“THERE’S MANY A SLIP ’TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP.” Van Curter and his men made good time in their march to Windsor, and at four o’clock in the afternoon they were encamped behind the three hills. Hardly had they settled themselves to wait for night, when Carl Anselm came in. His face was disfigured by the knife-cut; the blood lay in thick clots about it, and his small eyes sparkled with vicious fire under his heavy brows. He made his way at once to the place where Van Zandt sat, under a large maple tree. “Welcome, Carl,” said the captain. “In the name of the saints, what is the matter with your face?” “I have taken the mark in your service,” replied the other, angrily. “Come away from the rest and I will tell you how.” The captain followed him to a retired spot, then called upon him to speak. “I waited in the path for the coming of your enemy until I became weary and fell asleep; their voices woke me as they came, and I started up so quickly that the bush stirred. He was not alone.” “Ah-ha!” “No; that cursed spy—for he is nothing better—Bainbridge, was with him. Sturm and wetter! I will have _his_ heart’s blood upon my own account.” “On with your tale, quick. You fired, did you not?” “Yes. As the bush stirred, Bainbridge called out to his companion, and he jumped; if he had not done it, a ball would have been in his heart. My curse upon the meddler.” “Then he escaped?” demanded the other, hoarsely. “Escaped. Not fully, for my ball struck him on the arm, and there was blood starting through his clothing. Before I could look, that devil, whom we call the peddler, was upon me with an open knife. I had mine in my hand, and made a blow at him. He is quick as a cat; he dodged the knife, and struck at me. You see the result. I lay that wound up against him. I shall do him mischief yet.” “What did you do then?” “I saw that he was not what he seemed, and more than a match for me, I dropped the knife and ran for my horse, I had tied him in a ravine by the river-side. Curse the Yankee, he was like a greyhound; if there had been twenty rods more to run I should be a dead man; but I got to my horse and was off.” “It is a total failure, then?” “Not so. Before, I worked only for you; now I work for both. I have an account with the man who calls himself Boston Bainbridge.” “You might have had before, if you had any eyes. You love Katrine, the cousin of Theresa.” The young man turned upon him with a quick look. “Who told you that?” he said. “It matters not.” “Why do you bring her into the conversation?” “Have you no eyes? Why, man, the other night, while Barlow stood at the window of my willful maid, whispering in her ear, whom think you stood at that of Katrine?” “Who?” “Boston Bainbridge.” “You know this to be true? It is not a trick to make me more surely your friend?” “I saw it myself.”