"Yes,--I did get to hear it when General Washington asked him; for, to say truth, I was listenin' outside the door. He answered up fair enough, an' spoke it like there was naught to be ashamed of in the matter, neither. 'T was Captain Southorn." She heard a half-choked gasp from Dorothy's lips, and saw the look that came to Mary's face as her eyes turned like a flash toward the younger girl. "Is it possible he can be known to ye?" she asked quickly. "Yes,--I think we met him once," Mary answered falteringly. "That is, we met a young man of the same name. But he was not a captain--only a cornet of dragoons." "Still, it is like to be the same man," the landlady said rather insistingly, as though hoping that such was the fact. "Cornets grow quick to be captains in these woful days, if they be but brave, which surely this young man is, unless his looks belie him." Neither of the girls had paid any attention to her, but sat motionless, each with her eyes riveted upon the other's face, as if seeking to read her thoughts. But now they both looked at Mistress Trask, whose voice had lost its speculative tone, and was filled with intense earnestness. "Oh, mistress," she was saying, still addressing Mary, "mayhap he be the same man ye've known. An' if this be so, I do beg ye to try what prayin' the favor of his pardon from Washington will do. 'T is a foul death--to be hanged; an' such as he ought surely to die in their beds, unless they come to die in battle. The General be still here, 'though Colonel Glover an' many o' the other officers left early this mornin'. If they should take the young man out an' hang him, I'd never 'bide here another day. Will ye not go, mistress, an' try to save his life?" Before Mary could reply, Dorothy spoke up. "I will go," she said quietly, taking her elbows from the table, and with an expression in her eyes such as Mary never saw there before. "Oh, do, mistress!" the landlady exclaimed eagerly, looking at the girl with admiration. "Pray do, an' God will bless ye for it." But Mary protested, although weakly, and feeling that she had but little hope of success. "No, Dot,--no," she said. "You must not,--it would never do. And then it might not be the same one, after all." But her own belief contradicted her words, and sounded in her voice even as she uttered them. She was certain it was he who had appeared to be watching them when they came from Aunt Penine; and he had doubtless followed them to the tavern. Dorothy made no reply until she drained a glass of milk the landlady filled for her; then she arose from the table. "I am going," she said, as calmly as before. "Please," seeing that Mary was about to renew her objections, "say no more about it. I am going--and I prefer to go alone." But Mary could not restrain herself. "Oh Dot," she asked tremulously, "do you dare do such a thing?" "Yes, I dare do it, because I must,--because there is nothing else for me to do."