Birch trembled, for violent emotions were contending in his bosom. His face assumed the ghastly paleness of death, and his hand drew a box of tin from the folds of his shirt; he opened it, showing by the act that it contained a small piece of paper. On this document his eye was for an instant fixed—he had already held it towards Dunwoodie, when suddenly withdrawing his hand he exclaimed,—
“No—it dies with me. I know the conditions of my service, and will not purchase life with their forfeiture—it dies with me.”
“Deliver that paper, and you may possibly find favor,” cried Dunwoodie, expecting a discovery of importance to the cause.
“It dies with me,” repeated Birch, a flush passing over his pallid features, and lighting them with extraordinary brilliancy.
“Seize the traitor!” cried the major, “and wrest the secret from his hands.”
The order was immediately obeyed; but the movements of the peddler were too quick; in an instant he swallowed the paper. The officers paused in astonishment; but the surgeon cried eagerly,—
“Hold him, while I administer an emetic.”
“Forbear!” said Dunwoodie, beckoning him back with his hand. “If his crime is great, so will his punishment be heavy.”
“Lead on,” cried the peddler, dropping his pack from his shoulders, and advancing towards the door with a manner of incomprehensible dignity.
“Whither?” asked Dunwoodie, in amazement.