“Bring forth the prisoner,” he said, with a wave of the hand.
The sentinels dropped the points of their bayonets towards the judges, and Henry Wharton advanced, with a firm step, into the center of the apartment. All was now anxiety and eager curiosity. Frances turned for a moment in grateful emotion, as the deep and perturbed breathing of Dunwoodie reached her ears; but her brother again concentrated all her interest in one feeling of intense care. In the background were arranged the inmates of the family who owned the dwelling, and behind them, again, was a row of shining faces of ebony, glistening with pleased wonder. Amongst these was the faded luster of Caesar Thompson’s countenance.
“You are said,” continued the president, “to be Henry Wharton, a captain in his Britannic Majesty’s 60th regiment of foot.”
“I am.”
“I like your candor, sir; it partakes of the honorable feelings of a soldier, and cannot fail to impress your judges favorably.”
“It would be prudent,” said one of his companions, “to advise the prisoner that he is bound to answer no more than he deems necessary; although we are a court of martial law, yet, in this respect, we own the principles of all free governments.”
A nod of approbation from the silent member was bestowed on this remark, and the president proceeded with caution, referring to the minutes he held in his hand.
“It is an accusation against you, that, being an officer of the enemy, you passed the pickets of the American army at the White Plains, in disguise, on the 29th of October last, whereby you are suspected of views hostile to the interests of America, and have subjected yourself to the punishment of a spy.”
The mild but steady tones of the speaker, as he slowly repeated the substance of this charge, were full of authority. The accusation was so plain, the facts so limited, the proof so obvious, and the penalty so well established, that escape seemed impossible. But Henry replied, with earnest grace,—
“That I passed your pickets in disguise, is true; but—”