Unheeding, I watched the traffic of the camp pass before me. I saw Carroll go by, and the officer who had presided at the court martial. Then Tom, the negro, passed, chattering in the company of two other blacks, one of them a teamster. Apparently he had plucked up courage and had found companions. They went towards the tavern. Next the Provost-Marshal appeared; he came towards us, but was waylaid by Haldane and Paton who entered into a heated argument with him—not far from me but just out of earshot. He seemed hard to persuade about something; he glanced my way, argued, hesitated. Finally he yielded and turned away, flinging a sharp sentence over his shoulder. Paton replied, there was a distant rejoinder. The Marshal disappeared down the road, shrugging his shoulders, as if he disclaimed—something. A man near me laughed. Another said that Paton would get on. The latter made an angry answer, looking at me. I did not understand. I was waiting. Would she never come? Was it possible that he was listening to her? That he would— Here was the Provost-Marshal returning anew. Apparently he had thought better of it, for his face was hard with purpose. But again Haldane and Paton met him. They assailed him, argued with him, almost buffeted him; finally they took him by the arms, turned him about, and marched him off. A ripple of laughter ran along the benches. “As good as a play!” some one said. I did not understand. Surely she must come soon. Yes, she was coming at last. I caught the tinkle of a hand-bell, the sentry stood at attention, Haldane hurried into the house. I rose. She came out and, thank God, she did not know. She did not know, for her eyes sought mine, she turned towards me. She even gave me a pitiful shadow of a smile, as if, after wading through deep waters, she saw land ahead. I went to her. The men about us rose and remained standing as we walked away together. She turned in the direction of my quarters. I did not dare to question her and we had gone some distance before she broke the silence. Then she told me, still looking straight before her and speaking with the same unnatural calm, that Lord Rawdon had respited the sentence for twenty-four hours to enable her to carry an appeal to Lord Cornwallis. But that he had not given her the smallest hope that the sentence would be altered. He had impressed this upon her almost harshly. “But His Excellency is at Charles Town!” I protested, dumbfounded by this suggestion of the impossible. “You cannot go to Charles Town, and return in twenty-four hours!” “He is at the Santee High Hills,” she answered. Her tone implied that she had known this and had not learned it from Lord Rawdon. Then in a dry hard voice she explained that she was to be allowed to see her father at three o’clock. She would start an hour later. “For the High Hills?” “Yes.”