It was evening. In a large and spacious apartment, elegantly wainscoted, and filled with rich furniture, an innumerable number of lights were blazing, as if the room was shortly to witness a festival. Disposed about, on little exquisitely lacquered Chinese stands, were vases filled with flowers, most of them white. A rich Prayer-book lay open on a table at the head of the room. At the side a place had been fitted up for an orchestra. These were the preparations for the bridal of our heroine—strange mockery!

At length the company began to gather. Among numerous officers and other guests came Col. Campbell, the commander of the post, little dreaming of the tragedy in which unwittingly he was playing so very prominent a part. He was followed by Mr. Mowbray, accompanied by the groom. Major Lindsay was dressed in uniform, but he wore a white favor on his breast, and his sword-knot was of snowy ribbon. He walked with a firm, proud step, and looked around smiling. He knew that there was scarcely a brother officer that did not envy him the possession of his bride, and the consciousness of this increased the exuberance of his spirits. The prize he had so long struggled for was now about to be won; and all regret at his conduct had long since vanished. Gratified triumph was written on every feature of his face.

Mr. Mowbray was attired with becoming elegance, though the guests remarked that his dress was almost too sad for a wedding. It might, indeed, with almost equal propriety have been worn at a funeral. The dress, in fact, was no bad type of Mr. Mowbray’s feelings, and, perhaps, had been chosen on that account. The truth was, that in secret he could not reconcile himself to this union. Though Kate herself, weeping on his bosom, had declared she was ready to marry Major Lindsay, and though Mrs. Blakeley, herself deceived, had assured him that Kate’s agitation arose only from the usual coyness of a maid, he could not expel from his heart an uneasy fear lest Kate had consented to this marriage only to save his life. Why else was she so pale? Why were her spirits so high in company, while she bore traces, as he thought, of tears in secret? Only that morning he had caught her weeping; and when he pressed to know the cause, she declared she was merely nervous—an assertion which Mrs. Blakeley corroborated. To purchase life with her unhappiness, was what he could not consent to; and but for her, the aged patriot, perhaps, would have scorned to purchase it on any terms.

As we have said, therefore, a secret presentiment filled Mr. Mowbray’s heart with sadness. Something seemed to whisper to him that it was not yet too late to draw back. He seemed, indeed, like one going to a scaffold, rather than like the parent of a bride.

Directly the bride entered, attended by her aunt, and the daughter of one of the officers. Kate was dressed in simple white, without a single ornament, and every vestige of color had fled from her face, which looked almost like snowy wax. Still, she was wondrously beautiful. Even her deathly pallor, so like that of a corpse, that some of the females present actually shuddered and drew back as she approached, could not entirely destroy the effect of her surpassing figure, and the grace of every movement. Yet she looked rather like a nun about to take the veil than like a bride. Her smiles were no longer at her command—for the near approach of her doom had completely prostrated her. She seemed now what she was—a victim wreathed for the sacrifice.

She had sat in her room all that afternoon, in a sort of stupor, her fingers convulsively clasping and unclasping each other, and her eyes bent on the floor listlessly. The going out and coming in of her attendants attracted no attention. But she had not shed a tear. The fountains of her eyes seemed scorched up. When the time came to attire her for the ceremony, they had to rouse her; and the vacant gaze of inquiry she turned on the servant, made the slave, for a moment, think her insane. But when her aunt came in to superintend her toilet, she seemed to revive, and with an effort rose from her chair, and welcomed her with a smile—but one like a sunbeam on a wintry day, cold, and shuddering to look upon. From this moment, however, she was more like herself, though at times the muscles of her mouth would twitch convulsively. At other times she would turn away her head, and an expression of heart-breaking wo would then shoot across her countenance; but, on meeting her aunt’s eye once more, she would essay again to smile.

A few moments before the ceremony was to begin, they left her alone for a moment. She was standing before the mirror, and her eyes fell on the reflection of her form.

“The sacrifice will soon be complete,” she said bitterly. “God forgive me—yet surely I am doing right. Oh! that I could weep, but there is a load here,” and she pressed both hands on her breast, “that keeps back the tears. It is like burning fire.”

Who would have believed that this ghastly face was the once radiant one of Kate Mowbray?

Her father stood near the door as she entered. He was struck with the dry, stony expression of her face, and started forward to her side. He spoke in a whisper, but with startling earnestness.

“I adjure you, my daughter,” he said, “tell me—are you willing to go on with this matter? Say but a word, and it shall be broken off.”

Kate lifted her eyes to his with a sudden movement, and the glance they gave was full of unutterable love. It was such, if we may say so without presumption, as a martyred spirit might have turned to heaven from the stake. It thrilled every nerve in that father’s frame. That same sad, sweet smile, too, was on her face, as she placed her hand in his, and said,

“Let it go on, dear father. I am only faint and nervous. I shall soon be better.” Ay! better in the grave.

His doubts were only half resolved, but he could say no more, and together they advanced to the temporary altar, where the bridegroom and priest stood awaiting them.

Kate felt a choking in the throat, as her eyes first fell on Major Lindsay, and it seemed to her, for an instant, as if her knees were failing her. But she remembered that her father’s eyes were bent anxiously on her, and from that moment there was no longer any faltering on her part.

The buzz which attended her entrance had now subsided, and a deep hush fell on the room. Every ear was strained to catch the first sound of the minister’s voice. A watch might have been heard to tick.

“Dearly beloved,” began the minister, in the time-hallowed form of the Episcopal church, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God—”

He had proceeded thus far, when such a sudden and startling burst of tumult arose from the distant street, that he raised his eyes, with a look of alarm, from his book. It was like the confused ringing of bells, half-drowned in the shouts of people. All at once the town-bell itself, close at hand, took up the uproar, and its iron tongue was heard clanging hurriedly and fiercely on the night.

The male part of the company sprang to their feet.

“Hark!” said Col. Campbell, “can it be the town on fire?”

“There it goes, louder and louder,” exclaimed a second; “it must be an insurrection.”

The women now lent their shrieks to the tumult. The officers, with their hands on their swords, rushed toward the door. The divine had dropped his Prayer-book, and his looks were full of inquiry and astonishment. Kate, with a quick look of alarm, shrank back to her father’s side. All was wonder, terror, and dismay.

The uproar without increased. Louder and fiercer the alarm-bell rang; steps were heard hurrying to and fro; and at length distant shouts, mingled with the report of fire-arms, came to the ear. Then drums were heard beating hastily to arms, and at this signal every military man present rushed out into the air.

“Be not alarmed,” said the bridegroom, turning to Kate, “it is only a false alarm, or a drunken mutiny. I will soon be back!” and with these words he sprang after his companions.

The females were now left alone, excepting the minister and Mr. Mowbray. But the tumult was obviously no trifling one. The shouts seemed to approach, and grew louder; a rushing sound, as of an advancing crowd, was heard; the rattle of fire-arms was almost continual, and seemed closer at hand each moment; and still louder, and more hurriedly, the call to arms was beaten, while fiercer and fiercer the alarm-bell, in its neighboring cupola, clamored over the din. A broad light now gleamed across the windows from the darkness outside, and cries of terror were heard increasing every moment.

Mr. Mowbray handed Kate to her aunt, and hurrying to the casement flung it up. At this the confused sounds without assumed more distinctness, and grew louder. He looked out.

“It is Marion and his men,” he cried exultingly. “Hark! here they come.”

With a wild cry at these words of promised deliverance, Kate sprung to her father’s side and looked out. At the lower end of the village one or two houses were in flames, and their bright glare lit up the otherwise black prospect. Close at hand, and retreating toward her in disorder, was a company of the royal soldiers, among whom she saw the largest portion of the officers lately assembled in that apartment. She could distinguish Colonel Campbell and Major Lindsay among others, sword in hand, endeavoring to rally the men.

But further down the street was a spectacle that filled her bosom with the wildest and most tumultuous joy. Here the way was blocked up, from side to side, by a press of assailants, who wore the uniform of Marion’s brigade, and who were advancing with loud shouts, charging continually on the retreating foe, whom they drove before them as wolves drive frightened sheep. As the battle drew nearer, she could distinguish the several war cries.

“Huzza for Marion—Remember his oath—Drive on the dogs!”

These were the shouts of the assailants, to which the royal officers replied,

“Stand fast for old England. Down with the rebels. Stand fast!”

For a moment the retreating fugitives rallied, and made a stand. This was almost opposite the window where Kate remained with her father, in spite of the danger, chained, as if by fascination, to the spot. A reinforcement of soldiers, at the same instant, came running down the street, and their companions parting right and left to make way for them, they gained the front and threw in a withering volley on the foe. These, not expecting such a sudden check, fell into some disorder.

“Now charge on the rascals,” cried a voice, and Col. Campbell sprung to the van, waving his sword. “Give them the bayonet, lads, and the field is ours.”

The issue of the combat hung trembling in the balance. The assailants showed signs of falling back, and Kate’s tumultuous hopes died within her, when suddenly the tramp of horses’ feet was heard, and a body of cavalry came thundering up the street. At their head, on a powerful charger, rode a form that Kate instantly recognized, as the lurid light of the distant fire played redly on it. Need we say it was that of Preston? His uplifted sabre flashed in the wild glare like a blood-red meteor.

“The oath of Marion,” he shouted, in a voice of thunder. “Strike home for revenge.”

This sudden apparition, and more than all that stirring shout, seemed to infuse a strange and wild frenzy into the assailants, so lately about to turn.

“The oath of Marion!” exclaimed a stalwart figure at Preston’s side, as he smote a royal grenadier to the earth with a single stroke.

The cry was caught up by the crowd. “The oath of Marion—the oath of Marion!” rung from a hundred voices: and the assailants, with that cry, rushed on the royal troops like an avalanche rushes from the sky. But foremost of all rode Preston and his serjeant, while their terror-struck enemies around them went down, with every sweep of their good swords, like grain on a harvest-field.

The royal troops broke in every direction. The officers, seeing resistance was vain before so headlong a charge, turned also to seek safety in flight. Col. Campbell, however, seemed disposed to stand his ground, but Macdonald riding his powerful steed against him bore him down, and the next instant the commandant, to save his life, yielded himself a prisoner. It was at this moment that Major Lindsay saw, for the first time, the face of Preston. With an oath, hissed between his teeth, he snatched a fire-lock from a dead soldier beside him, and pointed it at our hero, who, not perceiving him, would infallibly have fallen, but that his name uttered in a shriek by Kate arrested his ear, and turning he beheld his enemy, who was almost in a line with the window whence the warning had been heard. The lightning that rives the oak is not quicker than was the blow from Preston’s sabre. Down, right on the head of his adversary, descended the heavy steel, crashing through the skull as if it had been only so much paper: and with that blow, the soul of the villain and assassin went to his long account.

Kate saw no more. She scarcely indeed saw that. She only knew that her lover had been warned in time, and had escaped; for her father now drew her forcibly in, and shut the perilous casement, around which the pistol balls were rattling like hail. Then she swooned away.

The rest of that night is matter of history. The town was, for a while, wholly in the hands of the assailants, and the victory would have been complete but for some misapprehension in the hour at which the different detachments were to attack, which enabled a part of the enemy to gain their garrison, where they were too strongly entrenched to be taken without artillery. The assailants accordingly retired after having captured the town and made Col. Campbell prisoner.

Preston had heard Kate’s voice, and, leaving his lieutenant to pursue the fugitives, sought her out immediately. His were the eyes she first looked on when she recovered from her swoon. Her glad surprise, or his own joy to find her still his own when he had feared their arrival was too late, we must leave to the imagination of the reader. It was one of those scenes human language is too feeble to portray.

When, toward daybreak, Marion gave orders for the town to be evacuated, Kate, so late fainting and heart-broken, took her place on horse-back between her father and Preston, almost as rosy-looking and happy as ever. A spectator could scarcely have recognized in her the pale and drooping lily of the evening before.

Mr. Mowbray, on hearing the sacrifice which his daughter would have made for his life, betrayed the deepest emotion. He pressed her to his bosom, but could not speak. There was a gentle reproach in his eyes, however, which Kate answered by a glance of unalterable love.

Though Preston learned that old Jacob had claimed his assistance without the authority of Kate, he was consoled by her assurance that she loved him as well as if she had herself despatched the messenger. In a few weeks she became the wife of our hero. She would have pleaded for delay, but her father said he was uncertain how long his life might be continued, and that he wished to see her have a protector before he died, so Kate yielded to his wishes.

Macdonald did not, like his master, live to see the war concluded. He fell shortly after the attack on Georgetown, leaving behind him the reputation of one of the most gallant soldiers of the time.

As for old Jacob, he survived to dandle the children of Kate and Preston on his knee. He had not only taken part in the fight at Georgetown, but quite distinguished himself, having slain an English soldier in single combat. On this feat he was accustomed to dilate with much self-complacency. He always wound up the story with these words.

“He tried now to run me through with his bayonet, but it was no use, you see. De sarjeant had larned me his back-handed stroke, and I brought it around jist so,” suiting the action to the word. “Wid dat he fell dead and suspendered his breath.”

——