“Yes, Peggy. And further, my cousin, if you will but help me to get to New York I will never act the spy again. I promise you that of my own accord. ’Tis too much risk for a girl, and I have had my lesson.”
“Oh, Harriet,” cried Peggy. “If thee will only do that then I can tell General Washington all the matter with light heart. I like not to think of thee as a spy.”
The tattoo had long since sounded. The house was still. The girls dressed themselves warmly, and stole silently out of the dwelling down to the stables where their horses were kept. Deftly they bridled and saddled the animals, and then led them quietly to the lane which would take them to the road.
In the distance the flames of the dying camp-fires flickered palely, illumining the shadowy forms of the few soldiers grouped about them, and accentuating the gloom of the encircling wood. A brooding stillness hung over the encampment, broken only by the sough of the wind as it wandered about the huts, or stirred the branches of the pines on the hills. The army slept. Slept as only those sleep who have earned repose. They were soldiers whose hardships and sufferings have scarcely a parallel in the annals of history, yet they could sleep even though they had but hard boards for a couch, and but a blanket or a little straw for covering.
Peggy started suddenly as the deep bay of a hound came to them from the village of Bound Brook.
“Harriet,” she whispered, “I am afraid. Let us wait until to-morrow.”
“To-morrow will be too late,” answered Harriet, and Peggy wondered to hear how hard her voice sounded. “Do you want me hung, Peggy? Beside, you promised that you would come. ’Tis the last time that I’ll ever ask favor of you.”
“Yes, I know,” answered Peggy, in a low tone. “I will go, Harriet; but I wish now that I had not said that I would.”
“Come,” was Harriet’s brief answer. And Peggy followed her into the darkness.