“Yes,” he answered. “I would. Then what are we to do? Ah! I have it. I shall banish you.”
“Banish me?” repeated she with quivering lips. “To—to what place, sir?”
“A distant place called Philadelphia,” he answered. “Think you that you can bear such exile?”
“Sir,” she faltered, trembling excessively, “do not jest, I pray thee. I—I cannot bear it.”
“Child,” he said dropping the banter, “I jest not. I am going to take you to Georgetown and put you aboard ship for the North. I am sincere, I assure you.”
“Thee will do this?” she cried not daring to credit her senses.
“Yes; and for this reason: In all this land, ay! and in England also, no one hath ever before shed a tear when aught of ill hath befallen Banastre Tarleton. Had any other woman, or girl, or man in this entire Southland wounded me there would have been rejoicing instead of sorrow. Had you not been sincere I would have made you repent bitterly. As it is, this is my punishment: that you proceed to your mother as fast as sail can carry you.”
“And they call thee cruel?” cried the girl catching his hand. “Sir, none shall ever do so again in my presence.”
“Come,” he said. “I will go with you to your cousins. You must be ready for an early start to-morrow. A number of loyalists are going to Georgetown to take ship for other ports, so there will be a numerous company.”
But Harriet received the news with dismay.