Arnold looked up and beheld with astonishment the tall and athletic form of Barclugh. Until now Arnold never had quaked before mortal man; but when the piercing glance of Barclugh met his gaze, a culprit shivering like a whipped dog was all that stood before Barclugh.
Had the spirit of Washington appeared in his path, Arnold could not have been more abject. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His eyes lost all power of vision and rolled nervously, as though hunted, in their sockets. Pitiable, indeed, in his moral transgression, stood the man once the pride of the patriot army, before one whose only claim to distinction was the gold that he could control.
Barclugh was amazed at Arnold’s collapse. He felt guilty and powerless, himself. The love of Mollie Greydon had saved his life; he knew that his gold could never have done so. Yet Barclugh felt that he must not relinquish his power over the traitor, so he addressed him harshly:
“You have ruined us all, Arnold. I am thankful to be here alive. The stain of Andre’s blood will always remain upon your escutcheon.”
The traitor, nervous and guilty, looked around the tap-room, and whispered into Barclugh’s ear:
“We better discuss our matters more privately.”
Arnold now led the way to his chamber and there the two faced each other.
Arnold began anxiously:
“Barclugh, have you heard of my wife and child?”
“No news, Arnold,” replied the financier.