It was a new country to me that we traversed, a rolling country, but not thickly settled, although the road appeared to be a well-beaten track. The gloom, coupled with the rapidity of our movements, prevented me from seeing anything other than those dim objects close at hand, yet we were evidently travelling almost straight east. I endeavored to enter into conversation with the two fellows riding on either side of me, but neither one so much as turned his head in response to my voice, and I soon tired of the attempt. The night told me little of who they might be, although they were both in the uniform of the Queen's Rangers, the one called Peter on my right a round, squat figure, and bald-headed, his bare scalp shining oddly when once he removed his cocked hat; the other was an older man, with gray chin beard, and glittering display of teeth.

But I gave these small consideration, my thought centring rather on the two riding in front, the Indian slouching carelessly in his saddle, his real shape scarcely discernible, while the lieutenant sat stiff and straight, with head erect, his slender figure plainly outlined against the sky-line. He alone of the four spoke an occasional word, in the contralto boyish voice, of which I made little, however, and the Indian merely grunted an acknowledgment that he heard. The movements of my horse caused the ropes to lacerate my wrists and ankles, the pain increasing so that once or twice I cried out. The fellows guarding me did not even turn their heads, but the lieutenant drew up his horse so as to block us.

"What is the trouble? Are you hurt?"

"These ropes are tearing into the flesh," I groaned. "I'd be just as safe if they were loosened a bit."

I saw him lean forward, shading his face with one hand, as he stared toward me through the darkness. I thought he drew a quick breath as from surprise, and there was a moment's hesitancy.

"Let out the ropes a trifle, Peter," came the final order.

The little bald-headed man went at it without a word, the lieutenant reining back his horse slightly, and drawing his hat lower over his eyes. In the silence one of the horses neighed, and the boy seemed to straighten in his saddle, glancing suspiciously about.

"Ride ahead slowly, Tonepah," he ordered. "I'll catch up with you." He turned back toward me. "Who are you, anyway?"

Surprised at the unexpected question, my first thought was to conceal my identity. These were King's men, and I was in ordinary clothes—the rough homespun furnished by Farrell. If, by any chance, I was not the party they had expected to waylay, I might be released without search.

"Who am I?" I echoed. "Do you mean you have gone to all this trouble without knowing whom you hold prisoner?"

"It seems so," coolly. "We know who we thought you were, but I am beginning to doubt your being the right man. Peter, take his hat off."

I straightened up bareheaded, the faint star-gleam on my face. The lieutenant remained quiet, but Peter broke his sphinx-like silence.

"Tain't him, is it?"

"No; he must have taken the other road after all," with a slight laugh. "We've been on a wild-goose chase. However, it's too late now to catch the fellow on this trip."

Peter rubbed his bald pate, his eyes on me.

"An' what'll we do with this lad?" he answered drawlingly. "Turn him loose?"

"Bring him along. We'll find out to-morrow who he is, and what his business may be. Men are not riding these roads at midnight without some purpose."

He wheeled his horse, and, with a touch of the spur, disappeared in the darkness ahead. Peter clambered back into the saddle, and gripped my rein.

"Come on," he said disgustedly, kicking the black in the side. "It's a ways yet afore yer lie down."

We rode steadily, and at a good pace. Occasionally the older man swore solemnly, but Peter never uttered a sound, not even turning his head at my attempts to draw him into conversation. The situation mystified me, but it became more and more evident that I should have to wait until morning before learning the truth. Neither guard would open his lips, and the lieutenant rode straight forward, merely a dim shadow, in advance. There was no figuring the affair out. Why should these fellows, who, earlier in the evening, had been part of Delavan's wagon guard, be in ambush to waylay some rider on the Bristol road? Who was it they sought to capture? Where were they taking me, and why was I not released as soon as they discovered their mistake? These were the main questions, but there were others also arising in mind. This did not seem to me like an ordinary party of troopers; there was an offhand freedom from discipline totally unlike the British service. Neither Peter nor the Indian seemed to belong to the class with which the army was recruited. Peter appeared more like a well-trained servant, and his riding was atrocious. And the lieutenant! There came back to me the haunting memory that he had joined Delavan as a volunteer—the Dragoon uniform sufficient proof that he was neither of the original foraging party of Hessians, nor of Grant's detachment of Rangers. Yet these others wore the green and white, and must, therefore, have been in Grant's command. How did the four manage to escape from our attack, evidently animated by one purpose? Why was Grant so anxious to learn if I had seen the lieutenant, and whether we had a party out seeking him? Not one of these questions could I answer; not one could I even guess at with any degree of satisfaction.

We were coming out of the low, swamp lands into a more thickly settled, and cultivated region. Rail and stone fences could be seen on either side the road, and we passed swiftly by a number of farmhouses, some simple log structures, although one or two were more pretentious. In only one of these did a light shine, or any semblance of occupancy appear. Through the undraped window of a cottage I caught the glimpse of a woman bending over a cradle. At the sound of our horses' hoofs she glanced up, a frightened look in her face, but her eyes quickly returned to what must have been a sick child. It was like a picture thrown on a screen, and the next instant we were galloping on through the dark, with only the memory of it.

It may have been two miles further along, when the lieutenant, and his Indian companion, wheeled suddenly to the right, and, without slackening speed, rode through an open gate, and up a gravelled roadway, circling through a grove of trees to the front door of a great square mansion. It was dark and silent, a wide porch in front supported by huge pillars, a broad flight of steps leading from the driveway. The Indian ran up these, leaving the lieutenant holding his horse, while we drew up some yards to the rear. I heard the boom of the iron knocker, followed by a gleam of light through a lower window. Then a negro's voice spoke, and the front door opened, disclosing two figures, one with sputtering candle in hand. The two exchanged a dozen words before the lieutenant asked impatiently:

"Is it all right, Tonepah?"

The taciturn Indian made no attempt at speech, but gave an expressive gesture, and the young officer turned in his saddle.

"Take the prisoner to the lower room, Peter," he ordered curtly. "I'll decide to-morrow if he can be of any use to us."

The two fellows loosened the rope about my ankles, and Peter waddling ahead, the graybeard gripping my arm, we climbed the steps, and entered the hall. A tall, slim negro, evidently a house-servant from his sleek appearance, eying me curiously, handed the little fellow a second lighted candle, and the three of us went tramping along the wide hall, past the circling stairs, until we came to a door at the rear. This the black flung open, without a word, and I was led down into the basement. The flickering candle yielded but glimpses of great rooms, beautifully decorated, and, almost before I realized what was occurring, I had been thrust into a square apartment, the door behind me closed and locked. The two guards left the sputtering candle, perhaps a third burned, behind, and I heard them stumbling back through the darkness to the foot of the stairs. I glanced about curiously, shaking the loosened rope from my wrists, my mind instantly reverting to the chance of escape. Whoever these fellows might be, whatever their purpose, I had no intention of remaining in their hands a moment longer than necessary. Somehow their silence, their mysterious movements, had impressed me with a strange feeling of fear which I could not analyze. I could not believe myself a mere prisoner of war, but rather as being held for some private purpose yet to be revealed. Yet the room offered little promise. It was nearly square, the walls of stone solidly imbedded in mortar, the door of oak, thickly studded with nails, and the two small windows protected by thick iron bars. It was a cell so strong that a single glance about convinced me of the hopelessness of any attempt at breaking out. The furniture consisted of a small table, two very ordinary chairs, and an iron bunk fastened securely to the floor. I sat down on one of the chairs, and stared moodily about, endeavoring to think over the events of the night, and to devise some method of action. I could hear the muffled sound of steps above, and the opening and closing of doors. Once the rattle of crockery reached me, and I believed my captors were at lunch. I tried the bars at the windows, and endeavored to dig my knife-blade into the mortar, but it was as hard as the stone. Discouraged, feeling utterly helpless, I threw myself on the bunk in despair.

I was not there to exceed ten minutes when, without warning, the lock clicked, and Peter came in. I sat up quickly, but as instantly he had closed the door, and actually stood there grinning cheerfully. I would never have believed him capable of so pleasant an expression but for the evidence of my own eyes.

"Spring lock," he grumbled, a thumb over his shoulder, "opens outside."

Whatever resemblance to a soldier he might have previously shown while in uniform was now entirely banished. Bareheaded, his bald dome of thought shining in the candle-light, his round, solemn face, with big innocent gray eyes gazing at me, an apron about his fat waist, the fellow presented an almost ludicrous appearance. Somehow my heart warmed to him, especially as I perceived the tray, heavily laden, which he bore easily on one arm, and the towel flung over his shoulder. And as I stared at him his movements became professional. Silently, solemnly, his mind strictly upon his duties, he wiped off the table top, and arranged the various dishes thereon with the greatest care, polishing cups and glasses, and finally placing one of the chairs in position. Stepping back, napkin still upon arm, he bowed silently. I took the seat indicated, and glanced up into his almost expressionless face.

"Peter, you old fraud," I said swiftly, "have you eaten?"

"Not as yet, sir," his voice showing just the proper tone of deference, his eyes staring straight ahead.

"Then take that chair and sit down."

"Oh, no, sir; indeed, sir, I am not at all hungry, sir."

I squared myself, fingering the knife at my plate.

"Peter," I said, sternly, "I'm a better man than you are, and you'll either sit down there and eat with me, or I'll lick you within an inch of your life. There is food enough here for three men, and I want company."

He rubbed his hand across his lips, and I caught a gleam of intelligence in his eyes.

"Well, sir, seeing you put it in that way, sir," he confessed, almost as though in regret, "I hardly see how I can refuse. It is very flattering, sir." He drew up the other chair and sat down opposite me. "Would you care for a glass of wine first, sir?" he asked solicitously. "It has been a rather dusty ride."