“Your cousin,” said Campbell, surprised. “Well, if that is so, you have for a cousin one of the most remarkable masters of the sabre that it has ever been my lot to see. Gentlemen,” turning to the others, “the way that lad handled his weapon. It was marvelous. The blade seemed to be a thing of life!”
The young officers forming the group seemed disposed to laugh at this also; for Ensign Campbell’s experiences upon the night in question had long formed a subject for the exercise of wit. But Mark Harwood spoke again.
“I haven’t the slightest desire to praise Tom Deering, gentlemen,” said he, bitterly, “but what Campbell says is so. This rebel is a most remarkable swordsman. It was he, in the end assisted by this same giant slave, who kept the staircase against a party of loyalist gentlemen some time since.”
An immediate hush fell upon the group; they had heard of this exploit and had marveled at it. Maskers in various splendid or grotesque costumes strolled about the grounds chattering and laughing at the antics of those who had most given themselves up to the spirit of the occasion. About the time Campbell began to tell his story of the black giant, a masker, attired as a Carolinian backwoodsman, had paused near them and, as he listened, stood leaning against a tree. He wore a black mask upon the upper part of his face; a heavy sabre was hanging at his side, and he carried a rifle in his hands. His dress was an unusual one, and hardly the thing to be chosen in Charleston at that time; for it was of the kind worn by those who were in arms against the king.
Nevertheless, to the slight surprise of a great many who noted the fact, there seemed to be men in much the same costume, and all wearing black masks, scattered about the grounds. They did not seem to mingle with any of the other merrymakers, neither did they seem to be acquainted with one another.
The woodsman who stood near to the spot where the British officers were gathered seemed desirous of attracting no attention; he stood very quietly, listening, but never once venturing to speak.
“Ah, yes,” spoke the man whom Campbell had addressed as Blake, “we have heard of that little affair of the staircase. It took place at the Foster plantation, did it not?”
“Yes,” replied Mark Harwood. “A nest of traitors to the king which I had long striven to break up.”
“The family consisted of one half-grown girl and her father, who was an invalid,” said Ensign Campbell, quietly. “Not a very desperate gathering of partisans, one would think.”
This was greeted by a slight laugh. Cold looks were directed at Mark; the Tories were little liked by the British soldiery; they felt that contempt for them which is bound to arise in the breasts of brave men against those who prove false to their own kind. And among all the loyalists in Charleston Mark Harwood was liked the least; his sly, cunning manner and his mirthless smile made him hated among the frank young soldiers of the king’s forces; they avoided his company as much as possible, but, of course, to-night they could not but tolerate him.