“It is final. As sure as I love my wronged country and hate everything this Northern sun shines on, I will die before I will reveal those things.” I triced him up by the thumbs again. When the agony was full upon him, it was heart-breaking to hear the poor thing’s shrieks, but we got nothing else out of him. To every question he screamed the same reply: “I can die, and I _will_ die; but I will never tell.” Well, we had to give it up. We were convinced that he certainly would die rather than confess. So we took him down and imprisoned him, under strict guard. Then for some hours we busied ourselves with sending telegrams to the War Department, and with making preparations for a descent upon No. 166. It was stirring times, that black and bitter night. Things had leaked out, and the whole garrison was on the alert. The sentinels were trebled, and nobody could move, outside or in, without being brought to a stand with a musket levelled at his head. However, Webb and I were less concerned now than we had previously been, because of the fact that the conspiracy must necessarily be in a pretty crippled condition, since so many of its principals were in our clutches. I determined to be at No. 166 in good season, capture and gag B. B., and be on hand for the rest when they arrived. At about a quarter past one in the morning I crept out of the fortress with half a dozen stalwart and gamy U.S. regulars at my heels—and the boy Wicklow, with his hands tied behind him. I told him we were going to No. 166, and that if I found he had lied again and was misleading us, he would have to show us the right place or suffer the consequences.