“It was God’s Providence, no less, in a thing we took for the greatest disaster that could befall,” said Beatrix gently, taking up the narrative where Jack broke off. “Major Simcoe returned with his troop, and the twenty men of the _Nancy Jane’s_ allotment were sent down to embark. Captain Sprigg claimed to have only the little boat, and he fetched the troopers aboard two or three at a time, and the sailors made prisoners of them, putting them in the hold as fast as they came over the side. All this took so much time that the captain was but just bringing us to the shore when Sergeant Champe came with your message.” “Lord, lord!” cried I, laughing weakly. “And you’ve got twenty men of the Queen’s Rangers in the hold?” “Twenty men _and_ the tobacco,” Jack boasted; adding: “and one other fine young fellow--an officer, who was so forward in his pursuit of you that he got tangled up in a hand-to-hand mellay with the long-boat’s crew and we brought him off with us. He says his name is Castner, and he was most anxious to inquire about you, when I told him you were winged.” Again I laughed, as I should have laughed with my last breath, I think. “Castner--_Castner_ a prisoner? Treat him well, I do beseech you,” I begged. “He is my friend and one of God’s own gentlemen. But you tell me nothing of Champe.” “Because there is nothing to tell,” said Pettus sorrowfully. “He went back to the fort to try to get word to you; to tell you that if you failed to dig out, we meant to fall upon your gallows guard for a rescue when they brought you out. They will hang poor Champe, I’m thinking.” “No,” said I, “they will not hang him. But he may wish they had before he ever hears the old troop call again, Jack,” and I was far indeed from knowing at the moment how true a prophecy I was making. At this Pettus stood up, and looking back over the schooner’s foaming wake told us how they were displaying signal lanterns on the battlements of Fort George, and how a Bengal light was burning on a ship near the shore to show the sailors heaving up the anchor and making ready to chase us. “But they’ll never catch us, dear heart!” said my loved one bravely, and again her arms went about my neck. And so they did not; though to tell of how we ran the gauntlet of the fleet in the lower bay, and of what befell us and our one-and-twenty British captives on a voyage that ended far enough from the Capes of Virginia, would take a livelier pen than mine. For this, as you will see, is but a tale of a few landward days, while that other is of storm and shipwreck, of perilous weeks and weary months, before we saw the tidewater homeland again.