“Who is the relief for to-night?” queried Clifford of the guard as he closed and locked the door of the hut.

“Samuels, sir,” responded the soldier saluting.

“Tell him that I shall take charge at midnight,” commanded Clifford. “I am going to stand guard myself so as to make sure that naught goes amiss.” Then turning to Peggy he added: “I liked not the last remark of that captain. It savored too much of mischief.”

But Peggy, knowing that Drayton had uttered it solely for her comfort, made no reply. The afternoon was well on toward its close when they reached their abode, and the girl went straight to the room which she and Harriet occupied in common.

Harriet had just donned a dainty frock of dimity, and was now dusting her chestnut ringlets lightly with powder. She glanced at Peggy over her shoulder.

“There is to be company for tea, Peggy,” she said. “Two officers. Will you come down?”

“No,” answered Peggy sinking into a chair. “I would rather not, Harriet.”

“Don’t you want something to eat, Peggy?” she asked after a quick look at Peggy’s face. “You have eaten naught since breakfast. Or a cup of tea? You will be ill.”

“No, I thank thee, Harriet.” The maiden leaned her head upon her hand drearily. The world seemed very dark just then.

“Tell me about it, my cousin,” spoke Harriet abruptly. “’Twill relieve you to talk, and I like not to see you sit there so miserable.”

And at this unlooked-for sympathy on Harriet’s part Peggy broke into sudden, bitter weeping.

“He is to die,” she cried. “There is no escape, Harriet. Thy brother holds the key, and is to stand guard himself lest aught should go amiss. He is cruel, cruel. Oh, the night is so short in summer! The sunrise comes so soon! Would that it were winter.”

“Now just how would that help you, Peggy?” demanded Harriet staring at her. “If one is to die I see not how the season could lessen one pang. After all, Peggy, you must admit that John Drayton deserves his fate. He is a spy. He knew the risk he ran. The sentence is just. ’Tis the recognized procedure in warfare.”

“That doth not make it less hard to bear,” cried Peggy with passion. “Grant that ’tis just, grant that ’tis the method of procedure in warfare, and yet when its execution falls upon kinsman or friend there is not one of us who would not set such method of procedure at naught. Why, when thee——” She paused suddenly.

“Yes? Go on, Peggy,” said her cousin easily. “Or shall I finish for you? You were about to speak, my cousin, of the time when I was a spy. You are thinking that I was perhaps more guilty than John Drayton, insomuch as he hath but given out information while I planned the captivation of both the governor of the Jerseys and the rebel general. And you are thinking, are you not? that you laid yourself under suspicion because of a promise to me. And you are thinking, my little cousin, of how you stole out like a thief in the night to aid me to make my escape. You are thinking of that long night ride, and of all the trials and difficulties in which it involved you. You are thinking of these things, are you not?”

As the girl began to speak Peggy ceased her weeping, pushed back her hair, and presently sat upright regarding her with amazement.

“Yes,” she almost gasped as her cousin paused. “Yes, Harriet; I was in very truth thinking of those things.”

“And you are thinking,” continued Harriet placing a jeweled comb in her hair, and gazing into the mirror, turning her head from side to side to note the effect, “that in spite of all that befell, you took me back to Philadelphia with you when I was ill, and cared for me until I was restored to health. And you are thinking of what you have done for father, and for Clifford. What a set of ingrates you must consider us, Peggy.”

“Why does thee say these things to me, Harriet?” demanded Peggy. “How did thee know what I was thinking? And yet thee, and thy father, and—and Clifford too, sometimes, have been most kind to me of late. Why does thee say them?”

“Because I should say them were I placed as you are,” returned her cousin calmly. “I think I would shout them from the house-top.”

“To what purpose, my cousin? It would not procure John’s release. All that can be done was done when Clifford let me see him.”

“I would not be so sure of that and I were you,” observed Harriet quietly.

“Harriet! What does thee mean?” cried Peggy, her breath coming quickly.

“Peggy, I told you once that some time I should do something that would repay all your favors, did I not?”

“Yes.” Peggy’s eyes questioned her cousin’s eagerly.

“Well, don’t you think it’s about time that I was fulfilling that promise, my cousin? Suppose now, only suppose, that I could effect this captain’s escape? Would that please you?”

“Harriet, tell me. Tell me!” Peggy’s arms were about her in a tight embrace. “Thee knows, Harriet.”

“Did it want its captain then?” laughed Harriet teasingly. “Oh, Peggy, Peggy! what a goose you are! Now sit down, and tell me where John Drayton is, and what Clifford said and did. Then I will unravel my plan.”

“There are two sentries beside the guard, Harriet,” Peggy concluded anxiously, as she related all that had occurred. “They patrol the house, meet and pass each other so that each makes a complete round of the hut. I see not how thee can do anything.”

“Don’t be so sure, Mistress Peggy,” came from Harriet with such an abrupt change of voice that Peggy was startled.

“That sounded just like Clifford,” she said.

“Certainly it did.” Harriet’s eyes were sparkling now. “I can do Clifford to the life. I can deceive even father if the light be dim. I am going to be Captain Williams to-night, Peggy. Clifford is so cock-sure of himself that he grows insufferable. ’Twill be rare sport to take him down a peg. Did’st notice how he spoke to father? He needs a lesson. And father hath been in service so long that he ought to look up to him.”

“But,” objected Peggy with some excitement, “Clifford will be there on guard. Then how can thee represent him?”

“He will retire early, as he hath already lost much sleep from watching and following after John Drayton. He will sleep until ’tis time to go to the watch, and, Peggy, after Clifford hath lost sleep he always sleeps heavily. He will ask father to waken him, and father in turn will ask me to take note of the time for fear that he might doze. Now I have one of my brother’s uniforms which I brought in this afternoon thinking that there might be need of it. I shall don it, after slipping the key of the hut from Cliff’s pocket. Then, presto! Captain Williams will go to take charge of his prisoner. If it be somewhat before midnight ’twill be regarded as the natural zeal of a young officer.”

“But I see not——” began Peggy.

“If I am the guard with the key in my possession, what doth hinder the door from being opened, my cousin? If I choose to go in to speak to the prisoner of what concern is it to any? Is he not in my charge?”

The girl spoke with such an assumption of her brother’s pompous air that Peggy laughed tremulously.

“I do believe that thee can do it,” she cried. “Harriet, thee is wonderful!”

“Certainly I can do it,” returned Harriet, well pleased with this admiration. “I shall go in and speak to the captain; explain that he is to come out when I let him know that the sentries have passed. When they meet and cross each other there must be a brief time when the front of the dwelling hath but the solitary guard. Once out, however, he will have to rely upon himself. I can do no more.”

“He would not wish thee to, Harriet,” spoke Peggy quickly. “He told me that could he but pass the door and the guard he did not fear but that he could escape.”

“If Clifford goes to bed early the thing can be done,” said Harriet going to the door. “It all depends upon that. Now, Peggy, I will send you up some tea. ’Twill be best for you to remain here; such a distressed damsel should remain in seclusion. I will come back after tattoo.”

In spite of her cousin’s optimistic words Peggy spent the time before her return with much apprehension. It seemed to her that the night was more than half gone ere she appeared. In reality it was but ten o’clock.

“Father thought he had better not go to bed at first,” she said her eyes glowing like stars. “I persuaded him that he ought not to lose his rest—that while with the army he never knew when he might be called upon for service which would not admit of repose. Therefore, ’twas the part of wisdom to get it while he could, and I would see that he was aroused in time to call Clifford. Everything hath gone just as we wished, and what we have to do must be done quickly. I must be back in time to restore the key to Cliff’s pocket, and then to waken father. Help me to undress, Peggy.”

With trembling fingers Peggy unfastened her frock, and soon Harriet stood before her arrayed in the uniform of a British officer.

“Captain Williams, at your service, madam,” she said, bowing low, a cocked beaver held gallantly over her heart. Peggy was amazed at the transformation. Every mannerism of Clifford was reproduced with such faithful exactitude that were it not for her wonderful eyes and brilliant complexion she could pass easily for her brother.

“I did not know that thee was so like him,” murmured Peggy. “But thine eyes, Harriet. Clifford hath never such eyes as thine.”

“’Tis lucky that ’tis dark,” answered Harriet reassuringly. “They will not be noticed in the dark. Besides, the guard will be so thankful for relief that ’twill be a small matter to him what my eyes are like. Come, my cousin.”

With a stride that was in keeping with the character she had assumed Harriet went swiftly down-stairs to the lower story of the dwelling followed by the trembling Peggy, and soon they were outside in the fresh air of the night.

It was dark, as the girl had said. Only the stars kept watch in the sky, and objects were but dimly perceivable. The noises of the great camp were for the most part stilled. The rows and rows of tents lying southward and eastward of the village gleamed white and ghostlike through the clear obscurity. The glimmer of the dying embers of many camp-fires shone ruddily in the distance, while an occasional sentinel could be descried keeping his monotonous vigil. Silently and quickly went the two girls toward the hut where Drayton was. Presently Harriet stopped under the mulberry tree.

“Wait here,” she whispered. Peggy, in a quick gush of tenderness, threw her arms about her.

“If aught should happen to thee,” she murmured apprehensively.

“For shame, Mistress Peggy,” chided Harriet shaking with merriment. “Is this thy Quaker teaching? Such conduct is most unseemly. Fie, fie!” Unloosening Peggy’s clasp she walked boldly toward the hut.

In an intensity of anxiety and expectation Peggy waited. On the still air of the summer night Harriet’s voice sounded sharply incisive as she spoke curtly to the guard, and hearing it Peggy knew that had she not been in the secret she could not have told it from Clifford’s.

“A bit early, aren’t you, sir?” came the voice of the guard.

“I think not, Samuels,” replied the pseudo Captain Williams in his loftiest manner, and with a sly chuckle the guard saluted and walked away.

A candle was burning dimly in the hut, and by its feeble rays Peggy could discern the outlines of her cousin as she took her place on guard. The sentries passed and repassed. Presently Harriet rose, coolly unlocked the door and passed inside. Peggy waited breathlessly. After a few moments her cousin reappeared, and again assumed the watchful position at the door. At length the moment for which they waited came. The sentries passed to the side where they crossed on the return rounds. Harriet swung open the door, and a form darted quickly out. The intrepid maiden closed the door noiselessly, and by the time the sentinel had reappeared was sitting stiffly erect, on guard once more.

Soon Peggy felt her hand caught softly.

“John,” she breathed.

“Peggy,” he answered in so low a tone that she could scarcely distinguish the words. “How did you manage it? I thought your cousin my most implacable enemy.”

“’Twas Harriet,” she told him. “She wears Clifford’s uniform.”

“Harriet!” Drayton’s whisper expressed the most intense astonishment. “Harriet!” And even as he spoke the name she stood beside them.

“Come,” she said. They glided after her, pausing only when they had reached a safe distance from the hut.

“We must not stop to talk,” said the English girl in peremptory tones. “Captain Drayton, you will have to depend upon yourself now.”

“Gladly,” he responded having recovered from his amazement by this time. “How can I thank you, Mistress Harriet? I——”

“You owe me no thanks,” she interrupted coldly. “I did it for Peggy. We cannot stay longer. We must get back with the key before Clifford wakes. Go!”

“Yet none the less do I thank you,” spoke the youth huskily. “’Twould have been a shameful death. I thank you both. Good-bye!” He said no more, but disappeared into the darkness.

With anxiety the girls returned to the house. All was as quiet as when they left. Without incident the key was restored to Clifford’s pocket, and, donning her own attire, Harriet went to rouse Colonel Owen. For it was near midnight.