"Take them to the guard-house, Mordaunt," said the commander-in-chief to the aide, "and we will have them disposed of to-morrow. See that they have no chance to escape. Nor shall they be permitted to send messages to any one." Then he turned his cold face away, and began to write again. I think that the shock of this sudden and terrible sentence was taken from me by the flame of indignation that leaped up in my heart. We were no deserters, however foolish we had been, and however great the liberty we had taken! I felt that we did not deserve such a punishment. Both Marcel and I had served our country well, and to put us to death for this adventure, although it might come within the military law, was harsh, beyond all measure. I considered ourselves martyrs. "Do not be afraid that we will try to escape," I burst out, "and if this is to be the reward of men who serve their country, no wonder that our cause is in such straits!" He did not appear to notice us, but wrote calmly on, and the deadly scratching of the goose quill was unbroken. The aide beckoned to us, and we followed him from the room. "I am sorry, very sorry," said Mordaunt, when we were outside, "and, in truth, I think that your sentence is far too severe." His face showed deep concern. "Don't be afraid that we will repeat your opinion to your hurt in the general's good graces," said Marcel, with a laugh that was pathetic. "We won't have many opportunities in the next twenty-four hours, and after that--well, the best story in the world will not interest us." We were put in a one-room house of logs, and we sat there in silence for many hours watching the day fade. I was still hot with indignation. We deserved punishment, it was true, I repeated, but not death, an ignominious death such as that decreed for us. What good end could be served by such a deed? But with the fading of the day my anger faded also. Then I thought of Mary Desmond, the curve of her check, the blue of her eye, and the sunshine in her hair. She did not hate me I knew. "O Mary," I said under my breath, "I shall never see you again!" and I covered my face with my hands. "Bob," said Marcel, presently, holding out his hand, "forgive me." "Forgive you, for what?" "For leading you into that wild adventure. It was I who dared you to do it, who provoked you into joining me." I could not accept any such assertion, and I told him so, adding that I did not wholly regret our excursion into Philadelphia. "Miss Desmond!" said Marcel, understandingly, "she is worth any man's winning, and you might have won her if--if--" Then he stopped abruptly and stared blankly at me, unwilling to finish the sentence. The night came presently, and they brought us food, which we scarcely touched. There was no light in our prison, but through the single iron window we could see flickering camp-fires outside. The low murmur of the army came to us.