"Why, ma'am, we picked him up on the road as we came along this morning. Captain saw him skulking behind a hedge. 'There's a blackguard-looking rascal, serjeant,' says he. 'He has the rebel cut about him as perfect as a picture. Pick him up, and strap him to one of the fellows, and we'll see what the cat-o'-nine-tails will bring out of him.'" "Gracious heaven!" exclaimed Grace, shocked at this instance of military despotism, "is it possible that such a state of things exists--that you can apprehend and punish whomsoever you please, without a shadow of crime being established against them? You cannot have such a power, serjeant. It is impossible." "Oh, bless you, ma'am, but we have, though," replied the serjeant. "Captain may hang or shoot a dozen every day, if he has a mind, without ever axing them a question. We could never get through our work otherwise; and, as to this young rogue's being a rebel, there's no doubt of it. He's all in rags; and, as captain says, every poor-looking ragged rascal is sure to be a rebel." "Pretty grounds, truly, on which to subject a man to the treatment of a felon!" said Miss Cameron. "However," she continued, "will it be any dereliction of your duty, serjeant, to permit me to speak for a moment with the unfortunate lad?" "By no means, ma'am," replied the serjeant. "Provided he's kept fast till captain's pleasure is known regarding him, I don't see it signifies a pinch of gunpowder who speaks to him." Availing herself of the permission granted her, Grace was in an instant afterwards beside the prisoner, whose looks brightened up with an expression of extreme delight as she approached him. After asking the lad a few trivial questions, she observed him cautiously stealing something forth from a concealment in his dress. It was a letter. Watching an opportunity, he slipped this document unperceived into her hand. Trembling with agitation, although she knew not well for what, Grace crammed the letter into her bosom, and saying to its bearer that she would speak with him again, she hurried into the house, and sought a retired apartment, when, pulling it from her bosom, she discovered, from the handwriting of the address, that it was from Malcolm M'Gregor. With a beating heart and trembling hand, she opened it, and read-- "DEAREST GRACE,--All is lost. The Prince's army is defeated and dispersed, and I am now a wandering fugitive in my native land, with the axe of the executioner suspended over my neck. This is a dreadful reverse, and carries with it destruction to all our hopes--to mine, individually, utter annihilation. I have only time to add, dearest Grace, that, if I can escape the bloodhounds that are in pursuit of us, I must seek safety in a foreign land. I will, however, endeavour to see you before I go. I _must_ see you, Grace, and shall do so at all hazards. I have hitherto escaped unhurt. God bless you," &c. &c.