“Ervin—poor boy—do you know—do you mind telling me how—he died?” “In the defense of Charleston—have you heard of his wonderful inventions? He went out one night to sink a ship with his new submarine and his boat sank, and all were lost.” “All?” “Yes, all.” He was bowed like one in grief, and neither spoke for a while. “And, Miss Brooks—he—I used to hear regularly from Ervin, he had some friends—a Mrs. Corbin, I believe.” “She is my aunt, and is here now.” “And a Colonel somebody—I—” “Colonel Masters. He was the editor of the paper where Mr. McArthur worked.” “Ah, he loved the old man well. You knew him, too, did you not? Why would he go in that torpedo boat—why did not some one stop him?” She was silent while the tears sprang to her eyes again. “You must pardon my speaking of this,” he continued. “There was a girl who lived in Charleston—he did not write her name—I only know he loved her—do you—could you tell me?” He leaned forward, watching her face. “Do you know who she was?” There was no concealing it any longer. “Oh, sir,” she said, “I—he—loved—” “He loved you! Ah, tell me no more! Then we are brother and sister in sorrow.” And Attacoa, the mount where the light had conquered the darkness, looked down on them as fateful, as inscrutable, as mercilessly silent as the enigmatic Croatan. He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hands, all the while looking at her intently through his fingers. “Only one thing may I ask,” he said at length, “did Ervin—did he know you loved him—when he died?” “Yes—he—knew—it—only—” “Only he—” “Thought there was another—” “Another?” “There were reasons why I could not tell him.” “And those reasons?” “I cannot tell you.” “I beg a thousand pardons—from what I know, I judge he must have thought you loved a man in the Northern army—” “Yes.” “And you did not?” “No, I did. I loved him with all my heart—but—” “But he didn’t love you?” “But he was my brother!” The man quivered as though a thousand arrows had suddenly been drawn from his bosom, and then quickly came out of the shadow and took her hands. “Helen!” With a scream of joyous surprise, because in a moment all the world had been changed, she threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, dear God!” she cried. “It is he!” CHAPTER L There is a quaintly pious inscription in Dunvegan graveyard, chiseled as if by a hand that trembled, upon the gray tombstone farthest back of all those by the side of the Little Church in Under the Oaks. It reads: ERVIN McARTHUR, From Whom the Daemon Was Cast Out. A General in the Army of God. It was only the last line which was not so directed to be inscribed by the will of him who lies beneath it.