“If you would,” he cried eagerly. And then after a moment—“Take off my boots.” The mountaineer complied with the request, and the dying patriot gave the papers which Hart took from them to Peggy. “Guard these with your life,” he continued. “And get to General Gates without delay. They have news of Arnold’s treason——” “Of what, did thee say?” cried Peggy. “Of the treason of Benedict Arnold,” he said feebly. “He is a traitor.” “Not General Arnold!” exclaimed Peggy in anguish. “Not the Arnold that was at Philadelphia! Oh, friend! thee can’t mean that Arnold?” “The very same,” he responded. “And further, he is seeking to induce the soldiers to desert their country’s colors.” “Merciful heavens! it can’t be true!” she cried. “Friend, friend, thee must be wandering. It couldn’t happen.” “But it hath,” he gasped. “They told me to make speed. I—I must go!” With a superhuman effort he struggled to his feet, stood for a brief second, and fell back—dead. CHAPTER XXXI—HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED AT CAMP “Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat— * * * * * Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod, One more devil’s-triumph and sorrow for angels, One more wrong to man, one more insult to God.” —“The Lost Leader,” Browning. White and shaken Peggy leaned weakly against a tree, and covered her face with her hands. “We must be getting on, miss,” spoke the mountaineer, after a few moments of silence. “And leave him like that?” cried the girl aghast. “There is naught else to be done,” he replied gravely. “We have nothing to bury him with.” “But ’tis wrong,” remonstrated she, kneeling beside the dead vidette, and touching his brow reverently. “He died for his country, friend.” “Tell them at the camp,” suggested he. “Mayhap they will send out and get him.” “Yes; that is what we must do,” she said. “I could not bear to think of him lying here without Christian burial.” “And what is it now, miss?” questioned Hart, as she still lingered. “Could we cut a lock from his hair, friend? For his wife! I know that mother and I would wish if father—if father——” Peggy faltered and choked. Silently Hart drew out his hunting-knife and severed a lock of hair from the vidette’s head, which the maiden placed with the despatches in the bosom of her gown. Then taking the kerchief from about her throat she spread it over his face, and followed the mountaineer back to the road. As they left the spot the horse resumed his former position, and a last glance from Peggy showed the faithful creature standing guard over the dead form of his master. “Whatever made you so long, Joe?” cried his wife petulantly. “The baby’s that fretful that I don’t know what to do with her. She’s jest wore out, and we must get where something can be done for her.”