The silence of her entrance was from her having, a few minutes earlier, exchanged her riding-boots for satin slippers. "I--I thank you for coming, madam," said Peyton, feeling the necessity of a prompt reply to her imperious look of inquiry, yet without a practicable idea in his head. "I had--that is--a request to make." He was trembling violently, not from fear, but from that kind of agitation which often precedes the undertaking of a critical task, as when a suppliant awaits an important interview, or an actor assumes for the first time a new part. "Mr. Valentine said a confession," said Elizabeth, holding him in a coldly resentful gaze. "Why, yes, a confession," said he, hopelessly. "A plot to disclose," she added, with sharp impatience. "What is it?" "You shall hear," he began, in gloomy desperation, without the faintest knowledge of how he should finish. "I--ah--it is this--" His wandering glance fell on the table and the writing materials she had left there. "I wish to write a letter--a last letter--to a friend." The vague general outline of a project arose in his mind. Elizabeth was inclined to be as laconic as implacable. "Write it," said she. "There are pen and ink." "But I can't write in this position," said Peyton, quickly, lest she might leave the room. "I fear I can't even hold a pen. Will you not write for me?" "I? Secretary to a horse-thieving rebel!" "It is a last request, madam. A last request is sacred,--even an enemy's." "I will send in some one to write for you." And she turned to go. "But this letter will contain secrets." "Secrets?" The very word is a charm to a woman. Elizabeth's curiosity was touched but slightly, yet sufficiently to stay her steps for the moment. "Ay," said Peyton, lowering his tone and speaking quickly, "secrets not for every ear. Secrets of the heart, madam,--secrets so delicate that, to convey them truly, I need the aid of more than common tact and understanding." He watched her eagerly, and tried to repress the signs of his anxiety. Elizabeth considered for a moment, then went to the table and sat down by it. "But," said she, regarding him with angry suspicion, "the confession,--the plot?" "Why, madam," said he, his heart hammering forcefully, "do you think I may communicate them to you directly? The letter shall relate them, too, and if the person who holds the pen for me pays heed to the letter's contents, is it my fault?" "I understand," said the woman, entrapped, and she dipped the quill into the ink. "The letter," began Peyton, slowly, hesitating for ideas, and glancing at the clock, yet not retaining a sense of where the hands were, "is to Mr. Bryan Fairfax--" "What?" she interrupted. "Kinsman to Lord Fairfax, of Virginia?"