“Sir, I have solicited this meeting,” began Foxwell, “in order to discuss our positions—yours and my own. My friends were witnesses to the occurrence by which you fell into my—that is to say, by which you became my guest. They know why I felt bound to detain you, and they will share my confidence to the end of the affair. It would, of course, be their right—perhaps their duty as loyal subjects—to act independently in the interests of Government, if I chose not to act so. But they have agreed to abide by my course, whatever that shall be. So it is well, I think, that they should be present at this interview.” “I am far from making the least objection, sir,” said Everell, bowing to the ladies and regarding the whole company with an amiable though expectant composure. “You are aware, of course,” Foxwell continued, “of what will follow if I give you up to the nearest justice. Perhaps you may not know that one Jeremiah Filson is actively concerning himself about you in this neighbourhood on behalf of the Government. He has caused a warrant to be issued against you, he is circulating descriptions which show him to be an accurate and thorough observer.” Foxwell put his hand upon the paper which Rashleigh had laid on the table. “He waits only for news of your whereabouts, to bring the constables upon you. He will be one of the witnesses against you, and the other, I believe, is now at York or Carlisle—I know not which, but the judges have been trying and sentencing your unlucky comrades by the score, gentlemen as well as the lower orders.” As Foxwell paused, Everell, for want of knowing what better reply to make, answered in a half-smiling manner, though his heart was beating rather faster than usual: “Sir, I have nothing to say to this—except that ’tis a pity so many poor fellows should die for being on the losing side. Nor do I own that I am the man you think.” “Too many circumstances leave me no doubt on that point, sir,” said Foxwell, with a serenity which showed the hopelessness of any contest on the ground of identity. “’Tis in your power and right certainly to deny and temporize; but, if you choose to tire me by those methods, I have only to deliver you up at once.” There was something in the speaker’s quiet voice and cold eyes that gave the whole possibility—trial, sentence, the end—a reality and nearness it had never had in Everell’s mind before. He was startled into a gravity he had not previously felt. “But,” Foxwell went on, “if you choose that we shall understand each other, there is a chance for your life—a condition upon which you may have immediate liberty.” Everell looked frankly grateful. The form of death assigned to traitors and rebels, with its dismal preliminaries and circumstances, had not allured him the brief while he had contemplated it. It wore a vastly different aspect from that of a glorious end in the self-forgetfulness of battle. “Immediate liberty?” he repeated, with some eagerness.