."

Robinson, at this moment, approached, and, in answer to Butler's
questions, told the whole story of the commotions that had just agitated
the camp.

"St. Jermyn was not with Ferguson," said Butler, when the sergeant had
finished his narrative. "How came he here to-day?"

"First or last," replied Robinson, "it is my observation, Major, that
these schemers and contrivers against others' lives are sure to come to
account. The devil put it into this St. Jermyn's head to make Ferguson a
visit. He came yesterday with Mr. Lindsay, and got the poor gentleman
his hurt. James Curry has done working for him now, Major. Master and
man have travelled one road."

The scene was now closed. The business of the day called the troops to
other labors. Campbell felt the necessity of an immediate retreat with
his prisoners to the mountains, and his earliest orders directed the
army to prepare for the march.

When Butler returned to the cottage, he found himself surrounded by a
mournful group. The malady of Lindsay had unexpectedly taken a fatal
turn. Mildred and Henry were seated by the couch of their father,
watching in mute anguish the last ebbings of life. The dying man was
composed and apparently free from pain, and the few words he spoke were
of forgiveness and resignation.

In the midst of their sorrow and silence, the inmates of the dwelling
had their attention awakened by the military music of the retiring army.
These cheerful sounds vividly contrasted with the grief of the mourners,
and told of the professional indifference of soldiers to the calamities
of war. By degrees, the martial tones became more faint, as the troops
receded up the valley; and before they were quite lost to the ear,
Campbell and Shelby appeared at the door of the cottage to explain the
urgency of their present departure, and to take a sad farewell of their
friends.

Stephen Foster, with Harry Winter and a party of the Rangers, remained
behind to await the movements of Butler. Horse Shoe Robinson, Allen
Musgrove, and his daughter, were in constant attendance.

Here ends my story.

In a lonely thicket, close upon the margin of the little brook which
waters the valley on the eastern side of King's mountain, the traveller
of the present day may be shown an almost obliterated mound, and hard by
he will see the fragment of a rude tombstone, on which is carved the
letters P. L. This vestige marks the spot where the remains of Philip
Lindsay were laid