“Miss Suwanee,” he began again, and distress and sorrow were in his tones, “I hardly know how to speak to you of what troubles me more than the thought of captivity.  How can I manage with such proud, chivalric women as you and your mother and sister?  But I am not blind, nor can I ignore the prosaic conditions of our lot.  I respect your pride; but have a little mercy on mine,—­nay, let me call it bare self-respect.  We have caused you the loss of your laborers, your fields are bare, and you have emptied your larder in feeding my men, yet your mother will not take even partial compensation.  You can’t realize how troubled I am.”

“You, like ourselves, must submit to the fortunes of war,” she replied, with a sudden gleam of her old mirthfulness.

“A bodily wound would be a trifle compared with this,” he resumed, earnestly.  “O Miss Suwanee, have I won no rights as a friend? rather, let me ask, will you not generously give me some rights?”

“Yes, Captain Lane,” she said, gently, “I regard you as a friend, and I honor you as a true man.  Though the war should go on forever I should not change in these respects unless you keep harping on this financial question.”

“Friends frankly accept gifts from friends; let it be a gift then, by the aid of which you can keep your mother from privation.  Suwanee, Suwanee, why do you refuse to take this dross from me when I would give my heart’s blood to shield you from harm?”

“You are talking wildly, Captain Lane,” she said, with a laugh.  “Your heart belongs to Miss Vosburgh, and therefore all its blood.”

“She would be the first to demand and expect that I should risk all and give all for one to whom I owe so much and who is so deserving.”

“I require of her no such sacrifice,” Suwanee replied, coldly, “nor of you either, Captain Lane.  Unforeseen circumstances have thrown us together for a time.  We have exchanged all that is possible between those so divided,—­esteem and friendship.  If my father thinks it best he will obtain compensation from our government.  Perhaps, in happier times, we may meet again,” she added, her tone and manner becoming gentle once more; “and then I hope you will find me a little more like what you have thought me to be.”

“God grant that we may meet again.  There, I can’t trust myself to speak to you any more.  Your unaffected blending of humility and pride with rare, unconscious nobility touches my very soul.  Our leave-taking in the morning must be formal.  Good-by, Suwanee Barkdale.  As sure as there is a God of justice your life will be filled full with happiness.”

Instead of taking his proffered hand, she trembled, turned to the piano, and said hastily between the notes she played:  “Control yourself and listen.  We may be observed.  You and the surgeon be ready to open your door and follow me at any time to-night.  Hang your sword where it may be seen through the open window.  I have contrived a chance—­a bare chance—­of your escape.  Bow and retire.”