“It’s true,” he said, “I was trying to go in there, but I have a good excuse.” I demanded his excuse. “I have a brother in there, a Tory,” he said, “and I’ve heard that he’s wounded. Everybody says Burgoyne will surrender in a few hours, and I thought it no harm to go in and see my brother.” What he said seemed reasonable. I could readily understand his anxiety on his brother’s account. He spoke with such an air of sincerity that I had no heart to scold him; so I told him not to make the attempt again, and if the tale that Burgoyne was to surrender in a few hours was true, he would not have long to wait. Yet I had a small suspicion left, and I decided to humor it. If there was anything wrong about the man he would watch me, I knew, after two such encounters. I wandered back into our camp as if I had nothing on my mind, though I did not lose sight of him. Among crowds of soldiers there I had the advantage of him, for I could see him and he could not see me. He idled about a while, and then began to move around the circle of our camp inclosing the British camp. I was glad that I had continued to watch him. Either this man was overwhelmingly anxious about his brother, or he had mischief in mind. I followed him, taking care that he should not see me. Thus engaged, I met Whitestone, who told me something, though I did not stop to hold converse with him about it, not wishing to lose my man. The fellow made a much wider circle than before, and frequently looked behind him; but he stopped at last and began to approach the British line. There was nobody, at least from our army, within thirty or forty yards of him except myself, and by good luck I was able to find some inequalities of the ground which concealed me. A British sentinel was standing in a lazy attitude, and my man approached and hailed him in a friendly manner. The Englishman replied in the same tone. “Can I go in there?” asked the man, pointing to the British camp. “You can go in,” replied the sentinel with some humor, “but you can’t come out again.” “I don’t want to come out again,” replied the man. “You chose a curious time to desert,” said the sentinel with a sneer, “but it’s none of my business.” The man was about to enter, but I stepped forward quickly, drawing my pistol as I did so. He saw me and raised his hand, as if he too would draw a weapon, but I had him under the muzzle of my pistol and threatened to shoot him if he made resistance. Thereupon he played the part of wisdom and was quiet. “I will take care of this deserter,” I said to the English sentinel. “I told him it was none of my business, and I tell you the same,” the sentinel said, shrugging his shoulders. “We’re not fighting now. Only don’t shoot the poor devil.” “March!” I said to the man, still covering him with my pistol. “Where?” he asked. “To the little clump of woods yonder,” I said. “I have something to say to you.” The fellow had hard, strong features, and his countenance did not fall.