"There's but one Mr. Bryan Fairfax," said Peyton, acquiring confidence from his preliminary expedient to overcome prejudice, "and, though he's on the side of King George in feeling, yet he's my friend,--a circumstance that should convince even you I'm not scum o' the earth, rebel though you call me. He's the friend of Washington, too." "Poh! Who is your Washington? My aunt Mary rejected him, and married his rival in this very room!" "And a good thing Washington didn't marry her!" said Peyton, gallantly. "She'd have tried to turn him Tory, and the ladies of this family are not to be resisted." "Go on with your letter," said Elizabeth, chillingly. "'Mr. Bryan Fairfax,'" dictated Peyton, steadying his voice with an effort, "'Towlston Hall, Fairfax County, Virginia. My dear Fairfax: If ever these reach you, 'twill be from out a captivity destined, probably, to end soon in that which all dread, yet to which all must come; a captivity, nevertheless, sweetened by the divinest presence that ever bore the name of woman--'" Elizabeth stopped writing, and looked up, with an astonishment so all-possessing that it left no room even for indignation. Peyton, his eyes astray in the preoccupation of composition, did not notice her look, but, as if moved by enthusiasm, rose on his right leg and stood, his hands placed on the back of the light chair by the sofa, the chair's front being turned from him. He went on, with an affectation of repressed rapture: "''Twere worth even death to be for a short hour the prisoner of so superb--'" "Sir, what are you saying?" And Elizabeth dropped the pen, and stood up, regarding him with freezing resentment. "My thoughts, madam," said he, humbly, meeting her gaze. "How dare you jest with me?" said she. "Jest? Does a man jest in the face of his own death?" "'Twas a jest to bid me write such lies!" "Lies? 'Fore gad, the mirror yonder will not call them lies!" He indicated the oblong glass set in above the mantel. "If there is lying, 'tis my eyes that lie! 'Tis only what they tell me, that my lips report." Keeping his left foot slightly raised from the floor, he pushed the chair a little towards her, and himself followed it, resting his weight partly on its back, while he hopped with his right foot. But Elizabeth stayed him with a gesture of much imperiousness. "What has such rubbish to do with your confession and your plot?" she demanded. "Can you not see?" And he now let some of his real agitation appear, that it might serve as the lover's perturbation which it would be well to display. "My confession is of the instant yielding of my heart to the charms of a goddess." In those days lovers, real or pretended, still talked of goddesses, flames, darts, and such. "Who desired your heart to yield to anything?" was Miss Elizabeth's sharply spoken reply. "Beauty _commanded_ it, madam!" said he, bowing low over his chair-back. "So, then, there was no plot?" Her eyes flashed with indignation.