He was seated now and lay back in his chair with his disabled limb propped upon a stool before him.

"They continue to say horrid things about you. I wish you were done with them," Peggy remarked.

He removed his finely powdered periwig and ran his heavy fingers through his dark hair.

"I treat such aspersions with the contempt their pettiness deserves. I am still Military Governor of Philadelphia and as such am beholden to no one save Washington. The people have given me nothing and I have nothing to return save bitter memories."

"I wish we were away from here!" she sighed.

"Margaret!" He never called her Peggy. He disliked it. "Are you not happy in this home which I have provided for you?"

His eyes opened full.

"It isn't that," she replied, "I am afraid of Reed."

"Reed? He is powerless. He is president of the City Council which under English law is, in time of peace, the superior governing body of the people. But this is war, and he must take second place. I despise him."

Peggy looked up inquiringly.

"Suppose that the worst should happen?" she said.

"But—how—what can happen?" he repeated.

"Some great calamity."

"How—what do you mean?" he asked.

"If you should be removed, say, or transferred to some less important post?"

A thought flashed into his mind.

"Further humiliated?"

"Yes. What then?"

"Why,—I don't know. I had thought of no possible contingency. I wished for a command in the Navy and wrote to Washington to that effect; but nothing came of it. I suppose my increasing interest in domestic affairs in the city, as well as my attentions to you, caused me to discontinue the application. Then again, I thought I was fitted for the kind of life led by my friend Schuyler in New York and had hoped to obtain a grant of land in the West where I might lead a retired life as a good citizen."

"I would die in such a place. The Indians would massacre us. Imagine me hunting buffalo in Ohio!"

Her face wore a sardonic smile. It was plain to be seen that she was in a flippant mood.

"Have you given the matter a thought? Tell me," he questioned.

"No! I could not begin to think."

"Are you not happy?"

"Happiness springs not from a large fortune, and is often obtained when often unexpected. It is neither within us nor without us and only evident to us by the deliverance from evil."

He glanced sharply. There was fire in his eye.

"I know of what you are thinking. You are disturbed by these persistent rumors about me."

She gave a little laugh, a chuckle, in a hopeless manner.

"Yes, I am. Go on." She answered mechanically and fell back in her chair.

"You need not be disturbed. They are groundless, I tell you. Simply engendered by spite. And I blame partly the Papist Whigs. Damn 'em."

"It isn't that alone."

"That is some of it. The origin of the hostility to me was the closing of the shops for a week under an order direct from Washington himself, and a resolution of the Congress. Yet I was blamed. The next incident pounced upon by them was my use of the government wagons in moving stores. As you know I had this done to revictual and supply the army. But I permitted the empty wagons to bring back stores from the direction of New York and was charged with being in communication with the enemy."

"Which would be more praiseworthy."

He paid no attention to her remark but continued:

"I was honest in supposing the goods to be bonafide household goods belonging to non-combatants. As a matter of fact some of the decorations at our wedding were obtained in this manner. What followed? A public complaint."

"I know."

"Then that scheming interloper Matlack! You know of him?"

"I think so."

"You've heard of his father, of course!"

"No."

"The Secretary to Reed, the President of the Council? Timothy Matlack? His social aspirations were somewhat curtailed by my interest in public affairs. He has borne me in mind and evidently intends my ruin."

"In that he differs not from many other so-called friends."

"I did all in my power to soothe his ruffled feelings in a long, considerate letter in answer to his note of grievance. Only later I learned that it was his son whose haughty nature had been offended."

"You were no party to the offense. In fact you knew naught of it until the episode had been concluded."

"True, but Franks had taken part in it, and Franks was my head aide-de-camp. It was trivial. He wanted a barber and sent young Matlack who was doing sentry duty at the door to fetch one. Naturally I defended his action in my letter of reply."

"I tell you, they do not want you here. Can't you sense that? Else these charges would never have been uttered. They are mere pretexts. They are weary of you and desire your resignation."

She talked rapidly, violently. Her face assumed a stern expression.

He did not reply but peered into the distance.

"The 'American Fabius', I suppose, is still watching General Clinton," Peggy continued.

"He has thrown a cordon about him at New York. With a sufficient force he might take him."

"Never! The Americans never were a match for His Majesty's well-trained troops. The longer the struggle endures the sooner this will be learned."

"Time is with us, dear. The mother country knows this."

She looked at him. It was astonishing to her that he could be so transparent and so unaware of it. Really he was not clever.

"Why do you say that?" she asked. "Every day our lot grows worse. The troops perish from misery; they are badly armed; scarcely clothed; they need bread and many of them are without arms. Our lands lie fallow. The education of a generation has been neglected, a loss that can never be repaired. Our youths have been dragged by the thousands from their occupations and harvested by the war; and those who return have lost their vigor or have been mutilated for life."

"You are partly right," he mused. "America lost the opportunity for reconciliation immediately after my victory at Saratoga. Since then, as you say, the land has become a waste of widows, beggars and orphans. Then came the French Alliance, a sacrifice of the great interests, as well as the religion of this country to the biased views of a proud, ancient, crafty and priest-ridden nation. I always thought this a defensive war until the French joined in the combination. Now I look with disfavor upon this peril to our dominion, this enemy of our faith."

Peggy became interested immediately. She sat straight up in her chair.

"You never spoke these thoughts to me before!" she exclaimed.

"I feared it. You are a Tory, at least at heart. And I knew that you would only encourage me in my manner of thought. God knows, I am unable to decide between my perplexities."

"You know how General Monk decided?"

"My God! He was a traitor!"

"He restored Charles," insisted Peggy.

"And sold his soul."

"For the Duchy of Albemarle."

"Good God! girl, don't talk thoughts like that, I—I—— He has endured universal execration. It was an act of perfidy." He scowled fiercely. He was in a rage.

Peggy smiled. She did not press the subject, but allowed it to drop.

"My! How dark it has become!" she exclaimed.

She struck a light and touched the wicks of the candles.

III

Dizzy was the eminence to which General Arnold and his girl bride ascended! On a sudden they found themselves on the highest pinnacle—the one of military fame—with Gates, Lee, Wayne, Greene and many other distinguished generals at their feet, the other of social prestige the observed of all observers! For a time Arnold's caprices had been looked upon as only the flash and outbreak of that fiery mind which had directed his military genius. He attacked religion; yet in religious circles his name was mentioned with fondness. He lampooned Congress; yet he was condoned by the Whigs.

Then came the reaction. Society flew into a rage with its idol. He had been worshiped with an irrational idolatry. He was censured with an irrational fury. In the first place the position in which he was placed as Military Governor required the exercise of the utmost patience and tact. Neither of these qualities did he possess. The order to close the shops caused discontent. People became incensed at the sight of a dictator interfering with their private life. There was thrust upon them in his person the very type that they were striving to expel. His manner of action suddenly became obnoxious.

What was merely criticism in respect to his public life, became a violent passion respecting the affairs of his private life. There were many rumors of his intercourse with the Tory element. Brilliant functions were arranged, it was said, with the sole view of gaining their friendship and good will. He spent the major portion of his free time in their company, nay more, he had taken to wife the most notorious of their number. Small wonder was it that his sentiments on the question of the war were undergoing a marked alteration. The thirst of the political Whigs for vengeance was insatiable.

Then he had repaired to a mansion, the most elegant seat in Pennsylvania, where he entertained in a style and after a manner far in excess of his means. A coach and four he maintained with the greatest ostentation. His livery and appointments were extravagant and wholly unbecoming an officer of a country so poor and struggling. He drove to town in the company of his wife and paid every attention to the aristocratic leaders of the city. He disdained the lot of the common citizen. Even his head aide-de-camp had submitted a free man to the indignity of fetching a barber to shave him, an act countenanced by the General himself in a letter of reply to the boy's father.

His entertainments were frequent, altogether too frequent for the conservative instincts of the community. Upon the arrival of the French Ambassador M. Gerard, a grand banquet was tendered him, after which he was entertained with his entire suite for several days at Mount Pleasant. Foreigners were seldom absent from the mansion and members of Congress, the relatives of his wife, the titled gentry of Europe were treated with marked and lavish attention. The visit of General Washington was an event memorable for its display and magnificence, the ball alone at the City Tavern entailing a vast expenditure. With Madeira selling at eight hundred pounds a pipe and other things in proportion to the depreciation of the paper currency, the wonder was often expressed as to the source of so much munificence.

It was known that General Arnold was not a man of wealth. Whatever fortune he had amassed had been obtained mainly through the profits accrued from his privateering ventures. The great estate which he now possessed, had been bought only a few months previous to his marriage out of the profits of one of his vessels, just then returning to port. He was continually in debt, and ruin was imminent. Yet he was living at the rate of five thousand pounds a year. Whence then came the funds?

He had married a Tory wife, and presently it was discovered that among his bosom friends, his table companions, were to be found the enemies of America. Rumors began to whisper with nods and shrugs and shakings of the head that his wife was imparting profitable information to the enemy, and betimes the question was raised as to who was profiting most. What was more natural than that she who had been the toasted and lauded favorite of the British Officers when they were in possession of the city, should now be in communication with them in far-away New York! The seeds of suspicion and ill-will were sedulously sown—and the yield was bound to be luxuriant.

So the days rolled into weeks, and the weeks clustered into months, and the months fell into the procession of the seasons, and in the meantime, Arnold and his wife passed their time in conjugal felicity and regal splendor. Their affection was constant, tender and uninterrupted; and this alone afforded him consolation and happiness; for his countrymen were in a bad mood with him. His wife, his home, his estate now defined the extent of his ambition. The world had turned against him.



CHAPTER V

I

A busier man in the city of Philadelphia during the winter and spring season of '78 than John Anderson, would have been hard to find. For weeks he had applied himself with relentless energy to the work before him; for months he had deprived himself of the customary rounds of pleasure in the interests of the seemingly gigantic task allotted to him; until at length, for the first time, he was enabled to appreciate to some degree the results of his toil. It was now past Easter-tide and the moments were hurrying faster and faster in their haste towards the culmination of the conspiracy that was forming little by little in the heart of the community like an abscess in the body of a sick man.

Progress had been made at New York although it was acknowledged that the recruiting there had fallen far short of all expectations. Still it was a much simpler matter to effect the formation of such a regiment where the work could be carried on openly and under the protection of General Clinton; and where no sympathizer of the colonists, however loyal, would dare to enter a formal protest against the proceedings. It is quite true that Catholics were divided there as elsewhere; for not every one lent his spontaneous, complete, and energetic adhesion to the cause of American independence. And who would dare condemn their restraint; when the memory of the intolerable and bitter practices of the early patriots was recalled? They could not forget; and what was more, many did not want to forget.

It was found impossible to gather in the city, now held by the enemy, a thousand or more men sufficient to compose a regiment. Hence it was necessary to draw from the neighboring colonies. Anderson had come to Philadelphia with this object in view and, as an aid to his work, had established himself immediately in the graces of the military authorities. Quietly, privately, secretly, he pursued his quest, seeking out likely individuals whom he impressed into the service of His Majesty with not so much as a scruple as to means, fair or foul. Blackmail he employed freely and the pressure of unpaid debts reaped for him a harvest of names.

The currency was then worthless and the cost of living enormous. He was the odd individual who could boast of being free from debt, and the common jail and the stocks in the market place at Second and High Streets were tireless in meting out their punishments to the delinquent debtors. Anderson took royal advantage of this state of affairs, either by resolving the debt in favor of an enlistment in the company or by effecting a threatened punishment on the part of the creditor unless his wishes were complied with. Many recruits who otherwise would have rejected flatly the base proposition, were secured by such means.

At length he had registered about an hundred names, drawn from all classes of the city. The services of Father Farmer had been sought as chaplain, but this worthy servant of God gently but firmly declined because of the weight of age and "several other reasons." Colonel Clifton was still in charge of the regiment but the other officers were to be Roman Catholics and appointed by the colonels. A meeting for the purpose of organization would be held in the Provincial Hall in the course of a few weeks. Then the company would be shipped as soon as possible to New York for incorporation in the regiment there.

Anderson found General Arnold a ready and effective instrument in the perfection of the plot. Not only had the latter supplied him with all manner of information, but his authority had been employed on more than one occasion in the matter of impressment. Whatever motives actuated the General were ascribed by Anderson solely to his profound dislike of Catholics and all things Catholic. A further incentive to the success of the project was furnished by the issuance of a pass by the Military Governor enabling a vessel to leave the port of Philadelphia, where it had been tied up, for New York, for the purpose of transporting to that city the members of the recruited company. This was, of course, a violation of the military code, but the affair was done so secretly that it was known only to Anderson and the Governor. The remote preparations were now completed. All was in readiness for the meeting of the so-called volunteers.

Meanwhile, Marjorie had continued to be an object of interest to the busy Anderson, and he had paid attention to her with a marked gallantry. Through the late winter and early spring he had been a frequent visitor at her home and had often escorted her in public to the theater and dancing assemblies. He flattered himself that her confidence had early been gained and much information helpful to his scheme had been obtained. He had played his part well, although on one occasion, he had almost revealed himself; nevertheless he was completely satisfied that she not for a moment suspected the real purpose of his designs.

Now he felt obliged to hold one more conference with the Military Governor, for it was required that he know definitely the time set for the vessel's departure. That was the sole obstacle to his plans, for the date of the assembly depended upon the day of the sailing of the transport. Arnold would know of its readiness; its clearance was then a matter of personal convenience.

And so, this fine afternoon in early May, he resolved to direct his steps in the direction of Mount Pleasant where he would complete his plans. It was a long walk but less attention would be aroused by his going afoot, and so he started early. Little did he suspect, however, that his every move was being observed and that a pair of eyes had pursued him to the very park, watching him even as he ascended the great stone steps of the mansion.

He lifted the brass knocker and gave two or three slight taps, and even as he did so the blue eyes continued to observe him.

II

The dining-hall at Mount Pleasant was such as was befitting the noble proportions of the mansion. It adjoined the hall in opposition to the great drawing-room, its eastern side terminating in an ell extension from the hall proper where a wide easy staircase with a balustrade of gracefully turned spindles ascended to the second floor. It was lighted, not only by the fire that burned in the reredos at the northern wall, but also by eight cresset-lamps and as many candles set in huge silver candelabra on the center table.

Anderson was hungry from his long walk and ate well. A great roast goose reposing in a huge silver platter was brought in by the servants and set before them. There were vegetables of every sort, jellies, sweetmeats, floating islands, and a dessert of fruits, raisins and almonds. Madeira was drunk freely by all without any apparent disadvantage.

"And how were all at home?" asked Peggy when they were seated. The conversation was on general topics—for the servants were coming in and out with the food.

"I saw only your sister when I called with Marjorie. Mr. Shippen was away and Mrs. Shippen had a cold, a very slight one I believe."

"She is susceptible to asthmatic attacks," observed the General.

"Quite!" replied Anderson.

"She bears up remarkably. I think she has never missed a function."

"Her will-power alone," replied Peggy. "She can surmount obstacles; she has never lost an opportunity."

They lapsed into silence, occupying themselves with the delicious repast. Sometimes they talked of this, that and the other quite freely and easily—of the society news, of the presence of Miss Franks at the wedding, of the splendor of it all. Indeed, there was nothing to indicate more than a company of old-time friends.

"I am ready to take my charges along with me," announced Anderson at length.

"Hush! Not so loud," cautioned Arnold. "Later,—in the park, we shall treat of that."

Then the servants came again and removed the dishes. After another goblet of Madeira they left the table, going immediately out of doors, for it was now dusk.

"I can do no more with the recruiting. I have in round numbers, an hundred," Anderson began when they had been seated in the cypress walk. The moon was not yet half way to the zenith and lay a dull copper color in the eastern sky, partially eclipsed by the chimney of the great house. A solemn silence, terrifying and rife with mysterious sensations, seemed to pervade the place. It was a setting well fitted to shroud deep and dark designs. No one would dare to venture near.

"You have done well. Egad! I know of none who could have done better."

"Yet it was no easy task, I assure you. They thrill with the very spirit of rebellion. Cadwalader will never forgive me, and will haunt me when he dies."

"You got him?" Arnold asked.

"I did. But I had to take proceedings against him which portended the stocks. I promised him a wheelbarrow to be pushed every day in the resolution of his debt. Only when I had the jailer at hand did he reconsider. The debt has been paid, and he has already signed."

"I am glad you got him. He's a Papist, isn't he?" inquired Peggy.

"He is, and a staunch one at that," replied her husband.

"Let's get down to business," interrupted Anderson. "How soon may your vessel sail?"

"This week, or the early part of next," replied Arnold. "I drew the pass three weeks ago. With the time for clearance and sailing allowed, she should be ready now. You had better make an allowance of a week."

"How about the crew?"

"They can be depended upon. They are beholden to her owner. Have no fears concerning them."

"How soon may she clear?"

He was persistent in this.

"In a few days. Tomorrow if pressed."

"I want to get through with this business as soon as I can and get out of this town. It may get too hot for me. If I had that meeting off my mind and the men on board bound for New York I would enjoy greater repose."

"I thought you were never apprehensive," remarked Peggy. "With your composure and gallantry the world would judge that cares set lightly upon your head."

"Happy is he who can abandon everything with which his conscience is burdened. I have enjoyed no peace of soul for years and I see an untimely end."

"Be not so melancholy," observed Arnold. "My boy, the future and the world lie before you."

"Like a yawning abyss," was the grave reply.

"Oh! spare us your terrible verdicts," cried Peggy with a smile.

"I believe that I should have crushed with my scorn the philosopher who first uttered this terrible but profoundly true thought," said Anderson. "'Prudence is the first thing to forsake the wretched!'"

"Have you been imprudent?" she asked.

"I did find a charm in my escapades. At first I tingled with fear, but I gradually laid aside that cloak of suspicion which guards safety, and stalked about naked. A despicable contempt arises from an unreserved intimacy. We grow bolder with our efforts."

"What is success?" asked Peggy.

Their mood was heavy; their tone morose. A sadness had settled upon them like the blanket of the night. Only the moon climbing into the heavens radiated glory.

"Come! Away with those dismal topics!" exclaimed the General. "This is the time for rejoicing."

"Can you rejoice?" inquired the visitor.

"I, too, should be happy, but I fear, alas, I am not. My people give me no peace."

"Why not render your country a lasting service?"

"How?"

"By performing a heroic deed that will once for all put an end to this unseemly conflict."

"Never! I have been shattered twice for my efforts. I am done with active field duty."

"I do not think of that," Anderson assured him.

"Of what, then?"

"You know that the mother country had already offered conciliation. The colonies shall have an American Parliament composed of two chambers; all the members to be Americans by birth, and those of the upper chamber to have the same title, the same rank, as those of the House of Lords in England."

"What? A Marquis of Pennsylvania, a Duke of Massachusetts Bay?" he laughed aloud at this.

"No less fitting than the Duke of Albemarle."

"Why do you mention him?" Arnold inquired immediately. A thought flashed before his mind. Had Peggy and this man conversed on that point?

"He simply came into my mind. Why?"

"Oh! Nothing. Continue."

"As I was saying, all laws, and especially tax laws, shall be the work of this legislature, with the signature of the Viceroy. They shall enjoy in every relation the advantage of the best government. They shall, if necessary, be supported by all the naval and military force of England, without being exposed to the dangers or subjected to the taxes from which such a military state is inseparable."

"But how? What can I do that I have not already done?"

"You have the courage, you have the ingenuity to render that important service. Why allow your countrymen to shed more blood when the enemy is willing to grant all you are fighting for? You can save them from anarchy. You can save them from the factions of Congress."

"God knows how ardently I desire such a consummation," breathed the Governor.

"I am confident that he would perform any act, however heroic or signal, to benefit the cause of his country," remarked Peggy with deliberate emphasis.

"Name it. What shall I do?" he asked.

"Act the part of General Monk in history," announced Anderson.

Arnold recoiled. He could not believe his ears. Then the awful truth dawned upon him.

"Is this your work?" he turned to Peggy fiercely.

"On my honor, I never thought of it." His wife was frightened at his sudden change of manner.

There was silence. The trio sat in thought, one awaiting the other to speak the first word.

"Never," blurted Arnold. "Never, so long as I wear this uniform."

"And yet the world resounds with his praises, for he performed a disinterested and humane act."

"A treacherous and cowardly act!"

"Listen, I shall confide in you. If you would but exert your influence in favor of an amicable adjustment of the difficulties between the colonies and the mother country, you might command ten thousand guineas and the best post in the service of the government."

"Would that mean a peerage?" asked Peggy suddenly.

"Assuredly," was the reply.

She stood up and strutted in a pompous and stately manner before them; then she turned and courtesied before her husband.

"Your Grace, the carriage waits without. The Duchess is already in waiting," she announced with a sweeping gesture.

He scowled at her but did not answer.

"Clive saved the British Empire in India and you can save the colonies," insisted Anderson.

"Would not a proud position at court, the comfortable income of a royal estate, the possession of a peerage on home soil more than reward a man as was the case with General Monk?" challenged Peggy, with a flash of sudden anger.

"And leave my country in its hour of need," he finished the sentence for her.

"Your country!" she taunted. "What has your country done for you? The empty honors you have gained were wrung from her. The battle scars you bear with you were treated with ingratitude. You were deprived of your due honors of command. Even now you are attacked and hounded from every angle. Your country! Pooh! A scornful mistress!"

She sat down and folded her arms, looking fiercely into the dark.

It is strange how human nature could be touched by so small affairs. The war of continents meant very little to her imagination. Certainly the parallel was not perfect; but it seemed to her to fit.

He looked around slowly.

"You took me for what I am," he said to her. "I gave you prestige, wealth, happiness. But I have promised my life to my country if she requires it and I shall never withdraw that promise while I live. Better the grave of the meanest citizen than the mausoleum of a traitor."

"But think of your country!" insisted Anderson.

"Anderson," was the reply, "I know the needs of the country and I know deeply my own grievances. Suppose I yield to your suggestions and Britain fails,"—he paused as if to measure the consequences. "I shall be doomed. I shall be called a bigot. My children will hate me."

He seemed to waver. His earlier enthusiasm apparently diminished before their attack.

"But," continued Anderson, "with your aid Britain cannot fail. And remember how England rewards those who render her great and signal services. Look at the majestic column at Blenheim Palace reared to the memory of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough. Contrast with it what Peggy has just said, the ingratitude, the injustice, the meanness, with which Congress has treated you."

"Must the end justify the means?" he mused. "Can you continue to urge me to duplicate the treachery of Churchill, who can never be forgiven for his treason? Whatever else he may have achieved, you must remember he was first and last a traitor."

"He was doubly a traitor, if you are pleased to so stigmatize him. He first betrayed his benefactor, James, to ally himself with the Prince of Orange; and then, on the pretext of remorse, broke faith with William; acted the part of a spy in his court and camp; offered to corrupt his troops and lead them over to James; and still all was forgotten in the real service which he rendered to his country, and his name has gone into history——"

He was interrupted by a sharp sound, as if some one had stepped upon a branch or a twig, causing it to snap beneath his feet. On the instant, Anderson was upon his feet, his hand feeling instinctively for his pistol.

"We are betrayed," he whispered. "There is a spy here."

All had arisen in silence and were peering into the blackness of the night whence the sound apparently came. Anderson thought he saw a figure emerge from behind a tree far off in the distance and he immediately gave chase, opening fire as he did so. Several times he fired into the dark space before him, for it was bristling with shade, notwithstanding the obscure light of the moon. As he covered the wide area between him and the river, the lithe form of a man emerged from the wooded area and disappeared down the incline which led to the water. Nearing the bank he heard distinctly the splash of the body and he fired again into the spot whence the noise arose. The waters were still in commotion when he reached them, but there was no one to be found; nothing save the gentle undulation of the surface as it closed over its burden, and gradually became placid under the soft stillness of the night. After several minutes of intense vigilance, he slowly retraced his steps.

III

"The river has swallowed him," he exclaimed as he neared Arnold and Peggy, who were standing quite motionless at the side of the settees.

"Who was it?" the General asked eagerly.

"I did not see him. He disappeared into the river. I heard the splash of his dive and fired several times in its direction, but saw no one."

"Did he swim it?"

"No! I would have seen him. The water was unruffled except for the disturbance caused by his dive. The poor devil must have sunk to the bottom. Perhaps one of my shots took effect."

"I don't like this," muttered Arnold. "I would not have that conversation overheard for the crown of England. An enemy was near. I hope to God he is in the bottom of the river."

"Still, I may have hit him. I was no more than fifty yards away."

"I shall have the bed dragged in the morning. I could not rest without finding him. His identity must be learned."

Leaving the settees, they set off in the direction of the house, entering by the rear door. The servants were already in alarm over the shooting and were standing in a group behind the threshold motionless with awe. Peggy paused to assure them of their safety, narrating briefly the cause of the disturbance, together with the probable fate of the spy. She rejoined her husband and his guest in the drawing-room.

"I wonder who the intruder was?" Arnold muttered. There was a look of worry and anxiety on his face. His fingers nervously locked and interlocked, and the next moment grasped his chin and rubbed his cheek. He put his foot upon the stool and took it down again. Then he sat forward in his chair.

"Reed is behind this," he ejaculated. "You will find out that I am right. Reed has done this, or has sent one of his lieutenants. Damn him! He has hounded me."

"I may have been tracked. Perhaps it was I who was sought. My late movements might have created suspicion, and it is possible that I was shadowed here."

"No, Anderson. No! It was not you they were seeking. It is I, I tell you. Reed has been watching me like a sharpshooter from the day I arrived. He has been the author of the rumors which you have heard about town, and he would risk his life to be enabled to establish a serious charge against me. I am sure of it. Reed is behind this; Reed and the City Council."

"It was a nimble form——"

"Did you say you thought you hit him?" he asked nervously, seeking some source of comfort and assurance.

"As I live, I hit him," Anderson promised him. "Else I would have discovered him in the act of swimming. He is in the bottom of the river."

"That's good, damn him. Oh! If it were but Reed himself! He haunts me."

"He would not haunt you did you but remove yourself from here," volunteered Peggy.

"I know it. I know it," he repeated. "But how can I?"

"I suggested one avenue to you," proposed Anderson.

"Which?"

He awaited the answer.

"Via England."

His face glared with a livid red. He brought his fist high above his head.

"By heavens!" he roared. "I won't hear that again. I won't listen to it, I tell you. I'm afraid to do it. I cannot do it. I cannot."

He shook his head as he slowly repeated the words.

"Pardon me," Anderson pleaded, "I intended no harm. I apologize most sincerely for my impertinence. It will not happen again, I assure you."

"That will do. Drop it at that."

"The vessel will be ready next week? The meeting, then, can take place a week from Thursday."

"Undoubtedly."

"You will assure me of your interest?"

He was on the point of going. Though he had conquered, still, he did not know that he had conquered. He believed, as he turned and faced his friend for the last time in Mount Pleasant, that his mind was fully made up and that he had decided for all time in favor of the cause, at the sacrifice of himself.

"I shall do what I can," Arnold whispered, "but no more."

He parted from them at the threshold.



CHAPTER VI

I

"I have always contended, Griff, that a bigot and a patriot are incompatible," remarked Stephen as he sat on the side of his bed, and looked across the room and out into the sunlit street beyond.

"Is that something you have just discovered?" answered Sergeant Griffin without taking his eyes from the newspaper before him. He was seated by the window, musing the morning news, his curved pipe hanging idle from his mouth, from which incipient clouds of smoke lazily issued and as lazily climbed upward and vanished through the open casement into threads of nothingness.

"No," was the reply, "but I have come to the conclusion that the philosophy of religious prejudice cannot be harmonized with true patriotism. They stand against each other as night and day. The one necessarily excludes the other."

"Do you know, Captain," the sergeant reasoned, pointing towards Stephen with the stem of his pipe, "a hard shell and a fool are somewhat alike; one won't reason; the other can't."

"I guess you're right," Stephen laughed. "But love of country and love of one's neighbor should be synonymous. This I have found by actual experience to be almost a truism."

He was idling about the room gathering wearing apparel from the closets and drawers, pausing for a moment to feel a pile of wet clothing that lay across the back of a straight chair.

"You must have fallen overboard last night," observed the sergeant.

"I didn't fall, Griff; I jumped."

"And let me tell you, Griff," Stephen continued, "Arnold has become one of the most dangerous men in the whole American Army."

He was dressing quietly.

"And you discovered that, too?"

"I am certain of it, now."

"That is more like it. I don't suppose you ever had any doubts about it. Now you have the facts, eh?"

"I have some of them; not all. But I have enough to court-martial him."

"And you got them last night?"

"I did."

"And got wet, too?"

"I almost got killed," was the grave response.

"How?"

"Anderson shot at me."

"Was he with you, also?"

"No. After me."

"Come, let us hear it. Where were you?"

"At Mount Pleasant."

"With Arnold and Anderson?"

"Yes. But they did not know it. I shadowed Anderson to the house and lay concealed in the park. In the evening they came into the park, that is, Arnold and Peggy and Anderson."

"And they discovered you?"

"I think they did not. I was unfortunate enough to break a branch beneath my foot. They heard it. Of course, I was obliged to leave hurriedly, but Anderson must have seen me running. The distance was too great to allow him to recognize me. Then, again, I was not in uniform."

"And he shot at you, I suppose."

"He did, but the shots went wide. I decided the river was the safest course, so I headed for that and dived in. I believe I was fortunate in attempting to swim under water; this I did as long as I could hold my breath. When I arose, I allowed myself to float close to the shore along with the current until I had moved far down the river. After that I lost all sight of him."

He was now dressed in his military uniform and looked little exhausted from his experience of the night before, notwithstanding the fact that he had enjoyed but a few hours' sleep. Still, it was past the hour of ten, and he could tell from the appearance of the street that the sun was already high in the heavens. He went to the window and looked out at the citizens hurrying to and fro about their several errands. From an open window directly across the way resounded the familiar strain of "Yankee Doodle" drawn from a violin by a poor but extremely ambitious musician. He stood for a minute to listen.

"There are a few of them in the colonies," he remarked.

"I would there were one less," was the reply.

Stephen turned from the window.

"We have some work ahead of us, Griff," he said after a long pause. "The plot is about to sizzle. Are you ready?" he asked.

"Of course. When do you want me?"

"I cannot tell you now. I have learned that the work of recruiting is about finished and that the organization will take place some time next week. The company will leave the following day for New York on a vessel for which Arnold has already issued a pass."

"Arnold?"

"Yes, Arnold," he repeated. "He has been in this scheme from the start. Remember that note I told you about? I have watched him carefully since then, awaiting just such a move. I can have him court-martialed for this."

"For this pass?"

"Certainly. That is a violation of Section Eighteen of the Fifth Article of War."

The sergeant whistled.

"And I am going to this meeting."

"You are going?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"That I do not know. But I shall find a way. They have forced Jim Cadwalader into the company."

"Jim?"

"Yes. I learned that last night. Today I mean to see Jim to learn the particulars. After that we shall be in a position to decide further. You will be here when I return?"

"Yes. I shall stay here."

"I won't go until late this afternoon. Until then keep your eye open."

"Yes, sir," he replied, saluting.

II

When Stephen had presented himself that afternoon at Jim Cadwalader's modest home, he had almost persuaded himself that all would not be well. That the members of the Catholic regiment, whom Anderson boasted had totaled nearly an hundred, could so easily be dissuaded from their original purpose, he thought highly improbable. He was well aware that some of his co-religionists had been subject to British official or personal influence; that other some were vehemently opposed to the many outrages which had been committed and condoned in the name of Liberty; that others still were not unmindful of the spirit of hostility displayed by the Colonists during the early days, and had now refused for that reason to take sides with their intolerant neighbors in their struggle for Independence. Hence it was quite true that many Catholics were loyal to the mother country, more loyal, in fact, than they were to the principles of American Independence and the land of their birth. These, he feared, might have composed the bulk of the recruits and these might be the less easily dissuaded. On the other hand, he was satisfied that many who were unwilling to barter their allegiance had been constrained to yield. If the complexion of the regiment was of the latter variety, all would be well. His misgivings were not without foundation.

He knocked upon the small white door of Jim's house and inquired of Mrs. Cadwalader if he might see her husband. Jim was at the door even as he spoke, and grasped his hand warmly, exchanging the greetings of the day. He then led him to the chairs under the great tree.

"I want to see you on a matter of great importance," Stephen said with no further delay. "Tell me about Mr. Anderson."

"I guess ther' ain't much t' tell," Jim replied.

"You have held conference with him?"

"'Twas him thet held it; not me."

"About the Regiment?"

"Aye!"

"Have you signed your name?"

"I hed t'."

He was all in a fever, for his manner and his hesitation indicated it.

"When do they meet?"

"Thursda' next."

"Are you sure?"

"Anderson hisself jest told me."

"He has been here already?"

"Ye-eh, this aft'rnoon."

He looked down upon the ground, considering.

"Where do they meet?"

"Th' basement o' th' Baptist Church."

"Tell me, Jim," Stephen asked quietly. "Why did you enlist in that company?"

"I hed t', I told ye."

"Were you compelled to?"

"I was."

And then he told him of the number of debts which beset him, and the starvation which was beginning to prick him. He told of the first visit of Anderson and his offer of four pounds to every volunteer in the new regiment of Catholic soldiers. He declared that he had refused absolutely to take part in any disloyal act, however great might be the reward, and had said that he preferred to starve until the colonists had obtained their rights. He then told of Anderson's second visit, during which he offered to relieve him of all financial obligations on condition that he would sign with him; which offer he again refused. And finally he related how he was threatened with imprisonment for his indebtedness, and was actually served with the papers of arrest and confinement in the stocks unless his signature was given, and how he was at length obliged to yield and sign over the allegiance.

Stephen listened intently throughout it all, oddly studying the face of his companion, reading into his very soul as he spoke. He was satisfied now with Cadwalader's story.

"Jim," he said at length. "You do not want to join this regiment?"

"No, sir!" he exclaimed aloud. "Not a bit uv it."

"If I promise to assist you to escape from this man, will you lend me your help?"

"Will I? Enythin' y' ask, sir."

His eyes brightened with manifest ardor.

"I want to go to that meeting, and I want you to let me take your place."

"Sure, y' ken."

"And I want to borrow your clothes."

"I ain't got much," observed Jim, extending his hands and looking down at his clothing, "but what I hev, is yours."

"And I want you to be in the vicinity of the building to join in any agitation which may result against Mr. Anderson."

"I'll do thet, too."

"Of course, if we fail it may go hard with us. A crowd is an uncertain element to deal with, you realize. But it is our only chance. Will you take it?"

"O' course, I'll take it. I'll do enythin' y' say, enythin'."

"And Jim! You know of many so-called members of that company who have been impressed in a manner similar to yours and who, very likely, are of the same state of mind as you."

"I know meny, sir."

"Very good! Can you not move among them and acquaint them secretly with what I have just told you? Secure their cooperation for me so that, when the moment comes, I may depend upon them for support. Urge them, too, to join in whatever demonstration may be made against the project."

"I'll do thet, sir, and y' may depend 'n me fur it."

"You say Thursday night? Keep me informed of any further developments. At any rate, I shall see you before then. Remember, however," he cautioned, "what I have just confided to you must be kept with the utmost secrecy."

He raised his hand high above his head and stood up.

"I hope t' God I die——"

"Never mind swearing," interrupted Stephen, pulling him back again into his chair. "Simply be on your guard, that is all."

"Yes, sir."

"You are right to come back," he said; "you should have persevered in your resistance."

"I couldn't help it, could I? I was made t'."

"We become vigorous under persecution," answered Stephen.

"I'm sorry."

"Well then—tell me. Do you know aught of this Mr. Anderson?"

He stared at him with a questioning look. He was completely bewildered.

"Thet I don't. Why? What—what could I know?"

"I mean do you know who he is?"

He sat up.

"Why, I never thought o' him. He seem'd c'rrect 'nough, I thought. Marj'rie brought 'im here, I think."

Stephen set his teeth.

"Marjorie?" he repeated. "Are you sure of that?"

"I am, sir."

"When was this?"

"It's a good time now. I jest can't r'member."

"Did she know of his purpose?"

He paused as if he would say more, but dared not.

"Thet I can't say. If I r'member c'rrectly she kept herself wid th' old lady."

"How often did she accompany him?"

"Just thet once."

"You mean she simply made you acquainted with him?"

"Yes, sir."

A light began to glimmer in Stephen's mind, and gradually the truth began to dawn upon him.

"In her presence, I presume, the conversation was more or less general. He alluded to the scheme which was uppermost in his mind only secretly with you?"

"Thet wuz all, sir."

He knew well enough now what his friend meant, though nothing of the details, and from the uncertainty and the apprehension of his manner he judged that there was much of which he was still in the dark. Anderson had come to Jim with the girl to secure an advantageous introduction; after that he had no immediate need of her company. He was of the opinion that she was entirely ignorant of the man's character and motives, although she was unwittingly an important instrument in his hands. Stephen longed to reveal the truth of the situation to her, but dared not; at any rate, thought he, not until the proper time came. Then she would be enabled to appreciate for herself the trend of the whole affair.

"Can I ask ye," inquired Jim in a voice that indicated timidity, "will this affair—I mean, d'ye s'ppse this thing 'll bring us t' eny harm, 'r thet they'll be a disorder?"

Stephen's eyes danced with excitement.

"Do they observe the courtesies of the law? If it comes to the worst, yes,—there will be a scene and the grandest scene in which a villain ever participated."

Marjorie entering through the gate posts immediately commanded their attention.

III

"I should be happy to be permitted to accompany you home," Stephen whispered to her at a moment when they chanced to be alone.

"I should be happy to have you," was the soft response.

"You look well," she said to him after they had made their adieus to the Cadwaladers and begun their walk together down the street.

Her eyes twinkled, and a pretty smile stole across her face.

"I am as tired as I can be. I have endured some trying experiences."

"Can you not leave here and take a rest? I fear that you will overtax yourself."

He turned and looked seriously at her.

"Honestly?" he asked.

"Yes. I mean it. Do you know that I have allowed no day to pass without praying for you?"

"To know that, and to hear you say it is worth a series of adventures. But, really, I could not think of leaving here now; not for another fortnight at least. The moments are too critical."

"Are you still engaged in that pressing business?"

"Yes."

"For your success in that I have also prayed."

She was constant after all, he thought. Still he wondered if she could be sincere in her protestations, and at the same time remain true to Anderson. For he really believed that she had been deceived by his apparent infatuation.

"I suppose you know that Jim has been ensnared?" he asked suddenly.

"Jim? No.... I,——What has happened?"

She was genuinely surprised.

"He has enlisted in the regiment."

"Has he forsworn?"

"Not yet. But he has signed the papers of enlistment."

"I am sorry, very sorry." Then after a pause: "It was I who brought Anderson to Jim's house, you know."

"Yes. I know."

"But I must confess that I did not know the nature of his errand. I, myself, was seeking an advantage."

"No matter. It may eventually redound to our credit."

"I regret exceedingly of having been the occasion of Jim's misfortune."

Her eyes were cast down, her head bent forward as she walked in what one might characterize a meditative mood.

"I, too, am sorry. But there are others."

"Many?"

"That I do not know. Later I shall tell you."

"And why not now?"

"I cannot."

It was a troublesome situation in which the two found themselves. Here were two souls who loved each other greatly, yet without being able to arrive at a mutual understanding on the subject. They were separated by a filmy veil. The girl, naturally frank and unreserved, was intimidated by the restrained and melancholy mien of her companion. Yet she felt constrained to speak lest deception might be charged against her. Stephen, troubled in his own mind over the supposed unfavorable condition of affairs, skeptical of the affections of his erstwhile confidante, felt, too, a like necessity to be open and explain all.

So they walked for a time, he thinking, and she waiting for him to speak.

"For two reasons I cannot tell you," he went on. "First, the nature of the work is so obscure and so incomplete that I could give you no logical nor concise account of what I am doing. As a matter of fact, I, myself, am still wandering in a sort of maze. The other reason is that I have taken the greatest care to say no word in any way derogatory to the character of Mr. Anderson."

"You wouldn't do that."

"That's just it. I should not want to be the cause of your forming an opinion one way or the other concerning him. I would much prefer you to discover and to decide for yourself."

"That is charity."

"Perhaps!"

"And tact."

She peeped at him, her lips parted in a merry smile. Evidently she was in a flippant mood.

"It would be most unfair to him were I to establish a prejudice in your mind against him."

"Yet you have already disapproved of my friendship with him."

"I have, as I already have told you."

"Yet you have never told me the reason," she reminded him.

"I cannot."

He shook his head.

For he would not wound her feelings for the world; and still it pained him to be compelled to leave her in a state bordering on perplexity, not to say bewilderment, as a result of his strange silence. A delicate subject requires a deft hand, and he sensed only too keenly his impotency in this respect. He, therefore, thought it best to avoid as much as possible any attempts at explanation, at least for the present.

Furthermore, he was entirely ignorant of her opinion of Anderson. Of course, he would have given worlds to know this. But there seemed no reasonable hope that that craving would be satisfied. He was persuaded that the man had made a most favorable impression upon her, and if that were true, he knew that it were fruitless to continue further, for impressions once made are not easily obliterated. Poor girl! he thought. She had seen only his best side; just that amount of good in a bad man that makes him dangerous,—just that amount of interest which often makes the cleverest person of a dullard.

Hence she was still an enigma. As far as he was concerned, however, there had been little or no variation in his attachment to her. She was ever the same interesting, lovely, tender, noble being; complete in her own virtues, indispensable to his own happiness. Perhaps he had been mistaken in his analysis of her; but no,—very likely she did care for the other man, or at any rate was beginning to find herself in that unfortunate state—fortunate, indeed, for Anderson, but unfortunate for him.

For this reason, more than for any other, he had desisted from saying anything that might have lessened Anderson in her regard. It would be most unfair to interfere with her freedom of choice. When the facts of the case were revealed in all their fullness, he felt certain that she would repent of her infatuation, if he might be permitted to so term her condition. It seemed best to him to await developments before further pressing his suit.

"Stephen," she said at length. "What are you thinking of me?"

"I—Why?—That is a sudden question. Do you mean complimentary or critical?"

"I mean this. Have you misjudged my relations with John Anderson?"

"I have thought in my mind——" he began, and stopped.

Marjorie started. The voice was quiet enough but significant in tone.

"Please tell me," she pleaded. "I must know."

"Well, I have thought that you have been unusually attentive to him."

"Yes."

"And that, perhaps, you do care for him,—just a little."

There! It was out. She had guessed aright.

"I thought as much," she said quietly.

"Then why did you ask me?"

"Listen," she began. "Do you recall the night you asked me to be of some service to you?"

"Perfectly."

"I have thought over that subject long and often. I wondered wherein that service could lie. During the night of Peggy's affair it dawned upon me that this stranger to whom I was presented, might be more artful than honest. I decided to form his acquaintance so that I might learn his identity, together with his mission in the city. I cherished the ambition of drawing certain information from him; and this I felt could be accomplished only by an assumed intimacy with him."

Stephen stopped suddenly. His whole person was tense and magnetic as he stared at her.

"Marjorie!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean it?"

"Truly. I read his character from the first. His critical attitude displeased me. But I had to pretend. I had to."

"Please! Please forgive me." He turned and seized suddenly both her hands. "I thought,—I thought,—I cannot say it. Won't you forgive me?"

Her eyes dropped. She freed her hands.

"Then I tricked you as well," she exclaimed with a laugh.

"And you mean it? I am made very happy today, happier than words can express. What loyalty! You have been helping me all the time and I never knew it. Why did you not tell me this before?"

"You never gave me leave. I wanted to talk to you so much, and you seemed to forbid me.... I prayed for an opportunity, and none came."

"I am very sorry."

"Anderson interested me only in this,—he came into our society for a very definite purpose, the nature of which I was most desirous of learning. I know now that he is not of our faith, although he pretends to be. He is not of French extraction, yet he would lead one to assume that he was. He is a British officer and actively engaged in the service of the enemy. At present the recruiting of the proposed regiment of Catholic Volunteers for service with the enemy is his immediate work. He hopes to find many displeased and disloyal members of our kind. Them he would incorporate into a company of deserters."

"You have learned that from him?"

"Aye! And more. General Arnold has been initiated into the scheme. I do not know what to think except that he has yielded to some influence. His antipathy toward us would require none, nevertheless I feel that some undue pressure has been brought to bear upon him."

"Anderson?" he asked.

"I do not know. At any rate he will bear watching. I think he is about to ask for a more important command."

Stephen then told her of his adventures, relating to her wholly and candidly the details of his suspicions, together with his plan for the future. Throughout it all she listened with attention, so much interested that she was scarce aware that they were crossing the wide road before her own home. Her eyes had been about her everywhere as they walked, yet they had failed to perceive anything.

"Won't you come in?" she asked. "You are almost a stranger here now."

"I would like to more than I can tell you; but truly I have business before me which is pressing. Pardon me just once more, please."

"Mother would be pleased to see you, you know," she insisted.

"I should like, indeed, to see your mother. I shall stop to see her, just to inquire for her."

"Will you come when this terrible business is completed?"

"Gladly. Let us say,—next week. Perhaps you might be pleased to come canoeing with me for the space of an afternoon?"

"I should be delighted. Next week?"

"Yes. Next week. I shall let you know."

"Here is mother, now."

He went in and shook her hand, inquiring diligently concerning her.

IV

As Stephen walked away from the home of his beloved, ruminating over the strange disclosures of the day and how satisfactory and gratifying they were to him, his state of mind was such that he was eager for the completion of the more serious business that was impending so that he might return to her who had flooded his soul with new and sudden delight. Never was he more buoyant or cheerful. He was cheerful, notwithstanding his remorse.

For he did chide himself over his absurd stupidity. He should have known her better than to have entertained, for even a passing moment, a thought of her inconstancy, and that he should have so misjudged her,—her whom he himself would have selected from among his host of acquaintances as the one best fitted for the office assumed,—disturbed him not a little. His own unworthiness filled him with shame. Why did he question her?

And yet he would have given his own life to make her happy, he who was quietly allowing her to vanish out of it. He tried to explain his fallacy. First of all, the trend of circumstances was decidedly against him. There was his arrest and subsequent trial, days when he had longed to be at her side to pursue the advantages already gained. Then there were the days of his absence from town, the long solid weeks spent in trailing Anderson, and in meeting those who had been approached by him in the matter of the recruiting. It was well nigh impossible, during this time, to seize a moment for pleasure, precious moments during which Anderson, as he thought, had been making favorable progress both with his suit and with his sinister work. If Marjorie had forgotten him quite, Stephen knew that he alone was responsible. Him she had seen but seldom; Anderson was ever at her side. No girl should be put to this test. It was too exacting.

Despite his appreciation of these facts, his soul had been seized with a very great anguish over the thought of his lost prize; and if he had failed to conceal his feelings in her presence, it was due to the fact that his sensitive nature was not equal to the strain imposed upon it. Who can imagine the great joy that now filled his heart to overflowing as a result of his conversation today, when he learned from her own lips that throughout it all she had been steadfast and true to him alone? His great regard for her was increased immeasurably. Her character had been put to the test, and she had emerged more beautiful, more radiant, more steadfast than before.

This new analysis led him to a very clear decision. First of all he would defeat the cunning Anderson at his own game; then he would rescue his countrymen from their unfortunate and precarious condition; and, finally, he would return to Marjorie to claim his reward. Altogether he had spent an advantageous and a delightful afternoon. He was ready to enter the meeting house with renewed energy.



CHAPTER VII

I

The hall was very ordinary within. Small in proportion to its great high ceiling, bleak in its white-washed walls and scantily covered floor, oppressive from its damp, stifling air and poor ventilation, it gave every indication of the state of disuse into which it had fallen. It was no more than an anteroom to the vestry of the church, though quite detached from it, yet one could almost feel through the stout south wall the impenetrable weight of darkness which had settled down within the great building beyond. The gloomy shadows had penetrated here, too, for although the antechamber contained a half dozen windows, they were shuttered and barred against every hue of twilight from the outside. The very atmosphere was indicative of the sinister nature of the business at hand.

To the front of the room a small platform stood surmounted by a table, surrounded by chairs. Several men occupied these, interested in a conversation, somewhat subdued in its tone and manner. The chairs, settees, and benches throughout the rest of the room, were being filled by the so-called volunteers, who entered and took their places with an air of wonder and indecision. Already two-thirds of the seats were taken, and every face turned and re-turned to the door at every footfall.

The small door to the side was, of course, barred; but, in response to the slightest knock, it was opened by an attendant, assigned for that purpose. Names were asked and the cards of admission were collected with a certain formality before the aspirant gained admittance. There was no introduction, no hurry, no excitement.

"What's your name?" the man at the door was heard to say to one who already had tapped for admittance.

"Cadwalader," was the reply. "James Cadwalader."

"Got your card?"

There was no response, only the production of a small white card.

A strong, athletic individual, clad in a checked shirt and a red flannel jacket, a leathern apron, and a pair of yellow buckskin breeches, entered and stood for a moment looking about the hall. His eyes fell upon the group gathered around the table at the forward end of the room. Two of them he recognized, Colonel Clifton and John Anderson, the latter with his back to the audience. There were many familiar faces in the chairs throughout the room, some of whom had expected him, and accordingly gave him a slight recognition. Slowly, and in a manifestly indifferent manner, he made his way to the front of the chairs where he seated himself, and listened sharply to the little group conversing upon the platform until he had satisfied himself that there was nothing of importance under discussion.

The room was filling rapidly. It was one of those mixed assemblies wherein one could discern many states of mind written upon the faces of those present. Some wore the appearance of contentment and composure; some laughed and talked in a purely disinterested and indifferent manner; others looked the picture of unrest and dissatisfaction, and wore a scowl of disappointment and defeat. These latter Stephen recognized at once and hurriedly made an estimate of their number. Together with the neutral representation he seemed satisfied with the majority.

The most remarkable feature of all was the silence. Not a voice was raised above a whisper. The man at the door at the side of the hall, the little group away to the front of the hall, peeping at the audience and talking in subdued tones, the people in the chairs, those at the back of the hall,—all seemed to hold their tongues to a whisper for interest and a kind of fear. Drama was in the air.

The guard at the door advanced to the front of the hall to announce to Mr. Anderson that the full quota was present. Whereupon the latter arose from his chair and swept with his gaze the entire room, which the dim light of the torches only partly revealed. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he turned and again conferred with his associates who nodded their heads in acceptance of his suggestion. They sat back in their chairs while he came to the center of the platform and awaited the cessation of the hum which was now becoming audible.

"Let me begin by taking further assurance of your number," he said, "for which purpose I shall call the roll of names to which I respectfully ask you to respond."

Then followed the reading of the roll-call to which each man at the mention of his name signified his presence in the room. Stephen's heart fluttered as he replied boldly to the name of "James Cadwalader."

There were eight names to which no reply was given. These very likely would come later, or perhaps they had reconsidered their action and had decided not to come at all. Those present numbered eighty-six, Stephen learned from the count.

"I shall take this opportunity of distributing among you the papers of enlistment that you may read the terms of agreement, and these I shall ask you to sign at the close of this meeting."

As Anderson finished this sentence, he passed to several aids, a bundle of papers which they promptly dealt out to the members of the proposed company.

Then Mr. Anderson began.

II

"You have assembled this evening, my dear friends and co-religionists, to translate into definite action the convictions by which you have been impelled to undertake this important business. Our presence means that we are ready to put into deeds the inspirations which have always dominated our minds. It means that we are about to make a final thrust for our religious convictions, and to prove that we are worthy descendants of the men who established in this land freedom of religious worship, and bequeathed it to us as a priceless heritage."

This Anderson is a clever fellow, thought Stephen, and a fluent talker. Already his eloquence had brought quiet to the room and caused those who were fumbling with the papers to let them fall motionless in their laps. But what a knave! Here he was deliberately playing upon the sympathies of his audience in the role of a Catholic.

"We have signified our intention of taking this momentous step, because we are of the undivided opinion that our rights have been attained. We have accomplished our purpose and we have now no cause for martial strife. No longer do grounds of contention between us and the mother country exist. Our bill of rights has been read abroad and honored, and overtures of conciliation have already been made. The object for which we linked our forces with the rebel standard, the happiness, the supreme happiness of our country, has been gained. We no longer desire open warfare.

"The idea of an American Parliament, with its members of American birth, is a welcome one. It is a fitting, a worthy ambition. We are confident that we are capable, at this juncture, of enacting our own laws and of giving them the proper sanction. We are capable of raising our own taxes. We are worthy of conducting our own commerce in every part of the civilized globe as free citizens of the British Empire. And we are convinced that we should enjoy for this purpose the blessings of good government, not necessarily self-government, and that we should be sustained by all the power requisite to uphold it, as befits free and independent children bonded together in a concert of purpose.

"This we desire. But we seek also that freedom in matters of religious worship without which no nation can attain to any degree of greatness. Under a government conducted solely and independently by the colonists we know that such a consummation would be impossible. I need not remind you of the deplorable state of affairs which obtained previous to the opening of hostilities. I need not recall to your minds the anti-Catholic declarations of the Continental Congresses. I need not recall to you the machinations of John Jay, or the manifest antipathy of the Adamses, or the Hamiltons, or the Paines. I need not recall to you how the vaunted defenders of American liberties and freedom expressed their supreme detestation of Catholics and all things Catholic, and how they were determined that the nightmare of Popery would never hold sway over these free and independent colonies as it does even now in Canada. I need not recall how the colonies, with the sole exception of this colony of Pennsylvania, debarred the free and legitimate exercise of your religion within their bounds, and restricted its public ceremonies; how you were restricted by oaths required by law, even here in Pennsylvania, which you could not take had you been so successful as to be chosen to office. I need not remind you of these truths. You already know them. It would be idle to repeat them."

"This man is exceedingly dangerous," muttered Stephen, "and exceedingly well-informed." He jotted down several notes on the reverse of his paper.

"We have been displeased with the conduct of the war, immeasurably so. And we have lost all faith in the good will of our fellow-colonists, in matters religious as well as in matters political. They have refused to treat with the ministers of conciliation. We are about to join our forces to those of the mother country in order that we may render our own poverty-stricken land an everlasting service. We are destined to take our places among a band of true and genuine patriots, who have, above all things else, the welfare of their own land at heart, and we are about to commit ourselves to this course, together with our fortunes and our lives. Since our people are blinded by the avarice and the prejudice of their leaders, we shall take into our own hands the decision and the fortunes of this war, trusting that our cause may be heard at the bar of history when strict judgment shall be meted out. We have broken with our people in the hope that the dawn of better days may break through the clouds that now overshadow us."

He paused, for a moment to study the temper of his audience. There was no sound, and so he continued.

"It is the glory of the British soldier that he is the defender, not the destroyer, of the civil and the religious rights of the people. Witness the tolerant care of your mother country in the bestowal of religious liberties to the inhabitants of our once oppressed neighbor, Canada. The Quebec Act was the greatest concession ever granted in the history of the British Parliament, and it secured for the Canadians the freedom of that worship so dear and so precious to them. So great was the tolerance granted to the Catholics of the North, that your fellow-colonists flew to arms lest a similar concession be made here. It was the last straw that broke the bonds of unity. For, henceforth, it was decreed that only a complete and independent separation from the British Parliament could secure to the people the practice of the Protestant faith.

"Now we come to the real purpose of this organization. We are about to pledge ourselves to the restoration of our faith through the ultimate triumph of the British arms. Nobody outside of America believes that she can ever make good her claims of independence. No one has ever taken seriously her attempt at self-government. France, alone, actuated by that ancient hatred for England, inspired by the lust of conquest and the greed of spoliation, has sent her ships to our aid. But has she furnished the Colonies with a superior force of arms? Has she rendered herself liable for any indebtedness? Your mother country alone has made this benign offer to you, and it is to her alone that you can look and be assured of any reconciliation and peace.

"Victory, once assured, will establish peace and everlasting happiness. Victory, now made possible only by the force of arms, will assure us toleration in religious matters. And why not? This fratricidal strife should not occasion any personal hatred. England is not our foe, but our mother in arms against whom we have conceived an unjust grievance. Let us lay aside our guns for the olive. Since our fellow-citizens will not accept just terms of conciliation let us compel them to do so by the strength of our arms.

"Tomorrow we embark for New York at the place of landing indicated on the papers of enlistment. There we shall be incorporated into a regiment of a thousand men. The recruiting there has met with unlooked-for success. Colonel Clifton reports that the ranks already are filled. Your admission alone is required, and the ship, which will bear you down the waters of the Susquehanna tomorrow, will carry a message of cheer to them who have already entrusted themselves, their destinies, their all to the realization of our common hope.

"You will now take the oath of allegiance to the government of His Majesty, which I shall administer to you in a body. Tomorrow at the hour of eight I shall meet you at the pier of embarkation. I shall be glad to accompany you to reveal to you my interest in your behalf. Only with a united front can we hope for success and to this purpose we have dedicated our lives and our fortunes. I shall ask you to rise to a man, with your right arm upraised, to take the oath of allegiance to your king."

III

The spell that held them broke, and the bustle began. A mumble filled the room, followed by moments of animated discussion. Neighbor spoke to neighbor in terms of approval or plied him with questions menacing and entreating. Anderson maintained his composure to allow them to settle again into a period of quietude before the administration of the oath. At length Stephen arose as if to question, and was given permission to speak by the chairman, Mr. Anderson.

"What immunity does His Majesty's Government guarantee to us after the war?"

"The usual guarantee will of course be made," Anderson replied.

"Does that mean that we shall be reestablished in the good-will of our fellow-citizens?" Stephen again inquired.

"Unquestionably. When the colonists see the immense benefits which they have acquired, they will readily condone all wrongs."

Intense interest was already manifest throughout the room. Faces were eagerly bent forward lest a word be lost.

"Such considerations, however, are irrelevant to our purpose," dismissed Anderson with a wave of the hand.

"But it is of vital consequence to us. We must return to our people to live with them, and we cannot live in an atmosphere of hatred. Who knows that our lives may not be placed in jeopardy! My question deals with this. Will any provision be made against such a contingency?"

"It is too early to discuss the final settlement, but you have my assurance that suitable protection will be given."

"Your assurance?" repeated Stephen. "What amount of assurance may you offer to us, you who admittedly are one of ourselves?"

"I consider that an impertinent question, sir, and in no way connected with the business before us."

"It is of vital concern to us, I should say; and I for one am desirous of knowing more about this affair before yielding my consent."

"You have signed your papers of enlistment already, I believe. There is no further course then for you to pursue."

There was a rustle among the seats. Some had begun to realize their fate; some had realized it from the start but were powerless to prevent it. Two or three faces turned a shade paler, and they became profoundly silent. The others, too, held their tongues to await the result of the controversy. For here was a matter of vital concern to all. Up to now very few deserters, especially among the Catholics, had been discovered among the American forces. They had heard of an individual or two surrendering himself to the enemy, or of whole families going over to the other side in order to retain their possessions and lands. But a mutiny was another matter altogether. What if they failed and the Colonists gained their independence!

"I suppose we are powerless," admitted Stephen in a low tone of voice as he watched the effect of his words on the gathering. "We are confronted," he continued, "with the dilemma of estrangement no matter what side gains."

"England can't lose," interrupted Colonel Clifton, who heretofore had been seated, an attentive observer. "And with victory comes the establishment of the will of the conqueror. Care will be taken that there shall be adequate reparation."

"Very good!" answered Stephen. "Now together with that privilege of immunity, can we be assured of the extension of the Quebec Act? Has England so decreed?"

"Not yet," Anderson admitted, "but that extension, or one equal to it, will be made one of the conditions of peace."

"We are sure of that, then?"

"Well, we are not sure, but it is only logical to infer such a condescension will be made."

"I don't agree with you, I am sorry to say, for the English Parliament may be of another mind when peace and victory have been established."

"You are interrupting the meeting. Please let us continue with our business," Anderson sharply reproved him.

"I speak for my fellow-citizens here," said Stephen as he turned toward them with an appealing gesture, "and I maintain that it is our privilege to know certain matters before we transfer our allegiance."

It was now plain to the company that Anderson was worried. His white thin lips were firmly compressed as the wrath in his heart blazed within him. He was aghast at the blow. It had come from a quarter wholly unexpected. That this fellow in these shabby clothes should be gifted with a freedom of speech such as to confound him when he thought his plans realized to the letter, was astounding. Why, he might sway the minds of the entire assembly! Better to silence him at once, or better still banish him from the hall than to cope with the possibility of losing the entire multitude.

"You have interrupted this meeting more than I care to have you, sir. If you will kindly allow me to proceed with the business before the house I shall consider it a favor."

"I ask my fellow-citizens here," shouted Stephen by way of reply, "if you or any man possesses the right to deprive us of free speech, especially at a time as momentous as this. I ask you, my friends, if I may continue?"

"Yes!... Go on!... We will hear you!..." were the several acclamations from the throng.

Anderson heard it with perceptible confusion. He fumbled nervously with his fingers, wholly ignorant of what to say.

"Let me ask, then," said Stephen, "if the idea of independence is wholly exclusive of religious toleration. Why are we, a mere handful of men, about to pledge ourselves to the accomplishment by force of arms what already is accomplished in our very midst? Freedom of religious worship is already assured. The several actions of the colonial governing bodies lend us that assurance. England can do no more for us than already has been done; and what has been done by the Colonies will be guaranteed by the elective body of the people in the days of independence. I am fearful of the hazards that will accompany this enlistment. Give me leave to address you on this topic that you may understand my troubled state of mind. I appeal to you. Give me leave to talk."

Whether it was the spontaneous sound issuing from the ranks of those already initiated into the secret, or whether a chord already attuned in the hearts and minds of the entire assembly, had been marvelously struck by him, there was a reverberation of approval throughout the room in answer to Stephen's plea. So unanimous was the demonstration that Anderson took alarm. The air of democracy was revealing itself in their instinctive enthusiasm. And while nothing might result from Stephen's rambling remarks, still it would afford them consolation that their side of the question had been aired. To a man they voiced their approval of the privilege which had been begged.

"Aye!... Speech!... Take the floor!"



CHAPTER VIII

I

"I have no desire to make a speech," Stephen began, "but I have asked for this privilege of addressing you because we are moving through critical times and because there are serious decisions to be made this evening, which it is neither right nor possible for us to make without a full consideration of the state of affairs. I have devoted much serious thought to this subject. I have labored to arrive at a just conclusion, and it is in that spirit that I would speak. I feel, too, that I have an inalienable right as a free-born citizen to express my views freely and publicly, as befits a loyal adherent of the principles which we are now defending with our blood. And first among those principles is that which guarantees representation in all matters that are of vital concern to us."

He had not left his chair but continued to talk from his place beside it, turning, however, somewhat in the direction of his audience. Silence reigned throughout the room and every face was turned full upon him.

"I, too, had accepted the terms of enlistment on the plea of the acquisition of our rights, so admirably exposed to us by our good friend, Mr. Anderson. As I pondered the matter, however, I seriously questioned whether this were the proper time for the employment of such methods. What assurance have we,—if indeed assurance be needed,—that this is not another trick of the enemy? Bear with me, please, while I unfold to you my thoughts.

"Our leader and our guide in these matters, Mr. Anderson, has made known to us that this business of recruiting has been a great success. But did he tell us of the sinister methods which often had been resorted to, of the many threats which had been exercised over a great number of us, of the debts which had been relieved, of the intimidation which had been employed? He declared with manifest satisfaction that the recruiting in the city of New York had been marvelous in its results, yet he did not explain to our satisfaction the reason which impelled the leaders of this revolt to seek members from the neighboring cities to help swell the ranks; nor did he tell of the means which had been made use of to secure that marvelous number in the city, of all cities, where such recruiting would be most successful because of the present British occupation of the territory. Furthermore, he failed to tell us that he himself is not a Catholic, or that his true name is not Anderson, or of his history previous to his appearance in this city. Neither did he tell us that Lieutenant-Colonel Clifton, while a Philadelphia Catholic, is a British subject, having accepted British allegiance on the capture of the city a year ago last September. There were many items of importance which were not revealed to us. Shall I continue? I have an abundance of facts to disclose to you, if you give me leave."

So favorable had been the impression produced by the speech of Anderson that Stephen felt apprehensive lest his own criticism and contradiction would not be accepted as true. And so he paused to learn if possible the nature of his reception.

"Yes!... We want to hear them!... Tell us more!..."

There was a wild outburst of approval, followed by a generous handclapping. In the confusion, Stephen observed Anderson together with Colonel Clifton leave their places on the platform and take seats on the side of the room.

"It is quite true that we have no quarrel with the English people. We have no quarrel with their king or the framers of their laws. It is equally true that the governments of Great Britain and the United Colonies have become involved in a military struggle, a struggle to the death; nevertheless we would be the last to imply that there exists any essential antagonism of interests or purposes between the two peoples. We are not engaged in a contest between Englishmen and Americans, but between two antagonistic principles of government, each of which has its advocates and its opponents among us who sit here, among those who live with us in our own country, among those who reside in far-off England. The contest is a political contest, the ancient contest between the Whig and the Tory principles of government, the contest of Chatham and North, and Richmond, Rockingham and Burke transferred to this side of the Atlantic. The political liberty to which we have dedicated ourselves is no product of our imaginations; our forefathers of the seventeenth century brought it to our shores and now we naturally refuse to surrender it. It is the principle for which we are contending,—the principles that these United Colonies are and of a right ought to be free and independent states; and in all matters else we are loyal foster children of His Majesty the King, as loyal and as interested a people in the welfare of the mother country as the most devoted subject of the crown residing in the city of London.

"War was inevitable. This has been known for some time; but there has been no lack of cordiality between the people of the United Kingdom and the people of the United Colonies. We are opposed to certain principles of statecraft, to the principle of taxation without representation, to the same degree as are the Whigs of our mother country. We cherish the warmest sentiments of love and admiration for the English people and we are ready to become their brothers in arms at any future date for the defense of those very ideals which we are now trying to establish,—the blessings of democracy; but we abominate autocracy and will have none of it. In this regard we may be said to have disinfected our anger, but never to have diluted it."

The Tory element moved about in their seats, and Stephen suspected for a moment that he was being treated with an air of disdain. He shifted his point of view suddenly.

"To say that the Catholic people of this country are dissatisfied with the conduct of the war is begging the question, and brands them with a stigma which they wholly undeserve. We admit for the sake of argument that our early cousins may have proved themselves somewhat intolerant, and, perhaps, rendered conditions of life disagreeable to us; still gold must be tried by the fire. We grow vigorous under storms of persecution. And while it is true that the American Congress of 1774 protested against the legislature of Great Britain establishing a 'religion fraught with impious tenets,' yet it is equally true that the Congress of 1776 resolved to protect 'all foreigners in the free exercise of their respective religions.' The past has been buried by this; the future lies before us.

"We do not grieve on that account. Rather are we proud of our adhesion to the cause of independence, and you, yourselves, are no less proud of your own efforts in this regard. The Commander-in-chief is warmly disposed towards the Catholic element, not alone in the army, but among the citizenry. His own bodyguard is composed of men, more than thirty of whom bear Catholic names. One of his aides, Colonel Fitzgerald, is a Catholic. His Captain and Commander of the Navy, nominated and appointed by himself, is a Catholic, John Barry. We are appreciative of the services of our General, and we are ready to render ourselves worthy of the esteem and the respect in which we are held by him, as was evidenced by his abolition of the celebration of Guy Fawkes Day, so detestable to us.

"I repeat this to impress upon you that this is not the time for religious controversy or for nicely calculating the scope and the extent of our service. The temper of the times requires unity of action and definition of purpose. Our people respect us. Whatever restrictions were lodged against us in the past have been broken down now before the battering ram of public opinion. The guarantees for the future given by our own brethren, that we shall be permitted the free and unrestricted exercise of our religious observances as well as the right to worship God according to the dictates of our own consciences, are of more endurable texture than the flimsy promises of the enemy. Our noble and generous ally, France, already has procured for us that respect and recognition so indispensable to our safety and, contrary to the opinion already expressed here tonight, has sent us six thousand men, the first installment of an army of at least twelve thousand trained soldiers, destined to be put directly under General Washington's command. Together with these she has already furnished Congress with large sums of money to enable us to carry on the war. The dawn of a brighter day is now breaking over the horizon and in the east the sun of justice and of toleration and of liberty may be seen breaking through the low-hung clouds of oppression, prejudice and tyranny which have so long obscured it. In our history there has been no coward, no Tory, no traitor of our faith. We are still Loyalists; but of different type. That precious and historic document of July 4, 1776, definitely and for all time absolved us from all allegiance to the British Crown. By nature, then, we have become citizens of a new government, a government instituted by and subject to the peoples of these free and independent states. Henceforth, Loyalty assumes a newer and most lasting significance;—it has suddenly become for us synonymous with the best and dearest interests of our country."

He paused.

II

The sigh throughout the room was distinctly audible as he ended his paragraph with a rhetorical pause. He caught the sound on the instant and understood its meaning as the orator, holding his audience in breathless intensity, allows them to drop suddenly that he may appreciate his control of their feelings. Their pent-up energies give way to an abrupt relaxation followed by a slight scuffling of the body or an intermittent cough. From these unconscious indications, Stephen knew that he had held their interest and he did not intend that they should be allowed to compose themselves quite, until he had finished. He began at once on the evidence of the plot.

"The members of this proposed company before whom I have the privilege of speaking, have been the victims of a gigantic plot, a plot that found its origin in the headquarters of the British army at New York City. It was to advance the plan that John Anderson came to Philadelphia. He had carried on communication with the enemy almost without interruption. Because the work of recruiting in the city of the enemy was a failure, it was decreed that the city of Philadelphia, as the most Tory of the American cities, be called upon for the requisite number. Of the progress here, you already know. Of the multifarious means employed, you yourselves can bear excellent witness. Of the ultimate success of the venture you are now about to decide.

"The Military Governor, General Arnold, was early initiated into the scheme. For a long time he has borne a fierce grudge against Congress, and he hoped that the several Catholic members of the body might be induced to forsake the American cause. They sought Father Farmer, our good pastor, as chaplain of the regiment, but he refused with mingled delicacy and tact. Indeed, were it not for the hostile state of the public mind, a campaign of violence would have been resorted to; but Arnold felt the pulse of dislike throbbing in the heart of the community and very wisely refrained from increasing its fervor. All possible aid was furnished by him, however, in a secret manner. His counsel was generously given. Many of your names were supplied by him together with an estimate of your financial standing, your worth in the community, your political tendencies, the strength of your religious convictions. And what a comparatively simple matter it was for one thus equipped to accomplish so marvelous and so satisfactory results!