The apartment in which Major Lindsay found himself, was one with which he had been familiar on his preceding visit to the mansion; but, for a minute after Mrs. Blakeley’s exit, he gazed around him as if examining for the first time the architecture and furniture of the room. It was an apartment, too, well worth his scrutiny. Few even of the gentry of that proud state could boast a dwelling like that of Mrs. Blakeley. The walls of the parlor were wainscoted to the ceiling with richly carved cornices; and over the mantelpiece, encircled by a wreath of roses carved in the wood, were the arms of the family. The furniture was of mahogany, consisting of massive tables and chairs, with elaborately carved feet. A couple of fine portraits adorned the walls—one a picture of the deceased Mr. Blakeley, the other a likeness of Mr. Mowbray.

Major Lindsay cast his eyes from the cornice to the floor, and from the mantelpiece to the portraits, and at length stealthily turned them in the direction of Kate, who sat on the sofa, her color rapidly changing, equally constrained and embarrassed. That a young and almost inexperienced girl should want perfect self-possession was less singular, however, than that a practiced man of the world like Major Lindsay should be without it. But the truth was that he scarcely knew how to introduce his errand to Kate.

When his eyes, however, met those of the fair girl, there was an expression of surprise and inquiry at his silence, not to be misunderstood; and he thought it best to refer at once to the purpose of the interview.

“It pains me exceedingly—you cannot imagine how much—my dear Miss Mowbray,” he began, “to come here without the unconditional pardon of your father. But there are two circumstances which prevented me from succeeding to the extent of my wishes, and thus having the honor and pleasure of bringing you such welcome news. In the first place, Mr. Mowbray is not, as you suppose, a prisoner to Col. Watson, that officer being on his march to join Lord Rawdon at Camden; but, on the contrary, is in the hands of Lieut. Col. Campbell, who now holds the post of Georgetown, and who, besides being a gentleman of a more inexorable nature, is personally unacquainted with your father. Now, had it been Col. Watson to whom Mr. Mowbray had been surrendered, I indulge the hope that, difficult as the task would have been, his intimacy with yourself and Mrs. Blakeley, to say nothing of my own solicitations, would have procured the release of your parent. But with Col. Campbell the case is different. He is not only a stranger to you all, but he is nearly an entire stranger to myself. There does not exist between us those terms of intimacy that, in the case of Col. Watson, would have justified me in asking for the release of your father as a personal favor.”

Here Major Lindsay stopped, as if expecting Kate to answer; but she only bowed. It was evident also from her look of continued surprise that she could not yet make out the speaker’s purpose.

“In the second place,” continued Major Lindsay slowly, “there is nothing in this case to distinguish it from others—nothing, I mean, to justify Colonel Campbell in his own eyes for pardoning your parent, when so many others, also taken with arms in their hands, are executed. Lord Rawdon’s orders are explicit. Every man who, having once signed the protection, is afterward captured fighting against the king, is to be punished with death. This command hitherto has been rigidly enforced. Nor is there in Mr. Mowbray’s case, as I before said, any thing to take him out of the general rule. On the contrary, as Col. Campbell assured me, there is every reason why he should be proceeded against even more rigidly than others. Your father is rich and has great personal influence; and his pardon would lead the gentry generally to suppose that they could revolt with impunity. To suffer the leaders to escape—these were the words of my superior—yet punish their deluded followers, is neither justice nor good policy. These considerations induced Col. Campbell, to whom I hastened at once as an intercessor, being fortunately in Georgetown, to refuse my suit, though he kindly condescended to explain the reasons, as I have recapitulated to you.”

Kate clasped her hands at these words, and became pale as a corpse.

“Then he is to die!” she gasped. “It is thus you would break the news to me.”

“Nay, not so, as I hope in heaven!” cried Major Lindsay, earnestly, springing forward to support the fainting girl. “Your father’s life may yet be spared—Col. Campbell himself assured me how.”

Kate’s eyes were eagerly turned to the speaker at these words, though by a motion of her hand she waved off his assistance.

“The colonel said,” continued Major Lindsay, seeing she waited for him to speak, “that it was only necessary to give a proper pledge to the royal government for his future neutrality, and Mr. Mowbray might yet be saved. He himself hinted at the character of that pledge, or else I should have remained in doubt. ‘Go to Miss Mowbray,’ he said, ‘and tell her that with her it rests to preserve her father’s life. I have heard of your suit in that quarter; obtain her consent to a speedy marriage; and then to the father-in-law of one of his majesty’s most faithful subjects I can grant that life which I must deny to a rebel in arms.’ These were his words. And now, dear Miss Mowbray, think not I come to take advantage of you,” said Major Lindsay, speaking rapidly and eagerly, as he saw her avert her face, “God knows nothing is further from my thoughts. But it is the weakness of love to be selfish, and when the way by which I might win my suit was thus pointed out to me, I had not the strength to resist. Besides, I knew I should never forgive myself if I refused to come, and your father lost his life in consequence. My very love for you, by making me anxious for his life, would have forced me hither, even if I knew beforehand that you would spurn me.”

Surprise and indignation chased each other through Kate’s mind at hearing these words. The embarrassment of Major Lindsay was now explained, for well might he hesitate to avow his baseness in making her father’s life the price of her hand. Kate was firmly persuaded that he might have saved her parent if he would; and her bosom heaved with indignant feelings. But had she known all: had she known that Major Lindsay himself had planned her father’s capture, and instigated his superior to dictate the only terms of pardon—how would she have turned from him with horror and loathing inexpressible!

Kate’s first impulse was to rise and leave the room. But she remembered how completely she was in her auditor’s power, and her feelings suffered a revulsion. She burst into tears.

“I see I pain you,” said the major, in affected sorrow. “Nay! then I will leave your presence. Heaven bless you!” and he rose sadly and prepared to go.

Kate was staggered by these words. Could one who thus spoke have really acted as basely as she but now supposed? She could not believe it. Yet she still turned with repugnance from the idea of a union with Major Lindsay. Meantime that individual had advanced several steps toward the door, while Kate continued sobbing violently on the sofa. Her heart was torn with conflicting emotions. If she suffered her visiter to depart, her father’s blood would be on her hands. The major had already turned the lock: there was no longer room for delay. Springing wildly from her seat, she rushed forward and laid her hand on his arm.

“Stay!” she gasped. “Do with me as you will.”

A gleam of triumph shot across Major Lindsay’s face.

“You know not how you transport me,” he said rapidly. “If the devotion of a life can repay you for this promise, here I swear to bestow it in requital,” and taking those fair but listless fingers in his hand, he would have raised them to his lips.

But Kate instinctively drew them back, and with an almost haughty gesture. The next moment, however, she again burst into tears.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “is there no other way? Be generous, Major Lindsay.”

She stood like an imploring Niobe, her eyes raised in supplication, her whole face beaming.

The countenance of her auditor, on that sudden withdrawal of her hand, had flushed with sudden anger; but he had now once more controlled his features to a look of pity, and he replied?—

“Would I could do as you wish; would there was some other way.”

“There is—there is,” said Kate, eagerly. “You yourself will go again to Col. Campbell and intercede for us.”

“Alas! I have done that already.”

“To Lord Rawdon, then,” breathlessly interposed Kate.

“It would be useless. Nay, if he hears of this matter prematurely, before you are mine, neither Col. Campbell nor I can save your father.”

There was a tone of decision in him as he pronounced these words, that shut out all farther entreaty. Kate felt, moreover, that what he said was true; from Lord Rawdon no hope could be entertained. With a groan she buried her face against the sofa.

Major Lindsay stood at a respectful distance. During the interview he had more than once been smote to the heart by Kate’s agony. He was not a villain in the ordinary acceptation of the term. Impelled by his necessities, and stung by Kate’s persevering refusal, he had planned her father’s capture, intending to purchase her hand by his pardon, and little doubting that, in time, she would learn to love him. He had found little difficulty in persuading Col. Campbell to further his scheme, representing to that officer that Kate was not indifferent to him in secret, but was unwilling, on her father’s account, to marry a royal officer. But Major Lindsay, though engaged in this black plot, really loved Kate; and had he not gone too far to retreat, perhaps would have been moved from his purpose by the sight of her suffering. His commiseration was not, therefore, all affected; and even now, as he stood awaiting her final decision, which he no longer doubted would be in his favor, a pang of remorse shot through his heart on raising his eyes and beholding Mr. Mowbray’s picture—for the mute canvas seemed to rebuke him with its sad, earnest gaze.

Perhaps five minutes thus passed—the major leaned on his sword—Kate, her face buried from sight, continued to sob. At length she looked up, and holding out her hand with averted head, she said,

“My father shall be saved.” And then, as if almost choked by the words, she added, “Leave me now.”

“Thank you for those blessed words,” said Major Lindsay; and bowing over her hand, which he just touched with his lips, he left the room.

Kate waited till the door closed after him, then, with a cry of anguish, she gave way to fresh tears.

“Oh, miserable, unhappy me!” she groaned, “would nothing but this save my father!”

All at once she started up, and a wild gleam of joy irradiated her face. She dashed the tears from her eyes; for the first time it had occurred to her that Preston could avert her horrible destiny—in what way she knew not; but in childhood he had always been her protection, and she still felt the habit of looking up to him in peril.

But in an instant came the reflection of the terms on which they now stood to each other. They had parted in anger; and he either despised or hated her. Under such circumstances her womanly modesty revolted from appealing to him for aid. “No,” she mentally ejaculated, “I will die sooner.” And as she came to this resolution, she fell back again in hopeless misery on her seat.

Major Lindsay, meanwhile, had sought out Mrs. Blakeley, to whom he related the result of his interview with Kate. To her aunt, who knew little of our heroine’s feelings, the sacrifice appeared an inconsiderable one; and Mrs. Blakeley had always regarded Major Lindsay with favor. She informed her guest that they were soon to set forth for Georgetown, and invited him to accompany them. He declined, alledging the necessity of his returning as speedily as possible; but offered to leave a portion of his dragoons to escort the ladies.

“I shall be the first to meet you in Georgetown,” he said, as he bid Mrs. Blakeley farewell on the steps of her mansion; and plunging spurs into his steed, he was soon out of sight with his train.

——