for, aware of the emotion he was betraying, he suddenly checked
himself, and assumed his wonted stern and authoritative bearing.

Once more the prisoner addressed the Governor in the same clear firm
voice in which he had opened his appeal.

"Colonel de Haldimar, I have no connection with any living soul without
the fort; and again I repeat, I am no traitor, but a true and loyal
British soldier, as my services in this war, and my comrades, can well
attest. Still, I seek not to shun that death which I have braved a
dozen times at least in the ---- regiment. All that I ask is, that I
may not be tried--that I may not have the shame of hearing sentence
pronounced against me YET; but if nothing should occur before eight
o'clock to vindicate my character from this disgrace, I will offer up
no further prayer for mercy. In the name of that life, therefore, which
I once preserved to Captain de Haldimar, at the price of my own blood,
I entreat a respite from trial until then."

"In the name of God and all his angels, let mercy reach your soul, and
grant his prayer!"

Every ear was startled--every heart touched by the plaintive,
melancholy, silver tones of the voice that faintly pronounced the last
appeal, and all recognised it for that of the young, interesting, and
attached wife of the prisoner. Again the latter turned his gaze towards
the window whence the sounds proceeded, and by the glare of the torches
a tear was distinctly seen by many coursing down his manly cheek. The
weakness was momentary. In the next instant he closed his shirt and
coat, and resuming his cap, stepped back once more amid his guard,
where he remained stationary, with the air of one who, having nothing
further to hope, has resolved to endure the worst that can happen with
resignation and fortitude.

After the lapse of a few moments, again devoted to much apparent deep
thought and conjecture, the Governor once more, and rather hurriedly,
resumed,--

"In the event, prisoner, of this delay in your trial being granted,
will you pledge yourself to disclose the secret to which you have
alluded? Recollect, there is nothing but that which can save your
memory from being consigned to infamy for ever; for who, among your
comrades, will believe the idle denial of your treachery, when there is
the most direct proof against you? If your secret die with you,
moreover, every honest man will consider it as having been one so
infamous and injurious to your character