"Then you are better?"

"Yes; thanks to you."

"You are given to compliments, as our Southern men are."

"I should be glad to equal them at anything in your estimation. But come, such honest enemies as we are should be as sincere as friends. I have meant every word I have said to you. You are harboring me, an entire stranger, who presented my credentials at first very rudely. Now you can ask me any questions you choose. You have proved yourself to be such a genuine lady that I should be glad to have you think that I am a gentleman by birth and breeding."

"Oh, I was convinced of that before you put your sabre in its scabbard on the evening of your most unwelcome arrival, when you spoiled our supper-party. You have since been confirming first impressions. I must admit, however, that I scarcely 'reverence' you yet, nor have I detected anything specially 'angelic.'"

"Your failure in these respects will be the least of my troubles. I do not take back what I have said, however."

"Wait; perhaps you will. You are very slightly acquainted with me, sir."

"You are much less so with me, and can't imagine what an obstinate fellow I am."

"Oh, if I have to contend with obstinacy rather than judgment—"

"Please let us have no contentions whatever. I have often found that your Southern men out-matched me, and not for the world would I have a dispute with a woman of your mettle. I give you my parole to do all that you wish, as far as it is within my power, while I am helpless on your hands."

"And when I have helped to make you well you will go and fight against the South again?"

"Yes, Miss Barkdale," gravely, "and so would your officers against the North."

"Oh, I know it. I sha'n't put any poison in your coffee."

"Nor will you ever put poison in any man's life. The most delightful thing about you, Miss Barkdale," he continued, laughing, "is that you are so genuinely good and don't know it."

"Whatever happens," she said, almost irritably, "you must be cured of that impression. I won't be considered 'good' when I'm not. Little you know about me, indeed! Good heavens, Captain Lane! what kind of women have you been accustomed to meet in the North? Would they put strychnine in a wounded Southerner's food, and give him heavy bread, more fatal than bullets, and read novels while dying men were at their very doors?"

"Heaven help them! I fear there are many women the world over who virtually do just those things."

"They are not in the South," she replied, hotly.

"They are evidently not in this house," he replied, smiling. "You ask what kind of women I am accustomed to meet. I will show you the shadow of one of my friends;" and he took from under his pillow a photograph of Marian.

"Oh, isn't she lovely!" exclaimed the girl.

"Yes, she is as beautiful as you are; she is as brave as you are, and I've seen you cheering on your friends when even in the excitement of the fight my heart was filled with dread lest you or your mother or sister might be shot. She is just as ardent for the North as you are for the South, and her influence has had much place in the motives of many who are now in the Union army. If wounded Confederates were about her door you could only equal—you could not surpass—her in womanly kindness and sympathy. The same would be true of my mother and sisters, and millions of others. I know what you think of us at the North, but you will have to revise your opinions some day."

Her face was flushed, a frown was upon her brow, a doubtful smile upon her lips, and her whole manner betokened her intense interest. "You evidently are seeking to revise them," she said, with a short laugh, "much as you charged our cavalry the other evening. I think you are a dangerous man to the South, Captain Lane, and I don't know whether I should let you get well or not."

He reached out his hand and took hers, as he said, laughingly: "I should trust you just the same, even though Jeff Davis and the whole Confederate Congress ordered you to make away with me."

"Don't you call our President 'Jeff,'" she snapped, but did not withdraw her hand.

"I beg your pardon. That was just as rude in me as if you had called Mr. Lincoln 'Abe.'"

She now burst out laughing. "Heaven knows we do it often enough," she said.

"I was aware of that."

"This won't do at all," she resumed. "Your hand is growing a little feverish, and if my visits do not make you better I shall not come. I think we have defined our differences sufficiently. You must not 'reverence' me any more. I couldn't stand that at all. I will concede at once that you are a gentleman, and that this lovely girl is my equal; and when our soldiers have whipped your armies, and we are free, I shall be magnanimous, and invite you to bring this girl here to visit us on your wedding trip. What is her name?"

"Marian Vosburgh. But I fear she will never take a wedding trip with me. If she did I would accept your invitation gratefully after we had convinced the South that one flag must protect us all."

"We won't talk any more about that. Why won't Miss Vosburgh take a wedding trip with you?"

"For the best of reasons,—she doesn't love me well enough."

"Stupid! Perhaps she loves some one else?"

"No, I don't think so. She is as true a friend as a woman can be to a man, but there it ends."

"With her."

"Certainly, with her only. She knows that I would do all that a man can to win her."

"You are frank."

"Why should I not be with one I trust so absolutely? You think us Northmen cold, underhanded. I do not intend virtually to take my life back from your hands, and at the same time to keep that life aloof from you as if you had nothing to do with it. If I survive the war, whichever way it turns, I shall always cherish your memory as one of my ideals, and shall feel honored indeed if I can retain your friendship. To make and keep such friends is to enrich one's life. Should I see Miss Vosburgh again I shall tell her about you, just as I have told you about her."

"You were born on the wrong side of the line, Captain Lane. You are a Southerner at heart."

"Oh, nonsense! Wait till you visit us at the North. You will find people to your mind on both sides of the line. When my mother and sisters have learned how you have treated me and my men they will welcome you with open arms."

She looked at him earnestly a moment, and then said: "You make me feel as if the North and South did not understand each other." Then she added, sadly: "The war is not over. Alas! how much may happen before it is. My gray-haired father and gallant brothers are marching with Lee, and while I pray for them night and morning, and often through the day, I fear—I FEAR inexpressibly,—all the more, now that I have seen Northern soldiers fight. God only knows what is in store for us all. Do not think that because I seem light-hearted I am not conscious of living on the eve of a tragedy all the time. Tears and laughter are near together in my nature. I can't help it; I was so made."

"Heaven keep you and yours in safety," said Lane, earnestly; and she saw that his eyes were moist with feeling.

"This won't answer," she again declared, hastily. "We must have no more such exciting talks. Shall I read to you a little while, or go at once?"

"Read to me, by all means, if I am not selfishly keeping you too long. Your talk has done me good rather than harm, for you are so vital yourself that you seem to give me a part of your life and strength. I believe I should have died under the old dull monotony."

"I usually read the Bible to your men," she said, half humorously, half questioningly.

"Read it to me. I like to think we have the same faith. That book is the pledge that all differences will pass away from the sincere."

He looked at her wonderingly as she read, in her sweet, girlish voice, the sacred words familiar since his childhood; and when she rose and said, "This must do for to-day," his face was eloquent with his gratitude. He again reached out his hand, and said, gently, "Miss Suwanee, Heaven keep you and yours from all harm."

"Don't talk to me that way," she said, brusquely. "After all, we are enemies, you know."

"If you can so bless your enemies, what must be the experience of your friends, one of whom I intend to be?"

"Roberta must read to you, in order to teach you that the South cannot be taken by storm."

"I should welcome Miss Roberta cordially. We also shall be good friends some day."

"We must get you well and pack you off North, or there's no telling what may happen," she said, with a little tragic gesture. "Good-by."

This was the beginning of many talks, though no other was of so personal a nature. They felt that they understood each other, that there was no concealment to create distrust. She artlessly and unconsciously revealed to him her life and its inspirations, and soon proved that her mind was as active as her hands. She discovered that Lane had mines of information at command, and she plied him with questions about the North, Europe, and such parts of the East as he had visited. Her father's library was well stored with standard works, and she made him describe the scenes suggested by her favorite poets. Life was acquiring for her a zest which it had never possessed before, and one day she said to him, abruptly, "How you have broadened my horizon!"

He also improved visibly in her vivacious society, and at last was able to come down to his meals and sit on the piazza. Mrs. Barkdale's and Roberta's reserve thawed before his genial courtesy, and all the more readily since a letter had been received from Colonel Barkdale containing thanks to Lane for the consideration that had been shown to his family, and assuring his wife that the Barkdale mansion must not fail in hospitality either to loyal friends or to worthy foes.

Roberta was won over more completely than she had believed to be possible. Her proud, high spirit was pleased with the fact that, while Lane abated not one jot of his well-defined loyalty to the North and its aims, he also treated her with respect and evident admiration in her fearless assertion of her views. She also recognized his admirable tact in preventing their talk from verging towards a too-earnest discussion of their differences. Suwanee was delighted as she saw him disarm her relatives, and was the life of their social hours. She never wearied in delicately chaffing and bewildering the good-natured but rather matter-of-fact Surgeon McAllister, and it often cost Lane much effort to keep from exploding in laughter as he saw the perplexed and worried expression of his friend. But before the meal was over she would always reassure her slow-witted guest by some unexpected burst of sunshine, and he afterwards would remark, in confidence: "I say, Lane, that little 'Missy S'wanee' out-generals a fellow every time. She attacks rear, flank, and front, all at once, and then she takes your sword in such a winsome way that you are rather glad to surrender."

"Take care, McAllister,—take care, or you may surrender more than your sword."

"I think you are in the greater danger."

"Oh, no, I'm forearmed, and Miss Suwanee and I understand each other."

But he did not understand her, nor did she comprehend herself. Her conversation seemed as open, and often as bright as her Southern sunshine, and his mind was cheered and delighted with it. He did not disguise his frank, cordial regard for her, even before her mother and sister, but it was ever blended with such a sincere respect that she was touched and surprised by it, and they were reassured. She had told them of the place possessed by Marian in his thoughts, and this fact, with his manner, promised immunity from all tendencies towards sentiment. Indeed, that Suwanee should bestow anything more upon the Northern officer than kindness, a certain chivalric hospitality, and some admiration, was among the impossibilities in their minds.

This, at the time, seemed equally true to the young girl herself. Not in the least was she on her guard. Her keen enjoyment of his society awakened no suspicions, for she enjoyed everything keenly. His persistence in treating her, in spite of all her nonsense and frolicsomeness, as if she were worthy of the deepest respect and honor which manhood can pay to womanhood, ever remained a bewildering truth, and touched the deepest chords in her nature. Sometimes when they sat in the light of the young moon on the veranda she revealed thoughts which surprised him, and herself even more. It appeared to her as if a new and deeper life were awakening in her heart, full of vague beauty and mystery. She almost believed that she was becoming good, as he imagined. Why otherwise should she be so strangely happy and spiritually exalted? He was developing in her a new self-respect. She now knew that he was familiar with standards of comparison at the North of which she need not be ashamed. Even her mother and sister had remarked, in effect, "It is evident that Captain Lane has been accustomed to the best society." His esteem was not the gaping admiration of a boor to whom she had been a revelation.

"No," she said, "he is a revelation to me. I thought my little prejudices were the boundaries of the world. He, who has seen the world, walks right over my prejudices as if they were nothing, and makes me feel that I am his friend and equal, because he fancies I possess a true, noble womanhood; and now I mean to possess it. He has made his ideal of me seem worthy and beautiful, and it shall be my life effort to attain it. He doesn't think me a barbarian because I am a rebel and believe in slavery. He has said that his mother and sisters would receive me with open arms. It seems to me that I have grown years older and wiser during the last few weeks."

She did not know that her vivid, tropical nature was responding to the influence which is mightiest even in colder climes.



CHAPTER XL.

LOVE'S TRIUMPH.



THE month of June was drawing to a close. Captain Lane, his surgeon, and a little company of wounded men, equally with the Confederates, were only apparently forgotten. They were all watched, and their progress towards health was noted. Any attempt at escape would have been checked at once. The majority of the Federal soldiers could now walk about slowly, and were gaining rapidly. Although they were not aware of the fact, the Confederate wounded, who had progressed equally far in convalescence, were their guards, and the residents of the neighborhood were allies in watchfulness. The Southerners were only awaiting the time, near at hand, when they could proceed to Richmond with their prisoners. This purpose indicated no deep hostility on the part of the rebels. Companionship in suffering had banished this feeling. A sergeant among their number had become their natural leader, and he was in communication with guerilla officers and other more regular authorities. They had deemed it best to let events take their course for a time. Lee's northward advance absorbed general attention, although little as yet was known about it on that remote plantation. The Union men were being healed and fed at no cost to the Confederates, and could be taken away at the time when their removal could be accomplished with the least trouble.

Lane himself was the chief cause of delay. He was doing well, but his wound was of a peculiar nature, and any great exertion or exposure might yet cause fatal results. This fact had become known to the rebel sergeant, and since the captain was the principal prize, and they were all very comfortable, he had advised delay. It had been thought best not to inform the family as to the state of affairs, lest it should in some way become known to Lane and the surgeon, and lead to attempted escape. The Barkdales, moreover, were high-strung people, and might entertain some chivalric ideas about turning over their guests to captivity.

"They might have a ridiculous woman's notion about the matter," said one of these secret advisers.

Lane and McAllister, however, were becoming exceedingly solicitous concerning the future. The former did not base much hope on Suwanee's evident expectation that when he was well enough he would go to his friends as a matter of course. He knew that he and his men were in the enemy's hands, and that they would naturally be regarded as captives. He had a horror of going to a Southern prison and of enduring weeks and perhaps months of useless inactivity. He and McAllister began to hold whispered consultations. His mind revolted at the thought of leaving his men, and of departing stealthily from the family that had been so kind. And yet if they were all taken to Richmond he would be separated from the men, and could do nothing for them. Matter-of-fact McAllister had no doubts or scruples.

"Of course we should escape at once if your wound justified the attempt"

On the 29th of June Lane and the surgeon walked some little distance from the house, and became satisfied that they were under the surveillance of the rebel sergeant and his men. This fact so troubled Lane that Suwanee noticed his abstraction and asked him in the evening what was worrying him. The moonlight fell full on her lovely, sympathetic face.

"Miss Suwanee," he said, gravely, "I've been your guest about a month. Are you not tired of me yet?"

"That's a roundabout way of saying you are tired of us."

"I beg your pardon: it is not. But, in all sincerity, I should be getting back to duty, were it possible."

"Your wound is not sufficiently healed," she said, earnestly, wondering at the chill of fear that his words had caused. "The surgeon says it is not."

"Don't you know?" he whispered.

"Know what?" she almost gasped.

"That I'm a prisoner."

She sprung to her feet and was about to utter some passionate exclamation; but he said, hastily, "Oh, hush, or I'm lost. I believe that eyes are upon me all the time."

"Heigho!" she exclaimed, walking to the edge of the veranda, "I wish I knew what General Lee was doing. We are expecting to hear of another great battle every day;" and she swept the vicinity with a seemingly careless glance, detecting a dark outline behind some shrubbery not far away. Instantly she sprung down the steps and confronted the rebel sergeant.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, indignantly.

"My duty," was the stolid reply.

"Find duty elsewhere then," she said, haughtily.

The man slunk away, and she returned to Lane, who remarked, significantly, "Now you understand me."

It was evident that she was deeply excited, and immediately she began to speak in a voice that trembled with anger and other emotions. "This is terrible. I had not thought—indeed it cannot be. My father would not permit it. The laws of war would apply, I suppose, to your enlisted men, but that you and Surgeon McAllister, who have been our guests and have sat at our table, should be taken from our hospitality into captivity is monstrous. In permitting it, I seem to share in a mean, dishonorable thing."

"How characteristic your words and actions are!" said Lane, gently. "It would be easy to calculate your orbit. I fear you cannot help yourself. You forget, too, that I was the means of sending to prison even your Major Denham."

"Major Denham is nothing—" she began, impetuously, then hesitated, and he saw the rich color mantling her face even in the moonlight. After a second or two she added: "Our officers were captured in fair fight. That is very different from taking a wounded man and a guest."

"Not a guest in the ordinary sense of the word. You see I can be fair to your people, unspeakably as I dread captivity. It will not be so hard for McAllister, for surgeons are not treated like ordinary prisoners. His remaining, however, was a brave, unselfish act;" and Lane spoke in tones of deep regret.

"It must not be," she said, sternly.

"Miss Suwanee,"—and his voice was scarcely audible,—"do you think we can be overheard?"

"No," she replied, in like tones. "Roberta and mamma are incapable of listening."

"I was not thinking of them. I must speak quickly. I don't wish to involve you, but the surgeon and I must try to escape, for I would almost rather die than be taken prisoner. Deep as is my longing for liberty I could not leave you without a word, and my trust in the chivalric feeling that you have just evinced is so deep as to convince me that I can speak to you safely. I shall not tell you anything to compromise you. You have only to be blind and deaf if you see or hear anything."

Her tears were now falling fast, but she did not move, lest observant eyes should detect her emotion.

"Heaven bless your good, kind heart!" he continued, in a low, earnest tone. "Whether I live or die, I wish you to know that your memory will ever be sacred to me, like that of my mother and one other. Be assured that the life you have done so much to save is always at your command. Whenever I can serve you or yours you can count on all that I am or can do. Suwanee, I shall be a better man for having known you. You don't half appreciate yourself, and every succeeding day has only proved how true my first impressions were."

She did not answer, and he felt that it would be dangerous to prolong the interview. They entered the house together. As they went up the stairs she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, he wondering at her silence and emotion. At the landing in the dusky hall-way he raised her hand to his lips.

There was not a trace of gallantry in the act, and she knew it. It was only the crowning token of that recognition at which she had wondered from the first. She realized that it was only the homage of a knightly man and the final expression of his gratitude; but it overwhelmed her, and she longed to escape with the terrible revelation which had come to her at last. She could not repress a low sob, and, giving his hand a quick, strong pressure, she fled to her room.

"Can it be possible?" he thought. "Oh! if I have wounded that heart, however unintentionally, I shall never forgive myself."

"Lane," whispered McAllister, when the former entered his room, "there are guards about the house."

"I'm not surprised," was the despondent reply. "We are prisoners."

"Does the family know it?"

He told him how Suwanee had detected the espionage of the rebel sergeant.

"Wouldn't she help us?"

"I shall not ask her to. I shall not compromise her with her people."

"No, by thunder! I'd rather spend my life in prison than harm her. What shall we do?"

"We must put our light out soon, and take turns in watching for the slightest opportunity. You lie down first. I do not feel sleepy."

After making some slight preparations the doctor slept, and it was well on towards morning before Lane's crowding thoughts permitted him to seek repose. He then wakened McAllister and said, "There has been a stealthy relief of guards thus far, and I've seen no chance whatever."

The doctor was equally satisfied that any attempt to escape would be fruitless.

Suwanee's vigil that night was bitter and terrible, indeed. Her proud, passionate nature writhed under the truth that she had given her heart, unsought, to a Northern officer,—to one who had from the first made it clear that his love had been bestowed on another. She felt that she could not blame him. His frankness had been almost equal to that of her own brothers, and he had satisfied her that they could scarcely be more loyal to her than he would be. She could detect no flaw in his bearing towards her. He had not disguised his admiration, his abundant enjoyment of her society, but all expression of his regard had been tinged with respect and gratitude rather than gallantry. He perhaps had thought that her knowledge of his attitude towards Miss Vosburgh was an ample safeguard, if any were needed. Alas! it had been the chief cause of her fatal blindness. She had not dreamed of danger for him or herself in their companionship. Nothing was clearer than that he expected and wished no such result. It was well for Lane that this was true, for she would have been a dangerous girl to trifle with.

But she recognized the truth. Before, love had been to her a thing of poetry, romance, and dreams. Now it was a terrible reality. Her heart craved with intense longing what she felt it could never possess.

At last, wearied and exhausted by her deep emotion, she sighed: "Perhaps it is better as it is. Even if he had been a lover, the bloody chasm of war would have separated us, but it seems cruel that God should permit such an overwhelming misfortune to come upon an unsuspecting, inexperienced girl. Why was I so made that I could, unconsciously, give my very soul to this stranger? yet he is not a stranger. Events have made me better acquainted with him than with any other man. I know that he has kept no secrets from me. There was nothing to conceal. All has been simple, straightforward, and honorable. It is to the man himself, in his crystal integrity, that my heart has bowed, and then—that was his chief power—he made me feel that I was not unworthy. He taught me to respect my own nature, and to aspire to all that was good and true.

"After all, perhaps I am condemning myself too harshly,—perhaps the truth that my heart acknowledged such a man as master is proof that his estimate of me is not wholly wrong. Were there not some kinship of spirit between us, this could not be; but the secret must remain between me and God."

Lane, tormented by the fear suggested by Suwanee's manner on the previous evening, dreaded to meet her again, but at first he was reassured. Never had she been more brilliant and frolicsome than at the breakfast-table that morning. Never had poor McAllister been more at his wits' end to know how to reply to her bewildering sallies of good-natured badinage. Every vulnerable point of Northern character received her delicate satire. Lane himself did not escape her light shafts. He made no defence, but smiled or laughed at every palpable hit. The girl's pallor troubled him, and something in her eyes that suggested suffering. There came a time when he could scarcely think of that day without tears, believing that no soldier on either side ever displayed more heroism than did the wounded girl.

He and the surgeon walked out again, and saw that they were watched. He found that his men had become aware of the truth and had submitted to the inevitable. They were far from the Union lines, and not strong enough to attempt an escape through a hostile country. Lane virtually gave up, and began to feel that the best course would be to submit quietly and look forward to a speedy exchange. He longed for a few more hours with Suwanee, but imagined that she avoided him. There was no abatement of her cordiality, but she appeared preoccupied.

After dinner a Confederate officer called and asked for Miss Roberta, who, after the interview, returned to her mother's room with a troubled expression. Suwanee was there, calmly plying her needle. She knew what the call meant.

"I suppose it's all right, and that we can't help ourselves," Roberta began, "but it annoys me nevertheless. Lieutenant Macklin, who has just left, has said that our own men and the Union soldiers are now well enough to be taken to Richmond, and that he will start with them to-morrow morning. Of course I have no regrets respecting the enlisted men, and am glad they are going, for they are proving a heavy burden to us; but my feelings revolt at the thought that Captain Lane and the surgeon should be taken to prison from our home."

"I don't wonder," said Suwanee, indignantly; "but then what's the use? we can't help ourselves. I suppose it is the law of war."

"Well, I'm glad you are so sensible about it. I feared you would feel a hundred-fold worse than I, you and the captain have become such good friends. Indeed, I have even imagined that he was in danger of becoming something more. I caught him looking at you at dinner as if you were a saint 'whom infidels might adore.' His homage to our flirtatious little Suwanee has been a rich joke from the first. I suppose, however, there may have been a vein of calculation in it all, for I don't think any Yankee—"

"Hush," said Suwanee, hotly; "Captain Lane is still our guest, and he is above calculation. I shall not permit him to be insulted because he has over-estimated me."

"Why, Suwanee, I did not mean to insult him. You have transfixed him with a dozen shafts of satire to-day, and as for poor Surgeon McAllister—"

"That was to their faces," interrupted Suwanee, hastily.

"Suwanee is right," said Mrs. Barkdale, smiling. "Captain Lane has had the sense to see that my little girl is good-hearted in spite of her nonsense."

The girl's lip was quivering but she concealed the fact by savagely biting off her thread, and then was impassive again.

"I sincerely regret with you both," resumed their mother, "that these two gentlemen must go from our home to prison, especially so since receiving a letter from Captain Lane, couched in terms of the strongest respect and courtesy, and enclosing a hundred dollars in Northern money as a slight compensation—so he phrased it—for what had been done for his men. Of course he meant to include himself and the surgeon, but had too much delicacy to mention the fact. He also stated that he would have sent more, but that it was nearly all they had."

"You did not keep the money!" exclaimed the two girls in the same breath.

"I do not intend to keep it," said the lady, quietly, "and shall hand it back to him with suitable acknowledgments. I only mention the fact to convince Roberta that Captain Lane is not the typical Yankee, and we have much reason to be thankful that men of a different stamp were not quartered upon us. And yet," continued the matron, with a deep sigh, "you little know how sorely we need the money. Your father's and brothers' pay is losing its purchasing power. The people about here all profess to be very hot for the South, but when you come to buy anything from them what they call 'Linkum money' goes ten times as far. We have never known anything but profusion, but now we are on the verge of poverty."

"Oh, well," said Suwanee, recklessly, "starving isn't the worst thing that could happen."

"Alas! my child, you can't realize what poverty means. Your heart is as free from care as the birds around us, and, like them, you think you will be provided for."

The girl sprung up with a ringing laugh, and kissed her mother as she exclaimed, "I'll cut off my hair, put on one of brother Bob's old suits, and enlist;" and then she left the room.

At supper there was a constraint on all except Suwanee. Mrs. Barkdale and Roberta felt themselves to be in an embarrassing position. The men at the table, who had been guests so long, would be marched away as prisoners from their door in the morning. The usages of war could not satisfy their womanly and chivalric natures, or make them forget the courtesy and respect which, in spite of prejudices, had won so much good-will. Lane scarcely sought to disguise his perplexity and distress. Honest Surgeon McAllister, who knew that they all had been an awful burden, was as troubled as some men are pleased when they get much for nothing. Suwanee appeared in a somewhat new role. She was the personification of dignity and courtesy. She acted as if she knew all and was aware that their guests did. Therefore levity would be in bad taste, and their only resource was the good breeding which ignores the disagreeable and the inevitable. Her mother looked on her with pride, and wondered at so fine an exibition of tact. She did not know that the poor girl had a new teacher, and that she was like an inexorable general who, in a desperate fight, summons all his reserve and puts forth every effort of mind and body.

Lane had not found a chance to say one word to Suwanee in private during the day, but after supper she went to the piano and began to play some Southern airs with variations of her own improvising. He immediately joined her and said, "We shall not attempt to escape; we are too closely watched."

She did not reply.

"Miss Suwanee," he began again, and distress and sorrow were in his tones, "I hardly know how to speak to you of what troubles me more than the thought of captivity. How can I manage with such proud, chivalric women as you and your mother and sister? But I am not blind, nor can I ignore the prosaic conditions of our lot. I respect your pride; but have a little mercy on mine,—nay, let me call it bare self-respect. We have caused you the loss of your laborers, your fields are bare, and you have emptied your larder in feeding my men, yet your mother will not take even partial compensation. You can't realize how troubled I am."

"You, like ourselves, must submit to the fortunes of war," she replied, with a sudden gleam of her old mirthfulness.

"A bodily wound would be a trifle compared with this," he resumed, earnestly. "O Miss Suwanee, have I won no rights as a friend? rather, let me ask, will you not generously give me some rights?"

"Yes, Captain Lane," she said, gently, "I regard you as a friend, and I honor you as a true man. Though the war should go on forever I should not change in these respects unless you keep harping on this financial question."

"Friends frankly accept gifts from friends; let it be a gift then, by the aid of which you can keep your mother from privation. Suwanee, Suwanee, why do you refuse to take this dross from me when I would give my heart's blood to shield you from harm?"

"You are talking wildly, Captain Lane," she said, with a laugh. "Your heart belongs to Miss Vosburgh, and therefore all its blood."

"She would be the first to demand and expect that I should risk all and give all for one to whom I owe so much and who is so deserving."

"I require of her no such sacrifice," Suwanee replied, coldly, "nor of you either, Captain Lane. Unforeseen circumstances have thrown us together for a time. We have exchanged all that is possible between those so divided,—esteem and friendship. If my father thinks it best he will obtain compensation from our government. Perhaps, in happier times, we may meet again," she added, her tone and manner becoming gentle once more; "and then I hope you will find me a little more like what you have thought me to be."

"God grant that we may meet again. There, I can't trust myself to speak to you any more. Your unaffected blending of humility and pride with rare, unconscious nobility touches my very soul. Our leave-taking in the morning must be formal. Good-by, Suwanee Barkdale. As sure as there is a God of justice your life will be filled full with happiness."

Instead of taking his proffered hand, she trembled, turned to the piano, and said hastily between the notes she played: "Control yourself and listen. We may be observed. You and the surgeon be ready to open your door and follow me at any time to-night. Hang your sword where it may be seen through the open window. I have contrived a chance—a bare chance—of your escape. Bow and retire."

He did so. She bent her head in a courtly manner towards him, and then went on with her playing of Southern airs.

A moment later the rebel sergeant disappeared from some shrubbery a little beyond the parlor window, and chuckled, "The Yankee captain has found out that he can't make either an ally or a sweetheart out of a Southern girl; but I suspicioned her a little last night."

At two o'clock that night there was an almost imperceptible tap at Lane's door. He opened it noiselessly, and saw Suwanee with her finger on her lips.

"Carry your shoes in your hands," she said, and then led the way down the stairs to the parlor window. Again she whispered: "The guard here is bribed,—bribed by kindness. He says I saved his life when he was wounded. Steal through the shrubbery to the creek-road; continue down that, and you'll find a guide. Not a word. Good-by."

She gave her hand to the surgeon, whose honest eyes were moist with feeling, and then he dropped lightly to the ground.

"Suwanee," began Lane.

"Hush! Go."

Again he raised her hand to his lips, again heard that same low, involuntary sob that had smote his heart the preceding night; and then followed the surgeon. The guard stood out in the garden with his back towards them, as, like shadows, they glided away.

On the creek-road the old colored man who worked in the garden joined them, and led the way rapidly to the creek, where under some bushes a skiff with oars was moored. Lane slipped twenty dollars into the old man's hand, and then he and his companion pushed out into the sluggish current, and the surgeon took the oars and pulled quietly through the shadows of the overhanging foliage. The continued quiet proved that their escape had not been discovered. Food had been placed in the boat. The stream led towards the Potomac. With the dawn they concealed themselves, and slept during the day, travelling all the following night. The next day they were so fortunate as to fall in with a Union scouting party, and so eventually reached Washington; but the effort in riding produced serious symptoms in Lane's wound, and he was again doomed to quiet weeks of convalescence, as has already been intimated to the reader.

When Mrs. Barkdale and Roberta came down the next morning they found Suwanee in the breakfast room, fuming with apparent irritability.

"Here is that Lieutenant Macklin again," she said, "and he is very impatient, saying that his orders are imperative, and that he is needed on some special duty. His orders are to convey the prisoners to the nearest railroad station, and then report for some active service. From all I can gather it is feared that the Yankees propose an attack on Richmond, now that General Lee is away."

"It's strange that Captain Lane and the surgeon don't come down," Roberta remarked. "I truly wish, however, that we had not to meet them again."

"Well, since it must be, the sooner the ordeal is over the better," said Suwanee, with increasing irritation. "Captain Lane has sense enough to know that we are not responsible for his being taken away."

"Hildy," said Mrs. Barkdale, "go up and tell the gentlemen that breakfast is ready."

In a few moments the old woman returned in a fluster and said, "I knock on de doah, and dey ain't no answer."

"What!" exclaimed Suwanee, in the accents of surprise; then, sharply, "go and knock louder, and wake them up," adding, "it's very strange."

Hildy came back with a scared look, and said, "I knock and knock; den I open de doah, and der' ain't no one dere."

"They must be out in the grounds for a walk," exclaimed Roberta. "Haven't you seen them this morning?"

"I ain't seen nuffin' nor heard nuffin'," protested the old woman.

"Girls, this is serious," said Mrs. Barkdale, rising; and she summoned Lieutenant Macklin, who belonged to a class not received socially by the family.

"We have but this moment discovered," said the lady, "that Captain Lane and Surgeon McAllister are not in their room. Therefore we suppose they are walking in the grounds. Will you please inform them that breakfast is waiting?"

"Pardon me, madam, they cannot be outside, or I should have been informed."

"Then you must search for them, sir. The house, grounds, and buildings are open to you."

The fact of the prisoners' escape soon became evident, and there were haste, confusion, and running to and fro to no purpose. Suwanee imitated Roberta so closely that she was not suspected. Lieutenant Macklin and the rebel sergeant at last returned, giving evidence of strong vexation.

"We don't understand this," began the lieutenant.

"Neither do we," interrupted Mrs. Barkdale, so haughtily that they were abashed, although they directed keen glances towards Suwanee, who met their scrutiny unflinchingly.

The Barkdales were not people to be offended with impunity, and the lieutenant knew it. He added, apologetically: "You know I must do my duty, madam. I fear some of your servants are implicated, or that guards have been tampered with."

"You are at liberty to examine any one you please."

They might as well have examined a carved, wrinkled effigy as old Cuffy, Lane's midnight guide. "I don' know nuffin' 'tall 'bout it," he declared. "My ole woman kin tell yo' dat I went to bed when she did and got up when she did."

The guard, bought with kindness, was as dense in his ignorance as any of the others. At last Macklin declared that he would have to put citizens on the hunt, for his orders admitted of no delay.

The Union prisoners, together with the Confederates, when formed in line, gave a ringing cheer for "Missy S'wanee and the ladies," and then the old mansion was left in more than its former isolation, and, as the younger girl felt, desolation.

She attended to her duties as usual, and then went to her piano. The words spoken the previous evening would ever make the place dear to her. While she was there old Hildy crept in, with her feeble step, and whispered, "I foun' dis un'er Cap'n Lane's piller."

It was but a scrap of paper, unaddressed; but Suwanee understood its significance. It contained these words: "I can never repay you, but to discover some coin which a nature like yours can accept has become one of my supreme ambitions. If I live, we shall meet again."

Those words formed a glimmering hope which grew fainter and fainter in the dark years which followed.

She did not have to mask her trouble very long, for another sorrow came like an avalanche. Close to the Union lines, on Cemetery Ridge, lay a white-haired colonel and his two tall sons. They were among the heroes in Pickett's final charge, on the 3d of July. "Missy S'wanee" laughed no more, even in self-defence.



CHAPTER XLI.

SUNDAY'S LULL AND MONDAY'S STORM.



SUNDAY, the 12th of July, proved a long, restful sabbath to Marian and her father, and they spent most of its hours together. The great tension and strain of the past weeks appeared to be over for a time. The magnificent Union victories had brought gladness and hopefulness to Mr. Vosburgh, and the return of her friends had relieved his daughter's mind. He now thought he saw the end clearly. He believed that hereafter the tide of rebellion would ebb southward until all the land should be free.

"This day has been a godsend to us both," he said to Marian, as they sat together in the library before retiring. "The draft has begun quietly, and no disturbances have followed. I scarcely remember an evening when the murmur of the city was so faint and suggestive of repose. I think we can both go to the country soon, with minds comparatively at rest. I must admit that I expected no such experience as has blessed us to-day. We needed it. Not until this respite came did I realize how exhausted from labor and especially anxiety I had become. You, too, my little girl, are not the blooming lassie you were a year ago."

"Yet I think I'm stronger in some respects, papa."

"Yes, in many respects. Thank God for the past year. Your sympathy and companionship have made it a new era in my life. You have influenced other lives, also, as events have amply proved. Are you not satisfied now that you can be unconventional without being queer? You have not been a colorless reflection of some social set; neither have you left your home for some startling public career; and yet you have achieved the distinct individuality which truthfulness to nature imparts. You have simply been developing your better self naturally, and you have helped fine fellows to make the best of themselves."

"Your encouragement is very sweet, papa. I'm not complacent over myself, however; and I've failed so signally in one instance that I'm vexed and almost saddened. You know what I mean."

"Yes, I know," with a slight laugh. "Merwyn is still your unsolved problem, and he worries you."

"Not because he is unsolved, but rather that the solution has proved so disappointing and unexpected. He baffles me with a trait which I recognize, but can't understand, and only admit in wonder and angry protest. Indeed, from the beginning of our acquaintance he has reversed my usual experiences. His first approaches incensed me beyond measure,—all the more, I suppose, because I saw in him an odious reflection of my old spirit. But, papa, when to his condescending offer I answered from the full bitterness of my heart, he looked and acted as if I had struck him with a knife."

Her father again laughed, as he said: "You truly used heroic surgery, and to excellent purpose. Has he shown any conceit, complacency, or patronizing airs since?"

"No, I admit that, at least."

"In destroying some of his meaner traits by one keen thrust, you did him a world of good. Of course he suffered under such a surgical operation, but he has had better moral health ever since."

"Oh, yes," she burst out, "he has become an eminently respectable and patriotic millionnaire, giving of his abundance to save the nation's life, living in a palace meanwhile. What did he mean by his passionate words, 'I shall measure everything hereafter by the breadth of your woman's soul'? What have the words amounted to? You know, papa, that nothing but my duty and devotion to you keeps me from taking an active part in this struggle, even though a woman. Indeed, the feeling is growing upon me that I must spend part of my time in some hospital. A woman can't help having an intense conviction of what she would do were she a man, and you know what I would have done, and he knows it also. Therefore he has not kept his word, for he fails at the vital point in reaching my standard. I have no right to judge men in Mr. Merwyn's position because they do not go to the front. Let them do what they think wise and prudent; let them also keep among their own kind. I protest against their coming to me for what I give to friends who have already proved themselves heroes. But there, I forgot. He looks so like a man that I can't help thinking that he is one,—that he could come up to my standard if he chose to. He still seeks me—"

"No, he has not been here since he heard Blauvelt's story."

"He passed the house once, hesitated, and did not enter. Papa, he has not changed, and you know it. He has plainly asked for a gift only second to what I can give to God. With a tenacity which nothing but his will can account for, perhaps, he seeks it still. Do you think his distant manner deceives me for a moment? Nor has my coldness any influence on him. Yet it has not been the coldness of indifference, and he knows that too. He has seen and felt, like sword-thrusts, my indignation, my contempt. He has said to my face, 'You think me a coward.' He is no fool, and has fully comprehended the situation. If he had virtually admitted, 'I am a coward, and therefore can have no place among the friends who are surpassing your ideal of manly heroism,' and withdrawn to those to whom a million is more than all heroism, the affair would have ended naturally long ago. But he persists in bringing me a daily sense of failure and humiliation. He says: 'My regard for you is so great I can't give you up, yet not so great as to lead me to do what hundreds of thousands are doing. I can't face danger for your sake.' I have tried to make the utmost allowance for his constitutional weakness, yet it has humiliated me that I had not the power to enable him to overcome so strange a failing. Why, I could face death for you, and he can't stand beside one whom he used to sneer at as 'little Strahan.' Yet, such is his idea of my woman's soul that he still gives me his thoughts and therefore his hopes;" and she almost stamped her foot in her irritation.

"Would you truly give your life for me?" he asked, gently.

"Yes, I know I could, and would were there necessity; not in callous disregard of danger, but because the greater emotion swallows up the less. Faulty as I am, there would be no bargainings and prudent reservations in my love. These are not the times for half-way people. Oh think, papa, while we are here in the midst of every comfort, how many thousands of mutilated, horribly wounded men are dying in agony throughout the South! My heart goes out to them in a sympathy and homage I can't express. Think how Lane and even Strahan may be suffering to-night, with so much done for them, and then remember the prisoners of war and the poor unknown enlisted men, often terribly neglected, I fear. Papa, won't you let me go as a nurse? The ache would go out of my own heart if I tried to reduce this awful sum of anguish a little. He whose word and touch always banished pain and disease would surely shield me in such labors. As soon as danger no longer threatens you, won't you let me do a little, although I am only a girl?"

"Yes, Marian," her father replied, gravely; "far be it from me to repress such heaven-born impulses. You are now attaining the highest rank reached by humanity. All the avenues of earthly distinction cannot lead beyond the spirit of self-sacrifice for others. This places you near the Divine Man, and all grow mean and plebeian to the degree that they recede from him. You see what comes of developing your better nature. Selfishness and its twin, cowardice, are crowded out."

"Please don't praise me any more. I can't stand it," faltered the girl, tearfully. A moment later her laugh rang out. "Hurrah!" she cried, "since Mr. Merwyn won't go to the war, I'm going myself."

"To make more wounds than you will heal," her father added. "Remember the circumstances under which you go will have to receive very careful consideration, and I shall have to know all about the matron and nurses with whom you act. Your mother will be horrified, and so will not a few of your acquaintances. Flirting in shadows is proper enough, but helping wounded soldiers to live—But we understand each other, and I can trust you now."

The next morning father and daughter parted with few misgivings, and the latter promised to go to her mother in a day or two, Mr. Vosburgh adding that if the week passed quietly he could join them on Saturday evening.

So they quietly exchanged their good-by kiss on the edge of a volcano already in eruption.

An early horseback ride in Central Park had become one of Merwyn's habits of late. At that hour he met comparatively few abroad, and the desire for solitude was growing upon him. Like Mr. Vosburgh, he had watched with solicitude the beginning of the draft, feeling that if it passed quietly his only remaining chance would be to wring from his mother some form of release from his oath. Indeed, so unhappy and desperate was he becoming that he had thought of revealing everything to Mr. Vosburgh. The government officer, however, might feel it his duty to use the knowledge, should there come a time when the authorities proceeded against the property of the disloyal. Moreover, the young man felt that it would be dishonorable to reveal the secret.

Beyond his loyal impulses he now had little motive for effort. Marian's prejudices against him had become too deeply rooted, and her woman's honor for the knightly men her friends had proved too controlling a principle, ever to give him a chance for anything better than polite tolerance. He had discovered what this meant so fully, and in Blauvelt's story had been shown the inevitable contrast which she must draw so vividly, that he had decided:—

"No more of Marian Vosburgh's society until all is changed. Therefore no more forever, probably. If my mother proves as obdurate as a Southern jailer, I suppose I'm held, although I begin to think I have as good cause to break my chains as any other Union man. She tricked me into captivity, and holds me remorselessly,—not like a mother. Miss Vosburgh did show she had a woman's heart, and would have given me her hand in friendship had I not been compelled to make her believe that I was a coward. If in some way I can escape my oath, and my reckless courage at the front proves her mistaken, I may return to her. Otherwise it is a useless humiliation and pain to see her any more."

Such had been the nature of his musings throughout the long Sunday whose quiet had led to the belief that the draft would scarcely create a ripple of overt hostility. During his ride on Monday morning he nearly concluded to go to his country place again. He was growing nervous and restless, and he longed for the steadying influence of his mountain rambles before meeting his mother and deciding questions which would involve all their future relations.

As with bowed head, lost in thought, he approached the city by one of the park entrances, he heard a deep, angry murmur, as if a storm-vexed tide was coming in. Spurring his horse forward, he soon discovered, with a feeling like an electric shock, that a tide was indeed rising. Was it a temporary tidal wave of human passion, mysterious in its origin, soon to subside, leaving such wreckage as its senseless fury might have caused? Or was it the beginning of the revolution so long feared, but not now guarded against?

Converging from different avenues, men, women, and children were pouring by the thousand into a vacant lot near the park. Their presence seemed like a dream. Why was this angry multitude gathering here within a few rods of rural loveliness, their hoarse cries blending with the songs of robins and thrushes? It had been expected that the red monster would raise its head, if at all, in some purlieu of the east side. On the contrary its segregate parts were coming together at a distance from regions that would naturally generate them, and were forming under his very eyes the thing of which he had read, and, of late, had dreamed night and day,—a mob.

To change the figure, the vacant space, unbuilt upon as yet, was becoming an immense human reservoir, into which turgid streams with threatening sounds were surging from the south. His eyes could separate the tumultuous atoms into ragged forms, unkempt heads, inflamed faces, animated by some powerful destructive impulse. Arms of every description proved that the purpose of the gathering was not a peaceful one. But what was the purpose?

Riding closer he sought to question some on the outskirts of the throng, and so drew attention to himself. Volleys of oaths, stones, and sticks, were the only answers he received.

"Thank you," Merwyn muttered, as he galloped away. "I begin to comprehend your meaning, but shall study you awhile before I take part in the controversy. Then there shall be some knock-down arguments."

As he drew rein at a short distance the cry went up that he was a "spy," and another rush was made for him; but he speedily distanced his pursuers. To his surprise the great multitude turned southward, pouring down Fifth and Sixth avenues. After keeping ahead for a few blocks, he saw that the mob, now numbering many thousands, was coming down town with some unknown purpose and destination.

Two things were at least clear,—the outbreak was unexpected, and no preparation had been made for it. As he approached his home on a sharp trot, a vague air of apprehension and expectation was beginning to manifest itself, and but little more. Policemen were on their beats, and the city on the fashionable avenues and cross-streets wore its midsummer aspect. Before entering his own home he obeyed an impulse to gallop by the Vosburgh residence. All was still quiet, and Marian, with surprise, saw him clattering past in a way that seemed reckless and undignified.

On reaching his home he followed his groom to the stable, and said, quietly: "You are an old family servant, but you must now give me positive assurance that I can trust you. There is a riot in the city, and there is no telling what house will be safe. Will you mount guard night and day in my absence?"

"Faix, sur, I will. Oi'll sarve ye as I did yer fayther afore ye."

"I believe you, but would shoot you if treacherous. You know I've been expecting this trouble. Keep the horse saddled. Bar and bolt everything. I shall be in and out at all hours, but will enter by the little side-door in the stable. Watch for my signal, and be ready to open to me only any door, and bolt it instantly after me. Leave all the weapons about the house just where I have put them. If any one asks for me, say I'm out and you don't know when I'll be back. Learn to recognize my voice and signal, no matter how disguised I am."

The faithful old servant promised everything, and was soon executing orders. Before their neighbors had taken the alarm, the heavy shutters were closed, and the unusual precautions that in the family's absence had been adopted rendered access possible only to great violence. On reaching his room Merwyn thought for a few moments. He was intensely excited, and there was a gleam of wild hope in his eyes, but he felt with proud exultation that in his manner he was imitating his father. Not a motion was hasty or useless. Right or wrong, in the solitude of his room or in the midst of the mob, his brain should direct his hand.

"And now my hand is free!" he exclaimed, aloud; "my oath cannot shackle it now."

His first conclusion was to mingle with the mob and learn the nature and objects of the enemy. He believed the information would be valuable to Mr. Vosburgh and the police authorities. Having accomplished this purpose he would join any organized resistance he could find, at the same time always seeking to shield Marian from the possibility of danger.

He had already been shown that in order to understand the character and aims of the mob he must appear to be one of them, and he decided that he could carry off the disguise of a young city mechanic better than any other.

This plan he carried out by donning from his own wardrobe a plain dark flannel suit, which, when it had been rolled in dust and oil, and received a judicious rip here and there, presented the appearance of a costume of a workman just from his shop. With further injunctions to Thomas and the old serving-woman, he made his way rapidly to the north-east, where the smoke of a conflagration proved that the spirit of mischief was increasing.

One would not have guessed, as he hurried up Third Avenue, that he was well armed, but there were two small, yet effective revolvers and a dirk upon his person. As has been related before, he had practised for this emergency, and could be as quick as a flash with his weapon.

He had acted with the celerity of youth, guided by definite plans, and soon began to make his way quietly through the throng that blocked the avenue, gradually approaching the fire at the corner of 45th Street. At first the crowd was a mystery to him, so orderly, quiet, and inoffensive did it appear, although composed largely of the very dregs of the slums. The crackling, roaring flames, devouring tenement-houses, were equally mysterious. No one was seeking to extinguish them, although the occupants of the houses were escaping for their lives, dragging out their humble effects. The crowd merely looked on with a pleased, satisfied expression. After a moment's thought Merwyn remembered that the draft had been begun in one of the burning houses, and was told by a bystander, "We smashed the ranch and broke some jaws before the bonfire."

That the crowd was only a purring tiger was soon proved, for some one near said, "There's Kennedy, chief of the cops;" and it seemed scarcely a moment before the officer was surrounded by an infuriated throng who were raining curses and blows upon him.

Merwyn made an impulsive spring forward in his defence, but a dozen forms intervened, and his effort was supposed to be as hostile as that of the rioters. The very numbers that sought to destroy Kennedy gave him a chance, for they impeded one another, and, regaining his feet, he led a wild chase across a vacant lot, pursued by a hooting mob as if he were a mad dog. The crowd that filled the street almost as far as eye could reach now began to sway back and forth as if coming under the influence of some new impulse, and Merwyn was so wedged in that he had to move with the others. Being tall he saw that Kennedy, after the most brutal treatment, was rescued almost by a miracle, apparently more dead than alive. It also became clear to him that the least suspicion of his character and purpose would cost him his life instantly. He therefore resolved on the utmost self-control. He was ready to risk his life, but not to throw it away uselessly,—not at least till he knew that Marian was safe. It was his duty now to investigate the mob, not fight it.

The next excitement was caused by the cry, "The soldiers are coming!"

These proved to be a small detachment of the invalid corps, who showed their comprehension of affairs by firing over the rioters' heads, thinking to disperse them by a little noise. The mob settled the question of noise by howling as if a menagerie had broken loose, and, rushing upon the handful of men, snatched their muskets, first pounding the almost paralyzed veterans, and then chasing them as a wilderness of wolves would pursue a small array of sheep.

As Merwyn stepped down from a dray, whereon he had witnessed the scene, he muttered, indiscreetly, "What does such nonsense amount to!"

A big hulking fellow, carrying a bar of iron, who had stood beside him, and who apparently had had his suspicions, asked, fiercely, "An' what did ye expect it wud amount to? An' what's the nonsense ye're growlin' at? By the holy poker oi belave you're a spy."

"Yis, prove that, and I'll cut his heart out," cried an inebriated woman, brandishing a knife a foot long.

"Yes, prove it, you thunderin' fool!" cried Merwyn.

"The cops are comin' now, and you want to begin a fight among ourselves."

True enough, the cry came ringing up the avenue, "The cops comin.'"

"Oh, an' ye's wan uv us, oi'll stan' by ye; but oi've got me eye on ye, and 'ud think no more o' brainin' ye than a puppy."

"Try brainin' the cops first, if yer know when yer well off," replied Merwyn, drawing a pistol. "I didn't come out to fight bullies in our crowd."

The momentary excitement caused by this altercation was swallowed up by the advent of a squad of police, which wheeled into the avenue from 43d Street, and checked the pursuit of the bleeding remnants of the invalid corps. Those immediately around the young man pressed forward to see what took place, he following, but edging towards the sidewalk, with the eager purpose to see the first fight between the mob and the police.



CHAPTER XLII.

THAT WORST OF MONSTERS, A MOB.



AFTER reaching the sidewalk Merwyn soon found a chance to mount a dry-goods box, that he might better observe the action of the police and form an idea of their numbers. The moment he saw the insignificant band he felt that they were doomed men, or else the spirit abroad was not what he thought it to be, and he had been witnessing some strong indications of its ruthless nature.

It was characteristic of the young fellow that he did not rush to the aid of the police. He was able, even in that seething flood of excitement, to reason coolly, and his thoughts were something to this effect: "I'm not going to throw away my life and all its chances and duties because the authorities are so ignorant as to sacrifice a score or two of their men. I shall not fight at all until I have seen Marian and Mr. Vosburgh. When I have done something to insure their safety, or at least to prove that I am not a coward, I shall know better what to do and how to do it. This outbreak is not an affair of a few hours. She herself may be exposed to the fury of these fiends, for I believe her father is, or will be, a marked man."

Seeing, farther up the avenue, a small balcony as yet unoccupied, he pushed his way towards it, that he might obtain one more view of the drift of affairs before taking his course. The hall-door leading to the second story was open and filled with a crowd of frightened, unkempt women and children, who gave way before him. The door of the room opening on the balcony was locked, and, in response to his repeated knockings, a quavering voice asked what was wanted.

"You must open instantly," was his reply.

A trembling, gray-haired woman put the door ajar, and he pushed in at once, saying: "Bolt the door again, madam. I will do you no harm, and may be able to save you from injury;" and he was out in the balcony before his assurances were concluded.

"Indeed, sir, I've done no one any wrong, and therefore need no protection. I only wish to be let alone with my children."

"That you cannot expect with certainty, in view of what is going on to-day. Do you not know that they are burning houses? As long as I'm here I'll be a protection. I merely wish the use of this little outlook for a brief time. So say nothing more, for I must give my whole attention to the fight."

"Well then, since you are so civil, you can stay; but the street is full of devils."

He paid no heed to her further lamentations, and looking southward saw that the police had formed a line across the avenue, and that such battered remnants of the invalid corps as had escaped were limping off behind their cover as fast as possible. The presence of the city's guardians had caused a brief hesitation in the approaching and broken edge of the rabble. Seeing this the brave sergeant ordered a charge, which was promptly and swiftly made, the mob recoiling before it more and more slowly as under pressure it became denser. There was no more effort to carry out the insane, rather than humane, tactics of the invalid corps, who had either fired high or used blank cartridges, for now the police struck for life with their locust clubs, and the thud of the blows could often be heard even above the uproar. Every one within reach of their arms went down, and the majority lay quietly where they fell, as the devoted little band pressed slowly forward. With regret Merwyn saw Barney Ghegan among the foremost, his broad red face streaming with perspiration, and he wielding his club as if it were the deadliest of shillalahs.

They did indeed strike manfully, and proved what an adequate force could do. Rioters fell before them on every side. But hopeless reaping was theirs, with miles of solid, bloodthirsty humanity before them. Slowly and more falteringly they made their way three blocks, as far as 46th Street, sustained by the hope of finding reinforcements there. Instead of these, heavier bodies of the enemy poured in from the side-streets upon the exhausted men, and the mob closed behind them from 45th Street, like dark, surging waves. Then came a mad rush upon the hemmed-in officers, who were attacked in front and in the rear, with clubs, iron-bars, guns, and pistols. Tom, bruised, bleeding, the force that had fought so gallantly broke, each man striking out for his own life. The vast heterogeneous crowd now afforded their chief chance for escape. Dodging behind numbers, taking advantage of the wild confusion of the swaying, trampling masses, and striking down some direct opponent, a few got off with slight bruises. There were wonderful instances of escape. The brave sergeant who had led the squad had his left wrist broken by an iron bar, but, knocking down two other assailants, he sprung into a house and bolted the door after him. An heroic German girl, with none of the stolid phlegm attributed to her race, lifted the upper mattress of her bed. The sergeant sprung in and was covered up without a word. There was no time then for plans and explanations. A moment later the door was broken, and a score of fierce-visaged men streamed in. Now the girl was stolidity itself.

"Der cop run out der back door," was all that she could be made to say in answer to fierce inquiries. Every apartment was examined in vain, and then the roughs departed in search of other prey. Brave, simple-hearted girl! She would have been torn to pieces had her humane strategy been discovered.

But a more memorable act of heroism was reserved for another woman, Mrs. Eagan, the wife of the man who had rescued Superintendent Kennedy a short time before. A policeman was knocked down with a hay-bale rung, and fell at her very feet. In a moment more he would have been killed, but this woman instantly covered his form with her own, so that no blow could reach him unless she was first struck. Then she begged for his life. Even the wild-beast spirit of the mob was touched, and the pursuers passed on. A monument should have been built to the woman who, in that pandemonium of passion, could so risk all for a stranger.

I am not defending Merwyn's course, but sketching a character. His spirit of strategical observation would have forsaken him had he witnessed that scene, and indeed it did forsake him as he saw Barney Ghegan running and making a path for himself by the terrific blows of his club. Three times he fell but rose again, with the same indomitable pluck which had won his suit to pretty Sally Maguire. At last the brave fellow was struck down almost opposite the balcony. Merwyn knew the man was a favorite of the Vosburghs, and he could not bear that the brave fellow should be murdered before his very eyes; yet murdered he apparently was ere Merwyn could reach the street. Like baffled fiends his pursuers closed upon the unfortunate man, pounding him and jumping upon him. And almost instantly the vile hags that followed the marauders like harpies, for the sake of plunder began stripping his body.

"Stop!" thundered Merwyn, the second he reached the scene, and, standing over the prostrate form, he levelled a pistol at the throng. "Now, listen to me," he added. "I don't wish to hurt anybody. You've killed this man, so let his body alone. I know his wife, an Irishwoman, and she ought at least to have his body for decent burial."

"Faix, an he's roight," cried one, who seemed a leader. "We've killed the man. Let his woife have what's left uv 'im;" and the crowd broke away, following the speaker.

This was one of the early indications of what was proved afterwards,—that the mob was hydra-headed, following either its own impulses or leaders that sprung up everywhere.

An abandoned express-wagon stood near, and into this Merwyn, with the help of a bystander, lifted the insensible man. The young fellow then drove, as rapidly as the condition of the streets permitted, to the nearest hospital. A few yards carried him beyond those who had knowledge of the affair, and after that he was unmolested. It was the policy of the rioters to have the bodies of their friends disappear as soon as possible. Poor Ghegan had been stripped to his shirt and drawers, and so was not recognized as a "cop."

Leaving him at the hospital, with brief explanations, Merwyn was about to hasten away, when the surgeon remarked, "The man is dead, apparently."

"I can't help it," cried Merwyn. "I'll bring his wife as soon as possible. Of course you will do all in your power;" and he started away on a run.

A few moments later Barney Ghegan was taken to the dead-house.



CHAPTER XLIII.

THE "COWARD."



MERWYN now felt that he had carried out the first part of his plan. He had looked into the murderous eyes of the mob, and learned its spirit and purpose. Already he reproached himself for leaving Marian alone so long, especially as columns of smoke were rising throughout the northern part of the city. It seemed an age since he had seen that first cloud of the storm, as he emerged from the park after his quiet ride, but it was not yet noon.

As he sped through the streets, running where he dared, and fortunately having enough of the general aspect of a rioter to be unmolested, he noticed a new feature in the outbreak, one that soon became a chief characteristic,—the hatred of negroes and the sanguinary pursuit of them everywhere.

"Another danger for the Vosburghs," he groaned. "They have a colored servant, who must be spirited off somewhere instantly."

Avoiding crowds, he soon reached the quiet side-street on which Marian lived, and was overjoyed to find it almost deserted. Mammy Borden herself answered his impatient ring, and was about to shut the door on so disreputable a person as he now appeared to be, when he shouldered it open, turned, locked and chained it with haste.

"What do you mean, sir? and who are you?" Marian demanded, running from the parlor on hearing the expostulations of her servant.

"Have patience, Miss Vosburgh."

"Oh, it is you, Mr. Merwyn. Indeed I have need of patience. An hour ago papa sent a message from down town, saying: 'Don't leave the house to-day. Serious trouble on foot.' Since then not a word, only wild-looking people running through the street, the ringing of fire-bells, and the sounds of some kind of disturbance. What does it all mean? and why do you bar and bolt everything so timidly?" and the excited girl poured out her words in a torrent.

Merwyn's first words were exasperating, and the girl had already passed almost beyond self-control. "Has any one seen your colored servant to-day?"

"What if they have? What does your unseemly guise mean? Oh that my brave friends were here to go out and meet the rabble like soldiers! There's an outbreak, of course; we've been expecting it; but certainly MEN should not fear the canaille of the slums. It gives me a sickening impression, Mr. Merwyn, to see you rush in, almost force your way in, and disguised too, as if you sought safety by identifying yourself with those who would quail before a brave, armed man. Pardon me if I'm severe, but I feel that my father is in danger, and if I don't hear from him soon I shall take Mammy Borden as escort and go to his office. Whoever is abroad, they won't molest women, and I'M NOT AFRAID."

"By so doing you would disobey your father, who has told you not to leave the house to-day."

"But I can't bear inaction and suspense at such a time."

"You must bear it, Miss Vosburgh. Seeing the mood you are in, I shall not permit that door to be opened to any one except your father or some one that you recognize."

"You cannot help yourself," she replied, scornfully, approaching the door.

He was there before her, and, taking out the key, put it in his pocket.

"Oh, this is shameful!" she cried, blushing scarlet "Can your fears carry you so far?"

"Yes, and much farther, if needful," he replied, with a grim laugh. "When you are calm enough to listen to me, to be sane and just, I'll explain. Until you are I shall remain master here and protect you and your home." Then, in a tone of stern authority, he added: "Mrs. Borden, sit yonder in that darkened parlor, and don't move unless I tell you to hide. Then hide in earnest, as you value your life."

"Would you not also like a hiding-place provided, Mr. Merwyn?" Marian asked, almost beside herself with anger and anxiety.

His reply was to go to the window and look up and down the still quiet street.

"A respite," he remarked, then turned to the colored woman, and in a tone which she instantly obeyed, said, "Go to that parlor, where you cannot be seen from the street." Then to Marian, "I have no authority over you."

"No, I should hope not. Is there no escape from this intrusion?"

"None for the present," he replied, coldly. "You settled it long since that I was a coward, and now that I am not a gentleman. I shall make no self-defence except to your father, whom I expect momentarily. He cannot leave you alone to-day an instant longer than is unavoidable. I wish to remind you of one thing, however: your soldier friends have long been your pride."

"Oh that these friends were here to day!"

"They would be surprised at your lack of quiet fortitude."

"Must I be humiliated in my own home?"

"You are humiliating yourself. Had you treated me with even your old cool toleration and civility, I would have told you all that has happened since morning; but you have left me no chance for anything except to take the precautions heedful to save your home and yourself. You think I fled here as a disguised fugitive. When shall I forget this crowning proof of your estimate and esteem? You see I did not come unarmed," partially drawing a revolver. "I repeat, you are proud of your soldier friends. You have not learned that the first duty of a soldier is to obey orders; and you have your father's orders. Obey them quietly, and you are under no necessity to speak to me again. When your father comes I will relieve you of my hated presence. If he wishes it, I will still serve you both for his sake, for he always kept a little faith and fairness for me. Now, regard me as a sentinel, a common soldier, to whom you need not speak until your father comes;" and he turned to the windows and began fastening them.

He, too, was terribly incensed. He had come to interpose his life between her and danger, and her words and manner had probed a deep wound that had long been bleeding. The scenes he had witnessed had wrought him up to a mood as stern and uncompromising as the death he soon expected to meet. When utterly off her guard she had shown him, as he believed, her utter contempt and detestation, and at that moment there was not a more reckless man in the city.

But his bitter words and indomitable will had quieted her As he stood motionless upon guard by the window, his was not the attitude of a cowering fugitive. She now admitted that her wild excitement and her disposition to rush to her father, contrary to his injunction, were unworthy of her friends and of herself.

There had been panic that morning in the city, and she had caught the contagion in a characteristic way. She had had no thought of hiding and cowering, but she had been on the eve of carrying out rash impulses. She had given way to uncontrollable excitement; and if her father should learn all she feared he would send her from the city as one not to be trusted. What should she think of that silent, motionless sentinel at the window? Suppose, after all, she had misunderstood and misjudged him,—suppose he HAD come for her protection. In view of this possibility which she had now to entertain, how grossly she had insulted him! If her father came and approved of his course, how could she ever look one so wronged in the face again? She must try to soften her words a little. Woman-like, she believed that she could certainly soothe a man as far as she deemed it judicious, and then leave the future for further diplomacy. Coward, or not, he had now made her afraid of him.

"Mr. Merwyn," she began.

He made no response whatever.

Again, in a lower and more timid voice, she repeated his name.

Without turning, he said: "Miss Vosburgh, I'm on guard. You interfere with my duty. There is no reason for further courtesies between us. If you are sufficiently calm, aid Mrs. Borden in packing such belongings as she actually needs. She must leave this house as soon as possible."

"What!" cried the girl, hotly, "send this faithful old woman out into the streets? Never."

"I did not say, 'out into the streets.' When your father comes one of his first efforts will be to send her to a place of safety. No doubt he has already warned her son to find a hiding-place."

"Great heavens! why don't you explain?"

"What chance have I had to explain? Ah! come here, and all will be plain enough."

She stood at his side and saw a gang of men and boys' chasing a colored man, with the spirit of bloodhounds in their tones and faces.

"Now I'se understan', too, Mass'r Merwyn," said the trembling colored woman, looking over their shoulders.

"Go back," he said, sternly. "If you were seen, that yelling pack of fiends would break into this house as if it were paste-board. Obey orders, both of you, and keep out of sight."

Awed, overwhelmed, they stole to the back parlor; but Marian soon faltered, "O Mr. Merwyn, won't you forgive me?"

He made no reply, and a moment later he stepped to the door. Mr. Vosburgh hastily entered, and Marian rushed into his arms.

"What, Merwyn! you here? Thank God my darling was not alone! Well, Merwyn, you've got to play the soldier now, and so have we all."

"I shall not 'play the soldier';" was the reply, in quick, firm utterance. "But no matter about me, except that my time is limited. I wish to report to you certain things which I have seen, and leave it to your decision whether I can serve you somewhat, and whether Miss Vosburgh should remain in the city. I would also respectfully suggest that your colored servant be sent out of town at once. I offer my services to convey her to New Jersey, if you know of a near refuge there, or else to my place in the country."

"Good God, Merwyn! don't you know that by such an act you take your life in your hand?"

"I have already taken it in my hand, an open hand at that. It has become of little value to me. But we have not a second to lose. I have a very sad duty to perform at once, and only stayed till you came. If you have learned the spirit abroad to-day, you know that your household was and is in danger."

"Alas! I know it only too well. The trouble had scarcely begun before I was using agents and telegraph wires. I have also been to police headquarters. Only the sternest sense of duty to the government kept me so long from my child; but a man at Washington is depending on me for information."

"So I supposed. I may be able to serve you, if you can bring yourself to employ a coward. I shall be at police headquarters, and can bring you intelligence. When not on duty you should be in the streets as little as possible. But, first, I would respectfully suggest that Miss Vosburgh retire, for I have things to say to you which she should not hear."

"This to me, who listened to the story of Gettysburg?"

"All was totally different then."

"And I, apparently, was totally different. I deserve your reproach; I should be sent to the nursery."

"I think you should go and help Mrs. Borden," said Merwyn, quietly.

"It's impossible to send Mammy Borden away just yet,—not till darkness comes to aid our effort," said Mr. Vosburgh, decisively. "You can serve me greatly, Merwyn, and your country also, if you have the nerve. It will require great risks. I tell you so frankly. This is going to prove worse than open battle. O Marian, would to God you were with your mother!"

"In that case I would come to you if I had to walk. I have wronged and insulted you, Mr. Merwyn; I beg your pardon. Now don't waste another moment on me, for I declare before God I shall remain with my father unless taken away by force; and you would soon find that the most fatal course possible."

"Well, these are lurid times. I dreaded the thing enough, but now that it has come so unexpectedly, it is far worse—But enough of this. Mr. Merwyn, are you willing to take the risks that I shall?"

"Yes, on condition that I save you unnecessary risks."

"Oh what a fool I've been!" Marian exclaimed, with one of her expressive gestures.

"Mr. Vosburgh," said Merwyn, "there is one duty which I feel I ought to perform first of all. Mrs. Ghegan, your old waitress, should be taken to her husband."

"What! Barney? What has happened to him?"

"I fear he is dead. I disguised myself as you see—"

"Yes, sensibly. No well-dressed man is safe on some streets."

"Certainly not where I've been. I determined to learn the character of the mob, and I have mingled among them all the morning. I saw the invalid corps put to flight instantly, and the fight with a handful of police that followed. I looked on, for to take part was to risk life and means of knowledge uselessly. The savage, murderous spirit shown on every side also proved that your household might be in danger while you were absent. The police fought bravely and vainly. They were overpowered as a matter of course, and yet the police will prove the city's chief defence. When I saw Barney running and fighting heroically for his life, I couldn't remain spectator any longer, but before I could reach him he was prostrate, senseless, and nearly stripped. With my revolver and a little persuasion I secured his body, and took it to a hospital. A surgeon thought he was dead. I don't know, but that his wife should be informed and go to him seems only common humanity."

"Well, Merwyn, I don't know," said Mr. Vosburgh, dubiously; "we are in the midst of a great battle, and when one is down—Well, the cause must be first, you know. Whether this is a part of the rebellion or not, it will soon be utilized by the Confederate leaders. What I say of Barney I would say of myself and mine,—all private considerations must give—"

"I understand," interrupted Merwyn, impatiently. "But in taking Mrs. Ghegan across town I could see and learn as much as if alone, and she would even be a protection to me. In getting information one will have to use every subterfuge. I think nothing will be lost by this act. From the hospital I will go direct to police headquarters, and stipulate as to my service,—for I shall serve in my own way,—and then, if there is no pressing duty, I will report to you again."

Mr. Vosburgh sprung up and wrung the young fellow's hand as he said: "We have done you great wrong. I, too, beg your pardon. But more than all the city to me is my duty to the general government. To a certain extent I must keep aloof from the actual scenes of violence, or I fail my employers and risk vast interests. If consistently with your ideas of duty you can aid me now, I shall be more grateful than if you saved my life. Information now may be vital to the nation's safety. You may find me at police headquarters an hour or two hence."

"It is settled then, and events will shape future action;" and he was turning hastily away.

A hand fell upon his arm, and never had he looked upon a face in which shame and contrition were so blended.

"What will be your future action towards me?" Marian asked, as she detained him. "Will you have no mercy on the girl who was so weak as to be almost hysterical?"

"You have redeemed your weakness," he replied, coldly. "You are your old high-bred, courageous self, and you will probably cease to think of me as a coward before the day is over. Good-afternoon;" and in a moment he was gone.

"I have offended him beyond hope," she said, as she turned, drooping, to her father.

"Never imagine it, darling," her father replied, with a smile. "His lip quivered as you spoke, and I have learned to read the faintest signs in a man. You have both been overwrought and in no condition for calm, natural action. Mervvyn will relent. You lost your poise through excitement, not cowardice, and he, young and all undisciplined, has witnessed scenes that might appall a veteran. But now all must be courage and action. Since you will remain with me you must be a soldier, and be armed like one. Come with me to my room, and I will give you a small revolver. I am glad that you have amused yourself with the dangerous toy, and know how to use it. Then you must help me plan a disguise which will almost deceive your eyes. Keeping busy, my dear, will prove the best tonic for your nerves. Mammy Borden, you must go to your room and stay there till we find a way of sending you to a place of safety. After you have disappeared for a time I'll tell the other servant that you have gone away. I sent your son home before I left the office, and he, no doubt, is keeping out of harm's way."

The old woman courtesied, but there was a dogged, hunted look in her eyes as she crept away, muttering, "Dis is what Zeb call de 'lan' ob de free!'"



CHAPTER XLIV.

A WIFE'S EMBRACE.



"O PAPA," cried Marian, after reaching the library, "we let Mr. Merwyn go without a lunch, and it's nearly two o'clock. Nor do I believe you have had a mouthful since breakfast, and I've forgotten all about providing anything. Oh, how signally I have failed on the first day of battle!"