"I repeat, then, General Arnold is strongly prejudiced against us. It is an open secret that Catholic soldiers have fared ill at his hands. Tories and Jews compose his retinue, but no Catholics. I am not critical in this respect for I observe that he is enjoying but a personal privilege. But I allude to this fact at this moment to assure you that this scheme of forming a regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers is directed solely to subvert the good relations already existing between us and our brethren in arms. The promises made bore no hope of fulfillment. The guarantees of immunity deserve no consideration. The Quebec Act, and for this I might say in passing that we are duly grateful, was never to be extended. In view of these observations, I ask you: are you willing to continue with this nefarious business? Are you?"

"No!" was the interruption. The outburst was riotous. "Arrest the traitor!... I move we adjourn!..."

Stephen held out his hands in supplication to beseech them to hear him further.

"Please, gentlemen! Just one more word," he pleaded.

They stood still and listened.

"Has it occurred to you, let me ask, that the vessel which has been engaged to transport you to the city of New York is named the Isis, a sloop well known to sea-faring men of this city? She is owned by Philadelphia citizens and manned by a local crew. Does not this strike you as remarkably strange and significant,—that a vessel of this character should clear this port and enter the port of the enemy without flying the enemy's flag? Think of it, gentlemen! An American vessel with an American crew employed by the enemy, and chartered to aid and abet the enemy's cause!"

They resumed their seats to give their undivided attention to this new topic of interest. Some sat alert, only partly on the chair; some sat forward with their chins resting in the palms of their hands. So absorbed were all in astonishment and amazement, that no other thought gave them any concern save that of the vessel. The side door had opened and closed, yet no one seemed to notice the occurrence. Even Stephen had failed to observe it.

"As a matter of fact," he continued, "the ship has not been chartered by the enemy. She is about to clear this port and enter the port of the enemy by virtue of a pass issued through General Arnold.... Please, just a moment, until I conclude," he exclaimed, holding out his hand with a restraining gesture. "This matter has heretofore been a close secret, but it is necessary now that the truth should be known. To issue a pass for such an errand is a violation of the American Articles of War and for this offense I now formally charge Major-General Benedict Arnold with treason."

"The traitor!... Court-martial him!..." shouted several voices.

"I charge him with being unfaithful to his trust. He had made use of our wagons to transport the property of the enemy at a time when the lines of communication of the enemy were no farther distant than Egg Harbor. He has allowed many of our people to enter and leave the lines of the enemy. He has illegally concerned himself over the profits of a privateer. He has imposed, or at any rate has given his sanction to the imposition of menial offices upon the sons of freedom who are now serving in the militia, as was the case with young Matlack, which you will remember. And he has of late improperly granted a pass for a vessel to clear for the port of the enemy. I desire to make these charges publicly in order that you may know that my criticisms are not without foundation. I have in view your welfare alone."

"Aye!... We believe you!... Let us adjourn!"

"Let me ask Mr. Anderson one or two questions. If they can be answered to your satisfaction we shall accept his overtures. On the other hand let us dispense once and for all with this nefarious business and frustrate this insidious conspiracy so that we may renew our energies for the task before us which alone matters—the task of overcoming the enemy.

"First! Who has financed the organization, equipment, transportation of this regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers?

"Second: From what source or sources originated the various methods of blackmail?

"Third: Who first suggested the cooperation of General Arnold?

"Fourth: What pressure was brought to bear in the obtaining of the passport for the vessel to clear port?"

III

But there was no Anderson to give answer. It was found that he, together with Colonel Clifton and several members of the party, had disappeared from the room. No one had remembered seeing them take their departure, yet it was observed that they had left the platform in the course of Stephen's speech to take seats on the further side of the hall, near to the door. This might have opened and closed several times during Stephen's speech, and, more especially, at the time when they had crowded the aisles near the close of the address, and little or no attention would have been paid to it. Very likely Anderson had taken advantage of such an opportunity to make an escape.

It was a very different room now. What had been a state of remarkable quiet with every man in his seat, with the conversation hardly above the tone of a whisper, with the uniform tranquillity disturbed solely by the remarks of the two speakers, was now giving way to a precipitous uproar which approached a riot. Men surged about one another and about Stephen in an endeavor to learn the details of the plot. Groups separated themselves from other equally detached groups, all absorbed, however, in the same topic. Voices, formerly hushed, now became vociferous. The walls reverberated with the tumultuous confusion.

"What dupes!" one was remarking to his neighbor. "How easily were we led by his smooth talk!"

"We were misguided in our motives of allegiance. We might have sensed a trick of the enemy," was the reply.

"Let us win the war, first," shouted a third.

"Aye! Freedom first; then religious liberty."

"Who is he?" another asked. "It cannot be Cadwalader."

"No," answered the neighbor. "This was prearranged. He borrowed Cadwalader's card to come here."

"I always told you Arnold was no good," sounded a great voice. "He'd sell us to the devil if he could get paid for it. I suppose he'll go to New York sure."

"Let him. Wish he was out of here."

"Say!" one asked Stephen rather abruptly. "How did you get all this straight?"

"I interested myself the moment the scheme took root. I assured myself that all was not as it should be and I took pains to verify my suspicions," was the grave reply.

"I know, but how did ye get 'em?"

"By following every move this Anderson made. I tracked him even to Mount Pleasant."

"And got beforehand with Arnold?"

"I overheard the major portion of the conversation."

"Pardon me," asked another individual, neater in appearance than the majority, and evidently of more education, "but have I not seen you before?"

"Perhaps you have," laughed Stephen.

"Where?"

"I could not begin to imagine."

"Where do you live? In town?"

"For the present, yes."

"Who are you?"

"Can't you see? Just one of you?"

"Never saw you in those clothes before. If I am not greatly mistaken you are the one who came to the Coffee House one day with Matt. Allison."

"Yes," admitted Stephen, "I am the same."

"How did you come by those clothes?"

"Borrowed them."

"In disguise, eh?"

"It was necessary to simulate a disguise. Otherwise I could never have gained admission here. I learned that Jim Cadwalader had been impressed into the company and I arranged to come in his place."

"Oh!"

"You took a mighty big risk."

"It was required. But I knew that there was but one way of playing this game and that was to defeat them openly by their own tactics. I had to depend, of course, upon the temper of the proposed members. All might be lost or won at one throw of the dice. I worded my remarks to that effect, and I won."

"What did you say your name was?"

"I did not say what it was," Stephen exchanged in good-natured repartee, "but since you ask, it is Meagher."

"Captain Meagher?"

Stephen smiled.

It must have been fully half-past nine when the meeting broke up; and that was at the departure of Stephen. He had lingered long enough to assure himself that the company was of a mind far different from that which had engaged them upon their arrival. They were now to go forth wiser men. But they knew that the people of the city could be moved quickly to indignation—as quickly, indeed, as they could be moved to favor. And how were they to explain their conduct? They resolved to lay the story with all its details before the very table of public opinion and allow that tribunal to discriminate between the shades of guilt.

Anderson, of course, had fled. That in itself was a confession and a point in their favor. It was plain to their minds that they had been victimized by the clever machinations of this man. If there had been any lack of unity of opinion concerning the righteousness of the project before, there was no divided opinion now. They knew what they were about to do, and they made all possible haste to put their thought into execution.

The ancient antipathy against the Military Governor was only intensified the more. Rumor would confirm the charges that would be published against him, of that they would take proper care. It was enough that they had been deluded by Anderson, but to be mere pawns in the hands of Arnold was more than they could stand. Too long had he been tolerated with his Tory wife and her manner of living, and now was an opportunity. Their path of duty was outlined before them.

Thoroughly satisfied with his evening's work, Stephen turned down the street whistling softly to himself.



CHAPTER IX

I

"Come!" said Stephen in response to the soft knock upon his door panel. "Just a minute."

He arose from his knees from the side of his bed. It was his custom to pray in this posture both morning and night; in the morning to thank his Lord for having brought him safely through the night and to offer Him all his prayers and works and sufferings of the day. At night to implore pardon for his shortcomings of the day and to commend himself into the hands of his Creator. This morning, however, the noise of heavy footsteps on the stairway had caused him to abbreviate somewhat his devotional exercise.

"Come in!" he repeated as he slipped back the bolt and opened the door. "Oh! Good morning! You're out early. How are you?"

He shook the hands of his early morning visitors warmly.

"Fine morning!" replied Mr. Allison. "Sorry to have disturbed you, but Jim was around early and desired to see you."

"Sure! No disturbance at all, I assure you. I was on the point of leaving for breakfast."

"Go right ahead. Please don't delay on our account. We can wait. Go ahead," expostulated Mr. Allison.

"We want'd t' be sure an' git ye, thet wuz all," remarked Jim. "Eat first. We'll be here when y' git back."

"Sit down and make yourselves comfortable," and he arranged several chairs about the room. "I overslept, I fear. Last night taxed me."

"You did justice to yourself and to us last night. The splendid result was your reward."

They were seated, Jim by the window, Mr. Allison at Stephen's desk. The disorder of early morning was apparent in the room, the furniture disarranged and all manner of clothing, bed covering, wearing apparel, towels, piled or thrown carelessly about. No one seemed to mind it, however, for no one paused to rearrange it.

"It wuz a big night. Tell us how did ye git along with 'em?" asked Jim.

"Much better than I had anticipated," Stephen replied. "I thought that Anderson's talk had won them entirely, but when I asked for the floor, I saw at once that many were with me. Had you instructed them?" This question was directed towards Jim.

"I did. I saw a doz'n at least. You know they had no use fur th' thing and were glad o' th' chance. I made a big secret out o' it, and they watch'd fur my ol' clothes."

"I thought I felt their glances. They stuck true, you may be assured. I knew, too, that I possessed a reserve blow in the affair of the Isis. The mention of Arnold's name inflamed them."

"I am sorry to have missed that," Mr. Allison said.

"How did they avoid you?" Stephen asked.

"I don't know. I was never approached although I had been acquainted with the rumors of the thing right along. I suppose they figured that I would threaten them with exposure. They knew where I stood; and then again they knew that they could threaten me with no debts. For some reason or other they thought best to avoid me."

"I guess we killed it for good."

"Kill'd it?" exclaimed Jim. "It's deader 'n a six-day corpse. An' there's great talk goin' on t'day on all th' corners. We're right wid th' peepul y' kin bet, and they thought best to avoid me."

"Have you noticed any agitation?"

"There has been a little disturbance," Mr. Allison admitted, "but no violence. It has been talk more than anything. Many are wondering who you are and how you obtained your information. Others are considerably taken back by the unveiling of Anderson. The greatest of respect is being shown to us on the street, and congratulations are being offered to us from all sides."

"I am glad the sentiment has changed. It now looks like the dawn of a better day. We should be spurred on, however, to greater endeavor in the manifestation of our loyalty, especially among the minority Tory element."

Outside, the street was beginning to feel the impulse of life. Over across, the buildings shone with the brightness of the morning sun which was reflected mildly from the glassy windows. There was a silent composure about it all, with no sound save the footfalls of the passing horse or the rattle of the business wagon. Somewhere across the street the man with the violin continued his fiddling.

"Does that keep up all day?"

"Almost! It is amusing to hear Griff swearing at him. The humorous part of it is that he plays but one tune, 'Yankee Doodle.'"

"Can't ye steal it some night?" asked Jim, "an' bust it over 's head."

"I don't care," laughed Stephen, "he doesn't bother me."

The door opened and shut. Sergeant Griffin entered, saluted Stephen and took the hands of the visitors.

"Well, what do you think of the boy?"

"I alwa's said he wuz a good boy."

"The fun hasn't begun yet," announced the Sergeant. "I have just learned that the City Council has met, and is about to issue formal charges against General Arnold."

Stephen whistled.

"They are glad of this opportunity," he announced quietly.

"Reed never took kindly to him, not from the first day," declared Mr. Allison.

"Well, if Reed gits after 'm he'll make the fur fly. He's a bad man when he gits goin'."

"Did you say they had met?" Stephen inquired.

"I understand they have. The affair of last night is being talked of freely on the street. And they are talking about you, most of all, and wonder if you had been sent by Washington to uncover this. One thing is certain: Arnold is in disgrace and the sooner he gets out of here the better it will be for him."

"The General likes 'im and p'rhaps 'll give 'im a transf'r."

"By the way!" interrupted Mr. Allison. "My girl wants to see you."

"See me?" Stephen quickly repeated, pointing to himself.

"She told me on leaving to tell you."

"Very well. Is it urgent?"

"No. I guess not. She didn't say it as if it were."

"Tell her for me, I shall go as soon as I can."

"What's th' next thin' t' do?" asked Jim.

"Matters will take care of themselves for awhile," Stephen replied. "Anderson, I suppose, has left town together with Clifton and the others. If the City Council has met to publish charges against Arnold, there is nothing to do but await the result of these. The people, I presume, are of one mind now and if they are not they will soon be converted once the news of last night's affair has reached their ears."

"Are you going to remain here?" asked Mr. Allison.

"I am going to take some breakfast, first; then I shall busy myself with a report. I may be busy for several days away from the city. In the meantime I would advise that the whole affair be aired as much as possible. There is nothing like supplying the public mind with food. Meet me, Jim, at the Coffee House; or are you coming with me?"

"Guess I'll go. This man wants t' eat."

II

The City Council did meet, as rumor announced to Sergeant Griffin, and immediately published charges against David Franks, the father of the aide-de-camp of the Military Governor, charging him with being in correspondence with his brother in London, who was holding the office of Commissary for British prisoners. He was ordered to be placed under immediate arrest. At the same time formal charges, partly of a military nature, partly of a civil, were preferred against the Military Governor. Copies of indictment were laid before Congress and before the Governors of the states, who were asked to communicate them to their respective legislatures.

The press became wildly excited. Great headlines announced the startling news to the amazement of the country. For, it must be remembered, Philadelphia was the center of government and colonial life, and the eyes of the infant nation were turned continually in its direction. General Arnold's name soon became a subject for conversation on every side.

None took the news more to heart than the General himself, as he sat in his great drawing-room with a copy of the evening news sheet before him. Being of an imaginative, impulsive nature it was natural for him to worry, but tonight there was the added feature of the revelation of his guilt. Reed had pursued him relentlessly, and the public announcement of his participation in the attempted formation of this detestable regiment only furnished the President of the Council with the opening he had so long desired. He re-read the charges preferred against him, his name across the front in big bold type. In substance they were as follows:

First: That the Military Governor had issued a pass for a vessel employed by the enemy, to come into port without the knowledge of the State authorities or of the Commander-in-chief.

Second: That upon taking possession of the city he had closed the shops and stores, preventing the public from purchasing, while at the same time, "as was believed," he had made considerable purchases for his own benefit.

Third: That he imposed menial offices upon the militia when called into service.

Fourth: That in a dispute over the capture of a prize brought in by a state privateer he had purchased the suit at a low and inadequate price.

Fifth: That he had devoted the wagons of the state to transporting the private property of Tories.

Sixth: That, contrary to law, he had given a pass to an unworthy person to go within the enemy's lines.

Seventh: That the Council had been met with a disrespectful refusal when they asked him to explain the subject-matter of the Fifth charge.

Eighth: That the patriotic authorities, both civil and military, were treated coldly and neglectfully, in a manner entirely different from his line of conduct towards the adherents of the king.

A further account of the Council meeting was then given wherein it was stated that a motion had been made to suspend General Arnold from all command during the time the inquiry was being made into these accusations, but it had been voted down. Congress was asked, the story went on, to decide on the value of these charges and to refer them to the proper tribunal, the necessary amount of evidence being promised at the proper time.

"The fools!" he muttered. "They think that these can hold water."

He continued to read, and holding the paper at a distance from him, gazed at it.

"What a shame! Every paper in the country will have this story before the week is out. I'm disgraced."

He fell back in his chair with his head propped up by his elbow. In his other hand, thrown across the arm of the chair, was held the paper. His brows were contracted, his eyes closed, his face flushed in indication of the tumult that surged within him. His mind was engaged in a long process of thought which began with his memories of his early campaigns and traced themselves down to the events of the present moment. There was no decision, no constancy of resolution, no determination; just worry, and apprehension, and solicitude, and the loud, rapid beatings of his temple against his hand.

"Suspend me! I'll forestall them, damn 'em. I'll resign first."

He wondered where Anderson had gone or what fortune he had met with. The morning brought the first report of the disruption of the meeting and of the unknown person who had single-handed accomplished it. There must be a traitor somewhere, for no one save Anderson and himself had been initiated into the secret. Margaret knew, of course, but she could be trusted. Perhaps after all the man had escaped that night. Perhaps it was this very person who had created the furore at the meeting. Who was he? How did he get in? Why were proper steps not taken to safeguard the room against all possibilities of this nature? Bah! Anderson had bungled the thing from the start. He was a boy sent on a man's errand.

The regiment was defunct. To speculate further on that subject would be futile. It never had existed, as far as he could see, except on paper, and there it remained, a mere potentiality. The single-handed disruption of it proved how utterly deprived it was of cohesion and organization. That one man, alone and in disguise, could have acquainted himself thoroughly with the whole proceeding, could have found his way with no attempt at interference into the meeting place, and with a few well-chosen words could have moved an entire audience to espouse the very contrary of their original purpose, indicated the stability and the temper of the assembly. To coerce men is a useless endeavor. Even the Almighty finds it well not to interfere with man's power of choice. They might be led or enticed or cajoled; but to force them, or intimidate them, or overwhelm them, is an idle and unavailing adventure.

Anderson had failed miserably and his conspiracy had perished with him. Not a prominent Catholic had been reached in the first place; not a member of the poorest class would now leave the city. The affair with its awful disclosures only added strength to their position, for whatever aspersions might have been cast upon their loyalty in the event of the successful deportation of the company, were now turned like a boomerang against the very ones who had engineered the scheme. The community would respect the Catholics more for the future. They were to profit by his undoing. They would be valued for the test that their patriotism had stood.

There was another consideration, however, which wore a graver complexion and tormented him beyond endurance. This was the solicitude for his own safety. The people had hated him for years and had proceeded to invent stories about him which might justify its anger. It had been a satisfaction for him to reflect that, for the most part, these stories had not been the causes, but rather the effects of public indignation. But what answer could he make now, what apology could he offer for this late transaction, this conspiracy at once so evident and palpable? As far as the question of his guilt was concerned there would be little conjecture about that. Ten or twenty accounts of the venture, inconsistent with one another and with themselves, would be circulated simultaneously. Of that he had no doubt. People would neither know nor care about the evidence. It was enough that he had been implicated.

He would ask for a court-martial. That, of course. Through no other tribunal could a just and a satisfactory decision be reached, and it was paramount that another verdict besides that pronounced by public opinion be obtained. Unquestionably, he would be acquitted. His past service, his influence, his character would prove themselves determining factors during his trial. Fully one-half of the charges were ridiculous and would be thrown out of court as incontestable, and of the remainder only one would find him technically culpable. Still it were better for a court to decide upon these matters, and to that end he decided to request a general court-martial.

III

"You have removed your uniform?" Peggy asked in surprise as she beheld him entering the doorway of the drawing-room.

"Yes," was the solemn reply. "I am no longer a confederate of France."

He limped slowly across the room, leaning on his cane. He had laid aside his buff and blue uniform, with the epaulets and sword knots, and was clad in a suit of silken black. His hose and shoes were of the same color, against which his blouse, cuffs and periwig were emphasized, a pale white.

"But you are still a Major-General," she corrected.

"I was; but am no longer. I have resigned."

She started at the announcement. Obviously she had not anticipated this move.

"You have resigned? When?"

"I wrote the letter a short time ago. I precluded their designs."

He sat in his great chair, and, reaching for his stool, placed his foot upon it.

"But ... I ... I don't understand."

"I do perfectly. I shall be tried by court-martial, of course; they have moved already to suspend me pending the course of my trial. I want to anticipate any such possibility, that is all."

"But you will be reinstated?"

"I don't know,—nor care," he added.

"And what about us, our home, our life here," she asked with a marked concern.

"Oh! That will go on. This is your house, remember, if it comes to the worst; you are mistress here. This is your home."

"If it comes to the worst? To what?"

"Well, if I should be found guilty ... and ... sentenced."

"I should not stay here a minute," she cried, stamping her foot. "Not one minute after the trial! In this town? With that element? Not for an hour!"

"Well!" he exclaimed, making a gesture with both hands, together with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

"Where is Anderson?" she asked quickly.

"In New York, I presume, ere this. I have not seen him."

"Fled?"

"The only proper thing. It's a great wonder to me that he escaped at all. I should have expected him torn to pieces by that mob."

"A bungled piece of business. I imagined that he was assured of success. A sorry spectacle to allow them to slip from his grasp so easily."

"Margaret, you do not understand a mob. They are as fickle as a weather-cock. The least attraction sways them."

"Who did it? Have you yet learned?"

"No. A bedraggled loafer, gifted with more talk than occupation. He was acquainted with the whole scheme from beginning to end, and worked upon their feelings with evidences of treason. The sudden mention of my name in connection with the plot threw cold water on the whole business. They were on their feet in an instant."

"You are quite popular," was the taunt.

"Evidently. The pass inspired them. It would defeat any purpose, and Anderson must have sensed it and taken his hurried departure. No one has since heard or seen aught of him."

"He was a fool to drag you into this, and you were as great a fool to allow it."

"Margaret, don't chide me in that manner. I did what I thought best. But I'm through now with these cursed Catholics and with France."

"You are a free man now," she murmured.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that this court-martial relieves you of any further obligation to the colonies," was the answer.

"But I may still be Second in command."

She paused to regard him. Did he continue to cherish ambitions of this nature; or was he attempting to jest with her?

"You seem to forget Gates and the Congress," she said with manifest derision.

"No. In spite of them."

She lost all patience.

"Listen! Don't flatter yourself any longer. Your cause is hopeless, as hopeless as the cause for which the stupid colonists are contending. You are now free to put an end to this strife. Go over to the enemy and persuade Washington and the leaders of the revolt to discuss terms."

"Impossible!"

"What is impossible? Simply announce your defection; accept the terms of His Majesty's government; and invite Adams, Franklin, Jefferson, Hamilton and Washington to meet you. There is the assurance of all save complete independence."

"I shall wait."

"For what? The court-martial will be against you from the start. Mark my words. You will be found guilty, if not actually, at least technically. They are determined upon revenge and they are going to have it. You saw the paper?"

"I did."

"You read the list of charges?"

He did not answer. He had sunk into his chair and his hands were clasped before him. He was engaged in a detailed series of thought.

"How many of them were artificial? Except for the first, that about the pass, none are worth the reading, and the first never can be proved. They have no evidence apart from the fanatical ravings of a drunken Catholic. But wait! You shall be adjudged guilty in the end. See if I am not correct."

"I have the right to question the composition of the court!"

"What matter! You know the people detest you. They have hated you from the moment you set foot in this city. Every issue of the paper found some new grievance against you. And when you married me the bomb was exploded. You yourself know that it was the mere fact of your participation in this scheme that quelled it. They loathe you, I tell you. They hate you."

Silence reigned in the room as she finished. His eyes were closed and he gave every appearance of having fallen into a deep sleep. His mind was keenly alert, however, and digested every word she uttered. At length he arose from his composure and limped to the window at the further end of the room.

"I shall ask for a new command," he said quietly, "and we shall be removed for all time from this accursed place. I shall do service again."

"Better to await developments. Attend to your trial first. Plan for the future later."

"I shall obey the wishes of the people."

"The people! A motley collection of fools! They have eyes and ears but no more. They know everything and can do nothing."

"I don't know what to do. I...."

"I told you what to do," she interrupted his thought and finished it for him. "I told you to join Anderson. I told you to go to New York and make overtures to General Clinton. That's what you should do. Seek respect and power and honor for your old age."

"That I shall not do. Washington loves me and my people will not desert me to my enemies. The court-martial is the thing."

"As you say. But remember my prophecy."

He turned and again sought his chair. She arose to assist him into it.

"I wonder who that fellow could be! He knew it all."

"Did you not hear?"

"No. I have seen no one who could report to me. The details were missing."

"Did you ever stop to think of the spy in the garden?"

"I did."

"That was the man, I am sure. You know his body has not been found, and if I am not mistaken, it was present at that meeting hall."

"We shall learn of his identity. We shall learn."

"Too late! Too late!"

He again dozed off while she watched him. For several minutes they sat in this manner until she stole out of the room and left him alone. Soon he was wrapped in the arms of a gentle slumber. Some time later she aroused him.



CHAPTER X

I

A fortnight later there came to the Allison home a messenger from Stephen in the person of Sergeant Griffin. He appeared at the doorway just as the shroud of eventide was being enfolded about the landscape, changing its hues of green and gray to the more somber ones of blue or purple; just at the time when the indoor view of things is about to be made apparent only by the artificial beams of the tallow and dip.

"Hail!" he said; "I have business with Matthew Allison."

"From Stephen?" Marjorie asked with evident interest.

He shook his head.

"The trial——"

"Oh!" exclaimed Marjorie. Plainly she was relieved at the nature of the message. Then she turned.

"Father!" she called.

"I am coming directly," cried Mr. Allison from the rear.

She had clear forgotten to invite the sergeant into the room, so absorbed was she in the nature of the business at hand. Expectancy breeds cowardice. When great issues are at stake every act wears an awful meaning. For this reason she stood transfixed at the threshold, before this unexpected arrival, whom she associated with the image of Stephen. With the sudden and delightful lessening of her anxiety, however, she bethought herself.

"Won't you come in? It was stupid of me not to have asked you before."

The sergeant acted promptly. Marjorie followed at a little distance, but had no sooner entered the room herself than her father came through the other door.

"What news? Arnold?"

"Found guilty," was the response.

"The court-martial has come to an end?" asked the girl.

"Yes, Miss. And he has been found guilty," he repeated.

"I thought so," muttered Mr. Allison.

They were seated now in the parlor, the two men at opposite ends of the table, the girl at the side of the room.

"They met at Morristown?" asked Mr. Allison.

"Yes. At Norris' Tavern. Major-General Howe was chairman of the court. Only four charges were pressed for trial: the matter of the pass; the affair of the wagons; the shops; and the imposition upon the militia."

"And Arnold?"

"He managed his own trial, and conducted his own cross-examination. He made an imposing spectacle as he limped before the court. The sword knots of Washington were about his waist and he took pains to allude to them several times during the defense. It was astonishing to hear his remarkable flow of language and his display of knowledge of military law. He created a wonderful impression."

"He was found guilty, you say?" interposed Mr. Allison.

"Technically guilty of one charge and imprudent in another," was the deliberate reply.

"And sentenced?"

"To receive a reprimand from the Commander-in-chief."

Mr. Allison assented by a move of his head.

"How did he take it?" he then asked. "I cannot imagine his proud nature to yield readily to rebuke."

The visitor thought for a moment.

"His face was ashen pale; there was a haggard look upon it; the eyes were marked with deep circles and his step faltered as he turned on his heel and, without a word, made his way from the court room."

"Were you present at the trial?" Marjorie inquired.

"Yes, Miss Allison."

"Was Stephen?"

"No." The sergeant answered mildly, smiling as he did so.

Marjorie smiled, too.

"Tell me," Mr. Allison asked. "Was the evidence conclusive?"

"The Isis occupied the court to some length. It was contended that General Arnold had issued the pass with evil intent. The affair of the regiment was referred to in connection with this, but no great stress was brought to bear upon it because of the fear of arousing a possible prejudice in the minds of the court. That fact was introduced solely as a motive."

Allison shook his head again.

"It was proved," the sergeant continued, "that the Isis was a Philadelphia schooner, manned by Philadelphia men, and engaged in the coastwise trade. The pass itself was introduced as an exhibit, to support the contention that the General, while Military Governor, had given military permission for the vessel to leave the harbor of Philadelphia for the port of New York, then in possession of the enemy."

"That was proved?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was the Regiment alluded to?"

"Yes. But at no great length."

"And the pass?"

"It was there. The Regiment was the motive for the pass. The affair of the recruiting was scarcely mentioned."

There was an abrupt silence.

"What was the next charge?" Mr. Allison asked.

"That of the wagons."

"Yes."

"The prosecution made a strong point. Jesse Jordan was introduced. Testimony was given by him to the effect that he himself had drawn back a train of twelve wagons loaded with stores from Egg Harbor."

"Where?"

"Egg Harbor. Where the traffic between the British Army and the Tories of the city was carried on."

"Was this sustained?"

"The General denied most of the accusation, but he was found imprudent in his actions. In regard to the other two charges, that of the shops and that of the militia, absolute acquittal was decided. The verdict was announced the following morning and the sentence was published immediately after adjournment."

"He was sentenced to be reprimanded, you tell me?"

"Yes. By General Washington."

"That will break Arnold's heart. He will never endure it."

"Others were obliged to endure it," sounded a soft voice.

"Yes, I know," replied the father of the girl. "But you do not know General Arnold. Undoubtedly the city has the news."

"Yes," said the sergeant. "I have told several. All know it ere this."

II

And what subject could possibly afford more of concern or consequence to the city folk than the court-martial of General Arnold! Those of the upper class, because of their intimate association with the man; those of the middle class, interested more or less in the great significance attached to the event itself and the influence it would exert upon the future; those of the lower class because of their supreme contempt for the erstwhile Military Governor and the biased manner of his administration, all, without exception, found themselves manifesting an uncommon interest in the progress and the issue of the trial.

It was commonly known that General Arnold had requested a court-martial; but it was not so commonly understood that the matter of his guilt, especially his collusion with the Catholic Regiment and the matter of its transportation, was so intricate or profound. Stephen's speech at the meeting house had given the public the first inkling of the Governor's complicity in the affair; still this offense had been condoned by the many, as usually happens with the crimes of great men who occupy stations of honor, whose misdemeanors are often enshrouded and borne away into oblivion beneath the veil of expediency and interest of the common weal. A court-martial would indeed take place; but its verdict would be one of absolute acquittal.

To hold court at some neutral post was just. No charge of unfairness could then be lodged. Nor could the personnel of the court be regarded as hostile to the accused, for the latter had already raised an objection to its composition which had been sustained and heeded. The charges were dealt with fairly, only four of the eight counts in the original indictment being allowed to come within the jurisdiction of a military tribunal. Even the General was permitted to conduct his own trial and every courtesy and attention was granted him.

Only two charges bore any evidence of guilt. The pass was issued with deliberate intent. That was proved by the testimony of several witnesses as well as by the introduction of the pass itself. Arnold defended himself on the ground that there were no authorities in the city of New York to be offended by the entrance of the vessel, and also the fact that since the Commander-in-chief had lodged no complaint over the alleged offense to his dignity, it was logical to infer that His Excellency took no offense at the order. In regard to the charge of misuse of the government wagons, it was revealed that traffic had been carried on between Egg Harbor and the city of Philadelphia, and that full loads had been delivered to several private families of the city. Arnold denied any knowledge of the destination of these wagons, although he was aware that they were being used.

His defense, it was learned, consisted of a long plea, in which he rehearsed in detail the leading events of his life. He was fond of alluding to his past and entertained no diffidence whatsoever in regard to his own abilities. He hoped thereby to impress the court and to intimidate them.

The charges he denounced as false, malicious, and scandalous, inspired solely by motives of animosity and revenge. He was not accustomed to carry on a warfare with women, he told the court, nor did he ever bask in the sunshine of any one's favor. Honorable acquittal of all the charges brought against him was pleasantly expected by him and he looked forward to the day when he might share again with his fellow-soldiers the glory and the dangers of the war.

But he was not acquitted, and the verdict of the court came no less as a surprise to the people of the city and of the nation than to the General himself. The following morning they met to pronounce the verdict and they found that on the first charge Major General Arnold had exceeded his rights in giving permission for a vessel to leave port without the knowledge of the City Authorities or of the Commander-in-chief; and as such he was found to have violated technically Article Five, Section Eighteen of the American Articles of War. The second and third charges were dismissed, but he was found to have been imprudent in his temporary use of the wagons. Because of his guilt on these two counts he was sentenced to receive a reprimand from His Excellency, the Commander-in-chief.

He left the court room without a word.

III

"It is precisely what I fear most," Mr. Allison said. "If he curried less the favor of the public, little or naught would come of it, and the reprimand would end the case. But you know Arnold is a conceited man; one who carries his head high. Better to deprive him of life itself than to apply vinegar and gall to his parched lips."

"His return will be hard," Sergeant Griffin observed. He, too, knew the character of the man.

"I doubt if he will return. He has resigned, you know, and may dislike the sight of the city which witnessed his misfortune. Still this is his home and a man's heart is in his home regardless of its environment."

"Do not forget Peggy," Marjorie reminded them. "I know she will never consent to live in the city. I know it. Dear me! The shame of it all would confuse her."

"She might become accustomed to it," replied her father. "All school themselves to the mutations of life."

"Not Peggy. I know her. She will not forgive. Why, I recall quite vividly the violence of her temper and the terror of her wrath. Her own aunt, with whom she was staying for a brief space, took occasion to reprove her for a slight indiscretion. Peggy resented the correction fiercely, and leaving the house at once vowed she never would set foot into it again. That was seven years ago. She has, to my knowledge, never violated that pledge."

Her father shook his head.

"I see it all quite clearly," continued Marjorie. "The General will resent the wrong; Peggy will nurture a fierce indignation. Whatever thoughts of revenge will come to his mind she will ably promote. Have a care to her; her wrath will know no mitigation."

"He never expected the verdict," the sergeant remarked.

"How did he appear?" asked Mr. Allison.

"Splendid. As he entered the court he laughed and jested with several officers with all the self-possession of one of the eye-witnesses. Flashes of the old-time energy and courage were manifest at intervals. There was jubilation displayed on his every feature."

"He was jocose, you say?"

"Extremely so."

"Was this before the trial?"

"Yes. As he entered the Tavern."

"Was Peggy with him?"

"No, indeed. It was not permissible for her to enter. She awaited him outside."

"And yet he maintained his composure throughout."

"He seemed to take delight in relating the resolutions of Congress, its thanks, its gifts, for the many campaigns and the brilliant services rendered his country. His promotions, his horse, his sword, his epaulets and sword-knots, all were recounted and recited enthusiastically."

Mr. Allison looked at Marjorie and smiled.

"Only once did he lose his self-possession. Near the end of his plea he forgot himself and called his accusers a lot of 'women.' This produced a smile throughout the court room; then he regained his composure."

He paused.

"That was all?" asked Mr. Allison.

"I think so. The court adjourned for the day. On the following morning the verdict was announced. I came here direct."

When he had finished he sat quite still. It was approaching a late hour and he saw that he had overstayed his leave. Still the gravity of the occasion required it.

It was these thoughts regarding the future, far more than any great poignancy of grief respecting General Arnold and his present misfortune, that affected this small group. It seemed to them that the events which had of late happened were not without grave and serious consequence. General Arnold was a man of prominence and renown. To lead such a figure to the bar of justice and to examine and determine there in a definite manner his guilt before the whole world was a solemn piece of business. It meant that the new republic was fearless in its denunciation of wrong; that it was intent upon the exercise of those precepts of justice and equity which were written into the bill of rights, the violation of which by a foreign power had constituted originally a set of true grievances; and that it was actuated by a solemn resolution never to permit within its own borders the commission of any of those wrongs which it had staked its life and consecrated its purpose as a nation to destroy. General Arnold was a big man, generous in service to his country, honored as one of its foremost sons, but he was no bigger than the institution he was helping to rear. The chastisement inflicted upon him was a reflection upon the state; but it also was a medication for its own internal disorders.

The fact that the ruling powers of the city were bitterly opposed to the Military Governor was not wholly indicative of the pulse of the people. General Arnold was ever regarded with the highest esteem by the members of the army. A successful leader, a brave soldier, a genial comrade, he was easily the most beloved general after General Washington. With the citizen body of Philadelphia he was on fairly good terms,—popular during the early days of his administration, although somewhat offensive of late because of his indiscretion and impetuosity. Still he was not without his following, and whereas he had made himself odious to a great number of people by his manner of life and of command, there were a greater number of people who were ready to condone his faults out of regard for his brilliant services in the past.

His enemies gloated over his misfortune. Everybody believed that, and it was commonly understood that General Arnold believed it, too. But would he overcome his enemies by retrieving the past and put to shame their vulgar enthusiasm by rising to heights of newer and greater glory? Or would he yield to the more natural propensities of retaliation or despair? A man is no greater than the least of his virtues; but he who has acquired self-control has founded a virtuous inheritance.

With thoughts of this nature were the trio occupied. For several minutes no one spoke. Mr. Allison leaned against the table, his right arm extended along its side, playing with a bodkin that lay within reach; the sergeant sat in silence, watching the face of his entertainer; while Marjorie lolled in her great chair, her eyes downcast, heavy, like two great weights. At length Sergeant Griffin made as if to go. Marjorie arose at once to bid him adieu.

"You said you came direct?" she reminded him.

"Yes, Miss Allison."

"You saw——" she hesitated, but quickly added, "Captain Meagher?"

She would have said "Stephen" but bethought herself.

"No, Miss. Not since the trial."

"He was not present?"

"No. He is with His Excellency. Several days ago I saw him and he bade me come here with the report of the finding."

"That was all?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Thank you. We can never repay your kindness."

"Its performance was my greatest delight."

"Thank you. Good night!"

She withdrew into the hall.



CHAPTER XI

I

More sin is attributed to the ruling passion of a man than to the forbidden pleasures of the world, or the violent assaults of the Evil One. Under its domination and tyranny the soul suffers shipwreck and destruction on the rocks of despair and final impenitence. It frequently lies buried beneath the most imperturbable countenance, manifesting itself only at times, often on the occasion of some unusual joy or sadness. It responds to one antidote; but the antidote requires a man of coarse fiber for its self-administration.

In this respect General Arnold was not a strong man. If he had acted upon himself wholly from without, as if he were not himself, and had cultivated a spirit of humility and abnegation of self, together with a considerateness and softness of manner towards those at whose hands he had suffered, he would have stifled his pangs of wounded pride and self-love, and emerged a victor over himself in the contest. He might have recognized his own imperfections to a tolerable degree which would have disinclined him to censoriousness, not to say rashness. By maintaining an evenness of temper and equality of spirits during the days of his sore affliction, he might have reconsidered his decisions of haste and ultimate disaster, and be led to the achievement of newer and nobler triumphs.

But he did not. Instead he gave way at once to a violence of anger which was insurmountable. There was engendered within him feelings of revenge of the most acrid nature. His self-love had been humiliated and crushed before the eyes of a garrulous world. His vanity and his prestige had been ground in the dust. There was no consideration save the determination for an immediate and effectual revenge.

"Don't worry, my dear," Peggy had whispered to him on the way home. "Try not to think of it."

"Think of it?... God! I'll show them. They'll pay for this."

Apart from that he had not spoken to her during the entire journey. Morose, sullen, brutal, he had nursed his anger until his countenance fairly burned from the tension within. He slammed the door with violence; he tore the epaulets from his shoulders and threw them beyond the bed; he ripped his coat and kicked it across the floor. No! He would not eat. He wanted to be alone. Alone with himself, alone with his wrath, alone with his designs for revenge.

"The cowards! And I trusted them."

He could not understand his guilt. There was no guilt, only the insatiable lust on the part of his enemies for vengeance. The execution came first, then the trial. There was no accusation; he had been condemned from the start. The public, at whose hands he had long suffered, who reviled and oppressed him with equal vehemence, who had elevated him to the topmost niche of glory, and as promptly crumbled the column beneath his feet and allowed him to crash to the ground, now gloated over their ruined and heartbroken victim with outrageous jubilation. They were on destruction bent, and he the victim of their stupid spite.

If he could not understand his culpability, neither could he apprehend fully and vividly the meaning of his sentence. To be reprimanded by the Commander-in-chief! Better to be found guilty by the court and inflicted with the usual military discipline. His great sense of pride could not, would not suffer him to be thus humiliated at the hands of him from whom he had previously been rewarded with so many favors, and in whom he had lodged his most complete esteem and veneration. He could not endure it, that was all; and what was more he would not.

He decided to leave the city forever. Then the howl of contumely could not pursue him; it would grow faint with the distance. He was no longer Military Governor, and never would he reassume that thankless burden. He would retire to private life far removed from the savage envy of these aspiring charlatans. Unhappy memories and wretched degradation would close his unhappy days and shroud his name with an unmerited and unjust obloquy.

His wife had been correct in her prognostications. The court, like the public mind, which it only feebly reflected, had been prejudiced against him from the start. The disgust which he entertained of the French Alliance was only intensified the more by the recent proceedings of Congress, and perhaps he might listen more attentively now to her persuasions to go over to the British side. He would be indemnified, of course; but it was revenge he was seeking, on which account he would not become an ordinary deserter. He had been accustomed to playing heroic roles, and he would not become a mere villain now at this important juncture. This blundering Congress would be overwhelmed by the part he would play in his new career, and he would carry back in triumph his country to its old allegiance.

Gradually his anger resolved itself into vindictive machination, which grew in intensity as it occupied him the more. He might obtain the command of the right wing of the American army, and at one stroke accomplish what George Monk had achieved for Charles the Second. It was not so heinous a crime to change sides in a civil war, and history has been known to reward the memory of those who performed such daring and desperate exploits. His country will have benefited by his signal effort, and his enemies routed at the same time in the shame of their own confusion. He would open negotiations with Sir Henry Clinton over an assumed name to test the value of his proposals.

"They'll pay me before I am through. I shall endure in history, with the Dukes of Albemarle and Marlborough."

As he mused over the condition of affairs and the possibilities of the situation, he wandered into the great room, where he saw two letters lying on the center table. Picking them up, he saw that one was addressed to Mrs. Arnold, the other to himself. He tore open his letter and read the signature. It bore the name of John Anderson.

II

The writer went on to say that he had arrived in safety in the city of New York, after a hurried and forced departure from Philadelphia. The meeting was terminated in a tumult because of the deliberate and fortunate appeal of an awkward mountebank, who was possessed with a fund of information which was fed to the crowd both skillfully and methodically; and by the successful coupling of the name of General Arnold with the proposed plot, had overwhelmed the minds of the assembly completely.

He revealed the fact that the members of the court had already bound themselves in honor to prefer charges against General Arnold in order that the powerful Commonwealth of Pennsylvania might be placated. He did not know the result of the trial, but predicted that there would be but one verdict and that utterly regardless of the evidence.

"Hm!" muttered Arnold to himself.

The British Government, he added, was already in communication with the American Generals, with the exception of Washington, and was desirous of opening correspondence with General Arnold. Every one knew that he was the bravest and the most deserving of the American leaders and should be the Second in Command of the rebel forces. The British knew, too, of the indignities which had been heaped upon him by an unappreciative and suspicious people, and they recommended that some heroic deed be performed by him in the hope of bringing this unnecessary and bloody contest to a close.

Seven thousand pounds would be offered at once, together with an equal command, in the army of His Majesty, and with a peerage in the realm. In return he would be asked to exert his influence in favor of an amicable adjustment of the difficulties between the colonies and the mother country. General Clinton was ready to begin negotiations after the advice and under the conditions proposed by General Arnold, which might be interchanged by means of a correspondence maintained with a certain ambiguity.

"Egad!" He set his lips; then he turned to the beginning of the paragraph. The offer was interesting.

Anderson then went on to relate what already had been suggested to him during the night of their conversation in the park at his magnificent home, the exigencies of the country, the opportunity for a master stroke at the hands of a courageous man, who would unite His Majesty's people under a common banner, and who might command thereby the highest honors of life.

He reminded him that it was possible to obtain a command of the right wing of the American Army, a post only commensurate with his ability, which command might be turned against the rebel forces in the hope that an immediate end might be made of the fratricidal war. There would be no humiliating peace terms. There would be no indemnities, no reprisals, no annexations nor disavowals. The principles for which the colonists contended would be granted, with the sole exception of complete independence. They would have their own Parliament; they would be responsible for their own laws, their own taxes, their own trade. It would be a consummation devoutly desired by both parties, and the highest reward and honor awaited the American General who bound himself to the effectual realization of these views.

"Announce your defection, return to the royal cause, agree to the terms which His Majesty's peace commissioners will make, and earn the everlasting gratitude of your countrymen, like Monk and Churchill."

So the letter concluded with the humble respects and obediences of John Anderson. Arnold did not fold it, but continued to stare at it for several minutes, as if trying to decide upon some definite course of action in regard to it. At length he arose and limped to the desk, and, drawing out from its small drawer several sheets of paper, began his reply.

But he did not conclude it. Hearing footfalls in the hallway, he hastily folded the several papers, Anderson's letter included, and stuck them into his breast pocket. He sat motionless, with the pen poised in his hand, as Peggy entered.

III

"You here?" she asked.

He did not reply, nor make any movement.

"Another resignation? or applying for a new command?"

He now turned full about and faced her.

"No. I was just thinking."

"Of what?"

She stood before him, her arms akimbo.

"Of many things. First of all we must leave here."

"When?"

"I don't know."

"Well then, where?"

"To New York."

"Do you mean it?"

Now she sat down, pulling a chair near to him in order that she might converse the more readily.

"I am thinking of writing for a new command in the army."

He thought best not to tell her of his original purpose in writing, nor of the letter which he had received from Anderson. Whatever foul schemes he may have concocted, he did not desire to acquaint her with their full nature. Enough for her to know that he intended to defect without her being a party to the plot.

"Did I interrupt you? Pardon me!" she made as if to go.

"Stay. That can wait. You were right. They were against me."

"I felt it all the time. You know yourself how they despise you."

"But I never thought——"

"What?" was the interruption. "You never thought? You did, but you were not man enough to realize it. Reed would stop at nothing, and if the colonists gain complete independence, the Catholic population will give you no peace. That you already know. You have persecuted them."

"What are they? A bare twenty or twenty-five thousand out of a population of, let us say, three million."

"No matter. They will grow strong after the war. Unfortunately they have stuck true to the cause."

"Bah! I despise them. It is the others, the Congress, Lincoln, Gates, Lee, Wayne. They will acquire the honors. Washington will be king."

"And you?"

"I'm going to change my post."

She smiled complacently, and folded her arms.

"Under Washington?"

She knew better, but she made no attempt to conceal her feigned simplicity.

He looked at her without comment.

Whether he shrunk from unfolding to her the sickening details of his despicable plan, or whether he judged it sufficient for her to know only the foul beginnings of his treason without being initiated into its wretched consummation; whether it was due to any of these reasons or simply to plain indifference or perhaps to both, he became unusually silent on this subject from this moment onward. It was enough for her to realize that he had been shabbily treated by the Congress and by the people, that he had long considered the American cause hopeless and had abandoned his interest in it on account of the recent alliance with the government of France. In her eyes he thought it would be heroic for him to resign his command, and even to defect to the side of the enemy on these grounds,—on the strength of steadfastly adhering to his ancient principles. He knew well that she had counseled such a step and was enthusiastic in urging its completion, nevertheless he sensed that the enormity and the depravity of his base design was too revolting, too shocking, for even her ears. He would not even acquaint her with Anderson's letter nor with the purpose he had of concurring with the proposition it contained.

"Did you receive a letter from Anderson?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes. He wrote to inform me that he had escaped in safety and is now in New York."

"No more?"

"No. He did comment on the frustration of the plot, and expressed a desire to learn the identity of the disturber."

"You will tell him?"

"Later. Not now."

There was a pause.

"Do you intend to take active part in the coming campaigns? You know your leg will prevent you from leading a strenuous life in the field. Why not ask for some other post, or retire to private life? I want to get out of this city."

"I am about to write for a new command. I have one friend left in the person of His Excellency, and he will not leave me 'naked to mine enemies,' as the great Wolsey once said."

"But he is to reprimand you," she reminded him.

"No matter. That is his duty. I blame the people and the court which was enslaved to them for my humiliation. They shall pay for it, however."

"Let us leave together. Announce your desire of joining arms with the British and let us set out at once for New York. Mr. Anderson will take care of the details. You know his address?"

"Yes."

"You have fought the war alone; end it alone. Settle your claims with the government and let us sell our house."

"Our house? This is yours, Margaret, and, by God, they shall not deprive you of it. No! We will not sell our house. This is yours for life, and our children's."

"Well, we can rent it for the present. For, if you go, I am going, too."

"Very well. We shall see what the future holds out for us. Give me that stool."

He pointed to the small chair over against her. She arose at once and set it before him. He placed his foot upon it.

"When I think of what I have done for them and then compare their gratitude. Congress must owe me at least six or seven thousand pounds, not to mention my life's blood which never can be replaced. I have been a fool, a fool who does not know his own mind."

"Didn't I predict what the outcome would be? I felt this from the moment Anderson left. And what were you charged with? A technical violation of the code of war. There was no actual guilt nor any evidence in support of the charge. Were the least shadow of a fault in evidence, you may be assured that it would have been readily found. You were innocent of the charge. But you were technically guilty that they might plead excuse for their hate."

"I know it, girl ... I know it ... I see it all now. I tried hard to disbelieve it." He seemed sad, as he muttered his reply and slowly shook his head.

He was still for a moment and then sat suddenly upright.

"But by the living God!" It was surprising how quickly he could pass from mood to mood. Now the old-time fire gleamed in his eyes. Now the unrestrained, impetuous, passionate General, the intrepid, fearless leader of Quebec, Ridgefield, Saratoga, revealed himself with all his old-time energy and determination of purpose.

"By the living God!" he repeated with his hand high in the air, his fist clenched, "They shall pay me double for every humiliation, for every calumny, for every insult I have had to endure. They sought cause against me; they shall find it."

"Hush! My dear," cautioned Peggy, "not so loud. The servants will overhear you."

"The world shall overhear me before another month. Revenge knows no limit and is a sweet consolation to a brave man. I shall shame this profligate Congress, and overwhelm my enemies with no mean accomplishment, but with an achievement worthy of my dignity and power. They shall pay me. Ha! they shall; by God! They shall."

Peggy arose at his violent outbreak, fearing lest she might antagonize him the more. It was useless to talk further, for he was enraged to a point beyond all endurance. She would leave him alone, hoping that he would recover his normal state again.

She walked to the window as if to look out. Then she turned and vanished through the doorway into the hall.

IV

Several days later a courier rode up to the door and summoned General Arnold before him, into whose care he delivered a letter from the Headquarters of the Commander-in-chief. Strangely excited, the General failed to perceive the identity of the messenger as he saluted and made the usual brief inquiries. Only after the courier was well down the road did the memory of his strangely familiar face recur to him. But he was too preoccupied with the document to give him any more attention. Breaking the seal he scanned the introductory addresses and read his reprimand from his Commander-in-chief, a reprimand couched in the tenderest language, a duty performed with the rarest delicacy and tact.

"Our profession is the chastest of all," it read. "Even the shadow of a fault tarnishes the luster of our finest achievements. The least inadvertence may rob us of the public favor so hard to be acquired. I reprimand you for having forgotten that, in proportion as you have rendered yourself formidable to our enemies, you should have been guarded and temperate in your deportment towards your fellow citizens. Exhibit anew those noble qualities which have placed you on the list of our most valued commanders. I myself will furnish you, as far as it may be in my power, with opportunities of regaining the esteem of your country."

Slipping it again into its envelope, he slammed the door.



PART THREE



CHAPTER I

I

In one of those wide indentations along the eastern shore of the Schuylkill River, there opens out in tranquil seclusion a spacious cove. The waters wander here to rest, it seems, before resuming their voluminous descent to the Delaware and the sea. Trees and saplings wrapped about with close-clinging vines hang far over the water's edge like so many silent sentinels on guard before the spot, their luxuriant foliage weighing their bending twigs almost to the surface. Green lily-pads and long ribboned water grass border the water's curve, and toss gently in the wind ripples as they glide inwards with just murmur enough to lull one to quiet and repose.

Into this scene, placid, clear, though of a deep and dark green under the overhanging leaves, stole a small canoe with motion enough scarcely to ruffle the top of the water. A paddle noiselessly dipped into the undisturbed surface and as noiselessly emerged again, leaving behind only a series of miniature eddies where the waters had closed after their penetration. A small white hand, hanging lazily over the forward side of the tiny craft, played in the soft, limpid water, and made a furrow along the side of the boat that glistened like so many strings of sparkling jewels.

"So you are going away again tomorrow?" Marjorie was saying as she continued to dabble in the water.

She lay partly reclining in the bow of the canoe, her back supported by a pillow. A meditative silence enshrouded her as she lay listless, unconcerned to all appearances, as to her whereabouts or destination. The while she thought, the more steadily she gazed at the waters as she splashed them gently and playfully. Like a caress the silence of the place descended upon her, and brought home to her the full import of her loneliness.

"In view of what you have disclosed to me, I think it only my duty," Stephen replied as he lazily stroked the paddle.

Again there was silence.

"I wish you weren't going," she finally murmured.

He looked straight at her, holding his arm motionless for the space of a moment.

"It is good of you to say that," was the measured reply. "This has been a most delightful day, and I have enjoyed this glimpse of you very much."

Raising her eyes she thanked him with a look.

"You must remember that it has been due to no fault of mine that I have seen so little of you," he continued.

"Nor mine," came back the whisper.

"True," he said. "Events have moved so rapidly during the past month that I was enabled to keep abreast of them only with the greatest difficulty."

"I daresay we all are proud of your achievement."

"God has been good to us. I must thank you, too."

"Me?" She grinned with contempt. "I am sure when the truth is known that I shall be found more an instrument of evil than of good."

"I wish you would not say that."

"I cannot say otherwise, for I know it to be true."

"Do not depreciate your efforts. They have been invaluable to me. Remember, it was you who greatly confirmed my suspicions of Anderson. I did acquire some facts myself; but it was due to the information which you imparted to me that I was enabled to join together several ambiguous clews."

"Really?"

"And you must remember that it was through your cooperation that my attention was first drawn to General Arnold."

"You suspected him before our conversation. You, yourself, heard it from his own lips in the garden."

"Yes, I did. But the note!"

"What note?"

"The note you gave me to read."

"Peggy's letter which I found at her house?"

"The same. Have I never told you?"

"Never!" was the slow response. "You know you returned it to me without comment."

He was puzzled. For he wondered how he had failed to acquaint her with so important an item.

"When you allowed me to take that letter you furnished me with my first clew."

She aroused herself and looked seriously at him.

"I?... Why.... I never read it. What did it contain? I had supposed it to be a personal letter."

"And so it was,—apparently. It proved to be a letter from one of Peggy's New York friends."

"A Mischienza friend, undoubtedly."

"Yes, Captain Cathcart. But it contained more. There was a cipher message."

"In cipher?" Then after a moment. "Did she know of it?"

"I am inclined to think that she did. Otherwise it would not have been directed to her."

This was news indeed. No longer did she recline against the seat of the canoe, but raised herself upright.

"How did you ever discover it?"

"My first reading of the note filled me with suspicion. Its tone was too impersonal. When I asked for it, I was impelled by the sole desire to study it the more carefully at my own leisure. That night I found certain markings over some of the letters. These I jotted down and rearranged until I had found the hidden message."

She gazed at him in wonder.

"It was directed to her, I presume, because of her friendship with the Military Governor; and carried the suggestion that His Excellency be interested in the proposed formation of the Regiment. From that moment my energies were directed to one sole end. I watched Arnold and those whom he was wont to entertain. Eventually the trail narrowed down to Peggy and Anderson."

She drew a deep breath, but said nothing.

"The night I played the spy in the park my theory was confirmed."

"Yes, you told me of that incident. It was not far from here."

She turned to search the distance behind her.

"No. Just down the shore behind his great house." He pointed with his finger in the direction of Mount Pleasant.

"And Peggy was a party to the conspiracy!" she exclaimed with an audible sigh.

"She exercised her influence over Arnold from the start. She and Anderson were in perfect accord."

"I am sorry. She has disappointed me greatly."

"She has a very pretty manner and a most winsome expression; but she is extremely subtle and fully accomplished in all manner of artifice. She was far too clever for your frank simplicity."

"I never suspected her for an instant."

"It was she who set the trap for Arnold; it was she who made it possible for Anderson to rise to the heights of favor and influence; it was she who encouraged her husband in his misuse of authority; and I venture to say, it was she who rendered effective the degree of friendship which began to exist between yourself and this gentleman."

Marjorie blushed at the irony.

They were drifting above the cove in the slowest manner. Only occasionally did he dip the paddle into the water to change the course of the little craft, or to push it ahead a little into the more shaded places. Marjorie did not assist in this, for he desired her to sit in the bow facing him, while he, himself, essayed the task of paddler. There was little of exertion, however, for the two had no other object in view than the company of their own selves. And so they drifted aimlessly about the stream.

"Yes, I think that I ought to leave tomorrow for White Plains to confer with His Excellency."

"I should be the last to hinder you in the performance of duty. By all means, go."

"Of course it may be no more than a suspicion, but if you are sure of what Anderson said, then I think that the matter should be brought to the attention of the Commander-in-chief."

"Of course, you understand that Mr. Anderson told me nothing definite. But he did hint that General Arnold should be placed in command of a more responsible post in the American army; and that steps should be taken to have him promoted to the Second in Command."

Stephen thought for a minute.

"That sounds innocent enough. But you must remember that events have come to light in the past fortnight which for months had lain concealed in the minds of these two men. Who knows but what this was included in their nefarious scheme. I am uneasy about it all, and must see the chief."

"But you will come back?"

"At once unless prevented by a detail to a new field. I am subject at all times to the will of my leader."

Her face fell.

II

The solemn stillness, the almost noiseless motion of the boat, the livid shades surrounding the place, all contributed to the mood of pensiveness and meditation which was rapidly stealing upon them. The very silence of the cove was infectious. Marjorie felt it almost immediately, and relaxed without a murmur.

A stream of thoughts began to course in continuous procession through her mind, awakening there whatever latent images lay buried in her memory, and fashioning new ideas and seemingly possible situations from her experiences of the past year. Now she suddenly discovered her former interest quickened to a violent degree. She was living over again the memories of the happy hours of other days.

Certainly Stephen was as constant as ever. To her discerning eye his manner of action conveyed no other impression. But he was the same enigma, however, as far as the communication of thought was concerned, and she knew no more of his pleasures and desires than she did of the inspirations of his soul.

It was the first time in months she had seen and taken delight in his own old self. Never had he been so attentive quite as John Anderson, nor so profuse in his protestations, nor so ready with his apologies. And what was more she did not expect him to be. But he was more sincere when it came to a question of unfolding one's own convictions, more engaging where will-power, propriety, performance of duty, were concerned. He alone possessed the rule to which all, in her own mind, were obliged to conform. And so she was compelled to admire him.

These fond memories suffered an interruption by a vision of the extreme disquietude produced upon Stephen by her unfortunate acquaintanceship with Mr. Anderson. And yet she had been profoundly sincere with herself. Never had she conveyed the impression to any man that she had given him a second sobering thought. Her home constituted for her a chief delight, her home, her devoted mother, her fond father. Peggy had been her sole companion previous to her marriage with the Governor; and whatever men she had met with were they who composed the gay assemblies at which her friend was the pretty hostess and she the invited guest. As far as Anderson was concerned, and Stephen, for that matter, she doubted if she had been in the company of either more than a dozen times in the course of her life. Certainly not enough to know either of them intimately.

Of the two men who had effected the most complete entree into her society, Stephen had, unquestionably, impressed her the more favorably. For a time he seemed too far removed from her; and she failed to experience that sense of proportion between them so necessary for mutual regard. Perhaps it was due to this negation, or perhaps it was owing to her modest reserve, or perhaps to both, that whatever familiar intercourse, sympathy or affinity ought to have existed was naturally excluded. True friendship requires a certain equality, or at least a feeling of proportion between those whom it would bind together. And this she felt had not prevailed.

She did not pause to consider the correctness or the incorrectness of her inference. It was quite enough for her to know that this spirit of inequality existed. In his presence, however, she felt at perfect ease, wholly oblivious of everything save her own happiness, as she could now bear witness to, but alone with her thoughts the horrible imagining forced itself upon her and served to widen perceptibly the gulf between them. Reflection disconcerted her.

Happily, her enterprise respecting Anderson and his nefarious scheme had terminated successfully. Happily, too, Stephen's misconstruction of the affair had been corrected. No longer would he doubt her. Their fortunes had approached the crisis. It came. Anderson had fled town; Arnold and Peggy were removed from their lives perhaps for ever. Stephen was with her now and she experienced a sense of happiness beyond all human estimation. She would she could read his mind to learn there his own feelings. Was he, too, conscious of the same delights? A reciprocal feeling was alone necessary to complete the measure of her joy. But he was as non-communicative as ever, totally absorbed in this terrible business that obsessed him. Her riddle, she feared, would remain unanswered. Patriotism, it seemed, was more pressing than love.

The canoe had drifted nearer to the shore. At Stephen's suggestion she aroused herself from her lethargy and alighted on the bank. He soon followed, drawing the canoe on to the shore a little to prevent its wandering away. Marjorie walked through the grass, stooping to pick here and there a little flower which lay smiling at her feet. Stephen stood to one side and looked after her.

III

"Stephen," she asked, as she returned to him and stood for a moment smiling straight at him, "will you tell me something?"

"Anything you ask," he assured her. "What do you wish to know?"

But she did not inquire further. Her eyes were fixed in earnest attention upon the flowers which she began to arrange into a little bouquet.

"Are you still vexed with me?"

There! It was out. She looked at him coquettishly.

"Marjorie!" he exclaimed. "What ever caused you to say that?"

"I scarce know," she replied. "I suppose I just thought so, that was all."

"Would I be here now?" He tried to assure her with a tone of sincerity. "One need not hear a man speak to learn his mind."

"Yes. But I thought——"

He seized hold of her hand.

"Come," he said. "Won't you sit down while I tell you?"

She accepted his offer and allowed herself to be assisted.

"You thought that I was displeased with you on account of John Anderson," he remarked as he took his place by her side. "Am I correct?"

She did not answer.

"And you thought, perhaps, that I scorned you?"

"Oh, no! Not that! I did not think that ... I ... I...."

"Well, then, that I lost all interest in you?"

She thought for a second. Then she smiled as if she dared not say what was in her mind.

"Listen. I shall tell you. I did not reprove you with so much as a fault. I know well that it is next to impossible to be in the frequent presence of an individual without experiencing at some time some emotion. He becomes continually repugnant, or else exceedingly fascinating. The sentiments of the heart never stand still."

"Yes, I know,—but...."

"I did think that you had been fascinated. I concluded that you had been charmed by John Anderson's manner. Because I had no desire of losing your good will, I did ask you to avoid him, but at the same time, I did not feel free enough to cast aspersions upon his character and so change your good opinion of him. The outcome I never doubted, much as I was disturbed over the whole affair. I felt that eventually you would learn for yourself."

"But why did you not believe in me? I tried to give you every assurance that I was loyal...."

"The fault lay in my enforced absence from you, and in the nature of the circumstances which combined against you. I knew Anderson; but I was unaware of your own thought or purpose. My business led me on one occasion to your home where I found you ready to entertain him. The several other times in which I found you together caused me to think that you, too, had been impressed by him."

Marjorie sat silent. She was pondering deeply the while he spoke and attempted to understand the emotions that had fought in his heart. She knew very well that he was sincere in his confession, and that she had been the victim of circumstances; still she thanked God that the truth had been revealed to him.

"Sometimes I feel as if I had been simply a tool in his hands, and that I had been worsted in the encounter."

"You have had no reason to think that. You perhaps unconsciously gave him some information concerning the members of our faith, their number, their lot, their ambitions,—but you must remember, too, that he had given some valuable information to you in return. The man may have been sincere with you from the beginning."

"No! I think neither of us were sincere. The memory of it all is painful; and I regret exceedingly of having had to play the part of the coquette."

A great silence stole upon them. He looked out over the river at the wavelets dancing gleefully in the sunlight, as they ran downstream with the current as if anxious to outstrip it to the sea. She grew tired of the little flowers and looked about to gather others. Presently she bethought herself and took from her bodice what appeared to be a golden locket. Stephen, attracted by her emotion, saw the trinket at once, its bright yellow frame glistening in the sun.

"Have you ever seen this?" she asked as she looked at it intently.

He extended his hand in anticipation. She gave it to him.

"Beautiful!" he exclaimed. "How long have you had this?"

"About a year," she replied nonchalantly, and clasped her hands about her knees.

He leaned forward and continued to study it for the longest time. He held it near to him and then at arm's length. Then he looked at her.

"It is beautiful," he repeated. "It is a wonderful likeness, and yet I should say that it does not half express the winsomeness of your countenance." He smiled generously at her blushes as he returned it to her.

"It was given me by John Anderson," she declared.

"It is a treasure. And it is richly set."

"He painted it himself and brought it to me after that night at Peggy's."

"I always said that he possessed extraordinary talents. I should keep that as a commemoration of your daring enterprise."

"Never. I purpose to destroy all memory of him."

"You have lost nothing, and have gained what books cannot unfold. Observation and experience are the prime educators."

"But exceedingly severe."

"Come," said Stephen. "Let us not allude to him again. It grieves you. He has passed from your life forever."

"Forever!" she repeated.

And as if by a mighty effort she drew back her arm and flung the miniature far from her in the direction of the river. On a sudden there was a splash, a gulp of the waters, and a little commotion as they hurriedly came together and folded over their prey.

"Marjorie!" he shouted making an attempt to restrain her. It was too late.

"What have you done?" he asked.

She displayed her empty hands and laughed.

"Forever!" she repeated, opening her arms with a telling gesture. "I never should have accepted it, but I was strangely fascinated by it, I suppose."

For the moment neither spoke; he felt as if he could not speak; and she looked like a child, her cheeks aglow with the exertion, and her eyes alight with merriment. Stephen looked intently at her and as she perceived his look, a very curious change came across her face. He saw it at once, although he did not think of it until afterwards.

"Marjorie," he said as he moved nearer to her and slipped his arm very gently about her. "You must have known for the longest time, from my actions, from my incessant attentions, from my words, the extent of my feeling for you. It were idle of me to attempt to give expression to it. It cannot be explained. It must be perceived; and you, undoubtedly, have perceived it."

There was no response. She remained passive, her eyes on the ground, scarcely realizing what he was saying.

"I think you know what I am going to say. I am very fond of you. But you must have felt more; some hidden voice must have whispered often to you that I love you."

He drew her to him and raised both her hands to his lips.

She remonstrated.

"Stephen!" she said.

He drew back sadly. She became silent, her head lowered, her eyes downcast, intent upon the hands in her lap. With her fingers she rubbed away the caress. She was thinking rapidly, yet her face betrayed no visible emotion, whether of joy, or surprise, or resentment. Only her cheek danced with a ray of sunshine, a stolen reflection from the joyous waves.

"Marjorie," he said gently, "please forgive me. I meant no harm."

She made a little movement as if to speak.

"I had to tell you," he continued. "I thought you understood."

She buried her face in her hands; her frame shook violently. Stephen was confused a little; for he thought that she had taken offense. He attempted to reassure her.

"Marjorie. Please.... I give you my word I shall never mention this subject again. I am sorry, very sorry."

She dried her eyes and looked at her handkerchief. Then she stood up.

"Come, let us go," he said after he had assisted her.

They walked together towards the boat.



CHAPTER II

I

It has been said with more truth than poetic fancy that the descent to Avernus is easy. It may be said, too, with equal assurance, that once General Arnold had committed himself to treachery and perfidy, his story becomes sickening, and in the judgment of his countrymen, devoid of no element of horror whether in its foul beginnings or in its wretched end. Once his mind had been definitely committed to the treacherous purpose, which loomed like a beacon light before him in the shaping of his destiny, his descent to the depths of degradation was rapid and fatal. The court-martial, together with its subsequent reprimand, had been accepted by him with the greatest animosity. From that hour his thirst for vengeance knew no restraint. One thing alone was necessary to his evil plans: he must secure an important command in the Continental Army.

Some time before he had asked for a change of post, or at least for a grant of land with permission to retire to private life, but this was under the inspiration of a motive of an entirely different nature. Now he had specifically asked for a command in the army, adding that his leg was quite healed and that he was fit physically for field duty. In entering this demand, he was actuated by a different motive—the motive of George Monk, the Duke of Albemarle, the Commander-in-chief of the forces of three kingdoms.

It is true that Washington had been devoted to him and remained faithful to him until the very end. To reprimand his favorite General was a painful duty. But it was performed with delicate and genuine tenderness. His Excellency had promised to do whatever lay within his power to enable his beloved General to recover the esteem of his fellow-men and he was glad to furnish him with every opportunity of effecting real and lasting service. He wrote him at once offering him leave of absence. Congress then ordered "That the sum of $25,000 be advanced to Major General Arnold on account of his pay." Finally a general order was issued by the Commander-in-chief himself appointing General Arnold Commander of the Right Wing of the American Army. The restoration so long awaited was at length achieved.

Arnold at once began to make preparations for his departure from the city. His privateering ventures had been cleared up, but with profits barely sufficient to meet his debts. Mount Pleasant, his sole possession, had already been settled on his wife. His tenure of office had been ended some time before, and whatever documents were destined for preservation had been put in order pending the arrival of his successor.

The plan for his defection had been evolved by him with elaborate detail. Never had the time been more opportune for the execution of a piece of business so nefarious. The country was without what could be called a stable form of government. It was deprived of any recognized means of exchange because of the total depreciation of the Continental currency. The British had obtained possession of the great city of New York and were threatening to overrun the country south of the Susquehanna. Newport was menaced and the entire British fleet was prepared to move up the Hudson where, at West Point, one poorly equipped garrison interposed between them and the forces of General Carleton, which were coming down from Canada. Washington was attempting to defend Philadelphia and watch Clinton closely from the heights of Morristown, while he threatened the position of the enemy in New York from West Point. In all the American Commander had no more than four thousand men, many of whom were raw recruits, mere boys, whose services had been procured for nine months for fifteen hundred dollars each. Georgia and the Carolinas were entirely reduced and it was only a question of time before the junction of the two armies might be effected.

Clinton was to attack West Point at once, in order to break down the one barrier which stood between his own army and the Canadian. Learning, however, of the rapid progress of events on the American side and more especially of the proposed defection of General Arnold, he suddenly changed his plan. He determined to attack Washington as soon as Arnold had been placed in command of the right wing of the main army. The latter was to suffer the attack to be made, but at the psychological moment he was to desert his Commander-in-chief in the field, and so effect the total destruction of the entire force.

This was the plan which was being turned over in his mind as he sat on this June afternoon in the great room of his mansion. He was again clad in his American uniform and looked the warrior of old in his blue and buff and gold. Care had marked his countenance with her heavy hand, however, and had left deep furrows across his forehead and down the sides of his mouth. His eyes, too, had lost their old-time flash and vivacity, his movements were more sluggish, his step more halting. The trials of the past year had left their visible tracings on him.

He sat and stroked his chin, and deliberated. In his hand he held a letter, a letter without date or address or salutation. It had been brought to him that day by messenger from the city. He understood it perfectly.

He looked at it again.

"Knyphausen is in New Jersey," it read, "but, understanding Arnold is about to command the American Army in the field, Clinton will attack Washington at once. The bearer may be trusted.