He had kept his word, and piloted safely across the mountains the prisoner left in Hetty’s cabin. His arrival at Paul Haverill’s burning home had preceded that of the Federal troops by twenty minutes or more, and when he heard of Maude’s danger, he followed our soldiers up the hillside to where Maude held the entrance to the cave. He saw her, and tried to make his voice heard, but it was lost amid the strife and noise of the conflict, and she only knew of his presence, when Charlie, with chattering teeth, and a face as white as ashes, clutched her dress frantically, and said: “Come, sister, come this way to Arthur,—somebody—shot him. Do you think he will die?” Quick as lightning the remembrance of the thought, which had yet scarcely been a thought, of just such a contingency as this, flashed over Maude, sweeping away all the pain, the terror, the shrinking she had felt when she contemplated the fulfillment of her promise to Arthur Tunbridge. He was lying there at her feet, and the grass beneath him was all a pool of blood, while his dim eyes showed that the objects around him were now but faintly discerned. He saw Maude, though, and when her loud cry met his ear he smiled a glad, grateful smile, and said to her, as she knelt beside him and took his head in her lap— “You are sorry, Maude. It was a mistake. You did love me some.” She pressed her quivering lips to his, and said again, “Oh Arthur! Arthur! how came you here?” Arthur knew he was dying, but, shaking off all thought of his own pain, he explained to Maude how he came there. “The man,—you remember. I got him through, and I am not sorry, for he told me of a blind mother and six little children dependent upon him away off somewhere among the Ohio hills. Think if they had been left with out support. I am glad I saved him even if it cost my life. And still it is hard to die, Maude, just as you are beginning to love me, for you are, and if I had lived you would have kept your promise to me. “Yes, Arthur, I would,” and Maude’s white fingers threaded the bloody hair and moved softly over the ghastly face. “Who did it, Arthur?” she asked, and Arthur’s face flushed to a purple hue as with a moan he said: “Don’t ask me,—there was a _mistake_. I had taken no part in the fray, except to knock down the ruffian who fired at you. I was standing right behind him. Yes, there was a mistake. Oh Maude, it _was_ a mistake.” He kept repeating the words, while Maude tried to stop the blood flowing so freely from the wound in his temple. The ball had entered there, but had not penetrated to the brain, and he retained his consciousness to the last, smiling once kindly on Charlie, who, half frantic, bent over him, and said: “Yes, Arthur, it _was_ a mistake, oh Arthur, oh Maude, and you two were engaged. I did not know it before.”