Philip leaped from his horse, and, trusting to the animal's manifest habit of awaiting orders, stopped not to tie it, but plunged directly into the wood, drawing his sword as he went.
The sound of the man's flight had ceased, but Philip continued in the direction it had first taken. He was about to cross a row of low bushes, when he unexpectedly felt his ankle caught by a hand, and himself thrown forward on his face. The man had crouched amongst the bushes and tripped him up as he made to pass.
The next moment, the man was on Philip's back, fumbling to grasp his neck, and muttering:
"Tell me who you are, quick! Who are you from? You don't wear the dragoon cap, I see. Now speak the truth, or by God I'll shoot your head off!"
Philip knew, at the first word, the voice of Ned Faringfield. It took him not an instant to perceive who was a chief—if not the chief—traitor in the affair, or to solve what had long been to him also a problem, that of Ned's presence in the rebel army. The recognition of voice had evidently not been mutual; doubtless this was because Philip's few words had been spoken huskily. Retaining his hoarseness, and taking his cue from Ned's allusion to the dragoon cap, he replied:
"'Tis all right. You're our man, I see. Though I don't wear the dragoon cap, I come from New York about Captain Falconer's business."
"Then why the hell didn't you give the word?" said Ned, releasing his pressure upon Philip's body.
"You didn't ask for it. Get up—you're breaking my back."
Ned arose, relieving Philip of all weight, but stood over him with a pistol.
"Then give it now," Ned commanded.