“My father will protect me; I want no other protection.”

“Morgianna,” began the baffled lieutenant, “I would like a word with you in private—­”

“Lieutenant Matson, I don’t care to hear you—­I will not listen to you.  As my father’s friend, I once did tolerate you; but now, as my country’s enemy, I have no forbearance with you.  Begone!” and her white, jeweled hand pointed to the door.

The Briton’s face flushed crimson, as he retorted: 

“Morgianna, you may regret—­”

“Lieutenant Matson!” interrupted the captain fiercely.  “Not another word, lest I forget your father was my mate.  Begone!”

With an oath, Matson left the town and returned to his men on the neck of the peninsula.  When he was gone, Captain Lane turned to his daughter and was surprised to see a look of contempt instead of the grief he had expected.  That one glance convinced him that he had been mistaken, and that she did not love the Englishman after all.

“Father, that man’s true spirit was revealed to-night.  Even though he is your old friend’s son, he is a villain.”

Next day some of the Marylanders had a skirmish with the British on the neck of land, and one of the villagers was wounded.  The Xenophon still hovered near the mouth of the narrow harbor and only waited a favorable wind to enter the bay, and commence the siege which could have but one result.

Captain Lane strove hard to be cheerful; but his heart was heavier than lead.  Again night came, with the Xenophon anchored off Mud Island.  The night was dark, and the wind from shore strong, so that Captain Lane knew she could not enter the harbor.

He was sitting at his fireside, when suddenly from the narrow inlet south of the peninsula there rang out a volley of musketry followed by wild cries and cheers.  The volley was followed by heavy firing, and Captain Lane, donning his hat, snatched his sword and ran down to the works, where the drum was beating, and the Marylanders were seizing muskets and falling into line.

“What is it? whom have they attacked?” was the general query asked by all.  The pickets were called in and the only sentries were the chain guards just outside the parapet.  Suddenly the sound of footsteps came from the darkness, and the sentries knew that two or three men were running toward them.  Zeb Cole, a large, powerful Marylander, finding one of them coming directly at him, dropped his musket and, seizing the fellow’s throat, hurled him to the ground.

“Halt! ye wanderin’ Israelite.  Stop an’ tell me who you are?”

“Oh, let go me, massa, lem me up!” pleaded the captive, struggling to his feet.  “I ain’t no Britisher! dar ain’t no Angler Saxun blood in dese veins.  I is a Yankee nigger, massa, bet I am.”

Another man who had come up at a run cried in language in which the Hibernian was plainly distinguishable: 

“Hould hard, ye haythin!  The redcoats are afther us!”