An immediate hush fell upon the group; they had heard of this exploit and had marveled at it. Maskers in various splendid or grotesque costumes strolled about the grounds chattering and laughing at the antics of those who had most given themselves up to the spirit of the occasion. About the time Campbell began to tell his story of the black giant, a masker, attired as a Carolinian backwoodsman, had paused near them and, as he listened, stood leaning against a tree. He wore a black mask upon the upper part of his face; a heavy sabre was hanging at his side, and he carried a rifle in his hands. His dress was an unusual one, and hardly the thing to be chosen in Charleston at that time; for it was of the kind worn by those who were in arms against the king. Nevertheless, to the slight surprise of a great many who noted the fact, there seemed to be men in much the same costume, and all wearing black masks, scattered about the grounds. They did not seem to mingle with any of the other merrymakers, neither did they seem to be acquainted with one another. The woodsman who stood near to the spot where the British officers were gathered seemed desirous of attracting no attention; he stood very quietly, listening, but never once venturing to speak. “Ah, yes,” spoke the man whom Campbell had addressed as Blake, “we have heard of that little affair of the staircase. It took place at the Foster plantation, did it not?” “Yes,” replied Mark Harwood. “A nest of traitors to the king which I had long striven to break up.” “The family consisted of one half-grown girl and her father, who was an invalid,” said Ensign Campbell, quietly. “Not a very desperate gathering of partisans, one would think.” This was greeted by a slight laugh. Cold looks were directed at Mark; the Tories were little liked by the British soldiery; they felt that contempt for them which is bound to arise in the breasts of brave men against those who prove false to their own kind. And among all the loyalists in Charleston Mark Harwood was liked the least; his sly, cunning manner and his mirthless smile made him hated among the frank young soldiers of the king’s forces; they avoided his company as much as possible, but, of course, to-night they could not but tolerate him. Mark felt the sting which the quiet words of young Campbell contained and a dark flush stained his cheeks. “It is the weakest who are ever the worst,” cried he, noticing the cold glances of dislike leveled at him. “A man like Foster could do as much harm to the cause of the king as Marion himself.” “Perhaps so,” said Blake, bitingly. “But there is much more credit in matching oneself against Marion; he, at least, can fight back.”