I spoke lightly, but my manner seemed to increase her apprehensions. She came closer and put her hand upon my arm.
"Mr. West," she said, "you do not yet understand your situation and its dangers."
"I see no occasion for alarm, Miss Hetherill," I said. "Your father has gratified his whim, and I shall not complain of the trouble he has caused me. It might be made a rough sort of jest for him if I carried the news to Washington; but I see no reason why I should do so."
I felt her hand grip my arm in her excitement.
"This is no play, no jest!" she cried. "Do you think that my father looks upon this fort, the weapons in it and the flag over it, as a mere whim? They are the most real of all things to him."
I was impressed by her earnestness and strong feeling. I was about to say that if her father looked upon such things as realities I was sorry for him, but I remembered that I should not speak so bluntly to her father's daughter.
"I tell you they are realities!" she exclaimed. "It is a reality that you are held a prisoner here, a condemned spy; and it is a reality that you are to be shot as such at nine o'clock in the morning."
"What? Is this the truth?" I exclaimed.
"Crothers and another man are digging your grave now," she said.
"How do you know?" I asked, still partly incredulous.