But at this point Clifford Owen went quickly to his sister's side, and faced Mr. Owen boldly.

"Of what do you accuse my sister, sir?" he asked. "Hath she not just said the wagon contained stores for our soldiers?"

"Yes, lad; but it also contains many pounds of goods which are illegal to bring to thy soldiers."

"And if it does contain such articles she knows naught of how they came there," spoke the youth wrathfully, his face white with anger. "We are not traders, sir. Harriet would not stoop to smuggle goods here. Why do you not ask the driver concerning the matter?"

"He hath disappeared, Clifford. I pray thee to permit thy sister to answer for herself." Mr. Owen spoke with great mildness but none the less firmly.

Harriet's face became pale as he turned toward her. Her gaze clung to his as though fascinated.

"What did you find, Cousin David?" she half whispered.

"A false bottom in the wagon, together with false sides, which gave the vehicle capacity for five hundred pounds of contraband goods," he told her.

"Truly?" she cried, sitting bolt upright. Her wonder and amaze were such that none could doubt her sincerity. "Why, they did not tell me about that. Truly, truly, Cousin David, I knew naught about that."

Was there the slightest emphasis on the "that"? Peggy asked the question of herself almost unconsciously. She glanced at the others. The faces of her father and Robert Dale were glowing with relief and satisfaction. Clifford's belligerent attitude had relaxed slightly at his sister's declaration. John Drayton's glance alone met hers with understanding.

"I believe thee, lass," cried Mr. Owen heartily. "Robert here would have it that thee knew naught of the matter. Thee understands that 'twas my duty to probe the affair."

"Why, it's all right, Cousin David," she returned sweetly. "You had to do your duty, of course, and there's no harm done. And I thank you, Major Dale, for your belief in me. I shall never forget it." The tears came into her lovely eyes as she spoke, making them lovelier than ever.

"I knew that you would not be guilty of such a thing," exclaimed Robert Dale fervently.

"And now let's go home for dinner, and forget all about this little unpleasantness," exclaimed Mr. Owen. "Clifford, lad, we can't leave thee here. My wife will not forgive us if we do so."

Again Clifford's lips set in an obstinate line, but Drayton spoke quickly:

"Captain Williams, I know how it irks you to be obliged to give me your parole; so, if you will go with Mr. Owen, or the major here, to General Hazen, he will receive your parole."

For a moment Clifford struggled with himself. Then he said, and the effort it cost him was plainly visible:

"I can be as generous as you, sir. I give you my word of honor that I will make no attempt to escape while I am at large."

"Thank you," said Drayton simply. "You are at liberty to go with your relatives, sir."

Peggy lingered for a second behind the others.

"Isn't thee coming too, John?" she asked.

"Not to-day, Peggy. Clifford will enjoy it more if I am not there. Odds life! he did well to give that parole. He deserves to have one day free of me. But, Peggy, I'll come out to-night, if I may. And don't worry about that wagon. I'll take it in hand while your father is not here."

"Was there anything else contraband in the wagon, John?" she queried anxiously that evening when the two found themselves alone on the piazza.

"Yes. The quartermaster was about to turn it over to Major Gordon when I told him I would take another look through the contents. Peggy, in a barrel of vinegar was a water tight cask just filled with goods. That slight emphasis on 'that' lost the British a pretty penny. I was alone when 'twas found, Peggy, so that no one knows about it but us two. We won't let your father, her brother, or Dale know about it. They all believe in her so, and I owe her something for what she did for me at Yorktown."

"Perchance she really does not know any more about this than she did about the false bottom to the wagon, John."

"It may be, Peggy. We will give her the benefit of the doubt, but it does look suspicious. She is not so high minded as her brother is."

"John!" Peggy hesitated and then spoke quickly: "Thee knows how proud I am of her, and that I am fond of her. She is so beautiful and brilliant that I cannot help but be glad when she is with us. But there is always an uneasy feeling too. Is there any mischief to the cause that could be done here?"

"No," he answered emphatically. "Aside from bringing in goods for the illicit trade there is but one thing that could be done now, Peggy, and that thing Harriet will never do. 'Twould be to peddle those illegal goods to the country folk about here. Harriet won't do that, Peggy."

"No, she would not do that," agreed Peggy.

"Then set your mind at rest concerning her. We have the goods which she was sent to bring. She will never know that all have been found; so there is mutual satisfaction on both sides. If you can get any enjoyment out of her presence, Peggy, do so."

"Thank thee, John. Thee has set my mind completely at rest," said Peggy.



CHAPTER XXI

CHOSEN BY LOT

"Sound to arms! Call in the captains,— I would speak with them! Now, Hope! away,—and welcome gallant Death!"

—"Cataline," Croly.

Enjoy Harriet's presence Peggy did. Never had the English maiden been more charming. Her vivacity, her endless sallies of wit and humor, and her unfailing store of anecdotes rendered her irresistible. Peggy had always been her mother's assistant in the household but now, quite to the amazement of both mother and daughter, Harriet insisted upon helping.

"I have been a guest long enough," she laughingly protested in answer to Mrs. Owen's remonstrance. "Father declares that you are an excellent housewife, madam my cousin. He would be pleased indeed to have me learn of you. Beside," she added with a most charming blush, "I dare say that I shall have a house of my own to look after some day; so 'tis quite time that I knew something of housewifery."

And marveling greatly at this change in the once indolent Harriet, Mrs. Owen took the girl forthwith under her wing, and spent long hours instructing her in the mysteries of housekeeping. But the time was not all devoted to labor. There were lighter hours in which the maidens took daily rides. There was also much dining about among the officers, their families, and the neighboring gentry of the town and neighborhood. As the weather became warmer picnics followed in the near-by woods, so that there was no lack of diversion. In these pastimes Clifford was an almost constant attendant. Mr. and Mrs. Owen had pressed him to become an inmate of their home, which, being on parole, he was at liberty to do, and he had accepted. The young people made a lively household, and it seemed to Peggy that it was the happiest time that she had enjoyed since the long, grim, weary years of fighting had begun. So the days sped pleasantly and May passed, and June with all its riotousness of roses was upon them.

One warm June morning the family gathered in the pleasant, low-ceiled dining-room for breakfast. Harriet, attired in a wash dress well covered by a vast apron, flushed and rosy, stood at the head of the table.

"I have cooked every bit of the breakfast myself," she declared proudly. "Cousin David, if you and Clifford don't do justice to it I shall take it as a personal affront."

"No wonder the breakfast is an hour late," murmured Clifford to Peggy as they sat down. "I do think she might have invited Major Dale, or that Yankee captain, instead of making us her victims."

"Clifford!" pouted his sister. "You are really trying. Madam my cousin hath said that I can bake and brew almost equal to Peggy, so you will have no need of simples after eating. Now does not that strawberry tart look tempting?"

"It does indeed, lass," observed Mr. Owen. "Peggy will have to look to her laurels if you can get up such a meal as this. Come, come, Clifford! the proof of the pudding lies in the eating. Fall to, lad!"

"My death will be upon your head, Harriet," observed her brother with such a sigh of resignation that Peggy could not help but laugh. "I do wish John Drayton were here."

So with jest and laughter the family lingered over the meal, as if loath to make further exertion in the growing heat. In the midst of the cheer the knocker sounded, and, as though in answer to Clifford's wish, the door swung back quietly, and John Drayton entered. Peggy sprang up at sight of him.

"Thee is just in time, John," she cried gaily. "Clifford was just wishing for thee. I'll lay a plate for thee."

"Clifford?" Drayton's tones were filled with astonishment.

There had been a sort of tacit truce established between the young fellows, but the feeling between them was such that for either to express desire for the other's company was cause for wonderment.

"Strange, is't not?" queried Clifford dryly. The insolence which he could not keep out of his voice whenever he addressed Drayton crept into it now. "You see, sir, my sister hath cooked this meal, and I was wishing for other victims than Cousin David and myself."

"Knowing to whom Miss Harriet is indebted for her knowledge of cookery I have no fears regarding results," remarked Drayton, with a slight bow in Mrs. Owen's direction. "Miss Harriet, that strawberry tart looks enticing. I should be obliged for a liberal helping."

Clifford flushed angrily at Drayton's words, but he had the grace to refrain from further remark. After all Captain Drayton ate but little. He trifled with the food, and was distrait and plainly ill at ease. Usually he enjoyed a tilt of words with Clifford, but after the first crossing of lances he said but little.

The meal was over at length, and Drayton faced them as he rose from the table.

"I have a most painful duty to perform," he said unsteadily. "I feel like a thief in the night sitting here listening to your innocent mirth, knowing what I must do."

"What is it, John?" asked Mr. Owen, as they all turned wonderingly toward the captain startled by his seriousness. "We know," he continued kindly, "that thou wouldst do naught that would be disagreeable for any of us were it not in the line of duty. Speak out, lad."

"I am come to take Clifford back to the barracks," spoke Drayton, unconsciously using Clifford's given name.

"But why?" asked Clifford quickly. "I have passed my word not to try to escape. And I am 'Clifford,' sir, only to my friends."

"I beg your pardon, Captain Williams," spoke Drayton courteously. "I spoke without thinking." He passed his hand across his brow as though in doubt how to proceed, then he began to speak rapidly: "All of you know how poor Fairfax Johnson met his death at the hands of the loyalists in New Jersey. Well, we have been able to obtain no satisfaction from the enemy for the outrage which they acknowledge was unjustifiable; so Congress hath determined to select an officer from among the English prisoners who shall be executed in retaliation for Johnson's death.

"Therefore, thirteen officers from among the prisoners of war have been ordered to report at the Black Bear Tavern this morning in order that a victim may be chosen for retaliation. Captain Williams is among those so ordered to report."

A long moment of silence followed this announcement. Drayton's distress was plainly visible. The stillness was broken by Harriet.

"And why, sir," she said sharply, "should my brother be among those who are bidden to report?"

"On account of his rank, Miss Harriet," he returned. "Johnson was a captain, so eight captains and five lieutenants make up the thirteen officers. The victim should be as near the rank of Captain Johnson as possible."

"It is according to the rules of war," spoke Clifford Owen clearly. "The Americans but act according to their rights. We should do the same. I am ready to accompany you at any time, Captain Drayton."

"You shall not, Clifford," shrieked Harriet, throwing her arms about him. "John Drayton is but one. We can overpower him, and you can escape."

"Break my parole!" he ejaculated, horrified. "My sister, you know not what you say."

"And after all, he may not be the unfortunate one, Miss Harriet," spoke Drayton with an attempt at consolation. "There are thirteen from among whom the choice is to be made."

David Owen roused himself.

"True, there are thirteen," he murmured. "Would it be permitted, John, that I go with the lad?"

"Yes, Mr. Owen." John Drayton's eyes were full of compassion. "No undue rigor is to be used in carrying out orders, though of course few spectators will be allowed."

"And a place must be found for me," cried Harriet. "Do you think I can stay here and not know whether my brother is to be killed, or not?"

"We can't do it, Miss Harriet." Drayton's voice was inflexible. "It would upset all arrangements to have a woman present. It cannot be done. Come, Captain Williams."

Clifford was the calmest among them as he bade them farewell. Harriet was too agitated to do more than wring her hands continually.

"It will be he, I know it will," she cried as Mr. Owen and John Drayton disappeared from view, Clifford walking between them.

"We must hope for the best, my child," said Mrs. Owen trying to comfort her. But Harriet could only say over and over:

"I know that it will be Clifford." She was walking up and down the floor as she uttered the words again and again. Suddenly she paused, and held out her hand to Peggy: "Come!" she said. "I am going to that tavern."

At a sign from her mother Peggy went to her. Harriet clasped Peggy's hand tightly in her own, and all through the trying scene that followed never once did she let it go. Without thought that they were still in their morning dresses, and without stopping for hats the girls hastened into the street.

A hush seemed to have fallen upon the town. There were groups of people clustered about everywhere talking in subdued tones of the act of reprisal that was about to follow. Retaliation had been the demand of every patriot since the inhuman and lawless murder of Fairfax Johnson. No American prisoner was safe so long as the act was unrequited. At length Congress had taken measures whereby a victim should expiate the outrage upon the Jersey captain. So the citizens stood on the corners talking to each other almost in whispers of what was going on at the tavern. Peggy and her cousin passed them unheedingly.

In the yard of the inn twenty dragoons stood waiting the result, ready to take the unfortunate victim off to New Jersey for immediate execution. There were many others standing about; some on the piazza, others in the corridors, all awaiting the result of the meeting which was taking place in a room of the tavern.

Once only some one tried to bar their entrance, but Harriet turned such a look upon the man that he slunk away abashed, and they proceeded unmolested. Through the corridor they passed to the stairs. Here they met the wife of the landlord.

"Ye can go no further, young ladies," she said, her ample form blocking their progress. "There is an important meeting up-stairs, and no one is allowed up there."

"Madam, you must let me go," burst from Harriet. "My brother is one of the men from whom the victim is to be chosen. Do, do let me be where I can at least hear what is going on."

The girl was so lovely in her distress that only for a moment did the woman hesitate, then she turned abruptly. "Follow me," she said, "Bless your pretty face, I could not refuse such a request as that. But you must make no noise. You must just listen."

"Yes, yes," spoke Harriet feverishly. "That is all we ask."

"The meeting is in there," said the woman pausing before a door. "Ye are to go in here, where there is a door between the rooms. Ye can hear very well there. Now, remember: no noise."

"Yes, yes," spoke Harriet again. "Come, Peggy." And into the room they hurried.

At first they heard nothing but distant echoes, as of closing doors and people hurrying in and out of rooms. These noises resounded through the passages, and gave a note of unusual commotion down-stairs. Presently the distant sounds ceased, and out-of-doors all was quiet too. All at once the hum of voices in the adjoining room came to them. Harriet went swiftly toward the closed door, and before Peggy realized what she was about to do, the girl had opened it.

So intent were the men in that other room that they did not notice the opening of the door, nor did they turn their heads as the faces of the girls appeared in the entry way. Brigadier-General Hazen, who had charge of the post at Lancaster, was speaking, and all eyes were fixed upon him.

On one side of a long table which stood in the center of the room sat the thirteen young officers from whom the victim was to be selected. Back of them stood the British Major Gordon. A little apart stood Mr. Owen and Robert Dale with the officer of the dragoons. On the side of the table opposite the unfortunate thirteen were John Drayton and the commissary, with two little drummer boys. The scarlet coats of the British made a pleasing note of color against the buff and blue of the Continentals.

"That this drawing may be as fair as possible," General Hazen was saying, "it has been deemed best that the names of the thirteen officers shall be placed in one hat; in another hat shall be placed thirteen slips of paper of the same size, all of them blank save one on which is written the word, 'unfortunate.' These drummer boys are to draw out the slips simultaneously from the hats. The name drawn at the same time that the word unfortunate is drawn will be the victim selected. Gentlemen, I have only to say that no one can regret more deeply than I the course events have taken. Captain Drayton, will you and the commissary take the hats?"

Amid a silence so profound that a pin could have been heard to fall the two officers took the hats, and stood holding them on the table while the drummer boys began the drawing. Into Peggy's mind darted Thomas Ashley's words:

"'There shall be retaliation, Hannah. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life.'"

She started as though some one had spoken. Retaliation! Was this what it meant? That another innocent life should be taken? How horrible and bloody a thing is war! Because some one else hath committed a crime must another pay the penalty? One, two, three, four, five. Five names drawn. And Clifford's name not yet. Not yet. Her breath came gaspingly but strangely quiet as that other room was no one noticed it. Harriet was clutching her hand so tightly that it ached for hours afterward, but at the time neither girl knew it.

Six, seven, eight, nine! And still Clifford's name had not been called. Harriet bent forward as the boy drew the next slip:

"Captain Williams," he read clearly.

And from the other, hitherto so silent, sounded at the same time a word that fell upon the ear like a knell of doom:

"Unfortunate!"

And then from every American as well as every Englishman present there broke a sob. That is, from every man except Clifford Owen. He was very quiet, very composed, but his gaze was turned upon John Drayton as though he expected triumph at the result. But tears were running down Drayton's face, and Clifford's own countenance softened as he saw it. Once before Peggy had heard strong men weep. Then it had been over the defection of a brilliant soldier; now they wept that a fresh young life must be given in reprisal. Once, twice, General Hazen had tried to speak. At last he laid his hand upon Clifford's shoulder, and turning to the officer of the dragoons, said huskily:

"This gentleman, sir, is your prisoner."

But at that Harriet, who had stood as though stunned, gave a great cry, and ran to Clifford:

"My brother! My brother! My brother!"



CHAPTER XXII

WHAT CAN BE DONE?

"Here we have war for war, blood for blood, Controlment for controlment."

—King John.

Exclamations of pity and compassion came from the men as Harriet threw her arms about her brother. On General Hazen's countenance consternation showed as well as commiseration. The scene was sufficiently trying as it was. The feminine note added to the complexity of the situation.

Over Clifford Owen's face there swept a swift, indescribable change. He drew his sister to him and held her close, bending his head to hers with a gesture that was full of yearning. There was not a dry eye in the room. Both Americans and English felt it no shame to their manhood that tears streamed unrestrainedly down their cheeks.

The brother and sister were so young. The youth, noble and handsome, was striving to bear the tragic fate trust upon him with fortitude yet was torn by his love for his sister. The maiden, so surpassingly lovely that even the violence of her grief could not mar her beauty, was filled with anguish over the impending doom of her brother. That the boy had all he could do to maintain his composure was manifest to every one. For a time it seemed that affection would submerge all other emotions; then came a quick stiffening of his body as though he were preparing himself to resist any further appeal to his tenderness. When he spoke it was clearly and composedly:

"My sister, what do you here? This is no place for you."

"I had to come," she cried passionately. "Think you I could stay away when I knew not what would be done to you?"

"'Tis known now, Harriet. The lot hath been taken. I must accept my fate. Help me to do it bravely, my sister. You are a soldier's daughter, a soldier's sister. Let us show Americans how English men and English women meet untoward events."

"Oh," she uttered piteously, "you are to die. What is pride of race when you are to die? And father? What will father say?"

"He is a soldier, Harriet. He knows that war hath its vicissitudes which to-day may bring victory; to-morrow, death. He knows this, and we, his children, should know it also. He would like us to meet this with courage and calmness."

"I cannot," she cried sobbing convulsively. "I cannot, Clifford. They mean to hang you, my brother; just as Fairfax Johnson was hanged. I cannot bear it."

"Cousin David!" The boy turned appealingly toward Mr. Owen. His lips were white. His brow was wet with perspiration. He was fast approaching the limit of his endurance. "Will you take her? I—I cannot——" He compressed his lips tightly, unable to proceed.

"Yes, my lad," answered Mr. Owen brokenly. He beckoned to Peggy, and they both endeavored to unclasp Harriet's clinging arms from her brother.

"No, no," she shrieked. "I cannot let you go, Clifford. Is there no way to prevent this awful thing? Major Gordon," turning toward that officer suddenly, "can't you do something? Can't you do something?"

"There is naught that can be done," replied Major Gordon pityingly. As the principal British officer in Lancaster he had been present that he might be satisfied that everything was conducted with fairness. Beyond that he was helpless, being himself on parole.

General Hazen spoke at this moment, to the relief of all:

"My dear young lady," he said gruffly, to hide his emotion, "your brother need not start for New Jersey to-day. He may remain in Lancaster for two days longer, which will give a slight respite. He must be held a close prisoner during that time, well guarded to prevent escape; but you may see him once each day. It is not in my power to do more than that, but it is something."

"It is much, sir," she cried seizing his hand, and impulsively kissing it.

"I thank you, sir," said Clifford courteously, quick to seize the advantage such diversion created. "I shall see you then to-morrow, my sister. Captain, I am ready."

With firm step he placed himself by the side of the dragoon, who took him by the arm. On the other side of him walked the British Major Gordon, and thus they passed out of the room. The youth's departure was the signal for this most tragic meeting to break up. Quietly, showing no elation that they had been spared and another taken, their faces expressive only of sorrow, the twelve British officers, each saluting Harriet as he left, filed out of the apartment. The drummer boys tiptoed after them. General Hazen was the last to go, pausing only to say:

"You shall see him twice more, my dear. I think I would go home now, if I were you. This hath been most trying. Odds life, most trying!"

"You are very kind, sir," she said miserably. "I appreciate it. But—but after two days; then what?"

"Child," he said gravely, with great compassion, "I cannot delude you with false hopes. After two days your brother must go to meet his fate in New Jersey. I can do naught to prevent it." He took a pinch of snuff hastily, then hurried from the room.

"Peggy!" Harriet stretched out her arms to her cousin with a cry of bitterness. "What shall I do? What shall I do?"

But Peggy shook her head sorrowfully as she drew the girl into her arms. What could be done? She knew of nothing. That the safety of American prisoners might be assured Congress had decreed the death of a British officer to retaliate upon a lawless act of the enemy. That the officer chosen chanced to be her cousin did not change the justice of the act. Fairfax Johnson's death had been too recent, too near to Peggy for her not to see the fairness of retribution. And yet, and yet! that it should prove to be Clifford. It seemed so hopeless, so dark, Peggy could only shake her head while her tears fell fast.

"We must go home, lass," spoke David Owen. There were tears in his eyes, and he patted Harriet's shoulder with infinite tenderness. He was deeply moved by what had taken place, for Clifford had become dear to him; yet the boy's conduct under the trying circumstances filled him with pride. Now he patted the girl's shoulder, saying, "'Twill be far better for us to be at home than here. Come, Harriet! Perchance something will occur to us now that we have time to think."

"Yes, Cousin David." The girl wiped her eyes and rose obediently as though where she was made no difference. As she did so her glance fell upon Captain Drayton and Major Dale. The two young men had lingered, loth to leave them in their trouble. "Are you not coming too?" she asked.

"We do not wish to intrude, Miss Harriet," answered Robert Dale, speaking for both.

"But you will not," she replied. "I want you to come. Both of you. You are of the army, and may be able to suggest something. Come, and let us talk it over."

So, accompanied by the two youths, they went slowly back to the house. The news had spread throughout the town, and the people, knowing that the unfortunate victim was a relative, respectfully made way for them. The young English captain had become a well-known figure during the time he was on parole, and his youth, manliness, and unfailing courtesy caused every one to deplore the fact that such a doom should have fallen upon one who so little deserved it. Mrs. Owen met them at the door, and her manner told them that she had heard what had resulted from the meeting. She took Harriet at once in her motherly arms.

"I shall take thee right up-stairs to bed, my child," she said. "This hath been very trying for thee."

"Nay, madam my cousin," said the girl, smiling wanly. "'Tis no time for coddling. I shall have all the rest of life to lie in bed; now I must try to find some way to save my brother."

"Mistress Harriet!" Drayton, who had been unusually thoughtful, now spoke abruptly. "What I am about to suggest may not be of worth, but it can be tried. Why not go to General Washington and plead for your brother? If that fails, and fail it may because retaliation is demanded as the only safeguard Americans have for their countrymen who are prisoners, then go on to your own commander. He may be able to arrange matters with our general."

Harriet listened dazedly at first, as though unable to grasp what he was saying. All at once, as she comprehended the full import of his words, a magical transformation took place. The color returned to her cheeks, and the light to her eyes. She seemed infused with new life.

"John Drayton," she cried eagerly, "I do believe that you have hit upon the very thing. How strange that no one else thought of it! General Washington might postpone the carrying out of this dreadful measure. And Sir Guy! Why, if the rebel general will only wait until I can see my own commander all will be well. He is indebted to me for service in behalf of the new campaign, and will be glad to requite it. I shall go to General Washington. Thank you, Captain Drayton, for the suggestion. I'll never forget that 'twas you who offered it. I haven't always been very nice to you, but if——"

"I am your debtor, Miss Harriet, for what you did for me last year at Yorktown," interrupted Drayton quietly. "Mind! it may come to naught, but 'tis the only thing that can be done."

"And I shall do it," she said with determination. "I shall start for Philadelphia when they leave with my brother."

"To add to what Captain Drayton hath suggested," spoke Major Dale, "carry the matter to Congress while you are in Philadelphia. If you can get the execution postponed, and have influence with Sir Guy Carleton, get him to turn Lippencott over to us. He is the man who should be punished."

"He shall do it," she cried. "Captain Lippencott is but a refugee, and Clifford is an English officer. An officer who hath given good and honorable service to his king. 'Tis not meet nor fitting that such an one should be punished for the crime of a refugee. Sir Guy shall be made to see it properly. He shall! He shall!"

"But now thee must go to bed," exclaimed Mrs. Owen alarmed by the girl's excitement. "Thee can talk again with the lads, but now to bed."

Despite her protests the good lady hurried her off to bed, nor would she consent that Harriet should leave it until the next morning. By that time the maiden had entirely regained her composure, and was eager to go to Clifford with the news of her intention to go to Philadelphia. Accordingly, as soon as it was permissible to see her brother, she set forth with Peggy for the guard-house at the barracks where he was confined. There were two troopers in the room with him whose duty it was to keep an unfailing watch upon him. Clifford was slightly pale, but seemed to have himself well in hand. He dissented strongly from Harriet's proposal to see the Congress and General Washington.

"'Twill be useless," he said. "The Congress seek reprisal. If I am not the victim 'twill be another. There is no reason why I should seek to evade that which must be the fate of some English officer."

"Clifford, don't you care?" she wailed.

"Yes; I do, Harriet," he answered gravely. "I care very much. I don't want to die at all, particularly by hanging. I don't suppose that Fairfax Johnson did either, but his wishes weren't consulted in the matter. And they will remember that fact. It hath been said that he met death with great firmness and composure. I want to do as well."

"I must do something," she cried. "I cannot bear it unless I try to do something to save you."

"Then, Harriet, you shall make any effort that you wish," he said tenderly. "But do not ask for my life, my sister. Plead for a postponement, an you will; then go to Sir Guy. If you must humble yourself, let it be to your own commander. You are English, remember."

"And Peggy shall go with me, Clifford," she said.

"You will, will you not, my cousin?" he asked turning to her.

"If thee wishes it, Clifford," answered Peggy gently.

"I do wish it. She should have some one with her who would prevent rashness. I cannot imagine where she got the idea——"

"It was John Drayton's suggestion," interrupted his sister. "He was the only one who seemed to have any idea what to do."

"Drayton?" exclaimed Clifford, surprised out of his composure. "Why, that is strange!"

"They are coming for us, Harriet," spoke Peggy. "We shall have to go."

"But I have not yet begun to talk," cried Harriet protestingly. "Why do they make the interview so short?"

"It is pleasant to have one at all, my sister. 'Tis an indulgence that is not often granted in such cases. Beside, you have leave to come again to-morrow, and if you go to Philadelphia there will, no doubt, be opportunity for conversation upon the road."

But as Harriet passed through the door Clifford laid a detaining hand upon Peggy's arm.

"My cousin," he said speaking rapidly, "you have always spoken truth to me, and I want you to do so now. Does Cousin David think there is aught of use in Harriet's seeing the Congress, or General Washington?"

Peggy's lips quivered, and her eyes filled.

"Father said last night, my cousin, that there was but one hope," she said mournfully. "'Tis the talk of the barracks that Captain Lippencott should be given up to us. If he hath an atom of honor, rather than have an innocent person suffer for his deed, he will give himself up as soon as he hears of this. Every one says this, Clifford."

"And that is the only hope, Peggy?"

"I—I fear so, Clifford. If Lippencott——"

"He won't," said Clifford with a sigh. "Thank you, little cousin. It was better that I should know the truth. I am glad that you will go with Harriet, and when she hath finished with General Washington, get her to go right on to father, Peggy."

"I will," she promised.

"Good-bye, then, until to-morrow," he said. "Is Cousin David coming?"

"Yes, Clifford."

"Peggy," called Harriet, and Peggy went out to join her.

Mr. Owen, after his visit to Clifford, announced that if leave could be obtained he would accompany them also to Philadelphia.

"There may be trouble for thee in entering Philadelphia again, Harriet," he said. "Thou hast been banished, remember."

"True, but they would not hold it against me now," she cried in dismay.

"I think naught will be said anent the subject," he replied. "But in case there might be 'twould be well to have me with thee. For this and other reasons I shall go."

"I am so glad, Cousin David," she cried. And Peggy too felt greatly relieved when she was told.

So it came about that when the dragoons set forth with their prisoner two days later they were accompanied by Major Gordon, Mr. Owen, and the two girls, Peggy and Harriet. Clifford was closely guarded, but there was no undue severity shown. He was permitted to converse with his cousins and his sister whenever he wished. Frequently he rode long stretches of the road with them, the troopers in front and behind.

And everywhere, at the inns, and the towns through which they passed, the people flocked to see this victim of retaliation. And the extreme youth and manly bearing of the unfortunate young man won him much compassion. The people had been greatly stirred by the death of Fairfax Johnson. He too was young, and his death had been such a lawless proceeding that it had roused the whole country to the necessity of reprisal lest other Americans be subjected to a like fate. But there was a dignity in the warm passions of these people that the instant it was in their power to punish they felt a disposition to forgive. And so there was pity and compassion freely expressed for the young captain and his untoward fate.

It was a sorrowful journey. The troopers rode hard and fast, so that the afternoon of the third day after leaving Lancaster brought them to the Middle Ferry. The sun was just sinking behind the hills of the Schuylkill as they crossed the ferry, and rode down High Street into Philadelphia. Mr. Owen and the two maidens left the party at Fifth Street, bound for the Owens' residence in Chestnut Street. The troopers continued down High Street to Third; for they were to stop at the Bunch of Grapes Tavern.



CHAPTER XXIII

A LITTLE HUMOR DESPITE A GRIM SITUATION

"Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, No care beyond to-day."

—Gray.

The great clock of the State House was striking ten, the next morning, as Peggy emerged from the west entrance of the dwelling, and, basket in hand, went down the steps of the terrace into the gardens.

It was a lovely day. The sky was blue with June's own cerulean hue, and across its depths floated the softest of fleecy white clouds. The air was fresh and balmy, and tinged with the honeyed sweetness of red roses. With basket and shears the girl wandered from bush to bush, cutting the choicest blossoms. That her mind was not on her task was manifest by the fact that ever and anon she paused, shears in hand, and became absorbed in thought. In this manner she sauntered through the grassy paths and graveled alleys until she came at length to the fence which separated the garden from Fifth Street. Peggy stopped here, and gazed thoughtfully across at the State House, as she was wont to do in the early years of the war.

"What will the Congress do?" she mused. "Would that I could see into that east room! Will they listen to Harriet, I wonder? And the people! how many there are in the square. What makes them cluster about the grounds so?"

The State House Square was in truth filled with groups of men who stood about talking earnestly. It was the custom of the citizens of Philadelphia to do this when any exciting event occurred, or when any stirring measure was before the Congress. Peggy's curiosity as to the cause was therefore natural, but there was no one near who could gratify it, so she turned reluctantly from the fence, and resumed her task of cutting the roses. Abstractedly she worked, oblivious to her surroundings, when all at once the sound of flying feet brought her back to reality. Startled she turned to see Sally Evans running toward her from under the trees.

"I have just heard about Clifford, Peggy," cried Sally, flinging herself upon her friend. "Mr. Deering told me. I thought that I should find thee here, or some of thy people. Oh, Peggy! Peggy! that it should be Clifford."

"Yes," replied Peggy sorrowfully, as she returned the embrace. "'Tis dreadful."

"And what is thee going to do anent it? Why, Peggy Owen! surely thee hasn't been coolly picking flowers?"

"I had to do something, Sally, to while away the time until they come back," apologized Peggy meekly. "Waiting is trying when so much depends upon the issue."

"Whatever is thee talking about?" demanded Sally bewildered. "Sit down here under this tree, Peggy, and tell me all about everything. Whom does thee mean by they?"

"Father and Harriet, Sally. They have gone over to see the Congress to see if aught can be done for Clifford."

"Harriet?" ejaculated Sally. "I thought that Harriet was in New York City with her father. How did she come here?"

"I'll tell thee all about it," answered Peggy, sinking down beside Sally under a tree. Forthwith she told her friend everything that had happened since leaving Philadelphia, beginning with the meeting with Harriet on the road to Lancaster, and ending with the journey back to the city after Clifford had been chosen as the unfortunate victim. Sally listened attentively.

"Oh!" she breathed when Peggy had concluded her narrative. "And does thee think the Congress will do anything for him, Peggy?"

"I fear not," answered Peggy sadly. "Father hath little hope of it, but Harriet will leave naught undone that promises the least relief. If Congress does nothing, we are to go on to General Washington. In any event Harriet will go to New York to see the British general."

"Well, General Washington ought to do something," cried Sally. "He hath a kind heart, and it does seem awful to hang Clifford when he had naught to do with Fairfax's death. Doesn't thee think he will?"

"Sally," spoke Peggy earnestly, "there is but one thing that can save Clifford Owen: that is for the English commander to give up Captain Lippencott. That he hath heretofore refused to do."

"Oh, Peggy! then thee believes that he must die?" came from Sally in a sob.

"I am afraid so, Sally. Clifford himself thinks there is no hope."

For a time Sally sat very still, then she spoke softly:

"Peggy!"

"Yes, Sally."

"Did thee tell Clifford about me? How I did not betray him to Sheriff Will?"

"I tried to, but he would not listen. Harriet took him to task for it, Sally. She told him that if thee said thee did not betray him, thee didn't." And Peggy related all that had passed regarding the matter.

"Then he will die believing that I was a false friend to thee, and that I betrayed him who was a guest of my hospitality," remarked the girl mournfully. "Oh, 'tis bitter to be misjudged! 'Tis bitter!" And to Peggy's astonishment she burst into tears.

"Why, Sally! I did not know thee cared so much," cried Peggy.

"I—I don't," flashed Sally. "At least, not much. 'Tis only—only that I do not like to be misjudged. And I've never been given so much as a chance to defend myself. Oh, dear!" dabbing her eyes viciously with her kerchief as she spoke, "I don't suppose they can help it, but of all stubborn, unreasonable creatures on this earth I do think Englishmen are the worst! I'd just like one chance to tell Clifford Owen so."

"Well, why doesn't thee?" asked Peggy suddenly.

"Peggy!" Sally sat up very straight and stared at her. "Just what does thee mean?"

"Just what I say, Sally. He is at the Bunch of Grapes. If thee wishes to see him I will take thee there. Then thee can have thy chance."

"But—but——" The color flooded Sally's face from brow to chin. Presently she laughed. "Well, he couldn't run away from me, could he? He would have to listen. I'll do it. 'Twill be the last opportunity I shall ever have of clearing myself. I would not dare do it only, being bound, he cannot help but listen. Come, Peggy!"

"Bound?" exclaimed Peggy amazed. "What put such a notion in thy head, Sally? He was not when we came from Lancaster."

"That was because he was riding. 'Tis only since he entered the city. Did thee not know that the Minister of War hath charge of him now? 'Tis he who hath insisted upon extra precautions being taken on account of the Tories. 'Tis talked everywhere on the streets, Peggy, that he is bound."

Peggy instantly became troubled.

"That would be severe treatment," she said. "Methought 'twas understood that he was to be granted every indulgence consistent with his safe-keeping. I like not to think of him being bound. Let's go, Sally."

Quickly they made themselves ready, and then proceeded to the Bunch of Grapes Tavern in Third Street. Sally alternated between timidity and assurance.

"With the shadow of death upon him he ought to wish to right every injustice that he hath done," she remarked as they reached the inn.

Peggy caught sight of Major Gordon just then, and did not reply. Instead she called to the British officer. He came to them instantly.

"May we see Captain Williams for a few moments, sir?" she asked.

"I'll see, Miss Peggy," he answered. "You know, of course, that he is guarded more stringently here than he was on the road, but I think there can be no objection to his friends seeing him."

"Tell him 'tis his cousin, Margaret, and——"

"Don't thee tell him who is with thee, Peggy." Sally's whispered admonition was plainly audible. She had all at once become fearful. "If he were not bound I would not dare venture in."

A puzzled look crossed Major Gordon's face. He turned to her quickly. "May I ask why you would not venture in unless he were bound?" he asked.

"Because," uttered Sally blushing, "if he isn't bound he will not listen to what I have to say. I want to explain something that he ought to know. He would never listen before; now he cannot help himself."

A violent fit of coughing seized the officer, preventing him from replying. Presently recovering he cleared his throat, and left them precipitantly. He was gone but a few moments.

"You may see him for a short time, ladies," he reported. "This way."

They followed him into a large room situated at the end of a long hall. The first thing the girls saw was Clifford, who was half sitting, half reclining in a chair. And his feet and hands were wound about with cords. Peggy felt a catch in her throat as she saw it, while Sally turned white to the lips. The room was scantily furnished, and several dragoons lounged about, but for all their apparent negligence they never for one moment ceased to regard their prisoner. The youth himself looked wan and haggard. He greeted Peggy with marked pleasure.

"And where is Harriet, my cousin?" he asked.

"She hath gone with father to see the Congress," replied Peggy. "And here is Sally, Clifford. 'Tis for her sake that we have come. She wishes to speak with thee."

"You wish speech with me, Mistress Sally?" questioned he coldly. "Wherefore?"

"Thee is to die," burst from Sally with emotion. "I could not bear for thee to die believing that I had betrayed thee."

"I am to die, yes," he said with settled calm. "What have such things to do with me?"

"Everything," she answered shrilly. "If I had to die, Clifford Owen, I should want to right whatever of injustice I had done, were it possible to do so. And thee has been unjust to me. I have come hoping that now thee will listen to my explanation. Thee wouldn't hear Peggy, thee wouldn't hear Mr. Owen, but now thee will listen to me, won't thee?"

"I don't see how I can help myself, mistress," he responded grimly. "Seeing that my hands are bound, I cannot stop my ears."

And at this Peggy marveled anew. Closely guarded the youth had been all the way into Philadelphia. Major Gordon had spoken of an increase in vigilance since entering the city, but to bind him! Americans were not usually so unkind. The change in treatment puzzled her.

"Why should they bind thee?" ejaculated Sally in reply to Clifford. "'Tis cruel!"

"I thought that you wished me bound, Miss Sally," he observed gravely.

"We-ell! I don't wish thee bound, Friend Clifford, but thee would not listen to me unless thee were. Do—do the thongs hurt thee very much?"

Now when an exceedingly pretty girl pities a man for any discomfort he is undergoing it would be an abnormal being who did not get out of it all that he could. And Sally, with her hair escaping from under her cap in soft little tendrils, her blue eyes wet with tears of compassion like violets drenched with dew, made a bewitching picture. So Clifford pulled a long face, and said lugubriously:

"It's pretty bad, mistress."

"Oh!" she cried. "I wish I could help thee. 'Tis monstrously cruel to use thee so! Yet thee would not listen to me if thee were not bound; would thee?"

"Perchance 'twould be best to take advantage of the fact, and tell me what you have come to say," he suggested with the hint of a smile.

And rapidly Sally told him how the wretched mistake had occurred which led him to disbelieve her truthfulness. She told also of the Council and what had happened before it. All this part he had heard from Mr. Owen, though he did not tell her.

"And now," she ended with a deep sigh of relief, "thee knows at last just how the matter was."

"Well? And what then?" Clifford was smiling now. "Now you wish me to acknowledge how wrong I was, I suppose?"

"Nay," spoke Sally rising. "I did not want anything except for thee to hear the facts. 'Twould be too much to ask of an Englishman to admit that he was wrong. 'Tis a national characteristic to persist in wrong-doing, and wrong believing even when the right is made plain. Had this not been the case we should not have had to go through all these weary years of fighting."

"'Fore George, Mistress Sally, but you hit from the shoulder! Now here is one Englishman who is going to prove that you are mistaken. It was unjust of me to believe that you could be capable of treachery. I crave your pardon most humbly. I believe that you did your best to help me last spring. These past few days, since I have known that death is so close, have made me look differently at many things. If you think of me at all in future, Miss Sally, let it be as gently as you can."

He rose as he finished speaking, lightly throwing aside the cords that confined his wrists and ankles, and held out his hand to her with his most winning smile. Much moved Sally placed her hand within his; then, with an exclamation, she withdrew it suddenly.

"Why!" she cried. "Why, thee isn't bound at all!"

"No? Well, you see I understood that you would not dare to come in unless I was bound. Of course, rather than cause you annoyance I had to pretend to be so."

The youth was laughing now, and Peggy, mightily relieved to find that such harsh treatment was not to be accorded him, laughed also. Not so Sally. She stood regarding him with eyes in which slowly grew an expression of pain and scorn.

"Now you aren't going to hold it against me, are you, Miss Sally?" he pleaded.

"When I asked thee if the bonds hurt, thee said, 'Pretty bad,'" stated Sally, her manner full of accusation.

"I did," he admitted.

"It was not true," she cried. "And thee is to die! To die, and yet thee could stoop to trickery! Oh, how could thee do it? Thou art under the shadow of death. I would rather a thousand times that thee would have remained the obstinate Englishman that I deemed thee than to know that thee could do this."

With that she flung up her head, and without another glance in his direction went swiftly out of the room.



CHAPTER XXIV

"THEE MAY TELL HIM AT THE LAST"

"A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate; I've seen the last look of her heavenly eyes,— I've heard the last sound of her blessed voice,— I've seen her fair form from my sight depart! My doom is closed."

—Count Basil.

Clifford started as Sally uttered the word, "trickery," and a deep flush dyed his face. He threw out his hands in a protesting gesture, and opened his lips to speak, but she was gone before he could say a word. He turned toward Peggy appealingly.

"Will you listen, my cousin?" he queried. "Or are you also shocked?"

"Nay, Clifford; I believe that thee intended naught but to have a little sport," she replied.

"That's just it," he cried eagerly. "Everything hath been so depressing the last few days that a little diversion was welcome. When Major Gordon came in, saying that you wished to see me, and that a friend was with you who feared to come in unless I was bound, I knew at once it was Miss Sally. When the major suggested that 'twould never do for the young lady to find me unbound, the idea appealed to me immediately. It promised some brightness, a little fun which is all my excuse, Peggy. I intended naught else. I thought you both would regard it as a great joke. I see now that I should not have done it. It was caddish."

"I think Sally felt the worst anent thy saying that the cords hurt pretty bad," Peggy told him. "It seemed like an untruth to her."

"'Fore George, Peggy!" cried the youth earnestly, "if she could but know the trouble I had in keeping still so that those ropes would not fall off she would think it was pretty bad."

He laughed at the remembrance, and then became grave.

"I seem to be unfortunate in more respects than one," he said with a sigh. "First, I misjudge you, Peggy. I can only explain that fact by saying that never before had I met any one of like truthfulness and so straightforward. Then, not knowing that your friends had the same attributes, I am guilty of injustice toward Sally. Now she misconstrues what was meant for a jest into a contemptible trick. Oh, it was! I see it now. I' faith! the sooner that execution comes off the better," he ended bitterly.

"Don't speak like that, Clifford," chided Peggy gently. "I'm going to Sally and explain the matter to her. 'Twas all a miserable misapprehension. She will laugh most heartily when she understands it."

"I don't believe she will, Peggy," he answered gloomily. "She feels tricked. She will never forgive me. You Quakers are queer people. I did not dream that words spoken in jest would be taken so seriously."

"Well, my cousin, we have been taught that for every idle word we shall give account. Perchance we do not speak with so much lightness as the world's people."

"'Fore George, you do not," he ejaculated. "But, Peggy, to a soldier the thought of death becomes familiar. So familiar in fact that even when we are under its dark shadow if there comes a chance for amusement of any sort we seize it. I would not for the world offend her, Peggy. Will you try to make peace for me? Tell her," he smiled involuntarily, "that she is the unreasonable one now; that if she will not listen she lays herself open to the charge of being English which would be a most dreadful downfall from the high estate of being an American."

"I'll tell her everything, my cousin. I am sure that all will be well as soon as she understands. And Harriet will come to thee this afternoon. Thee must not let this, or aught else make thee down-hearted, Clifford. I am hoping that something will come up to avert this terrible fate from falling upon thee."

But the youth shook his head.

"I have no hope," he said. "'Tis only to please my sister that I have consented that she should try to get your general to postpone the execution until she can see Sir Guy. It seems but a useless prolongation of anxiety. Now as to this other matter: you will go at once to Sally, will you not, my cousin? Tell her that I am sorry that I lent myself to such deception, and that I wish she would not think hardly of me. I shall never see her again, Peggy, but I like not to think that she thinks ill of me."

"I'll tell her all, my cousin," promised Peggy as she took her leave. "Oh, dear!" she sighed as she wended her way toward Little Dock Street, where Sally lived. "Oh, dear! will naught ever go right again? Now just as Clifford gets so that he will listen to Sally this had to happen! But Sally ought not to hold it against him. She must not."

Sally was up-stairs, her mother told Peggy, and slowly she went up to her friend's room. A crumpled heap on the bed told where Sally was, but it did not turn as Peggy entered. She went over and put her hand on the head that was buried between two pillows.

"Thee is taking this too seriously, Sally," spoke Peggy. "Don't be too hard on him. After all thee knows that Clifford is just a boy."

Sally turned a reddened, tear-stained face toward her.

"He is to die," she murmured in shocked tones, "yet he jested. He jested, Peggy."

"Sally, 'tis naught to make such a pother about. Men, especially soldiers, regard death differently from the way we look at it. Let me tell thee about the matter."

"I don't care to hear any explanation," answered Sally shortly.

"Sally, Sally, is thee going to be unreasonable and obstinate now? 'Tis as Clifford said: 'Thee should say naught against the English for perverseness. Thee isn't much better.'"

"Did Clifford Owen say that?" demanded Sally, sitting up with flaming cheeks.

"Nay; but something like it. How can I tell thee what he said if thee will not listen? Or has thee made up thy mind not to listen to Clifford's explanation in revenge for the time that he was in listening to thine?" concluded Peggy artfully.

"Peggy! thee knows better than that. Of course, if there is an explanation I will hear it. It did not occur to me that there could be one."

"Now that is my own Sally," cried Peggy kissing her. She sat down on the side of the bed, and began earnestly: "Sally, we must not forget that my cousin belongs to the world's people. Many things which to us are of gravity are not so to them, and our belief is as naught if it doth not make us regard their feelings with charity. Clifford feels sorrow now for the joke, and grieves because thee is inclined to think hardly of him." Forthwith she told Sally how the jest had come about, ending with:

"So thee sees, Sally, that thou art somewhat in fault thyself, insomuch as thee said that thee would not venture in unless he were bound."

"I see," remarked Sally thoughtfully. "I see, Peggy. Well, 'tis all right, of course; but oh, Peggy! If—if he had not made me feel so sorry for him. If I had not cried because I thought those ropes hurt him I would not mind so much; though it was in truth ill to jest when he is to die."

"But I cried too," soothed Peggy. "Any one would who had the least bit of sensibility."

"Does thee really think so, Peggy?"

"Yes, I do," answered Peggy. "'Twas all in fun, and done on the impulse of the moment. But he says now that he sees 'twas wrong, and that he is sorry. Thee must forgive him, Sally."

"Of course if he is sorry it makes a difference," said Sally. "Somehow, Peggy, I am disappointed in him. Harriet always spoke so highly of him, and I liked him so much when he was with us, that it pains me to find him lacking in any respect. Well, if he is sorry, 'tis all right."

"And I may tell him so?" asked Peggy eagerly. "I don't want the poor fellow to have aught to wherrit him. He hath enough as it is."

"Yes; thee may tell him, Peggy." Sally slipped from the bed as she spoke and buried her face in the washing bowl. "After all, as thee said, 'tis naught to make such a pother about."

"Will thee come home with me to see Harriet, Sally?"

"Not to-day, Peggy." Sally began to brush her hair vigorously. "I will come in the morning. I want to think things over. Thee doesn't mind?"

"No," Peggy answered more troubled than she cared to admit over Sally. "Well, I shall see thee to-morrow then."

Harriet and her father were awaiting her when she returned home. Harriet looked weary and a little pale.

"We could not see the Congress, Peggy," said she in answer to Peggy's eager queries. "Cousin David could not obtain an audience for me; but the Minister of War, in whose charge Clifford now is, consented that we should accompany him to the New Jersey cantonment. He said that 'twas General Washington's desire that Clifford should be given every indulgence suitable to his rank and condition that would be consistent with the security of his person. He said too that the execution would take place pursuant to the general's orders, and therefore 'twas proper that all pleas should be made to him. We start with the dragoons and officers who guard my brother to-morrow."

It was early the next morning when the start for New Jersey was made. Early as it was, however, Sally was down to see them off. She hovered around Peggy, finally saying, with a fine air of carelessness:

"I had a short letter from thy Cousin Clifford, Peggy. If he should speak of the matter, I dare say he will not, thee may say that 'tis all right. That I have no hard feelings toward him."

Peggy caught her suddenly, and held her fast.

"Is that all I am to say, Sally? Is there naught else? Couldn't thee give me one little kind word for him? He is to die, Sally."

Sally struggled to free herself, then unexpectedly hid her face on Peggy's shoulder, and burst into tears.

"Tell him," she sobbed, then looked up at Peggy wrathfully: "If thee tells him anything until the very last, Peggy Owen, I will never forgive thee. Never!"

"I understand, Sally," encouraged Peggy. "Tell me."

"Thee may tell him, at the very last, at the very last, Peggy."

"Yes, Sally."

"Thee may tell him that I think him the finest gentleman I ever knew. There! Of course, being thy kinsman, and because we are such friends, for thy sake, thee knows——"

"Yes, I know." Peggy kissed Sally gently, then held her close. "I have not told Harriet a word," she whispered. "Oh, Sally! Sally!"

They joined Clifford and his guards on the Bristol road. Peggy could not but reflect with what joyousness she and Sally had passed over this very road a few short months before. How much had happened since that time! Fairfax foully murdered, Clifford, her cousin, on his way to pay the penalty of the deed. Truly strange things were wrought in the warp and woof of time. So musing, for little conversation was held, the long hours of the day glided into the shadows of evening, and found them at Trenton where they were to bide for the night. Peggy suggested seeing Governor Livingston, but Harriet demurred at once.

"He would do naught for us, Peggy," she declared. "Have you forgot that 'twas I who tried to effect his captivation at Middlebrook? 'Tis that very thing that makes me fearful of meeting General Washington. Were not my brother's life at stake I would not chance it."

The roads were in good condition, the business in hand most urgent, and so they journeyed from early morning until nightfall of each day with but short stops to refresh man and beast. Through Princeton, and along the banks of the Millstone to Kingston they rode. Here the road left the valley and began to ascend the heights, then along the banks of the Raritan River until Somerset Court House was reached. Peggy turned to Harriet.

"Does thee know where we are, my cousin?" she asked smiling.

"We are coming into Middlebrook," answered Harriet gazing about her. "Does it cause you painful thoughts, Peggy? 'Twas here that first you knew me. 'Twas here that I played the spy. Ah! the huts where the soldiers dwelt are still standing. 'Tis most familiar, Peggy."

"Nay, I am not pained at the recollection, Harriet. Thou art changed in many ways since then. I do not believe that thee would play the spy now."

"You know not, Peggy. I do not know myself. If aught would result of benefit to England's cause, I might. I have done other things. I do not know."

"Are you two talking about those huts yonder?" questioned Clifford, who had been riding with Mr. Owen. "Cousin David says the American army camped here in the winter of '79."

"We know it, my cousin," answered Peggy. "This is where we first met. Harriet and I passed that winter here."

"Tell me about it," he said. "There are many things concerning that winter I would know."

So with each girl supplementing the other the story of Middlebrook was told. Harriet did not spare herself in the recital. With amazing frankness she related how she had tried to capture both General Washington and Governor Livingston. Her brother listened in wide-eyed astonishment.

"And father let you engage in such emprises?" he queried with pained surprise.

Harriet smiled.

"I liked the danger, Cliff," she said. "'Tis risk that gives the zest to all undertakings. Life is like food: insipid without some spice. Beside, here was Peggy to rescue me from paying the penalty of my acts. Poor Peggy! she thought she had fallen upon evil days when I carried her off to New York."

"Poor Peggy indeed!" he agreed briefly; then relapsed into thought.

The road beyond Middlebrook was new to both maidens, and had they not been saddened by the knowledge that each mile traversed brought them nearer to the place where Clifford must be left they would have been delighted with the romantic scenery. Soon the heights of Morristown came into view. A few miles to the eastward of Morristown lay the little town of Chatham. Between the heights and the village lay the cantonment of the Jersey line, Clifford's destination.

Chatham was a pleasant little place. There were many hills in the vicinity, and a fine view of the valley of the Passaic River, which stream ran through the village. But none of the party noticed hills or river as they went through the town toward the encampment. Harriet grew pale at sight of the tents.

"You must be brave, my sister," pleaded Clifford, observing her pallor. "I must meet the colonel, you know. Help me to do so with composure. Besides, you will come back here after you have seen Sir Guy."

"True," she answered. "I am not going to break down, Clifford. There is much to be done."

They were received with extreme kindness by Colonel Elias Dayton, who had command of the Jersey line. No orders concerning Clifford had as yet been received from General Washington, he told them, save only that he must be closely guarded.

"And naught will happen to him until you have had time to see General Washington," he reassured Harriet, moved by her grief at parting from her brother. "'Tis a most distressing affair, and there is no one in the American lines who does not desire that General Carleton will give us the real culprit."

And with lightened hearts Mr. Owen and the two girls proceeded to Morristown, where they were to pass the night.



CHAPTER XXV

AT HEADQUARTERS

"But mercy is above this sceptered sway, It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute of God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's, When mercy seasons justice."

—Shakespeare.

The route now took the little party through a most romantic country, but after leaving Clifford their distress of mind was such that at first they did not remark it particularly. Nowhere in the world can there be found more beautiful scenery than that along the Hudson River. The views vary from what is pleasing and picturesque to that which is in the highest degree magnificent. And so, as gentle wooded slopes were succeeded by bold promontories, deep vales by extensive valleys, hills by lofty precipices, Harriet and Peggy found themselves roused from their apathy, and their attention, in spite of grief, was caught by the majesty of the noble river.

War with its attendant evils receded into the background for the time being, recalled only by the fortifications of New York Island, and the batteries of Stony Point and its sister garrison of Verplanck's Point on the eastern shore. Sometimes the journey led them through fine woods; at others, through well cultivated lands and villages inhabited by Dutch families. Sometimes there were long stretches of dark forests, wild and untamed as yet by civilization; at other times, the road wound along the top of the Palisades, those rocky heights that extend like everlasting walls along the Jersey bank of the river. Again, the road descended these rocky walls skirting their base, and they found themselves marveling at the broad expanse of the water which in places seemed like a vast lake.

As they ascended into the Highlands, cliffs seemed piled on cliffs rising precipitously from the water's edge, forming a surprisingly beautiful and sublime spectacle. The majestic river hemmed in by towering heights densely covered with forests made a picture of impressiveness and grandeur.

Again and again the maidens drew rein, sometimes uttering cries of delight as some new prospect unfolded its beauty; at others, sitting in silence awed by the magnificence of the panorama expanding before them. In such mood as this they approached West Point on the afternoon of the fourth day after leaving Chatham.

The river here ran in a deep channel formed by the mountains whose lofty summits, on every side, were thick set with redoubts and batteries. From the fort of West Point proper, which lay on the edge of the river, to the very top of the mountain at the foot of which it stood were six different forts, all in the form of an amphitheater so arranged as to protect each other.

"And this," spoke Harriet with quickened interest, "is the fortress that General Arnold was to deliver into our hands?"

"Yes," answered David Owen briefly. Americans could not even yet bear mention of the treason of the brilliant Arnold.

"It looks to be an important post," commented the English maiden with a glance around that embraced all the grim redoubts of the lofty summits. "Had we obtained it the misfortune at Yorktown would not have occurred."

"Perchance not, lass. Here we are at the sally-port of the fort. I will turn you girls over to Mrs. Knox for the night, while I find quarters elsewhere. I for one am glad to reach here. It hath been hard riding. Are ye not tired?"

"I am, father," answered Peggy wearily. "And yet I have been delighted with the beautiful river."

"And I also," agreed her cousin.

With the morning came the realization of the matter which had brought them. The noble river with its superb amphitheater of mountains no longer had power to enthrall their senses. Clifford's fate rested upon the result of the interview before them, and that was the thing which now concerned them. Newburgh, where General Washington's headquarters were, was not far distant. A ride of a few hours brought them to the southern extremity of the village, where the Hasbrouck house was situated. It was a farmhouse, constructed in the Dutch fashion, on the west side of the Hudson. The front stoop faced the river, and a beautiful picture of mountains, sky and water was spread before the eye, but it extorted but a passing glance.

The army was at West Point, and only the life-guards were near the quarters of the commander-in-chief. Hence, there was lacking much of the bustle and movement which ordinarily existed about the chief's quarters. An orderly took charge of their horses, and presently they were ushered into a large room which served as office as well as dining-room for the general. He sat now before a small table looking over some papers, but rose as they entered the room. He looked weary, and there were tired lines upon the strong face, but his manner was courteously attentive.

"Ah, Mr. Owen," he said shaking hands cordially with David Owen. "I am glad to see you. I have excellent reports of the work you are doing in Lancaster. Miss Peggy, 'tis long since I have had the pleasure of seeing you. And—Miss Harriet!"

The smile died from his lips as he uttered her name. General Washington had an excellent memory for faces and events. Harriet's duplicity at Middlebrook was not easily forgotten; so his expression changed, and his face grew stern and cold. Harriet's color faded and she began to tremble. Nevertheless she sank in a deep courtesy before him.

"It was my understanding," he continued, "that you were banished from our lines. If this be true how is it that we are favored with your company?"

"Sir," she answered, gaining control over herself and speaking in a steady voice, "'tis true that I was banished to New York; but I think you will find that 'twas only from Philadelphia. I did not understand that it was from the entire line. I know, your Excellency, that I have no right to come to you to ask a favor. I have no claim by which I can urge even consideration. Still, I do ask mercy. I do entreat you to use clemency; not because I deserve it, but because I do not believe that you would be guilty of aught that savored of inhumanity or barbarity."

Harriet was very beautiful as she made her plea, her unusual humility lending softness to the customary hauteur of her manner. A perplexed look crossed the general's countenance at her words. He bent toward her courteously.

"Unravel the matter, I beg of you," he said more gently. "Do I understand that something hath gone amiss for which you are entreating lenity?"

"It is not for myself, sir. My cousins here can bear witness that I came within your lines for the sole purpose of seeing my brother." She raised her head proudly, and met his glance with unwavering eyes. "He was at Lancaster. At Lancaster, where he hath been chosen as the most unfortunate victim of retaliation. It is for him I plead."

"Your brother?" For the merest second a gleam of astonishment shone on his face. It faded, leaving his countenance as impassive as ever. He turned to the table, and picked up a folded document from among the many lying upon it.

Hastily he scanned the page, then looked up. "'Tis as I thought," he said. "Brigadier-General Hazen hath reported concerning that matter, and the young man herein named is not your brother, Miss Harriet. On the contrary, 'tis one Captain Wilson Williams who hath been the unfortunate selected to pay the penalty."

"And Captain Williams is my brother, sir. My brother, Clifford Owen, who because father did not wish him to go into the service enlisted under another name. My brother, and he hath been chosen to die shamefully because another hath committed a dastardly crime. Sir, in the name of that mother whose son you are, I entreat you to have mercy upon him who is an only son, an only brother——"

"And a mother in New Jersey mourns an only son, and she a widow," he interrupted, his voice implacable in its sternness. "Miss Harriet, I lament the cruel necessity which alone can induce so distressing a measure. It is my desire not only to soften the inevitable calamities of war, but even to introduce on every occasion as great a share of tenderness and humanity as can possibly be exercised in a state of hostility. But for the barbarous and inhuman murder of Captain Johnson there must be satisfaction."

"And will it give satisfaction to wreak vengeance upon an innocent person?" she cried stung to bitterness. The grim countenance of the general was not encouraging. His eyes seemed to pierce her as with cold steel. "Is it not as barbarous, as inhuman to execute one who is as guiltless as yourself in the matter? You, sir, are dealing ruthlessly when you visit such penalty upon a victim. It shows want of humanity."

"I am listening to you, Miss Harriet," he said patiently, "because you are grieved and anguished over the affair. I know that you are much overwrought. Therefore will I explain to you that by all the usages of war, and upon the principle of retaliation I should have been justified in executing an officer of equal rank with Captain Johnson immediately upon receiving proofs of his death, and then informing the British commander of what I had done."

"You are so stern," she cried with growing excitement. "So stern! So unfeeling!"

"Nay," he protested, and there was compassion in his tone. "Not unfeeling. Although duty calls me to make this decisive determination in the matter humanity prompts me to drop a tear for the unfortunate offering. I most devoutly wish that something might be done to save his life."

"You do?" she cried eagerly. "Why, sir, 'tis easily done. A scratch of the pen is all that is necessary. Oh, 'tis a great thing to have such power! See, here are ink-horn, powder and paper! What doth hinder you from writing an order for his release?"

She stepped quickly to the table as she spoke, and picking up a quill held it appealingly toward him. His eyes softened.

"Stay!" he said. "I do feel just that way, Miss Harriet, but there is a duty that must be performed toward our people. There are many American prisoners held by the enemy. Among them some as young, as manly, as lovable as your brother. If the matter be suffered to go by without retaliation what assurance have we that they will not be as lawlessly dealt with as Captain Johnson?"

"Oh!" she said looking at him miserably. "But Clifford hath been guilty of naught. Were he a spy, an informer, a deserter, I would not ask you to abate one jot or tittle of his fate. I might in such case try to rescue him by trickery, by deceit, by any means that would save his life, but I would not question the justice of his doom. But he is not a spy, not an informer, not a deserter——"



"Nor was Captain Johnson," he reminded her. "Yet he was hanged most treacherously."

"But not by Clifford, sir! Not by Clifford! He would scorn to do such a deed." She stood for a moment, regarding him with such pleading that Peggy choked. Suddenly Harriet crossed the room and flung herself before him.

"Sir," she cried seizing his hand, "Harriet Owen hath never knelt to mortal man before save her king. I kneel to you, sir, and I beg, I implore you to exercise clemency toward my brother. He hath been guilty of naught save that he hath served his king. He hath a blameless reputation as a soldier, and you yourself are a soldier. It may be just to retaliate; I know not. But is there not mercy as well as justice? 'Twill be great and noble to exert leniency in such a case as this."

"Rise, I beg of you," he exclaimed, much pained. "I must do my duty, however abhorrent it may be to me. There hath been mercy shown already in that your brother hath had several days of grace, and the order for his execution not yet signed."

At that Harriet clung to his hand desperately.

"Do not sign it yet, sir. You will not give his life—give me then a little time."

"For what purpose? Is not uncertainty full of anguish and suspense?"

"No, no, no," she answered vehemently. "It hath hope, possibilities. Sir, give me time to go to Sir Guy Carleton to lay the matter before him. He is our own commander. He should give you Captain Lippencott, the one who did the deed."

"And there we are agreed," he made answer. "I will do this, Miss Harriet, though I fear that your efforts will meet with no success. With your commander-in-chief lies the only gleam of hope that the situation possesses. Sir Guy hath reprobated the act in no uncertain terms, but still he finds himself unable to do aught than to accept the rulings of the court-martial. Go to him, Miss Harriet, and bring all the influence you have to bear upon him that he may release to us this man, Lippencott. No one would rejoice at your success more than I. Meantime your brother shall live until the result is made known to me. You shall have a reasonable time allowed."

"Thank you, sir. I thank you——" The girl attempted to lift the hand to which she still clung to her lips, but a deadly faintness seized her. She trembled, grew pale, and fell in an unconscious heap at his feet.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GLEN

"Fair as morning beam, although the fairest far, Giving to horror grace, to danger pride, Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's bright star, Through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow of War."

—"Lady of the Lake."

The morning gun at West Point had not ceased to echo among the surrounding hills the next morning when the horses for Mr. Owen and the two maidens were brought to headquarters. Harriet, quite recovered from her indisposition of the day before, vaulted lightly into the saddle, and bowed low as General Washington came forth to bid them farewell.

"Your Excellency overwhelms us with kindness, sir," she cried. "You have been nobility itself in granting this respite to my brother. I have no fear now as to the outcome of the matter. There is no doubt in my mind but that the real culprit will be delivered into your hands within a few days."

"I trust that it may fall out as you wish, Miss Harriet," answered the general courteously. "As I have said, you shall have ample time for your mission."

"Thank you, sir. Ten days should be more than sufficient time. 'Tis but to go to New York, lay the whole affair before Sir Guy Carleton, and return."

"There are many things which might occur to bring about delay, Miss Harriet," he observed quietly. "In a case of this nature 'tis the part of wisdom to accept all that is offered. We will say two weeks; but General Carleton must give his decision by the end of that time. The matter now rests with him. I wish you all a safe journey."

He bowed gravely, and, overcome by the kindliness of this great man, the three left Newburgh much happier than when they entered it. Harriet was to cross the river at Dobbs Ferry, the post where all communication between the two armies was maintained, while Mr. Owen and Peggy were to return to Chatham to inform Clifford of the result of the interview with General Washington.

In high spirits Harriet laughed and chatted as she had not done for days, pausing ever and anon to admire the beauties of the river, uttering exclamations of delight at some particularly imposing view. Before them lay West Point with Crow's Nest Mountain, Butter Hill and the two Beacon mountains; on the southwest, Pollopel's Island, in use at this time as a military prison, lay at the northern entrance to the Highlands; on the east were the fertile valleys of the Mattewan and Wappinger's Creeks, and the village of Fishkill Landing; behind them was Newburgh Bay with the little village of the same name upon its shores, beyond which lay a broad champaign country.

"Father and Clifford must see this before we sail for home," cried Harriet. "Oh, if I were king I'd never let the Americans deprive me of such a river!"

"If it affects thee like that, lass, perchance then thee has a slight idea of how we, who are natives of the country, feel toward those invaders who try to wrest it from us."

"I don't wonder at your feelings, Cousin David," she said. "'Tis only, being English, that it seems to me a mistake to give these colonies up."

"We have demonstrated by force of arms that we are no longer colonies, Harriet," he reminded her quietly.

"Oh, I know, Cousin David," she replied gaily. "But, until peace is declared, I cannot but regard you as belonging to us."

At this David Owen laughed heartily, but his daughter's cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled.

"Thee amuses me, lass. Thy attitude is England's precisely. The king and his counselors know that they are beaten, but are loath to sign articles of peace, acknowledging our independence, because by so doing they surrender their last hold upon what they are pleased to still term 'colonies.' But it must come."

"A truce, a truce," she cried laughing. "How can we acknowledge that we are beaten? When did England ever confess such a thing? At any rate you never could have been victorious had you not been English yourselves."

Peggy joined her father's laughter, and Harriet too was merry.

"Get all the consolation thou canst out that fact, Harriet," said Mr. Owen. "So long as independence is acknowledged we care not what sop England throws to her pride. But," he added with a deep sigh, "I do wish most earnestly that peace would come."

And so, in such frame of mind, for Harriet's confidence was so great that it could not but infect them, Dobbs Ferry was reached. The girl waved them a lively farewell as she stepped aboard the barge which was to take her across the river.

"It won't be a week ere I shall be back, Peggy," she cried. "I don't mind saying now that I have reason for my belief that Sir Guy will do as I wish in this. A week, my cousin, and you, and Clifford, and I will start again for Lancaster." She secreted her passport as she waved again to them.

"I pray so, Harriet," returned Peggy.

"She builds too strongly upon the belief that the British commander will help her, I fear me," remarked Mr. Owen as the ferry pushed away for the far shore. Peggy turned to him quickly.

"Has thee no hope, father?"

"Very little, lass. General Washington warned Sir Henry Clinton what the consequences would be if he did not give up the perpetrators of the murder of Captain Johnson. Sir Henry responded by ordering a court-martial. When Sir Guy came he communicated the findings of the court, and seemed to feel bound by the fact that it returned a verdict of not guilty against the leaders. I see not how Harriet can change the attitude of the British commander."

"If she fails will General Washington carry out the execution, father?" Peggy's lips tremblingly put the question.

"He must, child. He must do what is right at whatever cost to his feelings. This whole affair hath distressed him greatly, but justice to the army and to the public require that the measure be carried out in full. He did not come to his determination without mature deliberation, and his course hath been sanctioned by Congress, and supported by the approbation of the principal officers of the army. The general explained the matter at some length to me last night. It is peculiarly distressing to us, lass, because the victim happens to be of kin. Still, however painful the matter is, we must acknowledge the justice of the proceeding."

"Ye-es, father." But Peggy's voice was very faint, and she looked white and spent.

Just? Oh, yes; it was just, but granting justice; granting that it was the method of procedure in warfare, what comfort could that give to those who loved the boy? Peggy was greatly downcast in spirits when, as Harriet's figure became a mere speck on the farther shore, she and her father resumed their journey to Chatham.

Colonel Dayton was greatly pleased over the report from headquarters.

"I hope that the guilty may be brought to punishment instead of this youth," he ejaculated fervently. "I cannot tell you, Mr. Owen, how exceedingly distasteful this whole affair is to all of us. If it were not right and just we could not proceed with it. I believe that I voice the thought of every American when I say that I hope the sister will succeed in her efforts. Did the general send any message regarding the young man's treatment?"

"There is a letter, colonel," exclaimed David Owen, drawing forth the missive. "I had nigh forgotten it."

"This is most kind of the general," exclaimed the colonel with an expression of relief as he perused the letter. "I will call the young man to hear it."

In a few moments an orderly with Clifford in charge entered the room. The youth greeted his cousins affectionately, and listened attentively to the officer as he read the epistle:

"You will treat Captain Williams with every tenderness and politeness consistent with his present situation which his rank, fortune and connections together with his private estate demand. Further, inform the young gentleman that his sister hath been permitted to go to New York to place the matter in the hands of Sir Guy Carleton. No further steps in the matter will be taken until his commander is heard from."

Colonel Dayton looked up benignantly.

"So there is hope that you may not suffer for the guilty, Captain Williams," he said. "If Sir Guy will but let us have Captain Lippencott, you, young sir, will not have to pay the penalty for this most atrocious deed. Let us hope that your sister will be successful."

Clifford smiled rather wearily.

"'Tis but a prolongation of the suspense," he remarked. "She won't succeed. Sir Guy can't give up any man after a court-martial absolves him from blame. Still, I am glad that Harriet is well away. 'Twill be just as well for her to be with father until this whole miserable business is brought to a conclusion."

"Then, lad, thou hast no hope?" questioned Mr. Owen.

"None whatever, Cousin David. How long a time hath your chief given Harriet?"

"Two weeks, Clifford."

"Two weeks! Why, that is a lifetime," exclaimed he. "Much may happen in two weeks."

"True, Captain Williams; and, provided you will give your word of honor that you will make no attempt to escape, you shall be free to go and come at your pleasure," spoke Colonel Dayton.

"I give it, sir, and thank you," returned Clifford. "You have been and are most kind."

"Then we shall begin by leaving you with your cousins," said the colonel. "Come, orderly."

"Is there aught that thou wouldst have me attend to, my lad?" asked Mr. Owen as Colonel Dayton left them. "If there is anything that can be done I should be glad to do it."

"There is something, Cousin David." Clifford looked at him eagerly. "I suppose the end will come soon after the two weeks are up, therefore I wish you would stay until 'tis over. You and Peggy. When I was in Virginia last year wounded, as I thought, unto death, Peggy came to me there that I might have some of my kindred near me in my last hours. My need is greater now than it was then. It won't be very long. I'd like a friendly face near me at the last."

Mr. Owen was almost overcome by the plea.

"My lad," he replied huskily, "it distresses me to refuse thee aught at this time, but I cannot stay. I am a soldier, as thou art, and under orders. Leave was given for a few days, but 'tis nearly gone. I will make an effort to come again before the two weeks are up."

"Then let Peggy stay, sir. Accommodations are easily procured either in the village, or out here with one of the officers' families. She would be well cared for, and 'twould be a comfort to me."

The boyish face was full of pleading. He was very young. David Owen's eyes misted suddenly as his youth came home to him.

"It must be as Peggy says, lad," he rejoined, turning toward his daughter with concern. He had noted her pallor and sadness when he told her that there was but little hope for the boy, and he knew that if she stayed it must of necessity be a tax upon her strength. Peggy met his anxious glance with a brave smile. She was ever ready to sink self if by so doing she could give comfort to another.

"Certainly I will stay, if Clifford wishes it, father," she said. "I think I should like to, and Harriet would wish it, I know."

"Can thee bear it, lass, knowing that thy cousin's time may be short?"

"Cousin David," spoke Clifford quickly, "there isn't going to be anything melancholy about these two weeks. 'Twould benefit neither my cousin nor myself to dwell upon the approach of death; so——"

"She shall stay, lad," interrupted Mr. Owen. "Thy words remove the last scruple I had anent it. Would that I might be with thee also, but I shall try to come back."

Accordingly when David Owen started on his return to Lancaster Peggy was left at Chatham. Mrs. Dayton had declared that she must make her home with them, and gratefully the maiden accepted the hospitality. Clifford, conformable to the instructions sent by General Washington, was subjected to little restraint. Relying upon the safeguard of his honor the American colonel let him come and go through the cantonment, the village, and about the surrounding country at his pleasure.

Peggy had her own little mare with her, and Clifford having procured a mount, it came about that they spent long hours in the saddle, exploring the neighboring hills, the roads and byways around the camp. At no time did Clifford exhibit sadness or melancholy. Had it not been for the knowledge ever present in the background of their consciousness of what was to come it would have been a happy period.

The days passed. Ten had gone by, but there came no word from Harriet. Peggy found herself growing apprehensive. Would Harriet succeed? she asked herself again and again. No word had come from her. Did it mean failure? She had been so sure. And Peggy was glad that General Washington had insisted that two weeks be the period given for the mission. That Clifford was not insensible of the flight of time was made known to her the day before the two weeks were up.

"We are going to ride as far as we can to-day, my cousin," he said as the horses were brought round. "There may be word from Harriet, or from your general to-morrow. Perhaps something will occur that will prevent us from riding."

"Where shall we go, Clifford?" asked Peggy falling at once into his mood. "Our longest ride is to the five knob tree on the Short Hills road."

"That will do admirably," he answered. "And the glen beyond. Let us go through it once more. It hath much of beauty and romance in its scenery."

The day was quite warm, but it was pleasant riding. Clifford was unusually silent, and for the greater part of the distance seemed absorbed in thought. He turned toward her at length smiling:

"I am not very talkative this morning, Peggy. I have been thinking of your father. He thought that he might return, you remember."

"Yes, Clifford. And I," she added tremulously, "have been thinking of Harriet. We have had no word."

"She hath failed, my cousin. Had it not been so she would have been here. Harriet likes not to confess failure. I was certain that she would not succeed, and consented for her sake alone that she should make the effort."

"Still, by that means thee had an extra lease of life, Clifford," Peggy reminded him.

"I wonder if that hath been altogether for the best, Peggy," he said seriously. "Sometimes, when after all one must undergo such a penalty as lies before me, the kindest thing that can happen is to have it over with without delay."

"Don't, Clifford," she cried shuddering. "I think that none of us could have stood it. It would have broken our hearts. With the delay we cannot but hope and believe that something will prevent this awful measure from being carried out."

They had reached the five knob tree by this time, and beyond it lay the glen of which Clifford had spoken. It was as he had said romantic in its wildness. Various cascades leaped in foamy beauty across the path of the road which ran through the deep vale. Firs lay thickly strewn about, and the horses had to pick their way carefully through them. Copper mines, whose furnaces had been half destroyed by the English, were now overgrown with vines and half hidden by fallen trees, showed the combined ravages of war and nature. A few yards in advance of them the glen widened into a sylvan amphitheater, waving with firs and pines, and rendered almost impassable by underbrush. A short turning in the road suddenly brought them in front of a romantic waterfall. The cousins drew rein, watching the fall of the water in silence, for the sound of the cascade precluded them from conversation. The sun shone through the tree tops giving a varied hue to the rich greenness of the foliage, and tinging with prismatic hues the sparkling water. So intent were they upon the downpour of the waterfall that they did not notice the dark forms which stole out from the underbrush, and stealthily formed a cordon about them. By the heads of the horses two forms arose suddenly like gnomes from the earth, and a scream escaped Peggy's lips as a hoarse voice shouted:

"You are our prisoners! Dismount instantly."



CHAPTER XXVII

THE SAFEGUARD OF HIS HONOR

"Say, what is honor! 'Tis the finest sense Of justice which the human mind can frame, Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, And guard the way of life from all offense Suffered or done."

—Wordsworth.

At these words Peggy was much frightened, for she thought at once that they had fallen into the hands of the pine robbers. For the briefest second Clifford sat passive, then he let his riding whip fall in a stinging blow on the face of the fellow who held his bridle. With a howl of rage the man fell back, but sprang forward again as the youth, seizing the rein of Peggy's little mare, attempted to make a dash for liberty. Had he been alone the effort might have succeeded, but hampered with a second horse the attempt was futile. The cousins were again surrounded, and Clifford was dragged unceremoniously from his saddle. He struggled fiercely with his assailants, managing to shake them off so as to reach Peggy's side just as one ruffian was about to lift her from Star's back.

"Away, sirrah!" he cried haughtily. "I will assist my cousin."

"As you will, captain," answered the man, falling back respectfully.

"Captain!" The cousins exchanged glances of surprise as the title fell from the man's lips. What could it mean? Both of them were puzzled, but neither made any comment. Resistance to such a superior force was useless. Their captors were heavily armed, and Clifford, of course, had no weapons. Now as the leader issued a command to march the youth spoke:

"What is the meaning of this outrage? What do you want with us?"

"Young man," returned the leader in a strong determined voice, "there is no personal harm designed either to you, or to the lady. If you remain silent and quiet you may reckon on good treatment; but if you resist——" He did not complete the sentence, but touched his pistol significantly.

"I see no help for it, Peggy," said Clifford grimly. "We shall have to go with them; though for what purpose I know not. Aside from our horses we have naught of value——"

"Peace," cried the leader harshly. "We can't stand here all day. Forward, march!"

And with this the party started on a brisk walk. Two men walked in front of the cousins; two on each side, and the others brought up the rear, two of them leading the horses. The glen at this point became fuller of trees, and the road overgrown by a tangle of underbrush. Presently it dwindled until it became a narrow foot-path, disappearing in the distance in a mass of brushwood. It would have been impossible to pass over the path mounted, and the reason for leaving the saddle was now apparent. There were still short stretches which gave evidence that the road had been a well used thoroughfare at some former time, but now abandoned. This was, in truth, what had occurred, as it had been the road to the copper mines.

Notwithstanding the fact that they were afoot and were using precautions their persons more than once came into contact, rudely enough, with the projecting stumps and branches which overhung the pathway. At length the party emerged from the glen, and turned off into a road which seemed narrower, and more overgrown with underbrush than the one just left. After a distance of perhaps a half mile they came into a cleared space of considerable extent. In the center of this space stood a large frame building whose courtyard, stables, and other appurtenances proclaimed it an inn. It might have been a prosperous and well patronized hostelry at one time, but at present it bore every appearance of neglect and decay.