But I did not know, could not know; and thus the irresolute “I dare not,” waited upon the “I would,” and I was alternately fever-hot with excitement and shivering in depression, the thing to be desired being so near and yet so inimitably far. It was some time after the incident of the gap-opening, and while we were passing a point midway between the house and the garden end, that Arnold stopped short in his questioning about the Portsmouth harbor to hold up a finger for silence. “What was that?” he asked, and I saw his other hand disappear into one of the pistol-hiding pockets. “I heard nothing,” I made answer, which was the truth. “It was a sneeze or a cough,” he commented; “I am certain of it.” The pause gave me time to look around more precisely than I had been able to while he was holding me in talk. The scrubby trees and evergreens might possibly have sheltered an eavesdropper, but not safely. Besides these there was nothing in the garden that would have concealed a cat. “It was the sentry in front of Sir Henry Clinton’s quarters,” I suggested. “No,” he objected; “it was nearer at hand. Make a circuit of that shrubbery, Captain Page, while I cover this side.” And I heard the click of a pistol-lock as he pulled the weapon from his pocket. I ran around the larger clump of evergreens, sword in hand, and found nothing--the more readily since I was not expecting to find anything. When I came up with him again, he appeared to be satisfied, and we went on walking and talking as before, though now I observed that he kept his right hand in the pocket of the greatcoat, and I could feel rather than see that his eyes were roving watchfully from side to side as we paced up and down. It must have been nearly midnight when the long forced march back and forth in the garden walk ended, and with its ending all hope of carrying off the traitor by main strength and awkwardness bade me farewell, for that night at least. I took it hard, not knowing if there would ever be another night more promising; and when Arnold had put me through the house and out at the front door, telling me to go to my inn quarters and to be prepared for an early reveille, I hung about in the street and made friends with the sentry at Sir Henry Clinton’s door as if I were still on duty, killing time for another full hour until I saw the lights go out in the traitor’s upper room; all this on the barest chance that he might come down again and so re-open the book of fate. When all was over I went to my tavern, railing at Sir Judas, at John Champe, and most of all at myself for the futile fizzling out of a thing that looked so simple on the face of it. Also, I had a hard word or two for Mr. Hamilton for waiting until the clock had fairly struck before he turned the failing failure over to me.