ned through its brown
covering, and an eye that sparkled with wounded integrity; "it is not
my country, but my honor, that requires the sacrifice. Has he not fled
from a guard of my own corps?"

"Peyton, dear Peyton," said Frances, "would you kill my brother?"

"Would I not die for him?" exclaimed Dunwoodie, as he turned to her
more mildly. "You know I would; but I am distracted with the cruel
surmise to which this step of Henry's subjects me. Frances, I leave
you with a heavy heart; pity me, but feel no concern for your brother;
he must again become a prisoner, but every hair of his head is
sacred."

"Stop! Dunwoodie, I conjure you," cried Frances, gasping for breath,
as she noticed that the hand of the clock still wanted many minutes to
the desired hour; "before you go on your errand of fastidious[127]
duty, read this note that Henry has left for you, and which,
doubtless, he thought he was writing to the friend of his youth."

[Footnote 127: She thought his sense of duty too exacting.]

"Where got you this note?" exclaimed the youth, glancing his eyes over
its contents. "Poor Henry, you are indeed my friend! If any one wishes
me happiness, it is you."

"He does, he does," cried Frances, eagerly; "he wishes you every
happiness. Believe it; every word is true."

"I do believe him, lovely girl, and he refers me to you for its
confirmation. Would that I could trust equally to your affections!"

"You may, Peyton," said Frances, looking up with innocent confidence
to her lover.

"Then read for yourself, and verify your words," interrupted
Dunwoodie, holding the note towards her.

Frances received it in astonishment, and read the following:

"Life is too precious to be trusted to uncertainties. I leave you,
Peyton, unknown to all but Caesar, and I recommend him to your mercy.
But there is a care that weighs me to the earth. Look at my aged and
infirm parent. He will be reproached for the supposed crime of his
son. Look at those helpless sisters that I leave behind me without a
protector. Prove to me that you love us all. Let the clergyman whom
you will bring with you unite you this night to Frances, and become at
once brother, son, and husband."

The paper fell from the hands of Frances, and she endeavored to raise
her eyes to the face of Dunwoodie, but they sank abashed to the floor.

"Speak, Frances," murmured Dunwoodie; "may I summon my good kinswoman?
Determine, for time presses."

"Stop, Peyton!