“In the name of the United States of America I command you to yield as prisoner,” shouted a voice with a nasal twang. Morton bounded to his feet. In front of him, within four yards, stood the spy, holding a musket, with his finger on the trigger. “I mout hev shot ye dead a-laying there,” he said, “but I mean to take game like you alive. I can make more out o’ your skin when you can wag yer tongue. Yield peaceable, young man, and giv up yer arms.” “Yield! And to a spy! Never!” shouted Morton indignantly, and he sprang like a panther at his foe. Quick as was his movement, the American was not quite taken by surprise, for he fired, but the bullet missed. The next moment Morton was on him and they grappled. Both were strong men, but the American was older and had better staying power, and as they wrestled Morton felt he would be thrown, when he bethought him of a certain trip he had often used successfully in his school days. He made the feint, put out his foot, and the American fell with a crash, underneath him. “Villain,” he whispered hoarsely, “you twice escaped me, but will not again,” and he grasped his throat with one hand while he held his right arm with the other. “Quarter,” gasped the American, who was in danger of being choked, “I yield.” “Quarter to a spy!” exclaimed Morton. “I ain’t no spy. I’m Major Slocum, brevet-rank, of Ginral Hampton’s staff.” “Not a spy! You were to have been shot for one.” “I was on special service, when I was informed on by an ongrateful cuss. I’m an honorable officer and appeal to yer honor as a Britisher. Take my sword; I yield your prisoner.” “If I let you go; will you lead me in safety across your lines, and release my guide Hemlock, if he has been taken prisoner?” “Sartainly I will; Slocum’s word is as good as his bond. Take your hands off me and I will set you and your Injun to hum in an hour.”