"I am glad it is ended, Peggy," he said gloomily. "The restlessness of waiting is over at last. All the feverish anxiety, the hope, the longing, are past, and the end hath come. Do you remember last year, when John Drayton, that Yankee captain, was condemned to this same sort of death, what father said? He said, 'The vicissitudes of war are many, my son. By sad fortune you might find yourself in the same condition as this young fellow.' And here I am, in very truth, condemned to die on the gallows. I have been thinking of it all day." "Clifford," she cried in alarm, for there sounded a note of agitation in his words that made her fearful lest he lose his self-control, "thee must not talk like that. Think on something else." "But to die like this," he cried. "An Owen on the gibbet! 'Tis bitter, bitter! I had planned a different death. 'Twas on the battle-field. Gloriously to fall, fighting for the king and England. I do not fear death, my cousin. It is not that. 'Tis the awfulness of the mode. I cannot help but think of that other death which I would so gladly die. I have ever loved martial music, and 'twas my thought that at my death the muffled drum would beat for a soldier's honorable funeral." "Clifford! Clifford!" she cried. He was so young, so noble, and yet to die a cruel death on the scaffold! It was hard. What comfort could she give him? He was in sore need of it. "Bear with me for just a little, Peggy," he said. "It hath eaten into my heart--the manner of this death. I have talked bravely all these long, weary days of waiting, but oh! if they would just shoot me! The shamefulness of a gallows!" "Don't!" she cried suddenly. "I--I cannot bear it." The boy pulled himself together sharply. "Forgive me," he said speaking more calmly. "I'll be good now, my cousin, but 'tis enough to make a man rave to contrast the death he would die with the one he must. I'll think of it no more." "Thee must not," she said faintly. "What--what can I do for thee, Clifford?" "I have writ some letters," he said picking them up from the table. "Will you see that they are sent? I need not ask. I know you will. One is for Harriet; I was too hard on her, Peggy. I see it now. One is for father, and one for your father and mother. Had I been their own son they could not have treated me with more tenderness. And, Peggy----" "Yes, my cousin?" "There is one for Miss Sally," he said with slight hesitation. His face flushed and he busied himself among the papers on the table. "'Fore George," he cried with an abrupt change of manner, "I can't forget that look of scorn in her blue eyes! It haunts me. I writ before, you remember? She did not reply, but sent word that she had no hard feelings. 'Twas all I had a right to expect, but somehow---- I have writ again, Peggy, to tell her---- Well, you know I don't want her to think me altogether contemptible."