SHOWING HOW A GOOD SOLDIER WILL TURN THE ACCIDENTS OF WAR TO THE BEST ACCOUNT. ENSIGN ST. JERMYN IN A DISAGREEABLE DILEMMA.

Robinson having thus succeeded in his enterprise, now found himself in circumstances of peculiar perplexity in regard to the disposal of his prisoners. Here he was, in the neighborhood of the British posts—in a district of country of which the enemy might be said to have, at this moment, complete possession—(for Horse Shoe himself was almost the only belligerent in the field against them)—and, more than that, he was but a few miles' distant from a camp whose scouts had chased him almost to his present place of refuge. It was scarcely probable, therefore, that he could hope to retain his captives long under his control, or prevent the enemy from receiving intelligence of the capture. He was, however, notwithstanding these embarrassments, as usual, cheerful, confident, and self-possessed. He had no wish or motive to detain the private soldiers as prisoners of war, and would at once have dismissed them, if he could have assured himself that they would not make the earliest use of their liberty to convey information of their misadventure to the first corps of loyalists they should meet, and thus get up a hot pursuit of him through the whole district. But he had cogent and most important reasons for holding the ensign, St. Jermyn, in close custody. It occurred to him, that this officer might be used to control the procedure that should be adopted by those who meditated injury to Arthur Butler; and he therefore, at once formed the resolution of communicating with the nearest British authorities, in order to assure them that he would retaliate upon the Ensign any pain that might be inflicted upon his late comrade. His plan was speedily formed—it was to keep his prisoners until night-fall, move off under cover of the darkness to some remote and concealed spot with St. Jermyn, and release the others, on their parole or pledge not to take up arms until regularly exchanged.

Whilst the sergeant was deliberating over these arrangements, the prisoners were allowed to shelter themselves from the rain under a shed near the door of the dwelling, where Andrew, with all the pride and importance of his new station, marched to and fro, before them, like a trained sentinel. There was a small log building in the yard of Ramsay's mansion, which had been recently erected as a store-house, and which being well secured at the door by a padlock, Robinson determined to convert for the nonce into a prison. It contained but one room, not above twelve feet square, with an earthen floor, and received no light except such as was admitted under the door, and through a few crannies about the roof. Into this narrow apartment the soldiers were now marched; a bundle of straw was thrown upon the floor; sundry flitches of bacon, that hung upon the walls, were removed; and a few comforts, in the way of food and drink, were supplied to render the accommodation as tolerable to the inmates as was compatible with their safe custody. This being done, our friend Andrew was posted in the passage-way of the dwelling, in full view of the door of the store-house, which was carefully locked, with a musket in his hand, and with orders to make a circuit every five minutes round the little building, to guard against any attempts at escape by under-mining the foundation.

As noon approached the weather began to clear up, and with the first breaking forth of the sun came David Ramsay, the proprietor of the farm which was the scene of the present operations. His recognition of Horse Shoe Robinson was accompanied by a hearty greeting, and with an expression of wonder that he should have ventured, in hostile guise, through a country so beset as this was by the forces of the enemy; but when he heard the narrative of the exploit of the morning, and saw the trophies of its success in the weapons piled against the wall, and, more especially, when he received from the lips of his wife a circumstantial account of the part which had been performed in this adventure by his son Andrew, his delight seemed almost to be absorbed by his astonishment and incredulity. The proofs, however, were all around him; and after assuring himself, by an actual inspection of the prisoners through one of the chinks of the store-house, he came into his own parlour, sat down, and laughed out-right.

Ramsay was a staunch friend of the independence of his country; and although he had not been up in arms in the cause, he gave it all the aid he could by the free expression of opinion, and by a resolute refusal to comply with the requisitions of the royalists. His eldest son had joined Sumpter, and had already been active in the field; and he himself looked, with an almost certain expectation, to see visited upon himself that proscription under which thousands were already suffering, and which he had only escaped as yet by the temporizing delays of his opponents, or by their neglect, arising out of the incessant hurry and pressure of their military operations in the organization of the new dominion which the royal forces had but lately acquired. He was a man of sturdy frame—now only in the prime of life—brave, thoughtful, and intelligent, and firmly resolved to stand by his principles through whatever adverse chances. The present aspect of affairs was, to his mind, almost decisive of his fate: the capture of these prisoners, made from information derived from his own family, and in which his own son had been a principal agent; their confinement, too, in his own house, were facts of so unequivocal a character as inevitably to draw upon him the prompt ire of the Tories, and compel him to assume the attitude and abide by the issues of a partisan. As he had faith in the justice of his quarrel, and a strong devotion to the principles upon which it was sustained, he did not hesitate in the crisis before him, but heroically determined to meet the worst that might befal. He, therefore, in the present emergency, became a useful and efficient ally to Robinson, who opened to him the full history of Butler, and the course of measures he was about to pursue for the relief of that unfortunate officer.

We must now leave the sergeant holding watch and ward over his vanquished foes, and shift our scene to Musgrove's Mill. The family of Allen Musgrove were in a state of great disquietude. Horse Shoe Robinson had disappeared before daylight; and when the miller and his nephew left their beds, a little after the dawn, the only intelligence they had of the departure of their guest was inferred from finding the stable door open and the sergeant's horse absent. This fact was explained when Mary met them at breakfast. Horse Shoe had set out for Ramsay's to learn some tidings of John, and to enlist him in an effort to liberate Butler. He had departed under cover of darkness to avoid molestation from Innis's scouts, and she, Mary Musgrove, had placed the key of the stable, the night before, in a place where Horse Shoe might find it. Such was the extent of the maiden's information. The day passed wearily upon her hand: she was anxious to hear something of Butler—something of Horse Shoe—and something, we suppose, of John Ramsay. Frequently during the morning she and Christopher Shaw held secret conferences: they spoke in whispers: suspense, care, and doubt were pictured upon her face; and as the rain pattered against the windows she oftentimes stood before them, and looked out upon the distant road, and across the wide fields, and then upwards to the clouded sky. The sun at length appeared, and his rays seemed to shoot a glimpse of joy into the breast of the maiden, as she walked forth to note the drying of the roads, and to see the clear blue, which, in that climate, outvies the mellow and rich tints of a Tuscan heaven.

The day waxed, and the birds sang, and nature was gay, but the maiden was restless and unquiet: the day waned, and the sun rode downwards on the western slope in gorgeous beauty; but Mary was ill at ease, and thought little of the grand and glorious firmament. Her communings with Christopher Shaw, meantime, became more eager: she and her cousin were seen to wander towards the mill; then Christopher left her, and, presently, he might be discovered leading two horses, one bearing a side-saddle, down to the margin of the stream. There was a short visit to the house by the young man—a word whispered in the ear of the mother—a shake of her head, an expression of doubt, a final nod of assent,—and, in the next moment, Mary and Christopher were seen trotting off on horseback, on the road that led towards Ramsay's.

When they had ridden some two or three miles, and had entered upon the high-road between Ninety-Six and Blackstock's—somewhere near to that piece of haunted ground, where, on the morning of this very day, a goblin had struck down James Curry from his steed—they descried a military party of horse and foot slowly advancing from the direction to which they were travelling. In a few moments they met the first platoon of the cavalry, headed by a trumpeter and the unsightly captain Hugh Habershaw. They were detained at the head of this column, whilst some questions were asked respecting the object of their journey, the troops in their neighborhood, and other matters connected with the affairs of the times. Christopher's answers were prompt and satisfactory: he was only riding with his kinswoman on a visit to a neighbor; Innis's camp was not above two miles and a half away, and the country in general was quiet, as far as he had the means of knowing. The travellers were now suffered to pass on. In succession, they left behind them each platoon of threes, and then encountered the small column of march of the infantry. Mary grew pale as her eyes fell upon the form of Arthur Butler, posted in the centre of a guard. Her feeling lest he might not recognise her features, and guess something of her errand, almost overpowered her. She reined up her horse, as if to gratify an idle curiosity to see the soldiers passing, and halted in a position which compelled the ranks to file off, in order to obtain a free passage round her. Every look seemed to be turned upon her as the escort marched near her horse's head, and it was impossible to make the slightest sign to Butler without being observed. She saw him, however, lift his eyes to hers, and she distinctly perceived the flash of surprise with which it was kindled as he became aware of her features. A faint and transient smile, which had in it nothing but pain, was the only return she dared to make. An order from the van quickened the march; and the detachment moved rapidly by. As Mary still occupied the ground on which she had halted, and was gazing after the retreating corps, she saw Butler turn his face back towards her; she seized the moment to nod to him and to make a quick sign with her hand, which she intended should indicate the fact that she was now engaged in his service. She thought she perceived a response in a slight motion of Butler's head, and now resumed her journey, greatly excited by the satisfaction of having, in this accidental encounter, obtained even this brief insight into the condition of the prisoner.

The sun was set, when Mary with her convoy, Christopher Shaw, arrived at Ramsay's. Always an acceptable guest at this house, she was now more than ever welcome. There was business to be done in which she could discharge a most important part, and the service of Christopher Shaw in reinforcing the garrison was of the greatest moment. When the intelligence regarding the movement of Butler to Innis's camp was communicated to the sergeant, it suggested a new device to his mind, which he determined instantly to adopt. Butler was at this moment, he concluded, in the hands of those who had engaged the ruffians to set upon him at Grindall's ford, and it was not improbable that he would be summarily dealt with: there was no time, therefore, to be lost. The sergeant's plan, in this new juncture, was, to compel the young ensign to address a letter to the British commandant, to inform that officer of his present imprisonment, and to add to this information the determination of his captors to put him to death, in the event of any outrage being inflicted upon Butler. This scheme was communicated to Ramsay, Shaw, and Mary. The letter was to be immediately written; Mary was to return with it to the mill, and was to contrive to have it secretly delivered, in the morning, at Innis's head-quarters; and David Ramsay himself was to escort the maiden back to her father's house, whilst Shaw was to attend the sergeant and assist him to transport the young ensign to some fit place of concealment. The private soldiers were to remain prisoners, under the guard of Andrew, until his father's return, when they were to be released on parole, as prisoners of war.

The plan being thus matured, Robinson went forthwith to the prison-house, and directed Ensign St. Jermyn to follow him into the dwelling. When the young officer arrived in the family parlor, he was ordered to take a chair near a table, upon which was placed a light, some paper, pen, and ink.

"Young man," said Robinson, "take up that pen and write as I bid you."

"To what end am I to write? I must know the purpose you design to answer, before I can put my hand to paper."

"To the end," replied Horse Shoe firmly, and with unwonted gravity, "of the settlement of your worldly affairs, if the consarns of to-morrow should bring ill luck to a friend of mine."

"I do not understand you, sir. If my life is threatened to accomplish an unrighteous purpose, it is my duty to tell you at once, that that life belongs to my king; and if his interests are to suffer by any forced act of mine, I am willing to resign it at once."

"Never was purpose more righteous, sir, in the view of God and man, than ours," said David Ramsay.

"I have a friend," added Horse Shoe, greatly excited as he spoke, "who has been foully dealt by. Some of your enlisted gangs have laid an ambuscade to trap him: villany has been used, by them that ought to be ashamed to see it thriving under their colors, to catch a gentleman who was only doing the common duties of a good sodger; and by mean bush-fighting, not by fair fields and honest blows—they have seized him and carried him to the camp of that blood-sucking Tory, Colonel Innis. I doubt more harm is meant him than falls to the share of a common prisoner of war."

"I know nothing of the person, nor of the circumstances you speak about," said the ensign.

"So much the better for you," replied the sergeant. "If your people are brave sodgers or honest men, you will not have much occasion to be afeard for yourself; but, by my right hand! if so much as one hair of Major Arthur Butler's head be hurt by Colonel Innis, or by any other man among your pillaging and brandishing bullies, I myself will drive a bullet through from one of your ears to the other. This game of war is a stiff game, young man, but we will play it out."

"Major Arthur Butler!" exclaimed the officer, with astonishment, "is he taken?"

"Ha! you've hearn of him, and know something, mayhap, of them that were on the look-out for him?"

"I cannot write," said the officer sullenly.

"No words, sir," interrupted Horse Shoe, "but obey my orders; write what I tell you, or take your choice. I will bind you hand and foot to a tree on yonder mountain, to starve till you write that letter; or to feed the wild vermin with your body, if you refuse."

The ensign looked in Robinson's face, where a frown of stern resolution brooded upon his brow, and a kindling tempest of anger showed that this was not a moment to hazard the trial of his clemency.

"What would you have the purport of my letter?" asked the officer, in a subdued voice.

"That you have got into the hands of the Whigs," replied the sergeant; "and that if so be any mischief should fall upon Major Butler, by the contrivings of your friends, you die the first minute that we hear of it."

"I have had no hand in the taking of Major Butler," said the young St. Jermyn.

"I am glad of it," answered Robinson, "for your sake. You will die with a better conscience. If you had a hand in it, young man, I wouldn't ask you to write a line to any breathing man: your brains would spatter that door-post. Take up the pen and write, or stand by the consequences."

The officer took up the pen, then, hesitating a moment, flung it down, saying:

"I will not write; do with me as you choose."

"The young man drives me to it, against my own nature," said Robinson, speaking under strong excitement. "If he will not pen that letter, then, David Ramsay, you will write to Innis, in my name, and say Galbraith Robinson has got the Ensign where no Tory foot will ever follow him, and holds him to answer the first mischief that is done to Arthur Butler. But, I swear to this sulky boy, that if that letter goes to Innis for want of a better, as I am a man and a sodger, he will never taste food or water till I hear that Major Butler is free. He shall starve in the mountain."

"Oh, God! oh, God!" ejaculated the young soldier, in bitterness of heart; and covering his face with his hands, he threw his head upon the table, where he wept tears of agony. At length, looking in the countenance of Robinson, he said: "I am young, sir—not above twenty years. I have a mother and sisters in England."

"We have no time to spare," interrupted Robinson, "much less to talk about kinsfolk. Major Butler has them that love his life better than e'er an Englishwoman loves her son. If they are brought to grief by this onnatural rascality, it matters nothing to me if every daughter and sister in England pines away of heart-sickness, for the loss of them that they love best. Take my advice, my lack-beard," added Robinson, patting him on the shoulder, "and write the letter. You have the chances of war in your favor, and may save your neck."

"I will do your bidding, sir," said the ensign, after a pause. "Under the compulsion of force, I agree to write," and he once more took up the pen.

"You speak now like a reasonable gentleman," said Horse Shoe. "I pity you, friend, and will preserve you against harm, so far as it can be done in the circumstances of the case."

The ensign then wrote a few lines, in which he communicated to Colonel Innis, or to whatever officer his letter might be delivered, the straits in which he found himself, and the resolution of his captors to hold his life forfeit upon the event of any rigors, beyond those of an ordinary prisoner of war, imposed upon Major Butler. When he had finished, he gave the paper to Robinson.

"Read it aloud, Mr. Ramsay," said Horse Shoe, delivering the scrawl to his friend.

Ramsay read what was written.

"It must be wrote over again," said Horse Shoe, after he had heard the contents. "First, it must make no mention of his being only a few miles off; that must be left out. Secondly, my name needn't be told; though if the runagates knowed he was in my hands, they wouldn't think his chance any better on that account. Let him say that the Whigs have got him—that's enough. And, lastly, he must write his own name in full at the bottom. And, look you, young man, don't be scrawling out the lines in such a way that your own hand-write moughtn't be known. That must speak for itself, because upon this letter depends your life. You understand?"

"Give it me," said the ensign; "I will write it as you desire."

And again the unfortunate officer applied himself to the task that was imposed upon him; and in a short time produced a letter, which, being subjected to the criticism of the bystanders, was pronounced satisfactory.

As soon as this was done, St. Jermyn was conducted into another apartment, and there confided to the guardianship of Christopher Shaw. Horse Shoe now took a light and the writing materials from the table, and repaired with David Ramsay—both of them well armed—to the store-house, where the other prisoners were confined. After they had entered and closed the door, posting Andrew with his musket on the outside, Horse Shoe addressed the men in a gay and cheerful tone:

"Come, my lads, as you are good, honest fellows, that can have no great love for these little country cabins, judging by your bad luck and oncomfortable circumstances in that one where I found you this morning, I have come to set you free. By the laws of war, you have the right, if I choose to take it, to give me your parole. So now, if you have a mind to promise me, on the honor of sodgers, not to sarve again until you are fairly exchanged, you shall all leave this before daybreak. What do you say to the terms?"

"We are all agreed," replied the men, with one accord.

"Then write out something to that effect," said the sergeant to Ramsay. "You that can't scratch like scholards, stick your marks to the paper—d'ye hear?"

The parole was written out by Ramsay, and duly signed or marked by each of the four men. This being done, the sergeant informed them that, exactly at three in the morning, the door would be opened, and they would be at liberty to go where they pleased, provided they pledged themselves to visit no post of the enemy within twenty miles, nor communicate any particulars relating to their capture or detention to any British or Tory officer or soldier, within seven days. This pledge was cheerfully given, and after a few words of jocular good-nature were exchanged on both sides, Horse Shoe and his companion retired.

David Ramsay now ordered out his own and Mary Musgrove's horses, with an intention to set out immediately for the mill.

"Does Major Butler know that you are in his neighborhood?" inquired Ramsay of the sergeant, before the horses were brought to the door.

"Oh, bless you, yes," replied Horse Shoe. "I left word for him yesterday at Blackstock's, by giving the babblers there something to talk about, which I knew he would hear." And the sergeant went on to relate the particulars of his stop at that post: "And I sent him a message," continued he, "this morning, by James Curry, in the same sort of fashion. A little before daylight, I heard the devil singing one of his staves upon the road back here, so loud that he seemed to be frightened by ghosts or sperits; so I rode up fast behind him, and cuffed him out of his saddle, and then away I went like a leather-winged bat. I knowed the curmudgeon's voice, and I expect he knowed my hand, for he has felt it before. I'll be bound, he made a good story out of it; and, as such things fly, I make no doubt it wasn't long reaching the ear of the major, who would naturally think it was me, whether James told my name or not, because he knows my way. It was as good as writing a letter to the major, to signify that I was lurking about, close at hand. I never went to school, Mr. Ramsay, so I write my letters by making my mark. I can make a blow go further than a word upon occasion, and that's an old-fashioned way of telling your thoughts, that was found out before pen and ink."

"Well, Horse Shoe, you are a man after your own sort," replied Ramsay, laughing. "Come, Mary, take the letter; our horses are at the door."

"Good bye t'ye, David," said Horse Shoe, shaking Ramsay's hand; "it may be some days before we see each other again. Kit and me will be off with this young ensign before you get back. Don't forget the prisoners at three o'clock. And, a word, David—where had we best take this young sparrow, the ensign, to keep him out of the way of these fellows that are scouring the country?"

"Leave that to Christopher Shaw," replied Ramsay; "he knows every nook in the country. So, now, friend Robinson, good night, and luck go with you!"

It was a clear starlit night, and every tree and pool sent forth a thousand notes from the busy insects and reptiles that animate the summer hours of darkness, when David Ramsay set out with Mary Musgrove for her father's house.

NEW DIFFICULTIES OPEN UPON BUTLER.

With the last notes of the reveillée everything was stirring in Innis's camp. It was a beautiful, fresh morning; a cool breeze swept across the plain, and each spray and every blade of grass sparkled with the dew; whilst above, an unclouded firmament gave promise of a rich and brilliant mid-summer's day. The surrounding forest was alive with the twittering of birds; and the neighing of horses showed that this portion of the animal creation partook of the hilarity of the season. From every little shed or woodland lair, crept forth parties of soldiers, who betook themselves to their several posts to answer at the rollcall; and by the time the sun had risen, officers, on horseback and on foot, were seen moving hurriedly across the open plain, to join the groups of infantry and cavalry, which were now forming in various quarters for the purposes of the morning drill. Companies were seen in motion, passing through the rapid evolutions of the march, the retreat, and the many exercises of service. Drums were beating, and fifes were piercing the air with their high notes, and, ever and anon, the trumpet brayed from the further extremities of the field. Picquet-guards were seen mustering on the edge of the camp—wearied and night-worn: salutes were exchanged by the small detachments on service; and, here and there, sentinels might be descried, stationed at the several outlets of the plain, and presenting their arms as an officer passed their lines.

The troops that occupied this space were mostly of the irregular kind. Some were distinguished by ill-fitted and homely uniforms; others were clad in the common dress of the country, distinguished as soldiers only by their arms and accoutrements; but amongst them was also a considerable party of British regulars, clad in the national livery of scarlet. Amongst the officers, who were in command of the subordinate departments of this mixed and parti-colored little army, were several who, from their costume, might be recognised as belonging to the regiments that had come from the other side of the Atlantic.

Colonel Innis himself was seen upon the parade, directing the movements of divisions that, under their proper officers, were practising the customary lessons of discipline. He was a tall, thin man, of an emaciated complexion, with a countenance of thoughtful severity. A keen black eye seemed almost to burn within its orb, and to give an expression of petulant and peevish excitability, like the querulousness of a sick man. A rather awkward and ungainly person, arrayed in a scarlet uniform that did but little credit to the tailor-craft employed in its fabrication, conveyed to the spectator the idea of a man unused to the pride of appearance that belongs to a soldier by profession; and would have suggested the conclusion, which the fact itself sustained, that the individual before him had but recently left the walks of civil life to assume a military office. His demeanour, however, showed him to be a zealous if not a skilful officer. He gave close attention to the duties of his command, and busied himself with scrupulous exactitude in enforcing the observances necessary to a rigorous system of tactics.

This officer, as we have before hinted, had been an active participator in the proceedings of the new court of sequestrations at Charleston; and had rendered himself conspicuous by the fierce and unsparing industry with which he had brought to the judgment of that tribunal, the imputed delinquencies of some of the most opulent and patriotic citizens of the province.

Amongst the cases upon which he had been called into consultation was that of Arthur Butler, whose possessions being ample, and whose position, as a rebellious belligerent, being one of "flagrant delict," there was but little repugnance, on the part of the judges and their adviser, to subject him to the severest law of confiscation. The proceedings, however, had been delayed, not from any tenderness to the proprietor, but, as it was whispered in the scandal of the day, on account of certain dissensions, amongst a few prominent servants of the British crown, as to which of them the privilege of a cheap purchase should be extended. The matter was still in suspense, with a view (as that busybody, common rumor, alleged) to reward a particular favorite of the higher powers with the rich guerdon of these good lands, in compensation for private and valuable secret services, rendered in a matter of great delicacy and hazard—no less a service than that of seducing into the arena of politics and intrigue, an opulent and authoritative gentleman of Virginia, Mr. Philip Lindsay.

In consequence of the odious nature of the duty which Colonel Innis had assumed to perform, he became peculiarly hateful to the Whigs; and this sentiment was in no degree abated when, relinquishing his occupation as a counsellor to the court at Charleston, he accepted a commission to command a partisan corps of royalists in the upper country. He was, at the juncture in which I have exhibited him to my reader, new in his command, and had not yet "fleshed his maiden sword:" the day, however, was near at hand when his prowess was to be put to the proof.

Such was the person into whose hands Arthur Butler had now fallen.

After the morning exercises of the camp were finished, and the men were dismissed to prepare their first repast, the principal officers returned to the colonel's head-quarters in the farm-house, where, it will be remembered, Butler had been delivered by the escort that had conducted him from Blackstock's. The prisoner had slept soundly during the whole night; and now, as the breakfast hour drew nigh, he had scarcely awaked and put on his clothes, before he heard an inquiry, made by some one below, of the orderly on duty, whether the Whig officer was yet in a condition to be visited; and, in the next moment, the noise of footsteps, ascending the stair towards his chamber, prepared him to expect the entrance of the person who had asked the question.

A British officer, in full uniform, of a graceful and easy carriage, neat figure, and of a countenance that bespoke an intelligent and cultivated mind, made his appearance at the door. He was apparently of five or six and thirty years of age; and whilst he paused a moment, as with a purpose to apologize for the seeming intrusion, Butler was struck with the air of refined breeding of the individual before him.

"Major Butler, I understand, of the Continental army?" said the stranger. "The unpleasant nature of the circumstances in which you are placed, I hope will excuse the trespass I have committed upon your privacy. Captain St. Jermyn, of his Majesty's army, and lately an aide-de-camp of Lord Rawdon."

Butler bowed coldly, as he replied:

"To meet a gentleman, as your rank and name both import, is a privilege that has not been allowed me of late. Without knowing wherefore, I have been waylaid and outraged by bravoes and ruffians. You, perhaps, sir, may be able to afford me some insight into the causes of this maltreatment."

"Even if it were proper for me to hold discourse with you on such a subject, I could only speak from common report," replied the officer. "I know nothing of your seizure, except that, by the common chances of war, you have fallen into the hands of the ruling authorities of the province, and you will, doubtless, as a soldier, appreciate my motives for declining any reference to the circumstances in which you have been found. My visit is stimulated by other considerations, amongst which is foremost a desire to mitigate the peculiarly uncomfortable captivity to which I am sorry to learn you have been subjected."

"I thank you," replied Butler, "for the intention with which your good offices are proffered; but you can render me no service that I should value so much as that of informing me why I have been brought hither, at whose suggestion, and for what purpose."

"I will be plain with you, Major Butler. Your situation demands sympathy, however inexorably the present posture of our affairs may require the decrees of stern justice, in respect to yourself, to be executed. I feel for you, and would gladly aid you to any extent which my duty might allow, in averting the possible calamity that may hang over you. You are known as a gentleman of consideration and influence in the colonies. I may further add, as a brave and venturesome soldier. You are believed to have, more boldly than wisely, enterprised the accomplishment of certain schemes against the safety of his majesty's acknowledged government in this province; besides having committed other acts in violation of a faith plighted for you by those who had full authority to bind you, thus bringing yourself within the penalties appropriate to the violation of a military parole, if not within those of treason itself."

"He lies in his throat," cried Butler, "who charges me with forfeiture of plighted word or honor, in any action of my life. That I have arrayed myself against what you are pleased to term his majesty's acknowledged government in this province, I am proud to confess, here in the midst of your bands, and will confess it again at your judgment seat; but if aught be said against me that shall be intended to attaint my honor as a gentleman, I will, in the same presence and before God, throw the lie in the teeth of my accuser. Aye, and make good my word, now or hereafter, wheresoever it may be allowed me to meet the slanderer."

"I do not condemn your warmth," said St. Jermyn, calmly, "in a matter that so deeply stirs your self-esteem; and only desire now to second it in all things wherein an honorable enemy may claim the support of those who themselves value a good name. The authorities of this post have considerately resolved to give you the benefit of a court of inquiry. And I hope you will take it as it was meant, in all kindness to you, that I have come, before the communication of an official order, to apprise you that charges will be duly exhibited against you, and a trial be instantly had. If you will accept of my services, feeble and inadequate as they may be, I would gladly tender them to afford you such facilities as the pressure of the present emergency may allow."

"To be tried! when, and for what? If the charge is that I carry on open war against those who are in the habit of calling me and my compatriots rebels—I am ready to confess the charge. What need of court or trial?"

"There are graver and more serious offences than that imputed to you," said St. Jermyn.

"When am I to be informed of them, and to what do they tend?"

"You will hear them this morning; when, I am sorry to add, the nature of our military operations also enforces the necessity of your trial."

"You can be of little service, if that be true," returned Butler, thoughtfully. "My cause can only be defended by my country, long after I am made the victim of this unrighteous procedure."

"There is one alternative," said St. Jermyn, with some hesitation in his manner, "which a mature deliberation upon your relations as a subject,—pardon me, for I do not deem this ill-timed rebellion to have obliterated them—may present to your mind."

"Speak it," said Butler, vehemently; "speak out the base thought that is rising to your lip, if you dare. Prisoner as I am, I will avenge the insult on the spot with the certainty of loss of life. The alternative you suggest, is to dishonor me and all who are dear to me by the foul opprobrium of treason to my country. You would have me, I suppose, renounce the cause to which I have dedicated my life, and take shelter with the recreants that have crowded under the banner of St. George?"

"Hold! remember, sir, that you are a prisoner," said St. Jermyn, with great coolness; and then after a pause, he added with a sigh: "I will not wound, by further converse, the exaggerated and delusive sense of honor which is too fatally predominant in your breast, and, as I have found it, in the breasts of many of your misguided countrymen. I came to serve you, not to excite your feelings; and I will now, even in your displeasure, serve you as far as the occasion may afford me means: I pray you, call on me without reserve. For the present, believe me, in pain and sorrow I take my leave."

With these words, the officer retired.

Butler paced to and fro through his narrow chamber for some minutes, as his mind revolved the extraordinary and unexpected disclosures which had been made to him in this short visit. A thousand conjectures rose into his thoughts as to the nature of the supposed charges that were to be brought against him. He minutely retraced all the incidents of his late adventures, to ascertain how it was possible to found upon them an accusation of violated faith, or to pervert them into an imputation of treason against the present doubtful and disputed authority of the self-styled conquerors of Carolina. If his attempt to join Clarke was treason, it could be no less treason in the followers of Gates to array themselves against the royal army; and, that every prisoner hereafter taken in battle was to be deemed a traitor to the contested power of Cornwallis, seemed to be a pretension too absurd for the most inveterate partisans to assert. There was nothing in this review of his actions that the most ingenious malice could pervert into an offence punishable by the laws of war, by other rigor than such as might be inflicted upon an ordinary prisoner taken in arms. Still, there were unhappy doubts of some secret treachery that rose to his reflections: the perfidy of Adair, manifestly the effect of a bribe; the ambuscade promoted and managed by James Curry; the bloody purpose of the brutal gang who captured him, frustrated only by the accidental fray in which Blake was wounded. Then the "doubtful givings out" which fell from the lips of some of the soldiers at Blackstock's, of his case still being one of life and death; the insinuation of the savage Habershaw, at the same place, conveyed in the threat of twisted hemp; the knowledge which his present keepers affected to have of his rank and consequence, of his past life and present aims; and, above all, his being brought for immediate trial, in a matter affecting his life, before the very man, now in the capacity of a military commander, who had heretofore been active in promoting the design of confiscating his estate. All these considerations, although unconnected with any circumstance of specific offence within his knowledge, led him into the most anxious and melancholy forebodings as to the result of this day's proceedings.

"I am doomed to fall," he said, "under some secret stroke of vengeance, and my country is to have in my case another stirring appeal against the enormity of that iron rule that seeks to bow her head into the dust. So be it! The issue is in the hand of God, and my fate may turn to the account of the establishment of a nation's liberty. Oh, Mildred, I tremble to think of thee! Heaven grant, my girl, that thy fortitude may triumph over the martyrdom of him that loves thee better than his life!"

A TRIAL.—A GRAVE ACCUSATION THAT STILL FURTHER CONFIRMS BUTLER IN HIS BELIEF OF A SECRET ENEMY.—A SUDDEN RESPITE.

Butler's baggage, ever since he left Robinson's habitation on the Catawba, had been divided into two parcels, one of which he carried in a portmanteau on his own horse, and the other had been stowed away in a pair of black leather saddle-bags that were flung across Captain Peter. These latter sufficed, also, to inclose, in addition to the sergeant's own wardrobe, sundry stores of provender, which the careful appetite and soldier-like foresight of the trusty squire had, from time to time, accumulated for their comfort upon the road-side. After the escape of the sergeant, this baggage had been kept with more scrupulousness than might have been expected from the character of the freebooters into whose possession it had fallen; and now, when Butler had been surrendered up to the custody of Colonel Innis, it was restored to the prisoner without the loss of any article of value. On this morning, therefore, Butler had thrown aside the rustic dress in which he had heretofore travelled, and appeared habited as we have described him when first introduced to the reader.

After a very slight meal, which had been administered with more personal attention and consideration for his rank and condition than he was prepared to expect, an officer entered his apartment and communicated an order to him to repair to the yard in front of the quarters. Here he found a sergeant's guard mustered to receive him, and he was directed to march with them to the place that had been selected for his trial. The spot pitched upon for this purpose, was at the foot of a large mulberry that stood on the border of the plain, at a short distance from the house.

When the guard arrived with the prisoner, Colonel Innis was already seated at the head of a table, around which were placed several officers, both of the regular and militia forces. Writing materials were also arranged upon the board, and at the lower end, a few paces removed from it, stood a vacant chair. Behind this was erected a pile of drums, with one or two colours laid transversely across them. Sentinels were stationed at different points near this group, and within their lines were collected the principal officers of Innis's command. Somewhat more remote, a number of idle spectators were assembled, amongst whom might have been discerned Habershaw, Curry, and many of the heroes who had figured at Grindall's ford. Captain St. Jermyn had taken a station a little to the left of the presiding officer at the table, and in the rear of those who appeared to have the management of the approaching procedure, and now stood, with his hands folded, apparently an anxious and interested looker-on.

There was a thoughtful and even stern expression upon every face when Butler appeared—and a silence that was scarce broken by the occasional whispers in which the several individuals present communicated with each other. The guard marched the prisoner around the circle, and inducted him into the vacant chair, where he was received by a quiet and cold inclination of the head from each member of the court.

For a few moments he looked around him with a scornful gaze upon the assemblage that were to sit in judgment upon him, and bit his lip, as his frame seemed to be agitated with deep emotion: at length, when every look was bent upon him, and no one breathed a word, he rose upon his feet and addressed the company.

"I understand that I am in the presence of a military court, which has been summoned for the purpose of inquiring into certain offences, of the nature of which I have not yet had the good fortune to be informed, except in so far as I am given to infer that they purport of treason. I ask if this be true."

The presiding officer bowed his head in token of assent, and then presented a paper, which he described as containing the specification of charges.

"As an officer of the American army, and the citizen of an independent republic," continued Butler, "I protest against any accountability to this tribunal; and, with this protest, I publish my wrongs in the face of these witnesses, and declare them to arise out of facts disgraceful to the character of an honorable nation. I have been drawn by treachery into an ambuscade, overpowered by numbers, insulted and abused by ruffians. I wish I could say that these outrages were practised at the mere motion of the coarse banditti themselves who assailed me; but their manifest subserviency to a plan, the object of which was to take my life, leaves me no room to doubt that they have been in the employ and have acted under the orders of a more responsible head"—

"Keep your temper," interrupted Innis, calmly. "Something is to be allowed to the excited feelings of one suddenly arrested in the height of a bold adventure, and the court would, therefore, treat your expression of such feelings at this moment with lenity. You will, however, consult your own welfare, by giving your thoughts to the charges against you, and sparing yourself the labor of this useless vituperation. Read that paper, and speak to its contents. We will hear you patiently and impartially."

"Sir, it can avail me nothing to read it. Let it allege what it may, the trial, under present circumstances, will be but a mockery. By the chances of war, my life is in your hands; it is an idle ceremony and waste of time to call in aid the forms of justice, to do that which you have the power to do, without insulting Heaven by affecting to assume one of its attributes."

"That we pause to inquire," replied Innis, "is a boon of mercy to you. The offence of rank rebellion which you and all your fellow-madmen have confessed, by taking up arms against your king, carries with it the last degree of punishment. If, waiving our right to inflict summary pain for this transgression, we stay to hear what you can say against other and even weightier charges, you should thank us for our clemency. But this is misspending time. Read the paper to the prisoner," he added, addressing one of the officers at the table.

The paper was read aloud. It first presented a charge against the prisoner for violating the terms of the parole given at the capitulation of Charleston. The specification to support this charge was that, by the terms of the surrender, General Lincoln had engaged that the whole garrison should be surrendered as prisoners of war, and that they should not serve again until exchanged. The prisoner was described as an officer of that garrison, included in the surrender, and lately taken in the act of making war upon his majesty's subjects.

The second charge was, that the prisoner had insinuated himself, by false representations, into the territory conquered by the royal army; and that, in the quality of a spy, he had visited the family of a certain Walter Adair, with a view to obtain a knowledge of the forces, plans, movements, and designs of the various detachments engaged in his majesty's service in the neighborhood of Broad River.

And, third and last, that he, together with certain confederates, had contrived and partially attempted to execute a plan to seize upon and carry away a subject of his majesty's government, of great consideration and esteem—Mr. Philip Lindsay, namely, of the Dove Cote, in the province of Virginia. That the object of this enterprise was to possess himself of the papers as well as of the person of the said Philip Lindsay, and, by surrendering him up to the leaders of the rebel army, to bring upon him the vengeance of the rebel government, thus exposing him to confiscation of property, and even to peril of life.

Such was the general import and bearing of the accusations against the prisoner, expressed with the usual abundance of verbiage and minuteness of detail. Butler listened to them, at first, with indifference, and with a determination to meet them with inflexible silence; but, as the enunciation of them proceeded, and the extraordinary misrepresentations they contained were successively disclosed, he found his indignation rising to a height that almost mastered his discretion, and he was on the point of interrupting the court with the lie direct, and of involving himself in an act of contumacy which would have been instantly decisive of his fate. His better genius, however, prevailed, and, smothering his anger by a strong effort of self-control, he merely folded his arms and abided until the end, with a contemptuous and proud glance at his accusers.

"You have heard the allegations against you, sir," said Colonel Innis; "what say you to them?"

"What should an honorable man," replied Butler, "say to such foul aspersions? The first and second charges, sir, I pronounce to be frivolous and false. As to the last, sir, there are imputations in it that mark the agency of a concealed enemy, lost to every impulse of honor—a base and wicked liar. Confront me with that man, and let the issue stand on this—if I do not prove him to be, in the judgment of every true gentleman of your army, an atrocious and depraved slanderer, who has contrived against my life for selfish purposes, I will submit myself to whatever penalty the most exasperated of my enemies may invent. It was my purpose, sir, to remain silent, and to refuse, by any act of mine, to acknowledge the violation of the rights of war by which I have been dragged hither. Nothing could have swayed me from that determination, but the iniquitous falsehood conveyed in the last accusation."

"We cannot bandy words with one in your condition," interrupted the president of the court. "I must remind you again, that our purpose is to give you a fair trial, not to listen to ebullitions of anger. Your honor is concerned in these charges, and you will best consult your interest by a patient demeanor in your present difficulties."

"I am silent," said Butler, indignantly, taking his seat.

"Let the trial proceed," continued the president. "You will not deny," he said, after an interval of reflection, "that you are a native of Carolina?"

"I can scarcely deny that before you," replied Butler, "who, in my absence, as report says, have been busy in the investigation of my affairs."

"There are bounds, sir, to the forbearance of a court," said Innis, sternly. "I understand the taunt. Your estates have been the subject of consideration before another tribunal; and if my advice were listened to, the process relating to them would be a short one."

"You are answered," returned Butler.

"Nor can you deny that you were an officer belonging to the army under the command of General Lincoln."

Butler was silent.

"You were at Charleston during the siege?" inquired one of the court.

"In part," replied Butler. "I left it in March, the bearer of despatches to Congress."

"And you were in arms on the night of the thirteenth, at Grindall's Ford?" continued the same questioner.

"I confess it, sir."

"That's enough," interrupted Innis. "In the ninth article of the capitulation of Charleston we read: 'all civil officers, and the citizens who have borne arms during the siege, must be prisoners on parole.'"

"I should say," interposed St. Jermyn, who now, for the first time, opened his lips, "that the prisoner scarcely falls within that description. The words 'during the siege' would seem to point to a service which lasted to the end. They are, at least, equivocal; and I doubt Lord Cornwallis would be loath to sanction a judgment on such a ground."

Upon this ensued a consultation amongst the officers at the table, during which Butler was withdrawn to a short distance in the rear of the assemblage. Several of the unoccupied soldiers of the camp, at this stage of the trial, had crowded into the neighborhood of the court; and the sentinels, yielding to the eagerness of the common curiosity, had relaxed their guard so far as to allow the spectators to encroach beyond the lines. Among those who had thrust themselves almost up to the trial-table were a few children, male and female, bearing on their arms baskets of fruit and vegetables, which had been brought within the camp for sale. A smart-looking girl, somewhat older than the rest, seemed to have gained more favor from the crowd than her competitors, by the temptation which she presented of a rich collection of mellow apples; and perhaps her popularity was in some degree increased by the soft and pleasant-toned voice in which she recommended her wares, no less than by the ruddy, wholesome hue of her cheek, and an agreeable, laughing, blue eye, that shone forth from the shade of a deep and narrow sun-bonnet, the curtain of which fell upon her shoulders and down her back.

"Buy my apples, gentlemen," said the pretty fruit-merchant, coming up fearlessly to Colonel Innis, in the midst of the consultation.

"Three for a penny; they are very ripe and mellow, sir."

The colonel cast his eye upon the treasures of the basket, and began to select a few of the choicest fruit. Thus encouraged, the girl set her load upon the table, in the midst of the hats and swords with which it was encumbered, and very soon every other member of the court followed the example of the presiding officer, and became purchasers of the greater part of the store before them. When this traffic was concluded, the little huckster took up her burden and retired towards the group of spectators. Seeing the prisoner in this quarter, she walked up to him, curtsied, and presented him an apple, which was gratefully accepted, and the proffered return, from him, in money, refused.

When about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, Butler was resummoned to his seat, and the court again proceeded to business. The inquiry now related to the second charge—that, namely, which imputed to the prisoner the character of a spy in his visit at Adair's. To this accusation, Captain Hugh Habershaw and several of his troop were called as witnesses. The amount of testimony given by them was, that, on the eleventh of the month, they had received information that a Continental officer, whose real name and title was Major Butler, but who was travelling in disguise and under an assumed name, from the Catawba towards the Broad River, in company with a well known, stark Whig—a certain Horse Shoe Robinson—was expected in a few days to arrive at Wat Adair's. That Habershaw, hoping to intercept them, had scoured the country between the two rivers; but that the travellers had eluded the search, by taking a very circuitous and unfrequented route towards the upper part of Blair's Range and Fishing Creek. That, on the night of the twelfth, the two men arrived at Adair's, unmolested; and, on the morning of the thirteenth, some of the woodman's family had met Habershaw and apprised him of this fact; adding, further, that the prisoner had offered a bribe to Adair, to induce him to give information in regard to the loyalist troops in the neighborhood, with a view to communicate it to a certain Colonel Clarke, who had appointed to meet Butler and his companion somewhere on the upper border of the province. That, in consequence of this attempt, Adair had directed the prisoner towards Grindall's Ford; and, this intelligence being communicated to the witness, he had conducted his troop to that place, where he succeeded in arresting the prisoner and his comrade, with the loss of two men in the struggle. The narrative then went on to give the particulars of Horse Shoe's escape, and the other facts with which the reader is acquainted. This account was corroborated by several witnesses, and, amongst the rest, by Curry.

Butler heard the testimony with the most painful sensations. There was just enough of truth in it to make the tale plausible; and the falsehood related to points which, as they were affirmed upon hearsay, he could not repel by proof. There was a common expression of opinion amongst the bystanders—who in general were inclined to take the side of the prisoner in reference to the charge which was supposed to affect his life—that this accusation of Butler's acting the part of a spy was sustained by the proof. In vain did he protest against the injustice of being condemned on what was alleged to have been said by some of Adair's family; in vain did he deny that he had offered a bribe to Adair for information respecting the Tories; and equally in vain did he affirm that he had asked of Adair nothing more than the common hospitality due to a traveller, and for which he had made him a moderate requital—the only money the woodman had received from him. The current was now setting violently against him, and it seemed impossible to stem it.

"It is but due," said Captain St. Jermyn, a second time interposing in behalf of the prisoner, "to the rank and character of Major Butler, since a portion of this testimony is second-hand, to take his own examination on these alleged facts. With permission, therefore, I would ask him a few questions."

"The court will not object," said Innis, who throughout affected the air of an impartial judge.

"It is true, Major Butler, that you were at Adair's on the night of the twelfth?" said the volunteer advocate of the prisoner.

"I was, sir."

"And you made no concealment of your name or rank?"

"I will not say that," replied Butler.

"You were under a feigned name then, sir?" inquired Innis, as St. Jermyn seemed a little confounded by the answer he had received.

"I was called Mr. Butler, sir; my rank or station was not communicated."

"Your dress?"

"Was an assumed one, to avoid inquiry."

"This man, Horse Shoe Robinson," said St. Jermyn, "was known to Adair as a whig soldier?"

"Well known," replied Butler; "and I was also represented as belonging to that party. Adair himself led us to believe that he was friendly to our cause."

Here several members of the court smiled.

"Had you met any parties of loyalists," inquired Innis, "in your journey between Catawba and Broad?"

"We had—more than one."

"How did you escape them?"

"By assuming feigned characters and names."

"Your purpose was to join Clarke?"

"I am not at liberty to answer that question," replied the prisoner. "Suffice it, sir, I was travelling through this region on a mission of duty. My purpose was to act against the enemy. So far the charge is true, and only to this extent. I came with no design to pry into the condition of the royal troops; I sought only a successful passage through a contested, though sadly overpowered country."

"You offered no money to Adair," said St. Jermyn again, as if insisting on this point of exculpation, "but what you have already called a moderate requital for his entertainment?"

"None," replied the prisoner—"except," he added, "a guinea, to induce him to release, from some wicked torture, a wolf he had entrapped."

"It will not do," said Colonel Innis, shaking his head at St. Jermyn; and the same opinion was indicated in the looks of several of the court.

"I was at Walter Adair's that night, and saw the gentleman there, and heard all that was said by him; and I am sure that he offered Watty no money," said our little apple-girl, who had been listening with breathless anxiety to the whole of this examination, and who had now advanced to the table as she spoke the words. "And I can tell more about it, if I am asked."

"And who are you, my pretty maid?" inquired Colonel Innis, as he lifted the bonnet from her head and let loose a volume of flaxen curls down upon her neck.

"I am Mary Musgrove, the miller's daughter," said the damsel, with great earnestness of manner, "and Watty Adair is my uncle, by my mother's side—he married my aunt Peggy; and I was at his house when Major Butler and Mr. Horse Shoe Robinson came there."

"And what in the devil brought you here?" said Habershaw gruffly.

"Silence!" cried Innis, impatient at the obtrusive interruption of the gross captain. "What authority have you to ask questions? Begone, sir."

The heavy bulk of Hugh Habershaw, at this order, sneaked back into the crowd.

"I came only to sell a few apples," said Mary.

"Heaven has sent that girl to the rescue of my life," said Butler, under the impulse of a feeling which he could not refrain from giving vent to in words. "Pray allow me, sir, to ask her some questions."

"It is your privilege," was the answer from two or three of the court; and the spectators pressed forward to hear the examination.

Butler carefully interrogated the maiden as to all the particulars of his visit, and she, with the most scrupulous fidelity, recounted the scenes to which she had been a witness. When she came to detail the conversation which she had overheard between Adair and Lynch, and the events that followed it, the interest of the bystanders was wound up to the highest pitch. There was a simplicity in her recital of this strange and eventful story, that gave it a force to which the most skilful eloquence might in vain aspire; and when she concluded, the court itself, prejudiced as the members were against the prisoner, could not help manifesting an emotion of satisfaction at the clear and unequivocal refutation which this plain tale inferred against the testimony of Habershaw and his confederates. Innis alone affected to treat it lightly, and endeavored in some degree to abate its edge, by suggesting doubts as to the capacity of a young girl, in circumstance so likely to confuse her, to give an exact narrative of such a complicated train of events. Every cross-examination, however, which was directed to the accuracy of the maiden's story, only resulted in producing a stronger conviction of its entire truth. This concluded the examination on the second charge.

The court now proceeded to the third and last accusation against the prisoner.

To this there was but one witness called—James Curry. In the course of the examination this man showed great address and knowledge of the world. He gave some short account of himself. He had been a man born to a better condition of life than he now enjoyed. His education had been liberal, and his associations in life extremely various. It was to be inferred from his own relation, that he had fallen into some early indiscretion which had thrown him into the lowest stations of society, and that his original delinquency had prevented him from ever rising above them. He had served for many years in the army, and was present at the surrender of Charleston, being at that period a confidential servant, or man of business, to the young Earl of Caithness, the aide-de-camp of Sir Henry Clinton. Upon the departure of that young nobleman with the rest of Sir Henry's military family, for New York, he had remained behind, and had taken a similar service to that which he had left, with another officer of some repute. "There were state reasons," he said, "why this gentleman's name could not now be communicated to the court." That, in the month of July, he had attended his master on a visit to Mr. Philip Lindsay, in Virginia; and whilst in the immediate vicinity of that gentleman's residence, at a small country tavern, he had accidentally become privy to the design of the prisoner, and the same Horse Shoe Robinson who had been mentioned before, to seize upon the person and papers of Mr. Lindsay: that these two persons had actually arrived at the tavern he spoke of to commence operations. That he had overheard them discussing the whole plan; and he had no doubt they had allies at hand to assist in the scheme, and would have proceeded that same night to put it in execution, if he had not frustrated their design at the risk of his life. That, with the view of interrupting this enterprise, he had lured Robinson, the companion of the prisoner, to walk with him at night to the margin of a small river near the tavern, where he accused him of the treacherous design which he and his comrade had in view: that, in consequence of this, Robinson had endeavored to take his life which was only saved by a severe struggle; and that, being thus discovered in their purpose, this man, Robinson, and the prisoner had made a hasty retreat towards Gates's head-quarters.

Such was in effect the narrative of James Curry, which was solemnly given upon oath. Butler was for some moments confounded with astonishment at the audacity of this falsehood. He urged to the court the improbability of the whole story. "It would have been easy," he said, "if I had been hostile to Mr. Philip Lindsay—which, God knows, there are most cogent reasons to disprove—it would have been easy to procure his arrest without an attempt at a violent seizure by me. I had only to speak, and the whole country around him would have united in treating him as an object of suspicion, on account of his politics." He admitted that he was at Mrs. Dimock's at the time spoken of—that Robinson attended him there; but all else that had been said relating to the visit, he affirmed to be utterly false. He gave the particulars of the meeting between Horse Shoe and the witness, as he had it from Robinson; and spoke also of his knowledge of the visit of Tyrrel at the Dove Cote—"which person," he said, "he had reason to believe, came under a name not his own."