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Meanwhile, the chief of the Black Riders pursued
his noiseless way to the scene of his projected operations.
Familiar with the neighbourhood, it was not a
difficult matter for him to make his progress with sufficient
readiness through the gloomy forests. The route
had been often trodden by him before—often, indeed,
when the fair Flora Middleton little dreamed of the
proximity of her dangerous lover—often, when not a
star in the sky smiled in encouragement upon his purposes.
The stars were smiling now—the night was
without a cloud, unless it were a few of those light,
fleecy, transparent robes, which the rising moon seems
to fling out from her person, and which float about her
pathway in tributary beauty; and she, herself, the
maiden queen, making her stately progress through
her worshipping dominions, rose with serene aspect
and pure splendour, shooting her silver arrows on
every side into the thicket, which they sprinkled, as
they flew, with sweet, transparent droppings, of the
same glimmering beauty with her own. The winds
were soft or sleeping. The sacred stillness of the sabbath
prevailed in the air and over the earth, save when
some nightbird flapped a drowsy wing among the
branches which overhung its nest, or, with sudden
scream, shrunk from the slanting shafts of light now
fast falling through the forests. Were these aspects
propitious to the purposes of the outlaw? Were those
smiles for him only? No! While he pursued the

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darker passages of the woods, studiously concealing
his person from the light, other and nobler spirits were
abroad enjoying it. Love, of another sort than his,
was no less busy; and, attended by whatever success,
with a spirit far more worthy of the gentler influences
which prevailed equally above the path of both.

The outlaw reached the grounds of the ancient barony.
He had almost followed the course of the river, and he
now stood upon its banks. His path lay through an
old field, now abandoned, which was partly overgrown
by the lob-lolly, or short-leaf pine. The absence of
undergrowth made his progress easy. He soon found
himself beside the solemn grove which had grown up,
from immemorial time, in hallowed security around the
vaulted mansion in which slept the remains of the venerable
cassique. He penetrated the sacred enclosure,
and, as he had frequently done before, examined the
entrance of the tomb, which he found as easy as usual.
The dead in the wilderness need no locks or bolts for
their security. There are no resurrectionists there to
annoy them. Here he did not long remain. Pressing
forward, he approached the park and grounds lying
more immediately about the mansion; but here a new
occasion for caution presented itself. He found soldiers
on duty—sentinels put at proper distances; and, fastened
to the swinging limbs of half a dozen trees, as
many dragoon horses. He changed his course and
proceeded on another route, with the hope to approach
the dwelling without observation; but here again the
path was guarded. The watch seemed a strict one.
The sentinels were regular, and their responses so
timed, as to leave him no prospect of passing through
the intervals of their rounds. Yet, even if this had
been allowed him, what good could be effected by it?
He could not hope to make himself known to the person
he sought. He could only hope to see by whom
she was attended. What guest did she entertain?
To know this, his curiosity became intense. He would
probably have risked something to have attained this
knowledge; but, under the close watch which environed

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the habitation, endeavour would have been utterly hopeless.
This conviction drove him back to the tomb,
with curses on his lips and fury in his heart. He was
not one of those men who had known much, or had
learned to endure any disappointment; and his anger
and anxiety grew almost to fever when, after successive
and frequent attempts to find an open passage to the
house, he was compelled to give up the prospect in
despair. The guests seemed in no hurry to withdraw—
the lights in the dwelling were bright and numerous.
He fancied, more than once, as he continued his survey,
that he could hear the tones of Flora's harpsichord,
as the winds brought the sounds in the required direction.
The twin instincts of hate and jealousy informed
him who was the guest of the maiden. Who could it
be but Clarence Conway—that kinsman who seemed
born to be his bane—to whom he ascribed the loss of
property and position; beneath whose superior virtue
his spirit quailed, and to a baseless jealousy of whom
might in truth be ascribed much of the unhappy and
dishonourable practices which, so far, he had almost
fruitlessly pursued. His was the jealousy rather of
hate than love. Perhaps such a passion as the latter,
according to the opinion of Mary Clarkson, could not
fill the bosom of one so utterly selfish as Edward
Morton. But he had his desires, and the denial of his
object—which, to himself, he dignified with the name
of love—was quite enough to provoke his wrath to
phrenzy.

“All, all, has he robbed me of,” he muttered through
his closed teeth:—“The love of parents, the regards of
friends, the attachment of inferiors, the wealth of kindred
and the love of woman. He drew from me the
smiles of my father—the playmate from my side; the
rude woodman, whose blind but faithful attachment
was that of the hound, abandoned me to cling to him;
and now!—but I am not sure of this! He is not sure!
Flora Middleton has said nothing yet to justify his presumption,
and I have sown some bitter seeds of doubt
in her soul, which, if she be like the rest of her sex,

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and if that devil, or saint, that serves him, do not root
up by some miraculous interposition, will yet bring
forth a far different fruit from any which he now hopes
to taste. Let her but be shy and haughty—let him
but show himself sensitive and indignant, and all will
be done. This meeting will prove nothing, and time
gained now is, to me, every thing. In another week,
and I ask no farther help from fortune. If I win her
not by fair word, I win her by bold deeds; and then I
brush the clay of the Congaree for ever from my feet!
The waves of the sea shall separate me for ever from
the doubts and the dangers, numerous and troublesome,
which are increasing around me. This silly girl, too,
whom no scorn can drive from my side—I shall then,
and then only, be fairly rid of her!”

He threw himself on the stone coping which surrounded
the vault, and surrendered himself up to the
bitter meditations which a reference to the past life
necessarily awakens in every guilty bosom. These,
we care not to pursue; but, with the reader's permission,
will proceed, without heeding those obstructions
which drove the Chief of the Black Riders to his lurking
place, to the mansion of the lovely woman, whose
fortunes, though we have not yet beheld her person,
should already have awakened some interest in our
regard.

The instinct of hate in the bosom of Edward Morton
had informed him rightly. The guest of Flora Middleton
was his hated kinsman. He had reached the barony
that very evening, and had met with that reception
from the inmates of Briar Park, which they were accustomed
to show to the gentlemen of all parties in that
time of suspicion and cautious policy. The grandmother
was kind and good-natured as ever; but Clarence
saw or fancied that he saw in Flora an air of
haughty indifference, which her eyes sometimes exchanged
for one of a yet more decided feeling. Could
it be anger that flashed at moments from beneath the
long dark eye-lashes of that high-browed beauty? Was
it indignation that gave that curl to her rich and rosy

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lips;—and made her tones, always sweet as a final
strain of music, now sharp, sudden, and almost stern?
The eyes of Clarence looked more than once the inquiry
which he knew not how to make in any other way;
but only once did the dark-blue orbs of Flora encounter
his for a prolonged moment; and then he thought that
their expression was again changed to one of sorrow.
After that, she resolutely evaded his glance; and the
time, for an hour after his arrival, was passed by him
in a state of doubtful solicitude, and by Flora, as he
could not help thinking, under a feeling of restraint and
excessive circumspection, which was new to both of
them, and painful in the last degree to him. All the
freedoms of their old intercourse had given way to
cold, stiff formalities; and, in place of “Flora” from his
lips, and “Clarence” from hers, the forms of address
became as rigid and ceremonious between them as the
most punctilious Puritan of that day could insist upon.

Flora Middleton was rather remarkable than beautiful.
She was a noble specimen of the Anglo Saxon.
Glowing with health, but softened by grace; warmed by
love, yet not obtrusive in her earnestness. Of a temper
quick, energetic, and decisive; yet too proud to deal in
the language either of anger or complaint—too delicate
in her own sensibilities to outrage, by impudent haste,
the feelings of others. Living at a time, and in a
region, where life was full of serious purposes and continual
trials, she was superior to those small tastes and
petty employments, which dishonour too greatly the
understandings of her sex, and diminish dreadfully its
importance to man and to society. Her thoughts were
neither too nice for, nor too superior to, the business
and the events of the time. She belonged to that wonderful
race of Carolina women, above all praise, who
could minister, with equal propriety and success, at
those altars for which their fathers, and husbands, and
brothers fought—who could tend the wounded, nurse
the sick, cheer the dispirited, arm the warrior for the
field—nay, sometimes lift spear and sword in sudden
emergency, and make desperate battle, in compliance

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with the requisitions of the soul, nerved by tenderness,
and love, and serious duty, to the most masculine
exertions—utterly forgetful of those effeminacies of the
sex, which are partly due to organization and partly
to the arbitrary, and, too frequently, injurious laws of
society. In such circumstances as characterized the
time of which we write, women as well as men, became
superior to affectations of every kind. The ordinary
occupations of life were too grave to admit of
them. The mind threw off its petty humours with
disdain, and where it did not, the disdain of all other
minds was sure to attend it. Flora never knew affectations—
she was no fine lady—had no humours—no
vegetable life; but went on vigorously enjoying time in
the only way, by properly employing it. She had her
tastes, and might be considered by some persons as
rather fastidious in them—but this fastidiousness was
nothing more than method. Her love of order was one
of her domestie virtues. But, though singularly methodical
for her sex, she had no hum-drum notions;
and, in society, would have been the last to be suspected
of being very regular in any of her habits. Her
animation was remarkable—her playful humour—which
took no exceptions to unrestraint—found no fault with
the small follies of one's neighbour; yet never trespassed
beyond the legitimate bounds of amusement.

That she showed none of this animation—this humour—
on the present occasion, was one of the chief sources
of Clarence Conway's disquietude. Restraint was so
remarkable in the case of one, whose frank, voluntary
spirit was always ready with its music, that he conjured
up the most contradictory notions to account
for it.

“Are you sick?” he asked; “do you feel unwell?”
was one of his inquiries, as his disquiet took a new
form of apprehension.

“Sick—no! what makes you fancy such a thing,
Colonel Conway? Do I look so?”

“No; but you seem dull—not in spirits—something
must have happened—”

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“Perhaps something has happened, cousin Clarence:”—
this was the first phrase of kindness which reminded
Clarence of old times. He fancied she began to soften.
“Cousin Clarence,” was one of the familiar forms of
address which had been adopted by the maiden some
years previously, when, mere children, they first grew
intimate together.

“But I am not sick,” she continued, “and still less
ought you to consider me dull. Such an opinion,
Clarence, would annoy many a fair damsel of my
acquaintance.

“But, on that head, Flora, you are too secure to
suffer it to annoy you.”

“Perhaps I am—but you have certainly lost the
knack of saying fine things. The swamps have impaired
your politeness. That last phrase has not bettered
your speech, since I am at liberty to take it either
as a reproach or a compliment.”

“Can there be a doubt which?—As a compliment
surely. But let me have occasion for another, the
meaning of which shall be less liable to misconstruction.
Let me lead you to the harpsichord.”

“Excuse me—not to-night, Clarence;” and her present
reply was made with recovered rigidity of manner.

“If not to-night, Flora, I know not when I shall hear
you again—perhaps not for months—perhaps, never!—
I go to Ninety-Six to-morrow.”

Her manner softened as she replied;—

“Ah! do you, Clarence;—and there, at present, lies
the whole brunt of the war. I should like to play for
you, Clarence—but I cannot. You must be content
with music of drum and trumpet for a while.”

“Why, Flora—you never refused me before?”

“True—but—”

“But, one piece?”

“Do not ask me again. I cannot—I will not play
for you to-night—nay, do not interrupt me, Clarence—
my harpsichord is in tune—and I am not seeking for
apologies. I tell you I will not play for you to-night,
and, perhaps, I will never play for you again.”

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The young colonel of cavalry was astounded.

“Flora—Flora Middleton!” was his involuntary exclamation.
The venerable grandmother echoed it, though
her tones were those of exhortation, not of surprise.

“Flora—Flora, my child—what would you do?” she
continued with rebuking voice and warning finger.

“Nay mother,” said the maiden assuringly—“let
me have my own way in this. I like frankness, and if
Clarence be what he always seemed, and we always
believed him—he will like it too. I am a country girl,
and may be permitted a little of the simplicity—you call
it bluntness, perhaps—which is natural to one.”

“Flora, what can be the meaning of this?” demanded
the lover with unaffected earnestness and astonishment.
“In what have I offended you? For there is some such
meaning in your words.”

The maiden looked to her grandmother, but did not
answer; and Conway, though greatly excited, could
readily perceive that she laboured under feelings which
evidently tried her confidence in herself, and tested all
her strength. A deep suffusion overspread her cheek,
the meaning of which, under other circumstances, he
might have construed favourably to his suit. Meanwhile,
the old lady nodded her head with a look of
mixed meaning, which one, better read in the movements
of her mind, would have found to signify—“Go
through with what you have begun, since you have
already gone so far. You cannot halt now.”

So indeed did it seem to be understood by the
maiden; for she instantly recovered herself and continued:—

“Give me your arm, Clarence, and I will explain all.
I am afraid I have overtasked myself, but the orphan,
Clarence Conway, must assert her own rights and character,
though it may somewhat impair, in the estimation
of the stronger sex, her pretensions to feminine
delicacy.”

“You speak in mysteries, Flora,” was the answer of
the lover;—“surely the orphan has no wrong to fear
at my hands—and what rights of Flora Middleton are

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there, disputed or denied by me, which it becomes her
to assert with so much solemnity, and at such a fearful
risk?”

“Come with me, and you shall know all.”

She took his arm, and motioning her head expressively
to her grandmother, led the way to the spacious
portico, half embowered by gadding vines—already
wanton with a thousand flowers of the budding season—
which formed the high and imposing entrance to the
ancient dwelling. The spot was one well chosen for
the secrets of young lovers—a home of buds, and blossoms,
and the hallowing moonlight:—quiet above in
the sky—quiet on the earth;—a scene such as prompts
the mind to dream that there may be griefs and strifes
at a distance—rumours of war and bloodshed in barbarian
lands, and of tempests that will never trouble ours.
Clarence paused as they emerged into the sweet natural
shadows of the spot.

“How have I dreamed of these scenes, Flora—this
spot—these flowers, and these only! My heart has
scarcely forgotten the situation of a single bud or leaf.
All appears now as I fancy it nightly in our long rides
and longer watches in the swamp.”

She answered with a sigh:—

“Can war permit of this romance, Clarence? Can
it be possible that he who thinks of blood, and battle,
and the near neighbourhood of the foe, has yet a
thought to spare to ladies' bowers, vines, blossoms and
such woman fancies as make up the pleasures of her
listless moods, and furnish, in these times, her only,
and, perhaps, her best society.”

“I think of them as tributary to her only, Flora.
Perhaps I should not have thought of these, but that
you were also in my thoughts.”

“No more, Clarence; and you remind me of the explanation
which I have to make—and to demand. Bear
with me for a moment—it calls for all my resolution.”

She seated herself upon a bench beneath the vines,
and motioned him to a place beside her. After a brief

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delay—a tribute to the weakness of her sex—she began
as follows:—

“Clarence Conway, before I saw you to-night, I had
resolved henceforward to regard and treat you as the
most indifferent stranger that ever challenged the hospitality
of my father's dwelling. But I have not been
able to keep my resolution. Your coming to-night,
reminds me so much of old times, when I had every
reason to respect—why should I not say it?—to like
you, Clarence, that I feel unwilling to put you off as a
stranger, without making such explanations as will
justify me in this course. Briefly then, Clarence Conway,
some things have reached my ears, as if spoken
by you, and of me—such things as a vain young man
might be supposed likely to say of any young woman
who has suffered him to think that she had thoughts
for nothing beside himself. I will not tell you, Clarence,
that I believed all this.—I could not dare—I did not
wish to believe it;—but, I thought it not impossible that
you had spoken of me, perhaps too familiarly;—without
contemplating the injury you might do me. Now,
if you know any thing of a maiden's heart, Clarence
Conway—nay, if you knew any thing of mine, you
would readily imagine what I must have felt on hearing
this. The burning blushes on my cheeks now—painfully
as I feel them—were as nothing to the galling
sting of the moment when I heard this story.

“But you did not believe it, Flora!”

“Believe it, no!—not all, at least—”

“None! none!” repeated the youth, with stern emphasis,
as he laid his hand upon her arm, and looked
her in the face with such an expression as falsehood
never yet could assume. “That I should speak this of
you, and that you should believe it. Flora Middleton,
are things which I should have fancied equally impossible!
Need I say that it is all false—thoroughly false—
that your name has never passed my lips but with
feelings of the profoundest reverence—that—but I blush
too, at the seeming necessity of saying all this, and
saying it to you—I thought—I could have hoped, Flora

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Middleton, that you, at least, knew me better than to
doubt. The necessity of this explanation, next to the
sorrow of having given pain to you, is the keenest pang
which you could make me suffer.”

“Be not angry, Clarence,” she said gently—“remember
what society exacts of my sex—remember
how much of our position depends upon the breath of
man;—our tyrant too often—always our sole judge
while we dwell upon the earth. His whisper of power
over us, is our death;—the death of our pride—of that
exclusiveness of which he, himself, is perhaps, the most
jealous being; and whether the tale of his freedom be
true or not—how great is our peril—how keen the sting—
how formidable the sarcasm. I say this to account for
the promptness of my resentment. I tell you, Clarence
Conway, that a woman of my frank nature, is compelled
to be resentful, if she would subdue the slanderer to
silence. Slander is of such mushroom growth, yet
spreads over so large a surface, that it is needful at
once to check the first surmises, and doubts, and insinuations
with which it begins its fungous, but poisonous
existence. My feeling on this subject—my keen jealousy
of my own position—a jealousy the more natural,
as, from the frankness of my disposition, I am frequently
liable to be misunderstood, has possibly led me to do
you injustice. Even when this reached my ears, I did
not believe it altogether. I thought it not improbable,
however, that you had spoken of me among your
friends, and—”

“Forgive me that I interrupt you, Flora. I feel too
much pain at what you say—too much annoyance—to
suffer you to go on. Let me finish my assurances.
I shall employ but few words, and they shall be final,
or—nothing! I have no friends to whom I should
ever speak a falsehood of any kind—none to whom
I would ever utter, with unbecoming familiarity, the
name of Flora Middleton. If I have spoken of you in
the hearing of others, it has been very seldom; only,
perhaps, when it seemed needful for me to do so—perhaps
never more than once; and then never in

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disparagement of that modesty which is the noblest characteristic
of your sex. But!—”

He paused! He was reminded at this moment of
the late conference which he had with Edward Conway.
In that conference he had certainly asserted a superior
right, over his kinsman, to approach Flora Middleton
with love. This assertion, however, only contemplated
the relative position of the brothers, one to the other;
and was accompanied by an express disclaimer, on the
part of Clarence, of any influence over the maiden herself;
but the recollection of this circumstance increased
the difficulties in the way of an explanation, unless by
the adoption of a single and very simple—but a very
direct course—which is always apt to be regarded as
one of great peril by all youthful lovers. Clarence
Conway was one of those men who know only the
Alexandrine method of getting through the knots of the
moral Gordius.

“I have spoken of you, Flora—nay, I have spoken of
you, and in reference to the most delicate subject in the
history of a woman's heart. Thus far I make my confession,
and will forbear with your permission saying
more—saying what I mean to say—until I have craved
of you the name of him who has thus ventured to
defame me.”

“I cannot tell you, Clarence.”

“Cannot, Flora?—Cannot!—”

“Will not, is what I should say, perhaps; but I have
used those words once already, to-night, when I felt
that they must give you pain; and I would have forborne
their use a second time. I can, certainly, tell
you from whom I heard these things, but I will not.”

“And why not, Flora? Would you screen the
slanderer?”

“Yes!—For a very simple reason;—I would not
have you fight him, Clarence.—”

“Enough, Flora, that I know the man. None could
be so base but the person whom you know as Edward
Conway, but whom I know—”

He paused—he could not make the revelation.

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