Chapter 6

And let conquerors boast
Their fields of fame--he who in virtue arms
A young warm spirit against beauty's charms,
Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall,
Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.

--MOORE.

The ladies of the Wharton family had collected about a window, deeply
interested in the scene we have related.

Sarah viewed the approach of her countrymen with a smile of contemptuous
indifference; for she even undervalued the personal appearance of men
whom she thought arrayed in the unholy cause of rebellion. Miss Peyton
looked on the gallant show with an exulting pride, which arose in the
reflection that the warriors before her were the chosen troops of her
native colony; while Frances gazed with a singleness of interest that
absorbed all other considerations.

The two parties had not yet joined, before her quick eye distinguished
one horseman in particular from those around him. To her it appeared
that even the steed of this youthful soldier seemed to be conscious that
he sustained the weight of no common man: his hoofs but lightly touched
the earth, and his airy tread was the curbed motion of a
blooded charger.

The dragoon sat in the saddle, with a firmness and ease that showed him
master of himself and horse,--his figure uniting the just proportions of
strength and activity, being tall, round, and muscular. To this officer
Lawton made his report, and, side by side, they rode into the field
opposite to the cottage.

The heart of Frances beat with a pulsation nearly stifling, as he paused
for a moment, and took a survey of the building, with an eye whose dark
and sparkling glance could be seen, notwithstanding the distance. Her
color changed, and for an instant, as she saw the youth throw himself
from the saddle, she was compelled to seek relief for her trembling
limbs in a chair.

The officer gave a few hasty orders to his second in command, walked
rapidly into the lawn, and approached the cottage. Frances rose from her
seat, and vanished from the apartment. The dragoon ascended the steps of
the piazza, and had barely time to touch the outer door, when it opened
to his admission.

The youth of Frances, when she left the city, had prevented her
sacrificing, in conformity to the customs of that day, all her native
beauties on the altar of fashion. Her hair, which was of a golden
richness of color, was left, untortured, to fall in the natural ringlets
of infancy, and it shaded a face which was glowing with the united
charms of health, youth, and artlessness; her eyes spoke volumes, but
her tongue was silent; her hands were interlocked before her, and, aided
by her taper form, bending forward in an attitude of expectation, gave a