“I have been taught,” she said, her eyes full of trouble, “that having once passed my word it must be kept. Friends do not take oath as others do, but affirm only. Therefore, we are taught, that once given one’s word must be abided by so that it will be as stable and as much to be relied upon as an oath.”
“But do you not see, Mistress Peggy, that your refusal to disclose the name of the person places you under suspicion?”
“I am a patriot,” she asserted, pleadingly, “loyal and true to my country. I have ever striven to do what I could.”
“Yes; but by your own confession you have given a note to this man, who says that ’tis this very one. We have only your word that ’tis not so. Then, too, you were alone when the warning note was found. It was not soiled nor trampled upon as it would have been had it lain there long. Child, you place yourself under suspicion.”
“I see,” she said miserably.
“’Tis a cruel necessity of war to use spies,” he went on, “but all armies show them small mercy when they are caught. And it should be so. The man, woman, or girl even, acting as one does so at the risk of life.”
Peggy started. He had used almost the same words that John Drayton had used the day they had seen the swinging body of the spy. A shudder shook her. Again she saw the swaying form dangling from the tree. Small mercy was shown a spy. Could she condemn Harriet to such a fate? Beautiful Harriet with her wonderful eyes!
“Friend Washington,” she cried brokenly, “thee does not believe that I would injure thee, or my country, does thee?”
“What am I to think, Miss Peggy?” he asked, ignoring her outstretched hands.
“Give me a little time,” she cried. “Only a little time. Oh, I am sore beset. I know not what to do.”