I slowly drew out the knotted twine string and held it up without speaking. He gazed at it indifferently, then looked at me inquiringly. My patience was sorely taxed. However, I kept my temper down, and said in my usual voice,— “Wicklow, do you see this?” “Yes, sir.” “What is it?” “It seems to be a piece of string.” “_Seems?_ It _is_ a piece of string. Do you recognize it?” “No, sir,” he replied, as calmly as the words could be uttered. His coolness was perfectly wonderful! I paused now for several seconds, in order that the silence might add impressiveness to what I was about to say; then I rose and laid my hand on his shoulder, and said gravely,— “It will do you no good, poor boy, none in the world. This sign to the ‘Master,’ this knotted string, found in one of the guns on the water-front—” “Found _in_ the gun! Oh, no, no, no! do not say _in_ the gun, but in a crack in the tompion!—it _must_ have been in the crack!” and down he went on his knees and clasped his hands and lifted up a face that was pitiful to see, so ashy it was, and wild with terror. “No, it was _in_ the gun.” “Oh, something has gone wrong! My God, I am lost!” and he sprang up and darted this way and that, dodging the hands that were put out to catch him, and doing his best to escape from the place. But of course escape was impossible. Then he flung himself on his knees again, crying with all his might, and clasped me around the legs; and so he clung to me and begged and pleaded, saying, “Oh, have pity on me! Oh, be merciful to me! Do not betray me; they would not spare my life a moment! Protect me, save me. I will confess everything!” It took us some time to quiet him down and modify his fright, and get him into something like a rational frame of mind. Then I began to question him, he answering humbly, with downcast eyes, and from time to time swabbing away his constantly flowing tears. “So you are at heart a rebel?” “Yes, sir.” “And a spy?” “Yes, sir.” “And have been acting under distinct orders from outside?” “Yes, sir.” “Willingly?” “Yes, sir.” “_Gladly_, perhaps?” “Yes, sir; it would do no good to deny it. The South is my country; my heart is Southern, and it is all in her cause.” “Then the tale you told me of your wrongs and the persecution of your family was made up for the occasion?” “They—they told me to say it, sir.” “And you would betray and destroy those who pitied and sheltered you. Do you comprehend how base you are, you poor misguided thing?” He replied with sobs only. “Well, let that pass. To business. Who is the ‘Colonel,’ and where is he?”