I had never seen Mohun so gloomy. He scarcely uttered a word during the whole march back; and when I announced my intention to spend the night at the house of Mr. Alibi, as the long tramp had wearied me out, he scarcely invited me to his head-quarters, and when I declined, did not urge me. Something evidently weighed heavily on the mind of Mohun, and a few moment’s reflection explained the whole to me.
He had conversed rapidly and apart with Nighthawk near the lonely house; and his gloom had dated from that conversation. Nighthawk had evidently explained every thing: the cause of Swartz’s imprisonment; his statement in reference to the paper—and now that Swartz was dead, the hiding-place of the document seemed forever undiscoverable.
If the reader does not understand the terrible significance of this fact, and Mohun’s consequent gloom, I promise that he shall comprehend all before very long.
Mohun returned to his camp, and I remained at the house of Mr. Alibi until morning, stretched on a lounge, and wrapped in my cape.
I awoke about sunrise. As I opened my eyes, quick firing came from the direction of Burgess’s Mill. The fire speedily became more rapid and continuous; I hastened to mount my horse; and as I did so, a courier passed at full gallop.
“What news?” I asked.
“The enemy are advancing in force! They have crossed!”
“Where?”
“Near Armstrong’s!”
And the courier disappeared, at full speed, in the woods. In a moment I had abandoned my design of inspecting, and was riding back.