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

"One is to Washington," laughed the man. "Gad, you must take us for raw recruits."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Andy!" he breathed.

"Here, close to you!"

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

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

Silence. Then the man tossed and talked aloud in troubled fashion.

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

"Tell Washington," moaned the voice of the master in a half sleepy whisper, "I regret nothing. Am proud to die and to have given _all_."

"I have the letters!" breathed Andy. "If I live Washington shall have them and know all."

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

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

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

"Still we must take no chances. The poor devil has reason to toss in his sleep and talk. I doubt if he were doing anything else."

The need was desperate. Andy crawled like a snake through the gra.s.ses.

Escape seemed impossible. He pa.s.sed the two searchers in the friendly gloom, and breathed freer. This was a lucky move, for the two men examined thoroughly the spot where Andy had been. They discovered the broken gla.s.s, and one remarked that the weeds had been crushed.

"Some animal has been prowling about, there are no footprints," said the other.

Andy's Indian training was serving him well. In a few minutes the two pa.s.sed on. "We'll walk around the place. Daybreak is near. The dangerous spy's time is short."

Andy made the most of that time. Stealing cautiously in and out of the shrubbery, he worked his way out of sight of the greenhouse. The chill of the morning made him shiver. How many hours he had pa.s.sed without food or drink he did not consider; but his heart seemed dead within him.

Painfully he came at last to the shelter of the woods. Then he sat down upon a fallen tree, clutching the sc.r.a.ps of paper against his throbbing breast. In imagination he seemed to see the master being led forth to die. See! the east was rosy. Now, even now, the brave soul was marching on undaunted and undismayed. Andy could see nothing in the brilliancy of that lovely morning light, but the uplifted face of the man he loved. A pride and joy came to the boy. That hero was his friend! The world might call him a spy--but he, Andy McNeal, knew that he had given all for the country's cause, and regretted nothing, even in the face of a dishonored death.

"And Washington shall know!" breathed Andy. "As soon as I can reach headquarters, the General shall have these!" Fiercely he pressed the papers. Then he arose. He was stiff and deadly weary.

"I will go to Ruth!" he sighed. "I must have food and rest. I dare not go to mother. My plight is too sad. I will save her the sight."

Bedraggled and blood-stained--for the fall of the night before had left its mark--Andy went on, looking, as indeed he was, a soldier of the cause.

CHAPTER VII

ANDY HEARS A STRANGE TALE

Andy made but poor time to the minister's house. It was well on toward noon when the shouts of the children at play cheered his heart. He had been obliged to rest many times, and once he had fallen asleep and slept longer than he knew.

As he drew near the cottage he saw Ruth kneeling by Sam's grave. It was one of the girl's daily duties of love to bring fresh flowers and cover the mound with the bloom. Glad enough was Andy to see her alone, and in this quiet spot. He went more rapidly; the sight of Ruth gave him new strength. He had no intention of frightening her, he made no attempt to walk quietly, but indeed a look at his haggard face would have caused alarm in any case.

"Ruth!" The girl looked up, stared, but made no cry. She rubbed her eyes feebly as if awakening from sleep, then she grew deadly pale.

"Andy McNeal!" she whispered. "Whatever has happened?"

"I will tell you." He sank down wearily, and took the cap from his head.

"My heart has been filled with horror," Ruth went on, giving Andy time to catch his breath. "I dared not tell any one what really happened.

They think you merely went as guide. I never expected to see you alive again. I am not sure that I do now!" She smiled pitifully, and came near Andy to chafe his cold hands.

"I'm alive," the boy faltered. "But, oh! Ruth, I have lived years." Then brokenly, and with aching heart, he told the story of the past hours.

Ruth never took her eyes from his face, but her color came and went as she listened. The tale was ended at last, ended with all the tragic detail and the showing of the sc.r.a.ps of paper. Then Ruth stood up.

"Andy," she said, in her prompt fashion, "the house is empty. Mother has gone to your home, father will be away until to-morrow. The children are easily managed. Now I want you to go in the upper room after you have eaten. I want you to rest all day and then--then I have something to tell you and--there is more to do."

"Yes; these," sighed Andy, looking at the papers. "I should start at once with these."

"'Twould be folly. There are awful doings afoot, Andy McNeal. It is no time for a mid-day walk to Harlem Heights. You must do as I say. Come in now; you are starved and utterly spent."