Tom Deering had long been a good horseman, a dead-shot with rifle or pistol; but sword-practice was new to him and he threw himself into the art with all the ardor of his seventeen years. Trouble was brewing between the king and his colonies, that was evident, and he was anxious to prepare himself for the struggle, for he had firmly made up his mind that, should the dark cloud of war that he saw gathering burst, he would be one of the first to offer himself for service. For the capture of Fort Johnson was not immediately followed by open war, as all had expected. For some reason the British did not make any movement. Lord Campbell, the governor, had fled to the Tamar, which still lay in the harbor along with the Cherokee, but, except for sending his secretary to protest he took no steps. The patriots still had a lingering hope that all might yet be well; there were many that clung to the belief that a reconciliation might yet be effected between king and colonies. The proceedings of the people of Charleston still wore, however loosely, a pacific aspect. Though actively preparing for war, they still spoke the language of loyalty, still dealt in vague assurances of devotion to the crown. But Tom Deering was wide awake; he had a brain and he used it. The hesitation of the colonists would not last long he felt confident; and when they once cast it aside the storm would come in earnest--the sword would be drawn to be sheathed no more until the struggle was lost or won. After St. Mar, the sword-master, had taken his departure, Tom took his customary afternoon plunge into the river, after which he was ready for a visit which he had planned. Cole brought his best horse, a powerful, intelligent looking chestnut with strong lines of speed and bottom, around to the front of the house and Tom vaulted lightly into the saddle. Cole mounted another horse, a great bay, and followed his youthful master, as was his custom. There were not many horses upon the Deering plantation capable of supporting the great weight of the giant slave for any length of time and still make speed. But the bay carried him as though he were a feather, hour after hour, sometimes, and never showed more than ordinary weariness. Tom’s father, a tall, dignified gentleman, with the appearance more of a scholar than a planter, and bearing scarcely any resemblance to his brother, the skipper of the schooner Defence, met them on the road near the house. “Are you going up to the city?” asked he, drawing rein. “No, sir,” replied his son. “I’m going over to the Harwood plantation. I have not been there for some weeks.” “You have not been there, I suppose, since the taking of Fort Johnson?” “No, sir.” Mr. Deering looked grave. Jasper Harwood, who owned the large plantations some eight miles from them, was his half-brother, and he knew his real character better than Tom. “I will not forbid you to go,” said the father. “But it will be just as well if you’d stay away.”