the debt—I shall have
given you life for life, and liberty for liberty. After
that, when we next meet, my gifts shall be scorn for
scorn and blow for blow. You have my purpose.”

Clarence Conway heard him with patience, but with
mixed feelings. He was about to reply in a similar
spirit, but a nobler sentiment arose in his bosom with
the momentary pause which he allowed himself for
thought. He kept down the gushing blood which was
about to pour itself forth in defiance from his labouring
breast, and spoke as follows:

“I will not say, Edward Conway, what I might
safely utter, of my own indifference to your threats.
Nay, were I to obey the impulses which are now striving
within me for utterance, I should rather declare how
happy it would make me were the hour of that struggle
arrived. But there are reasons that speak loudly
against the wish. For your sake, for our father's sake,
Edward Conway, I would pray that we might never
meet again.”

“Pshaw,—these are whining follies! The cant of
the girl or the puritan. They do not impose on me.
Thy father's sake and mine, indeed! Say nothing for
yourself—for your own sake—oh, no! no! you have
no considerations of self—none. Philanthropic, patriotic
gentleman!”

The keen eye of Clarence flashed scornfully as he
listened to this sneer. He bit his lip to restrain his

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emotion, and once more replied, but it was no longer in
the language of forbearance.

“I am not unwilling to say for my sake also, Edward
Conway. Even to you, I need not add, that no
mean sentiment of fear governs me in the expression.
Fear I have of no man. Fear of you, Edward Conway,—
you, in your present degraded attitude and base condition—
the leagued with ruffians and common stabbers—
a traitor and a liar!—Fear of you I could not have!
Nor do you need that I should tell you this. You feel
it in your secret soul. You know that I never feared
you in boyhood, and cannot fear you now. My frequent
experience of your powers and my own, makes
me as careless of your threats, as that natural courage
which belongs to my blood and mind makes me insensible
to the threats of others. Go to—you cannot bully
me. I scorn—I utterly despise you.”

“Enough, enough, Colonel Conway. We understand
each other,” cried the outlaw, almost convulsed with
his emotions. “We are quits from this hour. Henceforward
I fling the ties of blood to the winds. As I do
not feel them, I will not affect them. I acknowledge
them no more. I am not your father's son—not your
brother. I forswear, and from this moment I shall for ever
deny the connexion. I have no share in the base puddle
which fills your veins. Know me, henceforth, for a
nobler spirit. I glory in the name which scarces your
puny legions. I am the chief of the Black Riders of
Congaree—that fell banditti which makes your women
shiver and your warriors shake,—upon whom you
invoke and threaten vengeance equally in vain. I care
not to be distinguished by any other name or connexion.
You I shall only know as one to whom I am
pledged for battle, and whom I am sworn to destroy.
You know not, forsooth, what has driven me to this
position! I will tell you here, once for all, and the answer,
I trust, will conclude your doubts for ever. Hate
for you—for you only! I hated you from your cradle
with an instinct which boyhood hourly strengthened,

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and manhood rendered invincible. I shall always hate
you; and if I have temporized, heretofore, and forborne
the declaration of the truth, it was only the more
effectually to serve and promote purposes which were
necessary to that hate. That time, and the necessity
of forbearance are at an end. I can speak, and speak
freely, the full feeling of my soul. Accident has revealed
to you what, perhaps, I should have wished for a while
longer to withhold; but that known, it is now my pride
to have no farther concealments. I repeat, therefore,
that I loathe you from my soul, Clarence Conway, and
when I have fairly acquitted myself of the debt I owe
you, by sending you to your swamp in safety, I shall
then seek, by every effort, to overcome and destroy
you. Do you hear me—am I at last understood?”

“I hear you,” replied Clarence Conway, with a tone
calm, composed, even; and with looks unmoved, and
even sternly contemptuous. “I hear you. Your violence
does not alarm me, Edward Conway. I look
upon you as a madman. As for your threats! Pshaw,
man! You almost move me to deal in clamours like
your own. Let us vapour here no longer. I accept your
terms. Give me my freedom, and set all your ruffians
on the track. I make no promise—I utter no threat—
but if I fail to take sweet revenge for the brutal outrages
to which I have this night been subjected by
you and all, then may Heaven fall me in my dying
hour.”

“We are pledged, Clarence Conway,” said the outlaw;
“before daylight I will conduct you from this
place. Your horse shall be restored to you. You
shall be free. I then know you no more—I fling from
me the name of kinsman.”

“Not more heartily than I. Black Rider, bandit,
outlaw, or ruffian! I shall welcome you to the combat
by any name sooner than that which my father has
made sacred in my ears.”

Morton bestowed a single glance on the speaker, in
which all the hellish hate spoke out which had so long

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been suppressed, yet working in his bosom. The latter
met the glance with one more cool and steady, if far
less full of malignity.

“Be it then as he wills it!” he exclaimed, when the
outlaw had retired; “he shall find no foolish tenderness
hereafter in my heart, working for his salvation!
If we must meet—if he will force it upon me, then God
have mercy upon us both, for I will have none! It is
his own seeking. Let him abide it! And yet, would
to God that this necessity may pass me by! Some
other arm—some other weapon than mine may do me
justice, and acquit me of this cruel duty!”

Long and earnest that night was the prayer of Clarence,
that he might be spared from that strife which,
so far, threatened to be inevitable. Yet he made not
this prayer because of any affection—which, under the
circumstances, must have been equally misplaced and
unnatural—which he bore his kinsman. They had
never loved. The feelings of brotherhood had been
unfelt by either. Their moods had been warring from
the first—it does not need that we should inquire why.
The sweet dependencies of mutual appeal and confidence
were unknown to, and unexercised by, either;
and, so far as their sympathies were interested, Clarence,
like the other, would have felt no more scruple at encountering
Edward Conway in battle, than in meeting
any indifferent person who was equally his own and
the foe of his country. But there was something
shocking to the social sense in such a conflict which
prompted the prayers of the youth that it might be
averted; and this prayer, it may be added, was only
made when the excitement which their conference had
induced, was partly over. His prayer was one of
reflection and the mind. His blood took no part in the
entreaty. At moments, when feeling, moved by memory,
obtained the ascendency—even while he strove
in prayer—the boon which he implored was forgotten,
and, rising from his knees, he thought of nothing but
the sharp strife and the vengeance which it promised.

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Perhaps, indeed, this mood prevailed even after the
supplication was ended. It mingled in with the feelings
which followed it, and whenever they became
excited, the revulsion ceased entirely, which a more
deliberate thought of the subject necessarily occasioned.

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