“Of what, did thee say?” cried Peggy.
“Of the treason of Benedict Arnold,” he said feebly. “He is a traitor.”
“Not General Arnold!” exclaimed Peggy in anguish. “Not the Arnold that was at Philadelphia! Oh, friend! thee can’t mean that Arnold?”
“The very same,” he responded. “And further, he is seeking to induce the soldiers to desert their country’s colors.”
“Merciful heavens! it can’t be true!” she cried. “Friend, friend, thee must be wandering. It couldn’t happen.”
“But it hath,” he gasped. “They told me to make speed. I—I must go!”
With a superhuman effort he struggled to his feet, stood for a brief second, and fell back—dead.
CHAPTER XXXI—HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED AT CAMP
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“Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat— * * * * * Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod, One more devil’s-triumph and sorrow for angels, One more wrong to man, one more insult to God.” —“The Lost Leader,” Browning. |
White and shaken Peggy leaned weakly against a tree, and covered her face with her hands.