“Promise me,” he insisted. “You look true. Promise that you yourself will take them to him.”
“I promise,” she said solemnly. “And now, friend, thyself. Hast thou no messages for thy dear ones?”
“Mary,” he whispered a spasm of pain contracting his face. “My wife! Tell her that I died doing my duty. She must not grieve. ’Tis for the country. Water!” he gasped.
But Joe Hart, foreseeing the need for this, had already gone in search of it, and opportunely returned at this moment with his drinking-horn full. The vidette drank eagerly, and revived a little.
“Thy name?” asked Peggy softly, for she saw that his time was short.
“William Trumbull, of Fairfield, Connecticut,” he responded. The words came slowly with great effort. “’Twas Tories,” he said, “that shot me, but Duke outran them. Then I fell and crawled in here. My horse——” A smile of pride and affection lighted up his face as he turned toward the animal. “We’ve taken our last ride, old fellow!”
“Would thee like for me to speak to the general about thy horse?” asked Peggy.
“If you would,” he cried eagerly. And then after a moment—“Take off my boots.”
The mountaineer complied with the request, and the dying patriot gave the papers which Hart took from them to Peggy.
“Guard these with your life,” he continued. “And get to General Gates without delay. They have news of Arnold’s treason——”