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It is not important to our narrative, in returning to
the place and period when and where we left the rival
kinsmen, that we should repeat the arguments which the
younger employed in order to persuade the other to a
more open and manly course of conduct in his political
career. These arguments could be of one character
only. The style in which they were urged, however,
became somewhat different, after the final interview
which they had in the presence of the sturdy woodman.
The display which Supple Jack had made of the disguises
which he had found upon the very road over
which Edward Conway had fled, and about the very
time when he had taken shelter in the swamp from the
pursuit of Butler's men, would, to any mind not absolutely
anxious not to believe, have been conclusive of
his guilt. Edward Conway felt it to be so in his own
case, and readily concluded that Clarence would esteem
it so. The few reflections, therefore, which time permitted
him to make, were neither pleasant nor satisfactory;
and when he galloped off with his younger brother,
he had half a doubt whether the latter did not meditate
his sudden execution, as soon as they should be fairly
concealed from the sight of the woodman. He knew
enough of the character of Clarence to know that he
would as soon destroy his own brother for treachery—
nay, sooner—than an open enemy; and the silence which
he maintained, the stern, rigid expression of his features,
and the reckless speed at which he seemed resolved to
ride, contributed in no small degree to increase his

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apprehensions. For a brief space that ready wit and prompt
subterfuge, which had enabled him hitherto to play a
various and very complicated game in life, with singular
adroitness and success, seemed about to fail. He felt his
elasticity lessening fast—his confidence in himself declining;
his brain was heavy, his tongue flattened and
thick. He was weaponless. There was no chance of
success in any conflict, unless from his enemy's generosity;
and upon that, in those days, the partisan who
fought on either side made but few calculations. A club,
the rudest mace, the roughest limb of the lithe hickory,
became an object of desire to the mind of the conscious
traitor at this moment. But he did not truly understand
the nature of that mind and those principles, to which
his own bore so little likeness. He little knew how
strong and active were those doubts—the children of his
wish—which were working in the bosom of Clarence
Conway in his behalf.

At length the latter drew up his steed, and exhibited a
wish to stop. The rain, which by this time had become
an incessant stream, had hitherto been almost unfelt by
either. The anxiety and sorrow of the one, and the
apprehensions of the other, had rendered them equally
insensible to the storm without.

“Edward Conway,” said the younger, “let us alight
here. Here we must separate; and here I would speak
to you, perhaps for the last time, as my father's son.”

Somewhat reassured, Edward Conway followed the
example of his kinsman, and the two alighted among
a group of hills, on the eastern side of which they
found a partial protection from the storm, which was
blowing from the west. But little did either need at
that moment of shelter from its violence. Brief preparation
sufficed to fasten their steeds beneath a close
clump of foliage, and then followed the parting words of
the younger, which had been so solemnly prefaced.

“Now, Edward Conway, my pledges to you are all
fulfilled—my duties, too. I have done even more than
was required at my hands by any of the ties of blood.
I have been to you a brother, and you are now free.”

“You do not repent of it, Clarence?”

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“Of that, it is fitting that I say nothing rashly. Time
will show. But I need not say to you, Edward Conway,
that the discovery of these disguises, under circumstances
such as Jack Bannister detailed before you, has revived,
in all their force my old suspicions. God knows how
much I have striven to set my soul against these suspicions.
God only knows how much I would give could I
be sure that they were groundless. I dare not for my
father's sake believe them—I dare not for my own. And
this dread to believe, Edward Conway, is, I fear, the only
thing that has saved, and still saves you, from my blow.
But for this, kinsman or no kinsman, your blood had been
as freely shed by these hands, as if its sluices were drawn
from the least known and basest puddle in existence.”

“I am at your mercy, Clarence Conway. I have no
weapons. My arms are folded. I have already spoken
when I should have been silent. I will say no more—
nothing, certainly, to prevent your blow. Strike, if you
will: if I cannot convince you that I am true, I can at
least show you that I am fearless.”

The wily kinsman knew well the easy mode to disarm
his brother—to puzzle his judgment, if not to subdue
his suspicions.

“I have no such purpose!” exclaimed Clarence, chokingly.
“Would to heaven you would give me no occasion
to advert to the possibility that I ever should have. But
hear me, Edward Conway, ere we part. Do not deceive
yourself—do not fancy that I am deceived by this show
of boldness. It did not need that you should assure me
of your fearlessness. That I well knew. It is not your
courage, but your candour, of which I am doubtful.
The display of the one quality does not persuade me
any the more of your possession of the other. We are
now to part. You are free from this moment. You are
also safe. Our men are no longer on the Wateree;—a
few hours' good riding will bring you, most probably,
within challenge of Watson's sentinels. If you are the
foe to your country, which they declare you, he is your
friend. That you do not seek safety in our ranks, I need
no proof. But, ere we part, let me repeat my warnings.
Believe me, Edward Conway, dear to me as my father's

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son, spare me, if you have it in your heart, the pain of
being your foe. Spare me the necessity of strife with
you. If it be that you are a loyalist, let us not meet.
I implore it as the last favour which I shall ever ask at
your hands; and I implore it with a full heart. You
know that we have not always been friends. You know
that there are circumstances, not involving our principles,
on which we have already quarrelled, and which are of
a nature but too well calculated to bring into activity the
wildest anger and the deadliest hate. But, however much
we have been at strife—however I may have fancied that
you have done me wrong—still, believe me, when I tell
you that I have ever, in my cooler moments, striven to
think of, and to serve, you kindly. Henceforward our
meeting must be on other terms. The cloud which
hangs about your course—the suspicion which stains
your character in the minds of others—have at last
affected mine. We meet, hereafter, only as friends or
foes. Your course must then be decided—your principles
declared—your purpose known; and then, Edward
Conway, if it be, as men declare, and as I dare not yet
believe, that you are that traitor to your country—that
you do lead that savage banditti which has left the print
of their horses' hoofs, wherever they have trodden, in
blood—then must our meeting be one of blood only;
and then, as surely as I shall feel all the shame of such
a connexion in my soul, shall I seek, by a strife without
remorse, to atone equally to my father and to my country
for the crime and folly of his son. Fondly do I
implore you, Edward Conway, to spare me this trial.
Let our parting at this moment be final, unless we are to
meet on terms more satisfactory to both.”

The elder of the kinsmen, at this appeal, displayed
more emotion, real or affected, than he had shown at
any time during the interview. He strode to and fro
among the tall trees, with hands clasped behind, eyes
cast down upon the earth, and brows contracted. A
single quiver might have been seen at moments among
the muscles of his mouth. Neither of them seemed to
heed the increasing weight of the tempest. Its roar was
unheard—its torrents fell without notice around and upon

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them. The reply of Edward Conway was at length
spoken. He approached his brother. He had subdued
his emotions, whatever might have been their source.
His words were few—his utterance composed and calm.
He extended his hand to Clarence as he spoke.

“Let us part, Clarence. It does not become me to
make farther assurances. To reply, as I should, to what
you have said, might be, probably, to increase the width
and depth of that chasm which seems to lie between us.
I cannot say that I am satisfied with your tone, your
temper, the position which you assume, and the right
which you claim to direct, and warn, and counsel;—and
when you threaten!—But enough! Let us part before
any thing be said which shall make you forget any thing
which you should remember, or me that I owe my life
to your assistance. What is said is said—let it be forgotten.
Let us part.”

“Ay, let us part: but let it not be forgotten, Edward
Conway?”

“True, true! Let it not be forgotten. It shall not be
forgotten. It cannot be. It would not be easy for me,
Clarence, to forget any thing which has taken place in
the last ten days of my life.”

There was a latent signification in what was said by
the speaker to arouse new suspicions in the mind of the
younger of the kinsmen. He saw, or fancied that he
saw, a gleam of ferocity shine out from the eyes of his
brother, and his own inflammable temper was about to
flare up anew.

“Do you threaten, Edward Conway? Am I to understand
you as speaking the language of defiance?”

“Understand me, Clarence, as speaking nothing which
should not become a man and your brother.”

The reply was equivocal. That it was so, was reason
sufficient why Clarence Conway should hesitate to urge
a matter which might only terminate in bringing their
quarrel to a crisis.

“The sooner we separate the better,” was his only
answer. “Here, Edward Conway, is one of my pistols.
You shall not say I sent you forth without weapons to
defend you, into a forest filled, possibly, with foes. The

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horse which you ride is a favourite. You have lost
your's. Keep him till you are provided. You can always
find an opportunity to return him when you are
prepared to do so; and should you not, it will make no
difference. Farewell: God be with you,—but remember!—
remember!”

The youth grasped the now reluctant hand of the elder
Conway; wrung it with a soldier's grasp—a pressure in
which mingled feelings, all warm, all conflicting, had
equal utterance;—then, springing upon his steed, he
dashed rapidly into the forest, and in a few moments
was hidden from sight in its thickest mazes.

“Remember! Yes, Clarence Conway, I will remember.
Can I ever forget! Can I ever forget the arrogance
which presumes to counsel, to warn, and to threaten—to
pry into my privacy—to examine my deeds—to denounce
them with shame and threaten them with vengeance. I
will remember—to requite! It shall not be always thus.
The game will be in my hands ere many days, and I
will play it as no gamester, with all upon the cast, ever
yet played the game of life before. Without pause or
pity—resolved and reckless—I will speed on to the prosecution
of my purposes, until my triumph is complete!
I must beware, must I?—I must account for my incomings
and outgoings? And why, forsooth? Because I
am your father's son. For the same reason do you
beware! I were no son of my father if I did not resent
this insolence.”

He had extricated his horse from the cover which
concealed him while he was giving utterance to this
soliloquy. The noble animal neighed and whinnied
after his late companion. The plaintive appeal of the
beast seemed to irritate his rider, whose passions, subjected
to a restraint which he had found no less necessary
than painful, were now seeking that vent which they
had been denied for an unusual season; and under their
influence he struck the animal over the nostril with the
heavy hand of that hate which he fain would have bestowed
upon his master.

“Remember!” he muttered, as he leaped upon the
saddle. “I need no entreaty to this end, Clarence

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Conway. I must be a patriot at your bidding, and choose
my side at your suggestion; and forbear the woman of
my heart in obedience to the same royal authority. We
shall see!—We shall see!”

And, as he spoke, the sheeted tempest driving in his
face the while—he shook his threatening hand in the
direction which his brother had taken. Turning his
horse's head upon an opposite course, he then proceeded,
though at a less rapid rate, to find that shelter, which he
now, for the first time, began to consider necessary.

It may have been ten minutes after their separation,
when he heard a sound at a little distance which aroused
his flagging attention.

“That whistle,” said he to himself, “is very like our
own. It may be! They should be here, if my safety
were of any importance; and if that reptile Stockton
would suffer them; that fellow is a spy upon me, sworn
doubly to my destruction if he can find the means.
But let me find him tripping, and a shot gives him prompt
dismissal. Again!—it is!—they are here—the scouts
are around me, and doubtlessly the whole troop is at
Muggs' this moment. There, he could do me no harm.
Muggs is sworn my friend against all enemies, and he is
true as any enemy.—Again, the signal! They shall have
an echo.”

Speaking thus he replied in a sound similar to that
which he heard, and an immediate response, almost at
his elbow, satisfied him of the truth of his first impression.
He drew up his steed, repeated the whistle, and
was now answered by the swift tread of approaching
horses. In a few moments, one, and then another—appeared
in sight, and the captain of the Black Riders of
Congaree once more found himself surrounded by his
men.

Their clamours, as soon as he was recognized, attested
his popularity among his troop.

“Ha, Irby!—Ha, Burnet! Is it you;—and you,
Gibbs—you, Fisher: I rejoice to see you. Your hands,
my good fellows. There! There! You are well—all
well.”

The confused questions and congratulations, all

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together, of the troopers, while they gave every pleasure
to their chieftain, as convincing him of their fidelity, rendered
unnecessary any attempt at answer or explanation.
Nor did Edward Conway allow himself time for this.
His words, though friendly enough, were few; and devoted,
seemingly, to the simple business of the troop.
Captain Morton—for such was the name by which only
he was known to them—with the quickness of a governing
instinct, derived, from a few brief comprehensive
questions, all that he desired to know in regard to their
interests and position. He ascertained where the main
body would be found, and what had taken place during
his absence; and proceeded instantly to the reassumption
of his command over them.

“Enough of this, my good fellows. I will see to all
this at Muggs'. We have no time now for unnecessary
matter. You have work on hand. Burnet, do you take
with you Gibbs, Irby and Fisher. Push your horses
down for the Wateree by the first road running left of
where we now stand. Do you know the route? It leads
by the clay diggings of the old Dutchman—the brick
burner—what's his name?”

“I know it, sir”.—

“Enough, then. Take that road—put the steel into
your nags, but send them forward. If you are diligent
you will overtake one of our worst enemies:—a friend
of Butler—a rebel—no less than Colonel Conway. Pursue
and catch him. You cannot fail to overtake him if
you try for it. Take him prisoner, alive, if you can;—
I particularly wish that you should have him alive—but,
remember, take him at every hazard. Living or dead, he
must be ours.”

The dragoon lingered for farther orders.

“If you succeed in taking him, bring him on to
Muggs'. Give the signal before you reach his cabin,
that there may be no surprise—no mistake. Something
depends on your observance of this caution—so, you will
remember. Away, now; and ride for life.”

Their obedience was sufficiently prompt. In an instant
they were on their way, pursuing the track which
Clarence had taken for the Wateree.

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“Now!” exclaimed the outlaw-chief with exultation—
“now, there is some chance for vengeance. If they
succeed in taking him alive, I will practise upon him to
his utter blindness—I will do him no harm unless a close
lodging house will do him harm. If they kill him—well,
it is only one of those chances of war which he voluntarily
incurs: it is only the lower cast of the die. Yet, I
trust, it may not be so. I am not yet prepared for that.
He is my father's son.—He has stood beside me in danger.
He deserves that I should spare him. But, even
for all this he may not be spared, if he is to triumph over—
to sway me with his arrogance—to achieve all victories
in love as in war. In love!—God, what a strange
nature is this of mine. How feeble am I when I think
of her. And of her I cannot help but think—her beauty,
her pride of soul—ay, even her arrogance I can think of
with temper and with love.—But his—no! no! He has
spoken too keenly to my soul; and when he forbids that
I should seek and see her, he forfeits every claim. Let
them slay him, if they please—it can only come to this
at last.”

And, with these words, striking with his open palm
upon the neck of his horse, he drove him forward to
Muggs'. His entrance we have already seen and the
wonder it excited.—The wonder in all—the consternation
in one. The troopers, with one voice, cried out
for their ancient captain, and Stockton, confounded and
defeated, could only hoarsely mingle his congratulations
with the rest, in accents more faltering, and with—as the
outlaw captain well apprehended—with far less sineerity.

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