Captain Powell looked perplexed. But Uncle Lawrence spoke up.
“No,” said he, addressing Captain Powell, “I am an old man, and my time is nearly out, while the Major is young, and can yet be of service to his country.”
“But the young lady, consider her, sir,” urged Captain Powell, speaking to Major Gordon. “Time is precious, and succor ought to be sent at once. For God’s sake, Major, don’t stand on scruples, which would honor you at another time, but are only periling Miss Aylesford’s life at this crisis.”
A sharp pang of agony shot visibly across his hearer’s face. But the Major was inexorable. He resembled Uncle Lawrence, indeed, in the inflexibility with which he walked in the path of duty, when that duty became plain. No martyr, condemned to pass barefoot over burning plough-shares, could have executed his task more unflinchingly.
“Mr. Herman,” he replied, “is the more suitable person then to be released, for he knows every acre of the forests about Sweetwater; and can do more, in an hour, in tracking these ruffians to their den, than I could in a day.”
Captain Powell was evidently struck with this remark. He looked inquiringly at Uncle Lawrence, feeling, by that instinct which is called insight into character, that the veteran would speak the truth in reply, irrespective of conventional reserve on the one hand, or of self-interest on the other.
“I’ll not deny,” said the patriarch, mildly, “but what the Major speaks truth, in that partic’lar. I’ve hunted a’most every inch of the woods, for a dozen miles about, on every side, these forty years nigh. And I’d give,” he added, earnestly, “half of the years I may have to live, if the Lord allowed me the right to do it, that I might be free. I’d burn the rascal out, like a fox from his hole, I’ll warrant, afore to-morrow’s sun was many hours high.”
Captain Powell looked from one to the other, in perplexity, for a full minute, before he spoke again. At last he said, with sudden impulse,
“You shall both be free. Nay! no thanks,” he continued, as the Major sprang forward again, and grasped his hand, “but listen. I have a pass for the Major. You, my venerable sir, are luckily about my height. You must exchange hats and coats with me,” removing the articles as he spoke, and proffering them to Uncle Lawrence. “Go boldly out, for I left the pass with the sentinel, as if you were myself. The breeze was beginning to blow freely up the river, when I came in. You’ll find a boat, with her sail ready, lying near the outside of the camp. The sentinel there will let you pass, on giving the watchword, ‘loyalty.’ Make the best of your way, in God’s name, up the stream; and may success crown your efforts!”
He pressed the hands of both his hearers, as he ceased speaking, and the change of garments having been effected, fairly pushed them out of the place, first giving the lantern in charge to Uncle Lawrence, and whispering, as a parting admonition, “I brought it in with me, and they’ll naturally expect to see me carry it out—be sure to lose not a minute, for the trick must soon be found out.”