"I do not care to remain here and have Sir Henry Clinton try me in his court," answered the other, simply. "So a week ago I handed in my resignation—my rheumatism cannot endure this prison dampness—my wife insists that unless I come home for the harvest, she will come to fetch me—and other strong proofs that I must leave the dear old Provost. And, fortunately, my friend, the noble gentleman who secured this post for me has fallen in battle, and no one else knows where to look for the stupid jailor who helped Haym Salomon to escape."
"But, my friend, I cannot allow you to take such a risk for me," protested Salomon. "And even if you are not punished—do you care to give up your post for my sake?"
"I, too, have grown tired of this devil's business," answered the little jailor. "Even if you were to die tomorrow, I should give it up and go back to my little farm where I might feel myself an honest man again."
Suddenly Haym sat down upon the bench, his mouth grim and stubborn. "I will not go. My name has always been spotless. But if I escape, there may be some who will believe that the charges brought against me are true, that I have acted as a secret agent for General Washington, endeavoring to burn the British warships and warehouses at his instigation. Whereas you know that my one crime was helping those few poor lads escape from their torture."
"Will you stay here and argue until morning when the guards will take you below to let you swing for your folly!" muttered Jonas, now thoroughly exasperated. "You and I and the world know that not even Sir Henry himself believes the charges brought against you at your trial. It was only when that young Frenchman escaped two months ago and one of Sir Henry's ready spies betrayed you, that you were clapped into his cell to face charges in his court. I warned you then how it would be and you would not heed my words. Now let me save you before it is too late."
"But my wife and little son," murmured Salomon, as the other adjusted the heavy shawl about his shoulders. "Who will care for them?"
"You can send for them when you have found shelter. And if you stay and are hanged, who will protect them?" He pushed the large bonnet upon Salomon's head, nodding with satisfaction to see how it concealed his face. "Now, remember, say nothing and try to walk slowly—no, no, shorter steps! And put the basket on your arm." He stepped back to admire the result of his scheming. "Mr. Salomon," he said, seriously, "if I did not know that my good wife was waiting for me outside I would swear she stood before me. Come, take my arm,—remember, walk slowly—" and the two passed out into the sultry August night.
The Revolutionary War was over, and young Louis di Vernon, still very much of a boy despite the down upon his lip and the manly assurance achieved by almost seven years hard soldiering, leaned back in the shabby arm chair and looked questioningly at his host across the table. Since his escape from the old Provost, he had often heard tales of Haym Salomon's great wealth, the magnificent sums he had lent the government, his generosity toward the nation's unpaid representatives, especially his young friend Madison. And yet this man of almost fabulous wealth, this patriot who with his business partner, Robert Morris, had made it possible to feed and clothe Washington's starving and naked soldiers, this financier who had negotiated loans with Holland and France, now sat before him, meanly dressed, his brows wrinkled with care, his drooping shoulders too expressive of defeat for one who had helped his country win a glorious victory.
"It is good to see you again," said Haym, slowly. "I have not forgotten you, but I thought you might have forgotten me." He coughed, a hard, dry cough, leaning his fast graying head upon his hand.