For a moment they looked at each other with startled faces, and then the mountaineer made a motion to swing himself from his horse. “Joe,” cried his wife, “what air you going to do? Don’t go! How’d you know but what it’s an ambush?” “Nay; some one is hurt,” protested Peggy. While Hart still hesitated, Peggy dismounted, and leading Star by the bridle walked in the direction from which the cry came. “Where is thee, friend?” she called, her voice sounding clearly through the stillness of the forest. “Here! Here!” came the feeble reply. Dropping the pony’s bridle Peggy pushed aside the undergrowth, and advanced fearlessly, pausing ever and anon to call for guidance. Shamed by this display of courage Joe Hart followed her, despite the protests of his wife. Presently just ahead of them appeared a man’s form lying outstretched under a clump of bushes, and wearing the uniform of the Continentals. One arm, the right one, was broken, and lay disabled upon the grass, while the hand of the other lifted itself occasionally to stroke the legs of a powerful horse which stood guard over the prostrate form of his master. The animal snapped at them viciously as they approached, but the soldier spoke to him sharply, so that they could draw near in safety. The girl bent over the wounded man pityingly, for a gaping hole in his side through which the blood was flowing told that he had not long to live. “What can I do for thee, friend?” she asked gently, sinking down beside him and raising his head to her lap. “Are you Whig or Tory?” he gasped, gazing up at her eagerly. “A patriot, friend,” she answered wiping the moisture from his brow with tender hands. “Thank God,” he cried making a great effort to talk for the end was fast approaching. “I bear letters to General Gates from the Congress. In my shoe; will you see that they are taken to him?” “Yes,” she replied. “Promise me,” he insisted. “You look true. Promise that you yourself will take them to him.” “I promise,” she said solemnly. “And now, friend, thyself. Hast thou no messages for thy dear ones?” “Mary,” he whispered a spasm of pain contracting his face. “My wife! Tell her that I died doing my duty. She must not grieve. ’Tis for the country. Water!” he gasped. But Joe Hart, foreseeing the need for this, had already gone in search of it, and opportunely returned at this moment with his drinking-horn full. The vidette drank eagerly, and revived a little. “Thy name?” asked Peggy softly, for she saw that his time was short. “William Trumbull, of Fairfield, Connecticut,” he responded. The words came slowly with great effort. “’Twas Tories,” he said, “that shot me, but Duke outran them. Then I fell and crawled in here. My horse——” A smile of pride and affection lighted up his face as he turned toward the animal. “We’ve taken our last ride, old fellow!” “Would thee like for me to speak to the general about thy horse?” asked Peggy.