“Thank you, little cousin,” he said. “All is well with me.”
With firm step he passed on to go to his ignoble death. As he took his place in the cart the drums began to beat the dead march, and the procession moved slowly away. Peggy heard nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the scarlet coat of her cousin. He did not turn. He did not look to right, nor to left. Like a brave, gallant gentleman he was going to his doom. As long as she could see him her eyes followed him. Her breath came gaspingly as the procession disappeared around a bend in the road. Her senses reeled. The ground was slipping, slipping——
An exclamation, sharp, penetrating, brought her to herself. The guard near her had paused in his round, and was gazing at a cloud of dust which had suddenly appeared on the Morristown road. If it concealed horsemen they were coming at a furious pace. Curious knots of people began to cluster in groups to watch its approach. Through Peggy’s dulled apprehension a thrill of interest ran. As the quick beat of galloping horses sounded on the morning air she started. Hope electrified her being. Could it be that some one was coming with help for Clifford? She ran to the road and strained her eyes toward that approaching cloud of dust. And then, from out of its enveloping particles three horses emerged. The foremost rider was standing in his stirrups, and high above his head he waved a flag frantically. A murmur of excitement stirred the watchers as the sunlight caught the pure folds of the banner. It was a white flag. A white flag: the flag of life, of salvation. Peggy shrieked at sight of it. A shriek that mingled joy with an agony of apprehension lest he be too late. Lest he be too late! She tore the kerchief from her neck and waved it wildly. She called to him entreatingly to hurry, hurry, and knew not that her cries could not be heard. She wrung her hands at her helplessness. On came the horseman. Nearer and nearer he drew. The horse’s flanks were steaming. His eyes were strained and blood-shot. Blood flecked the foam flew from his nostrils, but still his rider lashed him to greater speed. He called to her as he passed: “Which way, Peggy? Which way?” She raised her hand and pointed toward the bend in the road, and he thundered on. She had known it was Drayton before he called. She knew too that her father and Harriet rode behind. Her father come at last! Peggy was sobbing pitifully now, every vestige of self-control gone. David Owen brought his horse to a sudden stop as he came opposite her, stooped, and swung her like a child up in front of him. She clung to him crying:
“They have taken him, father! They have taken him!”
“Steady, lass! Please God, we’ll be in time.”
They were beside Harriet now. Harriet who, with pale, set features, never turned. Her eyes were fixed on John Drayton’s flying figure as though all her hope lay with him. Faster and faster he rode. The white flag streamed above him. His horse was running like the wind.
The bend in the road was turned at last. Peggy hid her face against her father’s shoulder afraid to look. But—— Clifford? She must know. She sat up, but at first the crowd was all that she could see. A black mass of swaying people whose heads were turned in their direction to see what the commotion portended. The mass parted as Drayton dashed toward it, leaving a clear path to the cart. And oh, thank heaven! Clifford sat there safe, safe. The provost-marshal stood with his hand on the rope, arrested in the very act of performing his awful duty by John Drayton’s hoarse shout:
“Forbear! Forbear in the name of Congress! A reprieve!”