He had her head now on his arm, and with his hand was smoothing her bands of satin hair, while he waited for her to speak. He had dealt honestly with her. She would be equally truthful with him, and she answered at last: “Oh, Mr. Carleton, you don’t know how much it pains me to tell you what I must. I might have loved you once, but now it is too late. I promised Arthur, if he would be kind to the poor prisoners and help the escaped ones to get away, and,—oh, I don’t know what, but I am to be his wife when the dreadful war is over. Pity me, Mr. Carleton, but don’t love me. No, no, don’t make me more wretched by telling me of a love I cannot return.” “Could you return it, Maude, if there were no promise to Arthur?” Tom spoke very low, with his lips close to her burning cheek, but Maude did not reply, and Tom continued: “Maude, was the getting me here in safety any part of the price for which you sold yourself?” She did not answer even then, but by the low, gasping sob she gave as she shed back from her hot brow the heavy hair Tom knew the truth, and to himself he said, “It shall not be.” And then from his heart there went up a silent prayer that God would give him the brave, beautiful girl, who drew herself away from him, and leaning over her sleeping brother, sat with both hands clasped upon her face. They did not talk together much more, and once Tom thought Maude was asleep, she sat so rigid and motionless, with her face turned toward the entrance of the cave. But she was not asleep, and her dark eyes were fixed wistfully upon the one bright star visible to her, and which seemed whispering to her of hope. Perhaps Arthur would release her from her promise, and perhaps,—but Maude started from _that_ thought as from an evil spirit, and her white lips whispered faintly, “God help me to keep my promise.” The night was very still, and as the hours wore on, and the faint dawn of day came over the mountain tops, Maude’s quick ear caught the echo of the fierce shouts in the valley below, and laying Charlie’s head from her lap she went out of the cave, followed by Captain Carleton, who wondered to see how that one night had changed her. The brilliant color was gone from her cheek, which looked haggard and pale, as faces look when some great storm of sorrow has passed over them. Her hair had fallen down and lay in masses upon her neck, from which she shook it off impatiently, and then intently listened to the sounds which each moment grew louder. Shoutings they were, and tones of command, mingled with the distant tramp of horses’ feet, while suddenly, above the tall tree-tops which skirted the mountain side, arose a coil of smoke. Too dark, too thick to have come from any chimney where the early morning fire was kindled, it told its own tale of horror, and Maude’s eyes grew so black and fierce that Tom shrunk back from her, as pointing her finger toward the fast increasing rings of smoke and flame, she whispered: