"You do not recognize him?" asked the officer of Martin.
"He—is—the—same!" Martin blurted. "We are losing time, my lord."
"There is no way to settle the thing here; we are losing time, and your story of that night in the cave is too important to overlook, Norton. If this is the boy we must deal with him later. The young scamp probably knows the roads well. Lead on, you rascal, but if you play any tricks and mislead us, my men shall pin you to a tree."
Ruth gave one despairing cry:
"He is lame," she panted. "For shame! How can he lead a mounted troop?"
"We'll go slowly. The game's nearly up, my girl," laughed Norton, "and a prick of the bayonet"—he suited the word with an action, and prodded Andy on the arm—"will hurry the lamest patriot. Lead on, cave-crawler!"
Andy gave one look at Ruth. A look of bravery, appreciation, and mute thanks for her part of the work.
"It's all right, Ruth," he called back. "Tell mother I'll lead them straight enough and be home in an hour. Good-by."
By a winding way leading from the main road they went; through Apthorpe's place they cantered at their ease, and so came to the highway a mile beyond.
"There may be a shorter cut, my lord," suggested Norton; then he paused. "Does your lordship observe there are no marks on the road that bespeak the recent passing of a regiment? This should mean the young rebel's death!"