"They lie!" said Andy, hotly; "he, a spy!" Then the boyish voice fell. The last, sad talk under the stars came clearly back, and in the shock of the memory the boy trembled.
Ruth watched him closely. "I'm not over-curious," she faltered, "but I fear for you. If he—if he were a spy you were seen with him far too often for your good. Father even feared for me."
"Ruth" (Andy's voice had a new tone), "I can believe no dishonor of the master, and I am proud that I walked with him and was his friend!"
"Aye" (Ruth looked doubtful), "but a spy is not a good thing, Andy, no matter what shape it takes."
Old, rigid training held them both, but Andy must defend his friend, though the honest soul of Ruth shone from her eyes, and challenged him.
"It is as a thing is used," he began, lamely, but seeing his way dimly.
"Father does not preach that," Ruth broke in.
"No; nor would I preach it," sighed Andy.
"But you would act it?" Ruth flashed.
"I do—not know. I cannot think the master was aught but honest. If he were—were—" Andy could not use the hard word—"if he were finding things out, you may be sure, Ruth, it was not for his own uplifting. If he gave what other men would call—would call their honor—it was because he held not even that from his country. I can—see—how—that could—be!"