up at sight of Rose, as if ashamed to let her see how exhausted and
dispirited he was. Perhaps he expected a smile, at least a more earnest
reception than he met; for Rose, with the restraint of what had recently
passed drawing her back, merely went gravely a few steps to meet him, and
said, "Robert, how tired and pale you look! Are you hurt?"

"It is of no consequence," replied Robert Hagburn; "a scratch on my left
arm from an officer's sword, with whose head my gunstock made instant
acquaintance. It is no matter, Rose; you do not care for it, nor do I
either."

"How can you say so, Robert?" she replied. But without more greeting he
passed her, and went into his own house, where, flinging himself into a
chair, he remained in that despondency that men generally feel after a
fight, even if a successful one.

Septimius, the next day, lost no time in writing a letter to the direction
given him by the young officer, conveying a brief account of the latter's
death and burial, and a signification that he held in readiness to give up
certain articles of property, at any future time, to his representatives,
mentioning also the amount of money contained in the purse, and his
intention, in compliance with the verbal will of the deceased, to expend
it in alleviating the wants of prisoners. Having so done, he went up on
the hill to look at the grave, and satisfy himself that the scene there
had not been a dream; a point which he was inclined to question, in spite
of the tangible evidence of the sword and watch, which still hung over the
mantel-piece. There was the little mound, however, looking so
incontrovertibly a grave, that it seemed to him as if all the world must
see it, and wonder at the fact of its being there, and spend their wits in
conjecturing who slept within; and, indeed, it seemed to give the affair a