Rupert put both hands upon the spokes of the wheel, and held his head up straight. He faced the officer who had ordered the chase when the "Lightning" escaped with his country's gold.
What thoughts went through the lad's mind? Did he regret this last and most quixotic step? Did he long to "up the anchor," and give the signal to fly ahead? Did he regret freedom and lawlessness? Or was his heart that was broken by disgrace, healed by the atonement?
"Let me have the letter." The officer spoke after a long look at the son of America's most execrated malefactor. His voice was not harsh, for he divined how the boy's loyalty to his father and his country really blended into an emotion which men call honor.
Rupert put his hand to his breast:—
"My orders are to deliver the letter to the President with my own hand."
"You shall do so. The President is there."
The officer pointed to a high, white monster of distinction. "He is aboard there. He is watching you this minute. Jump in!"
The boy paled. For only a moment his courage deserted him, and he almost tumbled into the launch.
A great crowd of witnesses had gathered about the President, as if to protect him.
The word "assassin," was whispered from man to man. Even the officer could not command an avenue to the Chief Executive.