[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]

By evening of the same day, the scouts made their
appearance, and their reports were such as to determine
the captain of the Black Riders to cross the Congaree
and pursue his objects, whatever they might be,
along its southern banks. Sufficient time for rest had
been allotted to his troop. He believed they had employed
it as assigned, little dreaming how busy some
of them had been, in the concoction of schemes, which,
if in character not unlike his own, were scarcely such
as were congenial with his authority or his desires.
But these are matters for the future.

Though resolved on crossing the river, yet, as the
chosen ferry lay several miles below, it became necessary
to sound to horse; and about dusk the troop was
again put in motion, and continued on their route till
midnight. They had compassed but a moderate distance
in this space of time, moving as they did with
great precaution—slowly, of course, as was necessary
while traversing a country supposed to be in the full
possession of an enemy, and over roads, which, in those
days, were neither very distinct, nor fairly open, nor in
the best condition. They reached the ferry, but halted
for the remainder of the night without making any
effort to cross. At the dawn of day, Mary Clarkson,
still seemingly a boy, was one of the first, stealing
along the bank of the river, to remark the exquisite
beauty of the prospect which on every side opened
upon her eye. The encampment of the Black Riders
had been made along the river bluff, but sufficiently

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removed from its edge to yield the requisite degree of
woodland shelter. The spot chosen for the purpose
was a ridge unusually elevated for that portion of the
stream, which is commonly skirted by an alluvial bottom
of the richest swamp undergrowth. This, on either
hand, lay below, while the river, winding upon its way
in the foreground, was as meek and placid as if it never
knew obstacle or interruption. Yet, but a few miles
above, how constant had been its strife with the rocks—
how unceasing its warring clamours. But a few of
these obstructions, and these were obstructions in appearance
only, occurred immediately at the point before
us; and these, borne down by the violence of the
conflict carried on above, might seem rather the trophies
of its own triumph which the river brought away
with it in its downward progress; serving rather to
overcome the monotony of its surface, and increase the
picturesque of its prospect, than as offering any new
obstacle, or as provoking to any farther strife. Its
waters broke with a gentle violence on their rugged
tops, and passed over and around them with a slight
murmur, which was quite as clearly a murmur of merriment
as one of annoyance. Around, the foliage grew
still in primitive simplicity. There, the long-leafed
pine, itself the evidence of a forest undishonoured by
the axe, reared its lofty brow, soaring and stooping, a
giant surveying his domain. About him, not inferior in
pride and majesty, though perhaps inferior in height, were
a numerous growth of oaks, of all the varieties common
to the region;—tributary, as beauty still must ever be
to strength, were the rich and various hues of the bay,
the poplar, the dogwood, and the red bud of the sassafras—
all growing and blooming in a profligate luxuriance,
unappreciated and unemployed, as if the tastes
of the Deity, quite as active as his benevolence, found
their own sufficient exercise in the contemplation of
such a treasure, though man himself were never to be
created for its future enjoyment. But beyond lay a
prospect in which art, though co-operating with nature
to the same end, had proved herself a dangerous rival.

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Stretching across the stream, the eye took in, at a
glance, the territory of one of those proud baronial privileges
of Carolina—the seat of one of her short-lived
nobility—broad fields, smooth-shaven lawns, green meadows
melting away into the embrace of the brown
woods—fair gardens—moss-covered and solemn groves;
and, in the midst of all, and over all—standing upon the
crown of a gently slopinghill, one of those stern, strong,
frowning fabrics of the olden time, which our ancestors
devised to answer the threefold purposes of the dwelling,
the chapel, and the castle for defence. There, when
the courage of the frontier-men first broke ground, and
took possession, among the wild and warlike hunters
of the Santee, the Congaree, and the Saluda, did the
gallant General Middleton plant his towers, amidst a
region of great perils, but of great natural beauty. With
a fearless soul, he united an exquisite taste, and for its
indulgence he was not unwilling to encounter the perils
of the remote wilderness to which he went. Perhaps,
too, the picturesque of the scenery was heightened to
his mind by the dangers which were supposed to environ
it; and the forest whose frowning shades discouraged
most others, did not lose any of its attractions in his
sight, because it sometimes tasked him to defend his
possessions by the strong arm and the ready weapon.
The bear disputed with him the possession of the
honey-tree; and the red man, starting up, at evening,
from the thicket, not unfrequently roused him with his
fearful halloo, to betake himself to those defences, which
made his habitation a fortress no less than a dwelling.
But these, which are difficulties to the slothful, and
terrors to the timid, gave a zest to adventure, which
sweetens enterprise in the estimation of the brave; and
it did not lessen the value of Briar Park to its first
proprietor because he was sometimes driven to stand a
siege from the red men of the Congaree. But the red
men disappeared, and with them the daring adventurer
who planted his stakes, among the first, in the bosom
of their wild possessions. He, too, followed them at the
appointed season; and his proud old domains fell into

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the hands of gentler proprietors. Under the countenance
of her venerable grandmother, Flora Middleton—
truly a rose in the wilderness—blossomed almost
alone; at a time when the region in which the barony
stood, was covered with worse savages than even the
Congarees had been in the days of their greatest license.
But the besom of war—which swept the country as
with flame and sword—had paused in its ravages at
this venerated threshold. With whig and tory alike,
the name of old General Middleton, the patriarch of the
Congaree country, was held equally sacred;—and the
lovely granddaughter who inherited his wealth, though
celebrated equally as a belle and a rebel, was suffered
to hold her estates and opinions without paying those
heavy penalties which, in those days, the possession of
either was very likely to incur. Some trifling exceptions
to this general condition of indulgence might
occasionally take place. Sometimes a marauding party
trespassed upon the hen-roost, or made a bolder foray
into the cattle-yard and store-houses; but these petty
depredations sunk out of sight in comparison with the
general state of insecurity and robbery which prevailed
every where else. The more serious annoyances to
which the inhabitants of Briar Park were subject, arose
from the involuntary hospitality which they were compelled
to exercise towards the enemies of their country.
Flora Middleton had been forced to receive with
courtesy the “amiable” Cornwallis, and the brutal Ferguson;
and to listen with complacency to words of softened
courtesy and compliment from lips which had just
before commanded to the halter a score of her countrymen,
innocent of all offence, except that of defending,
with the spirit of manhood and filial love, the soil which
gave them birth. The equally sanguinary and even
more stern Rawdon—the savage Tarleton, and the
fierce and malignant Cunningham, had also been her
uninvited guests, to whom she had done the honours
of the house with the grace and spirit natural to her
name and education, but never at the expense of her
patriotism. “My fair foe, Flora,” was the phrase with
which—with unaccustomed urbanity of temper, Lord

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Cornwallis was wont to acknowledge, but never to
resent, in any other way—the boldness of her spoken
sentiments. These she declared, with equal modesty
and firmness, whenever their expression became necessary;
and keen as might be her sarcasm, it bore with
it its own antidote, in the quiet, subdued, ladylike tone
in which it was uttered, and the courteous manner
which accompanied it. Grace and beauty may violate
many laws with impunity, and praise, not punishments,
will still follow the offender. Such was the happy fortune
of Flora Middleton—one of those youthful beauties
of Carolina, whose wit, whose sentiment, pride and
patriotism, acknowledged equally by friend and foe,
exercised a wondrous influence over the events of the
war, which is yet to be acknowledged in a becoming
manner.

The poor outcast, Mary Clarkson—a beauty, also, at
one time, in her rustic sphere, and one whose sensibilities
had been unhappily heightened by the very arts
employed by her seducer to effect her ruin—gazed,
with a mournful sentiment of satisfaction, at the sweet
and picturesque beauty of the scene. Already was she
beginning to lose herself in that dreamy languor of
thought which hope itself suggests to the unhappy as a
means to escape from wo, when she found her reckless
betrayer suddenly standing by her side.

“Ha, Mary, you are on the look-out, I see—you have
a taste, I know. What think you of the plantations
opposite. See how beautifully the lawn slopes up from
the river to the foot of the old castle, a glimpse of whose
gloomy, frowning visage, meets your eye through that
noble grove of water oaks that link their arms across
the passage and conceal two-thirds—no less—of the
huge fabric to which they lead. There now, to the right,
what a splendid field of corn—what an ocean of green
leaves. On the left do you see a clump of oaks and
sycamores,—there, to itself, away—a close dense clump,
on a little hillock, itself a sort of emerald in the clearing
around it. There stands the vault—the tomb of the
Middleton family. Old Middleton himself sleeps there,
if he can be said to sleep at all, for they tell strange

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stories of his nightly rambles after wolves and copperskins.
You may see a small gray spot, like a chink of
light, peeping out of the grove—that is the tomb. It is
a huge, square apartment,—I have been in it more than
once,—partly beneath and partly above the ground, and
has hid many more living than it will ever hold dead
men. I owe it thanks for more than one concealment
myself.”

“You?”

“Yes! I have had a very comfortable night's rest
in it, all things considered; and the probability is not
small that we shall take our sleep in it to-night. How
like you the prospect?”

The girl shuddered. He did not care for any other
answer, but proceeded.

“In that old cage of Middleton there is a bird of
sweetest song, whom I would set free. Do you guess
what I mean, Mary?”

The girl confessed her ignorance.

“You are dull, Mary, but you shall grow wiser before
long. Enough for the present—we must set the
troop in motion. A short mile below and we find our
crossing place, and then—hark you, Mary, you must
keep a good look-out to-night. If there was mischief
yesterday, it is not yet cured. There is more to-day.
I shall expect you to watch to-night, while I prey.”

He chuckled at the passing attempt at a sort of wit,
in which, to do him justice, he did not often indulge,
and the point of which his companion did not perceive,—
then continued:

“Perhaps it should be `prowl' rather than watch.
Though, to prowl well requires the best of watching.
You must do both. You prowl while I prey—do you
understand?”

He had given a new form to his phrase, by which he
made his humour obvious; and, satisfied with this, he
proceeded more seriously.

“Give up your dumps, girl. It will not be the worse
for you that things turn out to please me. These

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rascals must be watched, and I can now trust none to
watch them but yourself.”

At this confession, her reproachful eyes were turned
full and keenly upon his. He had betrayed the trust
of the only being in whom he could place his own.
What a commentary on his crime—on his cruel indifference
to the victim of it! He saw in her eyes the
meaning which her lips did not declare.

“Yes, it is even so,” he said,—“and women were
made for this, and they must expect it. Born to be
dependants, it is enough that we employ you; and if
your expectations were fewer and humbler, your chance
for happiness would be far greater. Content yourself
now with the conviction that you have a share in my
favour, and all will go well with you. The regards of
a man are not to be contracted to the frail and unsatisfying
compass of one girl's heart; unless, indeed, as
you all seem to fancy, that love is the sole business of
a long life. Love is very well for boys and girls, but
it furnishes neither the food nor the exercise for manhood.
If you expect it, you live in vain. Your food
must be the memories of your former luxuries. Let it
satisfy you, Mary, that I loved you once.”

“Never, Edward—you never loved me;—not even
when my confidence in your love lost me the love of
all other persons. This knowledge I have learned by
knowing how I have myself loved, and by comparing
my feelings with the signs of love in you. In learning
to know how little I have been loved, I made the discovery
of your utter incapacity to love.”

“And why, pray you?” he demanded with some
pique; but the girl did not answer. He saw her reluctance,
and framed another question.

“And why, then, after this discovery, do you still
love me, and cling to me, and complain of me?”

“Alas! I know not why I love you. That, indeed,
is beyond me to learn. I have sought to know—I have
tried to think—I have asked, but in vain, of my own
mind and heart. I cling to you because I can cling
nowhere else; and you have yourself said that a woman

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is a dependant—she must cling somewhere! As for
complaint, God knows I do not come to make it—I do
not wish, but I cannot help it. I weep and moan for
weakness only, I believe, and I shall soon be done
moaning.”

“Enough—I see which way you tend now. You
are foolish, Mary Clarkson, and war with your own
peace. Can you never be reconciled to what is inevitable—
what you can no longer avoid? Make the best
of your condition—what is done can't be amended;
and the sooner you show me that you can yield yourself
to your fate with some grace, the more certain and
soon will be the grace bestowed in turn. You are useful
to me, Mary; and as women are useful to men—
grown men, mark me—so do they value them. When
I say `useful,' remember the word is a comprehensive
one. You may be useful in love, in the promotion of
fortune, revenge, ambition, hope, enterprise—a thousand
things and objects, in which exercise will elevate equally
your character and condition. Enough, now. You
must show your usefulness to-night. I go on a business
of peril, and I must go alone. But I will take you with
me a part of the way, and out of sight of the encampment.
To the encampment you must return, however,
and with such precaution as to keep unseen. I need
not counsel you any further—your talents clearly lie
that way. Love is a sorry business—a sort of sickness,—
perhaps the natural complaint of overgrown
babies of both sexes, who should be dosed with caudle
and put to bed as soon after as possible. Do you hear,
child? Do you understand?”

Thus substantially ended this conference—the singular
terms of which, and the relation between the
parties, can only be understood by remembering that
sad condition of dependence in which the unhappy girl
stood to her betrayer. She was hopeless of any change
of fortune—she knew not where to turn—she now had
no other objects to which she might presume to cling.
She remembered the humbler love of John Bannister
with a sigh—the roof and the affections of her father

[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]

with a thrill, which carried a cold horror through all
her veins. A natural instinct turned her to the only
one upon whom she had any claim—a claim still indisputable,
though it might be scorned or denied by
him; and without being satisfied of the truth of his
arguments, she was willing, as he required, to be useful,
that she might not be forgotten.

While the troop was preparing to cross the river,
it was joined, to the surprise of every body and the
chagrin of its commander, by the refractory lieutenant,
Stockton. He related the events which occurred to him
somewhat differently from the truth. According to his version
of the story, the guard to whom he had been entrusted
was attacked by a superior force, beaten, and probably
slain—he himself seasonably escaping to tell the story. It was fancied by himself and friends that his narrow
escape and voluntary return to his duty would lessen
his offence in the eye of the chief, and probably relieve
him from all the consequences threatened in his recent
arrest. But the latter was too jealous of the disaffection
prevailing among his men, and too confident in
the beneficial influence of sternness among inferiors, to
relax the measure of a hair in the exercise of his
authority. He at once committed him a close prisoner,
to the care of two of his most trusty adherents; and
resolutely rejected the applications offered in his behalf
by some of the temporizers—a class of persons of whom
the Black Riders, like every other human community,
had a fair proportion. The river was crossed a few
miles below the Middleton Barony. A deep thicket in
the forest, and on the edge of the river swamp, was
chosen for their bivouac; and there, closely concealed
from casual observation, the chief of the Black Riders,
with his dark banditti, awaited till the approach of
night, in a condition of becoming quiet. He then prepared
to go forth, alone, on his expedition to the barony;
and it was with some surprise, though without suspicion
of the cause, that Mary Clarkson perceived, on
his setting out, that he had discarded all his customary
disguises, and had really been paying some little

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unusual attention to the arts of the toilet. The black and
savage beard and whiskers, as worn by the troopers
generally—a massive specimen of which had fallen into
the hands of Supple Jack on a previous occasion, had
disappeared from his face; his sable uniform had given
place to a well-fitting suit of becoming blue; and, of
the costume of the troop, nothing remained but the
dark belt which encircled his waist. But Mary Clarkson
was not naturally a suspicious person, nor of a
jealous temper; and the first observation which noticed
these changes occasioned not even a surmise in relation
to their object. She obeyed his intimation to follow
him as he prepared to take his departure, and availing
herself of the momentary diversion of such of the band
as were about her at the moment, she stole away, and
joined him at a little distance from the camp, where
she received his instructions as to the game which he
required her to play.

The quiet in which Morton had left his followers did
not long continue after his departure. The insubordinates
availed themselves of his absence to try their
strength in a bolder measure than they had before
attempted; and a body of them, rising tumultuously,
rushed upon the guard to whom Stockton had been
given in charge, and, overawing all opposition by their
superior numbers, forcibly rescued him from his bonds.
Ensign Darcy was the leader of this party. He had
found it no difficulty to unite them in a measure which
they boldly assumed to be an act of justice, levelled at
a species of tyranny to which they ought never to
submit. Disaffection had spread much farther among
his troop than Edward Morton imagined. Disasters
had made them forgetful of ancient ties, as well as
previous successes. Recently, their spoils had been
few and inconsiderable, their toils constant and severe,
and their dangers great. This state of things inclined
them all, in a greater or less degree, to be dissatisfied;
and nothing is so easy to the vulgar mind as to ascribe
to the power which governs all the evils which afflict
them. The leaders of the meeting availed themselves

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of this natural tendency with considerable art. The
more ignorant and unthinking were taught to believe
that their chief had mismanaged in a dozen instances,
where a different course of conduct would have burdened
them with spoils. He had operated on the Wateree
and Santee, when the Congaree and the Saluda
offered the best field for the exercise of their peculiar
practices. That “frail masquer,” to whom the cold-blooded
Morton had given in charge the whole espionage
which he now kept upon his troop, came upon
their place of secret consultation at a moment auspicious
enough for the objects of her watch. They had—that
is, such of the band (and this involved a majority) as
were disposed to rebel against their present leader—
assembled in a little green dell, beside a rivulet which
passed from the highlands of the forest into the swamp.
Here they had kindled a small fire, enough to give
light to their deliberations—had lighted their pipes, and
from their canteens were seasoning their deliberations
with the requisite degree and kind of spirit. With that
carelessness of all precautions which is apt to follow
any decisive departure from the usual restraints of
authority, they had neglected to place sentries around
their place of conference, who might report the approach
of any hostile footstep,—or, if these had been
placed at the beginning, they had been seduced by the
temptations of the debate and the drink to leave their
stations and take their seats along with their comrades.
Mary Clarkson was thus enabled to steal within easy
hearing of all their deliberations. Stockton, with
exemplary forbearance and a reserve that was meant
to be dignified, did not take much part in the proceedings.
Ensign Darcy, however, was faithful to his old
professions, and was the principal speaker. He it was
who could best declare what, in particular, had been
the omissions of the chief; and by what mistakes he
had led the troop from point to point, giving them no
rest, little food, and harassing them with constant
dangers and alarms. The extent of his information
surprised the faithful listener, and informed her also of

[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]

some matters which she certainly did not expect to
hear. Darcy was supported chiefly by the huge fellow
already known by the name of Barton—the same person
who had led the insubordinates in Muggs' cabin,
when Edward Morton, at the last moment, sprang up
to the rescue of his kinsman. This ruffian, whose
violence then had offered opposition to his leader, and
could only be suppressed by the show of an equal violence
on the part of the latter, had never been entirely
satisfied with himself since that occasion. He was one
of those humble-minded persons of whom the world is
so full, who are always asking what their neighbours
think of them; and being a sort of braggart and bully,
he was annoyed by a consciousness of having lost
some portion of the esteem of his comrades by the
comparatively easy submission which he then rendered
to his leader. This idea haunted him, and he burned
for some opportunity to restore himself in their wonted
regards. Darcy discovered this, and worked upon the
fool's frailty to such a degree, that he was persuaded
to take the lead in the work of mutiny, and to address
his specious arguments to those doubtful persons of
the gang whom the fox-like properties of the ensign
would never have suffered him directly to approach.
Their modes of convincing the rest were easy enough,
since their arguments were plausible, if not true, and
there was some foundation for many of the objections
urged against their present commander.

“Here, for example,” said Darcy; “here he comes
to play the lover at Middleton Place. He dodges about
the young woman when it suits him; and either we
follow him here, and hang about to keep the rebels
from his skirts, or he leaves us where we neither hear
nor see any thing of him for weeks. Meanwhile, we
can do nothing—we dare not to move without him;
and if we do any creditable thing, what's the consequence?
Lieutenant Stockton there can tell you. He's
knocked over like a bullock, and arrested—is attacked
by the rebels, makes a narrow escape, comes back like
a good soldier, and is put under arrest again, as if no

[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]

punishment was enough for showing the spirit of a
man.”

“Ah, yes, that wa'nt right of the captain;” said one,
with a conclusive shake of the head.

“Yes, and all that jist after the lieutenant had been
busy for five days, through storm and rain, looking
after him only,” said another.

“It's a God's truth, for sartin—the captain's a mighty
changed man now-a-days,” said a third.

“He aint the same person, that's cl'ar,” was the conviction
of a fourth; and so on through the tale.

“And who's going to stand it?” cried the fellow
Barton, in a voice of thunder, shivering the pipe in his
hand by a stroke upon the earth that startled more than
one of the doubtful. “I'll tell you what, men—there's
no use to beat about the bush when the thing can be
made plain to every man's onderstanding. Here it is,
We're in a mighty bad fix at present, any how; and
the chance is a great deal worse, so long as we stand
here. Here, the whigs are quite too thick for us to
deal with. It's either, we must go up to the mountains
or get down towards the seaboard. I'm told there's
good pickings any way. But here we've mighty nigh
cleaned the crib;—there's precious little left. What's
to keep us here, I can't see; but it's easy to see what
keeps Captain Morton here. He's after this gal of
Middleton's; and he'll stay and peep, and dodge, and
come and go, until he gits his own neck in the halter,
and may-be our'n too. Now, if you're of my mind,
we'll leave him to his gal and all he can get by her,
and take horse this very night, and find our way along
the Saludah, up to Ninety-Six. That's my notion;
and as a beginning, I'm willing to say, for the first, let
Harry Stockton be our captain from the jump.”

“Softly, softly, Barton,” said the more wily Darcy;
“that can hardly be, unless you mean to put the garrison
of Ninety-Six at defiance also. You'll find it no
easy matter to show a king's commission for the lieutenant;
and it'll be something worse if Ned Morton
faces you just at the moment when Balfour, or Rawdon,

[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]

or Stuart, or Cruger, has you under examination. No,
no! There's no way of doing the thing, unless you
can show that Ned Morton's a dead man or a traitor.
Now, then, which shall it be?”

“Both!” roared Barton. “I'm for the dead man first.
We can go in a body and see for ourselves that he's
done up for this world, and we can go in the same
body to Cruger at Ninety-Six and show that we want
a captain, and can't find a better man than Harry
Stockton.”

“But he aint dead,” said one of the more simple of
the tribe.

“Who says he aint?” growled the ruffian Barton—
“when I say he is? He's dead,—dead as a door nail;
and we'll prove it before we go to Cruger. Do you
suppose I'm going with a lie in my mouth? We must
make true what we mean to say.”

“You're right, Barton,” quietly continued Darcy;
“but perhaps 'twould be well, men, to let you know
some things more. Now, you must know that Middleton
Place has been let alone, almost the only house,
since the beginning of the war. Old Middleton was a
mighty great favourite among the people of all these
parts when he was living; and Lord Cornwallis hearing
that, he gave orders not to do any harm to it or
the people living there. Well, as they were women
only, and had neither father, brother nor son engaged
in the war, there was no provocation to molest them;
and so things stand there as quietly as they did in
`seventy-five.' In that house, men, there's more good
old stamped plate than you'll find in half the country.
I reckon you may get barrels of it, yet not have room
for all. Well, there's the jewels of the women—it's a
guess of mine only, but I reckon a safe one, when I
say that I have no doubt you'll find jewels of Flora
Middleton enough to help every man of us to the West
Indies, and for six months after. Now, it's a question
whether we let the captain carry off this girl with all
her jewels, or whether we come in for a share. It's
my notion it's that he's aiming at. He don't care a

[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]

fig what becomes of us if he can carry off this plunder,
and this is the secret of all his doings. I know he's
half mad after the girl, and will have her, though he
takes her with his claws. I move that we have a hand
in the business. It's but to steal up to Briar Park, get
round the place, sound a rebel alarm, and give him a
shot while he's running. After that, the work's easy.
We can then pass off upon the women as a rebel
troop, and empty the closets at our leisure.”

The temptations of this counsel were exceeding great.
It was received without a dissenting voice, though there
were sundry doubts yet to be satisfied among the more
prudent or the more timid.

“But the boy—that strange boy, Henry. He's with
him. What's to be done with him?”

Mary Clarkson had been a breathless listener during
the whole of this conference. Her emotions were new
and indescribable. Heretofore, strange to say, she had
never entertained the idea, for a single instant, of Edward
Morton loving another woman. She had never,
during the marauding life of danger which he pursued,
beheld him in any situation which might awaken her
female fears. Now, the unreserved communication and
bold assertion of Darcy, awakened a novel emotion of
pain within her heart, and a new train of reflection in
her mind.

“This, then,” she mused to herself, as she recollected
the conversation that morning with her seducer,—
“this, then, is the bird that he spoke of—the sweet
singing bird in that gloomy castle, which he determined
to release. Strange that I had no fear, no thought of
this! But he cannot love her—No! no! he has no
such nature. It is not possible for him to feel as I have
felt.”

She strove to listen again, but she heard little more.
Her mind had formed a vague impression of his danger,
but it was associated with images equally vague
in form, but far more impressive in shadow, of the fair
woman whose beauty and whose wealth were alike
supposed to be potential over the rugged chief of that

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fierce banditti. She began to think, for the first time,
that there was some reason in the complainings of the
troop; but their suggestion to murder the criminal,
revived in all its force, if not her old passion, at least
her habitual feeling of dependence upon him. The idea
of losing for ever the one who, of all the world, she
could now seek, was one calculated to awaken all her
most oppressive fears; and with a strong effort at
composure, she now bent all her attention to ascertain
what were the precise means by which they proposed
to effect their objects. The details of Darcy enlightened
her, and she was about to rise from her lowly position
and hiding place, and steal away to Briar Place, in
order to awaken Morton to his danger, when the inquiry
touching her own fate commanded her attention.

“What of the boy, Henry—what shall be done with
him? I'm thinking he's the one that reports every
thing to the captain? What shall we do with him?”

“Cut his throat, to be sure. He is no use to any of
us; and if we silence the captain, we must do for him
also. I reckon they're together now.”

“The getting rid of the boy is a small matter,” said
Darcy; “let's settle about the principal first, and the
rest is easily managed. We must set about this affair
seriously—there must be no traitors. We must swear
by knife, bullet, tree and halter—the old oath!—there
must be blood on it! Whose blood shall it be?”

“Mine!” exclaimed Barton, as he thrust forth his
brawny arm to the stroke and drew up the sleeve.
Mary Clarkson was still too much of a woman to wait
and witness the horrid ceremonial by which they bound
themselves to one another; but she could hear the
smooth, silvery voice of Darcy, while she stole away
on noiseless feet, as he severally administered the oath,
upon the gashed arm of the confederate, to each of the
conspirators.

“Swear!”

And the single response of the first ruffian, as he
pledged himself, struck terror to her heart and gave
fleetness to her footsteps.

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“By knife, cord, tree and bullet, I swear to be true
to you my brothers in this business;—if I fail or betray
you, then let knife, cord, tree or bullet do its work!—
I swear!”

The terrible sounds pursued her as she fled; but
even then she forgot not what she had heard before, of
that “sweet singing bird, in that gloomy cage,” to
both of which she was now approaching with an equal
sentiment of curiosity and terror.