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Edward Morton kept his promise. Before the dawn
of the following day he released his kinsman from his
prison. He had previously sent his followers out of
the way—all save the landlord, Muggs—who could
scarcely be counted one of them—and some two or
three more upon whom he thought he could rely. He
was not without sufficient motive for this caution.—He
had his apprehensions of that unruly and insubordinate
spirit which they had already shown, and which, baffled
of its expected victim, he reasonably believed might
once more display itself in defiance. A strange idea of
honour prompted him at all hazards to set free the person,
the destruction of whom would have been to him
a source of the greatest satisfaction. Contradictions of
this sort are not uncommon among minds which have
been subject to conflicting influences. It was not a
principle, but pride, that moved him to this magnanimity.
Even Edward Conway, boasting of his connexion
with the most atrocious ruffians, would have
felt a sense of shame to have acted otherwise.

The noble animal which Clarence rode was restored
to him at his departure. Morton, also mounted, accompanied
him, in silence, for a mile beyond the secluded
spot which the robbers had chosen for their temporary
refuge. He then spoke at parting.

“Colonel Conway, your path is free, and you are
also! Before you lies the road to the Wateree, with

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which you are sufficiently acquainted. Here we separate.
I have fulfilled my pledges. When next we meet
I shall remind you of yours. Till then, farewell.”

He did not wait for an answer, but striking his rowel
fiercely into the flanks of his horse, he gallopped rapidly
back to the place which he had left. The eye of Clarence
followed him with an expression of stern defiance, not
unmingled with sadness, while he replied:

“I will not fail thee, be that meeting when it may.
Sad as the necessity is, I will not shrink from it. I, too,
have my wrongs to avenge, Edward Conway. I, too,
acknowledge that instinct of hate from the beginning,
which will make a labour of love of this work of vengeance.
I have striven, but fruitlessly, for its suppression,—
now let it have its way. The hand of fate is in
it. We have never loved each other. We have both
equally doubted, distrusted, disliked—and these instincts
have strengthened with our strength, grown with our
growth, and their fruits are here. Shall I, alone, regret
them? Shall they revolt my feelings only? No! I
have certainly no fear—I shall endeavour to free myself
from all compunction! Let the strife come when it may,
be sure I shall be the last to say, `hold off—are we not
brethren?' You fling away the ties of blood, do you?
Know from me, Edward Conway, that in flinging away
these ties, you fling from you your only security. They
have often protected you from my anger before—they
shall protect you no longer.”

And slowly, and solemnly, while the youth spoke,
did he wave his open palm toward the path taken by
his brother. But he wasted no more time in soliloquy.
Prudence prompted him, without delay, to avail himself
of the freedom which had been given him. He knew
not what pursuers might be upon his path. He was
not satisfied that his kinsman would still be true, without
evasion, to the assurances which he had given in a
mood of unwonted magnanimity. He plied his spurs
freely, therefore, and his steed acknowledged the
governing impulse. Another moment found him pressing
toward the swamp. But he had scarcely

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commenced his progress, when a well-known voice reached
his ears, in a friendly summons to stop; while, on one
hand, emerging from the forest came riding out his
faithful friend and adherent, Jack Bannister.

“Ah, true and trusty, Jack. Ever watchful. Ever
mindful of your friend—worth a thousand friends—I
might well have looked to see you as nigh to me in
danger as possible. I owe you much, Jack—very much.
It was you, then, as I thought, whose rifle—”

“Worked that chap's buttonhole,” was the answer
of the woodman, with a chuckle, as, shaking the long,
ungainly, but unerring instrument, aloft, with one hand,
he grasped with the other the extended hand of his
superior. “I couldn't stand to see the fellow handle
you roughly, no how. It made the gall bile up within
me; and though I knowed that 'twould bring the whole
pack out upon me, and was mighty dub'ous that it
would make the matter worse for you; yet I couldn't
work it out no other way. I thought you was gone
for good and all, and that made me sort of desp'rate.
I didn't pretty much know what I was a-doing, and
'tmought be that Polly Longlips (here he patted the rifle
affectionately) went off herself, for I don't think I sighted
her. If I had, Clarence, I don't think the drop would
ha' been on the button of him that tumbled. I'm a
thinking 'twould ha' drawn blood that was a mighty
sight more nigh to your'n, if there was any good reason
that your father had for giving Edward Conway the
name he goes by. I suppose, Clarence, you're pretty
nigh certain now that he's no ra'al, proper kin of your'n,
for you to be keeping him out of harm's way, and getting
into it yourself on account of him.”

“And yet, he saved me from those ruffians, Jack.”

“Dog's meat! Clarence, and what of that? Wa'nt
it him that got you into their gripe; and wouldn't he
been worse than any sarpent that ever carried p'ison
at the root of his tongue, if he hadn't ha' saved you,
after what you'd done for him jest afore? Don't talk
to me of his saving you, Clarence—don't say any thing
more in his favour, or I'll stuff my ears with moss and

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pine gum whenever you open your lips to speak. You've
stood by him long enough, and done all that natur'
called for, and more than was nateral. Half the men I
know, if they had ever been saved by any brother, as
you've been saved by him, would ha' sunk a tooth into
his heart that wouldn't ha' worked its way out in one
winter, no how. But you've done with him now, I
reckon; and if you aint, I'm done with you. There'll
be no use for us to travel together, if you aint ready to
use your knife agen Edward Conway the same as agen
any other tory.”

“Be satisfied, Jack. I'm sworn to it—nay, pledged
to him by oath—when we next meet to make our battle
final. It was on this condition that he set me free.”

“Well, he's not so mean a skunk after all, if he's
ready to fight it out. I didn't think he was bold enough
for that. But it's all the better. I only hope that when
the time comes, I'll be the one to see fair play. I'll
stand beside you, and if he flattens you,—which, God
knows, I don't think its in one of his inches to do—
why, he'll only have to flatten another. It's cl'ar to
you now, Clarence, that you knows all about him.”

“Yes! He is the leader of the Black Riders. He
declared it with his own lips.”

“When he could'nt help it no longer. Why, Clarence,
he 'twas that sent them fellows a'ter you that tuk
you. I didn't see it, but I knows it jest the same as if
I did. But, though you know that he's a tory and a
Black Rider, there's a thousand villanies he's been
doing ever since we played together that you know
nothing about; and I'm 'minded of one in preticular
that happened when you was at college in England, by
the coming of old Jacob Clarkson!—You 'member Jake
Clarkson that planted a short mile from your father's
place, don't you?—he had a small patch of farm, and
did boating along the river, like myself.”

“Yes, very well—I remember him.”

“Well, him I mean. Old Jake had a daughter—I
reckon you don't much remember her, Mary Clarkson—
as spry and sweet a gal as ever man set eyes on.

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I had a liking for the gal—I own it, Clarence—and if
so be things hadn't turned out as they did, well, I mought
ha' married her. But it's a God's blessing I didn't; for
you see Edward Conway got the better of her, and
'fore Jake know'd any thing about it, poor Mary was
a-carrying a bundle she had no law to carry. When
they pushed the gal about it, she confessed 'twas Edward
Conway's doings; and she told a long gal's story
how Edward had promised to marry her, and swore it
on Holy Book, and all that sort of thing, which was
pretty much out of reason and nature,—not for him to
speak it, but for her to be such a child as to believe it.
But no matter. The stir was mighty great about it.
Old Jake carried a rifle more than three months for
Edward Conway, and he took that time to make his
first trip to Florida, where, I'm thinking, bad as he was
before, he larn'd to be a great deal worse. It was there
that he picked up all his tory notions from having too
much dealing with John Stuart, the Indian agent, who,
you know, is just as bad an inimy of our liberties as
ever come out of the old country. Well, but the worst
is yet to come. Poor Mary couldn't stand the desartion
of Edward Conway and the discovery. Besides, old
Jake was too rough for the poor child, who, you know,
Clarence, was a'most to be pitied; for it's mighty few
women in this world that can say no when they're axed
for favours by a man they have a liking for. Old Jake
was mighty cross; and Molly, his wife, who, by nature,
was a she-tiger, she made her tongue wag night and
day about the sad doing of the poor gal, 'till her heart
was worn down in her bosom, and she didn't dare to
look up, and trembled whenever any body came nigh
to her, and got so wretched and scary at last, that she
went off one night, nobody knows where, and left no
tracks. Well, there was another stir. We were all
turned out on the sarch, and it was my misfortune,
Clarence, to be the first to find out what had become
of her. Dickens! it makes my eyes water to this day!”

“And where did you find her, Jack?”

“Didn't find her, Clarence; but found out the

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miserable end she made of herself. We found her bonnet
and shawl on the banks of the river, but the body we
didn't find. The rocks at the bottom of the Congaree
know all about it, I reckon.”

“I have now a faint recollection of this story, Bannister.
I must have heard it while in England, or soon
after my return.”

“'Twas a bad business, Clarence; and I didn't feel
the smallest part of it. I didn't know till I come across
the gal's bonnet how great a liking I had for her. I
reckon I cried like a baby over it. From that day I
mistrusted Edward Conway worse than p'ison. There
was a-many things long before that, that made me suspicion
him; but after that, Clarence, I always felt, when
I was near him, as if I saw a great snake, a viper, or a
mockasin, and looked all round for a chunk to mash its
head with.”

“And what of her old father, Jack?”

“Why, he's come up to join your troop. I was so
full of thinking 'bout other matters yesterday, when I
saw you, that I quite forgot to tell you. He's been
fighting below with Marion's men, but he wanted to
look at the old range, and so he broke off to go under
Sumter;—but the true story is, I'm thinking, that he's
hearn how Edward Conway is up here somewhere,
a-fighting, and he comes to empty that rifle at his head.
He'll say his prayers over the bullet he uses at him,
and I reckon will make a chop in it, so that he may
know, when his inimy is tumbled, if the shot that does
the business was the one that had a commission for it.”

“And Clarkson is now with us? In the swamp?”

“I left him at the `Big Crossings.' But, Clarence,
don't you say nothing to him about this business. It's
a sore truth for him still, though the matter is so long
gone by. But every thing helps to keep it alive in his
heart. His old woman's gone to her long home; and
though she had a rough tongue and a long one, yet he
was used to her; and when he lost little Mary, and
then her, and the tories burnt his house, it sort-a cut
him up, root and branch, and made him fretful and

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vexatious. But he'll fight, Clarence, like old Blazes—
there's no mistake in him.”

“I will be careful, Jack; but a truce to this. We
have but little time for old histories, and such melancholy
ones as these may well be forgotten. We have
enough before us, sufficiently sad to demand all our
attention and awaken our griefs. To business now,
Jack. We have idled long enough.”

“Ready, Colonel. Say the word.”

“Take the back track, and see after these Black
Riders. We are fairly pledged now to encounter them—
to beat them—to make the cross in blood on the
breast of the very best of them.”

“Edward Conway at the head of them!”

“Edward Conway no longer, John Bannister. He
himself disclaims the name with scorn. Let him have
the name, with the doom which is due to the chief of
the banditti which he leads. That name has saved him
too long already. I rejoice that he now disclaims it,
with all its securities. After him, John Bannister. If
you have skill as a scout, use it now. After what has
passed between us, he will be on my heels very shortly.
He may be even now, with all his band. I must be
prepared for him, and must distrust him. It is therefore
of vast importance that all his movements should be
known. To your discretion I leave it. Away. Find
me in the swamp to-morrow at the Little Crossings.
We must leave it for the Congaree in three days more.
Away. Let your horse find his heels.”

A brief grasp of the hand, and a kind word, terminated
the interview between the youthful partisan and his
trusty follower. The latter dashed abruptly into the
woods bordering the swamp, while the former, taking
an upper route, pursued the windings of the river, till
he reached the point he aimed at. We will not follow
the course of either for the present, but return to the
house of Muggs and the proceedings of the outlawed
captain.

There, every thing had the appearance of a rapid
movement. The troopers, covered by a thick wood,

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were preparing to ride. Horses, ready caparisoned, were
fastened beneath the trees, while their riders, singly or
in groups, were seeking in various ways to while away
the brief interval of time accorded them in the delay of
their chief officer. He, meanwhile, in the wigwam of
Muggs, seemed oppressed by deliberations which baffled
for the time his habitual activity. He sat upon the same
bulk which he had occupied while a prisoner the night
before, and seemed willing to surrender himself to that
fit of abstraction which the landlord, though he watched
it with manifest uneasiness, did not seem bold enough to
interrupt. At length the door of the apartment opened,
and the presence of a third person put an end to the
meditations of the one and the forbearance of the other
party. The intruder was a youth, apparently not more
than seventeen years of age. Such would have been the
impression on any mind, occasioned by his timid bearing
and slender figure; indeed, he would have been called
undersized for seventeen. But there was that in his pale,
well defined features, which spoke for a greater maturity
of thought, if not of time, than belongs to that early
period in life. The lines of his cheeks and mouth were
full of intelligence—that intelligence which results from
early anxieties and the pressure of serious necessities.
The frank, free, heedless indifference of the future, which
shines out in the countenance of boyhood, seemed utterly
obliterated from his face. The brow was already touched
with wrinkles, and seemed strangely at variance with the
short, closely cropped black hair, the ends of which were
apparent beneath the slouched cap of fur he wore. The
features pensive, rather pretty, but awfully pale. Though
they expressed great intelligence and the presence of an
active thought, yet this did not seem to have produced
its usual result in conferring confidence. The look of
the youth was downcast, and when his large dark eyes
ventured to meet those of the speaker, they seemed to
cower and to shrink within themselves; and this desire
appeared to give them an unsteady, dancing motion,
which became painful to the beholder, as it seemed to
indicate apprehension, if not fright, in the proprietor.

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His voice faltered too when he spoke, and was only
made intelligible by his evident effort at deliberateness.
Like that of the rest of the troop, the costume of the
youth was black. A belt of black leather encircled his
waist, in which pistols and a knife were ostentatiously
stuck. Yet how should one so timid be expected to use
them. Trembling in the presence of a friend, what firmness
could he possess in the encounter with a foe?
Where was the nerve, the strength, for the deadly issues
of battle? It seemed, indeed, a mockery of fate, to send
forth so feeble a frame and so fearful a spirit, while the
thunder and the threatening storm were in the sky. But
no such scruples seemed to afflict the chief; nor did he
seem to recognize the timidity of the boy's approach.
Perhaps he ascribed it to the natural effect of his own
stern manner, which was rather increased than softened
as he listened to the assurance which the boy made that
all was ready for a movement.

“You have lingered, sir.”

“Barton and the ensign were not with the rest, sir,
and I had to look for them!”

“So!—plotting again, were they? But they shall
find their match yet! Fools! Blind and deaf fools,
that will not content themselves with being knaves to
their own profit, and press on till they become knaves
to their utter ruin. But go, boy—see that your own
horse is ready; and hark ye, do not be following too
closely at my heels. I have told you repeatedly, keep
the rear when we are advancing, the front only when we
are retreating. Remember.”

The boy bowed humbly and left the room.

“And now, Muggs, you are bursting to speak. I
know why, wherefore, and on what subject. Now, do
you know that I have but to reveal to the troop the suggestion
you made to me last night, to have them tear you
and your house to pieces. Do you forget that desertion
is death, according to your own pledges?”

“I am no longer one of the troop,” replied the landlord
hastily.

“Ay, that may be in one sense, but is scarcely so in

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any other. You are only so far released from your oath
that no one expects you to do active duty. But, let them
hear you speak, even of yourself, as last night you spoke
to me of my policy, and they will soon convince you
that they hold you as fairly bound to them now as you
were when all your limbs were perfect. They will only
release you by tearing what remains asunder.”

“Well, but cappin, suppose they would, as you say.
There's no reason why they should know the advice I
give to you; and there's no reason why you shouldn't
take that advice. We're besot, as I said before, with
dangers. There's Greene with his army, a-gaining ground
every day. There's Sumter, and Marion, and Pickens,
and Mayhew, and—”

`Psha! Muggs, what a d—d catalogue is this; and
what matters it all. Be it as you say, do I not know?
Did I not know at the beginning, of all these dangers.
They do not terrify me now any more than then! These
armies that you speak of are mere skeletons.”

“They give mighty sound knocks for skeletons.
There's that affair at Hobkirk's—”

“Well, did not Rawdon keep the field?”

“Not over long, captain, and now—”

“Look you, Muggs, one word for all. I am sworn to
the troop. I will keep my oath. They shall find no
faltering in me. Living or dead, I stand by them to the
last; and I give you these few words of counsel, if you
would be safe. I will keep secret what you have said to
me, for I believe, you meant all kindly; but let me hear
no more of the same sort of counsel. Another word to
the same effect, and I deliver you over to the tender mercies
of those with whom the shortest prayer is a span too
long for an offender whose rope is ready and whose tree
is near.”

These words were ended as the boy reappeared at the
door and informed the chief that the troop was in motion.
The latter rose and prepared to follow. He shook hands
with the landlord at parting, contenting himself with
saying the single word, “remember!”—in a tone of
sufficient warning—in reply to the other's farewell. In

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this, Edward Morton displayed another sample of the
practised hypocrisy of his character. His first mental
soliloquy after leaving the landlord, was framed in such
language as the following:—

“I like your counsel, Master Muggs, but shall be no
such fool as to put myself in your power by showing
you that I like it. I were indeed a sodden ass, just
at this moment, when half of my troop suspect me of
treachery, to suffer you to hear from my own lips that
I actually looked with favour upon your counsel. Yet the
old fool reasons rightly. This is no region for me now.
It will not be much longer. The British power is passing
away rapidly. Rawdon will not sustain himself
much longer. Cornwallis felt that, and hence his pretended
invasion of Virginia. Invasion, indeed!—a cover
only to conceal his own flight. But what care I for him
or them? My own fame is of sufficient importance, and
that is well nigh up. I deceived myself when I fancied
that the rebels could not sustain themselves through the
campaign, and if I wait to see the hunt up, I shall have
a plentiful harvest from my own folly. No! no! I must
get out of the scrape as well as I can, and with all possible
speed. But no landlords for confidants. A wise
man needs none of any kind. They are for your weak,
dependent, adhesive people; folks who believe in friendships
and loves, and that sort of thing. Loves!—Have
I then none—no love!—Ay, there are a thousand in that
one. If I can win her, whether by fair word or fearless
deed, well!—It will not then be hard to break from these
scoundrels. But here they are!” Such was the train
of Edward Morton's thoughts as he left the landlord.
Followed by the boy of whom we have already spoken,
he cantered forth to the wood where the troop had
formed, aud surveyed them with a keen, searching, soldierly
eye.

Morton was not without military ambition, and certainly
possessed, like his brother, a considerable share of
military talent. His glance expressed pleasure at the
trim, excellent dress and aspect of his troop. Beyond
this, and those common purposes of selfishness which

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had prompted the evil deeds as well of men as leader, he
had no sympathies with them. Even as he looked and
smiled upon their array, the thought rapidly passed
through his mind—

“Could I run their heads into the swamp now, and
withdraw my own, it were no bad finish to a doubtful
game. It must be tried; but I must use them something
farther. They can do good service yet, and no man
should throw away his tools till his work is ended.”

Brief time was given to the examination. Then followed
the instructions to his subordinates, which were
uttered in private, and to each singly. Morton made his
arrangements with some reference to the rumours of disaffection
among his men which had reached his ears.
He took care to separate the suspected officers, in such a
way as to deprive them, for the present, of all chance of
communion;—then, taking the advance, he led them
forward, and was soon found pursuing the track lately
taken by Clarence Conway.

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