The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 10, 1902, Page 3

THE SUNDAY CALL. 3 e i W—————————» - — S e —— v from me. I stood my ground s 1 took 2 breath or and brushed my eves to wipe away at him out of the bit- rt d your king, for viilain- , are ye afraid, that ye aw and with that . and I smiled on h me. e of his failing a tender spot, his easy air. { ft curse now smile was gone. agaln a dodging thrust that of o steel earlier in the emper mutter a s he cox of his motion, to the right e, but saw arm and 1 dropped passed close to itted himself e without a g what wauld come, I rolled him mping. up drew’ both pistols about the room, whick ed eyes showed me what e 2 hundred faces. will “die sooner,” I cried. 1 it be? Which shall it be? come, none of you? Ah!” eing some one rushing to- veled the pistol straight at, ising my eyebrows to get a Wwhen, God help me, I had to have shot the grrlt are hurt” sald she softly. Where ‘4s {£?” and looking &t me with eyes thai were filled with tears she took my right wrist and turned beck the sieeve. ‘Twas but a scratoh, but his point had touched & vein and let out & deal of blood and I saw her sway at the sight. “Have a care” I said quickly; wre coming”: they but she stirred not a step sand proceeded to wipe away the blood §N:'m" &rm. And then, growing cooler, e tavern-keeper warily steppin, forward, bowing and apologizing . ang ke_’Pln( & sharp watch on my two pistols. Tis over, sir. The men here will not break their word”—a fine thing was their word, to be sure—"but the gentleman 18 aying, sir.” For the first time I looked at him. He lJay just as I had rolled him over, but any one could see that he breathed heav- iy still. “Here, you, Jim,” said Gowan, know some’at of dead? “You such things. Is he e sallow-faced countryman stepped over and straightened out the body, keep- ing & careful eye the while on my pistol, &= my companion swiftly and gently bound her handkerchief above the cut and stopped & part of the flow. Then she as gently pushed me on & stool by the table and stood with her hand uncon- sciou resting on my shoulder as the man ripped up the officer's jacket " said he finally. “Ye but wash it with clean 0 the other room here,” three of them picked him him into the inner part APPEARS THAT THAN ONE ATRIMONY. to do aught. In truth I could mot ., and so I sat there like fool, never stirring, except once k up at my 1 and find her ing at me stea ; but 1 could a word. And yet I could see the 2 d growing more and had carried ked in low the minutes d and brought back some then they came on with “tal rasped my pistols, but e girl stepped forward and as proud an air as gainst mall coach. - ?" she asked quietly. He has killed one - clowns?” I cried, tak- e shouider and setting her m of you than I am!"* cried the spokes- do ye here? We do ve, and ye shall go ttle with us and teil n crew that spoke now, i hey had #hade up their 1 I was too weak to try to four men. They seemed to be ereabouts, and I must take my of their being Colonials by senti- as birth. There was naught can soldler,” I sald, aione, and you have no ne than with the river do. an American “travelling n re to do w outside the doo: cried the man, and the to surround us. “Ye rebel , ye've struck the wro gang! this Traveling alone, eh? And whart“ls baggage here with ye?” “Bhe?” sald 1, stumped again. ‘Why, she— “I am his sweetheart” sald the girl, stepping before me again. Then she went on in &n earnest way that finally became plaintive: “‘We have run away to be married. Wil you not help us to makse merry? We've but just escaped from New York. Indeed, we havel You can ses our coach broken down in the road not a bundred yards from here—you can, in- Geed, sirs!” Her breath was coming fast, but she went on with excited earnestness that gaught the men: “Our coach boys will be here shortly with the horses. You can #se the coach if you will but go down the road! He does not tell the truth! He is no rebel! ’Tis not so, good sirs! Will gfl ho&cdnnk & bumper to the king and our honeymoon?” I could not say a word. I could do naught but stare open-mouthed at her, for, with the skill of intuition, she had hit the ome point—would they not drink & bumper to us—would they? The one thing to win them over! Then I caught her arm. at was she doing? 'Twas a foolish gnd a futile plan. sirs, you see he tries to make me deny 1 Bx;;dl wxlllmnot. th:‘ ‘would not injure & & soldier o s Majesty, would you? And you will drink to our beelth and happiness. Mr. Landlord, will us up mugs of ale to And he stepped back, an took my arm with a hand that shook like a Jeaf, though her eyes never wavered from the men she addressed. “By God! °Tis a brave wench™ cried one of the men. “And a health It shall Der “Stay,” said another, a huge clout, who was no more a Britisher than I *“I do not belleve it! He called our friend in there a British spy. Dost know that?” “But I say she shall have the health,” cried the other. *“Jack Purdy, ye have no soul in ye! Can ye not see the girl tells the truth? “Aye, look at him,” said a third; “he’s 2 shamefaced bridegroom!” “We'll do it in shape” sald the first. “Here yvou, Gow: Tim —to the landiord—"tell o come in here. Now, mis- 1o and your happiness! you!” chorused the wcrowd. And we two stood there, the shaking arm in the brave eyes smiling a forced ooking the men in the face, the fiithy pewter to her lips 3 the ale. The devil himseif ot make me drink, till I bethought another to: and, turning to her, drained the cup without a word. The somber individual, who it appeared was Marvin, no , and I watched M rvi ¥ n t confer wi A laugh broke from his tipsy lips, and he muttered: “*Twould be a good close! Here I am saving one man’s life and now paving the way for the making of others.” And still we two stood there, waiting, neither look- ing_nor speaking to the other. 1 be!” cried the big one In a setively 1 clutched a moved over toward the just run away to be asked the man. then, we'll have the cere- Here's Marvin, as curing dead men, remony and cele- well, and now. brate the w night, damned if we don't. ei. boys? Axnother chorus of assent greeted this. But 1 found my tongue at last. “That you shall not,” said I firmly. “Then string him up for a rebel, and we'll take good care of the girl!” cried one. 1 broke away from my companion and leveled two muzzies at the nearest i fellow first to move is dead though 1 knew it was. man, we'll punch you full of 7" sald I, holes, if vin, s surange of five to shomid you not join_us? m to be married now, If you have run away to be? And wiil you have all the fun to youfself? Nay, hay.” he wept on in his nasal tone _\Iou ve brokén up our evening now and ye'll break your own neck or help us to finish it in our own way. I turned to the girl and she looked up at me. I read in her face what she saw in mine. We must go through with the thing, or in half an hour she would be at the mercy of these outlaws. “Why not, my friends?" she said, turn- ing to them. “I cannot be married too soon. Else hy should I have run away from ? Art , the man was no minister, and a forced affair like this could mean noth- ing. And so there, in the reeking room, with one man in a stupor and with five as wicked specimens of humanity it had ever been , the drunken Marvin mar- ried us in the eariy morning hours. How the wretch knew aught of the marriage service I could not then tell. But he did, &nd we agreed by nods—only speaking when forced to—to cleave to each other in sickness an§ in health, in good fortune and in bad, till death should us part. ‘When he came to ask my name I hesi- tated, and was about to give another, and then: rse me for a careless beast—the led Purdy spoke up, reading from AP g the rim of my hat, “Balfort.” And so0 I gave my name. “‘Mistress,” said Marvin, “your name now.” “Deborah Philipse,” she sald, beneath her breath, and then repeated a part of what he dictated, though her arm grew heavier and heavier in mine till my wounded wrist throbbed with pain. 1 thought then it was over, but he must needs get paper and ink and write out a blurred and rambling certificate that Mer- ton Balfort and Deborah Philipse were married the 15th ‘day of September, 1780, by James Marvin, minister of the gospel: whereupon those looking on roared with laughter at him and his solemnity, and most of all at his signature that covered half the page. When he had signed Purdy cried out: “Now a toast to the bride!” and we filled & and they drank and I tasted. But Marvin stood up, keeping his bal- ance as best he could, and droned out in mock solemnit; “Gentlemen, you forget. has not had his fee. Then, turning to me, he said in a wheed- ling tone, with a horse-pistol pointing at me from his rigkt hand, “You would not forget the man of God that made you the possessor of such as this?" Indeed. J bad not seen it until that mo- ment, nor had it occurred to me till then that I had on my first night in this coun- The minister try fallen into a gang of Skinners. It clear enough now. and, the amuse- ment thiey were to I and tere havin while robbing me, s'of their own dev- ilish making. 3 “Let me pay the fee,” said the girl eagerly, and, drawing out a silken purse, she took from it half a dozen gold pieces —enough for forty weddings—and handed them to Marvin, adding, “I thank you, sir.” I could have cried with rage at this last, the simplicity of the girl's vision, coupled with her infinite skill in turning the whole episode from a fight into a peaceful, or rather harmless, robbery! Marvin held the pieces in his hand and made a wry face as he leered at her. “'Tis but a small sum for so great & service, Mistress Balfort!” “Why—" said she, with a vacant stare, and then looked at me. -Something must have shown on my face; for, with a sud- den catching of her hand at her throat and a falling of her smiling mask, she handed him the purse and turned away. Maryin counted out the pieces with slow precision, and then turned to his gang. is but a paltry pair after ali.” “‘And never have I had so small ou not help your —addressing me. ““This ge fee. Can > put, good sjr? [hrer An uncontrollable movement that I made drew four long barrels on my head not five feet away and with a groan I threw him my wallet. It held a goodly sum, and I prayed that they might forget to search me, for what else 1 had lay with my dispatches in my boots. But a savage grunt from the other side of the room saved us. Every eye turned toward the sound, and we saw the “jolly good fellow” wriggle and sit up. He was dressed like my opponent, and I was watching him as ne struggled to his feet, when a spasmodic grasp clutched my arm. I turned to see Mistress Phil- ipse’'s face close up to mine and abject terror written on every feature. “That man! That man!” gasped she. “Save me from him, in God's name!” And—whether because this was the last straw, or because of some new and greater danger from this last addition to our com- pany, I know not—she leaned against me and would have fallen had I not pick®d her up and carried her Into the other part of the tavern. The_door opened into a hall, and from that I turned into the first room, which, as often in such houses, was a bedroom there I laid her on the bed and took off her soaked shoes. She lay quiet, and I seized the chance to scek the landlord. He was not far, for I found him standing looking at me as I came into the darx hall. A mEtr raat LR T IR O OF FH CIVGHTITL Y Y BDDZ “Gowan,” said I, “you have as villainous a lot liere as ever I saw, but if you be you will get me them, sir? They *Twill be a godsend the man T think out_of this place. “What can 1 do with own the house now. if they do not burn it about our ears!"” “Go back down the road and find the You'll get a hundred times ths coach. pay there for what I want you to do.. We found the coach, but, as I‘feared, Still, there was that in the traveling box which more than soon had another horse! saddled standing vjvith ust On getting agaln 1 he girl sitting Up on the bed. She g e K an crisdour i @ stthesn That man! -Is:there an- They Do “We must get away,” she begged again. “You could not ride now, and an hour hence the men will be beyond the power Hark—they are at it again’’; , oniy the dead could fail to neither men nor_ horses. satisfled Gowan, and we Roger ready? in a shed above the tavern. into the back room by a rear door, voice: ] “That man other with him? Th'ere must be! are always together!" < “There is no other here, madam. but keep quiet and all will be well.” hear them. LT T T STTEER I got her to lle down again, and went and sat outside the door till she crled out that I was leaving her to them. And so I came and sat by the bed, and, as I am & sinner, nothing would do but she must have her little hand in mine. 'Twas a strange thing for Merton Balfort. And once I turned, when 1 dared, to look at her, and saw her asleep with her head lying on the pillow, still in its frame of wonderful wavy hair. CHAPTER IV. A8 TO THE MOODS OF A MAIDEN. ‘We had been walking the horses slowly & good hour northward, for I had no choice but to get on with my journey. The rain had stopped, and the first light of a Beptember day began to show up over the high land to the eastward. Not a word had we sald since getting well started. I, for one, had more to think than on, and the girl was too wearied to do more than eit in her ungainly saddle, whie I led her wretched nag. ‘“'Tis a very fine day,” sald a strange vt}lc: at |dny‘ side. S urned in my saddle in wonder and found her looking up at the trees o::}- head and the sky thro them, and tHen turned back in my saddle and said not a word. ‘What might be her ladyship’s next mood? As for myself, I was too worn out, too uncertain as to my next move, to leefinu‘fht ('1“ th:l tuation l;uz desperate outlook and sm chance o missio) finishing that day or week, i 2 Sfll the noisy silence of the wood began again. “‘You have not the manners of his Ma- Jesty’s court, sir,” sald she blandly, ‘1 have never had occasion to be there, mistress,” I answered, with some mean- ing to my tone. . “No?” said ghe, and studled the een leaves about her for a space. ‘¢ ‘% a wretched thing,” she added, after a bit. 'What, the court?” ga};l. the want o!l;he n}n.nnerl"’ “Perhaps you woul refer to return to the others.”” And then g stuck a spur into old Roger and cursed myself for a fool. hsha said not a word for a moment, and en: “‘A courtly response, Indsed. Where were you bred, sir?” “In\ what, God be thanked, is a free countly, mistress. The town of Boston, in Massachusetts colony.” “Oh! I have heard tell of it. A little wandering town, where men pray for cight days In the week, and a woman may wear only black and never raise her eyes from the buckle of her slipper.” “'Tis a town of great men and big hearts, Mistress Philipse. And 'tis not for even a British butterfly to demean it.” Am I, 1 wonder, Mistress Philipse?" looking at me with a glint in cr_eve. “I do not know, madam. That was the name you took but a few hours since.” She had a look in her face that for the life of me I could not read. Was it a bursting desire to laugh or a vixen's love of teasing? “Or am I Mistress—Mistress—Balfort, is it?” “1f you were so indeed you should not speak thus of the Cradle of Liberty.” ““Ah, indeed! And would you tell me c should. préyent it “That T will, ‘mistress. yeur husband.’ ~ . “'Ah, indeed!" said she again. “I see that you have lived much in the company ¢ women and know them full well, Cap- n Balfort.” A X =-Lieutenant Balfort, at your service, mistress:” “You should be a captain, sir, she, looking up through the trees. bore yourself as such not many hours since.” ! The’ c] u for 'some unknown reason I grew red with shame and asked serfously enough: “Will you tell me why you should go through a bad scene as brave as any—any soldier, and then faint at sight of a runken man?”’ % “Al, do not speak of him!" cried .she, _turnfhg a face that on a sudden had-a bit of that terror in it again. And tien, looking back on the road, “Thirk yqu they may follow us?"” “Nay, mistress,” I answered. “Not one of them could stand.” “Then why will you bring me back to that tavern, when I am tired and would taik of other things?"” *"Twas a thoughtless query, and T ask W) No other than veness,” sald I, riding closer to our ro! Ter. for T thought ahe Would sway off the nag's back. But her eye grew bright again on a sud- den. ot fear, sir,” sald she, with her chin in the air. “I am no chicken-hearted maldi I do not require the support of an arm—not even when that arm belongs to a fusband.” *Mistress Philipse,” sald I earnestly, resting a hand on her horse’s mane, “you have twice referred to a part of last night's performance with thé scorn that, God knows, you no doubt feel. But you /are In the wrong to give it any credence, except as the brave act of a brave wom- an, who saved by her ready wit her com. panion from sure death and herself from worse. Do you, perchance, think that that companion places any other signifi- * cance upon it?"* She turned her head away and looked fdown at the wet ferns by the roadside for “a moment without reply, and then, look- ing me in the face, answered: ““'Tis a foolish question, lleutenant, and ou know it as well as I. Therefore will not answer it.” ‘Why it should be so I cannot tell, but the certainty that I saw in her face of the: whole event’s absurdity gave me a sinking within myself that turned me back in my saddle and put out the bright- ness of the morning. So again we rode on for a space. “You do not ask me why I am in thi dreadful country alone and at such a sald she,” firmly. . mistress, I do not. But I would ask another question, if you should choose to permit it.”” '‘And what may it be?” ‘No other than where are you going?* For a moment she looked at me that glint in_her eve, and then burst into as merry a fit of laughter as it has been 1y lot to hear. I looked at her !n amaze. ment, not unmixed with irritation, and off she went in another ripple, tlll I had nigh troken forth into more.- remarks that would doubtless have called down other sercasms. “'Tis no doubt most ludicrous,” said I at length, somewhat bitterly, “but I have not yet discovered that side of it and can- not join your humor.” ‘Oh, can you not, indeed?” she laughed. 'Could you but look on your own face at this moment you'd discover soon enough.’ “I do not see what my face, ludicrous as it may be, has In common with the end of your journey.” “Why, I am traveling with my—" 1 turned quickly upon her, and she stopped and flushed as red as the morning sun but a couple of hours ago. “I—1 am going to a place just above here,” she stammered with a sober face. “And I would tell you, sir, in order that you may not misjudge men, that I have run away from home, because—' - “Because—?"’ said I, in spite of myself, for ‘I_should have asked hours ago had I dared. 5 “Because I chose to,” she answered, and then, turning two eyes on me that boded no good in them to those who crossed her, che, went on, sitting straight up in the old saddle; ‘‘because they will learn some day that I will do what I ses fit to do, and will not do whrat n'elthur God nor man should expect of me!” I lifted my band to interrupt her, but she went rushing on: “And I would ask you a question, too, alfort. WIill you give me that pa- That paper?” said I, in amazement. “Yes, sir. That paper which you have in your pocket and which I signed last night'’; and I saw a bit of color go slowly over her face and Into her hair, as she looked at me, and then at Roger’s nose, and then back at me. “Why, I think—I fear tered 5 5 “D@®not lle to me, sir! 'Tis in your. pocket. I saw you put it there when 'twas signed.” And so I drew the scrawled slip from my pocket and handed it to her, as she had bid. She took It slowly and looked at it for a moment as the horses walked on quietly, and then she put it between the lacings of her bodice, and the color ran it is lost” T mi hange of tone was so quick that- eak. with ' T stood watching her running. on, 4 like the little haze over her face a:lhi"‘ el e ity e moon tl‘mt passes- across: t night., Theg silently e Fode on into the village, 0 and_on out into the ccuntry had refused to rest, as I sug- gested, onefof the houses, giving no reason except ‘that she did not care to, and since passing the last one we had wal on in silence, until, without warn- ing or Introduction, she suddenly turned to me ‘and said: 4 “You know that I have left my father's house in the city.” “Yes," I answered, not venturing too t e " too, that you are In my .eves a rebel.” 'Y “A treasomable rights be hanged. «A very dangerous person, who breaks -(heAkl‘::‘r’yl laws, and must not be recog- nized tolerated for an instant. Yes. 8 , when we reach the gate of thl?]e:r'::l iouse which you see yonder, get you gone once, if you have any rd for me. l-e"z:ny regard for you?” I asked In aston- ishment. S “Why, yes. il "Bec!u‘-y:. sir, T do not care to witnees a hanging of any kind, whether of rebels or King's lnwbrukaln' LoE dangerqus per- sons—or—or—near relatives. 1 looked at her and saw her face as seri- ous.as it had vet been. person, who should by \ showing me“on the “That 4s the house of a Tory—a Royal- ist—and you stop there?” “l do,” she answered, looking off toward it. “Do you know of the great danger-of such a house in this neutral country, open to all tne marauders that prowl about— of such men as we saw last night?” “1 do perfectly. That is why the people have left it.” !‘And you are going there alone?” “Except for the servants.” “And who will hang me, if it please your ladyship to answer?” “'I shall be obliged to order the servants to serve their King."” laughed for the very absurdity of it. “‘Mistress Philipse, if you are indeed to stop here, I shall conduct you to the house and see that you are properly cared for.” P ou will do nothing of the kind, sir. “But think you that I fear your serv- ants or your King’s edicts?” No, but you do me and.mine. “Do you think so, indeed?” sald I, & lttle nettled. ‘“Yes, because I will beg you to go on, she said, turning quickly to me and put- ting her hand on my arm, lool up into my face with an earnest appeal in her eyes; “because | am quite safe, because I—I—you have been a true gentleman this night and day, and becausé I would not have.you do aught to make me think oth- erwise of you.” The beautiful eyes wers filling with tears as she went on. ‘Be- cause I have perhaps done a foolish thing, and am quite safe now, and would not do other foolish things, and because—be- you are too kind not to do what I ask”; and she was through the gate and gone up the walk to the house befors I could sp: less to follow, and, as she reac! the gm’er of the house, she turned back and waved her hand to me once—and then she was gone. Elov‘vl I tied the old nag to the gate- post. Slowly I mounted Roger and head- ed the good horse up the road, keeping my eyes the while upon the corner of the house around which the little figure in its hood and cape had disappeared. And sc 1 sat across Roger until the trees shut out the view. CHAPTER V. WHI REATS OF A STRANGH C&’AI}:EEY IN A STRANGE THEATER., !m:o;go strange I could not get over it—that the last twenty-four hours had set the world wagging another way for me. ould have éropped off Roger and kick- Gt} fny.ul( for a light-headed fool to think such a twist could come to me and switch my mind around to so different w. ‘I‘x?‘;eed, everything seemed to conspire to block my progress toword Haverstraw. One wu\mp have saild the wiple world walked abroad that day, for I ¥et one after another; till, the sense of cau- tion growing stronger in me for what I had been through, I stepped toward the river bank into the thick forest and lay me down to wait for darkness. In good truth, what with the want of food and the work of the past night, I needed rest badly, and in my wandering thoughts, that strayed back to a certain tavern and its strangely fair occupant, must soon have been overruled by honest sleep, for when I sat up again, with the sense of something occurring, or about to occur near by, darkness had settled over the land for several hours. It has ever been a peculiar quality of mine. to, e fully, at once, and I had “m: no ‘movement: when. there came in _on,my mind, less through the eves than the ears, that there, ii¥. the mooniit woods < wallted”Some -one. L. AXturn_of the head showed me the figure of a man striding up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. his head bent forward, but each moment nervously lifted, as if ex- pecting to hear some sound near by. “An officer,”” said I to myself, for the square shoulders, the straight figure, and the unknown something in the carriage of a man accustomed to military precis- fon were visible in every movement of the figure. I could mot trust myself to move, for he passed constantly within a few feet of the spot where I lay, only separated from me by the great elm Whose roots had served me for a pillow. “An ‘officer, and 'no mistake,” went on my musings, “and here in the woods at night by the river, waiting, It would seem, for some one. Can it be that he grows impatient? He moves toward the stream. No.” My musings were cut short b{ the unmistakable sound of oars regularly striking the tholepins of a boat. The noise drew near, and the boat must have stopped close hy, for in a moment & man—nay, two—appeared, and one at least an officer as well, for beneath his long coat dangled the point of a scab- bard. The one who waited retreated to my tree, and stood not flve feet away in a deep shadow, while the other two cia‘nae up the bank Into the little opem glade. Gradually it dawned upon me that I was by some strange freak of nature be- come the spectator in the gallery, so to speak, of a theatr. What the spectacl should be I knew not; but a strong, per- haps natural, feeling led me to watch with pecullar eagerness for what was about to take place. There was not long to wait, for the old- er man stepped guardedly from the shad- Ows near me, and on the moment one of the new arrivals said in a low tone: “Is that you, general?” “It i3 1, ‘said the deep tones of the eld« erly officer. “This is Mr. Anderson—Mr. John An~ derson, whom you expect.” “:There is none other with you?" ‘“None,” answered the _first er, i‘eXcept the two boatmen below, and they be out of earshot.” Then he who seemed to be master of ceremonies in this strange midnight drama continued: ‘“Mr. Ander- son, this is Mr. Gustavus, of whom we have spoken,” Theseupon went over me a cold lm for there could be no mistake—the to this drama spoke with a clear, strong voice In the unmistakable accents of an Englis] H “I1 am, then, in the presence of Mr. Gus. uv;-?" ‘“You are,” replied that person. “There 18 no reason for raising our voices. I have the honor, then, of -xdm‘n‘ Mr. Joha Anderson b e same."” at had an lishman to do h within or nearly within American lines And what meant this ? _Here wers the voices and figures of officers! Nq_coun ts were thus getting to- gother In he midst of the w%’{g. ones, too, wers of a c! T . t and place. Those of him called An- lerson wers distant and of no very for- nature. Those of the older man ¢ one who was in haste, “1 understand, sir,” sald Mr. Anderson, “that you are the Jewnen who has made certain communications touching the for- tifications at West Point.” iYes,” answered Mr. Gustavus. “I am given to understand er,”™ went on the English voice, “that thers has arisen some question as to the sin- cerity of both partles, especlally as re- gards Sir Henry Clinton.” “Yes,” came the answer again. Sir Henry Clinton! In spite of I sat up, as If forced by a spring, third member of this strangs trio must have taken the rustle of the leaves to be the night wind, for he turned and certain- g heard the sound. Sir Henry Clinton! Henry Clinton! ‘L am hers, sir, to prove my chief's sincerity,” the English Voice was saying, a3 the spectator in this theater gathered his scattered wits. “I am here In reply to a note from Mr. Gustavus, which says that he will hand to Mr. Anderson tge plans of the fortress at West Point, to- gether with a list of the guns, as a sign of good faith and sincerity and as a first step in the arrangements to be consum- ated. Am I corrsct? 5 replied the eld- ‘So I understand, erly officer quickly. then, of addressing General Benedict Arnold? “I have the honor, “Yes; and 1? “Of addressing Major John Andre of Clinton’s staff—but what is that?”, ‘“’Tis the wind in the leaves, an: swered the master of ceremonfes. “T heard it but now;” and, by the of chance, fl:!o wind did t‘_lh‘deeg at mo- ment rustle amo: e fol all sides. Othe‘rw!uf“m}' Mm ':nv.— ment must have discovered me then and Te. “What followed will never be clear to me, for my mind became on the instant 8o crazed with the idea that was grow- ing on me moment by monqt that I can but recall a certain sense ‘of moonlight and woods, with three tall figures stand- ing in a bit of open swale, talking as if for my benefit, while 1 lay thers in a ' dream. Yet do I remember the so-called Gustavus saying: “May I ask what is your taking of the fortifications? “'Tis that on the 23th the attack nbo:lllld be made by tagln quickly on the southern outposts, and that you, expect= ing us, should have made the Way clear by leaving pickets widely separated, by having the garrison unprepared and by ghnl the exact posi- tion of the guns and the spot where we may enter.” n_comes & Vacan in mind untll I beard: 3t . ““As to the requirements. The letters do not speak as clearly of them as I coulfnwulhl.“ - will be as you protaiet 82 18I ey el mand for yourself,” replied the men called Andre. .Besides the further details?” “It will onl necessary Meet me, then, on the 2th, when deliver over the plans—' An exclamation broke ‘“You have not th 2" sald he in a stern voice. meeting. The aeym?‘um of ments and the strengt Wwere sent you a week ago.” “Those are now in my chief's plan for the the “Where is Wuhhmnf‘ asked suddenly. His tos figure the hall ght, both and dissa “At Fishkill.”™ 5h ke “ather vank, house, v e other above which stands opposite the flag,- I could do naught bl:;lh back and gase in silence at the branches overhead, with the indescribable welght of something ter rible on mr mind, even as in boy) b4 had often lain quiet in my bed ‘when wakened lenly a ) dream, half in bellef that “twas Y conscious that indeed such things t be. How I 1t " couia "o o more ol AT it is S-tx suddenly can describe the erned me, but certain became aware of a movement on the part of the three toward the boat. Then some discussion arose; I still lay flat upon my back, gazing upward, but loud an words came to me, and the figures of the thre’h‘returned. * 'Tis a strange mischance, but we must not excite them,” the volce of Arnold was saying. “Do you, Squire Smith, go them to Haverstraw, and Major and I will walk to your house. I can give him the papers there.” AndsO % Iln an instant g)ey ‘Were gone. ay a space. How long? The good God only knows! But of a sudden the re- action took me, and I started up with but one idea raging through my head. To get to Fishkill! To give the story to my great chief! To see him catch the traitor before the 28th could come upon us! How ’twas done no one can. tell, least of all myself. But cross the river again I did, and then, without head or planning, I began to run upstream untif I should find a house, or a horse, or any one or thing that might help me to get on the faster. It may have been an hour, or two, or more. I cannot tell. Always I ran on and on. My ears sang Idudly, and the treath had gone from me long ago. Good runner and strong man as I was, I could not tell from step to step how 't was that I got on. In the rutted road and the slippery mud I fell again and again; my hat and sword were gone long since. As1 look back on it now, it must have been close upon a lunatic that plunged on northward through that night. ‘There came an end, however; one that ‘was most sudden and unexpected. For I caught a ery, just as I saw a huge figure loom up ahéad in the mist, of “Who goes there? and saw, the long line of a rifle go up to a shoulder. [ "Twas no time for parleying, and on the ant Iiéried out to let me pass, and harged my pistol straight before me. There came but one sound—too loud for a pistol—and a hot streak passed along my igh my h:\l!n cried I cried a voice. “Give the countersign!" “I do not know it!" cried I, doggedly. “I t'ought not!”” came the rich brogue. “I must see General Washington at once!™ I cried, the tears of exhaustion and disappointment running down my face.