It was near the setting of the sun on one of the bleakest and coldest days of the year. The sun itself was sinking behind the distant hills, and the sky was brilliant with its fiery javelins, which threw a lurid light across the cold gray heavens, the last protest of departing day against the approach of the chill dismal night. The snow lay heavy upon the ground, and spread like a great white pall over the sins and sorrows of the world. Before us stretched the road, unbroken and trackless; not a man had passed that way, for we stood guard at the outpost, and the flicker of the foeman's fire could be seen six hundred yards away, through the gloom. "Lucifer, but it is cold!" said one of the guard, as he threw another rail on the fire and held his hands out over the flames to warm them. "Aye; Old Nick himself would not be a bad acquaintance now--his smell of brimstone and sulphur might warm us up a bit," said another. We were making the best we could of it, under the lee of a high bank by the side of the road, where we had cleared a space and stacked a good supply of dry fence-rails to feed the fire during the night. The wind from the northwest swept over our heads, sheltered as we were by the bank, and we would have defied the cold that crept ever upward but for the rags and tatters that covered our frames. The men themselves were cheerful, as they sat hugging the fire, and laughed and joked at their hardships. "I wonder if those Highland devils will bother us to-night?" asked one, for the Black Watch held the outpost down the road. "They will be too busy warming their knees," came the reply from across the fire, and a laugh followed. "Hello, what is that?" for the thud of hoofs was heard on the road coming from the camp. "A flag of truce, by George!" said the sergeant. "Who on earth wants to go through the lines on a night like this?" The party, consisting of several troopers, an officer, and what appeared to be a woman on horseback, was soon within hailing distance, and I heard Ringgold's voice call out: "I say, Frisby, are you in charge here?" "Yes," I replied. "What's up?" "We have a prisoner here who wishes to go through the lines, but I don't know whether you will permit her or not." "Is she fair?" I asked. "For in that case she shall not pass unless she gives us a smile by way of tribute as she rides by." "Not even if George Washington so orders, sir," said a voice that I knew. "By the saints, my lady!" I cried, and I was by her side in an instant. "What brings you here, and why are you going within the English lines?" "Should not a daughter be with her father?" she asked. "But those bloody English, with all their fine trappings and their feathers! Nay, my lady, you have been disrespectful to the Continental Congress, as I can vouch for. You are our prisoner, and I will not let you escape thus, to smile on the wearers of his Majesty's uniform."