"So!" almost laughed the master in his relief, "before my British friend gets his senses back, the way is barred. Good! Here, Andy, lad, give me your hand. To the house, and to bed. Ere daybreak I must be well away from here. They are planning an attack at once, and I know where I can get the plans, methinks. That fellow saw you, and there is no further chance for me here."
"You—you are going?" Andy, leaning on the master and his crutch, was making good headway. "The man saw only me; surely you can stay in safety."
"Andy, do you think the fellow thought you dealt that blow?" The clear laugh was stifled. "No; we are marked men. But I am on the right course now. Washington shall soon have the papers he needs."
"Where do you go?" whispered Andy; "can I not be of use?"
"Not now, my friend, and if we never meet again, Andy McNeal, remember whom we have both served well, and that you have made brighter for me many a weary hour. I care not what the thoughtless may think of me, but I would have you know that what the future holds of seeming dishonor and shame, I assumed in truest loyalty.
"From what I am to do, others shrank. I saw but one way, though, God knows, my heart was wrung. I reserve nothing. Even what seems my honor I give to my country and Washington!"
The master and Andy stood still in the moonlight, and the two young faces gleamed white and troubled. "Good-night and farewell. Thank your mother." He was gone.
Andy painfully and slowly climbed the stairs and entered his bedroom.
His heart was very heavy. He had seemed on the verge of doing a great service, and behold, the chance had fled.