Thus the months had come and gone, and come again, until three years had passed since Richard’s company marched away that winter day to join their comrades at Valley Forge. Three years of warfare, and victory yet faltered to remain with either standard, but wavered like a fickle woman from side to side. And Joscelyn held to her allegiance, wearing her scarlet bodice in open rejoicing at news of an English victory, and decking herself in sombre mourning when tidings of the American triumph at King’s Mountain thrilled the country with an awakened hope. And in these habiliments she walked the streets, or sat upon her balcony, that none might be in doubt as to her feelings.

“Joscelyn Cheshire be as good as a war barometer,” said Mistress Strudwick; “one has but to look at her to know whether to rejoice or to sorrow.”

Vainly her mother argued with the girl, showing the danger she ran of drawing upon them both the enmity of the community.

“We are but two lone women, and what could we do against a mob? You go too far in this matter, my daughter. An you alter not your behaviour, we shall be driven from the town, or else have our house burned over our heads. Only yesterday Sally Ruffin was telling your Aunt Clevering of some threats she had heard concerning you.”

But Joscelyn shrugged her shoulders. “They will not harm you, mother; you are too much of their party creed. And as for me, I fear them not; they will do naught more serious than to tear down my royal picture-gallery from the porch, and break a few more window-panes.”

And truly martial events were crowding so fast upon each other that the community had no time to resent the caprices of a girl. All interest was now centred in the south. Greene had superseded Gates; Cowpens had been fought and Tarleton sent in rout to Cornwallis, who started in hot haste to chastise the victors and recover his captured troopers. But Morgan threw his battalion over the Catawba; Greene took entire command, and then begun that marvellous retreat, every step of which was as an American victory. The pursuit was close behind. The whole country held its breath at the spectacle of two great armies vying against each other on almost parallel roads for the far-off fords of the Dan. Twenty-five, even thirty miles a day they tramped it over roads deep in mire that held them back as with a fiendish purpose. It was a spectacle to stir one’s blood, no matter on which side the sympathies,—this Titanic struggle, this heroic race. The rear-guard of the pursued, and the van of the pursuer, often bivouacked in sight of each other’s watch-fires. Petty strife was at an end; the great principles of war alone held sway, and it were hard to say in which camp there was more of resolute endeavour.

The flooding rains detained Cornwallis at the Catawba, and yet again at the Yadkin, giving the Americans somewhat of advantage, so that Joscelyn Cheshire said in her mocking way, that the “weather was supplying the deficiencies of nature and making a great general out of Nathaniel Greene.”

“Rather is God aiding a righteous cause,” Aunt Clevering retorted.

Hillsboro’ was in a fever of excitement during those days, knowing that somewhere beyond the mountains that skirted her on the west, these armies, like mighty leviathans, were writhing on their courses. The town lay almost in the path of both, and each day was full of rumours and contradictions. The country people, both Whigs and Tories, crowded in to learn more speedily the news. The streets were thronged each day with anxious men and women, asking each other questions and exchanging surmises. And every day Joscelyn rode her horse from the bridge that spanned the Eno on the western edge of the town to the clump of boulders called the “Hen and Chickens,” which cropped out of a common that lay high to the eastward. And always she wore in her hat, with jaunty grace, a cockade of scarlet ribbon; and Tories bowed low as she passed, and Whigs scowled and shrugged their shoulders, marvelling at her daring.

But at last the news came that the race was done; Greene had crossed the Dan to the safety of Virginia, and a union with the reënforcements hastily spared him from the northern division, and Cornwallis was baffled. Disappointed, he turned southward once more, and one February day the vanguard rode haughtily into Hillsboro’, and ere night the sloping commons, flanking the town to the east and northeast, were white with a tent city swarming with the soldiers of the king.

In the general excitement Betty ran across the street and, twisting Joscelyn’s apron-string the while, asked, “Do you think Eus—that is, that you will have any friends on Cornwallis’s staff?”

“I am quite sure you will have one,” answered Joscelyn, with a laughing accent on the second pronoun. “Mary is already in the parlour wanting me to go with her and hunt him; what message shall I carry that my welcome may be sure?”

“Oh, none!” hastily answered Betty. Then added, with a shy laugh, “Of course I shall have to see him and thank him for his efforts in Richard’s behalf.”

“Methinks you will have to go through that disagreeable ordeal. When I see him I shall casually mention that I have asked you to be here at five this afternoon.”

But Eustace did not wait so long to hear Betty’s thanks. He laid no stress on his services save as a pretext to see her, and when his duties at headquarters were over he boldly presented himself at Mistress Clevering’s door; and Betty, blushing and palpitating, came down to meet him; and seeing her thus, his heart surrendered itself anew. But her mother, following close in her wake, gave him no chance to say the things he longed.

“We deeply appreciate your efforts for my son, Master Singleton,” she said, sitting stiffly on the extreme edge of her chair, as if ready to rise on the instant.

“I have called this morning, madam, not to receive your thanks, for I do not deserve them; but to say how sorry I was not to do more for him and for you, and also to express my sincere regrets over his death.”

“Your regrets are misplaced; my son still lives.”

He stood up, amazed; and the lady also rose as though to bid him adieu. “Still alive? You astound me, madam; I saw his death record.”

“He escaped instead of dying.”

“It sounds like a miracle; but I am glad of it.” He turned to Betty, but her mother had not resumed her seat, and so he, too, stood in an awkward hesitation. But the girl put out her hands with an impulsive gesture, and he gathered them both close in his.

“It was good of you—so good to go to that horrible ship!”

“I would have gone to the ends of the world to serve you. Your simplest wish would be my law, and I would count myself well paid with a smile or one gentle word.” He had forgotten her mother standing there like a sphinx; and Betty’s face went suddenly pale, and then as suddenly reddened and dimpled, for he bent down and kissed each of her hands lingeringly.

“Master Singleton!” The harsh tones recalled him to himself. He turned to the older woman. “My daughter joins with me in expressing our gratitude. Since your time must be short, we will no longer detain you.”

Of course he went, and Betty fled to Joscelyn for comfort, for her mother had said sternly:—

“We have done our duty, let the matter end here; and let me say furthermore, that to be grateful one need not blush and dimple while an arch-enemy of the country kisses one’s hand.”

And Betty had almost choked with confusion, and while crossing the street had looked at her hands with a sense of tenderness that was new.

“Oh, Joscelyn, I am so miserable and yet so happy!” And Joscelyn told her all the sweet things Eustace had said about her at the camp, and sent her home as red and tremulous as a rose in the sun.

There was joy among the Loyalists over the coming of the Redcoats, and consternation among those whose relatives were with Greene. Cornwallis established his headquarters at the inn on King Street, using the one-roomed building opposite as his office. Here he set up the royal standard, and issued a proclamation to the Tories of the vicinity to come to his aid. He looked for a general up-rising in his favour, but he looked in vain. The country folk rode into town to learn the latest news, or brought their wives and daughters to the commander’s levees; but most of them rode home again, unconvinced of the permanency of his lordship’s dominion.

Joscelyn watched them wrathfully as they took their departures, and strove by the courtesy of her own manner to atone for their lack of loyalty. Her house became at once the social rendezvous of the newcomers, and few hours of the day went by without a summons upon her knocker. Often she was in the cavalcade that drew rein before the general’s office after a ride of inspection through the camp; for with the army were several Loyalist ladies who had fled from their homes to their husbands when Greene began his retreat, and with the Tory women of the neighbourhood they made a goodly company. Mistress Clevering was filled with rage when, from behind her closed shutters, she saw the scarlet-coated officers alight at Joscelyn’s door. Mary Singleton was somewhat chary of her favours, fearing the public resentment when the British should have withdrawn. But Joscelyn took heed of no such consideration, and was withal so charming and so cordial that Lord Cornwallis, recalling his friendship for her father, unbent from his customary reserve, and exhibited in her parlour a courtesy of bearing which was of a piece with the humanity he showed upon his campaigns. Among the younger officers the “Royalist Rose,” as they styled her, became a favourite ere the second sun went down upon their coming; so there was ever an escort waiting at her door when the staff rode forth to the outlying camp.

And oftener than any one else this escort was Captain Barry, of the second legion. It was he who stood at the door of the general’s headquarters when, on that first day, Mary and Joscelyn arrived to make inquiry for Eustace, and snatching off his hat he came out to receive them, for they made a very charming picture as they advanced modestly toward the entrance, piloted by an orderly. The first smile from Joscelyn’s blue eyes did the whole thing for him. He surrendered at once, without one effort at self-defence; and when he and Eustace reached her veranda, having escorted the girls home, there was not so much as one poor little pennant left fluttering over the ramparts of his heart. From that hour his comrades, when he was wanted, knew in whose parlour to seek him, and he never failed to let Joscelyn know when there was a pleasure ride or a tour of inspection planned for the day.

It was for an excursion of this sort that Joscelyn dressed herself with exceeding care one afternoon and, with an officer at either bridle-rein, went out to see the army parade for the commander’s inspection. The conversation as they paced along was all of the movements of a suspected spy from Greene’s host beyond the Dan.

“We cannot locate the fellow; but certain it is, the doings of our army are reported accurately to the insurrectionists. Yesterday a letter was discovered in a hollow stump on the mountain side, left there, of course, by preconcerted arrangement to be called for. The stump is being secretly watched, but as yet no results have been obtained. This is all well known and talked about, Mistress Joscelyn, and you, being one of us—” Barry’s smile said the rest.

“Is it a townsman who has written these reports, think you?” asked the girl, going over in her mind the people who might be implicated, with a quick inward throb for some of her friends.

“I judge not, for there are references to the writer’s journey back from the Dan. Evidently it is a follower of Greene who knows this country well. He is exceedingly artful, but his capture is necessarily certain, with all the precautions we have taken.”

“And what would be his fate, if caught?”

“A spy is shot—or mayhap his lordship will hang him on the hill yonder, where they tell me Governor Tryon swung up the traitorous Regulators in years gone by. ’Twould be but another chapter in the red history of this your Tyburn Hill.”

The young soldier laughed at his own allusion, but Joscelyn shuddered; for the first time she seemed to fully realize the grim actualities of war. Her companions chatted on gayly, and finally she forced herself to join in the conversation; but somehow they could not get away from the subject of those surreptitious reports and their author.

The wide upland common had been turned into a parade ground, and was full of soldiers marching and counter-marching. The general and his staff were already afield and saluted the newcomers as they passed on to the “Hen and Chickens,” about which a party of spectators, chiefly ladies, were already congregated. Here the officers left Joscelyn with some friends, and rode away to their different commands. It was some time before the parade began, and in the interim there was much laughing and talking around the rough boulders. And here again Joscelyn heard of the wary scout.

“Who are those men there to the left?” she asked, by way of changing the conversation, and pointed to five or six men in citizen’s dress who were grouped apart by themselves. Some were mounted; some on foot.

“Oh, those are the Tory recruits who came in this morning. They have not yet been assigned to their respective commands, and so are viewing the scene merely as spectators; to-morrow they will be put in the ranks. The tall one on the right was with Pyle when Lee surprised and routed him. I understand he says information of Pyle’s movements was sent to Lee by some one within the town here—probably a Continental spy.”

There was more to tell; but the parade was beginning and the conversation ended, much to Joscelyn’s relief. It somehow unstrung her nerves to think of another hanging up on Regulators’ Hill. From her saddle she watched the scarlet companies advance, wheel, pass directly in front of the general’s staff, and finally take position in the long line which was thus formed across the field. It was a stirring sight, and her fingers relaxed their hold on the rein as she leaned forward to watch every movement. Suddenly a band stationed near the group struck up a lively air. The unexpected blare of the trumpets startled Joscelyn’s horse; an upward toss of his head shook the rein from her inert hand, and then with the panic of fear upon him he wheeled about and dashed off at a mad pace. The women in the group behind screamed; for the rein was swinging about the animal’s feet, and the girl in the saddle was utterly at his mercy. From the first plunge Joscelyn realized the peril of her position; for a few seconds she clung terror stricken to the horn of her saddle; then she shook her foot free from the stirrup and eased her knee from the pommel, for an awful memory had come to her. A hundred yards ahead, directly in the path of the frantic horse, was a deep ditch, ragged with rocks; there the race must end in death to the horse—and mayhap to the rider. Her one chance was to leap from the saddle. It took but a second for this to flash through her mind; but even as she turned slightly in her saddle, a voice rang out sternly above the braying horns and the thundering hoof beats:—

“Do not jump, on your life!”

Her fingers closed over the saddle horn in spasmodic obedience; and then she saw that the horse was running directly toward the group of men in civilian dress on the little knoll, and that one of them had sprung forward and waited with uplifted arm the coming of the runaway. Even through her terror there came a dim realization of the death he was courting; but in another instant the collision came. The man was knocked aside by the flying horse, but his hand had caught the rein, and half dragged, half running, he kept his place at the animal’s head. Then his other hand, fumbling uncertainly, found the bit, and he was master of the brute. Almost upon the brink of the yawning ditch the horse ceased its plunges and stood still, quivering through its whole body. The other men who had followed now crowded about with exclamations and inquiries.

“Will you dismount?” asked her rescuer.

And then as she stretched out her shaking hands for his assistance, she saw his face for the first time. He was deathly pale, and his hat, which some one had picked up, was drawn low over his brow; but the voice and the eyes were Richard Clevering’s. She would have spoken his name but for a quick glance of warning from under his hat brim. Then a new sense of terror swept over her; for, by some swift and subtle instinct, it came to her that Richard was the hunted spy of whom she had that day heard so much.

CHAPTER XXI.

It was best to end the matter thus, than to see him again face to face; for she felt she dared not trust her shaken nerves in another interview, lest the warning she wished to convey turn into a betrayal. He must have realized his danger, and gone at once.

Her escape was the subject of much rejoicing; even Lord Cornwallis, to whom an account of the accident was carried, sent his aide with congratulations, and Barry came back at a lope, looking like a ghost with anxiety. She heard not a half of what was said, her mind was in such a tumult of perplexity as to her rightful course and of anxiety for her Clevering friends. Naturally her companions attributed her silence and abstraction to her recent fright, and gave no thought to it. She was infinitely relieved when the parade was over, and they were once more on the homeward road. Her horse had recovered from his panic, and was moving along quietly.

“If he had to run away, why could he not have given me the chance to save you?” Barry said, with much chagrin, longing to show his devotion and gain some hold upon her thoughts.

“Perhaps he knew that with you at hand he would have no chance,” she answered with a forced smile, dragging her mind from the dread that haunted it.

It was mid-winter; the remnants of a snowstorm still bleached in the sheltered places among the fields, and whiter yet on the sloping sides of the mountains behind which the sun had just set, leaving them framed and fringed with yellow fire. The river at their base was hidden in its banks and could only be guessed at; but the nestling town had caught a reflection of radiance from the sunset banners flying above it, and stood out like some sculptured bas-relief against the downward-dropping hills. Like the fine colours in an opal, the lights came and went, brightened and faded. Joscelyn’s pulse had begun to beat normally under the spell of the ethereal beauty of the scene, when suddenly far up the mountain road her keen eyes descried a moving figure. The trees were nude of foliage, and the snow lying along the winding road was as a reflector to show up the dark moving object, which for a moment was seen and then lost to sight behind a clump of cedars. Was it a cow, or a man on horseback? A strange curiosity took hold of the girl; she thought she alone saw it, and all sorts of speculations were in her mind when her reverie was rudely broken by the officer on her right.

“Linsey,” he said in a whisper which Joscelyn’s straining ears caught, at the same time lifting his finger toward the mountain; “Linsey, an I mistake not, yonder goes our spy; gallop at once to Colonel Tarleton, and bid him warn his scouts.”

The aide touched his cap and was gone ere Joscelyn’s startled breath came back.

“Why, you are again all of a tremble,” Barry said, leaning over to touch her hand, a world of anxiety in his eyes.

“I—I suppose it was the sound of that other horse’s hoofs,” she said, angry with herself for her weakness. “You see I am not a soldier and used, like you, to face death every day.”

“Thank Heaven you are not,” he answered, holding one rein of her bridle with the joy of a strong man protecting beautiful womanhood. And thus near to her he whispered many tender things in her ear,—his tense, young voice vibrant with the awakened passion of his heart; and the girl’s pulses stirred with a strange, sweet quiver.

So it was they rode home. There in her own room she went over this whole dread matter, with a womanish longing in her heart to talk to some one,—to ask advice; but her mother was too timid, and a glance at Aunt Clevering’s dark house decided her that it would be cruel to arouse anxiety there. Then Barry’s manly face and frank eyes came before her, and in a sudden fit of foolish hysteria, she put her face in her hands and cried. If she could only go to Barry! But that would have one of two effects,—it would either put him on Richard’s trail, or else make him false to his cause by winning him to shield the fugitive. She could not risk either alternative. And what was true of Barry applied with equal force to Eustace. She would not, if she could, tempt him, through his love for Betty, to do anything that would dishonour him among his fellows. And besides, he would not be here to-night with the company she had invited, for he had said he was going with the relief guard to one of the outposts. No, there was no one to counsel her; she must think and act for herself. At first two torturing questions tore her judgment in twain. The Spartans gave up their nearest and dearest for the cause of their country, and should she withhold the identity of this man who had no claim of blood upon her, and who carried perhaps to the king’s enemies information that would defeat the cause? Should she say, “I know him”; or should she keep her peace and let him go his way? Then she realized that her knowledge was too meagre to be of any benefit; his name was all she could surrender, and that were nothing to his pursuers, who knew more than she of his work and movements. And besides, there were Betty and Aunt Clevering and Richard himself. No, she could not play the part of the Spartan; she wanted to be of use to her cause, but she was keeping back no treasonable knowledge. And with this comforting assurance, she put the matter aside and dressed herself for the evening, lacing the brocade over the brilliant petticoat with a smile to think what Barry would say. Not for a moment did she believe Richard would be caught; he had the start, and he knew the country much better than his pursuers, and would outstrip them in the race.

It was a brilliant company that assembled in her drawing-room that night,—handsome women and splendid officers, and even Cornwallis himself,—all come to enjoy her hospitality and to inquire concerning her accident of the afternoon.

“Asked you the name of this brave fellow who saved you?” inquired the commander-in-chief, with a smile. “Methinks he should be promoted for so signal a service to his Majesty’s loyal subject.”

“Nay, your lordship, I asked it not,” Joscelyn answered steadily.

“’Twas the fright made her seem so ungrateful,” put in her mother.

“And small wonder, Mistress Cheshire, for she was in dire straits. But ’tis of no consequence; the name can be easily ascertained, and I shall myself make the inquiries. Half my staff are mad with jealousy at his good fortune, and methinks I myself envy him a bit the sweet thanks he will receive. Now if Mistress Joscelyn’s nerves be not too much shaken, we will have some music.”

So the spinet was opened; and the merriment began and went on far into the night, while the Cleverings over the way fretted behind their closed doors in bitter resentment of Joscelyn’s conduct.

“Why, she is actually playing at cards!” cried Betty, who was secretly on the lookout, for the opposite shutters had not been closed nor the curtains drawn, so the inmates of the lighted room were in plain view. “Lord Cornwallis is her partner, but that Captain Barry sits beside her and whispers behind her cards. Mary Singleton is at the other table, but I do not see—” her voice trailed off into silence, for she never mentioned Eustace’s name to her mother.

Meanwhile Joscelyn was all unconscious and unmindful of this surveillance and, recovering from her fright, her spirits rose hourly until she had quite regained her accustomed manner. It was not until something after ten o’clock that an interruption befell their pleasure-taking. Then suddenly there came the sound of galloping hoofs down the stony street; many voices shouted and responded, a pistol shot rang out, and from somewhere under the darkness a guttural drum growled out its warning. Every man in the room was on his feet in an instant, and hands snatched for hats and weapons.

“It is a night surprise!” cried a dozen voices; but even at that moment the door was thrown open, and an orderly, bowing low, cried out to the general that the noise was being made by his own men, who had turned a spy back from the mountains, and chased him into the town where he was as a rat in a trap, and must immediately be taken. Every heart in the room ceased its mad beating with relief at this news—every heart but one. Joscelyn could feel hers pounding against her ribs, and involuntarily she moved to the window and looked at the dark house opposite, shuddering as she thought of the grief so soon to enter there.

In ten minutes the hue and cry had swept down the street, and only faint echoes came back upon the wind. The whole town was astir, and Joscelyn’s guests lingered a few minutes on the veranda, questioning those who came and went.

“Yes, he went straight down this street, riding like one possessed,” said one man to Barry.

“He has quit his horse, and the guard have captured it,” cried out a messenger a moment later.

“Ah, well; then will they soon have the man too, even though they search every house, barn, and hen-coop in the town; Colonel Tarleton does nothing by halves,” laughed his lordship. “Come, Mistress Cheshire, let us back to our game; ere we end it, the fellow will be in the toils.”

They went slowly back into the house, Joscelyn striving to steady her nerves by long, deep breaths; but as they drew their chairs again about the tables, there came from the story above a crash as of breaking chinaware. Everybody looked up expectant, and Mistress Cheshire rose.

“I will go,” cried Joscelyn, glad to escape, and pushing her mother gently back into her chair. “’Tis no doubt that troublesome cat again; he broke one of my flower jars last week.” She tripped upstairs, calling back to his lordship to deal and have the hands ready for she would be absent only a moment.

In the upper hall all was silence and semi-darkness. She went first to her own room, pausing just long enough to press her hands hard upon her temples before passing from it to her mother’s, calling the cat the while very softly. A fire of logs burned in her mother’s fireplace, so that she wondered at the cold breath of air that smote her as she entered; then she started,—a back window was open and the pot of plants which had stood upon the ledge lay shattered on the floor. A swift annoyance flashed upon her at the maid’s neglect, so that she went forward and closed the sash with a spirited promptness. Picking up a bit of the broken shard, and facing about from the window in search of the cat, she suddenly became aware of a man’s figure in the shadowy corner opposite. Instinctively she opened her mouth for a nervous cry, but with an imperative gesture for silence, he stepped forward, and even in the dim light she knew it was Richard Clevering. The scream died upon her lips, and for a moment the objects in the room spun before her.

“You—you?” and even in whispering her voice was strained and shaken.

“Yes; it was this or death—they had run me to the wall.”

“But the house is full of British soldiers—Lord Cornwallis and his whole staff—”

“So much the better; the place will be above suspicion.”

“Mistress Joscelyn, Mistress Joscelyn!” cried a dozen voices from below, while chairs were being pushed about, and some one struck a few notes on the spinet.

“And I myself, sir, am a true Loyalist and cannot harbour—”

There was a footstep on the stair. “Mistress Joscelyn, we be coming up to help you catch the cat!” cried Barry’s voice.

Richard sprang toward her, “My God, Joscelyn! you will not give me up like that?”

But the steps were halfway up the stair, and she was already turning the knob of the door, her face like marble in the leaping firelight.

CHAPTER XXII.

His sword had been thrown away when he quitted his horse, since it cumbered his flight; but his pistols and dirk were still upon him, and he made ready for their use. Then through the crevice of the hinge, he beheld Joscelyn as she faced about in the brighter light at the head of the stairs, and the weapon well-nigh slipped from his hand as he saw her hold up the bit of shard she still carried, and say, with a smile, to those below:—

“’Tis not worth while your coming. What need to waste time on the senseless offender when the offence is beyond repair? My very last flowering almond is a hopeless wreck, and I had nursed it with such care!” She ended with a sigh and a pretty pout, and went slowly down the stair out of Richard’s sight; but the voices from below reached him distinctly, so that he heard the officers’ condolences and her laughing replies. Great drops of perspiration broke out upon his brow as the joyous truth dawned fully upon him.

She did not intend to betray his presence in the house to the scarlet-coated bloodhounds who would tear him limb from limb!

How could he ever have mistrusted her, this one woman whom he had loved with the passion of youth and of manhood? He sank to a sitting posture upon the floor, propping himself against the wall, for he was desperately weary with the long, hard chase, and this relief was as the opening of Paradise before his aching eyes. His limbs relaxed; but his ears were strained to catch every sound that came up the stairway. The game of cards had been renewed, and the merriment was at its height, when twenty minutes later there was again a commotion in the street and a loud summons at the door.

“May it please your lordship,” said Tarleton’s voice, “the fellow hath give us the slip and is in hiding with some of his sympathizers. We wish a permit to search the houses in this neighbourhood, for hereabouts he must be, since he was seen last at yonder corner.”

There arose a perfect Babel of voices, out of which Richard could make nothing clearly; but he knew the permit was given, for in a few minutes Tarleton opened the street-door, and ordered his men to begin the search at the house on the lower corner, and proceed thence up the street, missing no dwelling. Every other street and alley in the town had been sentinelled, so he assured Cornwallis.

The soldiers at the door dispersed, and a breathless silence filled the house. Richard dared not move lest his stiff joints pop, or his boots creak and betray him. He knew flight was impossible; for there was a stamping of horses in the rear court, proving that the house was surrounded. It were wiser to wait and face the fate that came to him, than go out to meet it on the way.

The minutes that followed seemed interminable. He felt that his doom was sealed, and then there came upon him an overmastering desire to hear Joscelyn’s voice once more. Why did she not come to him on some feigned pretext or other? Surely she must know how he suffered! Death were not so hard to meet, if he could but first hold her in his arms and hear her say some tender word.

Then the noise in the street grew louder, and he knew that the search was drawing near. His nerves were strained to tautness, when presently he heard the party stop in the street below, and a voice downstairs cried out gayly:—

“They be going to call upon your kinsfolk, the Cleverings, Mistress Joscelyn. Let us out to the balcony and see the fun.”

In the confusion of scraping chairs and opening doors, Richard got to his feet. The cold and weariness in his limbs were forgotten in anxiety for his mother. A-tiptoe he crossed the room in the shadow of the furniture and gained Joscelyn’s front window,—that window out of which he had seen her lean in her scarlet bodice the day he marched away so long ago. It was an easy thing to hide himself in the folds of the heavy curtains which had been drawn for the night; and thus concealed, to watch, through a crescent slit in the blind, the scene below, for the veranda was open with no roof to intervene.

It was full moon, and the figures in the street, twenty men-at-arms, were plainly visible. Three of these passed silently to the rear of his mother’s house, while the others drew up in line before the door. Then the leader smote the panels until they rang like a drum. Twice was the summons repeated ere a voice from an upper window demanded what might be the matter.

“Matter enough that I knock,” replied the man, so insolently that Richard’s blood took fire, for every word could be distinctly heard from his coign of vantage.

“Nay, we be but two lone women in this house, and we open not but to the proper authorities.”

“Well, and we be the authorities,” answered the man less rudely, for there was that in Mistress Clevering’s voice that brought him to his senses. “We have here an order from the commander-in-chief to search this house for a rebel spy. Open the door and read the writ for yourself.”

The window above was closed, and presently the click of the lock was heard, and then the door opened partially and Mistress Clevering, candle in hand, stood before them. Betty cowered behind like a frightened child.

“No one is here save my daughter and myself; to search the house were wasted time.” And in her heart, Joscelyn thanked Heaven she could speak thus truly; but the soldier said brusquely:—

“We have judged the matter differently; lead the way, and see to it that you open every door. We will put up with no deception.”

As they passed into the house, Joscelyn’s voice from over the way cried out shrilly, “Neglect not to search the closet by the attic chimney; ’tis just of a size to hold a man, and perchance contains him whom you seek.”

Mistress Clevering turned angrily toward the door as though she would answer, but the soldiers urged her on, and so it was Betty who called back:—

“That is neighbourly! Tell all you know about your best friends, Mistress Ingrate; we have naught to fear.”

At this Joscelyn laughed loudly, but to Richard the laugh was more hysterical than mirthful, like one under a great nervous strain. He felt his hands involuntarily groping for his pistols, as the opposite light flashed from window to window and he knew his mother was being ordered about by those insolent Redcoats. The candle lingered longest in the attic; but at last it descended, and soon the disappointed soldiers stood in the street empty handed. Tarleton was furious and swore a great oath, but the soldiers protested they had overlooked no nook or corner where a man might conceal himself.

“’Tis a bootless errand, sir; unless, indeed, the man be in this house,” said Tarleton, riding up to Joscelyn’s door. “What say you, shall we search here also?”

Upstairs Richard’s heart stood still, while down below Joscelyn’s head swam. Then her laugh rippled out mockingly.

“Truly, your lordship, that is a reflection upon you and those of your gallant officers who have done me the honour to spend the evening under my roof! I pray you, gentlemen all, turn your pockets wrong side out that Colonel Tarleton may be sure you have not hidden his spy.”

“I jest not, mistress,” answered Tarleton, who owed her a grudge in that she had manifested much personal dislike to himself. “What says your lordship?”

Cornwallis started to reply, and then hesitated; whereupon Joscelyn broke in haughtily:—

“An your lordship doubts my loyalty, pray let the search proceed—the doors are open.”

“Ay, search; and fail not to look in my Lady Ingrate’s wardrobe; ’tis just of a size to hold a man,” came with a scornful laugh from over the way; for Betty was still at her door, and the street was not so wide but that the opposite voices reached her clearly.

“Of course,” said Joscelyn, with the same haughty dignity; “search the wardrobe by all means; here are the keys.” She threw the bunch at Tarleton’s feet, calling to her mother to do the same, and then walked into the hall, her head up and her eyes aglow. Richard could not see her, and so ground his teeth in an impotent rage that she would thus tamely yield him up. But the next moment he guessed her purpose, realizing this was her surest way to avert suspicion, and he blessed her under his breath. If they found him, they should never know that she had for a moment connived at his concealment.

Tarleton stooped to pick up the keys, but Cornwallis interposed.

“Nay, sir; to search this house would be an affront to so loyal a subject as Mistress Joscelyn. Besides, the idea that the miscreant is hiding here is preposterous. He must have seen us through the windows, and to enter would have been to rush into the lion’s jaws. Spies as a rule are wise men; not the fools of an army. Search the stable if you will, leave a guard in the alley; but enter not the house. And now, Mistress Cheshire, I see the ladies are going; we will also withdraw after returning thanks to you and your daughter for your charming hospitality.”

Richard clutched at the window-frame to steady himself as he realized the present peril had passed. What a glorious girl Joscelyn was, for all her Toryism and scoffing!

Joscelyn stood at the door, courtesying to her departing guests,—the picture of dainty, decorous hospitality. As Tarleton lifted his hat sullenly, she looked him straight in the eyes, and said graciously:—

“I will leave this door unbolted, that your sentry may come in and warm himself by the fire in the rear room as the night grows chilly.”

To doubt her after that were impossible; and he excused his former brusqueness by saying a soldier’s duty was oftentimes most displeasing to himself. She accepted the apology with a smile, and stood in the door until they all, even Barry, who was always tardy over his leave-taking, had gotten to horse; and then with a final good night, she shut them out. She did not stop in the hall, but went straight on to the stair, saying to her mother as she ran up:—

“Will you see to the lights down here, mother? I will go up and look after your fire.”

This was a reversal of the usual order of things, but her mother was too used to her caprices to take any notice. In the room above, Richard had already replenished the fire, and was waiting for her on the rug with eager, outstretched arms.

“Joscelyn!” he cried; but she silenced him with a gesture.

“Quick—off with your boots—mother must not know; there will be further inquiry to-morrow, and for very anxiety she could not keep the secret. Now, come.” In the hall she leaned over the banister to ask her mother to leave something on the table for the sentry to eat; and when the old lady was gone back to the pantry, Joscelyn unlocked the door of the shed-like attic at the rear of the hall, and giving Richard the lighted candle she held, she pushed him in. “There are plenty of blankets on the shelves at the far end—make your bed on a pile of carpet that is behind the cedar chest.”

“But, Joscelyn—”

“H-u-s-h, not so loud. As you know, the attic has no windows, so your candle cannot be seen outside. There is mother—I will come back if I can.”

She was gone, and he knew that she had locked the door from without. Along with his sense of relief came an exquisite joy that he was her prisoner, that it was she who must minister to him,—she to whom he owed his life. It was some minutes before he remembered her injunction and set to work to make himself comfortable. He left the candle on the floor beside his boots and, wrapping himself in the blankets, found a cosey resting-place behind the big cedar chest. What thoughts and visions crowded his mind as he lay there under the spider-hung rafters that dropped almost to his head! Five days before he had quitted his command—impelled by a thirsty desire to see Joscelyn’s face—to undertake the dangerous mission of his chief, and ascertain Cornwallis’s actual strength. Unable to learn anything definite by hearsay, and catching idle rumours of Joscelyn’s popularity among the English officers, the daring design had come to him to play the part of a Loyalist seeking enlistment in the British army, trusting to what little disguise he could add to his own altered looks to shield him. Following out this plan, and gaining at the parade all the knowledge necessary, he had stolen from the field, and would have effected his escape had he but taken the longer bridle-path around the mountain, rather than the shorter one directly over it. Joscelyn’s accident had delayed him somewhat, and trusting to his citizen’s dress, and the preoccupation of the whole force at the parade, he had thought to be beyond sight or pursuit ere the review was over. That his reckoning failed, has been already shown. Tarleton’s henchmen, set on by Linsey, had headed him off and driven him back into the town. Passed through the peril, and strong man that he was, he yet shuddered as he thought how near to death he had been when he leaped from his horse at the corner yonder, and with a fierce cut sent the animal as a decoy down the dark adjacent street, while he plunged into the shadowy alley. At Mistress Cheshire’s rear gate he had recognized his bearings, and entering without hesitation, he had crossed the yard, and by means of a grape-trellis climbed to the roof of the rear porch. To open the window was not difficult, but in entering he had upset that flower jar and betrayed his presence. He had heard the talk and laughter as he climbed up, and guessed who Joscelyn’s guests were; but he trusted to her mother to hide him. How infinitely sweeter it was to know that, instead, it was her own hand that had saved him.

For nearly an hour he lay thus, stretched at full length upon the restful pallet. Then, all at once, although he was conscious of no sound, he felt that she had come. Rising hastily, he met her as she slipped through the half-opened door. She shaded her eyes for a moment to concentrate the light, the candle was so dim; then crossing over to the chest, she placed on it a platter of food and a pitcher of milk.

“You must be half famished;” and although but a whisper, her voice was studiously polite. “I have brought you ample supply; for it may be late ere you get your breakfast in the morning, seeing I have to smuggle it to you.”

Never had he seen her so beautiful. The shining brocade set off every curve of her figure; under the lace of her bodice her bosom rose and fell with suppressed excitement, and her eyes were full of the starry lights he knew so well. And yet there was something about her that held in check the fire that leaped through his pulses. For the first time as he gazed thus upon her, he realized fully the menace he had brought upon her.

“Joscelyn, I should never have come here.”

“It was, as you said, your only chance.”

“I should not have taken that chance; rather I should have died beside my horse before bringing this danger to you.”

“Hush! they will not harm me.” Her head went up with a little triumphant fling as she said this; for she was thinking of Barry, and how, if detection came, he would surely save her.

“You do not know the penalty one pays for harbouring a spy; I will go this very night and free you from this menace.”

“No, no,” was the hasty answer. “We should both be undone—Tarleton’s men will watch the house all night. To-morrow night perchance, or the night after; but not to-night. You are safe here for the present, for his lordship’s orders will be obeyed.”

He came close to her, so close that he saw the pallor of her face, and the perfume of her dress rose with a sweet intoxication to his nostrils. “Joscelyn, is it for love of me that you have done this thing?”

“No.”

“For what, then?”

“For sake of our old comradeship and for Betty. Besides, you saved my life this afternoon—a return of favours leaves no burden of obligation on either of us.”

“Nay; you risk more for me than I did for you.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “The accounts balance.” Then glancing about solicitously, she added, “I would I could make you more comfortable, but our first care must be to avert suspicion. Good night.”

She was moving to the door, but he caught her wrists just below the hanging lace of her sleeve; and holding her thus, he told her in a few graphic sentences all his thoughts as he had rested under the rafters behind the chest—the reason and the history of his scouting venture, the mental trysts he had held with her so often. All the intensity of his strong nature went into that appeal; it seemed as if a heart of ice must have melted in it; and for a moment her head did droop and her hands tremble, then she shrugged her gleaming shoulders again, saying:—

“It had certainly been more soldier-like to have come for love of your cause, rather than for sake of a girl’s eyes.”

“For sake of both did I come.”

“A spy—”

But she got no further; something in her tone stung him to the quick. “You need not speak so disparagingly. A spy’s work may not be pleasant, but it is absolutely necessary. Without the information he sends his general, false steps might be taken and hundreds of lives needlessly sacrificed. A spy has a humane as well as a dangerous mission.”

“’Tis well you think so highly of your calling. Good night again.”

“Joscelyn, do not leave me thus; this day we have each looked into the eyes of death—let us at least part as friends.”

She turned back, her face dimpling with a smile that was like a gleam of sunshine, “Good night, Richard, and a safe awakening.”

Then she was gone; and he threw himself down to sleep the sleep of utter weariness.

Joscelyn sat on the rug before her almost burned-out fire, trying to disengage the attic key from the big bunch her mother habitually wore at her belt, and thinking rapidly of the events of the day. She knew that the end had not been reached, but she was determined to brave it out; there was nothing else to do,—there had been nothing else from the first. And she must stand alone. Fresh inquiry would be instituted to-morrow, and her mother’s veracity could not stand the strain to which it might be put if she knew all. Neither could the secret be shared with Aunt Clevering, for her mother-heart might betray its anxiety, and so would another family be involved. She must bear the burden herself; must evade, pretend, even lie, if need be, to keep the knowledge from any one else. The man had fled to her for sanctuary; which were worse, she asked herself bitterly, to soil her lips with an untruth, or her hands with a betrayal, a breach of trust and of hospitality? From Betty and Aunt Clevering she could expect no mercy of neglect, because of that hasty speech about the attic closet. It had been made thoughtlessly, to establish her own footing more securely by a great show of loyalty; but would, she knew, act as a two-edged sword, cutting away part of her safety. To-morrow she would not dare leave the house all day lest something terrible transpire in her absence; she must feign some pretext for staying indoors—perchance a headache from the effects of her fright.

And then having planned her course fully and carefully, woman-like she began to cry tempestuously at the position in which she found herself; blaming with equally unreasoning impatience the band, Richard, and her horse for her predicament. If she were only a Whig, doing this thing for her country, or else if she were but in love with Richard, how beautiful, how romantic, it would all be! But—but—

And even after she was in bed, she went on sobbing softly to herself.

CHAPTER XXIII.