“No.”
He frowned and looked away.
“I could almost find it in my heart to wish they had,” he said, half to himself, I thought. And then, more pointedly to me: “There is an order out for the arrest of these men—an order issued last night by Sir Henry Clinton, himself. It specifies the names:—Captain Richard Page and Sergeant John Champe.”
Now that the worst had come, the burden tumbled suddenly from my shoulders and I became a man again.
“That is indeed most unfortunate, General Arnold,” I said calmly; “not for us, but for you.”
“Ah? Possibly you will tell me why.”
“Because justice, in pursuing us, may perchance be even a little blinder than she is usually portrayed; and while we are getting our trial and acquittance, the real criminals will go free. But that is neither here nor there. Will you take our swords, General? or shall we go and surrender them to the commandant at Fort George?”
He nailed me up again with the sifting, probing eyes, and I could almost fancy I saw a lurking smile in their farthest underdepths.
“Are you really the true man that Mistress—ah—the person who vouches for you—insists that you are? Or are you the shiftiest, hardiest daredevil villain that ever lived, Captain Page? I confess I don’t know.”
“The court-martial may or may not answer that question for you, General Arnold,” I said coldly. “For myself it matters little, so long as I have the consciousness of duty well done, or well attempted; and I think Sergeant Champe would say the same. Have we your permission to go and surrender ourselves?”