“Again I ask you. Will you fight?” Shirtliffe straightened himself. Time was passing. He would have given anything in his power to have solved the mystery of the identity of the boy before him. But what had he to give? His life. There was no time to ask or answer questions now. It was his life or the young Englishman’s. He must protect himself and report to Washington if it were possible. He was young, and with all the misery life was sweet. “Fight with you?” again the maddening laugh, “fight a traitor? Surrender, or I promise you my aim will be truer this time.” Morley raised his gun, but Robert was as quick, and the two weapons pointed at the same instant. A flash! a sharp report—and then, silence! When Shirtliffe came to himself he was lying on his side across a fallen log. A dull pain throbbed in his left shoulder. He put up his right hand and felt that his coat was soaked with blood. The dampness and the pain made him faint, and again he lost consciousness. After a moment, though, the chill air revived him and he sat up. He would not touch the damp coat or think any more than was possible, of the wound, and perhaps he might get on to Washington. That was his first connected thought. Then he remembered Morley. Where was he? Gone perhaps, thinking he had at last killed his enemy. Well, the enemy was not dead. There might be time for another meeting, and an explanation. In the meantime he, the boy Washington had trusted, must try to gain the American ranks and claim his reward! He arose, swayed, but gradually grew less giddy. He was young, and hope was stronger than his wound. Another effort; and this time he stood upright. How lonely it was! The bleak wind swept among the gaunt trees making them moan and creak. If he should die there, who would ever bear the word to General Washington that he had faithfully performed his duty? No! he must live, and get away from that fearsome place, the stillness was driving him mad! “Help! for God’s sake help!” It was not the wind moaning. Shirtliffe started. Again came the cry, “Help! help!” Some one needed aid, he must find him and do what he could. Stumbling forward he reached a clump of leafless bushes, and there, lying at full length where he had crawled after he was wounded, lay Morley! Forgetting all, but his pity for the dying boy, Robert knelt beside his late foe. He knew death when he saw it now, and in gentle patience he smoothed the curly hair from the clammy brow and waited for the last words. There was always something to be said. “I thought you were dead that time!” Morley gasped the words, then gave a groan. “Can I trust you with a message?” “Yes.” “Well, since there is no one else I must, for I’m—done,—for!” Robert shuddered. “Write to Mrs. Deborah—Morley—Fountain Terrace—London—can you remember?” “Yes; yes.” “My mother! Tell—her—I—died—like—a—soldier,—like father!” Shirtliffe shook his head to free his eyes of the blinding tears.