their camp?
Perhaps--"

"If you write to her, I--"

"_Would_, stranger? say _could_. Writing is not one of my
accomplishments. My father cared little to teach me--my mother still
less: she cared not at all. Alas! poor ignorant me: I cannot even write
my own name!"

"It matters not: dictate what you would say to her. I have here paper
and pencil; and shall write for you. If she has read the other, she
will be on the look-out--and no doubt we may find an opportunity of
giving a note to her."

"And she of reading it, no doubt. Yes; it does seem the best course we
can pursue--the surest and safest. Surely Lilian has not forgotten me?
Surely she will follow the advice of a sister who dearly loves her?"

Drawing out my pencil, and tearing a leaf from the memorandum-book, I
stood ready to act as amanuensis. The intelligent though unlettered
maiden, resting her forehead upon her hand--as if to aid in giving shape
to her thoughts--commenced the dictation:

"Beloved sister!--A friend writes for me--one whom you know. It is
Marian who speaks--your own sister Marian--still living and well. I am
here with others--in the disguise of Indians--those you have seen. We
are here on your account alone. We have come to save you from a
danger--O sister! a dreadful danger: which your innocent heart cannot
have dreamt of!"

I was not so certain of this. The shade I had observed upon Lilian's
countenance--produced by the taunting speeches of the mulatta--had
convinced me that the young girl was not without some presentiment of
her peril, however vaguely outlined. So much the better for our
purpose; and, as I had already declared this belief to Marian, I did not
interrupt her. She continued: "When you have read this, do not show it
to any one. Do not make known its contents even to--"

The maiden paused for a moment. Filial affection, too cruelly crushed,
was causing her voice to falter. Tremblingly and low muttered came the
words:

"Our father--!"

"Dear Lil!" proceeded she in a firmer tone, "you know how dearly I loved
you? I love you still the same. You know I would have risked my life
to save yours. I now risk that and more--ah! far more, if I could tell
you; but some time you shall know all. And you, dear Lil! your danger
is even greater than of life--for it is the danger of dishonour! Hear
me, then, beloved sister, and _do_ not refuse to follow my advice! When
it is dark--and to-night if possible--ste