As Monroe entered the hall Judithe came down the stairs, a dainty vision in palest rose. She wore armlets and girdle of silver filagree, a silver comb in the dark tresses, and large filagree loops in her ears gave the beautiful face a half-oriental character.

Admire her though he must, he felt an impatience with her, a wonder that so beautiful a being, one so blest with all the material things of life, should forsake harmony, home, and her own land, for the rude contests where men fought, and plotted, and died––died ingloriously sometimes, for the plots and intrigues through which she claimed to find the only escape from ennui.

She saw him, hesitated an instant, and then came towards him, with a suggestion of daring in her eyes.

“I might as well hear the worst, first as last,” she said, taking his arm. “Is not the veranda more cool than in here? Come, we shall see. I prefer to be out of hearing of the people while you lecture me for today’s mishap.”

She glanced up at him with a pretense of dread such as a child might show; she was pleased to be alluringly gracious, but he could feel that she was more nervous than she had ever shown herself before––the strain was telling on her. Her beautiful eyes were not so slumbrous as usual; they were brilliant as from some inward fever, and, though she smiled and met his sombre gaze with a challenge, she smothered a sigh under her light words.

“I shan’t lecture you, Madame Caron; I have no right to interfere with what you call your––amusements,” and he glanced down at her, grimly; “but I leave in the morning because by remaining longer I might gain knowledge which, in honor, I should feel bound to report.”

“To Colonel––or, shall we say, General––McVeigh?”

He bent his head, and answered: “I have given you warning. He is my friend.”

“And I?” she asked, glancing at him with a certain archness. He looked down at her, but did not speak.

“And I?” she repeated.

“No,” he said, after a pause. “You, Madame, would have to be something more, or something less. The fates have decreed that it be less––so,” he made a little gesture dismissing the subject. “Pardon me, but I did not mean to attack you in that fashion. I came to look for you to ask you a question relating to the very pretty, very clever, maid you had in New Orleans, and whom, I hear, you brought with you on your visit here.”

“Oh! You are curious as to her––and you wish me to answer questions?”

“If you please, though it really does not matter to me. Are you aware that the woman was a runaway slave, and liable to recapture in this particular vicinity?”

“In this particular vicinity?” she repeated, questioningly.

“Yes, if Matthew Loring should once get suspicion of the fact that your maid was really his girl Rosa––no, Rhoda––it would be an awkward fact allied to the episode here today,” and he made a gesture towards the library window they were just passing.

“Come, we will go down the steps,” she suggested. They did so, and were promenading under the trees, lantern lit, on the lawn, when Colonel McVeigh came out on the veranda and felt a momentary envy of Monroe, who was free from a host’s duties. They were clear of the steps and of probable listeners before Judithe asked:

“Where did you get this information?”

“From a slave who wanted you warned that you without knowing it, are probably harboring the spy whom Captain Masterson spoke of today.”

“Ah, a slave?” she remarked, thoughtfully; and the curious, intense gaze of Margeret was recalled to her, only to be followed by the memory of Pluto’s anxiety that Louise should leave before the arrival of the Lorings; it was, then, without doubt, Pluto who gave the warning; but she remembered Zekal, and felt she had little to be anxious over.

“You probably are not aware,” he continued, “what a very serious affair it is considered here to assist in hiding a slave of that sort under assumed names or occupations. But if it is discovered it would prove ruinous to you just now.”

“In three days I shall be out of the country,” she answered, briefly. “I go down to Savannah, secure Louise from this blunder––for there is really nothing to be proven against her as a spy––and then, farewell, or ill, to Carolina. I do not expect to enter it again. My arrangements are all made. Nothing has been forgotten. As to my good Louise, your informer has not been made acquainted with 314 all the facts. It is true she was a Georgian slave, but is so no longer. For over a year she has been in possession of the papers establishing her freedom. Her own money, and a clever lawyer, arranged all that without any trouble whatever. What Monsieur Loring would do if he knew I had a maid whose name was assumed, I neither know nor care. He could not identify her as the girl Rhoda Larue, even if he saw her. His sight has failed until he could not distinguish you from Colonel McVeigh if across the room. I learned that fact through Madame McVeigh before leaving Mobile, so, you perceive, I have not risked so much in making the journey with my pretty maid; and I shall risk no more when I make my adieus the day after tomorrow.”

She laughed, and looked up in his face. He looked down in her’s, but he did not laugh.

“And the estate you have just purchased in order to enjoy this Eden-like plantation life?”

“The purpose for which it was purchased will be carried out quite as well without my presence,” she said, quietly. “I never meant to live there.”

“Well, that beats me!” he said, halting, and looking squarely down at her. “You spend thousands to establish yourself in the heart of a seceding country, and gain the confidence of the natives, and then toss it all aside as though it were only a trifle! You must have spent fortunes from your own pocket to help the Federals!”

“So your President was good enough to say in the letter I tried to show you––and did not,” she replied, and then smiled, as she added, “but you are mistaken, Captain Monroe; it was only one fortune spent, and I will be recompensed.”

“When?”

“When that long-talked-of emancipation is announced.”

The bright music of a mazurka stole out of the open windows, and across the level could be seen a blaze of fat pine torches tied to poles and shedding lustre and black pitch over the negro quarters––they also were celebrating “Mahs Ken’s” return. Above the dreamy system of the parlor dances they could hear at times the exuberant calls and shouts of laughter where the dark people made merry. Judge Clarkson, who was descending the steps, halted to listen, and drew Monroe’s attention to it.

“Happy as children they are, over there tonight,” he remarked. “Most contented people on earth, I do believe.” He addressed some gallant words to Judithe, and then turned to Monroe.

“Mr. Loring has been inquiring for you, Captain Monroe. You understand, of course, that you are somewhat of a lion and one we cannot afford to have hidden. He is waiting to introduce you to some of our Carolina friends, who appreciate you, sir, for the protection shown a daughter of the South, and from your magnanimous care of a Carolina boy this past month––oh, your fame has preceded you, and I assure you, sir, you have earned for yourself a hearty welcome.”

Evilena joined them, followed by Delaven, who asked for a dance and was flouted because he did not wear a uniform. She did present him with a scarlet flower from her boquet, with the remark that if decked with something bright he might be a little less suggestive of funerals, and, attaching herself to Monroe, she left to look up Matthew Loring.

Delaven looked ruefully at the scarlet flower.

“It’s a poor substitute for herself,” he decided, “but, tell me now, Marquise, if you were fathoms deep in love, as I am this minute, and had so much of encouragement as a 316 flower flung at you, what would you advise as the next move in Cupid’s game?”

She assumed a droll air of serious contemplation for an instant, and then replied, in one word:

“Propose.”

“I’ll do it,” he decided; “ah, you are a jewel of a woman to give a man courage! I’ll lay siege to her before I’m an hour older. Judge, isn’t it you would lend a boy a hand in a love affair? I’m bewitched by one of the fair daughters of the South you are so proud of; I find I am madly jealous of every other lad who leads her onto the dancing floor this night, but every one of them has dollars where I have dimes,” and he sighed like a furnace and glanced from one to the other with a comical look of distress; “so is it any wonder I need all the bracing up my friends can give me?”

“My dear sir,” said the Judge, genially, “our girls are not mercenary. You are a gentleman, so need fear comparison with none! You have an active brain, a high degree of intelligence, a profession through which you may win both wealth and honors for the lady in question––so why procrastinate?”

“Judge, you are a trump! With you to back me up with that list of advantages, I’ll dare the fates.”

“I am your obedient servant, sir. I like your enthusiasm––your determination to put the question to the test. I approve of early marriages, myself; procrastination and long engagements are a mistake, sir––a mistake!”

“They are,” agreed Delaven, with a decision suggestive of long experience in such matters. “Faith, you two are life preservers to me. I feel light as a cork with one of you on each side––though it was doleful enough I was ten minutes ago! You see, Judge, the lady who is to decide my fate has valued your friendship and advice so long that I count on 317 you––I really do, now, and if you’d just say a good word to her––”

“A word! My dear sir, my entire vocabulary is at your service in an affair of the heart.” The Judge beamed on Delaven and bowed to Madame Caron as though including her in the circle where Love’s sceptre is ever potent.

“Faith, when America becomes a monarchy, I’ll vote for you to be king,” and Delaven grasped the hand of the Judge and shook it heartily; “and if you can only convince Mrs. McVeigh that I am all your fancy has pictured me, I’ll be the happiest man in Carolina tonight.”

“What!” Judge Clarkson dropped his hand as though it had burned him, and fairly glared at the self-confessed lover.

“I would that!––the happiest man in Carolina, barring none,” said the reckless Irishman, so alive with his own hopes that he failed to perceive the consternation in the face of the Judge; but Judithe saw it, and, divining the cause, laughed softly, while Delaven continued: “You see, Judge, Mrs. McVeigh will listen to you and––”

“Young man!” began Clarkson, austerely, but at that moment the lady in question appeared on the veranda and waved her fan to Delaven.

“Doctor, as a dancing man your presence in the house would be most welcome,” she said, coming slowly down the steps towards them.

“Madame, both my feet and my heart are at your disposal,” he said, hastening to meet her, and passing on to find some unpartnered damsels she suggested.

“What a charming young man he is,” remarked their hostess, “and exceedingly skillful in his profession for so young a physician. Don’t you consider him very bright, Judge?”

“I, Madame––I?” and Judithe retired, convulsed at the situation; “on my word, I wouldn’t trust him to doctor a sick cat!” Mrs. McVeigh looked astonished at the intensity of his words and was fairly puzzled to see Judithe laughing on the seat under the tree.

“Why, Judge! I’m actually surprised! He is most highly esteemed professionally, and in Paris––”

“Pardon me, but I presume his hair was the same color in Paris that it is here,” said the Judge, coldly, “and I have never in my life known a red-headed man who had any sense, or––”

“Oh!” Mrs. McVeigh glanced slowly from the Judge to Judithe and then smiled; “I remember one exception, Judge, for before your hair became white it was––well, auburn, at least.”

The Judge ran his fingers through the bushy curls referred to. The man usually so eloquent and ready of speech, was checkmated. He could only stammer something about exceptions to rules, and finally said:

“You will probably remember, however, that my hair was very dark––a dark red, in fact, a––a––brown red.”

Judithe, to hide her amusement, had moved around to the other side of the tree circled by the rustic seat. Her hostess turned one appealing glance towards her, unseen by the Judge, who had forgotten all but the one woman before him.

“No matter if he had hair all colors of the rainbow he is not worthy of you, Madame,” he blurted out, and Mrs. McVeigh took a step away from him in dismay; in all her knowledge of Judge Clarkson, she had never seen him show quite so intense a dislike for any one.

“Why, Judge! What is the matter tonight?” she asked, in despair. “You mean Dr. Delaven; not worthy of me?”

“He aspires to your hand,” blurted out the Judge, angrily. “Such an ambition is a worthy one; it is one I myself have cherished for years, but you must confess I had the courage to ask your hand in person.”

“Yes, Judge; but––”

“This fellow, on the contrary, has had the affrontery to come to me––to me! with the request that I use my influence in negotiating a matrimonial alliance with you!”

Mrs. McVeigh stared at him a moment, and then frankly laughed; she suspected it was some joke planned by Evilena. But the indignation of the Judge was no joke.

“Well, Judge, when I contemplate a matrimonial alliance, I can assure you that no one’s influence would have quite so much weight as your own;” she had ascended the steps and was laughing; at the top she leaned over and added, “no matter who you employ your eloquence for, Judge;” and with that parting shot she disappeared into the hall, leaving him in puzzled doubt as to her meaning. But the question did not require much consideration. The remembrance of the smile helped clear it up wonderfully. He clasped his hands under his coat tails, threw back his shoulders, walked the length of the veranda and back with head very erect. He was a very fine figure of a man.

“The Irishman’s case is quashed,” he said, nodding emphatically and confidentially to the oleander bush; “the fact that a woman, and that woman a widow, remembers the color of the plaintiff’s hair for twenty years, should convince the said plaintiff if he is a man possessed of a legal mind, that his case is still on the calendar. I’ll go and ask for the next dance.”

He had scarcely reached the steps when Judithe saw a flutter of white where the shadows were heaviest under the dense green shrubbery. She glanced about her; no one was 320 in hearing. The veranda, for the instant, was deserted, and past the windows the dancers were moving. The music of stringed instruments and of laughter floated out to her. She saw Masterson in the hallway; he was watching Monroe. She saw Kenneth McVeigh speaking to his mother and glancing around inquiringly; was he looking for her? She realized that her moments alone now would be brief, and she moved swiftly under the trees to where the signal had been made. A man had been lying there flat to the ground. He arose as she approached, and she saw he was dressed in Confederate uniform, and that he wore no beard––it was Pierson.

“Why did you leave the place without seeing me again?” she demanded. “This suspense seems to me entirely unnecessary.”

“It was the best I could do, Madame,” he answered, hurriedly. “Masterson, unknown to the McVeighs, had spies within hearing of every word between us, and to write was too great a risk. His man followed me beyond the second fortification.”

“And you eluded him?”

“No; I left him,” answered Pierson, grimly. “I wore his uniform back––he did not need it.”

Judithe drew a deep, shuddering breath, but made no comment. “Give me the contents of the destroyed despatch,” was all she said.

“McVeigh received official notification of promotion today. Important instructions were included as to the movements of his brigade. These instructions must be received by us tonight in order to learn their plans for this wing of the army.”

“And you depend on me?”

“No other way to secure them quickly, but some of our 321 men have been landed north of Beaufort. They are under cover in the swamp and cane brakes awaiting your commands––so if it can’t be done quietly there is another way––a raid for any purpose you may suggest, and incidentally these instructions would be among the souvenirs from this especial plantation.”

“Colonel McVeigh only remains over tomorrow night. Suppose I succeed, how shall I communicate with you or with the detachment of Federals?”

“I will return tonight after the house is quiet. I shall be in sight of the balcony. You could drop them from there; or, if you have any better plan of your own I will act on it.”

She could see Kenneth on the veranda, and knew he was looking for her. The moments were precious now; she had to think quick.

“It may not be possible to secure them tonight; the time is so short; and if not I can only suggest that the commander of the landed troops send a detachment tomorrow, capture Colonel McVeigh and Captain Masterson, and get the papers at the same time. There are also official documents in McVeigh’s possession relating to the English commissions for additions to the Confederate Navy. I must go; they are looking for me. You can trust a black man here called Pluto––but do not forget that a detachment of Confederates came today to the fortifications below here, don’t let our men clash with them; good bye; make no mistake.”

She moved away as she spoke, and the man dropped back unseen into the shadows as she went smilingly forward to meet the lover, whose downfall she was debating with such cool judgment.

And the lover came to meet her with ardent blue eyes aglow.

“Have you fled to the shadows to avoid us all?” he demanded, 322 and then as he slipped her hand through his arm and looked down in her face, he asked, more tenderly, “or may I think you only left the crowd to think over my audacity.”

She gave him one fleeting, upward glance, half inviting, half reproving––it would help concentrate his attention until the man in the shadows was beyond all danger of discovery.

“You make use of every pretext to avoid me,” he continued, “but it won’t serve you; no matter what cool things you say now, I can only hear through your words the meaning of those Fontainbleau days, and that one day in Paris when you loved me and dared to say it. Judithe, give me my answer. I thought I could wait until tomorrow, but I can’t; you must tell me tonight; you must!”

“Must?” She drew away from him and leaned against a tall garden vase overrun with clustering vines. They were in the full blaze of light from the windows; she felt safer there where they were likely to be interrupted every minute; the man surely dared not be wildly sentimental in full view of the crowd––which conclusion showed that she was not yet fully aware of what Kenneth McVeigh would dare do where a woman––or the woman was in question.

“An hour ago you said: ‘Will you?’ Now it is: ‘You must!’” she said, with a fine little smile. “How quick you are to assume the tone of master, Monsieur.”

“If you said slave, the picture would have been more complete,” he answered. “I will obey you in all things except when you tell me to leave you;” he had possessed himself of her hand, under cover of the vines; “it’s no use, Judithe, you belong to me. I can’t let you go from me again; I won’t!”

All of pleading was in his voice and eyes. Moved by some sudden impulse not entirely guileless, she looked full at him and let her hand remain in his.

“Well, since you really cannot,” she murmured.

“Judithe! You mean it?” and in an instant both his hands were clasping hers. “You are not coquetting with me this time? Judithe!”

She attempted to draw her hand away, but he bent his head, and kissed the warm palm. Margeret who was lighting an extinguished lantern, saw the caress and heard the low, deep tones. She turned and retraced her steps instead of passing them.

“Do you realize that all who run may read the subject of your discourse?” she asked, raising her brows and glancing after the retreating woman.

“Let them, the sooner they hear it the better I shall be pleased; come, let us tell my mother; I want to be sure of you this time, my beautiful Judithe. What time more fitting than this for the announcement––come!”

“What is it you would tell her?” she asked, looking straight ahead of her into the shadows on the lawn. Her voice sounded less musical than it had a moment before. Her eyes avoided his, and for one unguarded instant the full sculpturesque lips were tense and rigid.

“What is it?” he repeated, “why, that I adore you! that you have been the one woman in the world to me ever since I met you first; that I want you for my wife, and that you––confess it again in words, Judithe––that you love me.”

She shook her head slowly, but accompanied that half denial with a bewildering smile.

“Entirely too much to announce in one evening,” she decided; “do you forget they have had other plans for you? We must give your family more time to grow accustomed to me and to––your wishes.”

“Our wishes,” he said, correctively, and she dropped her 324 eyes and bent her head in assent. She was adorable in the final surrender. He murmured endearing, caressing words to her, and the warm color merged across her face, and receding, left her a trifle pale. All her indifference had been a pretense––he knew it now, and it strengthened his protests against delay. He drew her away from the steps as the dance ended, and the people came chattering and laughing out from the brilliantly lit rooms.

“You talk of haste, but forget that I have waited three years, Judithe; remember that, won’t you? Put that three years to my credit; consider that I wooed you every day of every year, and I would if I had been given the chance! You talk of time as if there were oceans of it for us, and you forget that I have but one more day to be with you––one day; and then separation, uncertainty. I can’t leave you like that, now that I know you care for me––I won’t.”

“Oh––h!” and she met his look with a little quizzical smile. “You mean to resign your commission for the sake of my society? But I am not sure I should admire you so much then. I am barbarian enough to like a fighter.”

“I should fight all the better for knowing it was a wife I was leaving behind instead of a sweetheart, Judithe; marry me tomorrow!”

She made a little gesture of protest, but he clasped her hand in his and held it close to prevent her from repeating it. “Why not?” he continued. “No one need know unless you wish; it can be kept secret as the engagement would be. Then, wherever the fortunes of war may send me, I can carry with me the certainty of your love. Speak to me, Judithe! Say yes. I have waited three years; I want my wife!”

“Your wife! Your––oh!”––and she flung out her hands as 325 though putting the thought away from her. A tear fell on his hand––she was weeping.

“Judithe, sweetheart!” he murmured, remorsefully.

“Tomorrow––not tonight,” she half whispered. “I must think, so much is to be considered.”

“No! Only one thing is to be considered;” he held her hands and looked in her face, with eyes ardent, compelling; “Only one thing, Judithe, and that is, do you love me––now?”

“Now, and from the first day we ever met,” she answered, looking up at him; her eyes were like stars glimmering through the mist of late tears. There came to them both the remembrance of that other avowal, behind those plunging horses in the Paris boulevard. They had unconsciously repeated the words uttered then.

For an instant his arms were about her––such strong, masterful, compelling arms. A wild temptation came to her to remain in that shelter––to let all the world go by with its creeds, its plots, its wars of right and wrong––to live for love, love only, love with him.

“My queen!” he whispered, as her head bent in half avoidance of his caresses even while her hand clasped his closely, convulsively, “it has all been of no use; those three years when you kept me away. It is fate that we find each other again. I shall never let you go from me––never! Do you hear me, Judithe? You are so silent; but words matter little since you belong to me. Do you realize it?––that you must belong to me always!”

The words over which he lingered, words holding all of hope and happiness to him brought to her a swift revulsion of feeling. She remembered those other human creatures who belonged to him––she remembered––

A moment later and he stood alone in the sweet dusk of 326 the night. She had fairly run from him along the little arbor to the side door, where she vanished unseen by the others. How she was for all her queenly ways! What a creature of moods, and passions, and emotions! The hand on which her tear had fallen he touched to his cheek. Why had she wept at his confession of love for her? She had not wept when the same words were spoken on that never-to-be-forgotten day in Paris!