“I have already told you,” he said, “that to shield deserters is an offense hardly less treasonable than desertion itself. I don’t intend to be balked in this thing. Your father is somewhere about these premises. I know, for I have had the house watched. He could not have escaped. You can point out his hiding-place to me, or I will put you under arrest and take you before the provost-marshal.” The boy’s face paled and his lip quivered, but he was still resolute. “I’ll go,” he said, “but I’ll not tell.” “Very well, come on!” The sergeant spoke gruffly, and laid a rough hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Let me go first and tell my mother.” “No. It’s your choice to go--go now. March!” Then a better thought came into the sergeant’s mind. Down on the Delaware a good and anxious mother was fearing and praying for him. The thought of her softened his anger. “Well,” he said, “go and tell her. Tell her anything you like. But sooner or later you will tell us what we want to know.” Bob hurried upstairs to his mother’s room. “Mother,” he said, “I’ve discovered a way to get rid of these men. I’ve offered to go up to Mount Hermon with them. When we are gone you can let father know.” [Illustration: “I’VE DISCOVERED A WAY TO GET RID OF THESE MEN.”] “Oh, Robbie! they don’t mean any harm to you?” “None at all, mother. But tell father--tell father not to go into the windmill tower again. They might find out--somehow--that that’s his hiding-place, and come back here before I do, to get him. Tell him not to go into the tower again, _not for anything_.” He kissed his mother good-by and hurried out into the hall. His little sister stood there, clad in her nightdress, with flushed cheeks and rumpled hair and wondering eyes. “Good-by, Dotty!” he called back to her as he hurried down the stairs. “I’ve got to go up to town early this morning. I’m off now. You jump back into bed and get your beauty sleep.” In another minute he was out in the road with the sergeant and his three men, and they went marching away toward Mount Hermon. The young officer was inclined to be silent and severe at first, but he soon thawed out, and then Bob found his conversation to be most interesting. He said, in answer to the boy’s inquiry, that he had been in the service since almost the beginning of the war. He had been with McClellan all through the Peninsular Campaign. He had fought at Antietam and at Fredericksburg and Gettysburg. In that last great battle a bullet had pierced his thigh, severing a small artery, and he had nearly bled to death before receiving surgical attention. But he was almost well now, and ready again for active service.