“Yes, yes,” Robert broke in, for a rustling among the dead leaves, added to the pain in his hand, made him quiver.
“I know, Dorchester Heights, you forget I have listened too! Which horse! Quick! anything more?”
He sprang to the saddle, and the tired horse jumped as the weight touched his sore flesh. It was none too soon. The rustling among the leaves was no scurrying animal, as Shirtliffe, with bowed head dashed on, Morley on his return beat, came up to the group:
“My God!” cried Norton and Harding gazing open mouthed at him.
“Who was that riding away so fast?” asked the new comer, a sickening sensation creeping over him.
“It was—it was—great heavens! how do we know! We thought it was you, Morley!” The boy ground his teeth: “It was an American,” he hissed.
“And by thunder!” roared Norton, “we’ve sent him into his own camp with the news of Washington’s advance, on the only good horse among us!”
The situation was too much for the three men. In silence they gazed into each other’s faces and grew sick with apprehension.
CHAPTER VI.
HOW MOLLY BORE THE NEWS.
With lowered head, and throbbing nerves, Shirtliffe dashed on in the direction of Boston, but as soon as safety permitted he turned the jaded animal, and breaking into a woodland road, retraced his steps, and with a sobbing appeal to the disappointed brute, struck out for the American camp.