One there was in Yorktown whose suffering was to the eye as great as he who had watched from the outside. A sudden change came over Clowes with the realisation of their danger. He turned white on the confirmation of the arrival of the French fleet; and when the news spread through the town that a deserter had arrived from the American camp with word of Washington’s approach, he fell on the street in a fit, out of which he came only when he had been cupped, and sixty ounces of blood taken from him. Not once after that did he seek out Janice, or even come to the custom-house for food or sleep, but pale, and talking much to himself he wandered restlessly about the town, or still more commonly stood for hours on the highest point of land which opened a view of the bay, gazing anxiously eastward for the promised English fleet.

Janice was too occupied, however, with her mother even to note this exemption. The exposure and fatigue of the long, hot march to Yorktown had proved too great a tax upon Mrs. Meredith’s strength, and almost with their arrival she took to her bed and slowly developed a low tidal fever, not dangerous in its character, but unyielding to the doctor’s ministrations.

It was on the day that the videttes fell back on the town, bringing word that the allies were advancing, that the girl noticed so marked a change in her mother that she sent for the army surgeon, and that she had done wisely was shown by his gravity after a very cursory examination.

“Miss Meredith,” he said, “this nursing is like to be of longer duration than at first seemed probable, and will over-tax your strength. ’T is best, therefore, that you let us move Mrs. Meredith into the army hospital, where she can be properly tended, and you saved from the strain.”

“I could not but stay with her, doctor,” answered Janice; “but if you think it best for her that she be moved, I can as well attend her there.”

The surgeon bit his lip, then told her, “I’ll try to secure you permission, if your father think it best.” He went downstairs, and finding the squire said: “Mr. Meredith, I have very ill news for you. It has been kept from the army, but there has been for some days an outbreak of small-pox among the negroes, and now your wife is attacked by it.”

“Don’t say it, man!” implored the squire.

“’T is, alas! but too true. It is necessary that she be at once removed on board the hospital ship, and I shall return as quickly as possible with my assistants and move her. The more promptly you call your daughter from her bedside, the better, for ’t will just so much lessen the chance of contagion.”

Before the father had well broken the news to Janice, or could persuade her to leave the invalid, the surgeon was returned, and, regardless of the girl’s prayers and tears, her mother was placed upon a stretcher, carried to the river-side, and then transferred to the pest-ship, which was anchored in mid-stream. Against his better judgment, but unable to resist his daughter’s appeals, the squire sought out Cornwallis with the request that she might be allowed to attend Mrs. Meredith on the ship, but the British general refused.

“Not only would it be contrary to necessary rules, sir, but it would merely expose her needlessly. Fear not that Mrs. Meredith will lack the best of care, for I will give especial directions to the surgeons. My intention was to send a flag, as soon as the enemy approached, with a request that I might pass you all through the lines, out of danger; and this is a sad derangement to the wish, for General Washington would certainly refuse passage to any one sick of this disease, and all must justify him in the refusal. I still think that ’t would be best to let me apply for leave for you and Miss Meredith to go out, but—”

“Neither the lass nor I would consider it for a moment, though grateful to your Lordship for the offer.”

“Then I will see that you have room in one of the bomb-proofs, but ’t will be a time of horror, that I warn you.”

He spoke only too truly, and the misery of the next twenty days are impossible to picture. The moment the bombardment began, father and daughter were forced to seek the protection of one of the caves that had been dug in the side of the bluff; and here, in damp, airless, almost dark, and fearfully overcrowded quarters, they were compelled to remain day and night during the siege. Almost from the first, scarcity of wood produced an entire abandonment of cooked food, every one subsisting on raw pork or raw salt beef, or, as Janice chose, eating only ship biscuit and unground coffee berries. Once the fire of the allies began to tell, each hour supplied a fresh tale of wounded, and these were brought into the bomb-proofs for the surgeons to tend, their presence and moans adding to the nightmare; yet but for them it seemed to Janice she would have gone mad in those weeks, for she devoted herself to nursing and feeding them, as an escape from dwelling on her mother’s danger and their own helplessness. Even news from the pest-ship had its torture, for when her father twice each day descended the bluff to get the word from the doctor’s boat, as it came ashore, she stood in the low doorway of the cave, and at every shot that was heard shrieking through the air, and at every shell which exploded with a crash, she held her breath, full of dread of what it might have done, and in anguish till her father was safe returned with the unvarying and uncheering bulletin the surgeons gave him of Mrs. Meredith’s condition.

Yet those in the bomb-proofs escaped the direst of the horrors. Above them were enacted scenes which turned even the stoutest hearts sick with fear and loathing. The least of these was the slaughter of the horses, baggage, cavalry, and artillery, which want of forage rendered necessary, one whole day being made hideous by the screams of the poor beasts, as one by one they were led to a spot where the putrefying of their carcasses would least endanger the health of the soldiery, and their throats cut. All pretence of care of the negroes disappeared with the demand on the officers and soldiers to man the redoubts, and on the surgeons to care for the sick and wounded soldiers, who soon numbered upwards of two thousand. Naked and half starving, they who had dreamed of freedom were left for the small-pox and putrid fever and for shot and shell to work their will among them. In the abandoned houses and even in the streets, they lay, sick, dismembered, dying, and dead, with not so much as one to aid or bury them.

On the morning of the 17th a fresh number of wounded men were brought into the already overcrowded cave; and though Janice was faint with the long days of anxiety, fright, bad air, poor food, and hard work, she went from man to man, doing what could be done to ease their torments and lessen their groans. The last brought in was in a faint, with the lower part of his face and shoulder horribly torn and shattered by the fragments of a shell, but a little brandy revived him, and he moaned for water. Hurriedly she stooped over him, to drop a little from a spoon between the open lips.

“Janice!” he startled her by crying.

“Who are—? Oh, Sir Frederick!” she exclaimed. “You! How came you here?”

“They let me out of the prison Clowes me put in,” Mobray gasped; “and having nothing better, I enlisted in the ranks under another name.” There he choked with blood.

“Doctor,” called Janice, “come quickly!”

“Humph!” growled the surgeon, after one glance. “You should not summon me to waste time on him. Can’t you see ’t is hopeless?”

“Oh, don’t—” began Janice.

“Nay, he speaks the truth,” said Mobray; “and I thank God ’t is so. Don’t cry. I am glad to go; and though I have wasted my life, ’t is a happier death than poor John André’s.”

For a moment only the sobs of the girl could be heard, then the dying man gaspingly resumed: “A comrade I once had whom I loved best in this world till I knew you. By a strange chance we loved the same girl; I wish I might die with the knowledge that he is to have the happiness that was denied to me.”

“Oh, Sir Frederick, you must not ask it! He—”

“His was so bitter a story that he deserves a love such as yours would be to make it up to him. I can remember him the merriest of us all, loved by every man in the regiment, from batman to colonel.”

“And what changed him?” Janice could not help asking.

“T was one evening at the mess of the Fusileers, when Powel, too deep in drink to know what he was saying, blurted out something concerning Mrs. Loring’s relations with Sir William. Poor Charlie was the one man in the force who knew not why such favouritism had been shown in his being put so young into Howe’s regiment. But that we were eight to one, he’d have killed Powel then and there. Prevented in that, he set off to slay his colonel, never dreaming he was his own father. He burst in on me late that night, crazed with grief, and told me how he had found him at his mother’s, and how she had robbed him of his vengeance by a word. The next day he disappeared, and never news had I of him until that encounter at Greenwood. Does he not deserve something to sweeten his life?”

“I feel for him deeply,” replied the girl, sadly, “the more that I did him a grave wrong in my thoughts, and by some words I spoke must have cut him to the quick and added pain to pain.”

“Then you will make him happy?”

“No, Sir Frederick, that I cannot.”

“Don’t punish him for what was not his fault.”

“’T is not for that,” she explained. “Once I loved him, I own. But in a moment of direst need, when I appealed to him, he failed me; and though now I better understand his resentment against my father and myself I could never bring myself to forgive his cruelty, even were my love not dead.”

“I will not believe it of him. Hot and impulsive he is by nature, but never cruel or resentful.”

“’T is, alas! but too true,” grieved Janice.

Once again the baronet choked with blood and struggled for a moment convulsively. Then more faintly he said: “Wilt give him my love and a good-by?”

“I will,” sobbed the girl.

Nothing more was said for some time, then Mobray asked faintly: “Is it that I am losing consciousness, or has the firing eased?”

Janice raised her head with a start. “Why, it has stopped,” she exclaimed. “What can it mean?”

“That courage and tenacity have done their all, and now must yield. Poor Cornwallis! I make no doubt he’d gladly change places with me at this instant.”

Here Mr. Meredith’s voice broke in upon them, as standing in the mouth of the cave he called: “Come, Janice. The firing has ceased, to permit an exchange of flags with the rebels. Up with ye, and get the fresh air while ye can.”

“I will stay here, father,” replied the girl, “and care for—”

“Nonsense, lass! Ye shall not kill yourself. I order ye to come away.”

“Go, Miss Meredith,” begged Mobray. “You can do naught for me, and—and—I would have—Do as he says.” His hand blindly groped until Janice placed hers within it, when he gave it a weak pressure as he said, “’T is many a long march and many a sleepless night that the memory of you has sweetened. Thank you, and good-by.”

Reluctantly Janice came out of the bomb-proof, blinking and gasping with the novelty of sunlight and sea breeze, after the darkness and stench of the last weeks; and her father, partly supporting, led her up the bluff. It was a strange transformation that greeted her eyes,—ploughed-up streets and ruins of buildings dismantled by shot or left heaps of ashes by the shell, everywhere telling of the fury of the siege.

Keep your eyes closed, lass,” suggested the squire, “for there are sights of horror. In a moment I’ll have ye at headquarters, where things have been kept more tidy. There, now ye can look; sit down here and fill your lungs with this good air.”

Silently the two seated themselves on the steps of the Nelson house, now pierced in every direction by the shot of the allies, though less damaged than many others. Presently Janice’s attention was caught by the sound of shuffling footsteps, as of one with only partial use of his legs, and glancing up she gave a slight cry of fear. And well she might, for there stood the commissary, with his face like one risen from the dead, it was so white and staring.

“Meredith,” he whispered, as if his larynx were parched beyond the ability to speak aloud, while with one hand he held his throat in a vain attempt to make his speech less weak and raucous, “they say ‘The Parley’ has been beat and a flag sent out, and that the post is to be surrendered. Tell me that Cornwallis will never do that. He ’s a brave man. Tell me it is n’t so.”

“Nothing else is there for him to do, Clowes. He ’s made a splendid defence, but now scarce a gun is left mounted and powder and shot are both exhausted; to persist longer would be useless murder.”

“No, no! Let him hold out a few days longer. Clinton will relieve us yet. He must n’t give up. God! Meredith, they’ll hang me! He must n’t surrender. I can’t die just as life is worth something. No, no! I can’t die now. I’m rich. Ninety thousand pounds I’ve made. To be caught like a rat! He must n’t surrender the post.” And muttering to himself, the miserable man shambled away, to repeat the same hopes and expostulations to the next one he found.

“He had another fit last night,” remarked the squire; “and no one has seen him eat or sleep in four days, nor can he be persuaded to either, but goes wandering unceasingly about the town, quite unminding of shot and shell. Ho! what ’s here?” he ended, pointing up the street.

Three officers were coming towards them, arm in arm, the two outsiders in red coats, and the middle one in a blue one, with buff facings. Occasionally as they advanced, he in the blue uniform swerved or stumbled slightly, as if he might be wounded or drunk. But one look at his face was sufficient to show the cause, for across his eyes was tied a broad white band.

“Oh, dadda,” murmured Janice, suddenly paling, “’t is Colonel Brereton they have captured!”

“Nonsense, Jan! ’t is impossible to know any man, so covered.”

The girl attempted no reassertion, and as the three officers marched up to the headquarters, the two hastily rose from the steps.

“Ha!” exclaimed one of the British officers. “Here stands Miss Meredith now, Colonel Brereton, as if to end your doubting of my assurances of her being alive.”

The blindfolded man, with a quick motion, withdrew the hand passed through the arm of his guide and raised it impulsively to the bandage.

“Hold,” warningly said the British officer, as he caught the hand. “Small wonder the handkerchief becomes intolerable, with her to look at, but stay on it must till you are within doors.”

Jack’s hand clutched the officer’s arm. “God! man, you are not deceiving me?”

“Speak up, Miss Meredith, and convince the sceptic that General O’Hara, though Irish, is yet a truth-teller on occasion.”

“Oh, Colonel Brereton,” said Janice, “I have just left Sir Frederick, who is at the point of death, and he gave me a message of farewell to you. Can you not go to him for a moment? ’T would be everything to him.”

Jack hesitated. “My mission is so important—General O’Hara, wilt deliver this letter with a proper explanation to his Lordship, while I see this friend?”

“Certainly. If Miss Meredith will guide you and Lord Chewton to where he lies, I’ll see that Lord Cornwallis gets the letter.”

In the briefest possible time Brereton stood beside Mobray. Yet when the officer in charge of him untied the handkerchief and stepped back out of hearing, Jack’s eyes did not seek his friend, but turned instead to the face of the girl standing beside him. For a moment they lingered in a gaze so steadfast, so devouring, that, try as she would not to look at him, Janice’s eyes were drawn to his, despite herself. With a long breath, as if relieved of some dread, Jack finally turned away and knelt beside his friend. “Fred, old comrade,” he said, as he took his hand.

“Charlie!” gasped Mobray, weakly, as his eyes opened. “Is ’t really you, or am I wandering?”

“’T is I, Fred, come into town with a flag.”

“You’ve beat old Britain, after all, have n’t you?”

“No, dear lad,” replied Jack, gently. “’T is the old spirit of England that has conquered, as it ever will, when fighting for its rights against those who would rob it of them.”

“True. We forgot ’t was our own whelps, grown strong, we sought to subjugate. And you had the better man to lead you, Jack.”

“Ay, and so we ever shall, so long as Britain makes men generals because they are king’s bastards.”

“Nay, Charlie, don’t let the sore rankle through life. ’T is not from whence you came that counts; ’t is what you are. I’d take your shame of birth, if I could rid myself of mine. Fortune, position, and opportunity I’ve wasted, while you have won rank and glory.”

“And now have not one thing to make life worth the while.”

“Don’t say it, Charlie. There’s something for you to live for still. Put your hand into my shirt—yes—to the left— now you have it.”

Brereton drew forth a miniature set with brilliants; and as his eyes lit upon it, he gave an exclamation of surprise.

“’T is the one thing I concealed from my creditors,” moaned Sir Frederick, “and now I leave it to you. Watch over and care for her for the sake of your love and of mine, Charlie.”

Brereton leaned down and kissed Mobray on the cheek, as he whispered, “I will.”

“Is—is Miss Meredith here, Charlie?” asked the dying baronet.

“Yes, Sir Frederick,” replied Janice, with a choke.

“I—I—I fear I am a ghastly object,” he went on, “but could you bring yourself—Am I too horrible for one kiss of farewell from you? Charlie will not grudge it to me.”

The girl knelt beside Brereton, and stooping tenderly kissed the dying man on the same spot that Jack had kissed. Mobray’s left hand feebly took hers, and, consciously or unconsciously, brought the one which still held Jack’s to it. Holding the two hands within his own so that they touched, he said chokingly:—

“Heaven bless you, and try to forgive him. Good-by both. I have served my term, and at last am released from the bigger jail.” A little shudder, a twitch, and he was dead.

For a minute the two remained kneeling, then Brereton said sadly:—

“He was the only friend left me in the world, and I know not why he is taken and I am left.” He withdrew his hand from contact with the girl’s, and rose. “I cannot stay, for my mission is not to be slighted, but I will speak to O'Hara, and see that he gets a funeral befitting his rank.” Brereton squared his shoulders and raised his voice, to say: “Lord Chewton, I am—”

With a quick motion, the girl rose to her feet and said: “I have no right to detain you, Colonel Brereton, but—but I want you to know that neither dadda nor I knew the truth concerning Mrs. Loring when we said what we did on that fatal night. We both thought—thought—Your confession to me that once you loved her, and her looking too young to be your mother, led me into a misconception.”

“Then you forgive me?” he cried eagerly.

“For the words you spoke then I do not even blame you, sir. But what was, can never be again.”

“Ay,” said the officer, bitterly. “You need not say it. You cannot scorn me more than I scorn myself.”

Not giving her time to reply, he crossed to where the officer with the bandage stood waiting him, and once again was blindfolded, and led to headquarters.

“This way,” directed General O’Hara, leading him into a room where stood Cornwallis.

“Are you familiar, sir, with the contents of General Washington’s letter?” asked the earl.

“No, my Lord; I was its bearer only because I begged the Marquis de Lafayette to secure me the service.”

“He grants a suspension of hostilities for two hours from the delivery of this, for me to put my proposals in writing. Did he say aught to you, sir, of the terms he would grant?”

“I am no longer on General Washington’s staff” answered Brereton, “so I know not his expectations.”

“From all I hear of him,” said the general, “he is not a man to use a triumph ungenerously. He fought bravely under the British standards, and surely will not now seek to bring unnecessary shame on them.” Seating himself at the table, he wrote a few lines, which he folded and sealed. “Will you not, use your influence with him to grant us the customary honours, and spare the officers from the disgrace of giving up their side arms?”

“I no longer possess influence with or the confidence of his Excellency,” replied Brereton, gravely; “but he is a generous man, and I predict will not push his advantage merely for your humiliation.”

“Will he not forbear making our surrender a spectacle?”

“If the talk of the camp be of value, my Lord, ’t is said you are to be granted the exact terms you allowed to General Lincoln at Savannah; and you yourself cannot but acknowledge the justice of such treatment.”

“’T was not I who dictated the terms of that surrender.”

“Your observation, my Lord, forces the reply that ’t is a nation, not an individual, we are fighting.”

The proud face of the British general worked for a moment in the intensity of his emotion. “We have no right to complain that we receive measure for measure,” he said; “and yet sir, though the lex talionis may be justified, it makes it none the less bitter.”

Colonel Brereton took the letter, his eyes were blindfolded again, and he was led back beyond the lines.

With the expiration of the two hours, the firing was not resumed; and all that day and the next flags were passing and repassing between the lines, with the result that on the afternoon of the latter, commissioners met at the Moore house and drew up the terms of capitulation, which were signed that evening.

At twelve o’clock on the 19th, the English colours were struck on the redoubts, and the American were hoisted in their stead. Two hours later the armies of the allies took up position opposite each other on the level ground outside the town, and the British troops, with shouldered arms, cased colours, and bands playing, as stipulated, an English air, “The World Turned Upside Down,” came marching out of their lines. As they advanced, Washington turned to an officer behind him and ordered, “Let the word be passed that the troops are not to cheer. They have fought too well for us to triumph over them.” In consequence not a sound came from the American ranks as the British regiments marched up and with tears in many a brave man’s eyes grounded their arms and colours. But the officers, through Washington’s generosity, were allowed to retain their swords, sparing Cornwallis the mortification of having to be present in person; and it was General O’Hara who spoke the formal words of surrender, and who led the disarmed and flagless regiments back into the town, once the formalities had been completed. By nightfall twenty-four standards and over eight thousand prisoners were in the possession of the allied forces.

But one had escaped them, for in a cellar, hidden behind a heap of refuse and boxes, his body already stripped of its clothes by pilfering negroes, his face horribly distorted, and with froth yet on his lips, lay the commissary, dead.

And at the very moment the next day that two companies, one of British Fusileers, and one of New Jersey Continentals, were firing a volley over a new-made grave, in which, wrapped in the flag of his country, and buried with every military honor, had been deposited the body of him who had been Sir Frederick Mobray, a fatigue party were rolling into a trench, and carelessly covering with earth from the battered redoubts, along with the bodies of negroes and horses, and of barrels of spoiled pork and beef, the naked corpse of him who had been John Ombrey, Baron Clowes.