how lame he
was.

"It's nothin' to speak on, Miss Sybil. On'y a sprained ankle. I can get
on well enough with a crutch. And here I am as willin' and _able_ to
sarve you as ever," said the poor fellow, earnestly.

"Thanks, dear Joe! I want you, if you can, to go with me to my husband
immediately."

"But, Miss Sybil, honey, you look so pale and weak and wore out. Better
stay here while I go and get a conweyance."

"No, no, no, Joe! It would take you too long, and I cannot wait. I can
walk," said Sybil, impatiently rising and drawing the shawl up over her
head, for she had no hat or bonnet.

"Name o' de Lord, then come on, honey," replied Joe, who knew it would
be useless to oppose his mistress when she was fully bent on any
purpose.

They set out together, picking their way slowly over the heaps of
rubbish that filled the churchyard and lay between them and the narrow
path leading through the thicket to the river road.

Little Nelly followed faithfully at their heels.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SECOND FLIGHT.

A beam of comfort, like the moon through clouds,
Gilds the black horror and directs their way.--DRYDEN.

It was yet early morning, and Lyon Berners still lay on his comfortable
bed in the spacious front chamber, at Pendleton Hall. The window
shutters were open, admitting a fine view of the wooded mountains, not
yet wholly divested of their gay autumn hues. A fine wood fire blazed in
the broad fireplace. A nice breakfast stood on a little stand by the
bed-side. A good-humored, motherly looking negro woman presided over the
little meal, while Captain Pendleton stood by the invalid, trying to
persuade him to take nourishment.

"But I have no inclination, dear friend," pleaded Mr. Berners, as he
reached out his pale hand, took a morsel of bread from the plate, and
put it to his lips.

"You must eat without inclination, then, Berners. It is your duty to
live," remarked Captain Pendleton.

"But, in the name of Heaven, what have I left to live for?" groaned the
bereaved husband.

"For a future of usefulness, if not of happiness; for a future of duty,
if not of domestic joys," replied the captain, earnestly.

Footsteps were heard upon the stairs without, but no one heeded them.

"'Duty,' 'usefulness!'" bitterly echoed Lyon Berners. "I might indeed
have lived and labored for them, and for my country and my kind,
if--if--_Oh, Sybil! Sybil! Oh, Sybil! Sybil! My young, sweet wife!_" He
broke off,