"The wound I received at Monmouth was more painful than dangerous, and when I came to my senses I was a prisoner with the enemy's rear-guard of Hessians. After carrying me some miles on the retreat they brutally assaulted me with bayonets and clubbed muskets, and left me for dead along the road. This kind-hearted farmer found me and brought me here, and to him and his faithful wife I owe my recovery." "I was sure you were alive," said Nathan. "I never quite lost hope, father, and now you will want to hear my story--" "Yes, if you can make it brief. There are reasons, my boy. I heard of your perilous journey through Jonas Welfare, and when news of the Wyoming massacre reached me I feared greatly for your safety. God has been very good to us both." "I will tell you all about the journey," said Nathan, "but there is something to come first." In a few words he related Noah Waxpenny's visit to the Indian Queen tavern, and mentioned the name of the legal firm that he represented. "The man was trying to find you, father," he added, "and also Major Langdon, of the British army." Captain Stanbury's face turned even whiter, and there was a strange look in his eyes. "Sharswood & Feeman, Lincoln's Inn!" he muttered, half to himself. "It has come at last, after all these years! And at a time when I despise and spurn it for myself! But for the sake of my son--" He paused abruptly. "You should have told me this before, my boy," he added. "I had so little chance," Nathan replied, "and most of the time I forgot it." "And have you seen this man since?" "That is part of my story, father. I am coming to it--" "Go on quickly, lad. I am listening." Accordingly, as briefly and clearly as he could, Nathan described his adventurous travels, telling how desperately Simon Glass tried to get the papers for Major Langdon, and how Godfrey saved the lives of the prisoners. He told all the leading incidents of the cruise down the river, and concluded with the escape of Noah Waxpenny from Fort Hunter and the sad death of Barnabas. Captain Stanbury listened with a countenance as rigid as marble, and when the story was done he rose to his feet and feebly paced the floor half a dozen times. On his agitated features were depicted grief, passion, and unutterable horror. Finally he paused in front of the lads, and took Godfrey's hand in his own cold and trembling grasp. "My brave boy, I want to thank you," he said hoarsely. "Your conduct has been indeed noble. I could not feel more gratitude and respect for you were you a patriot at heart, instead of one who has clung to the cause of oppression. But party feeling shall make no breach between us. Sir, you are a hero."