“Tell—her—” the voice was but a whisper now, “that I did not find—Debby Mason, and if”—here the boy rallied and made a last effort, “if you ever go near Plymouth, find a girl named Deborah—Mason and say that—by going—or writing to my mother—all will—be forgiven. You hear me?” “Yes I hear.” The tears could no longer be shaken away. “Where are you?” the groping hands found and clung to Robert’s, and the boyish mouth smiled as sweetly as if the dearest face on earth were bending over him. “Good bye,” he whispered, “you won’t forget—anything? and I can trust you?” “You may indeed.” Shirtliffe bent and kissed the cold face as tenderly as a woman might have done. Reverently he clasped the slim hands over the still breast, and closed the lids upon the smiling eyes. In the future he was to tell a heart-broken mother in England of how her boy died, and he thanked God for that smile. Under the wintry sun Morley lay sleeping, and beside him sat Robert, lost in dazed thought. There were two messages now for Debby Mason, and there was a report to make to General Washington. He must be up and doing. But still he sat there with his eyes fastened on the young face smiling so placidly in its unbroken sleep. CHAPTER IX. THE LAST OF MOLLY. Long did Shirtliffe sit beside Morley, repeating the messages over and again. No fear of forgetting them, he could remember naught else. As the day wore on he began to realize his condition and he knew if he ever expected to reach Washington’s army, he must move on. In the distance he heard heavy firing and the sound guided him. He felt sure that the Americans had met the reinforcements coming from Princeton and that a battle was in progress. The thought stirred his blood, and he struggled to his feet, gave a last glance at Morley and went on mumbling to himself, “Tell Debby Mason!” Weaker and weaker he grew and as his mind cleared, a sense of his danger absorbed him. Was this death? This strange, unusual weakness? At any moment he might fall and be unable to rise. The firing was growing less, the battle perhaps was over, fleeing parties of either friend or foe might soon be passing. Never had life seemed so precious, as now when it was going so fast. Dimly he recalled how he had saved one bullet for this hour, should he use it now? Oh! no. “Help! help!” he sobbed, falling on his knees, “help! help!” He had walked further than he had realized, and the men who in the morning had left the deserted camp without him, later in the day missed him, and were even now searching the woods in hope of tracing him. They heard his weak cry from afar, and, guided by the second call, reached his side a moment after he had fallen. “It’s Molly!” said one of the two men who found him, “look at the blood!” cried the other, “the boy is terribly wounded.”