Everybody in the country heard of Dick Swinton’s death and the way in which he died—except Dora Dundas. The news was withheld from her by trickery; and she went on in blissful ignorance of the calamity that had overtaken her. The newspapers were full of the story. It had in it the picturesque elements that touch the public imagination and arouse enthusiasm.

It appeared, from the narrative of a man who narrowly escaped death—one of the gallant band of three who volunteered to penetrate the enemy’s lines and carry dispatches—that General Stone, who for days was cut off from the main body of the army, found it absolutely necessary to call for volunteers to carry information and plans to the commander in the field. Three men were chosen—two officers and a private—Dick Swinton, Jack Lorrimer, and a private named Nutt. The three men started from different points, and their instructions were to converge and join forces, and pass through a narrow ravine, which was the only possible path. Once through this, they could make a 136 bolt for the American lines. Each man carried a written dispatch in such a manner that it could be destroyed instantly, the moment danger threatened, and, also, the subject matter of the dispatch was committed to memory.

The enemy’s lines were penetrated at night, but unforeseen dangers and obstacles presented themselves; so that it was daylight before the ravine was reached. The gallant three met at the appointed spot, and were within sight of one another, with only half-a-mile to ride through the ravine, when a shot rang out. A hundred rifles arose from the boulders. The little band rushed for cover, and destroyed their dispatches by burning.

Certain death stared them in the face. After destroying the papers, they elected to ride on and run the gantlet, rather than be captured as spies and shot ignominiously. But it was too late. They were surrounded. Only when Jack Lorrimer fell with one arm shattered by a bullet and a bullet had grazed Dick Swinton’s side did the others surrender. They were promised their lives, if they laid down their arms and gave up the dispatches.

The prisoners were bound and marched to a lonely farmhouse, where their persons were searched and their saddles ripped to pieces to find the papers. The failure to discover anything aroused the anger of their captors, and Dick Swinton, who from his 137 bearing seemed to be an officer, was exhorted to reveal the nature of his mission on promise of his life. He refused. A further examination was made. Their boots were cut to pieces, the heels split open, their weapons smashed, and their clothes torn to ribbons, but without avail. They were brought before an officer high in command, who charged them with bearing important messages, and again promised them their lives, if they would betray their country. Each man doggedly refused. They were given an hour to reconsider their decision; at the end of that time, they were to be shot. A firing party was told off, and the men were led outside the house, where they were bound hand and foot, and flung upon the ground—for an engagement was in progress, and distant firing threatened a possible advance on the part of the Americans. So hot was the firing that the hour’s respite was reduced to half-an-hour, and a surly old soldier was sent to inform them that he had orders to carry out their execution at once, if they would not speak.

They refused, without hesitation.

Jack Lorrimer was unbound, and led around to the side of the farmhouse. They tied him to a halter-ring on the wall. Three times, he was given the chance of saving his life by treachery; and his only reply was: “I’m done. Damn you—shoot!” The rifles were raised; there was a rattling volley, 138 a drooping figure on the halter-cord, and the officer turned his attention to the others.

“Now then, the next.”

Dick Swinton and Nutt were lying side by side. Nutt had taken advantage of the interest excited by the execution to wriggle himself free of his loosely-tied fetters, which consisted of cords binding his wrists behind his back and passed around to a knot on his breast. He called upon Dick to aid him. Dick Swinton rolled over, and with his teeth loosened the first knot, then fell back into the old position.

Nutt remained as though still bound.

Dick was next unbound, and led around the farmhouse. That was Nutt’s opportunity. He saw them first drag away the dead body of Jack Lorrimer, and fling it on one side; then they thrust Dick back against the wall out of sight.

There was a pause while the firing party loaded their rifles. This was the moment chosen by Nutt for shaking off his bonds. He crawled a few yards, heard the appeal to Dick Swinton, and Dick’s defiant refusal—then the order to fire, and the volley. He arose to his feet and ran.

All the men in the ravine were gone forward to repel the dreaded advance, and the path was moderately clear. He ran for dear life until he reached the firing line, where he seized a wounded soldier’s 139 rifle, and dropped down as though he were dead. Here, he remained until the firing line retreated slowly before the American advance, and he heard the tramp of feet and the bad language of the soldiers, groaning, swearing, cursing. Then, he got up, turned around, and with a yell of triumph entered into the battle against his former captors.

At the end of the fighting, he reported himself at headquarters. He told his story to the general, and to a newspaper correspondent. He made the most of it, and informed them how, as he wriggled free of his bonds, he heard the officer commanding the firing party call upon Dick Swinton three times, as upon the preceding victim. Each time, there came Dick’s angry refusal, in a loud, defiant tone. Then, as he ran, there was the ugly volley. When he looked back, the firing party were dragging away the dead body, preparatory to stripping it.

The sympathy with the rector was profound. Letters of condolence poured in. Yet, the bereaved man could not absolutely reconcile himself to the belief that Dick was no more. But it was evident that the authorities regarded Nutt’s news as convincing, or they would not have sent an official intimation of his death.

Colonel Dundas read the news in his morning paper. It was his custom to seize the journals the moment they arrived, and read to Dora at the breakfast-table 140 all war news of vital interest—and a good deal more that was prosy, and only interesting to a soldier. By chance, he saw the story of Dick’s death before his daughter came upon the scene, and was discreet enough not to mention the matter. Since Dora’s refusal of Ormsby, he was fairly certain as to the nature of his daughter’s feelings toward Dick, and in his displeasure made no reference whatever to the young man whom formerly he had so welcomed to his home.

Dora was left to find out the truth four days later, when she came upon a stray copy of a weekly paper belonging to the housekeeper. Dick’s portrait stared out at her from the middle of the page, and the whole story was given in detail. She was stunned at first, and, like the rector, refused to believe. It seemed possible that, at the last moment, the firing party might have missed their aim—a preposterous idea, seeing that the prisoner was set with his back against the wall, a dozen paces from his executioners.

She understood why her father had not mentioned it. For the last day or two, he had sung the praises of Captain Ormsby, who was coming to dine with them on Monday. He had thrown out a very distinct hint as to his own admiration for that gentleman’s sterling qualities.

There was no one to help Dora bear her sorrow. 141 It prostrated her. But for the forlorn hope that the escaped trooper might have made a mistake, and that, after all, Dick might have been saved, she would have broken down utterly.

It was unnecessary to tell the colonel that his well-meant postponement of the sad news was wasted effort. He ventured awkwardly to comment upon the death of their old friend.

“A good chap—a wild chap,” he observed “but of no real use to anybody but his country, which has reason to thank him. If I’d been in his place, I should have done the same. But, if I’d done what he did before he left home, I think I should have died in the firing line, quietly and decently. Poor chap! Poor chap!”

“What do you mean by ‘if you had done what he did before he left home?’” asked the grief-stricken girl.

“I mean the forgery.”

“What forgery?”

“Do you mean to say you haven’t heard? Why, everybody knows about it. Ormsby kept it dark as long as he could, but Herresford forced his hand. Don’t you know what they’re saying?”

“I know what Mr. Ormsby said. But I warn you not to expect me to believe any lie that ungenerous, cruel man has circulated about the man I loved.” 142

“Well, they say he went out to the war to get shot.”

“It’s a lie!”

“He was in an awful hole, up to his eyes in debt, and threatened with arrest. He almost ruined his father and mother, and forged his grandfather’s signature to two checks, robbing him of seven thousand dollars—or, rather, defrauded the bank, for Herresford won’t pay, and the bank must. It is poor Ormsby who will be the sufferer. He suspected the checks, and said nothing—just like him—the only thing he could do, after the row at the club dinner.”

“Is it on the authority of Mr. Ormsby that these foul slanders on my dead lover have been made? Are they public property, or just a private communication to you, father?”

“It is the talk of the town, girl. Why, his own mother has had to own up that the checks were forgeries. He cashed two checks for her, and saw his opportunity to alter the amounts, passing over to her the original small sums, while he kept the rest to pay his debts. Herresford’s opinion of him has been very small all along; but nobody expected the lad to steal. Such a pity! Such a fine chap, too—the sort of boy girls go silly about, but lacking in backbone and stability. The matter of the checks has been kept from his father for the present, 143 poor man. He knows nothing whatever about it.”

“Father, the things you tell me sound like the horrible complications of a nightmare. They are absurd.”

“Absurd! Why, I’ve seen the forged checks, girl. The silly young fool forgot to use the same colored ink as in the body of the check. A few days afterward, the added figures and words dried black as jet, whereas the ink used by Herresford dried a permanent blue.”

“Mr. Ormsby showed you the checks?”

“Yes. Dora—Dora—don’t look like that! I understand, my girl. I know you were fond of the boy, and I disapproved of it from the beginning. I said nothing, in case he didn’t come home from the front. Put him out of your heart, my girl—out of mind. I’m as sorry about everything as if he were a boy of my own, and, if I could do anything for poor John Swinton and his wife, I would. I saw Mrs. Swinton yesterday driving, looking superbly handsome, as usual, but turned to stone. Poor old John goes about, saying, ‘My son isn’t dead! My son isn’t dead!’ and nobody contradicts him.”

“And Netty?” asked Dora, with a sob.

“Oh! nobody bothers about her. It’ll postpone her marriage with Harry Bent, I suppose, for a little while. They were to have been married as soon 144 as he was well enough. Sit up, my girl—sit up. Keep a straight upper lip. You’re under fire, and it’s hot.”

“I can’t—I can’t!” sobbed Dora, burying her face in her hands, and swaying dangerously. Her father rushed forward to catch her, and held her to his heart, where she sobbed out her grief. While they stood thus, in the centre of the room, the servant announced Mr. Ormsby.

At the mention of his name, Dora cried out in anger, and declared that she would not see him. But her father hushed her, and nodded to the servant as a sign that the unwelcome gentleman was to be shown into the room.

“We’re a little upset, Ormsby—we’re a little upset,” cried the colonel. “But a soldier’s daughter is not afraid of her tears being seen. We were talking about poor Swinton. Dora has only just heard. How do things go at the rectory? And what’s Herresford going to do about the checks?”

“He insists upon our paying, and we must get the money from somebody. Mrs. Swinton has none. We must put the case to the rector, and get him to reimburse the bank to avoid a lawsuit and a public scandal. Poor Swinton set things right by his death. There was no other way out. He died like a brave man, and he will be remembered as a hero, except by those who know the truth; and I am powerless to 145 keep that back now. Believe me, Miss Dundas, if I had known of his death, I would have cut out my tongue rather than have published the story of the crime, which was the original cause of his going to the war.”

“So, you still believe him to be a coward as well as a thief,” she cried, hotly. “You are a hypocrite. It was you who really sent him away. He never meant to go. He didn’t want to go. And now you have killed him.”

“Hush, hush, Dora!” cried the colonel.

“I believe it was all some scheme of your own,” cried the girl, hysterically. “You are the coward. I shall believe nothing until I’ve seen Mrs. Swinton, and hear what the rector has to say about it. Dick was the soul of honor. He was no thief.”

“He was in debt, my girl,” cried the colonel. “You don’t understand the position of a young man placed as he was. Herresford was understood to have discarded him as his heir. No doubt the young fellow had raised money on his expectations. Creditors were making existence a burden to him. Many a soldier has ended things with a revolver and an inquest for less than seven thousand dollars.”

“Ah, that sort of death requires a different kind of courage,” sneered Ormsby, who was nettled by Dora’s taunts.

“I won’t listen to you,” she cried. “You are 146 defaming the man I love. He couldn’t go away with such things on his conscience. It is all some wicked plot.”

Ormsby shrugged his shoulders, and the colonel sighed despondently, while Dora swept out of the room, drawing her skirts away from Ormsby as though his touch were contamination.