no attention that might in any degree relieve the irksomeness of St. Jermyn's necessary thraldom.

That peculiar conformation of country which had given rise to the name of the place, to which they were conducting the prisoner, was now to be discerned at some little distance ahead. It presented a series of bold crags of granite intermixed with slate, in which rock piled upon lock presented a succession of shelves,—«ach beetling over its base, and thus furnishing a shelter against the weather. Some of these were situated near the bank of the stream, projecting over the water,—whilst others towered at different heights, in such a manner as to bear a resemblance to a flight of huge steps cut into the slope of the mountain, and by this likeness, doubtless, suggesting the imaginative name by which the spot was known to the few hunters to whom it was familiar. The cavernlike structure of these ledges abundantly supplied the means of concealment, to both men and horses, from the casual notice of such persons as accident might have brought into this sequestered defile.

When the party arrived at the foot of the Devil's Ladder, it was with great satisfaction that the two conductors, no less than their prisoner, made a halt. A short time was spent in selecting a spot, amongst the impending cliffs, of such a character as might afford the advantage of shelter, as well as the means of ready look-out and escape in case of discovery or pursuit. The place chosen was about half way up the hill, where-the ridge of a promontory enabled the occupants to see some distance up and down the valley; whilst the crag itself contained within its recesses a chamber sufficiently large for the purpose to which it was to be applied. A natural platform, near this point, allowed sufficient space for the horses, which might be conducted there by a sideling path up the slope: at the same time, the means of retreat were furnished by the nature of the ground towards the top of the hill.

To this place of security the ensign was ordered by his guard, and, being released from his bonds, he dismounted and threw himself at length upon the mossy surface of the rock, where he lay wearied in body and dejected in mind. The horses were taken in charge by Shaw; provisions were produced, and all arrangements of caution and comfort were made for passing the next two or three days in this wild sojourn.

Here, for the present, we must leave our adventurers, to tell of other matters that are proper to be made known to the reader of this history.

In due time, David Ramsay returned from Musgrove's. Precisely at three o'clock in the morning, the soldiers were released according to the terms of the parole: and my reader will, no doubt, be pleased to hear that Andy, being discharged from duty, went to bed as drowsy as e'er a man of mould after a feat of glory, and slept with a sleep altogether worthy of his heroic achievement.

The next day passed by, at Ramsay's dwelling, with a varied and fearful interest to the family. They had received intelligence, before night, of the event of Butler's trial, and had reason to rejoice that Mary Musgrove had so well played her part in the delivery of the letter. They were apprized, also, of the reward that had been offered for the discovery of the bearer of this letter, and were informed that detachments of horse were out to scour the country in quest of the ensign. These tidings filled them with apprehension. It occurred to Ramsay that if, perchance, the released prisoners should fall in with any of the parties of the loyalists, they would, of course, relate their story, and thus bring down the full rancour of the tofy wrath upon his household: this would also lead with more certainty to the pursuit of Horse Shoe. There was still good reason to hope that the liberated men might not so soon be able to give the <ilarm; inasmuch as they were more likely to shape their course towards Fort Ninety-Six than to repair to Innis's camp, where they might be forced to do duty, as much against their inclinations as against their parole. They might even, from a natural aversion to labour, prefer loitering about the country rather than put themselves voluntarily in the way of military operations.—

'Come what will of it,'—said Ramsay, summing up the chances for and against him,—'I will be ready for the worst. Many better men have given all they had to the cause of independence, and I will not flinch from giving my share. They may burn and break down.—but, thank God, I have a country—aye,—and a heart and an arm to stand by it!'—

On the same evening, towards sun-down, a horseman drew up his rein at Ramsay's door. He was young—in the prime of early manhood: his dress was that of a rustic; his equipment showed him to be a traveller,—a weary one, from the plight of his horse,—and, like most travellers of the time, he was armed. He did not stand to summon any one to the door, but put his hand upon the latch with eager haste, and entered with the familiarity of one acquainted with the place. Mistress Ramsay was seated at her spinning-wheel, anxiously brooding over the tales of the day. Her husband reclined in his chair, silently and thoughtfully smoking his pipe. They both sprang up at once, as the visitor crossed the threshold, and with fervent joy greeted their son John Ramsay.— The household was clamorous with the affectionate salutations of the parents, of the brothers and sisters, and of the domestics. John was the eldest of Ramsay's children, and had just reached his paternal roof after an absence of some months, during which he had been in service with Sumpter. The gathering in of the members of a family around the domestic board, in times of peril and distress, is one of the luxuries of the heart that in peace we cannot know. The arrival of John Ramsay at the present moment was a source of the liveliest happiness to his parents. They needed a cheerful as well as a resolute comforter. John had, only twenty-four hours previous, left Sumpter near Rocky Mount,—immediately after the battle, with the British convoy, was won. He was sent with despatches to colonel Williams, a whig partizan of note, who was now supposed to be in the neighbourhood of the Saluda.—These had some reference to the military movements of the parties;—and John Ramsay was permitted by Sumpter to make a short halt at his father's house.

In the first hour after ,his arrival, he had given to the family the history of his homeward ride. He had discovered that hostile forces—of which, until his journey was nearly finished, he had heard nothing—were encamped in the neighbourhood: that a court martial had been sitting for the trial of an American officer, as a spy, and had condemned him to be shot. He had been apprised, moreover, that small parties were out, riding into every corner of the country. He himself had nearly been surprised, by one of these, as he endeavoured to make his way to the house of Allen Musgrove, where he had proposed to himself a visit, even before he came to his father's,—but, fearing something wrong, he had fled from them, and baffled their pursuit,—although they had chased him more than a mile: he had, in consequence, been deprived of the opportunity of visiting the miller.—

'Although it is four months since we have seen you, John,'—said the dame, with a tone of affectionate chiding, —'yet, you would turn aside to get under Allen Musgrove's roof, before you thought of the arms of your mother!'—

John's sun-burnt cheek blushed crimson red as he replied,—'It was but a step out of the way, mother: and I should not have stayed long.—Blr. Musgrove and his folks are safe and well, I hope?—and Christopher'—

'Tut boy!—speak it out, and don't blush about it,'— interrupted the father briskly:—'she is a good girl, and you needn't be ashamed to name her,—as you ought to have done, first and before all the rest. Mary is well, John, and has just proved herself to be the best girl in the country.'—

This little passage of mirth between the parents and their son, led to a full narrative by David Ramsay of the events which had transpired in the last two or three days, concluding with the capture of the ensign, and the retreat of Horse Shoe and Christopher Shaw to the Devil's Ladder. The communication wrought a grave and thoughtful mood in the young soldier. It presented a crisis to him for immediate action. He was wearied with a long ride; but it seemed to him to be no time for rest—

'Father,'—he said, after turning over in his thoughts the intelligence he had just received,—'it was a brave and beautiful thing for so young a lad as Andy to do — and the taking of the ensign has served a useful purpose—but it brings this house and family into danger. And 1 fear for poor Mary.—Christopher Shaw must get back to the mill,—and quickly too. His absence will bring his uncle's family into trouble.—I will take Christopher's place—and go to Horse Shoe's assistance this night. We may take the prisoner with us to Williams.'

'To-night!'—said the mother anxiously,—'you would not leave us to-night, John?'—

'Aye, to-night, wife,'—answered David Ramsay—'The boy is right: there is no time to spare.'

'Have mercy on us!'—exclaimed the dame,—'to ride so far to-night, after so heavy a journey!—John, you have not strength.'—

Dear mother,'—said John,—'think, that you are all in danger—and that Mary, who has behaved so well, might be suspected, an3 brought to harm. I must hurry forward to colonel Williams—and this road by the Devil's Ladder is far out of my way. No, I am not so much fatigued, mother, as you suppose. I,will rest for a few hours, and then try the woods. Day break, I warrant, shall find me not far from Horse Shoe.'

John Ramsay was not above six and twenty. He was endued with a stout and manly frame, well adapted to hard service; and this was associated with a bold and intelligent countenance, which, notwithstanding the. dint of wind and weather, was handsome. He had for a year or two past, been actively engaged in the war, and his manners had, in consequence, acquired that maturity and decision which are generally found in those whose habits of life render them familiar with perils. On the present occasion he regarded the necessity of his co-operation with Robinson so urgent, that no other thought crossed his mind but that which belonged to the care of putting himself in condition to make his services effectual.

With this view he now directed his horse to be carefully tended; then, having taken a hearty meal, he retired to rest, desiring that he might be waked .up at midnight, when he proposed to follow the path of Horse Shoe and his comrade.