“For what, Mr. Turner, are we indebted to your presence at this rather unseasonable hour?” queried Sir Henry in a tone which implied severity of feeling.
“Why, to come to the point without waste of words, a young man by the name of Vale, a deep-dyed rebel, has been apprehended within the limits of the city, dressed in disguise, and there being some difficulty to decide what should be done with him, I made bold to come to you to state the case, and ask your commands with regard to him.”
A smile of satisfaction played upon the captain’s face as he heard this. The sister he had in his hands, the brother was as good as dead, and all that was requisite now was to prosecute vigorously the attack; the fortune which seemed to have oozed from his fingers would again soon be within his grasp!
General Clinton’s countenance, on the contrary, betrayed an emotion of pain. But he continued his interrogatories: “Are you certain that he is a rebel?”
“No doubt concerning that. He drew a brace of pistols and dangerously wounded two men before we could manage to effect his capture. He is safe enough now, but had he held a sword in his hand, I believe he would have defeated our whole party.”
“Well, I will send an officer to attend to the matter, and meanwhile receive the thanks of the king for having so assiduously aided his cause.”
To stay longer would have been useless; so Turner departed, revolving the pleasing thought in his mind that the harvest of revenge was about to be reaped, and the family of the rebel made to feel the enmity which he had so long cherished against them.
After Turner, at intervals, followed two others. The first Preston, who turned his footsteps toward his lodgings, seeking quiet that he might think over the various events which had occurred that day. The second, Sampson, the patriotic servant of the commander, who played the spy at the risk of his life. His footsteps were turned toward the dwelling of Simon Hunt, and his mission to inform that honest-hearted man of the danger to which John Vale was exposed. Through the darkness of the night, through dark and unfrequented streets, he glided as silently as a shadow, until, at length, he reached the house of the blacksmith.
Although Simon was buried in sleep, the signal of Sampson awakened him, and without hesitation the negro was admitted. When he heard of the capture of the young man who but a few hours before had stood under that very roof, he did not seem surprised, but replied: “A great pity. I was afraid it would turn out so, though he was so well disguised. According to his request I will have to send word some way or other to Nat Ernshaw.”
“Dey keep him berry tight, an’ I ’fraid Masser Vale be done gone dis time,” said Sampson.