creation, lower and meaner than our slaves. You had better go back to those precious Yankee relatives of yours; you have no business in Kentucky among gentlemen."

Frederic's eyes flashed. He raised his clenched hand convulsively; then, with a tremendous effort, he controlled himself and slowly replied: "Calhoun, we have always been friends and companions, more like brothers than cousins; but if you value my friendship, if you do not wish me to become your deadliest enemy, never speak disrespectfully of my mother again. If you do, young as I am, I shall demand of you the satisfaction one gentleman demands of another. This refused, I shall shoot you like a dog."

For a moment Calhoun gazed in the countenance of his cousin in silence. In the stern, set features, the dangerous gleam of the eye, he read the truth of what he had heard. He was fully as brave as his cousin, and for a moment a bitter and stinging reply trembled on his lips; then his better nature conquered, and extending his hand, he said: "There, Fred; I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, much less reflect on the memory of your mother. From the North though she was, she was one of the best of women, and you know I loved her almost as much as you did yourself, for in many ways she was a mother to me. Forgive me, Fred."

Fred grasped the extended hand, and with tears in his eyes exclaimed, "I might have known you did not mean it, Cal. You are too noble to say aught of one who loved you as my mother did. Forgive my hasty words."

"There is nothing to forgive, Fred; you did just right."

For a moment the boys remained silent, and then Fred resumed: "Cal, we must both try to be charitable. Simply to be for the North or the South does not make one a gentleman. True manhood is not measured by one's political belief. Your father is none the less a gentleman because he is heart and soul with the South. Calhoun, dark and fearful days are coming—have already come. Father will be against son, brother against brother. Members of the same family will become the deadliest enemies. Our beloved Kentucky will be rent and torn with warring factions, and the whole land will tremble beneath the shock of contending armies. Ruined homes will be everywhere; little children and women will flee to the mountains for safety."

"Not if Kentucky enforces her position of neutrality," broke in Calhoun. "The picture you draw is one you Unionists are trying to bring about. We, who would enforce neutrality, would avoid it."

"Calhoun, don't be deceived. You know that in many parts of Kentucky it is dangerous now for a Union man to express his sentiments. Hundreds of Kentuckians have left to join the Confederate army. They do so boldly with colors flying and drums beating. On our southern border, armies are gathering ready to spring over at a moment's notice. Kentucky cannot, if she would, remain neutral. I feel, I know, evil times are coming—are now here. Calhoun, a few moments ago we came near having a deadly quarrel. I shudder as I now think of it. What if we had quarreled! What if one of us had killed the other, we who are like brothers! Oh, Calhoun! let us swear eternal friendship to each other. Let us promise to be careful and not say anything to each other that will rankle and hurt. We know not what will come, what the future has in store for us, or whither we shall be led. Let us swear to succor and save each other, even at the peril of our lives, if necessary. Wherever we may meet, let us meet as friends—each ready to protect the life and honor of the other. Let us swear it."

"Fred," slowly replied Calhoun, "it is a very strange compact you ask. It sounds like some old story of knight-errantry. You must be getting romantic. But when I think of how near we came to flying at each other's throats, if you are willing to make such a solemn compact, I am."

And there, on that July evening, under the spreading oak, the boys clasped hands and took a solemn oath to stand by each other, come what might; even unto death would they be true to each other.

Little did either think what would be the outcome of that strange compact. Little did they realize that the day would come when that oath, if kept, would lead both into the very jaws of death—an ignoble and terrible death. That oath, under the spreading oak, on that July evening between two boys, was to become the pivot around which the fate of contending armies depended.

Calhoun was the first to speak after the making of the solemn compact. "Fred," he exclaimed, "now that we have sworn eternal friendship, it will not do for us to quarrel any more. Like the man and his wife they tell about, 'we agree to disagree.' But see how restless our horses are. They must be disgusted with our loitering. Let us have a race. See that tree yonder, nearly a mile away, where the Danville and Nicholasville roads cross? I can beat you to that tree, and if I do, the South wins."

"Done," cried Fred, for he had all the love of a true Kentucky boy for a horse race. "Now, Prince," said he, as he unhitched his horse, and patted his glossy neck, "you hear. This race is for the old flag. Win, or never hold up your head again."

"Selim," cried Calhoun, "how do you like that? It is the cause of the Sunny South that is at stake. Win, Selim, or I will sell you to the meanest Abolitionist in the North."

Both boys vaulted into their saddles, and at the word their steeds were away like the wind.

CHAPTER II. THE MEETING WITH NELSON.

Never was there a hotter race run in Kentucky. Neck and neck the horses ran, neither seemingly able to gain an inch on the other. The goal grew alarmingly near. Each rider bent over the neck of his flying steed, and urged him on with word and spur. The tree was scarcely twenty yards away. "Now, Prince, if ever," cried Fred. The horse seemed to understand. With a tremendous effort, he plunged forward, and passed the goal half a length ahead.

He plunged forward, and passed the Goal half-a-length ahead.

"Won!" cried Fred, but his huzzah died on his lips. The excitement of the race had made the boys careless, and they ran into a squad of horsemen who were passing along the other road. Fred came nearly unhorsing the leader of the squad, a heavy-set, red-faced man with bushy hair that stood up all around his large head. He was dressed in the uniform of an officer of the United States navy. As for Calhoun, he entirely unhorsed a black groom, who was bringing up the rear of the squad.

The darky scrambled to his feet unhurt, and forgetting his fright in his enthusiasm, shouted: "Golly, massa, dat was a race, suah. Dat a hoss woth habin'." Like a true Kentucky negro, he loved a fine horse, and gloried in a race.

But with the officer, it was different. As soon as he could quiet his horse, he let fly such a volley of oaths that the boys sat on their horses too dumfounded to say a word. The officer swore until he was out of breath, and had to stop from sheer exhaustion.

At the first opportunity, Fred took off his hat and politely said:

"We beg a thousand pardons, sir, but I was racing for the old flag, and had to win, even if I had had to run over the commander-in-chief of the army, instead of a lieutenant of the navy."

"Lieutenant of the navy! lieutenant of the navy!" roared Nelson, for it was he, "I will show you, young man, I command on dry