“I’m an American,” Robert’s voice sounded like an echo of the other’s, “and I’ve been looking for him”—pointing toward Mason. “I’m going to take him back to where he belongs. You’ve kept him drunk since you took him prisoner, and made him a traitor to his country, but I’m going to save him. Let us pass!” “Not so fast my gallant rebel,” laughed the young Britisher, “you American gentlemen are worth keeping; your information is valuable. The old patriot there, was willing to talk for whisky. Now what’s your price, you come fresh from headquarters?” he placed himself insolently in front of the pair and folded his arms. “Stand aside!” said Shirtliffe, in low tense tones, and, laying his hand on Mason’s arm he took a stride forward. “You might as well let us go, Captain Morley,” Mason’s puzzled face turned from one to the other, “I don’t—know—what’s come over me—I can’t think clear, but something tells me to go—with this—one,” he clung childishly to Robert’s hand. “And I say once again, stand aside,” Shirtliffe’s eyes were dangerous, “you Britishers have no price which will buy some of us. From this poor weak fellow you have succeeded in getting information, but it was a coward’s trick; he is loyal still at heart, and he goes back with me!” “You rascal!” a stinging blow in the face made Robert stagger, but only for a moment. The strength which had thriven upon neglect and Puritan rigor, blazed forth at the insult, and with unlooked-for power he flung himself upon Morley. Mason grew soberer as he stood looking at the struggle. So alike were the two that but for the difference in dress, one could hardly have been told from the other. Was it a dream? Old memories came flooding o’er the man’s weak brain, and his eyes cleared. “Stop!” he called in a voice shaken with agony. “My God! boys, stop until I can think!” But the two combatants paid no heed. Blows fell thick and fast, and the breath came hard. Morley’s trained muscles had all they could do to stand up against Robert’s blind fury. Then, too, Shirtliffe was slightly taller, and he used that advantage well. “Surrender!” hissed Morley through clinched teeth. “Never!” Robert’s voice quivered and broke into a sob. “Then by heaven, in the name of the King!” Morley sprang from his antagonist and drew out a pistol, “die like the traitor that you are!” [Illustration: _Molly._ “Stand aside! ... in low, tense tones.”] A sharp report rang out. A stinging pain in his left hand made Robert reel, but he forgot it when he saw Mason, who had run toward them in a last effort to separate them, sway and fall over. The ball which had gone through Shirtliffe’s hand had found a resting place in the old man’s breast. “Coward!” shrieked Robert, “I was unarmed;” then kneeling beside Mason he moaned, “he is dying! Leave us alone, he comes from my town, I have something to say to him.”