“What—you—doing, hic—give the countersign—hic—or I’ll shoot!” Robert’s heart stood still. A little beyond, by the roadside, leaning heavily against a tree for support, stood Mason, the hero patriot, the long lost man whom even General Lee wished to honor! But a sad spectacle he was now. Half drunk, his old Continental uniform in rags under a long English great coat, and a British officer’s cap set sidewise on his matted hair. Seeing Robert pause and gaze, the sentry by the tree gained dignity and staggered toward him, then he laughed: “You were long enough in coming, lad,” he said, “I’m nearly frozen. What you doing in those togs?” he questioned, looking sharply, “changed your ideas with your clothes and want me to follow? Lead on, I’ll be glad enough to get back to American quarters. Got some whisky?” He came quite close to Robert now, and a queer light grew in his dull eyes. “Wha—at’s the matter—hic, going to turn your back on me, after what I’ve told you? You look more than ever—hic—like my girl. Come give us a drink!” Shirtliffe saw that Mason mistook him for some one he knew, and was puzzled. “Don’t you—don’t you know me?” the boy asked in a broken voice. “Of course I know you Captain Morley, even in those clothes, come boy, pass out your flask.” “Come with me,” groaned Robert, “how did you get among the British after your splendid deed?” A blur passed over Mason’s eyes. His senses became more muddled. “Get here? You ought to know better than I, captain, hic—but I’m not going to tell you anything more, hic—until I get whisky. Good whisky you’ve got and plenty of it. I’d sell my soul for a drink.” A half sob choked the words, and Mason’s hands stretched out in piteous pleading. Robert turned his head away, bewilderment and horror keeping him silent. “Some day, lad,” Mason was crying openly now, “I want you to go to Plymouth—and—find—Debby—pretty—Debby Mason. ’Pon my soul she’s enough like you to be your sister,—hic—I wonder if it—could—be—possible—but no, it could not be. Here—give me a drink, I’m choking—what—what was your mother’s name lad? I’ve been trying to ask you that ever since I first saw you. Whisky! whisky! quick!” “Sentry, who goes there?” A clear young voice startled the shivering drunkard and Robert alike. “I told you not to drink until I got back, I trusted you. What have you got, a prisoner?” Down an embankment by the roadside a young man came half running, half sliding. As he drew near, the two in the road gazing upon him in speechless surprise. “God help me!” groaned Mason, “there are two of them!” And Robert saw before him in British uniform, one so like himself that the resemblance made his brain reel. “What ails you both?” the new comer asked, “staring like a pair of idiots at me as if—” his eyes rested on Shirtliffe and he staggered back. “Who are you?” he questioned, “and what in heaven’s name do you want?”