"Wait here," answered the other, and, taking the note, he returned within the light of the waning fire and read it. "Dear heart," wrote Grace. "Yesterday through a villager I had a line from John Lee. He is near us, and I fear that he has heard of evil. He sends but two lines: 'Meet me after noon to-morrow at Leaman Cloberry's cot, where I shall lie hid till you come. I must see you. Danger. John Lee.' I am going. It is his writing, therefore I fear nothing. When are you coming to me? The time of waiting is endless to your Grace." Stark reflected rapidly. That Lee should not approach him was easily understood; yet that some new danger threatened and John had wind of it, filled him with alarm. He returned to Putt, but made no mention of the letter, for Thomas was in ignorance of all matters between Grace and the prisoner. He glorified in his secret duties as messenger, and in the substantial payment they received; but of John Lee he knew nothing, and Stark, guessing at Lee's personal dangers, did not increase them by whispering of his presence, even to his most faithful friend. He wrote a few words on a leaf from his pocket-book. "My life, trust him, of course; and write to me to-morrow what he tells you. Within a week, if all be well, I may reach Fox Tor Farm; but, if necessary, I can be there to-morrow. C." "I be going to take supper with the soldiers an' my uncle," said Mr. Putt; "but I'll see Miss Grace gets this first thing in the morning. Mrs. Beer will hand it to her at daylight." The fire was nearly out now, and the great courts deserted. Soon lights streamed from the windows of the prison; then they too disappeared. Silence fell at last. Under night, in their long rows of hammocks, men slept, or tossed and swore; while beneath the stars, the sentries stood like ghosts upon the walls, or tramped backwards and forwards within them. CHAPTER VII DEATH AT THE GATE Fate, ordering that the War Prison should be for ever remembered in the annals of Prince Town, now crowned all horrors of the past with a supreme catastrophe before those gloomy haunts of sorrow were deserted and echo reigned alone in their courts and corridors. An accident fostered the turbulent spirit that still animated these great companies, and daily infected the minds of new subjects, even as smallpox gained power over their bodies. Mr. Blazey thought it best to take no notice of the insult to which he had been subjected, and soon after the event wrote to his fellow-citizens in an amicable spirit. He explained that to grant passports must not be expected save by those who had friends and connections in England. For the rest, he assured the prisoners that all possible despatch marked the preparation of the cartel ships. "You are much wanted in the United States," he wrote, "and the encouragement for seamen there is very great."