It was kind to hope so, but there was little chance of the hope being realized. Caspar's mind was in a whirl of excitement trying to decide upon his course. He might escape, it was true; but reviewing all the circumstances, he thought the chances were against him. It must be nearly morning already. He would soon be missed and pursued, and were he retaken, he could hardly hope for mercy. On the other side of the river, he might possibly find shelter with some Tory family, had he only known where to look for them, but he had lost his list, and could not remember a single name save that of Joses Dandy, who seemed more likely to want protection than to afford it. He rose and went to the window, which opened easily enough. It was already growing light. "Heaven help me, for I am in a sore strait!" was his prayer. He leaned for a few minutes against the window-frame. Then he spoke aloud in German: "No, I will not try to get away. This man Elmer owes me two lives—his own and his child's. It will go hard but he will find some way to save me if I tell him the truth. I have prayed that a way might be opened for me to leave the army, and it may be this is the answer to my prayer." Caspar knelt down and prayed earnestly for a few minutes. Then he extinguished his light and threw himself on Deborah Whitecar's clean and soft feather bed. His head ached and he felt strangely tired and excited, but after a time he fell into a troubled sleep. It was broad day when he awoke, and for some minutes he could not remember what had happened or where he was. He felt weak and unnerved, and almost as if he were out of the body. What in the world had happened to his hands to make them so thin and white? And why did he find such a difficulty in turning himself over? He looked about him. He felt sure this was not the room in which he had gone to sleep. It was a larger and better-furnished apartment, and his bed had full white curtains. A middle-aged woman in a muslin cap and a wonderfully neat plain dress sat knitting at the side of his bed, and rose as his eye met hers. "Thee is better?" said she, taking his hand into her soft fingers and feeling his pulse. "The doctor said he thought thee would be all right on waking.—Kitty, thee may tell Discretion to bring the broth." "Better! Have I been ill?" asked Caspar, bewildered. "Hush! Thee mustn't talk. Yes, thee has been sick abed fur three weeks, and out of thy head all the time. Thee 'll hear all about it when thee is better. Now thee must take thy broth, and perhaps thee may sleep again." Caspar took the delicate broth which his nurse held to his lips, and then, sinking back on his pillows, he began to try to think a little. He seemed to remember now that some time had passed, that he had seen people about him whom he did not know, and that he had heard some one say,— "I think he will live through it."