“And for that reason he shall not be tempted,” cried Harriet. “No, Peggy; there is no help. I must pay the penalty. I knew the risk.” She buried her face in the pillow, and, despite her brave words, sobs shook her form. “Is there no way? No way?” cried Peggy frantically. “I cannot bear to think of thee being hang——” She paused, unable to finish the dreadful word. “There is one way,” said Harriet suddenly sitting up. “If you would help me, Peggy, to get to Amboy I could get to New York from there.” “Could thee, Harriet? How?” “There are always sloops that ply betwixt the two places,” said Harriet. “If I could but reach there I know that I could get one of them to take me to the city.” “But how could thee reach Amboy?” asked Peggy. “Peggy, go with me now,” pleaded Harriet, clasping her arms about her cousin. “Let us slip down, and get our horses. Then we can get to Amboy, and you could be back to-morrow morning. Your father, ay! and your mother, too, would be glad to know that I had got away before they came to arrest me.” “But why should I go?” inquired Peggy. “Can thee not go alone? Thee knows the way.” “They would not let me pass the lines,” said Harriet. “They would know by my voice that I was English, and would detain me. Whatever we try to do in the matter must be done to-night, because to-morrow will be too late. Will you come with me, Peggy? I shall never ask aught else of you.” “I will come,” said Peggy, after a moment’s thought. “I do believe that father and mother will approve. And, Harriet, will thee give me back my promise, if I do come?” “Yes, Peggy. And further, my cousin, if you will but help me to get to New York I will never act the spy again. I promise you that of my own accord. ’Tis too much risk for a girl, and I have had my lesson.” “Oh, Harriet,” cried Peggy. “If thee will only do that then I can tell General Washington all the matter with light heart. I like not to think of thee as a spy.” The tattoo had long since sounded. The house was still. The girls dressed themselves warmly, and stole silently out of the dwelling down to the stables where their horses were kept. Deftly they bridled and saddled the animals, and then led them quietly to the lane which would take them to the road. In the distance the flames of the dying camp-fires flickered palely, illumining the shadowy forms of the few soldiers grouped about them, and accentuating the gloom of the encircling wood. A brooding stillness hung over the encampment, broken only by the sough of the wind as it wandered about the huts, or stirred the branches of the pines on the hills. The army slept. Slept as only those sleep who have earned repose. They were soldiers whose hardships and sufferings have scarcely a parallel in the annals of history, yet they could sleep even though they had but hard boards for a couch, and but a blanket or a little straw for covering.