“Could you return it, Maude, if there were no promise to Arthur?”
Tom spoke very low, with his lips close to her burning cheek, but Maude did not reply, and Tom continued:
“Maude, was the getting me here in safety any part of the price for which you sold yourself?”
She did not answer even then, but by the low, gasping sob she gave as she shed back from her hot brow the heavy hair Tom knew the truth, and to himself he said, “It shall not be.” And then from his heart there went up a silent prayer that God would give him the brave, beautiful girl, who drew herself away from him, and leaning over her sleeping brother, sat with both hands clasped upon her face. They did not talk together much more, and once Tom thought Maude was asleep, she sat so rigid and motionless, with her face turned toward the entrance of the cave.
But she was not asleep, and her dark eyes were fixed wistfully upon the one bright star visible to her, and which seemed whispering to her of hope. Perhaps Arthur would release her from her promise, and perhaps,—but Maude started from that thought as from an evil spirit, and her white lips whispered faintly, “God help me to keep my promise.”
The night was very still, and as the hours wore on, and the faint dawn of day came over the mountain tops, Maude’s quick ear caught the echo of the fierce shouts in the valley below, and laying Charlie’s head from her lap she went out of the cave, followed by Captain Carleton, who wondered to see how that one night had changed her. The brilliant color was gone from her cheek, which looked haggard and pale, as faces look when some great storm of sorrow has passed over them. Her hair had fallen down and lay in masses upon her neck, from which she shook it off impatiently, and then intently listened to the sounds which each moment grew louder. Shoutings they were, and tones of command, mingled with the distant tramp of horses’ feet, while suddenly, above the tall tree-tops which skirted the mountain side, arose a coil of smoke. Too dark, too thick to have come from any chimney where the early morning fire was kindled, it told its own tale of horror, and Maude’s eyes grew so black and fierce that Tom shrunk back from her, as pointing her finger toward the fast increasing rings of smoke and flame, she whispered:
“Do you see that, Captain Carleton? It’s Uncle Paul’s dwelling; they have set it on fire. I never thought they would do that, though I have watched more than one burning house in these mountains, and have almost felt a thrill of pride as I thought how dearly we were paying for our love to the old flag; but when it comes to my own home, the pride is all gone, the fire burns deeper, and one is half tempted to question the price required for the Union.”
Tom was about to speak to her, when she turned abruptly upon him, and said:
“Captain Carleton, do you believe your Northern we men,—your Rose, your Annie would bear and brave what the loyal women of the South endure? They may be true to the Union,—no doubt they are, and they think they know what war means; but I tell you they do not. Did they ever see their friends and neighbors driven to the woods and hills like hunted beasts, or watch the kindling flames devouring their own houses, as I am doing now? for I know that is my Uncle Paul’s, and whether he still lives, or is hung between the earth and heavens, God only knows, and perhaps he has forgotten. I sometimes think he has, else why does he not send us aid? Where are your hordes of men? Why do they not come to save us, when we have waited so long, and our eyes and ears are weak and weary with watching for their coming?”
She was talking now more to herself than to her companion, and she looked a very queen of tragedy, as, with her hair floating over her shoulders, and her hands pressed tightly together, she walked hurriedly the length and breadth of the long flat rock which bordered a precipice near to the cave