"It would be a desperate 'try,'" answered André.
"Yes, but when ordinary means fail, desperate remedies should be tried."
"I saw the exact copy of a letter written by General Washington on the eighth of this month," said Lord Medway, "and in it he declares that his troops, both officers and men, are almost perishing for food; that they have been alternately without bread and meat for two weeks, a very scanty allowance of either, and frequently destitute of both. Furthermore, he describes his troops as almost naked, riotous, and robbing the people from sheer necessity. Can you expect a general to lead men in such a condition to battle? He performs a miracle in simply holding them together."
"The poor fellows! And we are warm and comfortable. It seems almost wrong."
"Oh, no!" said André. "It is the rebels who are wrong; they are like runaway horses, and, as I said to one who talked to me, 'my lad, a runaway horse punishes himself.'"
In such freedom of conversation, without a moment's doubt of each other, they passed the hours, and about four o'clock the party usually broke up, and Lord Medway wrapped Maria in her furs, and drove her home.
However, the weariest road sometimes comes to an end, and the long dreadful winter wore itself away, the ice broke up, and the sun shone warmly out of the blue skies, and the trees put forth their young, tender, little leaves. Every one was ready to cry with joy, the simple endurance of misery was over, men could now work and fight, and some movement and change would be possible. Coming home from a delightful drive in the sweet Spring evening, Medway told Maria this, and added that his furlough, so long extended by General Clinton's love, would probably terminate as soon as active hostilities began. But it was not yet a present case, and Maria did not take the supposition to heart. Besides, there had been frequent talk of her lover's departure, and somehow or other, he had never gone. At the Semple gate they stood a while. There were some lilies growing near it, and their fairy-like bells shook in the fresh wind and scattered incense all around. Maria stooped, gathered a handful, and offered them to her lover.
"Kiss them first, for me, Maria," he said, and she buried her lovely face in the fragrant posy, and then lifted it full of delight and perfume. He thought he had never before seen her so purely exquisite, so freshly adorable. His love was a great longing, he could hardly bear to leave her. So he stood holding her hands and the lilies, and looking into her face, but saying nothing, till Maria herself spoke the parting words: "I see grandmother at the door, Ernest, she is calling me; now we must say good-bye!" He could not answer her, he only kissed the lilies, leaped into the carriage, and went speechlessly away.
Maria watched him a few moments, and then hastened into the house. Madame met her at the door. "There is a letter from your father, Maria," she said; "I thought you might want to tell Ernest what news it contained, so I called you, but you didna answer me."
"Yes, I answered, 'coming, grandmother,' and here I am. What a thick letter! Have you one also?"