The old man's loyalty to three generations of Philipses made him a stubborn defender, and he answered:

"She'd have no less a heart for a man if she loved him."

"If she loved him!" echoed Peyton, and began to think.

"Ay, and a thousand times more heart, loving him as a woman loves a man." Mr. Valentine spoke knowingly, as one acquainted by enviable experience with the measure of such love.

"As a woman loves a man!" repeated Peyton. Suddenly he turned to Valentine. "Tell me, does she love any man so, now?" Peyton did not know the relation in which Elizabeth and Major Colden stood to each other.

"I can't say she _loves_ one," replied Valentine, judicially, "though--"

But Peyton had heard enough.

"By heaven, I'll try it!" he cried. "Such miracles have happened! And I have almost an hour!"

Old Valentine blinked at him, with stupid lack of perception. "What is it, sir?"

"I shall try it!" was Peyton's unenlightening answer. "There's one chance. And you can help me!"

"The devil I can!" replied Valentine, rising from his chair in some annoyance. "I won't lend aid, I tell you!"

"It won't be 'lending aid.' All I beg is that you ask Miss Elizabeth to see me alone at once,--and that you'll forget all I've said to you.

Don't stand staring! For Christ's sake, go and ask her to come in!

Don't you know? Only an hour,--less than that, now!"

"But she mayn't come here for the asking," objected the old man, somewhat dazed by Peyton's petulance.

"She _must_ come here!" cried Harry. "Induce her, beg her, entice her! Tell her I have a last request to make of my jailer,--no, excite her curiosity; tell her I have a confession to make, a plot to disclose,--anything! In heaven's name, go and send her here!"

It was easier to comply with so light a request than to remain recipient of such torrent-like importunity. "I'll try, sir," said the peace-loving old man, "but I have no hope," and he hobbled from the room. He left the door open as he went, and Harry, tortured by impatience, heard him shuffling over the hall floor to the dining-room.

Peyton's mind was in a whirl. He glanced at the clock. These were his thoughts:

"Fifty minutes! To make a woman love me! A proud woman, vain and wilful, who hates our cause, who detests me! To make her love me! How shall I begin? Keep your wits now, Harry, my son,--'tis for your life!

How to begin? Why doesn't she come? d.a.m.n the clock, how loud it ticks!

I feel each tick. No, 'tis my heart I feel. My G.o.d, _will_ she not come? And the time is going--"

"Well, sir, what is it?"

He looked from the clock to the doorway, where stood Elizabeth.

CHAPTER VII.

THE FLIGHT OF THE MINUTES.

The silence of her entrance was from her having, a few minutes earlier, exchanged her riding-boots for satin slippers.

"I--I thank you for coming, madam," said Peyton, feeling the necessity of a prompt reply to her imperious look of inquiry, yet without a practicable idea in his head. "I had--that is--a request to make."

He was trembling violently, not from fear, but from that kind of agitation which often precedes the undertaking of a critical task, as when a suppliant awaits an important interview, or an actor a.s.sumes for the first time a new part.

"Mr. Valentine said a confession," said Elizabeth, holding him in a coldly resentful gaze.

"Why, yes, a confession," said he, hopelessly.

"A plot to disclose," she added, with sharp impatience. "What is it?"

"You shall hear," he began, in gloomy desperation, without the faintest knowledge of how he should finish. "I--ah--it is this--" His wandering glance fell on the table and the writing materials she had left there. "I wish to write a letter--a last letter--to a friend."

The vague general outline of a project arose in his mind.

Elizabeth was inclined to be as laconic as implacable. "Write it,"

said she. "There are pen and ink."

"But I can't write in this position," said Peyton, quickly, lest she might leave the room. "I fear I can't even hold a pen. Will you not write for me?"

"I? Secretary to a horse-thieving rebel!"

"It is a last request, madam. A last request is sacred,--even an enemy's."

"I will send in some one to write for you." And she turned to go.

"But this letter will contain secrets."

"Secrets?" The very word is a charm to a woman. Elizabeth's curiosity was touched but slightly, yet sufficiently to stay her steps for the moment.

"Ay," said Peyton, lowering his tone and speaking quickly, "secrets not for every ear. Secrets of the heart, madam,--secrets so delicate that, to convey them truly, I need the aid of more than common tact and understanding."

He watched her eagerly, and tried to repress the signs of his anxiety.

Elizabeth considered for a moment, then went to the table and sat down by it.

"But," said she, regarding him with angry suspicion, "the confession,--the plot?"

"Why, madam," said he, his heart hammering forcefully, "do you think I may communicate them to you directly? The letter shall relate them, too, and if the person who holds the pen for me pays heed to the letter's contents, is it my fault?"

"I understand," said the woman, entrapped, and she dipped the quill into the ink.

"The letter," began Peyton, slowly, hesitating for ideas, and glancing at the clock, yet not retaining a sense of where the hands were, "is to Mr. Bryan Fairfax--"

"What?" she interrupted. "Kinsman to Lord Fairfax, of Virginia?"

"There's but one Mr. Bryan Fairfax," said Peyton, acquiring confidence from his preliminary expedient to overcome prejudice, "and, though he's on the side of King George in feeling, yet he's my friend,--a circ.u.mstance that should convince even you I'm not sc.u.m o' the earth, rebel though you call me. He's the friend of Washington, too."

"Poh! Who is your Washington? My aunt Mary rejected him, and married his rival in this very room!"