Buford's strength had been so burnt out with fever, and so wasted from the suppuration of his wound, that he was but the pale, limp outline of a man when I laid him gently on one of my mother's snowy beds. Had he been more than Tory, more than British officer, my dear mother would have received him kindly in his present state, and laid aside all other duties to care for him. It was good to see her hovering over him with gentle touch and to hear her say: "They were good to you, son, when you were in like condition. I am proud you brought him to me; he shall have every care, every comfort."

"Oh, brother, were you as ill as this, when he took you from the Philadelphia prison?" said Jean, tender commiseration on her face.

"Weaker, I think, only I had passed the stage of delirium into which he slipped only a few days ago. But look at me now! See how robust I am!" and I lifted her by the elbows to the level of my face, kissed her and set her upon her feet again, adding: "Buford will soon be as sound, with yours and mother's nursing."

"His mother and sister nursed you?"

"They had me well-cared for. I was over the worst when they found me."

"We'll nurse him carefully, dear Donald, you may be satisfied of that. Is he, though, really a Tory? He looks like a gentleman," glancing toward him as she spoke, as if she half suspected Buford of possessing hidden tusks and horns like some fabled monster.

"And gentleman he is, only his opinions do not agree with ours"; whereupon I laughed so merrily at Jean's shocked face that mother signed to us to leave the room, lest we disturb her patient. "Aye, little sister," I continued, "prejudice is a most strange thing! 'Tis like a pestilence in the air, poisoning even the most innocent and pure-hearted. Heaven, Jean, I doubt not, is a place where thought is as free as God's smile, and conviction untrammeled, save by love and knowledge of truth. Such state would almost be heaven, methinks, without other concomitants."

Jean, though the sweetest of little women, and well endowed with common sense, and all needful womanly reason, cared not, like Ellen, to follow the twistings and wanderings of thought, so she took me straight back to our subject.

"And if Captain Buford gets well, Donald, will they hang him because he is a Tory?"

"Do you suppose, innocent one, that we but fatten him for the halter? Either he'll be exchanged, paroled, or discharged."

"Then he'll go back to fight more against us? Oh! Donald, I'm afraid I shall hate the poor man when he begins to get stronger, though he looks now so pitiable."

"It would be very hard to hate Buford, Jean. You'll forget he's in a sense our enemy. But, don't bother your little head about all this yet; perhaps Generals Greene and Washington may make peace with the British by the time Buford is strong enough to shoulder arms again. A few more victories like King's Mountain and Cowpens and it's done."

"What would then become of Captain Buford?" persisted Jean.

"He would be released, and could go back to Philadelphia, or to England, as he pleased. Perhaps his estate would be confiscated, and he might suffer other persecutions. There is much bitterness everywhere against the Tories," I responded.

"Poor gentleman!" she sighed; "perhaps we ought not to want him to get well."

"Nonsense, little Jean! Of course we want him to get well, and if he could be consulted he himself would choose to get well, you may be sure. A man worth the name wants to see the end of the play—to finish the game—to keep up life's battle while muscle and wind are left him to fight with. Do all you can to cure him, Jean, and leave his future in his own hands."

"And God's," she added reverently.

All this conversation I repeated to Ellen, during the few brief hours I had to spend with her. Then we went back to the subject of prejudice, and I talked out the convictions which Jean had not encouraged me to express. Ellen was broad-minded, open-souled—one of God's chosen transmitters from generation to generation of ever-widening truth. This talk between us upon the subject of prejudice, as to which we were already agreed, led on to a less general discussion, and gave me opportunity to drive, I hoped, another wedge between superstition and consecration. Presently I made the enquiry I almost dreaded to have her answer:

"Tell me of your daily life with Aunt Martha, Ellen; is each day still a trial to you, exercising all your fortitude and patience?" Her answer gave me my first heart's ease for weeks.

"No, Donald, I wonder, indeed, if it was ever so bad as I thought, or if my stubborn will and set defiance magnified the hardships I underwent, as a child, under Aunt Martha's discipline. However that may have been, I find her, now, disposed to give me full liberty, and to exact few duties. Indeed, it is of my own will that I relieve her of such duties as she will trust me to perform; and since her health fails more and more, she is obliged to let others do many things she once took upon herself."

"And she never asks you to go to church?"

"No, but twice I have offered to go. Father Gibault granted me absolution beforehand—as Elisha did Naaman—should I think it best to attend the Protestant meetings which my relatives frequented. And I have found the quiet church a better place to repeat my litany and aves than even my own room; the preacher's voice I can imagine to be the priest's intoning, and if I shut my eyes, I can see the candles, and smell the incense."

I smiled at this naÏve confession. "But you make no signs, I hope," I said in pretended seriousness, which for a moment deceived her.

"I am careful to do so only under my tippet; and see! I wear my beads beneath my gown," and Ellen drew forth a small ebony cross and held it out for my inspection.

Thinking this scene over later, Ellen's religion seemed to me not only harmless—apart from her superstitious vow—but so much a part of her as to be lovable. It would nowise affect my confidence and love were my wife always a devout Catholic. Could I be one with her, though, in her religion; could I yield my own simple and sublime faith for hers?—to that question came a not uncertain negative. My reason and feelings repelled all the dogmas and practices so sacred to Ellen, as hers did those most congenial to my spirit! No! I would make no compromise with the woman I loved—the woman I would win for my wife. She must come to me trusting all, confiding all. There must be no terms of barter between me and my heart's love.

The company of militiamen I was able to take with me to General Greene was warmly welcomed, for many of the men of King's Mountain and Cowpens had refused to enlist for regular service, and General Greene was using all the skillful tactics of which he was master to avoid a drawn battle with Cornwallis' united army, until his own was strong enough to offer some hope of another victory. Defeat could not be risked just now, for that meant a resubjugated South, and then General Washington's dislodgement from Philadelphia and New Jersey, which would be the end of our hopes and our efforts. The battle of Guilford Court House, fought on the fifth of March, was claimed by the British as a defeat for the Americans; but Charles Fox realized, as General Greene did, its true import, when he said on the floor of the British Parliament:

"Another such victory as that of Guilford would destroy the British Army."

General Greene now retreated to Troublesome Creek and there awaited the expected pursuit. We did not know until later that General Cornwallis had lost a third of his force, nor that he was so encumbered with wounded, and so needy of supplies of all kinds, as to make pursuit impossible. Slowly he fell back into the Tory Highland Settlement at Cross Creek. We followed, at first cautiously, but more and more eager to dislodge and rout our enemy as we learned of his crippled condition. Our own lack of ammunition prevented our doing so, and General Cornwallis was perforce allowed to cross Deep River, near Ramsay's Mill. Both armies crouched here—like two angry lions, pausing in prolonged combat, and waiting but for strength enough to make again at each other's throats—for some weeks, the river between, with all its fords vigilantly guarded. We Continentals fared hardly, meanwhile, subsisting on ash cakes, and the black, stringy meat of the half wild cattle, raised on the pine barrens. The damp ground was our bed, and our ragged blankets and our tattered clothes were our only protection from the vagaries of the spring weather.

A bold decision of General Greene's relieved the strained situation. He would leave Cornwallis in his rear, and advance by rapid marches to the relief of South Carolina. If Cornwallis should follow him he would turn and give him battle;—if he should decide to march on northward to coÖperate with Arnold in Virginia, the militia and General Lafayette must take care of him. His, General Greene's, task was to relieve the Southern States; he would stick to his work.

We advanced swiftly to Camden, held by a considerable British force, and sat down before it. Cornwallis still remained at Ramsay's Mill. The night before the fall of Fort Watson, which would give us Camden, General Greene sent for me to his tent. "Colonel McElroy," he began—I have found no opportunity to state my gradual rise in rank during my eight months of southern service,—"I wish to send important dispatches to Governor Jefferson, and for obvious reasons prefer to have them conveyed orally. I must have a trusty and well accredited messenger, and one perfectly familiar with the country, therefore I have chosen you. Say to Governor Jefferson that I believe it to be General Cornwallis' intention to advance into Virginia in an attempt to over-run and subjugate that state. Say to him, that I hope, with the assistance of Sumter's and Marion's rangers, without further reËnforcements, to relieve the Southern States, and afterwards, if I am needed, I will gladly come to the help of Virginia. I would not have him think that I have deserted that noble commonwealth whose aid, more than that of any of the others, has enabled me to do what so far it has been possible to accomplish in this department. I know the bravery and loyalty of Virginians, and have no fears for the result there, but these over-ridden South Carolinians must have instant succor, if the State is not to be given over finally to the British and the Tories. Have you a fleet mount, Colonel McElroy?"

"The best that can be raised on my father's plantation, and bred from good English hunting stock."

"You will need to ride swiftly, and persistently. Once Cornwallis gives the order to advance—you know his habit—there'll be no delays, no deliberate marches."

"I fully realize that, General; I will lose no time."

"A somewhat circuitous route might be the safer: skirt the Highland neighborhood, though your route be lengthened thereby. It might be well to suggest to Governor Jefferson the extreme importance of guarding any army stores we may have left in Virginia, though doubtless the obvious necessity to do so will occur to him."

"Where shall I rejoin you, General?" I asked.

"I cannot say where one, two or three weeks may find me; it depends both on Cornwallis' movements, and our successes or reverses, as we attempt to relieve South Carolina. I would suggest that you do not try to rejoin me until ordered to do so. Should Cornwallis continue his advance into Virginia, Governor Jefferson will need you to help to raise and command the militia, doubtless. You may say that I but lend you to him, until the tide of invasion has been rolled back from your State."

Thanking General Greene for his confidence implied, I saluted, and went at once to my tent to make preparations for departure early the next morning.

Though General Cornwallis had the advantage of two days' start, I overtook him on the third day, and from that time distanced his encumbered movements every hour. Part of my way was over ground he had just traversed, part lay parallel with it, and more than one distressing scene came under my observation. Smoldering homes, barns, and hay ricks sent up a sodden smoke from all along the route, and several times I saw women and children sheltering, for lack of better place, under the eaves of half-burned ricks. Say the most one can for it, war at its best is but a grim and terrible necessity.