Beadle's New York Dime Library (no. 96) (1880 06 16)

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S S \ XN S LL a ee AT S BEADLE & ADAMS. ip . pr ug We, V ] Vill Published Every Beadle ¢& Adams. Publishers, Ten Cents. Copy. 0 $ ° Two Weeks, 98 WILLIAM STREET, N. Y., June 16, 1880. $2.50 a Year. DOUBLE-DE SPY QUEEN OF WYOMING, — DOUBLE-DE BY CAPT. FREDERICK WHITTAKER, AUTHOR OF “THE RUSSIAN SPY,” ‘‘THE RED RAJAH,” ‘‘ THE IRISH CAPTAIN,” ETC., ETC.

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2 Double-Death. _ THE SPY QUEEN OF WYOMING, BY CAPT, FRED. WHITTAKER, AUTHOR OF ‘‘THE RED RAJAH,” ‘‘ THE RUSSIAN spy,” ‘‘ THE IRISH CAPTAIN,” ETC., ETC. CHAPTER I. DOUBLE-DEATH. A FATAL, stricken field! A confused crowd of fugitives, huddled together, running across the fields, with a long, curving line of enemies shouting, firing into them in_ front and on both flanks, running to intercept them! A merciless slaughter! The massacre of Wyoming was be- gun. Oa the one side half-armed farmers, boys of fifteen and gray-headed men, unused to war, after fighting nobly, against threo times their number, were forced to flee. On the other, sol- dicrs in the scarlet livery of King George, vengeful Tories in the dark green of Butler’s Rangers, and a host of the red warriors of the forest, yelling like. wolves for slaughter, drove the handful of patriots before them, cutting down the wounded, and scalping the dead with- out mercy. . Every now and then the poor, hunted hand- ful of men would make’a desperate stand, and the spitting red flashes of the rifles told that they had not given up tamely. The stand only,aceelerated. thei, ruin, as tho enas of the long line of enemies curved in round them, and the dire became overpowering. The sickening thud of bullets tearing through human flesh, the spouting blood, men dropping, groaning, to the earth to be scalped by‘ tho merciless fos, such was the fatal field of Wy- oming. There were two exceptions to the general pic of .the American farmers, both of them mounted men. The one wore the uniform of a Continental colonel, the other the white frock of Morgan’s Rangers. The colonel, a large, elderly man, galloped up and down with his sword drawn, escaping death as by a miracle, encouraging the fugitives to rally and fall back in order. The ranger, a small, dark man, retreated with the rest, but, while he retreated, fought all the while, in a style that denoted the possession of jextraordinary coolness and courage. He was armed with a double-barreled rifle, and seemed to be an excellent shot. He would gallop away ahead of the fugitives at full speed for e handed yards or so, when he would halt, spring off his borse, knee} down so as to steady his aim, and fire rapidly, right and left, at the advancing foe, Every time he fired two of the eneniy fell, killed or wounded. Then he would deliberately mount his horse, and coolly reload his rifle, riding at an canter the while, to repeat the operation a few minutes further on. ; Every place that he came to, Indians and whites alike seemed to fear him. The poor fugitives had a little rest whenever he halted, for the certainty of the man’s shot seemed to awe the enemy, who invariably paused to fire at him, instead of rushing forward as before. But hope and fear alike came to an end full soon. The broad, beautiful Susquehanna, become a fearful barrier now, lay behind them, and down to the bank the poor fugitives were driven, their pursuers yelling for triumph. It was at this bank that the massacre cul- minated. Many poor creatures, who ¢ not swim, turned desperately at_ bay, gunstocks, knives and hatche Others plunged into the river, only to be shot in the water, or carried down the fie rrent. The colonel seemed to lose all heart as he came there, and plunged his horse into the river to swim across. The terrible rifleman alone tried to save his comrades. Dashing full speed into the fight, wielding a tomahawk with a long handle, he beat back a crowd of soldiers and Indians, rushing to slaughter a defenseless old man, by the mere rush of his horse. “To blazes wid ye, ye bloody thaves!” he elled, with a marked Irish accent. ‘‘ Here’s the ’y to kill, if yedare! Whoop! Hurroo! Erin , 0 bravh! Tim Murphy forever! Down with _he Injuns!” / The enemy was beaten back for a‘space, and the rifleman turned to the old man. ‘Get up behind me, daddy,” he said, hurried- ly. ‘ll carry yez off, Pl go bail! Hurroo! Jump now!” With an acti inspired by terror, the old man scrambled up behind him on the horse, and the ranger turned the animal. It was a noole act in such danger, Alas, it was useless! Two men, in the m uniform of the Tory Rangers, threw up their rifles at the same min- ute aud fr { tue daring stranger. shriek, and fell from the horse, dead. The Irish ranger uttered a fierce oath, and raised his rifle. ‘* Now, may I never hear mass again, but Pll ay yez for that shot, ye murderin’ spalpeens!” e said, vindictively. A semicircle of foes, waiting to rush on him, stood, awed by the grim determination of his “re as he glanced through the sights of the r e. None knew whose death-warrant was signed. Crack! crack! The reports were almost simultaneous, and the two men who had shot the gray-haired patriarch fell dead beside him, while the scout put spurs to his horse and broke through the circle, away from the river, bullets flying all round him. ‘“Cateh Tim Murphy av blackgairds!” he shouted, as he galloped away. “Tm off for Philadelphy! Hurroo! Whoop!” “Curses on the fellow! shoot him, some: of you!” roared 4 red-faced British officer. ‘‘ Fol- low him! The rest are all dead now. After him! ‘Will you let one man defy you so long? Who is he?” An old Indian chief looked up at the speaker, as if wondering ‘at his ignorance, ‘Maybe so we no follow, colonel,” he said, gravely. “‘ Dat man be DOUBLE-DEATH.” ‘* And who’s Double-Death?” demanded the English edlonel, angrily. ‘Great warrior,” said the Indian, senten- tiously, ‘“‘ Fireall day, load upatnight. Injun no good.towstand ’em.. See!” He pointed to the daring scout who had pull- ed up at a little distance from the field, near the edge of the woods, The bank of the river was covered with corpses, hideous with ‘bloody heads, where the scalp-knife had done its horrid work, “The crack of rifles was still heard, as a few Tories fired at the American colonel, who was swimming the river, further down, on horseback, the only fugi- tive now left alive. The scout, defying pursuit, had halted, at the edge of the field, and was again off his horse, aiming with that deadly rifle. Again came its double detonation) followed by the death-cries of two of the green-clothed e can, ye dirty |, Tories, against whom he seemed to be especially incensed. And then, with a cry of taunting derision, he turned and galloped into the woods, followed by a shower of bullets. ‘‘ By the Lord, he’s a bold fellow, that Dou- ble-Death!” muttered the’ English colonel, ad- mniringly. ‘And ts turned away to follow the clouds of his men, who were sweeping dowu, intent on murder, to plunder the now defenseless valley of Wyoming. Double-Death and the American colonel were the only survivors left of the garrison. CHAPTER II. CHARLOTTE LACY. A YOUNG lady. small and frail-loo! , but of extraordinary beauty, sat in the be ow of a handsome house, in Arch stree iladelphia, looking down into the street, and talking to a stout gentleman with a resolute face, that de- noted the ssion of a high temper and strong passions. The stout gentleman was dressed in the dark velvet coat and generally elaborate get- up of an elderly dandy in those days, He seem- ed to be very obsequious in his demeanor to the young lady. She, on her part, was a perfect cabinet picture for a fairy queen, with bright golcen hair rolled away from her forehead, a few cu!5 straying here and there down her snowy neck, the deli- cate silks and laces of her dainty dress set off by a perfect bed of flowers that filled the bay window. : Her blue eyes were remarkably bright ance. piercing, and her face had the assured ness of outline of a woman of the world, with the peach-like bloom of a girl of eighteen. ‘** And so eee, 4 that your son is now on Gen- eral Arnold’s staff, Mr. Barbour?” she said, in- quiringly. “He is, madam,” said the stout gentleman, wrathfully. ‘“‘ But he is no son of mine, madam. I disown hint, as 1 do all Rebels. He left me in anger a year ago at Bemis’s Hights, to join in the battle in which our sovereign ord, the king, suffered loss, through the incapacity of Bur- goyne. They say he behaved well, madam—a son of John Barbour’s could not be a coward but I’ll never forgive him for fighting against his king, madam, never!” The lady smiled. “Yes, you will, foolish man,” she said, in a tone of authority; ‘you will forgive him and seek him out on the king’s service, if J bid you, John Barbour. You forget that we are both secret agents, and we must do our duty to the ; ” king. ie you order me, madam,” said John Bar- bour, bowing low, “T must obey, but I see no need for it.” ““Mr. Barbour, your head is thicker than I thought,” said she, with a faint sneer. ‘‘Do} you know whom I have been corresponding with They missed him, but the old man uttered a DaublvDeath: ia —— for so long, and influencing through my friend Maggie cg ewe ‘General old,” replied Barbour, gravely. “Well, sir, you see it is important that I should find out how far my efforts have sueceed- ed. You say your son is on Arnold’s staff. He can give me all sorts of useful information, which I must have. He is young, and I—I am —well—not bad-looking. The general has suc- cumbed to Maggie Shippen, and I can not get her to tell me every thing. I do believe she’s in love with him, and turning Whig. I have taken a fancy to fascinate the aid-de-camp. I can turn a youth like that inside out in a very little time.’ e ‘*Perhaps not, madam,” said John Barbour, gravely. ** Aud why not?’ “The young fool is in love already.” “ Ah! this grows interesting. With whom?’ “* With a country girl, called Marian Neilson, who lived near us.” said the stout gentleman. “The boy always had low tastes. A simple country lass, with no two ideas in her head. But then he considers himself engaged, and he has a great deal of obstinacy. You'll find it hard to shake him, madam.” “*So much the more amusement,” she ob- served, gayly. ‘‘ Positively, I mustsee this in- teresting son of yours, Mr. Barbour. Only twenty, you. say, and engaged, . Bah! I've. broken many an engagement before this, with not half the cause he has to break this one. You must really hunt him up, Mr. Barbour. You’re his father, and you know fathers ought to be forgiving—eh?” **T can refuse you nothing, madam,” said’ John Barbour, bowing. ‘“ Everard’s my own, boy aiter all, and they say he did behave un commonly well at Saratoga. He ought to be: on our side.” ‘*Let us bring him there, Mr. Barbour,” said the lady. ‘’Twill bea good deed. Come, go: and find him, and introduce him to me.” “‘T go, madam,” said the stout gentleman. “Tf you can redeem him, and make him a faith ful subject of King George, I will be grateful to: you forever.” And the stout gentleman left the room. The lady stood gazing down into the stree through the flowers, and murmured to herself: ‘* Little does he think that I have seen Ever ard already, and what is my motive in sending for him thus. Ah! Charlotte Lacy, in the days of your triumph, when English cfficers and generals knelt at your feet, and you laughed at them, little did you think that.a boy like this was to take your fancy and send you crazy to be near him. But then he is so handsome, and he looks so melancholy and poor. He shall not be thrown away on that awkward country lass. Lam rich and I will keep him from it. And he must be brought to our side and tell me all about this Arnold. Little do these honest fools think where the money comes from that that.general spends so lavishly. Ha! they have met! I should know my young hero’s fice among a thousand.” m where she was, she could see Mr. Bar. bour talking toa slight young officer in Conti- nental uniform, who was coming from the iowey of the city. Their colloquy seemed to he interesting, for they walked off arm in arm, in —- conversation, arlotte Lacy stamped her foot impatiently. ‘Why doesn’t he bring him in?’ she said to herself. ‘‘ Nay, then, ’il checkmate this Mr. reat a I’m not accustumed to be treated us, She rung the bell. = My carriage immediately.” And the willful beauty, seemingly much ex-. cited, hurried downstairs, as the sound of wheels rumbled by the door. CHAPTER III EVERARD. Joun Barsovr and his son, the yourg officer whom Charlotte had seen from the window, were slowly walking along the outskirts. of Philadelphia, by the river, conversing earnest- ly. They had n long separated, but it war evident that the recon on was complete for the youth had been devotedly fond of his father, in spite of their disagreement in politics and the father, hard and obstinate as a was, was still proud of his son, | . ** And so you were surprised to see me, lad,” he said. ‘‘ Where did you think I was, then?” “In New York, of course, sir. I never ex- pecten tosee you here, among the Rebels you te so.” ' John Barbour gave a short, dry laugh. ts ute aa did T, boy, bao Becomite brought me here. ve gone into trade now, and i well to run ticeeaden®¢ell you.” soe ‘But how do you asked the youth. order, ary a did,” said Joh ow he ; ohn Barbour, dryly: ‘but I was able to present certain. derests ible arguments for my own exception to the orccr. ; t away from here, sir?” “General Arnold issved an ou know, some time since, forbidding Do you see that, Everard? Your general isn’t: such a stern moralist that he can cflor? to (igs please us,” a ee

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— : And he exhibited to the eyesof the youtha paper, which read: “Pass Mr. John Barbour, @ good pvtriot, with all his goods, through our lines at all times, on the pub- lic service, ““BenepicT ARNOLD, Major-General.” Everard handed the paper back to his father end walked silently on. Presently he turned round and observed: “ And have you really changed your opinions, | sir? You were a bitter Loyalist a year ago.” “Bihnl what does the king care for me,” said | his father, carelessly, ‘‘ Money is the thing aowadays. They want fresa beef in New York and they pay three prices for it. We want silks and lices and cutlery here and they have a glut of thom. Tne French blockade Nev York, and the Enzlish blockade us. wit the meshes too large, and we run through. It prys us—you think your general a very pure patriot, Everard, hey, sir?” ‘“‘T thin’: him a brave soleier,” ssid Everard, roully. ‘*A brave svluier knows no dis- onor.” They spread a net | Doub!e-Death. ceived at Saratoga, increased the fretfulness of bis looks. He was slowly riding back on the precing country road from Germantown, when he hea the gallop of a horse at some distance in the | rear, Looking round he saw the orderly similarly engaged, as if wishing to find out the cause of the sound. Presently the distant figure of a horseman came in view round a turn in the road, and as soon as he saw them, the stranger began to wave his arms and shout at the top of his voice. General Arnold halted and turned bis horse. Even at that distance they could see that the stranger was a soldier, in the white frock of Morgan’s Rangers. “The man has news of some sort,” he mut- tered. ‘‘ What can have happened? He comes from the north-west. What's the matter?” The stranger came closer and closer, and they | could see that his horse was laboring fearfully, | and gray with foam. Join Barbour laugb2d a sneering, sarcastic lau bh. “Well, well, I'll pot disillusionize you. Sup- ose I should tell you he was my partner in rale? What wovld you say to that?” “T should thiak you were laughing at me,” said Everard. ‘‘ Do you think that I should be with him if did not know he was the soul of ionor?” ‘*T suppose not,” said his father, curtly, and then he fell to musing. “ But you, sir,” said Everard, presently, ina timid tone of voice; ‘I can not think that you have obtained that pass by fair means. 1 know you are not a good patriot.” ‘Well, what ot it?’ said Barbour, coolly. “You can’t betray me, your own father. That’s a stretch of patriotism I should hardly expect evon from you.” ‘No, sir,” said Everard, flushing painfully. ‘You know I can not betray you; but 1 have a rizht to ask that you do not make use of your safoty on my account to harm my country.” Join Barbour looked keenly at hisson for a whils, and then said: ‘Well, I won’t, if you give up Marian Neil- ” ‘* What do you mean, sir?’ asked Everard, in avexed tone. ‘You were aware thatI was enzyagelto that young lady a year ago, were you not?” ‘¢ Not with my consent, sir,” said his father, sternly. ‘‘I never approved, nor never will ap- rove, of such a Jow match. Come, sir, give er u>, and I have a match for you worth a dozoa—ay, fifty Marians. A lady of beauty, talent, and riches has taken a fancy to you, and wishes you to be presented to her. These boy anl girl engagements are never kept, you know, and, besiles, I never gave my consent.” “And I, sir,” said Everard, firmly, ‘ will never give up the engagement, not for all the beauty and wealth that—” ; Hoe was interrupted by the dashing past of an elegant phaéton with a pair of gray horses, which pulled up close to them, and trom which the most beautiful ladfhe had ever seen was bowing to his father, lixe an old friend. The recognition necessarily interrupted his | thoughts, for John Barbour was executing a rofound bow to the lady. Everard knew her e sight. She was a great friend of Miss Mar- garet Shippen, to whom General Arnold was then betrothed, and the young aid-de-camp had seen her often from the window of the office where he sat writing tedious reports, riding by in that self-same carriage. ' “Mr, Barbour,” said the sweet voice of the lady, “ eerey you must come with me into the carriage. have ever so much to say to bi u. ‘Indeed, madam,” said John Barbour, “I shall be most happy.” 54 ‘*Nay, but you must introduce your friend, too,” said the lady, with a sweet smile at Ever- arl. ‘From his likeness I ean make a shrewd guess who he is,” . ‘““My son Everard, madam. Everard, Miss Lacy,” said John, bowing low, and in a few rmainu'es Everard found himself seated in the luxurious phaéton, wondering at the strange- ness of the whole meeting, while the lady was saying: aind you know, Mr. Barbour, that I have often wished to know you? I have seen you often on horseback, mounting guard, and I have heard much of you from my friend, General Arnold.” Everard blushed up. He was young and un- used to society, an? the frank ease of the lady’s manner had a strong tinge of condescension which abashed him. _ CHAPTER IV. THE MILITARY GOVERNOR. THE commander of the American forces at Philadelphia was returning from a ride in the suburbs of the oy followel by a single dra- gem. The general looked ster 9a) sour. His k complexion and hau*hvy t-atures gave nn ill-tempered expresion to ls f° he still suffered. iroia the wou ee oo wu, * AS if wishing to hurry the news, the galloped back to meet him, and exclaim close by: ** Murphy, is that you? The stranger pulled up bis horse, and the poor beast suvk to the earth at the same moment, as if utterly exhausted, the rider leaping off. ‘‘Oh, glory be to God this day, gineral!” cried Tim Murphy, for it was none other. ‘‘ Sure and I niver thought to get the baste that far, so 1 didnt. And yer honor rimimbers me, so ye do! ’Twas Tim Murphy that shot Gineral Fraser at Bemis’s Hights, sir, so ’twas. Oh, glory be to God, gineral! ye’re a good sight for sore eyes, so xe are!” rnold smiled not. unkindly on the eccentric rifleman, and asked: ‘* What brings you here, Tim? You were sent to Wilkesbarre with Colonel Butler. Has any thing happened?” *s On, musha, gineral! ned, indade? Murder’s happened, sir, and loody scalpin’s. The Tories is up, and the In- juns is after them, gineral, and they’ve mur- dered ivery man, woman and child in the hull valley of Wyoming!” ‘Good Heavens!” said Arnold, much moved; “‘yvou can’t mean it, Tim? When did it happen, and how did you getaway?” ‘“They come onto us yisterday, so on did, ineral, and av it hadn’t been for Double-Death 1ere "—patting the rifle affectionately—‘‘it’s meself who would have been lying with the rest there now. The colonel and meself we fit hard, but the bloody Tories was too strong, and we had torun, The colonel got away across the mountains, and, bedad, av he didn’t get stopped by more of the divils, it’s himself is safe now beyant them.” “And how dong have you been riding?” queried the general. ‘*All night and all the mornin’, gineral,” said the scout. ‘The little horse had to do his best, and, bedad, I belave he’s kilt. He’s been ninety-five miles since noon yisterday.” Arnold sat on his horse, frowningly eying the ground and considering, while the Irish ranger tried to induce his exhausted animal to rise and follow him. ‘* Ab! now, acushla, don’t be lyin’ there like a stuck pig, whin there’s nothin’ the matther wid ye, barrin’ ye’re tired. Get up and come into town, where ye shall have an iligant clane stable, and all the luxuries of the s’ason, so ye shall. That’s it, alanah; git up on yer hunkies, and scramble up. ad, I won’t ride ye an- other step till ye ’re well ag’in.” ‘“ Whose party has done. this?’ muttered the general, under his breath. ‘‘John Barbour must have known this was coming, and he never warned me. Now Imust send some one to Washington to tell him this, and he may spoil all my fine plans.” He suddeuly addressed the rifleman. ‘* Murphy,” he sail, “I must gallop back to town to send a messenger to General Washing- ton. You lead your horse after us, and I’ll have a fresh one at my head-quarters ready for you. Can you ride any further?’ Tim made a grimace. ‘* Av it’s necessary,” he said, pointedly. *‘ But sure, gineral, ridin’s a tinder subject wid me joost now. Av ye don’t belave it, try ridin’ a undher miles at a stretch onst yerself.” ‘* Well, it is necessary,” said Arnold, sternly. ‘*Be ready to takea fresh horse and depart when you reach my quarters,” And he turned his horse, and galloped away up the road to the city, leaving Tim to follow im. “And, bedad, there goes a brave sodger, but a mortal hard gineral,” said Double-Death, musingly. ‘tHe wouldn't give a man a chance to rest, av he was dyin’! Git up, Tim; come along, Misther Murphy. We'll rest some time av it’s only in the cowld grave. Maybe yell see Masther Everard, the darlin’, and he'll give ye time to slape.” CHAPTER V. TERRIBLE NEWS. “A LETTER for you, sir,” said the orderly, o7 duty, as Evorard stenped into his quariers We tat afacucon The young officer's eye- neral when Has anything hap- What’s the matter?” $ were bright, and his cheek flushed with excites ment. He had just returned from a visit to Charlotte Lacy. He took the letter without looking particu- larly at it, and went wpenits to his room, bum- ming to himself, Ben Jonson’s little carol: “ Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine.” “How beautiful she is, and bow kind!” he muttered, to bimself, as he fell into a fit of musing, altogether forgetting his letter. He was recalled to it by the sight of bis general gal- loping into the garden of the old Penn Mansion, in which they were quartered, up the stately avenue of elms. The orderly stopped and pre- sented him with a bundle of letters, and Ever- ond asaeieatianite that it was mail-day from the orth. He looked down at his own letter, and started, blushing deeply. “*From her,” he murmured; ‘‘and J had al- most forgotten her. Everard Barbour, where is your honor gone? Only one sight of a lovely face and you have almost forgotten Marian. Dearest Marian!” He kissed the letter and opened it. It was written in a pretty rounded hand that spoke a eountry schooling, very different from the run- ping, pointed characters in which fashionatle ladies were wont to write, and it was dated several weeks back. It announced that the writer, Marian Neil- son, had left her home near Saratoga to visit her aunt at Wilkesbarre, in the valley of Wyo- ming, Pennsylvania. “And I doso hope, Everard,” she concluded “that you will be able to get the good Gene ral Arnold to let you come and see me now and then. Aunt Jane says it’s only a three days’ ride from Philadelphia, and—” ‘“‘General’s compliments, Mr. Barbour, and he wishes to see you immediatel , sir,” said the voice of an orderly at the door, Lote he could read another wor Everard started and followed bim instantly, for he knew the impatient temper cf lis chi f. He found Arnold stumping up and down the great, gloomy room, looking out on the elms, which was his peculiar sanctum, and was at once greeted with tbe salutation: ‘‘Ha! Mr. Barbour, is that you? Get ready fo ride to Brunswick at once, sir, to General /ashington’s quarters. Have youa good horse?” “Yes, sir,” said Everard, He bad but received it an hour before asa present from his now—to all appearance—quite reconciled father. ‘** Don’t spare it, sir! There’s terrible news to take there. When you're ready, come Lack and report. Order outa troop-horse for a sec- ond man, who will accompany you. I expect him every moment. Everard bowed and retired. He had no time to continue his letter, which he hastily thrust in his breast. He ran down-stairs, summoned his orderly, and bad his borse got ready in short order. Then be went to his room and’ assumed his heaviest campaign dress for long-continued riding, a little curious all the time to know what pe terrible news was, which he was expected to e. In a quarter of an hour, booted end spurred, with his saber clattering at his heels, he stood in the general’s room, ready to report. He beheld there a face and form familiar to him, as to every one who had fought on the field of Sara- toga. It was the sinewy frame and dark, keen fece, with piercing black eyes, of Timothy Mur- hy, the ranger, better known as’ Dcuble- eath, the Scout. He and Everard hed beccme jest friends on that battle-fielda year betore, aid the lad was glad to see him, | _ Arnold cut short any greetings in his stern, imperious manner, “Mr. Bartour, there’s no time to fool, This is your companion, the only man left out of the gairison of Wilkesbarre. Teli General Wash- ington that the Tories and Indi have madea descent from Canada with the of the Six Nations, and have messacred every man, von en and child in the whole valley cf Wy- cming. Everard started back with a clash, entirely forgetful of military etiquette in his surprise and borror. ‘*Wyoming!” he. ejaculated, faintly. ‘‘ All killed! Don’t say so, general, Don’t say s0. Oh! my God! Marian’s killed.” ‘‘What’s the matter, Mr. Barbour?’ asked the general, haughtily. ‘* What ails you, sir?” “My God, general, not five mirutes before you came in, I received a letter from my cwn betrothed wife, telling » e that she bad gone on a visit to her aunt in Wilkesbarre. And now I shall never see her more. The Indians have “ee her beyond a peradventure.” ‘‘lam sorry for it, Mr. Barbour,” seid Ar- nold, not unkindly, “b rule of war.” “And av ye manea young lady wid black hair, as sa to live et Mistler Neilscn’s, vt Bamis’s Hights,” said Tim Murphy, suceer y, “she ain’t kilt yet or wasn’t when I jit ibe p ce. Pl tell yez as we fos liftinant.” ae Everard and Double-Death left the room ti . ether, ut these things are the

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~~ ——— we CHAPTER VI. WYOMING, In the month of September, 1778, a party of five horsemen were riding slowly along a rough country road in the midst of a singular scene. Around them spread a country that nature had made the very home of beauty. The winding Susquehanna pursued its tranquil course through an expanse of diversified hill and dale, sprinkled with noble clumps of trees, that gave it the ap- P arance of a park. Wild vines, loaded with uscious purple grapes, hung in masses from the boughs of oak, elm and sycamore; while the borders of the river were planted with rows of the same tree in shady luxuriance. The pipe of the quail could be heard in the open meadows among the fields of yellow wheat, and numer- ous deer were grazing here and there, nibbling the yellow ears as if they were accustomed to it. Now and then the deep, hollow drumming of the ruffed grouse echoed from the dense woods, or 2 flock of wild ducks would come whirling up from a-silent eddy of the river, startled at the approach of horsemen. uf in all the landscape, except that little party, there was no token of human habitation, except those ghastly remains, left by fire and sword, which told of the fierce storm of war that had passed over the peaceful valley of Wy- oming two short months before. The bare and blackened chimneys stood up here and there, ghosts of departed homes. The fences were prostrate, or left in heaps of ashes, where the rails had been used for firewood, and every now and then the horses of the travelers would shy violently at the sight of the bleaching bones of a human skeleton, the body parched and black- ened by the fierce heat of the summer and the dry, still air of early fall. The travelers were all well mounted and armed, as was necessary in the then state of the stricken vale of Wyoming. Four of them wore the uniform of Morgan’s riflemen, a white frock or hunting-shirt, fringed and ornamented, with fur caps and buckskin leggings. The leader was a young officer of Continental dragoons. He rode a magnificent black horse, nearly thoroughbred, and appeared to be subject to great anxiety, for his eager glance scanned every thicket ahead, and his face had a worried, unhappy look about it. Every now and then he would turn round to speak to the leading rifleman, a small, wiry- looking man, with a dark, shrewd face and in- age warrior, and fire into him, almost touching | in their subsequent proceedings, and Everard | him. Before Everard’s horse had fairly recov- ered from the shock of seeing its companions fall, the Irish rifleman had leaped forward and | scalped all three of the Indians, with a dexter- | ity and coolness that told of long practice, and | the whole affair was over. Then if was found that one of the American riflemen was mortally wounded, the same shot that had felled his horse having passed through his thigh, and cut the femoral artery, from which the blood was welling like the stream | from a pump: the other lay half under his horse, | which was still struggling violently in the ago- | | much unnerved at the suddenness of the occur- nies of death; and the last one seemed to be too | | rence to do any thing but try to restrain his | frightened animal from running away. Tim Murphy said not a word till he had re- | loaded his rifle) Then he stooped down and took up the weapons of the dead Indians, emp- tied their bullets into his own bullet-pouch, and replenished his powder-horn from theirs. He rose and scanned the valley all round him with | the piercing glance of a veteran scout, and ob- served: *Liftinant, there’s lashin’s of the divils around here, and Tim Murphy’s nothing but a goney that he didn’t see them afore.” Everard was already on his feet by the wound- ed rifleman, trying in vain to stanch the welling flood of erimson that was fast draining the man’s life. But, as Murphy spoke, the poor fel: low lapsed into insensibility, and in a very few seconds after ceased to breathe, while the un- wounded man was trying to extricate his other comrade from the crushing weight of the dying horse. Everard rose sadly up from his slain follower’s side, and said: ‘**T fear you're right, Murphy. Three of them would never have dared to attack five of us, if they had not plenty of help nigh at hand. Isee no way for us to do but to retreat and await the coming of Colonel Butler’s expedition. We have lost our horses, and have not enough left to go on with in safety. And yet I can not go back while there is a chance to save her. What shall we do?” Murphy considered a moment, and then said, | slowly: tensely black eyes, who was noticeable among | ,she rest for carrying a double-barreled rifle, a very rare thing in those days, ae poe said the young officer, at last, ‘‘ do | you thin after they were carried off?” He spoke as if he longed to hear a favorable answer, while dreading the reverse. ** Av coorse they were,” said Tim Murphy. **Didn’t the Injun chief stop the divils from killin’ after they’d been at it for two hours, be- dad? But, anyway, I saw the young lady alive ' after that, and heard that they werd going to that the female prisoners were spared | ‘‘ There’s two horses left, divil a lieinit. An’ | there’s four men to ride on ’em—two too many. Lave me here, liftinant, wid Sam Noble there, and you and the other man go back and hurry up the boys. We'll wait for yez, and find out all about the Injun camp before the colonel Bets | up.’ Everard hesitated for several minutes. Then | he ao to take his resolution. ar - tin Glover,” he said, addressing the | | | rifleman who had shown the least courage of any in the party, “you and Sam Noble will ride back at speed to Colonel Butler. Sam, take my horse. Tell him that there are Indians in the valley, and that I remain here with Mur- phy to find out their haunts. And here, Sam, | give me your cap and hunting-shirt, and take take her off. Ould Queen Esther it was that | tuk pity on her—and she the worst divil of them all, for that matter, for she bate out the brains of twenty men, standin’ tied together around a rock, one afther the other—but she seemed to take a fancy to the child as she stood there, so brave and innocent-like, and tuk her into her own tint, ‘to be her daughter,’ she said.” * And you say this Queen Esther’s village lies not far from here?” said the young officer. “Tt lies over beyant thim hills,” said the rifleman, pointing to the west, ‘and we can get there befoor dark, if we ride fast. Not that I mane to say that we’d better do it, Misther Barbour, for the ould witch isn’t what ye call a | nice person to visit, widout a hundred or so of boys at yer back. Bedad, av she knew little use they’d be here, an’ we two can prowl that Double-Death was here, wid only five oth- ers, it’s herself that would be the glad woman | this day, ho to light an illigant little fire on Mr. Murphy re skin, av she coold only catch him. But, Misthur Murphy has a lixin’ to light his own fires, bedad, halt!” He suddenly broke off from his rambling speech, and threw up his rifle to his shoulder, | taking aim at a thicket at the roadside. Ina moment more he would have fired, when the flash of three rifles simultaneously from the same thicket anticipated him, and three of the horses dropped to earth together, one of them his own. Instantly the adroit rifleman had his feet out of the stirrups, and was standing erect, aiming at the same place, as three Indian war- iurs, covered with paint and bedizened with - ‘athers, sprung out of the cover, tomahawk in and, to consummate the surprise. They little knew with whom they had to deal. As coolly asif at a pigeon-shooting match, Tim Murphy raised his rifle again, and fired right and left at the yelling warriurs, within ten feet of him, bringing two of them down at once. The third, as if amazed at the sight of two shots coming from the same man without reloading, hesitated a moment, and that moment was fatal tohim. It enabled Everard Barbour, who had been too flurried by the surprise to be fully con- scious at first, to level the pistol he had drawn from his holster at the broad breast of the sav- and he’s goin’ to— | | from whence they had first fired, judging right- my coat and helmet. They’re not fit for this | kind of work.” Ue spoke with the air of authority that com- pelled acquiescence and the men were not waa to obey. Their adventure, and the terrible stories current about the valley, had not con- spired to encourage them, and they knew that | about twenty miles behind a body of their com- rades were coming up to the rescue, to revenge the slaughter of Wyoming. The change of gar- ments was quickly effected therefore, and inside of ten minutes Everard, transformed into a rifleman, was watching his two men galloping | away on the back track. ‘Faith, liftinant,” observed Ti» Murphy, dryly, ‘‘thim fellows ’ll not let the ,rass grow under their feet till they see the colonel. It’s about, an’ nobody be the wiser. Now, sur, av it’s pl’asing to ye, we’d better be at work, for the shots ’1l maybe bring ould Queen Esther and | all her tribe out afther us. We must get these | tellows into the place they came from, and lave | poor Jimmy Burke out beyant,so they may think we're all kilt or run away.” The advice seemed sensible, and they drag; the bodies of the Indians back into the thic ed et ly that there would be no more in that quarter, at Jeast. The body of the slain rifleman was left where it fell, a ghastly necessity for the present, but they did not dare to take it away or bury it. Everard selected the best of the rifles, which was that carried by one of the In- dians, a splendidly ornamented piece, evidently of English manufacture, and filled his bullet- pouch and powder-horn before setting out. Tin Murphy shook his head angrily as he looked at the rifle. **Tt’s the bloody British Governor's present,” he said. ‘He gives them to the chiefs who bring in most scalps, and hires the red thaves to murder his own color. Bedad, maybe he won’t like to get.a bullet sent into his fri’nds from his own gun. And now, liftinant, let’s be off, av it’s i asin’ to ye!” ' Although perfectly respectful in kis manner, from the moment they were left alone in the | \ilderness, Murphy unconsciously took the lead posierarye | | behind w submitted, in light of his experience. They be came equal comrades, instead of officer and pri. vate, aud left the spot togetber on foot, each carrying a spare rifle, besides his own particular piece. They passed through the thicket from which they were shot at, in cautious silence, keeping in the middle of the wood and avoiding to show themselves. All was quiet around them, how- ever, save for the piping of the quail and the oe- casional whirr of the pheasant from the woods beyond. Everard was startled at every sound, and looked nervously round, expecting more In- dians at every turn; but Tim reassured him with one of his simple, common sense remarks, that explained the case at once, saying: ‘‘Sorra one 0’ them’s here, liftinant. Trust the birds and bastes to bear them when they come. When ye don’t hear a sound in the woods, look out; but as long as the little squir- rels play about over beyant, there’s no Injuns near.” And the ranger stepped on fearlessly and rapidly through the woods, glancing out be- tween the trees to the open ground whenever they approached it. Everard followed, becoming more used to his position, which was entirely novel, the longer he walked, and feeling a keen sense of pleasur- able excitement in spite of the danger, in the peculiar atmosphere of bush-fighting, which he now tried for the first time. Indeed, no one who has not tried it, can realize the sense of freedom and independence peculiar to a man in the woods in an enemy’s country, where bis life depends on his acuteness, It resembles the passion for hunting, which causes so inany men to forsake home comforts, and cheer ‘ully con- front cold and hunger to enjoy it; but with the additional excitement that your game will pro- bably shoot back. Everard felt, moreover, that’ his companion was an adept in woodcraft and Indian warfare, and trusted entirely to his abili'ies, and he was not wrong. Tim Murphy, under his Indian sobriquet of ‘ Double-Death,” was cclebrated / among the Indians far and wide, and much dreaded. The two comrades thus continued on their way through the belt of woods, which proved to be about a mile in length, and then saw be- fore them an open field of wheat, fully exposed to view on all sides, at the opposite margin of which again extended the woods that clothed the edge of the valley to the west. Beyond these woods lay the camp of the Indian queen, known to the whites as Queen Esther, whose band had been prominent in the July massacre. Both men instinctively uttered a low ex- clamation as they looked out upon the fields, for there, coming leisurely along toward the very place they were posted, was a party of eight or nine Indians. CHAPTER VII HIDE AND SEEK. Murpny was the first to catch sight of them, and he immediately drew back behind a tree, to Everard to do the same. The tree ich they shrunk happened to be very large, and had a deep cavernous hole on one side. Without any hesitation, Tim entered the hollow, and Everard jtollowed him, when both prepared themselves for a desperate defense if they were discovered, but in the full expecta- tion of remaining unseen. Tim whispered to Everard that he was certain the savages had not caught sight of them as they hid. ‘* And av they only miss the trail, we’ll have a ciuance, liftinant.” From the dark hole in which they were, they could see their foes advancing unsuspiciously to the edge ot the wood, and, as luck would Lave it, at a part of the wood over which they them- selves had not passed. The Indians were chat- tering and laughing, contrary to their custom on the war-path, proving that they did not an- ticipate enemies near them, and soon disap- eared among the trees, going in a direction that promised to bring them out close to the scene of the morning’s att: mpted assassination. As soon as they were fairly out of sight, Tim crept softly out of the hollow, laid bis head to the earth, and listened intently for some time, Then he started up, and beckoned to Everard, “Follow, liftinant,” he said, in a low tone, and Yet ete off toward the open fields. At the edge of the wood he halted, and took a long. searching look all round the horizon, Not a soul was in sight as far as the woods opposite. Tim at once struck into the path through which the Indians had come among the wheat, and went at a fast walk, nearly a run, toward the oppo- site woods. As he went, he kept a keen look-out ahead, for Tim was trying a desperate chance in crossing this open field as he did, when the woods in front might very likely be full of In. dians. But he knew that those behind would almost inevitably catch his trail very soon, and aforward movement at any risk become an imperative necessity. Before the two friends had entirely crossed the field, they heard, far behind them. the loud. death-halloo of the icdiso, a. inviug thag e*

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; i] enough of trailin from —— 5 Double-Death. these had stumbled over the bodies, and Tim Murphy instantly 9 i act flat on his face in the tall yellow wheat, followed by Everard. “ jTould still!” whicpered the scout, as Ever- ard imprucently raised his head to look around. **The divils ‘ll all be out watchin’ the opens, in ithe drinkin’ of a glass of whisky. Hould still, and they’ll never see ye.” Everard lay still and listened. The howlin cover the corpses became louder than ever, an then stopped suddenly and Lurst out again. He could sec nothing where ko was, for the tall yellov7 whcat all round him, and the suspense of waiting became very trying. Not fifty yards off were the woods, and they could not reach them without being discovered. It seemed to Everard ‘as. if ey must be seen where they were, indeed, bu which the originally white hunting-shirt had faded ienatt diy the two friends quite invisible, from its similarity in color to the grain. Presently Tim Murphy took off his cap, and rose up on his hands and knees to peep out among the wheat-heads, motioning Everard to lio still. minutes, and then sunk down again, with a look of satisfaction. ‘¢Thoy’re pickin’ out the trail,” he whispered, “and not lookin’ this way. Now’s the time, liftinant.” And he rose up and crept forward through the grain on hands and knees, leaving a plain trail behind him no douht, but hidden from view by the tall spears ot wheat, where the trails of wild animals, wandering at will, cross- ed it in every direction, a melancholy picture of neglect. Everard followed in the same fash- ion, each trailing two rifles behind him; and in this way they soon gained the shelter of the woods unseen, and were able to stand erect once mor. wood, and out of sight of the open field, that Everard asked: ‘Why is it, Tim, that you lay still so long be- fore you crept away!” “Sure and weren’t the Injuns in full sight?” asked Tim, in return. ‘The first thing they’d do was to glower over the fields, and av a stalk of grain had looked askew, they’d ’a’ been after us, like St, Pathrick afther the snakes. Now they'll have to trail us, and, bedad, Tim Mur- poy ean move faster than they can trail, and ww’ll have a chance.” ‘* But how shall we throw them off the trail?’ asixed Everard. ‘*Divil a fear o’ that,” said Tim, confidently. *“*Atore Colonel Butler comes up, they’ll have Double-Death, Pll go bail. How we're to ‘find the ould harridan they call ‘Queen Esther, ani get the yo lady awa trom her, that’s the Stivil of a jon. But Aci along, liftinant. We're getting nearer the vil- lage every moment, and ’twon’t do to be talkin’, We'll need eyes and ears for twinty, so no more chat,” Everard saw the sense of this advice, and the two friends proceeded through the woods in dead silence, making the best use of eyes and | cars that they could. Tim Murphy was one of those cool, revkle s fellows, found nowhere in such perfection as among our American front- iersmen, who deliberatel against. hundreds of hostile cbances, and come off scot free from the midst of perils, by the mere force of pluck and coolness, fertility of in- vention, and daring of execution. Everard had many Of the same qualities, but he lacked the / experience acquired by the other in many a bush-fi +t, and was content to follow him as a pupil. [He knew that they were going straigot toward a village of hostile Indians, and that imore were on their trail behind; and yet he fol- lowed wishout hesitation. Against equal num- bers of ‘oes they were well protected, the one having three, the other two rifle-shots to fire, without reloading; besides which, Everard had retaine! the holsier-pistols from his saddle, which be had thrust into his belt at the mo- ment of departure. But the foes they were to meet were hundreds in number, and likely to be keen aid vigilant. Nevertheless, they went forward steadily, the woo.ls becoming deeper and darker as they j roceeded, the ground gradually sinking lower, carpeted with dark-brown moss. The drought of the summer had changed the place from a wainp, and there were only liitle pools bere and there, at long distances, where some dee hole had been made by the uprooting of a wind- ‘sruck tree; still there were plentiful evidences that it was nothing but a dried-up swamp, and im whispered to his companion to be cautious, for the Indian towns were generally at the edges of swamps. They advanced silently, treading in each other’s steps with great pre- caution, Tim Murphy keeping a sharp look-out ahead and to either side. he forest was unusu- ally silent--a bad sign. Here and there, a long way off, they could ew the tap of the wood- pecker on some dead tree, or the chatter of the Squirrel, but near them all was silent. Present- ly Tim halted and listened intently. A low murmur, could be heard in the woods directly | ahead of them, where the ground rose up from the ediranf the swamp. * shere’s J4e \ age, beyant the hill,” whis- t the dirty drab into | He remained in this posture for some | It was not till they were buried in the | stake their lives | pered Tim. As he spoke, he turned and struck off to the right, into the densest part of the swamp. \QCHAPTER VIII. QUEEN ESTHER. AT the door of an Indian wigwam, in the | midst of a village of similar structures, a young girl was seated on a bear-skin, absently gazing on the antics of a number of little naked chil- dren, who were tumbling about in the dirt, quar- ; reling with some rough, wolfish-looking curs for the possession of sundry half-deyoured bones. Here and there at the doors of the lodges the squaws were sitting in the sunset, enjoying rest and gossip, while the warriors were all in a rand circle on a green in the center of the vil- lage, smoking solemnly, as if at a council. he young girl was elaborately attired in all the finery cloth skirt, worked in beads and porcupine- | quills, her swelling bust haif-revealed by the open hunting-shirt of doe-skin, while a blanket of more than common fineness fell from her shoulders. But a glance at her face was | sufficient to show that she was no Indian, but a white woman, and a very pretty one at that, a cheerful, healthy country girl with clear, dark eyes, magnificent hair, and a form like a young panther’s for mingled grace and vigor. It was, indeed, no other than Marian Neilson, who had been adopted bv the Indian queen, ac- | cording to a common custom of the tribes, to replace a daughter slain in the battle: for Qu en Esther, like many of the Lastern Indians had enforced ‘‘woman’s rights” in a practical form a hundred years before they were agitated in civilized countries, and went to battle with her daughters at the head of her warriors. Marian looked thoughtful and sad, but by no means downcast. There was a fund of quiet heroism in those women of tiie Revolution that kept them up under the most fearful trials toan extent we little think of nowadays. She had seen so many horrors during the sack of Wyom- ing, that her own fate, a mildly treated captive, ap to be a very light one compared to the sufferings of many women more delicately | reared than herself. She had seen a mother carrying her newly-born infant twenty miles on toot, the child itself a corpse, to obtain the _ poor privilege of burying the little ereature, without being tomahawked and scalped for her pains. In the presence of woes like these, and others nearly as trying, Marian felt that she had much cause for thanktulness, for, save the restraint of her liberty, she suffered nothing, and was treat- ed with kindness by her adopted mother, wit! reverence by the Indians. She was thinking at the moment of Everard Barbour, her soldier lover, far away, as she | thought, on duty, and wonderin if. he had heard the news, and whether he believed her dead with so many others. ‘‘ He will come after me,” she thought, “if he has any reason to believe I live, andif not, I shall never see him again. He will see so many beautiful ladies in } | | hiladelphia that he will | sorrow. ber that I lost my mother, sister and many dear friends in the slaughter of last month. I cannot forget them yet.” ** Bpt you must forget them,” said the Indian — sternly. ‘Look at me, Marian Neilson. o you think that I never hadaheart? Ay child, long, long years ago I was young and beautiful. Soldiers and gentlemen flocked around me in my father’s house, seeking my hand, and everything seemed to draw me from the people of my Indian mother, and make me like you. And what, think you, changed me and made me what I am?’ ‘Ido not know,” said Marian, wonderingly. “White cruelty,” said fgpeen Esther, slowly: ‘“‘the forked tongue that dwells in every white man of them all. I believed the soft voice of one of them, and found too late that he had lied to me—that he sought not an honorable alli- ot a chief’s daughter, with short blue | 2nce, but_my shame. And why, think you, Marian? Because of my mother’s blood only! The whites can never forgive us for being in- jured by them. They found us lords of the soil, and they cozened us out of our birthright, till we are strangers in our own land. And they cannot forgive us for living, they cannot ,xardon one drop of Indian blood in our veins. de wronged me, and I swore vengeance... Ay, girl, and I’ve had it, too.” Marian shuddered slightly at the fierce gleam of the old queen’s eye, as she remembered what she had seen, and Queen Esther pursued: “You think much of the slaughter of your people the other day, and of the death of the prisoners taken in arms.. How many did we Slay compared to the rest of your people? Now tell me, where are the Pequods, where are the Narragansetts, where are the Wampanoags, where areall the tribes that once ranged, free and happy, from the St, Lawrence to the waters of the Sound? Who slew them? How did they die? What pity bave you for their mas- sacre? Who tells of the children of King Phil- ip, sold as slaves—of the Massachusetts tribes exterminated from the face of the earth by your pious Christian warriors? o cares for them or for their kindred? Girl, I tell you, not unless we were to sweep every man, woman and child of your accursed race into the sea, without mercy, could we equal the injuries that you have inflicted on us for generations. My people are poor and ignorant. They know not all that I do. Ihave learned the wisdom of the whites, but my heart is all red, and I have used it for the pad of my people. Go ask the white ruffians that call themselves Indian-fighters whom they dread the most of any, and the, will tell you the band of Queen Esther. Ay. and if 1 were only a man, 1 would do muci. more. Enough! ‘You see I have steeled my heart. See that you keep yours in subjection, Ve gy “ I will not to show my feelings,” said Marian, in a low voice. * Reniember that you are my daughter now,” said the queen, ste Y “T lost ber in the battle, with my two sons. You take her place. She was like a statue. She showed no fear, and no See that you do like her. Come. We forget poor Marian, and, perhaps, be glad of | &¢ going to the council. You must come with her death.” As she sat there musing, a strange figure ap- proached the lodge from the rear. It was that | of a tall, gaunt old woman, haggard and bol- | low-eyed, with long gray hair flowing down her back. Her dress was that of a warrior, but / poet rely of expensive velvets, bedizened with fo lace, too clearly the plunder of some civi- _ lized settlement. Sie bore at her belt a long scalp-knife and a tomabawk, the head of the latter dark and rusty from recent stains. Ber | face was that of a statue, as apparently devoid | of human feeling as if it had been made of | bronze. The remains of great beauty were | there, but it was the cruel beauty of the tigress, | and her fierce expression renaered even that repulsive. his was_the celebrated Queen Esther, better | known as Kate Montour, queen of the Senecas, | This woman was reputed to be the half-breed | daughter of Count Frontenac, one of the last French Governors of Canada, and had in her youth enjoyed all the luxnries of the vice-regal palace at Quebec, but having returned to her | people, she had surpassed them all in atrocities at the massacre of Wyoming, where she delib- erately brained all the prisoners with her own hand, And yet, as she now advanced and ad- dressed Marian in English, there was a grace and refinement in her manner that told of her early training rather than her later deeds, and Marian looked up with a smile, for the queen’s countenance was softened to her. “Marian, what dream you of?’ said Queen Esther, in a deep, musical voice and very pure English. “Has my daughter not ceased yet to mourn for the coward whites who fell by the hands of my warriors? This is not well, Marian?” She spoke in the accents of a cultivated and well-educated person, with only a slight Freneb accent, “‘ Alas, madam,” said Marian, a little sadly, “we cannot all command our hearts Remermn- —_———ee *A fact. { me. You shall be bound to us more firmly soon. Your heart is still with the whites. e must éraw it to the forest by wedding you to a brave warrior.” Marian had risen at her first words, and was stai.ding by the queen. At the utterance of the last sentence she started and turned deadiy vale. . ' ‘‘ Madam,” she faltered, ‘‘ surely it can not be necessary to do that yet. Indeed, 1 wiil be fuiihful and obedient to you, remembering your kindness, but I can not, must not, be marvied | as ret.” The queen of the Senecas turned round and favored her with a piercing glance, bali-suspi- cion, half-contempt. ‘Did you think I spared you to please your whims?’ she demanded, in me of scorn. “Girl, are you a fool, or do you take me ior one? I spared your life to use you for my }. 1- yoses. Youarebeautiful,and lam old. My in- fluence wanes among these ficklesavages. VW «\!, you shall restore it. Black Eagle, the son. of Giengwatah, has asked for your hand, anu I promised it to him. Follow me,” She turned and swept solemnly away tows: fhe ecuncil, followed slowly and hesitating!) | y Marian, who now began to realize the i::. verils of her situation. Till that moment; ec i never dreamed of them, imagining t.«' pity for her fate had inspired Queen Estix1’s mercy so far. ; ‘The chiefs were gathered in the circle, smoi- ing together, and a place was left in front the grand lodge for the queen of the Senecus. With a courtesy unusual among Indians, anc only taught them by this singular woman— compound of barbarism and civilization, as she was, from her double parentage and educatiou —the whole circle rose to their feet and bowed their plumed heads in obeisance as Queen Es- ther took her position, with Marian beside her. Atasignal from her they resumed their seats and began the business ai the wiceting, ian sat down close to her protectress; or tyrant, whichever she might, be! atid furively scanned

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takes a man to take my scalp, Misther njun,” "he Indian laughed savagely, as he looked at the helpless position of the other, thinking bim- self safe. “Soon find Double-Death’s brudder,” he said, mockingly. ‘*Chiefs out now. Black Eagle out, Roast pale-face front of Double-Death. Bring white squaw to see him.” Tim uttered a pag of contempt, and turned away his head. He knew that Everard must be safe for the present, and that the Indian was only boasting. He kept a still tongue in his head and finished his supper in perfect tran- quillity, regardless of the efforts of the Indians to draw him into conversation, OCas.

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on their part, displayed _a curious mixture of | to give Marian in charge of a party of slightly- houor and treache They held the inclosure of the medicine-lodge as sacred as the Arab does the hoapialny of bis tent, the monk the sanctuary of the altar. They did not dare to drag the bold borderer from thence, but they tried to eutice him to leave it. Tim was too well aware, however, of the instant death that awaited hii outside of the tent to leave it, and he repaid ail their efforts to draw him thence with good-humored contempt, arranging a couch for himself with perfect coolness. When the l..ad iedicine-man approached the lodge to enter it, Tim quietly cocked his rifle, and the Indian halted, appalled. He was the only man who had any business there, and he did not care to risk certain death for the privilege of killing Tim afterward. ‘The scout had calculated on his cowardice, and made no effort to provoke the medicine-man, for he knew on how frail a tenure his life hung, even now. Meanwhile there was considerable bustle among the Indians outside. It was true that Black Eagle had departed on the trail of Tim and. his triend, to try and discover the hiding- place of the latter. _The scout could see torches woving about in the swamp, and judged that the Senecas. were in deadly earnest. He smiled to himself as he thought how he had led them on the wrong scent, and waited contidently for the morning, by which time, in all probability, the powerful expedition under Colonel Zebu- lon Butler would, be up aud ready for the attack. So the long, tedious hours of the night wore away, the camp.sunk into silence, the fires died away into glimmering ashes, and no one seemed to be awake save the guards round the medi- cine-lodge, and the trailing party of Black Eagle. Double-Death never closed an eye all that long night, so intense was his anxiety. He pretended to a to impress the Indians with his coolness, but he was furtively watching ail the time. At last, after what seemed an age of watch- ing, a distant shot was beard in the swamp. followed by a general yell, Tim sat up and listened. In a moment more several shots followed close together and a second yell. “They’ve found him,” muttered the borderer, and he looked anxiously out of the tent door toward the east. <A faint, whitish glow in that direction rendered the dark outline of the forest very conspicuous, and Tim knew that the dawn ; es Double-Death. wounded soldiers, who were halting and gong to the rear, when the American line swept, for- ward again, and dashed into the swamp with a rattling volley. Double-Death was not the man to stay behind on such an occasion, and he wassoon among the | foremost of the advanced line, loading and fir- ing with his usual skill and rapidity. The In- dians were much demoralized, huddied together in a heap as they were, and made but a feeble resistance, for the line of the patriots, though inferior in number, far outilanked them, and kept coming in on either wing, soas to surround them and leave them no resource but to break through or flee still further. A sudden check was soon experienced, how- ever, from the cool daring of Black Hagle, who displayed in this crisis the ability of a great | warrior. The band with which he had been ee Everard in the tree, made a furious attack, in the nick of time, upon the exposed flank of the patriots, rolling them up in disorder, and giving time for the retreating Indians to run out and form a line, while tle squaws con- tinued their flight. From thenceforth the battle was more equal, and the soldiers finally halted and drew off, sat- isfied with their success, returning to the vil- pay Be which they had taken, and loading them- selves with plunder. The Indiansseemed to have been’ disheartened, for they made no attempt to harass the retreat, but retired into the deep forests, from whence the small force of the ericans did not dare to drive them. But what was the rageof Tim ipl ed when he dis- covered that in their flight they had carried off Everard. In vain he begged the commander of the expedition to try one more charge. But- ler was inexorable, “T can of rescuing one who is perhaps dead now,” he said. And Tim had to acknowledge he was right. Before night the expedition was on its way back to the mountains, having burned the vil- lage and recovered a great portion of the plun- der of Wyoming, finding horses and wagdns, taken from the settlers, all ready to load. On their return they were attacked on several occasions by desultory parties of the Indians, but brought off their spoils in safety. Queen Esther was not with her tribe any longer, anu the indians seemed to be dispirited. t sacrifice fifty men on the chance | | children. ¢ The chief cast himself down at the foot of a huge hickory tree, and remained watching the scene as if waiting for something. Before Jong the sound of voices in the rear announced that others approached, and the head of the motile column of men, women and children, wit horses and cattle loaded with baggage, came straggling out of the forest, and dispersed into the village. There was another pause, and then a second file of warriors passed by, followed by the stately figure of the Indian queen on horse- back, Riding beside her, his arms lashed be- hind hitn, his feet tied under the horse’s belly, was Everard Barbour, pale from loss of blood, with bis bead bound up. Queen Esther drew up both horses by the side of the stately chief, who had risen to his feet at her approach, and saluted her. ‘Black Eagle has come home. Why does he not enter his house?” “Tt is empty,” said the chief, laconically. ‘*Let him take one to fill it,” said the Indian queen, proudly. “There are many maidens of the Senecas who will be proud to mate with nit, son.” 3lack Eagle shook his head. ‘tT am not your son,” he said, ei “Black Eagle went on the war-path; his eyes and ears were open. Queen Sheshequin stayed in camp aud fell erage She made the Great Spirit a liar, and Black Eagle’s heart is very dark to-day.” “What means my son?” demanded the queen, half SEA “The White Flower ‘is ne, and the Queen of the Senecas has lost her,” replied Black Eagle, gloomily. ‘She must be found again, or Black Eagle leads his warriors to their own homes.” The old queen looked at him fixedly. ‘** Let Black Eagle take his vengeance on her lover, then,” she said. ‘‘We have him here prisoner, and he shall pay for the White Flower who loves him,” The chief regarded Everard as she indicated him, with a strange glance, half dislike, half contempt. To the queen’s surprise he did not seem to’care about it. ‘* He is but_a child,” he said. ‘‘ Black Eagle and Thayendanegea war uot with squaws and They have heard the. words of the Black Ea- | Great Spirit, and only strike warriors.” gle and the queen—so a prisoner reported—had | Queen Esther frowned. She hated the name of gone off to Seneca lake, to gather the tribes for | Thayendanegea (better known to us as Brant). a general raid on the settlements. The Queen / That remarkable Indian had enjoyed as good of the Senecas was not the woman to take a de- | an education as_ herself, but with different re- feat tamely. sults, for Brant was as kind and humane as the And Marian, half crazy with anxiety for Ev- | queen was merciless and savage. erard’s fate, was forced to return to her home| _‘‘ Thayendanegea has read too many books,” sorrowing. she said, contemptuously. ‘ His heart is white was coming. As he strained his ears, another single shot pealed out from the swamp, and j another angry yell followed. . ‘*Bedad, he ain’t kilt yet,” muttered Tim, ex- citedly. ‘ That's his rifle, ’ll go bail.” For some minutes there wes no more shoot- ing, and then a second volley of at least twenty rifles made Tim start. It was followed by one | ) ) more single shot after a short interval. ‘‘Hurroo for ye, lift nant!’ shouted the de- lighted borderer. ‘‘He’ll bate them yet, av they don’t set fire to the moss.” The last consideration sobered Tim. He had left Everard in a gigantic dead tree covered with dried moss, and realized that bis friend was safe from direct attack, unless his oppo- nents undertook to smoke him out, which they well might, the tree being hollow, For some time longer the swamp was quiet after this, and ‘tim couldn’t make out what was going on. Tke light increased in the east, and objects began to be plainly visible in camp. Gradually the Indians came out of their lodges, and a few sauntered off into the swamp as if to see what was going on. Soon there came a droppig, irregular fire, and the scout knew that they nius$ be shooting at Everard in the tree, perhaps preparing to assault his position. What succcss they might have had is uncertain, for ali of a suiden a new sound broke on the senses from an opposite quarter. it was the gatiering shout of a long line of soldiers {rom the other side of the village, fol- lowed by a lon,z, rolling volley, and a shower of bullets came tearing through the lodges. Before the: echo had died away the whole village was full of, wavriors and squaws, tumbling pell-mell out. of the wigwams in dire confusion, with chouts and yells, and then a line of white men made their appearance in full sight from the woods, and came rushing into the village. “ Hurrov for our side,” yelled Tim, casting off the caution he had bitherto displayed. In a aoment more he had siiot down two of. his jruards, and ran whooping and yelling through tue village to meet his comrades, The surprise was complete, the rout utter and irremediable. Away went warriors and women in panic flight ito the swamp, Tim saw the Indian queen, vith the activity of a girl, rush out and leap on ® horse that stood by her lodge; then she was gone into the swamp, and Tim rushed into the \ gwam and found Marian Neilson standing, with clasped hands, pale and resolute, writing for her rescuers. Without more ado the bor- derer caught her round the waist and burried hor out, just as the foremost soldiers reached the lodge. The village was already cleared, saye for a few children too young to run, and one or twosquaws, . The rest of the tribe was in the farce, from seh-nee a dropping tire was opened \ Nh CHAPTER XI. THE INDIAN PARADISE. A FEw days after the attack on Queen Es- ther’s band, an Indian chief, in all the panoply of the war-path, came loping out of the deep forest, near the head of Seneca lake, followed by a long file of warriors, He stood in the very heart of the Indian country—that paradise of the Six Nations, the lovely Genesee valley. There where the golden wheat now waves, in the garden of New York, then the primeval forest covered the earth, interspersed with em- | erald glades where the deer grazed undisturbed, and the tribes of the Nations had found their ha ‘PY hunting-grounds. he scene before him was the perfection of beauty. Art and agriculture had combined Avith nature to make the spot charming. Not a tree had fallen bytheax. Stately oaks, beeches and maples stood in long regular vistas for miles upon miles of wilderness, unbroken by underwood of any kind, the ground carpeted with green moss and fine grasses, the breeze whispering softly among the tree-trunks. In front of the chief lay a natural expanse of ro)l- ing prairie, dotted with cornfields, with regular orchards of fruit trees scattered here and there, but never a fence to break the soft lines of the scenery with dull uniformity. It was indeed the golder province of the Indian in those days, and the Genesee valley was his secure home, buried deep in pathless forests, hidden like a diamond in a mine. In the distance lay the glimmering sheet of romantic Lake Seneca, dotted with canoes, dart- ing here and there, and diagonally in front and to the left of the chief rose a stnooth, rounded hill, broken at one side by a dark, narrow gorge, out of which a stream rushed brawling, to lose itself in theforest. Clustered around the mouth of the gorge was a smiling village, composed for the most part of neat frame houses, denoting a high degree of civilization, while the humbler | wigwams were pitched here and there around the edge of the forest. The chief, a magnificent-looking young war- | rior, turned to his men, “Let the children of the Eagle scatter to their homes,” he said, in'a musical voice. ‘‘The war- path is ended, Let us re*t in our homes.” The warriors raised a stiril! cry of exultation, which was replied to from tne ville, are Gu hoe CEO bere, and Tim had only time ) squaws arid children came running out to wel : ; / | motioned Everard to go torward. and soft as milk, The red-man takes ven ice on his foe. Behold this young viper, and burn him at the stake. His dying groans shall make you forget the voice of the White Flower.” ‘‘ Not good,” said Black Eagle, sententiously. ‘When a man has lost a singing-bird, he does not kill wolves to hear their howling, He hunts for the bird.” ‘‘ How can we find her?’ demanded the queen, angrily. ‘‘Has the Great Spirit cast a cloud oer Black Eagie’s brain, t he talks mad- ness? ** No,” said the chief, calmly. . ‘‘ He has said that those who lose must find. Queen Shes! e- uin knows the ways of the whites. Let Ler nd the White Flower for me.” Queen Esther considered fora moment. She appeared to hesitate. At last she said; **Come to my house and we will talk of. this. I see no way yet.” Black Eagle bowed with the courtesy of » perfect gentleman, and followed the queen us she rode into the village with her capt:\e. Everard looked with wonder around him, a: he passed through a village as neat and pictur- esque as any he had ever seen, beheld elegeut | houses of considerable size, covered with tre il- | ing vines, pt flower-gardens, handsome stables, and all the appearances of luxury «end civilization, where he had expected only squaiid wigwams and heaps of garbage. The houses appeared to be the homes of {i-¢ more considerabie chiefs of the tribe, for tly ze were not many of them, but even those wire unexpected, He passed through the village: entered the mouth of the dark gorge with | s guide, and then on a sudden the scene changed, Without, every thing was soft, and rounded ii: outline; within, the whole character of ii scenery became grand, rugged and imposing. The gorge narrowed rapidly for about tv o hundred yards, where it ended abruptly in two lofty cliffs of gray stratified rock, nearly black from the trickle of water) from above, The | cliffs came close together, and appeared to shut off all further progress, but a white sheet of foam that came down between them announced that there must be a passage for water beyond. They rode up to the foot of the cliff and dis- mounted, Black Eagle releasing Everard from bis bonds. Then-he pointed to a rough Jed: er that led up under an ovrrbengitig rock, iu: d The young officer mounted the e: and icund humseld on

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4 it y fi 4 a narrow gallery of plank that ran around a jutting column of rock, within a foot of the face of the white waterfall. Overhead the rock projected so as to make almost a cavern of this singular glen, and as he came round the angle of the rock he found himself in a chasm of the most tremendous kind, down which the water thundered in deafening tones, and where the cliffs presented the most fantastic forms. An artificial way, consisting of ladders and pro- jecting galleries, zigzagged from side to side of this narrow chasm, and after a short climb, sud- denly turned a corner and emerged into a solemn cathedral-like amphitheater, where the stream spread out in tranquil shallows over a smooth surface of white rock, forming deep, | black pools here and, there where the softer rocks had been eaten away by the water.* At one side of this strange natural amphi- theater, nestling under a cliff, a large and handsome house of the Swiss fashion, that seemed as if it was exactly made for that | place. The Indian queen set a small whistle to her lips and blew a shrill call, when several young girls came running out of the house to meet her, and began to talk rapidly in the Indian tongue. Everard noticed that what they said appeared | to surprise the queen, for she hurried toward the house without noticing him. As she neared the mansion, another figure made its appear- ance on the steps in front, and came down to meet her, a tiny, trim little female figure, which somehow seemed familiar to Everard. It was attired in some sort of half-savage cos- fone, with short skirts, and had flowing golden 2air. Black Eagle motioned Everard forward, and the young officer obeyed. The nearer he ap- proached, the more familiar did the little figure | et when he arrived | seem to him to be, and close to the queen and her interlocutor, he seemed to be still wonderfully surprised, for he siarted back, with the low exclamation: ‘*Miss Lacy! Here!” The lady on her part seemed equally sur- prised, and even less sy oan for the interview. ‘Curning pals as death, she cried: “Everard Barbour, how came you here, in Heaven’s name?” “IT might well ask you the same question,” returned the young officer, and he stood, gazing in blank surprise. CHAPTER XII. THE SPY QUEEN. For some minutes the two, so strangely met, were too much astonished to s her, Miss Lacy recovered herself first, and turned round to Queen Esther, asking, somewhat im- periously: ““ How came this gentleman here?” ** As a prisoner,” replied the Indian queen, as haughtily. She seemed to resent the tone used by the other. Charlotte Lacy stam her tiny foot angrily. ‘* Fool!” she said. ‘‘ Must you be told that he is one of us? He is my friend, and must be re- leased at once.” Everard was astonished when he saw this deli- eate-looking girl arrogating authority, as she seemed to be, over this wild Indian queen; and still more astonished to see the queen yield to her. Queen Esther, for a moment, seemed to be hesitating, and he saw Charlotte Lacy make a rapid and peculiar sign around ber own brow, as if eee an imaginary coronet. The sign seemed to ha swered in perfectly pure English: ‘Your commands are obeyed, madam. He is free.” Black Eagle, who had stood silently by, so far, advanced to Miss Lacy, and bent his knee before her. The girl seemed to have power over every one. She spoke graciously to bim, say- ing: 2’ Black Eagle is welcome. We have heard of bis deeds from our runners. We thank him for bringing us our friend unharmed. ask a boon of the Spy Queen, and he shall have “ Black Eagle’s lodge is empty,” said the chief, ina low voice; ‘and Sheshequin has lost the White Flower that should bloom at the door. Let the queen order that she be recovered, for tae little white chief and the White Flower are | very near each other in heart, and Black Eagle would not slay a boy like him. Yet he has sworn to the Great Spirit that the White lower shall bloom in his own lodge, if he have to kill fift boys.” The chief spoke in his own language, and Jiverard understood nothing, but he saw Char- lotte Lacy start and look uneasy, and then she turned to Queen Esther, whom she asked, im- patiently: ** What means Black Eagle? Tell me ype b Hp She spoke in French this time, the native tongue of Catherine Montour or Queen Esther, * Queen Esther's village was situated near the site of the present town of Watkins; and those who have seen its lovely glen may rec its faint ree ake « in these pages. It still exists, more lovely than ever. ve some mystical power in it, | for the haughty queen bowed her head and an- — Let him | Double-Death. and the queen as promptly answered, in the same tongue: “There was a young girl saved from the slaughter at Wyoming, and I had promised to give her to Black Eagle for a wife. But the Americans attacked us by rise and carried her off, at the same time that we took this boy.” ‘‘And this girl—what is she to the white officer?” demanded Charlotte, impatiently. ‘* What means he by their being near together in heart?” ** I suppose that they are lovers,” said Queen Esther, indifferently. ‘‘ The girl was a pretty country lass enough—one Marian Neilson—” “Who?” demanded the lady, starting. Queen Esther repeated the name. | ‘And you lost her, and found him,” said Charlotte, as if stunned by the news. ‘I would | have given a hundred pounds for that girl, and | you have lost her. I must get her back, and | you must find her for me, if she be living yet.” Queen Esther regarded the strange little | creature with surprise. | ‘Why, what is she to you?” she asked. | ‘*My enemy,” said Charlotte, in a low voice. ‘‘ Either she must die, or wed Black Eagle. | Where is she now?” te * Nay, I can not say,” said the Indian queen. | ‘She lived somewhere near the Sprouts of the | Mohawk, so she told me. Probably she is gone there by this time, or is on her way there. What can I do?” ‘“You must do as you have done before,” said | the girl, quietly. “That Neilson girl must be brought back, or I withdraw my help and the crown subsidies from your tribe. Black Eagle | isa good warrior, and you grow old. If you | would keep your power, you must obey the | orders of the Spy Queen.’ Queen Esther hesitated and appeared troubled. Again the other made the rapid and mysterious | sign before mentioned, and again the proud old woman became humble, and said, as before: “Your commands shall be obeyed, madam,” “Tt is well,” said Charlotte Lacy. ‘‘To-night we will arrange the details.” And then she turned round to Everard, who | had understood not a word so far of the rapid | French, and had stood wondering while the col- loquy was going on. a: Come, Nr. Barbour,” she said, as composed- | ly as if in her own parlor in Philadelphia, ‘‘ let us enter the house and ke of our good Ma- | dame Montour’s hospitality. She has treated you somewhat roughly, perhaps, but she is a good | soul at bottom, this ame Montour, and you | will look different when we have made aSeneca of you. Come, Black yy our wish is ' granted, and now you must be friends with the | young white chief. J say it.” Black Eagle bowed with the courtesy he al- ways exhibited to these two ladies, and answer- , ed, in tolerable English: ‘Black Eagle is glad to see de little chief. He brave little chief, and fight well. Shake hands, brudder. Everard took the hand of the tall chief and could not help whispering to Miss Lacy, as they walked toward the house: ** A noble chief, Miss Lacy.” “He is,” she answered. ‘‘He and Brant are exceptions to the general run of Indians, like | our fierce Montour here.” They were several paces in advance, and Ever- ard asked, cautiously : *“Why do you call ber Montour? and what in Heaven’s name is the secret of your power , here, Miss Lacy?” Charlotte smiled proudly. another place, I represent an organization whic sways chiefs and queens; ay, woman as I am, | i 4 > | who had lived there in baronial splendor for there is a realm that my brain alone controls, _ for my king’s service; and your Congress shall “In this valley,” she said, ‘and in mean | till he was out of sight. Her house, though handsome, was rather des- titute of furniture, the floors being bare, and the skins of animals forming almost the only seats, except in Queen Esther’s own apartments; but the food brought in by the servants was abundant and delicate, and Everard retired to rest that night feeling that his lines had fallen in pleasant places, for he was treated as a friend by all the Indians around. CHAPTER XIII. DOUBLE-DEATH’S DISCOVERY. At the same time that Everard Barbour was enjoying the reaction from hostility to hospi- tality in the glen of Sheshequin. Marian Neil- son, depressed in spirits and almost broken- hearted, thinking her lover dead, was slowly journeying toward Albany, under the escort of a small party of palitery up the line of the old Albany Post Road. ‘The necessities of the times had caused her to be delayed for some days on the road, and it was only the paternal kindness of Washington himself that enabled her to be traveling now. She had been brought to his head-quarters, at that time near Morris- town, New Jersey, and the kind heart of the Commander-in-chief had been touched by her distresses, while the ladies of Morristown had hastened to supply her necessities with every generosity. Availing himself of the Seg Sear ty of a party going toward Albany with funds to pay the troops stationed there, the general had offered to send poor Marian home under their escort as far as they went; and, at his own earnest desire, Double-Death had been de- tailed to act as scout for the party, with per- mission to see Marian to her own home, after which he was to return, having six weeks fur- ther granted him to report in. Tim effected his purpose in safety, without any extraordinary adventure, and in_ about three weeks from the time of leaving Morris- town, Marian was home again, clasped in her mother’s arms. Many and sad were the griev- ings then, over the terrible tidings she had to impart of so many relatives and friends massa~- cred at Wyoming; and heavy was the anxiety of all as to the fate, probable and shocking, of the captive lover. Tim Murphy found it difficult to tear himself away from the sorrowing family; and when he at last turned his horse’s head toward the south it was with a formed resolution, which had | been floating in his mind for some time, to seek for Everard, and ascertain his fate at all haz- ards. The scout was just the man to do this. Quick, ready and adaptable, a perfect Indian guist, he had made up his mind to penetrate the Genesee valley, and find Everard, dead or alive, before he returned. Double-Death was well mounted and armed. He rode the magnificent charger that had come into Everard’s porccerie p so mysteriously in Philadelpbia, and carried a pair of double-bar- reled pistols, besides his own famous rifle. In those days, long before revolvers were thought of, such an equipment rendered its wearer suf- ficiently formidable to cope with several men, if he was a good shot and cool and bold as Tim Murphy. ; Tim turned his horse away from the Neilsons house, and took the road leading south to Albany, He did not propose to reveal his plan to any one. Assoon as the woods hid him from sight he left the road, and took up his journey by ridle-paths that led due west, toward the Mohawk river. The country here was wild and uncultivated for many miles, and the way led into the heart of what had been, not long before, the Indian territory. Jobnson- . town, the next village, was the ancient residence yet own that it is a realm of power. Ask no | more questions, Everard Barbour, but thank | Heaven that you found me here to save your life. Icall the woman chief Madame Montour, because it is her name, outside of the tribes. How like you her home in the Glen?” ‘Tt is most lovely,” said Everard, looki round the rocky amphitheater with admiration. | y y oan | open, and toward evening had emerged from “‘T have never seen a more beautiful spot. Does it extend much further?’ “Fully a mile. You shall see it all to-mor- row with me,” she answered, with a charting | smile. ‘‘It will look none the less beautiful, will it?” ‘* Nay, but the pleasure will be so much the greater,” he answered. And then ony entered the house, which they found full of handsome Indian girls, who came forward to wait on their queen and her guests, with alacrity. Queen Esther now, still more to Everard’s as- | tonishment, developed a new character. She became a hospitable hostess, poy nt fluent- _ly in French and English, and displaying a | softness and grace of manner that rivaled Miss | Lacy herself. Nothing perhaps was stranger _ about this remarkable woman her adapta- | bility. She had been in Philadelphia some | years before, with the. other chiefs of the Six ations, and had been remarked on for her ex- quisite softness of manner, that told of the | breeding of high society. Catherine Montour had not forgotten the palace in the wigwar. of Sir William Jobnson,the British Indian agent, many years; and his son, Sir John Jobnson, an inveterate Tory, was supposed to be hovering about there, even now. The only American settlements, feeble and scattered as those were, indeed, were Fort Plain aud Cherry Valley. But Tim Murphy was not the man to be daunted by any country, however full of dan- | ger, The scout rode steadily on, the rest of the day, ata rapid pace, wherever the path was the underwood that told of the prt, raed settlements, and entered the primeval forest, where the trees stood in rows of columns fey miles, and the way between them was all open, ' He had left Johnson Hall to his rear, and made his evening camp by the borders of the Mohawk river. Tim had taken the precaution, before start- ing, of putting a sack of grain on his horse's back, besides his own provisions, and he found the benefit of his foresight now. He did not dare to make a fire, for certain signs he had seen, convinced him that Indian war-parties were around. He unsaddled his horse, and fed the animal plentifully, and then started on foot for a tour of observation, to find if there were any near, whose vicinity might be dangerous, As the sun went down, and the forest became dark, the chorus of frogs and katydids around assured him that all was right for the present, and after a brief tour he returned, and ate his supper in peace. A second time did the wary ' scout set forth on his reconnoitering trip befor

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bo thoucht of sleep, though he had ridden sixty tiles that day; and this time be was rewarded for his vigilance. As he ascended a little riso of round covered with trees, he caught sight, a ong way off, of a bright light among the trec- trunks, which he knew at once to be a camp- re. “Now, who the divil’s that?” soliloquized Mr. Murphy, reflectively. that played heforc Moses! No whito men would be campin’ ou’ here, av they wasn’t born fools. Timothy, nic boy, let’s go on a little voyage of discovery towards thim gintlemen. I know ye’re tired, Mr. Murphy, but av ye was to wake up to-morrow mornin’ widout a scalp, may be | e’d never bo tired arain, and ye’d never see Mr. verard. So, Tim, ye blackguard, git up and travel.” As ho spoke, ho was cautiously descending the hill toward the distant fire, his rifle ready | for immedizto use, stepping cautiously. It was a timo of ecg peculiarly favorable for a silent avance, for the lat year’s leaves were fully rotted away, and the woss was smooth and soft under foot. Ti. advanced in true border- er stylo, his keen black eyes roving here and there, sheltering himself behind every tree as he went, and carefully scanning the ground ahead of him, ere venturing to crossif. In this way it took him near an where near the fire, and could distinguish the fizures around it. When he did, he halted be- hind a tree, and took a long and careful obser- vation, before going any nearer. There were several dark figures passing and repassing be- fore a large camp-fire, aid what surprised the scout was, that they were not Indians, but whites. from their dress. Tim Murphy now went down on hands and knees, and crawledslowly nearer to the fire, with the patience and caution of an Indian hunter, re- solved to find out for himself the mystery of the fire. If white men were there, they were pro- bably Tories, for Americans would be in their homes. As Tim came nearer, he the men wore ordinary civilian dress, and had the appearance of servants. Near the fire, also. was a female figure, with the white cap and apron of a Fre ch waiting-maid, Tim rubbed his eyes at first, thinking he must be dreaming, but the fact was too visible to be paineky ed. There was a regular smart French maid sitting by a camp-fire in the wild woods, tending a small coffee-pot. Tim pursued his researches still closer, greatly interested, tili he was near enough to hear conversation. Then it was that, casting his eyes forward through the woods be- yond the fire, another object met his view, that caused him more astonishment than ever. It was nothing else than a large old-fashioned traveling carriage, drawn up in the shade of the woods, with several horses feeding near it. ‘An ould woman travelin’ for her health, bedad!” muttered the scout to himself. ‘And I’ve tuk all this trouble, thinkin’ they were Injuns. By the howly poker, she must be a quare cr’ature, whoever travels out here in this feshion! Mr. Murpby, there something divilish quare about this, 11 go a little nearer.” And Double-Death looked sharply round him, and then crawled over, snake-fashion, to the bole of an immense tree, with roots standing up out ot the ground ‘so as to make an excelent cover. The tree itself was not more than sixty feet from the fire, and Tim saw that it was as near as he dared go. He could catch the sound of voices, and a considerable clatter it was too, from the serv nts passing and repassing, but he could not understand much of it, as the lan- guage was a barbarous Canadian French. Tim could make out a few words here and there, but no sense. They appeared to be busy preparing supper for some one in the carriage, for a camp-table was spread out beyond the fire, and dishes were being set out. Presently Tim heard a female voice from the carri coise! Francoise! N’es tu pas prete encore ?” The French maid jumped up with a quick: “ Oui, Madume la cumtesse. Oui, toute de suite, On a servi.”* Tim, though he did not understand, was yet struck with the difference of accent and purit of speech of the two females, from the woug habitans around them. ‘*Bedad, thim’s French Indies,” he said to re and watched anxiously to see what fol- iowed,. The smart French maid hurried to the car- riage now, and assisted therefrom an elder] lady, whose face Tim could not plainly see, till the was seated at the table. Then the borderer had a full opportunity of inspecting face and ey and the resulé increased his astonish- ment, He beheld a distinguished and aristocratic- lookiug old lady, with a dark aquiline face and keen black eyes, her white hair built up in a tower, in the Pompadour style then prevalent, and surrounded by a black satin hood. The old lady was very richly dressed, jewels glittering en neck and hands, while the buckles of her **“Fanny! Fanny! Are not , “¥en, modamo’ Meng hae Raha madame tiv @ountess, y Suppor’s ready " minnie, en le ““Injuns, by tho piper | hour before he came any- | ' then reeived that | e itself, crying: “* Fran- | 9 ee a, i pate LOUD. e-Deat robably carry him off, while Tim was just as etermined to get his steed back. ‘“‘And av there’s no more than sivin av them,” muttered Tim, ‘I’ll go bail to bag the whole of them.” He crawled off between the trees, carefully keeping his body out of the speckled moonlight that lay on the greensward, and every now and then pausing to look back till the trailers were fairly between him and the fire. Then he rose to his feet and went swiftly off, flitting from tree to tree, till he reached the same trail once more, and stood in the footsteps of his pursuers, now broad and easily traced. He had deter- mined to enter his own camp in that manner, as the Indians would be likely to guard all quar- ters better than that by which they expected Oe aren dly al ll he be e stole rapi ong, till he began to recog- nize the swell of ground from which be had seen the fire, and he resolved, very — that it was not advisable to cross this swell. The necessity of caution had become impera- thing in her face seemed to be familiar to Tim, but he could not recall it clearly, and he watch- in- ed the oll lady with more than ordinar terest he proceeded to sup, in a style of | eleva’ © aud luxury such as Tim had never wit- nessed ia the wilderness, \ It was very tantalizing to Double-Death to be so near, to hear everything and not understand |a word of the conversation, for the servants | were all still now, and nothing was audible but | the clear precise acceuts of the old lady as she | ' spoke to Francoise, and the latter as she replied | to her mistress. Tim was beginning to think of returning to | his horse, and letting the queer party go, when he heard the rapid foot of a man coming into camp on the other side, at the peculiar lope of an Indian, and ina moment more a tall, mag- | nificently framed warrior, in the full regalia of an Indian chief, strode rapidly into the little | camp, and grounded the butt of his long rifle in | front of the table. His back was turned to Tim | as he stood there, but the latter recognized bis | tive. equipments at once, as belonging tothe Senecas, | He crept around the base of the swell instead, The old countess looked up, and without any | glancing ahead and upward as he went, till he apparent surprise, observed, quietly: ‘came close to the spot where he had left bis ‘C'est bien toi, mon ami. Quest ce quiil y horse. a de nouveau, ce soir ?” * | There stood the animal, tied to a tree, as he The chief replied in broken French, which | had left him, with the saddle and trappings ly- Murphy did not understand, and seemed to be | ing by it exactly as he had left them, and not a giving an account of where he had been and | trace of a human being near. what he had seen. Toward the end he glided | Tim Murphy put his finger on the side of his into the Seneca language, as if the difficulty of | nose and muttered: a foreign tongue had become too irksome; and ‘** Maybe ye think I’m a fule, Mr. Injun, and } as | high-heeled shoes were set with diamonds. Some- im heard something that made him | maybe ye’ll find I ain’t such a fule as I luk, be- start and look round apprehensively. dad.’ “We found the track of a horse,” the chief The astute scout was well aware that the was saying, ‘‘and followed it to the river, seeming quietude of the scene was only a snare where we Lo pane the beast tied - a tree, with a / - draw — on, and ee eee ap) — to es master. warriors are on the master’s trail | horse wo be a signal for a shot from the now, but the night is so dark that they may not | thicket. The qunatich! setoniied, how many In- find him before morning. Otherwise the coun- | dians were on the watch for him, and whether try is still, and there is no danger!” | he had been seen as yet. He was about sixty ‘ The eyes of my brother are clear, and he is | yards from the horse, and commenced a cau- a great warrior,” replied the lady in the same tious circuit around the neighborhood, ex- tongue, which she seemed to speak like a native. —— every moment to see a dark form start “It ~ a a. or ae ee ge and if we | oo a pare en see fight + in. Tim eatch him you know what to do.’ was inning to u , for the t time “IT know,” said the Indian proudly. ‘“ Kee : in his wooderatt, perhaps. Where the Indians the tongue mal tedeleed, "ke. Goutiihawlc-eot- | Nappened torocene once oree tothe Boot ot te me more e foot of the io the SPY, and the babbler. It is well. a aot A ge oh pone: ee —_ up rye the e queen sleep in peace. er sons are around | sky line. figures of four more Indians her camp to keep off the hes were to be seen ina group at the top, looking He turned away and left the camp, in the di- | toward the distant fire. rection in which he had come. As for Tim, he Ina moment Tim’s resolution was taken. had heard enough to realize that his horse was With a pistol in one hand and his rifle in the captured, and men on his own trail. As the other, he crept cautiously up to the mound, to Indian chief stood with his back to him, the | listen to what the savages were saying, for they borderer had more than once covered him with | appeared to be eres are: He succeeded by his rifle, almost resolved to shoot a es- | — artifice, in gettin thin less than thirty cape in the confusion. And yet something re- feet unheard, and then listened. strained Tim’s hand, what he could not have ‘The chief is long,” said one. “He told you, which was but the instinctive reluc- must be close on the heels of this hunter.” tance to commit a cold-blooded murder. Al- ‘** We should have gone, too,” said another. though he had not seen the face of the Indian, | ‘The man will never be back for his horse. yet there had been something so noble and | They will have his scalp before he gets here. stately in his appearance that Tim had involun- | Let us take the horse and go forward. tarily conceived quite an admiration for him. This was all Tim wan He had found out At the same time he realized that be had no | that they were the — ones he had to fear. time to lose in getting away from the danger- | Deliberately he rose to his feet, stepped boldly ous vicinity of the camp, the more so as ene- | out and leveled hisrifle. CRACK! crack / at that | mies were doubtless concentrating upon him al- | distance was sufficient, and two Indians ree | ready, and the chief was in all probability even | before a start was made by the other two. Then now making a cireuit of the camp, out of the ony both rushed forward in the direction of the | dangerous glare of the firelight. flash, and were met by the cool and indomitable | _ Asnoiselessly ashe hadcome, Timslippedaway borderer, muzzle tomuzzle. Before either could | from the tree, and crawled off in the direction | strike with their tomahawks, crack! crack! of his advance, till he thought himself safe, went the pistol right and left, and again Double- | when he rose and looked back. camp was Death was triumphant by the power of coolness all still and the servants were gathered near the and pluck. All four of the Indians were dead | table, while he could distinguish the form of the or dying. The victor despoiled them of their old lady leaning on a crutch-handled stick and scalps and ammunition, and then rode away un- moving slowly toward the carriage, assisted by harmed, leaving the ilers to gnash their Francoise, the maid. teeth at being so outwitted. It was evident that he had not been observed, a ' and the borderer struck off through the woods CHAPTER XIV. _ toward the river, flitting silently from tree to THE FRENCH COUNTESS. tree, and leaving his old track to the right. In FARMER NEILSON was sitting at the door of this he was but following an old Indian trick, | his house, proud] combamplatio the remains doubling on his own trail so as to see who was | of the breastworks to the right, and the block- following it. He also put the light of the fire | bouse, which was dignified by the name of beyond any of his pursuers, so that if theycame | ‘ Fort Neilson;” and the worthy farmer was forward they might be revealed to him. expatiating to his wife and daughter as follows: Pretty soon, as ne stole from tree to tree, he “I tell ye, Hannah Jane, ’tain’t no use a- realized the benetit of his caution, when he | talkin’; these here fields are going to be famous | caught sight of a little up of figures on the | some of these days, Things ain’t as they used very place where he had been about an hour be- | to was, wife, and when this here war’s over, and fore, evidently following his track. It showed | you and I are in our graves, and Marian’s an to what perfection their woodcratt must have | old with a bull bushel o’ children arrived, to be able to follow the trail of a | moccasin under the faint moonlight that came | tbrough the trees from above. Tim chuckled quietly to himself, and placed his thumb to his nose, as he looked at the shadowy figures of the distant trailers. He could count seven men altogether, and had it | not been for his horse, the daring borderer | | would have attacked them then and there, with | the surprise in his favor, But Tim was too_ anxious to recover his animal to firea shot. He | knew that those in charge of the horse would | Lo at once put on the alert by the noise, and | around the door, then they’ll be a-comin’ to this ’ere place from all parts of the yearth, and want to see old John Ne ’s house, whar the battle was fou’t that sot eae free.” ““How you do goon, John!” said Mrs, Neil- son, in a low voice. ‘Don’t you know that Marian can’t bear to hear of the battle now, that puts her in mind of poor Everard? You sheuld be careful, John.” John Neilson was repentant at once, when he saw Marian turn away and enter the cottege, with ber handkerchief at hereyes. He bluuder- @ eit): . © Sry. old woman, I didn’t mean to do that, 4. Waters tonighty”? | I's yo and tell her 1 dida’t.” “Tha, yoo, any fre. *

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at “ Leave her alone, John,” said the wife, sharp- ly. “' Shoe wants to be left alone these days, that’s all.” Mrs. Neilson came of a station somewhat superior to her husband, and made him feel the wéight of her character in their married life, so that honest John was forced to be silent and submit. Presently as he satin the sun, meditatively , puffing |:is old Powhatan pipe, the rumble of \ heels was heard on the road from Quaker Spring. The sound was one but rarely heard in nee days, when the couutry was so unset- tled, ‘*Who in thunder kin that be?” exclaimed honest John, as a large, heavy coach, the body painted yellow, with a black hood, hove insight. ‘The vehicle was drawn by four horses, and was cceompanied by two men on horseback, in im- mense boots, and hats to match, with blue livery coats turned up with red. Such an equipage nubnot been seen around Bemis’s Hights for riany along year, not since the prime days of Gir William Johnson, though its pattern was st/ll common enough in Gases Jolin Neilson and his wife both watched. this vehicle approach them with great surprise, fully expecting it, however, to go on to Albany. In- stead of this, it halted at their own gate, and the face of anold lady appeared: at the window, a Cignified, aristocr tie ate with white hair rolled back from a high, narrow forehead. “Vill you please teil me,” said the old lady, in a soft; melodious tone of voice, with an. ex- ceedingly winning smile, ‘‘if Monsieur» Jean Neilson live anyvere about here?” John Neilson started forward in a moment. “That's me, marm, -What kin I do for you, marr?’ ‘Very much, monsieur,” said the old lady, sinilng sweetly. ‘ ’m told by my dear friend, the Marquis dw la Fayette, dat you are de per- son of all odevs.to make inanity for de bataille dat take place”’ere jast year. Lama Comtesse de Montouraine, mousieur, and I shall be-very grateful for your help, ven L write de account of my traveis on return to France,” Honest. Joun Neilson turned triumphantly to his wife, saying: “ Hannah Janu, whatdid I tell yer? Didn’tI say as the folks would, be comin’ to. John: Neil- son to hear about the battle? Old woman, go ine the house, What do, you know about war Then he turned round to the: countess, full of ; miles, notthat John adored rank—Americans ve never i Seger do that—but it’s not ever cay a real live countess comes to a farmer's door to ask a favor, and a favor that made John feo] six inches taller in the granting of it. ‘¢?’m the nan that ‘kin tell yer all about it, marm,” he said, proudly. ‘‘General Poor had his. quarters:in my kitehen, and I kin show ye Gates and Burgoyne’s place, not an hour’s walk from here, marm:..But ye’ll need daylight to see itin, marm.) Wehain’t got much to offer in our little place, marm, but, sich as it is, if yer ladyship will be pleased to walk in, I guess we kin put ye up for the night, and make ye com- fortable, and show ye over the field in the morn- ing.?? “T tank you,” said the old countess, smiling again. ‘I will not trouble you much, mon- sieur, for I have sleptin my earriage since ve be traveling; but, if you will permit me to partake of your supper with your familee, I s’ali consider it a great favor.” ; _ “Sartinly, marm, sartinly,” said John, hearti- iy. “Walk right in, marm, and make yourself to hum. Here, Marian, child, come and help the lady.” As he spoke, Marian, somewhat curious, no doubt, came siyiy out of the house, to help the stranger frombher carriage, Theold lad escended slowly, resting her hands, very small and beautiful stil, on the gold crutch head of an ebony cane. The fingers were al! covered with jewels, and, as-she leaned on Marian to euter the house she bore. the appearance of a frail, delicate old lady of the proud noblesse of France, aristocratic to ber finger-tips. Marian was so shy and embarrassed at the presence of this imposing lady, that she bardly dared to look at her face for some time, and then she was called away by father and mother to attend to preparing supper, and that no light meal, but one for about a dozenpersons, For it turned out that the countess had, besides her- self and the two ee two more postillions, two footmen, and asmart French maid, Fran- coise by name, who insisted on helping ‘‘ Made- | iselle Marian”, with her preparations, and bbev ng broken English to her, in praise of Yo s ‘ var comtesse, dat sweet comtesse,” all the Lille. Whenever Marian came near the countess, the latter professed to be enraptured with her, and confused her dreadfully with profuse com- pliments, all of which kept Marian too busy to examine the countess critically till after dark- ness bad set in, and candles were lit. It was not till the dishes were washed and oe away, and a hush had come on the little household, that the girl took an opportunity for a good, lone look at their new friend. Something in tue face seemed familiar to her, aud yeti she _while more they a Riese: Double-Death. could not tell what it was. Before she could settle it in her own mind, the sharp black eyes of we old lady flashed a merry, wicked glance at her. “Ah, my little cat!” said the countess, smil- ing; ‘“‘so you would look at the old lady for a while, to see if you like her? Well, my child, they used to tell me I was pretty once, and I believed it, but no one calls me a pretty old lady any more now. Dat is all gone, just like your bloom vill fade some day, child, and you will be old and wrinkled like me. Monsieur Neilson, indeed you have von very pretty little daughter dere—charmante, monsieur, char- mante !” ‘‘Marian is well enough, madam,” said the mother, stiffly, “‘ but she is not used to being flattered so much.” ‘Ah, ciel!” cried the French vay Y “Ts it possible? Why, madame, at her age I was call- ed an angel _ times a day by fifty different cayaliers, and 1 told them 1 believed them all. You must positively let me have that little Marian in the carriage with me to morrow, when we drive over the field of battle, Monsieur Neilson. Indeed, I am in love wid her.” ‘*Sartinly, marm,” said honest John, who was in high feather that night; and so it was arranged that the next morning Marian should go in the carriage with the countess, while her father rode alongside to explain the objects of interest. F And, that settled, they went to bed, Marian’s last thoughts being: ‘* Where have I seen the countess before?” And she could not answer her own question, CHAPTER XV. TIM’S JOURNEY, Wuen Tim Murphy mounted his horse that night and rode away, he was fully aware that -he had a dangerous foe on_ his track, in the per- son of the Seneca chief and his seven followers, He judged that they were not the men to leave their comrades unavenged, and that it would be prudent to put as much space between them as possible, e also foresaw that it was neces- sary to change his own appearance somewhat, and to that end he carried off with him the gar- ments of the Indians, selecting the best articles from each, Then he turned his horse into the river, and struck boldly out for the opposite shore, although in several places the animal had toswim. Arrived at the other side, Tim rode off through the woods till he came to a hollow, when he tied his horse, and returned to the bank on foot, to watch the opposite shore. “ Bedad, av they don’t come over,” quoth Tim to himself, ‘‘I may as well camp here for the night, and get a little wink of sleep, and av they try to\come, bedad, ’ll heel ’em over as they swim, the painted divils,” He waited patiently for some minutes, and soon heard the death-howl set up on the other side of the river, announcing that the chief or his trailers had found the seal bodies of their comrades, As he had anticipated, in a little ared in the moonlight on the opposite bank, following the broad trail of the horse’s track down to the water’s edge. [t was an easy shot for Tim, and he was sorely tempted to try it, as they stood huddled to- gether, apparently discussing whether to cross the river or not. Tim counted the seven trail- ers, but the tall form of the chief was not there, and he concluded that they were afraid to ven- ture across without orders. After waiting a little longer, he heard a rustle in the bushes, and tbe tall chief made his appearance, while a hush fell on the Indians. The ch'ef was heard ques- tioning them, and the whole Land stood hesitat- ing for a while, till the eLief suc\.only dashed into the water, and came swimminy «cross the river, followed by the rest. “Now, ye red divils, av I don’t make ye howl, may I never fire another shot,” rnuttered Double- Death, when they were fairly in the water. He took out his pistols and laid them deliber- ately on the bank before him, rested his rifle on the foot of a tree, and waited. Tim was one of those cool hands who never throw away a chance. A younger soldier would have fired at the heads bobbing in the current, and missed them in the moonlight, probably frightening them back and leaving them to follow him later. This was not Tim’s programme, He had just six shots and he meant to reserve them all for close quarters and demoralizing his enemies. The river was narrow and swift, and he knew that the arms of the Indians would certainly be wet and useless when they reached the bank, while they were as clearly ignorant of his pres- ence, or they would have never dared to cross. Very soon the line of heads came nearer and nearer, being swept down the current till it was evident that they would land almost at his feet. The scout waited till four dripping figures rose ous of the water, and stood waist deep, panting with exertion. Then he fired right and left, with the aim that never missed, and two of the Indians instantly dropped into the river, and were swept away by the current, The third who was the tall chief, as swiftiy followed and dived, thereby escaping a bullet from Tim’s wth but the fourth cot it somewhere in the ody, and fell struggling an@d howling into the water. Tim picked up his other pistol, and fired ' at the some ite heads in the water, but all three ducked at the flash, and he had the morti- fication of seeing the Indians climb up the fur- ther bank unharmed, before he could reload his three weapons. When he had done so, he start- ed down the bank to intercept the chief, if the latter should make any attempt to land on his: side. He saw his head in the middle of the? river, and heard the roaring of some rapids a: little distance below. The chief seemed to think: discretion the better part of valor, for he made the best of his way to the other side, while Double-Death returned to his horse and took him into the thickest part of the woods. There, hidden in a dense thicket of underwood that an- nounced the former presence of clearings, the bold scout passed the night, and slept scundly till the pale light of dawn woke bim in the morning, feeling convinced that he had efiectu- ally frightened his foes. Then he awoke much refreshed, saddled and fed his horse, ate some food, and started on a tour of anspection down the river bank. As he expected, there were no tracks, The sudden occurrence of six shots in succession the evening before, when the Indians had only tracked one man, had aroused their superstition, and they began to whisper that it must be the dreaded warrior, Double-Death, who was reputed to fire all day long without loading. As soon as Tim was satisfied that he was alone on the south bank of the Mohawk, he returned to his horse, and rode boldly away through the country, following the old Indian paths, and passing almost within sight of the block-house at Fort Plain, which he did not. visit, however. He was too anxious to keep his coming and go- ing a secret, and too anxious also to get on with his journey, There were many signs of Indian parties around, camp-fires and such like, but they were all many days old, and Tim had re- solved to push forward in spite of them. By evening be had made sixty miles more, and was in the very heart of the trackless wilderness, abandoned even by the Indians themselves, who had clustered around the lakes of the Genesee valley. That night the scout ventured to make a fire, very small, and of dry wood and punk, that glowed fiercely without flaming. He built it in the midst of a dry swamp, in a hollow tiee, and stabled his horse under a spreading hemlock, in warmth and peace. Both man and horse re- uired rest now, the latter especially, for their journey had been rapid, and where they were, was safety. . It was not until late the next day that Tim started on his westward journey, and wheu he. did, he had completely metamorphosed his ap- pearance. Instead of the soberly-dressed ranger of Morgan’s Corps, he had been transformed in- to an Indian on the war-path, plumed and paint-: ed, with a gay scarlet blanket hanging from his: shoulders. In this guise, be rode boldly into the, Indian country next day, careless of who saw him at a distance, and resolved to. pass himself off as the returning member of a war-party, who had slain Double Death and taken his: weapons, That afternoon he rode south-west,, till evening brought him in sight of the extreme end of Lake Cayuga, the present site of the town of Ithaca, then occupied by an Indian village. Tim halted on a bill that overlooked the rich al- luvial flats on which the village was built. He saw cornfields, several square miles in extent, fruitful orchards and neat frame houses, with plenty of stock in the fields near the houses, and 6 thought it most ent not to venture into: the village that night. He knew the tribe to be Cayugas, and he knew, moreover, that if Ever- ard was alive anywhere, it would prohably be in the Seneca country, where Queen Esther's band belonged. Mr. Murphy retired into the forest with great prudence, found a dry swamp, his common place of estigm, and dealt out to his, horse the last feed of oats in the sack, Soon after dark, however, he stole out on foot, went down to the cornfields and plucked about thirty ears, with which he stole back undiscovered to. feast his horse. ' “ After all,” soliloquized Tim that night as he: meio quiet pipe, keeping the spark in the bow] ca ear. hidden uncer his bat, for fear of: its catching the eye of a passing Indian, ‘* after all, ’tisn’t such a hard job to bate an Injun im cunnin’. Now here’s Tim Murphy, all alone, in the middle of their country, poe’ sorra one o' them knows where he is, this blissed minute, or he wouldn't kape a whole scalp long, I’m think- And with a quiet philosuphy, born of his cool- ness and self-reliance, Tim composed himself to sleep, in the swamp, within less than a mile ofa village of Indians, all his deadly enemies, But no harm came to him. | the contrary, the rest and food had so invigorated his h that the animal seemed as fre-h as when it le the Neilsons, having been unable to finish the bountiful supply of corn given it by Tim. The borderer ate last mouthful of food, mounted his horse, and then the plain Indian that led to Lake Seneca and the settlement of Sheshequin. He rode ayes all day, expecting to be met. . a by plenty of ns, but to his surprise none of ed his journey, down.

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I nln them seemed to be about. Tim had adopted in: distinctive marks of the Mohawk tribe, now tat he was going among the Senecas, as the former were allies, at some distance from the ‘atter, and he ran less risk of detection by mem- bers of the same tribe. He knew, moreover, shat Brant, with the Mohawks, was on the war- path somewhere to the north of the Mohawk river. The absence of all the Senecas seemed to indicate that they too were away on some ex- pedition, and everything looked favorable to Lim’s pian, Hoe boldly followed the broad trail, that led hi.n through forest scenes of surpassing beauty, now among stately rows of gigantic oaks, then among groves of the sweet smelling sugar-ma- ples, or under the deep, cool. shade of hickory and walnut tree, till at last he emerged at the elge of a gently rounded slope, and beheid before him the Jaughing valley of Sheshe- quia, golden with ripe corn, and covered with orchards of apple, pear, and peach, in rich pro- fusion, Tarough the midst of this smiling, undulating p aia, girdled with primeval forests, ran a wind- ing path, trodden for centuries; and into this path rode Double-Death, with perfeet coolness. As he went on he kept his eye fixed on the vil- lage ahead, expecting to see a dozen warriors start out on horseback or afoot to. inspect the stranger. But none were visible. The sharp eyes of the children spied him first, and they ran into the wigwams and houses to call their mothers, but as Tim tranquilly advanced, there seemed to be no warriors left. He rode up into the very midst of the village before he saw a male creature of any kind, and then he was greeted by an aged, white-haired chief, who was sitting on the steps of one of the houses, smoking. The squaws Tim had not deigaed to notice, true to bis assumed, charac- r. The old Indian saluted Tim gravely. “My son is far out of the track,” he said. ‘¢The warriors of Sheshequin are gone with the brothers of my son’s tribe to hunt the pale-faces, with Brant and the White Chief of Caughna- wauga.* My son should be with them, and not showing clean weapons before women. Tim-showed at his belt the scalps of five In- disns, and answered: ‘ Blaelkk Wolf has been on the war-path, and Io't his brothers behind. He has slain the (hieving Oneida that clings to the rebel, and has scalped the white chief they call Double-Death. Behold his weapons.” And he held up the celebrated rifle that had gained bim the name of Double-Death. The old caief looked surprised. ‘* No man has ever wounded Double-Death be- ES ee said; ‘‘and are you the man to take his sca ‘“‘ Here it i+,” said Tim, coolly. As he spoke he held up one of the scalps of which he had cut the hair short, so as to resem- blo that of a white man, ‘Tet the Senecas an1l Mohawks go,” he con- tinued. “ Black Wolf fights alone, and rides in the forest without help. When did the warriors depart, and which road took they?” 8 was anxious to find out the destination of the expedition, but did not dare to show his anxiety, for fear of exciting his hearer’s sus- picions. “Phoy went four days ago,.and took the northera track from Niagara to Caughnawau- xa,” st 1 the old Indian, ‘Av! then I should be too late to follow them,” sid Tim. He had found out the reason ot his wm »opyposad march. The Indias were on the war-path ou the north bank of the Mohawk. “And the white prisoner of Queen Sheshe- in,” ha pursued, carelessly; ‘‘ waere is het” ‘Ife is bere,” replied the Indian, “ with the Spy Queen.” CHAPTER XVL. THE GLEN. Tim ws nonplused. The Spy Queen! If Aeon Es: ner was hare, he knew her well enough to be certain he would be recognized, in spite of his disguise. , ** And did not Queen Sheshequin go forth with her warriors to the north,” he asked, ‘‘as well ns to the south? Has she growa too old to mnarch ?” ‘* Not so,” said the Indian, gravely. ‘‘ Queen Sheshequin went before her warriors, with lack Eagle and twelve braves. She went by the south road to Cherry Valley, and thence to the field of the great battle last year. She went inthe great wagon given her by the White Chiefo oy RE ge My bro may have mvt her on the road.’ Tith was too guarded to exhibit surprise, but bs heart gave a great leap at the news. “Ay, ay, Isaw her,” he said, indifferently. “But she was well disguised, for 1 knew her not. And th: Spy Buber wraee 1 she?” “Up Sheshequin Glen, with the young white prisoner,” said the Indian, with some little * Sir John Johnson, son of Sir William, the old In- dian agent. The Thdjan name of Johnstown was f*ninhvawames, as! the Jobngons were aconynted i ES HINOM, fe ow, 9 TE, iad £2 eR Eres 4 Double-D ask scorn. ‘“ The Great Fatber is foolish to trust his business to squaws, for she does nothing all day but walk with the young stranger. But | then we are civil to her, because without her | the Great Father will send us no more presents, | and she has promised us many rifles and mucd | Tim could hardly restrain his eagerness to be off, but he was hearing too much news not to endeavor to hear more. -The old Seneca was perfectly unsuspicious, and seemed to have lost the usual Indian caution in thegarrulity ofyage. The Spy Queen was evidently an agent of the British Government among the Indians, and Tim formed the bold design of carrying her off, the instant he beard of it. It was only neces- sary to ascertain whether Everard Barbour and tho white prisoner were the same person. ‘¢ The white prisoner is the one taken by Black Eagle near Pocono, is he not?” he asked, “Ay,” said the Indian, readily. “A young boy from the camp of the rebel soldiers, not worth keeping. But the Spy Queen seems to be fond of him, and dresses him up asa chief of the Senecas.” Tim had found out all he wanted to know. “It is well!” he said, abruptly. »‘‘ The way of Black Wolf is long and the night is coming. He > =< the lodges of his people to the north. arewell.” ‘* Will not my brother rest at Sheshequin for the night?’ asked tbe old Indian, courteously. ** White Raven hasa house, and it is opeu to bis Mohawk brothers.” ; ‘‘ Black Wolf rides alone,” said Double Death, gravely. ‘‘ When his foot is on the war-path he | enters no house. He will but gather a few ears of corn for the horse he took from the pale-face chief, and then he will ride. homeward to the lodges of his people.” bite Raven made no opposition when he heard this, for the Indian will sometimes take whimsical vows, like the Inights errant of old, | and their compeers respect them. © Double Death galloped out of the village at full s and plunged into the woods toward the north, leaving the quiet hamlet to, relapse into the same quiet in which he bad found it. He kept on his way to the north, the home of the Mo- hawk: tribes, till he was at a safe distance and the sun was growing low in the west. Then he sought his old. place of concealment, a dry swamp, and fastened his horse securely in the midst of a natural stable, formed by two or three huge, spreading spruce trees that com- pte sheltered the animal. He had plucked a uge bundle of corn on the way, as he had an- nounced to White Raven, and he threw dowa the green ears’ before the horse, saying: ‘* Ate as much ag ve like, ye baste, and don't let a word out of yer head, av yer don’ want yer hide tanned afore ye’re did. D’ye mind hat now? Ye’ll have a good tram night, posites fit: gee av we have any | at all, so ate yer fill.” Then Double-Death looked to his weapon and struck off through the woods to the foot of the bold, rounded swells that surrounded the valley of Sheshequin. It was his object to enter the glen from above, for he had a good idea of the way there, having often heard it described by the Indians. The warriors being away from the village rendered his expedition all the more feasible, as the squaws seldom wandered far from the lodges. In less than half an hour he was at the foot of the ridge, which was covered, like all the rest of the land, with a heavy pall of forest. The climb was a fatiguing one, but the view from the top was ample repayment, if Tim had beea romantically incline He was not, how- ever, and all the glories of a fall sunset over | miles of dark forest, open plain and poetical | lake were wasted upon him. The scout turned from it, and ran off through the woods that | crowned the ridge, till the trickling of waters anes warned him that he was approaching the | glen. / In a few minutes more he came out of the | woods and stood on the brink of a tiny, round pool, as black as jet, into which on one side ran a little stream, which left it on the other, and disappeared inacleftin the earth. Tim had | come upon the true beginning of the lovely glen | of Sheshequin, and stood at the source of allits | wonders. A crimson ray of the setting sun shone through | an arch of the wood across the pool, and lighted | up the dark cleft into which the stream fell | with a stifled roar, casting up a shower of white | spray against the bare cliffs of black rock, mold- ed into fantastic buttresses and towers, by the artificer, nature, her tool's being water and time. From where the borderer stood he could see the stream, winding and leaping downward, by | successive stages, into the bowels of the earth, | the cliffs growing bolder at every leap. Tim hesitated no more, but swung himself down into the first hollow, a descent of not more than four feet, and commenced the descent of the glen, lt was not difficult, The stratification of the limestone and shale, of which the sides of the len were composed, was perfectly horizontal, and the steps taken by the weter gradual-and | easy. At first not over ton feet wide, tha glen gyelled out into a succession of slviie Champers, , = contracting here and there into narrow passages, as some harder rock stood up ina sturdy column, denying a free passage to the stream, which un- dermined it and formed a shallow cavern, from the edge of which depended a glittering curtain of drops in a rainbow vail. The borderer kept on down the stream, think- ing but little of the singular beauties of the scene, for he was expecting every moment to come upon Everard. He passed in this manner through a succession of fantastic and beautiful glens, each more beautiful than the other, till a long, narrow, winding passage at last brought him out into the large rocky ampbitheater, in which stood the house of queen Esther. When Tim entered this, the sun had set, and night fallen on the stream and all the surround- ings. In that place, shut in’ by lofty walls of rock, it was already too dark to distinguish faces or figures, and Tim could see that lights were burning in the house, and that the inclo- sure round wasempty. Withoutmore delay the scout stepped softly forward, and found himself under the windows of the house, looking into the basement. The light came from one of the windows opening on a gallery above, that ran round the:house Swiss fashion. Tim first made sure that no one was down-stairs. Doors and windows were alike wide open in the careless freedom of security, and the soft, moccasived tread of the scout made nosound on the bare boards of the floor.. Tim made a complete ex- ploration of the four empty rooms that com- posed the basement, before he proceeded wu | stairs; and then he went round by the outside staircase. He expected every moment to hear the alarm scream of a squaw, and kept, hi eyes warily open in all directions. There was no one on the gallery. So far, so good.0' The light came from a window at the other end of the house, and he crept softly along till he came op- posite, before he ventured to peep in. When he did, he could y restrain an ex- clamation of delight. There was his long-sought, favorite officer, Everard Barbour, alive and well, within twelve feet of him. . But what a changed being was Everard! He was ¢lothed in the full gala dress of an In- dian chief, but made of more splendid materials than usual, for real jewels glittered on his bare arms and neck, and his legginseand moccasins were of velvet. The feather bhead-dress into which his fair hair was woven was more splen- did than anything Tim had: ever seen, and _ tlic youth wore a tomahawk and scalp-knife, bot: heavily mounted with silver. But all this was nothing to the dress of his companion, a tiny lady, with long golden hair, who had one arm twined around Everard’s neck in familiar fash- ion. ‘* Be the howly poker!” muttered Tim, under his breath, as he surveyed her, ‘she’s a rale beauty, so she is. Och! Miss Marian, sure an’ yer heart would ache this blissid minute, could ye see Misther Everard—och, the crather, av she isn’t kissin’ him!” And, indeed, it was true. The little lady, whose beauty seemed almost unearthly in that wild place, was actually kissing Everard: Tim was puzzled at her looks and dress. In form and fashion it resembled that of the Indians, but it was cut with a peculiar grace that show- ec. the hand of a foreign dressmaker, and made of expensive silks and’ velvets. The borderer could not understand who she could be. * Bedad, av that’s the Spy Queen,” he mn*- | tered, “it?s not Tim Murphy that’ll be ta! ii’ away any such purty crature to be hung tor a =P lavin’ the quistion of possibility intiveiy. oigh! what’s the matther? The little lady had jumped up, saying: “Pll run and get it immediately, pet,” anc vanished out of the room. ** Now’s the time,” thought Tim. He put his head round the corner, and gave utterance io the whisper: * Liftinant, I’m here—Tim Murphy. Run. ye divil! Now’s yer time afore she comes back.” eg CHAPTER XVIL. A REVELATION. On a bright, lovely morning, rather more than a year from the date of the battle of Bex i's Hights, John Neilson rode out beside the Jumi : 1- ine carriage of the Countess of .Montonrini where the countess herself sat with pretty / 1: - rian Neilson. The old lady had succeedea in charming every one in the house, even Airs. Neilson, who had been disposed to be stiff ut first in her manner. effected that lad. ’s _ conquest by liberal praise of a wonderful bre: k- fast cake that Mrs, Neilson was particula:!y proud of manufacturing. . When the countess insisted on her asm ty hd a number of these for a lunch on the road, Mrs. Neilson was very much flattered, and expressed her opinion that the countess was a sensible wo- man after all; “none of your fine stuck-u French fallals, who think themselves too to eat plain farmers’ fare.” Mrs. Neilson did put up an immense package for lunch, and the counter’ aece; ted them: with profuse thanks. ' The carriage, with Jap iNeive ang beside

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eS SSS SSS —— === SS Sa Se — ae ‘ . it, took the road. as far as the deserted house of John Barbour, which Marian could no longer behold without a shudder, and then turned off across the fields to Burgoyne’s old lines. On the way the countess pressed Marian to tell her the cause of her shudder, and the poor gir) hurried- ly told her the outlines of her own and Everard’s sad story. ‘‘And now, madam,” she said, weeping, ‘‘I know not if he be dead or alive, and oh! madam, I wish I knew for certain. I would go to him if he was in prison, indeed I would, and share his prison; but I fear he has been murdered by those cruel Indians, and I shall never see him again.” As she said these words, the old countess turned and regarded her with a strange look. ‘‘- You are very fond of this young man?’ she asked, abruptly. “Madam, we are engaged to be married,” said Marian, are 4 The countess took a pinch of snuff and shook her head. “Hum!” she ejaculated; “the one does not al- ways follow the other, child. Does your father approve of it?” $9 ay madam, and mother, too,” said Marian, eagerly. ‘* And the young man,” said the countess, ab- ruptly.. ‘ Has he a father?’ ‘Yes, madam,” said Marian, in a low tone. ‘*Tndeed, and why is he not at home?” ff A wed know,” said Marian, a little con- se ‘Does he approve of the match?’ asked the © oatess, turning her sharp eyes on Marian’s . ushing face. ‘‘ I mean the father.” ‘* N—n—no,” the girl unwillingly admitted. ‘Why noi?” * He isa Tory,” said Marian, in a low voice, ind weare patriots. Sois Everard, poor dear, d he has left his father’s house in anger.” So!” said the old lady, in a dry tone. “ Is ‘re no other reason?” \farian blushed deeper than ever, and a look ~f resentment came over her features. ‘There was one other reason,” she said, very jow. ‘Mr. Barbour was ime of his fam- ily, and he thought us beneath him.” The countess took another pinch of snuff, and turned to John Neilson, who was just then viding up to the door. ‘*This here place, marm,” said John, “is the lace where one of our ginerals was hit in the jeg, when them darned Hessians got licked in the redoubt. He war carried off, marm, by Ma- jor Armstrong and a young feller of this neigh- borhood—” And John stopped suddenly, as he remember- ed his wife’s injunction not to mention Everard’s name before Marian, ‘* What was the young man’s name, monsieur?” asked the countess. | Canadian outriders, while his bridle was firmly o“ by one of them. aa M ‘* Wal,” said John, awkwardly, “his name | / out his hands, when a pair of handcuffs were | | fitted on them, and he was taken off his horse | were—mind, Marian, I didn’t go fur to hurt yer feelin’s, my gal, but the lady axed me—his name were Everard Barbour, marm, Yer see, there were some spoonin’ atwixt him and my gal there, and she feels mortal bad about it, marm, just now she do, ’cause the poor young feller got sculped by the Tnjuns of that darned old witch Queen Esther, down in Wyoming. The poor lictle gal was down thur herself, marm, and see’d all the horrors of the massacree, she did, and kin tell yer all about the bloody varmints, marm.” The countess turned round to Marian. ‘And so you were at Wyoming,” she said; ‘and how did you escape from dat old witch, Queen Esther, as your father calls her?” ‘* Nay, indeed, she was kind to me, father,” ‘* At least I | said Marian, half apologetically. was not killed like so many others.” ‘* Aha!” said the countess. ‘‘So de old witch (Jueen Esther, was not so bad to you, after all.’ ‘She were bad enough in all conscience, marm,” said honest John, indignantly. ‘‘ My gal seen her with her own eyes kill sixteen men, and they standin’ tied in a row. She tuk a hatchet, and brained ’em one after another, till she come to Tim Murphy, the same feller as saved my gal, and he bruk loose and run, with all the painted devils arter him, an’ the old she divil cbeerin’’em on. Oh! I'd like to get my grip on her skinny old throat, so I would.” The old countess seemed to be amused at the warmth of the farmer. ‘‘ Ah! monsieur,” she said, placidly, ‘‘ I donot know moch about dese t’ings, you know, but dey tell me dat dis Queen Esthaire have one grand cause for revenge against de French and deir ally, de Americains. I nevair hear dat she c: uel to de womans or childs.” ** Nay, Pll own that,” said John Neilson, hon- est even to an emer ‘* She treated my gal fust rate, and I take all that back about throt- tlin’ her myself; but, I tell you, she’d better not let Tim Murphy ketch her. He got off safe, and slew’d a Injun as had stole his rifle, as tie calls Double-Death, and he’s down on her, is Tim. He’s a Irisher, to be sure, and them ain’t expected to do as much as born Amerikins, but Tim’s a good feller, aud he reskied my gal like a good feller, marm.” “ Well, monsieur,” said the countess, chan the subject; “‘so dis is de field of de great hat- Double-Death. | —— ee taille? And how far, monsieur, is it to Sara- to ?? *- About two miles,” said John. “ And are dere any houses on de way dere?” asked the countess, quietly. “Very few, marm. This here cross-road runs into the Quaker Springs Road, back of Wilber’s Basin, and then yer come right into the woods, | and no houses till Cherry Valley. They say | that the Injuns has been seen hangin’ round *bout them clearin’s, and we don’t care to go | very far that ways.” ‘“Let us drive into dat road, monsieur?” said the countess, suddenly; ‘‘ and so come home by the way we came.” “Sartinly, marm,” said John, “Here, fellers, this way.” And the carriage went bumping around the | stumps to the cross dirt-road he had mentioned | which ran back of Burgoyne’s old line through a dense wood, John riding by the carriage win- dow and expatiating on the battle of the previ- ous year, hen they were in the thickest part of the | woods, the countess suddenly rose in her seat, remarkably erect for an old lady, and cried out: “Stop, mes enfants, stop!” Instantly the postillions pulled up and the two lackeys leaped down from ‘the box to the ound, as if awaiting orders to open the door. John Neilson pulled up, a little surprised at the halt in such a place, but he came up to the win- dow immediately when the old lady beckoned tohim. At the same moment the twooutriders | crowded their horses in, so as to press his ani- mal close to the wheels of the carriage. ** Monsieur Neilson,” said the old countess, in | a clear, stern voice, very different from what | she had used, ‘‘ we will stop here, and you will | be dismount, if you please. I want your daugh- | ter to go with me, monsieur.” | A dim idea cvossed John’s brain that the readily. countess was crazy, but her next words dis- | pelled it, and brought a faint shriek from Ma- rian, “She is no longer r daughter, but mine, | sare. And I am de old witch, de she-devil dat ou talk of but now, monsieur. I am Catherine ontour, Queen Sheshequin, Queen of the Sene- cas, and you are ps4 so P For one moment John Neilson was paralyzed. The next he turned round and would have struck down his captors outside, when he found himself covered by the muzzles of two_horse- istols in the hands of two stolid-looking French- istance is folly, monsieur,” said Queen Esther. ‘I have a mind to show you that I[ can be merciful as well as fiérce. Take him off his horse and do asI told you.” The last words were addressed to the outrid- | ers, who seemed to understand them, for they | nodded. Poor John Neilson was forced to hold | and into the thick wood out of sight of his ago- nized daughter. Poor Marian sat as if she had been turned | to stone, belpless and resigned, too much stunned to speak. The false countess turned with a malignant smile, and observed: ‘*So we are met again, Marian Neilson. I shall now take you where no American expedi- | tion can follow you, into the heart of our coun- try. Let me see Double-Death rescue you there. Keep up your spirits there, girl. Iam taking you to your lover. But you will find him changed, or I mistake much. He has forgotten you, fool that you are, and so you will have the less reluctance to marry the chief I have chosen for you. Your father will not be hurt. The men have bound him to a tree and gagged him. That is all. Here they come. Allons! And away rolled the clumsy coach on the | Quaker Springs Road, carrying Marian a help- | less prisoner. CHAPTER XVIII. PAROLE OF HONOR. EVERARD ARBOUR gave a violent start when Tim addressed him so suddenly through the window. He ejaculated, in a low voice: “Heavens, Tim! How got you here? If you are found you will be killed!” “ Kilt!” said the scout, disdainfully: “ and what wid? Sure there’s nothing but squaws and childer here. Come out, liftinant, and PU get ye out of this in no time at all, at all.” Everard trembled, and looked apprehensively round. “T ean not, Murphy,” he whispered. ‘“‘/ am 2. » and what’s that?’ asked Tim, innocently. “T have given my word not to escape,” said Everard, sadly. ‘If there were ten thousand troops in the valley, I should be bound to flee with the a ss al 4 ‘“‘Bedad, and that’s quare m, reflec- tively. ‘‘ And av I nay make bould, who’s the little lady es Pg “That,” said Everard, hesitating, “that is— my adopted sister.” ‘Wisha now!” said Double-Death, dryly; ‘‘and she’s mighty affectionate for a ciether, eee | ant, we’re not bound to obey | didn’t come all this way to find ye for nothin’, a —- Sa liftinant. Would she like another brother | now?” Everard frowned impatiently. ‘‘No, sir. I have told you that Iam on parole, and cannot escape. You must go back where ou came from, or you may lose your life here, +0, before Miss Lacy comes back, or you may repent it.” ‘im Murphy, instead of obeying the order, which was given imperiously, deliberately en- tered the room, and grounded the butt of bis | rifle with a clang on the floor. ‘“*Bedad and [ll do no sich thing,” he said, gravely. ‘‘ Whin an officer isa prisoner, liftin- is ordhers. I and, bedad, I’m not goin’ back wid a fool’s an- swer. Miss Marian’s home, cryin’ her eyes out, thinkin’ ye dead, and I couldn’t l’ave the poor erature to think that. Will I be goin’ now to tell her that I found ye kissin’ a pretty Tory lady, and that ye wouldn’t come back to yer duty whin ye had a chance?” ‘* Murphy, you don’t understand these things,” said Everard, impatiently. ‘I tell you, when an officer has given his parole not to escape, he can not break it. He must give up the parole and submit to be confined, before he can escape. As for Miss Neilson, I am perfectly true to her yet, but I can not break my parole.” “‘T know all that,” said the scout. ‘ Well, liftinant, then ye must give up yer parole, that’s all, and, bedad, I’ll resky ye.” “Tt can not be,” said Everard, firmly. ‘““There is not a warrior in the valley, aid it would be a mere mockery for me to resign “7 arole now. No, Tim, I know you mean well, ut 1 must remain bere till the warriors return, and escape then, if Ican. For yourself, let me entreat you to go and tell Marian I am alive and love her as well as ever. You will be dis- covered in amoment more if you stay.” : ‘He is discovered,” said a voice at that min- ute, and Charlotte Lacy stood on the low sill of the French window that opened on the piazza, within two feet of the form of Double-Death. Tim wheeled round and confronted her, stend- ing speechless before the extraordinary beauly of the mysterious girl. am ‘Who are you, sir?’ asked the lady, tranqui- ly. “ Your dress is that of an Indian, but you or to be a white man for all that. Who are you ‘Faith, and yer ledyship has heard me name many a time,” said Tim, proudly. ‘‘ The praste lhe called me Timothy, and me father’s name was Murphy, and I'll go bail yer ladyship has heard tae Injuns tell of Double-Death, the scout, of Morgan’s Rangers.” The lady came forward and laid a tiny hand on his arm. ’ ‘‘And are you Double-Death, the famous scout?” she asked, in a tone of great interest. ‘You are a bold man to come here alone. What do you want?” : ‘“‘T want to take the liftinant here, away wif mé,” said Tim, boldly. “I came all the way from Saratogy, and now, bedad, he won't go He says he’s on parole, and can’tescape.” ‘It is true,” said the lady, with a smile. “Did you think he would have been left alone hcre, if I had not trusted his honor? Without me, he would have been burned at the stake kag ago. In gratitude to me, he has given his paiole. Let me see you make him break it.” “And sure yer ladyship wouldn’t want a bit of a b’y, the likes o’ him,” said the Irish ranger, axingly. “What good will he do ye now? fure ye might betiher let bim come wid ould T’m, me lady, and Vil go tail he'll niver shoot enother Injun ag’in. There’s all his family cryin’ for him, bedad, and I promised his poor culd p<ther I'd bring him home, and av_yer lacy- ship would only let him go, it’s Tim Murphy’ll pay the Lord to bless yer beautiful face covery essed night on me bare and binded knees, miss. Arreb now, me lady, sure and the kind heart lL: mes out of thim iligant blue eyes, so it does: aid sure yer ladyship won’t refuse the requist cf a dacent boy, so ye won't; and all that lies in the way of fradom and honor for the lad isa wee word from thim rosy lips, me lady, and sure yer ladyship’ll spake it, won’t ye now?” Tim, in his wish to be insinuating, bad drawn very near the nonchalant-looking little lady, who stood, smiling with suppressed amusement, on the sill of the window. “Will you stay in his place?’ asked the lady, quietly. “If will, I will give him back his parole. Imight take you prisoner, even now, cauticus as you are, and great warrior as you think yourself. Four rifles cover you now, Double-Death, and only my body shields you from them.” ‘Then, be the powers, ye’d betther stay where ye are,” said Tim, coolly. As hespoke, with a rapid movement he placed both hands on the delicate shoulders of the girl, and kept her between him and the wincow. ee made ad hacnger but reraed seresieed and an shook o e scout’s grasp, saying: : “Hans off that lady, Murphy. Bont bea ool, Tim released his hold sulkily. ‘Av you're ag’in’ me too, liftinant, I_ might as well eo Tim Murphy isn’ blind, but he

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me —aeaacenenes can see that a purty face is makin’ a turncoat of ye. Let yer people shoot, me lady, and see how gtr See pine e Para nd he snappe n erisively. Charlotte Lacy laughed.” : “T don’t want to kill you,” she said, onietly. **-You have made me no answer yet. ill you take Everard’s place on parole if I let him go back to his own forces in Philadelphia?” ‘Take his place, is it?” asked Tim, scratching | his head. ‘ But does yer ladyship suppose that a lot of squaws could kape mein here, if he was | once gone?” ““T do,” said the girl, quietly. E must give up your arms, and submit to be bound, before he goes. will you do it?” Tim shook his head. “ Ye’re thr ing to come Dalilah over me, me lady,” he said. How'll I know that he'll go whin ye tell him? He may have turned traitor, and bedad it looks like it.’ ‘“‘ You will have my word,” said she, calmly. “Tf you will not doit, go. Once outside this room, your life is in your own hands to defend. There are more énemies here than you dream of. “Me lady,” said Tim, shrewdly, “‘ Brag’s a good dog, but ye see I’ve been all through the coun- thry round here, and I know there’s not a war- rior in Sheshequin. Av ye mane to frighten me with squaws—” - “Enough,” she said, haughtily. “You have tried to induce your officer to break his parole, given to me, and I have spared your life so far, Now surrender, or die!” With a sudden movement she raised a tin istol which she had been holding in her hand, Ralf behind her, all this time, and held it to Tim’s ear, The borderer looked in her face, and beheld in the beautiful eyes a stony, pitiless look that told him that she really would fire if he stirred a muscle, and yet he laughed, ‘““Bedad, me lady ” he observed, quizzically, ‘““ve’ve a mighty ? way wid yez, but Tim Murphy’s seen too many rifles to fear a popgun like that. Blaze away, me lady, and much good may it do yez.” Charlotte Lacy seemed to be too much sur- prised at his coolness to fire. She was not used to men with such thorough contempt for death. In a half hesitating manner she lowered the pistol, and the next moment it was seized in the iron grip of the borderer. What would have happened next is uncertain, for at that moment the crack of several rifles echoed with- out, and a bullet passed through Tim’s ca) while three more crashed into the walls round, proving the truth of Charlotte’s words, that there were enemies outside. “Run, man, run!” cried Everard. ‘You would have it, when I warned you to go. Ican not protect you now.” Tim was indeed in deadly peril at that mo- ment, but his coolness never forsook him, ‘“T’ll pay ye for this, ye traitor!” he hissed, furiously, to Everard, and in a moment he was out of the window, and over the low gallery in- to the darkness without. Several shots were fired at him as he leaped down, but with such defective aim that he was unhurt. A number of figures came rushing at him, with shrill yells, and Tin realized that he was beset by sgquaws— uaws that could and did use rifles, he borderer uttered a taunting laugh in re- ply, and fled across the rocky platform of the amphitheater, without ret a shot. It went against the Irishman’s gallant nature to fire at women, although he knew them to be dangerous and implacable foes to those in their power. He trusted to the darkness and his own fleetness of foot to escape, and in a few mo- ments more he was running swiftly up the glen, leaving his female pursuers far behind, followed by several random shots. It did not take Titn long to regain the source of the glen, climb oat and return to his horse. It was in great bitterness of spirit that he mounted the noble animal and set out on his return journey, for he realized that the country was no longer safe for him. “The traitor!” he said, savagely, to himself. *“ And I came all the way from Albany to get news of him, and he, the blackguard, a di traitor! bought with British gold! Ah, Misther Barbour! so I’d only had the time, Td have sopees pear tr’ason, ye thafe. Och! wirastru! The was so fond of, gone over to the ini- my! What'll poor Miss Marian say whin she hears of it? e cunning divil of a py, Queen las witched him, sure, or he wouldn’t have turned on his ould friend, Tim Murphy, like that. The cunning thafe! wid his paroles and fine stories about honor. Honor! A traitor! li give him honor when I see bim od Tim was terribly excited over fruitless inission, and if Everard had been there that iioment, his shrift would have been a short one »rom. the indignant Irishman. . Tim was convinced that his favorite had gone over to the enemy, and nothing at that moment would have convinced him to the contrary, as he rode w aaggr ime Bi) de the round She-hequin, despising the possibility of pursuit “But you hy the aqua ws in the village, and gloomily took nm © r Felt he Sf scprd Albany, one glen all was quiet cuce ” webbie Wiiebts a Double-Death. 13 more. The Indian girls who had composed Queen Esther’s household, and trained by her into a sort of Amazon guard, had been the pur- suers of Tim, but they soon got tired and re- turned to the house, with the news that the intruder had —— and the mysterious Spy | Queen dismissed them. to their posts at the bac of the house, whence she had summoned them on hearing the noise of Tim’s voice speaking to Everard. The boy-officer looked downcast and gloomy, now it was all over, and his beautiful jailer re- marked it. . 9 “ Everard,” she said, softly, approaching him, Charlotte?” And she twined her arm round his neck in the loving familiar fashion she had insensi- bly grown into, and looked into his eyes plead- ingly. Charlotte,” said he, gravely, ‘did you hear what Murphy called me? Po e said, pretending not to understand “He called me a traitor. Am I one, Char- lotte? I have only kept my parole.” ‘“Never mind,” she said, evasively. ‘ What is be but a rebel, anyway ?” “Ay, Charlotte. But I am a rebel, too, and | I ought to have tried to escape long since. I hepa not to have given my parole. I was weak and cowardly to doit. Please to have me con- fined now, that I may know that I can escape. if I have a chance. I give up my parole, I Shall try to escape.” ‘“* From me?” she asked, pressing him closer. ‘No; from myself,” he answered. ‘‘I have been weak. If you do not have me confined, I shall escape to-night, and return to my duiy.” “Very well,” said Charlotte Lacy, calmly. “You can go. I return you yo le, Eve- rard. You have kept it nobly. I will not be outdone in generosity. You are free to go.” ‘* But you?” he stammered, in surprise; ‘‘ how “what ails you? Will you not tell poor sister | will you do this? I am the prisoner of the In- | “T take the responsibility,” she answered. **'You shall he sent on your way to-morrow I please.. Only,one promise 1 exact in return for your freedom.” y ‘Name it,” said he, will give it.’ ; os atever I do, and wherever you see me in future, Everard Barbour,” said Charlotte Lacy, slowly, ‘‘ I require you to keep secret all that has between us. You know me half, I will tell you all. I am the chief of the secret service of his majesty in these colonies, and you are the only American that knows it. I tried to our Hae you, brave, honest lad that ou are, and I have failed. Everard, I never ailed to make any man love me ere this, and “Tf honor permits, I morning. The Indians obey me, and I do what | now I—I—you know why I have saved you. | On ae faith as a soldier, on your honor as a gentleman, promise me that a will never re- veal to mortal what I have told you, or any- thing that has passed between us, no matter who asks you.” “T promise,” said Everard, solemnly, “on man, that I will never reveal to mortal who you are, nor what has d between us.” “Task no more,” said Charlotte, sadly. “If ever you are in trouble, Everard, think of me asa sister.” . “T do; I will,” he said, warmly. His honor was still intact, but at that moment Charlotte seemed doubly beautiful, and Marian far off. “Go then,” she said, hastily waving him to the door. ‘‘ While I am strong, say farewell. Tomoenem all will be ready for you. Fare- well, He kissed her hand ardently, and left the | room slowly, as if reluctant. Charlotte looked after him, and a change came over her pale face. “Yes,” she murmured, triumphantly, “you shall go back, and J shall follow you, for, by this time, your Marian is safe with our good | Montour. cay you shall go back, but J will be ) there, too. | bis virtuous attachment grows | weaker vy Patience, Charlotte. A little | more, and this stubborn boy shall give honor, country and all to bask in thy smiles, and this blowsy country lass, this Marian Neilson, will make a good a. to Black Eagle. Beit so. And what comes after all? Well, we shall see. He shall kneel to me first. I will not be balked of my will by a mare He shall love me. After- ward, well, let the gerne goon. I can always throw up the hand if I tire of playing.” The enigmatical Spy Queen remained absorb- ed in thought for awhile, and then slowly with- drew to her chamber, the same that had been occupied by Queen Esther. CHAPTER XIX. THE GRAPPLE OF DEATH. THE carriage.that contained Marian Neilson and the false countess trayeled rapidly along the. road, the little hamlet,of Quaker rings, meeting not & soul till they came to the Hage, and passing. rapidly through that.” As they went Giteer Esther kept the Winddts closed, and drow @ email dagger, with which she my faith as a soldier, on my honor as a gentle- | : threatened Marian’s life if the girl tried to scream for help. The precaution was needless for Marian was thoroughly fascinated and cowed by the glittering eyes and powerful will of the old queen. They passed the village in safety, took the road to Cherry Valley, and camped in the woods at night, in precisély the same fashion in which the queen had been spied by Double-Death a few days before. That night also they were joined by Black Eagle, with four warriors, all that had been left alive by the deadly aim of Tim Murphy. The chief looked gloomy and morose, and did not notice Marian much. He expressed his gratitude to Queen Esther for having recovered the White Flower, but seemed to be overcome with gloom at the destruction of so many of his warriors by Double-Death. Marian was left alone in the carriage at night, a forbearance for which she was very grateful, and the journey was resumed ‘next morning, their road lying through heavy woods, on an old Indian road, just wide enough to admit the carriage. At nié t they halted and camped in the woods as before, and so for three days no event occurred to disturb the gloomy monotony of the prisoner’s life. On the fourth they en- countered several parties of strange Indians, most of them with scalps at their belts, and Marian heard, with intense horror, that they were fresh from the massacre of Cherry Valley. Old Queen Esther seemed to be in her element as she questioned the various warriors about the slaughter, and heard that her own tribe and the Mohawks were in it. She insisted on leavin § the clumsy carriage, assuming the war- rior’s dress, and departing with a party of her own tribe after more murders, leaving Marian in the charge of Black Eagle. - aoa her yourself, chief,” she said. ‘“ You swore that I lost her before. Keep her, and take care of her now. . I got her for you.” It was with a sensation of great relief that Marian saw the wicked old woman take her de- : rture. The very softness of her manners, and he evident marks of education possessed by Catherine Montour, only made the cruelty of her deeds the more repulsive to the poor girl. Left alone though she was with Black Hagle without a woman anywhere near her, ‘she could not help feeling easier. The chief announced to her, in broken Eng- lish, his intention of leaving the car be- hind, and offered to have a litter co ‘ticted for her use, better adapted to the woods. Marian refused the offer and announced that she felt able to walk. The chief looked pleased, and ified to her to follow him, and that she would be well treat- ed. He left the vicinity of Cherry Valley, where the murders were at that moment going on, though Marian knew it not, and took a nar- row path through the woods, where the party ‘was ie to’ walk in single file among the bushes. e chief led the party with Marian next to him, and two warriors ollowed behind them. The other two ranged on either flank, a little in advance, in the cautious manner invari- able with Indians on the march, and in this way they had walked fully fifteen miles through the woods. Toward evening the underwood ceased entirely, primeval forest taking its place, with a clear space between the trees for miles. Marian was a robust gir], and in good health, but the day’s walk had fatigued her consicer- ably. She was by no means sorry, then, when the chief halted at sunset in a most lovely spot, a little natural opening in the wood, where a crystal spring lay framed in emerald. A fire was kindled; and the chief, with a consideraticn for her comfort she had not expected of him, set his followers to work to strip sheets of bark from the trees and construct a wigwam for lr use. “Let the White Flower sleep in peace to- ight,” he said, gravely, motioning her to enter. “Black Eagle has deaths to aver before he enters lodge again. The terrible pale-face hunter has slain eight of my warriors single- handed, and Black Eagle has sworn never to sleep with his bride till he has hung the scalp of Double-Death at his belt.” Marian bowed her head, and her heart swell- ed with thankfulness. ‘For a time, at least, she was safe from any importunities, and at the seme time under the powerful protection oi a chief, second to none on the war-path. Sle entered the little wigwam, and found that he interior was already comfortable. A heap of soft spruce twigs made a pleasant and swect- smelling couch, at one side, over which was thrown the large bear-skin robe of Black Eegle himself, and a bountiful supper of fresh venison was brought into the lodge on a bark plate, by the hand of the chief himself. Then the girl, wearied out with her day’s travel, fell fast asleep almost as soon as it was dark, and dreamed. that Queen Esther was dead, and that Everard was close beside her. How long she had slept she never knew, but she awoke in the dark, with the sound of rifle-shots in her ears, and crouched down again under the cover of the. bear-skin, hearing the noise of a savage contest going on outside the wigwam, among the embers of tht fire, There were blows and deeptoned curses fUllowing each

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| 14 yp - - - - other for some minutes, all the sounds of .a fu rious struggle going on, and still the wigwam was pitch ree At last something or some one with a violent crash, came down against the side of the wigwam;, the frail, bark gave way, and two men, locked in the deadly grip of hate, came tumbling through the aperture, letting in a flood of moonlight on the scene, and falling at Marian’s feet. With a shriek of terror, the girl bounded up, and sprung through the opening, unheeded by the combatants, who continued to pruggie ve- hemently, where they had fallen. utside everything was, still.as. death, and. Marian, whose first: impulse,was,to flee, she knew not where, ran..into, the woods and hid behind a tree, with the instinet .of; safety: There, .she peeped back into the little glude, and, a, horrible sight met. her view. ;Four .dead.. bodies, lay around the. fire, in attitudes that. conclusively showed .they had been shot, while asleep, and the girl recognized, the fact that, the serugg lin men in the tent, could.be no other than Blac Eagle and the man who had slain his. warriors, And who could this stranger be, who had been able oot these four men with such rapidity thas not one had wakened in time? , he thought flashed over her mind at once; “Tt must, be Double-Death.” She had heard, half-asleep, half-awake, only four shots, and they must have come from him, for no one else could have fired so quick. In- voluntarily. Marian forgot her apprehensions. and ventured closer, to see..the termination o the grim struggle that was. still going on within the shattered wigwam, , As she came there, she spied on the ground the well-known. double rifle of the hunter, then; one pistol, then, another, then a knife, then a tomahawk. It became evi- dent that the chief had lea up and grappled with the scout, who had lost all his weapons in the tussle that ensued, Marian crept closer to: the wigwam and look- ed in. The two men were still struggling, but the borderer was undermost... The chief, far the larger and more..powerful of the. two, had at last got his knee on Tim’s chest, and was slowly strangling him to, death, for he, too, scemed to have lost his weapons, It.was.a fear- ful moment for Marian. _The chief had_ been kind to ber, after, his, manner, and so;hhad Tim urphy. She saw that she could end the bat- tle iy the latter’s favor, with the ,chief’s toma- hawk, which lay at, her feet, and .yet she hesi- tated a moment. , Would it be right? A look a’ the blackening face of the brave little scout decided her, ‘“‘T cannot let him die,” she said, with a halt- sob. She seized the tomahawk, and. struck at the head of Black Eagle, as he still strove hard to throttle the borderer,. The erring weapon turn- ed in her hand, and she only, wounded him slightly pub the , blow half-stunned ,the chief, ra he let go his hold, and staggered to his eet. Marian’s courage was great p/ssively, but in a contest like this, it required a fierce aggressive courage that she had not... Involuntarily she faltered and trembled, and ran back, dropping the tomahawk. Tim Murphy, seemed to be too much exhausted to rise, and the chief went back and picked up the fallen tomahawk. He seemed to be confused and ferocious, for he strode toward Marian with ax uplifted, and the girl fell helplessly on her knees, murmuring; “Mercy! mercy!” But Black Eagle was too much worked up to be eapable of mercy at that moment, He half- staggered, half-strode forward, and seized the girl by the hair, when he wavered and shook all over. The tomahawk fell from his hand, and the great chief fell prone to the earth, where he lay still, a low moan issuing from his li arian was astounded, but the m ry was explained when she beheld a small, dark orifice in the naked back of the chief, close under the shoulder, 1t was the track of a bullet that had come out there, and he had not fallen till now. In a moment more, Murphy came. crawling out of the wigwam, and the first move that the ex- hausted scout made, was to secure the weapons he had lost in the scuffle. Then he turned round, observing: ‘* Blessed be the Lord, this day, Miss Marian. I’ve found ye at last.” CHAPTER XX. GENERAL ARNOLD. “HE commander of the Continental forces at Philadelphia was litoping up and down his room, the old wound in his leg rendering his walk uneven and stiff.. He held in his handa Jotter, which he had been reading, whose con- tents appeared to have, excited him, for an an- gry Ash was on his brow, and he muttered, as w 3 : ‘The ungrateful hounds! Afterall I’ve done for them, to be treated thus! Not another man in the country would stand it, and they shall rue the day they drove me to the wall at last. Charges, Indeed! Now, with their. pestilent charges, I shall have no peace, I suppose, till a court of inquiry is ordered, to investigate my condyct, mine, who saved them from annihila- tion ‘and gave them yictory, at the time when ee ocr RA Rc fn re oe ’ Double-Death. their Washington was being driven from pillar t, from Brandywine to Germantown, Who would serve arepublict @he vile mob that is swayed to and fro with évery breath will iye me no peace till I leave them. Who's t ere?” ent) A knock at the door interrupted his solilo- uy. wm Come in,” he said, and at the same time h thrust the letter into the bosom of his vest, an faced to the door, a dark, stern, but, rather handsome man, near forty. The door opened, and a young officer made his appearance at the threshold, with his hand raised to his hat in the military salute. “‘ Come to report, sir,” he said, simply. The sight of lim appeared to drive all the disagreeable thoughts from, the mind of the commander, and to overwhelth him with aston- ishment. “My God, Mr. Barbour!” he ejaculated; ‘‘ they reported xn dead! Where have you sprung from? There have you been these months? Why, you left in August, and now it is December!’ ‘I have been a prisoner, general,” said Ever- ard. ‘I was taken at Wyoming, up in a tree, by a lot of sayages, who besieged me there till T could not load fast enough for them; and they carried me off to. the Genesee valley, and kept me a prisoner there till a few weeks ago, when “1 had General Washington’s orders, sir.” “And what did he iho "hos of my staff officers for?’ asked the general,angrily. ‘‘ Has- n’t he eneneh of his own to send off?” “1 asked leave to go, sir,” said Everard, quiet- ly. ‘*Oh! you, asked leave to go, did you?” said his commander, with a sneer. ‘An why, sir, may I ask? There are many gentlemen in the army who would gladly change places with i to be stationed in a snug berth like this in Philadelphia.” “1 know it, sir,” said Everard, in a low tone; * but—but—’ , “But what, sir?’ asked the general. ‘Come, out with it. Do you want to be on active ser- vice?. Time was, sir, when. to be with me was f poy of aka pasha gy outs ust as important as another. e duty o t must be done, Mr, Barbour. You'll find the papers of your office very much behind- hand, sir; I havé had to, detail a sergeant to do the work, Since you’ve returned from your gadabout expedition to the fron perhaps you'll oblige,me by spit him to his duties.’ Everard stood still, mortified to death. He had been wont to be a great favorite with his eneral since the battle of Bemis’s Hights; and ad repaid the latter by perfectly adoring bim., He had expected a welcome as one from the dead, and had been met by sneers and sar- casms, a He turned slowly away to the door, the tears standing in his eyes. a ‘“T will do it, general,” he said, in a low yoice, The commander stopped suddenly, and look- ed. at the boy aid-de-camp more kindly as he went out. ‘* Everard,” he said. Instantly the lad was back, his face beaming with joy and eagerness, “General!” he said; but in the one word was a tumult of contending feelings, too big for ut- terance. , The general held out his hand kindly. ‘“* Don’t mind my temper, lad,” hesaid. ‘*My wound troubles‘me a good deal, and makes me peevish. You ought, indeed, to be at the front, where there are opportunities of active service and promotion. There’s nothing here but vanity and vexation of 4 inn A lot of these sneaking townsmen have been getting up a complaint against,me to the Commander-in-chief, simply because I do my duty here and issue necessary but disagreeable orders. I swear to you, Ever- ard, it’s no very pleasant matter to, command in this place, when all the disagreeables are gp on one man’s shoulders, , I’m tired of t, and I shall apply for active service to-mor- |° row. Everard’s eyes sparkled, as he said: Pry tes God, general, I can be with you Another tap at the door. An orderly enter- ed with a note. ‘“Miss Lacy’s servant waits an answer, ge- neral,” The general flushed deeply, and tore it open. Everard’s heart gave a jump. arlott Lacy was back, and in correspondence with his general! What could it mean? CHAPTER XXI. TORY PLOTS. alle ts Whew Everard’s commander finished |. reading the little pink note, and deli- | H cate which the orderly had handed him, his whole manner chan and he pecame quite food-humored, to all appearance, or“ "Enging ‘like him. — ll lee Tell the man I will come,” he said to the or derly. The dragoon saluted stiffly, wheeled round, and clattered down the corridor. Then the general turned to Everard, smiling- ly. ‘‘Mr. Barbour,” he said, ‘‘I want you to go with me this bb ic a lady’s house, a very dear friend of mine. Will you come? You seem to have found friends who have provided you with funds, so that you need not be ashamed of your appearance. I’m glad of it,sir. Beready at four o’clock. ‘You'll go in my carriage.” ‘“‘ Very good, general,” said the young officer; and he turned away, and went to his room— the same he had occupied when before in Phil- adelphia. He found it unchanged, and the outer room or office looked as neat as when he had left it; while a dragoon sergeant was sitting at the table, writing busily, and Everard’s se: vant was bustling about, setting out hismaster’s gar- ments. ty How are you, sergeant? I’m glad to see ou,” ‘““Welcome back, lieutenant. We heard you were killed.” The salutation was cordial, for Everard was a at favorite with the troops, on account «tf his indness. It is surprising how easy itis to ac- quire the love of soldiers, and how fara kind word goes with them. “ Well, sergeant, and what news has there been, since I’ve been away?” asked Everard, after looking over reports, etc., for some min- utes. “‘ Nothing except the general’s marriage, sir,” answered the sergeant, ‘‘ That’s settled for the end of this month, we understend, and they’re making great i al at Judge Shippen’s for the festival.” “‘TIndeed?” said Everard. ‘And does the general call there every day still?’ ‘Every day, sir, when he is notat the Lacy House.” ‘“* And he is often there?’ asked Everard, care- essly. % Tie say that Miss omnes is a great friend of the lady there,” said the sergeant, and he looked a little awkward, as if he had been talk- ing about something he had no business with. tting everything together, Everard began to suspect that all was not quite pleasant in his genera household, but his military etiquette orbade his inquiring any further of a non-com- missioned officer as to the doings of his general. He began to dress for the visits he expected to make, the same mysterious band having been near him, which he began to recognize as that of the Spy Queen—the same hand that had smoothed his path throughout the Indian coun- try, sending him by hidden ways to Philadel- ev as if he had made his escape without col- usion, _And now Charlotte Lacy was back in Philadelphia, and he knew her to be engaged in machinations of the most dangerous kind against his country; and yet he dared not, could not, speak, The same bonor that held bim faith- ful to his parole in Sheshequin must seal his /ips as to her actions, no matter wLat they were, ior he had promised her that. 5 He stood at the window, thoughtfully gazing down the stately avenue of elms, when a ler - did carriage, drawn by four black horses, drove up to the door and halted in the shade of the trees, “Whose carriage is that, sergeant?” he asked. ‘The general’s, sir.” Everard started. The general’s carriage! And he knew him to be poor, comparatively speaking, How could he keepsuch an expen- sive equipage, far richer than that of the Com- mander-in-chiet? He had no time to think much, however, for he heard the halting gait of his superior on the stairs, and hastened out to helphim down, They entered the carriage, and were driven rapidly into Arch street, and thence up toward the very house in which Everard had first seen Charlotte Lacy. As they went along, the boy noticed that many black looks came from the people on the sidewalks, directed toward them, and in ort lace Everard heard a faint hiss. The general feara it too, and a furious flush crossed his stern face, as he turned his eyes, glaring sav- agely, on the man who had given utterance to i “The low-bred cur!” he ground out from be- tween his teeth, with fierce emphasis, “Who would serve a republic, Everard?” The lad felt as angry as his commander, for he sympathized with him devotedly. “Never mind the fellow, general,” he scid, soothingly. “‘ You can afford to despise fellows The good men of this country love and respect you.” The general frowned impatiently, “The good men? Where are they? Not in Con , where they denied me my just rank, till I forced it from them by deeds even my enemies could not deny. Bah! Let it go, Ever- ard. I'll try to forget, these crawling reptiles. Here we are at our destination.” rerard looked up. He was before the ouse, He would obliged to enter it as a stranger, and disclaim all past rye ated owner., But would hisfather be there it 89, how shoyld he treat him#

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% ———— Before he had solved the difficulty, the ser- vant had knocked at the door, aud Everard found himself helping his commander up the steps of the same hows where he had first been so sorely temp:ed from his duty to Marian by the blue eyes of Charlotte Lacy. The door was o; ened as he wasstill troubling his head about | his course, and the servant ushered them in, bowing low before the stately figure of the gen- eral, While the door was still open, Everard heard | a derisive yell from the street behind him, and the sound of a loud, coarse voice shouting: “Curse all Tories!” Te cast a quick glance behind him, and caught sight of a peddler, with his pack on his back. standing on the sidewalk, pointing jeeringly at him. The next moment the footman slammed the door vindictively; and the general, pre- tending not to notice any thing, stumped 9 stairs, and preceded Everard into the magnifi- cent saloon, where he had first met Charlotte. {s looked just the same as ever, but instead of \liss Lacy alone, there was quite a bevy of deautitul young ladies, all of whom advanced to grect the general as if he were an old friend. Everard waited modestly to be introduced. Ie had not seen Charlotte since he left her in the Glen of the Sheshequin, but she had reached Philadelphia before him. He was curious to seo how she would behave. . In a few moments the general presented him, with much kindness, saying: “Young ladies, this is my favorite aid-de- camp, Mr. Barbour, my gallant young friend. Le has just returned from the tender mercies of your red friends who burnt Wyoming, hay- ing escaped from them unhurt, as you see; how, I never inquired. Miss Lacy, will you not take him into your friendship for my sake?’ ; ‘Por your sake I would do much,” replied the sweet voice of Miss Lacy. “I think, how- ever, we can welcome a gay young gentleman ike him, for his own. Mr. Barbour, my dear tiend Miss Maggie Shippen, whom you have ioubtless heard of at head-quarters.” Everard bowed Jow before a dark, stately young beauty, whom ke knew as the promised yride of his general. Charlotte Lacy’s manner was perfectly unconscious, as if she had never seen him before, but exceedin ly cordial. He was presented in turn to the other young ladies, whose names he recognized as belonging to well- known Tory families in all cases. The conversa- tion at once became geueral and political. Everard found himself in the midst of a vio- lent Tory faction, and heard the patriots and their commander held up to niet 3 ridicule by all, while his general made but feeble ef- forts to defend them, contenting himself with laughing at tle sallies of wit. The young officer felt uncomfortable and un- happy.._He tried to ak, and was met by so many adversaries that he was driven to silence. It was Charlotte Lacy herself who came to his rescue, saying: “ Girls, gir's, you forget that Mr. Barbour is not used to our jokes, like the general, who retends to side with us, only to draw us out. Fowl find yourselves all arrested some fine morning, by this same general, and you may want an intercessor. Positively I’m going to carry off.Mr. Barbour, he looks so uncomfort- able, and you can all talk treason together then. Come, Mr. Barbour, let us take a walk to the greenhouse, and leave them,” The response was a showerof raill from her friends, for ‘turning rebel lover,” but she only laughed in answer, and carried off Ever- Hong in triumph. : “Everard,” she said, in alow tone, when they were in the conservatory and out of hearing of the gay group in the parlor, ‘you should not have come here.” “T could not help it,” he said. “The general ordered me. Oh, Miss Lacy, what does it mean these ladies talking treason in this manner? I can understand his listening to it, for he doubt- less wishes to draw out intelligence from your side, to help our cause; but they will surely repent their temerity some day.” Vf * Perhaps,” she said, with an enigmatic smile. “You think that your general is the soul of honor, Everard?” “ Of course,” he answered. ‘‘ Have not I seen him in the field? Ishould not be with him if I believed he consented to this treason t earn- “You are right,” she said; “ you should not. Everard, you have kept faith with me, and I have tried you sorely. I will not s:ek to draw you into dishonor, Return to your quarters how. I will make your excuses. You must not be drawn into the atmosphere that sur- roundshim. I will not allow it.” “Miss Lacy,” said Everard, imploringly, “ you are so beautiful and powerful that you can do any thing. I know that you must be trying to draw the general into treason. Promise me that you will leave him alone, if you have any regard for me. He has many enemies here. He can not afford to have his name mixed up in. Tory plots.” Bhe smiled faintly in answer. “You are wrong, Everard. I have not sought se entraphim, Ho—brt never mind, you ought et asa garly continental.” ate Be kind Double-Death. | not to be here, dear. We must find a way to send you away before long. Leave it to me. Go now, and when you hear me spoken ill of, Everard, remember that I left you free when you asked me, and saved you when you were in my power. Farewell.” he motioned him away when she finished, and the “ben. officer left the house by the back | gate of the garden, in obedience to her gesture Sires ting him there. When he came out in Race street, in which it opened, he saw the same peddler who had been so offensive at the front door, sitting un- der the shelter of a fence, sunning himself. The street was almost a country lane in those days, and there was no one else in sight. To his surprise the peddler rose and came to- ward him as he started for his quarters, follow- | ing him with clamorous petitions to buy. | You get no custom from me,” said eersid. | indignantly. ‘‘Did you not insult my com- | mander and myself not twenty minutes ago? Begone, sirrah, if you don’t want a taste of thi cane!” “Who cares for your cane, anyhow?’ said the dler, squaring himself a in front of Everard. ‘ You’re nothing but a Tory, any- way, for all your fine uniform. Don’t I know who lives in that house? You and your gen- eral ought to be turned out, for associating with a pack of Tory jades, like Mag Shippen and Lot Lacy.” With an angry exclamation, Everard rushed at the insolent one, his cane uplifted. It fell from his grasp, unused, as he heard the voice of his own father from the disguise, saying: “That'll do, Everard. e’ve played this farce long enough. We’re both in the same boat now. CHAPTER XXIL SPIES IN CAMP. ‘“‘ WHat do you mean,” asked Everard, the next moment, “ by being in the same boat, sir? Iam no Tory.” “ Bah! tell that tothe marines,” said his fa- ther, scornfully. ‘‘No more am I, for that mat- ter. Don’t Icry ‘Down with all Tories! as well as the best patriot of them all? It suitsmy pur- better, sir; andso do you, as youare. I tell you what, Everard, you migbt make a pile of money, if you only knew how to do it. nd I can show you the way, sir. It’s only to find out a few things about your general, and I'll promise “tier good pay for it, better than you'll enough to cease, sir,” said Everard, coldly. ‘‘I have no desire to turn spy. It is enough to have you in that capacity. Let me pass home.” “Spy, sir! How dare you call me any such name? Can not a man belong to the secret ser- vice of his majesty, without being called a spy? You were not too proud to accept the spy’s money, at allevents. I see your appearance is improved, since you found such a pleasant home in the Glen of Madame Montour, with the Spy Queen.” Everard started How could his father have known this? “ Ay,” said John Barbour; “you forget who Iam, boy. Notasiep do you take, but is re- corded, and there’s enough evidence mow to veo A if it were brought to Washington’s ears. You'll soon have the name of traitor, and you may as well get the pay of it.” “Sir,” said Everard, pale with anger, “let me pass, or 1 shall forget what is due to you, and use force.” “What a fool you are,” said Barbour, with a sneer, unheeding his words, ‘“‘to let the prize escape from your We grasp! Why, boy, you might have married Miss Lacy and been a rich man ere this, if you had chosen. The very ser- vants could see that she was infatuated with ou. And you must needs be engaged to that ow-bred baggage, Moll Neilson. Bah! you’re a fool, and deserve what you'll get.” Here Everard, beside himself with vexation, brushed past his father, and started for his quarters. Allin vain. The indefatigable old man stuck to him and followed him, ing all the way. “Yes. Deserve what you'll soon get. Do vou think Madame Montour is the woman to let her adopted daughter be carried away with- out getting her again? She’s been captured and brought back, fool. Ay, and she has found con- solation for your loss in the lodge of Blak Eagle. These girls are romantic, and Black Eagle’s a handsome fellow. Moll Neilson might do worse than become a chief’s wife--hey, sir?” Everard involuntarily stopped when he heard these words. They touched him in a tender spot. He turned round and faced his father. ‘What do you mean, sir?” he said. ‘ Do you think to fool me with a tale like that, when I know Marian is home at her father’s by this | time?” John Barbour laughed. “Ah! then you did not know why Queen ——_—_ demanded the services of a priest, and Queen Esther sent for one from from Niagara, on pur- ae to satisfy her. You don’t believe it. ou’ll find it true, full soon.” And John Barbour turned away, havirg said all he wished to. But this time it was Everard who followed him. He was pale with excite- ment. “Sir,” he said, half-gasping in his eagerness, “prove what you have said, and I'll believe you, but not without. No, sir, not without.” **Oh! it needs no proof,” said his father, care reek “You'll find it true, when you go bome, thinking to claim a blushing bride. I can’t waste time on a fellow like you, who let’s a queen fish slip to hook a minnow, aud loses the very minnow. Good-day, sir.” And John Barbour stalked off, forgetting for the nonce his assumed character of the peddier. Everard stood hesitating a moment, and then turned and made his way to his quarters, with drooping head. Was this true, could it be true? is father evidently belonged to the spy corps which controlled the tribes of the Gene- see valley, and of the power of the female chicf of that corps he had seen the proofs. John Bar- bour knew all about his connection with her, and might not this news he brought be true also? Everard bad been brought up to thiuk his father an honorable man, at all events till the war had broken out. In a state of mind full of gloom and despon- dency, he walked slowly back to head-quarters, went up to his room, and locked himself in. Had all his faith and honor, clinging to his en- gagement when so sorely tempt y the beauti- ful siren, been repaid “ this news? Marian married, and to an indian! Had she been dead, he could have borne it, and mourned for her as one worthy; but the fact of a marriage under a priest signified consent on her part, aud the shuddering repugnance with which an al- liance with an Indian was looked on by the era since the atrocities of Wyoming, could rdly be overestimated. “False, perjured wretch!” groaned Everard. ‘* But, no, itcan net be true! I will apply for leave atonce. I will write to General W ashing- ton. No, no, no, what is it to him? I can not do any thing !” He remained in his room, buried in miser- able, anxious thought, for near an hour, when he heard the general’s carriage draw up outside, and the steps of the commander on the stairs. “T will KO to him,” said the unhappy boy, to himself. ‘‘I-will tell him the story, and him for leave of absence. I can go to Albany and back in three weeks at most, if I travel He waited until he heard his general enter his room, when he repaired thither to find the latter changing his unifurm for a handscme eivilian’s dress, for a dinner party at Judge Shippen’s. “Aha! Everard,” said the chief, laughing; ‘*so these little Tories at the Lacy House tright- ened youaway, did they? You'll get used to that sort of thing, my lad, and learn to laugh at it, as] do. It’s not half so bad as the pestilent Whiggery of those hounds that hiss me in the streets for doing a disagreeable duty. But what’s the matter, Barbour?’ He noticed the pale and excited manner of his aide-de-camp for the first time, as he came nearer the Jamp, for it was now dark. ‘““General,” said Everard, in a constraineé tone, “you havebeen very kind to me, and I am going toask you a favor. I want leave of atsence tor four weeks, to visit my family on private business.” The general wheeled round and stared at him. ** Are you mad, boy? What’s the matter?” ‘General, [ll tell you,” said peor Everard. “You were quartered at Mr. Neilson’s house, near Stillwater, and therefore you know her.” And then out came the story of having heard thenews of Marian’s marriage, and of all the boy’s misery. The genera] asked no q: estions about whence the information came. He listen- ed attentively and not unkindly to the story, aud at the conclusion said, gravely: “ Lad, it is true. You need not go to see.” “But bow do you know, general?” asked Eve- rard, doubting. “Thave it from the best authority,” said the general, slowly, ‘‘a spy of ours, who has just returned from the Indian country, and seen the bridal feast. You need not doubt it, for L know it. You can not have the leave, Mr. Barbour, because it would be useless, and would prejudice the public service. I'm sorry for you, lad, bus remember, there are plenty of otber women left. Here, ’m going out this evening, coe with me.” “Pardon me, general,” said Everard, sadly ; “unless you order it, Ido not wish to go. I have received a blow, and need occupation and work to direct my mind to-night, that’s all.” “Very good,” said the general, kindly. “Take these _— into your room, then, and copy them, t will give you something to Esther left the village, did you? Your friend do.’ Here they are. Two reports of the gurri- Murphy wasn’t sharp eno h to find it out, netthel, Qh! J know all abo: tell you she is merried to Black Bayle, The fool ut it, Everard, You | Washington. Tau as well stop trying to fool your tather, sir. | son and district, and this letter to General Have them ready by eleven o'clock.’ Rveray] took the papers, bowed low and re-

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eats ——- SA = SS = SS SSS SS —— 16. oo —_— —— tired. For the first time in their acquaintance he doubted his commander’s word. How was it that so many men knew of this terrible thing already, when he had only just heard of it? One thing was epies however, that he could not hope to get his leave of absence, and could only write to the Neilsons, and wait a reply in the course of weeks. He slowly went to his room, sat down, wrote a letter, and dispatched it by an orderly to the post-office. Then he took hold of his reports, and set resolutely to work to copy them out fairly. For some time he hardly understood what he was doing, writing on mechanically, reports of independent companies and batteries, long catalogues of different kinds of accouterments on hand, and so forth. At last however, he had finished the first re- port, and took up the second. To his surprise, he found it to be a long and tabulated return of the whole Continental forces, with all the places where each regiment was stationed, and the effective force of each. ‘“ What business has the military governor of Philadelphia with this?’ said Everard, to him- self. ‘‘Thisis no use to send to Washington. It must be a mistake.” He examined it carefully over again, and found it as he had said. He turned to the letter that was to accompany it, and found that he had only one of the reports that should have been copied. The second was an account of ex- penditures in the post command, and was not to be found. “Pll go andok for it,” thought Everard. The novelty of the work had taken off his at- tention from his own troubles somewhat, and he rose up and was going to carry back the wrong report, when his eye was caught by something written in red ink on the back, as he folded it up. A close inspection revealed the words: ‘To be forwarded to Sir H. C. by schooner Regina.” The handwriting was that of his general. Everard started, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Sir H. C. could be none other than Sir Henry Clinton, the British Governor of New York, and his general was in correspon- dence with the enemy ! To say that Everaré was astounded is not too much. The rumors and hints he had heard be- fore had passed uncredited, but this sudden proof, right under his own eyes, utterly over- whelmed him. “Where is faith left now,” he half groaned to himself, ‘‘ when Marian is false, and my general corresponds with the enemy?” And then the thought came over him, was his general really a traitor, or was he only in cor- respondence with some of his own spies, to find out what he could about the British? Was not this elaborate report gars an erroneous one, on purpose to mislead Clinton? ne and fearing, Everard yet had cool- ness enough to determine on knowing more, and remembered that he had yet an hour and a half in which to work before the general came in. Without any more delay he took a candle and panes into the commander’s room, unnoticed y anybody. The ations of the house- hold were exceedingly , and when the mas- ter was absent, the servants were not to be found anywhere onduty. He could hear them laughing away in the kitchen, and so was quite free to work. He entered the room, a large, old-fashioned apartment, like all in that house, with a cheer- ful wood-fire burning in the broad, low fire- place. In the middle of the room was a large table, strewn with papers and books, a mass of letters, a foot high, lying in one place. It was one of his general’s characteristics to leave every thing on that table, and nobody dared disturb its arrangement. Everard set down his candlestick, and hastily examined the papers that lay on the table. There was a heap of complimentary letters from different ladies, reports and letters from subordinates, and what surprised him most, a number of bills, portentous in amount, many of them, not one of which seemed to have been paid. far, however, there was nothin treasonable, and Everard began to feel ashame: of himself for prying into his general’s private affairs, when a letter, in a la and rather pointed hand, attracted his attention. It was signed JoHN ANDERSON. The letter seemed to be from a mercantile man, proposing that certain business transac- tions should be carried through, by which a great — of money might be made for vimself and his friend. Everard did not know what to make of this. Apparently it was quite innocent on its face, but there was a certain undercurrent of mean- ing that he could not quite understand. fe stood with the letter in his hand, reflect- ing, when he heard the street door opened and softly shut, while some one was ascending the stairs. Hastily concealing the report in his bosom, he turned and left the room, only to be encountered on the top step of the stairs by his general himself! For one minute Everard faltered, Then he boldly faced his superior, Double-Death. The general looked at him fixedly for several minutes. “So, sir,” he said, at last, ‘‘ you have finished your work?” His tone was that of cold inquiry, but his eyes glared like tiger’s eyes. “Not quite, general,” said Everard. ‘‘Then why are you here, sir?’ demanded his chief, sternly. “You gave me a wrong report, general,” said Everard. ‘I discovered the error, and came to look for the right one.” ‘So? said the general, and there was a world of sarcastic meaning in the single word. “Yes, sir, and I think you will own,” said Everard, ‘‘that a tabulated report of the Con- tinental armies, addressed to Sir Henry Clin- ton, by schooner Regina, was not the report you meant me to copy.” The general turned deadly dark face, out of which his with fearful intensity. He held out his hand. ‘Give me the report, sir,” he hissed, rather than said. ‘Where do you find any such words?” le all over his lack eyes glared CHAPTER XXIII. BREAKING ARREST. EVERARD hesitated. He did not like to de- lay compliance, and yet he might be porns with the only proof in his power that he was justified in prying into his general’s affairs. The dark general noticed his hesitation. “Well, sir,” he said, imperiously, ‘“‘do you mean to obey orders, or would you like to look through my papers a little more? Give me the report, verard held out his hand involuntarily with the letter he had just been reading, and which he had unconsciously retained session of all the time. It produced a sudden effect on the general. He turned paler, if possible, than before, and clutched savagely «.t the letter, which he shook menacingly in Everard’s face, too furious, at the moment, for speech. ‘How dare you?” he hissed out, atlast; “how dare you pry among my papers, sir? What have you been doing in here t business had you here? Where’s that report you spoke of, sir’ Everard slowly drew it out and his comman- der snatched it from him, glanced at it hastily, and broke out into a sneering laugh. ‘So, my young spy! you would join my enemies to defame me, on evidence like this. Why, fool that you are, this is a false report, sent me by Washington himself for Sir Henry Clinton, on purpose to deceive him. If you had detained that, you might have prevented a glorious victory for us. Let this be a lesson to you, boy, to keep your fingers out of my busi- ness, or they may get burnt. Goto your quar- ters, under arrest.’ He ended in the harsh, quick tones of the su- perior officer greatly angered. Everard bowed and turned away, sick at heart, wretched, uncertain whether he was right or wrong, certain of one thing, however, that his military career was likely to be blasted prematurely, in the heat of his general’s anger. And he had nothing now on which to found his suspicions; on the contrary, there was every thing to prove that he had wronged his com- mander, and if so, he deserved to be cashiered for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentle- man. He reached his room and sat down in gloomy silence, pondering over the successive blows he had received that day. What could he do to undo the mischief now afoot? The answer seemed simple and irresistible. He sat there buried in thought till he heard the town clock strike tweive. At the last stroke an orderly entered the room with a fold- ed paper, which he delivered to Everard, and then staiked out. The lad opened it, and found a document in the handwriting of his general, with the omin- ous heading: ‘ CHARGES AND SPECIFICATIONS.” Then he felt a thrill of dread. The general must be in bitter earnest, and determined to destroy him. The charges were short—two in number. No. 1 covered that broad and convenient ground. ‘Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,” and specified the finding of Ever- ard engaged in opening letters addressed to his commanding officer. It was enough to send nae out of the service with disgrace, if sup- ported. No. 2 was still worse. It was nothing less than desertion to the enemy, and the witness was said to be Timothy Murphy of Morgan’s Rangers ; the time and place being ecified, in which the bold scout had taken his abrupt leave of Everard. ’ The lad started up in his seat in astonish- ment. How in Heaven’s name was this i- ble? Had Murphy got back already, and had he really given such a color to his refusal to es- eg > when on parole? 6 strode rapidly up and down the room cursing the restyalnt of ebiquettie that placed © ES. © ae re ee ee ee ee eee se re ee eee Ucn him there, as if in a prison, from which he could not escape, except by breaking arrest. At last, as he had almost resolved to do some- thing desperate, a tap came at the door, and a man entered, in whom he started to recog- nize his own father. Jobn Barbour was plain- ly dressed in a dark riding-dress, with high boots, and wore a large cloak hanging from his shoulders. He came up close to his son, and bg wn “T know all about it, Everard. Damme, sir, I’m your father after all, and I can’t see you mixed up with that villain any longer. You must escape, sir.” “*T can not,” returned Everard. ‘I amunder arrest; and if I break it, ‘twill be like breaking parole, not to be pardoned.” * Boy,” said John Barbour, “‘ do you think I don’t know this general of yours by heart, when I have corresponded with him, and negotiated his business for six months? He has resolved to crush you to save himself, and he found an Irish fellow, whose evidence will cashier you, if it doesn’t shoot you, beyond a doubt. If you stay, you are ruined, Come with me, and you’re safe,” ‘But oh! father, where can I go now?” groan- ed Everard, quite unnerved. “To the Commander-in-chief,” said Barbour. “He will give you justice on the truth of your case. Come with me, and we will be there in three days.” Everard hesitated no more. Without con- sideration he left the room with bis father, and the arrest was broken. In a few minutes they were in the street, Eve- rard carrying his valise in his hand, hurrying down to the river. CHAPTER XXIV. THE STORM. A COLD, driving storm of snow and sleet beat in the faces of the two travelers, as they hur- ried on through the darkness, John Barbour leading the way. Everard’s heart was full of bitterness, and the unfriendly aspect of the hea- vens increased his gloom. That morning his prospects had looked so bright, and now they seemed irrecoverably blasted. By a single act of imprudence he had drawn upon himself the oo. of a man who was said never to forgive, and now he was committing a second act, not only imprudent, but in the stern view of mili- tary f law, unpardonable. He was ‘breaking his ar And for what popes He could hardly tell himself, except that his father had suddenly appeared as if dropped from the clouds, and persuaded him to go some- where with him, on the idea of going to the Comm ander-in-chief. And if he got there, what was he to say to this stern and unbending gen- eral, just and kind though he was reputed to be? How could he excuse his conduct, save by a vague accusation of treason against his Paige vaae he bad nothing to support but his bare word? As these thoughts crossed his mind, he was tempted to turn York and throw himself on the mercy of his eneral. He felt convinced that he had wrongs him, and the remembrance of his commander’s former kindness began to make itself felt. He actually stopped in the street—they were just out of Pine street into Delaware street, that ran along the river—and would have turned back, but bis father caught him by the arm as if anticipating his intention. : ‘“‘We are almost there, lad,” he said, burried- ly.“ Yonder is the schooner in which we sail, and in an bour more we shall be safe at sea. Come.” ‘ " ‘Oh! sir, let me go back,” said Everard, quite broken down for the moment. ‘‘I can not de- sert. This is nothing but desertion.” “Boy,” said John Barbour, earnestly, ‘‘ when you were a child you trusted me, and I did every thing for your good. Have I become hateful to you now! I tell you that behind you lies di e, before you lie fame, riches and honor, if you will trust me. Come. It is too late to recéde, for you have already broken your arrest.” The last words decided Everard, With a resigned shrug of the shoulders he fol- lowed his father, and the next minute the full force of the north-east storm struck them, as they went out of the shelter of the corner across Delaware street, toward the dock. The tall, naked masts of a schooner rose up through tho gloom, relieved against the faint yellowish glow of the stormy sky, and toward this schooner Jobn Barbour proceeded. A light was burnin, in the binnacle, and several dark, muffled-u;) figures were moving about the deck. he old Tory stepped aboard, and he seemed to be expected, for no one made any remark as he proceeded to the cabin, and motioned Ever- to follow him. The young officer did so, and found himself in the small cabin of an or- trading-vessel, a little more elegant per- haps than most, but only provided with a single table, and benches to the floor, besides the two rows of berths. “Stay here, Everard,” whis John Bar- hour, as if apprebensive of belng heard. ‘ Fiy-

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—_- -—_-— erything is ready, but we may have trouble in getting out. I must go on deck, to see to things.” Everard er A pe and threw off the | vi hat and cloak in which he had been muffled, set- tinge down bis valise on the table. He remained sitting, with his head buried m his hands, for- getful of his surroundings, till he heard a great clattering and stamping overhead. - After a while this was still, and then again came the noise of feet rushing about, and the creaking of ropes and blocks. In a very few minutes, too, the vessel began to heave and roll as if it was putting out to sea, and Everard rose and went up the companionway to look out. He saw the crew, consisting of some dozen men, gathered at the bow of the vessel, hauling ata rope which seemed to be stretched some distance out into the river. The cold wind and cutting sleet were exceedingly bitter, and Evy- erard shivered end drew back under the shelter of the hatchway, to watch with more comfort. The vessel slowly forged ahead away from the wharf, the wi d blowing diagonally toward the mouth of the river, till she had attained a sition nearly a hundred fathoms from the ead of the dock, whem she seemed to be short over her anchor. Then the men scattered and ran aft, and Everard saw the mainsail slowly rising in the air under their strength. In a few minutes it was set, and the boat swung round, head to the biting tempest, when again thecrew rushed forward and hauled et the cable. Ev- evard, in his ignorance of nautical affairs, un- derstood nothing, till a heavy jerk that seemed to shake the little vessel from stem to stern, an- nounced that the anchor had left its bed in the Delaware mud, and the men flew at the foot of the foremast like tigers, while the vessel went surging down the river. In a moment more, with a terrible roaring and flapping, the jib rose slowly in the air: the wind caught it, and swell- ed it out like a balloon; the vessel spun round on her heel, and went shooting down the river before the full fores of the heavy gale and pow- erful current, like a race-horse in his first half- mile, The air in the little hatchway where Everard stood Lecame calin, and quiet, now that the ves- se) was fairly under way; the men were all Lusy in different places, helaying ropes and making every thing snug, and Everard beheld his father, elephantine in aspect, muffled in a huge pea-jacket, with great sea-boots on, com- ing toward the cabin once more, “Keep her steady, Jim,” said the old man. “We shall open the fort lights in a very few | minutis now. Ha! there they are, and there’s the guard-boat. If they stopus to-night, they’ll | have good shots aboard.” And John Barbour laughed defiantly. Everard noticed that even in the dark his fa- ther appeared to better advantage than he had. There was an air of jollity and careless courage in his broad red face, very different from the ill-temper that had marked it while he was play- ing the spy ashore. He seemed to be more in his element on the deck of the schooner than he had been when in disguise in Philadelphia. Everard retired into the cabin, where he has- tily muffled himself in his cloak and fastened his hat securely to his head. He had resolved to go on deck and see how they were going to | get through. Moreover, the close, stifling air of the cabin made hint feel sick, together with the motion of the vessel, and he wanted to be outside, When he got on deck it was blowing harder than ever, and the sleet, freezing as it fell, had covered the decks as witha sheet of glass. Ahead of them, on eitiver side of the river, were two lights, which seemed to be approaching with freat rapidity, as the banks of the river drove by. vA third light, out in the river itself, was toss- ing up and down violently, indicating what a heavy sea was running. Everard went aft to the binnacle, and found his father standing by the helmsman. John Barbour was evidently in command of the schooner, though his son wondered where he had got his nautical knowledge. ‘Steady, Jim,” was the warning command. “Keep her full, lad. Now we'll soon see what | the guard-boat fellows are made of.” As hespoke, the schooner went sweeping down through the gloom toward the tossing light, which speedily revealed itself in the shape of a long, ow row-boat, crowded with men, pulling across their fore! oot. A A hoerse hail came across the water as they approached. : scam ahoy! Heave to, or we'll fire into you * Fire away!” shouted John Barbour, at the top of his voice, and down swept the schoorer straight on the tont, Everard saw his father seize the helm with his_own hands, and the schooners bow eave a wide sheer as she bore down s6 a8 to'air’ at the boat amidships. The commander of the bout appeared to he very much excited about them, and shouted out some orders to his crew. a loud crash Gf oars, as the rowers bent to them, with frantic efforts-to escape the doom of being | rup down. There was @ broad, bricht flash, more outside, and left the lee of the land, the Instantly there was | Double-Death. | the roar of a gun, anda round shot went hum- | ming over the heads of the men in the schooner, | harmlessly enough. The next moment the bows of the vessel struck the boat on the quar- ter, and passed over her as if she had been only a canoe, leaving a crowd of dark figures in the water. | Everard was horror-stricken. They were his own comrades, soldiers of the Continental arm | that were being thus slaughtered. Buthe oat do nothing to help them. . Almost before he had | fully realized what was being done, the schoon- er bad left the poor, freezing, drowning wretches in the river far behind, and was ca- reering away between the two lights on the banks out toward the open sea. | John Barbour kept the helm, and seemed to be well acquainted with the passage, for he steered boldly on. Flash! Boom! A gun from near the light, on the right bank of the river, gave token that the people of the fort had realized that something was wrong. In spite of the darkness, the shot passed close | astern, proving that the artillerymen had the ie pesteotiy: and could see the white sails. ash! Boom! A second gun followed, from the opposite side of the river. The shot crossed their bows, and went skip- ping over the water for a long distance. It was too dark for good practice. The schooner kept on faster than ever, and before another gun could be fired, had put one of the lights out of sight behind a projecting point of the bank. The next gun was wilder than the first, and satisfied Everard that they were out of danger. The excitement had kept the feeling of sickness | off him so far, but as the schooner got more and sweli became heavier every moment, and the motion of the vessel altogether too much for one wholly unused to it. Everard was obliged to go below, where for a time be forgot every thing else in the martyrdom of sea-sickness. John Barbour did not come down-stairs till the first streaks of dawn lighted up the east, and then he looked sanguine and cheerful. ‘‘Everard, my boy,” he said to his son, “thank Heaven we are out of the clutches of the cursed rebels at last. In twenty-four hours more we’ll be off the Jersey coast, and safe in New York harbor, under the guns of his blessed paws oie cruisers. and down wit all Yankees!” up, dismayed. “In New York, sir?” he faltered. ‘‘ You told me we were going to see the Commander-in- Hurrah for King George | 17 beating up along the coast, experienced a change of wind. e sky cleared of the gray, murky clouds that had covered it, the wind cho ae round to the south, south-west, and finally west, and the sun shone brilliantly out overhead. The vessel beat up toward Raritan bay, the fae from the west strengthening on the second day, but at last they sighted the low white coast of Sandy Hvok, and beheld the sails of several men-of-war hovering abcut the coast, while the naked masts and yards of some more could be seen above the low ground: of Sandy Hook. Everard had come on deck, seduced by the fine weather, and nearly over his sea-sickness. He found bis father eagerly seein the strange vessels through his telescope, while the little schooner held on her way toward the mouth of the harbor, with all her sails set as flat as a board, and eating up into the wind, point by point. There were nearly twenty of the strangers, most of them stately line-of battle ships, with double rows of grinning black perts, lofty spars and immense yards. They were scattered about in a line, several miles in length, forming a half-moon, which inclosed the mouth of the bay within its sweep. A high sea was running, sparkling brightly in the sun, and a keen cold gale was blowirg straight out of the mouth of the harbor, rencer- ing it a very difficult task to get in at all. John Barbour noticed his son first. ; ‘“‘Ha! Everard. We shall not get in without some trouble, sir. There’s the French fleet, under De Grasse, blockading our vessels. But they can’t catch us, sir. Let them try.” As he spoke, the hostile fleet seemed for the first time to notice the approach of the tiny schooner, for one of the stetely three deckcrs that was lying hove-to,along with the rest, filled her maintopsail and came down, like a po) der- ous and unwieldy elephant marching to tram- ple on a rat. The schooner kept straight on her course, as if to meet the man-of-war, but, when within a few cable lengths, suddenly tacked, and ran under the first-rate’s stern. The Frenchman, evidently thinking she was the learer of sonie message, hove to, and in so doing, allowed the schooner to shoot to windward, while he drift- ed alee. The little schooner continued on her course without deigning to balt for the Frerch ship, and was instantly warned of the danger lv a gun from the dark sides of the sh’p. But the water was too rough for good practice, | though the shot whistled between the schocne1’s In spite of his miserable state, Everard started | masts, and Everard could see that the iuse | practiced had put the whole line of the hostie chief, whose head-quarters are at Morristown.” | ‘after a Yankee schooner. The only danger ‘* All’s fair in war,” returned John Barbour, indifferently. first as last. Your general owns an interest in this vessel, and has been trading with New | York ever so long. I have been his avent. We cooked up this plot together ourselves, and the forces, what has been woven round you for the last six months. Come, boy, l’m your father. I brought you up in truth and honor. would counsel you to do wrong? don the sinking cause of these insolent rebels, and join the armies of your king as an officer and a gentleman, I have worked and toiled for this end for months, Everard, when you thought ! me cold. Why should vou cling to these peo- ple? The very girl whose influence engaged you with them has been false to you, and she who is worth a hundred such, a lady of wealth and refinement, stands ready to merry you to- morrow. You cannot hesitate, boy. Nay, you'll join us.” Everard trembled all over. * Leave me, sir,” he said, in a low tone. “You have woven the web of deceit too well. I may be disgraced without meriting it, but I will never consent to it willingly.. Consider me a prisoner.” , “You're excited, boy,” sift John Barbour, | soothingly. ‘* You shall have due time to con- | sider, and remember that Miss Lacy will be in New York when we get there.” And John Barbour returned on deck, leaving | Everard in a maze of doubt and di ir. CHAPTER XXV. RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. | In spite of John Barbour’s prediction as to best thing you can do is to join the king’s | You cannot escape the consequences of | “You may as well know it all, | fleet alee. It was all that was necessniy. Large square-rigged ships as they were, they were nowhere in a chase dead to windward, remained in their guns, while the little verscl remained within range, and they paereely realized this. First one and then ancther of the ships opened fire on the audacious little hockcr, that was laying over to the northwester, till the sea flowed in at ber lee scuppers, bugging the wind closely, the shot flying over and aroviid her, and sending showers of spray over her | decks. Do you think I | No. Aban- | But, as if by a miracle, she was untouched by the first broadside, and after that the danger grew less every momen with increasing dis- tance. As if in saucy cefiance, the red field and Union-jack of the British ensign was flung / out over the taffrail of the little vessel, and greeted with a perfect tempest of shot. “A miss is as good as a mile,” quo’h John Barbour, coolly, as he watched the harmless balls go skipping over the sea. ‘“‘ A little more, and hey! for old England.” Everard said nothing. His mood of mind was inexpressibly bitter. He was fatally com- promised. Even if the French vessels took the schooner, how could he explain his own presence on board a blockade runner under the English flag? And yet the natural excitement of tle chase had buoyed bim up for awhile, till he saw that the schooner was fast dropping the men-of-war, and already had errived clcse to Coney Island. As she ‘went about” for the posite shore, she bad again to run the gantlet 0 of the fleet’s broadsides, but they were at too | great a distance now to be dangerous, and seemed to have come to the sullen conclusion that the impudent schooner must escape, for they remained hove to, and only a few lonr- _ range shots were fired, none of which damage! | | time, it was fully five days before the schooner | _ approached the harbor of New York. Although her course down the Delaware river had been excessively <r owing to the favoring gale, | once outside of Cape May, troubles set in. The wind kept in its old quarter, and consequently | was directly in their teeth. Everard, tormen- ted with sea-sickness, and miserable with men- tal troubles, seeing no way of escape from the web of treachery woven round him by the hand | of his own father, was only conscious of being about here and there, wishing he could die and end it all. But at the end of the third day the schooner, the schooner. Once inside the harbor, John Barbour heed: his course up the Narrows and spoke gravely 1» his son. “Everard,” he said, “you have worn thers uniform long enough. If you wish to enter Ni w York as a prisoner, you can do s0, but I we uli! advise you to go below and put on a suit of lain clothes. I am going to present you to Sir enry Clinton as soon as we land. Decice quickly, and do not forget your real duty to your father in your own idea of duty to your country, as you call it.” Everard had been walking the quarter- deck, sullen and reserved, thinking over some means of escape from his predicament. As his which had been driven far ont of | or course in father finished speaking, he vurned and gazed

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Se = ee see something there. “Tell me, sir,” he said, pointing to a tall ser with a cross-piece at the top, “ what is that? “That? Why, that’s a gibbet, boy.” * Anl they hang spies there, is it not so?” asked Everard, i Yes,” said John Barbour. ‘The last they hung was a fellow called Hale, that Washington sent out to spy on Howe’s lines,” * Nathan Hale?” asked Everard, with a strange glitter in his eye. ‘* Ay, L believe so. Why do you ask?” ‘No matter, sir,” said Everard. ‘‘I have taken my resolve. Do with me as you will. I will join the British army if you wish.” Jobn Barbour started back in surprise one minute, and then he wrung his son’s hand warmly. “T knew it, my boy,” said the obstinate old Tory, choking with joy. “I thought you couldn’t come here and see the good old flag of your king waving over his country, without your neart warming to it. Everard, you shall never repent it. Sir Henry Clinton has promised you a commission in the finest corps of soldiers on this continent, the glorious Queen’s Rangers of gelsnt Simcoe. How do you like that, my ad? “Tt will do as well as any thing, I suppose sir,” said Everard, indifferently.’ “W en a man turns traitor, it makes but little difference where he goes. You have your pleasure now. Do with me as you will.” ‘Then go down-stairs and get off that ugly dress that makes you look like a yellow bird,” said John Barbour, sarcastically. ‘‘We call the men who wear it traitors, not those who come back to their duty at last. I tell you, sir, lam proud of my work so far. See that your obstinate folly does not make me repent I took the trouble. Go and dregs, sir.” Everard turned on his heel, and went below, | astrange expression of determination to do some deed especially hateful, impressed on his countenance, ‘* { will do it,” he muttered to himself, below. “T have been the victim of fraud, and with fraud will I repay it. General, look to yourself. I have belfeved in you for a long time. Now I have found you out. The world shall, soon.” Slowly he stripped off his uniform coat, an kissed the solitary epaulet sadly, as if in farewell. ‘*T cannot wear the colors of freedom,” he roid. “Then what matters what else I do wear? Let it be black, for my soul is in mourning.” tle opened his valise, and took out a dark velvet suit, such as might be worn by any gen- tieman in those days, and in a short time was transformed from a Continental officer to a pliin civilian. He came on deck, to be warmly his father, and find the vessel to nearing Governor’s Island, while boats were pulling out to meet her from many places. fuside of an hour they were safely moored close to the bite slopes of the Battery, and Everard foun the enemy, arm in arm with his father. Every thing looked novel and exciting to him, the scarlet uniforms of the soldiers on guard at the pa of the different superior officers, the ritish flag, which he had last seen bik in the smoke of battle, floating peacefully from the flag-staff on Fort George, which stood just where the Produce Exchange stands now. is fathe> seemed to be well known to every one, for he was met with familiar greetings at every corner, and Everard had noticed before that | no interruptions from guards or custom officers a taken place since their entering the har- rs They went up Broadway till they approached Wall street, then the home of the ultra fashion- ables of New York, down which John Barbour turned. He had resumed the swagger which he had put on at Philadelphia, at the time he first met his son after their year’s separation. John had pu cn all his fine clothes, and flourished a clouded cane with all the airs of a Macaroni or dandy of those days. ’ They turned down Wall street, and very soon stopped at a large brick house, at the door of wlich the elder Barbour knocked. It was opened by a servant who seemed to th'nk it was all right, for he ushered them in w thout a word; and Everard found himself, \ a little more, standing in a large drawing- yom, face to face with Charlotte Lacy! CHAPTER XXVI. AT HEAD-QUARTERS. A snort, stout man, in a rich scarlet uni- form, that proclaimed him a general officer in 119 British service, was sea at a table in a ]. pause at the bottom of Broadway, looking out © a window toward the mouth of the bay. A till and exceedingly-handsome and elegant- | oking officer stood respectfully near him, as if awaiting orders, The room was one of those Jarge, somewhat dingy apartments, full of solid comfort and in- tonsely respectable ugliness, that were the rule ted by | himself entering the quarters of | Double-Death. — in New York in those days, and whereof a few specimens even now linger here and there in some localities. A large sea-coal fire burned in the old-fash- ioned grate, for the day was intensely cold, as New York always is under the influence of a *“north-wester ” such as was then blowing. ‘* What schooner’s that, major?’ asked the stout general, pointing toa small schooner ly- ing at her moorings by the Batterv, rocking i “IT didn’t see her there this morn- ‘*She only came in when we were at dinner, Sir Henry,” answered the major. ‘‘That’s the Sea Gull, sir. You remember hearing guns at Sandy Hook this morning? ’Twas the Sea Gull running the blockade, sir.” ‘*Humph! humph!” said Sir Henry Clinton, for he it was. ‘Sea Gull, eh? Letters from our friend Gustavus, I suppose, eh, major?” ‘*T have just received one, sir,” responded the officer. ‘‘We were right about the person. John Barbour and the Queen of our Secret Agents have both been shadowing him, and have indubitable proofs at last, that it is none other than the major-general who gave poor Burgoyne such trouble a year or two ago. By- the-by, general, Miss Lacy has sent word that she desires to wait on you. She arrived the day before yesterday.” “Humph! humph!” again grunted the baro- net. ‘‘Seems to me, Andre, that you manage didn’t you tell me about Miss Lacy before? I want to see her at once. Senda messenger for her. ‘Very good, general,” and the adjutant-gen- eral of the British forces wheeled about with military precision, and left the room. Sir Henry Clinton was a very ordinary man, | withbut little talent, raised by good luck toa po- | sition above his abilities. of a regimental quartermaster. But Sir Henry | Clinton was se’ fond of employing spies, and | really imagined himself a second Richelieu in as- | tuteness. iss Charlotte Lacy, an ardent Roy- | alist of very great talents and wealth, had been | raised by him, from a variety of causes, to the | position of chief of the detective service, with a | vast number of agents in her employ, and the control of all the subsidies of money, then deem- ed so necessary in warfare, besides the presents given from year to year to the Indians. She | had earned her position by her devotion to the royal cause, patt ws the valuable intelligence she had frequently sent in. Her beauty, no doubt, | was a considerable element in her favor with | Sir Henry, for like most men of his build and face, the baronet was of a strongly amative temperament. He remained looking out of the window at the schooner, half musing, half muzzy—for it was after dinner, and Sir his bottle of port at that meal—till Major An- | dre’s return roused him from his somewhat con- | fused reflections. ruptly inquired then, ““Mr. John Barbour, the Albany lawyer, who | bad all his property confiscated, and who has | been one of our most valuable secret agents in | ‘“‘He has a | Philadelphia,” replied the major. | pass from us to come and go freely, and, be- | gad, Sir Henry, he’s managed to procure one | from the American Commander-in-chief him- | self, through our friend Gustavus,” e British general seemed to be greatly | amused at this relation, for he laughed heartily. | Then he inquired: ‘* And Miss Lacy—where is she?” ‘Tf I mistake not, that is her carriage, now,” / said Andre, as the rumble of wheels became audible at the door. ‘I senta mounted orderly, full speed, to her house, and I know her carriage | has been waiting the message for over an hour.” The major wasright. The clatter of the order- ly dragoon in waiting was heard down the hall, the door flew open, and the orderly announced in a loud voice: “ Miss Lacy anl!/Mr. Barbour!” ‘““Mr. Barbour, Mr. Barbour!” muttered Sir Henry, irritably. ‘‘ What the deuceis Mr. Bar- | bour tome? I didn’t want Mr. Barbour.” The next moment he was mollified by the ap- —— of the lovely face and figure of Char- otte Lacy, who sailed in, dressed in the richest costume of that splendidly dressed era, followed | by Everard Barbour, who remained movdestly | retired, | Miss Lacy advanced, with the high-bred ease _ and grace that seemed innate inher. She made a sweeping courtesy in return for Sir Henry’s low bow, and permitted the gallant baronet to kiss her hand with perfect graciousness. _ | “Fairest Miss Lacy,” said Sir Henry, in the | grandiloquent fashion of the time, ‘you are @ most welcome sight to your poor slave’s eyes. | You beam goodness from every line of your | beautiful face.” __ {*Thanks, genera .” she answered, smiling. ‘‘T have, indeed, brought good news, and a good | friend to bis majesty’s service. Major Andre has, no doubt, told you part of my news already. We bave fonnd Gustavus, and I have seen him face to face, | all these spies to please yourself. Why the deuce | His fat, red face gave | | little token of any thing beyond the mediocrity | enry always finished | “Who owns the Sea Gull, Andre?’ he ab- | He will soon be eure, general, | All he wants is a good stiff price, and that I have promised him in your name. | “The promise s be ratified,” said Sir Henry, graciously. ‘Upon my honor, Miss Lacy, you are worth a dozen men to find out secrets. And who is this Poune gentleman?” “The son of Mr. John bour, whom your Till a week ago he was aid-de-camp to—whom think yout—to Gusta- wus! To-day he has returned to bis duty and his king, and desires employment in his ma jesty’s forces. General, I have promised it tohim. Will you keep my promise?” . Charlotte ey seemed to be radiant with triumph at the final success of her plans, Ever- ard mentally swore that she had never looked so beautiful before. Sir Henry Clinton, on his art, was unusually pleasant end gracious, for fim, His manner was ordinarily very gruff and distant, making him quite unpopular among troops ana citizens, but to-day seemed to have ' changed him. The news made him as radiant as Charlotte. ' He grasped Everard’s hand, shook it warmly, and said: ‘“You are welcome to his majesty’s service, Mr. Barbour. Those repentant ones who abjure their errors as you have, and are ready to atone them by fighting on the right side, his majesty is always ready to pardon and reward. I pro- | mised your father a commission for a friend of his, in the Queen’s Rangers. You shall have it, sir. Colonel Simcoe is going to review them here this very afternoor, so that you may see | how you like your future comrades. You can see them from that window, for the first bugle | has sounded already.” With that Sir Henry made ashort, half-polite, half-imperative wave of the hand, as much as to Excellency knows. say: “Don’t bother me any more. Good-morning, sir.” Everard found himself dismissed without an opportunity to say a word, while Sir Henry drew Miss Lacy to the further end of the room and engaged her in a long and mysterious con- versation. The young man had nothing to do but obey Sir Henry’s indication, and saunter to | the window, where he stood looking down on | the open expanse of the Bowling Green, then | used as a drilling-place. Opposite to him was | the wall of Fort George, the gates flanked by sentries in scarlet uniforms. | As Everard looked, the tears came to bis eyes. | He thought of the simple blue and yellow of bis old companions, and wondered if he should ever _see them again. He had entered the enemy’s country, and was about the enter their service _ resolved to escape the first opportunity, an turn his acquired knowledge to his country’s ser- vice; but the part of spy revolted him, and he hated to begin it. He stood by the broad window, looking down, and presently the sound of a cavalry bugle, blowing “ To horse,” struck bis ear, The British signals were the same as those used by the Con- ' tinentals then. ’ ; Soon he saw the sidewalks begin to be lined with rows of gazers, looking up Broadway, as if at something coming down, and he stretched his neck to see. Before long the form of a mounted officer came into view, and the band over at Fort George simultaneously struck up ‘God Save the Queen,” while the people on the sidewalks cheered faintly. Everard could see | that British troops occupying New York had not loyalized the inhabitants to any great ex- tent, although they liked to see the brilliant parades. : He turned his eyes again up the street, and beheld the head of a column o ae , of most soldierly appearance, marching down six ahedeen da Letter order than he had ever seen before. Their uniform was remarkably picturesque, being in the beautiful and romantic huzzar fashion, of dark-green cloth, barred with black; the hanging jacket, trimmed with fur, slun gallantly over the left shoulder. The men all earried carbines and pistols as well as sabers, and their snow-white cords, and polished Hes- sian boots with black tassels, were the perfec- tion of neatness and natty completeness. The horses all seemed to step together, and the dressing of the sections of six was absolute- ly perfection, as Everard was forced to acknow- ledgg to himself. ‘Well, Mr. Barbour,” said a voice close be- side him, ‘‘ do you think that General Washing- ton has any better cavalry among his men than the Queen’s Rangers? How do you like your | future comrades, sir?’ Everard turned and beheld the handsome, _ smiling face of Major Andre. ‘““They are fine troops, sir,” he answered, gravely. ‘Our men fought them at German- town the year before last, and beat them.” Andre smiled. ‘And since then Colonel Simcoe has made soldiers out of recruits. Let us go down, sir. I will introduce you to Colonel Simcoe.” CHAPTER XXVII. BETWEEN TWO FIRES. | ‘We must pass over a period of more than a year, and bring the reader to the summer of

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ew no the year 1780, when a small party of cavalry in . the dark and handsome uniform of the Queen’s Ranger Hussars, were riding slowly along a narrow country lane in the vicinity of Paulus’ Hook (now Jersey City). The men were all stout, active young fellows, who rode with their ‘carbines at the “‘ advance,” the butt resting on the hip, while their keenly observant look, scanning the fields on every side, announced that they were scouting in dangerous ground. They rode in a small, compact body, with a sin- gle vedette about two hundred paces in front, another the same distance in the rear, while two more occupied the flanks, and kept a wary look-out through the fields. Along with the advanced vedette rode a young officer, whose handsome dress bore the gold-lace adornments of a captain, on the sleeves. It was none other than Everard Bar- bour, to all appearance an active partisan offi- cer of the British, by this time. The country around them was flat, and rich, the fieids heavily loaded with -wheat, nearly ripe for the sickle, while — of wood here and there, scattered thickly over the face of the country, showed how lately it had been re- claimed from the forests that once covered it. The young captain was out on a scout on the extreme right of the British forces, which had recently landed near Elizabethport, and were advancing on Washington’s forces at Morris- town. The country between them seemed to be entirely deserted, and the few houses the scout- rty had met with were empty of people. Hieerard looked anxious and careworn, For over a year he had been trying to make his escape, and had been so closely watched as to render it impossible. During all the time sub- ject to the subtle influence of Charlotve Lacy, and believing Marian Neilson false, he had been sorely tempted to make his desertion real ; and yet some lingering sentiment of suspicion that all was not true that he had been told, kept him faithful. He was not even engaged to be mar- ried to Charlotte, spite of his father’s constant urgings and the open encouragement given him by the lady. : ; : And now, at last, convinced of his fidelity to their cause, the British Generals had trusted him out on a reconnoissance with a portion of his own troop, to ascertain the location of some light troops of the enemy, said to be hovering between Morristown and Paulus’ Hook. “ There a rebel, captain!” said the ad- vanced vedette, suddenly, pointing across a field to the left front. Everard looked, and beheld a man on a black horse, dressed in the pale half-frock of his old friends, Morgan’s ree ae galloping at an easy pace across a flat in plain view, making for a wood to the right. The young captain reined up his own magnificent animal, a perfect thoroughbred, and put him at the low, snake fence at the side of the road. “Wait for me, boys,” he said, briefly, and dashed across the field toward the strange horse- man. He had formed a plan of escape already. The stranger did not appear to be at all alarm- ed at the approach of a single enemy. On the contrary, be deliberately turned his horse to- ward the rail fence which still se ted them —for be was one field off—unslung the short rifle at his back, and threw it into the hollow of his left arm, as if not deigning toshoot. Everard drew a pistol as he came, and imita- ted his companion’s motion. He, too, rode up to the fence, and across it, with almost doubting eyes, upon the face and form of Double-Death the scout! Tim knew him at a glance, though Everard was far the most altered of the two. The Irishman’s face getthered into a stern frown, and he looked grim and joyful at the same time, as he said: “So ther Barbour, ve met ye at last, ‘have I?’ You have indeed, Tim,” said Everard, sadly; ‘“*and I suppose, like the rest, you think me a traitor and turn-coat?” ‘* Bedad, I don’t think it, at all,” said Tim, sternly. ‘‘ Didn’t I know it when ye deserted poor Marian, the angel, for the beautiful . she-divil, the Sry Quess, as they call her? By the howly Cross, Misther Barbour, ye did a fool- ish thing to gallop here to mate me to-day.” ‘* You're wrong, Tim,” said Everard, quietly. “T carry my lifein my own hand, and a pistol is as good asa rifle here.” § Maye yes, maybe no,” said Tim, still frown- ing. ‘“ What did ye come here for, an way? Is it to ask if Miss Marian’s alive? thanks to you, ye traitor.” _ “T su as much,” said Everard, stung by the scout’s tone, ‘‘I hope she enjoys the so- ciety of her husband, Black Eagle. I have heard all about their precious gn % Bg looked halt angry, half puzzled as he said: “Black Eagle! What the divil are ye talk- in’ about? B. Eagle was kilt at the Che- mung, a year agone, and Tim Murphy’s the b’y that shot him.” i “And I euppcas that his widow is quite read to be consoled,” said Everard, sneeringly. $ wonder you d-n’t make love to her, Tim?” “Widdy! Black Bagle, is it? Sure he left e is, no —— iu —“———-— oor eenn— ns eee ssss9SsSsSsssSsaaaiann Double-Death. none,” ssid Tim, simply. Astonishment seemed to be taking the place of anger for a while. ‘* Well, then, call her Marian Neilson,” said Everard, impatiently. ‘*‘Why don’t you marry her, if you’re so fond of her?’ ‘‘TIs it me, now?” asked Tim. ‘‘Sure and I haven’t a chance. If she hadn’t’a’ made me promise not to hurt yez, ye’d ’a’ been a dead man afoor now, Misther Barbour. And I’m thinkin’ she’s jist a fool to care for yez at all, afther ye’ve been and coorted the Jezebel Spy Queen for two years.” Everard started. ‘*Stop, Tim,” he said, in trembling tones. ‘*Do you mean to tell me that Marian Neilson has not been married all this time to Black Eagle, chief of the Senecas, as I was told?” “Who tould ye?’ demanded Tim, fiercely. ‘¢ He’s a lyin’ son of a say-cook, that’s what he ' is, the man that tould ye. Didn’t I resky her myself from the claws of Black Eagle, two years agone, and didn’t the purty creature kape me from killin’ him, and he near dyin’ then? Marry an Injun, bedad! Have ye no betther stoory than that to hide yer tr’ason behind, Misther Barbour?” Everard did not notice Tim’s last words. “Will you swear that Marian is true, and has been true to me all this time?” he asked, ea- gerly. ‘And more’s the pity,” said Tim, sulkily. ** ¥eés, she is,” “Then thank Heaven Iam not too late!” ejaculated Everard. “Too late!” said the scoutin surprise. ‘‘ What d’ye mane?” **T mean that [am not the traitor you have supposed me,” said Everard. “Not a traitor?” and Tim Murphy’s counten- ance lightened up. ‘‘ Prove that, liftinant, and Tim Murphy’ll be the ; roud b’y this day. But no, yeean’t. Ye’re only foolin’me. Can ye deny the bloody British uniform?’ Everard drew a letter from his breast. ‘**Look here, Tim,” he said. “If ever you loved me in the past, and if ever you loved America, take this letter to General Washing- ton. It is too long a story to tell now, but I am not the traitor I seem. A terrible danger menaces this country from a quarter you little expect, and this letter contains the proofs of treason in one so near to the Commander-in- chie? that he does not believe it possible now.” Tim took the letter and put it in his breast. ‘*And what’il yez do yerself?” he asked, nod- ding toward. the party of Queen’s Rangers, who seened to be uneasy, for they were riding up and down behind the road fence, as if look- ing for en opening. “T go back,” said Everard firmly. “I brenght these poor fellows into danger, and I must take them out before I escape myself.” Tin smiled sarcastically. ““JPs too late, liftinant,” he said. ‘* Look yonder.” Everard started, and beheld several horse- men, with glittering wea) ot his party, cutting of British forces. Without another word, he turned and galloped back to his men, bound in | honor as he felt to share their perils and bring | Compelled as he had been by | them out safe. circumstances to act the part of a “py and trai- tor to the British, he could not yet briag him- self to sacrifice the lives of honest soldiers, who fought under a conviction of duty. He was greeted with some confusion by his en. “The rebels have cut us off, captain,” said | one, ‘*They came when you were talking to that countryman,” said another. ‘* We'll have to fight our way back, sir.” Everard scanned the intercepting party through his telescope. They were about as numerous as his own men, and had halted across the road as if to bar retreat to the Queen’s Rangers. He looked round for Tim Murphy and the scout had disappeared. He must have gone off atarapid pace. Judging from the quiet halt of the enemy Everard presumed that they must be awaiting reinforcements, and felt secure of their prey. They were not regular troops. He was sure of that from their lack of uniform. He recognized them ata glance for a troop of those infamous ruffians who vacillated from one side to the other, for of plunder, called alternately ‘‘Cowboys™ and ‘‘Skinners,” ac- cording to the side under which they took ser- | vice. His natural hesitation to fight against the Continental troops was banished from the mo- ment he saw the foes he had to deal with. It was good service to either side to clear off such scums as these. ‘* Boys,” said Prerard to his men, who were gathered in the lane, uncertain which way to go, ‘“‘we must drive those fellows out of our road, back. I’ve found what we wanted to know, and that man was a secret agent of ours with whom I was talking. Take downa panel of that fence.” Instantly one of the men was off his horse, and a panel of the loose snake fence was hurried- ly thrown down, over the ruins of which the ms on the other side | their retreat to the | TET 5 Apr ENE I PSA, horses of the Queen’s Rangers bounded into the field, and formed line. The Skinners were in another field, on either side of the road, and there were several gaps in the fence, so that the way was clear between them. ; **Draw pistols and charge!” cried Everard, and away went the little body in a straight un- wavering line, in admirable order, full speed on the enemy. The Skinners commenced firing from on horseback, as soon as the Rangers star't- ed, a sure sign of confusion with horsemen. The Rangers never fired a shot till they were close by, and then they sent a volley in and drew their sabers, The shock was momentary only. The undisciplined miscreants composing the Skinners fled at the first blow of the well- trained Rangers, and the way seemed open to Elizabethport, when the sound of a bugle was heard from a wood at the side of the road. It blew the charge / The next minute, with a shock at his heart he never forgot, Everard recognized the wniform of his own old regiment, the Third Dragoons as a whole squadron of them swept out full — from the wood, and charged the unhappy ngers full in flank. There was no stopping those fellows. Everard knew them in a moment, and turned his horse to flee. The English rangers saw the madness of resistance and turned also. In an instant the fortune of the day was changed, and Everard was a fugitive from his old comrades. galloping as fast as his horse would go. Luckily for him that horse was a splendid animal, capable of clearing any fenceor ditch. His followers were not so well off. Everard knew that the first fence would see most of them taker prisoners. He went straight for the field in whick he had met ear and the gallant horse cieared the high rail fence, far in advance of the heavy chargers of the dragoons. Everard pulled up and looked round. As he had anticipated, pistol- shots and saber-cuts were exchanging on the other side of the first fence, and his poor fol- lowers were surrendering to his old comrades, right and left. t was a strange feeling that animated his bosom as he looked, half regret, half pride, and then it was turned into anxiety for his own fate, for what should he do if he was taken prisoner now, but suffer the death of a desertcr? He knew he had no mercy to expect from his old comrades, yet. “*T must flee,” he said to himself, ‘till Wash- ington has seen my letter. Then i shall have « chance,” | The whistle of several bullets round his ears | announced to him that some of his old friends, even if stopped by the fence, were disposed to try the range of their carbines on him. He | made no more delay, but turned his horse and | galloped away across another field, at the end of | which a broad ditch formed the boundary. The | horse cleared it with ease, and Hesratd tdund | himself in an open wood, where the underbrush had been cleared away, and everything gave signs that he was approaching a house. Pre- sently he spied a broad green lane, leading in the direction of the river, and down this he galloped full speed, feeling confident that he had thrown out most of his pursuers by cutting _ off corners. In a few minutes more the woodland road led him into some open glades, apparently artifi- cia], and he saw at the end of one of these the well-kept beds and brilliant flowers of a garden, ; surrounding a large and handsome Louse. There was no fence, and the young officer gal- | loped across the garden, heedless of the destruc- , tion he committed, out upon a broad smooth lawn that lay behind it, and then pulled up svd- | denly, petrified with surprise and dismay. Thc lawn and house were at the very edge of the Palisades, and a sheer precipice of rock forbid all further progress. _Franticaily he wheeled his horse, and dashed along the edge of, the cliffs, trying to think of a way of escape. He knew that if he rode up the river, he was riding toward the American encampments, and i: down, numerous pursuers were after him. The first way there was a bare possibility of escape. The last there seemed none. Setting bis teeth, he galloped away up the river, ng the edge of the cliffs, to try the desperate chance of running the gantlet and bee the river, if a boat was unprocura- e. CHAPTER XXVIII TIM MURPHY’S HALT. A PARTY of young, men, three in number. were lurking at the edge of a wood about thir tiles beyond the spot where Everard had been taken in ambush so cleverly. They wore the half-civil, half-military dress, which, with their | arms and the place where they were, sufficéent- | ly announced their occupation. They were the bandits of the Neutral Ground, whether Cow- boys or Skinners it was difficult to tell, for they were accustomed to change sides about once a month for the sake of plunder. | AJjl three were lurking close to the road, sc | as to command it, themselves unseen, and to be able to spring out in a minute on any one. “Look out, Brown,” said one o? them, “3, eas

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20 hear a fellow coming at a gallcp. Let’s plug him, whoever he is.” ‘* Maybe he’s one of ourside,” returned Brown, with aleer. ‘You wouldn't plug a good Brit- on, would ye, Williams?” ** Jess as soon as Johnny Bull, ef he had the rhino,” said Williams, laughing. coarsely. ** Let’s plug him, whoever he is. Hey, Pauld- ing, ain’t that so—hey—old boy ?” ‘The one called Pauldine was the best lookin of the three. He made no reply but a signa for attention, as the gallop of a horse became vainly audible on the road. The next moment a horseman came tearing around the corner of te wood at full speed, and all three of the ban- «.ts sprung out and presented their muskets, shouting, Halt !” The stranger was none other than Tim Mur- phy, and the scout was not the man to be stop- ped with impunity. A pistol leaped from his Lolster the very instant the first bandit con- fronted him, and he shot the nearest man through the body and dashed-son. But the second, with presented bayonct, was already in front of the horse, and the animal shied violent- ly. The third man clubbed his musket at the s°me moment, and dealt Tim a blow on the side of the head, with such force that tho rifle- man dropped senseless from his horse, and the second man seized the creature by the bridle. The man who bad knocked down Double-Death sprung on him as he lay, and at once proceeded to rifle him of all his movables, with a dexterity that told of long practice. The man called Paulding led the horse into the wood, and fastened it to a tree, when he re- turned to the pe where Brown was rifling Tim Murpby’s body. Williams lay in the road, bleeding profusely, and evideitly almost dead. “Say, Paulding,” said Brown, ferociously, “let’s kill the darned thief. He’s shot Wil- liams,” ‘“* Not while I’m here,” said Paulding, firmly. **'The man only defended his life, and he sha’n’t be murdered.” ‘* Murdered!” said the Skinner, sarcastically. “Who talks cf murder? Ain’t we soldiers of his majesty this arternoon? Let’s kill the darn- ed rebel.” “You may bea Tory. I’m not,” said Pauld- ing. ‘'We’ve done enough to the r fellow. Let’s tio him to a treo and go. e’ve got a horse and money. You keep the money, and Til keep the horse.” **See you in Tophet first,” responded Brown, politely. ‘* Didn’t I knock the man down?’ * And didn’t I catch kis horse?’ asked Pauld- ing, ‘What are you talking of? I say you che’n’t nvurder that man in cold blood,” “And Isay I'm a-goin’ to finish him,” said Brown, flercely; ‘‘and hero goes for his heart, Dead men tell no tales.” As Lo spoke he drew from his belt along dirk- kni-e, ard kneeling over the prostrate scout, was about to stab him, when Paulding ran for- ward and geve him a kick on the side of the head that sent him reeling to the earth several paces off. With a furious oath the bandit ran to pick up his still undischarged musket, when Paulding leveled his own, and called out: **Don’t ye try it, Dick Brown, or I'll plug ye, sure as fate.” His voice and manner showed that he was in grim earnest, and the bandit quailed for a mo- ment. Then he said: “Darn it all, Jack! Ye wouldn’t shoot yer own cumrad, would ye now? I won’t touch the feller, ef ye don’t want me to.” Paulding was about to answer, when the same sound struck the ears of both at the same time. It was the gallop of a horse coming over the fields, on the other side of a of wood that here bordered the road on both sides, ‘More plunder,” said Brown, rubbing his hands, ‘Say, Jack, let’s be friends. We two can’t afford to quarrel.” ‘“‘ Get the bodies out of the way,” said Pauld- ing, hurriedly. ‘‘ No—it’s too late.” As he spoke the gallop of the horse sounded among the trees, and a mounted officer, in the uniform of the Queen’s Rangers, burst in on the road, pistolin hand. The two bandits leveled their muskets and fired hastil y at him, but with- out effect. _The next minute he had ridden over Eaulang, knocking him down, and had shot Brown dead, the pistol being so close to his head as to singe the hair. Before Paulding could rise, the officer had drawn a second pistol, and was standing over him, saying, sternly: ‘‘Surrender, fellow, or die like a murderous dog as you are,” Paul ing bowed his head, in token of sub- mission, and Everard, for it was he, continued: ‘‘ What were you doing here?” *“‘ Looking out for stragglers from the battle, Cap,” said the man, humbly. “One of our fel- lows had knocked down one of Morgan’s Rangers. and was going to slit bis throat, when I sto’ him. You came up when we were figh ’ Do what you like. I’m tired of this life.” Everard ordered him to get up and follow him, and they went to the body or r Tim Murphy, on bekolding which Everard said: ct here, Villain. If you havo killed that gean, [’)] blovy out your brains.” Double-Death. ‘He ain’t dead, Cap,” said Paulding, ‘* Dick Brown hit bim a lick with his musket-butt, that’s all. He’s coming to now.” And indeed it was true. Tim- Murphy pos- sessed a skull too bard to be broken easily, and just then rubbed his eyes, sat up and said, on seeing Everard: *Liftinint, they’ve got the letther.” ‘‘ Who?” demanded Everard, anxiously. Mr. Murphy scratcbed his head dubiously. ‘‘Sorra one o’ me knows, They gave me a clout that knocked the sivin sinses out of me, bedad, and we in our own counthry; but the letther’s gone, and all me money.” Aud he felt ruefully in his pockets. ‘‘Gosearch your dead companion,” said Ey- erard, sternly, to Paulding, ‘‘and bring back all he took from my friend here.” Paulding looked surprised at a British officer claiming friendship with one of Morgan’s Ran- gers, but he did as he was bid without any use- less words, and brought back to Murphy his money and the letter. Tim was quite restored now. ‘“'Where’s me horse, ye spalpeen?’ he de- manded of the cowed bandit. Without a word Paulding pointed him out, tied to a tree close b Trim walked up to the animal and led him out. ‘“‘Maybe ye know him, liftinant,” he said. ‘*Tt’s the same baste ye rode into wi peer 2 two years ago, and, bedad, a betther horse never stepped. [ll do yer errand, sir, for the sake of Miss Marian, and I’m hopin’ it’s all right; but, by the powers, liftinant, them clothes give yea quare look inside our lines, and if ye take me advice, ye'll get them off pretty quick. They’re purty and iligant, I’m not denyin’, but give me the ould blue and buff for comfort, liftinant. It Vaves room for an honest heart to bate.” And Tim rode slowly off on the road to Morristown, leaving Everard alone with Pauld- ing, pondering over the bitterness of his posi- tion, The bandit was the first to break the silence, **Captain,” he said, ‘‘I know you. 1 saw you with Sir Henry Clinton in the Dutch church, when you came to look at the prison- ers. You’reina bad fix here. You’ve spared my life, and I’m the only one that can save you, if you'll reward me. I’m not a Tory, though those two other fellows were.” CHAPTER XXIX. THE NEUTRAL GROUND. EVERARD looked doubtfully at the other for a moment. ‘* Who are you?” he said. ‘*T’'m a good patriot,” said Paulding, sturdily ; ‘and so, I take it, are you, in spite of the Ranger uniform. I belong to the Westchester county militia, and 1 got taken prisoner a few weeks ago, and carried to New York by a squad of your regiment, the Queen’s Ranger Hussars. Isaw you when I was in the prison in North Dutch Church, and heard you called Captain Barbour. There was a man there prey my J to the Third Continental Dragoons, and told me how you’d deserted from Philadelphia when you were on some general’s staff, and, putting this and that together, I’ve come to the conclu- sion that you ain’t what you seem to be. You look too good for a traitor.” ** And what are you?” asked Everard. *‘ Well, we’re in the same boat, Cap,” return- ed Paulding. ‘‘ You’re in disguise, and soam I. I got out of the yrison in the church, and couldn’t pass the lines no way, except by swim- min’ the river. I got here and joined the fellers you see here. Both of ’em were rank Cowboys, and death on us Yankees, so I had to turn Cow- boy, and rob my own side to save my life. Not but what they’d ’a’ skinned a Britisher as quick as wink if they'd ’a’ been able to find ’em, but there weren’t many in these parts.” “Well,” said Everard, ‘‘and suppose I trust you, how do you propose to get me out of the scrape? My pursuers may very likely be not far off now.” “You must turn Skinner,” said Paulding, promptly, ‘Leave your horse, take off that dress, and cross the river with me. Once on the Neutral Ground, we’re all safe.” Everard sighed. ‘*Leave my poor horse?” he said. ‘‘ Alas, he is all I have now.” ** Well, Cap, if ye want to be hung fora spy, ye can stay, said the Skinner, firmly. ‘That orse can’t cross no river, and our path lies right over the edge of that bank.” 6 pointed through the woods beyond them, where the white line of the water could be seen through the trees, and the edge of the precipice called the Palisades was plainly Jiscernible. ‘We've got a boat at the foot of the rocks,” he said, “and we were going to cross to the Neu- tral Ground this very night. Will you come with me?” “‘T will,” said Everard, making his determina- tion. ‘I may as well trust you as any one. I | am a patriot officer, involved in a vile plot by royal hee To save my life and honor I pre- tended to desert to the British, but only to gath- the ranger carried away containsthe news. Till that reaches him IL aim liable to be shot as a de- serter. If it goes safe, I shall soon be safe too, Now let me see what you can do to save your country and help me.” “4: Very good, Cap,” said Paulding, respect- fully. ‘‘I can tell an officer when I see him. Now, sir, you must strip off those British clothes and put on Jim Williams’s duds. You’re about a size, Over in the Neutra! Ground, I’ve got lots of friends, and we’ll ‘ig a band of Skinners till you hear news that’l! €o you good. Come, sir, we hain’t no time to lose. All this shooting will bring down dragoons pretty soon.” Everard saw the justice of the remark, It grieved him sorely to part with his noble horse, but it was a stern necessity. Occupied as the country was by regular troops, he was not safe a minute where he was. In the Neutral Ground of Westchester county he would be safe, for a while, and could hear news from Marve And what was this Neutral Ground? It was a belt of country surrounding New York, and stretching to within a few miles of the Americen outposts. It was called the ‘‘ Neutral Ground,” and might have been a very pleasant piace to live in, but for one unpleasant fact. Neutral Ground was a misnomer. It should have been called ‘*Common Ground.” It was common to both parties, end the only neutrals who lived on it were the poor fermers. They were impartially plundered by both sides. The State of New York, in its wisdom, had enacted a law that any person cr persons tound driving catile over this Neutral Ground, toward New York, should be adjudged e) cmies of the State, as giving aid and comfort to the British, Consequentiy they might be fired on by an good patnot, who might also convert the cattle to his own use. The last clause made this the most popular of laws. It gave cattle toany one who could shoot a Tory or etch acow grazing with her nose to- ward New York. This was not the original intention of the law, perhaps, but it was its effect. The resuit was that a class of gentlemen betook themselves to finding cattle for a living, not being verv par- ticular as to where they found them. It was always easy to swear that the cattle were being driven to New York ‘‘to help the blasted Brit- ishers.” The blasted Britishers retaliated, and made midnight raids on the cow-houses of their West- chester neighbors, far and near. From their peculiar way of warfare, the ir- regular troops on both sides acquired the name of ‘* Cowboys.” Finally the British became so bun after beef in New York that their parties became strong enough to drive out those of the other persuasion, and the name of ‘‘ Cowboy ” became applicable only to the British military thieves. he sons of liberty aud pluncer on the other side of the Neutral Ground saw their usual stolen beef cut off, and were compelled to hang around the skirts of the American army proper earning a precarious livelihood by occasional raids on the unhappy farmers. They, poor creatures, had lost almost all they had, and it was difficult to get any more out of them. The thieves were equal to the emergency, and pulled up the vegetables in the gardens, besides stripping the poor people of their clothes. From this excess of administrative ability they obtained the name of “Skinners,” and they deserved it. Ih was to a band of these interesting gentle- men that our unfortunate hero was about to be introduced, and to which he unwillingly follow- ed Paulding, as the only means of escape before him from the certain ruin of capture in New Jersey by his old regiment. He’ descended the Palisades with some diffi- culty, by a cleft known to Paulding, leaving his horse turned loose to graze, and crossed the river in a boat, _once more a penniless fugitive, now liable to be shot by either side. It was sunset when the two men pulled from shore. CHAPTER XXX, THE SKINNERS’ RECRUIT. Nor far from Tarrytown stood a large de- serted farm-house, in the middle of neglected fields. It wus at the edge of the Neutral Ground, and had suffered heavily from the war. Cow- boys and Skinners bad alike been impartial in plundering the unhappy cwner, and the latter, finally disheartened by his many losses, had abandoned his farm, and gone off no one knew where. . On the night of the cay_in which Everard made his escape with John Paulie a number of men were gathered together in this old house, which was quite sheltered from view in the midst of thriving orchards, the cnly remains of cultivation left now. They were seated cy !* ing down on the bare floor of the lerc« A" er a sufficient quantity of inte ligence fob of | fastioned kitchen—all the furniture cf * louse had disappeared long befary—talking to- ‘value to the Commander-in-chief, That letlor

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ther lazily, with a general aspect of waiting for some one or something. A fire burned in the large fire-place, made of the dryest kind of timber, cut and eo to all appearance for cther purposes. What it was, and the reckless character of the men, could be inferred from the blows of an ax in the very next room, and the fall of plaster. Some one was hacking down the pirtition of a room to make firewood of the studs and laths. “TTillo, Van Wart, hurry up with your wood! Fire’s getting low,” growled a spotted-face1 young man in homespun suit, who lay on the floor, with the butt of a rusty fowling-piece for a pillow. ‘Come and help cut yourself, you lazy loaf- er!” responded the amiable voice of the chopper in the next room. ‘ Darned if I’m going to do all the work to heat your carcasses. I’m through for to night.” Presently the sound of a heavy fall of plaster was heard, followed by breaking wood; and a stout, sturdy-looking young fellow, with the face of mingled cunning and stupidity that be- longs to the country bumpkin, toiled into the room, slowly lugging behind him three or four square studs in a bundle. He tramped across | the floor, regardless of any one lying in the | way, and cast down his burden with a crash that shook the whole house, saying: ‘Look out for your legs, Jim Requa. I’ve done. Youcan cut them up, if you like.” The spotty-faced youth jumped up nimbly | as to the | money off the secret, for that was the ruling | n | | taking.” . Double-Death. ol a-lyin’ in the river, up to Haverstraw. So me | for some time, althovgh he had failed to notice and Dave we pulls up as near her as we could get, and seen a boat put off from t’other side | an side the water. Now, fellers, there’s some bloody treason a-goin’ on there, and me and you kin make the rhino ef we find out all about it—hey, fellers?” The information roused the curiosity of the Skinners, and a consultation took place at once, t course to be pursued to make motive with both Cowboys and Skinners. the midst of the consultation a second whistle without announced the presence of the captain of the band, and he speedily entered, a man of at size, with a fierce, brutal expression of ace. He had formerly been a regular soldier, but had been drummed out of the army for agree and insubordination, and had become he leader of one of the gangs of desperadoes known as Skinners, which was now assembled | in the house. Under his advice it was resolved that one of the party should be dispatched to Morristown, to inform the Commander-in-chief, and claim a reward for the intelligence of the landing of the British officer, while others should man a boat and prowl round the English vessel, in | | the hope of making more discoveries. A third portion of the band was to watch the | roads in the neighborhood of Tarrytown, and enough, for the heavy studs had nearly fallen | on his feet. ‘‘Where’s the ax, you darned fool?’ was the polite question. “Next room, you darned fool,” was the | ually polite reply, and a horse-laugh from the omer loungers greeted the rustic attempt at wit. \ “You better leave Ike alone, Jim Requa,” ranarked one of them, a heavily-built man, with a black, saturnine face. “He kin as the hull head off you, and slang you to death besides. Take the ax and chop up them studs, and slut up yer head.” Mr. James Requa looked snikily at Tke Van Wart; but the latter looked particularly burly stop any one coming from up the river toward New York. In this portion of the band, Ever- ard and Paulding found themselves, the former under the assumed name of Dave Williams. They were joined by Ike Van Wart and four or and Ike observed, with great satisfac- on: ‘We'll bave easy times, fellers. I kin sit on my hinder eend on the grass and watch a road as good as the next man. Let ‘em go, them other fellers. Ef they finds out any more nor we do, _ Tm satisfied.” just then, and the spotty-faced youth turned | and went into the next room, whence he re- | turned with the ax. ; The vengeful way in which Jim ua made the chips fly, cutting up those studs on the kitchen floor, was painful to see. He sent one flying into Van Wart’s eye, and maliciously prolonged his work so as to give the greatest disco.nfort to all present, eliciting many an oath and threat of vengeance if he didn’t “ quit foolin’.” But James seemed quite determined to have a row; and a row he had soon enough, for Ike Van Wart jumped up and sent him spinning into the fire, which was the signal for a general free fight, in which this happy family tumbled about on the floor, biting, scratching, and youging with refreshing ardor. In the midst of the turmoil, when the battle was at its hight, the sound of a shrill whistle without put a stop toit. Every man let go of his neighbor, and scrambled to his gun, which lay, rusty and dirty, in some corner, and then ran to the windows to look out, as if expecting some one. ‘*Here he is! here comes Cap!” cried several | voices, as two figures approached the door in the darkness. “*Tain’t Cap, fellers. 1t’s me, Jack Pauld- ing ” called out one of the men outside, in defi- ance of grammatical propriety. ‘‘ Me and an- other feller, and we’ve got news for yer.” There were general exclamations of welcome as Paulding approached. He seemed to be a favorite with his old comrades, who were the identical band of Skinners he had promised Ev- erard to conduct him to. He now came in at the door, accompanied by the latter, who was completely disguised in the shabby old clothes of the dead Williams. : “Say, fellers,” said Paulding, as his friends crowded around him; *‘ I’ve breught a recruit ye, and his name’s Dave Williams. He’sa to reg’lur snorter to fight, he is, and me and him street together, swum the river, and we’ve been | bangin’ around He wants to jine us. Will ye have him?” “ Sartin.” ‘*Why not?” ‘* Hooroar fur Dave Williams!” Exclamations of this sort greeted our hera, who was too much emba by the novelty of his panting to say much in reply. Paulding relieved him of the n continuin asgen bled. over in Jersey, makin’ a livin’, | his remarks to the select vn dha | Say, fellers, that ain’t all I’ve got to tell | er. t tother side of the river afore we could and we cum over just arter sunset, ye think, now! we seen a English man-of-war * Now Fulton street to the East river from Broad- way. [The old Nort, Duteh Church has now given place to a block of business ponies Fulton street to the North river was then called Partition creel, as far as the Hoar Market, now Washington vat, ¢ and Dave here, we had to makea | Don’t | | Hehad no means of receiving an Their plans settled, the whole of the amiable crew wrapped themselves in horse-blankets, etc., and stretched themselves round the fire to sleep for the night, Everard’s last waking thought being: ‘‘ Has the general got my letter yet?” He knew more of the British man-of-war at Haverstraw than any of his new comrades, but he did not propose to tell his knowledge, till the right time came. CHAPTER XXXI. THE PRIZE. Two days after this four men were seated on the top of a low swell of ground back of Tarry- town, overlooking the road toward White Plains, and commanding a view of the whole country for some distance beyond. A second party, three in number, were on the line of the road itself, where it ran into a hollow. Two of them were seated on the grass behind some bushes, playing cards, while the third stood near by, leaning on his musket and watching the road. This man, who was quite young, stood with his head just overlooking the swell of ground be, ond, and commanding the | road about a mile, while he himself would be en. The sentinel was Everard Barbour. His reflections were by no means pleasant. intelligence from Murphy, and knew not how his letter had been received, and whether it was believed or not. That letter had contained important revelations, on which he knew that the safety of America hung. He had obtained ‘ndubitable proofs that his old general, whom he had loved and trusted so long, was really and truly a traitor, in correspondence with the enemy. Could it be possible that Murphy had missed Washington? If so, he might be too late. The British vessel up the river, the officer landed on the other side, Everard knew who they were, and ere this that officer might be back in New York, with the plot consummated which was to give up the line of the Hudson to the British D im | without striking a blow. As Everard thought we got out of the old Dutch Church in Fair* | of these things, his head seemed to swim, and the gay, careless voices of his two companions, joking and laughing over their cards, grated on is ears. “ Say, Jack, you ain’t no great hand at seven- up,” said the rough voice of Van Wart. ‘‘Ain’t there no other game you kin play better? Here, you go and take Dave’s musket, and let him come and play. I feel like beatin’ a couple of fellers to-day.” “T don’t want to play,” said Everard, curtly. “Go on, yourselves. I prefer to stand sentry.” “Needn’t be so short about it,” said The, grumbling. ‘‘ Don’t believe ye c’u’d play me, ef yer tried to. Yer ain’t no great shakes, no- how. Come, Jack. May as well beat you an- other game.’ And they dealt the cards for a fresh hand, while Everard resumed his long watch on the road. In the passage of his thoughts he almost as forgot what he was about, and started with much surprise as if he had been asleep, when he became aware that a horseraan was riding to- ward him in full view, who must ‘.ave been 89 a Officer in a red coat landed over on our | him in his own atstraction. He looked steadily at the advancing stranger, who was, to all appearance, a citizen, |v! who yet sat in his sadele with an air and carriage that told of the dragoon. The young man thought, too, that he recog- nized the other as he came nearer, but he was uncertain. If his suspicion was correct, Eve- rard felt that his future was safe. + cy age Ike, quick, some one comes!” he said, in a low tone. “Take your posts and be ready for him. He may be a prize worth The two Skinners jumped to their feet ina moment, Ike Van Wart ran along the other side of the road, hidden. by the bushes, while Paulding took his station, rea'y to jump into the road a little below. Everard remained where he was, unseen by the approaching horseman, till the latter was close enough for his features to be distinguished. Then the young man muttered to himself: ‘“Heavens! it is as I thought. It is Major Andre himself coming back, and the plot has not been fulfilled yet.” He remained hidden where he was, till the horseman had passed him with perfect lack ot suspicion. He well knew the handsome, clear- cut face of Major Andre, Clintcn’s adjutant- neral, and he knew that he must be return- 1g from the consummation of his bargain with the commander at West Point. He could not bear to be the means of sending Andre to the doom of a spy, and yet he saw no alternative. Andre had been kind to him, but the wellfare of his country was at stake, and besides that, his own reputation. Major Andre passed Everard unconsciously, to be met a few paces further by the presented musket of Paulding, who shouted: ‘* Halt, sir, whoever you are, or you’re a dead man!” The astonished officer pulled up his hcrse and demanded: “Why do you stop me, gentlemen? What party co you belong to?’ as Van Wart stepped out of the bushes and seized the horse by the bridle. Everard showed himself a little distance off at the same time, but kept his face hidden by slouching his hat, ‘*“'Why do you stop me, gentlemen?” repeated Andre, looking from one to the other, and en- ceavoring to ascertain from their dress who they were. ‘You belong to our party don’t you?” ir Ay, ay,” replied Paulding, evasively. “Of course we do. wer Party, eh?” ‘“*T thought so,” responded Andre, joyfully. “Then if you belong to the Lower Pzrty ycu won’t stop me, of course. I’m a British officer on a way to New York with dispatches. So good-day to you all.” “Not so fast,” said Van Wart, his dull face lighted up with a gleam of cunning. “ Yeusey ou be a British officer. Well, ‘en we don't sclong to the Lower Party at all. We're god patriots.” ““And youre our prisoner,” said Pauldirg, sternly; “so get cff your horse.” “What, are you Americans?” asked the poor major, paling visibly. “We're just that,” seid Van Wart, dryly. “Oh! then it’s allright,” said Andre, eagerly. “T thought you were Cowboys, and co I told ou that I was @ British offiecr. But I’m not, oys. I’m a true American, and here’s my pass from the commander at West Point.” Van Wart took it, and consulted doubtfully with Paulding. The pass was a regular one, and was signed— * Benedict Arncld, Major-General, U.S. A.” “T want to get to White Plains in a hurry, boys,” gta Andre, anxiously. ‘ Your gen- eral will be very angry if you detain me.” ““What made ye say you was a British offi- cer?” demanded Paulding, suspiciously. ‘‘ This ain’t all right, Cap, if the pass are.” “I tell you I thought you were Cowboys,” said Andre, angrily. ‘‘Can’t you understand, stupid? Let me pass.” or a moment the two Skinners hesitated. poopy observed it, and for the first time e: “Tt’s no use, sir. You'll have to dismount and be searched. ‘You're not all right.” His words reassured the other two, who were beginning to be staggered by Andre ; manner. ‘** Ay, ay, get off your horse,” said Pauldii: Pag may be all right, but we'll have to see t. “Get off,” snarled Van Wart at the sono time, and he cocked his musket. With shame and anger depicted on his face, Andre dismounted. “You insolent hounds,” he said, angrily, “vou shall repent this outrage before long, when your general hears of it. Well, search, and much good may it do you.” He submitted with very poor grace to be taken to the side of the road, stripped, and ex- amined. At first the searchers found nothin to reward them, except, indeed, a purse aha watch, which they quietly appropriated, with

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9 ~ 2 PE CePA A OEE 90M Pro + caer SS t-u> Skinner providence. Everard stood mood- | ily hy, looking on. The manner of proceeding adopted by his confederates was too much like that of robbers. As such Andre considered them, for he did not deign to remonstrate any | more, submitting to his plunderers with sullen | resignation. He was totally unarmed, prob- ably the better to carry out tho disguise he had assumed, otherwise he might not have submit- tel so quietly at first. After the Skinners had stripped him to his underclothes they examined his tis, and hav- ive founl nothing, were about reluctantly to cllow him to take back his property, fearing | that be might really be an American, when | Crerard again interposed. Ile knew Andre well by sight, and might easi'y have settled the business at first by point- ing him out, but it went against his sense of honor to repay the kindness he had received in such a manner. But he also knew that Andre, coming from West Point, must have with him or about him | something more valuable than money to him, an‘lmore dangerous to America, The poor major was standing in his stocking | feos in the damp grass, when Everard reluctant- ly spoke again, “Boys,” he said, ‘‘you must take off his stockings.” ny noticed Andre turn visibly paler as he said ib, Iistantly Paulding was down on his knees, and a ery of triumph broke from his lips as he scized the prisoner’s foot. Tae rustle of papers was heard in tho stocking. Tro: that moment Andre became sullenly re- sizned. Ho allowed them to take off his stock- ines and draw forth two papers, which both | men immediately devoured with great curiosity. | “Why, tis is a spy, Jack,” exclaimed Ike Van Wart, eagcrly. Ilis paper contained a diagram of West Point, with tables of the ordnance there, and the Skinner knew enough to be sure that any one carrying sich news'to New York must be aspy, alhough his lack of education prevented his un- derstanding much more. Paulting appeared to be puzzled with his. “What a cursed fist tuis fellow writes!” he grumbled. ‘Here, Williams, you take a look at this.” And he handed the paper to Everard, who took it with a hand trembling with eagerness, and looked over it. ‘* At last!” he ejaculated, as his eyes fell on the writing. ‘My Gol, I thank thee!” His Jisteners were astonished at the exclama- | tian, none more so than Andre, whose eyes fell oa Everard’s face for the first time. ‘““Captain Barbour!” he ejaculated, in a low | tons of amazement. Everard never heeded him. ‘** Aft last I have him,” he said; “‘ this general | who ruined me and drove me forth an outcast, with a traitor’s name! Now I have the proofs | in your own hand, and now shall the world | know Benedict Arnold !” “Gay, Dave, what ails ye?” asked Van Wart, astonished. ‘What in the old boy are you talkin’ about?’ ‘The salvation of America!” said Everard, triumphanily shaking the paper. ‘These pa- ers ara worth more money than your ever saw, ool. As for the prisoner, ask him what he’ll give us to sot him free.” ‘Anything in the world, in reason,” said Andre, eagerly. ‘‘What do you want? Ill give you a hundred pounds in money and five hundred more in goods, delivered at any place you like, if you'll let me go. My God, Ent I must get on, you know.” ; “Tf you was to offer us ten thousand golden guineas you couldn’t stir a single step from this spot,” said Paulding, fiercely. ‘‘My cumrade he knows what’s what, he does, and he says them papersis worth money. I guess they be.” “Come, old feller, get on yer duds,” said Van Wart, briskly. ‘‘You’ve got to come along with us, you have. You're worth mouey, you are.” Andre said not a word, but resignedly finish- ed his dressing. Everard kept a little way apart, examining the paper he held, almost doubting his eyes as t» whether it was real. He held in his hand a fu lagreement, in the handwrit of his own | old venoral, Be :edict Arnold, between bim and Sir Heary Clinton, by which ‘he to de- } ver up the fortress and garrison to the British, iy consideration of fifty thousand dollars and a | \sadier-general’s commission in the British | Sor 718, At last be held in his hand the proofs of Ar- nld’s treason, and felt that his own honor was site. As he pondered, the prisoner finished dress- ing, and the little party proceeded on their wa t» North Castle, the nearest post of the Ameri- can forces, where a few squadrons of dragoons were posted. CHAPTER XXXIL A GREAT MAN’S ANGUISH. A TALL aud pevuliarly majestic-looking gen- tloman, in the uniform so dear to onr eyes in | by orderin | kindly. | know, Mr. Barbour, and I am dis ' meant by his chie | Washington, in a low voice, _ his self-control. - ROWE WEEE the portraits of WASHINGTON, sat in a tent by a table about ten daysafter the capture of the un- fortunate Andre, and before him stood Everard Barbour, once morsin the uniform of his old regiment. At the opposite side of the table sat a slighfly-framed gentleman with a remarkably intellectual and handsome face, in the dress of a Continental colonel. Tim Murphy, the Irish ranger, stood not far from Everard, and the chief was speaking to to the former in his grave, quiet tones. ‘‘Murphy,” said the general, ‘Mr. Barbour has just come in to report, and it will depend upon your testimony whether he be restored to his place in the army and promoted for impor- tant services, or cashiered for desertion to the enemy. Two years ago you testified that you found the lieutenaut in the valley of the Gene- see, in the power of the enemy, and that he re- fused to escape, and remained with them, when you knew that both of you could have got off oy. Do you stand to that story now? If so, Mr. Barbour, I must order a court-martial upon you at once. You have rendered important services of Jate, but they cannot outweigh a single act of desertion.” ‘Your excellency will confer a fayor on me a court martial,” said Everard, quietly. ‘‘I have but few witnesses to call, and must depend on my own statement to a great extent. Murphy, I know, will tell the truth, a __ show even him that he 7 pera ment ; ou may, sir,” sai ington one Pour position has been a nate one, I lenient with you. But, sir,” he added gravely, ‘when you remember what is taking place to- day, you will see that I cannot afford to be partial to my own officers, when I am compelled to be so severe on those of the enemy.” Everard bowed georely He knew what was Tim Murphy seemed to be oppressed with great grief, for the tears stood in the eyes of the stout ranger. ‘‘ Arrah, now, gineral,” he began, pleadingly ; ‘** don’t be too hard on the r young liftinant. Sure, and if he did desert, he’s come back to us again, and he’s been the manes of turnin’ out the bloody thafe, Arnold, bad scran to him. And sure yer ixcillincy wouidn’t have the heart to try him now, afther what he found out for ye in the British camp?’ Washington smiled faintly. Tim Mawr was a privileged character, and the general al- lowed things from him no other man could have attempted. ‘* Hamilton,” he said, turning to the handsome colonel, ‘‘ you’ll have to tell our friend Tim that I can’t allow him to remonstrate with me.” “Tim,” said Colonel Hamilton, gravely, “ you hear what the general says. If you didn’t want Mr. Barbour tried, you shouldn’t have made such an accusation against himas you did at Philadelphia, before the Judge Advocate.” ‘“‘Arrah now, colonel dear, how can a fellow rimimber all he says?’ said Tim, ruefully. | It?s meself that wad like to cut me tongue out for hurtin’ the unfortunate cr’ature; but av I said it, colonel dear, I aaEpe I must stick to it, though it’s never a time did I feel so much like lyin’ to save a fri’nd.” Here the Commander-in-chief turned bis grave, majestic face around on the other, and spoke se- verely to the scout: ‘Murphy, it is never right to lie.. See what lies brought another soldier to! Do you hear that band, sir, and do you know what it is for? Timoth urphy, tell the truth, and leave the rest to God.” Tim bowed, and crossed himself reverentially. At that moment the solemn, mournful strains of the Dead March sounded through the camp, mingled with the deep roll of muffled drums, wl all in the tent involuntarily stopped to sten. The Dead March it was, indeed, with its grand bass chords and long solemn strains, announcing a funeral. “Go, Hamilton, attend the funeral,” said “Tt isa duty hard enough for me to have signed the order. Poor lad! So young and so gallant! Oh! Arnold! Arnold! The world will curse your memory for years untold, when they pity the poor lad that your treachery led to a felon’s doom. Mr. Barbour, retire to your quarters. I will send you the order. Timothy, I put him in your charge. Go, gentlemen, go. The sound of that music is like the knell of my own son.” The usually stern and impassive chief of the Revolution seemed to be strangely moved, as he waved them away from the tent. Indeed, the kind heart and inflexible justice of this great man often cost him a severe contest to preserve With all the tenderness.of a woman, the general-in-chief possessed a sense of overpowering necessity for sternness, which made his life as a military commander one long struggle. And he had, that morning, signed the order for the execution of the sentence passed upon dre by a general court martial. That sentence was death by hanging. March was beating f And the Dead ‘or the funeral of the man biyneslt, SER 9 SS SOAS Re PET aE a re Washington hurried his companions out of the tent, and then sat down and buried his face in his hands, shaking with emotion, when all alone. The judge had condemned. The general signed the death-warrant. Washington, the man, wept in the silence of his tent for Andre. ____ CHAPTER XXXTIL THE LOST STAR. Wuen Everard and his companion stood out- side of the tent, the camp below them presented a solemn appearance. All the troops were drawn up in front of their company streets, and all with reversed arms. The strains of the funeral march came nearer and nearer, and they could see the escort slow] pacing onward toward them, the butts of their muskets mers. in front, the muzzles trailing behind. he instruments of the band were covered with crape, and behind them followed four soldiers, bearing a coffin. And behind the coffin, listening to the funeral march played for his own death, came the poor prisoner himself, Major Andre. The tears rushed into Everard’s eyes as he saw the calm, pale face, and heroic bearing of the unfortunate officer. “T might have been there,” he thought to him- self, ‘‘ but for the mercy of God; and had I not recognized poor Andre, he might now be safe and in honor.” d Major Andre was dressed in full British uni- form, for the British commander had obtained leave to send bim in all the neces aries he re- quired, undera flag. As he passed Everard he looked up, and his eye methis. Everard bowed low, and Andre returned the courtesy gravely, holding out bis hand. ; The escort marked time for a few ees ssible for the prisoner was treated with every po is sen- lenity, consistent with the execution of tence. f Everard hurried forward and grasped Major Andre’s hand warmly, saying: ‘Major Andre, I sympathize with you from the bottom of my heart. Had the fortune of war been otberwise, I might be in your place.” ‘* Sir,” said Andre, gravely, ‘‘I forgive you. You have played a bold game, and you have won it. I have lost, and 1 ow Ishall soon pay my losses.” e waved a courteous farewell, and Everard shrunk back into the crowd of staff-officers, who were gathered to see the funeral. There were many stern looks and sour faces turned on the young officer, as he went toward the quarters of his regiment. It had been ru- mored about that he was double deserter, who had tried to win his way beck to favor by in- formation of British »ovements, and such characters had but little favor among honest soldiers. muerase heard more than one muttered re- mark: “There’s young turncoat, curses upon him!’ ‘Don’t notice him, gentlemen.” ‘“« His own regiment won’t associate with him.’ He went slowly back toward the quarters as- signed tohim. They were in the rear of his own regiment, next to the guard-tent. Tim yy tried to console him, but he felt very much dejected. After all his trials, to be so treated by his old comrades was very bard. What the staff-officer had said was true. His own regiment would not associate with him. He was compelled to stay in his tent, consider- ing himself under arrest, with the consciousness that he had not one friend in the army, except, perhaps, poor Tim Murphy. The honest ranger was very much cast down about the effect of his own ill-considered accusation, two years before, With the warm-hearted impulsiveness of his race, he began to blame himself for having said somuch under the influence of his misappre- hension; and yet, as Everard pointed out to him, he had as little reason for trusting the lai- ter now as he had for once accusing him of dc- sertion. “There are only two people who know the truth, Tim,” said poor Everard; ‘‘and they are both in New York. I must stand my trial and trust to my innocence to clear me of the charge of desertion.” “ And, bedad, av I knew who thim two peo- ple was,” said Tim, ‘‘I’d bring em here and make them tell the truth. Innocence is a good thing, liftinant, but witnesses is betther, be- ‘And those witnesses I can not get, Tim,” said Everard. ‘The one is my own father, and the other—I can not name her on my honor as a soldier,” Tim made no answer, and Everard relapsed into gloomy thought. As he listened to the mournful strains of the Dead March, it seemed as if it were beating for his own funeral, and he shuddered as he thought of pow Andre. Presently the music ceased, and he knew that the gloomy procession had arrived at the place of execution. A solemn hush per- vaded the hag g and Everard could almost hear — the beating of his own heart, Then there came a wild wail of mournful mu-

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sie from the band, and the sullen boom of a gun announced that all was over. Everard buried his face in his hands, and at the same moment heard the clattering spurs of an orderly dragoon approaching the tent. There was a knock at the canvas door. ‘‘Come in,” said the prisoner, and he saw the bright brazen helmet and high boots of the sol- dier at the entrance. “Orders for you, lieutenant,” said the man, respectfully, and he beld out a folded paper. Iverard took it. As he had expected, it was a& copy of his chayges, and one of the order to holl a goneral court-martial, to try him for ** dssertion to the enemy.” Ile looised round for Tim Murphy. The scout wisgone. Inanother moment he ‘vas left alone in the tent to reflect on his position, Te trial was ordered for the next day, and he had not one witness. Tim Murphy cid not come back all day, and night found him still absent. CHAPTER XXXIV. TUE PRESS GANG. Durine the Briish occupation of New York, from thevery nature of its surroundings, it was much exposed to a species of predatory and par- tisan warfare, carried on by both sides, in boats. At first these boats had been simply used by smugglers, who found it very advantageous to rua in loads of fruit, veretables and meat to the beleaguered city, cut off as it wasfrom all open comnminication with the country round by the Am:rican miilia. With fresh provisions at extravagant prices in New York, while silks tea3, cotton goods anJ cutlery were imported thero freo of duty, the temptation to illicit trafic was extre ae, despite of State laws and Coatinental military orders. The British en- coura ze l the traffic, as ib inured greatly to their advantage, and encourazed the spread of Tory- ism by the benefits received from Government. Bat the profits of this smuggling traffic speed- ily grow so heavy as to entice many more into it than it could accommodate. The American officials found is demoralizing their people, and attempted to suppress if. Armed boats cruised about in the night, cap‘uring and seizing goods in lar ze quantities. The British, on their part fisted ous other boats to fight the Yankees, an tho saugglers armed themselves, Tao consequence, as might be supposed, was dssperats and frequent encounters around New York, up tag Nort and [ast rivers, and all the way to Loag Island Sound by Oyster Bay. Lanilinzs were frequently made by the patriots, who, as all through the war, were prone to the mosé desperate enterprises, and not unfrequent- ly entered the city of New York itself, in dis- g.1i8>, to carry off some wealthy Tory from his 10me. About a week after the execution of Major Andre, on a dark night, when a fog hung over thoriver, and a drizzling rain from the east made every thing wet and miserable, a long low boat sSole s...atly out of a dense bank ot fox toward tue rickety docks on ‘he east side of tue city. Tae boat was sharp uc both ends, of the kind called whale boats, very long and nar- row an! pulling sixteen oars, while the bow and stern were crowded with figures. The oars male no noise as they dipped in the water, for the blades were heavily muffled in strips of blan- ket, and the usual noise of tbe rowlocks was en- tirely absent. Assilently asa dark ghost the mys- terious boat moved over the face of the waters, the ouly sound audibles beiug thesullen slap! slap! of the little waves against the worm-eaten tim- ber of the docks beside which the boat was stealing. The faint web-like outline of the spars and rigging of several large ships could be seen above the low-hanginging mist through the drops of rain, showing the presence of sev- eral men-of-war, bat the boat, low down in the fog. was quite unseen by the Englishmen. > Abt last | wed of oon urk-looking craft swept inward, and she pulled into an open nih two of the 2 ha only to be hailed by the hoarse challenge of a sentry, one of a chain that surrounded the water front of the city. “Boat, ahoy! Who goes there?” ‘Pross-gang, from the Vulture,” answered a low voice from the stern of the boat, with a strange Irish accent. ‘‘ Now don’t ye be talk- in’, sogvr dear, or they’ll all hear yez, and we wo..’t get a man to-night,” ‘Ye can’t pass widout the counthersign,” re- sponded the sentry, with an accent equally pro- nounced. ‘One of yez come up the steps and whisper now.” The sailors in the boat tossed and shipped eir oars simultaneously, and a single figure short and sturdy, swathed in a pea-jacket, an wearing the gold-banded cap of a midshipman, ran lightly up the steps to the sentry, and whis- pered a word in his ear, ‘“‘Counthersign c’rect, Pass all!” said the sentry, as he shouldered his piece again. ** Come on, liftinant; it’s all right,” said the Trish middy, veckoning. Aslight-looking officer, wrapped in a sea-cloak, rose up in the stern sheets, and came forward. He gave some di- rections in a low voice to the men in the boat, and four of them rose np and followed him, moving slowly, es if they were burdened with Double-D 3a i. some great weight of weapons, as indeed they were, although all were hidden. The officer had a remarkably handsome and intellectual face,and his voice had the clear. precise accents of an educated man, as he said to the sentry: ‘* My good fellow, we are going to a house not far from here, and when we come back we shall have several prisoners. If you’re off duty be- fore our return, tell the relief, will you, so that we may have no trouble.” ‘¢ Yes, sir,” said the sentry, respectfully. He was used to having navy officers come ashore at all hours with the same mystery now observed. In those days, when Britannia ruled the waves, she found it very hard to get sea- men to submit to the brutal treatment of the “ officers and gentlemen,” who made their boast of flogging a man every twenty-four hours. So scarce had they become, that bounties wouldn’t fetch them, and the press-gang had become a standing institution, picking up men wherever they could be got, by the simple pro- } cess of knocking them down with a club, and putting handcuffs on them. Such a gang as this, to all appearance, was | the one just landed, containing lieutenant, mid- ; shipman, and twenty or prong j men. hen | the officer and his first party of four men had | got to the end of the dock, the Irish midship- | man made a signal, and four more left the boat | and sauntered up the dock, while he himself | brought up the rear with four more, leaving | about a dozen in the boat. The latter was immediately pushed out into the middle of the dock, to the end of the painter, and kept there, | with the men sitting by their rowlocks, as if ready to start any minute, 23 ow: A ~ close to him. ‘‘ What’s the matter, ri ‘““How the deuce can a man sail without wind?’ responded the other. ‘‘There’s not enough, while the fog lasts, to lift a pocket- handkerchief.” ‘*[’m not sorry, for my part,” said the first. ““T hate to see a good officer like General Philips compelled to associate with that blackguard, Arnold. If I was Sir Henry Clinton I'd send the hound back where he came from, for his friends to deal with. Poor Andre was worth 2 thousand such paltry traitors ashe. What has he done for us, I should like to know, after ail? None, but take our money, and get Andre hung, d— him.” it’s no. business of mine,” said the “They don’t sail to-night, and I see that the fellow keeps close in his own house.” Tim had heard all he wanted. Arnold was not coming. He sidled away from the group, and found Champe talking to a stout, red-faced man in sailor’s dress, to whom he was talk’). in a loud voice, as if on EzPowe to attract attention from Murphy. e scout listened mers eke Ss ‘* Yes, Mr. Barbour, your son has been tried,” said Champe. ‘‘ They began the trial the day I came away, and I guess he’llswing. You see, he deserted to’ the enemy, the same as I did, and they’re going to pay off all they can on them they catch. They don’t catch me, ye know.” John Barbour seemed to be perplexed and downhearted about something. “Tt was all my fault, sergeant,” he said, ina low voice. ‘‘The lad never meant to desert, | but I enticed him away. In fact, he was a The officer and his party, straggling in irreg- | prisoner. ular groups, strolled along South street, from | the end of the old Fly Market, near which they had landed. The midshipman gradually shift- | ed up alongside of his officer, and whispered to | the latter. * Colonel, we’re almost there. I know where to find him. He’s goin’ tosay this blissid night, so the man tould me, and he’s to mate the rest | of the b’ys down at Jim Grogan’s rum-cellar, | It’s round the next corner, sir.’ ‘Very well, wom A answered the officer, in a low tone. ‘‘Take your measures as | ou think best. The general tells me you can trusted. I don’t know much about this kind of work.” “Well, sir,” said Tim—for he it was—‘‘ if yer honor will take four men and stop here, so as to take any one that tries to run out this way, Vl go in and see if he’s inside. If not, we’ll have him asy as he comes down.” ‘Very good, Murphy,” said the officer, re- signedly. ‘ Don’t be long. I tell you, [ve not much faith in this kind of work. ou say you know Chaimpe.” “As me own brother, liftinant,” said Tim; ‘and, bedad, he’ll know every one else in this town be this time.” And Deouble-Death moved off up the line of Old Slip, at the end of which was a very | famous cellar, known as Jim Grogan’s, a favor- ite place of resort for army and navy officers, | Double-Death was followed by his men in de- | tached groups, and he stationed them at the different corners of Queen street,* in such a manner as to intercept any one coming there. Then, with the cool assurance for which he was | noted, he sauntered into Grogan’s, in the midst of a crowd of officers filling the place witha damp, steamy atmosphere of wet cloaks and hot rum punches. The advent of a short mid. shipman in such a crowd of notables was entire- | ly unnoticed, and Tim sidled about here and | there at his ease, searching for the figure of the traitor Arnold. It was indeed him that they were after, these bold men who had penetrated into the heart of New York, and now were in the midst of their enemies; and the com- | mander of the was none other than the a Hamilton, Washington’s adjutant-gen- eral. It had been learned that Arnold was about to depart on an oe to ravage the South, and a sergeant of Washington’s body-guard, a man of great size and strength, iam hampe, had volunteered to go into the enemy’s camp, on the pretense of desertion, and do his best kidnap Arnold. Tim Murphy soon descried the tall form of | Champe himself, surrounded by British officers, who were questioning him Wocringly about the numbers and discipline of Washington’s forces, Champe kept up his character of a deserter very well, and made light of the Americans and their commander, to the high gratification of the half-intoxicated Britons. Murphy got as close to him as he could, and caught a glance of Champe’s eye that told him he was known. But nowhere could he recog- nize the dark, stern face of General Arno] although there were many other general officers in the place. A scrap of conversation that a genet revealed the cause of this after a | e. ‘*So, Philips doesn’t sail to-night,” said ai] officer of Grenadiers to one of the naval service | * Now Pearl. . alone. _ haggard “Can’t help that, old cock,” said Champe, coldly. ‘He was all right so long as he didn’t et taken guess by the Yankees. What a lasted fool he was, anyway. D’ye think J’d | let myself be taken, when I know what I'd get?” _ John Barbour turned away without answer- ing, and tea a | watched him closely. A word was sufficient for the astute scout. He knew who was before him, and it came into his mind at once that here was a good substitute for Arnold, who might be made the salvation of his unfortunate friend, Everard. Tim had not been idle in the latter’s behalf all the week. He had been all the way to Bemis’s Hights and back to ee. evidence, and here was more, if he could secure it. He sidled close up to Champe, and asked: ‘Who's that, sergeant?’ J “John Barbour, the Tory spy. Get him, if you can,” he muttered. No more words were necessary. Saryey. edged away through the crowd toward the door, keeping his eye on the burly figure of John Barbour. The latter looked sad and downcast, as he well might, after the news | he had heard. With all his faults, John Bar- bour was devotedly fond and proud of his son, aud the news of his capture and trial had cut him to the heart. He took a seat near the en- trance, and made absent or gruff replies when addressed by any of his numerous friends, and at last, as if unwilling to be bothered any more, rose and went out. Tim was bim in a moment, and follow- ed him out. The street was quite dark, and mist and rain heavier than before, and the scout perceived the dark groups of his coufed- erates on the opposite corners. John Barbour took his way down the slip toward the deck, walking slowly, as if in deep thought. Tim uttered a low whistle and followed him, At the sound of that whistle the waiting groups broke up, and concentrated on the un- conscious Tory till close to the dock. Then Tim aie pp Pe ey sone pri a cage ed oe rom his et, clap the other on the shoul- der, and said in a low voice; ‘Mr, Barbour, ye’re my prisoner.” CHAPTER XXXV. “TO SIR HENRY—QUICK!” Miss CHARLOTTE Lacy was sitting in her drawing-room in Wall street. She was not poe to her were the dark, stern, ~ eatures of the traitor general, who sat ina deep arm-chair, splendid in the scarlet umform, the price of his treason, Arnold looked moody and discontented, as he always had, but there were more than usual lines of care ani vexation on his brow that nnn The youn; lady was npesge 4 some fancy wor “T don’t see why you, of all people, should a!- fect to look coldly on me, Miss oe a he wes saying. ‘You were sweet enough to me « short time—” : “Pardon me, general,” she interrupted, cold- ly j ‘‘for your wife’s sake only.” ‘ And why not be civil to me now?” he asked, irritably. “She is my wife still. What busi- ness have these ery ere to look at me in the way they do? hat have I done to them?” oy — have you done for them?” she asked, mly. sagt E iat have done much, but for the unfor- tunate accident of Andre’s capture,” said the on my fault. Sir general, irritably. ‘‘It was

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TIorv owned it was not, when he paid me over | tus stipulated sum.” ‘* Ay, you got that safe,” said the lady, with a faiut saeer, her knitting-needles working as if she was only intent upon them. ‘‘Of course I did,” he snapped; ‘the same as | you take your pay. You are not the person to | sneer at me for that.” “General Arnold,” said the little lady, in a | frizid voice, ‘if you cannot confine your re- | marks to your own case, I must leave the room, | or req:test you to do the same instead. “Cortainly, madam,” he answered, standing up, his face pale with rage. ‘‘ There was a time when you were glad enough to welcome me, Miss Lacy.” ‘* You were worth something then, general,” sail Charlotte, in a tone of fine scorn. ‘ You had everything to lose, and I had everything to gain. Now you have lost it, and we have found oat that if was not worth the trouble we took to getit. Good-evening, general.” ‘* Nay, you shall not treat me thus,” said Ar- nold, in a savage tone, as he was turning away, and he stepped between her and the door as if to pravent her going. ‘** Who are you to despise me?” he asked. ‘‘Are | you not a paid spy?” Charlotte remained perfectly calm and con- | temptaous in her manner, and slowly retreated to the mantle-piece, where she took her station | by the bell. ‘What I am, sir, I know,” she said. “A consistent loyalisu, who has suffered much for her king. What you are the world knows, a traitor who has got the best of Sir Henry by a shrewd bargain, and earned fifty thousand dol- lars for nothing ; who-his cost us the life of one brave soldier, and whom we all despise while we tse him.” While she was speaking the last words, there was a violent knock at the street-door, and Ar- noid starte1. The man Jived in perpetual alarm now, and his once fierce, reckless courage seem- | ed fo have given way to nervous anxiety. Both lis‘ened to the sound of the opening door, heard a short colloquy, and then the door shut. Arnol i moved away from the entrance, as a servant knocked. Miss Lacy moved forward, and received a letter from the man’s hand. “Jams,” she said, “I’m glad you came, Yowre just in time to show General Arnold to the door.’ Good-evening, general:” She bowel with icy coldness, as if determined ‘ there should be nomistake, and the general, with a vindictive glance, took bis hat and left the | room, in a white heat of passion. Many such affronts was he destined to receive from thence- | fort» to the day of his miserable death. | Meanwhile, Charlotte opened the letter and read, af first half-unconsciously, presently with a full understanding of its meaning, the follow- | inz: ““MApAm: This letter will reach you when I am a prisonar, and willinform you of what is far more dang2ro1s to both our happiness. My poor Everard is a prisoner, on trial for deserting from his army two years ago, when he was a pris>ner on parole in your pom Madam, I conjure you, if you have any affaction for my poor boy, de some means of rescuing him from the shameful doom of a de- serter. ou and I know how our poor lad was worked on, and what influences he had to struggle agaiast. Tam a willing prisoner madam, because they will admit me to testify on the court-martial, but in your hands, madam, lies the true remedy. ae do not let it go, but save our poor lad, madam, and earn the undying gratitude of his unhappy father! Your obedient, humble servant, “ JOHN BaRBouR.”’ For a moment the girl stood gazing into va- cancy, with her hand pressed on her heart, as ifit were bursting. Then she sprung to the bell-rope, and rung violently for the servant. ““Who brought this letter?’ she demanded, with deathly-pale face and flashing eyes. ** A seafaring man, madam,” said he, fully: ‘‘H>s told me he'd wait for an answer, but when I came back he was gone.” ‘“*Goae! gone, man? Why did you let him 0?’ alm >st screamed the lady, in a manner so ifferent from her usual composure, that the servant evi lently thought his mistress had goue mad ona sud ien. ‘“[—I didn’t know, madam,” he stammered. Yor a moment she seemed as if she would harsh out upon him with a tempest of reproaches. ‘+3 next, she had controlled herself. ‘Order the carriage, quick!” she said. ‘I’m going to Sir Heary Clinton’s,” fn a minute the man had disappeared, and the -cl hurriedly paced up and down the room, ch her hands to her forehead. ‘Pool, fool. fool!” she muttered.‘ I thought was only playing with him, and lo! I have ‘ound Tlove him. Everard a p ean and in .nger of being shot! Why did not I know i sis before? Oh, heavens! what have my plots come to, ab last? I have killed my darling! Ob! how shall [ save him? Has this accursed Ar- oll drawn him in, as well as poor Andre? I He save him. I will, if it costs me my own vas) She remained pacing up and down, muttering incoherently, till the rumble of wheels was heard in the street below. Then she hastily _ Double-Death. caught up a cloak and hood, and hurried down- stairs, opening the door herself as the servant rung the bell. The night air blew chill and cold, | but she heeded it not. She ran down the steps and jumped into the carriage. “No Sir Henry’s, quick!’ And away went the carriage at a rapid pace, on the way to the foot of Broadway. CHAPTER XXXVI. ANGELS’ VISITS. EVERARD BARBOUR sat alone in his tent at night, the steady tramp of a sentry before the door showing that he was in close arrest. The lad looked haggard and unshaven, downcast and dejected. His trial had gone against him so far, and he could not get rid of the affidavit of Timothy Murphy, taken two years before. The rifleman had then sworn positively that the lieutenant had been found by him in open friendship with the enemy, and that he had re- fused to leave when the way was open. From that time till he came to the posts of the American army to give himself up, he had not been seen, except by some exchanged pris- oners of his own regiment, who swore that they had recognized him in New York, as the captain of a troop of Simcoe’s Queen’s Rangers. The time of his pores at Philadelphia, by some mystery, was omitted, and he remained on the rolls as a deserter, from the time of his discov- ' ery by Double-Death, in Cherry Valley. The only evidence taken so far had been that | of the dragoons who had seen him in New York, | and they had been examined at hee length. or Tim Murphy was not to be found, some mys- terious reason, and his testimony of two years old was regarded as sufficient. Everard was al- lowed to see a copy of these proceedings, and discovered, to his surprise, an important fact. The charges and specifications against him drawn by General Arnold in Philadelphia, had been, as he distinctly remembered, two in num- ber ; the first, for ‘‘ conduct unbecoming an of- ficer and a gentleman,” by its very specification proving that he had reported for duty in Phila- delphia, at a time when he was said to be in New York, or elsewhere with the enemy. The charge in these proceedings, taken in his | absence, was single, and wholly for desertion. The reason was now plain. Arnold had been only too glad to find the dangerous knowledge of his aid-de-camp removed from his path, and bad arraigned him onacharge of which he knew him to be innocent. But how was be to prove this? There was only one witness, besides Arnold | and Charlotte Lacy and his father, who could swear positively to his being in Philadelphia on | the date in question. That man was the ser- nt of dragoons in his old office there. He inquired for the sergeant. The poor sergeant was dead, killed at the bat- tle of the Chemung, under General Sullivan, a year before. What was he to do now? He could only wait, protracting the cross-ex- amination of witnesses from day today, with- out indicating the line of his defense, till the time came. The time had come at last. He was notified that on the next day he would have to open his defense and summon his wit- | nesses, and the poor lad !elt very down-hearted about it. He had nothing but his own unsup- rted word to offer. Tim Murphy had not re- | rned, and he kn-w not where he could be. Only a vague feeling of hope arose in his mind | from that very circumstance, for he knew the scout would not have dared to be absent with- out leave from superior authority. That evening, as he was ss pongering, ay ull knock came at the tent door. of excite- ment, expc. ing Tim had come back at last, he jumped up and threw open the flap. He almost dropped on the earth with astonishment, as he was met by the pale face of Marian Neilson! Marian Neilson it was, no longer healthy and rosy as of yore, but sad te appearance. youth exclaimed: “Oh! thank God, Marian! I shall see you be- fore I die.” The girl shuddered. “Die, Everard! What for?’ ‘‘Oh! Marian, they have brought a deep plot against me. They said that you had married an Indian, the chief Black Eagle, and they en- ticed me away from Philadelphia, and carried me off to sea, and then kept me in the midst of | the red-coats, while I was reported a deserter, and I only a prisoner.” ‘‘ And the beautiful girl you were to marry?” asked Marian, in a low voice. “Is she here, , 9 “Whom do you mean?” asked Everard, blush- ing scarlet. “ T do not know,” she said, simply. “I never saw her, but Tim said she was very beautiful, and I know I’m not, Everard, and so I suppose ou were right to leave poor Marian, dear. Your father always said we were beneath you in family, you know.” ‘Marian, as God is my judge,” said Everard, solemnly, ‘‘l have been faithful to you, even le and thin, careworn and | ut her eyes beamed with | the old light as she looked on Everard, and the | when I believed you false. You are my only , love yet.” “Do you truly mean that, Everard?” | The girl’s eyes filled with tears as she asked. | She was a gentle, quiet thing, and not prone to | show much emotion. ‘* As God hears me, I love you, and yo only, Marian,” he answered, taking her hand. “‘Then I am very happy, Everard,” she an- swered, and began to cry to prove it. “But you, Marian? How came you here?” asked Everard presently. ‘‘Who came with you, and why did you come® ‘*T came because Mr. Murphy came and told us of your danger, dear,” she said. ‘‘ And | mother and Black Eagle came with me.” “Who ?” asked Everard, starting back, an angry, jealous frown on his brow. ‘“‘Whom said you?” ‘‘Mother and Black Eagle,” said Marian, a5 + Seiko did you not know that the chief as been baptized? Hehas kept us from harm ever since we nursed him out of the dan- ger of death, two years since, and he was made a Christian a little while ago.” “T know nothing,” said Everard, a little sulkily. ‘‘ Tell me all about it, please.” And then she told him how Queen Esther had carried her off from Bemis’s Hights, and how Double-Death had rescued her, shooting Black Eagle through the pring and nearly getting throttled, in spite of all, by the fierce chief. ‘* And Murphy was so much worked up that he wanted to kill the chief,” she continued; ‘‘ but IT wouldn’t allow him, when the poor creature lay so quiet and helpless there. So we staid in the woods with him, nursing and ’tending him, till he began to get better, and then he came home with us, protecting us in his turn from all otber Indians on the way. And oh! Everard, they say Indians are not gratefui, but I tell you the chief is gratitude itself. Brother could not be more devoted, affectionate, and respectful, than he is to me; and he has taken such care of mother on the way.” Everard mused, and said: P ‘‘He may be able to save my life. If he will tell the truth he will know why I could not es- cape from the Glen of Sheshequin. It was be- cause I was on parole to him and Queen Esther, end Miss—” ‘Miss who, Everard?” asked Marian, inno- ' cently. | ‘T must not tell,” hesaid. ‘I have given my _ word of honor never to reveal what has passed | between us to mortal. I can not break it, even for you, Marian.” ‘*T do not ask you,” she said, simply. ‘ You never told me a lie, and I can trust you fully. Shall I callin mother and the chief? You can see if he knows anything to benefit you. We are all here together, under pass of dear Gen- eral Washington, to see you whenever we want.” ‘* And where is your father?” asked Everard. ‘* He is at home,” she said, with a faint smile. ‘‘ Ever since the time he was tied to the tree by _ that wicked Queen Esthber’s people, he has been | afraid to leave home. Poor father! It was two days before they found and let him out.” __ “Well, then, bring them in,” said Everard. | “T shall be very glad to see your mother.” | ‘And Black Eagle, too,” she said, brightly. “Indeed you'll like him now. He isa noble | creature,” | ‘*Y hope so,” said Everard, coldly. He was | still very jealous of the chief, and did not wish to think too well of him. ‘Come in, chief, come in, mother!” cried rian. And then the gigantic form of Black Eagle entered the tent, and the chief stooped his lofty plume in a grave salute to Everard. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE MYSIERIOUS BOAT. On that same evening, the long whale-boat which had carried Hamilion and Murphy to their daring expeditlon into New York, was pulling rapidly away from the dock down the river toward Governor’s Island. Jobn Barbour sat in the stern unconfined, talking to Hamilton. : “Indeed, colonel,” he said, ‘ your arrival was a God-send to me, for though our opinions dif- fer, I can not let my son be shot when I know his innocence. Iam most grateful to you, sir, for — kindness in permitting me to write to the lady, and I can answer for it that you shall not repent your generosity. I never thought I should feel so grateful toward a reb—I mean, a gentleman of your opinions.” ‘“*The accident is happy, sir,” said the colonel, courteously. ‘‘ We came on an errand of of re- tribution, but I am glad that it has changed in- to one of merey. But you say nothing of your own fate, sir, Are yon aware of your position?” “T know it well, sir,” said John Barbour, avely. “I have kept my life in my hans too ong to fear to lose it. But I trust I shall be al- lowed to testify in my son’s behalf before my trial, if I am indeed tried for a spy.” “J will answer for that,” said Hamilton, ; warmly. ‘I never thought, sir, that I shonld feel so much respect for a man in your posi. tien,”

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John Barbour bowed gravely. He had made not tho slightest resistance since his capture, only asking permission to write the note which he had sent to the house of Charlotte Lacy by no less a hand than that of Tim Murphy. The boat skimmed swiftly through the fog, the strong ebb-tide carrying her below the Battery ina very short time, when they shaped their course toward the desolate flats of Jersey be- tween Paulus Hook and the village of Bull’s Ferry, keeping well in the middle ot the stream to avoid the guard-boats that prowled along either shore. The pull up the North river was long and wearying, the same tide that had carried them down being equally strong to prevent their as- cont. The men settled to their work, and the cors were double manned, so that they progress- ed steadily up the river till the ruins of Fort Washington* were passed and they headed to- ward those of Fort Lee, It was while here, heading so as to pass the Block-house at Bull’s Ferry, aid land on the un- occupied ground above, that the sound of oars in rapid pursuit from the city behind them struck on their ears, and in afew moments it be- came plain that some one was sfter them, The night was too dark and misty for anything to be clearly distinguished beyond the dark loom of the banks and a few faint, half-drowned lights here and there. “Get your arms ready, lads, and hold water,” ‘said Hamilton, in a low voice. ‘‘ We may have to fight.” ‘ The men hastily unbuttoned their pea-jackets, and l-ft them loose, so as fo have their pistols ready, while still protected from the rain, The sound of oars behind them increased rapidly. It was evident that the pursning boat was in no fear of detection, for the thunder of the tholes in the rowlocks and the splash of the broad blades was incessant, telling of a strongly- manned boat. As the Americans simply main- tained their position, and their oars were muf- fled, it was probable that they had not yet been seen or heard. Who was in the following boat was therefore a mystery. ‘ Presently they saw it looming through the gloom some distance on the port beam, a boat much larger than theirown, crammed with men, and pulling nearly thirty oars, In the middle of the boat was the outline ofa horse, and the whole craft moved by them with sur- prising rapidity, going as it was against cur- - rent and tide. Not a word was spoken by the Americans til! the other boat was out of sight, pulling directly toward where they were going to land them- selves. in a low voice: ‘*Pull, men, but pull silently. Keep your arms ready.” ‘he Americans stretched to their oars, follow- ing the sound of the dashing sweeps of the strange boat, but in spite of their efforts the sound became fainter and fainter, the other boat leaving them fast as the dark line of the Palisades frowned higher and higher before them. At lastit went almost out of hearing. The whale-boat pulled steadily on for near an hour more, when the dark cliffs that indicated their Janding-place, rose before their sight. Just as they were within two cable-lengths of the shore they again heard the thunder of oars, and the great boat came shooting down upon them from the shore with all the augmented speed given by favoring tide and current. It passed close to them on the outside, but no notice was taken of them as it swept by into the darkness. But they could see one thing plain enough. The horse was gone. It had evidently been landed, and the stran- gers not seeing them in the shadow of the Pali- sades, had returned to New York. ‘Give way, boys,” said the colonel, earnestly. “They’ve lacided. aspy of some sort, and we a catch him,” ‘ ° he men bent to their oars witha will, and in afew moments the boat’s nose grated on the sandy beach. Evenin the darkness the plain prints Of a horse’s hoofs could be traced on the white sand leading up to an old dirt road that climbed the hills toward Morristown. CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE COURT-MARTIAL. THE court-martial for the trial of Everard Barbour, on the charge of deserzion to the enemy, met at twelve o’clock, in a large room fn the house in which the General-in-chjef had his head-quarters. The officers were gathered around a table, the Judge Advocate having a md and separate one to himself. The pris- oner sat at a short distance off, and near him was the Indian chief, Black Eagle, in the full regalia of a chief of his tribe, but entirely un- armed, and holding the gayly-plumed calumet in his hand, Everard was rising to address the court. “Gentlemen of the court,” said the young Officer, with modest dignity, ‘“‘I am aware that I stand here in a very perilous position, —_~— » GcNed Fort Knyrhausen by the British after the Livssia. guieral c. that name. Then Colonel Hamilton gave the order | | were a dog like them. —— SS Doubie-D-ath. with little but my own word to shield me from the punishment [ should deserve, were I a de- serter, I can only trust to that and my inno- cence to support me, for, alas! my principal witnesses are within the enemy’s lines. Honest soldiers have sworn that they saw me there in the dress of the enemy, a plain deserter. An- other has sworn that I refused to escape with him from the Genese> valley, and remained with the enemy. Gentlemen, the ranger spoke truth. I did refuse to leave the valley that night, but, it was because I was under parole. If I had not been, Murphy would never have reached me, for Indians are not wont to keep their prisoners slackly.” ‘Can you prove that you were under parole on that occasion, Mr. Barbour?” asked the presi- dent of the court, a large, handsome man in general’s uniform. ‘‘Remember that your word alone has little weight in a matter where i is so obviously your interest to say as you 0. mt can pare it by the testimony of Black Eagle, chief of the Senecas,” said Everard. ‘‘Is there any objection to his testimony?” ** None ina military court,” replied the presi- ent, State courts. Let the chief be sworn.” ‘‘He’s an Indian, general,” suggested one of the young officers. ‘* Hecan’t be sworn on a Bible he doesn’t believe.” “Tf the court will question him,” said Eve- rard, . res chief is a Christian.” “That alters the case,” said the Judge Advo- cate, ‘I will question him. Chief, stand up.” ce Eagle, who had remaiued gravely im- passiv displayed his magnificent proportions at the feot of the table, saying in his deep, powerful voice: ‘Black. Eagle is here. He ks with a straight tongue, Let the white chiefs question him. He will answer.” ‘“Are you a Christian or not, chief?’ asked the Judge Advocate. “The good father who tells the red-man the words of the Great Spirit, poured the boly. water on the head of Black Eagle,” said the chief, gravely. mies, and slay no more. The heart of Eagle has become as a little child, and he takes no more scalps,” ‘*Do you know the nature of an oath?” asked the officer. The chief’s lip curled with disdain, as he said: ‘Black syear, and ca le does not swear. But whites the Great Spirit names, as if he e will punish them, when the graves return the Red and White to the face of the Master of Life.” The officers looked at one another, as if half ashamed, The vice of swearing was fearfully age among all there, and the childlike re- uke of the simple chief abashed them. “You do not understand me, chief,” said the officer, gently, after a pause. ‘‘ If fe were to swear befcre the Great Spirit to tell the truth, and were to tie, do you know what would hap- pen to you?” ** Black Eagle would never go to the happy mbes Rober where his fathers roam under the smile of the Master of Life,” said the chief, gravely. ‘‘But bis tongue was never forsed. Cowards lie, and Black Eagle is a chief of the Pe ane Double-Death knows if he is a cow- ard. “T think you had better examine the chief without further formality, Captain Randolph,” said the president. ‘‘I’m inclined to believe he’s a better man than many a white gentle- man. [ll take the responsibility. Consider him sworn.” “Very good, meral,” said the officer. ‘*Chief, do you w this officer?” He indi- cated Everard as he spoke. “Know little chief very well,” said Black Eagle, with a smile. ‘ Little chief give heap of trouble down in Pocono.* Kill five warriors before Black coq te take him, up inatree. War- riors say, scalp him. Black Eagle say, no. Lit- tle chief figh t too well. Thayendanegea (Brant) tell Black Eagle not to scalp prisoners. B Eagle take little chief all the way to tho Sheshe- in.” it Then you mean to say that you took him prisoner at Wyoming, and carried him to She- shequin?” asked Randolph, inquiringly. “Yes,” said the chief, laconically. ‘* And how long was he prisoner there?” “Till the Queen of Sheshequin and Black Eagle went on the war-path again. Then Black Eagle spoke to the Spy Queen, and said—” ‘There, there, there. Never mind theS Queen, whoever she is. How long was this officer a prisoner?’ said Randolph, irritably. The picturesque phraseology of the chief puz- aled him. “T4]] ten suns had risen and set,” said Black Eagle. And then what became of him?” ““Wegave him to the Spy Queen to keep.” * Pocono. Indian name for Wyoming. ‘“We are not bound bv the rules cf | ctfully, ‘“‘they will find that the ‘*He told me that the Great | Spirit gave me a new heart, to forgive may. cnet ack | ‘* And who is the Spy Queen?” ‘* Little squaw chief, who bring presents from the Great Father over the water. The Six Nations obey her voice.” **T have heard of this woman before,” said the president. ‘‘She seems to be the Indian agent of the English king. What had she todo with the prisoner, chief?’ Black Eagle looked puzzled. ‘*T mean, had she any authority to take him from you?” ‘** Yes,” said the chief, promptly. ‘‘ Great paper, much big, big een seal of Great Father over the water. e any thing. Seneca say yes, “And you gave him up to her? Did you make him promise any thing?’ “No,” said Black le. ‘‘Give him to Spy Queen. That all.” ‘“That will do,” said the president, gravely. ‘“Mr. Barbour, have you any questions to ask?’ He looked a little disappointed, for he bad expected to find Everard’s words corroborated Ly the chief, and he sympathized with the for- rer Black Eagle,” said Everard, in a sheking voice, “ you say I made no promise to you. Did you know of my making any to any one else, when I was left without a guard?’ ‘Tbe chief looked thoughtful. ‘The mind of Black Eagle is dark,” he said, finally, “He cannot say to whom you prom- ised,’ ‘**Do you know what I promised?” asked Eve- | rard, eagerly. “Little chief promised not to run away, if the Senecas did not tie his hands and feet,” said e during the colloquy, rose to his feet, and | the chief, promptly. The young officer gave a low sigh of relief. ‘‘That is all I have to offer on that point, general,” he said. ‘‘ You see I was under parole.” And he sat down. “May it please the court,” said Captain Ran- dolph, rising, ‘‘the prosecution submits that that is hot enough. The prisoner has not proved that he was under ole to a recognized officer of the enemy. e do not wish to be hard on him, but such a weak defense for being found in the enemy’s lines I never heard. If he has nothing more to offer, I move for. judgment on the charge and specificatious.” “Tam not quite through,” said Everard, sad- ly. ‘‘For what follows I have nothing but my own word to offer, to-day. Heaven may send the witness in time. Gentlemen, the dey after Murphy, the ranger, left Sheshequin, I was re- leased from my parole and escaped to Philadel- phia. I am not at liberty to say how 1] was released, but I esca and reported to General Arnold in Philadelphia, where I was seen by him and his wife—then Miss Sbippen—and by a sergeant of my regiment who was in the acju- tant’s office, but who was killed last. year with General Sullivan, at the Chemung. That ver night, while copying papers for the general, came across one of the letters from Major An- dre to him, signed John Anderson, and a re- turn of all our forces addressed to Sir Henry Clinton by his initials. While examining these and hardly believing my eyes, I was surprised by the general, who displayed great indigna- tion, and ordered me to my room under arrest. Gentlemen, I was confused. You know how reluctant you all were to believe a brave soldier like General Arnold guilty of treason, and in my confusion I had surrendered into, bis hands the papers, so that I had no proof that my sus- picions were true. While in this wavering state of mind I was served with charges in bis own bapiuriing The second charge was tl.e same under which proceedings were afterward taken, which you have here. The first was for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman in examining aes pape, and thit charge and specification, gentlemen, will pete to you that I must have been in Philadelp ia on that night. That charge, gentlemen, in Arnold’s writing, I renee next to me ever since, and here is. As he spoke he drew from his vest the soiled and worn per containing those charges, which be had surreptitiously prese: ved for two years. It produced a manifest effect in court. _ A bush had fallen on the officers composing it, during the novel revelation made by our hero, and when he had finished, the paper was carefully examined by all present, and various muttered comments made upon it. “Mr. Barbour,” said the president, gravely, as officers and gentlemen we may believe the truth of your statement, when as members of this court we are obliged to ask for more proof. It seems that all the witnesses to the fact of ied being in Philadelphia are in the enemy’s es, and although the fact of those charges being in the handwriting of the traitor may ex- plain much, it proves little. The statement is not sworn to, and Arnold is not here to be cros:- examined.” ey. wish he was, general,” said Everard inno- cently. ‘““T echo the sentiment with all my heart,” said the general, with emphasis, ‘ it ever we catch him— But to your case, sir. How do you account for being in New York, even ad- mitting that you were in Philadelpiia?” “

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26 < “That very night, sir,” said Everard, in a low tone, ‘‘ while still confused and uncertain what to do, I was visited by—my father.” ‘’ Indeed!” said the president; ‘and where is he now?” Double-Death. CHAPTER XXXIX. THE WITNESSES. THE whole of the court-martial rose at the an- nouncement, and the members respectfully ‘In the enemy’s lines, sir,” said Everard, still | saluted the general. lower. the enemy.” There was another hush. “He is a Tory, and a secret agent of | It was a hush of | terfere with the proceedi know that it is not my custom in general to in- of courts-martial. compassion for the son telling of his own father’s | In the ease now on trial, 1 have an extraordi- disgrace. ae 3 on, sir,” said the president. ‘‘ What hap- pened? ‘““My father,” said Everard, ‘‘had been in correspondence and communication with Ar- nold for a long time, and knew him well, as he was. He pressed me to break my arrest and come with him to General Washington to state the truth of the case, and save my future career. Uncertain as | was if my general was not a traitor, I rashly broke arrest and fled with my father, believing fully that I was going up the river, toward Morristown. Instead of that I found that I was deceived when it was too late, and was out at sea. I was a prisoner on board a smuggler owned by Arnold and my father conjointly, and commanded by the latter. I found that I was trapped, and must soon be landed in New York. My father, an obstinate loyalist, had been en- deavoring to win me to his side since the war began. Now he exulted in his work. Gentle- men, I can not blame him. He was as fully in earnest asI was. I saw that I was lost. If I landed in New York a prisoner, I was still liable to be held a deserter, absent without leave. I had broken arrest. A traitor bad put me under the arrest, truly. All the same, I had no s. I resolved to get those proofs ati any azard, and to that end joined the Queen’s Rangers, pretending to desert. I got the proofs, sent them to General Washington. Arnold was detected and Andre captured, the plot averted and West Point saved by my means, and now, gentlemen, act your pleasure. General Washington knows the last part of my story to be true. I have no proofs of the rest but my own word, now.” When Everard had finished, there was a whis- pered consultation among the members of the court. It was distur’ by a confused noise outside the windows, and Everard, who stood close to one, involuntarily glanced down. He saw a magnificent thoroughbred horse standing trembling before the door, ready to fall, while the slight, delicate figure of a lady in a blue riding-habit was just springing off and running to the entrance door. e saw the sentry on duty cross his musket before her as if to forbid entrance, while a crowd of curious soldiers stood laughing +s Then on a sudden they all shrunk back, as the majestic form of the general-in chief eet on the steps, as if to inquire what was the mat- ter. Washington spoke a few words to the sen- try, and then advanced, with the stately cour- tesy which rome, distinguished him, offering sew arm to the lady, to conduct her into the ouse, Everard was recalled from the brief glimpse of this little drama by the voice of the presi- dent, who was saying: “Mr. Barbour, have you nothing else to say in your defense, and no more witnesses to offer?” “If I could offer my father, I might say *yes,’” returned Everard. ‘ But of what avail is it? Father cannot testify for son, and if he could, how could [ get him?” “In consideration of the hardship of your case,” said the president, ‘‘we have about con- cluded, Mr. Barbour, to uest the Comman- der-in-chief to send in a flag to New York, bearing a safe conduct for your father. Courts- martial are subject to no rules of evidence, such as obtain in criminal courts, and we are compe- tent to judge of thecredibility of testimony. If such is \our desire, Mr. Barbour, we send in now to ask the favor.” ‘*General,” said Everard, his eyes filling with tears, ‘“‘ you are too kind to me. I accept the offer with gratitude.” “Captain Randolph, give our compliments to General Washington, and make the request,” said the president, kindly. The Judge Advocate bowed and left the room. When he was gone a silence fell on the party. Everard was in cruel suspense as to whether the request would be granted. It seemed an age to him ere he heard the returning footsteps of Randolph, who had really been absent about ten minutes. The Judge Advocate came briskly back and threw open the door wide. Other footsteps were heard behind him, the slow, stately tread of a man with riding boots and clattering spurs, and the light, hurrying footsteps of a ie Captain Randolph announced, in a loud voice: ‘Gentlemen, the Commander-in-chief, and a new witness.” Everard uttered a cry of mingled su and ineredulity as he beheld the towering form of Washington, and leani known figure ef on his arm the well- Charlotte y. nary reason for the seeming breach of etiquette. The lady Bgl side has ridden all the way from Fort Lee, at full speed, putting herself ab- solutely in our nteher| for no other ee than to testify on behalf of the young officer you are trying. Gentlemen, I have heard the story, and I believe that when you have heard it, you will acquit Mr, Barbour of desertion two years ago, As for his residence in New York, that has been fully accounted for by the t service and important intelligence he was the means of fur- nishing us, in consequence of the opportunities afforded him by his pretended position im the enem7’s forces. Gentlemen, allow me to intro- duce to i Miss Charlotte Lacy, Chief of the British Secret Service in America, who has given herself up into our hands, to perform an act of justice.” The officers had listened in bewildered aston- ishment to the general’s address, and when he had concluded, bowed low before the extreme beauty and grace of Charlotte herself. The gi 1 was very pale, but the perfect con- tour of her face, the sent gold of her hair, and the depth of her large blue eyes, were overpow- ering yet. She was dressed in a blue riding- dress, a broad hat and ostrich feather, damp with last night’s mist, hanging at the back of her shapely head. She advanced to the table, and in a low, sweet voice, addressed the court. ‘Gentlemen, you are surprised to see me here, and hear my name. have done you many injuries ere this, and lived as a spy in the midst of your camps, to send intelligence to my own side, I am a bitter loyalist, gentlemen, and have served my king faithfully against you using any and every means to harm you and benefit him. But no one among you have I injured so much as I have that young officer, Everard Barbour.” eat he trembled, and she broke down an nt. “It was I, gentlemen,” she pursued, ‘‘ who made the first approaches to the dastard traitor, Arnold, whom we despise as much as you do, now. It was I who strove hard to corrupt Mr, Barbour, a young lieutenant on his staff. I tried hard, gentlemen, but let me tell you that I failed, with all my arts, to shake his allegi- ance to America. Betbink you, gentlemen, he had not one friend with him, his own father was against him, and all his relations were loyal- ists. ith so many temptations to fall, is it not a marvel that he stood at all? But he did, and kept his honor unsullied through all. He refused to — from Sheshequin, it is true, because he had given me his parole not to es- cape. I gave it back to him. He escaped at once, and went to Philadelphia. Again I tempt- ed him. Again he would not yield. His hon- or as a gentleman would not let him betray me, but he stood fast for his country. His father too, he could not betray. We surrounded and besieged him night and day, and still he yielded not. He found out something of the treason of his general, and the latter took the alarm in time and arrested him. I arranged the whole plot with General Arnold, myself, and he was carried to New York by a trick. ell, gentle- men, even then, when every one else thought him a deserter, his father and I knew different. We kept him in the city at the depot of the Queen’s Rangers on purpose that he might not escape. We dared not let Sir Henry Clinton know kim as he was, for we both loved and and feared for our boy, and hoped to win him over to the king’s cause yet. Buc he esca our vigilance at last, and returned to his duty atonce. Gentlemen, have me shot, and release him. I am the Spy Queen, and {am in your power; but he is as innocent as a child,” Her statement made a profound impression on every one. The general-in-chief himself stood silently by, watching its effect, and no- ticed the many kind glances thrown at the risoner. He now interposed, and handed harlotte to a seat, when he spoke himself: “‘T come as a volunteer witness here, gentle- men. I cannot send in the flag you request, be- cause it is now unnecessary, y bave just re- ceived a dispatch from Colonel Hamilton, to say that he will be here in a few minutes with Mr. Jobn Barbour himself.” There was a great murmur of surprise, and none were more amazed than Everard. “*Colonel Hamilton, at my request, accompa- nied Timothy Murphy, the scout, to New York, last night,” pursued the commander. ‘They went on a desperate and dangerous quest to find and kidnap the traitor, General Arnold. They failed in that, but they found means to capture rise | Mr. John Barbour himself, who came willingly enough when he heard of his son’s trial. Gen- tlemen, I shall await your report when vou | have examimed them, and I need uot say that Tim, I trust it will be a merciful one to the faults of our young friend, traceable as all are, to a sin- gle error of judgment. Madam, if you will ac- cept my arm, Mrs. Washington will be happy to see you.” And with the majestic grace pe- | culiar to himself, the great commander escorted “Gentlemen,” said Washington, “you all | Char! t of bei | embarrassment 0 11. Charlotte from the room, relieving her of the among so many men alone, with his usual delicacy. Their steps had hardly died away, and the buzz of excited conversation among the mem- bers of the court was hardly over, when the clatter of boots was heard on the stairs, and Tim Murphy burst into the room, waving the sham midshipman’s cap, totally regardless of military etiquette, and quite unabashed by the presence of so many generals and other Officers, **Hurroo, liftinant, darlin’!” he yelled, witha true Irish whoop. ‘‘Hurroo! Erin go bragh! We've found the ould man, and he’s comin’ up- stairs wid the colonel and Miss Marian, and it’s all right, and ye won’t be kilt, and it’s Tim Mur- phy’s the b’y’ll dance at yer widdin’ yet. Hur- roo! Black Aigle, ye ould thafe, give me yer am ould boy. Bedad, I b’lave I’m crazy, dar- in’.’ And so it seemed. Never was a court-martial broken up in such undignified haste as this one, now that its mem- bers were satisfied of the truth of Everard’s story. Before sunset he was restored to liber- ty, and the story of his wrongs flew like wild- fire all over the FAD From a traitor he become a hero. CHAPTER XL. THE END. Some days afterward a group of people on horseback were gathered on the summit of the road that led down to Fort Lee and the river. In the center of the group, white-frocked and plotaresdi. a mounted rifleman held aloft a ong lance, from the summit of which fluttered the white folds of a flag of truce. Below them, and close to the shore was a large boat with the English ensign in the stern, and a correspondin flag of truce at the bow. Charlotte Lacy an John Barbour were near together in the group, and Marian and Everard were conversing ear- nestly with them. Everard was once more handsomely equipped as a pat ag officer, and the double epaulettes of a captain glittered on bis shoulders, while a party of dragoons in the reir indicated that he was restored to his old cemrades. Marian and Charlotte had their hands clasped: ‘* You believe all I have said, Marian, do you not?” said the beautiful Spy Queen, earnestly. ‘Believe me, dear, if 1 had known you as I do now, so good and gentle, Charlotte would never have given you the pain she has. You ma well be proud of your Everard, Marian. e has been true to you under all the temptations man could undergo. He has forgiven me now. Do you forgive me Marian?” ‘Tndeed I do, Charlotte,” returned the girl, “Oh! when will this cruel war be ended, when we can be friends together at last? You have been so good to us now, when I know what cause you have to hate me.” , “‘T shall never hate any one again, Marian,” said Charlotte, musingly. ‘‘I have been ac- customed to think of the Continentals as rebels and murderers, and I have served the king faith- fully against them, but since I haye seen your chief face to face I have learned what true no- bility is. From henceforth I become a simple lady again, and when the war is over, dear, perhaps before, you shall see Charlotte again, and perhaps you’ll let her be called aunt Char- lotte then. The last words were spoken with a smile in a low voice, and Marian blushed violently. “Nay, never be eshamed to love your hus- band,” whispered Charlotte. ‘“‘He will be a good one to you. He has been a good son in spite of the difference. of opinion between him and his father, or Mr. Barbour would never have consented to your marriage.” At this moment a gun was fired from the boat below, and the white flag waved impa- tiently. “We must be going, Barbour, sadly. ‘‘Good-by, my boy, and take care of your wife. Since you won’t come over to our side, why we must wait till the war’s over before we meet again. I serve no more as a secret agent. I’m sick of it. I shall apply for a commission, and — you Whigs honestly in the field in future. en I shall not feel hu- miliated by the undeserved kindness of your general in granting me a safe-conduct, when | might fairly have been hung as a spy. Fare- well, Marian. God bless you, my girl. I never thought to do what I have, but your general is like a demigod. There is no resisting his _— Good-by till the war’s over. Good-Ly, J saree! save ye kindly, Mr. Barbour,” seid im, respectfully. “‘Av we ever mate im the Everard,” said John TORT

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-and ‘over it ‘twill be a —— field again, bedad, I’ll kape me bullets for some — one else, for ye’re a dacent gintleman, so ye | are. Good-by, sir.” *“ And where is Black Eagle?” asked Char- | lotte, as she turned her horse’s head down-hi ‘«] should like to bid him good-by.” ‘‘ Black Eagle is here,” said the deep voice of | the Indian, as he rose from the shadow of a | thicket by the roadside and came forward. “the Great Spirit be good to the Spy Queen ™ and keep her from her enemies.” “ Farewell, chief,” said Charlotte. ‘‘The Spy ; Queen will never be seen again. She ceases to | be, from this day.” ‘It is good,” said the Indian, gravely. “ Spies and forked tongues are bad in the eyes of the Great Spirit. Let my sister be only the | blue Star-flower of the pale-faces. It suits her better. Farewell.” Asecond gun from the boat and a second waving of the flag announced that the English | sailors were impatient. The little party separated reluctantly, and ‘Tim rode down the hill to bring back the horses when the two English agents should have taken the boat. With that lavish ———— toward Everard, which always had distinguished her, Charlotte had insisted on his acoerisal the deed of ber Philadelphia house as his wedding gift, besides the horse on which she had ridden on her er- rand of merey to save him. His own horse, which he had turned loose when he had mado his escape with the Skinners, had been found and returned to him, and his marriage had found him much better provided with this world’s goods than he had ever before been, _ They remained at the top of the hill watchin till their friends were safely embarked, an Tim Murphy was slowly returning. ? “Poor Charlotte,” said Marian, pressing closer to her husband as the boat_skimmed away. ‘How should I have felt had I lost you? , Everard, she loves you.” F Everard made no answer. He was watching Black Eagle, who, leaning on the muzzle of his rifle, his back turned to them, was gazing mourn- fully at the distant city of New York. Everard silently pointed him out to his wife. fs What think you of, chief?’ asked Marian, gently. } Black Eagle looked up, his face gloomy and mournful, as he answered: : “The Star-flower has lost the Little Chief, | but she goes to her people. They will console her, and the Star-flower will be happy. Black Eagle has lost the White Fiower, but he has no ple to go to. Annatakaules* has laid low he towns of the Six Nations, and the smiling © field has Devore Ske Seorteee waste. Black | le has no e to go to. : “Then let cate vane. chief,” said Marian, kindly. ‘‘Indeed, we love you well, and you a, happy yet. Iwill get you a wife my- sel ” Black Eagle shook his head. ty “It is too late,” he said. ‘‘ The Great Spirit has said we are to fade like the leaves and we | obey. He has told Black Eagle to forgive his foes and the chief has done so. But the ways of the Great Spirit are hard to understand.” **Leave him alone,” whispered Everard to his wife. ‘‘He is sad and moody, and soothing only deepens his gloom. Men are best left alone in sorrow, especially Indians.” They turned their horses away, and rejoined | their party, leaving the gloomy chief watching | the distant boat. Tim Murphy rejoined them on the road, hav- | ing disposed of his horses, and expressed him- self as well satisfied with the day’s work. “* God save us ail, liftinant—I mane captain,” | said the worthy scout, philosophically; *‘’tis a | quare worrld sometimes, but av a man sticks to , his colors, bedad he'll come out safe at last. | Now, there was the purty little Spy Queen and | the ould gintleman and all together ag’in’ yez, and they tangled ye ap in their divilments till even Tim Murphy was foo! enough to think ye a traitor, but, after all, things came straight at last, and now ye’ve a foine house and a purty | wife and lashins o’ horses and money galore, | av we don’t get blind drunk to-night i. bekase there’s no poteen in camp, “Nay, Murphy,” said Marian, smiling, “’tis a tel way to celebrate a feast to degrade one- self to a brute. ook bens had not been sober a long time we should never have been saved from ruin as Everard was by the skill and Boour. ‘daring of DoUBLE-DEATH, THE __ * Annatakaules. The Indians gave this name (The ‘Town-Destroyer) to Washington after the pe (tee retribution ited on them by his order in ming. Hous position after the bati . Houses, es, crops an were ruthlessly destroyed, and the smiling valley Genesee turned into a howling wilderness. ~ Sie RPS Ar -one: ~~ Double-Death. —AND— Most Charming of the Weeklies.” A pure paper; good in every thing; bright, brilliant and attractive. Serials, Tales, Romances, Sketches, Adventures, Biographies, Pungent Essays, Poetry, Notes and Answers to Correspondents, Wit and Fun— All are features in every number, from such | celebrated writers as no paper in America can ' boast of. What is best in POPULAR READING, that the paper always has; hence for Hom, Sxop, Li- BRARY and GENERAL READER it is without a | rival; and hence its great and steadily increasing circulation. 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KoLorep Kranks and 59 other Songs. 88 Nit DESPERANDUM and 53 other Songs. 39 Tur Grr I Lert Brnryp Me and 50 other Songs, 40 ‘Tis sut A LitTLe Fapep FLower and 50 others. 41 Prerry WHILBELMINA and & other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE Bakn and 63 other Songs. 43 H. M.S. PINAFORE, COMPLETE, and 17 other Songs Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, on re- ceipt of Six cents per number. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PvunrrrsHrns. 98 Wiiiiam Streer, New Yorx. 23 On Conry Istanp Bracu and 58 other Songs. / : | Cricket and Football. | Gents’ Letter-Writer. | Book of Etiquette. | Book of Verses. They are adapted to schools with or without the fur- niture of a stage, and introduce a range of charac- ters suited to scholars of every grade, both male and female. It is fair to assume that no volumes yet offered to schools, at any price, contain so many available and useful dialogues and dramas, serious and comic. Dramas and Readings, 164 12mo Pages. 2 Cents. For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Am- ateur Stage, comprising Original Minor Dramas, Comedy, Farce, Dress Pieces, Humorous Dialogue and Burlesque, by noted writers; and Recitations and Readings, new and standard, of the dem celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof, A. M. Russell. DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s feries. BeaDLe’s Dime Hanp-Books ror Youne ProriE cover a wide range of subjects, and are especially adapted to their end. They constitute at once the cheapest and most useful works yet put into the market for popular circulation. Ladies’ Letter-Writer. 300k of Games. Fortune-Teller, Lovers’ Casket. Ball-room Companion. Book of Dreams. Book of Beauty. Hand-Books of Games. Brapie’s Dive Hanp-Books or GAMES AND PopuLAR Hanp-Books cover a variety of subjects, and are es- pecially ahegted to their end. andbook of Summer Sports. Book of Croquet. Yachting and Rowing. Chess Instructor. Riding and Driving. ( 1 Book of Pedestrianism. Guide to Swimming. Base-Ball Player for 1880. Handbook of Winter Sports. Manuals for Housewives. Beapie’s Dime Famriy Serres aims to supply a | class of text-books and manuals fitted for every per- son’s use—the old and the young, the learned and the unlearned. They are of conceded value. 1, Cook Book. 4. Family Physician. 2. Recipe Book, 5. Dressmaking and Mil- 8. Housekeeper’s Guide. linery. Lives of Great Americans. Are presented complete and authentic biographies of many of the 4 who have added luster to the oa c by their lives and deeds. The series em- I.—George Washington. | VII.—David Crockett. T.—John Paul Jones. VIII.—Israel Putnam, Ill.—MadAnthonyWayne| IX.—Kit Carson. IV,—Ethan Allen, X,—Tecumseh. ‘oa de Lafay-| XI.—Abraham Lincoln. . XIT.—Pontiac. VI.—Daniel Boone. XIII.—Ulysses S. Grant. SONG BOOKS. ne se Sone pe ge Nos. 1 os containing eo collection of copyrig found fn the market, Fs oe Melodist School Meloaist, | Music and Words, JOKE BOOKS. Pocket Joke Book. Jim Crow Joke Book. Paddy Whack Joke Book, © The above publications for sale by al) newsdealers or will be sent, -paid, on receiy‘ >f price, BEADLE & ADAMS, “ Wnuum or, YX. oy

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’ . [BEADLE'S 82 Large Three-Column Pages, 1.A Hard, Crowd ;_ or, Sau’s Sister. By Philip 8. Warne. 2. The Dare-Devil; or, Tuk WINGED WircH or THE SeA, By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, 8. Kit Carson, dr., Taz Crack SHOT OF rat West. By Buckskin Sam. . 4. The Kidnapper; or, Tum GREAT SHANGHAI OF THE NortTHwes?. By Philip S. Warne, 5. The Fire-Fiends; or, HeRcuLEs, THE Huncusack. By A. P. Morris, 6. Wildcat Bob, THe Boss Bruiser; orn, Taz Borper BLoopHounps, By Ed L. Wheeler. 7. Death-Notch, Thm Destroyer; OR, Tue Sprrir Lake AvenGreRS. By Oll Coomes, 8. The Headless Ilorseman. A strange story of Texas. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 9. Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover. 10. Vidocq, THe Frencn Po.ice Spy. Written by himself, 11. Midshipman Easy. ryat. 12. The Teath-Shot; or, TRACKED TO Dears. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 13. Pathaway; or, Nick WHIFFLES, THE Oxp TRAPPER OF THE NorTHWEST. By Robinson, 14, Thayendanegea, THE ScourGE; on, Toe WArR-EAGLE of THE Monawks, Ned Buntline, 15. The Tiger-Slayer; or, Eaauz- Hap To THe Rescup. By Gustave Aimard, 16. The White Wizard; or, THe Great Propuet or THE SemMINoLES. By Ned Buntline. 17. Nightshade, Tue Rosser Prince or Hounstow Hrata. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 18. The Sea Bandit; or, Tor Queen or tHE Iste. By Ned Buntline. 19, Red Cedar, THe Prarrm OvTLAw. GENTLEMAN By Capt. Mar- , By Gustave Aimard, 20. The Bandit at Bay; or, Tux Pr- ATES OF THE Prarrins. By Gustave Aimard, 21. The Trapper’s Daughter; oR, Turn Ovurtaw’s Fare. By Gustave Aimard, 22. Whitelaw: or, NaTtiz or THE LAKE Snore. By Dr. J. H. Robinson. 23. The Red Warrior; or, SrTriaa DeLorse’s Comancug Lover. By Ned Buntline, 24. Prairie Flower. By Gustave Ai- mard, author of “ Tiger-Slayer,” etc. 25. The Gold-Guide; or, Srze, Arm, THE Reautator. By Francis Johnson, 26. The Death-Track; or, Tae Ovt- LAWS oF THE Mountain. By Francis Johnson, 27. The Spotter-Detective; or, THE Giris or New York. By Albert W. Aiken. 28. Three-Fingered Jack, Tur Roap- AGENT or THE Rockies. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 29. Tiger Dick, THe Faro Kina; or, THE Casaiur’s Orme. By Philip 8. Warne. 30. Gospel George; or, Fiery FrRep, Taz Ovurtaw. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 31. The New York sSharp or, THE FiLasu or Ligntninc. By Albert W. en, 32. B’hoys of Yale; or, Tae Scrapers er A Harp Ser or Cot.earans. By John D. Vose. 33. Overland Kit. By A. W. Aiken. 34. Rocky Mountain Rob. By Aiken. 35. Kentuck, the Sport. By Aiken. 36. Injun Dick. By Albert W. Aiken. 87. Hirl, the Hunchback: or, Tue SWORDMAKER OF THE SANTEE. By Dr, J. H. Robinson. 38. Velvet Hand; or, Tue [Ron Griv or Ingun Dick. By Albert W. Aiken. 39. The Russian Spy or, THE BrotH- ERS OF THE STARRY Cross. By Frederick Whittaker. 40. the Long Haired ‘Pards?’ or, Tue TarTARs OF THE PLAINS, By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 41. Gold Dan; or, Tuk Wuitr SAVAGE or THE Great Sant Lake. By Albert W. Aiken. 42. The California Detective; or, Tur Wrrcenes or New York. By Albert W. Aiken, 43. Dakota Dan, THE RECKLEss RANGER; ‘vt, Taz Bee-Hunrers’ Excurston. By Oll Coomes, 44, Old Dan Rackback, TE Great EXTARMINATOR. By Oll Coomes, 45. Old Bull’s Eye, Tur Licnunine SHor oF THE Piains. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 46. Bowie-Knife Ben, Tse LITTLE Tunter of THe Nor’-west. By Oll Coomes. 47. Pacific Pete, THz PRINCE OF THE Revo.tver. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 48. Idaho Tom, THE Youna OuTLAW of SILVERLAND. By Oll Coomes. | 49. The Wolf Demon; or, THE QUEEN or THE KANAWHA. By Albert W. Aiken. 50. Jack Rabbit, Tue Prarmm Sport; By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. 51. Red Rob, Tue Boy Roap-AGEnt. By Oll Coomes. 52. Death Trailer, Toe Cnrer or Scoors, By Hon, Wm. F. Cody, (Buffalo Bill.) 63. Silver Sam; or, Tork MystERY oF Dealwoop City. By Col. Delle Sara, 54. Always on Hand; or, Tat Sportive Sporr or THE oor Hitis,. By Philip 8. Warne, 55. The Scalp Hunters, A Romanczor THE Piains. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 56. The Indian Maze Map Man oF THE Ptains. By Al 57. The Silent Hunter ; or, Taz Scown Haut Mystery. By Percy B, St. John. a; or, THE rt W. Aiken, BIT CARSON, JR.—No, & 58. Silver Knife; or, WIcKuIrre, THE Rooxy Mountain Ranaer. By Dr, J. H. Robinson. 59. The Man From Texas; or, THE OvurLaw oF ARKANSAS. By Albert W. Aiken, 60. Wide Awake; or, THE IpIoT or Tut Back Hitis, By Frank Dumont. 61. a eg Seawaif, tHE PrivaTeER. By Ned Buntline. 62. Loyal Heart; or, Taz TRAPPERS OF ARKANSAS. By Gustave Aimard. 63. The Winged Whale. By Aiken. | 64. Doubie~ Sight, the Death Shot. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr. 65. ‘ihe Red Rajah; or, THe ScocurE or THe Inpres. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 66. The Phecter Barque, A TALE or THE Paciric. By Captain Mayne Reid. 67. The Boy Jockey; or, Honesty veRSUS OROOKEDNESS. By Joseph BE. Badger, Jr. 68. The Fighting Trapper; or, Kir Carson To THE RESCUE 4 Cart J. F. C. Adams. 69. The Irish Captain; A TALE or | Fonrenoy. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 70. Hydrabad, Tur STRANGLER: or, ALETHE, THE CHILD OF THE Corp. By Robinson. 71. Captain Cool-Blade, or, THz Man j SHARK of THE MississiprI. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. LIBRARY. | ee § KEEPER’s DaveutrrR, By Albert W. Aiken. Each Number Complete, Price 10 cts, | %2, The Phantom Hand, A Story or New York Heartus anp Homes. By A. W. Aiken, 73. The Knight of the Red Cross; or, THE Maaiciran or Granapa. Dr. J. H. Robinson. 74. Captain of the Rifles. A Romance OF THE Mexican VALixy. By Captain Mayne Reid. 75. Gentleman George, or, PARLOR, PRISON, STAGE AND SrreET. By Albert W. Aiken. 76. The Queen’s Musketeer, or, THISBE, THE PRINCESS PaLmist. By George Albony. 77. The Fresh of Frireco, or, Tre Heiress of Buenaventura. By Albert W. Aiken. 78. The Mysterious Spy; or, GoLtpEn FEATHER, THE BuccANEER’s DAvGHTER, By Grainger, 79. Joe Phenix, tux Po.ice Sry. By Albert W. Aiken, 80. A Man of Nerve; ThE DwakF. By Philip 8. Warne, 81, The Human Tiger; or, A Heart or Fire. By Albert W, Aiken. 82. Iron Wrist, the Swordmaster. By Col. Thomas H. Monstery. 83. Gold Bullet Sport; or, raz Knicuts oF THE OVERLAND. By Buffalo Bill. 84. Hunted Down; or, THe Warts Wrren. By Albert W. Aiken. 85. The Cretan Rover; or, ZvULErKAg, THE BEAvTIFUL. By Col. Prentice Ingraham. 86. The Big Hunter; or, THe Queen or THz Woops. By the author of “‘ Silent Hunter.” 87. The Scarlet Cr THE PRISONER OF THE TOWER. By 88. Bi GuLcg; or, or, CALIBAN tain; or, ol, Delle Sara. George, THe GIANT oF THE HE Five OvrLaw Brotuers. By Badger. 89. The Pirate Prince; or, Prerry NELLY, THE QUEEN oF THEIsLE. By Col. Ingraham, 90. Wild Will, Tnz Map Ranourro or, THe TERRIBLE Texan. By Buckskin Sam. 91. The Winning Car; or, Tux Inv 92. Buffalo Bill, Taz Buckskin Kise; By Major Dangerfield Burr. 93. Oaptais Dick Talbot, Kive or THE Roap. By Albert W. Aiken. 94, Freelance, Tue Buccaneer; or, The Wair oF THE WavE, By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, 95. Azhort, THe Axman; or, Tue SECRET. OF THE DucaL Pataéce. By Anthony P. Morris. 96. Double-Death, or, Tur Spy QurEeN or Wyominae. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 97. Bronze dack, Tne THOROUGHBRED. By A. W. Aiken. 98. The Rock Rider: or, Tre Srirn OF THE SuerrRa. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. 99. The Giant Rifleman; or, Witp Lire iw THE LumBeR Recions. By Oll Coomes, 100. The French Spy; or, Tuz Browz “ Paris, A Story of the Commune, By A. P. i) 101, The Man from New York; or, | Pa era or A Rich Youne Woman. Sy Albert . Aiken. 102. The Masked Band; or, Taz Man Wrrnout a Name. By George L. Aiken. | 103. Merle, the Mutineer; or, Tax | Branp or THE Rep Ancuor. By Col. P. Ingraham | 104, Montezuma, the Merciless} or, Tak EAGLE AND THE SERPENT. By Col. P/ Ingraham | 105. Dan Brown of Denver, Tax | CALIFORNKA Rocky Mountain Derectrys. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr, : ady October 20th, A new issue every two weeks. Beadle’s Dime Library is for sale by all Newsdealers, ten cents per copy, or sent by mail om _ receipt of twelve cents each, BEADLE & ADAMS, | Publishers, 98 William Street. New York.