“He is to die at sunrise.” The announcement came with such suddenness that for a moment no one spoke. Peggy stood as though stricken. Colonel Owen was the first to recover himself.

“Suppose that you unravel the matter from the beginning,” he suggested. “’Twill be the better understood. Do I hear aright that you were the means of discovering his duplicity?”

“It was I of a truth,” answered Clifford speaking rapidly. “I never trusted him; so, while the rest of you made much of him and received him into your confidences, I kept my eyes open. For a long time no act of his justified suspicion, and it did seem as though distrust was groundless. And then, ’twas just after we entered camp here at Yorktown, I came upon him one night in the woods south of the Moore House. He was pretty far afield, so I spoke to him sharply. He laughed, and said that the heat had made him sleepless, and that he preferred the air to the closeness of his quarters. I said no more, but resolved to double my watch of him. This I did, and three times have I seen him leave camp without permit. Confiding my fears regarding the reason for such absences to Lieutenant Bolton we followed him last night, and our vigilance was rewarded. Drayton met one of Lafayette’s men, and we were close enough to them to hear him repeat the orders issued by Lord Cornwallis yesterday to Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas concerning some movements which were to take place from Gloucester Point, and also impart other important information.

“Fearful lest some untoward incident might contribute to his escape we let him return unmolested to the camp before apprehending him. His lordship is quite cut up over the matter, and hath commended me publicly for my alertness. He hath also,” concluded the youth proudly, “placed the prisoner in my entire charge, leaving all proceedings in the affair to be arranged by me. There will be no flaw in carrying out the sentence, I promise you.”

“And all this time, while I have thought him disloyal, he hath been true, true!” cried Peggy brokenly. “Oh, I should have known! I should have known!”

“And he is in your charge, Cliff?” asked Harriet. “My, but you are coming on! Father will have to look to his laurels.”

“You are o’er young, my son, to have the management of so serious an affair,” remarked Colonel Owen gravely. “Lord Cornwallis likes young men, and hath favored them upon many occasions when ’twould have been better to give preference to older men. However, if you see that his confidence is not misplaced we shall all be proud of you.”

“Have no fear, sir,” said Clifford pompously. “I have placed the prisoner in a small cottage where there is no possibility of holding communication with any one. He is not only well guarded, sir, but I have the door locked upon the outside, and I myself carry the key. Even Lord Cornwallis could not see him without first coming to me. Oh, I have provided well against any miscarriage of justice.”

“Thee must let me see him, Clifford,” spoke Peggy abruptly. “I shall never know peace unless I have his forgiveness. Thee will let me see him, my cousin?”

“What you ask, Peggy, is utterly impossible,” answered Clifford. “He shall not have one privilege. A spy deserves none. ’Twas not my desire that the execution should be deferred until morning. There should be no delay in such matters. Spies should be dealt with summarily.”

“You forget, son, that doctrine of that sort works both ways,” observed his father, smiling at the youth’s important air. “We have spies of our own in the enemy’s lines. Too great harshness of dealing will be retaliated upon our own men.”

“Clifford,” cried Peggy going to him, and laying her hand upon his arm pleadingly, “does thee not remember how he spared thee? He could have slain thee when he had thee at his mercy. Thee will not refuse me one little hour with him, my cousin.”

“I shall not grant one minute,” returned he sternly. The look which she had seen when he refused to greet Harriet until satisfied of her loyalty came now to his face. “He shall not have one privilege.”

“’Twould be inhuman not to permit it, Clifford. ’Tis not justice thee seeks, but the gratifying of thine own rancor toward him.”

“She is right, my son,” spoke Colonel Owen. “You lay yourself open to that very charge. To guard closely against escape is right. To take every precaution against the miscarriage of the sentence is duty. But to refuse a small privilege is not only against the dictates of humanity, but ’tis impolitic as well. The vicissitudes of war are many, and by sad fortune you might find yourself in the same condition as this young fellow. ’Tis the part of wisdom to grant what one can in such cases.”

“Captain Williams needs no instructions as to his duty, sir,” returned Clifford hotly.

Colonel Owen laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“I had forgot,” he said ironically. “I cry you pardon. Captain Williams, of course, is conversant with the entire code of civilized warfare. I shall say no more.” He arose and left the apartment.

“Clifford, thee must let me see John,” urged Peggy with feverish insistence. “A little time is all I ask. It could not matter, nor make the least difference in carrying out thy duty. One little hour, Clifford!”

“Say no more,” he cried harshly. “I will not permit it.”

“Thee shall, Clifford Owen.” Peggy’s own voice grew hard in the intensity of her feeling. “I have never asked favor of thee before, and yet thee is indebted to me. Have I not cared for thee in illness? Thee has said that thee would try in part to repay what thee owed me. This is thy opportunity. When thee was about to die among strangers I came to comfort and console thee in thy last hours. Wilt not let him have a like consolation? Clifford!” Her voice broke suddenly. “Thee will let me see him.”

“No,” he responded inexorably. “Where are you going?” he asked abruptly as the girl turned from him with determination written on her countenance.

“I am going to Lord Cornwallis,” answered Peggy. “I shall lay this matter before him, and show him that ’tis not zeal which animates thee in the discharge of thy duty, but private hatred. I make no doubt but that he will accord me permission to see John.”

“I make no doubt of it either,” ejaculated the boy savagely. He was well enough acquainted with his chief to know that a demand made by so winsome a maiden would be granted. “Come back here, Peggy. I’ll let you see him. I don’t care to have Lord Cornwallis, or any one else, mixed up in our private affairs. But mind! it will only be for one hour.”

“Thank thee, Clifford. ’Tis all I ask,” she said sorrowfully. “When will thee take me to him?”

“So long as it has to be, it might as well be now,” he told her sulkily. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Clifford.”

“And the dinner, good people?” broke in Harriet. “Am I not to be pleasured by your company?”

“The dinner can wait,” exclaimed her brother shortly. “We’ll get this business over with.”

Too intent upon her own feelings to give heed to the dourness of the lad Peggy followed him silently as he strode from the house. In all her after life she never forgot that walk: the glare of the sun; the soft touch of the breeze which came freshly from the sea; the broad expanse of the river where it melted into the broader sweep of the bay; the frigates and shipping of the British lying in the river below, and above all the heaviness of her heart as she followed her cousin to the place where John Drayton awaited death.

Eastward of the village, on its extreme outskirts stood a small one story house with but one window and a single door. It was quite remote from the other dwellings of the town, and the tents of the army lay further to the east and south so that it practically stood alone. A mulberry tree at some little distance from the house afforded the only relief from the blazing August sun to be found in that part of the village. Two sentries marched to and fro around the hut, while a guard, heavily armed, sat just without the threshold of the door. Clifford conducted the girl at once to the entrance. The guard saluted and moved aside at his command.

“You shall have just one hour,” said the youth, unlocking the door. “I shall call when ’tis time.”

Peggy could not reply. In a tumult of emotion she stepped into the one room of the hut. The air was close and the heat almost intolerable after the freshness of the sea breeze outside. Coming from the dazzling glare of the sun into the darkened interior she could not see for a moment, so stopped just beyond the door, half stifled by the closeness of the atmosphere. When the mist cleared from her eyes she saw a small room whose only furniture consisted of a pine table and two chairs. Drayton was seated with his back toward the entrance, his head resting upon his arms, which were outstretched upon the table. The maiden advanced toward him timidly.

“John,” she uttered softly.

The youth sprang to his feet with an exclamation of gladness.

“Peggy,” he cried. “Oh, I did not hope for this.”

“I had to see thee,” she cried sobbing. “Oh, John, John! thee was loyal all the time, and I doubted thee. All these weeks I doubted thee.”

“’Tis not to be wondered at, Peggy,” he said soothingly, seeing how distressed she was. “Appearances were against me. But why should you think that General Arnold had aught to do with it? I could not understand that.”

“He had asked for thy address, John,” she told him through her tears. “And he said that thee would be fighting with him before two months had passed. When I saw thee in that uniform I thought at once that he had succeeded in wooing thee from thy duty.” In a few words she related all that had passed between her and the traitor. “Can thee ever forgive me?” she concluded. “And did I hurt thee much, John?”

“It’s all right now, Peggy,” he said with a boyish laugh. “But I would rather go through a battle than to face it again.”

“Why didn’t thee tell me, John?”

“For two reasons: First, the redcoats swarmed about us, and ’twould not have been safe. Second, you were with your cousins, and I knew that Clifford at least would be suspicious of me—particularly so if you were not distressed over my desertion. ’Twas best to let you think as you did, though I was sorely tempted at times to let you know the truth. I thought that you would know, Peggy. I was surprised when you didn’t.” It was his only reproach,

Peggy choked.

“I ought to have known, John. I shall never forgive myself that I did not know. Was it necessary for thee to come?”

“Some one had to, and the Marquis wished that I should be the one. You see, he could not understand why Cornwallis faced about, and made for the seaboard. He did not have to retreat, but seemed to have some fixed purpose in so doing that our general could not see through. Nor could any of us. The Marquis sent for me, and explained the dilemma, saying that he needed some one in the British camp who could get him trustworthy intelligence on this and other things. The service, he pointed out, was full of risk but of inestimable value. I should be obliged to be with the enemy for a long time. It might be weeks. If I were discovered the consequence would be an ignominious death. Of course I came. When there is service, no matter the nature, there are not many of us who are not glad to undertake it.”

“But to die?” she gasped.

“I shall not pretend that I don’t mind it, Peggy,” went on the youth calmly, but with sadness. “I do. I would have preferred death in the field, or some more glorious end. Still, ’tis just as much in the service of the country as though I had died in battle. Were it to be done again I would not act differently.”

“Thee must not die, John,” she cried in agonized tones. “Is there no way? No way?”

“No, Peggy. I would there were. I’d like to live a little longer. There’s going to be rare doings on the Chesapeake shortly. Let me whisper, Peggy. ’Tis said that walls have ears, and I would not that any of this should reach Cornwallis just at present. ’Tis glorious news. The Marquis hath word that the French fleet under the Count de Grasse hath sailed from the West Indies for this bay. ’Twill bring us reinforcements, beside shutting Cornwallis off from his source of supplies. His lordship hath not regarded the Marquis seriously as an adversary because of his youth, and so is fortifying leisurely while our young general hath encompassed him in a trap. He is hemmed in on all sides, Peggy.

“Wayne is across the James ready to block him should he try to retreat in that direction; the militia of North Carolina are flocking to the border to prevent the British commander cutting a way through that state should he get past Wayne. The Marquis is in a camp of observation at Holt’s Forge on the Pamunkey River ready to swoop down to Williamsburg on the arrival of the fleet. General Nelson and the militia of this state with Muhlenberg’s forces are watching Gloucester Point. Best of all,—lean closer, Peggy,—’tis whispered that Washington himself may come to help spring the trap. He hath led Sir Henry into the belief that he is about to attack New York, and my Lord Cornwallis feels so secure here that he expects to send his chief reinforcements to help in its defense. If the French fleet comes, the end of the war comes with it. Ah, Peggy! if it comes.”

“Thee must live, John,” cried she excitedly. “Oh, thee must be here if all this happens. Help me to think of a way to save thee.”

“I have done naught but think since I was brought here, Peggy. If I could get past that guard at the door there would be a chance. But what can I do with a locked door? I have no tools, naught with which to open it. There is no other entrance save by that door and that window. No;” he shook his head decidedly. “’Tis no use to think, Peggy. The end hath come.”

“And how shall I bear it?” she cried.

“’Tis for the country, Peggy.” He touched her hand softly. “We must not falter if she demands life of us. If we had a dozen lives we would lay them all down in her service, wouldn’t we? If I have helped the cause ever so little it doth not matter that I die. And you will let the Marquis know what hath happened? And General Greene? I am glad you came. It hath sweetened these last hours. I’ll forgive Clifford everything for permitting it. You are not to grieve, Peggy. If I have been of help to the cause in any way it hath all been owing to you. I have in very truth been your soldier.”

“Peggy!” came Clifford’s voice from without the door. “Time’s up!”

“Oh, John,” whispered Peggy, white and shaken. “I can’t say good-bye. I can’t——”

“Then don’t,” he said gently leading her to the door. “Let us take a lesson from our French allies and say, not good-bye—but au revoir.” Then with something of his old jauntiness he added: “Wait and see what the night will bring; perhaps rescue. Who knows? Go now, Peggy.”

“We were speaking of rescue,” he said smiling slightly as Clifford, fuming at Peggy’s delay, entered the room. “I have just said that we know not what a night will bring forth, so I shall not say good-bye, but au revoir.”

“You will best say good-bye while you can, Sir Captain,” growled Clifford. “You will never have another chance. Come, my cousin.”