"Is your purpose insult, sir, that you tell us this?" was the rather fierce inquiry of the colonel.

"Calmly, sir," was the response, in a manner corresponding well with the nature of his words; "my purpose, I have already said, is to bring, or at least to offer, relief; to indicate a course which may result in the safety of the young man whose life is now at hazard; and to contribute, myself, to the object which I propose."

"Go on--go on, sir, if you please, but spare all unnecessary reference to his situation," said the colonel, as a significant pressure of his arm on the part of his daughter motioned him to patience. The stranger proceeded:--

"My object in dwelling upon the youth's situation was, if possible, by showing its utter hopelessness in every other respect, to induce you the more willingly to hear what I had to offer, and to comply with certain conditions which must be preparatory to any development upon my part."

"There is something strangely mysterious in this. I am willing to do anything and everything, in reason and without dishonor, for the safety of my nephew; the more particularly as I believe him altogether innocent of the crime laid to his charge. More than this I dare not; and I shall not be willing to yield to unknown conditions, prescribed by a stranger, whatever be the object: but speak out at once, sir, and keep us no longer in suspense. In the meantime, retire, Edith, my child; we shall best transact this business in your absence. You will feel too acutely the consideration of this subject to listen to it in discussion. Go, my daughter."

But the stranger interposed, with a manner not to be questioned:--

"Let her remain, Colonel Colleton; it is, indeed, only to her that I can reveal the mode and the conditions of the a.s.sistance which I am to offer. This was the preliminary condition of which I spoke. To her alone can my secret be revealed, and my conference must be entirely with her."

"But, sir, this is so strange--so unusual--so improper."

"True, Colonel Colleton; in the ordinary concerns, the everyday offices of society, it would be strange, unusual, and improper; but these are not times, and this is not a region of the world, in which the common forms are to be insisted upon. You forget, sir, that you are in the wild abiding-place of men scarcely less wild--with natures as stubborn as the rocks, and with manners as uncouth and rugged as the woodland growth which surrounds us. I know as well as yourself that my demand is unusual; but such is my situation--such, indeed, the necessities of the whole case, that there is no alternative. I am persuaded that your nephew can be saved; I am willing to make an effort for that purpose, and my conditions are to be complied with: one of them you have heard--it is for your daughter to hear the rest."

The colonel still hesitated. He was very tenacious of those forms of society, and of intercourse between the s.e.xes, which are rigidly insisted upon in the South, and his reluctance was manifest. While he yet hesitated, the stranger again spoke:

"The condition which I have proposed, sir, is unavoidable, but I ask you not to remove from hearing: the adjoining room is not so remote but that you can hear any appeal which your daughter may be pleased to make. Her call would reach your ears without effort. My own security depends, not less than that of your nephew, upon your compliance with the condition under which only will I undertake to save him."

These suggestions prevailed. Suspecting the stranger to be one whose evidence would point to the true criminal, himself an offender, he at length a.s.sented to the arrangement, and, after a few minutes' further dialogue, he left the room. As he retired, the stranger carefully locked the door, a movement which somewhat alarmed the maiden; but the respectful manner with which he approached her, and her own curiosity not less than interest in the progress of the event, kept her from the exhibition of any apprehensions.

The stranger drew nigh her. His glances, though still respectful, were fixed, long and searchingly, upon her face. He seemed to study all its features, comparing them, as it would seem, with his own memories. At length, as with a sense of maidenly propriety, she sternly turned away, he addressed her:--

"Miss Colleton has forgotten me, it appears, though I have some claim to be an old acquaintance. I, at least, have a better memory for my friends--I have not forgotten _her_."

Edith looked up in astonishment, but there was no recognition in her glance. A feeling of mortified pride might have been detected in the expression of his countenance, as, with a tone of calm unconsciousness, she replied--

"You are certainly unremembered, if ever known, by me, sir. I am truly sorry to have forgotten one who styles himself my friend."

"Who was--who is--or, rather, who is now willing again to be your friend, Miss Colleton," was the immediate reply.

"Yes, and so I will gladly call you, sir, if you succeed in what you have promised."

"I have yet promised nothing, Miss Colleton."

"True, true! but you say you have the power, and surely would not withhold it at such a time. Oh, speak, sir! tell me how you can serve us all, and receive my blessings and my thanks for ever."

"The reward is great--very great--but not greater--perhaps not as great, as I may demand for my services. But we should not be ignorant of one another in such an affair, and at such a time as this. Is it true, then, that Miss Colleton has no memory which, at this moment, may spare me from the utterance of a name, which perhaps she herself would not be altogether willing to hear, and which it is not my policy to have uttered by any lips, and far less by my own? Think--remember--lady, and let me be silent still on that one subject. Let no feeling of pride influence the rejection of a remembrance which perhaps carries with it but few pleasant reflections."

Again were the maiden's eyes fixed searchingly upon the speaker, and again, conflicting with the searching character of his own glance, were they withdrawn, under the direction of a high sense of modest dignity.

She had made the effort at recognition--that was evident even to him--and had made it in vain.

"Entirely forgotten--well! better that than to have been remembered as the thing I was. Would it were possible to be equally forgotten by the rest--but this, too, is vain and childish. She must be taught to remember me."

Thus muttered the stranger to himself; a.s.suming, however, an increased decision of manner at the conclusion, he approached her, and tearing from his cheeks the huge whiskers that had half-obscured them, he spoke in hurried accents:--

"Look on me now, Miss Colleton--look on me now, and while you gaze upon features once sufficiently well known to your glance, let your memory but retrace the few years when it was your fortune, and my fate, to spend a few months in Gwinnett county. Do you remember the time--do you remember that bold, ambitious man, who, at that time, was the claimant for a public honor--who was distinguished by you in a dance, at the ball given on that occasion--who, maddened by wine, and a fierce pa.s.sion which preyed upon him then, like a consuming fire, addressed you, though a mere child, and sought you for his bride, who--but I see you remember all!"

"And are you then Creighton--Mr. Edward Creighton--and so changed!" And she looked upon him with an expression of simple wonder.

"Ay, that was the name once-but I have another now. Would you know me better--I am Guy Rivers, where the name of Creighton must not again be spoken. It is the name of a felon--of one under doom of outlawry--whom all men are privileged to slay. I have been hunted from society--I can no longer herd with my fellows--I am without kin, and am almost without kind. Yet, base and black with crime--doomed by mankind--banished all human abodes--the slave of fierce pa.s.sions--the leagued with foul a.s.sociates, I dared, in your girlhood, to love you; and, more daring still, I dare to love you now. Fear not, lady--you are Edith Colleton to me; and worthless, and vile, and reckless, though I have become, for you I can hold no thought which would behold you other than you are--a creature for worship rather than for love. As such I would have you still; and for this purpose do I seek you now. I know your feeling for this young man--I saw it then, when you repulsed me. I saw that you loved each other, though neither of you were conscious of the truth. You love him now--you would not have him perish--I know well how you regard him, and I come, knowing this, to make hard conditions with you for his life."

"Keep me no longer in suspense--speak out, Mr. Creighton"--she cried, gaspingly.

"Rivers--Rivers--I would not hear the other--it was by that name I was driven from my fellows."

"Mr. Rivers, say what can be done--what am I to do--money--thanks, all that we can give shall be yours, so that you save him from this fate."

"And who would speak thus for me? What fair pleader, fearless of man's opinion--that blights or blesses, without reference to right or merit--would so far speak for me!"

"Many--many, Mr. Rivers--I hope there are many. Heaven knows, though I may have rejected in my younger days, your attentions, I know not many for whom I would more willingly plead and pray than yourself. I do remember now your talents and high reputation, and deeply do I regret the unhappy fortune which has denied them their fulfilment."

"Ah, Edith Colleton, these words would have saved me once--now they are nothing, in recompense for the hopes which are for ever gone. Your thoughts are gentle, and may sooth all spirits but my own. But sounds that lull others, lull me no longer. It is not the music of a rich dream, or of a pleasant fancy, which may beguile me into pleasure. I am dead--dead as the cold rock--to their influence. The storm which blighted me has seared, and ate into the very core. I am like the tree through which the worm has travelled--it still stands, and there is foliage upon it, but the heart is eaten out and gone. Your words touch me no longer as they did--I need something more than words and mere flatteries--flatteries so sweet even as those which come from your lips--are no longer powerful to bind me to your service. I can save the youth--I will save him, though I hate him; but the conditions are fatal to your love for him."

There was much in this speech to offend and annoy the hearer; but she steeled herself to listen, and it cost her some effort to reply.

"I can listen--I can hear all that you may say having reference to him.

I know not what you may intend; I know not what you may demand for your service. But name your condition. All in honor--all that a maiden may grant and be true to herself, all--all, for his life and safety."

"Still, I fear, Miss Colleton--your love for him is not sufficiently lavish to enable your liberality to keep pace with the extravagance of my demand--"

"Hold, sir--on this particular there is no need of further speech.

Whatever may be the extent of my regard for Ralph, it is enough that I am willing to do much, to sacrifice much--in return for his rescue from this dreadful fate. Speak, therefore, your demand--spare no word--delay me, I pray, no longer."

"Hear me, then. As Creighton, I loved you years ago--as Guy Rivers I love you still. The life of Ralph Colleton is forfeit--for ever forfeit--and a few days only interpose between him and eternity. I alone can save him--I can give him freedom; and, in doing so, I shall risk much, and sacrifice not a little. I am ready for this risk--I am prepared for every sacrifice--I will save him at all hazards from his doom, upon one condition!"

"Speak! speak!"

"That you be mine--that you fly with me--that in the wild regions of the west, where I will build you a cottage and worship you as my own forest divinity, you take up your abode with me, and be my wife. My wife!--all forms shall be complied with, and every ceremony which society may call for. Nay, shrink not back thus--" seeing her recoil in horror and scorn at the suggestion--"beware how you defy me--think, that I have his life in my hands--think, that I can speak his doom or his safety--think, before you reply!"

"There is no time necessary for thought, sir--none--none. It can not be.

I can not comply with the conditions which you propose. I would die first."

"And he will die too. Be not hasty, Miss Colleton--remember--it is not merely your death but his--his death upon the gallows--"

"Spare me! spare me!"

"The halter--the crowd--the distorted limb--the racked frame--"

"Horrible--horrible!"

"Would you see this--know this, and reflect upon the shame, the mental agony, far greater than all, of such a death to him?"

With a strong effort, she recovered her composure, though but an instant before almost convulsed--

"Have you no other terms, Mr. Rivers?"