The Spy by James Fenimore Cooper (page 5)

“Major Dunwoodie will honor us with a sentimental song,” said Lawton, bowing to his leader, with the collected manner he so well knew how to assume.

The major hesitated a moment, and then sang, with fine execution, the following words:–

Some love the heats of southern suns, Where’s life’s warm current maddening runs, In one quick circling stream;
But dearer far’s the mellow light Which trembling shines, reflected bright In Luna’s milder beam.

Some love the tulip’s gaudier dyes, Where deepening blue with yellow vies, And gorgeous beauty glows;
But happier he, whose bridal wreath, By love entwined, is found to breathe The sweetness of the rose.

The voice of Dunwoodie never lost its authority with his inferiors; and the applause which followed his song, though by no means so riotous as that which succeeded the effort of the captain, was much more flattering.

“If, sir,” said the doctor, after joining in the plaudits of his companions, “you would but learn to unite classical allusions with your delicate imagination you would become a pretty amateur poet.”

“He who criticizes ought to be able to perform,” said Dunwoodie with a smile. “I call on Dr. Sitgreaves for a specimen of the style he admires.”

“Dr. Sitgreaves’ song! Dr. Sitgreaves’ song!” echoed all at the table with delight; “a classical ode from Dr. Sitgreaves!”

The surgeon made a complacent bow, took the remnant of his glass, and gave a few preliminary hems, that served hugely to delight three or four young cornets at the foot of the table. He then commenced singing, in a cracked voice, and to anything but a tune, the following ditty:–

Hast thou ever felt love’s dart, dearest, Or breathed his trembling sigh–
Thought him, afar, was ever nearest, Before that sparkling eye?
Then hast thou known what ’tis to feel The pain that Galen could not heal.

“Hurrah!” shouted Lawton. “Archibald eclipses the Muses themselves; his words flow like the sylvan stream by moonlight, and his melody is a crossbreed of the nightingale and the owl.”

“Captain Lawton,” cried the exasperated operator, “it is one thing to despise the lights of classical learning, and another to be despised for your own ignorance!”

A loud summons at the door of the building created a dead halt in the uproar, and the dragoons instinctively caught up their arms, to be prepared for the worst. The door was opened, and the Skinners entered, dragging in the peddler, bending beneath the load of his pack.

“Which is Captain Lawton?” said the leader of the gang, gazing around him in some little astonishment.

“He waits your pleasure,” said the trooper dryly.

“Then here I deliver to your hands a condemned traitor. This is Harvey Birch, the peddler spy.”

Lawton started as he looked his old acquaintance in the face, and, turning to the Skinner with a lowering look, he asked,–

“And who are you, sir, that speak so freely of your neighbors? But,” bowing to Dunwoodie, “your pardon, sir; here is the commanding officer; to him you will please address yourself.”

“No,” said the man, sullenly, “it is to you I deliver the peddler, and from you I claim my reward.”

“Are you Harvey Birch?” said Dunwoodie, advancing with an air of authority that instantly drove the Skinner to a corner of the room.

“I am,” said Birch, proudly.

“And a traitor to your country,” continued the major, with sternness. “Do you know that I should be justified in ordering your execution this night?”

“‘Tis not the will of God to call a soul so hastily to His presence,” said the peddler with solemnity.

“You speak truth,” said Dunwoodie; “and a few brief hours shall be added to your life. But as your offense is most odious to a soldier, so it will be sure to meet with the soldier’s vengeance. You die to-morrow.”

“‘Tis as God wills.”

“I have spent many a good hour to entrap the villain,” said the Skinner, advancing a little from his corner, “and I hope you will give me a certificate that will entitle us to the reward; ’twas promised to be paid in gold.”

“Major Dunwoodie,” said the officer of the day, entering the room, “the patrols report a house to be burned near yesterday’s battle ground.”

“‘Twas the hut of the peddler,” muttered the leader of the gang. “We have not left him a shingle for shelter; I should have burned it months ago, but I wanted his shed for a trap to catch the sly fox in.”

“You seem a most ingenious patriot,” said Lawton. “Major Dunwoodie, I second the request of this worthy gentleman, and crave the office of bestowing the reward on him and his fellows.”

“Take it; and you, miserable man, prepare for that fate which will surely befall you before the setting of to-morrow’s sun.”

“Life offers but little to tempt me with,” said Harvey, slowly raising his eyes, and gazing wildly at the strange faces in the apartment.

“Come, worthy children of America!” said Lawton, “follow, and receive your reward.”

The gang eagerly accepted the invitation, and followed the captain towards the quarters assigned to his troop. Dunwoodie paused a moment, from reluctance to triumph over a fallen foe, before he proceeded.

“You have already been tried, Harvey Birch; and the truth has proved you to be an enemy too dangerous to the liberties of America to be suffered to live.”

“The truth!” echoed the peddler, starting, and raising himself in a manner that disregarded the weight of his pack.

“Aye! the truth; you are charged with loitering near the continental army, to gain intelligence of its movements, and, by communicating them to the enemy, to enable him to frustrate the intentions of Washington.”

“Will Washington say so, think you?”

“Doubtless he would; even the justice of Washington condemns you.”

“No, no, no,” cried the peddler, in a voice and with a manner that startled Dunwoodie. “Washington can see beyond the hollow views of pretended patriots. Has he not risked his all on the cast of a die? If a gallows is ready for me, was there not one for him also? No, no, no, no–Washington would never say, ‘Lead him to a gallows.'”

“Have you anything, wretched man, to urge to the commander in chief why you should not die?” said the major, recovering from the surprise created by the manner of the other.

Birch trembled, for violent emotions were contending in his bosom. His face assumed the ghastly paleness of death, and his hand drew a box of tin from the folds of his shirt; he opened it, showing by the act that it contained a small piece of paper. On this document his eye was for an instant fixed–he had already held it towards Dunwoodie, when suddenly withdrawing his hand he exclaimed,–

“No–it dies with me. I know the conditions of my service, and will not purchase life with their forfeiture–it dies with me.”

“Deliver that paper, and you may possibly find favor,” cried Dunwoodie, expecting a discovery of importance to the cause.

“It dies with me,” repeated Birch, a flush passing over his pallid features, and lighting them with extraordinary brilliancy.

“Seize the traitor!” cried the major, “and wrest the secret from his hands.”

The order was immediately obeyed; but the movements of the peddler were too quick; in an instant he swallowed the paper. The officers paused in astonishment; but the surgeon cried eagerly,–

“Hold him, while I administer an emetic.”

“Forbear!” said Dunwoodie, beckoning him back with his hand. “If his crime is great, so will his punishment be heavy.”

“Lead on,” cried the peddler, dropping his pack from his shoulders, and advancing towards the door with a manner of incomprehensible dignity.

“Whither?” asked Dunwoodie, in amazement.

“To the gallows.”

“No,” said the major, recoiling in horror at his own justice. “My duty requires that I order you to be executed, but surely not so hastily; take until nine to-morrow to prepare for the awful change.”

Dunwoodie whispered his orders in the ear of a subaltern, and motioned to the peddler to withdraw. The interruption caused by this scene prevented further enjoyment around the table, and the officers dispersed to their several places of rest. In a short time the only noise to be heard was the heavy tread of the sentinel, as he paced the frozen ground in front of the Hotel Flanagan.

CHAPTER XVII

There are, whose changing lineaments Express each guileless passion of the breast; Where Love, and Hope, and tender-hearted Pity Are seen reflected, as from a mirror’s face; But cold experience can veil these hues With looks, invented shrewdly to encompass The cunning purposes of base deceit.

–Duo.

The officer to whose keeping Dunwoodie had committed the peddler transferred his charge to the custody of the regular sergeant of the guard. The gift of Captain Wharton had not been lost on the youthful lieutenant; and a certain dancing motion that had taken possession of objects before his eyes, gave him warning of the necessity of recruiting nature by sleep. After admonishing the noncommissioned guardian of Harvey to omit no watchfulness in securing the prisoner, the youth wrapped himself in his cloak, and, stretched on a bench before a fire, soon found the repose he needed. A rude shed extended the whole length of the rear of the building, and from off one of its ends had been partitioned a small apartment, that was intended as a repository for many of the lesser implements of husbandry. The lawless times had, however, occasioned its being stripped of everything of value; and the searching eyes of Betty Flanagan selected this spot, on her arrival, as the storehouse for her movables and a sanctuary for her person. The spare arms and baggage of the corps had also been deposited here; and the united treasures were placed under the eye of the sentinel who paraded the shed as a guardian of the rear of the headquarters. A second soldier, who was stationed near the house to protect the horses of the officers, could command a view of the outside of the apartment; and, as it was without window or outlet of any kind, excepting its door, the considerate sergeant thought this the most befitting place in which to deposit his prisoner until the moment of his execution. Several inducements urged Sergeant Hollister to this determination, among which was the absence of the washerwoman, who lay before the kitchen fire, dreaming that the corps was attacking a party of the enemy, and mistaking the noise that proceeded from her own nose for the bugles of the Virginians sounding the charge. Another was the peculiar opinions that the veteran entertained of life and death, and by which he was distinguished in the corps as a man of most exemplary piety and holiness of life. The sergeant was more than fifty years of age, and for half that period he had borne arms. The constant recurrence of sudden deaths before his eyes had produced an effect on him differing greatly from that which was the usual moral consequence of such scenes; and he had become not only the most steady, but the most trustworthy soldier in his troop. Captain Lawton had rewarded his fidelity by making him its orderly.

Followed by Birch, the sergeant proceeded in silence to the door of the intended prison, and, throwing it open with one hand, he held a lantern with the other to light the peddler to his prison. Seating himself on a cask, that contained some of Betty’s favorite beverage, the sergeant motioned to Birch to occupy another, in the same manner. The lantern was placed on the floor, when the dragoon, after looking his prisoner steadily in the face, observed,–

“You look as if you would meet death like a man; and I have brought you to a spot where you can tranquilly arrange your thoughts, and be quiet and undisturbed.”

“‘Tis a fearful place to prepare for the last change in,” said Harvey, gazing around his little prison with a vacant eye.

“Why, for the matter of that,” returned the veteran, “it can reckon but little in the great account, where a man parades his thoughts for the last review, so that he finds them fit to pass the muster of another world. I have a small book here, which I make it a point to read a little in, whenever we are about to engage, and I find it a great strengthener in time of need.” While speaking, he took a Bible from his pocket, and offered it to the peddler. Birch received the volume with habitual reverence; but there was an abstracted air about him, and a wandering of the eye, that induced his companion to think that alarm was getting the mastery of the peddler’s feelings; accordingly, he proceeded in what he conceived to be the offices of consolation.

“If anything lies heavy on your mind, now is the best time to get rid of it–if you have done any wrong to anyone, I promise you, on the word of an honest dragoon, to lend you a helping hand to see them righted.”

“There are few who have not done so,” said the peddler, turning his vacant gaze once more on his companion.

“True–’tis natural to sin; but it sometimes happens that a man does what at other times he may be sorry for. One would not wish to die with any very heavy sin on his conscience, after all.”

Harvey had by this time thoroughly examined the place in which he was to pass the night, and saw no means of escape. But as hope is ever the last feeling to desert the human breast, the peddler gave the dragoon more of his attention, fixing on his sunburned features such searching looks, that Sergeant Hollister lowered his eyes before the wild expression which he met in the gaze of his prisoner.

“I have been taught to lay the burden of my sins at the feet of my Savior,” replied the peddler.

“Why, yes–all that is well enough,” returned the other. “But justice should be done while there is opportunity. There have been stirring times in this country since the war began, and many have been deprived of their rightful goods I oftentimes find it hard to reconcile even my lawful plunder to a tender conscience.”

“These hands,” said the peddler, stretching forth his meager, bony fingers, “have spent years in toil, but not a moment in pilfering.”

“It is well that it is so,” said the honest-hearted soldier, “and, no doubt, you now feel it a great consolation. There are three great sins, that, if a man can keep his conscience clear of, why, by the mercy of God, he may hope to pass muster with the saints in heaven: they are stealing, murdering, and desertion.”

“Thank God!” said Birch, with fervor, “I have never yet taken the life of a fellow creature.”

“As to killing a man in lawful battle, that is no more than doing one’s duty. If the cause is wrong, the sin of such a deed, you know, falls on the nation, and a man receives his punishment here with the rest of the people; but murdering in cold blood stands next to desertion as a crime in the eye of God.”

“I never was a soldier, therefore never could desert,” said the peddler, resting his face on his hand in a melancholy attitude.

“Why, desertion consists of more than quitting your colors, though that is certainly the worst kind; a man may desert his country in the hour of need.”

Birch buried his face in both his hands, and his whole frame shook; the sergeant regarded him closely, but good feelings soon got the better of his antipathies, and he continued more mildly,–

“But still that is a sin which I think may be forgiven, if sincerely repented of; and it matters but little when or how a man dies, so that he dies like a Christian and a man. I recommend you to say your prayers, and then to get some rest, in order that you may do both. There is no hope of your being pardoned; for Colonel Singleton has sent down the most positive orders to take your life whenever we met you. No, no–nothing can save you.”

“You say the truth,” cried Birch. “It is now too late–I have destroyed my only safeguard. But _he_ will do my memory justice at least.”

“What safeguard?” asked the sergeant, with awakened curiosity.

“‘Tis nothing,” replied the peddler, recovering his natural manner, and lowering his face to avoid the earnest looks of his companion.

“And who is he?”

“No one,” added Harvey, anxious to say no more.

“Nothing and no one can avail but little now,” said the sergeant, rising to go. “Lay yourself on the blanket of Mrs. Flanagan, and get a little sleep; I will call you betimes in the morning; and from the bottom of my soul I wish I could be of some service to you, for I dislike greatly to see a man hung up like a dog.”

“Then _you_ might save me from this ignominious death,” said Birch, springing to his feet, and catching the dragoon by the arm. “And, oh! what will I not give you in reward!”

“In what manner?” asked the sergeant, looking at him in surprise.

“See,” said the peddler, producing several guineas from his person; “these are nothing to what I will give you, if you will assist me to escape.”

“Were you the man whose picture is on the gold, I would not listen to such a crime,” said the trooper, throwing the money on the floor with contempt. “Go–go, poor wretch, and make your peace with God; for it is He only that can be of service to you now.”

The sergeant took up the lantern, and, with some indignation in his manner, he left the peddler to sorrowful meditations on his approaching fate. Birch sank, in momentary despair, on the pallet of Betty, while his guardian proceeded to give the necessary instructions to the sentinels for his safe-keeping.

Hollister concluded his injunctions to the man in the shed, by saying, “Your life will depend on his not escaping. Let none enter or quit the room till morning.”

“But,” said the trooper, “my orders are, to let the washerwoman pass in and out, as she pleases.”

“Well, let her then; but be careful that this wily peddler does not get out in the folds of her petticoats.” He then continued his walk, giving similar orders to each of the sentinels near the spot.

For some time after the departure of the sergeant, silence prevailed within the solitary prison of the peddler, until the dragoon at his door heard his loud breathings, which soon rose into the regular cadence of one in a deep sleep. The man continued walking his post, musing on an indifference to life which could allow nature its customary rest, even on the threshold of the grave. Harvey Birch had, however, been a name too long held in detestation by every man in the corps, to suffer any feelings of commiseration to mingle with these reflections of the sentinel; for, notwithstanding the consideration and kindness manifested by the sergeant, there probably was not another man of his rank in the whole party who would have discovered equal benevolence to the prisoner, or who would not have imitated the veteran in rejecting the bribe, although probably from a less worthy motive. There was something of disappointed vengeance in the feelings of the man who watched the door of the room on finding his prisoner enjoying a sleep of which he himself was deprived, and at his exhibiting such obvious indifference to the utmost penalty that military rigor could inflict on all his treason to the cause of liberty and America. More than once he felt prompted to disturb the repose of the peddler by taunts and revilings; but the discipline he was under, and a secret sense of shame at the brutality of the act, held him in subjection.

His meditations were, however, soon interrupted by the appearance of the washerwoman, who came staggering through the door that communicated with the kitchen, muttering execrations against the servants of the officers, who, by their waggery, had disturbed her slumbers before the fire. The sentinel understood enough of her maledictions to comprehend the case; but all his efforts to enter into conversation with the enraged woman were useless, and he suffered her to enter her room without explaining that it contained another inmate. The noise of her huge frame falling on the bed was succeeded by a silence that was soon interrupted by the renewed respiration of the peddler, and within a few minutes Harvey continued to breathe aloud, as if no interruption had occurred. The relief arrived at this moment.

The sentinel, who felt nettled at the contempt of the peddler, after communicating his orders, while he was retiring, exclaimed to his successor,–

“You may keep yourself warm by dancing, John; the peddler spy has tuned his fiddle, you hear, and it will not be long before Betty will strike up, in her turn.”

The joke was followed by a general laugh from the party, who marched on in performance of their duty. At this instant the door of the prison was opened, and Betty reappeared, staggering back again toward her former quarters.

“Stop,” said the sentinel, catching her by her clothes; “are you sure the spy is not in your pocket?”

“Can’t you hear the rascal snoring in my room, you dirty blackguard?” sputtered Betty, her whole frame shaking with rage. “And is it so ye would sarve a dacent famale, that a man must be put to sleep in the room wid her, ye rapscallion?”

“Pooh! Do you mind a fellow who’s to be hanged in the morning? You see he sleeps already; to-morrow he’ll take a longer nap.”

“Hands off, ye villain,” cried the washerwoman, relinquishing a small bottle that the trooper had succeeded in wresting from her. “But I’ll go to Captain Jack, and know if it’s orders to put a hang-gallows spy in my room; aye, even in my widowed bed, you tief!”

“Silence, old Jezebel!” said the fellow with a laugh, taking the bottle from his mouth to breathe, “or you will wake the gentleman. Would you disturb a man in his last sleep?”

“I’ll awake Captain Jack, you reprobate villain, and bring him here to see me righted; he will punish ye all, for imposing on a dacent widowed body, you marauder!”

With these words, which only extorted a laugh from the sentinel, Betty staggered round the end of the building, and made the best of her way towards the quarters of her favorite, Captain John Lawton, in search of redress. Neither the officer nor the woman, however, appeared during the night, and nothing further occurred to disturb the repose of the peddler, who, to the astonishment of the different sentinels, continued by his breathing to manifest how little the gallows could affect his slumbers.

CHAPTER XVIII

A Daniel come to judgment; yea, a Daniel! O wise young judge, how I do honor thee!

–_Merchant of Venice._

The Skinners followed Captain Lawton with alacrity, towards the quarters occupied by the troop of that gentleman. The captain of dragoons had on all occasions manifested so much zeal for the cause in which he was engaged, was so regardless of personal danger when opposed to the enemy, and his stature and stern countenance contributed so much to render him terrific, that these qualities had, in some measure, procured him a reputation distinct from the corps in which he served. His intrepidity was mistaken for ferocity; and his hasty zeal, for the natural love of cruelty. On the other hand, a few acts of clemency, or, more properly speaking, of discriminating justice, had, with one portion of the community, acquired for Dunwoodie the character of undue forbearance. It is seldom that either popular condemnation or popular applause falls, exactly in the quantities earned, where it is merited.

While in the presence of the major the leader of the gang had felt himself under that restraint which vice must ever experience in the company of acknowledged virtue; but having left the house, he at once conceived that he was under the protection of a congenial spirit. There was a gravity in the manner of Lawton that deceived most of those who did not know him intimately; and it was a common saying in his troop, that “when the captain laughed, he was sure to punish.” Drawing near his conductor, therefore, the leader commenced a confidential dialogue.

“‘Tis always well for a man to know his friends from his enemies,” said the half-licensed freebooter.

To this prefatory observation the captain made no other reply than a sound which the other interpreted into assent.

“I suppose Major Dunwoodie has the good opinion of Washington?” continued the Skinner, in a tone that rather expressed a doubt than asked a question.

“There are some who think so.”

“Many of the friends of Congress in this county,” the man proceeded, “wish the horse was led by some other officer. For my part, if I could only be covered by a troop now and then, I could do many an important piece of service to the cause, to which this capture of the peddler would be a trifle.”

“Indeed! such as what?”

“For the matter of that, it could be made as profitable to the officer as it would be to us who did it,” said the Skinner, with a look of the most significant meaning.

“But how?” asked Lawton, a little impatiently, and quickening his step to get out of the hearing of the rest of the party.

“Why, near the royal lines, even under the very guns of the heights, might be good picking if we had a force to guard us from De Lancey’s [Footnote: The partisan corps called Cowboys in the parlance of the country, was commanded by Colonel De Lancey. This gentleman, for such he was by birth and education, rendered himself very odious to the Americans by his fancied cruelty, though there is no evidence of his being guilty of any acts unusual in this species of warfare. Colonel De Lancey belonged to a family of the highest consequence in the American colonies, his uncle having died in the administration of the government of that of New York. He should not be confounded with other gentlemen of his name and family, many of whom served in the royal army. His cousin, Colonel Oliver De Lancey, was, at the time of our tale, adjutant general of the British forces in America, having succeeded to the unfortunate Andre. The Cowboys were sometimes called Refugees, in consequence of their having taken refuge under the protection of the crown.] men, and to cover our retreat from being cut off by the way of King’s Bridge.”

“I thought the Refugees took all that game to themselves.”

“They do a little at it; but they are obliged to be sparing among their own people. I have been down twice, under an agreement with them: the first time they acted with honor; but the second they came upon us and drove us off, and took the plunder to themselves.”

“That was a very dishonorable act, indeed; I wonder that an honorable man will associate with such rascals.”

“It is necessary to have an understanding with some of them, or we might be taken; but a man without honor is worse than a brute. Do you think Major Dunwoodie is to be trusted?”

“You mean on honorable principles?”

“Certainly; you know Arnold was thought well of until the royal major was taken.”

“Why, I do not believe Dunwoodie would sell his command as Arnold wished to do; neither do I think him exactly trustworthy in a delicate business like this of yours.”

“That’s just my notion,” rejoined the Skinner, with a self-approving manner that showed how much he was satisfied with his own estimate of character.

By this time they had arrived at a better sort of farmhouse, the very extensive outbuildings of which were in tolerable repair, for the times. The barns were occupied by the men of the troop, while the horses were arranged under the long sheds which protected the yard from the cold north wind. The latter were quietly eating, with saddles on their backs and bridles thrown on their necks, ready to be bitted and mounted at the shortest warning. Lawton excused himself for a moment, and entered his quarters. He soon returned, holding in his hand one of the common, stable lanterns, and led the way towards a large orchard that surrounded the buildings on three sides. The gang followed the trooper in silence, believing his object to be facility of communicating further on this interesting topic, without the danger of being overheard.

Approaching the captain, the Skinner renewed the discourse, with a view of establishing further confidence, and of giving his companion a more favorable opinion of his own intellects.

“Do you think the colonies will finally get the better of the king?” he inquired, with a little of the importance of a politician.

“Get the better!” echoed the captain with impetuosity. Then checking himself, he continued, “No doubt they will. If the French will give us arms and money, we will drive out the royal troops in six months.”

“Well, so I hope we shall soon; and then we shall have a free government, and we, who fight for it, will get our reward.”

“Oh!” cried Lawton, “your claims will be indisputable; while all these vile Tories who live at home peaceably, to take care of their farms, will be held in the contempt they merit. You have no farm, I suppose?”

“Not yet–but it will go hard if I do not find one before the peace is made.”

“Right; study your own interests, and you study the interests of your country; press the point of your own services, and rail at the Tories, and I’ll bet my spurs against a rusty nail that you get to be a county clerk at least.”

“Don’t you think Paulding’s [Footnote: The author must have intended some allusion to an individual, which is too local to be understood by the general reader. Andre, as is well known, was arrested by three countrymen, who were on the lookout for predatory parties of the enemy; the principal man of this party was named Paulding. The disinterested manner in which they refused the offers of their captive is matter of history.] party were fools in not letting the royal adjutant general escape?” said the man, thrown off his guard by the freedom of the captain’s manner.

“Fools!” cried Lawton, with a bitter laugh. “Aye, fools indeed; King George would have paid them better, for he is richer. He would have made them gentlemen for their losses. But, thank God! there is a pervading spirit in the people that seems miraculous. Men who have nothing, act as if the wealth of the Indies depended on their fidelity; all are not villains like yourself, or we should have been slaves to England years ago.”

“How!” exclaimed the Skinner, starting back, and dropping his musket to the level of the other’s breast; “am I betrayed, and are you my enemy?”

“Miscreant!” shouted Lawton, his saber ringing in its steel scabbard, as he struck the musket of the fellow from his hands, “offer but again to point your gun at me, and I’ll cleave you to the middle.”

“And you will not pay us, then, Captain Lawton?” said the Skinner, trembling in every joint, for just then he saw a party of mounted dragoons silently encircling the whole party.

“Oh! pay you–yes, you shall have the full measure of your reward. There is the money that Colonel Singleton sent down for the captors of the spy,” throwing a bag of guineas with disdain at the other’s feet. “But ground your arms, you rascals, and see that the money is truly told.”

The intimidated band did as they were ordered; and while they were eagerly employed in this pleasing avocation, a few of Lawton’s men privately knocked the flints out of their muskets.

“Well,” cried the impatient captain, “is it right? Have you the promised reward?”

“There is just the money,” said the leader; “and we will now go to our homes, with your permission.”

“Hold! so much to redeem our promise–now for justice; we pay you for taking a spy, but we punish you for burning, robbing, and murdering. Seize them, my lads, and give each of them the law of Moses–forty save one.”

This command was given to no unwilling listeners; and in the twinkling of an eye the Skinners were stripped and fastened, by the halters of the party, to as many of the apple trees as were necessary to furnish one to each of the gang. Swords were quickly drawn, and fifty branches were cut from the trees, like magic; from these were selected a few of the most supple of the twigs, and a willing dragoon was soon found to wield each of the weapons. Captain Lawton gave the word, humanely cautioning his men not to exceed the discipline prescribed by the Mosaic law, and the uproar of Babel _”_ commenced in the orchard. The cries of the leader were easily to be distinguished above those of his men; a circumstance which might be accounted for, by Captain Lawton’s reminding his corrector that he had to deal with an officer, and he should remember and pay him unusual honor. The flagellation was executed with great neatness and dispatch, and it was distinguished by no irregularity, excepting that none of the disciplinarians began to count until they had tried their whips by a dozen or more blows, by the way, as they said themselves, of finding out the proper places to strike. As soon as this summary operation was satisfactorily completed, Lawton directed his men to leave the Skinners to replace their own clothes, and to mount their horses; for they were a party who had been detached for the purpose of patrolling lower down in the county.

“You see, my friend,” said the captain to the leader of the Skinners, after he had prepared himself to depart, “I can cover you to some purpose, when necessary. If we meet often, you will be covered with scars, which, if not very honorable, will at least be merited.”

The fellow made no reply. He was busy with his musket, and hastening his comrades to march; when, everything being ready, they proceeded sullenly towards some rocks at no great distance, which were overhung by a deep wood. The moon was just rising, and the group of dragoons could easily be distinguished where they had been left. Suddenly turning, the whole gang leveled their pieces and drew the triggers. The action was noticed, and the snapping of the locks was heard by the soldiers, who returned their futile attempt with a laugh of derision, the captain crying aloud,–

“Ah! rascals, I knew you, and have taken away your flints.”

“You should have taken away that in my pouch, too,” shouted the leader, firing his gun in the next instant. The bullet grazed the ear of Lawton, who laughed as he shook his head, saying, “A miss was as good as a mile.” One of the dragoons had seen the preparations of the Skinner–who had been left alone by the rest of his gang, as soon as they had made their abortive attempt at revenge–and was in the act of plunging his spurs into his horse as the fellow fired. The distance to the rocks was but small, yet the speed of the horse compelled the leader to abandon both money and musket, to effect his escape. The soldier returned with his prizes, and offered them to the acceptance of his captain; but Lawton rejected them, telling the man to retain them himself, until the rascal appeared in person to claim his property. It would have been a business of no small difficulty for any tribunal then existing in the new states to have enforced a restitution of the money; for it was shortly after most equitably distributed, by the hands of Sergeant Hollister, among a troop of horse. The patrol departed, and the captain slowly returned to his quarters, with an intention of retiring to rest. A figure moving rapidly among the trees, in the direction of the wood whither the Skinners had retired, caught his eye, and, wheeling on his heel, the cautious partisan approached it, and, to his astonishment, saw the washerwoman at that hour of the night, and in such a place.

“What, Betty! Walking in your sleep, or dreaming while awake?” cried the trooper. “Are you not afraid of meeting with the ghost of ancient Jenny in this her favorite pasture?”

“Ah, sure, Captain Jack,” returned the sutler in her native accent, and reeling in a manner that made it difficult for her to raise her head, “it’s not Jenny, or her ghost, that I’m saaking, but some yarbs for the wounded. And it’s the vartue of the rising moon, as it jist touches them, that I want. They grow under yon rocks, and I must hasten, or the charm will lose its power.”

“Fool, you are fitter for your pallet than for wandering among those rocks; a fall from one of them would break your bones; besides, the Skinners have fled to those heights, and should you fall in with them, they would revenge on you a sound flogging they have just received from me. Better return, old woman, and finish your nap; we march in the morning.”

Betty disregarded his advice, and continued her devious route to the hillside. For an instant, as Lawton mentioned the Skinners, she had paused, but immediately resuming her course, she was soon out of sight, among the trees.

As the captain entered his quarters, the sentinel at the door inquired if he had met Mrs. Flanagan, and added that she had passed there, filling the air with threats against her tormentors at the “Hotel,” and inquiring for the captain in search of redress. Lawton heard the man in astonishment–appeared struck with a new idea–walked several yards towards the orchard, and returned again; for several minutes he paced rapidly to and fro before the door of the house, and then hastily entering it, he threw himself on a bed in his clothes, and was soon in a profound sleep.

In the meantime, the gang of marauders had successfully gained the summit of the rocks, and, scattering in every direction, they buried themselves in the depths of the wood. Finding, however, there was no pursuit, which indeed would have been impracticable for horse, the leader ventured to call his band together with a whistle, and in a short time he succeeded in collecting his discomfited party, at a point where they had but little to apprehend from any enemy.

“Well,” said one of the fellows, while a fire was lighting to protect them against the air, which was becoming severely cold, “there is an end to our business in Westchester. The Virginia horse will make the county too hot to hold us.”

“I’ll have his blood,” muttered the leader, “if I die for it the next instant.”

“Oh, you are very valiant here, in the wood,” cried the other, with a savage laugh. “Why did you, who boast so much of your aim, miss your man, at thirty yards?”

“‘Twas the horseman that disturbed me, or I would have ended this Captain Lawton on the spot; besides, the cold had set me a-shivering, and I had no longer a steady hand.”

“Say it was fear, and you will tell no lie,” said his comrade with a sneer. “For my part, I think I shall never be cold again; my back burns as if a thousand gridirons were laid on it.”

“And you would tamely submit to such usage, and kiss the rod that beat you?”

“As for kissing the rod, it would be no easy matter. Mine was broken into so small pieces, on my own shoulders, that it would be difficult to find one big enough to kiss; but I would rather submit to lose half my skin, than to lose the whole of it, with my ears in the bargain. And such will be our fates, if we tempt this mad Virginian again. God willing, I would at any time give him enough of my hide to make a pair of jack boots, to get out of his hands with the remainder. If you had known when you were well off, you would have stuck to Major Dunwoodie, who don’t know half so much of our evil doings.”

“Silence, you talking fool!” shouted the enraged leader; “your prating is sufficient to drive a man mad. Is it not enough to be robbed and beaten, but we must be tormented with your folly? Help to get out the provisions, if any is left in the wallet, and try and stop your mouth with food.”

This injunction was obeyed, and the whole party, amidst sundry groans and contortions, excited by the disordered state of their backs, made their arrangements for a scanty meal. A large fire of dry wood was burning in the cleft of a rock, and at length they began to recover from the confusion of their flight, and to collect their scattered senses. Their hunger being appeased, and many of their garments thrown aside for the better opportunity of dressing their wounds, the gang began to plot measures of revenge. An hour was spent in this manner, and various expedients were proposed; but as they all depended on personal prowess for their success, and were attended by great danger, they were of course rejected. There was no possibility of approaching the troops by surprise, their vigilance being ever on the watch; and the hope of meeting Captain Lawton away from his men, was equally forlorn, for the trooper was constantly engaged in his duty, and his movements were so rapid, that any opportunity of meeting with him, at all, must depend greatly on accident. Besides, it was by no means certain that such an interview would result happily for themselves. The cunning of the trooper was notorious; and rough and broken as was Westchester, the fearless partisan was known to take desperate leaps, and stone walls were but slight impediments to the charges of the Southern horse. Gradually, the conversation took another direction, until the gang determined on a plan which should both revenge themselves, and at the same time offer some additional stimulus to their exertions. The whole business was accurately discussed, the time fixed, and the manner adopted; in short, nothing was wanting to the previous arrangement for this deed of villainy, when they were aroused by a voice calling aloud,–

“This way, Captain Jack–here are the rascals ‘ating by a fire–this way, and murder the t’ieves where they sit–quick, l’ave your horses and shoot your pistols!”

This terrific summons was enough to disturb all the philosophy of the gang. Springing on their feet, they rushed deeper into the wood, and having already agreed upon a place of rendezvous previously to their intended expedition, they dispersed towards the four quarters of the heavens. Certain sounds and different voices were heard calling on each other, but as the marauders were well trained to speed of foot, they were soon lost in the distance.

It was not long before Betty Flanagan emerged from the darkness, and very coolly took possession of what the Skinners had left behind them; namely, food and divers articles of dress. The washerwoman deliberately seated herself, and made a meal with great apparent satisfaction. For an hour, she sat with her head upon her hand, in deep musing; then she gathered together such articles of the clothes, as seemed to suit her fancy, and retired into the wood, leaving the fire to throw its glimmering light on the adjacent rocks, until its last brand died away, and the place was abandoned to solitude and darkness.

CHAPTER XIX

No longer then perplex the breast– When thoughts torment, the first are best; ‘Tis mad to go, ’tis death to stay!
Away, to Orra, haste away.
–Lapland Love Song.

While his comrades were sleeping, in perfect forgetfulness of their hardships and dangers, the slumbers of Dunwoodie were broken and unquiet. After spending a night of restlessness, he arose, unrefreshed, from the rude bed where he had thrown himself in his clothes, and, without awaking any of the group around him, he wandered into the open air in search of relief. The soft rays of the moon were just passing away in the more distinct light of the morning; the wind had fallen, and the rising mists gave the promise of another of those autumnal days, which, in this unstable climate, succeed a tempest with the rapid transitions of magic. The hour had not yet arrived when he intended moving from his present position; and, willing to allow his warriors all the refreshment that circumstances would permit, he strolled towards the scene of the Skinners’ punishment, musing upon the embarrassments of his situation, and uncertain how he should reconcile his sense of duty with his love. Although Dunwoodie himself placed the most implicit reliance on the captain’s purity of intention, he was by no means assured that a board of officers would be equally credulous; and, independently of all feelings of private regard, he felt certain that with the execution of Henry would be destroyed all hopes of a union with his sister. He had dispatched an officer, the preceding evening, to Colonel Singleton, who was in command of the advance posts, reporting the capture of the British captain, and, after giving his own opinion of his innocence, requesting orders as to the manner in which he was to dispose of his prisoner. These orders might be expected every hour, and his uneasiness increased, in proportion as the moment approached when his friend might be removed from his protection. In this disturbed state of mind, the major wandered through the orchard, and was stopped in his walk by arriving at the base of those rocks which had protected the Skinners in their flight, before he was conscious whither his steps had carried him. He was about to turn, and retrace his path to his quarters, when he was startled by a voice, bidding him,–

“Stand or die!”

Dunwoodie turned in amazement, and beheld the figure of a man placed at a little distance above him on a shelving rock, with a musket leveled at himself. The light was not yet sufficiently powerful to reach the recesses of that gloomy spot, and a second look was necessary before he discovered, to his astonishment, that the peddler stood before him. Comprehending, in an instant, the danger of his situation, and disdaining to implore mercy or to retreat, had the latter been possible, the youth cried firmly,–

“If I am to be murdered, fire! I will never become your prisoner.”

“No, Major Dunwoodie,” said Birch, lowering his musket, “it is neither my intention to capture nor to slay.”

“What then would you have, mysterious being?” said Dunwoodie, hardly able to persuade himself that the form he saw was not a creature of the imagination.

“Your good opinion,” answered the peddler, with emotion. “I would wish all good men to judge me with lenity.”

“To you it must be indifferent what may be the judgment of men; for you seem to be beyond the reach of their sentence.”

“God spares the lives of His servants to His own time,” said the peddler, solemnly. “A few hours ago I was your prisoner, and threatened with the gallows; now you are mine; but, Major Dunwoodie, you are free. There are men abroad who would treat you less kindly. Of what service would that sword be to you against my weapon and a steady hand? Take the advice of one who has never harmed you, and who never will. Do not trust yourself in the skirts of any wood, unless in company and mounted.”

“And have you comrades, who have assisted you to escape, and who are less generous than yourself?”

“No–no, I am alone truly–none know me but my God and _him._”

“And who?” asked the major, with an interest he could not control.

“None,” continued the peddler, recovering his composure. “But such is not your case, Major Dunwoodie; you are young and happy; there are those that are dear to you, and such are not far away–danger is near them you love most–danger within and without–double your watchfulness– strengthen your patrols–and be silent. With your opinion of me, should I tell you more, you would suspect an ambush. But remember and guard them you love best.”

The peddler discharged the musket in the air, and threw it at the feet of his astonished auditor. When surprise and the smoke allowed Dunwoodie to look again on the rock where he had stood, the spot was vacant.

The youth was aroused from the stupor, which had been created by this strange scene, by the trampling of horses, and the sound of the bugles. A patrol was drawn to the spot by the report of the musket, and the alarm had been given to the corps. Without entering into any explanation with his men, the major returned quickly to his quarters, where he found the whole squadron under arms, in battle array, impatiently awaiting the appearance of their leader. The officer whose duty it was to superintend such matters, had directed a party to lower the sign of the Hotel Flanagan, and the post was already arranged for the execution of the spy. On hearing from the major that the musket was discharged by himself, and was probably one of those dropped by the Skinners (for by this time Dunwoodie had learned the punishment inflicted by Lawton, but chose to conceal his own interview with Birch), his officers suggested the propriety of executing their prisoner before they marched. Unable to believe that all he had seen was not a dream, Dunwoodie, followed by many of his officers, and preceded by Sergeant Hollister, went to the place which was supposed to contain the peddler.

“Well, sir,” said the major to the sentinel who guarded the door, “I trust you have your prisoner in safety.”

“He is yet asleep,” replied the man, “and he makes such a noise, I could hardly hear the bugles sound the alarm.”

“Open the door and bring him forth.”

The order was obeyed; but to the utter amazement of the honest veteran who entered the prison, he found the room in no little disorder–the coat of the peddler where his body ought to have been, and part of the wardrobe of Betty scattered in disorder on the floor. The washerwoman herself occupied the pallet, in profound mental oblivion, clad as when last seen, excepting a little black bonnet, which she so constantly wore, that it was commonly thought she made it perform the double duty of both day and night cap. The noise of their entrance, and the exclamations of their party, awoke the woman.

“Is it the breakfast that’s wanting?” said Betty, rubbing her eyes. “Faith, ye look as if ye would ate myself–but patience, a little, darlings, and ye’ll see sich a fry as never was.”

“Fry!” echoed the sergeant, forgetful of his religious philosophy, and the presence of his officers. “We’ll have you roasted, Jezebel!–you’ve helped that damned peddler to escape.”

“Jezebel back ag’in in your own teeth, and damned piddler too, Mr. Sargeant!” cried Betty, who was easily roused. “What have I to do with piddlers, or escapes? I might have been a piddler’s lady, and wore my silks, if I’d had Sawny M’Twill, instead of tagging at the heels of a parcel of dragooning rapscallions, who don’t know how to trate a lone body with dacency.”

“The fellow has left my Bible,” said the veteran, taking he book from the floor. “Instead of spending his time in reading it to prepare for his end like a good Christian, he has been busy in laboring to escape.”

“And who would stay and be hanged like a dog?” cried Betty, beginning to comprehend the case. “‘Tisn’t everyone that’s born to meet with sich an ind–like yourself, Mr. Hollister.”

“Silence!” said Dunwoodie. “This must be inquired into closely, gentlemen; there is no outlet but the door, and there he could not pass, unless the sentinel connived at his escape, or was asleep at his post. Call up the guard.”

As these men were not paraded, curiosity had already drawn them to the place, and they one and all, with the exception of him before mentioned, denied that any person had passed out. The individual in question acknowledged that Betty had gone by him, but pleaded his orders in justification.

“You lie, you t’ief–you lie!” shouted Betty, who had impatiently listened to his exculpation. “Would ye slanderize a lone woman, by saying she walks a camp at midnight? Here have I been slaping the long night, swaatly as the sucking babe.”

“Here, sir,” said the sergeant, turning respectfully to Dunwoodie, “is something written in my Bible that was not in it before; for having no family to record, I would not suffer any scribbling in the sacred book.”

One of the officers read aloud: “_These certify, that if suffered to get free, it is by God’s help alone, to whose divine aid I humbly riccommind myself. I’m forced to take the woman’s clothes, but in her pocket is a ricompinse. Witness my hand–Harvey Birch._”

“What!” roared Betty, “has the t’ief robbed a lone woman of her all! Hang him–catch him and hang him, major; if there’s law or justice in the land.”

“Examine your pocket,” said one of the youngsters, who was enjoying the scene, careless of the consequences.

“Ah! faith,” cried the washerwoman, producing a guinea, “but he is a jewel of a piddler! Long life and a brisk trade to him, say I; he is wilcome to the duds–and if he is ever hanged, many a bigger rogue will go free.”

Dunwoodie turned to leave the apartment, and he saw Captain Lawton standing with folded arms, contemplating the scene with profound silence. His manner, so different from his usual impetuosity and zeal, struck his commander as singular. Their eyes met, and they walked together for a few minutes in close conversation, when Dunwoodie returned, and dismissed the guard to their place of rendezvous. Sergeant Hollister, however, continued along with Betty, who, having found none of her vestments disturbed but such as the guinea more than paid for, was in high good humor. The washerwoman had for a long time looked on the veteran with the eyes of affection; and she had determined within herself to remove certain delicate objections which had long embarrassed her peculiar situation, as respected the corps, by making the sergeant the successor of her late husband. For some time past the trooper had seemed to flatter this preference; and Betty, conceiving that her violence might have mortified her suitor, was determined to make him all the amends in her power. Besides, rough and uncouth as she was, the washerwoman had still enough of her sex to know that the moments of reconciliation were the moments of power. She therefore poured out a glass of her morning beverage, and handed it to her companion as a peace offering.

“A few warm words between fri’nds are a trifle, ye must be knowing, sargeant,” said the washerwoman. “It was Michael Flanagan that I ever calumn’ated the most when I was loving him the best.”

“Michael was a good soldier and a brave man,” said the trooper, finishing the glass. “Our troop was covering the flank of his regiment when he fell, and I rode over his body myself during the day. Poor fellow! he lay on his back, and looked as composed as if he had died a natural death after a year’s consumption.”

“Oh! Michael was a great consumer, and be sartin; two such as us make dreadful inroads in the stock, sargeant. But ye’re a sober, discrate man, Mister Hollister, and would be a helpmate indeed.”

“Why, Mrs. Flanagan, I’ve tarried to speak on a subject that lies heavy at my heart, and I will now open my mind, if you’ve leisure to listen.”

“Is it listen?” cried the impatient woman; “and I’d listen to you, sargeant, if the officers never ate another mouthful. But take a second drop, dear; ’twill encourage you to spake freely.”

“I am already bold enough in so good a cause,” returned the veteran, rejecting her bounty. “Betty, do you think it was really the peddler spy that I placed in this room the last night?”

“And who should it be else, darling?”

“The evil one.”

“What, the divil?”

“Aye, even Beelzebub, disguised as the peddler; and them fellows we thought to be Skinners were his imps.”

“Well sure, sargeant dear, ye’re but little out this time, anyway; for if the divil’s imps go at large in the county Westchester, sure it is the Skinners, themselves.”

“Mrs. Flanagan, I mean in their incarnate spirits; the evil one knew there was no one we would arrest sooner than the peddler Birch, and he took on his appearance to gain admission to your room.”

“And what should the divil be wanting of me?” cried Betty, tartly. “And isn’t there divils enough in the corps already, without one’s coming from the bottomless pit to frighten a lone body?”

“‘Twas in mercy to you, Betty, that he was permitted to come. You see he vanished through the door in your form, which is a symbol of your fate, unless you mend your life. Oh! I noticed how he trembled when I gave him the good book. Would any Christian, think you, my dear Betty, write in a Bible in this way; unless it might be the matter of births and deaths, and such lawful chronicles?”

The washerwoman was pleased with the softness of her lover’s manner, but dreadfully scandalized at his insinuation. She, however, preserved her temper, and with the quickness of her own country’s people, rejoined, “And would the divil have paid for the clothes, think ye?–aye, and overpaid.”

“Doubtless the money is base,” said the sergeant, a little staggered at such an evidence of honesty in one of whom, as to generals, he thought so meanly. “He tempted me with his glittering coin, but the Lord gave me strength to resist.”

“The goold looks well; but I’ll change it, anyway, with Captain Jack, the day. He is niver a bit afeard of any divil of them all!”

“Betty, Betty,” said her companion, “do not speak so disreverently of the evil spirit; he is ever at hand, and will owe you a grudge, for your language.”

“Pooh! if he has any bowels at all, he won’t mind a fillip or two from a poor lone woman; I’m sure no other Christian would.”

“But the dark one has no bowels, except to devour the children of men,” said the sergeant, looking around him in horror; “and it’s best to make friends everywhere, for there is no telling what may happen till it comes. But, Betty, no man could have got out of this place, and passed all the sentinels, without being known. Take awful warning from the visit therefore–”

Here the dialogue was interrupted by a peremptory summons to the sutler to prepare the morning’s repast, and they were obliged to separate; the woman secretly hoping that the interest the sergeant manifested was more earthly than he imagined; and the man, bent on saving a soul from the fangs of the dark spirit that was prowling through their camp in quest of victims.

During the breakfast several expresses arrived, one of which brought intelligence of the actual force and destination of the enemy’s expedition that was out on the Hudson; and another, orders to send Captain Wharton to the first post above, under the escort of a body of dragoons. These last instructions, or rather commands, for they admitted of no departure from their letter, completed the sum of Dunwoodie’s uneasiness. The despair and misery of Frances were constantly before his eyes, and fifty times he was tempted to throw himself on his horse and gallop to the Locusts; but an uncontrollable feeling prevented. In obedience to the commands of his superior, an officer, with a small party, was sent to the cottage to conduct Henry Wharton to the place directed; and the gentleman who was intrusted with the execution of the order was charged with a letter from Dunwoodie to his friend, containing the most cheering assurances of his safety, as well as the strongest pledges of his own unceasing exertions in his favor. Lawton was left with part of his own troop, in charge of the few wounded; and as soon as the men were refreshed, the encampment broke up, the main body marching towards the Hudson. Dunwoodie repeated his injunctions to Captain Lawton again and again–dwelt on every word that had fallen from the peddler, and canvassed, in every possible manner that his ingenuity could devise, the probable meaning of his mysterious warnings, until no excuse remained for delaying his own departure. Suddenly recollecting, however, that no directions had been given for the disposal of Colonel Wellmere, instead of following the rear of the column, the major yielded to his desires, and turned down the road which led to the Locusts. The horse of Dunwoodie was fleet as the wind, and scarcely a minute seemed to have passed before he gained sight, from an eminence, of the lonely vale, and as he was plunging into the bottom lands that formed its surface, he caught a glimpse of Henry Wharton and his escort, at a distance, defiling through a pass which led to the posts above. This sight added to the speed of the anxious youth, who now turned the angle of the hill that opened to the valley, and came suddenly on the object of his search. Frances had followed the party which guarded her brother, at a distance; and as they vanished from her sight, she felt deserted by all that she most prized in this world. The unaccountable absence of Dunwoodie, with the shock of parting from Henry under such circumstances, had entirely subdued her fortitude, and she had sunk on a stone by the roadside, sobbing as if her heart would break. Dunwoodie sprang from his charger, threw the reins over the neck of the animal, and in a moment he was by the side of the weeping girl.

“Frances–my own Frances!” he exclaimed, “why this distress? Let not the situation of your brother create any alarm. As soon as the duty I am now on is completed, I will hasten to the feet of Washington, and beg his release. The Father of his Country will never deny such a boon to one of his favorite pupils.”

“Major Dunwoodie, for your interest in behalf of my poor brother, I thank you,” said the trembling girl, drying her eyes, and rising with dignity; “but such language addressed to me, surely, is improper.”

“Improper! are you not mine–by the consent of your father–your aunt–your brother–nay, by your own consent, my sweet Frances?”

“I wish not, Major Dunwoodie, to interfere with the prior claims that any other lady may have to your affections,” said Frances, struggling to speak with firmness.

“None other, I swear by Heaven, none other has any claim on me!” cried Dunwoodie, with fervor. “You alone are mistress of my inmost soul.”

“You have practiced so much, and so successfully, Major Dunwoodie, that it is no wonder you excel in deceiving the credulity of my sex,” returned Frances, attempting a smile, which the tremulousness of her muscles smothered at birth.

“Am I a villain, Miss Wharton, that you receive me with such language? When have I ever deceived you, Frances? Who has practiced in this manner on your purity of heart?”

“Why has not Major Dunwoodie honored the dwelling of his intended father with his presence lately? Did he forget it contained one friend on a bed of sickness, and another in deep distress? Has it escaped his memory that it held his intended wife? Or is he fearful of meeting more than one that can lay a claim to that title? Oh, Peyton–Peyton, how have I been deceived in you! With the foolish credulity of my youth, I thought you all that was brave, noble, generous, and loyal.”

“Frances, I see how you have deceived yourself,” cried Dunwoodie, his face in a glow of fire. “You do me injustice; I swear by all that is most dear to me, that you do me injustice.”

“Swear not, Major Dunwoodie,” interrupted Frances, her fine countenance lighting with the luster of womanly pride. “The time is gone by for me to credit oaths.”

“Miss Wharton, would you have me a coxcomb–make me contemptible in my own eyes, by boasting with the hope of raising myself in your estimation?”

“Flatter not yourself that the task is so easy, sir,” returned Frances, moving towards the cottage. “We converse together in private for the last time; but–possibly–my father would welcome my mother’s kinsman.”

“No, Miss Wharton, I cannot enter his dwelling now; I should act in a manner unworthy of myself. You drive me from you, Frances, in despair. I am going on desperate service, and may not live to return. Should fortune prove severe, at least do my memory justice; remember that the last breathings of my soul will be for your happiness.” So saying, he had already placed his foot in the stirrup, but his youthful mistress, turning on him an eye that pierced his soul, arrested the action.

“Peyton–Major Dunwoodie,” she said, “can you ever forget the sacred cause in which you are enlisted? Duty both to your God and to your country forbids your doing anything rashly. The latter has need of your services; besides”–but her voice became choked, and she was unable to proceed.

“Besides what?” echoed the youth, springing to her side, and offering to take her hand in his own. Frances having, however, recovered herself, coldly repulsed him, and continued her walk homeward.

“Is this our parting!” cried Dunwoodie, in agony. “Am I a wretch, that you treat me so cruelly? You have never loved me, and wish to conceal your own fickleness by accusations that you will not explain.”

Frances stopped short in her walk, and turned on him a look of so much purity and feeling, that, heart-stricken, Dunwoodie would have knelt at her feet for pardon; but motioning him for silence, she once more spoke:–

“Hear me, Major Dunwoodie, for the last time: it is a bitter knowledge when we first discover our own inferiority; but it is a truth that I have lately learned. Against you I bring no charges–make no accusations; no, not willingly in my thoughts. Were my claims to your heart just, I am not worthy of you. It is not a feeble, timid girl, like me, that could make you happy. No, Peyton, you are formed for great and glorious actions, deeds of daring and renown, and should be united to a soul like your own; one that can rise above the weakness of her sex. I should be a weight to drag you to the dust; but with a different spirit in your companion, you might soar to the very pinnacle of earthly glory. To such a one, therefore, I resign you freely, if not cheerfully; and pray, oh, how fervently do I pray! that with such a one you may be happy.”

“Lovely enthusiast!” cried Dunwoodie, “you know not yourself, nor me. It is a woman, mild, gentle, and dependent as yourself, that my very nature loves; deceive not yourself with visionary ideas of generosity, which will only make me miserable.”

“Farewell, Major Dunwoodie,” said the agitated girl, pausing for a moment to gasp for breath; “forget that you ever knew me–remember the claims of your bleeding country; and be happy.”

“Happy!” repeated the youthful soldier, bitterly, as he saw her light form gliding through the gate of the lawn, and disappearing behind its shrubbery, “Yes, I am happy, indeed!”

Throwing himself into the saddle, he plunged his spurs into his horse, and soon overtook his squadron, which was marching slowly over the hilly roads of the county, to gain the banks of the Hudson.

But painful as were the feelings of Dunwoodie at this unexpected termination of the interview with his mistress, they were but light compared with those which were experienced by the fond girl herself. Frances had, with the keen eye of jealous love, easily detected the attachment of Isabella Singleton to Dunwoodie. Delicate and retiring herself, it never could present itself to her mind that this love had been unsought. Ardent in her own affections, and artless in their exhibition, she had early caught the eye of the young soldier; but it required all the manly frankness of Dunwoodie to court her favor, and the most pointed devotion to obtain his conquest. This done, his power was durable, entire, and engrossing. But the unusual occurrences of the few preceding days, the altered mien of her lover during those events, his unwonted indifference to herself, and chiefly the romantic idolatry of Isabella, had aroused new sensations in her bosom. With a dread of her lover’s integrity had been awakened the never-failing concomitant of the purest affection, a distrust of her own merits. In the moment of enthusiasm, the task of resigning her lover to another, who might be more worthy of him, seemed easy; but it is in vain that the imagination attempts to deceive the heart. Dunwoodie had no sooner disappeared, than our heroine felt all the misery of her situation; and if the youth found some relief in the cares of his command, Frances was less fortunate in the performance of a duty imposed on her by filial piety. The removal of his son had nearly destroyed the little energy of Mr. Wharton, who required all the tenderness of his remaining children to convince him that he was able to perform the ordinary functions of life.

CHAPTER XX

Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces, Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces, That man who hath a tongue I say is no man, If with that tongue he cannot win a woman. –_Two Gentlemen of Verona_.

In making the arrangements by which Captain Lawton had been left, with Sergeant Hollister and twelve men, as a guard over the wounded, and heavy baggage of the corps, Dunwoodie had consulted not only the information which had been conveyed in the letter of Colonel Singleton, but the bruises of his comrade’s body. In vain Lawton declared himself fit for any duty that man could perform, or plainly intimated that his men would never follow Tom Mason to a charge with the alacrity and confidence with which they followed himself; his commander was firm, and the reluctant captain was compelled to comply with as good a grace as he could assume. Before parting, Dunwoodie repeated his caution to keep a watchful eye on the inmates of the cottage; and especially enjoined him, if any movements of a particularly suspicious nature were seen in the neighborhood, to break up from his present quarters, and to move down with his party, and take possession of the domains of Mr. Wharton. A vague suspicion of danger to the family had been awakened in the breast of the major, by the language of the peddler, although he was unable to refer it to any particular source, or to understand why it was to be apprehended.

For some time after the departure of the troops, the captain was walking before the door of the “Hotel,” inwardly cursing his fate, that condemned him to an inglorious idleness, at a moment when a meeting with the enemy might be expected, and replying to the occasional queries of Betty, who, from the interior of the building, ever and anon demanded, in a high tone of voice, an explanation of various passages in the peddler’s escape, which as yet she could not comprehend. At this instant he was joined by the surgeon, who had hitherto been engaged among his patients in a distant building, and was profoundly ignorant of everything that had occurred, even to the departure of the troops.

“Where are all the sentinels, John?” he inquired, as he gazed around with a look of curiosity, “and why are you here alone?”

“Off–all off, with Dunwoodie, to the river. You and I are left here to take care of a few sick men and some women.”

“I am glad, however,” said the surgeon, “that Major Dunwoodie had consideration enough not to move the wounded. Here, you Mrs. Elizabeth Flanagan, hasten with some food, that I may appease my appetite. I have a dead body to dissect and am in haste.”

“And here, you Mister Doctor Archibald Sitgreaves,” echoed Betty, showing her blooming countenance from a broken window of the kitchen, “you are ever a-coming too late; here is nothing to ate but the skin of Jenny, and the body ye’re mentioning.”

“Woman!” said the surgeon, in anger, “do you take me for a cannibal, that you address your filthy discourse to me, in this manner? I bid you hasten with such food as may be proper to be received into the stomach fasting.”

“And I’m sure it’s for a popgun that I should be taking you sooner than for a cannon ball,” said Betty, winking at the captain; “and I tell ye that it’s fasting you must be, unless ye’ll let me cook ye a steak from the skin of Jenny. The boys have ate me up intirely.”

Lawton now interfered to preserve the peace, and assured the surgeon that he had already dispatched the proper persons in quest of food for the party. A little mollified with this explanation, the operator soon forgot his hunger, and declared his intention of proceeding to business at once.

“And where is your subject?” asked Lawton.

“The peddler,” said the other, glancing a look at the signpost. “I made Hollister put a stage so high that the neck would not be dislocated by the fall, and I intend making as handsome a skeleton of him as there is in the states of North America; the fellow has good points, and his bones are well knit. I will make a perfect beauty of him. I have long been wanting something of this sort to send as a present to my old aunt in Virginia, who was so kind to me when a boy.”

“The devil!” cried Lawton. “Would you send the old woman a dead man’s bones?”

“Why not?” said the surgeon. “What nobler object is there in nature than the figure of a man–and the skeleton may be called his elementary parts. But what has been done with the body?”

“Off too.”

“Off! And who has dared to interfere with my perquisites?”

“Sure, jist the divil,” said Betty; “and who’ll be taking yeerself away some of these times too, without asking yeer lave.”

“Silence, you witch!” said Lawton, with difficulty suppressing a laugh. “Is this the manner in which to address an officer?”

“Who called me the filthy Elizabeth Flanagan?” cried the washerwoman, snapping her fingers contemptuously. “I can remimber a frind for a year and don’t forgit an inimy for a month.”

But the friendship or enmity of Mrs. Flanagan was alike indifferent to the surgeon, who could think of nothing but his loss; and Lawton was obliged to explain to his friend the apparent manner in which it had happened.

“And a lucky escape it was for ye, my jewel of a doctor,” cried Betty, as the captain concluded. “Sargeant Hollister, who saw him face to face, as it might be, says it’s Beelzeboob, and no piddler, unless it may be in a small matter of lies and thefts, and sich wickedness. Now a pretty figure ye would have been in cutting up Beelzeboob, if the major had hanged him. I don’t think it’s very ‘asy he would have been under yeer knife.”

Thus doubly disappointed in his meal and his business, Sitgreaves suddenly declared his intention of visiting the Locusts, and inquiring into the state of Captain Singleton. Lawton was ready for the excursion; and mounting, they were soon on the road, though the surgeon was obliged to submit to a few more jokes from the washerwoman, before he could get out of hearing. For some time the two rode in silence, when Lawton, perceiving that his companion’s temper was somewhat ruffled by his disappointments and Betty’s attack, made an effort to restore the tranquillity of his feelings.

“That was a charming song, Archibald, that you commenced last evening, when we were interrupted by the party that brought in the peddler,” he said. “The allusion to Galen was much to the purpose.”

“I knew you would like it, Jack, when you had got the fumes of the wine out of your head. Poetry is a respectable art, though it wants the precision of the exact sciences, and the natural beneficence of the physical. Considered in reference to the wants of life, I should define poetry as an emollient, rather than as a succulent.”

“And yet your ode was full of the meat of wit.”

“Ode is by no means a proper term for the composition; I should term it a classical ballad.”

“Very probably,” said the trooper. “Hearing only one verse, it was difficult to class the composition.”

The surgeon involuntarily hemmed, and began to clear his throat, although scarcely conscious himself to what the preparation tended. But the captain, rolling his dark eyes towards his companion, and observing him to be sitting with great uneasiness on his horse, continued,–

“The air is still, and the road solitary–why not give the remainder? It is never too late to repair a loss.”

“My dear John, if I thought it would correct the errors you have imbibed, from habit and indulgence, nothing could give me more pleasure.”

“We are fast approaching some rocks on our left; the echo will double my satisfaction.”

Thus encouraged, and somewhat impelled by the opinion that he both sang and wrote with taste, the surgeon set about complying with the request in sober earnest. Some little time was lost in clearing his throat, and getting the proper pitch of his voice; but no sooner were these two points achieved, than Lawton had the secret delight of hearing his friend commence–

“‘Hast thou ever'”–

“Hush!” interrupted the trooper. “What rustling noise is that among the rocks?”

“It must have been the rushing of the melody. A powerful voice is like the breathing of the winds.

“‘Hast thou ever'”–

“Listen!” said Lawton, stopping his horse. He had not done speaking, when a stone fell at his feet, and rolled harmlessly across the path.

“A friendly shot, that,” cried the trooper. “Neither the weapon, nor its force, implies much ill will.”

“Blows from stones seldom produce more than contusions,” said the operator, bending his gaze in every direction in vain, in quest of the hand from which the missile had been hurled. “It must be meteoric; there is no living being in sight, except ourselves.”

“It would be easy to hide a regiment behind those rocks,” returned the trooper, dismounting, and taking the stone in his hand. “Oh! here is the explanation along with the mystery.” So saying, he tore a piece of paper that had been ingeniously fastened to the small fragment of rock which had thus singularly fallen before him; and opening it, the captain read the following words, written in no very legible hand: “_A musket bullet will go farther than a stone, and things more dangerous than yarbs for wounded men lie hid in the rocks of Westchester. The horse may be good, but can he mount a precipice?_”

“Thou sayest the truth, strange man,” said Lawton. “Courage and activity would avail but little against assassination and these rugged passes.” Remounting his horse, he cried aloud, “Thanks, unknown friend; your caution will be remembered.”

A meager hand was extended for an instant over a rock, in the air, and afterwards nothing further was seen, or heard, in that quarter, by the soldiers.

“Quite an extraordinary interruption,” said the astonished Sitgreaves, “and a letter of very mysterious meaning.”

“Oh! ’tis nothing but the wit of some bumpkin, who thinks to frighten two of the Virginians by an artifice of this kind,” said the trooper, placing the billet in his pocket. “But let me tell you, Mr. Archibald Sitgreaves, you were wanting to dissect, just now, a damned honest fellow.”

“It was the peddler–one of the most notorious spies in the enemy’s service; and I must say that I think it would be an honor to such a man to be devoted to the uses of science.”

“He may be a spy–he must be one,” said Lawton, musing; “but he has a heart above enmity, and a soul that would honor a soldier.”

The surgeon turned a vacant eye on his companion as he uttered this soliloquy, while the penetrating looks of the trooper had already discovered another pile of rocks, which, jutting forward, nearly obstructed the highway that wound directly around its base.

“What the steed cannot mount, the foot of man can overcome,” exclaimed the wary partisan. Throwing himself again from his saddle, and leaping a wall of stone, he began to ascend the hill at a pace which would soon have given him a bird’s-eye view of the rocks in question, together with all their crevices. This movement was no sooner made, than Lawton caught a glimpse of the figure of a man stealing rapidly from his approach, and disappearing on the opposite side of the precipice.

“Spur, Sitgreaves–spur,” shouted the trooper, dashing over every impediment in pursuit, “and murder the villain as he flies.”

The former part of the request was promptly complied with, and a few moments brought the surgeon in full view of a man armed with a musket, who was crossing the road, and evidently seeking the protection of the thick wood on its opposite side.

“Stop, my friend–stop until Captain Lawton comes up, if you please,” cried the surgeon, observing him to flee with a rapidity that baffled his horsemanship. But as if the invitation contained new terrors, the footman redoubled his efforts, nor paused even to breathe, until he had reached his goal, when, turning on his heel, he discharged his musket towards the surgeon, and was out of sight in an instant. To gain the highway, and throw himself into his saddle, detained Lawton but a moment, and he rode to the side of his comrade just as the figure disappeared.

“Which way has he fled?” cried the trooper.

“John,” said the surgeon, “am I not a noncombatant?”

“Whither has the rascal fled?” cried Lawton, impatiently.

“Where you cannot follow–into that wood. But I repeat, John, am I not a noncombatant?”

The disappointed trooper, perceiving that his enemy had escaped him, now turned his eyes, which were flashing with anger, upon his comrade, and gradually his muscles lost their rigid compression, his brow relaxed, and his look changed from its fierce expression, to the covert laughter which so often distinguished his countenance. The surgeon sat in dignified composure on his horse; his thin body erect, and his head elevated with the indignation of one conscious of having been unjustly treated.

“Why did you suffer the villain to escape?” demanded the captain. “Once within reach of my saber, and I would have given you a subject for the dissecting table.”

“‘Twas impossible to prevent it,” said the surgeon, pointing to the bars, before which he had stopped his horse. “The rogue threw himself on the other side of this fence, and left me where you see; nor would the man in the least attend to my remonstrances, or to an intimation that you wished to hold discourse with him.”

“He was truly a discourteous rascal; but why did you not leap the fence, and compel him to a halt? You see but three of the bars are up, and Betty Flanagan could clear them on her cow.”

The surgeon, for the first time, withdrew his eyes from the place where the fugitive had disappeared, and turned his look on his comrade. His head, however, was not permitted to lower itself in the least, as he replied,–

“I humbly conceive, Captain Lawton, that neither Mrs. Elizabeth Flanagan, nor her cow, is an example to be emulated by Doctor Archibald Sitgreaves. It would be but a sorry compliment to science, to say that a doctor of medicine had fractured both his legs by injudiciously striking them against a pair of barposts.” While speaking, the surgeon raised the limbs in question to a nearly horizontal position, an attitude which really appeared to bid defiance to anything like a passage for himself through the defile; but the trooper, disregarding this ocular proof of the impossibility of the movement, cried hastily,–

“Here was nothing to stop you, man; I could leap a platoon through, boot and thigh, without pricking with a single spur. Pshaw! I have often charged upon the bayonets of infantry, over greater difficulties than this.”

“You will please to remember, Captain John Lawton, that I am not the riding master of the regiment–nor a drill sergeant–nor a crazy cornet; no, sir–and I speak it with a due respect for the commission of the Continental Congress–nor an inconsiderate captain, who regards his own life as little as that of his enemies. I am only, sir, a poor humble man of letters, a mere doctor of medicine, an unworthy graduate of Edinburgh, and a surgeon of dragoons; nothing more, I do assure you, Captain John Lawton.” So saying, he turned his horse’s head towards the cottage, and recommenced his ride.

“Aye, you speak the truth,” muttered the dragoon. “Had I but the meanest rider of my troop with me, I should have taken the scoundrel, and given at least one victim to the laws. But, Archibald, no man can ride well who straddles in this manner like the Colossus of Rhodes. You should depend less on your stirrup, and keep your seat by the power of the knee.”

“With proper deference to your experience, Captain Lawton,” returned the surgeon, “I conceive myself to be no incompetent judge of muscular action, whether in the knee, or in any other part of the human frame. And although but humbly educated, I am not now to learn that the wider the base, the more firm is the superstructure.”

“Would you fill a highway, in this manner, with one pair of legs, when half a dozen might pass together in comfort, stretching them abroad like the scythes of the ancient chariot wheels?”

The allusion to the practice of the ancients somewhat softened the indignation of the surgeon, and he replied, with rather less hauteur,–

“You should speak with reverence of the usages of those who have gone before us, and who, however ignorant they were in matters of science, and particularly that of surgery, yet furnished many brilliant hints to our own improvements. Now, sir, I have no doubt that Galen has operated on wounds occasioned by these very scythes that you mention, although we can find no evidence of the fact in contemporary writers. Ah! they must have given dreadful injuries, and, I doubt not, caused great uneasiness to the medical gentlemen of that day.”

“Occasionally a body must have been left in two pieces, to puzzle the ingenuity of those gentry to unite. Yet, venerable and learned as they were, I doubt not they did it.”

“What! unite two parts of the human body, that have been severed by an edged instrument, to any of the purposes of animal life?”

“That have been rent asunder by a scythe, and are united to do military duty,” said Lawton.

“‘Tis impossible–quite impossible,” cried the surgeon. “It is in vain, Captain Lawton, that human ingenuity endeavors to baffle the efforts of nature. Think, my dear sir; in this case you separate all the arteries–injure all of the intestines–sever all of the nerves and sinews, and, what is of more consequence, you–”

“You have said enough, Dr. Sitgreaves, to convince a member of a rival school. Nothing shall ever tempt me willingly to submit to be divided in this irretrievable manner.”

“Certes, there is little pleasure in a wound which, from its nature, is incurable.”

“I should think so,” said Lawton, dryly.

“What do you think is the greatest pleasure in life?” asked the operator suddenly.

“That must greatly depend on taste.”

“Not at all,” cried the surgeon; “it is in witnessing, or rather feeling, the ravages of disease repaired by the lights of science cooperating with nature. I once broke my little finger intentionally, in order that I might reduce the fracture and watch the cure: it was only on a small scale, you know, dear John; still the thrilling sensation excited by the knitting of the bone, aided by the contemplation of the art of man thus acting in unison with nature, exceeded any other enjoyment that I have ever experienced. Now, had it been one of the more important members, such as the leg, or arm, how much greater must the pleasure have been!”

“Or the neck,” said the trooper; but their desultory discourse was interrupted by their arrival at the cottage of Mr. Wharton. No one appearing to usher them into an apartment, the captain proceeded to the door of the parlor, where he knew visitors were commonly received. On opening it, he paused for a moment, in admiration at the scene within. The person of Colonel Wellmere first met his eye, bending towards the figure of the blushing Sarah, with an earnestness of manner that prevented the noise of Lawton’s entrance from being heard by either of the parties. Certain significant signs which were embraced at a glance by the prying gaze of the trooper, at once made him a master of their secret; and he was about to retire as silently as he had advanced, when his companion, pushing himself through the passage, abruptly entered the room. Advancing instantly to the chair of Wellmere, the surgeon instinctively laid hold of his arm, and exclaimed,–

“Bless me!–a quick and irregular pulse–flushed cheek and fiery eye–strong febrile symptoms, and such as must be attended to.” While speaking, the doctor, who was much addicted to practicing in a summary way,–a weakness of most medical men in military practice,–had already produced his lancet, and was making certain other indications of his intentions to proceed at once to business. But Colonel Wellmere, recovering from the confusion of the surprise, arose from his seat haughtily, and said,–

“Sir, it is the warmth of the room that lends me the color, and I am already too much indebted to your skill to give you any further trouble. Miss Wharton knows that I am quite well, and I do assure you that I never felt better or happier in my life.”

There was a peculiar emphasis on the latter part of this speech, that, however it might gratify the feelings of Sarah, brought the color to her cheeks again; and Sitgreaves, as his eye followed the direction of those of his patient, did not fail to observe it.

“Your arm, if you please, madam,” said the surgeon, advancing with a bow. “Anxiety and watching have done their work on your delicate frame, and there are symptoms about you that must not be neglected.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Sarah, recovering herself with womanly pride; “the heat is oppressive, and I will retire and acquaint Miss Peyton with your presence.”

There was but little difficulty in practicing on the abstracted simplicity of the surgeon; but it was necessary for Sarah to raise her eyes to return the salutation of Lawton, as he bowed his head nearly to a level with the hand that held open the door for her passage. One look was sufficient; she was able to control her steps sufficiently to retire with dignity; but no sooner was she relieved from the presence of all observers, than she fell into a chair and abandoned herself to a feeling of mingled shame and pleasure.

A little nettled at the contumacious deportment of the British colonel, Sitgreaves, after once more tendering services that were again rejected, withdrew to the chamber of young Singleton, whither Lawton had already preceded him.

CHAPTER XXI

Oh! Henry, when thou deign’st to sue, Can I thy suit withstand?
When thou, loved youth, hast won my heart, Can I refuse my hand?
–_Hermit of Warkevorth._

The graduate of Edinburgh found his patient rapidly improving in health, and entirely free from fever. His sister, with a cheek that was, if possible, paler than on her arrival, watched around his couch with tender care; and the ladies of the cottage had not, in the midst of their sorrows and varied emotions, forgotten to discharge the duties of hospitality. Frances felt herself impelled towards their disconsolate guest, with an interest for which she could not account, and with a force that she could not control. She had unconsciously connected the fates of Dunwoodie and Isabella in her imagination, and she felt, with the romantic ardor of a generous mind, that she was serving her former lover most by exhibiting kindness to her he loved best. Isabella received her attentions with gratitude, but neither of them indulged in any allusions to the latent source of their uneasiness. The observation of Miss Peyton seldom penetrated beyond things that were visible, and to her the situation of Henry Wharton seemed to furnish an awful excuse for the fading cheeks and tearful eyes of her niece. If Sarah manifested less of care than her sister, still the unpracticed aunt was not at a loss to comprehend the reason. Love is a holy feeling with the virtuous of the female sex, and it hallows all that come within its influence. Although Miss Peyton mourned with sincerity over the danger which threatened her nephew, she well knew that an active campaign was not favorable to love, and the moments that were thus accidentally granted were not to be thrown away.

Several days now passed without any interruption of the usual avocations of the inhabitants of the cottage, or the party at the Four Corners. The former were supporting their fortitude with the certainty of Henry’s innocence, and a strong reliance on Dunwoodie’s exertions in his behalf, and the latter waiting with impatience the intelligence, that was hourly expected, of a conflict, and their orders to depart. Captain Lawton, however, waited for both these events in vain. Letters from the major announced that the enemy, finding that the party which was to coöperate with them had been defeated, and was withdrawn, had retired also behind the works of Fort Washington, where they continued inactive, threatening constantly to strike a blow in revenge for their disgrace. The trooper was enjoined to vigilance, and the letter concluded with a compliment to his honor, zeal, and undoubted bravery.

“Extremely flattering, Major Dunwoodie,” muttered the dragoon, as he threw down this epistle, and stalked across the floor to quiet his impatience. “A proper guard have you selected for this service: let me see–I have to watch over the interests of a crazy, irresolute old man, who does not know whether he belongs to us or to the enemy; four women, three of whom are well enough in themselves, but who are not immensely flattered by my society; and the fourth, who, good as she is, is on the wrong side of forty; some two or three blacks; a talkative housekeeper, that does nothing but chatter about gold and despisables, and signs and omens; and poor George Singleton. Well, a comrade in suffering has a claim on a man,–so I’ll make the best of it.”

As he concluded this soliloquy, the trooper took a seat and began to whistle, to convince himself how little he cared about the matter, when, by throwing his booted leg carelessly round, he upset the canteen that held his whole stock of brandy. The accident was soon repaired, but in replacing the wooden vessel, he observed a billet lying on the bench, on which the liquor had been placed. It was soon opened, and he read: _”The moon will not rise till after midnight–a fit time for deeds of darkness.”_ There was no mistaking the hand; it was clearly the same that had given him the timely warning against assassination, and the trooper continued, for a long time, musing on the nature of these two notices, and the motives that could induce the peddler to favor an implacable enemy in the manner that he had latterly done. That he was a spy of the enemy, Lawton knew; for the fact of his conveying intelligence to the English commander in chief, of a party of Americans that were exposed to the enemy was proved most clearly against him on the trial for his life. The consequences of his treason had been avoided, it is true, by a lucky order from Washington, which withdrew the regiment a short time before the British appeared to cut it off, but still the crime was the same. “Perhaps,” thought the partisan, “he wishes to make a friend of me against the event of another capture; but, at all events, he spared my life on one occasion, and saved it on another. I will endeavor to be as generous as himself, and pray that my duty may never interfere with my feelings.”

Whether the danger, intimated in the present note, threatened the cottage or his own party, the captain was uncertain; but he inclined to the latter opinion, and determined to beware how he rode abroad in the dark. To a man in a peaceable country, and in times of quiet and order, the indifference with which the partisan regarded the impending danger would be inconceivable. His reflections on the subject were more directed towards devising means to entrap his enemies, than to escape their machinations. But the arrival of the surgeon, who had been to pay his daily visit to the Locusts, interrupted his meditations. Sitgreaves brought an invitation from the mistress of the mansion to Captain Lawton, desiring that the cottage might be honored with his presence at an early hour on that evening.

“Ha!” cried the trooper; “then they have received a letter also.”

“I think nothing more probable,” said the surgeon. “There is a chaplain at the cottage from the royal army, who has come out to exchange the British wounded, and who has an order from Colonel Singleton for their delivery. But a more mad project than to remove them now was never adopted.”

“A priest, say you!–is he a hard drinker–a real camp-idler–a fellow to breed a famine in a regiment? Or does he seem a man who is earnest in his trade?”

“A very respectable and orderly gentleman, and not unreasonably given to intemperance, judging from the outward symptoms,” returned the surgeon; “and a man who really says grace in a very regular and appropriate manner.”

“And does he stay the night?”

“Certainly, he waits for his cartel; but hasten, John, we have but little time to waste. I will just step up and bleed two or three of the Englishmen who are to move in the morning, in order to anticipate inflammation, and be with you immediately.”

The gala suit of Captain Lawton was easily adjusted to his huge frame, and his companion being ready, they once more took their route towards the cottage. Roanoke had been as much benefited by a few days’ rest as his master; and Lawton ardently wished, as he curbed his gallant steed, on passing the well-remembered rocks, that his treacherous enemy stood before him, mounted and armed as himself. But no enemy, nor any disturbance whatever, interfered with their progress, and they reached the Locusts just as the sun was throwing his setting rays on the valley, and tingeing the tops of the leafless trees with gold. It never required more than a single look to acquaint the trooper with the particulars of every scene that was not uncommonly veiled, and the first survey that he took on entering the house told him more than the observations of a day had put into the possession of Doctor Sitgreaves. Miss Peyton accosted him with a smiling welcome, that exceeded the bounds of ordinary courtesy and which evidently flowed more from feelings that were connected with the heart, than from manner. Frances glided about, tearful and agitated, while Mr. Wharton stood ready to receive them, decked in a suit of velvet that would have been conspicuous in the gayest drawing-room. Colonel Wellmere was in the uniform of an officer of the household troops of his prince, and Isabella Singleton sat in the parlor, clad in the habiliments of joy, but with a countenance that belied her appearance; while her brother by her side looked, with a cheek of flitting color, and an eye of intense interest, like anything but an invalid. As it was the third day that he had left his room, Dr. Sitgreaves, who began to stare about him in stupid wonder, forgot to reprove his patient for imprudence. Into this scene Captain Lawton moved with all the composure and gravity of a man whose nerves were not easily discomposed by novelties. His compliments were received as graciously as they were offered, and after exchanging a few words with the different individuals present, he approached the surgeon, who had withdrawn, in a kind of confused astonishment, to rally his senses.

“John,” whispered the surgeon, with awakened curiosity, “what means this festival?”

“That your wig and my black head would look the better for a little of Betty Flanagan’s flour; but it is too late now, and we must fight the battle armed as you see.”

“Observe, here comes the army chaplain in his full robes, as a Doctor Divinitatis; what can it mean?”

“An exchange,” said the trooper. “The wounded of Cupid are to meet and settle their accounts with the god, in the way of plighting faith to suffer from his archery no more.”

The surgeon laid a finger on the side of his nose, and he began to comprehend the case.

“Is it not a crying shame, that a sunshine hero, and an enemy, should thus be suffered to steal away one of the fairest plants that grow in our soil,” muttered Lawton; “a flower fit to be placed in the bosom of any man!”

“If he be not more accommodating as a husband than as a patient, John, I fear me that the lady will lead a troubled life.”

“Let her,” said the trooper, indignantly; “she has chosen from her country’s enemies, and may she meet with a foreigner’s virtues in her choice.”

Further conversation was interrupted by Miss Peyton, who, advancing, acquainted them that they had been invited to grace the nuptials of her eldest niece and Colonel Wellmere. The gentlemen bowed; and the good aunt, with an inherent love of propriety, went on to add, that the acquaintance was of an old date, and the attachment by no means a sudden thing. To this Lawton merely bowed still more ceremoniously; but the surgeon, who loved to hold converse with the virgin, replied,–

“That the human mind was differently constituted in different individuals. In some, impressions are vivid and transitory; in others, more deep and lasting: indeed, there are some philosophers who pretend to trace a connection between the physical and mental powers of the animal; but, for my part, madam, I believe that the one is much influenced by habit and association, and the other subject altogether to the peculiar laws of matter.”

Miss Peyton, in her turn, bowed her silent assent to this remark, and retired with dignity, to usher the intended bride into the presence of the company. The hour had arrived when American custom has decreed that the vows of wedlock must be exchanged; and Sarah, blushing with a variety of emotions, followed her aunt to the drawing-room. Wellmere sprang to receive the hand that, with an averted face, she extended towards him, and, for the first time, the English colonel appeared fully conscious of the important part that he was to act in the approaching ceremony. Hitherto his air had been abstracted, and his manner uneasy; but everything, excepting the certainty of his bliss, seemed to vanish at the blaze of loveliness that now burst on his sight. All arose from their seats, and the reverend gentleman had already opened the sacred volume, when the absence of Frances was noticed! Miss Peyton withdrew in search of her youngest niece, whom she found in her own apartment, and in tears.

“Come, my love, the ceremony waits but for us,” said the aunt, affectionately entwining her arm in that of her niece. “Endeavor to