He wheeled about and marched toward the wood. I followed close behind, the pistol in my hand. I had chosen my course with my eyes open. Our people were not near, and we reached the trees without interruption or notice. In their shelter the man turned about. “Well, what do you want?” he asked in sullen, obstinate tones. “Your papers,” I said; “the message you were trying to carry into the British camp.” “I have no papers; I was not trying to carry anything into the British camp,” he replied, edging a little closer. “Keep off!” I said, foreseeing his intent. “If you come an inch nearer I will put a pistol ball through you. Stand farther away!” He stepped back. “Now give me that letter, or whatever you have,” I said. “It is useless to deny that you have something. If you don’t give it to me, I will take you into the camp and have you stripped and searched by the soldiers. It will be better for you to do as I say.” Evidently he believed me, for he thrust his hand inside his waistcoat and pulled out a crumpled letter, which he handed to me. Keeping one eye on him I read the letter with the other eye, and found I had not been deceived in my guess. It was from Sir Henry Clinton to Sir John Burgoyne, telling him to hold out for certain rescue. Sir Henry said he was within a short distance of Albany with a strong force, and expected to join Sir John soon and help him crush all the rebel forces. “This is important,” I said. “Very,” said the man. “It might have changed the fate of the campaign had you reached General Burgoyne with it,” I said. “Undoubtedly it would have done so,” he replied. “Well, it wouldn’t.” “That is a matter of opinion.” “Not at all.” “I don’t understand you.” “The campaign is ended. Burgoyne surrendered a half hour ago.” Which was true, for Whitestone, with his skill in finding out things before other people, had told me. “I’m very sorry,” said the man in tones of sharp disappointment. “I’m not,” I said. “What do you mean to have done with me?” he asked--“hanging, or shooting?” I did not admire the man, but I respected his courage. “Neither,” I replied. “You can’t do any harm now. Be off!” He looked surprised, but he thanked me and walked away. It was unmilitary, but it has always been approved by my conscience, for which I alone am responsible. CHAPTER XXII. CAPITULATIONS. I stood with Whitestone and saw the British lay down their arms, and, of all the things I saw on that great day, an English officer with the tears dropping down his face impressed me most.