Satisfied that General Witherington was a greater object of compassion than Middlemas, whom besides he had no hope of overtaking, and who he believed was safe in his own keeping, however violent might be his present emotions, Hartley returned where the greater emergency demanded his immediate care. He found the unfortunate General contending with the domestics, who endeavoured to prevent his making his way to the apartment where his children slept, and exclaiming furiously--“Rejoice, my treasures--rejoice!--He has fled, who would proclaim your father's crime, and your mother's dishonour!--He has fled, never to return, whose life has been the death of one parent, and the ruin of another!--Courage, my children, your father is with you--he will make his way to you through a hundred obstacles!” The domestics, intimidated and undecided, were giving way to him, when Adam Hartley approached, and placing himself before the unhappy man, fixed his eye firmly on the General's, while he said in a low but stern voice--“Madman, would you kill your children?” The General seemed staggered in his resolution, but still attempted to rush past him. But Hartley, seizing him by the collar of his coat on each side, “You are my prisoner,” he said; “I command you to follow me.” “Ha! prisoner, and for high treason? Dog, thou hast met thy death!” The distracted man drew a poniard from his bosom, and Hartley's strength and resolution might not perhaps have saved his life, had not Winter mastered the General's right hand, and contrived to disarm him. “I am your prisoner, then,” he said; “use me civilly--and let me see my wife and children.” “You shall see them to-morrow,” said Hartley; “follow us instantly, and without the least resistance.” General Witherington followed like a child, with the air of one who is suffering for a cause in which he glories. “I am not ashamed of my principles,” he said--“I am willing to die for my king.” Without exciting his frenzy, by contradicting the fantastic idea which occupied his imagination, Hartley continued to maintain over his patient the ascendency he had acquired. He caused him to be led to his apartment, and beheld him suffer himself to be put to bed. Administering then a strong composing draught, and causing a servant to sleep in the room, he watched the unfortunate man till dawn of morning. General Witherington awoke in his full senses, and apparently conscious of his real situation, which he testified by low groans, sobs, and tears. When Hartley drew near his bedside, he knew him perfectly, and said, “Do not fear me--the fit is over--leave me now, and see after yonder unfortunate. Let him leave Britain as soon as possible, and go where his fate calls him, and where we can never meet more. Winter knows my ways, and will take care of me.” Winter gave the same advice. “I can answer,” he said, “for my master's security at present; but in Heaven's name, prevent his ever meeting again, with that obdurate young man!”