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The ancient additaments for the groundwork of the
grand or terrible, the wild or warlike, would have borne
aspects not unlike their own. Ordinarily, the painter of
the darker passions is very apt to accompany their explosion
with a sympathetic action on the part of the
natural world. The hero, just before committing the
deed of blood, stalks upon the scene, surrounded by
the gloomy shadows of the night—storm and thunder
attend upon his footsteps, and the fiery eyes of the
rebuking heaven glare along his path in flashes of impetuous
lightning. A voice of warning is heard to mutter
in the sky!—The bloody dagger—the awful sign of
the crime which is already acted in the mind of the
criminal—hangs in the air above him, and marshals
him the way that he must follow; while the ghosts of
the past reappear, shaking their gory locks, to impede
or to precipitate the ghost-like progress of the future.
All things are made to act in harmony with that terrible
passion which has already thrown over the heart of the
possessor the uniform “brown horror” which distinguishes
its own unvarying aspect. There is no blue in
the transparent softness of the noonday sky—there is
no living green in the fresh sward of the luxuriant
earth—the songs of the one, and the mellow voices of
the other, receive their savage or sad tones wholly from
the desolate or depraved soul which speaks in the
bosom of the fated actor. All forms and features,

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sights and sounds, are made to correspond with his
prevailing passion; and the hues of sky and land become
naturally incarnadined by the bloody mood which
governs in his soul. The voices which he hears, whether
of earth or sky, are only such as rise from the
groaning victims, who start, perhaps, from the embrace
of slumber, to sleep in that of death.

But very different from these were the auxiliary aspects
of that scene upon which the rival kinsmen were
about to contend. Never was night more beautiful—
more uniformly beautiful and tender, in any one of its
thousand attributes and agents. The moon, almost at
her full, was high above the forest tops, and hallowing
its deep and dim recesses with innumerable streams of
glory from her own celestial fountain. Few were the
clouds that gathered about her path, and these, sharing
in her gifts of beauty, became tributary to her lustrous
progress. A gentle breeze, rising from the east, accompanied
her march, and the tall pines swayed to and fro
beneath its pressure, yielding a whispering music like
those faint utterances of a sweet complaint which are
made by the curling billows of the sea when they break
and die away in a languid struggle with the shore. These
breathings found fit fellowship in the gentle murmurs of
the Congaree, as it rippled away on its sleepless path, at
a little distance from the scene of strife. Lighted by the
moon above, its winding form might be seen, in silvery
glimpses, where the vistas of the woods had been opened
by that tasteful art which had presided over the barony
from its first settlement. Nothing was dark, nothing
sad, stern, or terrible, but the human agents of the scene.
There they stood, frowning defiance upon each other,
and looking grim and ghastly, in the pure, sweet atmosphere
of light by which they were enveloped. The
aspect of the outlaw was particularly terrible, in consequence
of the wound which he had received in the
mouth at the beginning of the conflict. The upper lip
was divided by the stroke, the teeth shattered, and,
smeared and clotted with blood, his face presented the
appearance of one already stamped with all the features

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of the grave, marked with an expression of hate and
passion which increased its terrors. That of the partisan
was stern, but unruffled—pale, but inflexible. His eyes
were full of that fiery energy which, perhaps, distinguished
equally the characters of the brothers. The
lips were closely compressed, and resembled that sweet
serenity, that resigned and noble melancholy, which
peculiarly distinguishes the same feature in the instance
of nearly every Indian warrior that we have ever seen.
There was no faltering in his soul—he was as firm of
purpose as his enemy; but there were other moods at
work within him which the other could not feel. He
could not feel hate alone, to the exclusion of other and
better feelings.

The outlaw unbuckled the sabre from his side, the
sable belt, and threw them down, with the pistols which
he carried, at the foot of the vault. He seemed resolute
that there should be no possible obstruction to his
movements in the struggle which was about to take
place. Clarence Conway, on the other hand, took no
such precaution. He calmly surveyed the movements
of his opponent without changing muscle or position.
His eye glanced, however, with a momentary anxiety,
to the clear blue vault, and the pale, pure presence looking
down upon him from above, and turned involuntarily,
though for a single instant only, to the distant dwelling
of Flora Middleton. But this was not a moment to
betray the weakness of the sentimentalist or lover. His
enemy stood before him. The outlaw had witnessed the
direction of his foeman's eye, and the words of provocation
gushed from him in increasing bitterness.

“Ay, look, Clarence Conway—look! It may be for
the last time! For that matter we may both look; for
I tell you, there shall be no child's play between us.
Here, on this green turf, and under that smiling heaven,
shall I be stretched in death, ere I yield up a single sentiment
of that hate which makes it necessary that one or
both of us should die for the peace and security of the
other.”

“And is it necessary, either for your peace or mine,

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that such should be the case?” demanded Clarence
Conway.

“Ay! absolutely necessary. We cannot breathe the
same atmosphere. Come!”

Their arms were raised, their feet planted in opposition—
their eyes fixed upon each other, and riveted in
glassy, serpent-like watchfulness and calm.

“Are you ready?” was the question of the outlaw.

“Stay!” replied Clarence, while he continued to regard
his enemy with a face of increased deliberation.

“Stay!—and why should we stay?” retorted the
other. “Are you so soon quieted? Does your stomach
revolt at the idea of a final struggle which shall
end the strife between us?”

“It does!”

“Ha! Has it then come to that?” was the ironical
speech of the outlaw; but Clarence interrupted him with
a cool firmness of tone and look which disarmed the intended
sarcasm.

“You may spare your irony, Edward Morton. That
I fear you not, you should know. That I am your
superior in strength you have long since discovered—
that I am, at least, your match with any weapon known
to either of us, you cannot deny; and you know that I
have no dread of death.”

“To what does all this tend? It means every thing
or nothing. Grant what you have said, still it does not
follow that you shall triumph over me. You may slay
me, but I can grapple with you, Clarence Conway—I
can rush upon your weapon, and, sacrificing myself,
succeed in killing you! Ha! is not that undeniable
also?”

“Perhaps so;” was the deliberate answer. “But even
this does not influence me in what I say. There is a
consideration of far more weight which would make me
avoid this conflict.”

“Ah! it is that, eh? But you shall not avoid it! I
am a desperate man, Clarence Conway, and such a man
always has the life of his enemy at the point of his
dagger!”

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“Be it so; but hear me. For all your crimes, all
your hate and hostility to me—all your treachery to
your country—still I shall find no pleasure in being your
executioner.”

“Indeed! But be not too sure. It has not yet come
to that!” cried the other. “There are two to play at
this game, and I flatter myself that I shall turn the
tables upon you in this bout. We have some light now
on the subject, and these pricks which you gave me in
the dark, have rather warmed me for the conflict. They
rather better my chances—so, come on. We cannot too
soon make a finish now.”

“You deceive yourself, Edward Conway—fatally
deceive yourself if you have such a fancy;” replied
Clarence solemnly. “If we encounter again I shall
kill you. Nothing can save you. I feel it—I know it.
I cannot help but kill you.”

“Insolent braggart! But, come on!”

“This is vain. Hear me but an instant more, and
judge. I shall find no pleasure in taking your life. I
cannot forget many things, and I am not desperate.
However you may deride and despise the claims of
blood and the opinions of society, it is impossible for
me to do so. For this reason I would forego the indulgence
of those passions, Edward Conway—”

“Not Conway—Morton, Cunningham!—any thing
but Conway!”

A smile of scorn passed over the lips of Clarence.

“I thank you for your correction,” he said. “But
this is a small matter. To return. My passions and
enmities are scarcely less active than yours; but I would
forego their enjoyment because of my greater responsibilities.
I now make you an offer; let us not fight; and
you shall go free. I will facilitate your progress to
Charlestown—nay, ensure it—and you will then be
enabled, unencumbered by the villanous banditti to
which you have been attached, to fly the country. I
know that you have a large booty stored away in
Jamaica—enough to give you competence for life. Let
that suffice you. Leave the country while the chance is

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allowed you—while you may do so in safety. Three
weeks hence, and Greene will traverse all this region!”

“Fool fancies!” exclaimed the other rudely. “Those
are Rawdon's trumpets.”

“You will not long hear them, except sounding the
retreat. The war is well nigh over.”

“Pshaw! this is mere folly. We came here to fight,
I think. The sooner the better! Come!”

“I would save you—spare you!”

“I shall not spare you! Your conceit is insufferable,
and shall be whipped out of you, by heavens! this very
night. Come on, then; I long to give and take my
quittance. Your head is turned, I see, by that woman.
Your Flora, my Flora—the Flora of Congaree—you
have been lipping, have you?—and you like the taste—
sweet flavour!—”

“Ruffian—wretch!” cried Clarence, with a fury that
seemed as little governable as that of the outlaw, “you
are doomed. I cannot spare you now.”

“I ask you not. Let the steel speak for both of us.
Mine has been blushing at the time you have consumed
in prating. Come on—come on! Strike as if your
heart were in it, Clarence Conway, for, by God's death,
I will have it in your heart, if hell has not grown deaf
to human prayer. Good blade, to your work! It is
some pleasure, Clarence Conway, to know that yours is
tolerably pure blood—at least it will do no dishonour to
my dagger.”

The struggle followed instantaneously. The outlaw
proceeded to act his declared intentions. His object
seemed to be to get within the arm of his opponent—to
close at all hazards, and sacrifice himself in the bloody
determination to destroy his enemy. But Clarence was
no ordinary foe. His anger did not deprive him of his
coolness, and his skill with the weapon was far beyond
that of most men of his time. Still, it required all his
watchfulness and circumspection—all his readiness of
eye and arm, to baffle the purpose of the other. The
blind fury of the outlaw, perhaps, served him quite as
effectually as did his own resources. It made him

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fearless, but not fearful—full of purposes of danger, but not
dangerous—that is, comparatively speaking—for, so
long as the partisan preserved his composure, and kept
only on the defensive, his enemy did not find it so certainly
true as he had affirmed, that a desperate man
always carries the life of his enemy at the point of his
dagger. He had tried this more than once, and had
always been repelled, sometimes with hurts, which were
not always slight, though, as yet, in no case dangerous.
His constant failure warned him of the folly of his own
fury, and its utter ineffectiveness to achieve the object of
his desires. He recovered himself, and adopted another
policy. He renewed those coarse sneers and insinuations
which had been always effectual in provoking
Clarence, and which had closed their previous conference.
He spoke of Flora Middleton, and in such language
as was admirably calculated to throw a lover off
his guard.

“You flatter yourself,” he said, “that you have just
made a conquest; but have you asked its value? I tell
you, Clarence Conway, if ever woman spoke falsely,
Flora Middleton spoke falsely to you when she consented
to be yours. I know her—nay, man, when you
charged me with having been to Briar Park, you knew
but half the truth. Shall I tell you that she was then as
indulgent to the chief of the Black Riders as she has
been since to his more moral kinsman. Here, by this
old vault, did we walk with her at evening, and you
know what it is, or you should know, to wander among
dim groves at sunset with a romantic damsel. The
heart will yield if ever. It softens with the hour, and
melts—ha! are you touched—touched at last? Know,
then, it was my turn to lip and taste as cordially—”

“Liar and slave!” cried Clarence, striking at him
furiously as he heard these words; “know I not that
you have striven to fill her pure ears with falsehoods
almost as foul as those you would now thrust into
mine?”

“You have it!” cried the other with a yell of delight,
as his lunge carried the point of his dagger into the

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breast of the partisan—a flesh wound only, but one in
dangerous proximity to the angry heart that was now
boiling in its neighbourhood. The youth felt his imprudence,
but if he had not, there was a counselling
friend at hand, who did not suffer him to go unreminded.
This was Jack Bannister, who, in the shelter of a tree
contiguous, to which he had crawled unseen, had been
a spectator of the brief conflict, during the short time it
had lasted, on the outside of the vault.

“Don't you let him fool you, Clarence—he's only
trying to blind you—don't mind him—he's a born liar,
and if you stick as you should, he'll die with a lie in his
mouth. Strike away, Clarence, as you can strike; and
only forget that you ever had a father who was so foolish
as to git a son of the wrong breed. Put it to him, and
shut up your natur' till it's all done. God ha' mercy
'pon me, but it seems so nateral for me now to want to
put in and kill him.”

“Ha! you have brought your bullies upon me!” were
the words of Morton, as the first accents of Bannister
reached his ears. “But I fear them not!” and he renewed
the assault with increased determination, if that
indeed were possible.

“Keep back—meddle not, John Bannister,” cried
Clarence. “I need no assistance.”

“I know it, Clarence; but, Lord love you, don't git
into a foolish passion. Go to it like a trade, and jest hit
and stick as if you was a-managing a dug-out, or some
such foolish consarn. For sich a foul-mouth as he to
talk agin Miss Flora! Why, it's as foolish as a wolf to
bark at the moonlight. But don't let me interrupt you.
Go to it!—I'm jest a-looking on to see the eend, and
obsarve fair play; only make haste, Clarence—shut him
up as soon as you can, for the bugle's a-sounding from
the head of the avenue, and there's little time to lose.”

The warning was not to be disregarded, and Clarence
Conway soon brought the strife to an issue. The resumption
of his caution seduced the outlaw into a renewal
of his rashness, and his dagger hand was caught in the
grasp of the partisan at the same moment when the

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weapon of the other sunk into his heart. Clarence
relaxed his hold upon his victim the instant that the
blow was given. He fancied that he had given him the
coup de grace as he intended; and a strange, keen, sudden
pang rushed like lightning through his own bosom.
The outlaw, meanwhile, felt himself about to fall. A
faintness covered his frame—his sight was growing
darkened; and, with the last convulsive moment of
reflection, he threw himself forward upon the breast of
his enemy, whose dagger-point was now turned upon
the ground. His left arm was tightly clasped about the
form of Clarence, while his right, with all the remaining
consciousness of his mind, and the concentrated, but fast
failing vigour of his frame, addressed a blow at the heart
of the latter, which it needed sufficient strength alone to
render fatal. But the arm of the outlaw sank down in
the effort ere the dagger reached its mark. His hold
upon his enemy was instantly relaxed, and he fell fainting
at the feet of Clarence, ere the latter had sufficiently
recovered from the horror which he felt, to be altogether
conscious of the danger from which he had escaped.
With every justification for the deed which necessity
could bring, he yet felt how full of pain and sorrow, if
not crime, was the shedding of a brother's blood.