But now he was shaking his head dubiously. “We shall never do it,” he objected; “never, in this world, Captain Dick. I saw that written out on the walls of his room last night. Something will stop us; I feel it in my bones.” “But you won’t leave the plow in the furrow?” I protested. “We are equals in this, Champe: I can not command you against your convictions, or even against your wish.” “You can command me, and you shall,” he rejoined. “You will tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. But we shall fail.” That set me to thinking how far I was justified in involving another man in a desperate affair for which he had apparently lost his stomach; an affair in which my responsibility as his superior officer would be doubled. I did not wish to shirk, God knows, or even to divide the responsibility with my companion. But his new attitude of dejection made me tenderer of his safety than I had been before. In the last resort, I thought it might be possible to let one bankrupt pay the total cost of failure. “I’ll take you up on that, Sergeant Champe,” I said calmly. “From this time forth you will consider yourself a mere machine. Will you obey me to the letter?” “As I would Light Horse Harry Lee, himself, Captain Dick,” was his answer. “Then listen: we will discuss ways and means, and work together, as heretofore, straight through to our end. But if anything happens--if, say, we should be taken in the act--you must not scruple to turn against me; to save yourself if you have to catch and hold me while they tie my hands. Will you promise to do this?” “No,” he said bluntly. “I could never do that, Captain Dick. There is only one thing that would ever make me an enemy of yours--and then there would be no feigning about it: if you should turn softhearted of a sudden, and spare Sir Judas--” “Why do you say that?” I demanded. “Have I shown a soft heart, thus far?” “No; but--but--your pardon, Captain Dick, but there is a woman in this tangle of ours; two of them; and one of them would willingly die in this man’s place, and the other--” “Never say it, John Champe!” I interposed. “When it comes to that, I shall want you for my enemy; and you must not spare me the shrewdest blow you can strike. But in the other event, you must save yourself if you can, remembering this one thing--that I shall hang a great deal the easier and more comfortably if I hang alone.” “I’m too sleepy still to argue that point out with you,” he protested; and I think he was nodding again, to make up the arrears of the night, before I had ascended the stair to take my place at Arnold’s door.