until the clock strikes
twelve, and the old man is about to offer his evening prayer for the
safety of his son, who is one of Washington's troopers, when hurried
steps are heard in the snow, there is a fumbling at the latch, then the
door flies open and admits a haggard, panting man who hastily closes it
again, falls into a seat, and shakes from head to foot. The girl goes to
him. "John!" she says. But he only averts his face. "What is wrong with
thee, John Blake?" asks the farmer. But he has to ask again and again ere
he gets an answer. Then, in a broken voice, the trembling man confesses
that he has tried to shoot Washington, but the bullet struck and killed
his only attendant, a dragoon. He has come for shelter, for men are on
his track already. "Thou know'st I am neutral in this war, John Blake,"
answered the farmer,--"although I have a boy down yonder in the camp. It
was a cowardly thing to do, and I hate you Tories that you do not fight
like men; yet, since you ask me for a hiding-place, you shall have it,
though, mind you, 'tis more on the girl's account than yours. The men are
coming. Out--this way--to the spring-house. So!"

Before old Michael has time to return to his chair the door is again
thrust open, this time by men in blue and buff. They demand the assassin,
whose footsteps they have tracked there through the snow. Michael does
not answer. They are about to use violence when, through the open door,
comes Washington, who checks them with a word. The general bears a
drooping form with a blood splash on its breast, and deposits it on the
hearth as gently as a mother puts a babe into its cradle. As the
firelight falls on the still face the farmer's eyes grow round and big;
then he shrieks and drops upon his knees, for it is his son who is lying
there. Beside him is a pistol; it was dropped by the Tory when he
entered. Grasping it eagerly the farmer leaps to his feet. His years have
fallen from him. With a tiger-like bound he gains the door, rushes to the
spring-house where John Blake is crouching, his eyes sunk and shining,
gnawing his fingers in a craze of dismay. But though hate is swift, love
is swifter, and the girl is there as soon as he. She strikes his arm
aside, and the bullet he has fired lodges in the wood. He draws out his
knife, and the murderer, to whom has now come the calmness of despair,
kneels and offers his breast to the blade. Before he can strike, the
soldiers hasten up, and seizing Blake