Now Sylvia realized, as she stood alone in her safe, pleasant chamber, that as soon as possible she must deliver the letter entrusted to her.  If it was to go to Washington it must be some message that was of importance to the officers at Fort Moultrie and Fort Sumter, she thought.  Perhaps it might even be something that would help Carolinians to give up slavery; and then Estralla and Aunt Connie, and all the black people she knew and liked, could be safe and have homes of their own.

Sylvia went to the window and peered out.  The street and garden lay dark and shadowy.  Now and then a dark figure went along the street.  The house seemed very quiet.  She tiptoed to the closet and took out a brown cape.  It was one which she wore on stormy days, and nearly covered her.  Then from one of the bureau drawers she drew out a long blue silk scarf, and twisted it about her head.

“I can pull the end over my face, and they’ll think I’m a darky,” she thought, resolved if anyone spoke to her not to answer.

She whispered over the name and address on the letter.  She knew that the street led from King Street, and she was sure that she could find it.  But it was some distance from home; it would be late before she could get back.

She blew out her candle, opened her chamber door and stood listening.  She could not hear a sound, and tiptoed cautiously along the hall to the stairs.  What if the door of her mother’s room should open, she thought, terrified at such a possibility.  What could she say?  She had promised not to tell of the letter, and what reason could she give for creeping out of the house at that hour?

But she reached the lower floor safely, and now came the danger of making a noise when opening the door.  Sylvia grasped the big key and turned it slowly.  Then she pulled at the heavy door, and it swung back easily.  She gave a long breath of relief as she stepped out on the piazza.  She left the door ajar, so that she could slip in easily on her return.  Keeping in the shadow of the trees she reached the street, and now she felt sure that nothing could prevent her from delivering the letter.

She ran swiftly along, now and then meeting someone who glanced wonderingly at the flying little figure.  She had reached King Street and was nearly at the street where she was to turn, when suddenly a heavy hand grasped her arm and nearly swung her from her feet.

“Running off, are you?  And wearing your mistress’s clothes at that, I’ll warrant,” said a gruff voice.  “Wall, now, whose darky are you?”

Sylvia pulled the silken scarf from her face, and even in the glimmer of the dull street-lamp under which the man had drawn her he could see the auburn hair and blue eyes.  But he still kept his grasp on her arm.  There were slaves who were not black, he knew, and “quality white” girls were not running about Charleston streets alone at night.

“What is your name?” he demanded.