As he spoke the prisoner turned, and I was at once struck by the extreme pallor of his face even as seen in the red light of the fire. His death-like whiteness at this time brought out the regular beauty of his features as his usual ruddiness of colour never did. I have since seen strong men near to certain death, but I recall no one who, with a serene and untroubled visage, was yet as white as was this gentleman.
The captain did not present me, and for a moment I stood with a kind of choking in the throat, which came, I suppose, of the great shock Andre’s appearance gave me. He was thus the first to speak;
“Pardon me,” he said, as he rose; “the name escaped me.”
“Mr. Hugh Wynne,” I said, getting myself pulled together—it was much needed.
“Oh, Wynne!” he cried quite joyously; “I did not know you. How delightful to see a friend; how good of you to come! Sit down. Our accommodations are slight. Thanks to his Excellency, here are Madeira and Hollands; may I offer you a glass?”
“No, no,” I said, as we took chairs by the fire, on which he cast a log, remarking how cold it was. Then he added:
“Well, Wynne, what can I do for you?” And then, smiling, “Pshaw! what a thing is habit! What can I do for you, or, indeed, my dear Wynne, for any one? But, Lord! I am as glad as a child.”
It was all so sweet and natural that I was again quite overcome. “My God!” I cried, “I am so sorry, Mr. Andre! I came down from King’s Ferry in haste when I heard of this, and have been three days getting leave to see you. I have never forgotten your great kindness at the Mischianza. If there be any service I can render you, I am come to offer it.”
He smiled and said: “How strange is fate, Mr. Wynne! Here am I in the same sad trap in which you might have been. I was thinking this very evening of your happier escape.” Then he went on to tell me that he had instantly recognised me at the ball, and also—what in my confusion at the time I did not hear—that Miss Peniston had cried out as she was about to faint, “No, no, Mr. Andre!” Afterward he had wondered at what seemed an appeal to him rather than to my cousin.
At last he said it would be a relief to him if he might speak to me out of ear-shot of the officers. I said as much to these gentlemen, and after a moment’s hesitation they retired outside of the still open doorway of the room, leaving us freer to say what we pleased. He was quiet and, as always, courteous to a fault; but I did not fail to observe that at times, as we talked and he spoke a word of his mother, his eyes filled with tears. In general he was far more composed than I.