“You have only made her swoon by your hasty announcement of this terrible news,” said Mrs. Blakeley, sternly. “Run and send her maid.” It was long before Kate was restored to consciousness. Meantime, Mrs. Blakeley learned from old Jacob all he had to impart. Of her brother’s ultimate fate she could scarcely entertain a doubt. She well knew the character of that bitter warfare. The orders of Lord Rawdon, the then superior officer of the royal army in South Carolina, had just been repeated, that all who had once signed the protection, yet subsequently been captured in arms against the king, should be summarily executed. The sentence of Mr. Mowbray, according to old Jacob’s report, was already issued. Mrs. Blakeley was scarcely less shocked than her niece, but her fortitude was required to sustain Kate, and she struggled to appear composed. “Let us go to Col. Watson at once,” were almost the first words of Kate, on recovering her senses. “Surely he will not refuse us. He was but lately your guest—how can he then deny your prayer.” “Alas! my child,” replied her aunt, with tears in her eyes, “war converts men into fiends, and dries up all the kindlier feelings of the soul; but especially in a civil war like this, no such thing as friendship is acknowledged. Have you forgotten the fate of Gabriel Marion, the neighbour of the general—youthful, beautiful, unoffending, the pride of that old man’s heart? He was taken in a skirmish, and, as soon as recognized, told to make ready for death. His prayers for a respite—for paper to write to his uncle—for time to make his peace with God, were alike denied him.” She shuddered as she continued. “They made him kneel on the highway, and then basely murdered him.” “But they will not, they cannot murder my father thus. The men who did that foul deed were Tory outcasts. Col. Watson has a kind heart; he _will_ spare my father’s life.” And Kate, clasping her hands, addressed her aunt supplicatingly, as if on the words she might speak hung her parent’s existence. Mrs. Blakeley could not reply for some time for weeping. Twice she essayed to speak: twice tears choaked her utterance. At last she shook her head mournfully. “Say not so—you do not mean it,” cried Kate, eagerly. “Alas! alas! my darling,” sobbed Mrs. Blakeley, clasping Kate in her arms, “I would as willingly hope as you; but there is no hope. Was not solicitation, influence, promises, every thing exerted to save Col. Hayne; but to no purpose? They are inexorable. Did not the general say, in refusing a pardon, that if it were his own brother, he could do no more?”