to postpone his
inquiry until the next morning, and Sempland paced the floor the night
long in a pitiable condition of wounded love, blasted hope, shattered
fame.

At home, not far away, poor Fanny Glen was even more miserable than
Rhett Sempland, for she had divined--yes, so soon as the two men had
left her presence the afternoon before, she had recognized the
fact--that she loved Sempland. Conviction had grown upon her swiftly,
and in those moments when she was fearful that he would succeed in his
purpose, when she had kept him a prisoner in her home to prevent him
from taking out the _David_ to try to blow up the _Wabash_, she knew
that she loved him.

When he had held her in his arms in that bold and successful effort to
escape, when he had strained her to his breast, when he had kissed
her--oh, that kiss!--the consciousness of her passion overwhelmed her.
The recollection of it even filled her with passionate tenderness. She
had not been afraid when he had threatened her with the pistol. She
could have died easily then--in his arms, with his kiss upon her lips,
his heart beating against her own. He loved her! Nothing else mattered
for the moment.

She had endeavored to keep him a prisoner partly for his own sake, but
principally for another and greater reason. She had not thought of
disgrace or shame to him. It had all come so swiftly. She had no time
to reflect at all. She had decided upon impulse, with but one thought
at first--to save the Union ship. In her sudden alarm and anxiety she
had not realized that she was playing a traitor's part. Or if she had,
she had done it willingly, in the belief that the punishment would fall
upon her, and that he would be held blameless.

But for whatever reason she had acted as she had, she had failed after
all, for another had taken Sempland's part, and the flagship, if the
_David_ succeeded, was doomed. Her sacrifice was unavailing. She had
lost everything. Sempland had shrunk away from her when she had
confronted him and the general on the wharf, and when she had recovered
consciousness he was gone. She could not know his heart had gone out to
her lying there, nor how they had hurried him away from her prostrate
figure.

He would never forgive her--never! she thought miserably. He was under
arrest now. What was that word she had caught as she ran toward them?
Coward! They would kill him perhaps. She had lost all--love, the ship,
everything! Lacy, too, was gone. He ha