Turning, I gave a few moments of thought to my plans. Suddenly the music ceased, and, with laughter and pretty cries of expectation, gay gown and fan and hoop and the many-coloured uniforms trooped out from the doors, as I learned later, to see the fireworks, over which were to be set off for final flattery in fiery letters, “_Tes Lauriers Sont Immortels_.” I hope he liked them, those unfading laurels! The shrubbery was at once alive with joyous women and laughing men. I had not counted on this, and despite my disguise I felt that any moment might put me in deadly peril. The speedy fate of a spy I knew too well. They were all around me in a minute, moving to and fro, merry and chatting. I heard Andre say to Darthea, “It must please the general; a great success. I shall write it all to London. Ah, Miss Peniston! how to describe the ladies!” “And their gowns!” cried Darthea, “their gowns!” “I am reduced to desperation,” said Andre. “I must ask the women to describe one another; hey, Wynne?” They were now standing apart from the rest, and I, hid by the bushes, was not five feet away. “A dangerous resource,” returned Wynne. “The list of wounded vanities would be large. How like a brown fairy is Miss Pranks! Who shall describe her? No woman will dare.” “You might ask Mr. Oliver de Laneey,” said Miss Darthea. “She would be secure of a pretty picture.” “And you,” said Wynne--“who is to be your painter?” “I shall beg for the place,” cried Andre. “I think I shall take some rebel officer,” said Darthea, saucily. “Think how fresh we should look to those love-starved gentlemen whom Sir William has brought to such abject submission.” Andre laughed, but not very heartily. As to Wynne, he was silent. The captain went on to say how sad it was that just as the general was ready to sweep those colonials out of existence-- “Why not say rebels, Andre?” Wynne broke in. “Better not! better not! I never do. It only makes more bitter what is bad enough. But where are the fireworks?” Meanwhile I was in dire perplexity, afraid to stir, hoping that they would move away. “There is a seat hereabouts,” said my cousin. “You must be tired, Miss Peniston.” “A little.” “I will look,” said Wynne. “This way.” As I was in possession of the seat, I got down at once, but in two steps Arthur was beside me, and for an instant the full blaze from the window caught me square in the face. He was nearest, but Darthea was just behind him, and none other but Andre close at hand. “By heavens!” I heard, and my cousin had me by the collar. “Here, Andre! A spy! a spy! Quick!” I heard a cry from Darthea, and saw her reel against my cousin’s shoulder. “Help! help! I am--ill.”