Part 8 (1/2)

”I have.” The master drew them from his breast and handed them to the speaker.

”One is to Was.h.i.+ngton,” laughed the man. ”Gad, you must take us for raw recruits.”

”I shall be beyond harming you soon. That letter refers to personal matters, I swear.” There was superb dignity in the voice. ”I would have his excellency know that I regret nothing. I would do all over again, did the need arise. Was.h.i.+ngton would see that my comrades understand that.”

The man with the letters gave vent to a brutal oath. Then the quieter man spoke for the first.

”If we read the letters and find them harmless, I am for forwarding them. To whom are the others addressed?”

”One to my family, the other--to the woman I was to have married!” The master, for the first time, bowed his head, as if his burden were too heavy.

”I think we may carry out your request if the contents are what you imply.”

”And make a hero of this spy!” snarled the rougher man. ”Every word may have a double meaning, Colonel. We have the papers he so carefully hid, but these letters may contain the same information, slyly concealed.” He tore the letters across twice, and flung the pieces on the floor. ”Death and oblivion to all rebel spies!” he hissed.

The master never flinched, but his pale face grew paler. ”Is there anything else we can do for you?” asked the milder voice, ”something safer than forwarding letters?”

”I should like to have the right generally granted a dying man, of seeing a minister. One lives a few miles above here. I am sure he would come.”

”And hear what you dare not write,” sneered the torturer. ”You are not the sort to need a death-bed scene; besides, there isn't going to be any death-bed. I dare say the parson would be glad enough to carry your so-called confession to Was.h.i.+ngton. Bah! you are crude in your last moments.”

”Come,” impatiently spoke the fellow's companion, ”I have no stomach for your jests and brutality.” Then, turning to the master, he said: ”We will leave you for a few hours. It seems the only thing we can do for you. Try to rest.”

Down the greenhouse the two went. The master was alone! He bowed his splendid head, and perhaps tasted, for the first time, the dregs of desolation.

Andy, lying low among the bushes, saw that the master's feet were bound. The sight wrung the boy's soul. Perhaps he had wildly hoped that escape were possible, but one glance showed him that the fetters were cruelly strong. What could he do? Near and far he heard the measured tread of sentinels at their posts. He wondered that he had ever gained his present position unnoticed. It was doubtful now that he could make his own escape, for a gray dawn was breaking in the east. But the thought of his own danger troubled the boy little. He was thinking of a peculiar whirring sound that he and the master had once practiced together. A sound like an insect. ”'Twould be a good signal,” the teacher had said. Would he remember it?

Andy pressed close to the broken gla.s.s, and chirruped distinctly. The master started and raised his eyes. Was he dreaming! Again Andy ventured. Then a smile flitted across the master's face.

”Andy!” he breathed.

”Here, close to you!”

Slowly, without a suspicious start, the man turned in the boy's direction; and the two brave comrades smiled at each other over the gulf of pain and grief.

”I will try to sleep!” This aloud, to regale the ear of any possible listener other than Andy. With difficulty the master stretched, as best he could, his fettered limbs upon the floor, taking heed to lie as close to Andy as possible.

Silence. Then the man tossed and talked aloud in troubled fas.h.i.+on.

Andy, meantime, with a daring that might risk all, put his hand in the broken pane and drew the bits of paper of the torn letters to him.

”Tell Was.h.i.+ngton,” moaned the voice of the master in a half sleepy whisper, ”I regret nothing. Am proud to die and to have given _all_.”

”I have the letters!” breathed Andy. ”If I live Was.h.i.+ngton shall have them and know all.”

”Thank G.o.d!” came from the man upon the floor. ”You are a true friend, Andy McNeal.”

”Good-by,” groaned Andy. ”Some one is coming!” The cold perspiration covered the boy's body, for steps were drawing near.

”There could hardly be any one outside,” said a loud, rough voice.