Great agitation prevailed at Macdonald's post, when the morning disclosed the escape of Butler. The lieutenant was conscious that this mischance had exposed him to the risk of heavy censure, and as was natural to a man who could not entirely acquit himself of some neglect in the performance of his duty, his first measures were taken in a spirit of peevish and angry severity. Small parties were sent out to explore the neighborhood, with a view to gain intelligence of the direction taken by the fugitive, with orders to bring him in dead or alive. The sentinels who were on duty during the night were arrested, and subjected to a rigid examination on the events of their watch; the several members of Musgrove's family were also interrogated as to matters touching their own connexion with the prisoner. Nothing, however, was gathered from these investigations that was calculated to cast a suspicion of connivance in Butler's liberation, upon any individual either of the garrison or of the family. It was only apparent that the prisoner had availed himself of the remissness of the guard and the darkness of the night, to make a bold descent from the window; and had succeeded by one of those lucky accidents which sometimes baffle the most cautious foresight. The nature of the attempt did not necessarily suppose the aid of an accomplice, and a faint hope was, therefore, entertained that Butler would be found still lurking in the vicinity of the post.

In the course of a few hours, the first parties that had been dispatched in the morning, returned. They could give no account of the prisoner; nor was there any light thrown upon the escape until about the dinner hour, when a portion of the detachment which had intercepted Butler and his comrades in the morning, arrived at the mill, under the conduct of the soldier whose suspicions had led to the pursuit and skirmish which we have already described. The report of these men left Macdonald no room to doubt the identity of Butler with the person described. A further examination, at the suggestion of the soldier, showed that Wall-Eye, the wagon-horse, was missing; and it now became certain that Butler had been aided by a party of the enemy with whom he must have been in correspondence. The conclusion was, that with his means of flight there could be little doubt of his being, long before the present period of the day, out of the reach of successful pursuit. The scheme was laid to the account of Horse Shoe Robinson, whose name and adventures were already famous in this district; and it was conjectured that Sumpter was secretly posted in some neighboring fastness to give his assistance to the enterprise.

With these reflections, Macdonald felt himself obliged to submit to the exigencies of the case; a point of philosophy which he did not practise without a very visible chagrin and mortification. His men were called together, and after a short, fretful lecture on their neglect, and an injunction to a more soldier-like vigilance in future, which savored of the caution of locking the stable after the steed was stolen, they were dismissed.

About an hour before sundown, Allen Musgrove and Mary, availing themselves of the confusion and relaxed discipline of the post, occasioned by the events of the morning, set out on horseback for David Ramsay's dwelling, whither they were led by a natural anxiety to learn something of the movements of the fugitives.

"It's a pleasure and a happiness, Allen Musgrove," said Mistress Ramsay, as the miller and his daughter sat down in the cabin, "to see you and Mary over here with us at any time, but it is specially so now when we have good news to tell. John and his friend are safe out of reach of Macdonald's men, and—God be praised!—I hope out of the way of all other harms. We have had soldiers dodging in and out through the day, but not one of them has made any guess what's gone with the major; and as for John, they don't seem to suspect him to be on the country-side. It's all Horse Shoe Robinson with them. They say that none but he could have helped to get the major away, and that General Sumpter was the instigator. Well, I'm sure they were welcome to that opinion, for it set them all to looking over towards Broad river, which is as good a direction as we could wish them to travel."

"The less you seem to know about it, with any of these inquiring parties, the better, Mistress Ramsay," said Allen Musgrove, "and I would advise you, even here amongst ourselves, to speak lower, David, what do you hear this evening?"

"Nothing concerning our runaways since they left us at daylight this morning," replied Ramsay. "I should guess them to be somewhere near upon Fair Forest by this time. You know Williams is out-lying upon the upper branches of the river? It is more like hunted deer, Allen, than Christian men, that our poor fellows take to the woods now. God knows what will come of it!"

"He knows and has appointed it," said Musgrove, gravely, "and will in His own good time and with such instruments as shall faithfully work His purpose, give the victory to them that have the right. Man, woman, and child may perish, and house and home may be burnt over our heads, and the blood of brave men may make the dust of the road red; yes, and the pastures rich as if new laid with manure; but the will of God shall be done and His providence be accomplished. The cause of the just shall prevail against the unjust."

"There were no soldiers," inquired Mary, addressing David Ramsay, "that you have heard of, who followed towards Fair Forest? I should be sorry if John was to be troubled with persons going after him; because,"—the maiden hesitated an instant,—"because it's unpleasant and disagreeable to be obliged to be riding off the road, through bushes and briers, to keep out of the way."

"If they were not greatly an overmatch, girl," interrupted Ramsay, "John wouldn't give himself much trouble upon that account."

"Oh, Mr. Ramsay," said Mary earnestly, "I was thinking of that. It's hard to say what John would call an overmatch: men are so headstrong and venturesome."

"That's God's own truth, Mary," interposed Mrs. Ramsay; "and what I have always been telling David and John both. But they never heed me, no more than if I was talking to the child in that cradle."

"I've told John as much myself," said Mary, blushing.

"And he would not heed you either," interrupted her father, "A soldier would have a holiday life of it, if he followed the advice of his mother or his sweetheart. Daughter, amongst friends here, you needn't blush; we know more of the secrets betwixt you and the trooper lad than you count upon. John's a clever boy, Mistress Ramsay, and I think you have reason to brag of him somewhat; and as there's particular good-will between him and my Mary, I'll not stand in the way when the war is over, if God spares us all, and Mary and the lad keep in the same mind; I'll not stand in the way of a new settlement in the neighborhood. Mary is a good daughter, well nurtured, and—I don't care to say it to her face—will make a thriving wife."

The mother smiled as she replied, "I don't pretend to know the young people's secrets, but I know this, you don't think better of Mary than John does—nor than me neither, perhaps."

The conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the door, and, in a moment afterwards, Arthur Butler and the woodman entered the apartment.

"Major Butler, as I am a living woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Ramsay.

"Our good friend himself!" ejaculated Musgrove, with surprise. "What has turned you back? And Gabriel Drummond here too! What has happened?"

"Where is my son John?" demanded Ramsay. "Are you followed?"

Butler walked up to Mrs. Ramsay, and, as a tear started to his eye, took her by the hand, and stood for a moment unable to speak.

"Oh, heaven have mercy on me!" screamed Mary Musgrove, as she threw herself upon a bed, "something dreadful has happened."

"For God's sake, speak what you have to tell!" said David Ramsay, instantly turning pale.

"John Ramsay is hurt," faintly articulated the mother, and Mary, rising from the bed, stood beside Butler with a countenance on which was seated the most agonizing attention. Andy, the hero of the exploit we have heretofore related, also pressed into the presence of the same group, and a death-like silence pervaded the whole party.

Butler, with an ineffectual effort to recover himself, turned to Drummond, making a sign to him to tell the object of their melancholy errand, and then flung himself into a chair.

"John Ramsay is dead," said the woodman, in a mournful tone. "Your son, mistress Ramsay, was shot in a fray with the bloody, villanous Tories. The heartiest curses upon them!"

"Killed, dear madam," said Butler, scarce able to articulate, "killed in my defence. Would to God the blow had fallen upon my own head!"

"Oh, no, no, no!" exclaimed the matron, as a flood of tears rolled down her cheeks, and she endeavored to wipe them away with her apron. "It isn't true. It can't be true. My poor, dear, brave boy!"

At the same instant Mary Musgrove fell insensible into the arms of her father, where it was some moments before she gave signs of animation. At length, being laid upon the bed, a deep groan escaped her, which was followed by the most piteous wailing.

The scene wrought upon the younger members of the family, who, as well as the domestics, were heard pouring forth deep and loud lamentations, accompanied with reiterated announcements of the death of the soldier.

When this first burst of the general grief was over, David Ramsay arose from his seat and walked across the room to a window, where he stood endeavoring to compose and master his feelings. At length, facing Butler, he said in a low and tranquil tone,

"John Ramsay, my son, killed, killed in a skirmish? God is my witness, I expected it! It was his failing to follow his enemy with too hot a hand; and I am to blame, perhaps, that I never checked him in that temper. But he died like a man and a soldier, Major Butler," he added, firmly.

"He died in my arms," replied Butler, "as bravely as ever soldier closed his life, his last thoughts were fixed upon his parents, and—"

"Dead!" interrupted Ramsay, as if communing with himself, and regardless of Butler's words—"Dead! He fell doing his duty to his country, that's a consolation. A man cannot die better. If it please God, I hope my end may be like his. Andrew, my boy, come here. You are now my oldest living son," he said, taking the lad's hand and looking him full in the face, as he spoke with a bitter compression of his lips; "I am willing, much as I love you, that the country should have you."

"No, David, David," interrupted the mother, rousing herself from her silent grief, "we have given enough; no other child of mine shall venture in the war. John! John! John! my dear boy, my brave son! How good and kind he was to us all! And how glad he was to get home to see us; and how much we made of him!"

"Silence, wife," said David Ramsay, "this is no time to hold back from our duty. Andrew, listen to me: remember your brother has met his death fighting against these monsters, who hate the very earth that nurses liberty. You are young, boy, but you can handle a musket; we will not forget your brother's death."

"Nor the burning of a good house over your head, and a full barn, father; nor the frights they have given my poor mother."

"Nor the thousands of brave men," added the father, "who have poured out their blood to give us a land and laws of our own. My boy, we will remember these, for vengeance."

"Not for vengeance," said Allen Musgrove, "for justice, David. Your enemy should be remembered only to prevent him from doing mischief. The Lord will give him sword and buckler, spear and shield, who stands up for the true cause: and when it pleases Him to require the sacrifice of life from the faithful servant who fights the battle, he grants patience and courage to meet the trial. Your son was not the man, David, to turn his face away from the work that was before him; may God receive him and comfort his distressed family! He was an honest and brave son, David Ramsay."

"A braver soldier never buckled on broadsword, Allen Musgrove," replied the father. "Yes, I looked for this; ever since my dwelling was levelled to the ground by these firebrands, I looked for it. John's passion was up then, and I knew the thoughts that ran through his mind. Ever since that day his feelings have been most bitter; and he has flung himself amongst the Tories, making as little account of them as the mower when he puts his scythe into the grass of the meadows."

"God forgive him, David!" said Musgrove, "and strengthen you and the boy's good mother in this sharp hour of trial. They who draw the sword in passion may stand in fear of the judgment of the sword: it is a fearful thing for sinful man to shed blood for any end but that of lawful war, and at the bidding of his country. God alone is the avenger."

Mary had again raised herself from the bed, and at this moment gave vent to her feelings in a loud and bitter lamentation "John Ramsay is dead, is dead!" she exclaimed. "I cannot believe it. He that was so true and so warm-hearted, and that everybody loved! They could not kill him! Oh, I begged him to keep his foot from danger, and he promised me, for my sake, to be careful. I loved him, father; I never told you so much before, but I am not ashamed to tell it now before everybody; I loved him better than all the world. And we had promised each other. It is so hard to lose them that we love!" she continued, sobbing violently. "He was so brave and so good, and he was so handsome, Mrs. Ramsay, and so dutiful to you and his father, coming home to see you whenever the war would let him. And he walked, and rode, and ran, and fought for his friends, and them that he cared for. He was so thoughtful for your comfort too," she added, as she threw herself on her knees and rested her head in the lap of the mother, and there paused through a long interval, during which nothing was heard but her own moans mingled with the sighs of the party, "we were to be married after this war was at an end, and thought we should live so happily: but they have murdered him! Oh they have murdered him," and with her hair thrown in disorder over her face, she again gave vent to a flood of tears.

"Mary, daughter! Shame on you, girl!" said her father. "Do you forget, in the hour of your affliction, that you have a friend who is able to comfort? There is one who can heal up your sorrows and speak peace to your troubled spirit, if you be not too proud to ask it. I have taught you, daughter, in all time of tribulation to look to Him for patience and for strength to bear adversity. Why do you neglect this refuge now?"

"Our Father," said the maiden, fervently clasping her hands and lifting up her eyes, now dim with weeping, as she appealed to God in prayer, "who art in heaven—teach us all to say thy will be done. Take—take—my dear John—Oh my heart will burst and I shall die!" she uttered, almost overwhelmed with her emotions, as she again buried her face in Mistress Ramsay's lap—"I cannot speak!"

A silence of inexpressible agony prevailed for some moments. This was at length interrupted by the uprising of the full, clear, and firm voice of Allen Musgrove, who now broke forth from the opposite side of a room where he had kneeled before a chair, in an earnest and impressive supplication to the Deity, urged with all that eloquence which naturally flows from deeply-excited feeling. From the solemnity of the occasion, as well as from the habitually religious temper of the family assembled in the little cabin, the words of the prayer fell upon the hearts of those present with a singularly welcome effect, and, for the moment, brought tranquillity to their feelings.

When the prayer was ended, the grief of the mourners rolled back in its former flood, and burst from Mary Musgrove in the most heart-rending bitterness. Paroxysm followed paroxysm with fearful violence, and these outbreaks were responded to by the mother with scarcely less intensity. All attempts at consolation, on the part of the men, were unavailing; and it was apparent that nothing remained but to let the tide of anguish take its own course.

It was now some time after night-fall, when Butler and Drummond beckoned Allen Musgrove to leave the room. They retired into the open air in front of the house, where they were immediately joined by David Ramsay. Here Butler communicated to them the necessity of making immediate arrangements for their return to the woodman's cottage, and for the burial of the deceased trooper. His advice was adopted, and it was resolved that Musgrove and Ramsay should accompany the other two to the spot. Before the consultation was closed, Andy had come into the group, and he was now directed, with all haste, to throw a saddle upon his father's horse.

"You, Andrew, my son," said David Ramsay, "will stay at home and comfort your poor mother, and Mary. Speak to them, boy, and persuade them to give up their useless lamentations. It is the will of God, and we ought not to murmur at it."

"The burning, father," replied the boy, with a sorrowful earnestness, "and the fighting, and the frights we have had, was all nothing to this. I never felt before how terrible the war was."

Andy had now gone to equip the horse, and the men returned to the inside of the cabin, where they sat in profound silence. Butler, at length, rose from the door-sill where he had taken his seat, and crossing the room, took a position by the bed on which Mary Musgrove had thrown herself, and where she now lay uttering faint and half-smothered moans.

"I have a remembrance for you," he said, stooping down and speaking scarce above a whisper in the maiden's ear; "I promised to deliver it into your hand. God knows with what pain I perform my office! John enjoined upon me to give you this," he continued, as he presented to her the little copy of the Testament, "and to say to you that his last thoughts were given to you and his mother. He loved you, Mary, better than he loved any living creature in this world."

"He did, he did," sobbed forth the girl; "and I loved him far above family, friends, kinsfolk and all—I wish I were dead by his side."

"Take the book," said Butler, hardly able to articulate. "God for ever bless you," he added, after a pause of weeping, "and bring you comfort! I have promised John Ramsay, that neither you, nor any of his family, shall ever want the service of a friend, while I have life or means to render it. Before Heaven, that pledge shall be redeemed! Farewell, farewell! God bless you!"

As Butler uttered these words he grasped the maiden's hand and pressed it fervently to his lips; then turning to the mother, he addressed some phrase of comfort to her, and hastily left the room. Scarcely a sound was heard from any one, except the low sobbing of the exhausted weepers, and the almost convulsive kisses which Mary imprinted upon the little book that Butler had put into her hand.

Musgrove, Ramsay, and the woodman, retired from the apartment at the same moment; and the horses being ready at the door, the retreating beat of the hoofs upon the turf gave notice to the in-dwellers that the four men had set forward on their journey.