He told his story, and he told of the conversation on the Cave Hill afterwards. Again the flicker of hope crossed Finlay’s face. “You hear,” he said. “Would I have done that if I had been a spy? Could I not have handed them over to Major Barber if I had wished?” “I shall give you credit for wishing to save Hope,” said Donald. “Now I shall pass on to examine the papers found on your person to-night.” Finlay protested eagerly. “I beg that you do not examine the papers you have taken from me. They are of a very private nature.” “I can believe,” said Donald, “that they are of such a kind that you would willingly keep them private.” “I protest against your reading them. You have no right to read them. They concern others besides myself. I give you my word.” Donald smiled slightly. “I swear to you, I will take any oath you like that there is no paper there concerned with politics. You will be sorry if you read them. I assure you that you will repent it afterwards. You will be doing a base action. You will pry into a woman’s secrets. You will bring dishonour on the name of a lady, a noble lady.” “Do you expect us to believe,” said Donald, “that any lady, noble or other--that any woman, that any soldier’s drab even--has written love letters to you?” He opened the first which came to hand of the pile of papers which lay at his feet on the ground. Finlay suddenly collapsed. His impudence, his ready tongue, deserted him. He had fought hard for his life, had lied--though he lied clumsily in his terror--had twisted, doubled, fought point after point. Whatever the papers were that had been found on him, he recognised that they condemned him utterly and hopelessly. The game was up for him. He saw death near at hand, as he had seen it earlier when he first realised that he was trapped in Moylin’s kitchen. Donald read paper after paper silently. Some he laid aside, some he passed to the man next him to read. Finlay rallied again. He made another effort to save himself. “Listen,” he said, “I have influence with the Government. I don’t deny it. Call me an informer, a spy, any name you like, but admit that I have served my masters well. I can claim my reward from them. Let me go, and I swear to obtain pardons for you. I can save you, and I will. I offer you your lives as a ransom for mine.” “Would you make us what you are?” said Donald, sternly. “Would you buy our honour, you that have sold your own?” Finlay, who had knelt during his last appeal, fell forward. He grasped Neal with his hands. It was impossible in the dim light to see the faces of the men around him, but some instinct told him that Neal alone felt any pity for him, that from Neal alone he could look for mercy. “Save me, Neal Ward,” he cried. “For God’s sake, save me. Plead for me. They will listen to you. I am not fit to die. Grant me one day, only one day. I will do anything you wish. I will---- Oh God, Oh Christ, Oh save me, save me now.”