Mark battled the point with considerable warmth and vigor, and the scene was something further protracted, but need not here be prolonged.  The father was obdurate, and too much dreaded by the members of his family to admit of much prayer or pleading on their part.  Apart from this, his reason, though a stern, was a wise and strong one.  The intercession of Colleton, warmly made, proved equally unavailing; and after a brief but painful parting with the maiden, Forrester remounted his horse, and, in company with the youth, departed for the village.  But the adieus of the lovers, in this instance, were not destined to be the last.  In the narrow passage, in which, removed from all sight and scrutiny, she hung droopingly, like a storm-beaten flower, upon his bosom, he solicited, and not unsuccessfully, a private and a parting interview.

“To-night, then, at the old sycamore, as the moon rises,” he whispered in her ear, as sadly and silently she withdrew from his embrace.

CHAPTER XVIII.

PARTING AND FLIGHT.

With Ralph, the unhappy woodman, thus even denied to hope, returned, more miserable than before, to the village of Chestatee.  The crowd there had been largely diminished.  The more obnoxious among the offenders—­those who, having taken the most prominent part in the late affair, apprehended the severest treatment—­had taken themselves as much out of sight as possible.  Even Munro and Rivers, with all their hardihood, were no longer to be seen, and those still lingering in the village were such as under no circumstances might well provoke suspicion of “subtle deed and counter enterprise.”  They were the fat men, the beef of society—­loving long speeches and goodly cheer.  The two friends, for so we may call them, were left almost in the exclusive possession of the hotel, and without observation discussed their several plans of departure.  Forrester had determined to commence his journey that very night; while Ralph, with what might seem headstrong rashness, chose the ensuing day for a like purpose.

But the youth was not without his reasons for this determination.  He knew perfectly well that he was in peril, but felt also that this peril would be met with much more difficulty by night than by day.  Deeming himself secure, comparatively speaking, while actually in the village, he felt that it would be safer to remain there another night, than by setting off at mid-day, encounter the unavoidable risk of either pursuing his course through the night in that dangerous neighborhood, where every step which he took might be watched, or be compelled to stop at some more insulated position, in which there must be far less safety.  He concluded, therefore, to set off at early dawn on the ensuing morning, and calculated, with the advantage of daylight all the way, through brisk riding, to put himself by evening beyond the reach of his enemies.  That he was not altogether permitted to pursue this course, was certainly not through any neglect of preparatory arrangement.