In the mean time, Carl had stolen round to the other side of the building, and looked through the chinks in the logs. The cabin in which the officers lived stood close at hand, and through another orifice in the logs, the young German could see the interior. There were three men in the cabin—Barlow, Captain Holmes and Boston. They sat upon stools, by the side of a wooden table, talking eagerly in low tones. From the place where he stood, it was impossible for Carl to hear a word. But, to his astonishment, he saw that Boston not only took an active part in the conversation, but his opinion was listened to with great deference. Carl’s blood boiled in his veins. Since the last night, an intense hatred of the peddler had grown up in his heart. This was the man who had stolen the heart of Katrine. He should die. He drew a pistol from his pocket, and leveled it through the chinks. The light of a candle upon the table glimmered along the barrel. He pulled the trigger. The hammer came down upon the flint without a report. The priming had been shaken out of the pan in coming from the camp. With a muttered invective Carl slipped behind the logs of the stockade and felt for his powder-flask. He had left it in the camp! The passion of the man was fearful to see. He ran back to find his captain, and lead him to the spot. The moment his eye rested upon the group he put a pistol into the hand of Carl. “Hold,” he said, as that person was about to fire. “Don’t do it. We must get nearer, and hear what they say.” The stockade was about twelve feet high, but the corners were rough, and stood out about six inches from the rest of the work, forming a sort of ladder. Van Zandt took the lead, climbed over, and dropped down into the work, between the wall and the cabin. The conversation continued; but, to the rage of the two spies, it was now carried on in whispers. It was impossible to hear a word. Twice Carl raised his pistol, and as often he was restrained by the hand of his leader, who had no notion of betraying their presence by a shot, while they were inside the fort. He feared the men who sat by the fire. “In God’s name,” whispered Carl, “are you going to let him escape? I must fire.” “Who do you speak of?” “He. That devil, Bainbridge.” “I have not so much quarrel with him as with Barlow. Let us get out of this. I tell you you must not, _shall_ not fire. Come.” Carl obeyed, sullenly enough. They climbed the wall without molestation, and reached the other side. All at once the captain was startled by the report of a pistol, and saw Carl looking through the crack, with the pistol still smoking in his hand. A terrible uproar was heard in the cabin. “Run for it, captain,” shouted Carl. “Missed him,” he hissed, in his desperation.