“Please, massa,” said the old fellow, determined to blurt through the business with a round falsehood, since he could think of nothing else just then that would serve his turn, “Please, massa, dat was a cursed lie in Sarjeant Macdonald—I nebber had a letter from Miss Kate, but I hab one lily message from her. She is in Georgetown, in a polemic—either she must marry Major Lindsay, or Mr. Mowbray be hung.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Preston, “What is it you say? Trifle not with me,” he said sternly, seizing the slave by the collar.
“As true as dare is a heaven above,” said the old butler trembling, and half frightened out of his wits; “what I say is de Gospel truth.”
He then proceeded to give Preston a more detailed account of affairs, so far as they were known to him, adhering generally to the truth, except in roundly asserting that Kate had sent him.
Preston’s heart throbbed when he heard this. Kate loved him, then, after all. Hope whispered to him a bewildering dream; for if she could be rescued, what happiness might be his. But then came the thought—how was this to be effected? Kate was at Georgetown, a post of considerable strength, and no succor could reach her, unless by stratagem; yet with time this might be effected. But in what manner could the vigilance of guards be surmounted, and the prizes carried off—for it was necessary to rescue her father as well as herself? Suddenly the voice of old Jacob aroused him from the train of thought into which he was plunged.
“Dere is lily time left, sar,” he said, “for I hab waited here two days. To-morrow night it will be too late, for den de wedding is to take place.”
“To-morrow night!” said Preston aghast—for now he heard, for the first time, of the period fixed for the marriage. “God of heaven! it is already too late—she is lost for ever.”
He turned his face, tortured with anguish, up to the moon, which was sailing, full and bright, through the blue depths of air. How calm and unruffled was that silvery planet? Ages ago it had shown thus, equally cold and unsympathizing. It had seen the sacrifice of Jeptha’s daughter; it had beheld the fugitive Pompey; it had gazed on Zenobia, when a crownless queen; it had looked down on pestilence, and war, and human misery in every shape—and still it held on its course, the same cold, unfeeling orb, mocking at man and his agony. Preston turned away and groaned. Heaven as well as earth seemed without hope.
——