“Found in the gun! Oh, no, no, no! do not say in the gun, but in a crack in the tompion!—it must have been in the crack!” and down he went on his knees and clasped his hands and lifted up a face that was pitiful to see, so ashy it was, and wild with terror.
“No, it was in the gun.”
“Oh, something has gone wrong! My God, I am lost!” and he sprang up and darted this way and that, dodging the hands that were put out to catch him, and doing his best to escape from the place. But of course escape was impossible. Then he flung himself on his knees again, crying with all his might, and clasped me around the legs; and so he clung to me and begged and pleaded, saying, “Oh, have pity on me! Oh, be merciful to me! Do not betray me; they would not spare my life a moment! Protect me, save me. I will confess everything!”
It took us some time to quiet him down and modify his fright, and get him into something like a rational frame of mind. Then I began to question him, he answering humbly, with downcast eyes, and from time to time swabbing away his constantly flowing tears.
“So you are at heart a rebel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And a spy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have been acting under distinct orders from outside?”
“Yes, sir.”