He put his fingers upon his lips as a sign for me to be silent, and continued straight ahead toward the American army. I followed. Some shots were fired, but we were in a sort of depression, and I had full confidence they were not intended for us, but were drawn by the lights in the British camp. Yet I believed that Albert had gone far enough. He had shown me the way, and no more was needed. I did not wish him to expose himself to our bullets. “Go back, Albert,” I said. “I know the way now, and I do not wish you to become our prisoner.” He would not pause until we had gone a rod farther. Then he pointed toward our camp-fires ahead, and turned about as if he would go back. “Albert,” I said, “let us forget what I said when in anger, and part friends.” I seized his hand in my grasp, though he sought to evade me. The hand was small and warm, and then I knew that the deception Albert had practiced upon me a night or so before had enabled Albert’s sister to do the same. “Kate!” I exclaimed. “Why have you done this?” “For you,” said she, snatching her hand from mine and fleeing so swiftly toward the British camp that I could not stop her. In truth I did not follow her, but mused for a moment on the great change a slouch hat, a long cloak, and a pair of cavalry boots can make in one’s appearance on a dark night. As I stood in the dark and she was going toward the light, I could watch her figure. I saw her pass between the wagons again and knew that she was safe. Then I addressed myself to my own task. I stood in a depression of the ground, and on the hills, some hundreds of yards before me, our camp-fires glimmered. The firing on this side was so infrequent that it was often several minutes between shots. All the bullets, whether British or American, passed high over my head, for which I was truly glad. I made very good progress toward our lines, until I heard ahead of me a slight noise as of some one moving about. I presumed that it was one of our sharpshooters, and was about to call gently, telling him who I was. I was right in my presumption, but not quick enough with my hail, for his rifle was fired so close to me that the blaze of the exploding powder seemed to leap at me. That the bullet in truth was aimed at me there was no doubt, for I felt its passage so near my face that it made me turn quite cold and shiver. “Hold! I am a friend!” I shouted. “Shoot the damned British spy! Don’t let him get away!” cried the sharpshooter. Two or three other sharpshooters, taking him at his word, fired at my figure faintly seen in the darkness. None hit me, but I was seized with a sudden and great feeling of discomfort. Seeing that it was not a time for explanations, I turned and ran back in the other direction. One more shot was fired at me as I ran, and I was truly thankful that I was a swift runner and a poor target.