“It does not matter,” replied the General. “His name is Beall. I shall have him arrested in an hour or so. He is an important character, it seems. Do you not know, lady, that you are acting the spy?”
“No, sir. I deny being a spy.”
“I pity your ignorance,” replied the officer. “You are exactly in the attitude of a spy. The penalty—do you know what it is?”
“Death, is it not?” replied Mildred calmly.
“Death, and death by hanging.”
“O, General!” exclaimed Mildred, whose feelings were alternating between trepidation and tranquility. “Can you not pardon me when I was ignorant that I was acting in such a capacity?”
“I never knew a spy to be pardoned,” said the General thoughtfully. “There was universal sympathy for the unfortunate Major Andre, and Washington would have saved him, if possible. But the law is inexorable. I have no power to do anything. You will have to be tried by a military court, and you can easily imagine what will be the result. A spy always takes his life in his hands, well knowing the consequences of detection. If you are ignorant of these consequences, I am truly sorry for you. You will,” he continued, turning to the clerk, “give the lady a room in your hotel, and I will send a guard to stand at the door to prevent escape. I do not care to send so elegant a lady to a common prison. Give her a room from which there is no practicable egress except through the door.”
“I understand, General,” replied the clerk. “The corner room of the fourth story is perfectly safe.”
“General,” said Mildred who had been trying to be brave, “may I write to my parents?”
If the officer had spoken harshly, she could have borne her misfortune more courageously, but he spoke kindly, and the womanish heart would betray itself. Under such circumstances, without tears, she would have been untrue to her sex. The General was touched, as nearly all men are, by the sight of a beautiful woman down whose cheeks are flowing the evidences of her distress. When the grim old General looked at the innocent truth-telling face of this magnanimous girl, upon whose features God had stamped the seal of honesty, and especially when she broke down at the thought of the distress of her parents, and Ernest, all the better feelings of his heart were touched. His chivalry prompted him to release her, but the claims of duty were paramount. He, at the time, thought that surely no court-martial would deal with her as with one of the “rougher sex.” Her innocence, beauty, and intelligence would be her defense, and, under all circumstances, would be a greater protection than a Roman shield. He, therefore, replied: