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the village smithy. Dame Warren was left alone in the house, sick and feeble, but taciturn and absolutely uncompromising. The day was warm without, but she crouched over the fire in the kitchen, longing for youth and strength with the longing that comes of inability to act. A hand was laid on her very shoulder before she aroused.

"Mother, can you give me a glass of grog? 'Tis hot walking in the sun." It was a tall young man, a stranger, with a face both bold and weak.

"Can you give me a glass, good mother?" he repeated as she scanned him with her keen grey eyes.

"Ay, marry," she said, and they turned back to the bar. "Where are you bound ?”

"Toward Grenville."

"To the fort?" she queried sharply. He answered with an evasion of her question which brought suspicion to the bright old

eyes.

"'Tis a good musket," he said, nodding toward the flint-lock over the fireplace, and has seen good service, I warrant."

She was heating the flipstick in the hot embers, watching him keenly the while.

"Ay, it has fought in the French and Indian War for his majesty, King George."

"It has seen more recent service?" he ventured.

She drew the flipstick forth and plunged it red hot into the glass of grog. The liquid bubbled over and sizzled as she handed it to him.

"Recent service, ay! It has fought against the king in the service of these-patriots!"

Once more he scanned her face with a suspicion born of a life familiar with treachery and deception. At last he raised his glass. "To his majesty, King George!"

"His majesty," she croaked, and they drank the toast together. Then a light came into her eyes before which he paled and drew back. She raised her shaking forefinger and pointed at him. "You, you are a British spy!"

"For God's sake, hush! You'll not betray me? Are there traitors in the house?"

"A spy! A spy!"

"Hush, hush! What will you have of me?"

"Of you? Your help! We'll catch 'em, catch 'em in their own trap. You shall stay tonight and hear,—and warn the fort tomorrow. They are to plan the capture of his majesty's fort, Grenville, here tonight."

"You can hide me; my life is in danger."

"Hide you? Hide you? And the strange laughter came once more. "They dare not search the rooms that belong to me." "Are all in the house friends?"

"Friends? If you are caught here, you'll be hanged by the neck till you're dead! Quick, quick; they're coming."

When Ambrose entered, the kitchen was empty. His mother was upstairs. She was ill and would keep her room. Ambrose was secretly relieved. He had himself no fear of the weak old woman, but the men would feel less restrained when the bent old figure did not haunt the corner like an evil genius over their undertakings. In the evening when the doctor dropped in among the others, Ambrose sent him upstairs. Dame Warren met him vigilantly at the door.

"How dare Ambrose send you into my part of the house?" she cried.

The doctor quailed. "He said you were ill," he answered feebly.

"Much grief he feels," she snapped back, but she suffered him to take her pulse and prescribe for her. Downstairs he took Ambrose apart.

"She's got a touch of her old self tonight, Ambrose, but it is only a rally. She's weak and any bit of excitement may take her off. She'll not last you much longer, Ambrose."

The men were already in full discussion around them. Ambrose brought out the papers and maps and the long planning began. The evil genius was still over the work. Dame Warren,

too excited to rest, was cowering on the stairs just near enough to hear the sound of voices without understanding what was said. Nearer she dared not go, nor dared she stay with the listening spy for fear of surprise and betrayal. Long she couched trembling, when suddenly a hand was laid on her shoulder. She started almost with a shriek, but it was only the spy, looking triumphantly down at her.

"I have heard," he said, "they start on the march tomorrow night. I shall start this morning and alarm the fort. But the papers, the maps,-I must have them."

"Wait, wait! You shall have them when the men are gone." And the two stood trembling in triumph, half in fear, as the crowd broke up downstairs and the confused babel of voices died away into silence.

The dawn was gray in the heavens and the chill mists were rising from the meadows when Dame Warren unbarred the door and the spy stole forth into the morning.

"Make haste, and good luck," she whispered shrilly as he swung along the road through the gray light.

When Ambrose arose later, his mother called from her room that she was ill. "The relapse," said Ambrose to himself. "Do you want the doctor?"

"No," she retorted, and Ambrose obeyed.

It was not until evening when he had slung the powder-horn and pouch about his shoulders and had taken the musket down. that he heard from his mother again.

"Ambrose, you may come in." Slowly Ambrose entered the room so long forbidden. She was lying on the bed fully dressed, her face gray with death.

"I'm dying, Ambrose. Get me the minister."

Ambrose hesitated. The men were to meet promptly together for the night march and he who failed was accounted a deserter. The minister lived a couple of miles in the other direction.

"God help you, mother," he cried at last, "for I must go to save my country."

She started up, her eyes blazing and her jaw set in rigid determination.

"I must and shall have him. Overtake your fine expedition on horseback, but the minister I must have. Go!"

And Ambrose went, springing bareback on his horse and riding as if for life. He could overtake the column, but it must be before he was condemned as traiter. The night was black as he swung off his horse again before the tavern to get his musket. He paused but a moment to say, "Your blessing, mother," and started again for the door. The house was surrounded with men. In the dim light from the open door he could see the stern white faces of his neighbors and his friends pressing toward the house.

"Traitor! Spy! Hang him! Hang him!"

Before the harsh confusion of voices Ambrose stood bewildered. "Traitor? Spy? Before God, I had this moment taken my My mother is dying."

musket to join you.

His words were drowned in the uproar of voices. The men pressed forward into the kitchen, pushing Ambrose before them. There he stood at bay before his own grate fireplace, facing the grim anger of his dearest friends. The voices were silent now about him. Again he pleaded his delay. The babel broke forth again.

"A pretty excuse. His mother and his country!" "Bring forward the spy!" "Perhaps he doesn't recognize him!"

Pale and trembling the wretched spy was thrust forward to confront the bewildered Ambrose.

"I never saw him before."

"He lies! He lies! Tell him he lies!" But the spy too frightened to gasp a word cowered before them in silence.

"String them up together! Traitors! Spies!"

"But I have never seen him. I am innocent!" cried Ambrose. "Perhaps you recognize these at least," and they threw before him the maps and papers.

"The papers, my God! How did he get the papers?" The mocking jeers arose again.

"How did he get them? Oh yes, how? But we defeated the treachery. He was caught before he reached the fort and sent back here. Traitor, traitor, you failed!" "Hang them! Hang them!"

The spy grovelled on the floor and prayed for mercy. Ambrose was pale, but before the word of traitor, and not that of death. Then a light came into his eyes.

"Hold!" he cried, "I am innocent. The traitor is-" he choked at the word and stopped. "I am innocent," was all he could say. They had seized upon him and were bearing him toward the door when a silence fell gradually upon the room. Dame Warren was standing at the door, swaying to and fro and pointing at her son.

"Traitor?" she croaked with a hideous chuckle. "Traitor? Ay, he's a traitor. So are you all traitors, traitors to his majesty King George. He warn the fort?" pointing with the utmost scorn at her silent son. "He warn the fort? Traitor, he could not! I warned the fort; I hid him, that coward skulking there. I stole the papers and gave them to him and wished him 'God-speed!' We failed, but the cause shall not fail, ye traitors all. Long live his majesty King George!" and raising her arms in one last exultant shriek she fell dead upon the floor.

Ambrose, his face pale from the past agony and grim with determination, faced upon the throng.

"By her death, I am no traitor. Comrades, on to Grenville, march!"

R. B. D., '02.

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