Ervin McArthur, bearing the nickname of “Satan” on account of his ungovernable temper, learns printing at the office of the _Dunvegan_ (N. C.) _Democrat_ and loves Colonel Preston’s daughter. The colonel, objecting to a love affair between his aristocratic daughter and a son of “poor whites,” shifts the youth to a place on the _Charleston Chronicle_. Here, the Civil War coming on, he distinguishes himself by his journalistic ability and by his inventions of war-engines. In these last he is ably assisted by Helen Brooks, a Boston girl visiting Charleston relatives. She learns to love the inventor and his cause and he struggles between his allegiance to Helen Preston and his newly awakened love. He returns to Dunvegan on furlough and in an altercation with his old time chum, Henry Bailey, the latter meets his death. Ervin escapes and another friend, Ernest Lavender, is tried and convicted. Ervin confesses and is tried but cleared on proof discovered by Helen Preston that the crime was committed by Mack Lonovan, who, wishing to marry Helen Brooks, destroys the only living witness to his secret marriage with half-witted Nance West. Ervin returns to Charleston and invents the ironclad torpedo, destined, when copied by the Federals, to destroy the Confederate Navy. He also constructs a submarine torpedo boat and while preparing for his initial trip has an interview with Helen Brooks. He decides to attack the _Housatonic_ instead of the _New Ironsides_, as Helen has confessed that one whom she loves is on the latter. The _Housatonic_ is sunk, also the torpedo, Ervin alone being rescued and captured. Sent to the stockade on Morris’ Island, he finds Tait Preston, who is about to be exchanged on account of a wound. Ervin determines to escape. CHAPTER XXXVII—CONTINUED But weeks passed and McArthur was forced to stay and see himself growing haggard, weak and filthy. It grew cold and the ragged quilts barely sufficed to cover the sand. At last one day at dusk he determined to make his escape or die. A dense fog had settled down over the island, and in the growing darkness he could scarcely see the guards with their guns pointed over the stockades. It was absolute folly to attempt it, but what was a worm-fed man not willing to attempt? So, as his custom was, he went into his tent, and by his ragged pallet, asked a mercy from his God, and then went out toward the death-line. Well nigh crazed, he thought in the fog he could safely burrow a way unseen under the stockade. He chose a spot midway between a gullah negro (a lowlander from the rice fields of the Combahee) and a mulatto who spoke often of his rights and liberty, and who was as anxious that all should know of his presence as a little game bantam cockerel that has just learned how to crow. Then, kneeling upon the sand, he cautiously began work. A long, lanky man from the mountains of North Carolina saw him and followed: “Friend, it’s death,” he whispered. “It doesn’t matter.”